#Beneath a Soulless Moon

[jolieeason]

Bookish Travels---October 2024 Destinations

I saw this meme on It’s All About Books and decided to do it once a month. Many thanks to Yvonne for initially posting this!! This post is what it says: Places I travel to in books each month. Books take you to places you would never get to. Please let me know if you have read these books or traveled to these areas. Countries I visited the most: United States, Sri Lanka, India States I…

[sodamnradd]

The lock snicked open and the rusty metal door groaned as Draco entered the room flanked by two Azkaban guards. His eyes were cold and guarded, his posture tense. He sat across the table from Hermione, looking unsettled without his magic. When the guards were satisfied with the state of calm, they left them alone.

“It’s nothing,” she said as his gaze lingered on the left side of her face. An inmate had hit her simply because she could, leaving an ugly crescent-moon bruise around Hermione’s eye. Part of her cheekbone was swollen. She twisted her hands together, handcuffs dragging loudly on the steel table bolted to the ground.

Draco stared at her weeping wrists in horror. “How did this happen?”

“I angered the wrong people,” she said vaguely. Then in a no-nonsense tone asked, “Will you represent me?”

“Why me, Granger?” He was clean-cut in his suit and tie, his expression glacial. “There are more suitable barristers willing to take your case.”

“I trust you,” she reasoned. “You know the bastards who are after me better than anyone. I need a pure-blood on my side, and you’re the most notorious one.”

“Wouldn’t hiring me go against everything you stand for?”

“Who cares what I stand for if I’m incarcerated and soulless?”

He scrutinized her, a grave expression on his face. Lowering his voice he said, “And if they find out about us?”

“They won’t.”

“It could negatively affect your trial.”

“It was a stupid teenage fling. Nobody even knew about it.”

The way he was looking at her confirmed that it was more than a ‘stupid teenage fling’ to him. If she hadn’t been through hell and back in the last few days, she might have mirrored his sentiments. But she was tired and in pain and desperate.

“Draco, please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t let me die in here.”

Her plea seemed to spark something in him because he sat taller and gave her a nod, his cool grey eyes meeting hers with steely determination. He clicked his monogrammed briefcase open and withdrew a blank scroll and self-inking quill. She was relieved to find that familiar look of ambition on his face. If anyone could outsmart the corrupt pure-bloods who wanted her out of politics, it was Draco Malfoy.

It wasn’t just that Draco was intelligent and crafty, but he would go to war for her. A stupid teenage fling was putting it lightly. If it weren’t for Hermione’s plans to move to Australia after graduation, and Draco’s acceptance to the American Law Mastery he’d coveted, they might still be together. Sometimes she wished to go back to the start and tell her younger self not to let him go. That people like Draco didn’t enter her life as often as she’d think. Never at all, really.

She stared at his naked ring finger. Seven years later, he still hadn’t settled down. Neither had she. But Draco had familial obligations.

“I was waiting for you,” he said in a low voice, noticing the direction of her gaze. He formed a fist with his left hand and released. “Came as a shock when I found out my future wife was in Azkaban.”

Warmth bloomed beneath her skin for the first time since she’d arrived, fuelling her need for freedom. “If you get me out of here, I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he smiled, and his eyes turned into the same liquid heat she’d fallen for when she was eighteen. And then he schooled himself, pressing his quill on parchment and giving her a pensive look. “Tell me about the morning of your arrest, Miss Granger,” he began in a level-headed, professional voice, and she knew he wouldn’t let his emotions slip again. Not until she was free.

(630 words, prompt: Azkaban, Forbidden Love, "I wish we could go back to the start" from this prompt builder)

[big-snack]

Ghostface and The Captured Hunk

It was well past midnight. Mark lay sprawled out in his king sized bed. He had always been athletic, his blonde hair cropped short, his physique was nothing short of sculpted perfection. Tall and imposing, his muscular frame seemed to have been carved from stone. His broad shoulders and powerful arms bulged with thick, defined muscles, the kind that only came from years of relentless training. His chest was broad and solid, tapering down to a set of chiseled abs that rippled with every subtle movement. Covered in a light dusting of hair, his body exuded a primal strength, accentuated by the way his veins stood out under his skin, pulsing with raw power.

Mark woke to the sound of heavy footsteps creaking across the wooden floor of his secluded cabin.

His body was tense beneath the covers as he listened to the unnatural silence that followed.

He sat up slowly, his heart racing. The soft glow from the moon barely lit up the room, casting pale shadows across his face. His jaw was clenched, and his deep blue eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of what had disturbed him.

A loud crash echoed from the kitchen.

Mark's stomach dropped. Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he checked for a signal—nothing. Typical. Out here in the middle of the woods, he’d always told himself it was peaceful, an escape from the noise of life. But right now, it felt like isolation, pure and simple.

Mark only slept in his underwear. He swung his tree trunk legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor. Moving as quietly as he could, he grabbed the wrench from his toolbox by the door. His hands, rough and calloused, wrapped around it tightly as he crept into the hallway, the wood creaking under his weight.

The cabin was small, barely more than a few rooms, but it suddenly felt like a labyrinth. Each step he took felt louder than the last, his ears straining for any sound. His mind raced, replaying the crash in the kitchen, imagining what could be waiting for him.

Then, he saw him.

At the end of the hallway, just barely illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows, stood a figure in black robe. The familiar white mask stared back at him, the empty, soulless eyes of Ghostface. Mark could tell this Ghostface was strong, tall, and burley. This man's stature was incredibly intimidating. He could've easily been a lineman on a football team.

Mark’s chest tightened. He froze, gripping the wrench so hard his knuckles turned white. The masked figure didn’t move—just tilted his head, slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey.

Mark took a step back, but Ghostface didn’t give him a chance to think. In a flash, he charged down the hallway.

Instinct took over. Mark swung the wrench, but Ghostface dodged, sending Mark stumbling against the wall. Before he could catch his breath, Ghostface was on him, pressing him into the wall, a gloved hand gripping his throat, but it was more seductive than threatening.

Mark struggled, using every bit of his strength, but Ghostface was fast and relentless. The masked man raised his knife, gleaming in the low light, and brought it down.

With a burst of adrenaline, Mark twisted, the blade barely missing his chest and cutting into his shoulder instead. Pain shot through him, but he shoved Ghostface off and ran, not looking back as he bolted out the door into the freezing night air.

Behind him, the door slammed open again.

Ghostface was coming.

Mark sprinted through the woods, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his heart pounded in his chest. The icy air stung his skin, but the pain in his shoulder kept him focused, adrenaline surging through his veins. He darted between trees, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Ghostface.

But he could hear him. The heavy footsteps behind him deliberate and unhurried like the killer knew exactly where Mark was headed There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Panic clawed at him, but he couldn't stop

Just when he thought he was gaining ground, Mark's foot caught on a hidden root. He went down hard, his body slamming into the cold earth. Dazed, he tried to

scramble back to his feet

but it was too late.

Ghostface was on him

A gloved hand grabbed him by the back of the neck,

yanking him up with brutal force. Mark struggled

throwing wild punches, but Ghostface easily dodged

them, slamming him against a nearby tree. His vision blurred, pain radiating through his body as Ghostface pinned him in place.

Mark kicked out, landing a blow to the killer's knee, but it barely slowed him down. The last thing Mark saw was the glint man straddling on top of him. His world went black.

When Mark woke, his head throbbed like a drum, the dull ache spreading through his entire body. He tried to move, but his arms were bound tightly behind him the rough rope biting into his wrists. He was slumped on a bed, his legs aching from being in the same position for too long. He blinked, disoriented, his surroundings coming into focus. The room was dark and warm, the smell of cookies filling the air. Which was very odd for Mark. A single flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting dim, uneven light across the space. It looked like a

basement--bare walls, no windows, and no way out. His chest tightened with fear.

Mark's muscles strained as he tried to loosen the ropes around his wrists, but they wouldn't budge. He was trapped. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic. He had to think. had to figure out a way out of here.

Then he heard it--the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

His heart stopped

The slow, deliberate creak of each step echoed through the room. The door at the top of the stairs groaned open, and there he was. Ghostface standing at the entrance to the basement, his dark hulking figure looming in the faint light, he stepped down slow and purposeful, the His belly was so big it was jiggling with each step.

Mark's breath caught in his throat. He pulled harder at the ropes, his muscles burning with effort, but it was no use. He was completely helpless. As Ghostface descended the final step, he paused, tilting his head just as he had in the hallway, as if savoring the fear.

Mark's mind raced. This was it. He was trapped, no way out, and Ghostface was going to finish what he'd started

The masked figure approached him, silent and

methodical. Mark's pulse roared in his ears as Ghostface crouched down in front of him, bringing the mask inches from his face. The dark eyes behind the mask stared into Mark's, and in that moment, Mark realized something-this wasn't just about killing him Ghostface was playing withhim.

"You're mine, now" Ghostface uttered through the voice modulator.

A gloved hand reached out, slowly tracing his hand along Mark's cheek the cold rubber sending a shiver down his spine. The killer was taking his time, dragging out the terror.

Mark swallowed, trying to keep the fear from swallowing him whole, but it was no use. He was trapped, and Ghostface had all the time in the world,

Ghostface pulled out a long black tube with a funnel attached.

"I hope you're hungry, stud. You're about to get filled" whispered Ghostface.

Part 2 Coming Soon 🎃

[hrefna-the-raven]

A gift

Masterlist - Horror masterlist - Misc.

Chucky/Charles Lee Ray x female reader

Warnings: cursing, smut (18+)

Summary: Chucky couldn't exactly recall how you stumbled into his life and by now, all that mattered was that you were here. And when you presented him with the most marvelous gift, all changed...

Notes: this does not exactly follow the canon rules

Requested by the wonderful @stygianoir :) I hope you like it :)

Reader: female reader

Chucky couldn't exactly recall how you stumbled into his life and by now, all that mattered was that you were here. You had been his newest victim's neighbour, living right next door for two years before he found out that you were a powerful voodoo priestess. And this was the problem with you, you didn't care that he was a killer's soul trapped in a Good Guy's doll. Instead, you saw beyond the layers of cruelty and chaos, recognising the flicker of humanity that remained within him. It was this glimpse of that strange compassion that captivated him and made him yearn for more.

As the moon cast eerie shadows upon your living room, during one of your usual late-night conversations, things took an unexpected turn. Emotions ran high, the air around him crackled with green sparkles, and before Chucky knew it, he found himself transformed back into his human form. His hands frantically touched his face, fingers running through his raven hair before marveling at the sensation of flesh and having normal-sized hands once again. Ripples of laughter erupted from him as he couldn't believe what just happened and the moment his eyes locked with yours, he lunged forward, pinning you down beneath him on the couch.

"You made me all myself again", he whispered, his gaze darting between your eyes and lips, "how could I ever repay you?"

"Don't be too quick to thank me", you almost chuckled, "you'll only have a limited time in this form."

"I'll take whatever fucking time I can in my own body."

He leaned down and his lips barely brushing against yours before his tongue slipped past, deepening the kiss. You moaned into him, bucking your hips against his, desperate for friction.

"Eager, aren't you?", Charles chuckled, settling himself between your legs.

He trailed kisses along the delicate flesh of your inner thigh and his fingers slid your panties to the side, his lips pressing against your wet folds for a tender kiss. You whimpered, unable to tame your growing desire as you felt his tongue finally drag through your wetness. He groaned as soon as your taste coated his tongue. It was divine, Heaven's grace all sprawled out just for him. Two fingers pushed your folds apart and he placed gentle kisses along before eagerly sucking on your clit. He devoured you like a man starved, each lick a testament to his gratitude and love for you. Despite the harsh words usually falling from his mouth, it's surprisingly soft and gentle now, chasing you fast towards the brink of pleasure. He growled against you, his fingers teasing your entrance before slowly pushing inside. The thrusts are hard and fast while his relentless licks against your clit fuelled that fire within you. The pressure in your core became too much and the orgasm washed over your body as you sobbed, your cunt delightfully clenching around his fingers. Like a whispered curse in the depths of your enticing darkness, his name escaped your lips. Charles chuckled, he wiped his fingers and mouth clean and planted a loving kiss on your lips as he settled beside you. His bright blue eyes stared right into yours, brimming with a mixture of fear and a longing that defied all logical explanation in regards to this usually so bloodthirsty cold man. As the silence hung thick in the air, you reached out and brushed your lips against his and in that fleeting moment Charles realised that his lines had blurred. The notion of being a soulless killer seemed so distant as the warmth of your touch on his now human skin melted away the wickedness that had consumed him for so long. He was fully aware that it would all come back once he turned back into that cursed doll but he also knew that you wouldn't give a fuck and continue to be the same as you always were. Which is exactly why he came to love you even though he'd never admit it....

[illumiera]

a new moon rises

or: there is a loom upon which the fate of every mortal is woven, and she who works it is Azura's blessed and cursed all at once. pre-i fear no fate (for you are my fate), 801 words

Near a small island somewhere off the coast of Akavir, the sea glows as though brimming with a galaxy of drowned stars. Stepping onto its shores feels like stepping beyond time entirely, like yesterday and today have fallen away in favour of a breathless, everlasting tomorrow. It feels like a crossing-over, like a journey from death-touched to deathless, and Ilmarenya—Ilmarenya cannot be certain if the salt-haired woman climbing out of the little boat is still Ilmarenya, but she knows that she must try to be nonetheless.

Nerevar—silent now, but he will come if she calls, whether as sound or as a shadow—has never required it of her. Nor has fate, which cares nothing for the name or face she wears as long as she treads the path it unfurls before her.

But her son and his father can have no other, and so Ilmarenya she must remain.

Azura stands at the base of the island’s single mountain. All the art, the statues, the carvings Ilmarenya’s fingers have traced at every shrine—they depict her as the star-touched night with a string of constellations for her girdle, but the Prince of the In-Between is never quite the same. Sometimes, she comes as midnight given body, or the wine-dark of gloaming, or flame-streaked sundown, or the golden hour moving through the air like a dream. Now, at the end—or the beginning—of all things, she is as beautiful and terrible as the dawn, and her skin is lit from within beneath a gauzy gown dyed the precise pink of early summer roses.

“Are you ready, my Moon-and-Star?” Azura asks, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft.

Ilmarenya draws herself to her full height and meets the unblinking burning dusk-dawn of the goddess’ eyes. What passes between them is nothing short of a challenge: Remember our bargain, my lady. I will give you—give Morrowind—my whole body if I must, but never that which I formed within it, never my son. Only when Ilmarenya is satisfied does she at last permit herself a single nod.

“Then come, Ilmarenya Ara’dayn.”

The goddess’ hands are warm, soft, and yet fetter-firm as they close around her own. When the Daedric Prince of Dusk and Dawn leans in and presses her mouth to hers, so too are her lips.

—past—

—present—

—future—

—past-present-future-past-present-future-past-present-future-past—

It beats in her heart, in her head, in her soul like a doom-drum, Il-ma-ren-ya to the thundering of her pulse, and with the taste of roses and crystal sugar on her tongue, Ilmarenya sees.

Sees the spinning of the Wheel, the never-ending weaving of the loom her own hands must guide. Sees the sevenfold stories carved out by the strides of the Brass Tower, the breaking of the dragon, the wandering of the Soulless One, the making and dying of saints and soldiers alike. Sees the many paths of the world, of the worlds, of Ilmarenyas whose disparate choices tangle like caught threads, of Nerevarines who bear another name and face and fate, and sees—

Lliryn.

The image of her son is a beacon, a lodestar amidst it all. Lliryn growing—and she will not be there—into a lanky-legged young man with her nose and his father’s crow-feather curls. Lliryn the wizard’s apprentice, a scion of House Telvanni through and through, and a ghost to a father who sees only her when he looks into his face. Lliryn leaving to find her, and Lliryn collared and chained and seared from the inside out of everything that was hers, and then the fire and the wrath of their ancestors and the wrath of Nerevar come again, and Lliryn in the heart of the blaze with his chin tilted up to the moons-and-stars in prayer, in thanks, and then—

—and then she sees the First with his crown of storms, or the thrice-blessed Last with a healer’s bloody hands, or perhaps both at once, and either way, she cannot see her son, cannot see past the mess of thread that a Hero leaves in their wake. Dead, alive, a thrall of another kind—she can see everything, but not the most precious thing, not the one thing she needs to see.

Ilmarenya does not break. Boethiah’s children know that they must break the world that seeks to break them, and she—she has always been the rock upon which the waves break. Still, she remains on her hands and knees at the shoreline until any mortal’s bones would ache, and the tears that spill to the starlit sand are a bright, liquid gold.

What rises in the end is the Nerevarine, but Ilmarenya Ara’dayn, but something altogether other. Ilmarenya’s eyes, burning with all sundown’s fire, lift to the summit and the loom that waits atop it, and she begins to ascend.

[rawcalamity]

Darkness anchors the sun as it falls beneath the horizon, it’s brilliant sky sullied by the breath of night. A watchful moon stalks through billows of fog as it’s drawn like curtains to a play. The cold, brisk wind whistles a soulless tune; brushing against leaves wilted and withered. Souls who brave the night of All Hallow‘s Eve must beware of the terrible creatures that lurk behind every shadow, lest they succumb to the reapers scythe. Stories sail from one travelers ear to another, spreading the tale of a wicked beast who slumbers beneath the soil. They say that when summer fades into fall, a predators prowls through the large swaths of pumpkin patches—a gourd colossal in size and tangled within gnarled tendrils of draconic roots. As it wakes, a plethora of crooked beaks breach through the cracks of the hardened soil. Emerging from its nest are the heads of the pumpkin hydra; together they howl with the wind, beckoning monsters and ghouls alike. The pumpkin hydra is sworn to violently protect pumpkins and gourds as if they were its kin. Whispers say that this gargantuan gourd was brought to life from a witches thumb.

[sunmoonjune]

the kingdom of dawn

synopsis: this is a description of the petrichor universe in which my demon!ateez au [dewdrops at dawn] takes place. this will function as a masterlist to fics from this universe as well as information about demons, angels, the world, etc. this is mostly a lore piece, so there is not a lot of the reader in this 

warnings: though some of ateez’s demon forms are inspired by obey me! their personalities are not, so in terms of the sins they rule over, they will not be the same as the obey me!demons. this piece details about the fictional world of the petrichor universe and about some of its species so there are mentions of supernatural creatures, as well as blood and death as well as war and killing (kept vague). they are demons, please be warned they will occasionally act like it. 

The red strings of fate are knotted tight around your soul as your decision is made. When your hand meets the one reaching out, waiting patiently for your grasp, every nerve-ending in your skin seems to catch fire. Their skin is pleasantly warm beneath yours, but the heat in your body emerges from your heart rather than your hand. The ‘soulbond,’ as the sun-moon being called it, pulls tightly in your chest. It swells with waves of warmth and emotion, before it settles snugly around your heart. 

The muscle thumps rapidly beneath your ribs, feeling as though a knot had been cinched firmly around its flesh. Your fingers flex around those gripping yours, and the thread in your chest seems to flutter as if someone had strummed the strings of a guitar. It’s a strange, but not unwelcome sensation – especially since the warmth that it provides makes you feel a little giddy. After a beat, the hand in yours offers a squeeze in response and that same string seems to vibrate. 

They’re tugging you forward. 

With a gentle pull of your fingers, the hand guides you toward them and into the darkness that shrouds the celestial doorway. Despite your racing heart and the bite of fear eating at your stomach, you take a determined step forward. 

The bond swells. It presses into your throat and fills every inch of your form, feeling like a warm blanket settling over your aching muscles. It sinks deeper, saturating your soul and nestling sweetly beside your heart - a muscle of its own, firmly attached to both your soul and your mind. They squeeze your hand again, and somehow you understand that something similar has happened to your unknown guide. 

You wish you could see their face. 

In the darkness beyond the doorway, you see nor feel nothing besides the warm grip of fingers in yours. It’s an empty expanse of space – soulless and lifeless, barren if not for the guiding touch of your savior. 

They show you the way, firmly grasping your hand and refusing to relent in their pursuit forward. For some baffling reason, you trust them. Their guidance is the only thing binding you to this plane of existence, and their touch seems to activate that soulbond in your chest. You are not unaware of the implications of this bond - a string always has two ends. If this person is the other end of your thread - or seeks to guide you to it, you’ll follow them without question. 

Though, you faintly wonder why the knot in your heart tugs in different directions. Perhaps, it’s not a single string? The possibility of several threads tying you to another is a little mesmerizing, and you shake off the question before you become too confused.

As the hand persists, your vision is blurred by the sudden appearance of a small bright light in the distance. 

It’s faint, but you can vaguely see where shadows disappear into the alabaster shine of some form of light. There’s another sweet tug of the string in your chest, and you find yourself smiling and trying not to stumble over your feet as the form seems to pull you with a renewed surge of excitement. 

You nearly giggle at their elation, and offer a squeeze of your hand in acknowledgement. 

As you approach the light, your head seems to swell - like the beginning of a headache that leaves your vision blurry and your thoughts scrambled. It’s a little difficult to continue forward, but your guide is kind. With your vision starting to blur, the light growing closer but far more cloudy, you don’t see the shadow of seven more forms beyond the dark expanse. 

They’re waiting for you. 

Just beyond the other side of this soulless space, there are seven more people waiting patiently for you to emerge in their world. They fidget anxiously, swaying on their feet and chewing on their lips as they await the return of their leader as he left to guide you back into their realm. It’s been far too long, and they’ve grown so lonesome without your presence at their side. 

As the light closes in, your eyes slide shut as you cross the border into a new world, an anxious tension keeping them closed until you reach your destination. 

Your first glimpse of the Kingdom of Dawn is through rays of golden light arching across the sky as the sun begins its morning journey from one end of the Earth to the other, and the frosty chill of air at the first break of sunrise settles over your skin, cooling your flesh as they cling to the warmth of first light – just like dewdrops at dawn. 

*:･ﾟ About the Kingdom of Dawn ･ﾟ:*

This kingdom is home to the immortal world of demons and angels alike. However, it is likely not the same story the human world may portray. You see, demons are not the dark, sinister creatures many tales make them out to be – likewise, angels are not being of elegance and kindness.

In the Kingdom of Dawn, demons can hear your prayers just as well as angels can, however you may never know if they were the one to answer. Demons can live amongst the humans, not bound to the celestial realm as the angels are. Able to switch between a demon form and a human one, they can look just like any other stranger on the street.

In their demon forms, most demonkind have a few defining features, but each is different - just as each human is different.

Most demons have a set of wings, horns and tail - they’re commonplace amongst their kind. Wings can be of different sizes and shapes: feathered, bat-like or scaled are just a few prevalent kinds. Horns and tails are quite the same, and each demon’s will be slightly different. But be warned, many demon’s tails have hidden stingers, and neurotoxins are not uncommon venoms in the Kingdom of Dawn. Try not to get stung! 

Most demons communicate with their tails much like a cat – they flick and jump based on their emotions, but are typically far more prehensile than that of a cat. This allows them to curl their tails around objects, and depending on the type of tail, the muscles of their tails can be used to squeeze tight - a dangerous implication. 

The extra appendages of demonkind are extremely sensitive - especially wings. Most devils will not allow these appendages to be touched by anyone but their mates. Touching a demon’s wings can be seen as signs of accepting a soulbond. In addition, wings are very important to a demon. They are used in nearly every aspect of life, including mating, hunting, and determining status. Many demons care for their wings and extra appendages with excruciating care. However, tending to these extremities is a personal matter, only shared between mates and lovers. 

A demon’s eyes will also no longer have an iris or pupil: eyes belonging to a demon are solid black. The teeth of demonkind are also slightly different; their canines are elongated in demon form, giving their grins a flash of fangs.

Some demons, depending on their strength and power, will have other features. It is said that the High King of Hell has golden jewelry embossing the structure of his wings, for example. Additionally, in their demon forms, each of the rulers of this kingdom has a glimmering crown that manifests around their horns. Each circlet is different, and some crawl up their horns rather than filtering around. 

All demons are considered much stronger than humankind. Each devil is born with heightened strength and stamina, and they are considered much taller than humans. Their enhanced skills also extend to healing as well. Most demons can heal superficial wounds, like cuts and scrapes, in a matter of seconds. Other injuries can be healed just as quickly, depending on the strength and power of the demon. 

Additionally, some demons can hold great magical capabilities depending on their power. The extent of their powers depends on the demon. The eight rulers of Hell are known for their extensive magic and incredible power, but not many know of their special abilities. 

There are several other traits that separate demons from humankind, including the sounds they make. The vocal cords of a demon are formed differently from other species. These differences allow them to make more sounds than many are capable of. This distinctive set of vocal cords was created to aid their kind in Infernal speech - the language of Hell. This dialect is made up of sounds that humans cannot replicate. A mix of hisses, growls and monstrous sounds catalog Infernal speech, and they cannot be reproduced by any other species - making Infernal unique only to demonkind.

While they sound remarkably frightening, demons are not all dark and sinister beings.

Devils can be kind, just as any human could. Despite their stories, most demons don’t actually interact with humans beyond being summoned. Choosing instead to reside in the darkness of Hell, demons are not solely responsible for the chaos of the human world. Deals between a demon and a human are quite rare, and seldom affect the balance and order of the world.

A deal made with a demon is an eternal pact. Once a deal is made, it cannot be broken without immense difficulty for both parties. There is no confirmed record of a deal with a devil ever being broken. There is not much knowledge on this matter, and the manner in which deals are made cannot be confirmed - nor the price that is to pay for such a deal. However, if a deal is made, all those involved will be marked with the tattoo of a chain. It wraps around the left wrist, winding upwards towards the elbow, leaving a link open at the base of the inside of the wrist. This link will connect to the chain of the tattoo on the other parties involved. The tattoo marks a deal, and binds all those involved - unbreakable and eternal. 

However, soulbonds between a demon and a human are less rare.

When a soulbond snaps between a demon and their partner or partners, it is an eternal bond that cannot be broken - even by death. Demons will love only their chosen soulmates, and being separated from their mates by great distances or death is extremely painful. However, not all demons will meet their mates. Only the guiding touch of fate and the red string binding their heart can tell. 

Some say demons are some of the fiercest and most protective of lovers. Relationships are eternal and demons will love their mates beyond even their dying breath. However, though it may be difficult to kill a demon, it is not wise to get between a demon and their mate unless you crave a fate worse than death. Demons are protective to the end.

Most demons will mark their mates with a pact mark. 

Pact marks are sigils of a bond between mates. Like a werewolf’s bite, a pact mark will show other demons that the chosen recipient is protected. Through a pact mark, the soulbond is enhanced, allowing some conscious thought to be exchanged between mates in addition to emotion. 

The sigil of pact marks are typically the rune of the demon’s true name. The runes are transcribed in Infernal, so it cannot be read by many others than those in Hell. The pact mark will appear on the recipient’s skin in the form of a tattoo. Locations and sizes of these marks are important and can have several different meanings. 

Demons are immortal beings - from the moment they are created, they will not succumb to physical aging beyond maturity (typically around the age of twenty-five). They can still be killed, but not so easily as humans. In fact, most literature that detailed how to slay demons was destroyed many centuries ago. The knowledge has been lost to all but a few. Most believe that the only thing that can kill a demon is an angel.

In comparison to demons, angels are far more involved in the human world.

While demons keep to themselves, choosing not to be involved in the fates of humankind, angels believe it is their right and duty to create a ‘pure’ world. Unless given an order by the archangel Michael, angels remain in the Celestial Realm. However, there is very little information regarding this realm or the business of angels beyond their mission in the human world. They are bound by their creator to exterminate any being that does not hold purity in their heart. No definition has ever been provided for what angels believe to be ‘pure.’  

Angels appear differently to every human, but most who survive encounters with such creatures typically entail imagery of multiple sets of wings and clusters of eyes, both unseeing and all too invasive. If you ever encounter an angel, your best bet for survival is to pray to a demon for safety, and hope your heart is pure enough for salvation. 

It has been said that the blood of an angel runs gold rather than the scarlet ichor of other species. Though, not many can claim to have seen an angel bleed - angels are extraordinarily strong, propelled by enhanced speed and strength like demonkind. However, despite their strength, it is not difficult for demons to slaughter angels. They can be killed like any other species, and do not possess the healing abilities of a demon. 

No one knows what happens to angels after death. 

Like a demon, angels’ vocal cords are more suited for a different language. They often have trouble forming the sounds used in human tongues, and typically only speak in a horrifying succession of clicks and screeches. In the rare instance human speech is used, the sound is scratchy and raw - terrifying in an entirely different manner. 

Other creatures that may prowl through the Kingdom of Dawn include hellhounds, wraiths, reapers, little demons known as ‘little Ds,’ and many more. Some say there are dragons guarding the borders of the kingdom, but they’ve never been seen by anyone but Hell’s rulers.

In Hell, the High King presides over the entirety of the realm. The seven princes, though not actually ‘princes’ by definition as they are not related in any manner, each rule over one of the seven rings. The rings are divided into categories that are best described as the seven sins: pride, greed, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony and sloth. However, the scope of each of these rings extends beyond just the manner of sin. 

Other demons in the Kingdom of Dawn are divided into these sins. Each demon is born into a specific sin, but it does not define their personality or traits in any way. These classifications simply aid in deciding the capabilities of each demon. For example, a demon of lust is more suited to become an incubus rather than a dream-eater. However, their classification does not limit their ability to hone different capabilities. 

Additionally, no one knows which of the sins each prince was assigned at birth, aside from a few. While they rule over a certain ring, it is not clear if their presiding sin matches the ring in which they rule.

Everyone is too afraid to ask.

Though rare, some demons do savor the taste of human flesh. It is not common, as they do not encounter many humans, but some demons will hunt humans. There is little a human can do to protect themselves against a demon, unless guarded by another species. However rare they may be, it is best not to wander Hell alone. 

In Hell, the realm may be different from the flame-riddled agony of myth, but it still varies from the human world in some aspects. 

For instance, the sun only illuminates the sky for a few short hours of the day - between a few hours around high noon. Without the sun, much of Hell is lit by vibrant lights that mimic the sun. Most are powered by magic, and those in the royal palace are fed by starlight. 

Much of the Kingdom of Dawn is similar to the human world in terms of structure – the land is not drastically different (though there are still sunken, fiery pits in each ring for those who have committed atrocities). Seasons still change in Hell, though they are slightly different given the lack of constant sunlight. In addition, some human plants still grow well in Hell. They are less common, however, and you will more likely find Hell’s native plants. 

For humans living and visiting the Kingdom of Dawn, there are few drastic differences to account for. Of course, if you can avoid the hungry gazes of lower demons, best negated with a ruler of Hell at your side, you won’t have too much trouble in this kingdom. 

*:･ﾟ About the Rulers of Hell･ﾟ:*

Choi Jongho, one of the seven ‘princes’ of Hell, rules over the lowest of the seven rings. These rings are not constructed in a manner of superiority, so the level of their position does not equate to their power or rank. The rule of each section was designated based on birth order, so as the youngest of the eight rulers, Jongho was assigned the last ring: sloth. 

While he may be the youngest, Jongho is irrefutably one of the strongest of the ruling demons. Based on muscle capacity alone, Jongho can easily outrank his partners in strength. In addition, the youngest was named the General of Hell’s army soon after being named ruler of the seventh ring. 

Jongho’s demon form consists of massive, dark wings that fade from an obsidian black to a scarlet red at the ends. Some lower ranking demons have described the general’s wings as though the membranes were dripping with the sticky ichor of blood. The tips of his wing’s claws are incredibly sharp, and the inky color also reflects a scarlet shine when the sun illuminates them. 

Jongho’s long, prehensile tail is barbed at the end - sort of like the human world’s sting rays. The barb is difficult to see when relaxed, but even harder to avoid when at the general’s mercy. Be wary – his stinger is laced with a potent neurotoxin with only one cure. His tail is the same deep black color of his wings, and the barb can be hidden beneath the skin of the underside - leaving his opponents ignorant of the awaiting venom. Jongho’s tail is a little longer than some of his mates, and can sometimes be seen dragging across the floor of the palace - if it is not very carefully wrapped around one of his mate’s legs. 

The horns of the youngest of the demon rulers curve upwards away from his head. They bend outwards in a single curve before ending with the points skyward, tips sharp and scarlet - matching the faded obsidian of his wings. The dark color of the bottom of his horns blend seamlessly into his black hair, and when the sun shines directly on his figure, you can catch little glimpses of red highlights. 

Jung Wooyoung presides over the next of the seven rings, and as age order dictates, the next sin: gluttony. Wooyoung is one of the demons that most believe was not born of the sin they rule. No one quite believes Wooyoung is a gluttony demon, and there have been several rumors attempting to guess his actual sin - to which Wooyoung will never reveal. 

Wooyoung is known for his awing ability to bewitch others. Akin to a snake whisper of legend, Wooyoung can convince anyone of anything - he could lead beasts to the grave with a simple smile and coax others into revealing their weaknesses at a single word from his lips. Most aren't quite sure if it’s a power of his or some kind of natural charm. 

His wings are some of the most opulent among demonkind. With a tremendous wingspan, one that rivals even the King, Wooyoung’s two sets of wings are a sight to behold. Blessed with two sets of ebony-feathered wings, Wooyoung’s status as a ‘prince’ is made clear. Both wings are coated in dark feathers. Because of this, once a year, he undergoes a sort of shedding season - a molt. During this time, old feathers are preened away and new feathers begin to take their place. These new feathers can be uncomfortable as they grow in, so Wooyoung has been known to be a little pricklier during this time. The itch and ache are constant, and it can be difficult to reach some of the feathers on his own. However, as the seasons continue, Wooyoung has grown used to his molting season with the help of his mates. 

Wooyoung is one of the only demon rulers who does not have a tail - the High King being the only other. Not all demons are born with them, and some assume he does not have one due to the second set of massive wings at his back. 

The horns of the lord of gluttony are ebony colored, as most demon’s are. They curve upwards in a single bend, and curl backwards around his head in the shape of half moons. His circlet manifests daintily between them in a glimpse of shimmering gold, gemstones gracing the band of ornate, twisting branches. His horns blend into a head of dark hair, the top half colored a deep black while the bottom layer fades into a bright blonde. The two-toned hair is often seen pulled into a half-up style, with a few strands loose and framing his face. 

Song Mingi, the next of the demon lords, was assigned the ring just above Wooyoung: lust. Despite being older, many will joke that Wooyoung and Mingi have switched the sins they preside over. Mingi, like his mate, will never say what sin he was born into. 

Mingi can often be seen beside Jongho, as he commands the aerial fleet on Jongho’s army. The position of General had been offered to Mingi, but he had turned it down in favor of remaining a soldier. He takes control of much of the training of new soldiers, and commands the section of airborne soldiers during times of war. Mingi’s claws are well-suited for combat, as the razor sharp talons are laced with the same venom in Jongho’s tail. In addition, Mingi’s senses are acutely tuned due to his life in war, and he can sense a mutiny far before a rebellion begins to stir. His clairvoyant abilities certainly aid such senses as well. 

The wings that sprout from Mingi’s back are composed of the same sort of bat-like membrane of some of his mates. However, the brown membrane only makes up the inner portion of his wings. At the tips of his wings, by the ends of the bony fingers, the membrane disappears and scales take their place. In comparison to Yeosang, these scales are translucent and glimmer in the sunlight - like a dragonfly. When caught in rays of light, they cast rainbow glares, illuminating the room like a sun catcher. Though they appear fragile, the glassy scales are remarkably sharp, and can cut through skin easily. 

The ruler of the ring of lust has a tail that matches his wings. With a long brown base, the prehensile appendage is tipped with a diamond shape of translucent scales. Like his wings, these scales are razor sharp and have no difficulty being used in battle.  

Unlike some of the simpler horns of demonkind, Mingi’s horns are shaped like those of a ram. They twist with a spiral shape once, leaving the pointed tips facing backwards. Because of their shape, they can be difficult to maintain, but his mates aid in these processes. The ebony color of his horns stands out from the silver glint of his hair. The light brownish color is mostly silver looking in the light, and it’s long enough to rest against the back of his neck. 

Choi San, though some believe was born into lust, is the ruler of the fourth of the seven rings: wrath. His sweet, joyful demeanor may not paint the picture of anger, but San is exceptional at guarding his wrath and maintaining his temper. Although, it is never a good idea to anger the lord of this sin - fate may not be able to protect you from his rage, especially if you threaten his mates. 

San was born with a power that is not often seen among supernatural species. With an uncanny ability to control shadows, San can both understand and speak to the slippery manifestations. His shadows are sentient creatures, and San treats them softly despite their otherwise suspicious occupation. As they are naturally occurring, San uses his shadows as spies – allowing them to collect intel for him, which they will whisper back into his ears. His shadows can only be heard by some, but their presence is unmistakable. San controls them well, however, so unless he calls for them, they often remain hidden. Although, some lower demons have said they have seen wisps of shadow clinging to the other demon lords, clinging to their skin and shifting around their limbs like a second skin. Perhaps, they adore his mates as much as San does. 

With smooth, bat-like wings, San’s lithe form is built for speed - it makes him the fastest of the demon rulers. The dark membrane is sleek, the obsidian color only interrupted by the alabaster white of the boney frame of his wings. When spread wide, his wing span is impressive, spanning more than twice the length of his arms. 

The shadow-singer has a tail that resembles some of the pictures of demonic myth. With a thin, dark base and a tip pointed like an arrowhead, the tail is nearly exactly what some had predicted them to look like. However, they likely did not predict how akin to the weapon the tip would be – his tail is as pointed as an actual arrowhead and it has been used as a weapon in the past. 

San’s horns curl around his head, sprouting from his temples and twisting to the back of his head where the point faces behind him. They bend slightly twice, faintly resembling the body of a snake. They blend into the black color of his hair, only standing out against some of the blond streaks of the bottom half. His hair is similar to Wooyoung’s, though shorter than that of his mate. 

The next of the kingdom's rulers is Kang Yeosang, the leader of the third ring: envy. As the fourth eldest, this sin was delegated to his rule. No one knows if it is his true sin, as Yeosang is very good at concealing his secrets. 

Yeosang, like his king, was born with the ability to heal. His powers manifested young, and they continued to grow as he reached maturity. Though they cannot revive the dead, there are few wounds that Yeosang cannot heal. Those that are beyond his strength to heal are usually those who have been wounded by an angel - their blades are filled with a celestial purity Yeosang cannot counteract. 

Much of Yeosang’s demon form resembles a dragon - including his massive wings. The scales of his impressive wings appear a deep obsidian black to the plain eye. However, under the rays of the sun, the scales shift in color - like mica. Rippling magnificently in hues of royal purple and forest green - hints of an iridescent blue catching the light when he shifts - the silky scales reveal a metallic sheen in the light. Since Yeosang’s demon characteristics are so dragon-like, the talons of his wings are slightly larger than some of his mates. The sharp, curled points are daunting when the shadow of his wingspan descends on his prey. 

His thick, dragon-like tail is coated in scales of the same caliber - a truly mesmerizing sight when Yeosang soaks up the few hours of mid-morning sun. Letting his scales shimmer and reflect beams of light, the healer muffles his laugh when he catches sight of his mates fawning over his beauty. 

Yeosang’s horns are slightly different from the other demon lords; while they emerge from his temples and curve up and over his head towards the back, there is a smaller second set of horns slightly beneath the first. The second set of inky horns are the same shape as the first, just a fraction smaller. Slightly less than half of the size of his main horns, the second set curls in the same fashion over his head, the tips pointed slightly upward. Yeosang’s honey blonde hair does not conceal the root of his horns, allowing a little glimpse of the scales around his temples. Little iridescent scales scatter the base of his horns, as well as the base of his wings and tail as well. Due to his dragon-like appearance, these scales do shed once a season - a sensation that can cause itching and discomfort for the demon. However, the lord of envy claims his shedding season does not compare to that of his mate’s. 

Jeong Yunho, third eldest of the demon rulers, presides over the second ring: greed. The tallest of his mates, Yunho’s energetic and joyful demeanor disappears when in command of his court. Lower demons often find themselves cowering under his intimidating stature, the stoic expression on his face a drastic change from the one he wears inside the castle. 

One of Yunho’s strongest abilities emerges in the form of emotions. Aside from the soulbond between his mates, Yunho has an uncanny ability for sensing and changing feelings. As he honed the ability, he quickly discovered how to manipulate the strings of a person's emotions. Soon after, he grew adept at his skill, and found a place at Hongjoong’s side in the palace – being able to meddle with the emotions of those not so easily convinced is a marvelous ability, is it not? 

Yunho’s demon form appears a fraction of a color lighter than some of his mates. Rather than the dark colors of other forms, Yunho’s demon form is coated in shades of gold and ochre. His wings are composed of the same bat-like membrane of San’s, however, unlike his partner, Yunho also has a second set of wings. Though they are much smaller than the first, two shorter wings, like the hind-wings of a butterfly, emerge from beneath the fore-wings. Both are a dark shade of ochre, each set is remarkably deadly. The bone fingers that form the structure of his wings extend beyond the membrane of his wings, sharpening to a knife-like point and making his wings a dangerous asset. Each section of golden bone looks like a dagger, and when he fully expands his daunting wings, Yunho looks frighteningly beautiful. Yunho’s wings are not often seen as they are deadly to the touch, and he fears harming those he cares about. 

The tail extending from the base of Yunho’s spine is also a golden ochre color, and it resembles his wings as well. The thin tail has dagger-like spines along its length. Each one looks like the bony claws that his wings possess, and they protrude about an inch from his tail in a vaguely triangular shape. 

Yunho’s horns, also the inky black that his mates possess, curl forward from his temples instead of back. They push forward an inch before twisting upwards to point towards the sky, meeting above the center of his forehead and leaving just an inch of space in between. They too, blend in with his dark hair, and the base of his horns is hidden beneath the mess of black hair. 

Park Seonghwa is the eldest of the demon rulers. As such, he maintains control of the highest of the seven rings: pride. Seonghwa is one of the few rulers to reveal that his true sin matches the ring he rules. 

The eldest of the kingdom’s lords is a bit of an enigma when it comes to his powers. Very few have seen the extent of his abilities, and those who have are only privy to short glimpses and small tricks. While frustratingly complex, Seonghwa’s powers involve time. Able to see and alter different strings of reality, Seonghwa can glimpse into timelines. With ease, he can open and close gateways to another timeline, as well as take glances into the events of such timelines. However, due to the strength of this power and the dire consequences that could result from a mistake, Seonghwa does not use them often. Only at the request of his king, or at his own personal haste, does Seonghwa divulge in the mystery of his power. Though, even without using them, the eldest has an uncanny clairvoyance for matters of importance. 

Seonghwa’s wings are fairly similar to Wooyoung’s, with ebony feathers coating the appendages. He, however, only has one set of wings rather than two. Additionally, Seonghwa has the bone-like claw at the tip of his wings that some of his mates have - a feature Wooyoung does not. Both he and his feathered mate undergo a molting season as new feathers replace the old. Wooyoung and Seonghwa typically spend much of this time together, as they understand the exact care the other needs during this time. 

The eldest has a long, charcoal colored tail that spits at the tip, forming two separate prehensile tails. Each of these tails can move on its own, giving him the appearance of having two rather than one. The skin is almost scale-like, but does not have the same texture that Yeosang does. 

Seonghwa’s horns extend from a little closer to his forehead, rather than his temple. They are thin, but strong, curling around his head like a crown of antlers. Sort of deer-like in appearance, the horns split into branches and end at the back of his head. Though his hair is an inky black, the base of his horns can sometimes be seen due to the undercut along the side of his head. 

Kim Hongjoong, better known as the High King of Hell, rules over the entirety of the Kingdom of Dawn. Every demon in the realm knows better than to challenge the king. Blessed with incredible power and guarded by seven of the realm’s strongest, he is a demon to be feared. Most demons steer clear of the king, intimidated by his power and his status, but those who work closely with him know that he is not an unjust ruler. Hongjoong, despite how intimidating he appears, is a well-liked king. He is fair and dependable as a ruler, and does not treat his realm poorly. Though his rule is unquestionable, he always treats each subject with the same importance as the last - each opinion matters equally when it comes to decision making. However, Hongjoong is still a demon - one of the most powerful of his kind; so should his rule ever come into question, you will be reminded why he is High King. 

As a demon of great power, Hongjoong has a plethora of abilities and an extensive knowledge of magic. He can cast spells and brew potions among other tricks, but one of his strongest powers is one that is not commonly seen: Hongjoong is able to delve into people’s minds. He can communicate via the mind, as well as view and alter a person’s thoughts and memories. It’s an extremely useful ability - but a very dangerous one too. Additionally, with enough practice and the right mentor, your mind can be guarded from prying eyes. However, it takes exceptional strength to hide your thoughts from a demon like Hongjoong. Most commonly, this ability of the king is used to establish a connection between the mind’s of his mates. This allows them to speak to each other without a regard for the distance that may separate them. 

The High King’s demon form is regal. With blood-red wings adorned with golden embellishments decorating the bone structure, Hongjoong is kingly. His wingspan is the largest of his mates, and the large shadow of his frame is daunting. The appendages are a similar bat-like membrane as many other demons. 

Hongjoong does not have a tail in his demon form. However, he does have a venom running through his veins - manifesting the strongest in his fangs. Hongjoong’s bite has the capability of forcing neurotoxin into his prey. The king controls the venom as he pleases, so not every bite is laced with toxin. 

The king's horns are very similar to those of his eldest lover, Seonghwa. Both demons have antler-like horns, though Hongjoong’s appear slightly less delicate. They are a fraction firmer, with less branches that are a little thicker than his mate’s. Hongjoong’s horns also curl around his head, ending facing behind him in a secondary crown - the golden circlet between his horns being the first. Hongjoong’s horns are also decorated in the golden jewelry that embellish his wings. They disappear into a mess of brown hair that is long enough to rest against the base of his neck. 

So, my dear, with the knowledge of the Kingdom of Dawn now revealed and your fate in the hands of eight demon lords, answer me this: 

Are you ready to meet the crown rulers of Hell?

the first installment of the Kingdom of Dawn: dewdrops at dawn – poly!ot8 ateez x fem!reader [demon au]

Pick another door. 

a/n: I think I said the word ‘demon’ at least a hundred times in this :0 I felt like I was writing a research paper when I wrote this lol! it was a little strange, but I really wanted to expand on some of the lore in this universe!! 

did anyone catch who san’s abilities were inspired by? he’s like the only character from the book I liked lol xD 

[helloescapist]

Let's Go | Akaza + Headcanons

The Request: “I have a request, could u possibly do a Hashira Akaza x demon reader, like when he finds her scared, he takes her in? Plus reader has a bamboo muzzle like Nezuko”

I hope you see this, and it meets your expectations <3

Word Count: 3222

Setting: Akaza x fem!demon!reader

Content Warnings: mentions of gore/violence, horror, abuse, cult behaviors, rituals, bound reader, some themes may be triggering for some readers.

Summary: the lure of perfume, the temptations of a blood art that drew him to this damned place, and the circumstances behind the art had not been what he had expected, nor the responsibility that would follow.

A/N: It's giving-- the cat he didn't want, but cannot abandon either.

Aged stones crumbled beneath his feet, cracked with every step he took. The touch of wet stone beneath his callous feet, the indigo dipped toes that pressed against each step, wandered from soaked bolder to moss swept stones. Vines that had long since claimed the path and dug out the history of the mountain.

Moss, and the skitter of inferior lifeforms that danced across the ground to flee his steps. Puffs of clouds painted in hues of slate gray, and the shadows of the nights crept amongst the hills. Rolled over the edges and whispered the depths of unheard secrets. Faint figures evading his sight, drew from shapes unknown. Structures unfamiliar, faint as the ghost that wandered amongst abandoned buildings. Robbed of life and offering only glimpses of the life that had once been through the shambles of ruins. The stillness of the night lingered amongst his skin, the touch of mist that struggled amongst the loss, the empty void of purpose. Structures, abandoned baskets, and rice ponds overrun by evasive vines. Stagnant air that threatened to suffocate his lugs, crush the coos of his senses, the touch of gold kissed citrine eyes that scanned his surroundings all too aware of the distinct pull upon his senses. The nagging way he could not draw himself away, tugged closer and closer each attempt that he dared to deny its siren’s song. The warmed amber notes of vanilla that warmed his soulless body, whispered embraces despite the blood that puddled at his feet, soaked into the earth and drenched the crops around him. Devoid of the sharp metallic scent that often accompanied the evidence, replaced by something sweet, and tempting. With only the wanning moon to guide his path, the grit of his teeth drew Akaza’s fist closed and clamped over the skull of his opponent. Each step matching the growl that blossomed at the base of his throat, the snarl that greeted the night air as he advanced towards a trembling monk. Wretched in blood, soiled in his own vomit upon witnessing the decapitation of his own friend, unworthy of brandishing the title of Sohei. Rattled his teeth that met the chatter of his jaw, the widening of his pupils horrified and spewing verses that meant little to the Upper Moon. His cowardice muddled over the pad of bare feet against stone and pebbles, his footing guided by his own revolt. The beads at his ankle were a mere mirror of the prayer beads clasped between the fingers of the Third Moon’s next target. The fold of the man’s pitiful body, mulled over on bent knees uttering bullshit of mercy, the weapon at his side abandoned lacking the bravery required to yield it, let alone flee.  

The etched emblem baring his ranking danced across his cornea, Akaza’s eyes caught on the damning markings of the would-be warrior smeared in horrendous vows. Blood draw from the outer corner of the pretend devotee cut across his cheeks, trailed down his jawline, marred by the tears of his sniveling whimpers that elicited no sense of empathy from the demon, rather the insisting bemoaning only excited his wrath. All too aware of the bubbling at the pit of his stomach, and the gnaw of his lower lip unamused of his would-be opponents. The path behind him littered with bodies of the lesser creature’s comrades that neither thrilled, nor animated his senses, each baring the telling depictions of gore upon their faces. Movements that fell into dances, prayers that felt incomprehensible to the Upper Moon despite his familiarity with Buddhism. A warped religion, strayed from its original purpose, sacrificed amongst the denied followers, and accumulated from the blood of unsuspecting travelers. The voyage had betrayed the foul practices of the temples, morbid displays of carcasses strung amongst the trees, dripping blood to the soil, and hummed of talismans that bore no translated significance. Each step led Akaza up the mountains, the gravitational pool leaving him heedless, and defiant. Unable to escape the invisible threads that guided him up the abandoned steps, coated amongst the mist. A macabre game of hide and seek born of an invisible scent that beckoned his attendance, and the pests that dared to stand in his way, unable to even offer him a bit of entertainment. An annoyance at best, he had met with little restraint, the scent warmed his senses, cooed sweet nothings that Akaza could not describe. The break of spring nights warmed against his skin with only the moonlight to immolate the markings depicted across his skin, the glint in which his eyes caught the fading moonlight, clung to the grotesque symbolism depicted in corroded rust at the flesh of his cheeks. “I will not repeat myself. Where. Is. It.”

              The depths of his voice revealed the severity that lurked beneath his surface. The amusement devoid, robbed of all satisfaction. Lack luster scuffles that could not pacify him, and the distinct fragrance of vanilla and peaches that robbed him of the distinct metallic scent of iron, and the rush of blood upon his fingertips had muddled his satisfaction. Drew his ire, a blood art had drawn him to this damned land, forgotten by buddha, and abandoned by the kami, drenched in the blood of victims, and worships of a false god. Its blood painted across worshiper’s face, masks delineate of religion. A numerous pulls of deviants dressed in monk clothes that had captivated the mountains, infested the surrounding area as termites harvest upon a fallen tree, etching away at the core of its being until there is nothing left but a carcass. Their mere presence, painted figures that loomed amongst the foliage, dripping in the blood art’s scent drawing him up this forsaken path. Lulled, and whispered begging, the horrified mumble of trembling bottom lips as the man before him trembled and wreathed. As though his tongue had suddenly been cut from his mouth, the erratic shaking of his eyelashes clenched at the tears that began to form, the pop of knuckles, guided forward in a single gesture. A path carved from foliage, broken through weeds, and trembled branches, snapped at the weight, and drawn upon the depths of the inner sanctum of the shrines. “T-There.” Quivered beneath the Upper Moon’s etched eyes, death that followed the sound of dripping as blood puddled from his superior’s severed head puddled beneath the demon’s feet. Painfully aware of the agonizing leap of his heart as the creature loomed forward. Akaza’s somber expression traced amongst the symbolism, the left-over residue of fingerprints utilized to mark the man’s skin.

              “Very well,” dry as the night air, crackled upon the silence of the man’s shivering. The tips of blueberry flesh, fingers that captivated the faithless monk’s scalp, gathered at the remainder of hairs that had begun to grow as he followed his deceitful path, te force of a thousand men bend in a moment’s notice. The sickening crack of bones, splintered fragments torn from flesh. Asunder, wrecked from the axis, just above the transverse process at the neckline. Snapped, child’s play between his fingers, the rattle of the mandible finally seizing its insufferable chattering of misplaced winter, fear forever captured upon the victim’s face, and the wrinkles that creased upon Akaza’s brow as he discarded both craniums with little remorse, nor a second thought. Useless, and lacking any fighting spirit, an unworthy snack for one of his standards. Tossed over his shoulders as his feet guided him to the inter sanctum. Each step drawn upon his own annoyance, the familiarity in which he had been toyed with, drawn to this location unsavory. Far too similar to the antics of the Second Moon, and as the revulsion began to seep into his stomach, the scent had begun to flourish into heavy notes. Suffocating tones of peach. Earthen leaves left to the wind, unwashed vanilla. Breath drawn into his lungs, seared upon his senses. Robbed him of thoughts, claimed his waking conscious. Drew out quiet memories, something sweet, and tender, yet dared to rob him of his senses. Threatened to consume him, to rob the oxygen from his longs, to clasp its nails into the taunt skin of his neck, digging into the flesh until there would be nothing more, not even a single breath, and the distinct cry of a woman.

              Help me, please.

It had not been what he expected, the blood art had surpassed his expectations, but the details had been blurred. The enticing waves of ambered vanilla touched on the desires of comfort, and security. Tender notes of peaches, sweet and alluring. Temptations that could lure any man within the radius of its reach, tempt women to wander in the dead of night at the scent of spilt blood. Tossed caution to the wind and abandon sense with heedless doubts drawn to the sweet allure of cushioned promises wrapped in sweet sentiments. Such a deceptive blood art had led Akaza to believe that the source would be nothing more than a Cretan that roamed the depths of scum along side Doma. Delighted in folly that followed the devastation of others around them, danced to a tune unheard by others as victims threw themselves at their feet. Enamored with suffering, and savoring the flesh of innocent who were heedless to the dangers they had roamed in under the guise of religious calling—unsuspecting and little mor than sheep to the slaughter. The depiction of a throne built on the bodies of worshippers, snacking on the pearls of agony. A sloth of pleasures, and unbothered by the ways of the world, nor having any shred of dignity. No, this had not been what Akaza had expected in the slightest.

              The would-be worshippers had taken a turn, embedded in chants and prayers that fell on the screams of the bound. Bowing repeatedly between fallen words, uttered in hums and the rubbing of palms. Heads bowed low to the ground with each dip of their spines. Desecrated holy robes, staunch with fresh blood, and the grotesque markings upon their cheeks. Stale eyes that neither followed the trace of the Upper Moon’s steps, unphased by his presence, sacrificed to the falling of words at the bow of their backs. Entranced with a ritual that churned his stomach and raised his eyebrow. A display worthy of the Second Moon was depicted before him, reeking of perfume and blood. Drawn out upon a fallen altar, chains coiled and wreathing in each movement. Blood staunched, spilt across aged stone. Cracks that had surmised into the boulders it had been built upon. Bodies littered to the side, varying in ages and sizes. Finest silks shredded and stripped of jewels, to the thin of bones of travelers robbed of their coin purses, left over straw hats and baskets of farmers and gathers among the mix evidence of their wares taken from corpses, the sacrificed of wanders lured by silken scents. The faint of painter, coated in blood and distinguished markings of some perverted holy talismans bound and coiled amongst the chains that withered and wreathed. Forced upon the strips of bamboo, the very altar of holy worship encased in a pit of sharpen black bamboo, with only one path to fall upon its worshipers. A monk at the center of the altar, his arms raised above his bald head, and the draping of the finest silk kimonos wrapped across his body revealing the depths of his deception. Prayer beads crafted of the precious stones caught amongst the lanterns, sparkled in each of his movements at the dagger glinted not the flame. The blade fell upon spilt blood, and the scream that followed the blooming scent of peaches and vanilla. Fresh as the blood that tarnished the ground beneath your knees. Cries of agony muffled by the bamboo forced between your lips, and the tears caught upon your hair. Lavish robes, hung upon your bones, an embellished deity, little more than a puppet of religious plight. The dip of his fingers drawing Akaza’s immediate ire, his body betraying his sense. His movements one of a possessed man, the callous of his hands the paint of indigo at his finger tips at the pull of hair in one fluid movement. Ripped the skull from the priest’s body, the tumble of its bones rolled from the altar. Popped upon the rocks with each fallen chant of worshipers, unresponsive to the gore before them.  The quiver of your eyes captivating his senses, bathed in the scents of the night, faintly aware of the acts to follow.

              Only brought back to the state of mind upon the bodies that had fallen to his feet, the quiver of your body, and the lavish scent that had been snubbed from the night, the cut upon your cheeks healed as such shallow wounds prevent little implication for any of your kind. The small jerk of your body, recoiled from his touch met at the unsure clench of his teeth. The depths of a conscious he could not connect with, reminding Akaza of his unfamiliarity and uncertainty of interacting with a woman. The clip of his brow revealing the small annoyance, small slips of a memory that he could not grasp, nor the melancholy it burrowed into his soul before crushing the chains that bound you between your feet. The fold of feline ears pinned to the base of your skull, tucked backwards and skittish with each of his movements. The tuck of a tail, no perhaps two burrowed into your kimono, as your eyes traced him warily, the small touch of a canine mirrored as you regarded him. The pulls of citrine gleamed, ambered honey shyer than he would ever admit meeting your own gaze. The shiver of your body and pull of your muscles. Frail and tender, far too much time spent as a false deity, tortured, and inappropriately cared for.  The Upper Moon’s small quip of his brow, and tug of his lips. Eyes that fell upon the bodies of the slain, faintly aware of the blood bath he had elicited, nor the way it clung to his clothes. Pondered if feeding you such spoiled products would be enough to give you the energy to flee from his sights, fully aware of the wary state in which you regarded him. He didn’t blame you. Something small, something that touched upon his memories, shy eyes that looked away from him… Women were like this, were they not? His lamenting drawing him to the conclusion, that what little strength that remained in your bones would be enough to seize you from this place, if only given the time, or resources which he had… well provided unintentionally. The spoils of such disgusting creatures at his feet nothing to appease his appetite, nor tempt his own hunger. Perhaps, you only needed the time… to regain yourself.

              Such horrors… Ah, I scared her.

              The pad of his feet, drawn upon the steps, falling in line wordlessly. Not so much as a parting word, fearful of the fragile state of your body, pondered upon if such parting of his words would shatter you. You had already been through… Ah, no he didn’t wish to think of it, nor consider the implications his own actions had had upon you. The beads of his ankles trembled with each step, and the grit of his fingers as the folded into fist. Uneasy as the moonlight that caught upon his raspberry-kissed hair. Knotted his stomach and made his skin crawl…. It had been so many years since he had felt this way, the melancholy of a life he could not remember ebbing at his conscious and drawing one step after another, unable to find the will to run from this place. Morning would come soon, the touch of coils, the shuffle of fabric across the ground. Caught at stones, and trembled with unbalanced steps. Life devoid upon your bones, malnourished and struggling to bear the weight of the lavish kimono. Embellishments, and the peek of kitten ear posed forward, no longer bound to your locks as your eyes traced him curiously. The peek of you behind his shoulder quick to dismiss as the mere need of escaping this area before any utilized your blood art for personal wealth once more.  Yet, as he descended the mountain shrine steps he became faintly aware of the phantom tracing his every movement. A delicate dance of small steps that mirrored his own, and the silhouette that ducked behind trees and boulders when he would dare to peek over his shoulder. Akaza’s own confusion, whispering reassurance that it was merely coincidence that you had opted to follow this very path. The occasional snap of a twig, and attempt to catch you peered over, still as the moonlight. Perhaps attempting to remain out of his sight with the stillness of your breath before slipping between the trees. Oblivious to the peek of your tails flickered amongst the branches. Akaza far too aware of the feline eyes that traced his movements, uncertain of what game you were playing, or if perhaps it was all circumstantial--- women were not prone to following him around after all, and he certainly did not invite such interactions.

              The final steps before the stones washed away from the path, corroded into abandoned forests, and the village he had wandered amongst, the reclamation of foliage, and the forest captivated upon the frays of abandoned houses, the small rustle of leaves, and yowl in the base of your throat, remained muffled by the bamboo placed between your canines. Your clear agitation, and duress providing him with the ample courage to finally turn back to regard you. The slip of your kimono, entwined upon the branches and revealing the touch of thighs that ignited the highs of his cheeks. The annoyed huff of air as his eyebrows drew together, met under the curses of his breath and bitter confusion. Turned his back, and dared a step forward, before letting out his own growl before turning back to you. His steps thundered across the stone and drawing the blades of your shoulders up, and arched. More catlike than predator as his fingers drew the slip from the branches, untangled the furrowed cloth and met your eyes with frustration. “You can go,” he instructed, releasing you from the foliage. Content with this being the last of your interactions, except for the draw of your ears. Once again, pinned to your hair, the lavish state of your apparel ridiculous to the environment, and any hopes of voyage. The bend of his knees bearing his weight, and the intentional scowl of a display before relinquishing his back before your eyes. The usher of his fingers at his back, ushering your weight onto his back. Neither of you would make it very fair in such wear, and with daylight approaching, he did not have the time for this.  The haughty huff of his breath that drew at the heat of his cheeks, and the small touch of a growl as he uttered, “Let’s go.”

Taking You In Headcanons | Akaza

He doesn't want to do this.

He REALLY doesn't want to do this.

Akaza has a natural aversion to women-- and if you do not know his background, there's a very valid reason as to why he's not one for harming, nor seeking out a woman's company.

However, for the very same reasons, I just can't see Akaza outright abandoning you either, but let's be clear, he really doesn't want to do this.

I really feel like you become that cat that he does not initially want, and does everything he can to send you away. He considered biwa woman to take you in.

Accepted that for whatever reason (his conscious) that he could not just leave you to her, and accepted that... it's only a matter of time before that bastard Second hears of this.

Caretaking, is not what he has spent his life focusing on, and in some ways, it could hinder his actions. He'll debate back and forth of leaving you to your own devices-- and as time goes on, and the Upper Moon Three is confident you can take care of yourself, he's going to.

I mean, he'll check in, but for the most part, he will take advantage of your new found independence to seek out scuffles.

Akaza cannot sit still, and he will NOT take you with him. If you choose to remain by his side, you will have to accept that there will be long periods in which he travels, and you will remain behind. What you do in the mean time is of little concern, as long as you remain faithful and honest. Any attempts of insincerity, or manipulation will sever all bonds.

Remember, clingy is by no means attractive to him.

Until that time comes, I think Akaza would begrudgingly under take the tasks of taking care of you, and nurturing you back to your full potential.

In fact, I think physical needs come fairly natural to him, and may even be a pain if you're seeking out a physical relationship because he will not be openly engaging in emotional wellbeing.

No really, such open vulnerability will take him quite some time to approach, and it will be done out of a bit of spite. He'll do it, but he's going to complain.

Taking care of you was not a decision, or a commitment he took likely, and Akaza does not make rash decisions. While he may be quick to seem engaged, and curious, he does not make a commitment without being sure of himself, and his capabilities. Whether it's a long term relationship, or temporarily caring for a wounded cat.

Because of this, you will have to understand he will not be quick to meeting any emotional damage you have sustained in the duration of your capture, nor will he grasp the depths of damage that PTSD can inflict on another person. He can't even face his own trauma

In fact, he can be down right insensitive.

First call to action will be that he will secure suitable clothes for you. One in part because you reek of that damned place, and he cannot cope with that. It's like being stuck with Doma, he's not doing it. There is also the realities that this outfit, is just not realistic. Let's be honest, he's not going to seek out outfits that are revealing, or offering a lot of exposure. In fact, I think he would stick with traditional, and modest clothing, but with the ability for you to work, and move across the terrain.

He doesn't like the idea of you fighting, and will do everything he can to avoid placing you in such circumstances, but he is well aware that, you need to be able to defend yourself. The world is cruel to women. He will keep this in mind in securing your clothes.

He'll seek out the opportunity to sponge out all of this perfume. yes, he understands that it is your blood art, but you reek, and because of this, I can expect he will drop you off at a waterfall/pond fairly routinely to keep the reminiscent of your blood art to more maintainable quantities.

Not to mention he's worried about you luring something big in while he's away.

in preparing you for your routine scrubbing, I imagine the moment will come that he will attempt to remove the bamboo muzzle. If you do want it to be removed, he will happily do so. Likely uttering a number of curses to the perverts who have done this to you.

But if like Nezuko, you have opted to remain this way, he will say nothing other than inquire about how you intend to eat. It's just not practical. This however, will be the end of this discussion. He has no desires to force you into anything, nor will he even attempt to dispute your choices.

No really, think about it. He asked Rengoku for CONSENT to become a demon. I just cannot imagine Akaza forcing anything on anyone.

Rather, I imagine that every little thing will need consent.

Consent to touch you.

Consent to help brush out your hair.

Consent to enter the room when you've finished changing.

Everything.

Realistically, his next step will be to feed you, and it's one that he takes high importance on. if you have selected a proper diet for a demon, he will be particularly choosy about what he feeds you. He's not feeding you women or children, don't get your hopes up, but I can imagine him selecting worthy food. A nice husband, perhaps a kabuki artist that has just began to take the stage. Nothing dirty, or tainted.

However, in the event that you have opted for a demon-vegan life style, I can foresee him struggling. Nothing crude or agitated, but genuinely concern that is appearing as anger. He's not going to press the issue-- but are you getting enough sleep to meet your needs?

Akaza is by nature not the sort to have plush bedding, nor anything really fussy. He's always on the go, that I imagine that more often than not he opts to rough it, but if you have selected your substance to remain from dozing, I imagine that he would go to great lengths to figure out what you would need to receive optimum beauty sleep.

If you get past his prickly ill-ease with women, you'll find that he's actually a snuggler and not one to argue with you crawling into bed with him. I dare say, he secretly enjoys it.

Akaza is upfront, and honest with all of his intentions, and because of this, he told you upon taking you in what his expectations were. for you to one day, care for yourself.

He is natural at reading people, and because of this all of your physical needs will be met with little hesitation. In fact, more often than not you will find yourself wowed by some of his gestures. such as the way he brought a hair tie charm in your favorite color despite never being told it was so.

As I've said, he's not one for emotional conversation, and things that dip far too deep into his surface will likely leave him bruised and prickly. In part because, he doesn't want to recall his life as a human, and even more so, Akaza is aware that he is one of the few unable to recall.

Is it a sore topic for him?

Yes.

But he doesn't know why, and that is enough to ensure he doesn't want to dig deeper into it, and he doesn't want you to either. To the same extent, he will assume you have no desire to dig deeper into your own needs. Akaza is also not certain he can meet them. Nightmares in the middle of the night of your captivity.

Will not be met with talks and comfort. Rather, they'll be met with uncertainty before he just folds his arms over you, and beckons you to bed. Hoping that the press of his body is more than enough to reassure you that those days are long gone.

Really, these slips of insecurity, of raw emotion leaves him anxious and uneasy. It's out of his element, and nothing that he feels secure in exploring. In fact, he's probably a terrible listener because he is imagining any scenario that will get him. out. of. here.

More so, Akaza will naturally be more protective of you than he will ever admit, or hint to. Really, aside from the Upper Moons and the Master, none will be aware of the depths of his safeguarding he has over you.

So much so that you will delight in how attentive he can truly be.

[rememberences]

who: @mountainvroyce when and where: the training yard for the inner keep at the gates of the moon context: the royce brothers being the royce brothers

the rain came down in sheets, a cold curtain that blurred the edges of the world. graham tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles pale beneath the soaked leather of his gloves. each strike, each parry, felt heavier than it should, not because of the weight of the blade, but because of the weight of the thoughts clawing at him. axell’s face, his smirk, his calm—it was unbearable. infuriating. because somewhere within the features of his younger brother, there was a reflection. as though staring into a devoid, soulless pit of the blackest waters.

"why is it," graham asked flatly, his voice cutting through the rain like a blade. he struck with measured force, his movements sharp and deliberate, though only to find his brother was able to leap from the blow of the sword. "you have dragged our name into suspicion and whispers. again." there came the resounding blow of steel upon steel at his final word, a word which was stressed with emphasis and anger; and despite the clang of steel and the appearance of two knights of the vale seemingly ready to decapitate one another, they walked that thin line perfectly.

for this was how those of runestone had been raised, when they had issue with one another. pick up one's blade, and settle it in the courtyard.

the clash of steel rang out, and graham held the lock of their blades longer than necessary, studying his brother’s face. axell’s calm demeanor was unreadable as always, but to graham, it only confirmed what he’d already begun to suspect. "your wife," graham said, the words heavy with quiet disdain. "gone. vanished without a trace. and yet, you stand here, unaffected. no grief. no urgency. not even the pretense of concern. with that smug look on your damned face." he stepped back, raising his sword into a defensive stance. his gaze didn’t waver, fixed on axell with a cold, judging intensity.

there came the sound of whipping wind, which would have covered the voice of the king consort in this particular, specific moment. and he said it. "what, did you do?"

[golvio]

I finished the Lotus-Shaped Sky Island sidequest last night.

So, a few interesting things:

Ganondorf himself is never mentioned, but he was apparently taking his creepy Zelda clone on test drives in the palace in the indeterminate time period leading up to the assassination.

The Chamberlain describes the apparition as “like something dead,” and Wortsworth translates that as “corpse-like.”

This makes me curious as to what “Shadow” actually is in the realm of TotK and how it’s different from Shadow in OOT. Gloom is energy associated with “the dead,” but it’s also associated with vitality in certain types of living things. Is “undeath” a sort of flipside of vitality?

Also, what is the Phantom here? An “artificial” ghost of its creator that thinks and acts like him? A soulless puppet-body made of Gloom that Ganon controls remotely?

Monster resurrection, or at least the possibility of resurrection, existed well before Ganondorf’s ascension. Rauru and Sonia explicitly created the Shrines of Light and the Lightroots to “seal them away” and prevent their resurrection, which I interpreted as meaning they’d naturally refresh their numbers through spontaneous resurrection no matter how many times they were killed. Baby’s First Blood Moon in the tear memories was the first time someone invoked this process on purpose since the current kingdom’s founding, but it’s not clear if it was specifically tied to Blood Moons before Ganon made it so, or if Blood Moons even existed before Sonia and Rauru built the shrines.

I sorta lost my mind over the information about monster resurrection because I was just sitting there imagining how monsterkind felt about the guy who finally gave them flesh again after years of wandering as aimless spirits unable to return to physical form. Like, everyone assumes he rose to power because he’s this big brutish warlord who proved himself to be The Strongest, when actually he made himself absolutely indispensable to the collective team comp the Rose Quartz way, so the monsters see him like this:

Are monsters spontaneously generated from Shadow? Like, in its natural unbound state, Shadow coalesces to form monster bodies or resurrects dead monsters?

This also makes the shrines needing to have a root extending into the Depths to “dispel the darkness” very interesting. It seems to suggest the Depths was the primordial birthplace of monsterkind, that they “came from the earth” and their souls are connected to the land. They may have even been one of Hyrule’s original inhabitants, existing alongside humans until the latter started expanding and encroaching upon their territories.

It’s also a neat little explanation as to why monsters are everywhere in the Zelda world, even outside of Hyrule. They’re a product of some primordial energy current running beneath the earth, and so they’re everywhere the surface of the earth exists.

[jolieeason]

October 2024 Wrap-Up

Here is what I read, posted, won, received, and bought in October. Let me know if you have read any of these books and what you thought of them. Books I Read: Books from indie authors/publishers: Books I bought: If the Duke Dares by Darcy Burke Vacancy by Linda Kage Playing High by Beth Pellino-Dudzic Tentacles and Teeth by Ariele Sieling The Moving House by Duncan Ralston The Magpie…

[nottivaghes]

FULL NAME: Shen Prower Ingen Ryuki SPECIES: Vampire AGE: 645 35 BIRTHDAY: October 25th GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis-man he & him FACECLAIM: Manny Jacinto OCCUPATION: Pharmaceutical Investor

CHARACTER INSPIRATION: Fenris (Dragon Age II), Damon Salvatore (TVD), Artagan/The Traveller (Critical Role C2), Loki (Marvel), Rumpelstiltskin (OUAT), Villanelle (Killing Eve), King George (Queen Charlotte), Magnus Bane (The Mortal Instruments), William Pratt/Spike (BTVS)

Shen makes you think of… blood pooling in the valley of your collarbone, the tang of ozone before a lightning strike, righteous anger, divine violence, black cashmere caressing your skin, a firm handshake sealing your fate, a calm facade concealing the tempest beneath, the burn of vintage bourbon in your throat, a teasing scrape of fangs against the soft skin of your neck, muttering to yourself by candlelight.

You pray it all away but it continues to grow.

Shen has been alive a long time, too long. Well, Ingen has, Shen has only existed for the last fifteen years or so. Ingen was born during the Ming Dynasty, which makes him a priceless antique, he'll have you know, if any of the surviving pottery is anything to go by.

A ruthlessness and a mind for politics is what the constantly changing political landscape brought for young Ingen, thrust into a world of shifting alliances that swelled and ebbed like the tide. Trade boomed; the entire face of the world shifted permanently by the ingenuity of his people.

And yet, the poor suffered underfoot of those with money, status. Ingen realized quickly that if he climbed the ladder, he'd have to block everything out as the ladder was made of people.

To this day Shen believes that the greatest compliment is an attempt on one's life. Unfortunately for his political rival, Shen had been spending much of his own resources attempting to find a way to not have to worry about assassination attempts, which was deemed mostly a fruitless fancy at the time. Humanity had been chasing the fountain of youth since the dawn of time, this foolish young man would hardly find the antidote for death.

Ingen was an adventurer, journeying across the mountains to speak to tucked-away pockets of those who lived there. After three years, on his final expedition, he found what he was looking for.

They knocked Ingen out and trapped him for a month below ground in the subterranean caves, down a shaft with an impossibly small exit tunnel. The preparation for the ritual took that entire moon cycle but by the time they performed it he was too sensorily deprived to retain any of it. Some chanting, a horrible fleshy sound, a sharp pain, hazy nothing, and then something warm dripped over his lips.

Shen came to alone and has been mostly alone since. He spent the rest of his natural lifespan learning just what he was capable of and what would kill him, he'd given up everything for a chance at ensured power and then forgot completely about his human life. He chased wive's tales across the continent trying to hunt down those who had turned him into the sun-fearing wretch, even though he'd asked.

I want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart.

Shen has walked as a doctor, a sailor, a teacher, a poet, a philosopher, a shepherd, worked in rice fields, courtrooms, and countless other places. He is fluent in many languages, too many to list. Shen believes that as a soulless parasite leeching off the world for eternity that he needs some sort of key duty to center himself, he sees himself as an archivist or scholar. He preserves information, knowledge, and objects he believes are important in a world that so callously discards everything in his personal collection.

People always responded well to Ingen, his beauty was a tool he wielded like a blade in his human life as well as he does now. It was just skimming the surface at first, the odd word or a flash of an image when his bare skin touched that of another but as the years rolled by it solidified and grew as he pushed the boundaries of what he could do. Shen is a touch telepath, though by now he is sickened by the thought of hearing another being think about going home to have sex, shit or eat so he is almost always entirely covered when in public. Few have ever seen him without gloves, a high collar, always wrapped up.

The years have not always entirely been kind to him, though for someone so old he works hard to maintain his mind. Sometimes this becomes more difficult, when he is under intense duress he can seem quite mad. He realized some three hundred years ago that he'd never wanted to be a vampire but a full-blooded fae.

Missed out on Brant Hacke last time, arrived eight months after the war had concluded by ship after hearing a rumour at a dock. Shen returned to town to see what happens this time around and record an 'unbiased' history, maybe offer some help to certain parties if, and only if, it amuses him.

As I whisper in your ear, "I want to fucking tear you apart."

[midnightscxre]

@vcngefulwrath continued from x

Enchantedly the two pine-green orbs followed the crimson trails made by the remaining blood leaving the victim's body. Hypnotizing, intoxicating, the electric impulses and copper scented air surrounding him. The cruelness and superiority blessing the golden haired woman. A porcelain, perfect facial features like a doll from a rich industrial age. Countess painted on canvas with oil paints. One thing in common with both - ageless, eternally young and possessing the beauty of an angel. But hiding the demonic nature -- nature that sang to him like sirens and valkyries. Calling, demanding, bewitching. And Frank resisted not. Young, ruthless male that many tongues painted as soulless and monstrous consumed the sight and Charlotte's existence as a drug, getting high on the bloody mess he admired.

At first, weeks ago, maybe months, the careless mind lost count, it was the luscious shape, melodic voice and moon like eyes that caught his attention. Blood flew to the lower parts and promised not to bother him any longer if he succumbs to the primal need. The plan was simple, basic : ' Hit it and quit it ', as the street slang implied. Even the heartless refusal and lack of interest from the woman did little to shake the ground under his feet. He will wear her down, it won't be the first nor the last time he gets what he craves eventually. After all, they all fall for the bad boy. For the thug, fearless, mysterious, laud, smug and just -- wrong. The pretty ones always have the same type, as they all were the same - fetching but utterly boring.

Oh how wrong was the hardened male. So wrong that the spirit that got its fix on screams and suffering, pleads and inevitable death, froze. Shocked, bewildered and above all. . . surpassed. Watching the ivory fangs tear the skin more professionally and almost artistic like, way better than his blade did, made Frank to stare and worship. In that moment, his neck was chained to her wrist. Pushing and pulling, it didn't matter, as long as they were connected.

Tip of his nose gently brushed over the silky shoulder of the woman, inhaling the perfume that kept him awake at night and the well known iron smell of spilled crimson. Divine combination, infernal pleasure. " I would pile up much more corpses for you, if you just swallow that meaningless denial for once. " Calloused fingers lovingly grazed his own blood stained blade, fresh and warm since he himself was just back from his ' fun hunt '. Warm, alcohol scented breath glided across her collarbones, when the male leaned forward, his muscular chest kissing her elegant shoulders.

" Is it beneath you to run along with a human? " a grin, a hoarse chuckle on his own words. Warm lips grazing the cold neck of the deadly creature. " You know, there is not much of me that's human, except the flesh. How about a little loving bite, get yourself a fun company for eternity? " Shamelessly, maybe to boldly, did the pearly whites gently bit Charlotte's neck, suggesting what he was longing for.

[hhyde]

I miss him every day, he may not know but I do. How I fit so perfectly between his arms, naked body on the bedsheets. And my now soulless heart seems to only sing the blues. I must go, yet I mustn't. What have I done, my love, to you? I can't forget, I won't. I need you here, as selfish as it may be, I pour my tears into this song.

I'm not wise, never have I been, wishing for strangers on the sunny side of the street. He was never a stranger, beneath the blue moon, and still I fell as hard as never before.

I'm sorry for being a child, making you wait, making you cry, being this weight. I may be bewitched, can't trust my own brain, for when it's not vile it must be high.

[invictarre-archive]

@tellnxlies asked: Describe Me! / description meme

You were always taught that men in suits were important, busy people. It was a necessity in Wyndon, you supposed, where most of the population were bankers and entrepreneurs and CEOs of one big business or another; people who definitely didn't have the time to entertain their Champion's attempts at conversation. They might have smiled when you looked at them, but it was empty, mouth pulled into a grin while their eyes remained dull and soulless. You'd heard how they talked when they thought you weren't listening.

So vocal, isn't he? The good Chairman needs to nip that Roselia in the bud before it becomes a problem.

You'd never liked them.

You'd tried, as a child. You'd learned to hold your tongue and ask the questions they wanted to answer. You'd learned to mask your Postwick accent, instead adopting the sound of old-money Wyndon boys. You'd learned to shake their hand and stroke their egos and pretend not to notice the looks they'd shoot Rose every so often.

You're glad that this one isn't like that.

He's a man in a suit, yes, and he always seems to be busy with something, but that's where the similarities end.

He's patient, even as he explains for the third time that Alto Mare is an island, an entirely separate landmass, and that you're not going to find it by wandering around here aimlessly. You're not even in the correct region - Alto Mare is Johtonian. He's patient even as he sees none of that information sink in, your expression surely one of vacant confusion, and resigns himself to having this conversation for a fourth time in the (probably near) future.

He's patient even as Amias decides to use that moment to leap from your arm to his, a mess of ribbons and gangly kitten limbs draping themselves across his shoulders like a pastel scarf. Amias, you scold, I taught you better than this! Who d'you think you are, accosting people? but the Sylveon isn't listening. He's too busy purring like a motor engine and making biscuits in the suit fabric.

It's then that you decide you like this man, upgrading him from stranger to pleasant acquaintance. Your team have always been an excellent judge of character.

One conversation becomes many, your paths intersecting whenever you find yourself in Kanto. He's a bit of a night Noctowl, you've discovered, for you rarely see him in the sunlight. It reminds you of your Champion schedule, always getting to called to Rose Tower when the moon was high in the sky and the rest of Galar slumbered beneath you, and you wonder if he's feeling equally as overworked as you were, back then. There are signs of exhaustion there, things so familiar to you you can't help but notice them, and you hope these run-ins distract from that bone-deep weariness, if only temporarily.

You find many different topics to talk about. Kanto's an easy one, the obvious choice, but you're surprised to learn that he can tell you almost nothing about the League stationed here. He's not one for the battling world, clearly. You bring up Galar, mention that that's where you're from - you don't imagine this is news to him, given your accent - and are this time unsurprised that he knows even less about that League. Your name isn't mentioned once.

You talk about the weather, a favourite Galarian pastime.

You talk about pokemon, your favourite pastime.

You know he has an Absol. It was mentioned off-hand once, an example brought up to better illustrate whatever point you'd been making about pokemon stereotypes, and you've been hoping to actually see it in person one of these days. There's not many who would be willing to partner with something so surrounded by superstition, the supposed omen of catastrophe itself, and you wonder what drew the two of them together. They say Absol always appears at the site of incoming disaster. Maybe he's one of those tornado-chasers; maybe he's affiliated with the rescue services.

( You'd be embarrassed by not knowing his name or job occupation if you weren't so safe in the knowledge that he doesn't know yours, either. )

There are many words exchanged, many topics explored, but you find that the one to really make him light up is the topic of Sinnoh. He mentions that he's from Twinleaf Town, a small place tucked away beside Lake Verity, if you know where that is. You do, as a matter of fact, and you waste no time in assuring him of such. He smiles, an expression you mirror, and he talks for much longer than you're used to. He talks for so long, in fact, that you start to worry you might make him late should he continue, and reluctantly bring this conversation to a close.

As you bid your goodbyes and wave each other off on your separate ways, you consider upgrading him once more, from pleasant acquaintance to something closer to friend.

[stormclouds-chainmail]

[ID: 17 warning posters each in two colours, black and another. The bottom third has a black background with any text in the other colour on that poster. The top two thirds have black text and images on the other colour background. Each poster has a circular logo in the bottom right corner. Inside the circle is a shield shape. Inside the shield is an eye with a key under it and the letters OPN under that. OPN is The Office for the Preservation of Normalcy.

Image 1: Purple background and a drawing of a flying saucer.

Text reads, "They're in our airspace? They follow our rules. Record all airspace traffic violations

Image 2: Blue background with a drawing of a werewolf with its chest puffed out and claw marks and a cloud covered full moon behind it.

Text reads, "Lycanthropy is not a joke. It can happen to you! Schedule your boosters today.

Image 3: Yellow background with an image of a large metal barrel on its side with eye filled fluid spilling out and a figure slipping on the fluid.

Text reads, "Beware of unstable reality zones. Report all spacetime leaks immediately."

Image 4: Yellow background with an image of a person in a suit from the waist up with a clock for a head.

Text reads, "Reminder: Unauthorized time shifts do not count towards overtime. Be safe, be professional: follow all nonstandard chronology procedures."

Image 5: Green background with an image of a creature with lots of tentacles and too many eyes being punched by a fist.

Text reads, "Do your part. Sock a shoggoth! Let's send these creeps back to R'lyeh!"

Image 6: Orange background with an image of three heads wearing hard hats. The first is an alien, the second has no facial features and the third is a skull. Text reads, "Safety. It's everyone's job!"

Image 7: Blue background with an image of a tall transmitter with an eye on the top and a shorter tree either side of it. Text reads, "Know your nearest numbers station. It could save your life."

Image 8: Red background with an image of a person standing on a ledge about to open a door with an exclamation mark on it. Beneath the ledge is a creature that is mostly mouth with sharp teeth. Text reads, "Something missing? Don't wait until it's too late!Report suspected ontophages on sight!"

Image 9: Purple background with an image of a pointer from a ouija board with an exclamation mark inside it. Text reads, "Do you know who's on the other side? Sometimes a board goes bad! Use only office- approved occult communication tools. Practice regular ectoplasmic disinfection."

Image 10: Red background with an image of an inverted pentagram with ominous looking eyes in its centre and a candle either side of it. Text reads, "Are you sure you know who you're talking to? Practice safe summoning! Use only the board of infernal affairs' approved demonic informants list. Better safe than soulless!"

Image 11: Orange background with the Grim Reaper carrying a scythe. Text reads, "We go when we say. We are not his to take."

Image 12: Green background with an image of a hand reaching out and another hand across from it making a stop gesture. Text reads, "May I have your name? N.O.! Remember nomenclature opsec when dealing with suspected fae. Names have power."

Image 13: Yellow background with a clock face with a smiley face on it. The outline of the clock is an anticlockwise arrow. Text reads, "Be kind. Don't rewind time."

Image 14: Green background with a face with one eye covered by tentacles. Text reads, "A sudden thought! A stroke of brilliance? ...Or the touch of the enemy? If you're not sure where that thought came from, visit Metacognition. No one is above infiltration."

Image 15: Yellow background with an eye inside a triangle with wings on either side. Underneath is an atom cradled by two hands, one above, one below. Text reads, "It's a god? That doesn't mean it outranks you! Stay calm and ask for:

- name

- faith of origin

- eschatological intention

Together, we can keep an organized noosphere."

Image 16: Blue background with a desk with a landline phone, papers, pens, typewriter, half eaten donut, drink, and a scrunched up ball of paper. At the bottom is an unlocked padlock with a brain inside it. Text reads, "A cluttered desk is a cluttered mind. A cluttered mind is vulnerable! Practice cleanliness and psychosecurity."

Image 17: Green background with a yeti giving a thumbs up walking between two trees. There's a logo on the bottom left of a tree with an eye in it in a circle. Text reads, "Cryptid: hypothetical creatures not yet proven to exist. Let's keep it that way! Join the cryptid catch and release program. Contact the esoteric rangers office for more information." End ID]

I feel confident enough to post these now. A collection of all the existing posters after some edits from the other post that got 13k notes! These are full size/quality. Go nuts.

You may use them for wallpapers, tabletop campaigns, whatever. Consider tipping me or buying a print or sticker on ko-fi here! If you do use them, let me know what for, or send pictures!