#how to explain landscape and god and the soul of land

[august-undergrounds]

started reading grapes of wrath today and i actually love it so much. fuck y’all who say it’s boring you’re just not as in love with american soil as i am i guess

[mapliusoup]

my big theory about whats going on in the bp universe- pt1

hey guys!!!! im just so excited abt the whole tour and the possibility that theyll release new stuff so i thought. why not share the brainrot with the swarm!!!

this is gonna be a i think 5-part (maybe more, maybe less) series of theories im gonna be doing :)

i also wanted to clarify that these are my theories and i am not in any way claiming they are true! im just having some fun lmao, if u wanna add anything just share with me im curious

(i dont include house of wolves and teenagers in the story btw they just dont fit in for me)

this is the part 1, the beginning.

the black parade, for me, is about death. and coming to terms with yourself. i am going to tell the story how i view it.

the story is about the patient, a man dying of terminal illness, most possibly cancer. he is alone, he is sad, and he has nobody to spend his last moments with. this is about him. and death.

his story starts with i dont love you. his partner has had enough of him: he is selfish, broken, and they dont think they can fix him. so they leave him. and he is alone.

the patient never had anyone he could remember of apart of them: his family? he didnt remember them.

in between that and the next song of the album, his fate is sealed. he gets diagnosed with terminal cancer and admitted into hospital. he has no one there. he cant remember anything about his past, in between these white walls.

the sharpest lives, the next song of the album, is the patient being angry. he is angry, at his partner, at the hospital, at himself, at the non-existent god that cursed him to this fate. he cant die, he does not deserve to. he complains, shouting at no one, about his unfair fate.

in this is how i disappear, his anger slowly starts to dissipate, shifting, and turning into slight sadness, maybe even remorse. he misses his lover: he wants to be normal. he wants them back. he doesnt want to go just yet.

in cancer, the patient is starting to realize his fate: hes dying. and there is nothing he can do to stop it. hes regretting every single mistake he ever made. the patient hates himself. he is alone because he deserves it: dying will free him for all this loneliness. he says his goodbyes to no one. and then he dies.

the end.

he opens his eyes, and he is in a place he does not recognize. a land of gothic infrastructures, tall and cutting the horizon into strange shapes. (we'll talk about this landscape more in the future; remember it.) he is surrounded by silhouettes, faceless people he does not know, but that yet seem so familiar. a young white-haired man approached him, smiling. "welcome," he said. "to the aftermath of your life."

the young man, the parade leader as he calls himself, explains to the patient that he is dead. he tells him that because of what how much of an asshole he was when alive, he is here, now.

in welcome to the black parade, the parade leader tells the patient about this place.

the parade, for me, is the purgatory: they send lost souls there to repent themselves- or, alternatively, to get them to hell. the parade leader and his band sing for them, they sing for them to make them remember all their past mistakes and to decide of their fate. the band is stuck there, in this limbo, forever: what got them here, they do not know. maybe the tour will shed some light on the origin of the parade.

then comes dead!, where the parade leader laughs at the patient, explaining to him that he made these mistakes, that he is unloved and he deserves whats hapenning to him now. the patient tries to deny it so hard, but he knows its true. he knows he fucked up.

in a burst of pain, for knowing that this is his fault, the patient has a vision.

he lays in wet dirt, the smell of blood and death in his nostrils. he hears screams and gunshots all around him.

suddenly, he remembers. the patient went to war, probably world war two (i like to think he went there because of the ghost of you music video. maybe im overthinking it lmao), and killed people there. a lot of people. it was normal to kill people at war, of course. but it haunted him. during the battles, he lost so many friends. so many brothers. the only person he had left was his mother.

mama.

his mother cried when he came back. because she could see the blood on his hands. she cried because her own son had murdered other women's flesh- their families.

she died quickly, too sad to live like this.

from that moment and then next song, there is a big gap that im going to try my best to explain.

basically, after the patient recovered his memories of his mother and the war, he started regretting all that he did even more. at the same time, he accepted it: everyone was imperfect. everyone was human. he comes at peace with himself, and prepares to die. i mean yeah he already died but like just his mind died? like he was still technically alive because his old memories still attached him to the living world.

in famous last words, the patient tells his last regrets to the parade leader: how he couldnt tell his mother and his partner that he loved them: that he couldnt live a long healthy life: that he couldnt say sorry to the mothers of all the men he killed.

but in disenchanted, he comes to terms with that: it is sad, but it is how it is. just a sad song, with nothing to say. there is nothing he can do to stop it, so he might as well go peacefully.

the parade leader, himself, had grown attached to this man: the patient was like him in many ways. he couldnt quite explain it, or understand it, but it hurt to let him go.

and so, in sleep, the parade leader sets him off. his song comes from deep inside, from his guts. it hurts. it hurts so bad to let him go. as he screams at him to go to sleep, there is a flash of darkness. and so the patient ends.

thats kind of my interpretation of the story! a man who is broken and does not know why, who is going to suffer an unfair end, and who finally comes to terms with who he is thanks to another lost soul. ofc, thats just how i personally see it!

last little thing before he start working on the next parts, for which i have wayyy more evidence for what im gonna speculate hehe

blood is the "transition" to the next part of the story. the parade changed after the death of the patient. it wasnt the patient directly, but something had changed after he left. the parade had become more defiant, more unstable, more resisting. so someone had to stop them.

thats when swarm comes in.

feel free to share ur theories with me!! i love to hear them :3

[theperfectquestion]

So I'm cleaning out the fridge and the cat wants to get into the fridge. I tell the cat that I don't want him to climb inside the fridge but that isn't enough and he persists.

I realise that, like my very recent ancestors, the cat has no idea what the use of a fridge is: a special area designed to retard the growth of potentially dangerous microorganisms, the kind that live on his body. I look at him staring at me, occasionally glancing over to a shelf that he could easily jump to if he was sure that I wouldn't try to block him, and I realise how cruel it would be to explain things too fully. How could I plunge this innocent soul into a world that contains microorganisms and spoilage, that forces him to consider at all times the muck on his paws, the flecks of faeces on his coat, the terrible power of the totally invisible. I don't want to insult him, because he has been trained to use a litter tray and that litter tray is a solid piece of his landscape, as solid as the stone beneath us, as natural as a river. I don't want him to go into the fridge because he would bring an imperceivable aspect of the litter tray into the special area and negate its purpose. But how am I to relate this to the boy?

I see my own position with crystal clarity - I am a higher dimensional being of unimaginable power but with an imperfect ability to communicate with the smaller minds in my sphere of influence. I am kin to whatever entity that descended on Florence and touched the soul of Dante, that cursed him with terrible visions of the gods above and the devils below.

Was Aligieri poised to do something like jump into something like a fridge when that spark met the touchpaper of his unprepared brain? Did his keeper, or steward, or breeder, or something try to explain to the man that tiny organisms that live inside the flies that buzz over the surface of the canals, which care nothing for the Pope or the Emperor, will enter his blood and cause the dreaded welts and burning fever that will spell his end? How could he be warned not to visit Venice, not to sleep in cheap lodgings too near the water?

Perhaps that angel tried, but the enormity of the task meant they missed the mark. Perhaps their description of the lifecycle of the Plasmodium alveolate became the physical hierarchy of Hell, with a soul dipping from Limbo to swim through through the Syxian bloodstream. The work of lymphocytes to counter the infection becomes a vision of paladins forming a cross on blood-red Mars. The route to verifying this knowledge becomes a paean to the inconstant sphere of the Moon.

The warning not only fails to save Dante from jumping into the fridge, for he perishes of malaria, but the miscommunication of the warning to the doomed Florentine terrifies and confuses hundreds of thousands of humans for centuries afterwards.

So did that frustrated spirit descend again, a moment later for them, but two hundred years on Earth, to repeat the warning more simply, more directly, in a way a social ape would understand? Is this what compelled Fracastoro to describe the basics of germ theory in rhyming verse?

Though this palpable hit again resulted in disaster because Venice in 1530 was the worst place to advance the germ theory of disease.

The conceptual construction of a poisonous miasma, which is an easier one for a mammal to grasp because their swollen olfactory bulb is so closely connected to their cognitive and moral sense, stood more firmly on the geological and political terrain. Flushing out the fetid waters by way of exquisite stonework and engineering provided by powerful houses was a provable solution to the cholera epidemics that devilled the land, so talk of invisible microorganisms became more fantastical than a travelogue to the city of Dis. As European intellectuals grappled with this contradictory information, millions died. Our higher being has really shit the bed with these well-meaning interventions they insist upon visiting on the humans.

The cat listens to my essay as best he can but as soon as I return my eyes to the blank wall of the warming fridge he skits away to briefly stalk, then injest a scrap of plastic he has observed in the toe-kick of the built-in cabinets.

I consider the best way to remove the plastic from this mouth and decide to squirt him with some tap water. That's what they should have done with Dante. We'd be on the Moon by now.

[afireyearth]

How do you describe the god affirming qualities in the Missouri sunset to a nonbeliever? Do you describe the ability to see the atmosphere in the golden shafts of light awaking the greens of the rolling hills. Inviting you to lay down endless in their time altering light? Do you talk of your childhood. Of the transformative properties of the sunset. Its ability to transport you across space and time into a Life infinitely better than your own. With just it its light, its sky, its playful dance of mood across the landscape that seems in hospital in the winter. It’s the way looking at this light makes you feel like you live a life worth living because the beauty is so picture worthy that all the other shit-the neglect, the lack of intellect, the constant poking fun of your personality- is washed away. That as long as life is AS BEAUTIFUL as the girls of California, you’re an okay person too. But it’s also in getting older, and realizing that it was beautiful regardless of the need for it be an escape. That it was about you noticing how good your life was in the moment. You craved to be outdoors, you just hadn’t known it yet.

It’s the fact that it’s beauty encapsulated you for a moment. It stopped your thoughts, your worry, your dread, and it held you in its self. It did nothing but exist. That was enough. Itself in its entirety, its green hills, its trees, its granite cliff sides, its small quaint farm houses doting the land. It was all there and it was enough.

It was comforting in the way it self you. In the way it didn’t decimate you, in the way you could be anyone in its eyes. It was infinite.

Its not being normal, watching Sharp Objects just because I miss the small town life of Missouri.

It’s comforting. It’s Warm. It’s Safe. It’s home. It’s endless possibilities, it’s an endless fantasies, it’s not entirely my life, so it hasn’t been ruined but it’s also close enough it’s tangible.

It can be felt in my endless searching of “Ozark Mountains Missouri” into google. Into researching the Ozark Plantau, into wanting their beauty to be just as recognized as the Appalachian mountains. It can be seen in my watching of Sharp Objects, in Ozark, in absolutely anything that has taken place in Missouri. It can be heard in my eulogizing of the landscape, of my yearning for the rolling hills, in the constant mentions of it to my friends. It has taken a hold of me, enraptured me in its warm golden light, I feel forever stolen by those moments of pure beauty. How do I move on from such a delightful moment, Of an ability to find beauty, to find peace, to find silence in an other wise dark, chaotic life. How can I explain to someone that I’ve built a shrine to this place in my soul. That there is no place in the US that will ever shine life Missouri does. That there is no place that will feel as secure as the fields, the woods, the lakes of my childhood. Of the air conditioned rooms the screened in porches of the decks and docks of my childhood. How can I get over the grief of knowing I can never go back. That those moments are gone from me forever just as I am learning to accept them. Just like meditating, I accept the thought for what it is and it continues down the stream as I learn to let it go. I don’t know how to accept that I let it go. That is is slowly moving down the stream. It’s gone. My family still lives there. My old life is still held up by their presence.They still go to the same dock and they still walk the same path into the woods and they still drink shitty beer on the same boat I sat in. Not knowing it would be my last time there. I cried my eyes out the last time I was there, left a day early because I felt so isolated and foreign and in pain from my family. I want to be able to walk the halls of the lake house by myself. To accept it for what it is and let go and move on. To get into my paper boat and float down stream.

[the-fiction-witch]

Blu P3

Media TMR AU

Character Newt

Couple None

Rating Cute

Concept Spa

I did manage to get some sleep in the plane which was an absolute god send, I hadn't even had my snack I just laid my head against the side of the plane and the pull window shutters and slept for what must have been a good few hours. But it had the exact opposite effect I had wanted as my nap had only made me feel more tired and groggy the plane mostly dark as people either slept or watched movies I rubbed my eyes trying desperately to regain some mental ability checking the time and route on the little screen almost there not long till landing. I was about to flag down a stewardess and get myself a coffee but I notice the whole plane began to violently shake from turbulence. Immediately I pulled my seatbelt as tight as possible and gritted my teeth staring at the ceiling trying desperately no to panic as everyone began to wake up and panic around me even a announcement came on to try and reduce panic.

I did my best not to panic until At Last the turbulence died down again well that woke me up.

Soon enough we landed and I waited being one of the last off to avoid the mad rush but Minho and Tommy still waited for me outside the tunnel we quickly picked up our bags heading thought all the checks and security and finally I saw as sign that this place was even real as the airport had a huge wall showing am advert for the place with some mountains, water and steam the signature blu name in the corner. Well atleast it's something I guess.

Once out the airport I immediately wanted to be back at home as we saw the large glass windows and doors out to the landscape we had to stay in for a week

"Ahhh.. fuck." Minho says

"I did not pack for this!" Thomas yelped

"Yeah uhhhhh how cold is it?'

"-14" Alby told me

"Uuuuuuuhhh I don't wanna be frozen to death" Thomas complained

"Newt. I want you to promise me something?"

"What is it Minho?"

"If I get abducted by the snow Queen. Come back for me"

"Understood" I nodded

"Come on then vans waiting" Alby says

So we all braved the horrific snow and wind climbing into these mini vans with our stuff the van was damp and cold but anything was better then out there.

We got everyone in and slowly drove off down the dark snowy roads at times I was kinda concerned if we where even on roads.

Until finally I saw a sign for the spa it was these tall wooden posts holding this black slate brick with the word BLU written in it beside a small road which the van turned down.

For a few miles nothing but hills snow and this strange most could be seen out the windows until rather suddenly we pulled up to this large modern building of the same black slate and metal fixings very kinda industrial which is odd for a spa. Two figures stood outside the doors as the snow had turned to rain here, their bodies hidden below these light blue velvet robes with their hoods up.

Alby got our first of course to check everything and I had to admit this didn't exactly make me feel better about the wrif cult vibes.

"What the hell?" Gally asked as he was closest to the window

"If this is a cult I'm fucking out man" Thomas says

"I did say it looked kinda cultish" I told him

But Alby waved us off so everyone slowly climbed out with their stuff

"Greetings, tired and weary souls" one man spoke up "please come in from this harshness" he says opening the doors so we could all head inside I felt weird but headed in to the large lobby with a crystal chandelier, a large front desk and a lift.

"Welcome to BLU, firstly before you receive your rooms where is just the small matter of reminding you that BLU is a fully immersive resort that is best for our clients. So please respect our rules and regulations" he explained "to the east of the building is our restaurant with spectacular views. To the west of the building are all your rooms and then at the north of the building is of course the spa and its many amenities. We feature three outdoor pools, two indoor pools, waterfall, sauna, steam room, ice room, massage area and of course our rejuvination pool along with much much more" he explained "our staff work in shifts so there will always be someone available, and of course recognizable by our cloaks. Now let's get you all settled. And remember for your best experience attend to your relaxation sheets immediately upon entering your room and be as honest as possible to make sure you leave feeling as good as possible"

They got us all checked in everyone having their own key and I sheepishly moved through the place looking for my room, the corridors this same black stone with metal framed lighting and windows, the doors a dark wood. I felt very strange kinda intimidated if I was honest. I found my room number

A501

And I put the key in the door, just as I did I jumped as the door next to my own opened and I was surprised by the sight.

She...she was beautiful.

In sandals and a long dress clearly a cover up as she has a swimsuit under it her hair pinned up sweetly. She saw me and smiled with a towel tucked under her arm before she headed off elsewhere.

I shook my head out of it and headed into my room being rather shocked at how... nice it was.

The door closed quickly behind me leaving me in this very impressive room.

It was fairly large the door behind me, to my left the entrance to the bathroom which was floor to ceiling this black stone tiles, a black toilet with its own small shelf for toilet roll, a large glass sink with a tap hung over it like a showerhead, a circular mirror on the wall backlit with a strange blue glow, an array of black bottle hand soap, lotion, toothpaste all of it branded by BLU with crystals and other such ingredients I couldn't say and a Walk in shower big enough to have like ten people in it with no taps, only a tablet built into the wall to pick the steam, temperature and many other strange shower options, the shower made of glass with again it's own little shelf of BLU products on a wooden shelf. All of it this black stone, dark wood and industrial metalwork. I headed into the bedroom seeing much the same the floor and ceiling this dark gainy wood, the walls this stone, the furniture all industrial style will metal holding the wood together, a desk and mirror to my right as well as a small speaker and lockable box, with a little log burner across from the bed I think it was fake and just a heater with a little screen but still it looked nice, to my left a large king-size bed with dark grey covers and a blue runner a small wardrobe and draws to put my clothes, a shelf behind the beds headboard of a nice thick bit of the wood with again some BLU branded items a sleeping mask, pillow mist and such like they even gave me deodorant and after-shave. Then at the end of the room was a very comfy two seater leather sofa with wooden framing very much fit the theme and it looked out to the best bit of the room, two huge black lined glass windows with a black out blind at the top and even slightly sheer curtains, it looked out across the snowy mountains, the dark rocks, and this beautiful pool of blue. It wasn't the normal water blue it was like sky blue so light and sweet almost glowing like a blue glow sticks insides steam and most rising from it moving around in the gentle wind. It was beyond impressive and admittedly really bloody cool.

And of course first job in any hotel I jumped on the bed immediately I felt so warm and cosy. 

[shallowseeker]

i really need more days off to write for fun instead of toilet-writing random stuff.

When they start up their trek again, it’s with no clear answers. Old Cas and Claire Novak seem to come to a mutual agreement to share as little information as possible with Sam and Dean, which makes Dean want to dig his fingers into the muck below and hurl it in Cas’s freakin’ eye.

On an unspoken signal, Sam and Dean hang back a little.

“What do you think we should do?” Sam whispers.

Dean peers at him through the dimness. Dean’s not even sure why they can see each in the first place. The light seems to come from nowhere. Diffuse, with no clear source.

“I dunno. Up till now, I thought our Cas or that freakin’ frat bro of his had sent us here.”

Sam frowns. “What about Raphael? Or-or Death? We did ask a lot of him for my soul, you know. Maybe…”

“Maybe we should pin Old Cas down and beat the answers outta him ‘cause right now it looks like Old Cas is just as cagey about sharing intel as Young Cas is about his freakin angel war.”

“Maybe we should tell him that Bobby was with us,” Sam sighs. “I mean, it’s older Cas but it’s still Cas.”

“No way, man. And what’s with this Cas-trust allova sudden? You don’t even trust our Cas.”

Old Cas turns took look back at them, almost as if he’d heard every word. His eyes narrow.

“Bobby was with you?”

Guess he had heard every word.

“Why would we tell you that?” Dean calls, still seething about Cas not telling them about his apparent deadness, and maybe if he’s honest, a little peeved at Cas that’s he’s dead again in the first place.

Cas seems undeterred. “Well, you are following me through a land of ooze, Dean. That seems to imply some trust, at least.”

Claire Novak snorts. Traitor.

Dean grumbles under his breath, and Sam just looks tired. “Yeah? Well, this is disgusting. Maybe if we’d gone our own way we’d a found some signs of civilization of a damned hotel shower by now.”

“Quit your belly-achin, Princess,” Claire coos. “Cas’s been here the longest, so I say we follow him.”

“If he’s been here the longest and he’s still lost, that ain’t exactly a glowing review, G.I. Jane.”

She opens her mouth to fire back, but Sam breaks in, faux-calmly in that way only Sam can pull off. “Cas. We lost Bobby in some fog, about twenty minutes after we got here. A-and we’re from 2010, but maybe you knew that already.”

“2010,” Claire repeats. “That means you’re. Oh my god, You’re 27…ish?”

Cas shoots her a quelling look.

“What? I’m 26. Dude. This is so weird. The Sam I know’s 40 with a receding hairline,” she jokes. “God.”

Sam dons a fake smile. “Forty? Wow… Well, you seem to know us, or at least a version of us. Are we from the same timeline then? Or like, anything close?”

Old Cas’s eyes trail over both of them. “That’s…difficult to tell.”

But Dean knows. That hesitation and bad lying face is as good as an answer.

In true Cas fashion, he punts. “I’m more concerned about Bobby. Were there any distinguishing features of the landscape when you lost him?”

Sam sighs. “Only the same ooze and ratty dead trees we’ve been seeing. We searched for hours.”

Cas looks at Claire, and she shakes her head. “My case? As far as I know, Jody and Alex weren’t with me when I went after the vic. It was foggy, a-and dark.” At Cas’s hard stare, she explains some more. “I thought he was gonna drown. I wasn’t being reckless. I was the only one who could even see him. Then, I woke up here. Alone.”

Cas’s brows furrow, “The boy could be here, if it was in fact, an actual boy and not some kind of lure.”

Claire looks solemn, like this thought has already occurred to her.

“As for Bobby, we’ll have to hope his hunting expertise wins out in this land.”

“You said you were trying to escape, Cas,” Claire ventures, suddenly quiet. “How?”

Cas’s eyes track over them, cagey as usual. “I was…following a beacon.”

Claire looks nonplussed. “That’s it?”

“Well. To see something in nothing is remarkable,” Cas sighs, looking for the first time like he’s as lost as any of them. “Through some miracle, the ruler of the realm was preoccupied, and I managed to sneak out. And well, since I started from nowhere and now I’m somewhere, my logic is that getting somewhere at all…is in fact the right direction.”

What the actual fuck, Dean thinks.

“What the actual fuck, Cas!” Claire hisses, running a hand through her matted locks. “Wanna run that by me again?”

“I believe I followed a signal out of The Empty.”

Sam says, “What’s The Empty?” at the same time Claire bites out, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to go towards the light, Carol Anne?”

Dean can’t even get a word in.

Cas answers Sam first. “The Empty is a dark place angels go when we die.”

Ouch.

“And Claire, it isn’t a poltergeist.”

Ha. He sounds like he’s seen the friggin’ movie. 2020 must be wild if Cas is watching actual movies, much less Poltergeist.

“Cas. You gotta admit, that’s not much to go on,” she huffs. “For all you know, there could be something bloody waiting. Or it—it could be a Scanners IV thing.”

Cas looks vaguely sad. “There’s a Scanners IV?”

“Oh. Shit. Yeah. 2022. My bad.”

Something awkward settles between them, like Old Cas wants to ask something, and Claire dreads answering the unspoken question.

Dean means to break in to ask about the mysterious light Cas has been following, but what comes out is, “Man, Scanners is one of the greats. So…do the sequels totally suck or what?”

Claire opens her mouth, shuts it. Looks down.

Cas answers for her. “You like Scanners II, but you love III best. It came out November 2nd, 2018. At least in our timeline.” After a moment, he adds, “You own it on blu-ray.”

“Oh,” Dean almost laughs,. “I own it on blu-ray. Bet I really enjoy that in the car.”

Or maybe Bobby gets some better tech. Or maybe Lisa gets a boy-ray player. If he’s still with Lisa, that is. (Somehow, deep down, he doubts it.)

But maybe Dean watches it in hotels. Maybe hotels in the future all have blu-ray players. Hell, maybe Cas drops by to watch it, too.

Sometimes.

In the future.

Maybe he and Cas get to be friends again, unlike the Castiel Dean knows, who fucks off for a year at a time and takes on an entire war all on his own.

Claire is still looking at her toes, and Cas has gone too still. Sam looks baffled by everything, which tracks, because he never saw Scanners in the first place.

Lame-o.

Dean decides to go for it. The thing.

The unspoken question. It’s gotta be it.

“So,” he says, trying to pin Claire with an intensity rivaling x-ray vision. “Did I like Scanners IV?”

She pulls in a whimpering gust of air, and then her lower lip…fucking trembles. Like she cares, which is a big ball of what-the-heck on its own.

But as for future Dean? Well.

That answers that.

At least Dean made it to 2018 in that timeline. You know, for Scanners III. Which he apparently loves so much, he owns it on blu-ray.

2022, though? His good luck clearly doesn’t reach that far.

Old Cas looks made of stone. He’s heavy and unmoving, and Dean re-imagines him as a giant boulder, sinking down into the muck.

“Claire,” Cas says, and something unbelievably heavy’s packed into that one word. Claire looks up. Addresses Dean rather than Cas.

“My you wasn’t around for Scanners IV,” she says. It sounds strangely accusatory.

Wow.

Okay. Death confirmed.

Dean looks to Sam, who looks sad but thoroughly unsurprised. Then, he looks to Old Cas. Whatever’s there, he can’t get a read on it. Cas doesn’t so much as twitch at the news, but he does walk a few paces ahead of them.

Claire swallows. “It was a vamp case gone bad,” she calls to Cas, still sounding strangely hurt and accusatory. “He went six months after you did.”

Cas’s back still doesn’t move.

“Sam got out, though. He still calls. Sometimes.”

“Did he?” Cas’s back rumbles. “Good.”

It’s weird.

Dean kind of wants to go over to him.

“Anyone else?” Cas rasps, and that almost sounds pained.

Damn.

“Uhhh, no,” Claire goes on. “There’s Tammy. You knew her. AU Tammy. Everyone else is still kickin. I think. After we Un-raptured, anyway. Well. Unless, I’m dead in here with you, anyway.”

Cas turns to face them suddenly, blue eyes blazing. He sets his jaw in a stubborn way that Dean finds all too familiar. He looks at Claire. Then Sam. Finally, Dean.

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. It’d be dumb to try to make Old Cas feel better. A joke about Old Dean’s death would probably be an unwelcome dud.

“Let’s go,” Cas commands. Then, his feet make a disgusting glom noise as he begins to walk through the mud again. “I lost sight of the beacon, but I will find it again.”

Claire follows.

Sam and Dean share a look, and then they follow, too.

ficlet idea time travel shenanigans

Blondie catches sight of Old Cas across the disgusting, oozing landscape, and a strange, animalistic relief contorts her face. It makes her seem like less of a crotchety old hunter and more like the hot chick she undoubtedly is.

“Jane?” Sam murmurs, because that dumbass kid brother of his actually believes that her codename is her real name. “What’s wrong?”

And then Blondie is taking off like a linebacker, her combat boots half-sinking into the muck and flinging thick wads of it when they kick up.

The light catches Old Cas’s eyes, and Dean sees that they’re surprisingly emotional—wide and terrified.

“Claire. No…”

His voice sounds it’s been run through a cheese grater more roughly than usual.

Jane-maybe-actually-Claire flings her whole body at him, but he doesn’t go down. He does cough a little at the force of her impact, which is concerning because the Castiel Dean knows doesn’t cough.

She pulls back a little, and she’s smiling, like smiling for real. She looks overwhelmed—the kind of overwhelmed where you can’t get words out.

Old Cas looks astonished, baffled, then filled with fear.

“Claire. I’m not,” and Old Cas swallows like he’s about to boil over with dread. “I’m not your father.”

Claire heaves a big sigh and rolls her eyes. “Gee, where have I heard that one? I know that, dumbass. And this sure as Hell ain’t Heaven.”

Sam’s got a crafty look on his face, and he meets Dean’s eyes like that big brain of his is pregnant with the entire Britannica. Dean doesn’t get the significance of that look.

Cas’s eyes go wider again. “Claire,” he repeats, and yeah—who’ve they’ve been calling Jane is definitely named Claire. “My Claire?” He shakes his head like he’s committed the worst faux pas ever. “2020 Claire?” he amends.

She smiles a private, pleased smile and gives a little one shoulder shrug. “2023 Claire,” she huffs, not meeting his eyes. “What about you? Are you him? From my timeline, I mean.”

She slips in the mud, and Cas’s hands come up to steady her shoulders.

“I mean, you could be any Castiel,” she rambles, panic seeping into her tone, “Couldn’t you.” She says this too, to his chest. “Like how those brats back there got nada to do with me.”

Old Cas studies her for long moments. “Yes, we are from the same world, though I left your timeline in 2020.”

How he knows that for sure is anyone’s best guess.

Still unwilling to look up, she bites, “What did you give me for my 18th birthday, then.”

“The Grumpy Cat,” he answers instantly, throwing a shifty look Sam and Dean’s way, like he’s nervous about them overhearing.

“It really is you,” she breathes, and then her arms go back up around Old Cas and she squeezes the ever-loving shit out of him. He looks awkward but pleased.

Sam throws Dean another one of his Significant (TM) looks.

“You’re Claire Novak, aren’t you,” Sam blurts, and the two freeze, before letting go of each other and turning to face them more fully. Sam and Dean slosh their way closer.

“Surprise,” she says dryly, velcroing her usual characteristic bitchiness back onto her face.

“More important than that, Claire, is why are you here?” Turns out Old Cas has a dad-voice, which is maybe weirder than him being on good terms with his dead vessel’s daughter ten years in the maybe-future.

“Case went bad,” she snaps, on the defensive. Definitely a hunter, then. At least that wasn’t a lie. Her anger fires back up again, “And where is here, huh? Cause last I checked, you’re dead.”

What. The. Hell.

Dean can’t help it. He’s furious. “What does she mean, dead? Dead! Dead dead?” He looks at Sam and finds him equally flustered.

“Dean.”

“No, Cas. Share with the damn class.”

“I’m certainly dead,” he confirms, like that’s not earth-shattering, heartbreaking news. “But I’m uncertain where we are. Before I ran into you two, I was trying to escape.”

///

[blacknight1230]

To Hell and Back

DMC 5 Dante X Reader

Reader (a dhampir) brings Dante and his brother back from the Demon World (Hell).

“You still owe me a date, remember?” 

Eyes ran across the weathered pages in front of you, skimming through the tome’s contents that you’ve memorized by heart. No matter how much information you’ve ingrained into your brain, you kept re-reading the material, highlighting passages and jotting down notes in the margins. You had to; this was the only way you could get him back.

~ Flashback ~

The world was ending. Or it at least seemed that way. The ground before you shook as the Qliphoth tree died, its twisted branches breaking and falling to the destroyed city landscape below. “What? What’s happening now?” Lady questioned, trying to balance herself. “Oh God, I thought it was over!” you heard Triss say. “This isn’t good. We’re gonna get dragged into this!” Nico yelled as she turned to rush back to her van. “Wait, what’s going on?” You were just about to follow when Dante landed in front of guys in mist of red, having transformed out of his devilish form. 

“Dante, what’s happening? Did you defeat Urizen?” you asked as you rushed up to the half-devil. Dante looked pissed, you could feel it radiating off his red clad figure. He brushed past, brows furrowed as he growled out, “My dumbass brother’s back, and I’m gonna rip him a new one.” He stomped past you towards Nico’s van, Triss, Lady, and you hurrying after him. “Brother?!” You were surprised; Dante had given you his heart and soul despite the fact though you had only known Dante for a quite limited amount of time. Why would he omit the fact he had a sibling, when he already told you everything else? 

“Vergil’s- How?!” Triss questioned. So she knew about him, even Lady seemed to recognize the name. Before you could and the others could pester Dante for details, Nico called his name out from her van. She tossed him a heavy duty looking weapon, which he effortlessly caught. “Made it for Lady and she paid for it, so consider it a rental,” the weapons maker said. “Hey- You can’t just -” Lady tried to protest but Dante interrupted her. “Okay, okay, we’ll take care of that later. Right now, you four get the hell out of here. I’m gonna go take care of old douchebag,” he said, tossing the weapon in his hand before turning around and hefting it over his shoulder, walking away from the van. 

Lady and Triss got into the van without fighting back, but you wouldn’t go so easily. “Dante!” you called after you lover, rushing over to his retreating figure. Dante looked back over his shoulder, frowning as he turned to face you. “What is it, babe? I’m kind of in a hurry,” he said as gently as possible. You don’t know why, but you had a terrible feeling in your gut. You were unsure if it was just because of all the new information you had to consume so quickly or something else. But you knew you didn’t want Dante to go. 

“Dante I...” you tried to explain, but the look in his blue eyes told you nothing would stop him from facing his brother. “ Just ... Just promise me you’ll come back,” you sighed. Dante’s expression relaxed, a gloved hand coming to gently cup your cheek. “Hey, don’t worry about me. It will take a lot more than my bastard brother to end me,” he joked. You scoffed, placing a kiss to the palm of his hand, lips meeting the rough leather. 

“Besides ...” Dante leaned in, stubbled lips meeting your forehead. “I still owe you a date, anyways.” He quickly separated from you, taking a few steps backwards. “Now, get going, babe,” he ordered. “(y/n)!” you heard Triss yell for you. Taking one last look at Dante, you groaned and hurried to the van. 

The door slammed behind you and Nico took off, the force sending you onto the booth in the back of van. “Don’t worry, (y/n). Dante’s got this,” Nico reassured you from behind the wheel. You remained silent as the van drove away from the crumbling ground you once stood on. 

~ End of Flashback ~

You gripped the withering tome tightly, almost breaking it in your grasp. That was the last you saw of Dante, and about several months later, he still hadn’t return. When Nero returned, having lept out of the racing van to confront his father, who happened to also be Dante’s brother, he told you about how the two brothers delved into Hell in order to cut the roots of the Qliphoth tree. But doing so also cut them off from leaving the Underworld, trapped there along with the unending amount of demons. It was a cruel irony; to prevent the demons from leaving Hell, they themselves were unable to return.

Since you found out the red-clad Devil Hunter was stuck in Hell, you desperately researched a way to safely bring him back. It was immensely difficult; there was very little information to go by, most of which took time to decipher from its archaic writing. Coupled with the fact that rescuing Dante could also let some demons through, the task was nearly impossible.

Luckily, you were able to use some connections from your time working with your adoptive family’s paranormal task force to the resources you needed. Hence, the heavily marked tome in front of you. You placed said tome on a stand, next to the numerous items you needed to make a stable portal. Using a Wiccan mixture as paint, you started to draw out the proper glyphs and symbols on the floor, creating a circle of them that was at least 6ft in diameter. Next, you lit red waxed candles at five points, of which were connected by a lines, creating a pentagram on the wooden floor. Of course, you had put in some fail safes in place, in which very specific word choice would bring only Dante back. Alongside its border, you started chanting the Latin inscription from the tome. 

Said chant roughly translated to: “I call darkness onto me from deepest depths of Earth and sea, to break the Veil between. Make a tear in the Light, to summon the one who makes my heart ignite. Bring him forth from the Nether, so we might be together.” 

The air filled with static, your hair on the back of your neck standing on end. An unexplainable wind caused the candles to flicker and the pages of the tome in front of you to rapidly turn over. Now came for the conduit; you took a very sharp knife and ran it across the palm of your hand. Your blood dropped onto the pentagram below. The blood, coupled with the slight demonic power from your vampiric affliction, caused the chalk drawings of the circle to glow red. 

The spell was now complete as magic filled the air, the ground lightly rumbling as a hole appeared within the circle, a rip between the realms suspended in the air. A black nothingness was seen through the rip, indescribable and inhumane sounds coming from within. You grabbed a pistol from nearby, loading it with heavy rounds of silver bullets in case something you didn’t want to came through the portal. 

Luckily, it didn’t come to that; two men stepped through the portal, looking a little worse for wear. As soon as they stepped foot into the dimly lit room, the portal abruptly closed, the candles placed around the circle going out. Despite the dingy cellar lights, you could make out Dante’s luminescent blue eyes standing out among his dirty and worn appearance. 

Throwing caution to the wind, you sheath your gun and lunged at the young devil hunter. You nearly sent him falling over, but Dante was able to regain his balance quickly, subconsciously wrapping you in his arms. “What- (y/n)?!” he exclaimed. He was unable to utter another word as your lips covered his in a rushed, passionate kiss. Dante groaned and he gave into the kiss, filthy gloved hands came to cup your face as he brought himself closer. But you didn’t care. All that mattered was the man standing in front of you. 

Separating from you, Dante sighed in relief,“God, it's so great to see your pretty face again, doll,” as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

“I missed you so much, Dante. Don’t you ever do something like that again,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ve had my fill of Hell enough to last me two life times.” 

The cherishing moment ended abruptly by someone clearing their throat. The two of you separated, though not enough for you to no longer to be in each other’s arms. The interruption came from a man who looked very much like Dante, though he was dressed in a blue color scheme and held a more serious, commanding demeanor. 

You had almost forgotten that Vergil had delved into Hell with his brother. How he came back with your lover, you did not know, but it wasn’t much of a big deal. Or at least it didn’t seem like so at the moment. Vergil stepped out of the painted circle, lifting a hand to swipe up the white strands off his forehead and back into their proper place. 

“Isn’t this heartwarming,” he said, cold blue eyes staring straight through your damned soul. “I see you’ve given into the heart’s temptations, Dante. How weak.” The other Sparda twin took a step out of the circle, but was stopped by Dante pointing the tip of Rebellion at his throat. 

“Not another step, Vergil,” Dante growled. 

“Don’t worry, brother. I’ve had enough fighting for now,” Vergil groaned. To prove his point he grabbed at his side and hissed in pain. He turned his steel blue eyes towards you. “So, you’re the woman my brother wouldn’t shut up about in Hell?” 

“I guess so.” You were on edge; you still remembered not so long ago this man was once Urizen, the demonic half of Vergil brought forth when the older Sparta twin cut out his human side in order to achieve more power. Or as he thought. In the end, Dante still defeated him and V sacrificed himself to merge the two halves back together. 

The blue-clad half-devil meet your (e/c) eyes, seemingly peering into your very being. You refused to cower under the powerful gaze, returning the tense stare with vigor. You had no idea how long you two were locked into the battle of wills, but eventually Vergil was the first to turn away. 

“I approve of this one.” 

“I wasn’t looking for you approval,” Dante snapped back. Vergil ignored him, walking past the two of you, the coast tails of his blue coat brushing against your legs. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I was thinking its about time I properly introduce myself to my son. And I suspect I need to apologize for severing his arm,” Vergil explained, refusing to look back at you too. 

“You think?” you mumbled under your breath. Dante smiled, stifling his chuckle. But Vergil heard you, looking over his shoulder at you. 

“This might be hard to believe, but I do regret what I’ve done. The Underworld has taught me the error of my ways,” he told us. “Now I’ll try to amend for them.”

Dante left your side, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I guess you’ll need my help with that. Even though you’re an asshole, your still my brother after all,” he sighed. Vergil seemed to replicate Dante’s feelings, placing a rough hand over his twin’s and nodding his head. “But get it twisted, I still hate you,” Dante admitted. 

A smirk returned to Vergil’s lips and he shrugged off his brother’s hand. “I’m heading back to the hole you call a shop,” he told you guys as he started to make his way out of the darkened basement you had decided to perform the ritual in. “It was nice meeting you, (y/n),” he told you, unexpectedly. 

“Um, yeah, you, too,” you managed to say. You listened to Vergil’s steps as his boots traveled up the stairs to the ground floor and eventually out the riggity front door. As soon as the half-devil was gone, Dante spun you around to face him. “Dante!” you gasped at the sudden action. The red-clad man smirked as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you close to him. He lowered his head to pepper wet kisses across your jaw and neck. 

“Shit, baby, you have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he mumbled against your skin. You giggled as his stumble tickled you, pulling his lips away before he could leave a mark. 

“Calm down you horndog. You still owe me a date, remember?” you warned. 

“How could I forget? It was ll I could think about for however long I’ve been in Hell,” he replied, a put on his lips from the loss of contact. 

“Oh, really? Then I suspected you have it perfectly planned out,” you teased. 

“Of course. We’ll order in a hot pepperoni pizza, have a few glasses of Jack Daniels ... maybe we’ll even have dessert,” he winked. 

You gave his chest a light slap and rolled your eyes. “Pizza and whiskey sounds good. But I haven’t made my mind up about dessert yet.” 

“Whatever, you say babe. I’m just happy my girlfriend’s one smart cookie who’s able to summon me back from Hell,” he grinned, pecking you on the corner of the lips. 

“Lucky you,” you quipped bringing the devil hunter in for a proper kiss. 

THE END

[the-primordials]

And also if you don't mind......could you explain the the lore behind the World Tree and what its importance is and what the lore is involving the various oceans and their names and last but not the least.....the lore surrounding the Mist of Omens and its significance and since i forgot to ask ..... Which country was the MC sealed up in or rather where was their prison found and how was it found?.....Once more....you may answer as one post or as several.

hi @chfrost08 thanks for the ask

Lore Of The World Tree & Its Significance:

The World Tree, was born from the second grave made in remembrance of the family members of the Fallen Gods. After the battle with the Darklings ended. Althaia and Zotikos created the seed of life, which was planted above the fallen gods graves. And the divine energy left gave birth to 'The World Tree'. The World Tree is now a sacred sanctuary protected by Zotikos's kin the dragons. For the World Tree absorbs the two suns of Eden's radioactive molecules, during photosynthesis in return producing mana molecules for Eden. Which helps the beings of Eden use magic and allows magical beasts, plants and materials to thrive.

World Tree;

Lore Of The Five Sacred Seas:

There are 5 different currents that flow through the ocean of Eden each having their own special zone, name and lore. During the 1st Era of Eden there was only one sea one ocean. But after the war "The Song Of The Fallen & Forgotten" the aftermath had damaged Eden greatly resulting in many natural and unnatural phenomena changing Edens many ecosystems both for land and sea even the skies were never the same.

And from this damage the remaining gods that survived the war worked together to heal Eden. And in doing so every god or goddess essence twisted and shaped new landscapes and rules for the world. And from that the 5 different currents were born or as they are called The Five Sacred Seas. The oceans are not generally classified by geographically but by their significance behind their names. It’s difficult to determine which of the “Five Seas” is the largest when it’s more of an idea rather than a set-in-stone system when naming their area.The Five Sacred Seas and the concept of it have changed dramatically over the years, and some periods in history were more inclusive than others.

The Glass Sea:

The Glass Sea, got its name from the cold frigid winds that blow from the Northern Pole. And due to these winds they always freeze the upper layer of the sea. Creating a see-through glass effect. But the other reason was because the layer of ice was as delicate as glass if touched it would shatter making the sound of broken glass.

The Silver Sea:

The Silver Sea, got its name from a famous merchant that was order by the Emperor of Leenart to discover new trading routes for the Empire when a plague had hit the Eastern Continent. The merchant had decided to travel to the supposed Western Continent in hopes of opening new trades and minerals, foods, and medicines. And upon his voyage across the ocean. One evening when the two suns where setting. At just the perfect angle the suns fading light hit the ocean creating the most beautiful iridescent silver light display ever witnessed, it was so breath taking that when he returned to the Empire after his long voyage. They named that part of the ocean 'The Silver Sea'.

Sea Of The Lost:

The Sea Of The Lost, got its name for any ship that traverses their will become lost. No compass, no Star navigation, no normal means of navigation can save one from being lost in the misty, treacherous Sea Of The Lost. As such only ships with a priest of Morwen on board can traverse the Sea Of The Lost.

The Sea Of Traitors:

The Sea Of Traitors, got it's name for it is home to the most famous of Pirates. Here Pirates of all walks of life make this part of the ocean their home. There safe haven. As such travelling through here you are bound to come across a pirate ship... or even fleet. So keep your treasure close, and your wives even closer.

The Sea Of Souls:

The Sea Of Souls, gained its name from how if one travels its waters they are bound to see the one's they have lost, people long forgotten to the tides of time. Here the souls of the lost, damned and cursed wonder. For beneath the sea here sits one of the main gates to 'The Shade'.

Lore Of The Mist Of Omens & Its Significance:

The Mist Of Omens was the first grave created for the Fallen Gods from the First Era. Due to their heavy decay, miasma leaked from their bodies which was poisonous to the living. Spreading and creating the mist. And after the Devils corrupted the Fallen Gods divine energy in The Second Era. The Mist Of Omens finally gained its name. It became a place of death, corruption and evil. A forbidden zone that will try to destroy anything living that enters its boundaries. As such it is a place many countries of today send the worst of the worst criminals to pay for their crimes. It is a place of pain and despair. And should be avoided at all costs.

Where was the MC sealed? &... How where they found?

Spoilers.....🤭🤫🤐

[lokiskitten]

Hey! I wanted to make a request to Loki consoling the reader after a bad day or because she was unsure of her body.

(I'm sorry if there is something wrong, I'm Brazilian and I'm using the translator! lol)

Loki Laufeyson | pretty little thing

( Thor 2011 ) Loki x fem!reader

author’s note : hey! I’m pretty sure I can work something out ;) I hope you’ll enjoy it!

plot : you encounter Loki into the great hall after a long day of work, and the boy tries his best to make you feel better about yourself and your body.

warnings : super duper cute baby loki !1!1!1

Fitting into Asgard’s society turned out to be harder than you thought, and that no matter how much efforts you decided to put on display alongside the help of your fellow Asgardian mates. This was a process every single teenager who had grown in Odin’s court had to go through, which was absolutely necessary if you wished to remain part of the king’s close surroundings. But through time, you couldn’t help but start to think that you maybe didn’t belong in this place. Luxury and good manners wasn’t something you were particularly looking forward to, as you had always believed that it was simply too boring for your eccentric self.

As the group was making its way back to the chambers, you jumped on the opportunity in order to discreetly gain the balconies where you knew you’d be able to find a nice moment of rest. The cold air collided with your skin, making your hair fly back at a rather soothing pace. Your elbows reached out for the balcony’s barrier, body leaning against the fence as your eyelids shut close in an attempt to seek for peace. The silence remained extremely enjoyable until a familiar voice smoothly resonated through your ear. Your eyelids opened again, head tilting to the side as your orbs landed onto the familiar silhouette which was Loki’s, one of odin’s sons.

“Seeking for an escape?” He questioned, his body slowly nearing you as if he was afraid that he would accidentally scare you off. His green eyes pierced right into yours, head tilting lightly as he waited for an answer. A smile appeared on your lips, head nodding as you allowed your body to twist towards him. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that.” You responded before focusing your eyesight onto the beautiful Asgardian horizon again. Just like you, Loki leant against the barrier as his green orbs scanned the landscapes. Though, the usually talkative young man couldn’t help but start conversing again.

“I can sense that something is bothering you.” He notified, head tilting towards your silhouette which he couldn’t cease to admire. A sigh escaped your lips, surprised that a man such as Loki would care about the way you felt. You knew about his reputation, though you had never seemed to figure out why people would make such a big deal out of who he was. To you, he seemed nice and soothing. “It’s nothing really. Just girly bothers.” You explained, which actually made him chuckle. Loki couldn’t help but think that it was ridiculous for you to get upset over such things if it was the case.

“What? It’s true.” You added face to how he wasn’t taking your secretive problems seriously. His brows raised innocently, head shaking from left to right in a denying manner. “I never said it wasn’t.” Loki responded calmly, gentle smile forming onto his lips. “Now, tell me more about it.” The raven haired man added, looking forward to know more about what was bothering you.

Hearing this question, your chest tightened. It had been a while since anyone worried about your mental health, and you obviously didn’t expect Loki to be the one who would do it first. Looking back towards the beautiful horizon on which the sun was setting, you finally managed to empty your chest from your worries. “It’s going to sound stupid, but.. I don’t feel like I’m fitting here. Everyone is so beautiful, so successful, and I can’t help but think that I’m never going to manage to be as a wonderful as them all.” You explained, stomach tightening as you apprehended Loki’s answer.

The young man felt shocked to hear that you both shared the same sorrow, which consisted in fear of failure and sadness face to the fact that you didn’t necessarily fit in. His head nodded, waiting for you to be done talking so that he could add his personal comment to the discussion. “Well.. I’ve seen you in action. I think you look wonderful. Better than most of those people out there.” He responded respectfully, green orbs scanning your face which he had always admired. A chuckle escaped your lips. “Oh come on, you don’t have to say that.” You replied, face turning towards his in order to make eye contact.

Again, Loki’s eyebrows frowned, the man not being able to understand why you doubted him so much. But after second thoughts, he suddenly remembered about the fact that he was classified as the god of mischief. “I’m only speaking the truth. For once.” Loki affirmed, insisting on creating a form of complicity between the two of you. Your smile faded away, soul strangely acknowledging his little move. “Unfortunately it’s going to take more than that.” You ended up responding, looking away and causing Loki’s heart to fill with sorrow and disappointment.

“Let me guess.. you also feel insecure about the way you look?” Loki stated confidently, though remained far from making fun of you for it. Your eyes widened, your entire being wondering how the demigod had managed to guess about your insecurities. “How would you-“ you began, soon being cut off by Loki’s chuckle. “It’s a classic. Teenage girls and their body, you know? Boys feel it too.” He explained wisely, leaning against the fence with the help of one of his elbows as the rest of his body counted onto this support.

Your eyes rolled to the sky, head shaking gently as you tried your best to keep your attitude face to his annoying confidence. Seeing how you had decided to remain silent, Loki jumped on this occasion to talk a little bit further. “I believe your body looks ravishing. I mean, it’s not like I ever got to see it, but if the occasion showed, I’d be more than grateful to give in..” he purred seductively, earning nothing but a stern look coming from you which clearly stood as a negative answer face to his hidden proposition. Awkwardly, the god of mischief nodded his head before turning back towards the horizon. “Alright, got it.” He spoke lowly whilst rubbing his palms together.

I tried! I’m honestly best at smut no cap LMAO. But it’s nice to write about different stuff once in a while. Don’t hesitate to leave a comment or a request! Love y’all💜

[hange-zone]

May I please have some Eremin Hades/Persephone au? With Eren as dread Persephone and Armin as the overworked king of the underworld?

SIX MONTHS IN THE GARDEN OF HADES

i.

In a strange twist of fate, the lord of the underworld was five foot five and had a shock of blond hair. 

“You kidnapped me!” Eren sounded incredulous. He scowled at the person -  barely older than a boy - whose office (realm?) he had just been thrown into. The blond boy, seated at the ornate desk, looked up from his paperwork with a bored expression on his face. Eren stood up, brushing the dirt off his clothes and collected himself, managing to sound incredibly composed despite having just fallen through a crack in the earth and tumbled right down to hades. “That’s so wrong. Wait till my sister finds out - you’ll be dead.”

That sounded like a threat, but it struck Armin as terribly ironic. He laughed. “I’ll look forward to it.”

If looks could kill he guessed that the glare that the other boy had shot him might have actually struck him dead, but he was the god of the underworld and of the dead and honestly? Trifle things like that didn’t matter. 

So he dismissed the glowering boy with a flick of his wrist and went back to poring over his spreadsheets.

 ii.

When they next meet Eren’s hands were sticky and he wished very hard that he could cough out his last meal. 

Armin glanced up at him, then back to his work. “I’m guessing you had some of the fruits from my garden?”

“I was hungry,” Eren protested. “You don’t even have -”

“Six months.” Armin interrupted. He didn’t look up, still scribbling as his eyes scanned over the reports and administrative data. Why do people keep dying? he wondered, briefly, before turning his attention back to the boy before him. “You don’t even need food. But you’ve eaten them,  you do the time, that’s just how it works, et cetera. Besides, didn’t anyone ever warn you?”

“Fuck you,” Eren replied.

 iii.

Wandering around the palace grounds, which were not entirely to his liking, being all dark marble and jagged rock - as well as gaudy displays of gemstones and glittering metal that made his eyes hurt - Eren found himself settling by the shallow pool and watching his reflection in the black water. 

It seems like a cruel trick, to make the earth open up and take him here and then just...leave him alone? What was Hades even thinking? And why was he a lanky teenage boy? That was possibly more confusing. 

Suddenly, a mop of blond hair appeared behind him. He jumped. “You scared the shit out of me,” he said accusatorially to the figure, frowning.

“Sorry,” Armin offered. Up close he looked far less intimidating - beneath the grand robes his shoulders were rounded and he was skinny and rather small. His clothes seemed to overwhelm him. His wide blue eyes were deep-set and there were tired, dark circles against the pale flesh of his face.  He drew in a long breath and sighed. Eren noticed that he was biting his dry lips nervously. 

“Walk with me?” the lord of the underworld asked. Despite himself, Eren obliged, nodding slowly and letting the boy help him to his feet. 

They made their way through the sprawling grounds in silence, trodding through the soft earth. They walked past abandoned gazebos with doric columns, round a winding path with dead and rotting trees and grey leaves which crunched underfoot, away from the black obsidian building which loomed across everything in the landscape. The dead fluttered around them. 

Eventually they came to a pier. Armin leant against the railings, gaze fixed on the river. The water was dark as it rushed and churned underneath them.  Eren watched him for a second then looked away. Off in the distance he could see the glowing lights of Elysium. 

Slowly, haltingly, the other boy began to speak.

“Sorry about…” Armin trailed off. “It was stupid. I should have just asked - we could be friends properly. But now - it’s the seeds, you see. Six of them, six months. We're bound by precedent, unfortunately.”

Ah, there it was again. Who knew the god of the dead was such a stickler for rules?

And then he was off again, turning away and moving through his realm. Eren followed, and they walked on in silence. Eren looked upon the craggy rock and trampled flowerbeds and the overgrown hedges on the edges of the estate, and frowned.

“Your palace sucks,” he blurted out, characteristically blunt. 

It was Armin’s turn to be startled. In fact, he looked positively scandalised. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve got like, all the gold and precious metals and stuff but it’s just too much,” Eren supplied. 

A pause.

“Also the palace looks evil and the gardens are dead,” he added.

Armin opened his mouth to object but closed it again. 

Eren, ever the opportunist, quickly followed up: “I’ll forgive you - and your terrible taste - if you let me just have the garden,” he said, gesturing around meaningfully. “By the time summer comes I’ll have it all fixed up.” 

Armin dithered, but picked up the pace, widening his strides. 

“You owe me,” Eren pressed breathlessly, running to catch up. “You were the one who started it.”

Armin seemed suitably chastened. “Fine,” he huffed out. 

Eren couldn’t help but smile to himself, even as he was careful not to let the boy see. 

It was getting late - a mist had descended upon the land and it was beginning to get cold. Eren found himself shivering in his thin clothes, goosebumps creeping across the length of his arms. Armin must have noticed, because he pretended to stifle a yawn and said, “We should get back.”

And then, before he could protest, the lord of the underworld - Hades himself - draped his thick coat across his shoulders, and was already ahead of him, bare shoulders stark against the night as he turned on his heel and moved briskly in the direction of the ugly, evil palace. Eren clutched at the velvet that clung to him. It was surprisingly warm against his skin.

It became a routine of sorts, walks in the morning and at night, bookending their days. On one nighttime walk, when the precious stones embedded in the cave’s ceiling had glinted like stars, he’d strayed too close to the blond boy and the backs of their hands had brushed. His heart had skipped a beat, but the other boy didn’t seem to notice, or even if he did, he didn’t say anything. And anyway, they’d gone back to their separate chambers as usual - Eren right to bed and Armin back to his office.

 iv.

They’d just finished their morning walk, which had led back to the mess of the office, when another one of the servants had unceremoniously dumped yet another pile of papers on Armin’s desk. Eren could see the veins starting to stand out on his forehead, the thick pulsing blue under his pale, luminous skin, before he buried his face in his hands and sighed loudly. 

“It’s clearly stressing you out,” Eren said, perched on the corner of the desk. “Here, let me,” he reached for the sheet right on top, marked ‘URGENT’, and for once Armin didn’t try to stop him. 

“It’s the review cases,” Armin groaned into his palms. His voice was muffled but indignant. “I’m really not convinced we should change their sentences every thousand years, but since they’ve developed the constitution and instituted rights there’s apparently no such thing as eternal fate anymore.”

“This one?” Eren pulled open a scroll, scanning it. “Another king. Oh - this guy’s seriously fucked up. Cooking his kids?”

“Yeah - which is why I thought it’d be poetic justice to have the whole ‘water he cannot drink’, ‘food he cannot touch’ schtick. But apparently he’s shown some potential for reformation so that’s now out of the window. As are cruel and unusual punishments.” Armin groaned again and let his head flop to the side, blond strands shifting about the jet black table. His cheeks were pressed onto the countertop and it was almost comical, Eren thought - and in fact, deeply humanising, watching Hades moan about his job and suffer from overwork. He felt a pang of feeling - something - for the small blond boy, caught up with the entire mess of processing souls in the afterlife. 

And so it might have out of a fit of compassion that he dropped Tantalus’ file, letting it flutter to the floor, and came up behind Armin to rest his hands on his tense shoulders. And it was probably out of a swell of sympathy then that he let himself press his thumbs firmly right into the space between Armin’s shoulder blades, fingers splayed out across his narrow back and warm neck. Working at the tense knots, until he felt the other boy relax into him. 

 v.

It was the tail end of winter, while a blizzard tore across the surface of the earth and frost marked the ground, when Armin had summoned him for dinner. This was something new; he had made no mention of food - much less a meal - before, except for the second encounter where he’d pronounced Eren’s fate. Besides, he was right: they didn’t exactly need to eat, though Eren supposed he’d appreciate a good dinner if it were offered to him. And Armin had explained that the rest of the food wasn’t binding, so he also supposed it wouldn’t hurt to see what fruits of the earth the underworld could offer.

As the door to the dining hall swung open he was greeted with an opulent sight. His let his eyes scan over the candlelit room with its long table piled high with more food than he’d seen in his life. There was a literal cornucopia as the centrepiece. Armin was at one end, waiting expectantly. His head was resting casually against his fist, blond locks soft against his features. For once he was without paperwork, the entirety of his attention focused on the boy who had entered the room. 

“Is this a date,” Eren said, voice rising, but not quite a question. 

Armin shrugged noncommittally. “Your time here’s nearly done. It’s been five months - I thought we should commemorate it.” His voice was even, but in the dimly-lit room it would have been impossible to tell if he were blushing anyway.

“Soppy,” Eren said, under his breath, but he let the servants offer him a chair and settled into it, hands already curling around the outermost set of cutlery before him.

After a full dinner of winter vegetables and hearty stews - plus much, much dessert - they retired to the drawing-room, warming themselves by the glow of the crackling fireplace.  Eren had shifted himself to the floor and was slumped against the legs of his chair, while Armin sat in a big armchair, leaning right into the cushions. Cerberus lay between them, heads resting on Eren’s lap and tail wagging lazily across the carpeted floor. He let his hands brush over the dog’s smooth coat and scratched him behind his many ears. He looked up and realised Armin was watching him quietly. The soft light danced across his features and his blond hair was like a golden halo. He looked the furthest thing from an imposing god, the lord of the dead. In the orange light he just was: a slender boy, almost-man, with bony knees and silky hair, large eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed. Body relaxing into his seat, basking in the warmth of the fire and filled with a good meal, enjoying the moment and the presence of someone else.

Armin caught his gaze. “Thank you for today, Eren,” he said softly. 

Eren scoffed. “Sentimental bastard,” he whispered, and by the firelight, he swore Armin’s blue eyes had crinkled at the corners and his round mouth had curled into a slow, soft smile. 

 vi.

The plants that Eren had carefully, lovingly sown were coming to fruit, putting out rosy apples and dark velvet figs. They hung low on bended branches like teardrops and had to be harvested quickly before they turned soft and overripe. Eren was spending longer days in the garden which he’d carved out for himself, tending to his crops and reaping the bountiful harvest which he piled around him: lush and speckled gourds, bright fuchsia pomegranates, waxy yellow lemons, tender red berries and grapes in frosted hues, which all lay languidly in wooden crates waiting to be savoured. His favourite were the peaches, which were round and ripe in his hands and whose blush matched the pink in his cheeks as he worked tirelessly at the land. And of course he had a soft spot for the grain in its multitude of forms. The long stalks tickled his face and he brushed them away absentmindedly, even as his hands worked to pick the tiny seeds from their dried heads and shuck the full ears of corn that filled the rustling fields around the obsidian castle.

He was digging up the jewel-toned carrots when Armin found him. He had rested a foot on his worn shovel, pressing it into the soft earth, and had paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. From the corner of his eye he spotted a blond figure approaching the edge of the plot, black robes rustling against the freshly tilled dirt. 

Armin slowly made his way up to him. He’d grown, somewhat, in their time together, but he was still small and lithe and he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly as he spoke:

“Um. Today’s the day. You can leave if you want. I mean…it’s been half a year, hasn’t it?”

Eren watched as he shifted his weight from left to right, and then back again. He’d been thinking about this a lot. They both had. And he had decided. So he merely laughed, turning slowly to wipe his hands on his slacks. He reached for the fruit piled high around them. The ripe pomegranate bruised easily under his fingers as he twisted it open.

And its juice was warm and sweet, trickling down his mouth and lips, as he bit into the soft flesh of its ruby red insides and swallowed its seeds. 

--

here you go, anon! you've asked and i've tried my best to deliver. this was tremendously fun to do so thanks for it:") i’ve put it on ao3 where i might tinker a bit more with it...so watch that space. 

and please feel free to ask more :”)

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP meme from "Chapter One: A World of Darkness" in Changeling: The Dreaming (20th anniversary edition)

Dreamers are taught that they won’t amount to much, that their creativity is a pale imitation of what came before.

Well-meaning, or envious, parents and friends consistently suppress talent in their loved ones, secure in the knowledge that they’re saving them from a huge mistake.

Repeated altercations eviscerate creativity until all that remains is overwhelming self-doubt and insecurity.

Every day is a struggle.

It’s not that they don’t care, they are just unable to grasp circumstances beyond their own social circle.

It’s not that they don’t care, they are just unable to grasp circumstances beyond their own social circle.

Old legends define a changeling as the offspring of mortals and faeries, or a faerie child switched out for a human one.

Ancient curses affect entire landscapes, monsters hide in withered forests, roads made of stardust allows travelers to visit vistas hidden among clouds, and ancient dragons and bygone beasts still roam the skies.

In order to survive this onslaught on their very essence, the fae turned to an ancient ritual which locked their immortal souls in human bodies.

The child talking to her teddy is, in fact, discussing courtly politics with her chimerical bear companion.

The most common means of learning about the past, then, is through the traditional art of storytelling.

Despite the thrill and excitement of hearing legends brought to life by storytellers, academic history is an extremely important factor in the pursuit of lost faerie knowledge, turning myth into truth.

Ancient texts are written in several, often pictographic, faerie languages, and quite often the words seemingly come alive, constantly realigning, rotating, and shifting locations to avoid being decoded.

Even when enough common denominators exist for a decent decoding, the end results often cause further questions, rather than providing answers.

Events become history. History becomes legends. Legends become myths, and myths are forgotten.

Religions told mortals to worship new gods and to turn away from old traditions and rules.

As scientific methods began to explain what mortals previously considered magic, the common folk took to the church’s teachings, foreswearing their old ways in exchange for salvation and a steadfast faith on which to cling in the darkest days.

On July 20, 1969, humanity witnessed the moon landing live on television, and all of the hope, fear, and wonder of the previous decade burst forth.

Mortal witnesses describe friends or family collapsing for a brief moment, then rising, confused for a short time, but brimming with confidence and an aura of regal quality.

However, no matter the chosen human body, they all belonged to someone wealthy and influential, or were members of highly-valued and powerful families in society.

Despite conflicts, both parties openly declared their intent to find peaceful solutions, regardless of acts of violence intended to derail such hopes.

However, this decree didn’t prevent individual members of the houses to cast their allegiance with the side for which they felt an affinity.

The time for discussions ended with blood on the walls, and only war remained.

Theirs was a passionate, whirlwind romance, but one that ended in tragedy.

Without warning, the sky seemingly ripped open and, to those with faerie sight, a red sun appeared, bathing the world in a sinister scarlet light reminiscent of blood.

Behold! Your true king returns!

Better a nightmare than dreamless sleep

Nonetheless, the nobility is not immune to the changes in the world.

No matter how well hidden, however, the child’s true nature marks her as different.

It may start small, with a mortal witnessing strange occurrences no one else sees.

Those that are found are the lucky ones.

The term fosterage comes from the medieval practice, where nobles would take on the children of another family to cement alliances or to build connections between noble children for the next generation.

She will take the lessons from her mentor forward, spending the rest of her days honing what she has learned.

Banality seeks to explain away the fantastic and categorize, empiricize, contain, and render mundane anything outside of the scope of accepted mortal understanding.

This process doesn’t happen all at once.

Many legends and epic stories came from the search for extended life, with outcomes ranging from sad hilarity to outright horror.

Legends speak about treasures that can extend youth or grant immortality once more, like the fabled Fountain of Youth, but so far none have been recovered.

The adventure might be worth it, though.

It is a place woven into the fabric of the mortal world, hidden behind and without, though its magic and influence can affect the physical world and those that live in it.

The land responds to the thoughts and deeds of the creatures that live there and adapts to their every whim.

The shifting landscape is so unpredictable as to throw off any seasoned traveler.

Only a few trods lead to this wholly unpredictable and constantly-shifting landscape.

The space is influenced by the strong dreams of mortals and the expression of powerful mortal feelings and creativity.

They held nothing but hatred and contempt for one another.

History has taught them through many a hard-earned lesson that they are able to accomplish these tasks much more effectively when they work together than when they’re at each other’s throats.

The pageantry and rituals serve as thread that runs through the ages, tying the generations together.

Their customs and lore serve as the glue that binds each individual to one another.

Everyone, from the lofty noble on his throne to the lowly chambermaid, has their duties in a well-organized society.

Without everyone working together, doing what’s expected of them, society would not be able to support itself.

Even a lifetime of tragedy and loss has its own poignancy.

The act of creation holds an inherent beauty.

Each new work of art, new performance, and new thought is a unique manifestation of creativity undreamed of in the world before.

Beauty must be preserved because it is the basis for all life.

Society cannot operate effectively without an inherent fairness.

A favor is always paid back with a reciprocating favor.

An object or service given is returned with something of equal value.

Loyalty deserves fidelity, and acrimony deserves hatred.

The self comes from within. It is the basis of being, granting the ability to reason, to question, to strive for improvement.

To know oneself is to make life worth living.

Identity requires freedom — the freedom to buck trends, to say no, and to try new things.

The only things that remain eternally unchanged are those that are dead.

The alternative is nothing but stasis.

Even at its most benign, stagnation leaves people woefully unprepared when everything they know eventually gets upended.

Once outside rewards are involved, whether tangible or simply accolades, the concept of honor twists people, making them do monstrous things.

Honor is nothing more than an ugly little lie told by tyrants designed to keep their slaves docile and obedient.

No one can follow his dream when an overlord is standing above him, micromanaging his life.

Everyone has responsibilities, but if given the freedom to be themselves, people will find ways to do the necessary things in their own way that doesn’t prevent them from doing the things that make life worth living.

Pranks were played, sometimes in jest and at other times scathing, at the expense of those in power.

A merry time was had by all while allowing the disenfranchised a chance to air grievances and have an outlet for their frustrations.

Their only goal is to force a response from those capable of alleviating some of the suffering.

To fit in as part of the mundane world they became traveling circuses, freak shows, or other transient groups.

Those of higher rank are respected by those of lower rank and are also expected to meet their obligations to the less fortunate.

Many nobles see their main business to be that of gaining — or retaining — power.

Alliances may shift between the nobles and circumstances may change, but all try to expand their holdings and rise higher up the social ladder.

Something has to give.

A noble expects obedience from his vassals and respect from all others. In return, the noble respects those superior to him.

Whether they like it or not, the nobility has had to concede that modern ideas of democracy and popular rule are realities now.

Still, most nobles rule through force, cunning, personal magnetism, and custom.

They must never reveal their true natures to humanity.

Some battles are fought to first blood.

[wrenhyperfixates]

Of All the Places

Chapter 2

Pairing: Loki x reader Series Summary: Washing up in a small town in Oklahoma was definitely not part of Loki’s plan when he came to conquer Midgard. There is one good thing about it, though: No one recognizes him as the one who just wreaked havoc in New York. So, Loki plans to recover from the battle and move on with his life. The only problem? He’s not sure he can leave you. Chapter Summary: It’s a new day and Loki meets the rest of your family. He begins to formulate a plan, but it’s derailed by your hospitality before it can even begin. Chapter Warnings: none A/N: Alright, here we go. Chapter 2! Let me know what you think, and if anyone has any predictions they’d like to share, I would love to hear! Updates every Friday. Enjoy :) P.S. It’s spooky season! That has absolutely nothing to do with this fic, but it’s one of my favorite times of year

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiantfavs​

✥ Start at Beginning ✥ | ← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Loki woke up feeling a lot more alert than he had the previous day. After convincing you that he had amnesia, he spent the rest of the day drifting in and out of slumber, assisting his rapidly healing body get better even faster. He got out of the bed and stretched his aching muscles before scanning the room with fresh eyes. It was even more bare than he had originally realized, but he could tell from patches of less faded paint and wood that there was a time when it wasn’t so sparsely decorated. He flipped a switch by the entrance and the lights came on, sending a surge of panic through him that had him running over to the TV. He let out a sigh of relief when it still did’t work. Though, perhaps that was just because he was so terrible at using Midgardian technology. He stilled for a second and heard a faint mechanical hum easily identified as a generator. The cable would be back sooner rather than later, he was sure, but from looking out the bedroom’s single window, Loki knew he was in the middle of nowhere and that the internet connection was probably spotty at best. With any luck, he would be fully healed in the next few hours and could take his leave.

As he worked on massaging out the remaining dull ache in his body, Loki’s eyes finally landed on a bright pink piece of paper left atop a pile of clothes. His eyes skipped to the bottom where the signature was and, seeing that it bore your name, he went back up to the top to read it. He tugged off his sweaty, bloody clothes and pulled on the ones you’d written were left for him. The material of the shirt was soft enough, but the sweatpants were dreadfully baggy for someone who preferred form-fitting clothes that displayed his physique. Certainly, though, you’d been thinking of the comfort level of what you believed to be a very injured mortal, so he tried to remain thankful. Loki folded up his old clothes and left them in the spot where his new ones had been moments ago.

Back at the window, Loki was once again trying to determine precisely where he was. Besides the landscape, your voice and that of your father’s provided some clues to the most likely locations. He still had to be in North America, he was sure, and though he suspected it was the United States, there wasn’t anything confirming it at the moment. Your father did have a slight twang to his voice, though, so it supported his theory that he was probably in one of the southern states. Other than that, all Loki could determine was that this was a farm; a nice remote farm where he could hide from his oaf of a brother and his new overly heroic friends.

Loki called out to the Tesseract, and it appeared in his hands. Such power for such a tiny object, he thought as he turned it over in his hand. The last time it rested in his palm, he’d not fully been himself. Even so much as looking at it made him feel a little queasy now as he thought of all the crimes he’d committed with it. For it. But when his life is on the line, Loki had learned, there is very little he’d not do to save himself. It was one similarity he shared with mortals that he’d rather not. It was also one of the few he’d actually admit were there. But, no, some mortals were righteous beings. He knew that, but had trouble separating those of a higher caliber from the rest of the species. He wondered what kind of mortal you were, before being pulled out of his musings by a delicious aroma. He debated for a minute before once again tucking the Tesseract away in its dimensional pocket and heading out of the room, down the stairs, towards the amazing scent coming from a lower floor.

“Not a thing,” he heard your voice ring out as he got closer.

“Or so he says,” responded an unfamiliar female voice.

When he rounded the corner he saw it belonged to a woman that must be your mother, or else your older doppelgänger because of how alike the two of you looked. Your dispositions, though, could not have been more different. The first person to notice him lurking half-in, half-out of the room was a small boy who pointed at him.

“New friend!” he cheered. “New friend!”

Such innocence as Loki had never known continuously amazed him. He feared he could be dangerous for this child, but he would be gone so soon that he wouldn’t even be a blip in the boy’s memory.

“I would very much like to be your friend, indeed,” Loki said, crouching down to the boy’s height as he toddled over. The adults in the room all shot each other glances, but no one moved to do anything. “And what might your name be?”

“I’m Matt. And I’m this many,” the child responded, proudly holding up four fingers.

“A pleasure to meet you, Matt. My name is Loki.”

“How many are you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Oh, far too many to count on fingers, little one. In fact, I am 1,047 years old,” he said, realizing that it would probably just be seen as a joke to amuse the boy, rather than a fact.

He laughed at Loki’s statement, but before he could reply, a woman that was presumably his mom called him over. “Don’t bother our guest right now, Matt. He’s still recovering,” she scolded.

“I assure you, it is completely fine, Mrs...?”

“Johnson. But, please, feel free to call me Ana. And this is my husband, John.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Loki charismatically said, though on the inside he was laughing at the name “John Johnson.” These mortals and their foolish names. “And I do believe we already met,” he added, turning to you.

“Yes, we did. You were so out of it I wasn’t quite sure you remembered. This is Mama,” you said, gesturing to the woman who Loki had correctly identified as your mother.

“Hello,” she drawled, fixing the god with an icy stare.

“Papa, did you hear? Loki’s awake,” you told the man walking out of the kitchen with a plate of light brown disks stacked high.

“Glad you’re up, son. Just in time for pancakes, too,” he said, immediately diffusing the tension brewing between Loki and Mama. “Come on, plop yourself down on a seat over here. You must be pooped, and I promise we don’t bite.”

Loki sauntered over to the chair Papa had gestured to and sat down. Feeling a fuzzy mass moving between his sprawled legs, he peered down and saw a grey-brown cat under the table. He’d never been one for pets, but the soft fur was comforting to his weary soul.

“Taffy,” you tsked at the feline before looking back up at Loki with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I hope you’re not allergic.”

“Do not worry, I am not. At least,” he added, remembering his lie from the day prior, “I do not remember that I am.”

Loki appraised your charming family in your quaint farmhouse, almost feeling bad to intrude. Though, he reminded himself, he’d be out of your hair before you knew it. Papa was the only one happily chattering on about this year’s harvest, oblivious to the tension at the table, or else ignoring it. The God of Mischief refocused on the plan he’d created this morning; he needed answers. You were seated beside him and, besides your father and nephew, the only one who didn’t seem wary of him. And you were really the only viable option as Loki didn’t want to get sucked into a conversation about the wheat crop with your father, and Matt was at the age where he was only vaguely aware he was on planet Earth.

“If you do not mind,” he started, turning to you, “I have a few questions.”

“Of course you do. Sorry, I’m such an idiot,” you said smacking your forehead. “Please, ask away.”

The way you immediately seemed to blame and degrade yourself reminded Loki of himself. The difference, however, was that you did it aloud while Loki kept it bottled up. Whose way was better, he didn’t know. Perhaps neither was really good.

“It is quite alright,” he reassured you. “To begin, where exactly are we?”

Apparently it was some hole in the wall in Oklahoma, so Loki had been fairly correct in his middle of nowhere assessment. Apparently, you weren’t outrageously far from Oklahoma City, though Loki felt it best he avoid cities for a little bit. The nearby town that your farm was technically a part of was a very close knit community, so you knew that wasn’t where he was from.

“I see,” he said, planning his next move. “And that is how far from New York?”

“Far. Why? Is that where you’re from?” you asked, getting excited for Loki that he might already be getting his memory back.

“I am not sure,” Loki lied. “I just seem to think that is where I was headed. Or coming from.”

“Maybe you were at some kind of convention,” John offered, tuning in to the conversation. “Aren’t those a big thing in New York City?”

“It would sure explain the clothes!” Papa added.

“Great. Let’s send him back there,” Mama said, already standing up like she intended to drive him there right at the moment.

“Mama,” you harshly whispered, hating how unwelcoming she was being.

“Maybe he was on vacation from England. He does have an accent,” Ana chimed in, hoping to prevent a fight.

“I am afraid that I do not remember,” Loki muttered.

He was thankful no one was even concerned about how he arrived here. There was something else, too. He was feeling uncharacteristically ashamed because of how helpful you all were being. Well, most of you were being, anyway. He reminded himself again that he would be gone within the hour.

“It’s ok,” you soothed. “Like I said yesterday, you can stay here for as long as you need. In fact, I insist that you do.”

“I... Thank you.”

Loki still planned to leave rather quickly, but the kind look in your eyes compelled him to stay for a little while longer. After all, it couldn’t hurt to think about his next move a bit more. If he were to use the Tesseract again, Heimdall would surely notice. So, he’d lie low for a while and then get off this accursed planet.

“Well if he’s going to be staying here, he better help out some,” Mama grumbled. “I won’t have any freeloaders on my farm.”

“Now now, honey,” Papa said, patting her hand. “He’s still injured, after all.”

“On the contrary, I would happy to help,” Loki interjected, shooting a charming smile at Mama. “I am feeling much better now.”

“See, Earl,” Mama said triumphantly. “He’s fine.”

Everyone else tried to fight on Loki’s behalf but, between him and Mama, it was a losing battle. Eventually, it was time to clean up from breakfast, and you took him away from the clattering of empty dishes to find him so work clothes. The trickster god got a much better look at the rest of the house while you led him higher and higher until you reached the attic. You hesitated a second before opening a box labeled “James’s Clothes.” As you gently picked up the shirt on top, Loki peered over your shoulder wondering who this stuff belonged to.

“My brother’s,” you began before he could ask, sensing the question on his tongue. “We were going to donate them anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter. And don’t worry, I’ll talk to Mama before she sees you. I’d give you some of John’s things, or Papa’s even, but you know.”

Indeed, Loki did know. Though he was roughly the same height as both the men, he was much leaner than they were. Unfortunately, that was about the only thing he understood. Your little distracted speech left him with even more questions than before, but something in him was screaming not to push you, to think of someone else for once. So, all he said was thank you. After a quick pit stop in the room from the night before to change into the bundle of clothes you’d given him, Loki made his way back downstairs where yet another argument was taking place. He was certain that his arrival was causing more tension than normal. His mind briefly flitted to his own family. It all seemed so picturesque, once, but that time was long gone. His mother—or Queen Frigga, as he supposed he should start calling her—never changed. She was as kind and gentle as ever, yet still possessed this refined regality and power. In other words, she was the complete opposite of Mama, who turned on her heel and made a disgruntled sigh as she exited when Loki appeared.

“There ya are, son,” Papa greeted once she was gone. “We had an idea while you were up there. We should make you up a missing person ad. I’m sure someone’s bound to know who you are.”

There was that sickeningly Thor-esque optimism in Papa’s voice. Not to mention the nickname “son” which, for someone like Loki at least, was one of the worst thing he could be called. He did his best not to grimace.  

“No thank you,” he replied, before continuing at the behest of your confused looks. “I certainly would not want to put you out any more than I already have.”

“Nonsense. We just gotta find the camera,” Papa said, already moving past him.

Loki just sighed, deciding he’d find a way to stall later. When he finally looked back at you, your hands were clasped behind your back and you were nervously shifting your weight.

“In the meantime,” Loki began, picking up where he left off with your father, “why not show me what I may help with?”

You took him out to the chicken coop and taught him how to collect eggs. He supposed it made sense this was the task left for him considering you all still thought he was a fragile human. As you taught him, you prattled on about your life and your family. You mentioned how Mama met Papa, and how your sister met John, but nothing about your brother. Loki was on the verge of asking, but he didn’t want to make his time with you awkward. Even more than that, he didn’t want it to seem like he cared. No need to cause any extra pain when he inevitably left, right? Though your glittering eyes and stunning smile were working overtime to convince him otherwise.

“That’s all there is to it,” you said, finishing up your tutorial. “Any questions?”

“None at all. You are an excellent teacher.”

You two shared a laugh, and Loki was shocked by how easily conversation was flowing. Though, he let you do most of the talking, lest he reveal something that does not align with the rest of his story. All too soon, you had to leave to take care of your other chores. For a second, Loki felt as if he missed you already, but he quickly pushed the thought out of his mind and focused on the task at hand. Just a week, he repeated in his mind as he gently placed eggs in the basket you’d given him. Just a week.

As he approached the farmhouse, he noticed a thick newspaper on the long driveway. He went over to examine it and, sure enough, he’d made the headlines. No clear photos of him attached, luckily, but the clothes were distinctive enough that you would recognize him for sure. Loki looked side to side before performing a quick spell to get rid of the paper. He headed back over to the house before anyone could notice him, ignoring the annoyingly persistent guilt bubbling within him.

“Just a week,” he muttered to himself again as he neared where you were on the front porch. “Just a week.”

But deep down, he already knew it would be much longer than that.

[eat0crow]

Not So Dead

Summary: Kakashi’s regretted a lot of things in his life. More than he can ever hope to put a number on. He never imagined not being more philosophical would make its way onto the list.

Notes: Written for @amusl02 as part of the @akatsuki-gift-exchange. I”m so sorry this is late!

You siad you wanted angst so I tried to be emo about it :D

_____

Kakashi’s never cared enough to worry about whatever bastardization of the afterlife his soul would end up in.

Most shinobi’s don’t as a general rule. How can they when they stain their hands with enough blood to fill hundreds of small basins for a paycheck? Sure, there’s a few like the Hyuga and the Uchiha, whose clan lore glamorizes battle so much they have a clear picture of their soul’s destination. But the general population of nins are more than happy with understanding that wherever their souls go...it can’t be anywhere good, and leaving it at that.

Avoiding the afterlife is a much more pressing, present, concern.

But fuck if the information wouldn’t come in handy right about now. He’s regretted a lot of things in his life. More than he can ever hope to put a number on. He never imagined not being more philosophical would make its way onto the list.

He should have listened to Sasuke when he’d had been explaining, in excruciating detail, to Naruto and Sakura just where the departed go, last night when they set up camp. He would have, but the temptation to remind Sasuke that technically, he was oversharing clan secrets, had been at the tip of his tongue and—

Seeing Sasuke start to open up, even if it was over something morose like death, with progress that was downright groundbreaking for him, kept Kakashi from saying anything. He’d never heard the boy talk even a third as much. So what was the harm in him giving away lore.

Sasuke is the clan, it’s his right to decide what gets guarded fiercely and what gets given away freely.

Tuning the kids conversation out, while immediately satisfying, evidently, had been a mistake. Because Kakashi has no fucking clue where he is. Probably not hell? He feels like his soul would be a lot more tormented than it is right now, if it was. Definity not heaven. Not ever heaven. Not after Rin. Or Obito. Or Kushina. Or Minato. Or—

All he knows for a fact is that he isn’t alive anymore. He can’t be. And it’s not the darkness that’s telling him that, not the nothingness or the weightlessness or the cold that seeps into his bones and bites at him harder than the chakra exhaustion that knocked him out had.

No, it’s none of that.

No.

It’s Obito that lets him know that he’s no longer part of the world of the living.

Obito, who’s older than he was the last time Kakashi saw him, who’s his age, which makes sense and doesn’t at the same time. Death, he supposes, gets to make its own set of rules. Whatever they are, aren’t nearly as important as the fact that Obito is here.

Not as the boy Kakashi remembers, who’d been sunshine and summer, warm smiles and endless hope. Or even as any of the variants he’s spent years creating as the answers to half his ‘what ifs’.

No, he’s here and all hard edges. Mangled and torn and cold and so much more beautiful in that he exists. That he’s in front of him. Kakashi has missed him, more with every precious person he’s lost, and the longer he’s lived. Seeing him with his arms crossed, with an orange, swirled mask dangling from his side that screams Naruto, is like stepping back in time. He feels like a genin. Albeit one with slightly more trauma, not to say he didn't already have his fair share than.

The glare on his face is like none of the expressions Kakashi can remember from his friend, but exactly what he always imagined when thinking about them meeting again in the next life. It causes a weird sense of validation to flood him. How could any of the people Kakashi failed possibly do anything but hate him?

Saving Kakashi was the last thing Obito had done, and for what? Him to turn around and kill Rin? For him to shove his hand through her chest and carve out her heart with lightning? Obito loved Rin, in every way he couldn’t. Didn’t want to, for that matter. Kakashi was happy to let her love him, if it meant she was happy and stayed in his life. Existing in her life, being her friend, was enough—all he was capable of.

Rin, was a butterfly. She was always destined to outgrow him once she found someone who loved her back, in the way she wanted and not just in the ways he could manage. She deserved to. Rin was amazing and wonderful and worth so much more than team seven.

He’d have been more than happy to let her fly away, if fate hadn’t been a bitch that decided thirteen was old enough for her to die.

“Bakakashi.” There’s a warning in Obito’s voice, his eyes are murderous, and it goes against every single one of Kakashi’s instincts to stay where he is. Not that he thinks he can move much. Apparently dying doesn’t come with a healing session, he still has all his injuries, and he feels just as drained as he did in Wave.

“Obito,” he finally says, he’s doing nothing to disguise any of the complicated knot of emotion that’s had more than a decade to tangle up from his voice. Maybe Obito will hear it and be able to understand them more than Kakashi himself does.

All he knows is that he’s feeling something.

Whether it’s a good something remains to be seen.

Though, he doubts that he can be part of any something that’s good.

Naruto, Sakura, Sasuke, they’re proof of that. He’d worried so much about them getting to keep their childhoods, he hadn’t actually prepared them for the reality of shinobi life. Despite team 7’s history of cursed C ranks, he’d let them take this mission with nothing more than academy skills and D ranks under their belts. Fuck.

And now he’d gone and died on them. He’d left them behind in the middle of Wave with no one.

Desperately, he hopes they have the common sense to terminate their mission and return to the village.

Realistically he very much doubts they do.

“Pay attention to me, God damn it,” Obito hisses at him, voice sharp-edged and dripping with venom. He’s standing at Kakashi’s feet, kunai angled toward his throat. When did he get there? It’s hard to focus in wherever the fuck they are. “I guess some things never change, huh?”

“That’s not true,” he answers, he can’t stop himself. It’s Obito. No amount of post mortem introspection is going to prevent him from being at least a little bit of a bastard to him. “I’m taller than you now.”

Obito’s breath catches. He freezes, goes impossibly still, his fingers curling around the hilt of his knife so tightly his arm shakes. “You don’t get it, do you?” That’s not his angry tone. No, Obito's beyond that. This is his furious one. The one Kakashi never actually heard but always assumed he had. “Unbelievable. Fifteen years. After fifteen fucking years, here I am, a living corpse standing over you with a knife to your god damned throat and you still won’t take me seriously.”

“That’s not true,” Kakashi says, only, his words come out thick, slurred together around his tongue and the black spots thickening in his vision. “I always pay attention to you.”

How could he not?

Above him, Obito looks seconds away from dismembering him. He says...something. All Kakashi can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. Whatever cutting remark that Obito has to say—that Kakashi deserves to hear—is lost over the sound of his breathing.

He doesn’t want to pass out. Not when he’s just gotten Obito back and there’s a good chance he’ll wake up somewhere else, alone. He doesn’t know how this whole afterlife thing works. He’s terrified that if he closes his eyes, he won’t have the chance to find out.

It doesn’t seem to be up to him, though. The darkness keeps slipping into his vision, the cotton clouding his brain getting thicker with every second he forces himself to stay conscious.

The last thing he sees before he's swept away in the waves of chakra exhaustion is Obito’s face, hovering inches from his own with something that might have been concern flashing across it.

Kakashi’s next return to the land of the not so living (purgatory?), is a bit easier. There’s less of the bone-deep cold from before and more of the floating sensation. Like he’s stuck somewhere with just enough gravity to keep him steady in one place. He doesn’t hurt as badly, the only aches he feels are the ones he’s always had. It would be stranger for him to wake up with them gone, so he counts himself fully healed.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, his muscles stiff and protesting even with the simple movement. His side is tender, but, considering Kakashi remembers his ribs being broken by that fucking overgrown sword, it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

“It’s not the same if you roll over and die,” a quiet voice says, off to his left. Kakashi blinks, his mask is gone, so is his hitai-ate. All he can do is run his hands over his face and blink the last bits of sleep from his vision. Obito’s breath doesn’t catch when he turns to look at him, which makes sense, assuming he was the one to take his mask off in the first place. And really, who else is there to do it? “I have to be the one to kill you.”

“Sorry,” he manages after what feels like a small eternity. His brain hasn’t caught up with his tongue just yet. “You can. If you want to.”

Keeping his shoulders intentionally relaxed, his movements loose and lazy in a way that takes effort, Kakashi reaches toward his thigh, grabbing the tanto still strapped there. For a moment he weights the blade in his hand. It's standard issue, the same one given out to all jounin. Nothing remarkable about it.

Handle out, he offers it up to Obito.

And Obito stares, for a long endless moment that stretches into the next. Around them the landscape echoes the tension in his shoulders, the dark grey nothing rising up into jagged peaks, sharpening with every fraction of tension that makes its way into his frame. “Just like that. After everything, you’re not going to fight back?”

“I would,” Kakashi says, looking away first. “If it was anyone else.”

“Then why?” Obito asks, searching.

Kakashi cuts him off before he can continue. “Because you deserve to. Obito, I’m the reason you died, if anyone has the right to run a blade through me it’s you.”

Long, spindly fingers curl around the handle of the blade, and even though they don’t touch his skin, Kakashi can feel the phantom sensations of them across his hand. “I’m not killing you for me, dumbass.”

Kakashi swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He still doesn’t turn to face him. It’s weird seeing Obito with only a single Sharingan flashing red in his face. In a way, it’s a bit like seeing his own reflection mirrored back to him, and Kakashi has never been good with looking at his own face. “I know, and if Rin or Minato or Kushina was here I would let them kill me, too. But they’re not.”

“So what,” Obito scoffs, harsh and cruel as he throws the tanto sheath. “I’m the consolation prize? A get out of jail free card? I’m here so I might as well absolve you of your guilt like a convenient little escape-goat, is that right? Do you even care?”

Obito laughs. It sounds like a sob. Like something wretched from a wounded animal that’s hurting and has been hurting for so long it’s forgotten how to feel any differently. Kakashi hates that sound, he really really hates it.

Before he can help himself, Kakashi turns, grabbing the hand not clutching the blade between them in a white-knuckled grip that looks painful, and pulls. The tanto goes chattering forward and Obito is mashed against him into something that might resemble a hug and what feels more like a lifeline.

“Of course I care,” Kakashi says into the crown of Obito's hair. He smells like clay and metal and something not quite natural that doesn’t matter nearly as much as his warmth against his chest. “You’re not an escape-goat Obito. You’re the one I owe the most to. I’m sorry I couldn’t find some way to make it up to you before I died and ended up here.”

Against him, Obito stiffens further, pushing away with bony elbows that dig into his stomach until clawed fingers make their way into the skin of his shoulders. Obito holds himself there, arms-length away and propped up enough for Kakashi to have to crane his neck to make eye contact. “Wait. What? Kakashi, where the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Kakashi says, doing his best to make his voice come out breezily. “I don’t know anything about the afterlife”s geography.”

Obito pinches his side, hard. “You’re not—Bakakashi—I’m not dead. Neither are you.”

“Wait, what?”

“How you—this whole time you thought you were dead?” Obito shakes him, throwing his whole body weight into moving Kakashi’s upper torso. “You were going to let me kill you a second ago!”

“In the metaphorical sense.” Kakashi raises an eyebrow at him, the confused look on his face natural with not even a bit of exaggeration. “I figured after you got your justice, I’d move on to whatever hell comes next.”

“You were bleeding when you came here. You’re sitting in a patch of dried blood right now.”

“I haven’t died before, I don’t know how death works.” Kakashi shrugs.

For all he knows the afterlife could just be a really bland version of...well life.

Maybe if he wasn’t recovering from the after-effects of what he now knows for a fact had originally been a concussion, he’d be a lot more suspicious. Probably not though, because even without the head injury he’d have a lap full of Obito and there is absolutely no way he could be skeptical about his living or dead status with his arms around the ghost of a boy he watched die.

“My heart's beating, you idiot.” Obito protests, reaching down and placing Kakashi’s palm flat against his chest. On reflex, Kakashi tries to jerk it away, the only time he ever touches anyone's chest is when he’s tasked with carving out their heart. Obito’s grip is crushing, though. He holds his hand there firmly in place, not allowing even a fraction of give. “Don’t you think It would be a lot more still if I was a ghost.”

Kakashi wants to say he doesn’t know. Wants to point out that he can’t feel Obito’s heartbeat through the overwhelming panic that's nipping across Kakashi’s skin—and fuck, if he didn’t already have enough triggers, he should have expected to have a little trauma surrounding this. He can’t get the words out of his throat, though. Not through his breathing, that’s coming out in harsh pants. Not over the panic attack that had no business ruining this and is a good chunk of time past due.

For his part, Obito just watches him through it. Immovable as he keeps his grip welded around Kakashi’s wrist.

Eventually, after however long time takes to move here, he forces his mind to steady itself and compartmentalize this into the little boxes in the far-off corners labeled do not revisit. When he finally does feel, not okay, he’s too shaky for okay, but solid, he makes the effort to feel what Obito’s trying to show him.

When he does, he’s met with the steady thump of a heart beating under his hand. It feels like a bird, beating its wings—and that’s enough of the fragile animal metaphors for today, thank you very much. “Oh. Oh you’re real.”

Obito blinks at him, and the final bits of anger that have steadily been falling away, drains out of him. “Yeah,” Obito breathes, letting go of Kakashi’s hand, finally, and slumping forward, back into his arms. “Yeah, Kakashi, I’m real.”

“You’re alive,” Kakashi whispers. His grip must be painful, but he can’t stop himself from tightening his hold. Afraid that Obito will slip away as some figment of his imagination the second he eases up. “You’re alive.”

“Come on now,” Obito huffs. Something hot makes its way to the crook of Kakashi’s neck. He can’t be bothered to check and see which one of them is crying. “You didn’t think I’d actually let Iwa kill me, did you?”

Yes.

Yes, Kakashi very much did. If he had suspected for even a second that Obito was still out there, somewhere, alive and whole, he would have hunted him down with enough vigor to make his ninken jealous.

But saying that feels cheap when actions speak louder than words and enough time has passed for anything along that vein to ring as hollow platitudes.

Kakashi thinks Obito expects him to get angry at him, to demand to know where he’s been for the last fifteen years. Don’t get him wrong, Kakashi wants to know, he really desperately does. But the answer isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Obito is alive and whole and with him, so instead he settles on asking, “Where is here, then.”

Obito lets out a breath, slumping impossibly more against him. “This is a part of Kamui. Somehow when you exhausted yourself, you managed to find your way into the pocket dimension created by the Sharingan. Since we share the same set, we can access the same place. You’re lucky I was already here. You really would have been dead if I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Kakashi says, simply. He supposes, in a way it makes sense. Their Mangekyou can banish objects, it has to have a place to send them to. Maybe he caught himself in the reflection of Zabuza’s water prison.

Kaskshi closes his eyes, content to just hold Obito there. It’s not like he’s gotten the chance to be close to anyone recently, physically or otherwise. So while he’s hyper aware of every inch of skin Obito is touching, it feels good. In a reassuring, alive, kind of way.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sounds around being their combined breathing which quickly takes the place of white noise.

Obito’s the one to break it, turning his face against Kakashi’s chest and looking up. “Hey, Bakakashi, if I asked to kill you right now, would you let me?” His voice is soft without the venom in it, with nothing to hide the uncertainty.”

Kakashi doesn’t have to think about his answer before he responds, “Yes.”

He’s not his father, he’s not about to throw himself down on his own blade just to run from his ghosts. But, he thinks if one of his ghosts, the one that’s not quite dead yet, wants him to be, that’s okay. It’s different.

“You’d really give me your life, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Kakashi agrees, because it really is that simple. For him at least.

He hopes though, that Obito will want to wait just a little bit longer to kill him. Kakashi’s waited so long to see him again, he’d hate to have to wait until the end of Obito’s life to do it. Though, that would be fitting, in an ironic sort of way.

“In that case,” Obito starts, moving to stand up. Kakashi helps him the best he can, supporting him with a gentle hand against his back even if he misses the warmth instantly. “Will you come with me?”

Part of Kakashi wants to ask Obito what he means, won’t he come back with him? Back to the village, to Konoha and….and a stone carved with the name of almost everyone that made the place a home.

A large part of Kakashi, the part that makes him bite his tongue, reminds him that Obito’s had fifteen years to make his way back to the leaf. Back to him. If he was going to return to the village it would have happened by now. No. If they’re going anywhere it’s going to be on Obito’s terms.

This time it’s Kakashi’s turn to chase after him.

So he doesn’t have to think about it before responding, “Okay.” The only thing truly holding him back is….Naruto, who won’t get another instructor who will look at him as anything but a monster and fuck, he can’t abandon him again, not after finally being allowed to see him. And Sakura who’s going to be flushed out as a paper nin, which is a complete waste of her potential. And Sasuke, who’s going to be snatched up by Danzo’s grimy hands the second he comes back to the village with no one to keep him in the light and away from the shadows and— “But I have some kids I need to pick up first.”

[mxdotombra]

The ghost of Antarctica’s emperor haunts the great tundra. His furious cries become the howling wind and the biting cold the cut of his own blade. Relentless and powerful as the eternal night and day. His empire breaths in the soft fluttering snow, kind and careful and anxious to meet them and exhales a furious and harsh gale as he protects those he loves from danger, the only force protecting his home.

It is by his own care that the small piece of land can grow such feeble life, each strand of hairgrass, piece of lichen, and patch of moss protected from his own madness by his careful hooves. Raised with care in the horrid landscape, a reminder of a past life when it was just wars of growth and not wars of destruction.

The caverns gleam with shining diamonds and the fortress remains frozen and protected from the world. The spirits that dwell there are warm with the breath of life and the smile of a family, waiting to welcome the wayward emperor for when his soul returns to them. Waiting for laughter to bubble from the hearts of family, waiting to joke and sing and sit in the warm hearth of the empire’s possibilities.

The ghost of the blood god haunts the frozen planes, perhaps he will let you pass if you stay for a quick dual. Best it be to you, do not think you will win either way, by flight in terror or fight in pride.

You against the angry beast that haunts the planes of Antarctica, in a duel which no man nor beast has won.

It is quite sad for you oh wayward dreamer, the god of the blood soaked snow shall never die again.

(Extra pictures and such below the cut!)

Story was made off the top of my head, I really want to write like a little one shot based off it but idk.

Alright so I always liked the idea that Technoblade had started growing a white coat unintentionally to blend in with the snow and ice of his kingdom (even though the bright red cape doesn’t exactly mean stealth). It’d mainly grow where the hair would be courser I guess? I don’t know how to explain it, I’ve stared for hours at wild pigs so like, idk.

I like to think he uses sweet berries to dye it back to pink and Phil has to help and it just becomes a week long endeavor because people keep invading and they get no breaks, also that his cape has a large hood because um... cold?

also he’s meant to have more jewelry and clasps for the cape but I have school tomorrow and please cut me some slack this is the third legitimate digital painting I’ve done and I’m quite proud! But idk, I just thing the pig king is neat. I own a shirt like the one he is wearing, made it myself, and I absolutely did not do the sleeve ruffles justice. I’m... imma make a drawing about Antarctic king techno at one point or another

And the wind howling thing is not my idea! I can’t remember nor find the post of who it belonged to but they are a genius! Its just so fucking poetic and rad. I also think the ghost thing belongs to them as well.

(Now for headshot detail and with less render so you can actually see the full thing!)

[procutemeister]

these, our bodies possessed by light || vergil x reader, chapter 1

The city of Red Grave has been defeated; Urizen, the devil king, has risen. No warriors have been able to best him, and countless lives have been offered to him in sacrifice. They say the devil king’s bloodlust is boundless… And you, last of the witches of Red Grave, are his betrothed.

(Vergil x F!Reader, with some V x F!Reader. Arranged marriage AU, with elements of Beauty and the Beast and 1001 Nights. An attempt to give Urizen some personality. Romance, eventually.)

much thanks to @tonitart for supporting me as i write this. <3 if you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

read it under the cut or on ao3 here!

--

these, our bodies possessed by light

1. land a man in a landscape and he’ll try to conquer it

--

Today was to be your wedding day.

Soon to be married to the devil king, all you could feel was trepidation and fear. Your marriage was not one for love, far from it; it was a marriage of compromise. Of sacrifice.

An offering of your life, for peace between the humans and demons, a reprieve from the cruelties of hell on earth.

You have a responsibility, your aunt told you as you dressed in the nicest gown you owned. It’s an honor, to have so great a task bestowed upon you.

I am going to die, you wanted to say. Your finest dress would become your funeral gown.

As one of the last witches, you were offered to the devil. With your unique abilities, the people of Red Grave hoped that you might find a way to end the devil king’s reign of terror. While it was true that you possessed some magical power, you were experienced mostly with healing and incantations, rather than combat magic.

You had met the man—if he could be called that—who was to be your husband only once before. You were relieved that at least, you would not have to live in the Underworld for this union; you would live in a palace that remained on earth.

No man nor demon on this world or the one beneath could face him. The people were sure that his was the wrath of a god, unleashed upon a defenseless humanity, and that such a great and terrible god could only be sated by the ultimate sacrifice, the gift of life.

However, you remembered that day—meeting your betrothed, slouched on his throne as you were presented to him. He had not been any more amenable to the marriage than you were. Impossibly tall, his features masked by demonic armor, you had been unnerved at the sight of him. You recoiled when you imagined the marriage bed—you could not possibly be expected to perform the wifely duties for such a creature, could you? He looked utterly monstrous to your human eyes: a twisted appearance, his body the color of brimstone and blood and covered in roots and thorns.

His voice was inhumanly deep and rattled your very bones.

“Is this to be my bride? A human?”

Despite yourself, you froze like a rabbit faced by the wolf. Your heart thundered and you could not help but cower, because what defense did you have against this creature?

You let your eyes settle on him. You could not discern even a hint of humanity in him, only the cruel cold glow of blue light in the gnarls of his skin, the suggestion of a crown by the thorns on his brow. There was no soul in those eyes.

The man beside you quailed, though he had been the one who had arranged all this. He said, “This is an offering from the humans. One of our most precious—one of our own. A great sacrifice.”

You were hardly as great an offering as he made you out to be. You were no virginal young maiden, no legendary beauty, nor the prized first daughter of a proud and subjugated lord. Your life and your body were being thrown away to sate the bloodthirst of a devil that did not even desire you. What use were you, really, to him?

He seemed to consider this. “I could kill her,” he said, “the night we are married. I have no use for human scum.”

Your blood ran cold. He couldn’t possibly—but this was a devil, not just any devil, but the king of them. You would not put it past him to kill you in cold blood. You knew that devils would not hesitate to execute any mortal that dared displease them.

And those who had come to his house before you, all killed by his hand, were the evidence: warriors that dared take arms against him, spies who attempted to undermine his power from the inside, and others like you, who had been offerings from their own hometowns. They, too, had been sacrificial lambs, offered to the demon king in a desperate bid for the legions of hell to stop ravaging the land, misguided appeals to the devil king’s nonexistent mercy. You knew not why those women had been deemed unsatisfactory, nor how many they numbered, only that they had all failed to suppress the devil king’s thirst for blood.

Rumors abound that he took wives not for procreation nor for pleasure, but for his own sadistic, murderous desires. Some lived for quite a while, others only a single day before being executed. But they all ended up the same way: dead.

Today, at your wedding, you had to find out how you could stay alive.

Before you left, you recited a spell of protection for yourself, so that you might not come to harm. You spoke the incantation from your memory as easily as you read it from a book, the familiar words and energy of the magic calming your mind. You pulled out a pendant you wore around your neck, a simple crystal you had infused with dormant power. This you poured your protective ward into, then hid the pendant beneath your wedding clothes. Then, a prayer, to the spirits above and below, that your magic might hold, and your treacherous intentions remain obscure.

Your betrothed had made almost no arrangements for the ceremony, not that you thought demonic weddings were even supposed to exist, anyway. There was simply a minister who had administered the rite upon the both of you, reading aloud the marriage vows and presenting the documentation of your union. One other demon was present as your witness, and that was all. You found you much preferred this, if the alternative were to get married with the people’s eyes upon you, watching and complacent at your sacrifice.

Your husband was called Urizen. He remained seated and he spoke no more than was absolutely necessary. There was no reception after the ceremony, only a dispersal of the scant amount of demons in attendance.

He did not stay with you afterwards, either. In fact, you would not see him until well after night had fallen.

In the meantime you were introduced to your chambers. Possibly the only good thing about this was that you would be living in comfort, however short the rest of your life might be. The palace was an old one, standing centuries before your great-grandparents were ever born, and comprised of so many rooms and structures that you could conceivably take years to explore it all. It was clean, surprisingly so, but cold and empty. It did not have the life of servants bustling around, or any other residents. Or maybe it did, and you had not seen neither hide nor hair of them. The palace was certainly large enough.

Of note were the books in what you assumed to be your husband’s room. There was an astonishingly large amount, and when you looked, they were mostly fiction and poetry, contrary to what you had thought. Some titles you even recognized, and many were well-worn, obviously read several times.

It was a strange detail, you mused, that a devil with such disdain for humans would so readily consume their literature. It was something that had kept the gears of your mind turning the rest of the day. You had a way with words, and writing had always been one of your strengths. This, along with the way your magic manifested, would be the key to your survival.

In the evening you took dinner alone. Despite being human, you were still considered with some respect, as you were served delicious food in a large and ornate dining hall. You were just completely alone; even the demons that served you were mere mannequins, unable to speak or perform actions beyond their purpose. You had the feeling that your new husband did not like to populate his home very much. You weren’t sure if that were better or worse; surely there would be no one to witness or call out to if he attempted to murder you, and you doubted that anyone would even notice in such a situation.

After dinner you washed up, spending so long in the bath you were sure you would shrivel up like a prune. You didn’t want to think about what was to come once you headed to bed; Urizen had not yet returned from wherever he had gone.

With apprehension you left the bath and dressed for bed. You wore a long nightgown, one that covered your body as much as possible. You missed your corset and your layers that shielded your body, much better than a simple nightgown could. You climbed into the bed, a large, ornate affair carved from dark wood and curtained with damask. The bed was sinfully soft, and against your better judgment you found yourself slipping into sleep as you lay there, wrapped in blankets and exhausted from the day’s events.

* * *

You didn’t want to do this.

Terror clasped at your very bones as the plan was explained to you: you, the last witch remaining in Red Grave, would be sent tomorrow into the devil king’s lair under pretense of an offering, as many other towns and cities had attempted to do.

“Hide your magic,” your aunt told you. “Find out what you can about his protections.”

“Yield to his demands,” your uncle instructed you. “Do what you must to survive.”

Numbly, you nodded, even as your veins ran cold.

“Your life is no longer your own,” they said. “The people of Red Grave count on you, now.”

The people of Red Grave had sent their men and women in futile attempts to fight the demon king. When that failed, they began to leave, or to bend the knee to cruel and demonic overlords. Some had fled to Fortuna, hoping that the supposed land of Sparda’s blessing would offer respite from the demonic invasion. Only a few years later was that hope disproven; demons installed themselves in that city’s highest of holy orders, and now Fortuna too bowed under the weight of hellish rule. Your parents had gone to war, too. They fought, and they died, and now you were expected to assume that burden.

You pressed a hand to the crystal that hung from your neck, a last gift from your mother, who taught you everything you know.

Then you silenced your fear. Outside, the summer flowers bloomed, mindless of the blood spilled on their grounds, and you promised upon your life to venture into the heart of the devil king.

* * *

You immediately woke at the opening of the door. You were still restless, after all. Moonlight still poured in through the window; you hadn’t been asleep long. The one who entered was a devil, one you recognized attending your wedding. From his chest he glowed orange, the light the color of molten rock, with an impressive set of wings extending from his back. He spoke:

“My lady. You are summoned to the throne room.”

You blanched at the address, though you expected it as befitting one who was the demon king’s wife. You supposed this made you a queen, but the title meant nothing when you felt like a prisoner. You were not allowed in the throne room, not unless you were explicitly summoned. Despite your position, you held no power in this place. All you had were your brains and the strength of your will.

“Y-Yes,” you wavered, and stood unsteadily, your hands wringing at the cloth of your nightgown. You followed the devil to the large room where Urizen stayed, dark save for the fireplace, kept lit with blue flames.

It was your husband, looking much the same as he had during your wedding. He still wore the same expression of cold indifference. At his side floated the ever-present red jewel, a mysterious object from which you could feel waves of strong demonic power. What manner of magic was it, you wondered?

“My lord husband,” you addressed him, taking a knee as you had been instructed to.

“Wife,” he grumbled, as if saying the word pained him. “Get up.”

You stood. Urizen was seated on his throne, one arm bending to support the chin, eyes skating over you to land on the flames in the fireplace as if you weren’t even there.

You had not moved. You bit your lip, wondering if what you had in mind would work, or if it were even sane. Once again, the image of the books next to the chair revived itself in your mind.

“My lord husband,” you said again, “may I interest you in a story?”

Your voice interrupted his brooding. He raised his head slowly from his hand, his face turning towards you in what looked like a silent fury. You hoped you hadn’t inadvertently angered him with your seemingly inane question.

“…A story?”

There it was, that deep, deep voice that sounded like the rumble of the earth itself. There was something strange in his tone: less animosity, something more akin to questioning. Maybe curiosity, if you were feeling generous.

“Yes,” you said, “I like to tell stories.”

You could barely keep the tremor from your own words. So far, he had done nothing, but Urizen still terrified you, as distant and dangerous as he was, the sound of his words before still echoing in your head.

I could kill her the night we are married. I have no use for human scum.

You didn’t know if he was serious or not. Maybe for now he would keep you alive, or maybe he would murder you later.

“You realize this is no harmonious marriage,” he said. “You mean nothing to me. I do not care about your stories.”

He sneered the last word. You could not help but shiver, but your mind’s eye once again found those well-worn books, stories and poetry that were clearly loved and perused. How long had it been, you wondered, since he had cracked open a book?

You settled yourself next to his throne. Carefully you started to speak, weaving the story you had formed in your mind. You had always been a lover of art, of literature, and you had dedicated many years of study to the humanities. You felt you could put together a story that would keep his attention and weave your spell so that your husband would not lay a hand on you and—maybe—change his heart.

To your astonishment he made no move to stop you. On the contrary, he seemed like he was listening, though he never said a word and never did he turn those cold eyes towards you.

You felt your resolve waver, but you didn’t let yourself falter, not when you had lulled him into this strangely receptive mood with your words. You still feared the devil—after all, he could so easily kill you, and even slouched in his throne you felt the aura of death from him. The red crystal revolved, silent and dangerous.

You continued your tale. You told it all the way until you had reached the last of what you’d written. The hero had fled the destruction of his hometown and met a young woman to whom he’d recounted his tale. He felt torn between his need for vengeance and the feelings that were quickly growing for her.

“Is that all?” Urizen asked.

You looked out the east window. The sky was swathed in violet and edged in gold by the encroaching sun.

“Morning approaches, my lord husband,” you said. “The story must be continued the next evening—I haven’t slept.”

He grumbled, but made no further complaint. Then, “Get out.”

“My—”

“Return to your chambers. Bother me no further.”

You quickly stood, nodded, and nearly ran out of the throne room. You weren’t sure how long you ran, or if you were even going in the right direction, but you made it back eventually.

You closed the door behind you, chest heaving, and not only from the running. You felt like you had just escaped with your life, and when you clutched a hand to your chest, your heart was pounding. You clenched your fists, fear and anxiety knotting between your lungs.

Knees weakening, you fell back into the large, soft bed, trying to calm your racing heart. After tossing and turning you fell finally into a restless sleep.

* * *

The next morning you woke alone. So, he didn’t have you killed in your sleep, at least.

When you looked out the window the sun was already high in the sky. You’d slept in a little; considering how late you’d stayed up the previous night, telling your husband your story, it was to be expected.

You hadn’t been given any actual responsibilities in your new home. You had the distinct feeling that Urizen considered you little more than a nuisance in his home; a thing without real purpose here. It suited you just fine: the more invisible you were in this den of demons, the more likely you were to get out of this alive. And the longer you stayed, the more you would become acquainted with the devil king, and his weaknesses, no matter how small those might be. All you needed was a single chink in his armor, and you’d be able to work your magic.

Your husband, to your knowledge, had never left the throne room. You could not go to check; the red devil that had escorted you there the night before was also nowhere to be seen. Was he just a servant, you wondered, or something more? His presence at the wedding implied the latter.

With you thus unoccupied, you decided to fill your day with exploration. The palace was undoubtedly beautiful, and you wondered why a devil would take such a place as residence. Maybe it was a site of great demonic power…? The home of a conquered human lord? You would not put it past the devils to take a man’s home as a war trophy. You were simply astonished at the state the house had been left in: it was pristine, as if servants cleaned it every day, as if demonic forces had never breached its walls. The glass of all the windows remained intact, the floors sparkling; elegant curling columns reaching towards beautifully painted, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass throwing multicolored light against the walls.

Wandering the halls, you trailed a hand absently along the walls. The sunlight shone brightly outside, and the thickness of the air signaled the height of summer approaching.

Somehow, you found yourself at the far corridor of the west wing. Judging by the sun’s position, it could not be later than noon, and so you thought a bit more exploring could not hurt until you were expected to take your midday meal.

This part of the palace was as pristine as the rest of it, just as clean and untouched, but the energy felt different here. Where you previously felt ignored by the few beings that crossed your path in the halls, here you simply felt… alone. It wasn’t a lonely feeling. On the contrary, you felt peace in the solitude.

At the end of this corridor was a large double door, vaulted, heavy and inlaid with colored tile. It was beautiful, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was inside. After checking to see that you were indeed alone, you placed both hands on the beautiful doors and pushed, making your way inside.

The room that revealed itself to you was a vast library, with towering shelves that seemed never-ending. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, so bright and the air so still that you could see the motes of dust floating.

The way the doors creaked and the difficulty in pushing told you that no one had set foot in here for a very long time. You supposed demons did not really have much time or purpose for human literature, though once again you thought of the books in your chambers. Were they Urizen’s? You doubted it when you thought about it. He had not been to those chambers with you, and it seemed in character for him to arrange a whole separate suite of rooms for you, far away from himself.

You looked again to the library you were in. A shame no one seemed to come here, because this place had been built to take advantage of the sunlight. There were tables and chairs for writing, and cozy little alcoves for reading. You could easily picture yourself spending hours here. Your parents had nurtured a love for reading in you, and you felt a prick of loss at the thought of them.

As you lightly ran your fingers across the spines of the books, reading their titles, the dust stirred. Truly, no one had come in here in recent memory but you. You thought maybe this could be your hideaway, far enough that you could feel even a little like yourself again, and still close enough by that you could easily validate your presence here. All these books would help, too, as would the ones in your bedroom, for crafting more of the stories that had somehow ensnared your husband’s attention. And if, by chance, they held magical knowledge as well, you could do some surreptitious research.

Moreover, it was simply a beautiful place. Even if you were not in the clutches of a devil, you would gladly come here every day.

The sun outside heralded the afternoon, and you knew you would be fetched and served lunch. Quietly, you left the library, closing the doors behind you. You could return another time, you thought. For now, you would acquiesce to the expectations (however little there were) of you.

In the throne room a human was being brought to kneel before the demon king. This man had dared protest his power and struck one of his knights in retaliation. Such insolence demanded punishment, and the decree for him was death.

“Do what you must,” said Urizen. “My power will not be challenged.”

He waved an imperious hand, sprawled as he was on his throne. The guards took the prisoner away, heedless of his piteous cries.

“I did nothing wrong! It was him, he—”

They dragged him to the courtyard, the man’s struggling making a spectacle of the walk. It was just your luck: the window overlooking that courtyard was the one right in front of you.

One of the silent knights struck him across the face with his metal gauntlet. He fell to the ground, and another pulled him onto the chopping block.

His pleas were cut short by the descent of the axe upon his neck.

You stared, barely believing what had happened right in front of your eyes. A man had been killed. You watched the blood spurt, the ground turn red beneath him. Above the body, the branches of a large, leafless tree swayed in the windless air, its bark as white as bone. Red splattered over that bone-white tree, soaked into the earth beneath, and his head rolled on the ground with a heavy thunk.

What had that man done? You weren’t shocked that executions were carried out here at the palace itself, but seeing it was another matter entirely.

Were you going to be next?

You had no stomach for the rest of your meal. You stood, fighting the urge to retch, and took off back to your room. Feeling numb, you hoped that you would not be summoned to attend to your husband in the evening. You weren’t sure you could take another fright in the same day. To distract yourself, you made notes on the story you had started the previous evening, in the case that you would need to provide a continuation. Your mind wandered, far from the confines of the palace walls, as you wove your tale.

Of course, right before you were about to begin your evening toilette, the same devil from the night before came to your room to escort you to Urizen once again. Various other demons came in and out of the palace during the day, but this one was the only one you had encountered at night, not counting the mannequin demons that cleaned and served in the kitchen.

In case this devil was going to remain as your chaperone, you deigned to ask him his name.

“I can’t really say, my lady. But you can call me Tony.”

You noted there was a strange, clipped quality to his words, as if some spell or physicality prevented him from uttering his name. Or maybe you imagined it because demons had different voices than humans. More than that, though—

“Tony?” you echoed. “That’s…” An unusual name for a demon, you were going to say. Much too… human. His face, too, was far more humanlike than the other demons you had encountered.

To your surprise, he chuckled. “A weird name? Sounds better than Urizen, I’d say.”

His nonchalant manner took you off guard. You hadn’t been expecting this at all.

“I only meant that I didn’t expect a devil to have such a normal sounding name,” you explained.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t need to be complicated. Just Tony is fine.”

Before you knew it, you were back again in the great hall, standing before the doors to the throne room. Tony walked ahead of you to open the doors and once again, you saw your husband.

You walked through the large room, one you surmised was the largest one in the entire palace, approaching your spouse. Tony remained outside.

You tried not to let the images from earlier that day distract you too much. The man’s cries. The blood seeping into the ground. The tree that moved by itself.

You nearly crumpled the notes in your hand.

“Wife,” Urizen said, in that deep, dark tone. There was no discernable expression on his obscured face, and none in his voice. You bowed before him and awaited his instruction.

“The tale from yesterday. Continue it.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. As long as this remained all he asked of you, you would be okay, probably. Shuffling through your notes, you began to recite the rest of the story.

Again he offered neither comment nor interjection, or really any reaction at all, which you supposed was the best you could hope for at the moment. The plot you’d woven was fairly basic: the hero of this story was torn between his mission and the growing love between him and the lady who had rescued him, and while he was making to leave, the lady asked to accompany him. She wanted to help him, she said. He did not want to get her involved in his problems.

“This is not just about you!” said she. “I lost loved ones in that attack too. And who’s to say they won’t attack this town too—”

“I have a mission. It’s dangerous.”

“With them out there, everywhere is dangerous,” she said. “I am going whether you want me to or not.”

Cursing his mission for vengeance, she left him to seek a new home for her family.

“What a strange tale,” Urizen said.

“Wh-what?” This was the first time he’d spoken about the story itself. You couldn’t tell whether he meant the comment as a compliment, or as a sign he disliked it, and a shiver of panic rose in you.

“If that is all, you may go.”

You weren’t done, but you also didn’t want to go against his word.

“Then I shall resume tomorrow evening, my lord husband.”

He said nothing, only waving his hand in dismissal. You gathered up your notes, bowed hastily, and left the room.

You wondered—why did he decide to comment on the story now? Was there something about the tale he disliked? He had given no clue as to his feelings, as always. His expression had remained inscrutable and distant. Your hands clenched around your books and papers, frustrated.

Tony was nowhere to be found outside. Alone, you walked back to your room, returning to fitful sleep.

“So? What about it, V?”

There was a crow perched on the top of an armchair in the library, where a young man sat deep in thought.

“Think she’s the one?” the crow asked the young man.

“She has power, I can feel it,” he responded. In his hands he held a book, idly flipping through the pages.

“But what about—"

He interrupted the crow. “She’ll come back. I’ll speak with her then.”

“If you’re sure,” the crow said. “Y’know, I could always fly out there, get her to come if you can’t—”

“No need,” he responded. “What she needs is here. She’ll come back.”

[swordladywritesthings]

The Universe and The Man

AN: this is something I did for an irl friend! its about Minecraft and follows how the world was created! It’s not what I usually post, but give it a shot, I think you’ll really like it.

Words: 823

   Slowly, the Universe woke.

   It blinked its eyes, taking in its surroundings. It was surrounded by nothingness, completely engulfed in darkness.

   The Universe was confused. Where was it? Who was it? Why was it here?

   Perhaps if The Universe waited, someone would come to explain what it was there for.

   So The Universe waited, and waited, and waited. But no one came.

   The Universe grew lonely. It was tired of simply waiting in the dark, all by itself. It wished it had something or someone to keep it company. The moment that the thought crossed its mind, its eyes closed and there was a splitting pain.

 Slowly the pain faded, and it opened its eyes.

   There was someone standing there.

   It seemed to be a man, with dark skin and brown hair. His blue eyes were looking at The Universe curiously, and The Universe looked back. Then, the man spoke.

   “Who am I?”

   The Universe hesitated, then spoke. “You are part of me, I believe. I am The Universe.”

   The man nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then I am The Universe, as well.”

   “I suppose so.”

   Time continued to pass, and now The Universe was joined by The Man. One day, The Man had an idea.

   “Let us create something to fill this Void.”

   The Universe was intrigued. “What shall we create?”

   “A world. A world filled with plants and animals and people to populate it. Our world will be full of life, and our world will be beautiful.”

   The Universe nodded. “This is a wonderful idea. Yes, let us create this world.”

   Together they joined their hands and began to build their perfect world.

   As their world grew, the two grew fond of the world and its inhabitants. The Man watched over the Day, helping plants grow and giving the people warm sunlight to play in. The Universe watched over the Night, ensuring the people slept peacefully and giving the other creatures time to walk the earth.

   The people seemed to realize that they were watching over them and began to worship them, offering sacrifices of food and poetry. They called The Man “Steve, God of the Sun,” and they called The Universe “Alex, Goddess of the Night.”

   The Universe and The Man found that they quite liked these titles, and so they no longer called themselves The Universe and The Man, but Alex and Steve.

   As time went on, the people started learning more about their world. They discovered new materials in the earth, and invented new ways to grow food faster. They tamed the animals, and began exploring new lands. One day a person discovered a way to get to the Underworld, what the people called The Nether.

   This worried Alex and Steve greatly, as they watched this little person, so brave yet so fragile, explore this landscape of fire and monsters.

   When the person made it back to their home alive, both Alex and Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

   The news of The Nether spread like wildfire, and soon the people were conquering the landscape, finding new materials and strategies to better their lives. Alex and Steve were left to wonder in amazement about the perseverance of the people. It seemed there was no challenge that they could not overcome.

   After The Nether was conquered, one of the people set out to find a new adventure. While in the middle of a cave, they stumbled upon an old abandoned dungeon. As they explored it they discovered a strange portal. They felt a strange calling in their soul as Alex encouraged them to continue on.

   When the person stepped through the portal, they were met with The End. Alex and Steve had known that this day was coming, and there was nothing they could do about it. They could only watch and hope that their little champion was strong enough.

   They stood by anxiously as they watched the little person fight a fearsome dragon, and cheered with them when it was finally slain.

   As the person entered the portal that had spawned in the middle of The End, Alex and Steve startled as they suddenly appeared in front of the person. They were in a form of sleep, floating in the darkness as if they were suspended in water.

   Suddenly, Steve spoke into the darkness. “I see the player you mean.”

   Alex tilted her head, studying the person. “Them?”

   “Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts.”

   “That doesn't matter,” Alex gently chided. “It thinks we are part of the game.”

   “I like this player. It played well. It did not give up.”

   Silently, Alex smiled. She remembered how this whole adventure had begun, with being suspended in darkness and longing for a friend. This person had come so far, Alex thought, they deserved to know at least a little bit of the truth.

   And so, Alex and Steve began to tell a story.

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