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themotherofhorses · 7 months ago

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figures dancing gracefully (across my memory)

— simon "ghost" riley x oc!silentdove reyes.

setting: call of duty x marvel cinematic universe

summary: she’s much too damn young to be handling all of this trauma, this . . . baggage. everyone says that when they first meet her; nevertheless, Dove persists.

warnings: explicit language and mentions of previously experienced abuse (per the Red Room theme).

note: in conjunction with this specific post. the RedBack has been a personal OC WIP of mine for maybe four(ish) years. despite being an obvious OC-insert series, everyone is welcome to enjoy it.

It is snowing again. For the fifth night in a row.

SilentDove tells herself that is why she cannot—for the ever life of her—find the comfort of sleep tonight; instead, she opts for a nice hot drink on the couch. Mint hot chocolate, to be exact, topped with four puffy white marshmallows. It tastes especially good with that particular combination. Natasha picked up a new packet of them the last time she went grocery shopping, saying something along the lines of how ‘every safe house needs to be well-stocked with good snacks!’

The black cat mug is cute too.

The truth is she cannot sleep — no matter how hard she tries, how absolutely fucking desperate she feels, or how many of those tiny blue melatonin pills she pops in her mouth. Nothing helps. God, it fucking sucks.

Whenever she closes her eyes, the memory resurfaces. Empty, sometimes blurry, fuzzy, loud, absolutely unbearable, but at most times very specific childhood memories.

Ballet.

Schooling.

Harsh, overwhelming, hardhearted training — the sort where you snap a poor sister’s neck within the first few hours of the morning before sinking to your feet to tend to an (almost) fractured ankle in the evening, swollen and bruised and agonizing to step on. Or sit at a school desk, dressed in a freshly-steamed schoolgirl uniform, forced to recite some classic Disney movie word-for-word….or until you are told to stop.

(It is hell on Earth, hidden in Russia.)

“Again.”

She can still hear the coach, voice tinny, instructing them to repeat the dance. Again. Again. Again. That is perhaps one of the worst memories, in her opinion. Somewhere in the middle, or maybe towards the end, a dancer messed up and he noticed. That is not good, child, nor it is allowed to happen. Seated on the pretty polished floors are the baby spiders —the маленькие пауoки—watching every detail with big and hungry eyes.

No, the маленькие пауoки must never be introduced to such sloppiness, not at this age.

The Bolshoi Theatre demands only the finest ballerinas — girls that are light on their toes, beautiful in their face, with potential for stardom.

Dove takes another sip of her hot chocolate while remembering . . . remembering . . . remembering . . . dancing, dancing, dancing, again and again; all while ignoring the terrible ache burning through her poor feet, flaring up near the bone of her big toe before shooting up to her ankle, and the large soldier fixated near the door.

(The thing about the soldier was that he never made a sound. Precise strikes, fatal slashes, heavy exhalation through his ebony mask he always wore, but never a sound from his mouth . . . if he even had one.)

From where she is hunkered down in her father’s ranchhouse, propped up against comfy pillows, she flattens both legs before gazing down at her feet. A beat. Then she curls her toes before wiggling them. Her nose scrunches. They’re horribly disfigured and knobby — and ugly if she is honest with herself.

Bless her soul, Natasha had given her some of that fancy, high-tech medical cream (courtesy of Dr. Helen Cho); a week later, her toes are slowly beginning to appear better. Or, maybe, just normal, like how a young woman’s foot is supposed to look.

Her toenails are painted a soft white, much like the snow blanketing the Montanan plains; it makes her smile a little (she once heard that the color “white” represents a mix of purity, cleanliness, and freshness. Rebirth, the fourth word might’ve been. Well, that and the nail polish was displayed too prettily at the store to overlook, discounted too, and never before had she the privilege of painting her nails).

Dove wiggles her big toe again; beneath it, along the stretch of her right foot, is a long stripe of scar tissue. As much as she dreams, it will never fade away, regardless of the scrubbing in the shower or pretending it does not exist or using those fancy Stark creams.

One of the many scars from the Red Room.

She’s much too damn young to be handling all of this trauma, this . . . baggage. Everyone says that when they first meet her; nevertheless, Dove persists. Natasha knows that certain feeling all too well, and Yelena too. They are in the same busted-up boat, drifting down the same river.

However, the therapy sessions they both suggested are good — incredible, even; they allow her to voice her most inner and brutal thoughts while patching together bits and pieces of a long-forgotten identity. She was a ballerina, Dove tells herself; she had to have been one — there was the Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and A Midsummer’s Night Dreams.

Her pointe shoes were a pretty pastel blue, the sort of color belonging to the summertime sky, while her favorite leotard was a deep navy. Natasha wore the same during her time there, she thinks. And Yelena, too. Maybe even their mother, Melina.

(Melina cycled through the Red Room four times — Dove couldn’t even imagine how that could’ve felt.)

The two women are her family.

Family. Such a . . . distant concept to Dove. She glances down at her feet again, sighing. Sometimes . . . Dove slips up and calls Natasha “momma” . . . and sometimes . . . Natasha will call her “my sweet маленький пауoк” in return; she’ll then remind her that she’s not alone. Not anymore. It is okay to weep…to scream and shout, and to come to her if need be.

Silence is no longer necessary.

Is it, though? Dove was born silent. At times, that is all she is capable of feeling.

But, alas, it still makes Dove feel a bit better, even if the conversations consist of recycled words. She is not alone, not anymore. There is no more slipping stale bread for breakfast, no more being handcuffed to the bed, and no more being disciplined for sneezing a little too loudly.

No more being considered a weapon with a face — capable of nothing more but murder. Natasha is her family now, and maybe even Clint Barton and Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson too.

Her hot chocolate is cold now — the marshmallows look kinda weird now, too, like drowned little white bodies, nothing like how they appear in those silly Hollywood movies. But drinking it makes her feel happier, a lot lighter, sleepier, and safer. Sometimes, Dove wonders if a different childhood may have had more steaming mugs of hot chocolate with all those different flavors Yelena once told her about.

(She had seen them in some grocery store in Manchester, England — an entire aisle jam-packed with hundreds of colorful flavors. It smelled good, too, Yelena had said.)

Melina claims she did not have a childhood.

Oh, but she did.

It was sitting before computers, watching Russian propaganda before sipping on a random juice box (grape-flavored most of the time). It was hours upon hours of constant ballet practice, perfecting all those turns and leaps. It was standing before human-shaped shooting targets, a red hourglass centered in the middle where the human lungs exist.

It was the massive soldier in the backroom—the one with the two long, dark braids—teaching the widows how to place their victims in a tight headlock before demonstrating the move on them, snapping their tiny, skinny necks in one quick motion. Or how to silence a person with a blow to the kidney.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Nattie.”

“How are you feeling tonight?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“. . . Nightmares?”

Dove pauses. “Nah. It’s snowing over here; there is something therapeutic about watching it and—”

Natasha cuts her off. “Doesn’t work on me, kid. You should know that,” and there is a beat of silence, and Dove can already see the sad smile tugging at her lips, “—so, was it nightmares again?”

“No. Not this time. Memories…of Dreykov, y’know, and the ballet and—” she takes a small sip of her cold drink, “—and just anything I can remember, really. Sometimes, it is gun practice, something it’s combat. I’m getting better, actually, thanks to Bruce and Helen. It’s still kind of hazy, but now I can make out things. People. Places. Objects. Y’know, all that shit. I just can’t sleep because of it.” She places the phone on the coffee table before leaning back and inhaling deeply. “M’fine, Nat, really. Y’know, it is all part of the recovery process.”

"Yeah. No, yeah, I get it. But hey, just remember, I'm here. I know you have your therapy sessions, and I know it helps to some degree, but all that shit? I know it firsthand. Everything you've been through, Yelena and I have too, so you're not alone. Not in this lifetime anymore.”

She smiles. It is times like this that SilentDove hates when she took assignments that sent her on the other side of the world. “Thanks. How’s it over there?”

“Boring. Humid as fuck, and Clint is such a loud snorer. Hey, make sure all the doors are locked before you go to bed.”

Like clockwork, of course.

“I will. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Sure, kid. Get some rest. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The call soon cuts after that, and Dove is left to her thoughts again. Her dark eyes drift across the living room, studying every little detail before her — from her grandmother's star blanket to the pretty picture of her mother hung above the fireplace.

She hums. There are ghosts in this house.

Ghosts.

Her own ghosts.

Oddly enough, that thought doesn't bother Dove at all. She’s always liked the idea of ghosts.

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barschter000 · 23 days ago

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barok and 2, 9, and 25 for the character ask game :3

Yippie, I get to yap! Thank you :D!!

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

I love how self-sacrificial Barok is. It's tragic and terrible and I can't stop thinking about it because it says so much about how he sees himself. A vessel for "justice", for his brother, a tool protecting people who despise him and a scapegoat unworthy of justice for himself. He sees himself as so empty and devoid of value but is actually full of concern and care for others who won't (the people of London) or cannot (Klint) return his sentiment. He is so horrible to himself and he drives me so insane. Händel's He was despised is now playing in my head.

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

Ough, tough question... The problem is that 1) I have this weird thing where I am ashamed to face my favorite characters after I've become obsessed with them (one of the reasons why I haven't replayed TGAA yet and why I didn't replay Danganronpa for instance in my DR phase), so unless Barok was Just Some Guy at my uni and not Barok van Zieks from hit game The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles In Real Life, I would not be able to, and 2) I am not the greatest fan of People in My House... I already struggle sometimes with sharing the kitchen with the other students who live on my floor in my dorm, so I don't think I could share a whole apartment with someone whom I'm not very close to. But that's not exclusive to Barok. Ideally, if I had to be roommates with him, we'd barely talk to other and leave each other alone but still had a sort of mutual understanding where we'd go, "Hey man, I'm going to the opera, wanna come along?" "Oh sure," and nothing else.

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

I am very sorry to disappoint but I literally do not remember lmao. I played the game right after release in July 2021 during a time where Covid among other things had really fucked me up and I cannot remember much of that year in general. I didn't like him at first but I think (and hope) that's everyone's first impression of Barok because he does suck and is supposed to suck at the start. I got immediately attached to him after 2-3 though because I very easily fall for the "bad guy with a heart of gold" kinda trope. I needed some time to fully Get him consistently but I think now I have a pretty complete picture of him in my head (<- read: I have made up incredibly unnecessary details about him, my picture is more than complete.)

#thank you for the ask!! that was very fun!!#i was very frustrated about some uni stuff but this fixed everything. like barok always does. so thank you!!#dgs #barok van zieks

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cipheramnesia · 11 months ago

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The Rob Zombie Halloween movies are not exactly good, but they have this little chestnut of an idea that's intriguing.

The original two Halloween movies hinge on the core premise that Michael Meyers is a kind of empty vessel which embodies evil. You have to buy into the idea a little, because if you don't, not only do the movies not work as well, but also the character of Dr. Loomis comes of as an unhinged, abusive monster of a doctor. Which feels like something Rob Zombie intentionally wanted his version to consider. Ultimately the movies are not successful, likely in some measure through studio interference, but this explains a good deal of decisions which put Zombie's Halloween at loggerheads with the original movies and the fandom.

The thing about Rob Zombie is that his fans are his worst critics, in that they don't want him to make anything except a carbon copy of House of 1000 Corpses or Devil's Rejects, and when he tries to do more interesting (and in the case of Lords of Salem, significantly better) movies, they piss all over themselves in outrage. When you combine his unusual take on Halloween with a stylistic departure as well, the movies has no chance.

The funny thing is, in retrospect, Zombie's changes are actually the better choice compared to the slavishly accurate recent Halloweens, or any of the sequels following Halloween 2. He gave Michael Meyers a voice, and a more complex history, and a human connection, and all these details which fans mostly hated, but which repositioned Michael from hollow monster to a person who was deeply failed by the world. And the thing of it is, there's nothing left to explore after Halloween 2, which means the only place to go if you want to be interesting about the character is a radically different direction.

That's what Rob Zombie did, his version wasn't supposed to be scary as a remorseless killing machine, but scary as someone who was formed into a terrible creature by the world deciding for him that he is a monster. You can see this most of all with how Malcolm McDowell portrays his version of Loomis as self centered, malicious, and incompetent by varying degrees. It's stating as loudly as possible to the audience hey, this person is terrible at helping people, he is awful and his characterization of Michael Meyers as "evil" is self serving and horrible. It's meant to make the audience step back and realize, no matter how terrible the things Michael does, he's a child and locking him up for his entire life is a fucked up thing to do.

Now, ultimately the films are a mess, and this little idea doesn't really hold together or develop. I believe it's intentional still, but winds up being incompatible with what, I assume through studio pressure, is a movie too close to the original Halloween to make room for a different approach. I couldn't necessarily recommend watching them, but as failures they're still interesting.

#rob zombie #halloween #also sidebar but i think another common mistake is making Michael too macho #recent versions and Zombies version try to make him huge and hulking and have him show off his physical strength #i think its a mistake because Michael is the opposite of macho and it takes away from his uniqueness if he's like a pro wrestler #Zombies movies probably would have worked better with a smaller and thinner Michael #he is meant to be a creeper not a brute

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maleyanderecafe · 2 months ago

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Hello, hello! I'm not sure if you take movies but would you count Corlianlus (I can't spell his first name) Snow from the latest Hunger Games mlvie to be a yandere for Lucy Gray? I just watched the movie last night and he was giving me big obsessive vibes.

Phew okay, it took me like three times to watch the entire movie in full and I still didn't understand of the context for it, at least initially. I think I've only read maybe the first two Hunger Games books, but I was able to watch a couple of analysis videos that explain more of the story. I will also go over some basic differences from the movie to the book. I do think that Cornball (sorry, Coriolanus Snow) is a yandere, but more in the selfish, views Lucy as more of an object kind of way. Cherry and I were making fun of him the entire movie though, I will say that.

The movie starts out with Coriolaus and his cousin Tigris escaping from their house during a revolution that has caused a famine. The two run into a rich man cutting off meat from a dead maid in order to sustain him and his family. We cut to ten years later when Coriolaus has turned 18 and is now living with Tigris and her grandmother. It's shown that their family is facing bankruptcy and is quite poor, but Coriolaus must pretend to be just as rich as the others in the capital. During the party he attends, we se that all the Capital members are rich and are constnatly tearing each other down. However, we also get to see Corionlaus's friend, Sejanus Flint there at the party as well. His family was originally from District 2 but because his father was able to sell guns during the revolution, his family was able to get enough money to live in the capital. Despite this, the people in the Capital still look down on them given that they were from the district (and in the books, state they view them more as animals). During the party, the 10th annual hunger games is announced by one of the creators of the Hunger Games, Dean Casca, who reveals that they will all becoming mentors for one of the tributes for the Hunger Games. Dean seems to have a great disdain for the Snow family, given that Coriolanus's father was actually the other creator for the game, and is given District 12's Lucy Grey, the district that has the least amount of resources and thus the least likely chance of winning. We see that Lucy's picking was rigged by the mayor, as the mayor's daughter basically stole her boyfriend and wanted her dead. While heading up to the podium, she puts a snake down her blouse as revenge. Sejanus's father also rigged the picking process where he let Sejanus be the mentor for one of his friends from District 2 who was chosen as tribute. This leads Sejanus to call out how horrible and inhumane the Hunger Games are.

Back at home, Coriolanus gets annoyed that he had such a terrible tribute to use, those Tigris recommends that he try to see things from her point of view and to show her empathy, even giving him a new dress for her to wear. At the train station, Coriolanus gives Lucy a rose and even rides on the train with the rest of the tributes, even when he gets hurled into an animal zoo with them all. After getting out, one of the scientists of the Hunger Games, Dr. Volumnia Gaul invites Coriolanus and another classmate over to see the snakes she's bred to be released in this year's game. She states she is impressed with the idea that was submitted, though Coriolanus's classmate jumps in to take the credit. As a test, Dr. Gaul makes her pick up the report from the snakes, stating that since she was the one who wrote it, the snakes wouldn't attack her, since they would've been used to her scent. She gets bitten and dragged away soon after with Dr. Gaul praising Coriolanus for his report. Coriolanus goes back to the animal zoo to give Lucy some food and to help prep for the games, giving her his mother's makeup kit where he snuck rat poison in it for her to use. During this time, one of the other mentors starts to mess with the tributes causing one of them to kill her with a broken bottle. The tribute is shot and Coriolanus pretends to attempt to resuscitate her but fails.

The Hunger Games happen inside of an arena where Coriolanus does a lot of cheating like sending broken drones to deliver water (and smash into tributes to protect Lucy Grey). When Sejauns's tribute dies, he actually breaks into the arena to give him a proper send off, and Coriolanus is tasked to drag him out of there. The tributes are of course, not happy about this and attempt to kill the two, only for Coriolanus to send up killing one of them in self-defense. After most of the tributes die, Coriolanus cheats once more by sneaking his mother's handkerchief that he used to wipe Lucy's tears into the snake tank so that they wouldn't eat her when they are released into the arena. In the end, she wins and is sent back to District 12, however, Coriolanus gets caught cheating and is sent to 20 years away from home to go guard the other districts. He is able to convince one of the officers to direct him to District 12, where he sees that Sejauns's is there too because of what he did in the arena. He is able to see Lucy once more in her traveling musical family and forms a romantic relationship with her. He then finds out that the mayor's daughter and Lucy's ex are trying to start a rebellion and shoots them, then blames it on Sejauns and watches him get hanged. Coriolanus wants to run away with Lucy and as he gets guns to protect the two, he lets slip that he killed his friend Sejaun's instead. Lucy's one deal breaker was Coriolanus lying and she is able to run away, leading to Coriolanus chasing after her. He finds the handkerchief that he used to wipe her tears, but when picking it up finds that it's a snake trap and gets bitten. Betrayed he starts shooting at the jabberjays as they sing the hanging tree song and seemingly ends up shooting Lucy as well, though it is unclear if she lived or died. Because of his service, he is eventually able to go back to the capital. He ends up talking to Dean who revealed that he was the one who originally came up with the Hunger Games and that his father stole it from him. He didn't want the Hunger Games to become reality, but it was too late, which is why he's constantly drinking. Coriolanus poisons him, lies to Sejaun's family about his fate, and his family is so impressed that they essentially adopt Coriolanus and save his family from debt. At the end, we see him making more modifications for the rest of the Hunger Games.

So I will be honest, I was very confused by this movie, partially because it took me three different sessions to watch the entire thing and also because I don't remember a lot of the context of the original Hunger Games. There is a lot of things that are missing from the movie since a huge portion of the story is done in Coriolanus's point of view including his thoughts, which showcases his thinking a lot better than in the movie. We also get a bit more depth into certain aspects, such as Coriolanus's father and the death of his classmate. In the books, it's stated that he, as well as most of the capital, look down on the districts, almost like animals. Part of this is instilled by the capital itself, but much of it also comes from his grandmother, who listens to the propaganda of the capital. On the other hand though he has his cousin, Tigris, who seems to have more empathy for the tributes, as she also made Lucy her dress, which later went into the tradition of "dressing up" tributes to make them more marketable and also gave up her education to make sure that Coriolanus has a chance at greatness. There's also Sejaun, which in the books, its shown that Coriolanus doesn't even like him, views him as lower (as he's in the district) and is shown to be jealous that he has so much money despite being district. It's pretty sad because I think that Sejaun does actually see Coriolanus as his friend, which is why his betrayal is so much worse when he gets hanged and when Coriolanus takes all of his money. We also see that in the books, he often will play up certain things to make himself look better, like for instance he pretends to resuscitate the attacked classmate as she dies and in the book we actually see him attend her funeral. There's also more context on Coriolanus's father, whom he loathes but eventually becomes like, given that he lost most of the money after revolution and he idolizes his mother, whom he never knew as she died giving birth to him and only has the handkerchief (which has a perfume his mother wears) and the makeup kit.

Now in terms of yandere behavior, Coriolanus is shown to be on the more controlling end, probably one of those ones that are more debatable like Mejojo from Black Wolves Saga. Personally, I do think that even if Coriolanus saw Lucy as "his", he does have feelings for her, seeing that the two were in a relationship for a bit. It's also pretty obvious that Lucy's betrayal cut very deeply to him, seeing that the handkerchief he gave to Lucy was his mother's and was used to trick him. After using the trap, he can no longer smell his mother's perfume on it, and that was the last straw for him, causing him to shoot everywhere. There are moments in the book where when talking about Lucy, he describes her less as a person and more as something he owns, calling her "his" tribute and even expecting Lucy to stay in the capital with him, not thinking that Lucy might not want to stay in a place that killed off so many from the district. He also tries to downplay the idea that Lucy is from the district in his head. Lucy herself is technically not from District 12, being part of a traveling performance with her family that just so happened to be in the District at the time, yet still thinks of her lower than him as she still resides within the district. Coriolanus sacrifices a lot so that she will win, such as cheating and moving himself to District 12 just to meet her, yet kind of expect Lucy to be with him always, even though there is a sense of power dynamic going on, as he is still from the richer part of the society. Lucy's betrayal cuts incredibly deep for him as after this he vows to never fall in love again and even decides to marry someone he hates so that he could never feel vulnerable again. This is also why Katniss's win in the Hunger Games is extremely painful to him, given that she brings back so much of what reminds him of Lucy. It's hard to say whether or not Lucy actually lived as we never see her body both in the movie and the books, but it's clear that Lucy's relationship did mean a great deal to Coriolanus. He is very possessive over her, both seeing her as a tool to win and also as someone he owns, though you can argue since at the end he never actually goes to check if Lucy lived or not that he could have made an effort there as a yandere.

Overall though, I do think that this is a really good showcasing on how to write a villain's backstory as we do see the choices he made to get into the way he is but also the more human side to it as well. Knowing how President Snow is in the current movie really shines on a lot of his actions and reactions to Katniss.

#asks #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #yandere #yandere boy #male yandere #recommendations

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lauralot89 · 5 months ago

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"She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!"

what in the fuck

I mean I get what she means, but why would you ever say that to a grieving person

I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.

I'm sure his grasp of English law is as competent as his grasp of the English language

You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor.

I am not the first to make this joke and I will not be the last: Dr. Barbie Van Helsing

Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you.

Out of respect for the two women who just died, I will not use the gif here

till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse

well Jack, I've got some news for you

Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth

So why doesn't this burn her? Is she still turning?

Let me tell you now

FINALLY.

but not a word to another

Of fucking course.

I want to cut off her head and take out her heart.

You really could have eased into this suggestion, Professor.

Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall operate, and you must only help.

Yeah that makes it better (it doesn't)

he will want to see her—to see it.

Van Helsing I am pretty sure you let Dracula have he/him pronouns when you speak about his undead self

But there are things that you know not

YOU DON'T SAY

If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is not perhaps well

for fuck's sake, Van Helsing

As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage—she had her back towards me, so did not see me—and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love.

bad news Jack

"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late—or too early. See!" Here he held up the little golden crucifix. "This was stolen in the night."

I don't fully understand what difference that makes to staking/beheading her

He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with.

Classic Van Helsing

I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced."

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part—in which he was officially interested—of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

Understatement of the century, Jack

even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk

I'm sorry, I know I'm terrible, but phrasing

"Jack, is she really dead?"

Yes and no

I take it that you do not—that you cannot—trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot—and may not—and must not yet understand.

HE CAN'T KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH THIS

He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

as someone who is horribly allergic to lilies, I'd have died of migraines after three seconds in the house

#Dracula Daily #Laura reads Dracula Daily

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myhauntedsalem · 6 months ago

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Lalaurie Mansion

New Orleans, LA

Dr. Louis Lalaurie and his wife, Delphine moved into their fancy new mansion in New Orleans. They were respected by everyone. They had a lot of money, power and influence. Ms. Delphine was greatly admired for her beauty.

They threw lavish social parties that would be the talk of the town for weeks to come.

Their house was extravagant and they had dozens of slaves to take care of it.

It was the neighbors who first began to suspect that something was not right.

There were whispered conversations about how the Lalaurie slaves seemed to come and go quite often. Parlor maids would be replaced with no explanation or the stable boy was suddenly just disappear… never to be seen again.

Then, one day a neighbor was climbing her own stairs when she heard a scream and saw Madame Lalaurie chasing a little girl, the Madame’s personal servant, with a whip. She pursued the girl onto the roof of the house, where the child jumped to her death. The neighbor later saw the small slave girl buried in a shallow grave beneath the cypress trees in the yard.

It was rumored that she treated the slaves horribly. But how horribly exactly, no one knew.

A terrible fire broke out in the Lalaurie kitchen. Legend has it that it was set by the cook, who could endure no more of the Madame’s tortures. Regardless of how it started, the fire swept through the house.

After the blaze was put out, the fire fighters discovered a horrible sight behind a secret, barred door in the attic.

The information you are about to read is from the embellished part of the event. The authors who wrote about it in the book didn’t source these events:

They found more than a dozen slaves here, chained to the wall in a horrible state. They were both male and female…. some were strapped to makeshift operating tables… some were confined in cages made for dogs…. human body parts were scattered around and heads and human organs were placed haphazardly in buckets…. grisly souvenirs were stacked on shelves and next to them a collection of whips and paddles.

It was more horrible that anything created in man’s imagination.

According to the newspaper, the New Orleans Bee, all of the victims were naked and the ones not on tables were chained to the wall. Some of the women had their stomachs sliced open and their insides wrapped about their waists.

One woman had her mouth stuffed with animal excrement and then her lips were sewn shut. The men were in even more horrible states. Fingernails had been ripped off, eyes poked out, and private parts sliced away.

One man hung in shackles with a stick protruding from a hole that had been drilled in the top of his head. It had been used to “stir” his brains.

The tortures had been administered so as to not bring quick death. Mouths had been pinned shut and hands had been sewn to various parts of the body.

Regardless, many of them had been dead for quite some time. Others were unconscious and some cried in pain, begging to be killed and put out of their misery.

The fire fighters fled the scene in disgust and doctors were summoned from a nearby hospital.

There were a few who still clung to life…. like a woman whose arms and legs had been removed and another who had been forced into a tiny cage with all of her limbs broken than set again at odd angles.

Madame Lalaurie and her family were never seen again.

______________________________________________________________

The house remained vacant for many years after that. It then became an all girls school and then apartment buildings.

During the time when the mansion was an apartment house, a number of strange events were recorded. Among them was an encounter between a occupant and a naked black man in chains who attacked him. The black man abruptly vanished.

Others claimed to have animals butchered in the house; children were attacked by a phantom with a whip; strange figures appeared wrapped in shrouds; a young mother was terrified to find a woman in elegant evening clothes bending over her sleeping infant; and of course, the ever-present sounds of screams, groans and cries that would reverberate through the house at night.

Today the house has been renovated again and serves as luxury apartments.

#Lalaurie Mansion #ghost and hauntings #paranormal #ghost and spirits #haunted locations #haunted salem #myhauntedsalem #ghosts #spirits

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katakaluptastrophy · 10 months ago

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Masterpost of TLT metas

This is mostly for my own reference, as tagging doesn't seem to guarantee something being findable on Tumblr...but if you like wildly overthinking lesbian necromancers in space, enjoy!

Overthinking the Fifth House:

What is a "Speaker to the Dead"?

Actually, Magnus Quinn isn't terrible at sword fighting

Imperial complicity: Abigail the First

Pyschopomp: Abigail Pent and Hecate

Did Teacher conspire with Cytherea to kill the Fifth?

What does the Fifth House actually do?

The Fourth and the Fifth can never just be family

Cytherea's political observations at the anniversary dinner

Abigail Pent's affect: ghosts and autism

Were the Fourth wards of the Fifth?

Abigail probably knew most of the scions as children

Magnus Quinn's very understandable anger

Fifth House necromancy is not neat and tidy

Are Abigail and Magnus an exception to the exploitative nature of cavaliership?

"Abigail Pent literally brought her husband and look where that got her" (the Fifth in TUG)

The Fifth's relationship dynamic

The Fifth's relationship is unconventional in a number of ways

The queer-coding of Abigail and Magnus' relationship

Abigail and Palamedes, and knowing in the River

Was Isaac the ward of the Fifth?

Did Magnus manage to draw his sword before Cytherea killed him? (and why he probably had to watch his wife die)

How did Abigail know she was murdered by a Lyctor?

Fifth House necromancy is straight out of the Odyssey

The politics of the anniversary dinner (and further thoughts)

Was Magnus born outside of the Dominicus system?

Overthinking John Gaius:

The one time John was happy was playing Jesus

Is Alecto's body made from John's?

Are there atheists in the Nine Houses?

Why isn't John's daughter a necromancer?

The horrors of love go both ways: why John could have asked Alecto 'what have you done to me?'

Why M- may have really hoped John was on drugs

What is it with guys called Jo(h)n and getting disintegrated? (John and Dr Manhattan)

John's conference call with his CIA handlers

Watching your friend turn into an eldritch horror

Why does G1deon look so weird? (Jod regrew him from an arm)

When is a friendship bracelet not a friendship bracelet?

Why did John have G1deon hunt Harrow? (with bonus update)

The 'indelible' sin of Lyctorhood and John's shoddy plagiarism of Catholicism

Are John Gaius and Abigail Pent so different?

What was Jod's plan at Canaan House?

John and Ianthe tread the Eightfold path

The Mithraeum is more than a joke about cows

When was John Gaius born? (And another)

John Gaius and the tragic Orestes

John and Jesus writing sins in the sand

John and Nona's echoing chapters

John's motivations

Is Alecto just as guilty as John?

John's cult (and what he might have done to them)

The horror of Jod

Did John get bloodsweat before he became god?

Some very silly thoughts about John and Abigail arguing about academia

Overthinking the Nine Houses:

'No retainers, no attendants, no domestics'

Funerary customs and the violence of John's silence

Juno Zeta and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time

The horror of the River bubble

Every instance of 'is this how it happens' in HTN

Feudalism is still shitty even if you make it queer and sex positive

How do stele work?

Thought crime in the Nine Houses

The Houses have a population the size of Canada

What must it be like to fight the Houses?

You know what can't have been fun? Merv wing's megatruck on Varun day...

Augustine's very Catholic hobby (decorating skeletons)

Necromancers are not thin in a conventionally attractive way

Matching the Houses with the planets of the solar system (though perhaps the Fourth *is* on Saturn)

Why don't the Nine Houses have (consistent) vaccination or varifocals?

How would the Houses react to the deaths at Canaan House?

How does Wake understand her own name (languages over 10,000 years)

What pre-resurrection texts are known in the Houses?

Camilla and Palamedes very Platonic relationship (further thoughts)

The horrors the Cohort found at Canaan House

Do the Houses understand the tech keeping them alive?

The scions from an external perspective (sci fi baddies)

Cav cots

The Nine Houses and feudalism

The horrors of early necromantic education

#the locked tomb #tlt meta #Re-posting because Tumblr got upset with how many links were in the post

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dingbatnix · 1 year ago

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Rest

Deity (part 1)

So I got to thinking one day, about how everything would have effected Goggs, Sapnap, Karl and Dream after the events of Deity. I mostly wanted to focus on George, cause honestly? He's more fun to write when he's freaking out, and I wanted to mess with the dynamic that is 'Dream is XD,' i.e., Dream is a god and doesn't know how humans work, but he's trying.

Also, I might have gone too heavily into the, 'George is freaking out o gosh,' but idk. The fic grew its own legs.

It's not g/t or anything btw.

Anyway, I think that's enough rambling. Onto the fic!

Word Count: 5,513

Warnings: Fear, Flashbacks, Panick Attacks, I think low-level PTSD/trauma, descriptions of gore, injuries, ectcetera ectcetera.

There had to be at least twelve zombies stumbling after him. Now, normally, they wouldn’t have been a problem for George to handle, (he was an excellent swordsman, and an even better bowman) but as of right now, he was running on about three and a half hours of sleep. The last time he’d rested in any sort of meaningful manner was well over a week ago, and that was only because he had knocked back a weakness potion strong enough to lay a ravager out flat.

Sure, his friends were worried about the possibility of him overdosing on potions (he’d be fine, he only ever drank them on the really bad nights!) And sure, maybe it was an unhealthy way for him to combat the near-constant night terrors, but what else was he going to do!? Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Sapnap’s fear-stricken face disappearing behind a jagged black maw, all he could hear were his own screams of terror mixing with his friend’s, all he could feel was the slick, oily flesh closing around him as he plummeted down, down, down to where he could hear Sapnap’s shuddering cries of despair far below him. It had been months, and he still couldn’t get away from the vivid, mind-crushing images of his death. Not-death. Whatever.

George ducked beneath the rotting hand of a zombie as it swung clumsily at his shoulder, stumbling over his own feet and barely managing to dodge the swipe of another undead hand. He raised his sword and brought the blade down through a pair of brittle knees, sending one of the zombies crashing to the ground.

While he still felt sluggish, he hadn't lost too much of his motor control, and he was still able to defend himself. Unfortunately, he was quickly losing steam in this seemingly endless fight.

George had been exploring the land around the edges of his, Sapnap’s, and their other friend Bad’s house in a desperate attempt to evade the cold, grasping claws of sleep when he had been ambushed by an enormous congregation of mobs. He had some armor on, thank the Go…thankfully, an iron chestplate and a helmet that he had snatched up out of a random chest before he left the house, but it wasn’t enough to really defend against the amount of gnashing jaws and greedy fingers chasing after his flesh.

He had taken out a lot of them, but their numbers would have overwhelmed even Dr—Sapnap, and while George was normally up to par with his arsonistic friend, the sleep deprivation was getting to him, grasping at his limbs with clinging, sticky tendrils and tripping up his every step.

A sudden, heavy snap jarred his entire left arm and shoulder, and he stared in dismay at the jagged, broken line splitting his sword in half clear down to the crossguard. He continued to wield it anyway, unwilling to drop his only weapon, and it lasted through several heavy hits until the bisected blade shattered in a spray of shrapnel. George dodged the shower of sharp metal with a fervent cry, scrunching his eyes shut and scrambling backwards.

In the back of his mind, he heard a horribly familiar, horribly fond voice telling him that it was terribly dangerous to go exploring at night without backup, and that George should let him know if he ever planned to do so. George shivered, pushing the overbearing, seemingly sticky presence away from his mind and tried to focus on the fight.

Rotting fingers snagged on the rim of his chestplate, and he felt more than heard the snap of leather as one of the straps keeping the iron together broke under the sudden pressure of the zombie pulling at it.

Above him, he heard the shriek of a phantom, and then, horribly, the answering call of another. George blinked back the exhaustion stinging at his eyes and shoved at the rotted bodies crowding in and snatching at his limbs. Putrid flesh split under his fingers as he stumbled away, leaving a gross, oily residue on his hands that didn’t quite come off when he swiped his hands against his trousers.

Greedy claws scratched at the back of his neck as he scrambled to run, and he felt his helmet being ripped off by what could only be one of the phantoms following after him from above.

George found himself driven to the top of a cliff. It was relatively small, maybe only about thirty feet high, but there were many, many trees scattered at the base. Some of the branches reached up near to the cliff’s edge, and George warily considered jumping as an escape option. He’d probably break a couple of bones, and at the very worst, be impaled by a stray tree branch, but it'd at least get him away from the slow, shambling force of zombies dogging after him.

His gaze flashed back to the monsters trundling steadfastly behind him, a small line of tension loosening in his shoulders when he saw how far they were. It wouldn’t take them long to catch up, but he had at least a moment of breathing room.

He twisted back around, grateful for the lull in mobs, and stared down at the intimidating drop to the distant ground. If he aimed for that small patch of bushes, maybe, or tried to grab onto that thick branch just a little further to his right—!

Something slammed into his back, screeching against his armor and sending him plummeting face-first off the edge of the cliff. George screamed, flailing as he crashed into the rough upper branches of the trees. Sharp leaves and sticks scratched and tore at his face and clothes, and he had to bring his arms up to shield his face, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to protect them from the painful debris.

A branch caught on his chestplate, slowing him for barely a moment before his weight and momentum had the remaining leather straps holding it together snapping with an awfully final sound. He shrieked, pawing uselessly at the armor that was already high out of his reach as the impact spun him around midair, sending his mind whirling with nausea.

George hit the ground shoulder-first with a harsh whoomph and a gradual puff of dust that drifted away from his body. He cried out, curling inwards as his new injuries rapidly made themselves known. Scratches along his sides and arms and even his neck stung, and various bruises littered all across his body were throbbing in unison. His entire right side was on fire, and he couldn’t tell if any particular part of his side was hurt worse than anything else.

He forced himself to flop onto his back with a choked, muffled scream, the singular movement causing agonized waves to radiate down through his side. He forced down the unwanted tears burning behind his eyes and attempted to suck air into his lungs, mentally counting through the numbers Bad had recently coached him through.

Nothing felt broken, at least, but George was sure that some of his ribs had popped out of place. Every time he tried to breathe in, starbursts of light would fill his fuzzing vision, and a horrendous pain stabbed through the side of his torso, where his ribs were.

He could not move his right arm. The sudden realization froze George in his tracks, and his breath hitched up. The accompanying spikes of pain made it stutter back into a shaky, weak rhythm, but that did little to console his mind.

Either his arm or shoulder was severely dislocated or…severely broken. Either option was very unpleasant for George’s near future. George swallowed, nerves and sudden apprehension drying his throat. If he healed it, it would hurt, but if he left it as it was, it would get worse.

With the trembling fingers of his left hand, he pulled his last, already mostly used-up regeneration potion from his pocket, thankful that it hadn't shattered when he landed, and downed the last few sips remaining in the bottle. He felt something in his right arm crunch back together immediately after, the sudden flash of agony whiting out his vision, but then he could move the limb again, albeit carefully. It didn’t do much for the rest of his wounds, for there was far too little of the potion and he had far too many injuries, but it took enough of the pain’s edge off that he could sit up.

The motion had him gasping in great lungfuls of air, sweat beading along his temples as he pushed through each flare of pain rolling from his ribs. He curled forward and tried to force air into his lungs, wishing he had Bad with him. The demon always knew how to help, be it with panic, or with awful, debilitating injuries.

George bit his lip, trying to distract himself from the throbbing ache pulsing throughout his body. He had to get up, had to get moving. He needed a shelter of some sort, so he could collapse, nurse his wounds, and wait for dawn. Then, he could start making his way back home.

Holding in a whine, he worked himself up to his feet and braced against a tree. The effort it took to stand alone nearly made him black out, and if it weren’t for the support of the tree, he would have fallen back to the ground. George swayed in place, vision spinning in a sickening dance of motion as he breathed deep and slow.

Out of nowhere, he heard the worst sound in the world. The slow, shambling steps of multiple zombies, and even the telltale hiss of a creeper flooded his ears, sending panic and no small amount of despair crashing through his system. Why couldn’t the universe cut him a break? Why did he have to suffer?

Frustrated tears stung at the edges of his vision, and he swung his gaze up to glare at the newest obstacle in his road to survive. Four zombies straggled towards him barely two meters away, and beyond them, the mottled yellow of a creeper slunk, lagging several meters behind.

His fingers curled around the only weapon he could find, a loose piece of bark sticking slightly out from the trunk of the tree he was using for support. He tore it free, managing to break off a piece as long as his forearm and about as wide as his hand, and brandished it at the approaching mobs. If nothing else, he could go out fighting. There was no way he’d survive against four zombies and a creeper in his current state.

Unless…but he shook that thought off. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Just the mere thought paralyzed his throat and made his heart stutter.

As the zombies converged on him, George managed to gut one with the sliver of bark, necrotic flesh tearing open easily under the jagged wood. Intestines spilled out, and then George was being slammed back against the tree trunk, putrid jaws snapping at his limbs and rotten hands scratching at his face. George cried out when teeth fastened themselves into his left elbow, making him lose his grip on his piece of weaponized tree bark. He tried to pull free, horribly aware of the hissing creeper that was steadfastly approaching, but cold, almost completely bone fingers tore at his right bicep, pulling him off balance and nearly sending him to the ground. He yelped, the sudden movement jarring his injuries and making them flare with pain.

Desperation filled his chest, and he realized he only had one, awful option. One awful option that he dreaded, one awful option that might just save his life. He didn’t want his help, though, not at all. He didn’t want to call for him.

…He had to. It was…it was that, or die, and he wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready to face the void, wasn’t ready to do that to his friends. He wanted to live, even if it meant calling for his worst nightmare. Would it be better than dying to mobs? He didn’t know. He didn’t have time to debate what might happen next, not while he was seconds away from his gruesome end. Sucking in a breath, George did the only thing he could. He called for Dream.

“Dream!” He screamed, viciously fighting and shoving away the decayed fingers that were chasing after his arms and throat. “Dream, please, I need help!” He felt ridiculous, screaming for someone who probably wouldn't even hear him, for someone who might not even care about him, truly care. George didn’t know if Dream was capable of such a thing. How could he? He wasn’t mortal. He was a God. What God would truly, truly care for something so…so insignificant, when compared to what the heavens had to offer?

George tried to push those thoughts away and attempted to focus on breathing past his burgeoning panic. Dream wouldn’t…wouldn’t do that to him, right? Wouldn’t he…?

Suddenly, there was a crack of booming light, and then a dry, staticy wave of heat that had George and his assailants tumbling backwards. He hit the ground with a choked wheeze, skidding several feet over the mossy, leaf-coated ground. Dizziness swirled through his head, and his elbow and ribs and shoulder screamed in agony. Despite the pain, George propped himself up on his side, panting heavily as he tried to process.

The quick, whistling sound of an iron blade dancing through the air reached his ears, and he managed to glance up to see a blur of yellow plowing through the converging mobs. Not even a minute later, the entire group of monsters was disintegrating in the slight breeze that had kicked up, and the golden blur had solidified into a broad, tall shape that was approaching him.

"What are you doing out here? Alone! At night!?" Large hands closed around his bruised biceps, pulling him to his feet, and George suddenly found himself face-to-face with a gleaming white smiley mask. "You know the mobs are more dangerous in the dark! Prime knows how many times I've warned you!"

He had never been more aware of how tall Dream was until this exact moment, when the man–god–was standing a full head-and-a-half over his own skull, towering over him. The grip on his arms was gentle, but firm, and half of George’s focus was on how strong the hands were, on how fast they might turn to bruising and restraining.

He saw the flash of Dream's teeth as the ma–god–spoke but he didn’t hear the words. All he could think of was what might have happened if the gaping black maw he'd been tossed into had had those sharp incisors. An image of his and Sapnap's mangled, crushed bodies, guts and bones and gore spilling from their split skin flashed through his mind, and his breath hitched.

For a moment, George swore he could feel the thick, oily texture of saliva coating his skin.

George shoved out of Dream’s grip, hands burning where they pressed against the blond's chest, and stumbled backwards, nearly falling as his heel caught on a mossy ridge on the ground. His back hit the trunk of a tree, hard, and he found his fingers digging into the ridged bark to ground himself, both against the waves of pain that jarred his body from the impact, and from the realization that Dream was here, physically present, right in front of him.

"Don't–don't touch me," he managed to gasp out, eyes watering as his breath hitched faster and faster. George tore his hands away from the tree bark, clutching at the collar of his shirt and scratching at his throat as he panted. He couldn’t–wasn’t—he couldn’t breathe!

His knees failed him, and he slid down to the ground, rough bark scraping through his shirt and shredding his skin, but he didn’t notice, couldn’t notice, not when his throat felt like it was closing up, not when it looked like the night sky was bleeding down to rip away his vision.

He was aware that Dream was still in front of him, still looming above his head, but the fact was a distant, dull idea that he couldn’t quite grasp, not when it felt like teeth were closing down around his chest, not when he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe—

George could swear he heard Sapnap screaming below him.

“I wouldn’t—I would never hurt you, George. I won't. Ever.” The form in front of him shifted, and then all he could see through the fuzzing cloud of darkness was a wash of bright, nearly fluorescent amber blocking the night air.

Two hands, larger than George's own, reached forward and, so incredibly gently, grasped his trembling fingers between wide palms and pulled them away from his raw, seemingly swollen throat.

“George, hey, hey, can you breathe with me? I think you’re having an attack, c’mon, try to breathe–” The voice was muffled, and George barely noticed it. All he could focus on was the warm, nearly hot hold that entrapped both of his hands. His fingers twitched as the buzzing in his ears increased, burying nearly every other sound present. George couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat. Why couldn't he hear his heartbeat?!

“Hhnnnnnn–” George wheezed, desperately trying to jerk his hands free from the impossibly firm grip. The long fingers curled more securely around the backs of his hands, around his wrists, and two thumbs moved to press against George’s palms.

More words were being said, but he couldn't hear them. It felt like his entire head had been forced down underneath the waters of a violent river, and he couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe—no matter how hard George struggled, he just could not shake off the invisible hands forcing his head under the rapids.

His hands were suddenly pressed against something soft, something warm, rising up and down in a gentle swell, and he could feel a steady bup-bump, bup-bump, bup-bump pounding beneath his palms. He latched onto the constant pulse, breath hitching up again in concordance with the sudden, unwavering rhythm.

His fingers curled against the warm fabric, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to focus on the phantom touch of muscles crushing around his body. He forced himself to breathe, shuddery as it was, in tandem with the beat of the heart against his palms.

Bup-bump. Bup-bump. Bup-bump. His chest stuttered, but he pushed on. Four, five, six, seven. Breathe out. He wasn’t in a prison of fleshy death. There was bark pressing into his spine, digging stinging pin-pricks into his skin, leaves and grass crinkling under his legs as they quivered. Two, three, four. Breathe in, ignore the hitched sniffle, and breathe out. There were sounds all around him, the noises of the night crickets and the frogs, the hollow, lonely hoot of an owl, the hushed, hesitant murmur of reassurances and instructions from the presence in front of him, of the body his hands were resting against.

George breathed, and slowly, oh so slowly, gained back control of himself. He kept his eyes closed, unready to face the source of his panic.

He’d had episodes like this, many, many times after the incident. Sapnap had them as well, but not nearly as often, nor as intensely as the brunette did. Bad had coached them both through ways to cope, of ways to bring themselves back to reality after their minds plunged them down into the horrible depths of wet–dark–NO—

It was so, so difficult to do on his own, especially when the cause of his spiral was right in front of him, but he had to get himself under control. He forced his head above the violent waves despite the sheer, paralyzing dread, despite the disquiet that filled him down to his very bones, and gasped for air.

He had to face his problem, had to overcome it, Bad had said. If George let it fester in his mind, it would cripple him, it would eventually kill him, the demon had warned. He’d given George a lot of advice. It was probably time George started taking it. He didn’t want to be like this anymore. He just wanted everything to go back to normal.

He pried open his raw, puffy eyes, cheeks glistening with the wet of his own tears, and grasped at his blurry vision, forcing his gaze to focus. His fingers tightened, then relaxed, then clenched again as he worked up the will to look. He inhaled, too fast, and coughed, throat sore and body shaking. It’s like ripping off a plaster. He had to do it quick, or else he’d never manage such a daunting feat.

George breathed, and forced his eyes to actually see.

The offensively bright yellow of Dream’s cropped hoodie crossed into focus, blocking most of George’s view, his own trembling hands clutched against the center of the deity’s chest. Large hands clasped his, the thumb of each running soothing circles into the backs of his hands. The god had sunk down to the ground along with George, knees pressed into the mulchy floor of the forest, grass and twigs squashed up against the dark fabric of his trousers.

George risked a glance up at Dream’s face, terrified of what he would see. Would it be the face of his long-time best friend, or…or would it be the face of the deity who had eaten him?

He was afraid, but he forced himself to look anyway. He had to.

The god’s mask was pushed aside, and Dream’s wide, sparkling hazel eyes sought his own. George flinched, immediately avoiding his gaze and instead focusing on the mossy grass crawling along the roots around his knees.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. All he could see was the face of the creature that had nearly not-killed him.

A hand detached itself from the cradle around his own and appeared just under George's chin, one long finger resting under his mandible and tilting his head up. “Hey,” Dream breathed, voice soft, gentle, even. “It’s alright, George. You’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

George’s back stiffened when his gaze was pulled upwards, and his breath hitched when he finally met Dream’s eyes.

Warm hazel shone, a faint, glittering blue light swirling from behind the amber-tinted irises. They seemed to draw George in, and unconsciously, the tense line along his back released, and his shoulders slumped.

His body felt oddly numb, like he had dosed himself with an intense painkiller. He couldn’t really feel the pain that should have been there from his previously accrued wounds, and a distant, vague part of him was…shrieking in alarm. Why did he feel so calm all of the sudden? He recoiled suddenly, yanking his chin out of Dream’s grasp and tearing his eyes away from the god with a gasp. What the hell was that?

“George, are you…okay?” Dream sounded so concerned. George’s gut clenched, mind reeling, and he chewed at the inside of his lip. No. No, he was not, but the crux of his issues was the god sitting right in front of him. George wasn’t about to tell Dream that he was the reason he was freaking out so badly. What if he got mad? What if he decided to actually…

George cut himself off and decided to ask a question of his own in lieu of answering. He…he was not ready to deal with that particular issue. Whatever spark of courage to confront his problems that had struck him earlier had withered and died, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. So, he deflected.

"Why'd you come?" He croaked, words catching in his raw-feeling throat. He coughed, trying to clear the roughness of his voice. “Why…why are you here, Dr-Dream?”

The god paused at his question, thumb faltering in its rotation on the back of George’s hand as the rest of his fingers tightened slightly in their grip. "You…you called for me? You needed help, George. You were gonna…the mobs would have killed you!”

George’s chest stuttered at the reminder, and he flinched when he bit down too hard on the inside of his cheek. The taste of coppery blood flooded his mouth, and he had to swallow it down with a disgusted grimace so that he could speak.

"I didn't think you'd actually…I didn't think you’d actually come, Dream. Why? Why? I’m just…I’m just. Me.” He swallowed again, sucking in a deep breath of the cool night air through his nose. “And you. You’re a. A God. What—why the hell would you come for me? Why do you care?”

He was crying again, hot rivulets of saltine tears streaming down his face to drip down his jawline. His lips twisted into a wobbly frown, and he wiped a damp cheek off on his shoulder. Dream still had a hold on both of his hands. He didn’t know if he wanted the deity to let go.

Dream’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His face morphed into one of sad surprise, and his shoulders slumped. His fingers jittered across the backs of George’s hands as he worked his jaw, brow furrowed and eyes perturbed. Finally, words escaped his throat, a tone George couldn’t quite identify coloring them.

“I…I'll always, always come when you call, George.” The blond breathed, reaching towards George again with his free hand. He paused and drew his hand back when George flinched, but his fingers still twitched as if they wanted to grasp onto something. “I couldn't live in a world without you." He confessed, voice low and just slightly wavery.

A quiet, muddled “Oh,” was all George could muster in response. He felt…it was like a yawning hole had opened up beneath him, and he didn’t know what to do. What did he say to that? That Dream would always want to be there for him, he could…attempt to understand, but. How did he explain to Dream that the m—god’s mere presence nearly shut down George’s ability to function?

He blinked heavily, trying to clear the misted haze that seemed to settle behind his eyes. He was so tired…

Dream’s face softened, and he slowly reached up to brush a thumb over George's cheekbone, right underneath one of the deep, dark bruises hanging below the brunette's eyes. "When was the last time you slept?"

“I…four…four days ago…” George trailed off, his throat closing up as the most recent nightmare leeched back up. He’d been endlessly falling, dropped by the hands of huge, indecipherable shadows. He hadn’t been able to see, and the only thing he could hear had been the laughter. He’d woken up after his body had smashed and split open onto a giant, gold gilt dinner plate.

He jerked his head sharply, breaking away from both the memory and from the gentle brush of touch on his face. He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to remember any of it, but it kept coming back. He just wanted everything to be normal again. Was that too much for him to ask?

He finally turned to meet Dream’s gaze, staring the god in the face unflinchingly for the first time since he appeared. His eyes seemed a touch blue-er than they were since George last looked, but that may have been an effect of the sleep deprivation George was suffering from.

The blonde looked worried, and something about his expression pulled oddly at something inside of George’s brain.

What’s wrong, it seemed to say, prodding gently at the back of his mind. Tell me what’s bothering you, and then I can help. It was a vague murmur, a dizzying buzz that clouded his thoughts, and he found himself answering without a single opposing thought.

The words poured out of his mouth, a terrible confession that seemed to rise from his lungs. "I keep reliving—but it's worse, so much worse, because you–you don’t—you—” crush us, you chew us, you kill us–, “and I can't—" It was all too much. He couldn’t—He couldn’t—

George threw himself forward, shoving his forehead against Dream's chest and tangling his fingers deeper into the fabric of the god's hoodie. A long, keening whimper escaped his lips, and a hot stinging intensified behind his eyes.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He’d never had these thoughts about the Dream before. He’d have trusted him implicitly, but now…every time he thought about him, mind-numbing terror would rocket through his bones, and he'd want to vomit. Or cry, and cry, and cry until he felt nothing at all.

Dream's hands met his shoulders, a heavy, warm presence running down along his back, then up again. George couldn’t help the shiver of fear that thrilled through his gut at the contact. If Dream decided that he didn’t want to let go…

“Oh, oh, George,” arms encircled his shoulders, and fingers ran through his hair as George’s breathing stuttered again, warm tears trickling down to soak into the god's hoodie. His hands would be trembling if they weren’t so tightly clenched.

Dream shifted, slow and easy, as he moved to lean his back against the tree trunk George had been pressed against. His arms stayed around the brunette as he adjusted his position, pulling George against his side, instead of sprawled halfway over his chest. George flinched, then forced himself to relax, attempting to loosen the grip he had on Dream’s hoodie. He wasn’t very…successful.

“I’m so sorry, George. I…I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I just…I wanted to keep you safe.” Dream confessed, posture slumping against the rough bark of the tree. He sighed, pulling one hand from George’s back to rub at his temples. His face twisted into a grimace, and he glanced up at the night sky through the leaves and branches above them.

"There’s not…I can’t undo what happened. I can’t even stop you from being afraid of me. You…You’re completely justified in that, and I don’t blame you.” Dream’s jaw tensed, the only part of the god’s face that George could see. He tried not to imagine the expression that was decorating the blonde’s face.

Dream continued, seemingly oblivious to George’s strange internal conflicts. “What I can do, though, is help you sleep, if you'll let me."

George startled, at that, and a part of him almost tried to beg at the offer. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, to rest, but he couldn’t. Not when his dreams were so horribly inundated with night terrors and flashbacks.

"You're not going to–to eat me again, are you…?" His voice was hesitant, and it nearly hurt to get the words out. He had to know, though. If that was Dream’s way to help him sleep, then George would bolt, injuries and exhaustion be damned.

The god looked back at him abruptly, eyes wide and brow furrowed, and shook his head viciously. “No, never again, George. I’m not gonna—I won’t do that to you again.” He breathed out a slow huff of air and gently moved a hand over the brunette’s shoulders.

“O–okay, then. Fine.” George mumbled, dropping his gaze from Dream’s. He caught the bright edge of the god’s pleased expression in his peripherals, and tried not to think too hard about what that meant.

"Just lay down, alright? I'll help you sleep. I’ll keep all of the nightmares away."

Dream guided George's head down to rest against his legs, disentangling the brunette’s fingers from his sweater and helping him sprawl on his back over the mossy grass. George had a perfect view of the god's face, framed by the shadowed silhouettes of the leaves above, and, sprinkling through the gaps, the glittering stars of the night sky.

The distant shriek of a phantom sounded high above them, far beyond the trees, and George shrank back against the ground, alarm buzzing through his veins. He pulled his hands up to his chest, fingers tangling together as his nerves jarred though his system. "What…what about the mobs?"

"They won't bother us. I'll keep them away." One of Dream's hands reached down to rest over George's fidgeting digits, while the other rose up to brush the hair away from his eyes.

"Just sleep, George. I'll keep you safe, alright?” The god’s voice washed over him, drawing him deeper into the darkness of the night, and he couldn’t help the overwhelming wave of drowsiness that poured through his body. George’s eyes slipped closed, the afterimage of Dream’s luminescent blue irises fading behind his own eyelids.

His muscles untensed, and he felt…calm. His jittering, pounding heart eased to a slightly-rapid stutter, and the anxious, gut twisting rush that had plagued him for the last several hours drained away. A warmth spread over his entire body, and he couldn’t feel the pain of his wounds anymore.

It didn't feel…natural, but George was too far gone to really care. He was so tired…

So, so tired.

Taglist!!

@brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu @da3dm @kayla-crazy-stuffs @local-squishmallow @skullsnbruises @munchkin1156 @gt-daboss

#mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #d'yall mind if i tag this as that?#cause i meant technically ots part of it #if not just lemme know and ill take the tags off #writing #seriously how the heck fo i tag notmal stuff?#mcyt vore #referenced vore #giant!dream #tiny!george #referenced #hmmm #tags suck this time #and yes #dream did use magic to try and calm george down : D #bat's writing #deity

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lovelykalopsia · 11 months ago

Text

Day 1: Trope Subversion Bad Boy trope cuz I though it would be funny

@mcyt-aro-week

"Y'know, this is a bit pathetic of you, dont you agree?" Grians voice broke his train of though, though it wasnt much of a train and more of one cart going around and around in never ending loop of nothingness, and that analogy was quickly getting away from him. "No, Grain, I don't think pining from Mr. Goodytwo shoes is pathetic, totally don't, where could you ever get that idea?" That sounded like it had more venom than it needed to, but then again maybe he really needed that much venom, or maybe even more, who knows?

"Hey! No need to get bitchy, Im just saying, your trying to keep your 'bad boy' appearance while also going for someone who is the complete opposite." Grian shrugged, and Joel knew Grian thought it was pathetic, but grian didnt have much to say with whatever he had going on with the tall lanky kid, Mumbo or something, not important anyways. This time Joel didn't reply, instead just groaning and hiding his hands in his face. "This is terrible" He mumble into his hand. He could hear Grain laugh at this, but he mostly tried to tune it out.

Jimmy groan, flopping down face first on his, Tango, and Scotts bed, right next to the others. "I don't know what to do guysss" he practically whined, though it was muffled by him shoving his face in the bed. Jim felt a hand start to mess with his hair and groaned louder.

"I mean, I think the best thing to do it tell him?" Tango suggested, though it sounded more like a question, like he himself wasnt sure that was a good idea.

"Well yeah, but I don't even know if he likes me like that or is intrest in that!" He finally pulled his head away from the bed so they could hear him better.

"You'll never know untill you ask, Sweetie. Amd even if he isn't interested I'm sure he'll still want to be friends, mostly because he isnt that dumb." God, Scott always knew what to say in situations like this, because no offense to Tango but his advice is horrible.

"I guess thats true...when should I tell him?" Jimmy asked, rolling over to stare at the celling. Honestly he didn't even know how he would go about it, he really isnt sure how Joel feels about him, because sure they talk and Joel isnt particularly mean, hes actually quite nice to him, but that doesn't automatically mean Joel would be interested in a qpr.

"You could always met him today?" Scott suggested, though it didn't make much sense because last he knew, Joel spends his weekend with Grian, being 'bad boys' whatever that could mean for them, noone really knows anyways.

"I really couldn't, hes usually busy with Grian."

"Maybe hes not..?" Scott definitely did something, hes not sure but he didnt something to get Joel away from Grain.

Joel felt his phone buzz in his pocket and then heard a ringtone, indicating that it was infact Scott texting him this time, gosh what could that man what today. He rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone, quickly unlocking it and going to his messages with Scott.

Scotty boy: joel, are you prehaps busy right now?

Joel: Not really what do want now.

Scotty boy: how would you feel about meeting up? Like right now at the cafe near your house.

Joel: ig i could, why

Scotty boy: well mr.bad boy, I have something important to tell you, but if you reallyyy dont want to, Ig it could wait

Joel: ugh ill be there in 5.

Scotty boy: perfect!

"Bloody hell, what could he want now" He mumble under his breath, pocketing his phone before standing up and walking to his dresser to find clothes that would make him look semi presentable.

"Joel, whatcha doin'?" Grian asked, slightly confused on what was happening.

"Scott wants to meet up with me for some odd reason I dunno why." Joel answered, Shrugging on a pull-over and a pair of trousers.

"Uhh okay, have fun with that, Ill be here." Grian said, pulling out his phone, probably inviting someone over while he's gone. Joel let out a 'mhm' and made his way to the door.

"Scott, why are you dressing me up like some kinda of toy?" Jimmy waw beyond confused right now. All he knew that he and Scott where going a on a date, as Scott put it, to some cafe hes never heard of.

"You want to look good for out date right? And no offense but I dont trust you to dress yourself Jim" Scott replied, throwing some more of Jims clothes on the floor, which would need to be washed later because of that.

"I guess, but I can infact dress myself just find, I'm an adult y'know."

"You're an adult who doesn't know how to dress well."

"I disagree I think I look perfectly fine." Jimmy knows he looks decent atleast, not bad enough to where he has to get dressed by someone else.

"Oh shush and let me do this or Joel will never want a qpr with you." Huh, strange.

"What are you talking about with Joel?"

"What?" Well, now Scott was just playing dumb with him, god dose he hate when Scott dose that.

"Scott, you said something about Joel, why?" He wasn't going to stop untill he got answers...he might actually that seems annoying for both of them.

"I didn't. Anyways, hurry and put these on so we can leave."

Joel made it to the Cafe fairly quickly, which was expected because he lives fairly close to the cafe, and now he was just waiting too see whatever Scott wanted. He flinched a bit when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned back to find Scott and Jimmy..? What in the world, why was Jim here.

"Hope we didn't keep you waiting too long, Jim was taking a superr long time to get ready." Scott said like it was nothing, sitting down across from Joel.

"Hello, Scott and Tim. I didn't know you were coming with Scott."

"I didn't know you were going to be here." Jim sat down next to Scott. Also, it was weird, why didn't Jim know he was going to be there, he assumed Scott would have told him, but he also didn't tell Joel Jim was coming so it wasnt fully outta the picture that he didnt know.

"So Scott...what did you need to tell me?" Joel asked, putting his hands in his hoodie pockets.

"Well, I may have lied, it was actually Jimmy who wanted to tell you something, just needed me to get you here so I'll be taking my leave bye, Ill be taking me leave." Scott Stood up, giving Jims hand a small squeeze and whispering something to him.

"So, Tim, what was it that you needed to tell me?"

"Well, uh maybe I had something to tell you and maybe its embarrassing so like dont judge me?" Jim's voice shook a little as he spoke, either from nerves or possibly fear, Joel didnt really know.

"I won't judge" unless it was something stupid, but Jim didn't need to know that.

"Okay, well I have to, y'know, like be your partner, if you'll have me" Joel was speechless, that was not on his bingo card for today, not that he was complaining.

"I, uh, yeah, I would like that too."

#mcyt aro week #smallidarity #joel smallishbeans #jimmy solidarity #aroace

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