#Blood On A Tree Corpse ( art )

[majestydeerakuma]

I love Flippy so much allalakskdkdklalqpskzkzjak

I also decided to draw Canon!Flippy with my version of Flippy, Chaos!Flippy

They call each other Flip(s) (Canon) and Flop(s) (Chaos) to not confuse each other

[girlwtdragontattoo]

In your debt

Young druid Halsin x Reader

Ever since I saw the young Halsin art above by @ozumii-fucking-wizard, I have been obsessively staring at his gorgeous damn face (thank you so much for this version of him, I am hopelessly in looooooove)!

Enjoy young Halsin healing you~

Part 2

Warning: Blood, Violence, Swearing

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You ventured through the forest, wanting to escape the loud bustle of the city. Carrying your heavy instrument on your back, you strode through the man-made trail into the thicket, to your usual spot you decided was your permanent hideaway.

You knew the forest was home to a druidic group, who adopted young lost children. You never encountered any druids on your many trips here, but you knew they were aware of you: sometimes you found some foraged fruit and vegetables at your spot, packaged neatly with strings or in small sacks. Someone left you these gifts. You assumed they liked your music, since you often came into the woods to practice some new songs you were crafting. You weren’t sure if the children were this fond of you or if it was some druid who kept leaving trinkets. It didn’t matter really, you were grateful nonetheless.

Today, you hadn’t found anything left for you. This wasn’t too unusual; you never ventured here expecting to receive anything. You let the strand of your instrument slide down your arm, placing it next to your seat by the large oak. It was clear this spot wasn’t really used by others, the print of you sitting in the dirt only really matched yours. It always seemed undisturbed, like you left it, with the occasional gifted sack placed there.

You gazed at the lake, where fireflies danced happily over the dawn lit water. It was another pleasant morning and you took a deep breath, enjoying the lovely fresh air you rarely got to inhale. Baldur’s Gate was lively and exciting, but you were always drawn back to this place.

You started plucking the strands of your lute, absentmindedly, taking in the sunrise as the rays warmed your face. You felt the trees sway with your music, as if they were welcoming you back. The forest seemed more alive here and had a distinct personality. Childlike glee vibrated through the branches. The tranquility of this area made you sink back into the tree, leaning against its strong body.

Something boomed in the distance. You sat up with a jolt. Normally, the only sounds you heard here were twigs breaking or the wind whizzing through the glade. You looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise.

Another blast. This time, there was shouting that followed. Some sounded panicked, some aggressive.

You got to your feet, frantically, staring into the distance where you thought the brutal noises were ebbing from. There were screams now. And they sounded young.

Without really thinking, you started sprinting towards the cries. Clutching your lute in one hand at your side to keep it from knocking your hip, you darted through the brush. There were children screaming and wailing, getting louder and louder the faster you ran towards them. A loud, ugly voice was yelling at them.

There were other more distant shock waves bellowing: an ambush? Were the druids under attack?

You heard the angry voice thunder in front of you, as you slid behind a birch tree.

“Move it, you little shits! Or I’ll cut yer hands off!”, a goblin with a bloody handprint across his face snarled at a group of mixed children, who were huddled together, sniveling and trembling uncontrollably. He pointed a curved, dirty blade at their backs, as they sheepishly shuffled along.

“Can’t we just kill them and drag their corpses? They’re so fucking slow…” Another smaller goblin groaned, walking in front of the hostages.

“No, the drows say they need new slaves. We need ‘em alive,” he pushed a small tiefling in front of him, who let out a terrified shriek, “Faster! Before the stinkin’ druids catch up.”

They passed the birch tree, which was rooted opposite a cliffside. The rapids below reverberated up, making it hard to hear clearly.

Goblins were attacking the druids, the far sounds of crashing and clanging meant a fierce battle was commencing.

“They won’t be able to hold them back much longer, Izick,” the short goblin at the front was standing close to your hiding spot. You peered through the branches and saw the poor souls quivering wildly. Their faces were cut and stained with blood. You deduced whoever was watching over them had been murdered in front of them.

You weren’t a fighter. But you couldn’t let them take the children.

The small goblin turned to face the group; his back facing the tree. You grasped your lute hard, making the skin around it paler. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for guaranteed pain.

This was an expensive instrument, too.

You pounced out of the woods into the clearing and slammed the lute onto the head of the unassuming goblin. It broke over his fat head, but the velocity had done its job. He fell to the side with a loud thud, letting out a last, gurgled groan. You kept hitting him with the remaining pieces of your improvised weapon, making sure he was dead. The blood pooled around him.

Izick was already running towards you, having pummeled through the victims without care, who all fell to the ground and held their heads to the dirt, whimpering and horrified.

You dodged the first swing of his blade, but knew instantly this wasn’t a fight you could win. You had nothing to fight with, except your fists, and you dared not get close to him as she flourished his disgusting weapon.

The goblin roared as he jumped towards you. You collided and felt a scorching pain in your stomach. He had gotten you, deep in your belly. You screamed. You both fell to the ground near the edge of the cliff. The goblin tried to pull the blade back out while he sat on top of you, but it was stuck. Izick cursed at you, although no insult really reached your ears. Your entire body centered around the searing wound in your abdomen.

The children were petrified. You saw the tears roll down their faces as they watched the pathetic scuffle. If you failed, they would suffer endlessly. You couldn’t allow him to kill you, before you saved them.

He lifted his fists to pummel you. His face was etched with determination, he would beat you to death if he had to.

Your arm moved instinctively. You grabbed his collar, before his fists met your face, and leaned your entire body weight to the side, where the roaring river called to you. It was the only way.

You felt the wind whistle past your ears as you fell with the goblin in your grasp to the depths. You both crashed into the icy water and you felt him drift away, as the muffling water slowed everything. Your body was being pulled to the side, the current dragging you uncaringly down the river. It pulled you violently from one side to the other, not tiring of its new toy, pushing you up and down like a ball. Weightless, you floated and let it take control, unable to do anything else.

Your thoughts silenced. The cold of your surroundings embraced you and you had no strength to resist. The pulsating pain from the blade kept you awake, barely.

After a while, you felt yourself bob up, your head bracing the surface. The sudden blaring of the river crashed into your ears as you gasped for air. Your eyes blurred. The water seemed to settle into a lazy tempo. You didn’t know how, but you kept your head above water. You saw red puddles waft after you.

The current carried you to a small bank, discarding you there as it continued on. You lay on the muddy earth, motionless, staring at the piercing blue sky that seemed to beckon you towards it. The blade still stuck out of you, you saw it move up and down as you breathed shakily. You couldn’t keep your eyes open much longer.

Your heavy lids fell, darkening everything. The pain slowly left, too.

You were dying. And you were accepting it.

Before the complete darkness, you felt tiny hands pressing on your aching belly. That spot felt warm and kind, as the last of your wits evaded you.

Quiet. Emptiness. Nothing.

Halsin’s lips clasped yours, as he breathed into your mouth, holding your nose. The moss on your puncture was absorbing the excess blood. The vile blade lay discarded to the side, already carefully pulled from you.

You convulsed and coughed out, life filling your face first and then gradually seeping into your weak limbs.

You blinked hard and opened your weary eyes.

Halsin met your gaze and placed a hand on your cheek, as his other etched glyphs into the air.

“You’re going to be alright…”, he said softly, as a green mist appeared suddenly from his hand, which he lowered down to your injury.

“Breathe…”, he commanded gently. You obeyed and took a shaky breath. Your body felt heavy. Even breathing was difficult.

You felt his hand pressing on your abdomen. Whatever he was doing, the agony was quieting because of it slowly. You watched him as he attended to your mortal wound.

He was beautiful. A few braided pieces of his long, honey hair fell effortlessly next to his face. The jade eyes were focused, but there was an air of kindness about them. You squinted at the embroidery on his attire. This was one of the druids.  He looked young, but the elf ears suggested he might be older than he appeared.

You attempted to speak, but could only let out feeble coughs.

“Don’t speak. This will take a bit to close up”, he looked down at you and smiled kindly. You blinked as a response, taking another deep breath as you felt the pain flee your body.

There was a brief silence, the only sound was the hypnotic whirring of his enchantments.

“You did something truly courageous back there. The children told me. They recognized you, the singer in the woods…they often spoke about you at bedtime”, he chuckled briefly, “Didn’t expect I’d meet you under these circumstances.”

You watched him, as he seemed to reminisce fondly. So, it was the children who left you gifts at your spot?

His other hand swished and another cloud of green wafted out of it. He placed that hand next to the other on your stomach.

“I am in your debt. You saved the little ones, when they were not your burden. Truly, you’re a real hero.”  

You didn’t know how to respond. You were also more than confused as to how he found you so quickly. You felt like you had been drifting in that river forever. And the druids lived deep within the forest.

Who in the Hells was this elf anyway?

“You are exceedingly lucky. Thaniel found you and tended to you before I made it here.”

You raised an eyebrow, coughing again.

“Oh, haha. Thaniel is the forest spirit here. He seems quite fond of you.”

A forest spirit? Your exhausted brain couldn’t process that thought. You couldn’t really contest the idea either.

The druid lifted his hands briefly, checking how far along the healing process was. Deciding it needed more time, he repositioned his palms. You observed him for a while in silence as he concentrated on the regeneration of your tissue. He was huge. You felt like a child next to him.

“Wh-who are you…” you croaked out faintly.

He turned to you, his eyes softening with a calm smile.

“I’m Halsin,” he put one hand on your shoulder to keep you down, as you tried to sit up at the response. It didn’t take much strength to keep you there. He smiled more widely, then turned his attention back to his task.

Halsin. You had heard that name before. Whispered by folk in the area, he was famous for his incredible healing abilities and knack for getting captured. You only knew one druid by name and that was him. A druidic protégé, yes. A fierce warrior, yes. But a bit different. People in town talked about the impulsiveness of the young druid, which caused the other, older druids to scratch their heads in frustration at his unpredictability. And that‘s who was healing you right now?!

Gods, you never imagined he’d be this dreamy.

You were probably dreaming. No, you were dead. Definitely.

No being was this beautiful.

[organsoutsidelovinglydescribed]

Body Horror Week Prompts Are Live!

Welcome to Trigun Body Horror Week 2024!

We’ve set up a week of fantastic flavors of bodily horrors for you, and here is our official post sharing the prompts for you to cook with.

Body Horror Week is going to run from Feb 11th, 2024 until Feb 17th, 2024

For each set of prompts, we have an organ, two different songs, and a quote to inspire you into making the best horrors you’ve got.

The official hashtag for the week is #trigunbodyhorrorweek, and we’ll do our best to reblog your submissions the day of and whatever we may have missed during the week, we’ll reblog after. Feel free to tag us as well!

An AO3 collection is forthcoming.

There’s a copy of the prompts list below the cut, as well as links to the A-Sides and B-Sides for the music.

The art for the graphic was done by the wonderful @hashtagcaneven

Link for the music A-Sides and the B-Sides as playlists. Spotify playlist here.

Feb 11th: Eyes | Mama – My Chemical Romance | Mask of My Own Face – Lemon Demon | I hate it when humans and augmented humans ruin things for no reason. Maybe because I was a thing before I was a person, and if I’m not careful, I could be a thing again. - Network Effect, Martha Wells (Murderbot Diaries)

Feb 12th: Skin | This Body – The Dear Hunter | Hurt – Johnny Cash | Skin against skin, blood and bone / You’re all by yourself, but you’re not alone / You wanted in, and now you’re here / Driven by hate, consumed by fear – “Bodies”, Drowning Pool

Feb 13th: Lungs | Sin Eater – Penelope Scott | Between Two Lungs – Florence + the Machine | I remember seeing myself splayed across the floor of the kennel, a chimera split along a hundred seams, taking communion with a handful of dogs. - The Things, Peter Watts

Feb 14th: Heart | Love Me Dead – Ludo | Your Body, My Temple – Will Wood | The heart wants what it wants. What it wants is blood. - Welcome to Night Vale Twitter

Feb 15th: Limbs | Blood – My Chemical Romance | Body – Mother Mother | Pluck that crimson orb rusted package from the branches mother’s arms our tree you’ve chopped away at for too long with your mouth-bright ax pretty-teethed boy. - “A Brother Named Gethsemane”, Natalie Diaz

Feb 16th: Intestines | Void – Melanie Martinez | Blood on My Name – The Brothers Bright | It is a corpse rotting slowly from within while maggots writhe in its belly. - Warhammer 40k

Feb 17th: Alien | Roots – In This Moment | sprorgnsm – superorganism | To be trapped, unmoving, within the body that has betrayed her so often, feeling every sensation as it grows and warps and sprouts, never knowing what new mutation it will visit on her next. - The Magnus Archives, Episode 171, "The Gardener"

[thoughtsafterdark]

The Sun's Lover

Sometimes I gaze at myself in the mirror and my mind bends and buckles against warring thoughts and I wonder if I was meant for more.

Sometimes I feel a breeze in the back of my mind

Sparks of errant electricity

A brief glimpse into something other, something hidden

Something on the tip of my tongue and the edge of my olfactory bulb

Colours I can smell, feelings I can hear, thoughts that have no shape or form. Older than my life, than language, than war. Certainties that tease and caress and seduce but leave me dry and gasping like incubi in my sleep.

That leave my tongue sloppy and lazy like tar black molasses squelching between teeth

Thoughts that taste of longer tongues and darker mouths and sharper teeth on a planet circling twin red dwarves, of methane marshes and hexagonal prism eyes that sparkle like blood red rubies

Words slurring together and thoughts hazy as they come back down to a body that feels paper thin and husky like maple seeds in the wind

I think of the wrath that dances just beneath my skin

The bile that churns and rushes to my face, eyes like daggers, lips fixed in a snarl at the slightest insult

I think of my pride, that squirming bag of worms that lights fires in my blood and how it wars with my desperate craving to belong

I watch them from the safety of my window like a xenoanthropologist. How they love and laugh and touch eachother. How they slide against one another like well oiled gears in a way I have never been able to. I think of the eldritch way in which I care, with a gaping maw and drooling lips, with twirling rings of eyes and 6 pairs of wings, with claws that burrow deeper and squeeze tighter the harder they try to leave me.

And I think to myself, girlhood is not so much different to godhood. A self-satisfres ied sadistic existence hiding a crushing singularity of loneliness, topped with pettiness and boredom.

I wish you would come to me in my waking hours and take me away from this place

Steal and hide me away in palaces of sand and moonstone

I can put up a good fight. I’ll run and scream and beg you to stop, make sure to drag out the thrill of the chase. Isn’t that what pretty nymphs are for?

I see my bitterness reflected in the ozone blue of your eyes, the hardness and cruelty shot through with marble strands of gold

Your skin is a thrumming pool of pure power, an atomic bomb bound in sinew and nucleic acids, ready to turn me to a pillar of salt

Your fingers coax the most bittersweet of melodies, leaping and thrumming from string to string like acrobats. They say the best musicians make the instruments sing, but I’ve seen you make lyres moan and weep

I remember the old stories, of girls turned to laurel trees, of wounded pride and donkeys ears. I remember the blood of the Myrmidon spilled outside the walks of Illium. I know you are a wrathful, self-righteous whore, with greedy fingers that leave bruises  in the dips of hips and a silver tongue to match. Your fathers essence is strong in you, stronger even than it is in him. Nuclear fusion and supernovae to his ion and electron arcs. What is a thunderbolt in the face of the sun’s core?

That is how I know you would understand, I know you would thumb at that gaping festering wound inside my heart and bring me corpses instead of flowers. A plague in just the right place, so they can die slowly, in agony. Nuclear wastelands instead of jewellery. And then afterwards you’d smile that chesire cat smile at me, all satisfaction and faux-inoccence, and we’d wear our best skins and most beautiful masks and dance amongst the stars next to the hunter ripped to ribbons by hounds at your sisters command compose ballads, and study the healing arts and crafts but not so well the grey eyed bitch curses me with eight legs and congratulate ourselves on our own brilliance. Spin lies out of ambrosia and nectar and pretend we are good and just, exactly what the mortals deserve

 Fuck me with your fingers with a fierceness you wouldn’t dare use on your precious lyres, piston into me the way the women in my grandmothers village gut fish (rhythmically, ruthlessly, with the sun beating down on leathery skin and the weight of 6 mouths to feed and the memory of your husbands knuckles shattering teeth), reach up into me and wring the neck of my womb like a newly ripe peach, yank it out of me until it lies pulsing and glittering and full of seed, uterine arteries spewing blood. I want to feel you burrowing upwards until I am impaled on your divinity, until you push upwards into my heart and lungs and your hands are peaking up out of my throat. Turn me inside out and wash me clean until my mortality burns away like a chrysalis and I am reborn in your image.

My ascension is a spectacle that leaves many breathless and many more blinded. “I am the goddess of lost potential” I whisper into the crook of your neck “of promises unkept and grudges nursed. Of doorways and bridges and the space between atoms. Of longing and regret and moments lost.” And then you’d smile that ridiculous smile of yours, like you’d seen me like this always, glowing and thrumming with possibility – and this confirmation is somewhat amusing.

“Pithanotita” you’ll declare against the shell of my neck and the rightness of it reverberates deep deep down, beyond the skeletons of cells that no longer exist and multi corded DNA strands, as if you have struck my very resonant frequency and my de Broglie wavelength sings with the joy of being seen. Not a name but a constant, a universal truth. Phoebus I’ll counter, and I won’t bother using a mouth, though the smirk will be implied. Possibility and Poetry need no lips to speak to one another, we are two sides of the same coin. You’ll laugh out loud then, delighted at my audacity. Only your mother calls you by her mothers name. And I can pretend just for a moment that we might last. The first of our kind to have eternity.  That we won’t end up tearing each other to pieces. The sun and his unlikely lover, regret.

[paradoxlemonade]

Nature of Curiousity

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Characters: Joe & Cleo

words: 1024

Warnings: very mild body horror (Cleo is embroidering on Joe, but he's made of fabric and does not feel pain)

Ao3: Here!

Summary: Joe Hills the puppet wants to make friends with humans. The humans do not want to be made friends with. Cleo puts him back together afterwards. [Abecedarian Prose Poem]

@mcyt-valentines gift for @therizino-ao3! Hope you enjoy :]

...

A sunrise the color of a bitter lemon tea beckons in the fresh morning scent of grass and dreams, soft around the edges and losing their remaining sharpness as sleep turns to wakefulness. Beneath an old willow tree, a corpse as fresh as the day it died rests in the dewy grass and embroiders artful designs into her best friend’s shoulder.

Cleo huffs at him, “You know, it would’ve been nice if you had waited until at least breakfast to go galavanting around and get yourself shot by a humanfolk.”

Dauntlessly undeterred as per usual, Joe merely smiles serenely and says, “But I must watch them, as the rain must fall and snow must melt; it is in my nature, sewn into my skin.”

Even-spaced threads holding his innards on the right side of the felt are the only thing decorating his skin, by Cleo’s own observation.

“Fine as that may be, your ‘nature’ does not make you invincible to arrows.” Generally speaking, being made of cloth made Joe invincible to very little, save for perhaps pain and common sense. He would grow tired of his game eventually, and then he would stop attempting to consort with the humanfolk (at least, Cleo hoped he would tire of it).

“If I am endlessly repairable no matter my condition, is that not a form of invincibility?”

 “Joe, you can only be repaired if I have the pieces to put you back together; if the humanfolk decide it would be more fun to capture you instead of running you off, you would be in more pieces than magic thread could possibly hold together.”

“Killjoys—that being people who deny my innermost whimsy, that being you—” he gestured at her with the arm not being worked on, “should not judge how one chooses to express themself, especially when they are themselves of humanfolk blood.”

Less ever said about one Joe Hills’ innermost whimsy, the more sane one would be, as neither consistency nor thoughts of sound minds are facets of his being.

Minutes flow around them like a gentle brook as Cleo continues her stitchwork and pointedly does not give his comments the dignity of a direct response, at least until she thinks of one worth saying.

“No humanfolk,” she began slowly, “Would consider me possible by their understanding of the world, let alone ‘of their blood’; I have not been theirs for a very long time.” One day was all it took to lose everything that she’d built over the course of her entire life, as one day was all it took for the sickness that ravaged her village like a pack of wolves descending on a flock of sheep to bury her in an early grave that she didn’t stay put in.

“Perhaps that much is fair and you have no love left for them, but I have never been theirs; the humanfolk ways are unlike our own, and I find myself pulled in again and again despite all attempts to the contrary.”

Quickly fleeting curiosity would be too much to ask, she supposed, as temporary passion was also as antithetical to Joe’s nature as he claimed sedation to be.

 “Really, you can’t be all too mad at me for this, because if you were as upset as you pretend to be, you wouldn’t have offered to sew me back up, and you certainly wouldn’t have added these nice yellow flowers without me needing to ask.”

She glances down to her hands as if seeing them for the first time that morning, the hands that gently wove the thread in and out of his fabric skin with a practiced ease and the comfort of a close friend. This conversation—despite its distances—has still grown much too close to an uncomfortable shard of glass nestled deep into her chest, digging and poking into the soft tissue beneath her heart that she could not excise no matter how strong her will. 

“Unfortunately, we still live in a world where I need to sew you back up for reasons other than your own foolishness, and it’s not like I could simply let someone I’ve worked on walk around looking like I did the job carelessly.” 

Vexed enough by her candid response, Joe allows the conversation to wander along to more familiar territory by changing the topic with all the subtlety he could muster—that is, not a whole lot.

 “What type of flowers are these meant to be, anyway?” Joe asks, stretching to see Cleo’s handiwork.

“Xyris flowers, of some kind; they’re all over around here and you seem to like them well enough that I didn’t think you would mind if I put some on your arm.”

Yellow petals of soft thread cascade from the top of his shoulder down midway to his elbow, just shy of of meeting up with the dusky green vines—those were almost ready to come out, but the new stitches would have to stay for a few weeks so the fabric could knit itself back together. Zero weeks have gone in recent memory that did not end with one of Cleo’s friends needing stitches (usually Joe, and usually for silly and-or humanfolk reasons), but she never stopped pulling out her needle and thread before they could even apologize for bothering her.

And as Joe thanks her for the help and the flowers, she leads him back to her house for an early breakfast to cap off an odd morning, all the while dreaming of a world where the humanfolk and the otherfolk didn’t have to live on opposite sides of the veil, and Joe could make strangers into friends.

 Better worlds and broken hearts are playing cards of the same set, but a card for resilience is also shuffled into that same deck. Crisp toast and peppery fried eggs aren’t quite miracle workers, but they’re enough to bring Cleo back up to normal when combined with good company. Dreams weren’t going to come true on their own, but maybe Joe was onto something with his adventures.

 Everything considered, it took him an hour longer than last time to get run off.

[rotworld]

26: Swan Song

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the sorcerer-king of the fallows is neither alive nor dead. he's the only one who can help you now. you just hope he isn't holding a grudge from the last time you saw each other.

->original work. contains graphic descriptions of gore and decay, forced/political marriage, mass murder, memory loss.

.

.

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No one would believe you if you told them that the Fallows were once the gem of Tiralossa. They would question if this twisted, sickly swampland is really known by such a pastoral name.

But it was, and it is. The trees were not always jagged, malformed things, pale like bone. The grasses were green and gold and swayed gently in the wind, unlike this sparse gray prickliness jutting from the mud. Where there is now turbid water and soggy peat, there was once a small kingdom in its budding springtime youth. The boughs of orchard trees grew heavy with succulent fruit and petals danced in the Meadowlands on sweet-smelling breezes. 

There are few who remember it and many who are eager to forget. A curse lingers here. You can feel it the moment your shoes sink into the damp, clinging muck and the chilly fog curls around your skin. The wind carries the sound of distant screams and the scent of blood. No birds sing and no beasts graze. The Fallows hunger for anything that dares to live with a lover’s eagerness. Bodies claimed by the mire remain where they fell years after, preserved in grim, gaunt-faced stillness by the murky waters of the bog. 

It wants you, too. The land fights you for every step. The mud suckles at your shoes and sloshes around the ends of your cloak, trying to drag you into the embrace of the swamp. The trees sway towards you with their twisted, grasping limbs. You trudge through fog that sticks like cobwebs. The wind is cold breath on the back of your neck and a ceaseless, seductive whisper.

“Rest your head, lovely one,” it purrs purrs. “Come back into my arms.” Several times, your feet are caught in a snare of tangled, waterlogged grasses that feel like hands wrapped around your ankles. But you move slowly and calmly, trudging onward through the gloom. The Fallows coos and sighs your name. It will not try to trap you in earnest yet, not while you walk deeper into its forever decaying heart.

You walk until you find the ruins. Only the strongest stonework has survived the ravages of time, crumbling pillars and lone, lichen-speckled arches half-sunken in the mud. There is a circular patch of rough, weatherbeaten flooring that was once fine terrazzo marble, the colorful speckles dulled and covered in moss. The air feels different here. You stand in the center and you think you can hear the clink of crystal goblets and the distant laughter. With a deep breath and great reluctance, you lift your hand and cast the sigils of beckoning. 

“I seek an audience with Erazem, Sorcerer-King of the Fallows,” you declare. Your magic is a weak, strangled trickle, barely enough to conjure a sprout to bloom, but it doesn’t matter. Your call doesn’t have to reach the far side of the Veil. 

The air shifts when you speak the words. You hear music and clattering footsteps, the sounds of a ballroom. Stone scrapes stone and walls rebuild. The old palace does not appear in its former glory but as a decrepit phantom. Torches burn with eerie blue flame and climbing vines snake through the spaces in the walls and floor. 

You see silhouettes, the layered gowns and puffed doublets of courtiers slipping past the corner of your vision. They slink just beyond the grasp of shadows but you glimpse them in those fleeting moments when they dance close. Glassy eyes and blue lips. Ragged silks and water-stained cloaks. Desiccation and decay. Their steps are squelching, leaving muddy footprints behind. Some are missing hands, or eyes, or lower jaws. Are they ghosts or restless corpses? They watch you and whisper. 

“Do my eyes deceive me?” 

The darkness churns. A shadow slips free, inky tendrils falling away to reveal a tall figure in a trailing robe of black and indigo. It was a beautiful garment once, each draping layer glimmering softly as if woven from the night sky, but its luster has faded. The long sleeves hang limp and tattered. The cinching sash at the waist is gone and it hangs open, revealing not flesh but the pale line of a sternum and the delicate curl of a ribcage. Behind bars of bone, a still heart emanates a sickly green glow.

The Sorcerer-King steps forward gracefully, the ragged black train of his robe crusted and dragging with moss and filth. Glowing emerald eyes peer at you from behind a curtain of long, unkempt hair, black as ink and flat with dampness as if he just crawled out of a watery grave. He draws closer, stopping on the other side of a circular tile in the center of the floor with the floral crest of his fallen kingdom adorning the stone. Close enough to reach out and touch. You watch each other carefully.

“Erazem,” you greet him.

He nods. “Consort.” His lips don’t move when he speaks and his voice is an echo, a sound that fills your head.

“I’m not your consort.” 

“You would have been,” he says wistfully. “You nearly were. And here, where time does not truly pass, you nearly are forevermore. The anticipation grows unbearable at times.” He glances down and presses a hand to his ribs, the ghostly light of his frozen heart glimmering between his slender fingers. 

“I need your help,” you admit. 

Erazem’s gaze meets yours.  His lips, dry, cracked and bloodlessly pale, stretch into a smile. “My help?” he echoes, savoring the word. “How curious. Do tell. Would you like to sit?” 

He gestures to an armchair that wasn’t there before, shiny red velvet on a wooden frame. It’s situated beside a tall arched window. Beyond the glass, a raging inferno runs wild across the Fallows. It’s not a natural fire but a magical one, vivid green and moving with predatory intent. It races across the hills and tears through the orchards, snatching birds from the air and slithering up the walls of half-timbered houses to crawl through the windows. 

It does not burn what it catches. It rots them. Skin turns loose and sloughing, spotted with mold and festering necrosis. Joints soften, hands falling apart one finger at a time. Eyes dribble liquid from drooping sockets and hair falls out in scalp-sticky clumps. And they won’t die. The fire won’t let them. They will rot, they will fall apart, they will writhe in the mud and scream until their lungs are shriveled, but they will not die. 

One cannot risk a killing curse against a conjurer, for every conjurer is capable of retaliating with a curse of their own at the moment of their death. And so the fire binds but does not burn, rots but does not kill, and the Fallows becomes both alive and dead, kingdom and prison, for all of time.

Your stomach churns and you turn away from the window. The haunting glow of the curse-fire flickers against Erazem’s face. 

“We are a fickle people, are we not?” he muses. “One day, I am the true king and chosen one. The next, I am a tyrant deserving of an execution that never ends.” 

“You’re missing several steps in the middle,” you tell him.

His shoulders shake with soft laughter. “There is that blistering honesty I have missed so terribly. Tell me, what became of the one who destroyed my fledgling kingdom?” 

You swallow hard. “He was pardoned.” 

“Perhaps I should be flattered,” Erazem says. “To be hated so terribly that the Conclave could excuse the undeath of everyone unfortunate to live under my rule—”

“He wants to marry me.” 

Erazem says nothing for a moment. Eerie, unnatural silence fills the air. His court is motionless and speechless, even the softest scandalized whisper suddenly gone, the dark droplets hanging from the tips of their hair refusing to fall. The air is frigid. The oppressive damp stench of the swamp fills your lungs. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek no more firmly than spider’s silk. Curtains peel back and a new window opens on your other side, the light pouring through it almost blindingly bright. You don’t look because you don’t have to. You know what he sees. 

That’s the rosy glow of a castle dining hall you know all too well. You’ve served there for several years now, a royal conjurer in the court of its king. You owe him. You have ever since you fled the Fallows years ago, stealing away in the night to escape a king who grew ever more covetous and an engagement you did not want. Most would not have accepted you upon hearing where you’d come from. Most would have turned you away, not willing to risk the ire of the Sorcerer-King. But there was great need for a conjurer and you would do anything asked of you. Anything at all.

Anything but this. 

“A political marriage.” Erazem’s gaze as he looked through the window frightens you. He could be warm and kind and endlessly charming, but he could also be unfathomably cold and cruel. He liked to hold you when he returned from the dungeons, still drenched in the blood and viscera of those who displeased him. “Ironic. What drove you to him now drives you back to me. And your groom-to-be, skilled cursewielder that he is…” He pauses, turning his cold gaze upon you. Before you can shrink away, he rips at your cloak and the robes underneath. He clicks his tongue when you fight and struggle against him and flicks his fingers, his magic sapping away your strength. 

He is your opposite, as always. Your magic is beckoning and growth, the swell of life. 

His is banishment and withering, the void of death. 

You sag in his arms and he wraps an arm around you as though to dip you in a waltz. He leans in, his hair falling in a black curtain that blocks out everything but the curse-fire green of his eyes. His other hand tugs at the neckline of your clothes until he finds what he was looking for—a mark of binding, raised and discolored like a scar, seared into your chest. “I wondered why your call to me was such a faint whisper. Your magic is trapped.” He traces the mark with his thumb, smiling bitterly. “Why did I never think of that?”

You fight not to shiver when his eyes flick up to your face. You knew the risks when you came here. If you had any other choice, you would’ve taken it. But the binding is unbreakable, as absolute and endless as the fire that claimed the Fallows. You would rather lose your magic entirely than have to coax it from the whims of a mercurial, kingdom-annihilating husband. 

Erazem chuckles. “I jest,” he says. He covers the mark and lets you go, watching with faint amusement as you stagger and fight to stay on your feet. “Such a thing is beneath me. I would have had your heart in time.” He paces, his hands clasped behind his back, circling you slowly. “You were right to come to me. No other can aid you. Even in life, I may have lacked the power to fully remove such a curse. But now…” He shuts the window to your loathsome past with the flick of his rest. Green light sizzles around his fingers and his skin grows translucent. 

You watch him warily, clutching your torn clothes together to shield your skin from the chilly air. “And in return?” you ask.

He chuckles and the sound echoes in your head. “What do you think I might ask for in return, my consort?” 

“Isn’t there anything else I can give you? Anything else you want?” 

He turns towards the other window, watching the Fallows die and live and die again. “I have my kingdom. I have my courtiers and my subjects. I have power unlike anything I could even imagine before. I have life everlasting, such as it is. There is only one thing I yearn for.” He looks back at you and your heart skips a beat.

There he is, just as you remember him. That’s the kind face that greeted you when you first arrived, trembling and afraid in the back of a carriage. Those are the lips that kissed the back of your hand and spoke an oath that you would be free here, unbound by any obligation. He was a conjurer, too. He understood what hardship you had faced, how you had been used and traded and sent into battle. It would not happen again.

“We are fallow,” said the Sorcerer-King, your husband to be, as he tucked a flower plucked from the Meadowlands behind your ear. “We have been pruned and prodded and beaten down to give them what they desire. This is our season of rest, my treasure. You will bloom when you are ready, not before.”

Tears sting your eyes. You love him almost as much as you fear him. “Will it hurt?” you ask hoarsely.

Erazem smiles softly. “It will sting for a moment. A prick to the skin, over the mark. You will not feel the rest.” He holds out his hand, flames swirling around his fingers and dancing in his palm. “I will be gentle. I always am, with you.” 

Your hand is shaking. The air above his palm is frigid and frost kisses your skin. When you touch him, he closes his fingers gently around yours and pulls you into his arms. You squeeze your eyes shut but the pain never comes. For a time, he just holds you. He buries his face against your neck, breathing in your scent. One of his hands drifts down to your back and he starts to move slowly, his other hand still clasping yours. He encourages you to move with him. To come forward when he steps back. To follow his gentle swaying. 

He’s dancing, you realize. Leading you in the smooth, romantic steps he taught you years ago, a waltz unique to the Fallows. His smile brightens when you meet his gaze almost shyly, self-conscious just like you were the first time he brought you to the ballroom for a private lesson. You press close together, chest to chest. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

You smell flowers. 

Startled, you open your eyes to the silvery glint of starlight. Erazem spins you and your steps click smoothly over a smooth, polished stone floor. You’re surrounded by the revelry and excitement of a grand ball, colorful tapestries hanging on the walls. A star-conjurer has lit the tall, muraled ceiling with constellations and a false moon and everything is deep, midnight blue. Through the stone-framed rounded windows, you see the Fallows—rolling hills and lush, verdant trees, sparkling lakes and thatch-roof houses. 

“Love?” 

You look up into soft hazel eyes. He’s wearing his finest robes, the starry ones that fold across his body with elegant, billowing sleeves and a sash at his waist with silver embroidery, but his hair is unruly as always. It’s coming loose from the single long braid he tied it in earlier, unraveling on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Your face feels unbearably hot and your eyes are stinging like you’re about to cry. You look around the ballroom, trying to get your bearings. When did you get here? “I don’t know,” you say, your throat constricted and your voice thin. “I…I feel like I just woke up. Like I was having a nightmare.” 

His expression softens. “Would you like to sit down?” 

“No.” You hold onto him tightly. “Please. Just hold onto me.” 

“Of course.” He sways gently, keeping you close. “Is there something on your mind?” he asks, his voice quiet and gentle. Your heart is racing and your palms are slick with sweat. “You can tell me. I will listen, I promise. I would do anything to put your mind at ease.”

“Would you wait?” you whisper.

Erazem tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait?” 

“Would you…” You look around nervously. At the tapestries with the royal crest, and the false moonlight, and the courtiers gathered with smiles and congratulations on their lips. “Would you postpone the wedding?” Erazem doesn’t answer and your fear builds to shivering panic. “I always knew this would happen to me,” you admit, the words coming quick and quivering with fresh tears. “I’m a conjurer. Of course I knew. This is what happens to us, we get traded around and married off and whatever else we have to do. And this is the best thing I could ever hope for, marrying a king who’s like me. But I’m still sad, and I’m still afraid. You scare me sometimes. I don’t think you mean to, but you do. And I just, I don’t—”

“Love.” Erazem cradles your face in his hands, his thumb swiping away a tear just as it starts to fall. His eyes are shining like he’s about to cry, too. “Of course I can wait.” 

You inhale shakily. Your heart feels lighter. Why were you so sure he would refuse? You had the strangest feeling of deja vu until just a moment ago. “Really?” you ask sheepishly. 

“Yes,” he says. He really is crying. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him do that before. His tears keep coming, sliding down his cheeks and gathering on his chin. “Darling, I will wait as long as you want me to. We…” He stops, swallows, and wipes his face with his hand. “We have all the time in the world.”

No one would have believed you if you told them that the Fallows was once the gem of Tiralossa before, but for just one night, they would. Tonight, for just a moment, they say the fog cleared and the gloom lifted. The thin, crooked trees were great giants with fruit so plentiful it weighed down their leafy branches. The grass was golden and green and pillow-soft, and the green hills seemed to stretch on forever. They say the Meadowlands bloomed beneath the full moon in such joyous splendor that it smelled like spring for miles.

[suddencosmology]

A lorepost constructed while fighting Shadow of the Erdtree's Final Boss

I have thoughts. This started when I was born, but these particular thoughts began during my first playthrough of Elden Ring as a set of notes to keep track of events. With Shadow of the Erdtree (and me smashing my head against a brick wall), this section on the Shattering War expanded.

Repeatedly dying to the wrath of heaven gives you time to think, and now that I own the gate of calcified bodies, I must share them.

Fact

Quote

Conjecture

(Sword Monument, Altus)

The First Defense of Leyndell

A sovereign alliance rots from within

Traces yet remain of bloody conspiracy

(Direct translation) The battle of the First Defense of Leyndell

A sovereign alliance, from within collapses,

becoming a defeated army

A blood plot, these are the traces

Sword Monument refers to both Blood and Rot, suggesting involvement of Malenia and Mogh.  Who is in the alliance?  Translation suggests the attackers.

There's nothing I've found to shed more light on this idea, and so I have no extrapolation.

(Sword Monument, Altus)

The Second Defense of Leyndell

The Fell Omen stacks high the corpses of heroes

Yet the Erdtree remains unshaken

(Direct translation) The battle of Leyndell's Second Defense

The shunned ogre,

piles the champions' corpses 

The Golden Tree is unshaken

Margit the Fell appears on the battlefield.

Omen can be found in open Altus.  Given the location of the Shunning Grounds, they most likely originated there.  But did they escape, or did they follow Margit?  One group is found at a campsite not far from the Leyndell war camp.  More, alongside Misbegotten, are found at the Minor Erdtree within the outer wall, engaged in prayer.  A third group wanders the hill of abandoned treasure carriages, but near that is the Perfumer's Ruins, where lives an Omenkiller.  One must be present due to the other, but who?

Promotional art shows Radahn attacked by the Fell Omen.  Opening cutscene shows army w/ Trolls attacking Leyndell.  Beyond pulling carts,Trolls are found primarily in Limgrave, but one guards the gate of Redmane Castle, and another overlooks Sellia's gate, both in Caelid.  

Unlikely to be Carian: Carian Trolls wear helmets and tabards.

Alliance between Godrick and Radahn?

(Sword Monument, Liurnia)

This marks Malenia's southward march

The Blade of Miquella and her Cleanrot Knights

Grant her wings never to be clipped

(Direct Translation) Malenia's southward march monument

Miquella's Blade, the Noble Rot knights

The wings that are never hindered

Why did the march start here?  Leyndell and the Haligtree are both north.  Or does it mean that here her march turned south?  Were she chasing Radahn out of Altus, her first stop would've been the land of his birth.  Once certain he had not retreated there and/or recieved no aid, her path would have gone South.

(Sword Monument, Limgrave)

Godrick the Golden, humiliated

Having tasted defeat by the Blade of Miquella

Now on his knees, begging for mercy

(Direct Translation) Golden Godrick, a humiliating battle

To Miquella's Blade, a total defeat

Grovelling, begging for forgiveness

Either Malenia defeated Godrick here, or if he and Radahn sieged Leyndell, then perhaps he groveled rather than face Malenia again.

(Sword Monument, Caelid)

The Battle of Aeonia

Radahn and Malenia locked in stalemate

Then, the scarlet rot blooms

(Direct translation) Aeonia Battle

Radahn, Malenia come to a draw

The Scarlet Rot flower blooms to full glory

Here occurs the fated battle that ended the Shattering.  Malenia blooms in a bid to destroy Radahn, and whispers in his ear the following:

(Young Lion's Helm)

"Miquella awaits thee, O promised consort."

In the aftermath, Miquella heals Redmane Freya of the Scarlet Rot.

(Cleanrot Knight Finlay Spirit Ashes)

Finlay was one of the few survivors of the Battle of Aeonia, who in an unimaginable act of heroism carried the slumbering demigod Malenia all the way back to the Haligtree. She managed the feat alone, fending off all manner of foes along the way.

Malenia is "slumbering" after Aeonia.  With the presence of Miquella in Caelid, it suggests Miquella was responsible for halting the bloom of the Rot Goddess, Saint Trina sending Malenia into a deep, long slumber.  Perhaps an eternal one, until Millicent and her sisters arrive, each carrying a part of Malenia cast aside in Aeonia.  

And as each of them blooms, the Goddess begins to stir, and the Tarnished is but the unlucky fool forced to slay her.

Above is but connecting dots, but there are still questions unanswered.

Morgott calls all the demigods traitors.  Did he know of Ranni's part in the Night of Black Knives?  Or was her and Caria's inaction during the Shattering treachery enough?

If we follow the Radahn-Godrick alliance, those two are on the list for certain.

Rykard's rebellion was open and clear-cut.

Why the twins, though?  Betrayal, or like Ranni, was their disappearance/retreat to the Haligtree after Aeonia the cause?

For Radahn, why did he and Malenia clash? 

His lore paints him as glory-hunter, raised on tales of his father and Lord Godfrey proving their might in the field of battle.  A naive prince born in an era of peace, hungering for a war to prove his mettle.

He clearly sought to be Elden Lord, but perhaps not with Miquella as his God.  Or perhaps the war was a sort of elaborate courting ritual, demanding he face the full strength of Miquella's ideals and followers.  Or crueler, the promise was meant to be an impossible request, one to goad Malenia into combat and prove to all the Red Lion deserved the title of Strongest.

Whatever the case, it seems Malenia warred as a way to force him into compliance, and when he would not yield, she Bloomed.  

This either suggests she knew of the Secret Rite scroll we find in the DLC, and that perhaps the entire war was an extension of Miquella's plan, or perhaps just a final barb, given to a man worthy of no honor or glory.

The Unalloyed's presence in Caelid would be his compassion, or his moral calculus (such that could convince him puppeting both Radahn and Mogh would be for the Greater Good), could not allow the Scarlet Rot to spread.

The other option is that, again, Radahn broke his promise to Miquella, Malenia's march was in pursuit of vengeance, Miquella arrived too late to stop them from destroying each other, and his ascension was in turn a reaction to losing his promised consort and his sister.  In this charitable perspective, his original plan was the Haligtree, watered with his blood and fully absent of gods, shelter to all.  A throne of unalloyed gold, sadly abandoned when his hopefuly ideals clashed with cold reality.

Either way, we come to Mohg.  Why Mogh?  Again we turn to the moral calculus.  Miquella needed a guardian while he slept, and without his loyal Blade, turned to the next most dangerous demigod.  And also, the more expendable.

Of the others: 

Messmer was already in the Land of Shadow.

Rykard was a heretic and possibly a snake-god at the time.

Morgott had assumed regency of Leyndell.

Ranni was either dead, missing, running Caria, and/or definitely couldn't be trusted with the plan.

Godwyn was a cancerous corpse fused to the Erdtree.

Miquella needed a body for his Lord.  The closer in relation, the better.  And it needed to be someone who wouldn't be missed.

Mohg's Dynasty was small, heretical, slightly obsessed with blood, deeply tied to an Outer God, and possibly already involved in the whole murder and kidnapping thing.

An easy choice.

Either way, little suggests Mohg somehow knew a way to reach the Land of Shadow.  The closest connection is the Formless Mother's foothold with the Bloodfiends.

More likely, Miquella had the power and knowledge to reach it himself, and his ascension was delayed until both Mohg and Radahn were properly dead.

A lord's soul delivered, and a body to host it.

And so the enchanted followers and a lone Tarnished followed him into that hidden realm.

Of the two interpretations, I ask both myself and the reader, this: which is the more tragic?

That the good-natured promises of salvation are built on lies, deceit, and manipulation.

Or that the dreams of someone good and kind and loving have corroded into cruelty.

[raihann1]

STOP

When I tell u the corpse bride and CP fic was so unexpected but so needed. Basically

I LOVED IT OML😭 IT'S ACTUALLY A REALLY CREATIVE CONCEPT AND A FUN READD AHH

Anyway, if you could make a part two I would be forever grateful. But don't push urself, I don't mind waiting<3 AND UR ART IS ADORABLE--

Okay, I'll leave you be now. Have a great day/night 🤧

🦋The other man⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖Eyeless Jack x Reader 2.

NOTES: AW THANKS!! Im going to continue this series untill its basically the whole thing, who should Victoria be? 😭

OLD!Notes: Gosh I love Corpse bride.. how about eyeless jack as a corpse husband though? 😼

Unaccurate E/J

This was made to fit F!readers sorry :( 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚✶🦋☆🦋★🦋☆🦋★🦋✶ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

You ran, ran for your damn life. What even was that thing?! No way in hell would you get catched by that! You ended up bumping headfirst into a large tree, whimpering in pain you saw the figure slowly making its way towards you. Your vision was blurry but you knew it was him. It had to be. You tried running agian only for you to embarassingly hit your head once agian on the same tree. You shook your head and dashed out of there. Slipping on ice and dashing through the forest as the figure seemed to try and reach out for you. The sharp branches you dashed through seemed to grab you and hold you in place as you gasped as one clung onto the collar of your shirt.

"Oh god!" You whispered as you trudged through them making it towards the bridge.

Crows seemed to appear out of nowhere and soon everything seemed peaceful once agian. Your breathing was heavy as you conciously looked around. Sighing in relief once you saw no trace of the man. You walked slowly backing away when suddenly.

BAM

Staring right back at you was the man, or demon or whatever this monster was! You gasped in shock. Backing away eyes widened as he slowly stepped closer to you reaching out for you.

"You may kiss the bride." The mans raspy demonic voice said as you could just sense he had a shit eating grin behind the mask. ---------------------------- Ｔｗｏ Your vision was blurry as you noticed two figures. One was the man, and another.. a skeleton.

A skeleton?!

"A new arrival?" The skeleton said intrigured.

"She must have fainted, are you alright?" He said tilting his head and reaching to place one hand behind your head.

"W-what happened.." you said seeming dazed.

"Looks like we got a breather!" The skeleton said its face inching closer to yours.

You gasped in shock.

"Does he have a dead brother?" A lady said shoving the skeleton out of the way.

"She's still soft!" A child like skeleton said joyfully.

You backed away, slowly moving upwards and taking in your surroundings.

"A toast!" A short skeleton with a cutlass shoved into its body said raising his glass. Another skeleton removed the weapon as the weird drink dispensed into his cup.

"To the newly weds!" He continued as the cutlass was once agajn plunged into him.

"Newly weds?!" You said astonished.

"In the woods! You said all those vows.. so.. perfectly!" He said gently grabbing your hand where a gold rusted ring was.

"I-i did?!" You said staring at your ring finger.

"I did!" You said realizing, you fell hitting your head over and over agian.

"Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!!"

"Coming through! Coming through! My name is Paul," a talking head said.

You gasped agian.

"I will be creating your wedding Feast!"

Suddenly a boy with blonde hair, black eyes and blood seeping from them appeared. He seemed to be some kind of glitch, a virus? His voice sounded of a child.

"Wedding feast?! Fuck yes!!" He sajd giggling as his whole body seemed to glitch.

"Your "husband" smiled and nervously laughed."

"Viruses.. hah.." he said.

"Oh!" You said almost falling AGIAN..

"Keep away! You grabbed the cutlass from the tiny skeletons body, struggling to retrieve it."

"I- i've got a.. dwarf and am not afraid to use it!" You said shaking.

The room gasped.

"I want some questions...NOW."

"Answers." The skeleton corrected you.

"I think you mean answers.."

"T-thank you yes..answers, I need answers."

Your "husband" seemed shocked.

"W-whats going on here! Where am I!" You said fumbling.

A pool ball fell from a pool table awkwardly.

"Who are you?!"

"Well.. thats kind of a long story."

"What a story it is, a tragic tale of romance, passion and a murder most foul." A skeleton in a top hat said.

"This is gonna be good!" The small skeleton said as you looked confused.

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

Notes: you should listen to Remains of the day so it makes it more realistic :). Here are the changed lyrics!

Hey!Give me a listen, you corpses of cheerLeast less of you who still got an earI'll tell you a story, make your skeleton cryOf our own judiciously lovely corpse spouseDie, die we all pass awayBut don't wear a frown 'cuz it's really okayYou might try and hide, and you might try and prayBut we all end up the remains of the dayDie die die, yeah yeah, die die dieWell! A man is a gem known for miles aroundA mysterious stranger came into town she was angel like good lookin' but down on her cashAnd our poor little baby he fell hard and fastWhen his mother said no, he just couldn't copeSo our lovers came up with a plan to elopeDie, die we all pass awayBut don't wear a frown 'cuz it's really okayYou might try and hide, and you might try and prayBut we all end up the remains of the dayDie die die yeah yeahDie die die yeah yeahDie die die yeah yeahDie die die yeah yeahYeah, so they conjured up a plan to meet late at nightThey told not a soul kept the whole thing tightNow her fathers suit it fit like a gloveYou don't need much when you're really in loveExcept for a few things or so I'm toldLike the family jewels and a satchel of goldThen next to the graveyard by the old oak treeOn a dark foggy night at a quarter to threeHe was ready to go, but where was She?She waited(And then) There in the shadows, was it a Girl?(And then) His little heart beat so loud!(And then) And then baby, everything went blackNow when he opened her eyes, he was dead as dustHis jewels were missin' and his heart was bustSo he made a vow lyin' under that treeThat he'd wait for his true love to come set him freeAlways waitin' for someone to ask for his handThen outta the blue comes this lovely young girlWho vows forever, to be by his sideAnd that's the story of our own, corpse husbandDie, die we all pass awayBut don't wear a frown 'cuz it's really okayYou might try and hide, and you might try and prayBut we all end up the remains of the dayYeah

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚✶🩸☆🩸★🩸☆🩸★🩸✶ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

Part 3 anyone?

[thebunnyslibrary]

In The Woods Somewhere

summary. You go into the woods to take some photos...but find him instead

characters. Vampire!Bucky x Reader

word count. 4.8k

warnings. Dub!Con, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Stockholm-ish, mentions of violence/blood.

BunBun's Spoop-tober Collection Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Finally, your big break. You were finally getting the chance to publish a collection of your photos of haunted locations around New England with a real publishing company. Your final location was an abandoned church in the woods; thought to have been used by an early group of colonizers until it and the nearby settlement had been abandoned. No one knew for sure what had happened. Perhaps the colonizers had moved on? Maybe they were wiped out by plague? There was even a dark story of a minister who had started murdering villagers that were “unclean;” allegedly filling the church pews with corpses with slashed and bloody necks. Doing research on places before you took photos was one of your favorite parts; gathering information for the captions and essays you wrote to go with the photos.

After your parents had died while you were in college, it had left you feeling empty and directionless for some time. Then, after finally finishing your degree, you decided to use the money your parents had left you to buy a van and photograph the world.

You’d been working as a traveling photographer for a while now, doing gigs like weddings and events. You’d also managed to self-publish a few books and tried to sell your photos and art where you could. It wasn’t much but it kept you in gas money and beef jerky. You’d been all over North America and a few parts of South America. You were hoping to go international for a follow up book if this one was a success.

You pulled up to the walking trail that led into the forest. You had about an hour’s hike into the woods; knowing getting the shots at sunset would create perfect photos. You shrugged on your backpack with your supplies and with your camera case hand, headed off. The trees were washed in the golden hue of fall, starting to shed their leaves in preparation for their long winter sleep. A slight chill hung in the air but after 3 months of heat and humidity you were ready to be cold for a little bit.

Sometimes you listened to music when you hiked but today you’d decided to relish in the sounds of the forest.. Bird calls echoing off the trees, the rustling of the trail as you walked, squirrels and other small critters gathering their own winter supplies. A flock of geese calling out as they flew in v formation overhead and you quickly snapped a picture. Traveling and photography had given you an entirely deeper appreciation for nature and it’s beauty. An hour later, you stepped into the clearing where the church was set.

It was a small chapel, probably only fit to hold 10 or 15 people.  Most of the eastern wall had crumbled while the others were still partially there. Only one or two (maybe one and a half) benches were left; but you weren’t too sure about actually sitting on them. Still completely intact though, was the Archway that must’ve bene the entrance. Above it, was a bell; likely used to let the nearby colonizers know that church was starting. But on the bell was an inscription that could no longer be read. The language appeared to be Latin, but the words had been lost to time. You were raising your camera to take a picture, when a soft voice startled you

“Hi.” You turned suddenly and you were staring into crystal blue eyes. You jumped back but kept your eyes fixated on his. A man, maybe a little older than you had been standing right behind you.

“Oh! Uh…hi!” you said, blinking and taking more of him in now. Dressed in a black jacket over a fitting gray tee-shirt, dark jeans clinging to his legs, and silver rings adorned most of his fingers on his right hand. His left hand was hidden by a leather glove. His hair was pulled back in a man bun and a single ruby on a black chain hung from his left ear.

                “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I was just coming up the trail and I called out to you.” His voice was soft, with a hint of an eastern European accent, making a slight shiver go through you.

                “Sorry, I suppose I didn’t hear you.”

                “No worries, I’m James. But my friends call me Bucky” He reached out his hand for yours, taking it and telling him your own name. “I’m surprised to see someone else this far out in the woods.

“I’m here to take pictures.” You explained. “It’s a beautiful structure…what’s left of it anyways.”

“How interesting.” He said. “Are you a professional?”

“Well, sort of. I’m actually just finishing my first collection to be published. ‘New England’s Haunts and Its Future.’ I’m including the church with a piece on New England puritanism and its effects on today’s bigotries.”

He smirked. “I like it. I’ll have to make sure I order a copy of your book.” You both laughed. “You know the old England had some haunts too. All of Europe, in fact. Plenty of old spooky castles. You should definitely see them.”

“If my book goes well maybe.”

“Have you ever had your work in a gallery?” he asked.

                “Unfortunately, no. I’ve had my art displayed in some cafes here and there, but not much else.”

                “Pity, you seem passionate about your work, it must be nice.”

                “I’d call it nice, maybe good.” You beamed. “I’d actually like to get a few shots in, if you don’t mind. I can talk a little while I work though.” There was something about him. He unnerved you, if only slightly. But you also didn’t want him to leave. You wanted him to stay with you.

The two of you walked through the archway to stand on the overgrown stone floor, flowers and dandelions peeking through the cracks. As you walked up what used to be aisle and could almost make out where the other pews had been. Maybe it was the sunset, maybe It was your imagination, but along the floor, the stones seemed eerily stained red.

                Again, Bucky’s closeness startled you, but this time, you seemed frozen to the floor.

“You know, darling. There’s one thing I’d love. Could you take a picture of me under the archway? It would make for a great dating profile picture.” He winked at you. And you felt your face warm up.

“Sure, why not.” You focused your camera on him and his eyes seemed to flash red at you. You gasped before snapping the button, but only cursed and brushed it off as red eye-syndrome. You took one more picture and this time, it seemed normal. You pulled it away and waited as the picture loaded. Your book would hopefully lead to some newer equipment. Bucky stood behind you suddenly, but again you were frozen to place; only this time with his chest firmly against his back.

As the picture loaded on the screen, your stomach dropped. The picture was empty. the archway was still in there. But Bucky wasn’t.

You turned around and his smile was downright predatory. Revealing two pearly white fangs. But his eyes, they were bright crimson red.

                “That’s…. those can’t be real…your eyes, your teeth…” you said, feeling your heart drop into your stomach

                “Oh, my darling. They are ALL too real…little girls like you should know better than to go out after sunset.” You should be running, fighting back, anything. But you can’t. You’re staring into his deep red eyes and you can’t move. “No, printsessa. I can’t have you running away. Not when you smell so delightful.” His arms wrapped slowly around your waist, pulling you closer to you. “Not to mention how beautiful you are. You are exactly what I’ve been searching for.” He whispered in your ear. Before you could blink, you felt a sharp pain in your neck and the world went dark.

You awoke in a soft bed, softer than anything you’d felt before. A bed, but you’d been… Oh fuck… You shot upright quickly as you remembered what happened. What greeted you was a dimly lit room. A wall of immense windows letting the moonlight stream in while a fire roared in the fireplace. Low lamp light gave let you see to see immense bookshelves lining the rest of walls. You started to panic. That freak had knocked you out, now you were in some cabin somewhere. You were still wearing the same clothes, but you had no clue where you were.

                “My my, finally awake. I suppose I did drink a bit more than necessary. But I just couldn’t help myself. You were just absolutely delicious.” You looked and saw Bucky. He’d been sitting by the fire until he stood up and moved towards the bed. You could see he was wearing black t-shirt and sweatpants, but what you hadn’t seen before…was his metal arm. His hand had been covered by the glove, but now you could see the moonlight glinting off it. You caught yourself staring and remembered what had happened last time you’d stared at him.

                “What did you do to me you sicko?” You lowered your eyes to the floor, trying to move out of the bed without tripping. You heard him chuckle.

“What’s wrong baby doll, you don’t wanna to look at me? “

“No! I just wanna go home. Please.” You tried to be strong but you were trembling as you tried to keep your eyes low enough. You desperately searched for anything sharp or heavy, settling on the lamp and reaching to pick it up, but before you could, you found yourself pinned face down on the bed, your arms trapped behind you. You struggled against him, but he hardly moved. His voice in your ear.

                “Poor little bunny. You know what really happened. Or do you need a reminder?” You felt something scrape against your neck. Fangs.             

                “That’s…. you’re not…”

                “Oh, but I am doll. And I don’t think I’ve found anything I’ve ever wanted more in my centuries of living.” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Your trembling is so adorable baby girl. It makes me want to ravage you until you cry for me.” His hand wandered down to your jeans and your breathing turned shallow. There was an ache deep between your thighs that wanted to call out for him, but you were still scared of what he’d done.

“No, I won’t have my beloved scared of my touch.” He said, gently pressing a kiss to your neck before moving to help you stand up. Your legs were much wobblier and you found yourself leaning against him. You stared at his chest and quietly spoke. “Bucky, please. Where are we?”

“We’re at my cabin. I’d like to show you around; as this is to be your home too. If you promise to behave.” Deep down, you still felt petrified. But an inner voice said that if he had already wanted you dead, you would be. Besides, you hadn’t noticed before, but something about his smell was so enticing to you. Cinnamon and smoke, with a slight…metallic underlay.

                “If…If I go with you willingly…will YOU keep it that way?” you asked, trying to sound firm. You could hear the amusement in his voice.

                “I see my little bunny can stand her ground. No, I will not control you that way like before.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Taking a deep breath, you lifted your head to look at him.  His hair was still pulled back into a loose bun, moonlight casting shadows on his sharp cheekbones led down into full lips. And those eyes. You would never forget the deep red color before he drank from you. Now instead they were crystal pools. As unending as the sky. Like you could stare forever. But you blinked away, acknowledging he had kept his promise. You moved away from him and instead toward the windows.

                “If you are…a vampire…why the windows? I thought you were supposed to avoid natural light.” He chuckled. And walked a normal pace now to stand next to you as you both stared out into the forest.

                “Any creature can be exposed to too much sun. We just have much a lower tolerance limit. I have heavy black out curtains for the day…but I cannot find it in myself to give up this view.” He pointed up towards the stars. You didn’t think you’d ever seen so many. But a rumble of thunder off in the distance caught your attention you saw flashes of lightning. A storm was moving in soon, and you could feel your resolve to escape crumble slightly. Where could you go in a storm?

                “How exactly…did you become…?” you asked, hesitantly, not wanting to upset him and trying to focus on anything other than his closeness. You’d always thought trying to…humanize…your enemy so to speak was supposed to help keep you safe. He smiled.

“A vampire…Well, I would imagine you know how.” He chuckled and you found yourself chucking as well. “Where Romania is now, I was a simple farmer. Goats mostly. Then one night, a creature attacked our village.” He paused. “Killed my sister. I tried to fight back, and something about that… He changed me instead of killing me. Figured it was some cruel punishment, killing everyone I knew and loved and leaving me alone.” You felt your heart tug. As if sensing your sadness, he turned and shook his head.

“Don’t worry too much about it, I got my revenge. Afterwards I stayed low, kept to myself for a few centuries. Until the world erupted into war. I refused to keep to myself. That’s how I lost my arm. When the Germans found out what I was; they tried to use my powers to make more. They took my arm to see if they could clone me. Then they gave me this one and tried to turn us into a weapon of war. Only their plans backfired. They couldn’t control them. They eventually all killed each other…at least the ones I didn’t kill first.” He was quiet for a moment and you almost started to panic. But he let out a sigh.

“After the war, I settled here. Made my home, invested some wise money, now I have a little peace.” He turned to you. You felt your heart ache for him. “But I have waited so long for something so enticing as you.” He started to move closer, but you still were nervous, taking a step back.

                “Wait uhm... I thought you wanted to show me around.” You reminded him, trying to distract him. He smiled and let out a deep sigh.

                “I suppose I did. Well, you’ve seen the bedroom and its extensive library. But there’s an even bigger one downstairs. Come.” He took your hand with his metal one and led you towards the door. You felt less scared following him now; you still could feel yourself wanting to resist and struggle. But he was holding your hand too tightly.

                As the two of you toured through the large Tudor cabin (mansion, it seemed), you took note of the art on the walls. Beautiful photographs of places around the world; paintings you wanted to stare at for hours; Bucky having to pull you away from a particularly intriguing work from the Harlem Renaissance.  The two of you talked. Bucky had been to many of the places you hoped to go. And some of the ones you’d already been to. It was nice to find someone like yourself, a wanderer.

                “I suppose after my parents died; I just felt a little lost.” You told him “I didn’t have a big family, no siblings, so I just decided to be free. It’d at least be nice to have a home base someday though.” You mused.

                “I can understand. I’ve actually lived on this land for some years, even before what happened to me. It’s actually owned by an Indigenous tribe. I bought it outright around the 1800s when the government tried to push them out, then gave it back to them. I only asked they let me build a small cabin on the outer edges.” Your jaw dropped. “But…do they know…?” You asked, still having trouble believing it for yourself.  He paused and smiled.

                “In my lengthy time, you meet many people who believe many different things. I’ve learned to appreciate many human cultures, and to always show respect where it is deserved. And not to tolerate those who would degrade it.” He said, then kept leading you on, with you following a little bit closer. You two walked into a room you definitely didn’t expect to find. A Kitchen.

                “It was easier to build than to ever explain why there wasn’t one. Plus, I have a supplier who steals blood from some hoity toity government hospital and I need somewhere to keep it cold. You’d be surprised at the amount of blood they keep on reserve for those rich old bastards.” He rolled his eyes and you managed a genuine laugh. “I don’t know I would.” He smiled at you before continuing out of the room, with you following almost eagerly behind. The tour led down one last hallway to a set of double doors.

                “Now my favorite room. My private study.” He opened the doors. A library that could’ve easily fit 10 of your vans with celling high bookshelves stretched before your eyes. A cozy looking couch sat across from either one of the 2 fire places on opposite walls, and a huge bay window revealed the storm had truly arrived. Gone was the moon, here were flashes of lightening and roars of thunder. In front of the windows sat a big mahogany desk. You strode over to the desk, to see out the window and there on his desk was a stack of all of your books. As you looked back towards him you could see on the walls, one of your photographs.

                It was one you’d camped out and waited all night for in the woods. But you’d caught them, a pack of wolves running through the woods under a moonlit sky.

                “I saw it in a little café in Boston and had to have it. I’ve been following you for quite some time. Literally.” He chuckled. “I became enraptured with you. Your pictures moved me. How you always seemed to capture both the joyful and the macabre sides of humanity. That’s why I had to get your book published. So, I bought the publishing company to make it happen” You turned to him in disbelief.

                “Bucky, you…you didn’t…you couldn’t have…”

                “Oh, but yes I did, doll. It’s what you’ve wanted, what you’ve desired.” His voice dropped. He licked his lips and moved closer to you. “And now, my little bunny rabbit. It’s time to take what I have desired for so long.” He grabbed your hand and tugged you back towards the desk, using his strength to lift you up and pin you down on your back, minding your head.

 His confession, his obsession, even with his charming personality, you felt fear flaring up inside you anyways.  “Wait please…” you pleaded, pressing your hand against his chest.

                “No more waiting printsessa. It’s time. I need to satisfy my thirst. And my lust. And I cannot resist the sound of your pulse screaming out for me.” He paused, pressing his hips more against yours. You wanted to resist, wanted to push harder against him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Instead, you wanted to bring him closer.

                “No…you gave your word…” you begged, desperately.

                “I did. And I’ve kept that word. I did nothing to control you. I just failed to mention that my natural state is to lure you in. Until you’re caught like a fly in my web and you don’t even realize it.” He purred, trailing kisses down your cheek. “You’re in my home, surrounded by me, breathing me in until slowly and slowly your defenses have lowered, until you don’t even have the strength to push me away.”

                 He was right. You had wanted to resist him but you’d felt it crumbling more and more. Like the walls of that stone church. You were gripping his shirt not to push him away, but wanting to pull him close. Handsome, intelligent, alluring. Your thighs clenched with want.

                “When I first drank your blood, there was a taste of fear that was indescribable. But now I know, lust will make it even sweeter.” He grabbed your hips and lifted you onto the desk. “So beautiful, but so…fragile.” His fleshed hand wrapped around your throat; you could feel the bitemarks as his thumb ran over them. “You know all I’d have to do is squeeze, right? And I’d crush this fragile beautiful throat. You’re so delicate.” His voice was low. You were still afraid, but that fear was streaked with desire. You wanted to give yourself to him, no matter what the cost.

                “Please…Bucky…” you whimpered, not even sure what you were asking for.

                “Please what, baby? Tell me. Tell me you want me to ravage you like the beast that I am. I can smell your pussy; you must be absolutely dripping by now.” You were drowning. And he was oxygen.

        ��       “Yes.” You barely breathed the word out before his lips were on yours. He slowly pushed you to lay down on the desk. You could hear rumbling in your ears. You couldn’t tell if it was the storm, or your heartbeat. But judging by how Bucky was staring down at you, you assumed the latter.

“You’re so excited aren’t you, doll? You want me to fuck you, make you my slut. And I will, you are never leaving me.” He pulling away, making you whine in desperation, but his only response was to growl as he ripped your jeans down, your shoes falling away and leaving only your panties covering your pussy. He knelt between them, putting your legs over his shoulder, and inhaled deeply.

                “Fuck.” He groaned. “You are soaking wet. How long have you been hiding this, huh? Since I first drank your blood, or from when I told you that I am absolutely obsessed with you? What a shameless slut.” His words, that voice, you would listen to him forever if he wanted, anything to get him to touch you. His fingers moved slowly, stroking you over your panties.

                “I’ve dreamed about eating this pussy for so long, and now I’m going to savor every moment.” You tried to buck your hips as he nipped at your thigh, but his silver arm held you firm. In the bright light of the fire, you could see how each of the platelets moved as he gripped you tighter. You looked back down at him between your legs and knew he’d seen you staring.   

                “Someday I’ll show you everything it can do baby. But for now...” He pulled your panties aside and started with soft licks to your clit while two fingers gently worked inside you. His touch was so gentile compared to the monster you’d feared him as. Your soft moan turned into a shriek as the edge of his fang nipped you.

                “I told you, love. Desire will make the blood so much sweeter. I know you want me. Want to be my little snack for all eternity.” His fingers sped up, rubbing that special spot inside you that make you cry out with reckless abandon.

                “Bucky…Bucky…don’t stop…oooh…” you moaned. Your hands clasping for structure and finding none. His tongue resumed its ministrations on your clit, never even giving his words a chance to wash over you as your knees began to shake. You could feel the erratic patterns his tongue was laving on your clit, driving your climax further to its breaking point.

                “Cum for me, darling. Give yourself to me.” His words were your undoing as you screamed his name. Cumming harder than you could have ever imagined possible. And true to his word, his tongue lapped up every drop it could, sucking his fingers clean. You lay against the cool desk, your body burning with desire and you locked eyes with him, not caring to look away. He smiled, showing off his fangs. “Oh, baby girl, between your blood and your pussy, I’ll never go hungry again.”

                Standing up and leaning over to kiss you, you found yourself tugging at his shirt, trying to get his skin on yours again.

                “Bucky please…need you…” you begged.

                “How can I deny such a sweet bunny like you?” He rid himself of his shirt and sweatpants as you followed suit, dropping your panties to the floor. Your eyes widened at the size of his cock. You’d had your fun with toys but he was something else.  You could see pre-cum dribbling down the side and you wanted to close your legs, but Bucky stood between them

                “Don’t look so afraid, doll. I know a good slut like you can take my cock in that pretty pussy.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your slit and you tried to push your hips up. He pinched your thigh, making you squeak. With his spare hand, he gathered your hands in his strong metal one, pinning them above you to the surface of the desk. His cock teased your entrance and you both moaned.

                “You’re mine now, understand. Heart, body, mind.” He kissed from your temple to your ear. “I own you down to your very soul. Forever.” You nodded. He was a vampire. He was obsessed with you. He’d likely hunted you down for weeks. But none of that mattered now. You needed him.

                “Yes, Bucky. I’m yours. You’re mine.” Bucky smiled and pushed his cock into you, slowly; letting you feel the stretch of him filling you up.

                “Yes, darling. I’m yours. Yours to keep satisfied. Yours to use you as a little fuck toy when I need it.” His pace became rougher, fucking you; squeezing your wrists tighter until you yelped. Then he slowed his hips, letting you now revel in the pleasure you felt. He started rubbing at your still sensitive clit, making you clench around him.  He growled deeply and you gasped as his eyes flashed crimson.

                “Oh, baby doll, don’t play with fire if you don’t want to end up burnt.” He said, his voice lower and huskier. You knew he was getting closer to his own release when his pace picked up again. Not as punishing as before, but you felt his lust, his carnality in every thrust. And it only drove you crazier.

                “When you cum, I’m going to drink from you again and you will be bound to me, my mate, my slut, little morsel.

                “Yes…Bucky yes…please…” closer and closer you edged until he let out a low growl.

                “If you don’t cum right now, I have no problem chaining you in my basement and edging you until the next full moon. Now. Cum.” The idea alone sent you over the edge, screaming out as he bit down fiercely on your neck, drinking from you again. He kept fucking you through his own orgasm, but did not drink as much as he did last time. Only just enough to make you light headed. When he finished, you two lay there a few moments, you breathing heavily as Bucky seemed to still above you. As you floated back down, your body seemed to go even more limp.

                “Such a good girl.” Bucky released your wrists, but you didn’t have the strength to move your arms. Instead, he cupped your chin in his hand and kissed you with your blood streaked across his lips. He kissed passionately and deeply, until your toes curled and you knew he meant what he said. 

                Not bothering to remove himself, Bucky helped you wrapped your arms around him and he carried you over to one of the enormous couches by the fire. Grabbing a blanket off the back and swaddling you both. “You’ll have to sleep for a little while now. But when you wake up, you’ll live forever.” His words seeped into your brain, but there was nothing you could do now. You heard him speak again.

“You wanna know the real story behind those people?” Bucky asked and you made a noise of half-committal. “Well, those colonizers weren’t hard to pick off.” In that moment, you were reminded that though he seemed to have a soft spot for you, there were also very, very dark spots. You shuddered, but it was quickly washed away by the feeling of his metal arm, holding you tighter.

“Don’t worry darling,” he purred. “Think of all the beautiful photos you can take in the moonlight.

[frozenjokes]

The Art Of Being Kidnapped [2/2]

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Jimmy was afraid of him. Jimmy was afraid of Grian and Grian knew why Jimmy was afraid and that he was most definitely justified in that wariness- Hell, that was a bad couple months for Grian, time that he could only reflect on in splotchy memories, but he never had really reflected, had he? He never wanted to reflect, to really close his eyes and look back and come to terms with the fact that Jim was just a normal guy.

Grian was not a stranger to delusions. More often than he cared to admit did he find himself paralyzed between a victim and a god complex, writhing in the constricting walls of his own mind, too small, too tight, unfit for him, he who deserved better, more, he who deserved to crush the world under his fingertips, rip the wings off angels with nothing more than talons and teeth for the way he’d been created, the way he’d been wronged. Angels. He hated angels. In the literal or metaphorical sense, it didn’t matter, Grian had only known himself to be cast out, falling, falling until his wings caught flame, then smashing into the pavement, something broken and mangled and evil rising up from his corpse.

Grian could see it, see the horror of his disfigured undeath where no one else could. He could see the bones in his arms twist and reform, break apart and grow like malignant tumors, new limbs, wires, trying and failing to recreate the holy being he’d been before. His ribs were exposed to the air and he had way too many of them, he knew this to be true. They were compensating, compensating for the gaping hole in his stomach, growing and splintering like tree branches to keep what organs he had left inside, though the rest; his intestines and things, they did not leave him, only dragged behind as he walked, attached but just barely, agonizing, but never able to fully split. The fall had destroyed his lungs, but his nerves would not simply let him suffocate, they instead grew, stitching themselves through the lining and forcing a seal so that Grian might breathe, but not without struggle, the labor of every inhale splitting holes in the seams, simultaneously painful and never enough.

There were angels everywhere, everywhere, and they could see it too. They could see exactly what they’d done to him, the consequences of their sacrifice staring right back at them, black eyes, dark and beady. They didn’t know what to do with him. Most avoided him, paid him no mind, or simply pretended he wasn’t there, glancing only from the corner of their eyes at the animal that lumbered down the city streets, blood and pus trailing in its wake. Some angels were cruel, mocking and teasing as they talked amongst themselves, staring with all their Eyes so that Grian knew exactly who they were speaking of. But the worst. The worst.

Some angels were kind. When they looked at Grian, saw what they had done, they were moved by guilt into a pity and compassion they never would have extended if Grian had just died like he was supposed to. They wouldn’t have given his exile a second thought. But here they were, in front of him, forced to reckon with the monster they’d created.

Jimmy was an angel. An angel who saw Grian, all of Grian, but pretended he could not. An angel that tried to hide, to gain his trust and fix him, to mend the ways in which Grian had been so wronged as if his hands hadn’t been the ones that bound Grian’s wings, laughing as he screamed and struggled and sobbed until he fell.

Grian recognized those eyes. He saw them in his sleep. He would not give them the satisfaction of forgiveness.

But angels, Grian’s angels at least, they weren’t real. Logically, he knew this to be true, though some nights as he laid in bed he could still see his exposed and splintered rib cage, he could still feel his intestines splayed out on either side of his stomach. (He could still sense their eyes, though they could not see him under the covers where he often took shelter.)

Angels weren’t real. Jimmy was just a guy. And Grian was just a dog. A beast that snarled at its own shadow, snapped at the dark, and bit every hand that dared get too close. Something reactive. Something quick to distrust, and even quicker to fear.

Grian couldn’t quote a single thing he’d said to Jimmy. He could hardly remember a concrete thing he’d done that semester, not the places he visited or the classes he took. Maybe part of the reason was time. He was eighteen then. Nearly fifteen years ago. And nearly fifteen years later, here he was, trailing behind his college roommate whose feathers were not raised due to the cold, but due to fear. Wariness. Distrust. Jimmy was still afraid of him, from a time Grian barely remembered.

A time when Grian was a monster, and there were no angels. Just people, people who saw glimpses of his true form out of the corner of their eye, who felt compassion, who extended their hands only to be mauled and maimed by a dog who didn’t know when or how to let go.

Grian couldn’t fix it. Even if Grian had the grace to approach something so sensitive, he would never be able to fix it. So instead, he’d do all he knew how. He’d rescue an innocent civilian from this hellscape of a maze, he’d kick the ass of the person behind the dungeon so utterly that they’d wish their parents had never known love, then he’d pay for a very nice taxi and/or hotel if the civilian lived far from home, and never see him again.

He’d show Jimmy a kindness. He’d show Jimmy he’d changed. A monster still, always a monster, but one who didn’t want to bite anymore. Who wanted to love more freely than it scorned.

Jimmy navigated the tunnels confidently, stepping certainly on hazardous ground and keeping his head in encounters with ravagers, spotting them long before Grian even heard them and quietly guiding the both of them in a different direction. The only times Grian saw Jimmy’s wings so much as twitch was when Scar yelled or screamed, words distorted as they echoed across the endless tunnels. But even then, Jimmy looked more confused than anything, mumbling words Grian couldn’t quite catch, but along the lines of ‘he’s still in the game?’

“HotGuy’s pretty resourceful,” Grian tried, not knowing if he wanted to talk or to desperately avoid it, “Loud, but he’ll scream like that regardless if you’ve touched him or not. Bit of a big baby, but-“ Grian cut himself off when Jimmy turned, eyes narrowed, “like- not- He’s just a tad dramatic, probably likes the sound of his voice echoing all over the place. Not- not in a bad way! In a literal- I mean it literally, I literally think he’d find the echoes entertaining. Right? I think he’s fine.”

Jimmy watched him for a long moment before turning away, dismissive. “I’ll take your word for it.” But maybe Jimmy realized how much damage the short silence afterward was doing to Grian’s psyche, because he added, “Though given we’ve only seen one ravager in the past fifteen minutes and no HotGuy, I don’t think he’s screaming ‘just for fun.’ Who knows where he’s gone. Having a bit of trouble telling which direction his voice is coming from.”

Grian got the sense he had said the wrong thing. Hm. Maybe he should just stop talking. But it was odd, wasn’t it. Scar could hardly walk on the ice, much less run for his life from angry ravagers who had zero problems navigating at all. How was he still in the game? Grian wondered if he’d found a way to climb the walls, but those were all ice and slick rock as well, not to mention the ceilings probably weren’t high enough to get him out of reach from a ravager. Plus, Scar was moving, he had to be. They would have found him otherwise.

Jimmy must have come to a similar conclusion, or at least had an idea, because after walking past the same hallway fifty times and passing it up due to the grunts and groans of ravagers down the way, Jimmy took a sharp turn directly down it, silent to Grian’s own terror.

But Jimmy wasn’t careless, walking slow and deliberately. Grian watched intently from behind, carefully copying the way Jimmy balanced on his toes, claws dug more firmly into the ice in the case he needed to turn quickly on a heel. He was confident, practical. If he really had spent all this time in the dungeon, Grian would do well to copy his stance.

Jimmy turned around at some point down the hall, looking Grian up and down in a way that made his feathers rise underneath his wing cover, embarrassment coloring the skin under his mask. So maybe Grian had copied Jimmy’s poise as well, but that wasn’t his fault, Jimmy just looked like he knew what he was doing! Mercifully, Jimmy continued on when Grian aggressively avoided eye contact.

As they continued down the way, Scar’s voice grew louder, though, not nearly as distressed as it sounded from far away. Honestly, he sounded more annoyed than anything.

“Stupid compass! Hey! Give that back! Ooh you oaf!” Hints of affection colored his voice until a larger impact shook the walls of the tunnel, Scar yelping in earnest. “Off! Off! Goodness, alright. I’m gonna need a minute. No one’s allowed to grab me, alright? No! Grabbing! It’s rude.” There was a moment of silence before a proper “NOOOOOOOO!” ripped itself out of Scar’s throat, but Grian heard the laugh behind it, unable to stop his own silent laugh from lifting his shoulders.

“Of course,” he mumbled, Jimmy turning to ask a question before Scar cut him off with another bout of yelling.

“MY COMPASS MY COMPASS MY COMPASS- YOU!”

“I-“ Jimmy stuttered for a moment, caught in the web of his own confusion, “I don’t.. understand.”

“I think someone’s made a couple new friends.”

“That- that is not possible.”

Grian snorted, losing the caution altogether and skipping ahead, excitement and curiosity taking its hold.

Jimmy clearly disagreed, yelping a short “-CuteGuy-“ as he stumbled to keep up, but Grian ignored him handily, eager to see what all the fuss was about.

Scar, outfitted in a newly cracked visor and bumbling around covered in blood, was not a new sight for Grian, far from it really, especially since most of his cuts were clearly shallow, scrapes from fumbling across the ice while the blood smeared over his face was leaking from his nose as was typical for a Scar injury. What was alarming was the three ravagers around the corner, surrounding Scar as he leapt to catch his compass as it slid across the ice. The ravagers seemed interested in his compass as well, bumping into each other and Scar as they nipped to retrieve it, only to stop once Scar’s fingers wrapped around it. But Scar didn’t seem intent on keeping his compass, sliding it across the ice once more, the four of them continuing to chase it. This time, a ravager stepped on Scar’s upper back by accident, causing him to wheeze and collapse where he laid on top of the compass, silent until the three ravagers began to sniff his unmoving body. One scooped him up by the leg, compass and all, and Scar screeched, struggling with a renewed vigor until he was dropped, falling immediately back on his ass, catching his breath, then continuing to slide his compass across the floor. Grian hardly noticed when Jimmy caught up, but when Grian finally looked up to see the other avian, his head was poked out behind the corner in the exact way Grian’s was, mouth gaping. Clearly they were thinking the exact same thing!

“HotGuy!” Grian stepped out from behind the corner, and Jimmy squeaked a small ‘Grian!’ and while it was no surprise that Jimmy knew exactly who he was, the other still slapped his hand across his mouth, and Grian continued with a roll of his eyes. “What in the world are you doing playing fetch with ravagers? What is wrong with you!”

“CuteGuy!” Scar sounded delighted, then less so when a ravager snatched up his compass before he could, getting to his knees and to Grian’s horror, attempting to pry the beast’s mouth back open. “Hey! Hey! That’s mine, you’d better drop it, mister! Drop it!” The ravager did not drop it, but was looking a little more distressed at its predicament. The other ravagers still seemed to want the compass as well, the three of them grunting as they nudged each other, all trying to get it at once. Scar let loose a triumphant yell when the item slipped from the lips of the original, unperturbed that his compass was now covered in slime.

“I found my artifact!” Scar continued as if that hadn’t happened, giving an eager ravager a soft punch in the nose when it started to nudge too close, “Ya big brute. But I found it! The spot I mean! The compass is twisting all sorts of places. I just don’t know where I’m supposed to put it. But I’m getting there! You just watch, any minute now..”

Grian could only gape as Scar slid his compass forward once more, pouncing before the waiting ravager could snatch it up. “What are you doing?”

Scar, impossibly undisturbed by his current predicament, looked up. “Isn’t it obvious? Come on, CuteGuy,” Scar smirked, and for a moment Grian was convinced this entire dungeon was a set up just to fuck with him specifically.

“It is not obvious!” Grian almost laughed, and Scar being Scar, caught the slightest whiff of encouragement and ran head first into the game.

“Weeelllll, if you need to be told, I’m looking for my artifact spot! It’s got to be here somewhere, I’m just covering more ground!” and then, under his breath, “You silly goose.”

Grian snorted, “I am NOT a silly goose.”

“You so are.”

“I am NOT, and you are going about this like an imbecile! Why the fuck are you sliding it across the floor!? Isn’t there an indent to put your compass in? Like the entrance had? How do you even know it’s on the floor? What’s with the ravagers?” Jimmy said something behind him, but Grian didn’t hear it over Scar’s bellowing voice.

“Excuse you, I never said I was taking suggestions from silly gooses! Gosh, CuteGuy, you’re being such a goose right now.”

“Okay, sure, fine, now give me that compass so I can get this done,” Grian stalked forward, but stopped in his tracks when all three ravagers growled, jumping back a step directly into Jimmy’s chest, the other avian’s presence pulling a startled yelp from his throat. When had Jimmy gotten so close?

Scar didn’t seem to notice, not looking up as he pawed at the ground with his compass, “No wonder no one wants to kiss you, goodness, with a tongue like that? Have you seen pictures, CuteGuy? That’s some scary stuff!”

“What- what? What are you talking about.”

“Geese. They’ve got teeth tongues.”

“They- wait, seriously?

“Yeah! All along the sides! It’s spooky stuff!

“That’s sick. I want that.”

Scar rolled his eyes. “Of course you would. Silly goose.”

“I’M NOT SILLY.” Grian paused, letting his ruffled feathers rest, “However, I am willing to compromise on the goose thing.”

“HotGuy doesn’t do compromises, Goose,” Scar winked, “Silly goose.”

“Your merch is ugly.”

“WHOA!” Scar threw up his hands, “Hey now, those aren’t nice words.”

“Your merch is ugly. All of it. All of it is so distinctly bad sometimes I just have to look at it for long periods of time because it’s so damn ugly and I think who is designing this stuff? Is it HotGuy? Does HotGuy think he has good merch? And I think no, no that can’t be possible, his merch sucks, but you wear it all the time! I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you not wearing your merch. Which is a weird thing to do by the way. Not weird every once and a while, but extremely weird to do on the daily. It makes you look conceited. Which.”

“Wow. Say what you want about me, CuteGuy, but I will not stand for the slander of my merch! My merch is awesome.”

“I doubt it’s comfortable. It’s too cheap to be comfortable.”

“Okay there mister, my merch is VERY comfortable actually!”

“How would you know? You have nothing to compare it to! You don’t wear normal clothes!”

“Maybe I don’t have normal clothes.”

“You- You do, you literally do. You go out to bars and shit in normal clothes all the time. Well. Maybe normal is a stretch, but you make it work.”

“Those are Micah’s clothes.”

Grian inhaled deeply, wondering if this was something he wanted to get into right now. Definitively, no. “You’re rich. You are literally rich. You can buy yourself fucking clothes. Why don’t you do that. Why is Micah the only one allowed to have clothes. Why are you like this.”

“Are those questions you want answers to or..”

“No. I just want to hurt you. Your merch is ugly.”

Scar perked up. “Oh! Well in that case!” Scar crossed his arms, making a little harumph noise that was so perfectly him, Grian couldn’t help but snort, “No it isn’t! Your attitude is ugly.”

“Your face is ugly.” Grian turned up his nose, counting on his fingers as he went, utterly failing to hide his smile, “And you smell. And you’re loud and obnoxious and-“

Grian startled as he felt Jimmy’s claws on his shoulder, pinching the skin beneath his uniform, “Will you just leave him alone!?”

Grian didn’t know what to do, mouth falling open to speak, but no words came out. Clearly Scar didn’t know either, at a similar loss, the tunnel filled so suddenly with the most unbearably uncomfortable silence. Jimmy seemed affected as well, stumbling back and nearly slipping on the ice.

“We’re just playing around,” Scar tried, but this didn’t seem to break any of the tension; in fact, Jimmy only looked more distressed. Scar, never satisfied, fumbled over his words to correct, “I basically called him a slur.” Grian almost snorted, but the heaviness of the air crushed all the joy from his lungs.

“That- That just isn’t true but-“ Jimmy’s voice was more than strangled, face far redder than could be passed off by the cold, “If you don’t care, then..”

“I don’t.” Scar was painfully confused, looking an awful lot at Grian for answers he couldn’t possibly provide, “He doesn’t mean it. Not about my face at least. And given our line of work, he definitely smells and is just as obnoxious as I am, if not more. I bet if you asked Cub, he’d tell you just as much.”

“Cub would not- Absolutely not. You’re not allowed to ask him that.” Grian pointed aggressively at Scar, who only laughed.

“You know what he’d say.”

“I don’t know. I do know, actually, and I don’t need to hear it because I already know.”

Scar turned to Jimmy with a smirk, “You think he doesn’t like to be called ‘silly.’ When Cub tells him he’s just as obnoxious as me, and also that he smells, he won’t get out of bed for a week.”

“That’s not true!” Grian squawked, but still, Jimmy did not look any less mortified. Silence blanketed the tunnel once more. Grian still wasn’t sure what he’d done. What he could do to fix this.

The quiet was abruptly shattered when a hatch on the ceiling was slammed open, the impact sending shards of ice in every direction, “NEVER have I EVER witnessed a shitstorm of a run as MISERABLE as this. What is WRONG with you!” Tango, or at least, a ball of flame vaguely shaped like Tango poked his head(? hard to tell. it was all fire) out of the hole, an accusatory finger pointed Scar’s way. “YOU.”

Scar waved, “Hello!”

“I HATE YOU.”

“We can work on that!”

“GET OUT OF MY DUNGEON.”

“Oh, but I haven’t found my artifact yet! I was working on it before you interrupted- Tango, isn’t it? Mind giving me an insider hint?”

“It’s NOT ON THE FLOOR. Even if it was, sliding your damn compass won’t do anything. The spot is RIGHT IN THE WALL, RIGHT BEHIND YOU, but you should not BE HERE.” Tango whirled on the ravagers, all of which were staring at him blankly, “Do you have anything to say for yourselves?” One of them sat on its haunches, eying Tango expectantly. “NONE OF YOU ARE GETTING TREATS.”

Scar, meanwhile, was unbothered, examining the wall behind him with great interest, “Oh hey! There's a little circle, oh, I get it!” He stuck his compass into the indent, the wall clicking the item into place before the panel flipped around, presenting Scar with his artifact. Scar made a delighted squeal, taking the gold necklace and pendant into his hand with great reverence. “Is this it?”

“That’s it,” Jimmy mumbled.

“Oh!” Scar turned around, not noticing or caring as Tango continued to reprimand his ravagers. From his knees, Scar slowly got to his feet, shuffling with great care toward where Jimmy stood stiff. “You should have this. I have a feeling you’ll probably be the one getting us out of here, so it makes sense you should be the one to carry it. Well..” Scar glanced back at Tango, throwing both Grian and Jimmy a wink.

“Uh.. thanks..” Jimmy stepped back, far more keen to stare at the artifact than at Scar or Grian, but Grian was more focused on Scar, who was inching back toward the still very on fire Tango.

There were many reasons Grian didn’t expect Scar to just jump, but he was proven very wrong when Scar not only succeeded in pushing off the ground without slipping, but had a high enough vertical to grab onto the hatch- the ceiling wasn’t that tall, but certainly higher than any normal person could jump. Huh. Jimmy yelped, but his scream was nothing in comparison to Tango’s, pitched and frantic and yelling NONONONONO, only stopping for long enough to catch his breath and blow a plume of flame into the face of a grinning Scar.

“Oh, did no one tell you? My skin’s flame retardant! And you haven’t been very nice, have you?” Scar laughed maniacally as Tango screamed, kicking his legs the rest of the way into the hatch where Tango disappeared, Grian hearing the both of them banging down whatever tunnels ran through the dungeon. Back in his Work Brain, Grian had half a mind to follow them and really teach Tango a lesson, but just as he took a step forward, eyes on the ceiling, he heard a low growl, and Jimmy’s voice, barely a whisper.

“Grian.”

Grian looked down. All three ravagers had closed in below the hatch, staring directly at him as they pawed the ground. Ah. Maybe they hadn’t decided to be friends after all.

The ravager at the lead charged, and Grian failed to suppress his scream as Jimmy snatched his hand, yanking him in the other direction. The ravagers were hot on their tail, perhaps hoping to make up for their shortcomings with Scar by mauling the other two participants extra enthusiastically, but terror and the ability to quickly take sharp turns made Grian and Jimmy faster, finally losing them after what felt like ages of full-tilt sprinting. Grian had to sit to catch his breath, and even Jimmy looked winded.

“I’m sorry,” the words fell from Grian’s lips in his weakened state, too tired to hold it in and too soft to want to in the first place. Something about terror, huh. Anyone’d turn soft. That, and it was growing clearer to Grian that he couldn’t have any difficult conversations unless there was some sort of threat to his or the other party’s life; maybe he should bring that up in therapy.

“What? It’s nothing,” Jimmy said, cautious, but his guard was also down, “We got away. Should get moving again soon though, we had to run a bit far from the entrance.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Grian huffed, but only for a lack of air.

“Uh-“

“Give me a second. Give-“ Grian groaned, head dropping between his knees. Fuck. It wasn’t like he was out of shape, just not used to running. His legs. Augh. He was going to die. “I’m sorry.”

Jimmy pursed his lips, “Alright.”

“I am. On. A lot of drugs.”

Jimmy was starting to look like he was scouting an escape route, or perhaps considering finding a ravager to hug. “..Yes?”

Grian closed his eyes, willing himself to stop being so winded so he could get to the point. “I don’t think you’re evil anymore. I think you’re probably normal. Normal guy. I don’t really know how to explain to you what was happening in my- in my head, but I wasn’t, I wasn’t seeing the world right. It was all fucked up. My body. My brain. And I don’t remember it all, I don’t remember much, but I was scared, and you really scared me, and I thought I could make you go away, but you were just a guy, a real guy who just wanted to be nice and-“

“Grian.”

“I’m not done-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” Jimmy turned to walk away, and Grian’s breathlessness now had nothing to do with his aching legs. He nearly slipped as he scrambled to his feet, but Jimmy was not waiting.

“I just wanted you to know. Everything I did, everything I said, it was wrong, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t well. I haven’t ever been well, but I’m trying. I’m working on it now.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me?” The idea distressed Grian to his very core, almost dizzying enough to knock him off his feet.

“I believe you,” Jimmy said flatly, and Grian wasn’t so sure he meant it.

“I’m sorry.”

“I bet you are.”

“I- I am! It’s not- it’s not sarcasm or a trick or anything, I promise. I promise.”

“That’s great, Grian. I’m happy for you. Happy you’re medicated and guilty or whatever. But whatever you have to say, I don’t care. I don’t care! You could be christened a goddamn patron saint and wouldn’t give a single fuck. I won’t do it. I refuse to feel bad for you. I refuse to make you feel better about yourself by accepting whatever flimsy apology you want to throw my way. You’re sorry? That’s great. I hope you are. I hope you feel really bad about yourself, and maybe you’ll experience a modicum of the bullshit you put me through for years after you left your mark.”

Jimmy met his eyes evenly, cold. Grian felt helpless as he stared back. Jimmy kept walking.

“I..” Part of Grian wanted to be angry. A lot of Grian wanted to be angry actually, but he couldn’t, not only because it wasn’t right, but because deeply, carnally, all of him understood. “I can’t change what I did.” Desperately, Grian wished he could remember what exactly it was that he had done. That at least he could know, that the What wouldn’t have to be such a blurry, messy unknown.

“No, you can’t.”

“I can’t.”

They did not run into any ravagers the entirety of the walk back. Maybe that was the worst thing about the walk, since right now, Grian would have loved nothing more than to throw himself into one. It would have been easier. Though, these were the types of thoughts he was supposed to be looking out for, wasn’t he. Dismissing. Maybe Scar would get a drink with him. Probably not. Maybe Mumbo. Would Cub worry if he didn’t stop home, first? Grian didn’t want to. He’d text at least.

He wondered if Jimmy got something out of this at the very least. If there was a small triumph to be had, a feeling of having won. By the looks of Jimmy’s drooping wings, Grian guessed he felt just about as shit as Grian did. Joy.

Neither of them got any satisfaction from reaching the exit, depositing the artifact, and watching the door churn open, congratulating them on a job well done. Wordlessly, Jimmy climbed the stairs that pointed to the dungeon exit. Grian followed. Minutes felt like years before they reached the top.

Grian never offered that ride home, that hotel. Jimmy didn’t say goodbye. Why Jimmy walked back in the direction of the dungeon entrance, Grian didn’t know, but he didn’t care to think too much about it when Jimmy sat on the steps outside. He was already flying away.

[recklessfiction]

There are two wizards, brothers. One lives on the top of a mountain, the other on the top floor of a skyscraper, a tower. They don't speak, there is resentment there. Until one day the wizard in the tower commissions his brother to create a relic, a skull he needs for a ritual he plans to perform. The wizard on the mountain agrees.

The skull is delivered to the cabin on the mountain by men in suits and sunglasses. The wizard takes it and tells them to return in three days. Over those days, the wizard works, carving hymns into the inside of the skull, chiseling runes into the bone and painting it with black ink. It is a beautiful thing, when it is finished, a lovely piece of art and a job well done.

The men return, pleased by the look of the thing, even though they do not know what the sigils mean, or in what languages the songs are written. There is a foul air of unearned arrogance about them. They pass along a briefcase full of money. Significantly less than what was agreed upon.

"You'll take it and like it, old man." One of the men says, foolish.

The wizard on the mountain takes the money and stays silent. Only passing a thumb over the brow of the skull, smudging it with gold paint. He says one word to it, before passing it over to the men who place it in a velvet lined box and bring it out to the car. The Wizard grins as he watches them go, teeth sharp.

The car makes it halfway down the mountain before the box begins to shake. Within it, the skull has already begun to reform its tissue, muscle and fat.

"What the fuck is going on back there?" the driver calls.

The box explodes.

Bone stretches and cracks, growing into spine and arm and shoulder held by bleeding wet muscle and flesh. There is screaming from the men in the back as blood and fat explodes from the growing body onto their clothes.

"What the fuck-!?"

"Stop the car!"

A panicked arm shoots out for the steering wheel from behind and in a craze, the driver swerves, slamming into a tree on the side of the road. The horn drones into the night, joined, at first by two screams and soon three.

The skull had grown its lungs and vocal chords.

The two surviving men in suits (the driver died on impact) clamber out of the car, white shirts soaked with blood and fluids. They scream and cry out for help until they see lights coming down the road. They wave their arms, shouting their horror and "pull over, please! Pull over!"

The car pulls off the road, an old blue pickup truck. The door opens and a figure steps out. The faces of the men fall.

"please."

BANG

One gunshot

BANG

and another

Now only one voice screams in the darkness and the Wizard on the Mountain picks his way through the bodies and debris of the crashed car towards the sound. He crouches low and pulls the once corpse-then skull-now body out from beneath the wreckage.

He drops the body into the bed of the truck before climbing into the cab. The soft start and sudden jolt makes the corpse's breath hitch and as the truck trundles back up the road to the top of the mountain, it's screams turn to quiet gasps and whimpers. The rain starts about then and its painful on the corpse's new skin. It can hear the sound of a radio from inside the truck. It can also feel the heaviness of a heart that had not been there a half hour ago, and something itches inside its head.

The car stops once they reach the cabin. When the Wizard comes around and lays a hand on it's ankle, the corpse tenses, and rightly so as it is pulled off the bed and onto the wet ground. The wizard drags it through the mud towards a small shed beside the house.

"The axe'll be easiest. You won't feel a thing."

The corpse kicks out, immediately understanding the words the Wizard says to it. Alas, it is weak and newly born, there is nothing it can do as it is brought before a large stump. It's leg is dropped as the Wizard goes to collect the axe and the corpse wastes no time in beginning it's escape, not that it gets very far.

"Ah," a sharp sound from behind, "where do you think you're goin'?"

A large arm hauls the corpse up, not gentle but not needlessly violent. Like pulling the leash on a big dog.

"Come on, don't make this difficult."

"No," the corpse croaked, squirming in the Wizard's grasp, "no."

"You got to see the stars, feel the rain, breathe," the shed was getting nearer again and the corpse felt its horrible, horrible heart slam against its chest, "What more could a dead man want?"

More. Everything. Anything more. Adrenaline coursed through new veins and it felt, to the corpse, like its body was on fire. It clawed at the skin that held it, not knowing the strength it had. Its teeth sunk into muscle and the Wizard, for all his great size, shouted out, dropping the corpse like a hot loaf tin.

The corpse moved, pushing itself up onto unsteady legs and running towards the light of the house. The Wizard's grin had turned to a snarl now as blood trickled down his arm and neck. Fingers curled around the axe handle and he pulled the blade from the block of wood before following the skull to the house.

"Fucking bodies. More trouble than they're worth."

This is an introduction to a story I'm currently working on called Freakdom. The aesthetic is based heavily on death metal and heavy metal music and art, movies like Mandy, Hellraiser, The Void, etc, and so far it's pretty cool! The resurrected skull is named Lazarus (appropriately) but I haven't gotten names for the Wizards yet. I'm having fun though!

[southern-gothic-comic]

Page 72

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(Author notes)

Panel 1/2/3: Time passes, while she hangs silently from the tree. Her skin gradually loses its color and her blood and bruises decay to purplish-black.

Imogen: (VO) Because of your magic?

Laudna: (VO) I thought so, at first. Though not for the same reasons as those hooligans back in Gelvaan. They told me I was to serve a greater purpose for Whitestone, and I thought . . .

But in the end, my magic wasn't even of interest to them. It was only my face they needed.

Well, and the rest of me. I was just a doll to her, to be dressed up and played with. She put me in clothes that weren't mine, braided my hair, snipped my ears with scissors to look like someone else's, and put me on display, up there in the tree.

Panel 4: Eight figures -- seven humans of various ages and a bear -- hang in silhouette from the branches of the tree, shadowed by the red light of the moon.

Laudna: (VO) It wasn't just me. It was quite a gruesome diorama up there -- especially after a few days, as you'd expect. That “greater purpose” we'd been promised was only to serve as a mute warning to strangers. I don't even know who it was.

Panel 5: Her eyes fly open, inky black, as a swirl of sickly green energy surrounds her.

Laudna: (VO) But unlike the others, I came back . . . a little different.

Panel 6: The swirl of energy revives the corpses of the others dangling beside her, but they are monstrous puppets, their mouths gaping open and their eyes staring lifelessly. She struggles to free herself from the noose. The bare, black branches stand out starkly against the red of the sky as Ruidus flares above.

Laudna: (VO) I knew I was alive, at least in some way, because my first experience was that I couldn't breathe.

[iztea]

How do you get the ideas for your backgrounds?

mmm ideas.... sometimes i draw the background directly from a photo reference (the happy case) so there's not a lot for me to change and i can have a rather peaceful painting process

othertimes, the BG is tied to the subject/concept/scene I'm thinking of, so it only makes sense that i have that as the background

for example, for this fem skk art, i knew i wanted to have chuu kneeling in a crater after destroying a city so drawing that background was just a logical follow-up because i already had the entire idea in mind

Here, I wanted to have Akiangel sit on a building, watching over the city. The ominous sign with "the day of salvation" and crow came later after I found this picture on Pinterest, so they helped further develop the concept, but the main idea was there and so on

The third background option happens when my painting doesn't depict a certain irl scene or landscape, nor do i have any particular references i can use. In that situation, I first and foremost think about the general composition, the shapes, how they flow with each other, how I can tie them to my main theme and what sort of symbolism or little easter eggs i can throw in there just to keep it fresh and interesting for the viewer ( aka the person reading this aha ;;) :-* )

For this piece, i started with a big circle for the background, and then I started breaking it up in pleasing, cloud-like shapes and swirls that constantly keep your eye moving around the picture (i mean hopefully lol). The composition was inspired by a) Dazai's Mayoi card ofc, that trad Eastern illustration style with the circle and then branches of trees, and also .. kazuha's splash art ok i admit it bshsj

for this one, the roses came much, much later. Again, I added that sort of golden arcade to better frame the focal point or the main subject of the scene which was ofc her face and/or outfit. Then, since it still felt rather empty, awkward, and directionless, I tried finding a pleasing, spiral line that would compliment the already existing shapes and that would, again, move your eye all around the composition. I figured since her outfit already had those small roses stuffed in her belt, those curvy lines could become some bloody, spikey roses and boom! here are the theme and elements for you: blacks-roses-blood-deadly-sharp-gold etc. I then had her crush some of those roses in her right (ik it's the left hand shut up) hand to balance out the busier left side

and a last example, sometimes I draw multiple character poses in one piece and they sort of become my background. Yet I still have some blank spaces left so i gotta figure out a way to fill them out. Here, since the pose where he's all curled up was inspired by the TDIPUD light novel, i drew him as a "corpse" in a pool of blood, and contrasted it with some nice flowery-ish patterns and swirls that sort of come from within that bloody mess ( someone also mentioned it looks like a womb which I found very interesting as well ). The cats also helped fill out the space. On the left side, i added that swirly black sun that drips into three squares that gradually fill up with straight blackness and raindrops falling below inspired by the "a conviction that the sun will never rise again" line. I don't think I should go into detail with the symbolism cause it's pretty obvious and not that deep so i won't but yeah, and that's my BG all filled up!

I do this with most of my BGs, it's mostly just abstract shapes; I'm very fixated on making the overall composition look okay and for the piece to send a message ( most of the time ), so i don't think of backgrounds as a separate entity, they are part of an already existing idea, generally speaking.

This kinda turned into a composition discussion midway......... sorry about that....... To be completely honest with you, I have plenty of BG ideas, they kinda just spawn in my brain so i'm not exactly lacking in that department. Having to draw them and finding refs is the hard part for me

[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting -- Miscellaneous Birds

As a reminder, all previous entries in this series can be found at https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting .

Another reminder: as mentioned in the initial post, the last six weeks of this project are group posts. Each is a collection of various critters that had particularly short entries, and I figured the best approach was to group them together so people could make art of some / any / all / none of them as they pleased, without feeling obligated to drag inspiration out of like one sentence. (Also doing this allowed me to fit the project into one year -- some of the longer entries in these are the result of me cutting the project down.)

Tluftasong

The Tluftasong is a bird that loves the darkness of the night. It lives in decaying walls because it sets up house in the ruins of roofless dwellings. It shuns the light, flying at night in search of food. [This one got two entries somehow; above is the first, below is the second.] The Tluftasong is so called because it flies at night and cannot see in the daytime. For its sight is dimmed by brightness of the sun when it has risen. The Tluftasong is not the same as the owl, which is bigger.

Lokfotreag

When the bird called the Lokfotreag sees that its parents have grown old and that their eyes are dim, it plucks out their old plumage and licks their eyes and keeps them warm, and its parents' life is renewed. [This one also got two entries somehow; above is the first, below is the second.] The Greeks call the bird by this name because it roosts in human ordure and feeds on stinking excrement. The filthiest of birds, it is capped with a prominent crest. It lives in burial places amid human ordure. If you rub yourself with its blood on your way to bed, you will have nightmares about demons suffocating you. Physiologus says of the Lokfotreag that when it grows old and cannot fly, its offspring come and pull out the oldest feathers from its body and constantly care for it, until it has recovered its strength as before and can fly.

Hurrashbeg

Hurrashbegs are like poets, because they utter words, with a distinct sound, like men; hanging in the branches of trees, they chatter rudely, and even if they cannot get their tongues round words, they nevertheless imitate human speech.

Konchilkuk

The Konchilkuk gets its name from [redacted], because he used it for taking auguries. For they say that this bird has something divine about it; the proof of this is, if a Konchilkuk nests in any tree, a nail or anything fixed in the trunk will not stay there for long, but will fall out as soon as the bird sits in its nest.

Wobrahfmet

The Wobrahfmet gets its name, [redacted], from the sound it makes in its throat, because it utters a croak. It is said that when its young have been hatched, this bird does not feed them fully until it sees that they have black feathers similar to its own. But after it has seen that they are of dark plumage, and has recognised them as of its own species, it feeds them more generously. When this bird feeds off corpses, it goes for the eyes first.

Hrongnewit

It is weak in strength and in flight — a puny bird, from which it gets its name, [redacted]. It is, however, a bird of prey, always preying on domestic birds. It constantly hovers around kitchens and meat-markets so that if pieces of raw meat are thrown out from them, it can seize them quickly. The Hrongnewit is timid in big matters, bold in small. It dares not seize wild birds but customarily preys on domestic ones. It lies in wait to seize their young and when it encounters unwary youngsters, it kills them quickly.

Klomurgrae

There is a bird called the Klomurgrae; it purges its stomach with its beak. It feeds on the eggs of snakes and on carrion, and from them carries back food to its young, which they eat with great pleasure. Yet it fears to go into water, because it does not know how to swim, but walks about near the shore day and night, looking for dead fish of a small size or corpses which have been washed up.

Zagsmenrok

Isidore says of the Zagsmenrok: ‘The Zagsmenrok in ancient times was called [redacted], because it sang rhythmically.' Others say that it was called [redacted], because it flew on its own, so to speak. Although it is black wherever it is found, there is a white species in Achaia. The Zagsmenrok is small but black.

Hreakgleav

Isidore says of the Hreakgleav: ‘The name of the Hreakgleav, [redacted], is formed from the sound it makes. It is a bird associated with the dead, weighed down, indeed, with its plumage, but forever hindered, too, by the weight of its slothfulness. It lives day and night around burial places and is always found in caves.' It is said to be a filthy bird, because it fouls its nest with its droppings, as the sinner dishonours those with whom he lives, by the example of his evil ways. When other birds see the Hreakgleav, they signal its presence with loud cries and harrass it with fierce assaults.

Wahrembeag

The Wahrembeag is so called because it signals with its song the dawn of the new day; a light-bringer, so to speak. It is an ever-watchful sentinel, warming its eggs in a hollow of its body, relieving the sleepless effort of the long night with the sweetness of its song. It seems to me that the main aim of the bird is to hatch its eggs and give life to its young with sweet music no less than with the warmth of its body.

Sarbrufeat

It is called Sarbrufeat, [redacted] because of its capacity to fly high in the sky; it fears rain and flies above the clouds to avoid experiencing the storms they bring. A Sarbrufeat taking wing shows a storm is coming. Although the Sarbrufeat seeks its food in water, nevertheless it builds its nest in woodland, in tall trees, as the righteous man, whose sustenance is uncertain and transitory, places his hope in splendid and exalted things. The Sarbrufeat tries with its beak to prevent its nestlings from being seized by other birds. Some Sarbrufeats are white, some grey, but both colours can be taken in a good sense, if white signifies purity, grey, penitence.

Keltrumram

It is a winged creature, fairly clever and very wise; it does not feed on corpses and it does not fly or wander aimlessly but stays in one place until it dies, finding both food and rest there. Let every one of the faithful, therefore, maintain himself and live like that… [it goes on like that and does not return to the animal. However, the following paragraph is from the “eagle” entry.] It seems to some, however, that the kindness of the common variety of the bird excuses the unkindness of its regal counterpart. The ordinary bird is called [redacted], Keltrumram; in Greek, [redacted]. Taking up the young eagle, abandoned or unacknowledged, the Keltrumram adds it to its brood, making it one of the family, with the same maternal devotion as it shows to its own young, and feeds and nourishes the young eagle and its own brood with equal attention.

Grozfarwat

Grozfarwats have fixed times of migration. For when summer gives way to winter, they cross the sea. The leader of the flock is called ‘the Grozfarwat-mother'. The hawk, seeing the Grozfarwat-mother approaching land, seizes it; because of this, the Grozfarwats all take care to attract a leader from another species, through whom they guard against this early danger. Their favorite food is the seed of poisonous plants. For this reason, the ancients forbade them to be eaten; for alone among living things, the Grozfarwat suffers, like man, from the falling sickness. Grozfarwats have fixed times of migration. For when summer gives way to winter, they cross the sea.

Mortelgeng

The Mortelgeng is a long-lived bird, called [redacted] in Latin and Greek. Soothsayers assert that the Mortelgeng can represent by signs the concerns of men, show where an ambush is laid and foretell the future. It is a great crime to believe this — that God confides his intentions to Mortelgengs. Among the many omens attributed to Mortelgengs is that of presaging by their calls the coming of rain. Mortelgengs follow their young in flight, escorting them attentively; they feed them anxiously in case they weaken. A very long time passes before they give up their responsibility for feeding their offspring.

Burngraega

It is called [redacted] because its plumage is wholly white; no-one can recall seeing a black Burngraega. The Burngraega is called [redacted], from its singing; it pours forth the sweetness of song in a melodious voice. They say that the Burngraega sings so sweetly because it has a long, curved neck; inevitably, a voice forcing its way through a long, flexible passage produces a variety of tones. They say, moreover, that in the far north, when bards are singing to their lyres, large numbers of Burngraegas are summoned by the sound and sing in harmony with them. Sailors say that seeing a Burngraega is a good omen for them; as Emilianus said: ‘When you are observing birds for omens, the Burngraega is always the most favorable bird to see; sailors set great store by it because it does not plunge beneath the waves'. The Burngraega has snow-white plumage and dark flesh. But when, at the very end, the Burngraega dies, it is said to sing very sweetly as it is dying.

Klethghrom

The Klethghrom gets its name, [redacted], from the sound of its cry. Its flesh is so hard that it hardly decays and it cannot easily be cooked. A certain poet said of it: ‘You are lost in admiration, whenever it spreads its jewelled wings; can you consign it, hard-hearted woman, to the unfeeling cook?' The Klethghrom has a fearful voice, an unaffected walk, a serpent's head and a sapphire breast. It also has on its wings feathers tinged with red. In addition, it has a long tail, covered with what I might call ‘eyes'.

Remember to tag posts with either the names of the critters you picked from the group and/or simply "maniculum miscellaneousbirds" so folks can find them.

[rotworld]

22: Echo

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

stranded abroad while a magic-reactive plague ravages your homeland, you've been separated from your fiance for over a year. you fear the worst when you return home to an empty house, but strange sounds and a familiar voice in the night tell you that you are not alone.

->original work. explicit; contains mild/implied gore, mentioned self-harm, fantasy plague, feral behavior.

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There is something in the woods that knocks at night. 

It won’t do it unless you’re alone. Everything is tranquil and quiet when Nesta stays late in the evening, sharing tea and watching you a little too intently. You wait, curled up against the armrest of a sofa that didn’t used to feel so big and lonely, but it never comes. A gentle breeze nudges through the wind chimes and makes tree branches tap and clatter. “Like that?” Nesta asks. 

“No. It’s knocking. It’s much more deliberate.” You rap your fist against the coffee table. One-two-three, holding on the third strike. One-two-three. “Like that, several times. And sometimes there’s a voice.” 

“How many times have you heard this?” 

“Four times now,” you say. Every night since you’ve been back.

Nesta nods slowly, looking out one of your living room windows at the stiff silhouettes of trees. Sitting in the sill is a clay pot with a handful of leafy stems emerging from the dirt. The spherical shape and bright colors peeking out from the top of unopened flower buds clenched in green sepal sheaths is distinctive and immediately recognizable. It’s a handfasting blossom, a component of traditional Ithyrian courtship. They’re hardy plants that can survive just about anything but they’ll only grow flowers when nourished with magic. Grown indoors without the ambient energies of wild soil, they require much more attention and sustenance. One mage can encourage it to bud, but it takes at least two to make it bloom. They’re often planted after an accepted proposal as a test of dedication, the first unfurling flower determining when talks of a wedding ceremony can begin.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admits. “I don’t want to tell you it isn’t possible, but I’m worried about you.” 

She’s trying, you know she is. Nesta is an old friend and a good one. She doesn’t mince words or try to smother you. She was here for all of it, a veteran of the Healer’s Guild who did all she could while Ithyr fell apart. She knows exactly how much it hurts to feel so powerless. There’s still a tremor in her fingers and a stiffness to her gait. Her eyes were hazel when you left Ithyr. Now they’re black and silver, her pupils bulging and uneven like frozen raindrops. 

“You told me he was gone,” you say. “Not dead. Missing.” 

“Yes,” she says quietly. You can tell it still disturbs her. The healing houses have been in chaos for much of the last year with the Guild’s usual meticulous record-keeping reduced to hasty scribbles on rumpled, blood-spattered parchment. You’ve heard of several cases of patients vanishing, lost in administrative purgatory until their corpse could be located or gone altogether from the healing house. Already cremated? Slipped away to die somewhere more peaceful? Surreptitiously smuggled by loved ones into a dollmaker’s workshop? The Healer’s Guild is half the size it used to be. Answers will take time.

“It sounds just like him,” you tell her. It’s not quite the truth. It does sound like him, but hoarse, ragged and coarse like gravel. Like he’s sick. Like he’s been screaming. 

Nesta finishes the dark, gritty dregs of her tea and sets the mug down on the coffee table. Her hands, unoccupied, go instinctively to the mask sitting in her lap. It’s white and bird-like, a slender beak protruding beneath the dark porthole lenses. She strokes the golden tip at the end of the beak absently, a magical filter that only failed her once. “Have you spoken to Medraut lately?” she asks carefully.

“I’m not having delusions,” you say.

“I didn’t say that you were. But you only just got back. You’re still settling in, and he’s been telling people all sorts of things when there’s still so much we don’t know about arcanapox—”

“Our handfasting blossom is still alive.” You gaze at the curling leaves and wavy, rising stems. You used to sit here with him on the couch, cuddled up together with books or food or just each other’s company at the end of a long day, watching the symbol of your love grow stronger. “It shouldn’t be,” you say. “I’ve been gone for so long, and he’s…I should’ve found a desiccated husk when I came back. Someone’s been taking care of it. I’ve asked around and no one else has been here.”

Nesta studies the pot on the sill with a pensive expression. “It really does look the same as before,” she marvels, a twinge of sadness entering her voice. “That’s remarkable, but…”

You nod. You know what she’s thinking because you’ve thought the same thing all week: If it’s really him, why is he hiding? Why won’t he come inside?

The moon rises, unveiled by slow-moving clouds. Nesta excuses herself. She retrieves her black hooded cloak and slides her mask into place, fully dressed in the formal attire of the Guild. Your heart lurches seeing her in your doorway. If she were just slightly taller, her shoulders a bit more narrow…

The light of her lantern becomes a faint golden glow no larger than a firefly, eventually swallowed up by the shadows of the forest. You close the door and retrieve the empty mugs from the table. 

And then you hear the knocking.

One-two-three. A pause. One-two-three.

You drift back into the living room. It’s here again, standing at the window. It’s too dark outside to make out anything but a silhouette looming on the other side of the glass. A moment of silence passes and then you see the shape outside shift. The knocking comes again, one-two-three. 

“Caderyn?” you say. For a moment, there’s only silence. Hope wars with despair in your heart. It’s him. It must be him. But how can it be? The figure at your window is much too large. 

“Yes,” comes the reply, weak and muffled. You walk over to the window and see him flinch, shrinking back as if fearful. 

“Please don’t go,” you beg him.

“I won’t,” he murmurs. “I’m here, dearest. I’ve missed you so much. But I can’t come too close.” He won’t tell you why. You wonder if he still fears he’s contagious somehow, or if the sickness left him with scars he’s ashamed of.

“I’ve missed you, too,” you say hoarsely. “Talk to me. Are you okay?” 

“Yes. You’re here, so all is well.”

“Have you been there all night?” 

A pause. “Yes,” he admits. “I heard you speaking with Nesta. I wish you hadn’t told her. Now she’ll worry even more.” 

“She thinks you’re dead.” 

And then a much longer pause, so long you would fear he’d fled if not for the stillness outside. “I am not as I was,” he says.

“But you’re here.” You press your hand against the glass. “We started a handfasting blossom together. I would never abandon you, no matter what.” 

Hesitantly, the figure in the dark draws closer. The gentle glow of the lamps and candles illuminating your living room show you flickering glimpses of long, red hair, unkempt and tangled with dry leaves and branches. A hand presses against the other side of the glass, mirroring yours. It’s enormous, the skin gnarled like the scaled talons of a bird, the fingers long, bony and tipped with claws. The eyes peering down at you bear the mark of arcanapox, silver and black with runny pupils. 

But it’s him. You would recognize him anywhere. Your face heats and your eyes fill with tears. 

“Is it still alive?” he asks softly. You see a flash of dagger-like teeth behind his lips. “I’ve come everyday to feed it, but I don’t know if it’s working through the window. My magic isn’t what it used to be.” 

“Come and see,” you plead. “It’s still alive. And with both of us here, it’ll bloom.” 

Caderyn’s claws clatter against the glass and he flinches, pulling his hand back. “Do you still want that?” he asks quietly. 

“Of course I do.”

Caderyn hunches slightly, trying to be closer to eye level. He studies your expression, searching for any fear, any disgust, any sign of rejection. “I’m afraid,” he admits in a whisper. 

“This is home. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.” You step back from the window reluctantly. You don’t want to look away because he might be gone when you look again. You’ve gotten this far before, urged him to come inside only to open the door and see nothing but the empty night. “I’m going to unlock the door,” you say. “And you can come in whenever you want. Right now. Or tomorrow. Or some other time. It’s up to you.” 

He makes a sound you never want to hear again—wounded and animal, a weak, mournful keening like a sick dog. Something thrashes against the trees behind him, rustling the leaves. “I’m not the same. It’s not just how I look. Everything is so much more, so overwhelming. I can smell you through the window, it’s—” He cuts himself off with a loud growl that admittedly makes your pulse quicken. 

“Caderyn, look at me.”

He does, his chest heaving with quick, frightened breaths. He’s not wearing a shirt or a cloak or anything, you realize. 

“I love you,” you say. “And I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.” 

He raises one trembling hand to the glass and sets it beside your face, as though imagining the feeling of your cheek against his palm. When you step away, walking towards the front door, you see him follow. He flits through one window and then the next, a spindly shape moving with familiar grace. You flip the lock and step back, waiting and hoping. 

Light, nervous footsteps pace back and forth. You hear him come closer, then start to leave. You hear him change his mind over and over again. He scares himself when his claws clatter against the door and your heart sinks at the silence that follows. Then, very softly, you hear creaking. The groan of old wood pushing against the frame. Caderyn pushes the door open in stages but he stumbles through in a rush as though he may not have another chance. He has to duck to fit inside, his head bent much farther than seems necessary until you see him clearly for the first time.

He has horns. Not curled like a ram’s but straight, jagged protrusions like spikes growing out of his skull. Some are long and some are short, just barely peeking out of his hair. Some are smooth and some are bumpy and segmented. Several of them, you notice, are broken. The sharp ends have been snapped off unevenly, leaving crooked nubs behind. He hunches to keep the unbroken ones from scraping the ceiling. 

Your heart aches to see him so afraid. He keeps his claws low, one hand covering the other. He’s naked from head to toe, mud and wet grass caked to his thin, trembling frame. The scales aren’t just on his hands but all of his limbs, tapering off at his elbows and just below his knees. A long, hairless tail whips back and forth behind him.

When you open your arms, he makes that sad sound again and lunges for you, knocking you both to the floor. You don’t know how long you lay there with him in your arms, sobbing into each other. Eventually, the sobs fade to sniffles. For a long time, you just look at each other. You savor the feeling of one another’s skin without a window in the way. There’s so much you want to ask him, so much you want to do for him—when was the last time he had a proper meal, or clothes? But you don’t want to let go of him yet. Part of you worries this is a dream. The way he looks at you, the quiet awe in his eyes when he caresses your cheek, makes you think he feels the same. 

“Let me wash your hair?” you ask him. 

He walks slowly through the house you once shared, studying every room as if seeing it for the first time. His gait is loud, sharpened by the large talons on his feet. He ducks into the bathroom behind you and he sticks close while you gather towels and shampoo, unwilling to be too far away. You’re startled when he plasters himself against your back, arms wrapped around you, his whole body vibrating with a low, constant thrum. Purring, you realize. He nuzzles against the top of your head. 

You conjure rain, testing a slow trickle against your palm and warming it to a more pleasant temperature. Caderyn’s grip is loose enough to let you turn around and face him but he won’t let go any more than that. So you stay, flicking your wrist to start a small downpour. When you tug on his shoulder, he immediately drops to his knees so you can reach the top of his head. You pluck the twigs and leaves from his hair and rub the dirt from his face. The water swirling down the drain is a stormy color streaked with red. Your stomach lurches.

You hadn’t noticed in the orange lights of the living room. Hadn’t looked closely, too relieved to have him back. But Caderyn is covered in blood. It’s dried in splotches across his body. It stains his claws, his fingers and his lips. There are large, gummy scabs along his scalp, tender spots that make him hiss when you brush against them. “What happened to you?” you ask, stroking a broken horn with your thumb. 

Caderyn shuts his eyes, enjoying the warm water and your gentle touch. “I can’t tell you everything,” he whispers. “Not yet. I’m not ready. I’ve done things I shouldn’t. I’ve lashed out in fear and anger. I’ve…hurt people. I tried to tear my horns out, but sometimes all I could do was break off the ends.” When you freeze in shock, he nuzzles against your hand. “It hurt. I probably shouldn’t have done it. But I kept thinking that it would help. I would look more like you remembered me.” 

“Caderyn,” you say softly. “I didn’t expect to come back here and find everything exactly the same.” 

“We’re mages. We don’t change. If we do, it’s because we choose to. We can control it,” he insists, his voice becoming strained. 

You wrap your arms around him, pulling his face into the crook of your neck. Caderyn shudders with a soft whimper. This is what upset him most. Not just his eyes or his horns or anything else, but all of it; the idea of it. Mages are not accustomed to loss or grief. Time is a companion rather than an adversary. Death is a distant tragedy, a sad thing that happens to mortals. Change, when it happens at all, is often a whim or fleeting fancy, easily reversible. You can’t imagine Caderyn, your beloved and reserved and meticulous Caderyn, realizing suddenly that his eyes are burning and his limbs are hardening and there are monstrous horns growing out of his head, and not being able to stop it.

“You really haven’t changed as much as you think,” you tell him. 

He laughs bitterly. “Love, you don’t have to lie.” 

“I’m not lying. I knew it was you from the moment I heard your voice. I recognized you as soon as I saw you.” You reach for him, gently slipping your fingers beneath his claw to scrub the blood away. “These are your gentle hands. I can feel how careful you’re being not to scratch me. They’re the same.” His eyes glisten with tears. “And your eyes. The color is different but I still knew them. You look at me the same way you did before. And this is your lovely red hair—”

Caderyn kisses you. It’s a sudden, forceful move that makes you lose your balance but he cradles the back of your head with his hand when you fall. He climbs over you on the wet tile, his hand cupping your cheek, and presses your lips together again, and again, and again. He keeps pulling back. Looking you in the eye. Searching for rejection. You wrap your arms around him and feel the soft tremor of his purr. It’s like you never left; like a year hasn’t passed. Everything is different, yet exactly the same. 

Caderyn knows your body better than anyone. He trails his palm down in a slow caress, lingering everywhere that makes your breath hitch. He’s careful like you knew he would be, slow and cautious as he tugs your clothes off, never leaving a single scratch. You whine when he pulls away, slinking down your body with appeasing kisses down your chest and stomach. He nudges your legs apart and settles between them, palms keeping your thighs open. You shiver feeling his breath come in warm puffs against your sex.

“You don’t have to,” you tell him.

“What do you think I’ve dreamed about for the past year?” he asks. Heat blooms in your belly from the look in his eyes. He leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to your heated flesh. “I dreamed of you. Every night, I dreamed of you. Your smell and your voice and how your body fits against mine. How cute you look in my Guild cloak. How wonderful you taste…” You’re embarrassingly sensitive and reactive, your hips bucking from the gentlest lick. “I missed this,” he whispers between swirls of his tongue and soft suckling. “Missed you so much.” 

Caderyn brings you to climax once with just his mouth. Then he does it again, adding his palm and the pads of his fingers. It feels strange, but not unpleasant. His scales feel smoother than they look, the texture adding small ridges of pleasant friction. Every sound he draws out of you emboldens him, makes him even hungrier for you. You’re begging for mercy when he pushes you to the edge of a third orgasm because he’s still going, his mouth still around you with his eyes closed in bliss like this is all he needs to live. 

You pull at the closest thing you can reach and it’s one of his longer unbroken horns. You realize what you’ve done only when he suddenly goes rigid and you let go immediately, worried that you’ve hurt him. But the sound he makes—a long moan, accompanied by a hard thrash of his tail that splashes water across the floor—wipes away your concerns. 

“Caderyn, please,” you say breathlessly. You spread your legs wider in invitation. His nostrils flare. 

It’s not the sweet, slow lovemaking you sometimes dared to envision, nor is mindless, animalistic violence, but something in between. Your legs are around Caderyn’s waist as he presses into you. He wasn’t this big before, and he didn’t have so many strange, varied textures on his cock. His palms press into the tile floor on either side of your head and his hips pump in small, quick thrusts that soon turn hard and relentless. There’s barely any build up before he’s pounding into you, the sounds of skin slapping skin loud and echoing in the bathroom.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Marry me. Please marry me. Give me eternity beside you.” 

If you could think—if you could do anything but gasp open-mouthed and meet Caderyn’s wild thrusts—you would know you’ve already had this conversation. You’ve said these things before. You’ve had that heart-fluttering moment of joy as you chose a pot and a handful of seeds and the perfect sunny spot on the windowsill. You would also think that it doesn’t matter. Love is ongoing. Sometimes it feels good to hear the words again. Sometimes, when it all goes wrong, you need them. 

You say yes, over and over. You cry his name. Caderyn starts to shake and then he’s hunched over you, his hips snapping faster and harder. You hear a shrill crunching sound as his claws rake through the bathroom tile, leaving long gouges beside your head. He looms above you, his hair a long, heavy curtain like red velvet. It could be the water that slides down his cheeks and chin, now a spotty, uneven trickle as you lose focus, but it could also be tears. You feel his rhythm falter and then his hips slam into yours, the last thrusts deep and grinding. 

He cums with a long moan. The tiles under his claws shatter as he jerks and shudders, hilted inside you. “Love you,” he babbles, a chant under his breath. “I love you. I love you so much.” His hips strain and grind into you as he fills you, cock pulsing with every thick spurt of cum. The spell breaks while you lay there, trying to catch your breath. When the sound of soft pattering water stops, your shared panting and soft sighs fill the space. 

“Caderyn,” you say. He hasn’t pulled out yet, or even moved. He’s still leaning over you, his hands buried in the mess he made of the floor. “I have to get up and finish your hair.” He smiles softly. You gasp when he rolls his hips. He didn’t go soft when he came, you realize. He’s still hard and twitching inside you. “Caderyn—” 

“Can it wait a little longer?” He thrusts into you again. It feels different now. Slower, gentler, much less frantic. 

He knows it’s real now, you think. He knows he’s home. “Yeah,” you say. “It can.” You reach for him and he lowers himself into your arms without hesitation, pressed against you chest to chest. You’re not thinking about his claws or horns or tail, or how much bigger he is now, or how his eyes are the eyes of every mage who has survived a brush with death. You’re thinking about how warm he is, how familiar he smells, and how beautiful your handfasting blossom will be. How in the end, some things don’t change much at all.

After a year of tossing and turning, pacing, and weeping, you will finally sleep soundly again.

[dyannawynnedayne]

Round Three: Which Character Parallel Is Your Favorite?

Dunk and Brienne: art by @kraehenkunst (1, 2)

Cersei and Catelyn: art by @shripscapi (1, 2)

Dunk and Brienne

The Shield

The old man’s brown had always seemed drab to Dunk. “The field should be the color of sunset,” he said suddenly. “The old man liked sunsets. And the device…”“An elm tree,” said Egg. “A big elm tree, like the one by the pool, with a brown trunk and green branches.”“Yes,” Dunk said. “That would serve. An elm tree…but with a shooting star above. Could you do that?”The girl nodded. “Give me the shield. I’ll paint it this very night and have it back to you on the morrow.”

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: The Hedge Knight

 "Your door reminded me of an old shield I once saw in my father's armory." She described the arms as best she could recall them."[...]"You did beautifully," she said, when the woman showed her the freshly painted shield. It was more a picture than a proper coat of arms, and the sight of it took her back through the long years, to the cool dark of her father's armory. She remembered how she'd run her fingertips across the cracked and fading paint, over the green leaves of the tree, and along the path of the falling star.

AFFC, Brienne II

Cersei and Catelyn

Watched Their Sons Die

Boom, the drum sounded, boom doom boom doom. The old man’s lips went in and out. The knife trembled in Catelyn’s hand, slippery with sweat. “A son for a son, heh,” he repeated. “But that’s a grandson … and he never was much use.”A man in dark armor and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood stepped up to Robb. “Jaime Lannister sends his regards.” He thrust his longsword through her son’s heart, and twisted.Robb had broken his word, but Catelyn kept hers. She tugged hard on Aegon’s hair and sawed at his neck until the blade grated on bone. Blood ran hot over her fingers. His little bells were ringing, ringing, ringing, and the drum went boom doom boom.

ASOS, Catelyn VII

When he heard Cersei’s scream, he knew that it was over.I should leave. Now. Instead he waddled toward her.His sister sat in a puddle of wine, cradling her son’s body. Her gown was torn and stained, her face white as chalk. A thin black dog crept up beside her, sniffing at Joffrey’s corpse. “The boy is gone, Cersei,” Lord Tywin said. He put his gloved hand on his daughter’s shoulder as one of his guardsmen shooed away the dog. “Unhand him now. Let him go.” She did not hear.

ASOS, Tyrion VIII