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bi-writes · 3 days

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ok but soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine. (18+)

you share his trauma. his stress. his anxiety. you do not know who he is, and yet you know the pain of a thousand punches because it's the only feeling he has ever given you. you know the grueling ache of abandonment and the terrible neglect of abuse and the disgusting amalgamation of all your worst nightmares before you even turn 20. everything that he gives you feels aggressive, like it burns, and he only ever gives you reprieve for so long until you just feel it all over again.

it makes you tired. it makes you sick. at first, as a girl, all you wanted to do was comfort him. you wanted to know who he was so you could kiss the cigarette burns that you feel and soak up the blood you know he bleeds.

but as you age, you begin to hate him. you hate him because he does this to you, he hurts you, doesn't he know that he's hurting you? doesn't he know that everything he feels, you feel tenfold, doesn't he know that the terror and the horror of everything he witnesses weighs down your chest, makes you feel like you're drowning over and over and over again?

for a few years into your adulthood, everything is quiet. you feel little except the ache in his back he never tends to, the creak of his knee joints that he refuses to stretch out. you wish you knew him so you could scold him for it, but you curse at a ghost. sometimes you think about doing something to get back at him--you think about carving a FUCK YOU into your arm, about throwing yourself in front of a bus just so he can fucking understand that his entire life is one fucked-up cycle of pain and misery and horror, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

you can't hurt him. you just can't.

and then, the real pain begins. it brings you to your knees, this pain. you scream, you wail, because it feels like you're being carved from the inside-out. your face burns. your chest heaves. you feel like your ribs are breaking, you can't breathe, you claw at the invisible wounds that your soulmate must be wearing, and you beg him to stop, you beg him to let me go--just fucking die already--please, please, please--

those weeks haunt you. the torture he endures, it is branded to you. you wear no scars, and you never lost any blood, but the phantom flesh that you know is gone follows you in your sleep and never shuts up. it talks, it snarls, it eats at your insides. even when he heals, you are never the same. you wake up from nightmares that you know you share with him. you look over your shoulder for the predators you know he has encountered, and you cry yourself to sleep over the loss of something that you can't even decipher because you have no idea who he is or what he buried to feel this way inside.

he's sick. he's twisted. he's a walking corpse, he has no redeemable qualities, he is selfish and mean and cruel, and you hate him, and if it wasn't for the pain that you would feel, the first thing you would do when you saw him is drive something right through his heart to finally stop the undying infection he spreads to everything that he touches.

you know it is him when you finally meet him. you would know him anywhere; you’d know him just by the scars alone who he is because you remember what it felt like when he got them. when you eye the sleeve of tattoos along his left arm--the fucked, shitty, sunburnt art that made it impossible for you to finish your university exams. the faded, grey circles that line the other, ones you recognize being from the burning cigarettes that you would smell when you closed your eyes. and when he removes his mask briefly, you recognize the scar that cuts above his lip and strikes through his eye--that one left you reeling on the bathroom floor particularly loudly. you thought he might be blind if it wasn't for seeing the darkness of both of his eyes.

you start to cry. you start to cry because as soon as he realizes who you are, as soon as you see that flicker of knowing flash across his eyes, all of the hatred and the anger and the poison that plagued you for all this time vanishes. everything you fought so hard to feel, all the misery you wanted to bestow upon him for making your life a living hell, it's gone.

because the universe is cruel, the universe has done what it has done, and it has made this singular person just for you, and against everything you believe, you know that you love him, and you hate yourself for it, and you hate the universe, too.

you have endured. but maybe you endured so he didn't have to. maybe you endured so that he could have this, the feeling that he feels right now, that feeling of sudden relief.

he slides a large hand over his chest, flinching slightly. he blinks, understanding suddenly that he's feeling your joy, your elation. when you shuffle your way over to him, breaching the conversation the men around him are having, you ignore their confused stares as you fling yourself into his chest.

ghost forces you against him, trapping you to him. he practically chokes, tangling a gloved hand into your hair, and you sob into the warm skin of his neck as he hoists you into his arms, into his lap. you don't pay attention to the curious voices around you, you just bury yourself into him and cry. his body is the evidence of all that has happened to him, and you aren't angry anymore because you're relieved.

he's real. he's alive. he's here. he's okay.

when you pull back to look up at him, you blink away the tears that are falling fast down your face. he stares down equally as intensely, drinking in the sight of those big, wet eyes. when he smooths a big hand down your face, he grumbles when he realizes what you are, how you know him.

he never realized this was what he and his soulmate shared. you in your life had never felt pain like he had--he had no idea what he was doing to you. he had no idea what you were surviving at the same time.

he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours, and your lips tremble as you cup his cheeks and hold him close.

it feels wrong to feel this kind of comfort, but he does anyways. he thinks, maybe, that perhaps the only reason he survived was because of you.

because there was someone else, far away, that loved him enough to keep him breathing. even when he thought it was over.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon thoughts

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deepwaterwritingprompts · 2 days

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Deep Water Prompt #3322

The ghosts that haunt my sister’s house almost seem to work for her, finding her keys, turning lights or the oven off when she forgets. I learn she’s been paying them in tiny drops of blood.

#creative writing #writing prompt #blood #ghosts #haunted houses

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ddarker-dreams · 21 hours

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I'm clutching on the bars rn pls give us more bf blade content before I explode

I GOTCHU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i'm joining you in rattling the bars of my enclosure .... bf blade is making me feel Things ... .

warnings: fem reader, not sfw implications

While changing into a new shirt, a deep voice drawls your name.

Your heart jumps in your chest. If it weren’t for the recognizable timbre, you may have shrieked. It’s a small blessing that you’ve been spared this indignation. Huffing, you turn on your heels, pulling down the bunched-up fabric to cover yourself.

“I thought you promised to stop jumpscaring me,” you chastise.

The jumpscare in question — Blade — fixates on your previously exposed midriff. You note how his eyebrows pinch together, though you’re unsure what to make of it. He doesn’t acknowledge your comment. Not even with what Silver Wolf’s decreed his ‘limited NPC dialogue’ (a grunt, hum, nose exhale, or the occasional chuckle, solely procured by your antics).

“Lift your shirt,” Blade requests.

“Eh?” You stare at him like he has three heads. “Sorry, I’m waiting until marriage for that.”

He gives you an unimpressed look.

“Fine, fine, whatever,” you grumble, acquiescing to the strange demand, “And they said romance is dead…”

Blade kneels onto one knee. Before you can reiterate the marriage comment was a joke, his gloved fingers hover over the sides of your hips. The leather is cool against your rapidly warming skin. Once you overcome your initial confusion, you consider his countenance. He’s frowning, his eyes playing host to emotions you can’t quite place. His thumb rubs circles into the skin, softly enough to be mistaken for a ghost’s kiss. He appears to be in deep thought.

You’re rendered speechless — a most commendable feat.

“These bruises,” Blade murmurs, his voice hollow and haunted, “Did I…?”

Realization crashes into you like a meteorite.

You yank the fabric down. “Well, uh, yes, but—”

(He goes pale as a sheet, further increasing the urgency behind your words).

“—It’s okay! You didn’t— it wasn’t— I didn’t mind,” you reassure. Clearing your throat, you continue, fighting against the embarrassment scorching you alive. “If anything, I… was into it, so…”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. His arms fall limp to his side as he mulls over what you’ve said, clearly unwilling to accept it at face value. Uncertain of what else to do, you join him on the ground, sitting on your shins. You take his face in your hands, brushing aside his bangs that’d obscured his eyes. His hair’s silky smooth, thanks to your products and insistence on combing through the knots.

“Hey, old man,” you hum. “All that frowning’s gonna make you look your prehistoric age. You don’t want some young, dashing whippersnapper to steal me away, do ya?”

Blade scowls. Smiling softly, you boop him on the nose, to which he scrunches it up.

Your voice takes on a more serious cadence. “You didn’t hurt me. You could never hurt me. I trust you, so… trust me on this, okay? Just this once?”

It’s gradual. He relaxes his shoulders, then the taut muscles of his face, basking in your closeness. He leans into your touch, reminding you of a stray cat that’s steadily being domesticated. You let the silence linger for as long as he sees fit. Eventually, his gaze meets yours.

“... It’s a dangerous game you play, girl.”

I’m dangerous, the insatiable hunger in his eyes screams. I long to devour you, mind and soul.

To this, you grin.

“It’s a good thing I’ve already won, then.”

#blade x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #bf blade #blade brainrot #my stuff

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atsuwumus · 3 days

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CONGRATS ON HITTING A HUGE MILESTONE!!!🤍 you absolutely deserve it and i truly love and adore your works so much! theyre so well written and exciting to read!!<3 i was wondering if you could write a little smth on Zayne form L&DS thats spicy.. hehehe the plot or flow i will leave it up to you?? but again i love you!!! so much!!! congrats once again<3

๋࣭⭑ 𝐌𝐀𝐈 𝐌𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 : AAAAA sweet anon you're making me blush!! (๛ ˘ ³˘ )♡ you are so sweet, thank you for these kind words!! it always makes me so happy to hear that you're enjoying my writing!! I hope I can continue sharing fics you all enjoy <333

୨ৎ haunting me followers event

" 𝐇𝐌𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 very patient, are you? Seems like a virtue I'll have to teach you."

A whine sits high in your throat and you have to swallow several times in order to keep quiet, watching through a heavy lidded gaze as Zayne once again aligns his pool cue with the ball. You should be embarrassed by your current position, ashamed that you had managed to get yourself pinned down like this, but the mere sinful sight of him is enough to make you wish you could clench your thighs together.

What was supposed to be a simple lesson in pool had unfolded into a shameless display of debauchery. Zayne was testing your patience and you were testing his self control.

The clink of a ball hitting the surface of another reels your thoughts back to the present moment and you bite down hard on your bottom lip when you meet Zayne's gaze. He hardly looked like the man you knew — respected doctor, known colleague and close friend. If anything he looked like a predator ready to pounce at its prey, hazel eyes darkened by black rings around his irises and black strands of hair brushing across his brows.

He blows out a hot breath where he's still nestled between your thighs and you whimper, the sensitive skin there responding nicely, drawing out just the reaction he wanted. He wanted to rile you up, wind you up tight until you'd tremble and break down from nothing more than a simple touch.

Ever so slowly he lowers his head until his mouth ghosts over your clothed cunt, taking a sinful inhale before a sly smile spreads across his lips. "She's quivering," he whispers and you can feel every single syllable against your skin. Your clit throbs and your nails dig into the worsted wool beneath you, anchoring you to nothing. Your panties are far beyond ruined by now, stained with silky evidence of how badly you needed him to do something, anything.

"You're dripping, sweet girl. And I haven't even touched you yet..." A breath, a chuckle that hums underneath your heated skin. "Is that how bad you want me?"

The sound of his breathy laugh is enough to make you tilt your hips up, chasing those honeyed lips that spoke so many vulgar phrases, pouting at him. With ease he pushes you back down with a gloved hand before he murmurs, "Too bad. I have four more balls to sink."

#SCREAMS #he drives me a little insane #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace drabbles #zayne smut #zayne fic #zayne imagines #zayne drabbles #zayne x y/n #zayne x reader #l&ds x reader #l&ds smut #lads smut #lads zayne #lads x reader

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okaydays22 · 2 days

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captain-hen · 3 days

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#TRULY NOT TO BE A HATER BUT...#whenever i see people going 'tommy is so good for buck and they could totally be endgame'#um. based on WHAT? we've barely seen what their dynamic is like...we've barely seen them as a couple...#they've had maybe...four? conversations in total? and at least three of those were haunted by the ghost of eddie #like ship whatever you want and go forth etc but it's just so weird to me. lol.#neethu speaks

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laurieaconley · 1 day

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#laurieaconley #ghost humor #ghost #haunted

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sadder-daisy · 2 days

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#Kirby #ghost #waddle Dee #cute #game #video game #wallpaper #background #art #iPhone #spooky #haunted #Halloween #witch #drawing

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natural-example-man-treat · 3 days

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#jongin #google #simon riley x reader #lawblr #the band ghost #narusasu #chenford #creepycore #whiskey #sims 4 custom content #Claude Monet #house of commons #doom metal #the haunting of hill house

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historiaxvanserra · 21 hours

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All That is Dark Within Me | An Azriel Story

Pairing: Azriel x Rhys'Sister!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nesta's sacrifice, something ancient and long dead threatens to wake in the wilds of Illyria.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: not much really, discussions of oppression of the Illyrian's in acotar, allusion to murder and death. prophecy and magic, resurrection and religion talk.

is VERY heavy on the Illyrian lore. Most of the story is centred around Illyria and the Night Courts (Hewn City) and a lot of the lore is just my headcanons because we don't have a lot in canon to go off of! This one is absolutely a labour of love and look me a while to get right so any feedback (or constructive criticism) or reblogs is hugely appreciated!

She had first come back to him on a night like this. In flashes of violet and onyx; painted in the seraphic light of a bleeding star. Haunting and prophetic.

It’s his first Starfall in Illyria in half a lifetime and he’s alone; far from anywhere that feels like home. That’s when he feels it. A cataclysmic vein of power that reverberates through the Illyrian wilderness. So profound that he swears the mountain trembles in the wake of it. Some dark star streaks across the sky; bleeding silver and cerulean into the velvet abyss that saturates the mountains in Ramiel’s long shadows, and for the first time in a long time Azriel finds himself uttering her name like an oath.

There in the heavens, and saturated in the darkness at the edge of the world, he finds her again. Azriel reaches out a scarred hand and tracks the star as it arches across the cosmos in veins of violet and cerulean, his fingers ghost a smattering of silver stars that form a constellation in the shape of her. She calls to him. In a language so old, and lost to time, that only the earth itself might infer some meaning from the whispers of power on the westward wind.

A secret contained between him and the sky.

The Solar of Rhysand’s mother’s cabin is reminiscent of the Temple of The Mother in Velaris; sacred and soaked in the technicolor light of the stained glass crescent moons that curve across its high-domed ceiling. A myriad of indigo and amethyst; incandescent with flecks of gold and jade as the crystals inlaid into their center catch in the light of a thousand silver stars. This room is a testament to the craftsmanship of the Illyrian people and on nights like tonight that domed ceiling is the lens through which he sees the world.

The stars continue their ascent across the heavens into the small hours of the morning and Azriel watches every last one, hoping to catch one more fleeting glimpse of her as she crosses over the constellations stitched into the very tapestry of the sky over Illyria. At some point as the brightest stars burn blue against the black Azriel finds himself reclining into the makeshift bed in the Solar of the cabin as his body, weary and worn, begins to flirt with sleep.

That night when he dreams, he dreams of her.

Azriel waits beneath some ill-fated sky as the scene unfurls from the dark corners of his memory. Like a hand reaching through the veil of the dark-- and he reaches back.

The sky is a thunderstorm, heat swelling beneath the skin's surface as the clouds begin to gather in hordes and Ramiel’s dark shadows veil the world as he knows it in a shroud of black. The seraphic blue light of the three pointed star cuts through the blanket of the dark, offering Azriel a reprieve from the suffocating blue-darkness that swallows everything in its wake.

Drawing peace from the shadows.

In his dreams, the storm-streaked clouds loom ominous on the darkening horizon as midnight encroaches on the Illyrian wilderness and Azriel finds himself wading into the stretches of the wild, emerald forest. A voice, disembodied and cruel, calls out to him from the emerald wilderness. It’s laden with malice and dark intent as it whispers to him on the westward wind.

The shadow of the mountain looms like some ill-fated omen over the valley and a red star bleeds into the twilight, casting Ramiel in a bloody halo. The mountain seems to tremble in his wake and the whispers of the Old Gods call his name like a prayer.

The road ahead of him is muddy and foxgloved and there's this ache. It’s a dull kind of agony that cuts through his chest and makes a home in the spaces between his ribs. And there is a girl. She’s screaming into the vacuous twilight beyond and the stars seem to flicker in and out of existence each time the sound catches in her throat.

Uncertain feet carry him over the threshold of the encampment and every now and again his feet feel a tremor in the muddy earth -- a recollection of all that he had lost.

A great onyx monolith glitters in the amethyst moonglow and a vein of power hums in the stagnant air.

Azriel reaches out a hand to touch it and the world falls away from him again.

Then there is a temple; carved into the stone of the mountain, a great antechamber, shaded in the musk of hemlock and incense as he passes between the sandstone pillars. The pillars themselves are shrouded in climbing ivy and blooming moonflowers that conceal the frescos on the walls.

The atmosphere is oppressive and the acrid smell of smoke and rain linger there, clinging to the half-eroded stone and decaying wood. The temple was once warm and breathing itself to life with the symphonies of hymn and prayer. But the Gods had abandoned this place long ago. Now, it lies desecrated, amongst the climbing ivy and dying jasmine. The temple breathes an unsteady breath each time the wind catches in its great chasm; it’s aching and heaving like every breath might be its last.

Azriel’s shadows convulse and contrort violently. Like ghosts in his periphery. The world goes dark for a moment and the war drums echo in the night air. Something ancient and long dead calls his name.

Azriel.

Through the blanket of the dark all that he can see are her eyes, glinting and violet in the unforgiving light. It’s then in the light of the waning moon that his eyes map the constellations of scars that adorn her body. All silver and incandescent as though she is wreathed in starlight. She comes to him like night; veiled in shadow and shook up with the sound of the storm. She looks half-divine and Azriel thinks that she must be both, ghost and Goddess. The apparition of some ancient deity. There is something wild and sacred in her eyes. Some strange melancholic beauty that almost brings him to his knees.

The storm on the horizon shakes the earth and the world is afire with forked lightning as it illuminates the velvet night. She waits beneath the same storm-streaked cloud and a ripple of devastating power shakes the earth beneath her feet. The world falls silent as she falls to her knees at the foot of the altar and Azriel swears he can hear her praying. The prayers that fall from her lips are in some ancient tongue; the words are unknown but the sentiment is clear.

She’s searching for salvation on unholy ground, like a shadow unearthed from its grave. Lightning cracks and the temple heaves its dying breath and Azriel holds out a scarred hand to her.

She reaches back.

Azriel wakes with the first light, the mournful song of his shadows severing his tenuous connection to the Otherworld. It’s an old melody; sung softly to babes while still in their swaddling. Its words are uttered in the Old language and much of its meaning has been lost to time but Azriel still recognises the tragedy embedded into its verse. His own mother had often hummed the words of that ancient melody in those hours when he and her were reunited in the darkness of his fathers house.

The shadows sing of The Fates; the severing of sacred threads and a blue star that reigns over the valley that heralds the coming of the Old Gods. It is a song that maps the history of his people, brutal as it might be. The shadows tell the tale of Enilaus' defense of Ramiel and a temple beneath the great mountain. Azriel clings to each word, searching for some semblance of meaning in the shadows' cryptic verse.

With each passing hour Azriel finds that his return to Illyria brings with it a strange sense of remembrance; of things passed, and of things long forgotten.

With his High Lord working to solidify alliances in the face of impending war, it was only a matter of time before Illyria fell to Azriel. For better or worse, Rhys had named him acting Lord of Illyria. Though, in the months since Azriel had been stationed in the heart of Illyria, he thinks perhaps Cassian would have been the better choice had he not been preoccupied with playing courtier with Eris Vanserra. Cassian had a fervent sort of reverence for these lands and their people. Illyria was sacred to Cassian in the same way that Azriel’s shadows were to him; as though they were part of him. Cassian, in his heart, was proud to be an Illyrian. To have fought and earned his place amongst them.

But Azriel had spent the better part of his youth trying to outrun the shadows of the mountain that flanks the valley. These mountains held an austere beauty that called to him and try as he might; he cannot renounce his fathers’s blood. His is an old name in these lands and Azriel carries Illyria in his soul; as though he and the sacred mountain are one and the same. Carved of the same dark stone.

Commanded by the same dark power.

The draw of Illyrian steel rings through the air like birdsong as Azriel lands in the heart of Windhaven that morning; thinly bladed and lethal as two Illyrians circle each other like feral dogs in the fighting pit. The air smells like salt and iron and thick with the lingering scent of petrichor as the last of the month's storms reigns over the emerald forests beyond the camp.

Azriel stalks through Windhaven adorned in dirtied leathers as he navigates the narrow streets, weaving between the crowds and patrols as he nears Devlon’s cabin in the heart of the camp. The grating cadence of his leather boots on the loose earth beneath him is enough to drown out the idle chatter of the washerwomen and the hammering of the smiths. Slicked in soot and oil as they slave over the coal fires. The howling wind rages like a great tempest as Azriel pushes out onto the main square of the camp; hail ravages the camp and Azriel briefly registers the alarmed squeals of the younglings as a throng of children weave through the crowd in search of shelter from the coming storm. Azriel pushes a scarred hand through the mess of dark curls where the longer stands of onyx hair curl away from his wind-beaten face as the storm draws closer still. He looses a frustrated growl, somewhere between a snarl and a whine, as the wooden door of the Warlord's cabin splinters and gives way to his weight.

“My Lord.” Devlon greets in his usual scathing manner as he looks up from his parchment to Azriel. The desk is littered with letters and poorly kept accounts, all written in Devlon’s own crude hand. Save for the one in Devlon’s large hand that bears his own brother's seal and Rhysand’s elegant penmanship.

“Devlon.” Azriel nods towards the Warlord whose yellow eyes darken with ire as Azriel advances towards the open hearth with a louche grace. Stoking the coals with an iron rod until the heat of the flames kisses the high points of his cheekbones and the tip of his aquiline nose.

He spares a fleeting glance towards the portrait hung above the hearth of Devlon’s study; an old portrait of Rhysand’s mother and sister.

Despite Devlon’s shortcomings, of which there are many, Azriel will admit that he had always respected Manon, as both High Lady and the Lady of Illyria. He keeps her memory alive in the camp. And, on the anniversary of her death each year, Devlon allows the camp to mourn the lost Princess.

The Warlord’s cabin sits nestled into the heart of Windhaven, situated between the armory and Zephyr’s Tavern, and across the way from the shops and merchant carts in the market circle. From Devlon’s cabin the Long House looms like a great taunt upon the heath. A reminder of all he could have been.

In the days of old, the Long House had been where the Princes of Illyria had made their homes and held court. Now their throne rooms are banquet halls and their royal apartments used to store the harvest and casks of mead imported from The Steeps. The Long Houses stood as a warning to the Warlords of their place in this new world. As shadow kings to The High Lord of the Night Court.

In many respects Azriel mourns the loss of the Illyria of old. When they had been proud and strong; when his people were warriors and the songs told their stories. But that way of life had been lost to time. Their people’s histories and creeds perverted in the name of ‘taming’ these people and their hostile lands. Even the Warlords did little to preserve the true tenets of the Illyrians and instead sought to further oppress their own people because compliance comes at a lower cost than a crusade.

Azriel had little faith that the Illyrians could ever prosper on their own; Colonization and oppression had left them weak. Brutality and violence were rife, even in the smaller camps, where they were simple merchants and farmers.

The Illyrians would tear themselves apart if given half the chance. Of that Azriel was certain.

“Your High Lord writes to me,” Devlon muses, his voice rough and grating as he stands to his full height before extending the letter to Azriel. “warning of strange happenings in the territory.”

Devlon scoffs a laugh as he reclines in his seat whistling lowly in command. From the small kitchens a woman emerges; tall and dark with glassy carob eyes. Her hands tremble as she approaches Devlon’s desk with a tray laden with an assortment of food that makes Azriel’s own stomach lurch uncomfortably with the pangs of hunger. Devlon grunts as the woman sets the meal down wordlessly before obediently retreating into the kitchen without sparing either man a glance. Azriel grimaces and mutters a small thanks as the door closes behind her.

Devlon wastes no time tearing into the meat like a man starved; more animal than man, Azriel thinks. Like a feral dog. Devlon brings a hand to wipe the juice and grease that collects in the coarse black hair that grows around his chin and jaw. He takes a deep swig of the citrus mead and mumbles his acknowledgement in a series of grunts and hums as his fingers and teeth pull and pick and tear with reckless abandon at the various root vegetables and warm breads on the tray.

“He’s your High Lord too,” Azriel warns dangerously as his eyes trail over Rhysand’s elaborate cursive. The letter speaks of ill tidings from The Middle. More wandering corpses and strange winged creatures under the influence of some old and strange magic from the Otherworld.

“You’d do well to remember it.”

It had been almost a year since they had last heard from the Death God, confined to his salt-water river on the continent. A year since Nesta Archeron had conquered the very mountain that hangs over Azriel like an ill fated omen.

In the months that followed Azriel’s return to Illyria whispers of some dark and ancient power plagued him; strange and prophetic dreams that speak of deities long forgotten; offerings and altars. Made of flowers and wine. Blood and bone.

“Remember it?, Ha-” Devlon barks a cruel laugh, devoid of any humor at all, “He has never let us forget it.” Azriel meets Devlon’s eyes and his ire flickers and dies as another enters on a night-chilled mist.

“Ah so you did get my letter.” The velvet tenor of Rhysand chimes in.

“High Lord,” Devlon stands suddenly, the legs of his chair wailing and screaming as they drag along the hardwood floor. Devlon straightens himself out, wringing his dirty hands on his leathers, and nodding curtly towards Rhysand as he steps further into the cramped cabin’s study.

“Brother,” Azriel greets his High Lord, his voice low and tempered. The High Lord’s graceful fingers clasp around his shoulder before bringing him into a short embrace. Rhysand smells of mandarin and night-blooming jasmine, and something in it reminds Azriel of a home he had left centuries ago.

The whisper of her scent catches on the breeze; jasmine and belladonna and saturated in petrichor.

Rhysand advances towards the hearth and his fingers ghost over the frame of the portrait hung above the hearth. Azriel watches as his brother’s gaze hardens as he casts him a sidelong glance from his spot in front of the dying fire. When Azriel’s eyes meet his there is no light in those violet eyes, only a dark grief that pools in their glassy depths.

“Brother,” Rhysand says, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tucks one hand into the pocket of his fine brocade tunic as he continues to admire the painting. Azriel steels himself against his own feelings of grief when his own eyes find the portrait hung over the hearth of Devlon’s study. It occurs to Azriel that the portrait had been a new addition to the cabin’s decor when he found it in storage shortly after being stationed in Illyria. Azriel waits with bated breath until a mournful sort of smile graces Rhysand’s face and Azriel swears he sees her in that smile.

A thing of lovely beauty.

“If I might speak to my brother alone,” Rhysand says, turning again towards the hearth. Devlon looks between Azriel and his brother, cursing and murmuring under his breath, “Leave. Us.” Rhysand commands through gritted teeth. Devlon leaves the room, Illyrian steel in hand, out into the storm.

A moment of silence passes between the brothers, with only the sound of the rain and hail to smother the crackle of the hearth.

“She was so very lovely, wasn’t she?” Rhysand’s voice is thin, almost wistful as he turns his violet gaze onto the portrait once more. Even in the pallid light she looks as though she is the incarnation of some ancient deity. Wreathed in foxglove blooms and orchids, adorned in crystals that refract in the faelights.

“I dreamt of her last night.” Azriel admits sorrowfully, his eyes trailing over her visage immortalized in oil on canvas.

The smell of incense smoke comes back to him all at once; a temple beneath the mountain and the glimmer of onyx, an altar made of dark marble and offerings made in blood.

“You did?” Rhysand’s face falters. The High Lord of Night’s face straightens to an empty stare, his violet eyes burning into the flames of the dying hearth as a deep crease forms between knitted brows and his lips twitch downwards into a frown.

He hadn't uttered her name in over half a lifetime, but last night he dreamt of her; born anew under the light of the blue star that reigns over the mountain.

“I saw her in the stars -- or at least, I thought I did --” Azriel admits, his voice thin and pensive.

Like the ramblings of a boy struck with prophecy.

“Cassian said the same thing.” Azriel swallows his shame and his grief as he meets the violet eyes of his brother once more. Rhysand looks troubled at the confession and confirmation. The High Lord sinks into Devlon’s seat, bringing slender fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“And you?” Azriel asks and Rhys looks up through dark lashes and for a moment Azriel sees Rhysand as he was all those years ago; a lost youth, cursed to love and grieve eternally. And what is grief, if not love, enduring?

“Nothing.” Rhysand looks utterly devastated and his voice wavers. The crystalline violet of his eyes turns black with emotion, silver tears glitter like stars in the depths of his eyes.

“Your dreams-- Azriel -- you must show me.” Rhysand’s voice arches on frantic as he clutches at Azriel from his position by the hearth.

Forgive me, My Lord,” It is the gentle voice of Amara, Devlon’s wife that breaks Azriel’s tenuous link with the Otherworld as she enters the room on an icy wind, “but you should take these strange imaginings to the Pythia.”

Amara is a kind woman; tall and strong and proud. Every inch Devlon’s equal and truly a force to be reckoned with.

“You can’t be serious,” Rhysand scoffs a laugh as Amara pours him a goblet of strong wine from Devlon’s personal bar. “I never took you for a devout woman, Amara.” Rhysand smiles fondly before taking a generous swig of the alcohol.

“And my dreams --” Azriel interrupts, curiously.

“May be just that -- dreams -- or they may be so much more than dreams, Shadowsinger.”

At that moment Azriel’s eyes burn gold in the light and he swears to himself that he will find her again. In this life and every life after. He repeats those words like prayer, like poetry. Until the vow is inked into his skin as a testament of his enduring love, his eternal grief.

The Temple of The Last Pythia lies in a forsaken grove, deep in the wilds of Illyria; saturated in the emerald ferns and veiled Ramiel’s ghostly shadows. The ruins are little more than the desecrated remains of a dead religion now. The whispers of Old God’s long forgotten echo through the grove and Azriel swears it is her voice he hears howling on the westward wind.

The voice of rage and ruin.

In the day of old The Temple of the Pythia had been a place of worship for the Illyrian’s. The Pythia was a woman anointed by the Gods to speak words of prophecy into existence and Illyrian’s from all of the camps made pilgrimage to the nation's capitol, in search of some divine wisdom.

Azriel looks now at the remnants of his ancestors homeland and his heart aches as he steps over the threshold of the ruins.

The antechamber of the temple would have once been a great colosseum; hung with garlands of cypress and belladonna, and lit up with the seraphic blue light of the braziers left by Illyrians long dead. The frescoes on the walls depicting the great scenes of myth and the high, domed ceiling had borne stained glass motifs of the Illyrian people and the histories that coloured their songs.

Now, the chasm of the temple is akin to a scene from some forgotten hollow in the Deathlands.

The fetor of decay and petrichor lingers in the stagnant air, only alleviated by the smell of incense smoke that smothers the scene in the noxious musk of belladonna and vervain, so palpable that Azriel can taste it. And, in the pale sapphire light of the moon, Azriel catches shards of stained glass that casts a myriad of technicolor light that dapples the ancient temple’s walls and sacred stone floors which are partially obscured by a trail of dying cypress leaves and laurel.

Azriel approaches the dias with a strange sort of reverence as he regards the altar atop it; crafted of find, dark marble and littered with offerings made to the Old Gods. Amphora’s of mead and wine, and coins minted with the faces of Illyria’s first princes. He can’t remember their names now. But theirs is a story Azriel knows well. A mournful testament of sovereignty and subjugation.

At the foot of the altar Azriel observes the carcass of a stag; splayed open, and ravaged/ The beast’s ribs have been prized apart to show the hollow chest cavity. An aching empty chasm, as hollow as the antechamber of the temple’s ruins. All that’s left of the beast is an assortment of crow picked bones. Left to rot and ruin in this forsaken grove.

Movement beyond the altar has Azriel drawing his lethal blade and advancing until he is halted in his tracks by the devastating force of the temple’s archaic protection wards.

This had been a place of peace, Azriel thinks. They may not be his God’s anymore but he knows better than to reckon with the divine.

From the darkness a woman emerges.

The Pythia stands before the altar shrouded in swathes of direwolf fur that form a ruff around her collarbones like that of a raven’s dark plumage. Her head is veiled in translucent spider silk that refracts technicolor in the pale light of the new moon and the lengths of her hair are loosely braided down her back and foxglove blooms are interwoven into their milky white tresses.

“Azriel son of Raphael” The Pythia speaks, her voice a terrible howl that echoes round the chasm of the temple. Her gnarled finger beckons him closer still, the thick yellowed nails that have been filed to a point drag against the marble stone of the altar as she retreats to her throne, adorned with splintered animal bones and dying foxglove blooms.

“Tell me, boy -- have you come to answer the call of a girl long dead?” It is then that Azriel casts his gaze up to the terrible alabaster eyes of the Priestess. Azriel swallows thickly and sheaths his blade and he sinks to his knees at the foot of the altar.

“I - I dreamt of her last night.” His voice sounds unlike his own, a tender and aching sort of plea.

The woman muses on his words; her weathered face twists into grim contemplation as she casts her bones onto the altar, divining meaning in their shapes. Azriel cannot be certain that those bones foretell anything at all. But the Pythia gives him a satisfied hum and reaches out an aged palm to him.

Azriel remains cynical as his hand clasps around the Pythia’s.

The Priestess intones her mass and Azriel feels the shift in the air as her power passes through him; something dark and archaic. As she calls on the Gods of Old and falls into a dreamlike trance. The plumes of incense smoke seem to shroud her then and through the blanket of the dark all Azriel can see are her eyes; milky and alabaster through the din.

Azriel flinches as her grip tightens, her yellow claws drawing blood from the wretched skin of Azriel’s scarred palms. The ferrous smell of iron permeates the air and Azriel is certain that he feels the pull of that dark power in his own chest when she begins to speak; her voice hoarse and grotesque as she calls out to him:

“The thread of fate is severed and another is forged; from my power I bestow power upon you, and from my life-- life.”

#acotar x reader #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

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ariariari-freehounreal · 2 days

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First I cried for him, and then I cried for me. Haunted by the ghost of the girl I used to be.

#portal #portal 2 #chell #wheatley #chelley #chell x wheatley #wheatley x chell #sorry is this too much #toxic bisexuality #she doesn’t kill him #what unmedicated ptsd does a mfer #tbf from her pov he deserved it #though her feelings are very complicated #in the heat of rage #wheatley a freak lowkey #they’ll be fine #eventually

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seeminglydark · 2 days

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Hey Hey Listeners, it's me, midnight gas station employee here once again with my dark trees, endless road, and neon lights. I might be a teeny tiny bit on edge this episode, but I guess you'll have to listen to understand. So grab a snack, turn down the lights, and maybe ...preemptively take that bathroom break. Lets get into it.

Welcome to Mil-Liminal. Episode 5: The Bathrooms

Listen Now on Spotify, Youtube, Apple Podcasts, and more! Search for it where ever you listen. Transcripts are available here for those who listen where they might not be available.

Mil-Liminal is a cozy horror podcast featuring the charming and slightly unhinged Caro Greene, an employee working the counter during the night shift at a tiny gas station in the middle of the woods. Join their journey of witnessing the unexplainable! Liminal spaces, ghosts and ghouls galore, there won’t be any jump-scares or hopelessness, just unsettling vibes with moments of comedy to lighten the mood. The podcast is in canonical order, meaning the first episode is Caro’s first ‘episode’ as well, learning as they go to create their podcast.

Interacting, sharing, liking and subscribing on my social media and the podcast itself really helps me get seen! I hope you enjoy the new episode.

youtube

#original characters #Mil-Liminal podcast #new episode #spooky things #liminal spaces #dream core #yearning #haunted gas station #ghost stories #cozy horror #Youtube

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unexplained-occurrences · 3 days

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#paranormal #ghosts #haunted house

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theglamorousferal · 16 hours

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Hardcover/Anger Management ship Sacrificial Bride au Part 2

Prompt Part 1

(Things get a bit angsty here for a bit, but don't worry, it gets back to some of the cracky-goodness!)

After allowing himself to relax for a bit and actually letting his muscles loosen for once, Jason rose from the bath and rinsed himself off under a piping hot and strong shower. He finished the rinse off with a flash of cold water to focus back up and made his way to the vanity where there was basic hotel amenities. He attempted to style his hair and after at least drying it, pulled on the fluffiest robe he has felt since he first moved into the manor all those years ago.

Fuck. The family. The Outlaws...

Jason put his face in both his hands and took a deep breath, then allowed his shoulders to slump as he dragged his hands from his face to his sides. He marched in a lazy manor over to the end of the large bed where he flopped face down. Surprisingly, it wasn't as fluffy as he was expecting and he silently thanked whatever force there was that he wouldn't have to resort to sleeping on the floor or a chair for the familiarity. Though, he turned his head to face the windows, that little reading nook looks like I could easily fall asleep there.

No, stop it. Do I remember the Dimensional Code for home?

Jason contemplated. On one hand, it could be useful, on the other, they could have an entirely different category system here. He spent the next however long trying to remember the dimensional code for his Earth and tracing the swirls of purples and greens out the large windows. A knock startled him.

"Jason? Are you decent?" He stood quickly and pulled the robe tighter together, not quite ready to show his autopsy scars to his soul-owner? A literal goddess? He wasn't quite sure what she was yet.

"Uh, yes, come in, I'm covered." He tried to stand casually next to the bed when he had just been sitting, his hands now in his pockets.

"Hi, so one of my aides figured one thing out about the ritual that is somewhat concerning and also something I probably also should have brought up. Mind if we sit at the window?" She strode in and settled herself with a pillow against the window and waited for him to do the same. Once he was settled, she hesitated for a moment before sighing and looking out the window to the haunting site outside.

"The Infinite Realms has another name, one coined from my Earth." She licked her lips before she spoke again. "It's also known as the Ghost Zone. As the dimension between dimensions, it is also where beings known as ghosts, the Restless Dead, Neverborn, Gods, and all sorts of other beings that thrive off a substance known as ectoplasm reside. As such, I am current Queen Regent of Ghosts." She let him think for a moment before turning to him. "That means I can tell when someone is death-touched." Jason froze. "I didn't mention it before because I know it's super personal, but then my aide figured out that the ritual only worked because of the fact you are and especially since you had spent time here-" She cut herself off as his eyes just bugged out larger with every word that spilled from her lips. "Sorry, I just, I'm death-touched too. I haven't died yet, but I have been around death magic, or radiation, or whatever it is, since before conception. I don't know exactly what you went through, but I know it was deeply traumatic. I can have my healers take a look at your soul and see if it's alright because it kinda radiates a bit how traumatic it was." She bit her lip with one hand raised near her chin.

Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw tight and blowing the air harshly out his nose. He fell back against the window, allowing his head to knock against the glass. It was warm, as though the sunlight was gently shining upon it. "Yeah." He croaked. "Yeah, I died." He said softer. "I was dead for roughly six months." He dipped his head forward to block his face with his bangs. "Crawled outta my own grave." He laughed bitterly. "Spent a while wandering, a while more in a coma." He swallowed tickly. "Got picked up by my dad's vindictive ex and trained for a while to be an assassin." He looked up at her, making eye contact. "She dunked me in this pit of magic shit, we call it a Lazarus pit in my dimension. It cures those near death and kills the healthy. Fixed me up the rest of the way, or at least the scars and issues I had pre-death. I got to keep these." He allowed the top of the robe to fall away, showing the tops of the large y-shaped scar that ran the length of his torso. She gasped, both hands coming to cover her mouth, tears began to form in her eyes. She reached out as if to touch them and stopped herself, her face turning determined.

"I, Jazmine Nightingale, High Queen Regent of the Infinite Realms, the Mediator, the Caretaker, and all those other titles." She waved her wrist. "Declare that I will help you however you deem necessary. Whether that be helping your soul, returning you to your dimension, breaking this binding, or whatever. You are currently bound to you, and as such that makes you my responsibilities." She paused in her speech for a moment, thinking. "I mean, you're already technically one of my subjects because I think you qualify as one of the Restless Dead, but we'll figure out your classification when we take you to a healer. For now, it has been a long day. I will have one of my aides come to get your measurements for some clothes, I'm sure we have some around here somewhere that should fit you at least for dinner. The aides can get any style you like and it can be made quickly by the seamstresses we have on staff." At his hesitation she added with a smile, "They work in supernatural means, they will not overwork themselves by making an entire wardrobe in a few hours."

She patted the cushion in front of her and stood. "I will meet you at dinner, it's not formal at all, don't worry about dressing fancy, I'm just still in this getup from 'official queen stuff'" she said with air quotes looking tired. "I'll see you in a bit Jason!"

"Yes, um, your majesty." He stood to bow, the robe making it a bit difficult."

"Just Jazz please, for the love of the Ancients." She said with a pained look on her face.

"Right, sorry," he stammered, straightening, "See you later, Jazz." She smiled softly before leaving him to himself. He smacked his hand to his face groaning at himself before flopping face-first into the bed again. "She's the ruler of the dead and she's so determined and nice, what the actual hell? She's so earnest, it's so cute!" he sat up leaning his elbow on his knee. "Okay, operation Romance Plot is go. She isn't put off by the fact you died, this is good, I can work with this. Okay, so castle, let's go with that aesthetic. I'm thinking let's go with a poet shirt and some black slacks for dinner tonight." He claps his hands in front of him, decision made.

As if summoned by his words, there was another knock at the door. A man with bright sky blue skin and a deep plum butler's uniform opened the door, a measuring tape casually thrown over his shoulders.

"Yes, hello good sir. What aesthetic are we thinking for this evening?" he said in a posh accent.

Jason clasped his hands together. "What should I call you? Would you possibly have a poet's shirt and a pair of black formal slacks for this evening?"

"You may call me Jeeves. Yes that Jeeves. I am the personification of the trope of the helpful butler, and as such my power set includes anything and everything that could help me complete the duties of head butler of the High Family's home. We absolutely do have that attire on hand, it would be but a moment for someone to fetch it for us. Now did you have any ideas about future attire?" Jeeves snapped his fingers and a skeleton manifested in a swirl of dust to obey his silent command to gather the requested clothing.

Jason paused for a moment, considering. "How does the Queen usually dress casually around the castle? I know she said she was from an Earth. I don't know where in the timeline her Earth is from and she mentioned that what she was wearing earlier was mostly for special occasions, so I don't want to look like an idiot." He explained.

"Very good sir, she typically dresses in either a less formal toga if she's to be seen anywhere near the public areas of the castle, her armor whilst sparring with her knights, the High Princes and Princess, and if she is only going between her room and study then her far less formal Earth clothing which is a long sleeved blouse and lightwash jeans, typical of the late 1990's and early 2000's."

Jason thought for a moment. He didn't know how long he would be stuck here, but decided that clothes enough to last a fortnight should work. For all he knew, time flowed differently between here and his home dimension. Decision made, he told the butler what he wanted. Measurements were taken, the skeleton arrived with the requested clothes and Jason was left to change into his clothes for the evening. He still is wearing his combat boots because he forgot to ask for a pair of shoes.

Once changed, he realized that he still probably had a bit before dinner and he walked over to one of the bookshelves browsing the titles. There were several classics that he recognized, his favorite, Pride and Prejudice, was there. There were a few as well with Jane Austen's name, but not titles he recognized. He decided to come back to those later and pulled what looked like a collection of fairy tales from the shelf then settled himself lounging in the window nook. to read for the next few hours.

#dpxdc #fanfic #dp x dc #dcxdp #dc x dp #anger management ship #hardcover ship #jazz x jason #sacrificial bride au #get it jason #live out your romance novel dreams #I really want to do more #but it's almost midnight here #and I have work in the am

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