enya (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
enya) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2026-08-26 07:22 am
enya) wrote in bakerstreet2026-08-26 07:22 am
It's a hordor story baby just say yes
THE HORROR
OF OUR
LOVE
OF OUR
LOVE
NOW SHOWING
Tonight, you wake up to a nightmare come true. There is a monster under your bed or a killer behind the door. Hell's open. The demons are here. You're the star of the horror show.
But you aren't alone. Horror has rules, you see. You'd be lucky to slash your way to the end of this story without meeting your foe.
They're the thing in the dark. The shadow waiting with a knife in hand — you're in danger from them, and the stab goes deeper. You're in love with them. Scarier? They feel the same.
Somewhere in the courtship there will be blood. Yours. Theirs. A mix, Valentine's Day red.
LOVE HAS SURVIVED WORSE THAN A WELL-AIMED MACHETE.
HOW TO PLAY
- Comment with your character and prefs. Cast them in a role, if you DAAAAARE.
- Thread.
- Dark themes are welcome.
TONIGHT'S FEATURE PRESENTATION
DYNAMICS
01
SLASHER / FINAL GIRL
02
MONSTER HUNTER / MONSTER
03
KILLER / WITNESS
04
CAPTOR / CAPTIVE
05
MONSTER / MORTAL
06
PREDATOR / PREY
07
MONSTER / FAVORITE
08
STALKER / OBSESSION
09
CURSED / KEEPER
10
CREATOR / CREATION
11
SUMMONER / SUMMONED
12
HAUNTING / HAUNTED
13
WORSHIPPER / GOD
14
SACRIFICE / MONSTER
15
CULTIST / OUTSIDER
16
SURGEON / SUBJECT
17
BAD PERSON / WORSE PERSON
18
SURVIVOR / THING THAT SPARED THEM
19
WILDCARD
NO ONE GETS OUT WITHOUT A SCAR
RATED R FOR ROMANCE
Rumi | KPop Demon Hunters | OTA
Angel Dust | Hazbin Hotel | OTA (human and original available)
Seo Moonjo | Hell is Other People/Strangers from Hell | m/m
Todd the Wraith - Stargate Atlantis - OTA20+
Maxim Kischine | Castlevania: HoD | OTA
kiss-shot acerola-orion heart-under-blade | monogatari
gator tillman / fx's fargo.
Eligre, the Lady Crow || fantasy OC || OTA 30+
Viola Avelide | OC | OTA
Ereshkigal || Fate/Grand Order || OTA
"Marie" | OC | OTA (F/F pref)
dewdrop ( ghost )
Ceder Bishop | OC | OTA
morgan | fgo
rocket executive archer | pokémon | ota
Yoshihide | Limbus Company
Perhaps not a monster in physicality, but Yoshihide has the ability of erasing things from existence, as well as having abilities related to the flow of time to the point she's impervious from it's passage, essentially becoming an incredibly unstable, vengeful attack dog with dissociative amnesia.
Join the hunt, or become hunted? )
cw child abuse, temporal horror
But it also means when mom wears an Identity, Araya gets gently suppressed— no other version of her mother has managed to go back, yet. It's just her, in the scabbard. She hasn't tried peering into, or reaching out into the other threads that connect her and Ryoshu— it's draining simply trying to stay present.
But she can't wait. Not for this. Not from the familiar screaming as broke the the shattered remains of her E.G.O.'s space, screaming as familiar, but even more broken than the one that used to emanate from her soul.
Araya can't— she can't let this happen. It'd taken days to find the thread, a world where she didn't exist, a world where the thread between mother and child was severed— not neatly, not cleanly but like pushing a blunted blade through muscle and bone. Jagged. Frayed. She can barely see this version of her mother, of herself, but clearly, undoubtedly, her mother most of all, so entangled in the thousands of threads of time as she is.
The thread she can find is thin, so brittle and fragile Araya is almost scared to tug at it. But she does. She forces more of her energy into watching then being in this world and—
Maybe it's that clock friend's power, from the Golden Bough.
But she breaks through the surface tension of the ocean of time and space, gasping for breath as her translucent feet touch the ground.
Her eyes dart wildly around, hands on her blue suited knees. She doesn't have her odachi, with her. She doesn't need to.
Because in front of her is a whirling thing that's crying and crying and doesn't even know she's doing it. Can she even speak?
Its so unlike Ryoshu. But...not really. Only Araya could hear the way her mother would wail in the tortured confines of her mind, as she fell into her grief and severed and slashed and—
Araya steps into the flurry of blades without a single care.
This is not her mother but it is. She doesn't exist in this world but now she does. She has already been cut by the Arayashiki once— it will not do it again. Even as she can feel a metaphorical tear at her body, it's easy, to step into the blades.
When she speaks, it's all of her at once. ]
Mom-mommy-mother-Ryōshū
CW for just mental health Issues. "Which one" /all of them/
Thousandful more shall rain upon innocent infrastructure, a hollow nothing comprising her innards, no better than emptying one of their carnal desires through careful excision. She remains human: her brain is hers, yet her thoughts remain formless, abstract bottles with frankly laughable contents, so miser it can't even be deemed half full.
As long as Yoshihide breathes, her anger remains unwavering, and with each slice, her head feels lighter: as though she could think for once, a brain filled with cotton and pleasant nothings, making sure to scorch earth on this sham of a place someone once dared to deem a "home".
Yoshihide doesn't make a single sound, not unlike a silent predator set out on the hunt, yet te overwhelming white is noisy, so much so it creates thunder amok the room, rattling the very foundations of this labyrinth with no true exit.
Here, Yoshihide's wings are severed at her own hand, a permanence that crushes her soul into pieces, living the forever many dream of with all the grace of a dying star.
Like an supernova, it is as beautiful as it is deadly, lethal strikes headed Araya's way as she's blindsided by any resemblance of affection, shunning it like a rabid cat takes to running water.
The butterfly has since spouted silk, wrapping oneself in ten thousandful coverings, all for the sole purpose of facing her existence head on: because without a mask, how could anyone bear such weighty vengeance?
The threads that threaten to weave into string startle her into the instincts of prey, disgust and longing merging into one as her hand swings that blinding blade, muscle memory as she attempts to sever that twining, cut away the filament until only meagre fibres remain.
For better or worse, Araya is not met with open arms, the woman who could have been her mother charging towards her like a crazed beast. ]
no subject
Ryoshu, not recognising her. Ryoshu's blade, swinging down at her. Only partly hysterically, recalling another world where her mother had to raise her blade at her child, Araya wonders if thats what fate always is, for Ryoshu. If she always will raise her sword-knife-odachi and drive it through the hearts of those she loves, because she loves them.
Araya dodges, seamlessly shifting into a more adult form— the one that matches the woman before her.
This world is strange. In every world so far, Araya and Ryoshu have known each other. She has always been able to see the thread, woven by their own strands connecting them. But here...here it isn't there. She isn't there. Because her mother is Araya and yet Araya is not her and she is still her mother even when she's not. Araya can recognise her picture anywhere.
When you can peer into every strand of time, it becomes easier to accept what and when things are and aren't. The strands meant to connect them instead scream and scream and scream, prey caught inside a predator, twisting and becoming 2,4,6,8 strands that cocoon around Araya-her-Ryoshu.
Araya hasn't really been in the business of saving herself. Not really. But she looks at this version of her mother, of her and wonders if this is what they looked like.
Sad. Angry. So lost that only their thread could've brought them back.
Does this version of Ryoshu want to shorten it all? Does this version of Araya want to free her mother? Is there a single thing she can recall for certain?
The hatred, perhaps. The misery. Maybe the nursefathers could only conceive of a landfill born out of misery because they had nothing but misery in their lives.
She dodges. Her translucent hands don't have a sword, so instead, she does what she can. Her fingers move through the silken cocoon like Ryoshu's hand would, like Ren's hand would, carding through her hair as a child, but instead of their careful handling—
She grabs a fistful of the threads. Breaks the cocoon with her own hands.
It might not do anything. But these fleeting, lost moments are meant to save. Not entangle. ]
no subject
She holds onto it, afraid, like a child who fears a doll ripped out of their hands by force. The blinding white—whiter than white, so bright it becomes all colour, a colour of it's own, so vibrant it hurts—creating a space hollow of any and all, negative space so effective it becomes fuller than ready abundance.
It was/is/will always hers to manufacture, a lack born of eternal unfulfilment. Does her miser eyes only enhance that quality of her past, or does it ache to even start to behold?
Frozen in place, her hair whips with the howling wind, free to roam the corridors with the burnt down panels encasing these geometric walls. Endless mazes that snake onto itself with wild abandon.
She and this place are one and the same. An endless, knotted, matted string of contradictions and shallow nothings, encasing nothing. ]
Who are...
[ She can barely make the words out, no less impotent than a lost child. ]
blanket warning for temporal horror
White/blue/purple clothes her, one hand clinging with white knuckles onto the thread she followed all the way here, and the other carding through the strands of time that seem to want to cocoon around mother/Araya/Ryoshu/daughter as she holds them in her trembling fist. Places a check on the dam of fear/hatred/rage, even as past/present/future crash around them, unseverable, but infinite.
She's not the only arbiter of time here— Araya was built with her mother's blood. She may not have the same aptitude to sever time and space as a single whole...but she experiences it's weight in the marrow of her skin.
A tangle to be unraveled requires its beginning and its end identified. It's beyond her capacity to unravel every knot in the pit her mother/herself has made of her self/body, so instead, she cuts right through it. The Tiansha Star rises to cut through the very heavens, but the Dihui Star exists to etch it's mark onto space and even through time, if you can use it well enough.
And Araya can use it very well.
The strands shift for her and she can see the trembling form of the woman before her. Dark hair billowing in the wind, red eyes glistening as she clutches her odachi like a scared...child.
Her non-existent breath catches in her chest.
She looks so...helplessly frail, like this.
White-blue shifts as she kneels on the ground. Araya grins/smiles/smirks, and says in an echoing voice: ]
Hey, mom.
Blanket CW for. Everything thus far not going to lie.
Her, a mother? Fostering a snivelling brat like herself? Having a child of her own feels laughable, and it takes all of her force to not laugh hysterically, until she crumples in a boneless mass on the floor. Anger crashes into her, and she flickers: White hood haloing her head of long, flowing hair, blue strands swimming through the dark purple, black waves that flutter in the scattered wind and get caught in the threads and time itself.
Instead, swinging the Arayashiki, she cuts—
But not through Araya. Rather, over her head, through the threads that threaten to entangle her as well, protective instinct so foreign that she barely commentates or reacts, only a sudden widening of her eyes giving the play away.
The cocoon crackles underneath Araya's fingers. The quilt slowly frays away, no longer smothering the child underneath the covers.
Yoshihide looks at Araya, lost/scared/angry/resentful/hopeful— ]
Who are you? [ She repeats, voice almost strangled out from her throat. ]
Edward Mordrake | AHS: Freak Show
( information here, including a wishlist & kinklist at the bottom, for some potential ideas) Happy to brainstorm via dms if you like, or roll with whatever you're feeling! ]
all the ones you said + bad person/worse person lmao
That's normal. He can't quite remember when he stopped getting tired the way he used to as a human, but he knows it's been - years. Surely it has? Sleep is a rarity, and he has plenty to do.
Tonight's body has been drugged since it was brought down. It doesn't struggle as Gideon checks its (rolling, uneven) pupils, as he checks the progression of the disease he infected it with as soon as he'd had it strapped to a gurney.
Immune. No signs of infection, only heavy sedation. Wonderful - a rare treat. Gideon prepares the next step in relative silence. He hums occasionally; makes small observations to himself out loud even though he's alone in his lab, and has been for the past eleven hours or so.
He has no idea what's appeared behind him until he turns, and sees the hellish green light emanating from behind one of the vats storing blood samples. Gallons of it, the red illuminated by the green looking murky.
Smoke billows slowly and unnaturally from the light.
Gideon is very still, syringe in one hand. His first thought is not for his own safety, but the lab's. A gas leak? An intruder? ]
...Is someone there? [ Asked softly, as if genuinely curious. ]
I am SEATED, they get every single toxic dynamic imaginable, as a treat...
That is the rule. That is what drives the thing that appears — no matter what may have initially caused his appearance to happen. A nearby summoning, even by mistake; a brief fissure in the wall that separates this world from other ones; a thinning of the veil during the Witching Hour. Sometimes he slips through, and sometimes he is commanded to. It matters not.
He is here, and he is hungry, and something has caught his attention. Something he cannot ignore, drawn to it as though a moth to flame, or a shark to blood.
Things unspool slowly and strangely, as they always do. The reaper unfurls like a long exhaled breath, a dark figure that moves soundlessly from the acerbic green smoke that announces him. The energy to the air changes — grows heavy, even oppressive. This place is already a cold one, but the temperature drops further, unpleasant; he is nothing meant to exist on this plane for long.
The stranger hears the question and slowly steps forth, revealing himself. He's a peculiar sight, almost absurd for it: a man dressed in the garb of a place and time long gone, cloaked in black, top hat upon his head and handsome cane in his gloved grasp. Despite his foreboding, dramatic arrival, his features are young, and might have been sweet once.
But just now — his mouth is parting and his eyes are widening, sharp crystal blue fixed on Gideon as though the figure has never seen anything quite like him before. (He hasn't.) He draws to a slow halt some feet away, eyes roaming down and then up, very slowly and intentionally taking in the man from bottom to top, up and up. He seems... mesmerised, and for a long few moments says nothing, perhaps is incapable. Then, finally— ]
Good evening.... [ It's quiet but polite, almost ridiculously out of place in contrast to everything about this situation. ] My sincerest apologies for disturbing your night, my dear sir. I hope I've not caused you too much distress....
[ He stares. He never blinks. (Edward Mordrake can smell death in this place, and worse things than that. His fingers curl and slowly tighten one by one against the cane in his grasp — he's almost overwhelmed by the appeal of what he has been drawn to.) ]
no subject
His brain is still having trouble reconciling 'stranger in his lab' with 'walking out of a cloud of hellish smoke'. He watches, going still. He's armed - perhaps hilariously so, given he's a virologist in a basement laboratory, multiple levels underground - but one adapts.
He doesn't reach for his gun.
No, he just watches...watches this stranger watch him. A beautiful and costumed stranger, like a character stepping out of a film. Why is he dressed like that...
The figure speaks, and Gideon is transfixed. He's- polite, soft. Gentle, despite somehow appearing from nothing.
Following a sudden urge, Gideon walks forwards, towards him, as if he might have decided to fight.
But he stops short. He only wanted to see if the smoke is real. It curls around his ankles, spilling that vivid green shine everywhere it touches. He stares down at it, confused. And slowly looks back up to the strange man now standing in his lab. ]
A very polite burglar... [ Gideon's head tilts on his thick neck, skin creaking like leather. ]
...But you're not a burglar, are you. [ Softly, confused and not hiding it. Still not afraid. ]
alan wake | alan wake (& various other remedy games) | ota!
Perfectly fine writing up a starter! ]
Zoey Westen | Original Character | f/m
Grace ̶L̶e̶ ̶D̶o̶m̶a̶s̶ MacCaullay | Ready or Not