#so hauntingly tragic

[190thnight]

angel (1999) has the best opening theme of any tv show ever like nothing comes close

[momentomori24]

"So I pretend

that I'll see you again and that I'll save you

from all the things I failed to

now I'm without you

I can't forgive the wrongs I've done you

but now you're gone forever

and I remember

How bright you shined on your own

yet I remain alone..."

Damn.

The lyrics are so achingly Shadow coded. I think we need a full version of this song in Sonadow Generations, y'all.

[jacksonpayneblog]

in another life, i would make you stay

(credits to whoever posted this on facebook, i was a cheapo and stole it off there haha)

[goji-pilled]

god how i love the shaman village

[crehador]

brother crab's winter 2024 parting thoughts: kyuujitsu no warumono-san

asanuma-san...........................

[nightingale-prompts]

(Kutos to the person who started calling this AU the Beholder AU. You are so real and valid.)

Beholder AU - DC X DP prompt

More here

This AU is basically about what Ghosts have a different definition of what is attractive which is reversed from what humans consider beautiful.

The more pale, waxy, and lifeless you appear the more beautiful you are. Of course, every ghost has their own preference. Some prefer more greenish skin others like gray. Some like what humans consider ugly or repulsive.

Its not just looks that they are chamed by. Scarecrow is considered a heartthrob because of his ability to cause fear which to ghosts makes him a good previder, a ghost you see yourself settling down with. Strength is a deciding factor in most old-fashioned courting.

There is an inverse of this. Humans are drawn to ghosts as well. Not every ghost of course because just like some ghosts are drawn to deathly humans there are humans drawn to lively ghosts.

Ghosts that are considered ugly to other ghosts are beautiful to humans.

Danny has the misfortune of not being the hottest of ghosts. In fact undeath has made him appear downright lovely.

His skin turned into a perfect inhumane porcelain. Not a scratch, blemish, or mark. His skin was so clear and smooth you'd confuse him for a marble statue. His skin was only tinted by green-tinted blush that dusted his cheeks and shoulders.

Danny's eyes weren't creepy at all. They had rings of blue and green. If you stared into them you'd see flickering stars. You'd get lost in them rather than being paralyzed in fear. They weren't even bloodshot and no bags under them.

It was a travesty.

His fangs weren't even that big and sharp nails on long gnarled fingers. Danny looked healthy and youthful with full cheeks and pearly teeth. You could mistake him for a model.

Lets not even mention the hair! It was silver! Soft. No flames. Not even oily and unwashed.

The other ghost found it tragic that every imperfection was erased without even a crooked tooth. How would the poor boy find a partner? Even with his power could someone overlook just lack of fearsome traits.

Even Clockwork could help but sigh. Even just a few beastly traits would help the boy just there were none.

The problem on Danny's end was that while humans found him attractive he was a bit too attractive. Some call it uncanny, hauntingly beautiful or photoshopped. Like he walked out of a book or magazine cover. Which made him unapproachable by most people.

[janeyseymour]

You Matter To Me

Summary: Based off of the stunningly and hauntingly beautiful song in the musical Waitress, by Sara Bareilles. After years of hiding, you're going to let yourself free, with the help of Melissa.

If you haven't heard this song, I highly suggest listening to it, and crying like I do.

WC: ~2.9k

Your life hasn’t been good for… as long as you can remember, if you’re being honest. It’s been train wreck after train wreck. But unlike some of those around you (your mother, your sister, your brother), you’ve changed the cycle and changed the game- or at least tried to. You took all of those years of abuse and neglect from your father and became a teacher at Abbott Elementary. Your only goal in life is to make sure those kids are as loved and as cared for as they can possibly be by you. Teachers saved your life all those years ago, so if you can be that person for even just one student, you know you’ve made your mark on this world.

The only thing that’s the same about your life compared to your family’s is that you… you made a choice, a not so great choice, when it came to who you were going to marry.

It started back in high school when you fell for a boy who used to sing and play guitar, serenading you. You, in true teenager fashion (and maybe a little naivety), fell for a boy and his boyish charm. He’s been by your side since. Mason has been by your side since, and while you’ve grown up, he hasn’t.

When your mother died, he stuck by you though. He took you in when you were faced with either barely scraping by on your own or moving back in with your father… he saved you from poverty for the rest of your life and from the abuse that your father would without a doubt hurl at you if you were to go back to him. 

He proposed to you with a lousy ring, and because you figured that you were lucky enough to find what you thought was love, you stayed. You married him. And you wish you wouldn’t have.

Because now, what were once warm kisses and sweet songs dedicated to you have morphed into hungry, horny kisses and smashed guitars during fits of rage. And it… it’s turned into an almost perfect side by side of what your mother’s marriage was before she passed away tragically.

You hold what happens at home to yourself- there’s no need to burden those around you with you problems. So, you throw yourself into teaching and making the world a bit brighter in the small ways that you can.

At school, you’re a part of quite the crew: a veteran kindergarten teacher who is as regal as the queen, a quirky man who is all about social justice (and you’re sure if you went to him for help, he would have resources for you in a flash, a custodian who lives life to the fullest, two younger teachers who have finally found each other, a principal that is all play, and then… a fiery redhead known for being tough as nails but turns to butter for you.

You’re quiet, timid- you always have been. That’s just been part of your personality for as long as you can remember. Or maybe the lively and effervescent side of you was beaten out of you by your father. Any normal person would not pick up on the subtle signs of abuse that you show.

But Melissa Schemmenti does. And it breaks her heart to know that you’re hurting, or at least to think that she knows you’re hurting. It’s part of why she puts her ‘tough as nails’ act aside when you’re around- she doesn’t want to startle you. She doesn’t want you to feel as unsafe as you usually do when you aren’t within the confines of the school.

During your preps, Melissa finds her way into your room quite often for an extra cup of coffee and to discuss things that happen at the school. But today, you really aren’t feeling it.

Mason was brutal last night. You’re hurting all over, and you really don’t feel like having to cover up what is happening off school grounds. So, instead of keeping your door open during prep as you usually do, the door is shut. Your lights are off, and you gently hold an ice pack to the bruises on your ribs inflicted on you from the previous night. You have a heating pad on your back for the soreness that you feel from an injury in the past. You settle into your chair, prop your feet up on a student chair, and try to get as comfortable as possible before resting your head against the back of your chair. Your eyes close as you try to adjust to the cool sensation on your front and the hot sensation on your back, hoping to get at least a few minutes of shuteye in before you have to pick your kids up again. Your husband kept you up most of last night- first with his actions, then with the consequences of his actions on your aching body, and finally his incessant snoring.

You feel like you’ve rested your eyes for about thirty seconds before you hear the door to your classroom open. Your body can’t take you moving too quickly at the moment though, so you just come to terms with the fact that whoever is at the door caught you with your feet propped up and eyes closed. At least they can’t see the bag of ice you have under your sweatshirt, or the heating pad that you’re leaning against.

“Hun?” Melissa knocks on your doorframe softly before taking a few steps into the room. “You okay?”

I could find the whole meaning of life in those sad eyes. They’ve seen things you never quite say, but I hear. Come out of hiding, I’m right here beside you. And I’ll stay there as long as you’ll let me.

You open your eyes and turn your head just slightly to look at her, and… she wasn’t quite ready for you to look at her the way you do. As you look at her tiredly, she can see the pain and exhaustion of the things that you refuse to say aloud. She hears the things that you never quite say, but she can hear it clearly in her head. She knows those eyes aren’t just perpetual exhaustion.

“Just tired,” you say softly as you subconsciously pull at your sweatshirt, making sure that she can’t see the slight bulge of the ice pack. “Mason and I were up late last night.”

The redhead lifts a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you sigh quietly. “Just… tired is all.”

The second grade teacher catches the way that you hesitate in your response, and she wants to beg you to just tell her the truth- to come out of hiding. Tell her everything that she thinks is happening is true so that she can help you get away from the situation you’ve found yourself in. Instead, she just holds up the cup of coffee she brought you and steps in a few paces further. Melissa sets the coffee mug on your desk and pulls up a chair next to you before taking your hand softly.

You look at her with a confused look. Why is she holding your hand suddenly? The two of you have flirted innocently, but she knows you have a husband.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m right here beside you,” Melissa tells you with as much heart as she can pour into those few words.

You hum quietly as you reach forward just slightly to grab the cup of liquid gold. In doing so, the icepack crinkles under your shirt. Your eyes widen just slightly as you go to adjust it quickly.

“Y/N,” she whispers. And in that moment, you know she knows. Fuck.

“I- I bumped into my counter on the way out the door this morning,” you try to excuse weakly. It doesn’t do you much good, because the green eyes that you’ve looked into so often see right through your lie.

It’s odd to see a few tears prick at the corner of Melissa’s eyes, and it’s an even worse feeling to know that you’re the one who caused them. “Mel, I- Don’t cry. I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” the usually tough teacher’s voice cracks ever so slightly. “I wish you would just… come out of hiding. Tell me what I think I already know. I’ll- I’ll be right here beside you through it all, and I’ll stay there as long as you’ll let me.”

Because you matter to me, simple and plain and not much to ask from somebody. You matter to me. I promise you do, you, you matter too. I promise you do, you see? You matter to me.

You bite the bottom of your lip before nodding, just barely. “But I’ll be fine. I’ve always been fine.”

“You are not fine right now,” Melissa counters.

“I’m used to not being fine,” you mumble. “But I will be… just keep having to hold out hope, and I’ll get there.”

“What if you aren’t?”

“As long as my kids here are safe and okay for as long as I’m here, I will be,” is all you can tell her.

“Do you not understand that you matter to me?” your colleague asks you quietly. “That you matter to all of us here? It’s simple and plain as that. I promise you- the way that those kids matter to you is the way that you matter to us, and we need you to be okay.”

“I will be,” is all you can offer. “Now, if you’ll leave me be…” you request softly, as much as you don’t want her to go away. But you know that if you don’t ask her to exit the room, everything will finally come tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop it. And with Melissa and her connections, who knows what could happen to Mason. For as much shit as he’s put you through, he’s still your husband. He still saved you from hell all those years ago. You… you still love him. Through good times and bad, right?

The redhead doesn’t want to leave you alone right now- afraid that if she does, something horrible will happen to you- something more horrible than what is now confirmed to her. But you asked her to leave you be for your prep, so she nods silently. You feel a gentle hand squeeze your own again before the warmth of it fades away. You close your eyes again and try to relax into your chair, but a pair of lips just barely brush against your temple, and a soft voice tells you that she will always be there for you whenever you’re ready.

The rest of the day passes by as you simply give into your body’s desire to teach from your chair. You pack your things and quietly make your way out of the building without running into any of your coworkers, by some miracle.

As you pull up to your house, your bright and beautiful and non-assuming home, you breathe out a sigh. The outside looks like a happy couple lives there- decorated with beautiful landscaping and flowers. You allow yourself to reminisce about how life used to be when you were a happy and healthy couple, and for a few minutes you pretend that you are still that happy woman, dreaming about a different life from the rest of your family. But as you open up the front door and see the shattered plates, the smashed guitar, and the angry fist shaped hole in the wall, reality crashes down on you.

With a few pained grunts and groans, you’re able to clean up the wreck that lies in your kitchen- that seems to be where most of your troubles find you these days. And it sucks, because the kitchen used to be your favorite room in the house. Cooking and baking used to be the one thing that would take you from the hellish place on Earth you found yourself in and transport you to a world where everything was okay- even just for a few minutes. You’ve come to hate being in the kitchen.

You settle on the couch with a slice of leftover pizza and a beer, although you then realize that the television remote is not where you usually leave it. So, as you munch on your dinner, an ice pack pressed delicately to your ribs, you allow your mind to wander. 

It’s addictive the minute you let yourself think, the things that I say just might matter to someone. All of this time I’ve been keeping my mind on the running away, and for the first time I think I’d consider the stay.

Your thoughts take you to what had taken place during your prep today. Melissa knows. You know Melissa knows. And she’s still telling you she’ll stand by you. She practically begged you to verbally confirm what she knows, and then to come out of hiding and tell her everything. She promised you that she would be there for you for as long as you would let her. And… and you believe her. You believe that if you told her about your life away from the school and outside of being Miss Y/N, the things that you would tell her would matter to her. And that… that thought becomes addicting.

All of this time, you’ve been thinking about the day where you would finally be able to get away from your husband- the second bank account that you secretly open is finally starting to look like something that you could fall back onto as you begin your new life. You’ve been thinking about just faking your death and running away to another place far, far away from here to get away from Mason. Of course, in doing that, you would have to leave Abbott and the city that has captured your heart from the time that you could walk, but it would be worth it to get away- at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

But now, you’re considering the stay for the first time. Not staying with your husband of course- but staying in Philadelphia. You’re imagining a life where you could maybe… just maybe, still be able to make it here in this city. You have a support system behind you apparently. It shouldn’t come as a shock to you that the Abbott crew would have your back, but after being alone in this world for so long, after being told time and time again that he is the only person who could love someone like you, it takes you by surprise.

Because you matter to me, simple and plain and not much to ask from somebody. You matter to me. I promise you do, you, you matter too. I promise you do, you see? You matter to me.

You’re not quite sure when you picked up your phone, as your finger hovers over your redheaded coworkers number. Before you lose your nerve, you call her.

She picks up after just one ring, and she sounds concerned. “Y/N?”

You weren’t really expecting her to pick up, but she did. And you have no idea what to say. You know what you want to say, but you still can’t quite get those words out. So you settle for a, “You matter to me too.”

Her low voice whispers out a, “Are you okay?”

Your shoulders shrug, as if she could see you through the phone call. You don’t answer her question. Instead you say, “It’s simple, and plain, and not much to ask from somebody, but you matter to me too. I promise. You matter to me.”

“Hun,” Melissa breathes quietly. “Hun, you aren’t making sense. Are you okay?”

You just repeat the sentiment again, letting her know how much you care for her. You let her know that your heart loves Abbott.

“Y/N,” the second grade teacher stops your rambling. “Y/N, I need you to tell me what’s happening right now. Do I- Do I need to come over there? Call the police? Are you okay?”

“I-” The dam breaks, and you begin to hiccup sobs out in earnest.

“Hun,” Melissa’s voice is soft, warm. “I- Can you tell me where you are?”

“My house,” you choke out. “I- I don’t know why I called. I’m sorry.”

“Stay where you are,” the redhead tells you. “I’m on my way over.”

Before you can protest, telling her that you don’t want her to see the dark and dismal space that you inhabit, she hangs up.

After threatening your boss, Melissa is given your address, and she speeds her way to your house. She doesn’t even have to knock on the door before you open it and fling yourself at her. Your body tries to tell you how much you shouldn’t be doing this- your heart racing, your ribs on fire. But as you hold onto her, and the tears pour down your face and hit her leather jacket, you can’t find it in you to hold back anymore.

After years of hiding and being afraid of your own shadow, not knowing if it was yours or someone else’s, you’re about to come out of hiding. You’re about to attempt to claw your way out of this hellhole that you call a life. Hopefully, everything will change with the help of Melissa.

Part 2

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie

[fandomfloozy]

Ok say less

Are we still talking about aot? Can I talk about aot?

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Out of Place (Seriel Killer! loki)

Summary: you're haunted by the narrative of Loki.

WC: 729

Warnings: serial killer au, angst

Read on Ao3

--

The dark alley stretched out ahead of you, blackened with darkness. You shouldn't have come here, but your gut told you there was something to find. Something important. Something deadly.

As the wind howled through the empty streets, you clutched your flashlight tighter, its dim beam barely cutting through the inky blackness. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. Footsteps echoed from behind.Spinning on your heel, you aimed your light towards the source of the noise, heart racing.

Loki.

He leaned casually against the brick wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. There was something hauntingly beautiful about him. And dangerous.

“You were never supposed to be here,” he said, his voice velvet-smooth, but carrying an edge that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your grip steady. You knew who he was—knew what he was. The papers called him many things, but you knew the truth. Loki Laufeyson, the serial killer whose name was whispered in fear across the city.

“What are you doing here?” you shot back, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Loki pushed off the wall, his movements slow, deliberate, almost predatory as he walked toward you. “I could ask you the same, darling,” he purred. “But I think we both know the answer.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay rooted in place. “I’m here because of you. People are dying, and I’m going to stop you.. Loki, you have to stop this madness.”

Loki chuckled, low and dark, his emerald eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, sweet thing. You really think you can stop me?” He was closer now, too close. The cold air between you seemed to shrink until his presence was overwhelming.

You took a step back, but he matched it instantly, almost as though you were waltzing with him.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said, though your voice betrayed you with a slight quiver.

Loki tilted his head, studying you with those piercing eyes. “No,” he mused softly. “You’re not afraid. That’s what makes you interesting.”

He reached out, and before you could react, his fingers brushed your cheek. The touch was feather-light, almost tender, but it sent a chill racing down your spine.

“I’ve seen fear,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve seen people cower, scream, beg. But you? You’re different.” His gaze darkened, and the amusement faded from his face. “You were never supposed to be in this game.”

You jerked your head away from his touch, glaring at him. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Loki’s lips curled into a smirk. “Yes,” he said softly. “And that’s what makes this so fascinating. Tell me, what made you come looking for me?”

You knew you should run. You knew you should scream, fight, anything to get away from him. But something about Loki made you hesitate. It was like he was two people at once—the charming, dangerous predator, and something else. Something… broken.

“What is it you want from me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Loki’s smirk vanished, replaced by something unreadable. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. “I want you to understand,” he said, his voice low.

You stared at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He turned his back to you, looking out into the dark alley. “I wasn’t always this way,” he murmured. “But when you’re cast aside, when you realize you’re nothing but a pawn in someone else’s game… you either break, or you take control.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You didn’t want to feel pity for him, but there was something tragic about the way he spoke.

Loki turned back to face you, his mask of arrogance slipping back into place. “But now, here you are. And I must decide what to do with you.”

Your breath hitched as his eyes locked onto yours, an intensity burning behind them.

“Will you run, little one?” he asked, a dark smile playing on his lips. “Or will you stay and see how this game ends?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because, deep down, you weren’t sure if you wanted to run.

And Loki could see it.

His smile grew wider. ���Oh, I knew it. You were never supposed to be here, but now… now you’re exactly where you belong.”

-

tags!

EVERYTHING PERM: @nekoannie-chan @kjs-s @notyourtypicalrose @mistressofallthingsgeeky MARVEL PERM: @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @late-to-the-party-81 @capsthot @kenzieam @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes

LOKI: @nicoline1998enilocin @libbymouse

[tashiberrie]

✮ HEARTWORM ✮  tashi duncan x fem!reader 

⋆💌⋆ TAGS - written with fem reader in mind, toxic relationship, reader is a lit student, angst, stanford era, no mention of tashi’s injury

wc- 763

masterlist

You two had met during a tennis tournament in 2004. After a long and intense match between the two of you, Tashi Duncan had come out on top.

You were drawn to each other instantly, like two moths to a flame, each recognising the shadows in the other's eyes.

From the start, your relationship was a tempest. You were addicted to the intensity of your connection, the way you could read each other's minds with a glance, and the way your souls seemed to intertwine in a dance of passion and pain. Your love was all-consuming, burning brightly but always on the verge of destruction.

Tashi was volatile, her moods swinging wildly from euphoric highs to devastating lows. She played furiously, the swings of her racket reflecting the chaos within her. You found inspiration in her unpredictability, your writing becoming darker, more profound, as you delved into the depths of your tumultuous love.

But your passion often turned into rage. Fights erupted over trivial matters, your words cutting deep, leaving scars that never fully healed.

You would argue until dawn, your voices echoing through the dorm room, throwing accusations and regrets like daggers. But in the quiet moments after the storm, you would cling to each other desperately, unable to let go despite the pain. You were addicted to the drama, the heartbreak, and the brief moments of bliss that followed your reconciliations.

You tried to leave once, packing your bags and walking out the door, determined to escape the cycle of hurt. But you couldn't stay away. You found yourself drawn back to Tashi, unable to resist the magnetic pull of your love. She was your muse, your torment, your everything. And so, you returned, your heart heavy with the knowledge that your love was both your salvation and your destruction.

Tashi, too, tried to move on. She sought solace in her tennis, pouring her pain onto the court, hoping to exorcise the demons that haunted her. But every swing of her racket reminded her of you, of the way you looked at her as if she were the only person in the world. She was lost without you, adrift in a sea of loneliness and longing. And so, she called you, her voice trembling with desperation, begging you to come back.

You reunions were always bittersweet, filled with tears and whispered apologies. You would cling to each other, promising to change, to be better, but the cycle would inevitably repeat. Your love was a battlefield, each skirmish leaving you more battered and bruised, but neither of you could surrender. You were trapped in a toxic dance, unable to break free yet unable to truly be together.

As the years passed, the toll of your relationship began to show. Your once bright eyes grew dull with fatigue, and Tashi's vibrant spirit became shadowed with sorrow. You were like two stars on a collision course, destined to burn out in a blaze of tragic beauty. But even as you destroyed each other, you couldn't imagine life apart. Your love was a prison, but it was also the only thing that made you feel alive.

One night, Tashi and you found yourselves back at the tennis court where your had first met. The atmosphere was hauntingly familiar, the rackets’ mournful wail echoing the ache in your hearts. You played in silence, your souls intertwined, lost in your own thoughts.

Tashi broke the silence, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we had never met?"

You looked at her, your eyes filled with a mixture of love and pain. "Every day," you admitted. "But then I remember that even if it's killing me, I can't imagine my life without you."

Tears welled in Tashi's eyes, and she squeezed the handle of her racket tighter. "I don't know how to let you go," she confessed, her voice breaking.

You walked over to her and pulled her into your arms, holding her as if you could keep the world at bay. "Maybe we don't have to," you murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Maybe this is just who we are."

As you held each other, rain started to fall, a fitting soundtrack to your story. You were two souls entwined in a love that was as beautiful as it was destructive, unable to break free yet unable to truly be whole together. And so, you remained, locked in a tragic embrace, bound by a love that would forever be your greatest joy and your deepest sorrow.

[mizimuse]

How they flirts(and failed miserably)||Slytherin boys+Pansy edition

Draco Malfoy

Thinks he’s the next Casanova but ends up sounding like a confused goblin

“So, uh, do you like... um, Quidditch? Because I’m really good at, uh, flying. My dad says I’m practically the best!” Can we get a round of applause for the confidence?

Compliments are his specialty, but they always have a catch.

“You look almost decent today. Did you borrow that robe from someone who actually has style?” Thanks for the backhanded compliment, Draco!

When trying to impress you, he ends up revealing his biggest weakness: pumpkin juice.

“Did you know I can drink two gallons of pumpkin juice in one sitting? Impressive, right?!” You’re definitely setting the bar high for romance!

Ends every conversation with an exit so dramatic it could win an Oscar.

“Fine! I didn’t want to discuss feelings anyway!” And he slams the door like he’s in a soap opera.

Mattheo Riddle

Wears a leather jacket and tries to act cool but just looks like he’s auditioning for a rock band.

“Your beauty is like a rare potion... uh, that I can’t quite brew, so I’ll just stare at you awkwardly” So smooth, Mattheo.

Serenades you with his guitar, but it sounds like a banshee wailing.

“Close your eyes and pretend it’s beautiful! I’m going for the ‘hauntingly tragic’ vibe”

Gets lost in his own metaphors, and you’re just there, confused.

“You’re like a unicorn in a world of goblins—magical but also, like, why are you here?”

Acts all tough but is secretly a marshmallow.

“If you ever need someone to cry with during a rom-com, I’m your guy... but only after I finish this pint of ice cream”

Theodore Nott

Sweet and shy, but when he tries to flirt, you can’t tell if he’s asking for directions.

“Hey, I just wanted to say, uh, your eyes are, um, really shiny? Like, super shiny-Not like my shoes, which are just... well, shoes.”

Blushes harder than a tomato, and you can practically see the steam rising.

“I was totally not staring at you! Just, um, observing the ceiling.It’s very... ceiling-like.”

His flirting attempts are like a train wreck; you can’t look away.

“Would you want to... um, go to Hagrid’s hut? It’s, uh, cozy and stuff.Maybe with, like, butterbeer?”

Tries to show off his magical skills but ends up summoning his own sock instead.

“Look! I can do magic! Uh, wait, that’s my sock. Let’s pretend that was planned”

Blaise Zabini

Struts around like he’s in a muggle music video, but his pick-up lines are straight out of a 90s rom-com.

“You must be a Quidditch player because you just scored in my heart! Or maybe that’s just the butterbeer talking?”

His flirty banter is so cringe, you wonder if he’s doing it for a laugh.

“If you were a potion, you’d be Amortentia... because you smell like my grandma’s old perfume, which is kind of nostalgic mama”

Thinks he’s mysterious, but really he’s just a goofball in a cloak.

“I’m like a dragon; I can breathe fire! But don’t worry, I only use it on enemies... and the occasional snack”

Gets distracted mid-flirt, and you’re left wondering what just happened.

“So, you’re like really pretty, but have you seen my new broomstick? It’s, like, super fast! Like me... when I’m late to class”

Tom Riddle

Tries to act like he’s from a gothic novel, but really, he’s just a dramatic puppy.

Compliments from him are rare and sound like he’s reciting an ancient curse.“Your hair... it’s... um, not terrible. I suppose it suits you.”

When you trip or drop your books, he doesn’t rush to help; he just raises an eyebrow, and you can practically feel the frostbite.

“You should really work on your coordination. It’s quite pathetic, really.”

Thinks he’s being suave but is really just awkwardly intense.

You’d think he has a heart of ice, but there are moments when he catches you looking at him, and a flicker of something soft flashes in his eyes.

“What are you staring at? It’s not like I’m the best thing here. There are better things—like this book I’m reading.”

His idea of romance? Bringing you a cursed object and telling you, “It’s dangerous. Just like me. But I thought you’d appreciate the thrill.”

“I’m not trying to be charming. This is just who I am. But... you can keep the cursed object if you want. No strings attached.”

Pansy Parkinson

Flirts by roasting you harder than a marshmallow over a campfire.

“Oh, you think you’re cute? Sweetie, even my house-elf has more charm than you”

Compliments sound like they’re laced with sarcasm and glitter.

“You look fabulous today.Did you finally figure out how to dress, or did you just lose a bet?”

Has a way of turning every flirtation into a playful fight.

“I dare you to ask me out. Or are you too scared? I won’t bite... unless it’s dinner”

Always has a backup plan and can pivot her flirtation to pure chaos.

“If you don’t want to date me, that’s fine! I’ll just set you up with Draco. Good luck with that; he’s secretly a ferret”

[redjademilktea]

Okay one of the few times that whole "PhD student in history" thing is going to be relevant to anything I post here but last night's C3 episode has me feeling some sort of wayyyyy.

Specifically the part where they found those incredibly ancient elven ruins within the cave they were exploring. After barely escaping near-death, and Laudna fresh from deliberately channeling the darkness within her, they stumble across these ruins. Deep within a dark cave where they sought refuge from the harsh storms that plague the unforgiving Ruidian surface. Geodes full of sharp and jagged crystal jut out from the walls of cold, ancient rock. A river coming from some unknown source pouring into a rushing waterfall, leading away further into the depths. Matt did a phenomenal job painting the scene.

There, in those ruins - in that tomb, that crypt - they run across a hauntingly serene sight. Bones from the presumable inhabitants are crushed into the walls, unmoving. Frozen. Sharing the same space in a wonderful, striking, tragic, serendipitous juxtaposition is an enchanted garden. There, in the derelict remains of this once-vibrant space, the vestiges of that past life hold strong. A small bastion of life and healing amidst the monument of death and destruction.

It's within this space of dizzying contrast - air thick with the practically tangible weight of past tragedies - that Laudna finds a doll. A simple doll, devoid of features beyond the bare minimum that helps identify it. A toy, a companion? A relic of some child from so long ago. Laudna likes dolls. She decides - after asking permission - to keep it.

Now within her possession is a ghost. Not a literal ghost, mind you, considering those are in fact a very literal thing in the world Laudna lives in, but a ghost all the same. Through that doll, a child from untold centuries before is reaching, grasping at Laudna. This child, whose entire life, history, and experienced are lost to time - trapped in the past - has managed to pierce that temporal barrier and make themselves known to her.

In addition to this framing of a ghost, the doll can represent another type of haunting. That of a reencounter. Through this doll, this mundane object that often is filed away under the folder of insignificance, Laudna is confronted with the complicated web of violence, trauma, and grief that wraps around both her and the space around her. Laudna loves children. She has a childlike innocence that constantly bubbles at the surface. Yet beneath that is 30 years of unfathomable pain and loneliness.

Laudna, much like the ruins, is at times also frozen. Both physically in her unaging visage and mentally in the way she seems to revert in response to intense trauma.

So, within the confines of this long-forgotten space, the woman who just hours before channelled 30 years of darkness, anger, and hurt into a spell that served to strengthen her tormentor, picked up a doll. A doll that in so many ways symbolizes the innocence and joy that Laudna embodies, surrounded by tragedy.

It was such a beautifully haunting scene.

**If folks are interested, I am referencing the wonderful works of Avery Gordon in her book Ghostly Matters (1997) and Crystal Baik in her book Reencounters: On the Korean War and Diasporic Memory Critique (2019)**

[w0rld0fbeauty]

i dont want to be a "clean girl" i want to look so hauntingly etheral that you become so infatuated you want to kill me as we spiral into insanity leading to our tragically early demise.

[poisonf0rest]

Waxing Gibbous

Tonight the nightmare is different.

It is dark and the forest path before you is doused in red, the full moon soaked in inky crimson that bleeds into a deep purple, the twisted branches clawing into the sky like fractures. Despite the blood moon looming closer and closer, you continue to run, feet hitting the cold earth as thorny brambles and grasping hands claw at your legs. 

No, not running. You are chasing something. Someone. 

But with each step you are left further and further behind, breathing in ragged huffs before you trip against the undergrowth, falling, your screams muffled against the dirt that fills your mouth and clogs your throat. 

A blink, and you are standing. 

The moon is no longer a bleeding red, and you think this was what the world looked like before the sun died— light filters in between the rustling leaves, coloring the sweeping grasses in a golden hue, flowers dotting the landscape with a kaleidoscope of colors now incomprehensible to you. It was beautiful, and you wanted to cry. 

Standing in the midst of the sea of grass was a man. A beacon of fire as the sunlight kisses his crimson curls, and when he turns he makes a sort of face you don’t completely understand, expression foreign and suffocating. You think it looks a lot like peace. 

You begin towards him on instinct, walking, then breaking into a run. 

But you aren’t fast enough. 

Halfway through the field the ground gives way beneath you, grass growing taller and taller— or perhaps you are falling further and further— as the earth swallows you whole once again. 

And before you no longer stands a man. But a Beast. 

A snowstorm howls against the castle walls, and the ancient stone does little to protect the grand hall from the sheer cold. The Beast curls in upon itself against the center of the room, dark fur and contorted muscles a blight against the vibrant red carpet that trails from the arched doorway to the stairs at your feet. You’re sitting on a throne, you realize. 

“Closest of kin, last bearer of Our blood. Kneel afore Us, or get thee gone.”

The voice echoes down the throne room, and only when your mouth closes do you realize those words were yours. 

But neither the Beast nor the hundreds of statues that litter the hall respond. They remain frozen, like long-forgotten gods of old that time had finally reclaimed. For a moment, you think you are the only living thing left in the castle. And then the Beast moves. Its jaws open, wretched howls leaving in what would seem to be words, although the language is not one you understand. 

You feel your head nod regardless. 

“Moon-scented Hunter, thou'rt dear to Us. Gods and men have cursed Us so, and yet thy remain at Our side till the bitter end. What is it that binds thy so?”

Finally, the Beast raises its head, and you feel something crack inside you as you gaze into those familiar crimson eyes, eyes that hold the flames of the sun and the chill of the winter storm. He speaks again, howling as he moves into a kneel, twisted bones and excess limbs nearly making the pose nearly indistinguishable. 

“Ah,” you laugh, a cold, bitter sound. “We know this path well. For there is none other that leads to such deplorable ruin of men and gods alike. There is no curse more twisted than love.”

This time when the Beast speaks, it sounds a lot like pleas. And yet you know there is nothing you can do for him, for history moves in vicious cycles, and not even the stars can defy destiny. 

And yet his insolence amuses you. Few dare to defy fate, and fewer still dare to fight it through all their lifetimes. Such a powerful love. Such a tragic story. 

You stand from the throne, body weightless as you descend the stairs and stand before the Beast. With every breath he seems to turn more and more human, fur receding and bones snapping back into natural shapes. 

Kneeling, you mirror his pose before placing your palms in his. Slowly, the claws retract into hands, each ridge and scar so hauntingly familiar that you would have recognized them even with your eyes closed. “We await thy return. For the honour of Cainhurst.”

Which is to say, give me every reason not to stay, and I will love your monsters regardless.

Which is to say, I still dream of kissing your claws and teeth.

Which is to say, I love you. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

You wake up. 

You don’t remember a thing, but you swore you dreamt of ashes. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

There are thirteen days of hellish silence until you hear the rhythmic knock from the clinic window. 

You resume the current experiment you were in the midst of running- analyzing a sample from Vicar Amelia’s corpse- in a vain attempt not to show just how relieved you were at Diluc’s return. If you saw his face again, filled with fire and renewed snark, you're not sure you could keep yourself from running straight into his arms. So you keep your back turned even as the window slams shut. 

Turning the knob of a microscope, you clear your throat. “I’ll admit I was beginning to get worried when—”

A crash, something shatters. 

Jumping, you turn in time to see Diluc stumble forward, knocking over another set of vials before his knees give out, blood trailing from the window, across the floor.

“Saints.”

You barely catch him in time to stop his head from slamming into the table. 

He reeks of gore and death, just as he had when he died in your arms. He’s dying. He’s dying again.

Hauling Diluc on your back, you’re cursing in heaves as you drag him towards a rusted tub in the corner of the clinic. His larger frame crushes yours as you struggle to push him into the bath, water sloshing around the both of you as he slips under, massive arms and legs hardly contained in the metal keg. The lack of heating in the dregs of winter means the water is freezing, and your teeth chatter as you fight to keep his head raised. And yet, even after being dunked in the numbing temperature, the Hunter hardly gives more than a low groan of discomfort. 

Are these all remaining wounds from the Vicar Amelia fight? 

Straining, one arm keeps Diluc from submerging entirely as the other begins frantically stripping away layers of bloodied clothes, revealing more and more wounds. Once you’ve secured his head and arms on either side of the tub you stand, scrambling together stitches and blood vials. 

No. These ones are new. 

Forcing his mouth open, Diluc is barely conscious enough to swallow the blood, movements sloppy as red mixes with the crusting black trailing down his chin and neck. By the time you’ve gotten rid of all his clothes, the tub was filled with a brown, rusted slosh and numerous rounds of dressing.

Diluc’s head rolls to the side, hitting the metal rim of the tub with a thud as he attempts to speak, only for a hoarse groan to leave instead. You hush him, whispering into his temple as you pad his head onto a makeshift pillow, leaving for a moment to collect alcohol and more cloth for his wounds. His fangs were out. You pretend not to notice. 

“This might sting.” You shake away the tremor in your hands, kneeling behind him as you begin scrubbing off crusted blood.  “I don’t understand, how did you leave the Dream with these wounds?”

With complete honesty, you don’t understand much about the Hunter’s Dream. Even less about how it came to be, or how it was even possible to begin with. But with your previous involvement with church Hunters, you understood it was where Hunters returned to once they died, a sort of temporary limbo before they returned to their hunt in Yharnam, healed as though Death had never touched them in the first place. 

But you suppose Death took a piece of them each time, for they never really returned whole. Not in the ways that mattered. 

Whipping the cloth down Diluc’s back, your hands pause as they rub over two new scars, each one etched in a raised gnarled growth from shoulder to ribcage. Claw marks, you realize. From Vicar Amelia.

And right under them were several newer scratches and stabs, still bleeding as you pressed the cloth to them. 

Pushing Diluc up gently, the Hunter goes easy, pliant against your touch. “How long?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

You grit your teeth, accidentally scrubbing harsher against his fresh wounds. Diluc lets out a muffled hiss. “How long have you been back from the Dream?”

For a moment the only sound is the drip of the faucet as it leaks into the tub. He’s not answering. Your hands fall to your sides, fists clenched around the rag.

“Nine,” he whispers. ” Nine days.”

“Nine days.” 

Nine whole fucking days that you thought you might never see him again. You hurl the cloth into the water and walk around to face him, palms ramming onto the edge of the tub. “Why?”

You stare down at him and Diluc stares right back, brows furrowing as he leans closer, water sloshing around him as his hand lifts to your face. Without thinking you’ve already leaned into his touch, biting back a sob as the warmth from his palm rests against your cheek. His touch burns, even with the freezing water now dripping down both your bodies. 

Calluses decorate his palm, scorched skin rough against your jaw. Your eyes trace down in silence. His arms are laced with scars raw and deep enough to look as though they were still bleeding, his shoulders and chest are filled with old wounds cutting through curly patches of red hair in a history even his semi-immortal body couldn’t re-write, and in the corner of your eye you see his left thigh encircled with a gnarled line that takes you a moment to recognize— it’s where he tore his own leg off.  

Living proof of every death he has died. Of every death denied to him. 

You had thought the first time you would see Diluc naked you would have thrown a joke or two, made some sort of innuendo or inappropriate joke just to watch the tips of his ears turn redder than his hair. You had imaged it a hundred times, playing out in a hundred different ways. 

But never like this. Not while you map every wound on his body like a coroner trying to figure out which finally sounded his death knell. 

Lifting your hand to his, you brush his knuckles against your lips. 

“Kiss me.”

He does. 

Water splashes onto bloody tiles, Diluc’s body surging forward as his hand cups your jaw, pulling you into him as you nearly fall into the tub too, barely catching yourself against his broad chest. You try very hard not to think about the rest of him, wet and bare, underneath you. It’s not working. 

Your free hand snakes around his neck, fingers knotting themselves into the unruly mane of his hair as it sticks to his back and shoulders in crimson curls. Unlike every other time you’ve enticed his affection, Diluc quickly demands more, his tongue already pressing against your lips as he coaxes your head further back to grant himself easier access.

“Wait don’t,” you begin, cut off by Diluc’s lips. “Your stitches might come un–” He kisses you again. And again. Your words turn to ash, burned away by the passion you’re suddenly overcome by. 

He’s consuming you, igniting you in your entirety and you can only welcome the flames. 

Somewhere against your dwindling sanity you know this display was little more than a calculated performance. Perhaps this was just to curve your anger. Perhaps it was simply meant to distract you. Perhaps it was to distract himself.

But with each insistent press of Diluc’s tongue against your own, each ghosting prick of his fangs against your bottom lip, you find it increasingly harder to care.

Another rough tug drags you closer to the Hunter, and your hand slips against the wet metal rim of the tub, a sharp hiss caught against your throat as you yank your arm back. A thin line of red drips from your palm, swirling into the bath.

The scent of blood stabs the air, the flood of rust and copper rushing through Diluc’s skull, into his lungs, and lower still. 

Superhuman strength wrenches you backward as he reels away, one hand restraining your bleeding hand and the other wrenching over his face as he looks away, stifling both his nose and mouth. His chest heaves, each breath coming out in ragged huffs visible in the cold air. 

You can still see the glint of his fangs through the gaps in his fingers. 

You frown. “Tell me, Hunter, do you wish to drink?” 

Diluc tenses beneath you, refusing to meet your gaze. You swear he’s leaning as far away from you as he can without quite literally shoving you onto the floor. His hand muffles his words, and you can hardly make them out against his palm. “It’s hardly about what I want.”

Always being the goddamn martyr. 

“Why?” You tense against his grip, fighting to meet Diluc’s eyes. “Why must you keep doing this?” 

“I do not know what you’re referring to.”

You thrust your chin towards his body, towards the new wounds that mutilate him, anger cracking your voice. “This! All of this! Why, when I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m capable of helping?” His grip turns harsher. You pretend not to feel it. “Let me help you.”

Before you release it you’re standing, Diluc forcing you to your feet as he places more distance between the both of you. He released you at arm's length, but gods does he feel so much further away? 

“Again, I fail to see what it is you’re referring to.”

“Do you?” A sharp laugh, and you catch his wrists, thumbing at his scars as your eyes trail the rest of them. “You think this fixes it? You think forcing yourself to suffer will alleviate you from your guilt?”

“And what do you know of guilt,” a growl, “Doctor?”

“Do you truly think there’s anyone who has failed more people than a doctor? As though I don’t have the blood of more innocents on my hands than you do.” 

You swallow, daring to step closer and raise a hand, only for Diluc to flinch away from your still-bleeding palm. He refuses to look at you. Why won’t he ever look at you?

“Our suffering will not bring them back, Diluc.” He still keeps you at a distance, and you relent, leaning your head against his bloodied knuckles as you exhale slowly, deeply. He doesn’t let you come any closer. You don’t force it. You simply stay put, forever at arm’s length, bracing yourself against his palm as if just to remind him that you are here, you are with him, and hoping that, for now, that alone will be enough.

You know this type of self-destruction well. The violence- the pain- it silences the voices. 

You can’t remember their screams if all you can hear is your own.

“It will not give them peace, it will not make them forgive you, and it will never give you freedom from the memories.” If it did, the nightmares would have ceased years ago. 

But that’s the funny thing about grief. Sometimes, it’s the only thing left when all the anger has finally burned and died out. Diluc knows this, being alive for centuries has taught him well, as he is doomed to repeat that same spiral of anger and violence and suffering until it finally kills him. 

What does he know, if not grief? What is he, if not this rotten husk of anger and rage? What is left?

Just a beast and a boy fighting for control over a broken body.

But then he feels the warmth of your breath, every exhale shaky and heartbreaking as your lips quiver against his palm, and he cannot help but want to hold you. 

“Today was my birthday.” 

The burning pressure against your wrists disappears, and Diluc sinks to the floor, falling back into the tub as his arms and leg hang out. Head knocking against the metal rim, you watch his throat bob in silence before you kneel down beside him. His hand finds yours, and, ever so slowly, his pinkie finger intertwines with yours. 

When Diluc continues, his words come out in a rasp, each one lodged against his unbeating heart before they spill out. “I try not to remember. One year I attempted not counting the days, hoping I’d simply forget,” a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Come early spring frost and I still could tell it was the morning of my birthday. The world won’t let me forget.” 

After all, he killed his mother the day he was born and killed his father the day he became a man. 

He had lost all the family he’d ever known on this day. 

He was so young back then. 

“Every year I visit them, far west from Hemwick Charnel, on a cliffside overlooking the castle and the sea.” Diluc’s words come easy now, and you begin disinfecting his wounds again as he talks, the slow rumble of his chest comforting as his body begins stitching itself back together. “I was picking lamp grass when I was ambushed by a horde. I didn’t know where else to go but here.”

A hum, and you let go of the cloth. “For what it’s worth, I am glad.”

Diluc turns to look at you with a raised brow. “Glad?” He’s about to continue when you gently shove his head, correcting yourself with a snort. 

“I’m glad you were born. I’m glad I got to meet you. After all, who else could I blackmail into my service with a rifle and a vile of blood?” He laughs, the sound rough and warm. You can’t help but laugh too. 

Leaning forward, you brush aside the long, wet strands of hair from his shoulders and place a kiss to the nape of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and ashes. 

“Happy birthday, mon chéri.”

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Yharnam seems to be cursed with late winter storms, and this April is no different. 

You once swore you’d take snow over the typical rain or hail, but the relentless blizzard outside has you second-guessing that now. For the entire day now it has been impossible to see even three feet beyond the windows, a foggy white blanketing the city. 

The children had fallen asleep hours ago, all seven of them huddled close as you tucked them under layer upon layer of blankets, Diluc and you taking turns to make sure they were warm and secured.  

Now you and the Hunter retreated back to your own quarters, a small room nestled above the orphanage and the clinic. It sufficed though, and between the library set up in the corner of the room and the fireplace crackling before the seating area, the two of you easily fell into a comfortable routine. 

Despite having read and reread many of your books– the majority being medical, philosophical, or the guilty pleasure novels that you‘ve expertly hidden throughout the shelf– you choose a new romance book to take back to your armchair and instantly curl up in it. 

You’re only fifty pages in when you’re disturbed by an amused huff from your Hunter. 

“May I inquire as to what is so amusing?” You peek over the pages, glaring slightly. He just had to interrupt you as soon as it was getting good. 

Diluc hums. “Nothing in particular. It’s just that whatever you’re reading is causing you to make a rather strange sort of face.” He mimics you, brows scrunched before a smirk cracks across his lips at your scowl. He tilts his head, smile never dropping. “Your heart rate spiked.” 

There is no way you’re admitting to reading pure filth in front of him, so instead you clear your throat, shifting your fingers so they cover as much of the title as they could. “Yes, well, this requires a lot of concentration so excuse me.”

"Of course. Concentration." 

Diluc chuckles, the sound low and smooth and utterly horrible for the purity of your thoughts.

Crimson eyes flicker to the small crook where your neck and shoulder meet, just barely covered by the silk of your nightgown, and his tongue drags over his fangs as he forces in a deep breath. All your shifting in your seat allowed the billowing neckline to slip past your shoulder, exposing the delicate skin, and you could practically feel the Hunter’s gaze burning into you. 

You know he can hear your heart flutter in tandem with that treacherous twisting of your stomach— a sort of unholy anticipation when you spot the brief flash of hunger across Diluc’s face.

Logically, you knew this was akin to tempting the Devil with sin. And yet that damnation tasted so sweet. 

Your poor Hunter was already so far on edge from being unable to go out to hunt due to the heavy snowstorm. Early spring, and yet the winter was relentless in its hold over the city. You only managed to keep Diluc inside by assuring him that the Beasts would despise the cold just as much as anyone else would, and if there were one night where he could rest easy, it would be tonight. 

And yet it seemed as though both the words rest and easy were completely foreign to your Hunter. 

All the more fun for you, really.

Uncrossing and recrossing your legs, you allow your nightgown to hike further up your thighs, letting out a sigh as the fire crackles and snaps. Diluc’s grip tightens against the armrest of his chair, the leather upholstery cracking under his knuckles. The Hunter can’t stop the slow glide of his eyes over your body, catching himself wondering if you had even bothered to wear anything beneath the flimsy slip of clothing, banishing the thought instantly with a flushed face. 

But not before you catch it.

“Oh? What’s wrong, my dear Hunter?” You snap your book closed, setting it on the nightstand before stalking across the room. “Now you’re the one that seems rather… distracted.” 

He swallows, hard. “And you seem rather intent on tempting me, even after I remember advising you against doing so. Specifically on a night such as this when I haven’t hunted nor fed.”

“I’m right here. You need not ask.”

A strained grunt. Diluc’s eyes burn into yours as you find your way to his chair, almost predatory in the way they catch your every movement. It excites you even more. Leaning down, you brace your hands against the armrest, caging him beneath you. 

The fireplace is alight at your back, silhouetting your every curve, mimicking the desire burning both in your gaze and lower still. Saints, you can’t tell what you want more— to devour him or let him devour you. 

Both. 

Both would be acceptable.

You fall forward, thighs slipping atop Diluc’s own as you lower yourself onto him in one slow motion. His hands come up, and you guide them to your waist, each palm large enough to cup the entirety of your hips. It sends another trill of wicked excitement through you. 

The glint of the fire catches against his fangs. Perhaps it’s the lingering effect of the dreamroot you smoked earlier, but you can’t help yourself, thumbing at his lip as you tilt Diluc’s jaw up. He goes easy, opening his mouth as you gently prod at the razor-sharp teeth. Behind those twin fangs his gums swell slightly at the top, a large cavity trailing down into the root of his teeth. 

Thumbing it gently, you retract your fingers just long enough for Diluc to say, “Venom glands.”

A hum, both your hands now lifting to his jaw as Diluc’s arms meet you halfway, urging you to slow despite your excitement. Whether for your sake or his you did not know.

Diluc’s hands remain at your wrists as you gently push his lip up, sliding your thumb along his fangs, pressing against the gland until a steady stream of venom trickles down the long tooth. 

It’s mostly clear, an unassuming amber in color, and yet the moment it drips onto your skin you feel the dizzying effect of the venom takes hold. Your eyes follow the trail, certain it must be a type of neurotoxin by the way it’s numbing your fingers and wrist as it trickles further and further, muscles relaxing involuntarily as they fall victim to the venom. If it was this powerful at mere contact, you shiver to think at what it might be capable of at injection. 

“Does all Vileblood venom act the same?”

“Not,” Diluc grunts as your grip against his jaw shifts. “Not quite. Every individual’s toxin varies, and the effect depends on both participants.”

Gliding your fingers down his neck, the Hunter beneath you shivers. “How so?” Dropping your hands, you let them rest upon his shoulders. 

“Different lineages hold different properties: paralysis, hemorrhage, coagulopathy, necrosis. But the chemical effect differs between partners, it’s impossible to tell how any one individual would react.” 

You snort. “Partners? Seems a little too consensual of a term for what your kind does. Perhaps,” You lean forward, “Preying?” Rock your hips into his as your lips brush his neck, “Hunting?” A gasp, and you pounce, “Devouring?” You bite. 

The sweet sound of Diluc’s moan rewards you, and you pull back in time to watch the bruise fade back into the pale column of his neck. His throat bobs, eyes flickering back to your own neck. 

He’s so obvious sometimes. 

“I’ve been wondering, do Vampires have favorite spots to bite? I’d assume major arteries, makes for easier…” You guide his hands further down, allowing them to roam until they thumb at the dimples against your lower back. “Access?”

Diluc’s mouth opens, dry, his mind failing him at every turn when it comes to you. You laugh under your breath, dragging your fingers up your body, allowing the thin silk of your robe to slip off both of your shoulders, exposing inches of soft, delicate skin. “Don’t tell me you’re a clichè and just go for the neck? Or perhaps this frustrating gentlemanly façade is to hide even more perverse tendencies? Well? Are you hiding something from me, mon petit monstre?”

“No.”

You lean in, teasing. His gaze drops lower. “No?”

“Avoid arteries. They—” Your hands fall from your chest, one grabbing Diluc’s jaw, forcing him to look at you, as the other begins toying with the lace of his blouse. A beautiful blush clings to his face, dusty red from the firelight as it burns at his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Saints, he’s so warm under your touch. “They’re too messy. It’s a balance between force and mercy.”

By the time he’s done talking you’ve finished opening his shirt, hands greedily exploring the newly unveiled skin as you hum in response. Hard planes of muscle are ridged with curls of thick red hair, cut only by singes and scars, and you bend to kiss each one, nestling yourself further onto Diluc’s lap as your lips continue to worship him. 

“Force and mercy, hm?”

You once offered to heal them, to stitch up loose gashes and dress older wounds in ointments. But Diluc refused. Now, as your tongue traces a scar from his chest to his sternum, you begin to understand why he collects these reminders of failures long ago. He believes it to be an atonement, his physical proof to pay for every sin he’s convinced he’s committed. So be it. You’d love them regardless. 

A kiss to the gnarled skin before you move further, lips brushing over another patch of burns before you sit up, taking in the view before you. 

There is something horridly addicting in bringing the apex predator of the world to your mercy. Diluc was doused by firelight, bare chest tinted with blush and the slick aftermath of your ministrations, skin matching the crimson of his unruly mane of hair now cascading down the couch and sticking to his sweat-slicked muscles. His eyes meet yours for only a moment before they dart from your lips to your neck and back again. 

Everything about him was blinding, so furiously red it burned. 

You shiver. 

That moment of weakness was enough, however, and Diluc lifts you easily. His powerful grip forces your hips flush against his, body towering over your own as your chests brush with every ragged inhale, head dipping to rest his forehead against your own. 

He’s trembling. Elongated fangs have sunk deep into his bottom lip, blood trickling down his chin, dripping onto your breasts. Every muscle in the Hunter’s body is tensing and yielding again and again, fighting every instinct with the control he so piously boasts. 

Ever the fucking gentleman. 

You grumble, pushing yourself forward, deliberately shifting your hips against his own, smirking at the low gasp he makes against your ear. It is as your dear Hunter said: force and mercy. 

One hand palms at the hard planes of muscle down his torso, nails digging into his abs, watching as the red lines disappear as soon as you make them. It only tempts you to try harder. Maybe use something sharper. The other hand works to lift Diluc’s face to your own, drinking in the heavy blush that coats his cheeks, eyes hooded with a bleary fog, unable to look away from your neck as his own black blood stains his lips and chin. And yet he still refuses to bite you. 

You have half a thought to force the Vampyr’s fangs into your skin on your own when the man finally moves. You don’t register it at first. One moment his forehead is braced against yours as you perch atop him, and the next you’re pinned against the arm of the couch, Diluc looming over you as he kneels between your thighs. The fire snaps in the background. 

Diluc lowers his face an inch, grazing the tip of his nose along your neck. Beneath your hand, his chest heaves upward as he inhales a slow, greedy breath of your scent. Breathe. You scream at yourself to remember to breathe. 

“You’ve yet to answer my question. Where, Diluc,” another brush along your neck, this time with his lips. Your voice trembles. “Where would you bite me?”

Too far. You knew this question was pushing him too far, you knew the fool you played to even dare press his limits, to tempt him with forces you couldn’t begin to understand or control. But gods old and new be damned, you were tired of constantly trying to figure things out. 

It was its own kind of discovery, the surrender to instinct. 

And so you do nothing except tilt your neck further, allowing him to brush his lips over your neck again and again. With each movement you arch further into his lap, feeling that heat and hardness grind up into you, mere friction enough to override every rational thought. 

Finally, Diluc stops. A heavy breath fans the lower crook of your neck, stopping just above the curve of your shoulder. “Here.” 

It’s a command as much as it’s an answer. Diluc dares to kiss you there, finally, opening his mouth as you feel the warm nudge of his tongue, fixating on that spot until something seizes him, a deep growl reverberating through his chest. 

Diluc shudders and parts his lips, lingering just above the damp spot, every exhale a cold gust against the hyper-sensitive skin of your neck. You don’t dare move, either in fear of scaring him away or luring him further you do not know. Instead, you shift your hand once resting upon his shoulder into his hair, coaxing him to press harder. His tongue traces a circle on your skin as he obeys. 

You stifle a moan. The devoted mix of kisses and nips was going to leave more than a mark, and that thought alone rid you of any remaining control. Deliberately, you grind harder against his thigh, the firm pressure of his muscles sending your eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Yet you continue, meeting the painfully hard strain against his trousers with every soft roll of your hips.

Diluc groans. Fisting your nightgown in his hand, he forces the two of you together, bending you backward with the force of it as his mouth opens wide against your throat. 

"Please," you whisper. 

You feel the twin pricks of his fangs, hovering just above your skin, just enough to feel them. Ripples of fear and desire and terror and anticipation shutter down your spine. Suddenly, you’re hyper aware of every place Diluc touches you, his nearly bare chest heaving against your own, the heat of his breath on your neck, the weight of his hand on your waist. The roar of your blood in your ears. The pounding of your heart. 

Right as you feel the pressure begin to sink into your throat, you lose your balance, the force of Diluc’s hold pushing you back as you slip off the couch and hit the table. 

The cracking of wood breaks the both of you from the trance.

Diluc is breathing heavily, bangs shielding his face as he cages you against the table with his arms, one hand protecting the back of your head from the impact that would have otherwise rattled your skull as the other braces your back. He’s straining though, as if he himself is trapped between standing up and descending upon you once more. 

“…Temptation.”

Your head snaps back, falling against the table with a thump as you try to meet his gaze. Raising a hand, Diluc laces his fingers between your own before bringing it against his jaw, nuzzling into your touch. 

Finally looking at you, you stifle a gasp at the sight. His pupils are bleeding, turning the whites of his eyes into an inky red, so deep they are nearly black, pupils themselves dilating and constricting like a beast’s. 

“You are temptation.”

You manage a wry smile despite the lust and fear burning throughout your body. “Your temptation.”

A smile. “My temptation.”

And with that you tug his face down to your own, ramming your lips together. Diluc protests against you, words muffled into the sloppy kiss, his resistance half-hearted as his tongue already works to meet you halfway, trying ever so desperately to steer you away from his fangs. That won’t do. 

You prop yourself up with one elbow, feeling the weight of Diluc’s body drop onto your own, pinning you to the table as his lips claim yours this time. It’s more tongue and teeth than anything else on your part, nipping his bottom lip as your eyes catch on his fangs once again. The taste of his own blood lingers from where he bit himself, and you moan before pushing your tongue forward, allowing it to push up against his teeth, feeling two clean gashes trail down the muscle as it drags along the length of his fangs. 

The taste of your blood fills Diluc’s mouth. He flinches, pupils blown wide. 

You pull just far enough to say, “Drink.”

He does. 

There’s a low growl, a sound more beast than man, and Diluc consumes you with the savagery of a wild animal. His lips chase yours, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he feeds. It’s twisted, the sounds you’re both making and the web of blood and saliva that drips between the both of you, the very act of him feeding off your tongue enough to be considered sacrilege. 

But, Saints above and gods below, you never want him to stop. 

Pressing the hot muscle into Diluc’s fangs again, you feel a numbing sensation seize your tongue, losing control as the warmth from Diluc’s mouth and his natural venom rupture every nerve and muscle, chasing down your spine, compelling you to grind even harder against him. Every kiss is tainted with the obscene sounds of him swallowing mouthful after mouthful of blood, the creaking of the table as your hips rut into each other no better than animals in heat, and the moans that echo along with the snap of the fire. 

It is still not enough. 

Breaking the kiss, Diluc’s lips chase after your own, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, thoroughly drunk off your blood. Not that you’re faring any better, nightgown bunched at your waist and slick to your skin from sweat, blood smeared across your lips and chest. 

A dark smile cracks along the Hunter’s mouth, glinting with blood-stained fangs as he snarls, “Addicting.” 

Saints. The way he said that word echoes in your skull and you whimper, clenching your thighs around his waist and pulling him closer still. Diluc obeys, pressing your bodies together so tightly you could feel his heartbeat against your chest.

Without thinking your hand is already trailing down every straining muscle of Diluc’s body, scratching down his chest and abs until it grinds against the searing heat straining against his trousers. The Hunter keens, pushing into your body as he gasps, hardly giving himself a moment to breathe before claiming your lips once again. 

You’re trying your best with the atrocious number of belts and laces that block you from your goal, and yet to no avail as your mind can hardly think straight between the insistent press of Diluc’s lips on yours and his venom running rampant in your veins. 

Another whine and you give up on the trousers entirely, laying your palm flat against his clothed cock. He bucks into your heat, and you marvel even through your lust-dazed mind at his sheer size, having to rub both hands down his length to simply feel it all.

Diluc gasps, tearing his mouth from your own as he licks the remaining blood from your skin until he forces himself from your lips. “Don’t. Don’t do that, else I really might lose control of—”

You do it again, cruelly grinding your palm into his length before dragging your fingers up again, nearly coming up to his lower abdomen as you thumb the mass of red curls disappearing into his trousers. Oh, gods, you need him, now. 

The Hunter hisses as your movements get rougher, jaw snapped shut as he thrusts into your hold, the force of it enough to drive you and the table you’re pinned upon backward. You can hardly stop yourself from imagining that power, that sheer size buried deep within you. All-consuming. Addictive.

You’re about to press up again when his hand catches your own, yanking both up and slamming them above your head. A whine, and you thrash beneath his grip, arching against him. But Diluc no longer responds, his body rigid as he witnesses the mess he’s made of you. 

It’s instinct, the way you beg and whine for him. It’s merely a prey’s response to a predator coaxing them into a false sense of bliss before the kill.

“You deserve so much better.”

And then the warmth above you disappears, leaving you cold and empty and aching, alone with only the crack of the fire and the silence of the night.

Diluc was gone.

Something stuck between a laugh and a cry of pure frustration leaves you, and you fall limp onto the table as you stare up at the ceiling. “Fucking bastard.” 

Even with the fireplace at your back, there is no mistaking the sudden chill of the room, and you force yourself to sit up despite the horrid mix of Vampyr venom and raw desire making your limbs tremble with every movement. Saints, everything ached, the room spinning as you stumbled onto your feet. Not trusting your legs enough to make it to your chambers, you opt to collapse against the couch, another delirious whimper seizing you as you lay sprawled against the leather. 

You hate him. 

Saints you hate him and you hate him for leaving you while the growing need between your thighs threatens to swallow you whole. The leather was deliciously cool against your flushed skin and you writhe against it, another breathy moan slipping past your lips as you turn to face the door. 

Your quarters were on the third floor, two above the clinic and one above the orphanage. There were only so many rooms Diluc could have fled to, at least until the snowstorm subsided. 

For now, though, he is stuck in the house. Curse or blessing it may be.

You bite onto your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood- you wonder if he can smell it- as your hands glide downwards, ghosting over the bruising remnants of Diluc’s touch. Oh, you hate him. You hate him so much. Even the brush of silk against your skin was becoming unbearable, and you slip past the nightgown, letting it bunch at your hips. 

Even amidst the venom and lust, your logical side begins to panic— heavens forbid you’re loud enough to wake a patient or the children sleeping only a floor below. 

But you know that with his senses Diluc can hear everything. 

And that alone would make this punishment worth it. 

Call it retribution. 

A hand slips beneath your undergarments and Saints, fuck, you were dripping enough to ease your fingers in already. But you remember the bastard voyeur undoubtedly listening in and force yourself to slow down. Instead, you rub slow circles around your entrance, the mere friction enough to drive your head back into the armrest, waves of heat rippling through you. 

With a broken whimper, you slide a finger into your weeping cunt, a breathless moan pushing from your lungs as you do. Not enough. Saints. It’s not enough. 

You whine, and yet force yourself to draw each movement out, the twist of your wrist accompanied by your muffled cries and the lewd wet sounds of each movement. Withdrawing your finger nearly to the tip, this time two plunge back in, and your back arches off the couch with violent tremors as you imagine it was Diluc’s hand instead. Your Hunter’s hand, hot, rough, and big enough to send you reeling with a mere touch. Deeper and deeper, he’d push you to breaking, and your free hand claws into the leather at the thought of it. 

It’s Diluc’s voice rings in your head, and you see that dark smile, glinting with blood-stained fangs as he snarls. “Addicting.” 

Addicting. 

A sob, and you force your fingers curling up in self-inflicted cruelty. It’s Diluc’s hips that grind into you with relentless fervor, it’s Diluc’s hand that brings you closer and closer to the edge until you draw blood from your lips, and it’s Diluc’s name that leaves your lips in silent screams as you finally come again and again until the room fades to black. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

You’ve ruined him. 

Gods the fucking taste of your blood lingers in Diluc’s mouth, every dry swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tastes like you, and it makes him want to submit to every beastly urge and simply consume until—

Diluc sinks his fangs into his arm with a groan, forcing mouthful after mouthful of blood down his throat in hopes that the bitter taste of his blood covers your own. 

It’s not enough. Not even close. The hunger had hardly subsided and his dick was still begging for release, heavy and controlling, demanding his very sanity as he stumbled into one of the abandoned patient cubicles. Your voice, broken and desperate, rings against the base of his skull, and the memory alone is enough to send new ripples of heat down his spine. 

Throwing himself onto the cot, Diluc shields an arm over his face, attempting to block out the sounds of your moans, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the taste of you still raging through him. But even the slightest movement only succeeds in making the rough seams of his trousers rub against his cock, the friction enough to make him grit his teeth, fangs sinking into his bottom lip. 

And then he hears your voice again. 

He goes deathly still, afraid he’s begun to hallucinate in this lust-induced haze. But no, there is no mistaking it. From where you are, a floor or two above, he hears the rapid stutter of your heartbeat, your stifled cries, and the slick, wet sounds of your hand as it—

“Saints,” he’s gasping for air, ”kill me now.”

Diluc knows you’re torturing him. 

His ears strain against his will, and Diluc catches another whimper from you when suddenly the scent of your blood hits him like a bullet. You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding and his cock is throbbing in time to your weakening heartbeat. 

You really do turn him into a beast. It’s sinful. 

One hand unbuckles his trousers, fumbling them down as the other stifles another moan, sound low and tortured. Diluc’s pace matches yours, and as he hears the slow rub of your fingers against your core, he in turn grips his cock, pulling it from its confinements as it springs against his abs. Saints, he’s leaking enough to coat his palm in slick already, excess dripping onto his thighs. 

It’s easy, with the taste of you in his mouth and the breathy voice of you in his head, to imagine it’s your hand gripping him instead. He hates himself for how much harder he gets at the thought of it. 

But Diluc hardly gets to dwell on it, any semblance of embarrassment is swallowed whole by greed as he hears your pace quicken. Listening to you intensely as you fuck yourself on your hand, his jaw clenches as he grounds himself in time to the beat of your heart, hips stuttering as he gives himself a painfully rough jerk. 

With each pump his hips rut faster, erratic movements rocking the cot as the groan of the frame is covered only by the slick slap of skin and his muffled whimpers. Diluc’s mind wanders, and he can’t help but remember how you writhed beneath him, dark blush tainting your features and that cruel smile flickering across your face. What face are you making now? 

He pictures you below him once more, but someone as unpredictable as you would never be satisfied with that for long. Would you push him down? His eyes flutter closed and he indulges in your noises that reverberate through the wall. Would you tie or chain him up, each movement slow and cruel as you used him to your heart’s content? Granted, he could break free from any sort of restraint, but would he want to?

Fuck. He’s not going to last.

Desperate, Diluc digs his nails into the soft underside of his cock and with a prolonged squeeze starves off his orgasm, thighs trembling from the pressure. Diluc thinks you’d do the same. You’d tease him, you’d send him to the brink only to stop, a cruel sort of devotion only you could give him. The thought alone is enough to send his head rolling back, mouth open as he growls out your name. 

It must be poison. Your blood must have gotten him addicted. 

From the room above your pulse stutters, and he feels each beat of your quickening heart on his tongue, he feels it against his cock, and as soon as you moan a broken mantra of his name, Diluc knows he is doomed. 

You must be his damnation. 

[xxgothchatonxx]

Something that's been fascinating to see recently is people either remembering or realizing for the first time just how, well, "Anne Rice" Anne Rice's writing was. It's a lot darker than the mainstream perception (the Twilight-fication and TVD-fication of vampires definitely influenced that perception, too)

I was certainly shocked when I first read 'Interview' because I kept hearing about how beautiful and soulful her writing was. And, yeah she did write very elegant, hauntingly beautiful prose... but within that prose is the most depraved, WTF-did-I-just-read things. THAT was maybe-unintentionally left out of the recommendation! And it kept getting more, well, Ricean as the chronicles progressed! So, yes, her vampires are very soulful and tragic and all that. But make no mistake - they're also incredibly fucked up. And she intended it that way, too.

So, I guess my recommendation for anyone wanting to read Rice's works is... well, give it a shot, but just keep that in mind.

[darthstitch]

My girl Annette serving Earth magic and magnificent African warrior queen realness but still so hauntingly, tragically flawed, 10 million times upgraded from the original character's one dimensional purpose as a plot device. I AM LIVING FOR THIS. IT IS EVERYTHING.