I am Valery, queen of Hell, NSFW writer most of the time so take that as your warning for my content. I explore dark subject, raw and sinister so take it or leave it.
I write to save myself from myself. If you want to embark on this journey with me, please go right ahead. You have plenty to chose from below (from what Tumblr let me find via searching because we all know there are more and the search function isn't the best)
HPHM
HPHL
HPMA
BALDUR'S GATE 3
Dammon : Drawing / How to fall in love with a blacksmith
Enjoy your stay, be yourself, be mindful and have fun.
"I sort fics by kudos and only kudos on stories with high kudos counts, why aren't there more stories with high kudos, I ran out of things to read." You're part of the problem.
"Authors artificially inflate comment counts by thanking people, I can't find anything with a real comment count to read." No they fucking are not, they're grateful for engagement.
"I can't read anything under 100k." That's the majority of fics you're ignoring, most novels aren't even that long.
"I don't have time to look for the incredibly rare diamond in the rough, so I won't read anything below a certain amount of kudos, comments, and hits." Those fics are popular because people gave them a chance and then snobs like you found them.
"I won't read anthing with a single typos." You made typos in that sentence, get off your high horse.
"One singular author didn't thank me for commenting, I'm never commenting on any fic again so I don't get burned." You're punishing people because someone didn't give you engagement they don't owe you that they might not have seen.
"This fic is three months old, it's so old, it doesn't matter if I comment or kudos, it's old." Fics do not have expiration dates, comment and kudos.
You're killing your fandoms with your snobbish behaviors.
Happy New Year, dear queen of dark hearts 🖤👑✨
I wish you a wonderful year, rich in precious moments, and full of success in your personal and creative projects.🖤🖤🖤✨💖
Happy new year lovely 🖤
I hope 2026 grants you what you wish for and keeps you inspired, happy and close to those you cherish ✨️
Blog & Blogger (picrew link). Tagged by @greypetrel , thank you dear!
Tagging: @shanaraharlyah @sweetjulieapples @the-arcane-archivist @tessa1972 @elisyn @knuttydraws @kittynomsdeplume and anyone who wants to play. No pressure, only fun.
Doing this one again for my lovely @kiwiplaetzchen since my Hellendil Pintrest board is getting so big.
Rules: post your OC and then 4 (or more) random pictures with no explanation to convey your characters vibe.
Hellendil Mellinae
Tagging @raenegade-accio @oxygenforthewicked @rypnami @lanabenikosdoormat @heyitszev @meowhariel @chewbokachoi and anyone else who wants to share their OCs!
Thank you @sweetlittlelamb for the tag! 🩶 Their post is here. I've wondered about your name, thank you for sharing too 😊
Alrendria is the name of my first DnD character. It's elven in origin. She is a half elf fighter mage. She is modeled after Xena Warrior Princess, if that gives you any idea how long ago this was 😂
When I started using her name for my social medias I added Blaze as a last name because of the fiery connotation and I thought it sounded cool. 😎🔥
I'm curious about your username origins please ❤️🔥💙
Thank you @alrendriablaze for the tag <3
The blog is old, since 2018 if memory serves me right. Back then Lucifer was airing and there was one episode called "What would Lucifer do?". I can't particularly say why it stuck with me, but it did and it became part of the blog name added Valery and asked myself what in blazes do I do? I write apparently. Sometimes? Yes, no? Works for me =))
Tagging anyone who wishes to share the lovely story behind the name
Warning 🔞⚠️: A horror/thriller story depicting elements of blood, manipulation, death, murder, implication of sex or sex themes, abuse, guns, blood, smoking and alcohol consumption.
Footsteps traversed the stuffy office area, people moving from left and right, taking phone calls or talking to others as documents are being exchanged, the sounds a continuous hum despite the early morning hour. Several coffee filters continue to sing their mechanical buzz as people wait with their empty mugs, small talk and pleasantries being exchanged between tired eyes and smiles, yawns hidden behind open hands.
“Looks like this year you’re up.” The captain of the station announced proudly as he discarded a heavy box on top of an already cluttered desk, dust particles lifting, happily dancing in the air between him and the detective who barely took the time to lift his eyes, despite the plaque with his name on it tumbling onto the floor.
Assessing the worn-out label reading “Carnage Circus” he scoffed as his superior bent to place the plaque back on the desk, dusting it off slightly on his pants.
“Is this this a joke captain?” he asked unimpressed as he focused back on the report he was working on, meticulously going over it again as he always did before presenting it to the captain who oddly enough was still standing in front of his desk.
“No joke, you know how this goes every time. A case is still a case and this time you’re the lucky detective.”
Waving him off with his left hand, he did not bother looking at his captain “Find someone else, I’m not interested in ancient cases.” However, the shadow of his superior still loomed over his desk, that piercing stare of his grinding on his nerves. He knew well enough he was not going to let it go.
Setting aside the pen, he opened a drawer, taking out a cigarette, finally lifting his eyes to the man in question.
“No debate detective, it’s your turn and you just closed a case.” He said reaching out to grab the file from his desk, but was met with a heavy sigh.
“I still need to go over it one more time and sign it.” He said taking a long drag.
Opening the file, the captain pointed at the dotted line “Then sign in.”
Shaking his head, he grabbed the pen and provided his signature right under the name Ethan Warren.
The captain smiled, pleased with himself “You need a break Ethan. Work the case, take it easy for a week until they leave our jurisdiction once more. It’s been a while since they have been in our city.” Taking the case file, he left the heavy box on the desk. It was an order, not a request.
Ethan sighed, taking a drag of his cigarette as he looked at the obnoxious label. It was not his area in the slightest. Cold cases like the one before him were usually for rookies, Carnage used in stations across the country to scare them. Every city had a story to share about the mysterious circus and its directors. Because the one who suddenly decided to land back in his territory was not the first and something told him, he would not be the last. Like a gut feeling that manifested suddenly as soon as the idea sprung to life.
Putting out the cigarette he glanced around at his colleagues. He was one of the best detectives there. Used to working hard, long hours on the terrain, his sharp mind piecing together clues others missed.
This…he frowned at the dusty box was not him at all. He heard the ridiculous stories from others, how many detectives quit after looking into the circus even before the change in name. Some even went mad apparently, having said to witness devils and other atrocities they could not explain and were never proven.
And now, the case was sitting on his desk and something did not sit right with him. Last time someone from his station was assigned the case, it was supposed to be a simple easy questioning of the crew. It was an older detective, one year prior to the retirement he was so looking forward to. Poor bloke hung himself a few days after the circus left, doddles of the mirror house and shadows painting his notebook instead of answers from the crew.
The same crew…
“What a load of crap.” With a freshly lit cigarette between chapped lips, he carefully lifted the lid to read past notes of issues that occurred on the circus grounds or what he liked to believe were conspiracy theories at best. Because what they had were just that, ideas, nothing concrete, no solid evidence to link disappearances or deaths to the crew.
The poor soul that managed to stumble into the panther’s cage was ruled out as an accident. They couldn’t even recognize him when the animal was done with him, chunks of his body missing, a gruesome scene for those who were called to take what was left of him.
Another visitor was intoxicated, so the report said, him stumbling into the main tent, a ladder falling on him. Death, instant, not even a hesitation in the report. An accident.
A few apparently were seen entering the haunted house, however never came out. Reports state the circus closed the attraction for a few days each time as police searched, all doors and hidden areas opened, yet nothing was found. But then again, the people reporting the disappearance were always intoxicated to some degree, not a very credible source.
And then there was an influential figure the police had their eyes of for some financial schemes performed and abuse towards escorts and hookers. He was the last suspected victim from three years ago. Apparently, the bastard really liked to be present at every circus show, flaunt the latest girl on his arm, each night a new one. Until a certain beauty caught his attention. Iris Blackwell, the last addition to the circus.
Ash fell from his cigarette against her name, burning through the paper, Ethan cursing under his breath as he quickly pressed his finger against the paper before continuing to read.
Autopsy report: Death by strangulation with puppet cords as he found himself inside the props tent. No prints, his body twisted in the sharp cords as he struggled to free himself.
After that nothing. No more mysterious occurrences or so-called accidents. No more issues as if the balance was oddly restored in the middle of the chaos.
Turning towards older cases, a pattern formed in his mind, one he wrote down on his notebook for later. If he was going to work this so called mess of a case, he would make the best of it.
He would ignore how people stated the circus was cursed. That because of so many deaths, the Carnage name was forged when in the past it used to be something almost generic, fun, catchy. Yet despite the dark rumors circling it, whenever they were in any town, tickets for the main show sold within the very first hours, everyone as if attracted by some sort of morbid curiosity that had them flocking towards the mystery behind the tents and attractions.
Good marketing strategy, or so Ethan wished to believe.
Looking at the list of directors, Alaric Blackwell has held up the longest out of all of them. However, he also had the most changes in crew and main show acts. Until Iris.
“Looks like mister Blackwell is finally ready for another visit.” Ethan said sitting up from his chair placing the reports in his desk, locking it and pocketing the key. Running a hand through his hair, he then lit up another cigarette before stretching. He took his notebook, circling Iris’s name before he left his desk to grab a cup of coffee.
At first posters take over dilapidated buildings, poles, walls, designated areas and none in particular, like a storm suddenly washing over everything. Crimson red, yellow, bold tellers, some straight, some crocked, it matters not, they are there, one on top of the other, sticking to walls and lamp posts. They are present on the streets, the wind carrying them until the posters meet a flat surface, a window, anything.
It does not matter which radio station you are listening to, the connection breaks for a moment, reception cloudy, leaving a crackle of a voice through the speakers no matter which way you decide to turn the dial. It’s there, raw, distorted, whispering at first, slowly, like the crawling of the fog that is creeping through the city “Come all, join us for a week of fun…” the last word as if not belonging in the vocabulary of that person, still warped no matter the frequency. However the voice is undeniable, Alaric Blackwell is back in town “Carnage Circus has returned.”
There is no sound of caravans on the cobalt streets that echo even the faintest whisper. The circus isn’t and then…it is. Like it should be, as if it was always part of the landscapes. As if when you look out the window and see the tents and attractions, it belongs. Even for a few days. It calls out to you from within the thick fog.
It’s everywhere, talk around the latest town, twisted music high in the air, an echo contributing to the white noise all around. And as days go by and posters start to peel you know the end of the show is near, another year or more to pass before the show will return, no guarantee of the same performance twice and it feels like losing something once it’s gone, a part unknown yet dear.
A group of people, wanderers, over and over again.
You never know when the circus comes to town until it’s there.
You never see it leave, part of the magic.
“Welcome to Carnage Circus everyone. It has been a while.”
Emotional Walls Your Character Has Built (And What Might Finally Break Them)
(How your character defends their soft core and what could shatter it) Because protection becomes prison real fast.
✶ Sarcasm as armor. (Break it with someone who laughs gently, not mockingly.)
✶ Hyper-independence. (Break it with someone who shows up even when they’re told not to.)
✶ Stoicism. (Break it with a safe space to fall apart.)
✶ Flirting to avoid intimacy. (Break it with real vulnerability they didn’t see coming.)
✶ Ghosting everyone. (Break it with someone who won’t take silence as an answer.)
✶ Lying for convenience. (Break it with someone who sees through them but stays anyway.)
✶ Avoiding touch. (Break it with accidental, gentle contact that feels like home.)
✶ Oversharing meaningless things to hide real depth. (Break it with someone who asks the second question.)
✶ Overworking. (Break it with forced stillness and the terrifying sound of their own thoughts.)
✶ Pretending not to care. (Break it with a loss they can’t fake their way through.)
✶ Avoiding mirrors. (Break it with a quiet compliment that hits too hard.)
✶ Turning every conversation into a joke. (Break it with someone who doesn’t laugh.)
✶ Being everyone’s helper. (Break it when someone asks what they need, and waits for an answer.)
✶ Constantly saying “I’m fine.” (Break it when they finally scream that they’re not.)
✶ Running. Always running. (Break it with someone who doesn’t chase, but doesn’t leave, either.)
✶ Intellectualizing every feeling. (Break it with raw, messy emotion they can’t logic away.)
✶ Trying to be the strong one. (Break it when someone sees the weight they’re carrying, and offers to help.)
✶ Hiding behind success. (Break it when they succeed and still feel empty.)
✶ Avoiding conflict at all costs. (Break it when silence causes more pain than the truth.)
✶ Focusing on everyone else’s healing but their own. (Break it when they hit emotional burnout.)
When a Character is Falling in Love but Doesn’t Trust It
Love is terrifying. Especially for characters who’ve been hurt, shut down, or raised to believe vulnerability is weakness. So when they start falling? It doesn’t look like a Disney montage. It looks like panic in slow motion.
✧ They start noticing everything and it unsettles them.
The way their voice cracks when they laugh. The way their fingers tap when they’re thinking. These little details burrow in and refuse to leave. And that awareness makes the character feel exposed.
✧ They become hyperaware of their own body.
Where their hands are. How close they’re standing. If they’re blushing. It’s like being inside a body that’s betraying them constantly.
✧ They act a little mean.
Not because they are mean. But because being cold is safer than being real. Sarcasm, distance, teasing, they use it like armor.
✧ They hate how much they want to share things.
They’ll see a funny meme and instinctively want to send it. Then stop. No. Don’t get attached. They want to tell them about a childhood memory, then bite it back. Too personal.
✧ They become inconsistent.
Warm one moment, distant the next. Showing up, then pulling away. They’re testing how much of themselves they can reveal before it feels like too much.
✧ They assume the worst.
They know it won’t last. That this person will leave. That they’re misreading everything. Love doesn’t feel safe, it feels like a countdown to pain.
✧ They self-sabotage.
Pick fights. Flake on plans. Pull away emotionally just to “protect themselves” before it goes wrong. It’s tragic and messy and real.
✧ They notice silence more.
What wasn’t said. A delayed reply. A joke that didn’t land. Everything becomes a sign that maybe this love thing was a mistake.
✧ They want to run, but never do.
The desire to bolt is constant. But they don’t. Because something about this person is pulling them back, despite every warning bell going off in their head.
✧ They don’t trust the feeling, but they keep falling anyway.
And that’s what makes it beautiful. And heartbreaking. Because they don’t want to fall. But they do. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing they’ve ever done.
