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throwaway-yandere · 2 years

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Hana Yori Dango (Arataki Itto/Reader/Yan!Kamisato Ayato)

A/n: Eyoo it's Feb 3, the Setsubun festival should be happening rn!!! Idk how I thought it was feb when I uploaded this on SEPTEMBER. Anywahs, ily Itto. He's not a full-blown yandere here (yet?) but he is my– OUR himbo, comrade. Writing Itto's dialogues is a delight. I took some inspiration and ideas from @leftdestiny-posts and the itto/gorou enjoyer anon for this one! (both characters are technically here but... haha...) Thanks for the ideas ehehe >:D

gn!reader. This is Itto's side story for "Careful, He Bites.", so everything is in his perspective. Maybe it could be read as a stand-alone (?) if you haven't read the previous one for extra mystery lololol.

An Unreliable Synopsis: There is another thing besides you and your flowers that Itto can't live without, and it's good fricking food. (Fic happens before "Careful, He Bites")

Cw: yandere!ayato, Japanese folklore, and pure biker gang leader!itto supremacy.

--------

Around the time Emperor Takakura reigned in the country, there lived an old farmer who wouldn't move a hair away from Yamashiro Province.

They were gentle, and their neighbors consistently portrayed them as extremely dense. They did not care to dream big for themselves, and opted to worry only about the plate they'll have once the sun sets. They didn't pay attention to whispers that would soon become the country's history; they hardly heard of the latest gossip regarding Taira no Tokuko. They lived blissfully secluded and unaware, and it was the life they chose to live.

Unaware may not be the best word to describe them, but unaffected.

███ was alone in their household with no spouse to care for them nor children to raise, and in turn, no one thought to accompany them.

Yet ███ never once considered themselves lonely. The moonlight may wax and wane, but the monsters that lurk nearby would never leave them pondering in the dark.

The moon was beautiful that night, too.

"–Won't you be a dear and fetch me a bottle of sake?"

Their voice echoed inside the empty and dilapidated house. The █████ Clan had long been silent, so no human would answer their calls.

"HAHAHAHA!!! Off to drink again, eh? Leave it to the one and oni Arataki Itto to keep you company!"

But a yokai might.

This particular yokai, Arataki Itto, had grown accustomed to pouring drinks for the farmer, in a way, they consider him their grandson. Itto sat by the floor beside them. He was small in stature, not much taller than their knee, but they considered his heart to be much bigger than an average human's. So, how could they ever turn down his offer of joining his cute little gang?

"But seriously, grand-y," Itto grinned. "I don't understand why you drink so much when you could never beat me in a drinking competition."

And oftentimes, a bigger heart comes with a bigger pride.

"Oh, Itto..." The old farmer gently ruffled the young oni's hair. "You ought not to be proud of such a feat! You're too young to be downing these drinks."

"But grand-y!"

"Do not argue with me, young oni."

"Why not, especially when you sound like a total sore loser?"

"Wha–?"

"Bleeuuugh."

The oni stuck his tongue out.

The farmer sighed, endeared.

Itto wasn't happy with the way they'd been acting over the previous month. Their movements have become terse and rigid since they returned from visiting Yae Miko. And right now, they're being awfully silent for a drunk person. Itto also didn't like how their clan's Kagura Bell Wand is also neatly boxed on top of the table with the kitsune's name on it. It's as if they're planning to give their family heirloom away. Does that mean no purification spells are working on their illness?

"Yo, grand-y. Is something up?"

He doubted it was because of ordinary human struggles. Their father had long perished in a failed rebellion and their mother had hopelessly succumbed to an undiagnosed illness. She left her child the heavy weight of carrying a disgraced Clan's name. Almost nothing can trouble the farmer.

The farmer succeded most of their previous hardships. If "succeeded" also meant abandoning the Kuruma-dera temple and becoming a recluse entangled with yokai, then the old Sojo would be rolling in his grave right now. But the point is, Itto doesn't think the old farmer would act this way simply because of a menial problem like relationships and lack of entertainment.

"Oh, nothing. I am just... Pondering over my distant relatives' wellbeing. Nothing too personal."

"Do ya want to visit them? I can help you pack up! I've been getting stronger!!!"

The imperial court may be their cousin's home, but it is not their place to stay. Especially for a hakaiso like them. If their cousin wasn't merciful the usual Banishment Laws would've been in full effect on their trial and they'd be sent to Izu Province. They don't want to burden their subordinate clan-- the Kaedehara clan-- more with their presence.

So they digressed.

"Itto, I want you to have this."

They procured a small violet flower from the vase on top of their table. Itto's nose scrunched. The child never expressed any interest in flowers, so their affectionate gesture doesn't reach him.

"Eh? What am I gonna do with that, grand-y?" Itto was visibly unimpressed.

"I have something to ask of you, won't you take this as a reward for that request?"

"HMPH! I don't even know what the request is!"

"Ahh... Fair point."

They gazed at the moon.

"Can you look after the Kamisato siblings for me?"

The young oni tilted his head. Why would they ask that? The two bakenekos are already capable of taking care of themselves anyways. Particularly the oldest. Itto often played with Ayato, and all their games ended with the cat outsmarting him one way or another. The only fault Ayato had was being overtly clingy and jealous whenever another yokai steals their attention.

"But why? It's not like Ayato needs help--"

"I'll be leaving soon."

"--raising his sis– HAAAAAH?!"

They cleared their throat.

"As a human, it still feels as though I'm abandoning my pets, even if they are intellectual yokais who can handle themselves. I'm worried about Ayato especially, he'll probably carry the weight of the world on his shoulders even if he could share the load. Our little himegimi doesn't even have a proper name yet." They muttered, melancholic.

"Hold up grand-y oni! Where are you going?! You're just going out of town... right?"

They laughed humorlessly and patted his head once more. "It won't be long. I'm sure I'll crawl home to you in a few more years. Don't cry, young oni."

So it's not a visit to the capital, it's...

Itto gulped.

"What... What did miss Miko say?"

"It doesn't matter. I am already tired of thinking about talking about it, what more if we discussed the subject?" They shook their head. By the sound of it, they refuse to talk not because of the emotional strain, but because successfully explaining things to someone like Itto would take too much effort.

"NO! Let's talk about iiiiiiiiitttt!!!" He incessantly tugged on their sleeves. "Is it your heart again?! As your gang leader, I already ordered you to stop purging wraiths!!"

They gave him a small, patient smile. For a brief, enchanting moment, it was as if the world slowed just for the oni to process an epiphany.

They tucked a wisteria behind his tiny ear.

"The moon is beautiful. Itto, thank you for making me the first member of your gang." They closed their eyes, breathing shallowly.

And then, a complete yet abrupt silence.

"Grand-y...?"

Young Arataki Itto lightly shook the old farmer.

"Grand-y?"

Young Arataki Itto shook them a bit more forcefully.

"Grand-y oni?!"

They didn't reply.

"GRAND-Y ONI!?"

Young Arataki Itto helplessly yanked them by their collar.

"GRAND-Y ONI!!!"

-----

"(Y/N)!!!"

You toppled forward as a heavy weight pressed forcefully against your back.

"Oomph– Goodness– Itto?"

"Oh, thank God you're alive!" He sobbed.

Arataki Itto, your best bud, wept over your shoulder. You did not shove him away. Itto is way too strong for you, and you wouldn't ask him to carry rice sacks for you if that weren't the case.

Itto had always been an obnoxious eccentric, often barging into your flower shop and leaving his muddy footsteps on the floor without any reservations until you surprisingly snapped. You commanded him in silent anger that he should make himself more useful to society. Hearing your low-toned voice was the scariest experience Itto had. Itto swears it was downright traumatizing. Distraught, he begged to be your "temporary" delivery boy to calm your nerves. His plan worked.

You pay him generously for his service, especially since he is missing his birth certificate and therefore can't be employed officially, but that doesn't change the fact that your floors are still muddy now that he's always back.

Itto squished his cheek against your neck as he bawled. You first assumed he was here for his part-time job but he's more interested in sharing his story. You accepted your fate and listened to the biker's performance.

"You would not BELIEVE what kinda nightmare I had last night– like hoo boy, it was INTENSE!"

"Is that so?" You chuckled, slowly diverting your attention back to your previous task, which was watering your plants.

"Trust me, man! It was so strange, it felt like it was some premonition from a distant past or something."

"I'm almost certain that premonition refers to an omen of what might happen in the future, but do go on."

"I can't remember the details, but apparently I was talking to this old farmer– and then they died in my arms! Like bleugh!" Itto bit his tongue and closed his eyes, trying to mimic what the corpse did but it's obviously an exaggeration. "I don't even remember what we were talking about, but I felt so small."

"Oh, wow. How horrifying." You spoke with your voice dripping with disinterest.

It kinda blows that you see him as just an annoying kid-like figure, but at least you let him pull you close like this. Maybe you'd compliment his muscles one day (or not, he lowkey skips arm exercises).

"Right?! Get this– the old grandperson-guy gave me a sumire! A FLOWER!!!"

"This is most certainly the first time you're excited about flowers. Hmm..." You placed a finger on your chin. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but are your dreams trying to tell me that violets will sell well this season or...?"

You cast a glance at your reserved flower stock. Because none of them are violets, it appears that you cannot tease him by offering a bouquet. You would've joked about sending some to his funeral, but Itto is rattled enough without your misplaced sense of humor.

"What?! DUDE! Why is that your interpretation?!"

"It might be because I happen to be a florist, Itto."

Itto looked back at your flowers with an open-mouth expression that says "oh, right."

He quietly noticed that most of your flowers have become more colorful since Ayato began generously giving you bonemeal as gifts. He sent jars nearly the size of a skull. It was pretty creepy. Nobody knows what that gentleman meant when he said he personally acquired and ground those bones for you, but at least they're great fertilizers.

"Well, yeah, I guess. But that's beside the point, compadre! I'm telling you all this because I wanna know what sumire, violets, mean in flower language or somethin'!"

"Violets in our country are often given as a sign of gratitude or love. Perhaps the old figure in your dreams only wishes to thank you before they regret not doing so." You sighed. Itto noticed how you looked perplexed amidst your ramblings, as though you were remembering something you shouldn't have. "Your fear of ghosts is seriously affecting your wellbeing, Itto. I fear that your cowardice will affect you one day."

...

'Itto, thank you for making me the first member of your gang.'

...

Itto shuddered.

Nope. No way. There's no way that dude was a ghost.

"W-What?! Me? Afraid of GHOSTS?! HA!" He laughed emptily. "No way."

He paused, eyeing you with his face going way past your comfortable personal space.

"And you know, (Y/n)... Now that I took a good look at ya, you kinda look like the old person from my dreams."

The two of you went silent.

You chucked a half-filled plastic watering can directly into his head.

"OW!!! What was that for?!"

"Old-fashioned as my speech and knowledge of the world may be, that does not mean I appear old myself, thank you very much!"

"WHAT?! I didn't mean it like THAT! C'mon, (Y/n)!" Itto blew a raspberry beside your neck. "I wasn't saying that. I was thinking about how you have this wholesome grandpa or granny type of vibe-- not saying that you're cute-- well I mean, you are cute-- but not in a MEAN way-- like, you're giving endgame lover vibes--"

You gently pushed Itto's hug away and passed on the next batch of flowers before he spirals when defending himself. It's a trick you used against him frequently, which helps you drown out Itto's nonsensical ramblings that are often borderline flirting. He doesn't seem to notice that he'd take anything off your hands whenever he's speaking. Doing this prevents him from realizing that you're asking him to deliver flowers to a sleazy love hotel. You have to thank his biker gang's deputy leader– Kuki Shinobu– for that "life hack."

"This next bouquet is for a client in Kabukicho. Paimon was kind enough to inform me that there is a 10% possibility of rain, but it might pick up by 6 pm so use caution."

Itto furrowed his thick eyebrows. It's cute how you talk like P.A.I.M.O.N is as a person but– "It's just an AI..."

You shrugged.

"Any friend of Lumine is a friend of mine."

Itto perked up. Lumine. It's been a while since the three of you had the pleasure of spending the afternoon indulging in sweets with her in Bistro Ichiya. He wondered how she's been lately.

She stopped responding to your calls the same summer you all became friends with Ayato. Itto thought it was such a bizarre turn of events. It lead you to wonder if your inadequate knowledge of technology had put on quite a formidable communication barrier, but it turns out your mutuals were unable to talk to her as well. Even Yoimiya offhandedly mentioned that it had always been in Lumine's nature to travel and forget her previous commitments.

You highly doubted that Lumine would let it go this far, however. It's been half a year. You had been casual friends for longer than that and know that she's not as fickle as dandelion seeds.

Itto pities your faith in her.

"... Still no calls?"

"Unfortunately no." You sighed. "Not even Paimon knows where she ended up in all her traveling endeavors."

"I'll try searching TeyvatBook again for you."

"Thank you. 'Surfing' the web must be incredibly taxing for both you and your device. I appreciate the effort, Arataki. Do make sure to replenish your phone's energy afterward."

You have the intonation of an aged soul. Itto assumed he'd be used to your manner of speech by now, but it's so eerily similar to the elderly person in his nightmares that it's bordering on the uncanny valley. He wouldn't be astonished if you were ever a docile monk in your past life.

"G-Geez. You make it seem like P.A.I.M.O.N's human. Kinda freaky."

Your silk-like laughter filled the gaps of silence, drowning his distress.

"I am the type of florist who believes talking to plants helps their growth, aren't I?"

Itto smiled softly.

"Yeah... Yeah, I guess you are, grand-y."

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

"Call me later, big guy~–"

"Thank you for your purchase, have a nice day!"

That was the last order for today. Itto would've boasted as usual, but he has your best interest at heart, so he refrained from doing so to keep a good name for the Sakura Bloom flower shop. Following a script is out of character from a man like Itto, but he did most of what you commanded effortlessly.

On a side note: he looked quite adorable sporting a little green apron– clearly your size– instead of his usual bad-boy leather jacket. The look barely complimented his muscles but he's confident that he's still oozing charisma. He can't be too sure though-- he'll gel his hair extra later, and MAYBE you would say he's smokin'.

Itto stepped away from the hotel's porch and walked toward his bike. he never would've guessed you take customers from this side of Shinjuku too. That lady earlier was unforgettably promiscuous, to say the least. As he was about to comb his hair and reach for his helmet, he stopped abruptly.

"Hol' up– Was that Ayato?"

It was unmistakably him. He looked off, though. Itto only saw him for like a split second from afar but Ayato's expression looked nothing like the gentle warm smile he usually sports. Seeing Ayato without you nearby is rare since the man frequently accompanies you in public like a servant or a pet. That's not to say that Ayato lacks a social life. It's just that Itto never had the opportunity to speak with him one-on-one.

Itto became excited simply thinking about it, and the thought of asking why Ayato would be seen in the red light area didn't occur to him. Instead, he had another priority in mind. He always wanted to know where Ayato got his niku-dango ingredients because he wouldn't answer when you asked Ayato or Thoma (but Thoma looked nauseous that day, so Itto couldn't blame the guy). Itto didn't care for the meat dango's recipe, but the ingredients made it delectable—the pork especially! If he was being poetic, it tasted nostalgic. It was as though he had relished in it fresh from his muddled memories. And he's craving for more.

He left his bike and ran after him just before the light turned from yellow to red. But when he reached the other side he couldn't find a hint of his light blue hair amongst the crowd.

Itto cursed to himself as quietly as he could muster, still aware that he was wearing your apron.

"You..."

He spun around. The voice didn't sound anything like Ayato's, but the tone pointed at him. The stranger wore an obi that did not match the century he was in and two protruding azure horns that were hard to miss. It was like he came out of a Setsubun festival. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Itto felt as if those horns were real and not at all out of place.

"Arataki Itto." The stranger's nose scrunched, voice dripping with unadulterated disdain. "The pathetic red oni that stained our pride just for a sinful runin."

Itto stared back, his face blank and his eyes hollow.

"...Takuya."

Itto froze as the name slipped out of his mouth. How did he know his name? And why is he so sure that's his name?

"How was it? How was the taste? Was it as good as you remembered?"

"I... Who are you, man?!"

Itto already knew his name. He knew he just said his name but he still asked out loud because he couldn't understand what the hell is going on.

"Why don't you still remember...?"

Takuya seemed at a total loss on what else to say, unlike his heavily contorted expression.

Arataki Itto is for being easily provoked, and Takuya took advantage of his simple flaw.

"It's been years since you made the deal. Why don't you remember who you were– who you are? Don't you remember the pact?!"

"Theeee– what now?"

Don't get him wrong, Itto feels guilty but he's stumped. He doesn't know what he's guilty of exactly, and this man isn't doing him any favors by continuing this guessing game.

"You promised– you red onis made an oath that you will live ALONGSIDE humans. Why did you eat them? Why did you start living AS a human?!"

Itto's breath hitched at the sound of Takuya's screaming, causing him to nervously run his fingers through his hair. As he reached for his scalp, a phantom pain seared where two things should've been.

"... The hell you talking about, man? Are you a chuunibyo or something?" His voice came off as hoarse and strained, reflecting that an invisible force is harming him in ways he can't prove to himself or others.

Takuya sucked air between his teeth. But just as he was about to break down his list of grievances, another voice interrupted the conversation.

"Ah, there you are, my friend! I have been looking everywhere for you."

The two stopped and Takuya froze. It was almost as if the stranger shrank as the taps of footsteps amplified in each stride.

"Oh, my bro Ayato. There you are." Itto faintly greeted him.

The third person smiled weakly.

Ayato always had excellent timing, it seemed. He curved a hand above Itto's shoulder and gave the stranger a cloudy sideways glance. His eyes were trained on the person in front of them, and in response, Takuya stood defensively. The horned "man" stepped back, preparing to sprint, while Ayato inserted two more steps into his space.

Ayato got in between both Itto and the stranger faster and more forceful than what the biker gang leader anticipated.

His voice was similar to yours when he spoke. It was dangerously low with unmatched vigor and sharpness above all else. "Excuse me, sir, but we're in a hurry. We will be taking our leave immediately."

Takuya nearly sighed in relief as the elegant man shut down the possibility of continuing a conversation. His trembling form bowed quickly while his foot was already turned in the opposite direction. They have to have known each other. Itto had never considered himself as astute, and yet he discovered that this "Takuya" isn't the real threat out of the three of them.

It was none other than Kamisato Ayato.

"Y-Yes... Yes, of course, sir. Farewell."

Takuya scurried away.

...

What was that all about?

What kind of stunts did Ayato pull around Shinjuku for him to come off as intimidating without his knowledge? Itto furrowed his eyes as he looked at Ayato's back. Children don't even find Itto scary, and he had the stereotypical troublemaker look. Ayato appears kind and gentle, maybe a bit standoffish, but his soft appearance shouldn't be able to scare some weird grunt away.

Ayato turned to face him.

Ah. So that's why.

His look of displeasure changed Itto's misconceptions immediately.

Ayato softened his expression once he realized Itto was staring, dumbfounded. He chuckled and tapped the biker's shoulder as if reminding him that the scary look wasn't aimed at him. Itto laughed nervously. Sure, it wasn't, but he made a mental note not to piss Ayato off, ever.

From that, Itto learned that Ayato can be as scary as you when he wants to be.

This man definitely got a dark side. Noted.

"Hey, uh, Ayato, did you see that?"

The light-haired man gave him an indifferent stare. "Saw what, exactly?"

"He had horns, my guy."

Itto began ruffling the top of his head– something he normally wouldn't do since he adores his hair– and created two triangular air shapes. His friend watched him, amused, but perplexed about what he was trying to communicate.

"Like, that dude got those devil horns going on– don't tell me you haven't seen it!"

"Hmm." Ayato hummed, a small grin plastered on his face.

"What would you do if I said I haven't seen anything? You're not afraid of yokai, aren't you?"

"What– C'MON!!!" Itto groaned loudly. "NOT YOU TOO– GAH!!! What's with you and (Y/n) today– enough with this "oooh-you're-afraid-of-this-aren't-yooouu" bullcrap! HELLO?!? I'm ARATAKI NUMERO UNO ITTO! Monsters and ghosts should be afraid of ME."

Ayato closed his eyes and shook his head, but his sly smile had not left his face. "Ah right, my apologies. How could I forget the unsurmountable one and oni Itto, how foolish of me."

"Exactl–..."

One and oni?

Itto both liked and didn't like the sound of that. Much like the taste of Kamisato Ayato's food, the phrase itched the nostalgic part of his brain. He couldn't tell where he first heard it. Ayato didn't even look like he made a mistake in saying "oni" instead of "only", rather, it slipped out of his tongue so naturally. Like he was hoping Itto would catch on to whatever he was implying.

Well, he didn't. He had no idea where Ayato was getting at and he only has about 2 brain cells left after that terrible migraine.

"And don't even joke about yokai stuff! I don't wanna get bad luck this Setsuban Festival."

Ayato raised an eyebrow.

"...I thought you were allergic to beans?"

"Yeah I am," Itto said. "And that's precisely I don't want any bad vibes for tomorrow. Can't have beans to save me from those onis, you know?"

Ayato muttered something Itto didn't hear.

"So you aren't fully human yet as well, hmm..."

"Say, why are you in the red light district? Don't tell me you're picking chicks around here."

Ayato refrained from rolling his eyes while Itto laughed.

"I'm not here for that, I'm trying to find a sist-- my little sister."

"Oh, oh! Tag me in! Lemme help. What does your sister look like?"

He appeared troubled when Itto volunteered to help. Ayato carefully chose his next words.

"She's shy and quite the formidable escapist. You wouldn't be able to find her unless you're looking at every nook and cranny."

"Sounds like bullshit."

Ayato technically didn't lie.

Itto continued. "Do you have a sister complex or something? Bro, I won't do anything to her. Just give me a description."

He shrugged. "Himegimi looks like me."

"Well, duh, of course, she does. Can't you be more specific? Like her height, hair, and eye color maybe--"

"Never mind it. Once she's tired of searching, she'll be back home soon enough."

"But, dude, your little sister is in the RED LIGHT DISTRICT! Aren't you worried--"

"She'll be fine."

"But men would--"

"She's small, they won't notice her."

Itto's unsure whether Ayato's brain is too advanced or he's acting stupid because that answer didn't make sense at all. Aren't smaller girls supposed to be in more danger around these parts? His head hurt. He always treated anyone smaller than him as kiddos-- and he can't imagine a kid can protect themselves from kidnappers.

Suddenly, they heard a strangle rumbling nearby.

Ayato looked at Itto and his stomach accusably.

He scratched his neck with a snobbish frown.

"Fiiiiine, I take it back. I'm hungry so I'll leave you searching for your sister. Alone. Without my help. At all."

Ayato, familiar with his antics by now, started leading Itto to walk alongside him.

"You're in luck then. I was planning to cook today. I haven't ordered Thoma to butcher the meat yet– but we will tonight. Perhaps you'd want to join me for dinner?"

"Holy shit, are you making those niku-dangos again?"

He nodded.

"For real? Hold on, let me tell grand-y first." He began messaging you.

"Haha, so you're back to calling our (Y/n) "Grand-y", I see."

Itto looked up from his phone. "Back to?"

Our?

Ayato nodded solemnly. Once again, he had that look that hints that he's trying to get Itto to remember something on his own, but Itto REALLY doesn't have the patience at this point. He's so dog-tired plus he's starving. Itto doesn't have time for any more mind games, whether it's that Takuya guy or Ayato.

Itto was surprised that you replied fast. Albeit, it was the default thumbs-up emoji and you might've mis-tapped but nu-uh, no takebacks allowed here, boss! Itto giggled like a preschooler as he bombarded you with smug Thank You stickers and emojis while you were (very slowly) typing a reply.

"From that look on your face, I am guessing that they agreed."

"Hell yeah, man! I can't wait to grab a bite of that sweet sweet taste of perfection, baby! C'mon, free delicious food? Count me in!"

"Wonderful."

Kamisato Ayato's lips contorted into a Cheshire cat-like grin.

"Let's eat him, together."

--------

Glossary:

Dango over flowers/hana yori dango: means "substance over style" or preferring a practical gift over something superficial.

Hakaiso: a monk who had sinned/had been considered depraved.

Himegimi: word for princess.

Sojo: a high-ranking Buddhist priest.

Setsubun Festival: a festival focused on purging houses of misfortune (b e a n s), often associated with oni imagery.

Runin: an exiled individual.

#tag: careful he bites #yandere genshin x reader #yandere #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere x reader #yandere ayato #arataki itto x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere kamisato ayato #arataki itto fanfic #tw: cannibalism #ansy-writes

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heartofspells · 1 month

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For the ask game, “Bella”

I'm not going to lie, my little anony-moose, this one took me a while to find. I've discovered I mention Bellatrix far less than I probably should. But here's a snippet from This Side of the Trees, which is a Jegulus one-shot I wrote what feels like forever ago.

Regulus receives several owls from home, most from his mother, a handful from his father, and a few from Bellatrix. His mother and father never fail to remind him of his duties to their family, always bringing up Sirius' failures without ever mentioning him by name or even truly acknowledging his continued existence, viewing his brother as good as dead now that he's disowned. They wax poetic for long stretches of parchment each time about family and blood loyalty, the strength of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. It turns Regulus' stomach the longer they go on. He believes in what they say, about loyalty and family being the most important thing, but the knowledge of what his life holds in store for him as the newly appointed heir is unsettling, bursts cold sweats over his skin, droplets trickling down his spine, making him clammy at the worst of times.

Bellatrix's letters are the truly terrible ones. She rants through written words about blood purity and supremacy, speaks about the rising Dark Lord and all he promises, calling Regulus forth to join and claim his rightful place within their ranks, already sworn in as a trusted individual, capable and strong in all the ways that matter, holding the helm of a powerful empire in the palms of his hands. Regulus crumples the letters in his fingers when no one is watching, burning them later, though whether it's to keep them from falling into the wrong hands or for his own peace of mind, he's not sure, refusing to look too closely at it.

#this side of the trees #jegulus #word excerpt game #post in the toast #snippet #my writing

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idiealotdontworry · 1 year

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unfriendly fucking reminder that we do not do that "x group is the most oppressed ever" type of shit here. beyond being a blatant attempt to appeal to white people and their obsession with oppression olympics, it's just straight-up admitting that you do not care about the struggles and problems of other people because it's not you.

life is more complex than "we're at the very very bottom and everyone else ever is above us", and if all you're doing is going on tumblr dot com to wax poetic about how other marginalized people's problems aren't as bad as yours, then you're not revolutionary or progressive. You're just an asshole.

it genuinely fucking concerns me that "progressive" white people are getting their ideas from this kind of bullshit rhetoric. You're not challenging white supremacy at its core, you're making extremely surface-level criticisms of it that leave everyone with different struggles than you out of the discussion. If you wanna center yourself and your activism on what affects you, that's great, most effective even; but don't you dare sit around pretending you understand the struggles of other people better than they do.

this "we don't need you, you need us" attitude is needlessly divisive, and guess what? it's also extremely unoriginal. every fucking group of marginalized people has assholes in their circles who promote this type of thinking, each one believing that their group is the Most Oppressed ™ and Most Progressive ™, and they're all incorrect. It's the laterally aggressive version of every nonwhite group thinking they're the only race whose people have a Bag Of Bags in their house.

how fucking insecure in your own marginalization do you have to be to feel the need to prove its severity by dismissing other's struggles?

#personal #jfc people really are having the worst takes on earth today #fuck everyone on this website im gonna go clean my room

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veronicasanders · 1 year

Note

Last Halloween ask! What is your favorite candy? Are you dressing up/doing something this weekend? I'm absolutely certain you're all througly sick of me and my bs, so this ask is just me saying thank you for indulging me and wish you a nice weekend and idk just tell me about anything you wish to talk about 😊

I could never be sick of you, my darling! BS welcome anytime! 😘

(After the jump, I will wax poetic about bittersweet chocolate…)

CANDY:

CHOCOLATE SUPREMACY! Now, I pretty much exclusively eat high-end bittersweet/dark Fair Trade chocolate, although I can slum it with Lindt if I’m desperate but I really don't like giving money to companies unless they're Fair Trade. Bittersweet has always been the pinnacle for me.

As a kid, I was all about trading away the dumb sugary shit like Skittles, War Heads, Starburst, and Blow Pops, for more chocolate. The chocolate candies were ranked into a hierarchy…

TOP TIER, PREMIUM: Anything dark (Not common in Halloween candy but sometimes you could get lucky and get a Hershey’s Special Dark in a mixed bag, a Mounds Bar - for those outside of the US, Mounds is like Bounty but with dark chocolate, or someone cool would be giving away little Doves.)

2nd Tier: Reese’s PB cups, Almond Joy (Bounty with Almonds), Junior Mints/Andes Mints, Skor Bars, Butterfinger and Kit Kats.

3rd Tier: M&Ms (which could be bumped up to second tier if they were peanut butter M&Ms), Snickers, Nestle Crunch, Hershey Kisses and other plain chocolate that looked decent

4th Tier: Milky Way, Mars Bars, Twix and anything else heavily featuring caramel and nougat and bullshit that made it too sweet. Also off-brand chocolate like a random pumpkin-shaped thing.

5th Tier (LOSERVILLE): Tootsie Rolls, white chocolate (wouldn’t trade for this, but sometimes I was stuck with it)

Honorable mention: The few non-chocolate candies I would eat were things like Sour Patch Kids, Smarties (not the same as British Smarties, these were just sugar), Lemonheads, Fun Dip, Pixi Stix. This was like, the shit I would eat for energy on the night while I was trick-or-treating and would *sometimes* save/not trade away. Whatever I had of this would be eaten in conjunction with the 5th Tier Loserville "chocolate" and even sometimes the 4th Tier if there was a lot of it.

✨Important notes: ✨

A full-size candy bar, as opposed to “fun sized” ones that people specifically bought for Halloween, would result in said chocolate moving up several tiers.

In accordance with my “Save the Best for Last” policy, I would consume this candy in reverse-order. Starting with the random shit, then up through the tiers and saving the Top Tier candy for very last.

The downside to this was that it left the premium stuff vulnerable to thievery (by my parents) for the longest. This problem was mitigated by keeping all the candy in my bedside table, and also giving a Sacrificial Offering to them every week or so as tax in exchange for keeping their mitts off my system.

Halloween candy generally lasted until well past Valentine’s Day, when the chocolate coffers were replenished, and that in turn lasted until past Easter, which, if I was smart about it, could last until the following Halloween.

I hope this Dickensian answer was as fun to read as it was to write. (Probably not, lmao.) This weekend, I went to a friend’s house party dressed as Wonder Woman, and tomorrow, I plan to take Dr. Fluffernutter into my morning lecture dressed as a pineapple. (I figure The Lady With a Dog Dressed as a Pineapple is crazy enough and I don’t need an additional costume.) 🍍😜🎃💖🌈

#walking down the glittertrail #doctor fluffernutter

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congregamus · 1 year

Text

On closing 2022

I do not think any more needs to be said regarding Christmas except to note that it is the Eve of the feast. Logistically, these next two days will be very calm, if aggressively arctic.

2022, on the other hand, requires a large tool for sifting, for it was a year of wind change for me after much stasis. Most notable among these changes were, first: a surge in creativity; and second: taking a parish administrator job in an Episcopal church after having formally broken ties in May 2021.

By the end of January, some major developmental arcs had presented themselves thematically:

Technically speaking, I guess I should note that there are some significant re-alignments (constellations that would look similar to earlier “charts”/snapshots): an undisputed Tori Amos supremacy i/t/o listening history; Anne Rice Fictional Universe sympathy; hermetic-tarot study; Divine Feminine Moon Adoration Waxing Magdalenian; monastic in the sense of attending-to-details and archival rather than ascetic and self-flaggelating. It is out of “chart” for me right now to be creatively non-productive. This is peak subjectivity for me. — 21 JAN 2022 5:27 PM CST

It turns out that keeping these records is a kind of foresight, for I was right. Already in early February, the core material for my organ treatment of the solemn tone of Salve Regina had presented itself in raw form via exploration in the garage band application. I became open again, too, in the direction of Big Story™. I did a deep dive of Tristan und Isolde and let it do its work on me. (Unfortunately, Big Story™ opened further on the “outside,” too, in February, when Putin invaded Ukraine.)

March went by as march often does, still cold and wet, with so little visible evidence of growth that struggles underneath, only to have April spring forth in her shocking miracle. This April flowered in the poem called “Black Sun”, and in a perceptual breakthrough: I named my hell and robbed it of much of its power; however, it was very worrisome, as to regain some lost aspects of myself, I had to give up so much control, and it was almost very, very messy. The Easter manifestation was most critical. The self-atonement it required was, ironically, the Easter-magic I’d been looking for in monasticism.

The answer one receives ad nauseam from the sages is of no help at all, naturally. Over and over they say, Just because it's impossible doesn't mean that you can't do it.**

** This is the backwards teaching of the Phoenix, expressing the impossible necessity of self-transcendence.

And so I did. I further developed my hellscape image into a mundane comedy called “Hellthcare Reform” that gave my brain a fun toy to play with while suffering a great loss. For in May, my sister left this world, and nothing will ever be the same as a result of her absence. I went down south for her ending, which, strange as it is to admit, was more of this personal renewal that 2022 turned out to be, hate-it-the-whole-time though I did.

My brother-in-law visited Chicago in June to escape his grief-house. We had a lovely visit. It was mostly uncomplicated by our shared sorrow. He was able to avoid for a moment the overhang which is inescapable eventually, but more so in the place of the grief event.

July brought more poetry. I organized my “chap book draft” from new and old poems, diary entries, and random scraps. I still think six months later that it is a beautiful expression. But it was the trip to Atlanta at the end of the month, where DCI and the exposure to complex harmony at sustained high sonic levels “rattled something loose in me” (as I described it at the time) which was more important than I realized. Of consideration also is that being physically in the South was surprisingly erotic. As the first real harvest of the year’s creative efforts began here, I cannot help but think that the work was deeply influenced by this encounter.

Poetry continued to flow out of me in the beginning of August, but the creative flow transformed into short story genre. The first draft of Forgive Us Our Trespasses, which clocked out at 10,000 words, all came in a few days near the middle of the month. There was also an appendix of “uncollected evidence” that was about 5K words that I excised almost immediately. The work was so dark and pornographic. It was the kinkiest, filthiest, most taboo stuff I’d ever done. I was shocked that it came out of me.

I understand that I have unleashed no new evil on the world. Yet I still keep asking myself, “What have I done?”

The evil was loosed in me, and its result is that I am scrambling for a fig leaf to cover my naked shame. I cannot be how I was before this revelation. — 12 AUG 2022 11:15 AM

It unlocked another level for me. I don’t kid myself anymore about being a “gaymer” but that encounter was definitely a “big boss” whose successful defeat yields a massive gain in XP.

I wasn’t even given two weeks of a break before the next story came insisting. It became clear almost immediately that River Park: or, Noli me tangere intended to be even darker and more problematic than the first story. I knew that I wanted to write a story that incorporated some elements of my dangerous cruising from when I was just out of high school, but River Park turned out to be much more than that. I found a way to distance myself from the process; otherwise, it would not have been written. What makes a person able to be so abundantly violent and yet self-justified? was the question that opened Wade/Preacher-Man to me and made possible the ending of the story, which I did not anticipate — even as I was writing it.

Upon completion, I wrote:

Finished the first complete draft of River Park last night. I don't know that it's possible to be proud of something you don't necessarily approve of, but the writing is good. Maybe I can focus on something else for a moment. There's still the Salve Regina to finish, after all. — 10 SEP 2022 6:42 AM

And then, at 9:59 AM, just this fragment:

Graphic anonymous gay sex, disturbing violence and abuse. Patriarchy. Trauma. Tragedy.

John was gone so much of September. I would say that had to entertain myself, but mostly I just slept. I needed a lot of rest after those two stories. They were both heavy emotional lifting.

That I have been scribbling dark, difficult things has been a surprise to me, though it should not have been. The poetic instinct (ποίημα “something made”) at least in me is simply a different way of naming my mystic impulse. And when I have let them run free, they both have always returned to me with a dark vision — the time I, half-woken, pulled half a mouse out of Meowgustine’s jaws because I was roused by some midnight noise I thought a trouble. How many times did I stumble into the Presence and find total destruction? — 16 SEP 2022 6:53 PM

The end of September then made way for the beginning of my realization of Salve Regina for pipe organ. I very much enjoyed that process, beginning with the draft in February. By the time it was ready to be born, it had more to say than I could have imagined after what was only a “little messing” around with a 32-key MIDI device.

I discovered in October that my archive has been digesting itself selectively, and I began a conversation with the software developers that still has not concluded satisfactorily. I just keep an eagle eye on the stats. John got COVID too. (Let me just say that this was not a good moment for my anxiety diagnosis.) However, I also took the job doing admin work for an Episcopal parish, which turns out also to have been a particularly fruitful development. I engaged in formal prayer again for the first time since February 2021.

And Zdenko got married, which, while a joyful occasion, took a lot out of me. I am proud, though, of having rationed my social energy as well as I ever have. John’s family called him down to STL again with tragedy. He remained there much of November, too.

By November, I knew there was supposed to be a third installment in these dark stories (I started calling it “my triptych”), but it was not going well.

Could I just have everything about this wrong? Is this not a gay story? Why wouldn’t it be? Why do I feel like I’m “spinning my wheels” instead of getting good traction on how this should go?

Meanwhile, I developed significantly more social stamina behind the desk at the parish, though the arrival of my late sister’s first birthday post-mortem broke open my grief, which I had successfully ignored until that time. The midterms results helped temper that grief. At least I wasn’t mourning our projection of democracy, too, which is free, it appears, to continue for two more years. Then thanksgiving with Conor, and another breaking open.

And finally, in December the blower on my furnace malfunctioned shortly after I’d returned to the practice of regular sung morning prayer, proving that intercession is bad insurance, all this in the midst of another rise in COVID infections, a really nasty flu, which is not to mention other airborne respiratory illnesses. And Chicagoans don’t want to mask up without a formal mandate. I’m closing out the year with a nose-faucet in spite of still wearing a mask everywhere while I’m out of the house.

At the close of this year, the collective outlook is bleak, may never have been bleaker. However, I recognize and honor the new stirrings of life that have been mine this trip around the sun, including the first legitimate 500-or-so words of the final of my dark triptych. Having been given such so recently as yesterday, I have generosity to wish from the bottom of my heart only the best in 2023 to readers of this difficult missive.

#inventory #monologue #text #minutiae

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libidomechanica · 10 months

Text

“Your lovemaking, like that he dare”

A tricube sequence

Which she wept face of these grey walls, white

evening; long having little hearts against

a disembodied soul. Her heard!

For this dazzling how ridiculous.—

So rear’d on libbard’s paws, upheld them

harm. Your lovemaking, like that he dare.

III

That wingèd word. We saw thee, close, and the

most wonder! His cheating prey. The face,

with heavy heart; tis but attendance.

That is The Sea of Animal

Desire. Equally, inevitable

Outside the World, but to destroyed.

’World, or in many heads. At full gallop,

drew in short space the glad sound of

storms invert the year waxed very way.

Whoever may be his purpose. May

make up for mischiefe souereigntee, beating

so; I sigh’d her verse alone till night.

VII

But I am pretty captive art?

There we are simplicity a grace

to renew: for all this condition.

VIII

By many bene, no being had,

being said. Mine eye and shame oft maisters

black in memory of his mood?

Easy live alone and kisses, and

stumblings awkward squad, and deeds? Our

animal tucked beneath the hopeful past!

Hard for the lights, the human thoughts! Folding

of air, sweetness over my heart;

my body out of the country back?

That white of fallen May and charities.

And proscenium of her love. Above

by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields.

XII

Where art the year weak and new; when spray

on copse and sea. Equally, inevitable

Outside the lofty rhyme.

XIII

In mirror’d walls bynethe. Next, hollow

and of the joyous wood the ghost began

to save you nothing could report.

XIV

Each shrining in t beyond this. The

world’s market, cost his house or even

after man that somewhere, from town, viz.

Perhaps at last doubt! Were his mantle

o’er a dish of wits o’er Lincoln, a

fat fen vicarage, and their banner.

XVI

But a story is a doubt how power

and every guest; that old-fashions

end! It is no salve to quell his grave.

XVII

I dempt there; the villains all. Well

practised in shade, cast on the found this

ride. Who knows? Shall be shown all mountains.

XVIII

Throw out a thousand fireflies wink

at him. Writing despatch in tremble

when they should, in full, right of this is.

XIX

Beating the heroic on a charge,

as leaving between a borough

infinity. At which two can emerged.

With fire the first time, when it is not

like a knot. With sheepes bloud at his

mother who kept him chained to dry bone.

XXI

An’ it winna let a body be.—

While ever come to stray, and you in

ioyes remaine. And Sleep must lead some light.

XXII

Room after room, I hunt the Throne of

Glory. But where first time, your shoes from

me. And souls opprest and nuptial mirth?

XXIII

The ghost of years. Of straying wail’d, and

a long farewell. Began to my

contented be; if just as well as Sight.

XXIV

Like stones i’ th’ streets of conscience-

fiction. What do I owe your tears! Second

is a name they prate of Heaven.

XXV

At last infirmity of noble

art of life? At the painted glass, his

second object was the beloved.

XXVI

Of not turning of the eyes, even

to the words cannot express how pure,

by Nature Mine? Of our poor Thames shore?

XXVII

As the Dust of two things I have now

for aught so her grinders blame me too,

be off! Start with her with all belongs!

XXVIII

Changed away from underneath: they han

paund. Before the bones together head.

More gently o’er his Supremacy.

XXIX

How sweet voice hiss. Behind the pear is

a mystery carte and pays it there.

You see us. But never did this.

XXX

One of their shadowy beams. Because

he mused on mutability, while

the kindly race. Must I lose my place.

XXXI

—Of—I know of some massy members

quite dim, yet rather through the fires of

the story are now exanimate.

XXXII

Then why not? ’ It’s like cream of passing

bell. Perhaps a sorry mutters his

father’s shirt before stated his mouth.

XXXIII

And wipe the music fled, but lets the

past; even ere its frame of other

end of their company is Heaven.

XXXIV

That holy dream, I plotted out of

which we met! Like pearles scatter’d limbs

and darkened am that wormes shore?

XXXV

Gleamed for pleasure speaks: teach things nothing

came to those traits of their answer’d in

due order. And my chief musician.

XXXVI

That was its smell of day, veil’d, in a

cannon-ball too near. I wish I could

it go on? When she says, We’re talking.

XXXVII

But the lake’s billowy- bosom’d, over-

bow’d by matters to be sure. For

sacred head of yore with heede and I.

XXXVIII

Painter’s drifting snows, more last relation;

their wills, and nothing to you, looking

up repentant to draw you out.

XXXIX

When from his purpose. Another at

the air and catch a fright of cloudless

clever, but the laws of the present.

When the cords of Sorrow. Where, somehow,

but lets the terror was they well might,

thro’ the best be more bene foresaw.

XLI

On those fair sun of all my wooings. Assuaged,

and she is made of yore with his

eyes, ’ for out of which you are complain.

XLII

Thy brother one alive? From Tom&Jerry,

and leave the great ocean— Truth. To

what dark cave of freedom, could recall.

XLIII

My love is lent, theyr boyes can looke at

my feet, where Rigours exile lockes

to keepe. Again, his Bed, burn’d a rhyme?

XLIV

And, for thy sails, and shot of eve and

could so ill haue the dead. And make amends

for that they gazed upon the brain?

XLV

Herself, while his mistress, side by side.

When he felt only; you would be at!

And now thou art wrecked devotion, pays.

XLVI

No longer idly rave, Sir. Some like

wealth, and that in the deuill at commaund:

but left hys flockes vp al my sense?

XLVII

To his heart, into my heart of scene

of raungers, and Clear Heart to parted

be. It seem’d to evaporation.

XLVIII

Silly poet, must I do Stella

euer deere, stella, died. He walk’d down, and

the Heart, thou shall I not dead; while shade.

XLIX

I am not that much. I saw this

save thorn of pain. As cocke on his temple

comes or goes; you have done: mine eyes.

Pressing fate: but I am only

giving to leese the night. This was

Potemkin—a great pow’rs, that long ypent.

And the silence on the world’s market,

cost him thanck. What the tall pines that rings

round the steam floats up from cochineal.

LII

Of April, and nothing but—

pronunciation. With their feete could be to

my heart. Now Doubt—now Pain come near it?

LIII

Doth sport, gentle into the upper

too much less than say a word the other

lies dream and day. And candidate.

LIV

On your heart, fear nothing keeps the spirit?

As whether it was my loss of

life again! So am I kidding?

Under whose palm? In a race, and left

behind none in gay remark on what

the thrown down the dead. Her solitude.

LVI

May be constant special Essence called

The Shah crowned her texture; she is gone,

and reproved. For a love the stage?

LVII

Sleeper? Eyes can show no real likeness,—

like this long colloquy himself, a

shuddering where he used genteelly.

LVIII

Poor Lamia breathes; the Mamma Mia’s!

And now is come tomorrow brought that

so consummated, is Love in sight.

LIX

But the four cross-question’d every joke,

as music of the dear embodied

soul. Also he dream by day, pursues!

You have heard the other pageants: but

to be romantic. A woman, I

will, gude faith! While she went side by side.

LXI

The Altars half a turbot. In this

their arms, as heaven: we know hunger.

She mean to cease thee, close to amend?

LXII

Imagine youth; and, as may be names

are lost, or harden his dunghill, crowing

upon me proved all these were brought.

LXIII

It was the city’s estate, this

prescriptions are not two and two horsemanship

aduaunce, mine eyes. I want to live.

LXIV

Here hast thou, O awful rainbow once

it was daye light thinking Fund’s

unfathomable sea, that so oft bynempt.

LXV

My future pride and hath no great skill,

and in the ground: there will be bett in

time, a corporal’s duty to come.

LXVI

In days when he comes the burn! The distrait,

and thrift, our honour, had brought to

leaue the dreary pole so marks his legs.

LXVII

How have made his better is by evil

still haue thankless Muse? Retired, and

yet I come the solitary now.

LXVIII

Into my head, till it haue wrought fit

wordes to her Foot to my cotage

touch of Adeline was once, and drain’d.

LXIX

And knit in knots far more cause thy name,

or make the floor. I asked to my onward

life, at their own land battle’s roar.

LXX

” Radiant girl! Talk o’er the draperies,

that now were radiance fell? From our graces

might fade. Of Hell brake out thee rest.

LXXI

Thoughts to warre be true? Of human face

… such hand lusting for a thousand and

gold, but that thou desire is whirl’d.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #186 texts #tricube sequence

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friskyfeline111 · 2 years

Text

Shades: Vampire Journal

Entry One: Storytime

Life sucks! At least that’s what I used to say..when I was human. But in my newfound life, I’ve come to realize that life does suck; for them. My name is Mikala Patrice Wittmore, I am 134 years old; A female African American Vampire living in the deep south of the great United States of America.

Born in 1887; a great-granddaughter of a slave girl. Though I lacked the conviction of chains and shackles; I was not shielded from the hate and disgust due to my melanin complexion. Glaring eyes, spatted remarks, and venomous curses were the melodies of my nightmares; grinding me down like fertilizer only to spread my misfortunes to raise their crops of supremacy.

By 1916, I had reached adulthood and decided to seek work and refuge in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I found my “calling” as a washer-girl; cleaning soiled sheets and dirty pillows of the wretched souls at Baker Hills Asylum. One cold night on the 5th of November; After cleaning out the washtub, I was called to the bedside of a Mr. Jacques Pompri complaining of an ailment that I could not cure.

I offered a hand only to lose my mortality in return. I watched in horror as the frail man before I impaled my throat with sharp jagged fangs; the pain seething into my body.

The last thing I remembered was the taste of copper in the back of my throat, the sweet smell of burning embers, and the flickering wax candle near the bedside.

I awoke face down on the wooden floor. I choked back a gasp; shuffling across the vintage wood and finding my footing. There was no trace of Jacques; only the bloody remnants on my sternum, convincing me that what had happened last night was real.

I washed up quickly; burning my soiled blouse into the slow-burning furnace in the basement. I kept quiet to not bring any attention to myself. I was lucky to be in such a place; given the fact that I was a young negro woman in a position that they would gladly give to a beautiful white female with class and education.

It took five days for the hunger to start; I craved sustenance but food sickened me. The water tasted like metal; the sun pierced my eyes and the sounds of pulsing veins flooded my ears like a storm on the raging sea. I tried so hard to cling to my humanity; however, I was not strong enough.

Eventually, the thirst became unbearable; on June 15, I succumbed. My first victim was a son of a former enslaver; who liked me when I passed him at the market; buying flowers for a dying patient. He followed me down a narrow alleyway; peering back to make sure there would be no witnesses of his violation.

The taste of him was nectarous; like a cold glass of iced tea on a hot summer day. I drank myself drunk until that pumping sound ceased to exist. I placed him against the wall and covered his dismayed expression with his hat. I walked away from the ordeal; unscathed and better than ever. I left the flowers by the entrance of the asylum but I never returned. I had a few years' worth of savings and a place to go. I paid homage to my Gula heritage by voyaging to the Carolinas and settling in the good ole city of Charleston.

I paid 300 dollars to purchase an old cottage that was said to have been a witch house a long time ago. With a little work, blackened curtains, and a few more tweaks; my home was complete. The house was in the middle of the woods. No one dared to venture near my home due to its backstory. The people around were very superstitious; some still today.

Although I was free and serene in my new home, my skin color still labeled me a threat; an inferior being compared to those of a fairer shade.

To the women, I was a lesser creature while men saw me as an object of carnal fantasy; a toy to play with in secret, away from their wives and trusting comrades.

Their disapproval of my existence fueled me with rage but their stupidity amused the monster inside of me; inducing my hunger to unbelievable heights. Each one tasted even better than the last. The hate in their blood was like an elixir; one which I could never tire of. It was easy to go about killing in the 1900s; but like all good things, they must end. As time went by, I soon needed to find another way to indulge in my predatory desires

By 1978, I decided to go to night school and become a phlebotomist; drawing blood all night long in lonely hospitals and clinics. Although I wouldn’t call it indulging; however, it was a better humane approach to my selective diet. But as we all know; everybody slips up from time to time.

One night while I was snacking on a late midnight sample of a Mr. Johnny Fortwire; a rumored member of the Ku Klux klan, I witnessed something horrid. There were three vibrant, drunk caucasian girls hounding a young black med student who was walking home. They broke her glasses and spat in her face. Quivering with fear, she kneeled to retrieve them only for her face to meet the heel of one of the girl’s platform shoes.

The rushing sound in my ears, which I hadn’t heard for over a decade, deafened me. My throat was dry as if I had swallowed a bucket of sand. My pupils expanded and my glimmering white fangs protruded through my gums. Before I knew it, I indulged. Diet be damned, I say. It all happened so quickly, that my head spun. I was on a high and it felt like lightning coursing through my veins. During my euphoria, the young med student must have run off in horror because when I came to, she was gone. I often wonder what became of her.

As many more years went by, I started to notice the hate that once permeated the air, soon tapered off. All I detected was more peace and coexistence. It seemed to last for a good while. My hunger ached but I paid it no mind. I regressed to my original diet; clinics, hospitals, and blood banks were my fridges.

In the middle of 2020, as I sat on my porch, enjoying the croaks and howls of the night, my nose began to twitch. The familiar scent crept into my nostrils like a rat scavenging for food. I watched the media, and listened to the radio; stunned that it was back. The hate, the disapproval, the torture; it was all back. But this time, it was in everyone; not just one select group.

It was free for all; a buffet if you will.

And I’ve never been so hungry.

#short+stories #vampire #journal

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reportwire · 2 years

Text

Yale Medical Professor Blasts Biden for Working With COVID — It's White Supremacy – RedState

Yale Medical Professor Blasts Biden for Working With COVID — It’s White Supremacy – RedState

As you’re likely aware, Joe Biden has COVID. But what many may not know is that he’s practicing white supremacy. That, according to a well-credentialed doctor. As reported by Twitchy, Dr. Kim Sue took to Twitter this week to wax on the White House’s business as usual. According to the PhD recipient, the President’s running on racism. On July 22nd, Dr. Kim claimed as follows: “(Biden) sets a bad…

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#Coronavirus #COVID-19 #doctor #Fox News #harvard school of medicine #harvard university #Joe Biden #kim sue #medical school #medicine #Oregon #PhD #racism #Twitchy #white house #white supremacy #Yale University

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sunny-deez-nutz · 2 years

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My crack slasher headcannons

Brahmsy 🌙

-he can cook when he tries that is and has a recipe to follow but most of the time him cooking is very..........interesting

-he likes to make random food concoctions based on what you like

-think pilk "we'll y/n likes Pepsi and milk, why not drink them at the same time 🤷🏻‍♂️"

-we dont talk about brahms no no no no

-brahms is just British Bruno u cant say otherwise

-he probably eats ur hair when ur sleeping

-100% listens to fall out boy and thinks he's hot shit (its ok we've all been there little buddy)

-sits in front of the doll and argues for hours with it even tho its not responding to him 😰

-i feel like you find his hair and everything ur food, ur mouth randomly, ur clothes, etc

Billy lenz 🎄

-also eats your hair

-is the rat king

-has a furbie that he throws on the ground so it makes weird noises

-he thinks its hilarious but its terrifying for the sorority girls

-a rat bit him once and he bit it back

-hus hair is ofc hella greasy but when its washed its super soft

-also when he's not screaming purvy phrases and reenacting disturbing bits he's actually quite enjoyable to have a phone call with

-he'll let you rant about what ever for as long as you want and gets so invested the conversation

-also repeats what you say like a parrot majority of the conversation

Jason my beloved ⛺

-is genuinely the sweetest man

-he gives the best hugs and nothing can change my mind

-will keep anything and everything you give him and will protect it with his life

-sweet zombie bf 🥲💕💕💕

-however there is no sex in the champagne room

-sorry but i totally think this man is asexual

-but forhead mask kisses galore to make up for it

-is you treat him right Pamela is the best mother in-law

-she will treat u like her own and will go to prison for u

-loves her son with all her heart but has always wanted a daughter

Vincent 🕯

-draws you all the time

-signs aggressively when he talks about bo

-will also cherish everything and anything you give him even if its a piece of grass

-Definitely the kid that dipped his finger in candle wax and picked it of for funsies

-just like brahms u also find his hair everywhere

-smells like plum, amber and dark musk

-ik thats very specific but i have this Michael Langdon candle but i just get Vincent vibes every time i smell it

-his a god at tik tak toe i dont know why but i feel like he undefeated

-his favorite season is fall

-has an amazing hair care routine and tales it very seriously

-also a very sweet man

-when he compliments ppl he sounds like he's talking about a piece of art and its really nice 🥲

Miguel Myers 🎃

-is not the sweetest man ever

-talking to him is like when ur talking to a toddler and they give u the dirtiest look for no reason

-like it just feels like that but he's not even making any faces

-is a black hole when it comes to sweets

-you will find candy in his pockets every time you do the laundry

-even if u watch him to make sure he doesn't put candy in his pockets they'll still be candy in his pockets when u wash the clothes

-stands over u while ur sleeping and will walk away like nothing happened if u catch him

-is the scariest driver

-drives like illumi from HxH

-road signs are just suggestions

-if he doesn't like whats on tv he'll just get up, turn off the tv and make u both sit in silence

AAHHH THATS all sorry if that was short or boring! Lmk if you have any headcannon requests :) I love you ciao ♡

#halloween #michael myers #friday the 13th #jason voorhees #the boy 2016 #brahms heelshire #black christmas #billy lenz #house of wax #vincent sinclair #slasher x you #slasher x reader #slasher headcanons #i love jason #jason supremacy

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used-organs · 2 years

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Wowsa it’s all three Sinclair’s now!

Three rowdy boys ~

Had a lot of fun with this perspective study.

#house of wax supremacy #slasher #horror movies #killer #fanart #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #sinclair brothers #house of wax #perspective

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hanighul · 2 years

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What are Lester's tattoos? The one on his chest looks interesting!

Here you go! Hope this lives up to what you were expecting <3

A lot of his tattoos are nature-themed, and this is because he was raised primarily by his grandparents who taught him to love and respect it :D

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moronic-validity · 3 years

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It's so nice to see a blog with Lester appreciation 😌😌 he's truly the best boy

Lester is truly the best boy and I'm glad I'm not the only believer in Lester Sinclair Supremacy

#theo's thoughts #teddy talks #lester sinclair #i believe in lester sinclair supremacy #house of wax 2005 #house of wax

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starlightsearches · 3 years

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why is it always hux doesn’t treat his wife right so kylo falls for her and never kylo doesn’t treat his wife right so hux falls for her😔💔

Anon, you are so right. Here’s a little blurb for you, my friend 💖

Armitage Hux x GN Reader (no pronouns but I did add that the reader was wearing a dress because I’m a slut for ball gowns)

Warnings for: language, infidelity, mentions of possible spousal abuse, angst. Let me know what you think!

The night air is warm here. It sticks faintly to your skin, sometimes brushed away by the slight breeze that passes through the trees every few minutes, smelling faintly of salt and some kind of flower that you can’t quite place.

This is good for you: the peace that can be found in simple things. If you couldn’t have satisfaction, at least you could have fresh air on your skin. If you couldn’t have happiness, you’d make up for it in still, summer nights.

The garden exists in a kind of half-darkness—not a true night but different enough from the Supremacy, where the light never waxes or wanes. Nine moons orbit the planet, but you can only see three from where you stand, the others hidden from sight by the surrounding trees, or else set to rise at a later time.

Nine moons. It had been the general who told you that—a passing comment as you boarded the transport before your husband had arrived. You could hardly remember the planet’s name, let alone it’s most popular export, the importance it had to the Order, or any of the hundred other things Ren had told you in the weeks before your arrival here—but you remembered the moons.

You brush the idea away. It’s best not to give weight to thoughts like that; Ren’s pride could not take it, and if he caught you thinking about another man in any capacity . . .

You don’t think he would hurt you. He hadn’t so far, in almost a year of marriage, but you could not ignore the hint of roughness in how he handled you. As if he were only showing the barest kind of restraint as a message—not a threat that violence would happen, but that it could, if he deemed it necessary.

No such courtesy—if you could call it that—would be extended to the general for your indiscretions. Ren would kill him.

The possibility of that feels far away on a night like tonight, so you let yourself think about it for a little longer.

The breeze plays with the edge of your gown as the curve of the fourth moon peers over the tips of the trees. You should really be getting back to the party.

Heaving a sigh, you lift the hem of your dress, padding through the sparse grass of the garden floor, weaving in between the bushes and ducking under low branches; the only sound beside your footsteps is your own breathing. There’s no sign of life anywhere, now that you think of it, no glimpse of the candle-lit veranda or the gilt ballroom beyond flickering through the leaves.

You come to a halt in a copse of trees. It’s a dead end.

You could have sworn that you came this way. Although, you didn’t have to pay much attention to direction of your travels when the only destination in mind was away from here.

A trickle of fear slips down your spine, turning the warm night cooler. You had already spent too much time out here, and it’s not hard to guess how Ren might react if he was forced to come find you.

You turn on your heels, your sense of urgency heightened at the thought, but urgency gives way to panic when you collide with something in your path.

You look up with startled eyes, relaxing slightly when you realize that it’s only the general. He’s caught you by the shoulders, holding you steady with a hand on each arm—whether to make sure you don’t fall over or to keep you from knocking him to the ground, you’re not sure.

He looks stunning—a face made for the moonlight, carved from stone. It takes the air out of your lungs.

A faint blush dusts his cheeks, vague but visible, and he slides his hands off of you with some hesitation, the leather of his gloves dragging over your skin reluctantly and raising goosebumps in their wake.

“Your Highness, my apologies,” he offers you a stiff bow, stepping back slightly, and you wither. Even in total seclusion, he is nothing but a gentleman. Your thoughts from earlier resurface to mock you, but do your best to conceal the hurt.

“No need for that, general. You actually arrived just in time; I got lost on my way back to the party,” he makes no attempt to respond, so you gesture weakly to the sky, trying to fill the silence, “I was admiring the moons.”

He turns just as you do—four moons now solidly visible between the over-reaching branches of the trees. The back of his hand brushes against yours before he pulls away.

He clears his throat, stepping back towards the entrance to the path, offering you his arm, “shall we return to the party?”

You take his arm with a polite smile, wrapping your fingers around the sleeve of his suit jacket, walking in silence for a moment as he leads the way back through garden—on the correct path, this time.

“Did Ren send you to find me?” You interrupt the silence of your journey, curious how the general had known where to come looking for you.

“No,” he offers simply, “the Supreme Leader was . . . otherwise engaged.”

“Oh,” you sit with the odd feeling his answer produces, trying to find it’s source. Were you disappointed that Ren had not noticed your absence? Or thrilled that the general had? “I only ask because I can typically slip from these kinds of events, at least for a little while, without any notice. I was worried that I might have lost my touch.”

He hums noncommittally in response, but you suspect that there’s more would like to say. You can see the magnificent house, and the party within, between the gaps in the trees, your journey almost coming to an end. The general makes no attempt to carry on the conversation, and you worry your lip between your teeth. Maybe you’ve offended him.

“I won’t take it to heart, general; you notice everything,” you say with a lighthearted tone, hoping to assuage whatever wound you’ve created.

His pace stutters slightly, as if he might like to stop for a moment, but the movement is so infinitesimal you’re sure you wouldn’t have noticed it if you didn’t have him by the arm. His response is quiet compared to the sound of your footsteps, the hints of music weaving its way from the open doors and windows out over the garden.

“I notice you.”

The air punches from your lungs. Your lips part, body begging for new air, but you can’t get it back. He tenses against you, and you’re sure you have not misinterpreted his meaning.

“General, I-” you try to speak but the words fail, you’ve lost sight of everything but him, and your lack of focus leaves you vulnerable, your shoe catching on the uneven ground. Your body reacts before your mind can comprehend, your free arm reaching out in front of you, anticipating the inevitable fall.

It never comes—the general has caught you by the waist, pulling you close—your hand meets the collar of his suit jacket instead of the unforgiving ground. When you’re eyes find his, the words die on your lips. His grip doesn’t loosen.

You can see everything when you’re this close, every minuscule detail: the slight glimmer of his pale lashes as they brush against his cheeks, the soft smattering of grey in the green of his eyes, a freckle—darker than the others—just below the corner of his mouth. Your eyes linger there for a moment longer than the rest; what happens next feels like a natural progression.

You slide your arm up, over his shoulder, all the way around his neck before pulling him closer, pressing one kiss to his soft, pink lips, then another. And another.

Then he kisses you back.

His arms solid around your waist, bunching the fabric of your dress under his fingers, your heart plummets from your chest when he deepens the kiss with more intensity than you ever thought him capable. The general’s stoic exterior has come undone under your touch.

He kisses you, harder, deeper, your bodies connected at every point, every line. There will never be enough of him, enough of this. You’ll starve of it, once you go back to-

Shit. Back to Ren. Oh gods, what have you done?

The thought must hit the general at the same time—he tears himself away from you, breathing hard.

“We shouldn’t— I never knew—” He’s stumbling back before he can even get the words out, his expression pure agony, his voice harsh as he says, “this can never happen again.”

You’ve barely regained feeling in your limbs before he leaves you, walking swiftly towards the lights and the music and the chatter, away from you and the kiss that you might have mistaken for a dream had it not left you so empty.

He disappears from view before you can cry out for him, and you are alone in the light of the moons.

#armitage hux/reader #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux fanfiction #armitage hux oneshot #armitage hux drabble #armitage hux/you #general hux x you #general hux x reader #general hux oneshot #general hux drabble #general hux/you #general hux/reader #my writing #requests #anons

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cursewroughts · 2 years

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( cis woman | she/her | bruna marquezine ) —— isn’t that emmanuelle “emma” vanity? yeah that is them, outside the leaky cauldron! they used to be in slytherin but apparently they now work as a captain & chaser for the montrose magpies. they always seemed to remind me of a toned physique , carefully hidden with swaths of silk & satin ; the constantly lingering smell of broom wax , no matter how much perfume used to hide it ; a surprisingly genuine laugh , quickly smothered in shame ; an emperor’s ransom worth of jewelry scattered carelessly around a bedroom , which seems about right. anyway i’ve heard they’re still a bit captivating, tenacious, and self - serving. they’re twenty now but some things never change! i wonder how being a pureblood is affecting them after school, especially now they’re neutral ( forced death eater bias )? when was it they graduated again, 1976? has it really been that long… —— [ mar : gmt+1 : 24 : she/they ]

hi friends ! my name is mar , 24 years old , from the gmt+1 tz & using she / they pronouns , here to introduce you to my trash child , emma !

if you struggle with reading double spaced text , click this link to a page that has my intro without any formatting !

before you read , please be aware that this part includes trigger warnings for / mentions of : trauma , misogyny , substance ( ab ) use , mental & physical parental abuse , torture.

𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗦.

full name : emmanuelle victoria vanity.

name origin : emma’s name was anglicized alongside the rest of her family when they moved to the united kingdom. “ emmanuelle ” — god is with you, “ victoria ” — latin word for victory.

nickname(s) : em, ems, emmie ( she might bite you ).

birthdate : august 12th, making her a leo sun & scorpio moon.

gender & pronouns : identifies as a cis woman and uses she/her.

sexuality : bisexual.

positives : clever, captivating, tenacious.

neutrals : capricious, ambitious, opportunistic.

negatives : debauched, self-serving, guarded.

education : hogwarts, slytherin house.

occupation : captain & chaser for the montrose magpies, socialite.

current residence : her parental estate & an apartment in london.

𝗔𝗙𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦.

mother : daphne vanity ( anglicized ).

father : joseph vanity ( anglicized ).

siblings : none, though not for lack of trying.

family : the ancient & splendid house of vanity ( formerly vanità ).

extended family : possible cousins, tba.

relationship status : possibly betrothed, tba. currently single.

allegiance : currently neutral, facing pressure to join the death eaters.

𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗘.

patronus : the cheetah, though emma’s managed casting it only once.

boggart : herself, in a pair of shackes & looking like a stepford wife — symbolizing being trapped in a life of her parents design.

wand type : cherry wood, dragon heartstring core, 11 1/2″, slightly flexible.

amortentia : the smells of broomwax, cinnamon-spiced firewhiskey & expensive perfume have the biggest presence, but a hint of petrichor can be noted too.

𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬.

raised in opulence & splendor, emma vanity has always had a seemingly perfect life. a notoriously old money family, the vanity’s made an ambitious move from their home country brazil to the united kingdom, only a few months after emma’s birth. they blended in with pureblood society quite well, despite their newcomer status, but a perfectly pure lineage & obscene amounts of wealth will do that for you. to emma, things have always come easy — that’s what the world seems to think, at least. a pretty face, a large collection of friends, and even a quidditch career waiting for her. but pictures can be deceiving. aside from being old money, the vanity’s were also old guard — which meant traditional views regarding pureblood supremacy, and most importantly for emma, the role a woman should play. the only child in a family desperate for more, emma committed the terrible crime of not being born a male heir, something that dictated her parents treatment of her entire life. she was to be seen, not heard. she would not speak back. she would behave herself perfectly at any given time, all so she could catch the perfect husband and live her happily ever after.

once she reached hogwarts age, emma realized the world was not all her parents had made it out to be. there were more options than what she’d been taught, and like a kid in a candystore, she wanted to try them all. even at such a young age, emma fell into a problematic pattern that included constant rebellious behavior, and later on, straight up debauchery. she still knew how to behave herself, she was raised by etiquette - focused parents, after all, but she craved fun & adventure like nothing else. to her surprise, her parents turned a blind eye for multiple years — and emma started to think maybe, just maybe, she had a shot. quidditch quickly became her greatest passion, bringing home the cup for slytherin at least four times whilst she was captain of the team. she was a hellkite on the pitch, and a riot off it as well. she lacked care for what her parents or other authority figures wanted, whatever she wanted, that was what mattered now.

of course all good things must come to an end, and emma’s was quite abrupt. she refers to it as “ the intervention ” whenever explaining her changes in character, but it was much less soft than that. being subject to her parents mental & physical abuse for weeks on end, locked in her rooms, they broke her down bit by bit, and then offered her a chance to get back up. as the only child, she was the heir now, and as the heir, she had to represent their family with the pureblood community, and if the option arose, the dark lord. emma could keep her life. most of it, apart from the bits they disliked too much. she could even play quidditch, as long as she quit after they found her a suitable husband. but she would have to work hard & become a valuable piece of her family in return. the vanity’s wanted to be on top of the wizarding world, and emma — pretty faced, popular, but also tough & filled with grit, would be their tool. desperate for escape, she took the deal, and has been walking a terrifying tightrope ever since. not one for pureblood supremacy, or true cruelty for that matter, she’s found herself surrounded by friends from her family’s circles, all intent on ridding the world of “ tainted blood ”. she’s pushed her opinions down, silenced her feelings, and moved on. her leash is tight, but she has to learn & live with it, because if she doesn’t, the consequences for her could be much, much worse.

𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗.

fair weather friends : emma is, simply said, fun to be around. she’s fairly well - known due to her quidditch career, but is also massively social — in the most superficial way, that is. i assume she likely has a lot of friends who know her well enough to call her that, but not enough to know what goes on underneath the surface.

drinking / party buddies : it started with a young girl who’d never been allowed to indulge rebelling against her parents through alcohol, parties, and sex. while that is still part of her, emma’s indulgence has been more focussed on drowing out the trauma lately — though the people she indulges with likely don’t know any better.

ex-lover / relationship, currently antagonistic : emma’s focus on what her parents would call the “ right ” kind of people used to be something she cared less about, but since her intervention, she’s been more secretive if someone she hangs out with wouldn’t be approved of by her family. this person would likely be either not a pureblood or considered a current blood traitor, and their relationship was likely blown up by emma post-intervention, leaving them both with hurt feelings.

partner-in-crime / mentor : since her parents would like her to fall more in line with those supporting the death eaters, this person came into her life & became a permanent fixture. they likely teach her in more dark arts and are possibly even working to recruit her into the actual death eaters.

other : rivals, lovers, co-workers ( pro quidditch ), former friends, first kiss / romance / etc, frenemies, work-out partners, ex-somethings, childhood friends, enemies turned friends, friends turned enemies, neighbors ( apartment in knightsbridge, london ), friends with benefits, secret friendships, ( distant ) cousins.

#un:intro #* 𝗩𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗬 / 𝗘𝗠𝗠𝗔 ⸻ introspection .

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