#unveiled (visage)

[viciouslyfilthy]

.:Frollo tag dump:.

((MUN'S NOTE: this take on the character is very canon-divergent!))

IC MUSE TAG: the sleep of reason produces monsters ( frollo )

VISAGES: beast of lust ( frollo visage )

AESTHETICS: unveiling depravity ( frollo aesthetic )

MUSINGS: hellfire ( frollo musings )

HEADCANONS: fragments of the man he used to be ( frollo headcanons )

SIDE-CHARACTERS: serons-nous détestables? serons-nous admirables? ( the imps )

[trappolia]

── DID MY LOVE AID AND ABET YOU?

(book 7 spoilers!)

ace trappola. hearts bared and dreams unveiled, you come to terms with something that has festered in the boy you love.

"You're the most selfish person I know."

It's horrifyingly bare, Ace realises, the way he lays still beneath you. Your weight rests upon his torso, legs straddling him on either side. Both of you are clothed, of course, Deuce would be horrified to see anything else if he stirred awake from where he was still recuperating on the bed across the room.

But there is something about it. Naked, not like two lovers in sex, but as if you have dug your fingers through the hollow skin of his sternum to peel it apart, baring his heart where it thumps erratically against the cage of his ribs. He lays prone beneath you, simply staring at the visage of your face (dream-like, though certainly not a dream. Not anymore. He's woken up now, thanks to you, but by doing so, you have unearthed his deepest insecurities.)

He wonders if you���d be selfish enough to dig in deeper, to unfurl the twisting cage of his ribs to bare his heart, which has always been yours for the taking.

"More than yourself?" Ace challenges. It's delivered in a light tone, easily heard as a quip to others— but you have known him long enough to recognise a challenge, to know that he sees you too in this sense.

(The question is easy for you to translate. Are you not selfish as well? Will you not try to pry me open like a gilded treasure trove of secrets, see how much more I will give to you? You've had a taste of my true heart now, and you want more. Greedy little thing.

Ace sees it in the light furrow of your brow when you stare at him. You're still figuring out the answer that Ace already knows.

He would give anything to you if you fought him hard enough for it.)

"Takes one to know one," Ace goes on when you don't answer. He dares to reach out, brushes his fingers over the light curve of your cheekbone. "'sides, is it so bad? Being selfish, I mean. Can't imagine you've got any complaints."

"I'm not talking about your dream," you huff, hands braced on his chest. Sleep rests heavy upon your eyelids, calls for you to curl up in his bloody ribs and rest there forever. It is the sleepiness that lets you both indulge in this quiet intimacy, especially in the wake of battle.

"What, you just calling me selfish in general then?" Ace snorts, pinching your hip. You scowl, swatting him slightly.

"Yes. Yes. You're a selfish man, Ace Trappola."

"Takes one to know one," Ace echoes his prior words.

His hand trails from your face to your hip, squeezing the curve of it in his palm. You are warm and heavy and real in his hands, and he can't help the way his touch wanders like a curious child. The remnants of Malleus's magic still linger in his bones, in the deep crevices of his mind, and the way you're sitting on top of him doesn't help in the question still sitting in the back of his mind.

Is he still dreaming?

"Selfish," you say again, like a broken record.

Ace stares at your face. There's the furrow of your brow and the light downturn to your lips, the plump of the bottom jutting out slightly, as if you're about to cry. You say that you're not talking about his dream, but Ace knows better. He knows that it lingers in your mind, the thought of how he loves you enough to let you go home. The thought of how he loves you enough to let you live your own life while he learns to live without you in his.

(But he is still selfish. The line between dream and nightmare is drawn where he is sure that you would return to him, because of course you would return to him. Of course he would only accept your departure if he knew that you could somehow acquire a return ticket. You know this too.)

"Don't leave me," Ace whispers. He tries to make it sound less of a plea, less than a beg. He knows he is failing.

You swallow. "You're so selfish."

But Ace knows that you're more selfish. You are, perhaps, the most selfish one of all. It is in the searing warmth of your body, nearly burning through your clothes as you lean over him; in the cruelty of the way you press your lips against his like a prince rousing his princess from an eternal sleep, as if the two of you would ever have the blessing of living together happily forever after.

If this is a dream, Ace wishes that you would never wake him up.

[starshipsofstarlord]

nosebleed | daryl dixon

summary. you’re prone to nosebleeds, which startles rick when he first witnesses it, but your ever doting boyfriend daryl knows just what to do (0.9k)

warnings. blood (from nosebleed), fluff, caringbf!daryl, petnames, mentions of death, established relationship

an. this is inspired by my own sickness atm, every couple of weeks ive been getting a few nosebleeds, and it definitely isn’t fun among my other symptoms. my nose even bled over one of the books that i was reading and you can be sure that i scrubbed it until it looked like nothing more than a water mark

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The plan for the run was simple, all you had to do was follow it through, and so you hunched over the map, Rick beside you, scouring your eyes across the once accurate layout of the small town. It would have all been correct if carnage had not tarnished everything, it was not only people that succumbed to death, but the places that they had once lived and did their grocery shopping. Walkers patrolled where they wished, and the buildings became weak from lack of maintenance, also housing some of the undead that had trapped themselves inside amidst the outbreak, thinking they would be safe when they were humans, but either starving to death or having their lives taken either by their own hand or that belonging to another.

“So…” Rick began to spew the words that supported his wishes on how the run was to go, though of course there could always be the possibility of hurdles in the road, in some cases even physically. “You got that Y/N?” He asked you, and frowned at your lack of response. A lightheaded sensation overwhelmed you, and you placed your hand on the table, supporting yourself so that the dizziness would not cause you to fall. Rick leant in beside you, steadying a hand on your back, watching as you closed your eyes as if awaiting something. “Y/N?”

He tried to gather your attention, and whilst you were conscious of that, all focus had derived from your being. It then began, the trickle from your nose, causing a few splotches of red to pool upon the map, tainting the paper with your blood, marking an incorrect destination on the sprawling of lines that resembled roads. “Daryl.” Rick called to his friend as he entered the room, the man swiftly coming over, taking Rick’s place, establishing already from your demeanour what you were experiencing. His hand soothingly stroking across your back, comforting you through the torment that your own body begrudged you with.

It didn’t last long, only for a couple minutes, but that was enough to make you feel perilously tired for that time. With a loving and gentle hand, Daryl tipped your head back, ceasing a continuation of the nosebleed to unveil. He removed a rag from his back pocket that he reserved solely for the occasional bleeds, placing it against your nostrils, the stained fabric absorbing the crimson that flared and spilled out on no will other than its own. The nosebleeds had occurred at some of the worst moments, including when you had been hiding from walkers at the beginning of the outbreak.

They held no devastating impact, you had prompted the attention of doctors prior to the outbreak, them coming up empty handed and saying ‘some people just have nosebleeds’. It had made you feel as though nobody cared, and they hadn’t until you had found Daryl. He never fussed or made a big deal about it, but he looked after you during both the thick and thin that your blood ran. You exhaled heavily, taking the rag into your own hand to simply hold it, smiling Daryl a smile although he couldn’t see it due to the material that was held against your face, covering most of the lower half of your face.

“Ya alrigh’ sunshine?” Daryl asked you tenderly, as you shut your eyes, nodding your head slightly and at a strange angle, feeling the heart thumping tension in your head dissipate with each passing second. Rick cocked his head at the natural visage the two of you portrayed, watching intently as you released a sigh of eventual relief as you removed the rag. You passed it back to Daryl, who would no doubt soak it in water later and lay it out to dry so that it could be used when your nose felt drawing red lines down your face again. You seemed abnormally calm, and Rick reached out, steadying his hand on your shoulder, appearing to be the only one that was concerned.

“Are you going to be okay to go on the run?” If you weren’t feeling up to it then that wouldn’t be an issue, he would get someone else to cover your place in the run. You could stay back with Carl, and he knew that if you did you would cater your attention to Judith despite Beth being there. It was just a run, and whilst your group was in need of supplies, the health of each member of the group did matter. You’d all been through hell and back together, some of you surviving whilst others of you did not. The last thing that Rick wanted was for you to push yourself too far if there was an underlying issue. That would not only bring suffering to you, but it could endanger everyone that went on the run, and you’d all lost enough people as it was.

“I just get nosebleeds, it’s no biggie Grimes.” Your shoulders uplifted into a nonchalant shrug, dismissing the situation as if your nose had never bled. Daryl pressed a kiss to your forehead, secretly adoring you more for the little quirks that your body liked to abruptly spin on you. Rick seemed less tense, and Daryl knew better than anyone else that the sudden nosebleeds, whilst affected you in the moment, had no lasting symptoms. You would be fine, and as always, he would watch your back. He had the rag in his hand still, and he reached to your face to wipe away the drying red residue from around your nose, pressing a kiss to it when there was no smear of blood left in sight.

[a-small-safe-place]

Soft!Yandere Black Noir w/ Spouse!Reader

You and Earving had shared your lives for many years, forging a bond that had withstood even the disfigurement caused by Soldier Boy. Your love had persisted through the darkest of times. Before Black Noir’s transformation, you two had been inseparable, and even as his appearance changed, your commitment to each other remained unwavering.

When the scars from Soldier Boy’s cruel act marred Black Noir’s once-handsome face, he feared that you might abandon him. He went to great lengths to conceal the disfigurement, even in the intimate moments you shared. However, his sudden withdrawal and the cessation of communication did not escape your notice. With concern etched across your face, you gently implored, “Please, Earving, tell me what’s wrong. Why won’t you speak to me or remove your mask?”

Black Noir shook his head, refusing to divulge his inner turmoil. He adored you deeply, and the thought of losing you was unbearable. He was willing to resort to any means to prevent your departure, even if it meant resorting to physical measures. You were his world, his anchor in a world filled with chaos and uncertainty.

After persistent persuasion, you finally persuaded him to unveil his masked face. The sight of the burnt half of his visage and his milky eye bulging from its socket was almost too much for you to bear. He noticed your distress and hastily replaced his mask, shaking his head as if to say, “No, no, it’s still me. I’m not frightening. Please don’t abandon me.”

Tears streamed down your face as you asked, “Soldier Boy did this?” In response, he nodded, clutching your arms tightly, ensuring you couldn’t escape his grip even if you attempted to flee. You bestowed upon him a tender, loving smile and inquired, “Were you afraid to tell me?” Black Noir nodded slowly. His fear of losing you, regardless of the extent of his disfigurement, was overwhelming.

In a surprising move, you gently lifted his mask and planted a soft kiss on the burnt part of his mouth. This gesture sent Black Noir’s heart into a flutter, and his knees nearly gave way under the weight of his emotions. He yearned to express his love at that moment but couldn’t. Instead, he fashioned his hands into the shape of a heart, conveying his feelings. You understood his unspoken message and reciprocated, your actions concealed beneath his mask, causing him to blush.

Now, the two of you are united in marriage. Black Noir has provided you with a home specially designed for your comfort and privacy, a sanctuary away from those who might covet you, such as The Deep or Homelander. Black Noir relishes the moments spent at home with you, where he can remove his mask and relish in your reassuring words that you love him. In the safety of your private haven, you belong entirely to him, and he has the privilege of taking care of you.

[vultursvolans]

— ☆ 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝚰𝐎𝐒𝚰𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝚰𝐋𝐋𝐒

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you’ve seen lucifer’s demon form but you can’t shake the feeling that’s it’s not all he is. what if there was something darker beneath his beautiful visage? you ask to see more but lucifer warns you it may be too much for mortal eyes. as he slowly unveils the facets of his true self, you wonder if you can love something incomprehensible? and more importantly, can it love you back?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: OM!LUCIFER x GN!reader, SFW but slightly suggestive, DARK ROMANCE ♥️, HORROR ELEMENTS, implied sex but no smut, established relationship but in the earlier stages, light angst, celestial war mention, he calls you ‘my dear’, demon x human, monster romance(?), ik my title is ‘curiosity kills’ but i promise no one dies 2.0k wc. | masterlist

𝐚/𝐧: woo! my first fic for 2025. halloween is long gone but spookyookyooky vibes are forever. i haven't written for lucifer (or the obey me fandom) since 2021 so please be kind! i love when artists draw the demons as monster-like so it inspired me to write this

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

They say curiosity killed the cat but nobody ever warns you what happens when the thing you seek is something you love. Sometimes curiosity doesn’t just kill, it pulls you into the depths and reminds you that some paths were never meant to be tread at all. 

You knew Lucifer’s demon form. Every time he brought it out, you couldn’t miss it. No one did. Those horns curling from his head, those raven wings that stretched with an elegance befitting for the pride incarnate, the diamond birthmark adorning his forehead. He looked every inch the fallen angel. Dangerous. Powerful. But still akin to something recognisable. Something human. That was what you thought his “demon form” meant, or at least the extent of it. 

But the closer you got to him, emotionally, physically—you suspected more. This was Lucifer, after all. The same Morning Star who watched the Celestial Realm itself fracture, the one who waged war and defied his own Father for his sister’s sake. Of course, there would be layers to him, parts hidden beneath polished veneers that he might not want you to see.

The revelation came gradually, though not accidentally. He’d never risk an accident with something like this. It wasn’t just about protecting you, it was also about managing what it would mean for him to be fully seen.

It began one night in his room. His usual form was already on display, horns casting long shadows on the walls as his wings arched lazily behind him. You were comfortable with this version of him, so much so that you’d leaned into his shoulder, tracing his horns absentmindedly as he read aloud from some aged, prodigious book. The question had been on your mind but you didn’t realise what you’d said until the words were out of your mouth. 

“Is there more?” You asked concretely.

He stilled, halting his finger mid-sentence against the page. “More?” his voice was neutral like always. 

“Of… this,” you gestured vaguely at him. “Your form. You expect me to believe this is the Avatar of Pride’s only face?”  

The jest was meant to lighten the mood, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he closed the book and turned his gaze on you. His eyes burned a little brighter—sharper. “What you see now is what I allow you to see. There are parts of me not meant for human eyes,” he said softly. 

“So you’ve locked those parts away?”

“Not locked,” he corrected you. “Contained. Managed.”

That should have been the end of it but you couldn’t let it go. Not after seeing a flicker of hesitation in his face. Or perhaps it was fear. So you would’ve let it go until you wondered: 

What could possibly unnerve Lucifer?

———

The first time he showed you, it was brief. Something of a test. 

“Don’t move,” he instructed, “And don’t look away.”

You stood in his study, your heart pounding as he stepped back, seeing his usual form dissolve into something more. His wings expanded, shifting like spilled ink on water. His horns lengthened, spiraling like gnarled roots of an oak tree, and his skin took on a strange sheen, as though it couldn’t decide whether it was flesh or something far older. 

But it was his eyes that terrified you. The whites were gone, replaced by an endless, tormenting black. You felt like you were being pulled into them, swallowed by the power of something vast and unknowable.

However, there was also heat that felt familiar, pressing into you like his breath fanning over your skin in the dead of night, when his hands explored every crevice on your body. This form, alien as it was, still carried the same possessive hunger. You had to grip onto the edge of a nearby table to steady yourself.  

And then, as quickly as it came, it receded. His wings folded back, his horns shrank and his eyes returned to that familiar crimson. “Enough for tonight,” you were assailed by the sound of his shoes clicking against the hardwood as he made his way to you. 

Something, he thought, was not quite right. You were shaken, yes, but not disturbed. He had expected you to avert your eyes, to flinch or look away lest the weight of his true form crush your sanity. Yet you watched him with defiance in your expression and more unsettling still, he found himself watching you back. What was it that kept you here? What had driven you to face something so unnatural and still hold your ground?

———

The second time was different. 

You were sitting at the edge of his bed with your legs tucked beneath you. His shirt hung loosely on your frame as the scent of him clung to the fabric. Much like other nights, you’d spent this one wrapped around each other until exhaustion claimed you both.

Lucifer suddenly tugged at his shirt and after your eyes fell on him, you felt something gnawing in your stomach. But you were surprised when he only asked with a casual cadence, 

“Do you trust me?”

You nodded like it was perfectly normal to place your earnest trust in a demon like him. You’d already given yourself to him in every way that mattered, baring your soul just as he had bared his body to you time and time again.

Fond with your answer, he stood up and smiled. “Then close your eyes.”

When you opened them, the world felt…wrong.

What you saw had to have been a dream-picture because his form was towering enough to barely fit the space and his wings no longer looked like they belonged to anything earthly. The feathers were shifting, like they had been replaced by shards of black glass catching onto nonexistent light. His horns gleamed like molten metal and his face wasn’t entirely his. It was flickering between the Lucifer you knew and something you couldn’t name but felt in the deepest part of your being. 

The diamond on his forehead began to glow, its light blotting shapes in all angles. And then it split, revealing a vertical slit of an unblinking eye that stared into you—not at you, but into you, through you.

Somewhere in between you must’ve hauled yourself onto the floor and stumbled back because your knees were not on the mattress anymore but on wood. A pressure built in your chest but you simply couldn’t look away.

Lucifer didn’t speak, he just watched you like before but this time you felt as though every secret you’d ever buried was laid bare. It wasn’t until he eventually spoke your name that you realised you were crying.

“Breathe,” he said, kneeling before you. His voice was echoing like it was coming from inside you. “I told you it wasn’t meant for human eyes. We can stop.”

“It’s okay, it’s just…a lot,” you said, trembling but not from the cold.

He approached you, his hand eerily warm against your cheek as he wiped your tears and helped you to your feet. “You’re doing better than most would. I’m proud of you.” 

“Does it ever hurt?” you swallowed hard, like there was rough rope lodged down your throat. The change was not as graceful as you thought it would be. It came ripping out of him like it was something he constantly suppressed. 

“No,” you heard a break of vulnerability in his display. “But it can be lonely.”

“Lonely?” 

“It is a grave reminder that demons exist to fear. Sometimes to worship. But never to love.”

Never to love because defending love was what made him this way.

Once respite had settled, a look of sullen reflection had overcome Lucifer’s face, wondering if this left you with little desire to see more. 

———

Before the third time came, he warned you about the strain it might put on your mind, “This time might be dangerous.” But you insisted and he remained cautious. 

When it happened, it wasn’t in the confines of his room but outside, beneath the yawning void of the Devildom’s starless sky. He told you it would be safer this way. For both of you.

His transformation hit you like a violent wind. Lucifer didn’t just change, he expanded uncontainably into something monstrous, his body shimmering like a dark mirage. His horns were jagged spires, sharp enough to cleave through the Celestial Palace itself and you couldn’t see where his wings ended and began—only that they were folding and unfolding like obsidian knives. 

Then, there was his mouth that stretched wider than it should have, revealing rows of teeth too sharp, too numerous. They weren’t made for smiling, they were meant to tear and consume, a predator’s maw lurking beneath his visage. And his eyes—or the absence of them—were blackened husks whilst the unblinking eye on his forehead sat like an all-seeing sigil. 

Shadows pulsed into your vision, pooling at your feet and reaching for you like they knew your name. The sheer magnitude of Lucifer’s form left you breathless. If this was the strength of someone who served second to Diavolo, then what maddening power must the Prince of the Devildom truly possess? And beyond even that, the Demon King himself—origin of all darkness. The thought had chills coiling around your spine and you thanked the Heavens he was resting in his indefinite slumber. 

Yet strangely, in all that horror, there was beauty. Lucifer’s voice called to you like a melody and his vibrating presence, for all its terror, might have even felt soothing. It was magnificent. 

“Are you afraid?” he asked from everywhere and nowhere. A question that wasn’t meant to frighten but rather a lifeline, a chance to retreat before you fell any deeper. 

You should have been. Any rational being would have been. But instead, you took a step closer and reached out to the impossibility of his form. You touched something, though whether it was his face, his chest, or his soul, you weren’t sure.

“No,” you said between awe and surrender. “Never.” 

At that moment, you understood what it meant to love a creature who stood at the precipice of an existence that could shatter you with mere thought. 

“You are the first to see this and not run. You reach for the flame, knowing it will burn you,” he spoke like the deep roll of a bell. 

 “How could I not?” You didn’t step back, what was left of your willpower rooted you to the ground. “You’ve never been anything less than this. I could feel it.”

For a fleeting second, you saw the disintegration of his monstrous form, red eyes flickering through black ones as his pride briefly softened in the quiet between you. His wings faltered, a deep inhuman sigh escaping his lips. It was the first time you'd seen him so... uncertain.

“You think you know me so well? They say I am nothing but contradictions. Do you think love could redeem something like me? I could destroy you without meaning to,” this time he laughed but you knew this wasn’t anything he found funny. In fact, it hurt him to think there was any part of him that could cause you to recoil from the truth of what he was.

“But you haven’t because you don’t want to.” Again, his figure quickly distorted into something you were more familiar with. “Has it ever crossed your mind that I never wanted perfection, Lucifer?”

“Then what is it you want from me, if not to run?”

Your heart wound tight, it wasn’t difficult to tell him but you weren’t entirely sure if he’d even believe it. “Just you.”

He said nothing whilst your nostrils flared. “Just you,” you repeated.  

Lucifer's unblinking eye narrowed, its glow dimming just slightly as if your words had managed to reach that inscrutable part of him. “You walk the line between courageous and naive, my dear.” 

“Then I suppose it’s naive of me to hope you’re walking with me.” 

A faint pause. His wings shimmered behind him, his hesitation was palpable but not binding. “If you would dare to take such steps, then you will not tread alone.” 

It was resolute, his words settling like an oath.

Curiosity, they said, kills the cat. But in this case, it didn't. It brought you to a place you'd never thought you'd find. Lurking in the darkness of his true form, where love had no place for so long, you found the first glint of light.

A dark, dangerous light, but a light nonetheless.

© 2025 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform.

more a/n: i’m fascinated by eldritch/lovecraftian horror, can you tell?

divider: @/adornedwithlight

networks: @pixelcafe-network @houseofsolisoccasum

tagging you bc you kindly asked eep @sugurouge

[willows-escape]

Symbolic - 1990!Erik x Reader - Part 1

Pairing - Erik (1990! Charles Dance) x (Female) Reader

Summary - the topic of the mask was the last obstacle in your blossoming relationship, and you were desperate to cross the barrier and become fully intertwined with the man you loved and claimed he loved you too.

Warnings - erik’s deformity is a mix of the deformity we see erik have as a child in the 1990 version and the musical, phantom having a small breakdown, the ✨mask✨topic, poorly dealt with feelings, miscommunication, suggestive moments and reference to genitalia and arousal, descriptions of a gory facial disfigurement, intense self hatred, mentions of christine but she’s long gone in this

Word Count - 4,770

Notes - there will be a part 2 i gotchu i gotchu. should part 2 be smutty or also just suggestive? also i tried writing this in a victorian-esque tone but if you arent vibing with that let me know and i’ll switch it up for part 2. i just thought it would be a nice touch.

give me feedback !!! pleasee !!!!

01 (you're here!) / 02

The nearby sound of trickling water gracefully blended into the ambiance of your surroundings; the towering trees above you resembled a verdant canopy. The quilt beneath you protected your body from the prickly blades of grass and artificial soil, offering a comfortable spot to recline with your hair spread out beneath you, shimmering in the artificial light.

You laid supine, hands elevated above you to cradle a book you had recently begun reading. The words captivated your attention, submerging you in a realm of fantasy and euphoria. Reading was your preferred means of escaping reality, a release you frequently yearned for when the burdens of the world weighed on your shoulders. It all faded away when you became engrossed in the pages of a book.

Regrettably, you were not the only person who was aware of your coping mechanisms. The situation was quite an affair, so you wouldn’t delve too deeply into the small details, but the love of your life had at long last informed you of his reciprocal affection for you. It felt magical and otherworldly to hear that sweet confession escape his enthralling lips, his eyes penetrating into the depths of your soul as his hands tenderly grasped your waist. You had witnessed the words that you only ever seemed to hear in your dreams.

So what had left you so apprehensive?

Well, the man you spoke so highly about, Erik, did not seem to return those high opinions for you. There was a part of himself he laboured ceaselessly to conceal from you, a mask that symbolically and literally kept up a barrier between your world and his world to prevent them from intertwining. You’d exchanged tender sentiments, cried tears of anguish and passion the night you’d finally confessed. You clung to each other as if your lives depended on it and subjected each other to a night of basking in vulnerability and fragility as your secrets long harboured tumbled past your tongue before you could restrain them. The morning after was no less exquisite and that of a fairy tale romance, but the barrier remained.

That mask he wore, pale and icy to the touch, silently spoke of his distrust for you. The final puzzle piece that he adamantly refused to fit into place, even for the sake of your love. Oh, it was a cruel predicament indeed! All you desired was to behold the appearance of the man you held dear, but he swore by the highest heavens that his visage would send you fleeing, and that was the last outcome he desired. To some extent, you understood his apprehension, having heard him recount tales of how numerous individuals he had cared for and adored had reacted abhorrently upon the unveiling of his face. But how could he expect the two of you to spend the remainder of your lives together without even a glimpse of his unadorned skin?

You weren't expecting Prince Charming, and while you weren't entirely convinced by his claims of him having a face of nightmares, you did trust that he might not be conventionally attractive. After all, you had never seen him. Besides his gentlemanly actions and his physique that seemed as if it had been crafted by a divine being, you weren't going to assume that he was the most handsome man in the world. You would love him nonetheless. But no matter how greatly you persisted and promised him you wouldn’t leave despite what he looked like, he truly did not believe a word you said. And it hurt.

“A new book, dear?”

You glanced upward, granting the subject of your grovelling a tight lipped smile as you hastily flicked your attention back to the words on the page. No anger dwelled within you, just painful disappointment, and the ache in your heart made it hard to bare the sight of him. “Of course. It’s Jane Eyre.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his walking cane planted firmly into the ground below. You internally winced as the silence rang loud in the air. You were not seeking to upset your lover, but also somehow desiring to communicate that you weren't entirely pleased at the moment. It appeared that the message had travelled clear, but the upset was unavoidable.

A moment more passed before he spoke, “I feel a chill coming on. Seems as though it’s about to rain, don’t you think? Come, let’s retreat inside before it starts to pour.”

You arched a suspicious eyebrow, fingers still tightly clasped around the novel you held. If the plastic animals scattered around that Erik had stolen from the props department said anything, everything in this quaint woodsy area was unquestionably fake. From the dirt to the grass to the trees, the animals and the sky. It went without saying there would be no rainfall. This meant he wanted to discuss things with you without the distraction of your nose being buried within the pages of a book. And you weren’t entirely sure how to feel about it.

“And why should I do that?” you questioned, paying him no eye contact as you pretended to continue to read.

“You wouldn’t want your clothing to get wet, would you? I won’t be visiting the laundry room of the opera house for another week, hence it would be wise to avoid sullying a valuable item of clothing,” he reasoned, knowing fully well that he’d drop whatever he was currently doing to run and fulfil any request you asked of him, never mind visiting the damn laundry room.

You parted your lips, ready to jestingly remark about how there would indeed be no rainfall. Yet, in that very moment, a peculiar sensation graced your senses. A solitary droplet of water descended upon your nose, its touch cold and trailing a path of dampness as it glided down your nasal bridge. A gasp escaped your lips as more droplets descended, their frequency increasing with each passing moment. In a hastened flurry, you stood upright, clasping your cherished book to your bosom. You abandoned the forgotten quilt as you sprinted through the doors adorned with stained glass, leading you back to Erik's modest dwelling. He followed closely, not far behind your hurried steps.

You’d have to speak to him about putting up a gazebo. To block out the sun, you’d tell him.

“Guess you were right,” you half-heartedly chuckled, absentmindedly tossing the book onto a table to the side of you.

You found yourself in Erik’s room of treasures, where he stored and cherished his most esteemed items, namely his collection of masks and his grand piano. The ambiance within was of a tranquil and serene nature, causing your anger to gradually dissipate. Yet, the sorrow and anguish still lingered within you.

"Forgive me, have I down something to displease you?" Erik questioned, his steps measured and deliberate as if he were trying not to startle you, akin to approaching a timid creature. With utmost gentleness, he lightly laid his hand upon your shoulder, allowing it to glide downward, tracing the contour of your arm.

"Erik…" you whispered, tearing your eyes away from him. Your heart faltered, your breath catching in your throat as his fingertips delicately brushed against your skin. A fire simmered in your core, your veins rushing with hot blood as the touch of his hand engulfed you, overwhelming your senses with a fervour. “I… do not wish to upset you.”

“The only upset you cause me is by not being honest with your feelings,” he replied, hand reaching up to gently trace the skin of your cheek. Your eyes felt weak, gently fluttering shut as you indulged yourself in his affections. “Please, tell me what is troubling you.”

You paused for a moment, allowing yourself to succumb to his touch for a little while longer. The words settled on the tip of your tongue, ready to escape you and take a leap of faith from your mouth to his waiting ears, but you’d already approached this subject with him before and did not wish to push him to frustration or sorrow.

“I just…” you paused, “One day, Erik, do you wish for us to be husband and wife?”

His eyes widened, mouth agape in shock at your blunt statement. He stammered in surprise, removing his hand from your cheek slowly. He drew in a deep breath before answering, “There is nothing I desire more than to be wedded to you. Where is this coming from? Are you feeling as though our relationship is moving too slow? I just didn’t want to frighten you by pushing for more. Why, I’ll marry you tomorrow-”

“Erik, Erik,” you laughed, hand coming up to cup his cheek with your own hand as he was doing to you seconds ago, “I didn’t mean it like that, though I’ll marry you the second you ask it of me. Maybe not tomorrow, however.”

“Ah,” his nerves tingled, goosebumps rising on his skin at the electricity of your touch. He cleared his throat before continuing, “While that is a great relief to me, may I ask as to why you asked that, if not for the reason I previously thought?”

Taking one last final pause, you readied yourself to confess your true want. “I know you’ve said no, and told me to not bring up the subject again… but my love, how can I marry somebody when I have yet to see their face?”

Erik pursed his lips, his eyes shifting down as he began fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. You felt dreadful witnessing the unease that the inquiry evoked in him, understanding that it inevitably resurrected distressing memories he longed to forget. Nevertheless, no advancement could transpire between the two of you in your relationship until he allowed you to see his face. You refused to be bound to someone who concealed such an essential aspect of himself, even if you knew the intentions to be entirely pure.

“I can’t do that,” Erik shook his head, walking away from you and moving towards his basket of walking canes. He placed his current one back with the bunch, before busying himself with rearranging his mask collection. He didn’t want to stray too far from you, but also wanted you to drop the subject.

You quietly tip toed behind him, enveloping him in your arms as you wrapped them around his waist and placed your head on his broad shoulder. You audibly heard his breathing pause, feeling him shiver as he relished in your touch. But nevertheless, he pushed on with rearranging his collection, although he wasn’t moving side to side around the table as he was doing previously.

“But why?” you asked.

“You know why, my face is that of nightmares. And I’ve hurt too many by showing them what they believed they could handle. My expectations are realistic.”

“You could never hurt me!” You insisted, your emotions getting the best of you as you retreated from him. He hunched over slightly, hands resting upon the clear spot of table in front of him to steady himself. His head twitched to the side as he bit his bottom lip in thought.

“Dear, I know you think that I exaggerate when I speak of my face, but I can assure you that I do not lie out of simple insecurity. My own father hid me down here due to my appearance, that must speak volumes,” he sighed, coming up once again to stand straight. “Now please, do not ask again.”

“So when I inevitably return to wallowing in my own feelings and escaping to the woods for hours at a time again, will you tell me to not ask again when you approach the subject of my feelings once more?” you tried to reason, desperately wanting him to view the situation from your point of view.

He didn’t respond for a little while, evidently pondering your words that he knew deep down held some veracity. The matter of the mask was evidently causing you distress, and he couldn't fathom any solution that would alleviate your concerns. But alas, he simply couldn't bring himself to do so.

“I’m sorry, my answer’s no.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, shimmering with unspoken pain and longing. Your vision blurred as a single tear cascaded down your cheek, tracing a path of sorrow. Your body trembled with silent sobs, your shoulders shook as you struggled to hold back the flood of emotions that threatened to consume you. The ache in your heart grew stronger, as if each tear shed was a testament to the love and vulnerability you had offered, only to be met with rejection.

“My dear, please, don’t cry over me,” his arms swiftly enfolded you in an embrace, his own frame quivering with an inability to endure the sight of your tears. With a resolute tenderness, he pressed his chilled lips upon your forehead, bestowing a gentle kiss as he cradled your head against his chest. In a steady rhythm, he swayed, seeking to soothe your anguish and stifle the heart breaking sounds that escaped your lips.

“How can I not?” you wept, fingers shaking from how firmly you were clinging onto his white button up shirt. You were grabbing on to him so tight you feared your nails would pierce holes in the delicate fabric, but you couldn’t bring yourself to relinquish your grip no matter how much you internally fought with yourself. Nothing you were doing seemed to be venting your frustrations adequately, leaving you at a loss for how to cope. "My love, the very essence of my existence, the one who breathes life into me, steadfastly refuses to show me his face."

“You must understand- I feel for you exactly as you describe your feelings for me, if not tenfold. That’s why I can’t show you. I’m protecting you just as much I want to protect myself,” he confessed, eyes squeezing shut as his swaying slowed to a stop. His grip was becoming tighter and tighter.

“I know life has dealt you an unfair hand, Erik, I’ve heard your cries and witnessed your heartbreak. I was there for you all throughout Christine, I was there to see your regret and misery as she left you behind. I did not leave your side for a second. I know the great despair and trauma her reaction to your face cast upon you, but please believe not a hair on my head resembles Christine. I will not hurt you the same.”

Erik held you a little longer, his embrace becoming even more so impossibly tighter. He wasn’t urgent to reply, instead allowing himself to bask in your love for as long as he could manage. Your sweet love was an addiction, an ambrosia he craved every single waking hour. But even then you lived in his dreams, your angelic presence blessing him wherever he went or whatever state he was in.

“I love you, Erik,” you spoke, looking upwards towards him as he began to tilt his head to share your unwavering gaze.

“I love you too,” he said.

“So show me,” you whispered, eyes glistening with tears and lips downturned into a subtle frown.

You took one last look into his eyes, before pushing yourself forward and up. Your lips met in a fervent union, a culmination of the deepest desires and longings that had long been brewing between you both. It was a kiss imbued with a delicate tenderness and an irresistible urgency, your mouths moving in perfect harmony. Each brush of his lips sent electric waves coursing through your body, igniting a blazing fire within your soul. In that timeless moment, you and him surrendered yourselves completely, losing all sense of time and space. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a silent pledge of profound love and unwavering devotion.

As you reluctantly broke the intimate connection, succumbing to the need for a breath of air, your gaze met his half-lidded eyes. His lips were swollen, and his tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip as he inhaled deeply. A blush crept across your cheeks as you attempted to conceal the rapid beating of your heart, finally becoming aware of his hands that had gradually ventured downward, tenderly tracing the curves of your waist.

He silently took a moment to recover, savouring the lingering taste of your kiss. It was unlike any other you had shared before - no longer innocent and brief, but a passionate embrace that ignited a fire within you. As your lips met, it felt as if the world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you in a moment of pure bliss. The intensity of your connection was palpable, like a match being scraped against a stone, creating small sparks that danced and flickered between your bodies. It was a kiss that left you both breathless, your hearts racing with newfound desire and a longing for more.

“If you really insist on seeing my face, come with me to your room. I do not wish to make you feel cornered, but if you are to faint I wish for you to not bring yourself harm.”

You nodded eagerly, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and anticipation. The kiss you shared made every colour appear more vibrant and the air feel lighter, filling every fibre of your being with pure bliss. As you followed him, each step felt buoyant, as if you were walking on air.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your room. Erik was very against you two sharing a bedroom, stating that he did not wish to make you uncomfortable or feel trapped next to him, when the reality couldn’t be farther from that. But you feared that he might’ve just been projecting, that he was the one who felt uncomfortable and trapped with the idea of you two sharing a room, so you’d left the topic alone for another day. That day still hasn’t arrived.

Erik took a hold of your hand, gently pulling you in and shutting the door behind you. He shook slightly, so lightly that you almost thought your eyes were deceiving you. “Are you sure about this, y/n?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything, besides how much I love you,” you giggled.

“I… will not keep you down here, if you decide you never want to see me again. I’ve learnt my lessons, do not fear you reaching the same fate Christine did when she reacted negatively.”

You wanted to protest his words, state that you feeling negatively towards him was inconceivable and never going to happen. You also wanted to tell him to stop mentioning Christine, just the utterance of her name made you scowl. But you didn’t want to argue at a time like this, so you just nodded your head.

“Before I take this awful thing off… that kiss was everything I’ve ever wanted and more. If after this you no longer love me, please know that your display of love made me feel like a normal, living man, and that I’m doing this because I know I can die happy after the fact, if you were to leave.”

“I’m honoured to be able to make you feel that way, my love.”

He hesitantly extended his hand towards the strings that secured his mask to his head, skillfully undoing the knot he had carefully tied. As he prepared to remove the mask, he couldn't help but steal a final wistful glance at you, savoring the moment before gradually peeling it away from his skin, gripping the edges tightly with his other hand. The air seemed to hold its breath as the mask revealed the vulnerable visage beneath, unveiling a hidden side that had long been concealed.

His face was a grotesque sight, something that defied accurate description. The skin was cruelly stripped away, revealing the raw and twisted muscles beneath. It was a horrifying visage, and it made your heart ache. He was deformed, disfigured; the only parts of his face that were covered in flesh were swollen and bright red, contrasting the pale whiteness of his bone. You tried your best to swallow the gasp that was pushing past your throat, but you were human.

You were sure you could hear the sound of his heart shattering, but you were so shocked you could only watch as he crumbled to his knees before you. His screams and cries made you nauseous, his repeated wails of, ‘why!? why!? why!?’ as he grabbed onto the hem of your skirt, hiding his face in the fabric in his suffering. You snapped back into reality, falling to your knees in front of him.

“Erik, no, please-”

“Go, please. Leave me.”

“No, please, hear me out. I don’t hate you-”

“This is hardly a face you’d want to marry!” he protested, burying his face deeper into the fabric of your skirt, resisting as you tried to pull it away. “You may not hate me, but you’re scared! Is this the face of a man you could wake up next to, spend the rest of your love with, make love to at night before we sleep? Please just go!”

“No!” you cried, relenting on your attempts to tear his desperate self away from your skirt. You wrapped your arms around him, this time cradling him against your bosom as you rocked back and forth. You felt the tension slowly dissipate from his form. “I do not hate you and I am not scared of you! I want to do all those things with you, Erik, please I swear!”

His quiet sobs continued to echo through the air, his scared body shaking erratically. With utmost tenderness, you cradled his quivering form in your arms, holding him close and providing a safe haven for his shattered heart. Gently, you brushed your fingers through his hair, whispering words of love and reassurance into his ear. Your touch and soothing voice offered him comfort and solace, doing your best to remind him that your love extended far beyond mere physical appearances.

In that moment, as he sought refuge in your embrace, you felt an overwhelming surge of love and compassion for this broken man before you. Despite the mask he wore, both symbolically and literally, you saw the depth of his pain and the vulnerability he rarely allowed others to witness. Your heart ached for him, yearning to heal the wounds that had haunted him for far too long.

"You are more than your face, Erik," you whispered softly, your voice filled with unwavering affection. "Your heart, your soul, and the love we share transcends any physical imperfections. I love you for who you are, please believe that."

As his sobs gradually subsided, he looked up at you with tear-filled eyes, searching for a glimmer of hope and acceptance. In that moment, you saw a spark of belief flicker within him, a tiny beacon of light amidst the darkness that had consumed him for so long.

"I… I want to believe you," he choked out, his voice trembling with both fear and longing. "But all my life people have only said different. How can they when I don’t have a face, and only the resemblance of a face?”

You held his face gently in your hands, your touch conveying a tenderness that words alone could not express. "I understand. I’m sorry for reacting like that, please forgive me. I love you regardless of your face, it was just unlike anything I’d ever seen before. That’s all. I feel no differently for you than how I felt before you removed the mask.”

He hesitantly inclined towards your touch, his eyes seeking yours for reassurance and acquiescence. He quivered as a vehement cry escaped his lips once more, bedewing your bodice in his tears. Yet, you cared not the slightest, more preoccupied with consoling the poor man trembling before you.

You both sat together on the floor of your bedroom for an indeterminate span of time, but to you it felt like hours. You cradled him like a mother would her infant, tenderly caressing and comforting him with gentle touches and whispered reassurances. You hadn’t seen Erik shed tears since the evening of your confession, and you could only surmise that all the trepidation and unease had finally reached a breaking point and crumbled along with his composure. It deeply saddened you to know the man you loved so intensely hated himself and had been hated so harshly by those around him. You vowed to never cause him pain like everybody else had as long as you both lived.

Eventually, he withdrew from you, gracefully settling on his knees, his hands still shielding his face from your view, protecting his vulnerability. He wiped away the glistening tears that adorned his cheeks, his other hand instinctively seeking to conceal himself from your gaze. A pensive frown graced your mouth as you hesitantly reached upward, your fingers yearning to grasp his trembling hands, only to recoil as he instinctively recoiled in response to your advance.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve seen it all now, haven’t I?” you hushed, hands dropping from his hands but instead reaching up to smooth back his hair with your fingers.

He sniffled quietly, “Forgive me, I did not intend on frightening you. I am simply unused to showing my bare face around others, it’s unfamiliar.”

“Of course, I understand, love,” you smiled, gently trailing your hand down the side of his face. Goosebumps littered his skin like a trail.

You moved closer to him, your heart racing with anticipation. You kept one hand on his face, basking in the warmth of his skin that didn't have any disfigurement. Your other hand gently draped over his shoulder as you approached, your fingers delicately tracing the contours of his back. He quivered beneath your touch, his legs extending out from under him to create a space for you to come impossibly closer. As you lowered yourself onto his lap, a surge of electricity coursed through your veins. His breath, warm and intoxicating, caressed your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hands trembled with uncertainty, itching to remove themselves from his face to come down and touch you instead. You chuckled.

“You can hold me.”

His breath caught in his throat, his mind filled with a whirlwind of desires as he absorbed the words that flowed from your enchanting lips. You couldn't help but chuckle softly, savouring the profound effect you had on the man beneath you.

“I’d like to put on my mask, dear,” Erik finally spoke, “As much as I love having you so close, I’m not ready to show myself to you so unashamedly yet.”

With a nod of your head, you stepped back, allowing him the space he needed to shroud his face from view. Though you comprehended the internal struggle he faced after years of hiding, a bittersweet pang of sadness tugged at the depths of your heart. The poignant reality that he still felt the need to shield himself wounded you deeply. But you tried to keep reminding yourself that it wasn’t personal.

He swiftly and efficiently retied the strings, maintaining his determination, as he stood up following you. You leaned in and planted a brief but meaningful kiss on his lips, savoring the moment before reluctantly breaking away. With a mix of emotions swirling inside, you diverted your attention, attempting to shift your focus away from the recent event that had transpired.

“I’ll be out dusting the statues, you haven’t kept up with them in a while and I’d noticed them on the way in and I think they could really use a clean. I’ll speak to you later.” You quickly retreated from the room without even sparing a second glance.

Erik stood there, mouth agape, unable to comprehend the suddenness of your departure. His mind was flooded with a multitude of questions, doubts, and confusion, hindering his ability to think clearly. As he glanced around the room, an overwhelming sense of awe washed over him, as he tried to process the intensity of the moment and the speed at which you had vanished from his presence. Meanwhile, his body felt an uncomfortable strain, as his arousal pressed insistently against the constricting fabric of his trousers, adding yet another layer of complexity to his already tumultuous thoughts.

You were no less aroused, the tingling sensation in your nether regions proving that you had been mutually affected by your lover. Oh lord, this was going to cause problems.

[icarustypicalfall]

Mond

fluff!! sorry for not posting much :3

He slumbered, lost in dreams, soft murmurs escaping his lips as he stirred. Enthralled, you beheld his serene state, immersed in a profound slumber's embrace.

König clung to your waist, as if his life depended on it, fearful that you might slip away to your work before he opened his eyes. He had returned to your side only yesterday, yearning to savor every precious moment with you.

His skin bore witness to scars, marked by a heavy bandage that encircled his forearm. The thought of your husband enduring pain made you wince. Yet, he hid it with unwavering resilience, a testament to his steel-like strength and pure devotion, brimming with the love you bestowed upon him.

As your fingers continued their gentle massage, caressing the contours of his supple back, König drew closer. He whispered with a tender timbre, his fluttering lashes unveiling eyes like smoldering ashes, mingled with a hint of the ocean's depths. "Morning, mein liebie..."

A smile adorned your visage as you brushed aside his dark locks, planting a tender kiss upon his nose. He chuckled, his gaze radiating warmth as it met yours.

"Morning, king... I might've burnt the toast... you still want breakfast in bed?"

He chuckled, his voice husky from sleep. König playfully murmured, tickling your side as he fully awakened.

"I've told you countless times, mein Mond, there is no need for you to cook. I should be spoiling you. You go get ready, we'll have breakfast out."

masterlist • ao3 • follow for more!!

[kinichval]

when our paths cross again

missing your flight to inazuma and crashing your ex's place for the holidays is certainly not in your 2024 bingo card, nor is it your ideal way of celebrating the year-end. but here you are anyway.

content. ex!scaramouche x fem!reader, modern!au, angst, tension, YEARNING, profanities. | 3.1k words.

december 23rd, 20:34.

“i deeply apologize, ma'am. however, the earliest available flight to inazuma is 72 hours from now.”

great. great.

is the world punishing you for splurging the past three days before coming home to inazuma for the holidays by miscalculating your estimated time of arrival at the airport?

not only did you not have a place to stay, your wallet is tight on cash, and also the fact that you're basically stuck in sumeru for the rest of december unless you wait a whole three days ‘til you're flying back to inazuma. it wouldn't be a problem waiting if you didn't have businesses to resume after the twenty-fifth.

sighing in defeat, you could only offer your gratitude to the lady behind the desk for accommodating your concern. neither does she hold any power to twist your situation favoring the happy ending of eating a delicious buffet with your family, drinking wine all night, and unwrapping the gifts that were held in secret for who knows how long.

now, you sit by the window of a small cafe near the airport. a cup of warm americano accompanying your bummed out ass on this extra cold winter night. there's no snow blanketing sumeru city, but tonight puts you on the border of frostbites with this god awful truth that you won't be home for the holidays.

and then there's that additional layer of coldness that hits your skin when you stood up and was about to exit the cafe, destination still in progress, but all thoughts are cut off when you look up and find sickeningly familiar purplish, cool-toned irises staring at you with wrinkled nose bridge from that scrunched up expression that makes you want to slap the hell out of him.

what a fucking self-entitled bastard to be the one looking all disgusted at this displeasing predicament when he was the one saying “we should break up.” four years ago on a just as cold monday night in december.

“are you not going to apologize for spilling cold water on my shirt?” you hiss, shivering underneath as the multitude of glaciers penetrate your skin.

“why would i apologize if i meant for it to spill?”

an asshole he is, scaramouche is a fucking asshole.

except you're in this asshole's passenger seat because apparently you're too broke to afford a few more days of ‘vacation’, so you're—not by choice—accepting his offer to spend christmas with him at his place.

considering the menacing scheme he pulled, you're wary of other ill-intent motives he has tucked in under his visage of kindness.

you grit your teeth. great. this is not what you wrote to santa, sadly there's no return system and you have to endure whatever bullshit this man is envisioning in his mind.

december 23rd, 22:08.

so far, scaramouche is acting strangely kind after purposely tipping his glass of ice cold water on you. the drive to his apartment was quiet, except for the series of korean r&b songs he hummed along to; he opened the car door and brought up your luggage to his unit; and he asked if you wanted a meal or snack.

“you're being weird. what do you want from me?” your cold tone mirrored the air of december, your eyes narrowed in disbelief and pursued to unveil the mischief playing in his head. “you're in a situation, i offered help, you accepted.” he simply responds as if it's a common thing to do for exes, for exes who have never seen each other for four years.

“how are you so casual about this? we're exes.”

“would you rather get hypothermia out in the city looking for a cheap and open place to stay?”

“i—”

“if you did, you wouldn't be here right now. but look at us.”

he has a point. he only offered, it was you who accepted.

part of you wanted to walk away out of pettiness and embarrassment because you knew if this reaches your best friend's ears, you'd be sitting down and earning an earshot of a lecture from her about not reconnecting with exes regardless of the situation.

“okay fine, you win. i'll just sleep here tonight and i'll be on my merry way tomorrow.” exhaustion is already catching up to you, a yawn escapes past your lips. “you can sleep in my room, i'll be in the other bedroom.” there's that casual reply of his again, words spill out of him like this was just a normal, platonic conversation.

“it's even weirder sleeping in my ex's room, i'll just stay here.” you pat down on the soft cushion on his sofa, scaramouche shrugs and accepts your decision.

how odd of you to expect that he'll insist on having you sleep comfortably in his room?

december 24th, 2:21.

it's even odder and definitely out of character that scaramouche is still within your sight after declaring that you'll be sleeping a few hours ago.

but what the hell are you doing chatting and bickering with an abandoned christmas movie in the background?

somehow, you don't find it in yourself to push him out of your sight.

all those hours of biting back and forth had you writing notes of his life after you—the life that consisted of him being eligible for an exchange student here in sumeru city to which he proved he deserved that he was offered a scholarship to transfer in the esteemed akademiya, scaramouche will be graduating next year.

and you want to slap yourself for that one second of thinking what would be a nice graduation gift.

you also learned that scaramouche shares this apartment with a guy named sethos, he's currently on a holiday vacation which cancels out the wandering thought of why does scaramouche's apartment have two bedrooms.

and about his little stunt, he admitted to swearing to himself that when he sees you, he will pour water all over your top—with high hopes that you're wearing your favorite shirt—and see that horrified expression that he believes will satiate his reasonable amount of hate towards you (no, he doesn't hate you but he won't admit it.)

on the other hand, scaramouche now knows why you're stranded in sumeru and why your wallet forces itself shut in your pocket.

as one of the well performing employees in the company, your boss included you in his entourage for this business trip in sumeru. the schedule was a hassle, it was an almost three week business operation because christmas was in the middle of the whole thing so there's four free days to which your boss decided to go back to inazuma then return on the twenty-sixth. you followed his plan, come home for the holidays—you even spent the morning of the twenty-third buying presents for your family and peers—then fly back on the night of the twenty-fifth to continue your job.

but alas, you were late to arrive at the airport. underestimating the christmas rush in the center of the city, traffic clogs the road causing frustration as everyone was thinking of the same thing: it's christmas.

and you were old enough to know that santa wouldn't give you a miracle that someone was willing to give up their seat in the next flight to inazuma, not that the thought didn't give you a flicker of hope. but you end that idea with a bitter chuckle.

“why didn't you come home for the holidays?” you wonder, your mind traveling back to the last few christmas if he ever flew to inazuma to celebrate the winter holidays back home.

“i don't come home during vacations.” he avoids your curious stare when he answers, seemingly having more words stuck in his throat that he swallows. 

you don't press it further, you know that scaramouche makes up his mind whether or not the reason behind a decision is substantial. 

“is sumeru better than inazuma?” curiosity is getting the best of you, it's an innocent query to anyone. maybe you were just trying to gain insight because of migration plans or vacation ideas. “well, i like it here.” his response has you tilting your head, a subtle sign of wanting to know more.

“i don't know, i'm surviving here so i guess it's not that bad.”

“are you coming back to inazuma after you graduate?”

“no.”

the zero second gap between your sentences startles you. it intrigues you, a quiet voice telling you to find whatever truth he keeps inside his heart.

because despite scaramouche doing most things according to the law of just because and how he wants things to be, this one seems to bear a reason that he dares not to tell a soul.

there's a weighted silence draped over you, but you feel the tempting force to keep scaramouche here overpowering the former.

december 24th, 12:49.

the afternoon rays of the sun pierces through your skin as the wind gently blows the curtains allowing the sun's presence to grace over your slumber.

rubbing your eyes, you try to recover the memory of last night. oh, right, you and scaramouche… in his apartment on christmas eve, what a totally normal ex-lover reunion, truly.

hell no—

“how long are you sleeping? it's afternoon already.”

scaramouche's voice rings through your ears and suddenly you want to deactivate your sense of hearing. your brain cogs were turning, processing a remark that will hopefully crush his soul, his whole life, his dreams, his—

“lunch is ready. get up while (favorite dish) is still hot.”

and you're bolting to the kitchen, accidentally bumping on the corner of the wall, but all is well as you hide the pain in your knee under the dining table.

“you cook now?” you raise your eyebrow. four years ago, scaramouche only knew how to heat up food and modern era's favorite instant noodles. 

“how do you think i survive?” he retorts back, handing you an ice pack before sitting down across you. “that must've hurt. deserve.” he strikes, you squeeze hard on the ice pack which quickly returns your pressure with the coldness it possesses.

four years later, scaramouche changed, but somehow you still feel the same scaramouche you loved lingering. you wonder if who you were four years ago would believe that this is what happens four years later—that you'll break up on a december night and find your ex lover again on a december night.

albeit the second night feels much more colder than the first fall of snow. ironic, because sumeru doesn't experience a snowy weather.

you flinch at the contact of the ice pack to your poor knee, your face contorts. scaramouche fights back a laugh, you hear the slipping sound of him swallowing it down, “just hold the ice pack, i'll feed you.” your brain freezes, unable to wholly process his words and he's already moved to sit beside you, grabbing the spoon and put in front of your lips.

you comply anyway, parting your lips to let him feed you. it's your favorite, you didn't want to pass up the opportunity even though your face is already heating up because why the fuck is scaramouche so close—you're already in his apartment, if that's not already an invasion of personal space (as exes) then you're at loss with the chaotic beating of your heart clouding your perception.

scaramouche continues to feed you, alternating his own portion in between. scaramouche is kind, but he hasn't pulled any mean gimmicks, there's the unfriendly remarks and triggers of annoyance—but he's not acting up. not yet, you suppose.

maybe he'll pull tricks on you on christmas.

a gift of revenge, you thought he would think of it as such.

december 24th, 17:31.

you're unable to read what exactly is going on in scaramouche's mind. is he carefully watching your steps align with his plan and waiting for that go signal to surprise you with the ultimate revenge or is he secretly still in love with you and he's trying to win you back through the little things he knows would matter to you?

either way, you couldn't reject his offer to drive down the city on the evening of christmas eve.

“is this how you spent christmas since you moved here?”

scaramouche pursues his lips into a thin line, eyes still on the road, he takes a few moments to respond.

“depends, last year i just slept through the whole thing.” he shrugs it off, your shoulder drops and a deadpan replaces your anticipating look.

“but i drive a lot at night.” he says, your eyebrow raises, “you're not from here so might as well make this a free vacation.” he finally glances at you, albeit teasingly.

“what kind of ex does that?”

“your ex.”

air gets stuck in your throat, why the fuck did it sound like he's still giving you the right of ownership? your ex. yours, even if he isn't.

“did you not date anyone in the akademiya?”

“why would i?”

“i don't know. did no one seem interesting or did you get rejected?”

“they're not you.”

scaramouche is charged guilty after all.

december 24th, 18:00.

scaramouche opens a can of carbonated soda, the fizz loud enough to turn your attention on him. the stars are twinkling bright over your heads and they hear your longing.

the stars know about your yearning.

the breeze of the night grazes over your skin, you flinch at the coolness, wrapping your arms around yourself. the two of you sit inside his car, windows rolled down; scaramouche brought you to where edge of sumeru.

the coastal highway, a familiar scenery.

ah, right, scaramouche has always been expressive of sitting down staring at the ocean beside the road.

“so—”

“i—”

eyes nervously look at each other, the enemy-esque banter is out of the window when you realize that the both of you aren't trying piss the other off.

scaramouche gulps, heaving a sigh.

“i'm sorry, yn. i'm sorry for leaving you.”

you're confused, why would he apologize after four years? you remember vividly how his last words before he turned his back against you was “let's break up, i'm sorry.”

your heart sinks, unable to yield a thought. it seems you're paralyzed as if all the suppressed feelings that you buried were resurrected and has you on chokehold.

“are you sorry because you still love me?”

scaramouche is silent, he doesn't look at you.

“i'm sorry because i didn't know what to do and breaking up seemed to be the only less damaging route.”

he reasons as his head lowers down, eyes fixate on the can in his hand, “i love you, but it didn't take rocket science to see that we were ruining each other.” you notice the bitter smile curve on his lips.

“yn, i know you were sacrificing too much for us. i know that any more of it will break you.”

“no—”

“you can't tell me otherwise when i saw it in your eyes that you needed to breathe.”

well, curse the fucking tears for ruining your supposed composed being. you hate believe his words.

“i needed you, scar.”

you did, you desperately needed your scar to save you from the chaotic world.

“but i needed me too, yn. and you needed yourself.”

oh.

“then, why do you hate me?”

your voice cracks.

“if i hated you, i wouldn't have looked your way back in the cafe.” he chuckles, “if it's because i spilled water on you, that was just me trying to get your attention.” he admits, your heart tightens.

“four years since we broke up and i still love you, yn.” he chugs down his soda, doing all that he can to avoid seeing your teary eyes, “it's not that i didn't fight for us, i did. but how can i let you suffer like that when i'm already short of what i promised you? i was compromising both you and my future.” he hears you sob and he breaks, his heart equally as broken as yours.

after all, you two truly were in love.

but love as it is will never be enough.

“if we stayed, i'm afraid i'll lose you in the worst way.”

“losing you is already the worst, scar.”

time is a lousely doctor, because until this moment, there's a silent plead for the other half to come back—to love again.

“i'm sorry, scar.” you cry, reaching out to hold him but fall mid-way. your memories flash before your eyes when the nights leading to the break-up consisted of more sincere apologies than the warmth of ‘i love you's.

it kills you to hear more ‘i'm sorry’s.

well, the last blow, the ultimate death was when you heard ‘let's break up’ because after then, you won't be hearing his voice.

you bitterly laugh to yourself, you realized it would've been more painful to hear apologies like it's your routine, a cycle of missteps that muttering a sorry is also part of the egg shells.

you knew no one was to blame, but someone had to cut that cycle. if it had to be scaramouche, then so be it, even if he had to suffer knowing that you suffer because of his loss from your life.

and he knows that if you had realized it sooner, it would've been you who saved your individual lives.

now, silence envelops you, the high tide moves the waves further to the shore allowing its crash to be heard from your position.

december 24th, 23:11.

you and scaramouche still love each other, there's a mutual hope for things to fall back into place. but time isn't the same as four years ago, neither are you and scaramouche.

for all that it's worth, you lay in his arms, his chest heave behind your back.

for what love can allow you to be, scaramouche settles his chin on the crown of your head.

for what you know should just be, yours fingers are intertwined and small bits of laughter blend in with the air as you share moments in your life that made you thought of the other.

you wish for scaramouche to come back as your lover and for you to love him unconditionally, without the constraint of losing yourself.

because you and scaramouche changed over the past four years, and if love allows a second chance,

“i will get to know the newer versions of you than ever think of meeting someone else.”

but alas, things won't be that easy for love alone can not hold a lifetime.

and so, as the seconds inch nearer to christmas, you only have one wish that you hopefully will come true the next year—

“i want our paths to cross again, and maybe then, we can start anew.”

“i'll catch up to you, yn.”

december 25th, 00:00.

merry christmas, please find me again.

[xxnashiraxx]

With Stars to Fill My Dream (12) - You Know How Much You Broke Me Apart

LOOK!!! I CAN FINALLY SHARE THIS!!! ❤❤❤ I commissioned this absolutely BEAUTIFUL art from @ritzeldraws of the dance scene in this chapter! It's so beautiful- it captures their expressions and feelings perfectly and it's been my iPad background for months waiting to be unveiled! It's so lovely and I'm beyond happy that I got the opportunity to request this. :") Thank you again!! (They're dancing to Duvet by Boa btw, just in case you thought it was a happy dance)

Prepare your tissues for this chapter 💕 It's sad, and my song choice is awful (sarcasm) but you'll recognize it if you've watched Cyberpunk Edgerunners. No happy endings in Night City 💔

Please enjoy!

Chapter Summary: A brush with death leads to denied realizations from Astarion when Ofelia suffers a fatal wound. After she recovers, the party takes a group photo with Ofelia's revived phone- courtesy of Gale- and they all dance the night away trying to forget about their next objective: taking down the goblin leaders. The unlikely pair's slow dance leads to a drunken confession, and further torment appears in the form of a dream visitor wearing the visage of a former friend from Ofelia's past...

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Mentions of past abuse and trauma. Canon-typical violence and gore.

Word Count: 7,811

Have some dance pics below the link!!! ❤ (peep the accidental cursor lol)

✧˖Tag List: @khywren

Opening under the cut!

Astarion tries not to think too hard about the way her eyes had been so sweet one moment, and the next had snapped like someone had wrung a child’s neck in front of her. She’d been very successful hiding her tone, but the eyes never lie, and hers were like cold dead stars. Empty and black.

He watches her come out of the broken mill, face impassive, before her brows twitch and a sheepish frown pulls at her lips.

“Lae’zel… I’m really sorry. I should have listened… you know way more about any of these things than me.” 

“No matter. It is normal for warriors to exchange furried words in the heat of battle. Apologies are not necessary, but I will offer mine as well. What were you retrieving?” Ofelia lights up and holds out the little rectangle she’d pried off the goblin.

“My phone! I found it! It plays music!” She grins at Lae’zel earnestly and the gith looks at her a moment before turning away.

“I take it back.” Ofelia sticks her tongue out at Lae’zel’s retreating back before gathering the rest of them close. They disclose the identity of the gnome they’d pulled off the mill, the man walking away towards the treacherous temple ahead- nothing they could do to stop him.

“Okay, we’ve got what? A bugbear behind that building?” She asks, keen eyes darting to the left. Gale nods. “Three trolls in that building there, another four goblins around the back of the old apothecary. Then it’s the road down to the temple. And that sounds like way too many for us to tackle with sunset so close…” She presses a finger to her lips, deep in thought.

“We could break into groups, at least take out the rest here a little at a time?” Karlach asks, her eyes flashing towards the trolls.

“Okay… let’s balance the teams. Karlach, Gale? Trolls?” The two specified nod, though the wizard with less enthusiasm. “The bugbear… Lae’zel and I.” Astarion tuts.

“What about me, darling? I hope you’re not considering pairing me with these two?” He jerks his chin at Wyll and Shadowheart and the latter rolls her eyes at him and graces him with a rude hand gesture. Ofelia flicks her eyes up to him, darkness flaring in them, before she turns her chin away.

“Okay. Come with Lae’zel and me.” He grins, and though they can do without the wet blanket, he’ll trust Ofelia’s judgment. He slides next to her, brows creasing when she stiffens, but she flashes a warm smile at him and his concern ebbs. She’s started behaving like a timid little thing around him and it’s sweet, almost as sweet as her usual red cheeks and tender warmth. What a lovely thing she’ll be to indulge in when she finally lets him devour her whole.

Ofelia lets him pounce on the passed-out bugbear and he preens at the opportunity to show off, lodging his dagger into the neck of the beast as it roars in anguish. He dances out of range of its angry swipes, leaping away gracefully thanks to the meal she’d provided him this morning. Ofelia strums a little tune to embolden Lae’zel and with a final cleave of the githyanki’s greatsword, the creature collapses into a puddle of blood and sour ale. Vile smelling, at that.

“There are lots of supplies lying around, would be good to take them back to camp after we’re done here.” Ofelia murmurs to Lae’zel and the other woman grunts in acknowledgement.

“Ahh yes, moldy cheese wheels and old brandy. Hardly a feast,” He drops said bottle, her eyes meeting his again and he can see that razor-thin edge beneath like a yawning abyss, void and unseeing. He blinks and it’s gone, replaced by dry humor. When she looks away towards an old barn, he frowns. She’s behaving strangely. At least something useful had come from his centuries of torment- the power of observation. And he’s very good at it.

Had it been what he’d said? Perhaps it was a little… cold. Not that it matters, really. But it does now, and he’ll need to remedy it once the opportunity arises. He rolls his eyes inwardly, breathing out a sigh. Why is it so hard to win her affections? She’d even admitted the first time he’d drank from her how much she likes vampires, that should have won him some points, surely? All he needs is for her to agree to a gods damned night with him and he can take the rest from there. It’d be easy to pretend to care at that point. Clinical, even.

[astrojulia]

Asteroid Bella (695): Understanding its Signs and Houses

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₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ About the Asteroid: Have I found something in my asteroid sources? No. In general sources, the asteroid Bella (695) talks about beauty.. and that's it, that's why I gave a deeper look into what beauty is to make this post.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Sources and inspirations:To make this post, I used what is seen as beauty in the aesthetic area, which goes beyond personal taste, which are factors such as: symmetry, proportion, youthfulness, ,familiarity and similarity, I also used the birth chart of women by the Golden Ratio. The image template in from minikyuns on deviantart.

Asteroid Bella by Sign

✧. ┊Aries: Bella's presence in Aries ignites a magnetic force, drawing attention with youthful exuberance and boldness. The face possesses an angular charm, arousing curiosity and daring others to keep up with the swift pace of life.

✧. ┊Taurus: Bella in Taurus unveils an embodiment of earthly beauty, where proportion and symmetry are paramount. Facial features are refined and harmonious, evoking a timeless allure that echoes the grace of nature itself.

✧. ┊Gemini: In Gemini, Bella's influence manifests as an ever-changing visage, versatile and captivating. The face carries an animated charm, often enhanced by lively expressions, reflecting a familiarity that spans diverse connections.

✧. ┊Cancer: Bella's energy in Cancer enhances the allure of familiarity, drawing on nostalgic appeal. The face emanates a warm and comforting vibe, inviting others to find solace in its welcoming features.

✧. ┊Leo: Bella takes center stage in Leo, radiating an undeniable facial magnetism. Symmetry reigns supreme, and the face exudes a captivating confidence, inviting admiration from all who gaze upon it.

✧. ┊Virgo: In Virgo, Bella lends an understated elegance to facial attractiveness. Subtle proportions and immaculate grooming enhance the visage, creating an allure that stems from a meticulous attention to detail. This placement carries the apex of proportion.

✧. ┊Libra: Bella's placement in Libra emphasizes the aesthetic balance and symmetry in facial features. Grace and charm exude effortlessly, drawing others in with an air of harmony and refined beauty. This placement carries the apex of symmetry.

✧. ┊Scorpio: Bella's influence in Scorpio manifests in an enigmatic and intense allure. Proportionality takes on an alluring edge, and the face carries an aura of mystery that beckons others to explore its depths.This placement carries something that we all like but is not on the standard list, the mystery of trying to understand that person's intentions, people thinks you're mysteryous and that's why they want to know more.

✧. ┊Sagittarius: In Sagittarius, Bella radiates a youthful and adventurous appeal. The face reflects the spirit of exploration, with features that embody the essence of wanderlust and open-minded curiosity.

✧. ┊Capricorn: Bella's presence in Capricorn bestows a dignified and refined attractiveness. Symmetry and proportion are elevated, resulting in a visage that commands respect and admiration, mirroring the aura of a wise elder. This placement has the quality of not being so apparent when the native is younger, but retaining youthfulness over the years.

✧. ┊Aquarius: Bella in Aquarius imparts an otherworldly allure, marked by unique and unconventional features. The face carries an eccentric charm, captivating others with its distinctiveness and originality.

✧. ┊Pisces: Bella's energy in Pisces lends an ethereal and dreamy beauty to the face. Proportions may be fluid and elusive, evoking a sense of enchantment that draws others into a world of imagination and sensitivity.

Asteroid Bella by House

✧. ┊1st House: With Bella in the 1st house, your physical appearance becomes a canvas of attraction. Proportion and symmetry manifest strongly, creating an aura of personal magnetism. Your face exudes youthful energy and a confident allure, drawing others to your charismatic presence.

✧. ┊2nd House: Bella's influence in the 2nd house enhances the allure of your possessions and values. Your facial features reflect the harmony of proportion, making your expressions an asset in both social and material realms.

✧. ┊3rd House: In the 3rd house, Bella enhances your communication style with facial expressions that speak volumes. Youthful charm and familiarity in your interactions draw people to engage with your ideas and stories

✧. ┊4th House: Bella's grace in the 4th house infuses your home and family life with a comforting beauty. Your facial features may hold a resemblance to family members, evoking a sense of shared familiarity and connection.

✧. ┊5th House: Bella's presence in the 5th house adds a touch of artistic allure to your self-expression. Your face becomes a canvas for creativity, exuding an irresistible charm that sparks romance and infuses your creative endeavors with aesthetic appeal.

✧. ┊6th House: With Bella in the 6th house, your health and daily routines become more harmonious and attractive. Your facial proportions may reflect a commitment to self-care, inviting others to take note of your disciplined approach.

✧. ┊7th House: Bella's energy in the 7th house enhances the attractiveness of your partnerships. Facial symmetry and proportion play a significant role, drawing others to your side with a sense of familiarity and compatibility.

✧. ┊8th House: In the 8th house, Bella's allure takes on a mysterious and transformative quality. Your facial features hold an enigmatic charm, inviting others to explore the depths of your persona and engage in meaningful connections.

✧. ┊9th House: Bella's influence in the 9th house bestows a worldly and adventurous attractiveness. Your face carries the glow of youthful curiosity, enticing others to join you on journeys of both the mind and spirit.

✧. ┊10th House: Bella's presence in the 10th house enhances your public image and career pursuits. Your facial features reflect an air of professionalism and authority, attracting attention and admiration from those in your professional sphere.

✧. ┊11th House: With Bella in the 11th house, your social interactions are infused with a sense of similarity and camaraderie. Your facial expressions resonate with shared experiences, fostering connections within social circles.

✧. ┊12th House: Bella's energy in the 12th house lends an ethereal and mystical allure. Your facial features may possess a dreamy quality, drawing others into your spiritual insights and inner world.

Asteroid Bella Aspects

✧. ┊Conjunction: The energies of Bella and the associated planet intertwine seamlessly, creating a captivating synergy that can significantly impact the area of life represented by that planet. This conjunction encourages you to embody Bella's charms and express them in a potent and direct way, inviting others to be drawn to your unique allure.

✧. ┊Sextile and Trine: This facilitate a gentle flow of energy, allowing Bella's allure to blend effortlessly with the qualities of the associated planet. This alignment suggests that your innate attractiveness and charm are readily accessible and integrated into the realm of the aligned planet. Relationships, creativity, and personal expression benefit from this harmonious connection, as Bella's grace enhances the natural traits of the associated planet, creating an inviting and appealing aura.

✧. ┊Square and Opposition: This configuration challenges you to navigate and integrate Bella's allure with the energies of the associated planet, which may require conscious effort and self-awareness. The square aspect prompts you to find a balance between your natural charm and the qualities represented by the planet, often leading to growth through overcoming obstacles.

(CC) AstroJulia Some Rights Reserved

[evolutionsvoid]

When compared to a sea whose fluids eat through boats and flesh, or a region where crimson storms never cease, the dangers of a Snaring Sea seem rather tame. What fate lies in store upon those black waves? Crashing into Black Bile crystals? Getting caught in its thick stagnant fluids? Wrecking a ship upon hidden reefs is already a thing in regular oceans, and being stuck on an unmoving vessel does happen too! These facts would make the Black Seas seem far less intimidating when put up against the flashier, more violent, Humor Seas. But sailors who have had the misfortune of treading these choking fluids would say otherwise. Survivors of such terrible voyages tell stories that have haunted dockside bars and the bunks of whaling ships for years. Getting stuck in a Snaring Sea may seem the better option than being boiled alive or fried by a bloody bolt, but from the sounds of these tales, such quick deaths are the preferable option. Because when you are trapped in that terrible mire, you are not alone...

The monsters of a Black Sea are slow and insidious things, fitting for such a terrible place. The fluids they patrol are thick and clotted, thus forcing them to claw and burrow through its sticky muck. The black Humor clings to whatever it touches, like hands trying to drag you down. If one is not careful or strong enough, they can get trapped in these dark globs, struggling against a choking Humor that refuses to let go. Panic is quick to set in, be it a sailor who fell overboard or an entire vessel snared and stopped. Even the unprepared beasts of this sea may flail and fight when they have become caught. They thrash about because they know what is coming. The denizens of this dark sea know the properties of their world, and how easily it snares prey. Thus, they are quick to appear when things go still...

One of the horrid creatures told in these tales is the Monkshead, a giant octopus that calls the Snaring Seas home. Its body is pitch black, save for two terrible burning eyes that seem to forever stare. Their tendrils are cloaked and hidden, unveiling during the hunt to reveal crystalline barbs. Their visage has cursed many carvings, depicting these looming giants erupting from the sea with unsettling eyes. Yet, when one enters a Black Sea, it would appear lifeless. No titan octopi to be found, just miles of dark stillness. The unfortunate fact is that there is probably a Monkshead in view, far closer than one would like. It just so happens that their iconic form is not their common one, only rising up during specific moments. No, their usual pose is one of incredible flatness, their entire form pressed down and splayed out as if they had been squashed by the fist of a god. Their bodies lack bones, thus they can stretch themselves in such ways, turning them into a black puddle of unmoving flesh. In this state, the Monkshead is practically invisible, their form blending in with the clotted fluids around it. This is how it hides, and hunts.

Monkshead typically fish for their food, hiding up on the surface while their two feeding tendrils drill downward into the depths. Their cruel hooks snag flesh and drag victims into the waiting maw above. Small prey is devoured instantly, while larger foods are enshrouded in their spiny cloak and slowly shredded til they bleed out. For most of their lives, the Monkshead will remain in this flattened feeding position. But when a surface predator starts poking around, or perhaps a wayward ship gets too close, the Monkshead reveals its true visage.

When it feels threatened, the Monkshead will inflate its body and rapidly grow into a towering pillar of black. Its mantle will fill out to its true size, while its eyes migrate all the way to the top of this structure. The result is a giant silhouette with piercing eyes, looming over predators and intruders. This large size is meant to intimidate, as well as move its vulnerable organs upwards and out of reach. Predators who don't back down will find the flesh of the Monkshead to be rather tough and rubbery, repelling many blows. In response, its barbed tentacles will emerge and start whipping away. Foes will quickly learn this beast is not worth the trouble, especially since the ambush has failed. They will beat a hasty retreat, but other players in this game may not get such luxury. When a ship runs into a Monkshead, there is little chance to escape. This is because they often literally run into them.

In their feeding position, Monkshead are almost impossible to pick out, which often leads to ships drawing a path right through them. When the vessel gets too close, the octopus rears up in its defensive posture. Unfortunately, since the crew did not see this hiding beast, they won't realize the danger til they are on a collision course. Vessels are hard to stop at a moment's notice, especially when stopping is something one really doesn't want to do on a Snaring Sea. The result is often the ship ramming right into the towering figure, whose tough hide pushes back. Lucky ones will have their boat brought to a halt, while unfortunate souls will be flipped over. Plunging into the tar-like depths is certain death, as you are an easy meal for the fish and the Monkshead itself. Those who remain upright will be fortunate, but that luck may soon run out.

Now faced with a foe stuck right in front of them, the Monkshead will be quick to attack, sending forth spiny tentacles. These appendages tear through flesh and pull victims overboard, where a waiting maw hungers. In short time, the Monkshead will realize this "attacker" is more like an angry morsel, the little skittering things being quite delicious. This leads to it becoming more aggressive and bold, trying to feed on those aboard. Thankfully, sailors and whalers are well equipped with weapons and battle tactics. They know how to face off against large foes. The Monkshead will find its tentacles besieged by blades, while its hide faces a hail of harpoons. With enough force, the giant will be forced back, and it slinks away in defeat. Or so one thinks....

While the Monkshead is a star in many Snaring Sea horror stories, its assault against a ship isn't really what terrifies the listener. Sure, the horrid tentacles that grab and slice are awful, but many beasts have such weapons. No, what truly chills the bones is when the Monkshead retreats away from the vessel. And then waits. What seems like fleeing to lick its wounds is actually an unsettling vigil, as the octopus will stay out of harpoon range and simply stare at the ship. It will hardly move and rarely look away, its terrible eyes practically burning a hole through hull and soul. Even when night falls, those glowing orbs can still be seen in bright red, ever watching. This is the terror all snared beasts and ships feel, because the Monkshead, and many creatures of the Black Sea, knows the inevitable. They know there is no where to go, and that time is an insidious thing. The creatures and crew are fierce now, but this cannot last forever. As hours and days pass, the burning sun, choking fluids and waning body will take its toll. And that is what the Monkshead is waiting for, for when its victims are too exhausted to fight back.

This is the fate that awaits those who get trapped in the Snaring Sea, a silent vigil held by its myriad of monsters, all waiting for that moment of weakness. And then, with vicious jaws and impaling spines, they will take you.

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

Yes, yes, not a medieval map monster, instead a beast hailing from a different land. But I love the umibozu and felt like they could fit it!

[progenitorensis]

Dr Wesker, do you have a favorite flower?

Sonnentreppe. It's Sonnentreppe, obviously, genetically imprinted in his finest design, a flower transcending its' temporary nature that cycled between death and rebirth and brought the same unto those that consumed it, but Albert Wesker can't say that.

It's an odd question at this 'convention' from the scientist sitting across from him - but it's not unconscionable, given the circumstances he and several others find themselves in, baited into a company-wide trap of socialization to discuss the latest in key speakers' research.

Research he has no personal, vested interest in save for its' finale, too confidential to be comfortable discussion at this mockery of a round-table. Much of the genetics research that has yet to debut results is soon to unveil.

He sits up farther, adjusting the hem of the grey-white lab coat that falls just above his knees, telltale lack-of expression adorned upon his visage. This room is full of lighter colors from various units; genetics, neurology, oncology, mutagenesis...

For him to be asked first implies an eagerness for an answer, and from that eagerness it seems the man finds himself a fan of his prior studies (it can be surmised, the way the whitecoat leans into his space most obnoxiously, brows that just barely avoid cinching). Wesker doesn't quite recall his name, pushed out of mind to take note of more worthy details passed from loose lips.

Part of him wants the attention. Craves recognition - the scent of approval. This man will feed him well & truly - he can say almost anything to garner it.

So... he pretends to give it thought, head tilting upward something self-aggrandizing as his fingers steeple in search of not-entirely-dishonest. A crumb. "I am quite enthused by Leontopodium." He pauses.

A man shuffles his papers in the background, electing to clear a parched throat.

"Pharmacophore screening has... potential." He clicks a pen idly, up, down, up, down.

"Leoligin interests me greatly." It's a potent CETP agonist that would be useful to offset initial dyslipidemia in primary Progenitor infection, maybe decrease intimal hyperplasia of venous bypass grafts in outstanding patients - the latter of which hadn't quite been necessary in humanoid subjects for some time.

Those who required such a graft from Uroboros infection usually faced rejection as it was, unfit ticking time bombs for whom the method of expulsion was yet to be refined.

They were set to be expunged, not worth resources save for further study if cases emerged new, favorable mutations.

Of those who didn't face rejection, most were animal bases or their batch derived from T, where cardiomyopathy was a common side-effect even in successful infection.

It was that first hurdle that often lead to fatal SCD, he'd theorized. Higher compatibility could be achieved with intravenous Leoligin, excellent toxicology results in tow.

Wesker's head bobs to the side, shades trained on his target while a presentation on something-or-other flashes by. How useful can this man be? Can he curry favor by pretending he takes interest in a reply? "What are your thoughts?"

[love-and-deepspace-fanfic]

IN THE NAME OF THE FORGOTTEN

Finally! I have finished this little story for our little fishie's newest card, "Floral Promise," and have decided to take part in the Contest in honor of his first kiss as well.

So I would very much appreciate it if you could give some support to help celebrate this precious kiss together!

Now is the time for some #delulus!

What's going on in Rafayel's mind during his "first" kiss?

IN THE NAME OF THE FORGOTTEN

"Every name holds an invisible thread, binding souls together. Just as I, the moment you called my name, was forever held within your grasp.”

**************************************

I had envisioned today to be a mere excursion into nature's embrace, yet from the moment of our departure to our return, I was enveloped in a symphony of joy alongside you, and even delved into the secrets I long concealed.

Hmmm, where to begin? Perhaps from our journey itself.

The instant my gaze met yours as you sparkled at a couple gifting each other flowers along the way, an irresistible urge to replicate their gesture seized me. But flowers are best admired upon arrival, so my resourceful mind concocted a plan – sketching a flower for you. Much did I long for you to recognize the hidden significance it would hold, for the flower I depicted was the very one I yearned for you to behold today (Fortunate indeed that I carry my pen wherever I roam!).

Yet, what did you say in response? You questioned my sincerity? Could you fathom the depths of my contemplation, seeking the perfect means to convey my heartfelt intentions? For to me, gifting mere flowers felt far too commonplace.

Before I could unveil my grand surprise, you surprised me even further. In a moment of tenderness, you clasped my hand, drawing it closer. Your warm fingers holding the pen you took from me traced the contours of mine, gently caressing my skin, sending shivers of delight down my spine. You lowered your head, your silken tresses cascading over your exquisite visage, leaving a few strands to dance playfully in the breeze. Little did you know, I yearned to embrace you then, but sensing your focused concentration, I restrained my impulse. To interrupt would not only earn me a reprimand, but also deprive me of witnessing the masterpiece you were crafting for me. Indeed, such a blunder would have resulted in a loss on both fronts!

When you finally completed your 'opus' and beamed at me, I eagerly awaited the opportunity to praise your creation. But allow me to inquire...

...what exactly did you sketch?

I am no adept at deception, and upon meeting your expectant gaze, I found myself at a loss for words. 

Could the object you had drawn be... a pot? Round with a handle, it bore some resemblance, I suppose. Yet, when I tentatively sought confirmation, you remained evasive, attributing it to your artistic shortcomings.

Who dares to label your artistry as flawed? Not even I!

But your mischievous habit of withholding information has caused me much distress. For the entire drive, I could think of nothing but the mysterious pot you had bestowed upon me.

Arghhhh! You truly know how to torment me, for even now, despite your explanation, its identity remains elusive!

The phrase 'is it a pot?' echoed incessantly within my mind until we reached our destination. I decided to set aside the enigma for the moment and focus on guiding you through the garden's splendor.

The scenery remained as picturesque as I recalled, perhaps even more vibrant, and with your presence, the surroundings exuded an intoxicating charm.

Dreamy lavender, radiant sunshine yellow, pristine white, lush green – all the colors converging within the garden could not rival the crimson glow adorning your radiant cheeks.

So, this is the essence of 'falling for someone in the midst of a scene.'

Witnessing your blissful smile rendered my every effort worthwhile...

As we savored the fragrance of countless blossoms swaying gently in the breeze, my attention was captured by the iridescent aura emanating from the delicate wings of a flitting butterfly. Upon observing the spectrum of colors shimmering amidst its transparent wings as it alighted upon the very flower I desired you to admire, I couldn't contain my fascination and leaned in for a closer look. The moment the magical hues blended seamlessly, I couldn't help but exclaim at the wonders of nature's artistry.

Sight reveals, but it is the heart that truly perceives. And thanks to you, this entire panorama transcended the mundane hues of the past.

Lost in my reverie, I was unaware of my prolonged distraction until I captured your inquisitive gaze.

As our eyes met, did you realize that yours are the convergence point of 300 million colors?

Behold, you claim to envy my ability to perceive a multitude of shades, yet fail to recognize your own power to illuminate those very hues. At least, in my eyes.

If your eyes cannot discern the 300 million colors, allow me to discern them on your behalf and assist you in expressing them. All you need do is gaze upon me.

Engrossed in admiring the flowers and you, I recalled a task I had pending. And while contemplating its execution, a revelation struck me – why not entrust it to you?

An ingenious idea indeed! For you have already christened my paintings, so naming a flower could hardly be a more daunting feat, could it?

Yet, you initially resisted, claiming the responsibility was too grand. Do you comprehend the sheer effort it takes to name every single existence? In that spectrum of 300 million colors, only the one that stirs my soul is bestowed with a name, much like you, a fiery crimson that embodies the nature of the heart within my chest.

Ah, this notion arrived at an opportune moment, for it would not only solidify my sincerity but also hold profound significance.

For a name is an intrinsic part of every being. Each name serves as a unique identifier for an individual. Even identical entities are distinguished by their names. Just as the flower I rescued is, without a name, merely a temporary replica of an extinct bloom. How utterly tragic to be a distinct entity condemned to the fate of a mere substitute.

Therefore, if it be within your power, I implore you to bestow upon it a name, liberating it from isolation, loneliness, and the ostracization it endures for being unable to embrace its true identity.

Much like myself and the bond I forged with you.

For years, I have not heard you utter my name, for it is the essence of who I am, and thus, the very bond we share seemed veiled in dust. Yet, during our game of color guessing, and as I reminded you of the importance of names, you began to truly acknowledge mine.

You gradually began to speak my name, for it represents me and only me. And in these past few days, you have even issued commands to me unconsciously.

Silly girl! You are becoming accustomed to giving me orders, aren't you? But how can I blame you, when I yearn for you to speak my name?

And in that very instant, the moment you questioned whether a name could be a prison, binding the one it identifies, I couldn't help but urge you to try. Speak my name, for you will witness the mark of our connection, a testament to the vow I eternally make to you.

And as you whispered my name, a revelation dawned upon me – the answer I seek has always resided within you, waiting to be discovered.

For countless times have I been plagued by remorse, burdened by a myriad of questions swirling within me about you, none yielding a satisfactory answer because it did not originate from you, the one from whom I longed to hear it.

Therefore, I have resolved that until my very last moment, I will seek you out to find all the answers I need, the most significant question being...does your heart hold a place for me?

And now, as the sigil etched upon my chest merges with the rhythm of your beating heart, I am undeniably certain of your answer. I have always belonged to you, and so, I beseech you, belong only to me.

Actions speak louder than words. A kiss conveys a multitude of emotions.

And this single mark, a symbol of my unwavering desire – that I, willingly, surrender to your hold.

*************************

I had presumed our happiness would culminate in that passionate kiss, but you truly are a master of surprises.

The very moment you inquired whether you might ever forget me, my heart skipped a beat.

Have you...recalled something?

But upon witnessing your wide-eyed innocence, I realized you had merely blurted out the question inadvertently.

How many times have you left me bewildered? Yet, this time...it feels different...

Much like the sigil that only appears when it detects sincerity in your words.

I shall not divulge the mechanics of the sigil's operation!

But...wait a minute...you...what do you mean by 'meow'?

Haizzz...

Truly...

You are my darling, whimsical enigma. Though oblivious to the specifics, you possess the key. I foresee a future filled with your playful torments.

But what recourse do I have? For whatever you command, I vow to fulfill it with every fiber of my being, my beloved bride.

Therefore, it is your turn to answer my lingering query...

What, precisely, is that strange fishie you claim is not a pot?

[moirasgrimoire]

Mask & Mirror Tarot Spread - for Self-Discovery and Revealing Others

This reading holds a double edge — it can illuminate the hidden depths within your own soul, or unveil the true nature behind another’s visage. Use it with reverence, for truth carries both light and shadow.

Draw five cards, placed in the shape of a cross:

[1] [2]

. [3]

[4] [5]

1 – The Mask

What is shown to the world. The face, the role, the charm or armor. The image they—or you—choose to present.

2 – The Shadow

What is concealed. Fears, secrets, unspoken truths or untamed power. The part hidden even from oneself.

3 – The Mirror

The soul’s true nature. Who they—or you—are beyond all pretenses. The unchanging essence beneath surface and guise.

4 – The Influence

What shapes the being. An unseen force: a wound, a gift, lineage, or fate. The hidden currents beneath the waves.

5 – The Thread

The path forward. Where choices lead, what destiny unfolds if the current course remains unaltered.

Shuffle in silence. Focus your intent—on yourself, or the other. Lay the cards with care, read them with an open heart. Let the truth rise gently like dawn — sometimes bright, sometimes shadowed.

[perpetualcynicism]

…𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Angst; hurt/very little comfort. …𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Mentions of death. …𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 6,254 words.  …𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Knowledge of Dragonspine lore is useful but not required; reader is the princess of Sal Vindagnyr (it’s complicated); creative liberties have been taken when filling in details about Sal Vindagnyr; vaguely religious imagery and language and the odd reference to Norse mythology. This fic is the first part of three: [part two] [part three]. — tba. Reblogs and comments are appreciated. [AO3]

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜 — 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

You wake, gasping, blinking, disoriented, feeling not yourself, feeling like one who has been forcefully pulled from a long slumber and must learn anew how to wake, how to live. Your heart slams itself against your ribcage as it startles to life. As you choke and cough and splutter through lungs which now strangle you of air, now suck you full of it, dark blurs twist and contort in your vision, render you blind but for the dancing red smudges of smouldering coal.

Red—red! Yes, this is red! you think in triumph, a momentary flash of victory before the frigid air, the dark, the suddenness of it all, pounce upon you once more. (It is not red which you were looking for.)

What is this place? Where are you? How did you get here? 

It is dimly lit; you shiver with the cold. Plumes like dragon’s breath curl upwards with your every exhalation. Cold? There is something important, something important to do with the cold. You know this—but what is it? What is so important? What has it to do with this place?

The red smudges take on definition; coalesce into pricks, and then into flames; but the light they emit is feeble, sputtering, hardly sufficient to guide your sight. The air in this place hangs with a stillness which suggests to you that it is not only temperature in which this enclosure is frozen, but time as well. Yet there rises within you, beckoned forwards perhaps by your lack of clarity, the most wonderful, horrible feeling; that you have been here before. 

There you stand; there you wait. Wait for lucidity, for guidance, as you shiver in silence broken only by your own breathing. You draw your foot forwards to take a step; something solid, heavy, knocks against your ankle as you move. 

Ah!—here is a light source, sitting by your boot. Of a strange design (for this contraption is certainly no torch as you know it), the flame, trapped behind a metal cage, glows coldly. Cast within its conservative ring of light a few inches away lies a book on the stone floor. In puzzlement, you lift the metal torch from the ground with one hand, the notebook with another, and bring the two close, illuminating the pages. They are covered in scrawls of ink—handwriting, you determine after a closer examination—but as to their content, you are clueless. The script you have never seen before; whoever this item belongs to, it is certainly not yourself. You deign that you ought to return it to its owner, whenever you may find them; and so you keep the book with you as you continue to explore.

You raise the light now towards the walls. Its pallid halo reveals details concealed in the darkness, and with this unveiling comes a startling revelation which shakes you to your core.

Why—these are your frescoes! In the entirety of the heavens, you could never mistake the brushwork as anybody else’s! You painted these walls by hand, not so long ago; the most recent you did not even finish yet! Why, then, do they look so old?—their visages faded; the paint you used, still gleaming with lustre in your mind’s eye, blighted with cracks and peeling as if it has not seen the attention of another in aeons. Indeed, if you knew no better and based your judgement on appearance alone, you would be inclined to think a thousand years may have passed!

Why are you here? begs your mind once more, stimulated anew by the discovery. Why are you in this room, when you do not recall returning to it since… since what? Your memories are distant, difficult to grasp, yet you are certain you were praying beneath Irminsul only a moment ago, before—

—Irminsul!—The kingdom!—Imunlaukr! O, gods—you must find them; you must be sure of what happened to them! Did he make it back? What of your people? Has Sal Vindagnyr been saved? Your instant of clarity crumbles and shatters to dust; as if of their own accord your legs propel you forwards, out from the once-familiar chamber and into whatever—heaven? hell?—lies beyond, your mind swelling and threatening to split open as questions, concerns, prayers all spill over you in a surge which sets your heart thundering within its bone cage. There must be green outside, your being cries; it must be green!

(As you stumble out of the chamber, you are struck by the acute, harrowing feeling that you should not be here, that you are an intruder, a phantom, a memory; that the last thing you knew—truly knew, as yourself in your own body—was praying at the foot of the tree, a pair of frostbitten hands laying you down six feet beneath the snow—)

—Green, let there be green, you implore whichever deity will listen; for I no longer remember what it looks like, o gods, let there please be green—

A white flurry of ice blasts your face as you reach the exit of the chamber. You almost cannot fathom the sight before you. 

As far as the eye can see, snow-capped peaks, glittering in the moonlight, rise around you, their nighttime silhouettes forming dark, barbed obscurities against the ink sky. The royal palace outside the chamber is a desolate, pitiful imitation of its grandeur which, you are certain mere moments ago, continued to dazzle the eye: the decorated spires, the delicate arches, the dazzling paint, are all reduced to bleak, crumbling stone, like the worn skeleton of a dead beast which now rests where beauty used to lie. 

No, this cannot be! Your legs quake beneath you, threatening to give way. It looks as if the entire land has been razed in the instants you were gone. Even after the nail fell (how you loathe that accursed nail, which splintered your livelihoods into oblivion), there was some semblance of life yet remaining, some remnant of grace, of community. For example, there—on that mountainside, you remember there was always a cluster of lights, glimmering like fireflies in the darkness; in reality, the lit windows of a hamlet which could be seen from the palace. Now the windows are dark; there is no sign of life. Squinting your eyes, you cannot even see the outlines of the houses which used to stand there.

How can this be, that everything has gone? Where has everything gone? And what of the people? A gust of wind sweeps by and seems to pass right through you. This must be a nightmare, a terrible nightmare; it must! For if it is not, then—

—But there is still hope! If Irminsul lives—if your efforts were not in vain—there may yet be a way to save your people. 

(So consumed are you by your desperate hopes that you do not hear the silence howling through the peaks like the cries of the dreaded wolf whose dark jaws have closed around the sun and plunged the world into devastation; a silence which speaks of millennium upon millennium of that same silence, unbroken by laughter or the cries of infants, or any sound beyond that dreadful, mourning howl. No living kingdom resounds with such a silence, even on the cruellest of winter nights.)

Through the storm you force your way, torn at by teeth of snow and ice. You know—you know, truly, that if Irminsul lived, there would not be such desolation and such frost; that there would be birdsong, verdancy, humanity in its place; but you refuse to believe it, for the implications of such a thought are unbearable. A whole era; a whole kingdom; a whole people! A loss of such scope you cannot fathom, so you cling to your hope, foolish as it may be, against all reason, all forms of logic, as a dying fire clings to the final ember glowing in its logs. 

Perhaps Irminsul survives, but is weakened; perhaps if you help it to grow once more, blessed green life will spread through this forsaken wasteland as it did in your childhood. Perhaps, if you have not been gone (what is the meaning of ‘gone’?—nay, you do not wish to know) for too long, if even one other soul survives, be that royal, peasant, man, woman, child, it is not too late; you are not too late. Could it be that they are buried somewhere under this snow? That there is time yet to find them, to save them? 

Your purpose is to be a symbol to your people; a beacon; one of hope, perseverance, prosperity. If there is nobody to look upon you, nobody to be reassured by your image, to what does that reduce you? Has all your life become naught but a canvas of empty promises? Where will you have been, when you were needed by your people to be a guiding light and all you left them was this cold, hateful, winter night? 

—No! You must not think of such things. What good will it do, to presume failure? 

(It has been far too late for far too long! shriek the ice-toothed winds.) In your visions you too saw this hellscape, white as far as the eye can see, so far and for so long that you forgot the meaning of colour. Where you find yourself now is the inevitable aftermath of a path long set in stone: to attempt to deny it is to place the bandage of ignorance over your eyes; to become blind to colour forever. You refuse to wear that bandage. 

But, why did you punish us so? you want to cry to the Heavens, fighting through the blizzard as it whips your raw body from side to side as you trek to the resting place of your hope. Why have you shunned us, bestowed upon us this accursed existence? What sin did we commit to deserve your hatred thus? Was it him? Was it me? How heartless must a god be, to scorn a whole people—every man, woman, child—for the sake of one? 

You are near, now. You know it; feel it as a tug in your bones which leads you towards the sacred site as it has your whole life, and as you are certain it shall on your last day, and as it too shall when the last human, crawling from whichever lonely corner of the world they hide in, returns, like a moth drawn to a flame, to their silver cradle and lays down beneath it for their final rest; and then it will be over, and you will all be forgotten, and that will be that. 

A dark silhouette distinguishes itself from obscurity; first a sketched imprint, then a solid shape, forming into your vision behind the whipping curtains of iced shards. This is it, you know; and you repeat to yourself, This is it. As the condemned criminal approaches the execution block to meet their unshakeable fate, as the hero returns to their homeland to find it dashed beyond recognition, so you, too, proceed through the storm, squinting your eyes against the dusted darkness, trying to form that jagged silhouette as it comes into view into an image that is anything but a seal of your snow-entombed end. 

A twisted, hollow shell of bark, crusted with jewels of snow, is all that remains of the sacred monument. 

You sink to your knees by the tree under which you were born as a wordless cry wrenches itself from your throat. No language can do justice to your grief. 

Oh, it is dead, it is dead! you lament. Sobs choke you breathless as you place a hand upon one of the gnarled, dead branches, not caring for how the cold stings your skin to numbness. My love, I am sorry, I am so sorry! It is dead, you lament to the silence of the perished. Which means that you, too, are—

A voice intrudes upon your mourning. You almost miss it above the wind’s anguish, and your own. The voice comes again, this time distinguishing itself from the storm. Tears freeze upon your cheeks before they have the time to fall; your mouth falls open in puzzled and grieved ecstasy. A silhouette approaches through the snow. Could it be—? Could it possibly be—? Upon seeing you, he hurries forwards—for you can tell now that he is a man—his voice taking on a shade of alarm. You are rooted to the snow as the stranger approaches and comes into slow focus. A chalk-white coat, white as the deathly flakes which have claimed your kingdom, whips around his figure. 

Your hope is extinguished, crushed out of existence: no, you do not recognise him! He speaks to you in an unfamiliar tongue, and you do not understand his words. Where are your people; those who speak your language? They are dead, they are dead! Just as Irminsul is dead, just as you should be dead, just as you are dead! 

The stranger reaches you. He grasps your wrist with his gloved left hand and leans in towards you, still speaking, his tone inquiring, gentle, concerned. There is acute care in his eyes, and in your swirling vision his features melt away, blend like oil paint on an easel, form familiar shapes and take on contours which you know. His hair is ashen blond, and in his right hand he grasps a sword. 

“I-Imunlaukr?” is the name torn from your lips. 

The man before you hesitates. His eyebrows knit together, and he speaks again, in a hushed, slow manner, pronouncing his words with clarity and intention—but the sounds he draws together, so guttural and harsh, are foreign to you, and his meaning, whatever it may be, is lost on your deaf ears. You are stupefied, unable to do anything but blink and stare in blank silence at him; this foreign man who has set foot in your dead country, wearing the semblance of its failed hero (who was your guide, your friend, perhaps—no, not that, not yet at least); you are utterly paralysed in a daze of heartbreak and confusion and frostbitten despair. 

The shrieking wind drives needles down your ears and you can take the noise—the howling, the speaking, the dreadful silence—no longer. Your strength leaves you. You sink downwards into the snow. 

He catches your wrist as you fall. You are pulled upwards, an arm is secured around your shoulder, and as your vision pulses dark and your head swims with the numbness of grief, you are faintly aware of the sensation of being led. 

He guides you (though he does not save you; he is no hero) through ice drifts and lakes, between winding roads of iced rock which used to be coated with greenest moss soft as bedding (indeed, you once fell asleep upon such stones); beneath tall, bone-coloured structures which you do not remember being there before; between crumbling walls of stone so decrepit and half-sunk in snow that you can no longer name the building they belonged to. At every turn your memories return to haunt you—look! Here is the river you bathed in as a child, now sealed shut beneath a lid of frost. And look! Here is the forested slope on which your father hunted deer, though there is no single rodent which stirs to disturb the settled whiteness, and the pine trees are shapes drawn in chalk. Oh, look! the mountains beg of you in the howl of the wind. Look at us, whispers the rustle of falling snow; were we not beautiful? 

And so you look, and you look, but still you do not see the beauty. It is all an illusion, nothing more than a twisted semblance of things; these memories of life as you wander through a graveyard. 

At last he guides you over a broken bridge, whose aged planks give way to a gaping white chasm below, and to the entrance of a cave. The interior is vaguely distinguished by the sputtering firelight of twin braziers which stand by each side of the cave front: you can identify the outline of a desk, and of shelves lined with faintly luminescent bottles. The stranger takes you inside. As you are led forth, you struggle to keep one foot in front of another; your legs are weak, your head faint; you know not how much longer you can stand without collapsing. You feel exposed and empty, as though the blizzard has whittled you down; stripped away your skin and your muscles and your nerve endings layer by layer until all that remains of you now is a husk; a heart, frozen solid, trapped within a cage of clean white bones. 

He sits you down on a mattress in the back corner of the cave, far from the wind and the snow still blasting outside, and starts up a fire in the adjacent fire pit. From one of the shelves lining the walls he lifts a folded blanket and drapes it like a cape over your shoulders. The motion is a cruel imitation of the ceremonial garb you would wear during formal occasions, and you do not pull it closer. Beneath the blanket you tremble, stare blankly, and are silent. 

Now the fair-haired stranger does something else. He places a mug into your hands, steaming with a liquid of which scent is unfamiliar to you and whose presence you only notice when the hot porcelain is pressed into your palms. The tasteless liquid scalds your tongue as you take a sip, but you do not care. What is there to care for anymore? You are alone, misplaced, no longer a figure in the fresco. The forms of the world have shifted around you such that you are no longer welcome among them. 

He places a hand upon your brow; frowns. He walks to a drawer and returns, holding in his hand a thin glass tube. You are unmoving as he tilts your chin upwards with his fingers (there is something almost reverent in the motion) and slips the tube into your mouth. It is like an icicle on your tongue. He removes the tube a minute or so later and goes to write something down into a notebook on the desk as you sit there, paralysed, absent. 

The blankets, the drink; they do not warm you, even if your shivering subsides and feeling slowly returns to your fingertips. There is a deeper chill which resides within you: a frosted chasm in your heart through which bleak winds blow, and cannot be filled through material means. Is there anyone else out there, among those shrapnel plains? Or is it only you who is left, and this stranger, and his cave? 

The legs of a wooden stool screech against the floor, rousing your wandering mind. The stranger takes a seat opposite you. He gestures towards himself and pronounces a slow string of sounds. “Al-be-do.” You believe it is his name. His gloved hand then extends towards you; you can only suppose that he beckons for you to answer him.

The way your mouth moves to shape your reply is different to what you are used to. You attest it to the cold numbing your lips; yet it still feels so strange, so frightfully wrong, despite the farcical comfort of the justification. Your own name feels unfamiliar on your tongue as you pass it to him. As you do so, it strikes you that from this moment onwards, this stranger—this ‘Albedo’—may be the only person to ever know your name. And once he is dead, you will all be dead forever. 

His mouth purses. After a moment he speaks again, and pauses, looking inquiringly towards you; you shake your head, understanding none of what he has said. Something in his eyes, something akin to hope, flickers and dies. 

He stands up, walking now towards a desk, picking up a notebook and two sticks of charcoal and chalk respectively, and returns, offering one to you (you take the charcoal), keeping the chalk and the notebook for himself. You receive it, knowing his meaning: if you cannot communicate through common knowledge of language, you shall do so through the common understanding of form. The hand will present what the tongue cannot articulate, and the eye of an artist will translate its meaning. 

‘Albedo’ sits at a measured distance away from you: close enough to suggest intimacy, far enough to set a clinical boundary which establishes his position as the one of authority. He knows everything about this place which you do not. You are in his dwelling, and he has lent it to you of his own accord, through his own grace. Wherever this is, whatever world, whatever time, you are an outsider here. This is no longer your kingdom, and you are a foreigner in this land. Your only chance of establishing a livelihood—no, of establishing a mere understanding—lies with the stranger sitting opposite you, resembling so callously the one whom you…

He begins to draw in the sketchbook. No more than a minute later, he finishes and presents the illustration to you. It is a portrait of himself, simple in composition, yet evidently made by a skilled hand.

He tears an empty page from the book and holds it out towards you in gloved fingers, the tips of which are now dusted faintly with chalk. You accept the page from him and, though confused by the proposal, consider how to answer him. Your memory of your own face is blurred, unsure of itself in the details. The one sitting before the canvas is rarely depicted in it themselves, and you are not in the practice of drawing from life as much as you are from imagination: but that you must try to answer him is the one thing of which you can be certain. From the vaults of your memory, you reach out towards the shapes you remember and put them to paper. 

He tilts his head when you share your piece with him, and a slight furrow forms in his brow. From his expression, you can tell he is beginning to understand something; but as to the identity of the object of his musing, you are clueless. Once more he draws; his stick of chalk moves fluidly across the paper, without a single hint of effort, as if whatever he is drawing, he has done so enough times to be familiar with its features, to such a degree that he can recreate them by muscle memory alone. Once more, he shows you the product: it is another portrait; but of whom you do not know. The face depicted in the paper is one you have never seen before. 

Your confusion is perceptible; Albedo gestures towards you as he did the previous time, though now without giving you a piece of paper. You surmise that his intention now is not for you to reply to him; no; this is not a dialogue, but an explanation. When you point at yourself to ensure you have not misunderstood his meaning, he nods. But what does he mean to say? That he has drawn you? That cannot be so; imperfect as your own memory may be, you know for certain that this image is not a reflection of yourself; thus the question remains: who is this? Albedo makes no further movements; he offers no further elaboration. He only waits, looking across at you, expecting your understanding. 

Slowly, doubtingly, your fingers ascend to examine your face. The features you feel are not those which comprise your own countenance; no, they are those of the face in the portrait; you are certain of this without having to check the sketch again.  

This discovery shocks you so deeply that your fingers spring away from your face of their own accord and begin to tremble. You are more than shocked; you are perturbed, horrified; you are afraid. For the first time since awakening in the chamber of frescoes, you look down at yourself; properly look, and see what you missed before. These clothes do not belong to you; neither does this skin, nor these proportions, nor these hands! The question, then, is not ‘who is the one in the portrait?’, but ‘who are you?’ How can this be, that your mind inhabits a body which belongs to somebody else? 

Your panic threatens to overwhelm you. It is Albedo who clears his throat and disturbs your worries, allowing a precious moment of lucidity to seize you. Yes, that’s right—you are here, you remind yourself; not as yourself, no, and not in the way you would like to be; but you are here, and you must make do. With a pronounced effort you force the questions, the fear, the confusion, to the furthermost corner of your mind, and gather yourself into a single, solid centre. 

Laid to waste as your kingdom may be, you are still royalty; and with the crown come obligations of loyalty, dignity, and pride; qualities intrinsic to themselves, existing with and without witness alike. It does not matter that you preach to a vacuum, or that your valuables are mere trinkets and baubles lost to time: in the absence of your subjects you are still to hold your head high and lead them into the empty future. Such is the conduct befitting of a princess. 

And even here, in the midst of this storm which has done all it can to wipe your existence from history, you hold value. Like a blossom unfurling, the realisation first seizes, then relaxes, expands, inside you; you hold value. For the first time since waking, you know something that this land does not, and that this stranger, so strangely well-accustomed to the winter, does not, and must ask the answer of you, for you are the only person in existence who knows what you know. 

You know the stories of your people; how you lived, learned, loved and died; how you celebrated and built and mourned. You know the life you lived and the identity you held. Nobody else, not in the Heavens nor on the earth, knows these things; these beautiful truths which weigh more than gold. It is your duty to impart them lest they be forgotten—and now, an opportunity: an outsider inquires of your history; you give him as faithful a depiction as you can, and in doing so pass on the narrative of your nation from the forsaken past into an era still able to breathe, receive, to grow; you shake the cobwebs of time from their foundations and take your solitary chronicles into the present. 

In bleak chromatics you illustrate your celebrated birth beneath Irminsul at the height of spring, and in strokes of black and white you narrate, as best as you can, the verdant prosperity of your kingdom in your childhood. So clear now are those images in your mind’s eye, like inverted reflections shimmering on a still lake, that it is almost impossible to believe they no longer stand somewhere within that raging storm. 

Once you have established the landscape of your upbringing, you introduce him to the people of your life. Robust forms assemble on the paper to describe the figure of your father, beloved Varuch, whom you last saw setting out into the white blizzard as you painted the final fresco, the forsaken image which still haunts you even now, a landscape of all white; no colour; no spring; all white and grey and bare as plucked bone, as you see in the land you now find yourself: your beloved father proclaiming that when—not if, but when—he returned, it was to be with answers, solutions, salvation. 

You do not believe he returned. Certainly not while you toiled in white and black, trying in vain to sow colour from frozen seeds and to conceive seasons in permanent winter; nor as you gave your remaining strength to the tree of your birthplace in the hope, in those glowing, dying embers, that it may outlive you. Once more you question how you survived; you were certain you should not survive, back when you did it; yet here you are, warmed by firelight, your heart throbbing with hot life while the winter has stolen your loved ones. (Did he ever return? What would he make of your body?)

Guiding your charcoal stump across the paper, in black and white you inform the outlines of dear, wise Ukko in long, whiskered lines; remember his dry wit, his kind patience, the frail strength of his arms as he lifted you from those withered roots (you are sure, somewhere, that he lifted you). He was the one who tutored you in writing, politics, history, and the arts, the latter of which you took such an interest in as to dictate the remainder of your life as you sketched, painted, created.

In the winter of your tenth year you met Imunlaukr, then only a shy boy of similar age to you hailing from a distant kingdom. He had hardly spoken a word of your tongue, and you even less of his, but the difficulty of language did not deter you; you grew close through laughter and music, through those currents shared amongst humankind upon which emotions, not grammar, run; and from two strangers formed acquaintance, and from acquaintance formed friendship (though of that friendship—oh, you could not say! What did you really think of it; of him? It is something that even now you are not sure of!)

Spring again, and in the language of forms you dictate your visions, the gift with which you were blessed at birth and has lain silent since you awoke (for the gods have abandoned you! What reason is there that your visions would remain?); the curse which stripped away your vision of the present and imposed upon you the solitary existence of living in what was yet to come. The black dragon—has that happened yet?

Summer, and the charcoal cannot do justice to the way Irimsul’s silver trunk glimmered in the dipping sun, reflecting every shade of the preciousness; then the soft crunch of leaves in autumn underfoot as you wandered through the palace gardens, attended by a handful of escorts until you reached the centrepiece fountain; at which point you dismissed them, and proceeded forth with Imunlaukr as your sole companion. 

“You are painting so often these days,” he said, rounding the stone base of the fountain; a note of reproach rang in his voice as he spoke; not aimed towards you as much as towards circumstance; yet you still bore the reproach (though you knew he did not mean it as such) as though you were its principal subject. It was always him you were the most loath to disappoint; from others you could bear it (except, perhaps, from your father); but not him. He always assured you of his good opinion; the doubts lingered nonetheless, and impartially the damage was dealt; your high spirits withered somewhat.

It was the autumn before your eighteenth year, and there was a buzz of anticipation in the air in spite of the impending onset of winter; for there was a decision approaching on the horizon; one which had not yet been lent much mind, but a decision to be made nonetheless. 

Over the years that you knew him, Imunlaukr had developed from a scrawny boy into a prodigal swordsman; yet it was a delicate, almost feminine quality his form possessed, more befitting of a prince or a poet than a fighter, resulting in the frequent tendency to mislead one into assuming frailty where in truth there hid a warrior (a hero, you always teased him to be; a guiding light). You would never have guessed his real strength did you not know him.

You lowered yourself down beside him on the lip of the fountain and folded your hands in your lap, one over the other. “I do not mean to. But the insights I receive are so striking; I can hardly stop myself when they come,” you said in reply. This topic of conversation was breached between you on occasion, though as a general rule it was avoided, when painting the frescoes of your visions demanded more time than you could afford to give if you were to balance it also with the surrounding figures of your life. Every few months, for some weeks on end, the flashes you received would grow so realistic, so arresting, that you would become absorbed in your frescoes, placing barely a foot outside your chamber except for necessities, such as food and water.  

You knew that it pained Imunlaukr, to be excluded so from your involvements by forces beyond either of your control; and similarly it pained you, that your time should be stolen by this duty without you realising it early enough to grant apology. Still, life went on; still, you painted, and he grew ill-tempered; still, you apologised, and he reassured you; and thus life went on, in contentment. “Peace; you need not blame yourself. What is it that you see?” he asked. 

“I see many things. Oh, Imun, I see such wonderful, terrible things, so vivid that I cannot sleep!” You were seized by the overwhelming urge to grasp his hands, in that moment; to pull him closer to you and cry out, If only I could share them with you, through a means beyond my frescoes! Imun, you do not understand; sometimes I wish the gods had not chosen me, for I am so alone, and I wish for nothing more than to have you at my side and keep me company!

But you did not take his hands; that would be unbecoming of you; the moment passed. You remember a certain look flashing in his eyes; the emotion behind it you could not say, but the look had stayed with you, almost shaken you, for reasons beyond your knowing—and still does. You also are sure that the conversation continued, and you resumed roaming through the gardens; but you do not remember what you were talking about. Only that look remains clear as diamond in your memory, like a beacon beaming into the sky towards which you find yourself drawn, clutching onto tenderly. 

Winter, passing, then spring again, ripe with buds and blooming towards a promise, and then—

The charcoal is torn this way and that as you recount the fateful nail which fell like a shard from the sky, splintered your livelihoods, and sealed your fates in snow tombs. Irminsul, standing since the dawn of eras tall and dignified, crippled like an old hag in a moment; fields and forest obliterated and buried beneath shrouds upon shrouds of ash-like snow; your visions, always so varied to the point of driving you to near madness on one occasion (you will never, long as you live, forget that black dragon), grew static, haunting you with the same image each time: unerring, unending white. Then there is the fresco you did not finish, there is your final return to the sacred tree… 

That is your life, wrapped in a parcel of charcoal and paper. So bleak does it seem, looking upon it now. (Whose life, one must wonder, have you taken now?)

So you deliver your priceless parcel to the stranger; so he receives it; yet there is no detectable trace of emotion in Albedo’s expression as he reads the narrative of your life; only a detached, clinical curiosity, that of a scientist’s hypothesis being tested. 

Your value is lost. There is nothing more you could recount that he cannot put into the world—no; there is your tongue, you suppose. The last jewel of yours, buried deep in the base of your throat; the final treasure you can offer of yourself to this world. Perhaps it is the most precious gift of all, a language; perhaps the most insignificant. Every man has one, after all.

Albedo rises from the stool, taking both it and the drawing with him, and places the former beneath his desk, the latter upon it. A caged light sits on the edge of the desktop and reveals the wooden surface is scattered with papers and diagrams of all kinds, though you cannot from this distance discern their contents. He glances over his shoulder to where you are still seated on the mattress. With a wave of his hand he gestures towards the mattress, on which lie also a cushion and another blanket which you had not noticed before. It is a far cry from the palatial bed you are used to, but it serves its purpose. A slight indentation in the cushion where you place your head suggests that this makeshift arrangement is habitually used. The unwelcome reminder that you are not in your own body grasps you suddenly and causes you to shift with unease beneath the blankets. 

While you lie awake and wonder abstractedly at the reality you find yourself in—is what you have seen all true? are you dreaming? could this be another vision?—Albedo sits at the desk, writing and looking between the papers, the shadows of his silhouette pulled this way and that by the caged flame and the firelight. In the flickering contours of his face you can trace Imunlaukr’s brow, the line of his jaw, a resemblance of his eyes. 

The caged flame glows long into the night, still shining by the time you at last slip into unconsciousness. That night you sleep deeply, and have no dreams.

[death-in-a-handbasket]

BEFORE YOU READ THIS POST ==> READ THIS POST FIRST <==

Ahead is the philippe sex hcs freaky extended cut, with no holds barred discussion beneath. there will be necro, incest, and abortion.

==> Do you wish to proceed?

Okay now that all the baseline stuff has been documented, it's time for the fetish unveil, and this shit is downright vile so it is your choice to read this. Ready your eyebleach.

–Let's start tame shall we? I think when he's obsessed with someone he likes to carve their visage over and over, but the thing about his nasty little temper is that he inevitably ends up destroying them, he gouges their eyes out and rips the jaw off in chunks, so energetically so that he leaves gouge marks in the table and has injured himself on more than one occasion, he can't help destroying what he loves, it's just what he does, and by proxy it tempts him sickeningly hard to also destroy you too, how much trouble would it be to kill you? Weighing the consequences and regrets in each hand, it certainly eats away at him. When his rage has expunged itself he finds himself pressing kisses to the wax carving of your face, feverishly as though it is the real you, sometimes he sinks his teeth in, he just can't help it he wants you so badly he's even brought to his limit by a carving of you. He tosses it back into the vat when he's done, he can't be faced with what he's done.

–Has gotten desperate and fucked a wax sculpture of you, warms the wax just enough that it's pliable and fucks it on the floor of his workshop like a desperate animal. He can't stand staring at your face though so he often sets it to the side, leaves your carved form headless and impersonal so he can fuck you without the shame of it being you. He often finds himself cutting and gouging the sculpture while this happens too, anger pouring out of him like poison. If he is letting you into his pervert inner sanctum he will tie you back and fuck your wax sculpture in front of you, make you watch how he destroys and defiles this copy of you piece by piece. Conversely he will also make you fuck your wax self or even a wax sculpture of him while he watches.

–He's a bit of an anatomy freak, so while he is fucking you and digging his hands into you, he is imagining the exact curves of your bones and dimensions of your body, he wants to explore you, remake you, reshape you, take you apart piece by piece and make you however he desires. In the instance where he goes forwards with killing you, he will preserve your body as a sculpture and spend meticulous time studying each of your bones and limbs, he has no qualms with taking you apart, he'll just graft you back together when he's done. He’ll fuck your wax covered corpse and feel vile pleasure at how the hot wax feels sloshing around your organs and the feeling of your soft wet body around his dick being artificially warmed by the wax as though you are still alive. This privilege of getting to keep your forever preserved in wax just makes his sick heart rile up with joy, you are his, forever and forever, it's a shame though, he does miss how you would fight back. 

–Just as he wants you to belong to him, he is not above giving parts of himself to you as a means of claiming you. If you bite down hard enough to draw blood he's making you drink it or lick it off him. He might take a section of flesh from his side and have you eat it, a part of him from such a tender place on his body and he will force you to have this piece of him. Have it, keep this bit of him and remember the taste of him forever. He wants to be in your blood and in your mind, he may truly despise himself but more than anything he wants to be part of you in a way you cannot get rid of. If need be he'll even graft a part of his flesh to your body and a part of yours to himself, forever linked as the flesh joins and heals together. 

–This is more of a niche thing, but one tumblr ask made me spiral into the whore abyss and so here we are, talking about breeding with a man who def doesn't want children. Can you see where this is going. I think the minute he fucks raw he knows he is doomed, he doesn't want to father a child but it's too late, he's too deep in and your body is too tenderly warm. He will look you in the eyes and tell you that you won't survive this and neither will he, that you and him are both cursed from this moment on. He cums inside too late for anything to be done and as his hands dig into the softness of your skin he knows the clock is ticking, a timer is running for how long this goes on before it kills him. His eyes tilt down at your stomach and he knows with sick satisfaction that a part of him is embedded in you, in the tenderest part of your body. 

–The whole concept makes his brain spiral with stress and paranoia, all he knows is that this curse he has fostered currently growing in your stomach cannot be born under any circumstances, he just can't let that happen. But also your body has another mark that it belongs to him, a piece of him nestled beneath your skin in the cradle of your pelvis. The anatomy freak within him is chewing its own leg off at the prospect of you being tethered so solidly to him, even if he takes it out of you the genetic residue will never leave your body, you are stuck with his blight forever. And if he doesn't? If he lets the timer run long and hard? He gets to watch how his curse deforms and warps your body. He knows the bones thin, that the chest gets tender and swollen, that the sex drive heightens and burns and the body grows feverish with want. Plagued with every manner of cravings. And this has been caused by him. Oh how it sickens him and yet that disgust turns on itself and he can't help but find himself aroused over what he's done to you. This body horror aspect he's bent upon you eats away at him and leaves him painfully horny and utterly disgusted.

–The subtlety eats away at him first, the fattening of the body, the widening of the hips, the way your shirt begins to cling around your midsection. He knows he's letting the timer run and the longer it goes for the more drastic of an action he will have to take as a result. But when he presses his hand to your stomach and feels that part that just won't give he's weakened by the thought of leaving the parasite that is him to fester inside you. It horrifies him and yet he can't stop. He'll ask you to strip just so he can stare at your body, a flush overtaking his face as he gets a bit queasy. He’ll let his hands wander over you and allow his thumbs to dig into the spot in your stomach where your womb sits, know what lies in there, and grow clammy with how hard he is. 

–The later trimesters are even worse, you can't hide your condition any longer it's far too evident. The crazed thing in him can't decide if he wants to let the world see you or not, on one hand, everyone will know of his parasite that is consuming you and how you belong to him. On the other hand he wants to keep you cooped up in his house with no one but him to see his taboos. Your swollen stomach rests heavy on your body and when he sees how you strain just trying to move around and how you massage your back to relieve the aches he can't help but feel a deranged satisfaction at burdening you. This curse made by you and him is slowly killing you both and you look painfully good while it happens. You ask him to massage you to relieve the pressure and pain and your whines sound just the same as when he digs a knife into you, that sadistic streak coming out to relish in the sounds you make.

–The movement especially gets to him, seeing your skin deform as the parasite in your squirms and pushes around almost makes him sick. You press his hand to your stomach and have him feel how it moves and his face goes ashen and breaks out in a sweat. The thoughts were easier to manage when he could just pretend it was something of his resting inert within you but feeling the confirmation that it lives and grows beneath his hand makes him nauseated, the consequences are biting at him and yet he's so horny for a concept he shouldn't be horny for, he's disgusted at you, he's disgusted at himself for getting off on this, and yet his own revulsion only makes him hornier. Hearing you groan with how it squirms in you and seeing the expressions you make is an experience for the ages, there's nothing else quite like it. Having your body deform under the weight of his sins and seeing you moan in both pain and near pleasure at the way it hurts you has him locking himself in his room down with a fever and a boner. The fact that to some degree you might also get off on what's happening is absolutely killing him. 

–You won't ever birth that thing though, if you have his child he's killing himself. He doesn't trust anyone else to remove it, he'll do it himself, he's dealt with enough bodies and studied enough anatomy he's sure he can do it himself. If he aborts it early, the experience will always haunt him a little with this strange desire to do it again. To knock you up over and over again and remove it from your body at various growth stages. Preserve them. Study them. An excuse to do it as many times as he can and see what horrid things he can make, see your body swollen over and over again and relish in getting to cut you open each time. Can an abortion be sexual? He's going to make it sexual while his hands are digging around in your stomach. For sanitary reasons he knows he should wear gloves but he yearns to feel your insides bare handed. Regardless of when he aborts it though he is preserving it in a jar and keeping it a secret in his house, something to haunt him, something for him to study. If he's feeling extreme he will kill you and preserve you as you are, with his parasite forever lodged within you. Even if this scenario never comes to pass, the thought will keep him awake at night.

–Okay now let's unpack some real insane shit, yeah let's address the freak in the room, that's right we are gonna unpack the incest card. Interpreting him with or without the freak shit is optional but for the sake of cranking it full insanity, we are gonna say that incest is afoot. I think that he's probably kept it under wraps, he's never told her, granted you can kinda tell the vibe in the room is off but he tries to keep her pure and free of what's fucked up in him. He can't help it though, she's all he has left in his life, the only one who remains close with him against all odds. Bare minimum they are emotionally entangled beyond repair, he feels very territorial over her, he doesn't want her with anyone other than him, and this manifests in his paranoia over her dying. 

–He thinks she's utterly beautiful, she looks just like him, tender pale skin, soft rosy lips, big green eyes, it's always given him a strange sort of thrill to be close to her and feel how soft she is. Christina, born of the same flesh as he is and is yet a greater person than he’ll ever be, how he admires her goodness. He wonders if it's so wrong for him to want to be so close and tender with flesh that is one and the same as his own? Is it so taboo that he should want to be close to that light of hers? Upon finding her dead he had to preserve her as best as he could, he didn't want anyone else near the body besides him, he didn't want her taken away from him, she's all he has. No sane man would do what he did, graft the broken and burnt pieces of her to his body, never to be separated from again, joined in his flesh as one, no matter how much it hurts and marrs his skin. It's all worth it.

–He’s never acted on these desires but he's had many a stress dream about you and Christina together, of seeing you two make out in front of him. He's woken up in a cold sweat and painfully hard each time. He would never suggest it but dead or alive, he would not turn down a threesome with you and Christina. To be overwhelmed in hedonistic delight by his two obsessions, what a shameful pleasure it brings upon him.

That's all folks, thank you for attending my freak party, I am going to hell