go go gothic


YohaDia phone backgrounds (。・//ε//・。)

requested by anon

highway rest stop -  haunted places [1/5]

after hours on the highway all the turn offs start to look the same, the neon lights blurring into one long migraine. eventually you have to give in to sleep but where? one mile later you reach it, another one of many odd roadside hotels. the clerk gazes a little too intently at you as you fill in the guest book, her eyes hold some hunger that the old cigarette in her mouth is clearly not satisfying… after the cool wind and bright lights of the road the hallway is unsettlingly dark and humid, the static buzz of tv sets is loud in your ears and just as you are about to drift to sleep between the uncomfortable sheets the feeling that someone is watching you grows…

gothic-princess-witch  asked:

I have a prompt request. You once mentioned that after Hawke and Fenris get back together, Donnic and Sebastian confront Hawke and ask him about his intentions toward their friend. Would you be willing to write more about their conversation?

The game was just winding down as he walked in the door.

“So that’s seven for Donnic, two for the abomination,” Fenris said. There was a warm, relaxed amusement in Fenris’s voice as he counted up the night’s wins, and Hawke paused at the sitting room’s threshold to watch him. The elf’s smile was not such a rare thing these days, but it remained a sight to behold.

“I’ll pay you back,” Anders said, and he sounded a little defensive. Donnic shrugged.

“We can call it a wash,” he said. “After what you did for my shoulder sprain last week – “

“That’s not the way it works and you know it.”

“I’ll cover it,” Varric offered. He tossed the coin on the table as he rose. “Come on, Blondie. Walk me back to the Hanged Man.”

“I can cover my own debts,” Anders grumbled, but he rose as well, and pushed in his chair, and froze when he saw Hawke in the doorway. He had had trouble meeting Hawke’s eyes over the last few weeks. Hawke caught an expression of surprise, displeasure, and unhappiness before the blond looked away.

“I’m a little early,” Hawke said. “Don’t rush off on my account.”

“If I lose any more money, Aveline will skin me alive,” Donnic said. “Best to quit now.”

Hawke stepped aside so that Anders could pass through the door, and frowned at the other mage’s retreating back until Varric thumped him in the belly.

“I know that look,” Varric said. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s…moody.”

“It’s been weeks since – “

“I’ll handle it,” the dwarf insisted. The mansion’s front door slammed as Anders let himself out, and Varric shook his head. “He’ll get over it,” he promised. “Drinks at the Hanged Man tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Hawke said, though he continued to frown. “I’ll be there.”

“See you, then. And stop frowning.”

“We’re just getting cleaned up,” Donnic said. “You know if we don’t help he’ll leave it here for weeks.”

Fenris, counting his wins, didn’t look up. “I fail to see how it’s your business how long I leave it,” he murmured. He was still smiling – a small, pleased expression. Hawke liked seeing it.

Donnic said, “Hawke, help me with the dishes,” and Hawke shrugged, and pushed away from the door, and followed him into the kitchen.

Over the years, Fenris had allowed Hawke to do repairs to the mansion when necessary. He’d allowed Donnic to come in and tidy up when the guard badgered about it enough. But there was a definite difference in his livingspace since Danarius’s death that marked a turning point in his thoughts – the moment when the mansion had stopped being a mere shelter and became his home. The kitchen was tidy when they walked in, if still sparsely decorated. Merill had provided the curtains and the potted plants in the window. The chipped dishes were put away in the cabinets, the floor was swept, and the counters were free of clutter.

Hawke took up a (clean) dish rag and took his place at the sink. “I’ll dry,” he offered, and Donnic set the water running. Sebastian came in with the rest of the dishes from the snacks the guys had helped themselves to during the game, and he busied himself with them, putting away leftovers when there was enough, scraping what wasn’t into the garbage bin. Donnic washed the dishes. Hawke dried them and put them neatly in the little drying rack Aveline had bought for the elf.

“Fenris seems happy these days,” Donnic said idly, as he used his thumbnail to scrub at something caked-on.

Hawke grunted. It took him several moments before he realized he was supposed to answer.

“Happiness looks good on him,” he answered at last.

“And you two,” Donnic said. He handed him a dish, made sure to catch Hawke’s eye, and met his frown with a smile. “You’ve gotten very…close.”

“We’ve always been close.”

“Right, of course,” Donnic said, and began to scrub the next dish, and ignored the way Hawke was staring at him.

“The thing is,” Sebastian said, “Fenris is at an important moment of growth in his life. He’s been through the gauntlet of pain, and it is time for a new chapter to begin in his life. One of happiness, fulfillment.”

Hawke turned his stare on him. He said, slowly, “I think you should say whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

“Well, I know you two were physical once before. That that was years ago, and sometimes the body gets cravings…”

“What Sebastian is trying to say,” Donnic interjected, as the dish rag slowly began to tear in Hawke’s clenched hands, “Is that we both just want to be sure you aren’t promising Fenris anything you aren’t really willing to give.”

Maker’s balls!” Hawke said. He threw the rag down. “I’ve been in love with the man for six bloody years – what more do you want from me?”

Donnic lifted his hands. Sebastian said, “It’s just that we want to be sure you aren’t – however noble your intentions – trying to press an advantage you shouldn’t. Are you planning to commit – oh, now you’re standing very close, aren’t you?”

Hawke said, “Get to the point.”

“It’s not a bad thing, really – wanting to know how you feel,” Sebastian said.

“Fenris is our friend. We want be sure we understand what your intentions are,” Donnic clarified. Hawke began to growl – low, menacing.

Neither of them backed down.

After they left, sometime later, Fenris cornered Hawke in the sitting room – leaning over the chair in which the mage sat, with his hands on either arm rest, effectively pinning Hawke where he was.

“So,” Fenris murmured, that smile playing at his lips, his eyes meeting Hawke’s without difficulty, gaze warm and confident. “You plan to love me for the rest of my life, do you? Spend every waking moment fixed solely on the acquisition of my happiness?”

Hawke frowned at him. He said, “You shouldn’t listen in on other people’s private conversations.” Fenris lifted a brow.

“Do you intend to lecture me?” the elf asked. “Or would you rather join me upstairs? I have my own intentions, tonight.”


“Life would be so much simpler if we liked the right people… But then, I guess there’d be no fairy tales.”

So this happened...

I just stumbled across a rather weird coincidence that I would like to share. 

So, at summer camp, there was a recurring theme of deer, demons, ect. The whole ‘being the reluctant figurehead of an evil camp cult’ had some pretty weird mythology spring up around it, often including Phil, the creepy cutout of the fawn with the face made of the abyss:

Whiiich inspired me to make some art during the first week: 

During the 7th week, the campers started trying to trap me in conjuration triangles, which was… interesting. A couple of weeks ago, animatorsammy drew me haunted by the Goetic demon Furfur, a stag with a fiery tail who never speaks the truth unless “compelled or brought up within a triangle”:

Which all seemed remarkably fitting and cool and fit well within my longstanding #scary deer gods tag. BUT, there was something about the name Furfur which seemed familiar, and I couldn’t place it until just now. 

I left my copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon at home. Within it is contained an Ars Goetia, a grimoire of demon-summoning. I opened it to look up Furfur:

On the top of the righthand page is Furfur’s sigil. As soon as I saw it, I suddenly remembered back to the very beginning of the summer when starfoozle and I did ‘Dark Arts and Crafts’ (EDIT: BEFORE I went to camp!) with the vague goal of creating some creepy-looking artifacts that we could set up in the spooky woods to discourage the evil neighbors from trespassing. We’d just watched True Detective that weekend and decided that the devil’s traps - pyramids of sticks - had the right Blair Witch aesthetic to unsettle the neighbors. El created a very small one in reference to the show. I got a little… carried away, and made a larger, more elaborate one. Inside the trap I hung a deer skull, with iron nails, deer teeth, bells, turkey bones, feathers, seed pods, ect. 

In my enthusiasm, I suggested we pick a sigil from the Ars Goetia and paint it on the deer skull. El. being a little more reserved than I, pointed out that painting an actual demonic sigil on something for artistic purposes was not a very good idea, even for scientifically-minded skeptics like ourselves. I agreed, and altered it a little by removing the odd little triangle part:

It was fucking Furfur’s sigil that we bastardized. 

Actual Southern Gothic

-You live thirty minutes away from anything interesting. The only things within walking distance are a gas station and a Bojangles.

-You love looking at pictures of snowy winter scenes. In the winter you wish for snow, but everything remains brown and dead. When you go outside it seems like the world is holding its breath.

-A neighbor puts up a large wooden cross in their yard. No one asks why. No one says anything. You wonder if you’re imagining it.

-You hear distant gunshots coming from the woods at night. You hear a distant scream coming from the woods at night. You hear music coming from the woods at night. You are tempted to follow it.

-The deer are growing bolder by the day. Driving home late at night you see an entire herd on the side of the road. Watching you pass by. Conspiratorial.

-A bat gets in the house. It flutters around desperately before crashing to the floor in defeat. You are afraid to touch it, so afraid, though it is smaller than your fist. There’s been talk of another outbreak of rabies in the area. You eventually scoop it onto a broom and place it on the back porch and wash your hands until your skin is raw.

-You wave and smile at your neighbors when you see them. They wave and smile in return. You never speak to them. You do not know their names. They have lived next door to you for ten years. You hate them. Their smiles look hasty, their eyes glassy. You continue to smile and wave.

-Summer is worse than winter by far. It’s not the heat. It’s not the oppressive humidity. It’s the way insects find their way into your home, no matter what you do. You spray for roaches every summer. Every summer they return. Moths fly in when the door opens, great huge lunar moths beat themselves against the window. Spiders make their homes in the high corners of your bedroom, centipedes skitter up your walls. You wake in a panic one morning; a roach has fallen from the ceiling onto your chest. You have nightmares of roaches crawling into your mouth, crawling under your skin, bursting from your eyes. You find the glue traps full of glossy brown insects almost daily.

Part 2