#and in the process destroying all of the wildflowers

[tunacharm]

...

[preciouslandmermaid]

quiet fury in your head [x]

Dream of the Endless x AFAB!Reader!Goddess / Sandman Fanfiction

Note: THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE CHAPTERS!!! AHHH!! ENJOY!! tagging @sapphireonline cuz they asked so nicely to be tagged :). Also, my fics on ao3 are for registered users only due to AI scraping.

No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: mentions of blood/eye injury, angst

Rating: 18+

(Read on AO3)    ||   (masterpost for other chapters)  

You jolt. A rasping, cough tears like shrapnel through your lungs. You lay on the damp, spongy grass. An ache reverberates from your hair follicles to the marrow of your bones. Your head throbs with an abrupt pressurized onslaught of omnipresent knowing. These are the things you know: you are a God, a Queen of nightmares. Your name is ‘The Morrigan’. You know that despite everything, you exist and aren’t supposed to. And now, something – or someone — brought you back.

You stand, naked and shivering in the brisk, salty air.

You’re in the realm of mortals.

Your veins hum with devotion – it is reverent, heady, and fervent. The feeling warms you to your toes. It lives like fire in your stomach. Despite the plumes of frost that erupt from between your lips, you cannot feel the cold, and it does not cause prickles to rise across your skin.

You touch the edges of your strength like poking a missing tooth with your tongue.

You died. You are confident of that fact. You were unmade. You, along with dozens or perhaps hundreds, of other Gods were carved from the collective consciousness like a corrupted wound.

You roll the memory of their names around in your mouth. However, you cannot say them because they aren’t there. They no longer exist. They are not here as you are. No one has revived them. No one has rewritten their names in the Books of Fate.

Your brow furrows with confusion and a touch of curiosity. If you can be remade, then can the others? Who is it you miss so fiercely? You prod mentally deeper. Who, who, who? A sensation of dark and damp soil clings to your fingers. There is blood beneath your fingernails. There is smoke in your lungs.

Your chest capsizes, swift and sudden and strong. You flatten your palm over the pain and inhale harshly through your gritted teeth. A vision of red hair and copper eyes. A hoarse voice scratches at the back of your mind. A collection of tiny bird skulls go ‘click-clack-click’ as they knock together on red threads notched with dark beads. Sisters. Family. Bond. Love.

Then, the vision and sensation doubled as swiftly as it had come.

A man swathed in black starlight holds your face in his hands. His eyes are infinite and burning. You nearly collapse again at the soul-rendering longing that slices through your rib cage with a precise and keen strike.

A part of you, buried as it was, sings in delighted remembrance and cries out in sorrow. Morpheus. Your heart skips and beats furiously in your chest, and begs you to return. Return, return, return it says. A restless desperation floods your senses. You are forgetting something important. Something important. Something vital. What, what, what? You lick your dry lips. Return where? You wonder as everything ebbs and you blink the strange wetness from your eyes.

You gaze out across the white-capped, deep blue waters. You have been gifted another chance at immortality and Godhood, and you will not waste another second. You lick the tears from the corners of your mouth, inhale, and vanish from the cliffside in a rolling, cold mist.

*****

He is about to destroy the Corinthian when he feels it. Feels you. A unique tremble in his breast pocket, close to his heart, as the raven feather comes to life. Your magic blooms like thorny wildflowers in his lungs. Your face swims to the forefront of his mind. Dream hardly has time to react, to process this incredible information, before magic swirls at his feet and someone is pulling him away from the Corinthian. And from his revelation of your survival and your return to him at last.

His struggle is in vain.

An Endless finds himself weakened, trapped, and unconscious on a magician’s basement floor.

*****

In the efforts to discover your purpose, you are like a fawn stepping on uneasy feet into the glade.

Shortly after your remaking, the world started to crumble, and mortals suffered from a strange sleeping sickness.

Your first five years in the mortal realm were marvelously unproductive.

No matter your efforts as the Queen of Nightmares, you cannot wake them, you cannot heal them, and you cannot gift the insomniacs the sleep they so desperately craved. It is frustrating, but you have infinite time to try and unravel the many mysteries of this world.

You move through the mortal realm, learning, watching, and hoping to gain insight—about them and yourself. Your memory flickers in and out like a candle near an open window. You start to recall your old life (this is not an accurate term, but it’s the closest you have). You do not sleep and therefore do not dream, but you often think of this past life and its characters.

There are two women who you adore fondly and then there is Morpheus.

Your feelings surrounding him are complicated. Your heart, at the sound of his name, twists, and stutters and burns with golden light. The sense of restless desperation deepens and sinks its fangs into you until you want to pull your hair from its roots.

You try your best to contain your thoughts of Morpheus. It is painful to think of him, to yearn for him, without any knowledge of where he might be or how to find him.

You have tried to call him. You remember how to call to Gods. You write his name on paper and burn it. You dunk your head beneath the ocean and scream his name underwater. You wait for the full moon and cry his name to the nighttime splendor. You have written his name with sticky, blood-stained fingers across boulders and on signposts.

Yet, no matter when or how you call, Morpheus does not come and he does not answer.

You think he may have kissed you. But the memory is foggy and therefore unreliable. How could someone so cheerless, and severe, possibly desire something so banal as a kiss? You watch a brood of ravens perch upon a slated roof and caw endlessly at the overcast clouds.

You meet the Corinthian, wholly on accident, during your sixth year in the mortal realm. You had relinquished your efforts in trying to save humanity. You surmised that it’s not your disease to cure and instead, you began following the call of ‘chaos vortexes’.

You do not know why a Queen of nightmares can find places of chaos and rage, but you do.

You find them like a shark to blood in the water. Humanity is rife with them. Sometimes, they’re a hateful group of individuals, stoking flames of panic and hysteria. Other times they’re solitary, lone wolves, that desire bloodshed and submission. You went where the vortexes pulled you. You’re bolstered by their presence. Your powers crackle beneath your skin, white-hot and blistering.

You don’t know what it means, but it calls to you, and you would be remiss to ignore it.

You stand in a sitting room with the metallic scent of blood in the air. You recognize the man. His name drops like a stone into your mind. In your old life, you recall passing him in a place of tall shadows and wet earth. But where was that?

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, “if it isn’t Your Majesty.” He inclines his head toward you. Almost respectful, but his tone is too mocking.

You acknowledge him with a slow blink. “You remember me.”

“How could I forget?” He smiled. “No one ever stopped talking about you in the Dreaming after you left.” He clicks his tongue. “Or died. Not that you look very dead so…I suppose abandonment is the correct assumption.”

You circle the victim on the ground and lightly touch the drying blood on his cheeks. You smear his blood between your thumb and index finger and then lift your gaze to the Corinthian. He did this. You search the recesses of your memory, hoping for insight into your relationship with one another, but discover nothing. There’s no point in lying. He is the first creature in your travels to recognize you. You won’t waste this opportunity.

“I abandoned nothing and no one.” You fold your hands in front of you. The tailored edges of your long, dark dress lent to your severe attitude. The buttons of your coat gleamed in the low, oil-lamp light of the gentleman’s sitting room.

He scoffs, “Tell that one to Dream. I’d kill to see his reaction.”

Your heart replies painfully, but you hold your composure before the Corinthian. You suspect this creature – this Nightmare – will sink his teeth into any perceived weakness. If he is a nightmare, and you are the Queen of nightmares, then does that mean—

“Did I create you?” You ask, choosing to ignore his comment and steer the conversation to one that you can control. You need to obtain information above all else. You need him to remain unaware that he has the upper hand in this interaction.

“No.” His lips twist, not a smile, and not a grimace. The light shines his hair into waxen gold. You’re reminded of another smiling creature, gold-touched and proud. Lugh. The name stirs anger in your stomach. Betrayal tastes like ash in the back of your throat. You gently lift the Corinthian’s victim into your arms and lay him, respectfully, on the floral-printed couch. You smooth your hand over the young man’s brow.

“What are you doing?” His tone is disgusted and a touch intrigued. His shadow elongates over the nearest wall and intersects with yours at an odd angle. Shadows and nightmares, queens and murderers.

“You do not feel remorse,” you say to the Corinthian and it’s not a question. Your tone is without judgment. You would not fault a knife for slicing your finger. You would not blame a predator for hunting elk. “I can feel his final moments…the pain, the anguish, and…”

You chew the inside of your cheek, seeking the right word, as you gaze upon your reflection in the Corinthian’s dark glasses.

“Hopelessness,” you say finally, “these emotions are intrinsically tied to humanity. They are their blessing and their curse. We Gods don’t feel them.”

He appeared genuinely curious. “You don’t feel pain?”

Morpheus’ hand on your brow. Desperation. Fear. Your fingertips digging into his wrist, pressing into his pulse, and screaming. Your nerves had reverberated with agony. You had been flayed alive, burned, and crushed all at once. Lugh’s poison. You had been dying, dying, dying, and holding onto the Dream Lord as if the Fates demanded your connection take physical manifestation.

“No,” you reply, knowing it to be a half-truth.

You felt pain within the Dreaming. You felt pain when Lugh stabbed you. It seems that Gods and Endless can inflict pain on each other. You suspect that may be why your heart ruptures every time you think of Morpheus. He is Endless. He holds the power to destroy you. How did you forget? It must be the Corinthian. Being around him loosens the rusted cogs of your memory and the cobwebs that plague your thoughts.

“When I am close to them. I can feel…their humanity, their emotions. It’s like an echo lingering in a network of caves. A fingerprint on the glass of immortality,” you explain.

“We are more alike than I realized,” he says with a lazy smile. “Will you join me for a drink, Lady Morrigan?”

“Only if you answer one question for me.”

His eyebrows rise. There is one question that truly matters to you, here and now, in the face of a walking nightmare.

“Where is the King of dreams?”

He chuckles. “Oh, I might like you, but I don’t like you that much.”

Your nostrils flare and are hit with the scent of fear, and your shoulders straighten. You have no intention of letting him leave. The air in the room hums and crackles with static energy. Magic thrums beneath your skin. Your power is intoxicating. It is fueled by raw, fierce devotion. Whoever worships you—it is stalwart and unyielding.

“You fear his wrath,” you guess, your eyes narrowing, “but what of my wrath?”

He tosses a careless look over his shoulder at you. “No disrespect, Lady Morrigan, but I belong to Dream. The only one who can take me out is him and I don’t plan on that happening anytime soon.” His fingertips reach for the doorknob. You shrug one shoulder. You had offered him the easy way.

The Corinthian stumbles backward, hissing, and holding his scalded palm. He whirls, his teeth bared, his expression is fractured and surprised. You lower your hand, fingertips awash in a reddish glow, and blink slowly like a lazy, apex predator. He claims that only Dream can unmake him. However, you’re unconvinced. The Queen of nightmares ought to have dominion over nightmares. It’s right there in the name.

“Once more, dear Corinthian, where is the King of Dreams?”

“If you think it’s going to be that easy…” He reaches for the thin, silver blade kept holstered at his side. You appreciate his ruthlessness and raw desire for survival. You see an echo of your old self inside of him and soften. You cannot blame him for wanting freedom when you burned with the same desire a lifetime ago.

You lift a placating hand. “I do not wish for your death nor your undoing. I only wish to achieve answers.” And peace for my aching heart and a purpose to this new life, but you don’t say that aloud.

“He will come looking for me,” he says, “and he won’t stop until I’m found.”

Your gaze hardens. “Then stay hidden.”

“I’m not taking this shit deal,” he declares, composed and resolute. “I know how this goes. I give you Dream. You rescue him. He kills me.”

Your stomach sours at the thought of Dream needing a rescue. In your vague, hazy memories, he always seemed impenetrable and impossible. Endless, timeless, unreachable, and beyond divine. Lonely too, but that is a musing for another day.

You stare down the barrel of the Corinthian’s reflective gaze. If the choice is between searching for Dream for the rest of your existence versus finding him tonight—well, it’s not a choice at all, is it? Once you find Morpheus, then perhaps your heart will stop its incessant bleeding.

“I owe you a favor,” you say, remembering, “I promised I would give anything in my power.”

The hand on his blade relaxes. “Yes, you do, and last I checked Gods and Godlike creatures don’t throw around promises. They’re binding.”

You nod. “Use your favor to barter for your safety, Corinthian. Bind me to not harm you.”

“Uh-uh.” He wags one finger. “That’s now how this works. You’re supposed to give me something.”

“I am. I am offering continued freedom.”

“Fuck this,” Corinthian says, “I don’t need to leave through the front door.”

He attempts to leave. The fabric of the world shifts with it. A flutter, like a moth pressing against a fish net, and yet Corinthian remains standing in the sitting room with a cooling dead body and your simmering wrath. You don’t know how to reach the Dreaming, so you cannot bring Corinthian back, but you can keep him here. You’ve spent eons a prisoner. You will spend eons more, trapped with Corinthian in this sitting room, if it means you will reunite with Dream by doing so.

“Tell me the correct and current location of Dream the Endless.” You offer him a humorless, dangerous smile. Let him remember who he’s dealing with. Let him remember the Queen of nightmares.

The Corinthian pauses; his expression is thoughtful.

“Very well, Lady Morrigan,” he begins, “do you promise to not break the circle? Or harm Roderick Burgess? Do you promise to not tamper with his prison? Or coerce his guards to fall asleep? And to allow me to freely go after I give you Dream’s current location?

“That favor you mentioned, I’ll cash it in now to ensure you agree. I’m sure accepting my terms is well within your powers.”

You bow your head, one hand on your heart, and announce, “I accept.”

There is no other choice and just like that, your favor owed to Corinthian is paid. The fabric of fate twists together and seals. You cannot break the circle, harm Roderick, tamper with the prison, or coerce the guards to fall asleep and you must let Corinthian leave in peace. A small price to pay, you think despite the worry for Dream growing in your heart.

He says, “Fawney Rig.”

The door shuts with a quiet hiss behind him. You drop your gaze to the eye-gouged victim on the couch. You can’t do anything for the man. No comfort, nor ease of death. However, you commit his face to memory. You offer this small act of service. For there is power in memory. And it’s time you uncovered yours.

***** Winter 1922 *****

You would’ve discovered Fawney Rig eventually. The building throbs with chaotic energy. Men and women drink, grease their palms behind curtained alcoves, trade ancient trinkets and secrets, and demand their every indulgence fulfilled. Fawney Rig bloats, pulses, and surges with depravity.

You arrive as a spider.

You crawl through the gap in a window, into an upper-story bedroom, its color scheme is glossy silver and patterned chartreuse with a tea set of fine porcelain. You crawl the high ceiling to the party proper and observe the humans from above. You study their mannerisms, their outfits, their sharp and coy smiles and greedy eyes. You listen to the names, memorize them, and seek their owners.

When you’re ready, you crawl into an empty bedroom, and your shadow elongates with your transformation. You’re a human woman, beautiful and alluring, while also mysterious and flirtatious. You fix the lipstick on your lower lip with your thumb and leave the bedroom smiling.

You don’t often take physical manifestation in the mortal realm. Typically, there’s no need. But, if Dream is in danger, then you need to discover who his enemies are. Everyone has a weakness. What’s Roderick Burgess’?

In the walls of Fawney Rig, you pluck the puppet strings of Roderick’s followers and entice them to reveal their secrets. You learn his vices are brandy, control, and power. His followers whisper of a devil in his basement. That must be Dream.

An urge, hot and pulsing, alive like a heartbeat, thunders through your bones. You should kill Roderick. He has no right to trap Morpheus. He has no right to any of this power and devotion he accumulated. He is not a God. Why do his followers worship him? It’s unnatural.

Your vocal cords strain. An old power. The banshee queen. A scream builds at the back of your throat. The sheer power and force of it could render them to ribbons. Your blood simmers. Vengeance. You didn’t get the chance to kill Lugh for his betrayal. But, you ought to kill Roderick for his idiocy and pride.

Roderick converses by the fireplace, his elbow propped against the mantle, his voice is crooning and low. Beside you, a pyramid of crystalline glasses tremble, their champagne bubbling and the nearby guests startle with confusion. You flex your fingers at your side.

The Corinthian’s promise binds my tongue. You exhale harshly your nostrils like an upset, snuffing beast. You whirl from the room and school your expression from murderous to complacent and doe-eyed. Enough games. Enough intel. You’re going to rip the prison apart with your bare hands even if it renders your appendages to shreds.

You shift into a month, gray-winged and delicate, fluttering near the lamps and drifting unseen above the heads of men. You fly on gentle, smoky wings down the damp staircase and through the iron bars.

The world is much larger through the eyes of an insect and when you behold Dream for the first time in an eon, you’re awestruck by his raw, starved beauty and enraged by his circumstance. A trail of ashen smoke follows you as you transform before Dream’s prison.

Your reflection faces you in the glass and it’s brutal and hungry. Your eyes flare with raw, savage emotion, and your chest heaves with labored, painful breath. Your memories filter into your mind in sharp-edged clarity.

Morpheus standing alone on a beach, a lonely ruler, a black hole in a sky of diamonds. His pale face was shadowed by starlight, the scent of rich jasmine in the air, the ghost of a kiss on your lips. His breath trembling against your skin. Your blood on his hands. Your promises. Lanterns floating over your heads. The warm, scratchy sensation of his cloak beneath your fingers. The Otherworld shattering around you in brilliant, cosmic light. His face was the last face you saw. The only one you wanted to see.

He doesn’t acknowledge you. He doesn’t look up. A knife slides between your ribs. You step closer, through the sigil, and your blood pounds in your ears. You remember the Dreaming. You remember his touch. You remember your affection for him, doomed as it was, and the ruination you faced because of it.

His name is a whisper of silk on your tongue, “Morpheus.”

***** At first instinct, Dream suspects it’s a trick. He knew not what other sorcery that Roderick held. He trusts very little of his captor and his ilk. But your voice—your melodic, savage voice, rough as a cavern below the water—no one can mimic that voice. Not even his sibling, Desire.

He brings his eyes to yours.

Your black, short dress—styled with the times—is dripping with silver starlight, and stardust clings to your exposed thighs and ankles. You are as he remembered. Your smile is a razor blade, your eyes bloom with a thousand, glistening stars, and your poise graceful and severe. This could be a dream if it were possible for me to dream.

“How?” His voice cracks from disuse. His fingers twitch, his wrists and arms are crossed over his knees. He longs to touch you and confirm your corporeality.

You step closer and he watches the play of emotions across your face. Disbelief, wonderment, confusion, and anger. They ripple across your gorgeous features like the pages of a novel. He drinks in the sight of you and painfully recalls the ending.

You trail your fingertips across his prison. He knows the answer before you speak it.

“Belief and devotion,” you whisper fondly, “I am Lady Morrigan, the Nightmare Queen, given unto life once more by the King of Dreams.”

His breath shudders. Belief. Endless exist despite Humanity’s belief in them. Gods exist because Humanity believes in them.

You exist, despite your undoing, because of his dedication to you.

An Endless believes in a God. What does it mean that his devotion has restored you? How does that tip the scales of cosmic balance? In all his pensive, mournful musings, and quiet prayers to your raven feather, he never assumed you’d return. And yet...his foolish hope paid off. His forehead touches the glass.

“I owe you my life, Dream Lord,” you say urgently, your eyes fierce and fractured with red light, “but I have made other promises to reach you. I cannot—” your brow furrows “– I cannot break you free.”

*****

However, you can work around the promise. You cannot break the circle, harm Roderick, or coerce his guards to sleep. But seeing Morpheus has unlocked your knowledge and memory of the Dreaming. You know how to reach it. You can interfere when those slothful, prideful creatures sleep upstairs. You can pull their strings, without subtly, and drive them to madness and terror. You are the Queen of nightmares and you wear that title and crown proudly.

This house is a tower of matchsticks. You need only give it a gentle exhale.

“Say the word,” you croon, pressing your palm flat against the crystal of his prison, “they are hedonistic. Envious. Paranoid. Especially Roderick.” Your heart flutters at the tempting delight of inciting this entire household into chaos. They deserve it. You will happily curse their bloodline and watch the Burgess family tree erupt in flame.

“Ask me to influence them,” you whisper, sultry and tempting. “They’ll slaughter one another, and you will be free, and the world will be better for it.”

At his silence, you lean closer, and your breath fogs against the surface.

“See this for what it is, Morpheus,” you echo his words from eons ago. “Mercy.”

The humans above must learn their lesson. They must learn what it means to steal what is yours and trap it away from the world. You’ll give them clean deaths. You’ll spare any children (except Roderick’s).

And, beyond that, you want Dream’s plea. You want him to ask this of you. You want him to ask for your aid, your deliverance, for that will finally tip the scales into balance after all he did for and to you.

He saved you twice, kissed you, and doomed you.

Your debt to him remains unpaid, but after so many centuries, it’s time for the Dream Lord to be indebted.

*****

He’s known you for centuries and it’s only by knowing you and loving you, that Dream understands your desire is motivated by selfishness. You may want his freedom, but you want the chaotic, bloody death of Roderick and his Order more. He recognizes the blood lust and hunger in your eyes. He sees how you burn for it. My ruthless, ruthless queen.

You would incite them to battle in your name without speaking it. You would claim their deaths as your own and reap whatever power left behind. He doesn’t begrudge you for it. You’re the Nightmare Queen, but your past self—and all its titles, dreams, and desires—live inside your heart.

You rarely hide your emotions, and he sees them, clear as cold night across your face.

Your eyes darken at his continued silence. The stars within vanish one by one as pinpricks of light are absorbed by encroaching obsidian. He stares into his reflection in the voided silence of your eyes. Your upper lip twitches, and curls, and a hiss emanates from low in your throat. A spiderweb of frost bleeds from your fingertips against the glass though its chill doesn’t affect him.

You raise your chin, staring down your nose, and say, “Prideful until the very end.” You draw your hands away from his prison. “I don’t know why I tempted my heart with the hope of anything different.”

He’s alone again.

*****

The boy, Alex, has fear. It reminds you of a little girl with a puppy. It reminds you of a father dying, his body crushed against waves and rocks. Dream has denied your help. That is fine. But you will help this young boy as best you can with the powers you do have.

You once toyed with the idea of becoming a protector of children. Perhaps that can be your fate, your purpose.

You stand outside the boy’s bedroom and whisper to the threads of his subconscious; “Protect yourself, young Alex.”

Outside, it begins to rain and your heart clenches with a wave of nostalgia that has no source.

There is someone else you need to find, but you cannot remember their name.

[obsidianpen]

Tell me Tom is bad at feelings without telling me.... Loved your new B&G chapter, kinda knew that we'd have to see the Dark Lord version of Tommy sometime soon, but didn't think it would be THAT soon. I want my fluff back.

Anywho - kinda funny that he's all in Hermione's face about being her 'Master' when he's quite literally a slave to that WAP. I think Hermione needs to put him in his place ASAP. Here's hoping that whatever they see in the vision really shows just how 'worthy' she is of being his equal.

I am also honestly jealous of all the people that are able to fantasise about the ending - I honestly have no idea and I'm loving it.

My only (silly) question is - will the lines ever stop spreading? It's clear that they are literally everywhere (thanks Tom), but surely they are running out of space to spread?

Also - the hand shaped mark on Tom's chest that Hermione did - are they somehow connected? Sorry I know that's 2 question.

Feel free to ignore them if they are too spoilery! x0x0x

okay I’m glad someone else sees this too haha! Yeah, so not to get to into revealing toms inner turmoil (if you don’t like knowing what’s going on in his head stop reading this),

but I’m totally about to ramble big time because I think a lot of people are missing this. Lots of comments like ‘he’s such an asshole!! How dare he!!!’ Well. Toms definitely spinning. And can you blame the guy? He went from getting a bouquet of symbolic wildflowers from hermione that was even sweeter than she realized (he often gave flowers to his clients as a shop boy, and he even stole some for her accidentally - never imagined once in his life that he’d ever get any - yes because he’s a guy but also because he has a lot of hang ups, he is not used to gifts, he gives things to manipulate and he takes the things he wants), and after deciphering all that realizing (even if he wouldn’t say as much) that he’s fucking down so bad for this witch, fully enamored, must keep. And THEN she’s sick and THEN she doesn’t take his nice ‘take a nap, love’ potion and THEN she gets kidnapped by Dumbledore and the freaking MACUSA and THEN he’s pleading with freaking Hepzibah like some lovesick peasant for help and THEN, when he’s knee deep in imperious curses and dark marks and internationally kidnapping metamorphagi bartenders, THEN, while retrieving her wand from the Ministry despite how tricky that is (like a true gentleman)… he finds out this bitch stole his ring. Which means she knew about his horcrux (well it was horcruxes but he didn’t know that then poor lamb) and in his mind, the only reason anyone would go after a horcrux would be to destroy it. Tom had to process a lot, still had to save her because he can’t have this seer who knows all about him in Dumbledore’s clutches, had to short term delude himself into pretending everything is totally fine until he gets her out, that whole grand escape thing happens, and THEN she wants to give him a blowjob??? Which he’s never trusted anyone to do, let alone this witch he’s obsessed with who destroyed his SOUL??? Who at this point he thinks is a world class psychopath, btw - but he lets it happen because even in his most crazed moments, he’s actually exactly what you said. And he knows it deep down, but can’t accept it, so yeah, he’s doing the whole ‘have to reassert my dark lord dominance’ thing, and while a lot of people reading seemed really hung up on him being a manipulative asshole (rightfully so, this is him), there was also a lot of pretty blatant worship in that chapter too (and in case this has also escaped the general notice, Tom is actually obsessed with pleasing her)

[highlordofkrypton]

(ACOTAR) FANFIC WRITING TAG GAME

I love tag games and talking about writing, so I'm obsessed with this one -- thank you for thinking of me @zenkindoflove!!

Describe your writing process from idea to posting/publishing

I've already made some super long-winded posts about my drafting process and I can't seem to find the beta process post, but I'll do a short version here!

The formal answer

First draft - Don't think, just write. Nothing that comes to mind goes into the doc.

Technically point 1.2. because my betas will be cheering my insecure ass on and drag me to the finish line. They will also give me feedback on vibes.

Second draft - Flesh out the scenes that I think are too short or happening too quickly and they might need a transition.

Beta feedback and I provide them with specific questions and pain points that I experienced so they can enlighten me.

Third draft - Apply corrections

But honestly, the more I write, the less 'strict' I am in the process. Now, I'm more and more okay with just a vibe check from the betas and posting. I only follow the process above for longer fics, tbh.

Are you a plotter or a pantser?

Both. I will always start by pantsing, but ideas will pop up the more I think about it, so I'll have a doc on the side where I dump all my ideas and it becomes an outline. I don't take the time to plot it, it's just something that happens while I pants.

What do you listen to when you are writing?

Music relevant to the characters/vibe. I usually end up fixating on a single song and play it on repeat until the end. For Wildflowers, I just had 'Cruel Summer' by Taylor Swift on repeat. I can't explain it. Even if the song doesn't vibe with the scene, it just reminds my brain to stay consistent on that one emotion that made me ship the ship or like the song.

What’s your drink of choice(while writing)?

Tea. Coffee makes me smell colour and see into different dimensions.

Promote yourself! What’s your favorite thing you’ve written?

Cosmogeny -- My "Nyxlin" fic where he grew up to become an Eldritch God who wants to destroy Prythian because his parents failed him. It's a 100% self-indulgent fic with an OC (put into the role of Nyx in the ACOTAR universe) that I never ever thought anyone would like. He's a creature that has been with me through the worst times of my life, and a silent protector for my sanity. To see him be loved makes me really happy in ways that I cannot explain. I don't even think it's my best writing. I think this fic is an experience, and a community at this point and I love it even more because of the handful of readers who are along for the ride with me.

Share a fic of yours that you think is underrated/deserves more love.

Needle & King -- My fic about Rhysand's parents. I'm genuinely surprised at how poorly it's doing. I thought with the success (for me) of Wildflowers, I could make a Mathiverse that people would be interested in. Along with the outcry in the fandom for more feminism + diverse portrayal for the Illyrians, I thought I was kind of filling that void. In this fic, I get to tap into the important relationship of women between each other, and in society, as well as dive into parts of my culture I never really knew about. It's very personal to me, so I'm totally biased in saying it deserves more love! That said, keep in mind I'm a former marketing professional and I can't help but look at market, demands and stats (engagement). This will absolutely not stop me from continuing it. I'm way too invested in it. I do think that of all my fics, this would speak to a lot of readers as individuals and unrelated to any ships.

Do you have any advice for new writers?

JUST DO IT. That is my #1 advice. Don't think about anything else, except getting those words and ideas on a page. Your first draft might suck, and honestly, it's allowed to. The first draft is not meant to be a polished product. The first draft is the first step of bringing your story to life. If you catch yourself doubting yourself, stop. Just keep writing. You are new. Give yourself some grace. Even if you aren't, art is an imperfect practice. On some days, you'll be amazing, and others maybe not. The difference is if you keep writing, keep practicing, the 'minimum bar' of quality on your first draft will keep rising.

Other advice I'd love to give:

Observe. Read books. Read fics. Find writers who's styles you like and pick out why you like them. Learn from that. I learned from another hobby writer, and I will always credit her for my ability to write. I can tell you exactly what I love about her, and if I did, I'm sure you'd see it in my writing too. Even so, that doesn't mean we write exactly the same. Try different things! You may be a super experienced writer in one style, but that doesn't mean you can't try something new. You can learn different ways of writing, and then mix and match with what you like. HAVE FUN. This is a hobby, don't forget that. As a new writer, the worst thing you can do is put pressure to 'make something' out of this whether it's in the fandom spaces or professional. Learn to enjoy writing, first, and grow with joy before giving room to negativity and criticism.

What is a writing style/technique that others do really well that you'd like to get better at?

Writing stamina, writing long-form and having a more disciplined prose than I do. I feel like I'm quite weak in writing prose. My writing tends to barrel straight to the next plot-driven scene, unless I'm feeling particularly bratty and absolutely want the blorbos to kiss. I also feel like I can't convey emotions as well as I used to, but it's par for the course with growing old and more responsible for me. Sometimes, I don't have time to feel while writing. Sometimes, I just need to write and get that chapter out. I struggle to balance that too. I have some old works that will have me in tears at the same part every time, no matter how often I read it. I wish I had the patience to write more, but I struggle with it and my priority is fun over my own diligence these days. You'll see this with my short/sillier/pantsing fics vs. the multi-chapter planned ones. I only have two of those and they take a lot out of me.

Is there a character you were surprised you enjoyed writing as much as you did?

Any of the Vanserras. I kind of started writing Lucien as a necessity since he's important in Tamlin's life but I didn't super care for him at the beginning. I only started writing Eris through @acotarmemes; he wasn't on my radar. My first time writing Beron was in a shitpost so... Sorry my Autumn boys 😂 Special shoutout to Jurian because I didn't care for him at first and then I realized he's literally Hal Jordan, and now I love writing him. Coincidentally, I didn't care for writing Hal either and only wrote him because my partner requested him for her Barry. Turns out Hal Jordan and Gojo Satoru are some of my best characterizations so... Good for Jurian if this keeps up???

No pressure tags: @achaotichuman @yaralulu @sonics-atelier @watcherintheweyr @paytowinsundays and anyone who wants to join! I'm lazy to fix the tags mobile whenever you tag more than 5 people on the pooter, but please join if you want and tag me, I wanna see!

[carnographix]

You’re an angel, I’m a dog, Or you’re a dog, and I’m your man. You believe me, like a God, I’ll destroy you like I am.

—Mitski, ‘I’m Your Man.’

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Incredibly self-indulgent crossover oneshot-- featuring @vellichorom's Narrator, Thierry, and my strange little woman, Mari(e), in the world of (or inspired by) Amnesia.

Content warning for gore and heavy religious themes Length: 4,765 words

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

Ceaseless sound.

The loud, endless chattering of her co-workers around her, the clambering and hissing of pipes and machines as the production line ticked along. Mariella was packing things. She no longer cared to pay any thought to what it was. Just get it done, get it through the line. All will be well. Lost entirely in her own mind as metal and glass clicked and snapped together, the surrounding sounds blurring into one, the cacophony reverberating in her skull. Nobody spoke with her as she worked, though she knew they spoke of her as they walked past, not-so subtle stares and even less-so subtle remarks. She paid no mind. Judgement was between her, and her God– if he could be referred to as such. The common men and women, the animals she so often, though in slowly dwindling frequencies, surrounded herself with; their judgement did not matter.

A clock sounded, though she did not notice at first. She continued to mindlessly assemble the small pieces of a watch, the process tiresomely familiar, automatic. It wasn’t until the volume of her surroundings began to slowly die down, to filter away and out of earshot, that she looked up, noticing the way most of her coworkers had begun to leave. Slipping the watch into its packaging, carelessly folded cardboard tacked together, she was finally wrested from this autopilot state by a voice she knew all too well.

“Marie, my dear,” a warm pair of hands found their way to her shoulders, if only for a moment, as she shook them off with a roll of her eyes, “are you going to clock off, or are we going to spend our entire evening here? I would much prefer the former. This wretched place reeks of oil, sweat, and piss, and I don’t care for the thought of eating the rats.”

“I can’t have been here more than a few minutes, impatient bastard. How you even managed to get to my station so quickly is beyond me.” Mariella scoffed, the corners of her mouth threatening a small smile, as she took a final glance at her workspace, tidying it up for the next poor bastard to be stuck in her place. 

They spoke as they left that filthy, contemptible place, relief befalling the both of them as they took refuge from its polluted walls into the cobbled streets and balmy air of a mid-Summer evening. It was the usual post-work conversation; a snide remark about a coworker here, a complaint about the begrimed cathedral to industry in which they spent their days there– it was nothing new, it was nothing profound. Yet, as they spoke Mariella clung to each and every word her friend, her demiurge, spoke as though it were vital, and not merely petty, pointless complaints of the conditions in which they worked. The evenings, right after work, were always the most beloved time of day to her. 

Side by side, she and Thierry would walk back to his home, conversing about anything, everything. She felt herself to be, in every sense of the word, blessed. 

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

They passed through a wrought-iron fence, Mariella running her hand along the coarse metal, over the very top of the intricate designs built into it, as they stepped into, and through, a small garden. It was nothing quite special; neat enough, with the occasional wildflower, though time escaped the older man; between work, and the oddities that he and the strange young woman he called his friend partook in, he hadn’t the time to maintain much more.

Mariella slipped past Thierry, almost losing her balance as she quickly moved to lean against the front door, catching herself on the silver-plated door knocker, wincing briefly as she caught her fingers between the metal and the wood of the door. She fumbled with the door’s lock for a moment, as Thierry watched her. He opened his mouth to speak, how the hell did she manage to get his keys? But, he decided against it, closing his mouth with a bemused expression. He wouldn’t get a concise answer from her, anyway.

“After you, m’lady.” Mariella spoke as she managed to get the door open with a loud click, holding her arm against it to stop it from falling shut.

Thierry rolled his eyes.

“Right, yes, thank you sir.” He said with an exasperated, though over-dramatised, sigh as he stepped through the door frame, pulling off his coat and hanging it on a rack beside the door. Mariella followed suit, doing the same, a self-satisfied grin etched onto her face.

What little decorum she retained after a long day mingling with her fellow humans promptly slipped away as the door fell closed behind them, and she sighed briskly, met with a sudden burst of energy. Oh, how this place inspired her so. She pulled an elastic from her wrist, and used it to pull back thick, curly hair, tying it up in a low ponytail. 

She felt herself relax as she came to a standstill behind a leather chair, cracked and worn with considerable use and age. The small house was so pleasant to her, so wonderfully different to her own, which felt more akin to a cave than dwelling. The home was quaint, a single bookshelf full of books with yellowed pages and cracked spines, and a small, modest kitchen with scorch marks on its ceramic tiles. It was quaint, a testament to its age. But, it was a home, nonetheless. The sort of place she’d dream of, late at night, alone when she wished to be anything but.

Though she tried to focus on the room itself, perhaps its lightly cobwebbed windows, or the way that warm light bathed the room, Mariella instead found herself once again focused entirely on her friend, watching him as he milled about. Something about Thierry’s every movement and gesture captivated her, in ways that she couldn’t understand. He had a sort of charm to how he carried and presented himself, as though some strange God in the form of a tired, overworked human. 

He walked into the kitchen, reaching down to open the cupboards for a moment and taking out a bottle of rum. He glanced with mild disappointment into the mostly-empty shelves as he did so.

Mariella walked to the bookshelf, browsing the titles, looking for anything that might be of interest to her. Titles in both English and French stood stacked on the shelf, many with pages and spines torn, their yellowed pages stained and spotted with age.

“Do you ever wonder,” Thierry spoke, before taking a long sip from his glass, “if there is a God; if he is all knowing as they say, where has he gone? Why has he, seemingly, abandoned us?”

Mariella was only half-listening, now distracted by a small, old journal, flipping through the pages and studying the words, written in that familiar, antiquated cursive. She was never exactly a religious girl, raised on the doctrine but far too uninterested to keep up with it. Her fingers traced the words on the page as she thought.

She had known the answers, though the ones she most commonly gave were merely empty platitudes, designed to keep people obedient and content.

“Abandoned? No, I wouldn't say so.” She murmured as she scanned the pages, clearly searching for something. “You're here, after all, are you not?”

A small smile cracked across Mariella’s face as she found what she was looking for. A crudely drawn diagram, with some words scrawled underneath it, some form of Latin, maybe German.

She heard Thierry let out an amused huff, taking another sip of his drink as he moved back into the living room, plopping himself down onto his armchair.

“If there were a God, my dear,” he began with a small, lopsided smile, “he would detest my blasphemy.”

“Would he, now? Do you detest what you do? What we do?” Mariella asked, finally looking up at him. She knew she certainly did not.

Undeniably, were their work discovered by anyone else, the two of them would be ostracised for their quote, sin, unquote. Though she did not see it that way. A wonderful act of creation, it was, to her.

Thierry chuckled, oh, how she adored that laugh, as he placed his empty glass on the table beside him, leaning back in his own armchair. Of course, he didn’t detest their work; he loved it, in an odd, twisted way. How could he detest something so intimate to him? Yet, he could hardly speak truth to these thoughts aloud.

“One day, the two of us will be stoned for our transgressions. It won’t be a pleasant fate, I can promise you that.”

She rolled her eyes with a scoff.

“Yes, because I particularly care what the common man would think of me. Of us.” She shook her head. “If that shall be our fate, I am content with it. It does not make it any less worth it.”

“Speaking of which,” she began, looking back down at the book in her hands, “have you heard of vitae?”

“Vitae…” Thierry repeated, his words an absentminded mumble. He thought for a moment. “Life, in the old tongue, isn’t it?” His eyes lit up with faint recognition. Yes, he had heard of such a word. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on where.

“Well, yes, but that's not quite what I mean. Vitae-- the substance. It's this… thing, that living things can produce. Do you know of it?”

Thierry’s face fell, his expression twisting, something indescribable, as he tried to recall something. He knew he had read about such things before, at some point. He couldn’t quite remember the details, yet he could remember the strange sense of horror that had built within him as he read.

She studied his expression, watching a mild discomfort seep into his features, before continuing.

“I'm assuming not. Vitae, if this book is to be believed, is an odd sort of substance which is produced by living things when they're afraid, in pain. The bloodstream is flooded with it, in the right circumstances. It can be extracted. It possesses the ability to extend one's life. I believe we should try.”

He let out a small huff of laughter, shaking his head lightly. Why did it seem like she had a new, morbid obsession every time they spoke like this? Why, every so often, would she become enamoured with the idea of some new forbidden knowledge, some new arcane secret that should be kept out of the hands of mortals? She was so curious about these things. Far too much for her own good.

“Extract it? How would we do that? What, are we going to just start cutting into each other and harvesting blood now?” ‘As though that were much different than their typical little escapades,’ she thought. 

“That was the idea. A disgustingly crude and oversimplified explanation of the idea, but, yes.” Mariella said, snapping the journal shut and tucking it back onto the shelf between the other books.

She moved to sit beside Thierry, perched upon the arm of his chair. She plucked his glass from his hand, and swallowed a mouthful of the alcohol inside in one swift movement, her face slightly flushed as the liquid burned her throat.

“It's apparently quite unsustainable– only extractable once, if the subject remembers the torture. So, I was thinking, perhaps, were we to intoxicate me enough, impair my memory, we could repeat the process more than once. Refine it.” She spoke as she placed the glass, now considerably less full, down atop a small coffee table just beside the chair. “If it works, that is.”

“So, you’re willing to undergo that sort of torment?” His expression had brightened, yet his voice still held small traces of scepticism. Mariella nodded, “in part my own insatiable curiosity.” She tilted her head to one side. “In part yours.” She leaned against him, and slid slightly from the arm of the chair, onto one side of Thierry's lap, resting atop his thigh.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost your mind, my dear. Perhaps just a little.” He sighed softly.

“And you haven’t?”

He couldn’t think of an appropriate response. Of course he hadn’t lost his mind… Though, he had to wonder; was it even possible to fully retain one’s sanity after studying and performing such things? He thought back to the countless, sleepless nights, when he could not keep his mind free of such visceral imagery.

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “No, I haven’t.”

She could tell by the way he spoke, like his voice faltered as he forced out an unconvincing and bitter chuckle, that it was a lie. Thierry was hardly different from her, and he knew that just as well as she did.

Silence fell between them for a few moments, Tension thick and heavy enough to cut through, to bite into, to rip and to tear. He knew he couldn’t properly argue against what she had said. He really was no different, was he? All those times he had sat down to read those forbidden, forgotten texts and manuscripts, for hours upon hours until his eyes stung. When he had driven needle and blade into her flesh and bone, and she had let him, eager as ever. And this was to be yet another of those times, wasn’t it?

Thierry sighed as he wrapped a hand around her waist. “Very well, then. We’ll try it.”

Mariella’s face lit up as soon as she heard him speak, a wide smile etched across her face.

“Alright…” He mumbled, his free hand running through his messed, grey hair. “If this is the route we shall take, we shall do things correctly. We would not want to risk any unnecessary damage– at least, not yet. After all…” He leaned in closer, his words a low whisper, “this would be most regrettable if it ended in an early demise for you, mon ami.”

“Not that I would mind, to go at your hands. Such bliss, it would be.” 

She spoke quietly as she stood, with Thierry's hand, which had previously rested upon her waist, clasped between both of her hands, pulling him to stand with her. 

The man did not argue or resist, standing up when she bid him to as a smile crept across his face. Mariella was right, of course she was. What a strange feeling this all was, to relish in the idea of suffering and harm. He could not bring himself to entirely hate it.

There were few words he could say that could adequately explain how the sight of her so willingly falling into potential mortal danger affected him. He had always found something dark and twisted about her, a strange sort of obsession with the macabre. Even better, in a way, that it was he who would bring about her pain and fear. He felt a sense of anticipation in him, as if he was waiting to strike down upon her like an executioner. 

“Come, let us get started.”

“Yes, yes, of course. First, however– something to dull the senses, psychologically, at least. To lapse my memory.” She said, swiftly turning as she stepped away and into the kitchen, reaching for a bottle of absinthe. “After all, if I remember, we won't be able to do it again.”

She unscrewed the cap, and drank directly from the bottle, mouthful after mouthful without break, until she had surely had an entire quarter of the bottle at least. She scrunched her face up at the flavour, and gasped as she took the bottle from her mouth, sucking in cool air to soothe the alcohol's burn.

Thierry tilted his head to the side with a small, almost proud smile on his face. She was such a marvel to him– one of the few people in this forsaken world he found himself genuinely enamoured with. To find someone so willing to indulge his twisted desires, one who encouraged them, one who relished in the agony as much as he did in causing it, was a wonderful discovery.

The sight of her drinking her fill as though it were water was an odd one, contrasted by the way the soft lights of the kitchen’s waxen candles caught on her dark hair and skin. He reached out, gently taking the bottle from her hands to place it back on the kitchen counter. 

“How are you feeling?” He hummed, voice soft and gentle, comparable to the caress of a snake as it wrapped around its prey.

“It hasn't begun to take effect just yet. Give it a few minutes.” She replied as she made her way out of the kitchen, down the hall, to a door with a hefty combination lock holding it closed. She fumbled with the lock for a moment, listening for the small clicks as she twisted the dial to the right numbers.

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

The door creaked as it drifted open, before she pulled it open all the way. There, in front of her, was a stone staircase, leading down into a dark hallway.

The air felt colder, more stiflingly quiet as the two travelled down the stone steps. The basement was lit only intermittently by the sconces that jutted from the walls, only a thin sliver of light illuminating the path ahead. Thierry had always found the basement to be unnerving to a small degree, the way his footsteps seemed to echo against the stone walls, the stale air that clung heavily to the back of his throat.

Thierry could still remember the first time he brought her down here. Those long ago days when those strange, soft, violent thoughts and feelings had first begun to take root in his mind. Such strangely pleasant memories, they were.

He could recall the day vividly as though it had happened yesterday– leading this woman down into the deep, the way she had looked so afraid at first, before they had discovered her love for the darkness that had consumed them. 

He felt her hand squeeze his a little tighter, like she was reassuring him that this had been an agreed-upon decision. He had nothing to be concerned about if she agreed to this, did he? He had nothing to fear.

There was an ever-so-slight tremble in his hand as he felt her squeeze it, as if she could sense his minor hesitations and worries that remained. 

Entering a room reminiscent of a doctor’s theatre, seeing countless reminders of experiments and times past, was enough to raise goosebumps over his skin. Trepidation, anticipation, excitement–? It was difficult to tell. 

She remained by his side, followed and trusted him. Such a faithful creature…

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

The room itself had been gradually changed over time, with countless evenings spent experimenting, testing the limits of the body. A rolling tray of many, many blades, saws, drills, and needles sat stationary beside cabinets, the cabinets against one wall still holding all manner of medical supplies. 

Mariella drew a sharp and sudden breath, mulling over the idea in her head. There were so many variables, so many ways this could go. Did they have everything they would need? Would it work? How much would she be able to handle? Would she remember? These concerns, however, were ultimately short-lived, as remembrance of the fact this was her idea, something she wished to do– to see if it would work, to see what would happen, washed over her, combined with the absinthe finally taking its hold on her. 

They stood at the entrance of the dim, cold room, Mariella’s breath forming small clouds in the chill air. The soft flicker of the sconces cast elongated shadows that danced across the stone walls, giving the room an eerie, almost otherworldly ambience. Thierry's hand lingered on the small of her back, a silent, reassuring gesture with simultaneous possessiveness. As they stepped further into the room, Mariella felt the familiar mix of excitement and dread knotting in her stomach, now tempered by the numbing warmth of the absinthe coursing through her veins.

She felt the first, numbing effects of the absinthe clouding her thoughts, dulling the sharp edges of fear and anticipation that gnawed at her as she laid upon a table situated in the centre of the room. Her eyes flitted to the rolling tray of instruments, their stained, metallic surfaces gleaming under the dim light.

Thierry moved with a detached grace, his eyes scanning the array of tools with a practised familiarity. He selected a long, slender scalpel, its blade appearing sharp, though still worn from previous use.

Thierry’s gaze lingered on Mariella, a mixture of admiration and unease flickering in his eyes. He set the scalpel aside for a moment, reaching for leather bindings that lay clamped to the sides of the table. With a tenderness that belied the cruelty behind the coming actions, he unbuttoned and removed her shirt as to easier access her torso, and bound her arms to lay at her sides, the straps pulling taut against her wrists. She winced, ever-so-slightly, at the constriction but offered no resistance. 

“We begin now,” he said softly, picking up the scalpel once more.

Her body tensed involuntarily as the blade touched her skin, a sharp, icy line of fire tracing its way vertically across her abdomen. The pain was immediate and intense, a vivid shock that cut through the haze of the absinthe. She gasped, her eyes widening as she felt the blade slice deeper, parting flesh with a sickening ease. Blood welled up, dark and viscous, trickling down her arm in crimson rivulets.

Thierry’s expression was one of clinical detachment as he worked, peeling back the layers of her skin with a practised precision. Her world shrank to the searing pain radiating from her gut, the relentless, tearing agony that pulsed in time with her racing heartbeat. She bit down on her lip, stifling a cry as the scalpel bit deeper through soft, bubbly fat, exposing the raw, twitching muscle beneath.

“You're doing well,” he murmured as he set the scalpel aside and reached for a pair of forceps. The forceps clamped onto tendons and ligaments which lined her abdominal wall, a fresh wave of pain that left her gasping for breath. Mariella’s vision blurred with tears, her mind a whirl of fragmented thoughts and jagged, searing agony. She could barely focus, her senses overwhelmed by the unending torment. Thierry’s hands moved with a methodical precision, his eyes gleaming with a twisted fascination as he continued his work. He released the tendons, and she felt a relief so utterly sickening that she felt bile and acid rise in her oesophagus, singing the back of her throat as the forceps were withdrawn. She forced herself to swallow it again. Her abdomen throbbed with a hot, relentless pain, the exposed flesh raw and glistening in the dim light. 

She closed her eyes, bracing herself as she felt the edge of the scalpel, now warmed by her own body’s heat, press against the flesh above her sternum, just between the clavicles. The scalpel’s blade bit into her flesh with a swift, sharp sting. She gasped, her body convulsing as the pain flared, radiating outward from the wound. Thierry’s hand was steady, his touch almost gentle as he deepened the incision, exposing the underlying muscle and sinew.

“Beautiful…” Thierry breathed, his eyes alight with a fervour that bordered on reverence. “You’re doing so well, my dear.”

Mariella's thoughts were a muddled blur of pain and confusion, an instinctive feeling of fear, of dread, flooding her body, which trembled with the effort to stay conscious. The room seemed to tilt and sway around her, the shadows lengthening and shifting in her peripheral vision. She felt a strange, tingling warmth spreading from the wounds, a peculiar sensation that seemed to resonate deep within her veins. Her head lolled to one side as the tingling sensation grew stronger, pulsing through her body like an electric current. She felt detached, disoriented, the world around her blurring into a surreal, dreamlike haze.

Thierry’s free hand reached for a small glass vial, which he positioned beneath the entrance wound, hands sunk just inside her thoracic cavity. He pressed down, forcing the vitae—a strange, viscous, blue fluid with a faint, iridescent glow, muddied by her blood—to seep from the incision and drip into the vial. Each drop fell with an almost hypnotic regularity, a testament to the efficacy of their twisted endeavour. He held the vial up, his eyes gleaming with a wild, feverish excitement. “Would you look at that…” He murmured, tilting the vial in his hands, swirling the fluid around inside the tube.

Mariella could barely comprehend his words, her mind slipping further into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness. The room faded into blackness, the pain, and fear receding into a distant, numbness. In the depths of her fading consciousness, as darkness claimed her, she felt a strange, twisted sense of accomplishment. They had succeeded. Though, at what cost, if any? The question lingered, unanswered, as she drifted into the void.

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

Silence.

Mariella awoke to a room, a bed, in silence, broken only by a ringing static in her ears, and the soft sounds of Thierry breathing as he sat on a seat in the corner of the room, reading the very same journal that she had appeared to have found the existence vitae through just the day prior.

She sat up, wincing, sucking air through her teeth as a terrible ache struck her body, searing from just below her neck to her navel. 

“... Did it work?” She asked wearily.

He looked up at her from the pages of the book, creasing the corner of the page he was on and closing it.

“Yes. Yes, it did.” 

Mariella laid back with a relieved sigh. “Good,” to which Thierry responded with a small hum and a nod, getting up to stand beside her, brushing her hair from her eyes.

“Marie, dear? Do you not have concerns that, perhaps, someday, this may go too far? That we'll do something that cannot be undone? That we’re doing something wrong?”

“Of course not,” Mariella answered with a breathless laugh, “Who defines right and wrong? God? We, you, are become God; in our acts of so-called blasphemy and sin, in violating, desecrating the human body we have become more than any of the others could possibly be. Spill my blood, break my bones, that I may be reborn anew; something uniquely yours, and yours alone. Push the limits of the creation of the common man’s God, break them, and craft from it something new. Something yours.” She reached up, a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it tight, as though afraid to let him go. “If Godhood requires sacrifice, then, by God, for you a lamb I shall become; a lamb I already am.”

Thierry stared down at Mariella, something hungry in his eyes as he gently pressed the back of his hand to her face.

“Oh.” He murmured quietly. “Oh, yes. A perfect lamb, my perfect lamb.” Thierry brought his hand down and around her face ‘til it rested beneath her chin, tilting her head up further toward him. “So eager, so ready to be strung out on a butcher’s table and carved anew. You… oh, dear, what a wonderful thing you are.” He squeezed her cheeks, harder than intended, as she drew in a sharp breath. “You know, each day, what the coming evenings will do to you, your blood splattered on the cutting-room floor, each time worse than before, and yet here you are, returned to me once again. Indeed, a lamb you are. A most incredible devotee.”

“Devoted, yes.” She agreed quietly, standing up to easier reach him, her God, placing both hands on either side of his jaw to reconnect the two of them as he pulled his hand back. 

“To you, and you alone.”

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

[dane-ffxiv]

Prompt #25: Perpetuity

“Do you suppose we'll stay here forever?” The question came suddenly, verbalizing a single string of the young girl’s thoughts. She laid in the boy’s lap as he weaved wildflowers through her golden hair. This field was their haven, a quiet spot they shared under the sun.

“...Uh.” He paused, processing her words quite literally. “I’s gettin’ dark... we gotta go ‘ome soon.”

“I meant… here, in this town.” She tucked a flower in his shirt collar, the furthest her hand could reach. “We've lived here all our lives. When we're older, would we move on? Would we be together?”

Her musings were complicated compared to his; she worried about the future, bracing for the worst, and he rarely entertained thoughts of change. Their life had been peaceful, allowing the feelings they had for one another to grow with each passing day. Tomorrow remained an extension of the present, and she would always be by his side.

“Yeah.” His pinky traced over the bridge of her nose. “I'll follow y’ ferever. An’ I know y’d follow m’.” He sounded sure of himself, so she chose not to doubt him. His bright eyes and smile wouldn't lie to her.

This was the memory they both had chosen as their last. Laid to rest in the void before their fractured souls rejoined, a brief moment that lasted an eternity. Navigating through their short years of life, grieving a stolen future.

Hydaelyn tried over and over to correct their fates, but those under Zodiark had influenced him far beyond saving. Love for their family twisted into revenge, funneling hatred and darkness into his heart. She managed to retain the girl who only wanted to secure the love that remained. To survive by his side.

Love could both heal and destroy so easily.

Countless regrets stalked them to death's door. But the decision they'd never amend was that final moment together. On the cusp of the star's salvation or destruction, neither granted their true wish. And perhaps that wish had the power to transcend space and time, reaching their respective source, and reuniting them without divine intervention.

“What of our story? Our ending?”

Hydaelyn had no answer. She could only pray fervently and wait for their next life. One brimming with flowers that never turn to ash.

[heehoighofoxijin]

Nose Blind

The following is a Br<3ken Colors fic I wrote based on an ask I sent that got answered. I've been itching to write it and I haven't until today. I also decided to do some art in MS Paint to go with it...because why not! So if you're interested...keep reading!

Metal pipe collided with my skull last night, and it knocked the whole world out from under my nose. It didn’t matter that you were defending yourself. Had you hit me anywhere else, I would’ve exercised some semblance of mercy. At least then I still would’ve been able to give you the liberty of a head-start before the chase. But darling, you’ve knocked my senses clean from under me—an unforgivable crime.

I was only trying to connect with you, honey. The loneliness that came over me that when the sun sank below the horizon was unbearable, and to expect me to endure that torture was the very same as the expectations I hold to you tonight. I would have preferred it if you kindly told me to leave. Now that you’ve destroyed everything I had to connect with the world, I feel it’s only right to return the favor.

Don’t cry now, sweetheart, because I’ve only just begun. This meadow is beautiful. If only I could smell it. You have that luxury, but you won’t for long. Drink it all in while you still can. The way the wind pushes the scent of the wildflowers towards your nose, how their incredible colors dance in the field, and how the trees rustle in the distance. Boy are you going to miss it all when all you can hear are your own screams.

The regret on your face won't save you now, my love. What’s done is done. If it’s any consolation, I raise my knife as a toast to your bravery. The goal may not have been to shatter my world into a million pieces, but your success in that department will not go unnoticed! I must admit to the courage and strength it takes to deal that much damage to my brain. You really sent me for a loop. For a moment I didn’t even process what had happened.

Was it really so hard to settle things peacefully with me, dear? Did you not hesitate to pick up the pipe when you saw me in your room? Where did you even get that thing anyway? And why? At what point did you stop loving me? What do you mean you never loved me? HA! That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told. If you didn’t love me, why were you so gentle with me? My nose never failed me until recently. I smelled no evil on you.

Now lift your head to the sky. Witness the shapes the stars make above you. Oh, how sweet it would have been to enjoy the scenery with you over a lovely picnic like I’d planned. Had you not made your mistake, darling, things could have been different. Open wide, now. I need to ensure you keep my name out of your dirty little mouth. I’ll strip you of your tongue so swiftly you won’t even have the chance to taste your own blood. Never loved me. How could you say such a thing?! Well, now you won’t be able to say anything. I hope you’re happy with yourself.

Ah, your eyes look at me with such judgment. But can you really blame me for this? You were the one who took it all away from me. All the color I saw in the world is nothing without the scent. Everything I once loved is blurry now without the one thing attaching me to them. Roses don’t even meet my eye anymore. All I see is red petals and thorns, tainted by blood from the mouth of the thief who stole my world from me. I laid pieces of my heart out for you! But you passed them up in favor of setting this field ablaze.

I bet you smell it now, don’t you? The gasoline. Here, let me give you a good whiff. You may as well be the one to check and make sure this is real. What a lovely, horrified face! I’ll take that as a good sign. I wonder if you’ll keep it up when I pour in down your nose.

You’re going to make a great ball of flame, you know. I bet your corpse will smell so horrid it’ll reach all the way to the heart of the city! And we’re pretty far out. It might take a day or two, but I’m sure somebody will find you. Maybe they’ll even feel bad. Personally, I won’t be able to find this place again. Without my sense of smell… Where did I put that matchbox?

There we go. What a flame! We could’ve danced this passionately, you know. We would have been perfect together if only you’d have listened to me when I tried to reason with you. If only you hadn’t picked up the pipe. If only you hadn’t tried to bash my head in. I have to say at least you tried to kill me. Unfortunately for you, your failed attempt led to your demise instead. Would it not have been easier for you to just love me back? Well, it doesn't matter anymore. Here, have some flowers from the field… Take them all, since you’re so fucking greedy.

Oh, hey DG. Steak? Sure. Don’t see why not. There’s a nice fire going here so you can cook yours. I'll try to at least enjoy the texture.

[shingekinomyfeelings]

This is gonna be a lot longer than the others, so bear with me

Okay, you might be thinking 'there is nothing particularly interesting or pretty about this picture,' but that is actually part of the point I want to make.

My major is wildlife bio, and my minor is conservation, but while I've always LIKED plants, my focus has always been animals. In fact, I kind of suck at keeping plants alive, even the easiest ones. I basically have a black thumb, so I haven't bothered delving much into gardening until very recently. Earlier this year, I started on a small-scale eco restoration project on my parents' property, mostly targeting the layers of landscape cloth, degraded and eroded soil, and noxious invasives. In the process I've been learning way more about the plant life endemic to this mountain.

While I was doing a survey of the plants on the property to see, for curiosities sake, how many of the woodland flowers were non-native - of over a dozen wildflowers growing in the yard, only two were NOT introduced. How sad. Virginia has so many beautiful wildflowers.

There are very few wildflowers in the woodlands at all, though. That's something I'd obviously been aware of for years, but I started wondering then, is it because of the degraded soil? In fact, the biodiversity seemed incredibly low. Is it because of the destruction of most of the old-growth forest on this mountain? Is there a way to help?

So, I started looking into the history of the Brush Mountain Wilderness area to see what plants used to be here. It turns out that this mountain is covered largely by a particular ecosystem community type: the Oak-heath forest. And guess what? Biodiversity is naturally comparatively quite low in Oak-heath forests.

Like the name implies, these forests are dominated by Oaks in the upper story, and in the middle and lower story are the Heaths - the mid layer of rhododendrons, azaleas, and especially in our Oak-heath subtype, the mountain laurel; the lowest story is the Vaccinium (blueberry) species and huckleberry.

There's very little on the floor level. It's mostly leaf litter and moss, with sporadic acid-tolerant forbes like galax, false Solomon's seal, and if you look hard enough, little flowers like bellwort and native orchids.

What I thought was a problem related to all the human disruption that continues even now with the Mountain Valley Pipeline being cut through our neighborhood was... actually the forest continuing to do what it's supposed to do, in spite of the damage we've dealt.

We have a horrible tendency to value only ecosystem types that are interesting or aesthetically pleasing, don't we? Like, even people like me who want to protect all our natural ecosystems. A lot of the time it's because we literally don't understand what we're looking at. I wasn't in tune with the plant life at all because I thought I was just bad with plants and had put my focus elsewhere. I wouldn't say I'm GOOD with plants yet, but I'm learning. It's helped me understand how to improve the actually badly degraded parts of the property, too.

The Oak-heath forests have suffered a lot from human development, imported pests and disease, and the colossal (human generated) white tailed deer population. Also, as you can see, when fall hits, these areas look kind of, well, ugly. People destroy them to plant 'prettier' ornamentals that have no wildlife value, because of the anthropocentric notion that all of this is here for us. But the Oak-heath has tremendous importance to many animal species, including bears, birds, and pollinators. When the Vaccinium produce fruit in the summer, the areas become a valuable food resource. It might not be the most visually appealing, but it's something that needs conservation.

There are some plants that are missing, though. The Box huckleberry once grew in huge colonies here, but that species has been decimated across its native range, and only a few known wild colonies exist today. I've found a native plant nursery that sells Box huckleberry plants, and I'm hoping to plant a few in the spring. I know I probably can't start a long-term colony of them, but I'd like to bring back just a little bit of what humans have taken out.

So, I encourage anyone who wants to help our native plant communities to start by identifying what type of community you're looking at, and dig into the history of that location, so that you can help in the way the ecosystem wants you to, not just the way you want to.

[khaliseasworld]

Lost & found

Who are you? Asks the caterpillar to the girl. Are you looking for someone or have you been found?

The little girl looked up at the caterpillar upon his perch with a puzzling look. “What do you mean have I been found?! I’m lost, so incredibly lost!”

Oh my darling, you don’t come down my path if you’re lost. Not all who wander are lost. Now, who are you? He asked again.

The girl looked up, wiping tears from her eyes and stuttered “I…I don’t know. I thought I did, but ever since I’ve been wandering, I felt so lost.”

“Why did you feel lost? Who are you!”

The girl jerked from being startled.

She stayed in silence, peering up at the caterpillar who was now puffing on his hookah, cheeks red with frustration.

“I…I don’t know who I am. I believe I’m lost because I don’t know how to answer you.”

The caterpillar peeked over his hose, full of curiosity and compassion.

“Darling, only you can make that choice of who you are.”

“Well,” the girl began, “I’ve been called many things in my life and I suppose…a wildflower is what I identify the closest with. What does that even mean tho?”

“What do you believe it means?” The caterpillar questioned.

The girl pondered for a moment. “I suppose, it’s helpful for the pollinators. And every flower I’ve ever met is just so beautiful.”

“Do you believe you are beautiful?”

“Why yes! I do actually.” The girl beamed up at him, gaining confidence in their interactions.

“Good. Now, who are you?”

“I’m not afraid, but I’m uncertain.”

“That’s okay, for now. Continue forward with your journey and return to me when you are certain of who you are.” The caterpillar detailed.

The girl wandered for what felt like centuries, conquering her fears of the dark & heights, falling in love with her quirks and oddities, allowing herself to enjoy what she wants and who she is. She explored different parts of her world and mind, captivating by the quests she endured. She learned of what darkness she held inside of her, giving herself the space and time to process, accept, and live with the growth from the knowledge she obtained. She became one with the universe and gravitated toward light. She flew, balanced, created and destroyed everything she had to offer and was able to make a difference in her own world. She wandered until she returned.

“Who are you now?” The caterpillar asks the girl, who is now a woman. I am everything I ever dreamed about and I am the most beautiful woman I have ever known, she confidently explained.

The caterpillar smiles,bellowing smoke out of his mouth, encapsulating her. The smoke swirls and beams of colors and an unknown light, opening the door for her eyes to see the world around her. She saw a bright light and for what felt like the first time, she began to see the sun.

The sky was clear with the stars shining in her face, her eyes glowing with the light that was coming down from above her. The sun rose from the ground and she felt her body moving slowly toward the horizon, as if it were the only thing that had ever been seen before. She looked at the moon and smiled as she was about halfway through the day before she had a moment of relief in the darkness. She felt the warmth of the sky ask her to come back and see the stars again.

Through her journey amongst the stars, she found herself with the most powerful voice she had ever known. Her heart was full of love for the world and she knew it would never leave her alone again.

[omegamoo]

HI ive gained brajnrot from your oc from only the little bit ive heard of them. if youd be alright with it could you tell me iotas lore? /nf tho!! (also ive been drawing them based on art you reblogged a few days ago and ive been having a lot of fun :D they have such a cool design and aa) ((also also first ask from me hello hello wonderful mutual))

I GOT SO FAR THROUGH WRITING THIS ASK AND THEN TUMBLR DELETED IT. anyways hiiiiii beloved mutual welcome to my inbox! im literally so honored u got brainrot from my silly girly.... please feel free to share ur art if u feel so inclinced... i'd cry /pos

hope its okay im about to. infodump. im putting it under the cut. this is so long this is so much more than u asked for hopefully tgm doesn't kill me for explaining the plot. lol

alright. lets go again. iota is a part of a project called the whittled pantheon, which tells the story of eleven gods-ish and their experiences. its kinda broadly complicated and im only here to tell iota lore rn so if you want more general lore check the "whittled pantheon" tag link in my pinned!

okay so iota. pronouns she/it/moon although i largely default to she. oops. its the goddess of the wild - deepest darkest nights, moon and stars, the forests. uncivilized area. grass taller than ur head. wildflowers. u get the idea. she has a brother, agathodaemon, who's the god of the tamed (he's written by the lovely lovely tgm). iota is very introverted and prefers to spend most of her time in the woods with her conditionally immortal wolfpack. moon doesn't interact with humans and is. so very uncivilized please do not bring moon into the court room oh god

whittled pantheon itself as a story is split into essentially two parts - the old world, where the gods are born and spend the most time, and the new world, where the gods flee after the destruction of the old world. in the old world, iota's very reclusive. this is where you see it vibing with its pack and being a woods girly. she interacts mostly with agathodaemon, as well as statikos (god of beasts, written by tweewig) and palaemon (water god). she does interact with the other gods but like. infrequently. and never with humans.

so time goes on. agathodaemon builds a giant city on the coast and its destroying natural resources and iota goes okay this is no longer cool. she and palaemon get together and confront daemon and they're like hey buddy. stop. agathodaemon temporarily stops and then comes back, resulting in a massive falling out between daemon and iota. then, palaemon dies mysteriously, and his death starts the destruction of the world, starting with a flood that wipes out daemon's city. lol karma i guess.

the catalyst is what we've been calling the destruction of the world (the balance of the world is fucked up. water dries up, world shatters from inside out). the gods kinda collectively get together for once and go alright. oh shit. and Leave. but in the process they leave iota behind

iota now has to survive the literal destruction of her entire known world. moon is the only god left on the old world, and she's surrounded by humans who fundamentally make no sense to it and also need/want it to save them. but iota cannot save them because she is one god left alone. she tries, though. she meets lots of humans one of whom it becomes like. very good ambiguous 'besties' with. this is fortuna. she changes iota's entire perception of the world. but you know the world is dying and all of the humans die and iotas immortality is like. dripping down the drain and she cannot find a way back. but daemon comes to the rescue because even after everythign he loves her. the whole rescue bit has a whole Other set of worldbuilding lore and explanations that i will not get into here just know that its a thing. they make it back to the new world and start to Heal.

im not going to explain anything else because spoilers. but. i think all this is good to talk about. hopefully. or tgm will fucking kill me /j. but yeah. god. this was somuch more than you asked for.......... well enjoy anyways <3

[vounoura]

Does post game Ithren have any hobbies? Other than being a begrudging cat mum.

for a long time afterwards, she...drifts, a lot. everything at the moment is a lot to take in and process, so as her sensitivity very slowly comes down to 'normal' levels she mostly drifts from task to task and new experience to new experience.

It's a lot of manual labour, at first; the burn of muscle is weird and unusual and a little disconcerting as a feeling when you've never felt it before, but it's probably the first sensory barrier she breaks through. The old house she moves into with Shadowheart slowly comes together, day by day, bit by bit, the holes in the walls patched up and the doors that stick replaced. Ithren, until now, has only ever had hands that were meant to destroy things, and the sense of pleased contentment that comes with watching something come together, looking at the results of something you've created is...well, it's foreign but it's nice.

(It's precious to her.)

The interest in new things, in experiencing every new thing she can handle, comes quickly, though it ebbs and flows from being manageable to being overwhelming from day to day. Shadowheart wants flowers, and so they plant them, and she's never had to be this delicate with a living thing before. She feels the flow of soft dirt and the brush of petals over her fingers as they dig and more than once drifts, in wonder that she can feel it at all.

(Later, while they are in bloom, they become one of her favourite things to just look at.)

She likes being in the slow flow of nature, when her recovery allows it. When she can handle the touch of grass, the warmth of the sun, the scent of wildflowers, the light breeze - she likes to sit out there, sometimes for hours, not really thinking but just content. Sometimes Shadowheart joins her, and sometimes they nap there, down in the grass. Sometimes she brings wine, and they laugh an afternoon away, or take walks through the fields of wildflowers. They have a deck with a chair, and when the evening draws in Ithren sits out there too, even in the chill, sometimes with a blanket and sometimes with one of the cats nestled nice and snug in her lap, or Scratch lying heavy on her feet.

(She tries a shopping trip with Shadowheart down to the closest market once and - and even months later it is still too much. The crowd, the noise, the brush of other people's limbs against yours and the yelling and the - it is too much. The overwhelming settles as irritation and Shadowheart brings her home early, settling nice and quiet in a dark room under a blanket, and she decides that she much prefers the easy silence of their own home to anything else.)

Ithren takes a long time to find her hobbies, but I suppose her hobbies are trying new things and otherwise relaxing. Bhaal took almost everything that wasn't immediately necessary to being a weapon from her when he cast her from his body, and the gift Withers gave her in restoring it is not one she intends to squander - so sometimes she takes to things a little more zealously than she can actually handle, but well.

That's how we learn, isn't it? Her war is over, and she has time.

[beyondtheciouds]

"Please don't, Dru." Jaime said, his eyes shifting to the small cluster of students gradually coming up the set of wedged stone stairs that led to the domed dorms. He smiled uneasily at Dru, his eggshell white teeth tight against his inner lip. They were in the hallway of her dorm at the Academy, arguing like stubborn children. The dwindling light and scent of spring filtered into the dark and dreary hall through the few open windows. He could smell the scent of the wildflowers in the fields like perfume, lilacs and jasmine tempting him to stay.

"Please don't what," Dru snarked back, her voice like the bite of a shark --- her oceanic eyes searching out her next prey as her teeth dragged along the skin of her anger. "Don't tell you what a piece of crap you are for not answering my texts?" She continued as her hands trembled and waved the newspaper he had unceremoniously thrown at her feet when she opened her door. "You can't seek me out for any reason other than this?"

Jaime frowned. "Dru---I---I..." He stammered like a child. He had thought about her every day. He had wanted to text her; call her. But if he done so, he would have destroyed himself in the process. " I couldn't."

"Why do you care about foolish mundanes, Jaime?" She asked, ignoring her own pride ruined. Dru's voice was lowered, and her eyes narrowed beneath the curtain of dark hair and long lashes. In the light she looked different; more mature but somehow still the same. He couldn't put his finger on it. This Drusilla was very different from the girl she had been in Los Angeles. "This has nothing to do with demons. Not in the literal sense anyway." she continued, her voice a vice gripping his heart.

He sighed; he wished she hadn't gotten so pretty. If she remained the cross thirteen year old she had been, it would have been so easy to walk away from eyes that resembled the tropical waters he'd swam in freely. Now she was close to seventeen; almost an adult. Close enough to be his. "I just do."

Dru was honestly starting to irritate him the way teenage girls do and his heart rallied at the encroaching argument. The light flickered above them; the thunder sounded closer than it was moments ago. The sound echoed in the stone hallway, the dorm doors light on their hinges, shuttering in response to the brewing storm outside. The cool air was settling in, giving way to cooler rain. "That is not an answer."

Jaime shook his head. "Just trust me, Dru. We need to go after these people." He couldn't give out any more details just yet, not until they were all together. Then he would form alliances and a plan.

He had travelled in a portal from Mexico where he had stowed himself in a quaint and quiet town for the last year carving out a mere existence, doing odd jobs. His peaceful life had come to a crashing halt when he received the newspaper in the mail. The moment he opened the paper, he knew he would have to come back for them all.

"What about the cops? Can't you go to them without getting me involved?" Dru asked; skeptical of his reason for seeking her out.

"Cops?" He nearly choked on the laugh that spurted from his throat, his hands slick with sweat in the pockets of his jeans. "They are doing nothing! We need to take care of these...killers."

Dru brushed off the side-eyed stares of her peers mulling around the hall watching them with open curiosity. Whispers and hushes rose through the small clusters of students. She ran the fingers of her free hand through her dark hair feeling like she was missing something. "You can't be serious. I didn't know you developed such a hero complex."

He frowned, clearly disappointed in her response. But he knew he shouldn't be. He was withholding information from her. Even so, it was evident she hadn't read the red, elegant handing writing on the margins of the article at all. "The Sight, Dru. They are targeting people with the Sight. Mundanes that can see us and want to Ascend. " He paused, giving the thought a moment to sink into her brain, make the connection he, Ash, Kit and Ty had already made.

Others moved closer, surrounding them in the narrow hallway. For once, Jaime didn't care he had an audience. He inched closer to her and put his hand gently on her shoulder as she dropped her arm to her side. It was warm beneath the softness of her olive sweater. Her dark hair hung loose, and Jaime was tempted to run his fingers over the glossy strands.

Drusilla was the last piece of the puzzle and if he didn't convince her, the others surely would. He spoke, his voice was cold as ice--driving down the seriousness of the situation. "Future Shadowhunters, Dru. They are targeting future Shadowhunters."

[ashthenerd]

Image description:

Anti lawn, does this mean our lawns should look like this (overgrown chaotic garden with bugs

No!!! When a habitat is destroyed, nature has a way of healing itself, it's called succession

The first kinds of plants to start growing in adevastated area are called Pioneer Species. Pioneer species are tough, thrive in harshconditions, and reproduce fast, so theycompletely take over...Wait that sounds like WEEDS!!!

("*not the same as invasiveplants-invasive plantsare non-native speciesthat displace and harmnative ones.)

Exactly right! In nature, "weed" is a job. After a disaster, tough, aggressive plants takeover an area to shelter and attract wildlife, stop erosion, and get the place ready for other plants. When flowers, shrubs and trees start growing, the pioneer species start to fade

A "natural" yard doesn't mean "weeds"-it meansthe niches where weeds fit are shaded out by trees and shrubs or filled with other plants. This yard (plain green grass) is a habitat where almost all life has been wiped out. There is so much sunlight to go around that all the most aggressive plants try to snap it up. The only time in nature that there would be so few plant species, is after an extreme disaster. So, tough, aggressive "weeds" rush into start the healing process

You may think that this picture (area full of brambles and sharp thorns) shows what a "natural yard" would look like but it's actually a habitat trying to RECOVER from being a lawn.This picture shows an early stage of the natural process of succession. This stage is messy and weedy because no other plants have shown up yet to take up space and sunlight. This takes so much time andmoney to maintain because it's so empty. The more biodiversity you wipe out, the harder youhave to fight nature

Replacing part of your lawn with a better alternative means looking at the kind of habitat it would become in a later stage ofsuccession and imitating it.If the place you live used to beforest, plant some trees native toyour area. The more shade, the less easily the ground will get overgrown, because there is more competition for sunlight. A small grove of trees makes its own free mulch. Fill up space you don't use with native bushes, shrubs and flowers, lettingthem mix together and crowd in.

Yes = wildflowers which are great for pollinators filling all the space.

No = spread out bushes that only cover a small portion of the ground and will take years to grow

Don't get rid of any plants without identifying them. Not all plants that pop up in your yard are "weeds," and not all "weeds" are bad. A lot of "weeds" that grow in lawns are actually baby trees!

Eg. Oak, sycamore, redbud or poplar tulip

I...tried to make a meme and got carried away and made A Thing that is like partially unfinished because i spent like 3 hours on it and then got tired.

I think this is mostly scientifically accurate but truth be told, there seems to be relatively little research on succession in regards to lawns specifically (as opposed to like, pastures). I am not exaggerating how bad they are for biodiversity though—recent research has referred to them as "ecological deserts."

Feel free to repost, no need for credit

[geohoneyy]

The sustainability of white honey: How it's produced and how it's beneficial to the environment

White honey, like all types of honey, is produced by honeybees pollinating plants and collecting nectar to bring back to the hive. The process of honey production is relatively sustainable, as it relies on the natural behavior of bees and the growth of plants. However, there are a few factors that can impact the sustainability of white honey production:

Pesticide use: The use of pesticides on plants can harm bees and reduce the number of pollinators available to produce honey. To ensure sustainable white honey production, it's important to use pesticides responsibly and avoid applying them during times when bees are actively foraging.

Habitat loss: The loss of natural habitats, such as wildflower meadows, can reduce the number of plants available for bees to pollinate and collect nectar from. To promote sustainable white honey production, it's important to protect and restore natural habitats.

Colony collapse disorder (CCD): CCD is a phenomenon where bees suddenly disappear from their hives, leaving behind only the queen and a few young bees. The cause of CCD is not fully understood, but it is thought to be related to a combination of factors such as pesticide exposure, disease, and habitat loss.

White honeyis also beneficial to the environment in a number of ways, such as:

Pollination: Honeybees are important pollinators of many crops, including fruits and vegetables. By producing honey, bees help to pollinate plants and increase crop yields.

Habitat restoration: Many beekeepers use their hives to pollinate plants and restore habitats in areas where they have been destroyed.

Carbon sequestration: The growth of plants that produce nectar for bees to collect also helps to absorb carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, which can help to mitigate the effects of climate change.

Overall, while white honey production can be sustainable, it is important to consider the practices used to produce the honey and to take steps to protect bees and their habitats.

Organic and sustainable beekeeping practices: Many beekeepers are now adopting organic and sustainable methods to produce white honey. This includes using natural methods to control pests and diseases, avoiding the use of pesticides and chemicals, and providing bees with a healthy and diverse diet. By using these methods, beekeepers can promote the health and well-being of their bees, while also producing high-quality honey that is better for the environment.

Supporting local beekeepers:

Supporting fair trade honey: Fair trade certification ensures that beekeepers are paid a fair price for their honey, and that they are adhering to sustainable and ethical beekeeping practices. By supporting fair trade honey, consumers can help to promote sustainable white honey production around the world.

Supporting conservation efforts: Supporting organizations that work to protect bees and their habitats can also help to promote sustainable white honey production. This can include supporting conservation efforts, research on bees, and education programs that raise awareness about the importance of bees and the role they play in producing white honey.

Overall, sustainable white honey production requires a combination of responsible beekeeping practices, conservation efforts, and consumer support for sustainable honey production methods. By being mindful of these factors, consumers can help to promote sustainable white honey production and support the health of bees and their habitats.

Are you happy? Go to Geohoney.com and Buy Now!

[why-am-i-here-someone-save-me]

Caged (Part 1)

TWs: bloodshed, minor character death(s), religious themes(but like mostly only implied), Zhongli being an edgy teen, salt-based ptsd, dust-based ptsd, stalking, pining, implications of reader’s inevitable death, heavily implied murder(protective Morax go brrr), weapons, general destruction ngl

You had never quite enjoyed being focused on. You were far more content to stay on the sidelines, out of the attention of others. You were called humble. Modest. Reserved.

Yet it would be that same humility that would be your doom.

By standing apart from others, you caught the attention of someone who would lead you down the path of destruction.

After all…

Haven’t you heard it’s dangerous to catch a dragon’s eye?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was many things. A god, A warrior, the Prime Adepti. But if there was one thing that Morax was not, well, that would be relenting. He was solid earth, immovable stone, uncompromising rock; and what he desired would either be his or be destroyed.

You were many things. Caring, supportive, understanding. But the one thing you weren’t was faithful, not to the gods at least. Your loyalty to your friends and family, even to fellow humans you’d just met was apparent. But you did not hold the same level of devotion to the gods. How could you amidst this war? Deities were feuding and striking each other down all around you. Why would you place faith in ones who could erase everything you’d ever known in the blink of an eye? Why would you place your heart and soul in the hands of another deity when Lady Havria had taken so much of you to the grave with her? You could not. You knew that if you did, and you were to lose yet another god, you would be unable to carry on. Not again. She had already taken half of you with her.

You mourned your beloved Goddess of Salt. And yet you refused to allow grief to consume you. You refused to let yourself wither away, not after all that Lady Havria had done to protect you and your people. You had been young when your family fled Sal Tearre, too young to grasp what was truly about the occur within your home, too young to understand that you would not ever see Lady Havria’s smile again. When you finally realized the truth, you had been devastated. It had broken you. Lady Havria cared for your people on a very personal level. She had known every name, every face, every single one of her beloved followers. Havria cared for her people as though she were a family member, not their deity. She had been a mother figure to you. When she had been ripped from your life, you had never felt so lost. Your family eventually took refuge in a small village, as as time went by, it became your new home.

It took many years for you to process her demise. But eventually you came to realize that she wouldn’t wish to see you devastated like you were. The revelation had changed your entire outlook on life. You learned to find happiness in the small things in life. A particularly beautiful wildflower blooming in your garden, the laughter of the village children as they played, the feeling of a gentle breeze on a hot day, you treasured each of them. You did not know just how contagious your joy was. By the time you had reached adulthood, you were unknowingly beloved by your peers.

You were ignorant to the fact that the people of your village considered you the pride of the little town. How could they not take pride in you? You who would go so far beyond what was asked of you, who gladly took burdens upon yourself simply to see them happy, who had to be all but forced to rest after spending days working hard for their sakes. Humble as you were, they knew you would be embarrassed by such words, and so they kept them to themselves.

You did not like attention.

But you received it regardless.

You would come to realize that the term ‘dislike’ was not strong enough to describe your feelings for it. You loathed it. Despised it.

It had only ever brought suffering upon you.

It had been the reason you’d unwittingly caught his eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had no idea who he was.

But he knew much about you.

He had learned your story, he probably knew it better than you yourself knew it. He found your lack of reverence for the gods amusing. The way you would laugh it off when one of your peers invited you to a religious event was adorable to him. If he weren’t a stranger in your eyes, he’s certain he would gain your companionship easily. But he was content to watch from afar. After all, as rash as he was, Morax knew all too well the fragility of humans. No mortal had ever caught his eye as you did, and he did not have to observe you for long before a desire began to take root in his mind.

Just who did you think you were, getting his thoughts all mixed up like this? You had no right to cause his heartbeat to speed up, no right to make his mouth curl up into a smile as you did. Yet he couldn’t resent you for some reason. He knew that he was growing attached to you. Morax knew very well how bad of an idea that was. He should not be spending his time thinking of you, of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes would shine so brightly when they caught the light. He told himself over and over how fragile you were, that he could not afford to allow anyone into his heart during this war, least of all a mortal. But despite how many times he repeated this all to himself, he would always wind up near your village, watching as you went throughout your day. You fascinated him so effortlessly that it frustrated him. He was in a war for Celestia’s sake! He didn’t have the time or resources to be so invested in you like he was! Despite his words, he would always end up fulfilling his self-proposed ‘vigil’ over you from afar. ‘Just in case’ he would tell himself. ‘Just in case something were to happen.’

When something did happen, it wasn’t to you, no. Nor was it to him. But the loss of Guizhong caused something within him to break. His once unnoticed gaze as you lived your life slowly began to become more and more present. The constant feeling of being watched would have been more than enough to eat away at you, but the sheer suffocating presence of the gaze was certainly not helping matters.

Morax still found your lack of devotion to the gods endearing, the thought of you giving your worship to a deity other than him made his blood boil. On the days when such thoughts would enter his mind, there would always be a few small earthquakes throughout the land. No, it was better for you to worship no one than for you to worship some other god like Chi, or Celestia forbid Osial. But oh, if he didn’t long to see you devote your worship to him! The fantasies he would come up with would always leave him even more smitten with you than before. He longed to see you kneel at one of his temples, to hear you call out to him in prayer, for you to make offerings to him. He longed for you to pledge your devotion to him, for you to vow that you would remain faithful to him, that you would not leave him as Guizhong had. He knew it was foolish of him, you were mortal after all. You were fleeting, a flash of light in the night, a spark burning brightly before being quenched moments later.

You would leave him, just as Guizhong did.

He knew it to be a fact, yet he refused to acknowledge it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your meeting was not as he would have wished. He had hoped that when he inevitably would approach you, it would be on a calm day, where he could easily have befriended you amidst sunshine and breezes.

He would not have preferred your meeting to be one framed by fire and panic. It would be far more difficult to form a bond with you if you were closed off in grief. But alas, he could hardly sit back and let you be slain, even if it wasn’t the first encounter he had hoped for. He summoned his spear, preparing to step in, but hesitated for a moment. That hesitation, the momentary pause in his actions, that had been the sealing of your fate.

Those few seconds would be the foundation of stone shackles that would ensnare your very being, cold and unyielding, and you would despise them with everything you had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You trembled in terror and despair at the slow footsteps approaching you. You knew that they already were aware of your hiding place, and were merely taunting you at this point. The small dagger in your hand shook as the bandit drew closer and closer. You had no chance of defeating them all, let alone surviving, but if you could at least take out one of them, then you would be satisfied. “Why don’t you come on out hmm~? We don’t bite. Too much~.” Your stomach churned at the sound of the man’s voice, as if his hand wasn’t holding a blade that had just taken the lives of so many you called friends. “Hey now, maybe if you behave and surrender we’ll go easy on you~.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as the footsteps stopped outside the poorly blocked entrance to your home. You didn’t want it to end like this. Not after all Lady Havria had done to give you a chance at a prosperous life. Not like this. Tears escaped from your tightly shut eyes as your desperation finally convinces you to make a last ditch attempt to live.

You take a deep breath.

And you pray.

You pray to whoever or whatever might be listening to aid you, pleading your case to the divine.

You hadn’t expected an answer.

You’d come to wish you’d never received one.

Taglist: @nicebonescomrade

[sidhewrites]

An introduction by someone who hasn’t read this book but knows what their point is just by looking at the cover:

Plants and animals don’t create the climate around them. It’s the other way around. Arizona is a hot, dry desert that’s host to hardy plants and animals that evolved to survive weeks months or even years without water. But because of the idealization of lawnmower culture (aka the grass lawn that has one (1) life form (grass) and is otherwise a biological wasteland) and because of the stereotype of the desert being dead and empty of all life, people assume that bringing grass and other plants in from temperate climes are good.

This is BAD. because now you have to also bring in water from somewhere else — namely reservoirs and lakes outside of the cities. Arizona and the American Southwest overall don’t have a lot of water to go around as it is, so pumping it from one place to another is reckless and destroys the local ecosystems that rely desperately on what little water there is. And humans will use up the water WAY faster than nature could replenish it — not to mention these open-air canals will lose water to evaporation like nobody’s business. It’s a poorly managed, short-sighted process that will drain the Southwest of its natural resources, because people forget that their green grass that has to be watered every day doesn’t belong in the desert.

(There are laws in some parts of Arizona banning real grass lawns and non-native plants in landscaping. I wish this was adopted all over the us)

Additional points from an ecological standpoint below because I have a lot of feelings on the deserts ecosystem:

The desert is actually teeming with life. Hardy plants and animals have evolved specifically to rely on sparse water, but that doesn’t mean they can rely on none. And when those plants and animals die off, it begins a series of cause and effect. No water = no plants to store the water = no animals who eat the plants etc etc.

Do you know the name of the stereotypical cactus everyone thinks of? Do you know how long they live! Saguaro cacti only start growing arms after they’re decades old, if not centuries. These are massively old plants that can’t survive on zero water and provide homes to birds that build their nests in its body.

There are thousands pf species of birds besides the vultures everyone thinks about. Cactus wrens, mourning doves, white wing doves, quail, etc. lizards and reptiles galore. Beautiful butterflies and moths and wildflowers. There’s a type of tree in the Mojave desert that ONLY grows here called the Joshua tree that dates back to the ice ages. Forcing non-native plants to suffer through the by taking what little water exists in the desert will be a task that only ends in failure, both for the people living there and for the ecosystem around it that suffers.

Here are some photos of what the Arizona desert really looks like, just outside Phoenix where my parents live. It’s true there are swaths of desert that aren’t quite this densely populated, but that doesn’t matter. People don’t realize how alive the desert is, and they never will because city planners have surrounded them with artificially maintained plant life that has no business being here, being given resources that belong somewhere else.