#visage. the wrench

[byeolyeou]

♡︎ tag dump | pt.1

[zer0genders]

I'm like, almost a month late but here's a post of some of the art I did in 2023, I really ought to upload some things sometimes because I realized that almost none of these are on here lol

Unsurprisingly, nearly all my art is of my blorbos, and I didn't really "finish" very many things. I really prefer sketching and flats, but this year I'd like to practice more line art and figure out how I would like to color things and use Krita better. These are not in any kind of order but I feel like it is kind of obvious which ones were at the beginning of the year compared to the end haha.

Happy New Year everyone~

[the-crooked-library]

Nuance, Narratives, and Nosferatu

As of today, Robert Eggers' Nosferatu (2024) has only been in theatres for 4 full days; and, coincidentally, that is about as long as I am able to let my thoughts marinate before they demand to be communicated. Before going into any further detail, let it be known that this film was made by freaks for freaks; it exists for the goths, the gays, the monsterfuckers, the historians, and for all those who delight in moral and thematic complexity.

With that being said - spoilers under the cut!

There are two principal narratives running through the flesh of Nosferatu, both of them rooted heavily in the cultural and literary origins of the story. It is a nightmare; it is also an erotic fantasy. It is horrifying, and it is also achingly romantic. From what I've seen so far, the vast majority of discourse that has already emerged around the film is caused by people misunderstanding or deliberately ignoring the relationship between these different lines of analysis; so please trust me when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that this duality is the very lifeblood of the movie.

The reason for that is, quite simply, that Nosferatu is a gothic horror film, set in 1830s German Confederation; and its plot relies on the same (sometimes contradictory) complexities often displayed in Victorian gothic fiction.

From the beginning of the movie, we are given to understand that Ellen Hutter met Count Orlok - the eponymous nosferatu - psychically, when she was very young. They spoke, she pledged herself to him, and was horrified to realize what she had done when he revealed his true visage to her in their first visual (and sexual) encounter.

Here, under the lilacs, the paths diverge.

The first reading of the film is perhaps the more straightforward. A young girl is essentially catfished and groomed by a much older, dangerous man. When they meet for the first time, she is a teenager; the lilacs that bloom where it happens become a trigger. He is the source of her madness and "melancholy" (depression), she has nightmares about him regularly enough that her husband is aware of them, and it is implied that she has been institutionalized in the past. Thomas Hutter is the physical representation of her one desperate hope for a normal life - but as the story progresses, she finds herself being denied even that. Orlok's psychic connection with her verges on demonic possession; in chilling, The Exorcist-inspired sequences, she writhes and mutters, prophesying a city-wide reign of death and terror. In pursuit of his claim on Ellen, Orlok terrorizes her husband, murders her friends - and, eventually, she gives her life to take him with her to the grave, saving the city from the plague he caused.

That is the horror element of Nosferatu; it deals with an exploration of childhood trauma, of PTSD, of difficulties maintaining a social life after the fact. It is easy to understand even from a modern viewpoint, and it pushes the film to its conclusion with a bleak, heart-wrenching punch.

The horror is not the only element of Nosferatu.

To contextualize the alternate - though just as correct - reading of the film, it is essential to understand that Ellen’s society was extremely sexually repressed, especially in regards to female and queer sexuality.

Both were severely medicalized, demonized, and restricted; and as such, when these topics do make an appearance in contemporary fiction, they are often inextricable from disgust and fear.

Dedicated as always to historical accuracy, Eggers maintains the same setting-based narrative coding.

In anticipation of morality arguments vis à vis monstrosity, depiction, and modern purity culture, let me clarify: this is something that works within his chosen genre. Horror, and especially gothic horror, invites a deeper analysis in regard to morality and motivation, and in this case, Eggers' homage to the origins of that genre grounds the narrative in its time and location, as well as fleshing it out much further than a purely modern cultural lens would permit. In this context, the details of Ellen's connection with Orlok become paramount to the understanding of the film.

As bits and pieces of their background become revealed, the audience realizes that her psychic gift did not begin with him - and neither did her melancholy, or her isolation. She was born with her abilities, and throughout her childhood, she was a bit of a tomboy by her contemporary standards, running wild in the woods near her father's property; however, once she foretold her mother's death, and once she was too old to get away with eccentricities, her father became frightened of her abnormality. She was isolated, confined indoors, and that is when her melancholy had begun. Painfully lonely and aching for some form of companionship, she called out into the ether; and Orlok responded.

Over the course of their story, he becomes the physical manifestation of everything Ellen perceives as dark and sinful about herself.

He is psychic, he is vicious, possessive, and blatantly sexual; her sensual affection with Anna parallels the evident and physical attraction he displays towards Thomas; and the social power he so easily commands is the same that she lacks, being a woman in a rigidly patriarchal society.

In the end, the severely questionable age gap, the murders, the coercion, the betrayal - all of that comes down to respect. Throughout the film, that is the one thing that Ellen is consistently denied. She is young when she meets Orlok, yes; but she is aggressively infantilized by her surrounding society even when she is a grown, adult, married woman.

It starts from the beginning of the film, when the Hutters visit the Harding family. During those scenes, the men are shown talking business - while the women play with children in the parlour; and the same social framing persists into the body of the film. When Ellen is suffering from what appears to be some form of mental illness, she is referred to as a child by multiple different characters; and when the condition progresses, she is swiftly diagnosed with hysteria and drugged - thus being forcibly removed from the discussion of her own illness. The general reactions to that illness - which is, in fact, a display of her psychic abilities - range from annoyance to fear to curiosity; it is seen either as a disability or a curse, rather than anything entirely innate to who she is. Her fears are dismissed. Harding tells her to learn some deference. Even closer to the finale, when Von Franz admits that she could have been a great priestess in another age, he does so with pity rather than anything else; in their industrial era, he cannot help but see her only as a tragic sacrifice - horrible, but necessary to save the city from a plague. Brought in to heal her, he instead guides her to her death.

All these aspects of Ellen's circumstances find a direct opposite in her relationship with Orlok. Unlike all other characters in the film, he only ever sees her as his equal, which is made even more evident when his interactions with Thomas and Herr Knock are brought into consideration. With both men, Orlok insists on being addressed by his lordly title, "as his blood demands it"; and yet, Ellen never calls him by any title at all, be it "My Lord" or even a simple "Herr." She argues with him freely, and there is a familiarity between them that he is demonstrated to never tolerate from anyone else. Similarly, while he disguises the covenant he makes with Thomas, the terms of his covenant with Ellen are laid out clearly, in full. He does not hide from her; she already knows the worst of him, the same way he knows that she is intelligent, that she is powerful, and that she is not meant to be demure and deferring. Again and again, Orlok insists that Ellen is not meant for humanity - and the true horror, the horror she cannot bring herself to face, is that he is right.

In a sense, he is a mirror held up in front of her own face. Ellen is painfully aware that she does not fit in, and that she never has. The "normal" society, epitomized by the Hardings (wealthy husband, pretty blonde wife, 2.5 kids), has no place for her - and actively dislikes her.

The film makes this ostracism impossible for the viewer to ignore. As the story progresses, it becomes evident that the other human characters - even those that do sincerely care for Ellen - never truly know her. Anna loves her, but wishes she would not talk of dreadful things - and lashes out as a result of that discomfort, scolding her. Sievers finds himself bewildered by her; Knock sees her as an object to trade; Von Franz pities her, Harding hates her, and Thomas cannot truly satisfy her, even after being touched by the supernatural himself.

Seeing a flash of a monstrous face while they are together, he flings her away. To him, his experience with Orlok is merely traumatic, and he wishes for nothing more than to leave it behind. However, to her, it is something she cannot help but crave; and she continues to wear her lilac perfume.*

All that to say - Count Orlok is, simultaneously, everything Ellen wants and everything she is terrified of being.

That specific dichotomy reaches its climax during their mutual finale. As it is to be expected from a vampire wedding night, they rejoin in a sequence of sex, blood, and renewed vows - and what is particularly notable is that (unlike Murnau) Eggers makes it clear that this Orlok never intended to kill his Ellen, despite his inability to resist her blood. Though he drinks from her through the night, he stops at cock-crow; and she guides his head back down herself, distracting him long enough for the sun to rise. It is a duet of accident and intention. He drains her; and she holds him as the sun drains him. They cling together as they end - on a bed that serves their wedding and their death.

It is romantic. it is unquestionably romantic. However, that does not mean that the horror isn't also present; Ellen's consent, under these circumstances, is highly debatable, and Orlok is cruel, amoral, and murderously possessive. At the same time, the characters are also acting out folkloric archetypes, with precious little adjustment to that framework - which further removes them from a modern understanding of morality. He is Death, a Koschei the Deathless, a monster; she is the Maiden, a Vasilisa, a damsel. I hesitate to liken them to the Beauty and the Beast, largely because in the original premise of that story, the Beauty falls in love with the kindness that the Beast consistently displays; and it is essential to stress that Orlok has none. He does care for Ellen, in his own way, but he admits to being incapable of love as she defines it in human terms;** and, curiously, that seems to be her primary concern when it comes to the idea of accepting his proposal - rather than all the blood and carnage.

What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that there are multiple ways of following a story, and multiple different stories in a film as nuanced as Nosferatu. Yes, it is about grooming and trauma. Yes, it is about finding love outside of the cage that is "polite society." I'm sure that it is many other things besides, with as many meanings as there are people in the theatres; after all, I am only one person, and the film grossed something over $40M in its first three days. The point is, really, that this is a story in which a rotting vampire is woken from centuries of deathlike slumber by a lonely voice asking him to be her friend; and whatever these two strange and aching souls do with that can go down any myriad of paths. The film trusts the viewer to interpret the narrative they choose.

* LILAC PERFUME - in fact, it is such a consistent favourite of Ellen's that Orlok smells it on her hair in the locket she sends with Thomas to the castle. Thomas never really learns the reason she likes that scent - even though he knows that preference well enough that he gifts her lilacs in the beginning of the film.

** ORLOK'S OBSESSION - this is a side note, but: the vampire wedding sequence reminds me strongly of the third season of NBC's Hannibal. I suppose that was to be expected, considering that Hannibal is also a Dracula offshoot, much like Orlok himself. When Ellen snaps at Orlok that he cannot love, he responds that "no; but only with you, I can be truly sated." Similarly - "Is Hannibal in love with me?" asks Will; and Bedelia responds - "Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you?" I'd say if you liked that series, you should try and see the film. It works with a familiar blend of aesthetic horror.

[ervotica]

fix your head

pairing; perv!stepbro!rafe cameron x fem!stepsister!reader

warnings; stepcest, smut 18+ only, fingering, p in v sex, somnophilia, free use kink

a/n; just been having brainrot abt stepbro!rafe so here’s a lil drabble/thot abt him! (yes i am insane)

A rough palm presses to the small of your back as the covers lift, a chill twining around your suddenly exposed skin that has goosebumps raising even in slumber. You whine, brows scrunching as lax fingers loop around his wrist and you twist further into the sheets. Your eyes open and desperately try to acclimatise to the darkness of your bedroom, but all you can decipher is a looming silhouette that begins to crawl on top of your slack body.

"Shh, shh," Rafe soothes. His breath is hot against your prickling face. "'S just me. Go back to sleep. Just g'na fix your head a little."

"Mm, okay." You settle once you realise it's only your stepbrother, eyes fluttering closed once more. His touch immediately has your pert nipples hardening, the soft sheets beneath you enough stimulation to make you squirm even in your half-asleep state.

Bruising fingers curl around your hips, lifting them until your back arches and your face smushes into the pillows beneath you; he makes light work of your panties, pushing them to the side as his big palms knead the fatty flesh of your bum.

A finger sinks into your weeping hole and you gasp, pushing back into the touch as he curls it just right to rub over your g-spot. Your gummy walls contract at the newfound pleasure and an arm flies back in seek of purchase against Rafe's wrist.

"I know, I know," he coos, slipping in another digit and picking up the pace until the delicious friction has you stifling moans into the sheets. "Keep quiet for me, kid. Wouldn't want your mom finding us, would we?"

The feeling of fullness is gone as quickly as it appeared and you're still for a few moments, features crumpling in vexation.

"Don't get bratty on me now, you little shit," he chuckles, watching as your face falls once more when he lines his mushroom head up with your drooling entrance. You garble and gasp as your cunt parts and flares around him, fluttering walls hugging him and moulding to the shape of his curved cock.

Fingers splay against the base of your neck, effectively silencing you as he starts to rock his hips; fingernails dig into the delicate flesh there and you whimper, tears tickling at your waterline as he presses you further into the pillow to keep you quiet.

"Got this pussy trained f'me, haven't I, kid? Attagirl, nice and quiet for me."

He twines an open palm into the length of your hair and tugs to reveal your blissed visage, watching with rapture as your expression changes the more he toys with you.

You squeak as he reaches down to pinch and roll your swollen clit between two fingertips, teeth baring into a growl when he clasps a merciless hand over your whining mouth.

"I told you to be fuckin' quiet, slut. Too much of a whore to take it nicely, hm? Too ungrateful?"

You shake your head vehemently, tears pooling at the base of his fingers as his thrusts pick up speed, head of his cock kissing every spot inside of you until you can't think of anything but how good he's making you feel.

He wrenches his hand free and you sag like dead weight, a punched breath of air expelling from your lungs with every cruel rut of his hips.

"There's my girl," he croons with a wicked smile, satisfied now you're fucked too dumb to do anything but drool onto the pillows beneath you. "You just, relax, kid. I'll be finished with you soon.”

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times to count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[route-to-evil]

Helluva Boss x Succubus! Reader

Sneak Peek: 422 Words

Synopsis: In which you take a foul mouthed imp up on his offer to teach you how to drive, knowing well that it’s just his convoluted way of ensuring you both go home together.

Pairing: Blitzø x Reader

Content: Swearing, Suggestive, Biting, Foreplay

“Fuckin-“ Blitzø cursed as he was jerked away from the heat of your body, the tail coiled possessively around the soft bend of your knee acting as an anchor as he turned his head to glare up at you. “Eyes on the road, bitch.”

Despite the harshness of his words, he reclaimed his spot by your side before he’d even finished uttering his admonishments. The spade of his tail continued its incessant tapping against the plush flesh of your inner thigh, smoothing over the pink skin every few gentle strikes while his breath fanned hot over the expanse of your neck.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snarked, knuckles whitening as your grip tightened around the synthetic leather of Blitzø’s steering wheel, trying your darnedest to ignore the shudders of echoing pleasure threatening to pulsate throughout your body. The imp, who was supposed to be instructing you on how to maneuver his vehicle, instead chose to pour all of his efforts into peppering searing kisses and heated nips to the side of your throat, claws prying at your right thigh, trying desperately to wrench it away from it’s counterpart. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to do this.”

Blitzø only hummed absently in response, the barest yellow glow highlighting the side of your face when he opened his eyes briefly in wordless acknowledgment serving as the only indications that he’d even registered your words. Neatly plucked brows furrowed as waning exasperation pleated across your visage, head tilting upward against your better judgement to give the golden teeth toying with the underside of your jaw better access, complaining petulantly of his behavior in spite of your wordless encouragements. “Not fondling me.”

“‘S called encouragement, ya ungrateful bitch,” he assured, head lifting briefly and lips abandoning your throat in favor of offering you a wry smile, the hand on your thigh squeezing gently. You rolled your eyes as an amused grin tempted the corners of your lips, opening your mouth to respond only for him to dive back into your side to latch his teeth onto the space between your neck and shoulder, tongue lapping at the tiny wound he’d purposefully inflicted upon your flesh, relishing in the stifled moan you bit back behind painted lips and clenched teeth at the beautiful sting, feeling the trapped noise reverberate in your throat against his mouth.

“Some positive reinforcement.”

Another rough kiss, quickly replaced by a harsher bite and a husky voice, sarcastic and condescending and mocking in tone, one that sent tremors of intimate anticipation straight to your core.

“You’re doin’ great, babe.”

[celebtf]

RED,WHITE AND THE ROYAL TWIST ( Scrapped)

Miguel’s obsession had twisted into something dark, unrecognizable even to himself. It wasn’t just about Alex anymore. It was about power, dominance, and erasing anyone who dared stand in his way. Henry was perfect—too perfect. His charm, his poise, his unshakable connection with Alex. All of it had to go.

Miguel’s search for a solution led him to the shadowy market five blocks down from West Boulevard. The air there felt heavier, suffocating, as though the place itself knew it housed things that shouldn’t exist. A man emerged from the gloom, his grin sharp and predatory.

“You seem... desperate,” the man said, his voice like nails scraping glass.

Miguel nodded, his eyes gleaming with a frenzied determination.

The man handed him a book, its leather cover cracked and ancient. “This will give you power beyond imagination, but it will cost you.”

Miguel didn’t care about the cost. He paid and fled back to his apartment, the book clutched tightly to his chest. He pored over its pages, his eyes devouring each word with growing excitement. The incantation he found—The Mirage of Identity—was perfect. It promised not just transformation but utter domination.

The night of the Peace Banquet arrived. Miguel slipped into the grand hotel, his stolen staff uniform granting him anonymity. He moved with cold precision, every step calculated, every breath steady. Finding Henry’s room was laughably easy. People trusted a man in a uniform.

Inside the room, Miguel hid, the spellbook clenched in his hands. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he rehearsed the incantation. He could feel the power thrumming in the air, the promise of something dark and irreversible.

The lock clicked, and Henry entered, humming softly to himself.

Miguel stepped out from the shadows, his eyes alight with malice.

“Miguel?” Henry said, startled. “What are you—”

“Quiet,” Miguel hissed, his voice dripping with venom. He locked the door with a click that sounded final.

Henry took a step back, his confusion turning to unease. “What’s going on?”

Miguel opened the book and began chanting, the words guttural and alien. The air in the room grew thick, oppressive, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

Henry’s hand flew to his throat as he tried to scream, but his voice cracked and failed. He stumbled, his body convulsing as if it were being wrenched apart from the inside.

His golden hair darkened, each strand twisting into Miguel’s deep brown. His sharp, regal features softened, reshaping into Miguel’s rugged visage. Stubble sprouted along his jaw, thickening into a coarse beard. His body shrank, his royal attire shifting into the simple, worn clothes Miguel wore.

“No!” Henry croaked, his voice now Miguel’s. “What—what are you doing to me?”

Miguel’s laughter filled the room, cold and jagged. “Oh, Henry, you’ll see soon enough. I’m taking everything you have. Everything you are.”

Henry clutched at his face, his hands trembling as he felt the unfamiliar contours of his new identity. “You... you’re insane!”

Miguel’s smirk widened. “Insane? No, Henry. I’m brilliant.”

As Henry’s transformation completed, Miguel felt the spell turn inward. Pain shot through his body, sharp and glorious. His bones cracked and stretched, his muscles shifting and contorting. His dark hair lightened to a golden blond, falling in perfect waves. His face smoothed and sharpened, taking on Henry’s regal features.

He let out a low, guttural laugh as his Spanish accent melted into Henry’s crisp British tones. His clothes shimmered, morphing into royal attire that fit him like a second skin. When he looked in the mirror, the Prince of Wales stared back at him.

Miguel ran a hand through his newly golden hair, his lips curling into a demented grin. “Perfection,” he whispered, his voice rich with delight. “I’m better than you ever were, Henry.”

Henry, now trapped in Miguel’s body, lunged at him. “You won’t get away with this!”

Miguel sidestepped easily, his laughter echoing through the room. “Oh, but I already have.”

He picked up the room phone and called the guards. “This man broke into my room,” he said, his voice calm and commanding. “Get rid of him.”

The guards burst in moments later, grabbing the real Henry—now Miguel.

“No!” Henry shouted, his voice filled with desperation. “I’m the real—”

Miguel interrupted with a mocking wave. “Take him away. I’ll deal with this... imposter later.”

The guards dragged Henry out, ignoring his protests.

Miguel turned back to the mirror, adjusting his royal attire. “Now, Alex won’t know the difference. And soon, I’ll have him wrapped around my finger. The crown will follow.”

He let out a low, chilling chuckle as he left the room. The world was his now, and nothing would stop him.

Hii I'm here with the first of the Christmas-pull stories... I also created a Discord-server if anyone likes that.

[sunsetlobster]

To Satiate a Hunger part 1

Authors: Myself and @sovietstrange45

Summary: Finding an appropriate stop on the brink of starvation, A Night lord War band ransacks Ghilana for every morsel of food and fuel they have. In the process, Ladomir an ex-terror squad member stumbles upon one thing they've been sorely needing.

Warnings: Self harm, horror themes, blood, implied violence, forced proximity, Ladomir has a blood kink, the writing structure is a raw cut from what was originally written so apologies for any weirdness there ><

Word Count: 2.1k

← Previous chapter | Next Chapter →

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Screams. Screams were the first noise that had become readily noticeable. Screams took varieties of forms, joy, shock, anger, pleasure, and fear. Some were distinctly clear from others, whereas the lines between few became muddled. Fear was unmistakeable. The natural primal terror of a human was something that could not be replicated, only induced. Yet, once one knew how to induce it, you could never fail to produce results.

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Streets ran red with rivers of blood, a sanguine disaster as mortals scampered across roads, tumbling over each other, slipping from the biological oil spills. No rhyme nor reason, not a semblance of strategy within any of them. Only that primal urge to run, that diminished any logical chance at survival. The battle against the cacophony of terror, was met with the screech of chain blades. Punctuated occasionally by the throating thump of rocket propelled shells hitting home in fleshy targets, that had no hope of dulling the resulting explosions. As for those that had been, for all intents in purposes by complete and utter luck, not been chosen for death. They, were hauled to the behemoth lumbering over their sky like a dying god, raining down its unmerciful wrath, whilst giving its death rattles. Spouting fire with every cough from its prow batteries. Amidst this rapture of death, a door was viciously kicked from its hinges. Slamming into its opposite wall with the force and symphony of a crashing vehicle. Light pouring in from the bleeding horizon casting its harsh orange glow and silhouetting the figure in his self-made opening. Shadowed, and with a head that was bat winged in nature, with blood red eyes that burned like miniature suns, without any clear target to scorch in its rays.

The clear scent of bread, pies and all manner of baked goods was almost nauseating to a fiend who'd endured such hunger. Yet the one who presumably made this was nowhere to be found and there were no inklings of his brothers’ marks on any of the small store's interior. Nor its door that led to the back. It was a simple homely place, wooden trims and a chalk board with written pricing and meals, bread of all kinds lined the back cabinet and sandwiches laid behind the counter, the thin shield of glass being the only thing sheltering them from the beast who skulked about in search of the owner.

The figure made no noise, only the wrenching growl of his joints signalled his movement. Changing from a hunched figure, to startling tall and still figure, clad in thick plate Armor. Like a lightning flash, near white, blue suddenly filled the room. His armour flashing with the crackled of lightning that seemed to shift along the surface of his form. It lasted long enough to take in the most... pressing things, about his appearance. He seemed like one of the angels of death, the Emperor's angels. Clad in midnight blue and trimmed with a gold that held no luster or wealth. His helmet was the gnarled visage of a multi fanged skull with no lower jaw and burning red eyes. Bat winged, with blood red that ended halfway, and became a chipped and fragment ending to its form of different colours, on both sides. On his left it was a dull and dark green, and on the other it was a vibrant yellow. His left shoulder held the sculpture of a skull. Perhaps rather, the mangled and defiled idea of a skull. It's lower jaw touching on the lower rim, and extending all the way to the upper trim, before it finally rounded out into what somehow managed to be a distressed and sorrowed skeletal gaze. His chest piece had once held the imperial aquila, but the eagle had been carved and shaved away until it resembled a skull of its own, the wings left as a bastardization of the carrion Emperor's heraldry. Then, the light was gone, it's flickering haven vanishing within a moment, and replaced by the thudding of his boots. Steps that equalled a tank thudding across the shop's floor, all the way forward to the counter. Dropping the blood dripping, corroded chain glaive in his gauntleted hand, he suddenly shoved a fist through the display case, sending shards of glass flying, and the sound of its destruction resonating throughout the room.

Sneh flinched at the smash from the other room, but she dared not move, dared not breath even. She was only a middling woman and everyone she'd ever known now had just about been murdered or taken. The baker had no chance at going toe to toe with what laid out there waiting to snap her between its jaws. And yet she still clung to the massive sharp, serrated bread knife. It was the length of her entire forearm and her last line of defence as she sat hidden amid the flour sacks. Her deep red gown making her regret her choice in clothing that morning. If worse came to worse though, she could end it, quickly, without much suffering and it'd be her decision not that of a monster’s.

Then, the figure ripped his helmet from his form. Slamming it atop of the counter, he grasped one of the baked goods between his fingers. Nose twitching as the smells, true and infiltered by an old vox grill, hit his gene enhanced senses. With a grunt he scarfed the delicacy down. Practically one gulp, and it had disappeared. The beast even took the time to scarf down a few more like a feral beast, burdened by the need for sustenance. Something akin to a groan leaving his throat with each bite he took, leaving behind a sugars and powers on his lips with each parcel devoured. With a hiss, he licked his lips and rubbed the back of his gauntlet across his mouth, eyes the consistent blackness of absolute nothingness, flying to the door behind the counter. A wicked grin, splitting his lips once more as he approached. Taking a decidedly different approach, he softened his step, and gently grasped the doors handle, and gave it a soft shove. As to let it creak it's way open, and bleed light into the next room like blood from an artery.

Sneh listened, holding her breath as it approached, and she readied her weapon on herself. A violent fearful glare in her usually soft eyes. The teeth of the blade gently rested on her throat ready at any moment to sink in on her flesh and wrench forth the very thing that'd save her from worse pain. She'd heard only whispers of their kind, angels warped into demons by any matter of force. Creatures that now stalked the night and tormented the dreams of those unlucky enough to hear of them. Biting her tongue to remain focused, Sneh dared not watch with her naked eye but rather the mirrored reflection from the pans lining the sink.

The worst part was the silence of it all. How even the low growl of armour joints that shifted with his movements, sounded nondifferent than the low hum of any machinery or electronics one would find anywhere. Lowering himself low, to a crouch, he was still just as large and nearly as tall as a normal man. Then lowering himself to a stalking crawl, he looked like a great beast still. The smell of far, quite literal fear, and bakery goods mixing within his senses in a uniquely delightful combination, that Ladomir lamented he just might never experience again. So, he would savour this like a delicacy. The blue crackle of light flickered up again as he crawled, blending with the bleeding sun to blind the room of any obvious source, and only flickering to near death once again after he had stalked to the other side of the room, peering just around a cabinet's corner at the woman, with eyes and hair black as death's embrace, and skin as pale as a corpse lips.

She returned it, a show of no fear or at least the face of one who was more than willing to fight against the fear that tried to fester in her stomach. The blade kissed and gently tore into her throat with a hiss, the small stream of crimson rolling down her neck as she faintly winced at the minor pain. It was shallow, just enough to show she damn well meant it without saying as much as a word to it that which lurked in the dark.

The head bobbed, shocked, jittered like the wracking pains of a seizure. All in this utterly silent, staring contest. Then, he slipped back behind the cupboard, and a sound slowly filtered its way throughout the room. Like a low whine, until it grew louder, and it became clear that he had been laughing. Small chuckles that quacked his form, to near mad laughter that followed the beast's once more hidden form. Blue lightning crackling away once more, disappearing more quickly this time, near the door along with his laughter. Until the door slammed shut, the laughter stopped, all light was snuffed from the room, and even the growl of servo joints seemed gone entirely.

She didn’t waste time; he had the knife to her throat and was ready to cut once more. She goes out on her own terms not that of a beast who hid the dark. And yet her hand softly trembled, she chose a terrible blade for this. But she has no choice, it was this or a mind-numbing amount of suffering and she certainly didn’t want you consider the latter. So, pressing the teeth harsher to her jugular she took a lone shaken breath and went to strike the blade down over herself.

Just then, out of a seemingly improbable time to cover such a distance, the great terror was just behind her. The thud of his armour as he stomped into the floor the only indication before he grasps her by the wrist, yanking the hand back from her own throat before she could do any more harm. With none of the urgency he's just display, he slowly stepped around to the mortal woman's front, staring down at her with perfect dark vision. Lighting flared and crackled around his midnight armour in a silent vortex. Illuminating them both and finally revealing the creature who had been stalking her. His hair was long, pushed back over his head in a surprisingly graceful styling of hair, two streaks of grey dashing from the edge of his temples and all the way to the base of his neck with the rest, breaking up the raven black ocean. His irises were blindingly white, the only colour in his eyes. His nose was thin, pointed like a crow's beak. Dark stubble lining his squared jaw, and thin lips split by scars that ran to the edge of his jaw, another going all the way to his neck and disappearing under his body glove. "I admire your attempt." He remarked, voice booming with an odd accent that did not seem suited for any form of gothic.

A lone tear rolled down her cheek, it was enough of a chastise within itself over her cowardice. Now became of her moment of thought she’d be lain to the worst pain man could conjure now, wouldn’t she? After all the devil was always described to have a handsome face.

It seemed to move him none. He was everything that described the Emperor's angels, perverted into its most twisted and malformed version. "Tell me, did you bake the delicacies in this shop?" He spoke again, bringing her wrist closer to his face, and dragging his tongue across the knife. Lapping the blood, and uncaring for the way it split his tongue. For just as quickly as he bled, he clotted, and when it clotted, it began to seal. As if, it had never happened. The only emotion shown, being the soft hum, he let out, and the twitch of his nose.

Sneh nodded, not opening her mouth lest she have her neck snapped as he so brazenly lapped at her only way out as though it too should’ve been displayed under the now smashed counter. And yet even in the dark with little light to show, she never left his face, a burning resolve deep in those eyes.

He bore into them, unflinching, never blinking once. Silence filling in the fluttering and flickering of lightning on his armour. Perhaps he was searching for something there, deep within her soul. Perhaps, it meant absolutely nothing at all. Then he let out a laugh, something akin to elation lacing the noise. Booming from him like a drum as he grinned madly. "Forfallian dal sur shissis lalil na sha dareel!" The demon managed in between his joy, a tongue that might as well have been alien within comparison to Gothic. "Rejoice. Today, you fly far away from here, little bird."

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

i had a heart wrenching idea that i absolutely need to tell you

reader with the purification ability through touch, so imagine this: not being able to hold or help or touch foul legacy cause their touch hurts him and you just see him whine

reader getting hurt/in the brink of death and foul legacy not being able to do anything cause their touch would actually might seriously injure him enough, so he has to look for others/lead others towards an injured reader. but the thing is, convincing terrified humans to follow them back as a big giant monster is easier said than done.

CONSIDER MY HEART WRENCHED AND MY TEARS SHED, YOU ARE BRILLIANT ANON

Foul Legacy has never been able to touch you, both cursed in your own right, him being born in darkness and you with light at your fingertips. not even the gods ever answered when you asked them why, perhaps burdened with their own Celestial secrets just as you were. no matter what you tried or did, you've never been able to touch Legacy without harming him like a burn piercing through his armor- it makes him yelp in pain, and your heart twinges. so instead you tie a ribbon around your finger and the other end around his claw so you're always connected, even if you can't physically touch one another. Legacy takes small delight in choosing the ribbon color each day, and you find that you come to have many shades of blue you didn't even know existed, for those are always his favorite

he whimpers as he kneels by you, talons digging into the soft ground with desperation. you're bleeding, you're bleeding so badly, yet no one comes to help. they all scream in terror over his monstrous visage, brandishing their weapons- he's had to move you somewhere safe a few times already, to the detriment of you both. but still, he has to keep trying, even if you weakly tell him that you're fine, because you're not, he can smell the blood and he knows you're not, and Legacy wants nothing more than to take you in his arms. he can't, though. not in this life. instead he tenderly covers you, makes sure you're as comfortable as possible before venturing out again, fluttering his glittering, star-speckled wings in determination

finally, a blue-haired man with an eyepatch answers his call, and Foul Legacy nearly sobs with relief

[sirenscradle]

a faint signal | choi san

͙͘͡★Genre: Cosmic nostalgia, fantasy, fluff, cosmic deities, 1980's Hong Kong, episodical

.͙͘͡★Pairings: Cosmic spirit/ Star child! San x Weary soul! childhood friend reader ͙͙͘͡★WC: 3.4k

͙͘͡★Summary: It’s the year 1982–Hong Kong’s once awe-inspiring neon lights are now a dull visage of what it once was for you in your youth. Drained and dreamless, you find yourself bawling in a telephone booth after every unanswered call, until an old imaginary friend visits you at your lowest. You’re then thrusted into a strange and cosmic reality where the dreams of your youth weren’t so imaginary at all. [theme song] city pop playlist for a faint signals night life ambiance.

͙͘͡★ masterlist.

05/13/25 unedited.

“Mom, please pick up the phone.” You mumble anxiously and the faint click of the tip of your fingernail peeling into your mouth is the only sound you get in reply. A song of evenly paced beeps echo in the telephone booth. Another answered call. 

A shaky sigh leaves you as you press your back against the cold metallic and filmy encasing of the telephone both– a beat of silence and then a heart wrenching array of sobs wrack through your body. It’s three AM and you know you shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of company.

Is this what adulthood’s meant to be like? The dulling of bright dreams, a sharp knife to the heart after meeting the end of what once felt like a fated love, or the death of illusions that promised happiness once you got the job? You came to Hong Kong five years ago straight out of high school, leaving the small mountainside village you were raised in with hopes of being beautiful enough to make it big and you did. Just as you’d wanted—your face flashed and scattered itself on the biggest screens of the steadily growing metropolis, all pretty and neon with passing eyes glancing in awe, but there was no one to call who’d answer you. 

You couldn’t recall the last time you even called your mom. Over the years her calls dwindled after leaving you enough voicemails that you’d left to stack on your residential phoneline. 

For the next thirty minutes all you do is cry, cry, and cry. Small gibberish phrases falling from your mouth hysterically in a flurry, none making sense in their fragments as you descended from a hot air balloon of barely restricted hysteria

 ‘Ah, Hong Kong!’ You moan sadly.

‘Why, Hong Kong?’ You question sadly.

‘Oh, but my dreams–Hong Kong?’ You accuse sadly. Straining and tugging the word out of your stretched mouth, squished against your palms in sorrow. 

‘Oh, my loneliness.’ you drone and pull at the plump of your cheeks as the bottoms of your eyes stretch downwards strangely. All of the “sadly’s”accumulating and falling onto your lap like a landslide. Poor Hong Kong– what a lovely and bright place to blame for your loneliness. 

‘Mom hates me.’ You go silent at that one, recognizing that you really didn’t have to say that to yourself. Your body slumps a bit and the previous volume of your fresh blowout seemed to flatten alongside your sadness. God, you needed to get a grip. 

A small knock startles you and you quickly spring up to wipe away at the remnants of your tears. You quickly open the door without realizing to see what was standing so close to it. A small ‘oof!’ causes your eyes to widen as you catch the sight of a young man falling back and onto his ass. 

You’re frozen for a singular moment, gripping onto the handle until your knuckles were pale before coming back to reality with an array of blubbers. 

“Oh Christ! Are you okay?” You flounder to where the man sat as he laughed. The first thing you noticed was how free and kind his laugh sounded. 

It seemed to bubble out of him, and he didn’t stop its melody for a while. His dark bangs, which originally obscured his features framed his face boyishly– tousled carelessly and he looked like an absolute dream. A dream that wore a Hawaiian button up under an oversized blazer at least, and he rises from the floor to dust his high waisted blue jeans. “I’m still in good shape.” He reaches a hand up to try and stifle another chuckle. There was something about the glimmer in his eyes that felt so familiar to you, an almost unrealistic light casting and bouncing off you like comets falling from his eyes. His feline features took in your form, almost amusedly. The sharpness of his face made your tummy spark. 

He stands in front of you, tucking his hands in his pockets while tilting his head to gaze at you, bangs falling into his eyes. After a couple beats of silence, you shuffle your feet, suddenly a little shy. 

“Sorry for hogging the booth. Uh, it’s all yours now.” You almost slap yourself at how you raised your arms to point to the side, bowing a little, feeling a little bit like a flight attendant. He maintains a mischievous and mysterious smile, staying silent as he gazed at you. After a few more awkward shuffles from your end you bubble “Do I know you?” 

“I dare to say that I know you much better than you know me.” He instantly replies and a weird sense that it had a double meaning blooms inside of you. At your strange look, he shakes his head and takes a step back, inhaling deeply. What he does next initially complexes you before aghast astonishment replaces it quickly. 

The man suddenly bows, right arm tucked elegantly against his lower abdomen, left arm flattening itself against his side before he dances a lonely waltz. He cradles the air as his makeshift companion as he hums a lighthearted tune, glistening with laughter as he whirls around you before stopping to lean towards you at eye level. “Ring a bell?” He quirks another smile, joy filling his gaze.

You’re immediately transported to a flurry of memories from your childhood at the mountain side– of sneaking away on most summer nights to sit and dream by the river that ran its course near your home. These moments were the genesis dreams of love, fame, and big city wonders. You’d talk to yourself often until the day came and you’d created your very own companion: a friend you’d named San, an obvious name for a child to pick when she was raised on the mountain. In San you found a friend, a dreamer, a confidant, and at times– a dance partner. Strangely, at the time you never questioned how vivid he was; despite knowing he was an imaginary friend. At the stroke of a memory, you digest the man’s features, noticing all of the ways he bared matured similarities. 

You were positively floored.

Have you actually, officially lost it? You couldn’t let the name slip out of your mouth, fearing that it’d only confirm your mania. You fought against it, grinding your teeth, and pushing out strangled and strange expressions that only seemed to lighten him before you caved to your own hilarity.

“S-san?” It’s almost as if the lights around you brightened 

“Atta girl, I knew you wouldn’t forget.” He smooths out his words, finally breaking away from his comfortable but close stance to your body, hands resting casually in his pockets once more. 

Was he real the entire time or did you finally spiral out of control? 

San could practically see your thoughts, tsking with a finger wagging at you. “No, no, no– don’t do that. I see you still have that habit hm?”

You exhale in disbelief “San, how are you real? You were a figment of my...” trailing off to gaze at him in bewilderment. 

“Not everything’s as it seems. Being here and feeling like this in the Hong Kong you’ve always dreamt of should’ve taught you that, right?” You’re stunted at his words. While he’s not wrong, it still didn’t make sense to you, but you didn’t even know what questions to ask. 

Another couple beats of silence.

San breaks it by grabbing your wrist, breaking out into a run, and you try to keep up despite fearing that your kitten heels might get caught in a crack on the sidewalk. “Where are we going?!” You shout at him, huffing for air

San replies simply, laughing with his head pointing to the sky”–We’re going to get noodles!”

You couldn’t find it in yourself to question him anymore. Not with how the wind seemed to curl around his midnight hair like a blanket of stars

Hong Kong is a flurry of buzzing and neon golds, greens, reds, and oranges– girls with big hair and red lips laugh arm in arm, and you hear Anita Mui’s ‘Oh no, Oh yes!’ playing from the patio of an open bar where people drank merrily while eating various street foods, and celebrating life or accomplishments–maybe even the mere ability of existing amongst other people. The colors flash and flow like watercolors as you run with San, suddenly girlish in laughter as you think of how nonsensical this all was. 

You pass by a long array of lanterns and plastic coverings of what’s typically a morning fish market and land at a lonely restaurant where an old woman hummed as she shuffled a stack of plates to the kitchen. There’s a dim blue sign buzzing by its entrance, its characters reading out ‘Sanxing’.

The three Star Gods. 

You gaze at it for a moment longer as San meanders in, bellowing out “Auntie!”

A loud “Ah?!” is immediately thrown out from the back of the restaurant, the old woman having trouble clearly hearing and recognizing the voice. She shuffles out with a slightly hunched posture, wiping her hands against her apron before brightening. “San!”

She tries to speed up but San practically flutters to where she stood and leaned down so she could hold his cheeks in her hands as she cooed. 

“It’s been so long, my little star.” You see their resemblance in the glistening of her eyes– both unbelievably cosmic and you were entranced by their shared beauty. She fleetingly glances behind him to rest her widened eyes on you

“Is that the one you’ve been watching–” She starts, words skittering out of her in comical alarm before she’s interrupted by San’s hand shooting up to gently cover her mouth, pulling her back into the kitchen with a strong whisper “We haven’t gotten to that part yet!”

A strand of hair sticks out directly from your bed of hair, frazzled at the sudden pace of events as you stand alone at the center of the empty restaurant. 

Two bowls of piping hot noodles are placed in front of you–fragrant and steaming in the night air as you sit outside of the noodle shop on plastic chairs set beside a lonely and small glass table. San’s aunt grins at the two of you, watching as you gaze excitedly at her plating and listens to the sound of your happy slurping of the knife cut noodles. 

“Enjoy, my little stars.” She says as she practically dances away, bowed posture and all.

San’s eyes curl into little moons as he watches you eat. His heart warmed by the fact that he’s finally seeing you eat from this angle and can witness the act in detail versus his typical view of your (adorable) hair whirl. He finally picks up his spoon to gather a bit of broth, unable to stop his eyes from gazing back at you from sheer habit. 

As you simmer down and relax, savoring the taste of each deliberate spice and notes of anise resting on your tongue, you finally speak. 

“San, if you were… real all this time, where did you go?” 

San pauses, eyes unblinking, though he still maintained his gentle candor. He settles down his spoon slowly, deliberating what to say.

You weren’t really sure when it really happened. You never questioned the slow disintegration of your imaginary friend– his existence naturally washed away with time by the idea of outgrowing the age necessary to have one. If San was real, why did he disappear? Why was he there on the mountain and unknown to everyone in such a small village with the exception of you?

“I’ve always watched over you.” He starts, fiddling with his fingers. “You’ve probably picked up on the strangeness of it all. Though I wasn’t imaginary, my being there was a curious situation. I think I can only say it outrightly, since there doesn’t seem to be another way to explain.” His tone is naturally playful, you’ve noticed. Though his eyes told him that the following words weren’t a joke, he couldn’t help the lightness he carried.

“I’m one of the many, many sons of a Star God. In some ways, I’m a spirit and in others– I’m not. It’s a gift I have– the ability to be corporeal is because I’m from his direct lineage. We’re called Cosmic Deities, Spirits, and so on– human’s also call us stars. Our lives are encompassed by a constant playing with the nighttime amongst each other or watching humans in their daily lives.” You listen in fascination. Although there was a fleeting moment when you thought you were eating with an egregiously insane man– you were able to see his earlier mysteries for yourself. Though you chalked it down and gave too much credit to your creative mind before this happened and were instantly humbled by the realization. San smiles at your attentive eyes, glad that there didn’t seem to be much disbelief or concern for his sanity in your eyes (He saw a little, but it wasn’t a concerning amount.)

 “I was born around the same time as you were and placed above the mountain you were raised in. My father was always busy, and my older brothers were all placed in other areas of the night sky. Young stars are instructed to stay in one place; else they’d be too wild to contain and keep track of. As lovely as the mountain was, it was so boring to be there on my own, and on one fateful night… I saw a girl around my age talking to herself and the sky. I watched her for a couple of weeks before I broke the rules and snuck down onto the mountain. That’s where I met you–just in time to feed into your delusions.” He laughs when you reach to smack him across the table.

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief “So, you’re a… star that used to watch me?”

He picks his chopsticks back up, stuffing his face with noodles before replying with his mouth full “Yeah, pretty much.” While you’d grimaced at the sight of him talking through noodles, you couldn’t deny there was something about San that inspired adoration from everything. It made sense that he was the literal body of a star. 

Slurping up his last noodle, he inhales deeply, cradling his full stomach and patting twice. 

“Wanna go somewhere fun?” He asks casually and before you could even reply, a bright chrome light fills your vision. 

“What the hell?” You panic a bit, straining the bulge of your eyes at San– astonished that he didn’t even consider if your little human mind could fathom what you’re seeing without passing out.

A shell like and nearly holographic prism surrounds you as different streams of color and light move in different directions and speeds. It’s what was frighteningly below you that floored you above even the beauty of it all– small glimmers and remnants of Hong Kong’s city skyline flicker and ember, except the skyline wasn’t so skyline from how high up you were.

San grins mischeiviously, almost catlike in its curl.  His bangs sway a bit in that strangely charming and gamine way “You technically shouldn’t be up here, but I think you needed to get out of there–” He points down at Hong Kong “—for a little bit.”

A stunned silence and a small twitch of your eye ends up morphing into unrestrained laughter. The disbelief was palpable, and you didn’t know you’d end your lonely night in a blanket of stars. San grabs your hand and pulls you towards him before asking “You still remember how to dance, little star?” 

In reply, you sway into his arms and allow him to spin you along the prisms of flowing light– the both of you beaming silver with laughter.

A small yawn leaves your body, and San suddenly realizes that humans are usually only awake during the hours of the Sun. He bristles a little at the thought, hating that the Sun got to see you even more than he did. He just hopes the man wasn’t watching you in particular. 

He stands there wanting to savor this rare moment of being able to finally envelop you in his arms, and he does, until he tugs you away softly. “It’s time for you to flicker off, Star. It seems to we’ve passed your bedtime.” A boyish smile graces the beauty of his face, and your eyes linger on the dimples of his cheeks, settling like craters on the moon. 

Though you were tired, you were scared of this being an official goodbye. Now in finally knowing San, there’d be no way he’d be able to disappear from memory and were lonely at the thought of never seeing him again. Your stomach is gaunt at the idea. “Will I see you again?” You ask, eyes glazing over with a small and hopeful light.

“Oh, I’ll be around. Have no doubt about that.” He turns, still glancing at you with a small and boyish half-smile gracing features, as a chrome light shimmers against his body– all cosmic and God-like before turning back to you after a brief thought. San leans his head down to grin at you with the joy of omnipresent eyes, slowly dimming his lids to place a brief and chaste kiss onto your lips.

He smiles and you swear somewhere a star’s been born before lightly saying “I’ve always wanted to do that.” Before a metallic gleam dressed his body and everything goes black.

You wake up pressed against the cold window outside of a noodle shop close to closing. A few slips of cash were slipped under a blue glass of water, shimmering in a way that reminded you of the mountain side. Despite remembering you’d just left wherever San had taken you in the cosmos now– disbelief ran its course through you. 

That couldn’t have been real. There’s no way.

A small loneliness creeps its way up your throat. It wasn’t real and you spent and ended the night alone, just as you’d initially expected–with a cheek sliding embarrassingly down a small noodle shops foggy window with only the blinking of a neon light accompanying you.

Gazing at the cash, you fleetingly wonder if someone had paid the bill as an act of being a good samaritan, until you peered closely. The stray coins looked… strange.

Star shaped pieces of silver, a bit rustic and seemingly chewed on at the edges by the teeth shaped indentations, and under them laid a small scrawled on receipt paper, flapping in the breeze.

Scrunching your brows, you unfold the note and finally notice that an empty bowl of noodles sat directly across your own. 

It was simple really but nothing else needed to be said as a smile shuttered onto your face.

‘Look up.’

You do and catch a glimpse of a small flicker from your favorite star, as if it were waving.

siren’s notes/blip: While I could’ve set this story in South Korea, I’ve been feeling a lot of nostalgia for the films I watched growing up that were based in Hong Kong. This was supposed to be a little writing exercise for me and then it just expanded into this little idea. There isn’t necessarily a concrete story line, as that’s not really the intention of this drabble. This was a longer piece since I wanted to set the scene or provide some backstory before it got episodical. I was trying to write chapter two of the thrill of the hunt but struggled with having frustration with plotline stitching and needed to take a break and just started writing this– which was a random idea but will more than likely be going into my short story manuscripts.

I kind of just wanted to write something that felt like sudden magic and plan on writing little episodes about this cosmic pair and the lovely starlight owner of Sanxing. I hope that if you read this, you’d enjoyed it. 

Another semi-related fact about my choice of setting the story is that I’m moving overseas next year to attend a university in Bangkok but am planning to travel to another city for a tiny bit before the semester begins. I was stuck between going to Busan/Seoul, Jiufen (Taiwan), and of course– Hong Kong. I wanted to daydream a little and so here we are.

This series was inspired by the instrumental "a faint signal" by infinity frequencies. Let me know how you liked it. :)

p.s as any reoccurring readers could tell—i really like using this photo of san

[argisthebulwark]

TES Summer Fest Day Six: Mirror/Abandoned

summary: After years of avoiding it, Miraak catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. gn reader/Miraak, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. warnings: themes of body horror (scars, multiple/misshapen pupils), themes of body dysmorphia/unease with physical appearance. mentions of injury & battle. angst with comfort. @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

Somewhere deep in his chest a chasm tears open. Miraak is flailing, falling deeper and deeper as his sense of self crumbles at the sight. Too many pupils flicker to where his chapped lips part, eyes so unfamiliar they make his stomach turn. What color had his eyes once been? He claws for a memory that is long gone, breaths huffing out too quickly when he fights to recall - were they green or blue?

A jagged, poorly healed scar cuts across his face. Of their own volition Miraak's eyes trace the old wound and he relives that awful day - his mouth stings with the taste of blood, phantom pain shimmering over his jaw in a memory of that beast's talons raking over his skin. Gods, it had been a simple mistake - he's usually so careful to avoid even a glance into the grimy mirrors. One careless look and now he's stuck there, shaky fingers mapping out the planes of a face he does not know.

Miraak had never considered himself especially handsome but there is something terrifying about seeing the visage of the beast he'd become under Mora's influence; swirls of ink covering tattoos he'd once admired, eyes that long ago shone with power now lifeless without his patron. He takes in the streaks of grey shooting through once dark hair and cannot remember when that happened.

Combing a hand through his unruly locks gives him a fleeting glance of the man he once was. He remembers how carefully he'd once braided it away from his face, the way it used to curl around his ears and meticulously cropping it to frame his jaw. Miraak's heart sinks at the memory of that man who sincerely thought he could be a hero.

"My love." Your voice breaks him out of the reverie, cheeks coloring as you thankfully give him something else to focus on. You wrap your arm so easily around his waist and lean in to his side, a little divot appearing between your brows when you stare at his reflection. Miraak cannot fathom how you stomach being so close to him - perhaps if he still resembled that young man he would understand, but time had robbed you of that chance.

"What are you doing?" You sound cautious and he wants to apologize for making you worry but he cannot summon the words. That chasm in his chest has stolen away his voice, barely enough room for him to suck in a breath around the horrible weight of grief. There's hardly enough energy for his eyes to slide back to his own reflection, knees weakening at the stranger he finds there.

"I was also stunned into silence when I first saw you." You grin, a sweet kiss pressed to his jaw. Miraak's eyes fall closed against the litany of excuses he doesn't have the energy to say. You worm deeper into his robes and Miraak feels a bit of that weight lighten, suddenly guilty for causing you to worry.

"You're the most handsome man I've ever seen."

"Don't jest." Miraak snorts, though his voice sound deflated.

"I would never joke about such a thing." Warm fingers wrench his jaw upward and Miraak's eyes fly open, relieved to see an annoyed flush in your face.

"What do you think I see when I look at you?" You demand, a finger jabbed toward the mirror.

"A monster."

"Incorrect."

"My dragon -"

"Do you think of me as a monster?" Your brows furrow deeper when you glare at his reflection. He looks at you, taking in old scars and marks from the many selfish gods who have tried to lay claim to you.

"Of course not."

"Yet you expect me to find you unappealing? If you must hate anyone, hate me - I am responsible for many of your scars." Your nose crinkles when you smile at him, hand falling to rest on his chest. That awful pit in his chest seems so much smaller when you lean into him, lips ghosting over his cheek. He will never forgive himself for killing the young man he'd once been, for robbing you of the chance to love a version of him that had so much more to offer.

Despite all the grief and regret he cannot help but marvel at the sheer trust in your motions; your eyes falling closed against his chest, his arm draped around your shoulders, the content little smile on your face. Each day you've looked at him without fear, you've kissed his scarred lips and gazed into his eyes with no hesitation.

"I think we fit together." You murmur the words against his skin and something clicks. Your scars, your wounds, the terrifying power he's seen you wield - he would never fault you for these things. When Miraak dares to look in the mirror one last time he thinks you may be right, there's something magnetic about how you fit together. Those years of suffering and madness suddenly seem so miniscule compared to the peace of holding you, his dragon.

Miraak supposes that he was made for you.

[kumiaku]

Harness - Dottore x Reader

Kinktober Day 1 - Harness, Dottore x Reader, Genshin Impact

Masterlist

Misc. Tags - Established Relationship, Reader is implied to be Fatui/Fatui Harbinger, Lowkey hate sex ngl, CBT I think, gender neutral reader, dirty talk, degradation, slight sadism/masochism, foot job?? Lowkey implied toxic relationship, but that’s just onbrand for dottore, safe - sure, sane - no, consensual - absolutely.

WC - 1,049

Nsfw under cut

“Are you fucking joking Dottore?” You hissed the second you stepped into the Grand Gothe Hotel. The recruits around the two of you made themselves scarce, seeping into the shadows of the Hotel, as to not incur your wrath. 

“I don’t see the issue, dear.” Dottore, that son of a bitch, pretended like he hadn’t just made a fool of the Fatui in front of the Knights of Favonius, the Ragnvindr brat, and the Deacon from the Church. Yet, even with his farce, he didn’t dare challenge your grating gaze - instead having his face look to the side as if your seething would so easily steam away. 

You made a choked noise, somewhere between a growl and a laugh as you shook your head - reached up, and yanked at the harness around Dottore’s neck, sending him surging forward towards you. “Look me in the fucking eye and say that again.” 

His mask made up the vast majority of his emotional features, but his mouth always betrayed him, curved in particularly vexed visage. Despite his mouth opening in silent surprise, he remained speechless, his lips loose enough to reveal his teeth to both you and the fucking entirety of Mondstadt. Did he not realize how diplomacy was meant to work? 

Clearly not, as you tugged on the collar round his neck again, dragging him further down. “Fucking say something!” Yet he just limply followed your lead, knees buckling to meet the ground in some slapstick show of submission. 

And that’s when you finally noticed it. 

“Are you fucking for real right now?” Your exasperated voice leaves your body just as warmth begins to kindle - you stare down at Dottore. On his knees for you, lips pressed in a thin shaky line, pants perturbed by a prominent protrusion. “You're getting off on this.” 

The hand not firmly clenched around the black leather tight around his neck came up to rest on your calescent cheeks, you laughed, almost in despair over the fact - “I’m going to get nowhere with you.” 

“No.” He finally fucking opened his mouth, his expression shifting into a sinful smile and the little bits of his cheeks seemingly darkening with a reddish flush. “You’re not.” 

“Oh? So we aren’t gonna get into your bed again?” As if you could ever get rid of his warmth next to you in bed, it was all a lie, a farce, for the temporary satisfaction of hearing him backtrack on his words. To hear the usually arrogant Doctor lose his cool, even slightly, and concede his mind as well as his body to you. 

“Well,” Dottore paused, his lips curled up, revealing his canine teeth for a moment, “I never said that.” 

You leaned down, fingers tangling in the - now warm - metal circle in the middle of his neck, wrenching him up by the harness. The same harness that dipped under his clothing, just peeking out at his neck, always taunting you. 

Dottore sucked in some air - if he even needed to breathe nowadays. 

“Well you implied it - so it sounds like we won't be going anywhere.” Despite trying so desperately to make eye contact with his mask, your eyes kept slipping down to the place you were keeping him restrained, then lower, to where the pants were keeping him restrained in another way. 

“NO - no.” Dottore swiftly rejected, his voice initially straining in that needy way that always made you want to eat him whole. But he composed himself, even just enough to speak with only the slightest salacity hinging in on his tone. “We can -” setting his own pride aside, gritting his teeth like a cornered animal, “-we can go places.” 

How much power did you yield over this man to make the chronically deranged man in front of you nigh speechless. 

“How romantic.” You spoke, sarcasm slick in your voice. Again, you yank at his harness, letting him go to almost have his face plant into the ground - only if he didn’t catch himself. “Maybe if you beg.” 

Setting his pride aside wasn’t enough. No. Today he had to want it. With the bullshit he pulled earlier - this was the only way to get anywhere with him. To make him regret it. 

He made some stupid, shaky, strangle noise that wasn’t at all slutty or sexy. No, you weren’t enjoying this as much as he was. 

For a minute, you didn’t even think you heard his voice, until he repeated himself, a soft “Please...” leaving his mouth. 

With a grin, your fingers sifted through strands of his hair to grab at the back of his harness, pulling him back up onto his knees. “Spread and strip.” Fuck, now even you seemed a little lusty. 

But it was nowhere near the listless lewd look of his teeth sinking into his lips. He complied with ease, barely even grumbling as he slid off his white coat, letting it pool on the ground around him. His blue shirt shortly followed, but it was your breath that was cut short when his full chest was exposed. 

Fuck - you reached out and grabbed it from the front again - almost lifting him up if not for your boot swiftly being placed on his crotch, pushing him back down. But he didn’t back down, no he relished this treatment, his mouth scrunching - barely containing the noises he wanted to let loose. 

“You fucking whore - this entire time you’ve been taunting me - wearing this for what - so you were ready for me yank you around - to put you on a leash and walk you around like your my dog.” You hissed, continuing the pressure, pulling and pushing, it was an ebb and flow between the two of you. The flow of your boot grinding against his constrained cloth covered cock, and the ebb of his eventual egoistic personality returning. 

But for now, he was wrapped around your finger, or rather pressed under your heel. 

Pitiful strings of syllables slipped from him, escaping his red-bitten shaky lips, the only thing even remotely close to a sentence was a single word, “please...” 

Your ears burned from his whines and whimpers, he was going to make you soft, then break you down and build you up all over again, just as you were going to break him again and again.

[therisingsun777]

"All for naught, all for naught, all for naught," His words are a ragged whisper, a choking gasp as he claws at the ground.

Hands red with blood he does not dare to glance back up at the visage. The booming voice of above claws and digs into the very forefront of his thoughts, slipping his focus. Clay men, controlled with ruby-swirling eyes, walk in the distance in their steady lines. He looks back towards the ground, towards the spot marked on the map.

Perilous the cliff, the unanswered question and the ambition. He sits upon the very edge, cloying surface mixed with the sickness of tye silky miasma. His hands are bleeding profusely, his hands are just fine.

"What of the risks?" He blinks and he's in his office, standing before him is his colleague.

Within his mouth sits a pipe; all for show, he stopped smoking six years ago, "The energy readings? We cordoned them off to the sixth-sector of the planet, closer to Eurasia,"

His mind slammed back to the current moment; he could feel the moisture, the thick cloying wet as his eyes began to bleed. But it was There, the bones of the first descendent, the beginning of the Family Tree that eventually led to Homo Sapiens. Taking a shaky breath, he grabbed his proze, before slowly standing up.

Somehow, through all luck, he made it back to the Machine. Exaltation ran through his every pore as he quickly went through the diagnostic checks. Confirming there were no integrity breaches, he started up the pre-flight calculations.

The waxy men stood in the distance all the while, their skin pale, as if they'd been bleached to create the flesh that surrounded them. In the rising sun of morning, the very thing lingering at the edge of his mind was nowhere to be found. He still heard the whispers, of course, the horrid bubbling sensation that snaked its way across his thoughts. At the very least, the center of those apprehensions had faded.

Pulling a lever, he was transported back to the very moment he left. Wrenching the door open, he fell into a crater. Stumbling across the ashen dust, he saw IT in the distance. A body like a thousand cogs, squirming flesh wriggling over places eyes Should be. It was smooth, like waxpaper or stone, yet jagged, sharp edges that defied euclidean geometry. With a body without eyes, it stared straight through him.

He'd been played, like a book he'd been twisted till the spine fell apart. With a wet laugh, he stared at the Thing as it turned his mind to mud.

[capt-mactavish]

Soap's "death" was the perfect opportunity. He recovers in secret and goes deep undercover on a solo assignment from so high up even Laswell doesn't know about it. It's years before he returns; older, wiser, hardened.

The 141 had mourned their fallen brother; Ghost, perhaps more than anyone, had carried the weight of his loss. They had solemnly spread Soap's ashes, a ritualistic farewell to a brother in arms. Grief had clung to them, even years later, leaving lasting marks on the team's collective soul.

Ghost can barely believe his eyes, he cant believe Soap is standing right there in front of him, after all this time. He had mourned. He had grieved. They all did. He was gone and the loss had shaken all of them to the core. They spread his fucking ashes for fucks sake! He doesn't know how to feel, see-sawing somewhere between elation and indignation, joy and fury.

But he's there, in all his glory, like a phoenix from the ashes. His Johnny, who had defied death. His gaze held the weight of experiences untold, and his every movement echoed victories won in the shadows. The scar on his temple a cruel reminder of what Ghost thought he'd lost.

He'd been promoted in his time spent away in secret, ascending the ranks and earning the title of Captain Mactavish. What that meant for the 141 remained to be seen, but in that moment the overwhelming joy at having him back overshadowed any uncertainty about the future of the task force.

Soap's eyes, sharper now, more intense, but no less warm, lock with Ghost's, and he extends a hand, a silent invitation to bridge the gap that time and loss had created.

Soap smiles softly at him, a familiar visage that tugs at Ghost's heart. And in that moment any anger dissipates, replaced by pure happiness, and he instead steps forward and tugs Soap into a firm embrace.

The tangible warmth of the embrace wrenches a choked sound from Ghost's throat, almost as if he expected his arms to phase right through Soap like some kind of specter. But they didn't. Soap is solid under his hands, and tears bead in the corners of Ghost's eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Soap returns the hug just as fervently, rubbing Ghost's back soothingly. And he laughs, and it's the most beautiful thing Ghost has heard in years. It tips him over the edge and he buries his face into Soap's neck, unable to hold back his tears any longer, streaking down his cheeks through the grease paint and soaking into his balaclava.

In a deliberate act, he reaches up and pulls the balaclava off his head, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously, desperate to feel Soap's skin on his own, warm and alive, dispelling any lingering doubts.

As Soap holds him, Ghost feels himself shedding the weight of the grief that clung to him like a shadow all these years. And in the days to come, Soap's presence becomes a grounding force, for all of them. The 141- and Ghost especially-, rejuvenated by the return of their comrade, was finally whole again.

[cadaverousdecay]

asks right uhh zombies do you like zombies? wdyt is their relation to vampires??

i’ve never been super into zombies. i liked george a romero’s first two zombie films (though i prefer his film martin, surprise surprise) and i can appreciate what fears zombies are getting across. the loss of identity and the spread of untreatable disease are both terrifying concepts to me.

but zombies usually focus on the group rather than the individual and that doesn’t appeal to me as much. zombie movies are rarely about one specific case of zombiism. rather, they focus on a broader view, of swarms of people becoming zombies. (though, some movies do focus on one instance of zombiism, such as life after beth, where a guy grapples with the undeath of his girlfriend. i really liked that movie, and it used the medium of zombies to tell a super compelling story about love and grief and holding on to things lost)

i don’t like how dead zombies are on the scale of the undead. they don’t often retain any part of themself. they’re mindless, just walking corpses wearing the decaying visage of their previous life. and in most zombie media, once infected, victims beg for death before they lose themselves completely. a character turning into a zombie most often will end up with a bullet in their head. there’s no salvation, there’s no chance at “life beyond death” as, say in the form of a vampire or a ghost, where limited humanity is retained. to become a zombie is to lose all agency, all thought, all sense of self.

zombie media most often takes place in a post apocalyptic world, which also has never appealed to me. it’s always too bleak. prophetic notions and threats of an apocalypse, and even the early stages of an apocalypse interest me. but when it progresses to a state of hopelessness, when the inevitable end is the termination of life itself, when every second is a near futile struggle to stave off the end for just a little longer, i just can’t handle it. not that the media doesn’t have so much to say, i just can’t stomach it.

zombie media also very often employs mass impersonal violence, and that has never interested me. i’ve always preferred violence as an intimate act, deliberate, meaningful. zombie apocalypse survivors are expected to kill any zombie in their path, no remorse, no hesitation. watch onscreen as hundreds of animated corpses are ruthlessly destroyed en mass with bullets to their brains and don’t think about the fact that each one was once human. delight in seeing them get knocked down, in fact. these are enemies you can kill and love to kill, and not have to sweat the morality of it for one second

i appreciate the fact that most zombie movies do have moments of reckoning with the fact that these zombies were once human, and the destruction of their corpses is a bittersweetness at best. in dawn of the dead when a man is tasked with the killing of his friend who was bitten, there is the horror of the entire situation really shining through. yes it’s a mindless corpse, but it was once someone you knew. someone you loved. maybe a little part of them is still left in there. and you still must put a bullet in their head.

(this heart wrenching moment of having to kill a zombified friend/lover is portrayed so beautifully in early sunsets over monroeville by mcr, taking inspiration from the aforementioned scene in dawn of the dead)

that aspect of the zombie story is one that i enjoy. but i just don’t see it all that often. or if it’s there, it often takes a backseat. kinda how in supernatural they introduce the demon-possessed body as such a horrific and sympathetic situation, emphasizing the human soul still trapped in their conquered body, only to ignore or repress that information in order to more easily destroy demons. at a certain point in the show, little, if any weight is put on the fact that the slaying of the monster costs an innocent life.

zombie movies tend to follow that script. there’s always the knowledge in the back of the mind that what we are seeing are the remainders of actual human beings. but it only is brought up when it’s a character of importance who has become a zombie. a lot can be said about that view, reflecting the way many people only see the people they know as fully formed human beings. everyone else is an abstraction.

zombie media attempts to broach the horror of zombiism by portraying a sympathetic character who becomes a rotting shell of what they once were, but so rarely extend the sympathy to the hoard at large.

there absolutely are zombie stories that i enjoy, and probably more out there that i haven’t seen yet but would like. i haven’t yet watched warm bodies, but i do plan on it. i think that’s a zombie movie i would appreciate. romeo and juliet story where the power of love is the cure to the zombie virus. maybe a bit sappy but i do prefer it to the grim helplessness of the lack of a cure seen in a lot of zombie media

all in all i don’t dislike zombies as a medium of horror and expression. there’s a lot that zombies say (not actually lol) and they bring up a lot of issues. issues that i sometimes don’t like to face. out of all the monsters i can think of, the fate of the zombie is the most depressing.

a lot of the zombie media that im familiar with, especially the popular representations, either don’t address the depth of what the zombie implies— delegating the zombie to the role of depersonalized enemy horde that is to be killed with mass violence and not given an ounce of thought or pity— or do address the full horror of it, but in doing so, become just too bleak and hopeless for my taste.

because i’m not as interested in zombies as i am other horror creatures, i don’t know their full history and folklore. i know they were originally of haitian origin and had a vast shift in pop culture with movies such as white zombie and i walked with a zombie (haven’t seen either yet) but i don’t know much beyond that.

i do think it would be nice to learn more about them, because they have a permanent spot in the history of horror, specifically horror cinema, and i’m super interested in that, and because i do find some versions of zombies compelling and entertaining. especially the lesser known stories and the stories that subvert a lot of the popular zombie tropes that i dont care for

[brutuscastielengel]

TW: very bloody gng

"BRUTUS YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKER.

WHY COULDN'T YOU SAVE HER?!"

The forest loomed heavy with a palpable darkness, the sun’s feeble rays barely piercing through the thick canopy of twisted branches overhead. Brutus stood at the edge of a murky pond, a warped reflection staring back at him, and with it came the haunting visage of his father—a specter of shame and disappointment that clawed at the edges of his sanity.

The raw, ragged edges of his antlers scraped against the bark of the ancient tree as he thrust his head forward again and again, each impact sending a jarring shockwave of pain coursing through him. The tree seemed to absorb his fury, its gnarled surface now slick with the warm, crimson tide of his blood.

With every brutal collision, a sickening crack echoed through the air, followed by the sound of splintering bone and ripping flesh. His antlers—once symbols of pride, now jagged remnants of his identity—were mere tools of his torment. As he grasped what was left of them, a searing pain shot through his scalp, and blood gushed forth like a violent river, drenching the earth below him. The metallic tang of iron filled his nostrils, mingling with the rich, loamy scent of the forest floor, creating an intoxicating aroma of decay.

Brutus stared into the water, but it was no longer a tranquil surface; it had transformed into a grotesque mirror reflecting his inner turmoil. The visage of his father smiled back, but it was a smile twisted by malice, filled with the mockery of every moment he had failed. Rage boiled within him, igniting an inferno that consumed the remnants of his reason.

The forest around him seemed to come alive with the echoes of Artemis’s last moments—the despairing cries that had echoed in his mind like a ghostly refrain. He could still see her silhouette, a fleeting shadow, slipping into the abyss. He had failed her. The betrayal of that thought struck deeper than any physical pain. Each beat of his heart was a relentless reminder of her absence, her scream slicing through the thick air like a dagger.

With a primal roar, Brutus wrenched his antlers free, tearing flesh and sending a fresh wave of crimson cascading down his face. The pain was a sweet relief, a momentary distraction from the emotional agony that festered in his chest. The blood mingled with the earth, a macabre offering to the forest gods, and he felt a dark connection to the very ground he stood upon—a pact forged in pain and fury.