#Trigger Warning Implied Death

[faux-ecrivain]

Frightened Ex x Yandere reader

“When Cupid gets it wrong, goodbyes can be messy.” - that private eye who worked for the HPD for thirty years from that one episode of Hawaï Five-O where that girl in a red dress died and the private eye was narrating the story

(Trigger warning: murder, death and amputation are mentioned/implied.)

(Also, you, the reader, are the yandere here)

(Sixteenth Official Post)

(Merry Christmas)

(Happy Holidays)

(name is Anthony)

          When you and Anthony first started dating he thought you were an absolutely wonderful person, he admired you and would go out of his way to please you. Then just 4 years into your relationship, you started to behave… strangely. You were more possessive and would often isolate him from his friends (regardless of gender).     

         Sometimes, you would makes jokes about locking him up and killing all his friends, which made him very uncomfortable. Luckily, after expressing his discomfort, you quit joking like that, but now he was wary around you and he was considering breaking up with you. However, when he expressed this decision to you, you informed him that you wouldn’t let him leave and would make sure he knew his place.

——————————————————————

   Anthony’s breath was muffled by his hands, his eyes squeezed shut as he prays that you won’t find him. He doesn’t know why you’re acting like this, treating him like a prisoner and trying to lock him away in your dreary, albeit big, house. He shuffles further into the closet, his knees up and his legs pulled close to his body. Tears fall down his face and he sniffles, what once was a beautiful, loving relationship, was now massacred beyond fixing.

         He listens as you creep through the hallway, he hears your ominous voice call out to him and he fights the urge to run into your arms. Yes, he’s scared, but often when he was scared you would be there to comfort him. Your footsteps grow closer, the floorboards creak and you stop in front of the closet. You taunt him, calling out for him, even though he’s certain you know he’s in there. “Anthony, baby, wheeere are yoou? Are you hiding from me?” Shivers wrack his body the moment he hears a haunting giggle escape your mouth. 

          “That’s not very nice, Anthony. Didn’t your mommy ever teach you manners?” Anthony’s tears fall faster as you bring up his mother, he’s sure you’ve done something to her, probably killed her. You begin moving again, the creaking of the floorboards lessen in volume and he assumes you’ve moved away from the closet. Still, he doesn’t leave and instead waits inside the closet for a matter of minutes. He listens diligently for your footsteps and hopes you won’t come back. 

          After at least 20 minutes have passed he cracks the closet door open, his eyes roam across the expanse of the hallway and his fear lessens once he sees the hall empty. He sneaks out of the closet, quietly closes the door behind him and sneaks in the direction opposite of the way that you went. For a moment, Anthony believes he can escape, he thinks he can make it to the door and run away from you. He thinks he came leave you behind, but he was wrong, so very wrong. 

          His heart stops when you call out to him, your voice smug and haughty. “There you are, baby, trying to escape, again?” He turns around and his body freezes as you approach. His heart beats erratically and he can barely form a single thought in his brain. Then he quickly snaps to when he realizes the distance between you two is slowly closing. He wills his legs to work and, when they do, he rushes off in a random direction. One that will hopefully allow him freedom or a moment’s salvation. 

         You groan when he runs off again, it was getting quite annoying and each time he ran it made you want to immobilize him. You snicker at the thought, but since you have no desire to traumatize him, more than you already have, you decide against such an idea. You stalk after him, taking your time as you knew he was likely lost in the maze of a house you own. Your throat vibrates as you begin to hum, a tune much too joyful for the present time. You hear Anthony crack open the door to the left wing of your house, well it isn’t actually your house, but does that really matter? 

          Anthony closes the heavy mahogany door behind him and wince at the loud slam it releases. He wrings his hands together and begins to walk down the darkened hallway, he’s never seen this part of the house before, it’s all worn down. He exhales and continues walking, his eyes glancing around his surroundings and taking in the strange decorations hanging up. Some of them seem entirely too old for such a modern house, some seem to be straight from the eighteenth century. 

          He doesn’t have time to dwell on your strange interior choices, as he hears the mahogany doors creak open and slam shut. His hearts begins to race, once more, and he knows you’re near. He fears that he might never escape and that you would catch him. He’s so scared, so frightened. He doesn’t know what to do, should he run or should he hide?

(I know everyone voted yes go back to my old style, but I didn’t know how else to write this oneshot. Don’t worry though, I’ll still listen to you guys and will continue writing in my old style, but I might also write this way.)

(Hope you enjoyed and hopefully you guys are excited for the next part!)

—————————————————-

(Don’t worry, I’m going to post all three (or two) endings, I just need to know which one you want first.)

(Expect another post around 12:30 this afternoon)

[blueequin0x]

Prompt 16] Plants // Art + Speedpaint

Song that this art is based on: https://youtu.be/ZVFfeTIWWco?si=W7eWDUBJW6sBOP2V

Warnings for the song: loud/jarring music, blood, violence, jarring sound effects

The true horror of this drawing is trying to draw hands AND foliage in the same drawing

CONTENT WARNINGS: [all of this is fictional] semi-realistic blood splatters, implied murder/violence, implied dismemberment / an arm in a plant pot [i have no idea how to word that warning without just saying it] // please tell me if I missed any :]   

IMAGE UNDER BREAK

Zoomed in versions

DO NOT REPOST // DO NOT REMOVE CAPTION AND CONTENT WARNINGS

total time taken: 9 hours 40 minutes

link to the speedpaint: https://youtu.be/3NN28bcfcdM

[wolfasketch]

My missing cat Thorin came home...but not in the way we wanted.

Rest in peace, my King Under the Mountain.

[eugenoid-draws]

Thinking about how little bodily autonomy Daan possessed his whole life

[ask-the-pioneer]

survivor's guilt

[tls12lessthan3]

thinking about orvs metatextual engagement with its genre and specifically how that interacts with its women again. kim dokja is a self insert for the reader - what he thinks is largely meant to represent what we think, especially in the beginning before sing shong really fleshes out his character. kim dokja sees the world through tropes, directly acknowledging the genre around him and the cliches we expect e.g. the overpowered mc, the scheming villain, the beautiful heroine.

but a major part of his arc is deconstructing this reductionist view of the world in a way that parallels the author's deconstruction of the genre, and that plays really well with the way orv writes women. yoo sangah is perhaps the best exanple - shes introduced as the heroine, a one-dimensional pretty girl who in any other novel would become kim dokja's love interest. but the authors allow her to be her own character, directly challenging the stereotype of the heroine and calling attention to the genre's typical lack of depth for such a character. i think this undercurrent plays in the background often but really comes to the forefront when yoo sangah reminds kim dokja of her putting pepper in their bosses' coffee, a memory kim dokja had supressed because it didn't fit with the pretty girl persona he made for her.

i interpret that moment as yoo sangah pushing her way out of the mold of heroine often found in these stories, demanding a depth be added to her character, asking kim dokja - and thus the reader - to see her in her entirety, to see the heroine archetype for what she could be. orv is at all times in conversation with its genre, and its simultaneous writing of female characters with agency and depth and acknowledgement of the tropes these women are expected to fulfill is undeniably a part of that. and its a part i enjoy. most of the time.

[boar-cry]

violent metamorphosis (or death of the old self)

extra stuff:

^ accidentally drew the piece a little too far to the left and by the time i noticed it was too late. so. meh. 🫠

[cult-of-a-buttercup]

III. Love

—o—o—o—o—o—o—o—o—o—o—o—

BWWWAAAAHHHH THIS TOOK FOREVERRRR I hope all of you like it and again sorry for just. Vanishing for months NVJSNVJN

Motivation

I. Love

II. Love

Judgement

I. Leshy

Masterpost

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: death mention, implied torture

The villain leaves, as promised. The hero sees them off at the door for the first time with a smile they stop pretending is genuine after a few seconds.

The villain wraps them in a slightly desperate hug, to their surprise. Their body’s warm, their arms shaking slightly. Nerves? Dread? Fear? The hero doesn’t know.

“I hope things get better for you,” they mumble into the hero’s shoulder. “I really mean that.”

They lean back to hold the hero at arm’s length. Their eyes glisten with tears the hero can’t put an emotion to. Doesn’t want to. “Stay safe, [Hero].”

And with that they’re on their way, their coat wrapped tight around them and their step quick. The hero watches them until they disappear around the corner. They shut the door slowly, slowly, and when it clicks into place they vaguely realise that they don’t know what to do with themself anymore.

So they do what they always do—they clean shelves, sweep the floor, clean counters. By the time they’re done the house is spotless and they’re out of work to swallow down that gnawing anxiety in their chest.

They flop down on the sofa—they’re not going to use the villain’s bed whilst it’s still warm, they’re not an animal—and let the exhaustion of the work overtake their worry and force them into a light sleep.

Light enough that they wake to the sound of the front door quietly clicking open. They sit up, ready to vocalise their surprise at the villain’s return, until they hear that the footsteps in the hall are decidedly not the villain’s. Too heavy, too slow. Too familiar.

The hero’s on their feet immediately. They want to hide, to run away, to do something, but their body feels like it’s weighed down by stone as the superhero turns the corner into the living room.

“Ah, [Hero].” Surprise is lacking in the superhero’s voice. A small smile stretches at his mouth. “I heard rumours. It’ll be nice to have you back with us.”

With us. For a moment all the hero can think about is those long days in the jail, treated like nothing more than a stain in the agency’s gleaming record. “How—” The hero’s voice chokes in their throat, and they curse themself inwardly. “How did you know—”

“Good people do not hide things from the agency, [Hero],” the superhero says smoothly. “Common civilians are ranking higher than you in that aspect.”

“I wasn’t hiding anything,” the hero spits desperately. “I– I was never one of them.”

The last word comes out a little harsher than they intended. They were never one of the corrupt demons that kindly lets their nemesis hide in their home. No, no, of course not. No, no one would want to be like the villain.

The hero, though, didn’t become a hero without an innate eagerness to please. To prove themself. To show the superhero how good they can be.

“I was never one of them,” the hero repeats, and the superhero cocks his head. Interest. “I– I can prove it.”

The superhero hums a cold laugh, and for a moment the hero feels like they’re back in that awful little basement, chains on their wrists, swearing their innocence, assaulted by the sound of dragging leather behind them—

The hero quickly turns on their heel to avoid looking at the superhero any longer.

They lead the way to the villain’s office, desperate to keep themself a few paces ahead. A belt sits at the superhero’s waist, and they don’t want to get close enough to see him unsheathe it again.

The door swings inward. The superhero looks inside momentarily. His gaze turns to the hero. Disappointed.

Please, no. “This is– it’s [Villain]’s office,” they add quickly. “This is their house.”

The superhero’s eyes linger on them for a moment. His face gives nothing away. Then he turns away to step into the office, and it feels like the hero can breathe again.

The hero stays in the doorway whilst the superhero peruses like this is nothing more than his weekly trip to the shops. He flits through papers, looks through drawers. He taps his chin in thought. His eyes scan across the room curiously. Eventually, after an eternity of the hero trying to figure out whether this is how they repent, he glances back up to meet the hero’s gaze.

“This is a good find.” The superhero offers something of a kind smile, and the hero has to hold back an entirely too genuine grin of their own. “Good. Very good.”

He collects a stack of papers. “Thank you for this, [Hero],” he says as he lugs them into his arms. “Let’s head back to the agency, hm?”

The hero’s evaded the superhero’s fury. There’s no way this is real. They can’t believe their luck. “Y–Yes, sir.”

The hero follows the superhero to his car. Another one waits behind it, a sleek black thing straight from the agency garage. The hero swallows and averts their gaze—of course he knew they were here. Of course he didn’t come alone.

The superhero doesn’t say much on the journey back to the agency. His gaze speaks volumes without the words, continuously slipping to the piles of paper the entire way, a satisfied smirk pulling at his lips. The hero decides to point their interest to the world passing outside in the hopes that they can ignore what they’ve done to the villain to put themself in the superhero’s favour.

It doesn’t matter, their mind promises in sickening whispers. They’ll be dead soon. Step on their corpse to survive if you have to.

The superhero sighs shortly as he pulls the car into the agency’s underground garage. Waves the hero along as he lets himself into the building. Invites them into his office. Lets the door click shut behind him.

“It is nice to see you back where you belong, [Hero],” the superhero says as he settles at his desk. It looks comically small in comparison to the giant room it's set in. “And with documents! You’ve gone above and beyond.”

The hero allows themself the smallest of smiles. “Thank you, sir.”

“To prove innocence I don’t believe you have.”

The smile falters. Their heart leaps into their throat. “... What?”

The superhero smiles lightly. “We don’t do coincidences in this agency, [Hero]. Everything has a meaning. Even if it is a mistake, it is set in stone, and we will treat it as such. You relayed information to a spy. That is all I need to know.”

The hero turns on their heel. Security is already in the doorway, a pair of metal cuffs in his hand. The superhero laughs humorlessly.

“Don’t you worry, [Hero].” The hero whips back to him, their face surely a myriad of pain and horror and betrayal. “Innocence means nothing to us. You’ll make up for what you’ve done.”

The cuffs click around the hero’s wrists. They can’t even find it in themself to struggle against them. They just stare at the superhero, aghast. “You… you tricked me.”

The superhero arranges the villain’s papers on his desk idly. “It is nothing on me if you were foolish enough to trust me.”

The man behind the hero tugs them towards the door. Jail. Right back where they started. The superhero throws them one last smirk. Satisfied, cruel, mocking. Disgusting.

“Thanks for coming back, [Hero]. Really,” he says as his door swings open in a creaking goodbye. “It’s nice to have you back where you belong.”

(next part)

Taglist:

@runarelle @thiefofthecrowns

[rttingd0ll]

one problem and I end up imagining kms

[kashewghost]

helllllooooooooo party people... got too silly

[mad-raptorzzz]

[ID: An image of green SeaWing dragon from WOF named Whirpool. He has fallen into the electric eel pit surrounding the prisoners. His mouth is widened in surprise and pain with his eye bugging out and rolling back into his head. His ear contains a large golden hoop. There are several eels swimming around him. He is surrounded by lightning and appears to be sinking into the water to his doom. /End]

I finished the MAP part for the Boardwalk MAP!! Check it out below.

Also since you all are cool here is an alternate version with a speedy zoom, I think the slower zoom works better.

[alilbatflies]

I took part in @thepenultimateword's song-story writing challenge. It was fun!

My assigned song was Scarborough Fair by Simon and Garfunkel, submitted by @wacko-weirdo.

...

The fire cracks and sways, warm against the cold night. The shadows of those gathered around it dance much like flowers in the wind, swaying calmly without hurry. A unique form of slow dancing.

The hunter watches from further away. They could listen in on the conversation if they wanted to, but the sounds all smudge in their head. They barely manage to thread the waters of their conflicting thoughts. They’re tired.

The tree against their back is grounding. It’s the hunter’s only comfort. They don’t think to ask for more. They couldn’t possibly.

The group seems so calm. As if they’ve forgotten that there are still soldiers hunting them. The conversation is light, flickering with laughter like the dancing flames, all-consuming.

…perhaps they wish to forget for a while.

The hunter would much like to forget, too.

“Are you going to join us?”

The hunter looks at their old friend. Old friend doesn’t quite cut it. Neither does lover. Neither does any other label that the hunter has tried over the years. Their friend is simply always there.

Their witch friend.

The witch meets their eyes. The fire reflects in the deep brown that is so familiar to the hunter. Its familiarity offers comfort—comfort, which the hunter is unable to accept.

The hunter can’t bear to look.

They turn back towards the fire. Staring into the light is a bad idea, the hunter knows, for one cannot monitor the shadows blinded. And yet, they look. The blazing flames seem to swallow their worries, to soothe. The fire gazes right into their soul and warms its darkest corners. It all feels alright for a little while.

The witch gently takes their hand. They tug the hunter along, towards the fire.

The hunter’s arm lifts to follow the movement but they do not budge. The tree they’re leaning against is their anchor then. They fear losing their ground. They fear getting lost entirely.

They want to go. They want to let themselves be pulled along, they want to join everyone, they want to belong. They want to belong, to finally, finally…

“I’ve killed too many.”

On someone else’s orders. Because of someone else’s ideals. They didn’t know better.

The blood is on their hands.

I might have killed you, too.

The witch steps closer to them, interlocking their fingers instead. They examine their hand, the knuckles, callouses and scars. Those little wounds that tell the stories, if one can read them well enough.

They run their fingers over the hunter’s bandaged forearm, a ghost of a touch. They were the one who tended to the hunter’s injury that day.

“You’ve helped us get away.” The witch meets the hunter’s gaze. “You’ll help us still, won’t you?”

“Of course.” For you.

The witch keeps staring into their eyes. They might be trying to look right past, into the hunter’s mind and soul. They might just be able to read each and every of the hunter’s thoughts.

The hunter has thoughts. The hunter has many thoughts, flying around in their head, possibly causing more harm than good. The hunter can’t seem to stop them.

The hunter knows nothing of herbs. They know nothing of healing. With each moment passing by, they learn that they know nothing of witches, either. They try to learn.

They were told witches are dangerous. They were told they were vicious, vile creatures, evil beings beyond salvation. They were told death was a witch’s only comfort.

It used to be their only truth. The only thing that could help them carry the weight of their sword somewhat, when all of the life seeped out of another pair of silver eyes. It was their shield when the weight of taking a life threatened to slit them open.

It has all shattered so easily.

The hunter vividly recalls the moment their friend’s eyes flashed silver. Their friend was pushed to the edge, looking to them for help. The pieces fit together perfectly. The soldier next to them lunged forward. Their blow never landed.

The hunter met the others a little later on. The other not so evil creatures, who just want to live.

The hunter knows a little better now.

Witches are curious about the world much like their friend has always been. They bear their own weight, the magic running silver in their blood. They desire to live. To be safe. To be understood. The hunter can relate perfectly.

They try to learn.

“Thank you,” the hunter says.

“For what?”

Thank you for opening my eyes. For trusting me. For not letting me stay in the clutches of their truth.

“Being such a pain in my ass.”

The witch laughs. The sound wraps over the hunter like a soft blanket. Nobody ever told them that a witch’s laugh could heal.

The witch lifts the hunter’s hand. They press a kiss to it, holding their gaze.

The hunter shivers.

“I should thank you,” the witch whispers, “for protecting us.”

“Always.”

The witch pulls them along again. Towards the fire. Towards their family.

This time, the hunter lets them.

[vallkary]

Achlys Rose and his unhealthy-ness, especially involving Kittsu Chroma(or Euphrosyne Rose, or Éliane Marisolis) is truly a thing to behold so I’m just going to ramble about it below the cut

it kinda starts being written from his perspective. This guy is fucked up so trigger warnings in tags

.

Achlys could be. So good. He could be an amazing person and an amazing brother, but he’s so blinded by his own selfishness and hypocrisy. He knows the trauma he endured from the Marisolis Cult ruined him, but he refuses to acknowledge it in any meaningful way. He knows they hurt him and took his sister away, and he knows he’s acutely aware of his own trauma, but instead of therapy or doing anything meaningful, it manifests as total self absorption.

Marisolis hurt him, and hurt probably hundreds or maybe thousands of people, as it’s a family name that’s been around for over 6,000 years. He says they need to be taken down- not because he cares about the Sun Children their history is completely reliant on, or that he wants to see the cycle ended. He’s perfectly fine with Marisolis continuing- as long as he gets to see them hurt like they hurt him.

They took his sister away, Euphrosyne. He believes that he deserves a sister. It doesn’t matter if the girl in front of him has no memory of him- it’s Euphrosyne’s face! Basically the same thing, and for her to try to deny that would be selfish. Selfish selfish Kittsu only hurting her dear brother more. So corrupted by Marisolis that she takes their side (never mind the fact she doesn’t even recognize the name ‘Marisols’ anymore)

He really could’ve been something great, but he lets his trauma be an excuse for the inexcusable actions he regularly takes for his own gain. He wants a sister, and he doesn’t like the family she found herself with, so of course she’ll come with him! All it needs is a little convincing, everything will be fine! (Don’t think about how she destroyed herself by leaving them. Don’t think about how she was a husk if anyone you once knew. Don’t address the fact that you are the one causing her this pain)

Oh but it’s not about deal, of course! He’s gone through so much worse, she really has no excuse for being so dramatic. He’ll protect her and she’ll be grateful, (but knowledge is dangerous, so she won’t be able to know what she’s grateful for.) He thinks that he deserves her love and respect, but the only thing he’s accomplished is leading them both right back into the maw of Marisolis. They took her again.

This isn’t his fault. This is That Man’s fault. It’s all the fault of That Man. He caused this. He can’t afford to kill him right now. He can’t afford to be killed by his comically large amount of knives, either. Or the stupid hacker kid that kept reaching out to him over (ro)umblr of all places. His sister is being hurt! His Euphrosyne is there, and they dare take away the only family he’s ever had? (Don’t think about your mother that tried to save her more than you ever did. Don’t think about the fact you can’t even see the person she’s become. You call her a shell of her former self, yet you can’t even remember what she was like before she became Kittsu. You say they made a wax mockery of her- but is that not what you are trying to create?)

His sister. Euphrosyne. Not Kittsu or Éliane- Euphrosyne. She would never be anything else. She never could be anything else. He wouldn’t let her. Rose Colored Glasses saw a little girl who became a sacrifice for the Sun, desperately ignorant to the fact she had a Name and a Family other than what he approved of.

Maybe if he got help everything would’ve been fine. He would’ve gotten his head on straight, found Kittsu and formed a meaningful relationship with her. They would be safe. But no, in his quest to find his own idealized sister- something long gone and destroyed- he’s killed them all.

Euphrosyne has been dead for a long, long time. He wouldn’t let Kittsu wear her face like it was her own. What’s one more tragedy in a lineage of Sun Children?

Achlys perpetuated the endless cycle of death and torment that Marisolis was built off of. Kittsu’s no saint, but if it weren’t for his obsession with Euphrosyne, they wouldn’t have ever left. He would meet her family, her found family and maybe they would’ve helped him. Instead he took her from home and broke her so he could recreate Euphrosyne in the worst way possible.

Euphrosyne is Dead. Once the facade breaks- the Rose Colored Glasses shatter- he’ll be faced with the undeniable reality that shatters everything his life has focused on for those 15(?) odd years- he’ll make sure Kittsu stays dead. Maybe it’s his fault that Marisolis continues to prosper, or maybe he’s just another victim of the Sun.

He could’ve been great.

But he’s too far gone, and he would never allow himself to be better.

He’s earned the ire of an entire family, not connected by blood- but by soul and affection and love that he’s never known.

They will not let Achlys Rose live. He’s ruined far too many lives, and taken many more. He’s not irredeemable, he, at his core, started as a victim, of course. But he’s crossed the line far, far too many times to go without experiencing the pain of everything he put Kittsu through.

Foxes can be rather cruel when on a hunt :3

[ninadove]

Someone take my phone away from me

[ziel0l]

Ja wchodzaca po schodach za kazdym razem z nadzieja ze sie zawadze przewroce rozbije glowe dostane jakiegos wstrzasu i sie wykrwawie a ludzie nie beda mieli mi za zle ze umarlam bo przeciez to byl wypadek