#destined to torment each other for eternity

[aaandbackstabbed]

Daisy: you deserve a reward for putting up with me

Donald, smiling: you’re my reward

Scrooge: you deserve an award for putting up with me

Goldie: yeah you’re a real bitch sometimes

[himasgod]

Morax x Reader

Where your soulmark will unite you to him forever and ever, but you cannot be with him.

Where Guizhong, in her infatuation with Morax, casts a spell on him to make him forget his soulmark that binds you, an adepti, to him, and he falls in love with Guizhong. Years later, when Guizhong dies, Morax takes importance to you and tries to get back to you, but you, hurt, reject him and forget him. Many centuries later, Xiao, Traveler and Paimon have a single mission during the Moonchase Festival: to reunite you and Zhongli after so long.

(chat, did I cook? Seriously, this might be my favorite thing I've ever written on Tumblr. Around 900 words, give it a chance, I promise it'll be worth it :P)

In Teyvat, Soulmate Marks were more than just marks on the skin; they were a shared destiny, a divine promise that no matter the adversities, two souls were destined to meet and complete each other. To mortals, it was a comfort. To gods, it was a reminder that even they were bound by the universal laws of love.

Guizhong, the Goddess of Dust, had always been a visionary. Her intelligence and charisma had cemented Guili Assembly as a haven of prosperity and harmony. But deep within her heart was a desperate longing: to win the heart of the Geo Archon, Morax. Ever since she met him, she had been convinced that her place was at his side, not just as an ally, but as his eternal companion.

When her soulmate mark appeared, Guizhong held her breath in hope.

But her mark showed no clue that connected her to Morax.

Rather than accept this fate, her ambition and fear of rejection led her to commit an act that would change the course of both their lives: with a spell of illusions, she altered her mark to match his.

“Love is selfish… and it must be. For the sake of the Guili Assembly, for the sake of our vision, he must be mine,” she told herself every time the weight of guilt threatened to crush her.

Meanwhile, Morax’s true destiny was entangled with another adepti: you. You were a noble soul, whose mark reflected a deep connection to the land itself. Though Morax had never paid much attention to his own mark, the relationship between the two of you had been one of mutual respect. You, dedicated to the creation of medicines and the healing of Yakshas tormented by their karmic debt, had shared meaningful moments with Morax. Yet there had never been a declaration of love between you.

Morax's heart always seemed to be occupied by Guizhong.

You, though wounded, had accepted your silent role. If Morax found happiness with Guizhong, then that was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

Guizhong's death was a devastating blow to the Guili Assembly and, apparently, to Morax. For years, the Geo Archon mourned her loss, immortalizing her memory in the ruins of Guili. But deception cannot remain hidden forever. As time passed, the spell that had altered Moraxs mark dissipated, revealing its true form.

When Morax discovered the truth, an unfathomable rage took hold of him. Not only had he been betrayed, but he had also allowed his true soulmate to suffer in silence while he protected Guizhong's lie. In a fit of grief and disappointment, he erased from his memory any vestige of love he had felt for the Goddess of Dust.

But the truth came at a price: how to face you after so many years of indifference?

You had found solace in your work. Alongside the Herblord, you had dedicated your life to creating remedies to ease the burden of the Yakshas and other Adepti. You had left behind any hope of a relationship with Morax. For him, there was no room in his heart for false gestures or empty words.

When Morax finally found you, he was greeted with a coldness he had never expected.

“What do you wish, Morax?” you asked, not looking up from the herbs you were grinding.

“I have come to apologize. To seek… redemption,” he replied, his voice laden with a sincerity he rarely showed.

“Redemption does not change the past. And your words will not erase the years of silence. Go find solace in Guizhong’s memories… or in your own decisions.—"

The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving Morax with a weight he hadn’t felt in millennia.

The Moonchase Festival filled Liyue with vibrant energy. The streets were adorned with floating lanterns, tables laden with traditional food, and the laughter of children echoed in the air. It was a celebration of togetherness, of remembering the past and looking toward the future. Among the attendees, the Traveler and Paimon moved with determination, knowing that the success of their plan depended on their discretion.

They had to bring you and Zhongli together after so many years again, and today was the perfect opportunity.

Xiao, who rarely participated in festivities, stood at the edge of the crowd, watchful. He had reluctantly agreed to help, aware of how much it meant to him to see Zhongli and you reconcile. Though his face remained impassive, the Yaksha couldn’t help but feel a certain hope. He had lost so much over the years; perhaps it was time to recover something.

The Traveler was in charge of taking Zhongli to the designated place: a secluded viewing point at the port, from where one could observe the spectacle of the lanterns ascending- so romantic.

Xiao, meanwhile, was accompanying you, who had accepted the invitation to the festival at the Herbalist's insistence, unaware that it was all part of an elaborate plan.

When the two reached the viewing platform, the atmosphere instantly became tense. You, recognizing Zhongli, stopped in your tracks and pressed your lips together. The ancient Geo Archon, for his part, showed a mix of surprise and something that seemed vulnerable, an emotion rare in someone like him.

"I… didn't know you'd be here," you murmured, your tone bordering on indifference.

"It was my initiative," the Traveler quickly intervened, trying to ease the tension. "I thought it would be good for both of you to enjoy the festival from a quiet place."

"Calm down?" you raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but I don't think it's wise."

Before you could leave, Zhongli spoke:

"Please stay."

The tone of his voice, deep and solemn, managed to stop you. There was something in it, a sincerity that you hadn’t expected.

For long minutes, you both remained silent, watching the lanterns light up the sky. Finally, Zhongli spoke up:

“A long time ago, I was blinded by my own decisions. I allowed my judgment to be clouded by loyalty and duty, and in that process, I hurt those who mattered most. You. And my mark is binding me to you, it burns every time I think of you, and it has all these years. I know it burns you too. Guizhong moved me with her manipulative fingers, but now that she passed away so many years ago that I can't even count them… the truth of her lies has come to light. And I feel stupid…”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you turned to look directly at him, your eyes reflecting years of repressed pain.

“And what do you expect me to say? To forgive you after everything?”

Your tone was cold, but there was a tremor in your voice that betrayed the internal storm you were struggling to control. “After how you ignored everything I did for you, while defending someone who wasn’t even your soulmate?”

Zhongli looked down, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"I don't expect your forgiveness. I only hope that you'll allow me to prove that I've changed. That you'll understand how sorry I am for my blindness."

You let out a bitter laugh.

"You changed? Perhaps. But I changed too, Morax. Or I mean, Zhongli, I guess. Centuries don't pass in vain, and the wounds you left behind didn't heal easily. I'm not the same person who used to wait for you with hope. I'm now someone who learned to live without you, with this mark, but without you."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not hopeless. Zhongli, with his infinite patience, nodded slowly.

"I know. I can't pretend to erase the past or what I did. But I want you to know that I will never stop trying to make up for my mistakes. If you ever decide to give me a chance, I'll be here, waiting."

You looked at him for a long moment. There was something different about him; he was no longer the arrogant god who made unilateral decisions. There was humility in his words, a humanity you hadn't seen before.

“I make no promises, Zhongli,” you finally replied, your voice softer.

“But perhaps one day… we can try.”

Zhongli looked up, and for the first time in centuries, a small spark of hope lit up his eyes.

That night, though you were not completely reconciled, something changed between you. As the Moonchase Festival continued in the distance, Zhongli and you remained at the gazebo, sharing a quieter conversation. There were no promises, only a tacit understanding that time, though cruel, could also offer second chances.

From afar, Xiao, Traveler and Paimon watched the scene, Xiao's heart lightened.

Though he knew the road would be long, at least there was a start now.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[contentloadingandstuff]

Rip And Tear - Xilonen & Chasca x Male!Doom!Reader

A/N: Alright, here's something inspired by Doom. It doesn't include specific references, and is based on the human version of Doomguy (pre DOOM 2016). If you like it and want to see more of this idea, the asks are open. Enjoy! CW: Violence, established relationship, some made up lore to flesh out the Reader. I'm honestly not sure what genre this is.

“They are rage, brutal, without mercy. But you… You will be worse. Rip and tear, until it is done.” - Xbalanque, The First Pyro Archon

“In the first age, in the first battle, when the shadows first lengthened, one stood. Burned by the embers of war, his soul blistered by the fires of Abyss and tainted beyond ascension, he chose the path of perpetual torment. In his ravenous hatred he found no peace; and with boiling blood he scoured the Abyssal Void seeking vengeance against the dark lords who had wronged him. He bore the ancient name of Natlan, and those that tasted the bite of his sword named him Askari. Though his body fell, consumed by the eternal fires of conflict, he rages on through each that bears his name.” - Tablet of Tona, Third Cycle, Passage CLXXIV

Xilonen

Every time the nation of Pyro goes to war, a new Askari is selected from the tribes by the unified will of all six Wayob. The legends say that this man, worthy of carrying the name, will not seek it or desire it, but will bear it until his role is done. He shall never grow old, they say, as he will meet a glorious death. Then, his successor will be selected should the need arise. 

As for Xilonen? She is not happy with it, by any meaning of the word. Of course it is her husband that happens to be the tormented, death-destined slayer. That’s just how life is going to treat her, huh?

First it was the massive abyssal invasion, one unlike any other in the previous century. She was one of the first to be evacuated from the Children of the Echoes, as her skills - no matter her combat prowess - were too valuable to put on the line. As such, she spent most of the conflict in the Stadium’s forge, crafting weapons at inhuman speeds for the ever dwindling defenders. The moments when she was allowed to leave its safety were anything but a break, as were her nights. She tossed and turned restlessly in the empty bed, worrying about you. Her family was safe, but you were not. There was no news of your fate. But Xilonen never assumed you were dead - you were strong, yes, you couldn’t have died so easily. If she only wasn’t so crucial to everything! She swore, looking out the window towards her overran home, that she would turn the world upside down to find you when it was all over. But fate had other plans. 

The war wasn’t over yet when she was taking a breather near the entrance, subconsciously scanning for any familiar faces amongst the constant inwards flow of ragged, scared refugees. At some point, the crowd started parting to make way for someone. Curious, Xilonen peeked out - only to see you. You, her beloved, her second half, covered in black blood and corrupted goo. Head to toe in armor unfamiliar to her, in one hand you carried your helmet and in the other, much to her horror… the obsidian shard with ASKR inscribed in runes. 

She froze. This was not happening. It took an entire day and a terrible hangover afterwards to come to terms with what just occurred. In one moment, you were fine. You were back. In the very next second, you were dead. Your fate was sealed by the name you were given. No matter how hard she would try, you wouldn’t be able to grow old with her. Before a single hair grayed on your head, you would scamper off to some dank hole and throw yourself at some gross monster just to die and leave her a broken-hearted widow, and your children fatherless orphans. For the first time in a long while, Xilonen was at a loss for words. The only things she could do, after countless rounds and hours of anger at the gods, she could only curl up and cry. 

Once the emotions passed, and alongside with them the war, the mood was bittersweet when she embraced you. You were alright. You wouldn’t die just yet. Then, she promised that no matter what the world was to throw at you, you wouldn’t shed a drop of blood until the prophecy demanded it of you. And she intends to hold that word to this very day. 

Now that the war is over, Xilonen is your primary arms dealer. No matter how tired she is, she puts even a little work into a new weapon or a new equipment piece for you every day. She has the freedom to do so, as Mauvika is obliged to foot the bill for the Warrior’s needs. Xilonen made sure to analyse your armor, finding that it was the same exact set worn by one of the ancient Askari - his spirit led you to it, no doubt about that. Though it’s mostly alien to her, a remnant of draconic technology of old, she does try to not only fix it, but improve it as well. So far, she is quite successful. Whenever you go out, expect to have your equipment fixed up, cleaned, sharpened and polished to perfection. 

Even if you find that too much, Xilonen will turn your refusal down. It’s not only her job as the Name Forger to care for the Askari’s gear, but she is also obliged to look out for you as your wife. It’s the least she can do for you. 

She can’t help you on your quest, as most of it is secretly planned by Mauvika so the information remains clandestine, and she absolutely cannot match you in combat. Xilonen is a good fighter, as every name bearer in Natlan, but you are several grades above her. Hell, you could even go head to head with Mauvika should the need arise - after all, one of the Askaris is famous for killing a Pyro Archon when he turned malevolent and embarked on a path of oppression. She saw you wield both blade and gun with repulsive efficiency…

Repulsive, as Xilonen dislikes gore. Yes, she is aware that it lies amongst the methods of Askari, and yes, she knows that it is very efficient at routing monsters, but it’s so spine chilling to watch you rip your enemies apart. She read about the terrible strength of your predecessors, she saw the murals, but nothing could compare to the sight and the sheer brutal efficiency of your massacres. Because that is the only word to describe most of your encounters with both monsters and humans. After a few brief moments, all that is left of them is a pile of mangled bodies and the sickening stench of iron in the air. 

Luckily, she sees it quite rarely. Nobody sane in Natlan dares to stand in your way - after all, no man or woman would like to have their head skewered with their broken radius, so it's clueless and arrogant Fatui that end up on the wrong end of your weapon. Hilichurls, especially stronger ones, are often too limited in their minds to appreciate just what will happen to them if they come too close to you.

Xilonen thanks Xbalanque each day that your Ancient Name does not corrupt your mind. With just how coldly ruthless you are in combat, you would think an Askari unable to feel or love. But you are still the same man she fell for - just with a tougher look and more blood on his hands. 

Your wife feels incredibly safe in your arms. She knows that you would never raise a hand on somebody undeserving of retribution. Your divine muscles, gained thanks to the supernatural power of the Name, makes you a perfect pillow. Be ready to be her headrest - Xilonen has limited time with you, and she aims to make the most of it. She already started preparing a children’s room for your heirs. It’s best to start as soon as possible so they get many fond memories with their father before he inevitably gives his life for her, them and all of Natlan. 

Chasca

Her role as a peacekeeper didn’t really exist as a separate profession in the ancient times. Most of it was done by the chiefs and their loyal entourage of warriors, but when the population grew and the tribes expanded into more complex structures, that wasn’t sufficient. In recent years, it has been even harder to maintain order as a long period of peace, and the absence of an Askari to be wary of, brough the people of Natlan further apart from each other. But not anymore.

It happened in the middle of the invasion. Buildings of the Flower Feather Clan were burning with unnatural, purple flames. Dark ooze was leaking from several Abyss portals, constantly spewing new monsters. Her fellow defenders were fighting bravely, but at that point corrosion and simple, human exhaustion started to set it. She watched as they dwindled in number, falling to blows of clubs and axes, others being torn to pieces by jagged, corrupted fangs of Rifthounds. You have long vanished from her sight, and in the midst of combat, she assumed you died as well, and realized that she was soon to follow. In her mind, it was the end. The end of her tribe, her family and herself. Her human parents, Chuychu, you, maybe even Chimpu and Coya.

Her ammunition ran out, and it was down to just her Vision. Exhaustion was slowly robbing her of strength to fight on. A lapse in concentration and she found herself knocked to the ground by a corroded Mitachurl. It raised its axe, ready to kill her. But then, a roar - no, a battle cry, coming from the skies. Both she and the monster looked up, its last sight being the underside of your boot. Chasca watched as it came crashing down, its head splattering against the wooden platform under the force of your attack. You were bleeding, wounded, wielding the remnants of your weapon like a short knife. But on your face was an expression of hate. Rage. Combat fury that she hasn’t seen either in a human or a saurian. Hilichurls approached you, only to be met with a barrage of cuts, fists and knees. You broke one’s arm like it was a twig, breaking its face alongside its mask on your fist. Another was cut open, the broken blade passing through muscle and bone as if it was butter. One was unfortunate to stumble after a kick; you stomped on its leg and, holding onto the monster’s shoulder, pulled the head alongside the spine out of its body like it was a weed. Chasca could only watch as the foes were killed, one by one in a torrent of blood and guts. Eventually, they just… broke. They fled, leaving you standing alone amidst the bodies of your comrades and whatever was left of theirs.

Before she could even speak a word, you hoisted her by her collar and, without a word, carried her to the chief’s hut where survivors were gathered. When she came to her senses, she didn’t ask any questions - it wasn’t the time for that. Both of you led whatever was left of the tribe to the Stadium. Only on the way back did Chasca notice that it wasn’t a broken sword you were wielding. It was an obsidian sigil mounted on a handle. A sigil with nothing else but the letters ASKR carved into the obsidian. Once you got to your destination, you wandered off and she saw you again only after the invasion

You weren’t there to comfort her when Chuychu succumbed to corrosion. She knew, however, that you couldn’t. Your new name, just like hers, came with duties that had to be attended to.   

Who would have thought that Chasca would be the one to witness the cursed name, the mark of the beast, be granted to a chosen Warrior? And her husband no less? That was one of the only two good things to come out of the invasion. The latter being that, even if it’s a bit cynical to admit, only one of her loved ones died. There were many among the tribe who lost everyone they held dear. But you were still here, stronger and… cooler than ever. 

Every Askari has similar traits of character, you being no exception. Calm, laconic in speech and dutiful… How could she have not expected you to be this generation’s Warrior? Perhaps it was the part of her that hoped you wouldn’t be marked for death. But alas, the will of the Wayob comes from their wisdom and strives for the good of all Natlan - it would be selfish to try and resist it. 

On top of that, you didn’t seem opposed to your new destiny. You wore the armor and wielded the weapons with a grim determination and hatred boiling in your veins as you tore your enemies into pieces. While you weren’t eager to voluntarily put yourself in danger before, now you were the first to go in, and soon your given name became a synonym for victory. The remaining nests of the Abyss and the monsters lurking around dark corners were stomped into the mud, the survivors too scared of you to come out and threaten the people ever again. Then, riding on your Qucusaurus, you took to the ruins of Ochkanatlan to clean the corrosion. Although the Traveler got to the dragon first, you still had lots of things to kill. 

And when all was said and done, you looked around at all the bodies and scoffed, for there were no more monster necks to snap, no more skulls to pulverise under your boots. So you returned home. 

Chasca was with you all the way. Temporarily, there was a smaller need to keep the peace since everybody was still united and wary of a possible counterattack. She observed as you purged the monsters, and couldn’t tear her eyes away from you. The way an Askari fought was described in legends, but the retellings were nothing when compared to seeing you in the flesh. You were fearless. You brushed off any injury they could inflict on you, your body quickly regenerating as soon as you wet your blade with another monster’s blood. Your newly enhanced size and musculature let you snap necks and crush heads with spine-chilling ease. She is more than perfectly aware of why you fight this way - fear is the only way to get through to the primal minds of the monstrosities you fight. And it is effective, for they fear only one thing - you. 

While she was very intimidating before, it’s an entirely different matter now. Just a mention of her getting involved creates an instant link to you in the minds of the troublemakers. If they pull her into this, she could definitely ask you for a hand and render them into nothing but ground meat. And although you don’t usually fight humans, she saw you drive back Fatui and similar criminals before. And the rest of Natlan has heard about it too. Now very few dare to rob caravans or poach saurians, fearing that they might land in the center of your attention. And nobody wants that. 

Even if you made her role a bit less necessary, you do make up for it by being an absolute piece of cinema. Chasca could watch you train and fight for hours on end, seeing every muscle flex as you deliver well-earned retribution.

And when there are no monsters in urgent need of a proper beatdown, she can… enjoy your strength in greater detail, so to speak. But you don’t mind that, do you?

Thanks for reading!

[pxnsneverland]

Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 2)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2961

warnings/notes: violence, murder, blood, death, mentions of abuse

Chapter 2: A Desperate Call

Bonnie Barlow. His Bonnie. After what felt like an eternity, she was finally on the other end of the call. Her voice, like a gentle melody, washed over him and brought back memories of happier times. But underlying that beauty was an unmistakable panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong. His heart hammered against his chest, threatening to burst out as he stumbled across the room, frantically reaching for his jacket once more. Through the phone, he could hear her soft sobs, tears evident in every quiver of her voice. He had to get to her, no matter what obstacles lay in his path.

“What’s wrong, Bon?” His voice quivered with emotion as he made his way back out the door.

“I need you, Austin…” Her words were muffled by her sobs, but each one pierced through him like a dagger. He knew he had to get to her quickly.

The sound of her heart-wrenching sobs cut through him like a knife. “Please, baby…tell me where you are.” He pleaded, his heart pounding in his chest. The thought of her being in danger made it difficult for him to catch his breath. Bonnie remained silent, and for a brief moment, he feared she had ended the call. With trembling hands, he pulled the phone away from his cheek and let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the call was still connected. Bonnie leaned in close, her voice a low whisper as she recited the unfamiliar address. Austin's fingers flew over the keys of his GPS, determined to reach this mysterious destination. He didn't dare hang up the phone, afraid that he might lose contact with Bonnie forever.

Like a bullet fired from a gun, Austin tore down the road on his sleek motorcycle. He weaved between cars and disregarded any semblance of traffic laws. The roar of the engine echoed off the buildings. If a police car had spotted him, they hadn't bothered to give chase. And even if they had tried, he wouldn't have stopped anyway for them tonight.

As Austin rode, the cool breeze whipped past him, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The dark expanse of night enveloped him like a shroud, making the world seem surreal and hazy. But his mind was focused on one thing - Bonnie. Her soft voice still echoed in his ear and the sound of her heartrending sobs reverberated through his mind. He gripped his bike's handlebars tightly, feeling the worn leather of his riding gloves beneath his fingers. As he picked up speed, the engine's growl grew louder and more urgent, matching the racing beat of his heart. His gut twisted with unease as he drew closer to the unfamiliar address, a nagging feeling gnawing at him that something was dreadfully wrong. Finally, the building came into view as he rounded a corner - an old house nestled in the middle of the dense woods. Its decrepit walls and windows gave off an eerie aura, adding to Austin's growing sense of unease.

With a quick twist of his wrist, he brought the bike to a stop and hopped off, feeling the weight of his body shift as he landed on the ground. Without hesitation, he flipped up the kickstand and grabbed his phone, grateful once again that the call was still connected. “I think I’m here.” As he jogged towards the front steps, his breath quickened with anticipation.

With a creak of protest, the old door to the house slowly opened, revealing Bonnie's haggard appearance. Her clothes were torn and blood stained, while her face was marred with deep bruises and dried blood. Her usually radiant features were now twisted in pain and fear as she stood in the doorway.

Austin's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of her. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, pounding with such force that he could feel it reverberating through every inch of his body. The blood in his veins turned to ice and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the pure terror in Bonnie's once bright eyes.

His legs moved forward on their own accord, driven by an overwhelming need to protect her. But as he reached out for her, his hands trembled with fear and hesitation, afraid that she would break apart at his touch. The pain etched on her face tore at his soul, threatening to consume him with its intensity like a raging fire.

Bonnie managed a weak smile, her lips trembling with agony. "Austin," she whispered hoarsely, her voice strained from holding back tears. She looked up at him, determination shining through the fear in her eyes. With all her strength, she threw herself into his arms, clinging onto him as if her life depended on it. "I'm so glad you're here," she cried out.

Austin's powerful arms envelop Bonnie's broken body, cradling her with a fierce protectiveness. She is his everything, and the sight of her battered and bruised fills him with a boiling rage. The sweet scent of wildflowers and fresh rain that clings to her skin only intensifies his desperation to make things right for her.

"What the hell happened to you, Bonnie?" His voice trembles with emotion as he presses his lips against her hair, trying to absorb all of her pain and suffering. She shudders in response, seeking solace in his embrace as she buries her face against his chest, unable to put into words the horror she has endured.

"In...inside," Bonnie muttered, her voice barely audible. She pulls away, wincing at the pain that follows, and starts to lead him inside the decaying house.

His blue eyes scan the room, taking in the dimly lit interior. Every corner seemed steeped in shadows, shrouding the room in an ominous veil. An uncomfortable chill fills the air. He steps inside cautiously, his boots making soft thuds against the wooden floorboards.

And then, he sees it. In the middle of the room laid a body, cold and lifeless. The man’s face is stuck in a permanent grimace, eyes wide open in terror as if he were still trapped in the moment of his death. A knife protrudes from his chest, glinting menacingly under the faint light from the overhead lamp.

Bonnie's voice caught in her throat as she whispered, "His name is Liam. We started dating a year ago."

Austin's gaze remained cool and unmoved, despite the lifeless body lying on the floor between them. "Did he do that to you?" he asked, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

Bonnie nodded, tears streaming down her face as she recounted the horror of her recent encounter with Liam. "He was so angry...I could see it in his eyes. He was going to kill me this time, I just know it. I didn't have a choice," she sobbed, her body shaking with fear and regret. The room felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in on them, carrying the weight of Bonnie's pain and trauma. She couldn't bear to look at the body on the floor any longer, but she knew she would carry its image with her for a long time to come.

“This time?” Austin growled, his anger bubbling up like a volcano ready to erupt. He longed for the satisfaction of killing the jackass all over again, cursing the fact that he was already dead. How dare he lay a hand on her, let alone think about hurting her? Every muscle in Austin's body tensed as he fought to contain his rage, but his grip on self-control was slipping fast. The mere thought of someone harming her sent a wave of fury through him.

Bonnie nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as she began to recount the numerous times Liam's outbursts had gotten out of hand. He had always been quick to anger, but in that moment, he was a different person - a monster. And in her fight for survival, Bonnie too had become a monster.

Austin's grip on Bonnie tightened as he processed her words. The image of this petite woman having to defend herself against a man like Liam infuriated him beyond measure. "You did what you had to do," he said, attempting to offer some comfort, but his voice was lined with an undercurrent of beastly rage. Not only had this despicable individual caused her physical pain, but he had also manipulated her to do the one thing she had always feared: take a life. As a blood born werewolf, taking a life meant triggering the dreaded werewolf curse itself. No longer could she hide behind human form - on the next full moon, she would transform into her true beastly self for the first time.

The thought sent shivers of dread down her spine as she remembered the stories her father had told her about the uncontrollable rage and carnage that accompanied the first transformation. "Austin," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I'm scared." Her eyes were pleading, filled with terror at the thought of her impending transformation. Her heart pounded in her chest like a wild drum, echoing the dreadful rhythm of her fate.

His heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in Bonnie's eyes. He was a leader, a protector, and seeing her in such torment was more than he could bear. "Listen to me," Austin said firmly, cupping her chin to make her look at him. His gaze bore into hers, the intensity making her breath hitch. "You're not going through this alone. I'm here. I'll help you."

The promise in his voice was a lifeline, a beacon of hope in the storm that raged within Bonnie’s soul. But despite his reassurance, she couldn't shake off the fear that clenched around her heart like a cold fist.

Austin kept her gaze on him purposely using his body to shield her from the sight of

Liam’s dead body lying on the floor behind him. “Go pack your stuff.”

“But what about…?” She trailed off, trying to see Liam's lifeless body on the floor.

He firmly refused, determined to protect Bonnie from any further pain. “I’ll take care of it. Go, now.”

With no energy left to argue, Bonnie nodded and swiftly disappeared behind a nearby door to begin packing her belongings. Left alone with Liam and his blood-stained body on the floor, Austin looked down. He didn’t even feel sorry for him. With a deadly calm, Austin approached the body. His nostrils flared at the scent of fresh blood and death filling the room. His instincts were pulling him in two directions. The werewolf inside him was poised to revel in such carnage, yet the man in him recoiled at the sight of what Bonnie had been driven to do. The room was silent save for the faint rustling from the other room where Bonnie was packing. A shiver of disgust went down Austin's spine as he stood over Liam's lifeless body, his cold eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. The blood under his chest had already begun to coagulate, darkening the pale wooden floor beneath him. Austin's jaw clenched with fury, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the man who laid a hand on Bonnie.

Kneeling down, Austin pulled the knife free from Liam’s chest with an efficient tug. The metal looked cold and unforgiving in the dim light, a stark contrast against the spreading crimson stain on Liam’s shirt. He wrapped the knife carefully in a rag he found lying haphazardly on one of the chairs. Austin stepped away and made his way to the back room where they kept the cleaning supplies. He returned with a bucket of water, bleach and a brush. The sight of Liam's lifeless body greeted him again, but with grim determination he set to work, methodically scrubbing away the blood. When he was done, he made quick work of dragging the body outside and rolling it into a nearby river. It would be so destroyed by the elements that the police would never figure out what had actually killed him. The silent night held its breath as the lifeless body of Liam disappeared beneath the dark, churning waters. Bonnie’s haunting cries of despair seemed to echo in his ears as Austin stood there, watching the river claim its gruesome prize. A sudden rage roared through him, a savage desire to tear everything apart with his bare hands for what had been done to Bonnie. But he reined it in, focusing on the task ahead. He returned to the cabin, ignoring the lingering smell of fear and death, and grabbed a bag of lime from their utility shed. The sharp stench of bleach still hung heavy in the air while he went about covering the patch of the floor where Liam had lain with lime. It would speed up the decomposition process and help eliminate remaining traces of blood or odor that might lead anyone to them.

As he finished, a soft sound from behind made him stiffen. He turned around slowly, finding Bonnie standing at the entrance of the small living room, her wavy hair cascading over her shoulders like a protective curtain, dark eyes wide and shining in the pale light. Her small frame was covered in a loose cardigan despite the muggy summer heat outside, as if she was trying to shield herself from her own actions.

“It’s done,” Austin announced quietly.

Bonnie nodded, her gaze averted from the spot where moments before Liam's lifeless body had laid. She clung to the straps of her bag like a lifeline, her knuckles white from the strain. The comforting presence of Austin was the only thing that stopped her from collapsing under the weight of her guilt and fear.

Austin moved towards her, moving slowly as if not to startle a skittish deer. He reached out and took her bag from her trembling hands then wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. For a moment, Bonnie stiffened under his touch but slowly relaxed, allowing herself to lean into his warmth.

"We need to leave," Austin said quietly, his voice soothing in the otherwise silent cabin. “You can hide out at my place.”

“What about the gang?” Bonnie's mind was overwhelmed with all that was going on, but she couldn't push aside the thought of her pack. As the alpha, Austin was responsible for punishing deserters and loyalty meant everything to their kind. If they found out about Bonnie, they would expect Austin to execute her as punishment. She knew he would never harm her, let alone kill her. His position as alpha would be threatened, and his loyalty to the pack would be questioned.

His voice was firm, allowing no room for argument. “They don’t have to know that you’re staying there. For now, we just need to focus on getting you through the next few days. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

Bonnie found solace in his resolve. His confidence was contagious, and despite her trembling heart, he made her feel safe. Austin had always been a rock in her life; looking at him now, she felt hope bloom within her."Alright," she whispered, nodding. Her trust in him was implicit, thought not without fear. But if there was anyone she could rely on in this treacherous journey, it was Austin. A tear slipped down her cheek as the reality of her situation began to sink in further. She felt Austin's grip tighten around her, as if he could sense her internal struggle.

Bonnie looked up at Austin, suddenly consumed by an inexplicable urge to memorize his face. The sharp contours of his jawline that made women weak, his intense blue eyes that reflected loyalty and a steadfastness she could always count on. His blonde hair that fell onto his forehead, stubbornly refusing to be tamed. Despite the harsh exterior, there was a kindness that lurked beneath the surface. A kindness that compelled him to risk everything for her.

Austin looked down at Bonnie's tear-streaked face and felt a familiar ache in his chest. Over the years, he had watched her grow into a beautiful woman who deserved so much more than the hand life had dealt her. He couldn't help but feel responsible for bringing this darkness into her life. It was the curse they both carried within them - their shared lineage as werewolves. But it was this same curse that drew them to each other. Bonnie, the girl who was afraid of her own strength, and Austin, the man who was too strong for his own good. Both were anomalies in their own world. He was a hardened gang leader with a heart that bled for Bonnie; she was a runaway who ran straight into Austin’s arms. It seemed like fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Austin led her towards his motorcycle, parked just beyond the cabin’s porch. The roar of its engine echoed through the silent woods as it rumbled to life. The sound seemed to pierce the eerily calm night and Bonnie wondered if it was a precursor to the storm that was about to break in her life.

“Austin,” Bonnie started as she hopped onto the seat behind him, wrapping her arms around his lean waist for support as he began to pull away from the cabin. Her voice couldn’t hide the tremble in it, yet she continued on bravely, “Thank you.”

Austin didn’t respond immediately - he didn’t need to. His hand came to rest over hers where it held onto him tightly from behind and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The message was clear: he would protect her, no matter what cost he had to pay.

Stay tuned for part 3!! Click HERE to view!

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Evermore

This is based on the TikTok I watched. I am feeling super angst lately, so I hope you enjoy it! The reader is in love with Lucifer; however, Lucifer is in love with Lilith and doesn't see the reader. The song is Evermore from Live Action Beauty and the Beast. I recommend playing it in the background, as the song applies to Lucifer and the reader in their respective feelings.

Lucifer was a breathtaking creature, a being of unmatched beauty that defied all comparison. He embodied glory and grace, sin and desire, love and compassion. Perfection radiated from him, and the moment you laid eyes on him, you felt it—a magnetic pull that drew you into his enchanting world.

It didn’t take long for a friendship to blossom between you and the enigmatic king of ducks. Both of you shared a whimsical spirit and an eccentric approach to life, reveling in laughter and the absurdity of existence. You were mirror images of one another, two souls destined to intertwine. Yet, as the seasons turned, you found yourself in a painful limbo, watching the years slip by without a trace of Lilith.

You understood the bond between Lucifer and Lilith—strong and unbreakable. He loved her with a devotion that transcended mere affection, needing no one to fill the void she left behind. She was his eternal flame, and no one else could ever ignite his heart the way she did.

This knowledge tormented you, for your love for him burned fiercely, a flame that flickered in the shadows of his unwavering devotion to another. You resented Lilith, not out of malice, but because she had vanished, leaving Lucifer to languish in the castle, waiting for a phantom who may never return.

How you longed to be the one who filled his heart. How desperately you wished to occupy the space that Lilith once held. He was so captivated by a woman so far beyond his reach that he failed to see the one who stood before him—adoring him, aching for his affection.

For six agonizing years, you endured this silent suffering, watching as Lucifer gradually descended into despair, each passing day serving as a reminder of her absence. You observed him sitting before her portrait, eyes filled with longing, clinging to the hope that she would walk through the castle doors and into his arms once more.

Each year felt like a dagger to your heart, another opportunity lost to be seen, to be cherished. It was almost comical how you both mirrored each other—not just in your personalities but in the fierce yearning to love someone who was unreachable.

Your love for him mirrored his for Lilith, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. Deep down, you knew he would never leave your side; you were his best friend, a cherished companion. But that was all you would ever be—an echo of the love he reserved for another.

You were two fools, yearning for an everafter that would never come. Two souls grasping for a light that flickered tantalizingly in the vast darkness of loneliness, always out of reach.

Lucifer was indeed a great friend—the best, in fact—but how long could you endure this torment? How could you tell this broken man that your heart was fracturing under the weight of unrequited love? 

You could wait for eternity, hoping that Lilith would never return to reclaim him, but what good would it do if each year of her absence found you sitting beside him, watching as he wept for her? You could don disguises, try to morph into the vision of her that he so adored, but it would never satisfy the yearning to be loved as your true self.

After six grueling years of waiting, of longing for him to see you—to notice you, to desire you—you realized that he would always be entranced by Lilith. As you stole a glance away from him, you envisioned a life filled with love and acceptance, a life that felt perpetually just out of reach. Could you ever love someone who wasn’t Lucifer?

Tormented by the idea of leaving him behind, a painful clarity emerged. Perhaps that’s what you had to do. So, with a heavy heart, you took a step away from the man who had captured your soul yet remained oblivious to your feelings. You knew the door would always be open for him; he would always have a place in your heart.

As you walked out onto the fiery streets of Hell, tears streamed down your cheeks, each drop a testament to the love you had nurtured in silence. You realized that you would not have the man for whom you had waited so long. He would remain in that castle, forever hoping for Lilith’s return, locked in a longing that rivaled your own.

You knew he was your forever in a way, but perhaps he was meant to be your forever in unrequited love, and somehow, that would have to be enough for Evermore.

[catulhu333]

Khaine and Khorne being directly stated to be the same

While this is an often discussed theory, or that the two are at least closely connected, and many hints of it in lore/fluff, there are at least two instances in canon were this was directly stated. First one is very old, from the 1988 article "Witch Elves!" in White Dwarf #108: "The Kryrnaa are an ancient order, founded during the early dark days of the building of Naggarond. They had turned from the worship of Slaanesh soon after their exile from the Elven Kingdoms, and, still drawn by the allure of Chaos, took the murderous Khaine as their new Master. For many centuries the Krynaa were a secret order, their name heard only in the whisperings of dark passages, but their numbers slowly grew. And as the Krynaa increased in strength, there came the inevitable conflict with the Dru Perim. For Khaine is that aspect of the Blood God recognised by the Druchii, and the Blood God, known to other races as Khorne, is the sworn enemy of Slaanesh."

The second time, is much newer excerpt, from 2006's Liber Chaotica:

"Of Pleasure And Rage

Behold! For I speak to you from the Shadows - the Great Darkness, that gives meaning to all Light. At the heart of this Realm, shrouded and unclear, stands the Powers of Chaos, locked in each other's embrace, hated lovers and eternal companions.

These Four are like points upon a compass - none are close and some are opposite. War and Pleasure are two such opposites, facing each other across eternity, hating and warring, two ideals seperated by an impassable gulf of Belief and Purpose. For Khorne is discipline, hardness, suffering and rage, while Slaanesh is indulgence, beauty, ecstasy and lust. Their opposition is carved upon the knucklebones of fate and conflict can be their only recourse.

Yet how mightier is Khorne than his delight-filled sibling! Oldest of gods and greatest of warriors, Khorne's armies stretch from infinity to infinity to infinity and the Pleasure God may not rival Him. But this was not always so. For in the days when the Slaanesh, Last Born and Most Beautiful, strove for existence, His power waxed stronger than all other gods, be they seperate or together, and it seemed as though His spiteful triumph would destroy the Balance in the Warp.

But as is ever the case, Khorne was there to stem the flow of Delight. He saw the growth of His youngest sibling, and hated Him even before his birth. With His mighty arms, Khorne sought to crush the life from Slaanesh before He had even left His womb, but the war god had not counted on the passion of Slaanesh's creators, and the harder He squeezed the greater the pressure became to drive His arms apart.

The war god fought on. He sought to give all mortals time to bring an end to their corrupting decadence - the decadence that fed the nascent Power that was Slaanesh. But mortals are weak as gods are not, and though some used the time bought for them by Khorne to learn from their wicked ways, many others did not and sank ever deeper into indolence and debauchery.

Slaanesh's tempermental screams and self-tormenting nightmares echoed through the Aethyr, and insanity bloomed on every world. Terrible storms raged throughout Heaven and Hell, and rains of fire lashed across Khorne's back, but His grip ever stayed firm around His embryonic sibling. Freezing winds tore at His face and floods of poison crept up His legs, yet still the War God would not let go.

Then His brother came upon the scene. Decay stood there beside War.

"Give up," sighed Father Nurgle. "Give into what must be. It is the nature of things that morals decay and cultures must rot. Mortals cannot leave their destined path."

Khorne turned away from His brother and grasped His wrists all the tighter. Then a gust of coloured light brought there to the brothers the Changer of Ways, and Tzeentch gazed upon the War God with amusement and disdain.

"End this," he hissed. "For it must come to pass. Change is the constant that cannot be changed. We Three must be Four, so the Game has demanded. Be it now, be it later, our sibling must come."

But Khorne would have none of it. He rorared His fury until the universe shook, and the foundations of All That Is, All That Was, and All That Shall Be, threatened to crumble. His brothers left Him then, one with a sigh and one with a chuckle, for both knew that the ending was close.

Upon the Mortal Plane the wars had all ceased. All morals and laws had rotted away, and the change to conceit was almost done. The Three wavered as decadence took hold, and Slaanesh expanded beyond size and beyond measure. But Khorne, unable to see defeat, hung on to His charge though his arms were bent back and His body near-crushed. Then with a scream of release that ripped through the Warp, Slaanesh threw off His eldest brother and burst into being.

Such was the Event of Slaanesh's birth, the metal body that had contained Khorne's essence since He had slain Khaelis Ra, shattered into a thousand pieces that scattered across the dimensions. But though His soul had been freed from its silver prison, Khorne had not the strength to strike a counter blow against exultant Slaanesh, and so the Pleasure God was left to reap the souls of His mortal creators and set His Throne alongside those of His brothers. So it was that the Three became Four and the Eternal Pantheon was complete.

From whenever 'then' was, until wherever 'now' is, the gods have continued their unending dance, twirling each other through the minds and souls of mortals. First one leads and then another, each keeping step in this pavane of peril, a stately measure played out to the beating of human hearts.

None of these powers can ever truly win against its brothers, for, as the Great Conspirator did say, it is the nature of things that change is the only constant - and nowhere is this more true than within the shadow place that is Chaos.

Yet still the gods dance and their bellows of delight shake the universe.

from the 'Liber Maleficarum'. Restricted distribution 2405- I.C. by order of K. M. Eisel, Witch Hunter Captain"

(written down by Dreadnautilus on reddit, as the fragment was in handwriting in Liber Chaotica).

As seen in the fragment describes Khorne fighting and destroying K(h)aelis Ra (the Nightbringer), exactly like Khaine was described in lore from the same period (the short story, and in-universe Eldar myth "The Birth of Fear"). And being, or rather Khaine/Khorne's shell being shattered by Slaanesh.

Does it mean Khorne and Khaine are the same? Not necessarily. Even the fluff from Liber Chaotica implies they are no longer the same, being split by Slaanesh. It's also hard to tell if this fluff/lore is canon, especially seeing multiple elements from the White Dwarf #108 were directly retconned. Still, it does show there were instances were the two gods of war and blood were stated to be same.

combined artworks of Khaine by Jes Goodwin and Khorne by Ian Miller

[writers-potion]

hey, can you do a circles of hell post like the heaven one?

The Nine Circles of Hell 😈🔥

Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy is divided into 3 parts: Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso. The Inferno presents us with the popular concept of Nine Circles of Hell.

Ante-Inferno

Think of this as the Ground Lobby for Hell.

The Gates of Hell have this inscription: "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate" (Abadon all hope, ye who enter here)

Souls who couldn't choose between good and evil reside here, tortued and chased by hornets and snakes. (Seems like indecision is also a sin, haha)

There are angels here as well who chose to be on the side of neither good and evil, and they're also tormented.

After crossing the river on the boundary for hell with Charon, you meet the first level of hell:

First Circle: Limbo

The first circle is home to the unbaptized and virtuous pagans, who simply didn't know that Christ exist.

These souls have lived morally, but failed to accept Christiantiy as a religion

No physical torture, but waves of sadness flow through the souls, lamenting the fact that they're close to Heaven but aren't in it.

Retirement community of the afterlife: Hippocrates, Aristotle, Virgil, Homer, Horace, Ovid, Socrates, Plato, Saladin

Second Circle: Lust

The wind-buffeted second circle of Hell is the final destination of the lustful and adulterous.

Souls are blown about in a violent storm, without hope of rest. They are torn in a raging storm and thrown against rocks.

Cleopatra and Helen of Troy were among its most famous residents. Francesca da Rimini and her lover Paolo.

Third Circle: Gluttony

Those who overindulge themselves are forced to lie in vile, freezing slush, guarded by Ceberus

Unable to move, they lay on the ground forever while being hurled with sweage and dirt.

Ciacco of Florence is here.

Fourth Circle: Avarice & Prodigality

This section of Hell is reserved for the money-grubbers and overly materialistic among us. Those who hoarded money come here.

The greedy battle each other, forever rolling giant boulders on each other. When they push the heavy weights, it rolls back and the process starts all over again.

Plutus guards them.

Fifth Circle: Wrath & Sulllenness

Dante tells us that the wrathful and angry souls of this circle spend eternity waging battle with each other on the banks of River of Styx.

The sullen are forced to breath below the dark waters, chocking on the black mud derived from the world above.

Fillippo Argenti is here.

───〃★ Door to Lower Hell: gate guarded by fallen angels ★〃───

Sixth Circle: Heresy

Heretics spend eternity entombed in flaming crypts in the sixth circle. Think of a graveyard with burning tombstones.

Heresy is the sin of having beliefs opposed to the Christian belief, which can be a little vague in modern times.

Florentines Farinata degil Uberti and Cavalcante de' Cavalvanti are here.

Seventh Circle: Violence

The Seventh Circle is sub-categorized into 3 smaller rings: Oter, Middle and Inner.

The outer ring is filled with blood and fire and reserved for murderers and thugs. Centaurs guard the Outer Ring, shooting criminals with arrows.

The middle ring is where, according to Dante, suicide victims go. They’re transformed into trees and fed upon by harpies.

The inner ring, a place of burning sand, is reserved for those who are violent against God and nature (blasphemers)

Eighth Circle: Fraud

Geryon, a creature symbolizing fraud, welcomes you to the eighth circle. He has a human face, a scorpion tail and giant wings.

The eighth circle is subdivided into ten trenches, where you’ll find con artists of all sorts. These trenches are called Malebolge (Evil pockets) and each contains different types of criminals who commited fraud.

Panderes and seducers, flatterers, sorcerers, false prophets, liars, thieves, people who created false money, counterfeits, impersonators, schismatics, etc. reside here.

Ninth Circle: Treachery

The final circle is a frozen wasteland occupied by history’s greatest traitors. Betrayers of are frozen in a lake of ice, and most of Satan's body is also immersed in ice.

It is divided into 4 stages: (1) Caina - traitors to family (2) Antenora - traitors to nation or politicians (3) Ptolomaea - hosts to betray theiur guests (4) Judecca - those to betray their lords/masters.

In the very center, Satan punishes the greatest betrayers of all time: Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Christ, and Brutus and Cassius who betrayed Julius Caesar.

Satan has three mouths, each of which eats a specific person: with left and right devouring Brutus and Cassius and the centre mouth devouring Judas. 

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[cocksley-and-catapult]

to me cocksley and catapult have sinned and now are condemned to live in eternal torment in which they are two animals that in real life would not survive together and are trying to cope but cannot, slowly losing all sense of sanity while getting to hate and love each other, destined to eventually succumb to their animal instinct and commit thanksgiving, where they will eventually be free fromtheir pixelated prision and leave, to then find that life after death is nothing but punishment, and there is only their purgatory and an infinite puke coloured void, therefore they choose to go back to their four panelled comic and act like they did when they were alive, hoping that they will forget their torment and believe that this is actually their life, in which chickens have butts and the walls are always changing, yet they do not leave the place, and where legs do not exist if not needed. are they aware that their suffering gives people a mere 30 seconds of mild amusement? that we only consider them a mere joke? vore, gay sex, and eggs are discussed frequently between laughter for us, and between tears, blood and digust between them. they will never escape the mspaint. for they must dance for me and us, the audience. dance, little furries, for the serotonin you produce keeps me satisfied. continue. your sadness and insanity feeds us, as cheeseburgers and grapes do. your confusion is fullfilling. the violence, i crave it. as i do with many such things like gay s- dance, dance, but do not complain, for you can be deleted and the puke vomit void will simply take over.

[ynit-a]

𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 𝟐| jkk

orhpic | jjk x m!oc

𝟐 | 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

“Eternity awaits

The rhythm of the light tubes in the emergency room flickered with an eerie monotony, marking the passage of a night that felt endless. Soren sat in the waiting room chair, trying to ignore the sharp pain running through his arm. He had spent most of the night trying to stop the bleeding from his wound in the sink of his small apartment, but with each passing moment, the flow grew more insistent, like a river overflowing its banks. When he could no longer bear the pain and dizziness, he forced himself to leave his solitary refuge and go to the emergency room.

His mind was a chaos of unanswered questions. How had he obtained these strange powers that manifested themselves in the form of an uncontrollable force? What had killed that creature in the darkness? Images from the previous night repeated themselves in his mind, like an endless reel of terror and confusion. Every time he tried to piece together the events, it felt like he was trying to grasp water with his hands – everything was slipping away, leaving him with the feeling that what had happened was bigger and darker than he could comprehend.

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look before he was wheeled into a treatment room. Questions continued to torment him, filling the void left by physical agony. Was he going to die? The thought settled into his mind with terrifying clarity. Every beat of his heart seemed to confirm the darkest fear – that of an impending fate, sealed by a force he did not understand and could not control.

The thought that more creatures might follow him now that he had killed one of them terrified him even more. The feeling of being hunted by something beyond his understanding was oppressive. He wondered if, in his desperation and struggle, he had attracted something bigger and more dangerous. The world, which had once seemed limited and monotonous, had now expanded into an infinite and dangerous darkness.

As the nurse cleaned and bandaged his wound, Soren tried to focus on something, anything but the pain. He thought of the piano, of the keys that used to offer him comfort. He wondered if he could ever get his messy life back, the life he had known before all this began. The piano was a refuge, a place where his emotions could meet in harmony, where notes could express what words could not. But now, even that safety seemed distant and almost illusory.

His distrust, which had once been a protective shield, had now become a prison. Distrust of others had mixed with distrust of himself, creating an inextricable knot in his mind. Questions about his identity and his intentions grew more confusing with each passing second. Was he able to control his powers, or were they meant to consume him? Could he ever learn to live with this new reality, or was he doomed to an existence of fear and isolation?

The nurse offered him a gentle smile before exiting the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the flickering fluorescent lights. In that silence, Soren was faced with the overwhelming truth: he was unsure of anything, not even himself. The night he had witnessed and the wounds he carried with him had not only changed his body, but had also altered his perception of reality. Everything he had known was in danger of crumbling, and the future stretched out before him like a vast, unknown darkness.

—Was I destined to succumb to a life of suffering and eventually die? — Soren muttered, no one was with him in the room, so shouting his thoughts was already a natural thing along with overthinking things.

Maybe, there is someone who went through or went through the same thing as me that can help me, he hopelessly thought once he saw the nurse come back in, now accompanied by the doctor. While the doctor provided him with instructions that he should be paying attention to, his ears only rang, cutting off any sound that the outside provides, and only the echo of several voices inside him could be heard. Maybe I'm not the only one. But how the hell will I find someone to help me without sounding like a madman? The nurse took some medicines and handed them to Soren.

—These will be the prescribed medicines, the time is marked on the prescription.

Soren just nodded, he hadn't heard anything.

Maybe, just maybe, he could find someone who would help him, but how? Who? Where are they? He wants to keep hope, but he won't let himself have it.

Help me, please. Aching with the feeling of screaming in pain. He just swallowed his thoughts with an uncomfortable lump in his chest.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

— Are you sure we're in the right place? — a strict voice was heard deep between the walls of the alley. Green eyes shooting venom towards the raven head of the boy in front of them, the boy just nodded, watching the two dogs sniffing the place.

—Their sense of smell is the best, just be patient — just when the boy finished speaking, one of the two dogs barked, both teens ran towards him — we were definitely not in the wrong place.

—What the hell killed it? — the girl's green eyes opened wide as she saw the scene in front of her, remains of flesh lay scattered everywhere, blood painted the walls like graffiti, while piles of cursed energy surrounded the entire place, both looked at each other with frowns.

—Whatever it was, the cursed energy is greater than that of the first grade curse— the boy said.

They left the alley, the raven rapidly texting on his phone, while the girl looked around for any trace that could help them. The cursed energy in that alley was very different from that of a curse, but what is more powerful than a first-degree curse? Is it a rogue sorcerer? Or did another curse kill it? Whatever it was, it is certain that they must remain on guard for any activity during these days.

This story with more graphics is on wattpad, go check it out if you want!

Wattpad: ynit_a

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[drunken-ender-art]

The Clawthornes' Nightmare

"I see that my daughter took in an apprentice, and you accepted my eye. Well... make yourself comfortable... this is the Titan's Nightmare, where each and every Clawthorne is fated to end and rot to..."

"I'm the last one... well, at least the last one not to succumb to the thirst of blood completely yet..."

Lastborn of seven, Dell Clawthorne watched all of his brothers, sisters and parents die during the Hunt or succumb to madness before he reached his twenties, becoming the last heir of the Family and Head of the Workshop.

When he got married with an Huntress, and was blessed with two beautifull daughters, he saw a ray of hope for his family; he would spend hours training and teaching the two girls on the ways of the Hunt and weapon crafting... but his dream suddently was fated to be snuffed one tragic night, when his mind ultimately collapsed and he was put down by his own blood... when he woke up in the Titan's Nightmare, he was faced with the horrifying truth: his family was cursed. An ancient and powerfull curse originated by sins now forgotten, and so he sought to uncover the truths of the Nightmare and free his family by the eternal agony they were trapped in.

"...there they are... our family, drunk in blood..."

The Nightmare is home of the Hunters and Huntresses of the Clawthorne Workshop throught out the ages.

Generations of Clawthornes locked in an eternal Night of Hunt, in a state of perpetual feral drunkness, slaughtering the tormented souls of either innocent associates of the Workshop or, even worse, other members of the family that were unfortunate enough to become Beasts... sons, parents and relatives destined to be hunted by their own kin.

The weapons of Hunters found in the Nightmare.

The Bonescutter is an heavy machete with a serrated blade, when turned into its tricked form, by a simple turn of the handle, it becomes a double handed heavy saw, cutting deep and causing the victim's blood to flow like a river.

Raptor Chains is a short ranged hook weapon with a mechanism which, when activated, release a long spiked chain that allow the blade to gain enormous range and to be thrown, so that it can hooks its victim. With a second activation the chain is retracted, pulling anything caught in its claw toward the Hunter.

Crushclaw, a claw-like blade mounted on an arm mechanism. Its tricked form is nothing short of an heavy brass knuckle, with the claw retracted and ready to spring back into his static form. The energy released by the blade is enough to breake the bones of the biggest of beasts. Many of the Old Hunters' weapons had claws/scythe like shape, in the image of a very old and important Hunter's weapon.

Boom-stick. A one handed mace that unleash all of its power in its transformed state: a long dual blade axe with a fire glyph contained in the central lantern, infusing the weapon with fire, a central element of the hunts of yore...

"My daughter!!... pride and joy of House Clawthorne, now twisted into that... that thing!! Oh Gwendolyn... what have they done to our sweet flea..."

The perpetual hunt is only a part of the Titan's Curse to the Family. Hunters of the Nightmare are forced to face other members of their own family... those so wretched, despised or broken beyond salvation that took a bestial form even after their death in the Waking World... all that is left of them is scared, confused and mindless flesh to be slayed time and time again.

Death doesn't hold salvation for them, unless someone will put an end to the Nightmare.

"The source of the Nightmare is shielded by the great Cathedral Castle, a bastion full of secrets and death, there the Host of the Nightmare resides... they protect the Nightmare's secrets... but the doors are guarded... a lonely Huntress tiredlessly stand guard on top of a red cardinal Palisman"

The witch Evelyn Clawthorne was the first person to come into contact with the two brothers from the Human World.

A free spirit, curious and determined to expand her knowledge of magic in hope to help others, she found immediate kinship with the two human scholars, and in time, kinship bloomed into love with the older of the two: Caleb. She was there when the Titan Blood was first administered and its effects discovered, there when they found the island beyond the fog, the child killed and the skull took back to the Boiling Isles, marking the birth of the Blood Coven... until the end of her days she would tell herself that all they did was for the greater good of both witches and humans; even when she stood next to Vicar Belos in the square as the beast's corpse was burned... her uniform still warm with her lover's blood.

In times now passed, she would use her sickle and dagger of siderite to gather plants and materials for rituals and potions, later on she refashioned the two tools into weapons of mercy: the template from which her descendants would forge their own instruments of death.

She was one of the last witches to use a Palisman, now a disused practice, and that loyal little palisman would later follow her into the Nightmare when her time finally came... together they still stand guard to protect the doors of the Cathedral Castle, and Host of the Nightmare inside...

Scholar of the Byrgenwerth College of Salem, from the Human World, dreamer and passionate soul, Caleb Wittebane and his younger brother shared the dream that one day they would bring knowledge to humanity and shed the light of reason over the darkness of ignorance... a worldview developed from their upbringing in a society plagued by the Witch Trials... innocent people would be put at the stake out of fear and stupidity.

Their lives forever changed when they met the witch Evelyn and followed her into the Demons' Realm, a world of magic and wonder, that fueled their dream of discovery. So they began to work and study together: witch and humans side by side, with the common goal of pushing the boundaries of magic and knowledge for the betterness of both worlds.

The threes' goals degenerated into ambition of ascension and trascendental knowledge when they discovered the Titan's Blood and its powers: it didn't just boost the witches' natural powers, but granted the powerless humans with magic too, on top of miraculous healing effects and phisical strenghtening for both species.

But such power came at a dreadfull price. A curse. Both on the blood they so carelessly administered and consumed but also on the souls of those responsible for the great sin committed against the natural order... the Titan's unfathomable roars conjured into eternal torment for the guilty.

He was the first to fall at the hands of the Titan's Curse, becoming what he desperatly sought to avoid: a mindless, rabid beast to be killed and burned at the stake, like one of the innocent witches he longed to save in his home, a place his gaze would never again grace...

When he died, his twisted mindscape became the Clawthornes' Nightmare, and he was bound to the astral plane as its Host... his bestial body forever stripped of flesh and of the precious blood with which he indulged in so much. His bones scorched and ablaze forever in an eternal flame of suffering... guarding the secrets of his past and the true source of the Nightmare.

"Woah there, girl... you don't smell the same as those blood drunked lunatics out there... no, no, you're sane... for now... a word of advice then, go back the way you came. Leave this nightmare and return home... secrets are secrets for a reason, and it would be a shame to cut off that pretty head of yours... so go back... return to your home and pretend it was all a bad dream... it's for your own good..."

When the Vicar first learned of the Curse, he hurried to prolong his mortal life through blasphemous and horrid methods... one such way was the creations of dolls-like grimwalkers made in the image of his dead brother... as they were born from Caleb's blood, those pitifull creations too are destined to end up in the Nightmare, so Belos equipped the first one with a silent bell, a cursed dagger and set him on a mission: to snuff every intruder and protect the secrets of the Nightmare... least the world knew of their unforgivable sin...

______________________________________________________________

Oh boy, another big one! The first part of the Titan's Nightmare, another piece of the puzzle of the story of the Owlborne!

Still, this one was a very funny one, I had a blast designing the Old Hunters and their weapons, especially Evelyn and Caleb!!

At this point I can guess what will be the result, but why the heck, let's make a poll anyway!

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | mature | 2.1k | cw: major character death (temporary, as in reincarnation) | tags: soulmates, starcrossed lovers, reincarnation | summary: In every life, in every universe, they will find each other again. What's a lifetime if you measure it in eternity? | @steddielovemonth prompt Love is a fire that never goes out | AO3)

1

Troy, 13th century BCE

Achilles often marveled at the serenity of the sea at night. His mother is tempestuous by nature, unpredictable and untamed, and most days the sea reflects her nature. But not tonight. Tonight the waves are shallow, a gentle rocking of their ships that had lulled Patroclus to sleep in his arms.

The lone candle on his bedside bathes the room in a warm orange glow, casting shadows across the naked skin of his lover. He can see his marks on the alabaster skin, pale as the moon to Achilles' sun-kissed skin.

Many people have said that they are a study in contradictions, one the perfect antithesis of the other. They're not entirely wrong, but they miss the point. The most important fact of all.

Patroclus is the other half of his soul, and they only make sense together.

The war rages on, and deep down Achilles knows he can't sit this one out forever. Everyone thinks he refuses to fight out of spite, a bruised ego and a prideful, stubborn nature, much like his mother's, that keeps him away from the front lines.

Sure, it feeds his ego to know they're losing without his sword, but it's not pride that keeps him from joining the Greeks in this senseless war.

It's fear.

He's not afraid for himself, never has been. Achilles is a hero, he's destined to die at the hands of another. It's a cold comfort, this knowledge of the path that awaits him: Glory, honor, death.

It's what will make him a god one day.

No one ever asked him if he wanted that. No one but Patroclus, half his soul, all his life. Being a god, worshipped and admired by the masses, pales in comparison to the feeling of dark brown eyes looking at him with nothing but love and devotion. They don't see a half god, Achilles knows that.

They see the lonely boy who only ever wanted someone to see him and love him for that. For what he is, not for what the prophecies say he will be.

Tomorrow he will take up his armor again. Not to win a war for a man blinded by pride and greed and stupidity.

For the man whose love burns as warm and bright as the fire on Mount Olympus, and only for him.

2

England, 15th century

Public executions are Stephanos' least favorite of his princely duties.

He hates to see men and women die by his father's hand, no matter who ties the knot or sets the stake on fire. It might as well be his father's hand swinging the axe. The only thing he hates more is the cheering of the crowd, the spectacle. How they enjoy the suffering, the death, being played out before them. They're probably glad it's not them, but that's no excuse in his eyes.

Stephanos vows that when he becomes king, he will be a more just ruler.

It hasn't always been this way with him. When he was a young boy, he wanted to be like his father. There had never been any question in his mind that the people who were executed for public entertainment deserved their fate. They had it coming, bad people needed to be punished.

Edmund showed him that wasn't true.

Disguised as a commoner, he had taken Stephanos out of the castle and into town. He had shown him how the people of the kingdom really lived, and who the villains really were: his father's men, who tormented and abused and exploited the people they were supposed to protect and serve.

Edmund, who had lost his parents to King Richard's cruelty and still retained his kindness and warmth, and who had shown Stephanos what true love really meant.

Love for his people, who deserved a king who would rule them justly and kindly.

Love for the friends he made along the way, as Edmund taught him about the suffering that was happening right under his nose.

Love for another man, a man who found it in himself to love the son of the murderer of his parents.

It's the only thing that keeps him upright when he's forced to watch his love burn at the stake for having bewitched the young prince. Witchcraft, the only acceptable explanation for what they had caught Stephanos and Edmund doing in Stephanos' chambers.

As the flames die down, long after the painful screams of the only man, the only person, Stephanos has ever loved, the fire within him burns brighter than ever. He vows to avenge his lover and honor his memory by being a ruler Edmund would be proud to call his king.

3

Normandy, 1944

"God, they tell you about the bullets and the bombs, the blood and the death, sure. But they never talk about the rain and the cold and the bloody mud, do they?" Stephen knows it's a rhetorical question because Edward loves to ask them.

"Ever wonder if our commanding officer has a map, or does he just like sending us on scenic tours of enemy territory?”

" Wonder if the rats in the trenches have formed a union yet. Bet they're negotiating better living conditions than we are.".

"Do you reckon the General's war strategy involves a Syco-Seer? I mean, that would explain a lot."

At first it had pissed him off. It was bad enough that they had to fight alongside a British battalion with soldiers who talked funny and were trained in ways Stephen didn't really understand. Most of what they did didn't make sense to him and he just wanted them all to fuck off back to where they came from. Maybe take some Germans out on the way, because even in his irritation he could admit that they could use all the help they could get.

That didn't mean he had to like the hand attached to that help.

It's just that during the last two months they've been hunkered down somewhere in the north of France, with rain pouring down almost constantly, he's gone and fallen in love with an Englishman.

How embarrassing.

Even the accent kind of does it for him now, all thanks to Edward ("Would you just call me Eddie for Christ's sake, you literally saved my ass.") and his charming, if slightly odd, ways. He was infuriating, but kind and funny, always trying to cheer everyone up even when he was barely holding it together. Eddie made him laugh and blush and curse up a storm and roll his eyes fondly and cry exhausted tears into his surprisingly strong shoulders.

Eddie makes him feel alive. He makes Stephen want to be alive, too.

Most of all, he wants Eddie to be alive.

The gaping bullet wound in his chest tells Stephen that he may not get what he wants.

Eddie's hand in his is wet from the rain and too cold, as if the life has already begun to seep out of his limbs and with it all his warmth. Which is ridiculous, because no one burns as warm and bright as Eddie, even on the darkest days he would be their beacon of light. A roaring fire of life and love and hope.

A fire that couldn't be put out just like that. They needed him, all those young soldiers, barely 18, if that, who looked up to Eddie and worshipped the ground he walked on. Who would look out for them now? Who would keep their spirits up, their will to fight and live?

Stephen couldn't do it, not without Eddie.

"I can't do it without you, Eddie." He is not ashamed of the way his voice breaks as he holds the love he has just found in his arms, only to lose it again.

Eddie's eyes are warm and soft as they gaze into his, even with the pain clearly visible in them. "Yes, you can, sweetheart. They need you."

"I need you," Stephen sobs, his tears mixing with the rain that falls on a face he knows will one day be a fading memory. The thought hurts. It fucking hurts.

With the last of his strength, Eddie squeezes his hand. "You have me, Stevie. You'll always have me. My love will keep you warm long after my body has grown cold, I promise. I'll always be with you, in every life to come."

4

Hawkins, 1987

"Hey Eddie, it's me. Steve." Rubbing his hands over his face, Steve sighs, a sound as tired as he feels. "God, this is so stupid. You barely knew me. I barely knew you. I shouldn't be sitting here mourning you like we were anything more than two strangers thrown together in this fucking mess. Not that you don't deserve to be mourned, man. It makes me so fucking angry how they still refuse to see who you really were. A hero. A friend."

It's cold where Steve sits on the ground in front of a slab of stone that reads "Edward Munson".

"It's just... I don't understand why it hurts so much. It feels like, fuck, like there's a fist in my chest, in my stomach, squeezing so hard I can barely breathe some days. We all miss you. Not just the kids, although it hit Dustin the hardest. He's not the same and I don't know how to help him. Christ, I can't even help myself. I sleep with your vest under my bed, right next to my bat, how crazy is that? Most nights I can only sleep for a few hours if I touch it."

He runs his hand through his hair and grips it tightly, as if the pain helps make sense of everything he's feeling.

"You'd probably call me crazy, a fucking nutcase. Or maybe not. I don't know you well enough to say for sure, but I feel like maybe you wouldn't judge me too harshly. What I'm trying to say is this: I feel like when you died I lost something I didn't even know I had. Like, ugh, I dunno, I'm not good at this, you should have seen my college essay, Nancy told me it didn't make any sense. But it's like your death should be the period at the end of our story, right? The sentence is over, the story is told. Only it feels like it's just a semicolon and part of the story is still coming. That doesn't make sense, does it?"

Sighing again, this time because he's annoyed at himself for not finding the right words to explain himself, he climbs to his feet and slaps his hand on the cold stone.

"Right. Sorry for disturbing your rest. You deserve some rest, Eddie. Thank you for saving us. For saving Dustin. And for, y'know, saying those things in the woods. I never told you that, but it still means a lot to me."

The you still mean a lot to me swings in the space between the living and the dead, the thread that holds both worlds together.

5

Chicago, 2023

Steve knows they should go inside. They're too old to sleep out on the cold, hard ground, even if the night air is mild at this time of year. Steve and Eddie aren't 20 anymore, they're twice that age, and he knows they're going to regret not sleeping in a real bed in the morning.

"We should go inside, it's getting late," he says to Eddie, but his husband just hums where he's nestled into Steve's side, his cheek on Steve's chest. Right over his heart, where he's carved out his own space in the two decades they've been together.

"Just a little while longer, love. I don't want to miss it."

Eddie sounds wide awake, as excited to be lying in the garden outside their little house on the outskirts of town as he is about anything else in their lives. It's one of the most endearing things about him. Every day with him is a new adventure, even if it's Sunday morning reruns of Friends.

"Miss what, babe?"

"The shooting stars. Didn't you listen to Dustin when he said there was a meteor shower tonight?"

Steve chuckled. Of course his little brother would know such things. He has to admit that he didn't listen to his ramblings when he stopped by for lunch, too distracted by the way the autumn sun had cast shadows on Eddie's face. Not that he'd say it out loud.

"Mhhh. Must have slipped my mind. So, what do we wish for?" It comes out more earnest than he intended, his teasing feeling oddly displaced in the face of the pure love and adoration on Eddie's face as he leans up on his elbow to look down at Steve.

"For another lifetime with you. What more would I want than more of what we already have, preferably an eternity of it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees the first shooting star streaking across the night sky, and as he pulls Eddie down for a kiss, he wishes for just that.

[cat-mentality]

PLS ELABORATE ON THIS [the theory on which eggs fit which sins]

OKAY BUCKLE UP ANON!!!! This is straight up tin foil hat territory, i'm just like manifesting from nothing because it is incredibly fun in my mind

For this to make a little of sense i'm going to consider Purgatory as my catholic school taught me- A place where the sinners go to repent to their sins, either for all of eternity, if the sins are too big or too terrible, or until they have been forgiven and i'm taking Dante's inferno as my guideline on how this whole thing operates.

I'm also going with the theory that Black Cucurucho was the one responsible for taking the eggs/scaring them away, maybe to make them vulnerable and fall on his trap, is my personal theory that the Black Cucurucho is literally the anti-Federation, as in order versus chaos and as such he is looking to destroy everything the Federation is building and using the egg's to do so (and also Cellbit!!! If it's not the Rebels giving him the information i bet on Black Cucurucho more than the Feds themselves).

So, basically: The eggs get kidnapped by this new strange force (not evil per say, not more than the Federation itself, but less interested in pretending not to be, like the Anfitrião in Ordem Paranormal) and they get stuck in Purgatory, who is made by 9th circles, divided by the type of sinners they are set to punish. The tickets are the passage to get into the circles, Virgil acted as Dante's guide in this case the train will be responsible for taking them from one circle (island) to the next IF they manage to complete whatever task will be set in their way.

I believe the placement of each egg (in my delulu head) has less to do with their own sins, as the Black Cucurucho is not really interested in them but rather in the suffering he can inflict on the parents using them, but in the mortal flaw he sees on their parents.

Chayenne i would put being stuck in the 1st circle, Limbo. It's the less worse of the nine as it is the place where the unbaptized and virtuous pagan stay, endlessly walking in eternal darkness.

Why you ask me?

Well Chayenne IS the son of the Angel of Death. His other father is also a being blessed by death (or cursed with life, your pick). He worships the Blood God. He is dear to the Goddess of Death herself.

What's more pagan than that?

Besides Chayenne IS virtuous himself, he is a warrior, devout to the Blood God however not for bloodlust, but for the desire of protecting those he loves and cherishes. Little Chayenne, walking endlessly searching for his siblings, praying to his fathers' goddesses to shine a light, to show him the way, to protect his siblings, but receiving nothing back as the goddesses is forbidden from interfering with the living, even the ones toying the line into her realm.

I actually changed my mind and we are putting Tallulah in the 2nd circle, Luxury. Now, we about to play loose with the definition of luxury here as this is the circle where the damned are tormented with strong winds that drag them through hell, i'm focusing not on Luxury as a carnal sin, but rather the element of desire.

And for this we are going to consider Wilbur as the parent being punished, not Philza.

Wilbur who left for fame.

Wilbur who left for months and months and months. Who lusted for the world, who wanted to be known, who wanted to be adored, who lusted after a life of his dreams.

Wilbur who in his lust for the world forgot the one person who always considered him her whole world.

Tallulah lusting after safety, lusting for a place to belong, lusting to leave a mark in the world so that it doesn't forget her, trying to grab onto anything to prove her worth and her value but now being stuck in those winds. dragged without a destination, powerless and alone.

Pomme is then in the 3rd circle, Gluttony. The 3rd circle is the circle for those who were gluttons, who over indulged, are now stuck in pits of dirty, freezing mud, tormented by Cerberus and also a storm of snow, hail and thunder.

Etoiles, always hungry for the next fight, for the next dungeon, for the next opponent.

Baghera always hungry for answers, for things she cannot have, cannot do (she wants an explanation about what happened to her, she wants to save her friends when she cannot even save herself, she desires for the world to be good and kind).

Antoine, always hungry for power, selling his soul, his family, to achieve it. Devouring faces, devouring stories, devouring lives, swallowing everything whole until he doesn't even know who he was supposed to really be.

Pierre always hungry for connection, for warmth, hungry for those he meets, trying to fill the void in his heart with the temporary warmth of another body.

Pomme hungry for adventures, hungry to prove that she is worth of love (she remembers, those first days, the distrusts, the coldness, the way they considered not taking her and she never wants to feel that cold), Pomme being stuck, helpless when she knows so very well that helplessness gets you killed, that it makes you weak and unworthy.

The 4th circle, Avarice is empty, of the eggs at least. A respite, as much as they can have in that place.

They find Ramon in the 5th circle, Wrath. Localized on the Styx, the river that cuts through the Purgatory, made of boiling water and blood, that is the place where the wrathful are locked on eternal fights on the surface of the river, on the bottom the sullen are forever stuck drowning on the things they never got to say.

Fit who lived his whole life in a desolate wasteland where fighting was the only thing he could do. Fit who knew no rest, no peace, no sound of those fighting and those dying.

Fit who fought his whole life, who is still fighting, who doesn't know how to rest, who doesn't know how to forgive, who chokes on his wrath, who forces it down his throat because he wants to be better but anger was all that he knew during most of his life.

Fit who looks at those people in their eternal battle, bleeding and making others bleed for no reason, with no end in sight, with no real purpose but to cause harm, and feels at home.

Ramon who tries so hard to be light, to support and help his father in whatever he needs, who drowns his own feelings because he doesn't want to bother others, because he wants to be the rock they can lean on, drowning at the bottom of the Styx.

Leonarda is on the 6th circle, Heresy. This is the circle where the sinners had the intention of sinning, the one destined to those who denied the existence of god, who went against the beliefs of their time, and now they lay on open graves as fire burns them.

And what is Foolish if not a non believer?

He believes in no god, no authority, no deity. He believes in himself, he believes in his family, he believes in what he thinks is right.

Oh he plays pretend of course, he smiles at the Federation, he works for them, he joins the Ordo, he participates in their reunions, but do he believe in any of them? Does he commit to one dogma over the other?

Of course not.

Foolish is a non believer. He will join the side that offers him the most, he will betray them as easily as he joined, he will jump from a place to another as long as that keeps his family safe, as long as that is what is better for them.

Foolish who sins and smiles as he does so.

Little Leonarda who believes in her Pa above everything and anything else, burning in a never ending fire. Little Leonarda who doesn't give a fuck about anything else as long as he is okay, as long as he is by her side, who would follow him into whatever mess he got himself into, who couldn't care less about other's morals or expectations, who would gladly sin as long as they are together.

Richarlyson is on the 7th circle, Violence. This circle is actually divided in three parts but i think only two would be used the Valley of the Phlegethon where the ones who were violent against others were submerged on a river of the blood of those they hurt, and the valley of the suicidal, where those who were violent against themselves became either trees, eaten by harpies or chased by hungry dogs.

And well, it's self explanatory isn't it?

Who has spilled more blood than Cellbit? Between the war, the prison and not the Island he has enough blood on his account to drown them all.

Forever? Oh there are bloodbaths in his past too. There is rage that blinds, that takes hold of him and only leaves when he is standing in the aftermath of a carnage.

Mike does not mind blood. Never has, never will.

And who hurts Pac more than he does himself? Who hates Cellbit more than he hates himself? Who blames Forever for things, more than himself?

They may turn their rage against the world, may bath it into blood, may spill it until rivers form but they drown themselves in it too.

And Richarlyson? Little boy who saw too much, who knew death and suffering too early, who lives at war with a part of himself who wants nothing but to hurt and destroy.

Finally, Dapper is on the 8th circle, Fraud. This circle has ten pits in it, each designated to a type of sinner with their own punishment, raking from being whipped by demons to being submerged into boiling tar or being dressed into shiny clothes who were as heavy as lead.

And what is BadboyHalo if not a fraud?

Who even knows who he truly is, what he truly thinks? Probably not even himself.

This is a man of many layers and many masks, a man who presents himself in any way he thinks is right regardless of what he truly feels or thinks, this is a man who will lie to anyone, including himself.

This is a man who embodies every single sin punished, who could easily be put into any of the pits. Is he not a seducer? Is he not a liar and a thief? Corrupted by his own darkness? A hypocrite, to others and to himself? Does he not sow discord, does he not give bad advice?

And isn't Dapper too much like their father? Little Dapper who lies and lies and lies, who hides behind her own masks, who is now being punished because they do not know who they truly are underneath all the masks.

And the 9th circle, the last one?

Betrayal.

Sometimes the only way to leave hell, to leave Purgatory, is to be worse than the devils.

[seasidesandstarscapes]

Sanctuary

Summary: Two looks at Bobby and Don coming to terms with their faith and love for each other

Rating: T

Genre: Priest AU, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Crisis of Faith, Devotion, Falling in Love, Prayer, Angst with a Happy Ending

Words: Part 1 - 499, Part 2 - 637

A/N: shout out to @cirr0stratus and @strangethings-everywhere for fueling this fire!!

-

AO3

or

The marble flooring is a hollow echo under his footsteps.

Alone in the church, Don finds his peace, hands already clasped around his rosary. Bowing before the altar, he makes the sign of the cross, then kneels on the unforgiving steps. His words are soft whispers as he stares at the crucifix, pleas for God to call upon him.

In his fervent praying, he does not hear the approaching steps, or perhaps he ignores them for his own sanity. Only when a hand lands on his shoulder does Don stop and he lowers his gaze to the ground.

“At your prayers again?”

Don does not flinch at the voice, not this time. Instead, he closes his eyes and asks to be spared from this torment.

The hand leaves his shoulders but the other’s robe brushes against his own. He can sense the man standing in front of him now and then, two fingers lift his head by the chin.

Don’s eyes flutter open against his will and he swallows at the sight of Bobby staring down at him. They’re caught in this silent battle, Don trembling while Bobby remains firm. Bobby’s thumb brushes over Don’s lips and he hates how his heartbeat quickens.

His devotion is meant for one God, one church, yet the mere presence of Bobby wipes his memory clean. He closes his eyes and clutches his rosary tighter in his hands.

“O my Jesus, forgive us our sins—,” Don begins, murmuring, willing away his impure thoughts.

Bobby lets him repeat this prayer twice, three times before he interrupts.

“Are you really in most need of His mercy?”

Bobby is not mocking when he asks this. It is curiosity, perhaps even pity. His voice is soft like a summer breeze and his fingers dance along Don’s jaw.

“I—,” Don pauses.

He doesn’t know how to answer this. He is not a murderer nor is he someone who denies the existence of God. If anything, he simply loves. But his love is not that of a pious man.

He dares to look at Bobby again and his breath is stolen. The sunlight filtering through the windows of the church shines behind Bobby, bathing him in a holy halo, a promise of deliverance.

Don is one man, but he can adore more than one Holy Spirit. If God did not want this, then Bobby would not be beside him during mass or when they carry out their daily tasks.

His God is loving, forgiving. He has not punished Don for his devotion to Bobby and surely He must understand Don more than he does himself.

These thoughts comfort Don and when Bobby’s hand cups his cheek, Don turns his head to kiss the palm.

The hitch in Bobby’s breath tells him everything, a hope springing to life, a future of eternal salvation.

A small smile spreads on both their faces and Don once again makes the sign of the cross before standing to look at Bobby face to face.

~*~*~

Don takes a breath, then opens the door, silent and sure.

He peeks his head out into the hallway, looks down both ways before he finds the courage to leave the safety of his room.

His footsteps are light across the hard floor, he walks as if he’s simply off to another part of the church. Instead, he has one destination and he steels himself with each firm knock on the wooden door. It opens mere seconds later and Don holds back a smile that threatens to burst forth.

“Don.”

Bobby is not surprised, but there is a hint of confusion in his eyes nonetheless. Both are still dressed in their robes and Don looks away, hoping to calm his nerves.

“May we talk?”

Bobby raises a brow before letting Don into the room, the door shutting firmly behind him. Though all their rooms are sparse, there are still hints of Bobby in this tiny space. His table sits on the opposite wall of where Don has his, the Bible sitting upon it holds a red bookmark while Don’s own is white.

“What’s wrong?” Bobby asks and Don almost laughs.

He supposes he is that predictable and accepts this part of himself in an instant.

“I’ve come to confess,” Don starts, still looking at his feet.

His stomach lurches and his hands clench into fists.

“Shouldn’t you bring that to Father Sebastian?” Bobby frowns.

He has a point, but this isn’t a confession for Father Sebastian to hear. This is for him and Bobby alone.

“I don’t think he’d understand,” Don mumbles and he notices Bobby straighten at this.

”Alright then,” Bobby motions. “What is your confession?”

At this, Don gets down on both knees, clasps his hands together and holds them close to his mouth.

“I yearn for another,” he says, just above a whisper. “A fellow man.”

He can see Bobby’s fingers twitch, the rustling of his robes.

“Does he know?” Bobby’s voice is soft and strained.

Don swallows, then brings his gaze up to see Bobby staring down at him. His eyes are intense, sapphires shimmering in the low light.

“I pray he does,” Don lets the words escape from him, a hint of pride when Bobby visibly shivers.

“And what of your God?”

Bobby’s fingers are tucked under Don’s chin, his thumb dangerously close to Don’s mouth.

“If He deems me a sinner, then so I shall be. I only ask for His forgiveness.”

When Bobby’s thumb swipes over his lips, Don lets his tongue dart out, licking the tip. He watches with an innocent stare as Bobby’s eyes widen and then the thumb is pressed further into his mouth.

Don relishes the weight on his tongue, curls his mouth around it. It is holier than the Eucharist itself, this is what provides him with everlasting life.

Bobby sucks in a breath as Don rolls his tongue around his thumb, nibbles along the length. It’s then Bobby slides the digit back and forth, rubbing the pad along Don’s teeth, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Don is dutiful, worshipping Bobby, never letting their gazes drop. It is only once Bobby’s thumb is slick with spit that Don pulls away, kissing the tip before making the sign of the cross on himself.

He is slow to get to his feet but when he does, Bobby grabs his robes and pulls him in for a searing kiss.

The angels and saints, even God Himself, have never looked upon a more beautiful sight. Don holds Bobby close, his prayers shining through the way he grips Bobby’s waist.

They are one with the Holy Spirit, devotees of an unknowing God tied with the certainty of their love for each other.

Perhaps they are sinners, perhaps even devils, but even Lucifer once had his place in heaven.

[see-arcane]

The Vampyres (PREVIEW)

Something is culling the dead.

Whether they imbibe blood, leech life, or merely traded mortality away to their devil of choice, the revenants of the world are disappearing. A phenomenon that has been carving its way through the undead like a belated necrosis moving steadily through the past century and more. One which the Vampyre, a possessor of many names and collector of many lives, has been fretting over for some time.

A laughable fear, for he is one of those canny cadaverous few who made a deal for perpetual resurrection. The bitten may crumble, but the bargainer may rise from death after death. So he reminds himself. So he worries is no longer the case.

Not when the old boyar in the Carpathians was one of the first to vanish. Still, the monster from the mountains may simply be in hiding, just as the rest must be. The Vampyre himself is surely jumping at shadows. So he convinces himself for a single night…

…before a Thing known only as ‘Quinn Morse’ makes itself and its work known.

Surprise! I accidentally finished a novella during what was supposed to be a short story break. Whoops. Updates to come.

Below is a preview of the opening chapters. A link to the Google Doc version is here.

Warnings for some grisly imagery. Keep an eye out for some familiar faces (such as they are).

 The Vampyres

 “Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.

Think’st thou that I who saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?

O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands

Which strikes a terror to my fainting soul!”

 —Mephistopheles, Doctor Faustus

 I

           The phone came alive at midnight. A fact he would mercifully only become aware of well after two in the morning. He followed at least one form of etiquette at the table by silencing the device from start to finish of each game. He broke no rules in any casino, however polished or derelict. It was what preserved his hobby. The gambling itself he could leave or take.

         But the players themselves were excellent sport.

         He beggared every starved and bloodshot player hoping to win funds enough to live off for a month, then played as if blind in order to lose it all to whichever moneyed tick needed it least. Considering how equal the misfortune spread across the board for any who played with him—rich or poor, Good Samaritan or giddy sinner—it was rarely too long before even the least credulous in his circles began to shiver when he showed his face. Or so it was in less congested metropolises where the cattle weren’t so bombarded with other distractions that they couldn’t recognize an ill omen when he took a seat at the felted table. It remained true now, as always, that whoever played against him wound up either penniless or slated for an avalanche of misery the moment they spent the money he’d lost to them. A fact that so many of them never bothered to notice even in this age of conspiracy and wildfire gossip living in their myriad screens.

         Bless their blunted little souls.

         That night he was feeling slightly more at ease than he had in some weeks. Even one of the cocktail girls, whose mind carried a pleasing well of empathy and whose fingernails were still lined with soil from a group tree planting, tickled at his peripheral senses and twitched his appetite half awake. If he wanted, he could talk her number out of her over a drink he would never choke down, perhaps keeping her pinned at a stool with his face and his wallet. He might dance her along for a date or three and then bite her throat out before they struck June. The same could be said for the svelte young man behind the bar who had almost fumbled his showman mixologist pour upon making eye contact with him. He had a tang of hope and action sweating from him, the kind that was destined either to make a hero or a martyr of him someday. It would almost be a mercy to put him down in his prime.

         The girl, then.

He flung a little mental nudge her way. Enough to make her turn her head. At the same time, he fished out the phone to play with. Just to have it ready should the exchange come quicker than anticipated. A small mountain of text messages sat fresh and unread there. This was surprising by its own merit, considering how scant his contacts were. Then he saw the name. Irritation broke out on his mood like a rash.

Taking himself to a private corner, he began to read. And read. And read. Irritation grew into something heavier. Sicker.

At the bottom of the reading, he tapped play so he might watch.

When all was seen and heard, his hand twitched, crunched in the phone’s sides, and sent spider web cracks flying across the screen. A ruddy gentleman stopped en route to the toilet in time to see this and mumble something about how he ought to invest in a device of higher quality. The man had this cousin working for a new startup, you see, and if he was so inclined—

The last mote of joy he took away that night was the look on that rubicund face as it met the eyes of something no longer bothering to pretend it was human. A grey eye might be ignored. Not so for a dead one. He left the man scrambling his way to the stalls.

On his way to the doors, he made sure to radiate every deathly ounce of his presence into the air as he could. A quelling cold that made the glee of the night’s winners crumble into a dread of things they could not name. Then he was out and under the moon. He nursed from that pale waxing wedge in a desperate reflex. It was a thin taste here, lost in the searing pollution of streetlights and neon, but he basked just the same. Still basking, he crushed the phone in his fist and dropped the remains down a sewer grate. Then he was gone, one of a thousand streaks of rolling light and metal on the asphalt.

 II

 He only ever carried phones as a prop.

In this age and those to follow, it would be imperative to keep one of the aggravating little slabs on hand for the purposes of adding the phone numbers of sundry quarries or engage in the back-and-forth patter that so many of them insisted on in those hours when they weren’t side by side. Fortunately, he’d found himself blessed enough to dodge one of the maladies which others indulging in a healthy unlife hadn’t. True, the form he had bartered for had only so many perks, but opting out of extravagant powers had trimmed down the amount of tells.

         Some poor bastards had to walk around without reflections or shadows while grumbling over the barriers of running water and uninvited thresholds. Others only discovered their drawbacks as the 20th century budded, revealing too late that their photographs came out either empty or hideously distorted. Even the audio of their voices came out muted or garbled into static. He’d avoided all of these caveats by trading for a more thinly arcane state of undeath rather than glutting himself on all the powerful options in reach. And why not? It still came with the most desired prize without any need for filigree.

         Given blood and moonlight enough, there was no iteration of death from which he could not rebound. Same as any of the self-made devils lurking about in the shadows. Such shadows as were left for things like them. In a lighter mood, he might have enjoyed the notion of picking at the wounds of those who’d not bothered with the foresight of arranging investments and back doors of identification for the centuries to come. Only fools could miss how tight the noose of bureaucracy was becoming. A body loitering among the mayfly mortals had to be prepared and he had once laughed to himself at how many times the sorcerous types had to gnash their fangs and scramble to cover themselves as time ticked on and their lounging hedonism softened into corrosion.

         But such amusing thoughts had iced over in recent decades.

         He had not gotten as far as he had alive or undead by resting on his laurels. Oh, he might enjoy playing with his food and sowing a bit of casual desolation where it could be nurtured, but he never gambled when it came to things that might inconvenience him. Things like other bloodsuckers, for instance. A few had been proper nuisances of old. The majority of the stray vampiric beauties wandering around crypts and lonely midnights luring gullible lovers into their teeth were invariably the result of irresponsible collecting by the usual harem hoarders. Such carelessness often led to sleeping cadavers staked and slaughtered in their boxes like oversized leeches. Not a concern for himself, naturally—he could enjoy a bed rather than graveyard dirt or casket walls—but the attention itself got too many hackles up.

         Enough of them raised about a certain type of person could lead to inconvenience. One of his older worries had been the notion of an outright arrest. A trial. A boxing away into a great stone cage of a prison where he would have no choice but to resort to his teeth rather than his daggers or risk being found out as a perpetually young and deathless inmate. A bloody break out, an escape, some secret place where he could lay under the moon and heal from the bullets, going on the run for a decades-long stint until all assumed he must be dead, all these he could picture…

         …but frankly would rather avoid. Hence the need for cannier sorts with this unique condition. Those who knew how to take their fun and their fodder between the lines of human living and laws.

It was not against the law that certain formerly-benign persons around you turned apoplectic with madness, horror, or rage after spending a few months in your company. Nor was it against the law to stamp someone’s empty little head with the alien impression of infatuation, lust, or that softly syrupy joke called romance so that they, like the insect drawn to the pitcher plant, would come within reach willingly; regardless of former commitments or fearful kin. There was no law against trances, against the mystic weight of locking an unwitting brain inside an oath with more power to it than hollow words, against having a seventh sense of awareness when it came to the makeup of a soul.

         And, apart from those silly backwards places where superstition still ruled, there was certainly no law against being an accused vampire. Or a vampyre, to go by his preferred spelling. Kate Northcott mocked him for this and other affectations on those sparse occasions when they met.

         Her name was not Kate Northcott any more than his was Gordon Williams, but it was the name she was the most attached to.

         “I turned into a proper ghost story with it in the 1880s. Back when the mesmerist fad was booming, you know. Popped one little stage magician’s blood vessel right there in the middle of his act.” A dainty finger waggled. “I take offense to people playing with my toys. It’s his own fault for trying to walk my poor John around.”

         Her poor John, who had, like every beau before him, been told the exact nature of both their lovely cruel Kate’s being and precisely what she intended to do with them should they go through with marriage and life thereafter. More, that she would see them dead if they abandoned her. Each man had run. Each had died. Perhaps they’d have lasted longer if she ever allowed a trip to the altar before laying out the truth post-honeymoon, but the rules of her own contract demanded the revelation come before any wedding bells. Not a terrible bargain, all things considered.

         This in mind, he had posited that she might have better luck keeping a paramour if she used her fine senses to detect one of those lot who would trip over their own aching members for the chance to be an eternal puppet to her psychic appetite and the twitch of her riding crop. Miss Northcott had batted her lashes. As always, the lambent shine of her eyes tried to work their magic on his own will. As always, they’d scrabbled for a grip on the frictionless wall that shielded his mind from all such parasites; dead drinkers of blood or soul or otherwise. Following the expected failure, she had huffed and tittered.

         “Now what’s the point if they want it? I don’t see you jumping at the sea of willing victims hoping for unlife eternal draped in your arms at the cost of a hickey and a liquid diet. You could have had a set of twins that one time, no? The brother and sister, whoever they were. The Audreys? The Ambers?”

         “The appetizers,” he said with all the pining recollection of an epicure mourning an especially pleasing steak. “They were a pleasant distraction. It’s the most any quarry can aspire to.” So saying, he made a point of revealing one of the daggers he still kept on his person. Antique and bejeweled, he took some small pride in keeping the whole set gleaming and up to the task whenever the latest game came to an end. He’d unsheathed his current pick, admiring the dead grey of his stare reflected in the steel. “I have no interest in collecting sycophants.”

         “Likewise.” She had sipped at her cup daintily. Perhaps purposefully, the better to show she was capable of consuming more than the spirit of a collared victim. Whether she could taste anything the café had to offer was not a topic he was interested enough to pry for. “But that begs the question of why you’re suddenly so concerned for your fellows that you would bother with the labors of social interaction to pass the warning on.”

         Gordon regarded her stonily over his untouched plate.

         “I’m not concerned for any of our ‘fellows’ any more than I’m concerned for you. I have every belief that I am one of the least endangered of our kind and all its branches by dint of having some amount of grey matter dedicated to not flaunting my reality like those idiots who decided to take Bowie and Deneuve as role models. At most, I give you credit for being canny enough to dwell within plausible deniability with your methods. More, you have senses enough to glean for yourself if this threat is in your midst and have enough intelligence to enlist others to help with culling it.”

         She muffled a laugh and picked at her croissant.

         “Even if I believed you would exert effort to come to my aid, I still fail to see what threat you’ve conjured to be afraid of. Your only evidence so far is that you haven’t been in touch with the others of the old guard in some time. Most have never been keen on letter-writing or trading numbers. The last I checked, the bulk of them prefer the sedentary life to our migratory lifestyle. Castles and manors and villages turned into necropolises and so on. Hermit types by nature.”

         “Hermits would be at home. All the places I’ve visited have been empty.” He was surprised at having to keep his throat from bobbing in anxious imitation of a tic from his living years; back when there was need to fret for his life. “And filled with dust.”

         Miss Northcott had frowned up at him.

         “Dust..?”

         “Dust and growth. There were flowers growing in the messes that were fresh enough in their conversions to have flesh leftover. Compost.” He thought back to the surreal gardens left behind in that sequestered corner of Munich that belonged to Dolingen. Then a Serbian village that had been swallowed by a ravenously loving pack of wurdulacs, stopped short of virulence by their rules of homeland borders. Among others. Dust in piles, dust wearing ancient clothes, dust in coffins. And scattered throughout, the bounty of younger fledglings. Meat and bone converted to soil from which wild roses, ash trees, and garlic sprouted in healthy crops. As for the nobler estates?

         “The chateaus and mansions are either abandoned, passed on to the wealthy living, or museum pieces now. Maybe their former masters left it all behind in the past hundred or so years to dodge modern eyes scrutinizing the family tree. I’d like to think so. Just as I’d like to think there was a less worrisome reason that all the pseudonyms and auxiliary domains I tried to follow up on had no recognizable owners when I checked in. But even if I were dense enough to convince myself of such, there’s at least one case that suggests—,”

         “The Carpathians.” She beamed at him and his stunted oration. “The castle in the mountains has been gutted since 1897, dear. Looted and halfway dismantled to the foundation by the locals. What’s left of it is there for the tourists.” Her slim hand patted his knuckles. “If you’re worried about the handsy old boyar, don’t be. He’s been mobbed and murdered before. A shame about his girlfriends in their boxes, but they were only born of a bite, poor things. No contractual resurrection to fall back on. The Count, if he is still bothering with being a Count, is doubtlessly off haunting some contemporary castle someplace. Probably a nice high rise for him to skitter down or make his batty flights from. Just as the other oldies have likely taken themselves to higher ground. And if their minions really have run afoul of some sterling sorts with hammer, stake, and axe?” Miss Northcott shrugged. “Well, there’s always more pretty chattel to choose from.”

         Now she did laugh aloud. A brittle crystalline sound.

         “Honestly, I’m shocked that you’d be the one to turn jumpy over such a thing. Supposing there was some active force in the world bumping the lower tier wraiths off, it would still be no more than an annoyance for us. We’ve both had our share of murders to prove as much. The dried-up old conqueror certainly had his fill in the warlord days, if I don’t mistake the legends.”

         “He did,” Gordon granted. “And he has reassembled himself plenty of times before. Which is my point. Supposing he is undead and active today, or was a hundred years prior, why would he let the peasants harvest his fortress down into a ruin?”

         “Well, he’s obviously left the place,” Miss Northcott shrugged without looking at him. Her attention had gravitated down to her phone. A manicured thumb tapped and scrolled. More appetite than apprehension lived in her gaze. “You can only pass yourself off as your own descendant so long before things start getting sticky. Everyone hits the point where you have to get on with setting up elsewhere. And really, the warlord days are ancient history. If he’d gone out with a flourish of a massacre on the neighboring towns squirming under his eye, it would only have gotten him more unwanted attention. I recommend you start trawling through top mogul names and see if you can’t spot his picture lurking in there, gone fat and happy slurping up interns.” Her lips pursed. “Supposing he was one of the lucky sorts who can have a photo taken.”

         With that, the topic was dead. Gordon managed to sit through another quarter of an hour in which she lamented the double-edged factor of her electronic allergy, woeful at never having a decent photo to spare for social media or dating apps, but likewise glad of the identity-baffling glamour it leant.

Chirpily, she reminded him that even those who grew suspicious of her would never be able to take a reliable photo or video of anything but a spectral horror with mist for eyes, unlike some. Better still, no one even spoke on the phone anymore. Bless texting.

He held on until she started regaling him with talk of her latest doomed darling—a Mr. Quinn Morse, the mortuary assistant who she had met in the before and after of her latest fiancé’s funeral—and what a scrumptious psychic treat he was to the palate. She was frankly surprised at herself! He had proven so pleasant a distraction she might not even bother goosing his mind into vomiting out a proposal. Not for a while anyway. Why, she may even take up two-timing the boy just to snack on a fiancé behind his back, ha ha.

         Gordon didn’t bother wishing her bon appétit. He picked out a young couple on his way back to the train. Mister and Missus would be found folded inside a dumpster later that evening, chests carved and throats torn. A rejuvenating bout of gluttony that only gave him new energy with which to curse the lack of answers he sat with. Worse still was the lack of competent allies to make up for the former’s deficit. For a while longer he strained to lower his suspicions to the level of Miss Northcott’s confidence.

         His main concern was so implausible as to border on impossible, after all.  

         The turned might be slain, it was true. But those who had commissioned their states from their devil or deity of choice were immune to total destruction by any of the cattle, no matter how endowed in strength or holy accoutrement.

Days and nights were spent rereading these facts in the volumes that still traveled with him to whatever land or identity he haunted. They remained preciously stored in enhanced safes as the centuries ticked on, now handled only with silk gloves and the most delicate turns of cover and page. He scoured the old tongues, some living, some dead, some entirely detached from human script, and took as much solace as he could from the facts laid there.

His contract was one of perpetual function. So long as he drank his dose of blood, he would go on forever. So long as his dead skin was grazed by moonlight, he would shed any injury or temporary death. So long as he was the thing he was, no act of man would have the power to unmake him.  

All these were still maintained. He was safe. As anyone else at his level or higher would be. The more grandiose warlocks and dealmakers who’d glutted themselves on fearsome add-ons available to other forms of revenant had simply moved on and were going about their business elsewhere, under new names. Of course. Of course.

“Of course,” he murmured to the yellowed pages. “They all just happened to do so within the last century. On a whim.”

It could be, couldn’t it? Technology and the microscopic examinations of increasingly thorough systems surrounding properties and owners thereof would make it necessary to move on from old roosts sooner or later.

“Without taking any measures to preserve their estates.”

But then what of the villages? The ones full of living peasantry gleefully peeling the properties down to floorboards. The dead spaces where only silence and specific warding flora bloomed. What sense was there to those, if not the fact that something had been and gone and torn the masters of the land out by their bloody roots?

Something.

That was the prospect that worried him most. Something coming to call, something culling the undead and undying, something roaming across borders of land and water to pick them off year by year, decade by decade. Something that may have been active since the boyar in the mountains disappeared. Something which was not human and so did not fall within the parameters of their sundry pacts’ protection.

Gordon grimaced. It would come down to a technicality, wouldn’t it? Be they gods or demons or Folk in-between, there was always some damned loophole built in to ensure a trade was never quite as advertised. Gordon had studied and sworn and dealt with a god wearing the aspect of one of those horrors that passed for divinities in the Mediterranean. One of tripled faces, of lunar light, of words stitched with power. After so many centuries, he had dared to become complacent enough to think he had gotten away with an impenetrable exchange.

But now came this worrisome century and a quarter in which all those dead who lived off the living were dropping out of sight. He might have dared to make an inquiry to Powers beyond mortal matter if he weren’t likewise concerned that this culling was the work of said Powers themselves. Terminating contracts, as it were. Even if this weren’t the case, what more did he have left to barter with for protection from…

From what?

He didn’t know. Still. The result left him twisting unhappily between throes of frustration at his ignorance and grimmer dread of knowledge that might come in the shape of the long-avoided coffin come to collect.

As always, the cure for his own despondency was to share it with others. Hence the casino. The brief high that had almost transfigured into relief.

And then had come the texts from ‘N.’

Even with the phone safely demolished and abandoned, its final bleak gift stayed branded behind his eyes, searing through his thoughts awake or asleep. The first came at ten past midnight:

R. Need help. My arm’s going black. The knife, it

A lull of minutes followed this. The next message came through at 12:15 AM:

It’s real. He’s here and he’s real. Quinn Morse was a cover. I can’t find any of his pictures in the album now. He replaced everything with their markers. All of them.

Another beat. 12:22 AM:

Pick up, damn it! This isn’t a joke! He’s got all the doors and windows cut off and the police won’t be here in time! I already tried to put him down, but he just keeps going. I can’t drink him. I can’t even hold him. He knew he knew the whole time he

Beat. 12:30 AM:

Pick up you bastard

12:31 AM:

Please, R, he’s outside. He’s got my arm. What’s left of my arm. The door’s breaking and h

The next message came at 12:41 AM. A video. Hitting play, the clearest thing throughout the few endless minutes was the background. Miss Northcott’s plush bedroom stood out in crisp relief compared to the two figures in the foreground. One was a vaguely female haze that Gordon recognized as what was left of Kate Northcott. She flickered in and out of the camera’s concept of her reality. One moment she was spectral fog made of hunger and venom. In the next, she was something far more tangible and suffering for it.

Each flicker revealed a new stage of decomposition twitching in a bloodied sundress. Only one arm was left to flail with as the right was missing, swinging only a necrotic stump at the shoulder. The rest of the body was following suit between spasms. Sometimes a glottal noise that could pass for a voice broke through the static. What had been crystal was now a shrill and dwindling rasp. Dimly, Gordon thought it was strange the noise was not wetter—his cuisine almost always gurgled when enduring the kind of wound he saw staining her breast.

A crimson slit, quickly drying to maroon, had opened where her heart would be. Her remaining hand alternated between scrabbling at the wound and trying to wave off the shape throwing its shadow over her from outside the borders of the screen. As she tried to kick herself back along the floor, the reason for her scuttling along the imported rug was made clear: a bullet hole had gone through one knee. The knee itself was now almost obliterated with decay while the calf and thigh on either side were going hideously spongy. Much like the rest of her.

The last noise she made was as close to a scream with dust for a throat could manage—

“Quin—,”

—before a flash of silver-white swept down. It flew in a shining arc from the upper corner of the screen and through the hazy shriveled stem that had been a neck. A moment later there was no haze left. Only the corpse of the thing known as Kate Northcott collapsing in two pieces. The bulk of it flopped to the floor with a gruesome rattle. Her head, the lush tresses now so much grizzled and flimsy white, tumbled away until it struck the nightstand. When it stilled, the sockets revealed that the eyes had dried away to nothing.

Then Quinn Morse stepped into frame.

If Miss Northcott was mist, her killer was a ghost. The impression of a man smeared just out of true. Really, it was the impression of a character; some escapee from a folk legend or a graphic novel. Such was the outline Gordon could make out in the blur of him. He was a strange medley of huntsman and mourner. Sheathed in black, Gordon could pick out suggestions of both the late Victorian and the fantasy of the American adventurer in his attire. Or perhaps he was assuming too much by the hints beneath the hanging duster and the broad brim of a hat dark as charcoal. The only things not some shade of ink were the white fall of hair growing from under the hat in wild drapes and the twin infernos of the eyes floating in the shadowed void where a face should be. Not red, but a sickening grey that might have matched Gordon’s own but for how they burned.

He thought of cats. He thought of foxes. He thought of carrion birds.

He thought of coins not unlike the pair Quinn Morse held up in his gloved fingers. Gold pinched in old leather. They shined just as bright as the long blade gripped in the opposite hand, its helping of blood dripping.

Gordon watched with the camera as Quinn Morse first held the coins up to be seen, then popped one apiece into each of the eye sockets. Finally, a bundle of familiar blossoms and sprigs appeared from the dark mass of the coat. This was tucked neatly into the head’s sagging maw as if arranging a bouquet. Quinn Morse stepped out of sight. The video ended.

A final text message appeared the instant the show finished:

My God, my God! Look not so fierce upon me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! Ugly Hell, gape not! Come not Lucifer! I’ll burn my books!—O Mephistopheles!

He had wanted to laugh. To roll his eyes. To make himself tap out a reply in mocking returned verse. To inform Mr. Morse that he was lacking for proper material to parrot, especially in assuming his gods and devils brushed anywhere near something so young and gaudy as the Abrahamic.

He could. He would.

But somewhere in these plans he had found himself crumpling the phone to shrapnel and racing home to start clearing out his necessities for a trip to distant quarters. He kept more than one residence as a rule whenever he wasn’t taking one of his gourmand tours. A fact Miss Northcott may have known, but not well enough to have learned his other addresses. Or names.

Gordon Williams was thrown away that night.

Mason Darvell greeted the morning.

[bipolarman2022]

Title: "The Wrath of the Desert"

In the vast horizon of endless dunes, under a sun that showed no mercy, a love was born that defied all borders. Khaled and Amir were two men destined to be together, despite a world that denied them acceptance, a world that did not understand the power of their union. Their love blossomed among the warm winds of the desert, where their nights were shared under the stars and their days were a dance of laughter, whispers, and eternal promises.

Amir, with his deep gaze, always smiled when he saw Khaled. And Khaled, the strongest man in his tribe, felt invincible when he was with him. They needed nothing more than each other’s company, they sought no approval or understanding from the outside world. The desert was their home, and under the stars of the Sahara, their hearts beat as one, a love so pure that it seemed immortal.

But immortality is a cruel illusion. One day, as they traveled through the desert in search of an oasis, Amir suddenly fell ill. His body, once so strong, weakened in a matter of hours. Terrified and desperate, Khaled carried Amir to the nearest oasis, hoping the sacred waters would heal him. But nothing changed. The days passed, and Amir worsened.

Khaled carried him in his arms, tirelessly searching for a cure. They visited villages, consulted healers, implored the gods. But Amir's life slipped from Khaled’s grasp like desert sand—fine and unreachable. With each passing day, the shadow of death loomed ever closer over his beloved. And finally, under the full moon, in the solitude of a tent, Amir took his last breath.

Khaled, who had never known true despair, felt his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. Everything that had once been solid in his life crumbled in an instant. He held Amir’s lifeless body in his arms for hours, unable to accept reality. He screamed Amir’s name to the heavens, but the desert, silent and cruel, did not answer.

His soul was mortally wounded. The world without Amir was a cold and merciless void, a place without meaning or purpose. Khaled buried his beloved deep in the desert, in a place known only to the two of them, beneath a dune that had once been their refuge. But when he covered Amir’s body with sand, he felt as though he was burying his own life as well.

The days that followed were a nightmare from which Khaled could not wake. He blamed himself. He hated himself. Why couldn’t he save him? He told himself he had failed as a man, as a lover. Memories of Amir tormented him every moment, and what had once been a beautiful love became an unbearable burden. The image of Amir’s empty eyes, the feel of his cold skin, haunted him relentlessly.

The desert, a witness to his pain, began to change. Sandstorms that were once rare and fleeting now became constant, furious. The wind howled through the dunes as if it shared Khaled’s silent scream. The sky darkened for days on end, covering the desert in palpable darkness, as if the sun itself refused to shine on a world with so much suffering.

But it wasn’t just the desert that was changing. Khaled, consumed by his self-hatred, began to lose himself in a spiral of madness and pain. His mind could no longer distinguish between reality and memory, between life and death. He often believed he saw Amir in the distance, walking among the dunes, only to realize it was an illusion. The nights, once the refuge of their love, became endless nightmares.

Finally, in an act of total desperation, Khaled decided he could not continue living without Amir. He climbed to the top of the dune where he had buried him, the wind howling around him, as if the desert itself were trying to stop him. But Khaled could no longer feel the wind, or the sand, or the world around him. His only reality was the pain that consumed him.

Standing on the dune, beneath a sky that grew darker by the second, Khaled raised his arms to the heavens and screamed Amir’s name with all the strength he had left. It was a heart-wrenching cry, a call to the gods, to the stars, to the universe itself. But there was no answer. The world remained silent, indifferent to his suffering.

With one final breath, Khaled let himself fall into the void. His body was carried away by the wind and the sands, but his death did not bring peace. On the contrary, his despair, his hatred towards himself, spread throughout the desert, infecting it like a plague. The wind grew more violent, the storms became permanent. The skies darkened for months, and nearby villages began to feel the weight of a curse they could not understand.

The love of Khaled and Amir, once so pure and strong, had unleashed endless destruction. Khaled had not only ended his life, but he had also condemned the entire desert. Now, when the winds howl and sandstorms cover everything in their path, it is said to be the echo of Khaled’s final scream, a man who could not live without his beloved, and whose pain now devours the world.

The stars that once guided their love were now extinguished, and the desert, once a place of peace, had become an eternal tomb, a reminder of a love that was too great, too painful, to be contained in this life.

[kufflesdiamond]

Dangerously Yours . . . . ♡ [[SHOOTING STARS]]

— Riddle Rosehearts x Yuu/MC ,, GN!Reader.

Reader has monstrous looks and they are to look however you wish. Royalty AU; You're from a kingdom far away. [[Angst because why not...]]

Tonight was supposed to be like other nights; filled with laughter, comfortableness, closeness, love... But, tonight it's tense filled within one of the two sitting on the grassy ground in the middle of a clearing surrounded by trees.

The tensed one was a being seemingly straight out of a nightmare regardless of their disguise, with teeth so sharp and claws so long, they wonder how anyone could even think to love the horns curling around their face. How someone could love their eyes, filled with the souls of the damned, the nightmares of children, the blood of those once breathing.

They couldn't understand how the opposite of them could even think to befriend them, seeing them in all their glory. His entire facial features screaming "Pure".

"Look Yuu," and with a glance they tuned in as he talked smoothly, his grey eyes shining brightly in their terrible direction "A shooting star! Did you wish?" he asked them with a tilt of his head.

His hair flowed with the wind like an angels wings flapping in the sky. He was the most beautiful being they've ever seen in their life of surviving, he was a refresher of the bodies too cold to be near.

"...I didn't have time." They sighed out, their voice scratchy and low. He perked up regardless of how horrible they sounded.. it made their heart tear slowly in two.

But that would do the world a favor, wouldn't it? For them to be torn and broken like what the souls in their body have been. Broken beyond repair, torn into a mess no longer recognizable.

"Then.. there is something you wish for?" As he scooted closer to them to hear their chest rumble with the sounds of torment from those long gone, they could only frown; his soul, his eyes are pure unlike theirs. Why is he so comfortable being near the reincarnation of evil?

Perhaps he was wondering that too. 'When did I get comfortable near this thing?' he's probably questioning. Not that they would blame him.. they wonder that all the time in their box.

"Yes..." They muttered, their horror-filled eyes getting lost in his angelic ones, "What did you wish?" He questioned as he leaned nearer almost melting onto their cold body.

He was so warm unlike their "meals" they'd be given. No matter what it was.. always so freezing cold. Always lost in the cage called Yuu. They melted in the warmth the male gave off, the welcoming, the acceptance..but it could never rid them of their thoughts.

Of the thoughts of those who are gone. Of their meals. Those who had almost repented only to be forced into their stomach for all eternity. For their souls to be chained to the pits of hell.

A few minutes had passed by before the monster broke the eye contact with a hand placed on the grass, their eyes tearing up in silent agony that the redheaded male couldn't grasp the understanding of why.

"I was wishing that....." They stared up at the sky, a lone tear rolling down their cheek as the world seemingly stopped breathing. The male next to them leaning closer to place a hand on their cheek to wipe it away. They both sat in silence for a second longer until the beast could find the words to speak again.

"I was wishing that we were two other people." They said as more tears rolled down their face, leaning into the males palm as their eyes stared into his.. the shine still there with emotions of adoration in them. They watched as his eyes widened, as the tiredness showed itself, as the want to leave made itself known. They both watched each others eyes; longing to be with the other forever.

The beast knew they'd be damned to hell themselves while the male in front of them was destined to be in heaven. They knew that every life time they'll be fated to be a part for ever.

With a sniffle, the monsters tension left their body with a deep frown, "Two people who need not to say goodbye.."

The night resumed as usual the second those words left their mouth. The world knew they both felt the same, that they both wanted to live peacefully with one another.

however, in this twisted wonderland dreams never come true.