#humanity as a horror? like am i the only one in this place for whom the holy grail is the transformation into something human?

[featherymainffins]

*remembers Dungeon Meshi* The Winged Lion

[bamfkeeper]

Beautiful Devil

RQ: 'Hi, I have a request: a fic about NightcrawlerxFem!Reader, Beauty and the beast AU, starting it like the fairytale (Reader decide to sacrifice herself for her father because the scared man THINK the mysteriuos blue creature ask him to bring one of his daughters in his place). Maybe in the finale you can add the mob attacking the castle like in the episode of the '90 serie, with Graydon Creed guiding the mob (you can't look at that man and don't think he's a variant of Gaston). Just don't turn Kurt into a human, I love our fuzzy Elf. Thanks!' - @historygirl93

Warnings: F!reader, some violence, minor character death. Unedited.

A/N: I think this is a cute idea, I love the story. I don't see how Kurt could ever be viewed as 'beastly' he's too sweet. The fairytale is a longer story and involving all the details would take me a long time to write, so I did what I could to get the idea of the story across. I did my best, it was slightly challenging, and I changed just a few details just because I thought it would be better for the story.

WC: 2.2k

The village held such a prejudice against the blue demon who lived in the abandoned church. Rumors of yellow glowing eyes and a shadow with a devil's tail flicking in the dark, crawling on the walls like a hellish insect. A monster, the children of the village feared him just as much as the adults, whom had weapons ready to kill if he dared leave the cathedral.

Your father was highly religious. He wanted to banish the devil from the church once and for all, to purify the holy ground, but believed that only a sacrifice would satisfy the creature. You were horrified at first, being so helplessly given away as a sacrifice, you were the lamb that was about to be beheaded for no reason.

Upon being abandoned at the cathedral, surrounded by the harsh cold and snow, you thought you'd freeze to death. To your initial horror and surprise, the devil appeared. He flashed in front of you in black and purple smoke, like they rose from the ashes of Hell. You were far too tired and exhausted, so before you knew it, your body was wrapped and you were inside.

You felt the warmth of the fire inside the stone furnace, you sat up and watched the orange flames dance quietly while the blanket remained wrapped around your drenched form. The snow melted away and left you wet and still somewhat cold. But you were at least inside...

Once you regained enough bearings, you looked around for the devil, wondering where he was and what he was going to do to you. You felt fearful, your mind having heavy thoughts invading your mind of horrific treatment. While you searched the dark room, you saw his eyes peering to you from the darkest corner, tiny irises of gold staring through your soul.

"It's you..." your voice muttered out quietly, "You're the devil." Your hushed tone made him tilt his head slightly, he slowly walked around the wall, the far shadows hiding most of him.

"Nein...I am no Teufel..." he spoke back, his voice was even and not nearly as intimidating as you thought it would be. "I was born like this. But I am no demon." He stepped closer as he spoke to you, his appearance becoming more visible in the firelight. He had blue skin and sharp teeth like the villagers said, a long tail with a devil's spade, sharp nails and pointed ears...

"You look like one," you shakily retorted, still on edge of what his intentions were and you weren't about to fall victim without a fight. He only chuckled back, empty and somewhat...sad.

"I know."

He sat down near you, a few feet away, looking at you and slowly giving a smile, trying to be friendly. "I won't hurt you, I wouldn't ever." He paused, then continued, "Besides, a demon cannot step inside a church." He reasoned, holding out a three fingered hand to you. "Hab keine Angst."

You were cautious, but after seeing he wasn't nearly as horrifying as the town made him seem, you reached out and touched his hand. His skin was warm, he was fluffy. He felt like soft velvet, not like cold scaled skin you had been told was the skin of the devil.

Over the following weeks, you became closer to each other. You warmed up quickly after his efforts to try to appear not so scary, and once you spoke more often, he was actually very sweet and kind. You watched him feed birds and squirrels, holding the seeds in his palms and speaking to the birds as if they could understand him.

His favorites were the blue jays.

He showed you the cathedral, leading you through the massive church and showing you around. He showed you the library with lots of books along the walls, the studio where old paints and canvases were. He gave you plenty of things to do, and he provided you with good food, a large space to sleep, he treated you well. He was kind and sweet and...attractive.

You couldn't help but feel yourself get pulled towards him. Feel yourself get swept up by his chivalry and charm. He showed off in front of you, entertaining you with his skills as an acrobat and swordsman, he even let you try to swing one of his swords.

It was much heavier than you thought, making his skills all the more impressive.

You got word that your father had fallen very ill, and you wanted to see him. Kurt didn't want you to leave, scared you'd never return again. He held your hands and looked at you in the eye, his worry etched on his face. "You won't abandon me, will you?" he asks softly, "I don't wish for you to go..." he brings your hand up to his cheek, rubbing his face into your palm.

Your heart melts and you sigh, "I promise I'll come back. I just...want to make sure my father is okay..." you whisper back. You knew how he felt, being abandoned was one of his biggest fears. All he had been in his life was abandoned, by his mother, this town, sometimes he felt as though God himself has abandoned him.

With great reluctance, he let go and you rushed back into the village, desperate to see your sickly father. You were still angry he left you to die, but he was still your father. When you made it back, you came to his bedside and saw how terrible he looked. You had no idea what he had, but he looked on the verge of death.

Word got loose that you were in the town, somehow surviving the 'demon' who resided in the abandoned church. The town's greatest 'champion,' Graydon, nearly stormed up to your home and forced his way in. His voice loud and demanding, he as angry and furious with you.

The vile man had attempted to court you before. You always denied him. Why would you want to be with someone as crude and hateful as Graydon?

"How did you escape that wretched demon?" he demanded, yanking you from your father's bedside. He held your arm tight and stared at you with fury in his eyes. "That beastly creature will invade our town because of you! You were his sacrifice! Leaving signifies that the deal is broken! You've doomed all of us!"

Your eyes were wide as he basically screamed in your face, his cool was gone and he looked like he wanted to hurt you. You tugged against his strong hold, grunting as you tried to get free. "He's not a monster, or a demon! He's just a man!" You shouted back, "He's kind, gentle, he wouldn't hurt a soul!"

Graydon laughed at you, yanking you closer again. "You are lucky you are pretty, girl...you are such a naïve little thing. That devil is evil, and you have succumbed to his incubi ways. Don't worry, I'll make sure I fix that little head of yours up and rid you of the corruption he has brought upon you."

He threw you down, you hit your head and everything became a hazy mess. You heard his footsteps leave, his heavy boots hitting the old wooden floors with anger. You tried to lift yourself up, but you hit your head too hard. The world was spinning around you, but you didn't want any harm to come to Kurt. Graydon was as ruthless as he was egotistical, and he was dead set on murdering Kurt. He always had been, telling tall tales of cutting off his head and hanging it over the statue in town square.

You could hear his voice, rallying the town and heading up the treacherous path to the abandoned cathedral. You felt your heart ache, your body fading to unconsciousness from the injury.

When you regained consciousness, your body ached but the thought of Graydon already at the church gave you a newfound form of energy. You jerked up, your father had been too weak and sick to help, while you worried for him, the memory of him giving you up to die was there. You had to make a choice, and your heart had been decided.

You needed to get to the church.

You stumbled out to the stables, your body staggering as your brain felt fuzzy and heavy. You probably had a concussion, but right now that wasn't important. You didn't have a horse of your own, you prayed that the one you made it to wouldn't buck you off. The stallion let out a soft nicker, you rubbed its neck, your hand weakly holding onto the mane and you forced your body to mount.

The horse moved a few steps, adjusting to your weight. No saddle, it'll have to do.

You squeezed your legs and held on, the horse moved forward and with your encouragement it began a steady gallop through the trail that led up to the church. The horse was fast and bareback was hard for you to hold on, especially with a head injury. the horse sensed your wavering weight and tried to steady its run.

Over the hill was the church, and the stallion ran you right inside the broken down doors. You heard loud shouting, men fighting, and the sight that came to view was horrible.

Most of the men were down, unconscious, and Graydon was shooting arrows at Kurt, who had been disappearing in puffs of smoke, reappearing in other places. His yellow eyes blazed and he hissed at Graydon, landing kicks and punches to the larger man. You shouted at them to stop, but your voice fell on deaf ears.

The torches the other men had been carrying caught the tapestries and the flames eagerly began to eat the fabric and grow. The horse reared up, and you fell off its back as it ran out of the church. You sat up and cried out at Graydon, "Stop it! Don't hurt him! Can't you see what you're doing?!"

Kurt's teleporting soon became predictable, Graydon memorized the pattern and he shot an arrow into Kurt's leg right as he reappeared again. Kurt let out a strangled cry, stumbling from the beams and to the ground. By now the flames had consumed the entire room, smoke became thick and Graydon towered over Kurt's body. His eyes reflecting the fire, his face red and his hair a mess. He looked like the devil now, the fire only adding to his hellish desires to smite out Kurt's existence.

"Die, I cast you down to the pits of Hell where you belong!" Graydon tore a blade from his sheath, raising it above his head. But Kurt's eyes were focused on the burning wood above him, and he managed to teleport from that spot right as the wooden beams fell from the ceiling. Kurt reappeared by you, his fuzzy arms wrapped around yours as he teleported you outside. The last thing you saw in the church were the large beams falling onto Graydon's body, crushing him.

When you reappeared outside, you saw Kurt was hurt from the fight. He had two arrows in his body, one in his leg and one in his back, several lacerations from fighting the others and some parts of him had been burned. He let out a deep cough and he laid beside you, unresponsive.

"Kurt?? Kurt! Wake up!" You shook him, gently at first but it became more frantic when you noticed his lack of response. "Please get up!" You felt tears prick your eyes, your head swiveled around, looking for anyone to help. You weren't sure what to do, you felt hopeless. After you thought he was gone, his tail twitched at your side, gently curling up around your thigh weakly.

"Kurt??" You asked quickly, glancing down at him. You could see the exhaustion on his face, the weakness, but he nodded back. He gave you a weak smile, his yellow eyes soft and pure.

"Liebe..." he whispered back, his hand held yours and he pulled you closer. Your body naturally obeyed and you let your lips find his, both weakly pressing together as the two of you kissed for the first time. It felt so right, his hand cupped your face and his tail wrapped around you, being so weak but loving all at the same time.

You hadn't noticed the other townspeople had been watching from the trees, seeing how gentle and sweet you were to him. They could see that Kurt didn't resemble a creature of Hell like they thought, while he did seem odd looking, he didn't look to be horrific as they predicted. Their imaginations took over and the tall tales took over their logic.

When you broke the kiss, he smiled up at you. "You....came back..." he rasped, he was hurt still, but he was okay. He'd live. That's all you needed to know.

"Of course I came back...I told you I would..." you whispered sweetly, guilt gnawed at your core, "If I hadn't left then..."

Kurt cut you off, shushing you, "Nein, liebe...do not worry...the church can be rebuilt...I am going to be fine. What's another small scar? My fur will cover it anyway." He added, giving you a playful smile.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, "Oh, Kurt...don't make me laugh right now..." You muttered, some of the onlookers came to aid you in bringing him to the town to get treatment from the doctor there. You knew he'd be okay. The awful stories were debunked and the town appeared to accept him.

You had your love, safe and sound, and the real demon of the town had been snuffed to ash.

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight

[ak319]

Weird Yan Cousin x reader (Platonic)

//Warnings: Mentions of prostitution, human trafficking, kidnapping, weird behaviour but not incest, gore)

Your life had taken such a twisted turn for the worse this year, leaving you wondering if you were cursed. First, your parents died tragically in a fire that destroyed their home. Then, you found out your partner had been unfaithful. Since you shared an apartment, you had to move out, but they stayed, and the two of you were still arguing about selling it to split the money.

As if that wasn’t enough, you lost your job just three days after the breakup--allegedly for poor performance, which was completely untrue. None of this was your fault, yet everything seemed to be spiralling out of control. You were teetering on the edge when you received a strange phone call.

It was from someone claiming to be a distant cousin, Nova Salem. The name struck a chord--she was from your father’s side, the daughter of your uncle Ralph. But you had never met her or any of that side of the family. Your father had severed ties with them long ago. Ralph was only his half-brother, born from your second grandfather, Edmund Salem, whom you’d also never met.

Her sudden call made you feel uneasy, but you were desperate for help, and she offered it without hesitation. Pushing aside all the questions swirling in your mind--about your family dynamics, her abrupt contact, and the series of unfortunate events that felt like a row of dominoes crashing--you packed your bag. The next day, Nova's chauffeuse, Robyn, picked you up from your friend's place.

Robyn was an odd one, giving you mostly one-word, cryptic answers to anything you asked. What really threw you, though, was the route she took. You’d assumed Nova lived somewhere in the city, but Robyn just kept driving... and driving.

Now, here you were, standing in front of a massive estate in the middle of nowhere. You nearly jumped out of your skin when Robyn suddenly spoke from behind you.

"Let's get you inside, ma'am." Robyn's voice cut through the eerie silence as you gripped the strap of your bag, letting out a nervous chuckle. "Um, are you sure this is--"

"Yes, it's the Salem estate."

You glanced around, trying to keep your nerves in check. It could easily pass as a horror movie set, noting the distant tree line, the stormy skies, and the endless dirt road behind. Was this even the right choice? Panic started to creep in. What if she's not my cousin and just stalked my family tree to lure me here?! I am so stupid!

"Welcome, cousin."

Your eyes snapped forward to see a tall figure standing in the entrance, finally registering. Nova, no doubt. She stood taller than you, with short, thick black hair neatly styled, wearing a black turtleneck beneath a long cloak-like robe, paired with black pants...and bare feet?

Before you could even react, she closed the distance and pulled you into a tight hug, muffling your greeting and leaving you a bit breathless from the unexpected embrace.

"I can't believe you're finally here! You see this, Robyn?!" Nova exclaimed, her large hand gripping your head and shaking it playfully. "My little sister is here at last!"

Robyn merely nodded and silently took your other suitcase inside, leaving just the two of you.

"S-sister?" you stammered, taken aback. Her eyes gleamed even brighter, if that was possible, the intensity in her gaze at odds with her composed appearance.

"Indeed, my soror," she affirmed, her hands now firmly grasping your shoulders. "I never got the chance to feel the love of siblings, and with all the family drama and stuff, I was always left out. I never had the chance to have any real connection with family. You’re the only cousin I have."

Her words tugged at your heart, though you couldn’t shake the underlying suspicion.

"No other cousins at all?" you asked, cautiously.

"Nope. My mother was an only child. Anyway, let's get you inside." Nova kept her hold on you, gently steering you toward the entrance. Just before stepping in, she paused, making sure you took off your shoes in the porch. "Enter humbly," she said with a strange conviction. "We are born of the earth, and to the earth, we will return. It’s only right that we honour our origin, for soil should never fear soil."

What? The statement left you puzzled, but you decided to go along with it, stepping inside the dimly lit hallway.

Candles? Really?

"Um, why are the lights off?" you asked, your voice slightly shaky.

"Electricity? Oh, I forgot--you’re a city girl," Nova replied, her tone almost teasing. "I'll ask Robyn to have the switch on for your room--the fan, the lights---but the rest of the house operates without it."

"Why, though? In this day and age? Like, nothing at all?"

Instead of answering, she simply let out a low, eerie chuckle, leaving your nervous laugh hanging awkwardly in the heavy air.

"Let me show you your room." Nova's voice echoed down the dimly lit corridor, where candle flames flickered against the walls, casting long, dancing shadows. The mansion’s interior had an unmistakably gothic feel, with dark wood panelling, high arched ceilings and classic, aged furnishings. The air was thick with an old-world charm as if you had stepped into a place frozen in time. The paintings on the walls, though faded with age, exuded an eerie beauty, depicting somber figures mostly of a woman--always the same portrait of her--and forgotten landscapes

You stepped inside the room, expecting more of the same gloomy charm, only to freeze in disbelief.

What the hell is going on?

"Why is it… all… pink?" you asked, blinking at the sight before you. The walls were plastered with Barbie stickers that looked as vintage as the rest of the house. The bed was oversized and covered in frilly pink bedding, surrounded by plush toys that had seen better days.

"Isn't this what girls love?" Nova said with a wide, innocent smile. "Like little sisters?"

You spun around, trying to process everything. "Hold up. I just met you for the first time ever, so can you please stop calling me your little sister? We're cousins and barely even know each other." Your voice rose as you gestured at the pink explosion around you. "Also, do you think I’m 12?!" The moment the words left your mouth, you felt a pang of regret. Nova’s smile faded, and she looked taken aback. Guilt set in as you realized how harshly you had reacted. She had offered you a place to stay during a rough time. Maybe you could have been more understanding and patient, especially considering she provided you with a bed and a roof over your head.

"Oh my God..." For Nova, that was the most adorable thing she had ever witnessed.

"Um... I--"

"ROBYN! ROBYN!" Nova’s voice cut through the air, making you back away nervously. Her gaze remained fixed on you as she continued to shout.

"Yes, ma'am? How may I assist you?"

"(Y/n)..." Nova grabbed Robyn by the collar, shaking her with surprising force. "My sister--sorry, soon-to-be sister--just had her first tantrum! All thanks to you, Robyn, you absolute genius!"

What in the world--is she being excited or just passive-aggressive? You couldn’t tell.

"It’s okay! I mean, I like it... It’s good."

"You do? You don’t want another room?"

"Um, if... it’s available th--"

"No, it isn’t."

"...this is it then... I guess."

"Robyn, get the food ready. My cousin needs her evening nourishment."

"Aye."

They left you standing in the room, utterly dumbfounded. Everything about this day--and about her--was making you feel dizzy. The way she carries herself, the way she speaks--it’s all becoming a blur. Something in your heart warns that this is going to be a nightmare.

But at least you’re not in some serial killer’s clutches, as you feared before entering. Being an only child and living in such a large mansion might have messed with her mental health, but you hoped it hadn’t gotten worse than this.

The sudden flicker of the lights jolted you from your thoughts, making your soul feel like it had left your body. The room’s colour was now painfully vivid, almost too much to bear. Honestly, the dim glow of the candles was easier on the eyes.

You soon found yourself dining with Nova in the grand dining hall, the two of you beginning to learn about each other. Mostly, you listened to her recounting her adventures. It was impressive how many languages she knew and the places she had visited, though she seemed completely oblivious to modern slang and anything related to media, which you found a bit amusing.

"Anthropologist, huh? Isn't it boring?"

"Boring?" She cackled, her laughter echoing through the vast room. "Absolutely not! I get to travel, explore, and find fascinating things." Judging by the eclectic items scattered around the room, she was certainly telling the truth.

"You seem to have a fondness for skulls."

"Oh! Haha! Aren't they so symbolic in their own way? They are empty, yet their hollow eyes seem to gaze into the essence of mortality itself. Each one holds the silent echoes of a life once lived, a reminder of our own fleeting existence and the stories that we leave behind."

"Are they real?"

"I leave that to the admirer to decide. What do you think?"

"Fake or maybe both, judging by how much you’ve explored."

"You think I’d bring skulls from my adventures?"

"Umm..."

Her laugh interrupted you again. "You’re so naive, (Y/N)."

Just as I suspected.

"Anyway, what about your love life?"

"I don't feel attracted to the idea of being subjected to bodily fluids, particularly in moments of passion. " You felt your appetite slip away.

That’s a rather...unique way to say you’re asexual and single...?

"Cool. But doesn’t it get lonely here?"

"Loneliness isn’t something I mind. Besides, I’m not alone--I have Robyn and now you. A little-"

"Cousin."

"Indeed, a little cousin." You picked up your phone and then realized something. "Oh, I need the Wi-Fi password."

"Sorry, but that might not be possible."

"What?! Don’t tell me you don’t use Wi-Fi! That’s atrocious."

"You see, this technology that the youth have become so attached to has many malevolent effects. I cannot let you be subjected to that."

"What do you mean?! I need to find a job! And how do you do your own work?" Her calm demeanour remained unshaken as Robyn appeared behind you, slamming a newspaper down in front of you. The suddenness startled you. What is it with these people and their jump scares?

"This is today’s paper and your source for finding work."

"Are you kidding me? I need Wi-Fi for my job. I do half of my work online!"

"I’ll need to observe the signs this week. If they are favorable, you might get access. Farewell, cousin. Have a good sleep. Robyn, please escort her to her chambers." You clenched your jaw as she walked away. "WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! WHAT SIGNS?! SO YOU DO HAVE WI-FI?!"

God, what is going on? Is this a fever dream?

You were absolutely enraged in the following days. Apparently, the signs were negative, which meant you were stuck with no FUCKING Wi-Fi!

"Maybe the signs will be positive next month."

Whatever that means. In the meantime, you faced a series of bizarre occurrences that only deepened the unsettling feeling about your stay here and made you question reality. Despite her insistence on not using electricity, the candles lit themselves as if by some hidden mechanism. You were certain she used Wi-Fi--how else would she manage her research and extensive travels?

Her behavior was equally bewildering. She walked barefoot, even in the muddy grass outside during the rain, and would spend hours out there.

Some events left you sleepless for nights.

You once saw her talking to a pillar in the lawn from your bedroom window at night. At first, you thought she might be on a call, but no. She was facing the pillar the entire time. And then there was the incident where she literally smelled your... period.

"Eat this," she said, offering you a bowl of literal pickles. You swatted it away.

"What the fuck, dude?!"

"It’s to relieve menstrual pains. Although not scientifically proven, it is a good remedy."

"I’m fine. AND HOW THE FUCK DID YOU DO IT AGAIN?!"

"Just a matter of having good senses."

In the evenings, she always visited you for tea, bringing her two black hounds along. Despite your protests, she continued to bring them inside. You hated how they always seemed to sniff under the bed, her dark, void-like eyes trained on them as if she wanted them to find something.

Wouldn't want her cousin hiding something, would she? Perhaps thinking she could slip away, unnoticed, back to her old life?

Due to the lack of Wi-Fi, you spent most of your time reading books and exploring the mansion, trying out the strange array of activities Nova had set up for you. She instructed Robyn to teach you various skills like shooting, wrestling, and knife throwing....? You enjoyed it though but yes, you were shocked to discover that Robyn wasn’t just a driver, chef, or butler but seemed to be some sort of retired hitwoman. She never confirmed nor spoke about herself, adding to the mystery.

Despite the chaos and strangeness, you found yourself adapting to this bizarre new routine, almost treating it like a vacation and unexpectedly lifting you out of your depression.

You tried finding jobs but with no success. Every time you found a promising ad, something mysteriously went wrong with the car. It always seemed to break down, as if on cue. The phone in the estate barely worked, with your friend's voice garbled into unintelligible fragments or the call cutting off entirely before you could get a full sentence in. It was as if the house itself refused to let any connection to the outside world slip through.

One day, you had had enough of watching Nova work on her COMPUTER in her study while you languished in boredom.

"Look, I appreciate your hospitality, but it seems I’ve actually found a job, and it's time for me to-"

"You haven’t," Nova said, her voice smooth but chilling as she stepped closer, her face half-hidden in the shadows. "Don’t lie. I despise liars."

"Nova, I’ve had enough of this. I’m sorry, but living here is overwhelming with all the bizarre restrictions, the eerie silence, and the lack of contact with anyone! I can’t stay here. I need to go out and find a job! I didn’t come here to live permanently."

"And you think you have a say in that, cousin?"

"Wha-" Before you could finish, a cloth soaked in a strong, suffocating chemical was pressed against your face. The world around you blurred and faded as you struggled to breathe, slipping into unconsciousness.

"You are not going anywhere, Duif." (dove, in Dutch)

You woke up to the unsettling sound of floorboards creaking and the ominous clinking of metal against metal. Your body felt unnervingly cold, and you soon realized you were bound to a chair with ropes.

"Awake, (Y/N)?" Nova's voice, as smooth and chilling as velvet, made your blood run cold. You shivered uncontrollably as you saw her standing a few feet away. Robyn was in another corner, methodically sharpening a row of gleaming knives.

God, no. This can't be happening...

"Please... Nova, what is happening?! THIS ISN'T FUNNY! Please!" You didn’t care that you were pleading and sobbing in front of this lunatic. Fear clutched at your heart, twisting it painfully. You regretted everything that had led you to this point. You’d already lost your parents, your partner, your job--was your life now slipping through your fingers as well?

"Shush. Don't be scared. I just want you to listen to me. And carefully." Nova said as she grabbed a stool and sat in front of you. Where are we even? Is this some hidden room? Your eyes darted around frantically, taking in the grim surroundings, chains hanging from the bloody walls, a nailed coffin standing ominously in the corner, a table cluttered with various torture tools that Robyn stood beside, and, bizarrely, a fucking jacuzzi in the corner.

"Listen, it's time I tell you the things you need to know. About me, this family and even yours. You see (Y/N), my father, Ralph Salem, he wasn't a good man. He was involved in all types of bad things. Especially regarding...women. I was a teen when I found out he was involved in trafficking girls, the reason he fucked around with lots of women and... young girls, simultaneously abusing my mother mentally and physically. When he caught her leaving with me, he killed her... in front of me. Imagine that, I couldn't do anything." She paused with a dry scoff, "You have seen that pillar right? The devil buried her under it. I couldn't stand it. I wanted to die but he kept me alive because I was his heir, with his fucking disgusting blood inside of me. So I waited, I became the perfect heir for him only so that I could kill him in the most brutal way...which I did," You whimpered at her dark chuckle as she wiped your tears.

"Do you know where you come in?" Nova's voice was icy as she continued. "I began researching you the moment I discovered your existence. I wanted some form of familial love, even after I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone." Abruptly, she rose and moved to Robyn, taking a freshly sharpened knife from her hands.

"Guess what I found? Your parents were my father's business partners at one point. You see these skeletons here?" She gestured to the grim collection. "These are the people I hunt, (Y/N)--the ones my father worked with, those entangled in this... industry. And I continue hunting them. So I did to your parents what I did to all of them. Robyn, show her."

The butler pulled a lever, causing a hidden closet to open. Inside, the bodies of your parents were revealed--half burned, half slashed, with their limbs gone, only torsos-making you scream in horror.

"The bodies at the crime scene weren’t theirs. I used my connections to save them for you--along with another surprise," Nova said, her voice dripping with cold satisfaction as she slid the door open further. There, your partner’s corpse was revealed, grotesquely nailed to the wall like a butterfly, their chest open and hollow, blood eagle...which Nova once told you about. Without warning, you threw up to the side, your legs trembling uncontrollably. You could barely breathe, each gulp of air shallow and shaky, and you felt the world closing in. Please just let this be a nightmare. Wake up (Y/n), wake up!

"Did I mention that I eliminate bad partners too? How could I let them live after what they did to my dear...cousin?" She stepped closer, the knife gleaming in her hand. You shook your head desperately, unable to form coherent words. With a swift motion, she cut the ropes binding you, forcing you to stand. Her gaze was fierce, unyielding.

"You, however , were innocent, unaware of your parent's past. So from now on, you are a Salem. You will live here, as you are meant to." Her gaze darkened. "This is your place, your family. And I won’t have you trying to run away."

You slammed the trunk door shut and turned to Nova, who was meticulously removing her gloves.

"He was quite the noisy one," she remarked with a nod. "Indeed, sestra. Though you did a commendable job tracking him, little nerd. Now, let’s head back. My favourite part awaits in the mansion."

Ah, yes, it was Wednesday--skinning day.

From a software engineer to an assistant to a serial killer cousin with an intriguing butler, you found yourself strangely enthralled by this new life.

‘I want this world to be rid of those like my father, who mirror him in even the slightest way, together with you, my dear cousin.’

(AN: I realised that Nova might have put her own childhood plushies in the reader's room, which tugs my heart😭my baby)

[alexanderwales]

Book Review: The Ministry of Time

I picked up The Ministry of Time when I was in Berkley. It was prominently placed, it had a bold and colorful cover, and I'm a sucker for time travel of any kind. When I brought it up to the counter, the cashier told me that it was one of her recent favorites and really brilliantly realized for being from a debut author. The inside cover promises "an ingeniously imagined, hilarious romp through time, space, and the human heart".

As a veteran of time travel stories, I think they fall into two basic camps. The first camp is the thinky camp, interested in the time travel elements, the layers of cause and effect, the twists and turns that history or characters might have undergone for want of a nail, branching universes and stable loops, the raw matter of causality itself. The second camp is mostly interested in history, whether that's alternate history or historical characters. These are stories where the premise is that modern warship gets transported back to Ancient Greece or whatever and then we just do not interact with time travel in any meaningful way until the end of the book, if that. Sometimes (maybe even often) time travel stories straddle these two camps, but when I read a time travel story I usually immediately clock it as being one or the other.

For the first three quarters of its word count, The Ministry of Time is so firmly in the latter camp that I thought it would just stay there. The basic premise is that the titular ministry has pulled people through time and set them up with "bridges" who are essentially civil servants that live with the temporal "expats" and get them acclimated to the near-future modern world. Our protagonist "bridge" is a British-Cambodian woman, while her "expat" is Graham Gore, a member of the doomed Erebus and Terror mission to explore the Northwest passage. He's very loosely based on a real man about whom so little is known that his character is invented from whole cloth, but there's quite a bit of historical grounding.

Kate & Leopold was a 2001 film about a modern woman who works at an advertising company (Meg Ryan) and gets embroiled in a love affair with an aristocrat from the late 1800s (Hugh Jackman). It's a romcom, and I thought about it a lot when reading this book, which turns out to mostly be a slow-burn romance. It hits a lot of the same beats. Gore is a man out of time and we milk this for entertainment value as we watch him acclimate to the modern world in various ways, seeing the things that he loves and the things that puzzle him. He's also a gentleman from a simpler time, and his nobility stands in contrast to the boorishness of the modern male. A lot of this is stock: I don't read many romance novels, but "man from the past" is a whole genre, whether he's come through to the present or the female protagonist has been sent to the past. I am pretty sure that the first book of Outlander is this, but I only watched half of the first season of the TV show.

(The other piece of media this reminded me of was the Norwegian show Beforeigners, which hits the "past is a different country" and "refugees from the past" theme a lot harder, at least for my money.)

The Ministry of Time does all this far better than Kate & Leopold did. Part of this is simply the writing quality, but there's also at least a little engagement with ideas of colonialism, the horrors of the past, how we assimilate into the dominant culture, and what that means. Gore is well-realized, and our protagonist has a lot of complexity to her, which brings some brushes with identity and living in the wake of someone else's trauma (particularly because the protagonist, like the author, is mostly white-passing half-Cambodian). It's just that this isn't the sort of time travel novel that I like, because it feels like the core premise, traveling through time, gets set to one side while we focus on the relationship between the past and the present, and how fuckable guys from the past are. I appreciate that there's some depth to the female fantasy on display here, but I don't find this particular female fantasy all that interesting on its own. When I realized, about twenty pages in, that this was primarily going to be a well-written romance, I could feel my enthusiasm for it waning.

Aside from the romance between these two, which is the largest chunk of the book, we have a few people from other eras. They're not given nearly enough depth for my taste, but they serve their purpose well enough, and help add another dose of "actually, the past was kind of shit", which I think any work that is flirting with romanticizing the past needs. The two main ones are Arthur, a gay man from World War I who doesn't get enough screen time, and Margaret, a lesbian who comes from the 1600s. I think there's probably a lot to say about identity and queerness, especially because modern notions of these things are not historical, but as with many things, the novel touches lightly on them and then flies off to the next thing like a timid dragonfly.

The best thing about the book, and the reason I kept looking forward to it, is that the prose is really really good. On almost any random page I open up, I can find a passage that delights me. There's a real art to the metaphor and how it's employed, and I really enjoyed most of it, even the ones that maybe made me scratch my head a little bit. Things like "sparrows gusted along the curb" or "I looked into Margaret's face, the sultry peach color of her mouth and her acne glowing with unprinted newness" or "sheepish, excitable expressions, like children caught drawing on the walls". On the prose level, I was a big fan.

The setting for the novel is near-modern London, a city that's suffering the effect of climate change, with blisteringly hot days where they can't do much more than lay on the floor and wait for the heat to pass, and occasional flooding. The ministry itself is a bureaucratic monolith in a way that feels like it's a piss take, but it doesn't go terribly far toward saying anything here. There's a genre that I'm trying to coin a name for called bureaupunk or bureauporn where we focus on huge organizations with matrix management and endless meetings and paper trails, and how that all feels to live with, but this doesn't quite go to that level, even if it gets close. (The ur-example of this is The Laundry Files, for a future post.)

On the plot level ... I hesitate to use the word "sucks", but I had a lot of problems with it even before we get to the last fourth of the novel where it shifts gears from being a slow romance.

To start with, why are they forcing this man to co-habit with this woman in a way they acknowledge to be scandalous from his perspective? Why didn't they select a bridge that would ease him into the 21st century? Why co-habitation rather than, say, a bridge having regular check-ins or something? Actually, why is all this time and effort being expended on getting these people to acclimate to the 21st century in the first place? The novel doesn't really seem to want to engage with this either, and the answers, to the extent we get them, are always pretty vague. Uncharitably, the bulk of the novel is just an excuse plot to get this woman with this man and have them fall in love.

It's not until the last fourth of the novel that it really starts to pick up steam, at least from a plot perspective. There's a mole in the ministry, there are mystery people from the future, there are plots and plans firing off, people are revealed to not be quite who they said they were ... and I enjoyed this part a lot less, in spite of it being ostensibly more toward the type of thinky time travel fiction I'm a fan of. There are two major reveals, and I didn't think that either of them landed, in part because of how weakly they tied into the thing that the novel had mostly been about, which is this central romantic conflict. It's also in this last fourth of the novel that it becomes a type one time travel story instead of a type two one, but the time travel mechanics are never explained, it never matters, and the whole story is worse for it. There's something that a lot of time travel stories sometimes do where they say "well it's time travel, it's confusing, no one really knows" and I fucking despise it because it's lazy shitty writing. Even if you don't have perfectly consistent rules that make sense on a physics level, you need to have rules that make sense on a narrative level, and usually the kinds of authors who write passages like that don't have either.

Prose aside, I think I didn't like this book. I like some of the stock time travel stuff, like a man from the past discovering Spotify, and a woman from the present reveling in a man from the past. I thought the sentence level stuff was great. I thought that some of the recurrent themes of identity and running from the past were interesting, especially the stuff about power dynamics and fitting in with the governmental overstructure ... but I didn't feel like the novel hit all that hard, aside from a single passage midway through the book. The author has some thoughts on growing up with this Cambodian heritage, but I don't think I necessarily got all that much understanding on top of what I could have gotten from trying to write a character like that myself. I got the sense that the author was putting a lot of herself into the novel, sometimes to a degree that felt embarrassing to read, in a way that the novel is explicit about. Sometimes that was embarrassing in a good way, raw and real, and other times it was just confusing, elements of her life put onto the page without enough introspection or background to understand it.

The romance is good and compelling though, I'll give it that. If you like romances, and don't really care about time travel, you might like it.

[deanwax]

Writer Interview

Cheers for the tags, @autism-purgatory and @the-golden-comet <3

no-presh tag to @dyrewrites and @winterandwords, lets gooo

About Me

When did you first start writing?

I would've cut my teeth in the Neopets roleplay forums around age 11-12, likely didn't start writing standalone fics until age 18-19.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

Not really, but also: I'll read literally anything if it's presented as a graphic novel. It's been a useful way to discover new things, and historical graphic novels have been a gateway drug to documentaries and video essays.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

I don't really concern myself with emulation these days, but way back I tried to style a novel heavily on the works of Poppy Z Brite. I was too green to understand how to give a gothic horror a point, and "Wailing" fizzled out with not much more than wallowing in edgy misery. I've still never been able to salvage the plot or characters to this day.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

In order of frequency: lying on my stomach in bed with a heat pack, at my computer desk, hunched up in the corner of a train, being weirdly intense in the bar of a local theatre. So yeah, I do a lot of writing on my phone.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

I'm actually in the middle of reckoning with my own limitations caused by a chronic pain condition, so I'm more in the camp of "let the muse come to you". I try to check in often, I'd only to smash out a few more notes or paste in some research.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

No, except Sucks Down Under which is literally set in early 2000s Australiana. For the most part I'm making stuff up freestyle.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

I didn't think there'd be so much symbolic cannibalism when I started out, but here we are.

My Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

Man. Adam "Flicker" Prescott from Wailing was the OG, man. He was supremely socially awkward and couldn't stick up for himself against his trans friend who was too angry about gender to see how cruel they were being. He could see ghosts. Eventually he got separated from his body entirely and became a spirit trapped in the mind of the vampire who killed him. He deserved better.

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

Flicker could live in the back of my mind if he wanted. I guess he does.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

Setting aside outright villains, I actually would start to avoid Alistair from Impressions of Aire for long stretches of time if I knew him IRL. He's way too socially outgoing, man. That's not my speed. Small doses only.

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

The speed at which I can come up with these dudes is too fast to clearly separate the process onto steps. It helps to have a prompt to get the bones down, like a genre or an event that will happen in the story. Then: nyeeeooowwww.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Autism.

What’s your reason for writing?

Also autism. Yes, yes, the joy of creation. But also: I am putting the characters through The Situations with wildly different parameters.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

Babe, I write original fiction. Any kind of comment at all is a joyous rarity.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

A trickster.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Grounding the actions of the story in some kind of reason, or at least a process that can be observed if not clearly understood.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

Knack for words.

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

I have loved everything I have ever written.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Yes, so I could read it later.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

Any story where I've tried to inject content that would make it popular has hit wall until I've allowed myself to rework it to be as weird as I truly want it to be.

[docholligay]

Shattered by Lee Winter

Full and fair warning to the pitchers of this book: I did not like it. I did not care for it at all. I am gonna harsh on it. I will never read anything by this author again. If you go further than this, it’s at your peril. 

The pitch: What happens when superheroes don't want to be superheroes? A departure from the conventions of the genre, this book explores the many facets of humanity. Of life. Of loss. Of discrimination and friendship and equality – and how we, as humans, need different people in our lives at different times and in different ways. When your world is shattered, how can you pick up the pieces? (Includes a butch protagonist.)

Nonspoilery: The seductive idea of “A butch superhero” is utterly undone by the fact that everyone in this novel is insanely self-aware and has not only been to therapy, but may currently be sitting in a session now. Pair this with a hilariously heavy-handed look at social justice and axes of oppression, and I think a gay twelve year old would really get a lot out of this. 

I earlier posted little snippets of this book and I think that really sums it up. 

Spoilers

So I thought the major and compelling problem I was going to have with this book is I have very specific and strong emotional surrounds with the name Lena, as I do with only a handful of names in the world. So a character was always going to struggle a little bit for NOT being her. I was worried about this. 

Boy, do I wish that had been the problem! Mostly it offered up funny asides, but it didn’t really affect my feelings about the book. 

Lena is of course an edgy, closed off bad girl with a tragic anime backstory which in and of itself would not cause me a problem, many such characters, a number of whom I like. It’s a trope, and, you know what? It’s a decent trope! Would that an edgy bad girl who is the best at what she does, which is morally suspect, is a little ‘done’ was my biggest criticism. In a good story, it’s not big deal for me. 

BUT OH. Anyway, she goes to bumfuck nowhere to go track down Shattergirl, who doesn’t play the by the rules and goes into hiding, and Lena is all up in trying to figure out how to lure her back, because she’s the best ever at getting superheroes to come back, even though we learn very early on that maybe governments aren’t nice to superheroes. 

So then we go on a magical world tour, in some latter-day, low budget, Christmas Carol interlude where we have to prove to Lena, I guess, that people are bad and capitalism sucks? I honestly felt this was more a problem of Nyah’s imagination and experience than humanity sucking. Of course there are the horrors, but there is joy and beauty, too, and Lena basically takes all of this shit lying down like, “Hm! I, a fully grown adult who engages with a difficult business, never TRULY understood how someone could consider humanity not worth saving.” Really? NEVER? I fucking love the world, I think humanity is capable of immense kindness and beauty, and even I could see how someone who utterly lacked imagination would consider humanity “not worth saving.” 

And of COURSE Nyah’s planet was perfect and valued science and no one chased wealth and blah blah I’m sure she’s actually just high as fuck on the nostalgia of a place she hasn’t actually been in 100 years, but the narrative doesn’t SEEM to challenge this. It seems to be like, “Oh! If only humanity were not so awful! Le sigh!” and then Nyah offers the one concession to the fact that he planet might NOT have been utter perfection is that they weren’t very creative. Good fucking God. 

And we land on Nyah being the new leader of the superheroes, because of course she used to be the old president of the superheroes, but was replaced with a dude that sucks because, And I quote the fucking book directly: “You mean he’s a straight, white male.” The whole book is this embarrassingly heavy handed. God forbid we have a single thought for ourselves, don’t worry, this book will supply it to you like you are a little baby bird who needs it regurgitated into your mouth. 

Anyway, it was all very fucking YA. I wanted it to be the pitch, and I suppose it was the pitch for a 12 year old lesbian, but it was so on rails, so black and white, that I was nearly insulted by it. This was not pitched to me as YA, but the only difference between this and YA is they suck each other’s clits. This is for adults who only read YA.

I was going to go more into this, but as it turns out, I don’t actually want to think about this book anymore. It MIGHT be my least favorite book of the year, and if it isn’t it’s a close second.

[kallie-den]

In Red Eyes

A proud, stubborn, female knight hunts an ancient vampire, but when she looks into the creature’s deep, red eyes, she finds her memories being altered and the source of all her strength and pride being drained away

This is from a Patreon poll from a few months ago. My patrons voted for a vampire x knight story, and of course, I was more than happy to deliver

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

—

Despite her sleek, feminine features and silky, braided hair, Ser Isabelle of Verona was every inch the vision of perfect, chivalrous knighthood. With her breastplate worn proudly on her chest and her sword held high, she looked like a figure striding out of legend. But her valor was far more than just superficial. Even since her tenth nameday, Isaballe had striven to embody the kind of knightly heroism she had always so admired by training, fighting, and learning to prove her worth and overcome the limitations the world placed on her for her gender.

Now, after more than ten years, she had finally earned her title. When her father, the prince, had touched his blade to her shoulders and dubbed her a knight, acknowledging her worth at last, it had been the happiest and proudest moment of Isabelle’s life. Soon after, she had taken a questing vow and journeyed to the Carpathian mountains, determined to help cleanse the shadow that seemed to hang perpetually over that land.

That was what had brought her to Castle Dragosi, a grand ruin that slumped down the slopes of one of those mighty peaks. Isabelle had come in search of the undead beast that was terrorizing nearby villages. For all her bravery, though, Isabelle was no fool. She had spent a month scouring the archives of nearby monasteries, arming herself with knowledge of all the reputed weaknesses of the sanguine creature she was setting out to hunt. Only once she was sure of her readiness had she dared venture across the castle’s dread threshold.

Isabelle had been prepared for so much. But, to her eternal shame, the very first glimpse of the vampire’s eyes had utterly unmade her.

As she stood in one of the damp, dark, stone-walled passageways underneath the castle, lit only by the flickering moonlight that passed through the occasional window, they glared at her from out of the shadows that lay before her. Two crimson disks that seemed to glow like lamps, casting the stone in a spectral, unholy light that still, somehow, failed to properly illuminate the creature.

But the effect those eyes had on Isabelle was far more sinister. As soon as she met the vampire’s gaze, she was utterly transfixed. The muscles she’d spent so long honing simply refused to obey her. She could not look away. Even the sweet relief of blinking was denied to her. She could only stare in horror as those two crimson lights drew closer.

“Well, well, well,” the creature mused, in a refined, feminine, lightly-accented voice. “What do we have here? A knight, it seems. And a girl, too.”

Despite herself, Isabelle shivered. The vampire’s voice had a touch of the archaic to it, but moreover, lying beneath her words was a deep, base tone that no human throat ought to have been able to produce. It spoke of hunger, and the terror of ages past.

“Name yourself, trespasser,” the vampire commanded. She sounded accustomed to obedience.

“I am Ser Isabelle!” Isabelle replied. Mercifully, her voice did not quake. “A knight of Verona. And I have come to be your final death.”

The most unnerving thing about the vampire’s rich, ravenous laugh was how relaxed and unhurried it was.

“How amusing!” the creature purred. “Tell me, do you know whom you address?” She took Isabelle’s silence for an answer. “Ser knight, understand that you are in the presence of Countess Mihaela Dragosi. This castle, built by my ancestors, is my home. And I am determined to see it restored to its former glory.”

Her words sent a shiver down Isabelle’s spine. She had read the name ‘Mihaela Dragosi’ in an old monastic tome, dated to centuries ago. There could be no doubt that she was dealing with an ancient and formidable creature. But Isabelle was not about to let that rob her of her convictions. She clenched her sword tight in her hand, and strained her every sinew in an effort to move forwards.

“Then you will fail,” Isabelle growled. “I will not allow you to prey upon the people of this land any longer.”

The passageway echoed with the sound of footsteps, and the glowing red eyes that held Isabelle rooted to the spot grew larger.

“What a foolish sentiment!” the countess scoffed. “Prey upon? Does a farmer prey upon his cattle when he takes them to slaughter? I think not. It is simply the natural order of things.”

Her words kindled a righteous fire in Isabelle’s heart. It gave her fresh strength, and with it, she was able to make her limbs move - just barely.

“Your words are lies and vileness,” Isabelle spat. “Nothing more.”

In her mind’s eye, she could already see the sword stroke that would part the countess’s head from her body. Isabelle knew exactly what to do. She had trained for it her entire life, and she had no little amount of experience in combat. She just needed to save her resolve for the vital moment.

“I have no need for lies,” Countess Mihaela retorted. She sounded as immovable as the mountain. “But I will deign to teach you the error of your ways, Ser Isabelle of Verona. Behold the face of your rightful superior!”

She stepped further forwards, until the dim moonlight finally fell upon her face. Frozen mere paces away, Isabelle was able to see and stare at every horrifying detail.

Countess Mihaela Dragosi was beautiful. That was the first thing the knight was struck by. She had been expecting something vile and demonic, or perhaps weathered by the weight of centuries, but no. The countess looked like she could have been the darling beauty of any royal court. Her skin, though deathly pale, was flawless, and her high cheekbones and dark, perfect lips spoke of the nobility she claimed. Her raven hair fell about her in long, curled locks, and she wore a long, elaborate, corseted dress that trailed along the floor behind her as she walked. The effect was stunning. She looked like the kind of classical beauty that artists and sculptors would have longed to immortalize.

But beneath the beauty, there was terror.

After a few moments, a creeping sense of horror settled across Isabelle. When she searched for its source, she realized that the proportions of the countess’s face were all wrong, somehow. Below her imperious cheekbones, her cheeks were far too hollow and emaciated. It made her look desperately, impossibly hungry. There was something slender and pointed about her face that gave her a predatory air, and her mouth, when she opened it to speak, opened just a little too wide. Behind those perfect lips, there were fangs, razor-sharp and long.

And, of course, there were those eyes. Those glowing, crimson eyes.

Aristocracy layered atop monstrosity. The countess was truly everything the folk tales spoke of.

Isabelle needed to slay her. A creature like this could not be permitted to roam the world. The mere thought of it was abominable. Stomach-churning.

“My!” the countess exclaimed. “A maiden of your beauty is a rare gift indeed. How very fortunate.”

Too late, Isabelle realized that the countess was already within arms reach, and was studying her every bit as closely as she had been studying the vampire. Once she became conscious of it, it started to feel like Countess Mihaela could see all the way through her. At such a distance, her sinister eyes dominated Isabelle’s vision.

“I am no maiden!” Isabelle’s voice didn’t sound as even as she had hoped. Something about the vampire’s presence made it impossible to stay calm. She was struck by the uncomfortable notion that this must be how deer felt when they noticed an approaching wolf. Sweat was dripping from her brow, and her heart was starting to pound. Still, she would not yet herself yield to cowardice. “I am a knight!”

“So I see,” Countess Mihaela cooed. “But that strikes me as a terrible waste, dear Isabelle. I would hate to see this pretty face marred by battle scars.”

She reached out and stroked a single fingertip across Isabelle’s cheek. Only then did Isabelle notice that each one of her nails was a sharp, wicked talon. Her touch brought with it the sting of pain, and then the wet of blood.

It was unbearable. Isabelle made her move.

With all the fierceness and fire she could muster, she forced herself into motion and brought her sword down towards where the countess stood. Her muscles still rebelled against her commands, and so it was a slow, clumsy stroke, the kind that Isabelle might have made when she was first learning the sword. But she poured into it all her righteousness and all her experience. The countess’s evil would end here.

The blade flew cleanly through the air, and made an ugly sound when it struck uselessly against stone.

Isabelle blinked sluggishly. Countess Mihaela had moved… perhaps? There had been a blur of something, but it had been too quick for Isabelle’s eyes to follow. What was happening? She could tell the power of the vampire’s eyes had sapped her speed, but she still had not expected this.

“You see?” came the countess’s voice, from Isabelle’s blind side. “I think knighthood does not suit you.”

“Silence!”

Isabelle instinctively wheeled to face the vampire as quickly as she could, but as soon as she did, she was once again made a prisoner of her wicked eyes. Her movements slowed to a crawl, and an overwhelming lethargy ate at her limbs.

“You are a delightful thing,” Countess Mihaela mused. “I have a terrible thirst, but it would be a shame to see you spilled all over the flagstones. A waste. No; instead I will grant you the honor of a high place in my court.”

“A place in your…” Isabelle was aghast at this mockery. Her noble face twisted into a hateful expression. “I would never serve you,” she snarled. “I would die before becoming your knight.”

The countess gave another rich, regal laugh. “I do not need a knight, Isabelle of Verona. I need a bride.”

“W-… what?” For the first time, Isabelle felt truly lost. Her? A vampire’s bride? That was ridiculous and repulsive for a dozen reasons. She detested that she needed to listen to this for even a moment, but it would take time to regather her strength. “That’s nonsense!”

“Why?”

The question was so simple it was almost disarming. Isabelle was left speechless for a moment.

“I have been fighting for my entire life,” she began, trembling with rage, “to be anything else. Princess. Bride. Maiden. I have been fighting to escape all that! I’ve fought. I’ve trained. I’ve defied-“

“Oh?” Countess Mihaela interrupted effortlessly. “Is that how you remember it?”

She sounded amused, like she was enjoying a joke beyond Isabelle’s comprehension. Isabelle frowned. She wasn’t given to reminiscence. Especially not at a moment like this.

The countess, though, was not to be deterred.

“Tell me what you remember,” she insisted. As she spoke, her eyes seemed to glow brighter, turning even the shadows a deep, haunting red. Isabelle felt a sudden weight pressing down on her shoulders. It was as if the vampire had suddenly brought her full presence to bear against her. “Tell me a memory.”

“I…” Isabelle’s eyes widened as she started to speak. It was as if there was a fishhook in her tongue, dragging the words out of her. “I… remember…”

“Struggling?” Countess Mihaela said, when Isabelle trailed off uncertainly. Her voice was thick with dark amusement, and she seemed to loom ever larger and larger above the paralyzed knight. “Just look, Isabelle of Verona. Look deep into my eyes. You can find your memories there.”

Against her will, Isabelle looked. She found herself staring as deeply as possible into the crimson portals of the countess’s eyes, until her entire being was flooded with red light. And then, without warning, she felt herself tumbling into the past.

***

There was a sensation like being plunged into icy waters, and then, suddenly, Isabelle was back, standing above the courtyard of the keep in Verona, as a girl. Not truly, of course. Isabelle could tell that much. Her eyes were open. Beyond the unnatural light of Countess Mihaela’s eyes, she could still see that she was standing underneath Castle Dragosi. But that didn’t seem to matter. Her memory was more real than reality itself, and she was wrapped up in its recollection.

Isabelle knew the moment well. It was the moment that had started her along the path of knighthood. Even so, more and more details kept crashing over her, shocking in their vividness. The weather. The scent in the air. Things she had never bothered to commit to memory.

In just a few seconds, Isabelle was about to descend the stairs to where the master-at-arms was drilling her father’s men. Armed only with a girl’s stubborn pride, she would demand that he train her too. He would laugh - they would all laugh - but eventually, after some arguing, he would agree to indulge her. Even then, it had been obvious to her that he wasn’t taking her seriously. But in the years to come, Isabelle had shown him better.

In memory, she started to move. But as she did, a warning chill began to creep up her spine. This was wrong. This was all terribly, terribly wrong. But why? How? She couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of her dread.

It took her far, far too long to realize that the scene should not have been cast in such awful red light.

In memory, Isabelle looked up, as if admiring the sky. But there was no midday sun hanging overhead. Instead, there were two baleful, crimson orbs that drenched everything in the color of blood.

Those eyes. Her eyes.

Once Isabelle noticed it, everything started to change. To dissolve. In memory, the world around her started to melt, the way Winter’s snow melted at Spring’s first touch. It was slow, to begin with, but it quickened at a horrible pace. The keep. The master-at-arms. His men. All of Verona, visible over the keep’s walls. Even the stairs beneath young Isabelle’s feet.

It was all quicksand. It all lost its shape and started to fall away into the sudden abyss that Isabelle sensed hanging underneath the whole world.

The worst part was that she couldn’t even make herself scream.

And then, there was nothing.

***

Isabelle felt herself jolted back into the present. She was fully herself again, confronting the countess. And this was her chance! She should strike again, while she had the strength.

But she couldn’t. She was overcome with a terrible, gnawing sense of loss that begged all-consuming questions.

What had she been remembering? What had happened that day, as a girl?

Isabelle did not know.

“Did you lose something?” Countess Mihaela asked. Her voice was poison, and full of even darker amusement than before.

For the first time, fear entered Isabelle’s voice. “W-what did you just do to me?”

“Don’t worry,” the vampire assured her. The gleam of her fangs was almost as bright as her eyes. “I can fix it. I can fill that hole in your heart. Look deeper.”

The knight could not disobey, and the glow of Countess Mihaela’s eyes once again stole her back into the past.

***

It was the same moment again, and Isabelle found herself infinitely reassured. Thank God it was not truly lost. She was a girl again, on the stairs of the keep in Verona, and she was about to run down to speak with the master-at-arms.

But again, the whole scene was bathed in crimson.

This time, though, something changed. A shadow appeared over Isabelle. Looking up, she saw a woman towering over her. She was wearing an elaborate, old-fashioned dress, her hair was dark, and her corpse-pale skin marked her as a foreigner to Verona.

“Hurry back inside, Isabelle,” the woman chided, in an accent Isabelle could have sworn she recognized. “Your mother is looking for you. It’s time for your lessons.”

In memory, Isabelle pouted briefly. Her mother’s lessons were always boring, girly things. Needlework, dance, poetry. But after a moment, she acceded. It wouldn’t do to keep her mother waiting. The courage she’d been mustering dissipated. She turned and headed back inside to her lessons.

***

That was the end of the memory. Isabelle felt herself once again being roused toward the present. As she awoke from the strange, nostalgic stupor, she tried to tell herself that it was false. That it hadn’t happened that way. But those thoughts started to melt away beneath the vampire’s gaze, and she felt the new version of events effortlessly slot into the hole that had been left in her heart.

Isabelle blinked. Something had happened again. But what?

“Are you alright, my dear?” Countess Mihaela asked mirthfully. “You look a touch unsteady!”

“You did…  something?”

Isabelle’s mind was in turmoil. She could sense that some kind of tectonic shift had occurred within her, but it was getting harder and harder to determine where or how. The new memory - whatever it was - had seared itself indelibly into her mind, but it was already setting down roots like a sprouted tree. It was building connections. Spreading seeds.

Changing her.

“What is happening to me?” she breathed.

“I believe that you were about to strike me,” Countess Mihaela suggested. “Would you like to try?”

Her words drew attention to the sword raised in Isabelle’s hand. It seemed heavier than before. Isabelle realized that her hand on the grip didn’t feel quite right. Was she holding it improperly?

Why wasn’t she sure?

“No?” The countess laughed. “My mistake, it seems. Then instead, I think, you were educating me about your upbringing! You told me… yes, that was it. You were always a dutiful daughter. You always strove to meet your mother’s expectations for the little princess of Verona.”

Isabelle winced. Princess. Strictly speaking it was correct, but she’d always loathed that title. It was so girlish. Moreover, Countess Mihaela’s words had her perplexed. She didn’t remember telling the vampire any of that, and yet it all had the ring of truth to it.

Her head was a mess of fog and doubt, but more memories were starting to form out of the gloom. She remembered sitting through innumerable lessons in everything that was expected of a courtly lady. She remembered that her duty had always come first, no matter how much she’d wanted something more.

No matter how often she had looked out of the window, and watched her father’s men training.

“Yes,” Isabelle agreed slowly. “I… suppose.”

“Then how strange, that you ended up at my door!” Countess Mihaela mused. “Not that I am complaining, of course. You’re a lovely thing. Except for this. It really doesn’t suit you, you know.”

As she spoke, she reached up and stroked her fingertips along the flat of Isabelle’s blade.

Fueled by a sudden surge of strength, Isabelle snatched it back protectively.

“Silence!” she demanded, anger making her voice firm. “I won’t hear that. Not from a creature like you.”

No matter what, Ser Isabelle of Verona was a knight. Even though her duty to her mother had made training difficult, she had still spent her nights pounding away at training dummy after training dummy to hone her strokes. She had made do without a master-at-arms’s tutelage.

This sword was her life.

“My, my!” Countess Mihaela mocked. “So proud! You must know it well, that sword of yours.”

“Yes!” Isabelle answered, with a measure of her former fierceness. “Do not mistake me, fiend. Call me the princess of Verona all you like. The hours I have spent with this blade shall-“

“Is that truly how you remember it?” Countess Mihaela hissed, overriding Isabelle with demonic, regal authority. “Look at me, dear Bella. Look.”

Her command was iron. Isabelle looked into her deep, red eyes again, and lost herself in their mesmerizing glow.

***

This time, when the memory took hold, Isabelle was transported back to Verona once more. She was down in the courtyard, alone, and she was training. She always liked to practice in the evenings, when there were fewer prying, judgmental eyes to see. And after her mother’s lessons, it was a good way to vent some of her frustrations.

In memory, Isabelle planted her feet carefully. She raised her sword into a guarding posture and took careful aim at the practice dummy in front of her, ready to thrust.

But something was wrong.

The tip of her blade kept shaking. She couldn’t seem to hold it steady. Why? Hadn’t she done this thousands of times before?

Or was it hundreds?

Or was it just dozens?

And why was the courtyard bathed in an evil, crimson glow?

In memory, Isabelle looked up at the evening sky. Two moons hung overhead, and both of them were the color of blood.

Was this really how it had happened?

Isabelle couldn’t seem to call any alternative to mind. This was the only version of events she knew. That she had ever known. What could it be but the truth? With that comfort in mind, she raised her sword once more, ready to strike.

But first, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, Isabelle was assailed with a throbbing headache. The world, as she remembered it from that night, was doubled up upon itself. In her mind’s eye, there were two different memories fighting for the same space. As both of them forced themselves in, they each blurred around the edges, becoming unreal.

The other memory took place inside. She could tell that much. And she was holding… something. Something sharp. Everything else was indistinct.

The dissonance was unbearable, and Isabelle was gripped with an urgent need to determine what was real and what was not. And in her desperation, the accented voice that came to her as if drifting on the night wind felt like a blessing.

Look, it called. Look up. Look deep.

In memory, Isabelle looked up. She let the crimson moons overhead transfix her. Somehow, as she stared the knot of tension in her head started to slacken. She relaxed. And as she did, the courtyard and the training dummy melted away like candle wax.

Moments later, in memory, Isabelle found herself sitting in her chamber. It was as if she had never been practicing her swordsmanship outside - and indeed, that memory was fading fast. Overhead were not moons, but rather two odd, red lamps hanging from her ceiling.

She looked down. In her left hand was a frame for embroidery, and in her right was a needle, raised as she was about to thrust it into the fabric like a sword. In memory, Isabelle smiled. What a childish little fancy!

The childhood temptation to become a swordswoman had still been with her, at that age, but only just. Instead, Isabelle remembered resigning herself to her filial duties, and spending long hours practicing her needlework to become the princess her mother had always so wanted.

Then, in the memory, came a knock at the door, followed by her mother’s voice:

“Isabelle?” her mother had said. “There’s somebody here I’d like you to meet.”

Isabelle set aside her needlework as her mother pushed open her chamber door. At her side was a woman as strange as she was oddly familiar. She was extraordinarily pale and looked hungry, and her eyes were all red.

“She’s to be your tutor,” Isabelle’s mother had explained, “in the finer points of courtly etiquette. She’s a countess from the east, from over the mountains.”

Even in this most vivid of vivid memories, Isabelle barely registered her words. Her recollection was dominated by a single, overbearing feeling.

Adoration.

A single glance at the countess’s slender, aristocratic countenance was all Isabelle needed to know this was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. That she would ever see. There was an inhuman quality to her that only enhanced her perfection. Isabelle felt like she was looking at a saint, or perhaps a goddess. The blasphemy of that notion was completely unimportant compared to how desperately she wanted to worship and adore this woman.

In memory, her body started to warm to new desires. Shame stained her cheeks. It was wrong. Terribly, biblically wrong. To feel this way about another woman was unspeakable - let alone about a woman who had come all this way to tutor her. But there was no denying it.

In memory, Isabelle tried to remember if she’d ever felt this way about a woman before. She didn’t think so. This lust, this dizzying passion, this yearning for closeness and intimacy was like a spike driven into her skull. Without precedent, it had erupted inside her. If she hadn’t known better, Isabelle might have blamed it on a devil’s touch or a witch’s curse.

And in any case, she was too enamored to care.

“Hello, Bella,” the countess said, in that accented, somehow-familiar voice. “I’m here to help you blossom into a fine young lady.”

Coming from this goddess, the diminutive nickname didn’t anger her. It merely made her blush.

“Hello, countess.” In memory, Isabelle rose to her feet and curtsied as prettily as she could. A breathless eagerness slipped into her voice. “I look forward to your tutelage.”

***

Then, it was over. The memory was finished and receded back into the dark corners of Isabelle’s mind, there to spread its roots just like the first had. More memories started to appear before her mind’s eye. Memories of long years of tutelage and devotion as she cultivated her own regal femininity. But this was no time to dwell on them. She snapped back to the present, and scolded herself for being so absent-minded.

She wasn’t a girl back in Verona. Nor was she some old maid, constantly reminiscing. She was a knight, and she was here to… to…

To what?

“Are you alright, dear little Bella?” Countess Mihaela asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Isabelle leaped backward as she noticed how close the vampire was. Terror gripped her. Why was she here? To slay a vampire? That sounded like a bad jest. Where had she found the insane courage that had brought her down into this castle, sword in hand?

She barely even knew how to use the thing.

“Do not worry,” the countess added mockingly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Isabelle risked an incredulous glance at the creature. That proved to be a mistake. Once her eyes found the twinned, red lamps that shone out of the vampire’s face, she was once again frozen to the spot - not that it seemed to matter. Even running away felt like a distant fantasy. How was Isabelle supposed to move when she was weighed down with all this clunky armor? She had no idea how to move in it.

After a few moments, though, she realized there was something else that was giving her pause. Something about the countess. There was an eerie familiarity to her, like she had been conjured forth from Isabelle’s past. Had they met? It seemed impossible. How would she have met a vampire? But the notion continued to gnaw at her. She tried to tell herself that it was a mere trick. That, if anything, Countess Mihaela was something spawned from her nightmares.

But that wasn’t quite true either. Because Countess Mihaela was the most beautiful woman she had ever set eyes on. Even her obvious inhumanity was enchanting. Isabelle couldn’t take her eyes off her, and the sight of the vampire’s face stoked shameful desires she’d kept carefully hidden for so many years. Hers was the face that had haunted both Isabelle’s wet dreams and her most loving fantasies.

That, just as much as anything else, was terrifying.

“K-keep away from me!” Isabelle yelled, her voice wavering.

“Or what?” Countess Mihaela opened her mouth and bared her fangs. “What are you afraid of, little Bella?”

“D-don’t call me that!” Isabelle was teetering on the brink of panic. “I… I… I have a sword!”

She clutched it to her chest with both hands, embarrassingly like a child reaching for a prized toy.

“Oh? Then do your worst!” The countess spread her arms wide. “Here. I won’t even move.”

Hot, bitter tears of humiliation started to well up in the corners of Isabelle’s eyes. With the vampire goading her, she raised the sword as high as she could, and tried to imitate the way she’d seen fighting men move.

She failed miserably.

Isabelle had no idea how to hold the sword, much less swing it. When she struck out towards the countess, she was woefully unprepared for the way its weight and momentum carried her forwards and threatened to throw her completely off balance. Letting out a miserable whimper, she allowed it to slip out of her hands. It clattered to the ground uselessly, off to one side.

True to her word, Countess Mihaela had not moved a muscle.

“You see?” the vampire said, with an air of predatory, sickeningly false kindness. “You’re not meant for this, dear Bella. Why not accept what I offer instead? Be mine. Be my bride.”

The offer was horrifying in its allure. Countess Mihaela felt as much like a succubus as she did a bloodsucking monstrosity. Isabelle shrunk away from her whilst shaking her head and trying to ignore how tempted she felt.

“Don’t… don’t call… d-don’t…” Isabelle couldn’t keep herself from tearing up. She was trying desperately to think of a lifeline, but she was so terribly confused. She couldn’t so much as understand why she’d come here. “I-I’m a knight! I’m a k-knight!”

The claim felt laughably, pathetically false. But still, Isabelle was determined to hold true to that part of herself. It was one of the only things she remained truly sure of. Her deepest conviction.

“Are you?” Countess Mihaela’s amusement was palpable. “What kind of knight doesn’t know how to swing a sword, dear Bella?”

“I…” Isabelle had no answer for that, but she couldn’t let go. Her knighthood was all she had. “I’m… I’m a… a knight?”

“You poor thing,” the vampire simpered. “You seem so terribly confused. Why don’t you just look into my eyes for a moment? I can take all of that away for you. Just look, Bella. Look.”

She wasn’t sure if it was out of compulsion, fear, or simple despair, but whatever the case, Isabelle looked. Countess Mihaela’s huge, red eyes opened up to devour her.

***

Once again, Isabelle was tossed into a helpless reverie of memory. She found herself transported back once more to Verona, but this time she was standing in the chapel attached to her family’s estate. Even tinted in sinister crimson, the day was unmistakable to her.

It was her happiest and proudest moment, and the most important day of her life.

Having come of age, she was waiting there in the chapel for the ceremony to begin. In a few moments, her father would come to join her. She would take her vows, and then kneel before him as he blessed her with his ceremonial sword and awarded her the…

The…

What? What was she here for, exactly?

Isabelle found that she was struggling to remember that.

A knighthood?

That felt right, but she couldn’t see how it could be. After all, by that age, knighthood had been nothing more than a long-forgotten daydream. She’d long since put away her sword and her storybooks. Instead, she’d devoted herself to becoming the elegant, beautiful princess of Verona, under the fond eye of her beloved tutor.

Her…

It was then that it dawned on her. No; rather, it was seared into her mind like a red-hot brand.

This wasn’t a knighthood ceremony. It was her betrothal.

Her father was soon coming, yes, but he was coming to give her away to her betrothed. Her vows weren’t of duty, but rather of love and faithfulness.

Love for-

“You are a vision of beauty, my beloved Bella.”

At the sound of that familiar, accented voice, joy surged within Isabelle’s breast. She turned to face her betrothed as she walked towards her through the crimson-lit chapel.

It was the countess.

Underneath Castle Dragosi, Isabelle’s brow furrowed. There were a dozen and more reasons why that memory was impossible. Why it made no sense. A betrothal between two women? It was impossible. And why would her family ever entrust her to some foreign countess? Or to a woman so much older? Why didn’t they object to the fact that the woman they’d welcomed as a tutor had seduced their only daughter?

Yet all those reasons were swept away in the rush of nostalgic bliss.

In memory, Isabelle could barely contain herself. She was finally to be given to the woman she loved. The way their romance had blossomed was nothing short of a fairytale, and it was a further miracle that her parents had consented so readily to the match. How could she be anything but thankful?

Through her mind’s eye, she could see that the countess had looked as beautiful as ever that day. She was wearing the same dress Isabelle always seemed to picture her in, and her fangs were as white and sharp as ever. And her eyes, of course, held Isabelle’s very soul in their grip.

She was perfect.

The memory was growing clearer and clearer with each passing moment. Now Isabelle felt like she could remember what she had been wearing. Not armor, but a pretty, white dress. She wasn’t a knight. She was a bride.

Abruptly, she found herself picturing her father at her side. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could remember something of his smile as he offered her hand to the countess. Then, it was time for her vows. Isabelle spoke them from the heart, and the words took the place of years of chivalric oaths and honorable pledges.

‘Till death do us part…

***

This time, when Isabelle snapped back the present, it felt as though she had been struck by a thunderbolt. It was like she was remembering her whole life anew, and as her precious memories of the countess took root, they quickly filled the holes and doubts that had assailed her. It wasn’t long before she was set completely at ease.

Only, why were there tears in her eyes?

The only reason Bella could think of was that they were tears of joy - of the joy of, at long last, being reunited with her betrothed.

“You remember now, don’t you?” Countess Mihaela prompted. She was grinning wickedly. “Isn’t that right, my bride?”

My bride. Those words sent a rapturous shiver down Bella’s spine, and made her blush.

“Yes,” she said, in a dainty, adoring voice. “Forgive me, my love. I was confused. How silly of me!”

In truth, there were still a few things that confused her. They simply didn’t matter, now that she was in the arms of her great love. Why was she standing beneath some dank, ruined castle? Why was she wearing armor? Why did her body feel so firm, so muscular? And why was there a sword lying on the ground, so close at hand?

For a moment, she caught her own reflection in its steel. Her eyes seemed to have turned a dull, deep, listless red.

It didn’t trouble her. Not now that she knew who she was. She was Princess Bella of Verona, and she had come to take her place as Countess Mihaela Dragosi’s bride.

“Good, good,” the countess said. “You must come upstairs with me. I have clothes for you to change into. We can easily find you something more befitting a princess.”

Bella nodded gratefully. A dress would be much more comfortable and familiar than this heavy garb.

“But first,” Countess Mihaela added, “I am thirsty, my bride.”

Bella’s loving smile only widened. She knew exactly what the countess was asking of her. It was a bride’s duty, and one she was unbelievably happy to fulfill.

She reached up to unfasten the high-collared breastplate that kept her neck protected. Her fingers seemed to know how to handle the straps, even if her mind didn’t. After a few seconds, it fell to the ground next to the sword, and Countess Mihaela rushed forwards to sweep Bella into her embrace.

Bella, her knighthood lost, did nothing more than bare her neck in submission, and let out a blissful moan as the vampire’s fangs pierced her neck.

She had been wrong before. This, in fact, was her happiest and proudest moment.

—

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[katyspersonal]

How do you think Aldrich would speak? Is he rambling on philosophically like Aldia? Goofy and cryptic like Micolash? Is he flamboyant and manipulative like Shabriri?

I KNOW IT'S YOU @heraldofcrow !!!!!!!! There are only three people left that care about Aldrich: Tail does not send asks on anon, and I am literally right here, which only leaves YOU!

But yeah... He is the only of The Guys for whom we do not have any speech patterns reference, isn't he? I mostly come from the context and analysing characters' place and motivation in the story. Whereas Aldia is like Laurence and Micolash combined (affectionate), Aldrich is like Laurence and Micolash combined (derogatory)! THIS MAKES SENSE AND YOU KNOW IT OK!! He is of course less selfish than Laurence and Micolash in corruption, and past his epiphany about how the world is doomed anyways he wants to take people to the """better place""" (?) with him; be it by assimilating them into his body or be it by teaching them how to mingle with the horrors of the Deep on their own accord! I guess the 'still caring' aspect is just common Dark Souls thing, huh. BB guys just go 'fuck you plebs I'm out' fdshjsdhsd

I imagine Aldrich being giddy like Micolash, but with far more energy and genuine joy about his ramblings, however morally twisted, whereas Micolash feels completely lost in his madness and laser focus on reaching Kos, only acknowledging the Hunter because he is being hunted lol. Micolash feels very... sleepy, for a guy that spends his boss battle running, if this makes sense? Aldrich likewise emits strong excitement for what he witnessed but also wish to share it with allies and victims both. Whereas Laurence is revelling in how 'holy' and 'heroic' he is by doing things for humanity that no one else would dare, Aldrich would have less egotism about it and go more the 'don't worry guys I have a plan for us all you can trust me!' route. Less focus on how great he is and more focus on some twisted "reassurance" for everyone that everything will be alright.... that he secretly hopes would not work because people being scared and desperate is more fun for him 💀

I also have fun taking the line 'a right and proper cleric, only, he developed a habit of eating people' seriously, as in, he funny enough does try to be "good" despite what he's doing fdsdgfs That would mean not getting prideful, being generous and inviting, not holding grudges, all that. And all this comes naturally, he barely has to put an effort in it? He naturally smiles often, giggles between sentences and laughs off most of the unpleasant things, he gets smug but in a self-confident way, not in an insecure asshole way. It is just very hard to get to him, his self-esteem is as thick as his body I swear fdshdshfd Honestly, he'd be a very pleasant male mom friend (not to be confused with dad friend) in a way less insane setting? XDDD LISTEN I know it sounds weird, but you are a writer with a very strong intuition, you can probably paint the vivid picture from my (sorry) attempts at describing.. Actually, here are a few examples from when @val-of-the-north wrote his dialogue:

I absolutely love this vibe. Basically from time to time I ask Val to "talk" with me as a character that has no dialogue in canon, because Val is an actor (like, seriously) and always psyched for breathing more life into characters that never spoke in canon. Dude you should see how he depicted Sulyvahn and Alberich, I am still impressed so much, he's crazy good???? What we do is that I share the vision and very precise descriptions of what I imagine about the character (as what I literally just did above), and Val cooks according to my recipe as someone who actually knows how verbal communication works xd An autist and an actor the best team-up!!!!!!!!

I hope this helped though! (Use it to write a more unsettling shitpost skits if you want to fsdjsdfh)

[ironwoodprotectionsquad]

RWDE thoughts below the cut. Don’t like don’t click.

In the last episode we had what is supposed to be this powerful look at what Huntress’s are 

(Full disclosure this was the last gif I attempted to make but I was having a lot of struggles so that’s why its a screenshot. Also I had to add my own subtitles to everything myself)

Followed by a declaration from WBY that they are in fact huntresses, with the implication that they protect those who can’t protect themselves.

It is trying to sell the idea that they during humanities darkest hours, are the ones who stand up and fight. This should be a very powerful scene that further builds up the girls not only as being confident in themselves and their abilities and who they are, but also that they are Remnant’s heroes who will somehow save Remnant from Salem. However, this idea is contradicted immediately in the next episode. They run away. They don’t even hesitate to turn tail and run. 

They leave civilians to fight for them as they flee the scene, one of whom seems to be implied to have been forced to fight so they could flee. Who from what we can tell may likely ascend after this because of what we know about ascension from this very episode. 

Weiss stops in horror to watch the remaining civilians leave as they scream and cry in terror. 

They walk away from a crying shopkeeper lamenting about leaving places in ashes while doing nothing to help her. 

These people are those who clearly cannot defend themselves. They are people who in that moment needed Huntress’s to help them. But they did nothing. They ran away from people who needed them immediately after declaring their purpose is to fight for people who need them. If this makes them second guess themselves and wonder if the herbalist was right to question if they are good huntresses my opinion might change depending on how that is handled but as of right now I fear all of this is getting overshadowed completely by meeting the rusted night and finding out that it’s Jaune. And ignoring this and not addressing it would be a horrible disservice to what this volume was supposed to be for the characters, a chance to grow because the writers said the girls where sent here and the main plot paused to allow them to have some much needed development but given how the volume has refused to let those moments happen uninterrupted I am honestly not holding my breath on that happening with this just like every other moment so far this volume. 

So assuming that it doesn’t like I fear....why should we believe in this girls? Why should we be rooting for or believe in them to save all of Remnant when they can’t even fight a handful of monsters similar to the ones they fought in Remnant or the larger one they fought seconds earlier. The only thing it does is serves to make the audience wonder if they can stop Salem while also refusing to acknowledge that or struggle narratively with this. The show will more then likely just push on and pretend this isn’t an issue or something to be grappled with and it is so damn frustrating. This moment has the potential to help the girls learn and grow but based on how this volume has gone so far....I really doubt it will.

[sillyname30]

Actors get their breaks on Broadway in different ways. Steven Huynh, who has spent the past few years working primarily in regional theater and doing workshops for upcoming musicals such as The Lost Boys and Crazy Rich Asians, got his big break when he became the standby for Darren Criss in the new musical Maybe Happy Ending, now at the Belasco Theatre.

Huynh spoke with TheaterMania about deciding to pursue acting during high school after being nominated for a Dazzle Award, how his first Broadway show affected him, and what it’s like working with Criss, whom he first met on the set of Glee.

The following conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.

What was the deciding factor for you in pursuing acting?

I was planning to be a music teacher. I mostly played trumpet in high school, but one year I ended up playing Seymour in Little Shop of Horrors, and I was eventually recognized as one of five Best Actor nominees for the inaugural Dazzle Awards at [Cleveland’s] Playhouse Square, which is the regional version of the Jimmy Awards. While working on that awards show — it was so cool being with 100 other kids — I came to the realization that I could make acting into a career, even though I didn’t win the award. It also was a huge factor that my mom and dad told me I should be doing this. They are Vietnamese immigrants who own a nail salon, so their support has meant so much to me!

Was being on Broadway always your goal?

I would say Broadway has been my dream ever since 2016, when my high school class came to New York and saw Aladdin on Broadway. Seeing the representation onstage of people who looked like me was really inspiring. When my agent called to tell me that I had been chosen for Maybe Happy Ending, I immediately went to write down “At 4:18 on July 10, you found out you are making your Broadway debut.” And then I called my mom and dad to thank them. I still have a sense of disbelief that I’m here. But my biggest feeling is gratitude.

What is Maybe Happy Ending is about?

It is a musical that takes place in this future society that has created humanoid helper-bots whose main purpose is to serve others. But since they are always upgrading to the newest models, these two older robots, Oliver [played by Criss] and Claire [played by Helen J. Shen], are put into this retirement center where they meet and come to terms with mortality, being human, and falling in love. My hope is that, even though the musical deals with advanced AI, audiences will leave the theater with a renewed sense of wonder about the world around us today. I also hope they will sing or hum the score for days to come.

You are not only the standby for Darren Criss, but you’re also an understudy for Marcus Choi, who plays various roles in the show. That sound like a lot of work.

Yes, it is a lot that I have to learn all these parts. But I get to watch and observe this show from the ground up and I get to be part of the conversation, which is so exciting. I learn a lot of the roles simply from osmosis, being in the room every day. Still, when I am home, in Harlem, my script is completely hooked up and I am constantly reviewing lines and music on my commute on the subway.

Are you enjoying working with Darren?

I absolutely admire and adore Darren. It’s so incredible being in the rehearsal room with him — we actually didn’t meet until we got into the rehearsal room — because he takes such an intellectual, in-depth approach to creating his character. I remember watching him in Glee while growing up; I actually used his version of “Someone Only We Know” as my audition song. Luckily, he thought that was hilarious. Anyway, a lot of our camaraderie comes not only from our Asian American heritage, but from our shared love of food. A lot of what we talk about is our experience of eating at our favorite restaurants, and now we try to go out when we can and find the best ramen, pho, or Korean BBQ. It’s so fun!

[astramachina]

Writerly Questionnaire

i was gonna snatch someone's open tag but @the-golden-comet (ty!!!) hit me with one so here we go. this is probs gonna get long and I apologize in advance.

About Me

When did you first start writing?

I was probably writing two page "sensationalized diary entries" when I was 8, but my first foray into proper "I am writing a piece of fiction" was at around 15.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

Kind of but not really? I do enjoy reading a good romcom every now and then despite never having written one (and not intending to YET), but I mostly read horror and sci-fi which are my two genres of writing choice.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

When I was younger I really wanted to be able to emulate Terry Pratchett's prose, but the more I wrote the more I realized there's no real emulation when it comes to one's own authorial voice, just bits and pieces of all of whom we've enjoyed along the way. Nowadays I don't really care for the idea of comparison, but if it's a must, Grady Hendrix's approach to blending horror with humor is golden.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

98% of active writing magic occurs in my bedroom, at my desk, mostly on my laptop because it's the only piece of tech with a word processor. When I'm feeling feisty, I'll light a scented candle (apple & cinnamon) and instantly give myself an allergy.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

MUSIC. Or taking a shower. Or chillin the backseat of a car with my headphones on. Growing up I had painted the words "movement inspires creation" on my closet door because car rides really were the prime way to summon The Muse.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Oh, absolutely. Sometimes it's more obvious than others! For example, Define Home to Me is a folk horror set in a fictionalized version of the town I grew up in. In The Unbinding, it's all about the familial tension that permeated my developmental years. I love writing modern day gothics for that very reason.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

My characters? Queer. Usually POC. Sometimes disabled in ways that makes them moving through the plot impossible. A lot of the times there's some scathing commentary against colonialism and imperialism, trauma, generational nonsense, and so on. Do they surprise me? Yeah, actually. Like hey what are YOU doing here, this is supposed to be a story about space monsters and weird gas stations out in the American West, ain't nobody got time to study the decay manifested by settlers on my culture, the fuck.

My Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

UHH probably Ricky Kronbach? He's a fandom OC which means I'm able to play with him while being unbound by cohesive narratives. I can put him in a blender and he'll still manage to flip me off. He's a brat. He's a weirdo. He's everything to me. Non-fandom wise, probably Verne from The Singularity Project. He may be a side-character and a... anti-hero? Kind of? But he has my entire heart because my god he's a hot freaking mess of a human being.

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

Probably Mike. He's a cool dude and by far the most normal. We'd talk about plants and watch The X-Files in his living room.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

Nick Miller from The Unbinding. He may be the MC but boy is a massive dick that needs to get his ass kicked into gear.

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

I'm a very story-centric person, so a lot of the times story comes before the character. I'll have a solid plot and setting and when the time comes for a vehicle to move through said story, I get to work on the character. It's one of the reasons why I only wrote fanfic for so long! I'm bad at creating interesting and unique OCs so a lot of the times they're just some guy (gn), though they do tend to grow and sometimes throw fits when certain events want to take place that do not match their personality.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Not to me cringe on main but for a good two years I realized that the main love interests in multiple of my projects were 1) dark haired 2) blue-eyed 3) British. I'm still bewildered by this. Other than that, family trauma. LMAO

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.)

Depends on the project! TSP is a very special case in which I see half of the characters as actual real people. Other times I go with "actor faceclaims" so that it makes writing feel like a movie.

My Writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Fuck if I know. I just like doing it. It's this pit in the center of my chest that needs to be put the into word or else I feel like I'm going to explode.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

Give me those deep-dives into lore speculation. Or if it's something on the more risque side of things, I was feel a deep sense of satisfaction when commenters slip into the TMI scale of things.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

As the guy who makes people feel things while reading. Regardless of what feelings those might be.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Foreshadowing (usually accidental) and setting descriptions.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

"It's like I'm reading a movie," is something people have been telling me for well over a decade. Which is mainly the reason why part of TSP's story is visual! I want to try just how well the medium translates through my specific lens.

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

The entire range of human emotion. I recognize that not everything can be (or should even be, for that matter) a banger. Some stuff is shitty, and I will hate, and I will feel unsatisfied, and will make me never want to write again. Other stuff makes me feel like I deserve at least some kind of award, even if the award is "a nice cup of coffee with a lemon loaf". Sometimes I'm proud of it, sometimes I'm not. Sometimes it's fun, and sometimes it's not. Not only is it alright but it is necessary to slip and slide along that spectrum. Which is to say-- I am satisfied whenever I engage in the craft.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Hell yeah I would. I'm my own audience first and foremost.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

I write for me, myself, and I, and actively choose to share that with others. I did my time of trying to write for a wider audience to appeal to the mainstream industry and that just ended up with me hating every damn moment of it, so here I am. Horror and sci-fi aren't as popular as other genres which usually translates to limited reach, but man, those who match my freak will match it, and that is all that matters.

I SAID THIS WOULD BE LONG. not gonna tag anyone's notifs so i'm leaving this baby as an open tag!

[joeys-piano]

Writerly Questionnaire

... aka the first bit of writing I've done this week, other than work reports and audit workpapers and burning the midnight oil over with nothing but a red Teams icon. Thank you for tagging me @agirlandherquill! You've no idea what a bright spot this has been for my week.

About Me:

When did you first start writing?

I started officially posting my work December 2011. It was a Vocaloid fic inspired by one of the popular songs at the time.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

I don't write much angst anymore because of health reasons. I also don't write much fluff anymore for the same reasons. But it's perfectly fine for me to read it, though 🥰 My writing preferences are heavy introspection, slice of life, and flavors of horror.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you're often compared?

I don't think I have one. Nor do people compare me to other writers. I've been told my writing requires you to be in a certain mood to read it, so there's that.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

90% of the time I write while cuddled in bed, fuzzy under my favorite blanket, and a soft plush just staring at me as I write on my phone. Yes, I'm one of those writers.

Once upon a time, I used to be the writer who wrote on my laptop and at a desk. But life is too short for back, shoulder, and arm pain. So I write in bed, usually while lying down, and chip away at the work on my phone. I'm a faster writer on my laptop, but it's much easier for me to be creative when I'm not on a laptop. And really, at the end of the day after work, after sitting in front of a laptop all day, writing on my phone felt obvious.

What's your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Thinking to myself what kind of story I want to read but haven't found a writer who's written it.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Geographically, no. Emotionally, yes.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

I think the most recurring themes are "it's good you found people you can be yourself around" and "it's okay if you're just you". These don't surprise me at all.

The more I write about it, the more I feel comfortable being myself, too.

My Writing

What's your reason for writing?

If I hadn't followed the path of the writer, I would've been a video editor and would make music video-style edits for things I enjoy. But alas, I picked one or the other because both take a lot of time.

I write because there was this one point in 2014 where I wanted to quit as a writer because I didn't feel like I could write the things I envisioned and wasn't skilled enough to pull the things I wanted to do. In the nearly ten years since then, I've written a lot of stuff 2014 me didn't know I was capable of because the only way I really get better at anything is when I try. I try, and I "fail". But I gave effort, and that means something. Every little thing counts. I think I write at this point, in spite of how hard it is, is because I want to tell 2014 me what I wouldn't have experienced in my journey if I had stopped.

I've met my dearest friends through writing. I've gotten more comfortable with who I am because of writing. I have a career because of writing and get to give back to the creatives I admire and whom I want to see thrive in their art. I wouldn't be who I am today had I quit in 2014.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

Comments where people tell me they've reread a work again.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who "gets" the human condition; as a talented world builder, as a role model, etc)

"Joey makes you laugh and cry, and sometimes both at the same time."

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Rhythm and vibes.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

Others have told me it's my characterizations. It's how I capture a distinct voice through the narrative.

But on an aesthetic note, that my writing is pretty.

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question)

It's a foggy mirror after a hot shower and I'm drawing a smiley face to unearth my reflection.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Yeah.

It gives me something to talk to.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? if it's a mix of the two, which holds most influence?

It's a seesaw of both. Ultimately, it's my time I'm spending on a project. I might as well write something I enjoy.

---

Tagging nobody but @voxofthevoid.

[gaunt-and-hungry]

OC Introduction: Heinrich (Nemesis) Cornelius Reiss

Nemesis -- Ancient Greek: Νέμεσις, The name is often connected with the Greek verb νέμειν némein which means "distribute, attribute". The name is also related to the Greek word némein, which means "to give what is due". Heinrich -- Name of Birth -- "Heinrich" Ruler of the Home. Home Ruler - composed of the Germanic elements "heim" and "ric". "Heim" means "home" and "ric" means "power, ruler."

Born in Salem, Massachusetts. Upper Class. Murdered his parents at thirteen. Has healthy sleeping habits. Possesses the largest occult library in England.

Occultist looking to study the unusual reaches of the world. Knows everything there is to know about the obscure and anomalytic.

Forty Years Old (Or so he says) -- He/Him -- Gay Might not even be human anymore...

A terrifyingly intelligent man with a charming demeanor. Polite, well spoken and well dressed if he does not charm his way through life then he is leaving behind a trail of blood. His aim is to document occult and ritual manners across the globe from very obscure places for his own personal record keeping. Archives forbidden and dark magics and myths. Best friend of Wilbur whom he gifted the name of "Erebus" to. The one person he could never bring himself to eliminate and is strangely fond of the younger man. The Price of Knowledge is invaluable. Knowledge must be sought no matter what the cost... No matter the blood shed.

People of Interest: Leftenant John Irving ~ Dr. Harry Goodsir ~ Thomas Blanky ~ Wilbur Flamel (OC is a character of dubious moral standing. Interactions accepted but engage at your own risk)

Atrocious. Abhorrent. Salacious. Felonious. Curious. Charming. "It would be crazy if I died! That would be a capital riot!"

Weakness: Ego. Thirst for knowledge. "Obviously it's a tragedy but boy oh boy is that a laugh riot!" Strengths: Knowledge. Incredibly patient. Nothing seems to phase him. Indominable in ways that are borderline horrific. Cold blooded in the face of any conflict. Unshakable and unfettered no matter the eldritch horror unfurling before him. Impassive to all danger. "You all will, in very likely chance, all perish. I do love that for you all. You deserve to die tragically and remind others why you should not have come."

"Friends murder each other all the time!" - "It doesn't take a killer to murder It only takes a reason to kill We've all got evidence of innocence, it's "everything's coincidence" The difference twixt fate and free will is whether you're singing" "You, could you take a look at me? (Man no more than animal is made of moral chemicals) Am I bad, am I bad, am I bad, am I really that bad? (Any form mechanical, thank you, God) We're singing, ooh (from the hordes of cannibals) Whatever you think of me (to psych wards of hospitals) If you were in my shoes (it's a small world, after all) You'd see I wear the same size as you Oh, oh, right!" - (Laplace's Angel - Will Wood)

"Yes I may be evil and yes I may be deranged and yes I may be abhorrent and beyond all rational comprehension. And yes I might practise dark magic and yes I may be guilty of atrocities and yes there might be no turning back from the horrors I have unleashed on the world. What of it?" - "I drank the blood of angels from a bottle Just to see if I could call the lightning down It hasn't struck me yet, and I would wage my soul to bet That there ain't no one throwing lightning anyhow" - (Blood of Angels - Brown Bird)

"Oh, don't get your filthy blood all over my coat now. We can't have that." - "Such a pure devotion to your skin Who'll absolve you from your sin You flee communion paranoid Now your cup is the void" - (It Tore Your Heart Out - Dirt Poor Robins) "Do not acknowledge me as a human being. It disgusts me."

"I do not like how he makes me feel. He makes me... He makes me feel, Wilbur. He makes me feel; and I do. Not. Like. It." - " "Angel" he calls me Does he know that I'm falling From the precipice that I tripped off long ago "You're so pure," he says Does he knows I'm forsaken The original sinner But soon he'll know For if I'm going down I guess I'll take you with me." - (the fruits - Paris Paloma)

"Names are power, love. Why do you think they call me Nemesis?" - "Kiss me you animal I need to take you in real slow Cause dying on your lips is how I wanna go Connect with the sound you're making Connect with my body whoa Kiss me you animal and don't ever let me go Kiss me animal" - (Kiss me you Animal - Burn the Ballroom)

"Brought to my knees. Oh how the mighty falls. Ironic, isn't it? A mortal man and I have crumbled like Babel." - "Let my hands be your chapel Treat my screams like your Bible I'll deny you of salvation I'll be the reason you repent Kiss me like I'm a conviction Beg for divinity in my breath Regret my touch So much that you Curse your baptism" - (salvation - Christabelle Marbun)

If there was such a thing as “evil” in the universe, Heinrich Cornelius Reiss would be the flesh and blood of it. If there was such a thing as “evil” in the world of man, Heinrich Cornelius Reiss would be its judge, jury and executioner. If there were such things, of course. To Heinrich, no such thing exists. No such fallacy and fantasy such as “Evil” were anything more than the pitiful cries of those fallen prey to the turbulent cruelty of the universe. If there was a God, then either he hides in fear of Heinrich Cornelius Reiss or he would have tried to cut this man down before he was born. If there was a God, Heinrich would have killed him long, long ago. Not, of course, out of malice or any particular reason thrust upon him. He simply, as he would put it, would like to see what would happen.

Heinrich Cornelius Reiss, above anything else, is a man of hard work, education, and cruelty. One would think he released moral compasses long ago in his life. This is simply not true at all, and instead he navigates with a device within his body and mind that simply cannot be read in any rational human language. It is simply put, not convenient to allow such paltry things to obscure his efforts of achieving a great collection of obscure and rare knowledge as well as accompanying artefacts. It pays to own land. It also pays to own an impressive private library in Central London where he may secure such knowledge.

The man with the power is the man with the knowledge, after all. Sometimes that knowledge must come with a smattering of blood and matted hair clenched in a tight fist with screams that cannot be heard this far underground. Thankfully, his hard work often paid off and yielded handsome results. If only such results could be acquired in the frozen arctic North. Perhaps, yet, he may walk away with something of value, even if it is the first and only thing in the universe to cripple his resolve. Now, to what lengths he will go to swallow his pride and keep these frozen men alive alongside Wilbur... That remains to be seen.

OC Introduction of Nemesis - AKA Heinrich Cornelius Reiss

[eversea143]

The thing about being a writer who likes to write villains, the kind of villains who have zero morals and zero care, is that you have to place your own headset into theirs in order to write them properly.

I can tell you with a quiet confidence when poison would work and when it wouldn't. I can tell you with certainty how one might rationalize child murder. I can tell you how one sneers down at those seen as lesser and why this can give someone satisfaction. I can tell you - and offer real-life proof - how mass-murder has down- and upsides. I can tell you how an evil mind plots the death of innocent people and not feel an ounce of remorse.

Sometimes I feel genuinely unsettled after writing my villains, not just because the stuff I write is a horror-addict's best dream, but because this is a mindset I am capable of imagining.

You can't imagine a mind that wouldn't functionally work. That's also why characters who act without a baseline seem so flat and fake. Everything has a reason, we rationalize even the irrational to justify something we've said or done.

"He deserves it" "She's mad" "I don't care" we always have a reason.

Even those who are evil down to the core justify their evil deeds; for most it's simply the satisfaction of being evil and doing whatever you want. Even when someone knows intimately that they're a bad person, the mind will conjur up a reason, an explanation, a cause to keep the mindset going. As long as their own emotions don't counteract how they think, things like guilt and remorse don't come into play. A person can perfectly kill someone and feel happy or even excited at their actions.

Humans aren't inherintly good or evil. But we are perfectly capable of being solely one or the other. The gray side exists and is best suited for a grand majority of the human population, but just as we believe children are the epitome of innocence, there exist people so full of nothing but hatred and rage that there's no chance - truly no viable path - of redemption. They're the kind of people you would gladly lock up, for whom even death may seem like a mercy.

I write characters like this. I delve into their twisted minds and figure out what rational they function with to do their horrid deeds. I do this by my own choice and the only thing that I can think after I'm done is "Thank god I'm not like this."

(At what point is my own reason any different from theirs?)

[iamthecomet]

SO, I'm jumping in here so I can stop hijacking your comments 🤭 here's your excuse for a book-related thread where you can scream about your newest reads!!

I need a new stand-alone book recommendation. All the folks at work are on a romance kick and I need something completely different. 180-degree spin kinda different!!

Tell me about your latest fave!

Do you have a GoodReads?

Feel free to rant!!

Ok SO. You have no idea what you've gotten youself into by giving me permission to do this BUT thank you. ♥ I do have a goodreads, but I haven't been good at keeping it updated this year. I've been using StoryGraph instead because it has pretty charts and graphs and I am a sucker for things like that. I have the same username and (and profile picture) over there as I do here, just in case anyone feels like stalking my reading habits hehehe. As far as stand-alones and not romances go that I've read recently (ish) and enjoyed, you can find them under the cut to save space :)

Family Lore - Elizabeth Acevedo - Magical realism about a couple generations of women most of whom have supernatural gifts. One, Flor, has dreams when people are about to die. She suddenly decides to throw herself a living wake, but won't tell anyone (not her sisters or her daughter) if that means she dreamt of her own death or not. It's very grounded in the real world and very much a book about family and relationships and heritage. It's strange and heartbreaking sometimes and feels real. It won't be my favorite book of the year but I really enjoyed reading it. Manhunt - Gretchen Felker-Martin - Now for something completely different. Found it on the horror shelf. Not so much scary as it is very gorey. The premise is it's been several years since a disease ended the world as we know it and turned most AMAB people into cannibalistic monsters. The story follows two trans women, and a trans man as they fight their way through an organization of TERFS and some really spoiled rich women to try to find a place they belong among this madness. Also, they kill feral men and eat their balls which apparentely keeps them from suffering the same fate as other AMAB people (there is probably science in the book but I read that part long enough ago that I don't remember it). Not a stand alone but I have to mention The Thursday Murder Club series by Richard Oseman. You can absolutely just read the first one and never move onto the second. I hate mysteries, I adore these books. They're about four 75+ year olds who live in a retirement village in England who get together every Thursday to try to solve cold case murders. And then...a murder happens basically on their doorstep so they decide they're going to solve a REAL murder. Hysterical, heartbreaking at times, the characters feel like real people. The plots are unpredicitable and complicated but not unrealistically. It is not my usual thing, but the 4th one in the series is my only 5 star read so far this year. I cannot say enough good things about it.

And, not a book I read super recently but: Tender Is The Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica. It's a book with an obvious agenda which always knocks things down a couple pegs. But reading it was like watching a car crash I couldn't look away from. The modern version of The Jungle but intentionally a horror book instead of just accidentally one. It's about the not so distant future where humans are farmed for meat instead of animals. It follows a man who works in the meat industry as he grapples with the morality of what he's doing. I can't say it an amazingly well written book, but it is deliciously fucked up which is sometimes all you need for a good read. It's also a very quick read. I read it a couple of years ago and it has stayed with me. It really feels on par with golden age sci-fi to me (1984, Fahrenheit 451) it just has that vibe (which I really like, so maybe that's why I love it). And if you're in the mood for some feel good realism that isn't a romance book, The Last Chance Library by Freya Sampson made me tear up several times during the book both for happy reasons and sad. It's about a painfully shy small town library assistant who has to figure out how to stand up for herself (and a lot of other people) when her library is threatened with closure. Maybe I just loved it because it was about libraries but it was just warm and fuzzy and also heartbreaking and infuriating (I did want to shake the MC several times, and/or slap her to snap her out of her bullshit, but I don't think that's a bad thing). I will stop now before I rant about books for literal years. But if anyone EVER wants to talk books with me I am more than happy to chat about them, give recs if I can, scream about how bad something is (I have to hate read a few books every year, I just have to).

[ssaalexblake]

controversial and all, but i liked Seven’s arc in s3 of stp and I think it carried on very well from the place she was in at the end of S2. 

Seven of season one would Never have dealt with Shaw in the way Seven did here. This isn’t because Seven was excusing Shaw’s actions to her as Not Bad (they clearly were and she was clearly more than aware she was being treated like shit) but because in S2 Seven finally reached the place where she reconciled the two sides of herself. The part which is human and the part that is borg. Raffi helped her accept herself through showing her that that kind of duality was not only possible but lovable as well. 

In accepting that she is worthy as who she is as Seven, she gained the ability to dig her feet in and not just leave when her true self is rejected because she knows Shaw is the problem here, not her, and that he doesn’t deserve to win this through his ignorance. It is canon that before, she just left (like, valid life choice, but people grow and change and she can decide to stick it to the man in different ways each time). 

But anyway, by the end of S2 Seven has let the spectre of Annika go. Annika is Part of her, sure, but she’s not the whole and she never can be. She’s always wanted to be called Seven, but always seemed to have this longing in her to be able to Be Annika. It makes sense, her being Annika would mean she was never borg. 

But again, S2 Made her Annika and Annika was a horror story. There’s never a positive slant narratively to Seven trying to be her. Her ex whom killed her son called her Annika. Seven trying to go backwards and be herself, before the borg, is not something the narrative lets her go back to. They let her get a taste of what being a regular human felt like so when she lost it, that she’s okay with it adds to the profound nature of her self acceptance. 

Annika Hansen has always been somebody the narrative of this show wants Seven to let go of, and Seven lets go at the end of S2 because she’s ready to. 

Voyager was trying to teach her how to be human, and we can and have debated the ethics and morals of this till the cows came home, so I won’t, but in contrast, STP was telling Seven that for all that she is human she is also somebody who is borg, and that being both of these things is okay. 

So narratively, Shaw showing up and testing Seven’s newfound conviction that as a person Seven is worthy as both borg and human makes sense as an ongoing story, in my opinion. You have to test the hero’s conviction. Shaw is Seven’s test. 

And okay, they did Not stick the landing on this plot, but Seven sticking to her guns that her as she is and how she chooses to be deserves inherent respect just after we see her realise this for herself is a good continuation, imo. Pretty much the only continuation from past seasons to this one at all. 

I wish they’d not just given Shaw the easy out they did by not making him grow, and it kind of cheapens it that Seven didn’t get a Proper apology and acknowledgement of her personhood, but at least enough of it was there to show that this is what they were going for. 

And I mean, there are things i am annoyed at for how they Weren’t a part of Seven’s arc, like how Vital Raffi has been to her evolution and how she still should have been a part of this, but I don’t actually have much of a gripe with the arc that Did happen other than wishing the writers were a bit more talented at what they were trying to say, tbh.