#only to realize with horrible clarity

[chaos0pikachu]

that last shot of the doctors eyes after tharn and phaya boned the night away was so fucking funny like I'm picturing him at his home sipping his tea and all of a sudden going like this

#the sign #the sign the series #chaos pikachu speaks #dr cha cha slide clutches his chest like omg a heart attack?? #only to realize with horrible clarity #nope #tharn just got fucked artfully under aesthetic lighting for hours and hours by his arch nemesis #alexa play all night long by lionel richie

[dark-and-kawaii]

I love soft Haarlep and I do love your parent!Haarlep stuff but I can't help but wonder about the angst that would come from Soft!Haarlep realizing that Tav is pregnant with their child, ie a cambion (DND lore states cambion births that stem from a human mother x devil/incubus/etc always results in the mother's death).

₊˚⊹♡ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ. ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀʀɪꜰɪᴄ ᴏᴜᴛᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ. ᴏʀ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏᴜᴛᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʜᴀᴀʀʟᴇᴘ ɪꜱ ʀᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴅᴏᴠᴇ ɪꜱ ᴏᴋᴀʏ.

⋆˙⟡♡ Angst | Pregnancy | Soft Haarlep ♡

Haarlep’s usual guise of cruelty softened into something almost human as they watched you sleep, your chest rising and falling with the innocent rhythm of peaceful slumber. Oblivious to Haarlep’s unexpected worry. The incubus was always known for their merciless nature, feasting upon souls and taking whatever it is they wished without a care for the other’s wellbeing… But you… You were different.

Haarlep’s gaze drifted, lingering on the delicate features of your face before trailing down to your still flat abdomen. Inside you, unbeknownst to you, a new life was taking root. A life that Haarlep could sense with a clarity that cursed their very being...

Haarlep had always threatened to breed you, to knock you up with their demon spawn to show all of hell and Faerun that you belonged to them, once enslaved incubus, a lowly creature…

Closing their eyes, Haarlep realizes their very nature had gotten the best of them. That their very threat had come to fruition and with each beat of your heart, a silent countdown to your demise had begun…

The knowledge was a blade to Haarlep’s darkened heart. Incubi, like them, were no strangers to the fatal toll their offspring could exact on mortal lovers. History whispered of rare survivals, like Tasha the witch queen, who bore the children of Grazzt and lived to tell the tale. But you were not her. You were just some adventurer, who had gotten tangled with Raphael, which led you inadvertently into Haarlep’s embrace.

If this spawn was anything like a full blooded incubus, your mortal body would have trouble handling such a pregnancy. You could very well die trying to bring it into this world… If you even carried the spawn long enough for that to become an issue. The youngling may take you by surprise in the night and tear through you, feasting upon your very soul as it left your body.

With a heavy breath, Haarlep’s lashes fluttered back open as they placed their large hand gently on your stomach. They could only stare at it as memories flooded their mind of when you whispered dreams of carrying their offspring, begging for their threats of breeding to come true, wishing to feel your own belly swollen with a little mini Haarlep... You had smiled so brightly then… A smile they wished to keep to themselves… Haarlep wondered if that would be the last time they would ever see such a sight… Their favorite treat, always eager for a taste of the them… Always so loyal to them…

The incubus’s eyes began to harden…

A deep growl rumbled from within Haarlep, the sound echoing around the room as they thought of all the ways this could go horribly wrong. All the ways your precious mortal life could end.

The growing soul within you had to go. It must.

You were theirs. You were not supposed to be taken away from them…

They couldn't lose you.

Not you.

As they leaned down and pressed their lips against your stomach. It was a kiss, tender and loving, so out of place from their usual rough manner. Haarlep lingered there, lips brushing against the warm skin, feeling the flutter of your heartbeat underneath the softness of your flesh.

You were theirs.

Not Raphael's, not any other fiend or demon who thought they could get a claim on you.

Just Haarlep's.

Kelemvor, death itself, wouldn’t have you... Haarlep would seize the offspring, tearing it from your flesh with merciless hands if necessary…

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #raphael bg3 #haarlep #haarlep x tav #haarlep bg3 #haarlep x reader #raphael the cambion #bg3 Raphael

[babushkatty]

Tranquil SAGAU - Part 5

-> Part 1

-> Part 4

-> Part 6

Crepus Ragnvindr had been ready to die.

Ursa the Drake was a living legend amongst people of Mondstadt, a terror beyond comprehension that left destruction and death in its' wake for a millenia, with no equal to threaten it.

Utterly uncontested and utterly beyond control.

The only way to survive Ursa the Drake was to never cross path with it at all, he knew that, but it did nothing to quell his resolve.

Crepus had already been reaching for his Delusion, ready to lay down his life to protect the caravan, to protect his son with everything he had despite how hopelessly outmatched he was, despite swearing to himself to never use the Delusion at all--

His sons were worth so much more than any personal values he swore to uphold.

But he hesitated.

He didn't know why he hesitated. Ursa was right there, playing around with his son like he wasn't one of the strongest Knights of Favonius Mondstadt had, like he wasn't one of the strongest people he knew, like he wasn't trying his best to protect everyone, despite being so terribly young and undeserving of such a heavy burden that should have been his instead. The drake could have chosen any moment to get serious, to stop playing with its' food, to kill his son without even so much as trying, so why was he hesitating?

Something deep inside told him to wait.

He didn't know if it was mere instinct, if it was a higher power staying his hand or something else entirely -- but he hesitated just long enough to hear a roar from the distance.

He had to dig his feet into the ground and brace himself so the sudden storm wouldn't sweep him off his feet as it did Diluc.

His eyes watered as he tried to keep them open.

Ursa screeches a horrible sound that has his ears ringing as a dragon the color of the sky itself landed roughly on the drake -- pinning it to the ground even while it trashed and tried to throw the dragon off.

Faintly, he remembered the tales his Opa shared over a candle when they both couldn't sleep. Stories of a brilliant azure dragon blessed by Anemo itself, a dear friend of Lord Barbatos that has supposedly fallen when valiantly defending Mondstadt from a danger many centuries past.

And then a person he hadn't noticed beforehand at all slipped down from the dragon's (one of the Four Winds, he couldn't help but think hysterically, high on adrenaline and hope both) back, looking as casual as casual one could be despite the grand entrance and the dangerous drake still wiggling around underneath the dragon.

Off-handedly, he noted that they looked like they rolled out of bed and didn't bother changing. It was such a contrast against the majesty of the dragon it brought a little clarity to his mind and finally let him think a little.

He didn't reach for the Delusion again.

The conversation between the two flew over his head almost entirely as he worked on centering himself. He caught bits and pieces, of course, something about stalling and about being able to put Ursa down permamently (which he noted to himself so he could ask later, far too shaken to really focus on it now, but knowing it was too important to Mondstadt, to himself, to the safety of his sons to simply forget).

He only really got back to himself when he was mid-handshake with the mystery dragon raider, a wave of calm washing over him and the fog he hadn't even realized was muddling his senses lifting from his mind. The weird feeling of hesitation that stopped him from using the Delusion seemed to almost purr at him in satisfaction like a smug cat, before it slipped away like the wind.

He couldn't help but grin brightly at the newly introduced (Name), feeling an invisible weight lift off his shoulders.

The Knights of Favonius came with Kaeya at their helm soon after, most likely having assembled in a hurry after getting Diluc's hawk and hurrying all the way here as much as the horses and the armor allowed.

Kaeya was frazzled, worried and looking like he'd collapse from relief when he saw everyone was fine.

Kaeya was fine.

Healthy.

Uninjured.

Logically, he knew he would be fine. He knew Kaeya was far from the danger and that he was surrounded by other talented, strong Knights, but the physical reminder as he hugged both his sons tightly was appreciated.

Crepus Ragnvindr had been ready to die, but he was glad it hadn't come to that.

He had a feeling that had it not been for (Name), things would not have ended so favorably though.

A feeling of warm, soft gratitude swelled up in his heart and he couldn't help but invite them for dinner to show his thanks, at least partly. A bit of food hardly made a dent in the debt he owed them, but it was a start.

He'd think how to possibly thank the Dragon of the East at a later date.

Perhaps Elzer or Adeline would have some ideas?

☆(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ* ✨ Author Note✨

Some Crepus POV as a lil treat for everyone, to show that this truly isn't a cult fic. There is no obsession, no immediate recognition, just a bunch of really nice feelings when you're around All-Mother.

Though Crepus was a bit busy freaking out about Ursa and his sons and the assumed KIA Dvalin popping back into existence only to skeedadle immediatelly after (honestly, we should all aspire to be like Dvalin, what a damn diva), so those nice feelings didn't exactly get a front row performance XD

Guess who's gonna be really suspectible to All-Mother's presence? There are multiple answers, one of them we've already met!

Well, we met two, but one was more prevalent. Semantics, semantics~ *waving hand dismissively*

I'm getting a lot of comments and repost tags and I love each and every single one, I promise I read everything even if I don't respond to it ❤✨

✨Taglist✨

@game-savvy @chaoticfivesworld @mmeatt @avalordream @ymechi @andromeda-gay @naynayaa @undecidingfate @thedevioussmirk @tumb3ld0wn

Yell at me if I missed you!

#genshin sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #genshin impact #x reader #genshin x reader #isekai #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #x gn y/n #self aware genshin

[satoruxx]

cw: just slightly suggestive, nothing crazy

“i think you saved my life.”

he pauses. his fingers that were comfortably brushing over your bare skin halt in place. his breath gets stuck in his throat. he even stops blinking as he turns his head to look at you.

you say this with an easy-going smile on your face, still basking in the afterglow of your passion comfortably. you don’t look at him when you say it, instead choosing to stare up at the ceiling. it's silent, the sound of your breathing feeling extremely loud in his ears, but he waits. then you nod, resolutely, like you’ve made up your mind and speak again.

“yeah. you definitely saved my life.”

his heart does a thing. it’s halfway between a flip and a jump, almost like the feeling you get on rollercoasters when your organs fly around in your body. it’s both uncomfortable and exhilarating. the expression on your face unnerves him for a second and he wants to understand you. he wants to make sure that you’re present, with him, and that you are-in all sense of the word-okay.

so he turns a little more to face you, pulling your body closer to him. “what do you mean?”

you tear your gaze away from the ceiling, now staring into his concerned eyes and laugh a little. “i just realized it. you’re the reason i’m living. there’s no life for me without you in it.”

for a second he wonders why on earth you would say this. maybe it’s a remnant of your previous activities and your mind is still muddled and hazy. maybe you’re actually half asleep and just mumbling nonsensically.

but when he looks at you he sees the clarity in your eyes, steady and sure. there's a strange emotion he experiences next, an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia, heartbreak, and adoration in his chest. it’s so powerful that it brings tears to his eyes. and for a minute he’s scared you’ll notice, so he attempts to blink them back.

he doesn’t know why you said it. he really doesn’t. but he’s grateful all the same. you say it so casually, like it’s something that you’ve thought forever and it’s only common sense. but it echoes over and over again in his ears because it’s so powerful. is this what his purpose in life was? because sometimes he truly did wonder. in the early hours of the mornings when everything around him is dead in slumber, he stops to think. he wonders why he lives. he wonders what he was put on this planet for. he wonders why he should continue on when there are so many horrible things that happen.

you give him the answer just like that. in the safe comfort of your shared bedroom you say it like it’s obvious and nothing all at once. so when you laugh to yourself and snuggle closer to him, your fingers intertwining with his under the covers, his mind finds the answer to all of his questions.

you live for him, so it’s only natural that he too lives for you.

KAVEH, oikawa tooru, GOJO SATORU, childe, dan heng, kaeya alberich, zhongli, diluc ragnvindr, touya todoroki, takami keigo, nanami kento, choso, itadori yuji, jean kirstein, xiao, artem wing, gepard landau, and any of your favs i missed!

#[𐐪— rheya’s writings. 𐑂] #gojo satoru x reader #kaveh x reader #genshin x reader #kaeya x reader #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen x reader #diluc x reader #nanami x reader #xiao x reader #oikawa x reader #aot x reader #genshin impact x reader #hawks x reader #dabi x reader #zhongli x reader #mha x reader #tears of themis #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #genshin impact #jjk fluff #haikyu fluff #genshin fluff #honkai star rail x reader #gepard x reader #dan heng x reader #childe x reader

[celtic-crossbow]

Whumpuary Day 23-24

Prompt: Rescue

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; strangulation.

You saw the exact moment when Beta realized it was a trap. You had argued to be the bait, which the Whisperer had eagerly accepted, his wide strides bringing him only a few feet away before his eyes changed and panic consumed you. 

“Daryl, he knows!”

It was too late. Daryl barreled from his hiding place with his knife drawn, intending to plunge it into Beta’s skull while the other man was preoccupied. The behemoth caught the archer by the throat, backhanding you with enough force to send you careening across the room and into the wall at the far end. 

The world tilted, fuzzy and reduced to colors and shapes. You heard the unmistakable sounds of metal clattering to the floor. Daryl’s knife. Thumps, grunts, and finally a horrible wheezing filtered through before things began to shift into clarity. 

Beta had Daryl against a wall, both hands around the archer’s neck. The latter kicked and squirmed to no avail just before Beta used his body to pin Daryl in place, his only means of defense remaining were fingers clawing against the iron grip that held him at least a foot off the floor. 

“For Alpha.” The Whisperer declared, his arms long enough to keep the bowman from reaching him with a solid punch. The pressure around Daryl’s throat intensified, the whites of his eyes going red when blood vessels burst. He could no longer make noise, mouth hanging open in desperation for much needed oxygen. The process was meant to be torturous, dying slowly while the larger man looked on in twisted delight. You knew what was coming. If you didn’t act, you would surely hear the snapping of bone that would leave Daryl beyond saving. 

You shakily pushed yourself onto all fours, drawing the knife hidden in your boot. Blinded by rage, you prepared, calculating. It had to be flawless, lest you unintentionally hurt Daryl in the process. 

You allowed the memories to flow freely, supplying you with the strength you needed: Tara, Enid, Henry, Connie. The sounds of Carol’s wailing when she saw her son’s head on that pike. And now Beta dared to try and take your archer. 

You steeled your resolve when Daryl’s struggling ceased, his eyes rolling back and his limbs falling limply against the wall. Pushing from the floor, you ran at Beta before he could anticipate your attack. He thought he had time to enjoy the archer’s slow demise. 

Motherfucker thought wrong. 

You hit his side with all the strength you had, his shock leaving him susceptible to your attack. Your knife plunged into his back over and over, seeking spine, kidneys, whatever your blade could reach. The man staggered sideways, the sound of glass shattering when you forced him straight through the window. You released your knife and took advantage of your momentum, hooking an arm around Daryl’s waist as you twisted, snatching the bowman from Beta’s grip as he plummeted to the ground below in what you hoped would leave him a broken heap on the concrete. You wanted to rip off his flesh mask and leave him for his own herd to devour. 

You and Daryl struck the floor hard, knocking the breath from your lungs. You had hoped the impact would kickstart the archer’s need to draw in a breath but he remained still, silent. Two fingers to his neck found a slow thrum. 

“You don’t get to die, damn you!” You tilted back his head, pinching his nose to breathe for him desperately. It only took two rescue breaths for him to respond. A deep, painful sounding inhale that left you dizzy with relief. “That’s it. Just breathe.”  

You didn’t need to wait long before he regained consciousness, the red coloring of his eyes in unsettling contrast to the cerulean blue. “Welcome back.” You smiled wetly, petting his hair. 

“Beta?” He rasped, coughing harshly. You shushed him, your hand settling on his cheek. 

“If he’s not dead, he’s certainly not happy.” An eager but chaste kiss was pressed against Daryl’s lips. You yearned for more, needing to feel his warmth; desperate to confirm you hadn’t lost him. His throat was already darkening into a mess of blacks and deep purples. “Don’t try to talk.” Your hand returned to stroking his hair. “Just rest. We’re safe for the time being.”

With clumsy movements of heavy limbs, Daryl sought your hand, pinning it against his chest  when you offered it up. 

“I will fuck up anyone who comes near you.” A less desperate press of your lips to his forehead. “I’ve got you.” 

@thegeorgiahuntsman @livingdeadblondequeen @feral4daryl @deansapplepie @walker-bait-1973 @lazyneonrabbitt @bizquake @littlelovingideas @ririi-3 @ankhmutes @blackvelveteen1339 @sokkasimp101 @lehhos @loganlostitall @callmeyn @she-who-writes-for-multi-fandoms @gutsby @isakyakiisak @in-this-minute @eljaynosine_triphosphate @abbyreedus @wifeof-barnes @bigbaldheadname @bananafire11 @graciepies @georgiadixon @esgoraths @hutchersonsgurl @she-could-never @Kenzimae67 @nessa-mayfield @ilovedilfs4eversthings @KatelynAngel @richardsamboramylove55 @m0ss-g0blin @annhells @abi67sblog @nessieart @imgeorgeclooney @brinteylovesaliens @eduardast4rgirl @ass-butt-themusical @daryldixmedown @willowaftxn83-87 @ashtonbabe @atyourmomshouse01 @dixonzzgirl @unhingedbiatch @bultamer @lumimon47 @easystreet07

#whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno12 #rescue #strangulation #the walking dead #fic #daryl dixon #murda writes #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic

[otakuwithapen]

What happens when you take Evil Chat #1 (Chat Blanc) and mix him with Evil Chat #2 (Claw Noir)? You get Claw Blanc! He is very very not okay.

The story so far (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)

During one of Claw Noir and Shadybugs’ arguments, Betterfly attempts to intervene. He sends a Kamiko in the hopes of calming at least one of them down enough to talk. Shadybug notices the Kamiko and shoved Claw Noir in the way. Claw, reacting too slow to Cataclysm the butterfly, is Kamikotized into Claw Blanc and given the power of Hindsight to see the error of his ways.

Unfortunately, as Betterfly attempts to talk to Claw Blanc, he manages only to send him into a crisis of identity. Shadybug and Betterfly can hardly get a word in before Claw Blanc flees. Claw spends the next few days in hiding, the Kamiko stopping him from transforming back and plaguing him with horrible clarity. He’s haunted by flashes of everything he’s done, everyone he’s hurt, with and without his Miraculous. Everything he’s done in the name of The Supreme—everything he’s done in the name of his own amusement. Every innocent civilian he’d scared back into like, every Kamikotized hero he’d beaten to a pump.

For nearly a week, Shadybug searches for Claw in an attempt to bring him to his senses. After all, as much as she loathed to admit it, he was useful.

For nearly a week, Betterfly spends his nights searching for Claw in order to speak with him—meanwhile Gabriel’s days are consumed seeking his absent son.

Both find what they’re looking for at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Claw Blanc looks terrible. He looks exhausted. His cheeks are streaked with the drying wake of fallen tears. Had his eyes not already been red, they’d have been bloodshot. His hair was messy—not in the intentional, chaotic fashion he usually kept it, but in a way achieved only by neglect and nights spend in and out of sparse, fitful sleep.

Betterfly steps forward, opening his mouth to speak, before Claw Blanc cuts him off.

He was right all along. All the innocents hurt, all the little glimmers of light stomped out, Betterfly had been right all along. Shadybug and Claw Noir weren’t helping anyone. They weren’t even helping themselves. All they were was The Supreme’s personal militia, stalking the streets like pests. Claw Blanc thought back to the look on Plagg’s face every time he detransformed; horrified yet acceptant. Even the Kwami knew this was all wrong.

Shadybug and Betterfly both tried to interject to little avail, they conflicting arguments white noise to Claw. He raised his hand skywards, focusing his power into his palm. An ever present pain roared through his nerves, the decay comforting in some morbid way. He couldn’t help but wonder if Shadybug felt that same pain. Karma for all they’d done—all they’d hurt. He muttered a half-hearted apology as the destructive energy condensed into a tangible sphere. He wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore. He closed his eyes.

Cataclysm.

Pain seared in his chest, causing him to fall to his knees as his nerves screamed in agonizing harmony. For a moment, Claw wondered if this is how every hero he’d used his power on felt. Every out-of-line civilian. For a moment Claw knew nothing but white-hot pain. He heard Shadybug and Betterfly crying out for him.

As soon as it came, it was gone. The burning stopped. Claw Blanc was still for a long moment before opening his eyes again. He stared down, where his hand sat pressed against his chest. Had something gone wrong? Slowly he looked up, eyes widening at the scene before him. He stood in a charred crater, starting down two statues. One held her arms over her face as if to defend herself from some attacker, the other reached forward, offering an undeserved hand to his most bitter enemy. The ambiance of Paris was gone. No people chattered. No birds sang. No pestilent bugs nagged him for his apathy. There was nothing.

In his attempt to stop himself from hurting anyone, Claw Blanc realized, he had destroyed everyone.

#miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous #miraculous world #shadybug #miraculous shadybug #miraculous claw noir #claw noir #betterfly #miraculous Betterfly #miraculous chat blanc #chat blanc #this was supposed to be a Drabble but it turned into a story #Claw Blanc is not okay #idk if anyone has done this yet #but i did it #Claw Blanc proceeds to live in destroyed Paris like his counterpart #just significantly more guilty #Goes crazy but like in the opposite direction of Chat Blanc #get this cat some therapy #claw blanc #miraculous au

[ratcandy]

also am I interpreting Shamura as a follower correctly Have they almost completely lost their memories? With only brief glimpses coming through here and there?

because that is Devastating, right. Like, all around. Surely someone else has realized this right.

how is Kallamar going to reconcile for asking Shamura be killed first. how is Nari going to have any conversation about anything at all

Does Shamura even remember who any of them are?? I mean they remember Narinder to some extent (referring to him when Aym and Baal are revived) but what of the youngest like Leshy? Who they had the least time to know when they were still a Bishop?

and again with Nari . He definitely seemed to respect Shamura the most (as in his opinions on the rest of his siblings are not all that high), even going silent when brought silk from their domain rather than making any sort of snarky comment . Asking if they wept when they were slaughtered and now they're here. But they don't remember anything. Or perhaps only remember small things for brief moments

and it was THEM who influenced Nari, it was THEM who asked for him to be chained, it was THEM who led to ALL OF THIS. and now. Now what. Now there's nothing that CAN be said. There's no forgiveness that can be shared. There's no explanations to be given. Narinder is furious for the betrayal they cast upon him but what can he do. How can he express that when the Shamura he knew is barely there

(and not to mention HE was the one to PUT THEM into that state)

Like on one hand they now get to exist in an almost blissful ignorance, no longer weighed down by grief and regret for all they'd done, but on the other. like

They must be so confused. And to some extent maybe frustrated. They appeared in the middle of nowhere, dragged out of an eternal torment that they only remember through brief horrible flashes compounded with a tidal wave of guilt and sorrow that they can't. Remember the source of. and what?

They just live here. They work here. They worship a Lamb. They don't know why, but they suppose that's what they're meant to be doing. That's what everyone's telling them.

Save for these four strangers who keep approaching them and telling them otherwise. Claiming to be their siblings, begging for them to remember them, when all they can do is stare back because. Who are these people? Why can I vaguely feel a sense of comfort and warmth around them, as though they should mean something to me?

And sometimes they do remember. Sometimes a moment of clarity hits them and they laugh in fond remembrance of Heket's fierce temper, and how she was SO upset to no longer be the spoiled youngest when... someone else arrived, whomever that might've been. But then it's strange... Why can't they remember Heket's voice?

They swear they remember her so clearly. If they squint, the silent frog sat next to them looks a lot like her, but she would never sit in silence like this, surely. And she'd been so small back then; just a feisty little child.

Maybe they're mistaken. Maybe it's been a long time since Heket existed.

They're not all that certain. But they do know that they keep getting very obviously glanced at by a squid across the way. One who needs them to speak up, or else he can't seem to hear them. They're not sure why they knew that innately upon meeting him. Perhaps it was the sight of his tattered ears that gave it away. Of course, that must be it.

Regardless, his wary side-eyes are nothing compared to the bright red ones in the dark.

The ones that bore into them with such ferocity that they feel they should be burning beneath the gaze. But they can't tell with what emotion they're being perceived with.

All they know is that, when those three eyes cut through the veil of night to stare at them.

They feel somehow remorseful.

#like how do you begrudge someone who genuinely cannot remember anything. Not only about what they've done but even #who they are #you can get angry with them and tear them down for all they've done but what will that accomplish. they don't know what you're talking abou #all they can do is respond with empty apologies #and it's not like they're completely gone. They're not an empty husk devoid of personality #And that makes it harder because it's like nothing's changed but they can't. Remember you #Or what they've done to you #Or what they've done to anyone #and it sucks. It sucks for you. It sucks for the one who is at a loss as to who they even ARE #and you shouldn't be focusing on your own agonies here because THEY'RE the one with their MEMORIES GONE #and yet #clamtalk #ok. something came over me there. sorry #cult of the lamb #cotl shamura #watch me have completely interpreted them wrong somehow shGLKSJDGH

[ghostxrose]

Nicotine | Aizawa Shota x Reader

Summary ~ When you started dating Shota, you knew what you were signing up for. What you didn’t expect to happen was for everything between you both to come crumbling down, leaving you pinned beneath the rubble and Shota not even realizing it.

Tags/Warnings ~ Minors DNI, NSFW content, Inspired by Nicotine by Panic at the Disco, hurt no comfort, angst, failed relationship, past relationship neglect, cursing, break up, sad ending, use of Y/N

Note ~ Hey Lovelies, I wrote this one night when I was craving some angst, lol. I did include some of the lyrics from Nicotine, sorry if it's cringe. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy the read? It is very angst forward so.. I don't know.. trigger warning..? Love and appreciate you, Lovelies! <3

You had shown up to his apartment not long after he called..

Again.

As soon as you were through the door, the two of you had dove right into sloppily making out and pawing off each other’s clothing..

Again.

You two had taken your heaving chests, kiss bitten lips, panted moans, and lust heated bodies straight to his bedroom without having a proper conversation beforehand..

Again!

You let out a loud moan, your orgasm taking over your mind, as Shota gives one last thrust and groans into your mouth in one last open-mouthed sloppy kiss as he cums. He stays on top of you for a moment, lazily making out with you, before he slowly pulls out and flops onto his back next to you.

As you both lay there panting and coming down from your highs you close your eyes. Shota slowly gets up, tying off the condom and heading to the bathroom to throw it away and clean himself up.

The post-orgasm clarity hits you and the feeling of disappointment fills you as you sit up. You let out a heavy sigh as you rub your hands over your still flushed face and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your eyes scan the floor for your clothes, more negative and heavy emotions stacking themselves on top of the disappointment. Collecting your clothes from off of the floor, you start to get dressed.

“What are you doing?” Shota asks from the doorway of the bathroom, startling you a bit.

You don’t turn around to face him because you know that his face is either it’s usual tired disinterest or it’s occasional tired confusion.

“I’m getting dressed.” You state, attempting to make your tone blank and void of emotion.

“That much was obvious, (Y/N). Why are you getting dressed?” He says, his tone slightly more irritated than normal.

“This was a mistake, Shota.” You bite out, already feeling the sting of tears in your eyes.

You feel the bed dip behind you and hear Shota let out an exasperated breath as he sits down heavily.

“You said that the last three times we.. did this. I don’t understand what the problem i-”

“The problem is that we are stuck in this horrible on and off situation, Shota. I.. I can’t do it anymore..” You say, cutting him off and trying so desperately to keep your tone controlled and even.

“The only reason we’re ‘on and off’ is because you thought that being with a Pro Hero who also teaches full-time would be a walk in the fucking park, (Y/N).” Shota angrily spits, both of you still sitting with your backs facing each other.

A bitter rage floods your body and you lose the will to hold back any longer, “I never thought that, Shota! I knew it would be difficult but I was ready to put in the effort required to make it fucking work! I poured so much effort int-”

“I did, t-” Shota’s raised voice cut you off but you only let him get those couple of words out before doing the same.

“In the beginning you did, yes! But where did it go, Shota?!” You yell, turning around to face him.

“(Y/N)..” He growls out but you don’t let him get any further, once again, as everything that you’ve been trying to bury bubbles out of you.

“It’s been a year since our last date! A fucking year! All we do anymore is sleep, fuck, and go to work! I can barely remember the last meal we shared together! I fucking understood what it was that I had signed up for but it got to a point where I didn’t even feel like we were in a relationship anymore!” You continue yelling, your whole body heated from anger and tears streaming down your face.

“Y- you’re.. You’re worse than nicotine, Shota! I keep telling myself ‘one more hit and then we’re through’ but I can’t fucking stay away from you! It’s like I can constantly taste you on my lips and I can’t get rid of you! Every single day, whether I’m with or without you, fucking hurts!” Your yells crumble into choked sobs and you bury your face into your hands.

Shota is standing across from you, the bed between you both, just staring at you in silence. His eyes are the slightest bit shiny, his face is scrunched up as if he is in pain, and it’s the most emotion that you’ve seen on his face in a year. His mouth opens and closes a few times but no words come out. You compose yourself enough to look up at him with a heated glare.

“Did you even love me back the same way I loved you, Shota?” You ask bitterly. You’re met with more silence and nod your head with a dry, humorless chuckle.

“We’re done for real this time, Aizawa. Don’t fucking call me again.” You spit out as you gather the rest of your stuff and make your way out of his apartment.

You sit in your car for a few minutes screaming and choking on hard sobs over the pain of your heart shattering. “This was the last fucking time!! I fucking swear it!!”  You scream at your steering wheel, praying to any and every higher power that may be out there to give you the strength to resist getting one more fucking hit.

Note ~ Someone please tell me that I am not the only one who will actively seek out angst, sometimes.. Is it healthy? Probably not. Will I continue to look for or write angst? Yes. Anyways, thank you all so much for the love! My amazing Lovelies, I love and appreciate all of you! <3

#aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta #mha aizawa #bnha aizawa #aizawa x y/n #angst #aizawa smut #eraserhead #eraserhead x reader #eraserhead smut #hurt/angst #no comfort #breakup #failed relationship #bnha #mha #shouta aizawa x reader #bnha shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa x you

[secretmellowblog]

When I say "Victor Hugo's depiction of Jean Valjean's grief over losing Cosette is a reflection of Hugo's own grief at the death of his daughter" I'm not just theorizing-- some lines from Les Mis are basically just ripped word-for-word from Hugo's poems about the death of his daughter. Here are a few of them. Leopoldine drowned horribly with her husband only a few months after they were married; she was only nineteen. Jean Valjean's paralyzing fear of Cosette's marriage, his misguided useless rage at her husband, and his violent grief over losing her and never being able to see her again, is heavily influenced by Hugo's own grief. I have trouble finding good English translations of some of Hugo’s Leopoldine poems online, and would appreciate better links to English translations if anyone has them. But In A Villequier, one of Hugo's poems addressing God with furious grief over the death of Leopoldine, he writes:

Consider again how I have, since dawn, Worked, fought, thought, walked, struggled, Explaining Nature to Man who knew nothing of it, Lighting everything with your clarity; That, facing hate and anger, I have done my task here below, That I could not expect this wage, That I could not Foresee that you too, on my yielding head, Would let fall heavily your triumphant arm, And that you who saw how little joy I have, Would take my child away so quickly!

Which is almost word for word just Jean Valjean's:

I have left my blood on every stone, on every bramble, on every mile-post, along every wall, I have been gentle, though others have been hard to me, and kind, although others have been malicious, I have become an honest man once more, in spite of everything, I have repented of the evil that I have done and have forgiven the evil that has been done to me, and at the moment when I receive my recompense, at the moment when it is all over, at the moment when I am just touching the goal, at the moment when I have what I desire, it is well, it is good, I have paid, I have earned it, all this is to take flight, all this will vanish, and I shall lose Cosette, and I shall lose my life, my joy, my soul....

And this from the same poem:

I keep seeing that moment in my life when I saw her open her wings and fly off! I will see that instant until I die, the instant, no tears needed! where I cried: the child I had a minute ago— What? I don’t have her any more?

Is a similar sentiment to this angelic description of Cosette “taking flight” away from Jean Valjean:

Cosette, as she took her flight, winged and transfigured, left behind her on the earth her hideous and empty chrysalis, Jean Valjean.

And the moment when Jean Valjean realizes she’s in love with Marius, and has been “lost” to him without him realizing it:

The unprecedented and heart-rending thing about it was that he had fallen without perceiving it. All the light of his life had departed, while he still fancied that he beheld the sun.

This from the poem Demain dès l'aube, where Victor Hugo describes visiting Leopoldine's grave:

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Without seeing anything outside, without hearing any noise, Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed, Sad, and the day for me will be like night.

And Jean Valjean walking to Cosette's house, but never able to enter or speak to her:

There [Jean Valjean] walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which seemed to be a star to him

This bit where Hugo talks about his faith weakening/cursing God in vain after Leopoldine’s death:

Consider how one doubts, O God! when one suffers, how the eye that weeps too much is blinded, how a being plunged by grief into the blackest pit, seeing you no more, cannot contemplate you.

Is similar to Jean Valjean’s spirtual self weakening and his consience “taking flight” at the idea of losing Cosette:

Any one who had beheld his spiritual self would have been obliged to concede that it weakened at that moment. (...) Grief, when it attains this shape, is a headlong flight of all the forces of the conscience. These are fatal crises. Few among us emerge from them still like ourselves and firm in duty.

Victor Hugo agonizing over his dreams of growing old with his daughter in A Villequier:

You make loneliness return always around all his footsteps.(...) As soon as he owns something, fate takes it away. Nothing is given to him, in his speedy days, for him to make a home and say: Here is my house, my field and my loved ones!

Jean Valjean:

“As one family! No. I belong to no family. I do not belong to yours. I do not belong to any family of men. In houses where people are among themselves, I am superfluous. There are families, but there is nothing of the sort for me. I am an unlucky wretch; I am left outside.

Victor Hugo's poetry in A Villequier again:

in the midst of cares, hardships, miseries, and of the shadow our fate casts over us, how a child appears, a dear sacred head, a small joyful creature, so beautiful one thinks a door to heaven has opened when it arrives; when for sixteen years one has watched this other self grow in loveable grace and sweet reason, when one has realized that this child one loves makes daylight in our soul and in our home,

Jean Valjean:

this man, who had passed through all manner of distresses, who was still all bleeding from the bruises of fate, (...) merely asked of Providence, of man, of the law, of society, of nature, of the world, one thing, that Cosette might love him! That Cosette might continue to love him! That God would not prevent the heart of the child from coming to him, and from remaining with him! Beloved by Cosette, he felt that he was healed, rested, appeased, loaded with benefits, recompensed, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, it was well with him! He asked nothing more! Had any one said to him: “Do you want anything better?” he would have answered: “No.” God might have said to him: “Do you desire heaven?” and he would have replied: “I should lose by it.”

Victor Hugo begging God to talk to his daughter again:

Let me lean over this cold stone and say to my child: Do you feel that I am here? Let me speak to her, bent over her remains, in the evening when all is still, as if, reopening her celestial eyes in her night, this angel could hear me!

Jean Valjean thanking God for letting him speak to Cosette one more time:

The good God says: “‘You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid! No. No, things will not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in need of an angel.’

I think the ending of Les Mis never made complete sense to me until I realized that Jean Valjean isn't grieving like a parent who has watched their child grow up; he is grieving like a parent who has just watched their child die.

#lm 5.9.1 #les mis #les mis letters #i was originally going to make a joke like #men will literally spend 30 years writing les miserables instead of going to therapy #but also reading Hugo's Leopoldine poems even when the translations might be imperfect is just. agh. :_; #and also has radically shifted my entire perspective on the novel and Jean Valjean

[polyklok]

nate might have really intense kinks but he is a MASTER of aftercare.

if you’re a groupie and/or one night stand, he’ll still tend to your injuries albeit hastily as he doesn’t want you to spread rumors that ruin his “grrr scary tough guy” image and out him as an actually good person. he’s a bit weird about it, doing it silently while pushing and grabbing you in all the places you’ve been hurt, but he isn’t rough—not nearly as rough as he was. if you make a sound out of pain he’ll stop and look at you before returning to the injury with an even gentler hand.

if you’re his partner though, god he will not let go of you for a second. he loves cuddling after sex—especially if it was rough—to make sure you know he still cares about and loves you. he’ll quietly ask if you’re okay while he runs his hand down your thigh or back. if you’re injured, he’ll honestly feel pretty bad if you can believe it (post-nut clarity) and will jump at the chance to take care of you. he needs a bit of reassuring on occasion; let him know you aren’t afraid of him or angry with him for what you two did. remind him that it was consensual and you had fun. he’ll gently kiss your forehead and start to get dressed.

sorry i’m fucking gay

Bro, I AGREE, you don’t need to TELL ME-

LOOK AT HIM

Btw I’m writing this since I love this but idk what do with it-

Aftercare W/Nathan Explosion!

Nathan rolls over, taking his weight and warmth off of you. Only when the cold air hits do you finally realize how hot your own face is. You stare at his ceiling, blinking away tears from your blurry vision, a mellow sense of pleasure still swishing in between your thighs; it’s wonderful. You try to take some deep breaths but only let out pitiful whimpers. You’re still shaking, still caught up in his powerful motions that now only ghost over your body. You can feel Nathan beside you, breathing out his own grunts. The entire room has a strong scent of sex.

You’re unsure how long you’re laying there next to him, could’ve been a few seconds, a few minutes, lots of minutes. But at some point your body years for warmth again. As soon as your shakes are replaced with shivers, he somehow knows and pulls himself up to encase you. Big mistake. Once he moves your body even an inch closer to his, it becomes horribly clear just rough he had been. All the cuts, scratches, bruises, bite marks, and sore spots begin to scream on your skin. You moan, in agony rather than bliss, as your body is consumed with aching and stabbing. You begin to weep again. The pain alone, you could’ve handled, but the sense of pleasure and love fighting pain and embarrassment overwhelms you to tears.

Nathan cringes. Just moments ago, it was so lovely to torture you whilst you lay underneath him, screaming his name. But the aftermath was nothing short of hell and he couldn’t stand to see you go through it. Of course, it wasn’t entirely Nathan’s fault, you had begged him to ruin you and he had happily obliged. The two of you have always had your moments of…cruelty in the bedroom, but never before had it been so much and all at once. Tonight became particularly passionate and therefore particularly harmful to your anatomy, and now the consequences were reaching you. You were bleeding in random places. Bright hickeys and bruises were beginning to form all over. Your throat was strained from all the noises you made. Your legs wanted to die. Tomorrow, the pain would be even worse.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, running his hands over you, light as a feather, “I’m so sorry.” God, his voice was addictive.

You tried to forgive him, but your words tangled in your mind and refused to leave your throat. You moved a hand up to brush over his scalp. He understood the sentiment. Still, he began to kiss every single mark he made that was visible on your body, and there were plenty. His lips sent your mind into fuzziness. The rough pads of his fingertips gently danced over your thighs, caressing your bruises oh-so-lightly before a warm kiss took over. Your face buried into the pillow, letting him heal the wounds he had created. It was wonderful, he was wonderful.

“Love you,” He grumbled, mouth pressed again your flesh. The vibration of his rich voice gave you goosebumps. His tongue slipped over a patch of dried blood on your hip, where he had used the most beautiful blade to slice you open. He had never been shy about blood, in fact, he seemed to thrive in it, as he now made a guttural sound from tasting yours.

You whispered, all you could manage, “I love you, too.” You had stopped crying, luckily. Now you basked in warmth and tried to soothe your throbbing head.

He stared up through his dark lashes, mouth still attached to you. As much as he hated to see you in pain, this moment of vulnerability made his heart melt in ways that he could only describe in the lyrics. He pities the past Nathan, who still destroyed you all the same and yet refused to show such courtesy to fix you back up. It was once minimal, hasty, even harsh the way he seemed to be so eager to be over with you. Never again. Now, he was willingly addicted to your touch and drowned in the way you felt underneath him as he slowly treated you with all the compassion he could muster.

Nathan loved to fuck, torture, violate you until you were a mindless mess for him. But, just as much, he learned to nature and cherish the wonderful body that you so kindly submitted to him.

#polyklok is real #metalocalypse #dethklok #metalocalypse x reader #request filled #tw bloodplay #tw wounds #nathan explosion #metalocalypse nathan #nathan explosion x reader #dethklok x reader

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 2: rebirth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 2, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapter 1, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, gore, violence, death, animal death; nightmares, hallucinations, suicidal ideation, dry-heaving, hyperventilation, mental health issues.

You’re tired. Your hands are burning and your calluses sting. You don’t want to speak with your social worker, Clark Ingram. He was assigned to you after you sustained that traumatic brain injury from the horse. You know she didn’t mean it, know that Sylvie was just startled. That didn’t matter—no one listened to you. So here you are, sitting on a scratchy couch in a nondescript office, writhing with the indeterminable urge to do something.  

“Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

You grit your teeth and keep silent. Time drags on, immune to your internal conflict. 

“Is this about the horse?” Clark asks persistently. 

“Her name was Sylvie,” you feel the need to supplement. 

“Sylvie, then,” Clark corrects himself. You know he doesn’t really care, and that is perhaps the biggest offense of all. Why bother saying something if it isn’t genuine? You’ve always had a problem with faux politeness and socially-mandated compassion. You want to skip the pleasantries. Besides, this isn’t about Sylvie. But it is. But it isn’t. But it is. But it isn’t- but it is- but it isn’t-

“It’s alright,” Clark continues, momentarily breaking through the static in your mind. “I understand,”

“You do?” You ask suspiciously. You don’t believe him. 

“I understand completely,” Clark nods wisely. What he says next tears the rug from under your feet. “You placed a bird in Sarah Craber’s chest, and then put her body in Sylvie’s womb.”  You’re taken with an indescribable urge to tear him apart. “You killed Sarah Craber.”

“No, I didn’t,” you immediately respond. You feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up your throat, clawing at your lips and threatening to escape. 

“You killed her,” Clark asserts. You know something about this conversation is horribly wrong, know that a therapist shouldn’t be convincing you that you did something. Still, what is there to do? You’re required to attend these sessions, required to meet this monster’s gaze and play pretend until you’re exhausted. 

“I didn’t kill her!” You hiss venomously. The air around you almost seems to steam. “She was already dead when I found her!” The atmosphere feels terribly stifling. The walls are tunneling in on you, curving to consume you whole. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Clark says, his voice soft as if he’s trying not to spook you. This realization only angers you further. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“I didn’t kill her- ” You break off, clarity striking you. There’s a reason Clark is so desperate to paint you as the killer when you’re not. Clark Ingram is the killer those FBI agents are looking for. Clark Ingram killed Sarah Craber and so many more. Is he even a social worker? You suppose he really could be—Hannibal Lecter was a practicing psychiatrist and doctor despite being the Chesapeake Ripper. You saw his name all over the news, coupled with that FBI agent you spoke to the other day who offered you a phone number and a compassionate, patient smile. You think back to the times Clark Ingram has sent alarm bells blaring in your mind—the cruelty disguised by that sharp glint in his eyes, the dangerous gaze that you had always mistaken for an attentive one. 

You want to tell someone, want to run from the room and never stop running, until you’re speaking to Jack Crawford and the same agent as before. You desperately want to stand up, fabricate an excuse to cut the appointment short. But one acknowledgement triumphs over all these desires: no one will believe you. There isn’t a damn soul who has taken you seriously since your brain injury, and your memories of life before then are all an incomprehensible blur. You can already imagine walking into the Bureau—if you can even get past security—speaking to Crawford, watching his eyes squint before he lets out a loud laugh right in your face. 

You stare at your social worker. Clark Ingram stares back. For a while, there is nothing but silence.

Until something in you snaps. You don’t know what happens in the span of those few seconds. One moment, you’re glancing at the tableside lamp. You envision yourself grabbing at the lamp and striking Ingram over the head with it, knocking him to the floor in a heap. The next moment, you’re holding the shattered remains of the lamp in your left hand as you stand over Clark’s crumpled body. 

You’re not usually this reckless. You’ve never harmed a soul before—human or animal. You’ve always considered yourself a withdrawn person, perhaps even meek. Yet here you are, looming over your unconscious social worker as blood slowly trickles from the gash on the side of his head. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still breathing. You don’t know what you would have done with a dead body. An unconscious one, on the other hand, is a different story.

After some contemplation, you reach down and grab Ingram’s ankles. You drag him out of the office, taking brief satisfaction from the various bumps and collisions his head makes with the furniture and the doorframe. You must have some good karma, because there isn’t a single soul in the deserted office building. You bring Ingram’s body out to your car and throw him in the trunk. He doesn’t deserve anything more than that, you think. In fact, you have an idea for something that would even the scales. 

As you pull into the driveway, your plan begins to take shape. You carry Ingram into the stable, your muscle memory taking you to the stall that Sylvie inhabited just a few days ago. You want to be angry, but you have bigger, more important things to focus on. You take a deep breath and crouch down to place a hand on her chest.

Some time later, the deed is done. Blood is speckled across your hands. You briefly feel guilty—not for Ingram, but for Sylvie. The overarching sentiment running through your chest and crawling along your skin, however, is satisfaction. You take a moment to look at your vindictive masterpiece once more, before turning your back. 

With shaking hands, you reach into your pocket and pull out the scrap of paper that the FBI agent wrote the phone number on. For a long moment, you stare down at it. Are the agents really to be trusted? Should you keep this information about Ingram to yourself? You shake your head and pull out your phone, typing in the numbers with care. For a moment, the phone rings and rings. 

“Hello?” A familiar voice answers the phone. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath to steel your nerves, before responding. “Peter,” you answer habitually, before realizing you likely need to clarify. You think you hear a hitch of breath on the other end of the call, but you put it down to your imagination. “Peter Bernardone.” You clarify. 

There’s a few beats of silence. When the voice returns, it is laid with caution. “Hello, Peter.” 

Soil traps you and locks your limbs, sticking to your skin and refusing to let its presence fade. Every fiber of your being seems to twitch in restlessness and your heart races in your ears. You swear you feel something wiggling on your arm—perhaps a worm. The thought revolts you and you writhe in your natural prison. Dirt kisses your lips, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead and enforcing the insurmountable distance between you and the sunlight. The darkness is not welcome—it is too cold, too damp, too hollow. You blink and there’s a horrible cascading sound. Suddenly, it feels as if you aren’t alone. Your hands continue to twitch and you recoil when you bump against something distinctly humanlike. Turning your head to the side, you come face-to-face with the corpse of Sarah Craber. She opens her mouth and a bird crawls up her throat, wrenching its way out of her mouth and bursting toward you in a yellow blur. 

You inhale in a shuddering gasp and quickly sit up, sweat rolling down the back of your neck as you’re suddenly brought back to your bedroom. You had a nightmare. It was just a nightmare, you repeat to yourself as you wash your hands clean of the unseen dirt. You regard yourself in the bathroom mirror, displeased by what you see. Dark circles bracket your dull eyes. There’s a mark on your face from your pillow. Your scar gleams tauntingly from its position on the left side of your face—Abel Gideon’s farewell gift to you. It had been healing, until the Chesapeake Ripper lived up to his namesake and sliced it right open again. 

You rub a hand over your face and briefly rub your eyes, before pacing out of the bathroom and getting back into bed. As you stare up at your ceiling and will yourself to fall asleep, the killer’s graveyard haunts your waking mind. You can’t help but think of the victims that were buried underneath uncompromising soil, never to breathe again. Jack had warned you to brace yourself, before you came upon the scene. You thought you had. 

Your conversation with Peter the other day weighs heavily on your waking mind, from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you sit down in your office. There’s something off about it, but you can’t figure out what it is. He didn’t seem interested in providing you information. Yet, when Jack interrupted and said he had a lead, Peter almost morphed into a different person. He didn’t avoid your eye contact and his voice sounded noticeably brighter than before. You think back to that specific interaction. 

“Sorry, Peter,” you had apologized, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asked, turning towards you for the first time in the conversation. “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you responded. Your hackles had risen there, for reasons you hadn’t been sure of.  “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

Why does that exchange seem more significant now?

“What is it?” Peter had asked. “Did you find him?” 

“Did you find him?” 

Peter knew the killer was male. 

Normally, that wouldn’t be cause for suspicion. In your experience, men are more likely to commit crimes than others. However, Peter’s statement was spoken with a frightening amount of certainty—despite the lack of veritable proof. That begs the question: how did Peter know? Does he know who the killer is? 

You want to speak to Peter again, but Jack doesn’t seem to think Peter needs any further investigation. You know better, but without Jack’s approval, you’re doomed to your office. You have to simper in frustration. Somehow, you’re sure that Peter knows more than he’s letting on. You hardly got anything out of him last time. Typically, when people are so resistant to questioning, it’s because they’re hiding something. You just need to figure out what Peter is hiding.

Your phone rings, cutting you out of your thoughts. Could it be Peter? You highly doubt it, but you decide to answer the phone regardless. 

“Hello,” you respond, “Who is this?”

“Peter,” the caller responds. Their voice sounds familiar. You feel an ugly feeling slide up your skin. “Peter Bernardone.”

Your eyes widen. You look around your office, before getting to your feet and shutting your door. You return to your desk and try to rip the words from your throat. “Hello, Peter.” 

“Hello,” he responds. He sounds different than before. Perhaps it’s because you’re hearing him speak. He didn’t speak very much last time. Despite the casual nature of the conversation so far, there seems to be anticipation and tension in his voice. 

“...Did you need something?” You decide to ask. It really seems like Peter called for a reason. You know you told him that he could call to speak to you again, but you aren’t so foolish to assume he’s calling because of that. 

“I…” He breaks off, sounding hesitant. The line goes silent for a few seconds, but the time passes with infinite lethargy. All you can hear are your steady breaths, the sound of your pen as you tap it against your desk, and the clock ticking on the wall. You can hear distant voices in the hall and you’re grateful that you had the foresight to close your door. “I think I’m ready to have another conversation.”

“Excellent,” you remark. You wonder if relief is evident in your voice. It probably is—Jack and you are desperate for any new leads on this killer. The last thing you want is for him to kill again and, as of right now, you don’t have much information to determine his whereabouts or his next move. “How does…” You trail off as you glance at your clock. “... an hour from now work for you?”

“That works,” Peter responds. He sounds like he’s had enough of the conversation. You don’t necessarily blame him for being apprehensive about speaking to a federal agent. If you were in his position, you’d certainly be distrustful. 

“Great, see you then,” you answer, giving him an out. He takes it and murmurs a goodbye, before the line goes dead. For a moment, you sit at your desk, your mind reeling. While you had provided your phone number to Peter for that express purpose, you hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on the offer to divulge more information. 

An equal rush of adrenaline and trepidation runs through you. The adrenaline wins out, as you get to your feet and pace over to Jack’s office. It isn’t a long distance, and you soon find yourself opening his office door. 

“Jack,” you start. Your boss looks up from his computer. “Peter called.” 

“What?” He asks. 

“Peter called my extension,” you elaborate, before you can grasp the consequences of doing so. In hindsight, perhaps you shouldn’t be admitting to sharing your agency-assigned phone number with a member of the public. Perhaps that’s why Jack’s eyes go so wide. 

“What?” Jack hisses. He looks like he’ll burst a vein in his neck. “Agent, that number is confidential and should only be shared with other government employees and officials.”

“Never mind that, Jack,” you interject before he can continue scolding you. That’s not important—at least, not right now. You’re sure you’ll have to sit through a lengthy lecture later on, when you have the luxury to sit down and think about trivialities. “He said he was ready to have another conversation.” 

Jack stills. He knows how important another conversation could be, but he seems to be battling against the instinct to reprimand you. You stare at him and, after a few moments, he sighs. Jack looks up from his glasses, which are gradually slipping down his face. “You’re not going to get anything more from him,” he says resignedly. You rejoice internally. That remark is a sign that, although he isn’t happy about it, Jack will permit you to speak with Peter. 

“I think I’ll get something from him,” you assert. You don’t think you’ll get more information—you know you will. Peter wouldn’t be calling unless he were willing, in some regard, to give you something. You’ll take almost anything at this point—anything that will free you from the muddied cages of damp soil and suffocation that haunt your nightmares. 

“Fine,” Jack sighs, knowing there’s no point for further argument. He certainly doesn’t look amused, but he seems to have given up now.  “Read over his file before you go.” Jack goes into his desk and retrieves the file, which you take with a murmured thanks. 

In the coming minutes, you learn more about Peter Bernardone than you could have ever hoped to know. The most useful piece of information doesn’t concern Peter, though. You look down at his listed social worker, frowning at the picture. The man looks innocuous enough upon first glance. Ingram is just about the only other person mentioned in Peter’s file, aside from a sibling that hasn’t been in contact with Peter for several years. Has this social worker, Clark Ingram, been brought in? 

“Did you speak to Clark Ingram?” You ask. Jack’s gaze is fixated on his computer. For a moment, you contemplate asking again, but then he responds.

“We spoke to him for a bit, but didn't come back with anything.” Jack responds. He doesn’t look persuaded, and you don’t think you’re convinced either. There’s something about the look in Ingram’s eyes in the photo… It looks as if there’s a hidden depth beneath that expression on his face, something he isn’t telling anyone. Indeed, he looks ever so slightly smug.

“Might have to pay him a visit,” you remark. Maybe you can do that after you speak with Peter. Your best lead right now is definitely Peter, but Ingram may be a good backup plan in case Peter clams up or suddenly decides to remain silent. Jack seems to think the same, because he nods silently. Armed with information, you send Jack a mock-salute and leave his office. As you walk through the Bureau’s halls and return to your car, you think about everything that has made up the case against this killer so far. You review evidence, circumstances, and backgrounds on the victims as you drive to the stable Peter works at. He hadn’t specified a location for your conversation, you’re realizing as you continue driving. If he isn’t here, you’re going to be in for an earful from Jack. You’re willing to take that risk, though. 

Some time later, you pull into the parking lot next to an unassuming SUV and park. You steal a few seconds to take some deep breaths as you wait in your car. Your hand is wrapped around your keys and you close your eyes, tilting your head down and trying to remember why you’ve come here. You’re not recalling your purpose for the visit, but instead, the purpose behind your decision to pursue a career as an FBI agent. You wanted to make a difference. You’re getting that chance right now, and you can’t blow it. Your shoulders almost feel tight from the intangible pressure that has been thrown onto you. Thankfully, you’ve grown to be comfortable working under pressure. The life of an FBI agent isn’t convenient or relaxed—the pacing of your work is extremely sporadic, and you’re expected to be “on” and ready at all times. 

Shaking your head, you step out of your car and walk up the dirt path to the stable. When you open the doors, you’re unsurprised to find a rider with her horse. You nod at her as you walk in, pretending not to notice how her gaze burns into your back when you pass her. Somehow, you know where Peter will be. You pass several different stalls, before reaching the one he was in a mere few days ago. The plaque on the stall says “Sylvie,” which must’ve been the horse’s name. You knock on the closed stable door and, after a few moments, decide to open it. 

Peter is in nearly the same exact position as before, with his back turned to the door and his eyes evidently fixated on the horse’s corpse. 

“Hello, Peter,” you remark. Peter doesn’t respond. You give him a few moments, before taking a few steps forward to break the distance between you. With your newfound position, you’re able to see his expression. To your surprise, the look on his face is slightly… different than the last time you saw him. Before, he had looked devastated, heartbroken, destroyed. Now, he almost looks… at peace. How could he have pivoted so intensely in such a short period of time? Something about his disposition unsettles you. “You wanted to speak with me.” You remind him. 

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence and anticipation. Then, Peter speaks. “I… wanted to heal her.” 

“You… wanted to heal her,” you repeat. What or who did he want to heal? Your initial reaction is that he wanted to heal Sylvie, but that doesn't sound right. She was already dead by the time Peter arrived, so anything he could’ve done would’ve been pointless. Is he referring to… the victim? “Sarah Craber?” You ask. 

“Yes,” he responds hollowly. His gaze is still locked on the horse’s corpse.

Somehow, it’s taken you this long to realize that you’ve underestimated Peter’s role in the events that transpired that day. “You were the one to put the bird in her chest,” you realize aloud. Yellow fluttering wings rush across your vision. Peter nods quietly. You’re not surprised. You should’ve made the connection sooner—should’ve thought of the bird as a gesture made out of kindness, not maleficence.

You’re sidetracked by the strange conviction that something in this stall has changed since the last time you were here. You try to rack your brain for the juxtaposition that is occupying your attention. Peter is here still, wearing similar attire and lingering in about the same position as before. There’s you, standing a bit closer than you were last time. There’s still hay strewn about the floor. The horse’s corpse remains against the wall, and the stench is beginning to grow more pervasive. The corpse looks the same, with the womb stitched up and the entrails hidden from sight. 

Hidden from sight? You take another look at the corpse. Last time you were here, the horse’s womb was exposed and the entrails were everywhere. Now, there’s no sign of blood or innards. Indeed, the stall’s floor is missing any sign of the gruesome scene from before. It’s not unthinkable to think that someone could have cleaned it up, but the horse’s womb looks entirely different. In fact, it almost looks as if someone stitched it back together. There’s no sign of the dead foal, but you suspect it was placed back in the womb. 

“Peter, did someone come through here and stitch her womb back together?”  You ask. 

“I don’t know.” Peter answers. It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his posture shifts, his shoulders falling ever so slightly as he almost seems to cower in on himself to avoid your gaze. 

“Did you sew her back up, Peter?”  You question. Peter stiffens and you realize you may have worded your statement indelicately. You scramble to find a better way to say it. “Did… did you heal her?” 

This prompts Peter’s attention. The man turns around, staring at you with wide eyes. His eyes look ever so slightly glassy and he stares at you for several moments, before jerking his head in a slight and nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” you choke out. Your heart is still racing in your chest, despite Peter’s confession. Why are you still so unsettled and unnerved? The mystery surrounding the corpse has been cleared up. But it still feels as if something is missing. What could it be? 

“You’re not… angry?” Peter then asks quietly. You blink at him. 

“I’m not angry, Peter.” You reassure him. He seems to believe you once you utter the statement, and you watch as a little bit of the tension slips from his shoulders. There is still something that is bothering him, you think. “Now, why did you call me here?” 

“I… wanted to ask about my social worker,” Peter trails off. His back is turned again. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of having a social worker. Maybe he’s uncomfortable talking about it. Amidst your speculation, one thing is for certain: this is a sore spot for him. 

“Clark Ingram?” You question. “What about him?”

“Has he been called in for questioning?” Peter remarks. 

You probably shouldn’t be telling him anything, but you know that this needs to be an exchange in order for Peter to feel comfortable sharing information with you. Sometimes, you have to give a little to get a little. “Yes,” you say. You decide to leave it at that and wait for Peter to clarify. 

“I think he… may have a role in all this,” Peter evidently settles for saying. He sounds hesitant.

“How come?” 

“There’s something off…” Peter begins, “in his eyes. The way he speaks to me, looks at me. Sometimes, he stares at me like…” He breaks off. Like you’re a test subject? Like you’re an intriguing new science experiment? Like you hold the very world in your hands?  “I’m probably not making much sense,” Peter suddenly acquiesces, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems self-conscious and anxious all of a sudden. If this continues, he won't be comfortable sharing any more information with you. You need to express that you understand him. And if a smaller part of you truly does empathize with him, empathize with being treated as an oddity… no one needs to know. 

“No, I know what you’re talking about.” You say. Peter turns and looks at you. 

“Really?”

“......Yes,” you remark. It takes you a little while to force the words out. You don’t speak on any of your thoughts, don’t want to monopolize the conversation or change the subject. Still, you are familiar with an attentive gaze that penetrates your mental defenses, leaving you uncomfortably vulnerable and raw in its wake. You are more than familiar with the shadows that beckon you closer, calling for you to do unspeakable things to the chessmaster sitting across from you in a dimly-lit office. 

“I just came from a session with him,” Peter continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. He doesn’t offer any further explanation. 

“Ingram? How’d it go?” You ask. Peter shakes his head wordlessly. This session lies at the center of Peter’s current stress. The interaction must’ve gone quite poorly indeed, because Peter goes silent. 

“Peter, are you alright?” Peter shakes his head, although you can’t quite tell if he’s answering your question or trying to shake off a phantom grip. 

“He was questioning me. About Craber. Saying I did it.” The confession stews in the muggy air of the stable. The rotting corpse reaches your nostrils, but even that undesirable stench isn’t enough to draw your attention away from what Peter just said. 

“Ingram was accusing you of her murder?” You press. 

“Manipulating me,” Peter says, picking at his lip. “Trying to get me to confess for something I didn’t do.” 

“That’s-” You try to say, but it seems Peter isn’t finished speaking. 

“I- I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. And- I didn’t know how to handle the feeling.” Peter looks down at his clasped hands. 

“What feeling?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so quiet before. 

“Anger,” Peter responds, averting his eyes. His gaze is locked on the corner of the room. You take a step closer, then another. You take a deep breath and kneel down next to Peter, in front of the horse’s corpse. Suddenly, lightning flashes in your mind as you come to a realization.

You thought Peter’s grief explained his current positioning—the way he’s sitting in front of Sylvie’s body. That was your prevailing reasoning. You know that’s wrong now. Peter isn’t watching over Sylvie to grieve for her or comfort her. He’s guarding her. 

Why would Peter be guarding the corpse? There shouldn’t be anything there, save for the horse foal that he must’ve sewed back into the womb. But no, that hasn’t been confirmed yet. You don’t know what’s in the horse’s womb. If it were the foal, you suspect Peter wouldn’t be guarding the body. No, there’s something else. Peter put something in the womb and sewed it up to hide it. But what could it be? 

Peter placed the bird in the victim’s chest and placed the victim in the horse’s chest to heal her. This seems different. This time, whatever—whoever—he placed inside the horse’s womb was placed there as Peter tried to cope with his anger. This reconstruction was fueled by anger: anger at the injustice of the crime, anger at the thought of being accused of being the killer. Who was that anger aimed at? Where did Peter’s anger come from? “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had no choice… He was manipulating me.” 

Clark Ingram provoked Peter. Ingram was poking and prodding at him, trying to get him to confess to his role as the killer. What would Ingram gain from that? Ingram was only mentioned in Peter’s file as a social worker; they didn’t know each other prior to Ingram’s assignment. Ingram didn’t have a vendetta against Peter. No. Clark Ingram was desperate to get Peter convicted as the killer. Because…. Because… 

Clark Ingram is the killer. He tried to get Peter convicted in order to save himself. Shaking, you kneel down to the horse’s womb and press a hand to its belly. The dead foal isn’t in there—you remember it being smaller. You know what Sylvie’s womb is holding now. 

“Peter…” You remark. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears—eerily calm despite your heart thundering away in your chest. You’re choking on the words. You don’t want to speak, don’t want to cement the reality that you’re so afraid of. “Is your social worker in that horse?” 

Peter’s back is turned. He doesn’t respond for a horrible amount of time. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to maintain a sense of composure that you certainly don’t feel. A minute passes. Then another. Then another. When Peter responds, his voice is a murmur. “Yes.” 

You inhale sharply. Peter placed Ingram in the horse’s womb. He must’ve incapacitated him during their session, before bringing him back here to this stall. From there, Peter maneuvered Ingram’s body into a fetal position, before placing him in the corpse. Then, he placed the entrails and innards back in the womb, before sealing it all up again. You take a shuddering breath in, the act feeling more laborious than normal. Now that you’re kneeling next to Peter, you realize that his hands have been clasped in his lap throughout your conversation. There are muddy brown stains on the insides of his palms—dried blood. 

You don’t know how long you remain silent, staring at the corpse in front of you. Did Peter kill Ingram? You’re not sure you want to know. All you know is that, when you finally summon the courage to speak, Peter is spooked by the noise. “Will you remove him, please?” You ask. 

Peter stares at the corpse, then turns to you. He nods silently, almost imperceptibly. You pull out your gun and hold it at your side, watching as Peter slowly slices his knife along the horse’s stomach and traces the incision that he created. After a few moments, he gets to his feet and steps away. For an awful beat, there is nothing but silent anticipation. The quiet is broken by a loud gasp as the horse’s stomach pulses and eventually falls away to reveal Clark Ingram, covered in blood and entrails and panting as he returns to the open air. Ingram turns his head up and finds Peter before you; his expression soon morphs into manic rage. You quickly point your gun at Ingram and cock it, drawing his attention away from Peter. Ingram’s eyes meet yours and, immediately, a pendulum swings before your eyes. Clark Ingram murdered all those women and buried them beneath the ground. That momentary glance was all you needed to confirm your suspicions. Even now, as you look at him, you have to fight off the pendulum’s grip. You blink and you see yourself carrying a dead body, digging a hole on the earth to dump it. You blink again and you feel your hands shaking, writhing as you look at your next victim from afar. 

“Please,” Ingram begs. Old blood soaks through his clothing and colors his skin. “It’s not me.” 

You shake your head. The lie is half-baked and falls apart the moment it reaches the air. Ingram knows it too, if the positively malicious glare he sends Peter is any indication. You keep your aim steady and fixed on Ingram. Your finger twitches to pull the trigger. You grit your teeth and try to pull yourself out of the horrible compulsion to make this man hurt, the way he made those women hurt.

Ingram stares at you with a truly pitiful expression, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Please,” he says again. You consider him for a moment. He has robbed many people of their futures. This man does not deserve to continue living, even if that life is confined to a prison cell.

You’ve dealt with criminals like this before: maleficent individuals that deserve a punishment far worse than what they’re getting. This is far from the first killer that you’ve had to confine to a prison cell, despite knowing they deserve the gallows. It’s one of the most frustrating, yet necessary, components of your position. You had never fought with the notion before. Today, though, you’re grappling with the thought. Does Clark Ingram even deserve to keep living? What divine force determined that he was worthy of living, while all his victims weren’t? Hannibal’s voice whispers in your ears, reminding you of God and his violence and cruelty. If God kills, why can’t you? Your head aches. Your hand is growing sweaty and your fingers are twitching. Ingram must sense that you’re approaching the brink of your patience, because his pleas turn louder and more pronounced. 

You’re drowning in a maelstrom of memories. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons.  

“This work… it changes you.” Jack remarks, just as he said to you all those years ago.  

“The killer in the flesh,” Dr. Frederick Chilton greets you, his teeth sharpening and glinting in the light.  

“You killed Franklyn Froideveaux,” Zeller accuses.  

“In your dreams, what do you see?” Hannibal had once asked you.  

“I see myself killing Hobbs, over and over and over again,” you had responded. “I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” 

“ And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asked. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…” 

“I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted. “Killing… felt good.”  

You blink hard and tilt your head, trying to shake the thoughts away. They return in full force. A shadowed figure stands at your side, guiding your aim to Ingram’s temple. The Chesapeake Ripper smiles at you, a cruel grin that rips the veiled darkness surrounding his form. 

Someone is yelling your name and their voice reverberates through your skull. You clap your free hand over your ear in an effort to silence the sudden onslaught of noise. Everything is growing to be too much. Voices are beckoning you, peering over your shoulder and regarding Ingram with malice. You open your eyes. Your hand twitches again. 

You don’t resist the movement, instead letting your restless impulse— your killer impulse —take over. You fire your gun. The bullet carves through the air in slow-motion, before settling in Ingram’s temple and carving into his skull. Blood splatters everywhere: over the ground, down the killer’s skin, across your face. You wipe the blood from your eyes. 

You stare ahead. Clark Ingram lies crumpled on the ground, the light fading from his eyes. He manages a weak groan, before his eyes promptly fall shut. You stand frozen in front of him. There’s a ringing noise in your ears. The pendulum from before has shifted into a metronome, swinging back and forth. A hollow echo resounds in rhythm as you stare at your first true victim. You’re shaking, trembling, shivering. Your gun slips from your hand, falls to the hay-filled floor with a thud. 

What have you done? 

Ingram isn’t just a victim, now. He’s your victim. This is truly your design. Everything fell into place the moment you raised your hand and aimed at Ingram’s temple. You can hear his voice echoing in your mind, begging and pleading with you to spare his life. Please. You bring a hand to your head, the pulsing sensation nearly enough to bring you off your feet. Please. Blood is trickling from his temple, falling down the man’s face in crimson tears. Please. You can hear an achingly familiar laugh, a whisper of the cunning wit you haven’t heard in years. Please-

You put your hands over your ears and fall down to a kneeling position on the ground, desperate for a reprieve from your thoughts and the guilt and the vindictive feeling powerful enough to send flames roaring up your skin- 

It’s hard to breathe. You feel yourself dry heaving over the hay-covered floor and, when you blink, you’re kneeling in puddles of Ingram’s blood. You try to inhale slowly, but your breath is hard to acquire and your chest burns with the effort. Saliva slips from the side of your lips as you try to recover from the fear, regret, rage, revulsion, pride that settles over your form. You look at Ingram again, take a deep breath. Wipe off your mouth. Take another breath. Slowly get to your feet. Walk over to him. Check for a pulse.

He’s dead. 

What should you do? You could turn yourself in and lose your job, potentially facing prison time. You could try to dress up the crime scene, make it seem like a suicide. That would be incredibly difficult to do without indicting Peter and making him a potential suspect. Furthermore, it’s somewhat implausible to think that Ingram would shoot himself after escaping the horse’s womb, rather than trying to wound his enemy. He had no qualms about sourcing his victims, and likely engaged in combat to do so. You feel your breathing quicken as you are forced to come to terms with the reality of the situation. It feels as if the world is caving in. Rationality is giving way to the emotions that suffocate you. 

Distantly, amidst it all, you can recognize that there’s one more option. You never would have considered it before— before him, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of your mind. (It sounds like Franklyn.) However, you truly feel as if you have no better choice. And if a part of you wishes to make things even once more, to harm the criminal who ruthlessly killed Ingram in cold blood…. 

You take a deep breath. “Peter,” you say calmly. Your voice sounds unnaturally tranquil. “I need you to do something for me.” Peter looks at you quizzically. “Walk out of the stable. Go back inside and… don’t come back out until you hear me.” Peter stares at you for a long moment. He is startled. There are flecks of blood on his cheeks. Through the emotional whiplash of what you’ve done, remorse and guilt briefly prevail as you realize that you shouldn’t have gotten Peter involved in this. Thankfully, what you’re asking of him provides him an alibi for what will come next. 

“How will I know when you…?” Peter breaks off, staring at you in confusion. 

“Can I trust you to do that for me?” You interject. The sincerity in your voice seems to unnerve him. 

“Yes,” Peter responds with a perplexed but resolute nod. “Yes, I- Okay.” He takes one last look at the corpse in front of you, before turning around and heading for the exit of the stable. 

You wait a few moments, until you’re sure that you’ve given him enough time to return to the farmhouse. You’re compelled to look down at your gun on the stable floor. It’s not the preferred weapon right now. You instead reach and grab the knife at your belt, turning it over in your hands. The metal gleams at you tauntingly. For a moment, you can see blood spilling from it. It must be a trick of the light. 

You take a step closer to Ingram’s corpse. And… another one. You’re nearly standing over the body now. Your fingers feel stuck to the knife, a frozen grip forcing you to wield the weapon. You shouldn’t be doing this. But you have to pay for what you’ve done. 

You close your eyes and reach up, knife in hand. 

For a moment, your hand hovers in the air and you contemplate going back. 

It’s a foolish thought. You can never go back to the way things were. 

Your aim rings true, and the blade sinks into your forearm. You scream. 

Through the pain shooting up your arm, you manage to shakily push yourself a bit further, reaching out with your uninjured hand to grab at Ingram’s hand. From there, you manipulate his fingers so that he’s gripping the knife. You make sure to close his hand around the blade, before taking a deep breath through your teeth.

There’s a chance you won’t survive this. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

You pull the knife out with the corpse’s hand and let out an uneasy groan as pain floods through your arm. Your vision spirals, blackening around the edges and spinning in a dizzying array of colors. You feel like a marionette with limp strings, left to crumple to the ground without a puppet master. The last thing you see before your world fades to black is the neat hole carving a path straight through Ingram’s temple.

next chapter

Just in case I didn’t make it clear enough, the reader stabs himself & wipes off the prints/places the knife in the grip of the corpse. This creates a situation where it appears as if Clark stabbed the reader before he killed Clark. (Of course, the reality of the situation is that the reader killed Clark first, which he wasn’t supposed to do). By stabbing himself, he covers his tracks because he can claim that the murder was in “self-defense” and “after provocation.” It’s a little flimsy, and I’m no forensic expert, but remember that this is fiction. I can do whatever I want here. *grins*

You may be thinking: Hey, Hero (that's me)… couldn’t a stab wound like that be lethal? And the answer is… probably? I did some research to try to figure out the practicality of stabbing yourself and surviving, but it ended up triggering me so I had to stop searching.

Rationalization for Peter and his actions: Peter fades to the background once Ingram comes out of the womb because the reader is armed and serves as a blockade between Ingram and him. Peter is lurking somewhere behind you throughout the interaction, to protect himself from Ingram. Keep in mind that he is an entirely unarmed civilian, so there’s little that he could do to affect the outcome. ||| Peter does what the reader asks of him because he trusts him. Few people have ever taken the time to understand Peter, so the fact that the reader went out of his way to make him feel comfortable (such as not forcing him to talk or make eye contact) influences Peter’s view of him. Plus, Peter didn’t like Ingram. That much is obvious. Ingram’s death is not really a tragic affair for Peter. Finally, Peter was confused and searching for guidance in the chaos of the situation. So, when the reader gave him something to do, Peter jumped at the chance—in the hopes of either distracting himself or gaining clarity. ||| If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t quite remember Peter’s canonical personality, so I sort of just… went with my gut. My gut ended up writing him to be autistic, because I’m autistic and what little I remember of him seemed to fit.

The reader’s motivations for killing Ingram could be justice, Hannibal’s influence, the cruelty of Ingram’s crimes, hallucinations… or any combination. Your pick. And don’t worry, the reader isn’t going to suddenly transform into a killing machine—this was very much an isolated incident. (..or was it? jk.) This protagonist’s morality is dubious, so that this fic can be distinguished from the TV show. I also wanted him to be darker, so sue me.

Here’s a scrap from this chapter that never made it. I like it too much to let it die out in my doc:

Idly, you imagine what Hannibal would do if he were here. He’d place a hand on yours, slowly push your weapon down until it was pointed at the ground. Perhaps he’d even slip a hand under your jaw, prompt you to look at him as he smiles that infuriating smile—the one with an equal amount of unearned pride and cunning. It doesn’t matter, you have to remind yourself. Hannibal isn’t here. No one is here—not Jack, not Beverly, not Alana. There is no one here to stop you from crossing a line you won’t be able to come back from.

As always, thank you so so much for reading! I will see you all in the new year! Wishing each of you a refreshing and relaxing start to the new year! ily <3

TAGLIST: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#defectivevillain #male reader #x male reader #x gn reader #gn reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #transmasc reader #masc reader

[ectonurites]

Are Tim and Cass Cain actually close in canon? Or is that more of a fanon thing that gained canon status?

Alright, so the tldr answer is that yes pre-reboot they were close—but it wasn't something that happened immediately/right off the bat, it took time, and they didn't always perfectly see eye-to-eye. But like, it's not just some totally fanon thing, they were absolutely close.

I'm using past-tense in the above though because it's like... all the actual content with them becoming/being close is pre-reboot. Anything post-reboot with them either had them back at square one (during N52 stuff) or like, just sort of handwavey 'oh they're close again' without much actual elaboration/explanation. Theoretically nowadays everything's canon again so all the old stuff applies, but as far as I'm aware nothing has really dug all that deep back into the two of them/their dynamic.

Now, to give a brief crash course on Tim & Cass's relationship in canon...

Early on they weren’t all that close because Tim was absolutely intimidated by her & her background and like, in general seemed to just find her kinda off-putting:

(Robin (1993) #73)

However Tim eventually gets over himself & after working side-by-side with her a little bit realizes he shouldn't let being intimidated by her stop them from being friends and working together:

(Batgirl (2000) #18)

After this point they work together on several occasions, definitely communicating much better than in their initial appearances together and clearly getting along well. They're a fun lil duo:

(Superman/Batman Vol. 1 #5, Superboy Vol. 4 #85)

Then… after a while, War Games happens. Gotham goes to shit, Steph dies (well, we nowadays know she didn't really, but they sure were both grieving) and so they both independently move to Blüdhaven, which leads us to the Robin/Batgirl: Fresh Blood crossover. Which has some fun little moments with them:

(Batgirl (2000) #58)

As well as some on the more tense side, as they both navigate mourning Steph and the clashes in their ideologies/approaches to hero work—the fact that Cass wants to be & be like Batman, and the fact that Tim absolutely does not:

(Batgirl (2000) #59)

After the crossover they mostly do their own thing staying out of each other's ways in Blüdhaven—though they do get another little story together in this timeframe in Batman Allies: Secret Files & Origins that sort of rehashes the above conflict during some training together & a team-up.

And we DO also get the cute (and oft-mentioned by the fandom) moment where Tim mentions she frequently breaks into his house to shower & steal rice krispies (just for clarity sake, while fandom almost exclusively calls her 'Cass' largely to avoid confusion with Cassandra 'Cassie' Sandsmark, within the comics themselves both Cassandras get called 'Cass' and 'Cassie' at various points—considering Cass is the one who lives in the same city as Tim at this point in canon, that's definitely who he's talking about here)

(Robin (1993) #138)

So like, at this point they are absolutely comfortable with one another and pretty close, but just, they don't see eye-to-eye on everything so it's not some flawless friendship (and I say friendship specifically because at this point we're still a few years out from them actually becoming siblings). But it's absolutely an interesting dynamic!

Then… after Infinite Crisis we get to the One Year Later/OYL era which is... bad for Cass. Terrible horrible character assassination we all refer to as the 'Evil Cass arc' which began in Tim's book. I don't wanna pull panels from it because it's just... it's bad!!!!!!!!!!!! There's a reason it got retconned into Cass having been brainwashed—because it was bad.

I guess the only thing worth bringing up here in relation to Tim & Cass's relationship though (because as mentioned, Cass gets retconned into it having been brainwashing so anything from her in this era is irrelevant/moot) is the fact that Tim was obviously very upset about the whole situation because Cass is someone he cares about and he even says he considers family.

To fast forward through that mess, when we get to the end of it and the 'oh it was brainwashing haha!' retcon, Tim was the one to have on hand a counter-serum that could free her from Deathstroke's control:

(Teen Titans Vol. 3 #44)

Once Cass is no longer forced to be evil and ooc, she gets a little mini at the end of which Bruce formally offers to adopt her (and Tim, who had earlier been adopted by Bruce, is present for this—so from this point on they go from a more general 'we're like family' to actually 'we are adopted siblings').

Buuuut then Final Crisis & Battle for the Cowl both occur and Cass gets extremely pushed aside by DC, giving up the Batgirl mantle to Steph and heading off to Hong Kong.

At which point we find out that Tim & Cass have actually kept in contact (just... off-panel) during this time when she's been out of Gotham and he's been off doing all sorts of stuff:

(Red Robin #17)

When they see each other in person again, Tim urges her to be a Bat again. Maybe not Batgirl if that's not what she wants, but to wear the symbol and be part of the family. (Which she does take him up on, keeping the suit he brought her and becoming Black Bat).

She pops up again at the end of Red Robin to save Tim & also help him pull off a fake assassination attempt on himself—ya know standard stuff.

And then right before the reboot we get to see them working alongside Damian and Dick in Gates of Gotham, and see one final time that yeah—these two have kept in touch after everything, and are definitely far more on one another's wavelength nowadays than they were back in the 'fresh out of War Games' era:

(Batman: Gates of Gotham #2, #5)

So like, does fanon over exaggerate them and their relationship? Aaaaabsolutely—that’s what fanon does. But they did definitely become close after everything they went through and had a fun dynamic together!

Sadly though, as I mentioned at the start of the post, the n52 wiped everything back to a clean slate. And while nowadays post-Infinite Frontier everyone’s histories have been restored their dynamic has never really been the same again.

#sam explains

[adoptayansavealife]

(Broke) Yandere Profile: Introduction　

Jebediah

TW: stalking, violence

Yandere Type

Mental Clarity: Lucid

Jebediah is completely aware of your flaws. He sees them clearly and loves them all the same. He doesn't think of you as some kind of god or higher being. He very much sees you as an equal. Although this does have its limitations, especially when it comes to matters of intelligence or what he thinks is good for you.

As he isn't completely delusional, Jebediah is aware that his actions are possibly maybe a tad bit morally wrong and also illegal. However, legality does little to deter him. He just knows that if he doesn't get caught, he'll be fine.

He also knows that the police rarely take stalking allegations seriously without proof and he will absolutely use that to his advantage.

Method: Stalking

Jebediah full on quit his internship so that he could... check on you more. He's not delusional - he knows you're not really in danger or need his protection. No, he does it because he just likes, well, watching you. At work. At the grocery store. At the gym. And making sure other men don't get close to you.

He literally follows you everywhere in his beater car. Much to his chagrin, his car is not only very old and clunky, but also very loud. It is the opposite of sneaky and also super lame in his opinion. He will try to hide his car from you out of shame.

He hid a tracking device under the seat of your car and in the seams of your favorite backpack/purse/fanny pack. Also, in your phone, just because it was fairly easy to do.

Jebediah actually did this very soon after meeting you for the first time.

It took him a little longer to take the step to install cameras in your house when you weren't home and tap into the security camera systems at your work. A few weeks maybe. He's definitely the fall hard and fast type.

Trait: Broke

Now, let's be honest here, hidden cameras and tracking devices are NOT cheap.

He actually had a nice-ish car originally. However, he was following you home one day and you slammed on your brakes to avoid hitting a deer and he would rather die than hit and potentially kill you, so he swerved off the road and totaled his car.

Jebediah thought it was really sweet when you ran off the road to where his car had crashed to make sure he was okay. However, Jebediah refused to have you two 'officially' meet like that. After all, that would make him look 1) desperate and 2) like a horrible driver. So, after crashing into the ditch and miraculously not suffering any injuries, he knew he just had to book it before his benevolent darling began frantically searching for him. He waited for the cops to tell you to leave before coming out and telling the officers that he thought the car was going to blow up and ran to safety.

However, he quickly realized that the cost to repair his car was wayyy out of his budget. He didn't have an income coming in anymore and he was burning through savings. Those cameras and trackers were expensive after all, and his bank account was paying the price (literally). Moreso, because he followed you so much, he pretty much had to decide between takeout and starving.

Also, it didn't help that he was paying your rent. He just told the landlord that he was an uncle of yours who was taking care of his favorite niece, which worked somehow.

So, he found a lemon car on Craigslist for like 1200 dollars. The seat belt doesn't work, there are no airbags, the passenger window only rolls up 3/4 of the way, and the speedometer's stuck at 40 mph.

He barely keeps it running with pure willpower.

Jebediah's house isn't much better. It's really just a single room he's renting in a communal house that he shares with like five other dudes. A total bachelor pad is absolutely not the kind of place he wants you to know he lives in.

His room consists of a mini fridge, a single dining chair, an air mattress, two blankets, and a deflated pillow. Oh yeah, and a lot of pictures of you that he's stuck on the walls. He's that kind of yandere.

Trait: Voyeur

At first, Jebediah was content with discreetly watching you through cameras and windows. But, as time passed, he began getting...restless.

He's very careful - he knows you're smart. So, he sticks to only sneaking in your house when you're asleep or away.

It's almost depressingly easy to slip in through an open window that you forgot to lock.

At first, Jebediah was ashamed. It was one thing to watch you through cameras, but in person was another thing entirely. But you, you were just too intoxicating to resist. The smell of your clothes and your room, and the way your chest rises and falls so softly. The way you twitch as you dream; it was addicting to watch you sleep. He couldn't look away.

You were just so delicate, so... Vulnerable. You were stupid to leave the window open. Don't you understand how easily someone could slip in and take advantage of you??? You're lucky he's here every night to make sure that doesn't happen. You should honestly be grateful.

Jebediah likes to... check on the house while you're at work. He's got to make sure the cameras are working. And steal your underwear clothes.

It was an impulse the first time, but now it's a routine. After all, he only takes clothes that are already dirty. You never notice them missing from the laundry hamper. And he washes them for you he can barely afford the laundromat btw, because he's a considerate man.

Recently, while you were at work and he was roaming around your apartment, he actually found out that you have an attic. You never use it because it creeps you out and so, it's gone untouched.

Sure, they're spiders and cobwebs but it's pretty much an upgrade from his room. And if he moved in, he wouldn't have to worry about sneaking in anymore or paying rent. I mean he's already paying your rent, so it's practically his place too!

But Jebediah isn't desperate enough to take that step yet. Living in your attic would be pretty much one of the creepiest things he could do, and he is very aware of that. So, he refrains. For now.

Trait: Image-Conscious

As you've probably grasped, Jebediah is very aware and concerned with what his darling thinks of him.

He doesn't show it. He's a very confident person besides matters relating to you and doesn't really care what people think of him. He's satisfied with his intelligence and looks.

However, with you, it's different. He's obsessed with officially meeting you in the most perfect way possible. He wants to make the best impression, so you immediately like him. As such, he's compiling all your likes and dislikes. He's not the kind to change himself for a darling, but he will try to emphasize the likable aspects of himself as much as possible and minimize any flaws he has.

His car, living conditions, and general economic status are all a source of shame for him. In a way, he's very delusional about this. It doesn't matter to him if you are also broke, he's obsessed with the idea of being the ideal man and in his mind, that means he has to have money.

Jebediah knows he could make a lot of money with a job as an electrical engineer, but the thought of leaving you alone, the thought of you meeting someone else makes such a career impossible.

Jealousy Level (6/10)

Jebediah has never been the jealous type. He's had a few partners in the past, but they were never anything more serious than a few dates and a kiss or two. It wasn't that he didn't have people interested in him, he just lacked much of an interest in romance. Until you.

Most yanderes are jealous to a point, and Jebediah is no different.

However, as a lucid yandere, Jebediah isn't fully blinded by jealousy. He is able to recognize who is a threat to your relationship and who isn't. As such, the times he'll act on jealousy are when he actually thinks the man stands a shot. Or when he's feeling insecure. Then his emotions get the best of him, and he'll act irrationally.

Jebediah doesn't mind when you hang out with your friends. He's' glad you have friends that care about you and he enjoys seeing you have fun. Naturally, he'd prefer if you hung out with him, but you haven't met him yet, so he understands that. If they're bad friends however, that's another story.

If a man talks to you, he won't lose his mind and throw him off a cliff. But if a man were to start showing interest in you, much less consider asking you out - then he'd definitely get involved.

Violence Level (6/10)

Take George for instance. He was interested in you, but never had the courage to ask you on a date. George was an average guy with average looks and average intelligence and an average amount of money. Jebediah knew that you'd never date George and that George would never ask you out. So, Jebediah just taught him a lesson and went on his way.

However, Jessie, the egotistical 'playboy' of the friend group who asked you out for coffee - yeah, he needed to die. So, he dragged him behind his car for a mile. He's a careful man of course, so he picked a forest service road where no one would hear him scream.

Everyone say thank you to @22yroldicon for Jebediah's name!

This ended up being really long but oh well what can you do

#yandere x reader #yandere oc #broke yandere #yandere imagines #male yandere #tw yandere #yandere profile #yandere blog #oc x reader #yandere #stalker #possessive

[flowersandbigteeth]

Meeting your wind god mate

Wind God (Torin) x Female Reader

Summary: After your ex sold you to werewolves you meet someone new

Word Count: 2K

W: Violence, injuries, broken bones, etc. Death, injured reader

This is considerably darker than other stuff I've written...so be warned...

You were ready to die. Some part of you had really thought you could fight, when the wolves came for you. You’d used all your strength scratching with your nails and biting with your teeth, but it was no use, they were stronger than you and in greater number. While you were staring at the stars pass above you from your back, you couldn’t process what your fiance had done. As you breathed, what you assumed were your last breaths, you imagined his cool, calculating face as he’d haggled with them. He’d traded you for all of 5 soviergn, not to be worked to death as a slave or even a whore, but to be torn to pieces like a chew toy by a bunch of wolf shifters. Hot, acid tears stung your face, washing away streaks of cold mud. You felt the icy earth scrape beneath your back as they dragged you through the forest by your ankle, finally through beating you. You were numb by then and barely conscious, only able to process fleeting visions of memories. 

How could you not have seen Brian’s deceptive soul? You’d bought his lies hook, line, and sinker. Of course it had been too good to be true, what would an imp want with a human like you? You were the bottom of the barrel in this world. Your kind were slaves at best and food most often. The idea that he would bed you was preposterous, yet you’d given into the fantasy, following him like a little lamb to slaughter…and the slaughter had come. There was no safe place in Fairy for humans and you would die like most did a horrible, screaming death. 

The werewolves chattered with each other as if they were heading to a family barbecue, commenting on which pieces of you would be the tastiest. Every few feet an argument broke out over who would get what and they would have to stop so the feral beasts could battle it out with tooth and claw. Your head lolled to the side, the taste of blood coating your tongue. It would be a blessing if you lost consciousness, but it seemed your body was just strong enough to keep you halfway alert through the terrifying ordeal despite your broken bones. You could see their clawed feet digging into the dirt as they dragged you closer and closer to your death. They were already half shifted, their mouths muzzles filled with sharp fangs. 

Where were they going, exactly? Why not just murder yourhere and be done with it?

Your body was unceremoniously dumped on a stone altar and your eyes rolled around. There were seats in this clearing in the woods. Seats holding twenty or so fairyfolk leering at you with hungry eyes. So it’s to be a show, you realized, darkly as the wolves went around collecting tips from onlookers. It was to be expected, you were a human, after all. Your value was lower than even a chicken. Chickens could be adored pets, humans were only ever resented as pests. Leftovers from when the human realm and Fairy were still connected and one could pass through. Now all the portals were sealed and the last remaining humans in Fairy had been hunted to almost extinction. Only a few were allowed to live if they could be broken and used for their labor. 

You would be brutally disembowelled for the passing amusement of whoever happened to be nearby and had a few coins to spare.  The wolves would even make back the money they spent on buying you. 

You heard tearing and felt the sting of claws against your shivering body and realized they had removed your clothes. You lay bare and broken on the stone slab for all to see. You felt the heat of the wolves' breaths as they approached you, making hot gray steam in the cool air. Their fangs flared in the light of a few torches arranged around the clearing. You saw their fur, shuddering under their heavy breaths, in crystal clarity, each hair sharp and quivering. 

It’s time to die. 

“Take its head first!” someone shouted. 

“Eat its limbs, we want to hear it scream!” someone else supplied. 

You heard yourself screaming, though you couldn’t feel your throat. Pressure sliced down your leg as claws dug in, slowly, drawing out your pain. Then you suddenly felt colder than you had ever felt before. Colder than any snowy day, it was like your heart itself had stopped producing the nourishing heat that kept you alive. 

“I’m dead,” you heard a rusty voice moan, that you knew was your own. 

You waited for more pain, more shouting, more anything…but it was as if everything had frozen. You could no longer see the wolves as they moved into the darkness. And it was dark. The torches had gone out at some point, bathing them all in an eerie blackness. Even the stars, which had been out earlier, couldn’t penetrate the ink that clouded around them. It took you a moment to even understand that your eyes were open. 

Then there were screams. All around you the wind whipped up, icy cold and bitter, carrying on it howling cries of terror. You knew yours was blending with all of the others. 

What was this? Part of the show? You couldn’t see the wolves anymore or the leering fairyfolk. You blinked as the torches sprang back to life, bathing the clearing in dancing shadows. As the wind died, you realized it was raining, but this rain was thick…it smelled coppery. You tasted fresh blood on your tongue. 

You tried to move but your body was beyond your control, too broken to be useful. Your breaths came out ragged and uneven. A shadow filled yourvision, blocking out the trees above you. 

“My poor pet, what have they done to you?”

The voice that rolled over you was dark and cold. It almost stung with its chilliness, like a brisk wind. Your eyes focused on a pale face with cool gray eyes set into its chiseled countenance. The fae looking down at you was dangerously beautiful, like a lovely snake that you can tell by looking at it is venomous. His cheekbones were drawn and his full lips pressed into a thin line. You winced as an ivory hand brushed your cheek. When he pulled it away, you could see it was smudged with vivid, red blood. Death had come to collect you. 

“I’m ready Death,” you whimpered, “take me home.” 

The fae gave you a bitter smile. 

“You’ll not die tonight, pet, but we will go home.” 

He gathered you up in his arms and your skin prickled at his warmth. Home? You had no home. You were less than a rat, scurrying around looking for scraps. Rats were better tolerated.  Again, darkness and wind surrounded you, shutting out your vision and dousing you in blackness. You could only feel the fae’s torrid body against you and hear the wind assaulting your ears. 

When the darkness cleared again the sky was a deep purple, prickled with twinkling stars. Pressed against your warm captor, your body was beginning to thaw and pain invaded your consciousness.  You groaned and coughed, something hot and coppery sliding over your tongue. 

“Just a little longer,” the fae murmured. The world became a blurry mass as you moved from somewhere cold to somewhere warm. You were wrapped in something soft and tucked into the corner of a couch. 

“Drink this my sweet,” you heard and then tasted a fruity flavor on your tongue.

“Drink it all.” 

A warm finger swept up a bubble of fluid that slid down your chin and deposited it on your lips. Your dry tongue darted out to capture the liquid. Then the cloth was peeled away and again you were bare before him. His large hands slid over your body, leaving tingling warmth in their wake. You shuddered at the contrast of receding pain and blissful relief. He touched you everywhere, from your toes until finally he was just running his hands through your (Y/C) hair. You couldn’t hold back your tears and curled your now functioning limbs into a ball, whimpering. 

“Shhh, all is well. You’re safe now.” 

You blinked up at him. That was not possible, a human in Fairy was never safe. You’d escaped one death only to be captured by some other horrible fate. 

“What manner of fae are you?” you sniffled. You wanted to know how you would die. Would you be ripped apart by a beast or perhaps you’d be blessed with a quick death by a more cultured tormentor? He smiled down at you, his gray eyes seeming to get whiter, like a winter storm. 

“I am no fae, my pet,” he said, “you now belong to the north wind.” 

You gasped. The north wind? A god? He must be lying to you. You had never met a god, though you’d been told they walked Fairy in their corporeal forms. Whatever he was, you had no hope of fighting him, humans were helpless to all the species of Fairy, so it was best to entertain his delusions and not make him mad. He had healed you after all, so he must be some form of powerful fae. 

He frowned at you. 

“You do not believe me,” he grumbled. You were silent, terrified to be honest, but scared to lie if he could tell anyway. To your relief, he shook the matter away, instead looking you over. He flicked a finger at you and your nakedness was covered with a soft sweater and some black stretchy pants. Fluffy wool socks appeared, snug and warm on your feet. 

“No matter, you belong to me nonetheless,” he insisted. 

You nodded numbly. He would eat you, then. It did not matter what you thought because you would not live long enough for it to make a difference. He looked you over and moved to the far side of the room, returning with a glass filled with an amber liquid. 

He held the cool crystal up to your lips, his firm hand tipping your head back, forcing you to take it. You obediently sipped the beverage and gagged. Your cheeks flushed as the alcohol burned your throat. You quickly shoved the glass back at him and shook your head. You did not want any more. You wanted your mind to be clear, in case there was a chance for escape. You couldn’t hope to overpower or outrun a fae, but everyone makes mistakes. You might get lucky and it was best to be prepared. 

“Your color has returned,” he said solemnly, setting the glass down. 

He looked at you thoughtfully for a moment and you drew your knees to your chin, huddling deeper into the couch. 

“What’s your name, pet?” he asked. 

You looked at him suspiciously. If he was going to kill you anyway you didn’t want to share details about herself with him. You shook your head and he gave you a grimace.

“You needn’t be scared, I don’t plan on devouring you,” he said, his eyes glinting. 

You didn’t dare be hopeful. Brian had told you placating lies, as well, but you didn’t want to anger him and end your own life prematurely. 

“(Y/N),” you whispered. 

“A pretty name for my aura,” he said, smiling a little. 

You had never heard that word before. 

“Your what?” you asked. He ignored you and instead leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. Time and space warped a little as his mouth pressed against yours. You felt heat, peace, and safety all in one overwhelming gesture. Something else passed through you, something that drew the wind from your lungs. Your eyelashes fluttered as your life force was stolen from you, dragged into him in a blissful wave. It was like nothing you’d ever felt before, cool, brisk pleasure like spicy mint. He lied. He is devouring me. Just as you thought it, the energy was forced back into you, this time twining with something else. A chilly, cold thread wrapped around your spirit. As it entered you, you felt it wind through your veins, searching for every corner to occupy. You shuddered and a puff of icy air expelled from your lungs. Something was very different about you. Something else was inside of you.

“My aura,” he said quietly, “my mate.” 

Your eyebrows drew together. Not again. No more fae lies. 

“No,” you hissed, sliding across the couch, away from him. You buried your face in your knees, hardly able to contain the tears that were threatening to erupt from your eyes. Brian had spoken those words, as well. His mate, he’d said. He’d told you it was destiny. That was the only way an imp and a human could be meant for one another. They were false, fake words of devotion meant to confuse you. You wouldn’t entertain them again. You looked at him. 

“If you want to kill me, just do it. I’ll scream for you if you wish, but do not play games with my mind, fae,” you pleaded. 

He laughed at you. 

“I’ve just bound myself to you so you’ll share my lifespan, why would I kill you?” he asked, “and as I said, I am not a fae. I am the north wind. You can call me Torin.”

#my fic #oc x canon #oc stuff #oc love #monster x girl #monster romance #monster boyfriend #monster oc #human x monster #monster lover #monster fluff #yandere fluff #yandere headcanons #male yandere #yandere male

[ridhearts]

“Wanna Watch My Favorite Show With Me?” {Scarabia - Diasomnia}

Basically: would they watch ghost hunting shows with you?

Ever since I watched my first episode of ghost adventures, I've been an avid fan. I know it's not real but I just have so much fun turning out the lights and watching these ghost hunters roam around and "talk to ghosts." I have such a fun time!!!

Also I know ghosts exist in twst but when they say "it's not real" think of it as them saying that the shows aren't actually talking to ghosts/that's not how ghosts act/etc. Ghosts just being your friends kind of throws off the vibe of ghost shows but i'm just trying to have fun ok

!! information !!

characters: kalim + jamil / vil + rook + epel / idia + ortho (platonic) / malleus + lilia + silver + sebek

reader: gn!

cw: none

masterlists ⇿ requests    

Part One (Heartslabyul - Octavinelle)

• • • • • • • Kalim Al-Asim

"Hey Kalim, do you wanna-" "YES."

Had no idea what you were going to propose but said yes immediately anyway because, in Kalim's humble opinion, you have THE BEST ideas. It takes a while to get him to stop bouncing in his seat and confirm that he's down to watch a potentially scary ghost show. He still says yes!!

Kalim is the type of guy to get scared every. time. at anything even remotely paranormal but still go back and try to watch it again. However, he has a brief moment of clarity and, when Jamil asks with a huff why he's hauling so much junk food to his room, Kalim only answers that he's watching a show with you. Jamil knows something is up but decides to leave it be- "and if you forget about the food in there and get bugs, you're cleaning up the mess."

Kalim kinda spaces out during the first half of the show. He talks to you a few times, but if you prefer to watch then he'll get the hint and munch on popcorn or play with your hair or something. (Yes he wipes his hands first! He cares u 😊)

During the scary part, though, after jumping far more times than he's ready to admit, Kalim ends up clutching a pillow and curled into your side, hiding his face and peeking out. You ask him what's going on - it's not like it's a slasher film and there's a chase scene going on - but then the investigators "capture a shadow figure" and suddenly Kalim is curled into you again.

Unless you want Jamil pissed that Kalim bothered him because he was scared, you're spending the night. Kalim, for as scared as he is, falls asleep relatively fast. You're stuck in his arms for the night btw - if you get up for water, Kalim WILL wake up and follow you silently, only to scare you so YOU'RE the one screaming in fear and waking up the dorm.

• • • • • • • Jamil Viper

At first, Jamil doesn't have much of a reaction. He doesn't care much for what's on television these days (not that he has any time to watch it anyway) and ghosts just don't intrigue him like that. However, it's an excuse to get away from Kalim, and he really does appreciate the moments he gets to spend with you. A quiet moment of quality time is hardly a horrible way to spend the evening.

Jamil can sit and watch quietly, but you wind up only half paying attention to the show and talking about your day with him. If you're really curious about the ghost stories, he'll remember the location so you can look it up together later.

The investigation itself is much the same, but you both pay a little more attention to it just because it's more interesting. If you wanna poke fun, that's fine. Jamil finds your wit charming. However, if you're more the gullible type…

He's planning ways to scare you. 100%. Jamil is stealthy and he knows Ramshackle like the back of his hand at this point. He'll be able to make a room more draft, send papers fluttering, or open every cabinet in the kitchen without you even realizing he left. And if that means that he has to tell Kalim he'll be staying longer than intended and just turn his ringer on so he can keep YOU safe…well, then, that's just the way it'll have to be, hm?

• • • • • • • Vil Schoenheit

See…Vil wants to narrow his eyes at you and scoff at your childish taste in entertainment. But…with a schedule as busy as his, he tends to jump at any opportunity to spend time with you. Far be it from him to miss out on some quality time just because you want to watch a bad movie or something.

It does come with a catch, though - you're having a mini spa day while you watch. Face masks, dry hair treatments, foot masks, painting each other's nails…that's all stuff you can do while watching a show, right? He'll make smoothies for the two of you, even if you've already had one today, as a treat :)

If you want to actually watch the show, he'll keep his voice low and do his best not to keep your head turned away from the screen for too long while he applies your face mask. If you don't mind idle conversation, though, he'll happily fill in any boring spaces with some conversation.

In fact, he'll even pause the show if you get too involved in a conversation and by the time you actually finish the show, what's this? It's rather late…hm, well this was meant to be a surprise, but he does have a new set of pajamas for you. Why don't you stay the night?

Won't try to scare you on purpose, but he does look like a ghost with his white robe and white scrub mask…when you scream after happening upon him, he'll just mime rubbing his temple (so he doesn't get the mask all over his hands) and wonder why he always manages to scare people like this…

• • • • • • • Rook Hunt

He'll blink at you once, twice, undoubtedly wondering why you care about fake ghosts when you're friends with real ghosts, but then he'll throw caution to the wind and say "But of course! Fret not, mom coeur, for I will protect you!"

Hopefully you invited Rook over for a Halloween Special on a chilly night, because he is very warm and will not stand for being anywhere except glued to your side. True to his most obvious eccentricities, he can find enjoyment in any part of the show; the local legends people are sharing, the eerie abandoned buildings, whatever! Rook wouldn’t get scared even if he believed in the ghost ‘evidence,’ but he can pretend he believes in the ‘evidence’ and have a fun time!

He might try to scare you a few times, but it’ll end up more as play chase around the house until he inevitably catches you. However, if you’re scared, Rook won’t demean you, of course! He said he’d protect you and he’ll keep his word until he dies. You may not have reason to fear, but the real ghosts living in Ramshackle are steering clear from Rook for the night, just to be safe.

• • • • • • • Epel Felmier

Heheheheh, you’re asking him because you’re scared, ain’t ya? You can agree or insist that you’re not, but Epel’s already got it in his head that this is another chance for him to prove how manly he is!

He absolutely expects lots of snacks. Being invited to Ramshackle gives him a rare opportunity to eat whatever he wants without Vil’s interference! If he has any extreme requests he’ll definitely pay you back/give you the money to get it, but by now you should have some of his favorite staples in the cabinet, right?

Honestly…I can see him falling for any jumpscares, but he doesn’t get scared at the show itself? He’s convinced it’s baby stuff and now that he knows the Ramshackle ghosts, there’s not much for him to be afraid of! If you’re scared, he won’t find out until he actually calls the show baby stuff, but he feels bad immediately after and tries his best to comfort you! It’s a bit awkward, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Vil probably didn’t give him authorization to stay the night. But if you’re really scared…Epel supposes he can deal with a ridiculous punishment in exchange for some more time with you. (Rook, while supervising his punishment, will croon over the things people do for love, purposely flustering Epel for his own entertainment.)

• • • • • • • Idia Shroud

E-eh?! You’re…inviting him to do something? With you?? (So you remembered……..the two of you really are dating and it wasn’t an elaborate dream…)

He’ll sigh and mutter something about “normie shows,” but since you’re willing to listen about his interests, he can indulge you once a week to watch a ghost show. His room has the perfect ambience for that sort of thing, too: dimly lit from all the monitors and glowing trinkets, but the overhead light is never one. There’s plenty of cushions and blankets to cuddle up with, too…

He doesn’t get scared. At all. He’s played horror games scarier than what’s on screen. But he doesn’t say anything and listens if you have anything to say while it plays!

…Or, he half-listens. Honestly, he couldn’t say anything negative about the show if he wanted to. He’s instead suddenly realized how close the two of you are and how smoothly he suggested you sit this close and you readily agreed and - suddenly you’re watching your ghost show bathed in a flustered pink lighting.

This does give him an idea, though….wanna play whatever the TWST version of phasmophobia is later?

• • • • • • • Ortho Shroud (Platonic)

“Ghost hunters? But I can bring up many sources that debunk the evidence on those kinds of shows-”

Even if he doesn’t particularly care for the idea of ghosts, he’s excited to be invited!!! Ok, you need to tell him that the charm is in having fun and pretending this is a real phenomenon, but once that’s out of the way he’s totally excited to spend time with you! Should he ask Idia to come along, too?

Ortho probably doesn’t need to study what makes the show scary, but he will study how scary you find it. He’s subtly tracking your heart rate and other vitals, trying to see if they jump at anything or if your fear centers in your brain activate at the scary voices. He’s just curious!

Hopefully, you don’t get super scared by the show. If he has to leave and you’re shaking, he’ll feel really bad. Don’t worry, Prefect, you LIVE with ghosts! They’re nice! You’ll be fine!

• • • • • • • Malleus Draconia

!!! As expected, he’s pleased as punch to participate in whatever manner of recreation you want to introduce to him. However, he must first ask, whatever is wrong with your typical evening walks? You haven’t grown bored of them, have you?

He teleports to Ramshackle exactly when you told him to arrive. Even though you told him he could dress comfortably, he’s still in his school uniform. You feel terribly underdressed, and wonder for a moment if perhaps the nice, tailored, standard school uniform really IS the most comfortable and least expensive item he owns. If you try to say you feel underdressed, he’s quick to say that you look as stunning as always. Considering you’re wearing an old pair of sweatpants from the school lost and found, you doubt his judgment but don’t say anything about it.

LOVES the show if they’re in some old building. He’ll be staring in awe at the architecture and silently listing places he wants to visit for himself. He also thinks it’d be fun to roam around the places at night. It’s 50/50 on whether or not he understands that the screen is green because of night vision - if he doesn’t, he’s probably imagining a firefly-lit walk w you <3 in a haunted penitentiary

I feel like this would be the first time Malleus has experienced such a casual date. He’ll sit still as stone and be super tense, as if he’s taking some sort of etiquette test. If you lean on him, he’ll make you comfortable! But he acts as if he hasn’t been on a date with you before at first.

Wouldn’t dream of scaring you on purpose!.......the first time. But when Lilia brings it up and points out that Malleus could then play the part of your protector…maybe he suddenly decides he wants to watch the next episode with you, too.

• • • • • • • Lilia Vanrouge

Is IMMEDIATELY down. Definitely intends to laugh at all the shenanigans on screen.

He’s bringing over a mountain of snacks for the two of you to share! And besides, if he’s already hanging out with you, why not add a few movies to the mix and make the night a full entertainment binge fest!

Isn’t specifically interested in the history or anything, though he will pepper in some facts and “correct” the people on screen when they’re wrong. Choosing to trust him is a gamble, but then again, so was pursuing him romantically…

Absolutely does laugh at the dramatics while they’re investigating the building. It’s hard to be scared when he’s having the time of his life right next to you, but maybe that’s a good thing if you’re normally the skittish type?

Except…he’s definitely spooking you after the show (and the extra movies he brought) are over. Most of the time he just goes for a classic jumpscare, but you’re almost certain he’s opening doors and windows he knows you’ll walk by or breathing down the back of your neck. Still…watching the movies made him stay pretty late, so maybe he wouldn’t mind spending the night…?

• • • • • • • Silver

Sure :) Anything you want! Although, there’s no guarantee he won’t fall asleep during the show…

Silver might try to stay awake by downing as much soda as you have on hand, or engaging you in light conversation while the investigators are learning the history of the building. He’s paying attention, and he doesn’t want to interrupt your show! He just wants to stay awake since it was something you wanted to share with him

If you want to focus, he agrees…and totally does fall asleep moments later. He didn’t mean to! He was just relaxed next to you, is all!

He still feels bad, but if you forgive him, Silver will try to let it go that he fell asleep on your date again. But, to make it up for you, he’ll stay as long as you’d like and protect you if you’re scared!

…you’re not? Oh. Then…he’s still pretty tired, actually. Why don’t you both just fall asleep right here?

• • • • • • • Sebek Zigvolt

WHAT FOOLISH THINGS ARE YOU FILLING YOUR BRAIN WITH DURING YOUR PRECIOUS SPARE TIME, HUMAN?!?

Even if you’ve been dating for a while, Sebek finds it difficult to just…accept your invitation. He has to do it under a guise of “making sure you aren’t filling your mind with useless information,” or “ensuring you keep to a reasonable sleep schedule.”

Still, once you actually get him to Ramshackle, he mellows out fairly quickly. I mean, he’s still the same old mildly-ridiculous Sebek that you know in love, but he isn’t going to push you away when you purposely sit right next to him and lean into him before the show even starts. You really do have no shame…

Sebek watches with rapt attention, not wanting to interrupt your show. The only time he’ll interject is if you’re saying something to him, or if the show says something that contradicts one of Lilia’s obviously true facts that he’s told Sebek. Other than that, he’s way more invested than you thought he’d be.

Listen. Sebek is a brave knight (or will be), but he’s also very gullible. He’s probably going to wind up falling for all the shows’ tricks and “evidence.” However, that’s not going to stop him from going around your dorm like he’s scared something will jump out at him! Of course not!

Ignore the fact that he pushes you behind him as you walk from room to room. It’s sweet that he’s protecting you, if you can hold in your laughter over there being nothing to protect you from.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twxt x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #kalim al asim x reader #jamil viper x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #rook hunt x reader #epel felmier x reader #idia shroud x reader #ortho shroud #lilia vanrouge x reader #silver x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #kalim al asim #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #rook hunt #epel felmier #idia shroud #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #malleus draconia x reader

[outofgloom]

KNOWLEDGE

All of the wards in the City of Secrets were screaming. From the inland rampart to the seaward piers, from the high pinnacle of the Cinis Mai to the street-level ward-stones they rang out intruder, attacker, invasion!

The elderpriest rushed through the corridors of the ziggurat, breathless and bleary-eyed with sleep. Down the polished passages and up the crisscrossing stairs, out into the Throne Chamber he ran. The vast space echoed with the alarms as he crossed to the east door and threw it open, looked out: 

From the top of the three-sided ziggurat he could see all the inland portion of the city, all the way to the walls and the mountain waste beyond. The smoke of Valmai could just be seen in the far, far distance, a small smudge against the morning sky.

There was no army encamped there. The walls stood strong. The city was dark and silent. Still the wards rang in his ears. 

From the east door to the southwest he ran. Still nothing. The streets were quiet below, still shrouded in sleep. Soon, the sky would be alight, and the City of Secrets would grind itself into wakefulness, but not yet. Still the wards clamored on.

Finally, to the northwest he ran and threw open the last door. That was when he realized that it was not morning. Below, the waters of the Halkatarax rivered their way through the city, into the bay and its great harbor, and then out to the open sea.

But there was no more sea, and no more harbor. Where the harbor-mouth had once been, there was now a mass of land blocking passage to the ocean. A pitted, craggy island.

Behind the island, a dark bar of shadow lay along the horizon, and a fog of darkness rose up to cover the sky above. It was not morning. It was perhaps midday, but the city lay in deep gloom, a gloom that was not darkness alone. There was something in the darkness, something that breathed silence and sleep. He could feel it, and so could the wards in the stones of the city. They did not sleep, of course. They were awake, awake and shrieking to warn him.

Another ping ran through the veins of the ziggurat and shivered through his feet, shocking him to action. He stumbled back inside with fear rising in his throat. Disastrous. Where were the guards? Where were the harbor-wardens? Was he the only creature stirring in the city now? Where had the dark island come from, and what did it portend?

He fled to the center of the chamber and stood before the throne. It sat solid as ever, a great, squat mass of protobsidian, gilded with gold. It was said that the Mantax himself had carved it from the slopes of cursed Valmai long ago, enduring the gouts of magma that had poured forth upon him, to bring it away. The throne was the lynchpin of the ziggurat and its ward-veins, and only the Lord Mantax himself was allowed to sit upon it. But the Mantax was not here–he was somewhere north, taking counsel with the other Lords of Order. In his absence, only the elderpriest was allowed to touch the throne, to utilize its secrets.

The sky was growing darker outside–not brighter–and a horrible sense of foreboding fell upon the elderpriest. Another shiver went through the ward-veins.

He touched the throne.

Disorientation, and then clarity. His perception traced through channels of stone and metal, through networks laid through the ziggurat and the earth beneath it, into the streets and the buildings, through the apertures which sensed light and sound all throughout the city. It was the City of Secrets, but no secret could be kept from he who sat the throne.

The streets were empty, he found as he shifted through the various avenues of sight. He looked into the buildings and found bodies there. Terror spasmed in him for a moment before he sensed the beating of their cores. They were asleep. Room after room, building after building, the same thing. All deep in slumber. It must be the fog…

Another ping came down one of the wards to the northwest, and he raced along it to see. It was on the main thoroughfare coming up from the harbor, on the south bank of the Halcatarax. But he could see nothing.

Wait…there was a noise. He focused, couldn’t quite make it out. He ground his fingers into the surface of the throne, tried to increase the connection, but it was no use. He wavered for a moment…only the Lord Mantax could sit the throne. 

But Mantax was not here. He was the only one here. Surely he would be forgiven.

The elderpriest clambered up onto the great seat, felt the interweaving grooves in the arms and back of the chair. He focused again and thrilled with the deeper connection. Back along the ward-veins he flew, and looked out onto the thoroughfare once more. The sound rang out again. Metal on stone. Close by. There was a shape moving in the fog, moving away. He raced ahead, along the local ward-vein, and looked out again. The shape resolved, and it was–

It was slit-eyes and a bent back, topped with spines. It was a staff humming with a sleep-inducing power, amplified through the gloom. And there was another: more slit-eyes, and a staff projecting a field of silence.

It was Rahkshi…and there were more, so many more. An army of Rahkshi creeping through the dark, all along the thoroughfare, and out into the city. They were emerging from the waters of the harbor, down from the shores of the island at the harbor’s mouth. 

That island…it was…He knew the shape of that island. There were deep pits in its surface, and from the pits came even more creatures: beasts that flitted through the air and others that crawled along the ground. Rahi creatures. Creatures of the Makuta.

Invasion. His jaw clenched at the realization, and he floundered for a moment in the ward-space, seeking for the right impulses to activate. The Mantax had spoken of the possibility that the Makuta might move against the Lords of Order, but there had been no open conflict. 

His hands skittered desperately across the grooves of the throne. 

Where was the Lord Mantax, and where were his armies? Surely he would be here soon. He knew all secrets; surely this was no exception. He would be here soon, yes, to ambush the invading force and destroy them, like so many times before. 

Where, where…what was the right configuration? He struggled to remember.

But…but if that was the plan, why had the Lord Mantax not apprised him? He was the elderpriest of the ziggurat. Was he no longer trusted? He had kept so many secrets, and so faithfully… 

Finally, the elderpriest found what he sought. Signals traveled out into the city, and things began to happen. Lightstones blazed bright along the streets, and earsplitting alarms began to clamor in the air. Many doors slammed shut, and others opened. There was a stir in some quarters, as the city's inhabitants were finally shocked into wakefulness. Awake and defend yourselves!

He could see more clearly now. He raced back to the main thoroughfare, looked out onto the street. A horrible noise of shrieking assaulted him as his perceptions emerged through the aperture, and he had to dial it back for a moment. The Rahkshi were screaming and fleeing from the lights. One of the creatures smashed its staff into the base of an obelisk and the spire toppled over, shattering its lightstone across the ground. The glowing shards repulsed the creatures even more.

He laughed at his success, watching them in disarray. He would awaken the guards and the harbor-wardens. He would lead the counterattack from here, and repulse the enemy. The Makuta thought to capture the city through sleep and silence, with their dull servants? Foolishness! Perhaps he would even capture the dark island itself, and add its secrets to his own—

The base of the ziggurat pinged him loudly, and his exulting stopped. Somewhere on the crisscrossing stairs outside. Had they penetrated that far into the city? He had seen no Rahkshi on the way. A chill went down his spine as he abandoned the further wards and moved to the ziggurat itself. There were guards on the ground now, shaking off sleep and brandishing weapons, and the pathetic Matoran were running here and there in terror. 

Shouts moved through the air as he set the wards to signal out the positions of the intruders in the streets. Then he was racing up the outside of the ziggurat, seeking the invaders along the stairs, commanding the outer doors to bolt and seal, and seal again, and—

He was seized bodily, and all his perceptions dissolved into a spinning, sickening rush as he was dragged from the throne and went sailing through the air…then resolved into red pain as he smashed into the far wall of the throne chamber.

More pain as he slid down and struck the polished floor. Agony rolled through his body, and he knew that his gilded armor was broken and bent. The personal wards in his armor plates told him that his internals were damaged. It was bad.

He was face down on the floor, but he realized that he was still seeing something. His perception was limned with red, and it throbbed horribly, but he was still connected to the ward-veins somehow. He was seeing the interior of the Throne Chamber. There he was, a broken pile on the floor, and there was the throne at the center, and between…

Between him and the throne there was a thing standing. It was made of many plates and metal shapes, joined by pistons and connecting gears. It did not move like a living thing, but more like the automatons he had seen the Fe-Matoran produce. It stalked toward his inert form, each limb moving as if by a separate, disjoint instruction. His disembodied senses felt the thing's feet blunt against the polished floor. Pain surged again, and he struggled to focus. He looked toward the throne. If he was still connected to the ward-veins, maybe he could—

The thing stopped suddenly and turned with surprising speed. All at once he was staring down into two bright green eyes behind a foreign mask. It was not looking at his body, but at him–at the point where his perceptions emitted through the wards. It could see him. 

The eyes glowed painfully bright, and an unknown power obliterated the aperture, flinging him back into his own skull. He retched at the reversal of his disembodiment, coughing and struggling on the floor. His sight had returned, though still blurry. He heaved himself up on one arm. The thing had already turned back to him. It stood over him now, and he waited for it to strike...

It did not strike. Instead, the thing reached down and touched him with one of its iron fingers...and the pain vanished. The rents in his armor closed, and his internal wards signaled a lessening of damage. He was…healed.

“Who…are you?” he asked breathlessly, pressing himself back against the wall, afraid, but thankful that he could breathe comfortably again.

A voice issued from behind the strange mask. It was not a living voice, but generated by mechanical means, he was sure.

“Do you not know?” the voice said.

“I do not.” It was the truth. Rahkshi and Rahi he knew, but not this mechanical thing.

“Are you not the elderpriest of the city of the Mantax, who shares in the knowledge of He Who Knows All Secrets?”

“I am.”

“And yet you do not know this secret.”

“I…I—”

The thing laughed a mechanical laugh, and the green eyes pulsed.

“What is your intention here," the elderpriest demanded, trying to put on a brave face, "and what is the meaning of this invasion? This affront to the Lords of Order will not stand.”

“More secrets that you do not possess.”

The elderpriest scoffed. “I assure you, when the Mantax is returned, declarations will be sent to the Makuta, and swift war will come upon them, worse even than in the days of the Wars of Order. You may transmit this to your masters—”

The room blurred and shifted around them, and suddenly they were back in the center of the chamber, next to the throne. He realized that he was standing up now. How…? He had no time to think.

The thing touched the protobsidian of the throne with an iron finger, scratched a spark out of it.

“Do not touch it!” he cried. “Only those ordained to possess the knowledge of Mantax may—”

“Ah, knowledge,” the voice interrupted. The green eyes flicked toward him. “If knowledge is required, then I am certainly ordained, for I am Knowledge.”

“What does that mean? You still haven't told me who you are.”

“I have. Just now.” The eyes turned back to the throne. “So this is the means by which you surveil the city,” the thing mused. “A useful tool for lesser creatures, I suppose. The Lord Mantax is dead.”

“It is forbidden for you to–” The words registered in his mind, and he stammered. “Wh-What? You…you lie!”

“He is dead, as are the other Barraki.”

“Outrageous! What proof do you offer of this claim?”

“No proof is necessary, except the proof of this city being taken in a few hours. The trifling forces of the Barraki are dismantling even now, across the universe. The Lords of Order are no more.”

“I know this to be false.”

The thing turned to him now, fixed him with a look that would have been inquisitive, had it been a living face.

“And how do you know this?”

The elderpriest hesitated, taken aback by the thing's sudden interest. “It is a…a secret. Something known only to the subjects of the Lord Mantax, and to no others.”

“If secrets are simply your own false beliefs, then you are a fool. Fools do not live long in my presence. Prove yourself.”

“I am the elderpriest. I do not need to—”

The thing stepped forward, and he remembered spinning and sickening, and red pain…

“Prove yourself.”

“Very well,” the elderpriest cleared his throat. “I shall grant you this secret: The Obsidian Throne was made by the Lord Mantax, who put his own wards of integrity upon it, that it should remain whole as long as he was living.” He pointed to the black seat. “The throne remains whole, its wards intact, and so the Mantax lives.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Fascinating,” the voice said. “And this is known amongst the people?”

“It is. All who serve the Mantax know it and are assured by it, as I am.”

“I see.” The thing turned its gaze back to the throne. “It is a good bit of mythmaking, I’ll give him credit. The Barraki are masters of such propaganda.”

“What do you mean?” The elderpriest stepped forward, indignant. “It is no myth. It is proof that the Mantax lives, and that he shall return to expel those who occupy his city.”

“It makes a good narrative for a resistance to hold to,” the voice mused, ignoring him. “Something that will have to be reckoned with, sooner or later.”

“This occupation will be short-lived—”

“It’s as good a place to start as any, I suppose.”

The thing snapped its iron fingers, and the throne shattered into rubble.

Shock. Confusion. The elderpriest looked wide-eyed at the pile of rubble as it collapsed to the floor. The ward was…the ward of integrity had been there…It had been strong. He had felt it, even to the point of shattering.

The thing turned to the elderpriest, dusting flecks of obsidian from its armor.

“Now,” it said, “do you renounce your duty to Mantax, one of the  Lords of Order, who is now dead, and do you pledge now the loyalty of your duty to the Makuta?”

“I…I do not renounce!”

“You have great knowledge, elderpriest, and much sway over those beneath the ziggurat. It is in the interests of the Makuta to preserve you, if possible. So I ask again, do you renounce?”

“I c-cannot renounce, for the Mantax is not dead. You may take this knowledge to the Makuta and let them consider it.”

The thing shook its strange mask.

“Ah, these are the words of a fool, for the Makuta are Knowledge.” Its eyes burned into green points “...and as I said, I am Knowledge as well.”

“I do not understand,” the elderpriest lied, shrinking backward.

“You do understand. The age of the Lords of Order is at an end, and now is the time of the Lords of Knowledge. Once more, I ask: Will you pledge to serve us in this new age?”

The green eyes bored into him. The throne was dust and black shards, its secrets annihilated, except for the ones he now carried.

“I will serve you,” he said, his voice trembling. 

“Then declare that the Mantax is dead.”

The throne was gone, but the wards remained. Mantax had laid down those within the ziggurat as well, he knew. They would have perished with him, surely. He could not be dead, and if he was not dead, then... someday there would be a reckoning...

“I will serve you, but I cannot declare this. The Mantax must live. I do not understand this contradiction. It is a secret that is…that is kept from me. Please understand.”

“I see,” the voice said. “Your faith is admirable, elderpriest, and worthy, I suppose, of your position as the keeper of the City of Secrets.”

The thing turned away for a moment, and the creak of pistons sounded almost like a sigh. Then its limbs rotated it back, and the green eyes looked upon him again.

“I have asked a great thing of you,” it said, “and you have revealed secrets to me. For your honesty, I will share one great secret in return, before I must again tend to my task in this place. Will you accept this, as the beginning of your service to us?”

“I...I will.”

“Very well. Then look.”

The strange mask slid upward and back, and metal plates retracted with a shriek. Pistons whined as the carapace of the Makuta opened horribly, and a dark thing issued forth.

And the elderpriest saw what was inside.

It had already told him.

It was knowledge.

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #works #makuta