#as they are beings made of force it makes sense- there's just something otherworldly about them

[meteor-moon]

there was a boy with stars in his eyes

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Alien Escape

Male Alien Yandere × Gender Neutral Reader

(CW: Noncon, oviposition, breeding, overstimulation, crying, fear, minor character death, weird alien dick, minor mentions of medical experimentation (NOT on reader), alien, implied abduction, general yandere behavior)

Word Count: 680

(Just something I typed up on my phone because it was in my head and demanded to be written, a nice little mini-fic. Hope you enjoy!)

Tears streamed down your face, and your legs burned and ached from running so fast through the labyrinthine halls. Your frenzied footsteps on the cold tile floor were completely drowned out by the incessant blaring of the alarms.

When you slipped and broke the containment field, you had doomed everyone.

At last, you had made it to the exit. But it was covered by a heavier metal door with no handle.

Of course. The entire site was on lockdown now.

Maybe you could double back and hide in one of the abandoned rooms. If they weren't sealed off by now, too.

You ran off down a side corridor, but it was a dead end. Maybe it wouldn't come this way since it wasn't the way out.

Suddenly, the alarms and all the lights turned off. Probably sucked dry due to the escaped alien's ability to absorb energy.

You huddled into a corner in the darkness, nothing visible.

Then you saw light. Coming from far down the hall. The pale sickly green glow of the alien slowly approaching.

When he entered your field of view fully you gasped. He had a struggling Colonel Hughs in his arms, a hand over his mouth.

The alien slowly walked towards you and as he did so, he impaled Hughs with a spike that protruded from his wrists causing the colonel to rapidly age before turning to dust.

The alien had absorbed his life force.

It was humanoid, but had no eyes, nose, or mouth. Scars from "research" littered his body. Its wrist spike retracted back into itself as it slowly stepped towards you.

His strange ribbed cock poking out of his genital slit and lengthening as he approached.

It looked slimy and writhed as if with a will of its own. All while glowing with the same green light the rest of his body did.

You cowered and sobbed. You weren't ready to die. You weren't ready to die. You weren't ready to die.

And you weren't going to.

The alien had no intention to hurt you. He wanted you to be his incubator.

Out of all the people in the facility you were the only one he sensed any sympathy from. And no ill will. He only sensed regret and anxiety whenever your gaze landed on him.

It was the only modicum of kindness he experienced while being captured, contained, and experimented on.

He clung to it, focused on it. It was a lifeline for him.

And when you broke the containment unit he was housed in, he was convinced you had been purposefully trying to free him.

As he loomed over you, he could sense your fear. He gently wiped your tears away with his prehensile cock before pulling you up, turning you around, and pulling your pants down.

Yes~

This would do perfectly as a receptacle for his egg.

You begged and babbled, sure that he was about to turn you into dust.

When his slimy dick worked its way into you the noises you were making progressed into screams.

He put his hands carefully on your fragile human hips as his priggle writhed all around inside you, causing you to squirm and moan involuntarily in pleasure.

If he had a mouth your alien mate would have cooed at that sound.

The alien's dick molded itself to your inside perfectly, to kiss every little fold of your intimate depths, leaking viscous goo as it did so.

After your tenth forced orgasm from your otherworldly lover your legs finally gave out and he had to hold you close as he pumped one final time into you.

He deposited a large egg inside causing your tummy to bulge out, quite beautifully in his opinion.

The creature put his hand on your head and used his abilities to make you fell into a well earned sleep.

Green slime leaked from your entrance and down your legs when he pulled out of you.

It was a good thing you were a janitor, because once he had you back on his home world you'd be dealing with this mess daily.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter two | Under Gotham’s Shadow.

masterlist

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +7k.

author’s note : The second chapter is here! Just a reminder that English isn't my first language, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize in advance. We're meeting a lot of new characters in this chapter, so I hope everything makes sense. If anything is unclear, feel free to ask questions!

cw : bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

   AFTER LEAVING the mayor's house, Maryam reluctantly approached her car. 

Sliding into the driver's seat, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, shutting out the chaotic world outside. The muffled sounds of journalists shouting questions and the wail of police sirens barely registered as she tried to process the night's events.

Her mind replayed the grim scenes in a loop— the mayor’s lifeless body, the blood, the devastation in young George’s eyes. It was a deliberate murder, no doubt about it, and something deep inside told her this wouldn't be the last. A shiver ran down her spine as she pondered the motives behind the killing. Why target the mayor? She didn't know him personally and, to be honest, barely cared about the man. His face was familiar, but only in the way that all politicians’ faces are—seen, not truly known. Despite keeping up with politics, she could hardly recall anything of substance that he'd done for Gotham.

Sure, he’d put Salvatore Maroni behind bars, but Maryam suspected he was just another cog in the Falcone family's machine. Who in Gotham wasn’t at this point? The city was still in shambles, with criminals running rampant, homelessness skyrocketing, and the gap between the rich and poor only growing wider. Every promise the mayor made during his campaign had turned out to be empty words, nothing but lies wrapped in false hope.

Everything was a mess.

Yet, despite her cynicism, she found herself more worried about George than the murdered politician. The boy was innocent, a child who had nothing to do with the murky underworld of Gotham. Her aunt had been babysitting him for three years now, and Maryam had often found herself at her aunt’s house, playing with the boy, listening to his innocent laughter. She couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him.

But what really freaked her out was the vigilante. She had quite literally stumbled upon him, and the memory sent a shiver down her spine. He was taller than she imagined, his form imposing in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes that haunted her the most—those piercing blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. They weren’t just blue; they were the kind of blue that poets of the Renaissance would have wept over, likening them to the tragic skies painted by God himself, sorrowful and burdened with the weight of the world.

His eyes were like a sea under a storm, blue but ringed with red, the color of exhaustion, the remnants of battles fought, and the silent scream of hopelessness written in every shadow. They were the kind of eyes that held the world’s tragedies within them, where hope was a distant, dying light, struggling against the overwhelming tide of despair.

And the way he gripped her—firmly but not forcibly—sent a jolt through her, like a live wire connecting them. It was as if he was afraid of breaking her, as if she were a delicate flower and he was the brutal wind, dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow hesitant to cause harm. It was electrifying. No, it was more than that. It was mortifying. Yes, that was the right word. The sensation of being held so carefully by something so dangerous—it terrified her.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She had to stop daydreaming, a habit that both gnawed at her and offered comfort in equal measure. But no matter how hard she tried, those blue eyes, full of a sadness she couldn’t comprehend, kept pulling her back into the memory.

Raising her head, Maryam stretched her neck and glanced at the clock in her car. The night had dragged on longer than she realized. She fished her phone from her back pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a picture of her younger self with her parents and siblings, a bittersweet memory frozen in time. She quickly typed in her password, intending to call her aunt Meysa, but the screen flooded with notifications—several missed calls from her aunt and her siblings. By now, the news must have spread, and they would be worried.

She pressed the call button for her aunt and placed the phone on the dashboard, putting it on speaker. The ringing echoed through the car, the foggy windows a testament to the cold outside. She undid her updo, letting her hair fall, and massaged her scalp as she waited for her aunt to pick up. Finally, the call connected.

“Allo? Maryam, I have been calling you for two hours! You don’t respond to me or your sisters!” Meysa’s voice was thick with worry, not giving Maryam a chance to speak.

“No, I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. I was working—” Maryam started to explain but was cut off again.

“Like always,” Meysa said in Arabic, a tone of gentle reprimand in her voice.

Maryam sighed. “Look, I wanted to call you to ask if you’ve seen the news?”

“Not to ask how your old aunt has been doing?” Meysa teased.

“I literally saw you this morning!” Maryam replied in Arabic, exasperated.

“I know, I know... But yes, I’ve seen the news, although I received it before.”

Maryam furrowed her brows at this. “What do you mean?”

“Rebecca, the Mayor’s wife, called me in tears! I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang,” Meysa explained, then quickly added with a tsk, “She told me her husband was dead! Killed! Can you believe that, yah Maryam?”

Maryam listened, nibbling on her nails and massaging her scalp with her other hand. “Not really, it’s Gotham, have you forgotten?”

“I can’t believe they did that. Killing the Mayor. I never liked him anyway, but the boy? Miskeen, Wallah. I told her to bring him to me so I could take care of him, but she refused. She’s right; it’s better he stays with his mother and family. He must be traumatized.” Meysa continued, brushing off Maryam’s comment.

“I saw him and talked to him—” Maryam began, only to be interrupted again.

“You were there?” Meysa asked, surprised.

“Yep,” Maryam confirmed. “It was a horrible sight. And like I was saying, the boy was really traumatized. I tried to comfort him, but...” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Seeing that kind of thing really messes with your head.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“You’re right,” Meysa agreed quietly. “I’ll talk to his mother when I can. I don’t want to bother her—God knows how things must be for her right now.”

Maryam only hummed in response, her gaze drifting to the chaos of journalists outside her car.

“What else did you see there?” Meysa asked, hopeful for more information.

“You know I can’t tell you, teta. It’s confidential,” Maryam replied, taking her phone in her hand.

Meysa huffed. “Fine, fine. I suppose I’ll see it in the papers tomorrow.” Then, as if remembering something, she added, “By the way, I made dinner—couscous.”

“Noted. I’m coming to sleep at your apartment then. I’m not working tomorrow morning anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Salam, and be careful—or you might run into that satanic devil.” Meysa warned, her tone half-joking.

Maryam laughed, her thoughts flickering briefly to the vigilante. Oh, if only you knew. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and started the car engine, the rumble breaking the quiet of the early morning. Without another thought, she sped through the empty streets, heading towards her aunt’s apartment.

────୨ৎ────

           Bruce removed his helmet with a quiet exhale, the motion slow and deliberate. 

The cool air of the cave brushed against his sweat-dampened skin, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped beneath the black armor. As he pulled the helmet free, the shadows lifted from his face, revealing a man who carried the weight of a city’s sins in his eyes. His blackened gaze swept the cavernous space around him, the dim light catching the maining streaks of dark camo that clung to the edges of his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the night he’d just endured.

He reached up, his fingers deftly removing the contact lenses, the tiny sensor bands embedded within reflecting the harsh glow of the monitors around him. The lenses were more than just a tool—they were a gateway to his world, a lens through which he witnessed the darkness that engulfed Gotham. He placed them on the workbench, their curved surfaces still warm from his eyes, before shifting his attention to the grainy video footage playing on the screen.

Nirvana playing on the background; the scene replayed in stark black and white, the distorted image of a gang member convulsing as he was tased in the neck. Bruce’s eyes lingered on the man’s face, reading the fear etched in every twitch of his muscles. He knew that fear well; it was the same fear that had once gripped him as a child, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him.

He stood, his eyes scanning the vast space of the cave, the eerie silence of early morning settling around him. The remnants of a bygone era surrounded him—an unfinished black muscle car sat hulking in one corner. Monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with the latest news. The headline that caught his eye made his stomach tighten: 

"MAYOR MITCHELL MURDERED."

The newscaster’s voice droned on, filling the cave with words that felt like distant echoes: "...this certainly isn't the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this month that celebrated billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne's own mayoral campaign in a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day..."

Bruce’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as the familiar pang of loss surged through him. The past had a cruel way of resurfacing, no matter how deep he buried it.

He sat back, his eyes scanning the footage on the monitor. He paused as the camera caught a glimpse of her—Dr. Maryam Halimi. 

Even in the grainy, night-vision footage, she stood out, her presence both captivating and unsettling. Her expressive hazel eyes had been wide with shock when she stumbled upon him, her hair meticulously styled in a French twist updo, a stark contrast to the chaos around her. 

There was something about the way she held herself, a blend of poise and vulnerability, that gnawed at him.

Her presence was an unexpected calm amidst the storm of violence and despair. 

Bruce leaned in, his gaze sharpening as he studied her features. She had looked at him with those eyes—greenish-yellow, filled with tragedy, hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the weariness of someone who had witnessed far too much yet clung to a fragile hope. A sudden comparison flashed through his mind, almost disorienting: her eyes were like the sky at dusk, desperately holding on to the last traces of daylight before succumbing to the darkness. They were eyes that bore the weight of the world.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung to him stubbornly. For a brief moment, he had seen his own torment reflected in her gaze. The deep blue of his eyes, like a painting etched in sorrow, had found a mirror in hers. It was a gaze that spoke of shared suffering, even if she was unaware of it.

Bruce replayed the scene, his heart rate subtly rising as he relived the moment she had stumbled upon him. He hadn’t expected her to be there, and the way she had frozen, her eyes widening in shock, had left an indelible mark on him.

He captured her image on one of his computer screens, letting it linger there before switching to another monitor to continue reviewing the footage.

A metallic clank echoed through the cave, pulling Bruce’s attention away from the screen. He looked up to see Alfred stepping out of the freight elevator, his figure cast in the half-light. The older man’s face, etched with years of wear and scars of a different kind, was a picture of quiet concern. 

Bruce turned back to his work, avoiding Alfred’s gaze, but the tension between them lingered in the air like a ghost.

“I assume you heard about this...?” Alfred’s voice was low, tinged with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

“Yeah,” Bruce replied, his tone clipped, eyes fixed on the footage he was fast-forwarding through—frame by frame, dissecting every moment of the crime scene.

Alfred moved closer, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening at the sight of Mayor Mitchell’s body. “Oh. I see...” His voice faltered as he took in the gruesome scene. “...dear God...”

As the image of the cipher filled the screen, Bruce froze the frame, his hand reaching to print the image. The lines of the eerie symbols etched into the Halloween card were now stark on the paper. Alfred’s breath hitched as he took in the sight, the chill of the moment settling deep into his bones.

“The killer left this for Batman?” Alfred’s voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear he kept carefully masked.

“Apparently.” Bruce’s reply was curt, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a message from a murderer.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re becoming quite a celebrity... why is he writing to you?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bruce’s voice was flat, betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him.

"And her?" Alfred gestured toward the computer screen where Maryam’s face was paused, captured in the moment their eyes had locked. Bruce hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting to the screen as Alfred studied the image.

"Does she have any link to what happened—"

"No," Bruce cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

"She’s pretty," Alfred murmured, his voice softening as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Quite a striking woman, if I may add. Or was it the way you scared her?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She seemed familiar."

Alfred glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice distant, as though reaching back into a memory just out of grasp. "I asked Gordon about her. He said she's a pathologist. Medical examiner. Her name is Dr. Maryam Halimi." His gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he returned to the other screen, burying himself in the work that never seemed to end.

A heavy silence settled between them, the only sound the hum of machinery in the background. Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to weigh the gravity of the situation against Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice.

"Have a shower," Alfred finally said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "The accounting boys from Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast."

"Here—why?" Bruce asked, irritation flickering in his eyes, a reminder of the ever-present tension between his two worlds.

"Because I couldn’t get you to go there!" Alfred retorted, frustration seeping into his voice as he met Bruce's gaze, the unspoken concern between them thickening the air.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bruce muttered, his own patience wearing thin.

Alfred’s voice softened, a plea underlying his words. “It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left—”

“I don’t care about that. Any of that.” Bruce’s words were sharp, final, cutting through the space between them like a knife.

Alfred’s eyes flickered with a pain that he quickly masked. “You don’t care about your family’s legacy?”

“What I’m doing is my family’s legacy,” Bruce countered, his voice low, edged with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “And if I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.”

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed emotions. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bruce's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a warning. “Alfred, stop.” The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “You’re not my father.”

The statement was cold, a barrier thrown up between them, meant to shut down the conversation. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Alfred’s expression faltered, the faintest trace of hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a resigned nod.

But the words lingered, echoing in the cavernous space of the Batcave, a reminder of the chasm that sometimes seemed too wide to bridge between them.

A thin, pained smile touched Alfred’s lips, barely masking the hurt behind his eyes. “I’m... well aware,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that Bruce chose to ignore.

Alfred’s eyes lingered on Bruce for a moment longer, searching for something—some sign of acknowledgment, a crack in the armor. But Bruce remained impassive, his gaze already drifting back to the screens, to the work that consumed him.

Bruce rose from his seat, the movement deliberate and final, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred watched him go, a deep pain etched in his expression, the kind that comes from years of unspoken worries and unresolved conflicts. 

The distance between them felt wider than ever, a gulf that no words could bridge.

As Bruce disappeared into the elevator, Alfred turned back to the computer, his gaze lingering on the screens Bruce had been working on. His eyes scanned the thumbnails from the lens footage, pausing on one that showed the boy in the ninja costume with Maryam crouched in front of him, trying to comfort the little boy. His heart clenched at the sight; the tenderness in her gesture stood out sharply against the brutality surrounding them, a small but significant act of humanity in a city drowning in darkness.

His gaze then drifted to the printed cipher lying on the desk, the eerie symbols from the Halloween card glaring up at him. Above them, in Bruce's sharp handwriting, were the words: "HE LIES STILL."

Alfred frowned, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. He knew the dangers Bruce was courting, the dark path he was walking. But seeing those words, seeing the connection between the message and Bruce’s relentless pursuit of justice, filled him with a deep sense of dread. It was as if the very essence of Bruce's mission was encapsulated in that ominous phrase—a mission that seemed to be consuming him more each day.

Alfred let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes, the heaviness of the situation settling over him. The fear of what it might do to Bruce weighed heavily on his heart.

────୨ৎ────

      Maryam stirred awake, the faint sound of voices and the clattering of dishes drawing her from sleep. The room she found herself in was familiar, though now it bore the quiet solitude of the morning. This was the room she once shared with her younger sister Nora during their teenage years—a space that had seen countless late-night conversations, whispered secrets and shared dreams. It wasn’t vast, just big enough to comfortably house two people. 

The furniture was modest, with a couple of beds positioned against the walls, each adorned with mismatched bedsheets that reflected the distinct personalities of the two sisters. A shared wooden dresser stood between them, and a small desk, once a place for late-night study sessions or scribbled notes passed between them, sat against the wall, bearing the marks of years gone by.

The room had a comforting, lived-in feel, with soft, warm colors that reflected the coziness of their aunt's home. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays that danced on the patterned rug. A few framed pictures adorned the walls—memories of family gatherings and happier times.

Maryam rubbed her eyes, still groggy, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen flashed to life, showing the time: 10:36 a.m. She sighed, stretching her arms above her head, and then rolled out of bed. Her face was slightly puffy from sleep, and her hair, which had been washed the night before, had settled into bouncy curls that framed her bare face.

Yawning, she reached for her red robe, slipping it on and tying it snugly at the waist. The soft fabric provided a small comfort against the coolness of the morning. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight that streamed through the window, she made her way to the door.

As she entered the hallway, the sounds of life became more pronounced—familiar voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, the occasional clatter of cutlery, and the unmistakable melody of Umm Kulthum filling the apartment.

The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of coffee became, warm and inviting. It was a smell that always made her feel at home, no matter what else was happening in the world outside.

In the kitchen, her Aunt Meysa was on the phone, a foulard wrapped like a turban on her head and her usual apron draped over her jelaba. She was speaking loudly, gesturing with such vigor that it was as if the person on the other end could actually see her. The mix of broken English and Arabic in her voice was unmistakable. "No, no, we take no more kids tonight! Already full!" She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, as if the person she was speaking to was as thick-headed as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Gotham Bay.

At the small table, Aunt Amina sat, the embodiment of calm despite the tumultuous life she’d endured. A cigarette was nestled between her fingers, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. Her red hair was tied back, and her sharp yet warm brown eyes were fixated on the newspaper spread out before her.

Maryam paused, blinking in surprise. Amina never read the paper. The last time she’d seen her aunt with a newspaper, it had been crumpled up to light the fireplace.

Strange, she thought.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” teased Ali, her cousin, a few years younger and always up to something. 

He was Aunt Meysa and Uncle Amir’s only son, a boxer who owned a gym in Gotham, both training and fighting in the ring. Maryam, unfazed by his usual teasing, just rolled her eyes and ignored him.

Rania, the fourth Halimi sister, was hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dirty blonde curls were pulled into a messy bun, held together by a pencil, and an earpiece was tucked into one ear. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, completely immersed in work for Bella Reál’s mayoral campaign. Yesterday's fiasco had thrown her into overdrive, and she barely noticed the world around her.

At the far end of the table sat Warda, the second-born daughter. An engineer at Wayne Enterprises currently on maternity leave, had one hand resting gently on her rounded belly. She was the only married sister out of the five, wed to a man named Ryan, a dentist. Despite the exhaustion that often accompanied pregnancy, Warda looked as radiant as ever. Her dark hair, straightened and perfectly styled, brushed her shoulders as she leaned in to spread marmalade on her toast. When Ali made his remark, she glanced up, a warm smile spreading across her lips. “Sbah al khir, sbah al noor yah Milou,” she greeted, using one of Maryam’s many nicknames.

Maryam, stretching again to shake off the morning sluggishness, walked over and planted a small kiss on Warda’s head. Warda returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite of her tartine. Maryam moved to the counter, tugging her robe tighter around her waist as she poured herself a cup of coffee—milk and three sugars, her usual. Meanwhile, Ali, ever the joker, threw a few playful jabs in her direction as she poured the coffee. Maryam, long accustomed to his antics, didn’t even flinch.

Noticing the empty chair at the table, Maryam smirked to herself. The youngest sister, Alma—affectionately known as Lulu—was still in bed. 

Typical, she thought. Lulu, the baby of the family, was probably the only one who could sleep through the chaos.

Maryam turned her attention to Aunt Amina, who hadn’t lifted her eyes from the newspaper. “Since when do you read the news, hmm?” she asked, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she sipped from her mug.

Amina took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze still fixed on the paper. “Why wouldn’t I? The mayor’s dead. That’s big news.”

Maryam chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits. “I’ve never seen you read the paper,” she said, her tone light. Finally finding the biscuits, she tore the pack open with her teeth and turned back towards the table. “Actually, I’ve only ever seen you light fires with it.” She shot a sideways glance at Rania, who grinned without looking up from her laptop.

Amina sighed, finally folding the newspaper and meeting Maryam’s gaze. “Well, times change, and so do people, ya binti,” she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Even I need to keep up with what’s happening in this madhouse of a city.”

Warda, still chewing her tartine, chimed in with a soft, teasing voice. “Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night.”

Ali’s eyes widened as he snatched the newspaper from Amina’s hands, dodging her half-hearted attempt to pinch him. “You were?” he exclaimed, scanning the headlines.

Maryam rolled her eyes playfully, leaning back against the counter. “Thanks for the reminder, Warda. Like I needed it,” she quipped, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile.

Ali, still clutching the newspaper, leaned forward with curiosity. “So, what did you see? Give me the juicy details.”

Maryam shot him a look, already feeling her patience thin. “Ali, how many times do I have to say it? I can’t tell you. It’s against the rules.” Her eyes widened to emphasize her words. “Besides, I woke up to Nadia hounding me for more info for her papers, and I still refused.”

Ali threw the newspaper at Maryam, but she dodged it with practiced ease. Meysa, still on the phone, caught the exchange and snapped at her son, “Ali, stop bothering your cousin! Go find something else to do.”

Ali grimaced and backed off. “Fine, fine. Just trying to get some interesting gossip.”

Maryam stuck her tongue out at him in mock defiance, earning a bemused look from Ali.

“So, what does everyone want for dinner?” Meysa asked, finally hanging up the phone. “I’m thinking Mloukhiah.”

Ali chimed in, “I don’t know, Dad’s off to work at the bay until tonight, even though I told him not to go. The weather’s awful.”

Meysa scoffed. “Your father is as stubborn as a mule. Out there, getting drenched while Gotham spirals into chaos. What’s next? A gang of criminals taking over Wayne Enterprises?”

Maryam chuckled, her mind still partially occupied with the crime scene. “It’s Gotham, Meysa. Anything’s possible.”

Rania, finally looking up from her laptop, wore a serious expression. “The conspiracy theories are spiraling out of control. This is going to be a nightmare for Bella’s campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire.”

Maryam leaned back against the counter with a smirk. “Welcome to my world, Rania. Looks like you’re becoming Maryam 2.0.”

Rania narrowed her eyes at her sister but couldn’t hide a smile. “Oh, please. I’m still young. Don’t age me prematurely.”

“Too late,” Maryam shot back with a laugh. “You’re already showing signs of stress. Look at those bags under your eyes.”

Rania leaned in closer with a smirk. “Ha! You’re one to talk. Your workaholic tendencies could turn anyone into an early retiree.”

“Maybe,” Maryam conceded with a grin, “but at least I’m not glued to a laptop 24/7.”

“Not glued, just constantly engaged,” Rania retorted with a cheeky smile.

Warda, ever the peacemaker, chimed in with a gentle smile. “Let’s not turn this into a competition over who’s the bigger workaholic. We all have our issues.” She glanced down at her round belly and stroked it lovingly. “Some of us just have different priorities.”

Meysa, always the doting aunt, leaned over and added, “Eat, Warda. You’re not eating enough for a pregnant woman. I don’t want my grandchild to be hungry.”

Warda quipped back, “I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. Don’t worry, my husband is feeding me enough.”

At that moment, Alma, the youngest Halimi sister nicknamed Lulu, stumbled into the kitchen. Her auburn, almost red hair was a mess of curls, and her eyes were half-closed as if she’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone so loud?”

Warda greeted Lulu with a warm smile. “Welcome to the land of the living, Lulu.”

Lulu took the coffee cup gratefully and sat down at the table. “I’m still half-asleep. What’s everyone talking about?”

“The mayor’s dead,” Amina said matter-of-factly, lighting another cigarette.

Lulu’s eyes widened in shock, nearly spilling her coffee. “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Maryam replied, watching her sister’s reaction with a concerned look. “It’s all over the news.”

Rania snorted and returned to her laptop. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Just more chaos.”

Amina exhaled a stream of smoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Chaos or not, this city’s going to hell. We’ve got to be careful. All of us.”

Warda nodded, her hand resting on her belly as she considered Amina’s words. “Yeah, we do. But we’ve survived worse, right?”

The room fell into a contemplative silence. They had indeed survived worse.

Breaking the silence, Maryam asked Lulu, “Where were you, anyway?”

Lulu groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Revising my bar exam.” She avoided eye contact with Maryam, her unease palpable.

“Really?” Maryam asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Yep.” At this point, everyone stopped what they were doing and focused on Lulu, sensing the tension in the air.

With all eyes on her, Lulu finally exploded. “Okay, fine! I did go to revise, but then I went on a date with a guy!”

Amina, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, said, “See? Wasn’t that hard.”

“What guy?” Ali asked, his tone protective.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to tell you his name. I’m not even sure if it’s serious,” Lulu said, trying to deflect.

“Well, is he hot at least?” Rania asked with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean ‘hot’?” asked Aunt Meysa, looking puzzled. “Is he sick or something?”

“No, Meysa,” Aunt Amina clarified, “she’s asking if the boy is handsome.”

Maryam said nothing, but her gaze fixed on her sister, already forming suspicions about who the new guy might be. She hoped to god it wasn’t who she had in mind.

“Yaani, oh my god, it’s my life. I’m 24! Leave me alone!” Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Ali raised his arms in mock surrender. “I have to go open the ring anyway. Salam!” He left the kitchen, grabbing his energy drink on the way.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Rania pushed back her chair, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Yeah, me too. I’m heading to the office. The team needs me.” She grabbed her bag and called after Ali, “Can you please drive me?”

“Be careful,” Warda called out, but the only response was the door slamming shut.

Maryam emptied her coffee into the sink, quickly washed her cup, and left the kitchen. Aunt Amina called after her, “Don’t make her even more mad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maryam responded with a wave, already heading out the door.

────୨ৎ────

       Maryam leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms and giving her sister a stern look as Lulu brushed her teeth. “Please tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

Lulu leaned over to spit out the toothpaste, avoiding Maryam’s gaze. “Oh god, it is,” Maryam muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. Her fingers pressed against her temples. “Vittorio Falcone. Of all people—”

Alma quickly placed her hand over Maryam’s mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. “Keep your voice down!”

Maryam lowered her hands, her frustration palpable. “Can you blame me, Alma?” she said, using her full name to emphasize her annoyance. “You promised me you wouldn’t talk to him—”

“He kept insisting, Maryam!” Lulu cut in, placing her hands on the counter. “Sending me flowers, gifts, waiting outside uni and work—”

“And I warned you!” Maryam’s voice rose. “I said you’d be tempted by him and his charms! Ever since that night at the restaurant, and the way he looked at you while you worked! He knows what he’s doing; he’s playing you—”

“Maryam, he’s not that bad when you get to know him—”

“He’s part of the fucking mafia, be for real right now!” Maryam exclaimed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And not just any member—he’s the oldest son of Carmine Falcone!” She lowered her voice further. “The literal heir to the Roman throne.”

Alma shook her head, dismissing Maryam’s concerns. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Lulu,” Maryam said, taking her sister’s shoulders, “please don’t be fooled by them. I know them, I’ve worked near them. They’re dangerous.”

“I talked with him,” Alma said, though Maryam continued to shake her head. “We’re just friends. He says he’s going to make everything legitimate when he takes the reins, which he already has and has started doing some changes!” she explained, her tone pleading.

“Doesn’t matter,” Maryam said firmly. “He’s still dangerous. And you’re not even Italian. Why would he want to go out with you? It’s just so strange.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Alma said suddenly, her tone serious. “I know who he is, but all I ask is for you to trust me on this.” She absentmindedly played with a strand of her red hair. “We’re not together; if anything, I just went on that date with him so he’d stop pestering me. It’s nothing serious, really.”

“Look, I know he’s handsome and charming or whatever, but it’s not like in the movies. Please—” Maryam started, but Alma cut her off.

“I know what I’m doing, Mar. I’m not a baby anymore, and you know that.” Alma began to gently push Maryam out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about me. Really.” With that, she pushed the door shut and locked it, leaving Maryam outside, bewildered and even more worried.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped as she tried to steady her breathing. Maryam felt a pang of helplessness—she had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things went wrong. But here, with Alma’s stubborn defiance, she was powerless. The thought of Vittorio Falcone, the heir to one of Gotham’s most feared crime families, being involved with her sister was unsettling.

Her pulse quickened as she imagined the worst-case scenarios: Alma being used, manipulated, or worse. The danger was all too real, and Maryam’s protective instincts flared up with a fierce intensity. She remembered her own experiences with the criminal underworld, the threats and violence she had witnessed, that she had endured. 

It was a world that left scars—both physical and emotional—and she couldn’t bear the thought of her sister being dragged into it.

Maryam’s fingers gripped the edge of the door poignet, her knuckles white with tension. She fought to push down the rising wave of anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She understood Alma’s need for independence and the desire to make her own choices, but the stakes were too high. Maryam had always been the voice of caution, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, she had failed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Alma’s footsteps retreating on the other side of the door. Maryam took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The cacophony of the house—the clinking of dishes, the distant chatter—seemed to amplify her sense of isolation. Her family was moving on with their day, while she remained stuck in this moment of worry and frustration.

Maryam’s heart ached with the weight of her responsibility. She knew she had to find a way to protect Alma without pushing her further away. But for now, she felt powerless, her attempts to safeguard her sister thwarted by the very person she was trying to protect.

With a sigh, Maryam pushed away from the wall and decided to leave the bathroom door. 

She needed to refocus, to address the rest of her day, and maybe—just maybe—find another way to keep her sister safe without losing her.

Maryam trudged back into the kitchen, her mood heavy with the weight of the earlier confrontation. 

Warda was slowly rising from her chair, preparing to leave. “I have to go back to the house. I promised Ryan we’d go shopping for the baby. He took the day off just for me,” she said, leaning in to kiss her aunts goodbye. She then turned to Maryam with a knowing look. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she advised softly before grabbing her coat and leaving, her floral perfume lingering in the air.

Aunt Amina, still sifting through the pile of envelopes, glanced up. “Looks like the Mayor’s wife invited us to the funeral,” she said, holding up a sleek black envelope.

“Oh yes!” Meysa exclaimed, recalling the phone call. “She phoned me this morning and said she wanted us to come.”

Maryam nodded, tying her hair up with a practiced motion, her mind still churning from the argument with Alma. “I’ll be here,” she said, her tone clipped. “But I’ve got work. I’m heading back to my apartment, and then I’m off to meet Gordon for lunch.”

Aunt Amina gave her a once-over, her keen eyes noticing the tension in Maryam’s posture. “Don’t work yourself up too much,” she advised, her voice carrying a mix of concern and firmness.

“Don’t worry,” Maryam replied, trying to sound reassuring. But her mind was elsewhere, already dwelling on the tasks ahead. With that, she turned and made her way to the room where she had slept, intending to change into something more suitable for the day’s events.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam quickly changed out of the clothes she had worn the previous day, opting for something more suitable. She selected a sharp outfit, something that matched her professional demeanor and the gravity of her work.

Heading to the bathroom, she swiftly straightened her hair with an iron, though she didn’t leave it down. Instead, she went for her usual French chignon updo, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, she reached for her makeup bag and began her routine: a touch of concealer to brighten her eyes, bronzer to accentuate her tan skin, a quick brush over her eyebrows, a flick of mascara on her lashes, a hint of blush, and finally, her signature red lipstick, which added a bold pop of color to her plump lips.

A spritz of her usual oud perfume added the final touch as she glanced at the time on her phone. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped on her black high-heeled boots, her long black coat that she secured with the ceinture around her waist, grabbed the dossier she had prepared—complete with the photos and notes from the crime scene—along with her black bag. After ensuring her keys, phone, and wallet were inside, she opened the door of her apartment and stepped out of her apartment.

As Maryam stepped out into the hallway, the familiar sounds of her building greeted her. The muffled cry of a baby echoed from one of the nearby apartments, and somewhere down the corridor, a couple's argument punctuated the otherwise quiet morning. She sighed, tightening her grip on her bag. This was Gotham, after all—a city where peace was always fleeting.

With a quick glance back to ensure her door was securely locked, he began her walk towards the stairwell. The weight of the dossier in her hand was a reminder of the seriousness of her work, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. The voices behind her faded as she descended the stairs, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building, along with the click of her high heels, accompanied her steps. 

Despite the less-than-ideal living conditions and the constant noise, this place had become a part of her, just like Gotham itself. She thought about her aunts’ constant urging to leave the city, to find a better life somewhere like Metropolis or Central City. They couldn’t understand why she chose to stay, why she remained in a city that seemed to chew people up and spit them out.

But Maryam knew. Gotham was in her blood. It was a city that had shaped her, toughened her, and no matter how dark it got, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd probably die of boredom. Here, every day was a new challenge, a new puzzle to solve, and as much as the chaos drained her, it also fueled her.

Her salary might not reflect the work she put in—the long hours, the emotional toll—but money wasn’t what drove her. It was the people, the ones who needed her, and the small victories that kept her going. Each time she uncovered the truth behind a death or brought a criminal one step closer to justice, she felt a sense of purpose that was worth more than any paycheck.

As she reached the ground floor and pushed open the heavy door leading outside, the cold air hit her face, sharp and bracing. She squared her shoulders, letting the door swing shut behind her as she made her way to the subway.

────୨ৎ────

     The diner was a relic from a bygone era, its faded charm unmistakable despite the wear and tear. The once-vibrant red booths had lost their luster, now marred by cracks and scuffs. The linoleum floor, a worn pattern of black and white squares, squeaked with every step. Old-fashioned pendant lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the space, creating an ambiance that was both cozy and antiquated. The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and a few outdated advertisements, giving the place an air of nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner remained dormant, its music silenced by the passing years.

Inside, a handful of patrons sat scattered across the booths and tables—some reading newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversations. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of cleaning products, a mix that added to the diner’s homey but slightly worn-out atmosphere.

Maryam spotted Gordon seated in a booth near the window, absently stirring a coffee. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Maryam, right on time,” he greeted, standing up to shake her cheek. “I’ve already ordered your usual—Diabolo mint.”

Maryam returned his smile and slid into the booth across from him, her black high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she settled in. “Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some cakes for Barbara,” she said, handing him a small box. “She thought Barbara might enjoy them.”

Gordon’s smile widened as he accepted the box. “I’m sure she will. She’s always been a fan of your aunt’s baking.”

Maryam nodded, pulling out the dossier from her bag and placing it on the table, her expression serious. “I’ve compiled everything from the crime scene—photos, notes, and the autopsy details,” she said. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’ve highlighted the key points.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice steady. “The pattern suggests a personal motive. I’m leaning towards someone with a clear objective, possibly targeting specific individuals.”

Gordon listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think this might be just the beginning?”

Maryam’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes, I’m afraid so. The killer seems to have a goal in mind, and if my analysis is correct, this could be part of a larger plan.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you're suggesting it, I’ve been hearing some unsettling whispers about potential future targets.” He took a sip of his coffee, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. “Anything else?”

Maryam sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Yes, my aunts and I were invited to the mayor’s funeral. I think it’s important to be there, considering everything.”

As she spoke, the TV mounted on the diner’s wall flashed news coverage of the murder, catching both their attention for a brief moment.

Gordon glanced at the screen, then back at Maryam. “It seems the night of the murder is still making headlines.”

Maryam huffed, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Well, the Mayor’s dead—it’s kind of a big thing.” She took a sip of her Diabolo mint before adding, “It’s all over social media. My sister Rania, you know her—dark blonde hair,” she gestured to her own hair, “she works comms and public affairs for Bella Real’s campaign.”

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, it’s been hell since yesterday night,” Maryam said, her tone weary.

Gordon nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Man, tell me about it. The whole city’s on edge.”

They shared a moment of silence, the gravity of the situation settling in. The TV continued its coverage, but their focus remained on the task ahead.

“Anyways, anything new from the Bat about the case?” Maryam asked, a note of hope in her voice as she tried to pry any information from Gordon.

Gordon chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Well, you certainly made quite an impression on him, that’s for sure—”

Maryam cut him off, blushing slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gordon shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. “But seriously, no, I haven’t heard anything from him since last night.”

Maryam mumbled under her breath, “Probably rotting in his cave.”

Before Gordon could respond, his phone rang, the screen displaying an unknown number. He answered it with a hint of skepticism, holding the phone to his ear as he listened intently.

Maryam took a sip of her Diabolo mint, waiting patiently for the call to end.

After a few minutes, Gordon hung up and looked at Maryam, a hint of intrigue in his expression. “That was him.”

Maryam’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Oh, really?”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll make sure to keep you informed.”

“Of course, don’t hesitate to call,” Maryam replied, watching as he stood up and placed some money on the table.

Gordon offered her a nod. “Take care, Maryam. I’ll see you around.”

She watched him leave the diner, heading toward his car, the weight of the situation lingering in the air as she finished her drink.

Halimi Family

Parents :

Idris Halimi (the father, deceased)

Zorana Ipatieva (the mother, deceased)

The sisters :

Maryam Halimi (the oldest) — 30, doctor, medical examiner.

Warda Halimi (second born) — 28, Engineer at Wayne Enterprises.

Nadia Halimi (third born) — 26, Journalist

Rania Halimi (fourth) — 25, Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.

Alma Halimi (youngest) — 24, Law student

Paternal aunts :

Meysa (Halimi) Saeed, babysitting

Amina Halimi, nurse

Paternal Uncle :

Amir Saeed (husband of Meysa), fisherman

Paternal Cousin :

Ali Saeed (son of Amir and Meysa), owner of a Boxing Ring in Gotham.

[seralyra]

Fic idea I had at the start of Secret Life that didn't age well:

Grian joined the Watchers after leaving Evo for a time as a way to de-stress. Watching is much less hard work than creating, after all. But his urge to be active, play and meddle in a much more direct way brought him back to being a Player.

Or at least part time Player. He still has his Eyes everywhere. He wants to see what his friends are up to when he's not with them, after all. Nosy boy that he is. He tends to come "home" to watch every now and again, catching up with the other Watchers.

The Watchers love watching him in turn, especially the little death games he's hosting every now and again. But just watching... well if you're invested in a show as much as the Watchers have been, someday just watching just isn't enough. Also Grian has been a bad influence on them.

Grian isn't all too sure he should allow a bunch of otherworldly beings to directly interfere with his games. He knows exactly how well that had worked on Evo. Although back there he hadn't been one of them and he hadn't been the one to host the games.

But whenever he comes to visit his weird family to watch and relax, they keep pestering him. And eventually his resolve crumbles.

The Secret Keeper is his solution to keep his Players safe from the Watchers more... aggressive... playstyle. Through the Secret Keeper they can affect the game without breaking it. And Grian, being the admin, can do damage control by bending the rules to fit everyones best interest.

What he didn't account for was the Watchers ulterior motives. They'd seen Scar and Grian dance around each other in circles for too long at this point. And they were determined to do something about it.

First point of the agenda: Get BigB out of the picture and make him dig a hole.

Second point... okay they got a bit distracted with the whole Mumbo and Grian dynamic. Those two were just the funniest people together, who could blame them?

Third... profits? They were still working it out. But they would get there. If Grian liked it or not.

On a more meta note and to explain my made up concept:

I always liked the interpretation of the Watchers as a representation for the audience. We meddle. We can be kind and cruel. Some of us are the ultimate backseat gamers. But most importantly: We are fluid.

A lot of the audience doesn't just watch. We also create and play. We switch roles. Sometimes we are Watchers. Other times we are Players.

We can't enter all the universes directly, of course. The Hermitcraft servers. The Traffic Life servers. Those are glass bubbles for us to look into and yell at. But even if we can't enter them we can usually affect them from the outside.

The Secret Keeper is our way of getting into the Life Series this season. Grian explicitly told us to come up with tasks, making us the Watchers.

And thus the Watchers in this take aren't (always) cruel and don't force Grian to just watch. They can be forceful and demanding, but in the end, they are fond of Grian and don't want to actively harm him.

It's more of the other way around! Grian is different from them in the sense that he was a Player first and a Watcher second. And he's been slowly showing them the joy of creating on their own. They've dabbled in meddling, of course. But they usually were very passive when they weren't busy keeping worlds running.

But now? Now they really wanna play, too.

[feraldogbites]

#eeriemirage; a dependent blog for calamityshq.

( go min si, cis woman, she/her ) PARK YEJI : the thirty year old resident that's been around the CRESCENT APARTMENTS for two months. when the infected swarmed the streets the first night, YEJI really proved how resourceful + courageous they were. however, many would argue that they can also be quite obsessive + unpredictable. five years has passed since their old life ended and the new one began, developing skills that have helped them become a MEDICAL STUDENT / NURSE within their group. it makes sense to see them thriving at the job because of their vast knowledge of drugs + glock 17.

𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙨 …

name. park yeji. nicknames. yeji, crayji (behind her back ). age. thirty. gender, pronouns. ciswoman, she / her. dob.  6th of june. pob.  jeju island, south korea. sexuality. pan romantic + sexual. role. medical / nursing student. weapon of choice.  sweet words, brainwashing:) but otherwise glock 17 with three bullets left.

𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙨 …

height. 165 cm ( 5'4 ). hair style. black, pint - straight hair. length depends on arc ! eyes. brown, appear black in certain light. tattoos. none. piercings. standard lobes, doesn’t wear them. fc. go minsi.

𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮 …

mother.  hwayoung ( presumed dead ). father. unknown. siblings. only - child.

𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺 … (tw of something, not sure what, ask to tag !)

yeji was born to a single mother in jeju island, south korea. her mother has always been a mess and yeji’s birth didn’t evoke any kind of a change in character.

when she was three, they moved to busan with her mother’s new boyfriend  — a leech of a man who liked to drink and gamble and cheat, yet hwayoung’s low self - esteem made her stay & endure whatever he came up with. to be fair, they matched each other’s crazy just the right amount and became the sample of a perfect relationship for yeji.

their turbulent relationship lasted for eight years until one fateful night their apartment’s front door was kicked down by masked men who trashed & stole their things and dragged her mother’s boyfriend away. yeji had never seen him again, and later, learnt that he has been mercilessly tortured and murdered for owing a lot of money to a lot of very dangerous people.

anyway, life went on. it certainly did for yeji, always a quiet child, the observer, the outsider — never inside, always outside — she had a hard time making friends anywhere they moved to. too weird, too peculiar, too creepy — the kids said, pointing and whispering. she, hurt and angry, in turn dreamt of their demise that never came. instead bitterness nestled into her insides.

she runs away from home at 17, but is it really running away when no one’s looking for you? yet, she, finally, finds her people — a group she fits in. they’re weird and eccentric and peculiar just like her, but in a cool way, in a way that other ordinary people look up to and follow. the whole ordeal is cult-y, though no one ever says it outloud. 

they teach her things she wouldn’t learn elsewhere, or so they say, about medicine and drugs and their effects on human’s body and under their orders, she sells them on the shadow market. though, she also learns other languages, like english and mandarin, which she masters in no time.

yeji returns home a day after her 26th birthday. she goes back to school, gets her high school diploma and either by sheer luck, or other powerful force, gets accepted into university majoring in nursing. her goal is to work in a nursing home -  being the one in charge, people needing her more than she needs them for once.

she’s on an internship in san francisco the day the world ends. she join a group after group, but they always crumble, always perish. then she becomes a loner, wandering and wondering if this doom is not a sign of something else, something otherworldly. yeji gets absorbed by these thoughts, delusional.

the apartment complex takes her in — perhaps for her medical skills or her words coated in honey or both — and her ‘visions’ as she likes to call them, speak to her more often.

tldr; yeji is a disturbed young woman who believes in the superiority of the zombs, thinks of them as gods, yet more and more people are starting to turn to her — because people, in every situation, need something to believe in.:)

visuals. musings. headcanons. threads. connections.

[everyones-fangirl]

Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers. Stalking. Being super forward/not taking no for an answer. CNC. Edging. Forced Orgasms.

Word Count: 5,709

Chapter 12

Cassara

It was a weird feeling—this new state of being. My whole life, I had thrived in the sunlight, relishing its warmth on my skin. I had healed, protected, and lived with a sense of purpose. Now, every new predatory instinct I had made me want to go against everything I had ever known. The sharpness of my senses, the heightened awareness, and the sheer power coursing through my veins—it was exhilarating yet terrifying. I didn’t want to admit that I liked the blood I was given. It was odd because I knew it wasn’t right; it should have been disgusting, repulsive even. But it quenched that deep hunger within me, a hunger so extreme and foreign it made me feel borderline savage. The first sip had been the hardest, my mind rebelling against the act even as my body craved it. But as the warm, rich liquid flowed down my throat, I felt a dark satisfaction I couldn’t deny. The taste was intoxicating, filling me with a strength I had never known. Each drop seemed to awaken something primal within me, a part of myself that had lain dormant, waiting for this moment. It scared me how much I wanted it, needed it. The rational part of my mind screamed that this was wrong, that I was becoming something monstrous. But the hunger drowned out those thoughts, consuming me from within.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, studying the changes. My once vibrant eyes were now a brighter, almost otherworldly green, glowing with an unnatural intensity. My skin, always fair, had taken on an almost translucent quality, making me look ethereal and fragile. Yet I knew there was a strength in me now that belied my delicate appearance. I had asked about the mirrors, unsure as to why we could see a reflection and Astarion said he had them enchanted so vampires could see. I ran my fingers through my hair, noticing how it seemed duller, lacking the luster it once had. My body, too, felt different—leaner, more defined, but there was an underlying tension, a coiled spring ready to snap. The room around me was a stark reminder of my new reality, its opulence a sharp contrast to the simplicity of my previous life.

Astarion had moved me into his chambers, and while I appreciated the gesture, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. I missed the open skies, the freedom to move about as I pleased. Now, I was confined to this space, my world reduced to these four walls. I looked around the room, trying to find some semblance of comfort. The bed was large and plush, draped in deep crimson linens that seemed to absorb the light. A small table by the window held a basin of water and a few cloths, a stark reminder of the simplicity I had once known. The only light came from a single candle, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on my mind. Astarion’s presence was a constant reminder of my new existence. His words echoed in my mind, a mix of promises and apologies that did little to ease my turmoil. I knew he meant well, but the weight of what I had become was a heavy burden to bear. I couldn’t blame him entirely—circumstances had forced his hand—but the resentment was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

As the hours passed, I found myself growing restless. The hunger was always there, a gnawing ache that never fully subsided. I couldn’t help but think about the blood, how it made me feel whole again, even if just for a moment. The thought was both repulsive and alluring, a constant tug-of-war within me. I sighed, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to find some measure of comfort. This new life was a strange, twisted version of the one I had known, filled with contradictions and uncertainties. I was no longer the person I once was, and I had no idea what the future held. But one thing was clear: I would not let this hunger define me. I would find a way to navigate this darkness, to reclaim some part of my humanity, even if it meant fighting against every instinct within me.

I was unsure of what to do with myself while Astarion did whatever he did when he wasn’t here. I mostly stayed in what was now our chambers, only braving the halls outside a few times and only making it so far before turning back around. The vastness of the castle, with its maze-like corridors and looming shadows, was intimidating. Every step felt like a venture into the unknown, a reminder of the life I had been thrust into against my will. So much had happened in such a short amount of time; I didn’t know whether or not I could trust the feelings forming within me. It was a constant whiplash between caring for and hating Astarion. My heart swelled at the thought and sight of him, a confusing rush of affection and longing. I couldn’t deny the strange pull he had on me, a connection that seemed to deepen with each passing day. But my brain—my instincts—told me to rip him apart for what he took from me. The betrayal, the loss of my humanity, and the sense of control I had always cherished were all gone, replaced by this insatiable hunger and a dependency on him that I resented.

I also felt more of an emotional connection to him after I turned, almost like every feeling he felt I got the slightest hint of as well. It was disconcerting, this bond that tied our emotions together. When he was near, I could sense his turmoil, his guilt, and his determination. It was as if a part of me was intertwined with his very essence, an unbreakable link that bound us together in this dark, twisted fate. The chambers themselves had become both a refuge and a prison. I spent hours pacing the room, trying to come to terms with my new reality. The lavish furnishings, the heavy drapes, and the opulent decor all felt suffocating at times, a stark contrast to the simplicity and freedom I had once known. I missed the sunlight, the open skies, and the feeling of grass beneath my feet. Now, I was confined to these four walls, my world reduced to the flickering light of a single candle and the distant echoes of a life I could no longer reach. Astarion’s absence left me with too much time to think, to dwell on the conflicting emotions swirling within me. I replayed our conversations, his promises, and apologies, trying to make sense of it all. Part of me wanted to believe that he truly cared, that he was as much a victim of circumstance as I was. But another part of me, the part that clung to the remnants of my humanity, couldn’t forgive him for what he had done.

One evening, as I lay on the bed, I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror. The transformation was still jarring—the pallor of my skin, the unnatural glow of my eyes, the gauntness of my features. I was a stranger to myself, a haunting reminder of the price I had paid for my survival. The sight filled me with a mix of sorrow and rage, emotions that warred within me constantly. I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the night sky. The moon hung low, casting an eerie glow over the landscape. It was a beautiful sight, but it only served to remind me of the world I was now cut off from. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the weight of my predicament settle over me like a shroud. When Astarion finally returned, I could sense his presence before I saw him. The air seemed to shift, a subtle change that alerted me to his approach. He entered the room quietly, his eyes immediately seeking mine. There was a tension between us, a silent acknowledgment of the complicated bond we shared.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice soft yet filled with concern.

I turned to face him, my emotions a turbulent mix. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Everything is so different now. I’m different.”

He took a step closer, his gaze intense. “I know it’s hard. I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but I’m here. Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to provide it.”

His words were sincere, and despite my inner conflict, I felt a small measure of comfort in his presence. “It’s not just the changes,” I said quietly. “It’s the way I feel about you. It’s like I’m being torn in two directions. I care for you, but I also hate what you’ve done to me.”

Astarion nodded, a pained expression crossing his features. “I understand. And I don’t blame you for feeling that way. I just hope, in time, you can forgive me.”

I looked into his eyes, searching for the truth in his words. There was genuine remorse there, a vulnerability that mirrored my own. “I don’t know if I can,” I whispered. “But I’ll try. For now, that’s all I can promise.”

He reached out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice filled with a mixture of hope and despair. “For now, that’s enough.”

I couldn’t help but lean into his touch, pressing my cheek against his palm while closing my eyes for a moment. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled into my bones since my transformation. It was a fleeting reminder of a connection that felt both alien and achingly familiar. His other hand found its way to my waist, the touch delicate yet insistent as he gently pulled me closer. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine, a mixture of fear, desire, and something I couldn't quite name. Today, I wore a dress very similar to the first one I had put on, except the bodice was made completely out of mesh. My pale skin practically glowed behind the dark red fabric, the contrast striking and otherworldly. The skirt, a cascade of lace and silk, swirled around my legs as I moved, revealing flashes of my skin with every step.

I looked up at Astarion, meeting his gaze. His eyes were intense, filled with a mixture of longing and regret. "Cassara," he murmured, his voice a low whisper that seemed to echo in the silence of the room. “I want you... very badly. I miss making you squirm.” His eyes darkened as he spoke, and I felt a flash of adrenaline and warmth flow through me, right to my throbbing core. The raw desire in his voice, the way his gaze seemed to devour me, sent a shiver down my spine. I had always been drawn to him, but now, with this new connection between us, the intensity of those feelings was almost overwhelming. Astarion's hand on my waist tightened, pulling me even closer. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the steady beat of his heart pounding in sync with my own. His fingers brushed the edge of the mesh bodice, the touch light and teasing, sending sparks of electricity through my skin.

"You don't know what you're doing to me," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "Every time I look at you, I feel like I'm losing control. And I don't want to fight it anymore." His words were a heady mix of passion and desperation, and I found myself unable to resist the pull between us. Despite everything, despite the pain and the anger, there was a part of me that wanted him just as fiercely. I could feel my own desire mirrored in his eyes, an unspoken promise of what could be.

"Astarion," I breathed, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I... I want you too. But everything is so confusing. I don't know what to feel."

He cupped my face with both hands, his touch gentle but firm. "Then let's not think," he said, his lips brushing mine. "Let's just feel. For tonight, let's forget everything else and just be together."

His words were like a balm to my wounded soul, a momentary escape from the turmoil inside me. I nodded, giving in to the yearning that had been building between us. As his lips claimed mine in a searing kiss, I felt a rush of emotions—love, lust, and a desperate need to connect. His kiss was hungry, devouring, and I responded with equal fervor. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until I was breathless. Astarion's hands roamed my body, exploring the curves and contours with a reverence that made my heart ache. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the bed with a grace that belied his strength. The feel of his body against mine, the heat of his skin, was intoxicating. I could feel the tension in his muscles, the barely restrained power, and it sent a thrill through me.

Astarion laid me down gently, his eyes never leaving mine. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "And you are mine, Cassara. Now and forever."

His words were a claim, a vow that resonated deep within me. As he moved over me, his lips trailing fire across my skin, I felt a connection that went beyond the physical. It was as if we were bound together by something stronger than mere attraction—a bond forged in the crucible of our shared pain and desire. A gasp was ripped from me as he tore the flimsy fabric of the dress from my body. The sound of the material shredding filled the air, and a quiet pout painted my lips. I had actually liked the dress, but the thought was quickly banished as another gasp escaped me. His lips attached to one of my nipples as soon as they were exposed to him, his fingers playing with the opposite. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and need that left me breathless. Astarion's mouth was hot and insistent, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before sucking it gently. His free hand roamed my body, caressing my skin with a reverence that made my heart ache. Every touch, every kiss was a promise, a reminder of the connection that bound us. His fingers trailed down my side, tracing the curve of my waist before slipping between my thighs. I arched into his touch, a moan escaping my lips as he found the slick heat of my core. His touch was gentle at first, teasing, but it quickly grew more insistent, more demanding. I could feel the tension building within me, the pressure mounting with every stroke of his fingers.

"You're so perfect," he murmured against my skin, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "So beautiful, so mine." His words were intoxicating, a heady mix of possession and adoration that left me trembling. I could feel his own arousal, hard and insistent against my thigh, and the knowledge that he wanted me just as badly only fueled my desire.

Astarion's fingers found their rhythm, stroking and teasing until I was a writhing mess beneath him. My hands clutched at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I teetered on the edge of ecstasy. He watched me with an intensity that left me breathless, his eyes dark and hungry. "Come for me, Cassara," he whispered, his voice a command that I couldn't ignore. "I want to feel you fall apart." His words were my undoing. With a cry, I shattered, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over me. Astarion held me through it, his touch never wavering, his eyes never leaving mine. The connection between us was electric, a current that seemed to bind us together even more tightly.

As I struggled to catch my breath, Astarion moved, kneeling on the floor in front of me. He pulled me to the edge of the bed with him, his strength both gentle and insistent. "Astarion!" I began in surprise, but the look he gave me from between my legs left me tongue-tied.

"I’m not done with you yet," he said, his tone dripping with sinister promise. His eyes glowed with a predatory hunger that sent a thrill through me, anticipation coiling in my belly. He spread my legs wider, his hands firm and commanding, and I let out a surprised moan as he licked my clit with the tip of his tongue. The sensation was electric, a spark that ignited a fire within me. He took his time, savoring every moment, his tongue flicking and teasing with expert precision. Each stroke sent shivers down my spine, my body responding to his touch with a desperate need. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him, and I could feel the tension building once again.

Astarion's eyes never left mine, his gaze intense and unwavering. It was as if he was watching my every reaction, taking note of what made me gasp, what made me moan.He increased his pace, his tongue swirling around my clit before sucking gently, and I couldn't hold back the moans that spilled from my lips. My hands found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as I arched into his touch. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to drown me. "Please," I gasped, my voice trembling with need. "Astarion, please."

He didn't need any further encouragement. His fingers joined his mouth, slipping inside me with a skill that left me breathless. He curled them just right, hitting that spot that made stars dance behind my eyelids. The combination of his mouth and fingers was too much, the pleasure too intense. My orgasm hit me like a bolt of lightning, my body convulsing as waves of ecstasy washed over me. Astarion held me through it, his touch never faltering, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he watched me come undone. The intensity of my release left me trembling, my body limp and spent. He kissed his way back up my body, his lips gentle and tender, a stark contrast to the raw hunger of moments before. I clung to him, my heart pounding in my chest. The connection between us was undeniable, a bond that went beyond the physical. Bound by our shared pain, our desire, and a love that defied the darkness. When I reached for him, seeking to deepen our connection, I was once again turned down, just like last time. He used the excuse of wanting it to be just about me, to spoil me so I would know how sorry he was. But the rejection stung, especially after everything we’d been through and how much he claimed to care for me. Why did he refuse to let me touch him? To please him? Hells, he hasn’t even wanted to fuck me. As we lay there with my back against his chest, my mind began to spiral down that train of thought.

The room, with its opulent trappings, felt suddenly suffocating. The velvet drapes and plush furnishings seemed to close in, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced mockingly across the walls. His arms around me, though comforting, also felt like chains, binding me in a way that was more emotional than physical. I couldn’t understand why he held back. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of affection was tainted by this unspoken barrier. It made me question everything—his motives, his sincerity, even my own worth. Did he truly care for me, or was this all some twisted game to him? Was I just another pawn in his quest for control, a pet to be coddled and kept at arm's length?

The thoughts gnawed at me, each one more painful than the last. I tried to push them away, to focus on the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. But the doubts persisted, a relentless tide that I couldn’t escape. “Why won’t you let me in?” I finally whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of my emotions. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”

He stiffened behind me, his silence more telling than any words could be. For a moment, I thought he might actually answer, might give me some glimpse into the turmoil that I could sense beneath his composed exterior. But then he sighed, a sound filled with such deep sorrow that it broke my heart anew. “It’s not that simple, Cassara,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my hair. “I’ve done things...terrible things. I don’t want to taint you with my darkness.”

I turned in his arms, looking up into his eyes. “We’re both already in the dark,” I said softly. His gaze held mine, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—dancing in the depths of his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by the familiar shadow of doubt. He cupped my face gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that I hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Give me time,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Please, just give me time.” I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I would give him time. But the doubts remained, lurking in the corners of my mind, whispering their insidious questions. And as we lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the true battle was not against the darkness around us, but the darkness within him.

The nightmare that woke me left me gasping and promptly choking on the air once it entered my lungs. It had been so vivid, so real, that the line between dream and reality seemed to blur. In the nightmare, I was back in that dreadful cave, the dank, musty air pressing against my lungs like a vice. The darkness was suffocating, and the only light came from flickering torches that cast grotesque shadows on the rough stone walls.

I was bound by heavy, rusted chains that bit into my wrists and ankles, their weight dragging me down and making every movement a struggle. The cold metal was unyielding, sending a shiver of pain through my limbs with each attempt to free myself. My skin felt raw and bruised where the chains had rubbed against it, a grim reminder of my captivity. Around me, the echoes of distant screams and tortured cries reverberated through the cavern, a haunting chorus that seemed to grow louder with each passing moment. The air was thick with the scent of blood and fear, a nauseating mix that made my stomach churn. I could feel the dampness of the stone floor beneath me, slick with a mixture of water and something far more sinister. Suddenly, I was no longer alone. The shadows coalesced into dark, menacing figures, their faces obscured but their intentions clear. They surrounded me, their eyes glinting with malice. One of them stepped forward, his cruel smile sending a jolt of terror through me. It was my captor, the one who had tortured me, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.

"You thought you could escape?" he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "You thought he would save you? How naive." He reached out, his hand cold and clammy as it gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His touch was like ice, sending a wave of revulsion through me. I tried to pull away, but the chains held me fast, their grip unrelenting. "You're nothing," he sneered, his breath hot against my face. "A plaything, a toy. And now, you'll suffer for your defiance."

His words cut through me like a knife, each syllable a dagger to my heart. I could feel the fear rising, a suffocating wave that threatened to drown me. The other figures closed in, their laughter a chilling symphony of mockery and cruelty. They jeered and taunted, their words a twisted echo of my own doubts and fears. In that moment, I felt utterly helpless, the darkness closing in around me. My struggles grew weaker, my hope dimming with each passing second. The pain was all-consuming, a relentless assault on my senses. I could feel my strength waning, my spirit breaking under the weight of my torment. Then, just as the darkness threatened to swallow me whole, a blinding light pierced through the gloom. It was Astarion, his presence a beacon of hope in the suffocating blackness. He moved with a grace and power that seemed almost otherworldly, cutting through the shadows with ease. The figures recoiled, their jeers turning to cries of fear as they scattered before him. He reached me, his touch warm and reassuring as he pulled me into his arms. The chains fell away, dissolving into nothingness. I clung to him, my heart pounding in my chest, the relief almost overwhelming. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. "I'm here. You're safe now."

But just as I began to feel a glimmer of hope, the nightmare twisted once more. The light faded, and Astarion's face contorted with pain. He cried out, his body convulsing as the shadows reached out, pulling him away from me. I tried to hold on, but my grip slipped, and he was torn from my arms, his screams echoing through the cavern. I woke with a start, the memory of his anguished cries lingering in my mind. My hands went to my chest as if I could claw my lungs open. I rolled over, dry heaving over the edge of the bed. It took a moment for me to calm down, and when I did, I noticed I was alone. The sinking feeling in my heart was hard to ignore, but I forced myself to focus on breathing steadily. I found myself rubbing at the skin on my arms, trying to rid myself of the lingering sensation of chains from my dream. The cold, heavy links that had bound me in the nightmare felt all too real, a ghostly reminder of my captivity and the new reality I was grappling with. The room was silent, save for my ragged breaths and the distant, faint sounds of the mansion at rest. I pushed myself to sit up, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of the nightmare. My fingers brushed against the remnants of the dress Astarion had torn from me, now just scraps of fabric scattered on the floor. I wrapped one of the pieces around myself, seeking some small comfort in the familiar texture.

Where was he? The question gnawed at me, adding to the whirlwind of emotions and doubts swirling in my mind. Despite his reassurances, a part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he regretted turning me, if he saw me as a burden rather than someone to cherish. The thought was like a knife twisting in my gut. Taking a deep breath, I decided I couldn’t stay in this room, wrapped in my fears and uncertainties. I needed to move, to find some semblance of normalcy in this twisted new life. With tentative steps, I made my way to the door, pushing it open and stepping into the dimly lit hallway. The mansion was eerily quiet, the only sound the faint rustling of curtains and the occasional creak of the floorboards. I walked aimlessly, my bare feet whispering against the cold stone floors, my mind a tumult of conflicting emotions. Every shadow seemed to hide a new threat, every flicker of light a reminder of the darkness I was now a part of.

As I wandered, I found myself drawn to the library. It was one of the few places in this sprawling mansion that felt somewhat safe, a sanctuary of knowledge and quiet contemplation. The scent of old books and polished wood greeted me as I stepped inside, and I felt a small measure of calm wash over me. The room was vast, its high, vaulted ceiling supported by intricate wooden beams that crisscrossed like the ribs of a grand cathedral. Tall, arched windows lined the walls, their panes of stained glass depicting scenes of ancient lore and myth. During the day, which I would only imagine, the sunlight would filter through, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the polished marble floor. Shelves upon shelves of books stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes that seemed to cover every subject imaginable. The scent of aged paper and leather bindings filled the air, a comforting, almost nostalgic aroma that spoke of centuries of accumulated wisdom. Each shelf was meticulously organized, with titles ranging from ancient tomes of dark magic to treatises on the art of war, from volumes of poetry to detailed histories of long-forgotten realms. In the center of the library stood a massive, ornately carved wooden table, its surface strewn with maps, scrolls, and open books. Heavy, high-backed chairs surrounded the table, their cushions upholstered in deep burgundy velvet. A large, intricate chandelier hung above, its crystals catching the light and casting a soft, warm glow over the room.

To one side, a grand fireplace dominated the wall, its mantel adorned with curiosities and relics from Astarion's past. The flames within it crackled and danced, casting flickering shadows that seemed to breathe life into the room. Above the fireplace hung a large, ancient portrait, its subject a stern-looking man in regal attire, his eyes seeming to follow you wherever you went. In a cozy alcove by the windows, a plush, overstuffed armchair sat beside a small table, inviting one to sit and lose themselves in a good book. A tall, brass floor lamp stood next to the chair, its light adjustable for reading. Nearby, a ladder on wheels allowed access to the higher shelves, its polished rungs gleaming in the dim light. I settled into that plush armchair, curling up with a book that I barely registered. My mind was still in turmoil, the nightmare and Astarion’s absence weighing heavily on me. The lingering sensation of chains on my arms was hard to shake, a phantom of my past that now haunted my present. I needed a distraction, something to pull me out of my thoughts. Suddenly, the library door creaked open, and someone entered. My head snapped up in surprise, and the intruder—a tiefling—promptly turned to leave as soon as she saw me. There was something familiar about her, though, and I narrowed my eyes in confusion.

“Hey! Stop!” I called after her. To my surprise, she listened and turned back slowly Her skin, a deep green hue, seemed to absorb the shadows around her, giving her an almost otherworldly presence. Her black, curly hair was cut short, framing her sharp features in a way that highlighted the natural intensity of her face. Her horns, jet-black and glossy, curved elegantly from her forehead, giving her an imposing and regal appearance. Her eyes were a vivid, glowing red, sharp and alert behind the round glasses perched on her nose. The glasses, seemingly delicate with thin, silver frames, added an unexpected scholarly touch to her otherwise fierce demeanor. They contrasted with the rest of her appearance, suggesting a complexity beyond her initial impression.

Her eyes met mine with a hint of recognition. “You..I’ve seen you before,” I said, piecing it together. “You were the one talking to Caty at the festival! Were you— No.. you wouldn’t.”

She audibly sucked on her teeth before shrugging her shoulders. “No… well— Yes, at first she was going to be my next victim, but then I started actually liking her.”

The admission took me aback. “What do you mean, your next victim?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady. The library seemed to close in around us, the vast space now feeling intimate and charged with tension.

The tiefling sighed, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Look, it’s not as sinister as it sounds. I needed to get close to someone at the festival for information, and Caty was an easy target. But she’s... different. She’s kind, and smart, and I couldn’t bring myself to use her like that.”

I stared at her, trying to process this new information. “So, you’re saying you genuinely care for her?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice softening. “I never meant for it to go this far, but now I’m in too deep. I can’t hurt her.”

I sighed, feeling the weight of the situation. “Caty is important to me. If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The tiefling nodded, a look of resolve crossing her face. “I understand. I won’t hurt her, I promise.”

We stood there in silence for a moment, the tension slowly dissipating. I finally broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

“Zariel,” she answered. “And you?”

“Cassara,” I replied, still wary but slightly more at ease.

“Well, Cassara,” Zariel said, glancing around the library. “It seems we both have a lot to lose. Maybe we can help each other.” Zariel's attire was practical yet stylish, tailored to fit her lithe, athletic build. She wore a fitted leather jacket, adorned with intricate patterns that hinted at arcane origins. Beneath the jacket, a simple black tunic flowed over dark trousers tucked into sturdy boots, which were scuffed and well-worn, indicating a life of travel and possibly conflict. Her fingers, long and nimble, were adorned with a variety of rings—each one different, likely holding its own story or power. Around her neck hung a pendant with an enigmatic symbol, the metal catching the light and drawing the eye. Despite the hardness in her expression, there was a softness in her posture as she spoke of Caty, hinting at a depth of emotion that belied her tough exterior.

I looked at her, considering her words. Trust was a fragile thing, especially in our world, but maybe—just maybe—this unexpected alliance could be beneficial. “Alright, Zariel,” I said finally. “Let’s see where this goes. But remember, I’m watching you.”

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Fair enough, Cassara. Fair enough.”

[clumsiestgiantess]

Erica pov of chapter five! A very ominous title, but we already know who’s watching her.

all chapters linked here

[When you think you’re alone, someone’s watching]

I knew something awful was going to happen the moment that damn pile of money reappeared in my living room.  It’s always been a specialty of mine to sense that kind of thing.  Unfortunately, nine times out of ten I ignore it and continue making things worse.  I only realize this in hindsight, of course.  If I’d known the horrific punishment for using that money, I probably would’ve walked right out of my apartment the day it showed up and never looked back.  I would say going back to John is better than the torture, but it would actually be a very similar experience.  In short, I would be screwed either way.

Not that I have much of a choice these days.  Apparently my free will is the price to pay for all that mysterious money.  I'd involuntarily made a deal with some sort of devil or demon or otherworldly being, and now I couldn’t take it back.  I shouldn’t have touched that money.  Why did I take it when I knew something was wrong?  Stupid fucking logic — correcting my decisions after I already made them.  I couldn’t even make decisions for myself anymore.  It felt like I became a puppet on a string.  My movements weren’t my own, and I could feel something somewhere tugging at me — forcing me to do whatever it wanted.  The sensation always left me feeling frighteningly cold, like I was already dead.

Whatever took my body hadn’t seemed so malicious at first.  It had given me a small fortune, a mini mansion, a stable job, everything I wanted.  I thought it was a prank or strange new tv show; little did I know I would end up here, like this.  It’s all been taken from me now, except the mansion and my car.  The only reason I still have those is because I need some form of transportation, and without the mansion, I don’t have a home.  I.. god, I think I really screwed up.  I made it mad or something.  It took almost everything I’d bought.  Did I use the money in the wrong way?  But what else would they have given me a whole giant secret safe of it for?

Strangely enough, whatever was torturing me wasn’t too cruel.  I mean, having zero choice over where I went and what I did was a shit deal, but if my puppet master could really do whatever they wanted, things could be a whole lot worse.  A lot of people would do worse.  John would do worse.  He would have me right where he wanted me from square one.  I could feel goosebumps on my arms just thinking about it, even though I’m not even controlling them.  

In all the horror movies about possession and stuff, the puppet was usually hurt for fun or thrown into awful situations just to amuse whoever was controlling them.  Thankfully, that doesn’t seem to be the case for me.  All my puppet master’s done is force me to live a well-off human life.  Is it using me to live a human life for itself?  Why me?  Why not one of the thousands of other people in the city?  And if I’m being controlled like this without a single person knowing, how many other people are actually these beings in disguise?  

From sunup to sundown I was a stranger in my own body.  There were a few exceptions, though.  Once in a while I’d wake up and not be greeted by the awful sensation of being tied to some unseeable thing.  Apparently, I was given random days off.  I panicked the first time I woke without being controlled, desperate to find out what had happened, and why I could suddenly move my own limbs again.  I drove away to the middle of nowhere, trying to hide, but I’d been caught speeding down the highway in my rush to get away.  I ended up right back home because I’d forgotten my wallet in my despricity to escape.  By the time I got back, my freedom had been revoked.

My captor would also let me have freedom for social situations — when a friend or colleague started talking to me about things that whatever was controlling me probably didn’t know.  Thanks a lot, body snatching creature.  Free will, but only while I’m forced to make small talk.  Maybe it is torturing me after all.  There was one time during an event like that when I thought I finally found out what, or who, was controlling me.  The moment I was alone, in public, and uncontrolled, John showed up.  

“Had enough yet?” his sickeningly smooth voice startled me from behind as he glided over to the table where I sat.  A friend and I were at a popular cafe when he happened to saunter in at the exact moment she left.  I turned to look at him, heart dropping into my stomach.  I hadn’t seen him since the night I told him to go fuck himself.  “E- Enough of what?”  Fear seeped into my voice; I couldn’t help it.  Enough of being controlled?  I know he definitely would control me given the chance, but I thought he’d be doing so much more to me if it really is him.   “Oh come on, seriously?” he sneered.  “Surely you’ve been evicted from our apartment by now.  You bought it with my money, didn’t you?”  He chuckled menacingly, “Face it darling, you need me.”

Oh thank god; he’s not the one controlling me.  Feeling a bit more confident knowing that and the fact that I was currently in control of myself, I gave an amused sounding sneer before shooting him a steely glare.  “No, I don’t.  I’m doing just fine without you and I don’t plan on ever needing anything from you ever again.”  I loved the way his smugness immediately vanished.  Unfortunately, it was quickly replaced with rage.  I braced myself, knowing he would undoubtedly yell something stupid at me and make a big fucking scene.  He stayed silent, and that scared me more than the first option.

My eyes shot open to find him standing completely frozen and almost limp like a standing zombie.  Or a puppet.  In less than a second, I was on my knees in the booth, peering over the top at every possible person to see if anyone had anything to do with it.  I know if it’s not John then it might not even be a person, but I was desperate at that point.  Even as he wandered out the door in a daze, I followed him, excusing myself from the meal.  He looked hollow, almost — drifting into a crowded sidewalk out of sight.  Is that how I look when I’m controlled?

Suddenly, I felt almost a magnetic tug from above.  No!  No, no, no!  Shit!  It’s coming back for me!  I left the cafe, and I don’t think that’s what my puppet master wanted.  Before I could get a foot out in front of me to run, my muscles were tugged out of my control.  Thoughts that weren’t my own drifted into my head, telling me that I could stop worrying about John — he was taken care of for the foreseeable future.  That’s happened a few different times.  I think it’s some sort of message from my captor.  Usually they’re stupid, but I do agree with letting them handle John.

I tried to get away the next several times I woke up uncontrolled, but my captor found me every. Single. Time.  They must have had some way to track me down; how awful is that?  By then, I’d pretty much given up hope of escaping.  I’d just have to wait it out.  Whatever’s controlling me has to get bored of it eventually.

Months into this strange existence, I started to feel like I was being watched.  My captor certainly was not getting bored yet.  As time went on, I only became more and more aware of the thing controlling me.  Whenever I thought I was alone, someone would be watching.  They’re always here.  Don’t they have anything better to do? I thought with disdain.  What if this is a lifetime deal?  Will I have to live watching my own life play out in front of me until I die?  That- That can’t be it.  This can’t be the rest of my life, it can’t.  All I have left is looking out of my own eyes like a window, watching things happen around me like I’m seeing someone else.  Like I’m no one, like I’m nothing.  I can’t stand being like this, and I can’t even be angry or sad about it because I’m always trapped.

Eight long frustrating months passed.  Sometimes, when I woke up late at night when the thing wasn’t controlling me, I’d reminisce about my life before all this.  There wasn’t much to reminisce about, though.  My life already sucked, but at least then I could still make decisions.  I had at least a little control over what happened to me, though honestly, it wasn’t much.  Sitting on the edge of my bed in a sobbing mess is one of the best things I can have now.  I can finally have emotions besides the ones that are stuck in my head every goddamn day of my awful fucking life.  The doors to the balcony creaked open, but I barely had time to look up at them before my muscles were taken from me.  If I knew my captor was there, I would’ve been begging rather than crying.  Though, I bet I’d be crying either way.

Thoughts that weren’t mine came into my head, but this time they came with a new sensation.  A sort of.. calmness that I hadn’t felt in years washed over me like rain after a drought.  It was soothing, though I knew it was my captor doing it.  Wait.  They’re calming me down?  They saw me crying and calmed me down?  What?  Why didn’t they let me have this before?  I thought back through the other times I wasn’t controlled.  I guess I’ve never cried in front of them before.  Suddenly, I was feeling extremely tired.  I don’t know if it’s my captor doing it or just me being tired, but I was out in less than a minute.  

From then on, my captor decided to give me that sort of peace from time to time.  It helps a bit.  I don’t mind having a break from living life; I just wish I could spend the time on something besides sitting around doing nothing in my head but watch.  The calmness changed that.  It gave me weird visions of happy places and times that I’d never seen — something to do besides nothing at all.  I want to be in control more than anything when there’s free time, but while I’m at work or dealing with traffic, I decided the weird relationship between me and my captor was mutual.  They could have my body then.  Now I use the few days I have off like vacation days.  I do whatever I want until whatever’s controlling me comes back.  Then it’s back to my head and back to work.  Life again became tolerable.  I’d space out all day, letting my body be dragged from one place to another.  Until one fateful night.

I stayed at work late.  It wasn’t my choice; it was never my choice anymore.  But suddenly, it was.  Some noisy kids were making a racket down the connecting street; there was an explosive snap, and then I could feel my limbs again.  For the first time in almost a month I felt truly alive again!  I got the suspicion that this wasn’t an intentional release, and I could practically feel the presence of my captor nearby.  Taking the small chance I had, I fled down the empty street to the parking garage and my car.  If I could just reach it before I was taken over, I might be able to escape.  Despite liking the time alone to myself, I wanted it to happen on my terms, not my captor’s.

As I raced through the now eerily quiet sidewalk, I felt the thing getting closer, rapidly gaining distance on me despite running at my fastest.  I hadn’t been afraid of it in a long time, but I was starting to now.  At the last second, I dodged into an opening in the parking garage ahead, hoping to lose whoever or whatever was chasing me.  Up until that point, I could chalk up the 'feeling their otherworldly presence' thing to paranoia or delusion, but a few moments after I darted into the parking lot, a new factor made my hair stand on end.  I could hear it breathing.  Echoed breaths flooded the concrete structure, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.  Now I was more terrified of my captor than I had ever been before.

Overwhelmed, I let out a terrified scream as the breathing grew closer.  It's going to catch me, I realized in horror, and I'll never have control again!  Realizing it would take me far too long to find my car in the lot, I abandoned it and rushed out the back entrance, desperate for a busy street of some sort.  If I could slip into a crowd, whatever's rushing around invisibly probably wouldn't be able to find me.  At least they wouldn't have a clear shot at getting my body back.  Maybe if I put up a long enough chase, it'll get tired and find someone else to control instead.

Unfortunately, that plan was very short-lived.  The street in that direction was a dead end.  I scrambled into an alley, which was also a dead end, hoping that it was possible to hide from whatever's coming for me.  I stood trembling in fear as I felt and heard the thing getting closer.  It must've seen me hide down there, because it wasn't long before I could feel its presence at the entrance to the alley.  I'm trapped with no way out now.  I'll never have free will again.  Might as well put up a fight while I still can, right?  

There was a trashed glass bottle on the ground beside me, and I scooped it up in haste as I felt my captor inch closer.  With a quick swing, I shattered the back end of the bottle against the wall to my right, creating a rudimentary weapon.  "Don't fucking touch me!" I cried out with all the fury I could muster, "I know you're here!  I could hear you breathing in the parking garage."  The thing, whatever it was, stopped its advance, so I continued, voice growing a little stronger.  "What are you?!  What do you want from me?!"  I swung my shattered bottle violently through the air in hopes to deter the thing from coming any closer.

My aggression seemed to be working as far as I could tell.  My captor had backed up a ways to the alleyway entrance.  It's still hard to tell how much of an advantage I actually have, though.  I can't see the thing I'm trying to fight.  For all I know, it might have just stepped back to have a good laugh at me before taking my body again.  Maybe it realized that I'd have to go out that way eventually, and it’s just sitting there waiting to grab me once I tried to escape.  As I thought through a possible way out of there that didn't involve my immediate re-capture, I heard a chilling cracking sound.  It was like a mini earthquake.  The pavement in front of the alley split open, and soon half the parking garage crumbled to rubble before my eyes.  My heart thundered in my ears, and I was dangerously close to passing out in fright.

At that point, I was at my wits' end.  I assumed I was about to be torn apart just like the metal and concrete structure before me.  I braced myself for the worst, but was startled out of it by a very loud yelp of pain.  Looking back over at the garage, I gasped in confusion and utter horror, dropping my bottle to the ground.  A few truckloads of blood were spattered over the entire side of the parking garage.  Sitting in the middle of it was my captor, now fully visible.  It.. no wait.. she looked like a person.  Her blonde hair shone under the dim city lights, and her pale face paled even more as she slowly glanced up from her cut hands to look at me.  She looked like a person, but she was taller than almost every single building I could see.  It was too much, way too much.  This was my puppet master?  She was controlling me?  I slowly backed up to the furthest point I could, flinching as I hit the wall behind me.  Whoever, whatever she is, she could easily kill me with only a few fingers.  How can something like her even exist?

"Please, don't-" I choked on a sob before I finished my sentence.  What use was it to beg for my life?  She'd already stolen it from me.  I watched as her eyes went wide with.. fear?  It couldn't be.  She was probably just surprised that I'd spoken to her since she'd been invisible the whole time.  How did she even get this far into the city without absolutely demolishing everything in her path?  It looked like she was going to say something, but stopped as her injuries tensed with pain.  The air around her wavered like a mirage or exhaust.  One moment she was there, hunched over beside the blood-covered remains of the garage, and the next moment, she was gone.  All the gore disappeared along with her, but the destruction remained.  At first I thought she'd gone invisible again, but I realized that even the sensation of her presence was gone.  She'd simply vanished into thin air.

I stood in the alleyway for a long while after my surprisingly human-looking tormentor disappeared, still shaking with fear though she was long gone.  Finally, a car horn from somewhere in the city startled me out of my stupor.  In a daze, I trudged over to my car, which was thankfully parked near the edge of the garage and hadn't been close in the giant's crater of destruction.  Once I climbed in and let the car door slam behind me, it was as if all my emotions suddenly felt the need to re-appear at once.  I curled up in my seat, bawling in a mix of fear and anger and relief.  Why has that behemoth of a person been controlling me, and how?  I've managed to keep control of my body, but at what cost?  Will she return to take back control, or just end my life entirely?  She hurt herself in anger at me.  Surely she’ll be back for revenge.  My heart missed a beat as I realized just how helpless I really was in this situation.  I’ll die if she tries to hurt me!  Even if I don’t die, I doubt I’ll ever have control over myself as long as I live.  I’ll never feel my body ever again! By the time I stopped crying, I was dead tired.  It was two in the morning, I'd just been hunted down like a wild animal, and I was realy fucking sick of fearing for my life.  With grim determination, I started up my car and headed back home.  There's no point in delaying the inevitable.  I'm dead inside and out and I really, really just want somewhere safe to go.  But I have nowhere left.  My parents' house is a plethora of nightmares in itself.  John's place.. only in his dreams.  I guess I could sleep in my car, but I'm afraid of either getting a ticket or getting broken into.  And finally, there's the mansion I had been gifted by my captor.  There's really only one option here.  My only hope is to bet that with an almost human appearance, my captor also has almost human emotions.  She did take pity on me once before, right?  If I could just get her to sympathize with me somehow — get her to recognize how awful she's been — maybe, just maybe, I could have my own life back.

[feminaferitas]

supernatural/monster au character backgrounds

v: it's not evil - just hungry, available for shauna/jackie/misty/nat note: full background/social and timeframe setting for verse/threads is flexible dependent on plotting with partner

Cast: Shauna the psychopomp, Jackie the siren, Natalie the dhampir, Misty the hag-touched.

Shauna Shipman: Psychopomp

A psychopomp, or in essence, a reaper, is a melancholy and misunderstood figure. Associated with death but never the cause of it, Shauna is feared all the same. She arrives at the site of death and quietly begins the work of preparing the soul for its next stage of being. She does not judge or condemn the dead, but simply makes the transition to the afterlife a little easier, perhaps a little kinder. Her hunter's knife is the scythe by which she severs the threads to the mortal plane, whether or not there is a body left to carve. It is somber, solitary work to clean up the place where a life once was, but she dutifully does her work no matter how many believe her to be a butcher.

Shauna often does not know those she is tasked with ferrying, but if she learns anything of them, she writes down details of who they once were in her journal. Much of a life is lost to time, but she tries to remember the ones she helps.

She sometimes takes the form of her young self, and sometimes she is older, but Shauna exists outside of linear time and most frequently appears to be her teenage self (even if she never really was a teenager). She can also manifest in animal forms, occasionally a deer or a flock of birds waiting just beyond the body.

Shauna doesn't appear naturally to the living, unless they have some connection to the otherworldly -- the killers, those who have had near-death experiences, and others who have witnessed a lot of death may be included in this, but there isn't an exact science to it.

Jackie Taylor: Siren

What she lacks in skill and acuity she makes up for in influence. Sirens have that sort of hold on people, after all. For the longest time, Jackie never really understood why she always got what she wanted -- she just knew the universe conspired to make it happen. It wasn't until she told a guy in high school to "go fuck himself" that she finally realized there was something more to her words and her voice. That said, not everything she says is compelling -- Jackie has learned to hone "the voice" she uses to influence and beguile. In the meantime, it doesn't hurt she's gorgeous and well-liked. And that wasn't because she forced anyone to believe it... right?

Contrary to popular belief, she's not the type of siren that people think should be related to mermaids. They're more classically bird-women, but Jackie doesn't manifest any avian traits (apart from sometimes getting really sharp manicures, but that's purely aesthetic).

Jackie is skilled in vocal mimicry and even if she's not the world's best singer, her influencing abilities can be dangerous to weak-minded individuals. If she's swapped spit with you too, she's likely to have a stronger hold. If she's silenced, gagged, made to bite her own tongue, or deafened, her powers lose their effect.

Jackie also has synesthesia and can clearly see and distinguish the source of sounds (granted that they're not overpowering -- she can be prone to overstimulation).

Natalie Scatorccio: Dhampir

A cursed child often born of a vampiric father and a human mother. A mix of both worlds, belonging to neither. Natalie has always been an outcast in every sense of the word, right down to her very biology. And as she slowly learned the truth about her parentage, things began to become clearer. As vampiric offspring are wont to do, Nat was responsible for the death of her father, but it didn't do anything to solve her own affliction. It did, however, free her mother from his thrall -- but her mother still resents her daughter for what she did, even if it was ultimately a good thing.

As a dhampir, she has a weakened mix of the strengths and vulnerabilities as a vampire (though of course, stakes to the heart and decapitation will do the trick). Natalie is prone to sunburns and is sensitive to light, but is slightly stronger, faster, and more durable than humans. Religious iconography does still impact her, though she does not need invitation over thresholds and is not weak to running water.

Her blood and bile are toxic to full-blooded vampires, and her own appetite for carnage can mostly be suppressed, but she does still need to drink blood every so often, especially when injured or weak. (This is a mix of dhampir lore sources, I don't love when they're just All Vampire Awesomeness with No Weaknesses.)

Natalie will stop aging on a human timescale when she hits adulthood, if she lives that long. In the meantime, she indulges in nightlife, intoxicants, and other experiences to try to numb the pain and distract from the fact there's nowhere she truly belongs.

Misty Quigley: Hag-touched

She wasn't born a witch, and she's not innately magical. But Misty saw the sorts of powers that existed just beyond the fingertips of most normal lives and wanted some of it for herself. For those who aren't lucky enough to have natural magic, well, there's always a hag coven. Misty found a gathering of powerful women who were willing to make a bargain and bring the blonde into their society. And Misty prefers this type of wicked handiwork to simply waving fingers and casting spells. Just... don't leave strands of hair or fingernail clippings where she can find them for her "experiments".

Inspired by various hag folklore and D&D depictions, Misty's magic is based in exchange and component value -- she excels in curses, inconveniences, and changes in fortune, but she's not entire malevolent. She isn't wholly benevolent either, extracting some sort of price from those who seek her aid. And if they don't, she just has fun making whatever mischief she can -- often targeting individuals to whom she later proposes the solution to their woes.

Also, not all hags are old and ugly -- Misty resents that idea, thank you!

[dirtyoldmanhole]

made it past black flames... gunter fans know what that means. :'))))

et iz emotional pain time!!

anyway it was cool the description text for the chapter said "descend on valla" while it had "floating isle" right there on the location box.

whack geography there you have, fates!

i suppose it makes sense in terms of "descending down into the bottomless canyon" but since i'm doing an unsubtle amount of parallels to [valla = the underworld] for Symbolic Fic Reasons it was neat to see the game itself nod towards that versus an ultimately less descriptive word like "fell down the canyon".

you ever think how that sky was likely the last thing gunter thought he was going to see the first time he fell down? :') and then what he must feel like to be kinda forced to do it all over again? :'))))

speaking of the literal devil....

[internal screaming]

god this second rev playthrough is going to emotionally wreck me WORSE than the first playthrough, and that one pretty much broke my brain as is!!!!

anyway this is the first shot you see of gunter in-game since... I think it was right before the wind tribe chapter where you fought the "faceless"? i'm pretty sure I would have screenshotted it had there been another one.

i also think it's really interesting you don't see him next to azura, which feels like it'd make sense considering both of them, you, and jakob had already been down in the bottomless canyon. (ngl jakob got shafted in these little map scenes, he feels like he should be there more.)

anyway, very subtle yellow flag number one for what's coming up.

the royals have their one obligatory moment of sane 'wtf we ain't jumping down no canyon' reasoning. gunter gets this kind of random 'hey i'm alive still remember me' line for the players who aren't single-brain cell'd gunterfuckers (:P) :

corrin reveals she's prepared to sacrifice herself to valla's curse (you die if you mention anything about the otherworldly kingdom) to reveal to everyone exactly who the enemy is----

(....OUFFF can you imagine gunter's moment of panic there.)

-- everyone trades a few lines about trusting corrin, after wanting her to order them to jump.

they jump. first, hilariously enough.

so this is probably the clearest shot we'll ever get of Scarlet's flower. hold that thought for future Plot Reasons.

(i also do think it's a little interesting / a flub that the cinematographers had gunter already jump in the bottomless canyon--Scarlet and Corrin trade 3-4 lines before they jump too. then again i suppose if he was still sticking around at this point the whole "who killed scarlet" jig would be up way before it was actually resolved.)

speaking of, i still can't believe i fucking called it with possessed!gunter killing scarlet the first go around. :') all i knew beforehand is he got possessed somewhere and there was something whack with his family.

here we goooo......

whelp whelp whelp

THIS REALLY HITS DIFFERENT WHEN YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHO IT IS

GEE I WONDER

control your kinky af boytoy corrin!!! safe word is anankos!!!!!

(if you squint, you can see how the game uses anankos' cloaked model -- privately i think they should have used the great knight model since it would have been an infinitesimal 'blink and you miss it' hint but an absolute genius bonus the second time. just stick the helmet on if you don't want to give everything away. )

something exquisitely painful: guess who targeted corrin first, before scarlet dives in to save her?

:')

... whelp. nice seeing you.

damn even the game ships ryoma/scarlet hardcore.

corrin gets all of 30 seconds to grieve/freak out about scarlet dying and then enemies show up, thankfully followed by allies.

gunter's in the third wave of sprites that show up, the first being corrin, then xander&ryoma.....

... aaand i just noticed he's right next to corrin. :'))))))))))))))))))))

time to roll valla!

[asrieltheflower]

Murder drones rant with spoilers:

Wtf is up Cyn?

Like, it's not fully clear to me. They depict her to be your classic "heartless robot who mimics being normal to disguise evil plans"

But like, is she real? I've seen people suggest that absolute solver (a name the monster gave itself I might add) is the base ai of all worker drones, and the wd_program is what filters that ai into being these workers. This makes sense since the VHS tape says that one of the errors that cause zombie drones is that their wd_program or core is not connected when the drone reboots. But if that's the case then how is it that the several workers who have had plenty of casualties and don't know how to dispose of the bodies, never saw a single zombie? More so, we never saw J actually turn into one, despite dying. Instead we saw a specific organ that clearly was made by Cyn pop out and start rebuilding itself using nearby technology with the intent of fixing J. Later we see a fully rebuilt J, so clearly the personality was still intact, so why would Solver be active?

I think absolute solver isn't an AI, I think it's all Cyn. "Solver" presents itself as some sort of cosmic horror, an existence beyond comprehension that controls the drones at the core. But also it's too stupid to realize that V needs glasses to see... It's so scary with its huge form appearing from all sides without a real face... And it gets hacked by Uzi? It feels pain when N stabs it? It gets frustrated that it can't hold a knife and needs help? This is weirdly humane behaviour... Hold on a second, what if it's just a trick?

Cyn gave us the name absolute solver because she's got a god complex or something? She WANTS to be all powerful, and if you were locked in a basement for being useless, in a situation where you are powerless to do anything about it, that would make sense.

I remember hearing that in the matrix, the robots look the way they do because they hated humans and transformed themselves to look otherworldly, which I'm pretty sure is itself a reference to the biblical stories of a certain angel mutilating it's form to spite the creations of god... A certain... anti-christ? In this world of super-natural and mythical creatures crossed with SciFi I think Cyn is our Lucifer. Someone hateful to her "gods" (the humans that created her and gave her purpose). So she seeks to overthrow them. That explains why Tessa was spared, Cyn might actually care about Tessa, which explains why Cyn is also using the Drones, instead of just wiping their ai. She's a self appointed god here to help achieve the singularity (some sort of technical advancement, probably something that makes Cyn's weird god powers function without the heavy cost of needing constant oil).

It would also explain doll and Uzi. They are tapping into the same power Cyn has. But they aren't going crazy with a desire to control the world or achieve the singularity. They are still worried about their own lives, and fitting in or getting revenge or whatnot. They are still themselves. What is worth talking about is that we don't see how doll survives Vee when her parents die, and we definitely saw Uzi get stabbed through the chest when her dad left. And yet, we only see them engage in the absolute solver after the fact of both of these events. Clearly they are both zombie drones, I think the Wd_programs only purpose is to keep them satisfied with working. That's why everyone was just happy waiting behind the doors with no aspiration to leave, or even have a defense force, they have a program to keep them in line.

Who knows, maybe it's a coincidence and I'm seeing something that isn't really here, maybe the weird bracelet things are what allow solver to be used without the robots being taken over?

Regardless, I'm a bit curious of Thad, since he's one of the only people who was up for fighting back against the murder drones back in episode 1, even if it was brief he was definitely an odd one out there, being the only person who believed the WDF could help fight back. Maybe he has some plot relevance beyond ship baiting, cause god knows this show loves playing with its tropes. And the guy walked out of a fight with Solver... Like they just watched him leave? Could be just one big joke but it'd be cool

[bluerose5]

not me seeing you taking fenhanders prompts and RUNNING to your inbox, but:

something (mild and will not kill them) happens to Fenris and Anders and Hawke has to take care of them for a little while 🥹

I had fun with this one. Hope you like how it turned out. 🥰💙

~~~

The one bad thing about people who take care of others is that, oftentimes, they end up forgetting to take care of themselves in the process.

Which is exactly how Anders ended up sick, his immune system in tatters while being exposed to one too many different diseases.

In all honesty, Garrett was surprised that it hadn't happened sooner; but given their close proximity to one another, it was a miracle that Garrett didn't fall ill as well.

Fenris, on the other hand, wasn't as lucky.

For two people who had so much yet also so little in common, they certainly reacted to being sick in different ways.

While Anders was more vocal in voicing his displeasure, Fenris took a much more reserved approach. He preferred to remain bundled up in blankets, grumbling to himself until he got too warm, thus forced to shed some layers as he trudged around his mansion like a ghost in the shadows. He refused to ask anyone else for help, not wanting to be a bother, even if he was anything but.

Anders, by contrast, didn’t bother to try and make himself appear smaller than he was. Rather, he made his presence known at every available opportunity, especially when he learned that doing so often meant gaining Hawke’s attention, no matter how briefly.

For once, he was the one being cared for, and that awakened a part of him that reveled in being spoiled and loved.

Of course, put the couple in the same room, and they were sure to butt heads as they usually did.

“I despise you,” Fenris deadpanned, both of them sprawled out on Fenris’ bed together, settled atop the sheets as yet another wave of heat surged through them.

Anders sniffled, petulant, and glared at him through puffy, red eyes.

“So you keep saying, but you must keep me around for s–some—Achoo!” He was abruptly cut off by a tickle in his nose, which instantly transitioned into a sneeze that radiated painfully throughout his chest. Anders grimaced, then groaned. “Ugh, reason.”

Face scrunched up in disgust, Fenris glowered, wrinkling his nose in Anders’ direction.

“Can you at least attempt to cover your mouth, mage?”

“Of course. I shall aim to be sick with less offense.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“Wise choice,” Anders taunted. “Holding your breath would be detrimental to your health. Good to know your common sense is still intact, at least.”

“Why, you little—”

Before Fenris could even finish the thought, he pounced.

Anders yelped as he was forced back onto the bed, struggling until they were rolling back and forth across the sheets.

Not that he ever stood a chance.

Like always, Fenris gained the upper hand all too quickly, his strength almost otherworldly.

He straddled Anders’ waist, pinning his wrists above his head, while his precious mage sulked in defeat.

Fenris smirked.

“Do you yield?” he asked, enjoying himself way too much.

Head held high, Anders huffed, “As if.”

When he squirmed against Fenris’ hold, Fen continued to sit on top of him, not once moving an inch.

For as much progress as Anders was making, he might as well have been trying to move the Viscount’s keep.

Eventually, he surrendered.

“Oh, fine, you win,” Anders grunted, wiggling once more in an attempt to dislodge him. Playfully, he raised the pitch of his voice. “Mercy, serah! Mercy!”

“Hmm…” Fenris trailed off, humming in contemplation. “And what, pray tell, is to be my prize for this outstanding victory?”

“How about I don’t kick you out of the bed by the end of the day?” Anders offered.

Then again, maybe he shouldn’t have said that, considering the position he was in.

Fenris narrowed his eyes at him.

“Just for that—” Without warning, Fen leaned in and nuzzled his face into the crook of Anders’ neck, which wouldn’t have been that bad in theory, had it not been for one teeny-tiny detail.

Anders gagged at the feeling of Fenris’ sweat-soaked hair brushing against his skin.

“You ass!”

As soon as Fenris released his wrists, Anders shoved him off, scrubbing the sheets along his throat to rid his already-clammy skin of the extra layer of sweat.

Fenris collapsed onto the bed, winded.

At first, he trembled. His shoulders shook, but he ultimately remained silent.

Then, the first snort broke free, soon followed by another. Before Anders could comprehend what was going on, Fenris was overwhelmed by a fit of laughter. It wasn't his usual soft, reserved chuckles but full-blown, unadulterated laughter.

Soon enough, he was clutching at his side with the beginning of tears building in his eyes.

Anders watched, transfixed yet bewildered.

Seeing Fenris react in such a way was a rarity, an opportunity that Anders knew not to waste. Fenris —like Anders those days— so seldom smiled, not that there was much to smile about in Kirkwall to begin with, so such a genuine reaction was to be savored, a treasured gift to hold close to their chests.

Anders committed every detail to memory, but he wasn't the only one.

"Ahem." At the sound of Hawke clearing his throat, they jolted. Garrett spared them a knowing glance, his lips quirked up into a smirk. "Should I have brought snacks? I leave you two alone for five minutes, and I return to fighting and giggling."

Fenris rolled his eyes, shaking his head with a fond smile.

Garrett fully entered the room then, a large tray in hand. As he went to set it down onto one of the bedside tables, steam billowed up from the bowls and cups he brought along.

The warm, fragrant aroma of homemade stew mingled with the sharp, cool scent of freshly-made tea.

“Here,” Garrett said, passing them the cups first. “Malcolm Hawke’s signature elfroot tea.” When Anders wrinkled his nose, more fond of coffee than tea, Garrett shot him a pointed look. “Drink up, you. It’ll help you feel better, and it’ll give your mana a much-needed boost.”

Grumbling, Anders took a small sip. His face instantly crumpled, feigning a gag.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Garrett sighed.

“Or maybe Anders is just a big baby,” Fenris said.

Anders opened his mouth to fire back at him, but was abruptly caught off guard.

As if to emphasize his words, Fenris had picked up his cup, cradling it as he met Anders' eyes.

Not once did he look away, downing it all in one go.

Anders gaped, slack-jawed, while Garrett tsked at them in a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

Without missing a beat, Garrett swapped Fenris' cup for a bowl of stew, dropping a kiss upon his temple before giving Anders one as well.

"Madmen," he joked, "both of you."

Straightening up around the room, he soon threw open the windows, allowing a gentle breeze to flow freely inside.

“Still too warm?” Garrett asked.

“Only a little,” Anders said, pinching his fingers together.

“I’ll fix that.”

Summoning his magic to his fingertips, Fenris watched while Garrett wove his spell. He formed a sigil in the air, his lips barely parting to form the words of the incantation.

Then, once the sigil was complete, its bright blue glow lingering in the air, Garrett leaned in and blew into the light. It dissipated like sand caught up in a storm. 

In seconds, his magic blanketed the room.

The temperature dropped a perfect amount. Not too cold to be freezing, but cool enough for Anders and Fenris to pick up on the difference.

They groaned in unison, grateful for the relief.

“You spoil us,” Anders purred, his eyes trained on Hawke, leaning his head upon Fenris’ shoulder.

Fenris snorted. “Coddle us, more like.”

“As if you don’t enjoy it,” Garrett chuckled, to which Fenris remained suspiciously silent in response.

After they polished off the stew and tea, Garrett took their dishes and set them aside onto the tray.

Listening to Garrett hum a gentle tune under his breath, Fenris and Anders stared after him, captivated by his very presence.

"You know…” Fenris turned his head aside to cough into the crook of his arm, then cleared his throat. “For someone who swears that he can’t cast a simple healing spell, you really are good at this.” He waved his hand around. “At taking care of others, I mean.”

“Heh.” Flattered, Garrett smiled to himself. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

In place of the cups and bowls, Garrett returned to bed with a book tucked under his arm, his hands juggling quills, inkwells, and stationery alike.

“After Father died, I often looked after Bethany and Carver.” He shrugged. “Mother did her best, don’t get me wrong, but it was all too obvious at times that she was born and raised a noble. I was more familiar with how to prepare Father’s potions and remedies, so I did my best with what we had.”

For the first time in a long while, he was able to look back on those memories without so much pain and heartache.

He settled on the bed with the two men he loved, acutely aware of their eyes trained on him.

Garrett spread the supplies out around them, flashing a grin at Fenris.

“Feel up to some reading and writing?” he asked.

Fenris perked up at the offer, shuffling forward to appraise the assortment that Garrett brought.

“Of course.” Then, he added, “So long as Anders isn’t the one teaching me how to spell again.”

“Hmph, and what is that supposed to mean?” Anders huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Have you actually read your manifesto?” Fenris questioned.

“It’s the first draft!” 

“So you keep saying.”

While they continued to bicker, Garrett listened, completely enamored.

He was simply grateful for every second he got to spend with them.

And if he did end up catching their cold, then at least he could say with confidence that it was worth it.

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Leviathan Species: Human / Demon Occupation: Owner of Mephisto’s Repository Age: ??? (Looks about 34) Played by: Elliott Face Claim: Can Yaman

"There are plenty of good deeds only devils can commit. Keep an open mind, baby."

The being had been birthed with the rest of the universe, snapped into existence with no sense of what or where it was, screaming from what could have passed for a mouth, or… mouths. Then came a static hum that ripped through its neural pathways, soothing and coaxing it into a deep, dreamless sleep. One that went on for ages while the galaxies formed themselves into swirling smatterings of light in the inky, black void, the formless creature floating weightless and aimless through the stars. Until an unseen force called out to it, wreathing it in a brilliant glow and pulling it from the eternal slumber. Lights danced in front of what might have been eyes, swirling and stretching until a hole had appeared—a hole to somewhere new. The creature let itself slip into the illuminated, gaping maw, realizing with mild interest that it was no longer floating, but falling. Below it, an expanse of something blue that waved this way and that grew larger. And with a deafening crash, the massive beast slammed into its very first ocean. Dormant instincts kicked to life, and sapience was its reward.

That was a long time ago, but the creature could still recall the first cool, salty embrace of seawater that had wrenched it from its hibernation. It had made something of itself since then, mastering the abilities that had been bestowed upon it and using them to contact worlds with sentient life—in other words, entertainment. One world in particular had piqued the being’s interest, and as a result of the many trips it would make to that dimension, it had earned itself many names. Kraken, Cthulhu, Cetus, Scylla, Jörmungandr… and its favorite and perhaps the most recent—Leviathan. None of them were true, of course, none of them were the name that had been whispered in its mind on the day of its birth, but they would suffice. 

The humans—as they called themselves—were needy little things. And Leviathan, well, it was a generous benefactor. Of course there was something delightful about finding new, exciting ways to turn their own words against them. The way their self-satisfied grins would slip into a look of horror, or anger, or best of all, misery… Leviathan would subsist on that alone, if it could. This game went on for centuries until finally, stories of sea demons like the Leviathan fell out of favor with the majority of the population. And with this new rise of skepticism came a distinct lack of entertainment for the creature, or demon as it had been titled, which simply wouldn’t do. So it did what must be done and began the long, arduous process of acclimating itself to this new generation of humanity.

Things tend to get boring when life stretches out limitlessly in front of you. How many new experiences could the world possibly offer? Leviathan was thinking this to itself as it strangled the presumptuous woman that had summoned it from its home dimension, to demand power and everlasting life. Things the demon could give, to be certain, but her tone was sour; the vitriol with which she commanded the otherworldly being to bend to her will because she’d dialed the right interstellar phone number didn’t sit quite right in the pit of Leviathan’s stomach. So it killed her and her husband, and stared down at the little babbling child that was being offered in exchange for their own longevity. New experiences… it certainly hadn’t ever given this a try, it thought as it picked up the child and braced them against its now-human hip. A hand pressed to the babe’s chest, their ribcage glowing as the language as ancient as Leviathan itself was etched into bone, bonding them. Giving the child a small bit of the power that Leviathan harbored, just for the hell of it. Just to see what would happen. 

That was around thirty years ago. As the child grew, so did their power, and interestingly… Leviathan’s seemed to wax and wane. Assuming a human identity to better raise the tainted little hellion, the demon found itself shackled with emotions it had never previously experienced, realizing too late that in binding the child to itself, it had built a bridge between them that ushered the flow of demonic power in both directions. After Leviathan helped a human friend of its child defeat the greater demon that controlled their family via a cult, this bridge had to be destroyed in order for it to safely escape from this reality. It took back the power it had given the child and fled, knowing that more of its own ilk would be scrambling to ‘correct’ the behavior of the demon-killer. 

They found it, and did indeed design a method of punishing the breaking of this unspoken rule. There was no precedent for such a crime, for the greater demons had never thought of any of their actions as crimes, but they had also never feared for their own existence. Leviathan was sent back to Wicked’s Rest with a new, secret purpose. If it broke the deal it had been forced into, the punishment would be the shackles of a mantle that Leviathan had no interest in accepting, valuing its own freedom above all else.

Character Facts:

Personality: Predatory, dissolute, insensitive, volatile, impulsive, confident, protective, persuasive, charming

It has assumed the legal identity of one Chuck Jones and will refer to itself as such with strangers and acquaintances. Only those who know it quite well will call it Levi or Leviathan. Same goes with the pronouns. To most, the demon is ‘he’ or ‘they’, and it has no problem with that. It may refer to itself this way even around those that know of its true nature. 

Even in this dimension and in a human disguise, Leviathan retains its understanding of every single dead and living human language, and can respond to someone in any tongue spoken to it. This also includes the vast library of demonic tongues that have existed long before humans.

It has the ability to create verbal and written contracts with those who are willing—in exchange for whatever it deems appropriate at the time, though there is some speculation that it is collecting souls just like the old stories say. This has been turned into a rather successful business model, which Leviathan runs out of a shop of oddities called ‘Mephisto’s Repository’. On its face, it is a tourist trap that sells ‘cursed’ items, but for those who are in the know, there is a red door that leads to the back where magic deals are struck.

Despite being as old as time itself and definitely infinitely wise (definitely), Leviathan has been significantly influenced by humans and their culture and has unconsciously adopted many of their habits and quirks. It appears deeply unserious when compared to its own kind, which has always been a source of irritation for other greater demons. Leviathan doesn’t think of it as embarrassing though, it just thinks humans are neat!

Just because someone asks for something doesn’t mean Leviathan will give it. It may be all-powerful (right?) but it’s still a demon, and will still require hefty sacrifices for hefty requests. Or it may flat out refuse. Why should it have to be constantly working for the benefit of others? That doesn’t seem fair.

It LOVES mangoes and mango-flavored foods. It goes wild for that shit. If you catch it on a really good day, a mango flavored treat might just be enough to strike a deal.

[jalshristovski]

Hey all 👋

Just saw a TikTok post with a stitch of a person who is obviously in spiritual psychosis. For those who don’t know, spiritual psychosis is psychosis induced by spirituality, religion, a belief of something that likely isn’t there, and the like.

Many Christians notoriously fall into spiritual psychosis, hence why many people in churches ignore their own needs and the needs of others because of ‘god’s plans’ and other things.

These are the signs of psychosis by WebMD

- Warning signs before psychosis: It starts with gradual changes in the way you think about and understand the world. You or your family members may notice:

• A drop in grades or job performance

• Trouble thinking clearly or concentrating

• Suspiciousness or unease around others

• Lack of self-care or hygiene

• Spending more time alone than usual

• Stronger emotions than situations call for

• No emotions at all

- Signs of early psychosis: You may:

• Hear, see, or taste things others don’t

• Hang on to unusual beliefs or thoughts, no matter what others say

• Pull away from family and friends

• Stop taking care of yourself

• Not be able to think clearly or pay attention

- Symptoms of a psychotic episode: Usually you’ll notice all of the above plus:

• Hallucinations:

~Auditory hallucinations: Hearing voices when no one is around

~Tactile hallucinations: Strange sensations or feelings you can’t explain

~Visual hallucinations: You see people or things that aren’t there, or you think the shape of things looks wrong

• Delusions: Beliefs that aren’t in line with your culture and that don’t make sense to others, like:

~Outside forces are in control of your feelings and actions.

~Small events or comments have huge meaning.

~You have special powers, are on a special mission, or actually are a god.

Spiritual psychosis falls heavily into those lines but has absolutely become socially acceptable.

Looking at the comments of that TikTok video definitely made me think. Many spiritualists like witches and pagans, especially those with religious trauma from being ex-Christians, condemn Christians and their belief systems for how they act. For example, many Christians will tell people who are ill they don’t need medical care, rather they just need to let the lord do his work, or blow off mental health issues as work of the devil.

Many deny actual modern medical care for their own methods, allow themselves delusions of talking to entities that likely aren’t there, and maybe worse of all, a lot try to convince people with hallucinogenic disorders that they actually have a “vision” or the ability to talk to otherworldly beings.

This is problematic in many ways, but the biggest would likely be convincing people, for example those with schizophrenia, that their hallucinations are real. Some schizophrenic hallucinations are dangerous and self destroying. The belief these are ‘visions’ and not hallucinations is dangerous not only for the person with schizophrenia, but possibly the people around them as well.

It can also convince people with a dangerous mental disorder that they don’t need help, and can further delusions of being a higher power themselves, or talking to higher powers.

Before this comes off as me saying schizophrenic people or other people with disorders causing hallucinations are dangerous, quite the opposite actually. But the way many modern spiritualists talk to them and try to convince them of their own beliefs, it CAN become dangerous.

Talking to otherworldly beings is not normal, whether you’re religious or not. And if you believe you are having conversations with otherworldly beings, look at your behaviour.

Spiritual psychosis is real. Some signs of it would include

• Talking to otherworldly beings

• Shifting (it is lucid dreaming)

• Hearing voices (not induced by a mental disorder)

• Believing you are in a relationship with an otherworldly being

• Manifestation (specifically the belief in a power bringing something to you if you believe it hard enough)

Being religious or spiritualist, you cannot ignore obvious signs of mental illness. If you choose not to believe in psychosis, you’re likely to end up hurting yourself and others.

Check out these screenshots from the TikTok ↓

Remember:

You can be spiritual without it being psychosis, but there is a line that is easy to cross. Don’t ignore symptoms.

I’m not hating on spiritualists at all, being a pagan myself of course not. But ignoring provable facts does not make you a better spiritualist.

[timeloopinganalysis]

My blurp opinion on Higurashi GouSotsu/Meguri

I've been inspired to write this because there were so many interesting opinions/takes/analysis on both Meguri and Sotsu. Satoko, being one of my favorite characters since the release of Sotsu, really took my interest in time loopers by storm.

I've always liked the very idea of characters trudging the fine line between good and evil, and time loopers tend to exemplify that.

Rika was very cynical in a lot of media, giving up on her friends almost immediately. All except for one person: Satoko. She could only keep going because of Satoko.

However, the exact opposite is true. Rika is, to me, a crutch for Satoko. She became Satoko's curse. Because of Rika, Satoko achieved a sort of twisted divine enlightenment by finding herself in the Sea of Fragments.

I'm not saying Rika did this on purpose, far from it, but by making Satoko her emotional support, she had attracted otherworldly forces to Satoko.

Now, the biggest difference to me between Meguri and Sotsu Satoko are the feelings behind each of her loops.

Sotsu Satoko's loops always felt angry. When she first infected Rena, she was spitting on her kindness.

Keiichi trusting Rena was Satoko's trap. Each of these loops felt like Satoko mocking and condemning each of her club members.

Something that really stood out to me was when Keiichi volunteered to be Satoko's new 'big brother'. The moment Satoko led him to her uncle's death scene was the moment I felt Satoko had essentially rejected Keiichi completely.

Now this is all conjecture, but I thought, "Satoko must be thinking, 'Who do you think you are, Keiichi-san? You can never take my big brother's place'."

Each of Sotsu Satoko's loops felt raw and angry. I loved how you could feel the emotion behind her madness.

Now, Meguri had a lot more introduction to each character. It gave each character more time rather than just giving Rika and Satoko the spotlight. This is a good thing for me.

It also tightened up a lot of loose plot points, such as the idea behind there being an original Rika in Angel Mort being left behind, or how quick Satoko was to turn evil in Eua's loops (Sotsu version). I suppose, in a way, it made Satoko more sympathetic.

However, Meguri also took away her agency. Her loops in Meguri were not driven by anger and bitterness. They were driven by hopelessness, thus making some of the Gou loops not make much sense (by an emotional perspective).

The whole uncle arc was glossed over horribly by Meguri. I know a lot of people despise the idea of reformation for Teppei. However, I think the very idea of Satoko having an actual family would be very good for her. I've made amends with people who have hurt me very very badly (I won't go into reasons because I rather not), so my perspective on this is a little different.

Because Satoko wasn't 'bitter' in Meguri, the whole uncle arc fell flat to me. I felt like Tomato-sensei didn't want to stick around with that arc for very long.

Meguri and Sotsu have great and bad points.

Sotsu had a fantastic way of showing Satoko's emotions. It showed that she's just so damn bitter about everything. Sotsu Satoko had agency that she never did in the previous arcs. Its bad points were that the club members (and every character not named Rika or Satoko) were simply relegated to side characters that have no real substance.

Meguri is pretty much the opposite. It included the club members very well. Though some other characters need a bit more fleshing out in the manga. However, it took away what I thought made Sotsu Satoko special - her emotional distress, hate, and anger towards the world, her friends, Hinamizawa, Rika, etc.

Sotsutoko is moved through anger.

Meguritoko is moved through hopelessness.

I think that Tomato should have given each of Meguritoko's loops the theme of hopelessness (sorry I keep repeating that word) in the same way Sotsutoko's loops have the theme of rage, rather than keeping manga Gou a near 1:1 copy of the anime Gou.

Those are just my thoughts. You can agree or disagree. I just like reading analysis of characters and wanted to share this for once.

[ecargmura]

Hirogaru Sky! Precure Episode 27 Review: The World Inside The Mirror Pad

I wonder what the point of this episode was. It’s not bad, but rather, it feels like a one-time thing…unless the pigs are important to the story later on. It just feels like a filler so that the Precures can do something for the weekly episode basis.

The Precures are forced to go out of their comfort zone and find a way to solve their trials to escape. Ageha gets stuck in a library where she has to learn about airplane trivia, which was something that Tsubasa picked. Sora gets stuck in a makeup room where she has to make herself look beautiful, which was something Mashiro picked. Tsubasa has to find a way to dance excitedly and in rhythm, which was something Ageha picked. Mashiro has to get to the top of a huge flight of stairs, which was something Sora picked. While it is interesting to see our heroes struggle at first, I feel like the pairings are the typical SoraMashi and AgeTsuba mix-match. I think that it would’ve been better if they had been paired up with different combinations like Sora being forced to go into Tsubasa’s trial or Tsubasa being forced to go into Mashiro’s trial. I think that would’ve added some flare to the episode and to see different character combinations. 

I think my biggest issue is that what was the point of making them go through this? They didn’t have any conflict before they got thrown into the mirror pad and suddenly, they’re forced to channel their partner’s energy into succeeding. I think this would’ve made a bit more sense if there was a bit of conflict between the characters outside of the usual duos, but that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

However, the two biggest mysteries of this episode are the Mirror Pad world and Pinkton. Why is there a whole other world inside the Mirror Pad and it’s now being revealed 27 episodes in? Is this a part of Sky Land or a whole other world? Would this mean that the Mirror Pad is not a Sky Land tool but something otherworldly? Mashiro did point out that it feels a bit like the Underg Empire, but its not. What could this mean? It’s too bad that this never gets addressed in this episode. 

Pinkton is a riot, honestly. In all honesty, Pinkton is the conflict of this episode as she was the one who caused the trial mix-up and for the last-minute villain of the day to show up. Since her name ends with ton, it makes me wonder if there is a connection with Kabaton and Minoton. Since there are multiple Pinktons, there has to be a connection, right? The show wouldn’t add in a mysterious world that feels like the Underg Empire and have pig fairies residing in them just for a one-time filler episode, right? However, Pinkton isn’t as annoying as I expected her to be. She’s a lot less sadistic as she’s nice to the Precures and doesn’t got all sadist mode if they fail. I think that’s a bit of a nice touch since these types of characters are prone to be the mischief-making, violence-loving comedic relief.

While this was filler, this episode brought about more questions than answers. I’m worried about whether this show will address this Mirror Pad world and the pig fairies in a future episode. I just hope they’re not a one-time thing. Please. I don’t want to see another long-running show not address these types of one-time things. What are your thoughts about this episode and the possible theories that it brought?

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 30

This is the writing mood lads, but we’re nearly there...

Manhandled | Hair Grabbing | “Please don’t touch me.”

Another stellar shout from @stripedroseandsketchpads ​ Mmmmaybe the thing in PiF where Lymond is caught/being held back and GRM tries to literally force him to take drugs etc? Iirc there was also face grabbing involved…

Took me a while to find the in on this, and please don’t question surrounding details - PiF timelines and events diverge a bit from canon. A card game isn’t equivalent to five-aside opium-fuelled murder chess, it’s just one element of things. Francis has been playing at other tables too - though you might be suspicious as to whether he really has been trying to cheat the house.

CW: kidnapping (well...implied gambling for custody over people), prescription drug misuse and addiction, manhandling and signs of a beating (blood). Casino setting. GRM being there, being a creep, trying to force drugs on our dear hero. Also cw 1980s fashions. And a toddler gets dropped, but that’s how it goes in canon, too.

---

"You can't just keep me here!" Philippa injected all of her strident Somerville common-sense into the words.

She supposed Kate had been right about another thing - a shower and a change of clothes could do wonders for your confidence. She'd probably have been unstoppable if she'd been allowed to choose the outfit herself. Instead she had to make do with Kiaya Çalışkan's idea of suitable attire for a business meeting in a casino: a clingy mint green dress cut straight across the top so that her shoulders and collarbones were bare, cinched in at the middle by a wide gold belt that felt almost like a corset. In the air-conditioned room, Philippa's neck and shoulders might have felt exposed if not for her hair, which fell long over her clavicles, and for the child, Hamal's warm weight in her arms.

She stood at the table where the final game of the night had been played and stared down the array of disinterest and disdain that greeted her.

The owner of the casino, Roxelana, gazed impassively at Philippa. "Sweetheart, he lost," she said, raising one empty palm and shrugging.

Kiaya Çalışkan's arms were folded - an unusual indicator of her annoyance - but she said nothing to support Philippa. She looked at Roxelana and Philippa thought she saw something pass between them, these two otherworldly women. They towered on their huge heels like tall, elegant birds, Kiaya's gracefully curved nose raised in the air, Roxelana's long, narrow eyes quick to observe from beneath her heavily made-up lids.

Roxelana's thin lips softened at the corners into a hostess' smile and she turned back to Philippa. "You'll be quite comfortable here, our rooms are luxurious. It's only until Mr Crawford and Mr Reid Malett can reach a more...binding agreement."

"It's still kidnapping," Philippa said baldly.

Roxelana chuckled mirthlessly, her mouth remaining closed as she did. She met Kiaya's eyes and Kiaya smiled back obligingly.

Philippa wondered what sort of life these women led, where a teenager complaining of kidnapping and abduction could just be treated as a source of amusement, or something endearingly naïve to be patronised.

The third person on the other side of the table had been staring at her with an expression of boredom and disgust. Graham Reid Malett's lip curled even as he ran his icy blue eyes up and down her body. His hands were in the pockets of his pink satin suit trousers and he stood in an aspect of readied relaxation that belied the damage Philippa knew had been done to one of his legs.

Philippa clutched Hamal tightly and pretended she couldn't feel Reid Malett assessing every swell and curve of her seventeen years through the form-fitting fabric of her dress. She tossed her hair back and raised her chin assertively. "Mr Crawford won't stand for this. I know he has a plan. He'll never consent to leaving Ms O'Dwyer and their son behind with a man like him," she deliberately ignored Reid Malett and addressed Roxelana, the lady in charge.

Another woman, who remained sitting down next to her, gazed up with her own look of wry amusement, though it was nearly buried beneath exhaustion. Oonagh O'Dwyer appeared every inch the supermodel again after Kiaya's work - an ivory-coloured satin bodice enfolded her body, as straight-edged and unyielding as she was, and an artfully pressed pair of matching trousers seemed to engulf her long, skinny legs. She held a toddler on her lap as well, a sullen and restless boy with blond curls and a long, angry mouth. She didn't contradict Philippa - but Philippa gathered that she had little hope of any help from Francis now.

"He ought to have played better then, oughtn't he?" Reid Malett sneered.

"Yes, well - " Philippa drew an indignant breath, but didn't get the chance to offer up an excuse for Mr Crawford. At that moment the door to the private room opened and the man himself was launched back through it, followed by two black-suited security guards.

Francis tumbled to his knees on the thick, patterned carpet and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. Philippa saw it come away with blood on it and she detected Oonagh's soft murmur - some Irish curse, no doubt.

Reid Malett perked up at his appearance, swaying to face the man who was now being forcibly restrained by the guards. His hands still in his pockets, he nodded his head at Roxelana's chief of security, who had been standing in the shadows by the wall, observing all with silent professionalism.

"Well, Dragut. Looks like your boys have discovered some...irregularities already."

The Turkish guard did not move or unfold his arms. His moustache twitched a little, like he wanted dearly to say something to Reid Malett, but instead he asked his men what the situation was.

One tossed a leather satchel on the table and pointed a finger at it. "He's been pocketing his winnings. Tried to leave without paying off his credit."

"A serious accusation," Reid Malett looked at Roxelana and stepped forwards, reaching for the bag. "May I?"

Dragut watched him closely but did not object. Roxelana frowned, folded her arms and nodded.

Philippa was staring at Francis, who laughed ruefully and shook his head. There was blood welling from his split lip and dripping on the front of his white shirt. His arms were held unnecessarily tightly behind his back by the two guards. He glanced up finally and met her eyes. "Hullo. Fancy meeting you here," he gasped, his attempt at a reassuring smile somewhat undercut by the blood on his teeth.

Hamal saw it too and whimpered unhappily. He wrapped his small fists in Philippa's hair and nuzzled her chin.

Reid Malett was removing things from the satchel. What interested him most seemed to be a little orange pill bottle, which he shook experimentally and held up to the light above the playing table. "Oh, Francis, my dove. What on earth is this?" he cooed.

Philippa went to take another step closer to see what it was, but felt a cool grip on her arm.

Oonagh looked up at her with steady, serious green eyes. "Mo chailín cróga. Don't."

She hesitated. She just wanted to ask the guards to loosen their grip a bit, to check Reid Malett hadn't somehow planted the evidence he seemed so unsurprised to find. But Oonagh's expression was the expression of a woman who knew all too well what was at stake and what the people in the room were capable of. She squeezed Philippa's arm until the girl sighed and agreed to hang back.

In Oonagh's arms, Cai watched Swami Geetesh with a rapt expression. "Sweeties!" he yelled, and pointed a chubby finger at the bottle in Reid Malett's hand.

Most of the people in the room where staring at the child and the pill bottle - only Philippa and Oonagh saw Francis turn glacial white at the boy's demand.

Reid Malett smiled perfunctorily at Cai. "Not sweeties, no. The sign of a dreadful addiction, in fact. When did you grow so desperate that you had to self-medicate, Francis?" he stepped towards him until he was standing right in front of the kneeling Mr Crawford, and he shook the bottle of pills again, holding it down by his crotch, which he held jutted towards Francis' face.

Francis swallowed and a tremor went through his body. The guards responded as though it had been an escape attempt and wrenched his arms back further.

Graham Reid Malett stared at him, open-eyed, open-lipped, an expression of thirsty fascination on his features. "It's been a while since you've had any, hm?"

He flicked the cap off with his thumb and wafted the bottle below Francis' downturned face. It probably didn't smell of much at all, but the proximity of it made Francis snap his head up and wriggle against his restraints.

"You must be feeling dreadful," Reid Malett mused. He turned to Roxelana and Kiaya, but he did not move away from Mr Crawford. "It must have impaired his judgement during the game. It would be remiss of me to accept a result like that - won on an advantage, against a man who is already lost to his basest instincts."

"Indeed?" Kiaya's brows raised. "What do you propose?"

Reid Malett barked a laugh. "Well first, he needs to be in his right state of mind." He raised the bottle and studied it again. "They're strong, Francis. How long have you been taking them?" Abruptly, he dropped to a crouch, so that he was at eye level with his plaything. "You must be feeling..." Reid Malett studied his face, then whipped a large hand out to grab Francis and hold him, his thumb on Francis' cheek, his fingers tight on the back of his head. "Simply dreadful. No sleep...cold sweats...anxiety...do you see that it is all hopeless yet, darling?"

Mr Crawford pressed his lips together and Philippa distinctly saw him shudder again.

Reid Malett beamed. "Siezures? Oh dear. Dear, dear, dear. I think the only way you can work with us is if you have a little more, hm? We don't have time to wait out the withdrawal symptoms."

"Hold his head," he stood and ordered the guards.

"Stop!" Philippa yelped. "Why are you listening to him? He's not your boss!"

Oonagh's hand was on her arm again, pinching tight, but Oonagh was also looking at Roxelana and Dragut. Kiaya was looking at Dragut. Dragut was looking at Roxelana.

The lady of the house turned to the table and ran her fingers through the takings that had been discovered in Francis' bag. She hummed to herself and tapped a roll of bills with one manicured nail. "Why did you steal from me, Mr Crawford?" she asked.

Francis, his head forced back and his hair pulled tight by one of the guards, grimaced. "My financial problems are well known."

Roxelana's eyes narrowed. "Indeed, which is why I brought you here to negotiate a residency on stage."

Francis' brows rose and he glanced at Reid Malett, a smile almost reaching his lips. "Yes. It doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"The uncontrolled impulses of a junkie," Graham Reid Malett announced.

Roxelana looked down her long, straight nose at Mr Crawford and at Reid Malett. Then she shrugged and turned away.

"Dragut, I think Mr Crawford will be staying with us as well. Please have someone prepare a room for him."

"No..." Philippa whined, pain seeping into her voice as Oonagh's nails bit into the skin of her bicep.

Mr Crawford didn't have a chance to cast a brave look in her direction. Reid Malett grabbed his jaw between his thumb and fingers and pinched tight enough that Philippa could see the blood rise to his skin even from where she stood.

Reid Malett lifted the bottle of pills towards Mr Crawford's mouth and squeezed as hard as he could against his teeth, trying to force an opening to appear between his lips.

The only thing that Philippa could think of to do was not very fair, really, but then nobody in this room could judge her on it. Nobody except for Hamal himself, whom she murmured an apology to as she let her hold on him fail and watched him drop to the floor.

Hamal shrieked as he fell and shrieked again at the impact. It wasn't very far and the carpet was plush, but the shock of it left him howling.

It was enough of a distraction - in the instant the guards' attention wandered, Francis tore his hair free and threw himself sideways, managing to knock the pill bottle from Reid Malett's hand with his shoulder as he turned.

The contents of the bottle rolled away and found places to nestle in among the thick pile carpet. Francis didn't try to flee, but let the guards grasp him once more and laughed even as the back of Reid Malett's hand landed a blow across his cheek.

Philippa had bent to where Hamal sat screaming, his face red and the tears flowing down his cheeks. She tutted at the carpet burn on his knee and spoke gently but firmly. "Fie, fie, hinny! It’s a soft, expensive rug!"

She glanced up to check on Mr Crawford and saw he was staring at her with horror, Reid Malett's face next to his, also turned towards Philippa. She could almost read the words on his lips as he murmured against Francis' cheek: "Don't worry. I'll see that she pays for it."