#self annihilation tw

[wolfehorror]

A Guide To Wolfe

Hi I'm H.S. Wolfe and I write queer horror, romance, erotica and urban fantasy. I have two books and three shorts published currently, as well as an anthology on the way.

In The Garden Of Echo - Genesis 1 Echo and I have been around almost as long as the earth itself. We’re indestructible, in love, and hungry. For centuries we’ve wandered across continents, just the two of us, devouring an invasive species: humans. But the mess we’ve left in our wake has its consequences. Forced to curb our feeding and go into hiding has put Echo and me at risk of exposure, and I’d die before I let anything happen to her. In The Garden Of Echo is a T4T erotic horromance novella, and the first book of the Genesis trilogy. Full content warnings are listed in the author’s note and can be found on the author’s website.

Tales Of Genesis The TOG shorts are erotic one-offs best read after In The Garden Of Echo on itchio only

ROTGUT All I want to do is play drums in Cluster Headache, but I can’t even get that right. Between my on-again off-again shituationship with one of my band mates, the drinking problem-I-don’t-really-have and losing my job along with my will to live... I’ve kind of botched up my life.

As if things weren’t crummy enough I’m being followed by strange creatures that no one else seems to notice. Right before a big show too, that can’t be a good sign.

I've got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach about it.

ROTGUT is an 18k psychological thriller / paranormal horror novella about music, mental health, and aliens.

COVER ART BY YUNE (@heavenlyystar on social media) I'm also part of this huge project I've been running alongside author Mars Adler, a Queer Weird West Anthology feature 17 authors and artists, which was fully funded on kickstarter in 11 days! The kickstarter is running until the end of June 2024

Dead Cowpoke's Don't Wrangle With more queers, weirds, and steers than you can shake a stick at, DEAD COWPOKES DON'T WRANGLE collects original weird west tales and art and will take you to the strangest plains over yonder, then further still. So tie up your horse, settle in to wet your whistle 'round the fire, and prepare to be amazed. When shape-shifters, duels, gunslingers, and strangers come to town, you best be saddling up for a hootin' hollerin' good time. You can find all my links to the left of my blog or here

[nomsfaultau]

“The scene seemed to freeze, the viscera hung in the air alongside shockwaves of fire. Little beads of blood suspended like stars, a ring of asteroids made of fragments of ivory and emerald. Golden strands of hair fanned out, glinting from the radiance of the dragon husk. Cracked shards of his horns circled around, a fragment of a halo. Holy even in death.”

Aka Philza with no brim

[uwkhj]

i turn 18 in a week. can someone kill me? or give my life meaning? or dig me out of my hole? i started to claw my way into the dirt when i was 11 and now this crater is far too deep for me to crawl out of.

[mythvoiced]

@astremourante | 'I've killed for you, who else can say that?' for doe 😌😌😌😌

---

Doe wishes he could honestly claim he does drugs.

He wishes he'd be familiar enough with them to have more intimate ways of referring to it, having mastered both the art and the lingo of those who see control in the loss of control granted by the proper kind of intoxication, poisoning for the greater goal of forgetting one's alive.

But he can't lose what little control he has left.

Even if he gets drunk enough to laugh and lose the concept of what he's so upset about all the time, he relinquishes in the high of feeling like nothing matters... and in the atrocities awaiting him the next day.

Almost as though he drinks specifically for the hangover.

Maybe Amelia serves the same role.

Maybe drowning himself in her knowing he'll only end up looking back with nothing but regret and nausea is one of the many ways he chooses to actually maintain control.

The freedom of inebration, of a good high, those aren't control.

Being the one to determine how exactly and what will hurt, that is what true control is about.

Maybe he's just lost his mind.

Maybe he should have bought something comfier to sit in for himself.

He's slumped on his chair, his legs stretched away from himself, his back halfway on its way to slide down completely. His arms hang, limb and devoid of purpose, and he's staring at the same ceiling tile he stares at at least once a day.

He doesn't remember the name of the person this building belonged to.

Who else can say that, indeed?

He turns his head the way one might try to turn a heavy rock to show a different side of itself. The motion looks as though he and his neck weren't in total agreement of performing it, as though he is drunk right now or finally admitting to not being the real owner of his own body.

He looks at Amelia - he luxury he doesn't always allow himself.

She's the epitome of all he should show to hide everything as well as she does. The confidence in her movements and posture, the training that must have gone, perhaps privately chosen perhaps forced upon her, that allows her to move exactly as she intends to, to portray exactly the person she intends to be.

He can't fully believe she is the way she presents herself. It's not so much an instinct, as it is a grotesquely and deeply buried-alive desire that maybe, just maybe, there is more to whatever is going on here than the joy she portrays at getting on his nerves.

Tom and Jerry were supposedly friends too, pretending to fight to keep actual mouse-eating cats out of the household.

The comparison doesn't sit too well, they aren't friends, Doe doesn't know how to have friends, anyway.

Nor is there a bigger, meaner cat somewhere one of them must ward off to protect the other.

He can't imagine they are out to protect the other, anyway, he can't imagine either of them would even welcome that - would even know how to.

But she does kill for him.

He pays her to do so, sure. But she's skilled, efficient, renown, she doesn't need his money. She doesn't need him.

And frankly, one job turning into two, turning into three was never the plan, either. If he were to run things as he usually does, and make use of her con-artistry and intel instead, things might even runner smoother.

But she has killed for him.

And it fills a corner of the abyss inside him with rotten, blood-coloured paste.

A smile crawls tiredly onto his lips, stretches itself out there like a man done fighting for his life, lying down, ready to welcome death.

"No one," he shakes his head to underline his words, then nods to concede to hers. No one.

"Tell me, do you want me to kill for you, too? What do you want me to do? Should I burn the world down?" Doe-eyes were his allegedly as a child, always torn wide open, darting to and fro, like a doe waiting for the hunter to finally show himself. Now he holds them wide open in memory of that child, as if trying be genuine just this once.

"What should I do? What would you like me to do?"

[epigstolary]

Real Talk

TW: Medical fatphobia, health issues, fat shaming, toxic masculinity

Dude, you say you want me to help you, but you’re going to have to get serious if you really want to start losing weight. I’m a trainer, not a miracle worker. I mean, look at you; you know your body’s fucking disgusting, right? You let yourself get so huge that even your fat guy clothes can’t hide your belly anymore. Every inch of you is covered in blubber. Everywhere you look. And you have to push all that fat around every time you want to walk or move. It’s so gross watching you try to go anywhere. You’re just waddling around under hundreds of pounds of fat, wheezing like you just ran a marathon. Like… people aren’t supposed to get to the size that you have. And don’t give me that “health at any size” bullshit. You’ve got to have some serious problems to get this big and think it’s ok. Nobody your size is healthy. Your body’s a fucking disgrace, tubbo.

You gotta realize just how bad being this fat is for you, right? Think about it. All that fat’s wrapping around your organs. Either they work harder, or they just quit working. Your joints are getting annihilated having to move all that extra weight around. Your heart’s having to work so much harder just to do its thing because you’re so fucking big. Your body’s not supposed to work like that. It feels like it’s under attack 24/7 — because it is — so you’ve got anxiety, you’ve got inflammation, your hormones are all out of wack. Your body chemistry is basically fucked once you get fat. And fucking forget about it when you weigh as much as three normal people, like your flabby ass does.

Not that you seem to care, since you pay zero attention to your diet. It’s just fucking scary, bro. I’ve seen you pound an entire pizza or a bag of burgers and be ready for more. And that’s just, like, a regular lunch for you. There’s so much saturated fat and sugar in all the shit you eat for every meal, it blows my mind that you’re even able to function. Where do you think that shit goes after you cram it down your throat, meal after meal? It’s blowing up your body even fatter. It’s clogging up those arteries to make that overworked heart work even harder. It’s running through all the insulin your body tries to pump out so that it can deal with the abuse you put it through. I bet if I went through your kitchen right now, I couldn’t find one goddamn vegetable — all sweets, and takeout, and chips, and junk food, am I right? Yeah, you love kicking back on the sofa and working through a big pile of garbage like that, don’t you, fatass? I bet you sit there just belly out, crumbs and shit all over your tits, like a big fucking blob, huh?

Keep eating like that, and you don’t have a fucking chance. You’re just gonna keep blowing up until you finally have the fucking big one. That shit is so, SO bad for you. You want to not be a total embarrassment, fatty? You’re gonna have to throw the snack cakes in the garbage. You’re gonna have to cook stuff that’s not loaded with butter or grease or sugar. You’re gonna have to eat something green that grows in the ground every once in a while. And yeah, you’re probably going to feel like shit for a while because your body’s used to getting fed lard nonstop all the fucking time. But you gotta get a little self-control. The whole reason why you look like a fucking enormous cow, why you’ve got that belly packed full of fat fucking garbage, is that you’ve never had any.

I guess what I can’t figure out is, why the fuck did you do this to yourself? It’s so much harder to make it through life when you’re this fucking heavy. You can’t even go anywhere or do anything because you’re too fat to leave the house. Everyone you meet has to be shocked at what a lardass you are. Nobody who sees your disgustingly obese body is gonna want to fuck you, except the fucking weirdos who get off on that shit. Maybe that’s who you have to settle for, since there’s no way you’re reaching your dick with all that fat in the way. God, I can’t even imagine letting myself get too fat to be able to fuck. That’s so fucking gross, bro.

Like, look at me. Look at this rock-hard bicep next to that big flabby fucking water wing of an arm you have. Look at these abs next to you and that belly hanging down to your knees. It doesn’t even have a fucking shape. Look at these tight glutes next to that wide, wobbling, fat ass you’ve gotten from sitting in front of the tv stuffing your fat face for years. With a body like this, I can fuck anyone I want. How do you think that same hookup’s gonna go for you, huh? Nobody out there’s going home with a pile of jello like you You’re going home, alone, to try and figure out a way to get yourself off.

And dude, I’m not saying all this just to shit on you. I’m worried about you. It sucks to see my bro blow up into a fucking whale and get all mopey ‘cause he can’t get any ass. But you need someone to be real with you. Someone’s gotta tell you how much of a fatass you are, and how much of a fatass you’re gonna be until you get to the gym and shut this fast food and shit down. You can’t blame anyone but yourself for how you got this way. Keep complaining, and you’re going to keep being a gross fatty. You’re gonna have to go out, get some fucking exercise, and deal with being embarrassed at being the fattest guy at the gym until you’ve put in the work to fix it.

Trust me, bro, you’ll thank me later.

[saffrongin]

Forget Heroes and Monsters

WIP, 106k Tw: miscarriage BAMF Hermione, Healer Draco, memory loss, unreliable narrator, war au, slow burn.

Decades after the second Wizarding World War, Draco cares for his ailing wife. The rapid deterioration of her mind can be traced back to an ambush during the Horcrux hunt that took the life of her unborn child and approximately three years of her memories. Deemed a liability by the Order, they abandoned her. Furious at being cast aside, Hermione began the hunt for the Death Eater bearing a mask crowned with thorns and roses, the one who'd cursed her. Every attempt to find the Death Eater threw her into increasingly violent duels with only Draco left to witness her self-destruction. Nothing tethered her to who she had been, and Draco continued to tend her wounds. He became the one constant in her life. Traumatised by the fragility of human life, Hermione fought their growing attachment. While navigating the brand new world she had crudely carved for herself, she realised she wouldn't have survived without Draco's ever-present, unconditional care. Faced with the challenge of integrating who she had been and who she had become, Hermione learned that war didn't just change her, but everyone else she'd loved before, and everyone she'd grown to love. In the present, Draco and Hermione relive everything. Every deed Hermione had ever done, every life she'd ever taken. They have to. There are rumours growing in the Wizarding World. Lord Voldemort isn't dead. The key to his annihilation is hidden in Hermione's lost memories.

It's been 2 years, and I can't thank this community enough. I love writing this fic, I love drawing for this fic. And I can literally track my growth as a writer through it.

Thank you for reading. Love y'all.

[ovwechoes]

Recommending novels/books based on your support main! This is literally an excuse just to talk about the book's I've gotten through off my reading list this past week. My asks are open and any/all thoughts or opinions are welcome. TWs for any of the books mentioned will be listed as well. They're under the cut - enjoy!

Ana Amari: Ana used to find reading boring, often passing the time through other means. However, she's always found herself thinking about ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves’ by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. The book explores the wild woman archetype, and explores mythology, fables and fairy tales throughout, helping her to feel some form of escapism. The themes of resilience, feminine strength and intuition make this a book that Ana would definitely recommend to you! Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: sexual assault/violence, trauma, emotional abuse, death and grief, self-harm, mental health struggles, dark or disturbing imagery and cultural sensitivity (some of the mythology may be inaccurate).

Jean-Baptiste Augustin: With Baptiste's natural interest in healthcare/medical practices, the human body, and science with a hint of action and suspense, I think he'd recommend ‘Annihilation’ by Jeff VanderMeer to people similar to him or enjoy his character. It's the first book in the Southern Reach trilogy, and explores an expedition into an area known as Area X; a surreal place where psychological and physical expectations and limits are stretched and distorted throughout the novel. He enjoys the thrill the book provided him, and enjoyed the movie adaptation just as much. It's one that hasn't been able to leave his mind, and he won't stop talking about it when he rereads it every so often or if he's asked about it. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: body horror, psychological horror, death and violence, suicide, isolation/despair, loss of identity, insanity, and disturbing imagery.

Brigitte Lindholm: With Brigitte's life experiences, and her need to understand other walks of life (and partially because I headcanon her as wlw), I like to imagine Brigitte holds the novel ‘Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit’ by Jeanette Winterson close to her heart, helping to explore her own identity in a personal, retrospective way. The book explores the life of the protagonist with her adoptive, religious parents and her deviation from religion as she explores her identity in Britain. It's a coming-of-age novel that Brigitte found changed her perspective on certain things, and she would recommend it to anyone wanting to read something that's not the standard teenage autobiography. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: religious trauma, homophobia, emotional abuse, isolation and rejection, struggles with identity and psychological distress.

Illari Quispe Ruiz: Illari enjoys feminist books in my opinion, and enjoys dystopian novels that explore realities possibly not far from her own. It's something she's always enjoyed, with ‘The Power’ by Naomi Alderman being her favourite. She'd recommend it to anyone who enjoyed her character or was similar to her, and her reasons for it are understandable. This novel explores a world where women develop the power to control and produce electricity from their bodies/hands. This causes dramatic shifts in power dynamics within society, and explores the ways in which society would be different for women especially, with the moral questions lingering in the back of the reader's mind. Illari appreciates the outlook the book provides, and the ways in which it poses questions that shake your own morality. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: sexual assault and r-pe, violence, torture, abuse of power, death and murder, religious extremism, trauma and psychological distress.

Kiriko Kamori: Kiriko enjoys introspection, and enjoys the idea of the afterlife as well as this. It's something she considers a lot, and about the life she'll be leaving behind in the future when her death comes closer. So, she would recommend ‘A Short Stay in Hell’ by William Blackwood to those similar to her or like her character - it explores the idea that hell isn't the stereotypical place with fire and burning, but a version where it's inhabitants have to endure a endless, meaningless and monotonous existence in a bureaucratic afterlife. Kiriko appreciates the way in which the novel sort of pokes fun at bureaucracy in real life/reality, and how much it degrades the human soul to do the same things each and every day. It definitely gave her a midlife crisis too early, but she thinks that everyone should read it at least once in their life. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: existential dread/despair, psychological distress, administrative and bureaucratic frustration, depiction of hell, isolation and loneliness.

Niran Pruksamanee / Lifeweaver: With the type of person Niran is, he would want to understand other walks of life, and explore realities far from his own but pose questions that relate to his own. He enjoys being left with his own questions about himself, and enjoys having those discussions with his soul about his identity or those around him. It's something he's always enjoyed, with the novel ‘The Left Hand of Darkness’ by Ursula k. Le Guin sparking this especially. Niran would recommend it to anyone with gender or sexuality questions within themselves, or anyone who shares the same passion for understanding humans in fictional worlds. The book explores a reality in which inhabitants of a planet can change their gender at their own will, exploring themes of identity, human connections and empathy. It left a stain on his mind for weeks after he finished it, and he would always recommend it to those similar to him or people who admire/like his character. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: sexual assault, psychological and physical trauma, gender and identity, cultural/societal oppression, isolation and alienation, death and conflict.

Lúcio Correia Dos Santos: Lucio has values regarding acceptance, community, and finding your place in society with support from others that he always holds dear to his heart. As such, he loves to explore stories with these themes. One of the books he'd recommend to anyone likeminded or those who like his character enough to main him would be ‘The House in the Cerulean Sea’ by TJ Klune. It's a heart-warming fantasy novel about a caseworker who works with magical children, discovering a new sense of belonging and companionship in the process. It's a meaningful book to Lucio, and he loves to talk about it any chance he gets. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: child abuse/neglect, discrimination, prejudice, trauma, emotional distress, loss and grief.

Angela Ziegler / Mercy: Honestly, I can imagine Angela being a splatterpunk fan, which is a genre that explores the human body's limits in a grotesque, gory and horror-filled way. As such, a book she would recommend to someone who shares this interest and enjoys her character too is ‘Earthlings’ By Sayaka Murata. It's a novel that explores the life of a young child, who believes she's been gifted magical powers from her plush hedgehog called Piyyut. It explores this, and how trauma impacts a child's brain when it comes to development, connecting with other people and morality in society. The ending wasn't at all what Angela was expecting, telling other Overwatch members about the horrors she read (that she also really enjoyed because of the implications left with the themes) and she would recommend it until she couldn't speak anymore. However, she knows that this book can often be too much for people with it's explicit details. So for those she knows wouldn't be able to handle the themes in ‘Earthlings’, she would recommend a dystopian novel such as ‘1984’ by George Orwell as Angela enjoys exploring realities that aren't far from the ones currently happening (or are about to happen. TW/CWs for Earthlings are as follows: mental health issues, childhood trauma, child abuse, sexual assault/abuse, sexual violence, family abuse/neglect, isolation and alienation, incestuous relationships, and generally disturbing content and themes. TW/CWs for 1984 are as follows: totalitarian control/oppression, psychological torture, physical torture and violence, oppressive ideology, propaganda, censorship and erasure of history,  isolation and loneliness, dystopian and despairing themes.

Moira O'Deorian: Moira's also the type to enjoy horror books, but likes to explore serial killer themes with unconventional methods of killing. She enjoys exploring the psyche of people who kill, and enjoys the perspectives that they provide. It's always something she's loved, and so she would recommend ‘A Certain Hunger’ by Chelsea G. Summers to anyone who likes her character enough to main her or shares her personality/interests. It's a mock-autobiography that explores the life of a food critic that has an unusual and disturbing hobby: she's a serial killer who targets and devours her victims. It's an exploration of femininity, with the lines between pleasure, violence and pain blurring the more that the protagonist explores her life in each chapter. Moira loved the ways in which the violence was weaved into the love stories, and would recommend it to anyone who wanted to read something new. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: cannibalism, sexual violence, murder and violence, psychological distress, dark humour and satire, and explorations of morality.

Tekhartha Zenyatta: Zenyatta doesn't often read, and when he does it's mostly spiritualism-related content. However, he would always recommend to people similar to him or people that enjoy his character/personality the novel ‘The Name of the Wind’ by Patrick Rothfuss. The novel is about Kvothe, a gifted man who's on a quest for knowledge, personal growth and and intelligence. It gave Zenyatta a new perspective on things, continuing to grow his understanding of humanity in a different, unconventional way. He appreciates the outlooks and themes the book presented him with, and he enjoys the way it showed him more about humanity. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: violence, child abuse, sexual assault/coercion, death and grief, trauma, psychological distress, and abuse of power.

[glazedsnail]

ANGST PIECE

I'm fucking depressed lmao

So I wrote this Shane angst piece.

Shane writes a letter to the farmer - Short

TW: Suicidal ideations/Angst

570 words

Ao3 Version here:

Apologies for this letter. You know I’m far from being the best with words. But having them swimming incessantly in my mind, it’s clear they want out. And the healthiest way is writing them down. See, I do remember and use your coping strategies.

Babe, I don’t want to upset you. Hell, I might even rip that stupid letter out after I’m done. You don’t need to know. You deserve to know. Because you made me believe we are a team, that I wasn’t alone anymore. Before you, I had no plan, nothing. I was willing to die without ever second guessing myself. I didn’t. Fate or some shit had it that I meet a dirty farmer who pushed me toward help and my family, and later became part of my own. 

This is where lies the issue. You see, I should have died before meeting you. 

Disappear and become a faint memory sounds better than what I am now. I’m not unhappy. I can even say I can recall moments of happiness. 

It’s funny. As I wrote this our wedding song came on the radio. 

But I’m scared terrified, almost every day. It’s harder and harder to fight the thoughts in my head. I promised I would never revert back to - how did you call it again?- “socially acceptable self-harm”. And I won’t. But fuck it’s hard to ignore the call of the bottle.

I don’t want the thoughts to hurt you, what we have. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s increasingly difficult to see the worry in your eyes. I’m not strong like you. And you don’t deserve that. I keep imagining how your life would be if I was never there for you to choose me, somehow. You would have found someone strong, healthy, stable. Someone which what WHOSE mind doesn’t try to annihilate on a daily basis. Someone you can rely on, and who would make you happy. Someone who can shield your beautiful eyes from tears, grief, and concerns. 

Baby I’m not unhappy. I love you. I love us. But I should have died before meeting you.

It’s too late now. You make me smile, you give me comfort, strength, and safety. See how I repay you.

The anguish on your face, love, breaks my heart. You deserve to be the happiest in the world, but when the thoughts win I know I can’t bring you anything good. 

And it kills me.

I can’t let you down. I fight the urges. I’m tired. I’m trying to be strong. For you, for Jas, even for myself. Deep down I know you all would be happier, and I should have died before meeting you.

You lock me back on earth. You show me how life is worth living. Fuck you make me want to live. Babe I don’t wanna die.

I swear I don’t

Life would have been easier for everyone. You keep telling me you’re happy and I believe you. You tell me you love me, and I believe you. But imagine how much happier you would be with a mentally stable husband. It must be so hard to love me. It must be soul crushing to know that it doesn’t matter how many times you hold me in your arms and kiss me, I will always think that you deserve better. 

Honey, I don’t wanna die, but I should have died before meeting you.

[tired-all-the-time22]

I just got here from the YouTube via the LaPlace’s Angel animatic, it has been replaying on my phone for at least 20 minutes if not more- I am obsessed with your guys and also your expressions and linework. If I may, might I ask what was going on in it?

Sure!!! I'm always excited to talk about my little guys :DD This is gonna be like. A ridiculously long post because of all the backstory, lore, and context I'm about to dump on you so I'm gonna put it under the break below.

Also now that I've fully written this I will also say it kinda turns into like. actual writing at the end so yeah. this gets long.

Massive thanks if you actually read it all!!!! lol

Also massive spoiler warning because I'm making a comic of these guys and the animatic is basically like. the climax of the story

(I might copy this writing and delete the post later when/if the comic starts picking up in popularity-- don't want it to get completely spoiled lol)

TW for text depictions of violence, murder, child/teen death, and brief mentions of child abuse

Ok so like. I made two little diagrams to explain the relationships between everyone in the animatic (click for better quality/readability):

These are everyone's general relation/feeling towards each other:

For larger context,

this is set in a post-apocalyptic world where most of humanity has straight up disappeared. Planets have been rearranged and earth has essentially just become a snowball, all courtesy of an 8 year old Nyx (purple) breaking down and gaining psychic powers after Faux (blue), her newly-acquired father figure, is knocked out and presumed dead at the hands of her abusive biological mother.

Nyx grows up blaming herself for the annihilation of the humanity, but has also in the process created a new, weird world inhabited by many different creatures, becoming a sort of god-like figure. Grief-stricken and horrified by what she has done, Nyx isolates herself - terrified of repeating what has happened - until she ages to 16, at which her trauma and inability to move on manifest in her mind and body magically stagnating, now unable to progress further in her life. This goes on for [really long amount of time undetermined by author yet].

Unknown to Nyx,

the residual effects of her powers had actually resurrected Faux, who is now left alone on a now snow and debris-filled earth to go about his business, isolated and amnesia-ridden.

Meanwhile, Ash (red) and Attwell (pink)

have come into being as distant personifications of Nyx's self-preservation (including her wish to be able to move on) and her mind/intelligence respectively.

(There are other personifications that exist, such as her love of humanity, physical flesh, and the physical energy/electricity in her body, but they're not quite important here. These personifications, though originally manifesting from Nyx, are all their own people, generally unaware of where their relation to each other or Nyx herself.)

Attwell (similar in body/mind situation as Nyx -- 16 and unable to grow past that) grows up among a society of capitalistic and corrupt racoons who make high-tech inventions where she is isolated, her ideas are stolen, and where she is generally mistreated by pretty much everyone around her. Unfortunately, having grown up in this environment she has also been indoctrinated into the idea that this is the normal way to be treated. Ash on the other hand, is pretty much spawned - fully grown (~25ish, same age as Faux) - into existence along with his pseudo-sister (aformentioned personified love of humanity), and is subsequently tasked along with her to take care of a sort of mini-humanity who grow and die relatively rapidly, over and over again. His sister, Yasen (not pictured, same age), is enamored with this humanity, throwing extravagant blowout parties in order to give what she believes could be the best life they could have before their inevitable death, while Ash aspires for more, unsatisfied with simply preserving what they have.

This culminates in an event when

(pre-isolation) Nyx makes a visit to their city to explore what she has created; ending in a death, a horrified and re-traumatized Nyx, a heartbroken and betrayed Yasen, and an Ash who has now found who he (misguidedly) believes to be the bringer of progess he has been looking for (Nyx). Ash leaves Yasen and their mini-humanity to become a mentor, bodyguard, and follower of Nyx, who has now gained a reputation as the creation goddess of their world.

This all goes on for [aformentioned long and undetermined time] until one day, Ash stumbles into Faux through Shenanigans and, unknowing of who he is or his relation to Nyx, collects him from his isolation and dumps him in the forest Attwell grew up in.

Hijinks (capital H) happen, and Faux ends up meeting Attwell, mentally adopting her, and dragging her out of the bad situation she's been saddled with growing up, her kicking and screaming the whole way. They get kicked out and banned from returning from the racoon society, Attwell devastated and terrified of leaving the only place she's known, despite its shittiness. Faux, unaware that he actually already has an adopted daughter, is intrigued with exploring the new world he's been shoved into. The two go on adventures together, with Attwell desperately trying to find a way back into a society that never accepted her through trying to prove herself useful, and with Faux slowly coming to remember the life he used to lead bit by bit.

Along the way, Ash, oddly interested by Faux, starts secretly meeting with and forming a relationship with him.

Subsequently, Nyx discovers Attwell's existence for the first time and is enamored with her boldness and attitude. Attwell has just now met the most beautiful girl she has ever seen. The two begin their own secret meetings as well.

Then begins the three major events leading up to what happens in the animatic.

Ash, in an effort to force his and Yasen's mini-society out of the cycle of death and rebirth, injures an enraged and protective Yasen in a fight to the point she succumbs to her wounds and dies.

This happens right before the eyes of Nyx, who is horrified and blames herself, Ventria and Shax (other two personifications mentioned earlier), who had become like little siblings to Yasen in Ash's absence, and Attwell, who had only just been starting to find a community and people who cared about her and was coming around to the idea of staying with them, all courtesy of Yasen. Faux, though aware of Yasen's death and her significance to Attwell, does not witness Ash's actions and continues to meet with him. Attwell, hateful of Ash and defeated in every way possible, leaves the city without a word to anyone. Nyx returns to her place of isolation to grieve, while Ash is left to sit with the feeling of essentially killing his sister.

2. Attwell, tired and having been broken, built back up, and now broken all over again, returns to where she grew up, begging for forgiveness. She is given the ultimatum that, if she is to return, she is to serve a minor deity responsible for the forest's wellbeing, as resources have been dwindling. Attwell accepts the ultimatum, desperate for any amount of belonging, acceptance, or praise from an authority figure.

This manifests in a wedding-like ceremony where it is revealed that pledging herself to this deity in the way needed would kill her, as the deity would possess her. This revelation comes at very inopportune time, having only been disclosed to Attwell at the altar by the deity itself, and by accident no less. For Attwell, who has ever only been a child used as a sacrificial lamb for the majority of her life, this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Full of regret, rage, and mental exhaustion, Attwell accepts the deity, loses control of herself, and violently murders the ringleader of the society/the main instigator of her mistreatment, in addition to causing massive collateral damage as a result of out-of-control plant powers. In the aftermath, running on fumes, Attwell limps away to find Nyx and, in her mind, say her goodbyes.

3. Faux, having been left behind by Attwell, finds himself alone again in the aftermath of Yasen's death. Her city, and her little siblings, are significantly rattled and at a loss of what to do in her absence. They'd never had to grieve before -- they never even knew the meaning of what death truly meant. And now Faux-- the only adult in a sea full of freshly-traumatized and grief-filled children --strangely starts to feel as if he's been in this situation before.

He sticks around to help Shax and Ventria with the fallout, and with the death of their older sister. He's worried about Attwell but- there's just. Something. here that needs his attention. He's been having flashes of a life that he thinks might be is, and he's on the verge of figuring out what the deal with that is. Eventually, he discovers Ash lurking around in the back alleys of the city, with a heavy air of contemplation and an undertone of regret. The two meet up, Faux unknowing the Ash is the direct cause of the city's great loss, and venture into depths of the city only privy to Ash and Yasen. They fall down a sinkhole or something and get isolated, met with a cave full of darkness and crystals clean enough to reflect the tiniest details with stunning clarity. They venture deeper and deeper into the cave in an attempt to escape, Faux's head starting to pound with increasing pain as Ash grows concerned. As the pain grows to agony, Faux is met with flashes of memory, and soon enough what was the solid ground of his mind -- his consciousness, his sense of self, what he thought he knew -- crumbles. Faux plummets. and then, He remembers. First, he remembers himself. Then he remembers the woman he met long ago, and their affair. Then, he remembers the kid. His kid. His daughter. His daughter who is very much still alive, who he's seen throughout the past few months everywhere -- scripture, folk stories, stained glass in religious congregation -- Faux is left reeling on the ground, shocked and terrified and devastated. and Ash, confused and unable to cope, Leaves him. Later, when Faux begins to wake from his shock, finds himself alone, and he knows exactly who he needs to see.

Now! With all of that out of the way, we can get to the animatic.

(apoligies for taking so long to actually answer your question)

What's below is the TLDR of what's happening in the animatic:

However,

if you will indulge me in yapping more about these four, you can read on for a more in-depth scene of what is happening in the animatic:

Everyone is looking for Nyx.

Attwell gets there first.

The two reunite, emotionally exhausted and in greatly in need of seeing the other. Over the time they have gotten to know each other, Nyx has found someone her age that gets her -- that doesn't idolize, or infantilize, or minimize what she's gone through-- and though Attwell can't truly understand the scope of it, she's willing to let Nyx do what she needs. And Attwell, so used to being used, has found someone who respects her autonomy and intelligence. Though these two have not gotten a proper moment to truly hang out like normal teens, there is respect, and adoration, and there are the beginnings of love. Their happy reunion is short-lived.

Ash gets there next.

Unwell and unsure of his previous actions, he sees them together. He first sees Nyx -- the kid who he's come to care for and grow protective over, and Attwell -- the rambunctious girl that fought him every step of the way in his city, over what to do with the people he was charged with caring for, and who emboldened his sister to fight with him to the point that he had to kill her to get what he needed done. Safe to say, he is deeply unhappy with this development. Safe to say, that girl needs to get the hell away from his kid. Attwell soon becomes aware there's someone watching her and Nyx. She looks, and sees the man who murdered the only other adult in her life (apart from Faux) that didn't see her as cannon fodder. She's not about to let this man take away one of the only good things she has left in her left. Not again. Not when she's got such little time left. So she gets up, puts herself between the two, and resolves that, if there's anything-- anyone she's going to sacrifice herself for, it's going to be Nyx.

Nyx had always been there. With herself.

She'd been with only herself. For years, for decades, for millenia-- she didn't know. She hadn't even been old enough to read a clock when her dad died, so it's not like counting would have done anything for her. Besides, There were no clocks left. No calendars or alarm clocks, no sundials or hourglasses. She had destroyed everything in her wake, and left nothing in the aftermath. Everything that had mattered was gone. She had left everything ruined, and continued that path into the afterlife. But now. they mattered. The two in front of her. This man who had aided her through her lowest, despite claiming indifference. She knew he cared for her. Even in the earliest beginnings of their meeting, she knew. Could one child have four parents? The first two hadn't cared for her -- she knew that now. But she had killed the third, and now the fourth... Could a child like her deserve a fourth? A child that had achieved nothing but death, and was only rewarded with more murder? And the girl in front of her... The girl that she hadn't even been aware of months ago, that had both more and less than Nyx had ever had. The girl that had sought her out in her time of need. Nyx had never known friendship. She knew of it -- of the characters on the TV she used to watch as a little girl, sitting with her dad as he braided her hair and told bad jokes. She saw it looking out onto the street from the window of the one-bedroom apartment she lived in when her mother was gone. She longed for it. Attwell was it for her. Friendship, love, family- Nyx had only ever known the concepts. But she knew. and now, She was horrified. The sight before her was nothing short of ravenous. These two, who she had come to hold so deeply in her heart, clawed and punched and stabbed at each other with nothing but pure, unadulterated violence. She couldn't tell whose blood was whose. It didn't matter. She needed it to stop. She needed something to happen- She needed to someone to do something- She needed to make it stop- The tension in her mind snapped. something had released. She couldn't see what- she had closed her eyes without thinking. But there was silence. and then, there was a sickening thud.

Faux had gotten there last.

And he had gotten there too late. What laid before him, was the most unfortunate, most one-in-a-million-unluckiest-fucking-horrifying thing he had ever seen in his life. First, he saw his daughter, his little girl, face frozen in shell-shocked, ice-cold terror as she sat on the floor, legs unable to support the weight of what she had just done. Then, he saw the man he had been coming to like more than a little over the past few months standing, with talon-like nails and hands painted in warm blood, face obscured, fingers twitching. And finally, he saw the corpse. He saw the child. corpse. of the girl he had gotten to know. Of the young girl that was so bright, despite what she had gone through and what people had done to her. The young, fragile girl he let leave while he stayed behind to try and pick up pieces he wasn't even sure were there at the time she left. The spear lodged in her chest was the only thing that was new. He had seen it only a few times. The same places he had remembered his daughter from-- they had always accompanied her in her depictions. The heavens' wrath, they said. His eyes returned to his daughter. and his heart broke. Because it was like watching her fall and scrape her knee as a kid. Because she was silent. Because then she crawled forward, and pitifully grasped the shirt sleeve of the only friend she had ever had. Because her tears welled up, face catching up to the scene before her. Because then, She wailed.

-----------

I didn't mean for this to turn into me essentially writing fanfiction about my own characters, but here we are!!!

I have been getting back into writing lately, so maybe this was a good little exercise to get the creative juices flowing :))

MASSIVE thank you if you read until the end!!!!!

I am always open to more questions if you have any!!

[aloneholy]

hi i love your blog :) & was wondering if you could recommend your favorite/the best sapphic n wlw media like shows books movies please? I have recently come to ... Realisations .. :') I do love picnic at hanging rock btw and also the similar vibes of the media that you tend to reblog. homeorotic energy w out being Explicity Stated it also very welcome <3 thank you if you can and i hope thats okay !!! have a good day :)

hellooo what a lovely question - thank you so much! i’ll happily rec some things i’ve loved, especially that i find homoerotic/wlw media that Compel me much harder to come by - and i agree, picnic at hanging rock is so unique.

books:

- zami: a new spelling of my name by audre lorde - an “autobiomythography” & maybe thee most formative book for me, in terms of wlw reading. i read it for university and it changed me as a person, changed the way i look at loving women. it’s beautiful

- nightwood by djuna barnes - if you like the more unsettling aspects of picnic at hanging rock, something lynchian and modernist, this is a dark and heavily abstract lesbian novel which i really love

- our wives under the sea - a really poignant and lovely soft sci-fi depiction of a wlw relationship, themes of grief, identity, loss etc. some compare it to annihilation though expect much less science fiction

- her body and other parties by carmen maria machado - a lovely (probably my favourite!) collection of short stories which often are wlw-centric or have a vibe. stunning prose in general

- hera lindsay bird by hera lindsay bird - wlw poetry, very fun and contemporary, what i call self-aware poetry

- mary oliver’s poetry!!!

- for biographies, anything about tove jansson….

- anything by virginia woolf will fit the not explicitly stated vibe feeling - mrs dalloway has a really wistful lesbian undercurrent, orlando is a love letter to vita sackville-west. etc. etc.

movies:

- persona (ingmar bergman) - thee movie. it’s Not explicitly stated, it’s feverish and desolate, but it’s both intensely homoerotic and a searing exploration of identity, existential dread etc.

- mulholland drive (david lynch) - again, unsettling vibes. not even gonna elaborate on it - it’s a david lynch - but it’s a must-see

- passing (rebecca hall) - a moody, poignant and beautiful adaptation of nella larsen’s novella (which is on my to-read list) about a relationship between two women

- the favourite (yorgos lanthimos) - recently rewatched with a friend, no notes. a bizarre, obsessive, thrilling story. rachel weisz is to die for in it

- kajillionaire (miranda july) - a tender and strange (affectionate) depiction of a bond between two women in unexpected circumstances

- thoroughbreds (cory finley) - what if murder was homoerotic, what if murder was a metaphor. in a way this is about every codependent friendship between girls that has ever veered towards obsession

- vita & virginia (chanya button) - a biopic abt virginia woolf and vita sackville-west specifically, people have very mixed feelings on it but i personally love it to bits.

tv shows:

- black sails - anne and max’s storyline in black sails is the most visceral and lovely wlw story i’ve seen in tv or film… there are specific tws i would heed for max’s arc in the first season which i’d be happy to elaborate on, but their story is beautiful

- first season of killing eve is still unmatched 😔 second is still quite nice, if not as good. third is hm. the ending scene has whimsy to it. never watch the fourth.

things my gf loves that i still haven’t read/seen:

- portrait of a lady on fire - i just know it will Get to me so i’m waiting for the right mood to watch it

- this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar & max gladstone - same reasoning!

things i’ve started but haven’t had a chance to finish yet:

- little blue encyclopaedia (for vivian) by hazel jane plante - a beautiful (but sad, and also about grieving, hence it’s taking me a while) trans wlw story. quaint and quiet and wistful.

[oldxport]

𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑖. 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖. (𝑑𝑖𝑠)𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

[tw: references to religion, christianity]

Nothing  is  truly  archived  in  its  pristine,  maiden  state  —  photos  age,  digital  files  corrupt,  and  atom  links  corrode  one  by  one.  Painstakingly  crafted  monuments  oxidize,  the  Great  Pyramids  crumble  by  the  second,  and  the  stars  go  out. —  The  constant  of  life  is  the  beating  shore,  the  waves.  Movement,  change.  Erosion  chases    heels  like  a  mad  dog.

Even  the  mind  is  subjected.

Memory  is  the  basis  of  evolution.  How  can  one  prepare  for  a  future  if  one  does  not  remember  past  paths,  leading  to  pitfalls?  The  information  must  be  stored  to  be  retrieved  and  safely  kept  to  progress.  Hail,  progress.  The  human  brain  is  marvelous  for  processing  data  through  the  senses  and  parsing  time-space-now-then-will.

The  permanence  of  anamnesis  relies  on  factors  that  are  opposingly  conscious  yet  automatic.  Current  scientific  theories  propose  two  leading  families  of  individual  human  recollection:  the  declarative,  explicit  memory  and  the  non-declarative,  implicit  memory.  The  explicit  centers  on  the  “self,”  it  is  autobiographical,  semantic,  and  episodic,  the  epitome  of  what  humankind  thinks  memory  is.

They  merely  see  the  surface  and  guess  the  depths.

The  implicit  are  those  without  focused  consciousness,  background  tasks  in  procedural  memories,  and  subliminal  stimuli  in  priming.  The  human  mind  is  fascinatingly  efficient  and  set  on  learning.  Intake,  inhale,  install…  However,  reminiscence  is  not  a  science.  It  is  an  evocation  of  the  heart,  and  it  is  damn  awful  at  it.

To  light  the  synapse,  a  capricious  impact  has  to  stir  the  heart.  Humans  are  no  longer  concentrating  creatures  on  their  own  accord.  Intensity,  disbelief,  or  abnormality  of  circumstances  is  vital  to  categorize  memory  as  a  “notable  incident”  and  prevent  it  from  falling  through  the  cerebral  grates  and  being  discarded  as  peripheral  tedium.

The  other  way  to  preserve  time  is  to  conduct  it  as  a  ritual.  Opposite  of  the  singular  moment,  the  ritual  is  a  compilation.  By  diminishing  the  individual  days,  it  proposes  a  trade-off  to  stabilize  and  further  a  construct,  a  pattern  of  action  that  organizes  time  with  space.  It  is  mismatched  socks  worn  together  as  a  distinct  statement,  no  accident.  The  repetition  fights  off  modern  cynicism’s  iconoclastic  war  drum.

The  last  way  to  keep  recollection  is  through  auto-annihilation.  To  scar  the  inside  of  the  mind  so  thoroughly,  the  brain  cannot  overwrite  the  data.  Touch  upon  it  repeatedly;  the  echoing  sting  disembodied  of  the  time  of  the  strike.

Yet,  despite  all  of  the  methods  to  keep  vigilance  of  memory,  the  first  statement  holds.  The  lens  of  retrospection  is  smudged;  what  is  necessary  for  the  ability  to  remember  is  intrinsically  flawed  by  natural  design.  To  call  upon  memory  is  a  return  to  bear  witness  to  a  crime  scene,  and  in  its  autopsy,  the  testimony  is  never  black  and  white.  It  is  the  sentiment  branded  on  top,  warped  and  curling.

What  is  said  is  what  is  thought  to  have  been  said. REMEMBER THIS.

The  past  is  a  burn  that  lingers  but  weakens  as  the  mind  digs  through  its  kindling.  By  order  of  this  world,  memory  is  no  different  than  a  star  lightyears  away,  its  beam  dimming.  It  is  meant  to  fade.

It’s  more  than  alright  to  bask  in  the  glowing  embers  of  a  dying  planet.

Therefore,  there  is  no  reason  to  fear  un-memory.  It  is  part  of  the  forgetfulness  curve.  The  waves.  In  every  crest,  there  is  a  trough.  A  soar  ends  with  a  land.  Why  look  for  a  map  for  a  place  you  do  not  know  anymore?

A  day  lost  a  week  gone,  are  not  causes  for  alarm.  Recall  last  Tuesday  at  7:23  A.M.  Asleep,  maybe.   A  “normal”  day  is  liquid  glugging  into  the  drain.

A  man  closes  the  faucet  and  helps  himself  to  a  cup  of  water.  It  is  partly icy.  The  pipes  are  directly  pumped  from  a  frigid  spring  in  the  ███████  Mountains.  He  hopes  to  rediscover  it  again  tomorrow,  along  with  his  name.

It  is  OLD SPORT.

He  is  uncomplex  like  a  line,  that  one.  Point  A  to  B,  straight.  At  the  end  of  their  ride,  he  tells  Mr. Kato  that  he  had  no  idea  what  they  talked  about  but  wishes  the  befuddled  captain  a  good  day.  Arrives  on  the  premises,  books  a  photography  appointment  when  he’s  told  about  the  temporary  keycard  and  spreads  out  his  arms,  a  wingspan  similar  to  that  of  a  large  Pandion  or  a  smaller  Aquila,  when  security  pats  down  his  charcoal  blue  but  otherwise  nondescript  two-piece  suit.

He  enters  the  second  floor.  The  timing  couldn’t  be  more  appropriate  since  this  is  the  first  time  Old  Sport  is  not  the  first  operative  on  the  scene.  He  is  second,  the  numbering  graphically  explicit,  as  he  is  greeted  by  a  man’s  figure  at  the  end  of  the  hallway.  The  vow  Old  Sport  made  a  long  time  ago  somehow  pierces  through  the  fog’s  veil  and  shines  brighter  than  the  fluorescent  lights  overhead.  As  asked  by  the  Foundation,  he  will  devote  himself  to  it.  It’s  the  sense  of  duty,  an  ingrained  reflex  responding  to  the  new  task.

Or  is  it  the  man  behind  the  glass,  a  familiar  stranger,  who  sparked  the  guiding  beacon?  Summoned  that  lost  purpose?

If  it  was  indeed  lost.

With  or  without  amnestics,  the  mind  is  conditioned  to  adapt  to  the  unknown  or  press  on  while  in  denial.  Both  march  forward,  boots  thumping  untrodden  ground.  A  fool  smiles,  walking  into  a  place  he  does  not  know,  and  reaches  out.

Operative  —  correction:  Commander  Tiul-Xol’s  handshake  is  double-handed.  Old  Sport’s  hand  is  clasped  on  each  side, embraced.  The  Commander’s  hello  is  warm,  raining  years  of  comradery  on  the  former  agent.  Old  Sport  notices  the  disparity;  his  twenty  and  even  so  years  of  experience  is  not  up  to  par  with  this  man,  who  has  shared  bread  and  shed  blood  for  his  compatriots,  saving  the  world  from  ending  over  and  over. A fraternized secret pact to go into the dark together. How apropos that it  is  together  how  constellations  chart  the  night  sky.  Together,  together.  —  The  tender  first  fruit  who’d  break  his  own  heart  and  let  others  feast  on  its  fragments. OH, YOU ARE NOTHING.

… 

Even  a  ‘hi’  or  a  ‘good  morning’  would  do,  but  this  is  to  be  expected.

A  simple  salutation  struggles  to  form.  Like  a  dumb  little  newbie,  Old  Sport  opens  and  then  closes  his  lips.  There  is  overthinking  on  the  length  of  a  “hi,”  or  if  “hey”  is  too  casual  for  an  official  first-time  shared  assignment,  or  if  a  “Hello,  Sir,”  would  be  dismissively  professional  of  the  various  times  he  and  the  other  man  have  cursorily  orbited  one  another.  All  the  while,  the  Commander  blinks  at  him,  every  dark  batting  lash  sweeping  up  something  torrid  within  Old  Sport  than  the  tranquil  knowledge  that  the  Foundation  might  have  had  a  deliberate  hand  in  macerating  his  past.

He’s  buckling,  god,  the  crook  of  his  spine,  all  but  kowtowing.

That  is  what  happens  to  those  who  creep out  of  the  underground.  They  cannot  bear  the  light  head-on.  He’s  punched  his  ticket  into  the  Sublime,  and  the  clarity  of  his  ineptness  burns  him  up  under  its  magnifying  scope.

Thankfully,  the  Commander  laughs  and  claps  his  hands  around  Old  Sport’s.

“ It’s  good  to  see  you.  I’m  glad  the  Committee  took  my  recommendation  into  account. ”

“ Thank  you. ”

And  then  the  interaction  is  over.  Old  Sport  sits  down,  choosing  the  chair  close  to  the  door.  His  eyes,  which  have  never  strayed  from  his  clasped  hands  on  his  lap,  slowly  trace  the  curved  contour  of  the  table.  The  stare  stops  on  a  pair  of  worn  combat  boots,  no  polished  dress  shoes.

Their  owner’s  face  is  creased,  loose  with  tiredness,  and  open,  vulnerable  like  a  split  pomegranate.  Old  Sport  doesn’t  know  if  he’s  authorized  to  be  a  witness.  A  yawn  scrunches  the  center  of  the  Commander’s  face,  prominent  on  his  heavy  brows  and  strong-bridged  nose.  He  wipes  at  his  eyes,  and  as  Old  Sport  begins  to  rise  to  action,  the  Commander  waves  it  off.

But  no,  that  won’t  do.  Old  Sport  searches  the  inner  pocket  of  his  suit  jacket,  preparing  a  remedy  in  advance  as  always.  It’s  to  be  another  score  on  his  perfect  record;  he  digs  through  the  void  and  discovers  nothing  there.  He  has  forgotten  his  handkerchief.  The  chill  from  the  water,  now  swirling  inside  him,  permeates  throughout  his  system  at  this  small  but  surprisingly  heavy  failure.

Do  not  fear  un-memory.  Surf  on  the  forgetfulness  curve.  Shoot  the  tube.

Someone  else  enters  before  he  can  request  his  leave  to  fetch  the  Commander  a  tissue.  Therefore,  Old  Sport  stays  put  and  assembles  his  belongings  from  his  briefcase.  It  is  one  thing  to  watch  a  man  be  unguarded,  another  to  signal  others  to  look.  While  Old  Sport  cannot  help  the  man,  he  can  at  least  sanctify  the  Commander’s  authority.  The  room  fills  up.  Old  Sport’s  thoughts  wander  to  the  First  Disciple.

It  is  not  Peter.  It  is  Andrew.

Befitting.  Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

It  doesn’t  take  very  long  for  introductions  to  go  around  the  table.  Throughout  it  all,  Old  Sport  barely  stirs.  He  smiles  through  it,  raising  a  brow  at  Dying  Breed’s  self-appointed  break,  but  overall,  it  has  been  an  illuminating  experience.  The  Decommissioning  Department  and  MTF  Iota-10  have  never  held  formal  team  introductions.  A  matter  of  size,  schedule,  and  if  the  rumors  were  correct,  egos  made  this  an  impossible  undertaking  by  the  Fire  Suppression  Department.  This  is  Old  Sport’s  first  time,  and  finally,  his  chance  arrives.  Old  Sport  grins,  stands  up,  and  bows  as  the  focus  swings  to  him  at  the  end  of  the  table.

“ Hello  and  good  morning,  everyone.  Regardless  of  whether  or  not  this  is  the  first  time  we  are  meeting,  I  would  request  that  you  all  please  refer  to  me  by  the  appointed  codename-slash-callsign,  'Old  Sport,'  as  it  is  one  of  the  precepts  of  Chi-Zero-Zero. ”  He  says,  righting  himself  back  up.

“ As  everyone  else  has  shared  some  personal  information  and  or  humorous  anecdotes,  I  will  also  release  useful  background  facts  about  myself.  I  have  been  with  the  Foundation  for  twenty-four  years.  Previously,  I  was  a  member  of  the  Decommissioning  Department,  as  well  as  the  Mobile  Task  Force,  Iota-10,  known  as  the  ‘Damn  Feds,’  officially  and  unofficially. ”  Old  Sport  figures  disclosing  his  experience  would  be  helpful  to  the  junior  members  of  Themis.  Now,  the  mind  whirrs  for  the  next  move.

“ I  have  a  multitude  of  hobbies  and  like  various  things.  Additionally,  I  have  very  few  dislikes.  I  look  forward  to  working  with  everyone  until  the  very  end  of  this  assignment  or  until  reassignments.  Thank  you. ”

He  sits  down,  pleased  to  have  hit  all  the  notes  he  practiced  in  the  shower.  As  he  is  the  closing  act,  Old  Sport  decides  to  utilize  the  chaos  of  a  post-meeting  exit  rush  to  speak  with  the  Commander.  In  some  parts,  it  is  to  repent  the  previous,  unsubstantiated  “mission  failure.”  In  others…  esoterica,  meaningless  to  everyone.  Rather  than  calling  the  Commander  over,  Old  Sport  spots  his  window  of  opportunity,  gleaming  and  wiped  clean,  and  moves.  Forward,  forward.

Catching  Smooth  Operator’s  attention,  Old  Sport  slides  his  arm  frontward  to  initiate  a  handshake  —  snatching  the  other  man  with  a  two-handed  clap.  It  is  a  mirror  of  the  past,  a  reflection  of  Smooth  Operator’s  candid  warmth.

Imitation,  flattery.  Prayer.

Albeit  enveloping  the  Commander’s  hands  with  longer  digits,  Old  Sport  swings  their  hands  up  and  down,  body  saying  what  he  couldn’t  before.  Hello,  hello.  He  won’t  waste  his  time  now.  “ Commander,  it  has  been  nice  to  see  you  again.  It’s  been  two  years,  eight  months,  and  to  my  knowledge,  three  days, ”  Old  Sport  muses  and  tilts  his  head.  Pauses.  Tests  out  the  words  sans  shower.  “ It is an honor  to have been selected. I will be  dedicated  to  serving  you,  on  and  off  the  field. ”

Old Sport  leans  forward,  stamping a  grave  promise in the air  between  their  intertwined  limbs. Each word is pressed in like a personal cinnabarite seal.  “ Upholding  the  parameters  of  this  assignment  is  my  highest  priority.  Therefore... However,  whenever  you  need,  my  body  is  yours  to  command. ” 

He’s  felt  this  way  for  every  job  given  to  him  by  the  Foundation.  The  corporeal  is  nothing  without  purpose.  If  his  back  breaks,  it’ll  be  with  pride  at  fulfilling  something  grander  than  a  single  skeletal  remnant.

“ I  do  not  know  if  you  have  accessed  my  personnel  files  yet,  Commander,  but  I  will  strive  for  nothing  but  success  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  I  will  fill  any  position  you  require  of  me  without  complaint.  I  have  been  told  I  am  quote,  ‘accommodatingly  versatile,’  and,  ‘surprisingly  flexible,’  end  quote. ” 

As  he  is  saying  them,  no  boastful  flourish  curlicues  the  para-phrases.  Such  comments  never  particularly  mattered  to  Old  Sport.  However,  to  recompense  the  earlier  mistake,  he’ll  assure  Smooth  Operator  that  it  was  a  fluke; he has  verifiable testimonials.

Old  Sport  smiles  and  leans  in  again,  unaware  of  the  lack  of  privacy  in  a  crowded  conference  room.  He  closes  with,  “ I  fondly  anticipate  working  out  the  details  of  this  arrangement  after  introductions  and  the  facility  tour.  I’d  like  your  pager  number  to  find  a  suitable  time  and  place. ”  There  is  a  soft  squeeze  between  their  hands  after  one  last  downswing.

Finally,  the  lattice  breaks.  Old  Sport  concludes  with  a  nod  and  returns  to  his  spot.  He  picks  up  his  briefcase.  As  asked  by  the  Foundation,  he  will  devote  himself  to  it.  It’s  the  sense  of  duty,  an  ingrained  reflex  responding  to  the  new  task.  Support  the  MTF  Commander  at  all  costs.  Forget  your  record.  It  means  nothing.  You  are  nothing.  Support  the  MTF  Commander  at  all  costs.  Nod,  if  you  understand,  In-su. The scales ...

A Valuable Employee  does  not  think  of  themselves  as  individuals  but  as  a unit  member.  The  workplace  is  family.  The  company  is  covenant.

Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

Old  Sport  nods  and  wonders  where  he  left  his  handkerchief.

[belit0]

Heyy, can you write about indra coming back to take his lover with him after like 2-3 years of his fight with ashura?

Of course! there is no way to refuse anything to do with Indra. I'm a little rusty, so bear with me while I get back in the game….

I allowed myself the freedom to adapt it a little bit to my own idea, I hope you like it!

TW: none Pairing: (Otsutsuki Indra / Fem! Reader) SFW

It's been 3 years of hard fighting, that's news to no one.

All the inhabitants of the area fled as soon as the conflict started, consisting of two large groups facing each other, Indra and Ashura at the forefront of the dispute. Eventually, as time passed, soldiers fell on the battlefield, one by one, succumbing to various injuries.

Some gave up because of hunger, cold, and the environment, choosing to flee. Those who tried on Indra's side, encountered endings far more tragic than what the battlefield itself would have brought them, facing their commander directly, only to be killed by the sword of the one they supported.

Numerous attempts were made by Ashura, trying to negotiate and end the slaughter, as it not only annihilated the area of the fight along with all its underlying villages but also took the lives of thousands of soldiers who lent loyalty to one of the two sides.

His eldest brother was relentless in his conviction, choosing to die in combat rather than surrender to his enemy.

Time passed, and only two fighters were left standing after the first year of the war. Family, eternally opposed by miscommunication and resentment, destined to ruin each other's lives regardless of the outcome of their confrontation.

It only ceased when Ashura decided to take his own life in front of him, permitting not only the pleasure of victory but also the satisfaction of seeing the one who snatched what was his, who destroyed his destiny and replaced it with violence, fall.

Ashura never fought with the desire to win and never pursued the goal of defeating his brother. He answered every attack with all his strength only to avoid premature death, yet always harboring the hope of reaching his soul, of finding the Indra with whom he grew up, who understood him from beginning to end. Realizing that this would never happen, that the war could drag on for another 5 years, if necessary, he opted for the option that would give peace to them both.

A self-inflicted throat cut, just as another day of fighting was about to begin.

While that meant triumph for Indra, it did not come without a bitter taste, a sense of his younger brother making it easy for him. He had fantasized about the moment he would pierce his heart with his sword, the final words he would utter with contempt on his face as he fell lifelessly to the ground.

Both clans were practically destroyed after the end of the battle, finding the destruction of Ashura's descendants unnecessary. Yet undertaking the journey back home became the most difficult part.

What was home?

What was Indra returning to?

What would be left after three years of absence?

It wasn't where, it was to whom.

“Home” was not a physical place, but a person. His, person.

She had promised to wait, remaining away from the battlefield to ensure her survival, under direct and strict instructions from her beloved. Indra could not afford to lose her, anything but her.

The place where he had sheltered her was recondite, remote, hidden, difficult to access, and under his personal power. The same place where he had stayed years after initially losing to his brother, plotting and planning how to strike back properly.

The path would be arduous and complicated, long in the making, and hard to execute. It hurt him knowing she had no way of telling the outcome of the battle, that she could do nothing more than imagine he would be the one to win. All she could do was wait and hope, praying he would eventually walk through their simple door into the little hut where he had left her on their farewell day.

He promised to return, yet there was no certainty.

Days were all the same, hours passed slowly, and while (Y/N) had managed to build a daily routine that helped keep her sane, uncertainty lurked every day.

Dread at the thought of her man having lost the battle long ago, his body being covered by dirt in a forgotten war field for months, that no one would come looking for her, that he would never return… a daily companion.

She had begged and begged Indra to forget the matter, they could start from scratch somewhere where no one would know about them, build their own village and clan, and redeem their reputation.

He could never even consider it.

His honor had been put at stake, his ego had been bruised, and in the face of it, he could only fight back, act, and do. Start a war and hope to return home.

The night they parted was something permanently etched in (Y/N)'s mind. Unprecedented passion in the darkest shadows of the room, lit only by a few candles providing a timid light to their naked bodies, covered lightly by tangled sheets.

She had cried, and he had wiped away each of her tears, promising in vain everything would be all right.

She had pleaded, and he had refused her every attempt, claiming he would be the conqueror.

Frequently, anger was her greatest companion in her terrible loneliness. Since Indra left, she could not avoid a feeling of apprehension toward him. Why could he not desist from his stupid and long-standing anger, an unnecessary war? Why should he risk his life for it?

She never understood. Nevertheless, she supported him.

Millions of mundane thoughts began to monopolize her mind, eventually. Tending the garden, cooking, washing, keeping the house spotless for possible and unforeseen arrival, tending to the animals of their small flock, and making sure everything was in order.

She stopped dwelling on him constantly, stopped resenting him, stopped holding him in her mind all the time, moving him to the depths of her thoughts, where she kept her most beautiful and cherished memories alive, immaculate.

She chose to trust, to believe.

Someday he would come back and everything would be all right.

A chicken escaped from the pen. The greatest entertainment (Y/N) was having during this gray day.

When chances are scarce, you have to find ways to amuse yourself, right?

The weather did not lend itself to going for a walk in the woods, as it was threatening to pour a terrible rain at any moment. Conditions like this forced her to stay indoors, tending the fire so that it would not burn out and keep the hut warm.

Of course, she could find something else to do, yet it was the chicken escaping that she found most interesting and enjoyable. Forgetting her other possible hobbies, (Y/N) she decided to catch it before the rain came down.

Armed with courage and determination to solve the problem before she got completely soaked, she set off through the forest, looking carefully at the ground and searching for the trail of her little target.

The damned thing had speed and had soon moved away from the sector where (Y/N) keeps the animals, the ones she uses as therapy and occasional food when protein is needed.

"Damned little audacious one... where are you?"

The first drops were starting to rattle against the leaves, the ground was dampening and thunder rumbled angrily in the sky.

"Shit! Of course, you couldn't select better weather for this... no, of course not... it's not like we spent days of absolute sunshine and warmth! Fuck!"

The rain took its time but began to descend with a rush. The ground turned to mud, a curtain of water covered her immediate view, and her clothes clung uncomfortably to her body.

Bad idea, after all.

She opted for abandoning the foolish illusion of rescuing the chicken, which it could manage on its own in the weather, and if it was lucky enough to survive, it might even return on its own in search of some corn kernels. This had become very ridiculous.

She set off back to her hut but found herself disoriented amidst the noise of the rain and the lack of visibility. She had suddenly lost her own footprints on the ground because of the water and had no way to trace her way back.

Feeling desperation sink into her chest, hyperventilation followed close behind. The fire had been left burning in the cabin, if any brace were to jump out it could mean losing absolutely everything!

Finding the way back was critical and necessary and it had to happen now!

Turning around in her unleashed anxiety, looking for marks on the nearby trees to give her direction and trying to hear animal noises to get an idea of where she was standing, she began to run without any direction.

Rain lashed the leaves mercilessly, thunder stunned her eardrums, despair crowned her mind, her steps were erratic and incoherent, with the only objective of advancing to who knows where, and BANG!

She fell helplessly to the ground, hitting her back against the cold mud. Her vision became double from the blow, and she didn't understand if what she was seeing was an illusion.

A man, her man.

Dressed entirely in war armor, still stained with dried blood, hair loose and completely wet, full of marks and scratches on any part of skin his armor allowed to be visible. In his right hand he carried a sword, and in his left, the chicken, which he held by the legs, head down.

He looked at (Y/N) with the same perplexity as she looked at him, not understanding whether what was happening was real or not.

Neither said a word for what felt like minutes, with the storm and chicken noises being the ambient sounds of the scene.

"(Y/N)...?"

Her name came from his lips trembling and incredulous as if he found it hard to believe that the one who lay dumbfounded on the ground was his beloved, and life was reuniting them in this situation.

"In..Indra-a..?"

He pounced on her, sending the poor chicken flying through the air, who ran away as soon as it sat up on the ground. A deep embrace brought the two of them together, amidst cold metal and freezing water in between.

"The... the chicke-e-en!"

(Y/N) exclaimed, still astonished and in shock.

It was Indra's deep laughter that finally brought her back to reality, wrapping her arms as best she could around him, holding her beloved after years of separation, fear, and uncertainty.

"No need to worry about anything... I'm back."

They remained in that position for what felt like hours, simply sensing each other's presence, nothing mattering.

Not the storm, not the cabin, not the chicken.

[sodaabaa]

stolen tires, chapter seven

jason returns to gotham after the world believed him to be dead. heavily inspired by the film, under the red hood.

tw: mentions of death, angst, self loathing, grief, abuse

It's been three days since Bruce chased me through the docks. By now he's probably piecing things together since he got a blood sample when he threw that batarang. I wanted him to take the batarang back because I wanted him to figure it out, just not when I was in front of him. To be quite honest, I was scared of what he would do when he finds out. Would he try to find me and confront me? I wasn't just going to forgive him for leaving me to die and then forgetting me. When I came back to Gotham and found out Joker was still alive I lost my mind. I wasn't mad at Bruce for not saving me. I've forgiven him for that, I'm mad at him for leaving that pile of evil death worshipping garbage alive! Joker has killed so many people, he's taken so many lives and I thought I would be the last life he would take. I thought Bruce would finally snap and kill Joker for taking me away from him but he didn't! He betrayed me and he betrayed Gotham all because he was scared to do what was necessary. I was not going to let him get away with that.  I heard a rapid knocking at the door snapping me out of my thoughts. I got up to see who it was through the peephole. It was him. It was Bruce.

I opened the door and here's the moment I had been waiting for. I was standing face to face with the man who betrayed me. 

"Do you have time to talk?'' He asked. 

He looked tired, no, he looked remorseful. 

"Come in." Is all I said as I turned around and sat back down on the couch.  He sat in the chair across from me and cleared his throat.

"How are you alive? Why didn't you reach out to me?" He asked.

"Ra's resurrected me. I didn't reach out because I wasn't stable. I rose from the grave Bruce I can't just waltz back into the manor all brand new again." I said, my voice raising slightly towards the end.

"I could've helped you, it's been almost six years Jason." He said.

"I was rabid and dangerous you would've thrown me into Arkham Asylum the second I lashed out! Just like every other criminal you 'deal' with!" I yelled. 

"You know once I was stable enough I wanted to reach out and come back but when I did eventually come back I found out from Roy that Joker was still alive. Why Bruce, why for the love of God is he still alive!?" I shouted, my voice was threatening to break and the tears were trying to break their way through but I wouldn't allow them to.

"Killing Joker wouldn't fix anything, you become the criminal when you cross that line!" He raised his voice. 

"Look Bruce I'm not talking about Dent or Nygma or even Penguin. I'm talking about Joker, he's taken far too many lives and I thought after he killed me you would finally annihilated him but you didn't! I thought you would kill him because he took me from you. I sure as hell would've killed him had he taken you from me!" At this point both of us were standing and yelling, arguing over an event that happened five years ago.

"Jason, I understand why you must hate me but if I crossed that line I would never be able to come back. Losing you meant I lost a son and it broke me but you have to understand." He said sternly.

"No Bruce I don't hate you. I wish I did though, it would make this a whole lot easier. It's hard to hate the person who made you who you are. You just end up hating yourself. It's impossible to hate someone you've loved for so long." I said, shaking my head.

It's true, Bruce was a father to me and no matter how hard I tried to hate him I couldn't bring myself to. My anger, my angst and my pain was all towards the Joker. It was his fault. He's the one who took me away from Bruce. It didn't have to be like this though.

"Jason. Come back to the manor. Be apart of our team again, not as a sidekick but as an equal. We can be father and son again." He said it so genuinely it was hard to resist.

I shook my head and said, "no Bruce, I can't come back if you refuse to clean up the crime properly, I have a team of my own now and I plan on ridding Gotham of filth from the inside out." 

He nodded his head and looked down, "if that's your decision. You're always welcome to visit. Goodbye Jason." 

"Goodbye Bruce." 

[ghostcathedrals]

tw // blood, gore, violence, lowkey nsfw

self-indulgent (HEAVILY). i support this movement and i think you should too. i'm unsure if this is gender neutral enough, but i tried my best, though i initially thought of it as P in V. endearments are gender neutral. regardless of gender identity, you're still wearing a dress, and you can interpret its design however you want.

i don't know how long this is bc i didn't put it on a word processor and just kept typing on this post, but it's long but not >7k (i think) not proofread LMFAO too lazy for that

VAMPIRE HUNTER TOJI.

he's already out of the business for a while. toji fushiguro no longer cares about the kind of life he used to live, or at least he tries to. oftentimes our past doesn't allow itself to be forgotten.

after all, he hunted the people who were like the family who condemned him. because he wasn't a vampire. because he didn't hunger for blood just like them, and his fangs weren't as sharp as theirs.

yet he continued to live as long as them. that was a predicament for the zen'ins, since the existence of this bastardized son would have been the downfall of their family, knowing how heavenly restriction worked. heavenly, but it would work against a lineage of diabolical beings.

eventually, the need to hunt knocks on his door again. when he sluggishly opens the door, there stands the beginning of his return.

so this is vampire hunter toji fushiguro. he could've annihilated his family (wonder why he didn't), but there they continued to live.

shiu convinces toji to come back to the business with a whopping 60 million waiting for him if he takes this request. toji usually takes minimal requests for a quick buck, but it seems as if this one may be his final stage as the actor who plays the angel with villainous blood.

toji meets you because you're his... target. shiu gives him information about you, quite limited. you're a cog to the larger machinery of vampires to be hunted. you're an asset to the clans which includes his own family. once he sees your picture, your background, even the countless lives you considered as food ⎯ and instead of grimacing, he simply smirked in aroused excitement.

it makes the job exciting, this he thinks, this he says to shiu, who obviously huffs and takes a cigarette from its pack. he offers one to toji who declines. toji declined? well, not so surprising for a man who doesn't even drink alcohol.

you're much more beautiful in person. the ghoulish appearance of vampires is lifeless, pale, and uncomfortable to look at, yet toji finds himself drawn to the way you are walking down the grand staircase along with other servants of the three great clans.

he knows you're not a servant, and he knows every movement you make without being physically present in that ball. toji spends his time making sure that when he makes a move, it won't be difficult to kill you.

that's the thing ⎯ he almost fails. his body is raging with the desire, just like you. dodging his offensives is extremely difficult, but you are strong enough to only manage a few cuts, until he eventually tackles you to ground, with your being in between his kneeling legs, his hand about to squash your throat.

you don't know who he is. he doesn't look familiar. maybe your age stops you from knowing him, because it hasn't been a long time since you were born. this guy, even without fangs as he devilishly and terrifyingly grins from ear-to-ear, is not a vampire, or just doesn't have the vampiric bloodlust. he's probably just humanly insane.

this is a guy who, despite your being superior to his, has more power than you right now. you don't exactly know if you'll ever die as a vampire, because somehow, you know almost nothing about your identity. nothing about your bloodline.

"i know who you are," he says, with the drawl of your name on his tongue making your heart quiver. you, a vampire, are a victim to his diabolical presence. "i'm here because you've let your guard down, doll."

you scowl at the nickname. it's hard to move because he's physically dominating you (perhaps generally), and your dress isn't much of a help. instead, you resign and try to find a way out of this. hopefully. you can never always be prepared when someone with extremely high physical prowess can cut the blade of your fangs and drain you with drinking your blood.

"in what way did i let my guard down?" you ask him, brows furrowing. "i am a vampire, you vampire hunter—"

"no shit, dollface." he chuckles and it's pissing you off. it's not like you don't have a plan, though.

"i am a vampire. i can sen—"

"you vampires have one thing in common and it's the natural dependence on the gift of your birth," he says, with a tone much more sinister than yours. he stands up and you quickly get on your feet, stance prepared for a fight. "doll, you have so much potential but you're wasting it on being a lap dog of the clans⎯"

you take another step, baring your fangs, letting your eyes go red. he merely smiles, flipping his weapon then setting it on his shoulder. "see? you bare fangs yet you're physically weak. you can't push me. you can't—"

"shut the fuck up!" toji has never underestimated the bloodlust of a vampire when they angry, and he knows that each of your moves turn from desperate to fully diabolical. you're faster with far more violent instinct, as if you're tempted by his body. tempted by the color of his blood. tempted by the taste it would have when you drink it.

it doesn't matter if he's strong or even formidable. you want him lifeless, submitting his inferior body to you like a bag of blood.

your dress is starting get ripped from the way you're moving. floating swiftly in the air then clashing against the ground. neither of you were backing out. it's utterly unfair how he's still completely dressed, and your dress can barely cover you from the cold. it doesn't matter, though. the cold is your home. what matters is how toji eventually slows down ⎯ from going full offensive to just dodging your attack, smirk never leaving his face.

it takes you a while to settle down your headspace and realize your body really is barely covered. the undergarment is shown beneath the fabric of the dress as it disintegrates into scraps on the ground. he takes a step. the footsteps are loud as your mind turns hazy. the smell of his blood is too strong that you only think of drinking it, sinking your fangs on his precious skin. precious skin that seems to already have been bruised, scarred by a past you are suddenly curious about.

"hm? not moving, dollface?" he provokes you, closing the distance, leaning towards you with your foreheads almost touching. "where's that vampiric instinct, hm? didn't expect you to freeze in your spot—"

there's a shift in the color of your eyes. toji himself shuts up in shock as your sclera goes black. you're not just a vampire after all, says all that history stuck in his head. you're not even aware of it. you're a reincarnation of a being worse than a vampire. perhaps you have sat with the devil in your past life. in this world, vampires cannot just do so. one has to be completely at a higher level of being to be able to just change the appearance of the eyes.

but you ⎯ your fangs are there, as well as the sharpening of your fingernails, and the flaring marks on your face, intricate lines that reminds him of the menacing story of how life becomes dark when hell takes over a pure soul. he freezes. after all, who are you?

"i want your blood." you sound like a ghost whispering to a child in their sleep. not even a whisper, but an echoing bellow that's ringing in toji's ears. "i want your blood, hunter. i want you to⎯"

without a second passing, he pushes you away with force which pushes his backward as the sudden inertia affects him. you stagger, the heels of your shoes harshly scraping the ground as you maintain balance from the push. he's smirking once again, unfazed. this angers you, and this harmful feeling lands him on the ground with you on top of him.

your sharp nails have crushed his sword into pieces. these same nails cuts through the skin of his neck. toji continues to smile.

"well, before you kill me, you should at least know my name," he says nonchalantly, as if he's prepared and unabashed by the next few steps that can possibly end his life. "i am fushiguro toji. i kill vampires for money. for⎯"

"revenge," you reply in his stead.

"hell yeah," he rasps in his whisper. it arouses something in you, because it's that same tone, akin to a grunt, that turns on the lust that comes with tainted heart of yours. his hands slowly find their way to your waist as you fall on his body, legs attempting to straddle him. you scoot a bit where his large figure is much smaller ⎯ his waist. "i am going to kill those zen'ins. i stopped before, but i will not now."

"no," you reply instantly after he finishes his last syllable. your finger is placed against his lips to shush him, and your nails eventually shrinks to their original length. his eyes are hazy, perhaps it's the work of your aura. you've always had that air of carnal desire. once you set your eyes on someone, it will be hard for them to look away, to even move. toji's different. you further realize that the way he's harshly gripping on your waist isn't because your aura is working on him. toji has completely abandoned his job, and he's found his new appetite on the curve of your body.

"why not, dollface? don't you want to ravish the blood of the slaughtered? they are vampires, baby, their blood is more than the ones you've drank." you're being drawn to him. what you're starting to feel is that you can pull him closer. you can feel a bulge on your crotch, and your heart quivers again. your gut is squashing the dancing butterflies in your stomach. "what? fangs sank too deep in your tongue?"

your breath is labored and more audible. the bulge is more prominent now, aching to feel yours. toji's starting to groan as well, feeling the friction. "you... y-you're doing something to me."

through his breaths, toji guides your hands back to his neck. the cut you pierced is gone. your body loses its last layer of heat. you feel petrified. you knew this guy never had the bloodlust of a true vampire, and barely has the vampiric being etched into his. for someone of his level, it can be difficult to self-heal. heavenly restriction, you remember, can be far more dangerous than drinking blood and baring fangs. but it's often a bad omen that makes clans of vampires discard them, at let them be eaten by vampires at a young age, where their cognition has barely developed.

from his neck, you put your hands on his broad shoulders. as you lean a bit, your crotch slides against his and the friction worsens. you both moan to that friction. down there, you can feel the stiffness. his harsh grip on your waist forces you to slide against, grinding against his crotch. oh, you love it. you love it so much you forget yourself. you let yourself drown in desire in the same way he's already moving his hips. you're humping against his clothed crotch and the bulge almost rips through his pants. the moans are louder. your moans reaches a higher pitch. you're practically whimpering and mewling and he hasn't even taken his pants off.

he laughs. "can't even finish your words because of how horny you are now." he snaps his hips to keep taunting you. your grip bruises his shoulders and he groans, snapping his hips against, begging to be unsheathed.

"take it off," you shakily say. "take your pants off."

"oh?" toji raises an eyebrow, grin forcing his mouth to move. "think you can just tell me what to do, hm? and what if i don't want to, huh? what if i want to keep taunting you and kill you while you're too engrossed with your desire."

your madness manifests into a harsh grunt, akin to the anger of a wolf, then glaring at him, eyebrows knitted together in fury. "if you're so hung up on still trying to finish your dumb job, at least fuck me before you stab me and cut off my head."

he throws his head back to laugh, even if it hits the ground. "it takes all this violence for you to just admit you wanted to fuck. you do know that your nipples are poking out of your undergarments, right? you're just begging to be fucked, and all this time you can hardly fight because your desire is stiffening you⎯"

"shut the fuck up," you hiss. "just fuck me, goddammit."

"gotta be nicer, dollface." he takes a turn with his tone, becoming stern and serious. you shiver at his voice despite the fact you can always just go rabid and eat him. you suddenly want to make sure you feel him in you before you feel the rest of him with his sweet, warm blood. "tell me how much you want me to fuck you. politely. with the kind of desperation your lot is too humiliated to show."

you grit your teeth. you want to kill him already, shut him up like how you usually do with anyone who crosses you. but you can feel the pool of something wet on your underwear, and as you become sensitive, the lace trimmings feel as if it's stitching themselves into your skin. you're so sensitive you can barely move or think or sharpen your nails to stab him in the eye. you falter, but you know he's faltered, too. he wants you, and he's flaunting it provocatively.

"please," your voice cracks. "please fuck me, toji. fill me up please."

"no holding back, baby?"

"pull it all in. i'll take everything."

you don't know what you're saying but you say it anyway, because when lust infiltrates one's head, it's difficult to stay with logic.

"you're prettier when you're pleading. when you're begging to be fucked." you moan loudly at the brutal emphasis of the last word.

"please, toji, enough of that. please, just fuck me already—"

he pushes your hands away and pulls you by the back of your neck, sinking you down to him with a kiss. a kiss enough to break your teeth. it's sloppy and disgusting, just how you both want it. he's hungry for you, and you for him, because your tongues cannot contain themselves. he's biting your lower lip as struggles to take off his pants. you help him as you use the curve under your foot to push it further down. you feel it. you feel his cock and before you can even spit on your hand to lubricate it, you already slams it into you. you mewl, because a moan cannot justify the salaciousness of your voice.

"no fucking prep, baby," he grunts and thrusts again. "if i can't kill you yet, at least i can—"

"no, please." he stops, like a frame of an animation stuck in its pace. your tears drops on his cheek. "please... i... it's too much."

well that shocks him. a vampire asking to be gently touched? after all that gore and brutality?

you continue to cry as both pleasure and pain seem to not mix well with you.

"you've never done this before."

you gulp back your tears. "not that i can remember." he sits up, propping his elbows on the ground with his tilted to the side. "so... you're not used to do this."

"well, i... stop fucking laughing, this isn't funny!"

he's still laughing. "alright baby, chill out, geez. i'll do it at the pace you want, but i won't be kind when you're prepped up for me, 'kay?"

ominous, but you nod anyway.

you move and he pulls his cock out. hard. still hard. he looks up at you and grins. "guess you gotta hurry f'r me, darling. someone's impatient."

you stare at each other for a while, thoughts barred from getting your attention. luscious gaze is shared, then he sits up straight, left hand cupping your cheek, with the other hand caressing your face. "so pretty. so, so pretty." you silently moan at his compliment. his hand, particularly his index finger, lands on your lips. bruised, but still plump and delicious. he inserts his finger, feeling the pad of your tongue. it's salty for you, probably gonna get some fucking disease but hey⎯ you're a vampire. a disease is just a good night sleep when you die from it. you're coating his finger with your saliva, and hums at the way you're growing eagerness as you continue drool while sucking his finger. he puts another in. down there, your pressing your lower part against his cock. every time he responds to the friction, he squeezes your thigh. another finger. you're sucking three feels and it seems like your mouth will be ripped opened. toji hasn't done anything that could lead to your body in pieces like pound meat.

"so obedient," he teases. he takes his fingers off your mouth, proceeding to put his drool-coated hand to his cock. you look down. looking at it already reminds you of the shockwave he gave you a while ago. it doesn't scare you. you look back up at him and show him, somehow, the most innocent face a devil can show.

"teach me, toji."

he's probably taken a liking to you already. "spit on your hand, then. i'll teach you how to please me."

you definitely feel the reason why it hurt ⎯ it's too big. the length and girth felt like a sword trying to slice you in half. no wonder that if you had shorter nails, it would look like you are struggling to let the tips of your fingers meet while holding his cock.

such a good teacher. such a good student. he lets of his cock and lets you do the rest. he's moving his hips again, which waves your body, and the movement excites you too much that you're moving hand faster and faster. he can hardly catch up. he moans with lips contorting into a smile as he moans and moans and moans in overwhelming pleasure. and he snaps. he holds you firmly and lifts you effortlessly, sinking his cock into your hole slowly so that you can learn to endure the pain. you kiss him. he kisses you. the lower parts of your body are moving in a rhythm that makes your lips move down to each other's necks. and god, how so dangerous it can get.

"don't fucking bite me yet." you hate it when he says your name that way. you hate that you feel arousal when he commands you like that. "do it when i tell you to."

"you'll never make me, won't you?"

"shut up." he shuts you up as he bruises a hickey on your skin with shallow cuts from his fangs that are smaller than yours. this is the kind of pain you want, you need, and it might just teach you how to adjust to the pain and pleasure moving rapidly and mercilessly into your hole.

with the difficult of the position, he takes advantage of your body's position and flips you onto the ground, laying you flat on your back. you wrap your legs around his waist as he thrusts harder and harsher. and you're right. you're getting used to it already. you like the way he stretches you and grunts when you clench his cock in between your walls. he likes the way you moan his name so disgustingly. "say it baby. say my fucking name."

"t-toji.. a-ahh. please right there! please, please ⎯ oh!"

"you're really such a baby," he chuckles. "but it seems that i've abandoned these hard, sensitive nipples for too long, hm? like it when i squeeze like this?" oh, he knows what he's fucking doing. he pads his thumb over the surface of your nipples, squeezing them as he keeps thrusting in you. it's so much pleasure your tears are blocking your vision.

then he kneads your tits. you're so immobilized by pleasure that all your arms have done were too lay limp on either side of your head, letting him do as he pleases with your body. god, no one's blood has pleased you as much as the physical touch of someone you're willing to wait until they can let you bite their neck. it doesn't fucking matter if you need to be fucked so mercilessly like this, with his gentleness already disappearing before he laid you on the ground. he doesn't seem to understand gentleness, and perhaps you enjoy that the most.

the louder the moans, the faster and deeper the thrust are. you feel it. you feel something overwhelming in you that toji already notices how orgasmic you are. "toji.. toji i⎯"

"shh."

he guides you to your climax and before you can say it, you come, and oh, he absolutely loves it. you're cold but your slick is so warm. your hair is a mess, your chest wet from his saliva and your sweat. this gives him so much energy to keep fucking you like he's in a rut and he's letting you take all his pent-up frustration. "look at me."

huh.

"don't you fucking look away from me."

you'll die from the gaze of his eyes, but it's not like he won't die from yours.

you'll know where this will lead, but you let him want you. he let you want him. so when he fills you up to the brim of whatever limit there is in your body, it makes you want to be filled up again.

"i don't want your blood just yet."

he smirks as puts on his underwear and pants again. "really? but i want my 60 million already."

"don't care," you insist. "i'll give that to you whenever you want it. don't have to kill me for it."

so he walks to you, and since you're barely clothed (a scarecrow is more covered than you at this point), he draps cloak on you so you feel less conscious about your appearance. "then what do i have to do to get whatever i want?"

"i want to see you again after this."

he already knows what you mean. guess the hunting business truly ends here.

🩸

is it obvious that writing smut isn't my best skill LMFAO

[best-underrated-anime]

Best Underrated Anime Group E Round 1: #E3 vs #E6

#E3: Sibling Tragedy/Drama + Penguins

A terminally ill girl named Himari Takakura is miraculously saved from death by a strange spirit who resides in a penguin-shaped hat. However, in exchange for extending her life, the spirit tasks Himari's brothers, Kanba and Shoma, to seek out an elusive item known as the Penguindrum with the assistance from a trio of strange penguins.

#E6: Vampires and humans cannot coexist in a small town

It’s about a town being slowly overrun with vampires. We see things from the humans’ view, and then, as they turn into vampires themselves, from the vampires’ view. It’s basically “why does genocide happen?”: the anime. Incredibly dark. The answer to why genocide happens is not pleasant.

Titles, propagandas, trailers, and poll under the cut!

#E3: Mawaru Penguindrum

Propaganda:

It’s a unique and genuinely weird show with wacky humor, but the emotions it makes you feel are so real that it’s actually sickening, in a cathartic kind of way. It’s about love, it’s about self-sacrifice, it’s about guilt and regret, it’s about wanting to be seen. All the characters are so interesting and so relatable, not because they’re your average joe but because their emotions and their experiences feel so close to reality. The show is stacked with symbolism and metaphors, but it never overwhelms the core of the story, even as you can’t even discern anymore what’s literally happening and what’s purely symbolic. To top it all off, it has beautiful visuals and an amazing soundtrack.

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse, Incest, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-Con, Self-Harm

#E6: Shiki

Propaganda:

Shiki is a horror story about vampires. They need to feed on humans in order to live. They’re a threat to society. We’re all afraid of them. Except it’s not, actually, because Shiki is a horror story about genocide. The vampires and the village are fundamentally at odds: one cannot survive without the complete annihilation of the other. Conflict is inevitable. Conflict is completely justified, in the eyes of both groups. Conflict is still terrifying. Shiki though, is actually a horror story about human nature. You have little choice about whether you end up a human or a vampire. You, dear viewer, and capable of inflicting unimaginable violence and misery, and you will think yourself completely justified. You’re only trying to protect yourself, aren’t you?

Trigger Warnings: Cannibalism, Emotional Abuse, Genocide, Graphic Depictions of Cruelty/Violence/Gore, Self-Harm, Suicide

(Admin: I forgot to include TW’s when I first published the post. I am so sorry…)

If you’re reblogging and adding your own propaganda, please tag me @best-underrated-anime so that I’ll be sure to see it.

[morelikeravenbore]

How to Make a Villain - Sebastian Sallow x FMC

✨ Ao3 | Wattpad ✨

A comprehensive guide on how to turn the good guys bad.

Seventh year mostly soft!seb but he's got the ✨trauma✨ | slooooow burn | idiots in love | mutual pining | hurt comfort | villain arc | that one trope where the fmc has to either embrace her special magical ability or be destroyed by it but I don't know what it's called specifically.

18+ No smut (tbh there probably will be segs eventually but it'll be geared more toward the emotional end of the scale rather than the explicit), lots of fluff, lots of angst. TW: Mentions of parental loss, family trauma, implied murder, sexual references and mild violence.

A Hogwarts Legacy fic that explores how grief & trauma can fundamentally change the course of a person's entire life.

THE BLURB:

Aurélie Collins wishes she were invisible. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts to be normal, there are a great many unusual things about her. She's the only transfer student Hogwarts has seen in recent memory, she has an absolutely abysmal sense of direction, and - though she desperately wishes she couldn't - she can wield an ancient and highly unstable form of rare magic.

When a tragic event rips her from her life of opulence at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Aurelie is unceremoniously thrust into the freezing cold Scottish highlands to finish her final year at Hogwarts, where the castle's floor plan is impossible to navigate, obsession with blood status runs prevalent among the student body, and it's freezing bloody cold - all the time.

Worse still, she finds herself unable to escape the unwavering attention of Sebastian Sallow. Tall, handsome and infuriating, the Slytherin Quidditch captain is convinced he's the greatest thing to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts, is best friends with a Gaunt, and, to Aurélie's endless irritation, does not want to let her out of his sight. Ever.

Read chapter one under the cut.

If Aurélie Collins had to choose one word to best describe herself, she supposed it would be - to put it as delicately as she could - completely and utterly overwhelmed. Granted, that was four words, not one, but as she trudged down yet another unfamiliar corridor, she was just relieved she could string together a coherent sentence at all. After the last few months of hell she'd endured, Aurélie wasn't her usual eloquent self, to say the least.

She hadn't always been that way - overwhelmed, that is. In fact, if asked only a few months ago to describe herself, she would've said she was dutiful, quick-witted, and, if not brave, then definitely unafraid of facing challenges head-on. She'd been a confident girl once; she got good grades, always did as she was asked and never stepped a toe out of line, and everyone - from her parents and teachers to her friends and peers - knew that Aurélie Collins would go on to achieve whatever she set her mind to.

Now, though? Well, nowadays she was too exhausted to set her mind on anything. Since she'd been forced to start a new school in a new country - in the seventh and final year of her magical education at that - Aurélie felt that the only substantial thing about her was the crushing sadness that pervaded her every waking thought, as if every other part of her had been utterly annihilated by grief. Not that she allowed herself to feel any of that grief if she could help it - but it was always there, pervasive and relentless, weighing her down like a heavy wet blanket as she tried to swim through the rapidly changing currents of her new life.

Breathe, Aurélie, she told herself as she trekked ever deeper into the immense stone castle that was her new school. You've handled worse than this.

But this was a lie; she hadn't handled anything worse than this. The truth was that she was adrift in a perpetual ocean of grief that constantly threatened to consume her. She had no anchor, nothing to tether her to anything solid.

And this new school of hers certainly wasn't doing anything to improve her situation.

Bloody Hogwarts.

Of all places she'd ever imagined herself living, the freezing cold Scottish highlands was absolutely not one of them. But, then again, she wouldn't have believed that she'd be an orphan at seventeen either, yet here she was.

Hogwarts was famous, of course. Heralded as the pinnacle of magical education and the top school in the wizarding world, most witches and wizards were honoured to attend such a prestigious establishment. But Aurélie Collins was of the opinion that every bloody thing at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was confusing, unnecessary, or just downright nonsensical. From the ever-changing floorplan to the myriad of talking portraits - all of whom gave wildly conflicting directions to her classes depending on which ones she asked - nothing about Hogwarts made any sense.

Aurélie was almost in tears by the time she reached another dead end. It was simply impossible to find one's way around a school like this; there were too many floors to navigate, too many disused classrooms and far too many staircases that led to absolutely nowhere. Not to mention, beyond its confusing floorplan and unbearably draughty rooms, the ancient hulking castle was rather ugly - by Aurélie's standards at least. The monolithic Gothic castle was so far removed from the elegance and charm of Beauxbatons that it seemed almost cruel that she should be forced to endure it at all. She could almost hear her best friend Céleste's reaction if she were with her now. 'Ugh, it's so awfully medieval,' she would say. 'Stone Gargoyles? And all those uncouth English boys? I don't know which I find more barbaric!'

She almost smiled at the thought. But only almost - for thinking of her best friend only made her sad.

Aurélie shook herself mentally, shifting the heavy weight of her books from one arm to the other. She did not like thinking about her old life, least of all on her first day of school while she was lost in the labyrinth of never-ending corridors and endless classrooms. She had the distinct and slightly alarming sense that she was headed in completely the wrong direction as she tried to find her first class of the day, but, having never set foot in Hogwarts until the night before, found herself without any point of reference with which to correct her course.

'Which Merlin-forsaken floor is this, anyway?' she muttered to herself in French as a group of first years skittered around her, giggling obnoxiously as they hurried down the long corridor. They were wearing the green and silver colours of Slytherin house. She knew of Slytherin house only because her father had attended Hogwarts in his youth; though he'd been a Hufflepuff - a badger, not a snake.

Aurélie's heart gave an awful lurch at the thought of her father. Oh, her wonderful father: patient and good-humoured and endlessly curious and -

Dead. He's dead, Aurélie. Stop thinking about him.

She swallowed down the hard lump in her throat and trudged on determinedly, descending what felt like the hundredth set of stairs she'd already followed that morning. She could feel disappointment and embarrassment roiling in the pit of her stomach; she wasn't used to failing at anything let alone something as simple as getting to class on time. Even the bloody first years knew where they were going, for crying out loud, and they'd been here for just as short a time as she had.

When at last she found herself facing yet another dead end, she finally conceded defeat. Trying very hard not to cry, she adjusted her unflattering black robes (oh, to be dressed in fine blue silk again) and began to seriously consider how much trouble she'd be in if she just went back to bed. Or, more tempting still, how badly she'd be punished if she fled back to France and never returned to Hogwarts again, graduation be damned.

But no, she couldn't leave Hogwarts; it was the safest place for her since her parents had died, and Professor Weasley, the deputy headmistress, had evoked the power of Merlin himself to secure her a place here at such short notice. Apparently, it had not been an easy feat convincing Headmaster Black to take on a student with her reputation.

Aurélie sighed and squeezed her eyes closed. 'It's just for one year,' she muttered under her breath, repeating the phrase that had become her mantra. 'Just one year, that's all.'

'Unless you're trying to break into the Slytherin common room,' said an unexpected voice behind her, 'I'm going to assume you're lost.'

Aurélie whirled around so fast she whipped herself in the face with her long auburn braid. She hadn't always been a jumpy sort of person, but losing both parents at the same time had a way of making one rather fearful of unexpected voices in unfamiliar corridors.

The boy who stood before her had his wand held aloft; its tip glowed brightly red in front of his face, casting an ominous-looking hue over his pale skin. Aurélie's mind immediately conjured visions of dark shadows and searing red pain, and for one dreadful moment, she thought he was about to curse her. Her palms tingled; a telltale sign that the forbidden magic that flowed through her veins was still very much alive - and very much wanted to be used.

She took an automatic step backwards, clenching her fists tight. Thankfully, the boy made no move to attack; instead, he simply stared at her. No, that wasn't right, he wasn't staring at her - he was staring through her. It was then that Aurélie noticed his eyes; milky white and translucent, they gleamed like ghostly orbs in his angular face.

The boy was blind.

'Sorry,' Aurélie said, a little breathlessly. 'I'm trying to get to my Defence Against the Dark Arts class, but I'm afraid I have no idea where I am.'

The boy laughed, and though the sound was pleasant enough, it was undoubtedly more incredulous than amused. 'Oh my, you are lost, aren't you?'

A small badge engraved with the words Head Boy was pinned to the breast pocket of his immaculate robes. Even bathed under the red glow of his wand light, she could clearly make out the tiny snake etched onto its gleaming surface. Another Slytherin. She'd known very little about the four Hogwarts houses before coming here, but when the sorting hat had asked her if she had a preference, all she could think was that she didn't want to be part of a house whose emblem was a snake.

When Aurélie did not reply, the boy heaved an impatient sigh.

'You're the new Ravenclaw,' he said matter-of-factly. 'I must say, I didn't expect to find you all the way down here.'

The boy had a rather aristocratic air about him - haughty and vaguely displeased as all aristocratic types were loath to be, with silvery hair slicked back from his face, high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline that screamed of fine magical breeding. Aurélie wondered vaguely which noble family he was from, for she certainly knew a wealthy pureblood when she saw one; half of Beauxbatons was full of old ennobled wizarding families.

As she opened her mouth to ask him how he knew who she was - being blind and all - he spoke again.

'I recognise your accent,' he explained as if he'd read her thoughts. 'There aren't any other French students at Hogwarts.' His sharp, clipped voice was a stark contrast to his delicate features, and yet, there was something strangely ominous about it that stirred something inside her. Something familiar. Something... unpleasant.

'Half French,' she corrected him, pushing the thought away. 'My father was English, mother was French. But - er, yes, I suppose I do sound different to everyone else.'

Having been duo lingual all her life, Aurélie spoke both English and French perfectly - but apparently, her French accent wasn't as undetectable as she'd hoped. She smoothed her clammy hands down the front of her awfully drab robes, acutely aware of how the boy's unseeing eyes seemed to be looking right at her with surprising intensity.

'Yes, well,' he drawled in a tone that suggested that he didn't particularly care about the finer details of her heritage. 'You're absolutely nowhere near the Defence floor. In fact, you're almost in the dungeons. Frankly, I'm baffled you managed to make it here from the Great Hall all by yourself. Why weren't you following your classmates?'

'Oh. I wasn't in the Great Hall. I came straight from my common room.'

Not entirely trusting that anything she ate would stay down for long, she'd opted to skip breakfast in the hall with the other students that morning and head straight to class instead. Though the few Ravenclaw's she'd met so far had seemed friendly enough, their interest in the new foreign transfer student made her uncomfortable. One particularly brazen Ravenclaw boy - whose name she couldn't remember - had ogled her like she were some sort of exotic beast and told her that Hogwarts never got transfer students - not ever. 'If I'd been made to be sorted in front of the entire school as a seventh year,' he had said, 'I would have died of humiliation.'

Inwardly, Aurélie had agreed with him, for she certainly didn't count the sorting ceremony as one of her favourite life experiences. Outwardly though, she had only smiled politely and told him it hadn't been so bad before excusing herself to a quiet corner of the common room to sit alone.

She had no intention of making any friends during her single year at Hogwarts. In fact, she'd made a promise to herself that she wouldn't. After all, she was planning on heading straight back to France the moment she graduated, and the thought of saying goodbye to any more people she cared about was an ordeal she wasn't sure she could handle. But beyond that, she also feared that should anyone find out why she'd transferred in the first place, their interest in her would only intensify.

As a seventeen-year-old witch who hadn't achieved anything particularly extraordinary, Aurélie didn't think herself interesting by any stretch. But unfortunately, having your family murdered by dark wizards certainly was - and that was not something she wanted to be known for. Better to be invisible than be a source of gossip and speculation.

The boy tilted his head, his translucent pupils a little unnerving under the red glow of his wand. An inexplicable shiver of fear skittered down the back of Aurélie's arms and settled in the pit of her stomach.

'So you're telling me you managed to get yourself from the Ravenclaw common room - one of the highest points in the castle - to the very lowest depths of the dungeons, and you didn't at any point stop to think that perhaps you were headed in the wrong direction?' he said. 'Nor did you think it prudent to eat something before you start studying for your N.E.W.T.s, the most important and difficult exam in a witches educational career?' He shook his head in exasperation. 'And here I was thinking Ravenclaw's were supposed to be intelligent.'

Aurélie didn't know how to react to this outburst but rather thought she'd been right to not want to be in the snake house. When she made no reply, the boy heaved another heavy sigh, clearly annoyed.

'Very well. As Head Boy, I suppose it is my duty to help you - even though you ought to be old enough by now to look after yourself. Come along, then.'

With a small shake of his head and a mild sneer, the boy turned on his heel and strode purposefully down the empty corridor. Despite her chagrin, Aurélie couldn't help but marvel at the way his wand seemed to act as a proxy for his sight; pulsing like a heartbeat, it lead him effortlessly through the maze of corridors that even she - with her perfect vision - couldn't seem to navigate. She hurried after him, silently chastising herself for being so useless that she had to be led to class by a blind boy.

'Ominis Gaunt, by the way,' he said once she'd caught up to him; he was rather a fast walker for someone who couldn't see where they were going.

'Oh, er - hello, I'm Aurélie -'

'Collins - yes, I know who you are. Now, do pay attention, won't you? Defence Against the Dark Arts class is on the third floor, not in the dungeons. Even I can tell this isn't the third floor, and I'm blind.'

Aurélie flushed. Perhaps the sorting hat had made a mistake putting her into a house whose members were valued for being clever.

'So... you're Head Boy?' she asked timidly.

'That is what I said, isn't it?' came his sharp reply. 'And I'll have you know that I've quite enough to be getting on with today without needing to rescue stray Ravenclaws from the dungeons.'

'I didn't need rescuing,' she muttered under her breath. Ominis only ignored her, and after a very tense silence and several staircases later, they came to a stop outside the correct classroom on the third floor.

'Do try not to get yourself so embarrassingly lost again, won't you?' he said tersely. 'I don't have time to babysit seventh years, I've enough first-year drama to deal with as it is.'

And with that, he was away again, muttering darkly about Ravenclaw's and incompetence as he went, leaving Aurélie standing dumbfounded in his wake.