#erratic apparition

[mtg-art-daily]

Erratic Apparition

"What's got you all bent out of shape?" —Joseph, comedian, last words

Artist: Miranda Meeks

[almostlookedhuman]

[letterful]

Ethnologist Robert Piotrowski of the Polish Academy of Sciences (PAN) found 1,200 accounts of supernatural beliefs in the region, 600 of which were selected for the final map. These stories connect myths to landscape features such as glacial erratics, moraine hills and peat bogs. “We were mainly interested in local tales of extraordinary events linked to a specific place,” said Piotrowski , quoted by the Polish Press Agency (PAP). “For example, tales of beliefs that witches met on this particular mountain, that this boulder was once thrown by a giant, that the dyke on the lake was built by the devil, or that will-o’-the-wisps appeared in this swamp,” he added. The team created 12 general categories to catalogue the supernatural beings depicted on the map, with the most common being devils (26.1%), followed by wild hunters (11.9%), apparitions (11.9%), gnomes (11.1%) and giants (11%).

hello. cześć even.

(& here's the actual academic paper delineating the entire process - in english, too!)

[anonymous-existences]

DCxDP Prompt 17 :

Danny was very displeased, displeased at the fact that he had to be a quarter vampire.

Let him explain, Danny had been visiting Vlad for his annual Therapy session, Dan had told the boy that Vlad has been acting strange and isolating himself in his bedroom.

Danny speculated that maybe the man is... Doing evil things again to mess with Danny and so just as any other sane person would, He visited the man. He stepped into a dark and cold room, "Frootloop...?", he called out as he kept the door open Infront of him.

Without even giving the boy a second to process the darkness, Plasmius pounced on him and had dug his sharp teeth and fangs on his arm, Danny took only a few moments and threw Plasmius to the side, his eyes were glowing red.

Danny was cursing as Plasmius's Hair 'Horns' were actual horns now and he looked... Hungry.

Danny would not like to delve more into those new trauma memories but short to say but Plasmius had a more animalistic side to him due to his vampire shtick and it turns out he knows when it happens but simply forgot to tell Danny or Anyone about this situation.

Danny went home after having been bandaged by Dani, He felt weird ever since that day and for the past few days the sun had felt more hotter for him that he ended up using sunscreen often, he found Ectoplasm more... Delicious as well and when he happened to get injured and licked the blood off his arm due to something urging him, he slowly pieced everything together.

Danny started showcasing more vampiric features, his eyes had a red tint, his ears were pointier and his fangs sharper, slowly he's had more of an attraction to blood and Ectoplasm, being able to find or smell blood from afar.

Danny at some point tells jazz and she ofcourse accepts him wholeheartedly and protects him as much as she could, even going as far as intimidating the A-Listers enough that they'd leave Danny alone.

It... It didn't prove good for him though, The Sensors clocked him more as a ghost. It made Maddie and Jack extremely suspicious.

One morning Tucker and Sam had called him something about Maddie and Jack finding out, Danny was then caught especially at a time where Jazz was out of town.

We all know what happens in Bad Parents Maddie and Jack, They have him strapped to a table.

Jazz went home 3 days later and after finding out about what happened to Danny, she ran to the closest person she could get help from. Vlad.

The DC part ;

Danny had ran away with Jazz, Dan and Dani to Gotham, Apparently Vlad had bought them a Manor and Since Dan was the oldest he was the one who managed all the money and he was good at it.

Danny still had difficulty controlling the hunger, the Half Ghost Thing now along with having vampire stuff on him and still somehow being half human was the only thing keeping him sane and feel like he's in control of his body.

These instincts from 3 different species in one body fused to one causing him to get more confused and erratic with his behaviors, Dan resorts to taking Danny out at night and letting him ravage and feed on Criminals which Dan had specifically picked.

Meanwhilst the bats have been notified of Child and Human traffickers or anything of the same level crime that they don't feel bad about have been found dead with bite marks on their necks and their bodies drained of blood, It confused them ofcourse but no innocent bystanders or civilians was ever turned into a victim of this unknown assailant.

The public had nicknamed the supposed "Vampire Meta" As Apparition (Because Dracula was too cliché), One faithful night, a witness happens to see this strange person feed on a criminal.

A black haired teenage boy had their teeth sunken in the big man's neck, their eyes a red tint but it's obvious they were blue, said civilian immediately told the police which gave the bats a lead.

Witnesses starts to see more of him, Red Robin happens to encounter the younger boy on coincidence, his clothes were bloodied but he stared at the horizon of the city. The boy looked out of thought, his eyes hazed as Red Robin approached him, Danny turned his head at Red Robin almost immediately upon hearing his footsteps.

"Hello." He greets with a fanged but soft and innocent smile that made Red Robin's heart skip a beat. Just who is this boy? And why is Tim starting to have a crush for him.

You guys can take it from here, all my thoughts were, Halfa!Vamp!Danny and Dead Tired.

[rezwrites]

Hiya! Can you please write fem reader x Rio where Y/N gets possessed during the trial by her dead evil mother (similar to Agatha) and others want to punish her too, and Rio is the only one who protects her? Later she calms her down too, when reader is back to normal

Here you go!

Warnings: thoughts of stabbing

Everyone was gathered around the ouija board fingers on the planchette. The air grew heavy with an otherworldly energy. A round of questions go by with no answer until Teen asks, “what do you want?”

Everybody looks puzzled when the planchette spells out punish. Everyone’s voices rise up questioning if someone was moving the planchette, overlapping each other.

“Stop it, enough,” you take a deep breath, speaking up, “who do you want to punish?”

The planchette started moving across the board erratically spelling your name repeatedly. Your heart sinks as feel everybody looking at you, Rio keeping her eyes on you gauging your reaction.

Yanking your hands away as if the planchette burned you. You walked to the middle of the room trying to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. Everyone agreed on what had to be done to pass the trial, moving towards you with various ideas to punish you.

“Don’t touch her!” Rio puts herself between you and the rest of the coven, knife in her hand. Overcome by the malevolent presence of a spirit, you feel an eerie chill crawl up your spine as you fall to your knees.

The lights go out as supernatural screams fill the room, objects flying everywhere. Realizing you’ve disappeared everyone grabs a light, Rio frantically looking for you, “where is she?”

You came out of no where snarling, acting erratically. Everybody panics not knowing what do when you start attacking all of them.

Lilia finds the breaker switching the lights on, all the noise and objects stopped. Snapping out of your trance you back yourself against the wall by the television, as an apparition manifests on the wooden stairs.

The ghost of your mother appears. Rio’s face twists in clear disgust, putting her knife away knowing there’s nothing she could do against a ghost even if she wants to stab your mother a thousand times.

“Leave her with me. She needs to learn what it means to be a true witch.” You mother tries convincing then to leave you behind.

“No! no way. Just because she isn’t selfish or power-hungry like you doesn’t mean she isn’t a true witch. If anything her punishment was having a mother like you trying to corrupt her every step of her life, in order to use her as a weapon.” Rio rants to your mother, cursing her name. The second it leaves her mouth, every regressed memory and feeling came bubbling to the surface.

The path to the road opens up, Rio signals to the others to go on ahead, that you two will catch up. She runs to you, kneeling beside you. You kept her at arms distance, “I’m fine, really.”

Rio shook her head in disbelief, “I know you aren’t. Don’t brush this off like it’s nothing.”

“I was terrified, okay?! And so angry,” you take a breath attempting to steady yourself, “I thought I was okay after all this time but after seeing her, all the trauma she put me through I just wanted to-” choking up on your words your magic flickered around your fingertips, diminishing when you curled your hands into fists.

Rio slid her arms around you, pulling you into her embrace wanting nothing more to never let you go. She tucked your head under her chin as you break down in her arms, clinging tightly to her torso. She rubs your back as you sob, “You’re doing the best you can, that’s all anyone can ask of you. Take your time, I’m right here.”

[musubi05]

Could you please do winchester!sister where her and the boys are on a hunt and they all separate but she ends up getting hurt and starts to fall into a bad panic attack and dean ends up finding her against a wall injured and panicking

╰┈➤ Walls Are Closing In

Dean Winchester x winchester!sister

(ft. Sam Winchester)

Warnings: details of a panic attack/injury/claustrophobia (feeling of being trapped)/blood - hurt/comfort

The abandoned warehouse smells like rust and decay, every shadow seeming to pulse with malevolent energy. She adjusts her grip on the iron blade, trying to ignore how her palms have grown slick with sweat. The EMF reader in her other hand crackles intermittently, the needle jumping erratically as she moves deeper into the maze of machinery and forgotten storage.

"Alright, we split up," Dean had said twenty minutes ago, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Sam, you take the east wing. I'll check the offices upstairs. You've got the basement level."

Of course she got the basement. She always gets the basement.

The concrete steps descend into deeper darkness, and each footfall seems to echo forever. Her flashlight beam cuts through the gloom, revealing pipes that drip with condensation and walls stained with something she doesn't want to identify. The EMF reader's crackling grows more insistent.

She's halfway across the basement when she hears it—a low, guttural growl that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she spins around, blade raised, but there's nothing there. Just shadows and the steady drip, drip, drip of water somewhere in the darkness.

"Just a ghost," she whispers to herself, the words barely audible. "Just a ghost. You've done this a hundred times."

But this doesn't feel like just a ghost.

The temperature plummets so suddenly that her breath fogs in the air. The EMF reader shrieks, the needle pinned to the maximum reading. And then she sees her—a woman in a tattered dress, her face a ruin of decay and rage, floating just inches off the ground. Her mouth opens in a soundless scream that somehow fills the Winchester sister's head with the sound of breaking glass.

She raises the iron blade, but the ghost is faster than any spirit she's encountered. The apparition's form flickers and suddenly she's behind her, icy fingers wrapping around her throat. The youngest Winchester is lifted off her feet and slammed into the concrete wall with bone-jarring force.

The impact drives the air from her lungs and sends stars exploding across her vision. Her shoulder blade connects with an exposed pipe, and she hears something crack—whether it's the pipe or something in her back, she can't tell. The iron blade skitters across the floor, well out of reach.

She slides down the wall, gasping, tasting copper in her mouth. The ghost circles her like a predator, her form more solid now, feeding off her fear and pain. She fumbles for the salt rounds in her jacket pocket, but her fingers won't work properly. Everything feels disconnected, like she's watching this happen to someone else.

"Dean," she tries to call, but it comes out as barely a whisper. Her radio crackles with static, Dean's voice distorted and far away: "...nothing up here...checking the..."

The ghost lunges again. This time she manages to roll aside, but not fast enough. The spirit's claws rake across her ribs, tearing through her jacket and the shirt beneath. The pain is immediate and blazing, and she can feel warm blood soaking into the fabric.

She scrambles backward until her back hits the wall again, trapped in the corner formed by two massive support pillars. The ghost hovers in front of her, blocking her only escape route. The spirit's mouth moves in what might be words, but all she hears is that sound like breaking glass, getting louder and louder until it feels like her skull might split open.

Her chest is getting tight. Too tight. Each breath comes in short, sharp gasps that don't seem to bring any oxygen. The walls of the basement seem to be pressing closer, the shadows reaching for her with grasping fingers. Her heart is beating so fast it feels like it might burst.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't breathe.

The ghost's face looms closer, her ruined features filling her vision. But it's not just the spirit anymore—it's every monster she's ever faced, every hunt that went wrong, every time she's been hurt while her brothers were somewhere else, unable to help. The weight of it all crashes down on her at once.

Her hands shake uncontrollably as she presses them against the wall behind her, looking for something solid, something real. But the concrete feels like it's shifting under her palms, and she's falling, drowning, suffocating—

"No, no, no," she gasps, but the words feel foreign in her mouth. The basement spins around her, and she can't tell which way is up anymore. Her vision tunnels until all she can see is that terrible face, those grasping claws, that mouth opening in an endless, soundless scream.

This is how you die. Alone in a basement while your brothers are upstairs. They'll find your body and blame themselves, and it's all your fault for not being strong enough, fast enough, good enough—

The thoughts spiral faster and faster, each one worse than the last. Her breathing becomes so rapid and shallow that her hands start to tingle, then go numb. The ghost seems to sense her terror and draws closer, feeding off it, growing more solid with each panicked heartbeat.

She slides further down the wall until she's sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, making herself as small as possible. The iron blade is still feet away, might as well be miles. Her radio lies broken beside her, sparking occasionally. Even if she could reach it, she can't form words anymore, can't make a sound except for these horrible gasping breaths that aren't bringing any air.

Breathe, she tells herself desperately. Just breathe. Dean taught you this. Count to four on the inhale, hold for four, exhale for four. Simple.

But she can't count. The numbers slip away like smoke, and all she can do is gulp at the air like a drowning person while the ghost circles closer and the walls press in and her heart beats so hard she's sure it's going to kill her before the spirit gets the chance.

Time becomes elastic. It could be seconds or hours that she sits there, trapped in her own body, fighting a battle no one else can see. The physical pain from her injuries fades to nothing compared to the crushing weight in her chest, the certainty that she's going to die here in this basement, alone and terrified.

Then, cutting through the sound of breaking glass and her own ragged breathing, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Heavy boots, moving fast.

"Sweetheart?" Dean's voice echoes off the concrete walls. "Where are you? Your radio went dead and—"

His flashlight beam sweeps the basement and finds her huddled against the wall. She wants to call out to him, wants to warn him about the ghost, but she can't make her voice work. All that comes out is a strangled whimper.

"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes, and she hears him moving toward her, but the ghost turns at the sound of his voice and lets out that terrible shriek.

There's the sharp crack of a shotgun, and the spirit dissipates with an inhuman wail. Salt rounds. Dean always keeps salt rounds loaded when they're on a hunt.

His boots pound across the concrete, and then he's dropping to his knees beside her, his strong hands hovering over her shoulders like he wants to touch her but isn't sure if he should.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he says, his voice gentle but urgent. "I need you to look at me."

She tries to focus on his face, but everything keeps swimming in and out. His green eyes are wide with concern, and there's something else there—fear. Dean Winchester, afraid. That makes everything worse somehow.

"Can't... can't breathe," she manages to gasp out between the short, sharp breaths that aren't doing anything.

"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're breathing right now. I can hear you breathing. But we need to slow it down, okay? We need to get you breathing normal again."

He settles onto the floor beside her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Look at me. Just me. Forget everything else. It's just you and me down here."

His voice is steady, calm, nothing like the Dean who jokes and deflects and hides behind bravado. This is the Dean who patched up her scraped knees when she was little, who taught her to drive, who's pulled her out of more dangerous situations than she can count.

"I'm gonna put my hand on your chest, okay?" he says, waiting for some sign of permission. When she manages a tiny nod, his palm settles over her sternum, steady and warm. "Feel that? That's me. I'm right here. You're safe."

But she's not safe. The ghost could come back. There could be others. The walls are still too close, the air still too thin, her heart still beating like a jackhammer.

"She's gone," Dean says, reading her thoughts in the way only he can. "I salted and burned her bones while Sam was searching upstairs. Found them buried under the floor in the old office. That's why she was so strong down here—we were practically standing on top of her remains."

His other hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Breathe with me, sweetheart. In through your nose, slow and steady. Can you do that for me?"

She tries to match his breathing, but it's like trying to control a runaway train. Her body won't listen to what her mind is telling it to do.

"It's okay," Dean soothes. "Panic attacks are a bitch. Had my share of them after Dad died. Feels like you're dying, right? Like you're having a heart attack or something?"

She nods frantically, grateful that he understands, that he's not telling her to just calm down or get over it.

"But you're not dying," he continues, his voice never wavering. "Your heart's working fine. Your lungs are working fine. Your brain's just convinced there's danger when there isn't anymore. It's like a car alarm that won't shut off."

He shifts slightly, and she realizes he's positioned himself between her and the rest of the basement, his body a shield between her and any potential threats. The simple gesture helps more than all his words combined.

"Sam's upstairs keeping watch," Dean says. "No one's getting past him to get to us. And no ghosts are getting past me to get to you. You're safe. I promise you're safe."

Slowly, incrementally, her breathing begins to slow. It's still too fast, still too shallow, but it's progress. Dean keeps his hand on her chest, monitoring each breath, his presence an anchor in the storm of her panic.

"There you go," he murmurs encouragingly. "That's better. Keep going."

The tingling in her hands starts to fade, and she can feel her fingers again. The basement stops spinning quite so violently. She's still scared, still on edge, but the crushing certainty that she's about to die begins to recede.

"Dean," she whispers, the first clear word she's managed since he found her.

"Yeah, I'm here," he says immediately. "I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm sorry, I couldn't fight her, I dropped my weapon, I couldn't even call for help-"

"Stop." Dean's voice is firm but not harsh. "You don't apologize for having a panic attack. You don't apologize for being human."

He helps her shift position slightly, and she winces as the movement pulls at her injured ribs. His jaw tightens when he sees the blood on her shirt.

"How bad?" she asks, looking down at the damage.

"Probably need a few stitches," Dean says, gently lifting the torn fabric to examine the wounds. "But nothing life-threatening. What else hurts?"

"My back," she admits. "Hit the wall pretty hard."

Dean's expression darkens. "That bitch threw you around like a rag doll. Should've gotten down here sooner."

"You couldn't have known," she says, but he shakes his head.

"Should've known something was wrong when your radio went dead. Should've come looking immediately."

She can see the guilt settling over his features, the self-recrimination that's as much a part of Dean Winchester as his green eyes and his leather jacket. He'll carry this, blame himself for not being there, just like he always does.

"Hey," she says softly, borrowing his own technique. "Look at me."

His eyes snap to hers, and she sees her own fear reflected back at her, along with something fiercer—love, protectiveness, the bone-deep need to keep her safe that's driven him since the day she was born.

"This isn't your fault," she tells him. "I'm okay. We're okay."

Dean's throat works as he swallows hard. "When I heard that scream and then your radio went dead... Christ, kiddo. I thought I'd lost you."

"But you didn't," she reminds him. "You found me. You saved me."

"You saved yourself," Dean says. "You survived. That's all you, sweetheart."

Her breathing is almost normal now, though her heart is still beating faster than it should. The panic has receded to a manageable level, leaving her exhausted but clear-headed.

"Think you can stand?" Dean asks. "Want to get you out of this basement and somewhere with better light so I can patch you up properly."

With his help, she manages to get to her feet. Her legs are shaky, and the movement sends a sharp pain through her ribs, but she's upright. Dean keeps one arm around her waist, supporting most of her weight.

"Take your time," he says when she sways slightly. "No rush."

As they make their way slowly toward the stairs, Dean scoops up her dropped weapon and tucks it into his jacket. His radio crackles, and Sam's voice comes through clearly.

"Dean? Everything okay down there?"

"We're good," Dean responds. "Found her. She's hurt but mobile. We're coming up."

"Copy that. I'll get the first aid kit ready."

The stairs seem impossibly steep, but Dean takes them one at a time, never rushing her, his arm steady around her waist. By the time they reach the main floor, some of her strength has returned, though she's still grateful for his support.

Sam is waiting near the entrance, first aid kit in hand, his face creased with worry. His relief when he sees her is palpable.

"What happened down there?" he asks, falling into step beside them as Dean guides her toward the exit.

"Pissed off spirit with anger management issues," Dean says tersely. "She took a beating, but she'll be fine."

She knows there's more to it than that—the panic attack, the way she completely fell apart—but Dean doesn't mention it, and she's grateful. Sam doesn't need to know about every moment of weakness, every time she proves she's not as strong as her brothers.

Outside, the fresh air hits her lungs like a blessing. The warehouse had felt like a tomb, but out here under the open sky, she can breathe again. Dean helps her sit on the Impala's bumper while Sam sets up the first aid supplies on the trunk.

"This is gonna sting," Dean warns as he cleans the cuts on her ribs. She hisses at the bite of antiseptic, but it's nothing compared to the ghost's claws.

"Could've been worse," Sam observes, examining her back. "Bruising's already starting, but I don't think anything's broken."

Dean works with practiced efficiency, stitching up the deeper cuts and bandaging the rest. His hands are gentle but sure, and she finds herself relaxing under his care. This is familiar territory—patching each other up after hunts, taking inventory of injuries, grateful to be alive for another day.

"There," Dean says finally, taping down the last bandage. "Good as new. Well, mostly."

"Thanks," she says, meaning it for more than just the medical attention. For finding her. For talking her through the panic attack. For not making her feel weak or broken.

"Always," Dean replies simply, and she knows he understands.

As Sam packs up the first aid kit and Dean helps her into the passenger seat, she catches his arm.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, I get the offices upstairs."

Dean's mouth quirks in the first real smile she's seen from him all day. "Deal. But only if you promise to keep your radio on."

"Promise," she says, settling back against the seat as he closes her door.

Through the windshield, she watches her brothers move around the car, discussing the hunt in low voices. Sam glances toward her occasionally, still worried, while Dean's posture remains tense, protective. They'll hover for the next few days, she knows, finding excuses to check on her, making sure she's really okay.

And for once, she doesn't mind. The panic attack showed her something she'd been trying to ignore—that she's not invincible, that sometimes the monsters get the better of her, that sometimes her own mind is the biggest threat of all.

But it also showed her something else: that she's not alone. That when the walls close in and the darkness becomes too much, there will always be someone coming to find her. Someone who won't let her fall apart completely, who'll sit with her in the wreckage and help her put the pieces back together.

As the Impala rumbles to life and Dean pulls away from the warehouse, she closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Simple. Steady. Safe.

The panic attack is over, but the memory of it lingers—not the terror, but the aftermath. Dean's hand on her chest, his voice in the darkness, the absolute certainty that he would never let anything happen to her.

Sometimes that has to be enough. Sometimes it's everything.

[ghostliibat]

Damian being mentally unwell during pregnancy?

__________

Damian never really has the cleanest bill when it comes to his mental health.

How could he, after all? He spent the first decade of his life being severely indoctrinated and groomed into being the perfect killing machine, fooled to lead humanity into what his ailing grandfather envisioned and later was thrown into a foreign world governed with an even stranger law.

(he loves his grandfather, truly, and he believes the man had loved him back too. However, his love for the world is too big and has doomed him. Has doomed all of them.)

They all hate him then. He wasn't exactly easy to love, didn't really try to be either. He was just another obstacle— a hurdle to overcome, a problem to solve.

(if only Damian knew how much he was loved, how easy it was to love him, how many he has chosen to open his damaged heart to despite being hurt over and over for it. They'd go to war for him.)

So, to say that Damian simply has a few mental health issues would be underestimating it to a huge degree.

He had countless nightmares of people who he maimed and killed, sometimes sees their apparitions linger by the doorway. Even though he had prayed for them to go straight to Heaven, a place he certainly would never see, they're still here.

Jon liked to believe that Damian is comfortable enough to tell him all of these; to rely on him through thick and thin. He is, after all, his husband. The father to their children. He loved to think that, at the very least, Damian would share his burden as partners with him and tell him if it ever gets better.

He couldn't be more wrong.

He should've thought that Damian would become more erratic, more reckless with himself in light of his self-hatred being amplified. Jon has heard stories of new mothers (or, ah, someone who's experiencing pregnancy) subjected to extreme self-loathing following up to their incubation period.

So when Damian declared he wanted to stop taking his medication for a bit in light of his pregnancy, fearing it might negatively impact the development of their babies/baby, Jon should've seen the red flags. They all should've.

Instead, they all only gave him words of advice, before leaving Damian to ferment in the dark world of his mind.

And one day, Damian would disappear.

___________

What do you think?

What do I think? I think this made me cry is what I think 😞 (maybe it's cus it hits a little too close to home for me at the moment with being mentally unwell)

But god this is absolutely devastating and so achingly in-character. you really captured how deep-rooted damian’s pain is — how it festers in silence, especially when he's most vulnerable. the line about how he thinks everyone sees him as a problem to solve?? the kind of thing that just sticks.

And the bit about jon thinking damian would tell him when things get bad... that quiet assumption of trust, only to realize too late that damian’s brand of love has always been about protecting others from himself, even when it kills him. that hurts.

Also the detail about him going off his meds during pregnancy??? so real and terrifying. like of course he’d do it for the baby. of course everyone would think they’re helping. and then of course it’s not enough.

I’m just. Ugh and he disappears. of course he does. this is so good. thank you for writing this 🥲

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: The Secret History

A list of "beautiful" words used in The Secret History by Donna Tartt

for your next poem/story

Apparition - an unusual or unexpected sight; a ghostly figure

Ascetic - practicing strict self-denial as a measure of personal and especially spiritual discipline

Beguiling - agreeably or charmingly attractive or pleasing

Boudoir - a woman's dressing room, bedroom, or private sitting room

Consolatory - giving hope and strength in times of grief, distress, or suffering

Conspicuous - obvious to the eye or mind

Cufflinks - a usually ornamental device consisting of two parts joined by a shank, chain, or bar for passing through buttonholes to fasten shirt cuffs

Discursive - moving from topic to topic without order; rambling

Erratic - having no fixed course

Hinc illae lacrimae - hence those tears; that is what those tears were for

Hyacinth - a plant of the ancients held to be a lily, iris, larkspur, or gladiolus; a bulbous perennial herb (Hyacinthus orientalis) widely grown for its dense spikes of fragrant flowers

Incivility - the quality or state of being uncivil; a rude or discourteous act

Incredulous - unwilling to admit or accept what is offered as true : not credulous; skeptical

Intimately - in a manner intended to prevent knowledge or awareness by others

Jauntily - sprightly in manner or appearance; lively

Machiavellian - suggesting the principles of conduct laid down by Machiavelli; specifically: marked by cunning, duplicity, or bad faith

Miasma - a vaporous exhalation formerly believed to cause disease; an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt

Morrow - the next day

Peculiarity - the quality or state of being peculiar; a distinguishing characteristic; oddity, quirk

Picturesque - charming or quaint in appearance

Providence - divine guidance or care

Quiver - to shake or move with a slight trembling motion

Rosewood - any of various tropical trees (especially genus Dalbergia) yielding valuable cabinet woods of a usually dark red or purplish color streaked and variegated with black

Schizophrenic - characterized by disturbances in thought (such as delusions), perception (such as hallucinations), and behavior (such as disorganized speech or catatonic behavior), by a loss of emotional responsiveness and extreme apathy, and by noticeable deterioration in the level of functioning in everyday life

Séance - session, sitting; a spiritualist meeting to receive spirit communications

Traitorous - guilty or capable of treason

Undulating - forming or moving in waves; fluctuating

Unstring - to loosen or remove the strings of; to make weak, disordered, or unstable

Voluptuous - suggesting sensual pleasure by fullness and beauty of form

Winter - the colder half of the year

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, do tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[onebedtorulethemall]

Bonus material from my Dramione short story Probabilities

Long before it was a fic, Probabilities was a 1000-word scene written for a writing group critique. I liked it but was busy with other things, so it sat in a folder for about a year until I finally adapted it into the short story I always envisioned.

Here's the original scene, and you can read the fic it became on A03. (36k, Explicit, now complete!)

*** The first time Draco Malfoy was inside Hermione Granger, they were in an alley adjacent to Wand & Cork, wizarding London’s hottest new ticket. Having arrived separately in celebration of its grand opening—guests of proprietors Pansy Parkinson and Neville Longbottom, respectively—they soon found themselves intertwined in a sticky heap while the first toast of the evening spilled from the open doorway around the corner.

“Merlin’s saggy ballsack,” he moaned. 

Hermione hit the ground, panting hard. “You were just—”

“I think I’m dying.”

“—inside my—”

“Hnnnnnnnnnnnngh.”

Hermione looked down at her ruined clothing and the evidence of his intrusion, and grew pale. “St Mungo’s, now!” 

The question of whether Draco had recovered from the shock of finding his left foot inside Hermione’s abdomen was not resolved, at least in Hermione’s mind, until she awoke in a hospital bed six hours later following a delicate operation to extract the shoelace knotted around her ribcage. 

The specialists didn’t attempt to disguise their glee. Visions of peer-reviewed scientific studies danced around her bedside. 

“We did the calculations. The odds are roughly one in twenty-three trillion, seven hundred billion!”

“Lucky me,” Hermione muttered. “Any advice on not repeating this fortuitous event?”

They chortled their way from the room. Spontaneous Apparitional Overlap had been a thought exercise until approximately nine o’clock the previous evening. The odds of it happening twice, and to the same person—well, numbers didn’t go up that high, as far as they knew.

“He’s fine, if you were worried,” Harry told her later, valiantly fighting a persistent lip twitch. “He lost a toenail, but your surgeons fished it out.”

“This isn’t funny. I could’ve died.”

“When they wheeled him away, he was crying about”—a small giggle escaped—“dragonhide oxfords.”

Hermione went home the new owner of a vat of pain potion, a tin of scar ointment, and a burgeoning phobia of Apparition. She memorised the bus schedule and spent a month practising small bursts up and down the length of her flat, where statistically improbable coincidence might not result in pointy men putting their pointy body parts inside any of hers.

“I’ll go,” she told Ginny, once she felt able. “But that walking bombarda had better not be there.”

“I think he’s in France,” Ginny replied, squeezing her hand. “And good. I can’t keep popping by with pinot just to see you. Your recycling bin tells a tragic story.” 

That Saturday, she spent an hour lecturing the mirror with increasing severity. “One in twenty-three trillion, seven hundred billion,” she finally snapped. “Now fucking do it.”

A half second later, she appeared beneath glittering lights in the quietest corner of Diagon Alley with the satisfied feeling of having accomplished something nearly impossible. 

And, in a sense, she had.

“I thought you were in France!”

“Hnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh.”

This time, it was Draco who required the urgent attention of the overjoyed Accidents and Catastrophes surgical team. They’d offer her bracelet back, they informed her, but they’d had to cut it from around his femur.

A letter arrived two days later. 

I have an appointment at Gringotts on Wednesday. Three p.m. sharp. Since your existence apparently threatens mine, please advise that you will be elsewhere. On the other side of the country, preferably.

Cooped up and irritable, Hermione weighed the benefits of introducing her elbow to his chest cavity. She wrote:

Have you ever ridden a bicycle? It’s excellent exercise, and I’d finally be safe from your erratic Apparitional whims. As a bonus, I think it’d be hilarious to see you try.

The owl returned shortly.

Please, Granger. I coughed up a hairball. 

Wednesday came and went, and Hermione stayed safely home. 

It wasn’t a durable strategy, however. Following her second “accident”—the specialists, still deep in their calculations, had offered only an exultant shrug—Harry and Ginny had intuited that she was likely to either introduce sweeping Apparition safety legislation that they’d be obligated to publicly support, or become a shut-in. Neither option appealed.

Therefore, Hermione had a date for that weekend. 

Non-reschedulable.

“It’s nearby,” Ginny told her firmly. “You can walk.”

The Magical Trade Regulation Specialist was a flavourless fellow whose mousy brown hair topped an uninspiring list of distinguishing characteristics, but he had never splinched their bodies together—twice—so she agreed.

An hour in, she was sucking down her third Paloma as she lugged them through yet another unsuccessful discussion topic. She’d just given up on shared hobbies and was navigating a directional change toward her latest interest—“Are you familiar with quantum entanglement, Marvin?”—when, from behind:

“How dare you leave your house without informing me! Unsafe behaviour!” 

Hermione spun on her barstool to find Draco gripping a sweating pint glass and glaring like she’d just kicked his favourite peacock.

“Forgive me,” she said, blinking at him. “I had to go back a decade to recall the last time I saw you when you weren’t crying.”

“Your fingers,” he hissed, “were inside my groin.”

Marvin coughed.

“Perhaps if you’d aimed better—”

“Perhaps if you didn’t insist on knowing everything—”

“What does that have to do with it? I didn’t know you’d be Apparating at the exact same moment, in the exact same place, twice!”

“I don’t trust you,” he announced. “I need to know your whereabouts at all times. Give me your schedule.”

A damp cocktail napkin was thrust into her hand. She took up her wand like a quill and pretended to write.

“8 p.m., date, currently interrupted. And I walked here, so if anything, you're endangering me.”

“This,” he scoffed, snatching the napkin back, “is not a date.”

“Actually—” began Marvin.

“Where are you going after this?” he demanded. “His or yours?”

“We—” Marvin started.

“Mine, you shit! Alone.”

He swept a calculating gaze over Hermione and the date she’d almost succeeded in forgetting. Then, settling onto the stool beside hers with a motion like a conductor setting a moderato, he gestured for her to continue. 

“I’ll wait.” His teeth glinted. “In the interest of safety.” 

Read the fic

[bestiarium]

The Crawfordsville Monster [modern cryptid; urban legend]

As far as modern urban legends go, most sightings of cryptids and creatures tend to fall into one of several recognizable categories: a lake monster, a flying saucer, an ape-like creature, etc. But every once in a while you have something weirder or unique:

On April 5, 1891, a supposed monster was sighted in the skies above Crawfordsville, Indiana, in the USA. A local pastor, Reverend G. Switzer, left his house to get some water from the well in his backyard when he supposedly experienced a strange feeling somewhere between dread and awe. Uncertain what caused this feeling, he looked up to see a large serpent-like being flying through the sky. The snake moved quickly even though there was no wind that night, and seemed like it was about to land, only to change its mind and take off again.

The paster and his wife were not the only witnesses, for that same day the apparition was seen by two workers about to haul ice on their wagon. They were so frightened of the creature that they took shelter until it was out of sight.

The size of the creature varies between stories, putting it somewhere between 16 and 20 feet (5 à 6 meters). It did not have wings – although other accounts added several fins or fin-like structures – but was able to fly by means of writhing movements, not unlike those of a real snake. The monster was white and had no head, or at least no clearly visible head, but it did have a large, brightly burning eye. Despite the lack of a visible head or mouth, the monster emitted a wheezing noise.

The Crawfordsville Daily Journal named the creature ‘the Midnight Wraith’ but today it is more commonly referred to as 'the Crawfordsville Monster'.

When researching this sighting, I came across some very weird UFO theories. While they tend to strain credibility, I admit that it’s fun to theorize about, in a fantasy worldbuilding kind of way. For example, the last source I listed here mentions a theory about atmospheric creatures that live in the clouds of our planet and stay afloat because of their extremely low-density bodies. The Crawfordsville monster, supposedly, could be such a creature.

Several explanations have been put forth. Some claimed it was a spirit. Professor Robert Burton assumed that the witnesses might simply have been under influence of alcohol or drugs. A later sighting in the same location put forth a simpler, albeit anticlimactic, explanation: two men followed the flying ‘monster’ around until it came close enough for them to identify it as a giant flock of killdeer birds: local birds with a distinct white belly. There were several hundred of them in the flock, and the birds’ erratic flight pattern might have been caused by their confusion from the electric lights, and the many moving ‘fins’ of the monster would have been the wings of the different birds. Perhaps exhaustion in the early hour, combined with the dark night sky, caused the ice haulers and the pastor to mistake the flock for a monster.

Sources: Clark, J., 2005, Unnatural Phenomena: A Guide to the Bizarre Wonders of North America, Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 408 pp., 160 pp., p. 87-88. Zach, K. B., 2003, Crawfordsville, Athens of Indiana, Arcadia Publishing, p. 140-141. Hunt, C. M., 2023, Ghosts & Legends of Crawfordsville, Indiana. Haunted America, Arcadia Publishing, 160 pp., p. 12-18.

(image source 1: Mart, T.S. & Cabre, M., 2021, A Guide To Sky Monsters : Thunderbirds, The Jersey Devil, Mothman, and Other Flying Cryptids, Indiana University Press, 174 pp.) (image source: Enshohma on Deviantart)

[yallthemwitches]

The Storm

Some fluff for @jilytoberfest Day 29: Cold Winter Nights.

AO3 Link Here

“Alright Potter, if you are going to tease me then I will just go home—”

She turns on her heel to find that he’s now close—too close for them to be in a sitting room where Mr. or Mrs. Potter could walk in the door at any minute. 

“You wanted to stay the night.”

“Mum, it's all right. I spoke with Mrs. Potter and she said that I can stay over without a problem. God knows they won’t even realize I’m here with a house this big—”

She feels weird talking on a phone in an otherwise aggressively ‘wizard’ sitting room, but both James and Mrs. Potter had been delighted to hook up their ancient telephone so she could ring home. 

“I’ll be back in the morning when the storm lets up.” She hangs up the phone and turns to find that she isn’t alone. James stands in the corner, arms folded behind his back, face cut in half by a wide grin. 

“Do I want to know?” She lifts an eyebrow and his grin gets impossibly wider. 

“Storm will make it hard to get home, eh?”

She ignores him, pretending to become fascinated with the book selection.

“Because it’s not like floo powder still works in a storm.”

She hopes that if she remains silent he will let up—a rookie mistake.

“And it’s not like storms effect apparition—”

“Alright Potter, if you are going to tease me then I will just go home—”

She turns on her heel to find that he’s now close—too close for them to be in a sitting room where Mr. or Mrs. Potter could walk in the door at any minute. 

“You wanted to stay the night.”

Her throat goes dry, cheeks burning. She could deny it, push him away and tell him to get his thick brain out of the gutter, but her brain is going fuzzy with his body heat leaning into her. 

“I just figured that since Sirius is at his uncle’s, I could just bunk in his room. Mum’s very nervous when I travel—”

He hums in dissatisfaction, close enough now that the sound vibrates across her skin. 

“Sirius’ room—you definitely don’t want to go in there. Merlin knows what he’s been up to.”

“Then I’ll ask your mum to make up one of the other rooms—seems like you have an endless supply.”

He nods, taking a step back. The distance creates a visceral reaction and she fights the desire to take him by the shirt and press their bodies together. 

“Definitely the reputable thing to do—ok c’mon then.”

She follows on his heels as he lopes his way through what feels like labyrinthine corridors, passing portraits of men with familiar untidy hair alongside elaborate paintings of mythical creatures. They get to the east side of the house and James stops at a heavy set door that is left ajar. A glint of red and gold peeks out from the crack. 

“Is this where I’m staying?” James cheeks flush. All of his cockiness drained into a bashful expression.

“No—this one’s mine. But there’s a room right next to it that you can use.”

She can’t help herself. She presses on the door and it groans open. It's like his dorm room but with grander treatment—similar quidditch and music posters line the walls but instead of a modest four poster bed, a much too large mahogany one takes up most of the room. 

“Quaint.” She can feel him watching her and she turns back to him. He’s straight as a board, face a deep crimson as his eyes search her face. 

“It’s—my room.” He says weakly, like this wasn’t already known. “We can…go in if you want.”

Her heartbeat quickens. There is little left to the imagination when the boy you’ve been snogging for months invites you into his very big, very welcoming bedroom. Her mind wanders a floor below where she knows his mum and dad are both sitting in the study, simultaneously too close and far away.

“Maybe you can show me the other room first? That way I know where it is–”

“Right.” He turns quickly, movements more erratic than they were down in the sitting room. 

He walks a couple of steps to the nearest door and turns the knob. Inside is a mirrored bedroom, but with significantly less character. For Potter standards it’s a simple guest room but it surpasses any room the Evans’ house could dream to have. 

She sticks her head through the doorway to scan the room. It’s good, a comfortable and safe option—but that’s not what she wants.

“I like yours better.” She states plainly, but her whole body flushes crimson. His head whips to her, eyes blown wide. 

“Yeah?” He steps close, confidence mounting with each second. She can feel a warm hand hover at the small of her back and his face looms so close she can see the flecks of gold in his irises.

“Just because it’s supposed to be a really cold night.” Her brain is swimming, vision now being taken over by him and his hovering lips. 

“Would hate to have you freeze to death on my watch,” he murmurs, lips grazing hers, eyes closing. His other hand curls into her hair and she leans into his touch.

“---and I’m not very keen on storms.” 

“Me either—terrified of them.” His lips skim past her mouth and drag a path up to her ear, a smile evident.

“You don’t think your parents-–” but he’s already grabbing her hand, ushering her back towards his room. He walks his way backwards so as to not remove their distance from each other, lips finally making contact. 

“Don’t worry Evans,” he says, a smirk forming against her, “Just like you said: with a house this big, they won’t even realize we’re here.”

[markrosewater]

Hi Mark. Back when play boosters were all the new talk, one of the things said back then is that less niche commons would be printed, this to make draft still be enjoyable. Yet, several very niche commons, fitting only one draft archetype, got printed. Cards like Erratic Apparition, Marauding Blightpriest or Magmakin Artillerist. I feel like such niche, fitting only one draft archetype, generally awful cards are negatively impacting the draft experience.

Of the three cards you list, I would call only Marauding Blightpriest as only working in one archetype (and it was in Foundations that was more about enabling casual deckbuilding than hard core drafting). Also, I said less would be printed, and less have been. That doesn't mean zero.

[akitasimblr]

🍨BRUNO HARDMAN HARPER🍨

HARPER LEGACY TWICE | Spare (heiress' half-brother) | Generation Almond & Vanilla (2)

full name: bruno hardman harper

nickname: -

life state: sim | young adult | single

parentage: grace harper & scott hardman

partners: izzy webster by @tulipsimss

offspring: jake webster (adopted)

aspiration: nerd brain

main traits: perfectionist | loner | erratic

born in: tartosa

lived in: tartosa

career: doctor

degree: biology (UBrite)

EXPLORE MORE CHECK BRUNO’S APPARITIONS

*passport template credits

[apollogeesss]

A Scarecrow's tale.

Summary:

After hurting Wren and quickly becoming isolated by the people at Arkham, who she thought saw her as an equal, Ellen is faced with the possibility of losing her job, which terrifies her.

Filled with anger and fear, she is forced—and certainly persuaded—to accept the treatment of the devil himself in the flesh. And he says 'please me Eve.'

Content warnings: depictions of complex trauma, religious fanaticism, southern!Crane, depression, emotional abuse, institutional corruption, abuse of power in the academic and workplace, psychological manipulation, violence (physical and symbolic), gaslighting, power imbalances between characters, slow burn???, main character with addictions, and depictions of mental deterioration. Set in the universe of The Batman (Matt Reeves), without using Y/N, it's an oc! I'm bad at writing with a Y/N I just don't feel comfortable. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE, SORRY 💔.

Notes: aaahhh. I was thinking a lot about Lucifer as good and evil, and also about my own upbringing in an area where people are obsessed with Christ. This chapter is very short, but I guess it serves as a closure to the first act.

Chapter Six—

Everything happened faster than she could process.

Wren was fine. That’s what they said. A minor injury, superficial—just a couple of stitches. No one mentioned the toxin. No one mentioned the fear. They only said “incident,” “instability,” “erratic behavior.”

But what hurt her wasn’t the medical report. It was the way they looked at her. As if she wasn’t a woman anymore, not even a colleague. As if she were contagion. A mistake. Something new to observe at the zoo.

The same kind of look they gave her in Arlen, when they buried her father in silence and her mother shut the curtains after the funeral. The look that says: we always knew something was wrong with you.

Just days ago, she had been the new girl. Quiet, diligent, maybe a bit dry, but people were kind if she approached them. One of them.

Now... she was something else. A venomous animal—no longer a victim. And this time, she was the aggressor. She had never meant to be. She had done everything in her power to keep them from seeing her that way again. She had been alone enough.

She stood frozen as they rushed to help Wren, who didn’t even dare look at her. For a fleeting second, Ellen could feel the cotton dress and the braids with ribbons in her hair again. She didn’t even have a voice; all she could do was stay still, suffocated by guilt.

They practically dragged her to Dr. Ellroy’s office. The whole way there, she wanted to say something, but she still felt dizzy. She wasn’t seeing things anymore, but the people around her still felt like apparitions. She was screaming in her mind that it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t mean to, that they shouldn’t look at her like she was a stranger.

For Ellen, life had once again cornered her into a powerless place—one that filled her with fear.

They practically dragged her to the chief’s office—Dr. Ellroy.

The hallway lights felt colder, higher. As if someone had changed the voltage just to unsettle her. Ellen let herself be led with the broken obedience of someone already judged before even stepping inside. Her legs moved on their own, but her mind echoed with a question she didn’t dare say aloud:

Are they going to fire me?

A part of her—the younger one, the wounded one—almost wished they would. If they fired her, she wouldn’t have to face Wren. Or the others. Or her own reflection.

Ellroy’s secretary said nothing when she saw her arrive. She looked down, as if watching Ellen was a violation. Ellen blinked. Was it compassion? Or pity? No. She wouldn’t stand pity.

The door shut behind her with a clean click. The office was austere, sober. Lined books, dustless folders, framed diplomas. And in the center, Dr. Ellroy, standing—as if waiting for her sitting down would’ve been too soft.

“Miss Joy,” he said, without urgency. “Have a seat.”

Ellen obeyed. The leather creaked beneath her.

Ellroy didn’t look at her right away. He shuffled some papers. Or pretended to.

“I’ll be direct. This week’s incident is serious.”

The word made her sick.

“The nurse is no longer in danger,” he continued, formally. “But what happened requires administrative review. Legal too. There was either negligence… or unauthorized exposure. In any case, you were present. And until further notice, you are suspended from all clinical duties.”

Ellen lowered her head. She didn’t cry. Didn’t even blink. In her mind, only one thought: This isn’t fair. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t me. Not like that.

“We’ll have to interview you, review your record, and of course… speak with Dr. Crane.”

The name hit her like a splinter. Dr. Crane. The man who knew. Who had seen something in her she didn’t even understand. The only one who might… defend her.

Or completely condemn her.

Ellen clutched her hands on her pants. They trembled. The silence of the office forced her to speak before she was ready.

“Dr. Ellroy…” she began, eyes still down. “What happened was an accident. None of it was intentional.”

He didn’t interrupt, but he showed no sign of compassion either.

“It wasn’t negligence. It wasn’t recklessness. I was… I was exhausted, yes, but I’m not a danger to anyone. Not to patients, not to my colleagues. Wren was hurt, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t because I did anything wrong on purpose. It was just a moment. Just one moment out of control.”

The word tasted bitter.

“I’ve worked nonstop since I arrived. I’m never late, I never complain, I never lose focus. I’m not unstable.”

Finally, her eyes met his.

“I’m not crazy.”

That statement weighed more for herself than for Ellroy.

“If you fire me, Doctor… I don’t…” she faltered, breathing hard. “I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go back to the streets. I can’t stay in Gotham without this job. You know how it is out there. You know.”

Ellroy’s pause was long. He held her gaze with administrative sternness—not cruelty, but not relief either.

“Are you trying to appeal to pity, Miss Joy?”

“I’m appealing to reason,” she said, firmer now. “And to the fact that this institution needs me as much as I need it. I didn’t crawl here from nothing just to be accused of something I didn’t do consciously. I’m not a monster.”

Ellroy closed the folder in front of him. Gave her no response, not a single word—which, to Ellen, meant it was time to go.

With heavy shoulders, she forced herself to leave the office, ignoring how she felt thrown to the harsh fauna that would eat her alive. As she dragged herself through Arkham’s hallways, she could feel the stares of coworkers who had once been kind—now only whispered as she passed.

Ellen had to slip out the back door, where staff usually smoked, to get some air.

The dumpster rattled under the sharp kick she gave it. The metallic sound echoed unnecessarily down the alley. Ellen lowered her leg, breathing heavily. Her knuckles were white with tension, and the air reeked of stale nicotine.

She didn’t cry. But her eyes burned.

“An external aggression response to a perceived threat of social or professional status loss,” said a voice, as if reading from a textbook. “Very common in subjects who developed hyper-adaptive identities in unstable environments.”

Jonathan stood by the back door. Hands in his coat pockets, with that unbearably calm—almost amused—demeanor. The shadows sharpened the angles of his face, more bone than flesh, like he’d been carved by resentment.

“What do you want?” Ellen snapped, not looking at him.

“Just observing. Your outburst was… visceral. Interesting.”

She turned to him abruptly.

“Interesting? Really?”

Jonathan tilted his head slightly. Almost a mocking bow.

“I heard you’re being suspended. That’s a shame. You were… promising.”

“And why the hell do you care?!” she yelled, her voice cracking from the strain. “You were there! You… you watch me all the time. You always do. Like you know something. Like you’re waiting for me to fail.”

Jonathan took a step forward. Slow. Not threatening—but deliberate.

“Maybe because you watch me too, Miss Joy. You think I haven’t noticed? Your eyes on me, every time I speak, every time I enter a room. Like you’re trying to figure something out that isn’t on paper. Why do you do that?”

“I don’t!”

“You lie worse when you’re upset,” he said, with a dry smile.

Ellen inhaled sharply, trembling.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you. One day you’re kind, the next you act like you want me gone. I don’t know who you are, Crane. I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

Jonathan stared at her for a moment, those sunken eyes glowing with something dark. Then he answered, voice low:

“Neither do I.”

And that was the worst part. It didn’t sound like a confession—more like a fact everyone else already knew. Something painfully clear, even though Ellen was blind to it. She didn’t know whether to cry or run.

“I must admit, I felt disrespected when you snooped in my office,” he said, resting one hand against the damp wall. “It was invasive. Did you think that because I looked at you and seemed interested, you had permission to act unpleasantly?”

“You’re the one who’s impossible to understand,” Ellen murmured, crossing her arms to protect herself. “You sprayed me with that horrible stuff… It’s your fault Wren got hurt.”

“No. That’s not my fault.”

“What?”

“It’s entirely your mind’s doing—the torments that cause your fear. Fear is the root of human action.”

Ellen stared at him in silence, unsure what to say—frozen, yet burning with rage. Everything around her was too much, and her silence only encouraged Jonathan to keep talking.

“Are you angry at me, Ellen? Or are you angry because now you know no one was ever really on your side? Not your colleagues, not even your friend… They all pretended to care, but they threw you away after the first mistake. Just like when your father died. Did you notice? Not even then did they understand you. They’re afraid of you.”

“Stop. You don’t know anything. You don’t know me.”

Elle’s voice dropped suddenly, her arms fell to her sides, and she stepped back with a visible unease on her face. She didn’t understand Jonathan—he was unreadable, and there’s nothing more terrifying than someone you can’t read.

“I do. I mentioned it before… But well, you were under the effects of my toxin,” he said, trailing off and shaking his head. “It was a bit selfish of me, don’t you think?”

Jonathan stepped down the remaining stairs and approached her, still keeping a safe distance not to touch her.

“I’m sure the one who doesn’t know anything is you,” he added. “But trust me, I know what rabbit hole you came out of. And I want to show you the light.”

Ellen shrugged and frowned—there was no human reason to trust him.

“Why should I believe you after everything you’ve done?”

“Well, do you have any other options?” Jonathan asked. “They hate you, Ellen. And I’m a responsible citizen.”

There was a subtle irony in Jonathan’s voice that made Ellen nauseous. She held her nerves by digging her nails into the palm of her closed hand.

“I don’t usually give many chances, but just because you’re my neighbor, as any good Evangelical Protestant would say… maybe it’s the right thing to do.”

Jonathan Crane’s words made her skin crawl, and for a moment, she remembered her mother’s stories while pitting peaches for pie—she’d speak of how the devil would take everything the farmers had, whether it was their crops, their livestock, or their wives. All to force them into surrendering their souls for a delicious life, for a chance to feel human even with a damned soul.

Her mother warned her not to be swayed by forbidden fruit—that its sweet taste and the touch of the serpent would only lead to an irreversible stench of death and despair, no matter how sympathetic someone offering you a chance might seem. Perhaps Ellen felt tempted the same way Eve had, because even if Satan stood on the edge of madness, his presence was hypnotic. That mystique reflected a deep humanity that made him dangerously attractive. He was unpredictable, different from everything she knew—a pomegranate that had already gone off but still held its seeds, an emotionally difficult being but also fascinating because he defied societal norms, unlike what his creator expected of him.

“What do you mean?” Ellen whispered, her chest burning—maybe with rage, maybe with despair.

The devil doesn’t appear as a seductive figure, but as someone who understands, who promises to see what others refuse to see. As if that evil came from the same place where you were born pure.

“I can make sure you keep working here—even under my supervision,” Jonathan whispered. “We can show them that…”

His words flowed like the stream behind her head—unsettling yet leaving no real alternatives. If she left Arkham, she’d be homeless and face the cruelty of poverty. If she tried to tell everyone it was all Jonathan Crane’s fault, she’d probably end up dead, and no one would do anything about it.

Ellen became once again that little girl talking to the family goats, hoping they’d answer—when he extended his hand to offer her a deal, and she took it.

She could feel the heat of his skin around hers, as though the same fear that seemed to obsess Dr. Crane now lived in her too. The two faces of the love's rage staring into one another.

[judasisdrafting]

betray me like a god - a wip intro

this is my original work, please do not plagiarize.

tws : suicide, religious themes & trauma, catholicism, mental illness, psychosis, abuse, queerphobia, eye injury, sexual assault, substance abuse, self destructive behaviors, mild sexual content.

summary : Betray Me Like A God follows a devout Catholic teen, Darja Ausmeel, who wants nothing more than to be normal, as ever impossible that may be. After a traumatic injury to her eye in childhood, she began to see apparitions of religious figures such as Mother Mary and Christ, alongside hearing what she believes to be the voice of God. Through everything they kept her company… Until the suicide of her best friend, Diana. Beautiful, forever young, and stuck in time, Diana haunts every corner of her life, while the eerily similar face of Darja’s estranged mother taunts her in shadow. Darja must attempt to grapple with her rippling faith, as she continues to run from the feelings (perhaps of veneration) she still carries for the late Diana, the addled state of her mind, and the question of: can a child truly come out right without the deific hands of a mother?

genre : coming of age adult literary fiction.

setting : Manigan (fictional city), New Jersey, early 2000s.

pov : 1st person, past tense.

vibe : the immaculate heart of mary. sprawling cathedrals. oxfords clicking on linoleum floors. a clouded, white iris. cross necklaces. the sacrificial lamb. the feeling of breath on your neck. snake venom. yearning for a childhood you never had. the bubble of bile. suffocating in water. nails dug into flesh. snowfall. a woman who feels familiar but is faceless.

playlist : spotify.

characters ;

darja ausmeel (mc, 15-17, estonian, they/them*) - religious, uptight, analytical, unsettling, devoted, well spoken, impulsive, set in their ways, responsible, troubled/unstable, patient, self-righteous.

diana feigenbaum (f, 15-17, german, she/her) - bold, unstable, confident, stubborn, fears rejection, dogmatic, sensitive, loyal, manipulative, overbearing, overprotective.

eduard ausmeel (mid-50s, estonian, he/him) - workaholic, hesitant, protective, caring, geeky, observant, introverted, lacks assertiveness.

maria ausmeel (late 70s, estonian, she/her) - eclectic, nurturing, erratic, holds a grudge, candid, resilient, affectionate, open-minded.

terhi rebane (late 30s, estonian-american, she/her) - troubled, intellectual, avoidant, charismatic, quick-witted, cynical, short-tempered, hypocritical, articulate, selfish, loving on own terms.

f - foil.

* within the story, they are referred to with she/her pronouns because they (at the present time in which most of the story is set) are not aware of their queerness nor are out

excerpt ;

Even now at seventeen years old, Diana’s head was stuck to the other’s right shoulder, both of their hair whipping wildly from the crisp whistle of wind. Crystals of sand crackled under Darja’s polished, black oxfords and crests of sea foam lapped at her fingertips, hand held just above the water. Diana had her bare feet dug into the seashore, black toenails taking on the appearance of mussels burrowing out of sight. Her face was flushed pink and her entire body trembled each time a gust of wind rushed over them. Regardless, she kept the sleeves of her button-up scrunched around her elbows, her skirt abandoned somewhere nearby. Winter was rearing its frostbitten head as November approached over the horizon and, yet, Diana didn’t seem to care.

[spiritsnsuchconsultationoffice]

Your website doesn't mention anything about online exorcisms. I am not from Japan, but another country you see, and would like your services to exorcise my cat. She's been meowing weirdly, kind of like a bark. It's scary.

That's odd! You may have an older link... I will check on this asap!

Anyways the both of us can set up a video call and I will exorcise this erratic apparition from your dear, sweet pet!

Signed, Reigen Arataka ✨