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the-trinket-witch · 16 days

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💬

(CW: themes of misgendering, psychological torture, Death of a parent, and Aadesh being an unfiltered bastard)

"It’s a bit funny, really. The face of the one he hates, who destroyed the loves of his life, watching him. Imitating him. Pretending to be him. Looking at him while they rip away every last piece of his wife he still sees in them."

Aadesh Had Enough. Enough games, of keeping the visage of the polite counselor, of having Albert and the Prefect snooping through his business. And now, he had enough fun breaking down the young man who'd snuck into his office. He had Albert, pinned close in his tail and unable to call for help with the scarf now curled tight around his throat. The Doctor's grin only further split his face inhumanly wide with each attempt to wriggle free. That ancestral prey-drive made his tail clamp tighter, as he further wrenched the young man's arm up where he couldn't shove him.

"Do you really want to know what Jon sees when he looks at you?"

Claws dug into Albert's scalp. Their hold kept him from looking anywhere else but at that Seven-awful kaleidoscope in the Doctor's eyes. Far too late to try screwing his eyes shut. The magic compelled him to keep looking. As the Silver Mist rolled in over his mind, The mental images came flooding in.

A small curly-haired child tugging excitedly at a man's coat sleeve. That same child, experimenting with hairstyles, thoughtlessly fracturing their wrist in an overzealous attempt in learning to fly by umbrella. A teenager, 'surprising' their father with what remained of their previously beautiful head of hair, now shaven down in some attempt to look masculine. To look like him. That same child, sent to Royal Sword only at the blessing of his wife. St Winnifred's would have been better. That child that was supposed to be his, now unrecognizable as they slouched over Maria's hospital bed. Eyebags; something Jon was familiar with in his own reflection, making it now so much more difficult to see his wife in the face of 'Albert'. "Go home, get some rest. She'll be fine." There was that teen claiming to be his son at the funeral, quietly weeping in a suit that didn't fit. Like every child first trying on their parent's clothes. Just another chip taken off the memory of what Jon use to have, what he worked himself to the bone for every day. Every visit becoming another reminder of what he was losing; every memory becoming a grain of sand in a sieve. And Albert, in Jon's eyes, was actively jostling it, to make more memories slip through his fingers.

It didn't matter to Aadesh he'd only dropped Albert to theta-wave levels of brain activity; his spell had done its job. The dream-induced panic twisting the young man's face was a show in itself. But the show had to end before his next appointment. The Doctor reclaimed his scarf and adjusted his glasses as his tail let the man crash limply to the carpet.

"Ssstay. Out. of my. Business," Aadesh warned, crouching low even as Albert shuddered to his hands and knees. Al's glasses had fallen off, but through a sheen of tears he could still make out the Councelor's form strut back out the door.

And in a horrifying little coincidink, I had been meaning to subject Albert to The Hypnotic Horrors for a bit, so here's a little bit of that doodled out as lighting practice.

Taglist: (lemme know if you want added or removed)

@ceruleancattail @squidwen @thecosmicjackalope @vaporvipermedia@writing-heiress

@oya-oya-okay @k-looking-glass-house@thehollowwriter@rainesol @cyn-write

@heartscrypt@honey-milk-depresso @br3adtoasty @jackiecronefield @ruggiethethuggie

@demonichikikomori @hoboyherewego @achy-boo @oreoskys@oseathepebble

@tunabesimpin @hamstergal @fumikomiyasaki@valse-a-mille-temps

@hallowed-delights @kimikitti @plutos-hell @thetwstwildcard @atwstedstory

@comingyourlugubriousness @ice-cweam-sod4 @twst-the-night-away @nammanarin

#inbox reply #thecosmicjackalope #twisted wonderland #twst oc #aadesh sona #albert eastwind #hypnosis #Was this based on TMA ep 118? Yes very much so #is it going to be a part of the wider fic I'm still trying to write? also yes

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lustrous-dawn · 5 months

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Zane inhaled deeply. Perhaps independence was not best for the project. Yet how else would it learn? Despite it all, he sensed a hint of remorse in the Deoxys’ emotions. They didn't mean to go so far.

Come. His hand extended, energy coursing through his palm to surge outward. A portal opened back to their plane. Without a word, he steps through, Zeta following after. Into the welcoming sight of his office, a dim light from the lamp he had left on in an absence.

Disappointed, he could not relish in the evening in the company of his partner, Zane took a seat in his chair as Zeta hovered about, curiously exploring the space. A tendril reached forth, curling around the golden statue in the likeness of Yveltal.

This is not you.

A cursory glance towards the object that held the Deoxys’ curiosity.

“It is not.” Zane rested his chin on his palm. “but it is a rather novel trinket.” Humans try as they may to capture the likeness of the real Yveltal. The only ones who knew his true visage were dead, who had bravely faced him and survived.

Then Zane bored his stare into the pitless eyes of the Deoxys. Zeta may have been very cold in their logical thinking but their grudge towards the Rayquaza was personal. “Where is he, Zeta?” Zane’s voice was very mild but there were notes of censure and authority in it.

He fell into the sea. Since then we have lost sight of them. Zeta informed him. Their appendages twisted and unfurled, curled beneath their chin. Kalos.

A furrowed brow. My old stomping grounds? “And the plate?”

Missing.

A sigh. “It would have been useful… No matter.” Zane mourned not. There would always be another opportunity to seize it. “Mind?”

Secure.

“Very good, Zeta.” He scratched his chin and pondered. “Zeta. I have one more job for you to do.”

Yes.

“I need you to make yourself scarce. You have drawn too much attention. It would not be long before someone takes notice that the Emperor of the Skies is missing. No one would think the old bastard has dropped dead and I do not need the other gods snooping around at the disappearance of an Ancient.” No matter how much Zane tried, he knew Caelus would not go quietly. He wouldn't be foolish enough to tip the scales so sharply.

A small glance at his palm. Energy pulsating slowly… Erratic. A narrowed look. Not much longer.

Yes.

A shimmer and the Deoxys was gone.

Zane slumped in his chair, his eyes on the photograph on his desk. One of him and Lucian smiling. “How are you faring…”

#Zane #Zeta #Plot #*

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fortifice · 23 days

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An unconventional relationship leaves a lot of space for unanswered questions. Such things that might be more basic for even a friend to ask that of another, but even the Fool wouldn't necessarily say that they are friends. Such a bond would suggest trust && care well beyond what the mercenary has begrudgingly handed out. As he once uttered while pressed against damp skin, a pool of water with ripples that might have matched that of his racing heart — Sampo wants to trust Gepard.

Delicate matters of the heart aside, spoils are somewhat easier as his fixated avarice has little to do with the tangible rewards. He can part with his earnings under the right circumstances, && in this case he's gone ahead && purchased some flowers for a special occasion he was never properly informed of. For the Landau's birthday, Sampo acquired a bouquet of flowers. While he knows that Gepard struggles with the ones he keeps within the apartment, these are for the fleeting joy of existence. The type of Elation that will undoubtedly grace a smile upon a loved one's visage. After all, the particular picks in this arrangement tie in with romance && celebration. Or so he'd been told after struggling with picking any out. Being familiar with roses, the red petals would've been too obvious a choice, so he went with an expert's opinion. Even he could dare to bruise his own ego in hopes that it might speak to one of his lover's interest.

This is placed beside a homemade cake on Gepard's dining table. A cake that was crafted by Sampo in this very kitchen. Sampo's hands were outstretched as he gestured openly towards the gifts, guard's heavy footfalls filling the abode. Sweetness of the moment is interrupted by the Fool spinning on his heel to ensure that the oven itself is no longer heated && focusing back upon Gepard. His bare hands resting on the back of the nearest chair. ❝ Happy birthday, Gep~ ! Did you really think I wouldn't have figured it out ? ❞ Out of all the people in Belobog to know, Sampo's newfound knowledge came as the result of snooping in papers && files he shouldn't have been. The Captain of the Silvermane Guard needn't know such details, what Sampo would like to express in the moment is appreciation && thoughtfulness... Even if the notion of belonging is still quite fuzzy to the two.

It wasn’t imparted for how much time had passed since his birthday had commemorated anything other than his abundant accolades & survival against the conflict that remained unrelenting. upon the advent of a text from Serval, buoyant & pervaded with excessive exclamation marks, a revelation dawned upon him. under the sempiternal gaze of falling snow another year was affixed to his uniform, as if it were an aureate emblem commending him, lacking the warmth that may only dwell in the lives of those who did not walk the path he had. where once vestiges of hope had resided, that they could all return to their family’s estate and celebrate together, was the irrefutable knowledge that the tension that desiccated the roots of that noble family would not accommodate such a gathering. His gratitude comes in the form of a concise reply & a sticker to diminish the severity of his contrasting punctuation, a subtle smile that lasts only for a breath as he tucks it back into his pocket.

What he had not anticipated as he arrived home, easing out of his boots, not wanting to trek icy mire across the floor, was the aroma of something delicious baking. It took him a moment to discern and then rationalize the source, gloved fingers becoming inert between tugging off one boot then regarding the next with exhausted exasperation. his nonplussed gaze followed the stream of wan light that unfurled from his kitchen to its origins, prying his leg free from the boot’s vice and quietly padding up the hall, dubiety in the slight furrow of his brow, the searching sweep of his gaze. As the familiar sights of his kitchen come into view he should be relieved but the emotion he feels in its place is debilitating, his steps hesitate. For how frequently they shared that space should Sampo’s presence not be similarly familiar, yet, his eyes widened a little, the flutter of golden lashes incredulous. The scene before him played at a stagnant pace, as if his mind were justifying it, seeking reason where it was not necessarily needed. stepping into the room is like being plunged into a pleasant dream, the closer he ventured the more prominent the delectable aroma became, his gaze hitching on the meticulously arranged bouquet, the delicate & diaphanous petals of ball peonies. if the raucous hammering of his heart were any louder he’s certain the other would have heard it from across the room.

“ you did ━ all of this ?” disbelief, not because he harboured doubt but because the immensity of it felt so surreal. the other’s contagious, languorous grin holds him captive for a moment. “ for my birthday ?” as if it were baffling & he was still unravelling it. As he turns to the oven, scrutinizing it as if it may still be cooking in his absence, Gepard closes the distance between them in short, brisk strides. Sampo turned back to him, lithe fingers reposing atop the arch of one of the kitchen chairs, Gepard’s reach for him, gloved fingers grazing along his jaw, kissing him on the mouth to silence his blithe greeting. the kiss is long, tender, caressing the keen line of his jaw, only when his lungs sear with denied breath does he withdraw, his eyes searching. “ How did you ..” impossibility seemed an abstract concept in the hands of one as enigmatic as belobog’s resident mercenary. his expression was soft, inexplicably so. “ do I want to know ?” but it was uttered upon a breath that held within it the impression of laughter.

#six weeks later <3 #。 ‧͙*̩̩❆ ✧ in character ‚ ⁱᵗ'ˢ ʷⁱⁿᵗᵉʳ﹐ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃˢᵏ ᵐᵉ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴵ ᵗᵉˡˡ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ / ᵃˢᵏˢ #dupliciti #he will not kill these flowers he wont he wont he ━

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norabrice1701 · 1 year

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Shadow

A dark!hypnotist Brühl x Fem!Reader AU

Summary: His phantom still lingers. His shadow is always with you.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including heavy dub-con/non-con sexual intercourse); explicit language; social anxiety; manipulative character; morally irredeemable use of hypnosis; reader trauma & distress afterwards; seriously, this is dark

A/N: Before my Sam Neill character spiral continues, wanted to get this one finished! Please heed the warnings on this one - there is very little redeeming about this one.

"Just one more look at you, my heart has been hypnotized" - "Hypnotized", Years & Years

His voice still haunts you.

Despite the doctor's reassurances. Despite the mind-numbing medication. Despite your husband's insistence.

His phantom still lingers. His shadow is always with you.

“You’ll never get me out. You’ll never let me go.”

A shudder courses through you even though you’re safe under the covers of your bed. Cold rain sluices in sluggish waves against the window, and grey light paints your bedroom in shrouded colors. The warmth of your bed covers does little for the pallor of your cheeks, though.

How could it when his fingers still whisper against your skin? When the hellfire of his touch still sears and brands you?

“Oh, my angel. When the devil wants to dance, do you think you can refuse him?”

You close your eyes against the persistence of memory.

The party dragged on for hours now. Even before marriage to your society-pages husband, you found the endless parade of formal events in stuffy mansions tedious. Fortunately, your husband didn’t insist that you stay on his arm all evening, and you could escape to find quiet moments of reprieve. Moments where you could breathe and try to reign in the anxious nerves that always made you uneasy during large social gatherings.

You’d never been able to explain why crowds made your skin crawl and your heart race. But your parents had heard none of it, and your husband wasn’t willing to listen, either. So instead, you found your own refuge. The heavy mahogany doors of the host’s library were open when you found them, but you closed them swiftly behind you. Mercifully, the din of the party beyond faded, and you reveled in the silence around you.

The gentle crackle of a dying fire along the opposite wall soothed you as you took deep, calming breaths. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe. Taking steps into the cozy, shadowed room, you scanned the imposing collection of leather-bound volumes, stately bookcases, and plush furniture designed for hours of mental pursuits. A smile tugged at your lips - your first genuine one of the evening. If you could spend all of your evenings tucked away in such a room, you would want for little else.

You walked up to a bookcase opposite the fireplace, running your fingers along the textured spines. The warmth of the fire danced along your skin as you breathed the comforting scents of old leather and musty paper. All of it soothed your unease, bringing a sense of calm peace that you hadn’t known since arriving on your husband’s arm.

The heavy door whispered open on a silent hinge, but dark movement caught in your peripheral. You withdrew your hand from the books, ready to make your fearful apologies to the host. You weren’t a thief, and you weren’t snooping - hopefully the host would understand. Except… the man half-veiled in shadow wasn’t the host.

Honestly, you didn’t recognize him, and you couldn’t discern too much about him. He wore a dark, formal suit as befitting the party, and well-coiffed brown hair crowned his head. The flickering firelight cast handsome, intriguing shadows across his visage, but his glittering brown eyes were worlds unto themselves.

A fearful shiver raced down your spine as you forgot how to breathe, how to move. “I-I’m sorry - please, I wasn’t prying.”

He shook his head dismissively. “You needn’t apologize to me. This is not my home.”

You fought the urge to wring your hands under his unnerving stare. “I know, but I… I-.”

“You also needn’t be so nervous.” He walked further into the room, the dark fabric of his suit melting into the surroundings. “In fact, you look positively stricken, and - if I’m being honest - you have all evening.” His voice carried a mellifluous cadence with a lush, deep rasp, and it wrapped around you like velvet. “I would love to help you, if I may.”

His sharp gaze held yours with focused intensity, and your mouth went dry. You wet your top lip, fumbling for words against a growing fog in your mind. “How did you even know that I was here?”

The illuminated corner of his mouth lifted, and you instinctively recognized its sinister edge but your body continued to relax as he spoke. “Any man would notice an angel of your beauty taking her leave.”

Heat flared on your skin despite the weight of your wedding ring that suddenly felt like lead. “I-I’m a married woman.”

“Then, it is most telling that I found you here while your husband did not.”

Your head swam and you knew you should leave, but your feet refused to move. You drew another deep breath, unable to look away from him. “If you knew him, then that wouldn’t surprise you.”

He hummed, the sound low and enticing. “I do know him, and this does not surprise me.”

His mesmerizing gaze continued to bore through you, and the creepy severity of it flickered in your mind before evaporating just as quick. “Well… I-I don’t know you.” You said, taking a breath of the unnervingly thick and cloying air. “W-who are you?”

His mouth upturned in fleeting dismissal as he waved an elegant hand, the motion spidery in the dancing firelight. “I am no one of consequence, and my name is… irrelevant.” He took a step forward, staying half-concealed in the shadows and backlit against the fire. “Especially when there are far more interesting pursuits for the course of our conversation.”

Fear crawled up your spine but you were powerless to heed its warning. You gasped for breath, heart pounding and impossibly dizzy as the fire’s heat burned your skin. What was wrong with you? Had you fallen ill?

Another discomforting shiver raced through you.

He shook his head gently, the shadows playing over his pale skin. “But this simply won’t do.” He beckoned you forward with a gentle wave of his hand. “Come closer, my angel.”

Your feet moved without your permission as your eyes saw only him. You shouldn't - you knew that you should run for the door as the scent of his intoxicating cologne filled your nose - but with each passing second, that knowledge faded into oblivion. And the weight of your wedding ring vanished.

Up close, glints of amber sparkled in his dark eyes. Golden shards that flayed you open and stripped you bare. The force of the thought floored you, warring with a different heat growing on your skin and burning between your legs.

His mouth curled with an insufferably pleased edge as he continued to look at you. “And now, my angel.” His voice dropped to a low octave, thick and enticing with poisoned honey. “Tell me why this evening has you so unsettled.”

A drunken haze clouded your thoughts, and you couldn’t summon the will to resist. “I’ve… never liked being around so many people.”

“And why is that?” His words purred so close to your ear, and his cologne suffocated you.

“I-I never know what to say. Afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing, afraid that I’ll….”

His fingers brushed your arm, the touch scorching and electrifying and… wrong. "You may be able to hide from everyone else, but not from me." His breath burned the shell of your ear as he spoke. “Tell me.”

“... A-afraid that I’ll say too much, and… people will judge me for who I am.” You cringed at your admission and the unrelenting, dizzying presence of him. Your body continued to betray the dying protests of your mind, heating under his touch with the ache of arousal.

Disgust rippled through you but you couldn’t break free. Revulsion flared in your gut as his hand continued to trail up your arm even though your core smoldered with liquid heat. Words formed in your mind to call out for help, but they choked in your throat.

His lips danced against your ear, his rumbling voice bypassing the last vestiges of your sanity. “The divine does not fear the judgment of mortals, my angel.” A strong hand fell to your waist, drawing you closer, and you inhaled sharply as his words continued to pour into your ear. “Flowers bloom with no regret. Flowers bloom with no fear. And, so should you.”

The world spun, and you lost your feet. Your back pressed against the plush cushions of the couch under his enveloping weight as the breath knocked from your chest. His touch felt too hot, his skin too soft, his lips too rough. His kiss consumed you, and you struggled to respond. Feebly, you raised a hand to his shoulder, pawing at the fine fabric of his suit. He groaned, the sound captivating and numbing.

A tear stung your eye as you tried to push him away with deadened movements. Your tongue felt impossibly thick in your mouth as you whimpered. “Please… d-don-.”

“Oh, my angel,” he rasped with smug satisfaction as the heavy weight of his hand settled to your thigh and crept under your dress. “When the devil wants to dance, do you think you can refuse him?”

Another whimper passed your lips as his fingers branded your inner-thigh on his journey upward. His groan washed over you in a wave of delirium, and his voice fueled the haze in your mind. “How have you bloomed for me, my angel?”

You whimpered, shame flaring in your chest as he teased through your dripping folds. He stroked you several times, coating his fingers and letting you feel how thoroughly your body had betrayed you. When he started to stroke with maddening, circling pressure, your hips rocked unbidden into his touch.

The corner of his mouth lifted, dark and predatory. “No regret, no fear - remember?”

Another tear stung your eye as his fingers found a delicious rhythm, sending sparks of dark promise up your spine. With each pass, your core ached for satisfaction, drunk on his touch and lost to his words. You didn’t recognize your voice as you moaned for him and clutched his broad shoulders.

The pressure mounted inside you with alarming speed, but his fingers disappeared all too soon. You gasped for breath, whimpering as you bit back the urge to beg him for more. You didn’t want this - you didn’t want him - you didn’t want his pleasure pulsing through you.

… Right?

“Open your eyes, my angel.” His words commanded your obedience, and you squinted against the sharp firelight.

His beautiful eyes shone black with hunger, his face dark with wicked sin. The flickering golden light caught on his fingers that glistened with your aroused slick. Shame washed over you at the evidence of your unforgivable desire. As if in a dream, you watched his eyes fall to his wet fingers and draw them to his lips. He moaned, savoring your taste for a long moment before he purred with deep-seated satisfaction. “Ripe with such sweet nectar. Divine as I knew you would be.”

His damp hand moved to yours, bringing it between his legs to press against his straining erection. You gasped as revulsion crawled down your spine. Sluggishly, with arms that didn’t feel like yours, you tried to pull back, but he pressed your hand tighter against him to draw a low moan from his chest before he spoke. “But I am not so callous as to satisfy my own thirst at the expense of my angel’s.”

Your hand fell limp back to the sofa and the distant shuffling of clothing sounded over the dull buzz in your ears. After all, without his voice, what else was there to hear? He braced himself, pressing against you, and the thick, imposing weight of his cock settled against your soaked entrance.

He swallowed your cry as he pushed inside, the stretch of him stinging and burning with pained pleasure. Your world reduced to the thick pulse of him inside you, touching the deepest parts of your being. You drew a shaking breath, trembling against his lips. “Oh, God….”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Call me God - for surely, being inside you must be heaven.”

His hips rocked back before he surged forward, searing you from the inside out. Your mind splintered and your soul fractured as your body reached new heights with each thrust. Numbly, you clutched at him, and helplessly, you listened to him. “You’ll never get me out.” He growled, filling your body and clouding your mind. “You’ll never let me go.”

And blindly, you surrendered to him - shattering around the deep press of him in devastating rapture.

Even now, almost two weeks later, you don’t know how long you had stayed on the sofa afterwards until your husband found you. He said you were stunned and slurring your words, babbling as if drugged. He said you were assaulted, and pressed you for any information about your attacker. He said you were in shock from trauma, and with time, you would find yourself right as rain again.

But how can that possibly be true? When every time you close your eyes, you see those glittering drops of amber in dark brown seas? When all you hear is his enthralling voice in your mind? His sickening words that roil your stomach and churn shameful arousal in your core?

You can’t explain it. Perhaps you never will be able to. It’s impossible to understand how one man has so effortlessly taken you apart and rebuilt you in the memory of his shadow. His shadow that lurks at the foot of your bed, beside you, inside you as the medication takes hold.

#daniel brühl fanfic #daniel brühl x reader #daniel brühl x you #daniel brühl

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felixcloud6288 · 2 months

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Higurashi: Eye-Opening Chapter 11

I genuinely think everything from the end of last chapter and the start of this one was a horrible misunderstanding.

Mion was genuinely surprised to learn that Tomitake and Takano had entered the Saiguden. So it's unlikely the Sonozakis would have come after Shion and Keiichi for it.

Here's what I think was going on in everyone else's minds: Mion and Oryou were talking about Tomitake and Takano's deaths and Oryou genuinely chalked it up to the curse. And she doesn't want the police involved because they always go snooping into Sonozaki affairs when they do.

Then they hear someone running around and Oryou told Mion to get that person and make sure they keeps quiet about this as well. And when Mion told the person on the phone to "silence them", she meant they need to get whoever is aware of the murders to shut up.

Then when Mion started talking to Shion, she wasn't threatening her. Mion was trying to get Shion caught up on things and get her on the same page. When she said they incurred Oyashiro-sama's wrath, Mion was trying to tell Shion to just leave it at that, don't ask any further questions, and don't get involved in whatever happened to them.

Shion didn't get the message.

A year ago, Shion was driven to a state where she actively tried to murder Mion Sonozaki over Satoshi's disappearance. And she was only stopped when she realized she was trying to kill Mion.

And Mion's tears convinced her that the Sonozakis had nothing to do with Satoshi's disappearance, and Shion managed to drive the demon from her heart.

But after a second encounter with Mion Sonozaki, Shion has decided to go through with her original intents. Last time, Shion thought Mion Sonozaki was a mask her sister is forced to wear. But now Shion sees her sister only as Mion Sonozaki, and everything Mion says is a lie to further the Sonozakis' goals.

It's probably unintentional, but the rock patterns kinda look like wailing souls to me.

Also, this panel gets reused a few pages later.

It took me a moment to figure it out so I'll bring it up. Shion is holding Mion's kimono. So Mion's just wearing the nightgown she was wearing underneath it.

Kinda interested in that part Mion said about inheriting only the yang aspects of the Sonozaki family. If Wikipedia is correct, yang represents the positive aspects of duality. So in other words, Oryou wasn't letting her granddaughter get involved in the family's dirty business.

I wonder if Oryou planned on making Shion the heir to the yin aspect or if it would be someone else entirely. We're not going to find out because she's dead.

Is Shion really seeing Oyashiro or is she just going crazy? This arc is the first time we've gotten to see some visage while the protagonist was under the curse. It's also the first time the protagonist has fully embraced the madness and cruelty that comes with it.

If this was the only way for someone to feel Oyashiro's presence, it's not surprising Oyashiro's worshipers would engage in torture.

back

#higurashi no naku koro ni #higurashi no naku koro ni reread #higurashi when they cry

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terrence-silver · 1 year

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If you're interested in writing this, could you do some enemies to lovers headcanons with Terry, preferably inspired by your recent post about if Terry was a Bond villain and an agent was sent after him?

---

No telling how you ended up in Terry Silver's bed.

On one hand, he found it hilarious.

How the FBI or whatever secret service spat you out, unto his very doorstep, has sent you, to gather intel on him and Dynatox's dealings domestically and abroad. The honeypot. That choice was intentional. Clearly. You wouldn't even be the first agent or detective ushered his way to meddle in his business or push your collective noses where they didn't belong, but you were by far the prettiest, so he had to conclude that that if all snooping failed, as it usually tended to do, you were to use your more physical talents as an extraction method to counter all defenses. Except, Terry Silver tended to strike first and he tended to strike hard, in all facets of his life, not just the training dojo and he used his own talents on you, eclipsing you in your intent, to the point where your small impromptu, supposedly ''off the records'' interview with him became an extended weekend and an extended weekend turned into a full work week in bed, with your ass up in the air all for him. And you learned nothing. Discovered just as much. Which was funny. It really was. His time wasn't for free. You wasting his time was even less for free. The payment was the amusement he derived from you. Maybe you could report back to your superiors how many times he's made you cum and how he's pounded your holes to oblivion. That was the best you could do. He nearly chuckles at the notion, buttoning up his shirt, easily sliding on his suede blazer, stretching his neck until the muscles cracked, straightening his frame out, smoothing the sides of his gelled down hair with a lone finger, smiling at his own reflection in the full body carved mahogany mirror with your visage right behind him, semi-blurred, staring at him, mutely, from his California King Size mattress, naked and tangled in satin sheets.

You lost.

He won.

Tough luck.

-"They warned me about you."-

You remark, matter-of-factly, sounding partially exhausted, which came as no surprise after the full weekend bender he's put you through, and partially resigned. Terry was aware you tried every trick in the book, every method of seduction, every way of attacking, everything the agency undoubtedly trained you on, every tactic and every bullshit strategy he fuelled deliberately so you'd think you're close to getting something out him before he flipped the script on you and you'd walk out of here, fucked, and with no more knowledge than you walked in here with. And Dynatox would keep operating like it used to. Like it has done for years. In Asia. Micronesia. In Africa. In wherever hellhole Global South backwater he could get his hands on. Would you try for a more aggressive approach next time? Could you even do that even if you had the chance? Would some of your colleagues visit him next and try instead of you, with a warrant for his questioning or even appearance at court? Terry Silver could figure, that if he put a blade into your hands right now, and bid you to strike, you wouldn't be able to. He felt so, while he was having you, time and time again. Your body responded to him. The way your pupils dilated. You, melting into him. Responsive, wanton and pleading. You weren't the only one trained. He served his service too, in Vietnam, years ago. He knew how to read a person. They warned you about him? Clearly, they didn't warn you enough. Should've warned you more and far, far better. Fully dressed, he turns to you and all he can do is laugh before walking out, purposeful, wide strides, heading out to a meeting, leaving Margaret, Milos and his staff to tend to you and then show you out of the mansion and out of his part of LA too, hopefully.

-"Bet they did."-

Is all he says, closing the door behind him.

#why even write a bond villain alternative universe with terry in it #when one can describe terry as terry really is and was #and it would be one and the same #terry silver #james bond au #dynatox #agent #secret agent #enemies to lovers #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #80's terry silver

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auburniivenus · 5 months

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[ sender is caught snooping in receiver’s things . ]

Enveloped by the verdant arms of the wilderness, Orihime dispersed from her encampment, her spirit resonating with the foliage's susurrus and the mellifluous serenade of the proximate cascade. The celestial torrent of water beckoned her, offering a detoxifying embrace beneath its aqueous sindon. Shimmering droplets, akin to lucid contemplations, cocooned her being, expunging the remnants of their perilous odyssey.

Upon her return, adorned in the iridescent embrace of nature's endearment and observed solely by the venerable arboreal sentinels, she stumbled upon a tableau most disquieting. Astarion loomed within her refuge. Her relics were now profaned against the earth. The terrain itself seemed to recoil from the impertinence. In his ashen palms, as if he held an immortal relic, her personal journal—haven of her most private insights and secretive sentiments. He, the interloper in her private enclave, now cradled the vessel of her essence.

A sharp intake of breath escaped her, a symphonic plea that wove through the nimbus, harmonizing with the quivering foliage. Her gaze, caramel twin pools brimming with a maelstrom of sentiment, locked onto the infringer. She molded her visage into an epitome of austere censure. Her scowl, a chorus of reprobation chiseled into her demeanor, paralleled the gathering storm clouds that painted the heavens above. "How dare you?! That belongs to me." Proclaimed as she repossessed her journal with an assertive gesture. Her digits caressed the weathered binding, silently paying homage to the sacred confessions within. Oblivious to her, Astarion had already partaken of her essence, delving into her mental labyrinth, privy to her inner frailty. "I cannot bear to gaze upon you." Declared, her voice unpolished, a drastic contrast to her customary calmness. The graceful figure receded into the shadows, leaving him to contemplate the solitude of her absence. @estarion

Dear Diary,

This evening finds me enmeshed in the usual fabric of diurnal expeditions and challenges. Nonetheless, there is a distinctive thought that persists, a contemplative shadow that looms over my consciousness. I am drawn, almost irresistibly, to scribe my musings about him. It’s peculiar, the aptitude that one individual has to monopolize your thoughts, asserting their presence despite attempts to direct your attention elsewhere.

Astarion, his presence is truly unparalleled. There is an indisputable magnetism that encompasses him, and the obscurity that shrouds his persona only amplifies the fascination. Each encounter with him induces a wave of tremors through my heart, a silent symphony of feelings that seems to articulate truths my cerebral cortex is yet to decipher. I've observed the flame in his eyes as he chronicles his history, the adversities and tribulations he's endured. Below his poised facade lies a layer of fondness, an exposed soul that beckons me to delve deeper, to lend support. Yet, a perennial unease gnaws at my psyche. Is my existence in his world merely a transient episode in his vast and intricate narrative?

I periodically find myself clandestinely observing him when his attention is diverted, captivated by the movement of his countenance in the dim glow of our encampment's candlelight. The casual cascade of his hair over his brow, the effortless curl of his smile—every detail is enchanting. The realm of romance is uncharted for me, a boundless expanse fraught with the specter of rejection. The prospect that my presence might be an annoyance to him haunts me. Nevertheless, within this maelstrom of doubt, a glimmer of optimism endures. How I crave for the defiance to communicate my sentiments, to exchange the naked truth of our emotions. And yet, the trepidation of perturbing the tenuous equilibrium we've established paralyzes me.

As I conclude tonight's reflection, I am overtaken by a longing for what tomorrow might bring. For now, I shall harbor these sentiments in silent reverence, savoring the instances of our companionship with the hope that fate may weave our paths together in a manner that eclipses the present's uncertainties.

Yours sincerely,

Orihime

#( — .:｡✿*┆ answers ❀ ❞ )#ooc; according to the plan #( — .:｡✿*┆BG VERSE: ACT ?? ❞ )#long post

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mantlehold · 10 months

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starter requested by: @rxvenhairedprincesss.

"you're giving me that look again, ronnie." such a familiar glance whenever something dumb flew past reggie mantle's lips or there was a certain look to her face typically of mischief or troublemaking. curtesy of her lack of a filter and even more so that brain where all that were was a hamster powering a hamster wheel.

she tilts her head briefly, amusement clouding her freckle dotted visage and said amusement melting away into the nothingness of the void when veronica reached for her phone and took out of her grasp.

"c'mon now, don't go snooping on my phone." it was just them, the silence not at all suiting either party and their typical brazen behaviour. well, mainly reg here.

#* threads: regina.#* rxvenhairedprincesss.#i hope this is okay!#* regina verse: riverdale | pre timejump.

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soulreaper · 2 years

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My review of Snoop Dogg Bar-B-Que and Cheddar flavored Rap Snacks ☞ Despite what being a potato chip might suggest, they do not have a greasy feeling to them. Rather the texture is crisp and somewhat dry. (I enjoyed mine with unsweetened iced tea 👍) The flavor might also be slightly deceptive to the average chip fan. Unlike most Cheddar flavored chips, the cheesiness is not overpowering, it instead offers a slight umami that contrasts the sweetness of the BBQ. They do however still leave a sweet aftertaste if that is not something you like. In regards to the bag's design, Snoop's visage on the front is somewhat reminiscent of an angel. Overall I give these chips ⭐ 5/5 stars ⭐ :) I will buy these again.

#sorry #🐙

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fatedevour · 2 years

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♢ — @ncrthlandbank asked: It’s not what it looks like! - vlad maybe

caught snooping meme: ACCEPTING

Someone DARED to snoop in his room? Especially someone who was NOT a harbinger? Credit where it was due, it was a level of BRAVERY and STUPIDITY he had not encountered in a very long time. It wasn’t every day a lamb pranced itself into the wolf’s den to let its blood be spilt upon the ground. This might not be Dottore’s MAIN residence, but the DOCTOR would have no qualms in REDECORATING the room with shades of red. Maybe it was lucky, maybe it was unlucky that Dottore was not currently working on a project that required more test subjects.

His arms remained folded ACROSS his chest as he regards the fatui member. “ That is a rather PATHETIC opening line if you are hoping for MERCY. Do tell me that’s not what ALL the lower ranks are saying these days? No wonder the troops are taking a beating if so. “ Although that wasn’t HIS problem so much as it was more Capitano’s.

The door swings shut behind Dottore as he steps FURTHER into the room, blocking off any potential ESCAPE from this particular spot. The CALM that surrounded Dottore was not the relaxing kind. It was the kind of stillness before a TSUNAMI swept through a beach, devouring and destroying what was in its path. It is not so different from the truth of how Dottore had made his way to where he was now. But for now he grasps a chair from the desk of the temporary room, dragging it further out.

“ Sit. “ An ORDER, not a suggestion or offer. Obeying would be the BEST BET at potentially leaving the harbinger’s den ALIVE rather than in pieces- if that. “ Looking for something to sell? Or perhaps information? “ DISDAIN oozed from his voice as he leaned against the desk, masked visage facing the would-be trespasser and potential thief.

A black glove casually reaches inside his coat till he pulls out a syringe filled with an amber-colored liquid that draws a HOSTILE smile from the harbinger. “ I suggest you start explaining yourself then if this is not what it looks like. Otherwise, well... “ His voice trails off to glance at the syringe in hand as he gives it a small squeeze to allow a drop of the liquid to raise to the edge of the needle. “ There’s more ways than ONE to get the truth out. I assure you, they are FAR WORSE than whatever you think just telling the truth might garner you. “

#ncrthlandbank #cue the Fear music #good luck vlad you're going to need it #especially with it being dottore #♢ — ❛ he whom ushers in your darkest hour ❜ ( ic )#♢ — ❛ science is the only thing worth my time ❜ ( main verse )

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bladewarde · 1 year

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Laera lingers in the room a moment longer. Keeping Radagon's gaze within her own, her focus shifts to the far window, traveling up its elongated panes to the all-consuming visage of the Erdtree. ❝ Your Grace, ❞ She turns to him, lowering her head out of respect to his authority, starting on the path of her given duty. As she passes through the doors, she can't deny the excitement, the nervers; it harkens back to the peril she and that of her company faced as a Carian Knight.

Her assignment begins in earnest: Weeks spent of finding people to contact, infiltrating the insulated world of the Perfumers -- at first for healing, and then as a dissident of the Erdtree -- all while quietly returning to His Grace with an unfortunate lack of much needed information. As she had come to learn, there was nothing to corroborate the whispers of a threat that bordered on catastrophic destruction, and it remained as that -- a rumour. A whisper. Until there came a moment where it surpassed imagination, heading toward a horrific reality. At the time, she believed what she had heard, what she saw, was proof enough, but wanting to be thorough -- at the behest of her lord -- snooping around the wrong places wasn't without risk.

It feels like a fever dream -- some muddled memory of the Queen sitting at her bedside, her hand stroking her arm to provide comfort -- but she can't recall anything she might have said to her. Laera remembers her as a blurry shape, fighting to hold onto the memory of the Queen while wondering where she went so horribly wrong in her duty. She can't recall how she ended up back in the Capital. Not here, but deep in a ruin outside the walls of Leyndell where the Perfumers and their cohort worked their malicious schemes, and cognizant enough to know that her investigation ended with a series of knife wounds in her gut. Her head lazily flops to the side, mustering up the courage to face her liege through her own failure.

❝ I think the Queen was 'ere… ❞ Laera mutters, her thumbs feeling through her shirt, pressing on the tenderness of her stomach, ❝ 'M sorry. If she… 'asn't already killed them all, you need to know something, Your Grace, ❞

@fadedpath / cont.

#fadedpath #❛ 𝒊𝒄. / ic thread.#❛ 𝒗. / elden ring.#in the words of etta james: at last!

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dailyproblemsleuth · 5 months

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Problem Sleuth, page 772

Zombie AD: Advance.

It's the most hideous thing you've ever seen. A great edifice of stone made manifest the unholy triumvirate itself: Stiller, Wilson, Snoop... THE DREADED BOWEN STILSON DOGG. There's no way in hell anyone's going to move that thing.

Author commentary: In spite of his grotesque predicament up there, Snoop's visage strikes me as somewhat serene, Buddha-like.

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notladylikes · 7 months

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"there's something....wrong with her."

her father and step-mother are in the kitchen, and she's hiding in the hallway, careful steps to reach the threshold, never crossing, just listening.

etta picks at her cuticles, back pressed against the wall, trying to control her breathing. she musn't make a sound, musn't alert them to her presence.

father hates snooping, and she's liable to get a wretched punishment if she's found out.

you're the older sister. you're supposed to set an example for grace. you're supposed to behave.

etta thinks it's a load of horseshit.

they're talking about her, likely having found out that she's been sleepwalking and roaming the halls of the boarding school at night. how she enters the building is anyone's guess, she's woken up quite a few times, drawn to areas of the school that she wouldn't dare enter when she was awake. etta winces just thinking about it, a shiver drawn up her spine.

"blame her mother,"

her step-mother would say, her usual go-to when something happened involving etta.

"it's her mother's fault she's fucked in the head."

etta's mother had a psychotic breakdown, likely from years of abuse at the hands of her father, shortly after henrietta was born. it wasn't long after that henry married another woman and started up his rightful family, as they called it. a new wife, a new daughter, and a leftover in the form of a blonde haired blue eyed little girl.

they'd started her on pills when she started speaking with her mother's 'ghost' - or what they believed to be a hallucination. she despised her father, her step-mother even moreso. the pills managed to dull her senses, make it nearly impossible to communicate with the afterlife.

soon enough her only friend, the visage of her mother would fade from memory and henrietta was left to her own devices. the sleepwalking would cease and she'd just be 'normal' but still never good enough, in her parents eyes.

"she's been sleepwalking again."

henry mused, cigarette perched between his lips as he inhaled the fumes from the stick of tobacco. she could hear victoria scoff, like she expected nothing less from the 'damaged child'.

"something must be done."

henrietta knew what that meant. the hospital. stark white walls and restraints holding her down. she'd experienced it a few times in her youth when she was really disobedient - while her parents claimed they were 'praying for her'.

"maybe she's possessed."

henrietta mocked her step-mother's voice, but the shift of movement in the kitchen caused her to clamp a hand over her mouth, careful not to breathe, not to make a sound. it soon passed, as victoria rested her arms against the counter, mere feet away from where henrietta lay in wait.

"i'll call the doctor in the morning."

her father says, and henrietta pushes off from her spot in hiding and scurries up the stairs. she must act fast - she's had this planned since the last incursion. they wouldn't put her through that again, not this time.

etta goes to the closet, digs through boxes and old toys until she procures a backpack, a little dusty, but filled to the brim with supplies for her escape. she'll leave at midnight, when they're all set to be asleep.

when the time comes, henrietta leaves a small note for her sister - the only thing person she regretted leaving behind. she was normal, she'd be safe. they wouldn't harm her.

like a regular cat burglar, she climbs out of the window and drops down to the damp grass below, holds tight to her bag, and starts running.

she runs til she can't breathe, til her lungs ache, til her muscles burn. but it's worth it, and she pushes herself just a little further. just a few more strides, just a few more feet.

henrietta finally collapses near the trunk of a tree, pulling the backpack onto her lap and using her jacket to cover up with from the incoming hint of rain that threatens to fall from the sky.

there is a smile on her face.

for now, she is free.

#mus. henrietta amelie wilkins.#drabbles.

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