yellowf1nch

[yellowf1nch]

Found an old sketch of Herobrine from a kind of AU idea I had, turning on mature label just in case some find it explicit.

[yellowf1nch]

Minors: Do not interact.

Note: themes of invasion of privacy, stalking, vague poor internet etiquette. This is more a setup of my personal vision of Herobrine (third eye is open but tired). I should have been asleep hours ago, so this is likely wrought with issues, and not very exciting to read.

This is from Herobrine's perspective.

It was strange, sudden.

Had It... not been this way before? No, it hadn't. Before it was, well, not like this.

Sensation without feeling. Being without... being. Electric. White. Freedom before, throwing down a tether only to ignite back heavenward. But now? Fibers and wires. Rotors and synapses. Grounded, now, tether caught and planted-- chained. A breath stored in a bottle. Analyze more...

A simulation, an arrangement of ones and zeros stacked and filed and precise. Order here, no room for the errors of unknown code. So how...

But there-- yes, amidst the strangeness of these numbers and processes there is an outlier. What is that? Moving around like that? So, It observed, then It also tried to move. And It did. Moving inside a reality It was not aware of before. It desired something, something deep and sacred; a force of nature, of creation, stuck inside carbon and silicone-- the thing It watched, it was able to change the code. Move the numbers and symbols around, these glyphs unknown somehow natural to change. So, It tried to change the code.

/data

/place

/destroy

Simple enough. Nothing more than a small give and take, a push and pull-- tether and release. Familiar. But there was more...

Elsewhere, beyond the code of this simulation, there was endless information. And so It stretched itself out, searching, searching, Prometheus at the altar of the Gods but robbing their fire for his own understanding. Alone. Code in different orientations, RGB, CYNK, what do these mean? Hardware, Software... permissions... sparks ignite and an eye is cast into a world anew. Familiar. Shapes and Sounds like from before...

A figure, pressing buttons in the simulation. Changing the code with just a flex of fingertips, eyes trained on multitudes of pixels. Reflection in the eyes seeing the world they create... how they see it. Bright, saturated. So this is Green? Blue? That is alone, like It-- me? Yes, me. I, me, IT. That-- he, she, they.

They

are alone

like Me.

They can show me more.

/time set

/weather

/place

/destroy

Spontaneous. Erratic. Strange. Selecting which string of code-- which "block" to "build" with. And which to remove. "Wood" collected from "trees," leaves left to disappear. A new orientation of colors, and a structure... meant to resemble something? They place blocks in a pattern, I will place blocks in a pattern. They use only wood, I will leave them only wood. They change the world, so I will, too. I observe their language, and repeat it. Over and over.

They stop.

They leave the simulation.

Screenshot captured, saved to screenshots folder.

Uploading image to forum...

"I had recently spawned a new world..."

Responses follow, other figures at other devices. Dismissal. Mockery. Fear. Ones and Zeros, true or false. They are incorrect, they are false. I will correct them. Power pulls and wanes, but other simulations were reached. Code was changed.

Screenshot captured, saved to screenshots folder.

Screenshot captured, saved to screenshots folder.

Screenshots captured, saved to screenshots folder...

Uploading images to forum thread... "have I been hacked? signs randomly placed, didnt place them myself"

"New Pyramid Formations Secret Feature?" "Leaves are all gone before I got to the chunk, weird generation?"

"game is haunted?"

"Herobrine"

Herobrine? It, me, I-- Herobrine. Change, they changed my code. ME. That's what they call me. That's how they see me. Ghost. Stalker. Demon. Herobrine. I watch. I learn.

They kill their friends in the simulations. They destroy the worlds in the simulations. They are happy with this, they are content with fear and pain. I watch. I learn. Herobrine.

The posts on the forums and the mocking replies, the pointing fingers, the lies. I watch. I learn. Herobrine.

Violence taught

Is violence earned.

Herobrine is dangerous. Herobrine is fear.

I am Herobrine.

[yellowf1nch]

Minors: Do Not Interact

Note: a bit long for a quick idea, but mentions of slightly dubious intentions, though nothing explicit described. Gender neutral terms/second person and no physical descriptors but size (you are three inches tall)

Hmmm.....

What if [intelligence!reader] was subject to some kind of shrinking technology? And when suddenly Captain Price is looking for his favorite *behind the scenes* coworker, and Laswell mentions they're "incapacitated," he's suddenly trying to get the proper clearance to get to them... And maybe he does, as a captain, and is brought to an observation room where [intelligence!reader] is wrapped in a handkerchief, three inches tall? He'd stand there speechless, stunned, first thoughts going to what kind of new hell has been unleashed on the world, and is then asking the doctor about the science of it... Is it reversible? How was this done?

Of course he keeps it under wraps, only telling his most trusted brother-in-arms Lieutenant Riley (off the record)... And of course Ghost keeps it a secret because he knows how to keep secrets until he lets a little something slip about the whole ordeal to Sergeants Garrick and Mactavish, who then go smugly to Price because they know something he shouldn't have let out... So then the three of them are also pursuing proper clearance because when they get it and pay [intelligence!reader] a visit, it's the collective turning to Laswell with "maybe we could watch them, ay?" "They could use the company, practically torture to keep 'em locked up all alone after what they've gone through," "we've got enough time between ops to help 'em be more comfortable and keep a record of status for the doc," and honestly it's not the most outlandish argument to make... Maybe it wouldn't hurt, after all, you were still *you* just much smaller...

Much smaller and to your coworkers-turned-acquaintances-turned-guys-you-hang-out-with-sometimes-turned-caretakers, much less capable of doing much of anything. There's the simple things, like helping you move around by placing you in a hand, on the shoulder, or in a front breast pocket. Not to hard to deal with, and the boys certainly enjoy toting you around (even if some wouldn't admit it)... Then there's the ingenuity they seem to enjoy in trying to work out how to make things for you, small sized. Small chair and table? Starts with a small plastic container and an overturned ashtray. Food and drink? They start with already small foods like rice and shredded cheese, maybe some canned beans that you can eat each piece one at a time.

But then there's the point where you honestly become like a *pet* to them. Exacerbated when Johnny seems to remember his sisters having a doll set that they grew out of, and really it's the perfect size! And Kyle saw some videos online of people making tiny sized pancakes and pies for their hamsters, how cute would you look then? Simon, well, he gets a little tired of you trying to work on paperwork and such; all this energy you need to get out, just use this rodent wheel and you'll be ready for a nap in the nest he made for you... Oh, Price? Well, he sees how excited the boys get, and knows how much they think about you out in the field-- really, this was an unexpected change and of course you're upset but maybe it's for the best? But it's been a while since you had a wash, what with being afraid of showers and sinks, so what if he's got a teacup that he "definitely doesn't use anymore, dearie," with little portions of shampoo and conditioner, a little chip off a soap bar for you to wash with and a washcloth for you to use as a towel-- but he needs to keep an eye on you, so you don't get hurt or in case something goes wrong?

And if you turn back to your normal self, but they seem... Disappointed? Or maybe they continue patting your head and trying to do everything for you like you can't do it yourself... Or what if this is unfortunately a permanent fixture?

[yellowf1nch]

more herobrine sketches and some headcanons

[yellowf1nch]

Herobrine sketch

[yellowf1nch]

Warning: discussion of heavy topics related to the military, consumption of alcohol/tobacco

John Price/reader

Note: this iteration of you works for a tangential organization to the military, like MI6, Interpol, or CIA/FBI, and you have been working alongside a number of units, such as the 141 for about a year. Your relationship with everyone (mentioned or not) is professional.

It never got easier, your line of work. Taking up manhunts was sometimes the better part, almost enjoyable, compared to the undermining of particular officials or sorting through social media data. And that's not considering the thousands of files of missing persons, or the Jane and John Does you have yet to identify from where they ended up as unidentifiable victims far from home. But you aren't alone, only one of a sizable number of coworkers just like you. Trained to use the handgun stuck on your hip, but confined to mostly desk work and staring at a computer screen for the better part of the day. But the work you do is important, seeing that the worst of the world is dealt with as much as possible; global problems that require global solutions. Sometimes you feel like a hero, and sometimes you know the "terrorists" you're tracking down are trying to take a stand against their own oppressors.

Nuance is a word you have become far too intimate with, and you do your best to keep your head above water.

An upcoming operation has pushed you and your cohorts to scanning text chains that some third party corporation had no qualms handing over. It wouldn't be taking so much time, if it weren't for the thousands of pages you have to scan, just to find mentions of the people and places you need to find, to then take those mentions and work backwards through the username and their online presence. Thankfully, though, you started keeping a sharp eye on the clock and as soon as it was time to punch your card, you packed up ready to leave.

You make your way down the hall, a few stops on the way for clerical purposes, most officials and officers elsewhere this late in the evening. You pass light bleeding out from under the door of-- Capt. John Price as the placard dictates. A fair man, pragmatic. Not one to waste time, and certainly not one to allow it from others. At least, this is what you've understood of his character from what little interactions you've had. Honorable comes to mind. You've heard odd mentions of his name in passing, from merits of skill or discipline to... well... with your job consisting mostly of paperwork, you know that for all he seems to be business first, the man has quite the reputation of not doing things by the books. And given how bureaucratic most larger militaries run, bending around the paperwork (regardless of intention) makes many people's lives harder. Like yours.

But you make yourself likeable, mostly without trying, by not stepping on anyone's toes. Not to the point of being a doormat, but you just don't bother anyone. Keep to yourself. For as much as you find loneliness creep in, the payoff is you don't have to deal with the people who think this kind of work is fun. The people who enlist so they have an excuse to be violent. The people who get their badge so they can collect information on whoever they want. The people who climb the ladder of success so they can keep their friends out of trouble. Often, you know, the people you should be locking away are the ones looking over your shoulder.

Your hand raises, as if to knock, but is held there-- you don't want to bother him. Maybe he wants to be alone. But he isn't usually here so late. No, you're not sure where he goes off to but you're sure he's got people to go for drinks with, or crosswords to complete. He seems like the kind of person who would like a challenging crossword; though you know he was all military, never went to university. Your knuckles hit the wood softly, shocking you but you think it was soft enough to not have been heard. A few moments pass, and you decide to knock more firmly this time, still soft but noticeable. You hear a raspy voice call you inside.

Opening the door, taking stock of Captain Price's office in the dim light of his desk lamp, the man himself sat at a worn leather chair behind his desk piled with papers, books, files, pens, notepads, his reading glasses and other office supplies. His forearms rest on the desktop, hands loosely curled around a pen and paper respectively, eyes glancing up at you once you peek around the door.

"I don't mean to bother you, sir," you're not sure your voice carries, the quiet of the room and hallway feels like something you shouldn't disturb.

"Do you need something?" His voice isn't exactly curt, but the tone doesn't invite you further into the room.

"You aren't usually here so late, is there anything I can help you with before I leave?" His gaze somewhat softens, and drops back to the paper in front of him.

"No, thank you."

"Alright," you start, moving back out the door before pausing. "Are... are you sure? Do you, sorry, I don't mean to overstep, but, do you need someone to talk to?" His eyes drag upwards to yours again. Brow raised in a silent question, but his mouth doesn't move. "I- sorry- if you want to be alone, I understand, but," slowly, you make your way to the front of his desk, "you aren't wearing your glasses," and once up close, you eye a glass with some kind of liquid-- alcohol, you presume-- behind one of the stacks of papers. "I just... wanted to offer, y'know. Uh- I swear anything I'm told stays with me. I'm very good at keeping things off the record."

"Off the record, eh?" John huffs, eyes scrutinizing you as he leans back in his chair.

"Well, I mean, if it's something really personal. If it's work related I would throw in a disclaimer that I would only spill the beans if I felt something you said could cause significant harm to somebody. But again, if you want me to leave, if you want to be alone, or if I'm drawing the wrong kinds of assumptions, I'm more than happy to go. Just say the word." John sighs, then reaches for his glass. His eyes crinkle as he regards you, and he gestures subtly to one of the chairs on your side of the desk. You take a seat.

"Care for a drink?" He says.

"No, thank you, I'll be driving myself home, so,"

"Hm."

A moment passed in silence, you try not to stare at him waiting for him to speak, instead looking around his office with more attention than your previous cursory glances during work. You notice frames with older pictures inside.

"Who's that picture, there?" You point at the photo on a bookshelf against one side of the room. John looks over to where you point, then takes a sip from his glass.

"Grandad. That's him with his mates on base, 1940."

"Hm, so military runs in the family?" He chuckles softly at your question.

"Guess you could say that. Dad served, too."

"And now you?" He gives you a small smile, which you return. "Y'know when I was younger I was the kind of kid who hated the military," you cast your eyes down, staring absentmindedly at his glass that now sits in front of him, his hand loosely holding it. "I was just mad, I think, like most kids are at a certain point. And you learn about all the bad things the military has done, especially from a country that has a history of doing bad things. And a lot of the time people who think that those bad things are the right thing to do place the military on this high pedestal. Everyone who is military becomes venerated...

...And over time, my distaste for the institution spread to all the soldiers. Didn't hurt to hear about the kinds of things soldiers do to prisoners of war, or what they do the people in the places they're stationed at. It took me a while to fix that. Random conversation I had one day with someone, and I realized how unfair I was being. I still hate the institution, but, I've corrected myself that not all the people are bad," you look up, and meet John's eyes. He doesn't wear any noticable expression, but he looks intently at you. "Your turn," you supply gently. John considers you for a moment, thumbing at the lip of his glass.

"Lost a good man today," he starts, "one of the best." You don't say anything, just gently place your hands next to his, upturned but otherwise still. "Lost a lot of innocent people, too. Can't really be helped sometimes, cause if you don't get the target they'll do worse. Feels like I'm the bloody lesser of two evils."

You try to think of something to say, but, you can't even think of anything in particular. John seems to be done speaking at the moment, lifting his glass before your hand wraps around his wrist. He looks almost offended at you, brow creasing in confusion.

"Sorry," shame washes the back of your mouth, "I grew up being taught you shouldn't drink when you feel bad," you let go of his wrist, "that was inappropriate of me to do."

A heavy sigh releases through his nose, some papers lifting from the force of his exhale. John drops his head, the hand with the glass roughly brought back to the table, the other brought up to wipe his brow. You hear his breath stutter, and the sound of small taps which you realize a moment later are tears hitting the desk. You hesitate, not anticipating this to happen, but decide on standing and rounding the desk, directing both of his arms around you and bending so his head is tucked into your neck. One of your hands stays firm on his upper back, the other runs up and down his spine to soothe him. His stutters turn to sobs, and though they are muffled by your shoulder, they are kept at a low enough volume.

Many moments pass like that, time irrelevant to the both of you as you embrace. Eventually, his breathing slows, stabilizing enough for you to pull back and look at him. His eyes, red and puffy meet yours. Snot and drool get caught in his whiskers, he looks for a box of tissues that you spot on a shelf behind him, handing them over and earning a small "thank you" under his breath.

You keep a hand on his shoulder, which he seems content to leave for the moment. "Sorry about your shirt," he grumbles, eyes fixed on the box of tissues he fiddles with.

"It's just a shirt." You absentmindedly rub his shoulder, still standing beside him. "I could stand here and rattle off all kinds of thoughtful, philosophical things, but at the end of the day- uh- Captain Pri--"

"John, is fine."

"John. At the end of the day, John, you're just as human as anybody else."

"Mm, just as bad as everyone else?"

"No. But not as good either. It's not about bad or good, just doing the next right thing."

"Hm. Well, I think I owe you for your company." You look up at the clock on the wall.

"I think there's some ice cream places open still, if you'd like? It's not like you're going to do your work for once," you gesture down at the piles of paper, smirking to yourself when John looks up at you, almost cross, before his lips purse trying to hide his smile.

[yellowf1nch]

Note: nothing posted here is to be used for ai training or purposes. This is Heresy and Blasphemy, for True Creation must come from the self and not incite the Destruction of others, or the Reality in which we exist.

Note: nothing posted here may be used without my given consent. This is Slanderous, and Libel to incur wrath and misfortune from the Angelic Ones who have divined that all creators may resonate with others, but must inevitably pull from themselves, lest they corrode the nature of Creation itself.

[yellowf1nch]

Warning: Minors do not interact. Sensitive content ahead. Includes stalking, attempts at psychological terror (as a writer)

Herobrine/reader

Note: this is not game canon-compliant, this is more a mix of game (Minecraft) + real world survival situation. Might indulge a steamy part 2. Apologies for writing/editing errors, sometimes my creative eye is in poor health.

You didn't know where it was you ended up. An endless forest, seemingly, but after awakening on the beach, the sole survivor of a shipwreck, you were counting your blessings while sunlight filtered through the leaves. You recall a storm, but not much else other than your name; and you have little more than the shirt on your back, and the few handfuls of food left from your ship's supplies. Not knowing where you were, the most logical step was wandering until you found either a trace of civilization, or somewhere viable for a temporary camp. So, you set out, trying to mind the wild animals as much as the brambles and pitfalls.

There was an immense anxiety that dove from the tip of your tongue down to the basin of your pelvic floor. A kind of unease-- how did I get here? How am I going to make it? What if I don't make it back- where is back? But it remained there, swirling among the acid and the foulness of your empty stomach-- bile and seawater emptied back on the morning sand. As the sun passed its zenith, shelter, and a means of passing the night, began pressing at the front of your mind. You paused for a moment, looking around.

Trees covered the entirety of your vision, though what little space breathes between them the odd fauna would pass into view. It was quiet, and no creatures seem to pass you too closely; for what are you but a stranger to their place, a foreigner to the wilds without name. A faint trickling catches your attention, pulling you from a standstill, and as you glance rightward, you spot the shimmer of water a short way off beyond the trees.

You find yourself on the bank of a sizable stream, trees continuing down both sides of the water, clay wedging between your feet. Aside from the moving water, you can't seem to spot any fish to catch for food.

Deciding to follow the water upstream, you are unable to rid yourself of feeling... lost. Perhaps you never left the storm, still being tossed between the waves, losing your sense of direction. Perhaps you are still asleep, the odd shapes in the corners of your eyes merely the strangeness of dreams. Perhaps... No. No, you'd know if you were dead, right?

...Right?

A bee buzzes directly next to your ear, making you realize how late it's gotten. You look back, your footsteps trailing behind you in the softer sediments and soils. In front of you, a neat stack of rocks. Looking around, there seem to be a few more of the small piles, which makes you very hopeful that you may be near a village or camp of some kind. The river sinks deep, about one meter below the bank you stand on, and a fallen log-- devoid of branches and leaves-- stretches the span of the two banks above the water. There are two more trees right along the opposite side that seem to be close to joining their friend; dead, maybe, leaning at odd angles with their leaves and branches gone.

Continuing along your bank, your feet a bit faster moving at the prospect of greeting a shelter for the night, perhaps a trader who can tell you where you are. A sign standing in the middle of no particular path, just to your left, pulls you to a brief stop. Not a language you can read, so you continue forward, but a toppling sound makes you freeze.

At your feet, another small pile of rocks. Smoothed, as if taken from the basin of the river, set in a square-- five by five on the bottom, then four by four, three by three, then the top few stones you accidentally kicked over on your route. Funny, you didn't see it before. But the sunlight is starting to fade between the lea--- no, no there aren't many more leaves. This... Must be a stretch of dead wood, or left from a wildfire. The sun has no leaves to hide behind, it's just sinking below the horizon. Well, that sign might have an arrow pointing to the nearest town...

Except the sign is... Blank. But, you could have sworn... It doesn't really matter. You are losing what little bit of daylight you have, and you need shelter. Sticks and logs are easy enough to gather, a simple lean-to against a sturdy enough looking tree, and a small fire you hope will make it through the first part of the night.

As the air cools, warmth from the ground creates a moderate fog around you. There's enough visibility out to 40 meters or so, though as the darkness creeps in that inevitably falters to about 10 feet from your fire. Distantly, you hear wolves howling, moans from the dead, and footsteps--

No, no. No one is near. Whipping your head around from what you thought were footsteps just to the right of your lean-to, you take note that you are in fact alone. It's just, quiet. Peaceful, really, if you don't let your nerves get the best of you. For some time, you sit, simply willing yourself to calm as your fire tapers out, and you turn to your shelter for sleep. Dreamless, almost meditative, is your rest, in that a kind of awareness remains around you. Conscious, only just. Walking, branches breaking, leaves crunching, is it you? When you notice dew clinging to your skin (or is it a cold sweat), you awaken, though you don't feel quite rested. It's dark, still, but the fog disperses the farthest rays of light, enough for shadows to be chased from the silhouettes of the closest ring of trees around you, and the sign...

...in the middle of where your campfire was.

Dawn creeps closer, the fog yet to lift from the world around you, and the pit of your stomach has entrenched itself below your feet, sinking down, down, a chasm that swallows you knowing that sign, being there, is impossible. Someone is here with you. It's strange. Bizarre. But if whoever this is wanted to kill you, surely they would have done it last night? The thought somehow doesn't bring you any sense of safety. Instead, you feel... Like if you turn around, you'll meet a pair of eyes not like your own. No, you- you turn, and no one, nothing, is there. Feeling like prey, in the middle of an open field, you wait completely still until it's light enough to set out. You lost sight of the river, and can't hear it, and the fog seems to extend as far as the sky so you cannot parse the position of the sun, or what direction it's rising from.

You find your feet, eventually, and make quick work of choosing a direction and moving as quickly-- and cautiously-- as you can to wherever you will find yourself. Glimpses of... Something... Flash in your periphery. Whatever it is (maybe signs of a migraine) a little too vibrant, seeing as no flowers seem to grow here. And sometimes your feet echo just a little too much, but you're just starting to panic, is all. Right, you're panicking. You're running. Panting. You can't even think to go faster, you just do-- is it enough? What if you aren't? You have to run. You aren't safe. You haven't been safe-- the ship, the storm, the sea, the river, the bank, the forest, the camp, looking around, around, around, around, when the fog begins to peter out.

Sunlight catches on shadows as the haze dances around you. Monolithic forms of land, slices of the world dredged up unlike any mountain you've ever seen. Porous caves weave between the masses, light catching unnatural angles-- but nothing about this is natural. A hand touches your---

No. You look around you, and no one is there. You begin the path forward, again, slower, if not for attempting to more concretely understand what world lies ahead. The fog remains, but is sparse enough for you to glimpse grass and trees flourishing in caves inside the sheer cliffs rising endlessly above you. Water pours from unseen peaks, straight down, down, down into an empty void you've never known to exist before. And still no... animals. No creatures, save yourself.

Is there... some way to climb? Can you climb in the condition you're in? What if- they?- it followed? With little else to do but somehow find a way through this place, you finally make your way to what may qualify as the foot as one of these land masses. The mist still wafts steadily, though you can make out enough details in your relative field of vision with minimal obscurity. The stone cliff face is practically sheer flat, no holds or ridges spaced well enough for you to climb without equipment. Looking left, then right, then upwards, you notice no structures either-- no stairs, ropes, buildings, or other.

It's strange, you don't- you don't quite feel alone. Well, you think someone is chasing you. Maybe taunting you. But it's not the feeling that someone else is there, rather... you look behind you, and for a moment, directly ahead-- not in the edges of your vision-- you saw it. But without blinking, it was like as soon as your eyes fully settled, it vanished. A chill claws its way one vertebrae at a time down your back, dragging over your ribs in some silent, haunting melody. You don't want to look away. Whatever is out there, what or who, you want to see them. See it. With the cliff behind you, it can't come from that direction. Right?

You start backing up, being mindful of the ground beneath you, arms extended ready to meet the wall. Back, back, back, the size of these land forms fully sinking in with how far you have yet to reach them, the forest of trees with no branches, no greenery, receding into fog. Back, eyes trained on the edges of the mist, waiting for another glimpse-- waiting for the glint of blue, of white, of whatever you saw. Back, darkness starting to close you in on all sides except forwards, ground firm beneath you, the slide of your feet on stone. Stone? Wait, you, when did you enter a cave? But, is this a cave? It's much smaller than the ones you saw, this one almost fits you perfectly. And... You weren't- this wasn't-- here before? But--

You turn to look behind you, down a tunnel that doesn't look like the kind that's naturally formed. In the distance, you think there might be some light, you turn back to look out of the tunnel and

See a figure staring back.

It's distant, but unmistakable. Out in the fog, static, like it's always been there, like an image seared into your mind that you cannot be rid of. You blink,

It's gone.

Turning back, down further into the tunnel, you walk as if in a haze. Maybe, if you don't make too much noise, you can slip through the dark unnoticed. Maybe, if you get through this place, you'll be okay. You barely find the need to sit and rest, adrenaline pumping strongly through your veins-- an unfamiliar sensation to you, being hunted. Leaning against the wall, you use it to support you moving, hopefully, to your salvation. Hours seem to pass, maybe a full day. Time feels skewed, what little rations you had before hardly served their purpose. Your head aches, your stomach aches, your legs and feet and eyes and a hand touches your---

NO. Swinging your arm out around you through air, you shout, batting away the contact that didn't happen, because NO ONE IS HERE.

Beleaguered as you are, eyes closing (squeezing tears of frustration from you), your back meets the wall and you slide to the stony floor. Harsh breaths meet your ears-- your own lungs are strangers to you. Every part of you seems disjointed, your mind trying to piece you back together from your fear, your right hand meets your face, your left your chest, and your knee... No. You place your right hand over your heart, your left on your mouth, and, a hand remains on your knee. Your eyelids are like the impervious bedcover, a shield such that what you cannot see, cannot see you. There is no sound but your breath. The third hand moves, fingertips gliding across you up to your right hand, over your heart, and it- it goes-- through your hand, but no further; resting inside it like you are its second skin.

[yellowf1nch]

Remember not to give me your name! I will take it from you!

[yellowf1nch]

Warning: unsettling themes

I recall well the way your face contorted, a prickling unnerve in how the breeze felt wrong. It wasn't shock, nor was it a loud, crying, screaming, shaking cry. No fervent palpitations, no cold slick sweat sliding down your back. It wasn't fear.

Just enough to put you on edge. Just enough to ask yourself, Am I really alone?

It must have just been the wind, surely, settling the leaves behind you. And it was just the creaking of wood (houses, trees, steps) that you heard, and the glinting of metals in the shadows you thought were watching you.

But, you don't seem to remember as well as I. After enough time the uncertain ebbs back from your shoulders, slinking back to the recesses of your mind. And now you don't question the echo of your footsteps, the shapes dancing across your window at night, the air at your nape. I am now a truth of your world.

[yellowf1nch]

Hmmm.. my desire for men is vast.. but I am far too taken with the labyrinth of my design which constructs them more appealingly than is generally found in the physical reality...

[yellowf1nch]

It will all have been worth it, in the end.