#How Many Tears to Nurture a Rose?

[serpentide]

° • * ˚ ⁀ ➷ @wolvensden , the horror and the wild : ❝ I won’t let you turn our last night into this. ❞ ptn :)))

　𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇, 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 ▬▬ when one's life is wholly barren of promises, it is easy to find refuge in the comforting thought of death. no matter how old she was, or in which place she abandoned herself to such macabre reveries, her death was always the same: it was cold, it was dark, it was yet another instance of utter and soul - crushing solitude. and mayhap, this is why his words evoked not a concerned grimace or a desperate sigh out of her, but a silver - belled laughter that instantaneously painted over any emptiness that she might have previously felt. sett was undoubtedly being much more dramatic and pessimistic than he ought to be, but there was something intimate about the prospect of spending her last moments in the company of another [  ... ] it was a grotesque kind of delight, a pleasure that could have roused the flames of only the most monstrous hearts, but the ophidian vixen had long since ceased to regard herself as humane and thus, with claws and fangs, she held tightly onto it.

a merry simper, dulcet but sharp - fanged. ❝ do you really think that we're both going to die tomorrow ? ❞ although it is in obvious jest that she speaks, there is a coarse type of curiosity intertwined with each syllable that she coats in honey: even now, her voice is feather - light and mellifluous, the song of an hypnotizing snake that no longer wishes to be alone. her claw - tipped hand finds his own, and serpent observes for a moment just how great is the difference in size ▬▬ her hands may be even bloodier than his, yet they look so petite and harmless when he is the one to intertwine their fingers together. color - less gaze now returns him again and albeit through the silent language of fluttering lashes and jester - like smiles, she beckons him to give all of himself to her. ❝ since you are already stepping into your grave with one feet, why don't you tell me how we should spend our last night ? tell me, sett, how do you wish for us to meet our end ? ❞

[fantasticbean]

The Nymph and The Sea II.

Authors note: it’s been a while ;))))) but new chapter so who cares lmao. This one gets a bit freaky though it will only get freakier from here, I’m just trying to keep things slow burn for now BUT I promise smut soon ;p also this chapter isn’t edited so forgive me for any spelling errors.

Word count: no idea but not that long

Trigger warnings: Stalking and nudity. That’s about it.

Pairing: Roman Reigns x OC

Enjoy :)

It was a late summer night when Maleina stirred from her endless slumber. Her years of punishment had been spent cloaked in darkness, her mind shackled to the torment of a singular, harrowing memory: the death of Marcus and his promised love. Each time she closed her eyes, she was dragged back into that moment, the screams, the blood, and the shattering of her heart replaying endlessly. She had been condemned to solitude, stripped of her powers, and left with only the hollow ache of regret as her companion.

Rain fell perpetually within her secluded chamber, a storm born from her despair. It poured with the weight of her sorrow, accompanied by thunder that echoed her cries and the crimson hues of her guilt. For years, she whispered prayers into the void, pleading with Aphrodite for answers, for forgiveness, but her maker’s silence was deafening. Her tears glistened like stars falling to earth, but even they brought no solace. On nights when she thought her suffering had dulled, Aphrodite would send cruel reminders, visions of Marcus with his once-bright blue eyes turned lifeless. “Poisonous,” he would whisper as he crumbled before her, his death replaying in agonizing detail.

But tonight, all was quiet. The storm had stilled.

A voice, soft and ethereal, pierced the stillness. “Your presence is requested in the temple.”

Maleina rose slowly, her steps hesitant as she crossed the threshold of her chamber. What had once been her sanctuary now stood as a bleak reflection of her inner torment. Veins of shadowy green crept across the walls, choking the light. The flames that had once burned brightly at the entrance had long since died, leaving a cold, foreboding aura in their place. Her little haven now resembled something out of Hades’ domain, a mockery of the peace she had once known.

She wondered how many years had passed.

As she approached Aphrodite’s sacred temple, Olympus stretched out before her, vast and unfamiliar. The night sky, once a shimmering tapestry of stars, now hung heavy and muted, draped over statues that loomed taller than she remembered. When she looked down at the mortal realm, a wave of dread seized her. Flames dotted the land like festering wounds, their crimson glow painting the earth in shades of destruction. Smoke spiraled into the heavens, carrying the cries of anguish and despair. Maleina’s breath caught in her throat. The sight was a stark reminder of her failure—love, the force she once nurtured, was now replaced by chaos and hatred.

“Terrible, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her, rich and weary. She turned to find Dionysius standing nearby, his ever-present cup of wine cradled in his hand. His gaze, once full of mischief, was heavy with exhaustion as he looked upon her. She could see the faint glimmer of pity in his eyes, though he masked it well.

His voice softened as he took her in, a ghost of the being he had helped create. “The world has grown darker, Maleina. Even the wine tastes bitter now.”

She said nothing, her gaze dropping to the flickering fires below. Her beauty, once radiant and divine, now seemed dulled by the weight of her despair. Maleina, the nymph born of love and passion, now walked like a specter through a world consumed by rage.

It was a reluctant nod, subtle and hollow, as Maleina acknowledged Dionysius’ words. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken, her voice long abandoned in the abyss of her isolation. The silence of her punishment had stripped her of much—her purpose, her pride, and now, it seemed, her autonomy.

“Come,” Dionysius said softly, though his usual mirth was absent. “They’re waiting for you.”

Confusion marred her delicate features as she followed him, her steps hesitant, her mind a haze. Who could possibly want her presence after all these years?

Ascending the grand marble staircase, Maleina’s gaze fixed on the looming doors of the palace. As they opened, her eyes landed on the figures inside: Hera, seated with an expression of tempered authority; Aphrodite, regal and radiant, yet her smirk oozed disdain; and Poseidon, imposing and silent, his presence cold and commanding.

Maleina’s breath hitched, her lips pressed into a tight line as she stepped forward. Her gaze locked onto Aphrodite, anger simmering beneath the surface of her otherwise graceful demeanor. That anger, raw and unresolved, was met with an equally defiant stare from the goddess of love. The tension between creator and creation was palpable.

“Do you not bow to your maker, nymph?” Hera’s voice cut through the air like steel, reverberating against the walls.

Maleina’s only response was silence, her gaze steady, unyielding.

Aphrodite leaned forward slightly, her tone laced with mockery. “Maleina, it seems like the passing eighty years have not done you any favors.”

Maleina’s lips parted, her voice finally breaking free. “I wonder why.”

“Betrayal,” Aphrodite snapped, her grip tightening on the arm of her throne. “Or has your memory failed you?”

The word hit like a dagger, but Maleina didn’t flinch. Instead, she blinked, her mind catching on something Aphrodite said moments ago. Eighty years. Her punishment had lasted eighty years. Eighty years of isolation. Eighty years of torment.

“Almost a century,” Aphrodite continued, her voice sharp. “And yet you haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“Perhaps,” Maleina said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “you should’ve considered a death sentence instead.”

Aphrodite’s eyes flashed with fury, and she leaned forward, prepared to summon divine wrath. But before she could act, Poseidon raised a hand, his voice cutting through the tension with authority.

“That’s enough.”

It was the first time Maleina truly noticed him. His presence was unlike any other—his golden armor gleamed under the faint light, his long, damp hair cascading over his shoulders, framing a face carved from stone. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, assessing her with quiet intensity.

“You were summoned for a purpose,” he began, his voice low and unyielding, reverberating like the tide crashing against the cliffs. “The land is suffering, and only you can help restore balance.”

Maleina tilted her head slightly, her violet eyes narrowing. “What use am I to you?”

Poseidon’s dark eyes bore into hers, unflinching. “Your power. Your purpose. The one you were created for. Since your imprisonment, Corinth has fallen into chaos. Blood flows more freely than water, and hatred has taken root where love once flourished.”

“Childbirth is less common than murder,” Hera added gravely, her voice laced with sorrow.

“So you want me to serve my purpose,” Maleina said, her tone flat.

“Correct.” Poseidon’s voice carried no room for argument.

But Maleina wasn’t moved. Her hands clenched into fists as she looked between the three gods. “I refuse.”

Aphrodite laughed, a sharp, condescending sound that filled the room. “Refuse?” she echoed, her tone dripping with scorn. “Have you forgotten how Olympus works, child? You don’t get to refuse your purpose. It’s the reason for your existence.”

Maleina’s voice softened, though the emotion in it was sharp enough to cut. “I am no longer who I was. I fear I’ve lost the ability to be what you need me to be.”

“This is not a request,” Hera interjected, her words cold and final. “This is a command. The gods have spoken.”

Maleina’s heart sank as the weight of their words pressed down on her. There was no escaping this.

“If it’s any consolation,” Aphrodite added with a smirk, “you’ll be under Poseidon’s domain, not mine.”

The nymph’s eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering across her face. A love nymph in the care of the god of the sea? The very idea was daunting, even terrifying. But it was also a relief, however small, to be away from her maker’s grasp.

Poseidon leaned forward, his large frame enough to make anyone run in fear made Maleina reconsider what destiny might hold of her. His tone was firm, his words final. “You’ll have the freedom to do what is necessary. Once your work is complete, I’ll determine your fate.”

Maleina swallowed hard, her voice caught in her throat. There was no arguing with him, no defying the gods.

“Alright. When do I begin?”

“First thing tomorrow, I’ll summon you.” The long haired god stood with his final words, gripping his trident with authority as he made his way down the stairs, passing besides the nymph sharing a last glance before disappearing into the night.

“Come Maleina, spend the night at my temple, yours is so cold these days” Dionysius made himself known again, before Aphrodite had the chance to approach her.

The nymph gratefully accepted.

The journey to Poseidon’s domain was unlike anything Maleina had ever experienced. Though she had traveled across Olympus and even to the edges of Hades’ underworld in her time, the descent into the depths of the sea felt alien. The water seemed to part for her as she walked, the weightlessness of the ocean pressing against her skin but never overwhelming her. Shadows of colossal sea creatures moved in the distance, their glowing eyes watching her every step, and the faint hum of ancient currents vibrated through her being.

Poseidon’s palace emerged from the deep, a sprawling fortress carved from jagged coral and dark stone. Waves roared endlessly around its base, contained by Poseidon’s will, creating a fortress both beautiful and dangerous.

The nymph hesitated at the gates. Two guards, towering mermen with spears of gold and obsidian, regarded her coldly before stepping aside. No words were exchanged. They recognized her not as a guest, but as a tool of the gods, sent to do what she was created for.

Inside, the palace was no less intimidating. The walls seemed alive, rippling with faint currents and shimmering in shades of blue and black. Echoes of distant voices—chants or perhaps cries—reverberated in the halls. Maleina’s violet eyes flickered as she moved cautiously forward, unsure whether the beauty of the place was meant to awe her or remind her of her insignificance.

At the center of the great hall, seated on a throne of jagged black rock adorned with pearls, was Poseidon. He looked even more formidable in his own domain, the golden trident resting against his arm as though it were an extension of his being. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze was more suffocating than the ocean above.

“You’ve arrived,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that carried over the roaring currents outside.

Maleina straightened her back, meeting his gaze despite the sinking feeling in her chest. “You summoned me. I had no choice.”

“None of us have a choice,” he replied coldly, his tone clipped and final. He rose from his throne, his presence commanding the room as he descended the steps toward her. Each step echoed like thunder beneath the sea.“You were brought here because you are needed,” he continued. “The lands above are tearing themselves apart. Mortals slaughter each other like beasts, their hearts hardened by grief, vengeance, and greed. Aphrodite’s punishment may have tamed you, but it has also damned them.”

Maleina’s fists clenched at her sides. “And you think I can fix that?”

Poseidon stopped a few feet from her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her smaller form. His voice dropped, cold and unrelenting. “You will fix it. Whether you still believe in your purpose or not, you will carry it out. That is not a request.”

The nymph held her ground, though the weight of his command pressed against her chest. “What makes you think the mortals will listen to me now? I am nothing to them.”

“You are what they need,” he said, his tone softening only slightly. “If they will not listen, you will make them listen. If they resist, you will overcome them. The seas and the tides obey me, and if I command them to carry your will, they will.”

Maleina’s violet eyes narrowed, defiance burning beneath her grief. “You think this is so simple. That love is something you can force upon mortals like the tides upon the shore.”

Poseidon’s gaze darkened, the room trembling faintly as if the ocean itself responded to his anger. “You were made for this. You will not question me again.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Maleina swallowed her bitterness, her voice low but steady. “Fine. Tell me where to start.”

Poseidon’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, as if searching for weakness or doubt, before he turned away. “You will begin in Corinth. It was once a city of beauty, known for its art and devotion. Now, it is a battlefield. Return what was lost. Reignite what they have forgotten.”

Maleina watched him ascend the steps to his throne, her heart heavy with anger, fear.

As Poseidon settled back onto his throne, he added without looking at her, “And remember, nymph, you answer to me now. Do not make me regret sparing you.”

Maleina turned and left the grand hall, her thoughts a storm of uncertainty and emotion. The weight of her task loomed heavy over her, and she found herself questioning how she could possibly restore love to a world that seemed to have forgotten its very essence.

Her steps faltered when a long-haired woman in a vibrant blue tunic approached her, a warm smile gracing her lips. Her golden eyes shimmered like sunlight on the sea, her beauty radiating an undeniable charm.

“Maleina, isn’t it?” the woman asked, her voice melodic yet grounding.

Maleina nodded slightly, too lost in her own turmoil to form a response. But she knew instinctively what the woman was—her aura was too pure to ignore.

“I’m Naomi,” the woman continued, her smile never wavering. “A water nymph, like yourself.”

Maleina’s gaze lingered for a moment before she nodded again, her acknowledgment silent but certain.

“Poseidon sent me to guide you to your chambers,” Naomi explained, turning gracefully to lead the way. Her steps were light, each one echoing softly against the ornate marble floor. “You’ll find everything you need there.”

Trailing behind, Maleina followed Naomi through the expansive halls of Poseidon’s domain. The atmosphere was rich with a sense of majesty—walls adorned with intricate carvings of sea creatures and shimmering coral archways that seemed to glow faintly. When they finally arrived, Naomi stepped aside, allowing Maleina to enter.

The room stole Maleina’s breath. It was opulent yet serene, an underwater lair infused with elegance and power. Soft, ambient light filtered through crystalline walls, illuminating the delicate mosaics of seashells and pearls that adorned the space. She wandered, running her fingers over the cool surfaces, until her eyes fell on an object that made her freeze in place—her golden arrows.

They rested on a pedestal at the far side of the chamber, gleaming with a faint, otherworldly light. Maleina stared, her chest tightening as the familiar weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders once again.

She blinked, once, then twice, as memories of her former life came rushing back, unbidden and unwelcome.

Naomi’s voice broke the silence. “He also told me to give you this.”

Maleina turned to find the water nymph holding out a garment—a flowing dress of silk in deep, oceanic blue.

“Since you’re one of us now,” Naomi said gently, “it’s only fitting you wear our colors.”

Maleina hesitated but eventually took the dress, knowing she had no choice but to comply.

As she put on the garment and stepped into the vast expanse of Poseidon’s domain, Maleina felt an unfamiliar sensation—a glimmer of freedom, faint and fragile, but undeniable.

Corinth, when she reached it, was both familiar and foreign. The city had grown, its once-celebrated vibrancy dulled by time and struggle. The streets were alive with activity, but the joy that had once defined the city was missing. The working class toiled ceaselessly, while the wealthy lounged in decadent comfort. Warriors strode through the streets with an air of dominance, their swords glinting in the sunlight as children watched them in quiet awe.

Maleina observed it all, her violet eyes taking in the city that had once thrived under the light of love. Now, it was a place ruled by ambition, survival, and cold practicality.

And yet, as she stood among them, she couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of hope.

For the first time in eighty years, Maleina was no longer imprisoned. She was no longer silent. She was free—free to try. And so, she did.

With a heavy heart, she ventured into the bustling streets of Corinth. Her first task presented itself in the form of a young woman with a cascade of curly hair and a shy, pretty smile. Maleina could sense the girl’s deep affection for one of her childhood friends, a love bound by familiarity and tenderness. But fear, as it often does, overshadowed her heart. The girl’s terror of rejection choked the spark before it could ignite.

Maleina, determined to mend what she could, drew two arrows from her golden quiver. The first carried the essence of bravery; the second, the purest form of love. She loosed them into the air, their golden trails streaking through the heavens. Yet neither found its mark. The girl, gripped by hesitation, began to avoid her friend entirely.

Maleina grunted in frustration, the weight of failure pressing against her chest. Love’s delicate balance, so easy to disrupt and so difficult to restore, felt almost beyond her reach. She had hoped to rekindle her purpose, to prove herself worthy of her divine origins. But with every failed attempt, the shadows of her isolation loomed larger.

As night fell and the full moon bathed the land in silver light, Maleina decided to retire for the day. Her steps were slow, her expression troubled, the self-doubt in her heart growing heavier with each moment. Perhaps she truly wasn’t what she had been—no longer a vessel for love, but a shadow of her former self.

The river glimmered under the moonlight as she approached, its gentle ripples inviting her to find solace. Kneeling on one of the smooth rocks at the edge, she dipped her fingertips into the water. It was cold, yet soft, like silk. Maleina let her gaze drift upward, the stars above glistening like scattered diamonds. She marveled at the night’s serenity, its beauty offering a fleeting escape from her despair.

Her decision came quickly. She discarded her dress, letting the blue silk pool around her feet, and slipped into the water. It embraced her like a long-lost friend. Maleina moaned softly as the river soothed her tense muscles, its cool caress washing away the day’s burdens. She allowed herself to sink beneath its surface, the water swallowing her wholly, muffling the storm of her emotions.

Unbeknownst to her, she was not alone.

From the cover of the trees, Poseidon stood, his dark gaze fixed on the nymph. His intent had been innocent—or so he told himself. Curiosity and a sense of duty had drawn him here, his concern for how she would adapt to freedom driving him to follow her steps.

But as his eyes settled on her, his resolve began to falter. Her form, illuminated by the moonlight, was nothing short of divine. Aphrodite’s craftsmanship was evident in every curve, every graceful movement. The god’s grip on his trident tightened as his body betrayed his will.

When Maleina rose from the water, droplets cascading down her skin, the moonlight highlighted the soft curves of her figure. Poseidon’s gaze lingered against his better judgment. Her bare breasts, proud and unashamed, rose as she inhaled the crisp night air. The gentle slope of her hips, the elegance of her posture—each detail seemed crafted to tempt even the most disciplined of gods.

Poseidon clenched his jaw, his dark eyes raking over her one final time before forcing himself to turn away. His breath was uneven, and his mind churned with conflict. The nymph was not for him. She was under his protection, and he had already erred in allowing himself to linger too long.

As he disappeared into the forest, he resolved to leave Maleina to her peace. She belonged to the moonlight, not to his wandering thoughts. Yet, as he strode away, the lingering warmth in his chest betrayed a truth he dared not acknowledge—Maleina had stirred something within him. Something he had not felt in centuries.

The god returned to his domain, troubled and restless, while the nymph remained unaware of the eyes that had watched her. The river cradled her, and the moon bore silent witness to her vulnerability, guarding her secrets in its silver glow.

[serpentide]

　𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 ? no, never. after all, what kind of hunter lives within a tight cage, what kind of hunter is hunted by those much weaker than them ? serpent might be unique even under this point of view, for her existence perpetually teeters between opposing extremes ▬▬ never one, nor the other. and thus she abandons herself to a brief [ sentimentally vacant ] giggle, which brightens her doll - like visage whilst not reaching the depth of colorless hues.

❝ is a reason truly necessary to hunt ? ❞ the ophidian vixen pushes the query far away from her, far away from a truth that might expose liabilities that she is not yet ready to embrace and thus weaponize. ❝ however, i can tell you that i never truly harbored the desire to hurt others ... all i ever did was to pursue my happiness. ❞

kurama hums , projecting no particular emotional response to the biting words , but instead seeming to offer them sincere contemplation . does he view their positions in such a way : the apex predator , and that which lies beneath it ? foxes have , after all , been known to eat snakes -- but that same fox would find its life quickly snuffed were it to underestimate the venomous serpent .

curious indeed .

" does that make you a hunter , then ? is it a game to take your prey , or merely a necessity ? "

[sisi-the-undead]

Was tagged by @vera-simik thamk c:

Rules: shuffle your on repeat playlist 10 times and tag 10 people:

1 -Ryujin - Gekokujo

2 - Lord of the Lost - Priest

3 - Wisborg ft. Chris Harms - Im freien Fall

4 - Burning Witches - Hexenhammer

5 - Holaski - Praj mi, hdźe sy

6 - Cradle of Filth - How Many Tears to Nurture a Rose?

7 - Masa Works Design - Demon March

8 - Æther Realm - Death

9 - Lord of the Lost - For They Know Not What They Do

10 - Epica - Sensorium

I probably don't even know 10 people, but I'm tagging @obrozujici-premyslovec @the-running-elf @i-might-change-it-later @sheyshocked @duch-z-bramboroveho-pytle @froschgenosse @kerbal0154

[buttercupblu]

one day, the clouds parted and an Angel tumbled down, falling all the way from the celestial sphere, but landing light as a feather in a bushel of white roses. she looked up at the sky—brushing off her darkened wings—and with squinting eyes, gazed at a kingdom so bright but so rigid and said with a calm breath, "well screw you, i didn't want to be a part of that snooze fest anyway." and promptly made her own Heavens on Earth.

(in no particular order...maybe)

one punch (OP)

jojo's bizarre adventure (JJBA)

jujutsu kaisen (JJK) (lowkey regret the day i pressed play on this🤭)

record of ragnarok (ROR)

eventually attack on titan (AOT) once i'm finished with it (Levi should've been in the harem 🧍🏾‍♀️)

Angel's Heavens and why she loves them:

🩷Buddha (ROR): this man is my Lord and personal savior—watch ROR if you don't know what i'm talking about. Buddha exudes peace in his every waking and sleeping moment but try him if you want to and earn a first-class trip to Nirvana 😘. his tongue game is BRAZY (you've seen the gif) and he loves to BITE. he makes sure we do yoga together every single morning to start our day and after making sure my back is nice and stretched out, he breaks it 🧘🏾‍♀️. but he always puts me back together with soft coos, humming purrs, and tender strokes. this man is my lock screen, my peace, my husband, my everything. i keep him fed and not just with food; he will never know hunger as long as i am alive 🤍

💜Geto (JJK): mymanmymanmymanmymanmyman. if Sugu asked me to have his kids, i would say "how many baby?" and i am clearly not mother material 🥴. my husband #2 that i would turn my back against the JJK world for in a heartbeat. he could call me a 🙈 and i would say thank you. in all realness, i get geto. i really do. my little alien, my little aquarius, he just wants justice at the end of the day—truly. not power, not dictatorship, just for things to be right, safe. there's something about his maternal instincts that lets me know he would take suchhhh good care of me—he's so careful, so understanding. i'd never have to lift a finger (except when i'm being a brat) and his Suave Commercial locs make me want to wrap them around my fist and pull. he has a face card that will never decline and baby, i keep on swiping 🤧|sidenote: i need his gender pls and ty

💜Choso (JJK): my pookie-wookie puppyboi boyfriend Cho, what would i ever do without you??? idk, there's something about Chosito that sets my motherly instincts on fire 🔥 . i want to love on him, nurture him, care for him, and absolutely reduce him to tears all in the same breath. he's such a family man, so full of love and kindness and security and i adore that about him. my soft and gentle man, i feel like he's a 70-30 sub-dominate switch but gIRL do not be fooled 😩—when that man loses all sense in that cute little pig-tailed head of his, you better have an icy pack and aftercare on standby 🧍🏾‍♀️

💚Josuke (JJBA): oooohmygAWD 😩 what isn't there to say about boyfriend #2, Josuke?? the hair, the moves, the suave looks, the no-bullshit attitude. besides Dio, baby invented jojo-posing like, kneel before your Leo king?? he's so cute and creative and such a quick thinker like omg part 4 had me STRESSED, but he gets his quick wits from his no-good cheating ass pappy 🤭. josuke keeps it real, calm, cool, and collected. he's a bit too forgiving (fk Okuyasu) but that's only because he has a 💗 bigger than his hair, and when im not spending hours styling it and getting him together in the morning, im daydreaming about his love, care, and cuddles i get every night. and if i ever hurt myself, he's quick to heal my boo-boos with magical kisses🤍

💚Narancia (JJBA): my silly little goof ball pup #2, omg he's so precious and innocent and deserves soooo much more 🥺. Narancia is just...pure unadulterated love in human form. he doesn't judge, he doesn't reject, he's a bit quick to anger but it's always deserved because look at him!! how could you be mean to such a precious little thing, he wouldn't hurt a fly (unprovoked). my baby's a little slow but what he doesn't have in genius, he makes up for with his heart. and that boy can dance and dress his ass off, lets fking goooo skintight leather steel-bone corset top 🗣️

🩷Sukuna (JJK): ok listen....hear me out...balance🧍🏾‍♀️. he brings balance. everyone else is muddled and normal, soft, or innocent but Kuna resides in the extremes, is the perfect polar-opposite of Choso, and rounds out the group with good ole fashion discipline 💪🏾 (read Exercising with Sukuna if you don't believe me). he's not my favorite to deal with because the man puts the ass in asshole bUT it's good for my soul to toughen up every now and then. if you want something done and you want it done right, ask Sukuna. he'll grumble and berate you the entire time but sh*t will get done and better than you ever thought it could be. .......he also has 4 arms, 2 dicks, and a stomach mouth—good fkin bye.

🩷Saitama (OP): he makes me laugh, there's not much more to say 🤣. the most normal out of the group and the most nonchalant. Saitama is literally my best friend who never takes anything seriously just like me. our favorite hobby we do together is literally grocery shopping and i will wake my ass up every saturday morning to be by his side as he spends way too much time comparing fruits and vegetables just to get the same things he does every time. he's also the strongest and would deck everyone on this list if it came to it (argue with the manga, not me 🐸☕️)

honorable mention: Levi (AOT) because this short king 👑 cares too much and gives no f**ks at the same time and has the best resting b*tch face/face card i've ever seen 🧍🏾‍♀️

🪽current fav fic written by Angel: God is Fair|Suguru Geto since you were young, you knew you were meant for each other. he comes into your life like a storm and grows closer no matter how distant you seem. he swells and captures your heart every time he's near. so why do you keep fighting him? angel's note: full of backstory, poetry, and tear-your-heart-out angst with one of the sluttiest, smuttiest part twos in existence

🪽current fav recommendation from another author: One, Two, Three (it's not only you and me)|STSG x Reader "what suguru is trying to avoid saying is the whole cliché of 'we saw you from across the bar and we really like your vibe'," the white-haired man says, gaze flickering down your body. he looks back up, making eye contact. "but it's true, so we were wondering if you'd like to join us for some fun," he says casually, blue eyes piercing. angel's note: and it comes with an AMAZING playlist yall wtf 😩🖤

🪽current fav song to write to: Cigarettes out the Window|TV Girl

🪽fav genres: [writing: nasty, slutty, toe-curling smutty smut, thrillers, enemies to lovers, coming of age]|[reading: psychological horror/thrillers🧍🏾‍♀️, silly goofy supernatural/sci-fy like John Dies at the End (an incredible series that will have you in tears from laughter, stg), dystopian fiction, fiction satire, coming of age/young adult, the classics (surprise)]

🪽hobbies: writing, reading, skating, graphic design, being outdoors as much a possible, being at peace

beats me 🤷🏾‍♀️

nah jk.

the real reason will forever remain a mystery, but i think it has something to do with connectedness.

the first major story i wrote was handwritten in the largest binder i could find in the 4th grade and was about fairies with elemental superpowers.

my first fandom was typed out on my mom's typewriter at her job and about 40/50 pages and was about the boyband B5 (shout tf out to you if yk who they are 🗣️).

both of these instances explored hobbies/interests that i was deeply into. i wanted to share my own take on these things that occupied so much of my time with others who also couldn't escape the clutches of favorites and fandom.

i also wanted to "escape" from a life i thought was dull and bland in favor of living in a world that was bright and full of color and literally in the palm of my hands.

now i do it just because i like to torture myself 🤍

i would create an entirely new world if i could, but i'll settle for pouring my heart out on tumblr

💗first and foremost, all of my characters are 18+. i don't really care for writing aged-up minor characters but when i do, it will be mostly fluff but they will be adults at the end of the day, especially when you consider real-world timelines.

💗smut: i know what you came here for 😏. this does include some more controversial dynamics like consensual non-consent (CNC), ageplay, petplay, power exchange (top, bottom, sub, dom, "slave", etc) rough play, but these writings will always come with tag warnings because everyone likes their tea different 😊

💗fluff: ofc everyone loves a bit of fluff. tis good for the heart to remember that you have one (not me though, y'all be safe)

💗angst 😈: there's nothing i love more than stirring the fictional pot. it hurts so good

💗long ass stories that are almost always projected to be under 8k but end up breaching 10k because i have no control over my life 🤠

💗i will write characters outside of my Heavens/top fandoms but i have to be familiar with those characters/show—keep that in mind in case i reject a future request

let's be civil little angels here

🚫hardcore gore/mutilation: love to read it but cannot write it. am baby

🚫unsafe fetishes: i am kink-shaming 💩, race play, STDs (god why does this need to be said), grApe, i n c e s t, necro, actual torture, etc.,

🚫cliche/exaggerated mental disorders: like saying someone who is very tidy has "OCD" or someone with mood swings is "bipolar"; those are incorrect stereotypes AND i am not licensed to give even fictional characters those diagnoses

🚫pregnancy: gasp, ik. but listen, i have no idea what it's like to be pregnant or have kids (other than my stuffies) nor envision that for myself because it does not seem like much fun 😅 and frankly, i don't really care for it as a plot point? i'd consider it maybe for a drabble request but no major plots

🚫anything else i may be uncomfortable with down the line. i don't have a lot of hard nos but people can get weird sometimes 👀

reblogs, likes, and comments = angel kisses and i have soft, plump lips so 👉🏾👈🏾

i'll eventually open up my asks for requests but this gojo fic (teaser here) is balding me and taking up alllll of my time right now. once they do open, i may be slow to fulfill requests but that's only because i care too much about making great content 🥺. until then, you can still blow up my inbox with reviews, recommendations, thoughts, nonsensical jibber-jabber, whatever; Come chat with the Harem

[nekohime19]

Heart behind the lie # 39 : Consuming fear

Mac try to convince the others that going in the Diyu is a bad idea, he has a mini panic attack.

Macaque felt like the world itself was dropped on his shoulders. The blacksmith's words echoed like an impending doom inside of his ears, crushing everything within him. He knew it was logical. It would explain why the compass was so confused, why it couldn't find the lantern piece. No matter how powerful the Bone Demon's magic was, the device wasn't built to pierce the layers in-between the realms.

He wanted to scream. 

The macaque rose, expression carefully shaped to not let one shred of his emotions pass through, and left the room. He needed to breathe, he needed to flee, there were too many eyes in this room, not enough space. He felt like beasts were tearing each other apart inside of his chest, emotions clashing against each other, bruising his stammering heart. He feared that, if he stayed any longer in this room, something would dig through his chest and escape him, something vile coated in all the disgusting feelings he nurtured about the Diyu. Macaque fled towards the deck and leaned over the railing, something rumbled in himself, feelings surged in and clogged his throat, suffocating him. He threw up in the heated winds, overwhelmed by everything crashing onto him at once. 

Macaque tightly gripped the railings, eyes unfocused, breath labored. He closed his eyes and tried to control himself, or at least to control the storm inside of him. 

“Macaque… you’re alright?” The warrior flinched and turned around, he grimaced when he caught sight of the sage. Sun Wukong looked worried, eyes widened with something akin to fear swirling inside of them. 

“Yeah I just… I need to go to the bathroom.” Mumbled the ebony monkey, he passed by the King, head lowered in shame. Sun Wukong tried to grab him but he stepped aside, not willing to be touched at the moment. The sage lowered his hand with a wounded look, he quickly pushed the look aside and tried to smile at him. 

“Okay… I…I'll be there if you want.” It sounded weak, almost desperate in a way. Macaque only nodded, slipping away in a hurry. 

He entered the bathroom and immediately tried to wash away the aftertaste of vomit clinging to his mouth, taking a large gulp of water and spitting it in the sink. He repeated the action until he felt like he was drowning in ice-cold water. Once his mouth was cleaned Macaque collected water in the crook of his palms and splashed himself, the coldness hit his face, clinging to his fur, grounding him in the present. He still felt like his heart was eaten alive by starved beasts, but at least his mind was a little clearer than before. He needed to think about the situation, he needed to be alone for the time being and collect his thoughts. Macaque threw a glance at the man in the mirror and winced when he noticed the fear swirling in his eyes and the tremble shaking his fingers. No, he couldn't let himself be seized by terror, he needed to control himself. 

Macaque left the bathroom and slipped inside of his and Wukong's room, he commanded the shadows with a flick of wrist and covered the window with blackness, not wanting to be seen from the exterior or to be hit by light at the moment. Macaque sat on his bed and held his head in his hands, legs shaking nervously, tail coiled around his waist in a pitiful attempt at comfort. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, he startled when he felt something soft rubbing against his tight, he lowered his gaze and smiled at the sight of Sock. Macaque petted the lil sage, fingers weaving carefully in her russet fur. She jumped on his lap and curled around his stomach, purring loudly against his skin. It felt nice, and it appeased something inside of him. The fear was still there, lurking around the corners of his mind, waiting to pounce on him and turn him in shreds, but it was subdued for now. 

Macaque took the lil lady white paws and rubbed them, he liked to feel her pads, it soothed him in a way not a lot could.

“We can't go to the Diyu…” Muttered the warrior, voice so faint it almost drowned in the silence. “It's not… it’s a dangerous place.” Macaque would never forgive himself if he dragged people he cared about in the depth of hell, he would rather live as a parasite for eterny than push others in this nightmarish place. This whole adventure had never been something he fully agreed on in the first place. Macaque was used to taking care of his matters alone, sharing his burden filled him with a sense of guilt he couldn't ease no matter what he tried. He let them do as they pleased because some part of him latched on to the hope he would be able to be more than a walking corpse, because some part of him knew they did it out of care, and he didn't want to push that care away. But the Diyu wasn't like any other places, and he refused to let them see what sort of horrors happened in hell's depths, he refused to let them break their own souls to heal his. 

Macaque fell on the bed and closed his eyes, he brought Sock closer and curled around her, finding comfort in her warmth. He knew he would have to confront the others eventually, they were stubborn enough to dive headfirst in the Diyu if it meant saving someone (especially MK and his mentor). Macaque didn't want to fight them, he was tired of fighting, but this wasn't something he could ignore. Macaque stayed still for a few hours, nose buried in Sock’s fur, letting his mind wander. He tried to think of peaceful times, but images of the Diyu haunted him. He remembered the way they judged him for everything he did in his life, their eyes soulless and unbothered by something as unquensequetial as pity. 

He remembered being passed along the ten courts, each time paying for something he did in his living. He could still feel the weight of the sword against his tongue, and the pain of the member being repeatedly ripped, he could still feel the steaming water boiling his skin and the knives piercing his skin. He remembered the images shown by the Mirror of Retribution, one of the worst Hells in his opinion, where his own reflection took on the shape of a monster. Each time he buried himself further in the lil sage's fur, in this long nightmarish recollection, she was his saving grace. She pawed at his face when he dared to whimper, and rubbed his snout with her own, trying to give him a sense of comfort. He was broken out of his trance by the soft echoes of a knock. Macaque straightened himself and answered the knock with a quiet “Come in.”

Sun Wukong entered the room with a basket of mangoes in his hands, the smile on his lips was tentative, unsure, he stayed at the edge of the room until Macaque patted his side. 

“Hey, I wanted to give you space but you skipped lunch so… here.” Awkwardly chuckled the sage as he handed the basket. “Pigsy saved you a bowl in the kitchen, if you want.” 

“Thanks.” Mumbled the warrior, he smiled at the sage and took one of the freshest mangoes. Sock walked towards the sage and pawed at his tights, demanding cuddles. Sun Wukong chuckled, a bit more lightheartedly than before, and petted her as much as she wanted. 

“... I know you must be feeling… terrible. But it's gonna be alright, we already have some ideas on how to go to the Diyu. We will get the lantern piece, I assure you.” It was probably meant to be reassuring, yet Macaque felt his throat being clogged by feeling, even the sweet taste of mangoes wasn't enough to appease him. 

“You really want to go there?”

“I mean we have to. We need that last lantern piece to heal you.” Replied the sage with furrowed eyebrows. 

“I don't think that's a good idea” Sighed the warrior, he lowered his head and bit his bottom lips. “It's dangerous.”

“Our adventures are always dangerous.” Argued the sage, which wasn't untrue, but the danger the Diyu posed was far more greater than anything they did until now. 

“It's Diyu, Wukong. The realm of the dead.”

“I know, I went there a couple of times. But, even if it is dangerous, we want to do this.”

“No, what you saw was King Yama castle at best… Wukong the others aren't even immortals, it's too dangerous.” Macaque turned to look at the sage, he dived in his gaze, hoping to find a spark of comprehension, something that would make him see reason, in vain. 

“Mac you need to heal, we don't have a choice.”

“I prefer staying like this than pushing you and the others in this place.” Replied the warrior with steel eyes, Wukong pursued his lips in frustration. 

“You can't stay like this. You're unstable!” Replied the sage, he turned away from him with fear swirling in his eyes and shaking fists. “What if your state worsens and you…” He didn't end his sentence, he didn't have to, Macaque knew what he was talking about. 

“Wukong, you need to listen to me.” Pleaded the warrior, he put his hands on the sage's cheeks and guided his gaze on him. “It's not worth it.”

“It's worth it!” Argued the King. “You're worth it, Mac.” Macaque felt frustrated, the sage wasn't listening, it reminded him of how he had never been listened to in his youth. The warrior feared that he would let himself be consumed by anger the longer they dragged this conversation around, he needed to convince the other before being controlled by the fear and the frustration colliding inside of him. 

“Listen to me, please. The Diyu is a dangerous place, it's made to torture people. What would happen if you guys got hurt? I don't want you or anyone to…” Sun Wukong sighed and removed the warrior's hands from his face. 

“I'm not gonna change my mind on this.” Sun Wukong looked at him with fire in his eyes, his hands squeezed Macaque's own before retreating to his side. The sage smiled at the warrior, something pained but filled with determination, rose and walked towards the door. “I'll be outside if you need me.”

Macaque watched him disappear from the room with frustration, he threw one pillow at the door once it closed. He fell on the bed, arms over his eyes, tail lashing furiously at the floor. Sun Wukong had always been quite the stubborn idiot but Macaque had hoped his journey had given him the wisdom to know when to quit. Granted, maybe his view of the Diyu was skeview by what he endured in the depth of hell, but still it was too dangerous for mortals to visit the realm of the dead. They didn't even know who or what brought the lantern piece in this realm. Crossing the layers piled in-between realms was no laughing matter, it was impossible for the lantern piece to get in this sort of place by itself. As such the one who brought the lantern piece in the Diyu had to be insanely powerful. What sort of wrath would they unleash by seeking the lantern piece? What sort of being would they anger? Macaque didn't remember all of it, his memories of the Diyu were often tainted by pain, but he remembered rumors about some beings capable of crossing realms while he was in the Diyu. Specifically rumors about beings able to go in the Diyu as they wished, the rumors always depicted them as ruthless and powerful. This wasn't the sort of being Macaque wanted to cross. 

“Even if Wukong can't be reasoned with, maybe the others…” Yet even if he tried to fool himself, he knew how stubborn the others were. MK wasn't the type to abandon someone in need, even in the face of great dangers. And those friends of his would rather die than let him dive alone. “Those idiot!”

Even while knowing the results, he tried to reason with MK and the others. As expected no one agreed with him. He hoped for a second that Pigsy, the most responsible of them, would see the danger of this adventure but the chef supported his kid, perhaps not wanting to let him go alone. Macaque left them before their conversation could turn into a shouting match. He sat on the ship's front, tail lashing to show he didn't want to be bothered as of now. The winds felt good on his fur, yet it couldn't appease the tremble of his heart. As much as he wanted to, Macaque knew he couldn't control the others, he couldn't prevent them from going. It was frustrating, it scared him to let them see this place, but he couldn't do anything about it. There was a fire in their eyes, something Macaque couldn't extinguish no matter what he did. 

He felt powerless and he hated it. He wondered if he should let it go or if he should try harder. He absently played with a ball of shadows, creating shapes inside of his palm, forging weapons and weaving them around his fingers. 

“That's quite the ability you got there.” Macaque startled and looked up, Ou Xue was behind him, as always cladded in gray. Macaque didn't hate them, they were rather discreet and their mere presence gave him time to think (they still needed to drop them on the Pure-Rock Mountain. Macaque was sure that without Ou Xue the others would have already tried to get in the Diyu). 

“Hm, thanks?” Replied the warrior, unsure. 

“Shadow weapons, haven't seen them in a while.” Macaque perked up at that and latched on the opportunity to change his mind. 

“You know shadow users?”

“I've come across a few in my life.” Shrugged the blacksmith, they walked towards the edge of the ship and leaned on the railing, watching the horizon being painted by the soft colors of dawn. “You seem like quite the powerful shadow user. You're doing it wrong though.”

“What am I doing wrong?” Asked Macaque with furrowed eyebrows. Ou Xue turned towards him, their bead-like eyes sizing him up before settling on his face. 

“Shadow weapons' greatest strength is their malleability. Think about it, you got a dagger, and in the middle of the fight you can change it into a whip. That's powerful. Now, their greatest weakness is their friability, they're not that durable, nor that heavy. Don't think about a weapon you'd like, think about a fighting style you’d like and make different weapons suiting it.”

“I never thought of it like that.” Mumbled the macaque, he looked at the shadows gathered in his palm for a bit before letting them fade in the wind. “Why are you helping me though?”

“I'm curious about what sort of weapons you'd produce. If I'm honest I also pity you a bit.” There was a spark of empathy in their eyes, but it wasn't the pity someone would feel upon seeing your misery, it was the shared pain of someone knowing exactly what you were going through, and finding pity in it. Macaque felt unsettled by that, but at the same time rather curious. Who were they to feel the same pain as him? “Diyu is a dangerous place.”

“Talk to me about it.” Scoffed the warrior as he crossed his arms. 

“Yeah, I can see you went through the Diyu once at least. Were you resurrected or reincarnated?” Macaque glared at the blacksmith with suspicion, but decided to humor them, it was better than drowning in his thoughts. 

“Neither, necromancy.”

“Ouch, that's not great.” Winced Ou Xue. 

“What about you? You seem to know a lot about the subject, did you go through the whole Diyu experience too?” Ou Xue narrowed their eyes, but maybe they had more goodwill towards him than he thought, they answered easily. 

“Numerous times. Let's just say good old Meng Po broth is not to my taste.” Macaque's eyes widened at that, Meng Po was the goddess meeting the cleansed souls at the end of the Diyu, she offered them the Broth of Oblivion before guiding them to the Bridge of Forgetfulness, towards their next earthly incarnations. All souls residing in the Diyu were destined to follow the samsara cycle and be reincarnated, cleansed of their bad karma, Macaque was one of the few that were ripped from the cycle and went against nature itself. Resurrection wasn't considered unnatural, for it was healing, thus it did not rip souls from the samsara cycle but heal them to prolong their earthly lives, often than not resurrected people forgot about their time in the Diyu. Necromancy ripped souls from the cycle because it broke them instead of healing them, it was the art of thieves, necromancers were those who stole souls from the Diyu. “So as people who went through the same shit, I kinda want to advise you. Personally I think going in the Diyu is foolish but those friends of yours don't strike me as idiots, I think they're aware of the dangers but still want to go. With that said, what you should mull over is not how to stop them, but if you are ready to follow them.”

Macaque flinched and looked down with a sigh on his lips. 

“Yeah, they're too stubborn to let me stop them…”

“Then you know what you have to do.” Shrugged the blacksmith, they straightened and left the dock, walking past the macaque. 

“You're leaving?”

“You're reeking of depressive energy, kid, I'm not staying.” Huffed Ou Xue, Macaque was surprised he ever thought of them as meek or reserved when they first met, he pushed that thought aside to focus on the fact they called him, a centuries-old being, kid. 

“Who are you calling kid ! I'm older than you!”

“You act like a brooding kid, so you're kid.” Chuckled the blacksmith as they disappeared inside of the ship. 

“The nerve of the younger generation.”Huffed the warrior, now that he thought about it Ou Xue was probably insanely old, considering they remembered their past lives, still Macaque wanted to believe he was older. It was a matter of pride. 

The warrior stayed on the dock for a while, he left at the first signs of night and went to find the others. They were in the lounging room, sitting around a white board (probably created by Wukong) and trying to find ideas on how to get in the Diyu safely. They stopped once he entered and turned towards him with curiosity. Macaque sighed and scratched the base of his neck awkwardly. 

“Look, I'm sorry. I was maybe a bit too harsh on all of you.”

“It's fine, you weren't that harsh.” Beamed MK, always welcoming. 

“I mean you were a bit pushy.”

“Mei!” Argued MK. 

“It's the truth.” Shrugged the dragon-girl. 

“With what you lived through, it's understandable.” Added the scholar. 

“Ya're right about the fact it's dangerous, so I can't blame ya.” Shrugged the pig. 

“I'm just glad you're communicating your fears, Mister Maquawke.” Added the tea-lover with a sweet smile. 

“Honestly I still think you're all insane to even think about going down there but I know I can't stop you, so I want to be there.” Replied the macaque, he straightened himself and grabbed his pants to stop his fingers from shaking. The mere idea of going in hell's depth terrified him, but he refused to let them do this alone. Maybe Sandy could help him work with this fear, he had to ask him after this. 

“You're sure you want to go?” Asked Wukong, eyes shining with worry. Macaque dived in his gaze with certainty. 

“Absolutely. Besides, you'll miss me if I'm not with you.”

“You're right about that.” Mumbled the King with a soft smile. 

“Soooo, now that Macaque is in and that we assisted to this mushy monkey gayness, what do you all say about my idea?” Excitedly asked the dragon-girl. 

“You mean the idea of creating a super drill to go in the earth's crust?” Asked the Bull's son with a deadpan gaze. 

“Are we even sure that the Diyu is there?” Mumbled Tang. 

“We can always find a temporary way to die so we can go to the Diyu?” Proposed MK with a tilted head. 

“You better cross those two ideas from the white board, Wukong.” Demanded the macaque as he sat with the group. 

“Already on it.” Chuckled the King. 

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[serpentide]

　𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑, 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍. the grim sight of spilled ichor does not horrify her, nor does her hand quiver whilst serpentine vixen attempts at cleaning the formerly white fabric of her harlequin dress ( the only result is that the blood is now smeared across a larger surface, which soon elicits a displeased huff from the woman ) . it seems that she will not be able to fix this by herself and thus, whilst her sharp - fanged heart grows capricious and petulant in its disappointment, she finally redirects her attention towards her odd interlocutor. he is still smiling [ ... ] and he reminds her of the devils that she'd oftentimes see in the colorful pages of children's books.

❝ these people thought that i would have been an easy prey, ❞ explains in a sing - song cadence the jester, whose simper now widens and the sharp ends of ophidian fangs sink into the plush flesh of her lower lip. an ominous mistake, one they have paid with their own miserable lives ▬▬ they should have known that most snakes hide their venom until the right moment to strike comes. ❝ oh, i don't like being touched by others ... and neither does he. ❞

at the mention, the black python uncoils from around her slender shoulders in order to settle his unblinking, luminescent eyes 'pon this unexpected company. still, once her head cants to one side, serpent becomes less beast and more woman once more. ❝ did you know these men ? have i hurt someone you cared for ? ❞

the acrid tang of blood saturates the air. blood, the universal call for a good meal—and it’s fresh. he wonders, for a moment, whose it is. as if it matters. blood looks good on just about anyone. he can’t help but grin.

“ apologies. i don’t mean to be nosy. what is a nice young lady such as yourself doing in such a mess? ” his words come out in a half-sneer in response to her carefully-manufactured modesty. that was only partially intentional. he isn’t very good at humoring others.

greed narrows his eyes in observation, gaze darting all over her form. his question was an honest one—it’s not a sight one sees every day. there is a little wish that it were more commonplace, but then scenes like this wouldn’t be so special! he breaks his smile for a moment to lick his chops. yet another force of habit. no, something like that can’t be helped.

[writing-heiress]

What are Mia’s tropes?

TV Tropes: Mia d’Angelo

Affectionate Nickname: Freya calls her “Peanut”.

All-Loving Hero: Mia is kind and loving to just about everyone she meets.

The Baby of the Bunch: One of the youngest within Night Raven College. Given how young she is compared to the student body, most of them look out for her and help her with her magic.

Badass Adorable: She may be one of the cutest students in Night Raven, she is still as powerful as your average NRC student. Whether if she uses her magic or summons her beasts, it’s best to not underestimate Mia.

Big Sister Worship: To Freya. Ever since the beginning when they were both transported to Night Raven, Freya has been nothing but gentle & nurturing towards her even teaching her about the school’s fairies. Mia wants to be exactly like Freya when she’s older.

Cheerful Child: Like all children around her age, Mia is very cheerful and happy.

Children Are Innocent:

Mia has a habit of forgetting that her beasts are considered dangerous creatures to most people.

She also has a habit of believing whatever she’s been told by people, whether that be for better or for worse.

Cute Witch: Training to become a full-fledged witch.

Daddy’s Girl: Her with Crewel.

Girls Love Stuffed Animals: Mia has been given so many stuffed animals that she can make a pile and jump in it like autumn leaves. There have been times where Mia is covered in stuffed animals.

In-Series Nickname:

Floyd calls her “Little Fry”

Rook calls her “Petite Angel”

Leona calls her “Little Mouse”

Mortality Pet: Her to everyone in Night Raven College. Anything bad happens to Mia, all hell breaks loose.

Parental Substitute: Crewel is a paternal figure, much better than her actual father if we’re being honest.

Pink Means Feminine: Not only is pink Mia’s favorite color, but a good number of her clothes are pink as well. This includes her Night Raven uniform & Ramshackle dorm uniform.

@adrianasunderworld @liviavanrouge @the-trinket-witch @the-weirdos-mind @queen-of-twisted @fair-night-starry-tears @mangacupcake @yumeko2sevilla @yukii0nna @tragedytells-tales @ice-cweam-sod4 @starry-night-rose

[ckret2]

I want a metal band whose main vocalist is a death growler but their growl sounds like Donald Duck.

This post brought to you by listening to Cradle of Filth and thinking "yeah, Donald would kill at 'How Many Tears to Nurture a Rose'."

[libidomechanica]

The hears what he learning Thought in sense, which a newer might

A limerick sequence

               1

And but go! Sore, johnny perhaps am somewhere but i just defence of    that his fears can you turn    around a straight every warm. And his bow, his part, where you mine.

               2

But thankes and wind-flowers, ruins, statues, Art and Science, Caryatids,    lifted up a weight of    her tides,—adagios of island with me. I shape of darkness.

               3

I know that sands flashing. To Lady Psyche: on her wane, wane lips, with window    overlooking-glass    gleamed at the door into a feeling. Of the random sweet you.

               4

And one hand that’s the vineyard, as are alone on foot for sinner? Women    although cast together    we would break out in Nature all is spent, thou, Adonais calls!

               5

It’s today, to-morrow will be his belief, the owlets through the level    stand, showing me to quiet.    Bodies, no tenderness; thy foot, the thirst; now best delight.

               6

Say, “give crowns over my heart to thee. Eyes nurtured to trie; o giue my passions    leaue to run their    ordinary swoon, grave the victory. To this and the lights abide.

               7

Roll in from Sin? Unworthy things she knew we were destiny: so from    TV and let old    bygones be, while he stole my honest eyes, fore damask roses.

               8

Lord, whose rubies that all the pebble, and ah, how dear! Nor let us cull    for thy defect, for thy    records and blow, that feeds on his legs, began to worke delyte?

               9

Best peak on vain to me in his arms. Then you have such good tribute pay, if    they broke through and they crop—    was their treble, did I sing of innumerable nothings.

               10

Devon, winding-sheet he lies, and lover?— Fairest maid on Devon banks, crystal    of a ruin’d Paradise    she didn’t say it. Pardon my transpiring steppes doe flee.

               11

Fool! And aye the spoke as chords do love as many fears we shed for in your    grave proves the trembling of    a new-world Babel, woman- post in flying family of Christ!

               12

—And maun I still as oak-leaves unbound, and soul the plumes of missing. Held    carnival at will notice    on my heart would arise and fed with hurricane tape, like that.

               13

Of Love upon his hands: the Pilgrim of Eternity, of rimless floods,    untrouble behind Thee!    Oh dear, dear delightingale crippled by Prithee why so mute?

               14

Though wood and trimly trodden paths be alwaies free and make a careless cleft    of life, am I. And    thou not resigned warm shadow’d which all the world’s coarse-mouthed Doctor!

               15

A tighter were. Out of humour. Appear topp’d with gaze opening grace, it    seemes to Beauties finde,    say whether that you slay me her worlds to pierce her half-possesse?

               16

Aristotle can be hard sky limits of dross; within my heart. Your loving    and with the scent of    some living Lord, lest unawares I in an apron? Its charge?

               17

The poor stupid heart works did Nature smiled, no doubt, by sightless soul to suit,    whose Helmsman on my advent    to heart. In bloody sweats; now an ague, then looked on, and me.

               18

Knows soaring was someone who can say by what is tame, and o’er head, and songs    divinely loud? The lovely,    though, taming a tune I have no one can stop the river.

               19

For yet, my friend each grated screen, and then my bad, my love, give me the sky.    Now let thy loud he cries,    Forsooth, let go! Her hands, and the severe chilled albatross’s white.

               20

A tear at all the night shall together, dwarfed or god, her mighty Mother,    rise as from my Muse brings    have heard, that it becomes our lives. Fond Thought we’d live forever.

               21

Come, draw a drap o’ the stars my questions you said, My love, give life is gone    for ever tarry. The    splendour from that men were impulsive; I was dead world so hushed!

               22

Fair sweet hands might; but being blindly wove and small, and now than, singing. May    she exercise her fair    breast. Away, away, from so pure light spring. If in my shoes.

               23

Indeed we two should bind, as I may call the world of ghosts; the multitude    on the sunbeams dance, like    to like, but its end was wondered the Princess answering weeds.

[serpentide]

° • * ˚ ⁀ ➷ @pseudodead , the serpent and the wings of night : " don't look away. " (ghost)

　𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ▬▬ even the most docile of snakes may flaunt the sharpness of its fangs when threatened by a predator much bigger than him. the ophidian vixen stands on uncertain ground, her limited knowledge of the world paints her current circumstances in the monochromatic hues of ignorance ; his uniform should at least look familiar, but it matters not how much she observes even the smallest detail sewn against battle - worn fabric, his presence is reminiscent of neither nightmares nor dreams. and thus her hold around her sickle tightens, its sharp edge gleams in the barely illuminated alleyway behind the circus tent whilst the dagger at the end of its chain dangles idly beside her ; a voice within the depth of a fragmented psyche warns her against this course of action, for what could a mere jester's scythe do against fire weapons ? it may be the voice of her most bestial instincts, or mayhap it is one of the gods that she used to pray to, but her stance does not falter [ ... ] it would be better to die, than to be put inside of a cage yet again.

❝ if you're trying to take me home, it won't end well. ❞ and even whilst her lips part and she speaks in silver - belled song, all her mind can currently focus 'pon is the reason that lays at the basis of his presence here. has he come here for the ambrosia, to either claim it for himself or to stop her from spreading happiness ? has he come here because he wishes to own the girl who can speak with snakes, as many before him have dreamt of ? down her body, a muscle stiffens. in the dead of the night, a being even darker than the star - less cerulean moves: her python, now enlarged to its greatest size, has begun to crawl towards them, circling around and tasting the air with the swift flicks of a forked tongue ; it does not attack the mysterious man, not yet at least. emboldened by the presence of her companion, serpent breaks the quietude between them once more. ❝ you don't look tasty ... but i'm sure that my lovely friend won't mind it too much, meat is meat, after all. ❞

[antonjesus]

CRADLE OF FILTH - How Many Tears To Nurture A Rose? (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

[sea-side-scribbles]

Solas wakes up in the strange new world of his own making and it terrifies him. Ridden with guilt, he joins the Inquisition and begins his lonely research in order to correct his mistake.

He doesn’t expect to find consolation in the presence of a human who wields ancient elven magic without knowing it. Who is way too gentle for an elgar’thanelan, but doesn’t know that either.

Solas, for his part, doesn’t know how to stay away.

Dorian wonders if the mysterious elf just enjoys playing with a Tevinter. He wouldn’t expect anything else.

_____________________

Chapter 1- 13 | Right after uthenera, Solas is found by a Dalish clan. This goes well until it doesn’t. (Basically my excuse for world building and hilarious misunderstandings.)

Chapter 14 | Solas joins the Inquisition.

Chapter 20 | Dorian appears in Haven.

Chapter 24

Solas' dreams weren't pleasant that night. He wandered in complete darkness, with only his own seeking hands in front of him. They palpated an invisible, cold wall that he followed, nurturing the unsettling feeling that he knew where it led, but he couldn't name it. His mind was as clouded as the fade. He had company. Something trailed him. At first, it was only a tickle behind his ear, but it manifested, slithering and smacking against the wall with many heavy bodies. Every time they hit, he felt the tremor under his fingers, coming closer. He didn't run, even though his shaking muscles screamed at him to do so. There was a thrill he couldn't deny. All these arms crawling into his direction, their claws scratching the wall.

Then he remembered. His feet stopped. He couldn't move, but did he even want to? The noise swell. Now the arms drew so close, he could sense them circle him. They rose, slowly and heavily, and he knew their razor sharp tips pointed directly at him. He closed his eyes, hearing only his own breath, waiting for the impact. They struck with an earsplitting screech, hungry to tear his flesh from his bones.

He screamed out as he woke up, gasping and sweating, the pelts damp around his body. Clutching his shoulders, he made sure his flesh was still on his body. When he noticed he was alright, he sunk back down on the bed. Soon after, he heard a frantic knock on his door. “Solas? Solas, are you alright? Solas?” He clenched his teeth. Of all people, it had to be the Tevinter. Judging by how fiercely he knocked, Solas supposed he wouldn't let this go. Reluctantly, he left the bed and went to the door, glad he had secured it. “I am fine, Dorian”, he shouted through the closed door. “Go back to sleep.” The knocking stopped. “Are you sure?”, the Tevinter asked, obviously stunned. Solas sighed. “Yes, I of course I am sure.” “I heard you...I mean I think I heard you...” Now Dorian questioned himself. He had woken up from a very bad feeling. A scream, he had assumed, but he wasn't so certain now. But what else could it have been?

“May you open the door to prove it?” “I do not have anything to prove to you, Dorian. Why do you wake me up in the middle of the night and demand admittance?” “Because I...I'm worried.” With a heavy heart, Solas gave in, just so that the insufferable man wouldn't alarm the whole village. He opened the door, leaned against the frame and regarded Dorian with a dismissive look. Dorian caught a glance of the elf's naked upper body before he quickly turned his head away. He was obviously alright. “I am sorry. I don't know what came over me”, he said to the houses behind him. Solas watched him plod back to his house, surprised that he let the matter go so quickly. Perhaps the man was too tired to care.

Shutting the door, he pressed his forehead against it. This should not have happened. He dearly needed to shield himself better. That Breach made it all more complicated, but he should have known that. Gulping down his anger, he crawled under the pelts.

The next morning, he got up early. The beauty of the sunrise was lost to him, since he hurried in order to not risk any unwanted meetings. He suspected the mages would get up early as well, for they had to work on their camp. It turned out he was right. When he met them, they were quietly chatting and sipping coffee. Others just got up. It was the cozy atmosphere before another busy day. He entered the camp tense and worried, but their friendly greetings lightened up his mood. He knew most of them by name: Mabel, Alaric, Sybyl, Connor, Lysas... Most of them had been forced to join a Circle as children and in the face of adversity, they had found a new family here. They welcomed him as one of their own. He chatted with them and soon found a mug of coffee in his hands.

Only when the Herald appeared, barely standing out between other Circle robes, he abandoned his comfy spot. There was something else he needed to get off his chest before she would be too busy to listen. She was studying a scroll in her hand as he approached her. “Herald, may I have a word with you?” She winced at the word “Herald”, but said: “Of course. What is it?” “Can we speak somewhere more private?” She nodded, then let him lead the way. He went out of the tent and further to the fence until he was sure nobody could overhear them. When he turned around, he saw her look on him, searching. She always looked as if she tried to read him but failed. A little wary, too.

Solas crossed his arms behind his back. “I meant to apologize to you, Herald. When we first met, you did not have my trust. I had trouble believing that a Dalish elf cared enough for the Conclave to attend it in person, only to see the outcome. I did not understand the threat this war means to your clan and I should have known better than that. You have been all but generous to the people in need and you gave the rebels a chance. I hope I can make it up to you by standing beside you in this fight.” When he finished, she was quiet. He lowered his head, awaiting her answer, certain she wouldn't forgive him easily.

Ellana, however, was out of words. She had expected a report about the camp's status or a complaint, but not this. From the elf who dressed up as a monster, enjoyed the act of blasphemy, left out no opportunity to mock Dalish customs, doubted her innocence and always seemed to look down at her.

More and more, she wondered if this was really her fate. If the creators wanted her in this place. Borders she had thought to be insuperable seemed to fall apart just for her. Her shemlen companions warmed up to her – if they've been hostile at all. Even the almighty Knight Commander Cullen stuttered like a shy boy when she complimented him. Her ambassador Josephine Montilyet was always sweet. Unbelievable she had round ears. The Seeker acted more uptight and stern, but they had already broken the ice in Val Royeaux, at Vivenne de Fer's salon. Ellana had insisted to bring her, an actual shemlen noble, to what she had thought would be usual routine. But the Nevarran princess had been just as uncomfortable as her. They had been the oddest pair. Despite her serious efforts to do it all right, Ellana was certain she wouldn't have survived the event without Cassandra's dry comments.

And then there was Varric, who had one day just showed up with a gift, saying that he knew a few of her customs because he had a Dalish friend. He had given her a sal'shiral'un. Its first bead featured a flaming eye - the Inquisition. Varric had apologized, saying it surely didn't match a real one, but if she liked, she could use it as a memento for her life here. They could add more beads over time, so she had a full necklace at the end. Blackwall would help. He had already helped with the first bead – he was the better wood carver. Varric had been all nervous and embarrassed about it while Ellana had fought for her self-control. She had thanked him more stiffly than intended, then hastened away to let the tears out unseen. She wore Varric's necklace now. Her own had remained with her clan. Probably finished with the mark of death, because she did not come back from the Conclave.

Suddenly, Ellana had friends here. Only her elven companions had been her greatest rivals. It had hurt, but now even this seemed to change. She gulped down all boiling emotions for her answer.

“I...have to apologize as well”, she said carefully. “I've seen how Mihris treated you. No Dalish elf should treat another elf like that, no matter if they come from the city or from another clan. I didn't see your perspective, even though I know some clans have...different opinions on city elves...or strays.” Solas blinked. He hadn't expected an apology in return. “Which clan?”, she asked tilting her head. There was a pause before Solas replied: “You assume I come from a clan?” “You have lived in one for sure. You speak our language.” “There are other places to learn the Elvhen language than the Dalish clans.” “Oh...I thought city elves forgot about it?” “They could say the same about you. Most of the Dalish only remember a few phrases, save for the Keepers, probably. You know these secrets better than me, Keeper's First.” He said it without his usual judging tone. Ellana couldn't believe how soft his voice was. Awkwardly, she rubbed the back of her neck. “I guess that's something else I didn't know about other elves.” “But you are listening.” It hurt how surprised he sounded. “Yes. So...I should say...I accept your apology”, she concluded with a smile. “So do I.” In a beautiful moment, they smiled at each other.

A thought nudged Ellana. “You wouldn't take off that cloak, wouldn't you?”, she asked, hoping she didn't go too far. Solas lifted an eyebrow dangerously high. “Why?” “Because it doesn't match you!”, she blurted out. “I don't know why you put an effort into looking like you don't care about others. Or why you're tempting your fate like that. I've been with you long enough. You're not reckless. You stood up for the mages when no one else did. You took the responsibility nobody else wanted. You gave them comfort and it's because of you that they have a chance to close the Breach. In combat, you don't hesitate to protect others. In the Hinterlands, you never complained when I took the scenic route so help refugees. This costume...” She gestured towards him. “...this isn't you.” There was another pause and Solas' face became unreadable. Ellana's heart sunk, guessing that she stirred up a hornet's nest. Bracing herself, she held his gaze when he merely whispered: “....thank you.” He sounded so gloomy. It hurt her again.

“I am sorry that I made you shun me and risk your life. You travelled to Redcliffe without me. What if you needed help with the mark? You were without protection.” Ellana couldn't look at him anymore. She eyed her hand instead. She never got used to the sight, no matter how often she tried. “It was very quiet these days”, she said, moving her fingers. “I never properly thanked you for it.” “Understandable. My methods scared you. I am sorry I needed to be so...indiscrete.” “It was uncomfortable to be watched in my sleep, yes. But I'm glad to be alive.” Carefully, she gave him another smile. Solas smiled back. “I want to make sure you stay alive.” “And I will do the same for you.” They smiled again. Ellana was certain she needed to change the topic before she broke out into sappy tears and did something inappropriate.

“Is there anything else you want to apologize for?”, she playfully asked. “Is there something else bothering you about me?”, he asked not quite seriously either. She pretended to think hard, tapping her chin. “Uh...not at the moment.” “Do not hesitate to tell me if that changes.” “Oh, you will regret those words...”, she teased and looked back at her scroll. “Anyway, how about we proceed with these plans? Before Cullen is back at our throats again?” “Good idea.”

They meant to bury themselves into their work, both glad about the outcome, when someone caught Ellana's glance. “Oh, there's Dorian! Dorian, over here!” She waved him over. Solas loathly granted him a glance. Now he regretted mocking the Tevinter for his laziness. To his defence, he hadn't expected him to come here just because an elf complained. Perhaps he wasn't here for hard work, though. Perhaps he was just looking for his favourite subject.

“How are you doing?”, the Herald asked him way too happily for an elf meeting a Tevinter. “Ah, well enough, despite the persistent cold, the dry air and...the snow in my boots...” He wasn't ashamed to complain. Solas hoped he was suffering. “Aww, I'd have a few tasks for you that'll keep you warm, if you don't mind.” “Honestly, I hoped so.” Solas held back a disgusted noise. What a shameless liar he was. Also, he didn't like how they looked at each other. They were too close. Her flirting tone and his insufferable smirk. Solas turned his head and stared at the plans.

Ellana, however, was beyond being surprised by Dorian Pavus. It felt like ages ago that she had feared for him to break into her room at night, cut her throat and do something unspeakable to her blood. Dorian was another person the creators destined her to meet. Him trying to help just made sense to her. She pointed at a part on the map that still needed supplies and explained her plan. She concluded with: “Why don't you and...Solas take care about it?” A pause ensued when the two men barely looked at each other. “I see no problem here”, Dorian spoke first.

So, Solas found himself expected to leave his place in the council to do minor tasks with a Tevinter who just showed up and did nothing so far but fluttering his eyelashes? Charming. The Herald still had to learn how to respect her allies. Alas, he nodded. “Let us go”, he said into Dorian's direction.

Ellana noticed the cold between them and assumed that it was the same cold she had felt when she first met the Tevinter. Now, seeing them together, she was more worried about Dorian than about Solas. But after all, Solas wouldn't warm up to him unless they worked together, so she sent them off without hesitation.

The two went to their destination in silence. Solas didn't feel like starting a conversation. Of course, Dorian eventually began. “I get the persistent feeling that you're not delighted to see me here, Solas. I thought you wanted me to lend a hand?” Solas almost sighed. This man needed to learn subtlety. Or not, because he managed to annoy him anyway. “Quite the opposite. I do think you should help. You did right.” “Then it must be something else I did wrong. Is it about last night?” Solas did not want to talk about this. “You woke me up for no reason, but I am not resentful. Perhaps it is your own bad conscience that is speaking to you?” At that, the Tevinter fell quiet and didn't speak for a long time. Solas suppressed a smirk. Should it be so easy to get under his skin?

Dorian instead hardly recovered from the blow. Why would he have a bad conscience? Did Solas blame it all on him? As if he was the type to molest random hobos in shredded clothes! Now that he walked right next to Solas in daylight, he saw the elf's whole – glory. “Clothes” was an exaggeration. His coat looked as if it was made right of the dirty furs in his bed – well, let's not think about the bed – and would fall apart any second. Who with any self-respect would wear such an ensemble anyway? Perhaps the body underneath was in better shape, but to get there, one needed to dig through piles of dirt first. No thank you. He couldn't have been that drunk.

He was about to shout at the elf, but instead stomped the snow under his boots harder than it deserved. He knew how this would end. He saw it more often than he should have and he had promised himself to spare himself the shame. So he silenced. At least he could assume that his visit in the camp wasn't the reason for Solas' open hostility. It was simply how the elf would treat him now – forever. A sigh escaped him. Wasn't certainty a wonderful feeling.

They picked up the supplies, used spells to float the crates along with them and marched away just as quietly as they came. Solas really struggled not to laugh. The stomping, the sigh. He almost felt bad for the man. He really needed to do better than that if he wanted to get to him. Dorian dwelled in anger, until - “Careful!” A blue light flashed past him. Dorian staggered backwards and almost dropped the crates. Looking to the left, he found one of them frozen. “You set it on fire!” Dorian turned his head to look right into the elf's sneering face. Solas now couldn't hold back any longer. He fought though, chuckling quietly. Dorian quietly moved on, enduring it. Solas had to avert his gaze. The Tevinter's face made it much worse. Other mages gave them puzzled looks. Dorian instead focused on melting the ice. Soon, it looked like nothing happened, if one ignored the sneering elf. Now he just waited to get this over with. Solas enjoyed the silence, certain that he won this round.

When they deposed the supplies by a group of soldiers that set up a tent, Solas suddenly left to greet Fiona who conveniently walked by. Dorian used the opportunity to go back to Ellana without him. She didn't like that they had split up, it was visible in her expression, but she didn't comment on it. Dorian was dearly grateful for her. She wouldn't put salt into his wounds. She let him join another party of mages and Solas didn't cross his path again. Something else happened instead. One of the Enchanters eventually took him aside and asked him if he was alright. Not in a friendly way.

“The Breach is getting to you, right? You look all worked up. Next second you set something on fire.” Dorian had trouble containing himself. “That's a harsh accusation, don't you think? What gives you that idea?” He noticed that his tone didn't support his words, though. “The templars are just waiting for one of us to misstep! You get that fixed or you leave!” “You're not allowed to have emotions in this place? This is ridiculous?” “Look, go find Solas. He should be in the central tent with the Herald now. He'll give you a treatment.” Dorian would rather be skinned alive than let the vengeful elf give him a treatment . “I assure you, it's not necessary, I am fine.” The mage pointed behind him. “Get out.” “Really?” “Out or Solas.” “Alright then. It was nice to meet you.” Dorian took a deep breath and helped himself out. If only he had listened to his own advice. He had known the camp would be trouble. And why did he show up still? Because Solas said so. As if he couldn't make himself useful in another way. In a way that meant not meeting this elf any time soon.

Notes:

sal'shiral'un: “life cord” (made of the words "sal'shiral" and "lestun"): a necklace with beads or other decorative elements that symbolize a Dalish elf's life. Every elf receives it at birth with the first symbol. The clan keeps the amulets to memorize their ancestors and retell the old stories.

[gatheringbones]

[“When we are possessed by the self-hater in any form, what we think, and do is not spontaneous and free but preset in predictable patterns. We know those patterns and respond to them, for the most part, as predictably as the mesh of gears in a well-maintained transmission. John offends Joan, so she runs out of the meeting and Jean follows to placate her hurt feelings. Jean will not criticize John directly but complains about him to Joe. Joe agrees with Jean and then tells John that Jean doesn't like him. And so it goes.

As we identify patterns of oppression, we can refuse to perpetuate them. Groups often come to grief with the King of Victims. We want to be nurturing, but find more and more of the group's time and energy taken up with one person's problems. The person seems to use the group to confirm her or his stuckness. The group can never do enough, and when people express resentment or boredom, they simply reinforce the person's King Victim stance. Pointing this dynamic out does no good at all. We may be accused of blaming the victim, or may find ourselves speaking in the voice of the Judge.

Anne Cameron, in her novel Daughters of Copper Woman, tells the story of a women's society among the Indians of Canada's Northwest Coast. If a woman came to the group with a problem, others would listen, offer advice and help. If she came back again, they would listen a second and a third time. But if she returned a fourth time with the same problem, and hadn't made changes, they would all get up, walk away, and sit down somewhere else.

Nonparticipating can be done verbally, and directly: “Joan, we talked about your problem last week and the week before. Now I feel it's draining my energy, and I don't want to talk about it anymore until you've done something about it.'

Such tactics may provoke attack, expressions of hurt, or defensiveness. Joan may stomp or flounce out of the room. The temptation may be strong to follow, to try to bring her back and offer comfort. Resist the temptation, for conflicts will not be resolved by allowing one person to manipulate the group. I used to be a flouncer myself, resorting to the tactic not to when the tactic became ineffective. One night at a meeting of my as a way of dramatizing the intense hurt I was feeling. I learned quickly affinity group, we were arguing about who could come to a particular I ritual. I was intent on bringing my then-current lover whom the rest of the group didn't like. (Not without reason.) I ran out of the room in tears and my closest friend Rose followed, not, as I expected, to comfort me and let me cry on her shoulder, but to scream at me, “Get back in there, you bitch! How dare you walk out just because you aren't getting your way!" I remember feeling quite surprised. It had never occurred to me that my desperation could be interpreted as manipulation, and yet manipulation it was. I came back, and haven't tried the great walkout since.

I suggest as a rule of thumb for surviving the dynamics of a group never to walk out in the middle of a fight (unless you are about to inflict or suffer physical damage). Never follow someone else out or try to coax anyone back. The worst that can happen is that the person will not return. If she or he is gone for good, perhaps the time or the chemistry simply was not right. And the group may be relieved of a draining problem.

This advice may sound cold, but sometimes people need to deeply experience the loneliness of King Victim before they are ready to face the painful task of giving it up. A group that expresses support when members actually feel used and resentful creates an illusion of connection that holds back the process of change.

Current thinking in some circles is that there are no problem individuals in groups, only problem dynamics, that getting rid of one person only means that someone else will become the scapegoat. I have not found this to be true, except in that so many of us automatically play scapegoat, that often when one leaves a group another jumps into place. A group that is willing to play car to King Victim will usually find someone to take ad- vantage of its sympathy. But when a group stops allowing itself to be manipulated, the difficult person will either change or leave. Groups may carry on after a leave-taking with renewed energy, vitality, and humor.

We can also refuse to collude in manipulation or avoidance of conflict. Joe can tell Jean, “Don't bitch to me— tell John what you're feeling." Or, “Hey, Joe's my friend too. Anything you say to me about him, I'll probably repeat to him." We can encourage people to bring conflicts directly to the individual involved, or to the group, and offer our support. “Look, if you feel afraid to face John, let's go to him together. Or let's find someone else to mediate.”

Identifying other people's delusions and false value for them places us in the position of Judge. We cannot do it supportively. We can, however, ask questions.

Questions leave us open to mystery and surprise. When we ask a question, we want a deeper knowledge or understanding of a person. We test our assumptions instead of leaping to conclusions about others' motivations and meanings.

In the grip of the self-hater, we communicate in a cryptic code, patterned and predictable. We respond not to what's actually happening, but to what the self- hater whispers. We use words as screens, to keep others from seeing and knowing too much. And when we encounter the barriers others put up, we tend to politely back away. We don't ask ourselves, “Do I really understand what Jane means? Does what she say match what I intuit she is feeling?"

Jane is sitting huddled in a corner of the room, silent and withdrawn. Everyone can feel the misery she radiates.

“What’s wrong?” Susan asks.

Inside Jane's head, the self- hater is whispering," Everyone else is going to the hot tub afterwards when you have to work. They don't care about you or your problems. Nobody does. But that's okay, don't say anything about it. Don't spoil their good time."

“Nothing,” she replies.

The group can accept her answer and go about their business, knowing full well she is unhappy. They will thus confirm her self- hater's basic premise: that nobody cares about her. Over time, some of them may begin to resent her silence and depression, and may truly not want to have her around, further confirming her self-hater's evaluation.

They can attack: “Goddamn it, don't lie there like a dying squid— tell us what's wrong!" This approach will not augment her self-esteem, nor deepen the group's bonding.

Or, they can refuse to be stopped by the barrier of her answer, and test their perceptions.

"That's odd," Susan might say. “I thought you looked unhappy. Are you unhappy about something?"

Embedded in Susan's question is a supportive statement: “I care enough about you to notice how you are feeling, and to be concerned." Her question has itself challenged the self-hater.

The group might have to go through several rounds of specific questions: “How are you feeling?" “Have we hurt you somehow?" They are also entitled to give up, if Jane is determined to cling to her unhappiness in private. Their questions will, nonetheless, have posed to Jane an alternative to the self-hater's version of reality.

"It's nothing," Jane finally says. “I guess I always feel left out when the group makes plans and I have to work."

The group might respond defensively, as if Jane had attacked them. “We can't run our lives around your work schedule." Or they might react apologetically: “I'm sorry— I guess we weren't sensitive. Let's not go out if Jane can’t go." Either response will convince her that she was a fool to open her mouth.

A more empowering response would be to ask the question, “What can we do? How can we make it better?" The question implies,"We care about you— we want you to be happy.” The group might come up with suggestions, but they do not rescue her. For the responsibility of naming what we need is itself empowering: it implies that we have the power to know what we want, ask for it, and get it. The question takes Jane out of the role of passive victim and challenges her to take an active role in securing her own happiness.

In counseling, I would find myself asking, over and over again, “What do you mean by that?”

“None of my lovers stay with me,” a client might say. “They all say I’m too intense.”

From the tone in her voice and the expression on her face, I sense that she finds this evaluation somewhat flattering.

"What do you mean by ‘intense?’” I ask.

"Oh, you know— intense."

"But I don't know," I say, because I suspect that what she means is something she does not want to admit. “Do you mean angry? Needy? Do you want too much sex?"

To answer my question, she must let go of the false specialness offered by the self- hater, and consider her real feelings. If she can take that risk, and find one place in which her rage, her need, her passion can be valued, she can never again be quite so isolated.

Feelings, perceptions, decisions, and actions are often tangled together like embroidery threads. We may translate an emotion into a decision, which seems to relieve the pain of feeling. When others respond to the decision, the emotion gets buried or ignored, and we end up feeling worse. Asking the right questions can sometimes help separate the strands.

I have asked my mother, who lives in another city but who co-owns our collective house, to apply with us for a new loan at a lower interest rate, and she has agreed. She calls me up late at night, angry.

"I'm not going to fill out this form!" she announces. “It's an imposition on me. The print is too small— I can't see it! I'm not going to do it!"

Once I would have taken her statement at face value, gotten angry, and we would have had a rousing fight. But I have learned, instead, to ask a simple question.

"How can I help you?" I say. I know my mother well enough to intuit her internal dialogue, which I suspect went something like this: “I want to fill out this damn form— my eyes are bad and I feel helpless— nobody's around to help me. I'm angry that I don't have help! I'm not going to do this!”

Asking “How can I help you?" cuts into the middle of the chain, countering the self hater's message that no one can or will help I follow up by actually providing help and explanations of aspects of the form that are confusing. My mother feels cared for and loved, instead of used and put-upon, and together we are able to complete the form without problems.

Under the domination of the self-hater's messages, we act in ways that cause responses that confirm the self-hater's premises. When we do not believe that help is possible for us, we react to the pain of helplessness by screaming loudly, “I'm not going to help you!" Rarely are others sensitive enough to hear the underlying cry, “Help me!"

QUESTIONS TO CHALLENGE FALSE GLORY

Certain questions are particularly useful in challenging the delusions of power-over. Here is a short list:

1. What are you (we all) feeling?

2. What does (word) mean to you?

3. What do you need? What do you want?

4. What can we do? How can we help you?”]

starhawk, from truth or dare: encounters with power, authority, and mystery, 1987

[m3t4ln3rd]

Video stream: Cradle of Filth - "How Many Tears to Nurture a Rose?"

Band: Cradle of FilthSong: “How Many Tears to Nurture a Rose?”Director: Vicente CorderoAlbum: Existence is FutileRelease Date: October 22nd, 2021Label: Nuclear Blast Records Singer Dani Filth commented on the track: “This is yet another great video by director Vicente Cordero, encapsulating the occult essence of the song’s lyricism with great sweeping colourful strokes of total…

[serpentide]

° • * ˚ ⁀ ➷ @empiriical , the horror and the wild : " did you miss me? " Claire hehe… I Certainly missed them

　 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅, for the tongue of mankind does not possess enough words to express just how much she had missed him. it had been a weird feeling, at first. he was gone, stolen away from her greedy hands by an existential pursuit that she could not comprehend, but she had not wept over his departure: his memories were safely tucked within her heart, that bloodied organ that had ultimately become a treasury for all the sentiments that he had gifted her with [ ... ] and for a while, his ghost had been enough. but then, day by day, darkness had crept closer and closer to her once more ; she had not realized it initially, for the emptiness encroached all around her with the callous patience of the night that devours the day, until she woke up one day and realized that she was, once again, naught but an empty vessel of flesh and bone.

his absence had reminded her of how it had felt to be imprisoned within a cage much too small for her physique. his absence had reminded her of how it had felt to be but a grotesque shadow within the colorful saloons of wealthy patrons. his absence had reminded her of what it meant, to be utterly and entirely alone in the world.

her thin brows have furrowed above the bridge of her nose in a melancholic grimace, the same nose that now scrunches up in a puerile attempt at suffocating the quivering and loud sigh that threatens to escape from the depth of her tangled throat ▬▬ but she can't allow him to see her, she can't allow her fragmented and hollow soul to be laid bare ... for serpent knows that if she ever allowed herself to bleed, she would never cease to. ❝ of course, i missed you ... ❞ a whisper, dulcet but heavy with sentiments that monsters ought not to experience. her vision becomes blurred at the edges, there is a frustrating wetness that curbs the fluttering of her lashes. if she only knew how, she would have reached out to him ... if she only knew how, she would have coiled around him and never allowed him to leave again. ❝ how is it possible, that you didn't forget about me ? ❞