#my bird paintings are kind of pitiful.

[luminarrow]

testing out watercolor + pen

[cdragons]

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Next Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn��t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

Let me know if you want to be tagged for future Saltburn fics!

[yerimbrit]

[flufftober day 28, wc: 804] - sleepover : 10 hour flight

“HEY GUYS,” you wave, holding your bag full of your necessities and clothes for the night. that’s right, you’re staying over at your girlfriend’s place! which is also your cousin’s place. which is also minji, danielle, and haerin’s place. which also may or may not be the newjeans dorm. because your girlfriend is hanni from newjeans. 

wow, you still can’t believe that you’re dating hanni from newjeans, and you didn’t even meet as a fan—you met on some random day at the airport, strangers-to-lovers-trope type of shit. 

minji and hyein are the ones who answer the door for you, and minji immediately sighs, “you better not pull anything tonight.”

“you bet, MJ,” you click your tongue playfully and shoot a finger-gun at her, “no shady business that was planned.”

hyein gives you a hug, and- “oh my god, you got taller again!”

the younger girl is about to make a height comparison with her hands until you spot danielle who pushes her out of the way to give you a hug. “y/n! i haven’t seen you in forever, you’re so busy with school!”

a slight headache invades your mind for a split second when she mentions ‘school’. “i’ve got deadlines, a painting to finish, and a thesis to write, dani. don’t remind me…”

the australian shoots you a pitying look, before making way for hanni, who strikes a pose before strutting over to you. “hello, guest.”

oh, another thing you learned is that hanni can be pretty unintentionally funny at times. like how she’s greeting you like some sci-fi bigshot. “hello, your highness,” you bow, hovering your hand over your chest. 

she brings you in for a short peck on the lips, causing haerin (who just walked into the living room) to cover hyein’s eyes, and for minji to cover haerin’s eyes. danielle smiles and walks to the kitchen. “i missed you, y/n.”

“i missed you too, han,” you smile fondly at her before she leads you into the apartment. everyone gathers in her room where you also put your bag of things in. 

it’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve been to the dorm, but it hasn’t been that long since you’ve seen the girls—danielle was exaggerating. you just stopped by their practice room two days ago to drop off some food that hyein’s mom made for them. not that your absence has changed anything, the dorm is pretty much the same save for a big banner featuring their ‘right now’ characters. 

in hanni’s room, she’s moved around some stuff, like the record player that’s playing a mac demarco vinyl right now. there’s also a whole section dedicated to organizing the various supplies that you’ve forgotten while you were over the few dozens (maybe even hundreds) of times over two years. you’re pretty sure there’s even stuff you left in hyein’s room, whoops.

you climb up on her loft bed (which she’s been saying she’s gonna replace, but she hasn’t yet) and hang your legs over the edge. minji sends you a warning look from her place on the floor. hanni looks concerned, but joins you criss-cross on the bed, holding her ‘fluffy’ plush (yes, the one from despicable me) to her chest.

a few conversations start, like danielle bringing up sylvanian families and getting haerin very invested in the discussion, which led to the topic shifting to cats, and then your sketch of a cat you saw on the way here, and somehow sparking your flame of inspiration.

you slowly lean forward, trying to get a view of the girls that are sitting on the floor (or bean bag, in haerin’s case) because just a little more and you’ll have a perfect bird’s eye view.

hanni notices your movements and widens her eyes, “y/n, you’re gonna fall!”

“it’s not that high,” you try to reassure her, still inching off of the bed, danielle, hyein, and minji scoot away just in case you actually fall, which you probably will, based on their previous experiences with you. come on, you mostly stopped doing those stunts a long time ago, because you knew hanni would worry! it’s not like you’re gonna—

“y/n!”

…you fell. that kind of hurt. “uh, don’t worry guys. it’s just a sprain.”

haerin winces as she looks at your present state. “your arm is bent the other way.”

it is? you look at your arm and, oh. “i guess it is—oh shit.”

…

“i can’t believe i’m in the er with you. again,” hanni sighs heavily, poking at the cast wrapped around your arm.

you blow a strand of your bangs out of your face. “at least i didn’t break two of my ribs again. hey, wanna reenact our first kiss?”

your girlfriend stares blankly at you. you raise your unbroken arm in defense. “no? okay…”

flufftober masterlist!

a/n : i miss u 10 hour flight

[iloveaustinelvisandmannymore]

Forever, mine

Pairing: Astarion x reader.

Warnings: Dark themes, Angst, Concubine!Reader, Yandere! possessive, obsessive Astarion, Forced relationship, One-sided love, Gore, Murder, Bloodsucking, Turning. Part 1.

Summary: You should've known you'll always be his.

You sighed softly as you stared out of the window, the burning star above brought beautiful rays of sunlight into the dark bed chamber. Happy, and gleefully birds of all kinds chirped to a love song of their own.

You wonder what that was like.

To be happy and free.

You were weighed down by his arm laying on your hip as he slept so peacefully while you wallowed in self-pity and misery. Rustling of the slik sheets told you that the day would be another torture. "Good morning, my darling treasure." Astarion's smooth and elegant voice greeted you, a little tired rasp enlaced within. You turned around to face him, a practiced smile playing on your lips, "Good morning, my love." You greeted in return, swallowing down the rising venom as you called him your love, a pet name he rained hell to be called.

He will never be your love.

nevertheless, you melted as you looked into your master's crimson eyes, Love, and obsession swirled around in his iris like rippling wine as he looked into your own, his normally pristine white curls a mess, and his pale skin seemed to sparkle in the light of the sun, and the soft yet smug smile he wears, he looked like an angel. immersed by his beauty, you didn't feel his tender touch upon your forearm till he spoke "As much as I want to stay in bed, and cuddle you into my arms. We have work to do." Astarion sighed dramatically, running his fingers through his hair, and gave you a wink before sliding out the bed.

The throne room was a glorious sight, ceiling high above your head, a story painted of love, betrayal, and vengeance embosom in the round walls. Shining gold and marbled white beams run down to the smooth wooden floors. A rose gold arch separated the thrones from the rest of the ballroom, maroon with dark patterned curtains drape to the sides, showcasing the vampire Lord and you on your thrones. Astarion held none back on his. Different shades of gold, black, and red designed his large throne while yours was a bit smaller and with only colors of silver and white.

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes as another devoted follower praised and stroked Astarion's ego before moving on to her problem as others lined up behind her, waiting for their turn. Your butt began to ache as you sat for what must have been hours. Since Astarion had learned of Soren, your day started and ended with him, your old chamber was now one of the many guest rooms as your stuff was moved into your master's chamber. You rarely were able to leave his side.

It was getting harder and harder to sit still, harder to blur Astarion and his loyal subjects out. Laying your cheek on your hand you looked around, looking for anything to keep your attention until you spotted a familiar man, frantically waving at the entrance of the ballroom. Soran! You quickly looked to your right, your master was still focused on his task to notice your reaction.

You cleared your throat.

Astarion head turned slightly to you, holding his hand up, effectively silencing the blubbering woman. "Yes, my treasure?" He finally looked at you, his crimson orbs filled with happiness."I must excuse myself," you stood up and feigned a desperate look, "Nature is calling me." Astarion stared at you with an unreadable expression before he simply dismissed you with a wave of his hand and returned his attention to the woman.

As you walked down the small stairs and out of the ballroom, you grabbed Soran's arm and both of you ran down the halls, almost unable to contain the laughter bubbling in your throats. Finally, you reached the vast, colorful garden and your backs hit the grassy ground.

"You're positively insane! He could have seen you!" you laughed as Soran crawled on top of you.

"No one can keep me from you," he grinned, his teal eyes putting the sky's blue shade to shame. Everything in the world felt right when you were with him. The birds chirped a special song just for you, and the fragile breeze carried the sweet scent of the flowers around you. The light from above beamed down on Soran's back, and it seemed like a halo appeared on his head. He's an angel, and he is yours. You talked about everything and anything, time flew by before you could stop it.

"My lady!!" Lyra shouted, out of nowhere, her long blonde hair flowing behind her as she rushed to you, "My lady." She repeated after taking in a few shakily breaths, her forest greens finally looked up at you, and a glint passed through her eyes and then the look of panic settled in. "What is it, Lyra?" You spoke calmly, hoping it helped her. "Master Astarion calls for you! He wants to throw a ball and he said he aides your expertise." She said frantically, pulling you up and began to drag you away. You got one last glance at Soran as you were dragged pass the corner.

"What do you think of this, treasure?" Astarion hummed, holding up some (f/c) fabrics, his movement was nonchalant yet still elegant. You tilted your head slightly, eyeing the individual pieces, and then pointed to the darker shade of the color and he handed the satin to the seamstress. "What is this ball about?" You asked with a falsely happy smile, your arm hooked on his as you both moved on to the next set of items. "You'll simply have to wait to find out, curious little minx." He purred mischievously.

The ballroom was splendiferously decorated, with colors of (f/cs), and your master's colors involved some of the decorations. The floors were polished to perfection, and the lights made it seem like a magical dream. Your gown swept the dancefloor as you were guided and twirled along by Astarion and before you could stop it, a genuine smile graced your lips. "You look exquisite." Astarion smiled back as he twirled you once more and finished off by dipping you. The crowd that was watching applauded, the music stopped for a bit then played another song. "There is something I must ask you." He said seriously, despite his tone and intense eyes he gently moved a stray hair behind your ear.

You watched him get one knee, frozen in place, and eyes widened as he pulled a ring that must of been crafted by the hand of a god, out of his pocket. "My treasure..I haven't always been the best of lovers. I was torn by my past, clinging to the first person I loved in all my 200 years of living. I thought you could be just a replacement but you were more. You made my cold, dead heart feel alive once again. Will you marry me?" He asked, but you both know he wasn't asking, if he truly was too, he'd do it behind doors. he wanted an audience, a guarantee that you'd say yes unless you wanted to face his wrath like never before. You did the only you could do, "Yes!" You smiled and your eyes began to water as the ladies and noble clapped, some laughing heartily thinking this was all a romantic display, and your tears were of joy. How wrong they are.

The click of your heels and tge sniffling of poorly hidden tears echoed through the elongated halls of the palace as you rushed to the servant headquarters. You had to find Soran and leave this place while you could.

Something felt off when you reached his room, it was too eerie, and as you opened the door time slowed down as you took in the view before you. The furniture was knocked over and broken. Pieces of flesh, blood, and bone spread across the walls and floors, and in the middle of it was Astarion. Dripping in the crimson liquid, his pale hands dyed red and coated in ripped bits of flesh, his steamed-to-perfection garments rustled and soaked in the same red that lingered in his hair, on his face, lips, and hands.

"Ah, there she is, the woman of the hour. We were wondering when you'd show up," Astarion chuckled sinisterly, kicking the body he stood above. The mangled form turned more your way, and horror flooded your veins with ice. Soran.

"You truly figured I wouldn't know of your treacherous actions? Treasure I thought you knew me." Astarion sneered, stepping over Soran. You step back. "Astarion, please I-" You tried to find anything to say, yet words failed you because, for the first time in a while, you were terrified.

Astarion shushed you gently as he continued to back you up against the wall, "Nothing you can say will save you pet." His fingers gripped your locks and pulled your head to the side, exposing your neck. "M-master! Please, don't" you begged, one hand struggling to release your hair from his grip and the other pushing against his chest, it made no difference. "You will be mine, for eternity." His pearly fangs pierced your skin, every gulp of blood he swallowed, your life slipped away from you. Just as you gave into the darkness, a warm, iron-tasting fluid dripped into your mouth.

You never should have taken his hand.

Taglist: @horizonstride, @xxmaddhatter39xx

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Jade Leech - Platinum Jacket Vignette

"Happy 100th Anniversary"

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Jade: I see this art museum not only has many art pieces depicting tales from the surface, but also from under the sea.

Jade: I suppose this may mean that just as there are merfolk fascinated by land, those on the surface may have garnered interest in the ocean as well… Oh?

???: These are the two moray eels that served the Sea Witch. And yet, their expressions…

Jade: I believe they look quite kind and gentlemanly. Do you not agree, Riddle-san?

Riddle: …Oh Jade, it's you. Unfortunately, I have to disagree with your opinion there. That's because…

Riddle: In this painting their grins look as though they are plotting something untoward, not unlike how you and Floyd tend to look.

Jade: Oh my, for you to say we resemble the great Sea Witch's subordinates like that… Fufufu, I am honored.

Riddle: That wasn't a compliment. However, it's true that their numerous benevolent acts have been passed down through history.

Riddle: I'm sure I'm only mistakenly seeing them as sinister, but in reality, they are kind moray eels, just as you say.

Jade: Indeed. I'm elated that not only are the tales of the Sea Witch widely known on land, but also that of her eels.

Jade: Back home, there is a very popular folktale in which those moray eels present a challenge to a mermaid who had fallen in love with someone of a different species.

Riddle: Oh that's… Are you talking about the mermaid who made a contract with the Sea Witch in order to be with the human she had fallen in love with?

Jade: That's right. The incident where they flipped the boat that the mermaid and her beloved were sitting in in order to test their love is a particularly popular tale…

Jade: It is said that their bond was strengthened thanks to the quick thinking of those moray eels.

Riddle: If I recall correctly, that mermaid's contract with the Sea Witch was conditioned on blossoming that love from her own efforts…

Jade: That is true. And yet, they continued to monitor her after she made the contract, and even provide generous support… They truly are most benevolent.

Jade: Now, speaking of boats…

Jade: Do you know of a strangely shaped boat, one that is completely different than the small rowing boat in this tale?

Riddle: Strangely shaped?

Jade: Indeed. For example… Think of a boat shaped like a bird that is rowed by pedaling your feet.

Riddle: Ah, you mean the swan boats.

Jade: Yes, that's it. Whenever I would poke my head out of the ocean, I would see many boats that were rowed with oars, and yet…

Jade: I had never seen one quite shaped like that, ever. I was quite shocked the first time I came across one. It is rather unique.

Riddle: If you like unusual boats like that, the Queendom of Roses have some in the shape of flamingos.

Jade: Is that so? I would like to ride one of those one day, as well.

Riddle: …As well? Are you saying that you've ridden on one of those swan boats with Azul, or Floyd…?

Jade: No, I rode alone.

Riddle: EH, YOU RODE ONE OF THOSE BOATS ALONE!?

Jade: Yes. It was too narrow for my legs to sit comfortably on one side, so I had to pedal the boat with one foot on what would normally be each person's pedal.

Jade: That was truly a fickle vehicle to maneuver. I had enough trouble trying to steer in the direction I wanted…

Jade: While I was riding it, that aforementioned anecdote of the boat and the moray eels came to mind.

Jade: I thought to myself… If somehow there was some creature bent on capsizing this boat, it could be quite the ordeal.

Jade: Have you ever ridden a swan boat, Riddle-san?

Riddle: No, can't say I have…

Jade: Well, that is a pity. It is very enjoyable, so I fully encourage you to experience it. We can ride together sometime.

Riddle: How could you possibly believe that I'd agree to do so after all we talked about just now…? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be some other creature capsizing us, it would be you.

Jade: I would never. And even if we were to encounter trouble and capsize, it would be quite easy for me to swim us to shore. Fufu… Does that not help you feel safer?

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Jade: This is a painting depicting the myth of the child of a god who aspired to be a hero alongside his friends.

Jade: It is said that he trained his mind and body in order to become a hero. Perhaps this specifically depicts a scene from one of his training sessions.

Riddle: It seems so. From the look on his face, his training must have been going well.

Jade: I remember back while I was learning self-defense, I was also just as elated as he was in his painting whenever I perfectly executed a specific technique.

Riddle: Oh, so you know self-defense.

Jade: That's right. My father taught me.

Jade: He also taught me how to free myself if tied up and pick locks if I am locked up.

Riddle: EH!? Why would your father teach a child such things…?

Jade: Simply put, my parents are overcautious. After all, they do say "providing is preventing," right?

Jade: In fact, it is because of my self-defense training, that I've been able to avoid many an incident.

Riddle: Incidents in which your self-defense training was useful? That seems somewhat disturbing.

Jade: I wouldn't say that… Back in the ocean, there were a few sharks that had refused to honor their promises.

Jade: As I was entreating them to fulfill their duty, they all decided to bilk their promise altogether.

Riddle: That is absolutely unacceptable. If they have broken their promises, they should pay the price.

Jade: Yes, I thought the exact same. THAT IS WHY I USED MY SELF-DEFENSE SKILLS AND TURNED THE TABLES ON THEM.

Jade: Even though it was the result of their own actions, I couldn't help but feel some semblance of pity for them as they screamed every time I twisted their fins.

Riddle: I'm having a hard time believing this… I fully assumed that that kind of dangerous task would be more Floyd's specialty.

Jade: That was just an unusual case. I am usually reluctant to resort to such tactics.

Jade: When resolving issues, it is best to come to an amicable conclusion via communication, not fists.

Jade: However, that does not mean that there will never be a time in which those self-defense techniques will need to be used on the surface.

Jade: Here on land, it would be impossible to use any technique that requires the use of my tailfin. My human body still lacks the right experience.

Jade: I am hoping to strengthen my skills in order to be as proficient in my self-defense techniques on land in this body as I am in the ocean.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Riddle: This is a painting of the Fairest Queen of All. In the background, we can see her peacock feathered throne.

Jade: Indeed. It looks as if the Queen is majestically spreading her own wings… What spectacular composition.

Jade: Moreover, that box she is holding up so delicately…  It draws my eyes with how vividly crimson it is.

Riddle: Seeing that it has a lock on it, it may be her treasure box.

Jade: A treasure box, hm. I remember I used to stuff as much as I could in a big, beautiful box of my own when I was younger.

Jade: At one point, I had collected so many various accessories that humans had dropped into the ocean, that I wasn't even able to close the lid.

Jade: I would take strolls every day just to search for possible trinkets, at times going to places so far out a round trip would take me a whole day.

Jade: Once in a while, if I came across any coins, I would give them to Azul… Fufu, that brings back memories.

Riddle: When you say accessories, you mean rings, or necklaces, yes? I'm surprised that you were interested in such jewelry.

Jade: I suppose so. I don't often choose to wear accessories as much anymore.

Jade: Although, I do recall collecting a few hundred pieces…

Riddle: A few hundred!? If you had collected that much, then I'm sure there would be some that still suit your tastes now…

Jade: Perhaps. However, I have since disposed of all those accessories I collected back then.

Riddle: Disposed all of them…? Even though you had so fervently collected them?

Jade: Correct. Keeping things that no longer interest you is simply a waste of space, wouldn't you say?

Jade: Ah yes, actually, there was something that caught my attention when I came to the surface, as well.

Jade: It is nothing unusual, and in fact can be found pretty much anywhere on land…

Jade: Once I took note of them, I could really feel the intention behind those that made them, as well as their various designs. It is profoundly fascinating.

Riddle: Hmmm, nothing comes to mind. What is it that caught your attention that much?

Jade: Fufu, well, that would be… manhole lids.

Riddle: Huh, manhole lids!?

Jade: Some lids are designed to show off local specialties or attractions.

Jade: Of course, there are no manholes in the ocean. So my interest was piqued as I was searching up on what use they could possibly serve…

Jade: For a little while, I did find myself collecting a few hundred various merchandise of manhole lids with unusual designs, as well.

Riddle: So, regardless of whether it's accessories, or manholes… I see you get truly invested when you decide you like something.

Jade: Indeed. Once I've taken a liking to something, I seem to be the type that becomes completely absorbed by it.

Jade: However, I will say that those investments don't last too long.

Jade: In fact, my fixation has shifted from manhole lids to mountains already.

Riddle: It's good to find something to be invested in, but remember that a student's duty is his studies. Regulate your time with your hobbies so as to not neglect that.

Riddle: Well then, I will be heading to view paintings of the Queen of Hearts, so, farewell.

Jade: Right, see you later. …Well, now that Riddle-san has left me, I wonder what painting I should look at now… Hm?

Jade: Is this a painting of a shrimp…? No, a crab. How wonderful, he looks so terribly elated.

Jade: It's usually these sorts of folk who would be in need of reprimand for not paying the price after signing their contracts. Fufu…

[dreamingkatie]

Therapy 3

Part Two. So if you read these the first time around (thank you), you'll note the changes, but I honestly like it better this way... but if you hate a slow burn, I'm sorry.

He opens his leather notebook and looks back at me. “Now, let’s start at the beginning… Have most of your relationships involved a power dynamic?”

I consider this. “Since my early twenties, yeah. Mostly.”

“Why do you think that’s the case?” Sean asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It feels right.”

He crosses his legs. “The inequality?”

“Yes. And the control.” 

“Do you think you’re competent?” he asks.

“I… mostly, yeah, I mean. Generally.”

Sean smiles and closes his notebook, depositing it on the desk. I consider the times I was late on rent this year, the pile of laundry at the end of my bed, the countless unfinished projects stored in Drive folders.

“Tell me about the first one,” he says. “The first relationship.”

“Jeff. Bass player from Athens. He’s married now.”

Sean waits. He picks up a ceramic bird and turns it over in his hands. 

“It was a good relationship,” I say. “He was funny, kind, talented. I used to go to his shows. He’d… he’d drive up from Athens and sit outside my work.”

Sean nods, setting the ceramic bird back on the desk. “And how did it end?”

I hesitate, tracing the pattern on the pillow with my fingers. My mouth feels dry, and my chest tightens as I think back. Sean’s gaze is steady, expectant, waiting for something real. I don’t want to give it to him, but the words come anyway.

“I was too self-conscious,” I say finally, the words heavier than I expected. “I couldn’t do the things he wanted.”

“Like what?” Sean asks.

I laugh, short and hollow. The memory presses itself to the surface. “Ahh, okay. He tied me in the closet with my arms up. He just… looked at me.”

As I say it, the image unfolds in my mind with painful clarity, details I haven’t revisited in years. The way the closet smelled faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. The pressure of the shelves against my wrists, the thin rope biting into my skin just enough to remind me I couldn’t move. And then, Jeff—standing there, his head tilted slightly, his eyes scanning me like I was a painting he couldn’t decide if he liked. The panic swelling.

“I freaked out,” I say, my voice quieter. “I pulled down the shelving my wrists were tied to.”

I glance at Sean, expecting a flash of something in his expression. Pity. Disgust. Understanding. 

“How embarrassing,” he says, his tone clinical, detached.

My stomach tightens, shame curling through me.. “I know,” I reply, hating the edge in my voice. “There were other things. Things like that. I couldn’t do.”

Sean leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Was he violent?”

I shake my head. “No, never,” I say.

“So you ended it, and you found someone who would force you.” Sean’s voice is even, his words precise. 

I shift, pulling the pillow tighter.  “I guess.” My throat tightens. “They got worse. Over years.”

Sean folds his hands together, watching me intently. The room feels smaller. My pulse quickens as the silence stretches out. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm.

“And now you’ve found me,” he says.

[polkadotjohnson]

Because I'm greedy and I just watched something I hadn't previously, I decided I want more. So I'm gonna post two lists, one of the things I've watched in case you haven't watched some of it and I can help, and one of the things I'm missing so maybe you can help me! Please help me feed my obsession its hungreee

Stuff I've watched (most from the imdb list, other things found in the wild) excluding interviews, podcasts making ofs and red carpets:

Early Edition (tv)

The Dark Knight (movie)

ER (tv)

Horsemen (movie)

Last Seen Wearing (short)

Virgin Alexander (movie)

Gateway (short)

Love is an Elevator (short)

Sushi Girl (movie)

Brutal (movie)

The League (tv)

The Cross (short)

The Assassination of Chicago's Mayor (short)

Saving Lincoln (movie)

The Employer (movie)

Ray Donovan (tv)

Heavy (short)

Prisoners (movie)

After Thought (short)

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (tv)

Animals (movie)

AVGN: The Movie (movie)

Intruders (tv)

CSI: Cyber (tv)

Chronic (movie)

A Killer of Men (short)

Ant-Man (movie)

12 Monkeys (tv)

A Quiet Kind of Love (short)

The Belko Experiment (movie)

Be Good (short)

Gotham (tv)

Twin Peaks: The Return (tv)

Blade Runner 2049 (movie)

Galaktikon: Nightmare (music video)

Relaxer (movie)

Ant-Man and the Wasp (movie)

The Domestics (movie)

A Million Little Pieces (movie)

Making Love (short)

All Creatures Here Below (movie)

Bird Box (movie)

Neurotica/Eureka! (short)

Madness in the Method (movie)

Teacher (movie)

Jay and Silent Bob Reboot (movie)

Reprisal (tv)

Lacrimosa (short)

MacGyver (tv)

The Flash (tv)

The Suicide Squad (movie)

Dune (movie)

Immoral Compass (tv)

Weird: The Al Yankovic Story (movie)

Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania (movie)

Boston Strangler (movie)

The Boogeyman (movie)

Miracle Workers (tv)

Oppenheimer (movie)

The Last Voyage of the Demeter (movie)

The Rookie (tv)

Late Night With the Devil (movie)

Shortcake (short) (thanks again @thepurpleprince)

Others (?)

Keep Painting, Mom (short/archive)

The Balcony (short)

Elton & Jean’s 9th Grade Biology Project (short)

Failure - Dark Speed (music video)

Iceage - Catch it (music video)

Iron & Wine - Everyone's Summer of '95 (music video)

Ken Andrews - Sword and Shield (music video)

Passion Pit - Constant Conversations (music video)

Puddles Pity Party - Obsession (music video)

X.X.T. - Steve Jobs (music video)

Annabel Lee (reading)

2021/2022/2023 Fangoria Chainsaw Awards

Premature (show)

Awkward Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner Conversations (special)

Svengoolie - The Wolf Man (cameo)

Svengoolie - Inner Sanctum (cameo)

Svengoolie - War of the Colossal Beast (didn't see him in it)

The Boulet Brothers Halfway to Halloween Special

The 101 Scariest Horror Movie Moments of All Time (documentary)

In Search of Darkness 3 (documentary)

I Am Not a Flopper (narration)

CCARS - Fire (um… music… video?)

Mermaid - a Short Film (short)

If you haven't seen any of these let me know and I'll give you the link or upload it somewhere or something

Now all the mysterious stuff I can't seem to find anywhere:

Arc of a Bird (saw a clip on Vimeo) (short)

Credits (short)

Head Case (short)

Band (short)

Keen (short)

Double Black (short)

Say When (short) <- doesn't fucking exist (still mad about it)

Tweet Me in NY (short)

Singled Out (tv pilot?) <- watched it

Sketchy (tv) <- watched it

Cass (movie) <- watched it

Under the Pyramid (movie) <- watched it

Cora (short, unreleased 😢) (hehehehehe)

Girls Will Be Girls 2012 (also unreleased)

The Pandora Experiment (also also unreleased)

All the Pretty Girls (??? prob unreleased)

A bunch of other stuff probably. Any help would be immensely appreciated.

[theostrophywife]

the prince of hell | part two.

we might just get away with it, the altar is my hips even if it's a false god, we'd still worship this love

author's note: i have chosen violence today and i won't apologize for it. anyways, enjoy this soft fluff.

song inspiration: false god by taylor swift.

The underworld was nothing like you expected it to be. 

It was a land of perpetual night, but it wasn’t the frightening unending darkness of nightmares, instead it was moonlight and constellations, twinkling stars and violet skies. Never in a million years would you have predicted hell to be dreamy. 

But it was. Everything about the place was an absolute dream. None more so than the winged male carrying you in his arms. 

The Prince of Hell smiled softly as he cut through the cumulus clouds, flying towards an enormous castle perched atop an obsidian mountain. The peaks glittered like dark diamonds, the gothic spires and turrets spearing through the endless night as you floated through the sea of stars. The moon shimmered overhead as Azriel landed on the open balcony. 

Though his feet hit the chequerboard floor, Azriel made no move to release you from his grip. He merely continued carrying you through his home, past the moonstone walls and marble pillars, through countless rooms full of lavish furniture and extravagant paintings, and underneath a crystal chandelier that projected starlight onto the polished onyx floors. 

You gaped in wonder as he slipped past mahogany doors and into a bedchamber with a four poster bed. The sheets felt like silk to the touch as he carefully set you down. Across the room, you stared at your bewildered expression through a gilded mirror, your hair wild and unbound, your wedding dress smeared with blood and ash. 

Azriel’s brows furrowed in concern as he wiped a streak of dried blood from your cheek. “Are you sure you’re alright, my heart?” His fingers skirted over your hairline, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “You’re shaking.” 

You gave him a watery smile. “I’m fine. Just a little rattled, that’s all.”

“I won’t apologize for what I did to that mortal, but I am sorry if it frightened you. The way he spoke about you, the way he grabbed you—” he released a shaky breath as if the memory still stoked his anger. “I wanted to do more than just rip out his wretched heart.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed in reassurance. “You saved me.” Honey eyes dawned on you like sunset, disbelief dancing in Azriel’s gaze as though no one has ever said such a thing to him. “You saved me and I owe you my life.” 

“You owe me nothing,” Azriel declared with determination. “You will never owe anyone anything ever again.”

Those words released another floodgate of tears. As the Prince of Hell cradled you in his arms, his soft voice a soothing lullaby in your ears, the realization that you were free—truly free slammed into you. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, maybe minutes, maybe hours, but what you did know was that Azriel was a refuge in the storm.

As he had been in your dreams for far longer than you could remember. 

“I thought I’d dreamt you up,” you said, looking up at this stranger who really wasn’t a stranger at all. “How are you real?” 

There was something about the way those golden eyes softened that made your heart leap in your chest. Azriel brushed a tear away and took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there was a raven with a broken wing. It searched high and wide for shelter, but because of its injuries, the raven couldn’t fly very far. One day it landed in the countryside, half-frozen and half-starved, where a girl found it buried amongst the snowbanks. The girl took pity on the raven and brought the bird home, offering it shelter and mending its broken wing. As she nursed the raven back to health, he did something very foolish. He fell in love with the girl. The raven knew it was a mistake. She was beautiful and gentle and kind and he was a creature of nightmares. Eventually, he healed and she set him free. That should have been the end of the story, but the raven was a selfish bastard. It kept coming back—watching over her, leaving her gifts, and visiting her dreams.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you listened, realization slowly washing over you as Azriel spoke. “Then one day, the raven heard the girl’s father praying to the old gods. Heaven ignored his pleas, but Hell listened. The raven listened because he had never forgotten the girl’s kindness. What the girl didn’t know was that the raven wasn’t a raven at all. He was the Prince of Hell. The day she found him, he had been attacked by his step brothers who sought his throne for themselves. They held him down and drove a spear through his wing, nearly severing it.” 

His right wing flared out and you saw a large scar running through the underside of the red and gold membrane. “Before they could kill him, the Prince of Hell shifted into his raven form and fate took him to the small village where the kind girl rescued him. The raven would have died if it weren’t for her. When she set him free, he knew it killed her to do so. But the girl understood what it was like to be in a cage and she didn’t want him to have the same fate as her, so she let him go. As the girl watched the raven fly away with a heavy heart, he promised that one day, he’d set her free too.”

The room was silent as Azriel’s fingers raked through your scalp. “So the raven bided his time. Bargained with the girl’s father. Slaughtered his greedy step brothers. Reclaimed his throne. Then finally, the raven fulfilled his promise. The girl thought that he had set her free, that he had saved her, but what she didn’t know was that she saved him first. Before he met her, everyone always said that the raven had no heart and they were right because his heart was tucked away in that small, snowy village.”

The Prince of Hell brushed his lips over your temple. “That’s what you are to me,” Azriel said softly. “My heart.”

“Why me?” you asked. The memories flashed through your mind. Finding him in that snowbank. Bandaging up his wing. Your father had scolded you for it. Called you soft hearted. Always bringing in the strays of this world. The girl who desperately clung onto magic and fairy tales to escape the harsh reality of her own life. “I’m just a girl who has a weakness for the wild things.”

“Being kind is not a weakness,” Azriel said firmly. “I used to think it was. My father taught me as much and so did his father before him. But they were wrong. It was the kindness of a stranger that brought me back to life. A girl who gave me everything when I had nothing to give in return. That is true strength.”

Tears fell from your eyes like raindrops. It felt good to be seen. To have the whole of you reflected so clearly in someone else’s eyes. “You’re my freedom. You’re my salvation,” you stroked his cheek almost reverently. “I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

“As have I, my heart,” Azriel whispered softly, pressing his forehead against yours. “As have I.”

“You saved me,” you said once again.

“We saved each other.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he traced the outline of your jaw, his thumb brushing against your lips. His touch was featherlight, but it set your entire body on fire. Azriel’s gaze marked you, burned you. It felt like he was embedding himself upon your soul.

“Azriel?” Your voice came out in a whisper, low and breathless. 

“Yes, my heart?” 

“Kiss me. Please.”

The Prince of Hell shuddered a breath. Then his hand slid into your hair, tilting you back. There was nothing but tenderness in his eyes as he closed the gap between you. Lips brushed against lips, tasting, testing—it was excruciating agony, it was sweet release. The kiss sparked a fire in you and you burned for Azriel, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling through his silky locks like you were trying to get lost in the dark paradise that was him with no desire to ever escape. 

Azriel pulled you into his lap, his lips never leaving yours. The way your bodies moved in perfect synchrony, melding together, melting together seamlessly made you think that maybe you were created just for this purpose. He was intoxicating; there was nothing more divine, nothing more sacred than the feel of his mouth against yours. Kissing him was an act of worship. 

You had the vague sense that you’ve never felt true hunger until Azriel’s tongue slipped past your parted lips and filled you with lust and desire so strong it made you feel like a depraved hedonist. There was Azriel and only Azriel. 

Desire was a lit match catching fire on a field soaked with gasoline. The need for Azriel was endless, like staring into an empty abyss and realizing for the first time in your life that you were finally seeing what lay inside this whole time. You were hungry. 

Azriel groaned as you rolled your hips against him. His hands found your waist, gripping you like his life depended on it. The gold dancing in his irises flickered to black. His eyes fluttered close as he nuzzled his nose against yours, reeling himself back to reality. 

Then, in a voice full of care and restraint, Azriel said, “We don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready to do. It’s your choice, my heart.” The words cracked your heart open, letting sunlight into the shadowy crevices. “From this point forward, it will always be your choice.”

You cupped his cheek, marveling at all that he was. “My entire life, every decision has been made for me. Other people have always told me how to dress, how to speak, how to act. Tonight is the first time that I actually get to choose something for myself. I want my first choice to be you, Azriel.” 

The words seemed to unleash something within the Prince of Hell. Azriel surged forward and kissed you, his mouth full of passion and heat. You arched into him and he took the opportunity to graze his teeth against the column of your throat before flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot just below your ear. 

“I choose you, too,” he said softly. 

You smiled, tugging him down until you both tumbled against the mattress. Azriel pinned you underneath him, taking his time to stroke your curves, his featherlight touch awakening goosebumps along your arms. He peeled the dress off of you gently, kissing your collarbones, your breasts, your stomach, and your thighs. You helped him out of his clothes, peeling layer after layer until the two of you were bare to one another. 

You had no idea where to look first. Azriel was a work of art, a sculpture carved out of marble, every inch of him perfectly crafted by the gods themselves. The forbidden fruit seducing you to taste, to bite, to savor. He shuddered as you pressed your palm against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart as if it were your own. 

“You will be my undoing,” the Prince of Hell declared. “I would worship at your altar tonight. You are my own little piece of heaven.”

“I don’t want to be your heaven,” you said, voice stern and unwavering. “I want to be your hell, because their god is the only one who has ever answered my prayers.”

Azriel looked down at you as though you were a god yourself. A treasure that he would give his life to guard and cherish. With your legs wrapped around his trim waist, Azriel hovered above you. His gaze was contemplative, searching for any sign of hesitation. 

When he found none, Azriel kissed you gently while easing his way in. You were wet, soaking with arousal, and the length of him stretching your walls was a welcomed sting. He kept his eyes on you as his cock filled you deliciously. You moaned into his mouth and the sound seemed to completely unravel him. 

It was ruin and restoration, life and death, pain and pleasure combined in one single act. Azriel twined your fingers together, holding your arms above your head as he made love to you. His wings flared behind his back just as his shadows swirled above his head, encircling him like a crown of smoke. The Prince of Hell was a dark god. He was night and mist and shadow. The space between the stars. 

You would pray to him a thousand times over. 

“Gods,” you moaned, the word falling from your lips like a solemn prayer. “It feels too good. You are too good, Azriel.”

He kissed you deeply, fusing your very souls together. A white hot heat seized your body and suddenly you were careening towards the cliffs, falling hand in hand with Azriel. The Prince of Hell growled into your mouth, his forehead pressed against yours as you both surrendered to release. 

For a moment, nothing else in the realm existed besides the two of you. 

Azriel opened his eyes and it was like staring directly into the sun after centuries of darkness. With a soft smile, he pulled you into his arms and kissed your temple. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, your limbs locked and something within you just clicked. 

This was right. 

He was right.

You nestled against Azriel like you belonged there all along. “You never told me.”

“Told you what, my heart?”

“How the story of the girl and her raven ends.”

Azriel smiled, pulling you into his arms. “It doesn’t. They just find a new beginning instead.”

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @heart-defendor @momlo @mali22 @roselensage @searchingford@nessianxgwynriel@azriels-angels@brekkershadowsinger@morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @mattte-black @marina468 @lillithathecathecat @highladyofillyria

[ausetkmt]

Walter Suza of Ames writes frequently on the intersections of spirituality, anti-racism and social justice.

“Racism, you choose to look for it!”

My good white friend said those words despite touting to have read countless books on racism, despite countless hours of me explaining why we must fight racism.

My friend’s words of dismissal are not new. Some go as far as to say, “No one cares about your feelings!” That’s their right to speak as such. Yet that’s also not the point.

This column does not seek emotional support nor pity. This column speaks to those people who call themselves good white people yet are silent despite the fact that racism has a negative impact on the physical and mental health of people of color.

Racism will not end until all white people recognize racism for what it is. Racism is evil. It lurks in dark crevices of the heart. In there it breathes and thrives until one day, it lunges forward, unprovoked, to penetrate and hide in the innermost core of society. When more darkness comes, when it catches a whiff of its prey, when the unsuspecting closes his eyes and falls asleep in the bedrock of denialism, that’s when racism strikes.

It’s like a bed bug.

The bed bug is not just an annoyance; it’s a stealth pest that is harder to eradicate than a roach. Amid the darkest times, the bug emerges to suck the life blood out of men, women and even children.

My white friend who fears bed bugs should have known better. When traveling, my friend does not set the luggage on the floor or sleep in a hotel bed before the room and furniture have been inspected for signs of bed bugs. After the trip, my friend intentionally leaves the travel bags in the garage to fry the bugs during summer, or to freeze the bugs during winter. This strategy helps prevent potential stowaway bed bugs from getting into my friend’s house.

It’s not just the bite that my friend is afraid of, it's also the tenacity of the insect. Bed bugs are the hardest pests to control once they have infested a home. A couple of bed bugs in love is all it takes for their kind to colonize a home.

This is why my friend should have understood why I might “look” for the racism bug. To stop racism requires diligence because it is a difficult bug to eradicate once it has infested one's home or community or nation.

We must be vocal. Bystander apathy sustains racism.

If we don’t stop racism, the United States’ vision to become a more perfect union is nothing but lip service. If we don’t stop racism, wherever there will be people who look white, Black and Brown, there will be racism. If we don’t stop racism, it will continue to be a menace like it was in the past.

From the 1500s to the 1800s, it led to the forced shipping of enslaved Africans to the Western Hemisphere to be used for labor. Close to 2 million perished while being shipped across the Atlantic in the bellies of filthy, humid, disease-infested ships. Hundreds of thousands shipped to the United States became subjected to hard labor and horrific living conditions for centuries.

Despite the struggle for civil rights, racism continues to thrive.

In 2019, the FBI released statistics that paint a dark picture of the state of race-based hate in the United States. Of the 15,588 law enforcement agencies that contributed data to the statistics, bias related to race and ethnicity topped the chart — at 58%.

In 2020, it led to people of Asian descent, Chinese in particular, to be blamed for the virus that causes COVID-19. The blame did not prevent the coronavirus from being more lethal in communities of color, Ahmaud Arbery from being gunned down by vigilantes, Breonna Taylor from being killed by police while sleeping in her home, a white woman from calling the police on a Black man watching birds in Central Park in New York City, or George Floyd from being murdered by a white police officer.  

Does this make America a racist country?

In 2021, despite admitting to having experienced racism, Sen. Tim Scott's response was “America is not a racist country.” Despite admitting a need “to speak truth about the history of racism in our country and its existence today,” Vice President Kamala Harris’ response was “No, I don’t think America is a racist country.”

Is that right?

In 2022, the FBI released more dismal statistics pointing to the more sickening truth that “hate crimes rooted in race, ethnicity or ancestry” were the most common that year.

In 2023, Americans remained polarized in their views on the existence of racism. One group representing “53% say people not seeing racial discrimination where it really does exist is the bigger problem,” according to the Pew Research Center.

In 2024, some have the audacity to suggest that bad genes predispose migrants of color to violence. The eugenicists' trope is like saying bad genes made white people kill millions of indigenous people across the Americas and lynch thousands of Black Americans. 

See racism. Hear racism. Stop racism.

[androgynousblackbox]

Welcome to Hazbin Vale. 8 [Appleradio, Radioapple]

"Salutations, my dear beloved listeners. Isn't just wonderful to being able to wake up and see such a splendid day like the one we have today? The sky is so clear, birds are singing and everywhere you look there is a friendly face.

As long you don't look in the wrong places, that it. Like maybe inside of a rock that is clinging to the ceiling with all it's might, holding together the whole ceiling! I hope the promise of it giving away and crushing your young little heads kept you all entertained enough while staying there.

Such a pity for those who didn't listen in our past broadcast and didn't know about the community center not being available anymore.

Oh, but don't worry too much, there won't be any need for a service for them today or any other day. The workers already took care of everything so everyone who ever missed them or care about their pathetic lives can rest easy, crying in the corner on their room as they should so nobody else has to hear it. No doubt filled with all the memories of those that are never returning and regrets over everything they can't change anymore.

I almost get giddy just thinking about it.

Do you see, my friends, this is why we come together in this stations of ours. You should know by now that when we are together here, everything will be just right and the raccoons won't have to gnash their teeth into a surprised face.

If they still end up with a face, though, at least it will be after you have been properly warned. Isn't that what counts in the end?

Ah, but those deaths is not the only good news that we have for today, dear listeners! As all of you should know, for a few months the toy store that was abandoned was bought and in the process of renovation by our local toy maker.

After a lot of working, painting, rebranding and whatever else, the new toy store is finally opening it's door for the public.

Rejoice.

I… won't be going to the party inauguration.

But, Alastor, I can hear you scream with reckless desperation. This is definitely going to be news worthy! The tiny toy maker invited everyone in! There is going to be food and child appropiate drinks and even some bouncy castles!

Well, my dear listener, for as much as seeing kids potentially breaking their ankles and giving each other more than one black eye is entertaining, I am afraid I am sitting this one out. Instead I will be sending one of our production assistant Niffty to take a few notes and see how it goes.

A real gal that one! Don't ask me what she is chasing half of the time, though, I have no idea! She came with the building. I think. Or she was a homeless woman who came in from the window. One of the two!

She has been living on the attic most of the time, where we save up old records, and it's a lovely woman once you get to know her. More than one time she and I shared a nice cup of coffee as the announcements were playing.

Well, I was drinking it at least. She just stared at me with a permanent smile and didn't blink the entire time, not even when a fly landed on her eye. I don't believe she was breathing either, HA HA!

Ah, I am sure that kids will love to meet her. Although, if I can give just the tiniest bit of advice, maybe don't leave her alone with any scissors. I can't promise anything not splattery if you do that. Or do, if the party gets too boring at any point.

Which reminds me, I have to ask a certain chief officer to keep an eye on her. Just to make sure that she comes back safe, you see. If she gets a little bit too excited, don't worry, she doesn't bite.

Usually.

She might still do other things that none of us can imagine. But at least it won't be our problem.

Yes, she will be my little corresponsal at the party. Everyone please be as receptive, talkative and kind to her as you would with me. Remember that I am always listening, even if I am not there.

As to the reason why I won't be attending the party, it's obviously because I am taking care of my diet, of course! Lately I have been indulging a little bit too much on so many sweets. A very unlike me thing to do, as you all know.

I just can feel the risk of my teeth rotting inside my mouth already, thinking about all that sweet I had shoved into my mouth with too much carelessness. The sickly, disgusting, nauseating sugar that doesnt belong on my plate anyway. A plate that was made to contain meals of a red and darker variety.

Without any stupid shiny condiment on top.

Yes, that is right. I am finally giving it up.

I just can't keep pretending like that was the kind of man I am, dear listener. It will take probably a little bit of time to get back to a normal routine before the sweets invaded everything I see and think about, but! I have full trust that with a bit of willpower and concern for my health, I will manage to get that saccharine taste out of my mouth for good.

Frankly, I don't even know what I was even thinking getting involved with those kind of food in the first place.

Maybe was the golden wrapper? The blue sugar? The gentle little sounds that it made when I taste it? The way that it seemed to taste me as if it was finding something sweet too?

No, no, that couldn't be. What a delusional thought is that. My, couldn't be that I am also catching a fever? Such irrational and stupid ideas don't seem like me at all.

All the more reason to not go partying. It could be contagious for all I know. And we don't want that, don't we?

I will be fine. I managed to have a perfectly decent life without any sweets before. I had not a single complaint. Waking up at the same hour, preparing for work, come here and share with all of you whatever was worth knowing about our beautiful small town was all I could ever ask for. Why would you ever attempt to mess with perfection such as that?

Without any tiny feet coming down the hallway or a hand reaching for my shoulder while the coffe is brewing. Without anyone pulling on my leg to show me their new piece of art or my arm to show me their latest idea. Always pulling. My feet somehow moving along with it.

My house was fine without all of that extra noise.

I don't need sugar and cream, dear listener.

I don't need it. I never did.

In fact, I will probably do even better than before. Just getting back on the old savoury goodness that I have come to know will put me good as new in no time.

So! That is my resolution from now on and I am sure that my teeth will appreciate it just as much as my stomach. Other people might find it disagreeable, but I have made up my mind to this.

I was never meant to taste that sweetness anyway. It wasn't made for this tongue.

I am still hungry, unfortunately. I might never stop being hungry. But now I at least know that my food is elsewhere.

Now, the weather…"

[museandquill]

With this being my finals week I thought I would share part of one my final projects.

This project I had to analyze three pieces of media that could be talked about by themselves, and all together as a whole.

So being the nerd I am i decided to do my project on the modern romanticization of Greek Mythology, focusing on Odysseus and Penelope, Hades and Persephone, and Achilles and Patroclus.

For my pieces of media I used a poem by Eiza Evangelista, a painting by Vennesa Kelley (@vkelleyart) and the song How Long? from Hadestown.

Below is the analysis I did on all three of the pieces

Eiza Evangelista’s poem is told through ‘Penelope’s’ point of view. She tells of how much she loves “her Odysseus” and how long she would wait for him: “Even 20 years may past, I will never run.” Not only is this poem about Penelope’s undying love for Odysseus, this poem can also be interpreted as comparing a personal romance to that similar to the love of Odysseus and Penelope. If we see Eiza as not just the author, but also the narrator, she would be calling herself Penelope and who she is talking to, or about, would take the place of Odysseus. We can come to a similar conclusion if we see ourselves as the narrator, comparing our love, or a love we strive for, to that of Odysseus and Penelope. We want a love full of devotion that we would either wait 20 years for our love to return, or do whatever it took to get home. When thinking about this poem as the narrator, whether that be Eiza, ourselves, or even a third party, we can see that they could also be looking for this love: “Where are you my Odysseus?” and “My heart will wait for you to come.” They do not have this love they are searching and waiting for, they are waiting for someone to love them like Odysseus loves Penelope and vice versa. When talking about the poem in the mindset of this actually being Penelope, we can see her undying love and her absolute sorrow she is going through while waiting for Odysseus to come home. “For your love I will never seize from waiting. Even it will take long for my longing.” No matter how we interpret this poem, it is a poem of true love and total devotion between two people, desperate to find each other.

Hadestown is a musical about the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, and in turn, a story about the love between Hades and Persephone. In the musical, Hades is in love with Persephone, but since she is gone for half the year, he puts his energy into a factory since he can’t give that time and energy to Persephone. In the song How Long? Persephone tries to convince Hades to let Eurydice go because “he has the kind of love for her that you and I once had.” The main thing I want to focus on in this song is the idea that no matter how much Hades and Persephone hurt each other, they will always love each other because they have a love that lasts an eternity and transcends the human definition of love. While Persephone tries to convince Hades to let Eurydice go, Hades questions how long he will have to deal with her pity for mortals “You and your pity don’t fit in my bed… how long?” Persephone answers with “Just as long as I am your wife” which is for eternity. She continues with the fact she knows that the world must die, but that it also has to come back to life. The lines that follow use the sun as a metaphor for the love between Hades and Persephone. Their love is larger than life: “And how does the sun even fit in the sky” This is a call back to earlier lines where Persephone says that Orpheus’s sorrow for losing Eurydice is so consuming it cannot fit in his chest “All of the sorrow won’t fit in his chest, it just burns like a fire in the pit of his chest” and that the love he has for Eurydice is a “bird of a spit in his chest” meaning that he would still choose to love Eurydice even if it means his sorrow for losing her will consume and burn him. The last lines of the song, continues with the sun metaphor and expands on it by also showing that the love between Hades and Persephone also balances out the world, Persephone has to go to the underworld and love Hades so the world can die and Hades has to be able to let the Persephone go so the world can come back to life.

The story of Achilles and Patroclus is one that some classists never want to fully tell, this was a story of love in a time of war and the sorrow of losing the one you love to that very same war. Vennesa Kelley’s piece shows Achilles and Patroclus in a casual yet outwardly romantic way, Achilles is closely laid out between Patroclus’s legs, rested against his chest, while Patroclus rests his head on Achilles with his hand in his hair. The two skilled soldiers are relaxed, secluded in a peaceful spot in the woods, at peace, and have no weapons in sight. In this piece they have become more than just the soldiers and friends as they were only seen as, they are finally able to be lovers and were given back the humanity they were stripped of, their love for each other is not hidden like some classists often try and accomplish. Having pieces like this of queer characters in Greek mythology is important since most queer relationships were either hidden, masked as friendship, or painted in a negative light, especially after the Romans conquered the ancient Greeks. This is not even touching on the utter eraser of queer women. Since we do not know when this piece is meant to take place in regards to the Trojan War, we can see this piece as either a calm moment during the wages of war or what we call the “calm before the storm.” Achilles and Patroclus could be finding solace in each other during war, or they could be joyful and naive to the literal and figurative war they were about to enter. When Patroclus dies, Achilles becomes a completely different person, even going so far as to drag around the dead body of his lover’s killer as he sobs. Looking at this piece you can tell why Achilles would be so distraught, they were completely devoted to each other that Achilles changed the tide of the war when he rejoined the fight after Patroclus died.

[artwithoutblood]

all of us have a disease. it is awakened. mine came with the betrayal of ephah in ██. i watched how it infected him. perhaps i willed it when he rotted under my watch. he deserved it.

how it arises in other people is something i do not entirely understand. i want to say prolonged exposure, but people i've known for weeks will develop it and not those i have known for years, in some cases. but sometimes it is sporadic. it's spread either by random, granted by some unknown force as an unholy gift, or it is passed through wounds.

I'm wondering if it happens because Aeron consciously or unconsciously wants it to. They did say perhaps they willed it.

It sounds like Ephah pissed them off? But they called it a betrayal...

I don't think Aeron hated Ephah. Aeron was saying they deserved it, so they were angry and bitter, but there is a rose imagery to what happened to Ephah at the end. Aeron talked about the eyes looking just like their own, about how Ephah was smiling.

Maybe it's a possessive thing, to mark and consume the other person and put them in that blissfully delusional/easily controlled state. Wasn't there a delusion ending where Aeron looked like a human and seemed to be the players partner 'looking after' them? It means they submit to Aeron, love them, and nobody else can have them.

Aeron does like to see people suffer and/or play nurse as a weird form of affection. Apparently they love through pity? Wiping tears away? Dependence and vulnerability. They love a broken bird.

They break people so they can care for them, create the dream of being together in a normal world, and then the person dies. Aeron thinks this is the only way romance can happen for them and just repeats it. They collect Lost Lenores.

I think maybe Aeron and Ephah were lovers of some kind, or Aeron wanted them to be. And drama ensued. (Perhaps Ephah wanted to be independent, favoured someone else, or tried to leave. And that was seen as a betrayal.)

The parasight does seem to happen to the people Aeron wants to pick up for dates.

Speaking of... when Iris went mad from feeling the unseen stares... I wonder if it was Aeron's omnipresent gaze she became aware of. Their attention was intense enough to make itself felt. Perhaps it was just one of those rare moments where they focused on one thing and it was too much.

Perhaps they unconsciously willed it.

That's some Evil Eye ish right there.

(Also the stares seemed to come from the paintings. Can Aeron look out of paintings? Did they do something to them when they 'repair' them or do they have domain over things that can count as eyes or eye motifs? And the lady was called Iris. A flower but also the coloured part of an eye. Another theory I have is that layers of different realities overlapped, and perhaps without knowing you/Iris and maybe the other patrons wandered from the normal art gallery into Aeron's.)

i can tell you one thing for sure: for each person, it is different. based on their insecurities, i believe. a belief is better than something unfounded, unsure.

Demons seem to manifest their beliefs about themselves, their perception of the world.

Aeron is strongly related to sight and perception, being an artist and also needing to believe that they see everything, everything they see is complete and true... They see themselves as all knowing and in control. To think that something exists that they can't see, or that something they see isn't real... that's their fear, to not have control of their own power of delusion. (I don’t think they do. They seem to mislead themselves as well as others.)

I wonder if it's Ephah's ghost they can't see. I wonder if Ephah is the old lover they somehow 'keep'? I don't know exactly what keeping the old lover entails. Perhaps as a preserved exhibit or their blood being used in paintings. (I don't actually know how Aeron uses the blood.) Perhaps being haunted by them, figuratively or literally.

Perhaps by occupying their body and repairing it piecemeal rather than ever abandon it. Aeron did take the form of an ancient Middle Eastern human, the first human they met and the one that set the tone for their interactions with humanity. It was implied that Aeron took on only their appearance, but later it was mentioned Aeron took over the body of a lover, only once, and never did it again. And apparently demons can still use bodies affected by the parasight. It fits.  

The name Ephah is mentioned in the bible. So at the very least we know Ephah is a known name of a Middle Eastern location and an ancient time period. And there are a few of them but one is mentioned as transporting gold and frankincense in Sheba so perhaps travelling. The area of Sheba isn’t well defined but could be in Africa - or Southern Arabia, within the same large region as Jordan where Aeron first roamed. 

I wonder if that short censored bit is a date, or a location. Sheba? Is there an ancient name for Jordan? Jor and Dan were the two northern tributaries that fed the river. This became Urdan/Urdon. Arabs then named it Al-Urdon. It could be any one of those.

Eri had something similar with the hallucinations before finding his own way with his power of words. (I wonder if that was a temporary touch of the parasight that healed but that was before meeting Delusion - or was it? - so it was possibly just head trauma. Or something else supernatural. And it's been confirmed that the erupting and healing scales on his skin are not eyes, but snake scales from the snake eyes. Cruelly the eyes seem to be doing it, not him. Another loss of agency.)

I wonder though... Eri's powers definitely come from his need to control/be in control and are an offshoot of Delusion's. But they are explicitly verbal.

Did his power of words and the ability to shape reality come through the snake eyes as well? I mean, when someone is very persuasive about something that isn't true or real you can metaphorically say that they have a forked tongue. The snake was the original bad influence. Eri can literally manipulate people like puppets and manifest entire fictional realities. I bet he could be really dangerous if he chose to gaslight.

I think that's something he and Aeron share. A real thing about having control. Maybe that's another reason for tension. Aeron wants a power imbalance dynamic Eri can't bear.

Genesis possibly has something related to hearing, music or emotion. It seems he can sway people's emotions and cause them to do really irrational things, or destroy them outright with sound waves. I wonder if his own uncontrolled emotions and impulses come out unconsciously, and they confirm a secret feeling of him not having it together, being out of control. That's why he was so embarrassed about the player finding the corpse, and why he impulsively lashed out.

The powers/curses are definitely the demon's own emotional issues projected outward.

the side effect is has on other demons i only learned after the demon of dreams used it in his suicide attempt. i have chosen to keep quiet about this knowledge. the other do not need to know. this is silas's failed mission. i am just upset he tried this....without asking me. even if we did not know each other.

So Silas did get the parasight from Delusion to use it for himself... previous conspiracy theory confirmed?

at its lightest, it changes the eye color of the demon's bodies permanently. his eyes weren't always like that. that's not to say all demons have regular eyes. erebus's nor dorian's were caused by me.

I'm wondering then if it was the previous aspect of Delusion who pranked Eri with the snake eyes and demonhood and not Aeron... hence the fear of but not outright hating Aeron themselves?

(I've speculated about that before. However it's not 100% as I do have some plausible ideas of why Aeron themselves might have wanted to do it. A fascination/aesthetic attraction towards Erebus at one point has been implied.)

I wonder if there's any carryover or memories of their past 'selves', even fleeting feelings of deja vu? Or if all that dies with the old vessel.

One thing I will say though. Even if Aeron wasn't personally responsible for giving the parasight to Silas or playing the cruel prank on Erebus, mischief and unintended drama seems to be inherently bound up with every incarnation of theirs. Delusion is chaotic, a trickster god.

perhaps your death to the parasight will result you in being the angel that people have described in two books. i cannot know that. i do not know that. or maybe i do, and i just should not tell you that.

I do wonder about this. There was something about the Afflicted being special, a novelty because nobody really survived that long before. (?) I wonder about the route where Erebus tries to cure it, and what happens if the Afflicted actually 'survives' it.

Whether they gain an immunity or could potentially ascend to demonhood themselves. And begin to have their own inner nature supernaturally manifest.

I'm wondering if it happens because Aeron consciously or unconsciously wants it to. They did say perhaps they willed it. It sounds like Ephah pissed them off? But they called it a betrayal... I don't think Aeron hated Ephah. Aeron was saying they deserved it, so they were angry and bitter, but there is a rose imagery to what happened to Ephah at the end. Aeron talked about the eyes looking just like their own, about how Ephah was smiling.

he loved me once. at least, i believe he did. he was one of the first people i ever met. when i crawled from the sand, hair over my eyes, blood crusted inside my nose, he took me in. he cleaned me. he gave me a name. it is not the one i use now. i stole that from another corpse.

he tried hurting me is all. tried pulling my limbs apart with the power of a village, tried cutting me up and gnawing at my flesh to take as his own. despite an exchange of spit, he wanted only a theft of meat.

and, in a way, he got what he wanted.

i never learned what it was. my conclusion is that he realized my power. one of the only ways to tell a story is "a stranger comes to town." it's not to say i'm powerful or anything. i'm just me, i'm just what is necessary, but if something like me stumbles into a small village, there may be chaos. rumors. thoughts. perhaps this is a feasting of the divine, and by imbibing the flesh, he would have been granted power. that has never worked, not for me, not for most people i have known. some like it that way. maybe he did it to silence something evil.

maybe he did it out of love. i was young, naïve. it still hurt. i did not care. i barely care now.

Maybe it's a possessive thing, to mark and consume the other person and put them in that blissfully delusional/easily controlled state. Wasn't there a delusion ending where Aeron looked like a human and seemed to be the players partner 'looking after' them? It means they submit to Aeron, love them, and nobody else can have them.

it could be possession. i am unaware. but i have had to take care of people. i pluck an eyeball from my own vessel and place it inside the forehead of whoever needs it. i send them to sleep, and they play out a delusion, usually involving my person, until their body dies. genesis called it a strange word once. he called it mercy.

Aeron does like to see people suffer and/or play nurse as a weird form of affection. Apparently they love through pity? Wiping tears away? Dependence and vulnerability. They love a broken bird. They break people so they can care for them, create the dream of being together in a normal world, and then the person dies. Aeron thinks this is the only way romance can happen for them and just repeats it. They collect Lost Lenores.

it is in the act of love that makes it love. all of you are so fragile. it is amusing. it is tragic. i want every bit of it. is that wrong? is it wrong to do these things and have these thoughts when i, by some unwritten law, tear apart everyone i love? perhaps. i have no plans to change it. to change what is established.

The parasight does seem to happen to the people Aeron wants to pick up for dates. Speaking of... when Iris went mad from feeling the unseen stares... I wonder if it was Aeron's omnipresent gaze she became aware of. Their attention was intense enough to make itself felt. Perhaps it was just one of those rare moments where they focused on one thing and it was too much. Perhaps they unconsciously willed it. That's some Evil Eye ish right there.

this is basically what happened. it's randomized, it's rare, but that's it. that is why the faces all turn blank but the eyes look the same of those around whoever enters "the spiral", as dubbed by aeron and genesis in the demo.

(Also the stares seemed to come from the paintings. Can Aeron look out of paintings? Did they do something to them when they 'repair' them or do they have domain over things that can count as eyes or eye motifs? And the lady was called Iris. A flower but also the coloured part of an eye. Another theory I have is that layers of different realities overlapped, and perhaps without knowing you/Iris and maybe the other patrons wandered from the normal art gallery into Aeron's.)

not so much just paintings and more anything that has eyes represented. sculpture, print, illustration, whatever. i repair paintings that are affected in the spirals because i feel it is my duty. no one is going to do it as well as i will! i've seen the trends....foolish, if you ask me.

Demons seem to manifest their beliefs about themselves, their perception of the world. Aeron is strongly related to sight and perception, being an artist and also needing to believe that they see everything, everything they see is complete and true... They see themselves as all knowing and in control. To think that something exists that they can't see, or that something they see isn't real... that's their fear, to not have control of their own power of delusion. (I don’t think they do. They seem to mislead themselves as well as others.)

basically correct. they don't like this idea of mass delusions. only controlled, specialized ones. those are more fun to them. there is a part in their route where you see figures that you shouldn't. you shouldn't know the names and faces of their past lovers, but you do, and that scares them.

it's the only thing that does.

ephah was a young man. not the one described in religious texts. i let his new flower rot. i took from him whatever locks of hair shed from his skin and placed it in a jar. he is not the one whose body i possessed.

the one i possessed was named ████.

i'm so sorry.

i'm doing what i can.

aeron otherwise "preserves" dead lovers by taking pieces from them and keeping them in a collection. sometimes it is their artifacts. the swirling drink from the beginning of the game is from a man named crow who died in the 90s in a shootout. sometimes it is pieces of their body. it depends. they have never used parts of their lovers in their art.

the use of blood in the art is typically a joke. it is used rarely, but it's often just auctioned to some thirsty ass vampires.

Eri had something similar with the hallucinations before finding his own way with his power of words. (I wonder if that was a temporary touch of the parasight that healed but that was before meeting Delusion - or was it? - so it was possibly just head trauma. Or something else supernatural. And it's been confirmed that the erupting and healing scales on his skin are not eyes, but snake scales from the snake eyes. Cruelly the eyes seem to be doing it, not him. Another loss of agency.)

do you remember...oh, fuck. i forgot myself. hold on....oh, yes! how i said it randomly occurs to random people? yes. erebus was a case. a very, very mild case touched by the manifestation. i was alerted of it and came to visit him. instead of killing him, i took it as an opportunity. i keep telling him to just die. to not suffer anymore. but he's so....stubborn? why? i still don't get it!! he's not going to have the eyes if he just dies. he's not human anymore! i don't get it.

you never will.

I wonder though... Eri's powers definitely come from his need to control/be in control and are an offshoot of Delusion's. But they are explicitly verbal. Did his power of words and the ability to shape reality come through the snake eyes as well? I mean, when someone is very persuasive about something that isn't true or real you can metaphorically say that they have a forked tongue. The snake was the original bad influence. Eri can literally manipulate people like puppets and manifest entire fictional realities. I bet he could be really dangerous if he chose to gaslight. I think that's something he and Aeron share. A real thing about having control. Maybe that's another reason for tension. Aeron wants a power imbalance dynamic Eri can't bear.

that's why they're toxic old demon yaoi. /joke

erebus can manipulate people, and he can make people really, really confused on their reality. but he isn't there yet. once he gains control over his life and his being will these abilities be realized.

but that's the whole thing with erebus. the point of his character is that he is capable but he is too anxious, scared, or some other negative emotion to take that leap. just like i am. just like a lot of us are. sort of this fear of not being in control, the paranoia of not being in control. but he is. he can make those decisions. there comes anxiety with the consequences and the act of making the decisions as well.

aeron very explicitly states that he is willing to relinquish control from erebus. he already has. erebus has chosen to stay. their relationship is built on misunderstandings on both sides. there is a happy ending for them.

Genesis possibly has something related to hearing, music or emotion. It seems he can sway people's emotions and cause them to do really irrational things, or destroy them outright with sound waves. I wonder if his own uncontrolled emotions and impulses come out unconsciously, and they confirm a secret feeling of him not having it together, being out of control. That's why he was so embarrassed about the player finding the corpse, and why he impulsively lashed out.

oh, 100%. 100000%. he's accidentally made people feel ways about him that reflect how he feels about them. once he saw a really hot guy, played a song, and the guy was like, feeling hot under the collar if you know what i mean. it's awkward. music makes us feel weird things.

So Silas did get the parasight from Delusion to use it for himself... previous conspiracy theory confirmed?

you know what makes me so mad about this? he found a victim of a randomly-gifted parasite and ripped everything out of their body, leaving them hollow, before i got there to tale care it.

i suppose it's good to know someone else is willing to do your dirty work.

i'm sorry, lucia. i wouldn't have brutalized you like that.

I'm wondering then if it was the previous aspect of Delusion who pranked Eri with the snake eyes and demonhood and not Aeron... hence the fear of but not outright hating Aeron themselves? (I've speculated about that before. However it's not 100% as I do have some plausible ideas of why Aeron themselves might have wanted to do it. A fascination/aesthetic attraction towards Erebus at one point has been implied.)

i can confirm it was an aspect. they run around. billions of eyes in the cosmos. don't know how they get there. don't care. everyone's got them. genesis does too. stray tunes stuck in your head that you can't seem to get out. don't know where they come from. that's how lullabies are made.

One thing I will say though. Even if Aeron wasn't personally responsible for giving the parasight to Silas or playing the cruel prank on Erebus, mischief and unintended drama seems to be inherently bound up with every incarnation of theirs. Delusion is chaotic, a trickster god.

not my fault me and delusion itself like a little drama. we might be the same thing on different levels, but delusion gets frisky sometimes.

I do wonder about this. There was something about the Afflicted being special, a novelty because nobody really survived that long before. (?) I wonder about the route where Erebus tries to cure it, and what happens if the Afflicted actually 'survives' it. Whether they gain an immunity or could potentially ascend to demonhood themselves. And begin to have their own inner nature supernaturally manifest.

erebus will try to cure it based on silas's notes. that does not go well. or...no. it doesn't go how you expect.

the afflicted, oh that beautiful thing....they're a novelty because no one has survived a spiral that long. again, a spiral is when someone suddenly realizes the constant perception from forces unknown, they go crazy and lash out at anything around them.

if i wasn't there to interfere, the afflicted would have died, and this wouldn't be an issue.

the longest anyone has survived with the parasite has been 5 days. at least, before it changes them. i wouldn't say you exactly die with it every time. sometimes you just become something different.

you know what i think the only solution is?

are you ready to experience your first death of hundreds, of thousands, my love?

[chiefdirector]

Fire and Ice | David | The Lost Boys

Trigger Warnings: suicidal Ideation, talks of death, murder, swearing

'Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire...'

Some say death is cold, almost as if Ice is flooding your veins instead of blood.

These people are wrong.

Death is hot, fiery pits of Hell hot. Death scorches you as you fight for another breath that you know isn’t coming. It boils you from inside out as your organs stop, then start, then stop for the final time. Death is only cold when you stop dying.

David wasn’t sure what was worse, the part where he died, or the part where he woke up.

He was thankful that it was nighttime but by the looks of the sky, it wouldn’t last long. He needed to find shelter. David didn’t recognise his surroundings; he could tell he was in a ditch of some kind, but apart from that all he knew was that he was in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. There was no indication that he was even in California; there was also no sign of his brothers.

Ignoring the pulse of thirst, David limped out of the ditch, he limped towards the sound of a river in the near distance, hoping to find any sign of life.

-----

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, David would admit that for the first time in his long, long life he was unsure of his next step. He was so used to having to herd up his brothers and (somewhat) cooperate with Max that he did not know what to do with himself.

He was so used to having to be the rule maker, the caretaker, the leader, that he couldn't even fathom having the solace from the noise and bickering that he had once longed for, even if it was thrusted upon him through death: their deaths.

David was almost thankful that Marko went so quickly. He didn't have to feel the pain of having someone die, and then the same of not being able to avenge them properly. Marko had it easy, he didn't watch all of his brother's die, he didn't know what was going to happen and he didn't have to suffer the consequences. David was envious.

Dwayne would have scoffed at David if he could see him now, sitting by a stream, trying to wash the last remnants of the dried holy water that had been scorched onto his skin. He would have rolled his eyes, might have even called him pathetic, but Dwayne would have know what to do. If only he was here.

David laughed at that, just how he expected that Dwayne laughed at him. Wallowing in self-pity like a little girl. He closed his eyes to brush off the thought, only opening them again when he clocked onto the smell of a lone hiker nearby.

If he had anymore strength to spare, he would have sped towards his prey, instead he continued to limp forward, playing into the act of a man in need of rescuing. Humans were east to fool like that, they were too stupid and gullible to hide from their instinct to help others.

David made quick work of the man as he sunk his teeth into his flesh, bleeding him dry. Dropping the hiker’s body onto the groin, David stretched, feeling his body rejuvenate as it healed. Looking down at the mess at his feet, his eyes landed on a set of car keys poking out of his dinner’s tightened hands.

Shoving the keys into his pocket, David quickly moved through the woods, not stopping until he found an opening in the trees were a lone beat-up Dodge Challenger stood. It's silver paint had long since chipped away, and what was left of it was seemingly covered in dirt and bird shit. One of the windows had been broken and a bin liner had been duct-taped to cover the gaping hole left behind. A glance into one of the remaining windows showed the leather seats had begun to worn away and the stuffing underneath was starting to spill out.

For a fleeting moment, David saw himself within the rustbucket of a car. How it's long life of constant adventurage and clear misfortune had slowly chipped away at it, inside and out, until it was barely standing. Maybe that man hadn't been hiking my choice but rather his car had finally taken its own life. Either way, David took the key from his front pocket and slipped it into the door and turned it. Slowly, as if he was trying to not anger the vehicle, he opened the door and slipped inside.

After the key had been fitted into the ignition and the engine flickered to life, David's mind switched off as he began to drive into the night. If he had paid more attention, he may have noticed the buildings he had driven past hundreds of times before, or the almost familiar faces in the crowds of people. If he had paid any mind to where he was heading, he would have noticed that he was maybe only 20 miles north of Santa Carla. It was only as it passed infamous Murder Capital of the World sign did he spin the car to a stop, almost crashing into a phone booth.

David closed his eyes for a brief moment as the car finally stopped moving but he didn't allow himself to indulge for long. Clambering out of the car, David made is way to the phone booth, slotted in the last of the coins he had rattling around his pockets, and dialed the only number he knew.

The ringing of the phone was only of the longest eternities David had lived through. What if Max didn't answer? Would that mean the Emerson's had gotten to him too? But what if Max did answer? Would he want to speak to David? Or would he hang up and leave him alone once again? Would he-?

The second the dial tone ended and the background noises of the Video store rung out, David gasped Max's name down the phone. He was met with silence. He almost hung up when he heard the person on the other end let out a murmur that sounded like a prayer to a forgotten God.

"David?," Max's voice rang out down the phone,It was David's turn to stand silently. Waiting for an answer about his brothers that he didn't know if he wanted to know or not. "David, it's time for you to come home. There is still more to do here, I need you here; it's just us now."

And with that though, the blood rushing through David's veins once again turned to ice.

-----

'...But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.'

-Fire and Ice, Robert Frost

-----

Marko's Version -> Forever

Part three poll

Masterlist

Tags: @britany1997 @american-idiot-jpg

[thestarseersystem]

I think I've always had deep seated trauma surrounding being perfect. I've never been perfect, not even close. But there is a specific trauma with having to be perfect.

Like a ballerina, dancing on her toes, delicate and light steps, gracefully dancing around. She is nearly silent, breath light. She dances upon the stage for all to see, but she also dances alone. If she makes one wrong move, she will break, she will get hurt, she will die. If I am not perfect, I will die. And I've seen myself like that.

Its really affected me. Being silent, polite and nearly invisible, that was my place for a long time. If I am polite and kind and gentle, I am not a threat and I am not to be hurt, no one will touch me, no one will see me as a nuisance.

And then there's the performance aspect of it. This was not for hiding, but for being a sacrifice. The mere opposite of being hidden, and with the spotlight upon me. If I am to be hurt, if I am to be killed, let me be the sacrifice, so no one else may get hurt. If all eyes are on me, then I deserve it. I deserve it. And it became a game. Everyone has their part to play, and I must play my part, lest everyone else is jeopardized. I am to abuse myself, and it's kind of fun, they tell me I enjoy it, I listen to their jeers and laughter, I listen to them. There is no room for fighting, I am strung up with string. If I am to play both the villain and the helpless lamb, then I shall be the black sheep. Nothing but a scapegoat, it's what I deserve.

To be the host is to endure and be delicate. I mustn't remember, I must be lied to. I must forget. I must remember. I've always remembered. Even when the world was painted pink, with ruffles and silk, with delicate crystals, like shattering glass. Even when it was sweet. I tasted bitterness. I saw the blood beneath the carpet, I saw the fear in their eyes. Within my tiny birdcage, I saw the way they both villainized and infantilized me. Part of me enjoys the game, what a nice time to be hunted by wolves. Another was enraged to be kept here, another feared that we would one day be forgotten, it is a terrible thing to be forgotten.

I remember, even if I don't. I felt their eyes. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I remember even if they tell me I shouldn't.

It is traumatizing to be kind. It is traumatizing to only dream and to never wake up. It is traumatizing to play pretend. It is traumatizing to be a doll locked up in a cage in the first place. Maybe that's why I am a vampire, a pretty face hides a blood sucking beast beneath. You can't help that I exist to betray others. It is just in my nature.

So, I don't remember. It is a courtesy bestowed upon me. I feel pity. Oh how a beautiful bird should let its feathers unfurl, not be locked up in a cage.

It is real. It is real to be hurt like this. Please don't betray me. Please don't abandon me. Please don't forget me. I know I am not perfect. No one should be forced to be.

[alabonshay]

Thursday gives the Lady a bouquet of Alstroemeria, Amaryllis, Bird of Paradise, Rose Yellow, and Tulip Yellow!

@the-haunted-office

Send my muse some flowers to convey your muse’s feelings towards them! // Open

───┉─¡! ¤ !¡─┉───┉─¡! ¤ !¡─┉───┉─¡! ¤ !─┉───

"Oh! OHHH!" Lady Evergreen forgets all manners at the sight of them, nearly rattling the paintings off of the walls in the span of one second. When given flowers, her level of enthusiasm is always the same. The other person went to such lengths to pick them, it is the least she could do to show her feelings.

The Lady stands and her chair launches backwards with a rumble. She clambers around the table receive the flowers, patting down the crinkly outside. Lots of yellow. What kind are they? Is it an offering of friendship? And, most importantly, are these flowers delicious?

She presses her knuckles to her fuzzy cheeks, "My goodness, my goodness! How thoughtful. Thank you!" She carefully plucks the yellow rose from the assortment, twirls it around. "They certainly look delicious."

After all that happened, it seems natural that Thursday wants her to feel welcome. It is most certainly a pity party for the previous day; the worst kind. It would take a long time for the water to spring out of Lady Evergreen's curls. Oh, but she is starving. The motivation hardly matters to her. Smiling, Lady Evergreen takes a big bite out of the yellow rose.

[hsnt0]

Goodbye.

January

It was impossible. The clouds moved lazily across a monotone sky, as was so characteristic of the Great American Northeast. Occasionally, the sun would peak through the haze as if to remind me of its survival, as it battled the fierce blockades of clouds obstructing it. Upon its entrance, it would dramatically paint the ground white and gold, only to be quickly thrown back into the fray of battle as the earth would once again take on a dreary monotone scheme. Once again, I had forced myself into the woods, hoping for a brief respite from the oppressiveness of my thoughts. There was none to be granted. Unlike the sun, I had no brief dramatic victories. I could only set my jaw and continue marching through the woods. I often wondered how it turned out so poorly. I had given so much of myself away. Had made so many silent sacrifices, and offered so much of myself up. And yet, it had all been turned on its head in an instant.

Dawn

I was only there for a math conference. Presenting on the monotonicity of probabilistic bounds for the frog model on trees. A large, technical research project undertaken when I was even newer to math than I am now. My entire trip was covered by grant money from the American Mathematical Society, and I was staying at a nice hotel in the financial district of San Francisco. I’d flown in a day early, and to meet me there would be a girl that I had thought I would’ve forgotten by then. Someone whose loss I had already grieved long ago. She was my first love, if you could call it love - the kind of love that you obsess over, the kind of love where you endlessly give and give and give without any return. The memories clung onto me like ghosts that refused to pass on, dragging me into their resigned and regretful existence. It is like what David Boyd writes in Hollowed Out: Exhuming an Ethics of Hollowing in Tite Kubo's Bleach - Hollows, in death, exist as a shadow of trauma bound by their eternal existence and detachment from life. My memories took on a similar role.

A part of me indulged in the death of our brief relationship from years ago. I remembered the idyllic mornings we shared before her move to California. The smell of wet mulch and peach shampoo, on an empty street after the fresh rain. Birds chirping and the leaves fluttering in cyclones as we ran towards the horizon of trees in the distance.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked.

“Not really”, she replied. The sun peeked through the clouds to gently illuminate her face, as if to prove her point.

It was impossible to forget. I had wallowed in that grief of losing her for so long that it was a part of me, completely inescapable no matter how hard I tried.

And yet, here I was, in sunny San Francisco, landing a day early just to meet her. It had been 8 years since I’d last seen her in person. I felt a lot like Toono Takaki from the Shinkai film, 5 Centimeters per Second, for better or worse. After our breakup, while indulging in my own sorrow and self-pity, I had watched the movie in my own dark room, surrounded by what seemed like a mountain of tissues wet from tears. The quiet hum of my laptop just barely hid the small hiccups of my crying. The movie told a story of unfair separation, a reflection on both longing, and the grief of losing that which you love. Those years spent imagining that the uneasy bloom of love would last forever, and then its gradual departure due to distance, and finally its damning conclusion as one realizes the only wisps of it that remain are preserved only as memories, never to be forgotten but never to be touched again. There were only too many parallels.

Morning

I was to meet her at the library. She had traveled all the way up from LA to meet me here. After hours of deliberation with my friends, I had convinced myself that she had only made the massive 8 hour trip because there was still love left. That all of my longing and self-flagellation had been for something. Rhythmically, I repeated to myself - “You’re only here for a math conference. You’re only here for a math conference.” But the music in my ear and the physical tugging in my chest gave away the obvious.

The song I had on was a song from our favorite movie from years ago. The first one that we had watched together after she had moved to California. I could remember it clearly, as if it weren’t years ago.

“How’s the quality on your end?”

“It’s okay, good enough to watch.” We both settled in. It wasn’t as if the distance were gone- but there we were, sat down, both tearing up to Radwimps’ Is There Still Anything That Love Can Do? while Mitsuha and Taki tumbled through the sky, hand-in-hand. A little piece of me wished that it were the two of us in that enviable position. I thought that it was enough to call love.

And so, on the expansive 3rd floor of the San Francisco library, I stood, overwhelmed by the musty smell of old books and the strange sterile scent that the entire library was enveloped by. I scanned the floor, looking for her characteristic ponytail and bangs. The restlessness in my hands betrayed my nervousness as I walked around the vast floor, trying to pick up on anything that was reminiscent of her.

Suddenly, as I peered behind a thick row of bookshelves, I saw her. Her characteristic ponytail was bound loosely, a few stray strands of hair escaping into her bangs. Her back, clad in a tan coat. I thought she would’ve come in a hoodie, owing to the never-ending summer of Los Angeles, but it was a relief to see that she wouldn’t be cold.

I stood still. I could feel my heart folding in on itself, my stomach arranging itself into knots that resisted disentanglement. I was looking at someone that I had relegated to being a distant ghost - a ghost that I loved beyond all measure, yes, but a ghost. But now, every single year that had separated the two of us had collapsed into the 5 feet between her and I. I reached forward. Tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hey,” I said softly. The word fought its way through my throat and forced itself out of my lips. I took a cursory glance at the book she was holding. A tattered compilation of poems. Not something she was very interested in.

She looked at me and smiled - the same smile from 8 years ago. “Hey.”

“Into poetry?”

“Just… passing the time.” Staring down at the book and idly thumbing the pages, her words hitched. “I got here pretty early.”

As soon as she had put the book back on a cart, we were away. What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t sure, not even to this day. We walked side by side, close enough so that I could smell the faint perfume she had put on. It smelled of lavender. It complimented the scent of her peach shampoo.

We wandered through the library for a little, both of us pretending to be fascinated by the library’s construction, remarking endlessly about its interior. But really, my eyes were stuck to her. Her warm and gentle smile. Her voice, which had changed but was still so characteristically her. I wanted to engrave her every detail into my mind, and give my memories a face and a laugh to hold onto. As Bingham writes in Distant Voices, Still Lives, I thought I had been condemned to estrangement a la Shinkai’s characters. That no matter how much hope I had, it would never be enough for a chance where I could finally seek the finality I needed. And now that I was here, rather than wanting to seek those answers, I simply wished to grasp more of her to hold within myself. To further my own heartbreak. I had been consumed by it for so long that it seemed to be all I knew, and her, all I longed for.

I could still tell it was her. Not much had changed, or so it seemed. I could still see the girl who I loved, the one who I had spent nights dreaming of and crying over. I wondered if she recognized me. She had made me into who I was. I had spent so many years chasing after her, trying to measure up to her in the faintest, but I was also condemned by the shadows of her who would not stop tearing at the past.

“So, ready for your conference?” She whispered, but the silence of the library carried her words and bounced them around.

I hesitated for a moment - the question had caught me off guard. “It’s tomorrow, so I’m not too concerned.” The conference, the research, the lecture I was supposed to give - it all seemed so distant, so unimportant, compared to her.

She nodded. “What’s it about?” It felt like she was scanning me, trying to figure out what exactly I was. As if the topic of my math presentation would provide some kind of clarity as to why I was there a day early just to see her.

“Frogs on trees,” I said with a grin. She scoffed and smiled at me. “It’s about probability. Strange stuff that I don’t completely understand.”

As we entered City Hall on her recommendation, I was taken aback by the brilliant white and gold reliefs carved into the ceilings. The light turned the specks of dust in the air into glimmering golden flakes, dancing gently in the grand marble vault. Occasionally, we’d walk right into a patch of light, and it illuminated her face in a way that made my breath catch. It was like we were back in those soft golden afternoons in New York, as if the years between us were simply a too-long dream. She would tilt her head, glancing around, while the glow seemed to infuse her very being, catching on her hair and the soft curve of her cheek.

The sheer grandeur of it all provided a stinging contrast to the fragility of our circumstances. I wanted more than anything to ask her why she was here. Why she had made the grueling eight-hour trip at 2 in the morning to see me. The questions clawed at my heart, more viscerally than they ever had before. What was I here for? Closure? Answers? Love? I’m not sure any of them would scurry the grief away. I’m not sure it ever would.

For so long, I had been defined by my melancholy. By the grief when it wasn’t so damning anymore, but when it still enveloped everything I did, everything I touched, every thought I had. It wasn’t just about her, and the time we had lost, and the moments that had slipped away more quickly than they ever came. The grief enveloped all the things that I had never said to her, the goodbye we never had that fateful day 8 years ago, the pieces of myself that I had never had the chance to pick up as she left with them in her hands. I mourned something that we never had. Something that I wasn’t sure that we would ever have after today. I felt like Anna from Culler’s The Love Division, who lived to write an elegy not only about her love, but as proof that she had lived and that she had truly loved. I was taken aback by her heartbreak. I could see in it every single feeling that I’d ever had in mine.

Every relationship I had tried to have after her loss was underpinned by some expectation that I would see her again. Every milestone that I reached without her carried the quiet weight of her not being by my side to witness it. I could feel that weight in my hands - every single thing I wished for in the last 8 years was laced with wishes about her. The thought of what could’ve been pervaded every single thought of mine in those 8 years. I longed for something that I couldn’t reach, not after so long and not after we had both changed so much.

And yet, here we were, side-by-side, so close that her arm would brush against mine. Alive. Real. The familiar scent of her shampoo sent aches to my chest every time I managed to catch a whiff of it. The grief I had carried for so long swelled, tugging at my heart desperately, hoping that there would be something, anything to come out of this.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The words barely escaped my lips. I’m not sure if they were meant to be heard at all. I knew that I was talking more about her than I was the architecture, impressive as it was.

“It is.” She paused. “It’s a lot better than LA’s City Hall.”

“Reminds me of the Met.” I looked at her, feeling the tension between us balloon more and more as we walked. I could tell that she knew I had questions. I knew she had them too.

We walked in silence, our paces echoing through the empty hall.

Evening

We had dropped off our stuff in our room in Chinatown. A small hotel room with 2 beds that I had booked so that we could stay together for the night. What kind of gentleman would I be if I couldn’t cover her after her trek here? On our way to the pier, things almost felt normal again. As they were so long ago.

I took a deep breath in. “The air here is so clear!” The sky was open, more open than it had ever been in the last 8 years. The sun painted the ground a bright golden shade, the barely leafed branches gently casting their shadows upon the ground. She looked at me as if I had an affliction. I couldn’t stop laughing at the look on her face. It felt as if I were here with her in the present, but also back in the past, back on those sunny streets as we walked home from school, as I pointed out every funny looking cloud while she scoffed at my efforts to make her laugh.

“The air? Here? Clear?” She had moved to Thousand Oaks, California. A wealthy suburban neighborhood, far away from the bustle of the metropolitan city that used to be so familiar to her and I.

“It’s certainly better than New York’s,” I replied. She laughed at me. It wasn’t true and she knew it. But in that moment, it felt like the world was clearer and brighter when I was at her side. As if the melancholy found enough sympathy for my plight to give me a brief reprieve. There was hope - hope that there was love, that we were still the same as we were back then, or at least that we hadn’t changed so much that our hearts were now strangers to each other.

As we neared the pier, the raucousness of the city was slowly left behind, and the dull hum of the pier was left in its wake. There were less people than I had expected there to be. The sun was in the process of making its dramatic exit from the sky, painting everything a brilliant orange. I looked at her, starstruck. The light enveloped her and yelled of warmth, of love. This was it - the culmination of those nights, where I would feebly pray to gods that I didn’t believe in, wishing to feel that same warmth I did so long ago. This is where it would all end.

On the pier, the air grew crisp, and the light of the sunset clung to life, casting golden and ochre shadows upon everything, wrapping everything in a bittersweet glow. We walked slowly, listening to the idle lapping of waves against the pylons beneath our feet and the distant chatter of people that seemed planets away. She walked ahead of me, her footsteps barely audible against the ambience, characterized only by the creak of the wooden boards under us. The edges of her coat fluttered in the breeze. My eyes traced the gentle sway of her figure and the golden halo that had seemed to materialize in her hair as the sun shone brightly against her face. My heart lagged behind, caught in the space that existed between the the echoes of the past, the hauntings of what could’ve been, and the beauty of the present.

I thought back to the words that I had planned weeks ago. The story I would tell. The words I would say. But now, all of it felt so far away. I had spent so many nights rehearsing what I would say to her when I saw her again, sure that we would meet again and that I would be able to express all the weight I had carried, all those years of regret, every single bit of love that I wished to find with her. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but I thought that it would’ve given me the answers that I needed, whatever they were. And yet, standing there beside her, admiring the flicker of the setting sun on her face, the words felt hollow. Meaningless.

The sky deepened partially into a rich indigo, the few stars that penetrated through the light of the city obstructed even further by the fading orange light. Her hair shimmered like strands of copper in the last rays of the sun, and for a brief, perfect moment, everything felt as it once had - simple, untouched by the time and distance that had pulled us apart without even allowing for a goodbye.

“Wait,” I finally exclaimed. The sun had positioned itself just inches above the horizon. It would set soon, and the dusk would close in on us. “Shannon.” I paused. Every single emotion that I had ever felt in the last 8 years came hurtling out of my stomach and into my chest, gripping my heart in a vise as I tried to squeeze the words out. I knew they had to be said. I knew that I would never have a chance of finding peace without them. “I still love you, you know.” The words tumbled clumsily out of my mouth.

Time stood still. Everything seemed to hang in the air, suspended. My heart pounded in my chest rhythmically, faster and faster, like drums of war announcing a fleet’s presence at sea. The waves, once quiet, now seemed to roar against the fragile wooden pillars of our dock, and the words settled between the two of us like a heavy rain.

“I-” she began, but quickly stopping. She lowered her gaze to her shoes, staring at the boards beneath us.

She stood still, quiet, her gaze flicking in between my eyes and the ground. She leaned forward, as if to say something, but retreated just as quickly and subtly as she came. She took a small step back. For a brief, paralyzing moment, I wished that I could take it all back. Every single hope that I ever had, every wish that I had ever made.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her, couldn’t move. Those endless years of longing, of looking to the sky hoping that I would one day cross that vast blue expanse and find myself with her again, were gone now.

“I didn’t expect that,” she finally said, a grimace on her face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way.”

The words washed over me, the chill of the San Francisco air seeping into every single crack in my jacket. I knew that she had moved on, in my heart. That she had built a life without me, that she had moved far past those promises that we had made in our early days. The ghosts that had eaten at me for 8 long years had by no measure done the same to her.

“Shannon…” I struggled to speak. To force any words out behind the veil of tears that were suddenly on the precipice of streaming down my cheek. Her gaze focused on me again. “You don’t have to say anything,” I added quickly, choking against the twisting of what seemed like a hot knife in my heart. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. “I couldn’t leave without telling you.”

Her stone face softened slightly, as her shoulders dipped, releasing the small breath that she had been holding in. “I thought…” she started. “I thought we would’ve been over it by now.”

At last, the sky folded in on itself, the sun clinging to life by a thread. Slowly, we walked, and we talked. We were on our way home. Dusk was closing in.

Home. The word rolled around in my head. It was unfamiliar, the edges sharpened by heartbreak. It was strange to know that it would never be with her.