#HORRID RESURRECTION

[really-burnt-toast]

Redesigning my COTL cast pt.1

HAHA I'm finally done! I only made busts tho bc Im lazy and Im not putting myself through drawing a size chart... YET.

It WILL come, just so I can show pretty outfits and show how ridiculous Leshy's hight is LOL

If you see any spelling mistakes, please ignore them <3

(more info and rambling under cut)

Here I'll write some more things relating to each character;

Lamb

Born in Darkwood to a single mother, their mom had named them Mellia after the flowers that grow there, since they had aided in striving off an illness she had during the pregnancy.

The Lamb grew up pretty happily despite being on the run. Their mother was eventually caught whilst they made an escape. During their years of hiding, they broke their leg during one particularly risky escape and were caught not long after.

Their number is 1.600.666 because I keep making a connection between Darkwood and Germany's Schwartzwald - there are 1.6 million sheep in Germany - so I decided to have that be the approximate number. 666 was just added for fun.

Their ear was tagged to keep track of how many sheep were caught in which realm. They just so happened to be the last to be executed. By mere coincidence.

They were born without horns and kinda made the crown shape into a set. It has the benefit that they can rip em off and use them as impromptu weapons.

Due to centuries of being treated as a tool for a prophecy and merely a vessel, their self esteem is downright horrid. Whilst they don't condone followers speaking ill of them, they pretty much let Narinder trample on their feelings up until they had snapped one day. In the end it did help them both, but it wasn't great it had to be taken to that point.

Extra: I added the vitiligo because when I imagine a human version, I couldn't help but see them as having Vitiligo. Their leg limp was made after I thought it would make them look more imposing seeing someone "weak" suddenly pull out a giant hammer.

Narinder

Found within a burning village under rubble, clutching a crown as war raged around them. He was found by Shamura and taken in.

He was the first to create resurrection and back then it was an EXTREMELY taxing ritual. It would require his own godly flesh to beckon people back to life - thus it would literally cause his skin and flesh to melt off his bones. Now that's not needed anymore but his body is still weak to it, meaning during certain stress factors, he can still become skeletal. He doesn't have scarring from it, but gained some cool markings.

He was bound by his arms, torso and neck - all of which are scarred. In the afterlife he was perpetually sitting, causing him to be paralyzed from the waist down. Once he was usurped he had to regain his ability to walk and was taken care of by the Lamb.

He was in a catatonic state for many years and it only got better gradually with many setbacks. For years he never left the bed and by the time his Siblings had been rescued, he had barely started going outside. He was also suffering from chronic pains which wasn't really helpful.

He's also very... Temperamental. It took him just as long to say anything nice to the Lamb and it took him extra long to see them as more than his vessel.

Extra: I changed his markings to be more like I had imagined them. The catatonic trait and chronic pain was added after the update and I remember how horrible it was having tendonitis and I wanted to channel my distaste into Narinder.

Shamura

Found and raised by the last gods, they weren't the greatest sibling. They may have taken in the others but it took them a long time to be anything other than cold. With Kallamar, Shamura was distant and strict - then with Narinder they attempted to be less harsh after the kid started crying himself to sleep. With Heket and Leshy they got less and less cold. They tried their best, they'd argue.

They got carried away by their feelings as they had feared at the start and that's when the first prophecy came to them. They had kept it hidden for way too long until the balance of the crown's powers were ripping at the seams due to Narinder's pursuit in power - and they made a decision. They had told Kallamar first. Then Heket and Leshy were brought in.

Stuff happened. Now they are barely coherent and at most have an hour or two at a time where they seem to make sense. Leshy stays with them the most. Kallamar takes care of them. Heket takes care of the rest. Their skull is caved in, they lost an eye and limbs - some of the damages can't be hidden by bandages.

There's also this thing that their crown keeps getting out of control whilst trying to keep their mind stable - sometimes they'll get startled - attempt to form a weapon and instead end up with their arm speared through. They have scarring all over their body from it.

Upon recruitment they are pretty overwhelmed. Their crown can't stop them from breaking anymore and they have gotten so used to godhood that mortality now feels like they are literally rotting alive. They can feel their body wasting away.

Only after getting their relic back do they start becoming more independent and stable. They nowadays go through some sort of rehab to try and regain their sense of self.

Extra: Not much was added. I wanted to give them Glasses but I can't for the life of me draw them with a pair... So Ill just say they have them but not show them LOL

Kallamar

His past is basically forgotten. It sorta slipped away since he hadn't deemed it fit to be remembered. At first he had MANY fights with Shamura, then it ceased after a confrontation turned violent which left him with a bad scar.

He had to take care of his younger siblings whilst coming to terms with godhood - filling in whenever Shamura wasn't physically or mostly emotionally unavailable. For a long time he was the only one that could comfort his ailing siblings. Dealing with that sort of made him pretty easily agitated.

When Shamura proposed the plan, he had been hesitant - but ultimately didn't say anything.

Now he takes care of his siblings medically. He hates himself more than he hates anyone else and as much as he is quick to condemn and betray Shamura - he is also quick to condemn himself. Though maybe not as enthusiastically or openly.

He likes to compensate. Giving gifts to request forgiveness - grand displays of favoritism or mainly decking himself and his multiple spouses out with Jewels. He still keeps his wedding rings around his neck and his earring references his siblings.

Funnily enough, he caused the least troubles to the Lamb. They could argue he even seemed relieved after a short while of staying in the cult.

Extra: Added Jewelry and two tentacles because he looked naked without them.

Heket

Loudmouth frog that when found with her crown, she started trying to fight Shamura - insulting whatever parent they had. She kept threatening to poison them too.

In the lineup of her siblings, she was often the one who took the sidelines. If she was happy, she was left alone. If she was displeased, she'd let herself known. The most uncomplicated of the siblings.

You'd almost miss how every other bishop would seek her out when help was needed. While Shamura helped with godhood and Kallamar with emotional needs - Heket was a good person to pester with anything else. She'd handle it - just let big sis do it. Even if she was the second youngest - it's funny how even Kallamar and Narinder would occasionally use the nickname.

Then when everyone else was dealing with their wounds, she picked up the pace and kept their respective cults from falling apart. She handled Silk cradle until Shamura could - helped with Darkwood and took over Anchordeep when Kallamar was tending to the others. No problem.

She was still loud when entering the cult. Not as much as her brother - but she loved to cause scenes. Her muteness didn't seem to hinder her at all with that. She's not allowed near knives but somehow can handle axes?

Her temper problems don't get better. She just stops being an asshole about it.

She prefers having scarfs covering her neck bandages whilst they're all bloody and disgusting.

Extra: Nothing because Heket is already perfect.

Leshy

Literally a weird insect that kept clinging to the crown until it grew big enough to hold in one hand. It bit anything that got close and by the time Shamura found it - he had started eating small critters.

And god, he kept growing and growing until he wasn't a small worm in Shamura's hand but literally too big to fit through most doors. They suspected he'd grow until the end of time. Or well, now since his crown is gone.

He never listens. He screams for fun and overshares the worst details to the point he manages to break his siblings into just accepting anything he talks about. They can't even scold him or punish him since Leshy always finds a way to make things worse for anyone else but himself.

He also copies everyone. First it was Heket's tone. Then it was Narinder's behavior - now he started growing flowers and vine braids to make fun of Kallamar and his antlers were at first a crude mimic of Shamura's pedipalps and now they grow vines to be similar to the jewels hanging from them. He refuses to acknowledge doing so.

He's very clingy. After locking away Narinder, he stayed with Shamura every day until they were out of bed rest. He follows his siblings around and when he does give them a second to breathe - hes probably laying around in Darkwood instead of doing anything productive. He does tends to plants occasionally, but he prefers "to let chaos do its thing" - as if that means anything.

He makes for a great gardener after he stopped trying to break everything upon recruitment. And once he got over growling at every living thing - he actually became one of the most well liked people living there.

Leshy knows exactly what someone needs and somehow finds a way to achieve that with the littlest of efforts. It's the thought that counts.

Extra: Braid and vines because I thought Leshy would look cute with it.

Special: The 4 bishops all wear old faith themed robes, but Shamura got the elder clothes for comfort and Leshy kept tearing his clothes apart so he is not permanently excluded from having any special outfits as punishment. Narinder wears fancy robes (who happen to be loose and warm while being special - otherwise he'd complain)

The Lamb wears one of the leaked fleeces since I loved the red riding hood aesthetic.

In the end this turned more into biographies than actual explanations but its 3:30am, Im sleep deprived and I wanted to get my thoughts out because I start having memory problems again YIPPEE

[ofbatsandballads]

“like real people do” by hozier is so jason todd coded it has me writing purple prose at 1pm on a friday. i was listening to that masterpiece of a song and couldn’t stop thinking of jay’s childhood first love being there the night he came back. so out came this sort of au based on the ‘superboy punches reality’ version of his resurrection.

tw for depictions of jason’s torture and murder, his being resurrected and escaping his grave, reader’s severe depression and suicidal ideation surrounding her grief, heavy codependency implied between jason and reader, and general resurrection angst.

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how these things always go? Horrid cliches find unexpected ways of coming back to life. Much like the life that sparks suddenly within the boy in the casket. Black, dark nothingness becomes humid, suffocating air. He tries to sit up and meets silk-covered mahogany that traps him. The boy in the casket does not know where he is. He does not know who he is.

He remembers feelings. Something loud, bright, and hot that made everything go dark. Resignation, the urge to protect, forgiveness. The feeling of his skull cracking, his collarbone shattering under the blunt force of metal. The laughter the laughter the laughter it is driving him mad. The white hot pain of his legs snapping under the weight of the man that laughs. The guttural feeling of betrayal and fear. The smell of cigarettes. He is the sweet boy that wants his mother.

Hope, bright and incandescent. Rebellion and longing. Anger, angst, the horrible need to be understood by the people you love most. Ambition, pride, joy, encouragement; the warmth of family. He is no longer a fatherless son. Hope, wary but resilient. Fear, then relief, at the sight of the Dark Knight.

The boy in the casket remembers. He still does not know who he is. But he knows he has a father. He knows it because he is screaming for his father as he tears through the silk and scrapes the skin from his fingers against the hard mahogany. He screams for his father as he kicks through the wood, as the damp earth fills the enclosed space and steals the little air that remains for him to breathe. He is thinking of his father as he pulls his body through the hole he made. The jagged wood is digging into his side and he feels blood drip hot down his torso. It’s different from the wet cold that surrounds him and he focuses on that to stay cognizant. But the earth presses in and he is tired. He is so very tired.

He remembers something else. He remembers being tired once before, but he was warm then. He remembers being cozy under blankets. Innocent laughter and innocent kisses. The prettiest eyes he’s ever seen and the love that gleamed just for him shining within them. Then a voice. Melodic and beautiful and sweet as honey.

“C’mon, Jay, don’t fall asleep yet.”

You would not want him to fade back into the eternal sleep he just woke from. No. He cannot go back just yet. He tries to dig upward, but his body aches. The earth grows thicker, turns to sludge that drowns him. He shoves one hand over his face to claim a bit of air and is given a mouthful of mud instead. He chokes out one final scream. His head is getting fuzzy, lack of air making his skull feel cotton-filled and staticky. Still he digs up and up and up. But there’s no light. Just more earth. Maybe he does belong here. Maybe someone made a mistake and gave him a few moments that were meant for someone else. He makes one last push, that familiar resignation washing over him again as he closes his eyes. Then a hand wraps tight around his wrist and he’s showered in the cold midnight rain.

You have a secret. It’s personal and it’s abnormal and it’s yours. You’ve been sleeping on Jason Todd’s grave for the past week. No one knows. Well, Bruce Wayne knows. He must. His son’s grave is on his estate, after all, and the Bat’s security measures are the best you’ve ever seen. You don’t know why he’s letting his dead son’s girlfriend sleep on his grave, but you’re thankful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

It’s been four years since Jason died. Four years and you still can’t accept it. You visit him every day. You bring him flowers and read him books and tell him about your life. You try to pretty it up a bit for him. You tell him about the new sundress you bought; it’s red, his favorite color. You tell him about the amazing bakery that opened up in the Heights and how you think he’d adore their chocolate chip cookies.

You don’t tell him that you’re so depressed over his absence that there are times when you go weeks existing only in your bed with sparse trips to the bathroom. You don’t tell him that you dropped out of college after your first year, that you failed in your joint promise to go to Gotham City University together. You just couldn’t handle it. The weight of your grief is already an iron chain around your throat, hooked to an eternal anchor. You didn’t need the pressure of perfect grades—an unshakeable requirement of your scholarship as you couldn’t afford to go to school any other way. You certainly don’t tell him that you’ve considered joining him, that sometimes that seems like the only thing you want anymore.

But it’s been getting worse. You miss him. Not in any way that’s healthy. At least that’s what you were told by the grief counselor your mother made you see. You miss him so badly that you’re sleeping on his grave come hell or high water. Tonight it’s high water. The cold rain soaks through your hoodie and sweats, but you don’t care. You’ve stabbed an umbrella into the ground and you’ve got an old blanket under you, so you’re all set. The bone-chilling cold of the water doesn’t matter. The way that it lures you to sleep doesn’t matter. Your body temperature is probably dropping and sleep to the freezing is deadly, but that doesn’t matter either. What matters is that you’re here with the boy you love.

You have another secret. This one’s worse, so terrible that you even scare yourself. You’ve been considering digging up Jason’s grave for the past thirty minutes. It started subconsciously. You didn’t even realize you were clawing into the ground until the grass was uprooted. You’ve made a good dent now, maybe six inches or so. It’s insane. You’re insane. But you ache to be close to him. Jason Todd took half of your soul with him when he was lowered into the ground. The better half; the half of you that was light and joyous and filled with love. You want it back. You want him back. You don’t know what you would do if you dug up his grave, but you know that you’d be closer to him than six feet.

You lie in the rain and contemplate why you’re here. You’ve missed him this fiercely every day for the last four years. It’s just this past week that you’ve been drawn to sleep on the earth above him. Like a moth to flame, like Ariadne’s golden thread leading out of the darkness of the labyrinth. Or maybe you’ve finally lost what’s left of your mind. You think you have when you hear noises from beneath the earth.

“Finally talking to me, Jay?” you ask.

Melancholy sarcasm is made weak by the way your teeth chatter and how your shivering leaks into your tone. But then you hear it again. It’s faint, deep below and muffled but it’s there. Then a thudding noise. Over and over and over. Your heart kicks to life. Adrenaline shoots through you and the cold seeped into your body melts with the heat of it. Jason is dead. He’s been dead for four years. But something is alive in his grave. Your hands sink into the small hole you’ve already made and you shovel the earth out in a manic rush. You dig and dig and dig. Your arms are elbow deep when you feel fingers brush against your own. You should be afraid. You should run. Instead you reach further, grasp hard around the wrist and pull. The ground gives way and your reality shatters in an instant. You’ve just pulled Jason Todd from his grave.

He’s bigger than you remember. His body weight is crushing as he collapses on top of you. (You’re smaller than he remembers. He has a crystal clear image of looking up into those pretty eyes and now he can barely feel you squished underneath him.)

He’s covered in sodden earth from head to toe. There’s blood seeping warmly from his torso into your red hoodie. (Your arms are caked in mud. Why? What were you digging for?)

Even with his difference in size—he must be well over a foot taller and at least one hundred pounds heavier—there is nothing that compares to the pure shock of looking into his eyes. Piercing gunmetal blue that you see every time you close your eyes is now a deep seafoam green. And yet looking into them you still feel like you’re home again. (Those pretty eyes are still the same. They still have that gleam of love when they land on him. But they’re also red and bloodshot like you’ve been crying. Please don’t cry. He doesn’t want you to be sad. He loves you. He doesn’t know your name but he knows that he loves you.)

You’re both as still as the memorial statues of Martha and Thomas that loom protectively beside Jason’s grave. Shock settles in.

“Jason. Oh my God. Jason, you’re—“ your voice breaks before you can say the words you thought would only come in dreams.

“Alive,” he croaks, voice dry and grating from lack of use.

He is alive. He is alive and breathing and with you again. You don’t know what caused this, why a dead boy crawled from his grave in the body of a man, but you’re not going to ask questions. The only answer you need is lying in your arms. Tears stream down your face, only differentiated from the rain by their warmth.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” you murmur into his mud-soaked hair as you cradle his head in the crook of your neck.

“Here,” he echoes. “Real?”

It doesn’t feel like it. His head is hazy and clouded but he’s starting to recall things. Like a steady trickle of water coalescing into a stream, into a river, into a flood. He remembers your name. He remembers stolen tires and bat ears. He remembers chamomile tea with a butler and stories of old theatre productions. He remembers how all the classic romance novels in his freshman English class looked just like the pretty girl sitting at the desk to his right. He remembers sweet giggles and shaky hands and soft kisses. He remembers. But he can’t speak it. He can’t find the words or the comprehension. He sees these things in flashes, feels them in his bones but he can’t make his mind and body catch up. So he lurches forward, stiff and clumsy, and tries to replicate the warmth of your kisses that have survived death itself.

You kiss Jason Todd for the first time in four years. You taste your tears, the damp earth, and the blood from where he’s bitten his own tongue. You have never tasted anything better because for right now it tastes like him.

“Real. We’re real.”

A sweet surprise and a gentle reminder. The other halves of your souls have been returned, and you are both allowed to exist again.

[katakaluptastrophy]

Can we talk about Magnus in Harrow the Ninth? Because there's a tendency to paint him as this constantly cheerful figure and he's not - he's just very Fifth.

He's the only person who seems even slightly upset about the whole gun-toting horror thing:

“Did the Sleeper get them?”

“Only by assumption,” said Harrowhark, while Abigail’s dolt of a husband said, “I bloody hope so.”

“Magnus,” Abigail said, a touch disapprovingly.

“Well, if the Sleeper didn’t, that’s two maniacs with an ancient weapon and a love of blowing off faces, dear,” said Magnus.

And he's got a very low opinion of Silas:

"She won’t tell me what he said to her, just that he ‘was horrid.’”

“Cheeky little so-and-so,” said Magnus. “If he were my son, I’d give him something to think about. I’m not surprised he’s gone to ground.”

“I would hope your son might be of different character,” said his wife, half-smiling.

“Protesilaus should have biffed him.”

“It’s strange,” said Abigail, ignoring her husband’s exhortations to biffing.

Behind the jolly Jeeves and Wooster-esque talk of biffing people, let's remember that this is Magnus - who from Gideon's POV never saw a teenager he didn't want to adopt - earnestly wishing that a grown man had hit a 16 year old kid.

And when Harrow explains that she thinks she saw him jump to his death, Magnus isn't particularly sympathetic:

“We should have made him a greater priority,” said Lady Pent.

Magnus said, “I’m not certain.”

and

“We didn’t need him,” he said bracingly.

Abigail said, “We need everyone.”

“I never thought he was quite the thing.”

This "never quite the thing" line is the same one Abigail uses when she says Ianthe shouldn't have become a Lyctor and you get the sense it has a quite specific meaning on the Fifth. You get the distinct feeling Magnus is saying "good riddance" in response to a teenager's apparent suicide.

And then of course there's Magnus' conversation with Harrow as the River bubble collapses, as Harrow debates whether she should leave her body to Gideon:

She said: “If I go back, it will finally destroy her soul.”

It was Magnus who stepped forward and looked at Harrow face-to-face. And perhaps she felt that more keenly: that he was the man who had, in Gideon’s own words a lifetime ago, been nice to her cavalier. His mouth was hard now, but his eyes were as kind as they had ever been. And kindness was a knife.

He doesn't pull any punches in laying out his understanding of the situation to Harrow:

“This whole thing happened because you wouldn’t face up to Gideon dying,” he said, which was a stab as precise as any Nonius had managed. “I don’t blame you. But where would you be, right now, if you’d said: She is dead? You’re keeping her things like a lover keeping old notes, but with her death, the stuff that made her Gideon was destroyed. That’s how Lyctorhood works, isn’t it? She died. She can’t come back, even if you keep her stuffed away in a drawer you can’t look at. You’re not waiting for her resurrection; you’ve made yourself her mausoleum.”

His wife looked at Harrow’s face and murmured, “Magnus, you’ve made your point,” but he uncharacteristically ignored her.

He's trying to get through to her in a very fraught situation, but he's certainly not pulling his punches:

“You’re a smart girl, Harrowhark. You might turn some of that brain to the toughest lesson: that of grief.”

Abigail is also trying to talk her out of things, but she's much more discursive and apologetic. Magnus is kind, but it's kindness as a knife, not a cushion.

Magnus is so often written off as just a silly, goofy character, when he's more complicated than that. He's allowed to have a very real frustration with the River bubble and with Harrow, however much he does also care for her and want to help her.

And you know what, he's a CFO stuck in a horrorscape with his delighted ghost nerd wife and a bunch of soldiers. He runs with it - he cracks one of his House ordinal jokes while physically tackling a gun-toting ghost and makes a decent go at it before getting shot. But he's very much out of his comfort zone, angry, and no longer entirely held back by propriety.

[brittle-doughie]

heyyy, really like your stuff! You don't have to acknowledge this, but I had these interesting idea of a character's s/o having a horrid memory, like they forget their own name. Names get blurry, so do faces. And the s/o has these episodes where their memory gets super bad.

But for some reason.... the s/o never seems to forget that they can trust their lover.

Anyway, you can choose whoever you want or you can just ignore this! I just thought that'd you be the best to ask.

Y/N Cookie and Frilled Jellyfish Cookie. There’s no better fit than this.

No matter how many times she resurrects, you’re the one face she’ll always remembers and loves…

[kitasgloves]

Closer

tracklist

— ♬ "I drink the honey inside your hive. You are the reason I stay alive"

— ♬ Sex Addict! Fyodor Dostoevsky x Reader, NSFW, female reader, graphic depictions of unsafe sex & sexual obsession, brief mentions of masturbation, stalking & somnophilia, psychological manipulation, lobotomy (yes, fr), manga spoilers for Fyodor's ability, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, 3.7k words, no beta

— ♬ NOTE: I DO NOT CONDONE, ROMANTISIZE, OR SEXUALIZE WHAT IS DEPICTED IN THIS STORY. EVERYTHING IS A WORK OF FICTION. READER'S DESCRETION IS ADVISED.

Faith can make an individual resilient. Faith provides hope to the hopeless. And faith can give purpose to those who seek. Faith in a powerful being's existence is common among humanity. Humans have the liberty to believe in any kind of higher being they create with their minds. Humans owe their existence to gods, goddesses, or unfathomable beings. They offer their devotion and faith towards them and serve them respectfully.

Fyodor Dostoevsky thinks that every country has their own god and that god represents the people's beliefs. God shows their distinction between good and evil, but sometimes the line of distinction gets blurred. Fyodor believed he had faith. He's convinced that he's abundant of it. He can identify the difference between good and evil at a young age. And he chose goodness to pursue and to engrave into his motives. However, as he grew older, he learned that goodness isn't often achievable.

Some individuals perform evil acts for the sake of goodness, and some people overlook their horrid actions and focus on their righteous intentions. In a world where cruelty thrives among humans, being benevolent becomes a challenge. Fyodor viewed people as sinful and foolish after giving in to their depraved acts. He was disgusted, and he equally pitied those who suffer for the wrongdoings of others. A sense of justice blooms in Fyodor's chest. He longs to be the one who would save his country, he desires to be the Saviour of the world.

He could be this era's Jesus Christ. However, he doesn't think that dying for the sins of others is ideal. Fyodor believes that he must eradicate those who are unworthy to be a part of humanity and exhume the remaining goodness of humanity. For years, Fyodor has dedicated his life to rid the earth of filthy sinners. To think that he has died and yet resurrected various times solidifies his belief to be this world's only Saviour.

Fyodor has witnessed so much bloodshed, degeneracy, and incomprehensible evil that he becomes deprived of what is good. He has been away from the hold of goodness and he's slowly becoming a stranger to it. All he cared about and clung to was his own beliefs, he's convinced that it would be enough to carry on with his duty.

To have encountered various faces in his prolonged lifetime, your face becomes the most prevalent of all. Fyodor initially thought that it was your beauty, he is drawn to beauty when exposed to it. Your glistening eyes full of light, your tender skin, the harmonious tone of your voice, and the smell of your natural scent invited him to get closer.

You were a decent civilian. An individual with various thoughts, emotions, and feelings. And a woman with an inviting appearance. Fyodor laid his eyes on you for the first time at a humble café he had recently discovered. He remembered to be the beginning of Spring. He can recall that day in extreme detail. He silently sipped his tea when you walked into the café with that gorgeous sundress and a pocketbook in hand. His throat felt momentarily dry when he observed you. He took note of the drink and pastry you ordered. He finds himself smiling when you choose a table that is near his. And he watched you as you read your pocketbook in comfortable silence.

The attraction to you at first glance almost compelled him to approach you, yet Fyodor held himself back. He decides to quietly observe you and get a sense of what kind of person you are. He effortlessly gathered all the information he required. All it took was to follow you home and a quick snoop inside while you slept. He absorbed every detail about you, from your favorite music to your deepest insecurities. Fyodor knew it all without even approaching you, he reserved that official encounter with you for the precise timing.

Watching you from afar seems so lovely. He adored the tenderness that your existence exhibited. Fyodor noticed everything about you despite the distance. The shade of your lipstick, the slightly chipped nail polish on your nails, the shining necklace around your stunning neck, and even the skin that your dress is slightly exposed. Fyodor can feel his flesh craving for yours, he is taken aback by the passionate yearning at the beginning, but he thinks that it must be natural.

An infatuation is natural, Fyodor has experienced it several times before. However, with you, it seems unusual. His infatuation with you brought this burning sensation buried within his skin. His eyes tended to betray him as he glanced lower at your breasts. He would swallow at the sight of your bare legs exposed during a hot day. And before he realizes it, he has formed some sort of...erotic craving for you.

Fyodor was disgusted by the call of the flesh. The sin of lust came across as the filthiest to him. And yet, he finds himself victim to it. As repulsed as he was, Fyodor made attempts to rid of this sexual temptation by pleasuring himself. However, no matter how many times he has stroked his length or reached the most earth-shattering orgasms, the desire never goes away. What was worse was that Fyodor kept fantasizing about you the more he masturbated.

The mind conjures the filthiest things when given the chance. Fyodor would stroke his cock to the fantasy of your hands replacing his, your soft hands pumping his length while gazing innocently up at him. You would be settled between his legs with your hand wrapped around his shaft. Fyodor throws his head back as he imagined your lips kissing the tip of his dick before slowly swallowing his length. His hand pumped faster as he imagined the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat as you gazed up at him through teary eyes. Fyodor chants your name at his approaching orgasm. He reaches his sweet release with the fantasy of you swallowing all of his seed.

When he would open his eyes and realize the mess he has made, Fyodor would turn so upset with himself. He was losing track of his mission, his purpose. It's people who fall for the call of the flesh who fail the most. You have infested his mind with these lustful fantasies and crawled your way into his heart. Fyodor tries to ignore the pleading of his desires to consume him, but the longer he suppresses his urges, the more it grows worse.

You accidentally bumped into a tall and slender man with raven hair inside your favorite bookstore. The books in your arms almost fly out of your hold if the man didn't steady you with his cold hands on your exposed shoulders. You looked up and shuddered. The man was gazing intently at you before giving you a polite smile.

"I apologize, I was not properly looking at my path"

"Oh, it's fine!"

"Hm, if I may, you have a remarkable taste in literature"

The man spoke with a prominent Slavic accent as he pointed at the books you huddled against your chest. You blinked and smiled.

"Thank you! They're by my favorite authors"

"It is rare to encounter someone with refine taste, may I know your name?"

"I'm [Surname] [Name]"

"You may call me Fyodor"

Your face bloomed with color when Fyodor delicately reached for your hand and brought them to his lips, giving it a tender kiss. Fyodor strikes you as a man with elegance. His movements seemed calculated. And his gaze offered a mystery that enticed your curiosity. Fyodor invited you to a café to discuss and share common interests in books. You were impressed with how many authors he knows. Judging from his choice of words, Fyodor seemed intelligent. His face looked incredibly majestic too. It was difficult not to be attracted to a man like him.

Fyodor reveled at the way you easily fell for his charms. The way you would gaze up at him through your thick lashes and clench your thighs whenever he talked almost made him laugh. He can feel his pants tighten as you slowly lean closer to him, his eyes capturing the delectable sight of your cleavage. Fyodor wanted to undress you so bad and all he is waiting for is the perfect moment.

"Fyodor, do you enjoy tea?"

"I do, my dear"

"Well, I have an array of it at home from different countries, would you like to try them with me?"

"That would be delightful"

The moment you invited Fyodor to your home, your fate changed forever. You could barely put the kettle on the stove when the man approached you from behind and wrapped his arms around your figure. Before a question could leave your lips, he has already leaned down to kiss you. The kiss was fueled with urgency. Fyodor's hands felt the fabric of your dress as he pressed you against the kitchen counter. Fyodor lapped on your lips and nibbled on your neck with hunger. You were left breathless with the way his hands roamed shamelessly all over your body. He grabbed your ass and squeezed your breasts. When he pulls away to give a proper look at your debauched face, he smirks darkly.

"Shall we continue in your bedroom?"

Fyodor doesn't dare waste his time as he poured all of his efforts into fucking you thoroughly. He placed you in several positions as he greedily stole orgasm after orgasm from you. He devoured you like you were his first and final meal. He pressed your head down against the pillows as he fucked you from behind. His cock would stretch you viciously during missionary. When he grew tired, he would grab your hair and force your mouth on his cock while his hand trailed down to play with your clit. Fyodor has fucked that innocent look out of your face.

You let him violate you. You let him desecrate you. You let him penetrate you. You let him complicate you. Fyodor wasn't finished until you're utterly destroyed. And he left you like that. The moment your eyes fluttered shut as he got done cumming in your cunt, he collected his clothes and abandoned you without offering an ounce of aftercare. Fyodor felt pleased and convinced that his lustful fantasies of you would finally disappear now that he had satisfied the call of his flesh. However, the moment he was finally alone, he felt a heavy weight on his spirit.

Fyodor thinks about what he has done and realizes he's not satisfied. His thoughts lingered back to when his cock was nestled inside of you as he drew out every breathless moan of his name from your lips. To his horror, he learns that his desire will never disappear if you continue to exist and tantalize him. Fyodor almost felt sick at the revelation. He felt like he had broken apart his insides and he had no soul to tell. This momentary self-loathe swallows him as he buries his face against his palms. Fyodor, in a state of emotional distress, pulled on his hair and aggressively bit on his nails until it bled. He couldn't bear to succumb to his carnal urges when he must carry on his righteous deeds. 

He must find a solution. And yet the only thing that works for him is for something to help him get away from himself. Yes, that's it. He wasn't being himself and he would never be himself if he was in this body. Fyodor finds himself wandering among the dangerous and dark streets to find someone who will be a sacrifice. One fateful thug tries his luck to rob him only to be met with Fyodor smiling. With one pull of the trigger, Fyodor's body drops to the pavement. Suddenly, the thug screams in agony as he feels the pain of his skin tearing apart. The screams echoed in the street before it abruptly stopped.

Fyodor returns to his hideout with a refreshed feeling inside of his new body. He tries to fall back into his routine when he has another fateful encounter with you at the café. He clenches his fists and steers his eyes away. However, he doesn't miss the way your face dropped. You ignored him and sat at a table further away from him and read your book. Fyodor was unable to resist as he let his eyes slowly wander back to your figure.

Fuck, you looked good. Your dress was cut shorter, and your soft legs were exposed. Fyodor licks his lips at the sight. You were all dolled up in your usual look as you focused on your book and sipped on your drink. Dismissing the heed of his desires seems futile as Fyodor feels his pants go tight again.

He wants to fuck you like an animal. He wants to feel you from the inside. He wants to fuck you like an animal. Fyodor could no longer deny himself. He wants to shove his cock into your pussy and ram into you until you bled. He wants to feel your warm and wet walls welcome him as if he was made to belong inside of you. He could no longer refuse the fact of how flawed he is. His whole existence is flawed. And yet he's convinced that you get him closer to God.

With every sinful tug on his soul by your body, Fyodor finds himself clinging to his faith. The faith that he will be forgiven and cleansed. God forgives all, doesn't he? If one does wish to repent and seek forgiveness from the almighty, then he shall find it. Fyodor quickly clasped his hands together and spoke a prayer in his mother tongue.

You peered up from your book and found Fyodor approaching your table and sitting across from you with a smile. Everything ends up with you and him in your bedroom as previously. You let him fuck you senselessly until you felt like your insides could tear apart. Fyodor is ravished at the moment of burying his seed deep inside you every time. He's constantly folding and molding you into various positions that could bring you to heaven and back. He'll have you with your back arched as he greedily fucked you. He'll make you lie upside-down at the foot of the bed as he fed you his cock. And he'll leave your thighs shuddering so much from fingerfucking you.

This all quickly fell into a routine. Fyodor would approach you for sex and then leave wordlessly after. He'll kneel and pray for forgiveness before doing it all again. For some reason, he was unable to stop himself. He thought of doing the same things to somebody else, but it would only spark contempt. It was only you he saw was worthy of sharing his filth. No matter how many times he has changed from body to body, he will always long for your body the same.

Fyodor had a feeling that you understood his urges. If you didn't, then why do you keep inviting him each time to ruin you? It fills him with pride and pleasure to see you submissive and trained to be his personal fucktoy. He had manipulated you effectively to feed his desires. He made sure to have you prioritize his pleasure over yours. To have you so obedient whenever he'd force you on your knees to take his cock or to not cum until he has brings a wicked smile to his features.

All this longing for your body was probably because of his prolonged loneliness. His isolation from society felt necessary for his mission to save humanity, he needed to focus. Perhaps he has been stressed for so long that's why he would treat you so roughly in bed, but you always took him like a good little slut. Fyodor thinks you're slowly pulling him away from God and stripping him of his faith. He keeps forgetting to repent every time he's done fucking you. But it was no worry, he's sure God could understand him, right?

God might have sent you to him as a blessing in disguise! He saw his child suffering and offered him relief. Yes, that's it. Everything made sense now. You're meant for him, and only for him. Just as Eve was made for Adam. You're here to take what he's giving you. Yes, of course, everything is so clear now.

You can have his isolation, you have the hate that it brings. Fyodor made sure to separate you from others who could potentially take you away from him. He must have your focus solely on him. He made you cut ties with friends and family and even made you quit your job to stay at his secret place. There you would always wait for him to return and bring him pleasure.

You can have his absence of faith. Fyodor is sure he's straying away from his godly beliefs. How could he remember to say a prayer when his mind is occupied with lewd memories and fantasies of you? Every time your cunt welcomed his cock, his mind with go blank except for the sensations it brought. You have rendered him faithless and filled his head with filth instead.

You can have his everything. Fyodor has grown unhealthily obsessed with you. That initial infatuation had led him to this path of debauchery. Every moment he's seeking you and the pleasure only you can give him. You take him so fucking well that you deserve everything he has to offer. His time, his devotion, his affection, and all you had to do was be a good girl as he'll make sure you're treated well.

Fyodor has lost track of his purpose. All his plans were getting delayed. He was unable to resist a good fuck when you were displayed on his bed. However, you're not completely free from your independent thoughts as you would ask him questions if you can go outside or see your family. He'd always reassure you that it would be soon knowing that soon would never arrive. Sometimes, it would seem as though you have managed to fuck out every logical bone in his body as he starts to function on his sexual desires alone. What an accomplishment you have achieved of fucking the Fyodor Dostoevsky dumb.

You tear down his reason. It's your sex that he can smell. You make him perfect. You have helped him become somebody else. Fyodor doesn't need a change of body when he's with you. He knows you'd welcome him always between your legs. You'd scream his name until your voice would grow hoarse. You'd let him hold you after he has exhausted you to the point of unconsciousness. Even when you slept, it wasn't enough. He thought how wonderful you were to still take him in your sleep.

He wants to fuck you like an animal. He wants to feel you from the inside. He wants to fuck you like an animal. His whole existence is flawed but you get him closer to God. With every thrust of his hips and every time his cock kisses your cervix, you bring him so much closer to God with how heavenly you felt.

Fyodor's head grew hazy as though he was living in a dream. He knows everything he's experiencing with you is real. He lived blissfully for a month until you approached him one evening. You had glassy eyes when you demanded to leave. You're beginning to get suspicious, it took you long enough though. Fyodor predicted this, but he can't afford to let you walk out the door.

"Please, Fyodor! Let me go! I must see my family—"

You bite your lip shut when Fyodor laughed mockingly at you. He walked over to you and caressed your cheek with a malicious smile.

"So, you want to end this relationship with me?"

"This...what we have isn't a relationship"

"Oh, how awfully wrong you are, [Name]"

"You're only using me! For...for sex!"

"That doesn't mean I don't love you, mоя дорогая"

You angrily peeled Fyodor's hand away from your cheek, this makes him frown immediately. You couldn't take it anymore as you marched towards the exit. How stupid you felt for falling for this wicked man's schemes. He didn't love you, he's only obsessed with your body! You can't tolerate being treated as a sex object for his own sexual gratification. However, before your hand could grab the handle of the door, you felt a pang of pain from behind your skull before your vision went black.

Fyodor has gently finished wrapping fresh bandages around your head before gently placing a kiss on your forehead. As he gazed at you, he smiled at the fact that you had ceased having those thoughts of escape. You still moaned his name the same when he fucked you, if anything, it appears as though you have welcomed him even more than before. Fyodor couldn't help but grin. All he needed to do was create minor adjustments to your brain and you finally gave in to your true nature: to submit to him.

Perhaps being this world's Savior wasn't his time yet, he must wait for a few more years or even centuries to continue this journey. But for now, Fyodor is content with you. For as long as you remain on this earth, he shall never let you go. Here in his hold, you must stay. He'll make sure you're taken care of while you take care of his carnal needs. Fyodor hums as he strokes your bandaged head lovingly, he rests his cheek against your temple.

"Through every forest, above the trees. Within my stomach, scraped off my knees"

He recites. You listen to him vacantly. He reaches to gently grab your chin before tilting your face upwards to him. Fyodor hums before leaning down to kiss you briefly on the lips.

"I drink the honey inside your hive. You are the reason I stay alive"

He finishes, and a crooked smile appears on your face. Fyodor grins to himself before his slender hand starts to snake up your skirt.

©kitasgloves (do not steal or copy)

[elodieunderglass]

elodie! i am still excited to read your big fanfic works BUT i have also had SO much fun watching you develop your delightful OCs. i hope you are having fun with them too!!

Oh my goodness SO everyone who is mildly roasting me because they’re like “Killie the jockey OC is quite short and wretched and horrid, 🧐 much like Chilchuck. Is this a thing? Do you have a type?” is right and please don’t tell my husband that he’s horrid he’s actually quite sweet is putting their finger on the reason why I’ve sort of resurrected him and his worse brother Charlie in my subconscious.

Before writing Weasel Heart in Defiance I thought: I am about to embark on writing a novel that could 💯 be an original, standalone novel. And being a coward, I turned to my idiot OC Charlie, an imaginary friend since childhood, and asked:

Me: Charlie would you be able to be a protagonist of an original novel? because I’m scared?

Charlie: I have read the brief and am completely ineligible. I think you are only saying this out of fear, and because our initials are the same, and because I am short. Actually, the more I think about it, the more that is a microaggression (racism against short people), so no. No, and fuck you, and also -

Me: I was actually thinking of Killie -

Charlie: Killie would not take on any job that has so few horses in it.

Me: oh no -

Charlie: and you’re kind of committed to calling the story some variation of “weasel heart” and neither of us would have a weasel daemon. That’s kind of load-bearing, isn’t it.

Me: oh shit.

Charlie: like, and even if you sand the serial numbers off the rest of it, the whole point is -

Me: the weasel daemon, yeah.

Charlie: my daemon would be a potoo.

Me: it would NOT, you lying son of a bitch. It would be something backstabbing and horrible, with a core of utter ruthlessness. Like a poisonous spider.

(Charlie, hilariously, in a move that normal childhood imaginary friends/OCs do not normally pull off, briefly materialised as a hallucination while I was labouring in the drug-free, physically rather challenging delivery of a real human baby in order to laugh his ass off at me. He was presumably intended to materialise to give me courage. Instead he simply provided spite. I have longstanding Charlie beef.)

Charlie: Killie is a nice bloke in an awful way, if you like nice blokes who aren’t nice at all, but is too much of a mess to carry any sort of plot, and besides, his daemon is either something portable or a straight-up horse -

Me: probably a kestrel -

Charlie: Probably, as you say, a kestrel. God, there’s nothing between his ears at all. Elevator music. Lo-fi girl beats and the sound of the wind, overlaid over transparent montages of horses. Zero emotional life to Killie. He simply exists to ride alongside your parents’ car when driving, and to get shitmixed when he falls off, and to live up to mentally when you need to be stoic.

Me: he’s such a good ragdoll.

Charlie: he deserves it. It’s the punchable face.

Me and Charlie:… he needs a boyfriend.

[confused-rat]

Ok wait a minute. Looking at that family tree, Ascentia is on there. Wasn't She the main character in Cd-Lily's Rpg maker game? Does that mean that the horrid events of that game happened, because Meg Griffin from Family Guy, became God???!?!

Yes.

Whispering Illusion 1 was the Family Guy fanfic where Meg’s old friend, Matthew Ryder (Lily self-insert) dies and becomes her guardian angel—with the two somehow having an angel baby (Jaina). Whispering Illusion 2, later renamed Tale of the Valkyrie, was the sequel where some rogue angel death squad tried to conscript Matthew, and tldr - Jaina died and Meg ascended to godhood.

Doomsday Ascending is set thousands of years later, after Matthew made his own undead, angel death squad that genocide dying planets. Ascentia is one of his “Val’Kyr” and gets sent to genocide Equestria. She kills all of Ponyville and the seven except Twilight who somehow talks her down, then she resurrects everyone and leaves.

Then there’s Spiritus Kayyam where Ascentia comes back to stop a rogue valkyrie from killing everyone. Supposedly, this is when Ascentia and Twilight are supposed to get hitched, but Lily never finished it, so they’re just randomly married with a kid (Sunrise jumpscare) in her next fic.

The Siege of Canterlot was her next fic, where Equestria is invaded by some Caribou tribe and Ryder and the rest of the Val’Kyr come down to help. Lots of shit happens, but basically: Twilight abuses Ascentia, pacifism bad, Ascentia literally murders a fucking infant (Flurry Heart), and after Ryder wins the war and makes Luna queen — Luna goes aggro and kills Ryder (he gets better).

The last thing Lily ever posted for this universe where a bunch of shorts (also called Tale of the Valkyrie) where Lizzy’s OC, Elethyn gets with Ascentia after her abusive marriage with Twilight ends. Then fucking, Jehovah shows up and murders Meg Griffin and some other valkyrie, Elethyn and Ascentia get divorced because the Lizzy break-up happened in the middle of all this, and the two’s daughter Magselyn ends up killing Jehovah herself.

[cooldinosaurtragedy]

A very horrid sketch of Percy Jackson for my resurrection ig(CW: original Percy 😨😨😨)

[femboywizard]

I can't believe how hard it is to find content of queerplatonic gliyero 😭 I absolutely love the fucked up freak dynamic between them and everyone else completely changes the direction of their freak 😭 it hurts me deeply

I love gliyero as a queerplatonic partnership so much!!!

wish there was more gliyero in general

Their dynamic is so fun to analyse and toy with, they somehow became my favourite duo in wicked.

Personally, im guilty of writing them as more complicated than a qpp would usually be, but that's mostly because I can't see all of the untreated trauma not making it impossible to detangle the mess of their feelings and experiences with each other. Not in a way that would be priority in the face of all the other horrid trauma they have to work through (she did watch him die screaming after pointing a gun to her, while unable to do anything, and then he got resurrected as something not human)(I don't think titles matter at this point)

Starting off as lovers, as romanticaly involved, only to fall for the same woman together, while she's out of reach to them both and all they have is each other. The only other person who understands, while the entire country wants her dead. Plus whatever the intermission years was, the trauma bonding of it all blurs the lines impossibly so in the most fascinating of ways. I love them as not lovers exactly, not just platonic, not quite romantic, but a secret thing: so intrinsically linked they could as well be each others’ extra limbs.

[fairuzfan]

Hey! Ignore if you please but I'm genuinely curious how Muslim leftists are a thing as hierarchy and inequality are inherent in the religion. What is your personal views on it and what does faith mean to you if I may ask?

It's really disorienting for me seeing Muslims who've had pleasant experiences with Islam considering my own experiences have been horrid, having lived in Iran. I understand religion itself is amoral and can be used as a tool but when establishing Islamic law in society is a must in Islam and the abuse it brings about can be justified by the ayat and hadiths within it, isn't it fair to assume that The Purpose Of A System Is What It Does? Like are we ignoring the fact that Iran's supreme leader wants to conquer the whole region and create a single homogeneous Islamic state and his justification is the holy text.

Again I understand that personal faith is different from systematized religion. Tasawuf is pretty cool for example and only focuses on the spiritual connection of self and Allah, that's why I'd like to know your thoughts on it and how it works for you alongside your leftist beliefs.

Thanks 🙏

I'm not gonna lie, this is kind of a weird ask. I'm not Iranian and I can't speak on that but there are billions of Muslims around the world first of all and not all Muslims practice the same. Like, there are different sects of Islam. So to make overarching statements about things that are "inherent" go Islam like this is really odd?? I don't think it's true that inequality is inherent in Islam....

But establishing a single Islamic state is not a 100% must in Islam like how hajj and Salah are...? Like it's not a requirement for you to do as a Muslim. The only things you're absolutely required to do are things like Salah, Zakat, Hajj, etc and even those things have exceptions. The absolute requirement of Islam is to take the shahada and believe in it.

Even between Iran and Saudi Arabia (a government which I hate) there are pretty obvious differences. So like to make Iran the end all be all of what constitutes as a government that operates with Islamic law is kind of a weird assumption to make.

I don't really want to comment on this beyond what I said. It's not like any other government in the world is much better?? Seems odd to single Islam out with the rising Islamophobia that results in the ravaging of SWANA.

But if you're asking me personally why I'm muslim, it's because I grew up being taught that justice is a core principal of Islam. My parents always emphasized "always stand on the side of the oppressed" as something Muslims should do. The hadith that personally always stick with me as a guiding principal is:

Anas ibn Malik reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Even if the Resurrection were established upon one of you while he has in his hand a sapling, let him plant it.”

And this ayah:

O believers! Stand firm for justice as witnesses for Allah even if it is against yourselves, your parents, or close relatives. Be they rich or poor, Allah is best to ensure their interests. So do not let your desires cause you to deviate ˹from justice˺. If you distort the testimony or refuse to give it, then ˹know that˺ Allah is certainly All-Aware of what you do.

And this ayah:

O humanity! Indeed, We created you from a male and a female, and made you into peoples and tribes so that you may ˹get to˺ know one another. Surely the most noble of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous among you. Allah is truly All-Knowing, All-Aware.

But yeah I always think back to these ayat and hadith when I need to.

[helgiafterdark]

if you have a dragon oc (that is, you have an oc who is an elder scrolls/skyrim dragon) please tell me who they are. i want to write a poem about them.

i'm writing a selection of small poems for an in-fic book about dragons. i already have written about many dragons i invented, but i'm thinking maybe i could use some "variety" since i lean toward a lot of the same themes over and over.

even if so far you have only thought of their name or maybe you haven't thought of this at all, this will prompt you to get creative and make something up!

send anything to the replies or reblogs, please. i won't be turning on messaging/asks on this blog bc too many bots send me stuff constantly.

tell me:

their name. MUST be a proper dovahzul name. if they don't have one, i will invent one for you if you want and will work with you to achieve this. otherwise, i'm not writing about them. and NO non-canon dovahzul (semi-canon is possibly fine if you also consider yourself to be a dovahzul speaker)

any deeds they have committed, good, bad, evil, cruel, strange, etc. that may be noteworthy historically

any obscure but major facts about them that could be lost in time. something the ancient nords knew but that 4e people do not and cannot find this info anywhere else

a physical description, such as the color of their wings and scales, what their horns look like, how big they are, etc. if you have made any art pls show me!!

any other interesting/unique abilities they possessed

info that i do not need at this time:

their recent actions after alduin resurrected them, if applicable

if they never died and lived in obscurity somewhere throughout the millennia and what they did during that time

if they weren't in skyrim or solstheim pre- and during the dragon war, or if they would've been unknown to the ancient nords, they can't be included

don't worry too much about what to share/not share, feel free to just yap about your dovah! i'm here for it!

the point of this is that my ldb haela has inherited an ancient family book of poems/stories about the dragons and has passed it on to her children. the poems are scattered throughout the work and referenced by the characters sometimes. i want to put them all together at some point to have a more "complete" set of poems which represent the book of poetry my characters possess – separate from the main work. your dovah will not be mentioned in the fic whatsoever, it's just to fill up my poetry selection and flesh it out more!

i have written many poems in dovahzul and in this specific free-verse style. in fic, the poems are inferred to be written in dovahzul. i, as the author, am kindly translating. i would consider them free-verse, as they are written in a way that mimics being translated from an ancient dialect (dovahzul).

i can't say when i'll finish writing it, as it's a small part in a very large work. but if i end up writing about your dovah i will definitely share it with you :D thank you if you choose to send anything!

*there is no time limit on this and i'll keep this post pinned until i no longer need any more info!

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

small excerpt as an example:

Horrid blood-seeker

who devours man and beast

tearing the flesh

and swallowing the blood

Fearsome one,

who has ended many mortal lives

And when the battle-horns sound,

when the screams pierce the clouds,

wherever blood should be spilled,

the dovah Volyahsos

would join in slaughter

No pleasure is greater

than to kill in the name

of himself

(this particular poem is in fact translated from a larger dovahzul piece i wrote. it was not written in english and then translated to dovauzul. this is how i write almost all of my dragon poems)

[eyeballplanets]

this is a half formed thought so forgive me if its missing context but i think a lot about the resurrection beasts and how as siblings to alecto they are posited as victims of the same evocative violence how the mythological image of The Hunt that john evokes when discussing them adds another aspect to the possessive and violatory nature of imperial systems. the Beast evokes the bull, the lion, the dragon, this externalized threat to the empire ontologically marked for submission. they are in a sense the ur-victim of the nine houses' imperial mission. their response to birth was to flee as far from john as possible. they would seek one of their own in an attempt to save her before attempting to throw themselves at a man that we learn is not even scared of them. the empire frames the Beasts' every attack as a horrid tragedy and the deaths need to mount one as a necessary sacrifice for the continued bloodbeat of the empire. i think, too, about how john's dramaticized fear of them is wielded to coerce his lyctors—and how they were violated, and how they violated in turn in his image—into dying to save him, when the very fantastical structures that violated all these bodies both physical and celestial (so far) protect john from reprisal while exposing other victims of violation to increased harm. the people of ur/new rho are subject to varun's attempt at saving alecto and the colonization of the nine houses at the same time.

[blradley]

By popular (ish) request: a WIP intro

KING OF THE WORLD (Adult romantasy/comedy, m/m)

Meet MALEVOLOTH (Loth to his friends. If he had any - ), a tyrannical dragon-king who reigns over the realm of Krazuk with a fire-filled fist. Has burned millions. Will do it again. A proud human-hater, for reasons (no, he won’t talk about it), he lives by the doctrine that only the strongest can rule.

...Which means that he spent the entirety of his five kids' lives subjecting them to horrific abuse. He pitted them against each other constantly, almost killing them to ‘make them stronger’, encouraging them to fight for power and privilege and never displaying affection unless it’s part of a ploy.

…....And then he wonders why he gets brutally assassinated and deposed.

Because he spent 0 time on building any sort of political stability and +1000 time on WAR and TORTURE-MURDER and BEING HORRID, his kingdom crumbles the minute he can no longer terrorize everyone into order. The vultures are circling, as his five children splinter the army to form their own factions and fight each other for the crown, and the surrounding kingdoms throw their collective hats in the ring in a bid to piss on Loth’s legacy as much as possible.

In short: womp, womp, no bitches.

Loth tries to project a personality that is cold, calculating, and oozing menace, to the point that he glamours his body to look far more imposing than he actually is – but he’s the sort of loser who starts screaming internally whenever things don’t go his way. When he can no longer control the actions of everyone around him, he becomes a shaking wreck, constantly catastrophising, refusing to believe that anyone could ever be kind to him without ulterior motive.

Loth spent his whole life (except for. Some very bleak formative parts.) as the despotic ruler of this kingdom. He has completely lost touch with anything outside of the prison he built for himself within his own mind, where everyone is an enemy.

MALEVOLOTH SONGS: You’re Nobody Till Somebody Wants You Dead (Saint Motel); To Ashes and Blood (Arcane, Woodkid); King of Disappointment (Echoes)

Enter AZRAEL DE LIONHART, a young human man who’s been on the run from Loth his entire life (he was prophesied as a baby to be the one to eventually slay him. Loth, unable to be Normal about anything, has been hunting him ever since).

He’s thoughtful. He’s kind. He’s warm-hearted, and seems to actually care about the endless human collateral of the wars sparked by Loth’s heirs as they bicker over the crown. Despite the absolute hell Loth’s put him through, he doesn't succumb to trauma and darkness. Instead, he makes friends everywhere he goes, and genuinely does his utmost to help anyone who needs him.

Obviously, this is all a cunning act to gain the support of the people, so he can steal the throne for himself.

Or so Loth tries to convince himself, with increasing desperation. No one can be that kind. That forgiving. That… handsome. It’s not possible.

Right?

In fact, there’s only one person in the entire world that our noble hero seems to hate… and that’s Malevoloth himself.

Whoops.

AZRAEL SONGS: Dear Fellow Traveller (Sea Wolf); New Eyes (Echoes); Me and the Devil (Soap and Skin); Thus Always To Tyrants (The Oh Hellos)

Thankfully (?) following a near-successful assassin attempt from his kids, Loth is stuck in the body of Azrael's beloved tutor: the erudite imp RIVVEN of VARRUN, who has been teaching Azrael how to fight a diverse menagerie of beasts.

Unthankfully, Rivven is very, very dead, and it's 100% Loth's fault. And all of Loth’s once-legendary powers have been lost to him, much like his corpse, which has been locked in his old fortress to prevent resurrection attempts by his dedicated cult.

If Azrael finds out that Rivven… isn’t Rivven anymore, things will get very, very bad for Loth. If Loth can con Azrael into returning him to his cadaver, where Loth can reverse his accidental bodyswap (and, um, rebuild his exploded head), things will get exceedingly bad for Azrael.

All Loth has to do is get this trusting, naive idiot to guard him for the duration of one eensy-weensy cross-continental journey. Then it's all over for humanity's so-called hero.

…Only what’s that voice in the back of his head? The one that sounds like a cross between Jiminy Cricket and a certain tortured-to-death imp?

And why, with each passing day, does the prospect of killing Azrael become less appealing?

RIVVEN SONGS: Liar (The Arcadian Wild); The Devil Within (Digital Daggers); The Whole Being Dead Thing (Alex Brightman & Beetlejuice Cast)

TL;DR: ‘we’ve gotta kill this guy, Steven.’  ‘okay but. hear me out. what if I romanced him instead?’ ‘but you’re prophesied to kill him??’ ‘…your point is?’

(note: I have no idea how long this concept will itch at my brain, and I'm mostly focusing on my vampire imperialism story & my YA at the moment! but it's a fun background project for me to poke at when I get bored of the others~ intro for the Vampire project will be coming soon!)

[mareastrorum]

Fucking bless you for having the only good kipperlilly copperkettle opinion on this fucking site

It was long enough ago that I posted anything about Kipperlilly Copperkettle that I'm not sure which post you're referencing, but even so, thanks! She's wonderfully ruthless and easily my favorite villain in Fantasy High.

She's a horrid person. She killed her friends even though she liked them (especially Lucy Frostblade) because she wanted power. She liked following the rules, especially if it went against the spirit of the rules, because she was that good at what she did; it was a flex. She willingly accepted a rage crystal and wanted to make her asshole teacher a god because she wanted to prove her superiority over some disadvantaged goblin whose dad died years ago. She's incredibly petty, selfish, and conniving. No one made her that way. She chose who she was and didn't regret a damn thing. The players were absolutely right not to resurrect her.

Kipperlilly is all of Riz's worst flaws taken to an extreme, but with all the advantages he never had. I love her so much.

I hope we see Kipperlilly in hell in Senior Year. I hope she and Penelope Everpetal are best friends/bitter rivals/sworn enemies all in one. It's exactly her vibe. I don't really care about how well/badly she's doing there, I just want her in her element.

[hauscrashburn]

Hermione would never have been as wealthy as Harry, but comfortable, like these rooms. Second class was where she belonged. Her father’s medical office was where she belonged. She flexed her hands, tapping her thumb against every finger. Reinvigorating it after that terrible break. Everything her father taught her.

Had he known his lessons would come in handy as she stitched a deep gash in her thigh?

What gloomy thoughts for what was otherwise a gorgeous day. The sun was crisp. The air was clear. The ocean was dotted with white foam, like little lace caps. The stooping, sad-faced steward helped her find a book, and she should have been reading it.

But she couldn’t focus with the din of voices.

She found herself dwelling on the pungency of Riddle’s cigarettes and how hard she had scrubbed her wrist last night to remove any traces of his touch. Still, she felt branded. Worse yet, her body’s betrayal—that hummingbird thrum of delight as his beautifully sculpted mouth took the horrid cigarette—haunted her.

It was sinful.

For all intents and purposes, Hermione was still married. Wrapped in vows she uttered in a hasty church ceremony. She remained faithful to Ron. She was an obedient and good wife, despite his assertions to the contrary.

Yet Riddle resurrected something within her breast that she had not known or had forgotten. A surge of heat in an illicit touch.

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