#(looks deeply at wither skeleton)

[rainydaymiscellaneous]

Until the End, My Love (Astarion x Reader)

Warning: this literally might be the saddest piece of fiction I’ve written and it includes death and grief.

The battle of Ketheric would change everyone’s life. You had given so much for this group of misfits. Loved them all deeply as a dysfunctional family. But Astarion.

Gods you loved that man to the stars and back. You knew the day before, what was going to happen. You sat on your favorite spot near the lake as Withers approached.

“Withers. I know you cannot tell me my death. But can you answer if I’ll die tomorrow?” You asked the creature. Withers hadn’t seen much good in humanity. However he saw the good in you. How pure and unconditional your love was.

“I cannot speak of death.” He said.

You looked at the creature. You could see it in his eyes. “Then do what humans do. Answer without words.” You said softly. He paused, knowing this wouldn’t make a difference.

He nodded yes to your question. You seemed strangely at peace with his answer. “Does anyone else?” You asked.

“Only the one you target.” He admitted.

You nodded. Your life and Ketheric would be taken. You got up, thanking Withers for his honesty and sat at a desk in the ruined home at camp and began writing. To everyone. One for Gale, one for Astarion, one for Wyll, one for Karlach, one for Lae’zel, one for Shadowheart, one for Halsin, and even one for Jaheira.

Astarion walked over as you slid the letters in the desk. “Writing?” He asked. You nodded. “We’re doing this. Aren’t we?” He asked.

“Yes..” You said.

“Well whatever happens, I’m by your side my love. Until the end,” he said. You wanted to tell him that the end would be sooner than he thought. But to break his heart like that would be too cruel, especially since the wound of Cazador’s intent behind his scars was too fresh.

“Astarion?” You asked softly.

“Yes, my darling?”

“Do you fear death?” You asked.

Such an odd question that you asked so sincerely.

“Uhm. Well, no. I know what death is like. When you turn into a vampire, you’re dead. It’s like a warm blanket. Of course when you become a vampire though, you do feel like the warm blanket is suddenly yanked off of you.” He explained.

“So it’s comforting to you?” You asked.

“In a way, I guess.” He shrugged. “Why? Have another philosophical conversation with Withers?” He joked. You let out a small smile but it seemed like you weren’t there all the way.

“In a way.” Was the small answer given to him.

“Why are you worried about that, don’t you regenerate?” He asked. You nodded.

“I mean, I do. But it takes years.” You said. Astarion kissed your forehead.

“Gods forbid something happens to you, I’d wait a million if it meant I’d see you again.” He said softly.

You hugged him close to you that night, listening to his murmuring in his sleep. The next morning before everyone was up, you put the letters into everyone’s bags carefully.

Swords clashed, body after body fell until everyone stood in the area just before Ketheric. Everyone seemed so tired so you offered a brief rest. The black shadows of the land felt so heavy as you looked around at your companions. You pulled Wyll aside, asking for your final favor.

“When it seems like everything is about to crash down, take Astarion and run.” You told your friend. He looked confused.

“What about you?” He asked.

“I will be fine.” You said. He frowned feeling as if he hadn’t been told everything. “Y/n-“

“Please. Promise me.” You begged. Wyll could tell this was important.

So he simply nodded and whispered “okay. Okay I promise.” you hugged him. It felt more than a friend hug. More like a “something bad is about to happen and I am scared” hug. So he hugged back.

As the battle raged and the illithid colony was revealed you kept Wyll uneasy. You trekked deep into the depths of the colony, freeing people of their pods and allowing them to escape.

“One last act of kindness.” You thought. “One more before death.”

As the skeleton of death looked you in the eyes, you drew your sword. You felt the chill of death and gave Wyll that look. Instantly he understood everything. You knew this was the end. He shook as he yanked Astarion back, grabbing Karlach’s arm.

They thrashed, Karlach not understanding until she saw the tears on your face and a mouthing of “Thank you” to Wyll. Astarion dropped his blades screaming for Wyll to stop.

“What the fuck soldier!?” Karlach yelled. Then she saw you. The power they’d knew would be lethal. He dragged them through the strange fleshy door and shoved them through it, landing next to them. You seemed so adamant about making sure it stayed open before you entered. Now Wyll knew why.

“What the hell are you doing Y/N IS STILL IN THERE!” Astarion yelled.

“I promised her.” Wyll said with a defeated expression. Astarion looked at the man upset and then as the door as he constantly smacked it, trying to get it to open.

Halsin, Jaheira and Gale came running over. “What’s going on?” Gale asked.

“It’s Y/n- she’s fucking in there with Ketheric!” Astarion said.

“What!? Why are you all out here?!” Jaheira asked.

“We were in there and Wyll dragged us out!” Karlach said.

“Why the hells would you do that?!” Gale asked. Wyll looked at him with the most mentally exhausted look he had ever seen.

“She made me promise.” Wyll said, his lips trembling as he spoke. Halsin looked at the door with a solemn expression.

“She is going to use her power.” Halsin said. Everyone knew that your powers bordered the strength of Gale’s when unleashed. They had seen only a fraction of it when they unleashed hell on the goblin camp. You went comatose for days, nearly dying if it weren’t for Halsin.

Lae’zel, Shadowheart and a few Harpers came down.

“Where’s Y/n?” Shadowheart asked.

“In there with Ketheric.” Gale breathed out.

“Gods damn this bloody door!” Astarion screamed, punching it repeatedly.

A loud bang emitted, the earth shaking under everyone’s feet as they felt the aftershocks of what you done. The door finally opened, everyone sprinting inside. Aylin stood bloodied over you, her hands shaking.

“She-she freed me right before-“ was all she could get out. You laid on the ground, your eyes glazed over as Astarion sprinted over, holding you.

“No. No- no- Don’t do this to me- don’t you dare do this-“ he said shaking you. Not a stir. Not a response.

Time felt frozen. Still in itself as Astarion shook you. He let out a haunting screaming sob, clutching you close to his body as Wyll dropped to his knees.

If he had just ignored you, maybe you’d still be here. Maybe you’d be savoring the taste of victory with your friends.

Shadowheart couldn’t stop thinking about your respect. Granted you followed Selûne, you always admired Shadowheart for being so devout to Shar. You even went as far as to stop and make camp once you realized you unintentionally stumbled into the Gauntlet of Shar so Shadowheart could see it herself.

Lae’zel thought back to your kindness to her. The unwavering kindness she experienced when you didn’t judge her for being Githyanki. You made her this ridiculous friendship bracelet that she hated to her very core. Yet still kept it wrapped around the hilt of her blade.

Wyll’s mind kept replaying on repeat the lengths you went through just to keep him safe. Not once did you judge him for making a deal with a devil. Not once did you call him a foolish child for making that choice.

Gale kept reminding himself how much you loved to learn. The ticking time bombs, you called yourself and Gale when referring to the magic you both held. You always kept your curiosity and your wit about you, making you adored like a little sister to him.

Karlach. Gods. The pain she was feeling was unfathomable. The way you went to great and dangerous lengths to fix her engine without hesitation. The friendship, the best friend she had made from drinking together late into the night, the best friend she made from joking on the road together, the woman she loved like family was on the ground.

Jaheira hadn’t known you long. But from the look on everyone’s faces she could tell your death was like a meteor hitting earth, causing the worst catastrophic damage she had seen. She remembered the loyalty. The way you didn’t hesitate downing that stupid wine she dosed with the truth telling herb once you found out what it was, just so she’d trust you.

Halsin kept thinking if he had just found a way to block those fucking powers, maybe just maybe you’d still be standing. He was never one for anger, never one to waste emotion in such a way. And yet he felt it. Towards Ketheric who was dead across from you. And towards himself, for not blocking your power when he had the chance.

But Astarion. Gods. Astarion.

He had suffered so much. He couldn’t remember spaces of his life due to his long life. But he remembered every moment with you. The moment he held a blade to your neck and you didn’t even flinch, to the moment he admitted that he loved you more than life itself, he remembered it all.

This should’ve been a victory. This should have been everyone screaming and laughing about how they beat the immortal idiot Ketheric into the ground. Instead heads were bowed, tears were falling and his throat was hoarse from screaming.

“You stupid stubborn girl” he kept thinking. “Come back to me my stupid idiot. Come back.”

As they dragged your body through the portal, Isobel rushed over with a smile that quickly faltered when she saw the body in her arms. A hand flew to her mouth and Zelvor’s eyes went wide. Your final act of kindness was letting him live after being captured. After the selfish sacrifice he made.

Everyone stood at camp, Isobel stepping forward as she read pages from a hymn of Selûne. Halsin laid you in a canoe, your sword in your arms as the tiefling children laid flowers next to you. Not one eye had no tears that day. Astarion pressed one last kiss to your cold skin.

They pushed the canoe off the shore, firing an arrow of flame. The canoe slowly lit, the smoke hanging over the shadowy lake. Astarion seemed so numb now. So tired. So done with it all. He wanted to be in the canoe with you, going into eternal rest by your side.

Lae’zel drew her blade, raising it in respect. Wyll followed, along with Karlach. The mages and clerics took knees, Astarion kneeling where the canoe left shore with his head bowed. Everyone was quiet, even Aylin the daughter of Selûne, the goddess of light had nothing to say.

Then… the sunlight came.

It emerged over the mountains slowly, almost going unnoticed until Gale felt the heat of a summer’s day on his skin and opened his eyes. He dropped his staff, shocked as he looked up. The sound of his staff made others look up seeing the sunrise.

“She brought us light.” Aylin whispered in shock. Astarion looked up at the sun, closing his eyes as tears flooded down his cheeks.

Everyone gathered around camp, sitting at their packs and it was so quiet. Silence was once desired by many of them because of the annoying chatter and laughter late into the night. But this was something they craved more than anything.

“Guys!” Karlach said. Everyone looked at her as she held up an envelope. “Y/n wrote a letter!” She said. Astarion was confused as Wyll looked at his pack.

“I’ve got one too.” He realized.

“So do I!” Shadowheart gasped.

Everyone dug around their packs before reading each of their own. As each one finished, they moved closer to one another, hugging their friends.

Astarion sat still reading his quietly in his tent.

“Astarion, my love

I know you hate cliches but I will say, the ‘if you’re reading this, I’m dead trope’ is rather interesting.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes but continued.

“I love you so much my love. You mean everything to me. It’s funny really. How I spent most of my life focused on other things I didn’t even realize when I fell in love.

I enjoyed our late night talks of poetry (though even as your lover I will say some of your opinions are pretentious)” again, he scoffed. “I enjoyed your banter, I enjoyed being held by you. Even in these wretched shadows, I found safety in your arms.

Take care of Scratch for me. I know you might not like him but he’s a good boy. And make sure he has playdates with Wallace, he sees Scratch as his big brother.

I don’t want you to fret over this. I’m not gone forever. Just for now. I promise in my next life, I will find you. I love you so much, I would walk to the edges of the earth to find your love once again.

Until the end, my love.

-Y/n.”

All of the companions stood together at the campfire, pouring one out for their fallen friend. Even as the battle of the Absolute came, everyone had justice on their minds for the one they lost.

It was expected for everyone to go their separate ways, especially after the whole tadpole conundrum was finally solved. Instead, all of them stuck together. Even Halsin, who craved nature stayed. Astarion didn’t Ascend, instead, with the help of his friends they killed Cazador and freed his brothers and sisters.

They moved only in the night now, seeing as the tadpole was the only thing granting him the ability to walk in the sun. Truth be told, he couldn’t see the sun anymore without being reminded of his love.

Years passed, everyone sat in a tavern, discussing the next bounty on their list to cross off. They were all talking when suddenly and without warning, Astarion stood up, knocking over a mug of ale.

“Aye! Watch it-“

Wyll’s gaze followed Astarion’s and he stood up as well. Everyone followed their gaze to the woman who seemed almost ethereal in beauty as she smiled.

“Miss me?”

[angel-armed]

The thing about me is like. Everyone talks about how I 'love everyone' and that's true, but it leads to misunderstandings. Really, it's hard for other people to accept that that love comes 'at a distance' and when you push and pry at me like you're trying to open a can with a crowbar I am going to keep my arms outstretched with you at the other end.

Even if we've known each other for years there may be this fragile but important boundary you can't cross.

Sometimes I think about the person who was my best friend for 6 years and when my relationship ended and i was not ready to date in a healthy way let alone trying to see them as not a sibling to me-- they pretty much just cut me off. Feel like that was pretty formative. I can't do anything that triggers that feeling that people are just 'waiting' for their chance to date me or something.

Maybe I look beautiful(???) and strange and sweet to you. Maybe you look at me and say "wow you're capable of anything!" and that makes you desire me. You want to have me, but. I'm just not made to hold. I am beaming love out at the world in all directions, i can't give you the laser beam you want.

And beyond that, these things: an intense love and care for people in general seems to be stunted and cut short because of the personal code I've lived with since I was able to formulate my truth. My rules for living are simple and have always been the same.

No skeletons in any closets. If I don't keep secrets, there is nothing that can be dragged out to destroy me. I hate dishonesty, especially people 'lying by omission' as if that's not just as dishonest. Sometimes I am honest to a fault. I've tried to get better about that.

Always keep moving, keep your hands busy. Be a shark. You die if you stop. You wither. It's okay to cry, but not to stop. It's okay to mourn but not to stop.

Rotten branches must be healed or cut. If they will not be healed, they must be cut. I am the person who makes the choices no one else wants to make.

These things have and will always guide me. Nothing and no one is allowed to come before that code-- and that makes people really hate me too. That's in their right, I think but leaves the fact unchanged. I have broken this code for someone, once and only once. It was what we needed to heal.

Knowing now that I'm autistic AF makes these things make a lot more sense to me. Honestly a lot about my world makes more sense. These days I struggle deeply with not being able to trust other people, with feeling like no one understands me and no one possibly ever could. The eye-opening desperation of wanting to be known. The first time someone saw through my fake smile my heart nearly stopped. I'm still thanking them for it.

I don't know where I'm going with this so much as just dumping what's going on in my mind. Struggling with feeling like my 'favorite thing' is falling out of favor and the other new cool thing everyone likes is pushing me out entirely. Feeling like I can't keep up with trends and changes in fandom even if I'd like to (I don't, I only like My Thing:tm:) and knowing that isn't anyone's fault but mine. Fandom just moves too fast for my old bones now I guess.

I usually end up in the same place with it. Guess I'll peel away, isolate, and try to write solo things wrt the thing I like or whatever. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes I write really good prolific stories that way! Sometimes it just makes me sink deeper into the dark.

I've thought about repeating cycles my whole life, being someone who was born with reincarnation memories. And maybe this, too is part of a cycle I'm locked into.

[a-vicious-faithless-angel]

(Almost!!!) Final batch of Minetober prompts!!!!

You'll never believe what the last prompt is

----[Tags]

[angelsxwords]

your nightmare.

(1) of dreams and nightmares.

summary: while going about his duties, corinthian meets someone he cannot frighten. it annoys and intrigues him.

corinthian x f!reader. supposed to be set in 1890. warnings: maybe corinthian himself but nothing more than that. a/n: maaaaaaaybe I'll turn this into a mini-series. i got some ideas cooking in my brain. and re-upload because tumblr tags didn't work. disclaimer: i haven't read the comics so i took this post from the man himself and did a tiny thing.

He met her in a dream.

Following the purpose his creator had bestowed upon him, as one does, Corinthian entered a tiny world with a sky so bright and beautiful it could sicken him. He, a nightmare, is used to the cold claws of darkness, tearing at humanity, and revealing whatever they might wish to hide.

Whenever he steps into a dream, the darkness follows him and changes the atmosphere to something more nightmare-ish. In that case, blue hues became drenched in red and the nature beneath his feet, with its flowers, bushes, and trees, withered and died.

Corinthian strolled across the way he caved himself, hands tucked into the pockets of his sleek, creme-coloured dress pants. The eyes he doesn’t truly have wandered across the dreamer‘s world and watched it decay, watched the shadows of fears and uncertainties rise like skeletons from their graves. It wasn’t as satisfying as it used to be, really; when he was younger, this was enough. But now he seeks more of humanity. A sin, perhaps.

Whilst the thought of living a greater life plagued Corinthian‘s mind, he stumbled across a familiar face. The dreamer.

He stood still, between burning trees and crying skies, his eyebrows knitted together. With the marvellous work he was doing, he expected a terrified face and a terrified voice, yet Corinthian found her staring back at him with fascination but worry in her eyes.

Hasty steps approached him quickly, skipping through the ash and the smoke and the rain. She must have noticed he wasn’t affected – nothing touched his being, as if he were shielded by an invisible force. However, she neither cared nor wanted to discover what caused the sudden change.

"You shouldn’t be here," she called, breathless. "We need to hide somewhere. It’s not safe here, not anymore."

"I can see that much," Corinthian retorted, looking up at the sky. His hand reached up to take off his hat, holding it to his chest and bidding her farewell. 

"I will be taking my leave. Good luck."

The little world of hers had been infected — the poison would spread until she found the cure or awoke. Whichever happened first, Corinthian did not know. And frankly, he hadn’t cared, either. 

But rather than letting him go, the dreamer wrapped her hands around his arm and pleaded for him to accompany her, for him to stay.  Ironic, really, if one considered he was the cause of that nightmare.

"I just want to make sure you’re safe. Please."

Corinthian visits her every night, afterwards.

At first, it is to see when or if he can genuinely upset her. None of his creations seem to do the trick, no matter how deeply he picks and pries at her unconscious, her fears. It annoys him, to some extent.

"You again," she greets him during the seventh dream. The darkness in Corinthian’s wake does not consume her world, this time. 

"I’ve been seeing you every night. Lurking around corners, off in the distance. Seconds before a disaster occurs."

She always wears a beautiful white dress that falls naturally over her hips, with puffy leg-of-mutton sleeves. She rivals an angel‘s image; it flows and sways as calmly as the water in a river with every movement she makes. 

Corinthian smirks.

"Is it your doing, then? Are you my nightmare? Or the personification of my nightmares?"

"’Suppose you could say that, yeah," he answers truthfully, staring off into the distance. He isn’t supposed to be hers and he certainly isn’t supposed to be visiting her every night, either. But Dream of the Endless, busy as he is, will hardly notice.

Behind them, there is a castle, a grand garden with a pond and one of the newer cars. In her dreams, she lives a life of royalty and adventure, whilst poverty and cruelty plague her waking hours.

"I don’t think I understand," she continues and takes a step closer to him. Corinthian silently observes the creases on her young face, the evident confusion in her eyes. 

"If you are my nightmare, why do you appear to me in such beauty? And why haven’t you ruined this dream yet?"

"Not really feeling like it today." 

Today, Corinthian feels like talking. Like getting under her skin, understanding what she is all about. Above all, he feels like popping her pretty eyes out of her little skull, if only to better study her.

"Beauty, you said," he repeats her words, but it feels awkward and unfamiliar on his tongue, "referring to my appearance, or…?"

"I always imagined a nightmare to resemble a monster. An abomination. Neither of which you are."

"Consider myself flattered."

Corinthian hasn’t interacted properly with a dreamer before. Until then, he always showed up for a short fraction of time to cause havoc, before moving on to the next dreamer. In the Waking World, where he had escaped to a scarce number of times thus far, he had often met men and women alike, who were all enticed by his looks and charms. Attention he certainly likes to receive.

"Would you mind going for a stroll around the castle with me?"

He offers his elbow for her to take, lips curled up in a smile that usually gets him whatever he desires. The dreamer does not seem immune to this and loops her arm around his with a shy smile. She is unsure but does seem to have developed a sense of trust in him. Which, considering he haunts her dreams and drenches them in despair, did not make the most sense.  Not that Corinthian minds — with such circumstances, it will be easier to discover more about her.

And discover more he certainly does. She talks of her life, of the challenges she faces, and he listens. Most are mundane matters; the everyday family dispute, a man who threw a rude comment her way, the bills that need to be paid. She seems perfectly ordinary, really.

"What about you, my nightmare?"

At a crossroads marked by a glorious fountain, they come to a halt. She looks at him as if waiting for a great fairytale to be told, but Corinthian chuckles and shakes his head.

"Trying to get my job done, nothing more than that." 

“Your job – turning dreams into nightmares?” He merely hums in affirmation; thus, she continues. “Who is your employer, then? You must have one, if this is but a job of yours.”

“Well, more than what you consider a job. My life, my purpose. What I was made to be.”

Although, there is doubt in his mind. Corinthian is unsure in his craft, sometimes. In quiet moments, he wonders if this is truly all there is, all he can grasp. He wonders why he can’t be more, when the Waking World can offer him so much more. 

The dreamer’s face falters at his words. Rather than beaming with curiosity, as she has before, a frown decorates her features.

“This is all you do?”

“For all of eternity.” A hint of bitterness, perhaps even anger, drips from his lips like a venom. She seems to pick up on his change rather quickly and squeezes his arm gently to offer comfort. Corinthian tilts his head to the side to look at her, an eyebrow raised. 

“We must both live awfully dull lives, then.”

He huffs in amusement. “Dull is one way to describe it.”

Their attention finally shifts to the fountain once more. There are two paths for them to choose: One, covered with cobblestone, leads further to the castle. The other path, which is created by trees, patches of grass and branches, leads into the forest.

“How much time do I have left with you? Will your … creator not question why you choose to remain in one dream for such a significantly longer time?”

She is amusing, that little human of his. A smile tugs on his lips with the concern seeping into her words. It is odd to hear, even feel someone care. Nevertheless, after knowing him for barely a week. Morpheus hasn’t managed to show even an ounce of such a feeling towards his creation in – what, three centuries?

Who knows what was before that. Before him. Corinthian refuses to believe his creator was ever different, despite not being alive for too long. Or rather not as long as other dreams and nightmares.

“Dream won’t care, I’m sure. Or notice.”

A wave of confusion gently washes over her. “Dream?”

“Morpheus. Oneiros. The Sandman, think that nickname recently became popular in literature.”

Corinthian guides her to the left path of the crossroads, slowly and gently as she connects the new pieces to her puzzle. The dreamer follows him without hesitance, leaning against his side whilst the gears in her head turn and turn. 

After a long moment of silence passed them, Corinthian asks: “Haven’t heard of him? The king of dreams and nightmares?”

It does not surprise him; she lives in a rather secluded village, further away from the busy streets and bustling atmosphere of the city. Word needs longer to spread to the far corners. A couple more years, perhaps, before they too know of the stories written by silly men.

Once Corinthian received the confirmation that she has, in fact, not heard of it yet, he grasps the opportunity to tell her. He talks more than he initially intended to; talks of the things his master has created, including his very self, and all that he does day and night. Corinthian sugar-coats it all, really, rather than allowing his own humble opinions to diminish the fascination such stories cause to arise in humans.

After all, the way her eyes sparkle and shine as he talks of the great castle, the bridge, fields, and creatures, is a sight he could relish in for hours on end.

[weareallstardustfallen]

Minecraft world building is always interesting!! What are your nether worldbuilding ideas? T

well i do Not feel like giving the entire 4k so i will just talk about my thoughts on the history of the nether bc that is the part that i like best of it

so the nether was canonically not always like that; the soul sand valley might have once been "a habitable paradise full of huge, bygone creatures," the ancient debris is the remains of historical netherite mining by piglins, stuff like that. as such, i decided that i wanted to take what we're given in the game, use that to figure out what the original nether was like, and then go from there to the modern nether.

and me and @bananasofthorns were listening to some of the ambiance tracks for the different nether biomes, and we realized that hey, some of these sound very Hm. like, there's a couple in the basalt deltas that sound a little like laughter, or like war drums. and after listening to literally all of the nether ambiance tracks and tossing ideas back and forth and such, i settled on this idea, under the cut because it's Long:

the nether was originally a much more habitable place, with a lot more biodiversity than exists now. originally, there were four intelligent races, not just piglins, and they were loosely settled into the four biomes which existed at the time- the crimson forests, the nether wastes, the basalt deltas, and the soul sand valleys, though they weren't very wasteland-y or soul sand-y at all, so they were probably called something else.

the soul sand valley was home to a bunch of very powerful mages, as well as the massive beasts which became the fossils. they were probably the most able to use magic of all of the societies, and any overworld enchantments which can be found originated in the nether (like the ones on piglin armor) are actually a completely different form of that enchantment derived from ancient enchanted books from this society; soul speed was essentially reverse-engineered from them. the valleys were probably the most utopian of all the biomes at the time, full of many, many different kinds of flora and fauna.

the basalt deltas, on the other hand, were very hostile even then, with practically nothing living there except for the delta warriors. they were very warlike and probably conquerors, and were the ones who built the nether fortresses for military purposes. they spent decades at war with the valley mages, and while they most definitely had access to some pretty powerful magic it was not to their level of artistry.

there was also a society in the nether wastes, which has been next to forgotten. both the biome and the people were caught in the crossfire between the valley mages and the delta warriors and over a very long period of time, their entire civilization pretty much got wiped out. the land itself is still basically barren, and sometimes unstable.

the fourth, of course, was the piglins of the crimson forests. they didn't get involved with the wars, and managed to avoid getting much damage from the massive amount of fighting. they, and the hoglins, are the only mobs who are still around from this period of time.

the war did, of course, come to a catastrophic end in what i'm calling the cataclysm. the delta warriors gained access to very powerful and very volatile magic. what did they do with it? attempt to smite the valley mages off the face of the earth, of course- a little too effectively.

they did manage to totally wipe out the valley mages, which was their goal! they decimated the mages, as well as literally every other living thing in the biome, their own society, and did a lot of Bad Shit to the environment of the nether as a whole.

because the area and the people were so charged with magic already, the mages weren't just completely killed- instead, they were trapped in the newly-created soul sand, half-alive, with their souls only being released upon the sand being burnt. the valleys are now completely devastated, and you can hear the mages whispering or calling in the distance, sometimes enough to lure an unwary traveler to their death, though this isn't out of malice.

the delta warriors, also killed by the cataclysm, became the wither skeletons and skeletons of the nether. those who were in the valley at the time of the cataclysm became the wither skeletons due to the magic of the area; they spend their eternities protecting the fortresses they built. those who weren't there are the normal skeletons, forever attempting to provide reinforcements for a battle which is long since over.

and the piglins? they were adversely affected by the cataclysm, of course, everything was, and their glory days are past. but they're alive, where the other two are not- despite this extinction-level event, they are still continuing on, essentially the same as they were before. and this continues even through the most major thing that would harm the crimson forests after the cataclysm, that being the introduction of the warped forests.

the warped forests were essentially corruption which crept in just after the cataclysm when the environment was still unsettled; it began to slowly expand, eating away at the crimson forests, and it is also very... weird, as far as the biomes go. it's not really hostile, it won't kill you to enter or anything and there's even some helpful stuff there, but... it is Deeply Wrong. the endermen there are numb and expressionless, like they're sleepwalking. they never really react to stimuli other than being looked in the eye, but sometimes they scream in the distance like they're being tortured.

and, bonus, because i'm not sure whether it's piglin legend or reality but i think it's cool:

each of the biomes has an Entity to it, not quite sentient but enough to have intent, like a manifestation of the ones who used to live there. it's not quite a god, not quite real, but it is there and you can feel it, when you step into its domain.

the basalt delta is a conqueror imprisoned, the warrior who lost. the Entity of the deltas is trapped far beneath the surface, but it is still there, angry and vengeful, straining to get out, and sometimes you can hear it laughing, or the distant echo of the drums of war. the basalt delta is angry. the basalt delta hates you. the basalt delta wants you fucking dead.

the soul sand valleys are asleep. it's not quite dead, nothing with so much power and life could just die like that, but it isn't quite there, either. the valleys are a tragedy of unimaginable scale, and there is murmuring in the distance, never quite close enough to make out.

the nether wastes are dead. they are barren, empty, lifeless; nothing really grows and nothing really lives. the wastes died a long time ago, even before the cataclysm- the only trace of it is in the occasional odd noise, and the way the rock shifts and crumbles at random, unsettled by the fighting which reduced it to nothing.

the crimson forests are the only one left as it was- weaker, tired, but still alive and still awake and still free. the crimson forests do not get involved with wars not their own, do not play with the kind of power that can reduce a civilization to dust. the crimson forest, and its residents, are survivors above all. they will still be there, living, and so will the forests.

the warped forest, on the other hand... the warped forest is not of the nether. the warped forest is a foreigner, come slinking into the gaps left behind and slowly gaining ground, bit by bit. if any of the biomes has a mind, it's this one- the warped forests make odd, terrifying sounds, and the endermen are screaming in the distance or wandering like ghosts, and there is something laughing, low and heavy.

best not to stay too long.

[bikerjongho]

thaumaturge | ateez ot8

genre: supernatural, fantasy, action, horror

characters: occult!ateez ot8

description: Eight evil and magically supernatural beings have their fair share of fun and violence as they travel through a witchy black market.

word count: 6.6k

warnings: swearing, murder, violence, decapitation, death

author’s note: thanks to ateez’s new song the real, this was created. this is genuinely one my favorite pieces that I’ve ever written, so I hope you all enjoy, even if it’s a bit a lot... dark. extra kudos if you can figure out why hongjoong has a flute...

taglist: @itsapapisongo @mangomingki @irehlevant @blueprint-han

The airy noise of a flute from far off in the distance met the ears of people in the black market. The sound whispered around suspicious potions, illegal trinkets, and unsavory objects, giving the market a blanketing noise that masked the chattering of the merchants and customers. Although it was nothing more than a musical note, the noise was unknowingly synonymous with trouble and evil.

The flute belonged to Hongjoong, a man with frightening amounts of power and evil in his systems. The flute not only announced his arrival before his physical appearance, but it also announced his seven other teammates that were equally as dangerous and versed in unconstrained destruction as him.

On the outskirts of the black market, a small and dirty child played with a pile of rocks in front of his mother's tent. His mother, a woman greased with sweat and exhaustion, shuffled around her tent of potions and gathered what she could of food. She pulled out a small piece of chicken from a bag at her feet and carefully cut it into two unequally sized pieces.

She hastily shoved the smaller piece onto a graying plate near her before placing the larger one onto another plate and pushing it towards her son. But the son was still too busy with rocks to be bothered with eating, so the woman began placing more onto her son's plate - bits of lettuce that were more than a few days old and lumpy potatoes that looked undercooked, overcooked, and expired all at once. The meat was good enough and the potatoes were fine, but the withering lettuce was more than enough for Seonghwa.

Being the only folioric, a controller of plants and vegetation, on a team of mostly corpics made Seonghwa's power unique and highly valuable. While the others made blood boil and toes curl, Seonghwa had the proprietary job of dealing with plants, and more importantly, the poisons and trouble he could cause with them.

Magical black markets were incredibly engaging and amusing to him, so he enjoyed whenever his team made a detour through one. Seonghwa had studied and mulled over the existence plants and toxins for ages. He knew every potion that had plants in it and had even created his own. He was the root that connected botany and humanity. So, strolling through a black market that had false plant advertising, horribly made potions that even a beginner folioric could make to perfection, and toxins that were wildly inappropriate for their listed job, he couldn't help but chuckle at their inferiority. They were pathetic.

He was dressed like he was a regular customer at the black market, something that Hongjoong had strictly enforced whenever they wanted to cause a little bit of fun trouble. "The best place to hide is in plain sight," he'd always say. So, Seonghwa wore a green robe that went down to his knees. The end of the sleeves were embroidered with gold and black thread. A simple brown belt was tied around his midsection, and he wore black pants underneath the robe. His black buckled boots hugged and climbed up his legs.

This entire green ensemble was meant to show off his knowledge and abilities in botany, though in crowds like these, he doubted anyone would notice or realize the significance behind the clothing. Yet, the confidence the clothing gave him because on-goers did ogle the fine fabrics was more than enough to satisfy his hubris. It wasn't unusual to see someone of higher wealth in a slum-like market such as this one. In fact, it was usually good to see someone of that caliber - it meant there was likely something sold that was of worth, hidden between the utter filth that most sold. But Seonghwa wasn't there for buying.

Seonghwa shifted and narrowly avoided a dust cloud from a grimy child playing with rocks on the ground. There were numerous amounts of children like that around the black market. Families stricken with poverty had nowhere to turn except for illegal business, and even then money was tight and squandered. Seonghwa glanced at the boy's mother who ran her stand of sub-par potions, filling a plate of greens and meat for her son. He frowned at the lettuce.

Lettuce was one of the first plants he had to deal with at botany school - back when he was still enrolled and still had a cent of good in his blood. The professors would purposely let the lettuce wilt in the greenhouses and it was up to Seonghwa and the other foliorics to restore them. The memory made him cringe. The school, in his opinion, had suppressed his great powers and used them solely for mundane tasks. He had found it deeply insulting and was still insulted by it today. He had left the school and learned on his own how to harness his plant abilities to the fullest. In school, it had been a challenge to revive the lettuce that the teachers set out in the greenhouse. Now, he could be yards away and completely change the chemical biology of the lettuce with a lazy wave of his hand.

Seonghwa flicked his hand, and the lettuce winked at him.

"Lunch," the mother said to her son and pulled him to his feet, picking the rocks out of his hands and throwing them to the ground. She tried her best to dust him off and wash his hands with water, but most of the grime wouldn't come off. Seonghwa walked away as the mother handed the plate to her son, who began eating like he had never seen food before.

Seonghwa put his hands in his pockets. A glimmer of a smirk appeared on his face when he heard the child thud to the ground behind him, and the mother's subsequent scream.

Wooyoung trailed in behind Seonghwa, but the two acted like they didn't know each other, not sparing any glances or gestures at each other. He slid by the child that Seonghwa had killed while the mother's broken sobs rattled his eardrums. This team of evils, the eight of them, were journeying to a different city to buy rare botanical and medical supplies, the reason why they were cutting through this market.

"Instead of going around, we can cut though this black market," Hongjoong had announced only hours before and was met with joyous hoots and hollers. "Black market" was synonymous with fun - it allowed for the boys to cause behind the scenes trouble to people that they didn't care about or would ever meet again. Jongho had called it a warm-up for their powers and was met with agreement and laughter.

Wooyoung went in a different direction than Seonghwa, who was still strolling through stands of botany and stacks of medical potions. While Seonghwa was a folioric, Wooyoung was a corpic. Corpics, the broad term used to describe people that could manipulate the human body, were by far the most common variety of occult people. No one was truly sure why - but it showed in the fact that six out of eight members of the team were of this variety. Further categorized, Wooyoung, and also Hongjoong, Jongho, Mingi, and San, were spirabics, a subset of corpics that specifically dealt with living human bodies and feelings.

Wooyoung dealt with bones. Bending, breaking, and general manipulation of bones was his talent that had been bestowed to him at birth. Similar to Seonghwa, Wooyoung had been taught at school how to use his power for good, such as repairing fractured bones, but had quickly lost interest and dropped out when he realized his true potential.

Though, dropped out wasn't the correct word. This occult school did everything in their power to keep students from dropping out - they knew the merit and the sheer responsibility of the powers their students had. Using it for unrestrained evil was their worst fear. Wooyoung had deserted the school after two months of enrollment and then broke the spines of the teachers and guards that had gone to retrieve him when they realized he had deserted.

Wooyoung took a different route than Seonghwa not just because they wanted to be separated, but also because he was bored to death with plants. The area he strolled by was far more interesting - a small woman with a tight face manned a stand that claimed to sell human hearts and organs. On the stand next to her, full fingers, hands, and skeletons were on display like jewelry would be in a jewelry store.

He stared at the skeletons with his hands behind his back. He was aware of the stares because like Seonghwa, he was dressed in fine fabrics - blue instead of green - but he elected to ignore them. The stares also could have been for his peculiar interest in the skeletons.

"They're real," the shopkeeper told him flatly, and Wooyoung had to keep a straight face. None of the bones were real.

"They're gorgeous," he said, and then realized how odd that sounded. "For bones, I mean. You keep them cleaned and polished." But Wooyoung knew well that real bones could never be as white as the ones in front of him. He showed off a smile and nodded his head.

"Have a nice day," he said, and as the shopkeeper turned away, Wooyoung clenched his hand and snapped the shopkeeper's tibia. He strolled away with a smile as the man howled with pain, and the customers that were eyeing Wooyoung's clothes dove like hungry piranhas to steal the worthless and fake bones off of the stand. There wasn't any real reason why Wooyoung had broken his bone - it was just a fun activity to do in a market of strangers that had no impact on his life.

The flautist and San entered the black market as a pair soon after. Hongjoong, dressed in a shade of blue similar to Wooyoung's and flute strapped onto his side, strode by the mess of a mother Seonghwa had made and what was left of the bone stand. "I see they've done their job," Hongjoong yawned to his dark-haired friend. San grinned.

"No bones about it," he said, and Hongjoong gave him a look that could cut steel. San was dressed similarly to Hongjoong - a darker blue color, but the same fitted robe and high black boots. Hongjoong and San, like Wooyoung, were spirabics. Many thought that Hongjoong's flute that never left his side was a part of his magical ensemble, but that wasn't the truth. Hongjoong could raise levels of pain so that a paper cut felt like a heart attack. Sometimes his flute was a part of his sorcery - blowing a high note next to someone's ear and raising the pain was fun - but in truth, the flute was an elegant accessory given to him by his mentor before he passed away years ago.

San, in his smoldering and smirking glory, manipulated blood inside of humans. He could make blood clot or stop flowing or flow out of a body like a raging waterfall. He could make it boil like he was preparing a delicious vat of spaghetti. In many ways, he was one of Hongjoong's most coveted teammates, not only for his incredible power, but because of how useful he was when partnered with Hongjoong. So when San proposed the idea of working together to spread trouble throughout the market, Hongjoong couldn't refuse his offer.

"Who should we do?" San asked, hands behind his back and eyes flickering around the market and its sellers. San had been one of the first to accept Hongjoong's offer of making a team, and was therefore one of the most experienced and capable of their group. But he was also one of the most angry and dastardly ones. Hongjoong had seen the full extent of what San could do with years of being around him. Hongjoong knew better than to make him upset and laughed at those that did.

Hongjoong also eyed up some of their potential victims. Many of the sellers looked the same - sunken eyes, old and dirty clothing, and even dirtier intentions hidden in their hands and goods - but one stood out to him. Hongjoong nodded his head to a man that was a few stands down from where they were. "Him."

The man was considerably a different variety than most other sellers in the market. Besides wearing clothing that was close to the pricing of Hongjoong's and San's outfits, he sold considerable botany that even Seonghwa would look at and fine jewelry that both of them knew better than to touch. He was a gem in the midst of trash, and Hongjoong knew nothing would make him happier than to knock him down a few pegs.

San smiled at Hongjoong's choice. "A rich boy," he said, quirking his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I don't like how he carries himself, thinking that he's better than everyone else in this market," Hongjoong said flatly, eyeing him with suspicion. "He reminds me of me."

San chuckled. "Then, let's not hold back." He sauntered over to the seller with alluring eyes and struck up a conversation. Hongjoong couldn't hear exactly of what words were being exchanged, but it was clearly an engaging talk with how the seller's stance turned from tense and alert to relaxed and easy-going. He must have thought San was going to rob him as he approached. He should have been more wise. San was a vampire of the worst kind.

"The king just simply cannot have all of this stuff lying around," the merchant was laughing to San while Hongjoong slid up next to him. "Oh? A friend of yours?" He asked, looking at Hongjoong up and down.

"A friend indeed," Hongjoong said to him. He struggled to read San's face, because now it had changed. San had been engaged in the conversation, Hongjoong could tell even from far away, but now his demeanor had fallen. There was a hint of rage hidden behind his eyes, and Hongjoong knew exactly why.

San had once been a healer of sorts for a royal family. Almost every member, from the queen to her youngest son, were anemic, and it was up to San to regulate their blood at all times. But he quarreled with the king frequently, who thought San was doing a less-than-ideal job at helping his family with their condition. It wasn't until the youngest son died because of his anemia did the king react violently to San and threatened to fire him. But San had reacted back equally as violent - stopping blood flow to his heart and giving the king a heart attack as they fought in the throne room. The palace had revived him with another spirabic, but the damage was done and San's reputation was ruined. San fled the castle before the king could awaken and accuse him of an attempted assassination.

Hongjoong knew of his backstory and had spared no time in recruiting him. After all, the news of a defective royal spirabic spread like fire, and the flames had interested him.

But standing with this merchant, he had to applaud San for his restraint to not blow the head off of the royal merchant. Perhaps the prospect of blowing it off later with Hongjoong is what kept him only simmering. It was another mystery as to how the merchant didn't even recognize San. Hongjoong decided to not complain about the luck they had.

"Ah, the blessed kingdom?" San said, putting on a shining smile that Hongjoong almost believed. "Why must the king go here to sell things? Is he not content with the riches he has?" The merchant was shocked at San's boldness, but San's laugh that came after was so hearty that he joined in.

"I'm not sure why he wants to sell these trinkets here," the merchant said. "But it's what His Highness requests, so I oblige." San nodded his head and gave a soft smile. Hongjoong wasn't sure what rage or anger he had boiling his blood, but he was sure that San was done with being nice to a royal family kiss-ass. He gave a look to San, who was glad to reciprocate it.

Hongjoong shoved the merchant's table forward. All of the contents on the table shuddered and remained on the table, but the table hit the merchant's leg. "Oops," Hongjoong shrugged while the merchant furrowed his brow and rubbed his leg. "You're okay, right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," the merchant said, ruffled, and Hongjoong clenched his fist from inside his pocket. He could immediately see the pain rise like an enormous wave behind the merchant's eyes. He cringed with pain but still managed to stand. It wasn't in Hongjoong's interest to make him scream - he gave that privilege and right to San.

And San was more than ready. San's hand moved and the merchant furrowed his eyebrows even more. "Is everything okay?" San asked with a smile as the merchant's eyes began to twitch. He looked back and forth between Hongjoong and San like they had something to do with his pain, but ultimately focused back to his leg. Hongjoong wasn't sure what San had done, but it seemed slow and painful.

"Not really," the merchant said, wincing. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said before limping into his stand's back area. San flicked his hand again and the merchant whimpered from behind the stand's back curtain. Almost immediately, a band of small children rushed in front of them and stole the rare plants off of the merchant's now vacant table.

"What did you do?" Hongjoong asked as he helped put the botany into the children's bags.

"I cut off blood flow in his left leg only," San said simply. His mouth quirked upward. "Or you could say, I blocked an artery. If he's fast enough, he might be able to have surgery to fix it. If he doesn't..."

"Death," Hongjoong finished, and San could only nod.

"Or amputation. I'm not sure how good the court spirabics are anymore. I don't care, either way." San gave a smile and waved for Hongjoong to follow him further into the market, his anger now behind him. A third party was hurt, and only half of the team was present in the market.

Another blue-robed man strolled into the market, but he was flanked by a man in grey. Mingi and Yeosang were the next of their group to enter the black market. Yeosang, the one clothed in grey, was a corpic like many of the others on their team. But he wasn't a spirabic, he was a cerebric, a special classification for corpics that dealt with the mind rather than the body. He could manipulate and damage the minds of anyone so long as he touched them. Yeosang's eyes, which had anything but mindlessness in them, flickered back and forth at different merchants in the black market like he was sizing up his victims.

Mingi, the taller and blue-robed one, was a spirabic. But in many ways, he was closer to Yeosang's power than any of the other spirabics in his team. Mingi could manipulate feelings and spike hormones on a switch. And while he didn't directly deal with the mind, he could still make anyone lose their mind if he added enough adrenaline to their body.

But while the two of them had powers that were very similar, they had drastically different backgrounds. Yeosang was a rarer breed of occult that was classified as dangerous by most schools that taught occult students. Hence, he was barred from most schools and didn't bother trying to convince them otherwise. There wasn't a good bone in his body and fellow occultists had made sure of that.

While Mingi, like many of the other spirabics on the team, had tried occult school. Mingi had learned how to lower adrenaline and calm anxiety. He had been the cure for marital problems and the savior for depression. But he had quickly learned it was infinitely more rewarding to cause pain and chaos rather than healing.

"This place is a dump," Yeosang scoffed as they weaved through the endless paths of the market. "Truly, people have lost their minds even without our help. Their products are shit."

"Less of a market and more of a dump," Mingi replied and walked by a little girl standing near a stand. She burst into tears. Yeosang was mildly amused.

Just as Yeosang was about to glance at a stand's contents, a running customer rammed into Yeosang's shoulder without warning. Neither Mingi nor Yeosang seemed too worried - in fact, a smile grew on Yeosang's face. He turned around stared at the customer while he kept running.

Almost immediately, the man stopped running and began screaming, hopping and clutching his feet like he had stepped on a thousand spikes barefoot. "Lava!" He howled before diving directly into a nearby stand, and Yeosang had to bite his lip to not burst into laughter as the stand's owner began yelling and swearing at the man who was saving himself from lava.

"Don't bump into me, next time," Yeosang murmured under his breath as a group of young men started a fist fight as Mingi strolled by them. Mingi held up his hands by his face and circled around the fight like he was surprised by this sudden confrontation.

"I'll say it again, this has got to be one of the most disgusting markets I've ever walked in," Mingi muttered when he and Yeosang were clear of the fight he had evoked. "But I guess that makes things more fun."

Yeosang nodded, side-stepping a man who was moaning for medical help and clutching his ankle. "Who should we really have fun with?"

The two surveyed the crowd of people around them, from dirty merchants to buyers with large inheritances to families with six children. There was a large variety to pick from, and Mingi was going to suggest doing a usual mind warp of a random merchant when Yeosang nudged him and nodded towards a young girl standing by a stand, paying no attention to the objects sold at the stand.

Her focus was only on the boy selling the items at the stand. Any blind person could see that she was madly in love. With how her body was only moments away from turning into a pile of mush and her eyes were physically in the shape of hearts, Yeosang and Mingi almost felt pity for her - the guy that she was in love with gave her no attention. His attention switched from a small amount of cash in his hands to the strange purple and green bottles on the table in front of him, like the girl wasn't even there.

"Playing matchmaker, are we?" Yeosang smirked at Mingi.

"Perhaps at first," Mingi murmured, walking closer to them so he could see his handiwork more clearly. "But you'll make sure that's not the end result." He pulled his hand from his pocket and waved it, a gesture seemingly innocent and regular.

The boy dropped the money in his hands and looked at the girl with a new appreciation, and the girl was startled by the sudden interest. Yeosang had to stifle a laugh as he nudged by the boy and got his own magic to work.

"... you're so beautiful," the guy was saying like he and the girl were alone in the market. "Truly a sight. Forgive my forwardness, but I have a small sum of money. Could I go to dinner with you and spend it all?"

The girl was a frantic and blushing mess. "Of course," she hummed, grabbing his hands and holding them close to her chest.

"They're gonna kiss," Mingi said and hastily put on a pair of sunglasses.

"And those sunglasses will save your sight?" Yeosang murmured as the two lovers locked lips right in front of them. Mingi's eyes weren't visible anymore, but his mouth was in a prominent frown. Public affection was apparently the price to pay for evil deeds.

"What exactly did you do?" Mingi muttered again, only seeing his own magic working. "We're playing Cupid rather than mind-fucking magicians."

"Watch," Yeosang said, and Mingi closed his mouth.

The new couple was now enwrapped in each other's arms like they were puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly. The boy stroked the girl's hair while he stared at her face and a few passerbys gagged and swooned.

"I love you," he said, not wasting his time in the relationship. The girl sighed and began pulling her hair tie out of her ponytail.

"Yeosang," Mingi hissed. "I do not want to watch a few teenagers rail-"

But he was cut off by a shriek from the girl. She was clutching the boy's small necklace around his neck with rage in her eyes. Yeosang glimmered.

"You have someone already," she growled and shook the necklace in front of the boy's face. It was just a normal necklace and the boy was sputtering out of genuine confusion. And it was a normal necklace. But Yeosang had made the girl think that there was a couple ring strung onto the chain.

"You're a genius," Mingi said, he himself not entirely sure of what exactly Yeosang had done. He flicked his hand again.

"You asshole!" The girl screamed, flames in her eyes. Mingi raised his eyebrows and admired his handiwork of adrenaline. She yanked the boy's necklace backward so that the chain clung tightly to the boy's neck. "You fucking cunt," she bellowed and pulled the chain as hard as she could. Mingi saw an opportunity and took it. He wasted no time to flick his hand again and the boy's head came off of his shoulders with a superhuman yank of the necklace from the girl.

Shocked bystanders began rushing towards the girl and pulling her away as she began to stomp on his decapitated head and scream swears at his corpse. Some were holding her back and others were trying to soothe her, but Mingi wasn't sure that was possible anymore. He smiled.

"Nice job," Yeosang and Mingi murmured to each other, amused at the scene they had created. Mingi had taken off his sunglasses. This was infinitely more entertaining to pay attention to.

"It'll go into the books," Yeosang said casually and began to walk away from the scene. The girl's yelling and screaming was a noise to behold. He was sure Hongjoong would want to know about it once they were all through the market.

"Decapitated by Cupid's machete," Mingi said, and followed him away from the lovestruck wreckage and further into the black market's depths.

The final pair of occults from the team entered the market. Again, there was another member with a blue robe and big eyes that showed his youth. They sparkled with a child-like glamor, but the glamor was of malice rather than wonder. The tall one beside him was in all black.

Jongho was a spirabic like most of the rest of the team and was their newest recruit. Only two months ago he had been at school and had genuinely enjoyed school, unlike the rest of them that had attempted academia. His power was something Hongjoong had never seen, so he had made it his priority to claim Jongho for his own when he first heard about his power and potential. When part of the team had arrived to meet him disguised as scouters for a more specialized school for talented spirabics, he was lowering the heart rate of a sleeping patient in the school's infirmary.

He had greeted them with bright eyes and a smile that could melt anyone. "You're the recruitment school, are you not?" He said politely, his dark hair fluttering as he nodded his head in greeting.

"Jongho, have you ever killed anyone?" Hongjoong said without preamble. The rest of the spirabics that were with Hongjoong - Mingi, Wooyoung, and San - shuffled in surprise to hear how upfront he was.

Jongho's eyes widened like he had been slapped in the face. "No!" He cried, putting a hand over his mouth. But Hongjoong watched as his eyes began to flicker around the infirmary. They were the only ones there. Incrementally, his body began to lose tension and he stepped backward to feel the consciousness of the sleeping patient.

"No," he had repeated, his eyes darkening. "But I want to."

And now Jongho had killed dozens already as a new member of the team with his power of manipulating bodily vitals. Lowering heart rate for restful sleep had turned into stopping hearts. Healing lungs had turned into snatching the air from them for a quick death. Even when Jongho had just joined their team to make them eight, Yunho had still seen bits of humanity in his eyes. It had made his eyes bright and gave illumination to their group of darkness and treachery. There was no light in them as he twitched his fingers and a nearby merchant was dead before he hit the floor.

"Nice," Yunho murmured.

"He had a bad heart anyway," Jongho said idly, shoving one hand in his long coat pocket and slipping a silver chain from the dead man's stand into another pocket.

Yunho reveled in the sight of dead bodies. His interest in them was not only because he relished in killing, but because he himself was a manipulator of the dead. Being a mortuumic, Yunho was even more rare than Yeosang's brand of corpic. He was also much more feared and despised by other occults of any kind. He had been an obvious choice for Hongjoong's team - no school wanted a boy that could animate their dead loved ones like a mad puppeteer. Hongjoong had looked in his general direction and Yunho was more than happy to be of use and join him.

"I know what we can do," Jongho muttered to Yunho as they slithered through the packed crowds. "I know what would be fun." He nodded to what Yunho thought was the dirtiest and most disheveled homeless man he'd ever seen in his life.

"Him?" Yunho said, raising his eyebrows. The usual plan when Jongho and Yunho were together was to murder and then reanimate a person. They had done it a few times already with success, such as robbing a villager's shop with his deceased brother's body a month back. Yunho didn't need to wonder if that was their plan for this homeless man - it was a given. But he was shocked when Jongho quickened his pace towards the homeless man and knelt down before him in a kind gesture.

"You're probably hungry," he said in a soft voice that was unlike him and took out a piece of bread from his pockets. He held it out to the homeless man and gave him a sweet look. The man's face broke into a smile so large that it cracked the dry skin around his mouth - he had not smiled in a long time. His graying hands stole the bread from Jongho's hands and he was eating it not even a second later. Yunho was surprised to see that the bread wasn't laced with poison and he hadn't dropped dead immediately.

"Why?" The homeless man croaked after he had finished his meal, looking at Jongho with wide eyes. "You are a man of silk and wealth. Are you a God come to aid me?"

Jongho's eyes shimmered, and Yunho wasn't sure with what. "Yes," he said softly, then pulled out the silver chain he had stolen only minutes ago. "Take this, sir. I only wish to see you happy for the rest of your life."

The man burst into tears as his calloused fingers rubbed the fine chains. He couldn't speak, but his body shaking with sobs and how he held the chain was telling of how much he appreciated the gesture. Jongho stood up and dusted off his blue robe, the man sobbing at his feet like he was Jesus. And he almost did look like him; in that moment, his soft and regal eyes reflected the good deed he had just done and his robe yielded a commanding yet gentle presence that did make him seem kingly. But Yunho knew better than to think that this was all Jongho had planned. Yet, he was still confused by his teammate's actions.

Yunho opened his mouth to ask Jongho what his plan was exactly when the sobbing suddenly stopped. Yunho's eyes darted to Jongho's hands immediately and saw they were in a fist shape. The homeless man was writhing on the ground, clutching his chest like his heart was about to burst from his body. Then he was motionless, his eyes devoid of the light that had been brought into them by Jongho's kindness. Jongho's eyes glimmered again, then he locked eyes with Yunho, a smirk dancing across his lips.

"Now, I pass the torch to you," he said softly.

And it now clicked as to why Jongho had done what he had done. Yunho had a fear that even during those first few seconds of the homeless man's death, someone in the busy market would have noticed. But Jongho had turned the focus to himself by being a samaritan for the man, and unless closely inspected, it appeared that the man was too happy over his recent fortune to be able to stand up. His delirious smile was still etched onto his face, commanded by Jongho's statement that he would be happy for the rest of his life.

But it was now Yunho's turn to show off. While Jongho could manipulate the living, Yunho commanded the dead. His eyes flickered with rapture and he lifted his hands in a gesture he had done a thousand times. He acknowledged the presence of the man's still heart, and then, carefully, let it beat.

It was a soft and slow beat, not a rhythm that any human could live by. But it was enough to flood bits of pink to his cheeks, hands, and neck to make him appear a little more alive. Yunho felt the man's legs, arms, and chest, then willed him to rise in a flourish of necromancy. The man stood, his smile now relaxed and natural. He swung his newly acquired silver chain in his hands and gave a wild grin to Jongho like he had just said a humorous joke.

Yunho wasted no more time on showing off his talent of necromancy. He flicked his arms and the homeless man took off running through the market with that joyous grin on his face that Jongho had given him, attracting attention from everyone who passed him. "Stole it!" He proclaimed, lassoing the chain around his head. Yunho whirled his finger and the man did a flying leap before snagging a bottled glass potion from a nearby table and nearly running over a toddler toddling in the street. The salesman shrieked, and soon the homeless man was being chased by multiple shopkeepers as he kept stealing trinkets and trophies off of stands and tables.

Jongho watched the entire spectacle with a bored expression. "Cheer up," Yunho whispered to him and flicked his arm. The man did a pirouette. "I haven't even gotten to the fun part yet."

The scene of the homeless man running gleefully with an armful of black market treasures while a stampede of angry shoplifters on his heels was a sight to behold. A shopkeeper was approaching him rapidly though, so Yunho decreased the homeless man's speed so that he could catch up.

"You thieving fuck," the shopkeeper growled before grabbing a hold of the man's shirt collar. On cue, Yunho dropped his hands and the homeless man dropped to the ground with them, dead as he was when Jongho had first halted his heart.

The shock on the shopkeeper's face was indescribable. "He's dead," he cried, but his voice was swallowed up by the squabbling shopkeepers that had raced close behind him, now circling the dead man to reclaim their belongings. It didn't seem to matter that their thief was a corpse on the ground, not when there were still living customers to be served.

Yunho grinned with pleasure. Jongho nodded to him. "Nice," he said, giving a small clap. "What a scene. A true spectacle. I would have paid money to see that."

"Then what a treat that it was free," Yunho smirked. He straightened himself and yawned. "And now, we can get ourselves out of here."

Yunho and Jongho walked out of the black market and found Hongjoong first, San mulling around behind him with a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. "We had a fun time," Yunho shared, and Jongho nodded his head in agreement.

"I was called a God by a homeless man," Jongho bragged. "Before I killed him, of course."

"We also had our fair share of fun," Hongjoong grinned and looked at San. "We met a royal merchant. San gave him some painful blood clots."

"Sounds absolutely riveting," Yunho smiled.

Seonghwa came up from behind them with a smug look plastered across his face. "I mostly strolled around, but I killed a boy with lettuce," he said casually.

Wooyoung was carving intricate patterns into a suspiciously shiny bone using his fingers. "And I broke someone's leg."

Yeosang and Mingi emerged from the market, smiling like they had just won the lottery. "And we decapitated a guy," Mingi said with cheer, giving a thumbs up to his team.

The eight of them looked at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter, Seonghwa holding onto his stomach and Wooyoung bent over while he howled.

"That was fun," Wooyoung exclaimed. "The most fun at a black market that I've ever had."

"If only causing trouble was ever that easy or entertaining," Yeosang mused. "It's hard to conceal what you're doing to someone out in the open. The crowds made it so easy to go unnoticed."

The eight of them chatted about their experience in the market, from the nonexistent cleanliness to the terrible and fake items being sold. Seonghwa was ready to go onto a long tangent about the utter disrespect he witnessed for many different types of plants when Hongjoong held up his hand and silenced him.

"I must remind you all that our journey isn't over just yet," he said, his eyes hovering over all of them with a look that only leaders possessed. "We're not yet in possession of our medical supplies."

"Or the botany," Seonghwa reminded him.

"Or the botany," Hongjoong added. "And it may sell fast. Therefore, we cannot waste any more time on trivial talks. At least, not just standing here." His hands went to the flute on his side and he slid it out of its case. "You all go forward. I will be right there."

The others knew what Hongjoong was going to do. They parted from him, and Hongjoong put the flute to his lips. He then blew, and a soft, airy note rose out of the instrument, not unlike the one he had played when they had first arrived on the other side of the market. The note was the team's farewell to the market. But it was also a haunting reminder that they would be back at the market on their return trip, obsessed with the science of pain like moths to a flame.

[daisylore-au]

RED DREAMS EVENT - PART 2 (7)

didn't count the votes but a vast majority of them were to keep walking and ignore karl, so let's go with that !! let's see daisy, shall we? :D

warnings: bug imagery (brief), horror themes, implications of past torture/abuse, guilt

You don't turn around. You don't dare to. You can tell the difference between Daisy's dreams and this reality now - you can hear the musical artificiality in Karl's voice, know that's not your Karl, or any version of Karl you want to run into. His voice skitters like spiders over the hairs on the back of your neck and makes your head hurt. Instead of turning round, you tighten your hands into fists, and stay close to Darian, who walks by figments of fragmented spiders and skeletons without flinching.

“That’s not Karl behind you, by the way,” he tells you matter-of-factly, “that’s who you hear, right?”

You frown. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“I hear someone else,” Darian admits, and something bitter changes his voice, “and the person I hear is long dead. Don’t turn around. It’ll attack you, and even I can’t save you from that.”

You swallow your protests, ignore the urge to turn around, and pretend you don’t hear the guttural snarl that comes from behind you when you get further away. Fuck. Fuck, you miss Karl and Sapnap. You miss Helga and James. You miss your own time.

 "Can't you find anywhere else to keep Daisy?" You ask, but it comes out quiet. "Look at this place. This isn't any place to keep a kid."

"It isn't any place to keep anyone," Darian returns casually, dark eyes flitting to you knowingly in a way that makes you squirm, "but she doesn't even know where she is. She's too deeply asleep."

He pulls a lever to lower an iron wall - there used to be lava there, you reminisce tiredly, you're too fucking old for this - and it creaks down inch by inch, revealing the same little cell, glitching now, and overgrown with ivy and dream flowers, barred up on all four sides. Your heart squeezes in your chest. You remember how small Dream used to look in there, back in the old days. You wonder how George is coping, knowing his kid is in the same place his best friend had been.

"Cross with the bridge," Darian instructs patiently, "and yell me when you want out. Remember, don't pay attention to any memories, and-" He pauses, looking deeper into you, so deep that you're not sure he's even talking to you. "Chat, don't do anything stupid."

He turns away with a wry smile, twisting another lever.

"Easier said than done for you guys, I guess."

And then before you can ask what that means you're moving, stumbling to stay on the platform and feeling remarkably out of practise for someone who had done this for two straight years. Dizzy and nauseous, you get off the other end and see stairs leading up to the top of the cell - without the lava, it's safe to head up them, brushing off vines that snake round your legs and flowers that wind in your hair. They're dreams, you remind yourself, Daisy's dreams: they can’t hurt you. Daisy won’t hurt you.

(Right?)

You’re not prepared for what you find inside.

There's a bed in the prison now. A red one, red blanket draped over a small, unmoving figure in the bed, chest shallowly rising and falling. The room is filled with withered plants and dying flowers, and the lingering smell of roses is strong enough to make you cover your mouth and nose to avoid breathing it in. It burns the back of your throat like poison.

“Daisy?” You murmur.

(You barely recognise her.)

She won’t wake, you know that, but you can’t help but hope. Heart hammering thickly in your chest, you take a couple of tentative steps into the room, aware of the blinking red light in the corner that tracks your every move. Darian is being careful. Focusing back on Daisy, you try to force a smile on your face, pained, uncertain.

“Daisy,” you call out, “Daisy, c’mon, it’s time to wake up. You have to wake up.”

She doesn’t move. For all intents and purposes, ignoring the faint shallow breathing, Daisy looks dead - everything around the cell is dying, from dying plants to withered objects to bloodied weapons and the bubbling of lava that no longer exists. You force yourself to take a deep, deep breath: freaking out and getting trapped in the past isn’t going to help anyone. You need to calm down.

The room glitches violently around you, and you and Daisy are the only things that don’t. It hurts, though - your body cries out in protest as the ground cracks under your feet, and the hiss and snarl of someone (something) nearby tells you Daisy’s dreams are very quickly morphing into nightmares the longer you stay - and despite that, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

Fuck, it’s been so long since you’ve been back in the prison. Everything about it feels so wrong - you’d sworn never to set foot in another prison, and here you are in the one you started with. The prison seems to sense it too: with every breath you take, you feel the walls closing in on you, claustrophobia worming around inside your mind. You can’t let this happen. You have to stop it from happening.

What had happened to turn Daisy into this? And what the hell can you do to stop it?

A rumble sounds across the room. The red light on the camera glitches and disappears. Out of the corner of your eye, a figure appears, hovering ominously at the very edges of your vision. Its wings span the length of the cell.

...Somehow, it looks even more real than you do.

[ you have 15 minutes (until 7:30pm bst) to decide what to do !! ]

1. FOCUS ON DAISY.

2. FOCUS ON THE RUMBLING.

3. FOCUS ON THE FIGURE.

4. YELL TO GET OUT.

[honalele]

For Blood

The dull sound of rain and thunder kept Techno awake. He stared up at the cave’s ceiling from his cot and counted the amount of times the water droplets fell from its cracks. He held a pocket knife in his right hand and rolled it between his fingers in heavy contemplation, trying to keep the voices in his head calm and quiet. However he couldn’t help but catch the whispers of a few distinct voices that had been with him for as long as he’d known blood.

Danger. Escape. Run.

He knew they were speaking about the raid on Saint Charity’s tomorrow. It had been pushed back a couple times this week, but Captain Peirce said that tomorrow morning was the official day. It would be simple. Sneak into town, attack the withers, save the village. They’d done it over a thousand times before, but something about the night was causing the voices in Techno’s head to go berserk.

He twisted the pocket knife and gave it a toss, but before he could catch it himself a hand from out the shadows intercepted it. Techno looked to his right to see his friend’s smile glowing in the shadows of the den.

“Can’t sleep?” Phil asked with a knowing smile. Techno paused, then threw his legs over the side of the cot and gave Phil some room to sit down next to him. Phil pulled his wings in and took the seat. “What’s wrong?” He sighed. Techno wasn’t too sure how to voice his concerns. There was no reason for him to be worried about tomorrow. Their company had delt with many wither hoards before. Each soldier had memorized their fighting patterns and the stats on villager casualties had been going down for weeks. Still, he couldn’t brush off the feeling that something was wrong.

Blood for the Blood god.

A child’s voice rose above the rest. The voice of a small boy that had been stuck with Techno for as long as he could remember. He was becoming louder and more thirsty for fresh blood. Human blood. With Phil’s help, Techno managed to keep the voices quieter than they’d been in years, but during the past few weeks, they’d been growing noisy and difficult to ignore.

“It’s the rain. It’s keeping me up.” He said. Phil let out a snort.

“Afraid of a little thunderstorm are we?” He shouldered Techno playfully. Techno grinned in response and turned his gaze to the cave floor. In all honesty, Phil should’ve been more worried about the rain than Techno considering he couldn’t fly in it. Then again, the guy was like a one man army on his own, so a bit of bad weather wasn’t going to stop him from doing what needed to be done.

Techno also knew that Phil wasn’t one to prod. From the day they first met at the Eastern front, they had a connection. Phil actually saved Techno from being discharged where he would have been sent back home and hung for his crimes. Luckily, the “Angel of Death” held a decent amount of authority when it came to influencing the general’s decisions. Techno would always remember the first thing Phil ever said to him.

“Never in the thousands of years I’ve been alive have I seen a reflection such as yours.”

From that day on, the two became inseparable. They understood each other in ways that few people could. They were both outcasts. Phil belonged to a rare and elusive class known as elytra. A nation that had crumbled centuries ago. The few that survived were either hunted down and killed, or captured and used as weapons in the King’s army. While he was technically immortal, Phil was lucky to have survived for as long as he did. As for Techno, the military was his last resort. He was born cursed.

Blood for the Blood god.

“You know, I gave Will a pocket knife like this one. Before we were separated.” Phil said, interrupting Techno’s thoughts. Techno turned to see Phil looking at the pocket knife with a soft and sentimental expression on his face. “I told him that if I wasn’t going to be there to protect him, he’d have to do it himself.” His voice was low and quiet as he flipped the knife open, looking deeply into its reflective surface.

Phil often spoke highly of his son Wilbur. The guy was leading some sort of revolution in the Dream Kingdom. A project he called “L’Manburg”. Phil would sometimes share the letters they sent to one another with Techno, but recently the messenger crows were coming back empty handed.

“Have you heard from him at all this week?” Techno asked. Phil shook his head.

“Not since he wrote to me about his new project, Pogtopia. He sounded so optimistic, but it’s been weeks since I last heard from him. I’m beginning to worry…” Phil’s voice trailed off and his brows furrowed with worry. He was silent for a few moments before closing the knife and handing it back to Techno. “I’m sure he’s just busy leading his countries.” Phil was usually hard to read, but he had a huge blind spot when it came to his son. Techno took it upon himself to make sure that no one ever took advantage of that blind spot.

Techno fiddled with the knife for a bit. He glanced at Phil who reached up and tucked a piece of his blonde hair behind his ear revealing a small brown feather that was tied into a braid. Techno lowered his gaze and thought about his next words carefully.

“You’ve already told me the pocket knife story and it doesn’t end with your last words to Will. It ends with that feather in your hair.” Phil shot Techno a look of warning. Techno knew it was a sensitive topic, but he persisted. “You told him to protect himself, and that’s what he did. Those wings that he sent you all those years ago, they were proof of your son’s strength. Wilbur is capable of handling anything the world throws at him. I believe he’ll write again soon, and the crows will sing when he does.” Phil’s gaze melted into sentiment, and even though Techno could see the uncertainty in his eyes, Phil nodded in agreement.

The two fell into silence for a while longer before Phil patted Techno’s shoulder and suggested that they both get some sleep before the raid. Techno nodded and watched as Phil walked back to his cot. Techno looked up at the ceiling of the cave once again. It was still raining and thundering outside. He reckoned it was only a few hours before the raid. A voice from the back of his mind rose just above the waterfall of water droplets outside,

No mercy.

Techno silently got up from the cot. He turned around and knelt so that his elbows were rested on the bed. He pulled a medallion out from under his shirt. It was engraved with the symbols of the gods. One side was etched with a pyre, the symbol for life. The other, a skull, the symbol for death. It was his only token from home. Techno rubbed the medallion between his fingers before letting it hang from his neck and lifting his hands up towards the sky to pray for sleep. Phil wasn’t the religious type, but Techno strongly believed in the works of ancient gods. They came through for him more often than not, and for a man living his life on the run, he needed as much help as he could get.

As Techno went over the prayer in his mind, the voices started to fade into a distant echo along with the flooding rains. His senses grew intimate with the near surroundings, allowing his mind to settle in the comfortable darkness of the cave. After the prayer was finished he stuffed the medallion back under his shirt and quietly climbed into bed. He pulled himself under the covers and focused on the warmth and security that the old sheets brought him. He closed his eyes and was finally able to drift into a deep dreamless sleep.

…

“… bastards we have… get up mongrels.” The noise of the Captain’s voice fell in and out of Techno’s mind as he slowly woke up. Then, his eyes snapped open at a clash of thunder and sound of rushing rain. It was still incredibly dark and he could see from the entrance of the cave that the moon was far from setting.

Techno forced himself to sit upright. He spotted the Captain three cots down ripping the blankets off some poor sap’s bed.

“Children, the lot of you. Up.” His voice was like nails on a chalk board, giving Techno a head ache. He was almost worse than the voices that already occupied Techno’s mind.

Techno glanced in the direction of Phil’s cot. Phil was putting his boots on and also watching the Captain’s display of morning furry. Phil turned to Techno and smiled. They shared a moment of silent amusement from across the room before continuing to prepare for the raid.

“Those skeletons aren’t going to slaughter themselves. You’d all better be at your posts within the hour.” The Captain fixed the cuff of his jacket before turning to leave. Techno noticed how the man side-eyed Phil, but it was only for a split second before he left the cave. Techno wondered what interest the Captain had in one of his oldest and most loyal soldiers. However, he decided that it must’ve just been his imagination and put the odd gesture out of his mind as he slid on his heavy-weighted chest plate.

The group left the cave in cautious pairs. No one wanted to give away the location of the entire fleet, so going in pairs was the stealthiest and most strategic move.

“Ya ready?” Phil asked in a much too cheerful tone. Techno finished tying his sword’s sheath to his belt and nodded. The two of them headed out of the cave and into the waterlogged fields of the Eastern front. The dark morning was made even darker with rainclouds covering almost every inch of a still starred sky. The mud was heavy and wet under his boots. Techno felt the sinking squish with every step. Perhaps instead of sleep, he should have prayed for better weather.

It wasn’t too long into their journey that the village of Saint Charity’s started coming into view. Though the heavy rain made it difficult to see, Techno sensed an eerie silence around the village, as if a witch had come and enchanted it with a mystical sleeping spell. He would have dismissed it for the lingering’s of a fearful evacuation, but something felt out of the ordinary about the place.

“Be careful now.” Phil spoke just loud enough for Techno to hear him over the downpour. “The wither skeletons could be anywhere.” Techno nodded and fell in step with Phil as they closed in on the first building at the edge of Saint Charity’s.

It was a shabby little stable that was barely even attached to the main road. There was only one horse tied up to a post that stood underneath a depressingly drooped awning. It looked like it was asleep, so Techno and Phil made sure not to disturb it as they snuck past and onto the main road into town.

The deeper they ventured into the village, the more houses there were, each bigger than the last. They’d eventually make it to the heart of Saint Charity’s where they spotted a large water fountain dressed in alters of soul sand. Techno and Phil shared a worried glance. They’d come across villages in the past that had taken on an almost cult-like belief in the so called “godliness” of withers. Some would even go as far as using alters to summon “the supreme”. Unlike the state, those people didn’t see these creatures as dangerous weapons. Instead they viewed the wither species as something celestial, given to earth by the gods.

Phil and Techno kept moving through the creepy abandoned streets of Saint Charity’s. There were no signs of life, nothing human, nor wither. The only sounds they heard besides the cascade of rain was the occasional slam of a pair of shutters from somewhere off in the distance.

“This is getting a bit creepy.” Phil commented. Techno remained silent and tried his best to take in his water-soaked surroundings.  

Suddenly Techno caught a whiff of something stale, almost metallic. He shifted his gaze towards the ground which was a mixture of cobblestone and mud, but he noticed that there were quite a few dark puddles that speckled the area. Techno bent down and dipped his fingers into one. It was blood. Human blood.

Blood for the Blood god!

The voices in his head started to scream. He could hear Phil asking him what was wrong, but his friend was quickly becoming muffled and distant.

Human sacrifice! No mercy! Let us have blood!

The voices were cheering as loud as a stadium. Techno pulled his hands up to his ears and begged them to stop. He could already feel the blood rushing and pumping through his veins as the memories of those children in the orphanage came rushing back.

You can never go back! Blood god needs blood!

They shouted in chorus, as loud as a bell bouncing around the inside of his mind. They infected his thoughts and bit his brain like snakes and spiders. Their venom seeped into his mind causing him to go blind and deaf to all of his surroundings. Everything was red and hot. Techno himself was rage filled. He hadn’t felt motivation like this in years.

Blood for the Blood god! Blood for the Blood god! Kill! Kill! Kill!

Suddenly his back was slammed against a wall and his throat was being crushed. Techno’s vision faded from blood red to a grey reality. Phil was holding him against a wall. His sword was unsheathed and so was Techno’s. They were both breathing heavily and Phil’s right cheek was bleeding from a fresh cut. Techno dropped his sword and clung to the hand that was clenching his neck.

“Phil-” was the only word he could manage. Phil’s furious gaze was unwavering.

“You said it was under control.” He said through gritted teeth. Techno looked down at the sword and then back at Phil. He did have it under control. He’d been around human blood before and was able to keep the voices down. Why now? Why was it happening again now?

The fire in Phil’s eyes shrunk to a smaller flame, but his grip on Techno’s neck tightened. He quickly leaned into Techno’s right ear and whispered, don’t attack me again, before letting him go. Techno allowed for his knees to buckle as he gulped down the humid air. He wasn’t sure of what he did, but if it gave away their location or threatened Phil in any way, Phil had every right to be this upset.

As Techno reached for his sword, he heard shouting from a few houses down. Despite the sudden tension between the two of them, Phil gestured for Techno to stay close, and together they made their way towards the screaming.

When they came up to the house, Phil tried to open the door, but it was locked. Without hesitation he broke the door down and headed inside with Techno on his heels. They quickly took in the scene. There were six wither skeletons. Four of them were running rampant while the other two tormented a women who was hiding for her life inside a closet with it’s door nearly ripped to shreds.

Phil pulled a knife from his belt and threw it straight into the back of the first wither’s head, then sprinted forward and took on the second one with his sword. Techno took this as a sign to go after the other four on his own, or at least distract them long enough for Phil’s assistance. He raced to one side of the room and sliced a skull off the first wither he came into contact with. It’s glossy tar-like eye sockets faded into empty black pools as it tumbled to the floor. The other three hissed at him violently. Techno plunged his sword into the exposed ribcage of the one to his right and kicked the one coming to his left. He tried to pull his sword out of the skeleton on his right, but it was jammed. The fourth skeleton was coming straight for him, so he decided to abandon the sword and shove his full bodyweight onto the menacing creature. It bit at his arm, but his armor kept it from puncturing his skin. He threw the beast off him and ran into the kitchen. He picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the wither with so much force that it broke on impact, leaving the skeleton in a hissing mess on the floor.

Techno reach for his short sword with one hand, and pulled out his pocket knife with the other as one of the remaining withers collected itself and came charging towards him. Techno caught it by the throat with his short sword and shoved it up against a nearby pantry. He stabbed its skull with his pocket knife and watched as the life drained out of its eye sockets along with one final hissing breath.

Then, searing pain exploded from his back side, causing him to drop his weapons. Techno turned to see one of the withers blasting its hot ash on him. He tried blocking it from his face with his arm, but the smoldering black dust tore at his armor and burned the tips of his ears. He tried reaching for his weapons, but couldn’t manage under the creature’s broiling breath. Suddenly, an arrow from the living room zipped into the wither’s skull. Its breath of hot ash died with a searing hiss and its towering body of black bones crumbled to the floor. Techno turned to see Phil in the living room standing over two more dead withers, his eyes bright with the excitement of death and war.

There was one final wither left. The one Techno had tried to stabbed in the heart. Phil was about to shoot the pitiful creature as it rolled on the floor in agony, but Techno ran out in front of it and put a hand up to Phil’s loaded bow. He turned to the creature and kicked it over so that its ribcage was exposed. The wither hissed at him and tried to breathe hot ash in defense, but it was far too wounded, and the ash fell out of its jaw like black foamy sand.

Techno reached down and pulled his sword out of its ribcage in one mighty heave. Then, he leaned in closely and spotted from within the thicket of ribs, a black heart, bleeding purple from the small cut he made earlier. Now that he had clear aim, Techno shoved his sword back into the skeleton and properly stabbed its heart. The wither coughed and hissed, and the light died from its skull just like it had the others. Then the creature went still. Techno pulled his sword from its chest and sheathed it as the wither’s body dissolved into a waterfall of dust before his eyes.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white cotton pouch he’d made from an old shirt. He bent over to the pile of black dust and sifted through it until he found the wither’s skull, completely undamaged. He placed it in the pouch and then stood up and tied it to his belt before turning around to see Phil helping the woman and her child out of the closet.

The child must’ve been no more than ten years old. Her light brown hair was mangled and she clung a small teddy bear close to her chest. She spotted Techno, her eyes wide and gawking. She shuffled close to the mother and clung tightly to her leg.

“Do you know what happened here?” Phil asked the mother in a soft tone. He made sure to only speak just above a whisper. “Everyone in this village should have been evacuated and yet here you are, and there are puddles of human blood outside.” He said quietly.

“I don’t know. We were here, and there was screaming outside, and they came in, and I don’t know.” The woman was on the brink of tears.

“Please, you must know something, anything?” Phil’s voice remained gentle and quiet.

“I’m sorry. We hid as soon as we heard them.” The woman pulled her child in close and leaned forward to whisper something to Phil that Techno could just barely make out. “My husband was out there.” The room went silent as quiet tears fell from the woman’s face. Techno watched as Phil looked down at the child and then crouched so that he was at her eyelevel.

“You were very brave. How old are you?” Phil asked, and the girl silently held out eight fingers. “Eight? That’s a big number.” Phil said in feign shock. The girl squeezed her bear and pointed at Phil’s wings. Phil smiled. “Do you like them?” He asked. The girl let go of her mother’s leg for a moment and stepped forward. She slowly reached out and gently stroked Phil’s right wing. Techno noticed Phil trying his best to remain as still as possible, probably an attempt to avoid startling the girl. When she’d finished petting his wings, the girl smiled brightly and then ran back to her mother. Phil tipped his helmet to her and stood up to face the mother again.

Techno was glad that Phil was here to talk to the villagers. He’d seen the way people looked at Phil, as if he were an angel sent from the heavens to save them from the hellish withers. But for Techno, it didn’t matter what he did or who he saved, people always flinched when he walked by. They didn’t even try to hide their fear from him, children especially. As Techno passed the group and headed to the kitchen to gather his weapons, the little girl gawked at him again, not with the look of amazement and wonder she’d given Phil, but also not with a look of blatant fear. She looked at him with intrigue which was a first. It through him off.

Techno looked away and gathered his belongings. The pocket knife was lodged deep in the wither’s skull. He had to pull extra hard to get it out. Black sand flowed out of the wound and onto the floor. Techno looked into the reflective surface of the knife and was met with the harsh stare of his own monstrous red eyes staring back at him. He quickly closed it and shoved it into the palm of his hand.

When he looked back over at the mother and daughter, they were finishing up their conversation with Phil. He got up and walked over to them.

“…that’s why I think you’ll be safe here. Withers refuse to go near dead things, especially if the dead things in question are its own kind.” Techno came into earshot as Phil explained. Phil gave him an apologetic glance. He knew that Techno didn’t enjoy speaking to villagers for longer than they needed to.

“Anyway, we’d better get going.” Phil said. Then he reached for the woman’s shoulder in consolation and urged her to stay safe before leaving. Techno paused before following. He looked to the woman who’s expression was defensive and carrying subtle tones of horror. Then he looked down at the child whose expression hadn’t changed at all. He decided to copy what Phil had done and crouch down so that he was at her eye level.

She had such a young face of pure mind and imaginative thought. Blood so untainted, the gods could feed off it for months.

Blood for the Blood god.

The child’s voice whispered in his brain. Techno snapped open the blade of his pocket knife. He sensed the mother’s muscles tense, but the child remained still. A little girl whose father was out there, dead, or worse. Techno looked into the reflection of the blade one final time before closing it and handing it to the girl.

“For protection.” He said. The girl’s wide eyes stayed on Techno’s face as she carefully set her teddy bear on the floor near her feet. Then, she looked at the gift and cautiously took it into her small hands. Techno prayed that she would never have to use it. He looked up at the mother whose expression had changed from fear to plain confusion. Perhaps she wasn’t sure what to make of the creature before her. Was he a man, or just another exploitable weapon of the King’s army? Techno stood, and left the house without another word.

…

“Took you long enough.” Techno nearly jumped at Phil’s voice. He turned around to see his friend leaned up against the front of the house. Phil was giving him that horrible sympathetic smile.

“She needs it.”

“She’s eight.”

“And Will was how old in that story?” Techno smiled as Phil chuckled.

“Well, at least you’re admitting that you copied me back there.” Phil said with a sarcastic smirk. Techno looked down at the ground and smiled. This is how their friendship was. They kept each other in check when things got ugly, but they’d always have hope for one another. Phil was the only home that Techno had ever known. He was only good thing to come out of enlisting.

Danger. Quick. Leave.

Techno lifted his head and looked off to the center of town. The voices were telling him that something was wrong. They tried telling him last night, but he didn’t listen. He was beginning to believe them.

“We’ve been following the hoard of withers closely. Charting their movements and predicting their attacks. This village should’ve been on the evac list.” He said.

“It is weird. I wouldn’t be surprised if Captain douche fucked it up though. I have about as much trust in that man as I have in god.” Under any other circumstance, Techno would have at least snorted at the joke, but he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that something bad was about to happen. Phil shifted from his relaxed position on the side of the house.

“Come on. It’s bad to stand in one place for too long, especially in a downpour like this.” He said as he walked past Techno and headed into the center of town. Techno hesitated before following. He looked down at the mud soaked cobblestone path.

Run. Danger. Run!

Techno pushed the voices aside. If they were in some sort of danger, he needed to stay with Phil. They were meant to protect each other. He quickly caught up with his friend and together they fell in step. He noticed Phil eyeing Techno’s pouch.

“You shouldn’t have to go through all that trouble, and for what? Brownie points?” Phil said.

“I need the brownie points, you of all people should know that.” Techno replied.

“Yeah, but you still shouldn’t have to.” Techno wasn’t too sure he believed that. He’d done terrible things. He ran away from the consequences. He saved his tail and was now living with all of the guilt. Besides, his past made him reek of desperation. One false step and he could be court-martialed and killed.

You will die.

Techno shivered at the voice. It knew him too well. It knew his deepest secret and darkest fear. The fear that kept him up at night. The fear that motivated him to become a warrior in the first place. The fear of those dark angelic wings willing to carry him to the afterworld. Getting ‘brownie points’ was the least of his worries.

“It doesn’t matter.” Techno brushed off Phil’s statements. “You could help if you wanted you know? You’re a great shot.” He said, changing the subject. Phil snickered.

“Are you saying that I’m such a good shot, I could aim for the heart of a wither, one of the hardest shots in the history of combat, and make it?” Phil said in a greatly exaggerated tone of arrogance.

“No, you’re right. No one’s that good a shot.”  

“Really?” Phil asked. Techno stopped walking and Phil stopped with him. Techno watched as Phil pulled his own white cotton pouch out from the cover of his wing and tossed it to Techno.

“There were seven withers total. This one was hiding in the bathroom. Shot it from behind.” He said pridefully. Techno could hardly believe it. He wanted to thank Phil, but he was at a loss for words. As he stood there in shock, Phil casually nodded towards the creepy water fountain at the center of town.

“Let’s see if we can get a whole set, shall we?” He said with a malicious grin before running off in that direction. Techno doubted that they’d find anything, but if the raid was a bust and the only withers left were stragglers, he didn’t see the harm in taking time to collect one more wither skulls.

He tied the second pouch to his belt and raced after Phil towards the fountain. It seemed like they were the only ones in the area, and despite the blood on the ground, there were no bodies. It wasn’t Techno’s job to play detective, but a part of him wished he could investigate Saint Charity’s further to figure out what had actually happened.

The fountain was even bigger up close. The base of it had to be at least eight feet tall. The sides of it were painted with odd creatures and strange words, each contributing to some sort of violent scene. One of the paintings showed a man stabbing an animal that resembled a cat, then underneath it was a strange word, written in a language Techno couldn’t understand.

⍀⟒⎐⟟⎐⟒.

The next image below was of the same man walking his cat on a leash. Perhaps Techno was reading it backwards.

“This village is so weird.” Phil mumbled uncomfortably at the graphic image of the cat being stabbed to death. Techno nodded in agreement, but kept the fact that he’d stabbed a cat before to himself.

After a bit of sightseeing, the two started searching the ground for abandoned wither skulls. They walked all the way around the fountain, but came up empty-handed. Then, Phil climbed up onto one of the alters.

“What are you doing?” Techno asked.

“Getting a better look.” Phil said as he peeked over the side of the fountain. “Oh my god.” Phil’s face darkened and his eyes grew serious.

“What is it?” Techno called from the ground.

“I, uh, I found another wither skull.” Phil replied, his voice strained. Then, he pulled whatever he’d found floating in the fountain to its edge. “Look out.” He warned as a person fell to the ground. It was a man, dressed in robes like some sort of monk or priest. He was dead. His entire body was limp, and he smelled of piss and wounded flesh. The man wore a cord that went around his waist and was tied into a knot on his side. The wither skull was tied at the end of the cord and dangled just below the religious man’s knee.

Phil climbed down from the alter and placed the priest so that he was facing the sky. The man’s face was bloody and there was something sticking out of his eye.

Blood for the Blood god.

The voices whispered to Techno, but he was far too confused to pay them any mind.

“See this?” Phil said, pointing to the thing sticking out of the dead man’s eye. “That’s a piece of arrow. The rest must’ve snapped off when he fell from the top of the fountain I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” Techno asked. Phil looked up and pointed to the top of the fountain.

“There’s an alter up there.” He said, then turned around and nodded to one of the nearby houses. “Someone could’ve easily shot him from that roof.” Techno looked from the house to the alter on the fountain. It was possible.

“Why would someone shoot him?” He asked, but Phil had no time to respond as an arrow zipped six inches past his face and into the side of the fountain. Phil and Techno turned to see Captain Peirce along with a group of about thirty soldiers, standing before them, armed and on the offense.

“Because harboring weapons of mass destruction is considered treason.” The Captain called. Phil raised his hands up in surrender and slowly stood from his crouched position by the dead man. Techno was about to do the same, but decided to wait for an explanation.

“What is this?” Phil asked.

“King’s orders.” The Captain responded and fired another shot. He was either firing warning shots, or the heavy rain was ruining his aim. Based on the Captain’s scowl, Techno assumed the latter.

“What have I done?”

“I’m only taking orders elytra.” Peirce shouted over the roaring thunder. “But if you really must know, there are certain things you’ve forced your hand on.” The Captain flashed a quick glance at Techno before swiftly returning his focus onto Phil. “Such an unbalance of authority in the camps cannot exist. Besides, you and your kin have made your use, and now you must die.” Techno flinched at the Captain’s final statement.

You must die.

He fought the urge to jump up and rip the Captain apart with his bare hands. That bastard had it coming. He knew that Phil was the most powerful asset of the battalion, and yet he chose to do something as stupid as pull an arrow on him. Then Phil took a step forward.

“Stay where you are.” The Captain warned, but Phil kept moving. Techno watched as he slowly made his way to a nearby alter.

“Don’t I get a trial?” Phil asked.

“I suggest you yield.” The Captain responded in a firm tone and fired another failed shot.

Techno stayed near the body. None of the soldiers seemed to have an eye on him. He watched as Phil casually hopped up on the alter as if he were choosing to sit there with his arms in the air.

“Please Captain, don’t make me beg for my life. Doing so will only incur my wrath upon you.” It was difficult to make out the Captain’s face what with the dark morning sky and dreadful downpour, but Techno swore he saw the man smile.

“What wrath? You’re out numbered, bird.”

Techno finally understood what Phil was doing. He’d been stalling for time. Techno looked down at the wither skull attached to the Priest’s robes. He cautiously reached for it and undid the knots. Somehow, Phil had made him completely invisible to the other soldiers.

With all three wither skulls in hand, Techno slowly started making his way to the back side of the fountain. Once he was out of sight, he took each of the skulls and placed them gently on the soul-sand alter. A horrible hissing noise erupted as he placed the final skull. Techno quickly backed away and watched as a tornado of soul sand and dark ash tore through the air and spun around the wither skulls.

Techno had seen these kinds of withers summoned before, but he’d never done it himself or been so up close. Muffled voices of confusion and concern floated around the town center as the shrieking wither came to life before him. It was big, and much more frightening to look at than the ordinary wither skeletons. Its ribcage was mangled with an overabundance of bones that connected to a singular spine. Its ability to fly made up for its lack of limbs. Two of the wither skulls had been pressed and warped into the creature’s broad shoulders, and the third sat on its neck. Its body emitted a hot purple light from every pore and instead of plain dark pools of tar, each set of eyes glowed the ominous color.

Techno backed up and watched as the massive creature slowly turned around and came upon the small army. It made a horrifying screaming noise and the started blasting vast amounts of hot ash out of each of its three skulls.

“Stand your ground! Don’t-” the Captain was cut off by the wither’s attack. Techno watched as he pulled up his shield and tried to shout orders, but the other soldiers had already descended into panic.

Techno searched the chaos, trying to find Phil, but he failed to concentrate as he watched all of the soldiers, men whom he’d fought alongside for many months, some for years, being burned to death in front of his eyes.

Join. Kill. Blood for the Blood god.

Techno stumbled back as the voices attempted to take over his mind. He needed to find Phil.

Blood!

The voices only came back with a more vicious attack. All had joined in. His head was full of the noise, just like it had been that day back at the orphanage. All those years ago. He’d only been a child, but that was no excuse. Not for him. Because it happened again, and again; and it would’ve kept happening if he hadn’t joined the military. It would keep happening if he didn’t find Phil.

Blood god!

Techno placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and took a step forward as he felt himself get lost in the wave of a thousand voices. No one had seen him yet, they were all still busy fighting the wither. Very few of them would survive. Though men sodden in sin weren’t the gods’ preferred sacrifice, their blood would taste just as sweet. Techno let the voices boil over in his mind and unsheathed his sword. He gave into the anger that had been rotting deep in his belly for far too long. His muscles tensed in hot furry as he started making his way towards his first victim, the Captain himself.

Then, someone took his hand from behind. Techno twisted around and pulled his sword up to the man’s neck. It was Phil. His eyes were steady and his grip remained firm on Techno’s hand.

“Not now.” He said. Techno fought the fire inside, but his blade stayed on Phil’s neck. He could cut it open in one smooth movement and watch the blood flow like a red river down Phil’s chest. He would watch the pyre dim from his friend’s eyes and his body become cold and blue in a breathless death.

Conquer death. Kill the angel.

Techno remained still with his sword held on Phil’s neck. A glimpse of fear crossed Phil’s gaze that made Techno want to go for the kill, but it was gone in a blink and replaced with a warm and steady stare. Phil was no Angel of Death. He was a skilled fighter, a caring father, and a good friend. Techno fought hard to take the sword down, but eventually he was able to overcome the wave of voices and pull it away, placing it back in its sheath.

Phil didn’t waste any time. He quickly took Techno by the hand and lead him back into the shadows of a dark alley, away from the hectic sounds of death. The voices in Techno’s mind screamed in protest, but he forced them down and tried to focus on what needed to be done.

“Follow me.” Phil whispered, and the two of them raced into a maze of dark streets and black alleyways. They sprinted through the mud and rain, taking lefts and rights, trying to find the quickest way out of town. Then Techno started to recognize some of the houses. Phil was leading him back the way they’d come.

Run! Run! Run!

The voices screamed in Techno’s mind, and for once he agreed. Neither Phil, nor Techno could go back to the base. It was too dangerous. Techno wasn’t sure if Phil had a plan, but he trusted his old friend enough to continue following him.

As the two escaped the village and entered out onto the main road, Techno noticed the small stable from before. He smiled to himself as they ran. Phil planned for them to take the horse and outrun the tropes. They could be able to find another nearby village for supplies and then go from there.

As they came up to the stable, Techno looked for a saddle, but all he found was a dusty tarp. He accidentally startled the horse awake when he tossed it onto its back. He untied the horse’s lead and brought it out from under the awning. Phil helped boost Techno on first, then Techno lent out a hand to help Phil, but Phil didn’t take it.

“I can’t go with you.” He said shaking his head.

“What?”

“I’ll only slow you down.”

“Phil, they are going kill you.” Techno replied. “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

“No.” Phil grabbed Techno’s hand and placed something inside. “They will kill us both. This is your way out.” Phil said. Techno couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After everything they’d been through.

“You need to come with me.” Techno insisted. Phil shook his head and tightened his grasp on Techno’s hand.

“No, you need to find Will.” Techno was taken aback by the sudden mention of Will. “They’re not going to kill me, not yet. But you are not going to get another opportunity like this. I can make them think you’re dead.”  Phil’s tone was intense and his eyes were desperate. There was no reason for Phil to be this confident. He had to be keeping something from Techno. “Trust me.” Phil pleaded. Techno held Phil’s gaze. He couldn’t abandon him. Phil had been his best friend, his only friend for years. He was all Techno had. He was Techno’s home. Techno couldn’t let this be the last time they ever saw each other, but as he stared into the pleading eyes of the only man he trusted, he had faith that it wouldn’t be.

Techno swallowed the emotion lumping in his throat. He reached under his chest plate and tugged the medallion out from underneath. He pulled it over his head and handed it to Phil who took it carefully into his free hand. Phil let the skull and the pyre spin in the rain as it dangle from his fingertips. He knew how important it was to Techno.

“For protection.” Techno said. Phil’s eyes softened for a moment before growing serious again. “You can give it back to me when we see each other again, in L’Manburg.” Techno prompted. Phil placed the medallion around his neck and gripped it tightly. He nodded silently to Techno, his eyes bloodshot from holding back tears. Techno gave Phil’s hand one final squeeze before letting go. What Phil had given him was one of Will’s letters. Techno made sure that it was put safely away in his belt before commanding the horse forward, then he turned one last time and pointed at the medallion.

“I better get that back.” He said, and then galloped away, shoving the guilt and worry down with the cheering voices.

…

Status Report Full Report Eastern Front: Company #008 Company arrived in Saint Chastity’s at an estimated time of 0400hrs led by troop Captain Edgar Peirce. Company was attacked by class 1A wither. Company contained a total of 119 soldiers. Company left Saint Chastity’s with a total of fifty-six soldiers presuming a death toll of sixty-three. Eleven identifiable bodies, eleven unidentifiable bodies, forty-one missing bodies presumed burned to ash. No witnesses.

Presumed dead: Captain Edgar Peirce, Lieutenant Tate Tapia, Sargent Aran Curran, Privet Brogan Spencer, Privet Bryce Carson, Kyran Nichols, Reo Bone, Brendan Lin, Laith Dunkley, Kris Garner, Daryl Bowes, Vincenzo Montgomery, Shaan Ward, Presley Olson, Harlee Derrick, Winston Schmitt, Kohen Ewing, Cai Thomas, Andy Stott, Denny Harmon, Ammar Strickland, Charles Muntz, Mike Rudd, Luka Kaur, Technoblade, Paolo Laing, Joe Berg, Russell Chan, Peter Frazier, Torin Kelly, Martyn Collins, Harlow Bowers, Buddy Guerrero, Kiki Trejo, Timur Stewart, Jack Glover, Evan Marsden, Olly Avery, Amir Russo, Raj Miles, Eddy Moreno, Thomas Webster, Shelly Franco, Yaseen Acevedo, Seren Mclellan, Kynan Ferguson, Roma Park, Nola Mcgowan, Eesa Williams, Wasim Mcfarlane, Leon Randall, Joe Mama, Kit Holding, Gordon Ramsey, Pawel Bostock, Sylvester Nixon, Karl Simons, Shayne Mckinney, Aneurin Mckenzie, Robson Myers, Michael Finche, Sam Osborn, Philza Minecraft.

…

My dearest Will,

I’m not even sure you still read these.

I’ve sent someone to you. Perhaps he can help with whatever’s been keeping you from my letters. It’s my friend Technoblade. Yes, “the blade” as Tommy once wrote me, (thank you for restricting his writing privileges by the way).

I wanted to make sure that you received this letter before hearing the false news that Techno and I are dead. It was the only way out of the military, and if I can be honest with you, I didn’t expect to make it. I asked Techno to trust me, but I didn’t even trust myself. I thought I was going to die. I thought that sending Techno to you was the last thing I’d ever do. I’ve wanted for you two to meet for so long and I couldn’t risk Techno’s life with the bounty on mine.

Somehow, I made it. I did terrible things to get myself here, but I made it. And I’m coming to see you. I can’t wait to meet all of your friends and tour L’Manburg and Pogtopia. I’m sure you’ve done a wonderful job.

Please write back soon.

With love, Phil

[cuteboyhalo]

alright alright, demon culture thing because oh boy do i have a hell of a lot of it. most of it is written on paper because i communicate my thoughts easier on paper which means sometimes I just Cannot read my handwriting so apologies

ty to @discountskeppy for letting me ramble :]

demons used to live in the end but migrated to the nether because one did something to offend the ender dragon, however they didn't want to fight her so they fled instead. their relations are still considered good

they speak galactic, and it's similar to ender (the language endermen speak)

they live for a long time, and time can go by weirdly for them

they're considered extinct and all human sources of them living are biased against them. some do exist still, they just live under the lava far away from where others could find them.

they're fire resistant

3 forms- a true form, their normal form, and their human form.

the true one is anywhere from 6-14 ft tall and can have multiple eyes. they look less human and more creature like

their normal form is the one they usually walk around in. it can range anywhere from only vaguely humanoid to basically human passing depending on the demon

the human form is, of course, human looking. their ears and horns stay normal but the horns usually shrink. they typically have an additional trait that stays demonic, most commonly their tail or eyes.

for bbh it's his eyes, which stay a voidless white, and for sapnap it's his tail

demons looks depend on which biome they're from and so do their true forms heights

sapnap is half crimson forest half basalt delta. his horns look like deltas' but they have the vines and fungi covering them like crimson ones do, and his tail resembles the crimsons' ones more

bbh is full basalt deltas. his tail is less thin than sap's

they do have halos but usually they aren't visible

they can add stars to their halos. hunting withers is considered a sport to them and the more withers u kill, the more stars are on the halo

due to that most demons are just. totally chill whenever they see a wither

jewelry is an important part of the culture. jewels and gold are constantly worn on their horns.

marriages are common however most of the time they're platonic. nothing against gay demons bc in the nether homophobia doesn't exist

when proposing, they give their partner(s) a bouquet of wither roses and a wither skeleton skull. rings are exchanged after the ceremony and are always worn proudly and openly. to hide them was a sign u were uncertain abt the marriage, so it was looked down upon

when courting, knives with special inscriptions are given on the fourth date and only after that are they allowed to consider marriage

if a demon marries a non demon(s), their partner is immediately accepted into the family and given many gifts and usually introduced to demonic culture almost immediately as well. that's less a cultural thing and more just a common happening tho

quartz is a valuable material to them. when you give a demon quartz, it's like saying "I care deeply for you (in a family way, platonically or romanticly)" usually it's worn on their tails like a little bell. the more quartz, the more u care abt them

bad nearly just. died when he saw how much quartz skeppy was using for the mansion and sapnap had to explain to skeppy what it meant bc bad was too busy going "AAAAA"

[sunnydalebimbo]

i’m back because i love asking questions. what are your top 5 comedic buffy episodes

Sorry for taking so long to reply! I’ve been sick snd there’s been a long series of unfortunate events leading up to this point! This is a fantastic question (feel more than free, encouraged in fact, to send more)

1) Something Blue - Some highlights: “Spike and I are getting married!” “You hands smell like fruit roll ups” “Stop! I can here the smacking” “Look at my poor neck, all bare and tender. GILES!” “You’re getting married to a guy named Spike?” (“You’re the one who wanted Wind Beneath My Wings for the first dance” [everyone looks over] “it was the spell”) “Well it pinches” “A little blood of the innocent” “Do you want Spike or William the Bloody on the invitations? Because wither way it will look major league weird” “Mr and Mrs Big Pile of Dust” The scene with the cake toppers!!!

2) Tabula Rasa - I love nothing more than amnesia episodes. Some highlights: Randy Spike thinking he’s basically Angel and then Joan Buffy totally mocking Angel. Giles and Spike thinking they’re rather and son. THE HORRIBLE PAIRINGS OF THIS EPISODE. Goodbye to you 😭. The literal lone shark demon who wants kittens from Spike.

3) Band Candy - Highlights: Giles is SO HOT. Cop car sex. The feather boa. “Yo Summers you drive like a spaz”. Ethan fucking Rayne. Tales of Brave Ulysses by Cream. “Punch him again”. Xander eating all the chocolate and still being perfectly fine. The Louie Louie rendition from Willow’s shirtless doctor. SNYDER.

4) Pangs - Highlights: “You made a bear” “I didn’t mean to” “undo it! undo it!”. Xander’s funny syphilis. Buffy being upset Xander didn’t bring roles. “Can I have someone to eat”. “It’s true, he had trouble performing”. “Like living skeletons, mate”. Everyone thing Angel is evil. Xander spilling the Angel beans at the episode’s end. “An entire siege, thought one of you would bleed a little”. “Isn’t he tall and glowering”

5) Lover’s Walk - Highlights: Drunk Spike. The deeply annoyed Angel, Spike, Buffy triad. Angel being trapped under a door for a ridiculous amount of time. “Oh God, I think I’m sobering up”. The idea that Cordelia goes bowling. MINI MARSHMALLOWS!!! Spike making mock vamp faces behind Joyce while Angel freaks out.

Bonus, funniest Angel episodes:

Objectively these are both terrible choice, but I adore amnesia and body swap episodes.

1) Spin the Bottle - Angel hates the English, Fred is desperate for weed, Wesley is painfully awkward but with stellar physical comedy, Queen C is back and in business, Gunn is so tired of these people’s shit, and Lorne is once again tied to a chair. Need I say more?

2) Carpe Noctem - all I can say is: so horny. also the only message I got from this episode is that Angel is wasting his eternal hunk privilege

[her0brine]

do you have any headcanons for, like, little quirks or maybe small superstitions? (like maybe a lucky charm or if anyone refuses to do something because they would consider it unlucky)

• A typical irl ‘good luck charm’ such as a rabbit’s foot can be easily found in the MC universe, and it’s even more common to find, as many keep them around to sometimes use it in emergencies to create any potions of leaping if they need to! The dual functionality of being a potion ingredient and still a lucky charm overall makes this incredibly popular with more ‘exploratory’ Villagers and numerous Pillagers. Almost always a Wandering Trader will have at least one on them, and they also tend to keep differently colored fur or pattern variations to trade these internally amongst themselves.

• Cats are NOTORIOUSLY hard to befriend and tame, and thus if one were to warm up to you and even give you a gift, it’s considered to basically be a gift from the Universe itself! Rejecting a gift from a befriended cat is a huge no-no, and many believe if you do this, then you’ll be cursed with absolutely atrocious bad luck for MONTHS. Fortunately, getting befriended by or taming a black cat in this universe isn’t seen as bad luck.

• Nobody is really sure why, but staying out in the rain for longer than just a few minutes is seen as a MASSIVELY HORRIBLE MISTAKE, and essentially ensures that whoever stayed in the rain for too long will somehow pass in the next few days. This makes sense to say for Villagers, as any that are stuck by lighting when it rains are ‘miraculously’ gifted the ability to work with magic, but are quickly mentally corrupted and become evil towards their former kind. This superstition of the rain ‘cursing’ or ‘ensuring a upcoming death’ oddly enough can be found in Illagers as well! It seems like this odd superstition is one of the remaining fragments of their former historically old past of being part of Villager culture. In the present day, any attempt at researching to see if this superstition really does ensure somebody will die soon, just from being in the rain too long hasn’t been done yet, as no Cleric or Librarian are foolish enough to try it on themselves or force even a innocent Nitwit to do it.

• It is VERY taboo to mess with the dead in any sort of capacity, to the point where even sympathizing with basic zombies and their ‘plight’ is heavily frowned upon. This belief can be found across in essentially every single advanced mob society, except for of course, the undead mob societies (zombie piglins, wither skeletons, etc) and also Evokers/Witches who want to manipulate the undead to do their bidding. Humans are more so of a outlier, as sympathy for the undead is quite common, and concepts such as mercy killing to ‘free their soul’ is well documented in old journals and novels that were written ages ago by human scholars. Even though Steve for instance LOATHES even looking at the undead, they will still mercy kill any that comes across their path, and in certain times, they’ll even bury them in proper graves. (They also built a well maintained graveyard thats eerily close to their home, and the amount of filled up pet-sized graves in it is deeply concerning. There is also a freshly dug human-sized grave amongst the tombstones, that they probably don’t need to use..... hopefully.)

• Totems of Undying are..... complicated. It is widely believed that the totem’s ability to revive the recently diseased is far fetched as it hasn’t been properly documented to work on any sort of Villager, Pillager, nor Piglin, but supposedly it DOES work as intended on humans. However, as humans are incredibly rare and are borderline extinct in the MC world, this aspect of the totem has become forgotten over time, and instead these totems are now seen as a good luck charms in boosting the rate of recovery from a near-fatal injury. It is common to see them get stockpiled by Evokers, in which the majority of them do believe the supposed revival effects of these totem CAN work on their species, but all attempts so far have failed. Because of this, many non-evokers genuinely believe those totems are either deeply flawed or cursed, and it’s kind of seen to be a bad omen to hold onto one if you’re not magically inclined.

[bowieandqueen11]

I’m What’s Wrong / Jonas Kahnwald Imagine

Request: I was wondering if i could request a jonas kahnwald imagine ☺ maybe fluff and angst. Where jonas and the reader have like a thing and are falling for each other in the middle of all the conflicts, and jonas tells her that if he fixes everything he's going not going to exist anymore... and its all angsty and sad but fluffy and they kiss and its all romantic but angst 😂🙈 

Thank you for this request @sh4desofsadness, I’m so so excited for season 3 and to start getting out of my Dark requests! <3

I’m also tagging @tink-crash​ because you’ve always been so kind to me and I’m sorry I haven’t written for Dark in so long!

Warning, some strong language!

Comments are much appreciated!

As a child having the displeasure of growing up in Winden, you could only remember waking up in the middle of the night breathless, searching for the sun. For a light.

The darkness had always worried you. Enveloping, suffocating, filled with beasts and monsters banging against the phantom line between the bright and the dark you could never tell if were real or not. But after the last few weeks, you knew they were more real than most things in your life, whether you wanted them to be or not.

Standing in the middle of the Kahnwald’s kitchen, you pray to every God you can think of for letting Hannah Kahnwald be out at the moment. Mainly, because you couldn’t bear the stifling silence between the two of you in this house since Jonas disappeared a couple of days ago. Secondly, because the black gun hanging from your fingertips, you’re pretty sure, belongs to her. 

Backing away, you nearly cry as you drop the gun onto the table, afraid for a moment, as it spun towards you, that you had accidentally triggered it. However, for the moment, the only pain you feel is your back pressing into the dirt encrusted, tea stained counter, and the thumping of your heart against the back of your throat. Fumbling your fingers behind you until you come into contact with one of the Jonas’ chipped mugs, you cling onto the edge of the counter, staring at the mess in front of you. Wondering how in hell you ended up here, with your boyfriend missing, Mikkel disappearing, some strange man wandering around that you just couldn’t - wouldn’t - believe could be your Jonas. None of the pieces would smash themselves into place in your head.

So instead, you just stand there in shock, staring at the kitchen table that stands silently in the middle of the wooden floor. This kitchen table has seen every emotion, from the sweet silent happiness of family times when you used to come over for dinner: one of the rare times Michael would make an appearance and sometimes even cook, to the rage of lies and secrets that bursts out in these hardest times. The splinters of wood from beneath peaks through, shards tearing at the surface trying to break free. In this dark room, only the ticking of the wall clock had a relaxed feeling, as if it was waiting for its ticks to finally run out.

From where you stood, you hadn’t noticed a weathered figure place his key in the door and come back into his home. Under the relentless Winden heat that he had spent years oppressed under, the boy’s raincoat had come to weigh more than his creaking skeleton. The only words that passed his withered lips, as he stepped into the hallway and caught sight of you, was a cry. A desperate, distraught sound that broke your heart in two before you had even spotted him.

‘J-Jonas is that you? Can it be? H-how- you look so different-’

Jonas turned his head slowly to glance at his reflection in the murky kitchen window: all he could tell from what his bleary eyes managed to see was that his normally flat hair was more like a bird’s nest - long and shaggy and stuck up, running down his cheeks to meet his scar and tickle across the dirt flecks on his cheeks. He didn’t remember this happening. It was so hard to remember anything. 

Before you could even collect yourself, you’ve run forward and grabbed the lapels of his coat: the coat that was so blue and tarnished, like a midwinter night an hour before pitch dark, before the dying of the light. Yet even under your chilled fingertips the fabric was far from soft. The look in his eyes as you glanced up at him, clinging onto him like a desperate child and him reaching up to grab onto you twice as fervently, was one of total loss. Jonas Kahnwald had never felt so alone, so incapable of doing even the smallest tasks. And this was only the beginning, the beginning of the pain, the suffering and the endless cycle of events that he had unwittingly set into motion that would lead to your doom. 

He would be damned if he wasn’t going to stop it.

‘Y/n- I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do anymore. How to fix this - my mistake - what I did to my father, what I’ll do to you-’

‘Hey, who did this?’

Your fingers danced over a narrow pillow of milky white bandage just below his strict jaw, the pad of your thumb smoothed over the rope burn wrought into his neck. You fought the nervous swirls that braided in your stomach, trying to speculate about something alternate, but you couldn't undo the images that were embedded in your troubled mind. 

‘Who did this to you?’, you whisper, but he only grabs onto your hand and pulls it down until its resting against his stomach.

‘That’s not important, Y/n. I need to tell you now, right now, that I’m sorry.’

‘What on Earth for Jonas? You’re not Adam, not yet, and though I don’t really understand what’s going on, we’re going to fix this.’

‘That’s what I’m sorry for, Y/n. In order to fix all this - all this shit that I’ve caused - I need to die. I need to not exist anymore Y/n-’

‘But that’s not- that’s not true! That’s not possible! I’ve already bumped into an older version of you-’

‘And he needs to go as well Y/n! He’s just as much a part of the problem! That’s the point! I’m the problem, I never should have existed in the first place!’

His words, his words are harsh but god, his eyes are so different in moments like these, more soft than you knew eyes could be. 

‘I’m not leaving you to do this alone Jonas. This isn’t your fate, I know it isn’t.’

‘I- I can’t.’ 

His jaw quivers as he sighs out deeply, trying so hard to bite back the tears that well up in the creases of his eyes. He doesn’t do anything for a moment, just biting his tongue, until he shuts his eyes and leans his forehead down until it gently rests against the tip of your own.

‘I’ve tried so hard to save you. So hard Y/n. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but you’re only okay once I’m gone. I need you safe, that’s the only important thing to me-’

‘Older you said something like that as well, before he rushed off to god knows where. This time, this ‘cycle’, just let me actually help.’

He looks at you, daring to look with his tear stained cheeks before time freezes. He rushes forward, almost without thinking, and kisses you. For a moment there’s no apocalypse, no time machine, no death, no suffering. Just the feel of his lips desperately pressing against your own, a small gasp leaving them as you reach up and grab onto the fringes of his hair, the two of you never wanting to let go.

Eventually, however, you do have to pull away, your pulse racing as you choose instead to rest your chin against his. You can still feel his tears tumble against the coolness of your skin, a small lock of his hair tumbling down in front of your face, resting just in front of your cheek. With one swift slide of your thumb, it was brushed out of the way. He reached down again, your fingers locking together similar to puzzle pieces, and you gave the boy you loved the only comfort you could think of giving in that moment. Pressing a chaste kiss to the side of his neck, you let go and allow your arms to open up, nearly falling over as his head crashes into the side of your neck and his hands make balled fists into the back of your shirt.

Yes, you could say for certainty that you were very glad Hannah Kahnwald wasn’t home. Because the empty sobs that echoed through the house belonged to the two of you, and the two of you only.

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

I Have My Ways

It’s Stiles’ first full moon since he was bitten and he’s struggling.

For @staffofoppression

(You can read it here on AO3)

He ran through the shadows and the darkness that surrounded him. He wove his way through the undergrowth. His bare feet pounded the damp earth as he ran through the dense woods, splashing the cool mud against his pale skin.

There was a dull pain as the jagged twigs and outstretched branches scratched and clawed at his bare skin, but the pain didn’t seem to register in his mind; all he could think about was running.

Around him, the usual autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, filtered streams of silver light surrounded him seeping through the canopy and dancing across the ground.

The glow of the full moon lit his world, filling him with energy and spurring him on. The burning power filled his veins, igniting his soul as he ran.

Among the darkness of the woods, he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows as eye-like rings watched him from all angles.

The cool air filled his lungs, the bitterly cold chill biting at his pale cheeks.

He bounded over fallen trees and large logs, leaping over tree stumps and felled branches.

He didn’t stop running, not until he saw the wolf.

The large black wolf stood in front of him, blocking his path. Their fur was as dark as the night and their eyes glowed with a bright crimson glow.

Stiles slowed to a halt, his broken, panting breaths turning to a misty cloud in the cool night air. He felt his eyes burn with power as they glowed in response to his alpha.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head into his hands as he slowly regained control of himself.

The wolf slowly rose, morphing back into their human form and walking over to Stiles’ side.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, gently prying Stiles’ arms away from his head and craning his neck to look him in the eye.

Stiles nodded, looking up as he let out a measured sigh.

“I lost control for a moment,” Stiles told him.

“It’s alright,” Derek said soothingly. “These things happen.”

“I thought the bite was meant to cure things,” Stiles mused. “Why does it not work for ADHD?”

“Because ADHD isn’t like other disorders,” Derek said. “It’s not like epilepsy or pneumonia; your brain is just wired differently.”

“So I’m a werewolf with ADD?”

“Don’t all dogs have ADD?” Derek said light-heartedly, hoping his joke would cheer Stiles up somewhat.

Stiles dropped his head, muttering something that Derek didn’t hear.

Derek took another step forward. He gently slid a finger beneath Stiles’ chin and coaxed him to look up and meet Derek’s soft gaze. His eyes flickered red and a small smile toyed with the corners of his lips as Stiles’ lit up with a golden glow in return.

He cupped Stiles’ cheek and leant forward, pressing a tender, loving kiss to Stiles’ forehead

“You should probably chain me up,” Stiles said, dejected.

Derek shook his head, chuckling slightly as he said, “You would only find a way to escape.”

“I can’t trust myself,” Stiles said, grimacing as he felt the hypnotic call of the full moon burn at the back of his mind. “I don’t want to end up hurting someone.”

“You’re not going to hurt anyone,” Derek promised. “The worst you’ve done is run through the woods. You’re not snapping or snarling. You haven’t hurt me and you’re not going to hurt anyone else.”

Stiles dropped his gaze, staring down at his feet.

“It’ll take time to get used to all of this; to learn how to control it,” Derek said softly. “This is only your first full moon and you’re already doing better than the others.”

“It doesn’t feel like I am,” Stiles admitted.

“You are,” Derek reassured him, his voice soft but firm.

Derek pulled Stiles into a tight hug, holding him close for a moment. As he stepped back, he wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, guiding him back through the woods in the direction he’d come from.

“Let’s get you home.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Derek had done a good job at restoring the Hale house. The walls were covered in crisp white paint. A few of the support beams that framed the room had been replaced—the large beams weathered, scarred and stained in an effort to match the surviving beans that had been burnt and distorted by the fire; bent and twisted like body of Atlas bowing beneath an unimaginable weight.

The house smelt of sweet dew and crisp pine trees, but there was a lingering bitter smell of ash that never seemed to fade.

There were scattered signs of history and new life mingling among the ruins. There were pieces of furniture that had been restored or salvaged, wooden tables with charred legs and warped paint like scars. The walls of the hallways were lined with photos of the Hale family—pictures that Stiles and the pack had helped Derek track down—and new photos; photos of the pack.

Two large windows framed the front door, silver moonlight streaming through them and illuminating the angelic swirl of the sparkling particles of dust.

Stiles stepped into the hallway, his head bowed in shame as Derek shut the front door behind them and locked it.

Stiles made his way into the living room.

There were two large sofas and two arm chairs, arranged in a circle that faced the fireplace in the centre of the room.

The fire was lit, the warm glow filling the room and the sound of crackling soothing Stiles as he watched the wavering flames dance about.

A row of old hard cover books with fragile withered and frayed spines sat atop the mantle, held upright by two bookends that Derek had made himself. Beside the books were more photographs and an arrangement of little trinkets that Derek had collected over the years or that the pack had given him as gifts.

Derek stepped up behind Stiles, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him back against his chest.

Stiles let out a deep sigh, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment as he relaxed, falling back into Derek’s arms and melting into his warmth.

“I still think you should chain me up,” Stiles said after a while.

“I have another idea,” Derek said.

He scooped Stiles off his feet – delighted by the sound of his playful laughter – and carried him over to the couch.

He carefully laid Stiles down on the cushions, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to his lips before straightening up.

“You’re just going to make me lie here?” Stiles asked, somewhat sceptical. “How are you going to stop me from getting up?”

“I have my ways,” Derek said with a coy smirk.

Derek shifted into his wolf form, gracefully climbing up onto the couch and laying on top of Stiles.

Stiles burst into a fit of laughter, shaking Derek as his chest rose and fell with his chuckling.

Derek stretched out, pinning Stiles down. He laid his head down on Stiles’ chest, looking up at the man lovingly.

“You’re really going to just lie there?” Stiles asked.

Derek nodded.

“This is your brilliant plan to make sure I don’t move?”

Derek nodded again.

“Is this because I said that there was an unspoken law that says you are not allowed to move when a pet lies on you?”

There was a glint of mischief in Derek’s eyes that seemed to say ‘yes’.

Stiles chuckled.

“You know what?” he started, but his argument died away in his throat. He shook his head, smiling as he said, “You’re right. I’m not moving.”

Derek lifted his head slightly, licking Stiles’ chin.

Stiles screwed up his face. “That’s gross.”

Derek shifted slightly, resting his chin on Stiles’ chest and settling. HIs eyes slowly drifted shut as he fell asleep.

Yeah, I’m definitely not moving, Stiles thought.

He carefully lifted his hand and gently patted Derek, running his fingers through Derek’s soft fur.

Exhaustion began to take its toll on him. Stiles’ eyes grew heavy. He wrapped an arm around Derek as his eyes drifted shut and sleep pulled him under.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Stiles woke the next morning, the golden light of morning bled through the large bay window of the living room. The fire had long gone out, the embers cold and the grey ash piled at the bottom of the fireplace.

Beyond the window he could hear the sweet twittering of singing birds.

But what was most noticeable was that Derek wasn’t there.

Stiles let out a weak groan as he pushed himself upright and looked around.

Derek had laid a soft blanket over him, the soft fabric pooling around his waist as he straightened up.

He slowly rolled his shoulder, feeling he tense muscles ache. He’d been bitten nearly a month ago, and although the wound had long healed, there were times when Stiles could swear he could still feel it.

He carefully pushed aside the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the couch. He screwed up his face when he looked down at his feet. His pale skin was covered in dried mud and scratches that were darkened by dried blood.

Stiles carefully set his feet down on the floor, wincing as he put weight on his tender feet. He rose from the couch, slowly hobbling out of the living room and into the kitchen.

Derek stood by the kitchen bench, a cup of coffee in one hand as he flipped through the newspaper with the other.

Stiles dragged his feet across the hardwood floors as he crossed over to Derek, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and burying his face in the curve of Derek’s neck.

“Good morning,” Derek said softly. “How do you feel?”

Stiles let out a weak moan.

“Maybe this will make you feel better,” Derek said. He set down his mug and picked up another cup on the counter, holding it out to Stiles.

Stiles pouted as he took the mug of coffee from Derek. He cupped it in his hands, letting the warmth seep into the palms of his hands. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the rich smell of the bitter coffee before sipping at it.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked.

“Nothing,” Stiles replied.

“Stiles,” Derek said, craning his neck to look Stiles in the eye.

“I was hoping you’d still be there when I woke up,” Stiles admitted.

A small smile turned up the corners of Derek’s lips. He grabbed the front of Stiles’ shirt and pulled him close. He turned slightly, leaning back against the bench and wrapping his arms around Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He reached up and gently brushed aside a stray strand of hair that fell forward in Stiles’ face. He leant forward and pressed a tender kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

“So that’s your plan for every full moon now, you’re going to shift and lie on me so I can’t move?” Stiles asked.

Derek pretended to think about it. “Yeah, pretty much.”

A mischievous smile played across Derek’s lips.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Derek said, a touch of offence in his voice. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did,” Stiles submitted. He sipped at his coffee.

“How do you feel?”

“Exhausted and full of energy at the same time,” Stiles replied.

“The energy is because of the moon. For a few days before and after a full moon, you’ll feel more energetic than usual,” Derek explained. “And feeling exhausted is normal after a full moon, especially if you spent most of the night running through a forest.”

Stiles looked down at his dirty feet covered in scratches and sneered.

“I need a shower,” Stiles said, stepping back from Derek and setting the empty coffee mug down in the sink.

“Yeah, you do,” Derek teased. “You stink.”

“You stink,” Stiles replied out of habit.

Derek smirked. “I guess I need a shower too then. Mind if I join you?”

[ask-the-riders]

Famine meets Mortem

Idk what this even is, but it's a bit of a train wreck. I tried to cushion some of the slight angst with some fluff toward the end, so yeah ^^"

"Famine?"

The tallest of the group of riders momentarily tensed in surprise, before beginning to relax again. He knew that voice, so he knew he had nothing to worry about. Looking up from the rubiks cube he'd been trying to solve, he offered Conquest a lazy grin, "Yeah? What's up, sunshine?" The female rider smiled at the nickname and hummed, "I have someone I would really like you to meet. I've introduced him to everyone else already, and I didn't wanna leave without making sure you got the chance to meet him, too."

Famine arched a brow bone curiously, "Uhh... ok? Who am I supposed ta meet?" Conquest's smile remained the same as she stepped to the side, revealing a child. The kid's expression very briefly became one of slight panic as his mother stepped aside, no longer concealing him from view, but as he locked gazes with Famine, his panic dulled, and seemed to morph into curiosity as his single visible eye light flickered upward to the rider's head injury.

Conquest hummed softly, her hand gently resting on the child's shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze, "Famine, this is my son, Mortem. And Mortem, this is Famine." The kid looked up at his mother with a look of confusion and she added on, "He's my friend, and I do work with him. He's really nice, I promise." Mortem seemed to accept her words, seemingly unaware of the reaction Famine was having.

Still seated at the kitchen table, Famine's eye light had constricted until it was only a small blue speck, his grin now a taut line. His fingertips had begun to dig into the rubiks cube he held, and he felt his soul begin to race. Children... There was a child here. One who couldn't be more than eight or nine years old. The same age as him... The same age as Tobias. Images of his youngest brother weakly trying to drag himself through the snow flickered in his mind, the sound of his pleas and his sobbing making his nonexistent ears ring.

"S-Sans, brother, please! Please stop, it hurts! Please Sans, I love you, please don't do this!"

Famine curled his hands tighter into the rubiks cube, unphased as it shattered, the individual pieces whizzing in different directions. Mortem flinched at the sudden loud snap, his visible socket widening. Donning a look of uncertainty, he looked up at Conquest and whined, "Mom?... What's going on with him? Is he ok?" Conquest registered the clear look of panic on teammate's face and offered her son a weak smile in an attempt to give him some reassurance, "He'll be ok, sweetie... Sometimes he remembers things that upset him, and he reacts like this. It'll take a bit for him to relax, but I promise, he'll be alright."

"So he's... just really upset right now?..." Mortem's voice lowered a bit, and his brow bones became knit. Conquest hummed in confirmation, and watched as her son seemed to battle with himself for a moment. She glanced between him and Famine and frowned; She hadn't counted on a reaction like this. She'd known about his story and had seen his file, even, but this? She had no way of seeing it coming, and the thought of upsetting her friend made her frown.

Stepping past Mortem, she approached Famine, leaning down to very gently wrap her arms around him. He flinched at the contact, his entire body locking up, and she drew in a deep breath, sending out her magic in the form of soothing pulses in an effort to help calm him as she squeezed her sockets shut; If she focused enough, she might also be able to use her aura to help him, the way Retribution had taught her to as well.

Her body grew a bit warmer to the touch and she let out a soft sigh, murmuring to the other rider, "Famine... I'm not sure what's going on right now. What happened, what's going on in your mind... I don't know. I feel that I'm responsible though, and I'm so, so sorry." Through the nearly overwhelming fear that had hit him so suddenly, Famine very loosely moved an arm, reaching around Conquest to lightly pat her back as he let out a deep sigh of his own, "S'ok, Connie... Ya didn't know. It's not.... it's not your fault." Her aura grew thicker, waves of warmth washing through him and practically drowning him with positivity as she softly whispered, "But what if it was, though?"

Famine drew in a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind as his body began to relax. Countering her worries, he lightly nudged her, "It's not. I promise you, it's not." Her grip on him tightened, and he flinched in surprise as he felt another hand on his arm. His gaze redirected itself, and he stared in surprise as he watched Mortem. The child had gently touched his arm, a look of determination fixed on his face as he began to send out his own pulses of magic, the way his mother had done.

He was trying to help him.

Famine let out a shaky breath, still watching as Mortem's free hand shifted, and he wrapped an arm around Conquest, trying to send pulses of magic to her, too. Famine couldn't stop the words that left his mouth, "K-Kid, hey... what are you doin'? You're gonna hurt yourself if ya keep forcin' out magic like that." Mortem looked up at him, meeting his eye, "Mom said you're upset, and I wanted to help you. Then she got upset, and I wanted to help her too."

Famine's entire disposition seemed to soften; That kindness and desire to help others... He thought back to before the horrendous act he committed, remembering Tobias again. He was starving, losing so much strength that he couldn't move on his own. He couldn't sleep and he cried so much over the way his body hurt. And yet... whenever he'd gotten his hands on a scrap of food, he always shared it with his two elder brothers. He was always concerned for them, even as he was slowly withering away.

Offering a tiny smile, Famine rasped, "Try ta focus your intent more... The more ya focus on it, the bigger the results." Mortem nodded, confused but willing to try what he'd suggested. Breathing deeply, he pushed more of his intent into what he was doing, and Famine felt as though the air had been knocked out of him for a moment; The pulses of magic that Mortem sent out were chilled, almost like the air on a fall morning, when the ground was still covered in a thin layer of frost. It was cool, but warm at the same time, and it confused him, but at it's very core, he could feel genuine concern, and he could feel how hopeful Mortem was that he'd be able to help the two adults.

Famine was brought back to the present moment as Mortem spoke, "Am I doing it right?..." Famine hadn't even noticed the tears that pricked at his sockets until one rolled down his cheekbone, and he wiped it away, "Yeah, kid. You're doin' great." Mortem's sockets widened and he beamed, excitedly nudging his mother, "Mom! Mom! I'm doing it!" Famine frowned as Conquest remained silent, all of her weight now leaning onto him. At the lack of a response, Mortem frowned, "Mom?... Are you ok?..." Connie still remained silent and he began to panic, his eyes wide again in fear, "Mom?! Mom, come on! Say something, Mom!"

Famine's magic honed in on the female rider's soul, and he let out a deep sigh in relief as he felt the soft waves of magic it continued giving off. Scooting back in his chair and standing, he lifted Connie's limp form into his arms, wincing at the dull aching from his spine. Mortem, seeing his mother completely limp and seemingly lifeless, stared at her with wide, fearful eyes. Unable to contain his fear anymore, he began to sob, trying to cover his face with his hands. Well aware of what was probably going through the child's mind, Famine's magic activated, helping support Connie to lessen the strain on his back.

Shifting her in his arms as he began carrying her into the living room, he offered Mortem a hand without thinking, and Mortem latched onto it, walking beside him as they entered the living room. As Famine's magic helped him lower her down onto the couch, Mortem sniffled, his voice soft, "Is she gonna die? Is this because of me?" Now with Connie lying down and not in his arms anymore, Famine sighed, glancing at the child, "Nah, kid, she'll be ok. It's not because a' you." Mortem whimpered, "How do you know?... Maybe I killed her and it's not showing yet. Maybe I used too much magic and hurt her really bad. Maybe she just hasn't dusted yet."

Famine shifted his full attention to Mortem and slowly moved to sit on the floor, offering him a tiny smile and choosing not to answer his question, "Kid, hey... Mortem, listen. She'll be ok, I promise. Ya didn't kill her. She's not dead, and as long as she has you to fight for, I don't think she'll be dustin' anytime soon. She's a tough lady... A little extra magic isn't enough ta hurt her."

Mortem frowned, sniffling again and suddenly blurting out, "What's wrong with her then?!" Famine furrowed his brow bones, "She started doin' some new magic thing with her aura. It was somethin' your uncle was tryna teach her, and I think maybe she just used it a hair bit too much. That's an easy fix though... For now, she just needs ta rest." The child attempted to blink back more tears, "So... She'll really be ok then?..."

The rider nodded and smiled weakly, "Uh huh. Pinky promise, even." Mortem used one of his sleeves to wipe the tears from his face and Famine hesitated another moment before speaking, "How about this... You can go get your uncle, and I can stay here ta keep an eye on her for a little bit? Your uncle's real smart, and he's better with this kinda thing than me." Mortem seemed conflicted, and before Famine had any time to react, he found himself being caught in a surprisingly tight hug, nearly being knocked over in the process.

Awkwardly returning the hug, he gently patted the skeleton child's back a few times, sighing softly. He hadn't counted on having to coexist with anymore kids after what he'd done, and truth be told, the thought of being around kids scared him. He didn't trust himself, and he was worried he could hurt them too easily. Mortem had come out of nowhere, his first appearance almost sending Famine right into a full on panic attack. But now that he had Mortem in his arms, albeit a bit awkward and unexpected, he attempted to swallow his building anxiety.

Maybe... Maybe he could try to give it another shot. Maybe he was different now. He would have to adjust to being around kids whether he wanted to or not, seeing as Connie planned on moving her son in with them eventually. And then there were Pest and War. It was no secret to anyone there that if anybody was the most hormonal, it was probably Pest. With that going on, it was only a matter of time before he turned his poor soulmate into a living, breathing, baby factory.

Famine's thoughts shifted to Retribution, and he stilled. His small, delicate looking lover. The former prince had somehow stolen his heart, just as he'd stolen the shorter skeleton's first kiss. He briefly wondered what Ret might look like with a round, pregnant belly, and if it was possible that he might want kids one day. Something about the idea of Retribution carrying his child was both exciting and terrifying all at once; He wanted it, and damn, did he want it badly... but if they had a child together and he hurt them, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Mortem slipped out of his arms and darted down the hall, and Famine sighed. He hadn't even officially asked Ret to become his life mate yet, so what was he doing, thinking about having a family with him? He shook his head, trying to disperse the thoughts; Of all the times he was grateful that his partner couldn't read minds, this was probably one of the most recent. If Ret was capable of reading minds, he would've likely had some choice words for Famine right now. Famine knew that whatever he'd spout off would be his attempt at hiding his ever-growing embarrassment, and he couldn't help but smile faintly as he pictured that beautiful cyan blush on his partner's face.

Maybe someday, they could have a family together. Maybe after he learned to trust himself again. He wasn't sure how long that would be, but that was fine. Famine was a patient guy, and if he had to wait, he would.

[kouei116]

IkeVam Lucky Bag 2020 will be on sale from 28/12/19-5/1/20

The hugely popular Boys Talk will return again. Tonight, in the bath, the naughty boys talk of the men will unfold. 

Tonight, wild/reckless behaving for natural airhead Jean (sorry Jean), pure Isaac and even Napoleon. 

Jean: But, is women’s chest heavy to the extent that they have stiff shoulders … How heavy is it?

Napoleon thinking (Normally I’ll get involved, but well, it’s ok to tease them today) 

Napoleon: Let’s see…. Ah right, Isaac, can't you calculate their weight using physics? 

Isaac: …Hah? What are you talking about Napoleon? 

Pure Vincent asked Leonardo a forbidden question….? Even Shakespeare is baffled. 

Vincent: Leonardo, you are a pureblood that lives forever right? … You won’t wither/dry up right? :3 

Leonardo: … Hah? 

Shakespeare: Um… Vincent, is it ok to talk about withering/drying up for a man? 

In front of Mozart and Sebastian, Comte asked a question with a serious expression. 

Comte: Hmmm, well, I wonder which one it is.

Mozart: Comte, what did you just say? 

Sebastian: Are you worrying about something? 

Comte: It’s about Yuuki. Is she S or M, I wonder…? 

(I'm a Mnekochan :3)  

The conversation unfolding for the two partners in crime and Dazai is suggestive remarks about Yuuki. 

Dazai: When I invite her to (share?) my umbrella, Toshiko-san will look up at me and said: Um, please let me inside under your umbrella just a bit more? 

Arthur and Theo: STOP!!! 

And then … this time, the three dangerous vampires living in a castle also participates….! What they talk about is extraordinary dangerous bloodsucking situations. 

Vlad: I wonder why, I want to try bite Yuuki only. It’d be good if she hasn’t been bitten by anyone yet. I want to see the face she makes when her blood is being taken away for the first time. 

Charles: I want to try bite Yuuki too. I want to sink so deeply and make her feel so good that she becomes adorable and improper. 

Faust: That girl has a very good frame (skeleton structure)… she intrigues me. 

Vlad: Well, it’s probably fine if we three bite her. (yes please tyvm :3)

Only tonight, girls are absolutely absolutely forbidden.

[rosepyrearchive]

𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

an  experiment  of  posting  a  drabble  a  day,     from  a  few  sentences  to  a  paragraph  or  more.     i  posted  them  on  my  old  blog,     now  i’m  going  to  compile  them  all  here !

i.

fingers  carefully  shift  the  lavender  crystal  in  betwixt  her  thin  fingers.     for  years,      it  had  remained  faithfully  at  the  base  of  her  throat,     the  way  wolves  protect  each  other’s  most  delicate  parts;     her  father  always  did  the  same.     now,      there’s  somewhere  else  she’d  like  to  place  that  power,     that  protection.     what  color  would  the  crystal  turn,     when  placed  in  anakin’s  palm ?     blue,     like   his  eyes,     or  red,     like  the  blood  he  sheds ?     the  choker  she  once  wore,     pastel  colored  velvet  around  her  neck,     has  an  empty  slot  where  she’d  pulled  the  gem  from,     and  now  it  finds  a  new  home  on  a  long  chain  of  beskar;     where  she  imagines  it  will  press  right  in  the  middle  of  his  chest,     beneath  his  tunic    &    tabard.     no  matter  what  becomes  of  him,     or  what  tries  to  hurt  him . . .   the  chain  and  crystal  will  remain.

ii.

in  her  mother’s  arms,     she  is  just  a  daughter,    a  doll.     on  stage,     she  is  better  than  a  mortal  girl,     or  even  the  immortal  one  she  became;     she’s  a  ballerina  in  tufts  of  pink    &    tulle.     i  am  a  good  girl,     even  now  when  they’re  all  in  the  ground.     now  that  the  curtains  of  earth  &  velvet  have  fallen,     though,     who  is  she ?     who  does  she  become,     without  the  pale  pink  ribbons   &    tight  bodice  of  her  costumes ?      the  voice,     the  visions,     the  hallucinations  seem  to  answer  for  her;     a  ghost,    a  hazy,     obscure  daydream  who  cannot  truly  exist.     who  is  she ?     where  does  the  camouflage,     the  eagerness  to  please  end ?     serena  supposes  it  doesn’t  end  at  all;     and  in  that,     she  is  a  russian  doll  of  nothingness.

iii.

she’s  never  seen  him  without  his  helmet.  no  one  has,     serena  imagines  —  not  in  this  state  of  his  life,     where  removing  it  means  deprivation  and  vulnerability;     the  simple  act  and  thought  is  filled  with  an  intimacy  serena  knows  she  could  never  earn  from  him,     but  …     the  yearning  doesn’t  stop,     nor  does  the  longing  and  curiosity  to  see  his  pallid  skin,     scarred  &  tainted,     the  marks  that  must  cover  his  cheeks  and  chest.     where  do  they  end ?     are  they  like  ripples  in  waves  or  a  pattern ?     and  …  when  she  stands  near  him,  does  he  ever  look  at  her ?     the  blackness  of  his  shield  hides  it  all,  and  it  does  it’s  job  in  making  her  nervous;  serena  can  never  stand  still  in  his  presence,  thighs  shaking  and  nails  digging  trench  tracks  into  her  soft  palms.     darth  vader  is  terrible,  awful,  even  cruel  …     so  what  is  it  that  allures  her  so  deeply,  and  why ?     then  again,  if  she  knew,  perhaps  the  shimmering  butterflies  would  subside  and  she  could  see  clearly,     see  this  for  what  it  was.  he  wasn’t  even  using  her  —  and  she  is  the  very  picture  of  devotion.

iv.

to  what  end  does  the  fae  steal  a  fair  maiden ?     or  is  it  truly  a  crime,     when  the  victim  is  so  terribly  willing ?     allie’s  feet  move  so  mesmerizingly,    around  &  around  while  flowers  and  mushrooms   bloom  from  beneath  her  soles;     her  palm  is  so  open  –     ❪   come  to  me,     serena !   ❫     perspiration  of  late  summer  sticks  to  serena’s  forehead,     betwixt  her  rosy  fingers,     ❪   𝙾𝚁  𝙸𝚂  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃  𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂 ?     𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙴  𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙳  𝚃𝙾  𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻  𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃  𝚆𝙰𝚈 …   ❫     and  without  a  regret,     she  lays  her  hand  in  the  other  girl’s.     she  sups  on  honeyed  milk,     gives  her  name.     the  fairies  covet  gold,     and  what  is  serena,     if  not  well - dressed  in  a  golden  shroud,    from  her  crown  to  the  hem  of  her  long  dress ?     what  does  she  have  to  fear,     when  she  is  magic  all  on  her  own ?     allie’s  hand  lifts  both  of  theirs  high  as  she  twirls  serena  amidst  the  flowers,     and  she  swears  she  can  feel  grass  grow  from  her  steps.

v.

calloused  fingers  dig  deep  into  serena’s  sweet,     soft  dimples;     and  from  her  jaw,    trickles  of  sweet  wine  drip,     down  her  neck,    like  spilled  rubies  on  her  pale  skin.     you  hurt  me,    she  wants  to  say.     you’ve  hurt  me,     and  i  am  the  one  who’s  sorry.     hollis  draws  his  thumb  down  to  her  chin,     leaving  perfect  smudged  fingerprints  across  her  the  way  one  would  drag  their  fingers  across  a  fogged  glass.     his  eyes  are  a  dull,    venomous  green  as  he  calls  her  a  name  that  doesn’t  belong  to  her.    that  isn’t  me,   serena  wants  to  cry.     non,    mon rêve,     you’re  much  prettier  than  she  ever  was,     hollis  would  reply,     because  this  isn’t  the  first  time.     he  squeezes  bruises  into  her  little  arms  as  he  kisses  her,     and  serena  thinks  she  kisses  him  back.

vi.

allow  the  camera  to  pan  upwards,     from  her  pale  pink  ballet  slippers  into  her  soft  cotton  dress,     her  feet  turn  out  in  first  position  as  she  raises  her  hands  into  fourth,     pulled  up  by  soft  silk  strings  by  an  invisible  puppeteer.     the  stage  is  her  church,     a  massive,     all  encompassing  world  of  history  &  grace,     and  then  the  world  becomes  it’s  own  stage;     and  serena’s  performance  is  all  consumed,     like  an  apple  in  the  garden  of  eden.     isn’t  she  so  lovely,     so  flawless,     our  little  ballerina  ornament ?     serena  doesn’t  know  who,     or  what,    controls  her  actions   –   her  lies,     her  pliés.     some  entity  who  refuses  to  present  themselves,     only  bothering  to  choreograph  her  life  &  watch  her  from  behind  the  scenes;     she  is  both  fresh  as  a  flower,     brought  up  in  springtime,     &     as  broken  as  skeletons  that  have  long  withered  to  dusk  in  their  caskets.     even  in  her  most  secluded  moments,     she  does  not  feel  alone   –   not  truly.     this  puppet master  is  always  watching,     writing  their  script,     judging  her  arches  and  how  gracefully  she  can  slide  across  the  floor  in  her  pointe  shoes.     when  she  takes  her  final  bow,     it’s  only  the  studio  mirror  that  gazes  back  at  her,     her  own  doelike  brown  eyes,     her  own  slim  form  –  there’s  no  cables  attaching  her  to  the  ceiling.

this  life  is  so  very  boring,     so  unlike  the  dreamy  world  she  longed  for  as  a  foolish  girl.     i  had  long  ruined  my  own  life  with  my  own  dissatisfaction  before  someone  else  destroyed  it  for  me.

viii.

longing  lurks  deep  behind  a  golden  -  brown  gaze   /   what  comfort  can  she  take  in  the  jedi  code,     when  it’s  cold,    hard …     and  ben’s  hand  is  warm,     all  encompassing ?    the  code,     the  code …     the  temple  is  a  stage,     and  the  council  pulls  her  strings,     but  the  one  thing  they  can’t  take  from  her  is  her  mind;     in  there,     she  is  strong,     stone.     they  encourage  compassion:     but  no  attachments.     what  is  that,     to  her ?    what  is  it  compared  to  the  sunlight  she  feels  in  ben’s  eyes  when  he  leans  down  to  kiss  her  temple,     or  the  delight  serena  can  see  in  him  when  she  enters  the  room ?     ❪  because  love  is  the  death  of  duty,     as  wiser  men  say   ❫     in  many  ways,     she  is  greater  than  other  girls;     a  doll - like  padawan,    bright,     intelligent   –   but  in  the  end,    she  is  still  human,     and  she  finds  no  love  within  the  code   /   only  does  she  find  the  serenity  it  speaks  of  in  ben’s  embrace,     and  the  way  he  bends  over  at  the  waist  to  hold  her,     and  he  is  all  around  her  like  cologne.     that  is  a  glory  &  a  tragedy  worth  dying  for.

viii.

fear  has  always  cut  deep  within  serena’s  soft  skin;     it  was  easy  to  pull  her  apart  like  a  pomegranate,     see  the  little  pin - prick  razors  of  fright,     but  nothing  had  made  her  so  afraid  since  meeting  the  jedi.     she’s  a  fragile  heart  wound  tightly  in  red  ribbons  and  strings,     each  tied  to  the  pinkie  finger  of  every  person  she  loves.     some  of  the  ends  are  cut,     some  fray  towards  the  latter,     but  she  doesn’t  forget.     she  doesn’t  let  go,     not  in  her  deep  heart,     where  they  are  safe.     the  jedi  don’t  agree;     and  her  body  wracks  with  guilt  as  she  resists  placing  ribbons  on  their  fingers.     they  cannot  love  me,     she  knows   /   so  why  isn’t  it  enough  to  stop  her ?

ix.

every  part  of  my  body  aches.       serena  sits  on  the  hard  bathroom  floor  like  a  stain  on  the  tile,     the  tulle  of  her  practice  skirt  shimmering  in  the  dim  fluorescents.     the  plastic  stall  divider  is  freezing  against  her  shoulders,     and  it  hurts  when  her  head  falls  back  against  it.     the  bathroom  is  empty,     but  the  room  is  loud.     DISGUSTING  GIRL.     IT  HURTS.    what  hurts ?     I  CAN’T  FIND  IT  ANYMORE,     IT’S  SPREAD  LIKE  A  POISON.     she  finds  sanctuary  in  her  own  little  white  lies,     and  this  stall  where  none  of  the  other  ballerinas  go  –  she’s  a  soloist,     a  prima;     she  is  special.     allegedly.     she  barely  notices  the  wine - red  trickle  of  blood  that  spills  from  her  nose,     gravity  pulling  it  down  her  perfect  pale  face.      the  relief  is  nearly  instant,     whatever  ache  she’d  had  seems  to  fade  away   /   her  eyes  hone  in  on  the  empty  plastic  bag,     only  remnants  of  white  pill  powder  left.     the  same  resin  seems  to  linger  on  the  tip  of  her  pointe  shoe,     that  she’d  used  to  crush  it  all  up.     the  urge  to  smash  the  wooden  end  of  her  slipper  into  the  stupid  godforsaken  plastic  container  as  hard  as  she  can  and  see  how  much  damage  she  can  do  washes  over  her;     but  she’s  too  shocked  by  the  sudden  violent  urge  to  act  on  it.     instead,     serena  lets  the  clarity  &  ability  to  focus  drown  out  the  voices  that  scream  in  her  tender  head,     and  brings  herself  to  stand.

x.

❪   𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊  ❫

pink  silk  shimmers  in  the  early  morning  sun;     her  blush  is  just  as  pretty,     sitting  across  from  her  father  at  the  iron  balcony  table.     he  is  her  king,     her  first  love,     and  serena  revels  in  the  attention  her  father  lavishes  on  her.     everything  is  still  so  new,     so  beautiful,     when  she’s  young  –  serena  dreams  of  the  future,     of  white  veils  and  cotillions.     her  distance  isn’t  yet  defensive,     but  a  sweet  daydream,     of  romantic  notions  &  hopes.     serena  dreams  of  the  far  away,     of  paris  and  rushing  crowds.     you  have  the  carlisle  look,     julian  had  told  her,    once.    your  brother  has  it  too.     someday,     this  world  will  be  wrapped  around  your  little  finger.     be  kind  to  it.     serena  had  smiled  so  lovely  at  that  –  let  the  world  be  kind.     let  it  show  her  kindness.

xi.

❪   𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘  ❫

this  is  a  private  moment;     but  serena  can  feel  the  hidden  camera  lenses  on  her,     seeking  that  million  dollar  photo of  palpable  grief,     or  the  bullet  hole  in  her  father’s  chest,     as  if  it  weren’t  hidden  from  view  behind  his  favorite  suit.     she  won’t  cry.     serena  had  already  emptied  herself  of  every  golden  tear  when  she’d  cleaned  her  father’s  face,     when  she’d  combed  his  hair.      she  was  the  one  who’d  laid  his  arms  over  his  chest,     with  her  favorite  stuffed  animal  between  them  to  keep  him  company.     august  pulls  all  her  curls  behind  her  head,     and  lays  his  hands  on  her  thin  shoulders,     squeezing  just  enough  to  be  a  reassurance.     a  million  questions  ran  through  her  head  –     every  single  one  beginning  with  why.

her  fingers  drift,     softly,     for  the  last  time,     over  her  father’s  cheek.     she  pretends  it’s  warm  with  life,     and  not  chilling  to  the  bone.     if  he  could  be  killed,     then  no  one  is  safe.

xii.

❪   𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋  ❫

be  kind  to  the  world.    serena’s  innocence  had  died  screaming,     yet  she  still  remembers  the  words  her  father  had  told  her.     sunlight  streams  through  the  trees  above,     but  she  is  too  stiff  to  move  just  yet;     so  she  lies  there  in  the  grass,     flowers  having  bloomed  over  the  years  of  her  sleep  through  her  hair  and  around  her  body.     a  new  era  has  begun,     everything  she  knows  is  gone.     everyone  she  loves  is  gone.     maybe  it’s  the  haziness  of  first  waking  up  after  a  half - century,     but  there’s  a  determination  beneath  her  silk  skin,     her  ivory  bones.     serena  has  become  something  new,     just  as  the  world  has  –  beneath  the  porcelain,     her  ribs  have  grown  steel.     she  will  not  be  so  breakable  ever  again.

xiii.

in  the  movies,     pearls  are  always  being  yanked  from  necks,     the  precious  little  beads  clattering  to  the  hardwood  floor  in  bunches.     serena  allows  the  pretty  necklace  to  drift  through  her  fingers,     remembering  the  time  her  mother  had  wrapped  it  around  her  neck.     she’d  felt  like  such  a  little madam  in  her  maman’s  pearls.     there’s  a  little  secret:     those  pearls  in  films,     dramatic  as  they  were,     were fake.     maman’s  were  genuine,     and  the  little  pieces  were  knotted  in  between,     meaning  even  if  she’d  ripped  them  from  her  throat,     only  one  or  two  at  worst  would  go  missing.     her  mother  was  too  much  of  a  lady,     anyway …     prone  to  melancholy  and  hurt,     but  not  quite  fits.     what  a  complicated  love,     the  one  between  a  mother  &  a  daughter …     serena  finds  herself  missing  her  mother’s  arms  more  often  than  not  these  days,     and  the  security  that  came  with  them.

xiv.

valentine’s  day  has  always  been  a  non - affair  romantically;     her  favorites  were  dinner  dates  with  her  family,     the  men  being  the  gentlemen,     and  the  one  day  her  maman  would  let  her  wear  her  red  lipstick.     the  couples  on  the  street  below  her  balcony  make  her  feel something,    but  is  it  jealousy,   or  nostalgia ?     her  palm  cradles  her  jaw  as  she  leans  against  the  iron  barrier.     a  man  kisses  a  woman,     and  why  does  her  heart  lurch  for  something  so  impossible ?    to  love,     to  be  loved …     she  would  never  be  capable  of  it,     her  last  boyfriend  had  told  her  so.     adam  had  as  well.     anyone  who  would  want  to  spend  this  day  with  her  is  dead,     and  no  one  else  could  accept  the  things  she’d  done,     the  person  she’s  become  beneath  the  lace  and  ribbons.     hallowed,     broken.

xv.

i   hate  the  dirt.     i  hate  the  grime  that  i  can’t  wash  away,     and  the  fingerprint  i  leave  on  the  pristine  envelope  that  the  postman  gives  me,     his  gaze  apologetic.     until  i  look  at  the  handwriting,     i  don’t  understand  why.     it’s  been  a  week  since  he  could  last  reach  us  on  the  battlefield,     to  give  us  some  form  of  comfort  and  relief,     and  he  only  gives  me  a  single  letter.     there  should  be  more.     serena  writes  to  me  every  day,     there  should  be  at  least  six  or  seven,     all  beginning  with  my  dearest  brother;     but  even  the  single  letter  isn’t  from  my  sister,     but  my  wife.     i  should  be  excited  for  that,     but  i’m  not  –  not  when  i  can’t  fathom  why  there’s  only  this  one  letter.     when  i  tear  into  it,     a  picture  falls  out:     my  wife,     holding  our  son.     this  is  a  happy  moment,     and  i  can  feel  pressure  build  behind  my  eyes,     but  it’s  distracted,     because  serena  should  be  in  this  photo.     she  isn’t,     because  for  some  godforsaken  reason  she’s  here  in  europe  –  and  that’s  enough  to  push  the  tears  from  my  eyes.     i  should  be  there,     and  serena  should  be  holding  her  nephew  and  accepting  our  request  to  be  his  godmother.

but  she  isn’t,     and  i’m  not  either.

xvi.

the  streets  of  new  york  now  aren’t  so  different  from  the  streets  of  new  york  in  my  childhood.     the  fashion  is  different;     women  wear  shorter  skirts,     deeper  cuts  to  expose  their  collarbones,     and  these  are  changes  i  like.     the  buildings  still  creep  into  the  clouds  like  pillars  of  divinity,     and  the  sidewalks  are  crowded,     but  no  one  pays  too  much  attention  to  anyone  else.     the  men  dress  differently  too,     and  those  changes  i  don’t  like,     but  if  i  sit  and  close  my  eyes …     it’s  still  all  the  same,     and  i  can  picture  the  cars,     the  pretty  women  and  handsome  men …     even  my  silly  little  girl  friends,     the  ones  who  would  walk  with  me  during  breaks  in  ballet  when  we  had  so  little  else  to  do.     when  i  close  my  eyes,     it  doesn’t  feel  like  a  lifetime  ago.

xvii.

it  happens  gradually,     then  all  at  once,     like  the  impatience  of  waiting  for  a  rose  to  blossom.     one  day  you  wake  up,     and  it’s  simply  bloomed,     petals  spread  wide  in  the  sunshine.     in  that  case,     serena  wonders  which  moment  it  was  that  made  her  realize  her  feelings  for  ben  had  flowered   ──   was  it  the  time  his  fingers  grazed  hers  on  the  piano  keys,     and  he  played  the  wrong  note  to  make  her  laugh ?     or  perhaps  when  he  smiled  at  her  so  earnestly,     all  white  teeth  and  curled  lips  that  met  the  crinkles  by  his  eyes ?     she  can’t  pinpoint  the  exact  moment  she  realized  she  loves  ben  kenobi;     serena  only  knows  what  she  feels  now,     the  safety  of  his  warm  hugs,     the  way  the  word  ‘graves’  slips  between  her  teeth  and  she  doesn’t  choke  trying  to  reel  it  back  in.     home  was  something  impossible,     turned  to  ash  &  bone,     but  then  she  finds  herself  sitting  at  their  table  in  the  coffee  shop  &  she  thinks  perhaps  a  home  can  be  rebuilt.

xviii.

prayer  used  to  come  first  thing  in  the  morning,     a  mantra  spoken  breathlessly  to  open  air.     it’s  not  an  ideology  that  serena  subscribes  to  anymore     ❪   part  of  her  wonders  if  she  ever  did   ❫ ,     but  old  habits  had  died  hard.     she  wants  to  enjoy  a  new  one.     ben  is  there,     barely  awake  while  thick  raindrops  smack  against  the  balcony  doors,     and  serena  shimmies  his  boxers  down  his  thighs.     she’s  already  asked  him  nicely,     with  her  polite  manners  and  pretty  mouth     ──     and  she  tries  to  mask  her  eagerness  with  languid  movements,     laying  her  cheek  to  his  hip  and  letting  her  long  curls  fall  over  his  body.     serena  knows  he  can  feel  her  by  the  way  he  shudders  when  her  eyelashes  flit  over  him,     her  rose - petal  fingers  everywhere  and  nowhere  because  they  aren’t  exactly  where  ben  wants  them.     you  should  tell  me  what  you  like,    serena  offers  with  a  wicked  little  smile,     dragging  his  hand  until  he  can  grip  her  curls,     holding  sunshine  in  his  palms.

xix.

when  the  legs  beat  against  each  other  in  the  midst  of  a  jete,     it’s  a  battu  jete …     beaten.     everything  is  more  beautiful  in  french,     and  serena  thinks  it’s  true  of  herself  as  well.     she  had  been  her  company  director’s  little  princess,     sliding  into  his  queen;     she  would’ve  been  the  youngest  prima  ballerina  in  history.     she  would’ve  had  a  life.     she  would’ve  had  a  brother.     orson  does  so  much  for  her,     and  serena  can  hardly  find  it  in  herself  to  be  grateful,     can  hardly  repeat  the  pleasantries  and  manners  she’d  been  taught  to  sing  since  she  was  a  little  girl  letting  words  tumble  from  her  mouth.     instead,     serena  tries  to  create  a  peaceful  world,     she  jumps  at  the  chance  to  redesign  the  building  he  buys,     create  a  setting  of  her  own  making;     only  to  lay  under  the  covers,     sleeping  next  to  a  pillow  she  pretends  is  august.

xx.

disgusting.     vile.    serena  watches  august  rip  a  newspaper  in  half,     once,     twice,     then  three  times,     letting  the  pieces  fly  onto  the  floor  and  cover  the  coffee  table.     the  headline  had  once  read  about  her,     calling  her  a  top  three  debutante  in  new  york’s  uppercrust  society.     not  just  in  the  top  three,     but  ranked  number  one.    shouldn’t  we  be  proud ?    serena  asks  him.    shouldn’t  i  be  flattered ?     august  had  fallen  to  his  knees  in  front  of  the  chaise  where  she  sat  after  that,     holding  her  little  hands  in  his  own.     he  squeezes  them  so  tight  serena  winces.    tell  me,     he  begs.     tell  me  if  anyone  ever  touches  you.     tell  me,     and  i’ll  kill  them.    with  all  the  naivety  in  the  world,     serena  giggles,     shaking  her  head.     nonsense,     my  darling  brother.     the  only  man  i  love  is  you;     and  the  only  man  who  shall  ever  touch  me  is  not  here  yet.

xxi.

the  sunlight  doesn’t  seem  so  bright,     but  the  city  is  just  as  bustling  as  the  last  time  she’d  seen  it.     what  year  had  that  been ?     somewhere  around  nineteen  forty,     serena  thinks.     her  old  ballet  studio  has  moved;     it’s  previous  location  now  just  another  parking  lot  in  new  york  city.     everything  about  it  gives  her  whiplash.     it’s  all  the  same  and  all  entirely  different.     she  almost  expects  to  see  august  across  the  street,     handsome  smile  &  hair  swept  back,     but  she  knows  she  won’t.     he’s  dead,     and  so  is  everyone  else  she  ever  knew.     there’s  a  pressure  on  her  shoulders,     wondering  when  someone  will  notice  the  imaginary  blood  seeping  out  of  her  core,     or  when  someone will  realize  she’s  half - dead.     little  walking  dead  girl,     schrodinger’s  girl,     dead  and  alive.

xxii.

photographs  from  another  era  are  spread  all  across  the  wooden  table  serena  sits  at,     glimmering  and  shining  in  their  black  and  white  glory,     sepia,     and  even  a  few  colored  ones.     they  all  had  a  touch  of  grain  to  them,     the  consequence  of  new,     unperfected  technology,     but  serena  adores  them.     after  all,     in  every  photo  she  sees  the  face  of  someone  she  loves.     her  grandfather  royce,     cradling  the  toddler  version  of  herself  in  his  arms,     and  then  them  at  a  later  age,     serena  with  her  arms  wrapped  tightly  around  him.     in  another  photo,     serena  sits  in  his  lap,     while  her  grandmother,     the  woman  for  whom  she  was  named,     hugs  them  both  from  behind.     so  many  lost  smiles,     shining  with  no  idea  of  what’s  to  come.     her  finger  traces  along  another  photo,     of  her  mother  posing  with  her  in  her  first  pair  of  pointe  shoes.     she’d  been  so  proud  that  day,     and  serena  can’t  help  but  smile  back  at  her.     these  little  moments  are  all  she  has  left  now;     what  if  she  forgets  it  all  someday ?     at  least  she  won’t  forget  their  faces.     serena  glues  the  back  of  the  photos,  pasting  them  into  a  scrapbook.     there  are  new  people  she  doesn’t  want  to  forget  someday  as  well,     and  for  them,     serena  glances  at  a  newer  camera.     she  doesn’t  have  to  forget.

xxiii.

moy  lebed.    my  swan.    mr.  nikolaev  calls  her  that,     from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her  complete  the  thirty - two  fouettés  in  odile’s  coda.     serena  sighs  into  the  open  studio.     the  sky  has  long  gone  dark,     and  every  other  dancer  and  crew  member  has  gone  home — but  she  remains.     this  is  the  dedication  that  will  make  me  the  prima,     serena  reminds  herself.     this  is  what  sets  me  apart.     she  counts  the  steps  in  her  head  until  she  loses  herself  to  the  imagined  music,     eyes  closed  while  she  moves  her  arms  and  tip - toes  across the  floor.     serena  is  the  very  picture  of  a  music  box  ballerina  when  she  kicks  her  foot  up,      finding  her  north  star  and  turning  in  pirouettes.     not  even  the  quiet  opening  of  a  door  interrupts  her  focus.     august  takes  her  little  waist  in  his  hands  and  helps  to  give  her  the  extra  momentum.     then  he  hoists  her  over  his  shoulder,     telling  her  how  mother  is  so worried,    and  she  has  to  come  home  right  away…     all  spoken  with  his  hidden,    wry  smile.

xxiv.

i  had  never  tried  to  impress  anyone  the  way  i’d  tried  to  impress  mr.  nikolaev,     my  ballet  master  and  choreographer.     my  every  waking  moment  was  spent  under  his  scrutinizing  gaze,     attempting  to  dissect  his  utter  dissatisfaction  with  the  world  for  it’s  lack  of  grace  and  beauty  and  what  he  felt  towards  me  specifically …     all  in  a  leotard  and  tights  that  would  only  leave  the  color  of  my  skin  to  our  imaginations,     and  mirrors  on  every  wall  reminding  me  of  that  fact.     i  don’t  know  if  i  tried  harder  to  gain  his  attention  in  the  first  place,     or  if  i  would  have  killed  myself  trying  to  keep  it.     no  girl  is  ever  more  beautiful  than  they  are  at  sixteen,     and  though  i  didn’t  realize  it,     perhaps  if  i  had  lived  to  see  him  again  in  my  later  years  he  would’ve  been  impressed  with  my  freckles,     my  dimples,     and  my  big  eyes  at  the  age  of  twenty  –  i’ve  heard  i  don’t  look  so  different.     still,     i  was  even  more  girlish  then  than  i  am  now,     and  three  times  as  shy ;     ballet  was  all  i  could  use  to  get  him  to  look  at  me,     to  make  him  pay  attention  &  perhaps  remember  why  he  took  this  job  in  the  first  place  after  his  own  short,     but  famed  career.     i  would  be  perfect ;     not  just  for  him,     but  for  myself.     it  didn’t  hurt  anything  that  i  was  his  little  prima  prodigy.     he  smiled  for  the  first  time  when  he  called  me  his  moy  lebed,     his  swan,     and  i  can’t  remember  the  last  thing,     even  now,     that  had  made  my  heart  soar  so  much.

xxv.

‘are  you  ready?’     on  the  cusp  of  spring  in  the  midst  of  march,     lies  serena’s  birthday.     thirteen  is  such  a  special  age  for  a girl ;     not  quite  a  woman  yet,     not  quite  a  girl  anymore,     but  leaving  the  throes  of  childhood  behind.     august’s  question  comes  with  an  excited  edge  to  his  voice  and  a  slim  box  in  his  hands,     with  pink  wrapping  paper  and  white  ribbons.     the  other  guests  at  the  party  had  long  dissipated,      and  serena  sits  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,     feet  swinging  back  and  forth  to  dissipate  a  bit  of  the  thrill  she  feels.    ‘i’ve  been  waiting  all  day!’     is  what  serena  replies,     taking  the  gift  into  her  lap.     her  brother  sits  down  next  to  her ;     he’s  twenty,     seven  years  older,     and  a  man  grown,     but  it’s  as  if  there’s  no  difference  between  them  as  august  wraps  his  arm  around  her  waist,     matching  brown  eyes  gleaming  as  he  watches  her  carefully  pry  apart  the  paper  to  reveal  a  box  of  velvet.     ‘it’s  sentimental,’     august  had  said,     as  to  why  he  couldn’t  let  her  open  it  amongst  the  guests.     private,     serena  thinks.     her  brother  was  always  a private  man.     when  she  lifts  the  lid,     and  august  uses  his  other  hand  to  fold  away  the  white  paper,     it  reveals  a  precious,     heart - shaped  golden  locket.     he  pulls  it  out  by  the  chain,     letting  the  pendent  rest  in  serena’s  palms.     ‘it’s  the  most  beautiful  thing  i’ve  ever  seen,’     serena  says,     eyes  glimmering.     august’s  fingers  snap  the  clasp,     and  inside,     a  photo  of  himself  on  one  side,     and  then  a  photo  of  their  parents  from  their  wedding  day  on  the  other.     serena  beams  as  august  closes  it  then  places  the  necklace  around  her  neck,     the  pendent  falling  just  at  her  collarbones.    ‘it’s  beautiful,     my  wonderful  brother,’     she  says,     and  august  kisses  her  crown.     ‘it’s  almost  as  lovely  as  you,     my  sweet  little  sister,     and  you  deserve  lovely  things.     this  way,     we’ll  always  be  with  you.’

xxvi.

julian’s  wedding  band  was  like  him ;     it  was  a  simple  golden  band,     with  ivy  growing  around  it,     interrupted  only  by  a  diagonal  line  of  diamonds.     when  serena  tilts  it  back,     she  can  see  her  mother’s  name  engraved  in  it.     eirene’s  was  a  little  flashier,     with  a  bigger  diamond  in  the  center.     it  wasn’t  because  of  her  personality,     though …     in  that,     serena  can  still  see  her  father,     wanting  to  impress  her,     wanting  to  give  his  wife  the  world.     julian’s  ring  occupies  her  left  thumb ;     she  couldn’t  bear  to  get  it  resized  for  her  dainty  hands,     so  it’s  the  best  she  could  manage.     he’d  had  a  lithe  frame,     and  for  that  she’s  thankful  –  serena  remembers  sliding  the  ring  off  of  his  finger  when  she’d  crossed  his  arms  over  his  chest,     holding  it  between  her  fingers.     she  had  to  have  it.     her  mother  had  worn  hers  until  the  very  last,     until  she  had  slipped  from  serena’s  hand  into  the  ocean’s  embrace.     serena  had  only  been  able  to  just  clasp  the  ring,     before  it  too  could  fall  from  her  grasp.     now,     it  rests  on  her  index  finger,     where  at  least  on  her  hands,     her  parents  could  still  be  together.