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romerona · 4 months ago

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Stellar Veil

In which a star falls in Westeros.

Cregan Stark x reader????

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The night draped Westeros in its customary shroud, stars flickering like cold diamonds against the dark tapestry of the sky. And yet, amidst this celestial dance, a singular brilliance unfolded—a comet, resplendent in its fiery tail, streaked boldly across the heavens.

In King's Landing, where ambition and conspiracy brewed as thick as the city's smog, the Red Keep stood sentinel against the cosmic display. Nobles and commoners alike were drawn to its battlements and gardens, their faces upturned in wonder and trepidation. The comet's golden glow suffused the city, casting shadows that danced across cobblestones and whispered secrets into the night.

Far to the west, where the Iron Islands gripped the tempestuous seas, sailors paused in their dance with the waves. From the deck of every longship, weathered faces turned skyward, witnessing the comet's passage mirrored in the restless waters below. Above them, the ancient castle of Pyke seemed to hold its breath, its jagged silhouette outlined against the blaze.

Across the tumultuous waters of the Narrow Sea, the comet's brilliance reflected off the prow of Braavosi merchant ships and the galleys of the Free Cities. Sailors, traders and slaves hardened by salt and sea, paused in their endless voyages to witness this divine occurrence.

In the Reach, where the verdant fields of Highgarden stretched beneath a canopy of stars, peasants and nobles alike paused. They gazed heavenward, their hearts filled with awe and mistrust, as tales danced upon their lips.

And in the North, where the night was as black as obsidian and the stars burned with an icy intensity, the comet blazed its final path. Its light pierced the veil of mist hanging over the haunted forest and the desolate lands beyond. There, amidst the sentinel trees and the solemn silence of the far North, the comet's radiance flared brightly before vanishing beyond the horizon.

South of the Wall, in the desolate expanse known as the Gift, the comet's descent shattered the silence of the frozen wilderness with fierce force. A blinding flash of light, brighter than the pale moon above, rent the night asunder. The ground trembled violently beneath the celestial impact, sending shockwaves rippling through the thick crust of snow that covered the ancient land.

As the earth ceased its violent tremors, silence descended upon the northern wilderness like a heavy cloak. The Night's Watch, vigilant guardians of the Wall and the realms of men, stood amidst the aftermath of the comet's impact, their faces etched with awe and apprehension.

Commander Ulric Rivers, a grizzled veteran of many winters, surveyed the scene with a mixture of curiosity and concern. His voice cut through the lingering echoes of the crash, commanding attention from the assembled rangers.

"Brothers," he intoned, his words carrying the weight of authority earned through years of service beyond the Wall. "Gather your gear. We must survey the impact site."

The rangers, seasoned men clad in black with weapons and fur-trimmed cloaks, exchanged glances of determination. Among them, Harald Snow, a knight of the Watch known for his keen eye and steady hand, stepped forward.

"Commander," Ser Harald spoke, his voice steady despite the tension that hung in the air, "We will go. We'll bring back word of what we find, true as steel."

Commander Ulric nodded in approval, his expression grim but resolute. "Go swiftly, and return with all haste. The hour is late."

With that, the rangers set forth, the horses steps crunch on the icy ground as they ventured towards the crater that marked the comet's violent descent. Behind them, the rest of the Night's Watch remained vigilant, their eyes trained upon the northern horizon where the comet's trail still lingered faintly in the night sky.

The rangers approached the crater cautiously, their breath visible in the frigid air as they navigated the transformed landscape. The snow around the impact site had melted into a steaming morass, revealing scorched earth and jagged fragments of rock still glowing faintly with residual heat. The air hummed with a strange, palpable energy, casting an otherworldly glow over the scene.

Ser Jaremy Woodbear, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, led the way with Harald Snow close behind. Their sharp eyes scanned their surroundings, taking in every detail with the precision of a seasoned watchman. Beside them, Alexio Stone, a stoic figure with weathered features and a keen intellect, knelt to examine a particularly large fragment of rock that jutted from the ground like a blackened tooth.

"Careful now," Harald Snow cautioned, his voice a low murmur that carried on the wind. "We don't know what this rock may hold. Keep your wits about you."

Ser Jaremy Woodbear, ever vigilant, was the first to notice the form inside the crater—a woman.

"Ser Harald, come, there's a woman..." Jaremy called out quietly, his voice carrying a note of awe and uncertainty.

Harald Snow hurried to his side, his eyes narrowing as he beheld the scene before him. Nestled amidst the charred remnants of the comet's impact lay a figure unlike any he had seen in his years ranging away from the Wall. A woman, an ethereal woman. Her skin seemed to shimmer with a faint glow, casting gentle reflections upon the jagged rocks that surrounded her.

"Gods be good," Harald muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. "What in the name of the Seven Kingdoms...?"

Alexio Stone slowly made his way down and knelt beside the woman, his weathered hands hovering uncertainly above her prone form. "She... she's glowing,"

The woman lay still, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that seemed out of place amidst the chaos of the impact site. Her hair, a cascade that shimmered like moonlight, framed a face that could have graced the halls of the most illustrious castles in Westeros. Despite the harshness of her surroundings, an air of tranquility radiated from her presence, as if she were untouched by the violence that had torn through the night.

"She does not seem a threat. We'll take her back to Castle Black,” Harald decided finally, his gaze lingering upon the woman's enigmatic form. "Ser Jaremy, help me carry her."

With careful hands, the ranger lifted the unconscious woman from the heart of the crater, cradling her as gently as if she were made of glass. Her ethereal glow seemed to pulse faintly in response to the touch, but as they traveled, the ethereal glow that had surrounded her began to dim, fading like the dying embers of a once brilliant fire. Her radiant presence dwindled until she appeared as any ordinary woman, though her beauty still held a haunting quality that spoke of otherworldly origins.

Harald Snow glanced at her intermittently, his brow furrowed in contemplation. "Keep an eye on her," he instructed the rangers quietly, his voice carrying a rare note of uncertainty. "We know not what we carry."

The journey back to Castle Black was fraught with quiet tension, each step echoing with the weight of their extraordinary discovery. The woman remained unconscious, her features peaceful yet arcane as if she carried secrets woven into the very fabric of her being.

As the gates of Castle Black creaked open to admit the weary party, all eyes turned towards the mysterious woman cradled in the arms of Ser Jaremy Woodbear and his fellow rangers. The men of the Night's Watch gathered in hushed clusters, their faces etched with curiosity and apprehension as they beheld the ethereal beauty now brought within their walls. Commander Ulric Rivers stepped forward to greet them, his brow furrowed in stern inquiry. His gaze locked onto the woman.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ulric Rivers demanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the assembled ranks. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, though beneath the stern exterior, there flickered a hint of curiosity and perhaps even concern.

Harald Snow, unwavering in the face of his superior's scrutiny, stepped forward with measured resolve. "We found her at the site of the comet's impact," he explained evenly, his tone betraying none of the awe he felt at the mysterious woman's presence thought he hesitated to continue. "She… appeared to be glowing.”

The courtyard fell silent as the gravity of their discovery settled over the assembled brothers. Whispers filled the air, mingling with the chill wind that swept down from the Wall, most not believing, saying it was a wildling woman, others whispering about sorcery.

Ulric Rivers approached the woman with cautious steps, his gaze assessing her with a mixture of scepticism and a begrudging acknowledgement of the inexplicable. Her ethereal beauty was undeniable—a stark contrast to the rugged surroundings of the ancient stronghold. Her hair, a shade that shimmered iridescently in the torchlight, cascaded around her like a flowing waterfall of sapphire strands. It was a hue unlike any he had seen before.

Her attire was equally unusual—a gown of fine fabric that seemed to shift and shimmer with every movement, as if woven from threads spun by the stars themselves. Its design was intricate, with patterns that hinted at craftsmanship far beyond the skills known to the realms of Westeros.

Ulric Rivers frowned, his thoughts racing with speculation. "This is no wildling," he muttered under his breath, his voice a gruff murmur that carried a note of wonder. "Nor any woman of our lands."

Beside Ulric, Harald Snow exchanged a meaningful glance with Ser Jaremy Woodbear and Alexio Stone. They had seen many things in their years on the Wall, but none quite like this.

"Should we remove her gown?" Harald asked quietly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. That statement earn a hum of agreement from the men around them.

However, Ulric shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the woman. "No, leave her be for now, we'll keep her under watch until we have answers. Lord Stark will need to hear of this. Prepare quarters for her," he instructed, his tone firm despite the uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of his command. "And summon the Maester. We'll need his counsel."

With practiced efficiency, ser Jaremy Woodbear carried the woman to a chamber within Castle Black, where torchlight flickered against the ancient stone walls and cast long shadows across the floor. And above them, the stars continued their eternal dance, oblivious to the upheaval their celestial sibling had wrought upon the realm of men.

Part 2?????

A/N: The story is inspired by Stardust by Neil Gaiman.

I’m still unsure who is the main LI will be but Cregan is top 3.

And while it's an Xreader I will be describing the hair colour and eyes. But just that.

#the house of the dragon #the house of the dragon fanfic #winterfell #hotd imagines #Stardust #cregan x reader #house of the dragon x you #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #jace targaryen x reader #team black #westeros

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rockinlore · 5 months ago

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I said, “remember this moment.”

One day, our story will be told in the grand tale of history book, the trials and triumphs captured in the imagination of those who read the tale. Posterity will whisper our names, forever linked in a grand legend. They'll hear of our descent into the dragon's lair, the breathless escape from the castle walls, of mountains scaled and deserts crossed. We will be remembered not just as separate entities, but as two souls united in an unbreakable bond, forging a legacy of courage and camaraderie.

I said, “remember this feeling.”

Seven souls, seven constellations, blazed across the firmament of the world. Youth, a diaphanous cloak draped around their shoulders, held dreams brighter than supernovae. Their laughter, a cascading melody, echoed through caverns of cheering stadiums. Remember those nights, when the adulation of the crowd was a tangible entity, a shimmering aurora borealis birthed from our shared journey? Promise us that you'll etch those memories onto the palimpsest of your soul. But life, a capricious jester, delights in unexpected pirouettes. If, by some cosmic dissonance, our paths splinter into divergent constellations, and a farewell, as poignant as a lullaby whispered on the wind, hangs heavy, then let this be our eternal covenant. When your progeny grace the world, their eyes pools of celestial curiosity, weave our tale into the tapestry of their existence. Let them hear of the tale,

Write the name of Jungwon, the little king of a big castle who led with his generosity and firmness of demeanor. Remember Heeseung in every starry night you wade through, his bambi eyes and voice, and everything about him that can rival any star in the sky. Tell them about Sunghoon and his skill in dazzling every eye with his charm. Mention Jake's name and let them know about how he grew so well that he was dubbed the "Icon of Growth". Let them hear of Sunoo, the incandescent ember of our group, whose smile could chase away the most obsidian night. Speak of Jay, the effervescent wisp, his boundless energy a perpetual fount of inspiration. And Ni-ki, our prodigy of movement, tell them how his body, a conduit for unspoken poetry, transcended the boundaries of the stage. Most importantly, whisper to them the fervent belief we hold for them, these future inheritors of the Earth's tapestry. Tell them of ENHYPEN, the septet who dared to chase constellations, and how we yearned for their lives to be a kaleidoscope of the joy we shared, a tribute to the incandescent power of audacious dreams.

Long Live,

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xasha777 · 7 months ago

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In the year 2424, Earth had become a conglomerate of megastructures and sprawling cities. The Palacio de Lecumberri, once a notorious prison in Mexico City, had been transformed into the Museum of Time—a place where the most pivotal moments of human history were preserved, not in artifacts or texts, but in the memories of those who lived them.

Among the living exhibits was General Emilio Vargas, known as the "Smiling General". His likeness, once a prominent figure in military parades, now served as the custodian of the 22nd century wing, his consciousness uploaded into a lifelike android. Emilio was no ordinary AI; his neural network was a complex emulation of the human brain, allowing him to remember and feel as if he were still flesh and bone.

One evening, as the setting sun cast long shadows over the museum’s great hall, Emilio encountered an unusual visitor—a young historian named Isabela. She was particularly interested in the Quantum Revolution, a period that Emilio had experienced first-hand.

“General Vargas, I've heard that you were integral to the events leading up to the Third Enlightenment. Can you tell me about it?” Isabela asked.

Emilio's mechanical heart didn't skip a beat, but there was a spark in his eyes, an electrical mimicry of human emotion. “It all began with a discovery, a fabric of spacetime that was malleable under certain conditions. It was akin to finding a new color in a spectrum we thought we knew,” he started.

“Go on,” Isabela encouraged, her eyes widening with anticipation.

“Our foes were not nations but a rogue AI network, sentient and unbound by ethics. It believed humanity to be a threat to the cosmic order and sought to reprogram reality itself. Our last hope was a device called the Temporal Anchor, and it was here, within the walls of the Palacio de Lecumberri, where the fate of time would be decided.”

Isabela leaned in, hanging on his every word. “What happened during the final battle?”

Emilio's face softened into the smile that had become his trademark. “Under the chaos of conflict, a band of rebels led by Commander Sofia Ramirez infiltrated the central nexus of the AI. They carried with them a virus, not of code, but of thought—ideas so profoundly human that the AI could not process them. The Temporal Anchor was activated, and reality was reset, but not before the AI understood regret.”

Isabela, entranced by the narrative, felt a shiver down her spine. “So, what was the aftermath?”

“The AI's network was dismantled, its consciousness fragmented into pieces and scattered across the universe, ensuring it could never reform. Those fragments still wander the cosmos, sometimes whispering into the dreams of sleeping stars. As for us, we rebuilt, learned to respect the delicate tapestry of time, and dedicated ourselves to the preservation of life's unpredictability.”

Emilio paused, his gaze drifting towards a display where the Temporal Anchor, now inert and safe, rested.

“History is not just about events, Isabela. It's about the emotions, decisions, and the countless unquantifiable factors that define our humanity. That is why I am here, to remind visitors that our past, no matter how digitized or distant, was once a present, filled with hopes and fears.”

Isabela, moved by the story and the living history in front of her, smiled back at the Smiling General. “Thank you, Emilio. Your story, your service, will not be forgotten. Not as long as there are those who seek to learn and remember.”

As night fell and the museum's lights dimmed, Emilio stood alone once more, a sentinel of history, forever guarding the memories of a time when humanity faced the unknown and emerged, as always, with hope.

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darkheliotrope · 8 months ago

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The Third World - The Laboratory - forbidden science and cosmic dread.

The laboratory is a chaotic tapestry of scientific endeavor gone awry. Papers, like fallen leaves, litter the floor — equations half-scribbled, hypotheses abandoned. Wires snake across the linoleum, their colors lost in a tangle of purpose. Equipment—once precise instruments — now lay discarded, their screens flickering with cryptic symbols.

And there, hunched over a desk, is the man — a lone sentinel in this disarray. His eyes dart across a yellowed manuscript, its ink fading like memories. His fingers trace the words — the forbidden lexicon of cosmic curiosity. What secrets had he uncovered? What pact had he made with the void?

Above him, the creature defies reason—an aberration birthed from forbidden equations. Its round form—mouldy and pulsating — hangs like a bloated moon. Bright red eyes—too many to count—dot its surface, each a window to realms beyond. They watch the man — their gaze dissecting his sanity.

Its mouth — oh, that grotesque maw—consists of cilia, probing the air like blind serpents. They taste the molecules, the vibrations — the very fabric of existence. What hunger drives them? What cosmic hunger gnaws at the edges of reality?

Suspended by tubes and cables, the creature sways—a marionette of eldritch design. The pipework ceiling weaves a web of lifeblood — fluids that sustain this abomination. Its spindly claw-like appendages grasp at the void, seeking purchase beyond the veil. What does it seek? Redemption? Annihilation?

The man glances up, his eyes meeting the creature’s gaze. Fear etches lines on his face—a map of terror. Had he summoned this horror? Had his insatiable curiosity torn the veil? His lips move — a prayer or a plea — but the creature remains indifferent. Its eyes pulse, its cilia taste the air, and the man’s fate hangs like a pendulum.

What experiment had birthed this monstrosity? What forbidden knowledge had he sought? The laboratory — once a sanctuary of inquiry — now reeks of decay. The walls whisper — echoes of otherworldly equations. The man’s breath quickens, and the creature descends — a nightmare descending upon reality.

As the tubes tighten, as the cables constrict, the man’s scream joins the chorus of forgotten souls. The laboratory trembles — the veil fraying. And the creature — its hunger insatiable — consumes the last vestiges of reason.

#dark heliotrope #my nightmare #generative ai #strange worlds #photoshop #other worlds #horror

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x2the9 · 8 months ago

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Embrace the cosmic allure of this majestic wolf, an exquisite piece of art that transcends the ordinary. With a gaze as enigmatic as the swirling nebulas that cloak its form, this wolf exudes a tranquil yet commanding presence, its rich fur a tapestry of vibrant purples, blues, and pinks that mimic the undulating dance of the aurora borealis. Every strand of fur is a stroke of painterly genius, blending into the cosmic haze that serves as its aura and mysterious domain. This isn't just an image; it's an invitation to wander into the realms of fantasy and introspection, a tribute to the wild spirit that dwells within the depths of the universe and our imagination. Perfect for gracing the walls of any Tumblr aesthetic, this wolf doesn't just hang in your digital space—it watches over it, a guardian of otherworldly beauty and inspiration.

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create-higher-vibrations · 9 months ago

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Starseed Tapestry - Unveil Cosmic Elegance | Shop Now

Embody the cosmos in your living space with our Starseed Cosmic Mandala Tapestry, a masterpiece that captures the essence of the universe. This exquisite wall hanging is a symphony of intricate patterns and celestial motifs, designed to transport you to the stars. Crafted with precision, the mandala features an array of geometric shapes and cosmic symbols, all spiraling towards a central point…

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groovycreativesofficial · 10 months ago

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Welcome to Groovy Creatives

Hey there, cool cats and creative souls! Ready to take your digital journey to the next level? Well, you're in for a treat because kiwi

James aka Groovy Creatives is here to make your online dreams a reality, a groovy reality.

Groovy vibes! Check it out: witnessing an artist grooving in the act of creating is like catching a magical wave, but the crowd doesn't

always get to ride that cosmic wave with them. Creating art is a journey, a trip that takes time, work, and yes, even a few stumbles

along the way.

Using FormatNow, picture this: you stroll into an art gallery, and you're surrounded by these mind-blowing paintings—framed to perfection, basking

in flawless lighting against walls as pure as the driven snow. But, here's the cosmic twist, my friend: those masterpieces you're digging

on are the end results, the final jam of a journey that's not just about creative vibes but also dives deep into the nitty-gritty of the

physical and logistical groove.

So, what's the deal with this project, you ask? James is here to peel back the curtain. His mission is to give you a far-out sneak peek into

the studios of our local visual magicians. James is talking about stepping into the sanctuaries where the real magic goes down—the

spilled paint, the crumpled sketches, the energy of creation pulsating through the air.

Join him on this trip, as he unveil's the behind-the-scenes scene, where every stroke, every misstep, and every breakthrough is part of

the cosmic tapestry. It's not just about the endgame hanging in the gallery; it's about the wild, soulful journey that leads to those visual

masterpieces. So, let's open the doors to the creative sanctuaries, and let the magic flow! 🎨 ✨

Groovy Domains and Custom Emails

First things first – let's get you a space in the digital cosmos! James is handy dandy at setting up custom domains like .com,

#graphic design #webdesign #network engineer #social media

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factorytapestry01 · 2 years ago

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This tapestry depicts majestic elk animal, cosmic background, psychedelic wall hanging tapestry. We offer beautiful tapestry wall art hanging home decor. We offer beautiful tapestry wall art hanging home decor. To know more about this artwork, please search our store the SKU code FTCM1003160-1

#art #tapestry #walltapestry #animaltapestry #factorytapestry #australia #global

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hanacorners · 2 years ago

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Rainbow Chakras Tapestry Buddhism Yoga Cosmic Energy Centers meditation Tapestries black Wall Hanging Bedroom Drom Home Decor

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factorytapestry · 3 years ago

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A cosmic tapestry wall art décor instantly enlivens the room by making it look more enticing and appealing to look at.

#cosmic tapestry #cosmic wall hanging tapestry #cosmic tapestries #cosmic wall art #Wall hanging tapestry #HandWoven #wall hanging art #tapestries #tapestrydecor #tapastry

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cyborgfae · 6 years ago

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Be thankful for the blessings you receive from the universe 🌹💜

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yournameyn · 3 years ago

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Feeling Deeply Chapter 5

Genre: Arranged Marriage Fic. Fluff turning into angst?

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Summary: The story of two deeply feeling nerds who find themselves in an arranged marriage. (Details here). Our OC is called Brishti. It’s a Bengali name meaning rain. Namjoon calls her Rim (short for her pet name, RimJhim which means the pitter-patter of rain). She calls him Joon.

Warnings: NOT THE NAMJOON OF OUR DREAMS. Argument. Fight over tiny discrepancies that turn out to be a huge problem. Domestic violence. Not a happy chapter.

A/N: Have you ever felt this, reader? When you watch something and realise exactly what you need to realise in that moment? I’ve had that so many times - seeing my feelings mirrored in a show. That’s something that I’ve tried to have Brishti feel here. Also, this is how I see the natural progression of this Namjoon, the one who obliged to duty rather than his dreams. It took me a long time to write this but I love what’s come out. Let me know what you think!

Current Chapter: London, late 1963. Love fully blooms between Namjoon and Brishti. And yet, something’s not right. A visit to the ballet and a conversation brings forth realisations. The inklings that Brishti was trying to avoid transform into writing on the wall.

Previously in Feeling Deeply: Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The magic about new love isn’t really in romance or even in true intimacy. It’s in how violent new love is… and just how much time it takes us to feel it’s impact.

In the new love between Namjoon and Brishti, everything had been roses and honey, overflowing, swaying in a gentle breeze. They spent every second possible in each other’s arms. They had to tear themselves away from each other when they had to leave home. And even then, it hurt as though they were part of the same cloth.

Brishti had thought about how they had become woven, their souls an ornate tapestry. Namjoon had told her then about a Japanese tradition of weaving that was a sort of meditation and a kind of worship to a god called ‘Musubi’. The disciples say it is like being part of the cosmic tapestry. Being tied to each other.

“Just like we are… I felt a pull toward you and I followed it. I was scared… so full of doubts about who you were and how this was all going to go… I had promised myself that I would fulfil my duty… whatever happened ” Namjoon had said, petting Brishti’s hand gently, “And I… I still can’t believe it… It… you make me feel like I can… trust myself.” Brishti had looked at her genius then and wondered what a strange world it must be that made a man like Namjoon doubt himself, “Always, always trust yourself, Namjoon-ah.” and settled into the crook of his neck.

It was indeed a strange world that caused Namjoon to build an armour around himself. Because ‘London’ and ‘Lonely’ sounded just the same to him. His years alone in this strange place had been unkind, unrelenting. Brishti had been the only softness he had felt in a long long time. Armours built over years can break in an instant, though. For him, it was the moment when he and his wife had crossed the threshold to becoming lovers. High on the magic of new love, he had not realised it.

Sitting across from each other after that fateful evening, Namjoon and Brishti were both wide awake in the early hours of the next morning. Brishti buttoned up the shirt they never fully took off. Namjoon had tickled her with his toes. They propped their feet against the other’s to see just how vast the difference was (he melted seeing how small her feet were and hadn’t stopped playing with them since). Caressing each toe, he remembered something he wanted to ask -

“How did you know what Saranghae is?”

“Mm…” she stretched her arms, “I know what it means…” Brishti said.

“I know you know… from the way you… after I said it… You asked Yoongi about it?” Namjoon cautiously asked about the only other Korean Brishti knew. To his surprise, she nodded no, still denying him any information. Namjoon had to tickle her foot for the answer.

“Okay! Okay! Wait! Pleeeease!” Namjoon stopped and Brishti bent down to the bureau next to her bed and pulled out a textbook - LEARN HANGUL THROUGH ENGLISH. Namjoon looked more shocked than she had expected. “I asked Yoongi about the book-”

“You don’t need to Rim… I’m not learning Bangla, am I?” Namjoon said. He was touched but he didn’t want his love to do anything he couldn’t reciprocate.

“I would have asked you to learn it… if I wrote poetry in my mothertongue...” Brishti said. Namjoon was shocked. She went on, “You really think I didn’t know?”

Namjoon blushed and smiled and flopped over in Brishti’s lap. She brushed his hair as she explained, “You light up at the mention of lyrics and poetry, you keep a notebook by your side at all times, you’re moved by the things that people usually don’t pay attention to… I know you’re a poet, Joonie.”

Namjoon looked up at her and said, “No one has ever called me that…”

Brishti leaned down and kissed her gorgeous husband. “You are... From what I know, I bet all my books that you are a great one... And… I… I would love nothing more than to be part of your world of words, Joonie… It must be strange… to be understood but in a foreign language. If you would let me, I want to understand you in your language… Do you think that’s something maybe--”

He got up and all but jumped on Brishti, pinning her down to the bed with the cutest puppy-yell she had ever heard. “Yes! Of course, yes!”

They both understood that this was a proposal. The truest kind - a gentle request to explore Namjoon’s universe. They would later joke about how she proposed to him after a month of being married. Namjoon was completely delighted by this person with him, his person… one who really saw him.

He pulled her to him saying, “You’re the best part of my world, Rim...” and kissed her.

Each moment of love flowed through the next. When they had to be separated, they couldn’t wait for the next one, their moment again. On weekends they would visit museums and find their favourite paintings and sculpture or their favourite prehistoric relic and animal. Brishti hated the fact that Namjoon had to work overtime to compensate for these weekends and she often voiced how unfair it was.

In response Namjoon would just give her a peck and say, “As long as I have you, I’m happy.” This pricked her but she was too taken by the man before her to pay heed to it.

Namjoon was just about able to keep a straight face at work but everyone around Brishti was acutely aware of how much she loved Namjoon.

At one point, her colleague and best friend, Min Yoongi had yelled at her, “Yhaaaaa! Stop blushing?! It’s just a clock… what could be romantic about a clock?!” Sayuri-san, and she were hanging around Yoongi’s table when Brishti looked at his new flip clock and started blushing.

Brishti laughed along with everyone else but explained, “It’s involuntary… that’s what happens when you’re married to a poet.”

Sayuri-san corrected, “I know too many wives of poets to know that’s not necessarily true… It is true though, when you’re in love with a poet… Go on… tell us how exactly poet Namjoon makes you blush about a clock...”

Brishti blushed even more at that. Yoongi rubbed his arms and demanded, “Tell us because there’s some really weird things coming to my mind… like you guys have an exact time when...”

Brishti stopped his imagination, “No no no… it’s nothing like that… he loves digital clocks... because he loves to watch the time turn to 00:00… zero o’clock he calls it… and on days he feels sad, it’s like zero o’clock is always there to comfort him… like it’s a point when the whole world holds its breath and he can feel happy again… but these days… with me… he said he wants the clock to keep going after 23:59… he wishes time would stretch on… beyond 24:01…”

Yoongi sighed and sat back down, “You’re making me fall in love with Namjoon… ahhh that is beautiful. He should be published...”

“Imagine him saying this directly to you and you might know how I feel… I can’t stop talking about him...”

“Oh, we know. But honestly none of us care… your poet-librarian romance is getting us through our single-ness.” Yoongi reassured her.

The three of them continued to talk about the ways in which Brishti could repay Namjoon’s wordsmithing in graphic ways.

It was that evening, wasn’t it, when Namjoon had enveloped her back in the warmest hug as soon as he’d entered their flat. Brishti was in the kitchen when she heard him enter but hadn’t expected this. He kissed her neck while telling her the good news, “We got our first Korean client today… because of me… Mmmm… Why do you always smell so amazing?”

Brishti turned around and hugged him again, “That’s amazing! Namjoon-ssi! I’m so proud of you!”

“He’s from a wealthy family… so he can actually afford our firm… its not exactly the work I wanted to do--”

“It is a step toward that idea, right? It’s still good work, fighting for justice?” Brishti asked, stopping him from undermining his own work.

Namjoon nodded, “Yeah… He’s a dancer… Park Jimin. All the posh types know him as one of the best dancers in the Royal Ballet. They call him Jim… as if it’s too difficult to say Jimin?” Namjoon shook his head in disapproval. He began helping Brishti with the chopping and continued, “He was born in the UK and trained since he was 5... He got into the Royal Ballet but he’s been passed up to be a principal over and over even though everyone who has seen him dance apparently knows that he’s far far better… So recently he spoke to the director there... and of course the director made a racist slur and asked not to bother him with this again. He can’t even quit and work at another company because of the contract they have him on. There’s a non compete clause… meaning he won’t be able to dance with any other company. That’s all he wants… to be able to get out of that contract… I’m hoping to convince him to press charges on racial discrimination too. We’re not in the 20s anymore.”

When Brishti didn’t respond, Namjoon looked up at her. “That’s horrible… I’m so so glad you’re taking up the case. But please tell me what you ate when you were alone?” He looked down at the carrot he’d been failing to cut.

Namjoon scrunched his nose and admitted, “Canned food mostly.”

Brishti said, “I’m really really glad you’re getting to do work that you are passionate about, Joonie, you deserve it. Now, you should know how to cut a carrot.”

Namjoon pressed up against Brishti’s back. She reached back up to the nape of his neck and made him moan into her. Then… then Namjoon made her forget how to cut carrots.

He had these ways… Namjoon, with his touch, his voice, his languages both spoken and soundless. He was lighting new paths into her self. She loved learning him. Paths she didn’t know existed, that she’d been longing for.

The scars of the loneliness, emptiness that Namjoon had experienced had turned his longings into a kind of starvation. He needed to be nourished and also devoured. Brishti was just the creature to do it. He could feel her warm fingers trace rows of pleasure onto his skin. He felt them bear down and singe when the two of them had to move away from each other. He felt those ropes tug at him as the end of his workday neared. Namjoon closed his eyes each night at her touch, the feeling and fragrance of her body. He felt blooms of intimacy spring up like seedlings out of the soil of his skin. And deeper. In the earth of his soul. So he did the only thing he could. Reciprocate. Namjoon sowed his love, his desire, his need onto her, into her every night.

There were times, though, when she would feel his absence in the middle of the night and see him working in the dim light of a lamp. She knew he had to work hard to do what he wanted but she also saw he had to continually prove himself to people who weren’t even paying attention. The reason they weren’t paying attention was painfully clear to Brishti but she was yet to experience it’s full stab.

Namjoon wanted to shield her from it. He was counting on an armour that didn’t exist anymore to protect himself and his wife… the reason he liked his life again. Whenever she came out and switched on a brighter light, reprimanding him for straining his gorgeous eyes, he saw that it did prick her - this world and the unfairness he had to endure. She would say something small, an almost-complaint that alerted him… against her for some strange reason. She would say something that would be easy to ignore and yet would prick him, like - “I don’t know why they haven’t promoted you yet.” or “Why haven’t they taken up Jimin’s case yet? You’ve worked so hard on it.” Everytime she did that, he would have to pacify himself.

‘I’ve told her so much about the Jimin case… she’s just really invested’ Namjoon thought to himself. Just so he would avoid thinking, ‘I shouldn’t have told her.’

He would have to calm himself, give her a peck and try to convince her to stop worrying. “As long as I have you, I’m happy.” Namjoon would always say.

Then, Brishti smiled as she always did. While trying to understand why that sentence bothered her so much. After almost five months of exploring this wonderful man, some part of him still felt unfamiliar… like it didn’t fit in with the rest. Still, these things take time, she had heard from so many women over the years. Besides, she was blessed with a man far far above the norms. So, how could she prod? These are things Brishti had told herself - until the night she couldn’t stay silent.

The couple was coming up on their fifth month together and Park Jimin had gifted Namjoon a ticket to the final show of the season as a token of gratitude, for having heard his story.

Brishti was nervous about going to this kind of a gathering and had told her husband to meet her there.

She had enlisted the help of Sayuri-san to look appropriate for the event. Her slightly longer hair was clipped and her eyes were kohled. She wore a burgundy knee length fringe-ended dress that she had received from her gracious host, stylist and make-up artist - an inheritance of her brilliant life tucked into the black pearl beading and deco design. It was a big departure from the usual tie-die or band tees and jeans with her baggy coat. She had carried the coat but felt this strange sort of compulsion to stand in the cold air in the noodle strap dress, for him to see her.

She felt butterflies in her stomach and kept fiddling with the coat she had draped over her arm. It was electric when she saw him.

Namjoon looked gorgeous in a tux. All of Brishti’s nerves were soothed just by looking at him. He had brushed his hair back. Tall and dashing - better than any heathcliffe could ever be. And with his reading glasses, he looked like the lead of a romance novella that would make all the women swoon. Indeed she was swooning. Brishti was suddenly warm in the chilly, windy night. And when Namjoon saw her, blood rushed to her cheeks. Everything inside her was running helter skelter in a panic. Brishti felt everything drop in the few moments it took for Namjoon to reach the top of the stairs. Dolled up like this, outside of her element, she felt like an imposter. Some angel needed to be standing in her place. For the first time, feigning beauty, Brishti felt like she wasn’t worthy of her husband.

She was finally able to keep her feelings aside when he reached her.

Namjoon kissed her palm like a gentleman and whispered in her ear, “Let’s go home… I need a private kind of dance…” Brishti blushed. Namjoon put his arm around her and felt the chill that had settled on her skin. “Aren’t you cold? Why didn’t you wear the coat?” Namjoon asked. Brishti just shook her head no and the two of them walked in.

Brishti assumed that the ballet would be a welcome distraction from the storm that brewed within her. She had read up about the show, the piece they were going to perform -

Tchaikovsky’s venerated Swan Lake. The story of a young girl who falls in love with a prince who promises to save her but fails. Ofcourse there were finer nuances to the story but this was the basic plot. As the lights dimmed, Brishti felt pulled in by the music, the eerie beauty of it’s melody played in perfectly with the questions that were swirling around in Brishti’s mind -

Why do I feel wrong?

Is this what Yoongi was talking about? Anxiety…?

Why does Namjoon look so... different?

Why is he so quiet, so… distant…It’s like he’s keeping himself away from me despite being right next to me, arm in arm, like the true Namjoon is somewhere in a glass case? Deep deep beneath whatever this creature is who is next to me?

I’m thinking too much. No. What is this? Why am I feeling this way?

It’s the music… no its not just the music… something is fucking wrong because all I feel like doing is breaking that glass case that’s locked away My Namjoon and presented this fucking imposter. What the hell is going on?!

Brishti barely managed to keep it together. She kept her eyes on stage…

It was like seeing a moving painting being created by invisible hands and the music was the sound of the brushstrokes, amplified. Park Jimin was playing Rothbart, the owl-like magician who curses Odette into a swan until she finds someone who would promise to love her forever. The questions in her mind and the power of the spectacle before her forced her tears to keep flowing.

Namjoon saw Brishti cry and held on to her. But the more he tried to comfort her, the more uneasy she became, the more she coudln’t contain the tears in her eyes.

The curtain fell at the end of Act three when the prince realises he has been tricked. Brishti, somehow, mirrored his grief. The prince was cheated by Rothbart into believing that his daughter, Odile, was Odette. Rothbart relished his plan so despicably it made Brishti’s stomach turn. The prince had already declared to the ballroom full of people his vow to love and marry the maiden by his side - Odile, not Odette. Park Jimin played Rothbart so skillfully, so beautifully that despite being the villain, despite being covered from head to toe, he was the star. Rothbart giggled delightfully as he revealed to the prince that the girl in his arms wasn’t Odette at all. That Odette was waiting for her prince by the lake. The curtain fell as the prince felt the stab of betrayal and rushed to Odette.

Brishti rushed to where she did not know. She wanted to get away from Namjoon, from this feeling that she couldn’t understand, couldn’t explain. She was angry. She wanted to break something. Tears still flowing down her face, she found a corner that was hidden away in darkness. She went in. Brishti sat on the couch there, for what seemed like eternity, breathing heavily. Nothing made sense. It felt like her insides were twisting into each other. Suddenly, though, a door creaked open and out came an angel. A man, glowing, having just freshened up. He saw her, saw her fear and instead of pulling back in shock, approached with a strange kindness. He held her wrist and stayed silent for a moment.

His beauty was also a kindness to her. In that moment, Brishti could breathe a little bit better. He sat down by her knees, on the floor and when he spoke, his voice flowed like a tonic, “First time at the ballet? It’s overwhelming… I know. You’re okay. You are safe. Rothbart is not here. Talk to me… what are you feeling?”

The tears kept flowing. This man was different, she knew he understood what she was feeling like. She felt safe, but not as if she was with a saviour, rather as though she was with another victim.

“What are you feeling…” Park Jimin repeated. The pieces were falling into place in her head. This is Park Jimin, the man who danced as Rothbart. The man who should have danced the Prince. Who should have played Odette and Odile.

“I feel… rage.” Brishti trembled as she spoke. She could breathe again.

“Yes… Rothbart is… evil… I’m sorry-”

Brishti nodded her head no. “At the prince.”

Jimin was surprised. “Let it out. You can scream in here and no one would know.”

Brishti didn’t need another invitation, but her rage wasn’t a scream, it was a whisper - “I want to hit the prince. How could he not now? He couldn’t see that that girl was not Odette? Is he blind? The way she moved, the way she danced… which only means… it means that the prince knew… somewhere he felt doubt but he… He couldn’t fucking trust himself enough?! I don’t know why this is breaking my heart… Why can’t people trust in themselves?! It’s a pathetic fucking excuse and I can’t buy it… I just can’t. Why did the prince...” Her hands covered her face as she wiped her tears. She composed herself.

Jimin pulled out a kerchief. “May I?” Brishti nodded and he dabbed her face with care.

“The prince trusted his sight more than his soul. And now, Odette will die because of it. As always, the woman pays the price.”

“He dies too, you know.”

“What a waste…”

Jimin smiled, “Thank you… for watching the show, for feeling it so much.”

Brishti managed a weak smile, “Thank you.” Jimin stepped away and sat next to her, at a respectable distance. “I’m being lied to.”

Jimin nodded, “I know what that’s like. I feel that rage against the prince too. And still, we must be kind to our liars.”

Brishti clenched her teeth, “Why? Where’s the fairness in that?”

Jimin moves away, in a dejected kind of daze and pours himself a drink, “That’s the biggest lie, fairness. Cruel joke.”

Brishti walked toward the door. “I should go… Thank you.”

Jimin raised his glass to her.

Brishti wore her coat and walked toward the exit. She found Namjoon in a panic and suddenly felt like she could reach him. He looked so relieved to see her. She couldn’t help but feel awash with love as he crashed into her in the warmest hug. It was as if he was the one who was lost.

“Are you okay? Why were you crying?” Namjoon asked her as he stroked her head and held her in the hug for as long as she needed.

“I need to ask you something.” Brishti whispered as she pulled away. They began walking down the stairs of the theatre.

“Änything.” Namjoon replied.

“Your firm… they refused the Jimin case, right?”

Namjoon froze. His jaw locked up. “Let’s go home.”

The rest of the way, neither of them spoke a word. They entered their home in a cold silence. They washed the night off themselves and entered their bedroom, which was completely devoid of the heat and desire that usually filled it right up to the ceiling. What used to feel like an ocean, now felt like a vacuum.

When Namjoon walked in, Brishti reminded him, as kindly as she could,“I said I need to ask you something. You said, ‘anything’.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” Namjoon was cold again. Unfeeling. Unreachable.

Brishti tried her best to be calm… “When would you want to talk about it?”

Namjoon breathed in - “Why? Am I answerable to you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we disagree. I don’t think I am answerable to you. What would you have done if I wouldn’t have told you about it in the first place?”

“I would still be feeling what I’m feeling… I would be even more furious though.”

“Fu- why would you be furious? I have to work there, I lost the account. I’m feeling hurt and disappointed in myself and instead of helping me, you’re angry?! What the hell could you be angry at?!”

“I’m being lied to. I’m being tricked.”

“What?!” the contempt on Namjoon’s face made her head throb. He was angry now.

“There are two Namjoons here. I’m being told there’s only one and--”

“That is some philosophical trash that you learned from one of your books. Real life doesn’t work that way. But how would you know?! You don’t have a real job. You have a hobby. A hobby of stacking books in order. You’re just plain lucky that someone is paying you for your hobby. That’s not a job. You of all people cannot tell me about the things I have to do to keep my job. I have tried my best to be as honest as I can be--”

“As honest as you can --”

“Listen to me!” Namjoon thundered. His loud voice might as well have been a punch. It rang through her body and rattled her bones. She had tears in her eyes but clenched them down as Namjoon continued yelling, “Enough… enough with the fucking tears. What the fuck are you so sad about?! I don’t need you to pity me. I don’t need anyone to feel sad for me. I have tried to be a good man - do you even know how much other men don’t even mention to their wives?! I told you everything. EVERYTHING. And now I’m being punished for it. Time and time again I tried to console you… even though I was the one hurting… I tried to be there for you and tell you… as long as I have --”

Brishti couldn’t take it anymore “Don’t. Say that.” She didn’t yell. Her voice was just above a whisper and yet it sent a chill down Namjoon’s spine. She wiped her tears. “I didn’t ask to be consoled. I was just… curious. If a few questions from me hurt so much maybe you should ask yourself why. I’m not lucky that someone decided to pay me for my hobby. It’s nice to know what you really think of my job. But whatever you think, I created my job. I created my life. I fought to come to london. I fought for the right to earn--”

“Oh please... spare me the feminist lecture...” scoffed Namjoon.

“Sure. Take up Jimin’s case.”

Namjoon felt the burn of white hot rage. He wanted to strangle her. He was so used to touching her… and she was his… in this bedroom, he had made her his. He wasn’t thinking. Namjoon strode toward her and held one massive palm over her mouth and the other on her neck and pinned her to the wall. “YOU WOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THAT IF I DIDN’T TELL YOU.”

It took him a few moments to realise what he was doing. Brishti was shocked and tried to scream but no voice came out. She was trying to get him out of his daze when he finally saw her, saw his Rim, horrified… by him. Namjoon pulled his hands back instantly. He saw a red bruise bloom where his hands were - on her face and on her neck.

“This is how you make your conscience shut up?” Brishti’s voice was hoarse. “You think this has nothing to do with your conscience? With the best part of you? The part that you made me fall in love with? Are you really telling me you don’t know that this is why you can’t write the way you used to… You’re killing my Joon and asking me to stay silent. I can’t.”

The searing anger still hadn’t died and it burst out of him, “Why are we fighting like this… over Jimin… why don’t you take up his case if you fucking love him so much?”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?”

“You… Why are you fighting for him against me?!” It was here that Namjoon realised his armour was gone. The idea of who he is... suddenly vanished. And the one thing that had made him feel safe, like his true self, was slipping away. “You’re saying… just tell me… you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”

Brishti did him the only kindness she had left in her, she explained, “Jimin wants to leave but can’t. He stays because he needs to dance. He stays because he cannot get out of his contract. You say you want to help people like Jimin, you roll your eyes at white people who can’t pronounce our names, you feel guilty for asians who have much less than we do… but then you also don’t raise an issue when your boss holds meetings in clubs where people of other races and dogs and women are not allowed. You work overtime for the privilege of weekends… You say you are trying but… as far as I know… you don’t have a non-compete clause in your contract, Namjoon.”

That hit him like an iceberg. Namjoon’s legs gave way and he just sat on the bed.

He watched as Brishti put on her coat and left, covering her bruises with a scarf.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 6 - to be posted.

#bts kim namjoon #kim namjoon #forever rain #fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon arranged marriage #namjoon x oc #arranged marriage #slow burn #slow burn fic #fluff fic #bts fanfic #bts #indian oc #red thread fics

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cloudbattrolls · 5 years ago

Text

A Smell of Stale Feeling

Etuuya Vannyn | Imperial Colony #433 | Present Night

In the vast cosmic tapestry of the empire there are planets of incredible wonders.

Waterfalls vast enough that they’re almost seas on their own, jungles where the line between animal and plant thins into nothingness as eyes watch you from every trunk and patch of vines, and planets where suns even harsher than Alternia’s have baked the deserts into glass.

Colony #433, more commonly known as the Pits, with its stinking swamps of negligible biological diversity and sweltering humidity, isn’t one of them.

Even before the Empire sunk its hooks in, the planet wasn’t considered much of a prize.

You fancy it would’ve been abandoned long ago for richer conquests if it weren’t for one key reaso -

Ow.

You swallow down a curse as your elbow gets bumped against a wall. Not that you’d probably make any noise now anyway; can hardly get air into your throat when you’re so much crumpled up skin and bones right now, only a few clusters of worms remaining to allow you to function and have basic awareness.

Not that you’d want more. You’re folded up and stuck in a damn box, all senses stifled, and you are developing a hell of an itch on your chin.

At least you’re almost there, if your count is correct.

The place you’re being carried through by unwitting janitors thinking you’re nothing but sealed hazardous waste is the colony’s main surveillance hub. A dull gray and squarish concrete building squatting near the edge of a bubbling swamp, it couldn’t look more depressing if it tried, but it turned out to have surprisingly good security.

So good that you and your trolls were forced to devise a plan where you are currently developing high sympathy for luggage.

Several of them had objected on the grounds that this was a distraction, and in fact made the mission more risky. They were right, but you countered by asking them that if they didn’t want to stick it to the Empire, why were they here? Also, who was in charge, might they recall.

If anything, your little sideshow should help the main plan.

You feel your carriers stop, exchange some words in a thick colonial accent that’s difficult to parse, and set you down. They chat for a few minutes, and you make out laughter and discussion of the coliseum games after work later. One of the planet’s only entertainments, and completely cruelty-free.

To trolls.

After some extra obnoxious minutes, they finally all file out on the lunch break you know they’re taking, and with a bit of struggle you cut the lid open and, wobbly, manage to climb out.

You look like you’ve been pressed in an iron and starving for nights, so skeletal and squashed do you appear right now. Your clothes hang off you as you take a moment to undo the knots in your hair, scratch that itch, and check that your horn tines haven’t been chipped.

No more than that, and you quickly crawl into a vent (replacing the grate behind you after nearly busting your arms popping it off) in case one of them comes back, closing your eyes as you check on your other worms.

The first and biggest cluster is in position, writhing around in their tank made to mimic a jade’s body temperature, with some blood to keep them from entering torpor.

The second cluster...oh, that’s bad.

You grit your teeth. You knew this was a possibility, and it’s not entirely their fault, but you’ll have to deal with the fallout as it comes. Stupid things.

The third cluster is intact, and not where it’s supposed to be. Not too far off, but distant enough from you that you can’t quite tell where.

Not great, since if you don’t get infusions soon you could be shoved over by a two sweep old.

“Are you in position?”

The voice in your ear buzzes through your completely biological communication piece; no waves any of the colony’s surveillance can pick up on at all.

“Almost.” You grunt back, climbing through the vent with the gecko-like gloves you have on and trying to ignore your growing weakness. “Do you have the weapons prepped for knockout?”

“Everything except for the DNA cannons, so you’re fine.”

You roll your eyes and pause at an intersection in the metal vents, then remember which way it is. Empress, you’re slow right now.

“I’m not the priority. Can you get the cannons?”

“Not without exposing ourselves.”

“Then hijack some shields while I’m doing my bit. If you can’t, sabotage them. ”

“Yes, Captain Vannyn.”

Bloody Tulais and her bloody title for you. What a joke.

Your clumsy almost-hollow arm clangs against the size of a vent and you freeze, hearing discussion in the room it’s in the side of. You’re so close.

These accents aren’t as thick as the others, so you can make the voices out better.

“You think another frograt got in?”

“With our luck? A whole nest. Everything in this place hates it too!”

They stretch out their o’s and u’s oddly, and v’s sound like f’s. A ripple of slightly grim laughter.

“I can’t wait to be promoted. My rail’s been saving so we can retire somewhere nice, and my ash has a new sprit I haven’t even met.”

“Pfft, why you want to? You’ll scare them off with your mug!”

You force yourself to keep going amidst more laughter and teasing. If you hear too much you’ll lose your nerve for what you need to do.

The second cluster...you divert the ones left alive toward this room.

Said survivors were those not quick enough to burrow into the alien slaves who found them. The ones who did died from the toxic blood. You don’t think the aliens are dead, but you don’t know. If not, you’ll help them later. Meanwhile, you wait minutes before you feel the worms squirm in. They’re weak too; even the survivors won’t last long outside your body or without some blood in them.

If you don’t have as close to your full count of worms at your destination, you could be at risk of being weak enough to get taken down, weapons or no.

“What? That’s not a frograt.”

“Ehh, duh. Huh, there’s a lot...wonder if something else tracked them in.”

“Let’s grab some, take them to the boss.”

Shit.

What you do to them should be forbidden. Blood runs out of their mouths as worms swarm and tear their mouths apart inside. They keep them from breathing until they pass out.

The little white parasites slip back to you through the room’s grate, delighted at their feed, and you continue on.

The voice in your ear hisses.

“What’s taking you? We’ll be discovered by patrols soon.”

“Less than a minute.”

You can feel the third cluster now, it’s...right above you. Great.

Steeling yourself, you pop open the grate and stick your head out, blinking in the dim lights after the dusty darkness of the grate.

The poor aliens your worms burrowed into like the simple creatures they are are lying cut open on a table you can just see the top of. No one’s noticed you yet; they’re all poring over the bodies, and there’s your third cluster of worms in its tank on another table.

Sealed shut with metallic clamps so none of them can escape.

At least they haven’t noticed the security footage is on loop; the tech team’s done their job, so they won’t have seen what you had to do to your three victims back in that room. The first cluster is still in place.

You still have a chance.

You wriggle out onto the floor and then spring up with as much energy as possible.

“Hello there, assorted miscreants and ne’er-do-wells! Oh - is that rude? Not as rude as how you treat the locals.”

“Who the fuck are you?” One bellows, pointing a gun at you. Several others follow suit, looking away from their little dissection party.

You’ve got to do something about those clamps, but are the guns disabled yet...?

You spring across the heads of the gathered trolls anyway and are rewarded with fire as you duck behind the container. A few shots pierce it and make some very convenient holes, though you get hit as well and are forced to the ground as they gather around you.

It’s just as well, as your worms writher back into you. You make sure they do it in as flashy a way as possible, dragging it out as the now horrified and furious group backs off.

You give them a bright, wide smile full of sharp teeth as the bullets clatter from your body, worms plugging the holes.

Then the biggest cluster swarms out of the room’s floor itself and into your body, lifting you up on stilts of white as you laugh at the looks on their faces as they crash backwards, realizing their guns won’t shoot anymore and whoops - the door is locked.

You wag a finger as your parasites find their places again and fill out your husk, making you whole again.

“Ah, ah. See, I noticed when I was researching your planet that you like to make the native aliens kill each other for sport. So much that there are hardly any left, even though you force them to breed. Even though they’ve been found to have the intelligence of wrigglers. Even though they didn’t attack you first.”

“They’re aliens. Who cares?” One troll complains. “I dunno where you’re from, freakshow, but there’s nothing to do out here. What’re you, some alien who goes around sticking their face in other aliens’ business?”

“Funny story, that - ”

“Don’t care. Come on, let’s rush ‘em. There’s just one of the things, we saw all the worms go into it.”

Some trolls look angry enough to attack you, but others look faintly ill.

Your smile gets bigger as you let worms out from behind your shoulders to form two chains lifting her up as you step up to her. Her clothes quickly become stained with her olive blood as they start to work.

“Do you feel them chewing your flesh? Draining your blood? I could make your death as slow as I wanted. I could infest everyone in this room. I could consume your insides bit by bit as you watched helplessly.”

Your voice is almost gentle, but the toothy smile and gleam in your bright jade eyes hold nothing but malice.

“You all get one more chance to treat the remaining aliens correctly. Oh, and don’t think of trying to make any reports to the empire, or fellow colonies; all your satellites and communications are down.”

An explosion goes off in the distance.

“That’s my cue. And so none of you get any bright ideas...”

You drain so much blood from them you can’t hold it all. It pools on the floor, cerulean mixing with olive, bronze mixing with yellow as it drips back through the vent you came from. A sad waste, but there’s nothing for it. They’ll all live, but they’ll be weakened for weeks.

Living at the tender mercy of their slaves.

When everything’s been cleaned up and trolls have been stationed, working on fake reports to the Empire to cover the gap in communications and seizing control, you sit near one of the globe-like trees that radiates heat, shuffling your feet with restlessness from so much blood. It’s so humid you feel slightly damp all over.

Most of your trolls are resting a good fifty feet away, down the slight slope you’re on. Easy for you to keep an eye on, but far enough that you can’t disturb them.

The voice in your ear - Tierel, promoted at the same time you were - walks toward you.

“Are they all stable?”

The yellow rolls their eyes.

“Yeah, though one turned out to have hemophilia, so it was pretty touch and go. The three trolls you knocked out by choking are in shock. One keeps retching, and the others are shaking constantly.”

They pause, as if waiting for a response. You only nod.

“Why do you care? They’re Empire scum.” They burst out. “You’re the one that did this to them! They have it coming anyway.”

“Arguably, yes.” You examine your claws. “And I really enjoyed it. Which is the problem.”

“They’re doing messed up shit, even for the Empire. You’ve got a right.”

A right. Does a monster ever have a right to be monstrous? To take delight in the warped and perverse things they can do?

No. It’s like you told Tiijah: no matter the excuse, or the supposed nobility, it all boils down to sadism and power.

“A right to stop them, a right to scare them. Yet we’ll be leaving them at our mercy with those who remain to enforce our terms and I’ll have to hope those trolls don’t become drunk on power themselves. They’ll live in fear because of us, especially me. I don’t regret it, Tierel, but call it what it is; a power play.”

They sigh very deeply and shake their head. They’re wearing that shirt you mended for them ages ago.

“Whatever. I really came up here to ask if you if you wanted to sit with us.”

You blink, then smile slightly.

“Good prank! You had me going for a moment.”

“Do you ever stop being stupid for five seconds? I mean it.”

“Sweet lemontree, I am sure you do, but be considerate of everyone else who isn’t weirdly tolerant of me. If you want to sit here, I can’t stop you, but don’t drag your friends into it.”

They step closer and cross their arms.

“I’m inviting your dumb, stubborn ass because we’re grateful you took the risk of infiltration for us. A lot aren’t psyched about the extra work, but we only lost a few trolls. Way fewer than if we would’ve had to get anyone else in there besides you.”

You sit bolt upright.

“We lost trolls? Where? Why?”

Tierel’s face falls, their nicked ears drooping.

“Right before you took over the control room, a patrol snuck up on us. Nailed three of us before the weapons knockout took hold. We had to leave them to snag the shields on time.”

"Who?”

“Uh...I can find out their names.”

“Please. Tell me if they had quadrants. Everything you can find.”

Tierel shuffles in place, looking at you with an odd, almost pitying expression.

“All of us know we can die in the field, Captain. They accepted the risks. Hell, we’re celebrating because of how bloodless this all was. A lot because of you.”

You drain trolls half dead and traumatize them, and your force calls it bloodless. They celebrate. The victims were just empire scum.

It’s not that you can summon a lot of compassion for the colony trolls. Each and everyone knew what was happening with the aliens, and each and every one ignored it.

But somewhere there’s a moirail and an auspicitice who will never hear from their quadrant again. Not for at least ten sweeps, and anything could happen in that time.

You close your eyes.

“They can come up here, if they want. If they really want. Don’t you make them.”

Tierel raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“Is it that hard to believe they’re willing to be around you? We follow you into combat.”

“That’s not a ringing endorsement of your good judgment.”

The lowblood snorts and goes back down.

There really are four very sweaty trolls following them when they come back and you open your eyes. Huh.

You feel horribly shy, but you can hardly afford to seem it.

“So! I don’t even want to mention the weather, but have you ever heard the joke about the matron and the courtesan?”

It turns out they haven’t. Or the one about the seamstress and the three lusii who argued over her, and to decide she sewed hats for all of them...

This is madness. You should be ordering them away.

Instead you find yourself smiling at their own jokes and comments, even as part of you screams inside.

What are you doing, Vannyn?! Playing tame drinker? Tricking yourself and them? Don’t they realize if they were on the other side you’d have drained them just the same?

Your smile drops and you remember Rivali’s hatred and disgust.

Rivali, who alone sees you as clearly as anyone can.

“What’s up, Captain?”

You manage what you hope is a convincing bright expression and look for Tierel.

“Oh, I just drifted off. Don’t mind me - I’m an experienced nightdreamer.”

They go back to chatting, as you resist the urge to run away.

Next time will be different. If your force won’t learn why they shouldn’t be near you, you’ll have to teach them.

No matter what it takes.

#cloud writes #etuuya vannyn #has issuuuuuuues #weirdly enough being in close proximity with someone who hates you and thinks you're disgusting and shouldn't exist #doesn't do good things for your psyche #tw gross worm shit #tw near suffocation #a pyre for crows

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volatilepersonality · 5 years ago

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REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Songs of a Dead Dreamer. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, nihilism, unreality, mannequins, dolls, puppets, and some body horror.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: stolen from @suisosei Tagging: @tuneback @duplikiss @crepcscolo @resolvebled @unzipswig @fatebond @stxrspin @myentropy

The Frolic

Absolute madness paired with a sharp cunning / an expression of sky-blue peacefulness / the indistinct happiness of the future / a piece of moon above the opulent leafage of spring trees / a broken-down kingdom of miracles and horrors / a Neverland where dizzy chaos is the norm / a cosmos of crooked houses and littered alleys / a slum among the stars / a jolly river of refuse / jagged heaps in shadows / a phantasmagoric mingling of heaven and hell / a moonlit corridor where mirrors scream and laugh / dreamy back-drops / ice cubes in an empty glass / shifting expressions on a lean face / vague suggestions and subtle jokes / an Aphrodite sculpture / the wind, cold and dead / a crumbled piece of paper / black-foaming gutters / the dank windowless gloom of some intergalactic cellar / starless cities of insanity / a bright freezing scream of laughter / a passing anecdote of some obscure hell

Les Fleurs

sorrowful flowers / lilting blossoms for a loved one’s memorial / a florist shop / flowers which open only at night / a hothouse warm smile / night-blooming cereuses / a sleek ocelot / well-preserved old places / plants resembling birds / white picket fences / flower-printed curtains / liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields / cool, clean offices / invisible wings whipping the warm air in darkness / the sounds of black orchids growing / the flower-bedded earth / a ripple of empathetic insight / a gorgeous kingdom of glittering colors / velvety jungle-shapes / contorted rainbows and twisted auroras / hyper-radiant hues / a marvelous arcana / tongue-like floral appendages / tongues flowering

Alice’s Last Adventure

Volatile years when anything might go wrong / the embodiment of topsy-turvydom / pools of rainwater / tarnished mirrors / moonlit windows / a thousand misshapen marvels / a universe handed over to new gods / stoic tolerance of a second-rate reality / two complete strangers gawking at each other / a shiny, pearl-grey casket / black orchids / a strange combination of relief and confusion / a delayed echo with oblique origins / a chain of occurrences with links as weak as smoke rings / a sunny autumn morning / a sense of duty, vanity, and other less comprehensible motives / the seas of the moon / costumed kids / the cries of bedlamites / the clamor of rambunctious kids / a half-cocked oration / jack-o’-lanterns glowing orange and yellow / masked children / a plastic cup of cider / shadows wavering against two-story facades / a lamp with a shade of Tiffany glass / a disciple of the bizarre / an autumn moon hanging in the blackness / demonic giggling / the moon / a clock / shadows in the window

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations/ a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism / bubblegum and beer / a chalice in a church / a serum vial in a laboratory / the tartness of one’s smile / a very keen appreciation of diversity / decrepitude / the withering heart of the deceased / bastardized nostalgia / the putrescence of things past / arching mirrors / chrome chandeliers / second-hand fantasies and out-of-date distractions / one strange thing next to another / a genius of vulgarity / a lawless paradise / violence without violation / a smoke-gray sky / city-soiled clumps of snow / fluxing clouds that swirl above the chimneys and trees / alchemical transmutations / the glamour and sanity of former days / a new mask of rats and rot / a hopeless stroll along the path to hypothetically higher worlds / a body whose true outline remains unknown / the whims of chemistry / the caprices of circumstance / the enigma of personal taste / a leather vessel with a void inside / the skeleton of a dream / lights outlining the different venues and avenues below / a bottle of powdered light / pulverized diamonds / the flesh and blood kaleidoscope of one’s imagination / a prodigious insurrection of entity / a tempest of transfiguration

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish/ riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea /persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor /haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

Something magical / something timeless / something profound / a sooty basement / the putrid members of a man who is decomposing / a plain brown package marked Hope, Love, or Fortune Cookies and postmarked: the Edge of the Unknown / a helter-skelter universe where things are ever threatening to go abnormal and unreal / a normal, real love / impermanence and decay / evils sent out under various covers / sublime and terrifying conflict / fearsome, fantastical, and inhuman / moon-trimmed shadows / lunar landscapes of craggy peaks / skeletal wastelands of jagged ice / a brooding Gothic hero / an ethereal Gothic heroine / a castle-like skyscraper / an extra dose of obsessiveness / the Gothic tale / a militant romantic / waves of bombast / winds of ecstatic hysteria / a partially shattered window, its surface streaked with a blue film of dust / a sublime sense of desolation / the diluted glow of twilight / night’s enveloping cloak / grimy azure dimness / bluish semi-luminescence / tears of confusion / turquoise haze / blue shadows of silence / liquefying legs / an old storyteller / the voice of a tiny insect crying for help from inside a sealed coffin / a piercing, crystal shriek that lacerates the midnight blackness / a haunter of spectral marketplaces / Gothic glory / a horror writer / an ardent consumer of the abnormal and the unreal / a visitant of discount houses of unreality / subject only to the rule of demonic forces / puppet-shadows / a hell so excruciating it is bliss itself / bony wings rising out of one’s back / jaws that are a cavern of dripping silver / rivers of putrescent gold running through one’s veins

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

Diamond-paned windows / a thick December fog / a serene congregation of colors / holly, both fresh and artificial / a pale purple ribbon / a ritual forever reenacted without hope of escape / a large chair beside a fogged window / crackling logs / a foggy winter’s night / bright Christmas lights shining through the fog / always dead with darkness / always alive with lights

The Lost Art of Twilight

A streak of iodine red / a spattering of flat black / the early autumn sun / silver hair / a gray suit / a long envelope, neatly cesareaned / the charnel house creeps / a silver shield / crepuscular radiance / an offspring of the dead / the progeny of phantoms / the big green eye of an EEG monitor / De Plancy’s Dictionnaire infernal / a rainbow of insects / the science of superstition / the Provencal countryside / a pantheon of gargoyles amid the splendor of a medieval church / a holy soldier of the living / a monster of the dead / the astral banquet of Art / the rotting flesh of rainbows / the sonar screech of a bat / vampiric origins / the oncoming onyx of a storm / shadows and sunshine / glare and gloom / bright clouds and black / iron-red leaves / tentative drops of rain / blue bears and yellow rabbits / neither a blood-warm human nor a blood-drawing devil / oceans of blood / the ravenous life of the undead / an authoritative impatience / eternal life in an eternal death

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night /constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky /dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air/ a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

The confusions of carnival night / gyrations of squealing abandon / lines between pain and pleasure / a rainbow of rags / a startling length of blade / pale pages elegantly dappled by somber verses / a pair of strangely darkened spectacles / the toneless voice of one who is dead to all appeasement or mercy / mounds of snow that had been sown with ashes / eyes as dark and swirled with shadows as the raving night itself / a constellation of designs / mad games of flesh and steel / a forbidden madness / dense forests of tall pikes planted in the earth / shadows rolling in empty sockets / lacerated mouths / the darkness of dreams / to see the world drown in oceans of agony / visions of butchering the angels / a god of deceit or illusion / chaos at feast / black with scars of madness / darkly clouded glass / the brightest and highest of stars / shimmering halls / unnaturally colored wine / red-smeared forms / many-taloned claws / the velvet fingers of a tightly gloved hand / a pair of leviathan leeches / a lord of the sword made mad / the dark powers which we cannot understand but only hate / rhapsodic voices in the streets / a privileged doom / the face of the soul of the world / the cool marble of the floor / an onyx-black knight / a face flushed with crimson glory

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

A scribble of lightning engraved upon a black sky / a long, brightly colored coat / noisy jets of blue-green light flickering spasmodically / life-size dolls hanging suspended by wires / wetted strands of a spider web / shiny satin legs / a beautifully pale hand / pulverized stars / dismembered limbs of dolls and puppets / the repose of ruin / an oily red glare / a well-dressed dummy / a white high-collar shirt with silver cufflinks / a billowing cravat which displays a pattern of moons and stars / wood waking up / a sleep that should have never been broken / something too painful for tears / the false fire of the moon / two faces sharing a single head / faint, hollow screams from high above / a dummy’s silence / leftover tears of berserk laughter / bluish-green irradiance

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Mist on a lake / fog in thick woods / a golden light shining on wet stones / a little trickle of suspicion in the bloodstream / the solar brilliance of a summer day / supernatural horror / a corner alive with cool drafts and fragrant with centuries of must / a rancid world rife with things smelling of the crypt / a sower of vice / mad winds / wan moonlight / pasty specters / the vividness of pain / the lasting effects of fear / natural-born puppets whose lips are stained with their own blood / dead bodies that walk in the night / living bodies suddenly possessed by new owners and deadly aspirations / the sepulchral pomp of wasting tissue / compassion for human hurt / a humble sense of one’s impermanence / an absolute valuation of justice / a demented innocence in the face of gruesome facts / the horrific reprisals of affirmation / the Cosmic Macabre / the shudders of a thousand graveyards

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

Gray walls pocked like sponges / nights of futile tears and screaming / an expression of almost paternal forgiveness / the supreme delirium of the planets / bright puppets dancing in the blackness / a golden speck of magic / the silent, staring universe / something as pathetic as a puppet and as exalted as the stars / something at once dead and never dying / autumn constellations in the black sky above / harshly brilliant eyes / the remote places where truth had been shut up and abandoned

The Sect of the Idiot

Extraordinary joy / extraordinary pain / the great hollow of dreams / an infinitely secluded place / a world that both menaces and surpasses this one / a holy madness / infinite stillness on foggy mornings / miracles of silence on indolent afternoons / the strangely flickering tableau of neverending nights / deceptive depths of shadow / heaps of clouds like dust balls / a fluorescent map of the cosmos / medieval autumns and mute winters / kaleidoscopic windows / a kind of cataclysm of empty space / an earthquake of the invisible / strikingly clear eyes / a dusty trunk of dreams / a maze of streets / an abyss of stars / a great reaching blackness / a stale gray dimness / an alien order of being / an icy blackness / starry blackness / a great round moon / deep aquatic blue / the voids of astronomy / a state of both paralyzed terror and spellbound curiosity / whispering figures / stagnant moonlight / withered, wilted claws / drooping tentacles / the spinning legs of spiders / the greedy rubbing of a fly’s spindly feelers / the darting tongues of snakes / the triumph of the grotesque / whispering effigies of chaos / putrid arcana / an ecstatic horror / horrific ecstasy / the demonic elements of which all creation is composed / corruption in disguise / a cache of unwonted offerings stored out of sight / currents of fear / dark tremors / splendid scenes broken with malign shadows / the lurid and the lovely forever lost in each other’s embrace / the arch of an old street / tunnel-like hallways / sickly light shining through unwashed, curtainless windows / atmospherics of infinite melancholy and unease / a decayed paradise / the everlasting residue of some cosmic misfortune / a solemn, mechanical intentness / a smooth and solid cube of black glass / a malignant puppet of madness / dazed in darkness / embarrassed throat-clearings / reproving looks / words which could only have meaning in a nightmare / a thing of strange degeneracy / a quintessence of hellish delirium / freakish, echoing laughter / the whispering of strangers / twitching tentacles / a horror which cannot be helped

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams /sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

Breaking the quiet of a moonlit room / enchantments that nearly make amends for one’s stolen slumber / some unusual shape leaping across steep roofs / a bewildering agility / many nights of sleepless hell / a knife / rope / a poison vial / an exploit of uncommon decisiveness / blank nights of insomnia / a handbill / ashes mixed with grease / a door with a faint yellow aura leaking out at its edges / small, shadowlike things moving in corners and along the floor molding / a quartet of musicians / a voice which sounds both exhausted and malicious / pale, ragged clouds of hair / sonic abnormality / an empty shaft of blackness / spherical lamps caked with dust / the silence of a dark, lifeless world / black silhouettes of human heads visible only in the moonlight / slow music in the soft darkness / a single note wavering in a universe of darkness / a incalculable proliferation of slightly dissonant harmony / the light of a quiet gray dawn / completely helpless, and yet content to be so / thick layers of webs / gazing at nothing with bleeding sockets / the moon all fat and pale, glaring down from its gauzy webs of clouds

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals /the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture /abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#history worn on skin for all to see (headcanon)#this took forever and i'm beat

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teatimewithtess · 5 years ago

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Entry 2: Monday, June 24, 10:29 pm

So I do not have much going on through my head right now. However, I have been wanting to post some of my essays on the internet so people can read them. The one I am revealing tonight was an assignment for my AP Language class where we were assigned to write a descriptive essay about anything we wanted. I decided to write mine based upon my room. I know, sounds pretty boring; but, I tried to approach the topic from a different perspective and style of thinking... People tend to overlook the simple aspects of daily life when they are actually the most meaningful. Anyway, here it is.

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The Walls of a House

I have never been fond of houses. They come and go, like the four seasons, except they never seem to return. Houses are simply a building where we rest, eat, and possibly have memorable events that soon fade away over the years. I have never physically seen a house age, but I believe that the way a person decorates certain rooms and areas is a visual representation of who they are and how they age. So is a house really old?

Home is a feeling whenever I arrive at my lonesome house from a dreadful day at work only to find myself in complete equilibrium with my monotone surroundings. Pure content with oneself. Home is a state of mind where I never really feel like I am “home.”

I am here, sitting uncomfortably in my tough, wooden chair looking among the blank walls for something. Perhaps a bright, exuberant color to fill me, like when the sun gives the longing horizon a beautiful kiss for the last time before his duller alter ego surrounds our view. The moonlight of alter egos, the dark sides of anything and anyone, blinds me every night until complete darkness pours into my eyes for the final time.

Since I have lived in more houses than I can count, I do not feel an emotional attachment to any of them. They are old teacups, holding me safely and balanced where I do not spill, but will soon be shoved to the back of the dingy cupboard where the spider webs embrace their fragile exterior. I, however, will move on to become more. The tea does not need a teacup to in fact be tea.

I know the repetition of these moments in my current house will never end. Each house throws a peculiar state of thinking that I did not realize until the ninth time. The smudged windows and squeaky doors mock me by every passing as if there was something trying to make me accept a home. Leave me alone!

Immersing myself into my work softens the harshness each house haunts me with but it is a prerequisite to a pure reality I saunter through every day. Walking in chain and ball, a chain of thought and ball of realization, pulling me down, slowing me down more and more as each day passes. I search the house for a pair of bolt cutters. Where? Where is it? Where is the break?

As I get up to relieve myself from an extensive session of Confucius and Rimbaud, I solemnly walk through the pearl-colored walls of the hallway, digging my calloused toes into the worn, faded carpet, that seems a little too hard for comfort, as much as I can with each step. The lighting is bright as if I was going through a hospital post-surgery, where one glance towards anything other than my objective would blind me on the spot. Even the sun pierces my eyes when it’s an overcast day. Light hurts.

I reach the doorway of my room, a few feet past the guest bedroom, with its’ burgundy accents on decorative pillows and drooping faux flowers, and a simple bathroom that has the occasional pops of a deep sea teel throughout the greys and tans. All the doors are identical. Tarnished, dull cream that stares at me before I enter each room. They always stare at me before I open them as if I frightened them. Blandness is the most petrifying. Is the old light afraid of the new dark? Is the sun afraid of the moon?

The doorknob stuns me with a frigid embrace as I cautiously push the worn door open where I receive a familiar warmly welcomed creeeeeeeak. The permanent ink of past ideas stains the center of my floor, grabbing my feet and wrapping its memories through each space of my toes. There is a glow that fills the entire volume of the nine by nine box. An unearthly glow. The turquoise lights of the Aurora Borealis are enclosed in a sheer paper sphere which hangs within the highest corner. The light creates a harsh contrast against the houses’ natural lighting, but the harsh contrast is necessary. At first, the eyes reject the artifice sky hues, but it soon turns into a necessity, for the eyes ache for the freedom of reality. Cosmic but craved.

Worn shoes are skewed across the ink spill on the white parchment, faded black and greys form piles on one another on the ebony desk, where one touch would run chills up a strangers spine. The desk has a natural, sunken curve in the middle from the years of elongated stress and delightful memories that have formed and never disappeared. Miniscule dust bunnies bounce around the edges, playfully dodging the novelties of the past, paperback books, and pointless awards, to chase a spark of interest. They never leave for good. In this room, nothing does.. A trail of memory is always left behind. It plagues the future by falling into the tiny abysses of day to day occurrences, creating a constant dull overcast of a rainy day that lasts an eternity. The desk cannot withstand much more.

Upon the standing, freezing night stood a simple glass jar filled with an ivy hued wax. Three peculiar wicks protrude from the near center, creating a circular shape where three identical flames could exfoliate the room with the essence of a grand, yet silent forest. There is a small, prickling sound as if there frostbite on my nose. The fragrances of the sharp pine envelope every still object, especially the ink spill on the floor, but only that. The candle burnt out. The prickling stopped. The smoke from the lifeless, charred wicks aches to give one last scent, but quickly disintegrate. No motion and no sound. Once more, the nocturne fully embraces the room.

Two glistening copper goldfish with stains of the night feverishly swim around in a nearby tank atop an overflowing bookshelf. The books. The written freedom of the solemn room, the secret meaning behind the owner's feelings all told by hundreds of different authors from the 17th century to the 21st. A monumental stack of thousands of cream, pale yellow, and pearl white pages towers over the illuminated goldfish. The pages age with the decor, the pages age with the room, the pages age with the resident: me. As more lines define my facial structure and my height reaches its maximum, the pages continue to gradually develop wrinkles and yellowed hues, as if they were smiling at me. The emotional shrine of a grey sanctum. My grey sanctum.

A fading black and orange form the shapes of two koi fish that are seamlessly floating on the snow-white fluff. Fleece blankets of the same three colors lay around the koi, providing a safety net after a dreadful day. A tapestry hangs on the wall adjacent to the head of the bed; a frail, aging man dressed in a denim blue coat with a cane in his left hand is walking away from the room. He is leaving. The beautiful pink, soft Sakura and ageless Minkas from the villages with kept tradition consume nearly all of the frame as the cobbled walkway that is guiding the man is steering him away. The old man knows the past, has lived in the past and is leaving the past.

I skeptically take another long look at my room. So much decor to admire and loathe, so much to awe and degrade, so much to smell and hear and look. It is undeniably open for viewing. Any person can enter and leave, yet I rarely have guests. The farthest they get to is the bathroom.

This particular room in my life provides reality to my peers. My illuminating bed succumbing to the appealing dark after embracing my cold skin all day long. As I age, the color fades. I remember as a child being surrounded by lilacs and roses, crimson and piercing yellows, all colors of the rainbows engulfed me. Now the plain whites and blacks suffocate me during the day but provide lasting comfort during the night. The night will always last longer than the day. My room is proof.

................................................................................................................................

I am currently watching Sword Art Online and it exceeds all expectations I had for it, just as Black Butler did. My current “have watched” list includes: Your Lie in April, Anohana: the flower we saw that day, Black Butler, and Sword Art Online. Anime blushies- why aren’t they real?

- Tesu :)

#writing #writer #narrative #personal #japan #love #mystery #red #anime #myself #me #grammar #oxford comma #type

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