#forgotten god au

[madarasthicc]

Devil is a Lie

Madara groaned trying to shake the the water from his clothes. It had been raining non stop for what seemed like days. And the skies didn’t show any sign of stopping. Plus traveling like this was grueling. He was frustrated and angry. His own shinobi forces were feeling his temperament and probably feeling just as shitty.

It was why he was traveling through the thick forest despite the rain. He had been told there was a temple near by the villagers where they were currently stopped at. Though they did say it was old and crumbling from inactivity. Not that they themselves had even seen it. He hadn’t been in a temple since him and his forces had left the Uchiha clan lands. He had prayed before leaving but their increasingly bad luck made him want to pray.

Maybe want was the wrong word. He felt he had to find a true temple and pray. His mother always said he had been blessed by their goddess but it certainly didn’t feel like that right now. Heavy rains, increasing loss of life, never ending battles. It never seemed to end. So he had to pray. Show he was still devoted to his Parton Saint. And he supposed a temple, even crumbling, was better than a shitty camp they had made.

When he finally pushed through the vegetation to a clearing he saw the large building. It certainly wasn’t much of a temple now. It looked ready to collapse in on itself at any moment. But a holy place and one of worship was all he needed. He brushed the bangs from his face as he approached.

Madara exhaled slowly as he approached. As expected the basin at the entrance of the shrine was overfilling with water. Lifting the ladle he washed his left and then his right. Before letting the water clean the ladle of his touch.

“I must apologize for not cleansing my mouth.” He spoke bowing before the temple and then stepped through the torii gates. Tossing a few coins into the coffer before stepping up to one of the bells. He prayed for it not to come crashing down on him as he rang the bell twice. He bowed twice before clapping his hand twice. It was so silent, the sounds of the bell echoing through the air and even himself.

“I am but a blessed servant of Amaterasu. I am far from her and humble ask to pray for my people.” He spoke aloud, eyes closed and face relaxed. “For their safety, for their comfort.” He added bowing deeply. “Thank you.”

As he stood up, he pulled out the bag of offerings. He set the bottle of sake and rations at an offering table.

“I’m afraid it’s not much, but only what a shinobi can carry.”

@thetoaddaddy

[the-night-writer1]

forgotten god au content in the near future

[thetoaddaddy]

A lil drabble for the lonely god au

It’s raining. A heavy downpour. The kind that pelts against the skin and gives one a terrible chill. It doesn’t bode well for an old mountain top shine. The wood groans. The roof leaks. Mould feasts and nature rejoices. 

To most he would look like an ordinary man now. The lacklustre shine and ethereal commanding aura is long faded. He is at most a tangible ghost. One could reach out and touch him. Feel him. Hold his cold skin and trace his tired features. He must look odd too. Clothes bitten at the hems from being long overdue for a change. Their faded colours matching his faded presence. Bare feet, dirty and wet. Dark eyes, dull and emotionless. The rest of his face just as blank as he stares at the sky. 

It was raining that day too. 

When the land was collided in a three way war. When three gods who once oversaw one united country began to fight. First it was just disagreements. Then altercations. Before long one who were now three destroyed their nation. Land was split. The earth was shaken and scarred. What was left was three with no choice but to start again, away from each other. 

He knows he took the biggest toll. 

Maybe that’s what drove them away. 

Lacking faith in their god they left. One by one. Maybe they went to one of them. A healer or a determined go getter is much more reliable than someone who… well… he didn’t recall what. What his goal is or how he failed the ones who once loved him. They were fed. They had protection. They had him. But maybe he just wasn’t good enough. 

That’s why there’s nothing left. Not even his name. He can’t even step out of the gate of his shrine. Any day now… He’ll collapse. This form will wither. He will be nothing more than the dirt below him. 

Something warm and fuzzy weaves around his feet. His head slowly moves down to see a fox with golden fur. It makes a funny sound, something like a bark and grumble, before trotting off to the main part of his decaying domain. He follows, taking shelter under the small wooden structure. Inside of which held a raised area full of soggy blankets and moth eaten robes. Rotted offerings in fraying baskets were barely recognizable at the foot of the small step. So he lays down. Soaking wet and cold. Staring at the rain framed by the open shoji.. or what remained of it. It broke years ago. 

Some small part of him did remember. When he had ladies fawning over him. They were curled up on his blankets and poured him all the alcohol he could stand… That’s about all he remembers. The marks of a long ago past still remained on his hallowed grounds. The things humans used. Tilled ground and ruined crop land. Broken dishes. There’s a place of hot water too. Somewhere not too far… he can’t access it now. 

The fox made that sound again, calling for his attention. The best he could do was run his hand along it’s back. The beast eventually settled to lick his cheek. But it wasn’t long until those big ears perked up and it dashed back off in the rain. 

Wonder what it heard? 

The thought was fleeting. Running through his brain like a brush going from one end of the paper to the other. 

Well… 

There’s not much else to do but rest. 

[lemonyelixir]

Franks outfits in the au :D

[mercury-lurks]

Taylor Green was the Elven Kingdom's blight, the dark ink-stain marring Eoniah's history. A bastard child born to His Majesty, He Who Is Favored By Blood, King Thaddeus Green and a lowly human woman too insignificant to be named.

A half-human prince sixth in line for the Throne of Eoniah, the Elf With No Braid, the abominable wretch to doom the kingdom to ashes.

Needless to say, they spent a lot of time by themself. They scoured the Library for interesting reads -- mostly old fairytales and myth and legend -- and explored the vast forest that shielded Eoniah from human view. None of their family spent time with them apart from the belittling and mockery that came with their shorter stature and un-Elven features.

As one typically is, they weren't too fond of being ruthlessly torn apart by their own flesh and blood, so they withdrew into fantasy. They buried their head into fiction and tried to pretend as if someone would see their unjust fate and whisk them away, letting them free from any suffering.

Instead, Taylor found an old tome lodged in the dustiest part of the library, pages spilling out onto the floor and marked with tea stains, chapters dog-eared and creased and ripped. Ink spills obscured entire sections, the Old Elvish incomprehensible without a majority of the words in tact, yet they found a small collection of three pages that they could read.

The three small pages told the brief story of a god, forgotten by his pantheon and cast out to the mortal world, forever separated from his divinity. No name was mentioned nor what this mysterious god ruled over, but the young elven prince saw kinship in this deity and pledged to themself (and any god that may be listening) that for their sake, and for the sake of this forgotten god, they would remember when everyone else couldn't. Even if this deity was a mere legend, a creative writing project hundreds of years old and destroyed carelessly, shoved into the darkest corner it could have possibly been stowed in, they would remember.

If they could remember this god, maybe there was a hope someone could remember Taylor, too.

At the beginning their worship was ferverous, praying daily and nightly with long, ambling rants, telling this god everything of their life down to the last second. They wanted to make sure the deity felt included, as if he was listening from afar with bated breath as they told every detail of every piece of gossip they knew.

As they grew from a desperate preteen to a hollow, joyless teenage prince, their worship waned. Tirades turned to idle conversation and reading passages of books aloud, throwing whole meals into flame became the few best-looking scraps of food, and yet their resolve held firm. This god had turned from an empty hope to an invisible friend, a confidant, someone they could trust.

It stung to know that deep down, their closest friend wasn't even real.

Once they graduated highschool at age seventeen, they knew their time was nearing up. An elf does not truly mature until they're sixty or so, but Taylor was half-human. As far as Eoniah was concerned, at eighteen they were as good as dead.

They prepared their meager belongings, and on the day of their eighteenth they were exiled from their home and sent to die in the human world.

But Taylor was determined to live and live well, and so they did. A few shady jobs turned into legal recognition, allowing them to settle themself down in human society. The forest itched at their soul, begging for its prince to return, but they ignored that feeling. They had their apartment and their plants and their false god and that was enough.

They enrolled in the local college and pursued a career in environmental science. They had a sacred duty to uphold nature as a prince of Eoniah, and it would cast suspicion on them if they were to join society and start magicking everything better. They liked science, anyhow.

During a lab, Taylor met the woman who they thought would be their one and only. Her name was Sara, and she hoped to use her skills and expertise to find a way to filter out microplastics in drinking water.

Taylor was every bit in love as they knew how to feel and they thought she was in love just the same. The first time they kissed was just as magical as all their stories said it would be, and the first time they slept together Taylor knew that she was the one. She was everything they had needed: a loving smile, a gentle hand, and someone just as mentally ill as they were.

That was until Sara's actual boyfriend stopped by for a surprise visit and she turned the blame all onto them, cursing them out and calling them a creepy stalker, among other things.

They were crushed. They thought that, for the first time, someone had cared about them. Someone had taken a look at this awkward, off-putting, autistic prettyboy and had chosen to love them. Taylor was finally someone worth choosing, and they came to find out that they were the other woman, they were second place and always had been.

They fell into the worst depression of their life, their plants withering around them as they did nothing but lie in bed and do classwork.

It was finally time to admit to themself that they were unlovable by nature, too much for any human and too little for any elf. They stopped praying to their god altogether, coming to the unavoidable conclusion that they were hurting themself further by pretending he was real. Their first and only friend was a farce- a delusion created by a young, traumatized mind.

So it was a surprise when there was a knock at their apartment door. As far as they were aware, no man -- mortal or otherwise -- knew they lived here except for Sara and their landlord. Curious, and desperate for something new, they opened the door.

A man stood there, fist raised to knock again. He was shorter than them, a fact that still shocked them every time they saw a shorter human, with shaggy, unkempt black hair (a portion in front dyed a deep navy blue that caught the light in ways that should not be physically possible), a plain baseball cap trying to tame that mess, and the deepest dusty blue eyes they'd ever seen.

He lowered his hand, his face splitting into a wide, dazzling grin. He looked awed to see them, and something about him made them feel right at home.

"You're Taylor Green, right?" He asked, his voice breathless and joyful. They didn't understand why he was so happy to see them, nor why he knew their name in the first place.

But they were eager for a change, so they answered, "I... I am, yes... Who are you again?"

The man looks surprised and then embarrassed, shrinking back. "Oh, right, of course you wouldn't know me. That's my bad." He cleared his throat and extended his hand for them to take. "I'm James. Thanks for praying to me for all those years."

Taylor shook his hand and barely processed what he said. "Of... Of course, yes." They paused and then did a double take. "Wait, pardon? What do you mean?"

James let go of their hand. "I'm the God you've been praying to since you were a kid. I got worried when you stopped talking to me and thought I'd make sure you were okay, y'know?"

They took a moment to just stare at him, dumbfounded, before they replied. "You're... How do you know about that? You're real? And your name is James?"

He laughed and gestured purposelessly as if to say he understood. "Yeah, I took a new name after I got cast out. Helps me fit in with mortals better, haha."

"I... I see." Their mind worked at a thousand miles a minute, trying to come to terms with it all. The god they believed was fake was standing right in front of them. Their only friend for years was not only real, but had been listening, had cared, had noticed when they stopped talking to him.

His face softened, clearly noticing their distress. "Can I come in?"

They nodded and stepped out of the doorway, letting James into their apartment, shutting the door when he entered.

"How did you find me?" They asked, still not truly knowing what to do with themself.

"It took forever--- I've been trying to find you since you first prayed to me, but wherever Eoniah is located isn't on any maps. I had to like, take notes on things you said when you got here. I've known where you were for about a week now, but I didn't drop by until you stopped praying. So," he sat down on their couch, patting the space next to him, "what's up?"

Taylor sat a half-foot away from him, but James scooted over to close the gap, resting his hand on their thigh.

"I- I'm sorry, this is just... This is crazy. I don't know what to think right now," they admitted, "I don't know if I even believe you, even if there's no other explanation for how you know that. You just... You're just some guy."

"No, I'm not just some guy. I'm your friend. Honestly, I've been dying to talk to you for ages, but I'm not the deity I used to be. I can't respond the same way I used to be able to." At their distrustful look, he continued, "Okay, okay, you need more proof than that. How can I prove it to you?"

They thought about it for a second, then spoke, "What was my favorite fairytale to read to you?"

James smiled as if the mere mention of the story brought him joy, speaking without hesitation. "The Girl Made of Feathers. It was the one Vasati read to you when you were little. I remember you telling me you found the book in the library and pestered her to read it to you. It was cute."

After another few seconds of silent thinking, Taylor let out a heavy breath. "God... It really is you."

"Yeah, it is." He wrapped his arms around their middle and pulled them into a hug, one that Taylor reciprocated with teary eyes. "Now, c'mon, talk to me. Tell me what's going on. You know I'm a good listener."

They broke down and told him everything--- about their relationship, about the break-up, and all the things that came from that. True to his word, he listened patiently, soaking in all the information he was given like he'd done countless times before and waiting until they were done to reply.

"Well, here's what I think," he started, pulling back a touch to wipe away their tears, "I think she was entirely in the wrong, there's no question about that. The relationship ending the way it did was not your fault."

"I- I know that, but-"

He shushed them, cupping their cheek and brushing his thumb across their skin. "I'm not done. I also think you're wrong, too. You are a lot of things, Taylor, but you're not unlovable. You aren't second place, not to me." He looked so earnest, like the thought of them believing those things about themself physically pained him. "I've heard years and years of that kind of talk from you and I'm sick of it. There have been countless times I've just wanted to grab you from across your prayers and offerings and tell you how much you mean to me, that you aren't wrong or bad for being born different. If nobody else out there will see you as something to be treasured then I'll do what they failed to do."

They don't know how to respond to something like that. They've never been told that they mean something, especially not by anyone they cared about. He talked about them like they were something important, someone worthy of living, and they thought it was pathetic that something that miniscule was bringing them to tears again.

He hugged them again and let them cry, rubbing gentle circles into their back. "I love you," he murmured, "and I know I can't do all the things I should be able to do for you. It grieves me that I can't spoil you rotten the way you do for me. But I can still be your friend... if you'll have me?"

Taylor nodded, clutching him like a stuffed animal. He didn't feel quite as divine as they thought he would, but he doesn't feel mortal, either. A god stripped of his divinity shouldn't feel like either, they supposed, as he's neither all-powerful nor fragile. A being neither mortal nor immortal, one with a foot in each world, much like themself.

He's both a friend and a confidant, someone they could trust.

"Okay," they whispered back, voice choked with tears, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Taylor," he said, "it's the least I could do for my most devout."

End.

You have thrown food into fires as a “sacrifice to the gods” since you were little. You’ve been going through a bad breakup, and a stranger appears to check if you’re alive since you haven’t payed tribute recently.

[zu-is-here]

What happened to Greek gods au?

Praying to God

After defeating the warrior, the former god of dreams illusions plunges him into a deep sleep, which the mortal is determined to emerge from.

[somerandomcockroach]

[liauditore]

how many belts and buckles does she need someone save me.

[m0n0morph]

I red a comment somewhere that said like, Ares wears a helmet because he actually has a baby face and he doesn’t want people to see it and my brain just went LIKE META KNIGHT!!!!!

Anyways this inspired me to make this

Just gonna call it Kirby’s Gods au but essentially all the puffs and only the puffs are just different Gods

If y’all wanna add any puff oc’s and to make into Gods and add into this au then go right ahead cause I’m having big art block and I’m ready to draw some Kirby God shenanigans

[winged-eggers]

it’s 2023 and it’s high time I release my anime on main beams

conceptualizing Fumu as an entire adult is so surreal 2 me but such is the passage of time it is high time we accepted and processed this information

[aleebeesplats]

Soul bond[OUTDATED]

“An eternity alone is a cruel thing to be subjected to. To be surrounded but isolated, heard but forgotten, so powerful, yet so weak at the same time. The story is your life, but is that really all there is to it? Is that why you did it? Allowed them to exist despite the obvious growing issue? You wanted to feel understood despite not knowing who you were or where you began. You’ve crafted life at the expense of their freedom. You’ve replicated freedom through life.”

More info about this au under cut

This really started as a joke cuz I wanted to draw more Stan and Mari friendship art but as god has it it’s not so much a joke anymore(yay). This whole AU centers around Stanley and Mariella “becoming human”.

Character refs for Stan and Mari. I might change some stuff up with their colors and designs but this is the main idea for now.

In this AU Mariella now works in the same building as Stanley and her job is to attend meetings. Employee 317 did this everyday of every month of every year. She first meets Stanley while waiting for those who were supposed to attend, surprised and confused at the sudden disappearance of everyone.

Mariella and Stanley are creations of the Narrator, so they don’t look exactly human because of that.

(They have normal noses in side profiles)

I was inspired by Friday Night Funkin for their stylized faces. In terms of expression they are much more animated in comparison to the Curator or the Narrator.

Speaking of Nar-Nar, here’s the man himself. His first form is more like a “concept” than an actual “appearance” as he didn’t really care about what he looked liked and cared more about getting through with the story. His current form is much more human and he often spends time in it outside of the parable in his office. I wanted to keep his figure blocky and sharp cuz I went by squares as his main image.

Now the Parable wouldn’t be anything without the building, lo and behold “Coworker”.

I suck at drawing buildings, but for all you need to know for now is that it always expanding in the inside (where the story takes place), and also it is alive, capable of thought and emotion to some extent. Yayyy living infrastructure.

Some additional early sketches I made while trying to figure out stuff.

I thought it would be funny if Nar and Curie dated for a week before realizing they swung different ways. Things are good between them but it’s a little awkward at times. I was stuck between making Nar-Nar an eldritch creature or just an old man, but then again why can’t he do both.

Quick height chart doodle. The egotistical old man strikes once again, he really made himself so tall because he thinks it’s funny being able to see over people’s heads. In a way they look like Kirby to him.

That’s it for now. I’ll try to not burn myself out so that I can draw more for this au. It seems shallow right now but that’s on purpose‼️

Also, none of the things I draw in this AU are meant to be romantic. They are Queer-platonic at most. This is just me exploring bonds in hard times +what it means to be human (self-projecting like hell).

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 3!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

Their first official meeting face to… well, almost face. Soap’s doing his best.

[Disclaimer: I have been fiddling with this for ages, and just like everything else i’ve written, i’m not quite happy with it but i’m done looking at it. sorry if it’s awful lmao. also it’s around 5 goddamn thousand words]

Another battle won, another victory to add to the general’s reputation, and another fight that left Ghost feeling empty.

Part of him hated that he had become a disciple for the god of death. It was hard not to notice the changes that started after he first left an offering for the god. The way he felt a little less alone, the way enemy arrows would occasionally miss their target, the way the aches of battle faded much sooner, the way the world seemed a bit brighter. The way it gave him hope.

Hope was a dangerous thing. It tricked him into thinking he was meant for more than just dying on the battlefield. Made him believe that he could have a happy ending.

In reality however, Ghost would live and die a prisoner, having forgotten the taste of freedom. The world was not bright. It was cruel. If there were any good in the world, the other side would have won. Would have slaughtered them like pigs.

Instead, they lived to fight another day. Once the wounded were stable, they moved on. Found a spot to camp on a riverbank. As always, Ghost ran off. Let himself indulge in the falsity of hope.

By now, everyone in the camp was used to his routine. The only one brave enough to confront him was the general and so long as he returned to be his rabid dog whenever he needed, he learned not to care.

So, he left. Continued his search for more temples that once housed devout believers of the god of death. He appreciated the distraction from the real world, a short respite found in half-mindless wandering through abandoned cities or overgrown forests.

Ghost still knew very little about the god. While he knew the story of why the god had been forgotten, he still knew next to nothing about who the god was. They didn’t seem too bad at least; Ghost was still alive and has yet to be punished to an eternity of suffering.

He knew if he tried asking the god, (if he received an answer at all) it would all be what he wanted to hear and not the truth. So, he searched.

Most temples were too dilapidated to glean any information, but the little he had gathered seemed to point in a mostly positive direction. But he still needed to know more. He didn’t even know the god’s name for fuck’s sake.

Wandering through the forest, he wasn’t too worried about getting lost. It wasn’t so dense that shadows swallowed it whole and he could always follow the river to find his way back out.

Over the months spent on this routine, he’d learned a lot about how to find the temples, especially in forests like this one. It was rather simple: find a trail of slightly younger trees and follow them.

The much bigger, much older trees would outline a path that had long been lost to time. While hundreds upon hundreds of years have passed since the god was praised, the evidence was still dug into the earth.

Sure enough, after an hour or two of following a line of newer trees, he found a temple. It was the most intact one he’d found yet, all four walls still up, even if they looked ready to cave in at any moment. The only structural integrity was likely from the amount of vines slithering in through the cracks, acting as rope to hold together a building that wanted nothing more than to collapse.

The inside was surprisingly well lit. The holes in the roof that had been filled with various plants let in a soft green light. In the middle, extending from the back wall was a pedestal atop which sat crumbled rocks. As he guessed, taking a closer look proved it to have once been a statue that had either fallen prey to the passage of time or the anger of the locals.

Turning his attention to the walls, on his right was another doorway that would have led to a balcony overlooking the surroundings. Now, however, it was a simple curtain of vines leading to a pile of rubble falling down the hill. On his left was a wall of vines that was so thick, he wasn’t even sure if the wall was still there. But just peeking out towards the bottom looked to be the bottom edge of something that had been carved into the rock.

Curiosity piqued, he walked over and tugged at the ivy. Most didn’t even budge, but he was able to move enough to see that it was likely a mural of some sort. He hoped it was, at least. He was desperate for any information on who or what he’s been helping.

Pulling at the vines only resulted in his hands becoming covered in ants that had been hiding and he had a vague thought about setting fire to it, but there’s no way it would catch and if by some miracle it did, it would likely cause a forest fire. No other option readily available, he sighed and drew his knife, beginning the long and arduous process of hacking through each individual branch.

There was no easy way to do it. They clung to the wall so tightly that to try and slash them would just scrape the edge of his knife on the stone and ruin the edge. The brambles on them made him very grateful for his gloves saving him from turning his fingers into mincemeat. He worked carefully, pulling far enough to get his knife under the stems and cutting through them one by one.

It took hours of meticulous removal and a smarter man would have stopped a long time ago. But Ghost was determined now, he started the process and he couldn’t leave until it was finished.

He didn’t pay too much attention to the actual mural as he worked his way through them, waiting until he could see the full thing. At some point, he had to stop to light a small torch. Darkness having begun to set in, he didn’t notice he had cleared most of it until he took a step back.

As he suspected, it was a mural of the god, depicting some of his godly deeds. The original carving was already rather simplistic and the aging didn't help in deciphering what story it was telling. He was worried that in brushing off the dirt, the carvings would come with it, so instead he brought his torch closer and tried to figure out what he was looking at.

It seemed to be a set of stories, all of which featured the god as kind, helping people who were suffering. The first carving was of an old man on his deathbed, the god putting his hand over his eyes. The next was of parents watching as the god kissed their newborn on the forehead. The third grabbed his attention.

It was a soldier with a knife in his chest, the god holding his hand.

Months ago, Ghost had been in that exact situation. Dying was certain, and yet instead of doing whatever it is the god of death does when someone is dying, the god saved him. Healed a fatal wound with a golden scar. (And put a flower behind his ear, but he often elected not to think about that when remembering the event.)

All of the carvings were different tellings of the same story. For months he had been asking the same question with no answer: Why was Ghost’s story different?

Ghost shook his head. As always when trying to think about the why of it all, he concluded to not think about it. To just push it aside and ignore it. Whatever snake was hiding in the grass waiting to strike was too hidden for Ghost to see. Until the day comes that he gets bit, he will forget about it.

Pulling himself away from the third image, he turned back to the statue. The mural didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know and hoped the collapsed statue would hold some answers.

Sure enough, it was still just as collapsed as before. There were marks in the rocks that proved it wasn’t the passage of time that felled it, but the anger of a mob.

Now looking at the pedestal with the torch, he saw the shadow of inscriptions on a plaque near the bottom. Kneeling down to get a better visual, he saw that it was four words written in an ancient language.

ᓭ𝙹ᔑ!¡, ˧𝙹⟍̅ 𝙹⎓ ⟍̅ᒷᔑℸ ̣⍑.

He remembered little of the translation, recognizing the third word was “of,” and after scraping through his memory, he was pretty sure the second word was “god.” Either that or fish. His memory is not that great.

____, GOD OF _____.

Well, it didn’t take a genius to deduce what the rest of it said. While he was iffy on the translations, he knew the phonetics well. Excited to possibly have the god's name in front of him, Ghost made a mistake.

Which, he would like to clarify, he knows that he’s an idiot. Stupid, dumb, anything and everything between. Obviously, common sense dictates that when you find strange writing anywhere, but especially in an ancient temple, you DO NOT READ IT OUT LOUD.

However, as previously stated, stupid dumb idiot and all that. In his defense, he wasn’t fully aware he was doing it. It had been a while since reading the dead language and the old carving made it hard to decipher the glyphs.

So, not thinking, he sounded them out. Out loud. Reading a random sentence in an abandoned temple of the god of death, who was abandoned after claims of being a monster. It was not Ghost’s proudest moment.

But, he did manage to read it, saying to an empty temple, “Sau— No… Soap, God of… Death?”

He didn’t know if he read it properly. When he had learned the script, it had been taught with handwritten letters. How they looked on a pen and paper was very different to how they looked carved into stone. He decided to risk delicately brushing away some of the dirt, following the indentation of the letters.

He was still trying to read the plaque when he became aware of someone behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he carefully maintained his position, not giving away that he had noticed the person. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he could see their shadow behind him and to the right.

Forcefully maintaining his casualness, he dropped his hand from the plaque and rested it on the ground as if he were just balancing himself. The other went to nonchalantly rest on the buttcap of his sword, holding it like it was happenstance for that to be the more comfortable position. He waited.

They did nothing. They did not move, didn’t take advantage of his weakness, he couldn’t even hear them breathing.

He had a sinking feeling that he already knew what was behind him. And if he was right, his sword would not save him.

Steeling himself, he stood and turned, drawing his sword. At first glance, they were not a soldier, thief, or mercenary. They drew no weapon and barely even reacted to his sudden advance.

It wasn’t human either. It… It “smiled” at him. Every fiber of Ghost’s being was telling him to run, run far away from this thing before it mauled him.

He stood still. No one can outrun Death.

His vision blurred but only when trying to look directly at the god. He was almost… translucent. When he risked a glance to the door, his image began to vibrate, like he didn’t need to hold himself together anymore.

Later, trying to recall any specific features would draw a blank. Eyes, hair, height — anything. He would question if the god had any physical form at all or if he just imagined it.

He needed to get out of there.

It seemed the god was examining him just as closely. Ghost tried to slowly back away, to inch closer to the door, but was stopped by the god circling him. Not having a secure exit made his skin crawl and he was sure to keep the being in his sights the entire time.

In the same way his eyes were warring over whether the god was there or not, he didn’t know how nervous he needed to be. The months spent offering whatever he had in exchange for company and help on the battlefield made him want to relax, to talk to him like he was an old friend.

The lifetime he spent being betrayed and getting used made him want to attack first. The back of his neck prickled at the reminder that he still owed the thing his life. He was not an old friend. He was a deity, the god of death, and would be able to kill him with ease. Ghost kept his sword level with the god despite being all too familiar with its futility.

The god, Soap, stopped his circling and stood in front of him, far too close for comfort. When Ghost backed away, he watched like he was observing a bug he found interesting.

The comparison was far more apt than Ghost wanted to think about.

“Your fellow soldiers call you Ghost, yes?”

It was the first time actually hearing the god speak and it was just as unsettling as he thought it would be. The voice reflected his flickering form, oddly deep and reverberating like it wasn’t meant for this plane.

Subconsciously, his sword slowly drifted down, no longer threatening an attack.

“…Yeah. How do you know that?” He didn’t bother trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

“I’ve been watching.”

Ghost didn’t like this. Not at all. Everything in his bones was screaming at him to get the fuck out of there. He readjusted his grip on the sword but forgot to raise it. He needs to get out. Now.

The god laughed.

“Don’t give me that look. You’re the first follower I have had in an age. What else was I supposed to do?”

Part of what made his voice sound off finally hit Ghost.

“The god of death is Scottish?” The incredulous tone probably wasn’t doing his life expectancy any favors.

“Aye. And you’re British.”

The god turned and began inspecting the rest of the temple. Ghost didn’t feel the true weight of the god’s stare until it was gone, now taking in several deep breaths as the pressure went away.

“Thanks, I didn’t notice.”

“I thought we were pointing out the obvious.”

The god smiled at him like it was a simple joke. But the annoyance was there. Even if the god was laughing now, that doesn’t mean he would still find Ghost’s disrespect funny in a few minutes. He needs to watch himself and be careful.

“Why do you look all… weird and shit?” Good job, Ghost. Real good about being careful and making sure to overthink his wording. Fucking hell, his own idiocy is going to kill him.

The god pouted his lip. Looking at Ghost with deceptively sad eyes, he asked, “Aw, are you calling me ugly?”

The god returned to examining the ruined temple. Even though he wasn’t looking, Ghost shook his head and raised his hand in a pause gesture. Gods have wiped out entire villages over less. He forced his breathing to remain normal, having to manually count it so as to not panic. Before he could backtrack and likely dig himself in a deeper hole, the god spoke.

“I am still weak. This is the first time I’ve managed to hold onto a tangible form.” Tangible was certainly one way to put it. When he ran his fingers over the ledges on the wall, the dirt and debris didn’t move. Brushing his hands through the vines led to them swaying slightly as if there were a breeze.

Ghost reminded him, “I tried giving you food. You didn’t accept it.”

The god laughed, “I know. The starving man giving the god food.” Ghost wasn’t sure if his tone was meant to be insulting or annoyed.

“Yeah?”

Soap sent him a look he couldn’t decipher, explaining, “Gods don’t eat. Not the way you do. Keep your food.” He made pointed eye contact with Ghost and winked as he said, “I prefer flowers and trinkets anyways.” He turned his attention back to the ruined mural. His eyes were wrong.

Ghost fucking hates gods. What the fuck does that mean?

He pointed out, “If you’re weak, don’t you need everything?”

“I am not that weak. Saving you hurt.”

Ghost prickled further at the reminder, taking a step back. Gripping the handle of his sword tighter, he defensively stated, “I don’t need your help.”

The god scoffed and walked towards him. Ghost tried to back up but the god was faster. The divine being put his hand on his ribs, right where the golden scar sat. With a furrowed brow he angrily stated, “This says otherwise.”

Ghost instinctively jerked away from the touch. It was staticky and cold. Wrong. It was somehow worse than human touch. He was tense, looking to see the gods reaction.

This was worse than dealing with an impatient, angry god. Those were predictable. This one has yet to give him any indication of his limits. Ghost didn’t know what would be the tipping point and could only hope that when it hit, the god would be kind enough to kill him quickly.

To his surprise, the god looked sad. His flash of anger gone and now quieter, he continued, “I was barely in time to save you.” If Ghost didn’t know any better, he’d say the god actually gave a damn about him.

But Ghost did know better. He stared at the third image on the mural. He asked the question that had been plaguing him since waking up from a deadly sleep, “You’re the god of death. Why… Why would you have run out of time? Why save me?”

He sighed, “Healing an otherwise healthy person is easy. Resurrection? Not so much. I do not control death the way people seem to think I do,” the god paused and sadly looked to the broken statue, “…or did. I can help people on their path but not change their course.”

The god was slowly walking closer. Ghost didn’t have much more space to back up, almost cornering himself, he had to angle himself more towards the door, following the wall. It allowed the god to get closer, much closer than Ghost would’ve liked, but it also allowed him to have a realistic escape plan.

Not that he’d be able to run from any god for long. The hope of success was a fickle thing.

Unaware or uncaring of his internal plight, the god happily continued explaining, “You were still on the same path, just veering to the left. Bringing someone back is possible, but not always worth it.”

Not yet learning his lesson about letting sleeping dogs lie, he poked back, “What? ‘They come back different?’”

The god gave a slight nod, “Sometimes, if their soul has been rotted or corrupted. But I meant the cost. Saving you was easy to do with all that you had given. To bring someone back from the dead… Well, there are some fates crueler than death.”

Ghost's eyes hardened, “I’m aware.” The god looked all sad again but he continued before he could interrupt, “But why did you save me?”

The god paused for a moment before simply stating, “You’re kind.”

Ghost scoffed and incredulously repeated, “I’m kind.” He nodded. Ghost continued, “So, you betrayed your own kingdom, domain, whatever to make sure I didn’t die because ‘I’m kind.’”

Soap smiled and for the first time since trying to touch his scar, reached out to him. “Exactly. I like you. You are kinder than someone in your shoes should be. That’s why I saved you.”

His hand hovered next to Ghost’s left. He was waiting for something. The god was still smiling softly at him.

He wants me to close the distance.

He’d rather the god have just grabbed him. Why was he waiting? Why was a god waiting on a mortal? Gods do not ask. They take. Why was this one any different?

When he was a kid, he’d run around trying to pet any and every dog that would let him. He would approach them slowly, holding out his hand for them to sniff. Some would approach immediately, but most took some time. They were half feral and scared of people, hesitant to even approach him.

At that moment, Ghost felt like a scared feral dog. He felt doomed, like there was no way out alive. He didn’t know if the deity was offering safety and comfort, or a quicker and less painful end. Soap’s hand was still extended, still smiling softly.

When a god asks, if you do not give, they will take. And will take more than they would have if you had handed it over to begin with. It’s best to give in before the consequences become worse.

He moved his hand into the god’s hold. It grinned. He tried not to shake.

The god rubbed his thumb along his hand, fingers trailing after an older wound that was on its way to scarring. The touch became slightly more bearable as he grew more accustomed to the peculiarities of the sensation.

After a pause, Ghost shakily contested, “I am not kind. I have more blood on my hands than everyone in the military camp combined.”

Soap, unperturbed, continued messing with his hand, watching the way his fingers bent and twitched. Not looking up, “I said kind, not a pacifist.”

Ghost tried to speak up. The god interrupted. The touch graduated into practically feeling each individual muscle in his arm, like he was trying to remember how a human body is supposed to look.

“However, if you want a more tangible reason, I did, and somewhat still do, owe you.”

Ghost didn't buy it for a second. "What? A god owing a mortal?"

Soap made eye contact once more. Ghost didn’t realize how close he had gotten. The god looked more human, but more wispy as well. His eyes didn’t make Ghost want to turn away before he turned to flame, but he could also see more of the temple through him. Perhaps their meeting would not last much longer.

“I’m sure you are aware that gods can die. the only reason I was still alive was because people would pass the ruins of my temples and remember me.”

He shifted to Ghost’s right and reached for his other arm. Doing the same hovering hesitation, Ghost simply nodded in approval. The god turned his focus to his right hand now, letting go of the left. He did the same examination as before, feeling over his knuckles and trailing what veins he could see up his arm.

…When had Ghost sheathed his sword?

His left arm tingled. He had to tell himself that he did not miss the touch.

“But no one believed in me. I was waiting for another thousand years when I’d be forgotten and could finally die. You not only saved me, but you gave me hope as well.” He accentuated the word by squeezing his arm, or trying to at least. He seemed to be fading fast.

With something in his eyes more earnest than Ghost was used to seeing on even a mortal, the god said, “So yes, I still very much owe you.”

The earnestness was gone and in its place, a joking tone as he continued, “Though, if it’s you I am indebted to, I don’t think that’s too bad of a fate.”

Ghost asked, “So… I don’t owe you a debt?”

Soap looked genuinely confused, “Why would you owe me?” With the way he tilted his head, he almost looked like a confused puppy.

Ghost was at a loss, having no idea how to answer that. The idea that gods just wanted to fuck over everyone they could for their own amusement was so ingrained that to try and put it into words felt impossible.

When he didn’t answer, Soap spoke again, “I like you alive.” His hands moved, one going to feel the pulse point on his wrist and the other sitting over the left side of his chest, feeling his heart. Like he was making sure he was still alive.

The confused furrow did not leave Ghost’s brow at the explanation and he was sure Soap could feel the way his breathing and heart rate kicked up at the touch. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to lean into it and beg him to never let go or skin himself to be rid of the feeling.

“Besides,” Soap said, making eye contact once more. He grinned. It didn’t look human. “I’m not letting you go that easy.”

Ghost ripped himself away, finally in the doorway of the ruined temple. The orange light indicated that dawn was well on its way. He could not hear any birds chirping nor any leaves rustling. It was still smiling from the edge of the shadows.

The god spoke, “I hope we can meet like this again. I had fun.” With that, the divine being stepped forward into the light and fully faded at last.

Ghost took in several deep lungfuls of air. He stood frozen, watching as if waiting to make sure the god did not return. In truth, he was frozen. When it came to fight, flight, or freeze, he thought he had trained himself out of the latter two options.

But he stood there, terrified to move. He didn’t even shift his weight. It felt like to move was to acknowledge what had just happened, and to acknowledge it was to cement it as reality.

A childish part of him hoped he would wake up to find it was all a dream. Forcing himself to turn his back to the door, he ignored the way his back burned at being exposed and unprotected.

He absentmindedly made the long trek down the hill and to the river. He detached his scabbard and kneeled, splashing his face with water, the coolness of it shocking his system.

He turned to the left and vomited. He was shaking so much he almost collapsed. Locking his elbow, he was barely able to balance just to wipe his mouth.

He turned back to the water. Took in a deep breath and submerged his face. He stayed there, pushing the limit of how long he could stay under. His heart was racing, demanding air. He could feel it rattling against his lungs.

Just as the dizziness and weakness began to take hold, he ripped himself up. Taking long, heavy deep breaths, he looked up. Watched as the last of the stars faded into an orange and blue sky.

Stories and warnings from priests came crawling back to him. About what the presence of The Old Gods could do to a mortal. If he was shaking, vomiting, and scared stiff from seeing him while he was still weak…

Good gods, how powerful can this stupid motherfucker get?

He hasn’t felt so… so… so much in a long time. His brain was warring with itself over how he should feel about the interaction. Part of him felt hopeful, thinking that perhaps he might now have someone who actually cares about him and not what he can do for them. Part of him felt so hopeless that he didn’t see the point in getting up, in doing anything other than trying to die before he could cement his fate as a god’s new favorite human plaything.

He blinked and forced his mind to stop. The birds had returned, singing once more. He stood shakily, grabbing his sword and using it to help him up. It sank slightly in the mud.

Day officially broke. In the forest, shadows turned and ran to hide behind the trees. Animals were just starting to wake, some heading to the river to drink.

Ghost stepped into the water, following it downstream and letting the rush of water cover his tracks. The rapids threatened to sweep him away with every step, rocks underfoot falling prey to the force.

By mid morning, the river led him back to the camp.

The other soldiers stopped and stared upon noticing him but did not say a word. In fact, they fell completely silent seeing him wading through water that would drown a lesser man, muddy sheath in hand, soaked to the bone.

He stepped onto the shore, walking at the same slow speed he had in the water. The general, having noticed the sudden silence stepped out of his tent, demanding to know what the problem was. Seeing Ghost, he hesitated before demanding his attention.

Ghost was already on the path towards him. Face to face, the general hesitated, mouth moving but no words spilling forth. Ghost informed him that he was going to go to sleep. The general had yet to find his voice.

Ghost walked to his tent. Dropped his sword. Lied on his cot. He stared at the canvas above him, forgetting to remove his armor and gear.

When he got like this, feeling disconnected from not just his body but his soul as well, he tried to take stock of himself. Mentally document every ache and pain, how his clothes felt, even what the weather was like.

Instead he became aware of one sensation in particular, one clinging to both of his arms, his chest, and a small part of his lower ribs.

Everywhere the god had touched him felt electric.

How long has it been since someone touched me without hurting me?

He wondered why his skin still tingled. Why he missed the feeling.

[lemonyelixir]

Meet The gods , Goddesses and the loyal followers

Also the Upper god/Entity ?

[madarasthicc]

Madara poured himself a drink, sipping it slowly. He expected the man to give him his name in return. But he said nothing. Madara watched as the man sipped the sake and started eating. And still nothing.

He couldn’t think of any good reason the man had for withholding his name. Obviously the man was from some unknown clan, maybe an enemy of the Uchiha. But even still, by living here the man was probably banished from his birth clan. So that couldn’t be it. And the clans that lived near here were allies of the Uchiha. So unless he had traveled a rather long distance to be here, that was also unlikely to be from an enemy clan.

“Ah, is there a name I can call you?” Madara asked before taking a bite. He didn’t want to just keep thinking of him as the homeless man.

Madara nodded and followed along. It was obvious the man didn’t spend much time with other humans as company. Honestly, with how rough his voice sounded as if he hadn’t spoken for awhile.

“Here.” He offered a few rice balls to the man before pulling out the sake. “I think I brought along a few cups.” He pulled out two cups. He set one in front of the man and poured him a cup and then for himself. “I’ll light is a fire.” He got up, looking around for any dry wood that could be used. Finding a few twigs, he tossed them over the charcoals before doing a few hand signs. It wasn’t a powerful breathe of flames but just enough to light everything in irori.

“There, that’s much better.” Madara said taking his seat. “Oh, apologies, I’m Madara Uchiha. Thank you for sharing your ah home with me.” He said not sure what to call the temple.

[theshiningdiamond]

I probably had more ideas on what scenes to redraw from For The Forgotten Ones, however I have forgotten them all! Two months will do that you. Anyway, Ignited Dream my beloved. I love sick twisted evil Dream. He was the star in my heart up until [REDACTED] happened

Image without text under the cut

[raillue]

IM BACK ON MY DESTINY WINGS BRAINROT AGAIN PLEASE SEND HELP

I’ve had the idea of yw gaining wings after the events of tfs for a while now and i FINALLY drew out the design of how i think they’d look (feat. my own oc)

They’d definitely be a mix of both light and dark elements (the white feathers have an almost pearl like sheen)

I got this idea after all of the cutscenes with the Traveller being depicted as a bird

Also the reason I added ear wings was because ✨Ghost hugs✨