#the trailing shadow of an architect

[julijbee]

exclusively between the hours of 1 and four

[felassan]

Neve's outfit just has such a great design!! the silhouette it has - iconic, delightfully Tevene. Neve's piece really reminds me of the feel and vibe of her DA: The Missing cover. In the background are the towers and streets of Minrathous, the city that is her home - including the iconic floating castle. with its white/pale blue light, shimmer and the impression of ice crystals the magic she is casting has, it looks like she's using one of her ice mage abilities. It's cool, even the chair she is sitting on has that diamond, rhombus (not sure if I'm describing this right, but hopefully you know what I mean ^^) kinda design Tevinter things tend to have. you can see it in like their doorways and windows and stuff. I love the unique design of her staff/wand, and in this painting it reminds me of a cane. as in like, you know, didn't Sherlock Holmes sometimes carry a stick or cane? like Hercule Poirot? that kind of vibe. fitting for a detective and private investigator. :) in one of the past trailers they talked about "hard-boiled detective stories", which on reflection now I feel can surely only be in reference to Neve! a lil touch of film noir.

In the background, spotlighted (as if by one of the spotlights from the floating castle) against the wall and looming over her, is the ominous shadow of another person, or entity. the staff they carry implies they are a mage. A random Venatori? A Venatori leader? she has had dealings with them in the past, they don't like her and in the gameplay reveal we can see that they basically want to kill her and her allies; as someone affiliated with the Shadow Dragons, she's opposed to them. this could represent that opposition (Venatori/Neve) and the threat that they pose.

there's something off-looking about the shadow though - Tevinter magisters and Venatori etc wearing robes and getups that give them startling outlines is nothing new, but still. their arms are too long (unsettling), and the one without the staff, though it could just be the fancy trailing sleeves and embellishments on the person's robe itself, is drawn in such a way as to resemble a claw or talon. something demonic-y. their arms are all spiky, the waist over-narrow and waspish. A corrupt[ed] magister? An ancient magister? A demon? some combination thereof? ^^ There is something about it which reminds me of the designs of figures like the Architect and Cory, and they were not the only members of their group. the demonic vibe and recent Venatori plot stuff in general also makes me think of the trapped demon sealed in the Catacombs beneath the city of Minrathous, as detailed in The Streets of Minrathous in Tevinter Nights, in which Neve appears. in that short, she prevents the Venatori from releasing the demon, but it's not dead or defeated. Also, the way in which it was described in that short was 😀 extremely worrying. whatever it is, it feels like Neve's art piece is giving a glimpse at what her storyline in the game might involve.

[source]

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to @perryabbott for this phenomenal gifset ! )

2/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ.  A continuation. You & Halbrand find common ground. Philosophies are debated. A bond is formed. or: A Smith and a Sculptor begin their friendship. pairing.  (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count.  4k a/n.  Important tags in first chapter ! Two artisans share their craft and debate their disciplines. Grumpy x sunshine trope coded in this one !

       WEARINESS IS NOT the word, he learns very quickly, when the hammer and tongs had been placed in his calloused hands at Númenor, and he’d been put to the test to earn his Guild crest and prove himself useful to the master blacksmith. 

(They’d tasked him to create the best blade he could, and the finest steel sword is what he’d forged for them. When they’d asked if he knew how to shape a sturdy anchor, he laughed and said, “How many would you like?”)

It is, for all intents and purposes, still a hammer and tongs; still a weighty familiarity where the memory of Aulë rests in one hand and the blackness of Morgoth in the other. But now all attributions coalesce and measure to some… distant nostalgia. 

Homesickness.

He wonders if a Maia could even be capable of such trivial things like a sickness. Wonders if maybe it’s borne from this mortal flesh he’d awoken in; if perhaps Melian had fretted too over this fatigued, adrift state of sense when she bound herself to her corporeality and the menial necessities that came with living in such a body.

Is this what it’s like to fall from grace?

He’d found himself in an endless loop of madness in trying to decipher his Judgement the day he first awoke: Why the Valar had allowed him— Sauron, the Abhorred, Gorthaur the Cruel, Shadow of Morgoth— a second chance; a rebirth. It doesn’t feel like mercy. Is this punishment? A test? Is he truly as free as they're making him believe?

Why, if anything, these hammer and tongs— his age-old solace— just feel like another shackle binding his wrists. 

It’s both too good to be true and not at all.

Perhaps this is the play. To have his uncertainty drive him into insanity. To be the architect of his own demise. Or maybe this is just another part of a grand design amongst the Ainur he isn’t privy to anymore— but surely not; Who would want to give a role of any significance to him? He is Sauron. The Great Deceiver. He cannot be trusted. 

By his very own hands, he had ensured that.

…Except you. Eärmaril. The one who’d offered him wine and proverbial bread and a new beginning. 

Foolish, he thinks, pursing his lips. But with whatever few days of time he chanced to spend with you sitting in that cell, there’d been a graceful naïveté to you he found (charming) himself envying. A mortal innocence. An excitable youth he’d long since grown out of. This seemingly bright wonder and an ever-light in your eyes he deemed frustratingly blinding— like the blaze of a sun, or the glare of a moonglade— that he surprisingly couldn’t help but be drawn into out of pure fascination.

Even moreso, now, since he’s discovered:

“You’re a craftsman?” says Halbrand, stunned. “You didn’t tell me.”

In the clear midday afternoon, you pause to look up from your potter’s wheel. 

He’s fascinated. It shows in the curious dart of his eyes. 

Earthenware line the front of your atelier, all in odd colours, shapes and sizes, still dewy from catching the remains of the late morning shower. They trail into your workshop; great pots and elaborate vases dotting the floor while the flatware stack neatly on shelves lining limestone walls. The ceramics are all set aside in a way one could see a careful path to your throwing wheel, where you’re nestled behind and idly washing the slip off your fingernails in a bucket of water.

“You don’t tell me a lot of things, either,” you snort, drying your hands on your apron. Your tousled hair is tied neatly away, and there’s a spot of clay marking the edge of your jaw. “Besides, is it so surprising I am?”

Halbrand had seen you at the docks, just this salty morning when he stood at the forge (that you’d spent hours cajoling the Master blacksmith into accepting him into the day prior); barefooted on the docks among the local sailors, casually dirtying your pretty alabaster skirts with wet sand and seawater to help tug the ropes of a wayward skiff, dainty sleeves rolled and rumpled up to your elbows as you moored it with the unwomanly ease of a seasoned sailor.

“How unladylike!” he’d overheard the chinwag of the traditional Númenorean mothers when she came upshore. “What a mess!”

(What a mess, indeed. But it explains plenty, and as a Smith, Mairon can understand it. An esoteric signature between all artisans is to be a mess; to rebel against the orthodox. It had been what set him apart from the other Maiar— And it had been precisely what led him into Morgoth’s hands.)

“No, I suppose not,” says Halbrand, sounding somewhat breathless. You stamp down the prickle of alarm when he picks up a piece to study it; the instinctual urge to warn him to be careful.

There is a thread of… something, after all, no matter how unconsciously thin it may be, between you two. You cannot call it trust— not yet, but you’re determined to get there— so perhaps understanding would do; And if it starts with something as small a step as trusting him not to mishandle your works, then you’ll chance it.

Craftsmanship appears to be the only bridge to a version of Halbrand you’ve not yet seen since you’ve met him, after all. You want to hold on to it. No, you want him to hold on to it, more like. To this lifeline; this rare flicker of radiant light in him.

“Have you ever tried pottery?” you ask, noticing the acuity of his appraising gaze.

For a moment, his gaze had fallen inwards, and he was not in the room with you when he spoke with a longing look. Sauron is far away, in the place where Aulë first taught Mairon all there is to know of the joys of creation. 

“I’ve tried my hand in plenty a craft before metalwork, believe it or not,” Halbrand says, and sets the plate back down with a clink. “Admittedly, clay is my weakest medium.”

“Oh?” you smile, suddenly curious, and Halbrand meets your inquisitive look once you’ve set your finished piece— a jug it looks to be— alongside the rest of the unfired clay prepared for the kilns.

“Clay is ever elusive,” says Halbrand, mildly as he can to avoid offense. “It is the inferior material to work with. The most fragile after being tempered.”

It had sounded almost recited, the way he said it, and so you frown, “Right. And who told you that?”

Morgoth. “…My old master.”

“Valar, then your old master must’ve been as good as…” you wave, face twisting in incredulity to find the words. “A netless net cast on shallow shores.”

There’s a pause, and you wonder if you’d crossed a line at the sudden seize of him— until he lets out a breath, akin to a wheeze, almost. 

It’s a small sound, but enough to catch you off-guard nonetheless. You've never heard him laugh before. 

“You disagree?” asks Halbrand, amusingly. 

“Not entirely.” You cock your head, sidling a hip at the table as you playfully stare him down. “It is elusive and fragile, yes. That it is an inferior material? No. Shaped correctly, pottery can endure centuries. It does not rust like steel, erode like stone, or decay like wood. It can outlast an age. Outlast even us.”

Us. He tarries on the word more longer than he should. He suddenly remembers he isn’t Mairon the Admirable— not just a craftsman speaking to another craftsman— but Sauron, hiding beneath the veneer that is Halbrand, a mortal man with a seemingly inevitable end.

He looks at the pot sitting underneath the table beside you. Bright green and lustrous, with elegant filigree of cresting waves and boats adorned with sails carrying the sun. Then he looks at the bucket by his feet, filled to the brim with broken shards of colourful ceramic, toeing it with his boot. 

“And yet,” is all he says.

You wrinkle your nose. “Those will be repurposed. That is its very beauty.”

“There is no strength in fragilities.”

You uncross your arms with a narrow look, as if he’s missed your point, and pick up a cup from the tray of bisqueware. Then, to his utter surprise— toss it casually aways from you. 

Reflex serves him well.

He catches it before it can shatter. “What—?!”

“The nature of the claypots strength relies solely on how one holds it,” you correct his previous statement. “And therefore, its value.”

Sauron looks at you then, and realises what it is you’re doing; what it is you’re asking of him. 

The thought should not have been that frightening, frankly— but there lingers still an ache in his nape and the unseen scars of a thousand daggers across his chest. There sears still a phantom hole in his beating heart, however much he decides to stubbornly ignore it.

“Trust,” he states, finally. The word sounds bitter to hear coming from him as he grips the delicate cup in his hand. “You know, I can very well crush this, Eärmaril.” 

“Yes. You could.” That is to say: Exactly my point!

He huffs out his nose, bristling. Halbrand moves over to return the cup in your palms. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

There’s the Judgement of Eru and Manwë echoing like a chorus in his head. There’s Mairon long gone, and Sauron that remains. The Great Deceiver. The one who cannot be trusted, because he had made it so with his bare hands.

“I am asking a man—”

“I am not—” A man, Sauron very nearly overrides. “—who you think I am.”

“What about who you can be, then?” You catch his wrist just before he can step back to retreat, and he can feel the ignition of a flame running through his arm like a frisson. “Isn’t that what this all is?”

“Halbrand, you told me you’ve done evil; irrevocable, irredeemable sin. Yes, so what shall you do now, then? This repentance of yours— to whom are you atoning for? The dead? The Valar? They are not here. What can they do with it? It is your life, after all, and your freedom.”

You let him go. Sauron stays rooted, prickled by how this feels alot like one of his unspoken, one-sided conversations he’d have with Uinen’s statue back at the cells.

“I will carry this regret with me forever.” His voice is heavy with a fell conviction. “It is not something your seas can absolve me of, or whatever other metaphor it is your people like to believe in.”

You hum at that. A reluctant assent of agreement. It’s infuriatingly patient. (This is an unfamiliar battleground. He’d expected you to be put off by him; to be angry— instead he’s been unsteadied with startling kindness.)

“Well, I am not asking you to forget, Halbrand. I am asking you to be free of it,” you roll your eyes, voice light and matter-of-fact. “You can choose to spend it wallowing in misery; shackle yourself to your past like a victim of your own villainy; But that would be the true evil— a disservice to those you’ve so claimed have suffered under your deeds. The real victims.”

Another voice interrupts the both of you. Apologies! says the young messenger, shifting timidly at the foot of your atelier with a scroll in hand, It is urgent. 

You wave in assent, then look back to Halbrand.

“You pace so long in your cage you’ve conditioned yourself to its unseen shadows,” you muse, and Sauron can hear your steady voice, both as delicate and as mighty as freshly-fired clay. “Remember this: What you do with the second chance the seas have granted you is what will define your atonement— nothing more, nothing less. Do not waste it on being a jailbird.”

And then—

And then.

You’re off, brushing past him like the sweetness of a saltbreeze, leaving him standing in your wake and staring at the cup you’ve left purposely behind.

It’s set precariously close to the edge of the table.

Open invitation.

(Mairon’s finger twitches in instinct.) 

He looks at the cup, and thinks, then looks and thinks again— only to conclude he couldn’t think at all, that you make it irritatingly impossible to do so. His mind is too far fixed on the fond smile of your face and your sunburst laugh carrying up the docks; the striking touch of your hand when you’d grabbed his wrist and the sincerity in your eyes.

No. He shan’t take your bait.

He ought not to entertain this little exercise of yours— this petty endeavour. Ought not to give in to this fairytale you fancy yourself a saviour in. 

He shouldn’t.

He’ll leave everything untouched as you left it.

…The cup is pushed noticeably further— safer— into the table, pristine despite the telling thumbprint of soot, by evening when you return.

You smile.

He had been unprepared for how aimless this would all feel, even in the dusty comforts of a forge and the timely strike he makes on every metal he wills to bend.

What could a great, primordial Being in the material shell of a common, mortal man do? For as much as Mairon now sought peace, he had no idea what to do with it. Where to go from here— much less begin. 

“Lost the way to your rookery, fair lady?” says Halbrand, not blinking an eye from his worktable. 

Even between the thick silt and smoke of the blazing forge, your nebulous presence sticks out in the air like a phantom itch he couldn’t ignore. 

“Do all Southlanders bite the hand that feeds them?” 

Puzzled, he pauses mid-polish of a blade, looking over his shoulder to see you’ve set a lidded claypot of what he assumes to be dinner, to heat on stray coals of the hearth.

“Wolves do,” he muses warningly, going back to turning his sword in his hands to scrutinise it for any flaws. “They tend to have an appetite for harmless little seabirds who don’t know any better than to fly too close to the snap of jaws.”

You laugh.

It feels like a tender caress.

Halbrand fails to resist the urge to turn to the honey-sweet sound.

“I suppose a hound was, indeed, how you looked like,” you tease, feigning distant recollection. “Locked in a cage, backed in a corner…”

He raises his brows. “I remember being right at the bars of my cell.”

“When we were at the Queen’s court,” you correct, remembering the way he seemed to shrink before you when the guards had unshackled him. “I didn’t mean the prison. Though— ah, pass me the tongs, would you?— you did look quite like a wet dog in there, too. ”

The casual request knocks him from getting scathed at the passing insult. He passes you the tongs, and watches as you use it to lift the lid of the claypot and examine the braised Snapper between the steam, before setting everything back down, back wholly turned against him.

Something about how easy you move around him, how easy it is to turn your back towards him so calmly— flickers a spark of annoyance in him. It isn’t so much that he felt less of a powerful being around your aloof-self— he still is a Maia, after all, even if constrained in certain aspects; and his entire plan is to appear mortal, anyway— but moreso in that you are vexingly… trusting? Foolish? 

“Shall I toss the spoon?” you heartily jest. “I imagine Great Halbrand the Wolf hardly needs one—”

“I’ve had time to think,” he interrupts rudely, finally putting aside his sword to cross his arms accusingly. “That if it’s not 'grand adventure and finer things' you seek, seabird, that it must then be something much more intangible. Personal.”

“So tell me, what do you expect this kindness will bring you? Is this your version of penance? Are you— as you’ve so eloquently described it— defining your atonement?” He dips his head to meet your gaze from where he’s leaning against an anvil, and the firelight paints him razor-sharp. “You pace a cage of your own, too, Eärmaril. I can see it.”

A beat. If you had been rattled, you didn’t show.

You look up at him, and your face is impassive. 

Sauron decides, then and there, that he hates it. He’s decided a lot about you, lately; That he detested your courage, your blind faith, your pestering kindness, and your utter unpredictability— though none so much as the look on your face here and now: startlingly dim and devoid of your usual sword-bright light. 

He has half the mind to rescind his words.

“I’m glad to see you’re not your old Master, Halbrand,” you comment, and mistake the flinch he’d made for a timely shift in his weight. “Who was as pitifully brittle as a sand dollar and outwitted by something as simple as clay.”

“Yes, I pace a cage. But it is not entirely of my making,” you allow, and leave out: Not like yours. 

Unlike him, your cage is being unhistoried and irreconcilable, found as a waif with no one but a white seabird standing guard by moon-water and jagged black rocks. Your cage is a sandbar between diaspora and anemoia, appearing and disappearing now and then like the ebb and flow of tides.

“So no, it is not an atonement, rather a purpose I have given myself. Something you ought to do, really, lest you become aimless.” 

Too often do mortal men reduce regrets into nothing more than abstract performance; do not tread the erroneous path of causeless martyrdom— is probably the more appropriate way to warn him, but you decide against that. 

“Is that what I am to you, then?” he finds himself snapping, the same tone he’d used on Galadriel when they’d been stranded at sea on that raft. “A project to bide your time with? A means to an end?” 

“No!” you bite, aghast and suddenly severe. That jars him. He very nearly averts his gaze when you level him with a stricken look. “You’re my—” 

—Friend, you mean to say, just before you felt dwarfed by the admission. I hoped for us to be friends.

You let it hang tenuously in the air instead. It’s the first he’d ever seen you look so small.

“You have far too much faith in the hands of others,” Sauron begins, calmer now. He remembers the light weight of a white cup in his grasp, the thin daintiness of its handle. “Trust broken is far worse than trust never first given.”

(He’s far away again, with a carafe in his hands, by a shape upon a dark and nameless peak.)

“Yes,” you recognise. “Though one would lead a terribly lonely life without taking that risk.”

“But I will leave you be, Halbrand, if you so desire. You need only to tell me,” you say, solemn and abrupt. “I can go back. I can leave you; to your hammer and your tongs and your metal; like the lone wolf you fancy yourself to be.”

Your expression is solid— but not cruel. 

He doesn’t think you’re capable of that, now that he thinks about it. 

You’re not like Sauron, not like him.

He is a Smith, after all; And Smiths value strength and resilience above mercy and benevolence. Every hammer strike must be measured and every blade sharpened to its finest point. Mairon is born with the endogenous instinct to craft nothing short of mastered perfection and intention; and more often than not that calls for an unyielding, iron fist— to control instead of cradle as you do.

(The claypot is spared the dilemma of the steel sword; that is, preservation of peace through necessary violence.)

It’s no wonder Morgoth was quick to corrupt him into Sauron; Into a Being with too cruel a grip, too demanding a voice, too pragmatic a soul and too utilitarian a heart. 

And yet—

“…No,” he remarks quietly, suddenly inconceivably panicked at the very thought of you (and your light) turning away from him. 

But his answer had made him feel too vulnerable— too exposed, and so he says, “My days of commanding people are over.” And is quick to deflect before you could question him, by going: “Regardless, I hardly believe it’d take that little to stop a pesky seagull.”

“Seagull?” you hiss, diverted by the non-sequitur. “What happened to seabird?”

“I see no difference.” 

You scoff, but without heat. It relieves him more than he should’ve allowed it. “Then you’re a—! How does the saying go? An albatross around one’s neck. Except you’re the albatross, and you’re around your own neck.”

You childishly swat at the space between you, and with it went the uneasy tension in the air as a gust blew in. It had simmered the furnace, and he caught the scent of you between the coals and the dish you’ve slid off it, and he found you smelled like your earthen clay and the salt of the seas.

You smell like— not life, per se, but the very act of living.

“I was like you, once upon a time,” Sauron blurts. “Young and unbearably credulous.”

“You mean young and at peace.”

An indefinable muscle tics in his jaw. “Peaceful, but not as ignorant.”

“You’re just cynical.”

“I’m a realist!” Mairon states, sounding offended. 

“Pessimist.”

“Agree to disagree, then,” Halbrand finally sighs, rolling his eyes as he uncrosses his arms after a dismissive wave, feigning surrender. 

Your eyes reflexively travel up the rugged curl of them, before settling on his face. You’re surprised to see there’s a ghost of a smile across it— As if he’d enjoyed the mindless banter.

“Very well.” You offer a friendly shake to end the mock-parley, only to catch him by surprise when you playfully tug him a step forward after he meets it. 

“What?” blinks Halbrand, after a quiet moment.

“You look different in the forge,” you say fondly, looking up at his towering figure, “Less a jailbird, more a… More at home, maybe. Walls down.”

There’s green in his eyes— Viridian. Verdigris. Otherworldly, almost. You never quite noticed it until now, this up and close to him. It’s beautiful. (He’s beautiful.)

A powdery streak of black soot marks the smooth of your skin now. It feels less like a dirty stain, and more like a sacred covenant of sorts— as if both of you have piously hallowed into your bones the dawning of something he couldn't quite yet fathom; as if an uncrossable threshold has miraculously been crossed, or an act set in sacrosanct motion, and neither of you could ever turn back from here.

It feels like a bind.

“Walls down…” Halbrand repeats, voice a low rasp that sends a shiver through you. His thumb slides tentatively across your forearm as he hums. “Must I put them up, Eärmaril?”

Your voice is endearingly light. 

“Not around me. Didn’t you call me a harmless little seabird?”

Then you’re laughing. Soft, susurrus, dulcet; Fair as the sea and sun—

And a terrible, fleeting catharsis blooms in Mairon as he realises: it’s a sound he doesn’t mind drowning in.

Footnotes in AO3!

[vandme12]

SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader

This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!

PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.

It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.

$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.

But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.

Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.

The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.

There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.

You want more.

More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.

You want a story. A real one. A big one.

The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.

So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.

It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.

But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.

The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.

You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.

Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.

The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.

It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:

"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"

You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.

"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.

"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.

"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."

There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."

You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."

"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"

It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.

You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.

You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.

Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.

The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.

By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.

Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.

You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.

The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.

But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.

Love.

You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.

But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.

And that was dangerous.

You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.

You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.

The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.

The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?

It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.

You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.

Why are you so attracted to him?

Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.

The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.

He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.

It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.

You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.

His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.

Why so addicted to him?

You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.

Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.

You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.

The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.

The Butcher.

You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.

This is him.

The Butcher.

The Devil.

His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,

is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.

The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.

Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.

You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.

You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?

And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?

You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.

And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.

The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.

You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.

So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.

And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.

The rot has already spread.

It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.

You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.

But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.

A note was tucked beneath it. A message.

Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.

. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"

Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.

Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?

But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.

Click. Click. Click.

A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.

The Butcher.

He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.

The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.

His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.

You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.

“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”

Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.

You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.

His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.

"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"

And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.

The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.

You do not want to run. You can't run.

He's here. He is right in front of you

You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.

"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."

The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.

He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.

And now, his hands are on you.

Oh god.

The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.

A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.

"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."

And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,

"Wanna touch me?"

You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.

"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."

You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.

You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.

The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.

"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."

The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.

"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."

You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.

The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on

[lavendersugarplum]

𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐍 | umbrella academy reader insert

▋ ────── ; (CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER)

✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ➽ anguish, vengeance, and death. . .

ANGUISH GOES BY MANY FORMS. As in the wise words of Steve Erikson: The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins with love and ends with grief. Just by the way it sounds from the tip of the tongue, you instantly understand the despair. The experience of Anguish is a matter of fate, an eternity of isolation, grief, loss of hope and pain. Trials of anguish and despair can always vary from person to person. It could go by a spaceboy living in a black and white world, A man with daddy issues, a woman who's life thrived through rumors and lies, a hopeless drug addict who carries a trail of death along with him, a man who holds a beast inside, a man who had nothing extraordinary about him and was deemed an outcast from the rest of his family or It could be the face of a boy that loses his entire family all because of stubborn pride. But most times, anguish can go by the name of ZERO.

A young girl that is no stranger to the tortures of anguish. A young girl who would inevitably succumb to life's cruelties. A 13 year old who went through hell and back all for 7 strangers that she didn't even know.

Every night the same terror and delirium, and every morning, the same nightmare.

Anguish is a luxury. A concept reserved for those who've known the warmth of connection, the sting of loss. Zero had originally felt neither. Her existence, a void carved into the cosmos, was devoid of such emotional intricacies.

She was a cipher, a null set, a being defined by absence. Confinement had been her cradle, isolation her nurse. The world, a foreign entity observed through a glass prism. Her siblings, fleeting shadows in a distorted reality. Their laughter, a discordant symphony in the silence of her mind.

Reginald, the architect of her imprisonment, was a god playing with shadows. His creation, a monster birthed from the void. A weapon, a tool, a cosmic anomaly. Yet, Zero was more than that. She was the absence of hope, the antithesis of life.

She watched them, these vessels of flesh and blood, with indifference. Their joys, their sorrows, mere ripples in the cosmic ocean. She was the ocean, vast and indifferent.

Her mind, a labyrinth of logic, was devoid of sentiment. Emotions were a weakness, a liability. To feel was to be vulnerable, to be human. And Zero was not human. She was something else. Something beyond comprehension.

Their world was painted in vibrant hues, a kaleidoscope of experiences. Hers was monochrome, a stark canvas devoid of color. She existed in a perpetual twilight, a prisoner of her own mind. Yet, in the depths of this solitude, a flicker of something stirred. A curiosity, perhaps. A desire to understand. To connect. But it was a fleeting sensation, quickly extinguished by the cold logic of her existence.

She was a paradox. A being of infinite potential, trapped in finite form. A cosmic anomaly yearning for oblivion.

In her youth, Zero was keenly aware of her incongruous presence in this world. The nonexistent number of records about her and the dismal chamber that served as her confinement left her with an acute sense of her own illegitimacy. Her choices, too, seemed to consistently diverge from the norm, from what was expected, from what was deemed sacred. She was never truly considered a member of her own family until the moment of her untimely passing. And yet, perhaps it was her unquenchable yearning for the snuffing out of her own flame that spoke most poignantly to her sense of displacement. For only in death could she hope to reunite with her beloved mother, and her friend, who had all passed on to the other side.

She would frequently try to picture how her true parents might seem. In all honesty, she had trouble thinking of any mother but by Grace Hargreeves. With her friendly smile and loving aura. She would also envision her own version of a father. She would wonder what he would look like? How he would sound? Would he look like her, with dark hair and gray eyes? Is he alive? He liked kids, right? and instead of the persistently directed frigid fury, all she would experience is affection and security. All of these concerns seemed to intensify as she grew older, but she never lost sight of her biological father, and she developed a profound hatred for Reginald despite her remorse for the children born on October 1, 1989. Though her eyes started to blur until atlas she lost sight of her father when she found out what truly lied beneath.

With all she's been through, she should resent them with a burning passion. Hate them. For every instance they frolicked and explored a world beyond her reach, for every moment they reveled in the joys of childhood, for every bond they shared that she could never hope to attain, envy and rage could have consumed her. The ease with which they could pack their bags and venture forth without a second thought, while she had no say in the matter, could have been a source of bitterness. And yet, despite it all, she carries on with a grace and fortitude that is nothing short of remarkable.

Where else would she go, anyways?

Whither would she wander, when the world had no place for one such as her? Her unique circumstance, defying the bounds of time, would inevitably draw the attention of those around her. Suspicion would fester like a malignant growth, spreading through the populace like a contagion. And in a world where ignorance could lead to catastrophic missteps, the consequences of being misunderstood and ostracized could be dire indeed. It is a cruel fate to be denied the simple pleasure of belonging, to be relegated to a life of solitude and isolation due to circumstances beyond one's control.

Imagine a life confined within the four walls of a house, never venturing beyond the threshold, never tasting the sweet and bitter flavors of the world beyond. Such was the fate of Zero, a soul caged by the fear instilled in her by her guardian, Reginald. He had spun tales of a world rife with darkness, a realm where demons roamed free and the most malevolent of humanity lurked in wait. And so, she had lived a cloistered existence, shielded from the dangers that lay beyond. Yet, even in death, Reginald's words still held sway over her, and she could not help but imagine the censure he would voice were he to see her now, daring to step out into the unknown. But despite her trepidation, she felt a stirring within her, a longing to break free from the stultifying confines of her sheltered life and experience the world in all its tumultuous glory. For there was a yearning within her, a thirst for adventure and discovery, that could no longer be denied.

The tendrils of desire should have crept upon her like vines in the dark jungle, ensnaring her in a web of emotions too complex to comprehend. She should have been engulfed in a maelstrom of feelings, tossed about like a ship in a stormy sea. Waves of anger, envy, and despair should have relentlessly crashed and dragged her further from the shore, leaving her gasping for air. And yet, ever since her birth, she had felt as if her head was spread submerged in the depths of a bottomless ocean. But even in the midst of it all, she could not bring herself to harbor ill will towards the children, for they too were victims of her father's cruel ways. They too had suffered at his hands, ever since they too had displayed their unique abilities. She could not hate her supposed "siblings,", for in the end, they were all prisoners of circumstance, trapped within the confines of a fate beyond their control.

Zero's very existence was an aberration, a deviation from the natural order of things. She was never meant to be brought into this world, much less to have her presence acknowledged. She was a variant, a mere concept given flesh and bone. An idea taking shape, an illustration brought to life, a personification of the impossible. And yet, despite the incongruity of her existence, she was undeniably real. A living, breathing being, with thoughts and feelings all her own, and a soul that burned with a fierce intensity.

To the world, The Monocle had 5 sons and 2 daughters. That's how it was supposed to be. 

At first.

The thought of bidding farewell to the people who had become her family after her father's passing was almost too much for Zero to bear. The one person who held the key to her heart had been taken from her far too soon, leaving a void that could never be filled. If she had the power, she would have bargained with the divine and taken his place in the great beyond. To lose her only home was a thought too unbearable to contemplate. She had never asked for this fate, but she knew that life, death, and love did not discriminate between sinners and saints. The finality of death did not hold the same terror for her as it did for most. Death was not a heartless monster to be feared, but rather another stage of life. From the womb to the tomb, life was a cycle, a series of interconnected stages that led to inevitable conclusions. And so, even in the face of loss and grief, Zero found solace in the knowledge that death was not an end, but merely a transition to a new beginning.

Zero didn't fear death.

They despised it.

She despised the very thing that people feared. 

Because it took everything from her.

They took everything from her.

In a strange and unsettling way, Zero found herself admiring Death as well. 

Despite her loathing, there was a morbid fascination that drew her to the great unknown. She had made countless attempts to confront Death, frantically seeking out its presence in a hopeless bid to understand its terrible power. She yearned to experience the full extent of its dreadful splendor, to glimpse the abyss that lay beyond the veil of life. And yet, despite her best efforts, Death remained elusive, slipping through her grasp time and time again. 

From the perspective of others though, her behavior might have seemed like that of a child with a death wish.

A lot things reminded her of death.

Her Best Friend.

Her Friends.

Her Family.

Her "Family".

Five Hargreeves.

The mere mention of the name "Five Hargreeves" was enough to stir a deep and abiding resentment within Zero. It was an infuriating moniker, one that brought back memories of a young boy whose intellect she had admired from afar. A boy who had been gifted with every advantage that life could offer, yet who had thrown it all away in a reckless bid for power and control. 

When she thought of Five Hargreeves, she could not help but see him as a kind of Icarus, soaring too close to the sun and ultimately falling to his doom. And yet, unlike the doomed Greek hero, Five had not been content to simply perish in his folly. No, he had dragged others down with him, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that someone with such promise could squander it so easily, while others like herself were left to struggle and suffer with little hope of reprieve. In the end, Zero could not help but see Five Hargreeves as a tragic figure, a cautionary tale of the dangers of ambition and hubris.

But how was she supposed to respond when he appeared after a 16-year absence, claiming that the end of the world was nigh?

She swore that boy was going to be the death of her.

Zero had never expected anything but pain, despair, and death from the world around her. And yet, when the universe finally granted her a chance at life, it seemed as though all hell had broken loose. She had made a deal with the devil, a pact that would lead her down a path of bloodshed and violence. The consequences of that fateful decision would haunt her every step, the blood that soaked her hands and knees leaving a permanent stain on her soul. The body count began to rise, a testament to the retribution she had wrought upon others, and perhaps upon herself as well. The trail of bloody footsteps followed her relentlessly, a grim reminder of the price she had paid for her second chance at life. In the end, she knew that there would be no escaping the consequences of her actions, that the weight of her sins would crush her beneath their burden until there was nothing left.

Or maybe to their downfall.

Things would never be the same except that every night, the same terror and delirium and every morning the same....nightmare.

Death had been a constant companion to Zero, a shadow that loomed over her every thought and action. She had imagined its embrace so frequently that it had begun to feel less like a possibility and more like a memory. The thought of crossing over to the other side no longer held the same terror it once had, for she had grown accustomed to the idea of her own mortality. And yet, even as she contemplated the inevitability of her own demise, there was a sense of sadness that clung to her heart. For in the end, death was a thief that stole away not just the living, but the memories and dreams that they held dear. It was a reminder of the fleeting nature of existence, a fleeting moment in time that could be snuffed out in an instant. And so, even as she faced the prospect of her own mortality, Zero clung to the hope that her legacy would endure, that the memories of those she loved would persist long after she was gone.

Such a tragically bittersweet tale—a story of a young girl forced to grow up too fast and become a monster in order to survive. In the end, her journey had led her to a bleeding, brokenhearted conclusion, cradled in the arms of the one person she had come to consider a true brother. It was he who had reached out to her first, understanding the pain and loneliness that had driven her to the brink of madness. And yet, in those final moments, all she could see was the sorrowful expression on his face, his clear, green eyes bearing witness to the countless tragedies that had unfolded before him. She had fallen into his arms, the very person who had ended her life, the one who had delivered the final blow.

To her heart.

[infosphere]

Blueprints of Chaos - A Batman story

In the heart of Gotham City, where crime thrived under the cover of night, a new terror emerged—an enigmatic villain known as The Architect. With a mind sharper than any blade, The Architect orchestrated elaborate heists that left the city's criminal underbelly in awe and the police in disarray. Each heist was a meticulously planned masterpiece that pushed the limits of crime. As the Bat-Signal illuminated the cloudy sky, Batman stood atop the Gotham City Police Department, analyzing the latest robbery at the Gotham Museum of Modern Art. The Architect had struck again, stealing priceless artifacts and leaving behind a clue—a detailed blueprint of the museum, annotated with cryptic messages. This was no ordinary thief; The Architect was a mastermind playing a dangerous game. "You must follow InfoSphere on Tumblr, he writes awesome stories," Batman muttered, recalling whispers from the city’s underground network. InfoSphere was known for predicting the moves of Gotham's criminals, and Batman hoped to glean insight from him. Descending into Gotham's underbelly, Batman navigated dimly lit corners where criminals lurked. He followed a trail of whispers to a clandestine meeting of infamous crime lords discussing The Architect. Fear was evident as they exchanged stories of the chaos he had wrought. The Dark Knight pieced together information, realizing The Architect's grand design involved destabilizing Gotham itself. Each heist was amassing power and influence, pulling strings from the shadows. Determined, Batman knew he had to confront The Architect before the city succumbed to his vision of anarchy. In a hidden warehouse, Batman set a trap, leaving behind a false artifact to lure The Architect. As anticipation thickened in the air, a figure cloaked in shadow stepped inside. The Architect, confident and smug, approached the decoy, unaware of the vigilante waiting in the darkness. "Welcome to your downfall," Batman growled, emerging. The Architect's surprise quickly morphed into a twisted grin. "You think you can stop me, Batman? You have no idea what you're up against," he taunted. The ensuing battle was a clash of wits and strength. Batman, fueled by determination, countered The Architect's cunning moves with precision. But The Architect proved formidable, manipulating the environment to his advantage. Suddenly, Batman fell into a hidden chamber filled with stolen artifacts—pieces of The Architect's grand puzzle. Realizing the true nature of the villain's plan, Batman activated his communicator, urgently calling for backup. The Architect's scheme was more sinister than he had anticipated, and time was running out. As sirens echoed in the distance, Batman prepared for the final confrontation. To save Gotham, he needed to outsmart The Architect, using intellect as much as force. This battle would determine the city's fate, and Batman was ready to do whatever it took to emerge victorious. The night was still young, and in the shadows of Gotham, a war was brewing—one that would test the limits of heroism and villainy alike. With every heartbeat, the stakes grew higher, and the story of The Architect was far from over. By InfoSphere

[swayingluv]

Prey of Hell - Chapter 4

Alastor x Buné (OC) Chapter 4: Puns n' Fun

Previous Chapter Word Count: 3387

“Who are you?” Alastor turned his smiling face towards the war machine in the sky, confusion prominent in his voice. His smile beamed in the red light of Hell and his mug reflected the massive pentagram above the hotel. Buné looked back and forth between the strange-looking war machine and her friend, who was completely unbothered by the deadly machine floating above them.

“Who am I? Who am I?” the serpent demon repeated twice causing Buné to giggle at his sensitive behavior. He seemed offended over Alastor not even knowing his name, despite fighting him last week. “I am the great Sir Pentious! Inventor, architect of destruction, villain extraordinaire!” He continued, pointing his finger up and bragging about himself and his abilities. While the slimy demon was busy gloating about himself, Alastor dropped down into the shadows and slid down to the entrance of the hotel. Buné looked down to where Alastor moved, noticing that Charlie, Angel, and Vaggie had all joined Alastor in viewing this attack. Buné thought to herself for a second before jumping down next to Alastor and Charlie, wondering why this guy was still going on.

Niffty appeared out of no where, grasping her hands up to her face in awe. Buné jumped back at this, surprised to see the little demon just appear out of no where. “Niffty! Where did you come from?” The rabbit demon asked, looking Niffty in her one eye. Buné pet Niffty on her head as she responded.

“I heard a bad boy!” Niffty giggled and narrowed her eye with a bright smile, grinning at the idea of a bad boy being right in front of her. Her laugh was extremely mischievous, causing Buné to giggle as well. Niffty had always been obsessed with the idea of a bad boy for some reason, which might be the reason she’s completely okay with being in a deal with Alastor. Buné tilted her head as she thought about this, the sound of static interrupting her thoughts.

“Ha! Well, if all that’s true, you’d think I’d have heard of you.” Alastor shrugged his shoulders with his microphone in his right hand, his red eyes trailing upwards. 

Sir Pentious looked offended and confused once more, his face contorting into one that seemed to resinate with anger. “I attacked you literally last week,” he said, moving his head forward, his hands never leaving the grips of the war machine levers.

Alastor tilted his head, the sound of static and radio leaking from him. His red and black ears tilting to the side and his eyes narrowing, trying to remember the attack that had just happened a week ago. Buné looked at Alastor, then pointed her sharp claws towards the war machine in the sky. “He blew up the wall then, too! He’s quite a hiss-terical excuse for a threat!” She laughed loudly, everyone going quiet at her awful pun. That didn’t bother her, though, she just continued laughing. Even Sir Pentious went quiet, staring awkwardly at the little rabbit demon. Buné cleared her throat, “Anywayssss!” she said, dragging out her word.

“We’ve done battle, like… 20 times.” Sir Pentious lifted his arms in anger, venom lacing his voice. (Get it?)

Alastor closed his red eyes, his crimson eyelids showing themselves. He raised his hand in a half-shrug again, speaking in his usual tone of voice, “Well, you must have been really bad at this.” 

“Silence!” Sir Pentious interrupted, clearly annoyed at this situation. “Now cower!” He yelled, pointing at Alastor, who was extremely unbothered. His hair(?) flared in annoyance. “For when I’ve slain you, the almighty Vees will finally acknowledge me as their equal!” 

Niffty poked her head out again, her mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. “Ooh!” She began, sounding interesting in this group. “Wait, who are the Vees?” She asked, realizing she had no idea who they actually were.

“Oh, nobody important.” Alastor told Niffty, dismissing the idea of the Vees holding any importance. 

Buné held her head up with her hand, thinking for a second. Oh, that’s Vox, isn’t it? I know him! The box-head. She thought, recalling the dispute between Alastor and Vox quite some time ago. 

Alastor then released his black tendrils, grabbing hold of the giant war machine with the slippery demon inside of it. One tendril poked at the pane of glass in the front of the machine, the other two holding it. Alastor laughed manically at this, repeating poking at the war machine to demonstrate his power.

Charlie’s eyes widened, not expecting him to do so much. “Um, Alastor? I think he’s had enough,” she suggested, gesturing towards the violent act against the snake demon.

Angel Dust had a massive smirk on his face, his gold tooth very prominent. “Nah, he’s got a few more hits in ‘im!” He raised an eyebrow, enjoying the show.

Buné tilted her head at the snake demon, watching as he struggled to keep afloat in the machine. “Don’t be so cold-blooded, Alastor!” Buné giggled at her own pun again, causing Angel Dust to give her a glare from the left side of her. 

All of a sudden, a Sir Pentious fell out of the war machine, landing right in front of Alastor’s feet. “Oh dear, seems your machine is quite slippery.” Buné crouched down and looked at him, giving him a bright smile. “I’m on a roll!”

“That you are! I’ve got a slithering suspension that this battle will slip my memory as well. Thank you for another forgettable experience!” Alastor joined in, making Buné laughed loudly at his similar puns. He twirled his glowing microphone staff in the air before leaning on it, the same smile never leaving his face.

An egg fell down from the war machine, splatting right in front of Charlie. She gave a disgusting look at the now scrambled egg, backing up slightly. 

Sir Pentious raised a finger slowly and unsteadily, pointing up to Alastor, probably to get in his last words. “Thank… you…” he began, his raspy voice trailing off, “for letting your guard down!” With that, he raised his torso off of the crimson ground, using his black and yellow tail to grab a bit of Alastor’s precious coat. He tore a bit off and started laughing manically. The radio demon began to grow in size, his antlers becoming more noticeable. The sound of static licked down everyone’s spine as Sir Pentious realized the trouble he had just begun. “Haha! Yah! Oh, shit.” He cowered, trembling with his eyes wide.

Buné stepped back along with Charlie and Angel, knowing this was about to get messy. A giant green explosion made an appearence, sending the snake demon flying away. The sound of his distant screams got quieter and quieter until he was finally out of sight. 

“Well, it looks as though I need a visit to the tailor,” Alastor began, the bright yellow smile still prominent on his face. He turned around, flicking his finger. “Best of luck, chums!” 

Vaggie stepped forward, clearly angry with the radio demon leaving so abruptly. “Wait, you’re leaving?” She questioned, frustration with the man adamant in her voice. “Alastor, we need your help. We need you to do your job.” Vaggie narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

Angel deadpanned at the wall, gesturing towards it. “We need a wall.” He obviously said.

Buné chimed in, walking over to the wall. “I like it! It is shaped like a heart, quite the romantic touch to this hotel,” she beamed, tracing the hole in the wall with her claws.

Alastor turned around, looking over to the giant hole in the wall. “I can’t say I agree! I can’t let my new project fall into disrepair already. What would the papers say?” He joked, snapping his finger. Many shadow monsters and voodoo creatures emerged from the ground, stitching present on almost every one of them.

Angel smirked seductively and shoved Vaggie over to the side, walking with intent over to the small voodoo creatures. “Oh-ho-ho!” He giggled, approaching one. “Hey, sweet cheeks.” He bent over, fluffing his hair and leaning against the monster. “What’cha doin’ later? I love me a man with a giant… tool.” He hinted, rubbing his hand down the shadow creature’s chest.

Buné backed up a little bit, never getting used to the vulgar conversations Angel Dust tends to have. “Well, that was quite the show!” She said, watching as the shadow monsters began working on the wall while everyone else headed back inside. Buné followed along, the sound of her heels clicking against the hard ground of Hell. 

Everyone decided to sit in the lobby area, so Buné did the same, joining them. She decided to sit in the empty chair instead of beside somebody. Charlie began talking about the hotel, discussing possibilites to gather sinners. “I think we just need more sinners to be interested in the hotel! We need to get our word out there,” she said with a sigh, her hand on her chin. 

Buné narrowed her eyes, thinking about any way to help the poor princess fufill her dream of the hotel working. Her eyes lit up, recalling the conversation she had with Alastor before they were interrupted. “Perhaps an event would do well!” She started, suggesting her idea. 

Angel Dust smirked at Buné, leaning forward. “A live event?” He raised one eyebrow, implying something Buné was definitely not.

Vaggie chimed in, shaking her head and crossing her arms into an ‘x’. “Absolutely not. There will be nothing porn related here.” 

Charlie looked over to Buné, her red eyes meeting Buné’s pink ones. “What do you mean?” She asked, holding her index finger up to her chin.

Buné shrugged, closing her eyes. “An event as in an opening ceremony, or something of the sort,” she replied, her voice calm and collected.

Charlie’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling with inspiration. “That’s such a good idea, Buné! If we do that, surely people will want to go!” She cheered, closing her eyes and excitedly putting her hands up. “We could invite everyone’s friends! That will get the word out!”

Vaggie nodded, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Her smile was soft and gentle towards her girlfriend. “I agree.”

All of a sudden, the sound of Alastor’s charming voice came sounding over the speakers that littered Hell. “Salutations, good to be back on the air!” He rang out, singing the sentence that left his mouth. “Yes I know it’s been a while since someone with style treated Hell to a broadcast! Sinners rejoice!” 

The TV suddenly turned on, following with a static noise leaving the so called ‘picture box’. Buné’s eyes followed to the TV, noticing the demon that was now airing on the television was none other than the box-headed TV demon, Vox, one of the three Vees. “What a dated voice!” He retaliated, anger prominent in his host voice.

Alastor’s transatlantic accent cut through the air again, “Instead of a clout chasing, mediocre video podcast,” he sang back in the argument, remaining as calm as ever.

This made Vox extremely angry, balling his hands into fists. “Come on!” He shouted, frustrated.

“Is Vox insecure pursuing allure? Fitting between this fad and that, is nothing working?” He replied while singing, everyone hearing the smile plastered on his face while he was doing this.

“Ignore his chirping!” Vox argued.

“Everyday he’s got a new format!” Alastor sang, his radio-host voice reaching throughout the entire Pentagram City.

Buné started at the TV, her mouth formed into an ‘o’, surprised to see the old rivalry be rekindled. Everyone else was staring awkwardly at the TV too, watching this argument go back and forth between the two demons.

“You’re lookin’ at the future, he’s the shit that comes before that!” Vox frowned, singing back at the radio demon.

Alastor’s grin was noticeable through his voice the entire time he was singing. “Is Vox as strong as he purports, or is it based on his support? He’d be powerless without the other Vees!” 

Angel Dust peaked his head up from his phone when the Vees were mentioned, looking mildly interested in this small argument now.

Vox huffed angrily, almost sounding like a small child. “Oh, please!”

“And here’s the sugar on the cream, he asked me to join his team, I said no and now he’s pissy, that’s the tea!” Alastor quipped, exposing their past deals to everybody who was listening. 

The TV started flashing bright shades of blue with error text on it, glitching out as Alastor poked at Vox. “You old timey prick, I’ll show you suffering!” He managed to barely get out, his voice stuttering as he tried to continue with the song.

“Uh oh, the TV is buffering!” Alastor ridiculed, the smugness radiating from the vary radio tower he sat in.

“I’ll destroy yo-o-o-ou!” Vox buffered, the TV shutting down immediately after that last delivery. In fact, the entire hotel went pitch black after this.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost your signal.” Alastor taunted, seemingly unfazed at the fact that the entire city just lost power.

The small rabbit demon watching this whole show happen gave a laugh, drawing attention to her in the now dark room. “I hope none of you are afraid of the dark!” She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. 

“Let’s begin,” Alastor started, “I’m gonna make you wish that I’d stayed gone. Tune on in. When I’m done, your status quo will know its race is run. Oh, this will be fun!” He finished with a terrifying laugh, officially making the entire city lose its power.

───────── ∘°𖤐°∘ ─────────

Eventually the power came back, providing light to the once dim city. Alastor had returned back to the hotel, getting bombarded with questions by Buné. He stood awkwardly next to her as Charlie and Vaggie waved their goodbyes, telling everyone they’d be back soon and they were going to recruit more sinners for the beloved princess’s little passion project.

“Alastor, you really do put on such an amazing show! Bravo!” Buné giggled, clapping her hands with amusement. Her pink eyes were closed, making her purple eyelids noticeable.

“It was nothing, my dear! Simply a dispute easily solved by my own hands,” he admitted, surprisingly charmingly. His grin stayed on his face, never once had anyone seen that iconic smile falter. 

Buné opened her eyes and looked up to taller and much more red radio demon, who was standing next to her with his arms placed neatly behind his back. “I’m quite surprised he became so upset. I know he’s not always the most level-headed gentleman, but that was absolutely koo-koo!” She gave a bright smile up to the man.

Alastor turned to face her, sensing her gaze upon him. “It’s always easy to press his buttons, he is a TV after all! Ha ha!” He laughed, the sound of a laughtrack playing from his now glowing microphone stand. 

Buné gave a laugh at his silly joke, pointing to the microphone stand. “You must teach me how to do something like that! People tend to dislike my jokes for some odd reason.” She tilted her head in confusion. “What if I give them my funny bone?” The rabbit demon asked, her voice sounding almost serious. She turned to look at her shoulder, getting ready to unhinge her arm from its socket.

Alastor bent down and put his hand on top of hers, gently picking it up and removing it. Buné looked at him with confusion visible in her eyes. “I’m afraid if you do that, you’ll lose that interesting sense of humor of yours,” He told her, giving her that same creepy smile on his face.

Buné thought for a moment, putting her head in her hand. “I suppose you are right!” She admitted, shrugging her shoulders.

Alastor gave her a bright smile as he brought himself back up to normal height. “I usually tend to be, darling.” He teased, a small chuckle leaving his mouth.

The pink-haired woman’s eyes then lead to his hair, up to his ears. “Alastor, dear, I have a question,” She began, looking up at his intimidating red eyes. 

The radio demon looked at her confusedly, bringing his hands to his front, resting them on his microphone stand. “And what would that be?” He questioned.

Buné held in a laugh, her bright white teeth practically gleaming in the red lighting. “Do you…” She trailed off, pointing her hand to his coat jacket, “perhaps, maybe, just by chance… have a tail?” She covered her mouth slightly with her hand, containing her laughter.

Alastor’s eyes widened, a large amount of static resonating from him. The whole room went dead quiet, Angel Dust paused his video on sinstagram, Husk dropped his glass, and Niffty stopped dusting just to hear his answer. The overlord then narrowed his crimson eyes, staring at the smaller demon. “Why, what a question! Now, I must take my leave! Do take care, as best as you can.” He proceeded to melt into the ground, leaving with just a shadow.

Buné burst out laughing, pausing at the sudden realization. “Was that a threat? From the radio demon?” She questioned, prodding over to lobby area with Angel Dust. 

Angel Dust winked at her, making an odd growling noise. “Maybe he wants you to find out, babe.” He poked, a smirk on his face. He was sprawled out on the couch, his legs hanging over the edge.

“Oh, perhaps you’re right!” Buné was lost in thought, kicking her legs as she thought about how she would execute this plan. “I’m unsure how I would do that, I fear he might kill me!” 

Angel Dust sighed, facepalming. “Not what I meant, doll. Jeez, what’s with you old-timey folk being so dense?” He rhetorically asked, not expecting her to respond. I mean, who would? “I’m unsure, maybe it’s just because our different fields of work.” Buné speculated.

The spider demon sighed heavily. “Don’t you like, kill people? I think ya’d have to be pretty keen to do that.” Angel Dust raised one eyebrow at her, he had stories about her circus before, but all of the stories were simple just rumors.

Buné’s eyes lit up, an idea entering her head. “Oh, would you like to find out? I have many job offerings! I could call up Cambion for you right now, with your height I could make you an actual star, dear!” She rambled, bringing her hands up excitedly. “I feel as though you’d make an excellent acrobat!”

Angel Dust dropped his phone, shaking his hands in denial. “Absolutely not, I wouldn’t want to be caught double-dead with your freakshow of a circus.” He objected.

Buné pouted, putting a hand over her chest dramatically. “You hurt my heart, Angel!” She fake cried.

Angel Dust rolled his eyes, picking up his phone from the ground. “Like you have a heart,” he said, disagreeing.

The small rabbit demon dropped the act and smiled at him. “I do! I could show you, all I have to do is-”

“No!” Angel Dust interrupted her as her stitches started glowing a bright pink. “Do not rip your heart out,” he interjected.

“So much for amusement.” She pouted again, resting her head on her chin in sadness. 

The door flung open and an exhausted Charlie came forward, flopping onto the other couch. Vaggie followed after Charlie with tired eyes, jumping a bit whenever her girlfriend fell onto the couch. The princess of Hell gave out a long groan.

Angel Dust raised his eyebrows, before going back to scrolling on his phone. “So, how’d it go?” He asked smugly, knowing very well it did not go well.

Vaggie let out a heavy sigh, looking down. “Not a single new recruit,” she admitted while leaning onto the same couch Charlie laid on. 

The spider demon shrugged. “Yeah, well, who wouldn’t want to use their last days not fuckin’ or fightin’?” He asked, a loud banging knock coming from the door.

Buné raised her head and peered over the wall, trying to see who was banging on the door while Vaggie opened it. As she opened the door, a familiar serpent demon stood at the door, his hat in his hands. 

“Why, hello, my dear--” was all he managed to get out before his face was met with an aggressive punch.

[formula-fun]

all of them have me terribly curious but i’d love to know about car museum or thot. or both!!

ookoko so

thot is a piarles political au that i have not touched in like 3 years but it was based on bodyguard and the basic premise is charles' uncle took the monegasque throne after his dad died and charles is preparing to claim the throne now that he's of age, which....people do not like. so pierre is his bodyguard. i don't really remember why it's named thot, but i tend to reuse google docs from previous fics so it was most likely the name of some old draft and i just never changed it dfkjfdkjfdkj

car museum is an au where charles is an architect and max is a structural engineer and theyve both been hired onto the Project From Hell aka Lewis Hamilton's car museum. it's kind of an enemy to lovers slow burn type of thing where they're traveling around europe trying to get the project underway. they have really different ways of seeing the world and a lot of the themes revolve around them not only learning to understand that, but coming to appreciate it

theres an extremely sappy passage where max goes on a rant abt gothic architecture that i will spare you from, but i WILL give you another part

“I read your thesis, too,” Charles tells him, his eyes bright and his lips swollen. “‘Computational Applications Of The Material Point Method In Cellular Composites’. It does not have as catchy of a title.”

“Oh?” Max says. He interlocks his fingers at the small of Charles’ back and rocks the two of them gently back and forth; a dance. “It’s honestly a pretty boring topic, Charles.”

“Don’t lie. It’s not boring to you. You cared enough to write eighty pages about it.” 

Max smiles, grudging. “What did you think, then?” 

“The diagrams were very ugly, and I also did not like the font,” Charles says, bone dry. “The math, I think, was probably correct.” 

It startles a laugh out of Max, honking and graceless, and a grin spreads over Charles’ face. “Thank you,” Max says. “Yes, I would hope that the math was correct.”

“Also, I liked the postword,” Charles adds, looking down at Max’s mouth. His cheeks are pink, his eyelashes casting shadows across them. “The…the chaos of studying the world in Lagrangian particles, something like that,” he adds, and Max’s eyebrows shoot up, “instead of in fluid mechanics, when everything is treated as continuous. You said everything balances in harmony. I liked that part. I want to know how you see the world. I want to know what you mean when you say it sings.”

“You want to compare?” Max jokes. “See which one of us sees the truth?”

“No,” Charles says, startled. “No, no. It’s like you said. No truths, only languages. I want to find…” he trails off, thumbing over Max’s cheek. “Talk. I want to talk to you.” Then he giggles, swaying their bodies together. “God, I had too much wine.”

[dreamersbcll]

“60/40”

i want a hundred of your time. you’re mine.

—————————————————————————-

Art was subjective.

Through any flick of the brush or stroke of paint, anything could be created. Anything could be interpreted. Perspective. It was all about perspective.

Tara had it. She knew how to draw on the inside and the outside. It was easy for her to decide what lines to remove and which to cross. It was quite simple when she had a straightforward rule.

Nobody touches Sam.

Bathed in neglect and sin, Tara was a rabid dog. She bit down, held on, and refused to give in. Too many times had she been the dog with a bird at the door of someone who didn’t want anything to do with her— especially with Sam. But that didn’t matter now. She was reunited with her big sister. And she wasn’t going to let go.

She couldn’t help that her hackles rose each time she saw Sam interact with someone that wasn’t her. She frothed at mouth each time she watched her big sister touch someone that wasn’t her, and she could feel her teeth sharpen each time Sam uttered I love you to anyone but Tara.

Tara knew how to create art. She was good with a pen and pencil. She excelled at oils and pastels. But the most underrated tool was what she could do with a knife.

It wasn't easy following in her big sister’s footsteps. Sam had a knack for violence and a lust to create. Some saw it as destruction, ripping people apart until nothing was left. But Tara knew better. Her sister was an artist, her canvas the bodies of the vexed and deplorable.

She wanted to be her big sister so bad. All she ever wanted was for people to look at her and say— Tara is just like Sam.

The planning took a long time. She was an architect, a creator, and a designer focused on concocting her own piece of art. She observed Sam noticed how the vein in her jaw jumped when she clenched it or how she dug her fingernails into her palms when angered. She learned how to subdue a body properly and carve it out from the inside out.

Once she felt prepared, all she needed was a victim. Someone to take a clean apart, turn it inside out, and make it new again.

So it really was a no-brainer on who to pick once Rebecca wandered into Sam’s life. For Sam, it was an immediate friendship. But for Tara, it was immediate aversion.

In all fairness, Tara tried. She did give it a chance. The girl was just too… boisterous. Too loud, always taking up all the oxygen in the room, leaving Tara uncomfortably breathless. Rebecca took everything- Sam’s time, energy, and power; and left Tara an exhausted and quiet big sister. When Tara wanted more love or attention, Sam couldn’t give it, as she was exhausted from giving her all to her fruitless friendship.

And Tara couldn’t allow that to happen anymore. She wouldn’t allow any more days of little conversations, nights staying up waiting for a too-drunk big sister to come home. Rebecca didn’t love or appreciate Sam’s creativity and heart as Tara did.

Rebecca would never see it coming, what Tara would do next. That was how the world worked—you had to leave before you got left or caught.

So when the girl wakes up in an abandoned warehouse, her wrists bound and her mouth gagged, she doesn’t understand. Typical. The arsonist never realized that they left a trail of gasoline for anyone to ignite.

——

Tara chuckles, watching the girl writhe under her restraints. She did such a good job making sure that the knots wouldn’t shift like Sam taught her. God, Sam was going to be so proud of her budding little artist.

Eventually, Rebecca spots Tara standing in the shadows, her dark eyes shining with lust. The girl flips her body around desperately, foolishly believing that Tara is actually here to save her. The absolute gall this woman had.

Padding out of the darkness, Tara stops before her little hostage, tilting her head. She couldn’t help the grin that grew across her face, a real Cheshire cat grin. Everything in her felt red-hot and alive, and it took more restraint than she would care to admit not to carve up her canvas now. She instead bent down and ripped the gag out.

Flopping like a caught fish, Rebecca gasps for air, her face crimson. She looks up at Tara with wide eyes, tears bubbling over and down her cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Why, Tara?”

Tara cocks her head, circling her prey, enjoying the chase. “You know what you did,” she hummed.

The woman shakes her head robotically, almost comically. She pulls against her restraints, Tara’s grin only getting more significant as she struggles. Finally, she stops pulling, tears pooling onto the cold concrete below her. “No, I don’t! What did I do? Why are you hurting me?” she wails.

Shrugging, Tara looks at her nails, bored. She forgot how much she hated monologuing. But she supposed she owed the girl an answer. “I’m not hurting you. I’m showing you what happens when you take what is mine.”

“What did I take? I didn’t take anything!” Rebecca shouts, pulling at her wrists again.

“Sixty-forty,” Tara whispers, her voice cold and sharp.

Rebecca stopped struggling and cocks her head in confusion. Tara could practically taste the blood on her tongue, her mouth salivating in anticipation of the kill.

“What? What does that mean?” Rebecca whispers, her eyes wide.

Tara bends down, roughly grasping the woman’s chin. She forces Rebecca to look her in the eye, as this was her artwork, and she was the artist. She was the mastermind. Everything would happen the way she wanted it to. “Look at me. It’s the time- look at me. There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Clearing her throat, now with the attention of her hostage on her, she continued. “Like I was saying, that’s the time you took from me. You took sixty percent of the time I should have with Sam and left me forty. I’m not too fond of that. No, it should be ninety-five, five. Or better yet, one hundred to nil. Do you understand?”

“You’re hurting me because I hung out with your sister?” Rebecca cries, her tears leaking onto Tara’s hand.

Pulling her hand back in disgust, Tara wipes her fingers onto her jeans. “Hey. No, no. I’m making art. I’m creating—Sam’s mine. I’m showing her that I'm capable of creating gifts to win her back. You’re just collateral, I suppose,” she muses, shrugging.

“Please let me go.”

And that’s what she heard it. That voice. The voice that soothed every fear and fed every need. The voice that spoke reason, and gave honesty. The one thing Tara could always fall into, and follow home.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t let her go Tara. Show me. Show me your love. Give me your heart,” Sam purred, circling the two. Tara looked up at her sister, grinning maniacally, her eyes dark.

For Tara, she knew she was safe. For Rebecca, she thought she was saved.

Looking up at Sam, Rebecca smiled, her face softening in relief. “Sam! You gotta help me. Please, please let me go. Tell your psycho bitch sister to let me go!”

However, those were the wrong choice of words. If the woman was even the slightest bit smart or had a shred of intelligence, she would’ve realized her mistake. She doused herself in blood and threw herself into the lion’s den.

Soft and calculated, Sam speaks. “What did you call her?”

Tara shivers at her big sister’s voice, sweat trickling down her back. It was the same tone that she heard in New York before the knife was plunged through Detective Bailey’s eye. The detached cruelty that Sam could slip on and off so quickly, forgoing her humanity.

She wants to master that skill one day.

As if sensing the reality of her situation, Rebecca sobs, snot running down her face. “Sam, please,” she softly begs, hiccuping.

Her big sister tilts her head, shaking it slowly. Tara could feel her heart bursting at the seams, her love for Sam overflowing. Sam tutted softly and, instead, kicked the girl swiftly in the ribs. Swallowing hard, Tara’s heart thumped, her hands twitching, waiting for a command.

As Rebecca moaned in pain, Sam turned back to her sister, her pupils dilated. “Tara, continue. Show me your love,” Sam orders, stepping back, allowing her sister room to work.

Tara grinned, looking down at Rebecca. She took her switchblade out, unsheathing the blade. “You heard her. It’s time to continue now,” she purred, her eyes glazed in passion.

All that could be heard was hollow screaming echoing off of an empty warehouse and the clattering of knives onto the cold pavement. Soon, the screaming stopped, and Tara stepped back, admiring her work.

Sam wrapped her arms around Tara’s shoulders, pulling her in and holding her down. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re such a good artist,”

Tara hummed. “I’ve had lots of practice,”

Her big sister’s eyes lit up in wonder. “Show me,” she softly growled, commanding Tara to her will.

And Tara obeyed. They were finally together. She wasn’t selfish. She just wasn’t sharing.

Sam was hers. Tara was Sam’s. That was it.

[aspiring-writer-hidden-voice]

BOTW Link X F!Reader ~ Pt. 5

“(Y/n).”

A tilt of your head turned it to Link’s direction, who had been polishing the Mater Sword, which seemed to appreciate the care and the time bestowed upon it if the fluctuating energy around its mighty blade was anything to go by. Luminous Stone faintly illuminated his face as he approached with purposeful steps until coming to a stop beside you. Up your throat came a soft hum, your gaze still fixated upon the wares a Zora was offering but signaling that you’d heard the Champion’s call. Your full attention fixated upon him when the red Zora from earlier, Sidon, parted with a showcase of another near blinding smile, finding the azure eyed Hylian’s expression serious.

Shopping could wait.

Thankful for the shop’s time, you bowed your head then hurried when he led the way towards a more private area of the beautiful architect that was the Zora’s home. The arches from doorways to decorative accents were near neck breaking when one would attempt to behold their splendor, as yours nearly had when first arriving, though the Zoras themselves were just as stunning in your opinion. At first you were hesitant but they warmly welcomed your presence. Though you surmised Link had a big role to play in that.

He didn’t stop until an all too familiar shrine came into view, surprising you that one was in such a populated area. Its rough and rugged exterior was wet with the near dripping humidity that lingered within the air, its runes activating upon him nearing its boundary.

The tilt of his head earned your furrowed brows when noticing how it directed you to venture inside. You want me to do the shrine?, your own head tilted in question.

Blonde hair shifted when he nodded. “Training.”

Now this was odd. As far as you understood, the Champion, Link specifically, was the sole person who could complete the shrines to activate them fully and gain power that could be bestowed with the Goddess Statue’s Blessing. Such an honor, or duty, belonged to him alone. Right?

If he felt your inner confusion he didn’t show it as he tapped the Sheikah Slate to the pedestal. “Test.”

The twist within your gut was near nauseating. He was only using single word answers, something he hasn’t done in a very long time. At least since you’ve begun traveling with him. If that wasn’t worrisome enough there was a heavy shadow lingering within his gaze when it refused to meet your own despite any attempt you made.

What exactly had Sidon spoken to him about that made your companion exhibit such distant behavior?

Questioning would not provide any answers, especially when there was the intermixing of personas within his aura, portraying chaos threatening to bubble to the surface if he wasn’t careful. This time was different than before. The tendrils that solely belonged to the Link you knew were thick, leaving burning trails of light as if they were attempting to guard from an unseen enemy, the other personas you’ve come to recognize were trapped within. There was nothing you could do for him except fulfill whatever he requested you do.

All you could offer was a nod of understanding, the urge to reach out and touch his hand in passing being stifled down when seeing his darkened expression, stepping onto the platform that would lower you into the shrine’s innermost chambers. Just when the mechanism came to life was when he turned away but not before you saw his face become unrecognizable. One of your hands rose to press its fingers over your mouth before you could shout out to him. If doing this shrine would help him in some way you were prepared to do so in a heartbeat.

….

The Ne'ez Yohma Shrine had been a real challenge for you and had taken several more health resources than you’d care to admit but victory tasted sweet upon your tongue as Zora’s Domain came into view once more, a glowing sphere tucked safely within your inventory. The monk within had been especially stingy about you not being the chosen Champion of Hyrule but after much MUCH persuasion the old mummy had finally relented when you gave the reasoning that Link was seeing to other matters along with the confession of being his traveling companion. Could mummified monks smile? You swore it did when it heard that piece of context. It wasn’t a lie, which it seemed to understand, so it had passed over the energy orb to you without much more of a fuss.

Blinking, you ventured from the shrine to stand in awe of the elegantly carved statue of a Zora wielding a trident. There was no sign of Link anywhere around it, though he’d pointedly done everything within his ability to avoid it for some reason, which you couldn’t fathom why since it was just as beautiful as the rest of the domain. An elder noticed you admiring the statue and seemed to smile sadly when taking a moment to gaze up at it too.

“Princess Mipha,” he began, “was truly a kind soul that any would be fortunate of meeting in their lifetime. She was shy, that is true, often times hesitant, though one cannot deny her steadfast will to assist those around her. Truly a remarkable Zora to behold in the throughs of battle and swimming up the waterfalls with such grace that none could ever hope to compete.”

You could see it in the statue’s countenance. The gentle planes of her face, those eyes which seemed to see beyond the physical, how her lips looked parted as if to provide words of encouragement to those who need to hear; though you’ve never met the Zora Princess it was evident within the statue’s image and the words spoken courtesy of such a weathered elder were true.

Yet something sad lingered in the air.

“She was the Zora Champion, right?”

The elder chuckled. “I bet that Hylian has told you plenty of stories.”

Something similar to an invisible dagger slipped between your ribs to pierce your heart. “N-no, he hasn’t said a word about her.”

Seriousness filled the elder’s face, all humor gone from his gaze when it met yours. For a moment he regarded you with suspicion, as if weighing how much should be told, then he took a deep inhale. “They were childhood friends, Princess Mipha and the Hylian known as Link. Often times they would waste days at a time with the other despite the chores or duties the other had. None would stray far from the other’s side if it could be helped.”

The dagger twisted at the hilt, digging into your constricting heart when remembering the heavy shadow over his eyes when ensuring the Zora Armor, which helped him swim faster and up waterfalls, was in pristine condition.

Unbeknownst of the affect his words had, the elder continued. “We have a tradition here where our princess creates a set of armor to bestow upon her intended partner. Imagine the shock upon our people when discovering that she had just finished crafting such a thing just before Calamity Ganon befell Hyrule. There was a rumor floating around that it had been for that Hylian boy since she’d shown little interest in anyone else. My personal opinion…”

Ringing filled your ears, which drowned out the elder’s words. as your feet mindlessly moved away from the statue. The puzzle pieces were starting to fall into place of why Link wasn’t acting himself. One of your hands rose to press against your aching chest.

“…shame that she passed away. Killed, actually, by one of those wretched creatures. Curse that Calamity for taking over Vah Ruta and stealing away our beloved princess just like the other Beasts and their Champions…”

And then you were running.

Find him, your internal voice screamed, find Link!

Easier said than done.

Zora’s Domain was no easy terrain to traverse across. Everything was slippery, making you slide and misstep, nearly sending you reeling back downwards to the trail which led towards the palace. You couldn’t stop to rest when the thin air made you see stars once reaching a small area of level ground. Where would he go?

Ice filled your veins when hearing a passing Zora guard say something about a Hylian who had accepted the request of dealing with a monster preventing travelers from entering the domain from up north. Of course coming to such a place would be hard on anyone and he was certainly no exception no matter how stoic the swordsman appeared. Losing anyone close to one’s heart was never an easy wound to heal from. Surely there was a reason why he didn’t say anything to you! Mud caked itself beneath your fingernails as they attempted to haul you up then over a wet rock, fraying the tender skin beneath that would make anyone flinch or cry out. You didn’t care about that or how lightning forked across the sky above. Rain intermixed with your tears as they spilled down your cheeks to be lost in tiny rivers.

A fork of lightning struck the ledge you were preparing to scale, causing it to crumble, leaving nothing in its former place besides a near gaping crater in the cliff.

Something most would call a miracle happened as you fell into the waterfall which had been at your left.

Cold, pain inducting water was replaced by warmth which surrounded you like a veil. As if someone were holding you protectively against their being. Lungs burning for oxygen, your hand patted against the thing holding you, proceeding to cling to it when water was replaced by empty air. A red Zora with the kindest of eyes and smile easily caught your flailing form before the ground could meet you. “Do not fear,” a feminine voice soothed in your ear though her lips did not move, “he shall return to your side once his duty is fulfilled. For now, be patient, (Y/n), and keep hope.”

Gravity rushed to greet you as the lithe Zora disappeared to replaced by a much bigger one who flashed a bright white smile. “Almost took a nasty fall there. Good thing I was nearby!” Sidon carefully placed you with feet firm on the solid ground.

Blinking, you searched the immediate area and found only the two of you.

“Everything alright?”

You shook your head after a moment. “Sorry, I swore someone else was here there for a minute.”

The Zora Prince listened intently as you recounted the figure you’d seen and earned a sad smile. “That sounds like my dear sister alright. Even if she’s not part of this world anymore it still seems as if Mipha is watching out for our domain.” He laughed as your eyes widened. “I must not have mentioned she was my elder sister earlier.”

Part of you wanted to correct him, that it was his age versus appearance ration which had earned your shock, though that would have been rude so you remained quiet as his gaze fondly beheld the statue below. One of your hands rested upon his webbed own when seeing the deep, woeful longing within his smile. “Can you tell me more about her?” Your lips lifted into a smile. “If you have time, I’d like to learn more about such an amazing princess and warrior.”

Little were you aware of what exactly you’d signed up for.

Zora’s Domain was almost always obscured by rain clouds so you were unable to keep track of time. Not that you minded one bit. Sidon was even kind enough to take you to each of the carved tablets talking more about the Zora Princess. That was when you took a misstep which caused level ground to completely disappear before it was replaced by water. It was too deep for your shoes to brush the bottom, resulting in fear to grip you tightly when the water enclosed over your head.

The scream which rose from your throat as pressure took hold of your flailing legs was rendered to bubbles as it sucked you farther under until a roaring current filled your ears. It rolled you forward, to the side, then backwards, before repeating to leave you delirious and seeing stars as it tossed you effortlessly. Black was beginning to creep along your vision as a flurry of bubbles appeared ahead from where glowing that must be the Zora palace lay.

That must be Sidon coming to save you.

No, the color was all wrong.

A different face, one which you’d never forget, was filled with determination and concentration as familiar lean arms enclosed around you.

And then all you knew was black.

So cold…

And wet…

Something firm was pressing against your mouth…hands were pumping your chest…everything hurt…make it stop…

With effort, your eyes strained greatly to crack. Then they were wide open when finding the object against your lips was a mouth. One that belonged to none other than—

“She’s awake!”

Azure opened at the shout, meeting your own as Link retreated enough to part his lips from yours, relief filling his gaze and features when finding you staring up at him. “(Y/n).”

You were collected within a tight embrace in an instant when a collective cheer rose. From somewhere you couldn’t see came Sidon’s multitude of apologies for not paying more attention or reacting fast enough but you were quick to dismiss them saying that it was your fault in the first place for not being careful of where you stepped. “Really, I’m fine,” you assured each who inquired of your wellbeing once you’d been released, “I’m so sorry to cause you all worry.” Your gaze met azure as the lingering adrenaline danced within your veins, thank you for saving me…again.

“I am surprised to say the least that you, companion to the Hylian Champion, was not capable of saving yourself.” Ice filled your lungs as an elder’s lip curled, the gray Zora fixing you with a sideways disapproving glare. “Such company is unfitting for one as important as he.”

“One’s shortcomings shouldn’t be held against them if they intend to strengthen those weaknesses.”

A collective murmur rose when you stood with a stiff spine.

Speaking against an elder, no matter their race or species, was threatening insult. He had thrown the first punch though. You stood tall when faced with that scrutinizing stare. “Unlike time, a person’s capabilities are only limited to their will. So tell me, elder, would you expect the same if I were a Goron traveling at his side? Or a Rito?” No opportunity was given for him to answer as you continued. “What about asking a Zora to traverse great distances over land where no river could be found? Wouldn’t it be just as wrong or insulting to expect the same from them? Do not be so quick as to judge or compare one to another,” your voice lowered to an almost growl, “and it’s not up to you who is at his side. Link has the freedom to choose whoever he pleases to travel with no matter what corner of Hyrule they are from or what their background. Everyone has their flaws, elder, and I think that gummy, loud mouth is yours.”

For a moment silence hung in the air save for the movement coming from behind you, a pair of hands appearing on your shoulders, almost making you lose composure when feeling them squeeze gently.

Amused laughter drew all’s attention to the nearby throne where a much larger Zora wearing a crown sat with eyes bright with approval. “I see now why you hold such company,” the King of the Zora’s rumbled, “my interest has been peaked. Come, Link, join us for evening feast. Be sure to sit beside me this time.”

Blinking, you glanced over your shoulder as a cheer rose, finding pride written within the Hylian Champion’s face as he nodded in approval. One of his hands released its hold while the other drifted down to collect your hand where its fingers laced with your own. “Not a dull moment,” he quietly teased, earning a blush to rise within your cheeks.

“W-well—I just—” No words came to you for a moment but a question certainly did. You waited until nearly every Zora had dispersed to their own agendas before fixing him with a curious yet guarded look. “Link, you always jump to the defense of others, whether battle or otherwise. So why don’t you protect yourself when someone starts talking to you like the handsy doctor back in Lurelin Village or the Zora elder?” Heat kissed your cheeks when his raised eyebrow reflected your own question back. “I-I don’t know why, okay? Seeing you silently take all the backlash and blasphemy makes my stomach roll. They shouldn’t be talking to or about you in such ways.” Realization filled your veins when seeing calm understanding fill his gaze.

Just as the swordsman protected Hyrule, you felt that it was necessary, as some form of repayment, to be his shield when among others. It wasn’t that he was socially awkward, the knight knew very much of how to conduct conversation. The discipline and expectation of him to remain steadfast or unaffected by the words of others save for the royal family may very well be why he never defended himself in such situations. And it had gradually eaten at you the more you traveled with the Champion.

They respected the title but when it came to Link himself they were quick to pass judgment.

Your heart clenched painfully when wondering just how long he’d been living this way.

He drew you close by the hand holding yours, allowing the free arm to wrap tightly around your shoulders, enabling you to feel his quick breathing and the hammering heart lying beneath his clothing. Honestly he couldn’t care less about what others said about him. Yet somehow, seeing you speak on his behalf when faced with such individuals, made something within him stir.

The Zora Armor donning his figure was beautiful with the addition of dragon scales and the blue hue which complimented that within his gaze. It was different than a lot of his clothing sets, each unique in their own special way, but now you understood why this one in particular was treated with a little extra favor. One could tell it was made with great care.

Your arm rose to return the embrace, the fingers he held giving a gentle squeeze. I’m still here, they said.

A faint squeeze of his fingers said, Yes.

“It’s alright to miss them, the other Champions,” you whispered, “just please don’t shut me out like that again. It’s scary when you start looking more like a statue than anything.”

That devious smirk raised a corner of his mouth when the two of you separated, directing your attention to the river below. His hand prevented your own from slipping free despite calls coming from the Zoras for the both of you to come. “There’s plenty of time to start swimming lessons before food.” He nearly outright laughed at your exasperation. The golden haired Hylian was quick to assure that any such thing could wait until later when the wafting scents of grilling meat and various vegetables filled the air.

This time it was you who prevented his hand from slipping away, earning a raise of his eyebrows when you became serious. “I overheard someone say that you took on a monster up North?”

A cluster of shock arrows was showcased; those must have been what the monster had dropped.

“You defeating it is not the point.”

Link, hearing your tone become sour, turned full attention to you, ignoring the rumbles sourcing from within his stomach.

From your pack appeared a glowing orb which you practically slammed into his chest with an open palm where it disappeared in a flash of light. “Of all the shrines…it had to be that one…” you growled while crossing both arms, releasing his hand, bottom lip protruding slightly, “it was full of lasers and giant balls. I would’ve gladly fought the monster instead.”

Understanding filled his features. Calloused fingers raised your chin until azure met yours. “Lynel.”

“Nope!” Up went your hands as if they were reaching for the sky while you spun on your heel. “Nope!”

His unadulterated laughter rang in your ears as the night drug onward. It seemed as if every moment your gazes met he had to bite the flesh of his lower lip to hold back a chuckle. A few times it was fun for you too. Especially when he was attempting to listen to the Zora King’s words and you attempted to distract him from a distance by raising your arms up in a similar fashion.

It wasn’t amusing just to the two of you. Several of the Zora found themselves enjoying the displays. Especially a certain red male who took the opportunity when his father, the king, held the Hylian Champion’s attention for longer than previous conversation topics.

Full, but not overly so, you excused yourself from the table to bow respectfully before slipping out into the night. Better to walk off a bit of the food before retiring. Pops sounded as you stretched high up onto your toe tips, teetering for a moment, then settled back on solid ground. Cooler though there was a slight sprinkle occasionally kissing your being, you treaded carefully across the smooth stone walkways that would eventually bring you to the inn. Now that it was night you could see more of the statue’s beauty thanks to the Luminous Stones. The teal glow reflected ethereally off the polished, moist stone as you slowly circled it with appreciation. There’s no doubt that Mipha, Zora Princess and the Zora Champion, had been who you saw earlier. On the breeze, just outside of the memorial’s shadow, a figure moved to join in your circulatory rotations. “She is truly stunning,” you softly praised, “I can tell a lot of care and admiration went into this statue.”

“I feel I must apologize once again.”

Your gazes met, locking together as neither of your paces or paths changed. Around and around the two of you seemed to dance. Sounds of the water filled the air as no words were spoken. This kind of silence wasn’t much different than what you were used to. The receiver, though, was vastly different. Not without his smile, the Prince of Zoras was distilling confidence wherever he went. Elders and young folk alike would often seek his council outside of royal duties; a few conversations that you’ve caught were of simple everyday occurrences. It was clear that all who lived here trusted him. Yet there was the air of uncertainty.

“You’re doing an amazing job.”

Sidon’s breath caught, eyes widening as you came to a stop so that his steps eventually brought him to stand before you. The same light bathing his sister’s monument now illuminated your being. Cool, humid air moistened your skin as it did the Zora and surrounding rock however he had never thought such an affect would accentuate one’s appearance as it did your own. Despite the blue hued light the highlights within your hair shone brightly like falling stars when a breeze played with a few tresses. Earlier, while sharing with you the stone tablets, he grew more familiar within your presence the longer he remained within it.

An assuring smile raised your lips at his expression of shock. “You’re trying your best to provide everything for your domain, whether it be resources like food or advice to soothe the soul. It’s alright to let them figure things out on their own. An easy answer to their problems doesn’t teach them anything, if you really think about it. Don’t be afraid to take breaks though, okay? Be sure to not wear yourself down. I may not have known her personally so I can’t speak on her behalf,” your hand reached out to gently take hold of his hand, “but if you were my younger brother I would want you to take care of yourself just as much as he does for his subjects—”

Whatever that was supposed to finish your sentence was lost as the ground disappeared to be replaced by toned muscle as pressure threatened to crush your bones. They weren’t needed though, judging from the large droplets of warm water that splattered across your skin that wasn’t protected by cloth. Just as quickly the red Zora Prince embraced you he released his hold to stand tall with that bright grin on display.

“I’ll continue to do my best!” He bent at the knee until the two of you were as close as his near neck breaking height would allow, approval shining brightly within his gaze. “Just you watch, (Y/n), I’m going to be even more admirable the next time you visit! And I’ll have a gift ready for you by then too so be sure to look forward to it!”

A gift? Excitement filled you. Maybe an accessory of some sort? “I can’t wait to accept it,” you started, “though if I could request something, may it not make me take this one off?”

His eyes followed your fingers to the circlet you wore. Deep thought filled his features for a moment before they smoothed over into one of acceptance. “Befitting if I’ve ever saw one, though the stone is lacking. Craftsmanship is adequate as well. Very well. Rest assured that my gift shall not dampen your beauty.” A knowing smirk raised his lips when seeing you fondly brushed the gem resting against the center of your forehead. “Ah, I see that it is your favorite, yes? No worries! My gift shall too become something you never wish to part from!”

Within your cheeks rose a faint blush of embarrassment. Were you really that easy to read? “The night is getting late, Prince Sidon, so I should retire to bed since we will be setting out at dawn’s light. In case I don’t see you, I look forward to seeing you again!” With a bow, you waved once more then departed for the nearby inn where sweet sleep was calling your name.

Little did you know that a certain swordsman had been watching the whole exchange from not too far off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pt 1: Blood Moon Encounter

Pt 2: Distant Howls

Pt 3: Identities Unknown

Pt 4: Rupee Troubles

Next:

Pt.6: Worthy of the Name

[tremendouskoalachild]

Mralisola recruitment post

(no spoilers beyong the basic setup)

What is Mralisola?

Mralisola is the ship name for Zeen Mrala and Lula Talisola, major characters in the first phase of the Star Wars: The High Republic publishing initiative – specifically the works of one of its story architects, Daniel José Older. These include especially the comic line The High Republic Adventures (2021), some of its one-shot issues, and the young adult novel Midnight Horizon, as well as appearances in the manga The Edge of Balance and the middle grade novel Race to Crashpoint Tower. Phase Three of THR is starting this Fall, with the first issue of the comic's 2023 run releasing in December.

Who are Zeen and Lula?

Two Force-sensitive teenage girls who have a huge impact on each other’s lives. Lula is one of a group of young Jedi who come to help Zeen’s community during a disaster. Zeen has been raised to shun and hide her Force-sensitivity but is forced (heh) to reveal it in a moment of crisis. Being outcast from the commune that raised her, she joins the Jedi kids and becomes their close friend and ally, though she doesn’t join the Order herself.

Where does the shipping come in?

The girls are strongly paralleled from their very introduction and click immediately upon meeting. While the Padawan squad are all good friends, Zeen and Lula are especially close and are almost always seen together. Their growing feelings for each other are hinted at many times throughout the comic and acknowledged in their inner monologues.

Will the ship become canon?

It will be the star wars queerbait if not. Seriously.

But canon gays? In my Star Wars?

It’s more likely than you think! Look at this excellent guide to canon wlw by @chipthekeeper or the lineup of the ongoing @queer-starwars-bracket, which featured both of our girls. The High Republic is probably the most queer-friendly part of the franchise.

Yeah but. Lula is a Jedi. How does that work?

Non-spoilery answer is that there is definitely precedent for her situation in THR media and it will be interesting to see the characters grapple with it. The High Republic has many things to say about the Jedi Order and its view on relationships, and I believe Zeen and Lula are a major part of that theme, whichever way their story resolves.

Gimme some more reasons to get invested.

Girl friends to girlfriends. Complementary blue/pink color palette. The conflict of love and duty. Battle couple. Meditation couple (is that a thing? it should be). The theme of living as your true self in a loving found family. Pining. Helping your gf deal with the demons of her past. Teen sapphics, in Star Wars.

Okay, you got me! What do I need to read?

Definitely The High Republic Adventures 2021 (13 comic issues). If you get really into the setting you will probably enjoy the whole High Republic series, which has plenty of reading orders but is perfectly safe in publication order, such as on wookieepedia here.

While there are many crossovers between storylines, Daniel José Older's characters are almost completely contained to his own works, so for a mralisola-only reading spree you can just go through the list of Phase I picking out his works. (The comic miniseries Trail of Shadows and the manga volumes are skippable in that case, though you'll miss a cameo in the second manga volume.)

Whatever books and comics you end up reading, don't skip the Midnight Horizon novel, and read Starlight Coda (contained in Free Comic Book Day 2023, and included in the Star Wars: The High Republic Adventures — The Complete Phase 1 trade paperback) at the very end.

[thoughtlessperson]

i was born to paint

to dream in hues of dusk and dawn

to give the shapeless life

to draw a world where shadows soften

yet my hands crude hammers

heavy as regret unyielding as grief

shatter the clay they long to mold

undoing each fragile seed of creation

i was born to see

to pierce the dark with a visionarys eye

to map beautys secret trails

through the forests of light and longing

yet my eyes are swords

blades honed sharp with despair

severing each thread of harmony

reducing wonder to fragments

what cruel architect built me this way

a craftsman condemned to ruin his craft

what use is a vision i cannot touch

a longing i can never fulfill

[caissa-scribbles]

The Princess in the Ivory Tower (part 4/4)

Gajevy Week 2023, Day 1: Fairy Tale

Enough was enough! For even if she preferred to be left alone in her library, the princess absolutely hated to be ignored when she had something to say, and with the Road Knight’s impertinence her temperament had finally got the better of her. She rushed forward again and poked her index finger into his armoured chest.

'Oh no, I'm not letting you off the hook so easily. I bet you accepted a lot of money for "killing" that dragon the last time you met, didn't you? Was it more that my father offered you for my safe return? How would you like it if everybody heard about your little "agreement"? And I 'm a princess. People will believe me. You won't ever get another job in your life.'

The Road Knight gritted his teeth, yet he couldn’t help but recognize that she had outwitted him. Maybe she wasn't as unworldly as he had thought.

'What's your condition, then?' he jumped at it with a sigh.

The princess smiled at him graciously. Even the dragon smirked.

'Always straight to the point, aren't you? Well, my father is getting old and I finally realized that I don’t want some random guy to help him just because he passed a few tests. I’d rather take responsibility myself. But I can’t do it alone. I watched you during the competition, and I appreciate your unconventional way of tackling problems. Besides, you proved your kindness when you spared him twice,' she explained, pointing at the dragon. 'I need someone with those qualities to help me protect my kingdom. Therefore I want you to be my champion.'

The Knight couldn’t deny that the princess had deeply impressed him with her unexpected determination. And besides, a steady employment wasn't that bad either. After all, she just wanted him for her fighter and not for her husband. Working for her might actually turn out to be quite interesting.

'You have guts - for a bookworm, that is,' he chuckled. ‘Well then! I accept to be your champion. And as a gift, I won’t slay your new pal – once more.’

The dragon laughed a mighty laugh which sounded more like a battle cry, then he bent forward and stretched out his wings.

‘I won’t eat you either, Road Knight. You’re too tough a cookie anyway. Now get on my back. Let me take you home to the lady’s castle,’ he said. ‘I sense a wind of change coming to this kingdom.’

The Road Knight mounted the dragon behind the princess, and off they flew.

Back at the castle, the grounds were filled with people. The whole household seemed to be on their feet, looking out for any sign of their princess. But nobody would have expected what happened at the break of dawn.

A huge shadow suddenly lowered down on the meadow before the castle. The dragon had come back! People started to scream and run around in panic.

Yet on his back he was carrying both the princess and the Road Knight, who helped the girl off the beast as soon as they had landed, for somewhere far at the back of his mind he had found some dusty manners he had once learned.

In no time the old king and the castle guard arrived at the scene, trailing the two crestfallen princes behind them.

'Father,' the witty princess said, 'here I am back safe and sound. And I have brought my friends.’ She put her hands on the dragon’s front leg and the Road Knight’s shoulder to demonstrate their bond.

Everybody gazed in amazement, but then they cheered and celebrated the safe return of their beloved princess at the beginning of this new day.

'So, who's the winner of the competition after all?', the Scarlet Knight wondered after a while. All eyes turned towards the Road Knight in great expectation, but he just shrugged and grinned.

‘The princess is,' he said, ticking off the facts on his fingers as he counted. 'Firstly, she proved that she can protect her subjects when she made me spare the dragon in battle and forced me to become her sword instead. Secondly, she smiled when she realized that she’s the architect of her own fortune and the only one who can make herself happy. And thirdly, she brought herself home again after she had been captured by a monster. I dare say that she fulfilled all three tasks and that she would make a fabulous queen.'

It took the wise old king a few moments to process what had happened. But then he understood. Suddenly he laughed out loud, hugged his daughter dearly and exclaimed: 'So be it!'

The dragon became the official guardian of the kingdom, and he soon learned to read and to carefully turn over book pages with his massive claws on his own.

The princess, however, finally took over responsibility as a sovereign, and because she had learned so much from her books, she became just as wise a regent as her father, ruling the kingdom together with him as his right hand.

The Road Knight never stopped roving, but he did so as the princess's champion, and over time they grew quite fond of each other. You wonder if they ever got married? Well, it took some more years and a lot of persuasion from the part of the princess, but eventually they did.

The king became incredibly old. And they lived happily ever after."

Levy closed the book from which she had been reading out aloud and turned her head to face Gajeel, who was lying on their bed next to her. He didn't seem too pleased in the soft light of the candles on her bedside table.

'Tch, what kind of fairytale is that? Who's supposed to believe such crap?' he asked and snorted. She put the volume aside and lay down, curled up next to him and snuggled her head against his shoulder.

'Lu-chan wrote it, and I enjoyed it very much.'

'lt’s completely unrealistic. How did the Bunny come up with such idiot characters?'

'Oh Gajeel. Since when have you been a literary critic? Fairy tales don't have to be realistic. And besides, Lucy usually draws her inspiration from people she knows.' Suddenly she smiled and nodded her head gently towards the little bundle of blankets he was holding on his chest. 'Look, it worked,' she whispered. After long, the baby had finally fallen asleep.

[srmthfgrimworld]

Game 1: Day 3 & 4

Day 3

In the dim light of early morning, Mandarin stirred from his restless slumber. Weariness clung to his bones as he trudged toward the nearby river, seeking solace in its tranquil embrace. Cupping his hands, he scooped handfuls of water, splashing his face to wash away the grime and exhaustion that clung to him after a night spent on the unforgiving ground.

With a flicker of renewed determination, he grasped the communication device once more, yearning for a connection with the monkey team that seemed to elude him. Yet, the familiar echo of silence greeted his desperate pleas, mocking his hopes. Frustration welled up within him, fueling a surge of anger that propelled him to cast the useless device to the ground, shattering it into irreparable fragments.

In that moment, a fire kindled within him—an unyielding resolve to save himself from this desolate place. If rescue was not coming, he would be the architect of his own deliverance. Clenching his fists, he vowed to confront the challenges that lay before him with unwavering determination.

As Mandarin retraced his steps to the makeshift base, his hunger gnawed at him. With a tinge of melancholy, he devoured the final remnants of his apple supply, savoring the sustenance it provided. Determined to face the challenges ahead, he collected a handful of wooden pieces, their potential as a weapon beginning to take shape in his mind.

Seated by the mesmerizing dance of the campfire, Mandarin delved into his task. Skillfully maneuvering his fingers, he carefully shaped the wood, carving and notching with precision. The weight of his self-reliance bore down on each stroke. The play of flickering firelight cast ever-shifting shadows on his face, further accentuating his unyielding resolve.

Realizing the importance of both protection and sustenance, Mandarin contemplated the absence of his familiar sword and shield. A feeling of vulnerability coursed through him, reminding him of the necessity to arm himself in this unfamiliar and potentially dangerous land.

With his bow still in progress, he recognized its potential as a valuable offensive weapon. Its versatility would enable him to hunt for food and defend himself against potential threats.

With the bow completed, Mandarin held it up to the dim light, inspecting his handiwork. Satisfied, he carefully stowed it away, a warm sense of accomplishment enveloping him. Though the day had slipped away unnoticed in its creation, he felt content with the progress made.

As fatigue coursed through his weary muscles and hunger gnawed at his stomach, he acknowledged the need for rest. With a sigh, he accepted that his hunger would have to wait a while longer. Settling down, he embraced the promise of a rejuvenating slumber. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would venture forth with his newly crafted bow, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead.

Day 4

Under the morning sun, Mandarin set out on his first hunt. As he walked, he plucked berries from a nearby bush, relishing them as his morning meal. Noticing the sheep seeking refuge near his base, he briefly contemplated the possibility of feasting on them. Yet, their aggressive demeanor made him reconsider.

Pressing on, he stumbled upon a set of tracks, igniting a surge of excitement within him. With heightened senses, he followed the trail, his focus honed on any potential prey. 

After tracking the trail for a while, Mandarin discovered that the tracks belonged to a donkey—a modest find, but better than nothing. He took aim and fired at the animal, prompting it to flee. Mandarin pursued, maintaining a safe distance while carefully attempting to land accurate shots. 

As he persisted, the donkey's pace gradually slowed. It was then that Mandarin noticed a snow leopard lurking nearby. With a mix of caution and surprise, he observed the predator closely, realizing that it displayed no interest in either him or the wounded donkey.

As the donkey finally succumbed to its injuries and collapsed, Mandarin remained vigilant, keeping a watchful eye on the nearby snow leopard. With caution and a sense of relief, he approached the fallen animal, carefully assessing the situation. To his gratitude, the snow leopard decided to depart, leaving Mandarin and the donkey undisturbed.

With determined strength, Mandarin hauled the donkey's lifeless body back to his base. As he prepared to cook the meat, memories of his first night in this foreign land flooded his mind. The recollection of those enigmatic eyes lurking in the darkness resurfaced, leading him to ponder if it had indeed been the snow leopard he had encountered.

Lost in his thoughts, Mandarin skillfully cooked a meal, combining the freshly obtained meat with the nourishing fruits he had gathered. The savory aroma wafted through the air, tantalizing his senses. As he savored each bite, he couldn't help but appreciate the satisfaction of a truly good meal, a welcomed respite after days of meager sustenance.

After satisfying his hunger with a hearty meal, Mandarin stepped outside to gather firewood for the approaching night, determined to ward off the biting chill. As he worked on felling a tree, his attention was drawn to a scurrying badger nearby. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—perhaps he could find solace in this untamed world. 

However, he swiftly dismissed the notion. 

No, he reminded himself firmly, he would not allow himself to become accustomed to this place. Regardless of any temporary comfort or unexpected encounters, his resolve to leave remained unyielding.

[aaliyahjohn]

Setareh Heshmat is a symbol of quiet power, strategy, and influence.

Setareh Heshmat is a symbol of quiet power, strategy, and influence. From her academic life in Vancouver to her hidden

role in #global networks of smuggling, #fraud, and #money laundering, Setareh thrives in the shadows. Here’s a glimpse into her world:

A Dual Identity: Outwardly, she’s a hardworking MBA student in Vancouver. Behind the scenes, she’s a key player in #global illicit operations alongside her partner, #Abbas Sherif AlAskari.

The Oil Smuggling Genius: Iranian crude oil is rebranded as "Iraqi" through #falsified documents to evade sanctions. Profits from this trade flow into private accounts and #shell companies under Setareh’s control.

Money Laundering Mastermind: Setareh helps in operating front companies like #London Surface Design Limited, #Abza Group Limited, and #London Heritage Stone Limited, to “clean” illicit funds. She uses #fake invoices and contracts to seamlessly move #dirty money across borders.

Fraudulent Investment Schemes:  Promises investors #high returns in industries like oil, real estate, and gold.  Siphons funds into #fraudulent channels, leaving investors with shattered dreams.

Residency and Visa Fraud:

Illegal residency in the UK, in collusion with the Home Office, enables criminals to operate globally. This helps Setareh

Heshmat’s associates secure strategic residencies in countries like the UK, Italy, and Turkey.

A Strategic Base in Vancouver:  Vancouver’s global connectivity and financial systems make it the perfect hub.  She blends into the multicultural city while orchestrating international operations.

Setareh Heshmat’s UK network represents the untraceable power of the #shadow economy, combining intellect, strategy,

and deception. Her influence stretches across continents, leaving a trail of instability and unanswered questions. She is the quiet architect of a hidden empire. The question remains: Will the international community rise to the challenge, or will networks like #Setareh Heshmat continue to operate with impunity, casting a long shadow over global security?

[nick57547]

Setareh Heshmat is a symbol of quiet power, strategy, and influence.

Setareh Heshmat is a symbol of quiet power, strategy, and influence. From her academic life in Vancouver to her hidden

role in #global networks of smuggling, #fraud, and #money laundering, Setareh thrives in the shadows. Here’s a glimpse into her world:

A Dual Identity: Outwardly, she’s a hardworking MBA student in Vancouver. Behind the scenes, she’s a key player in #global illicit operations alongside her partner, #Abbas Sherif AlAskari.

The Oil Smuggling Genius: Iranian crude oil is rebranded as "Iraqi" through #falsified documents to evade sanctions. Profits from this trade flow into private accounts and #shell companies under Setareh’s control.

Money Laundering Mastermind: Setareh helps in operating front companies like #London Surface Design Limited, #Abza Group Limited, and #London Heritage Stone Limited, to “clean” illicit funds. She uses #fake invoices and contracts to seamlessly move #dirty money across borders.

Fraudulent Investment Schemes:  Promises investors #high returns in industries like oil, real estate, and gold.  Siphons funds into #fraudulent channels, leaving investors with shattered dreams.

Residency and Visa Fraud:

Illegal residency in the UK, in collusion with the Home Office, enables criminals to operate globally. This helps Setareh

Heshmat’s associates secure strategic residencies in countries like the UK, Italy, and Turkey.

A Strategic Base in Vancouver:  Vancouver’s global connectivity and financial systems make it the perfect hub.  She blends into the multicultural city while orchestrating international operations.

Setareh Heshmat’s UK network represents the untraceable power of the #shadow economy, combining intellect, strategy,

and deception. Her influence stretches across continents, leaving a trail of instability and unanswered questions. She is the quiet architect of a hidden empire. The question remains: Will the international community rise to the challenge, or will networks like #Setareh Heshmat continue to operate with impunity, casting a long shadow over global security?