#this was not on purpose I did not know this existed

[communistkenobi]

I was looking for a book recently on an online storefront and was recommended a book written by a physicist about the history of humanity. this was a popular press book that was not intended to be read by other academics, but it reminded me of this niche genre of books, with experts from the physical sciences writing about human behaviour or history or what have you. Could you imagine coming across the inverse? A popular press book that purported to explain physics written by a historian?

There is some deep imbalance in how public perceptions of “general intelligence” seem to work - those in STEM are generally recognised for their competence, expertise, and intellectual acumen, and this recognition can be generalised, that at some level a demonstration of your expertise of eg astrophysics is a demonstration of your abilities of investigation writ large, that you have figured out some central underlying element of science that allows for basically limitless intellectual extension to any field or subject. A physicist can write a book about human history and be taken seriously by the general public on the assumption that physics is more difficult to understand than history, so any lower domain of investigation is open to them. The reverse is often not extended to a lot of the social sciences, particularly the theoretically-heavy social sciences; theory is just making bullshit up at the end of the day, it has no real practical application because any questions about the philosophy of thought or knowledge - how did we come to know what we know and under what conditions do we know these things - is just the indulgent wankery of people who can’t find a real job.

And of course it would be silly to insist that because you have read Hegel, an infamously difficult thinker, you know how to interpret the lab print-outs of electrochemists - I don’t want this goofy concept of general intelligence to be applied everywhere, I want it to go away entirely, but its current uneven applications across scientific fields indicates a broader problem with public conceptions of expertise and knowledge.

This probably has something to do with anti-communism on some level - social science is not generally regarded as “real science” (in no small part because social science is often the field of bureaucrats, and while animosity towards bureaucrats is deeply sympathetic, I suspect the reasons for this animosity are not themselves scientifically grounded), that while there is a public understanding of “objective facts” that exist prior and external to human interpretation, the politics of knowledge are hegemonically oriented around liberalism, to such an extent that any critique of the assumptions of knowledge are viewed as a dogmatic denial of reality done for the purposes of political infiltration and brainwashing. And I don’t feel totally unqualified to say this, given that this is basically the de facto response from students encountering Marxism for the first time in university. “Marx is too dogmatic” may as well be inscribed above the doors to lecture halls. Hell, Jordan Peterson made a nice little public career for himself railing against “post-modern neo-Marxism,” a phrase so nonsensical that the fact he was not immediately and permanently laughed out of the public arena for saying it is an indictment of how politically illiterate we are as a society!

And the infuriating thing is that a lot of social science scholarship (not just from the US but especially from the US) is complete horseshit, just pure evil garbage motivated solely by a desire to justify the fact that we do really need to keep killing tens of thousands of people a year to keep this whole party going. Every sociologist who calls themselves a “methodological individualist” is contributing to the long-standing tradition of eugenics scholarship but is too craven and vain to admit to this. If you had to describe the sum-total of the social scientific scholarly output of the west in a word, it would be ‘mysticism.’ Because it is the case that anti-colonial, anti-imperial, and anti-capitalist investigations of the political-economic conditions of the world have produced social scientific knowledge on par with the discovery of the atom, but it is not treated as such. “It is right to rebel” is not just a moral claim about violence but a scientific summary of human history.

But I think it is precisely this reactionary state of affairs that makes people devalue the social sciences as an actual site of legitimate investigation, that understanding the historical trajectory of ideas or the political conditions of life are valuable pursuits for any just society. Because social science deals with the social world, the political conditions under which the social world is investigated and understood are themselves bound up in questions of political and economic power. But this equally extends to the physical sciences - I know at least in environmental sciences, there is an ever-growing reckoning with climate change as an imminent threat to all life on earth, and environmental scientists cannot avoid talking about the political conditions of our planet even if all they want to do is study a river. Genocide is measurable in soil samples taken in the American continent. The separation of the environmental from the social is itself a historically contingent arrangement of knowledge.

But this is infuriating to even complain about because I don’t want to sound like an entitled academic or ego-bruised professional. I have no desire to start a faculty war with the STEM fields. I feel secure in my own expertise. I do not want anyone to “recognise my greatness” I am just profoundly lonely in this whole affair. and it just so happens that we exist in terribly anti-intellectual conditions for the most cruel and ugly reasons possible, and so we (me, I) have to suffer seeing books on sale claiming to give a general account of human history written by a physicist

[lemurchick]

Every year on the tourist island of Borkum in Germany, locals organize a celebration called Klaasohm, the purpose of which is to beat women.

On December 5, unmarried male members of the prestigious association “Boys of Borkum” wear huge, up to a meter high, masks decorated with horns, fur and feathers. First there is a ritual fight in a closed hall, where only those born on the island are allowed. Photos and videos of the fight are forbidden.

The winner chooses his assistants and they scatter around the island hunting for women. Any woman who gets in their way will be beaten, I'm not kidding, with cow horns in which grain is poured for additional weight. Bruises remain for weeks. It's fun for men, and pain and humiliation for women.

This brutal tradition is believed to date back to the days of the whalers. They would return to their homes in the fall and beat their wives, reminding them who was in charge of the household. The custom has survived to this day, but outsiders are not told about it: the male population of the island does not want it to become known. Only about 5,000 people live on the island, and those who break the conspiracy of silence will face public condemnation and stigma. But some find the courage to speak out anonymously on social media:

Many islanders hate the festival and are forced to keep their mouths shut because of social pressure.

"As a Borkum native, I have been telling people for years that this actually still exists on the island and no one wants to believe me."

"Everyone has to participate, and those who don't want to, too. They're afraid they'll get hurt if they speak out."

"This island is a big village. I think everyone here knows how communities like this work. If you speak out against it, the whole town will talk about you, you will be ignored and sometimes persecuted. I've seen what it's like for people who have been ostracized. Many people are afraid, which is why this festival is not publicly criticized. The journalists will leave, but you'll still have a reputation as a traitor."

Defenders of the tradition argue that in order to avoid being beaten, women simply need to stay out of the house. However, there are many accounts of men letting the masked participants into houses and apartments or even pushing women out into the street.

For many years, information about the barbaric custom did not leak out. In 2018, journalists tried to report on Klaasohm, but they were literally kicked off the island. This year, however, almost all of Germany's leading media outlets covered what was happening on the island.

Faced with nationwide criticism, the mayor issued a statement emphasizing that “in order for Klaasohm to remain an important holiday and festival that shapes the identity of the people of Borkum, awareness must be kept low. It has always been the task of the association to maintain silence around this tradition. Please be respectful and do not spread the word.”

Borkum's Equal Opportunities Commissioner supported the statement, and the police noted that no woman has contacted law enforcement in the past five years. Perhaps this is because police officers, doctors, court officials and teachers are heavily involved in the festival and women realize that there is no point in coming for help from someone who held you down yesterday, subjecting you to beatings.

The statement from the Mayor's office only added fuel to the fire and within a day the Young Men of Borkum Association issued a new message:

"We categorically distance ourselves from any form of violence against women and apologize for what has happened in the past."

They also noted that the festival “is more than just a celebration - it is a living expression of our community and an integral part of life in Borkum. It is a time when the whole island comes together.”

As we know, nothing brings men together like hunting women.

(translated from russian channel (the author lives in Germany) Damn Ambivalence )

German Sources: video: Das Schweigen der Insel - Wenn Borkum Klaasohm feiert (https://www.ardmediathek.de/video/panorama-die-reporter/das-schweigen-der-insel-wenn-borkum-klaasohm-feiert/ndr/Y3JpZDovL25kci5kZS8xMzExXzIwMjQtMTEtMjYtMjEtMTU) Hei kummt Klaasohm! (https://www.mare.de/hei-kummt-klaasohm-content-446?srsltid=AfmBOooQQfoiSEBEKzBp1VL0M4ZXkMh_bo3jlfz-vy7IUJOjfxmDLfTS)

Wirbel um „Klaasohm“: Wird Frauen auf Borkum der Hintern versohlt? (https://www.rnd.de/wissen/klaasohm-skandal-auf-borkum-maskierte-maenner-jagen-frauen-tradition-oder-problem-44QIIXJFZNB4JNI4L6LWUNUFSM.html)

Wie ist das Klaasohm-Fest auf Borkum wirklich? (https://www.stadt-borkum.de/index.php?object=tx,3480.5.1&ModID=7&FID=3480.34396.1)

Der Klaasohm – Brauchtum auf Borkum (https://www.dein-niedersachsen.de/regionen/klaasohm/)

Klaasohm-Fest auf Borkum künftig ohne Schläge? (https://www.ndr.de/fernsehen/sendungen/panorama/aktuell/Borkum-Frauen-Schlagen-bei-Klaasohm-soll-abgeschafft-werden,klaasohm106.html)

[jezebelblues]

asmodeus | h.s

summary: and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he found his altar.

cw: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

word count: approx 11.3k

| i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place—a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?” the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

[therandompagesblog]

SKZ Pack Chapter 14

Trigger Warnings: Chan is a meanie, angst

"What do you mean she was gone from your sight, Minho!" Chan shouted. "She wasn't supposed to leave. I told her. I don't know why you're blaming me! She would have been fine on her own in the covenstead. It's not my fault she is undisciplined." Minho growled in frustration. "You're right. She is undisciplined and reckless, but you should have kept an eye on her, Min. You, of all people, should have known that, " Chan said in frustration.

They had been arguing the past twenty minutes about Y/N following the potential stalker to get a note. Y/N could have easily been jumped or kidnapped. This was so far her stupidest decision and quite frankly Chan was getting fed up with it. Even some of the wolves had commented after today. They understood her recklessness with Ateez because she had Hyunjin and Seungmin, but going solo was something Chan wouldn't tolerate. He had to discipline her, she had been here long enough. "Tell Y/N to come to my office," Chan gruffly said to Minho who nodded and walked off to find Y/N who was currently sitting with Changbin on the sofa. "Chan wants to see you in his office," Minho said as he walked past the living room to head to the cleaning cupboard. "What. Why?" Y/N asked. "Don't know," Minho answered, except he did know, but that was something for her to find out.

When Y/N got up and walked towards Chan's office her blood ran cold. It felt too eerily quiet and she didn't like it. It reminded her of going to see Hongjoong or Wooyoung when she was in trouble and she hated the feeling. It made her feel weak and alone. Right now she didn't want to even knock on the door and go in, but she had to. "Come in," Chan called. His voice was colder than normal. It was distant. Y/N entered the room to see Chan on his computer, typing away. It was almost as if he didn't see her or notice her existence, which wasn't true in the slightest. He was purposely making her feel uncomfortable. He wanted her to understand why she was being punished. "Channie, is everything okay?" Y/N asked meekly. "You tell me little wolf," Chan answered. His arms crossed as he looked at her. "I know it was stupid." Y/N sighed. "But honestly, I wanted to know what they wanted." "Is that all you have to say?" Chan asked. He was shocked at her mere apology.

Chan nodded his head, thinking for a moment before he got up to lean on his desk. His arms were crossed and his chest was puffed out. He was dominating her. Showing her who was the alpha and who wasn't. "Now listen here, Y/N. You have defied every wolf since you've been here. The first time. Fine. I can accept that. You are new to your role. The second time. Alright. The fourth and fifth? Seriously, it's ridiculous at this point, even for an omega like yourself." Chan's voice was low as he emphasised each word so it was branded in her brain. "How many times do we have to keep dealing with you being reckless? Huh? I'm fed up with it because you're not learning your lesson and I'm not punishing my wolves any longer." Chan stated. "There mine too!" Y/N whispered. "I honestly am sorry. I didn't think." "They are not your wolves. You are theirs. You're their omega. That is all. Nothing more. Nothing less. Stop acting like an alpha who can take charge because you're not good at it." Chan answered back. His eyes glancing at her submissive head. She was cowering but also defying him. "Look at me Y/N," Chan called out. " From now on you will not leave this house, until I care to let you out. You will redo your nest because I've seen to it broken. If you defy me once more, you will go downstairs." "Ok," Y/N muttered. Her eyes fixated on the piece of dirt on the floor. She felt embarrassed, humiliated. Worst of all it was him denouncing her completely and destroying her nest that she worked hard on.

When Y/N reached her bedroom her heart shattered. Her nest was gone. Her bedsheets were moved. Blankets were thrown everywhere. Items had been stolen. She felt sick. She couldn't believe he actually did that to her, so Y/N stormed out of her room to find him. "Where the fuck is Chan?" Y/N yelled, frightening Jisung and Jeongin. "He left for work. What's wrong?" Jeongin asked. "My nest. Is broken." Y/N yelled, making Jeongin look down. He had heard Chan was going to punish her but he didn't think he would take it that far. "That was Hyunjin. He broke it. Why don't me and Jisung help you fix it agai-" "Don't bother," Y/N growled as she stomped upstairs straight into Hyunjin's first. Y/N headed towards his wardrobe, pulling out his Versace clothes and ripping them apart, before starting on his bed. She ripped everything apart. Whether that was literally or metaphorically it didn't matter, she was hurt and angry. After she was satisfied she headed towards Chan's office to pull his books off the shelf and messed up his paperwork. She did anything that satisfied her anger.

Jeongin caught her and begged her to stop, stating it wouldn't help but she didn't listen. She was on a mission to relieve her emotions. Jeongin didn't know what to do except follow her pitifully. He felt sad for her. She worked hard on her nest and now it was shattered. "Baby, please don't do this. You'll make it worse." Jeongin cried out again. He wanted it to stop but the wolf growled at him. "At least let me fix your nest. Make it all better." Jeongin begged but the female wolf didn't care. "I honestly couldn't care less," Y/N growled as she shoved him out of the way. Jeongin sulked and walked away back downstairs to Seungmin who hugged the youngest wolf. He was feeling conflicted. Jeongin wanted to call Chan and tell him what he did was wrong but at the same time, it was his fault. Jeongin was the one who told Chan he wasn't happy with her risking things and now he got her punished. "Maybe you shouldn't have done that," Seungmin whispered as he held the younger wolf. "I didn't know he would destroy her nest did I?" Jeongin whined. Jeongin sat up and rubbed his eyes when he heard a bang along with a crash. "What was that?" Jeongin asked. "I think that was your room," Seungmin stated, causing Jeongin to cringe.

Felix came running down into the living room as he saw his mate's angry face going in and out of people's rooms. "What's wrong with baby?" Felix asked as he bit his nails in distress. "Chan punished her for disobedience by destroying her nest-" "HER NEST!" Felix shouted. "That's her safe place. That's something we built together." "I know Lix. I know but we can't do anything now." Jeongin stated. "We can. We can make her happy. We can fix her nest." Felix stressed. "Felix do not go up those stairs," Jeongin commanded causing the beta to whimper, he was hurting because she was hurting. "I have a feeling Chan is not going to like us if we interfere," Jeongin stated worriedly. There was nothing they could do. "Can I at least comfort her? Please." Felix whispered. Before Jeongin could even give permission the beta ran up the stairs and pulled the female wolf into his room, allowing her to growl, hiss and cry. Felix wanted her to let out all the emotions she felt so he could comfort her, but it didn't last long, because Chan came back. "Y/N GET HERE NOW!"

Taglist for the iconic readers:

@galaxy4489 @reallychaoticwoo @leezanetheofficial @mbioooo0000 @jisungs-iced-americano @maybeimmia @hwangrfrnd@wolfo2027 @kayleefriedchicken @leamueller920 @borahae-reads @jennibahng @cookiesandcreammy @jutdwae-flower @danceonmyheyday @jc003 @hpnsfwaddict @pixie0627 @maggicotton @jellymochii @itzreetal987 @jennibahng @vampkittenb82 @catlove83 @thatgirlangelb @hyunmikim @skzdreamer13 @liv1sworld @upsidedownchaire @jutdwae-flower @danceonmyheyday @tsunderelintz @notevenheretbh1 @catlove83 @h0rnyp0t @hash2013 @emi-han @iknow-uknow-leeknow @jigglypuff3000 @aalexyuuuhm @missseoulite @ihrtlix @estella-novella @xxeiraxx @fr34k4c1dr41n

~ Taglist closed due to Tumblr only allowing a certain amount ~

[pseudonymphomania]

The future can never be known beforehand, but in your crystal ball eyes I see myself and what you want me to be.

Yuki’s Fandom Analysis and Thoughts

It was after midnight when I saw the news. I was heading to bed and was struck by this thing that has now caused Obey Me to be a trending topic in gaming today, something it hadn’t done in quite a while. Shock, dismay, hope, despair, relief, commiseration, joy, emptiness. Sleeplessness. I took a nap after the Ferris wheel of emotions from talking with everyone and seemed to process the entire gamut of emotion in those few hours, then I went to work because it was just a normal day.

I cried at work. [secretly]

I smartly decided to take a day off today. Throughout, I kept an eye on all my social medias and saw the range of opinions about where the game should have gone or could go next, some rampant rage, confusion, but mostly just sadness. Posts lamenting, posts agonizing, because this is what fandom is. We are all the emotions that can ever exist and at any given point we as individuals become fixated on a certain genre of them. No matter what we each thought to ourselves about individual elements, we are joined here by this love that we feel for the game because we can only feel a loss this strongly if we also love just as strongly.

I decided to take a breather from social media and opened the apps. It felt so strange. Obey Me wasn’t an mmorpg. There was never any physical people in there aside from the friends we got ap from. The tactile features, the noises, texts and pop ups were the same, so why did it feel so empty?

It’s because the fandom was mourning. I realized that when the fandom is joy, I am joy. When the fandom is sad, I am sad. I and you and others are fandom and fandom is what made the games what they are. Fun.

We are what keeps this world running.

Everything we had as a fandom, as friends, acquaintances, even if you were just a random blurb attached to squishy avatar to me, all this was meaningful beyond the constraints of the game.

But we are hurt. If we are to take Obey Me’s rules to heart where we are the MC of our universe, this was literally world-shaking news. We need to allow ourselves to process these feelings (even me, who didn’t treat the inhabitants as my romantic partner). We need to do it on our own terms and not on someone else’s timeline.

The official statement is vague on purpose, and everyone is preparing themselves for the end, but the future can never be realized beforehand. I don’t care for self-fulfilling prophecies if the only reward at the end is being able to say “I was right”. They gave me a rescue hook and I’m skewering myself on it. I’m passionate about what I love and I’ll let it drive my action; whether critically or lovingly. We took a hit yesterday and I’m still feeling it today, but that’s exactly why I want to support this fandom in anyway I know how in whatever way I know how.

Here is where you’ll find me.

(I remastered my “Hug Day” art for this. I usually repost the original when I’m feeling sad and Diavolo’s stupid silly face actually makes me less sad. Imagining this big awkward dude earnestly trying to make me feel better puts the smile back on my face where it belongs, so let me eat my bittersweets and don’t tell my dentist)

Live discussion on Reddit

[thedykeparade]

I know for a lot of people the relationship between Elphaba and Fiyero feels rushed and underdeveloped, but, I don't know, I happen to like the fact that she had such a strong impact on his life in such a short amount of time... like, yes! of course she altered his brain chemistry and whole philosophy of life after a grand total of 3 encounters, she really is THAT girl (I just realized what I did there as soon as I finished typing it, I swear the pun was not intended).

I think they gravitated towards each other because they were exactly what the other needed in their lives.

In the beginning Fiyero was a person that felt comfortable reducing his entire existence and purpose to just being a "hot prince with a scandalacious reputation". But then he meets Elphaba, and she is different than anyone else he'd ever met in all those schools he went to, in more ways than one. She is Not Impressed by his looks or his title. She challenges him because she's able to look past his "nothing matters" bullshit and see that he's actually a really kind, caring person. She looks at him like she knows that he can do better, be better ("no matter how shallow and self-absorbed you pretend to be..."). She inspired him to become the best version of himself.

Fiyero needed that, someone to push him to take control of his life and act upon his wants and beliefs. Without Elphaba he would've had a content but unfulfilled life.

And Elphaba needed someone to stand by her, to not leave her alone, to not be ashamed of her, to fight for her, to prioritize her, and to love her unapologetically. That person is Fiyero (and yes, Glinda could've been that person too, but ultimately she made her choice, and by the time she realized she chose wrong it was already too late).

Elphaba spent her whole life feeling unwanted. She needed someone that would spend years looking for her!!! Someone that would risk everything for her!!! Fiyero did that!!! That man was devoted!!! And that's exactly what she deserved!!!

She was alone her whole life until Glinda (except for Nessa, I guess, but even in that relationship Elphaba was always the one that had to take care of her sister), and she is so strong, but in the end she didn't have to be alone anymore, and she didn't have to be strong, she could just let herself be held and loved, and I love that for her 😭❤️

In conclusion: fiyeraba they could never make me hate you

[empyrealarthropod]

honestly, i think all of the above can be true. isha did serve a purpose for where they wanted jinx’s character arc to go, but the way they actually went about writing her and her relationship with jinx was a direct repeat of what we’d already seen before. and with them killing isha off so quickly, at a certain point, it starts to feel like they don’t know how to spark change in jinx without making her watch a loved one die. i would have preferred to see jinx change through introspection, in response to her existing relationships, the state of the world around her, stuff like that. not for it to be done through a prop character who vanishes from the story after her purpose is served. and with the repetition of yet another grief arc, and jinx not getting enough screentime in act 3 to do much outside of mourning, it ends up feeling like the majority of her story is focused on the ways loss affected her.

i don’t dislike isha as a concept. i think she could have been a good character and her relationship to jinx could have been something unique that took jinx’s character in a new direction.

but instead, she was never really her own person, she was used as a plot device. they didn’t do anything new with either their dynamic or the actual progression of how their story went.

oh, this person who used to want to fight against piltover has found themself in charge of a young child, and this child is now their priority above their past mission. we’ve already seen that, multiple times. a huge part of season 1 was showing how that same situation affected vander and silco in different ways. they just made jinx into vander 2.0 in a way that felt too heavy handed and too much of a 1 to 1 copy to actually be an interesting parallel.

and they didn’t bring anything new to it, like showing how the parental figure losing the child instead of the other way around would change them and their motives, because after jinx loses isha, her story is pretty much over. she puts her suicide on pause to help with the final battle, and then she dies. yeah, they’ll probably bring her out again briefly in a future show, but by then there’ll be a massive timeskip and her character will just be whatever they need it to be for the new region.

also, giving jinx someone close to her who loves her unconditionally and wants her to be what they see as her best self, who then dies in a way that she has some degree of responsibility for? that already happened too. it’s, again, not just a parallel, but an almost 1 to 1 repeat of what happened last season.

isha is a conglomeration of vander’s story with his kids, and silco’s story with his daughter. what she doesn’t get the chance to have is her own story.

[hispanthicc]

Sex As A Guy Who Got Fat On Purpose

I like sex. I enjoy sex a lot. I haven't always "gotten off" during sex but that wasn't really a priority for me because I just liked the act of doing it. I think mostly I enjoyed getting my partner off. I used to have a lot of sex, or at least a lot in comparison to now, but since i've gained weight I haven't had much sex or any at all really.

I didn't realize how much this lack of sex was affecting me. I think having sex and being able to find people to have sex with me made me feel attractive. So the lack of it has made me feel unattractive, at least to locals. Online people seem to still find me attractive. I know that just because I haven't had it doesn't mean that I am unattractive. I know there are also a lot of factors that play into it. Anyways I went from having it regularly to not having it at all.

Gaining is hard for me so for the first few years of me trying to get fat on purpose I was basically just skinny, toned, and had a slightly rounded tummy which would completely disappear if I flexed. I could pass as skinny for a while. Then COVID hit and my physical activity levels became non existent. I very quickly went from being stuck at 130 lbs all the way to 220 lbs at my highest during 2020-2021. I also had a serious surgery which meant I couldn't do anything for about a year. So I got pretty chunky for a bit. then I lost like 40 lbs after going through a break up. which btw was not a sexual relationship, and I think that also affected me a lot in a negative way. Especially because of some of the things he said in the end which made me feel really unattractive.

I'm not really the type of guy that chases anyone or initiates anything and this has nothing to do with my weight because i've never pursued anyone that isn't already pursuing me. I am really shy and the very few times i've tried, i've been rejected. So I don't. This usually just leads to me talking to a bunch of guys that i'm not attracted to which definitely doesn't lead to sex.

I used to be really open sexually. i've found thing i've written and posted from years ago that I would probably be too shy or too embarrassed to say now. But being with my ex he kinda made me feel a lot of shame for the things that I liked sexually or was attracted to. Since then I find it hard to connect with people sexually.

I think i'm also afraid that if I am too open sexually it'll attract the wrong kinds of people, which is something I unfortunately have experience with.

Most of the guys that are attracted to me are usually not locals and unfortunately means that a lot of the communication is all talk. They usually want me to send nudes or they want to send me nudes and sometimes looking is nice but I am not always in the mood to take pics for someone especially when they're probably just gonna disappear when they cum. Online sexual communication doesn't really do it for me. I want it in real life, the online barrier is frustrating and it honestly feels no different than jerking off to porn, which is fine but the real thing is so much better. There seems to be a lack of a real personal connection with it and it feels like i'm like mentally turned off by it. I never ask for nudes because I don't want anyone asking me for nudes. I genuinely hate when I’m talking to someone and they're so nice at first and then they say "Can I see more of you" because then it feels like they didn't mean any of the compliments they were just trying to soften me up to get nudes out of me. I usually only send stuff like that to friends.

It also seems like guys are more focused on what they want instead of what I want and many of them say things like "I want to do this to you" and never "would you like it if I did this to you" which maybe isn't that big of a deal but it comes across as less caring,

I don't know how I appear to others but I would say currently I look pretty chubby all over and I don't think I would be mistaken for skinny even when I suck in. Sometimes I shock myself when I see my reflection or see a pic someone else took. My body is bigger all over and it's still very new to me to actually be a fat guy. I like the way I look and I like the way being fat feels. I feel sexually aroused by it and I keep trying to make myself bigger and bigger but I know that isn't a common thing for people to be into IRL. So it's kinda like "do I lose weight so that I can be physically appealing enough to have sex irl" or do I just keep gaining cuz it makes me happier in general even if it is killing my sex life. I also think about how a lot of people in the gainer community are Asexual-ish or their sexuality is so tied to the fat that if I did lose weight i'd probably lose the affection of those people too. So many times I see "so-and-so lost weight and now I’m not attracted to them anymore" which is extremely hurtful even if it doesn't apply to me at the moment.

I wish I wasn't so shy but I’m not sure that it would matter. I feel like everyone has an idea of what they want in a partner (sexually or romantically) and I’m not sure that I fit, no pun intended, what people want where I live, and I hate knowing that eventually i'll probably have to move just to find someone.

I also know that my tragic dating life and non existent sex life are my fault. I'm not an easy person to get close to or be with but I’m trying to learn how let people in and be the best I can be for someone whenever I do actually connect.

[blackenedsnow]

hi! i love your writing :)

i head canon that shadow volunteers for mental health organizations where they help people because he’s been there himself and wants to help people.

can you do a platonic shadow x reader one shot on that? reader is an extremely mentally ill person that shadow finds at the place he volunteers?

a quiet kind of hope

WARNING: Themes of severe depression, intrusive thoughts, implied self-isolation.

PAIRING: Shadow the Hedgehog & Reader

NOTE: Hi!! Oh my gosh, thank you for this sweet request. Shadow volunteering for mental health organizations is such a perfect headcanon—I love the idea of him channeling his past struggles into helping others. Thank you for trusting me with something so tender. Please take care of yourself. Sending love your way <333

SUMMARY: At a community mental health center where Shadow volunteers, he finds himself drawn to you—a quiet, lost soul in need of someone who understands.

The fluorescent lights of the community center hummed faintly above as you sat tucked into a corner, knees drawn to your chest. People came and went, their footsteps echoing against the scuffed linoleum floor, but no one seemed to notice you—or if they did, they didn’t stop.

You weren’t sure why you’d come here. Maybe it was the promise of a warm drink, or the idea that someone might listen without judgment. Maybe it was just somewhere to go when the walls of your apartment felt too heavy to bear.

Shadow walked past with his usual quiet purpose. He didn’t hover or pry, but his presence was impossible to ignore. He was there enough to seem imposing, yet somehow still approachable—his crimson eyes catching the light like embers as he glanced around the room.

It wasn’t until his third lap near your corner that he finally paused.

“You’re not here for the coffee,” he said, his voice low but not unkind.

Startled, you looked up at him. Shadow didn’t sit; he crouched down instead, resting one arm on his knee to meet you at eye level.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

You shook your head. Words felt too heavy to form.

Shadow tilted his head, studying you. There was no pity in his gaze—only patience. He knew better than to push for answers you weren’t ready to give.

“I’m Shadow,” he said after a moment. “I volunteer here. If you need anything—or if you just want to sit quietly—that’s fine.”

His presence was steady, like an anchor. You nodded hesitantly, unsure if he would leave or stay. To your surprise, he moved to sit on the floor nearby, keeping enough distance to give you space but staying close enough to show he wasn’t going anywhere.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

It became a pattern over the next few weeks. Shadow never forced you to talk, never asked for more than you were willing to share. Sometimes, you’d sit in silence while he worked on paperwork or handed out supplies to other visitors. Other times, he’d offer simple observations—a comment about the weather, or a quiet remark about how the coffee was even worse than usual today.

He made it easy to exist without expectations.

One day, when the room was emptier than usual, you finally found the courage to speak.

“Why do you do this?” you asked, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

Shadow glanced up from his clipboard. For a moment, he looked almost surprised.

“I’ve been where you are,” he said simply. “I know what it’s like to feel… stuck. Like there’s no way out. I had help when I needed it. This is my way of paying it forward.”

His honesty was disarming. You stared at your hands, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“It doesn’t feel like it’ll get better,” you admitted.

“It doesn’t, at first,” Shadow said. “But it can. Slowly. The first step is the hardest—you took it when you walked in here.”

His words settled over you like a blanket—not an instant cure, but a quiet reassurance. For the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest felt just a little lighter.

Over time, your conversations grew longer. Shadow never pushed you to share more than you were comfortable with, but he listened intently to everything you said. He remembered the little details—your favorite tea, the book you were slowly working through, the things that scared you most on bad days.

In his own way, he showed you that it was okay to take up space in the world.

You didn’t realize how much you’d come to rely on his presence until one evening, when the community center was unusually quiet. You’d been lost in thought, staring at the fading light outside, when Shadow appeared beside you with two steaming cups of tea.

“For you,” he said, setting one down carefully.

You blinked up at him. “Thank you. For everything.”

Shadow’s expression softened, just enough for you to notice.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “You’re doing the hard part. I’m just here to remind you that you’re not alone.”

But one day…

The space you usually occupied in the corner of the center was empty.

Shadow’s sharp gaze swept across the room again, as if expecting you to appear any moment, but the hours ticked by, and the door remained closed.

It wasn’t unusual for people to miss a day here or there—life had a way of pulling people in unpredictable directions—but this wasn’t like you. You came to the center every time it was open, like clockwork, even on the days when you barely said a word.

Shadow couldn’t ignore the heavy feeling settling in his chest.

“You looking for someone?” one of the other volunteers asked as she packed up for the night.

Shadow nodded, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Yes. A regular.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Maybe they just needed a break. Sometimes it’s overwhelming for folks.”

“Maybe,” Shadow replied, but the doubt in his voice was evident.

He stayed a little longer than usual, tidying up stray cups and chairs as an excuse to linger. When it became clear you weren’t coming, he left, stepping out into the cold night air.

The thought of you walking home alone—head down, shoulders hunched—stuck in his mind.

The next day, you still didn’t show.

Shadow’s unease grew, twisting into something sharper. He tried to focus on his tasks, but his mind kept circling back to the hollow ache in his chest. He hated how familiar it felt.

When the center closed that evening, he made a decision. He wasn’t the type to sit around waiting for answers.

He remembered fragments of things you’d shared in passing—your neighborhood, the street you lived on. Shadow wasn’t one to pry, but he had a way of listening closely, piecing together the little details others might miss.

The streets were quiet as he walked, the night heavy with the kind of stillness that pressed against his ears. He found your building easily enough: a squat, aging structure with peeling paint and a flickering light by the entrance.

He climbed the stairs quickly, his footsteps echoing faintly.

When Shadow knocked, there was no answer.

He tried again, harder this time. “It’s me,” he called. “Shadow.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, faintly, he heard movement inside.

“Go away,” came your voice, muffled and small.

Shadow’s ears twitched. You sounded exhausted—hollow in a way he hadn’t heard before.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” he said, his tone firm but not harsh. “But I need to know you’re okay.”

Another long pause. Eventually, the door creaked open just a crack.

You didn’t meet his eyes. Your face was tired, your shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world was pressing down on you.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but the words were unconvincing even to yourself.

Shadow’s gaze softened. “You’re not.”

The door opened a little wider, and he could see the state of your apartment—the cluttered surfaces, the curtains drawn tight against the light. It was clear you hadn’t been taking care of yourself, and the sight of it made something tighten in his chest.

“I didn’t want to go today,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to do… anything.”

Shadow stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him. He didn’t speak right away, giving you time to retreat to the edge of your bed. You sat with your head in your hands, your breaths uneven.

“I know how that feels,” he said quietly, moving to sit on the floor near you. “Sometimes the world feels too big. Like you can’t face it.”

Your fingers curled tighter into your hair. “It’s not just that,” you said, your voice cracking. “It’s… everything. It’s all wrong, and I can’t fix it. I’m just—” You stopped, choking back a sob.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Shadow finished for you, his voice steady. “That doesn’t make you weak.”

Your breathing hitched.

Shadow leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You’ve survived this long. That means you’re stronger than you think.”

His words weren’t flowery or overly comforting—they were simple, grounded in truth.

“Why do you care so much?” you asked, your voice raw.

“I told you before. I’ve been there,” he said without hesitation. “I know how lonely it feels. I’m not going to let somebody drown in it.”

Shadow stayed with you that night. He didn’t push you to talk, but he also didn’t leave. He tidied the room quietly, opened the curtains to let in the moonlight, and made sure you drank a glass of water before you finally lay down.

As you drifted off, his words lingered in your mind: You’re not alone.

For the first time in days, it felt like you weren’t.

[ghouljams]

Heya Ghoul... I have a question.

How do you tell if you've been like... affected by something? My ex practices Wiccan stuff and she is very obsessive and still texts my old number and like... yeah, I'm worried about her doing something. We were together roughly two years and she's still trying to contact me after a year of no contact and she's saying how like I'm her soulmate and stuff and I'm just... not into her at all anymore. Like she gave me emotional trauma and stuff, almost convinced me to move up to where she is (long distance, manipulative) and I'm not comfortable going out of state right now because that's a huge reset I don't want to do again...

Not to ramble here too much, I'm sorry if it's too weird or something so feel free to ignore this, but I really don't know who to ask in terms of the practice. I'm also not really sure how to bring up the topic of spells or hexes or whatever, I'm not trying to be dismissive in any way but it's like talking about just feels stifling and awkward. We (ex and I) never really talked about her practices and stuff, but sometimes she'd talk about a ritual she did or wanted to do, or spell jars she wanted to make... I never really learned how to talk about it, either, in general so maybe it just feels weird because it's foreign. I don't doubt it exists, but it's not something I understand very well.

I didn't intend to dump this on you but I did so in sorry about that. Thank you for reading, I hope you have a great day.

Hello hello you have come to the right witch.

First of all FUCK WICCA that shit is just magic stollen from other religions and closed practices, plus it was created by some random white dude in like the 80s so it's not even this deeply ancient practice that people think it is.

Anyway Wiccans also have this whole thing about "do no harm" but lemme tell you something, i am not Wiccan and I will do harm. So here's what you're gonna do.

We're going to start with a cleanse. I like doing a Limpia, since that's the most hands on and accessible.

You're gonna get an egg and rub that Thang all over your body. I mean all over, and try to focus on "cleaning" yourself off with it. Be careful not to break it but make sure you rub it over the top of your head, sole of your feet, stomach/heart/hands, you wanna get anything you think feels bad. Then we're gonna crack the egg into a glass of water.

Now you can read the egg and see if she's actually hexed you, but for your purposes it doesn't matter because even if she hasn't we're gonna throw some salt, ceyanne/chili powder/red pepper flakes, and some garlic into that water. Then you're gonna toss the whole thing down the toilet, close the lid and flush it.

Cleanse done.

Next your gonna take a jar or a bag and you're gonna put anything sharp that you have in your house and you're willing to get rid of into it. Nails, thorns, thumb tacks, needles, pins, toss it in there. If you're using a jar add some vinegar, if your using a bag don't. Then we're doing hot stuff again: chili powder, red pepper flakes, anything spicy goes in your ward. Add some salt. Spit in it. Write a warning on a piece of paper "anyone who sends harm my way will get it back 3 fold" and shove it in there. Then bury that thing. Preferably you do this at the edge of your property but if you can't bury anything out it over your door.

Done.

Other witches get real fancy with their wards but I'm lazy and most people don't have a ton of fancy witchcraft stuff, so we work with what we've got.

Otherwise. Idk magic isn't real, the worst she can do is just like keep trying to contact you and being annoying. She'll get bored eventually and move on to tormenting someone else, but if she does send anything your way or you feel like you're not acting like yourself, do a cleanse.

[mythographers]

I have seen Galadriel treated as just one of Sauron's many victims and saw a post today. I won't pinpoint the post but it's something I've seen a while actually.

Galadriel isn't a damsel in distress but s2 doesn't help when she's held hostage for several episodes. But that's another post.

Hm. But I didn't say she was using Halbrand the same way he was using her. I brought up that she isn't fitting into the box of gendered victim. It's gendered, that fandom attempts to place her in that box even when she doesn't fit it. I brought up her actions to support that point, not to say that she used Halbrand via the same methods and the same scale and scope that Sauron used her.

Halbrand was always Sauron but my post was about what Galadriel knew and she believed Halbrand was a human man. She didn't know he was Sauron. Within her limited knowledge, I am speaking of what she did.

Galadriel is very clear about her intentions for a human man and she says that he can redeem his bloodline, that he's special, and that fate brought them together.

She, with all her rank and position that she lists in front of the Numenoroean court, flattered and singled out a human man about how grand a purpose he would have in following her to the Southlands.

I don't think it's overly villainizing Galadriel at all.

She is upfront about her intentions, yes. But the only reason the Halbrand character doesn't cow before her focus on him unlike Celebrimbor does before an emissary of the Valar telling him how special he is and how he can surpass his family's legacy is because the Halbrand character wasn't a human at all. [Also. I know the deception Annatar does with Celebrimbor about his true goals while Galadriel never hides her goals from Halbrand. This comparison is purely about the similarity of flattery and invocation of family. Sauron always deceives about his goals and Galadriel never does. That's the kind of nuance I'd like to see more in Galadriel meta].

I also don't believe I said that Galadriel deserved to be catfished. My point remains the point I was making from the beginning, which is about Galadriel being forced into the box of the gendered female victim beyond what's onscreen.

I agree that there is a desire to see characters as purely victims and victimizers which is what I was attempting to work around with my post. My pet peeve is the ironing out of Galadriel's flaws, when I love those flaws.

I agree with you about Sauron's and Galadriel's goals in s1.

My confusion in the de-exceptionalizing of Galadriel was in direct relation to making her a pure victim of Sauron, eliding past her actions, and transmitting the exact ways in which Sauron victimized others to her, despite there being an entire season to evaluate their dynamic on its own. A queer reading of Sauron can exist without doing that. I know it can because I've read those posts and metas analyzing Sauron to Adar, Celebrimbor, and Galadriel, and agreed.

Does it matter if the goal wasn't to diminish Galadriel or make her a victim if that's the end result? If Galadriel isn't a pure victim or damsel and there's more nuance than that, she shouldn't be made into that, for whatever purpose. There are ways to do a queer Sauron reading without overly victimizing Galadriel.

But the post I saw today wasn't about a queer reading of Sauron at all so that's not the only reason Galadriel's being trope-ified in this manner.

Hm, I touched on it a little because you brought it up but I didn't want to address romantic relationships in this post because this post was evaluating Galadriel and Sauron's dynamics as they are in canon without any romantic subtext. So, this post wasn't about a straight relationship: I even mention I used the ship tag for visibility but it's a general character post.

Sauron's relationships, including with Galadriel, are not canonized so I wanted to keep it very dry about the actions characters take.

And I'm a new viewer of TROP but a longtime reader of Tolkien so I'm quite familiar with that side of the world :)

Gennifer Hutchison who's a writer for TROP said that Sauron and Galadriel's relationship is different. She called it a relationship of equals. She went on to say that it's unlike the love bombing and manipulations of Celebrimbor in the second season. Galadriel is also using Halbrand in the first season which supports her point.

So why is there the insistence to de-exceptionalize Galadriel and insist that every way Sauron used and victimized Celebrimbor or even Adar can be transmitted to her?

The showrunners said that you've gotten to know Sauron by watching Halbrand.

Why the insistence then that the show started in s2 and Annatar is the way to understand Sauron's relationships? There's two seasons to watch with no need to make things up.

Galadriel isn't just prey that the dastardly villain preyed on that many of you want to make her be. A large part of s2 included her own culpability being listed for you and a large part of s1 included her agenda to take a human she met and use him as a tool against Sauron. She was telling this man she met he was very special, destined for greater things, and that their meeting was fate. Does the fact that he turned out to be Sauron erase the power differential she believed existed between an elf of her stature and a human?

From my point of view, many are forcing Galadriel into the box of female victim beyond what's on screen.

[sepublic]

I like how Sora is foiling Ras’ plans, the one Ras never accounted for. While Arin is playing into them by allying with Ras, Sora is the disruptor; Ras’ plan would’ve succeeded, but he didn’t account for Sora removing Nokt’s control device. I don’t think he even accounted for the element of Technology at all, since we know it’s a new one created by the Merge.

And Ras created Sora; She was a response to the abuse of dragons, which only happened under Beatrix’s regime. But it would’ve been Levo’s, or Zeatrix’s, had Ras not installed a puppet leader so he could use Imperium’s dragon power infrastructure to drain Source Dragon energy, all for the purpose of freeing the Forbidden Five. Sora wouldn’t have unlocked her True Potential without Ras.

Makes me wonder what Nokt and Rox planned to do about the control device; They wouldn’t have necessarily anticipated that Sora would remove it. Did they expect for Nokt to win per Ras’ designs, only for Nokt to use Technology to remove the device himself? If so, then Sora foils Ras just by being there, which is a good summary of her character.

In the end, Sora is Ras’ karma; She’s a dragon, it’s called Dragons Rising. Ras’ evil begins by abusing dragons for the sake of capturing a big one, so he can catch the rest. And Sora was born because of the system Ras helped put in place. She truly is the bane of his existence, the one who existed outside of his plans completely, and thus the one who could overturn them. Reminder that Ras would’ve freed all of the Forbidden Five, had Sora not given Arin’s attack the boost it needed!

Between this and Arin playing into Ras, makes me wonder how they’ll address this dynamic. Will Ras express a desire to destroy Sora for all of this, fearing she’ll ruin his plans more; And Arin, who only ever did objective Spinjitzu when Sora was threatened, will accomplish it once more? Once again having Sora mess with Ras’ goals, as Arin realizes he can’t let his friend be hurt for any reason.

Likewise, he doesn’t need perfect Spinjitzu, Arin will accept that he just needs Sora’s help for it and that’s fine; His Spinjitzu may be different and even ‘disabled’ that way, but there’s no shame, there’s no need to be strong and independent, unlike Ras in his insecurity. Thus, Arin conquers Ras literally and thematically, becoming more like his friend in that regard. Sora’s the good Dragon foiling Ras and Arin is the bad Oni helping him… For now.

[eriexplosion]

Okay so another thing on the Tech Lives table that I realized through a conversation with @heyclickadee...

If Tech isn't alive, the Archium has no reason to exist.

Because truly we don't DO anything with it, we set up that it's a giant building where rescued artifacts are kept, where all the memories of the various cultures that have escaped to Pabu are kept. It gets its own explanation, we get the batch retrieving an artifact which then gets put into the Archium, setting it up as something that is at least going to become relevant.

But what did we actually do with it? The only thing that happens is Tech's goggles getting put into it, which COULD justify its existence... if the goggles had stayed in it. But we know they don't! Because the last shot of them in the show is being in Omega's ship, having been removed from the Archium at an undetermined date.

So... if Tech is dead, the Archium officially has no purpose - it doesn't serve as Tech's metaphorical final resting place, it doesn't contain anything that was useful to the batch, etc.

But, if Tech is alive and if, specifically, he comes back before the epilogue, the Archium is then a huge Chekov's gun. Imagine an amnesiac Tech, having fallen in with pirates and smugglers like Phee explicitly told him not to do, getting into a situation where he's raiding the Archium. He's drawn to the tree statue that they helped Phee save without really knowing why - and conveniently, the tree is right next to a pair of shattered goggles and a children's toy. Completely valueless items that he's compelled to take with him, perhaps?

I don't think that anything in TBB exists for no reason at all. The goggles were put into the Archium for a reason, and that reason was probably not JUST to get them off the ship, because setting up a building all the way back in season 2 for the exclusive purpose of not blowing up a pair of goggles is unlikely when they could have had them off the ship for any other reason, or even be one of the few surviving pieces of the Marauder. It's not to be Tech's final resting place, because they don't stay in the Archium. So, what does it exist for? Does it serve a purpose?

If Tech comes back in a future show, yes, otherwise no.

[moonchopsticks]

finished great god grove tonight! first scattered thoughts:

- been said to death but fucking immaculate style. yugo limbo never misses

-im the type of person that Needs to Know what happens next in the story so i definitely rushed over a lot of optional dialogue. definitely coming back for a second or third playthrough where i can dig into the world a little better

-i loooved the progression of revealing the lore and worldbuilding throughout the story. it was all very straightforward and followable yet sparse enough to make me feel like i was piecing together the nature of the gods and the grove organically. also watching the bizzyboy puppet exposition dumps were such a treat

-very cool worldbuilding, although sometimes the gods just felt like Big Immortal Humans. i know they all had their associated domains which influences their respective communities (+ tied into the different types of love that they each represent) but it never felt like they had much power outside embodying a specific theme. which is fine, there's lots of ways to interpret divinity and the concept of a god. maybe i'll have something more coherent to say abt this in the morning?

-^^ kind of ties into inspekta's whole deal. he already had immortality and was guaranteed it basically forever, in what way did king's ascension and the other gods just existing threaten him? like i'll buy that he had the sort of ego that comes from being insecure about the meaning of your short life and from fear of irrelevance, but if he was afraid of death it seems like he'd already be chilling just by accomplishing ascension. i guess he just wanted it All? i'm not really pressed about it, since the themes of like. love in the face of mortality and the insecurity that fear of death can bring are hugely impactful to me personally. and i like to see people talk about it. i just think more couldve been done with it.

-speaking of, capochin is a banger of a character. he has such a little ego and lords his authority over his subordinates, and you can just tell he's dripping with insecurity about his place in the world. i.e. at the right hand of inspekta as his unflinchingly loyal dog. he craves power and purpose and fears irrelevance, just like inspekta, and is tethered to his place by both intense fear and devotion. he treats the bizzyboys like dirt but even as they start to rebel against him they know that he'd never hurt them. also he's a 3 foot tall smug bastard fifty something year old with little puppy dog eyes. who's doing it like him

-inspekta, like all the players in the story, was made with such love and care that i couldnt imagine anything but a hopeful ending for him. aw hector. the secretly evil twist was pretty obviously telegraphed. had my suspicions pretty early on, which were solidified by the time the bizzyboys attack you after cobigail and all but stated after buzzhuzz, where they turn to fascism. (surprised that razzma said it straight up.)

- probably my favorite gods were cobigail and bauhazzo. did NOT expect to like them so much! cobigail's lore is really good for a human turned god of harvest--music teacher that lives in the school she used to teach in, a bright pillar of the community, voted to ascend by the town she brought together. slowly forgotten by the people she used to break bread with and slowly starving because they're forgetting how to come together and feed her. and she's a fucking cutie patootie sweet pea. and bauhazzo was very charming to talk to and also one of the most interesting thematically to me personally. for a god of memory and keeper of thousands of years of history he's very tender about the small moments. being a living memory essentially and letting nostalgia overtake you in a moment of weakness is an on the nose but relevant warning against fascist rhetoric (and just in general the trap of thinking about the Good Old Days). in general im someone that loves the ups and downs of life, and i tend to be nostalgic about the past and fear the passing of time, but my memory is really poor, so i end up thinking a lot about the subjectivity of memories and about how effervescent everything is...bauhazzo just ended up resonating with me ig!

-the first time miss mitternacht dropped that king uses she/her my eyes goggled out of my head like that cartoon wolf. experienced the euphoria of finding out that cool guy was a butch lesbian in real time. also makes her and miss mitternacht's thing one million times more juicy. idk i love gay people

-not sure why this stuck in my head but i cracked up when vibi was getting a little too into imagining capochin getting sweaty and dirty. pathetic man likers rise up

-patty i love u forever

-idk, this is the sort of game that reminds me that i want to create something. i want to make art without reservation. i'm grateful for projects like these.

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Seven)

Summary: He didn’t want to let his little dove go. He wanted to hold her close, feel her warmth and smell her sweetness. He wanted her softness and light for himself. She made the days of his cursed existence so much easier to bear. She gave him purpose, she gave him happiness with every bright smile and light touch. She was giving him his humanity back—he could feel it, his emotions less dulled each day, his mind clearer. He didn't know how to let her go, and return back to the way things used to be. He didn't know if he could. Word Count: 3426 Warnings: still no smut (but Ghost has explicit thoughts again), mentioned past child abuse, mentioned animal death (a zombie's gotta eat), Johnny continues to haunt the narrative (I almost feel like he should get his own character tag at this point, he talks so goddamn much in Ghost's head) Notes: Triple asterisk (***) denotes a POV change as usual, dash asterisk dash (-*-) is a time skip but not a POV change. I still have no beta for this fic so all SPAG and consistency errors are my own, feel free to point them out. AO3, Masterlist

After emptying the remains of the water cooler into a bottle found in the kitchen, Ghost and his dove resumed their methodical search of the town for supplies.

It was a small town, though larger than a village. Ghost knew they wouldn't have the time to search each and every house—right now, he was guiding Lelia to any spots that looked like they might have the essentials. More water, mostly, but also a map of their surroundings. He wanted to find somewhere that his dove could safely nest for the winter, and a town wasn't it. Other survivors would undoubtedly come through looking for supplies of their own—and with only being a day's drive at most from the military base she’d escaped from, Ghost knew those survivors likely wouldn't be friendly.

It did make him wonder, though. What would happen if they did come across a group of good people who were willing to take Lelia in? There was no way he would be welcome to join as well, he knew. He would probably be killed on the spot, unwilling to fight back and risk her getting caught in the crossfire.

He knew what he should do, if they ran into other people: Watch them for a few days, get a sense of if they were the right sort. If they were, lead Lelia to them, and disappear so they could find her. Trail them afterwards to make sure she was accepted, safe, and happy… and then let her go. Let her be with other humans, where she belonged, and not stuck with a monster like him.

He knew that was what he should do. He just didn't think he had the strength to.

He didn’t want to let his little dove go. He wanted to hold her close, feel her warmth and smell her sweetness. He wanted her softness and light for himself. She made the days of his cursed existence so much easier to bear. She gave him purpose, she gave him happiness with every bright smile and light touch. She was giving him his humanity back—he could feel it, his emotions less dulled each day, his mind clearer. He didn't know how to let her go, and return back to the way things used to be. He didn't know if he could.

So, telling himself that it was what was safest for her and only lying a little bit, he prepared her for a journey to somewhere more isolated.

They didn’t find a map that day or the next—no one kept printed maps or even atlases anymore, it seemed, far too reliant on technology—but they did find a long, designer puffer coat that Lelia squealed over happily, as well as a few cases of water bottles. Ghost, who had been loaded up like a pack mule, was relieved to discover a little red wagon in the garage of the house they holed up in on the third night. His dove was so chronically malnutritioned that she couldn't even carry the pack of canned food without needing to stop and rest every half hour—but he couldn’t afford to be bogged down by supplies incase of an attack. The wagon was the perfect solution—he’d drag it along behind him and could easily drop the handle and move to protect Lelia if need be.

Around four days since he’d last eaten, Ghost found himself sniffing her far more than he was comfortable with. So he kept his distance until nighttime, and then repeated his pantomime show of telling her to lock her door and barricade herself inside the room with her supplies. She understood what was happening this time and obeyed without protest, simply telling him to be safe.

When he came back an hour later, she was ready with the dusty toothbrush and tube of toothpaste they’d taken from the house with the water cooler. She even used some water from one of the bottles they’d found—despite his protests—to gently clean his face and hands. It was the most she’d touched him since the last time she’d scrubbed his teeth—though not the first time since. She tended to walk closer to him now, enough that their hands brushed every so often. He’d stopped wearing his gloves entirely, just to be able to feel it a little better. Sometimes she grabbed onto his arm, too, when she saw something that scared her—which was often—or something that she was excited about—which was rare. It was nice. It was better than nice. It was wonderful. Every second of physical contact with her was heaven. It had been hard, keeping her at arm’s length today, but necessary. And now he would make up for it by letting her clean him, which was arguably even better, if a little embarrassing. But he would embarrass himself a thousand times over if it meant he got to feel her touch.

“There’s blood under your mask,” his dove said suddenly, her fingers slipping under the bottom edge of it. He tensed, reaching up to lightly grab her wrist, stopping her from taking it off. He looked horrifying enough with the mask on—if she saw what was beneath it, he knew he would take over staring in her nightmares from whoever Andrew—and God did he want to rip that fucker apart every time her heard her beg him for mercy in her sleep—was.

“Still won’t let me clean under it?” His dove asked, pouting. He just stared back at her, unable to be swayed, not on this. She sighed, but let it go. “Fine. But you have to clean it, then, because the blood starts to smell if you leave it there.”

He grumbled, but accepted the rag from her, releasing her wrist so she could turn around. He removed his cracked mask, looking in the mirror—trying not to flinch at the disgusting sight that greeted him—and carefully, clumsily cleaned up the little bit of rabbit blood that had snuck up towards his nose. He was lucky he still had a nose, he reminded himself.

Once he was finished and his mask firmly back on, he groaned quietly, and his dove faced him again with a smile, toothbrush at the ready.

Five minutes later—he was disappointed it didn't take as long this time, but he supposed that meant the first cleaning had worked—he was spitting toothpaste into the dirty sink, mouth tasting aggressively of mint.

“What did you eat tonight?”

Ghost looked back at Lelia, surprised by the question. Why was she asking? Was she worried he’d eaten a human?

“I had a can of peaches,” she continued, wiping her hands off on one of the dusty towels hanging on the back of the door. “I’d been trying to save that one for a special occasion, but I couldn't resist anymore. I miss sweets.”

His confusion—and slight hurt—faded when he realized she was just doing what she always did: filling the silence with chatter. It was one of the things he appreciated the most about her, after so long with only the groans of the other undead and his own thoughts for company. Although sometimes, he half expected her rambling to be thick with an indecipherable Scottish accent.

Ghost tried to make a bunny rabbit with his fingers, but his dove stared at him blankly. He huffed and then held up two fingers behind her head so she could see them in the mirror. Bunny ears.

“You ate a bunny?!” She exclaimed, horrified. “But— but they’re so cute!”

Ghost just looked at her, shrugging his stiff shoulders. It was the first thing he’d found, and he’d been trying to get back to Lelia as quickly as possible. Cuteness wasn’t a factor he took into consideration when it came to what he ate. Though if it was, it would explain why she was so tempting to him.

“Aye, tha’s a good’un,” Johnny’s voice said in his head. “Yer cute too, an’ I’d still eat ye. Eat yer sweet li’l cunny—”

He immediately shut that thought down. He wondered if the real Johnny was as much of a pervert as the one in his head, or if it was all just Ghost.

“Did you at least make sure it didn't suffer?”

Ghost focused on his dove again, and was alarmed to see that her big brown eyes were wet and wide, her bottom lip trembling. He groaned, his own eyes widening—as much as they could, at least—and he instinctively reached out to try and comfort her. But he stopped short of actually touching her, his hands hovering awkwardly over her shoulders. She was still looking up at him with that wounded expression, and he would have done just about anything to make it go away, so he nodded quickly. The rabbit had barely had time to register what was happening before he’d snapped its neck. At the time, he hadn’t done it out of mercy, but simple practicality—his meal couldn't run away if it was dead—but he couldn't have told his dove that even if he’d wanted to. Which he very much did not.

“Good,” Lelia said, relieved. She still looked sad, but not as much like she was about to burst into tears, now. Ghost let his hands fall back to his sides. “That’s good... I’m sorry. I know you need to eat, I don’t mean to make you feel guilty for that, I just… my first ever pet—my first ever friend, truly—was a little mummy bunny. She lived in the garden on our estate—that was my favorite place to play—and I found her after Father had refused to get me a pet for the dozenth time. I must have made him quite cross, since he struck me right across the face, rather than give me a spanking like usual. It was certainly more effective, though. I didn’t dare ask again. Which is why I was so pleased to find my little Serafina—that’s what I named her—that I helped her raise her babies until they were big enough to go out on their own. I’d bring them food and nesting materials, and I sat guard over them all day, everyday to make sure no foxes came to eat them. It was bittersweet, when I found the nest empty. I was happy they had all made it to adulthood, but I was so sad to see them go…”

The look in her eyes was distant, though not quite as much as it had been when they’d found the leather jacket. It had scared him, that day, just seeing her go suddenly unresponsive as tears began to stream down her face. There were no tears this time, for which he was glad, but his undead heart still ached a bit at her words. Clearly, despite growing up in the lap of luxury, she had been a lonely child, with parents not fit to raise a sensitive little dove like her.

Ghost groaned quietly and lightly bumped his hand against hers, the way she sometimes did when they were walking, trying to ground her the only way he could. He wanted to pull her into a hug, to feel her soft, warm body against his, but he knew that would be crossing a line.

The bit of contact seemed to do the trick, though, her gaze focusing on him again as she smiled once more.

It didn't quite reach her eyes.

***

It was approaching three weeks since Lelia's escape from Andrew, and a little under two since she and Simon had arrived in the abandoned town, when they finally located a map.

It was in the house Ghost had chosen for them to stay in that night. There was a study, nearly untouched, and Lelia had taken the opportunity to explore the packed bookshelves. She missed her own collection very much—she hadn’t been allowed to bring it with her, once she’d gotten married. The only book she’d been able to sneak away was the hand-bound collection of Russian poetry her governess, Ulyana, had given her years ago. The stern old woman was the only person Lelia had confessed her love of poetry to. Ulyana had scoffed and called her a fool girl, but that was just how she was, so she didn’t take it too personally. Especially when she found the book on her nightstand a few days later.

Lelia still had it, kept tucked carefully in her pocket at all times. It had become a notebook, of sorts, where she wrote all her own poems, as well as copied down some of her favorite English ones. But it was more than that. It was the only evidence she had that someone had ever truly cared about her.

Ulyana hadn’t loved her, Lelia knew that. She would have rather been with her own family, raising her own children back in Russia. Lelia didn't understand that when she was little, but she did now. Even still, Ulyana had been more of a mother to her than Lelia’s own.

Lelia shook herself from her thoughts, peeking up from her new copy of Pride & Prejudice to look at Simon. He was standing at the desk, the map spread out in front of him, growling quietly to himself. She was familiar enough with his array of noises by now to know that he was frustrated.

“Is everything okay?” She asked softly. Simon’s head jerked up, jaw wobbling, and then his gaze darted away, his shoulders hunching slightly. Her brows furrowed in concern, and she stood up from the cozy office chair she’d curled up in, setting aside her book and crossing over to him. She laid a hand on his forearm, trying to get him to look at her again. “What’s wrong?”

To her surprise, Simon pulled away. He never pulled away from her touch—seemed to crave it, in fact, if the way his eyes slipped closed and he got all relaxed whenever she brushed his teeth was any indication—and she figured it was because he was relieved he wasn’t alone anymore. She didn’t know how long he’d been a conscious zombie, but any time spent as one had to have been hell. So when she’d noticed the way he always leaned into her hands when she cleaned him, she’d made a conscious effort to initiate more contact between them. Nothing too big—just a brush of their hands here or grabbing his arm to get his attention there—but little gestures that she hoped reminded him that he wasn’t alone anymore.

So the fact that he was denying himself the comfort he so clearly got from it? She knew something must really be bothering him.

“Simon,” she said, quiet but firm. “Talk to me.”

Simon looked back at her sharply, growling as he gestured at his broken jaw. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow at him. He knew what she’d meant. They’d gotten quite adept at communicating without speaking, over the last few weeks.

Her zombie glared at her for a moment longer before grumbling in defeat and shoving the map away from him, wordlessly naming it as the problem. She frowned, bringing it back towards them and smoothing it out as she began to guess at the specifics.

“Is the map of the wrong area?” She asked. Simon shook his head. She tried again.

“Is it outdated?” Another head shake.

“Are you having trouble reading it?”

A long pause, and then Simon nodded, avoiding looking at her. It took a moment for her to recognize the emotion in his lowered gaze, the tightness around his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders. Shame.

“I have a hard time reading maps too,” she said, quick to reassure him, hating that he was feeling down about himself. He’d done so much for her—he was the reason she was alive. She was beyond grateful for him. “Even Google maps. I always ended up lost when I tried to use it.”

Her words seemed to have the opposite of their intended effect, though, as he just grew more agitated, stomping away from the desk and lashing out. He punched one of the bookshelves with a terrifying growl, cracking the wood and sending several flying to the ground. Lelia let out an alarmed noise, flinching violently as she instinctively stepped back and raised her arms to protect her head. Andrew had stopped caring about not hitting her face not long after the world ended. There was no need to keep up appearances anymore, after all.

But no angry blows came her way, and after a moment, she looked up to find Simon sitting on the ground, staring at an open book, jaw quivering where it hung as he tried and failed to speak the words in front of him, the only sounds escaping him being choked off gurgles. Slowly, hesitantly, Lelia approached. As she drew closer, she noticed the minute trembling of his shoulders, and the tremor in his hands as his fingers traced the letters of the first word on the page, over and over again. Lelia realized two things in that moment.

Simon wasn’t having trouble reading the map. He couldn’t read the map. He couldn’t read.

And, much more importantly to her, he was crying.

His cloudy eyes were bone dry, but the noises he made and the way he shook was hauntingly familiar. Lelia’s heart broke, and she lowered herself down beside him before wrapping her arms around him.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, hugging him tightly. He dropped the book and turned towards her, his own large arms encircling her waist as he buried his face in her neck. Perhaps she should have been afraid. He was a zombie, and although he’d not eaten her yet, he’d admitted to thinking about it when he got hungry—and he hadn’t hunted in a few days, now. Yet she pulled him close, perfectly poised to take a chunk out her neck and feast on her flesh as she bled out. But Simon was crying, and what kind of friend would she be if she didn’t try to comfort him, after everything he’d done for her?

Lelia wasn’t sure how long she held Simon, petting his hair soothingly as he fell apart in her arms. Long enough that her body grew stiff, her bum aching from sitting on the hardwood floor. Long enough that the sun had set entirely, leaving the room in total darkness. Long enough that drool had gathered in her zombie’s mouth and dribbled out, wetting her skin and the collar of her shirt. A little even dripped inside, down her chest.

She didn’t care about any of that. All that mattered to her was being there for Simon when he needed her, like he was always there for her.

Finally, Simon sniffed deeply and then quickly pulled away, letting go of her and moving back, putting space between them. She let him, but only because she recognized the sniff as a sign that she was starting to look a little too tasty to him. He, on the other hand, looked embarrassed, and he actually groaned and buried his face in his hands when he noticed the dark splotch on her shirt. It was an entirely human gesture, and she felt her heart squeeze in her chest. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what Simon had looked like before, back when he was alive…

“I know you need to go find something to eat,” she spoke, shaking the thought from her mind.  “So we’ll figure out the map in the morning, alright? Between the two of us, we should be able to find a way to make sense of it.”

She smiled at him when he looked up at her, and had to resist the urge to hug him again. He still looked so unsure, like a little boy afraid of being rejected—it was a jarring expression on him. Simon always knew what to do, and was always so confident about it, too. She’d seen him scare off dozens of zombies and rip apart just as many without blinking an eye. And yet here and now, in front of no one but her, he was scared. He was vulnerable.

She felt honored that he was showing that part of him to her.

“Goodnight, Simon,” she said quietly, standing up and brushing her fingers against his shoulder as she passed him, unable to help herself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she was gone, leaving the study and disappearing into the room she’d chosen for the night.

[dollgxtz]

Just a random ask, but you did say that some things in the LADS canon universe don’t exist in HWE. So I wanted to ask, was reader also his lover in a past life in this AU? Is that why he became immediately infatuated?

Also, if that is not the case, then why did he fall so inlove with someone he just met? I know alot of yan fics are just like this, but I want to ask if there is any deeper meaning behind it.

I mean, canon Sylus always keeps his distance, even in our rls with him. I know this isn’t canon Sylus but this is an interpretation of him. So, did he fall inlove immediately because she was his lover in their last life, or is the real reason not as deep?

Tw for SA and baby trapping!!!

Omg, this is such a good question, thank you for asking!! So they aren’t past lovers in this story. As much as I wanted to include that, I felt like it complicated the storyline I was building. I simply settled on the whole “fated lovers” “soulmates” approach as this isn’t the MC from the game anyways.

When I wrote this version of Sylus, I gave him a mix of traits inspired by cluster B personality disorders, and that plays a big role in why he got obsessed so fast. His personality makes him super prone to idealizing people who make him feel something he’s been missing—like comfort, validation, or connection.

Only issue was, Yan!Sylus didn’t have time for relationships, and most people he met/interacted with was with the purpose of hurting them or getting something out of them. He never truly looked at a woman and felt anything. He of course longed for this though, but had resided to the fact that it may not happen for him.

So the moment he meets the reader and gets that feeling, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s just hooked. It starts out more as fixation than love—this overwhelming need to keep them close and make them his in every way possible (ie the SA, baby trapping).

He does love her at the point we are at in the story. It’s just not healthy love, obviously but his feelings go beyond just obsession. The reader means everything to him, and he genuinely wants to make her happy… even if his way of showing it is pretty messed up. (He’s still got a long way to go in terms of character development…)

So yeah, it started with his mental state making him latch on, but it’s definitely deeper than that now! Hopefully, that makes sense!!