#so he keeps getting haunted. he HAS to go through the labyrinth

[conflictofthemind]

[barefoothighlander]

deluminate

summary: kylo ren stops at nothing to capture his target

kylo ren x fem!reader

warnings: mdni (18+), unprotected pinv, slight hunter/prey, force bondage, choking, dub con, mind reading?, creampie, idk how the force works, kidnapping?

a/n: having kylo ren brain rot so i needed to write this, i want to hear nothing about realism none of this makes sense, not proofread

Where are you.

His voice rings clear and heavy in your head, a tidal wave through the hazy ocean that was your mind, fogged and weary from his preferred methods of interrogation.

It was purely chance that you had gotten out, a fluke in timing on the account of the troopers that usually haunted your room, one small mixup in shift change and you were left unguarded for invaluable seconds.

You had no idea where you were going, simply letting your legs carry you on their own accord, twisting down hallways and turning the sharp corners of the black metal walls that made up the labyrinth of his ship.

It felt like weeks you had been locked in that room, the days fading into eachother as he searched your mind for any piece of information that could help him, reaching deep into your thoughts and fears, urging you to give up the location of the map.

Truth be told you were the last person he should’ve been asking, a minor ship technician that aided the rebellion with not the slightest inclination as to where the forces were keeping such a lucrative item.

I will find you.

The husk of his voice vibrates in you as fear sweeps your nerves, even if you did somehow outrun him, there was nowhere to go, you had no idea of the ship had landed somewhere or if it was simply tumbling through hyperspace, an eerie quiet settled in the air of the halls, only broken by the sudden hissing of pipes or clanging of armour as patrols made their way.

It didn’t make sense, how he was able to see into your mind, control your body the way he did, a simple twitch of his finger and your limbs were frozen, a nudge of his chin and he could see into your darkest thoughts, the most private and secret, held deep in your psyche for only you to see.

Why run? Come back to me and I’ll give you what you want.

A taunt, emphasized by the honey dripping from his tongue, even through the mask you can hear it. There was no trying to hide behind it, he saw right through you, that obscure primal attraction you held for him, the longing to see him beneath the cloak and mask, to feel that power on other parts of your body.

He was using it against you, like somehow he course sense the throb between your legs as his voice spoke to you, the heat that pooled as he used only his mind to restrain your body.

Sweat beaded your skin, falling in drops down your spine as you rest against a wall, legs screaming in pain, how far had you ran? There was no way to tell if you’d even gotten far, every hallway turning into another, every corner identical.

The conversation of troopers has you holding your breath, careful to keep quiet as they pass by, praying to the maker they were truly as stupid as people made them out to be.

You’re near, I can feel you.

Clasping your hand over your mouth and breathing through your nose, you turn a quick glance around the corner, no sight of the massive cloaked figure, there was no way he knew where you were, he couldn’t.

Down the hall you can see a pair of doors, if you could get in you could lock them, you’d worked on ships similar, nothing this large and nothing from the new empire but they had to have similar wiring.

You will your aching limbs to carry you the few feet toward them, slamming a palm to the panel, a whimper escaping your lips as the screen flashes red.

You drive your fist against the metal doors, willing them to open, to let you in but they don’t budge, a deferred breath falls as you rest your head against it, the cold bite of them cooling your skin.

It’s a gasp of shock that falls from your lips as the doors part, cool air rushing against your skin, how did they-

“There you are pet”

Fear strikes through your body like lightning, this time his voice sounded to close, the crackle of the mask like sparks in your ears. His presence is heavy enough that it sucks the air from your chest, a tear falling from your eye as you slump your shoulders, refusing to turn and face him.

He places a firm hand to your back, walking you forward into the room as the doors close behind you, the tell tale sound of a lock snapping into place as your legs give out, knees buckling sending you toward the hard ground.

You can hear the echo of his steps as he paces the room, damn him if he wanted to read your mind, there were no thoughts to be seen.

“It was a good effort”

Invisible arms will your body up, weak legs trying to regain balance as he emerges in front of you, dwarfing your figure.

His form sucks the life from the room, forcing you backward till your spine connects with the wall, harsh steel biting into your skin as he braces an arm beside your head.

“Are you ready to give me up?”

You shake your head, eyes refusing to look up at him,

“You know I can take whatever I want”

His gloved hand presses to your throat, holding you to the wall as an unseen force binds your hands above your head, leaving you at his will.

“Is this not what you wanted? I’ve heard every thought you’ve had, they’re very loud”

You squeeze your eyes shut at the words, your throat bobbing under his grip.

“I’ve seen what you dream of, how you want to be touched by me, it’s.. obscene, the way you offer yourself up on a platter”

There’s nothing you can do, he has you at his will, a simple prayer to the maker that he’d atleast bestow some form of mercy upon you.

“Do you want to see what I think about?”

His voice is gruff, laced with threat as his fingers squeeze your pulse point.

“Open your eyes”

You obey, parting your wet lashes to look at him, staring deep into the black visor as he watches you, you struggle in his grip as the force on your hands tightens.

He reaches his free hand to his neck, a hissing sound filling the air as the chin of the mask parts, the black helmet rising on his form to reveal his face.

Every sense in your body betrays you at the sight of him, obsidian hair that curls around his pale face, his cheeks flush from the exertion of power as plush lips and dark eyes stare back at you.

He closes his eyes, tilting his chin toward you as he wills his thoughts to yours, flooding your mind with images.

He too had thought about you, your naked body in front of him, legs parted and sex on display as you writhe against the sheets, the tip of his nose nudging against your swollen bud as he feasts on you.

The image sense shockwaves to your core, heat pooling as he continues to show you yourself, bent over a table, your ass arched in the air for him as his cock drives deep into you, practically forcing the air from your lungs with every thrust.

It’s too much, the visions, it feels too real, your skin flushing as he pulls back, his dark gaze glued to you.

“Do you see pet, what you do to me, why I could never let you run away”

He releases one of your hands, gripping your wrist as he drags it to his groin, forcing your digits to cup his length as he grunts. Even through the thick cloth of his pants you can feel his size, massive and pulsing, like pure iron in your weak grip.

You part your lips in shock as he grinds his hips into your palm, his hand on your throat tensing.

“Don’t shy away now, not when you’re so close to getting what you want”

Another grind of his hips has your fingers squeezing his bulge, a primal grin forming on his lips as he ducks his head next to yours.

“That’s it, give yourself over”

His breath ghosts over your ear, tingling the hair on your neck as his teeth dig into your earlobe, nipping at the skin.

His fingers creep over your stomach, inching down toward the pulse that’s settled between your thighs, strong hands tugging at your bottoms as the skin of your ass is revealed, the cool air hitting it.

He cups your sex with his palm, grinding the leather of his glove against your aching bud, cheeks heating as the sound of your slick fills the room.

“So wet for me already”

His words give rise to a tinge of embarrassment in your face as you roll your hips into his hand, searching for the contact against your clit as his cock strains against his pants.

“M’gonna drive my cock so deep into you, there won’t be any thoughts for me to read”

The threat has your core aching, clenching around nothing as he rips his hand from you, the black fabric of his gloves glistening in your slick as he raises a hand.

His free hand moves to loosen his pants, biting back a groan as his cock springs free from the fabric, keeping his eyes on yours as he fists it, the harsh rub of his glove rough against the skin of his shaft.

“Open your mouth”

You move to reach a hand for him but it’s pulls to the wall with that same invisible force, keeping you flat to the metal as it digs into your spine.

“I said open”

You obey, parting your lips slightly to allow his fingers to tease around the flesh, pushing past your teeth to flatten against your tongue.

Swirling the muscle around the digits, the bitter taste of leather mixed with the sweetness of your own slick dripping down your throat as he forces the fingers deeper.

He teases the head of his cock through your folds forcing your eyes shut as you hum around his fingers.

“You’re gonna take every last inch, and you’re gonna keep your eyes on me”

Parting your lids in a haze your teeth dig into his fingers as he pushes in, one swift motion has his cock stuffing you full, forcing your cunt to adapt to the stretch of him.

The angle has him dipping below you, forcing his cock upward as he thrusts, the head of it grinding against that sweet spot into you as it drags against your soaked walls.

“That’s it, eyes on me pet”

His fingers tilt your chin to face him, eyes clouded in lust as you watch him bite back his grunts. His hand grips at your thighs, tugging them around his waist as he lifts you higher against the wall, length driving into you, forcing your body to collide with the hard metal behind you with every thrust.

“Wanted this since I first saw you”

The words come through gritted teeth, your eyes drifting to where the two of you meet, his hand withdrawals from your mouth allowing you to suck in a breath before it makes contact with your throat, pinning your neck to the wall.

“I said eyes on me”

It’s a struggle to even keep them open as his cock splits you in half, feeling impossibly full from him, the base of his length grinding against your clot with every stroke.

Your legs lock around his back, holding him to you as you roll your hips into him, meeting every thrust. A grin plasters his face at the sight, using his hand to tear at your shirt, the lose fabric falling around you as your breasts are revealed, nipples peaked from the cold air.

Like a beast to its prey he eyes your form, bound and free for his taking, he leans down, his teeth closing around a nipple eliciting a yelp from you as he nips at the skin, flicking his tongue over it.

“So good for me, letting me take you however I want”

Heat rises in your chest, it was true, he could have you, the sight of him alone that first day had your thoughts betraying you, his form oozing power and command.

You snap from your thoughts as an unseen pressure hits your clit, rubbing against the bud in a perfect pressure that has your back arching against the wall, pushing your breasts further into him.

It’s obscene the noises the flood the room, the sound of his skin slapping against yours mixed with the wracked moans that escape you, he peers down, his jaw slack at the sight of your pussy swallowing him whole with every thrust.

“Never gonna let you go pet, you’ll stay here with me, as my little play thing”

The words sting your chest, the thought of remaining captive to the man who could invade your very soul, but the feeling of his cock driving into you is too tempting, feels to good, the pleasure blooming from your core has you nodding”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, letting me stuff this little pussy everynight, getting used by me, fucking slut”

That invisible hand flicks against your clit as his cock drives deep into your walls, your legs tightening around him as your push squeezes him, keeping him inside you, letting your orgasm rip through your bones.

As your high lowers you open your eyes, straight to his gaze, his hair sticking to his forehead in a sheen of sweat as the slightest pink tints his cheeks, his cock sliding into your drenched walls.

In a second he slams his lips to yours, swallowing your moans as he pounds into you, hard enough that the grind of your back against the wall was sure to leave you sore.

His hand meets the flesh of your ass, squeezing the muscle with force as he holds your body to him, allowing his cock impossibly deep as he buries it inside you, his hips staggering with each thrust.

“Say you’re mine, fuck, say it”

He leans his head back, lowering it to your shoulder as his teeth dig into the flesh, tears pricking your eyes as your muscles scream.

“I’m yours”

The words trigger something in him, a growl from his chest vibrates against your skin as he spills inside you, the warmth spreading in your core as he moves his coco slowly inside you, shallow thrusts to force his cum deeper.

He holds your body to him, the force on your hands gone, allowing the now sleeping muscles to drop to his shoulders, your fingers splayed over the rough fabric of his cape as his breaths ghost over your skin.

“You’re mine”

The haze of it wares on you, your mind weakened from the combination of everything as your body fights to regain its strength, held up only by his body.

Slowly he pulls his cock from you, allowing his spend to drop down your thighs as his hands keep you still. His eyes glued to yours as he watches you wince from the loss of contact, a hand settling on your cheek, the leather dragging against the thin layer of sweat on the flesh.

He bites back the words in his throat as he closes his eyes, his fingers flexing against your skin as your mind goes blank.

You wake in a dark room, legs bare against the black sheets that have settled atop them, your chest covered only by the large cloth of a shirt, you can feel the soreness from earlier already settling into your body as you sit up, trying to look around.

There’s a stream of starts outside the large window, the only light in the room as you squint to see, it was some sort of bedroom, the furniture below you soft and cushioned, you were in a bed.

Turning to your left you can see the light shine on his pale skin, the expanse of his back visible, alongside the pink pines of scars the adorned it, his dark hair blending into the sheets as his body rised slightly with every breath.

You were in his bedroom, his private quarters, in his bed, shock hits you all at once, every nerve in your body telling you that you shouldn’t be there, but he had brought you there, changed your clothes as set you beside him in bed.

He had stripped off his cloak and leathers, tucked away the facade of Kylo Ren and went to bed, beside you.

Running a soft hand over the curve of his spine you feel him twitch, his breath remaining slow, he was still asleep, he didn’t look like that large beast that invaded your thoughts like this, he was softer, calmer.

The sheets are soft as you slip back below them, turning to your side to face him, watching his skin flow under the streaming stars as your eye slide grow heavier, drawing you back into sleep.

[aria0fgold]

I can't stop thinking about the Houses in Detective Beebo. This always happens to me, latching onto the main characters? Nah uh. Go to House world instead. I'm stuck in "Haunted House" island, got taken by the waves I can never get out anymore.

The Houses are just sooo good. For me. The formation of the "heart" specially. I keep thinking bout it. For the art gallery, the heart is the map, for the House of Vera it had two hearts until gaining a new one during endings 9 and 10. The first heart it had before being called the House of Vera was a shield, and then it became a grandfather clock.

There's a theme here and the question of "how did the hearts form?" In one of the notes during investigation treasure hunt of House of Vera's history, Dr. Roberto Diaz gave the house a new "purpose" after destroying the shield from grieving his wife's death. He got "fused" with the house, he couldn't tell his feet apart from the floor, he can feel his heartbeat echo in the corridors, the water leak matched with his tears. He became one with the house all while the house gained a new purpose and power, to give him one more chance despite the person he so desperately wanted to live again remained dead. The house gained the power to reset time within the house every 8 pm whenever someone dies, which allowed the doctor to save every patient inside.

Obviously, a House becomes Haunted when given a purpose, much like what the doctor did. But what about the heart? The doctor became one with the house, so during that moment the grandfather clock hasn't been desginated as the "heart" of it yet, since during that moment, the heart is Dr. Diaz himself, he feels everything that happens in the house, like an extension of his body. He hears his own heartbeat in the corridors, the house is his body just as how his body belongs to the house.

But when Dr. Diaz died after visiting his daughter, having succumbed to an illness that should've taken his life years ago, the House still has its purpose, it still needs to live on despite the doctor's death. So maybe, it chose its own heart.

The theme is that each heart is connected to a House's purpose. The art gallery's heart was a map, the purpose given to that house by a struggling artist was meant to be innocent enough, the artist wanted people to look at all their art and never leave. Unfortunately the House took that a bit literally, by making it an endless labyrinth with no exit. The purpose is to have every visitor "see all the art" and what better tool to navigate through the entirety of a gallery to see all the art within it but a map!

I wonder if the artist felt the same way that Dr. Diaz did, being fused with the house, feeling everything happening inside it. Did the artist themself get trapped within their own house? Did they get overwhelmed from the new sensations brought upon being fused with a building meant for multiple people to go in and out of for hours on end? Were they the only one the house allowed to come and go easily? Did they see what became of the people that went inside the art gallery and never came out? Were they filled with guilt upon seeing it?

One thing's for certain is that the art gallery has been abandoned for years, with only a map to serve as its heart. The House of Vera, before being known as that, had a different heart and purpose. Before Dr. Diaz became the owner of it, the house was known to have survived any and all tragedies that came its way, even the earthquakes that happened in the past didn't destroy it. That was because of its first purpose before Dr. Diaz unknowingly changed it, the House's purpose was to be an indestructible shield. Perhaps it was due to the colonial era and the owners needing a strong shelter in such a stressful time, the House was given the purpose to protect everyone inside it.

So its first heart, was a shield, to mirror that purpose. But because Dr. Diaz destroyed that shield, the House lost its purpose Momentarily until it immediately latched onto a new purpose presented by Dr. Diaz himself. The House, whose purpose has always been to protect, in a poetic sense, was given One More Chance to protect others much like how Dr. Diaz was given a chance to save all his patients so long as they're within the House.

And so comes ending 9 and 10. The two endings in which the House's heart gets destroyed yet is given a purpose once more. The new heart, for as long as he lives, is Detective Oliver Beebo. He's incredibly sensitive to the world around him, so the new sensations that came from having fused with the House was Far Too Overwhelming. It's unsure how the other living hearts reacted to that, but from the notes written by Dr. Diaz, he seemed to have gotten used to it enough to keep going as usual.

The new purpose that Oliver gave the house was simple: To keep Ángel alive. And so, for as long as Oliver lives and the House stays, Ángel lives as well. In a sense, immortality is shared between the three of them. The House remains undisturbed, Oliver and Ángel lives. From the three examples with the object hearts that the House's had, it seems that even if Oliver dies, the House will merely look for an object connected to its purpose to serve as its heart, which would allow Ángel to continue living. But I doubt he would want that.

What happens to a House that failed to fulfill its purpose then? What would become to a House whose purpose isn't tied to it, but tied to a person? What would happen to the House of Vera, with its newest purpose, should Ángel die? Will it continue living so long as its heart is beating? Will it look for another person to latch onto as its new purpose? Or will it die for having failed to fulfill the purpose of its existence? The House of Vera has been shown to be a house that craves to protect others, from the shield, to the grandfather clock, and now to Oliver's desire for Ángel to live. What would happen to it then should it fail to protect even a single person?

[nhularin]

oh, say it ditto

PAIRING situationship!jungwon x reader GENRE angst, highschool AU WARNING insecurities, miscommunication?? WC 0.7k

❕series masterlist

November 21, 1998

"is it true?" minji, your friend, asked as she plopped on the chair in front of you, a melona ice stick in her hand "are you and yang jungwon from class 4 really dating?"

you paused. what were you supposed to tell her? ' yes we are' and then get turned down by the boy you liked like a fool? yeah, that's not going to happen.

so you only shook your head. as much as you didnt like the idea, you and jungwon aren't a thing, and he apparently has no intentions of making it official.

despite the late night calls or him waiting for you after school to walk you home, he has never confessed how he really feels about you

the small chit chat lingered in your head for the rest of class. insecurities and what ifs haunted your mind like a parasite not willing to leave its host. a frown etched on your forehead as you leaned on your chin, lost in your own world.

a cold sensation touched your skin, a gasp leaving your lips as you looked up to the perpetrator. and there he was, the boy who's slowly breaking your heart grinning like an angel fallen from grace.

"class prez, are you thirsty?" he asked with a bottle of banana milk in his hand, doe eyes forming into crescents and dimples leaving your legs wobbly. if you weren't already seated, you would've definitely fallen.

but silence hung heavy in the air and you didnt dare to speak. too afraid that his presence will make your voice betray you.

"thank you" you say with faux confidence.

why is he here? you never spoke at school, keeping your relationship out of sight from everyone. "im a private person" he has told you, but is that really the truth?

the absence of his affirmations left your heart wobbling and struggling on a fragile edge, desperately grasping onto threads of hope.

Like you a little, don’t want no riddle

maybe, just maybe, he needed time to sort through the maze of his own emotions. Maybe he was as afraid as you were, terrified of crossing the boundaries of friendship into something more.

"let me walk you to your next class, yn."

you heart ached and screamed for resistance, to turn him down and let you heal.

but you nodded.

December 18, 1998

but as days turned into weeks, doubt crept into the deepest recesses of your heart. fear of rejection clawed at your self-esteem, whispering cruel reminders of your misplaced hope. maybe you had misread everything. maybe his silence was a rejection in disguise, too painful to be spoken aloud.

February 17, 1999

each interaction became a tug-of-war in your mind, balancing on the precipice between euphoria and heartache. you weaved through the labyrinth of mixed signals, dissecting his every word, searching for hidden meanings. his smiles, his laughter, the moments you shared together, all fueled your longing for something deeper, for a connection that transcended the uncertainties of a situationship.

Say it, say it back, oh, say it ditto

and so, you found solace in the uncertain, cherishing the pieces of hope that still shimmered within. in the quiet depths of your heart, you held on to the possibility of reciprocated love, hoping that maybe one day, he would find the words to express what his silence couldn't.

but as the drizzling rain pattered against your window, a cruel realization settled within—a truth too raw to ignore. the love you craved, the affirmation you eagerly wanted, may never come. And with that realization came acceptance, a bittersweet realisation to the heart

November 21, 1999

each unspoken word became a chapter left unwritten, leaving room for unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. and though the journey with Jungwon held the potential for a love story, its unwritten conclusion deemed it as a tragedy, with you as its protagonist.

leaning against the window pane, your gaze shifted from the rain-streaked glass to the world beyond. a mixture of sorrow and comfort laced your heart as you realized that sometimes, the most beautiful stories were those that remained untold. and as you moved forward into the future, you carried with you the lessons learned, the strength gained, and a love that may forever remain stuck in the confusing space between what was and what could have been.

do you think about me now?

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch10

chapter ten: departure

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 10, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-9, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

author's notes: Frederick is so cunty. He INVENTED cunt. This man stared down Abel Gideon and didn’t even flinch. He just said “see you in court.” 💅 This man left Hannibal a copy of the book he wrote *based on him*. That shit was crazy!! I don’t care what anyone says. Frederick is cunty.

Anyway. This chapter has been eluding me for a while. I wanted to live up to the intensity from the book, but I felt like that was impossible for me to accomplish. I also didn’t want this to be a straight replication of the book scene, so… I tried to make this deviate a bit more. So, here goes. It’s a bit shorter as far as chapters go, but whatever.

I also made small edits in the first installment of this series, changing the writing from Hannibal giving you his clothing to Hannibal just giving the reader clothing in their size. I realized it wasn’t inclusive to all body types so I wanted to change it. Plus, imo, it’s even more homoerotic to think that Hannibal specifically bought clothing for you and kept it at his house. That’s very gay. Anyways. Back to regularly scheduled programming!

Warnings: typical violence/blood; kidnapping, death, vomiting. Lots of gore for this one. To avoid spoilers, I’ll put more in-depth warnings in the endnotes.

Frederick Chilton wants to pick you apart. And he isn’t the only one—far from it. That’s the danger of being in a position like yours—a federal agent tasked with chasing after killers and criminals. The thrill of the chase… It forms a relationship between cat and mouse, predator and prey. Frederick may be a predator, but you are not his prey; you have a much larger carnivore on the prowl nearby, haunting your shadows and waiting for you to slip. Frederick may be intrigued by you, but Hannibal Lecter is utterly fascinated by you. There’s no denying the harsh shift in his behavior, from silent and nearly despondent in your absence to verbose and enigmatic upon your arrival. Frederick had tried to pull that energy out of him through their sessions, but he was entirely unsuccessful. Lecter was well aware of his research interest, and seemed perfectly content with keeping his lips firmly closed in the first years of his captivity. 

The thought interests and infuriates Frederick in equal measure. After all, having unrestricted access to an intelligent, self-aware sociopath is a very rare opportunity. The sheer strides Chilton could make in the field of abnormal psychology from even a single test score from Lecter… Frederick has to actively push himself away from those thoughts. They are nothing more than a deluded fantasy, for Hannibal Lecter completely defies quantitative reasoning. 

Frederick muses on the nature of Hannibal Lecter as he approaches the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The building is still a bit of an eyesore. Since his promotion to Head Administrator, he’s made efforts to both repair the space and modernize many of their practices. Whether those efforts have done much to improve the institution’s reputation is another story altogether. 

He’s looking forward to sitting down at his desk and getting through the mountain of paperwork waiting for him. The thought has been bearing heavily on his mind over the weekend, and Frederick is eager to do something with the restless energy that he can’t seem to suppress. 

He’s one step away from the stairs leading up to the entrance when a sudden harsh pain erupts in the back of his head. Frederick topples to the ground as his blurring vision slowly fades to black. The last sensation he can register before succumbing to unconsciousness is a vice grip on his ankle. 

A harsh ringing sound forces Frederick to acknowledge his hazy new reality. His head lolls forward and he blinks open his eyes, only to be met with an unrelenting darkness. It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s been blindfolded, and a few more to register the bindings around his wrists and ankles. He seems to be restrained in a chair. 

Frederick isn’t new to being kidnapped—not after Abel Gideon. But this particular situation feels different. Something deep in his chest—an inexplicable yet unwavering conviction—tells him he won’t survive this particular encounter. Because if his captor is who he suspects… he will show no mercy. 

He immediately starts fidgeting and struggling, but the effort is pointless. Frederick has been tightly and effectively restrained. Fear strikes at his heart as his senses work to interpret the space around him. Darkness camouflages the majority of the space, but Frederick can just barely make out some sort of projector screen in front of him. There’s a projector situated right next to him, tauntingly close and within reach. But what good would it serve?

The sound of footsteps sends Frederick’s heart roaring in his ears. He almost feels trapped in the foreign room, time moving like a slow sludge as another presence makes itself known. The person—evidently his captor—steps behind him, their breath practically hitting Frederick’s neck in their proximity. 

“Frederick Chilton.” His captor’s voice breaks through the stiff air and sends a shiver down Frederick’s spine. It sounds like he has some sort of speech impediment, as his S’s are drawn close together. Frederick has very little time to dedicate to that observation, as his blindfold is roughly yanked off. “Lay your eyes upon me. If you don’t wish to look, I will make you look.”

Frederick’s eyes water and he blinks a few times, only to find himself staring at a blindingly white projector screen. Before it stands a shadowed figure, towering over him in near darkness. The man takes a step forward and Frederick just barely stops himself from inhaling sharply at what he finds.

The man is wearing an elegantly patterned kimono; he has a cleft lip, his face slightly disfigured. His knuckles are cracked and bloodied. The man looks at him with gleaming eyes, almost appearing to salivate before him. Frederick’s heart drops to his throat as he remembers everything the FBI deduced about this killer and his personality. The Tooth Fairy stands before him entirely unmasked… and Frederick is assailed with the unshakable conviction that he is not going to live to escape this nightmare. 

“Do you understand?” His captor asks after a few minutes. 

Frederick doesn’t understand anything that’s happening. But he has the wherewithal to recognize the answer the man is looking for. “I understand,” he says through gritted teeth. His mouth is growing dry and his stomach is aching. Just how long has he been confined here? 

“Do you understand who I am?” The man insists. 

“I understand,” Frederick repeats. The only thing he is able to adequately understand is the pulsing fear running through his bones, cementing his fate to die a slow death behind these crumbling walls. Frederick can’t even begin to understand or comprehend the man before him. 

“I am no man,” his captor says, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. His voice echoes in Frederick’s ears, igniting goosebumps along his skin. “I am many things, but never a man. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Frederick is too terrified to say anything else. He can’t deviate from his agreement, for fear of losing his life to this behemoth standing before him. Indeed, his captor is inhumanly tall—looming over him with a far too intent gaze. Every rational part of Frederick’s mind is reminding him of the likelihood of his own impending death. 

“Do you see?” His captor demands.

“I see.” Frederick chokes out. The man quickly breaks the distance between them, his large hand crawling up Frederick’s neck and cradling his jaw. It takes an immense amount of effort from Frederick to remain pliant under the killer’s grip. His touch is deceptively light, almost gentle. Frederick’s breaths are shaky and shuddering. He is forced to be frozen in his bonds, as this man’s thumb carve paths along his face. 

“Once upon a time,” his captor murmurs, his voice almost a whisper. Frederick is terrified of this man—terrified of the juxtaposition between his purported cruelty and the delicacy with which he’s touching him now. Frederick nearly chokes on a breath when the man’s thumb glides over his Adam’s apple, before sliding up to his cheek once more. “I would’ve killed to be like you.” Frederick doesn’t need to think about that statement too much to understand the gist of what he’s saying. He can’t imagine the kind of cruelty and harsh treatment this man has been faced with on account of his facial disfigurement. And while that is no valid excuse for the crimes he’s committed, it contextualizes the desperation behind them. The desire to be seen. The need to be perceived. 

“But not anymore.” He continues. Frederick swallows past the acidic feeling in his throat. The man’s hand keeps rising higher, higher, higher. Now, his right hand stops at the edge of Frederick’s cheekbone, his thumb close enough to make Frederick’s eye flutter instinctively. “Bear witness to my Becoming.” 

It happens in a dizzying blur. His captor’s hand twists, his fingers locking into sharpened hooks. Frederick doesn’t even have the time to flinch before the man is digging his hand into his eye socket and yanking, dragging his eye out in a brutal move that rips a horrified scream from Frederick’s lips. He has never been in so much pain before. It feels as if his captor is digging deeper and deeper into his eye socket, ripping at anything and everything. Frederick’s vision goes dark on the left, deep red tears streaking down his face. In a harsh, disgusting snap, his eyeball is firmly ripped out. His severed optic nerve hangs out of the cavern that sits on the left side of his face. Someone has been screaming in a raspy, broken voice—and it takes Frederick several moments to realize the sound is coming from him.

The killer holds Frederick’s eyeball in his hand. Frederick feels nausea bubbling up his chest and into his throat with frightening speed, barely giving him a chance to prepare before he’s lurching forward in vain and promptly throwing up. Within seconds, he’s dry-heaving as saliva drips down his lips. He’s shaking and trembling, as the vision from his right eye almost pulsates in time with his heart. 

Frederick wants nothing more than to sink into unconsciousness. But the killer is shaking him roughly by the shoulders and hitting him every time his eye threatens to slip shut. At some point, Frederick’s exhaustion is temporarily at bay. “I want you to repeat after me, Frederick,” his captor demands, a camera in hand as he stares at him. “You can do that for me, can’t you?” 

Frederick can hardly respond. He manages a jerky nod and the man hums, starting his camera and giving him the words to say. Frederick is horribly delirious, the words falling to mush on his tongue. He’s slurring through the blood in his mouth and what he’s saying holds absolutely no meaning to him. 

His captor is cruel and merciful in the same breath, for once Frederick truly starts to lose the battle against unconsciousness, he is freed from his bonds and led to collapse on the floor. His cheek meets the scratchy carpet and he blinks tears from his uninjured eye, the man before him morphing and swirling in darkness. 

A wet wipe is rubbed harshly over his face, roving over his cheekbones and following the path the killer  had made with his fingers only moments ago. Frederick lets out a pained whimper and the pressure stops, replaced with an achingly tender swipe along his skin that still seems to hurt. His mind is buzzing, a dull hum that refuses to leave him in solitude. As much as he tries to stay awake and aware of his surroundings, the pain ripping through his face is enough to drag him into the shadows once more. 

He does not wake as he is bound to a wheelchair and thrown into the back of a van. Frederick does not wake, even during the horribly bumpy car ride that ensues. If he were able to pull himself from the unseeing void, he would recognize the fate that awaits him. But he is unknowing of the horrors that have not yet ended. 

Frederick is only broken from his slumber by the harsh screeching of the van arriving at its final destination. He blinks and the doors slide open, revealing his captor standing outside with a mask secured over his face and gloves covering his hands. Frederick can discern little of the environment around him, save for the inky black night devoid of stars. The man then steps into the back of the van and rolls Frederick out onto the pavement.  

“A mortal cannot witness the transformation of a god without dying,” he remarks, his hands gripping the handles of the wheelchair. Frederick desperately tries to escape, despite knowing it’s no use. His vision is still adjusting to the loss of his left eye; he’s exhausted; and the ropes binding his ankles and wrists are rather tight. The killer seems to know this, as a strange sort of smile rises on his lips. “This has always been your fate.”

It is only then that Frederick notices the red gasoline canister he’s holding. Even through his exhaustion, his mind rapidly connects the canister to the box of matches poking out of the killer’s pocket. The Tooth Fairy is going to burn him alive. Frederick begins to writhe and squirm as his adrenaline spikes, but his struggling is futile. There is nothing human in the monster’s face as he upturns the canister, coating Frederick in gasoline. Frederick is nearly hyperventilating now, as flashes of significant moments in his life come to mind. 

He stares up into the eyes of his captor, searching for a hint of humanity to appeal to. But there is only an unfeeling abyss. Terrified, Frederick watches in mute horror as the Tooth Fairy circles around him and stops behind him. He hears the telltale sound of a match being lit; a searing warmth greets the side of his face, before a match crawls down his shirt and his entire body is consumed with flames. At some point, Frederick is shoved forwards—sending the wheelchair careening down an incline with increasing speed. He screams until his voice dies in his chest. Fire paints his tunneled vision a remarkable orange-red, with the air around him flickering and waving with the sudden heat. His last breath ripped from his chest, Frederick Chilton slumps back in the wheelchair and surrenders to the relentless flames.

warnings: gore involving eyeballs/eye sockets & ensuing blindness; kidnapping and captivity.

next chapter

endnotes: Did I have to make that so homoerotic? No. Do I regret it? Also no.

Wow. I really made Frederick go through it. *Sigh.* I love hurting characters I like.

anyways, thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

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[rindragon-from-twewy]

Mmmm forte swap au brain rot upon ye!

I've already completed designs for everyone at the NDA but I wanna space out the posts a bit cuz I don't think I'd be able to say all I'd want to in just one post!

Ramble about character info below; (+spoilers for all of mdarc)

Obviously this is based on my silly doodles for rain code ship week but I've actually started putting a lot of thought in to this now! (I've had waaaaaaay too much free time recently and I'm blessed with the ability to come up with lore/world building very quickly given enough motivation!)

So first off: Why Storm Cypher? Well cuz it's a protagonist swap! Desuhiko's now the amnesiac trainee being haunted by Shinigami so it made sense in my opinion to make this au's name reflectant of his last name, Thunderbolt. So that's where the 'Storm' comes from. 'Cypher' because it's a form of code and... well I just think it sounds nice basically! I do what I do for my own enjoyment, I don't always need to have a reason - no matter what my teachers say.

Also I decided to change some (Not all) character's last name's to better reflect their newly assigned fortes.

Anyway- It's character info dumping time!!!

Desuhiko, like og Yuma, has absolutely no memory of his past. While his personality remains fairly intact, he boards the Amaterasu Express hoping to figure out who he is along the way. While nobody there knows who he is, he instead finds he have a knack for word-play, puns and pick up lines, leading to accusations of secretly being a circus clown as opposed to a detective. This attitude is only solidified more upon meeting Shinigami, the death god with just as many innuendos to make as he does. They get along almost dangerously well, even more so when he learns she has a humanoid form. After completing the first mystery labyrinth, he decides that being a detective HAS to be his true calling, since solving the case was pretty fun all things considered, and receives his hoodie from The Chief to help keep him dry once arriving in Kanai Ward.

Yuma on the other hand, takes the place of co-star of chapter 2. At first he comes off as cool and charismatic but he breaks down almost immediately at the slightest hint of conflict. He's been a very famous musician for years prior to becoming a master detective, though he finds it hard to fully express himself through anything other then his appearance and music. The anxiety induced from an excess of fans, attention, and not knowing who to trust anymore thanks to his own popularity, he was ecstatic to be scouted by the WDO for his talents in disguises. Once it blossomed into a fully fledged forte and he was allowed to work as a detective properly though... they started regretting hiring him. Chaotic, anti-authoritatian and impossible to track down, he's more of a vigilante then a real detective. He was selected to go to Kanai Ward due to it's predicted high mortality rate, the higher ups hoping to dispose of the troublemaker without being too obvious about it. What does APAB mean you ask? All Peacekeepers Are Bastards!!! The Chief wasn't very happy to see him wearing it but permanent marker is permanent.

I haven't decided if I'll change Shinigami's humanoid design yet. If I do though, it'll probably just be more remenicent of her beta design. I haven't decided if I'll swap the Amaterasu Express detectives either though but... maybe I will. Since its forte swap though, the peacekeepers will all remain the same.

I'm hoping to write a fanfic for this, as opposed to like... a comic. But I'm partial to the idea of maybe doing an ask blog as well? I don't know yet. Either way, I'll probably post more for this tomorrow! <3

[jadeacereigen]

what's the water container symbolism with reigen

CASS YOU COULD'VE JUST ASKED IN DISCORD DMS LAMAHAHAHDFN BUT THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME AN EXCUSE TO POST THIS

Okay uh. It's been a hot minute since I've seen the Separation Arc (it is really hard for me to watch) but I will attempt to do something coherent...

So Reigen used to work as a salesman for a water cooler company before he abruptly quit to start his own business. It's implied that he worked at the call center in particular, since this is what we see of it:

Call center jobs are notoriously draining and monotonous, but Reigen was probably pretty good at selling to other people considering his gift for the gab. Still, he quit because he wanted to be something more than just that. He'd always wanted to be recognized by others, and a call center is one of the worst places to achieve that goal. You don't get to talk to people face-to-face, and he probably dealt with a lot of rude people as well as annoyed people who didn't want to be sold anything. Every day, he was just a random voice through the telephone (among many random voices through the telephone).

And so, he quit this job despite the stable salary to make his own business. But even still, his past continues to haunt him, symbolized by the water cooler he keeps in his apartment. We see this a lot in the Separation Arc, with shots like these:

IIRC that first frame is when he got the idea to start a psychic business, a place where people would come to him to seek his help in particular. However, that water cooler continues to loom behind him during his lowest points, symbolizing the insignificant past he was so desperate to rise above. (But at what cost?)

It kinda reminds me of Icarus flying too close to the sun after escaping the Labyrinth, how he plunged to his death and drowned in the sea. Water is something everyone needs to live, and yet we can drown to death when there's too much.

I think this part of the Season 1 OP really highlights that, how his boring past where he felt insignificant and unrecognized threatens to drown him. He becomes to determined to become someone special that he loses sight of what he really needs (someone to see him for who he is and accept him). He becomes a public laughing stock, true, but I think what horrifies Reigen most of all is when he realizes he was holding Mob back and using him selfishly instead of helping him like he did when they first met.

Fortunately, I think he does eventually rise above that massive complex of his, thanks to Mob and the other people he meets and helps along the way (: He still has a ways to go, but he's getting there. As we see in the series finale, there are now many people who recognize Reigen for who he is, and it may not be the entire world but it's more than good enough for him.

Bonus Reigen Drinking Water From A Cup in the Season 1 ED:

[xbunnybunz]

The Devil, He, and I [Alastor X Reader 4/9]

Summary: In a cabin by the woods, you make a deal with a demon that may cost you your humanity.

Genres: Romance, Angst, Horror, Psychological Horror

There is darkness all around you. 

And a voice, haunting and serene, humming a foreign melody above you.

You stir, groan, toss and turn as if you are in a nightmare. But a hand enveloped in taut fabric brushes your hair behind your ear, tenderly, reassuringly.

There there, they say. And you trust it. Settle into your sleep.

The touch continues, chaste as it is gossamer, so much so that you are wondering if there ever was a sensation at all. But it comes again, smoothing down strays, fingers slipping to your nape, resting there before beginning anew.

Here, you feel a lightness to your body. A weightlessness to your thoughts.

Here, you do not want to drift back to sleep again, into that dark and heavy embrace, that labyrinth of your mind. But the melody soothes you, and you are at peace for the first time in a long time. You cannot help the leaden sensation in your fingers first, then in your legs, then in your mind, crystallizing with exhaustion.

You fight it. You do. But it is a losing battle.

Slip back into slumber, slip back into that numb nothing, nothing, nothing.

-

You drag yourself to the main room. Make your way to the window, or, whats left of it, dare to peel back the layers of wood and logs and blankets and peer outside towards the treeline.

Nothing.

You look towards the grave, still making an indentation into the snow, blood barely visible with the new flurries.

Swallow thickly.

Swallow again.

Lick your lips and then wonder if they were dry to begin with.

You squint at the woods again and see nothing.

With large and vague sweeping motions, you paw for your phone and pull it close, your eyes hesitant to leave the slit that provided you a window to the outside world. You imagined looking away for a moment, checking your phone, glancing back up only to find another bulging eye pressed to yours, bloodshot and devilish, roving wildly. But when you finally do, nothing happens.

So you dare to back away, longer this time, and check your phone’s signal strength.

Zero bars.

An icy heaviness weighed in your fingertips and nose at this revelation, though you weren’t particularly surprised. 

With the lack of notifications you had been getting, you figured the reception in an area as secluded as this would be a given– even a positive point, as emphasized by your doctors and relatives. But it felt like an umbilical cord had been cut. 

Without a steady and reliable connection to the outside world, you were naked and vulnerable. Left stranded and without help.

You drop the blanket and seal up the window again, then lift your phone above your head and move your arm in a semicircle, gauging for the reception at a pathetically negligible amount of altitude. 

Nothing.

To be sure, call the police. Your call doesn’t go through so you pull up a browser window, already stuck on a white loading screen as a harbinger of what is to come, and search the first thing that crosses your mind:

“creature in woods”

Hit enter.

After waiting a while, you try something else.

“near me police”

“creature in woods talking”

“deer eating monster”

“wendigo”

The screen loads and loads and loads, the icon beside the search bar looping endlessly until the screen darkens and you tap your phone to keep it alight. After the third time, you let it shut off. 

Stare at your reflection in the screen. 

Blink, and swear you see the outline of your pupils warble and collapse into a horizontal darkness. Blink again and see nothing has changed at all.

-

When you summon the courage to venture outside, it is the cusp of noon falling into the evening. 

Among the trees, afterthoughts of a blue sky are tinged with the vaguest touch of lavender and chardonnay hues. If you squint, the speckled night sky is already in view overhead.

Though beautiful, this is a foreboding scene to you who has grown weary of the night and what it may bring. This trip, you think, will have to be a quick one.

You clasp the car keys in your hand hard and feel the metal cut into the soft flesh of your palm, eyes scanning the treeline meticulously and only twice daring to look away long enough to throw a glance over your shoulder.

The car is lodged under a foot and a half of snow, but this doesn’t stop you from kicking it away frantically with your shoe and throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. You cannot shake the feeling that something somewhere is watching you, and you cannot say for certain that you are only imagining things.

It feels like a nightmare at first when the car ignition sputters, spits, and dies. Then the world around you grinds to a dizzying halt, worsening the sick feeling in your stomach, the adrenaline-driven migraine thrumming between your temples. 

Your sights zero in on the key in the ignition, how a hand, you barely remember it is yours, continues to frantically, overzealously, futilely turn the key. 

The engine fails again and again and again. You see something out of the corner of your eye under a distant pine, fur gleaming a crimson red under the fiery sunset. You feel a horrible chill climb up your spine, one sick inch of vertebrae at a time. 

You do not look. You do not need to.

You turn the key again and press the gas. You think of pulling out of the snow, driving far from the wooden cabin by the trees, think of the stretch of concrete highway and the yellow lines splitting the road into two. Feel it slip away from you as your engine ceases to respond at all.

The shape by the trees has disappeared.

Your jaw is clenched tight, muscles in your face pulled tense and breathing coming in short, harried stints.

You do not know where he has gone, but you know you do not have much time to waste.

You throw yourself out of the car growing increasingly aware of the sounds that surround you. A branch breaking, leaves rustling, a bird flying overhead. You can’t stay out here much longer.

You stumble back into the cabin and lock the door twice, passing the bloodied grave. 

You drag a chair over the door for extra measure and grab your phone, useless to you now, and a bottle of water to ease your rolling stomach.

Fear eats at your mind. 

You think of the form by the trees. You think of the carcass of the doe, think of the way its pelt felt under your fingernails, stiff with death, soft with decay.

Hunger eats away at your insides.

-

You retch into the toilet again, sweat pushing at your temples. 

The remainder of your sandwich and rice pudding sits floating, half-digested, at the surface of the toilet bowl. The smell of mustard and cream mixed with bile makes you gag again and you lean over and let the contents of your stomach upheave through your body once more.

After a while, you sit next to the toilet on the bathroom floor and gasp for air, halfheartedly reaching over to flush the toilet. Watch the contents of your upheaval swirl down into the black eye of the drain.

Your stomach growls in hunger.

Eye the unwrapped sandwich balanced precariously on top of the sink. The few bites you had taken earlier had tasted just as it should have, smelt just like it should have, but as you continued to eat the smell of the meat started to weigh heavier, heavier in your mind.

Deeply salted and horribly pungent. Stringy and frail, signs of meat that have been long dead, shrink-wrapped and dyed in a pigment of red 40, disguised as something that was just killed, still fresh, still consumable.

The lettuce and tomatoes made you sick. The dreadful things were high in water content and shot a bitter taste across your tastebuds, tasting more and more like sewage with each excruciating bite. The bread was rancid as well, covered in countless small holes like parasites had burrowed through them and made a home there, leaving piles of their noxious excrement behind, the air pockets capturing and preserving the foul scent of living, pulsating, yeast.

You groan and feel your stomach turning again at the memory of eating the sandwich. You kneel back over the toilet and allow vomit to pass through you like a wave, nasal passages opening and leaking mucus down your lips, down your chin.

Dig your nails into the varnished wood. Grapple for hold and find only epoxy.

Your hand makes a grab for the toilet paper, once, twice, then finally landing on it. 

You pull a few squares, ignoring how the roll keeps spinning and spilling paper all over the floor. Wipe your face, try not to throw up again when you taste a piece of meat still stuck between your teeth.

The food was fine. You knew this.

You checked it for any signs of going bad before you left for the trip and after you had unwrapped it this afternoon.

When the sandwich refused to sit well in your stomach, you tried the rice pudding for something easier to digest. It had ended the same way, with your mind refusing to accept the heady sludge and rejecting it from your body.

Your stomach growls again, rolling in your body with unsated hunger.

You were probably just sick with something. It makes sense, with what has been happening recently. You were low on sleep and anxious, maybe caught a cold from the broken window, perhaps had a stomach flu brewing in your system for a while now, and it had only decided to spring forth now that your immune system was weakened.

You reasoned that maybe it was the food, maybe it was the sickness. Maybe it was anything other than the strange unnatural beast that had been tailing you for the past two days, but you knew the truth. 

When you try to look up signs of a stomach virus, your phone reminds you that there’s no internet out here in the wilderness. 

Your stomach growls again.

You’re starving.

You uncap a bottle of water and drink it slowly, in case your stomach decides to churn it back out all over the sheets. 

It doesn’t.

So you hungrily drink, filling your belly with water. Feel it slosh against your empty insides, and think of nothing, nothing but the red and bloodied snow by the excavated grave.

[queermccoy]

the patron saint of break up songs but make it bucktommy

tracklist under the cut

Labyrinth

It only hurts this much right now

Was what I was thinking the whole time

Breathe in, breathe through

Breathe deep, breathe out

I'll be getting over you my whole life

[...]

It only feels this raw right now

Lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Break up, break free, break through, break down

You would break your back to make me break a smile

Say Don't Go

Why'd you have to lead me on?

Why'd you have to twist the knife?

Walk away and leave me bleedin', bleedin'?

Why'd you whisper in the dark?

Just to leave me in the night?

Now your silence has me screamin'

Down Bad

Show me that this world is bigger than us

Then sent me back where I came from

For a moment I knew cosmic love

Now I'm down bad crying at the gym

Everything comes out teenage petulance

"What if I can't have him"

If This Was A Movie

Come back, come back, come back to me like

You would, you would if this was a movie

Stand in the rain outside 'til I came out

Come back, come back, come back to me like

You could, you could if you just said you're sorry

I know that we could work it out somehow

But if this was a movie, you'd be here by now

Midnight Rain

My boy was a montage

A slow-motion, love potion

Jumping off things in the ocean

I broke his heart 'cause he was nice

He was sunshine, I was midnight rain

[...]

I guess sometimes we all get

Some kind of haunted, some kind of haunted

august

Your back beneath the sun

Wishin' I could write my name on it

Will you call when you're back at school?

I remember thinkin' I had you

But I can see us lost in the memory

August slipped away into a moment in time

'Cause it was never mine

Death By A Thousand Cuts

'Cause saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts

Flashbacks waking me up

I [make a thousand loafs], but it's not enough

'Cause the morning comes and you're not my baby

I look through the windows of this love

Even though we boarded them up

Chandelier still flickering here

'Cause I can't pretend it's okay when it's not

It's death by a thousand cuts

Forever Winter

He says he doesn't believe anything much he hears these days

He says, "Why fall in love, just so you can watch it go away?"

He spends most of his nights wishing it was how it used to be

He spends most of his flights getting pulled down by gravity

The Prophecy

Hand on the throttle

Thought I caught lightning in a bottle

Oh, but it's gone again

[...]

Please I've been on my knees

Change the prophecy

Don't want money

Just someone who wants my company

Let it once be me

Come Back...Be Here

The delicate beginning rush

The feeling you can know so much

Without knowing anything at all

And now that I can put this down

If I had known what I'd known now

I never would've played so nonchalant

exile

I never learned to read your mind (never learned to read my mind)

I couldn't turn things around (you never turned things around)

'Cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)

So many signs, so many signs

You didn't even see the signs

I think I've seen this film before

And I didn't like the ending

I Can Do It With a Broken Heart

I can hold my breath

I've been doing it since he left

I keep finding his things in drawers

Crucial evidence, I didn't imagine the whole thing

[...]

I cry a lot but I am so productive, it's an art

You know you're good when you can even do it

With a broken heart

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Haunted

“Oh, I'm holding my breath

Won't lose you again

Something's made your eyes go cold”

Masterlist Pt.Five

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: Part 4/6, Bucky’s closer to figuring out the truth, and you haven’t thought about what’s his name in days.

Warnings: Nightmares and fluff.

Bucky watched as soft snores fell from your open mouth. Apparently today drained you, he understands, he feels like he just got hit by a truck. Everything is gone, everyone is gone, he doesn’t know how it happened. How did a lifetime disappear?

Bucky had plans, now there’s no chance they’ll ever happen. Him and Steve were gonna buy houses side by side when the war ended. Raise families together, bring up children together. But he doesn’t know if Steve even remembers him; he’ll find out tomorrow.

His eyes slowly drift closed, then he hears the front door swinging open. His body jerks, he looks left and right and you’re no where to be seen. Gusts of wind are blowing piles of snow through the door, he jumps up, looking up to the empty loft, the bathroom doors open and the lights off. You’re gone.

He feels a hand on his shoulder but when he turns around no one’s there. All of the blood in his body was now pounding through his ears, like a deafening throb. He runs outside, determined to find you. He quickly throws his right arm up, shielding his eyes from the shards of ice falling from the sky. The snow was relentless on the mountain.

Bucky squints into the dark woods, he swears he hears someone, but they’re too far away to make out what they’re saying. He bravely steps into the abyss in search. “Help, please, is anyone out there?”. The persons voice becomes clearer. Bucky is running through the woods, one boot in-front of the other. With the storm coming down it feels like that night he found the cabin.

A familiar pain of cold air stabbed at his lungs. He can’t see a thing, the moon bounces off some patches snow but the storm clouds make it an impossible labyrinth of trees. “Hello, can you hear me?” He bellows out, hopeful.

Bucky’s breaths sharpen, and for a second he hears someone else’s deeps breaths. He stops his trekking through the snow, turning his body in a full 360 degrees. Any moment now something would pop out at him. “Is there anyone out there? Where are you?” He tries one more time to make contact with whoever was calling out.

He hold his breath, and stands completely still, keeping the snow from crunching under his feet. He’s all alone, or so he thought. “Buck.” He whips his head around to see his friend reveal himself from behind a tree. “Steve?” Bucky can’t believe it, how did he get here so quick from New York? It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since the call with Darcy.

“How did you get here so fast? What is going on? I met this girl, she tried to convince me you were frozen in ice for 70 years.” Bucky starts rambling. Steve just stoically stands there, face devoid of any emotion. Bucky’s relief starts to fade “Steve? What’s wrong?”.

It was as if the man didn’t see Bucky. He was looking right at him, but he was unwavering in his stance. “How could you?” He finally speaks up, but it doesn’t sound like him. Bucky’s brows furrow, “How could I what?”. He takes a step back, distancing himself.

Steve drops his gaze, slowly shaking his head. “All those innocent people. Brutally killed in their homes, in their cars, in-front of the world, you have no shame.” Bucky’s face contorts in horror. He would never, he has never, and he could never do that. “Stop, I have no clue what you’re talking about. Steve, you’re starting to freak me out.”

Steve lunges forward, reaching out. Bucky doesn’t let him get close enough before he breaks out in a sprint. “Steve! Please, just tell me what’s going on.” Bucky runs faster than he ever had before. Steve is right on his heels. His feet stutter under him and it causes him to crash into the thick snow, spitting out chunks on snow and dirt.

He rolls over to his back, his chest rising and falling, causing cloud of fog to emit from his mouth. Steve stands over him, raising his shield above his head, “Why Buck? Why didn’t you just die?”.

Bucky’s eyes widen as he watches Steve release his weapon, letting it fall down to slice him. He feels the ground beneath him start to rumble and then everything goes black. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes in this dark realm. When he opens them, he’s back in that cozy little cabin, you’re curled up under a heavy blanket. The golden lamplight made your skin glow. It was warm, and the tv quietly played the third Princess Diaries movie.

He reaches up with his right hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes, but he’s met with beads of sweat on his brow. That dream felt real, all of them till now felt like he was floating.

He stares out the window behind the tv. Watching as the snow rapidly falls; as the sun comes up and you start to rise. He’s in shock, why was Steve talking about innocent people? Why was Steve blaming him? That wasn’t the Steve he knows.

If he’s honest with himself, he was terrified. He didn’t see a soul behind his friends eyes. It was like Steve was a shark who just smelled blood. His heart continues to race as you rise from the couch, stretching your tired limbs. “Hey.” You say awkwardly. You don’t know what to say, you’d never had just a sleepover with a guy. Even under these circumstances you feel embarrassed by your puffy faced state.

Bucky looks up to your comforting presence, and he feels his nerves begin to relax. “Hey.” He replies. “Are you alright, you’re as pale as a ghost.” You say, waking into the kitchen to boil water for coffee. To you, the cabin was freezing, no golden warmth like how Bucky saw it.

He nods his head at your question. “Just a bad dream.”. Now it’s your turn to nod, “We still have a while until we hear any news from Darcy, it’s still night there.” You say, emptying left over grounds into the trash.

Bucky stands, holding his left arm close, “Anything I could do for you?” He says yawning. “I wanna earn my keep, I feel like I’ve been intruding too much on your space, the least I could do is make myself useful.”

You stop mid pour, you’d never had a man be so thoughtful. Your ex just knew how to take and never give; it was exhausting. “Um, firstly, would you like a cup of coffee Sargent?” You smile, sliding a blue coffee cup across the counter.

Bucky sips the dark liquid, the roasted flavor reminding him of early mornings with his ma. He sucks on his teeth, “Sounds nice coming from you, if I’m honest.” Bucky liked the way Sargent rolled off your tongue, like it was meant to be patronizing, but it sounded genuine.

If your cheeks weren’t already pink from the cold, Bucky would definitely be able to see the blush that overtook your whole face. “Like I said, I appreciate and respect a man in uniform.” You flirt back, unashamedly.

Bucky chuckles, finishing off his mug. “Seriously though, anything I could do?”. You look past him into the living room. The black stove sat in the corner, unused. “We need wood if we’re gonna warm this place with something other than space heaters.”

“That is all you had to say.” Bucky walks back into the living room, and pulls his blue coat over his arms. “I think I seen an axe out there somewhere.” He smiles walking towards the door.

“Wait, your arm looks hurt, are you sure you should be chopping wood?” You say in concern. Bucky watches your worried eyes fall to the arm he cradled, he noticed the nervous pitch in your voice. “If I don’t, who will? Can’t let you go out and do it, not on my watch.” He says, letting you know he’s too much of a gentleman.

You’re starting to lose count on how many times this man had surpassed your expectations. You know he’s just being old fashioned, if anything you should be offended. A woman could chop wood just as good as a man. But you just knew Bucky meant it differently, like you shouldn’t have to break a sweat, chopping wood was beneath you. He’ll bare the cold for the both of you.

You watch through the kitchen window as Bucky swings the axe with one arm, he doesn’t miss once. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the way his hair fell in his face, making his perfect appearance look more disheveled.

Maybe you shouldn’t be checking him out, it’s not like you should be moving on so quickly. You need to find yourself before you get wrapped up in another person. You don’t even know your favorite flavor of ice cream, and there’s hundreds of flavors you haven’t even tried yet.

You want to help Bucky, but you’re putting yourself first, no matter what happens. If it gets too hairy or too serious, you’re out. You just want to be a good person, and good people don’t drool over their house guests. On that note, you walk over to the wood burning stove, opening the rusted door, you find a box of matches sitting on top. You light one and burn what dry wood was left from the previous owner. You needed hot coals to keep the fire going on the snow moistened wood Bucky was chopping.

You hold your cold fingers up to the cracking flames, it’s like blood was rushing back to the frost bitten tips. You close your eyes for a second to bask in the warmth you’d created for yourself, and then you hear a distant whooshing, you look out of the window to see the trees thrashing violently; snow blowing everywhere.

Bucky comes bursting through the door, axe in hand. “What is a helicopter doing all the way out here?”

[horologiiiumart]

can i pls have blanket/ mr stick lore pls pls!!

since there's also quite a bit of mr. stick lore, i'm gonna focus on the blanket fort in this post

the blanket fort was created by fakey; he piled pillows and blankets together to create a small fort to entertain himself. after falling asleep in it, though, the fort expands into the blanketed labyrinth it is now. the fort has a toon filter on it, meaning that whatever and whoever enters it will be tooned until they leave the fort. however, stay for too long, and you'll be permatooned. hm. actually i'm gonna write out a list of lore for the fort

there are several levels to the fort, though the deeper you go, the more unfamiliar and hazardous it gets

blankieopolis is on the topmost level. it is a city created by fakey and mr. stick, and holds a large toon population. fakey is the mayor

the second layer are the caves

the third layer is the yarn nest. everything is covered in yarn. strange shapes and structures are common, all built from the yarn. the lighting is low, and things are crawling towards you...

the fourth layer is the play place. a large indoor playground, complete with colorful tubes and nets. a labyrinth within a labyrinth

the fifth layer are the ball pits. large and unending, it is all to easy to sink into the pits. large worms-on-strings patrol and swim through the ball pits, keen on grabbing and smothering you

the sixth and final layer are the depths. a haunting place you shouldn't be in. dim lighting morphs all that was recognizable into something terrible. the atmosphere is stifling, and your screams merely stick to the walls instead of echoing for others to hear.

the fort is the 'tower' of this au, making fakey its ruler

there's a taxi service run by a taxi driver whose toon form is his taxi cab

the fort can be accessed by any blanket fort made in the outside world. this has been used by kids and adults alike to escape from unfavorable and dangerous living conditions

the fort comes to life in season 4

there is an art gallery filled with all the art that fakey likes and any creations people want to showcase

a cardboard castle is constructed during the first movie as a place to plan out how to stop pizzahead

as time moves differently in the fort, there is a 'clock tower' in the middle of the city that is constantly playing lilo and stitch, fakey's favorite movie. a timestamp is visible so people are aware of how long they've been in the fort

there are pigeons everywhere because fakey keeps grabbing them from outside. there's also a petting zoo

there's an area in the fort that is completely made of bubble wrap

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19

Read on AO3

There was light, ahead.

Glimmering, silvery light.

Lythra crept towards it, keeping low to the ground, close to the tunnel wall, careful to keep her footsteps silent. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen light.

There was no light in the Labyrinth, not unless it was a torch carried by someone who would most likely try to kill her if they spotted her. Her heart hammered in her chest as she approached, magic ready in case it proved a threat, enough to give her the time she would need to run. 

She stopped at the edge of the pool of light, taking a deep breath before breaching it with the toe of her boot, immediately yanking it back into the darkness expecting pain. She toed the light again, letting her foot linger a moment. 

Nothing happened. 

She stepped into the light, searching for a source. It was warmer, abating a bit of the damp chill of the tunnels. There was a crag in the tunnel, a small lacuna from which the light poured. She ducked her head to look inside, only finding another tunnel, a smaller tunnel, too small for the minotaurs or baphituars or any of the nasty things that hunted through the tunnels to fit.

Anything but her.

It was a tight squeeze, but she climbed through, the tunnel on the other side marginally larger. It sloped upward, the light growing brighter as it rose. She followed it warily, carefully gripping the tether of her magic. It rose and rose, the air growing colder, but without the damp she’d grown used to. She shivered but kept walking, following the light. There was something else now too, almost like the strings of a harp being plucked, but too faint for her to be sure. 

And then suddenly all there was was light. She flinched and shielded her eyes as they watered, unable to focus on anything for a long time moment. But then—

Everything was light and there was no more tunnel, everything above her blue and open and the ground was covered with something white and glimmering, sloping steeply down. She reached down to pick a handful of it up. It was cold, disappearing and leaving something wet in her hand. She licked it, delighted to find it was water. She grabbed another handful, shoving it into her mouth until her teeth hurt from the cold.  

She laughed, sinking to her knees into the glimmering cold, staring up at the blue above as tears ran down her cheeks.

The sky.

Her father had told her about the sky, but she hadn’t believed him, hadn’t believed anything could be so vast and beautiful. 

~~~

She howled as Halsin revived her, pain making her voice raw and inhuman. Astarion watched as her skin knitted mostly back together, enough for him to at least press her guts back inside her and stem the bleeding. Her spine was still severed, her legs still limp and useless things, her skin still paler than death. Halsin slumped back, eyes still glossy with tears, looking looking near ready to pass out.

“I don’t—I have no more magic,” he said, breathing heavily. “She needs more—much more—but I need to rest, first. She will hold, for the night.”

“We’ll—we’ll get her inside. Maybe—maybe Isobel has a bit of healing to spare, or at least something for the pain,” Shadowheart replied, sounding a lot more confident than she looked. 

“Get off of me!” He hissed at Karlach, pulling free of her grasp. “I’ll see to it. I’ll see to her.”

He knelt at her side and picked her up as gently as he could, gritting his teeth at the shriek of pain she let out as he jostled her.

“I know, my darling, I’m sorry. We’re nearly there, just right inside and then a soft, warm bed, I promise you,” he said, though he doubted she could even hear him through the haze of pain. She’d never been one to complain when injured, had hardly even cried out when Abdirak’s whip tore through her flesh or she’d been bludgeoned by duegar or mauled by that foul bulette. 

He knew the sort of pain that elicited screams like hers, knew it and that knowledge turned his stomach. 

“We’re nearly there,” he said, though it was more to reassure himself. She didn’t respond, except to press her face harder into the crook of his neck, her tears slipping down his skin. 

“I need a room, NOW!” he yelled as Shadowheart pushed the doors open for them. He didn’t pay much attention to the chaos that erupted at his proclamation, leaving that for Shadowheart to deal with. All he cared about was finding her a place to rest, a comfortable place to rest and enough pain medicine to make the horror bearable. 

He hardly listened to the shouting, merely following Shadowheart to a small bedroom in the back of the room, his eyes locked on Lythra’s face, screwed up in pain. He lay her on the bed, carefully cutting away the shreds of her armor that remained and tossing it to the floor, leaving her in just a patched undershirt and pants, both soaked in blood. Still, it was marginally better than torn studded leather. He tucked her in, careful not to jostle her as he did. 

Shadowheart rushed in with a handful of bottles. “Isobel has to hold the shield, but she has these. They should help with the pain.”

“Fine, leave them,” he said, turning back to Lythra.

“Astarion—“

“Leave them,” he snapped back. She set them on the bedside table next to him and stalked out, slammed the door behind her. He grabbed one, popping the cork with shaking fingers. 

“Open your mouth, darling. This will help,” he said, cradling the back of her neck so she wouldn’t choke. She only whimpered in response, her teeth clenched. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to open her mouth as he slowly dribbled it down her throat so she wouldn’t choke. 

“It’ll make you feel better. I promise,” he said, tossing the empty bottle aside without a care for how it shattered. All that mattered was that he wiped the pain from her face, that he stopped her suffering. 

It took too long for his liking, but eventually the crease in her brow softened, the tension in her muscles easing, a bit. Her eyes fluttered open, overwhelmed by the size of her pupils as the drugs took effect. 

“‘Star?” she slurred softly, and it made his dead little heart ache.

“Yes, my love?”

“I—I hurt.”

“I know.”

She stared up at him, brows furrowed, before shakily reaching up to trace the cut on his cheek. It was nothing, superficial, but she glared at it as much as she was able in her drugged state. 

“What?” He asked, voice too quiet. She just shook her head, letting her hand drop, but he caught her wrist and pressed her hand back to his cheek. 

“I—You realize how stupid that was, don’t you? You—they almost couldn’t bring you back, after.”

“We held the portal,” she murmured, her words all mushed together, a faint smile on her lips. 

“Forget the damn portal—I couldn’t give a shit about the portal!”

“We promised—“

“You promised you’d watch my back! How do you expect to do that if you’re worm food?” He snarled, sharper, once more, than he meant to. He balked as her eyes welled with tears before she looked away to hide her face from him. “No, I—I didn’t mean it, not like that. I just—I don’t want to see you hurt.”

She didn’t say anything, but he knew—he knew she didn’t believe him.

Why should she?

He reached over to gently wipe away her tears with his thumb, his heart in his throat. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, smoothing back her hair from her face.

Gods, she was covered in so much blood. 

He could at least deal with that, ensure she was as comfortable as possible. 

He stood, taking a shaking breath as he crossed to the door.

“I’m s-sorry.”

The words were tearful, hardly more than a whisper. He turned back to see tears pouring down her face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Please, p-please don’t leave. Please?”

“Oh—oh shit, darling, I—I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” he said. He opened the bedroom door and hollered at one of the tiefling children from the Grove—the sniveling one Lythra had saved from the harpies. “Hey, you! I need you to bring me clean water and cloths. Now.”

He didn’t wait to see if the boy actually listened, instead crossing to her bedside to wrap her in the most gentle hug he could manage. 

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. She clung to him, as tight as her arms could manage and sobbed into the crook of his neck.

It was the first time he’d ever heard her cry, her voice ragged and broken. 

He just held her, smoothing a hand through her hair, throat tight. He didn’t know what else to do. 

~~~

Halsin knelt next to Thaniel, checking him over once more, even as his head swam. There was something wrong, more than he’d realized before. His friend was hollow, some essential part of him ripped away by the Curse. He wouldn’t wake until he’d found it, figured out how to put him back together. 

He tucked an extra blanket around him in his bedroll, ensuring he’d be warm as he slumbered.

He couldn’t get the sight of Lythra out of his head, her eyes dull and lifeless. 

Karlach had filled him in on what had happened as she carried Thaniel back to camp for him, uncharacteristically somber.

He’d told her to defend the portal at any cost. She’d died, making sure he and Thaniel had a way home, had shielded their path even as her organs spilled out of her. She’d died, and he’d hardly even been able to bring her back.

In fact, he thought he had very little to do with it at all. 

He was starting to suspect there were more Gods on the playing field than he’d previously thought. 

It should have been gold—the Revivify that brought her back—and it shouldn’t have healed all it had. Someone had answered his prayer, but not the Oak Father. 

Someone else had been watching over her.

He thought back to the sword she’d found in the Underdark, a masterwork of one of Eilistraee’s faithful, of the snippet of prayer she’d said almost as a reflex.

He lay down, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed to rest, to quiet his mind long enough to replenish his magic, but it raced, replaying over and over the sight of her dead, on the beach. 

How many times had he gone to her for aid, laid more on her small shoulders while he remained behind, searching for safer answers? How could he keep asking for more, when she’d given him everything she had?

No—no more. He would see the Curse ended, but it would be at her side. She deserved a guardian, a defender, in all this. She deserved to have someone look out for her, for a change. 

Had she ever had anyone protect her? 

He hardly knew anything about her. He knew her father was dead. She never spoke of her mother, though Halsin had a horrible inkling that she was responsible for the wretched magic inflicted on her. He didn’t know if she had other family, or how old she’d been when she’d lost her father or escaped the Underdark, or even where in the Underdark she was from. He didn’t know why she’d moved to Baldur’s Gate, or what she’d done there, or who had taught her to play the lyre. 

He’d learn, though, if she’d let him. He’d be someone she could depend on, someone who’d look out for her. 

Perhaps, when this whole nightmare was over and she’d been cured of the tadpole and the Curse, he’d take her to the Nether Mountains, north of his childhood home, and show her the giant ice spiders he’d told her of, as large at horses. 

She’d like that, he thought. Though, with her track record, he might have to counsel her against attempting to adopt one. 

~~~

 Halsin woke early and hurried to the inn with his bag of medical supplies, as well as Lythra’s pack and an extra pair of spare clothes. It would be no easy task to heal her today, but he would do all in his power to ensure she suffered no lasting wounds. 

Jaheira pointed him toward a room at the back of the first floor, and he crossed to it, going over in his head all of the possible complications that came with a severed spine and disembowelment. 

He paused in the doorway, surprised to hear a voice, soft and soothing. Astarion sat next to her as she lay in her bed, absently combing his fingers through her hair as he read aloud. The blood had beed washed from her face, leaving it pale and drawn. 

The scene was sweet and utterly unexpected, though he could focus on little else other than just how very pale she still looked, still so very corpse-like. Pain was clear enough on her face, even with her eyes pressed firmly shut, though she leaned into Astarion’s gentle touch.

The rogue’s eyes flickered to his and he glared, tensing as he stopped mid-sentence. Lythra’s eyes flickered half open and she stared for a long moment, as if waiting for him to come into focus. Jaheira had mentioned they’d found a very strong tonic for pain, to get her through the night.

“Than? Than-Th-Than—“ she croaked deliriously, her brows drawing together. He stepped forward, alarm overwhelming him as she tried to sit up.

“I was able to rescue Thaniel, thanks to you. It is my belief he can be restored, though I may need your aid once more to do so,” he said quickly, hoping to soothe her agitation. She offered him the smallest of pained smiles and a small hum, settling back against the pillows. 

Astarion bristled.

“She died, holding that damn portal for you. Died. Cut nearly in half, and no one around here has enough power or skill to put her back together, and you’re already asking for more?” Astarion snarled, bearing his teeth at the druid. 

“‘Starion, xuat,” Lythra mumbled, scrunching up her face. “F’sarn ula.”

Halsin couldn’t help but freeze for a moment, the simple word in ilythiiri bringing him back to a different lifetime, a lifetime when he’d been the brash and foolhardy adventurer. It didn’t seem that Astarion recognized it as more than drugged nonsense.  

“You are right, it is not the time to speak of such things.”

“Of course it’s not! Look at her! This is your fault!” He spat voice rising with the accusation. Halsin didn’t rise to the bait, though guilt twisted in his chest at his words. 

“Vrine'winith ol,” Lythra slurred, her eyes slipping shut once more. Astarion’s gaze flicked back to her face, fear flickering over his features before he could mask it with anger.

“I will heal her, to the very best of my ability.”

“You owe her that, at least,” Astarion spat. “After all she’s done.”

Halsin poured his strength into the spell, feeling her spine mend, the connections knit back together, though it fought him the whole way, draining him of far more of his magic than it should. Still, there was so much wrong within her, years and years of scar tissue and malice, wounds he didn’t have the strength to fix, maybe not even at his best. 

What horrors had she endured and for how long?

She cried out as he healed her, face twisting in pain, even through the medicine. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, working on repairing the damage to her organs, to knit the muscle back properly. 

“It hurts, Halsin,” she whined, squeezing her eyes shut as blackened blood began to drip from her eyes, her nose. 

“You’re supposed to be healing her, godsdamnit!” Astarion spat, reaching over to grab a cloth from the bedside table and wipe it from her face. Halsin ignored him, focusing on Lythra. 

“You must stop using the magic, little one. It’s preventing you from healing properly. I—I suspect it’s draining your life force, as you use it, braiding it together with the Shadow Weave to allow you to use it.”

“I can’t,” she said softly.

“You must—“

“No, I—I can’t stop it, here. I’ve been trying. I don’t—it wields me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I lose myself. It t-takes over. I try, I promise.”

Halsin stared for a moment, mind whirring. Then he nodded, leaning down as he brushed back her hair to press a kiss to her brow. 

“Rest, little one. All will be better when you wake,” he said, ushering her to sleep with a simple incantation, an incantation that should have never worked, had she been raised properly in the ways of their race. Still, he was grateful for it now, if only that it alleviated her suffering. 

Astarion glared at him, fury etched on his face. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours to check on her. I will see what I can find that might be useful to curb her magic.”

“What do you care, Druid, so long as you got what you wanted?” he snarled. “Or is it simply so you can ask for more?”

Halsin turned and left without answering. It would do no one any good for him to rise to Astarion’s bait, even if it made his heart clench in his chest at the grain of truth in his scathing words. 

Not that he didn’t care, of course, but that he knew he would still have to ask for more. The thought sat bitter on his tongue.

[yakool-foolio]

(rain code spoilers) hi sorry. just dropping in to scream about this song

https://youtu.be/XdMCAh1IktM?feature=shared

it’s called Alarm Call by The Correspondents! god have i been thinking about yuma and yakou’s dynamic with this one

especially since the beginning lowkey reflects yuma’s mindset like. in ch1 “we gotta save the chief before he gets executed” and everything else combined. though the tone is slightly different in the song and yuma doesn’t have a “savior complex” it seems more like for this case that yuma is moving independently to save yakou (and others) than relying on yakou to give him aid

and it’s also true for ch4–but it’s like in the mystery labyrinth and when yakou’s like. about to die when yuma actively expressives absolutely how much he relied on yakou as a mentor/father figure

also the song is just straight up REALLY GOOD help i just want to make an animatic to it

You're so right about this song being amazing overall! Certified bop! I love conjuring up animatics in my head, and unfortunately that is where they will stay until I gain telepathy and then everyone in my vicinity is doomed.

I absolutely love how this song represents not just Yakou's protectiveness of Yuma, but the inverse as well! Yuma is just as protective of Yakou, as seen in chapter 1 and 4. They care greatly for each other's safety. Yakou naturally wants to keep Yuma and the other detectives out of harm's way because he's afraid to lose more people he loves, and Yuma wishes to aid Yakou to repay for his kindness in his time of need. They're each other's most reliable support, it's super sweet. I really like these lyrics especially in the perspective of Yakou:

"The irony is that my recovery is always slower than yours You're back on your feet in no time when I'm left floored Haunted by the sound of your alarm call Living in fear of your next fall"

Yuma is always quick to recover because he has everything to gain. He has the determination to seek out his memories and improve as a detective. But on the other end, Yakou has been through the wringer so much that he doesn't have the motivation he used to. The one thing that keeps him going is the instinct to shelter and protect his detectives. With Yuma getting into life-threatening trouble so often, Yakou grows more and more scared of losing the miracle detective who survived against the infamous hitman who took part in stomping out the life of the one he loved most. Never again, never again.

[anotherghoul666]

Swallow the Sun primer

For @devoured-by-shadows but anyone who's interested in discovering the Finnish doom masters that are STS are welcome to read! The post's addressed to them because it began as an ask and I went overboard Like I do hahaha

Swallow the Sun, shortened to STS, are a LEGENDARY doom metal band from Finland. They formed in 2000, created by master of Gloom, Beauty & Despair Mister Juha Raivio himself, composer and guitarist who will rip your heart right out of your chest and leave you in a puddle of tears with the beauty of the crushing tales he weaves. Within a year they had Matti Honkonen on bass and the absolutely extraordinary Mikko Kotamäki on vocals to form the core lineup which has remained stable since 2001. Drums and second guitar have changed a bit over the years (notably they had Kai Hato behind the kit from 2009 to 2015, #bestEraOfSTS. You may know Hato better from Wintersun, or Nightwish nowadays. He's one of my all time drum idols and, no joke, one of the softest, kindest, most gentle souls I've ever met in my life). STS's got the same lineup since 2018.

I will admit that Kotamäki's vocals are somewhat of an acquired taste, it did take me a while to get used to it too, but give it the time it deserves. He has cleans and screams to offer and once it hits, it's transcendental. Once you'll fall in love, this man will ensnare you and his voice will own your soul. He's definitely refined his vocal technique too, the song you heard No Light, No Hope is from 2007, he was still pretty raw then. I like the rawness but it is less accessible than how polished he sounds now. I don't see any reason why his recent vocals would not hit the mark for you, knowing what I know of your stellar music taste.

Through their career they have released 8 full length studio albums with the occasional EP and single release dotted throughout. Legit, they do not have a single bad album. They have rather different albums, and you will vibe with an era more than with another, most likely. It's up to you to find where STS clicks for you, which type of haunting menalcholy do their grip and won't let go of. As long as you are into doom metal and slow, melancholic, longing, painful, mournful 5-15 minutes songs, they will hit for you. Their lyrical universe is stunning, and once you're sucked into their sound, there's a non-negligible chance they will become a go-to band to cry to when you need to get it out. I know that's what they are for me. You just need to be in a mood for sad shit.

Keeping in my mind that my actual recommendation is "just listen to the entire discography from start to finish because it's 100% worth it and flawless perfection", I also recognize my bias and how unrealistic that is XD So I shall now proceed to go album by album in chronological order (which is also the order I recommend discovering them in because their progress is very satisfying to hear) and rec some songs to start your Swallow the Sun journey with!

Off of 2003's The Morning Never Came, I suggest: Deadly Nightshade Swallow (Horror Pt. 1) my favorite STS song because of personal reasons and attachment

From 2005's Ghosts of Loss, I suggest: The Giant Fragile

From 2007's Hope I suggest: Don't Fall Asleep (Horror Pt. II)

2008's Plague of Butterflies EP is one of the most ambitious, gut wrenching and honestly seminal projects in doom metal's history. It's a 35 minutes song that is a must listen in any metalhead's journey. Sit down, grab the lyrics, dim the lights and feel the beauty and sadness of one of the most wonderful and painful musical tales to ever come out of the genre. Unbeatable shit. My 2nd favorite STS song.

Off of 2009's New Moon, I suggest: Lights on the Lake (Horror Pt. III)

Off of 2012's Emerald Forest and the Blackbird, which is where I feel you'll start to hear the shift into STS's "modern sound" so this may be where you start to like them more, I suggest: Labyrinth of London (Horrors pt. IV) my 4th favorite STS song, the 3rd will come later This Cut is the Deepest Hate, Lead the Way

2015's Songs from the North is quite the outlier project in this band's discography because it's a triple album. It's legit 3-4 hours of music. Each album, I, II and III have a distinct sound and pull from different inspirations: you have a heavier metal one, an acoustic one and a deep slow doom 10+ minutes-per-song one. It's a big ass mountain to climb cause there is so much material here and it's not been trimmed. I sincerely feel like they could have made a single 12-13 tracks album with the three discs, idk. I don't suggest starting here at all, this is more of the deep dive album at the end of the journey if you really love them: Lost & Catatonic

Which leads us to the masterpiece of Swallow the Sun's discography, 2019's When a Shadow is Forced into the Light. Listen. There is a lot of history behind that album. A very painful personal history in Juha Raivio's life. I could recount the whole tale one day, because as STS fans we lived through it in a small way. With all the distance in the world, it wrecked me. 4 years later it still makes me very, very emotional. Long story short, Raivio's wife Aleah Starbridge, the Nightingale, beautiful soul, beautiful flamme, for whom we still hold the torch alight, passed away and this is the album of his grief. I think even without knowing the whole story, the album speaks for itself. This is one of my top 5 albums of all time. All genres, all bands, all music altogether, this album is one of the most beautiful, most difficult listens I have ever heard and it changed me deeply. This album completely changed me. There's a before and an after. Me and my father made our first listen of this album together on the road when it came out. Mw dad's a man from the 50s so you know he Does Not Cry, I have seen this man cry probably 5 times in my entire life, and one of those was us listening to this album for the first time. We had to pull over to the side of the road so we wouldn't get in an accident and we just stayed there, listened, held each other and sobbed together. I will never forget that memory. So as far as songs go? Just listen to the entire album. For real. Take the hour out of your life. It's worth it, trust me. When you're in the mood to take it obviously. Every song here is pure musical perfection. Stone Wings is my 3rd favorite STS song, but it deserves to hit in the context of the album. Do me and yourself a favor and experience the entire thing as it was meant to. Start of the playlist here

2021's Moonflowers is their latest release currently and I suggest: Woven into Sorrow

And those are the broad lines of Swallow the Sun! I hope you enjoy your journey in this universe of Gloom, Beauty & Despair! If you have any comments / questions about them (yes I have hagning out with the guys annecdotes too XD for instance hahaha) hit me up anytime!

[west-tokyo-incidents]

Frozen Needles || Part 4

"How long do you think it'll spend awake?" Desir hisses under his breath as the trio make their way around the lake.

Click shakes her head, "I don't know. Last time it was barely awake for ten minutes." She mumbles. She can still hear it in her head.

The roar had been something akin to the great bellow of a plane just over their heads. Loud enough to shake the ground and hurt the ears.

Something had pissed off the Kingsnake.

But it's awake again. And has been for the last three hours. Now is their best shot of getting a good look at the lake.

Closer to the dead tree, Click examines the thing up and down. It's a log that looks like it had been jammed into the shore line. Maybe it had once been alive and growing there, then something killed it and it began its slow tilt towards the water. It still has some branches higher up, but Click won't need to go that far up.

Icicles hang from those branches, a frozen mockery of the needles that had once adorned those same branches. She glances at her partners and nods. Rage nods back and goes to the treeline, beginning to patrol the edge of the woods. Desir perches on a rock jutting above the others on the shore, keeping his own watch of the open space.

The surface of the lake ripples with an unfelt breeze.

She takes a step onto the wood, and hopes it holds.

-----

Boon crouches on the roof of a building, staring down and through a broken window in the building next door.

The 'Kingsnake' as they've codenamed it now, made a very, very big mistake.

They had been able to figure out a specific fluctuation in radio signals when it possessed the body in the compound. And therefore...

Boon has tracked those signals in the Alpha timeline, the parasitic one, to this place.

It's almost comical how far off they'd been. The Kingsnake had fully uprooted the douji and masters and taken them here.

The Appalachian mountains. Technically, these mountains had once connected to the French Alps, millions upon millions of years ago. The range is older than the evolution of bones.

So their nest is here. Somewhere down there.

A gust in the snowstorm makes Boon duck his head against it. Enlil next to him curses at it.

"Fucking hate this weather."

Boon grunts his agreement.

"Any luck?"

Enlil shakes his head, "Not without risking too much. We need to head back, get reinforcements. Better cloaking gear. My clones' gear keeps freaking out past a certain depth. I'm setting up cameras down there, but they're likely to get found, and fast.

Boon nods, "We'll have to move the compound."

"Ugh." But beyond that, Enlil doesn't comment. The clones come up and they disappear to reunite with their original.

"Might be a Cross job, this one. Boring, but... If we can locate them, he can snuff out their souls."

Enlil nods, and the two disappear into a small tear in time that Boon rips open.

-----

She doesn't know what she expects to see. Kneels at the furthest point she feels safe to go on the tree.

The lake, where it isn't frozen at the edges, is black. It's like staring down a well that you can't see the bottom of. No fish, but she doesn't expect any. According to her sensors, it's deep. Way too deep for a lake.

The surface of it moves just slightly, even though there's no way there could be a current.

But what keepa her still, frozen in place... Is the deep, haunting, sense of apathy.

It feels like whatever is in there could flick a finger and send her flying with as much care as someone flicking a bug off their water bottle in the summer heat.

It feels like when Songbird took her to the edge of Mother's body and she saw the Labyrinth for the first time.

And above all that, she wonders...

What the hell happens to the ones the Kingsnake shoves into this thing?

She sits there for a moment, lost in her own mind... Before she realizes the depths aren't so empty.

Something is looking back at her.

Her hair stands on end.

There's no glowing eyes to pierce the blackness, no gigantic form of any monster. She's staring down a dark room and knows there's something in it. Something looking back at her.

And she can feel a sick kind of joy in that gaze.

She scrambles off the log, nearly falling in twice, before Desir catches her and she curls up against him.

"They're in there." She whispers.

"What?"

"They're still in there. The ones he drowned. They're still alive. One saw me." She shakes her head, "We need to go."

Desir just nods, then whistles to Rage, and the three head back out.

Click wants to shed her skin, peel off her face, get rid of every part of her that had been seen by... Whoever that was. Whatever it was.

She's glad for the familiar snow that crunches under her feet, the smell of blood in the air, the pang of hunger in her systems.

"Click...!" Desir is calling her. How long has he been calling for her? She turns around. She'd gotten farther ahead of them than she realized. She waits for him to catch up, "What the hell did you see? I've never seen you spooked like this."

She shakes her head, "I didn't see anything... But I felt it. And it was happy, Desir." She shakes her head again, "The Kingsnake has no idea what he's doing. Whatever that lake is... He isn't in control of it. He's just throwing bodies into it like it's a trash can."

Rage stares at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I've got to wake up. I have to. I have to warn them."

Desir grabs her shoulder, "Click. You know we can't do that. We don't know how."

Click shakes her head, nearly in hysterics, "Desir, I have seen creatures that tear through timelines like butter. I've seen douji who learn to craft entire dimensions at will. That? That isn't something we can handle like we usually do. If they find the Kingsnake and kill him... He's the only thing holding this place stable. I don't know what will happen if he dies, Desir. I have to wake up...!!"

"We don't know how!!" He snaps, yelling. Rage snaps at him, his vocal cords breaking and bleeding heavily as he snarls at Desir.

Click freezes in place, her lips curving into a snarl.

Rage pushes himself between them.

The tension stays for a moment, but Desir shakes his head, "I'm sorry... But unless the Kingsnake lets you, you're not waking up. And we both know he isn't going to do that."

"..." She stares at him. Her shoulders slowly drop down.

He's right. She hates it. Hates it more than anything. Tears sting cold at the edges of her eyes.

God, what she wouldn't give for a drink right now. A trip to the Roost.

Kvas...

She doesn't even realize she's trembling until Rage gently pushes his muzzle under her arm, comforting her.

"...Let's get back to the den, okay? We still have food. And Jealousy's still asleep. We can't stay in the trees for long." He looks up and around, "And the last thing you need is to die and wake up halfway across the mountain."

She nods numbly, running her fingers over Rage's mane before turning to follow Desir. She stays with them this time. For a while... Her mind is blank. But slowly, gears begin to turn again.

With each crunch in the snow, another turn of the crank. Goldie's tale about the lake waking people up is a lie, obviously. But many people who aren't Frostbitten can still wake up. People who aren't under the Kingsnake's control.

How do they keep waking up? Is it because they're alive? If so, does that mean she's been killed in the waking world? That can't be true. She's under the observation of Urban Ghost AND Bloodline. Maybe they've taken her body out of the timeline to keep her safe.

No, Desir said before he was killed that the Kingsnake had forced Rage to keep sleeping, to keep him here.

She pauses, staring at the snow for a second.

Desir turns and looks at her, "What is it?"

"I need to talk to him."

"Who?"

"The Kingsnake."

[believemetheodore]

I'm not scared of death (I've got dreams again)

Ted Lasso x Rebecca Welton

But his thoughts have layers, and the emotion of remembering crashes like a wave. So, he tries to breathe and pieces together the words he can find, hoping to convey even a fraction of how he feels. Or Ted and Rebecca take a drive past his childhood home. inspired by The View Between Villages by Noah Kahan

Warnings: Ted's dad, parental loss, discussions/themes of suicide, mentions of blood, grieving (let me know if you want me to add anything else) _________________________________________________________

If Rebecca built up walls, he's built up hedge mazes. Together they've climbed over a few of Rebecca's defences; put sledge hammers through others. But, now they wander aimlessly through topiary corridors, the labyrinth he’s constructed with all his tools of self-deflection.

And here, standing in front of his childhood home Ted feels as though he's in the thick of it. Unsure of how to proceed he decides to be honest; putting a metaphorical chainsaw through the winding hedge walls.

“My father died here,” he says.

His parents bought the house when he was a baby. It was supposed to be their ‘forever home’. Powder blue siding, white trims, and a red front door, with a backyard that felt acres big when he was a kid.  

He grew up here. Took his first steps here. Got attacked by a dog here. He learned how to ride his bike here. Befriended the dog that bit him here. His first words, his first real kiss; sleepovers; Christmas mornings; Halloweens; there's not an inch of that house that doesn't have a memory in it. 

He wishes he could lift it up and shake it out, sort through each moment and take only the good away with him. 

“It's funny,” he says to Rebecca, never more grateful to have her hand in his, “when you're a kid, every scraped knee feels like it might be the end of the world. Every stomach ache feels like it's gotta be the most painful thing you'll ever feel. I was so naive. So innocent…I didn't think--” his words fail him. But Rebecca's support doesn't falter. 

“Do you want to leave?” She asks. 

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, silently trying to catch up to his own thoughts. 

“You were still a child, Ted. And regardless-- I don't think there's a manual for how to deal with the loss of a parent,” her sentence trails off more than it ends. He knows she's tip-toeing around the nature of his father's death. Ted doesn't blame her for it. He does the same thing.

“I know that it's not something I'm ever going to recover from completely. The good doctor keeps reminding me of that. But, I thought it was getting easier-- I've been getting better at talking about it. But being here again…it's different,” he does his best to express himself, remembering that it feels better to get it all off his chest. 

But his thoughts have layers, and the emotion of remembering crashes like a wave. So, he tries to breathe and pieces together the words he can find, hoping to convey even a fraction of how he feels. 

The truth is he can't. There's no way to impart to anyone how shattering a gunshot really is. He has no way to communicate how long the scent of blood lingers, or how he can no longer smell bleach without being haunted by a phantom metallic stench.

He can't recall the sight in specifics, thank god, and Doctor Sharon says that's common enough. Finding his father like that was a trauma, and the human mind is capable of blocking out some of the worst bits. Knowing it happened is painful enough without the visuals. 

He can recall the fear though. The shock, the confusion, and the agony of loss. 

He remembers the aftermath, and the first day he and his mom stepped back into that house after it had been cleaned. The room where it happened sat empty, neither of them even dared to open the door, even knowing that any trace of the tragedy had been scrubbed away. 

Morbidly, he'd lie awake at night wondering what the neighbours thought, what strangers thought that room had looked like that day. Over exaggerating, or romanticising the worst day of his life. 

Now he wonders what the new owners think. Do they use that room? What rumours have they heard? 

The house no longer feels like a home, it's more of a monster lurking. And Ted thinks that might be why London has been so healing. It was damaging always knowing his personal demon was just a couple of streets away, with an unexpected road closure or detour always threatening to take him past the house of horrors. 

He drove past it a few times with Henry, wondering if he'd ever be strong enough to tell the little boy about what happened to his grandpa, and why his father's heart still aches. 

Henry asked, “if that was the school you went to, did you live near here?” 

Ted’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight, resisting the urge to clench his teeth. He lied, “ya know, I don't really remember”. 

Because how can he begin to explain that bile starts to rise in his throat a block away and that his stomach doesn't settle until he can no longer see the faded blue exterior in the rearview mirrors? 

“Because you're old now?”

“Yeah, buddy. Something like that”.

But no matter how much he wants to forget, there’s always so much to remember. Forgotten moments wedged between the floorboards, and whispering from inside the walls. The home in his mind's eye is nothing compared to standing outside on the sidewalk, face-to-face with the structure. The details of days and nights that had seemed so insignificant when they happened, scream out at him now. As loud and unforgiving, as they are comforting and nostalgic. 

A couple of days after his seventeenth birthday, and a little over a year after his father's passing, the town felt as though it had fallen silent. 

The seasonal sounds of backyard barbecues, and children who had made every inch of the neighbourhood their playground teetered out slowly, then all at once. Warm days had given way to truly cool evenings and without the white noise of the cicadas buzzing Ted found it tough to fall asleep. 

His Ma hadn't asked any questions when he took the car keys for a late-night drive. It had become routine. 

While his new habit was beginning to cost a fortune in gas, it felt like a small price to pay. To drive until the music on the radio drowned out his thoughts, and the wind blowing through the rolled-down windows reminded him he could still feel. 

Usually, he'd start out in the suburbs, winding his way through cookie-cutter streets, and he'd keep going only turning back when the asphalt became dirt roads stretching all the way out of town. 

But something had shifted inside of him, age seventeen and a few days. He just kept going. And the longer he drove, the faster he drove. Flooring it, the tires kicking up dust behind him. He wanted to scream. To cry. To throw up. Faster. His heart was racing, and the steady pounding of his own pulse rushing in his ears was failing to block out the echo of the gunshot playing on repeat inside his head. 

He hated his father for what he did. To him. To his mom. For leaving them both alone. But Ted also hated the way he'd let the rage within him grow and fester. Burning himself from the inside out. Faster. 80. 95. 100 mph. 

A rogue cow wandering from its pasture startled him to his senses, slamming on the breaks he swerved, the car spinning before he was able to steer into a skid, narrowly missing the animal in the middle of the road. 

Nothing could've stopped the manic, watery laughter that escaped his lungs. His chest heaving for breath as he sobbed and cackled at the same time. It was like all of the air was being knocked out of his lungs, sucker punched by every emotion he'd been pushing down, and shoving aside.

 The rush of adrenaline left his hands shaking for the entire drive home. But still, he said nothing about it to his mother. He set the car keys down in the bowl by the door and then met her in the kitchen. She was sitting and doing a puzzle at the dining table.

“You alright Teddy?”

“Of course, Ma. Just needed to clear my head” he grinned, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

“I worry about you when you waltz back in here so late,” she confessed, crossing the room to put her empty water glass in the sink. 

“Waltzing you say?” And his laughter gave him away as he took her hand giving her a slow twirl before hugging her. 

“I'm okay, Ma. I promise”. 

There’s a guilt that comes with trying to forget, and now more than ever Ted is realizing that it’s not possible to erase a moment in its entirety; and try as he might, it’s not possible to suppress the bad without losing some of the good as well. And, just the same, there will always be great days, that get touched by the worst ones.

Watching Henry pick up a set of darts on his first trip to London, felt like a thousand pinpricks across his skin. It felt like watching his own childhood from outside his body, the hand of his father’s ghost on his shoulder. When Ted decided to do his white knighting for Rebecca, and picked up the same darts that Henry had held, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get his heart to stop racing. Looking back, it felt good, to peel back the layers just enough to let his heart fill with a fondness for his father; to be able to hold the memory of his dad in his hands and decide what to do with it rather than allow himself to be consumed by it. 

Doctor Sharon had done the same thing for him, asking him to tell her about something he liked about his old man. 

He tries to do the same thing now with Rebecca, concentrating on the way her thumb rubs circles across the back of his hand. He’s sure she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. It’s a relief he wasn’t expecting. Michelle knew about his father, but she could never stomach Ted reminiscing. She was, and still is he supposes, an advocate for leaving the past in the past. He respects that perspective, and always understood her reasoning. Everyone copes differently. In hindsight, it was just another way they didn’t match up, and he doesn’t hold it against her. 

But Ted knows he needs something different, and he deserves someone who can help him navigate that, so he can help them with their baggage too. 

Rebecca has been that person, and Ted lets himself cry; to feel all the things he resisted for so long. He doesn’t pick and choose, holding everything all at once, valuing it all in equal measure.  

“I fell out of that tree,” he sniffles, pointing to the green leave branches that now tower above the house, “broke my arm that summer”. “Were you a clumsy child?” Rebecca asks. He shakes his head, “Nah, just enthusiastic, and long-limbed”. 

She laughs, and he’s glad for it. He tells her about his memories as they come to him, shimmering little gems he hadn’t been able to see from all the dust he’d allowed to collect. It doesn’t fix anything, there’s nothing to fix, but it eases the weight on his chest and lessens the metallic taste in his mouth. 

They drive back to his Ma’s house, across town. The windows are down and the radio playing low. He glances at Rebecca at every stop sign. She’s stunning under the yellow glow of the streetlights. And it all feels so simple all of a sudden. 

His smile grows as they pull into the driveway, Henry dropping his basketball in favour of tackling them into hugs. Rebecca, it turns out, is pretty good at free throws. And when Henry says, “Yeah, but Rebecca is good at everything!” 

Her green eyes meet his, and Ted feels the now familiar feeling of another hedge maze wall collapsing inside his heart.