#the way i love love LOVE this grotesque wonderful big love is so. monstrous but the realest and rawest i have ever been REAL

[h-doodles]

not to be feral but. woke up to this and literally have been spending my whole brunch time being SO deranged like. damn. every chapter of this fic has been an absolute SURPRISE to the senses (AND A TREAT!!!! A BIG BIG TREAT!!!!!!!!) AND THE FACT THAT FINALLY WE'VE GOT THE MOMENT OF TRUTHHHHHH THE END OF THE CHASE THE ANSWER TO A QUESTION AND THE UNVEILING OF THE QUESTION OF WHY DO WE LOVE HER SO MUCH??? LIKE. Tumblr user & prolific cannibal!Larissa creator + author Ripley rippersz YOU DID IT AGAINNNNNNNNNN IM LITERALLY. FROTHING. AT THE MOUTH. thank u for this wonderful wonderful update im. sending meows and <3 to u <3

ALSO SPECIAL MENTION TO THESE FOLLOWING MOMENTS NOW LIVING IN MY MIND RENT FREE

1. reader's dilemma <3

How can you love someone like that? How can you want someone like that? Truly. Honestly. What is wrong with you? Why do you want, even now, to grasp her shoulders and pull her close and kiss her senseless? Why do you want her to lead you to her bed? Why do you want to drown in her passion? Why do you love her so much? Why do you love her so much? Why do you love her so much? Why do you love her so much? WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

— LIKE HONESLTLY. the repeated confusion of JUST why oh why inside us is so delicious and i am. FERAL. i know what the fuck is wrong with me, but as reader, who is JUST a woman in love, doesn't and it's the absolute beauty of it. iconic fr.

2.) Larissa finding out she's got all but 2 minutes:

“What on Earth?” 2 minutes?! She has 2 minutes?! Not a chance she spent that long cloaked in the dark of the Nevermore passages. There’s no way… But her eyes don’t deceive her. Even after the few times she blinks, caught by utter surprise. No. The clock reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes decreasing. “Right,” she nods and huffs, suddenly and so thoroughly pissed off. 2 minutes. Fine. If she had 2 minutes, she’d do something with it. No predator waits for their lamb. You’re hers anyway. You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is.

— OH MY FUCKING GOD. THE FACT THAT THIS CHASE WAS SO CLOSE. EVER SO CLOSE. AND SHE'S GOT ALL BUT 2 MINUTES TO FIND US AND THE FACT THAT SHE WASN'T SURE SURE SURE ABT US. THE TEASE OF LOSING THE GAME, AND YET THE WHOLE. "You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is." WHICH IS. SO RIGHT AND REAL ACTUALLY SORRRY. IM MEOWING ABOUT IT SO BAD!!!!!!!!

3.) FINDING A COMPANION IN THE OTHERNESS OF THE SELF

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” But you don’t know how you can believe her. Even as she sits down next to you, both of you on your knees, pressed to the cream carpet in the middle of the walk-in closet with your head slowly falling to the side. Resting against her chest. Seeking solace in the very thing that frightens you and seduces you and restrains you and frees you and knows you and loves you and needs you and is somehow comforting you while you cry about her cannibalism. It’s sickening. But it’s what you need. And when warm tears fall into your hair and are smushed along your temple, you realize that Larissa needs it too. Not the comfort or the vulnerability or the release, but the shared feeling of otherness. The realization that neither of you are alone in your secret. A secret you never asked to know and a secret Larissa never wished to tell. And yet here you are. Knowing and telling and sharing and keeping. Keeping it between just the two of you. Like Romeo and Juliet against the world. Twisted souls with a depraved lust and desire for each other- in the heart and in the flesh. But Romeo and Juliet is romantic. And you two are just sad. And damned.

And leaning on each other still, silently weeping while mindless words spill out of Larissa’s lips. “I won’t,” she rasps, “I won’t make you. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry. Please. Believe me. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry.” But she’s not sorry about eating people. She’s just sorry you found out. She’s just sorry you saw who she really was. Is. She’s just sorry you love a version of herself that isn’t the woman she wants to be. Still Larissa Weems, but someone different. Still Larissa Weems, but a murderer. Blood on her hands. As red as her lipstick. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’d never make you. I swear it.” And she cries as she speaks, the length of her throat clogged with guilt and tears and sorrow. A million apologies for a million offenses. One right after the other that somehow fills the void in your heart and stitches up the horrendous wounds in your mind. Keeping you bloated on apologies. The only difference being that she means them. You can tell. And when she says she’d never make you, pushing it out of her lungs in the way she does, sobbing it into the softness of your neck, you believe her. She wouldn’t let a single piece of long pork touch your tongue and she wouldn’t serve you something you don’t want to eat. No woman in love would do such a thing. And so she clutches you closer and whispers it over and over again. “I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t you don’t have to I’m so sorry I’m so sorry-” Until you’re both exhausted and you find enough breath needed to take your hands away from your eyes and wipe your snot and tears on the skin of your forearm. “I know,” you finally speak, crackly and pathetic. “I know.” Larissa sniffles and nods but doesn’t stop her weeping - and her hands only bring you closer. As close as you can get. Molded to her body, tangled up with her on the floor, finding your arms returning the desperate hug and sliding around her midsection to hold her close too. Like a lifeline. Like a lifeline.

— OH MY FUCKING GOD. OH MY FUCKING GOD. I COULD WAX POETIC ABOUT THIS ENTIRE PASSAGE BEING SO GOOD FOR SO LONG BUT IM!!!!!! HOENSYLY WORDLESS AND LIKE!!!!!!!!!!! FUCKING FULL AND BLOATED AND FLOATY ABT IT. EATING IT UP UNTIL IM FULL AND SO SO SICK ABT IT BC. GODDAMN. OH TO BE A WITNESS TO A MONSTER WHO RECOGNIZES A DIFFERENT BUT SAME OTHERNESS WITHIN YOU. TO LOVE THE MONSTER SO MONSTROUSLY THAT THERE IS NO RECOURSE NOR SALVATION EXCEPY UNDER ITS OWN LOVE FOR YOU. TO BE A WOMAN WHO IS NOT A MONSTER AND YET. STILL A CREATURE.

my god. im so filled full. once again tumblr user & author @rippersz THANK YOU for this masterpiece of a fic im MEOWING at u <3

𝘐𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘠𝘖𝘜.

«——..✞..——»

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

«——..✞..——»

"I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting," ~ Richard Siken

«——..✞..——»

It was an accident.

It was all an accident.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong moment.

Why were you awake?

What were you looking for?

Was it her?

Was it something else?

Were you out of bed because you had a feeling?

Was the bell tolling for you even in your sleep? Could you hear the echo?

Was her silence too loud?

You turned the corner.

Why did you turn the corner?

She was so close to safety.

Too slow, in the end.

Too slow too slow too slow.

And you were too fast too fast too fast. Too inquisitive. Too smart for your own good.

Draped in the darkest grey of a hooded designer coat. Gloved hands holding bags. Red plastic and squishing softness. The handle of a pocketknife tucked between white teeth. No heels, but black boots. Careful not to track mud.

There was no mistaking it.

There was no mistaking her.

Tall, intimidating, curved and sleek. Disappearing into the night without a peep, only to come back past the devil’s hour and get caught.

Years of secrecy.

And to think it was all ruined by you.

You. Her limbo. Her undoing or her reaffirming supporter. Her end or her beginning. The in-between of her life. The connecting thread, so thin, so weak, that ties the two aspects of her existence together. The hungry and the satiated. The mask and the actor. The figure in the dark and the hero in the light. Trusted and feared. Loved and bewared. You, who had captured her eye the very moment she saw you all that time ago. You, who stood in her presence and commanded all of her attention and looked her in the face with no fear at all.

You, who only felt the fear after you turned the corner.

‘No, not you’, was her first thought. ‘No, please, let it be someone else. Let it be someone palatable.’

But no.

No no, little bell.

There you stood, hands limp at your sides, watching Larissa open the door to her quarters with a small golden key. Not trembling from the rush of the kill. Not breathing heavily from the long walk back. Not even bothering to slow her steps as she comes to a stop before her door.

Calm, instead; and swimming in a sea of only thought and anticipation for how the future meal would taste.

One does, after all, burn quite a few calories after chasing a rabbit through the woods.

She was hungry.

And you couldn’t sleep.

And in a fucked turn of events, her desire to romance you into love had melted into a necessary evil. Of course she could just kill you, but what a regret that would be. Not seeing your pretty little face each day… not hearing the sweet tones of your voice… not knowing the way you laugh… oh what a mistake it would be to taste your liver. And she probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. She never enjoyed the ones she cared about. Strangers were preferred. Strangers that would never be tied back to her because - my oh my why would anyone like Principal Weems ever kill somebody? How could anyone ever dare think that? When would she even have the time? And no woman could shoulder the emotional weight of murder! And cannibalism?! Oh perish the thought! No, Larissa Weems wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s an amazing woman; she’s helped my kids so much. Oh, Principal Weems? No, that woman is an angel. She’s really good with the teens, younger and older; gets along with everyone too. And she’s a great colleague! There’s no reason to suspect her. Because she can’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have the heart. Doesn’t have the guts. She’d cry and cry and cry her way home, bending beneath the horror of her actions.

She doesn’t have it in her.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

Whatever ‘it’ is.

No. She didn’t have it in her.

She had something else in her.

A bell. An alarm. An innate sense of disguise, of self, of shadow. A mind 20 steps ahead at all times. A heart that never stopped beating. Breath that never skipped. Hands that never shook.

Unless you were around.

Then the human sank forward and suddenly she found herself falling behind, skipping beats, skipping breaths, and shaking.

And what, above all else, was so special about you?

Hm? What was so special about sweet darling beautiful you? Was it your own intelligence? Was it your own knowledge? Your own creativity? Was it your ability to be effortlessly funny? Was it the way you looked at her, sarcastic and cold and frightened and lustful? Was that it?

Or was it because you knew?

You knew.

You know.

You saw.

She waited for so long- days, weeks- sitting around, walking around, breathing and going about her life, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Waiting for the police to walk up to her door, demanding an inspection. They wouldn’t find anything, no, but that didn’t matter. They’d keep it all on record. So if anything did happen in the future, and she slipped up, her head would be on the chopping block - instead of one of her victims.

But the police never showed. And nothing ever changed. And the only shift in her life was you - but even that was slight and even that was small and even that was enough to make her feel reinvigorated. Because you knew… and yet you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you tell anyone? She asks herself that constantly. Why haven’t you said anything? She’s teased you, frightened you, lured you in, put people on your plate, and you have yet to bolt up from the seat in her office and fly out into Jericho, screaming bloody murder. She’s most likely killed a person you saw once in passing; watched the light fade from their eyes, their breath dissipate in one last exhale, their heart slow to a complete stop. She’s ripped out insides, rearranged them, memorized their places, tasted them and enjoyed them. She’s done the most horrific things a human or non-human can do to its own kind, and you know this, and you haven’t called for help.

Perhaps you should just be honest with yourself, lamb.

Perhaps you should just say it. It will make things easier. You can cut through the tension and get over all the bullshit.

You want her.

Don’t you?

You want her just as much as she wants you.

You saw her that night after turning the corner and you knew. You felt it.

Something changed.

You want her protection. You want her passion. You want her love.

One could even say you are hungry for it.

–

By the time Larissa reaches the top of the stone steps, feet cold and heart thumping in anticipation, the minutes she has left have dwindled. It was a long trek through the halls to her quarters and once the secret wall on the other end slides into place behind her, she flicks up a beautiful slim wrist again and nearly chokes on her own breath.

“What on Earth?”

2 minutes?!

She has 2 minutes?!

Not a chance she spent that long cloaked in the dark of the Nevermore passages. There’s no way…

But her eyes don’t deceive her. Even after the few times she blinks, caught by utter surprise.

No. The clock reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes decreasing.

“Right,” she nods and huffs, suddenly and so thoroughly pissed off.

2 minutes. Fine. If she had 2 minutes, she’d do something with it. No predator waits for their lamb. You’re hers anyway.

You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is.

And she’s gone too long without seeing your face this evening. Time to find you, her sweet darling. Time to win.

–

Her legs slide into a strut as she makes her way down the hall. Chafing, she finds, is a complete bitch. But she’ll bear it of course. For you.

You, who are so keen on pushing lines and breaking rules. Thinking you’ve outsmarted her. Hiding yourself away somewhere in her quarters.

Or so she hopes.

Really, there’s no way of knowing. You could be anywhere else actually. In a bathroom somewhere maybe - or a closet, shoving yourself into the shadows with a hand clasped tight over your pretty little mouth. Even in the main hall… celebrating your victory as she takes herself to her own bedroom, hoping to the gods that you’re there.

She wishes, of course, that you could walk into her bedroom under better circumstances. Circumstances in which you’re less frightened, and not so full of anxiety. Circumstances in which you’re smiley and giggly and happy to be in her company and not worried about if she’ll eat you or not - which she won’t. Ever. As she’s already told herself.

But you don’t know that. And you’re in her room, maybe, shaking with the fear of when she finds you. Even though, at the heart of things, she’s not sure if she has it in herself to stick to the rules of the game.

Can they be changed?

It’s the one thing she wonders about as she gets closer and closer - speed eventually picking up into a jog as she looks down at her watch and sees that it’s ticked over to 1 minute. 1 minute. 1 minute.

Can the rules be changed?

The outcome maybe?

50 seconds.

Her feet begin to pound against the stone. They’re cold - they nip at her bare heels - but none of it registers.

40 seconds.

She needs to take a left then a right.

A left then a right.

A left…

45 seconds.

Then a right…

30 seconds.

–

BANG.

Silence.

Footsteps.

You barely have time to hold in your gasp- barely have time to breathe through your panic- no time at all to duck into shadow and hide- because she’s already there.

In the doorway. Outlined by a muted light.

Out of breath, but victorious.

“I found you,” Larissa huffs, shoulders falling up and down in the most mesmerizing rhythm.

Up… down… chest moving with the weight of her lungs as she catches her breath.

So she was running.

Since when does the bell run instead of toll?

“I know.”

It’s all you can think to say.

Double checking the time doesn’t even fade across your thoughts. Making an effort to dash past her somehow never even touches the corners of your mind. The bell has run and the game has ended and you have lost - just as you somehow knew you always would. Because what else would the universe have you do? Win? No. No, the lambs never win. That’s just not how it goes. And when a phone begins to beep somewhere- a small silent beep beep beep beep beep in the next few seconds- you know that doubting your loss will lead to nothing. She has won. And you have failed. And now you will have no choice but to consume one of your own. Another lamb that could never beat the wolf. Never smart enough. Never fast enough. Never good enough.

“10 seconds to spare,” comes her dulcet murmur.

You nod, numb to the truth of it all.

10 seconds to spare.

If only the bell walked.

If only you were smarter.

If only you were better.

If only you were good enough.

Silence blankets the two of you. The only thing that speaks are the breaths from each of your throats, pouring into the still perfumed air of Larissa’s closet.

From an outside perspective, one would think that a chase like that, a game so neck and neck, would end on the most explosive of notes. The biggest catch, so to speak. The climax of it all. One would think that with everything on the line, with a livelihood wagered and morals placed on the table, the finale would be something memorable and great and probably terrifying and macabre.

The be all end all for games of wolves and lambs and bells and prey.

But great climaxes don’t happen in real life. And the feeling of your heart in your throat is uncomfortably genuine. And though you’d like to have the balls to tell Larissa to go fuck herself and shove her cannibalism where the sun don’t shine and flee off down the hall past Nevermore’s doors to the Jericho police station, you just don’t. You don’t have the balls, the courage, the energy.

In the face of Larissa’s success, your body’s given up.

Months of trying to keep in stride with her, but it never works. You never feel like the control you have is actually yours. She is just too good. Too good at making you feel special. Too good at capturing your attention. Too good at being a woman of her word and making you feel comfortable even when you feel uncomfortable - and too good at making you love her.

But.

But really.

How can you love a woman who will feed you the thigh of a man?

How can you love someone like that?

How can you want someone like that?

Truly. Honestly.

What is wrong with you?

Why do you want, even now, to grasp her shoulders and pull her close and kiss her senseless? Why do you want her to lead you to her bed? Why do you want to drown in her passion?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

A person can’t be heard screaming in space.

All calls for help don’t matter there.

And we ask ourselves: what is the human psyche if not a universe?

What is the mind if not a vast unfathomable thing?

One in which we cannot hear each other’s screams? One in which we do not care enough to hear?

The cries for aid are internal for a reason. They reverberate through time and bones and blood and viscera and space and everything.

So Larissa cannot hear you.

All she can do is watch. And see you unravel. And hear your muted sniffles in the dark as tears well up in the hot of your eyes. Eager to fall. To release. To plead a case to a woman who has been the source of judgment for so long. To beg in the face of danger.

“I don’t want- I-” you choke on your words.

“…I don’t want to eat human.” Your voice is far away. Soft. Defeated.

“Please,” and only now do you return to the moment - blinking at her through the haze of your tears and the midnight of dark, “please don’t make me.”

Your heart, a tad late on the delay, seems to realize now the extent of everything. You have lost. And now you must face the consequences. And give into her wishes. And ruin everything for yourself.

For the rest of your life.

To eat… that… would be to say ‘this has gone too far.�� It would be to say ‘You are making me do this because of a silly stupid game and for that, I can no longer love you.’ Because eating one’s own kind is only seen in some animals - and you are no some animal. You are no hungry beast. You are no curious soul that is unable to admit the truth to themself.

You are just a woman. A woman who does not want to stop loving, even though the love feels more like rot.

Even though the love feels more like pain.

“Please. Please don’t make me.”

And the tears only fall faster, racing down your cheeks in the same rhythm as your heart’s beat. On and on and on and on. Even as Larissa mumbles your name and flicks on the closet light, rushing forward at the smallest sight of your wet face. Flushed from tears, crumpled with sadness and self-loathing and the undeniable feeling of being lost. So lost. So out of place.

And you don’t even question the whole power situation - how Larissa’s room has power while the rest of Nevermore doesn’t. Or seemingly doesn’t. It would be like Larissa Weems to ‘fake’ a power outage for the sake of raising the stakes and winning the game. Just another reason why she’s fucked up and you shouldn’t love her and yet-

“Shhh shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Her soft accented voice in your ear and warm breath against your temple, speaking the sweetest reassurances as you tuck your face into your open palms and weep into the clammy skin of your hands. Her body presses against yours and her arms go winding around your waist as soon as she realizes that your legs are slowly buckling - simply unable to hold up the heavy weight of your heart.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But you don’t know how you can believe her. Even as she sits down next to you, both of you on your knees, pressed to the cream carpet in the middle of the walk-in closet with your head slowly falling to the side. Resting against her chest. Seeking solace in the very thing that frightens you and seduces you and restrains you and frees you and knows you and loves you and needs you and is somehow comforting you while you cry about her cannibalism.

It’s sickening.

But it’s what you need.

And when warm tears fall into your hair and are smushed along your temple, you realize that Larissa needs it too.

Not the comfort or the vulnerability or the release, but the shared feeling of otherness. The realization that neither of you are alone in your secret. A secret you never asked to know and a secret Larissa never wished to tell. And yet here you are. Knowing and telling and sharing and keeping. Keeping it between just the two of you. Like Romeo and Juliet against the world. Twisted souls with a depraved lust and desire for each other- in the heart and in the flesh.

But Romeo and Juliet is romantic.

And you two are just sad.

And damned.

And leaning on each other still, silently weeping while mindless words spill out of Larissa’s lips.

“I won’t,” she rasps, “I won’t make you. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry. Please. Believe me. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

But she’s not sorry about eating people.

She’s just sorry you found out.

She’s just sorry you saw who she really was. Is.

She’s just sorry you love a version of herself that isn’t the woman she wants to be.

Still Larissa Weems, but someone different.

Still Larissa Weems, but a murderer.

Blood on her hands. As red as her lipstick.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’d never make you. I swear it.”

And she cries as she speaks, the length of her throat clogged with guilt and tears and sorrow. A million apologies for a million offenses. One right after the other that somehow fills the void in your heart and stitches up the horrendous wounds in your mind. Keeping you bloated on apologies.

The only difference being that she means them.

You can tell.

And when she says she’d never make you, pushing it out of her lungs in the way she does, sobbing it into the softness of your neck, you believe her. She wouldn’t let a single piece of long pork touch your tongue and she wouldn’t serve you something you don’t want to eat. No woman in love would do such a thing. And so she clutches you closer and whispers it over and over again.

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t you don’t have to I’m so sorry I’m so sorry-”

Until you’re both exhausted and you find enough breath needed to take your hands away from your eyes and wipe your snot and tears on the skin of your forearm.

“I know,” you finally speak, crackly and pathetic. “I know.”

Larissa sniffles and nods but doesn’t stop her weeping - and her hands only bring you closer. As close as you can get. Molded to her body, tangled up with her on the floor, finding your arms returning the desperate hug and sliding around her midsection to hold her close too. Like a lifeline.

Like a lifeline.

«——..✞..——»

Smiles nervously. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

Tags (Plz keep in mind Tumblr doesn't let me tag some accounts): @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles @weemssapphic

[zeravmeta]

Hi! I watched the stream earlier and was wondering if you could expand upon what you said about the parallels between Setanta and Beast of Sodom? Feel free to ignore this and thank you for the fun stream :D

nah man it's cool!

so im not sure how much people remember lilim harlot but spoilers and also long:

So lilim harlot was essentially beast nero from arcade jumping over to mainline fgo and kidnapping guda because she needs help from the throne and panhuman history essentially sending endless heroic spirit hitmen after her. guda being guda helps her and chiefly the reason why guda helps is because they happened to be the likeliest individual to be able to help her, which isn't a good look for the person who just saved the planet (this is post lb7) and is trying to get back into their house.

so the thematics with beast nero lie primarily with her death scene in canon: in fate canon nero ended up taking three days to die but was ultimately allowed to die as a human because a nameless soldier was there to witness her death and covered her corpse with a blanket, essentially giving her a last rite that many believed the beautiful and terrible emperor nero didn't deserve

beast nero is born from the possibility of no one having granted even that small mercy to nero: someone so unbelievably reviled as a monster that she was not allowed to die as a human, so she ended up becoming a beast of sin from that. the reason we have baby nero as a beast for starters is because a lot of nero's actions throughout her life were in part due to her mothers abuse and hatred of her, with nero having a bit of a parallel to liz in "an individual who became inhuman because she was never shown any sort of humanity". despite a lifetime of terrible actions she committed and were committed towards her, nero was at the very least able to smile at the end of her life because a nameless someone, a nameless anyone, was able to say that they truly loved her with a small mercy, but beast nero could not. she is reduced to being a child initially because that is all that nero was only ever allowed to be, essentially "she was born to be a monster"

now, setanta is from arcade and while he is technically cu lily, it's a little more nuanced than that. cu cu chulainn the hero exists and embodies the value of a name to a hero: his name cu chulainn is literally one he gained from killing a blacksmiths dog, throughout fsn and greater canon the greatest thing to cu chulainn is his heroic pride which is indistinguishable from his name, and setanta is basically that version of cu without his defining namesake. while other lily servants may just be "x but younger", setanta has the full understanding of himself and is primarily the same individual trying to become worthy of his own name. cu chulainn also has a long and storied history of also being seen as a monster, and while he freely admits to being so he also does not want to only be seen as a monster, which again is the big reason why he has so much pride in his name: the name cu chulainn is that of a hero. in the actual tain bo cualinge there was an event where cu was indisposed and needed to sleep for a long time, so a boy troop was sent out to take his place in battle, only to be completely slaughtered. when he wakes up, he's incredibly distraught at what happened and goes to take revenge for them, becoming a wild beast in his rage. however, the nameless soldier who fetched him told him that he was not any less of a hero for needing to rest, allowing cu to calm himself down before he became completely monstrous. the thing is, cu chulainn at the end of his legend has a terrifying and grotesque death: surrounded on all sides and disemboweled, he ties himself to a boulder with his own entrails and continues to fight for three days (huh), until his death is finally announced by a crow perching on his corpse.

these two overlap because it was always about dying as a way to prove that they were indeed human. that the smallest mercy and acknowledgement of them as individuals and human is what prevented them from becoming full on monsters.

there's a sequence in lilim harlot that has hakuno quite literally grab guda from across the timeline just to tell them that they wish they could help nero not feel lonely, so they're having guda take their place because no matter what, the master from the mooncell will always love the grand emperor of rome.

[slashers-and-rats]

Can I request jason voorhees x pregnant reader and they already have one kid and after a long night of jason taking care of his pregnant and helping her move around and get comfortable and playing and caring for his child he sees the ghost of his mom saying he's so proud of him with tears of joy in her eyes right after he read his kid a bed time story and kissed em goodnight?

jason vorhees x fem!reader | sfw

a/n: thanks for making me cry, anon. real cute of you, thanks. SUCH A GOOD IDEA BUT SO SAD MAN

it had been a long, long night. jason’s muscles ached. he was getting older, and with it came sore joints and a cracking back. it felt right to him, though. it marked the movement of time, a past leaving and a future settling into his bones. a future with you.

oh, you.

jason gazed down at you as he lead you through the hall of your house. your back was killing you. your stomach had been getting so big, much bigger than it had with your first child. the doctor said it was natural, even after all of jason’s fretting, and recommended you get as much rest as possible. he took this very seriously too. you nearly never lifted a finger, didn’t feed yourself, didn’t bathe alone, didn’t move without him right there to make sure that you were safe and comfortable. it was adorable. you would be annoyed by his constant tutting and worry, but the way he looked at you made you melt. you felt so fragile to him. he couldn’t let you break.

jason sometimes felt like he wasn’t made for all this. he was a big tough man, he had blood on his hands, he was grotesque and monstrous - and somehow, here he was, caring for a family. he loved it, he adored you, he cherished your child, but it felt wrong somewhere in his head. he felt unworthy. this could be anyone, you could be with someone better, and yet you were here. as good of a father as he was, he couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t supposed to be him.

you saw him thinking hard. his eyes were staring off in the distance as he held you. you stopped moving, and he immediately looked down at you with concern. “I’m fine,” you assured, patting the large hand supporting your waist. “I’m wondering about you, actually. what’s going on?”

jason blinked a few times, before straightening up. what was going on? he shouldn’t be doubting himself. this was his life. he had earned it, hadn’t he? he worked so hard, didn’t he deserve this…? the question only seemed to make him think harder. he didn’t want to make you worry. that was just more work for you. no, he couldn’t let you think too hard about him.

he shook his head, nuzzling his face into the side of your cheek affectionately. even while married, he chose to keep the mask. it was a comfort he couldn’t shake. you didn’t mind. when you were both in bed, it came off anyways.

“you doing okay?” you asked, rubbing his shoulder. he nodded, this time more convincingly, and patted your butt to get you moving down the hall again. you giggled, letting him lead you.

he got you settled within an hour. once you had been wrapped in blankets, dozing off to a show you enjoyed, he left your bedroom to do his usual bedtime routine. he went downstairs and cleaned up the toys from your daughter. she was a powerhouse, that was for sure. he chuckled to himself as he pulled sticky hands off of the ceiling. she had an arm too.

after he had cleaned up, he moved onto getting things ready for the next day. tomorrow was the beginning of the week, so he had to prep a school lunch for your daughter, and put her reading assignments in her backpack. he felt like he had been domesticated, and it felt good. he liked routine, and being seen as something other than a freak. to everyone in the PTA, he was just another dad. a dad with a horribly deformed face, sure, but still a dad.

after these last few tasks, he began walking back up to the bedroom you shared. he was ready for a good night’s rest, and to finally get to hold and kiss you. he couldn’t get up those stairs fast enough, but exhaustion was beginning to nip at his heels.

on the way to the room, though, he heard the gentle pitter patter of feet in your daughter’s bedroom. it made him halt in his tracks. he went to investigate, pressing his ear to the door with a confused furrow of his brows. she had been put to bed hours ago, tired from a weekend of fun. he didn’t expect her to have any energy to be up and around, and yet there he was, listening to her trot around her room.

he cracked the door open, peeking inside. there your daughter was, walking around the room looking for something. jason opened the door fully, letting the light from the hallway flood in. she darted her head around at seeing this, staring up into his eyes with surprise.

“oh, papa! papa, i can’t find grandmama!” she explained, sounding distressed. his eyes widened a bit. long ago, when he had first heard he was having a child, he had made a small doll of his mother. he wanted her to be present, even if she couldn’t be there physically. it had become your daughter’s favourite doll, she carried it with her everywhere. it made jason feel happy, seeing he could share someone so special with his child. it made him just as worried as your daughter was to hear she was missing.

he walked into the bedroom, beginning to help search for the doll. your daughter followed suit, beginning to look in her drawers and closet. it took some time, but soon jason found the doll underneath a blanket underneath the bed. your daughter cheered happily when it was presented back to her. “thank you, papa, thank you! i didn’t want to go to sleep without her.”

jason nodded, gesturing for your daughter to get into bed. the little girl did, slipping under the covers and getting comfortable. he helped by tucking the blanket tight to her body, and fluffing up her pillow. it made her giggle, the way he dramatically patted it to make it nice and big. when she was comfortable, he sat beside her a little longer, running his fingers through her hair and watching her drift off.

once he saw her give in to sleep, he pushed his mask up, kissing her forehead. he was exhausted, and hadn’t even made it back to his own room yet.

he sighed, turning to look out the window and into the night. he didn’t expect to see his mother standing there. it was a surprise, but the lack of sleep was setting into his mind. she had been dead a long time, and he knew it wasn’t actually her. she was wispy, he could see right through her and into the cold night air, but… he didn’t mind. it was a shock, but it felt as though she was supposed to be there. for a moment, she had never died. she had always been there, following her son, leading him through his new life as a parent.

“you’re doing good, you know,” she spoke. her voice was distant, but felt like a whisper against his ear. he felt so safe. it felt right. he was with his family. the doubt from before, it all lifted off his shoulders. “you’re an amazing father, jason. I’m so very proud of you.” jason felt his heart swell. a wave of content washed over him, and in a moment he was sobbing quietly, hunched over on the edge of his daughter’s bed. he weeped, unable to contain it all. he was a father, a husband, a stable man - all the things he never thought he’d be. he had always wished his mother had seen him, and she did. in her own way, she must’ve known. she was here, wasn’t she?

the man crumpled a little more, slumping down against the warmth that seemed to be holding him. he sat there for a moment, crying out of joy. it felt good to let it all out. he really was lucky. he couldn’t understand how he managed to get such a perfect life after so much bullshit, but it was moments like these that made him feel like it was worth it. he was worth it.

when he had finally come back to your bedroom, his mask had been thrown aside and his face was red, but he was smiling. through your sleepy demeanour, you felt him wrap his arms around you and hug you tight. he pressed his face into your neck, and mouthed the words ‘i love you’ against it, before laying you both down to rest.

he was right where he was supposed to be.

[pianomanblaine]

Down Once More

This story was written for the Potober prompts “Down Once More” and “And Now, How You Betray Me”, particularly with the words “taken hostage” and “betrayal” in mind. It resulted in an alternative version of the final lair. Fair warning: this one does not have a happy ending. 

AO3 FFN

He dragged her along the dark and damp corridors beneath the opera house at a frantic pace, his grip on her arm harsh and unrelenting, not even sparing her a backward glance as she stumbled over her own feet trying to keep up with him. Her head was still reeling from the events leading up to this moment. It had all happened so fast, yet here and now, time seemed to lose all meaning. Every separate moment seemed to fade into the next one, forming one big hazy blur. It might have been several hours or merely a few minutes before they reached the shore of the underground lake and Erik was steering the little boat across the water towards his house.

Once inside, he pushed her into the bedroom which she had come to think of as hers, and roughly thrust the wedding dress he had so painstakingly crafted for her into her arms. He did not leave the room, did not even turn around to give her the smallest bit of privacy as he forced her to change into it. He immediately started yanking at the fastenings of the dress she was wearing, undressing her with great urgency, letting the garment pool around her feet, and for a moment she feared that he had gone completely mad and would try to violate her. But he only barked out an order for her to put on the wedding gown as he began to agitatedly pace the floor, only occasionally glancing in her direction while she got dressed again.

When she was finished, Erik retrieved a veil – she did not see where from, he might as well have pulled it out of thin air – and forcefully pushed it onto her head. Under any other circumstances, she might have been able to appreciate how delicate and beautiful it was, with its wreath of white and pale pink flowers that contrasted so nicely against her dark brown hair. It hardly weighed anything, but to Christine it felt incredibly heavy, carrying with it the full weight of Erik’s expectations.

Now that her wedding attire was complete, Erik finally stood still long enough to fully look at her. She wondered if he was happy with what he saw. He must have imagined her in that very dress so many times. Was he satisfied now that he had what he wanted, even knowing that it was against her will? Was it all really worth it?

Before she got the chance to ask him, he turned his back on her and walked away without saying a word. She followed him into the sitting room, where a fire was burning brightly in the hearth, its warm glow a striking contrast to the icy atmosphere in the room.

“So what now?” Christine asked, breaking the tense silence between them. “Are you planning to keep me hostage here, hoping I will suddenly change my mind and agree to marry you after all? Or will you just drag me in front of a priest and threaten me until I say ‘I do’?”

“This is not exactly how I had imagined it to go either, Christine,” he snapped as he stood by the fire with his back turned towards her. “I had a plan, and it would have worked if your precious little Vicomte didn’t have to ruin it all.”

“Raoul was only trying to protect me.”

“And look where his protection got you,” Erik sneered, turning to face her with a grotesque grin on his bare face as he gestured around the room, “in the Phantom’s lair, captured by the madman!”

“I never believed you to be mad, Erik,” she replied, “but I have come to understand how dangerous you can be.”

Christine’s heart twisted painfully as she recalled the early days of their acquaintance, when she still believed he was the Angel of Music. How kind he had always been to her, how gently he had treated her. But that had changed drastically when she learned of his deception and discovered his true identity. He had continued to act as her tutor, coaxing her voice to unknown heights, and although he was never harsh or violent towards her, he had grown defensive and suspicious, always on his guard around her, as if he could not believe that she could still feel any genuine kindness towards him now that she had seen his face.

“Well yes, I suppose I am like a wild animal in that regard. When feeling threatened, I can be extremely dangerous indeed,” Erik agreed. He took a few steps towards her, closing the distance between them, his tall frame towering over her. He seemed to be challenging her, daring her to look at the face of the monster.

“Should I be afraid then?” she asked, rising to the challenge and looking straight into his strange yellow eyes.

At first he merely seemed surprised, maybe even impressed, by her bravery as she stood her ground and faced him without flinching, but by the way his face fell only a moment later, she could tell when the meaning of her words hit him. He turned away as he spoke.

“Of course not. I never meant for you to be scared of me. I never intended you any harm.” He took a few steps back, as if to prove his point, as if he hoped to seem less threatening if he stood a little further away from her.

“Kidnapping me is a strange way of showing it,” Christine huffed.

His posture stiffened at the accusation. “You didn’t exactly leave me much choice, did you?” he said through clenched teeth. “You betrayed me!”

“I betrayed you?” she gasped in disbelief, her hands balling into fists by her sides. “Do you want to talk about betrayal, Erik? Do you want to discuss how you lied to me for years, pretending to be an angel sent by my dead father to watch over me? How you blackmailed the managers into doing your bidding, how you terrorized Carlotta and God knows how many others?”

“Don’t you understand? I did it all for you! Because I love you!” he roared.

“Don’t you dare blame this all on me! You killed two innocent people, Erik! How does that have anything to do with love?”

“Buquet was not innocent,” he snorted. “He was a vile lecher, a pervert preying on young defenceless ballerinas in the dark behind the stage. He got what was coming to him.”

The man was certainly no saint, Erik was right about that and Christine knew it, but how could he not see that that did not justify his murder? Even so, she might have been able to forgive him for it eventually, if it had not been for Piangi.

“Piangi never hurt anyone.”

“Piangi was in the way!” he exclaimed. “I did not mean to kill him, merely to incapacitate him long enough to take his place on the stage, but I ran out of time and I became careless. He was the only thing standing between us and I was not about to let him ruin my plan, no matter the cost.”

“You are delusional if you truly believe he was the only obstacle standing in your way. What did you expect to happen tonight, Erik? You would take Piangi’s place, sing with me in an opera of your own creation in front of a full theatre, and then what? I’d fall into your arms and we’d live happily ever after?” She tore the veil out of her hair in frustration, throwing it at his feet. If he thought that after all the times he had tried to force her hand, had tried to manipulate her into choosing him, she would now willingly become his bride, he was sorely mistaken.

“I cannot deny the truth of that, although it now becomes painfully clear how foolish I was to entertain such hopes.” Although his words seemed to imply that he blamed himself for having such unrealistic expectations, the glare he directed at Christine made it clear that he also faulted her for his disappointment. “I was ready to lay my heart at your feet tonight, Christine, and how did you repay me? By tearing off my mask and revealing my monstrous shame for all of Paris to see! I trusted you!”

His angry shouting turned into a sob of betrayal and despair, and for the briefest of moments, Christine’s anger was overshadowed by compassion for the man in front of her. She was well aware of how badly she must have hurt him by doing what she did, but she had no other options. If she hadn’t done something drastic that would enrage him enough to take action, the gendarmes waiting behind the stage would have closed in on him and captured him, or worse.

Raoul must have thought she was in her dressing room or somewhere else out of earshot as he gave his instructions to shoot Erik when the time came, but she had been too nervous to sit still for long, choosing instead to wander the hallways and eventually finding her way behind the stage, pacing back and forth in the dark as she waited for the inevitable tragedy of the night to unfold. She had heard every word. If she hadn’t acted when she did, Erik might have been dead by now.

“I understand that my actions hurt you too, Erik, truly, I do, but you gave me no choice. Can’t you see it was wrong to pin all your hopes and dreams on me? You’ve told me you love me, and I believe that in your own way you really do, but I cannot be held responsible for your feelings, Erik. I do not owe you anything simply because you love me.”

At the crestfallen, heartbroken look on his face, she almost went to him, almost closed the distance between them and embraced him in a futile attempt to offer him some comfort, a silent apology for having shattered his dreams in a few sentences. Almost. Whatever she had to offer him, it would not be enough now. He would always want what she could not give him.

“I know that I cannot make you love me,” Erik began after a long, heavy silence. “God knows I have tried long enough.” His voice sounded softer now, his bitter and accusatory tone completely gone. “But do you not care for me even a little bit? That could be enough for me. We could start over somewhere new, where no one knows who we are. I could still tutor you and you could still sing.” He was pleading now, with his eyes as well as his words, hoping against all odds that he could still convince her to share her future with him.

“I would expect nothing from you, Christine. I’d do anything to make you happy, I’d give you anything you want. You would only have to ask and it would be yours, and you would not have to do anything in return other than stay by my side. Dammit Christine, I am beyond pride. I’ll fall to my knees and beg if I must. Stay with me. Please.”

And for a moment, Christine was truly tempted to throw caution to the wind and go with him. She did care for him, how could she not? Despite everything, he was still her Angel of Music. She could not deny he had been an integral part of her life since the first moment she met him. Erik had been her sole companion during those terrifying first few years after her father’s passing. Through music he had brought her soul back to life. The connection between them was irrefutable, and she could hardly imagine a world where she would never see him again.

Yet she knew that what he asked of her was impossible. Even if he claimed that he had no expectations from her, she knew that he would never be truly happy until she returned his affections, that he would always continue to hope, and she could not bear to disappoint him. Besides, she already had a fiancé. Raoul. Her childhood sweetheart. Sweet, protective, kind-hearted Raoul, who was probably trying desperately to find a way to save her, even if he had to risk his own life to do so, at this very moment.

Where Erik’s love for her was obsessive and at times almost frightening, being with Raoul would be as easy as breathing. He might not be able to give her a life of music, but she would be safe and cared for. She would not want for anything, and unlike Erik, Raoul was not a wanted man. Choosing a life on the run with Erik over a comfortable and uncomplicated one with Raoul might be romantic, but it would also be foolish.

“I do care for you Erik,” she finally replied, “but I cannot stay.”

He did not try to convince her after that. He merely nodded in resignation, as if he had always known this would be the final outcome.

“Go then,” he said. “You can choose a change of clothes from the wardrobe in your – in the spare room. You would draw too much unwanted attention if you returned dressed the way you are now.”

Christine wondered if that was his true reasoning, or if he simply wanted to keep the wedding dress as a memento to torment himself with.

She obeyed his instructions for the last time, selecting a simple yet elegant dark blue day dress out of the assortment of clothes Erik had kept on hand for her since the first time she had spent the night in his home.

When she re-entered the sitting room to say her final goodbyes, Erik was kneeling on the floor, desperately clutching the veil she had so carelessly discarded earlier, a look of terrible sorrow etched across his distorted face. He brought the fabric to his misshapen nose, trying to inhale the little bit of her perfume that might cling to it.

His eyes flew open and he looked up at her in surprise when he heard her footsteps. He clearly had not expected her to come back.

Erik stood up slowly, wiping invisible dust from his trousers, straightening his jacket, as if after all that had transpired, it was still of the utmost importance that he look presentable to her. Maybe his habit of dressing so nicely was an attempt to compensate for the imperfection of his face, she suddenly realized.

A tentative smile formed on his lips as he watched her, silently waiting for whatever last scrap of kindness she would offer him before stepping out of his life for good. Christine could almost feel her heart breaking as she removed the ring he had thrust on her finger earlier that night, holding it out towards him. The ring was supposed to be a promise, a physical sign that their lives would forever be entwined. It did not feel right to keep it.

Erik’s smile disappeared as he reached for the ring, holding her hand in his for a moment while he looked into her eyes, silently begging her to change her mind. She gave a minute shake of her head before letting go of the ring and withdrawing her hand, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

Christine did not say goodbye, her voice unable to get the word out. She turned around and walked away, forcing herself to set one foot in front of the other until she had reached the door. If she did not leave now, she never would, and she knew she had to.

At the door, she stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. One last glance at the man who had taught her voice to soar. He was still watching her, and when he noticed her looking at him he nodded once, as if to say: “It’s alright. Go. I understand.”

Trying to keep her tears at bay, she stepped over the threshold and made her way to the jetty, where the boat lay waiting for her. She knew she was making the right decision by leaving. But then why did it feel as if she was leaving a part of her heart behind?

As Christine steered the boat to the other side and removed herself from his life forever, Erik’s almost inhuman scream of loss and despair echoed across the underground lake. It was a sound that would haunt her for the rest of her days.

[fiddlepickdouglas]

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 19 - The Masters

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, what are they up to?, 3.6k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

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

Willie was back in Vegas, wandering through the street late at night. He was just leaving the hotel, like he’d just dropped Alex off by the front doors, knowing that he was saying goodbye and couldn’t stand to leave it on a heavy note. Still, he moved onward without looking back. He was just going to enjoy the memory that he had of the green eyes and the waves and the way he’d been nestled against Alex’s chest with fingers in his hair and wearing the hat and feeling like a handsome prince at the look on Alex’s face and - yeah, he was just going to cherish it forever. Without ever having another chance. Rock stars didn’t keep promises like that, no matter how much they meant to. The second Alex made it big, he would forget him, Willie was sure.

The journey from the hotel back to Caleb’s house was incredibly short. He looked back toward the street in bewilderment, unsure what could have happened. Sure, Willie knew his shortcuts, but he’d definitely clocked that journey numerous times.

As he walked up the drive, he rounded the corner and to his horror found the shed already ablaze. Stepping back in terror, Willie stiffened as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, Caleb loomed over him with a monstrous look in his eyes. He seemed to grow larger by the second and his face became twisted and grotesque. Then he opened his mouth, letting out a cry of rage as his eyes began burning a fiery purple and he raised his arm as if to strike.

“I told you to clean up this mess!” he cried.

Running away from the house, Willie was only just able to escape his attempted blows. His feet seemed to slam against the pavement, and his breathing was too loud. Looking up momentarily, he somehow had already arrived at the diner, and that was in flames too. Willie couldn’t help the small cry of distress that released from his throat, almost like a sob. Changing direction, he eventually came to the hotel and watched as it was already crumbling apart as it burned. Fear and confusion consumed him as Willie continued running with tears streaming down his face. The bodega was on fire too. And so was Roy’s. Anywhere that Willie tried to run to roared in fiery destruction.

He was sitting inside the truck, but it was empty. Nobody sat in the driver’s seat - nobody smiled back at him. All Willie could see was that the truck was burning but he couldn’t open the door to escape. He tried rolling down the window but the flames got too high and he had to roll it back up. The door wouldn’t unlock or be forced open. Willie could feel himself suffocate in the confined space, feel his pulse rising. The ever encroaching doom of never making it out shrouded him like it was its own force.

“Willie!” A banging could be heard on the window and Willie looked up to see Alex frantically trying to open the door on the other side. Pressing his hands up against the glass, Willie shook his head, telling him it was no use. Alex just kept tugging on the handle and pounding his fist on the window in desperation, and didn’t seem to be affected by the flames consuming the truck as he did so. All Willie could hear was his name striking against the glass with every fistfall, but no change in Alex’s ability to save him. The agonizing sound repeated, slowly fading back as everything darkened and became more muffled, and then finally his mind regained consciousness.

Sitting up in bed, Willie sucked in a breath and huddled himself close. Taking a few seconds to try and let his pulse calm down, he looked over and found Sheldon had been curled up in sleepy contentment against his stomach, and was already stretching to find another place to sleep. Picking up the cat and cuddling him into his chest, Willie scratched his favorite spot behind his ears, hoping to convince him to continue sleeping at his side. Hearing Sheldon purr helped slow his excited heart rate.

Thank goodness it had just been a nightmare. But why had it been so terrifying and bizarre? He had already been through the loop with the one that went backwards, and now having everything go down in flames and being teased with the hope of rescue? Willie didn’t think he wanted to know what it meant. It was beginning to be a pattern now that dreams like that had a significant meaning. He was afraid of what the meaning of this one might be.

Sheldon took advantage of his loosened grip while he was caught up in his thoughts, and scuttled off of the mattress into the dark. Sighing heavily, Willie laid down and pulled the covers over himself, trying to get back to the same level of warmth and comfort as before. Nothing was bringing him back into a state where he could easily drift back to sleep. The wonder of the ocean in Alex’s green eyes didn’t help this time because it only brought the echo of his voice crying Willie’s name. He could only focus on missing the feeling of his cat curled up beside him.

“It’s gotten worse,” Alex said over the phone. Willie was just finishing another shift at the record store when he’d gotten the call. It’d been a few weeks since their first date and Alex hadn’t even been able to call in that time. He didn’t know how he’d been able to handle months without him after that whole day filled with absolute bliss. It was great to hear his voice again.

“How much worse?” Willie asked.

“He’s been doing this thing where he criticizes the tiniest things, but then he uses every bit of persuasion to make us nod and say yes to what he wants. At first we fought it, but now we just do what he says and then hate it later. It sucks.”

“That’s how he started with me,” Willie told him. “I didn’t know any better, so it was worse.” So much worse - his mind had been so addled with the loss of memory and new information had been frightening for a while. He’d merely been a toy in Caleb’s puppeteer hands.

“Yeah, and now he’s watching us like crazy. He’s never stayed in L.A. this long. He’s there from the second we’re in the studio to when we leave.”

“Huh,” Willie replied. “I think I might be to blame for that.” A cruel memory arose of all the times he’d ignored Caleb’s imposed curfew and then been asked what he’d been up to.

“It doesn’t even feel like we’re doing music anymore,” Alex lamented. He’d been fired up when he had started the conversation, but the way his energy flickered out pained Willie too much. Alex hadn’t had a chance to be open with him about why music was so important to him, but Willie was able to take a few guesses.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Well, the guys and I have been talking…”

Willie rode in the back of the van with Alex and Reggie as the guys carefully rolled up into the alley behind the studio. They all remained hushed, but the anticipation in the atmosphere was electric. Each of them scrunched their faces at the sound of squeaky brakes as Bobby slowed to a stop and parked beside a door. He hadn’t spoken a word for the entire drive, but Willie shared a glance with Alex, both of them full of nerves and adrenaline, and they each held in awkward laughter. Luke got out as quietly as he could, made a careful sweep of the premises, and then unlocked the door before signaling everyone to get out.

“So you want to be in on this?” Alex asked. He had just told Willie their plan to get back at Caleb and it immediately got him excited.

“Of course!” he told Alex. “I’d give anything to make him pay back for everything he did.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Alex said. Willie could hear his smile from the other end.

As they each carefully entered the back end of the studio, Willie caught the stench of cigarette smoke in the first place they entered and covered his nose. While they continued further in, Bobby lit a flashlight.

“Ow!” Reggie immediately covered his eyes from being accidentally blinded. Bobby winced as he moved the beam away from his face.

“Sorry!” he whispered. “It’s hard to tell what’s what in here, it’s so dark.”

“When are we going?” Willie asked.

“Next Sunday night.” Alex told him. “Caleb should be out of town that weekend. Plus we have a few things that need to be ready first before we go for it. But I wanted to make sure you were totally in before we put all the plans together.”

Willie smirked. He wasn’t sure if Alex was aware he was tickling his rule-breaking side, but he wanted to think that maybe he did know. For someone as sweet as he was, it sure was nice that he didn’t try to stifle that side of Willie.

“Are you and the guys gonna pick me up?”

“Yeah. We’ll come around...eleven? Does that work for you?”

“Yeah, that works perfectly.”

“Okay. I can’t wait to see you.”

Willie had to suck in a breath at those words, already wishing he didn’t have to wait an entire week.

“Can’t wait to see you either.”

They had gone all out with wearing black together and everything. Luke had been really vocal about it because Willie guessed he’d always wondered what a heist would be like. Did this count as a heist? It didn’t involve taking money or precious gems or anything - not even stuff that didn’t already belong to them, technically. In any case, it was definitely somewhere past midnight and due to the circumstances the guys had to break in to get what they wanted.

Willie followed them through the hallway, intrigued. This was where Alex had been spending a good deal of his time. Where Caleb had come and continued to spread lies. What the man wanted with them Willie was still unsure of, but he wondered if he’d been part of drawing Caleb’s attention to them. He didn’t like the possibility of having dragged them into his mess, but maybe it would be over soon. Alex put a hand on his shoulder and he immediately responded with an encouraging smile as warmth spread all over him.

 Luke was shuffling through the key ring. He hadn’t explained where he’d gotten it from and Willie honestly didn’t care to ask. The fact he had one instead of picking every single lock was impressive.

The door opened to reveal the studio they’d spent the past months recording in and Willie looked around at all the strange things he’d never imagined inside. So many different kinds of microphones and cords, stands for all sorts of things, smaller rooms to the side, headphones hanging everywhere. It seemed so different from just playing a show somewhere. Alright, maybe that was the point, but still, Willie was in wonder about how this somehow meshed with Alex’s rock n’ roll world. He didn’t want to laugh, but this place seemed so...wrong for the guys of Sunset Curve. Not because it was just any recording studio, but this particular one made him picture a bunch of guys in pressed business suits making some easy listening record. He would’ve tried to tell them not to sign here even if Caleb weren’t involved.

While he looked on, the rest of them began taking out all of their equipment. Quickly, Willie aided Alex in carrying out different pieces of his drum set. He had to be especially careful carrying out any cymbals so they didn’t make any noise, moving at a ridiculously slow pace. The rest of the guys packed up their guitars and amps and they managed to somehow place everything in the van so it fit tightly and securely.

“Is that really everything?” Willie asked, peeking inside once they’d hauled everything out.

“We’ve done this plenty of times,” Reggie told him. “Not the breaking and entering thing, of course, but the whole packing all of our stuff into Bobby’s trusty van.” He patted the side of the van affectionately. “It’s like Tetris!”

“Her name is Thelma, thank you,” Bobby teasingly corrected before he disappeared back inside the studio.

Reggie got flustered as he followed him. “I...wasn’t calling her Tetris…”

Willie chuckled as he shut the door and brought up the rear. This time the guys went into the booth behind the studio and began looking into every box and drawer they could find. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but Willie still joined them anyway. What were masters even supposed to look like? After filtering through everything they could, Luke and Bobby stood up.

“I’m not finding anything,” Luke said. “Anybody else?”

Alex rose from where he’d been kneeling over a box.

“Nothing.”

“Gonna be honest, I have no clue what I'm looking at,” Willie told them. Reggie peeked over into the box he’d been rifling through. After a few seconds, he shook his head.

“Nope, nothing there either.”

“Ahh, I figured they wouldn’t be here, but I thought we should look anyway, just to cover all our bases,” Luke admitted.

“Where else were you planning on looking?” Bobby urged slightly. He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one already.”

“Everywhere man, what else?”

“Luke, we can’t spend all night here,” Alex said.

“Okay, guys” Luke defended. “We can split up or something and get things done twice as fast.” The guys looked around at each other, although it was obvious what the pairings would be.

“Okay, Alex, Willie, you two can go together. Bobby and Reggie, come with me.” Willie instinctively took Alex’s hand as they looked at each other, both smiling a little. “Just don’t get stuck in a closet together or something.”

“Really, Luke?” Alex remarked. “Us? In a closet? Choice words, man.”

Luke only rolled his eyes and shook his head with a smirk as he followed Bobby and Reggie. Alex turned to Willie, also shaking his head at his friend.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Hand in hand, Willie followed Alex into another storage room, having difficulty getting his mind off the now-forbidden closet scenario. Maybe they could find the masters and then kill some time? He’d gotten a chaste little smooch as he’d entered the van and plenty of knee touches, but as they were already in the middle of breaking in, why not take the chance to make out in a closet while they were at it? The kind of story that would make for later? The memory? It was too tempting.

“I won’t lie, I definitely thought you guys knew where these masters would be,” Willie told Alex as he pulled open drawers full of file folders. Alex sighed as he shut the drawer he’d been searching.

“I should’ve told you we were guessing at best,” he said. “But we really did think they were most likely going to be in the mixing booth. Or, I guess, all of us excluding Luke.”

“What are you guys going to do if they’re not here?”

Running both hands through his hair, Alex thought for a little bit. It appeared their plan lacked a great deal of thought toward contingencies.

“So next time you tease me for forgetting what busses are, I’m just gonna bring this up - ”

“Shut your face,” Alex laughed, playfully shoving at his shoulder, making Willie giggle. “This isn't even close to that. Anyway, I guess we would just have to come up with a new plan. I mean, no one would even know we came tonight as long as we don’t get caught.”

Willie placed his on Alex’s back assuringly and for a moment they simply shared a look of hope. His hand slowly trailed from his back and held the side of his face, gently rubbing his thumb along Alex’s cheek.

“We’ll find them,” he insisted softly. Placing his hand over Willie’s, Alex’s eyes emanated gratitude and he gave a small smile.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, returning the tender tone he’d been given. Shrugging casually,  Willie shut the last drawer, making sure everything remained as it had before. He trailed Alex as they headed back out and almost immediately clashed into the other three boys.

“So we’re thinking it’s in...the office,” Luke told them.

“The office?” Alex asked in disbelief, apparently understanding what that meant. All the guys looked at each other with uncertainty, none more than Willie himself.

“The office?” he repeated. “Is that supposed to mean, like, Caleb’s, or something?”

“You guessed it,” Bobby replied, gesturing toward him dejectedly. “And it’s the one that Luke definitely doesn’t have a key for. So unless you’re good at picking locks, we came here for nothing.”

Willie wasn’t sure what it was, but at hearing Bobby say that it was like lightning struck in his mind. Sitting back on his heels, he looked between each of the guys, landing his gaze on Alex last.

“Actually, I think I can,” he told them seriously. “I’m not sure, but...I don’t know how, but I think I know this.”

“That’s a better chance than none at all,” Luke said with the slightest hint of confidence. “Anyone got something we could use?”

“Ope!” Reggie immediately began digging into the pocket of his pants and shortly procured a bobby pin. As everyone stared in bewilderment, he merely shrugged. “I had to do my sister’s hair this morning; I think it turned out pretty okay.”

“Alright, well hand it over,” Luke demanded. Reggie passed it to Willie and they all gathered around the door of Caleb’s office.

Kneeling and licking his lip, Willie concentrated on placing the bobby pin correctly into the lock, pressing his ear against the door and listening as he slowly turned the pin back and forth. A couple minutes of distilled silence passed as everyone held their breath, watching him carefully work with the lock until they all heard a satisfying click and Willie cracked a wicked smile. The whole band exhaled in relief as he turned the handle and pulled the door back.

“Come here,” Alex said, pulling him into a quick kiss with both hands before venturing into the room. A very twitter-pated giggle let loose from Willie’s throat that he tried not to dwell on because of how embarrassing it must have sounded. Reggie smirked as he passed them, nodding in approval.

“Awww, yes!” Luke cried as he found what he’d been looking for: the master copies of their newly finished album. According to Alex, the mixing and rendering had only been finalized a couple days before and they had more of Caleb’s stamp of approval on them than anything close to their songs. They couldn’t finish ruining his business without them. This was only half of their plan, anyhow.

As Luke filled his hands with the precious records in victory, an alarm immediately began blaring into everyone’s ears. They all looked around in panic before they all rushed toward the back door of the studio again, hands over their ears.

“Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit!” Luke repeated, clutching the masters to his chest.

While they were almost out the door, Reggie stopped as he caught sight of the recording booth again, an odd look in his eye.

“Reggie, come on, we’ve gotta go!” Bobby called to him.

“No, I’ve gotta do this!” Reggie shouted back, heading inside the booth. Willie watched in confusion as he unbuckled his jeans while leaning with his back against the glass of the booth. He lowered the back of them until he could press his entire rear end up to the window, trying his best to make a print in the glass. Bobby sighed in exasperation and shook his head as he rushed to get behind the wheel of his van.

Reggie finally left the window, struggling to pull his jeans back up as he hurried toward the van again. Alex stood back as he climbed into the same seat that he’d had before, and then made to clamber inside himself before bright lights illuminated them from behind. Turning and raising an arm so he couldn’t be blinded, Willie stood petrified at what he saw.

Caleb Covington stepped out of his vehicle, a look of fury that struck his very core. Suddenly, Willie could feel flames beginning to devour him, and the way the man had leered over him in his dream made his blood freeze. He’d once been completely trusting of this same creep who had his gaze fixed on him with pure hatred. He could hear the pounding on the glass. He could also hear the sound of his name.

“Willie!” Alex tugged on him harshly, dragging him backwards into the van and slamming the door shut before Willie even realized what had happened. Snapping out of his trance, he looked up as Alex was gripping his hands tightly and Bobby floored it out of the back of the alley. He couldn’t help but stare back toward the fading headlights where Caleb’s figure was still silhouetted in a desperate stagger, and he thought he heard that same cry of rage.

He felt a sensation on his hands and looked down to see Alex planting a kiss on his whitened knuckles, rubbing them over with his hand. His face was full of concern, and a bit of his own fear mirrored back. They kept wary eyes out the back window of the van, but ultimately didn’t see Caleb following them. After a few blocks, Willie finally felt he could let go of the breath he’d had trapped in his lungs and pressed his forehead against Alex’s. That had been terrifyingly close, but they’d made it out. That’s what mattered.

[aclosetfan]

are u still doing the ask game? can i ask for 19 or 20?

for you anon, of course! 20 is actually a really lame two-sentence note that isn't worth anyone's time, so I'll do 19!

19 is a really sad story tbh. I've always really liked the character Sedusa and it kills me that the writers never did more with her. I believe they said the reason why was because they couldn't think of many kid-friendly scenarios to put her in, which is fair lmao.

lol one of my notes for this outline is "this is my dark manifesto to [Sedusa] and it comes off like a bad CW remake," which was written way before the CW show announcement. so not to get a big ego about things, but I totally beat them to the punch. This fic is my only rated M fic (though arguably Acting Normal may also change into M just for its dark themes as well).

This story is adequately tilted "Sedusa" and it follows how a plain jane named Sara became one of Townsville's most notorious villains. The plot's below, though content warning, please don’t read if your triggered by abusive relationships, domestic violence, child abuse, sexual assault/harassment, or gore. The outline won't be detailed (and tbh the actual story won't be heavily detailed either) but i believe that everyone still deserves a fair warning :)

The outline doesn't do the plot justice, but it's all I got so hopefully people just Get It.

CHARACTER NOTES:

Canonically, I believe the Sedusa's character was supposed to represent envy and lust. So, one of the main themes I try to stick with when writing her character is the definition of envy, which is a "feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's possessions, qualities, or luck."

PLOT:

Sara is a sweet and mousy little girl, who tries her best to stay invisible. She's rather plain-looking except for her really beautiful long dark hair. Originally, she's not from Townsville, but somewhere in the "country" where a person could be considered a bumpkin. Sara's a smart young girl, but her intelligence is rather unrefined. She spends most of her time obsessing over greek and Egyptian mythology.

She's from a rather big family, but she's the baby. Her father is abusive. Her mother is neglectful and Sara resents her mother for just standing by while abuse is occurring. To cope, Sara dreams of running away and falls deeper into her mythology obsession--specifically Medusa. Sara feels like Medusa would understand her.

At 16, she runs away to Townsville where she tries to be a hairdresser. With no money, she ends up in a really seedy part of town and the beauty parlor she works for ends up being a front for more illicit activities. She still does hair, but really makes her money as a call-girl of sorts. Just one of those girls who gives handjobs in the back to sad old men. It's easy money (I'm pro-sex work lol so I don't make this a big deal, but she's still a minor and it's wrong), but she's disgusted with herself (and men). At this time, she isn't very good at manipulating men--it's more like they have power over her and it reminds her of her father, only making her angrier and angrier.

It is also of note that while she's working at the Parlor, she encounters Sarah Bellum via tv (Ms. Bellum is just an intern with the Mayor at this point). She's instantly fascinated by this other Sarah and forms an odd (slightly toxic) parasocial relationship with her. Sara thinks it's amazing that Sarah went to school and is just so glamourous. Ms. Bellum is really everything Sara wants to be.

*time skip*

Sara falls in love with some jackass. Still slightly obsessed with Sarah Bellum. Still working at the parlor. Sara feels stagnant and worthless. Her jackass boyfriend and a few of his shitty friends end up attacking Sara and cutting off her hair (which was her prized possession). She gets away, but not totally unscathed.

In the process of running away, she bumps into a mysterious man who promises He can fix whatever is troubling her. The mysterious man manipulates an affirmative answer out of Sara and he "fixes" her problem. The man is HIM and he transforms her into the woman we all know as Sedusa (who goes by Ima when disguised).

“And what is it that you want?” HIM tsked, almost sounding bored.

She looked back at the mirror, at her broken reflection and lipstick smeared down her face. With a sore, croaking voice she sneered, “I want my fu-fucking hair back.”

Behind her, the entity smiled, Its facing splitting wide into two, “Oh, now that I can do.”

She watched through the shattered glass how It—HIM—snapped its odd monstrous claw. HIM’s smile grew more grotesque, as a thin bead of sweat began to break out on her forehead.

“This might hurt a little bit,” the entity giggled as she began to hyperventilate, “but what is that you little humans say?" HIM paused, watching her with a tilt of Its head as pain shot through her temples, "Oh, that’s right—”

She gasped and then screamed, dropping to her knees as she clutched at her head. Something wiggled underneath her scalp, pushing harder and harder to break against the resistance of her skin. It felt as if something was pressing against her brain, trying to carve away at her skull.

“—beauty is pain.” HIM growled, appearing next to her so Its voice—now low and baritone—was right in her ear, and It grasped her by the chin forcing her to watch the mirror as snake-like tendrils sprouted from her skull. She cried out at the sight and her body trembled with the pain.

One black, oily, twisted snake after another shot out of a bloody crater on her head. She tried her best through the pain to shake HIM off—to look away—but It held her still with a twisted laugh. She thrashed and howled in agony as the blood poured down her face in rivets. HIM didn't let go. Instead, HIM forced her still, grabbing her by the chin so she'd peer directly into the broken mirror.

Sara paled right before her very eyes, from a peachy skin tone to a white paste. She tried to blink away the tears that wouldn’t stop welling in her eyes—the green of them becoming more acidic with every passing second.

“The fun should be ending soon.” HIM giggled again, Its voice back to a soprano, but she was too forgone to hear him, as her eyes began to lull into the back of her head.

Eventually, when the transformation is complete, we see this:

Sara had stayed collapsed on her knees after HIM vanished into thin air. She stared with wide eyes as blood, sweat, and tears dripped onto and rolled off her thighs. She hardly paid attention to her surrounding, all she could do was listen. She listened to her hair. She listened to the constant moving, living, mass that slithered around her head, neck, and shoulders. The coils almost seemed to be cooing at her, comforting her through her pain, offering sweet apologies for what they had done. They promised her nothing bad would ever happen again. They were a dangerous shield forged from her own body to protect her.

Her body. A vessel for this odd new life.

“Heh.” A deranged giggle escaped her mouth, “Heh. Heh ha—hahaha!” She laughed until her throat burned and tightened, her tears finally drying.

It was instantaneous. It was powerful. Sara had never known love before, but she loved them. She loved every single one of them.

And here she had thought she'd never be a mother.

Sara becomes Sedusa--taking inspiration from Medusa, her childhood fascination. She wonders if HIM knew, but she wouldn't bother asking. She feels sexy, powerful, and unstoppable. Her hair has instilled a new confidence in her and she's finally able to stand up for herself. Soon, she realizes that she's an "exotic" beauty and has men eating out of her hand. She isn't someone who kills, but if she gets bored (or feels threaten) she will.

Things are going good until the PowerPuff Girls are finally created. When she sees them for the first time, she pities them, especially when they're run out of town. She relates to them for not being loved little girls, but is completely shocked when she finds out they've won the town over. This shock turns into resentment and she decides she'll get even with the girls

Then, cue canon. Sedusa seduces the Professor. We see what happens in that episode plus a little more. Sedusa takes out a lot of her repressed childhood trauma on the girls and is plain awful to them. By the time her stint with the Professor is over, she hates them all.

Then, there's the episode with Bellum. Bellum becomes the Athena to Sedusa's medusa. Bellum is still this elevated person in Sedusa's mind, and it only makes sense to Sedusa that she should become Bellum. To become Bellum, Sedusa seduces Bellum and they end up having a brief relationship. (Sedusa pretends to be an intern at City Hall and the two ladies bond over having the same first name). Eventually, Sedusa reveals her plot and the canon events happen. (Bellum is heartbroken over Sedusa).

I'd like to emphasize that Sedusa's relationship with Bellum almost turns her "good," but her hair coils (HIM's curse) prevents her from taking those steps. Her coils prevent close loving relationships--since they're supposed to be shield that keeps people out, preventing any chance that Sedusa's heart may be broken again. [coils represent her inability to heal from the past]

Then we run through a quick montage of her other appearances.

[throughout all of this, I would write how her hair coils are making her more and more insane]

*time skip to after the events of the og show*

This is where my plot can go anywhere. I think Sedusa becomes sloppy, maybe kills a politican. She's spirialing out of control and mad that she can't find any real happiness in her life. I think it'd be interesting to show her interacting with the rrb, not necessarily to show their relationship, but to show how Sedusa would be infuriated that HIM had sons, especially sons who hurt girls for fun ( i.e. the ppg) (a real 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' moment for her). She's also infuriated at HIM for turning her into a monster, so being mad about his "sons" is just an excuse to get even with the entity.

To hurt HIM, she decides to hurt the boys, but the girls interfere. They won't let innocent live be taken, no matter the person's moral alignment. This infuriates Sedusa even more than HIM ever could. Because again, despite all the shitty things that have happened to the Girls, they are still good as opposed to Sedusa, who ended up bad. She doesn't understand why she had to end up the way she did.

However, the girls aren't the people who finally "defeat" Sedusa. Instead, that honor is left to Ms. Bellum (Sedusa's "Athena"), who Sedusa still very much loves in her own sick twisted way. Paralleling the Sedusa/Bellum episode in the og show, the girls (while protecting the boys) are almost defeated by Sedusa until Bellum intervenes. It's revealed that Bellum had a shitty childhood too (again enforcing the parallels/differences between the two women) and believes that it's not too late for Sedusa to change her ways (it’s a real “I’m rotten work” “no it isn’t. Not if it’s you” moment) In a moment of mental clarity, where the coils (and by extension HIM) cannot affect her judgement, Sedusa releases the boys and the girls. Sedusa doesn't stay though, like Bellum pleads, she gets scared and runs away. (but does tell Bellum she’d always love her, whatever that’s good for)

[also I decide bellum to defeat sedusa to show that the girls are still to young and that adults should be the ones dealing with other adults] [and bellum has a good track record of doing just that]

Idk if she'd be gone forever, but it's implied that she hasn't been seen in Townsville for a long time. What she gets up to is left ambiguous. She can't be good because of her hair coils, but she doesn't want to be bad. idk I don't want it to have a sad ending, but I don't think it can really be happy.

-----

I try hard to play with the concept of beauty, womanhood, purity, love and how negative/positive responses to trauma affect these concepts. Idk it's really rough and needs to be thought out more, especially the end, but I think Sedusa deserves her own story.

[justjessame]

Glorious, Before the Burden - The Mourning ~ 10

My thoughts of Loki weren’t all darkness and sadness.  After I’d had my fill of my garden at night, I’d retire to my bed - too big without him next to me. I’d thought I’d grown accustomed while alone in Asgard after his fall, but here, on Midgard where we first shared a bed it appeared that nostalgia came rushing back.  

Lying beneath a blanket that felt too heavy, on sheets that felt too warm, I’d be overcome with memories of better times - other beds - where I wasn’t alone.  

“Do you know,” Loki’s cool finger danced up my bare spine as my teeth dug into my lip and my eyes fluttered shut at the chill drawing gooseflesh to the surface of my sweat glistening skin, after all he’d just helped me see Valhalla in all its glory - again.  “That I see constellations under your skin,” his tongue replaced his finger tip and I arched up to meet him, sighing at the change, the temptation, the NEED that he was building.  “Shall I tell you the tales of each one, my love?”  

I’d wake each morning twisted in the bedding, sweating and feeling as if I’d had no rest - because I hadn’t rested.  I was reliving every moment of my life with Loki - while he was living on without me, with the belief that I was gone. 

Michael Griffiths had adopted me, much as he’d told Director Nick Fury, he assumed the role of grandfather.  And as such, he took it upon himself to get me acclimated to my new home.  Including, against my better judgement, teaching me the ways around that dreaded beast - the computer.  

“It won’t bite,” he assured me, opening up the portable version he insisted on bringing over.  

A laptop, as it was called - although I’d only seen them set upon tables and desks - the screen flickered awake and as he talked me through the navigation, I found that it was a portal to more information.  That coupled with the internet, it could help me gain knowledge of the points and passages of Midgard that I had missed, even with a few trips that Loki had surprised me with over the course of our marriage - they’d been spontaneous and random - I had much to learn. 

“See,” Michael knew that I loved learning - a ferocious appetite, he called it - and this appealed to my need for it.  “This cottage was already wired for wi-fi, a call was all it took -” he’d done it for me, just as he’d taken care of the cell phone, as he’d handled much of what I would have missed.  I offered to repay him, but he shook me off, refusing every offer.  “I have no family, no close family at least.”  

And so - we became one another’s family.  Taking comfort in each other’s company, I’d listen to his tales of a childhood that sounded simple, yet wonderful - and he understood when I didn’t share as much.  I need to keep myself tucked away, at least for a while longer.  

Not every night was filled with memories - some were filled with images that I couldn’t place.  Images that I felt certain my mind gave me to give me solace, to ease my pain, to make me feel peace - though some were so dark that I had to fear that perhaps Odin was urging Frigga to send me a reminder of my punishment. 

I saw Loki, in chains - shackled and held in place by guards, my pain hit me so low and deep I was startled that I couldn’t wake.  I watched as he asked Frigga if he’d made her proud, as he warned him not to make things worse - as Odin ordered her out.  How could my eyes burn so hot in a dream?  

Loki, my brave, darling, ARROGANT love, standing tall and laughing at his adopted father - mockingly asking what the problem was in what he’d done on Midgard - why there was such a fuss.  And then, as Odin and he had their back and forth, as he truly took notice of his surroundings, it seemed to dawn on him FINALLY that something was TRULY amiss.  

“Where is SHE?”  His tone wasn’t one of fear.  It was anger, the anger I expected when he would first note my absence.  “Where’s MY WIFE?”  

Odin, had he always looked so smug?  Had he always looked so all knowing and condescending?  Or was I simply cynical now? My eyes see him through the filter of pain and being cast out for my honesty.  

“Your WIFE,” he made the word sound like a crime, as if I WERE a crime.  “Is DEAD.”  Loki stared at him, opening his mouth and preparing to argue, but Odin wasn’t through.  “By her own hand,” he nodded at a guard who stepped forward and my heart twisted as I saw just how deeply they’d plotted to keep us apart, to truly destroy our connection.  

The guard held one of the hair picks Loki had commissioned for me, my favorite in fact, coated in blood and I knew - I knew that they really had severed the bond.  It was as if Frigga had taken that pick and shoved it right through my heart, coating it in my actual life’s blood.  

Loki didn’t allow Odin to see him react.  He shut off all comments about me.  Returning to the mocking, arrogant prisoner that Thor had returned from Midgard with - accepting, from an outward appearance, my suicide with a stoic heart.  But I knew my husband, and I saw the red tint in his eyes, I saw the flash that crossed his face, and I understood - he wouldn’t allow Odin to see his pain.  He wouldn’t allow his capture, this person who had taken him as a pathway to peace with one of Asgard’s oldest enemies to see how broken he was by the news that I was dead.  Not after - not with his failure, not after he lost his way and his regret was piling ever higher.  

Hearing that Frigga wouldn’t be allowed to visit was a final blow - life imprisonment without solace or peace.  And for once - since he first started plotting for his throne - he felt he deserved it.  

Gasping awake, I saw that dawn hadn’t yet crested.  A glance at the clock told me I hadn’t slept more than a few moments.  This tortuous dream felt like it had taken YEARS off my life, that it had lasted DAYS to watch, but it was moments.  

Sobbing as I thought of Loki, MY Loki having to hear that I’d taken my life - considering how they’d searched our rooms, taking anything I could have considered doing just that, and wondered - had they WANTED me to?  Had a family I’d been married into, a family I’d thought myself a part of for so very long, wished me to do them this favor?  End my life so once they could find my husband, they would have a built in torture ready made?  

I couldn’t - no, Frigga wouldn’t want me to have done such a monstrous thing.  It was one thing to SAY it, to try to convince him that I had - but to push me to it?  That was beyond anything anyone I knew would ever press for.  These dark thoughts would get me nowhere - no closer to - but would ANY thoughts get me closer to HIM?  

Picking through our past, I fought to find ONE, just ONE that would make it feel like he was near - and I felt as though I might be growing near it - but then just as it came within grasping distance, just as I could ALMOST catch a hint of a whiff of his scent, a glimmer of the blue of his eyes - it was gone - and I was alone once more.  

“Sigyn,” Loki’s eyes were as red rimmed as they’d been in our rooms - the day of destruction that should have warned me of what was to come.  The sob building in his chest.  “My love, is that you?”  It was as if he COULD see me, locked away in what I could easily see was one of Asgard’s prison cells.  “Have you come to haunt me, my darling?”  

I shook my head, reaching for him, my own eyes burning again.  Wanting so badly to touch him, to feel his cool touch.  “No, Loki, no,” my throat burned too, as if I’d swallowed glass.  “Why would I haunt you?”  

He didn’t come closer, regret and fear warring for dominance within him.  “Of all my failures, wife, pushing you to THIS -” he gestured at whatever he was seeing when he looked at me.  “THIS cuts me the deepest.”   

Confusion overtook my longing for him, what - turning slighting, I caught sight of my reflection - rather a reflection of the wraith that my Loki saw when he glanced my way - what else could one call the withered, bloody being that seemed ragged with death and despair, wearing sorrow like a cloak, the wound I’d supposedly given myself with the weapon he’d had created for me blossoming from my chest like a grotesque flower.  

“Oh, Loki,” looking down, unable to meet his gaze, not like this - in this form, this monstrosity that they’ve twisted me into.  “This wasn’t your fault.”  

“Then whose?”  His pain and grief pierced me as deeply as the false wound would have.  “Whose fault if not mine?”  

Waking up with tears streaming, the pain still clenching tight around my heart, I wished that I could have answered him.  That I could have told Loki who was at fault - but would answering him have truly helped? 

[friendlyneighborhoodpsyop]

Quotes about Kaz Brekker:

Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppy show.

The boy called Dirtyhands didn’t need a reason any more than he needed permission.

He was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges.

“Who’d deny a poor cripple his cane?” “If the cripple is you, then any man with sense.”

“I’m a business man,” he’d told her. “No more, no less.” “You’re a thief, Kaz.” “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I’m not here for a taste. You want a war, I’ll make sure you eat your fill.”

The boy he’d been talking to had been cocky, reckless, easily amused, but not frightening—not really. Now the monster was here, dead-eyed and unafraid. Kaz Brekker was gone, and Dirtyhands had come to see the rough work done.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you one day, Brekker.” “I will,” said Kaz, “if there’s any justice in the world. And we all know how likely that is.”

“Well I’m the kind of bastard they only manufacture in the Barrel.”

Inej was always trying to wring little bits of decency from him. “When everyone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.”

“Greed is your god, Kaz.” He almost laughed at that. “No, Inej. Greed bows to me. It is my servant and my lever.” “And what god do you serve, then?” “Whichever will grant me good fortune.”

“What’s the difference wagering at the Crow Club and speculating on the floor of the Exchange?” “One is theft and the other is commerce.” “When a man loses his money, he may have trouble telling them apart.”

“You’re a blackmailer—“. “I broker information.” “A con artist—“. “I create opportunity.” “A bawd and a murderer—“. “I don’t run whores, and I kill for a cause.”

“You see, every man is a safe, a vault of secrets and longings. Now, there are those that take the brute’s way, but I prefer a gentler approach—the right pressure applied at the right moment, in the right place. It’s a delicate thing.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.” “Each more grotesque than the last.” Brekker’s hands were stained with blood. Brekker’s hands were covered in scars. Brekker had claws and not fingers because he was part demon. Brekker’s touch burned like brimstone—a single brush of bare skin caused your flesh to whither and die. “Pick one. They’re all true enough.”

Kaz was not a giddy boy smiling and making plans for a future with her. He was a dangerous player who was always working an angle.

“Please, my darling Inej, treasure of my heart, won’t you do me the honor of acquiring me a new hat?”

Brick by brick. It was a promise that let him sleep at night, the drove him everyday, that kept Jordie’s ghost at bay.

Kaz’s servant, greed, luring them South like a piper with a flute in hand.

“Being angry at Kaz for being ruthless is like being angry at a stove for being hot. You know what he is.”

“I wouldn’t trust you to tie my shoes without stealing the laces.”

Matthias knew monsters, and one glance at Kaz had told him this was a creature who had spent too long in the dark—he’d brought something back with him when he’d crawled into the light.

“The easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is to tell him you’re going to steal his watch. You take his attention and direct it where you want it to go.”

“You can’t spend his money if you’re dead.” “I’ll acquire expensive habits in the afterlife.”

“I don’t want to die.” “I’ll do my best to make other arrangements for you.”

“You came back for me.” “I protect my investments.” Investments. “I’m glad I’m bleeding all over your shirt.”

Matthias suspected that Brekker would drag the girl back from hell himself if he had to.

He’d gifted her her first blade, the one she called Sankt Petyr—not as pretty as wild geraniums, but more practical.

“Kaz told me...he said it was my choice, that he wouldn’t be the one to mark me again.”

Because I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to your for two days.

He needed to know she believed in him.

“What to do you want, then?” The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie’s voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared to life inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome. You, Inej. You.

Kaz would always remember that moment, when he’d seen greed take hold of his brother, an invisible hand guiding him forward, the lever at work.

There could be no judgement from a boy known as Dirtyhands.

“Let’s say the mark is a tourist walking through the barrel. He’s heard it’s a good place to get rolled, so he keeps patting his wallet, making sure it’s there, congratulating himself on just how alert and cautious he’s being. No fool he. Of course every time he pats his back pocket or front of his coat, what’s he doing? He’s telling every thief on the Stave exactly where he keeps his scrub.”

It was because she was listening so closely that she knew the exact moment when Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the bastard of the barrel and the deadliest boy in Ketterdam, fainted.

He’d heard there were sharks in these waters but they wouldn’t touch him. He was a monster now, too.

He’d imagined his death a thousand ways, but never sleeping through it.

It was as if once Kaz had seen her, he’d understood how to keep seeing her.

“If it were a trick, I’d promise you safety. I’d offer you happiness. I don’t know if that exists in the barrel, but you’ll find none of it with me.” Better terrible truths than kind lies.

He knew he was being reckless, selfish, but wasn’t that why they called him Dirtyhands? No job too risky. No deed too low. Dirtyhands would see the rough work done.

A good magician wasn’t much different than a proper thief.

She could see it took every last bit of his terrible will to remain still beneath her touch. And yet, he did not pull away. She knew it was the best he could offer. It was not enough.

“Some people see a magic trick and say, ‘Impossible!’ They clap their hands, turn over their money, and forget about it ten minutes later. Other people ask how it worked. They go home, get into bed, toss and turn, wondering how it was done. It takes them a good nights sleep to forget all about it. And then there are the ones who stay awake, running through the trick again and again, looking for the skip in perception, the crack in the illusion that will explain how their eyes got duped; they’re the kind who won’t rest until they’ve mastered that little bit of mystery for themselves. I’m that kind”

“You love trickery.” “I love puzzles. Trickery is just my native tongue.”

“Do you know the secret to gambling, Helvar? Cheat.”

There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not been healed wrong. There was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.

Her eyes were shut, her oil-black lashes fanned over her cheeks. The harbor wind had lifted her dark hair, and for a moment Kaz was a boy again, sure that there was magic in the world. She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.

You’ve cheated death too many times. Greed may do your bidding, but death serves no man.

He needed to tell her...what? That she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. That he was twisted, crooked, wrong, but not so broken that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her.

“Saints, Kaz, you actually look happy.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. But there was no mistaking it. Kaz Brekker was grinning like an idiot.

“I can hear the change in Kaz’s breathing whenever he looks at you.” “You...you can?” “It catches every time, like he’s never seen you before.”

“How will you have me? Fully clothed, gloves on, your head turned away so our lips can never touch? I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.”

“I’m not big on bluffing, am I, Inej?” “Not as a rule.” “And why is that?” “Because he’d rather cheat.”

Inej wanted Kaz to become someone else, a better person, a gentler thief. But that boy had no place here. That boy ended up starving in an alley. He ended up dead. That boy couldn’t get her back. I’m going to get my money, and I’m going to get my girl.

“A proper thief is like a proper poison. He leaves no trace.”

There were no good men in Ketterdam, Kaz said. The climate didn’t agree with them.

“If you don’t care about money, Nina dear, call it by it’s other names.” “Kruge? Scrub? Kaz’s one true love?” “Freedom, security, retribution.”

“It’s pragmatic. If I were cruel, I’d give him a eulogy instead of a conversation.”

“You haven’t been alive long enough to rack up your share of sin.” “I’m a quick study.”

Patience, he reminded himself. He’d practiced it early and often. Patience would bring all his enemies to their knees in time.

“You’ve got the devil’s own blood in you, boy.”

Kaz was going to have to find a new language of suffering to teach that smug merch son of a bitch.

“I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.”

“My mother is Ketterdam. She birthed me in the harbor. My father is profit. I honor him daily.”

Desperate for some sign that he might open himself to her, that they could be more than two creatures united by their distrust of the world.

They could continue on with their armor intact. She would have her ship and he would have his city.

Sure, a lock was like a woman. It was also like a man and anyone or anything else—if you wanted to understand it, you had to take it apart and see how it worked. If you wanted to master it, you had to learn it so well you could put it back together.

He always liked returning to a home or business he’d had cause to visit before. It wasn’t just the familiarity. It was as if by returning, he laid claim to a place. We know each other’s secrets, the house seemed to say. Welcome back.

“When people see a cripple walking down the street, leaning on his cane, what do they feel? They feel pity. Now, what do they think when they see me coming?” “They think they’d better cross the street.”

“We can endure a lot of pain. It’s shame that eats men whole.”

“I don’t hold a grudge. I cradle it. I coddle it. I feed it fine cuts of meat and send it to the best schools. I nurture my grudges, Rollins.”

It was as if Kaz had a secret map of Ketterdam that showed the city’s forgotten spaces.

“I’ve taken knives, bullets, and too many punches to count, all for a little piece of this town. This is the city I bled for. And if Ketterdam has taught me anything, it’s that you can always bleed a little more.”

Was Johannus Rietveld meant to be his Jakob Hertzoon? Or had it been some way of resurrecting the family he’d lost? Did it even matter?

“I wreak all the havoc I can until my luck runs out, use our haul to build an empire.” “And after that?” “Who knows? Maybe I’ll burn it to the ground.”

Tell her to get out, a voice inside him demanded. Beg her to stay.

Kaz thought he knew the language of pain intimately, but this ache was new. It hurt to stand here like this, so close to the circle of her arms.

“These things don’t wash away with prayer, Wraith. There is no peace waiting for me, no forgiveness, not in this life, not in the next.”

Two of the deadliest people the barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both keeling over.

A black glass boy of deadly edges.

A bit of entertainment, the dramatic end of Kaz Brekker, the humbling of Dirtyhands. But this was no cheap comedy. It was a bloody rite, and Per Haskell had let the congregation gather, never realizing the real performance had yet to begin. Kaz stood upon his pulpit, wounded, bruised, and ready to preach.

“You have two minutes to get out of my house, old man. This city’s price is blood, and I’m happy to pay with yours.”

“What is wrong with him,” Nina grumbled. “Same thing that’s always wrong with him. He’s Kaz Brekker.”

“Rich men want to believe they deserve every penny they’ve got, so they forget what they owe to chance. Smart men are always looking for loopholes. They want an opportunity to game the system. The toughest mark is an honest man. Thankfully, they’re always in short supply.”

“Well, Brekker, it’s obvious you only deal in half truths and outright lies, so you’re clearly the man for the job.”

“What do you think my forgiveness looks like, Jordie?” “Who’s Jordie?” “Someone I trusted. Someone I didn’t want to lose.”

He put his gloves back on and didn’t take them off. He became twice as ruthless, fought twice as hard. He stopped worrying about seeming normal, let people see a glimmer of the madness within him and let them guess at the rest.

The rage inside him burned on and he learned to despise people who complained, who begged, who claimed they’d suffered. Let me teach you what pain looks like, he would say, and then he’d paint a picture with his fists.

That was what destroyed you in the end: the longing for something you could never have.

“I will kill you, Brekker. I will kill everything you love.” “The trick is not to love anything.”

“Suffering is like anything else. Live with it long enough, you learn to like the taste.”

She smiled then, her eyes red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. It’s a smile he thought he might die to earn again.

“He doesn’t say goodbye. He just lets go.”

“Ketterdam is made of monsters. I just happen to have the longest teeth.”

[safflowerseason]

veep rewatch - 3.03

Season Three, Episode Three - Alicia 

aka - The One with the Announcement 

Tracie Thoms is well cast in the role of Alicia. 

When Jonah runs across the street, you really get a sense of how ill-fitting his clothes are (and also how freakish they make him look as a result). His pants are at least two sizes too big. 

Amy back in a skirt suit very reminiscent of her S2 outfits. 

Love the behind-the-scenes quality of the scene in the Veep’s office, with Selina getting fitted while her staffers work on the speech. 

Sue: Ma’am, it's Amy. She sounds uncomfortable. Like she's with a member of the public.

And now Amy in a beautifully tailored purple dress! This is not my personal favorite shade of purple (I would have preferred something a few shades darker…this is a bit too “crayola” purple for me) but the dress is super cute and it looks wonderful on Anna Chlumsky and fits her like a glove. I adore the peplum detail on the skirt and the little sleeve flaps.

Selina in another black and red outfit, in yet another episode where she wrestles with what she can say publicly versus what she actually believes. Definitely a consistent fashion theme of S3 so far. 

Gary: It's like SNL is going back in time and abusing a child.

Love the ongoing balloon bit in this episode. 

Kent: We need to rewrite the speech! Dan: I can’t rewrite the rewrite, Kent. I'm still writing it! Kent: That’s the reality, Dan. If you don't like the reality, go live in Oregon and make quilts with my mother. She could use the help.

Dan/Amy parent!watch Amy: Do…do I take her hand?  Alicia: Yes, hold Miss Amy's hand. Mike: Amy was born to be with kids Amy: …Peeing is fun…!

Amy: Okay…great pee.  Dan: I wanna know who's responsible for that sketch, you cock…*sees Amy and Halo*…tail napkin. Yeah, you heard me! Doyle: Dan. Amy. Dan: Shit, I gotta go.  Amy: Senator Doyle.  Doyle: I have a meeting scheduled with the Vice President right now and it is "right now” right now. Amy: Dan, you take this…right now. Dan: What?!

I always thought this little tussle, as well as Dan and Amy’s very brief interactions with Halo, indicate that while parenting would have represented a chaotic (and comedic) learning curve for both of them…it’s not like they don’t grasp the basic reality of what it means to be responsible for another human being. Both of them willingly hold Halo’s hand. Dan cuts himself off in the middle of cursing out the SNL guy, Amy doesn’t really know what to say to a little girl but she still tries to make her feel comfortable…these are small things, but there’s an awareness, however limited, of what it means to manage small kids. Yes, Dan and Amy are dramatic and completely obsessed with their work and have limited emotional intelligence. But they are also technically functional adults who have a base level of propriety and social awareness. In contrast, during S7, Mandel’s attitude toward the idea of Dan and Amy as parents seemed to be that they would be practically criminally negligent, monstrous in their grotesque selfishness and sociopathy. Which, like, sure, I wouldn’t want Sex-Psychopath Dan anywhere near my daughter. But it doesn’t track with the earlier seasons of the show.

Ben: Because then they sound like they're the result of war. Kent: It’s the curse of the unintended narrative. Dan: Okay, but you still want military first?  Selina: Yes!  Dan: *grumbling* Yeah…I’ll just say them simultaneously.

The show never gets into it much, in either era—and it seems like BKD was always tragically doomed to be nothing more than a plot device—but there was always a little spark with Ben, Kent, and Dan’s dynamic. It’s not hard to imagine that the three of them, together, could have grown a very successful business in DC (…I have imagined it). Dan always works best around people who stomp on his ego and boss him around, which Ben and Kent certainly have no qualms about, but he’s also active and ambitious in a way that they aren’t, so they actually make a decent team. Also, Dan views Ben and Kent as men in a way he doesn't with Mike and Gary, which affects how he interacts with them. 

Doyle is a real dick in this episode. His presumption. It is so infuriating. It reminds me of all the male senators during the Kavanaugh hearings.

Selina: Seniors are the easy vote. Child care is a principle.  Ben: Ma’am, you have plenty of principles…you just gotta pick another one.

Dan: I don’t do offended…but I am affronted that you’d even think that.  A classic Dan line. 

Selina: I'll tell you what happens. They get bullied when they're little at school, and then they perpetuate the cycle by bullying me.

JLD’s face when she sees Catherine’s dress…masterful. 

Amy sends Gary a great “oh shit here it comes” look right after Selina starts to blow up at Catherine.

Also JLD’s fake laughing reaction to Doyle’s “L’il Selina” line. Brilliant.

Selina: So…I’m supposed to let a bunch of dead-eyed white guys shit all over absolutely everything that I stand for? An iconic line that is sadly even more applicable in 2020 than it was in 2014. 

Selina, in a rage: I have DECIDED that I'm going to LET them dictate to me. Because that is MY decision. Do you understand that? I am LETTING them do that! Get it?  Ben: Yes, ma’am. Selina: Right! But they do NOT own me!  Ben: They really don't, ma’am.  Selina: No, they don't! No, they don’t! *flings herself into the armchair*

Gary doesn’t do much in this episode, but he gets in some great little physical comedy bits, like trying to sneak Selina something to drink and then shying away. 

Mike calling Dee a “stupid cow” opens up such a dark crack into the normally sunny Mike. Matt Walsh really nails it, though, his own horror at his words…you really feel for him, even though it is a truly awful thing to say. I wonder if it’s a line they would have given to such a sympathetic character (for Veep, comparatively) in a post Me-Too world. Like, the audience just watched Mike get married! To Kathy Najimy!

Catherine: Amy, what the fuck is happening?! Is Mike on crank?! Amy: That’s actually the least of my worries right now. Your mom has gone quiet. 

Ben to Mike: You gotta go lower! You gotta go lower than the lowest lowlife. You gotta dig and dig and dig until you get to the point where you wish you were dead. Okay? And that's base camp.

Dan: Is there any way to snap her out of this Diving Bell and Butterfly shit? She should be rehearsing my speech right now. I mean…I am just impressed that Dan “only watches movies with Owen Wilson” Egan knows  about The Diving Bell and Butterfly.

Catherine: Your entire life has been leading up to this moment. And as a result of that, my entire life has been awful.  Sarah Sutherland’s delivery of this particular line is extra great…that little waver she puts on ‘awful.’ This whole monologue is so funny and spunky! 

All of the Selina/Dan interactions and miscommunications re: the speech and SNL once again foreshadow that their partnership is going to be a disaster. I appreciate how subtle the foreshadowing has been…while also undeniably consistent. 

I like that after an episode of being totally shit on by Doyle, Selina manages to get a win over him at the end, manipulating him in front of Alicia and Halo because of course he can’t say no in front of potential voters. Of course, she’s also manipulating them, but it’s a nice instance where Selina’s public machinations actually pay off for her. 

[peabodyandemerson]

The Last Camel Died at Noon

- Completed August 20, 2020 -

4 stars. Murder! Political intrigue! Treasure maps! Lost cities! The Peabody Emersons go on an exciting adventure in the Sudan! 

I thought I might list my thoughts on this one in a Pros and Cons list!

First, I’d like to note that I have never read King Solomon’s Mines, the classic adventure romance that inspired this particular tale. I do wonder what connections and inspirations I missed because of that fact! Now, my thoughts:

PROs:

Okay, yeah, I actually liked Ramses in this one! Can you believe it? I reckon he was less troublesome and conniving this go around. He’s always had useful and admirable qualities, but they were usually outshined by his annoying ones. I particularly loved the part where little Ramses was chasing after the cat with outstretched arms.

Amelia’s desire to start a full scale rebellion and the scene where she and Emerson save the toddler and mother from harm.

“I would greatly dislike being eaten by a lion”

There’s quite a lot of action in this one. I was a little shocked Emerson literally killed a man (actually several men?), but couldn’t help myself by being slightly amused by Amelia being extremely turned on by it. Messed up, but hilarious!

I don’t know if this should be counted as a “pro” necessarily, but we know how Amelia “talks big” but sometimes stumbles in her attempts to be physically intimidating. Amelia kills like two guys in this one, I’m pretty sure. It was in defense of her husband and child, but I mean...wow. I suppose I may have misread it and she only incapacitated them, but there was a lot of bloodshed in that chaotic chapter.

We barely got to know Nefret, but she seems resourceful and quick-witted. She basically saved the whole family in the end with her quick thinking. I thought it was cute that she grabbed some artifacts for the family to study as well.

CONs:

I am actually sad the camels were poisoned. Poor little, uh, large fellas. 

Emerson literally said he couldn't believe Willie Forth “allowed” his wife to travel with him when he scoffed at the idea of “allowing” Amelia to do anything. Like, bruh.

Speaking of my boy Emerson, I don’t love that he “allowed” himself to be “entertained” by the Sheik’s “dancers” (I hope you like my overuse of quotations) because if he was embarrassed that his wife knew he was there, that admits it’s something he feels guilty about, and thus should not be around. Yeah, it may be an unpopular opinion, but to me being faithful to your spouse means mind and body. Eyes, hands, and heart.

Use of the ‘n’ word and the term “savage”

In meeting Nefret, Peters described her as basically naked and Emerson and Ramses were just standing there staring at her? And she’s 13! Kemit/Tarek (a grown man) said “who can see her and not desire her” ...y’all that’s gross.

Disappointed and a bit disgusted how Amelia talked to Amenit. We all know how horrible and harmful European-centric beauty standards can be. Amelia offering to lighten Amenit’s skin, dye her hair and eyes was heart-breaking. Amelia went so far as to say Reggie would be lying if he said he found her beautiful the way she was. That’s just heartbreaking and needlessly damaging to a young woman of color.

Once again Peters seems to describe overweight people in a needlessly cruel way, frequently calling them disgusting and using language that describes them as being somehow grotesque and monstrous. I was quite disappointed particularly in Emerson’s “horror” at seeing Mrs. Forth in her present form, as if not being “young and hot” as she once was, was somehow a horror to behold. He didn’t really need to tell us how “exquisite” she was when young anyway. Like how is that relevant. I don’t really like how female beauty is emphasized, I guess. I thought the same thing when Peters wrote that Nefret’s “courage and beauty” had won over Emerson and Amelia. Like what? Courage is commendable, but beauty? Something that is subjective and uncontrollable? She’s just a child! What if she was, oh I don't know, covered in zits and gangly? Would that make her less beautiful and somehow less worthy of love? I mean, come on. I really don’t want to think that Emerson instantly fell in love with this 13 year old half naked girl at “first sight” anyway. Did Peters not realize how that sounds? I know that’s not what she meant, but it doesn’t sit terribly well with me. I hope Ramses won’t act creepy towards her in future books. I do have some fear he will grow up to be James Bond-esque, and I can tell you now I won’t like a character that sleeps with every girl he meets.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite the cons, I did honestly enjoy this one. It was probably the best book since Curse of the Pharaohs even though I was, at first, a little disappointed it didn’t actually take place in Egypt. I don’t consider it a pro/con matter, but Emerson and Amelia’s love life is a bit unbelievable to the point of being ridiculous, but it gives me something to aspire to in my own married life! They are still a delight after six books, and I’m only mildly annoyed by their unattainable level of happiness together ha! I’m still trying to space these books out a little, so I’m not sure when I’ll read the next one.

Also, did Emerson hint at Willie Forth’s father having raped Mrs. Forth? I’m a little confused on that point and what lead him to that supposition.

[saccharine-honnebee]

Monster Headcanon Stories- Dragon Boyfriend

🐲 your story begins as you make the dangerous trek up what the people of your village call the Beggar’s Mountain, to ask the spirit said to live within it to grant you a wish

🐲 (even if it was said to turn all unworthy wishers into morning mist, you were willing to take that chance)

🐲 loneliness had been eating you alive, you were tired of simply waiting for your soulmate, and you were desperate to find anything that might speed up the process

🐲 even if that meant wading through snow up to your waist to get to the spirit’s shrine

🐲 when you finally find the white marble carving- at least three times your height and canopied by branches of the monstrous evergreen trees that grow upon the mountain, you’re in awe

🐲 beasts like that of the shrine have long since been wiped out from human-inhabited lands , and this relic seems old enough to have been made when they still roamed the earth freely

🐲 you breath out slowly to settle your growing nerves, a thick, white cloud of fog following your exhale, and you feel like a dragon yourself

🐲 then you get down on your knees before the great statue, and open the small bag you’ve carried against your hip, retrieving your offerings- three silver coins, a sea glass bead, and a jar of sweet preserves from your village

🐲 then you close your eyes and whisper your wish to the spirit- to find your true love

🐲 you wait

🐲 and wait

🐲 and wait some more

🐲 and just when you start to think the those old myths really we’re just myths… you feel something

🐲 a blast of hot air against your face, not enough to scald, but enough to have condensation forming as is wafts against your cold cheeks

🐲 you open your eyes with a gasp and are even more shocked when you come face to face with what is no longer a stone carving, but a flesh and blood dragon, staring down at you with curious sky blue eyes

🐲 it now looked nearly as big as a palace, it’s serpentine body seeming as long and expansive as the skyline itself

🐲 it was white, just like the stone of the carving, but now much brighter, like it had been constructed from the snow around you, and the scales that lined it’s body had an almost opaline shimmer to them when caught in the sun

🐲 it had wings tucked up against its sides, made of fluffy, soft looking feathers

🐲 and one long trail of feathers running from the top of it’s head to the tip of it’s tail

🐲 you would’ve started screaming your head off if it wasn’t for the look in the dragon’s eyes

🐲 so gentle, and almost … timid

🐲 and like you are something to behold

🐲 you, a mere human

🐲 suddenly, you’re speaking without your brain’s permission, words spilling from you as if you’re running on autopilot

🐲 “Are… are you the B-Beggar’s Spirit?”

🐲 your voice is pitched and cracking, and you hoped it would even be able to understand you

🐲 and then you wonder if it would be able to understand you AT ALL, you’d heard tales of dragons who were able to speak but not many, and-

🐲 the beast leans down to press the flat expanse between it’s eyes to your forehead, and suddenly a strange sensation is spreading through your mind, somehow feeling like a wordless agreement

🐲 you manage to squeak your previous question out again for confirmation, and the same feeling appears

🐲 you were searching for something else to ask the dragon, when you felt something cold and soft land on your cheek

🐲 a snowflake

🐲 both of you pull back from each other simultaneously and gaze up at the now dark grey sky, and see more flakes fluttering down towards you

🐲 the dragon gets to it’s feet and turns around, then extends one of it’s wings and curves it’s neck back to look at you

🐲 you feel that fuzzy feeling behind your eyes once again, now asking you to follow it

🐲 you get to your feet as well and make your way through the thick layer of snow already covering the ground, and settle in the shade under it’s outstretched wing

🐲 “Where are you taking me?” You try to ask as you follow it further up the mountain

🐲 the answer you receive feels like home

🐲 something in you wants to trust this dragon spirit, if it really wanted to eat you, wouldn’t it have done so already?

🐲 and something about the presence of the large, imposing, but undeniably beautiful creature made you feel safe, even as you navigated through increasingly worsening weather, the kind that would’ve made you uneasy even from the safety of your home back in the village

🐲 as long as the massive feathered wing was above you, shielding you from the harshness of the wind, you knew you wouldn’t have to worry

🐲 soon the thick, white snow that you’d watched steadily creep up from your mid-shin to above your knees is receding, and your boots come in contact with the kind of dark, rich soil you haven’t seen in months

🐲 you stop in surprise, and just as you realize how much warmer you suddenly are, the dragon is tucking it’s wing back into it’s side, revealing to you the interior of a massive cave

🐲 the ceiling reaches to nearly the height of the mountain itself with stalactites dripping downwards and shimmering with what looks like diamonds embedded in the rock

🐲 in fact the whole cave glitters, every wall decorated with winking stars that take your breathe away and keep you fully entertained until you feel something nudging you at the small of your back

🐲 the dragon let’s out the tiniest of huffs as it urges you further into it’s cave and towards the massive bonfire you somehow completely missed when you entered

🐲 you comply easily, the warmth of the great fire a welcome change from the snow you’d been trudging through all day, and go to take a seat around the edge of it

🐲 before you can make contact with the dirt floor, you’re landing on something soft and plush, and look down to see a large, velvet, and emerald green tasseled pillow beneath you, and a dragon behind you now making itself comfortable upon yet another thing you’d missed about the cave- it’s massive, dazzling hoard

🐲 it raises it’s head to gaze at you, blinking slowly at you for a few moments, then speaks to you in your head once more

🐲 Rest, it urges you, and you can suddenly feel the day catching up with you

🐲 your eyes are drooping and you’re slumping in your seat, so you let yourself fall back onto the cushion and let it envelope you as you sink into it

🐲 ’just a few minutes’, you tell yourself

🐲 just a few minutes with your eyes closed and then you’ll start thinking about getting home 

🐲 but before you even realize it, you’re asleep, and you sleep the whole night through as the blizzard rages on outside the cave, frigid and furious 

🐲 but you are safe where you are, comfortable on your cushion, and warm in front of the fire 

🐲 and under the watchful eye of the Beggar’s Mountain Dragon

–

Don’t worry, the story’s just getting started! I have this whole big idea, but then I spent waaay too much time on the set up, and it would just be grotesquely long if I tried to continue with the rest here. And I think there’s still a text limit? And I just don’t think anyone wants to sit through a million word post in headcanon style. So I’ll be splitting this story up into parts. I’m not sure if they’ll all be done like headcanons, maybe I’ll write drabbles of in between moments and keep the story like this. I haven't decided. 

But yeah, for anyone hoping for more dragon romance, stick around ! It’ll only get fluffier from here💕

[antihero-writings]

If These Walls Could Talk Chapter 1: “Lisa”—Castlevania (Netflix) Fic (Full chapter!!)

Fic Title: If These Walls Could Talk 

Synopsis: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. 

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: I was writing a different Castlevania fic when I started describing things as if from the castle’s perspective...and I thought that was a very interesting idea, so this happened. The idea was also inspired by Sypha’s “it’s fighting me!" I thought that was really interesting because she was speaking almost as if the castle were a living thing. And, well, I love personifying things.

Also, ever since reading @izabellwit's a loyal heart  fic I’ve wanted to try writing something from a non-human perspective. And boy was it worth it. This has got to be one of my favorite fics I’ve written, honestly! 

Plus I really wanted to write about Alucard's childhood, and I thought this was a great way to do so somewhat comprehensively, but also concisely. I thought it was just an interesting idea, and that Sypha’s was kind of an offhand comment, but when I rewatched a few scenes for research, I realized…I think this idea is actually supposed to exist within the canon. There are subtler references to the castle having an alive-ness, Sypha’s is just the easiest to catch. I’m curious if anyone agrees, especially after reading.

 I have a very limited knowledge of the games, but I'm trying to learn more about them, and really like working in little references to them here and there! 

I was originally planning on posting this as one long thing (and I may still do so after I finish), because the sections are very much connected and meant to flow into each other, and I think it’ll be easy to miss things if they’re separate. But I realized it would be easier, both for me to post, and for people to read, in bite size-pieces. Plus it has very clear-cut sections that are easy to split into chapters. So here you go!!

Chapter 1 (of 8), She Came at Sunset: 

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

  The castle doesn’t like children.

Well, maybe that’s too strong to say. It simply isn’t the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: leave me alone. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—no snug space to curl up in, on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother’s nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

Its master isn’t the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child’s mouth, and worlds too dark for a child’s heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men’s hearts, from piercing a child’s—his child’s…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle’s halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot deny anyone entry. Unlike the humans’ doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn’t there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn’t crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called ‘ugly’, and ‘monstrous,’ and ‘grotesque,’ looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon’s castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she’d been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle’s floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard; stories, but not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses; the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death. Not all the stories make humans want to run at the doors with garlic and arrows, or else stay far away.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others; stories that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the other stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes. But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn’t that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won’t leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman, with her mouth full of healing salve and her hands full of curiosity. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

‘Devoid of life’ was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don’t usually come with the brochure ‘teeming with life’, or ‘great place to take your kids!’. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn’t actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

  “Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

  Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king’s attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time; the gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don’t reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn’t a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle’s bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. Looking for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle’s corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren’t dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought that’s where I’ll learn to heal people. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn’t shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn’t scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she’d teach him to be more human. Lisa, who’s life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there was a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula’s immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the alone does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it’s the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you’re the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are all you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: ‘you’re the only one I can trust.’

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn’t mean anything’s changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child’s arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not stand for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire’s world, cementing on the walls themselves You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania. The castle doesn’t know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn’t use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle’s walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations, walked outside, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them, and they want their child to be able to do the same, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that’s Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 2 of 26

Title: City of Saints and Madmen (Ambergris #1) (2002)

Author: Jeff VanderMeer

Genre/Tags: Weird, Short Story Collection (kinda), Horror, Fantasy, Metafiction, Mushroompunk (yeah), LGBT Protagonist, First Person, Second Person (sort of), Third Person, Unreliable Narrator.

Rating: 8/10 

Date Began: 1/7/2020

Date Finished: 1/17/2020

This edition of City of Saints and Madmen is a collection of 4 short stories and a massive “appendiX” of other stories/notable worldbuilding pieces, all of which explore a fictional city called Ambergris. Ambergris’ world is not unlike our own, with technology that somewhat mirrors ours, but is nevertheless distinctly surreal and fantastical. One Ambergris’ most notable elements are creatures called the gray caps (or “mushroom dwellers”), who are basically humanoid mushroom people that play a role in each of the stories. 

More details and a look at each of the stories under the cut. 

Surely, after all, it is more comforting to believe that the sources on which this account is based are truthful, that this has not all, in fact, been one huge, monstrous lie? And with that pleasant thought, O Tourist, I take my leave for good. 

I’ve read VanderMeer before-- the Southern Reach trilogy (which he’s most well known for) is one of my favorite series of all time. While I haven’t seen it yet, the film Annihilation is loosely based on the first book, and I hear it’s quite good as well. This will be my first foray into other stuff he’s written.

While this may put some people off, one thing I really liked about this book was it DIDN’T paint a clear picture of Ambergris. Each of the stories focus on particular details their respective protagonists find important, so the view we have of the city is always incomplete. There are tenuous and sometimes contradictory connections between the stories that often made me wonder what’s true/real, a recurring theme throughout the stories. Several of the stories are works of fiction within Ambergris, which skews perceptions even further. To me, all of this made the setting much more interesting, and the actual revelations more rewarding.

My personal favorite stories were The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of Ambergris, The Transformation of Martin Lake, King Squid, and The Cage. I’ll go into more detail on all the individual pieces under the cut, but rating them individually doesn’t much sense due to the weird format.

The Main 4 Stories 

Dradin, In Love 

An unsuccessful missionary priest named Dradin comes to Ambergris to plead assistance from a former mentor. However, when he spots an unknown woman through the window of a shop, he becomes convinced he is in love and becomes obsessed with her. As an event called the Festival of the Freshwater Squid looms, the city itself begins to change in startling ways. 

From what I can tell skimming other reviews, this one trips people up because Dradin is just... a piece of shit. He’s terrible. There are some sympathetic traits to him -- he’s a fish out of water with no one to help him, he had a traumatic childhood, etc. But the more you learn about him the worse he becomes. He believes he’s superior to pretty much everyone he meets, has committed various atrocities you gradually learn about in the story, and he believes he’s in love with someone he’s never met and spends a great deal of the story fantasizing about her and their future relationship. It’s pathetic-- but it seemed pretty clear to me I’m not supposed to like him, so I read the story knowing that. 

Anyway, this wasn’t my favorite, but it is an interesting introduction to Ambergris. It’s from the perspective of an outsider, so alongside Dradin you learn things about the city such as the various religious sects, the gray caps, and the Festival. It is jarring when the Festival starts out as this whimsical parade and then goes full Purge for the rest of the story. That feeling pretty much lasts the rest of the book. 

The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of Ambergris 

The conceit of this one is that it’s a travel pamphlet written for tourists to provide a quick rundown of Ambergris’ early history. But the writer Duncan Shriek is so obsessed and passionate about the subject that he goes into way more detail than necessary. He also makes extensive use of the footnotes (often longer than the actual page) to (1) insult the reader, who he assumes is a stupid tourist who will skip them, (2) go on long rants about various other historians, and (3) go into intricate, intense detail or speculation about seemingly innocuous things in the main text. Honestly relatable. 

Personally, I love a good history text, so a well-done fictional one is lots of fun. The stylistic choices are engaging and a great characterization tool. The “story” really came together for me in the third act. Super eerie and surreal, and a lot of details about the gray caps and a vast underground kingdom-- but there’s still a sense of unreality, because the account exploring this may or may not be a fake. Anyway, I really enjoyed this one. 

The Transformation of Martin Lake

This one is technically two stories at once. Martin Lake is an unknown painter looking to make his big break in Ambergris, when he receives an anonymous letter inviting him to a beheading. Alternating with these novel sections are excerpts written by art critic Janice Shriek (recognize the name?) which analyze the creepy and grotesque paintings made by Martin Lake-- Ambergris’ most famous artist. 

This piece was by far my favorite of the main four. Janice evaluates various paintings created by Lake and speculates on the meanings behind them. The Gothic horror story sections star Martin, and the events within reveal the true origins of each painting. The horror story is very creepy and well written, and I really like Martin more than most of the protagonists. It’s also amusing to see just how incorrect Janice’s analyses are. Overall this was a very well structured and entertaining read. (Side note: to whom it may concern, this is where the LGBT Protagonist tag comes from.)

Also, Janice and her brother are apparently the central characters in the next book? I enjoyed both of them so I'm excited for that.

The Strange Case of X

A psychiatrist interviews a mental patient known simply as X, who believes he has invented the world of Ambergris, and he’s actually from a place called Chicago. 

I'm torn on this one because I feel I accidentally ruined it for myself. The premise sounds like a pretty cliche setup, but there's a  twist at the end that keeps it interesting. The only problem is I went into the story assuming that twist was the case. It's not even like I guessed it or picked up on hints or whatever... I just assumed the twist for whatever reason, so I got to the reveal and was just like "...yeah?" 

Anyway, this one’s a good read, just not my favorite. X is obviously a fictionalized version of VanderMeer. I didn’t find him as important in the context of this story, but notes found in his cell make up the appendiX. I *did* really enjoy the story excerpt within this one that starts like a children’s book with very simple sentences, then slowly evolves into more complex language over time until it’s like the rest of the book. The swap between third and first-person in the story, then the narrator commending himself on how clever he is, was pretty funny and good characterization. 

The appendiX 

Dr V’s Note + X’s Notes 

Technically this is 2 “stories” but they’re presented together. Dr V’s note is just an outline of the stories in the appendiX, which are apparently various notes, pamphlets, writing journal excerpts, and pieces of paper he found in X’s cell. He speculates on the meaning behind some of them. It’s a handy reference that I turned back to a few times. X’s Notes are literally just some misc author’s notes/ideas. The final note, though, draws back to the surreal scene I mentioned from The Hoegbotton Guide, which implies it is in fact real. 

The Release of Belacqua 

This one is about an actor named Belacqua who’s been typecast into a specific role, which he plays every single day. One evening at his hotel room home, he gets a super weird phone call from a woman looking for someone named Henry. Based on what happens in the story, I’m guessing Belacqua was probably supposed to be a character in one of the stories but got scrapped, and this story is literally about scrapping him. It was kinda meh for me. 

King Squid 

No, I’m not transcribing the entire title of this one -- it’s, uh, quite long. This one is sort of like The Hoegbotton Guide, except it’s a biological treatise written by a man named Frederick Madnok about the King Squid, which is Ambergris’ main economic staple. Like The Hoegbotton Guide, the author goes into intricate detail on what he considers important and makes extensive use of footnotes. The thing is, Madnok is clearly going through a nervous breakdown as he writes, and the footnotes and tangents grow weirder over time, often delving into vague memories and details about his home life as a child. 

I think this one really shines when you get to the bibliography and notice it’s longer than the rest of the story and seems to list every single book Madnok has ever read. Personally I found a lot of the titles funny, but you could be forgiven for skipping them. However, certain titles have side notes, supposedly to point out notable things about them. Some of these, however, are disturbing and clearly unrelated to the title. Eventually, Madnok goes into a full breakdown and starts to describe himself transforming into a squid -- a phenomenon he described earlier in the text. His breakdown, juxtaposed with the absolutely immaculate formatting of the story, really made this one stand out to me. 

The Hoegbotton Family History

The Hoegbottons are a merchant family. Their company Hoegbotton & Sons is basically the Wal-Mart of Ambergris and is present through multiple stories. This text is interesting for some context for the next story, but not particularly notable on its own. V’s notes at the beginning say as much. 

The Cage

One of the early Hoegbottons visits a mansion which has been condemned after an attack by the gray caps to purchase the remaining assets to resell. Among the items he finds a strange, seemingly empty birdcage which he can’t stop obsessing over. 

This was my favorite story by a long shot. It was insanely creepy and surreal with the best visuals in the book. There are references everywhere to fungi and decay, and there’s something very odd going on with Hoegbotton’s blind wife that defies explanation. And obviously, the cage itself and what’s going on with it is very disturbing. Contains very very very good body horror which is apparently just A Thing for me. Of all the stories this one had the most Southern Reach-y vibe. 

In The Hours After Death 

This one describes what happens to a man after he dies, and it’s not quite what you think. It’s a short piece and I liked the writing; very melancholy and surreal. It’s one of those stories that just incidentally takes place in Ambergris, but would be a good story outside of it, too. Until the end, that is, which ties it back to the gray caps in another creepy way. Thanks. 

The Man Who Had No Eyes 

This one is notable because apparently, in the original release, it was written entirely in code. You had to use page numbers, paragraph numbers, and lines in the rest of the book to decode it. Because this edition is an updated re-release which shifted the pages and format around, it doesn’t work anymore. Instead Dr. V provides a decoded version. However, some of the words are wrong, and the final paragraph is still in code (supposedly because V was afraid to keep going). I had to look up the story online to get the full picture. 

Anyway, I suspect this story is foreshadowing for stuff that’s going to happen in future installments. It describes the gray caps taking the city back over and flooding it, and how they mutilate a writer living in the city so he has to find alternative ways to keep writing. It mentions the goddamn cage again. It’s kind of fever-dream creepy. 

The Exchange 

Depicts a short story about the Festival of the Freshwater Squid (remember that?). Apparently this story is provided by Hoegbotton & Sons for people who purchase a safe house to avoid getting straight-up murdered during the Festival. The story itself is entertaining and has a great twist at the end, but what’s interesting is someone’s made extensive annotations to the piece describing the fallout between the author and illustrator. I found it most fun to read the base story, then go back and read the annotations-- it felt like I was seeing the same story from very different perspectives. 

Learning to Leave the Flesh 

This one’s referenced in The Strange Case of X. Unlike every other story, this actually doesn’t take place in Ambergris, but our world. However, like The Strange Case of X mentions, details and names from Ambergris seemingly appeared in the story even though he had no recollection of putting them there. 

Honestly, it’s an OK work of fiction but was probably my least favorite. Mostly it felt like lengthy flavor text for a story I’d already read. The ending was pretty good, though. 

The Ambergris Glossary + A Note on Fonts  

Putting these two together. The Glossary actually answered a lot of questions I had and clarified some events from the various stories. (”What the fuck is with the Living Saints. What the absolute fuck-- oh.”) It’s implied that some of the entries are written by Duncan Shriek. Hi, again. 

A Note on Fonts describes the various fonts from different stories as if it’s a wine tasting, which was hilarious. 

[thewritewolf]

Inseparable Chapter 26: Sacrifice

What are they willing to give up to make sure that Hawkmoth is defeated?

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@ladynoirjuly2019​

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Adrien watched in stunned horror as the dark energy molded his father’s body like clay into something grotesque and terrible.

An extra pair of arms burst from below his original set as his body swelled to double its size. Both sets of arms became long and gangly, but with wiry muscles lurking just underneath the skin. Feather-like antennae burst from beneath his face mask just as a gigantic pair of moth wings erupted from his back. His now clouded eyes peered around and Adrien wondered if he could even see any more. Hawkmoth’s face morphed from a noiseless scream of agony to a mask of fury as he turned toward their general direction.

The sudden charge was expected, but even knowing that it was coming still didn’t prepare them for the sheer speed. Adrien felt the wind get knocked out of him as an elongated arm slammed into his body and threw him aside. It didn’t hurt as much as colliding with the wall did, but thankfully his suit protected him from the worst of it. As he rushed to his feet, he caught a glimpse of Ladybug, already taking a defensive stance.

Hawkmoth stood in the middle of the room, head stationary while his antennae twitched. He howled incomprehensibly as he barreled toward Adrien. The string of the yoyo wrapped around him, but didn’t even slow his charge, instead carrying Ladybug along with him as he attacked. With a better sense of his opponent’s speed, Adrien was able to dodge, but that was all he could do. Against this monstrous assault, a direct attack was just about impossible.

Hoping to get some space to work with, Adrien leaped with his baton and snagged one of the pipes hanging from the ceiling. His eyes widened as Hawkmoth proved his wings were functional by ascending towards him. Not as quick as he was on the ground, but…

“Hey, LB? I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

Her answer was to call out for her lucky charm. From this distance, it looked like a comically large, spotted perfume bottle. While he trusted his lady absolutely, he was left wondering if Tikki had made some sort of mistake. What could they possibly do with perfume? Assuming there was even perfume in it at all.

He tore his gaze away from her just in time to dodge the akumatized Hawkmoth’s attack. As he leapt to another pipe, his eyes widened as the pipe shook but didn’t break. Nothing but the best, he thought as he risked a glance towards his comatose mother. Even that brief look was enough to have his stomach tie up in knots. This really wasn’t a great day for him.

“That’s it!” He breathed a sigh of relief as Ladybug exclaimed. “Chat! Can you break open some of those pipes? I need some airflow in here.”

“I’ll see what I can do, m’lady!”

He turned his attention back to the ceiling and felt his heart sink as he saw the mess of metal tubes covering most of it. Taking a deep breath, he got to work. While struggling to keep ahead of the whirling fists always on his heels, he put an ear to the pipes that he landed on, listening for steam or air rather than the rush of water. After a few false leads, he found on, placed directly over the middle of the chamber. His claws failed to leave anything more than a scratch, but thankfully he had something more than just claws.

“Cataclysm!” The destructive energy wreathed his hand and he placed it against the piping, turning it to rust. Then he slammed his baton into it…

...Only for the pipe to hold. Adrien growled. Nothing but the best for good old Gabriel! How did he even find metal that strong?

Seeing that Hawkmoth was about to reach him, Adrien almost moved on to the next pipe, but stopped himself when an idea popped into his head. He could probably take a hit, right? Seating himself on the pipe, he glared as his father came closer.

“If only your family could see you now, Gabe!” He sneered at him.

Something sparked behind Hawkmoth’s clouded eyes and he swung with both his fists. Despite doing his best to dodge out of the way, Adrien was still clipped by the brutal strike and sent careening into the ground. Not even his suit could dull the pain from that strike. As he fell, he heard a warbling cry from above as steam burst from the pipe and sprayed Hawkmoth. At least his plan worked.

A web of yoyo strings caught him just before he hit the ground and Ladybug tried to pull him to his feet. Instead, Adrien yelped from the pain that shot up his arm and Ladybug recoiled in shock. More gingerly, she grabbed his good arm and helped him up. He had to favor one leg

“Stay still, kitty, and let’s hope this works.” She ran around the room, spraying the perfume before tossing it with all her might into the middle of the chamber where the steam was blasting down. It shattered on impact and Adrien had to cover his nose before the scent rolled over him.

Up above, Hawkmoth was circling and his antennae were twitching wildly. He roared impotently as he clung to the ceiling.

“That should give us a little time, chaton.” Ladybug appeared at his side, a pensive frown on her face. “Although, I don’t know what we’re going to do with that time.” She scooped him up to hide behind a column as Hawkmoth began throwing bits of masonry down at random.

“Any idea where the akuma is?”

“I didn’t see an akuma go near him, which means he just… pooled the power inside himself.”

“How… what does that even mean?”

Ladybug threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know! But it can’t be any good if that’s the result.” She pinched her nose. “What do we even do?”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t even know where his miraculous went. And I don’t think just beating him into submission is going to work if all we can do is hide from him.”

“Maybe we can combine our powers?”

Adrien glanced at his ring. Four paws remaining. “We can give it a shot.”

They sat down facing each other, Adrien’s leg proving less responsive than usual. He reached out mentally for the source of her power and felt a faint trickle as the energy began melding with his own. But something felt… off. With his mind open, he could sense the wild corruption raging above them, coiled around his father… and snared around his mother. It would take something big to overcome that. But Master Fu had given them warnings. Too much energy coursing through someone that wasn’t ready for it, hadn’t spent years training to handle it… they wouldn’t last.

But it was the only way.

Adrien opened his eyes and made a wobbly stand, finding it difficult to get his bad leg under him. He looked up, to see Ladybug had already stood. Her expression was unreadable, but he could tell that she knew.

“I’m sorry, lovebug… But I have to do it. I’ve always taken the hit for you, and I’ve got to do it one more time. Paris will need Ladybug.”

He had more to say. About how this was his family’s fault so it was only fitting that he finish it. About how much he loved her. But he didn’t have the time for that when she pulled his face down and captured his lips with hers. While there was still only centimeters between them, she murmured against him:

“Paris might need Ladybug, but I need you.”

Her yoyo wrapped around his body and he fell to the ground, completely entangled. His eyes widened in panic as she watched him. There was regret in her eyes, tears still unshed. But she was putting on a brave face. He hated it.

“NO! Don’t do this! Let me!”

“Not today, kitty.”

She turned around and faced the monster that had been his father, picking up the discarded perfume bottle. The scent was already fading, washed away by the steam. He landed on the ground and roared, but Ladybug, Marinette, his lady, held up her hand with the lucky charm, brandished it towards the monster. She took a deep breath.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

A swarm of little ladybugs poured out in a cone shape, blasting into Hawkmoth and stopping his forward momentum. Unlike her usual cure, these ladybugs were black with lime green spots and they didn’t move beyond the cone that summoned them. Instead, they buffeted Hawkmoth and Adrien could only watch in trepidation as his monstrous form was torn off like layers of an onion in black-purple sheets. It was clear that his strength was faltering since eventually he was blasted against the wall, where he remained stuck as the cure destroyed the corruption that he’d wrapped himself in.

At the end of it, there was no Hawkmoth. Only Gabriel, who stood with his eyes closed for a moment before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

“You… you did it! That was amazing, LB- Ladybug?” He realized she hadn’t moved yet, except to let her hand dangle by her side again. “Bugaboo. Talk to me! Please!”

There was no answer. She collapsed to the ground, her transformation breaking down at the same time.

[ligne-noire]

LAB.ORATORY LIFE - Faust. Anal deep throat. Fist-fuck party, Lab.Oratory, 12.01.2018

Lab.Oratory spoilt me for all other sex clubs. I have been there plenty of times, but the last occasion was at Silvester with my wife, our honeymoon in fact, when Berghain, Panorama Bar, Halle and Lab.Oratory were all open and every form of hedonism was possible as the new year slid in. Boris -> Mykki -> Marcel.  Guten rutsch. Now I am back for a fisting party – my fantasies become reality the more I visit this city.  I can’t live here, because I don’t want to run out of things to want. But I had wanted to go to a Lab fisting party since I first saw it on the flyer. Waiting makes wanting.

* * *

I always walk around first, seeing who I want, seeing what is happening where.  I need to know if there are any cocks being sucked in the glory holes; if there are any men being pissed on in the pissoir. What will I smell? What will I taste? I look around at the metal frames where I have been deeply fucked, at the walls that my head has been pressed back against while a large cock is rammed down my throat.  Everywhere I look I remember the faces of men whom I had fucked, whom I had made throw up on my cock. I remember the man whose face I never saw but whose arse I fucked for a very long time, never slowing, too high to come, too hard to stop, too entranced by the sounds of his grunts and moans as he would spasm from orgasm to orgasm, his limp dick leaking onto his thigh, but without me stopping the rhythm I was using him for. When I pulled out, his arse was gaping and did not close before I walked off, leaving him stretched open for the next man who wanted to fuck something. Who was he? What did he look like? We could be sitting together on the train and never know that we had fucked. Was he back here tonight?

The room is filled with tender scenes. I catch glimpses of long hugs in slings, of huge, hairy men tenderly touching their lovers, of anonymous kissing and rimming and sucking and fucking, and of men looking into each others’ faces and smiling and laughing and being in love for that moment.I'm lounging on a couch where I've been fucked before, smoking a joint, looking around from this little corner.  The music is good.  The air is blood warm. Hash-blue smoke coils through it as I look around and breathe in the heavy scent. Flesh is everywhere. Over there is a German bull in leather shorts with a huge strap on, thicker than my wrist and 30cm long.  He is about 60. He is fat. He has a big, fat head and large, ugly hands. He looks so average except for his glorious toy, too big to be real. An unrefined bus driver endowed like a king. He sneers as he rubs lube over this monstrous rubber dick, holding it like it is his own flesh. Polishing it. Proud of it. Looking around to see who is sizing it up, wondering if they can take it.  He looks at me, but I don’t catch his gaze. I am not here for him. I wonder if he is impotent; if he has lost the ability to get hard because his prostate became malignant, or if his heart medication broke his dick when it saved his life. I wonder if he really just enjoyed having the biggest cock in the room. I admit that I am tempted, but mostly out of disgust. I question myself: who would have to be on the other end of this ludicrous dick to let them break my arse with it? I imagine the flashes of pain as I would stretch further than I thought I could, at the point where I might panic only to realise that it was already in. The higher I get, the more my mind wanders into this labyrinth of gaping arse. It would be the same dick on anyone; who would make me overcome myself?

For a while he disappears, though comes back with another man, perhaps a little younger, stockier, shorter. It is not going to be pretty sex, but I want to watch anyway. I am lazy. I am comfortable.  There is so much going on that wherever I am I will miss something.  So I sit and smoke and watch these men prepare to fuck. The smaller man looks wired. He is looking around, head flicking over his shoulder like a nervous dog, like he was looking for someone that he did not want to see him here, ready to hurt himself on this huge dick. He is chewing gum, but spits it out when the bull bends him over a large iron bathtub in which other men have been pissing. He pours too much lube over his arse and begins stretching him open with his fingers. The two men seem like they are in worlds of their own, only connecting through penetrating fingers feeling their way inside. He pours more onto his dildo and pushes its blunt thick head against this willing arse hole.  The man bent-over holds a bottle of poppers, which he inhales deeply and then calls out as the toy pushes into him. The bull has his hands on his partner’s cheeks, pulling them open to take more, coaxing his cock into him.  Once the head is all in, he holds him by the hips and plunges his hips forward, grunting, snarling, pushing through anything that gets in his way. The cries are almost excruciating. I wonder if this is tearing him open. I almost want him to bleed, just to witness someone going too far in this pursuit of pleasure.  He doesn’t. He is the loudest person in the space by far; he winces but wants it. Soon the bull is pounding the man until his nose starts to bleed a little, perhaps from too much poppers, or from drug burns, or too much strain as his body tries to expel this huge toy that only pleasure is letting in, making him scream until he orgasms and constricts this dildo back out, immediately bending back over the bath tub to take it all again like a well-trained creature desperate to be filled. Every time his bowels reject it, they recommence; more screams, more thrusts, more rubber until finally it is buried harness-deep in his guts, thrusting into him until his body clenches tight and squeezes him out powerfully.  I can see how loose he is, how dark and swollen the folds of his rectum are, splayed open like a ripening rose when the bull pulls out, a wall of red flesh to be re-opened and re-entered. A trail of slimy lube drips out of him and glistens in the red light as it splashes on the dark floor. The bull watches it drooling off his rubber cock, and appears satisfied, sneering. The man who had just been fucked walks slightly stiffly. Something must have caught my eye, as when I look back, the men have gone. The bull is walking around, looking for the next hole to destroy with his dick that will never go soft. He takes a handkerchief out of his little leather handbag and mops his sweaty hair from his lined, sweaty brow. It’s older guys who really love fisting, when they have pushed through all of the other boundaries and are still looking for more to satiate their sex.  A tall old man with a massive leather collar and short grey hair climbs into the gynaecological chair that is a few metres away from me. He has an impressive face, almost noble.  His hair is very short; his beard, too. His eyes are clear and focused; his nostrils flare slightly as he breathes. Already his hole is stretched and wrinkled, much like the rest of him. I focused on him more than the man fisting him; more than on his sub who kneels on the floor like a pup, watching the scene from below.  I look at him and I imagine myself in the future. It is impressive how easily the old man’s arse is to penetrate.  Four fingers slowly press against him and opening him and enter straight up to the knuckles.  Then the thumb disappears.  Soon it is just a veiny stretched arse hole gripping a thick wrist pushing in and out and the sagging flesh giving way. Soon he is being punch-fucked, pulling out and then thrusting the clenched fist splashing back in.  The old man’s face is serene, he is in a state of ecstatic reverie, mouth half-opened, eyes half-closed, a beautiful saint worshiping with his anus. He is so present in his body that he seems almost able to transcend it. Every penetration squelches into him and his breath exhales harder. His long legs in leather chaps clench back on his bare chest. I keep watching as he shakes with every orgasm, which keep getting more and more powerful as his arse tightens and softens and lets more in, deeper and deeper and deeper. When they stop the man’s arm is almost elbow deep. When he pulls out, the old man’s anus is gaping and wrecked, his bowels prolapsing slightly, red and flushed and engorged. His lover rubs his fingers gently over it, tenderly coaxing it back inside him, folding the old man back together. I look on, wondering how he would taste right now. I could feel myself getting hard at the idea. Sometimes I want to lose myself in the grotesque, to see what beauty can be found deep within it.

We were steeped in fetish worlds that over-lapped. Men wearing leather chaps and big boots; men wearing jock straps and sneakers; all of them here to worship anal pleasure. This is sex beyond fucking.“What all these people are doing is not aggressive; they are inventing new possibilities of pleasure with strange parts of their body — through the eroticization of the body.” (Foucault, 1982).  Now there is a man wearing a mask and a heavy shiny black latex cat suit getting fisted in the gynaecological chair by another man in a rubber mask. They're looking into each other’s eyes and caressing each other's shiny black faces. When they are finished, they remove their hoods and joyously get into each other until again he's being fisted. Good house music is playing - I want to dance, but I have smoked too much hash and I am enjoying the view of men pushing their arms deep into other men, plus some super-skinny twink is dancing and I don’t want to encourage him. I decide to go for a walk.

* * *

I need to piss, so go to find the pissoir, the famous structure with the mesh floor above a chamber where sometimes men wait underneath to catch the dregs of any golden showers above them. The metal walls hold in the warm wet air. The smell of piss is so strong that it opens my nostrils as I breathe in.  There is no one wanting to swallow my piss this time, so I watch it drip through the grated floor onto the tiles below. I walk on until I see a hot tall German in leather chaps and a leather vest being fisted by a Turkish top who is drinking beer with his left hand while he moves his right in and out. The German wears black leather Adidas sneakers, sporty leatherwear, keeping all options open. First he is on his back with his long legs up in the frame, then he is on his knees, stretched out like a slut. His strong face is softened by a stubbly beard. I take out my cock and start stroking it while I watch. He is a good looking man, and his expressions are fascinating. He watches me between groans of intense painful pleasure that force his eyes shut. I come closer, and when the Turkish man takes his hand out and leaves, the German pulls me closer and starts sucking my cock, his face vanished in the shadows. I get fully hard in his mouth but I can't see what he's doing, so I rock my hips and lose myself in the excellent music while he keeps me on edge. He then moved his arse and takes my hand and pushes it against his gaping hole. I can feel how open he was around the bearded Turk's hairy wrist. His hole is a thick, stretched rim. Inside, his bowels are soft and delicate.  He is purple and swollen and sensitive but hungry to be filled again. I finger him with three fingers, feeling the stretched folds of his arse. He indicates he wants more, and pours lube over my hand and wrist. I push all of my fingers inside him, feeling his body open up to me. He is in an inverted position. I'm plunging my hand straight down into his warm bowels, my hard cock is rubbing against his leather vest, leaving shiny streaks of precum glistening on the black, but I can't see his head or chest as he is curled up under the metal bench moaning as I rub against his prostate. He is just an arse. A beautiful, gaping arse in leather chaps that is pulsating around my wrist and drawing me back in as I pull out, opening wider and wider and taking me in, a stranger giving warmth and softness with his body. Anonymous intimacy. I push in deeper, his muscles softening and letting me further into his body until I'm past my wrist, and half way up my forearm. His sphincter is stretched but makes a seal around my arm where it starts to thicken. He is warm and soft and his body spasms around me as he has orgasm after orgasm, his colon soft but strong as it squeezes me like soft lips that stretch on forever. He cums for me and cums for me and I keep fucking him until his voice is going hoarse and his body is starting to fatigue. I slow down and stop, letting his body pulsate and come to w=rest around my hand.  Every movement I make is amplified.  He is twitching electrically from the pleasure he has endured. His head comes out of the darkness and he looks at me as I watch my hand come out of his body. His eyes are dreamy and half closed and his smile is relieved.  I rub my fingers over him, and he starts to lose himself in the thought that I am going to fuck him again, but I stop. The Turk is standing behind me watching and drinking. I go to wash my hands. I have no idea if there is a connection between them, and no need to know. My moment has passed. I come back to the scene and the Turk is deep in him again, his arse so stretched it makes sloppy, sucking sounds as he is punch-fucked. He watches me watching him moaning. I go back to my sofa to smoke another joint. A beautiful black man walks past in a red jockstrap, the best-dressed man in the room. Soon after, a chunky young Turkish cub gets into the gynaecological chair with his arse hole at my eye height for a tall German to fist him. It's hot to watch from so close. I can see his arsehole stretch as the German coaxes him open. It is intense. He's shaking with orgasms from just his lover’s fingers, but soon works his way up to the whole hand. He squeals like a little girl in cute high-pitched noises and nervous giggles, gripping the wrist of the top as if to gain the nerve to let him all the way in. Every now and then a guttural groan is released. He relaxes and his body opens up. He lies there, spread, receptive, relaxed. And then it starts. Large hands in black latex gloves are alternating their way into his arse. I can see his pink anus stretched around the man's wrist. His balls are weighed down with a heavy steel ring. His thick cock twitches and swells as he comes through his arse over and over. Precum is hanging in long strands that glisten in the red light. Ugly men become something beautiful when they let their bodies open and they are taken over with intense pleasure. Beautiful men become ugly as they pant and beg for more pleasure, to be pushed deeper into intense sensations.  Destruction and rebirth. Limits being broken, over and over. This is how we grow. The scene continues as a German man walks over to me. He is exquisite. His clear blue eyes meet mine and he squats down and leans in. "Du bist ein schönes mann," he says, and asks if I was good. I smile and he touches my beard. He walks away and I get a good look at him, his round arse framed by his leather chaps - fuck he is hot. He is wearing black leather Adidas shoes. He is the man I had fisted earlier.

I have been here for four hours and it is emptier now. Before I leave, I take one more look around the space.  I am not sure when I will be back, or what I will be seeking next time I am here.  A middle-aged guy who might have been Italian has been creeping around me all night, slinking by with long stares in his leathers.  I see him again, still prowling.  He slips over in the lube that I had seen dribbling out of the man whom I had fisted. It was time to go.

[horrorkingdom]

Short story 🆕➡️➡️

I pass under the words “GOETHE FAMILY ESTATE” and grapple with a queer feeling of unease. The archway is flanked by faceless statues, their features worn smooth by wind and rain. The path to my right leads down the hill, past rows of uniform headstones, to the old convent. Ahead of me stands the Goethe Manor House.

The convent was closed decades ago, and the Goethe House has been abandoned for over a century. The only building on the estate that is still occupied is half a mile away; the former Catholic girls’ school, now converted to a nursing home for ailing and aging nuns.

The breeze lifts the hair from the back of my neck. I hug my jacket tighter around me and walk straight.

I cannot place the source of my discomfort. Graveyards hold no dread for me and I have spent much time inside crumbling buildings. Perhaps it is the trees that grow alongside the path, brought from far away places and replanted at the Goethe family’s command. Perhaps I can sense they do not belong.

The Goethe House looms larger as I approach. It is made of a yellow stucco that looks out of place in the gray light of the Pennsylvania autumn sun. It looks tired, with peeling paint and sinking edges, but, strangely, all the windows are intact.

I lean down to inspect a monarch drinking from a thistle that pushed its way up through a crack in the stone walkway. It is late in the season to see one and the unexpected beauty makes me smile. I hear my grandmother’s voice. Butterflies are pretty, but moths are special. They carry souls to the moon.

But what happens when a moth gets trapped inside? I had asked her.

Then the soul is trapped too. Why do you think so many houses are haunted?

The insect flutters upwards and drifts past a second story window. A pale face peers from it, watching me from a room I know is empty. I raise my hand to the girl in greeting when bony fingers wrap around my wrist and whip me around.

An ancient nun drags my face closer to hers. A few, solitary teeth jut from her gums like crumbling gravestones in a forgotten cemetery and her breath is sharp and sour. “It consumed the Sisters who walked without feet,” she spits, her eyes boring into mine, as if she could burrow her thoughts into my head by the force of her stare. Her rheumy eyes fill with tears. “Don’t let me die here,” she weeps as two women appear by her side to pry her clenched fingers from my arm. “Not here, not here.”

One of the nurses leads the old nun away, patting her back and murmuring in soothing tones. The taller one remains and fusses over my wrist.

“I’m awfully sorry about that. Did she hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I apologize if I did something to disturb her.”

“No, no. Sister Agnes is… not well. She was pulling one of her weekly runners.” She twists my wrist this way and that.

“If I may ask, who are the Sisters who walk without feet?”

She shrugs. “The babblings of dementia.” When she is satisfied my arm is still in working order, she steps back. “I’m supposed to tell you not to be so close to the house. You can walk around the estate. It’s pretty this time of year. It’s just that house is not structurally safe.”

I nod in acquiescence, looking at the crack that runs from the base of the house all the way up the three floors.

The nurse shivers. “This place gives me the willies.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Supposedly, before the convent was closed, two separate nuns tried to burn it down.”

The eastern wall bows out slightly. Someday it will split open like an overripe carcass.

The nurse claps her hands together. The noise bounces off the house walls. “Whelp, I better get back before I get in more trouble,” she grimaces. “Sister Agnes is old, but gosh, she’s fast.”

I wave at her as she trudges across the field towards the nursing home. Before heading towards the old convent building, I look again at the second story window. It’s empty.

It doesn’t matter; I’ll find her when I return tonight.

*****

This will not be my first ghost encounter, nor my hundredth, yet that strange, foreboding feeling still clung to me as I hurried past the trees, their silhouettes made monstrous in the moonlight. It dogged me as I completed the pedestrian portion of communing with the spirits, the breaking and entering part. I successfully jimmied the lock to the heavy oak doors at the front of the Goethe House and slipped inside.

I now find myself standing in the atrium, the yellow-green of the walls faintly visible in the moonlight. It reminds me of a summer sky before a tornado.

The moon is bright tonight, and my nighttime vision has always been excellent. I creep deeper into the house. It has been gutted, all the furniture and paintings having been removed years ago. Dust blankets every surface like a layer of snow. The air is stale and dry.

“Hello,” I say softly to the little girl at the top of the grand staircase. “I’m here to set you free.”

I would estimate she is about seven. She is wearing a white dress, frothy with lace, and her blonde hair is the disagreeable kind that hangs limp and refuses to hold a curl. The room is dark but she herself has a pulsating glow. She is pouting.

“Hello,” I whisper again. “I’m here to free you if you can take me to your wings.” I pick my way across the squeaking floorboards. I put my right foot down and the board underneath splits. My foot goes through the hole and I pitch forward. I land hard and grunt as the air is pushed from my body. I can feel the splintered edges rake against my ankle. I’m sure it has drawn blood. Wincing, I gingerly extract my foot from the hole. I turn on my flashlight and the girl vanishes. I turn it off and she is waiting at the top of the stairs. I sigh and continue towards the stairs in the dark. I prod each board thoroughly with my shoe before transferring my weight.

I reach the banister and the moon better lights my way. “Show me where your wings are,” I say. The girl spins and rushes down a hallway. I follow.

She reaches the third door on the left and passes through it. I catch up and twist the doorknob. The door swings inward and I enter. Aside from a brick fireplace, the room is empty. I limp to the window. I can see the spot in which I stood this afternoon.

I turn on my flashlight and crawl around on the floor but can find no dead moths. I search in the corners and under flaps of sagging wallpaper but come up empty handed. My hip clicks and my ankle is throbbing. I sit against a wall, massage my knees, then turn off my flashlight. “Where are your wings?” I call out.

She appears next to the fireplace and extends a finger. I frown. “I already looked at the fireplace,” I tell her. She stamps a scrawny leg, making no sound and disturbing no dust. She jabs her finger insistently. I scoot towards the fireplace and follow the line of her arm to a black brick. Her otherworldly shine makes it easy for me to see that the brick is not mortared in place, but rather juts out. The brick is rough against my finger pads as I shimmy it back and forth until it is loose enough to remove.

Behind the brick I find a small box tied with twine.

I look at the girl. She is across the room now, near the window, with her head cocked to one side. I take the box from the recess and blow off a thick layer of dust, then untie the twine. I unlatch the box and lift the lid.

Inside is a dead, black moth. I can’t imagine how it got caught here.

Not caught, I think. Entombed.

I think of that yellow-green sky.

I lift the box toward the girl. “These are your wings?”

She nods, her eyes big and mournful. I can easily imagine her sitting dejectedly in front of a mirror as her mother pulls at her wilted hair, trying to make it presentable. I wonder who she was and what happened to her. She is just a child, trapped alone in this comfortless house for a century. I have helped countless other like her.

I offer her a smile. “We’ll take it outside and set you free.” Her timid smile meets mine.

I am about to close the box when I see the wings of the moth flutter. It is almost imperceptible, perhaps a mere trick of the light or my breath disturbing the paper light corpse. Then it shivers again.

I had wiped dust from the box. It had been undisturbed for many, many years. And yet the moth had moved.

My eyes slide sideways. I can see the girl on the edge of my vision. Her face. There is something about her face. Something… trembly, like her skin is about to slip off.

I snap my gaze to her. She looks normal, as normal as a ghost can look. Still…

“These are your wings?” My tone is soothing, loving. She nods emphatically and runs into the hallway, beckoning me to follow.

I hesitate, then shine my flashlight on the box. The moth is grotesque and disfigured: it has eight legs when it should have six; its wings are hard and shiny, its body too long. Is it even a moth?

It consumed the Sisters who walked without feet was what Sister Agnes said. The Sisters who walked without feet…

I had walked the grounds this afternoon, walked through the empty convent and the servants’ quarters, stood outside the former girl’s school, now a nursing home. I would expect a place this old, a place with this much history, to be teeming with tethered spirits. And yet, I found only one.

A cold fist clenches around my heart. I turn off my flashlight. She stands in the center of the room.

“Did you eat them?” I ask quietly. “The others?”

She is trembling, struggling. Her face wobbles.

Then she slumps. Her arms droop and the glow goes out. Dark spots bloom on her face, spreading, taking the place of her eyes and her mouth. They are made of black liquid, of smoke, of nothing. Her eyes are gaping wounds of darkness, her mouth a black maw. It’s like she bleeding shadows. She is still wearing that frilly, white dress.

It drifts toward me.

My heart batters against my ribs. It's a ghost, it floated through a door, it couldn't move the brick, it can't touch me. It can't touch me.

It tugs on my hand. I feel its fingers.

Flesh, it can touch.

My leg feels warm. I realize I have wet myself.

I smile at the creature and close the box. “Alright, let us set you free.”

I make my way back down the hallway and begin my descent down the staircase, slowly, slowly. In one hand I hold the box with its soul, and in the other is my flashlight. I cannot set it free. I must give no indication that I want to flee, no indication.

Fire. The nuns tried to burn the house down.

It is beside me, in front of me, behind me. It appears and vanishes, circling me, assessing me. Tears leak from my eyes. I cannot tell if my heart is racing or if it has stopped altogether.

Maybe, maybe I can set the house on fire. I can get outside, get outside without the moth, I can hear it fluttering inside the box, it wants to get out-

I smile tenderly into the darkness. I know it is watching me though it has no eyes. “Let’s set you free.”

I latch the box shut, retie the twine.

I’ll watch as flames devour the house, devour the thing inside, I’ll laugh in the light of the hungry blaze-

The girl is in front of me. It touches my hand.

I blanche.

It knows it knowsitknowsit-

I blind it with the flashlight, shining the brightness at its grotesque face-

Nothing happens. It doesn’t vanish. It’s not frightened by the light. It was toying with me before, like a cat with a mouse.

I scream and hurl the box into the depths of the dark house. I race toward the gap in the doors, toward the tendrils of moonlight peeking through, toward safety and-

My foot hits the edge of the hole in the floor. My heel dangles over nothing. I almost regain my balance-

Tiny, delicate fingers wrap around my ankle and yank.

I hear a snap. I crumple. I try to pull my leg from the hole, but I nearly pass out from the pain. My leg feels wet, so wet, and I know I am bleeding profusely. I scream for help, scream as loudly as I as I can, but only my ears can hear it.

I’m dizzy. I taste copper. I try to crawl towards the door, but the jagged pieces of wood trap my leg. Trap me.

My flashlight has rolled out of reach. The bulb flickers. Flickers. Goes out.

In the darkness, I hear the fluttering of wings beating against a box.

It stands over me, toying. Waiting. It only eats the dead.

No moth will carry my soul to the moon.