#dark is in all regards a beautiful monster but it's up to either of them

[dnangelic]

so like when it comes to daisuke one of the things i try really hard to present is the way that it doesn't matter how you actually are. when you hate yourself, when you have an inferiority complex, when you're struck with impostor syndrome, it completely distorts everything about your own self perception anyways. dark is technically conventionally attractive (from a distance! he looks normal from a distance! which is its own meta!) but daisuke still thinks his form is terrifying and grotesque. daisuke is extremely capable but he constantly diminishes his own capability down into nothing, he always hides and avoids his own skill, which IS equal in all aspects to dark's. genuinely i tend to get a little annoyed when people say things like 'why would he be mad to wake up hot??' because that's not the focus, that's not the point!! for him and the plot of dnangel, it's about the sudden dissonance and forced transformation between who and what he believes himself to be, what he's capable of, and how he actually, really is: a 'no good loser' vs this brilliant public idea of "dark." canon expresses this in a lot of ways (and not just from daisuke's -> dark's end but also dark's -> daisuke's, as they both have their unique complexes,) but the most obvious within the manga are panels like these

'i can't do it' says the guy who literally IS it!!!

[comfortless]

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

[uchihaxitachi]

coincidences | itachi x f!reader | meeting him for the first time |

-> a/n: so this is a series with no particular plot correlations whatsoever just some scenarios that i have in mind in the form of a word vomit <3

itachi who’s always been on high functioning depression — he doesn’t know if it’s because of his terminal illness, or just because he has never felt unburdened in his life for once. he has stopped contemplating it at this point. just continuing his life as a breathing corpse. there are a few instances that provide him with a ray of hope — surprisingly; even those are related to either him being ultimately killed someday, so he could finally have peace. or… the memories of his childhood which revolved around sasuke. then again, it’s a vicious cycle which haunts him with the dreading memories of the massacre.

itachi tells himself he’s used to it, everyday, used to dying a little everyday. and that this is how his life will be… for as long as his heart beats.

all of it thrown upside down when you saved him from a mission gone wrong. itachi won the battle, but he could’ve died in the absence of his partner and fighting the 6 tails alone. it was you— who found him half dead and took him. nursed his injuries and didn’t care, or weren’t aware of him being an s-ranked criminal. he woke up a few days later to you sleeping beside him, your wrist lazily holding his hand. itachi’s never seen someone so beautiful — it wasn’t your physical appearances as such. the whole vibe was enough to make him stop thinking for a moment. it was— new! he never stopped his mind for anything. for once, he didn’t want to wake this stranger up, watching her asleep so peacefully in front of a killer, of a dangerous, ruthless monster. it’s the safety which littered in your expressions. itachi wanted this more—

you stirred in your sleep, waking up to itachi’s eyes scanning your form tenderly. “thank you, for saving my life.”

“thank you?” you jumped up, looking at him and looking ever so grateful. “sir— you got to be kidding me! you were almost dead yes ! but a group of bandits tried to break in, i was so scared and screamed. and you— somehow! somehow! fought them in your sleep!” you jumped up and mumbled, “it was like your kunai went slash slash slash and they were all- dead and then- and then you passed out yourself.”

your excitement and your awe regarding something so normal made itachi smile a little. it’s drilled in the very marrow of his bones to stay alert. maybe he was fighting in his dream — he doesn’t remember it honestly. he was now sure you weren’t of a shinobi background. how lucky 🍀

“then, should i consider that i have paid my debt to you?” itachi asked softly, looking at his bandaged hands.

“eia nope!” you pouted, “you broke my entire house during the fight so you must pay for it!”

just some money? is that why you want him to stay? itachi has enough to pay for it, but part of him wants to stay a little too. “what must i do?” he asked softly, clearing his throat.

“uh— that i haven’t thought of yet.”

“really?”

“yeah”

“then, isn’t it a waste of both of our time?”

“sheesh, live a little”

somehow itachi found everything peculiar yet a little familiar. something out of the mundane grief that clutches onto him. or rather someone— shining bright enough to erode his darkness even if it’s only a pinch.

[covenofthearticulate]

I asked people this about Armand and Daniel ages ago, but now I'm curious about your thoughts regarding Louis

If Louis had the opportunity to undo one of the vampire nerfs, and either be able to go out in the sun without danger or pain, eat human food and generally be able to absorb things that aren't blood, or have sex without the need for hormone injections, which do you think he would go for?

Oooooooh that's such an interesting question, idk!!

On a practical note, opting to digest food would put an end to all his moral anxieties over killing that he's been grappling with for ages. But to give up blood feels like giving up vampirism as a whole LOL like what's the point. Killing is the only source of pleasure in his miserable existence; blood is really the only constant he has in his life. Getting up each morning and wrestling with that fact is one of the foundational tenants of Louis de Pointe du Lac.

I'm also just thinking about this absolutely based quote from totbt:

Lestat, you can't become human by simply taking over a human body! You weren't human when you were alive! You were born a monster, and you know it.

Like aksjhdbkfdhsb apart from this being the most sickening insult in the history of vampire kind, I've always wondered how much Louis was actually talking about himself here. Despite the fact that he later admits that he KNOWS he went too far when he said this ("Sometimes you frighten me so badly I hurl sticks and stones at you.") I still think he absolutely meant what he said. There's just something about the Catholic Angst Flavor of being born a monster, being damned from the start, that I think is just going to be forever engrained in Louis.

ANYWAY I didn't mean for this to delve into a whole meta analysis but this is all to say that I think even if Louis were to give up blood, he would still perceive himself as a monster.

My instinct is to say that he'd pick sunlight, mostly because the very first thing that popped into my head when I read this ask was the exchange he had with Lestat at the end of totbt:

"I didn't want the weakness; I didn't want the limitations; I didn't want the revolting needs and the endless vulnerability; I didn't want the drenching sweat or the searing cold. I didn't want the blinding darkness, or the noises that walled up my hearing, or the quick, frantic culmination of erotic passion; I didn't want the trivia; I didn't want the ugliness. I didn't want the isolation; I didn't want the constant fatigue." "You explained this to me before. There must have been something...however small...that was good!" "What do you think?" "The light of the sun."

There's just something so poignant about this moment, when after his big misadventure, Lestat is still reeling, still upset and confused and anguished about everything that happened, and it's Louis who reminds him of why he so desperately wanted to be human in the first place.

I know that, when Daniel asks Louis if he misses the sun, Louis replies "Not really." And maybe that is true, maybe Louis doesn't miss the sunlight when he's able to enjoy the beauty of the world around him with all the depth of a vampire. But I still think that the poet and the aesthete in him yearns for the light.

Also he's definitely not choosing sex LOL my guy has 0 libido and no interest in experiencing that sort of thing as a vampire. I know that's hypocritical of me to say as someone who thinks about Loustat Smut like 24/7 but LMFAO Lestat has enough sexual appetite for the both of them

[eclipsewarrior101]

SO!!!!

Poppy Playtime Chapter 3

I am gonna give my regards to it. I did not play it but I watched a playthrough.

Spoilers below

( Warning the game is actually way more creepy and they ampt up the disturbing content

Sooooo. Amazing game. Very very disturbing and spooky. The game play was a mix of creepy and fun

Playcare is beautiful!!!! It really looks like a whole world down there. It’s a paradise and a death trap at the same time.

The last boss fight was very very hard, I will say.

It was so cool to learn more lore and the implications that we are a worker who either knew exactly what was going on or didn’t.

Seeing the hour of joy was extremely satisfying though I think we all suspected it

Now…. Seeing little mini smiling critters crawl into a half cut up dog day and ingesting his body like parasites was VERY disturbing!!!!!

Hearing about a child’s body found with the gory details was very disturbing.

Mob Games turned up the lore and fear factor up to 100%.

Hearing from workers who didn’t agree with the kids being trapped down there was interesting. I think the guy Richie…he seemed like he cared about the kids. And it’s VERY interesting that they aren’t allowed to talk to them. It means that not everyone who worked at Playtime co knew what was happening. AND Stu…I think he gave Richie the job for a reason.

I do wonder what happened to Richie…did he die or did he escape the Hour of Joy.

Kissy helping us and poppy being good was a shock.

Ollie…I wanna know who Ollie is.

The kids lore and the stuff involving them just…it hit so hard what these kids went though. They had NO idea

Now…that one scene with Joseph going to be adopted then his file saying testing. And the lady in charge seemed to have NO clue….or she was lying. But she seemed like she was one who was in the dark about the true nature of the orphanage.

Also!!! The mini smiling critters were just..my heart. They are adorable even if they are evil. Their whimpering broke my heart. I just wanted to hold them.

Dog day…that poor guy. The last of his friends then to die!!!!

I know many do t like cat nap but…I blame the prototype. I think that monster corrupts the toys when they are at their lowest.

Example: cat nap.

Example I can’t prove: mommy long legs ( my theory is that she saw daddy long legs and baby die and he gave her a chance to live)

An interesting fact was that the “ Hour of Joy” killed innocent and guilty….sooo that means kids were eaten too maybe….of god

And the teacher lady. Jesus she freaked me out. The talk of her eating people. I think she eats more than just adults.

Soo the prototype is evil. And like a god. That scene where he he killed cat nap was so sad. Cat nap was pulled into a false set of security then just kill him. That was sad.

At the end when we don’t know if Kissy is alive is so sad. I hope she’s not dead. Though I now fear for the future. I don’t think we are able to save anyone.

I do hope that we can recruit maybe other toys who are not with the prototype. We have t seen daddy long legs or boxy boo yet in the game. Cause I feel the prototype is gonna be a tough cookie.

Anyways. If you wanna talk about this or come up with some fun theories let’s chat in comments. Byeeee

[anfie-in-the-box]

X-tra Dark Cream & Dark Cream Week

Notes

This one is short so I'm not sure how I feel about it. It's very different from the previous day though, so I'm x-cited about that!

The main story can be found here! Feel free to skip my works for Dark Cream Week if you want to read Turns, twists, and paradoxes chronologically! And enjoy!

。。。

Oblivion

Dream observes as yet another AU falls into oblivion. Beside him stands Cross, overwriting buildings and roads to collapse, people — kids and adults, monsters and humans alike — to become horrible monstrosities, as others watch helplessly how their loved ones succumb to their fate. It's utter chaos, a storm of destruction and suffering but not death, never the relief of death, and nobody sees the two skeletons on the highest building in the area, one causing it all and the other feeding on the shattered positivity of a ruined Pacifist timeline. It's satisfying to see others in as much pain as Dream is in; it's gratifying to be as unfair to all these people as the world has been to Dream and his family. He is bitter, jaded. He's done caring about everyone, whether they deserve it or not. He's done being kind and understanding when no one would do the same for him; no one but his family. The world doesn't like him, so why would he like the world? No, he loathes it.

So he lets the hurt and the mistrust and the cruelty fester within his soul. What used to poison and throttle him now sets him free. It's exciting. It's exhilarating. It's perfect.

The AU crumbles under them. It will all reset, but Dream doesn’t care; he needs shattered positivity here and now, and unlike Nightmare, what becomes of the resulting negativity is not something he has any regard for.

"It's beautiful," Dream says appreciatively. The sight before him is gruesome and horrific, and that's the charm of it.

Cross blushes faintly. "Don't distract me," he mutters.

"Oh?" Dream glances at Cross with a smile. "Am I distracting?"

"Very." Short and to the point.

Dream laughes. "How delightful! I love you too, Cross. So very much."

He'd hug him, but Cross really needs to focus. Overwrite is not a power easy to use, not for him; and he can't afford to mess up. It's alright though. Dream can wait. Cross doesn't kill this time so he gains very little EXP, therefore his sleep after all of this won't be as troubled. They will cuddle and talk until Cross driffs off.

Yeah, sounds like a plan.

Dream looks at Cross, mesmerised. He's so beautiful when completely in control of himself and the world around him, overwriting his surroundings to his wishes and Dream's satisfaction. It's brilliant. Cross is brilliant.

The oblivion will be this AU's salvation. It won't collapse. It will reset, and they will forget, all of them but those with the highest levels of determination. Dream won't forget, either, and he won't ever be forgiven, and that's the point. He wants just a couple of people to remember, he doesn't ever need more, doesn't need the negativity to stay.

The oblivion won't be Dream's salvation, though. He'll never forget his own corruption, and he'll never forgive himself, but that's okay. He's not hurting anymore. He doesn't need or want oblivion.

They'll be okay.

。。。

Credits

Undertale © Toby Fox

Dream!Sans © jokublog

Cross!Sans © jakei95 / xtaleunderverse

Shattered Dream © galacii-gallery / shattereddreamsau

Dark Cream and Dark Cream Week © zu-is-here

X-tra Dark Cream © me (anfie / anfie-in-the-box)

。。。

Notes

How do you like this one? It's further in the timeline than the previous day's ones, so it is indeed quite different! Dream's much more confident in what he does and clearly learning to relish in destruction he must cause to survive.

[kachimera]

celia, arikado, leon, sara for the bingo 👁️👁️

Celia

Oh what a mess of a woman. I know it's more of a writing flaw but i adore how she switches between being a threatening villain to the most incompetent moron ever (seriously girl you fake murder Dracula's reimcarnation's crush and you expect him to not instantly murder you? Fr?). Plus depending on the source she either is legit indoctrinated in her cult's beliefs which gives her a sad facet or she has the more selfish purpose of preserving her own dark magic (and what do i say? I can make both work. I think). Plus the way it can be implied that she might have contact n even collaboration w Arikado makes it better (sorry for the ppl reading this but yes it works i swear im not insane). Go silly gal go! Play Machiavellian schemes with the literal son of the dark lord and underestimate your enemy!

Arikado

Oh boi and talking abt Arikado; the common idea of a grown up n stable Alucard finding stability after "ending" the cycle is fine and all, but the implication from his AoS n DoS behaviour that he is in a terrible mental state and unable to let go of the cycle? Beautiful. Amazing. Need me more of that. He's this beautiful mini reflection of the revenge cycle, and after living through it, with the goal of murdering his own father, for so long, and having it as his sole purpose, it has devoured him n broken him. And he now wants to take control of it with his own hands, is showing both the worst behaviour of both his father AND the Belmonts (haha SotN parallels w Richter) and might end up making matters worse :) (I blame you for indoctrinating me into the neg character arc Alu, thank u) Anyways someone force this poor moron to take vacations before he loses it

Leon

THE HIM. MY BABY BOI. I love his honor n morals and how he chooses them in the face of great suffering. His bravery and impulsiveness. How he's sassy can fall into black n white thinking. How loyal he is to those close to him and how much he cares. The balance between his own feeling n his morals. The parallels w Mathias n Sara n Rinaldo. And just hmmmgjsgkwkgd my poor boi

I can't decide if i want him to recover from the LoI events or if I want him to be consumed by his traumas and thirst for revenge but in any case he goes into the blender *puts him into a sock w stones and smacks him against the walls multiple times*

Also, salt warning here but i feel like fandom either exaggerates his neg traits and acts like Mathias descent into madness ("hello church can i abandon our very important military campaign to be at home w my best friend. He needs cuddles n emotional support that will surely fix him. No it's not gay dont worry. Thanks :)"), Sara getting sealed into the VK (which she insisted on and convinced him despite his initial refusal) n the Belmont clan's burden (he did got them into monster hunting w the whip but there's no way he knew how bad things were gonna get) were all 100% his very well informed fault; Or makes him into an idiot sunshine boi who doesn't knows what death is (he's an undefeated warrior with a who knows how large body count) can't think or lead (he maintained the company undefeated during Mathias' illness) and a perfect innocent n easy to manipulate uke for his sexy older seme (I'm not saying they canonically fucked you can perfectly interpret their relationship as 100% platonic or having something but deciding to respect their girls or etc etc. But if they did the nasty then he had to rail Mathias at least a couple of times). I admit im veeery biased and picky regarding this balance but still. He has facets i say

Sara

Yes my anger girl. Let her commit crimes. I wanna write a post abt her but to resume i love her as a symbol of destroyed innocence (ha). A sweet gal who did helped everyone and was good n nice and disliked violence only to have her life ruined in so many ways that her inner frustration blooms into a divine wrath n bloodthirst. Like i said before I adore her relationship w Leon and how they made eachother better n then worse :). Plus, the manual describes her as strong hearted! She obviously loved Leon n was happy to see him! sacrificed her life in order to not turn into a vampire and instead stop Walter from harming more innocents! She has agency and her choice was crucial not only for Mathias convoluted plan but for the whole cycle. (Ppl stop forcing the "boring 100% sweet harmless never angry gal who always got dragged around by men as an object" archetype on her challenge. Yes i used to be like that but i got gud. If i can recover so others can)

And then she had to see how Mathias betrayed her n Leon and then tried to take him, and dealt w the mess that post-canon Leon was, both together but separated, furious and crushed on the other's behalf, until his death :). AND then she had to wait hundreds of years to avenge him only to have to kill the same bastard over and over and over again. Mix in vampire corruption and you have a caring but toxic Belmont Matriarch/Whip stuck in the cycle. So yea let her have negative emotions and commit crimes (Sorry John).

[aethersea]

and kencyr beauty and the beast? i remember you talking about this but it's been awhile...

this is one of the many aus @tanoraqui and I have come up with in the kencyrath chat, and honestly it's a banger

The monster was a dark shadow, backlit by some faint glow whose source Kindrie couldn’t guess. Its eyes shone silver from edge to edge, split by slit pupils that were narrowed almost to nothing despite the gloom. Its fangs were too big for its mouth. They distorted its lips into a permanent sneer. 

“Why?” it growled.

Why what? Why should it forgive him? He couldn’t say, because I’m sorry—he wasn’t, despite everything. Better that he should die here than the Highlord.

No good answer to that question; find a better one. Why had he thrown himself into the monster’s path? 

Because he is my natural lord. He couldn’t say that either. He’d never found the nerve to utter the words aloud, and he had no nerve to spare just now.

“Because he’s the Highlord,” Kindrie said. His voice rasped worse than gravel. “I had to protect him.”

The monster hissed at that, like a vicious cat. Kindrie flinched. “Forgive me,” slipped out without thought.

The last of the far echoes died away, leaving them in silence. Kindrie’s labored breaths drew more attention to themselves in that stillness than he would have liked. The monster regarded him balefully, but there was something else emerging from behind that rage. Kindrie tentatively judged it to be curiosity.

He should fan that curiosity, say something intriguing, anything to keep the monster talking. To make himself more interesting alive than dead. But Kindrie’s mind was filled mostly with gibbering panic, and he had no experience at all in being interesting. 

The creature spoke again before he could think of anything. “You will stay.”

The words came out garbled, as if they didn’t quite fit the shape of the monster’s mouth. It took a moment for Kindrie to parse them, and a moment more to understand them. Even then, he could make no sense of them. 

“I will…stay?”

“Swear it,” the monster growled.

Kindrie stared, baffled. The monster roared. “I’ll stay!” Kindrie yelped. “I’ll stay!”

“Honor break me,” the monster snarled, the words gnashing together like boulders.

Something in Kindrie found the space to quail at that. It was one thing to be trapped in the lair of a darkling beast; another thing entirely to never even try to flee. Freedom had tasted so sweet, for the brief time he’d known it. Its pull had borne him through so many horrors.

The monster slammed him against the wall again. His vision swam and flickered.

What point in freedom if he was too dead to enjoy it? “Honor break me,” Kindrie choked out, “darkness take me, I so swear.”

[wowieweirdwarlock]

Mighty Monsters: Hags.

Source: Volo’s Guide to Monsters.

Image source: Volo’s guide to monsters.

“Hags are crones who represent the corruption of ideals and goals, who delight in seeing the innocent brought low.”

Hags are mysterious and unpredictable, especially in the perspective of mortals. The same hag that spends her time luring in and eating children could then be found making jokes and offering sinister advice to adventurers.

Ugly and Ancient. Hags perceive beauty as vile and disgusting, and ugliness as the epitome of beauty. They often spend their time “improving” their appearance with shredded clothes, mudstains, and illusion magic. For their warped sense of aesthetics, Hags were banished from the beauty-obsessed courts of the Fey. Only the most powerful hags, who cannot be ignored by the Fey kings and queens, can attend the courts without issue. Hags are immortal but not youthful; They constantly get older and uglier. The older a Hag is, the more knowledgeable they are on their dark magic, and the more weight they pull with other hags.

Corrupting Crones. Hags delight in the perversion of goodness and the manipulation of the weak. The desire to sow chaos and misery is the driving force behind so many hags building their lairs near humanoid settlements. They spread this corruption and pain most effectively through dark bargains with desperate folk.

Damning Bargains. People with nowhere to turn make a hag’s best customers, as they are often willing to give anything to get what they want. Hags will set up meetings, usually appearing when a potential victim is at their lowest. While they could be seen as similar to devils in this regard, they have strictly different modes of operation when corrupting the innocent. While a devil will often go out and find weak-willed mortals to damn, a Hag is content to sit and tend to her own work, waiting for others to come to her. This approach gives her much of the power in the scenario, as desperate souls will come to her, seeking cures or spells to solve their problems. Despite the miraculous magic Hags can enact, there is always a catch— one that will oftentimes being more pain and suffering than if the Hag hadn’t gotten involved at all.

Deals & Desire. Despite their foul reputation, Hags still have no shortage of visitors seeking their dark magic. With their repertoire of arcane knowledge and strange items collected over their long lives, hags often can offer just the right “solution” for whatever ails their victims. They know just the right ways to tempt mortals into their bargains, always giving their victims just the right conditions to satisfy their desires for a time.

Bargainer Beware. A Hag’s offer is never as simple as it seems. A Hag will never let their customers walk away happy, as they exist to spread misery and evil. A farmer seeking a cure for his son’s disease will discover the cure only lasts for a short amount of time, and must regularly be refreshed. A person looking to return an errant lover will find them growing obsessive and murderous. Every hag has unique ways they like to betray their victims, always in miserable ways that will bring their victims back into their clutches.

Weird Magic. With their nearly unending lifespans, Hags have all the time to master their strange brand of witchcraft known as “Weird Magic.” This dark magic is characterized by imbuing objects with curses and dark magic, with each hag having their own unique collection of weird magic items. Each Hag’s magic is unique to them, so many individual hags come together to form dark sisterhoods known as Covens. Within these covens, they share their knowledge of Weird Magic and spells to better spread misery.

Changeling Children. As a race of inhuman crimes, Hags do not procreate naturally unless the partner is suffering from some sort of insanity. When they do, the beings created from their union are known as Changelings. While many do it the old fashioned way, either through shapeshifting or manipulation, there is another way hags create more of their own. When a hag has need of a Changeling, either to form a coven or to enact some scheme, they collect a mortal infant, devour it, and then a few days later birth an identical-looking Changeling child. These children eventually grow and mature like normal, but near adulthood begin to experience a strange psychic urge known as “the Call,” causing them to seek out and find their Hag mother to complete their transformation.

Image source: Blood of the Coven, pg. 2.

Breeds of Hags:

There are many different kinds of Hags, all depending on the environment they live in and their natures:

Annis Hags are the most physically powerful of Hagkind, but have a lesser capacity for magic. They usually craft simple plots, desiring only murder, betrayal, and cannibalism. They are sometimes called “Iron Hags,” due to their invulnerable skin and sharp claws.

Ash Hags believe the world and all the life within it are unclean and disruptive— they seek to cleanse the world and their victims through flame. They hate the human arrogance of taming flame, and punish their victims with mockeries of the forge— branding them with molten iron and feeding them ashes.

Blood Hags, also known as Socouyants, are the most social of hags. They enjoy living among mortals, and use their abilities to steal the skins of beautiful maidens to hide their true form, of a horrific magical flame.

Dreamthief hags are the stronger cousins of Night Hags, as they maintain immense power of the minds and souls of mortals. They possess venom that disables thoughts, enabling her to meddle with the sleeping mind.

Green Hags thrive on drama and manipulation. These Hags excel at using illusions and shapeshifting, and are well-known for impersonating others to complicate situations.

Mute Hags are the only known Hags that didn’t originate as changelings; They simply manifest when a woman with arcane abilities grows resentful and hateful enough. Due to their genesis, Mute Hags are a breed of evil above all hagkind.

Night Hags are created from the souls of truly black-hearted hags upon death. They arise as fiends with Hag magic, and serve as traveling merchants in the Lower Planes. They are capable of moving through the Ethereal plane to enter mortal dreams, corrupting them and stealing their souls to sell for the highest bidder.

Sea Hags are the most horrific and ugly kinds of hag. Their very gaze can physically harm those who face it, and they have a natural talent for cursing others. They dwell within the water, and love to lure beautiful beings beneath to maim them.

Storm Hags are isolated, spiteful beings that would love nothing more than to be left alone to wallow for eternity. Unfortunately, the actions of mortals and nature irritate them endlessly, and they feel that anyone they lay eyes on has crossed them personally. Storm Hags utilize their connection to the weather to punish happy towns and jovial individuals.

Winter Hags are horrible old crones with frozen hearts. They do not understand empathy or love, only viewing them as weaknesses to be exploited. Despite their cynicism, Winter Hags all have an innate desire to be worshipped, and will often bully arctic communities into making offerings to avert their wrath.

Ideas for using Hags in your campaign:

A Coven of green hags is causing drama in a nearby town. They are constantly shapeshifting into different people to spread rumors and commit crimes, and eventually haven the entire town at eachother’s throats.

A Dreamthief Hag has captured the mind of a member of the party, and is willing to give it up should the party offer her a more interesting mind.

The party is sent after a magical ring said to cure even the most horrific wounds. It was last seen on the finger of a well-known adventurer, who went missing after going out to hunt down an Annis Hag. The party tracks her down to find the ring— which is currently in her stomach, along with the adventurer.

Many sources argue on the true nature and origins of Hags.

Some believe they are corrupted Fey, or what remains of a cursed race. Many folk consider them manifestations of the world’s fear of age, women, and the cruelty of nature.

It may never be known where their origins lie, but some truths are known. Hags can be found in any environment, and they are all cruel-hearted witches that thrive on teaching lessons to the weak or innocent.

Despite their murky reputations, Hags are an ancient race with untold knowledge. They are capable of feats of magic unseen anywhere else, and possess arcane secrets lost to the centuries.

I’m this regard, Hags are a double-edged sword of a species. They thrive on pain and dark intrigue, yet are excellent sources of knowledge and wisdom.

- A Weird Warlock.

[charming-celestial]

Hate hate hate hearing Gabriel call himself a “monster” 🥺 He’s done bad things, but he’s not a bad person. Grief can drastically change people’s behaviors and personality, and the cruel murder of his son did exactly that to Gabriel. And then he suffered yet another huge loss when his twin chose humans, the same species that selfishly stole David’s life, over Gabe. And yet, at his core, an endless love and protectiveness over his family, over Michael, remained to be what mattered most to him.

Michael gleefully killed humans for decades upon decades, and literally delighted in bathing in their blood, but he’s still regarded as a hero, as good, by everyone. Michael only ever snapped out of his bloodlust because of Gabriel, who never once gave up on trying to return his brother to the light, to end the slaughtering of countless humans by Michael’s hand.

Their roles could’ve just as easily been reversed, had Michael done the same for his twin and not have condemned Gabe as a lost cause to the dark side. Gabriel easily could’ve been the one to raise and protect Alex, while Michael continued to be a slave to his bloodlust, had he not went out of his way to interfere on Michael’s behalf.

Nothing about the twins could ever be simple enough to plainly label either as good or evil.

They just are, and exist with all of the beautiful complexities that make them an endless fascination to watch.

[wndybyrd]

@heartlcssboy​ :: continued from HERE.

a golden glow returned to her face, beaming in victory as peter obediently fell into the tangles of her hastily woven tale. the previous feelings of displeasure slid right off her back as the two tittered amongst themselves excitedly. they were the great pretenders. their imaginations roamed endlessly, collecting ideas that ranged from fantastical to nonsensical, creating new worlds or expanding upon the one around them. peter, like no other person she’d ever met, relished in the beauty of make-believe. but it was she, the wendy bird, that crowed a song so convincing not even the most cynical skeptic could deny her fantasies. she could convince herself of anything. her words always held true, even when they didn’t.

silence echoed through the forest, everything falling to a hush—just as her new drama demanded. even nature submitted to the child’s silver-tongue for the sake of a good story. wendy dared to break the stone stillness to peer up at peter, a pleased smile pulling at her face. the figure stood before her was no boy, he was strength and might and daring all wrapped into one. peter was a hero in every sense of the word. he was perfect.

the command jolted wendy out of her hypnosis. the girl, quick to comply, extended her hand with the expectation he would take it in his own and race them through the forest in pursuit of her mythic monster. but when a small, smooth trinket was pressed into her palm, their game was abandoned in favor of this new curiosity. a wooden wolf, so masterfully whittled it felt almost alive, was cupped gently in her palm. wendy brought it close, inspecting the gift with child-like wonderment. a thumb ran along the bumps of etched fur, and sharps of its teeth, before hovering over the beauty of smooth, ivory eyes.     “ i love it ! it will make a perfect new ‘kiss’. “     , she gasped, clutching it against her chest with pride. face split open in a wide, pearly smile, she looked on him with overflowing adoration. this sweet toy was all the material proof she needed to banish any anxiety that eroded her thoughts. he cared, and the darkness that often fogged her mind could no longer convince the girl otherwise.

“ but it doesn’t seem fair . . . i haven’t anything to give you. “     her face fell just a little, disappointed to not have a properly prepared gift for her mighty warrior, stood at the ready to ravage any pretend-monstrosity she could think up. but he fought more than just pretend things. peter was always venturing off to traverse the island alone and fend for its inhabitants, the sole protector of peace, whilst everyone else was lounged around their tree without a worry in the world. it did not seem fair for her to have earned such a comfort when peter was the one fighting wicked devices on his own. he took such good care of her, of them all, with so little reward or regard.

an impish gleam glittered in her eyes as she cast the boy a curious look. the wolf was tucked safely into the padded confines of a trouser pocket before wendy leaned forward, nearly to the tips of her toes, hands clasped behind her back.     “ surely it gets lonesome running around, taking care of everyone and every thing all on your own. the kind of ‘kiss’ you need is one to protect you from being feeling alone when off playing hero. wouldn’t you agree ? “     the question hung between the small space that separated them, a gap she had slowly begun to close. she cocked her head to the side, watching him carefully through her lashes. wendy’s tone was steady, and deeply serious, each word spoken with slow, careful composure.     “ it’s why i’m going to give you the most special sort of ‘kiss’. something i’ve never given anyone else. you won’t be able to see it or hold it, nor is it something you can show off to the others . . . but it can never be stolen away or lost, either. when i give it to you, you’ll have it to keep forever. “

as soon as ‘forever’ dripped off her tongue, wendy closed the gap entirely. her lips pressed softly against him, just above the tip of his own. his cheek had lost the plushness of boyhood, now sharp and chiseled like the etches of her whittled wolf. not even a handful of seconds passed by yet the moment felt eternal. when she finally did pull back, her hand moved up to brush the plot upon which her lips had just been planted.     “ even when we’re apart, i will always be with you. right. there. “

pleased, the girl fell back on her heels. a bouqet of rose-red had begun to blossom against her cheeks, but it went ignored, choosing to brush past peter and further into the deep wood rather than dwell. wendy was sure that if she lingered to long, he would hear the ferocity of her rapidly beating heart.     “ now i have your wolf to protect me, and you have my thimble. the scrungle, or any monster for that matter, shall not stand chance. not even hook ! “

[yuikomorii]

Can we talk about something that I don’t really get. I’ve been in this fandom for a long time and I really can’t believe the fandom sees Yui as a girly girl.

I’m not saying it as something mean but she’s not like that in the slightest in the games. Not entirely tomboy but not girly either, she’s just a normal person who isn’t a stereotype and that’s what makes her special from other heroines I had seen.

Are people only seeing her as girly because she cooks and wears pink?! So do Reiji and Ruki and Kou wears that color too and that doesn’t make them any less manly. It feels like the fandom only likes their own version of Yui. She’s just an ordinary girl, and whoever does that misses the whole point of her character. She’s not the epitome of beauty nor girly, she’s made to be a normal girl with a f-ing good heart that can heal even the worst of the monsters. I apologize for making this so long, I would love to hear your thoughts admin because you seem one of the few real ones in this fandom and I love your blog ❤️

// Oh, someone finally understands! Thank you so much for your kind words! I'm glad there are people out there who can objectively analyze a character because everything you said there is true! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Yui is not girly, and this has been confirmed numerous times in the games, but there is nothing wrong with that:

Yui was never interested in make-up until she saw how beautiful her Ryōtei Academy classmates were. Although, she abandoned the idea of wearing make-up later. In Kou's MB route, he does her make-up, which she didn’t really like because she believed she looked too different dolled up.

Yui had never tried nail polish before Ruki's DF heaven scenario.

Laito claims that after they started dating, he was surprised to discover that Yui wasn't good at girl stuff at all.

Yui isn’t really fond of elegant clothing; when Cordelia was in her body, she dressed her up in that lovely dark blue dress but Yui described it as “tight and uncomfortable”. The only reason she wore the outfits she did in the games was most likely because they were all pretty baggy and comfortable. Furthermore, not all of them are pink nor pastel-colored.

Her fashion sense is regarded as bad. She got a new dress in VC because the clothes she was wearing were called too "servant-like”.

She was sitting down at a ball when Reiji told her something, so she jumped up excited but almost fell down because she couldn't handle the heels.

She never puts on perfume. In Ayato's CL, she wore it for him, but he noticed her smell and said he preferred her natural one.

I also believe that people frequently confuse being girly with being feminine. Is Yui girly? No, she's not into girl stuff. Is she feminine? Of course, she's the heroine, and she's supposed to represent a girl, so she'd have some traditionally feminine personality traits like generosity, warmth, kindness, and empathy. However, it’s not like she can’t be loud, a klutz or not ladylike:

She’s confirmed to have a very loud voice. When hiding, her voice is every time said to be the loudest, even when she's whispering.

She's clumsy, and she definitely lacks grace (yet I find that cute).

She canonically doesn’t have a very good posture. Reiji and other characters complained about that at some point.

Remember, being feminine doesn’t only mean being quiet, soft-spoken, graceful, wise or chic; it includes a variety of other characteristics, and no one says you have to possess all of them to be considered feminine. 💕

[yesimwriting]

The Promise of Rain

A/n finally writing that Kaz Brekker x reader angsty-fluff where the reader is all sunshine-y and Kaz is dramatic as always lol 

Might make this a blurb series bc i like this dynamic so much lol

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x sunshine-y reader 

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Kaz has a conversation with the reader (who’s a runaway princess) about what happens to people who stay near him. 

-- 

He once said that he didn’t believe in Saints. A moment later he conceded that perhaps they existed in order to appease Inej, but he was quick to tact on that if Saints existed they didn’t care about him. Inej and I had exchanged a look, she pleaded with me in silence to let him be. I opened my mouth despite the look in her eyes, but he had walked away before I could get any words out. 

He believes that the Saints don’t care about him, but as soon as he was dragged in by Jesper, bleeding and more broken than usual, it had started to rain. The rain is a promise. The rain is a sign that he will wake up. 

I tap a finger against the forgotten book on my lap, ignoring the dried blood I’ve been too anxious to wash off. When Kaz wakes up he’ll either scold me or partially tease me for waiting here by his bedside. The rain continues, cascading down invisible hope. 

“Save your prayers, even for you the Saints won’t regard me.” Kaz. His voice is raspier than it should be and his slight condescension is blighted by the tired flatness of it. But it’s him. He’s speaking. 

I tear my gaze away from the window, almost forgetting to tamper down my relief before finally looking at him. I haven’t known him long enough to see him in any level of defeat, but I’ve heard enough stories. The fictional exaggeration of those that fear him have made him seem so immortal. Some part of me must have internalized that because to see him like this, to see him so human is too intimate. 

“Don’t be so narcissistic.” Something about Kaz always leaves me feeling challenged, like each comment is some kind of dare. I adjust my posture. “I wasn’t praying because I knew you’d be okay.” 

His expression is unchanging. “So much faith in me?” 

There’s a soft edge to his words, an attempt to twist some kind of awkward denial out of me. Some days I don’t think Kaz enjoys anything and then other days I think he enjoys any misstep in my words. 

I shrug, pushing down the flood of relief still attempting to crawl out of my chest. “You’re always okay.” I scratch the back of my wrist idly. “It seems the safe bet.” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been taking gambling advice from Jesper.” 

I half roll my eyes. “No--Jesper and I don’t play together anymore.” I let out an easy sigh. “Last time I beat him he bordered on a hissy fit.” There’s the slightest hint of upturning at the corners of his lips. “I should go tell Jesper and Inej you’re awake.” 

“I think you should change out of that dress first.”

He was more likable when I thought he might die at any second. “Wow--Kaz Brekker the professional stylist.” He has no right to judge the formal gown I’m in. Yes, my outfit is ridiculous, but I’m only wearing it because the Crows needed someone they knew at a merchant’s party for a part of some scheme they wouldn’t share the details of with me. “Yes, I’m aware that this dress is more tulle than anything else, but I’m only wearing it because I was helping you.” 

I wait for some retort about how he could have managed without my assistance or some kind of comment about how I didn’t need such a large dress to flirt and distract the guards as the Crows snuck into the merchant’s private office. “You fit in there more than you said you would.” 

From anyone else, I’d consider this an insult. “I was making an effort for the sake of your plans.” 

“I saw you before I went into the office, you knew the dances, the man took your hand.” 

That’s the weirdest observation I’ve ever witnessed someone reflect on. “That’s how those dances tend to work.” I don’t hide the confusion in my expression. “How much blood did you lose?” 

Kaz’s piercing gaze drops to the blanket on his lap. “Not a concerning amount.”

“Why do I feel like we have different definitions of ‘concerning’?” 

His eyes flit upwards, a partial smirk playing at his lips. “We define a lot of things differently.” He pauses, “You defined the life you slipped into so easily tonight as something you could never do.” 

“I can’t.” What is his problem? “One dance is different than an eternity of planning teas and marrying some man who only keeps me so I can rear his children.” 

“You’d end up marrying someone who could give you things.”

He better not be implying I should be having children. I’m seriously starting to hope he did lose a significant amount of blood because that would be some kind of explanation. “I don’t want anyone to be giving me children right now, but I guess your concern is ni--”

“No, no,” he screws his eyes shut for a long second, “You know what I meant.” I stay silent. “You’re technically a princess, y/n, you could have more than the Barrel.” There’s an odd silence as he pauses. “Someone like you should have more than the Barrel.” 

He speaks like his word is law. That’s the one habit of his I can never seem to forgive. Is Kaz telling me to go home? To go back to a mother who dreams of marrying me off and a father with a temper that often leads to violence? He may be Dirtyhands, but he is no one to tell me who to go back to. Not after I risked my anonymity to get him into that merchant’s office. 

I shut my book and stand in one swift motion. “I’m going to tell Jesper and Inej that you’re awake.”

“Y/n.” I ignore him. “Y/n.” Again, I ignore him, approaching the doorway. The rustling of sheets leaves me frozen, hand on the doorknob. “Y/n.” 

Without thinking, I turn on my heels while glaring. There’s no way he’s proud enough to have climbed out of bed wi--and he’s standing. Standing almost directly behind me. 

“Kaz Brekker, I am going to say this one time and one time only.” I keep my words measured and my tone flat. No room for argument. “You just had nine stitches put in near your heart, get your ass back in bed before that is no longer your only injury.” 

He pauses, lips pressed together into a tight white line. And then his mouth opens, pried open by an oddly light sound. Did he just--Did Kaz Brekker just laugh? He doesn’t laugh. I didn’t think he was physically capable, and now he laughs while I’m threatening him? I should hit him on principle alone and damn the consequences. 

“Did you--” I’m gaping at him with a rage I am not accustomed to. “Did you just laugh?” 

Kaz is quick to shut his mouth. “You did swear you’d get me to laugh one day.” 

Saints--now he chooses to have some kind of sense of humor. “Not while I was threatening you for being an idiot after saying my lineage means that I’m meant to be trapped in the life I desire least.” 

“I didn’t say that.” I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t deserve more than this because of your family, you deserve more than this because--” He cuts himself off with a sharp sigh. “Do you remember what happened the day we met?” 

He had wanted to return me to my father for the money. I had managed to convince him I could be more useful working for him without profit. The first day had been tense, I had sworn to myself that I would hate him forever. 

“I remember really hating you.” I remember thinking him beautiful despite his darkness. “I remember it started raining on our way here.” 

“You had a hood, but you pushed it off your head to feel the rain.” I don’t remember that because indulging in the rain is instinctual to me. “You looked at the rain, and you smiled--and then you saw a woman with a child and you took off your hood and gave it to them.” 

“What does that have to d--” 

“Watching that felt like intruding on an intimate moment I had no business knowing about, but it wasn’t that to you. That moment was nothing to you because that moment was who you are.” 

I don’t understand what he sees in something I can barely remember. “Kaz, what does that have to do with anything?” 

“I’m the monster that children believe live under their beds, I’m the bastard of the Barrel, I’m someone who gets blood on everything near them.” His gaze is harsher than I’ve ever seen it as he focuses on the dried blood splotched across my hands and arms. “And then I can’t even help you wash it off.” 

Those last words are the closest to broken I’ve ever heard him sound. “Kaz--”

“And you’re the girl who looks at the rain like it’s a gift from the Saints.” 

Is he implying what I think he’s implying? Even if I believed him such a source of evil, even if I felt like touch mattered that much--why would he care? I keep the much more frightening implication at bay as I exhale. Clarity will only make this conversation worse. “That doesn’t matter.” The words leave me in a low whisper. 

I stare at the ground until his silence is something I can no longer bear. Looking up as cautiously as possible, I take in his expression. I’ve never seen him look so--so enraged. “It doesn’t matter?!” He doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s practically seething. “I’ve viewed your presence here as temporary since you first came and despite that, when I saw you there…” The breath he lets out is practically pained. “When I saw what your life is meant to be--I didn’t want you to go.” 

The admission breaks something hard in my chest. “I never wanted to go.” My eyeline drops to the ground. “I didn’t want to go when you were trying to make me, I didn’t want to go when it was only for that evening.” I swallow a lump of emotion restricting my throat. “When you were bleeding out and Jesper had to carry you back here I let myself imagine what it’d be like if you died. And it hurt. It hurt so badly I asked myself if I would rather never know you than feel that pain.” 

“Would you?” His voice has gone hollow. 

I finally look up again. “No.” That word leaves me more bare than any physical touch ever could. 

“I stain everything that stays with me,” his voice has seamlessly shifted back to a tone meant for business, “Me wanting you to stay is more than enough reason for you to leave.”

My chest aches as emotions I’ll never be able to place a name to pound against my chest. “I’m a princess that ran away from her family and tried to befriend her kidnapper--you can’t possibly be narcissistic enough to believe that you’re what’s corrupted me.” 

“Y/n,” his voice is gravely again, the way it was when he first woke up. 

“No. What could you possibly think I’d say to that?” He’s insane--I’m not even sure I understand what he’s implying. “You know I’ll never agree with what you’re saying, so I have no idea what kind of reaction you’re looking for.”

“Maybe a genuine one.” 

The comment is so frustrating I can’t help but roll my eyes. The irony of Kaz Brekker asking for a genuine reaction to an emotionally heavy comment is almost laughable. “My genuine reaction is that you’re acting like an idiot because I don’t agree with anything you’re saying, but calling someone an idiot after they’ve been stabbed in the chest is a little insensitive so I can’t give you my genuine reaction.”

Kaz half-scoffs, “You don’t agree? Y/n--are you hearing me!? I want--I want you to stay.” Even angry, the admission warms me. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “More than that I want--” 

“What?” 

He shakes his head once. “I want something that can never be because I can’t give what needs to be given to get it.” 

“Kaz, if it involves me staying you don’t need to give anything for that because I don’t want to go.” 

“I-want-you-to-stay-with-me.” The admission is pried from him by some invisible force. He speaks so fiercely the sentence comes out as one angry word. 

He speaks so quickly a part of me is convinced that I misheard him. I watch him as he moves back to the bed, sitting down in a way so resigned I wonder if I blurted something out on instinct. 

“Kaz,” this is embarrassing, “I wanted to stay with you even when I wanted to hate you.”

I take in his measured expression, the only thing implying any kind of reaction is the way his eyebrows draw together. “Don’t say that, you don’t understand what that means.” 

“Why? Because you’re convinced you’ll ruin me?” 

“Y/n, we’d be together with a wall between us, keeping us from ever touching.” 

“I will tolerate any amount of damage you’re so convinced staying with you will bring, I will stay with you and never touch you and think nothing of it--but I will not stay with you just to stand in front of a wall.” I let out a tired breath. “I will stay with you but my one condition will be that you have to let me know you.” 

Kaz’s intense gaze wavers. “The first thing you’ll know is that me allowing you to stay is a testament to my greed.” 

I give him a sharp look, “It’s not greed if I want to be here.” 

He half sighs, leaning against a pillow as he turns to look out the window. “It’s raining,” he muses, “The Saints must have done that for you.” 

The sentiment is so soft my heart feels like it’s constricting. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Saints.” 

“If they exist, they do so for people like you.” 

I push past the emotion in my chest as I move to sit in the same chair I was in earlier. “I was honest when I said I didn’t pray for you.” I scratch the back of my arm, a coldness passing over me. “I didn’t pray because I knew you would be okay because you had to be.” 

“They wouldn’t have saved me,” he mumbles, “Or maybe they would have for you.” 

I shake my head once, staring at the rain with more fascination than before. 

--

General Taglist: @theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Chauncey is real within the narrative and functions symbolically as many other things also. Stede’s in liminal space. I don’t think he has internalised homophobia either, but I don’t think he fully understands his identity enough at this juncture to really know what it is that makes him non-normative. He knows what he’s not. He knows he’s not someone comfortable in a ‘married state’. He knows he does not have traditional masculine traits. But he’s never dealt with what all of this might means for who he is. I believe Stede does think he’s a monster because at this point he doesn’t have a frame of reference for who he is. He certainly doesn’t identify with heteronormative Bridgetown society or fully with queer culture on the Revenge. So what kind of freak is he? He thinks he’s an anomaly. What Chauncey intends when he calls Stede a monster, and says he ‘defiles beautiful things’, we understand as femme-phobic and homophobic slurs. Stede agreeing that he’s a monster is due to his understanding of being non-normative, but he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with fully at this point. In this way, Chauncey is both real and a manifestation. Stede is in flux and not in full possession of the facts about himself. He knows he’s ‘different’, and people around him seem to get hurt, so Chauncey must be right, his difference is what causes the hurt. He’s innately monstrous. In that sense, Chauncey exists externally from Stede, but is also manifested by Stede.

Stede’s hasn’t healed his childhood traumas and this one keeps coming back again and again in the form of those same childhood tormentors. The same face, the same ridiculous way of dying - these are deliberate and symbolic choices on the part of the writing team. Stede’s stuck in a psychological Groundhog Day. He needs to sew up that tear in his psyche to stop them coming through.

Monsters live in the dark. Stede’s lack of understanding around his identity allowed him to keep manifesting those who seemed to know more than he did, and weaponise it against him. Stede colludes in the hatred because he isn’t clear with what he is colluding. Once Stede can shine a light on who he is, he moves from liminal space into more certainty and self-acceptance, and I don’t believe he can be hurt in the same way again by Badminton spirals or other sorts. But it’s Stede’s changing himself, putting right the situation with his family best he can, and accepting and understanding how he is different, that he is a femme, gay man in love with Ed, which stops them coming. Clarity regarding what others think makes Stede a monster ironically helps Stede realise he isn’t one. I didn’t mean for this to be so long.

The first time I saw Stede held at gunpoint by Chauncey, I believed it might be a night terror. They’re repeating the Nigel guilt-ghost motif, I thought. Or even his fever-induced nightmares. This is what Stede does. Big emotions writ large shouting the worst parts of his self-loathing. The words Chauncey says is probably the exact noise playing in Stede’s head. In fact he ‘completely agree[s]’. The repeated death-injury to the eye, and Stede’s subsequent amnesic journey home, barefoot in underclothes, just seemed to play out perfectly as a full-blown, hallucinatory panic-attack.

And then I realised the consensus was this event likely occurs, it truly happens within the narrative. Stede also remembers both Badminton brothers alongside the line ‘I’ve been the cause of death.’

Fast forward to 204, and Stede doesn’t mention the event to Ed during the couch scene. I’ve said before it wasn’t the right time to say ‘…but, Chauncey’. However, it did happen, didn’t it? And Stede does need to tell Ed eventually. Because then it might mitigate some of Stede’s responsibility… right?

Well, I’m not sure we’re looking at it from the best angle.

Chauncey arriving at the barracks to kill Stede is likely meant to be understood as real within the fictional setting of the show. But this is a magical realist world, and Chauncey’s turning up did not occur in the same way as it would in our reality. There is a different significance and meaning.

I think two seemingly-contrary things can exist here: Chauncey really did show up of his own choice, and Stede is somewhat responsible for his showing up, because this could be read as a metaphysical event. Stede partly manifests Chauncey. The show often uses mirrors as a way of exploring identity, and Stede is right in the middle of an identity crisis. Chauncey is an accurate reflection of Stede’s internal chaos, a judgmental dark angel on his shoulder. And until Stede is able to go back to Bridgetown, and deal with the guilt and mess of leaving his family, Badminton brothers, cousins, and half-uncles are going to keep showing up, insulting Stede at the deepest level, then Darwining themselves in front of him.

The lesson here, I think, is we help create our own reality: if you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always got. Stede needs to change his internal narrative to free himself from this twisted pattern.

It’s not that Stede deserves the bullying of the Badminton brothers; he absolutely doesn’t. But his state of mind lays the groundwork for the external manifestation of his thoughts within this universe. Chauncey is the personification of Stede’s self-loathing, and Stede co-creates the situation, somehow drawing Chauncey (and Nigel) towards him. As a character within a fictional world we are being asked to watch Stede’s transformation after this event, and one of those changes is his breaking this particular cycle.

That is why I’m not too bothered if Stede ever tells Ed about Chauncey. Like someone once said similarly of god, if Chauncey didn’t exist, it might be necessary for Stede to invent him. Chauncey’s intervention gives Stede a sort of permission to act as he does. There is no mitigation for Stede here. He has to own it, no matter how distorted his thinking at the time; and he does just that to Ed later without resorting to sackcloth and ashes.

The complexity of what happens that night might well be outside of physical reality. It’s Ed returning from the gravy basket largely unscathed. Or Buttons becoming a bird. It isn’t easy to understand fully because the laws that govern our reality are suspended here. But our role as viewers isn’t to reach a definitive conclusion or worry ourselves in circles over narrative gaps. It’s to consider what the Chauncey event triggers and then leads to.

This is Stede’s rock-bottom. From here on in, we see character growth in which Stede overcomes a good portion of the self-loathing lurking within his soul, replacing it with a kinder internal narrative, and helping him in turn to love and be loved. And Stede has also hopefully exorcised the possibility of any future Badminton visitations.

Stede returns, and he returns a better man than he left because he did much of the internal work he needed to do.

He changes his stars - and Ed’s. That’s all that matters.

[parvulous-writings]

Home // Mother!Dimitrescu x Child!F!Reader

Request:  Hi! may i request this scenario: what if lady dimitrescu had a fourth daughter? like child reader stumbles into the castle and lady dimitrescu decides to raise her as her own. thanks love!

Requested by: Anon

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu adopts a new daughter. 

Warnings: mentions of death

Words: 1.7K

Notes:  My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!

Not my gif 

Cold. That was the only thing you could feel. The only thing you had felt for the past several hours, at least. Well, feel in a loose sense of the term. Your limbs were numb, stiff and unable to move. You had been shuffling forward with no real sense of direction for who knows how long now, with no end in sight, no shelter from the elements you were forced to endure.  Your home had been attacked by massive monsters- not quite man, not quite human. You parents had ushered you and your siblings out of your home,  but now you were the last of your family line. One by one, your family had been picked off by your attackers, but each time you had managed to wriggle your way out of the situation. At one point you had even ducked into the woods to escape the beasts, but now that you had returned to the village you didn’t know what landmarks were what; almost everything you could recognise had been destroyed. You did, however, manage to find the Maiden of War, a statue that was in the centre of a roundabout like pathway that tractors and wagons often used. In normal life at least.  Nearby to that, up some stone steps, was a stone door with a carving that frightened most of the children of the village, even with the two reliefs missing. However, this time, the reliefs were there,  and the gateway had opened ever so slightly. Void of hope, and with every other option exhausted, you shuffle towards it, slipping through the crack, and starting up the snow-covered pathway to who knows where. Though, by looking up, you assumed that it lead to the massive castle which loomed over the village and it’s surroundings. 

The trek up there was probably much shorter than it seemed to be. There was a drawbridge that lay over a small, shallow body of water, and your footsteps echo off of it as you cross into a dark and rocky tunnel. It’s very dimly lit- nothing more than wall mounted torches and the fading remaining light to guide your way. You felt your way along to stone wall, the surface cold to the touch, not that you could tell all that much. Eventually, you came to a door. It was tall, much taller than you, although it was only about average height in reality. You pressed all your weight against it, and slowly- oh so slowly- did it creak open. You scurried inside, pushing the door shut once more behind you.  After catching your breath you take a moment to observe your surroundings- you were in a rather lavish room, just large enough to be classed as a hall, with hard, marble floors and a tiny staircase onto a more raised floor. You clamber up them, and notice a rather detailed portrait in front of you, of three beautiful young women, with tied up brown hair, sitting together in what appeared to be a forest or woodland clearing; it was a little bit hard to tell since the women took up most of the picture. You tilted your head slightly as you got lost in the colours and brushstrokes, wondering who these women were and what they did to warrant such a wonderful portrait. Of course, there was a plaque beneath it- most likely holding some of the information you wanted- you couldn’t read it, and it was a little too high for you anyway.

The sound of an opening door somewhere down the hall to your left catches your attention. Without knowing what else to do, you start to walk towards it, staying close to the walls and running your hand slowly along it. You push through a few more doors, before coming to a large hall- occupied with a chair, small table, assorted plants and even a chest of drawers in a corner. Your eyes roam upwards, and this room alone could house the entirety of the village, perhaps two or three times over. You knew the castle was big- it often occupied conversation among the children of the village- but this took your breath away. Not only was it huge, but it was ornate, more ornate than anything you had seen before in your life. One mere trinket from this room alone could have fed your family for at least two months, had they been alive still to see this.  You hear another door close behind you, and you spin round to see if who is there. You can only hope that the residents of this castle take pity on you. But, you see nothing. No one. You’re incredibly confused by this, and you have to glance this way and that to make sure that there’s no one around you. All you can find is a few flies. Wait. There’s more than a few. There’s three whole clouds.  You give a small shriek and duck to the floor, covering your head and face to try and hide away from the bugs, making sure they didn’t get near your face. If they didn’t get near your face, you could pretend they weren’t there at all. 

The only problem was, you could still hear the buzzing of their wings. You felt a few beat against your back, as the sounds began to warp and change. From buzzing and droning to... Laughter? Yes, it was laughter, three different laughs to be exact. Fearfully, you look up from your arms, to see three, rather fearsome looking young women in front of you. In surprise you bury your face into your arms again- if you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you, right? The three girls look between one another, slightly confused. Not at your behaviour, but more at how you- a mere child- had managed to get yourself up into the castle. The one standing in the middle,  one with red, oddly shaved hair, crouched down in front of you, tilting her head curiously. She glanced over her shoulder at the other two fly women, who shrugged at her; they didn’t know who you were or how you got into the castle either. “Child?” The one in front of you spoke, her voice like silk to your ears, especially after their piercing laughs and the roars of the Lycans. You shakily lift your head up again, looking up at her with tears of fear starting to prick at the corners of your eyes. She holds her hand out to you, trying to give you a smile of reassurance.  It works to some extent, though you don’t have too much of a choice other than to take the woman’s hand, so you carefully do so. She helps you to your feet, and you see the other two women staring at you. The blonde women looks to the last one, a brunette wearing a yellow variation of the pendant worn by all three. “Go tell mother.” The blonde said to her, to which the brunette burst into a cloud of flies in reply, swooping off down a hall. You give a yelp of surprise, hiding behind the legs of the woman who’s hand you still clutch to. She looks at you, confused for a second. 

She sighs, and starts to tug you along. “Come on.” She urges, rather impatiently, dragging you off down a side hall, where you can hear a couple of voices as you approach another door. The blonde woman pushes the door open, “Mother.” She greets, speaking to someone sitting in a plush, velvety chair. Whoever is sitting down places a crimson glass on a small table in front of her, before getting to her feet. “Well, let’s take a look at the child.” She speaks, and your jaw practically drops at her height. You hardly even reach her knees. You’re not sure whether to remain in awe, or to let the fright and fear set in. She looks down at you, regarding you briefly before starting to smile. “Why... I don’t see why you were so panicked, Cassandra...” She spoke to the brunette stood beside her chair, sent ahead of the other two with you. “Look at her- she poses no threat. It was chance she happened upon us, was it not?” She looked to the woman, who has lowered her head respectfully.  “Yes, mother.” She replied, before moving her gaze over to you again. “What are we to do with her? She is human, what if-” “Ah-ah.” The tall woman interrupts. “No what-ifs.” She says sternly, before turning her attention fully to you. “What happened to your family, little one?” She asks, not bothering to get down on your level. You take a moment to answer, which the Lady of the castle allows, considering you are merely a child, and in a strange new environment. She could understand any fear you may have, she has been there herself in the past.  “The.. The monsters.” You squeak, and the woman hums softly, looking at her three daughters briefly. 

In her mind, you were a child without a family, a child with need of a home and a family. She gave a curt nod to herself, folding her arms over her chest. “Well, then we shall be your new family.” She tells you, and the shock is clear on your face.  “What..?” You whisper, your voice hardly audible to any of the other women in the room.  “We shall be your new family.” She declares proudly again, “These are your new sisters. Bela.” She gestures to the woman still holding loosely onto your hand, with the shaved red hair. “Daniela.” She gestured to the blonde woman on the other side of you, “And Cassandra.” She placed a hand on the shoulder of the girl closest to her. “And you can call me mother.” She smiled brightly at you, stepping forward slightly, and bending down, opening her arms to you. “Come here, child.” She coos to you, as Bela drops your hand. You shuffle towards her, and as soon as you’re close enough, she scoops you up into her arms, resting you against her shoulder, cradling you with a warm smile. “Come now, let us find you a room...” She whispers, and as she starts walking through the seemingly endless maze of hallways you feel yourself drifting off to sleep in the arms of.. Well, your mother. Despite only just meeting her, you feel safe with her and her daughters, your sisters. You knew you’d be happy here, happier than you would be anywhere else, especially in the ruins of the village you once called home. 

------

Part two

[mercarimari]

NOTE: This is the first in a series of one-shots that i’m going to write for Aelin involving trauma processing post canon, and my headcanons in relevance to her PTSD and the other issues she faces after the Coffin. That said heavy themes will be present in all of the one shots posted under my tag Popular Monster. Themes of suicidal ideation, death, torture, implied SA (in regards to Fenrys), and other potentially dark themes will be present, you have been warned.  Project Title: Popular Monster Fic Title: I Just Wanna Feel Okay.  WC:  1074

Sleep was hard anymore.

It often didn’t matter that Rowan was asleep next to her, when the Gods awful nightmares drug her out of the bliss of a deep sleep. Not even the sound of his breathing and his heart soothed her. She was thankful for his understanding, that he understood her on a level not many people could. They’d only discussed it once, briefly, but she remembered. He’d suffered similarly, long before she’d even been a thought to be brought into the world.

Her footsteps echoed on in her ears as she moved through the castle. The padding of each step was like a scream in the silence of the night. But bare feet made their way through the halls from their chambers, and into the throne room. A true throne sat upon a dias now. Not just the most ornate chair they could find in the remaining rubble of her once great home.

It was great again. Terrasen had managed to rise from the ashes of the war. Orynth was beautiful again, as it had been when she was a child at the height of it’s glory. She should not have lived to see it. She took a seat upon the gilded throne of golden stag horns, made of metal and not the symbolic shed horns of the Stag of the North like the original. It would take centuries to rebuild that piece of her Kingdom’s history.

In the dark silence, Aelin curled up in the throne that was far too large for her. Even with all the weight she’d put back on thanks to her training and regular meals. It still held a certain level of intimidation to her, even now. It was here where reality fell upon her shoulders. It was here, that she had no choice but to embrace the things that had happened to her, because there was no escaping them. The war was over. She’d survived when she had been destined to die. And she didn’t have nearly enough distractions to keep her from falling into the spiraling pit of what had been done to her. She had no choice but to embrace the horrors of the months she’d lost trapped in an endless cycle of relentless torment that had torn at parts of her she’d long thought laid to rest. “Can’t sleep?” Aelin looked up to where she found Fenrys, standing in the massive doorway, down the aisle from her. He didn’t wait for an answer as he made his way towards her. He looked just as tired as she felt, and she knew that he likely hadn’t slept either. At least not well. She tried to force a smile. “I got a little bit. Had another nightmare though, and then my foot cramped up, felt like it was being torn apart. Couldn’t go back to sleep after that.” She couldn’t keep the smile in place. It fell into a frown as she watched him continue his lazy approach. She met his eyes, and made note of the five blinks. *This is real, you are awake.*

“She’s dead and I still can’t find peace.”  A broken laugh bubbled from her throat. How many nights had seen them here? How many of those nights had Fenrys spent apologizing to her, for the belief that he had not done enough to save her? He hadn’t had a choice, and as selfish as it was, she was just glad he was alive. “I know.” He answered.

“It’s like waiting for a bomb to drop.” Aelin breathed, as he came to stand in front of her. “The thing that’ll shatter the illusion.” Because there was always something someone said or did that shattered Maeve’s illusions.

Fenrys nodded, then he offered his own explanation. “I dreamed of Connall again.” Aelin knew what that meant. It hadn’t been a happy dream, no, it had been his mind reminding him of the sticky warmth of his brother’s blood. Of what Maeve had made him do after his death while his body laid lifeless mere feet away. “I’m sorry.” She tried to blink back the tears that welled up in her eyes. “I wish I could make everything right and still save everyone. I wish I could give him back to you.” Words she’d said so many times they felt rehearsed, even if she meant them every time they fell from her lips. “I know.” He said again, “I know you’d do anything to make it right, but this is how it is, Aelin. And I would not give you up for anything in the world.” The tears slipped free in spite of her best efforts to keep them trapped. So few people had seen her weakness. The ones who remained alive, she could count on her fingers. But Fenrys had seen her at her weakest. Had been there to save her life, had stopped that final breaking. Had nearly killed himself to do it.  “Not a single fucking thing.” She agreed. Bound. She and Fenrys were bound in a way entirely unique. He had borne the worst of her weakness and had been her strength when she feared she’d give up. Fenrys had saved her life, just as much as she’d saved his. “Do you want to try to go back to sleep?” He asked, holding out his hand. Aelin placed hers in his, and let him guide her to her feet. “Probably smart. We’ve got a lot of shit to do later.” Before she could take another step towards the stairs, Fenrys pulled her into his arms, a hand stroked over her hair, and his voice was a whisper in her ear as he held her. “I know it’s hard, but we’ll get through it. One day at a time. Until we find our reasons to smile on the other side.” He released her, and in a flash of light a white wolf had taken the place of his fae form, nudging at her hand.

Fenrys led the way back to her chambers, where Rowan still breathed steadily. She climbed back into the bed, settling herself against him. Rowan shifted in his sleep to accommodate the return of her weight against him. Familiar safe arms wrapped around her, and Fenrys leapt onto the bed, his massive white form settling behind her legs, the warm softness of his fur, and her mate’s heartbeat lulling her back into the depths of a dreamless sleep.