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ophidianfilth · 7 months

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I watched too much youtube this weekend.

I watched too much youtube and I ordered rare steak on doordash for all three meals on Saturday and Sunday, and dinner on Friday too. Enough that the delivery person each time had to make two trips from the car to my door each time.

Except for the gym rat who brought it over on Saturday morning. I watched him leave through a crack in the curtains and I watched him fold himself impossibly into his little Honda and I sympathized.

I tip them all fifty percent. The full moon's always hard on my wallet.

I watched too much youtube. When I'm like this I go for the ones where anonymous guys are building weird little houses out of dirt and sticks and rocks and if they're lucky they have a dog to watch them work in silence and they seem like survival skill geniuses right up until they're three quarters done and they pull out dimensional lumber and screws and cordless power tools to finish the job.

I like to pause the videos as soon as they're done with their shoddy builds and stare at the finished shack and work out how I'd break in there the quickest. I wonder what their bone marrow would taste like, and I salivate.

I watched too much youtube with my girlfriend curled against my side. After we both tire each other out on the first night, she likes the warmth of my shaggy fur while she can get it.

That part, she admits. I suspect she likes how it feels on her skin, too.

The polysporin and aloe on her scratches and fresh scabs always makes my nose twitch, and I salivate.

#fiction #werewolf #hot girl moment #brain goo leaking out my ears #unfiltered writing

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the-beehive-archive · 2 years

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August 6th 2022

Starting a journal like this always seems a little pointless to me. It seems like I always WANT to but I never know what to write or say. Sometimes I feel a little stupid for writing. Like I'm trying to sound philosophical or something. I'm not an overly extrodi extraordinary person. I'm an older brother to 3 amazing siblings. My parents are divorced like 50% of the rest of my generation. I graduated high school late, just started college last year at 21, I'm in my second year now at 22. I've worked customer service since I was legally allowed to work and moved away from my parents at 17. I'm mentally ill and queer, again, like 50% of my generation, if not more. A lot of us are kinda just in denial. I don't blame 'em, I mean who wants to admit that we live in what should qualify as a dystopian novel, a fucked up hateful world, constantly at war. Even if you grew up in a supportive home, the rest of the world will traumatize you in some way, shape, or form. I'm also, a bit of a hopeless romantic. Which, surprised me honestly. I find love frustrating, and frankly a waste of time. Or I did. It nearly never works out and it always is too upre unpredictable to be worth the risk. And yet... I've kinda fallen hard and let someone in recently. N maybe that's why I wanna start writing like this again, or tryin at least. They're everything I could have asked for and more. I'm a little scared, trusting someone completely isn't exactly easy, at least not for me. But they've become something in my life that I both want to protect and feel protected by. Both someone I want to be better for and know if I never changed and stayed as I am, they'd love me just the same. I am, a coffee person. Working as a baker and a barista, for the better part of two n a half years. I draw, I bike, I sing, I'm trying to learn the guitar. I'm a morning person because but I stay up far too late, and oversleep far too much. My mother's side of the family are extreme religious types who are actively racist and homophobic, but hide it behind fake smiles and polite appearances, love n light in god 'n all that. My dad's side of the family is disjointed, estranged, broken. They wouldn't say so but it's obvious. Speaking to each other once in a blue moon, rather ignore the generational trauma they all in some way suffered. Siblings talk to one another but any other interaction between members only ever happens on birthdays if that, and maybe holidays if you're lucky. All clearly wandering. Native yet so hateful of their white passing privilege that they shove white man politics and blood quantum down their children's throats. Or at least, my dad did. Can't speak for my aunt. They're all their own special brands of fucked up. But then again, they could be worse. There's a lot more I could say, could probably talk about, but I don't exactly want to write my life's story in the first entry of this thing. I'm no extraordinary person. In fact sometimes I struggle to even call myself ordinary. A lot of the time I find myself incredibly boring, if not insufferable. I can say a lot about who I am as if I'm at some group meet, a first date maybe, an interview. But the truth is, I don't feel like I really know who or what I am at all. I'm If I were to walk into a room as a stranger and see myself I think I'd be one of those happy-go-lucky people everyone "loves" that just makes any sane person unreasonably angry like you want to clock them. The fake bitch everyone talks shit bout when they leave. Part of me is comfortable keeping it this way, don't fix what doesn't feel broken, it works for me. And yet, maybe call it curiosity, I kind of want to learn more about myself, see if maybe understand why I am the way that I am. I'm kind of tired of how things are now. I want to write to let myself write, not necessarily correct it or proof read or think about it. Maybe I'll talk about work, a hobby, something I been thinking about, or a memory. I expect some entries will be about pointless, random bullshit, n others will be real heavy. My life ain't exactly pretty. But maybe a bit of unfiltered yammering and late night thoughts will, help me answer some of my questions. N if I decide to copy these entries somewhere else, hey there maybe someone'll get a kick out of my bullshit. Or join in on this crazy ride I'm going on. Who knows. But for now, I go to bed, n go back to baking on a humid summer morning tomorrow <3 -Bee -End Entry-

#writers on tumblr #journal #journal entry #Beehive Archive #journaling #personal diary #lgbtq #lgbtq writing #unfiltered writing #queer stuff #he him his

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patrice-bergerons · 1 year

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I don't understand why more people don't comment on fics from a perfectly self serving perspective. Do readers not realise they are often the difference in how much fic they get from a writer they like in their fandom?

I don't know, maybe we are not supposed to say this as writers, given the prevaling write for yourself uwu culture these days, but I've had instances where I only meant to drop one fic for a small pairing and dip but that fic got such a warm reception -- and by that I don't mean hundreds of kudos, I mean a handful of people who took time out of their days to leave meaningful comments that went beyond 'I loved this!' -- that I ended up writing ten more. Conversely, I've written fics I was simply compelled to write but the reception was so lukewarm, I moved onto more fertile ground once the brain worms were satisfied, even though I had ten more ideas I could have explored for the same pairing. And I've seen so many other writers do the same.

I personally don't comment on every fic I read -- exhaustion gets in the way -- so it would be hypocritical for me to expect the same of anyone else, but man, it baffles me that other people don't strategise in their commenting, that when they see a writer they love they don't go extra hard on fics that don't have much interaction or for writers that are a bit more needy -- yet another thing one does utter in polite society -- not out of any sense of gratitude or anything like that but just to get more good fic, just from perfect selfishness.

#writing #commenting culture #i would probably not be this unfiltered now either but well my team lost their game 7 0 and im pissed off #this is a very general fandom culture point btw and not an @ to anyone in specific

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actual-changeling · 9 months

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no i am not done with the breakup scene yet. it haunts me during the day and it haunts my dreams, soon i will be able to replay it in my head on command. today's obsession: tell me you said no

firstly, i think it's important to point out just how deep the miscommunication runs here. aziraphale is excited, outright giddy about the news he is delivering, and he expects crowley to be just as happy about them.

after all, he thinks he is giving crowley what he has always wanted - they can go off together, he can be an angel again, which to zira equals being on the good side. the side of *light*. he remembers crowley's creation, remembers how in awe and happy he was with it, and thinks that is what he is offering.

aziraphale's expressions during this scene are probably gonna be their own post, but long story short he switches between excited and confused like a broken light switch, unable to decide which one to settle on.

crowley, well, crowley is angry. angry and confused and completely caught off guard because aziraphale is shaking the very foundation of what crowley currently thinks to be their relationship. the horror dawns on him pretty early, but he tries to fight it off, tries to convince himself that no, aziraphale wouldn't. he wouldn't agree to that, he KNOWS me. he knows i don't want to go back, he knows both sides are equally bad.

tell me you said no. tell me i wasn't wrong about you, about us. tell me i didn't misjudge our entire relationship. tell me the last millennia were worth something, anything.

tell me you said no.

if you rewatch the scene, you will notice that crowley never breaks eye contact, he stares aziraphale down the entire time. unless it was literally blink and you will miss it, i am pretty sure he does not even blink. not once. aziraphale on the other hand is looking everywhere but at him, his gaze flicks around just as much as his expression. crowley tries again, one last time. tells him you know they will both destroy this planet, humanity, us. it doesn't matter which side wins, the result will be the same. we KNOW that. we SAW that. we stopped it from happening.

aziraphale does not answer.

he does not have to. crowley can read him well enough to know exactly what he responded, and even if he couldn't - he knew from the beginning. he just cannot believe the answer. he still can't.

it's one of his fatal flaws, isn't it, believing in aziraphale and in them against every rule and threat the universe throws at them.

now to get to the part that breaks my heart.

crowley repeats himself again, not breaking eye contact while aziraphale tries to avoid his gaze.

tell me you said no.

he still hopes. after that entire conversation, he still hopes.

when the silence stays unbroken he steps towards him, asking one. last. time.

angel tell me you said no.

this. this frame. this is when the realization hits him full force, the truth he has been trying to talk and rationalize his way out of. he has been begging aziraphale to tell him that he did not betray him, them.

everything he has been fighting for the last six thousand years, all the thoughts telling him he is worth less than aziraphale because he fell, because he is a demon, evil, on the wrong side. everything he has been unlearning, accepting that he can be kind, he can be good. accepting that aziraphale cares about him, fuck, maybe even loves him.

crowley thought aziraphale is the one being that sees him, truly sees him, which is why he offers himself without his glasses - his last layer of protection.

he betrayed us. he has never been with me, we have never been on our side, not when he chooses heaven over the fragile, peaceful existence they have carved out for themselves. he took care of the bookshop, allowed zira to take his bentley, cleaned up and tidied and prepared it for his return, for the both of them. just to get all of it thrown into his face, to have it degraded as not good enough. to have HIMSELF degraded as not good enough.

and after all that. after that realization, the pain, the break in what he thought was their reality.

after aziraphale telling him that he plans on leaving earth and wants crowley to be someone he is.

crowley swallows his tears and he steps back, keeps his glasses off and continues with his confession anyway. his voice breaks several times throughout it, he is on the verge of crying. i will probably make a separate post about all that but once again, tldr he suppresses tears throughout his entire speech.

i want to spend eternity with you and he cannot say it because he knows he would break on eternity and start crying. somehow, crowley still hopes that maybe this will change his mind, this will make him realize that he needs to stay here, stay with me.

crowley hopes and hopes and hopes and aziraphale finally meets his gaze and all he responds is nothing lasts forever.

no, i don't suppose it does.

still, what is left but to keep hoping that maybe one day, they will be an us, even if it isn't forever. even if it's just one day, one kiss, one second of being held and kissed back.

crowley keeps hoping and that, to me, is the most painful part of it all.

#alex talks good omens #good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #good omens meta #this got so much longer than i intended for it to be rip #i feel like it is important to mention that these posts are not planned in the slightest #i look at some screencaps experience emotions and then write a stream of consciousness #i hope it has enough of a red thread that people can follow though #any spelling mistakes and the like are because i do not proof read my tumblr posts #you get my unfiltered brain vomit

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autisticlancemcclain · 11 months

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The tears are the worst fucking part.

They always are. They come out when she’s angry or hurt and embarrassed, and they make her feel like a little girl, which only ever makes her feel worse. It sucks to feel like you can’t hold your ground in an argument because your eyes are burning and trails of tears are blazing hot down your cheeks.

But she didn’t even get the chance to argue.

“We’re not punishing you,” Shiro had said gently, guilt visibly lining his features as her first tear fell, which only made her snarl at him. “But your bond to your element could use some strengthening, Katie. It won’t take too long, I’m sure of it.”

Just a couple vargas, he has promised her. Gather the list of ingredients for the next few meals, and see how the exposure to a natural environment makes you feel, map out your relationship with your lion. Easy peasy.

Easy for everyone else to say. The rest of them seemed to bond with their lions like it was fuckin’ easy, snapping up their elemental control like it was second nature. Hunk was as solid as the rocks and earth he represented, and it showed in the way he was and the way he acted. Shiro felt like the awesome and incredible presence of the sky to everyone he met. Keith was the most fiery person she had ever met, probably. He acted like he was powered by a raging inferno, always moving, always flickering. Lance was —

Well. Lance was water, simple as that. Everything he did was as playful and stubborn as a running river. Even his expressions have the same practiced fluidity of them, like he grew up imitating the tide.

She supposes he did. She supposes it makes sense, that he is the one sent with her, to help guide her along, so to speak.

It still kind of stings.

“Could you stop fucking humming,” she snaps, glaring at her teammate.

He doesn’t even glance at her. “No.”

She rolls her eyes, tears making her breaths stutter, and wipes some of the wetness off her cheeks. It doesn’t really work, and mostly just smears it around, but she’s so bitter that she’s kind of beyond caring.

She hates this. She hates this stupid mission, she hates this stupid forest, she hates her stupid element, she hates that Lance will not stop fucking prancing around, and most of all she hates that she can’t figure this shit out on her own.

She hates that she has to be babied.

“Oh, hey, these are the sugarplums for the not-lamb stew.” Lance stops abruptly, gentle hand on her arm to stop her, too. She resists the urge to yank it away, desperately reminding herself that it’s not Lance’s fault she’s so angry, not his fault that humiliation burns through her, not his fault that she can’t get her shit together. She’s already snapped at him once — more than once, if she’s being honest — and he’s gracefully ignored it. If she keeps pushing, he’ll snap right back, and then they’ll both be miserable.

Plus, she doesn’t actually like snapping at Lance. He doesn’t deserve her lashing out, he’s only trying to help.

“You sure?”

Pidge looks at the small purple fruits , feeling a little helpless. She has no idea how Lance has distinguished them from the various other fruits and seeds hanging from the hundreds of other trees. She has no idea how the hell she’s supposed to memorize all of this garbage. How something as frustrating and unique and random as nature is supposed to be her element, the one thing that represents her, deep to her core.

It’s not fair.

“Yep!” Lance chirps. He crouches down, starting to pull at his laces. “The bark has more linear pattern structures, see? And the leaves are smooth, not serrated, and much darker than any other fruit trees we’ve passed. And it smells like plum jam.” To her great confusion, he pulls off his shoes as socks as he explains, only standing once his bare feet are on the backed earth and moss of the forest floor.

“You’re going to get a sharp rock to the foot,” she says, unsure as to why he’s decided to ditch his shoes in the places he probably needs them most.

He snorts, kicking his shoes to the side and turning to face her, making obnoxious kissy faces and poking at her relentlessly.

“Aw, is Pidgey worried for my health and well-being?”

She scowls, shoving him away. “Nevermind. I hope you get tetanus and lose your whole leg.”

Unfortunately, her threat only makes him grin wider. He blows her one last dramatized kiss before turning to the large tree, wrapping his sweater around the trunk, and using it to scurry up the tree almost faster than she can register. By the time it occurs to her to question him, he’s already ten feet in the air, shifting his weight to a steady enough branch.

“What the hell are you doing?” she yells.

Lance looks back down at her, raising an eyebrow. “…Getting…fruit…?”

“There’s fruit down here!” She gestures to the dozens and dozens of fallen but perfectly good plums on the ground, many of which she’s already scooped up and put in the bag Hunk gave her. “All the fruit-bearing branches are like thirty feet in the air, and the branches are way too thin! It’s too risky!”

“Well, Pidgeon,” he says, hooking his knees around a branch to hang upside down, shooting her a wink and a pair of finger guns, “that’s the fun part!”

Before she can yell at him again to get the hell back down, he’s flipped back upright, scurrying up rapidly thinning branches to reach the higher, juicier fruit.

Pidge heart pounds.

“Lance, get down here!” Her voice is reedy with panic, but he ignores her. “You’re going to get hurt, you colossal fucking dumbass!”

But no matter how loudly she cusses him out, he keeps climbing, barely even pausing to make sure a branch can hold his weight before using it to get higher. He climbs as easily as he walks, as easily as he shoots — like it’s second nature. Despite his ease, Pidge can fucking use her brain and see that as scrawny as Lance is, the branches are scrawnier, and he is going to fall and die and Pidge is going to have to watch it happen.

Just as she’s about to call backup, Lance forty feet in the fucking air and without even the distant thought of a rope, Lance ties his hoodie — filled with fruit — to his back, stands on a branch, and fucking leaps the hell off.

Pidge screams at the top of her lungs.

But instead of falling to his death, Lance lands on a branch jutting out from a neighbouring tree, maybe five feet below the branch he leapt from.

Pidge’s yell catches in her throat.

He’s fine.

He continues like that for the ten seconds it takes for him to make his way down, hopping from branch to branch like a chickadee, smiling so wide his brown eyes are nearly creased shut. He looks elated; the happiest she’s seen him in ages.

Slowly, some of her fear starts to fade.

“You fucking scared me,” she says harshly when his feet are back on the floor. Her heart is still galloping.

Lance shrugs. “I told you I’d be fine.”

“No, you told me risks were more fun, then you jumped down a fucking tree.” She accepts the fruits he hands her, replacing the less appetizing ones she already had in her bag. “Taller than your lion.”

“Yeah, because I’ve done it before.” He places the last sugarplum in the bag and then ties it shut, securing it to his back and then throwing an arm over Pidge’s shoulders. He starts walking in a random direction, and Pidge struggles to keep up with his wide strides.

“…Oh.” She supposes that makes sense. He looked comfortable as he climbed.

They walk for the next several minutes in silence. Pidge notices that the tear tracks on her face have dried, and the terror she felt for Lance earlier has replaced her anger, her embarrassment.

She wonders if that was the point.

“Hey, look at that.” He points to a small, budding yellow flower dotting the base of a tree. “That’s hairflower. They grow at the bases of confler trees, because the confler trees always host sodiko birds, which are their biggest pollinators. Cool, huh?”

“How do you know all this stuff?” she blurts, barely letting him finish his sentence. Some of her earlier frustration bleeds into her voice, but luckily it doesn’t sound too accusatory. “I don’t — we’re not even on Earth, but somehow you recognise all the random wildlife. Nature is supposed to be my element. I don’t — I don’t know why I’m struggling so bad when you have it so easy.”

Lance trips over his feet, slightly, stumbling. He removes his arm from her shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His shoulders hike up somewhere near his ears, hunching his posture.

Guilt churns in her stomach.

“Lance, I didn’t mean —”

Did she?

What did she mean?

“I’m not dumb,” he says quietly.

She swallows. “I know.”

“It’s — I’m not good at the classroom shit. I have to try really hard to understand what a textbook is telling me, and I never understand instructions that aren’t explained to me three times in four different ways. I can’t even begin to understand all the fancy shmancy engineer stuff you and Hunk do. I will not pretend to understand how Altean alchemy and magic works.” He looks at her finally, and hurt clouds his eyes, but his voice is steady, firm. Practiced even, like it’s not the first time he’s had to explain this. “But I’m not dumb.”

“I know,” Pidge repeats, quieter. She doesn’t know how to take back her words, to say them better. How to fix how she feels, honestly. Because it was a lie, her backtracking — she did mean what she said. It was a mean thing to say, a mean thing to think and believe, and she had allowed herself to think it, to feel it, to say it and believe it.

That’s not fair to Lance. That’s not fair to her friend.

It isn’t even true.

“I know,” she repeats again, firmer this time. “I’m sorry. I forgot. But I know you’re not dumb.”

He hesitates for a second, but then nods, accepting her apology. He puts his arm back around her shoulder.

“I’ve always been better at learning things I can do, physically, or things that I can see have a purpose. Like dance, or shooting, or learning the names of cool things like plants and rocks. I’ve always been good with names and faces. And piloting, too, I hope I’m good at that.”

She hates the doubt there, and hates more that she might be part of the reason. “You are. Good at piloting, I mean.”

He grins at her. “Thanks. You are too, you know. Even though all this element shit is a learning curve.”

She snorts despite herself. “Not to you. You’re the living embodiment of water, basically, you naiad.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I spend time in it. I go to the pool, like, every day. I don’t even play mermaids all the time. I do boring meditative shit, because apparently that’s what Blue needs.”

She looks at him in shock. She hadn’t considered that anyone other than Shiro really meditated, or that anyone else had to work towards working with their elements. Especially not Lance. “Really?”

He nods excitedly. “Yeah, man! I thought I was good, but when Hunk unlocked his earth weapon thingie, I asked Blue what was up and she said I just needed more practice letting elemental quintessence flow through me, whatever the hell that means. Apparently it’s easy to summon when you’re panicked, but if you want to do it on a more regular basis you have to learn how to recognise it, so you can call it.”

That makes sense, she supposes. But she still feels like she’s missing something.

“How the hell am I supposed to frolic around a forest between missions? There’s not exactly one in the castle.”

Lance shrugs. “I don’t know, genius. You figured out how to turn a magical lion invisible, can’t you puzzle out how to grow a garden in space or something? Aren’t you a science nerd?”

Pidge stills.

Oh, duh.

It’s such a simple solution — plant a garden. She used to have a garden, back home, that she and her mom worked on regularly. Her mom would show her how she genetically modified plant seeds, and then they’d monitor the new plants and plant traits together.

Suddenly she understands why Green is the lion of curiosity and science as well as nature — the two are linked, everywhere, even in her. She belongs in the forest as much as she belongs in the workshop.

She can do so many weirdo experiments. Isn’t that what science is, basically?

“I owe you one,” she tells Lance, walking again beside him.

He chuckles, adjusting the bag of fruit on his shoulder and nudging her with his elbow. “You owe me twenty. Now, come on, we have lots more stuff to gather. I’ll show you how to identify it.”

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luescris · 2 months

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Guys. You guys. Guys.

I don't know what to do with myself right now.

We've been rewatching Trollhunters the past few weeks or so now. We are already on the last four ish eps of the last season. We just got done watching A House Divided. Aka the episode where Jim sacrifices his humanity to turn into a half troll.

For Pete's sake. I genuinely forgot how many emotions not only this show, but that part specifically gets out of me. I was stimming, and crying, and laughing all at once. Because oh my god. the way they did it.

the music. the cinematography. the way jims memories like. responded to when his friends/family was calling to him on the other side of the door. trying to get him to listen. to go back. my heart split into a million pieces.

I've never felt nearly as devastated as that moment. the only show that comes close is Turtles. but Jim's story. Jim's whole entire thing. They did everything so good it's insane. I could go on about this for hours I don't even care if this fandom is basically dead now.

And not only that, not only did i cry again to this episode. but i freaking found the music for that exact scene on freaking Spotify. I'm going to torture myself by listening to it over and over again because it's so just. Full. Y'know?????

I'm going bonkers. off the walls. insane. biting my pillows and wallowing in sorrow. ough

#trollhunters #dreamworks trollhunters #tales of arcadia #toa trollhunters #jim lake jr #trollhunters jim #my stuff #so many unfiltered thoughts. so many things that i want to do with him. i wanna draw i wanna write #curse this creativity blockage #luescris

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karniss-bg3 · 7 months

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Where do you think Kar’niss got his sword? It’s a very nice sword. Not just some off the rack gear. And named as well—-

*drags palms over face* This effin’ SWOOOORD! It has haunted my nightmares since Kar’niss’ corpse first dumped it into my Tav’s lap. I’ve dug and dug and dug and I’m left with more questions than answers. Knowing my luck there is some obscure text or throwaway dialogue somewhere I’ve missed that might lend me a better clue. Damn you Baldur’s Gate 3, you’re too bloody big.

So, I began to write out this big blob of text going into the history of drow weaponry, hues of metals, in-game model comparisons, the stats on the damn thing, and so forth. I was out here looking like this guy for two hours.

Truth is, it’s really difficult to pinpoint the source of Kar’niss’ weapon. Not because there aren’t clues, but because Larian reuses longsword models so much that looking at the weapon alone isn’t solid enough. I almost came to the conclusion that it was an original drowcraft sword pre-1370’s DR until I discovered another sword model that was identical and not tied to drow at all. That and if it was truly a drowcraft weapon forged via faerzress methods then Larian would’ve changed the rules on how they worked. Which makes sense. It’s a fun bit of lore, but it would be a pain in the ass for a game mechanic. Who wants their badass weapons destroyed or losing all magical abilities when you leave the Underdark?

“ME ME ME,” said no one.

The only thing I can say for certain is that it is a drow forged weapon because it carries a buff that only activates if a drow elf is wielding it. It also seems to be perfect for a drider since it also has ensnaring strands, an attack that does 1d10 slashing damage and possibly enwebs the target. This works in conjunction with the added 1d4 poison damage to restrained targets. The swords description may hold the best clue of its origin:

“The trauma of becoming a drider is quickly set aside with a cold arachnid dispassion. This sword follows that disturbing trend - a replenishing poison gland is built within, deployed only against trapped opponents.”

This description and the name, Cruel Sting, lead me to believe the weapon...was a gift.

Imagine Kar’niss fresh from his transformation. He’s dazed, in pain, lost and alone. He’s been exiled from the only home he’s ever known and has lost favor with the Goddess he’s worshiped from birth. His future is uncertain and how long he has left to live is even less so. His mind is shattered, the incoherent thoughts his only remaining company. He hears frantic footsteps approaching from behind him and his already broken heart shrivels more. His kin have come to finish the job, to put him down, so enraged by the offense he caused Lolth. Weak and struggling to keep himself upright he turns to make a last stand, to show strength in his final moments, to die with some level of honor.

His resolve melts into confusion when he sees who is sprinting toward him. The individual would be unknown to us, but well known to him. A childhood friend? A lover? A confidant? Or perhaps someone he fought alongside faithfully for many years. Regardless of whom has arrived a strong bond is present between them. They approach and peer at what Kar’niss has become. Their face twists, a brief flash of sorrow betraying their features. Yet they cannot let it remain, nor are they able to stay with him for too long. Instead, they unsheathe a sword they brought with them, hurriedly holding it up to Kar’niss. Naturally he flinches at first, expecting the blade to pierce his flesh. The strike never comes, rather the new comer pushes it toward him with urgency, expecting him to take it.

Hesitantly Kar’niss complies, taking the hilt in hand and admiring the beautiful drow craftsmanship. He frowns, his eyes lingering on the one who brought it to him, too stunned to speak.

“It will protect you, Kar’niss,” they said in a hushed tone. “...Goodbye, and good luck.”

Kar’niss could do no more than stand there as their former companion darted off quick as a shot, not willing to run further risk of being seen with the newly transformed abomination. He clutched the sword close to him, the last connection he had to the life he lived before. It would forever act as a reminder of everything he has lost, the cruelest sting of them all.

#baldur's gate 3 #kar'niss #drider #bg3 #karniss #baldurs gate 3 #answered #my writing #drow #lore #cruel sting #kar'niss lore #I am not sure how accurate that theory would be #but I think it suits the theme of Kar'niss' life #pure unfiltered tragedy #thanks for the ask!

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mamawasatesttube · 2 months

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this isn't like comics-fandom specific by any means, but one thing i do think about semi-regularly is that like. some people are so insistent on stuff being "for fun" so that they can justify never actually thinking about what they're doing, and that's... idk man. in a world where we are inundated with propaganda and bullshit all the time, media literacy, critical thinking, and reading comprehension skills are pretty important. and yeah like no one can have their brain running at max capacity 24/7 but you still gotta like... put in SOME critical thinking. otherwise you just get people being like SO WHAT if this comic is really racist??? you can't ask me to think critically about how it portrays characters of color!!!!! im just here for fun!!!!!! and it's just like. dude.

#rimi talks #kinda rambly but im thinking about a post i saw yesterday. and also a post i saw a few weeks ago. and a different post i saw before that #comics ''fans'' who go ''there's just so many comics so every single interpretation is valid and i don't have to think about anything--#--bc im just here to have fun uwu'' my beloathed. one of the posts i refer to was about morrison's talia lmao #''dont call me racist for preferring the racist version of talia so i can make manpain for white guys!!!'' is an actual take i have seen.#and like there's a difference between writing shit that's inoffensive but just poorly written vs writing shit that's racist #but if you don't have critical thinking or reading skills. can you tell the difference?#and if you espouse the view that critical reading skills don't matter in hobby spaces. you sound white lol #anyways like i said this is kinda rambly and not about any specific thing #but i am very sleepy in a library so you get my unfiltered thought process. jazz hands

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hopelessfandomfreak · 6 months

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holy fucking shit. that was one hell of a finale. I thought it was incredibly well written and well done, and I was mostly happy with the way everyone’s arcs ended. obviously I’m disappointed we didn’t get canon lokius, but at least there was no sylki, and loki and mobius both had satisfying endings (for now 🤞)

#I’m writing and posting this before I look at literally anything else on tumblr so if others disagree with me I have absolutely no idea #these are just my initial unfiltered thoughts right after finishing the episode #loki finale #loki season 2 #loki spoilers #loki series #lokius #loki #mcu #echo rambles

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mx24 · 10 months

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the word "chaos" is used a lot in reference to the roaring so it could be related to that?

undeniably is. chaos ties in heavily to the Titans and their Greek mythological counterparts. fits in with the biblical themes too, of course, but yeah.

big ramble incoming.

so Chaos, in Greek cosmogony, is the void state before the creation of the universe. this same term is used in theology describe the abyss created between Heaven and Earth in the Bible

as an element in Deltarune, we know it is Jevil's. and his tie to the Titan's is mostly VIA his Devilsknife, which is visibly a scythe.

not goin too deep into it here but, in summary, the Titan Cronus had a scythe given to him by his mother, Gaia (Earth). he used it to eh... sever his father's (Uranus, Sky/Heaven) gonads, of which he tosses into the sea.

that's scythes, Titans, Earth, Heaven, and the ocean. the ocean is reoccuring in Deltarune.

it appears as the background in the Goner Maker, playing as audio when Kris falls into ??? Place (that barren area with the Titan eyes and black runny goop), Dark Fountains being water-like, Onionsan's mention of a song from deep below, and water being referenced by Jevil when he is violently defeated. the line of mention beinf "HELL'S ROAR BUBBLES FROM THE DEPTHS". roar, like the Roaring.

but also the usage of Roar is particularly interestin with Susie's Roar ACT, and also the fact that she is the only one that can wield the Devilsknife. we first learn of her as Suzy in the Waterfall area, and she dreams of being a "Susiezilla", which is a reference to Godzilla, a giant, ancient reptile who rose from water.

...getting off topic there, back to chaos.

the Greek mythographer Pherecydes of Syros interpreted Chaos (the abyss/void/whatever) as water. faceless, and dark. Dark Fountains appear to pulse like water.

Hesiod's Theogony suggests that Chaos was a place located below Earth, but above Tartarus (prison of the Greek Titans). fits in with how the DR Titans rise from the Dark Fountains, once balance is thrown. [ somewhat related, a more in-depth analysis between Tartarus and ??? Place. ]

now, a very particularly interesting one to me is the way Chaos is described in Roman poet Ovid's Metamorphoses (that word is quoted by Jevil WHILE he transforms into a scythe). in his writing Ovid describes it as this:

Before the ocean and the earth appeared— before the skies had overspread them all— the face of Nature in a vast expanse was naught but Chaos uniformly waste. It was a rude and undeveloped mass, that nothing made except a ponderous weight; and all discordant elements confused, were there congested in a shapeless heap. (source)

as i mentioned, Susie wields the Devilsknife, and seemingly has a connection to the ocean motif. the way Ovid describes Chaos with being a "rude and undeveloped mass", also fits with Susie's rude abilities and the rude element.

with her being a (likely draconic) reptile monster too, we can compare her to various biblical serpents such as the sea monster, Leviathan, a being that is known as an "embodiment of chaos". the leviathan is also often compared to other figures such as the Beast out of the Sea, and Hellmouth.

well. as of this moment this is all i can remember, but yes. chaos is undeniably connected to the Roaring, and a LOT of other things in Deltarune.

#mx rambles #answered #deltanalysis #deltarune #[ sorry this took a bit to write out LMAO n i didnt check my grammar or nothin. just raw unfiltered stuff ripped straight outta my mind ]#colored text

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topsyturvy-turtely · 3 months

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I love your energy so much, keep being you 🥰

bleeep... whAT?! i can't handle my energy myself sometimes!!!

but it is very much appreciated, my dear *makes an eccentric bow or curtsie... sth in between cause my gender is inbetween (and i would probably fall over and break my nose) (lol imagine telling a nurse you broke your nose when you... SEE IT IS TOO MUCH MY ENERGY IS TOO MUCH!)

*MAKES TOO LOUD TOO WEIRD NOISE... to contain all the weird energy (is it working???)*

(wtf am i doin)

thank you haha 😅😂🤦🏻🐢

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jichanxo · 2 months

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(late) sunday six

thanks for the tag @passthroughtime and @overdevelopedglasses! not gonna tag anybody because i'm late to the party as is :P i've mentioned sensei au/fic a lot in passing but i think this is the first time i'm actually talking about it properly in a text post as opposed to like, tags on my art... anyway, it goes without saying that this has lost judgment spoilers. part of the premise for this fic is that kitakata never becomes kuwana because he only barely manages to fix everything at the last possible moment. mitsuru lives, but only because he gets lucky. something like that. the main fic takes place long after this, but i recently had a go at trying to write mitsuru and kitakata on the roof together, since it's obviously integral to kitakata's character even if mitsuru doesn't die. i'm still feeling it out, but it's been an interesting one. very different from what i'm used to. but also cathartic in some ways.

anyway here's an excerpt. putting another warning here for lost judgment spoilers and mentions of suicide.

Kusumoto looked away, sat up. He didn’t really seem to care that Kitakata was there, aside from the knowledge that he couldn’t do anything rash with him here, which he resented.

He wiped at his chin, his eyes, but the movements were clumsy, and he couldn’t clean himself off properly. His hair was still a mess, though he’d tried to make it presentable again. Kitakata suddenly wished he had a handkerchief in his pocket instead of a packet of cigarettes.

“I’m not going to kill myself, Sensei. You can leave if you want.”

He wanted to relieve Kitakata of any responsibility to be here. He thought Kitakata was only doing any of this to cover his own ass.

Kitakata hadn’t given him any reason to believe otherwise.

“Oh, well.” He fished for the first excuse that came to mind. “Haven’t had my smoke yet.”

He pulled one out, took his time lighting it. It’d buy him some time. It didn’t matter what Kusumoto thought of him, and he wouldn’t delude himself to expect that he might think that Kitakata was here because he wanted to be. It wasn’t entirely untrue, after all, that he was just trying to cover his ass. He’d made a mistake, and he was desperate to fix it.

He took a drag. Exhaled. Looked to Kusumoto.

“Do you mean it?” He asked.

“Mean what?” Kusumoto mumbled.

“When you said you weren’t going to kill yourself.”

#lost judgment spoilers #tw suicide #...not sure what other content warnings i should put here i'm not familiar with posting this kind of thing #hopefully tumblr doesn't eat it alive for that alone #kitakata sensei #jichanmakes #sunday six #<- not sure how often i'll participate but i have been writing quite a bit lately so i might as well make the tag #anyway um. sensei fic! sensei fic!#unfortunately it's probably one of the most depressing parts of the au. important! but depressing.#snipped off one of the less visceral parts at the very least. writing mitsuru and kitakata speaking in this context feels very..... hm #like i said it's a very different subject to write about than what i'm used to #i still want to read over some other peoples' depictions of mitsuru but this is basically my like. first go unfiltered attempt.#at the very least i have a feeling for the tone now

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mx-lamour · 3 months

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4 - Bloodstain

Strahd von Zarovich sat before the hearth. Despite its blazing warmth, he felt cold. He was slumped heavily in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him lackadaisically; his steepled fingers barely touched his chin as he stared through the dancing flames. There was nothing to be seen within them—not that he possessed that particular ability.

It had been nearly a year since that fateful night, when he had plunged the Ba’al Verzi dagger into Sergei’s chest. When he’d sucked the blood from his brother’s wound, and washed it from his hands. Nearly a year since Leo Dilisnya had enacted his treasonous plot to execute Ravenloft’s mass of guests. When Strahd himself had been struck through with enough arrows to kill him several times over, and still had not died.

It had been nearly a full year since Tatyana had fled from his embrace and flung herself from the overlook. His heart ached to think of it.

One more night.

He still had not found her body.

A fervent rap at the window excised Strahd from his reverie. His frown deepened. There should be nothing there to make such a noise. No trees handy to brush their limbs against the glass. A bat would have the faculties to avoid collision with a solid surface, and not many other creatures had occasion—nay, nor the desire—to venture this high up on castle grounds.

. . .

The place was devoid of movement; devoid of life.

Janath should be here at his post. But, even as the thought occurred to him, it seemed unlikely. A thick layer of dust coated the floor. The remains of delicate spiderwebs draped from the walls.

A chill ran along Alek’s spine. He listened hard within the stairwell, but could hear neither the rustling of his men in the barracks below, nor any sign of the hundreds of guests who should be inhabiting the rooms above. The stairwell itself was unfathomably dark.

Alek ducked his head back out of it, fear welling up past his initial shock, and strode into the chapel. What he saw there did little to reassure him. Several of the gorgeous windows were smashed. Whole pews were overturned. The trappings of the altar were strewn about the floor, among fragments of colorful glass. Alek carefully rifled through the mess in the moonlight, until he discovered a means to light the torch he plucked from its iron mount on the wall.

The rapid clapping of his boots against the stone floors echoed in the halls through which he ran. He checked a few of the guest rooms, just to be thorough, but their desolate interiors only added to his growing dread. They would all look the same, all smell of the same stale air. He climbed another flight of stairs, taking them now two at a time, racing toward Strahd’s quarters.

Alek hesitated, heart in his throat. What if he found only more of the same? Only cobwebs and dust and broken things, and… had there really been bloodstains on the floor beneath his feet?

A dozen possibilities flashed through his mind, of what might be waiting for him if he crashed through the door of Strahd’s study. But worst of all was the empty room.

He went a longer way, to stall the inevitable. From the outer walk, he reasoned, he would be able to look in through the windows, to see into both the study and Strahd’s bedroom. Outside, there was no dust nor blood—although a passing rain could have washed it all away.

Alek peered into the first window, Strahd’s bedroom. The darkness inside was too thick to peer into. Holding his torch up to the glass only showed him the reflection of his own desperate face.

But there was a light ahead, he realized. The flickering glow from the next window mimicked that of his own torch. The hearth must be lit. New hope seized Alek like a breath of fresh air. His chest ached with it. How long had he been holding his breath?

He hurried to the lighted window and looked inside. And there was Strahd, slouched in front of the fire, hands steepled, deep in thought. Alek couldn’t remember the last time he felt such palpable relief. He rapped his knuckles on the glass.

. . .

Strahd turned his head. And froze.

“Strahd!” Alek’s muffled voice called through the glass. “Open up.”

Strahd’s elbows slid from the arms of the chair. He braced himself to stand, but found himself reluctant to do so. Was this a ghost? Had Alek’s ghost come to haunt him? Or…

His eyes darted toward his bedroom, and the closet within, where Strahd had stashed the body of his chief of security, and the corpse had… disappeared.

“Strahd!” Alek called again, now slapping his palm against the window.

Perhaps he had survived, after all. And now he had come back… to do what? Why had he not appeared before? Where had he been, then, when Dilisnya and his men had massacred the castle’s inhabitants?

Hope and anger both roiled within Strahd, and together they propelled him to his feet. The anger flattened when Alek finally climbed into the room, and immediately tugged Strahd into a strong embrace. Just as quickly, Alek drew back, but his hands retained a firm grip on Strahd’s shoulders. “What happened?” he gasped.

Didn’t he know?

Strahd grasped Alek’s arms. “What do you remember?”

The full force of his gaze wiped all expression from Alek’s face. “The wedding is tomorrow.”

Strahd blinked against the stab of pain that pierced his chest.

“I was doing the rounds,” Alek explained, regaining his momentum. “The keep should be full to the brim with people! But between one step and the next, everyone was gone. My men, the servants, all the guests…” He let out a shaky breath. Strahd finally noticed, with astounding clarity, the man’s racing pulse. Alek squeezed Strahd’s shoulders tighter and whispered, “We’re the only ones left.”

Strahd gently extricated himself from Alek’s grasp, turning back toward the hearth to think.

He didn’t remember, then. Alek didn’t remember coming here, to Strahd’s study. He remembered nothing about the deal Strahd had made with Death, nor the fight which ensued between them. He didn’t remember Strahd running him through, slitting his throat, drinking his life’s blood…

It was impossible. How had he survived, unless he had become like Strahd himself? But his lungs still drew air. His heart still pumped warm blood through his veins. Alek was well and truly alive.

An abrupt choking sound behind him.

Strahd whipped around. Alek staggered back, clutching his stomach, brow furrowed with pain and sudden confusion. They both looked down. A vibrant splash of red seeped into Alek’s shirt beneath his hand.

Strahd watched in horror as Alek sank to his knees, defiantly swallowing the urge to vomit up the blood undoubtedly pooling inside his gut. He even tried to stand again. Couldn’t yet fathom he was dying. Where had the wound come from? Even as he thought it, Strahd already knew the answer.

Unable to right himself, Alek settled himself onto the floor instead, a bloody pantomime of lying down for a nap. His eyes were barely slits as he struggled to remain conscious, but he kept them fixed on Strahd’s face.

“It’s… all right,” Alek whispered, despite the scent of fear on him. He coughed with the effort, and the blood pooling in his cheek dribbled onto the floor. “...found you.”

Strahd flinched outright as a torrent of hunger rolled through him. A thin red line drew itself across Alek’s throat.

His own throat burning, Strahd dropped to his knees. His eyes were burning, too, stung by the sight of Alek’s precious blood—so much of it—pooling around his head like a dark halo, staining his blond hair. Strahd crawled toward him weakly.

From the open window, a delicate fog crept in. It crawled along the floor, too, slowly enveloping Alek’s body like a shroud. Strahd reached for Alek through the unusual cloud. He thought, for a moment, that his hand touched cloth and flesh… but then only the cold, hard floor.

When the fog dissipated, Alek’s body was gone.

. . .

Strahd drowned the rest of the night in books, though he didn’t dare open the accursed tome with the Heart’s Desire spell swimming in its pages. Instead, he sought other ghosts—any information he could find on hauntings and their infinite peculiarities.

What he found failed to be of any use. The writings nearly always described the spirits as transparent or wisp-like, except for the erroneous mentions of skeletal undead. There were accounts of spirits who seemed to be stuck in a particular moment in time, like an image of the past impressed faintly upon the present, ever doomed to repeat itself. But even this was incongruent with the events he had just witnessed.

Alek was alive, or had been for those fleeting minutes. He was no hazy specter, but as solid and real as Strahd himself. He was intelligent; he acted on new information, rather than simply going through the motions of a past event.

The one detail that did align were Alek’s wounds. The fatal wounds of his death a year prior had blossomed on his body again this night without warning. Strahd wondered: Had it been the same hour, the same moment that Alek had first suffered them? Strahd had not the proper knowledge to mend such wounds, but if he had…? What then? Would Alek still be here, whole again, by his side?

Strahd slammed the book shut and shoved it across the table. It did not quite fall off the edge.

Had he been given a second chance, only to squander it?

Then another thought occurred to him: Tomorrow.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

. . .

Strahd waited on the overlook, a thick black cape draped over his shoulders.

It was tempting to wait within the desecrated chapel, where he and Tatyana had finally shared their first—and last—kiss. Perhaps it would no longer be their last, but that would depend entirely on the success of his actions now. He could not know when or where she would appear, so he would prepare himself for only the worst possibility. Alek had apparently run through most of the castle before he had found Strahd in his study, but to rely on that same variable of time in Tatyana’s case might be foolish. He might linger in the chapel only to watch through the windows as she appeared in the garden beyond, already in full sprint toward the balcony.

Would she think to stop in time? Strahd couldn’t be certain.

So he waited, in the space that should be her intended path, with his back to the sheer drop of the cliff face below, ready to catch her in his arms and hold on tightly to her forever after.

He waited.

And waited.

Until the predicted hour had passed, and prickling apprehension began to crawl under his skin.

And still, he waited. Because he could not be sure when or where Tatyana would appear. He only knew that, if she did appear, he could not allow her to die a second time.

Strahd waited, stock still, eyes searching, until the peaky light of dawn crept in over his shoulders. Let it, he thought. He could not bear to leave this opportunity behind.

But the early rays of the morning sun grew swiftly hotter, until Strahd could no more endure their radiant light than he could the overwhelming ache of grief. He dissolved himself into mist to escape both, and reconstituted himself within the shadows of Ravenloft’s desolate halls. Grimly, with his incredible hearing, he listened for any other sign of life. Perhaps Tatyana had materialized within the chapel after all, and had come inside to look for…

But he heard nothing.

Strahd retreated numbly to his crypt, to welcome deathlike slumber.

. . .

Another year passed. Almost.

A rapping at his study window provided Strahd an uncanny feeling of deja vu.

“Strahd!” Alek’s muffled voice called through the glass. “Open up.”

This time Strahd wasted no time. He unlatched the window and Alek climbed through, just as he had before, tugging Strahd into a swift embrace. “Everyone is gone!” he said, as though Strahd couldn’t have known. Alek drew back, though his hands still clasped Strahd’s shoulders. “My men, the guests, the servants—all of them. We’re the only ones left.”

“I know,” Strahd replied, grasping Alek’s arms. He gazed at Alek’s alarmed face, looking into his pale eyes.

Alek’s racing heart slowed, and he sighed. But a light crease formed between his brows, mirroring Strahd’s deeper concern. “I’m going to die,” he whispered.

Strahd glanced down at Alek’s throat. Swallowed the hunger rising in his own. “No,” he said firmly.

“What happened?” Alek urged.

Where to begin?

“There’s no time to explain.” Strahd turned, pulling himself halfheartedly from Alek’s grasp to run his hand across a shelf of books. Alek followed close behind him, curious.

“What—”

“Alek!” Strahd clenched his fist. “...hush,” he said, deliberately gentle, releasing the tension in his fingers to pull forth one of the tomes. He flipped it open on his arm and rifled through the pages.

“What are you looking for?” Alek whispered, unable to contain himself.

“A spell,” Strahd said impatiently.

Suitably cowed for the moment, Alek pursed his lips. He glanced back at the window briefly.

Strahd shook his head angrily as he flipped through the symbols and incantations. A spell to mend a small tear in an object. A spell to reduce an object or whole person in size. A spell to acquire for oneself a temporary boost in stamina. None of them were quite right.

“Damn it all!” he cursed aloud.

Alek coughed and staggered. One hand flew out to catch himself on the book case; the other clutched at his stomach.

Strahd reached out to grasp the front of Alek’s shirt, keeping him upright. He skimmed through another page before dropping the open book to the floor. He would have to improvise.

“Stay with me,” he commanded.

Alek nodded, defiantly swallowing back the blood and bile that rose in his throat. His knuckles were white on the bookshelf.

Strahd pushed Alek’s hand away from the wound, and shuddered when a sudden wave of intense blood-thirst threatened to blind him. He lost the strength to hold up both himself and Alek; together, the men fell to their knees.

Strahd muttered a string of words that Alek couldn’t recognize and that Strahd had half made-up as he spoke. A sickly glowing swirl of muted colors hovered in the space between Strahd’s fingers and the wound.

“It’s all right,” Alek rasped, clenching his jaw against the racking cough that followed.

“I’m afraid it’s not,” Strahd whispered. He abandoned the wavering, half-baked spell, knowing it would do no good. Knowing what would happen next.

Strahd pulled Alek into his arms—Alek held him weakly in turn—and when the thin red line appeared in his throat—

Strahd drank.

Mouth open and pressed to Alek’s throat, Strahd drank from the well of his life a second time.

It sickened him. Not in the way that the blood of animals seemed to. Strahd had experimented with that after assisting a pack of wolves in their own wild hunt one night. Not only had he found no sustenance in it, but he had been subjected to the cramped roiling of a poisoned gut and could not keep the stuff down.

This was not the same kind of sickness, for the taste of Alek’s blood was satiating almost to the point of ecstasy. No, the sickness he felt now had nothing to do with his body.

Alek’s heart had stopped beating, but still Strahd held the man in his arms, his face buried against the curve of Alek’s shoulder. He didn’t notice the tendrils of mist spilling in through the open window. He didn’t notice when it swirled around himself and the man who had truly been his closest and most trusted friend, covering them up like a shroud.

He didn’t notice, until the body in his arms began to fade from his grasp, gradually slipping away, until there was nothing left to hold onto.

Strahd sat there for what could have been minutes or hours, staring at the empty floor. His lip quivered, his shoulders lurched. He grit his teeth.

Then he rose. As he always would; as he always must…

And closed the window.

. . .

The following years were much the same. Again, Strahd hoped that Alek’s coming would precede Tatyana’s, and he waited for her, in the chapel, or in the garden, or there on the overlook again, all to no avail. Until he had satisfied himself that she would never grace him with the beauty of her presence again, no matter how long he waited. Only then did Strahd turn his attention back on Alek Gwilym with the full force of his convictions.

He scoured the contents of his library many times over, forcefully entreating his boyars to turn up any other magical book or artifact they could find. Unfortunately, as Barovia had been barred from any exit or entry by its dense misty borders, there was very little to be found.

Strahd attempted to learn healing magic, so that he might try again to seal Alek’s wounds and prevent his ultimate demise. However, his fears were realized when he discovered himself wholly antithesis to it. Any attempt to repair a tear or cut, either human or animal, was met with disastrous results. Instead of the soft knitting of flesh he remembered from the work of Ilona’s wizened hands, the wound would fester and grow.

He practiced necromancy, then, and found that he could create a semblance of life within the dead. But only a semblance of life. The corpses became mindless, shambling things, beholden to simple commands. Try as he might, Strahd could not master a true resurrection.

There were a string of years thereafter, in which Strahd couldn’t bear to let Alek inside. Instead, he held Alek’s gaze through the window, attempting to hold him steady. But, though his body calmed itself under Strahd’s thrall, Alek continued to look worried.

One year, Alek raised his hand and pressed his palm against the leaded glass.

Trembling, Strahd’s hand rose to meet it.

“It’s all right,” Strahd murmured, before Alek could say it himself.

Alek died. Strahd’s claws left deep grooves in the window pane.

It was not all right.

. . .

Rather than waiting in his study again for the inevitable, Strahd set out to track down the exact point of Alek’s return.

He found him closing the door on an empty guest room. “Alek,” Strahd whispered, and Alek startled. Then his face lit up. He bounded toward the end of the hall where Strahd stood, partly obscured by shadow, and sighed heavily in relief.

Then he noticed Strahd’s face in the torchlight, and backpedaled. “What happened?” he gasped. “I heard—”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Strahd said smoothly.

Alek glanced around anyway. “Everyone is gone. Ravenloft is in ruins…” He gestured to Strahd, shifting his eyes most notably to Strahd’s lightly pointed ears. “What happened to you? Where have I been?”

So the passage of time had become obvious to him.

“I do not have all the answers,” Strahd said. “Tell me—You were patrolling the grounds—Where?”

Alek led him back through the castle, down a flight of stairs, to a landing near the chapel. “I’d stationed Jarath here,” he explained. Strahd could not put a face to the name, but it had obviously been one of the guards. “I thought he’d left his post, and that’s when I noticed… everything else.”

Rather than the frantic worry he’d built up by the time it took him to reach Strahd’s quarters in previous years, Alek now looked deflated. He had failed, he knew, and the weight of his failure pressed upon his shoulders.

“Alek…”

Strahd swallowed thickly. It would happen any moment now.

“It’s all right,” he said roughly, placing a hand on Alek’s shoulder. Strahd pulled gently, and Alek leaned forward with little resistance, wrapping a firm arm around Strahd.

“At least I found you,” Alek muttered.

Grimacing, Strahd bared his fangs. Alek flinched when they pierced his flesh, but Strahd drank quickly, holding the man fast to his breast, and spared him the rest of his wounds.

He watched the mists envelop Alek and spirit his body away. As the white swirls tumbled through his fingers, like the fine sands of an unfathomable hourglass, Strahd whispered to himself, “Next year.”

. . .

This began a string of years in which, when Alek asked again “What happened?” Strahd tried to explain it to him.

In the first of those years, Strahd sat him down in the ruined chapel and spoke quietly and earnestly about all that had transpired, and all that would happen to him once their time was up. The words tumbled out of him, low and soft, and Strahd had never seen Alek so deeply heartbroken. They gripped each other’s hands while tears flowed down both their faces, Strahd’s tinted a ridiculous orange-pink with the blood that sustained him. He felt that not nearly enough time had passed before the wound in Alek’s abdomen appeared, met with only a pained grunt while his eyes remained locked on Strahd’s face.

Alek removed a long hand from Strahd’s grasp to caress that face, pallid and sharp-eared, yet still the same Strahd that he had known only this morning—or rather, twenty-seven years before this morning—and brushed his thumb across Strahd’s cheek.

“It’s all right,” he said, before Strahd could object.

And then he said something else.

The roar that filled the chapel after Alek disappeared rattled what was left of the chapel windows. It sent scores of bats flapping and screeching into the night. Strahd screamed until his throat was raw, and then he dropped his head into his hands, and sobbed.

. . .

The second of those years… didn��t count. Knowing that the night was upon him, Strahd fled to his aerie in the face of Mount Ghakis, a narrow channel in the rock that even he could only reach in the form of bat or mist, and closed himself off to the possibility. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the wind howling past the mountain’s peak.

But there was no wind.

There was always wind, this high up, in this godforsaken place.

Not tonight.

Whether he truly could or not, Strahd thought he could hear the sound of footsteps running through Castle Ravenloft. He thought he could hear Alek calling his name, his voice echoing through the empty halls. He thought he could hear Alek’s heartbeat growing faster, until the rush of his blood filled Strahd’s ears and his whole body contorted with the pains of his thirst. He hadn’t forgotten to feed, early that evening, but it felt like he hadn’t done so in months, or even years.

Then it was over, and the silence and the absence of physical hurt was even more unbearable.

“Take me,” Strahd demanded, lying in his makeshift crypt deep in the top of Mount Ghakis. “Take me!” But even as he said it, pounding his fists against the top of the stony recess, Strahd knew he had nothing left with which to bargain. Death already held both of the men in its sinister claws. It held everything in Barovia—Strahd, and the land he had bound himself to; it held them prisoner.

That year, Alek could not tell him it was all right.

. . .

It was better, then, to face him head-on.

“Strahd! What—”

“There is nothing left, Captain Gwilym,” Strahd said coldly. Skeletal undead filtered up from the stairwell leading down into the catacombs, from the adjoining hall and the chapel itself, until all of Ravenloft’s previous guests and traitors alike had been exhumed and were crowding around the two men, offering no outlet for escape.

If nothing else, the stench was horrible. Alek recoiled, pressing his back against the wall as the corpses shuffled closer, and drawing his sword from its scabbard. Despite its age and decay, he recognized the one called Jarath.

“A great curse has befallen Ravenloft,” Strahd declared.

There were others Alek knew. Some of their old comrades, Strahd’s boyars. Old Gunther Cosco was among them, and Ivan Buchvold. Victor Wachter’s wife, Oleka, though Victor himself was nowhere to be seen.

“There were few survivors. You, yourself, were not among them.”

“But I’m here,” Alek argued. Then he realized his mistake. “How did this happen?”

“I sold my soul to Death. The Strahd you knew is no more.”

Alek was speechless. His eyes roamed the assembled horde, but now that they had gathered around him, each one stood inert. He looked on Strahd again, heart pounding. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Why?”

Strahd should have expected him to ask.

“I sought the love of one who would not give it.”

Alek frowned. Hadn’t he always…? “Strahd, I—”

“It had nothing to do with you.”

Alek’s eyes narrowed. The confusion was gone from his face. “You should have let me die on that cliff,” he spat. “Spared me from seeing this.”

“I hadn’t known,” Strahd whispered.

“I would have helped you,” Alek raved. “We could have faced it—whatever happened—together. No matter what.”

“I know that now.”

“Strahd, I—”

Strahd held up a hand. “Please.”

Alek balked. His heart broke with the low fracture in Strahd’s voice. Strahd did not beg.

“Any moment now, you will die, from wounds that I caused thirty years ago.”

Alek’s lips mirrored the words ‘thirty years’ but he gave no voice to them.

“I killed you, Alek.”

“But I came back.”

“Temporarily. You find yourself in this same moment every year, and every year, you die again.”

“Is this where I died?” Even as he said it, Alek winced, and clutched at his stomach. He looked down at the red welt sprouting on his clothing.

“No,” Strahd told him. “That came later.”

Alek looked back up at Strahd accusingly. “You stabbed me.”

“That is not the worst of it.”

Alek choked, and this time he did not try to hold back the spurt of blood that spilled over his chin. He breathed heavily. “I got in a few good scrapes, didn’t I?”

Strahd laughed weakly. “Pierced my heart.”

Alek laughed, too. “Damn right… rat bastard.” He coughed again. “How…?”

Strahd understood his meaning. “I opened your throat, and drank your life’s blood.”

A wide look of bewilderment crossed Alek’s face. He nodded once, cringing through the pain in his gut. “Will you—ugh!” he groaned, sliding down to the floor. “...again?”

“You will have little use for it now.”

Alek huffed. His eyes glistened. “I dare you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do it.”

Strahd did.

. . .

The more Alek fought, the longer he lived. So, Strahd rallied him, in any way he could think to do so. This often involved a repeat of his stunt with the animated remains of Ravenloft’s guests, to frighten him just enough that his instincts as a warrior would take hold, the adrenaline would override the confusion, and he would cling to his life for all it was worth.

If the wound in his gut were to heal, Strahd wondered, would the wound in his throat never open? He found tentative hope in the idea.

But no matter how hard he struggled against it, the wound Alek suffered year after year could hardly mend itself. It could almost work, and that was more infuriating than if it had been a fast-acting wound, like Alek’s own dagger in Strahd’s chest. But even wounds that could be mended through non-magical means required rest to do so, and rest was not a resource that was available to Alek. As soon as he slipped into unconsciousness, the slit would open on his throat, and his blood would spill. From that point, the only choice left to make was whether or not Strahd would drink from that crimson fountain.

He set about his search again for more books. There were hardly any clerics in Barovia anymore, Strahd realized with dismay. Ilona had been the best he knew, but he had sent her away on that fateful night, almost forty years ago, and had not thought to contact her again. He reasoned that it had been out of respect for the old woman, who had since passed away, but now he wondered if it wasn’t some other force that had kept him at bay. Perhaps Ilona had found a means of shielding herself from the thing he had become.

An exhaustive year passed, in which Strahd had made no progress on his errand. He was no more knowledgeable or effective in the healing art than he had been before. There was no way that he could fathom to use the solstices to his advantage, either—midsummer was also infuriatingly near, but never within reach. Alek’s visits were always weeks ahead of it.

Strahd had suggested to Alek—when he’d thought of it, the year he’d grabbed Alek by the wrist and pulled him up to the library himself, so the man could help research his own antidote—the idea that he might be able to find a means of magically keeping him awake.

Alek had been more terrified of that than the idea of dying again and again. Even without a grievous injury, being forced into wakefulness for days, if not longer, would almost certainly do more harm to his human body than it would do good.

Strahd couldn’t find it in himself to push the matter. Even he needed to sleep.

So, in that year of exhaustion, in which Strahd had again made no further strides, he decided to wait for Alek to find him. There was something else he wanted to try.

Even though Strahd was waiting for it, it seemed his cold heart leapt into his throat when the rap of knuckles on his scarred window finally came.

“Alek!” he gasped, flinging the window open.

Alek climbed through the opening again, and when he threw his arms around Strahd, this time Strahd wouldn’t let him draw back. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against Alek’s. Alek’s face was cold from the blustering wind outside, but his chest was warm and his heart fluttered rapidly against the desolate cage of Strahd’s ribs.

“I’m glad I found you,” Alek replied, after only a moment’s hesitation. “Everyone is gone,” came the echo of years past. “Ravenloft is in ruins! What happened?”

“None of that matters. Not now that you’re here.”

“Strahd…?” There was a vague tone of suspicion in Alek’s voice. He craned his head back to look at Strahd’s face. The pale, pointed ear his own sharp nose brushed against did not escape his notice.

Strahd turned into the movement.

He pressed his lips fervently upon Alek’s.

Alek grunted in surprise. His brow furrowed, breath stuttering as his mind fought to reconcile his recent terror with this new development. Only this morning, he thought, Strahd had been unusually stand-offish with him—even for Strahd. Alek, of course, did not know that the morning he was remembering had happened forty-five years ago.

But who was he, to look a gift horse in the mouth? Alek relaxed into a heady feeling of relief and kissed Strahd back just as passionately, until the need to breathe finally forced him to retreat.

“What happened?” Alek whispered again, stroking long fingers over Strahd’s hair.

“I was a fool,” Strahd whispered back. He grasped Alek’s hand and kissed it, too.

Alek laughed breathlessly. “It’s not often you admit it.” Then he grew serious. Strahd finally allowed Alek to step back, though he made sure that Alek’ hands remained firmly on his shoulders. He took one good look at Strahd’s face and asked, “How long have you been here alone?”

The wound came too fast. Alek buckled, still gripping Strahd’s shoulders.

Strahd pulled Alek back into his arms, holding him close, holding him upright. “Too long,” he admitted, through gritted teeth. “Year after year, I am forced to watch you die. Just like this. I can find no remedy. I have tried everything in my power…”

“I want to stay,” Alek said, swallowing hard.

“I know.” Strahd’s voice was thin. Alek’s body was growing weaker, heavier, in his arms. “Tell me it’s all right.”

“I don’t know… if it will be.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Can I tell you that I…” Alek coughed, and shuddered. “...that I love you?”

Strahd turned his head, muffling himself through Alek’s hair. “Not if you go.”

“I’m sorry,” Alek whispered.

“So am I.”

“Maybe… I…” But it was too late. Alek slipped into bleak unconsciousness, and the blood he had left to spill pooled between them, soaking into the front of both their shirts.

Strahd wept. He kissed Alek’s jaw, his cheek, the unresponsive corner of his lip and that blasted mustache. Through his tears and his kisses, Strahd scowled at the approaching Mists, with a glint in his eyes like the bright red fire of fresh hell.

Strahd was the Lord of Barovia. He had gotten them both into this diabolical mess, and—one way or another—he would get them out. This was his solemn oath.

The Mists seemed to pause, their wispy white tendrils swirling pensively in the air. But they took Alek anyway. Nothing, not even the bloodstain on Strahd's shirt, remained. And the next year…

They did not give him back.

* * * EDIT - Epilogue: #3 - Sweet [Ao3 Collection] [prompt list by @syrips]

#the dark powers compelled me to write this #i had no choice #bloodstain #stralek #strahd von zarovich #alek gwilym #unfiltered unedited 15 pages ho fuck #this took the terrifying unit of 13 hours to kick out #i skipped a prompt maybe i'll get back to no. 3 #vampentine's 2024 #ravenloft spoilers #i have a love hate relationship with gene dewesse

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