#necrotic festerings

[necrotic-nephilim]

as much as I love the common "Tim worships/stalks Jason" trope in TimJay fanfiction because it's Good and making Tim a weird little freak is Fun, I think the underutilized dynamic is where Jason is the one weirdly obsessed with Tim and makes it Tim's problem.

Like, the moment Jason is confronted with the information that a third Robin exists, the first thing he does is cover his wall with pictures of Tim so he can just obsess and torture himself over it. That is the behavior of a man who is Unwell over Tim's existence and I love it.

red hood: lost days #4

And as much as a shitshow as The Titans Tower Incident™ is characterization-wise (though I think it has far more merit in depicting Jason's character than people give it credit for but I digress-) there's something very fun about the fact that even after kicking his ass, Jason respects Tim and is impressed by him.

teen titans (2003) #29

And on top of that, Jason can't seem to stop trying to ask Jason to Tim to work with him in some capacity.

robin (1993) #177

batman: battle for the cowl #2

While Battle for the Cowl is an exceptionally bad comic, especially for its characterization of Jason and the "be my Robin" bit is taken deeply out of context, I do think it's interesting how obsessed Jason is with believing that Tim is extremely competent, only held back by being "brainwashed by Bruce". (hence him leaving Tim for dead later on in the comic.) Jason seeing a darker side of Tim and wanting to bring that out of Tim, wanting to see what Tim could be if he let go of his loyalty to Bruce is so fun to me, tbh.

And in Robin #177, Jason seems genuinely upset Tim doesn't want to work with him. Jason sees such a raw potential in Tim and is obsessed with it, constantly wanting Tim to work for him and see Tim be the type of person Jason is. And despite Tim rejecting him, Jason doesn't shoot to kill Tim. I just cannot get over the fanfic potential of Jason obsessing over Tim, tracking him and seeing what he's capable of and what he could be capable of. Wanting to make Tim see things the way he does. To Tim it's corruption, to Jason it's freedom. Tim trying to 'save' Jason is fun and all, but Jason trying to corrupt Tim? That's even more fun to me. Watching that power struggle between them, Tim unable to get Jason off his heels as Jason gets more and more possessive and bold with each attempt.

And when Jason sees Tim successfully get Gotham back under control after a gang war, he's impressed. He praises Tim, even. And then Tim just. Breaks him out of prison.

robin (1993) #182

The way they're constantly trying to see something in the other that isn't there, hoping the other will come around? That is the most fucked up hate/love dynamic ever. Jason keeps coming back to Tim, keeps trying to find ways to get Tim onto his side. They're always chasing each other. And I think Jason would be the one to confess love first, the one to do anything to make Tim his. And when you consider after all of this, Tim has his Red Robin arc and is at his lowest, getting the closest he ever gets to considering murder? I think it'd be so fun to see Jason take advantage of that and worm his way back into Tim's life and finally push Tim over the edge.

[necrotic-nephilim]

as a Helena fan who's witnessed this whole bit go from silly jokes/memes to genuine vitriol, it's been utterly bizarre. from what i noticed, the root of the comparison came from people fanonizing Jason to the degree of saying "he has Catholic guilt (bc of the Flashpoint priest!Jason) and he'd be an English school teacher (bc i'm assuming, his taste for classic lit) and he's female rage-coded and he would adopt/protect children" which, are canonical traits of Helena. so at first, it was sort of a joke lamenting the fact ppl would rather force unrealistic headcanons onto Jason than consume content with a woman in the Batfam. because it's sort of a tad ironic/painful to see fanonized Jason Todd who's being called all these things he isn't, when there's a canon character who *is* all of those things right there. like if that's the character you want, why wouldn't you want to read about Helena. the issue started with frustration against fanon Jason, from my experience anyway.

but then, it spiraled out of control to become a comparison of their lethal moral code and their disagreements with Bruce suddenly making Jason this stupid boy clone of Helena. which isn't true and is an insult to both of them to claim they're at all the same. they kill for different reasons, they're at odds with Bruce for different reasons. a well-written Helena and a well-written Jason really have little in common. though their interactions could be interesting, i don't even think they'd get along tbh.

i think in recent months/years, the Batfamily fandom suddenly became self aware that they grossly ignore the women of the Batfam. and now they're trying *too hard* to course correct for that. to an extent, i get why Helena isn't in the majority of fanon content- she hasn't really *been* a Batfamily member since pre-Flashpoint. the New-52 and Rebirth versions of her character are arguably not even the same character and certainly not a character as important to the Batfamily as she used to be. so why *would* a fandom mostly pulling from modern comics know who she is aside from the couple WFA episodes she's been in. (which did her *no* favors for people understanding her and also whitewashed her before the art was fixed.)

but, i think everyone's now trying to prove how woke their fandom content is (i hate using that word, it sounds very republican but i can't think of a better one.) by including women and characters of color to prove they don't just care about the boys. and sure, it's cool and all if you want to pick up Huntress comics bc you're sick of reading about stories only featuring Bruce and his "sons", but now it's like. almost a competition to prove how much more you know about the Batfam than other people when you make these jokes. i've seen the same thing happening comparing Steph and Jason recently. yes, it's important to care about the more diverse characters of the Batfam as much as you care about the boys. but now they're put on this ridiculous pedestal of being the "more cool alternatives". an organic push for content about the underrated characters is one thing, but it's another thing entirely when it's born out of a performative nature, which is certainly what this whole... thing feels like.

and the irony is, you can *really* tell the people doing this the most haven't actually read much of Helena's content outside of Gail Simone's Birds of Prey. and my hot take is, i don't think Gail Simone does a *great* job with Helena and she's often pretty sexist toward Helena (making other characters slut shame her, making Helena very promiscuous which isn't something she has a history of, etc) so, while it's important content for Helena, it can be a shallow reading of her. where all you really get about her is "pro-murder Batfam vigilante with a crossbow and a sassy personality" which sure, feels a *bit* like a shallow Jason. but that's the whole point, you have to make them both *incredibly* shallow to compare them. bc it's not about actually liking the women, it's about getting the shallow brownie points of saying "look i know who she is and i think she's *totally* cooler than Jason he's a dumb copy".

tbh even with the Jason Todd headcanons that are more egregious in feeling like "oh that's just Helena Bertinelli but a dude", it's not like it's being done on purpose. none of these fanon-only fans know enough about Helena to be purposefully stealing her traits and it really isn't that deep aside from sometimes, people just have bad headcanons that kinda make you wish they would read about characters aside from their main blorbos. but hey, they're not *required* to, and no one is an evil misogynist for having some OOC headcanons. you suck the fun out of fandom when you require people to interact with characters they aren't interested in. and depending on why someone likes Jason, they honestly might not like Helena. they're wildly different and have very different dynamics with everyone around them.

and i get it, Jason has had *wildly* inconsistent writing and there's debate upon debate of what's in character for him, what comics you should consider when trying to make fan content about him, and so on. i'm in the "anything past pre-Flashpoint isn't in the version i prefer" camp, but the whole mess of it scatters the fandom on how to write him. which i think is the actual root of him getting fanonizing beyond recognition, *not* people stealing from Helena. is it particularly headache-inducing to see Jason fans say "he's girl coded" or "he's female-rage coded"? yeah. but even those fans aren't ever going to be convinced out of their bubble by vitriolic comments made about how Jason's a total loser and Helena's so much cooler than him. and then the more canon-based fans who might *actually* like Helena and probably would read her comics if just given an honest recommendation of her character are *really* not going to want to be interacting her content/fandom. painting a broad stroke of the Jason fandom all seeing Jason as this cartoonish fanon version of himself does you no favors with anyone.

like i used to find the silly jokes/memes that were solely calling out bad fanon enjoyable as pure lighthearted "oh i wish more people liked this character the way they liked that character bc the fandom for this character is so small" vibes, but you're right about it getting out of hand. it's become the only thing people seem to talk about in the Huntress fandom space. i'd much rather discuss Helena for who she is then talk about Jason. because isn't it just a *little* ironic that in attempting to make this fandom more inclusive of the women, we still just *have* to make it about the men? you don't make Helena, or Steph or Cass or Onyx or any other underrated woman sound cool by comparing them to Jason. you just make it sound like you don't know how she stands as a character on her own. she's a cool character with a cool history (both in-universe and the meta history of the Huntress mantle) but this whole weird hate boner for Jason permeating the fandom space for her just makes people hate her instead of not know of her. and really, i can't blame anyone for that.

Like. Where and when did Helena vs Jason thing start? It's so fucking annoying and makes me think that I'll never want to interact with the Huntress fandom if/when I read more stuff about her. Which is a bit how I avoid interacting with the Nightwing fandom at large despite liking his stuff.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hello! By any chance, do you have synonyms or related words to "decompose"?

Thank you in anticipation!

Hi! Here are some words related to decompose:

Decompose—to break up into constituent parts by or as if by a chemical process

Addle - to become rotten; spoil

Atrophy - to waste away (as from disease or disuse)

Corrode - to wear away gradually usually by chemical action

Corrupt - rot, spoil; to cause disintegration

Crumble - to fall into small pieces; disintegrate

Curdle - to go bad or wrong; spoil, sour

Decay - to undergo decomposition

Decline - a gradual physical or mental sinking and wasting away

Deteriorate - to become impaired in quality, functioning, or condition; degenerate

Devolve - to degenerate through a gradual change or evolution

Dilapidate - to bring into a condition of decay or partial ruin

Disintegrate - to break or decompose into constituent elements, parts, or small particles

Dissolve - to separate into component parts; disintegrate

Fester - to undergo or exist in a state of progressive deterioration

Mildew - to become affected with mildew (i.e., a superficial usually whitish growth produced especially on organic matter or living plants by fungi)

Mold - to become moldy (i.e., covered with a superficial often woolly growth produced especially on damp or decaying organic matter or on living organisms by a fungus, as of the order Mucorales)

Mortify - to become necrotic (usually localized death of living tissue) or gangrenous (local death of soft tissues due to loss of blood supply)

Necrotize - to undergo necrosis (i.e., usually localized death of living tissue)

Perish - deteriorate, spoil

Putrefy - to undergo putrefaction (i.e., the decomposition of organic matter)

Putresce - to become putrescent or putrid; putrefy

Putrid - being in a state of putrefaction; rotten

Rot - to undergo decomposition from the action of bacteria or fungi

Rust - to be affected with a rust fungus

Sour - smelling or tasting of decay; rancid, rotten

Sphacelate - to become gangrenous (local death of soft tissues due to loss of blood supply)

Spoil - to lose valuable or useful qualities usually as a result of decay

Taint - to affect with putrefaction; spoil

Tarnish - to dull or destroy the luster of by or as if by air, dust, or dirt; soil, stain

Wither - to shrivel from or as if from loss of bodily moisture; to lose vitality, force, or freshness

Hope this helps with your writing. Do tag me, or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[sammybeann]

Dean knew just the amount of whiskey it took to have Sam incoherent, knew just how many beers Sam needed to guzzle down to have him on the verge of blacking out and he held that knowledge close to his heart. 

Dean had just picked Sammy up from Stanford, Jess had burnt to a crisp on the ceiling, dad made his hasty exit from the world and Sam was a shell of himself. Broody, moodier than usual, closed off.

It was the wrong time to tell Sam how he felt, the feelings that had been festering like a necrotic hole in his chest since he was old enough to realize what love versus lust was, so what else could he do but get baby brother so hammered that he couldn't walk straight, push him back into the mattress of whatever sad excuse of a bed in whatever sad of excuse of a motel they were in and take advantage? 

Was it really taking advantage, though? Dean wondered with his tongue shoved into Sam's slack lips, his brother far too intoxicated to reciprocate. Sam wanted this too. He had to of. This was just Dean making the first move, dipping his toes in the water. A practice run. What Sam didn't know wouldn't hurt him. That's what Dean told himself, at least, as Sam was vomiting up big brother come the next morning that he didn't remember swallowing the night before, Dean's fingers rubbing comforting circles into Sammy's back as he grumbled about not remembering a thing, how he'd never drink again. 

He always ended up drinking again, though. Dean made sure of it, and if he questioned why his ass was sore the night after, Dean had no qualms about making up a story that Sam had fallen ass first onto a metal rail from the bed. 

Sam would understand one day should he find out, but for now, Dean had no problem deluding himself as he poured another shot down his baby brother's throat.

[punderdome]

The Fine Print: Chapter 8

Summary: Tav seeks out a set of Infernal translations from the Archivist.

[AO3]

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

Chapter 8: The Archivist

Tav woke alone in the Archduke’s chambers.  She was stiff and slightly sore but knew what she had to do.  Raphael enjoyed it when she spoke Infernal to him.  How much?  What could she convince him to do using the Devil’s tongue?  What would the devil's tongue do if she spoke the Devil's tongue?

First, she needed a competent translator that wasn’t her husband or his incubus.  Since she had negotiated for the ability to speak to the staff, the Archivist was her best bet for a translator, but he had never even looked at her before.  There was no way he was going to translate filthy lines unless she managed to gain some rapport with him.

Tav visited the archives after breakfast.

The Archivist was pouring over a tome and making notes on the side about a pair of gauntlets sitting on his desk.  They hummed with Weave and required a thorough characterization.

“Good morning,” Tav greeted warmly.  For the first time, the Archivist looked up at her and caught her gaze.  He seemed displeased by the interruption but completely unwilling to express it to the Master’s wife.

“How may I assist you, my Lady?” he asked patiently.

“What is your name?  I’m Tav - Tavara,” she corrected, unsure if he would ever consider using her name or if titles were all she was going to be given.

“Kilzire Ozvius, Master Archivist of the House of Hope,” he returned the gesture.  “Now, what can I help you with, Lady Tav?”

“I am trying to learn proper Devilish Infernal, can you help me with a few translations?”  Tav held out the Infernal copy of the book on Asmodeus that he loaned to her a few days prior.  The Tiefling considered her question for a brief moment before he nodded.  He gestured for her to show him the passages she was struggling with.

“I have been struggling with this passage that describes Asmodeus’s true serpentine form.  I initially read this as ‘wounds dripping of acid black blood’ but the Common tongue version says ‘a series of never-healing wounds that exude blood blackened by sin and torment.’  Can you help me understand the difference?”  Tav requested.

He took a second to understand her request before going through the section rune by rune.  “I see,” there was a look of slight hesitation in his eyes.  “So you’ve never studied Devilish Infernal before?”

Tav swallowed.  “No.  My lack of study is what led me here.”  Kilzire had a look in his eye that twinged with embarrassment, though whether it was from her husband’s view on Tiefling Infernal or some sort of forbidden knowledge of how she actually became the Archduchess, she couldn’t say.

He pointed out the runes that described the blood of Asmodeus.  “This word means never-healing wound in Infernal, but in Tiefling Infernal it means just wound.”  He gave her a different word in Infernal to indicate that the wound could be healed, then added a suffix to indicate that the wound was in the process of being healed.

“May I have some parchment and a quill, I would like to take notes.”  She wrote down the new terminology along with other examples of various types of wounds that may or may not be healable, in the process of being healed, mostly healed, failed to be healed, festering, fouled, necrotic, infected, and filled with devilish black pus.  He went through and explained the subtle differences between them, often with only a single letter difference or a change in inflection or tone marked by the slight changes in angle of the letters.

“In spoken Infernal, your original reading would be sufficient to communicate most of your ideas, but written down or in a contract, the translation provided would be the correct way to interpret the writing.”  Kilzire walked out from behind his desk and into the stacks.  He returned with a relatively thin book bound in brown leather.

“Wound Treatments for the Front Line of the Blood War?” Tav asked as she read the title on the cover.

“Should you wish to practice your new knowledge,” Kilzire explained briefly.

Tav realized how much of his time she had used, and she only asked for clarification on a single word.  “Thank you, Kilzire.”  She collected the two books and her notes and returned to her room.

She lay the books on her table.  She had an eternity to learn to properly read the works in front of her.  It was the only way she was going to be able to correct her mistakes.

That evening, Tav was summoned to dinner with her husband in the dining hall.  

The table was set with entirely too much food for the two of them to eat but nowhere nearly as lavish as the feasts for their first days of marriage.  She stood alone in the dining hall to wait for Raphael.  He came from behind her, probably having relocated from his study.

“Dear husband, how was your day?” Tav started the pleasantries.  She took an offered elbow, and they sat together at the dining table.

“Quite challenging, I’m afraid,” Raphael responded, starting to serve himself a large portion of some sort of dark meat that dripped black juices as he cut into it.  Tav declined to serve herself from that platter.

“With contracts?” Tav probed.  She took a buttery roll from the breadbasket and noticed an unappetizing yet familiar meat stew lurking behind it.  A platter of whole roasted fish on the table seemed like a safe choice.

“I was repairing the Orb of Karsus,” as he spoke of the artifact, Tav could sense his frustration as his knife cut deeper and more firmly into the flesh in front of him.

“I see, I’m sure it will be done soon enough,” Tav offered politely.  “Whenever it is ready, I’m curious to see it.”

Raphael chuckled slightly.  “How did it feel when it was within you?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.

Tav cocked her head slightly, startled by his question.  “I didn’t know that it was there, but for me I guess it felt more like an ache.”  She brushed her fingertips over the scales on her sternum.  “Like my stomach was upset because I consumed too much whiskey or that sensation when you poke at a bruise.”

“Such an adept description,  I felt a similar sensation upon testing it.  I shall have it complete soon, and then I will show you its dark beauty.”

When they finished eating, Tav took Raphael’s offered elbow and they strolled through the corridors together.  Tav pulled him gently towards the balcony that they had fucked on the day prior.  He chuckled and raised an eyebrow.

“Again?” Raphael teased.

“I didn’t really get to look at the horizon last time, as I was preoccupied,” Tav teased back.  She smirked at his radiating smugness.  She paused and gave a short chuckle.  “And yes, that position did feel very good,” she added, trying to play coy.  “Perhaps we should do that again,” she suggested with a smile.  The growl in Raphael’s chest was almost imperceptible.

Tav gazed over the reddish horizon at the low, inhospitable rocky mountains.  The land was jagged and barren, it was hard to believe that this was the site of so much conquering and conflict.  This was the place her dear husband wanted to claim.  This was the place she would eternally call home.

Raphael offered her a hand to lead her back to their chambers.  Tav was lost in thought as they headed back to his bedchamber for the evening.  They walked together in silence, her hand wrapped around his arm at the elbow.

She was starting to observe how Raphael took her contact.  The Infernal flirting was hot and exciting.  Direct requests were met with more challenges and demands.  When he fingered her it was an ‘indulgence.’

When they entered his bedchamber, Raphael wasted no time undressing her as soon as the latch clicked shut.

“Why don’t we take our time?” Tav suggested as Raphael slid her smallclothes down her thighs.  “We can relax and savor it.”  Her suggestion gave him a slight pause.  Now that she was bare, he lowered his mouth to hers and started to kiss her softly and slowly.

Tav took her time exploring him over his clothes.  She was hoping that he would find the experience enjoyable enough to reciprocate.

“Come,” Tav bade him, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bed.  She motioned for him to lay down, but he stayed standing.  Alright, standing it would be.

Tav circled around to his back.  She let her hands roam softly over the Infernal ridges hidden by his doublet.  She gently ran her hands through the hair at the back of his neck.  She stroked the skin of his wings gently, feeling the softness of the greater membrane and gently contrasting it to the firm leathery skin that covered the bones and muscles beneath.  She wrapped her arms around him from behind and felt a deep, contented hum emanate from his chest.

Raphael sighed slowly, as Tav started undressing him.  She undid every button on his doublet slowly, and removed it from his body.  She unlaced his undershirt, tracing over his chest with her hands lightly, trying to tease him, and a quick tension in his breath indicated it was working.  He pulled the undershirt off over his head and discarded it.

Tav rested her cheek against his chest as she started to trace the hem of the waistband of his pants with her fingertips, eliciting a breathy growl from her devilish husband.  She unlaced his pants and slid them off, leaving both of them bare.

She met her husband’s gaze.  He was eager and hungry, with an erection to support that assessment.  Her hands gripped his shaft and gave a few eager pumps, and deep groans emanated from his Infernal chest.

Tav took his hands and placed them over her breasts, encouraging him to touch.  She grabbed one of his hands and moved it to her ass, encouraging him to squeeze.  She moved the hand that was groping her ass between her legs, encouraging him to stroke.  She moaned into the sensation of Raphael pleasuring her.

Within the next ten seconds, Raphael had decided foreplay was done, and Tav was deposited on the bed for the evening’s activities.

***

Tav visited the archive the next morning.  She was prepared with the first test of what Kilzare was willing to translate for her, and it was prudent to start with something benign.  The Archivist was in the process of cataloging old tomes.

“Good morning, Kilzare,” she greeted warmly.

“Good morning, Lady Tav.  Did you need something?  More reading materials perhaps?”

“You know well enough that I am trying to learn Devilish Infernal, can you help me with a phrase?”

“Why of course, I speak all forms fluently,” he asserted gently with a smile.

“Can you teach me to say ‘I want you to kiss me all night’?” Tav requested.

He laughed and gave a bright smile.  “For the Master of the House, I presume.  I’m sure he will respond well to your gesture of romance.”  He spoke the words in Devilish Infernal, and Tav took detailed notes, documenting the word differences between the translation she anticipated and the one she was presented with.  “Should you require additional reading materials or inspiration, that section contains poetry and there is a section in the back for romantic classics of both Faerun and the Nine Hells of Baator.”  Tav smiled at him sweetly.

She pointed out a section of his translation.  “And this word, how does it mean ‘all night?’” she asked for clarification repeating the confusing part of the sentence.

“Without the suffix, it means ‘at nighttime’ but with the suffix it means ‘for all nighttime.'  As you can gather, that doesn’t get much use here in Avernus.”  Tav laughed, nodding at the clarification.

“Thank you, Kilzare.”

Tav smiled to herself as she walked the corridors of the House of Hope. The Archivist had been willing to translate romantic lines, so there was a chance he might be willing to assist her with a more carnal set of translations.   Still, this evening would be a small test on how willing Raphael was willing to follow verbal instructions or requests before he lost patience and claimed his pleasure.

***

The test of Raphael’s patience and interest had not gone well.  Tav whispered in Raphael’s ear, “I want to kiss you all night,” in a voice as seductive as she could make the harsh language sound.  He grinned and was highly amenable to a passionate make out session on the settee, for a while at least.

His control over himself for quite some time, and he even managed some light groping while keeping his composure.  Before long, he had dumped her on the bed and was quickly unlacing her corset.  His mouth was still on hers, locked in a deep kiss and a low groan emanating from his throat.  Then, they fucked.  Twice.

Raphael lay wrapped around her, running his claws through her curls.  “My love,” he whispered in her ear before they fell asleep.

The next morning, Raphael had left to finalize contracts in his study, leaving Tav free for the day to visit the archive at her leisure.  Maybe a more seductive statement would lead to a better outcome.

Tav walked into the archive, and saw Kilzire taking copious notes on a scroll over something he had been reading.  He gave a slight smile as she approached.

“Good morning, Lady Tav, how may I assist you?”

“I need a Devilish Infernal translation of something.  Can you help me smooth out the language?”

“Why yes, of course.  Whatever do you need?”

“I need you to teach me to say ‘I want you to trace my entire body with your tongue, ” Tav explained.

Any warmth that had been in his guise or his voice immediately vanished.  “You must be joking.”  

“Not in the slightest.”

“You realize that there is an entire section dedicated to erotica right over there! ” He pointed wildly at a back corner.  She would have to investigate it later.

She steadied her emotions.  “Will you help me or not?”

“Yes,” he bit back, rubbing his temples in an act of self soothing.  He gave her the correct translation and slumped over his desk.

“Thank you,” Tav said quietly as she left the archive.  Kilzare irritably waved her away with the back of his hand.

After dinner that evening, Raphael eagerly took her back to their bedroom to continue celebrating their honeymoon.

Tav whispered the Infernal line to Raphael telling him how she wanted him to trace her entire body with his tongue, and he immediately leapt at the opportunity.  He was attentive and eager, holding, kneading, stroking and licking.  They both gave warm moans of arousal as he traced each of her nipples slowly.  He just couldn’t make it any lower than that.   As soon as his tongue finished tracing both breasts, it was time for sex.  He just couldn’t wait any longer and was eager to be pleasured.

Tav finished herself off that night while Raphael was asleep, curled tightly around her.

She would have to think of other things much filthier to compel her husband to follow her instructions in his bedchamber.

***

After a tenday of honeymoon beddings, the appropriate number of nara root tea doses, and Kilzare’s flustered breakdowns, Tav sat frustrated at her vanity in her room, preparing to meet her Lord husband for dinner.  

He wanted her every day, and usually twice.  He had never once given her an orgasm.  The times she was close to coming when they fucked, he finished too quickly for her to reach that peak.  He didn’t like it when she touched herself, and he always swatted her fingers away from her clit when she stroked herself.  It was like he was jealous that her hands could give her pleasure without him being involved.

She couldn’t just ask Raphael to eat her out.  Everything with him was a negotiation.  If she asked him to pleasure her with his mouth, he definitely would demand she did the same to him in return.   He wouldn’t even finger her to orgasm, and there was no chance she was going to suck his cock if he wouldn’t put in the minimum amount of effort when they fucked.

Tav wasn’t sure the Infernal seduction phrases were working on her husband.  They seemed to only make him more eager to discontinue foreplay and move straight into fucking.

There was a knock at her door.  “My Lady, the Master of the House has requested you join him for dinner,” a maid relayed through the door.

“Very well,” Tav responded through the closed door.  She donned a red dress and the silver bracelet Raphael gifted her as a wedding gift.  He had enjoyed fucking her several times while she was wearing only the bracelet.

Raphael stood waiting in the dining hall.  “My beloved,” he greeted her magnanimously, grinning ear to ear.

Tav smiled nervously.  “You seem delighted, husband.  Are contracts going well?”

Raphael didn’t answer, he pulled back a chair and motioned her to sit.  Tav sat down and allowed him to indulge her.  He took his place by her side.

“I have mended the Orb of Karsus, and this merits a celebration.”  He poured two goblets of wine and passed one to her.

“Well, now you are in possession of the full Regalia of Karsus.  So much power at your fingertips,” Tav complimented.  Powerful fingertips that couldn’t be bothered to bring her to orgasm.

“It is indeed, my love,” Raphael grinned.  “The godlike power of the Regalia will enable me to take over the nine Hells.”  He grabbed portions of the meat dishes nearest to him.  Raphael cut into the toughest cuts with glee.

Tav served herself vegetables and a dish she was confident was beef.  “I have full confidence in your abilities,” she offered up in conversation.

“When I have spent more time exploring the power of the Regalia, I would love for you to see a demonstration.”

“I look forward to it, husband.”  Tav took a slow sip of her wine.  If Raphael had the Regalia already, maybe the Hells would leave her alone.  She was clearly not a threat.   There was light conversation as they finished their meals.

“I have a gift for you, my beautiful wife,” Raphael moved behind her.  He snapped and an object appeared in his hands that Tav couldn’t see.  He extended something around her neck and she immediately recognized the coldness of jewelry.  “I asked for five pendant rubies this time instead of one.”  He idly grasped her hand that bore the ruby bracelet from his wedding gift.  He turned her wrist over several times.  “One gemstone wasn’t enough.”

Tav brought a hand up to her throat, feeling the coldness of the silver.  “Thank you, dear husband.”   

Raphael extended a hand.  “Shall we go to bed?” he asked with a grin.  Tav sighed and took it.

***

Tav was pretty sure her plan wasn’t going to work, but at present she had no better ideas.  Maybe she could have a reliable way of making him come quickly when she just wasn’t excited about her husband’s affections.

Tav entered the archive, and Kilzare gave an audible groan.

“I don’t want to hear it, my Lady Tav,” he protested.

“Raphael needs to hear it, Kilzare.”

“Hells, what do you want me to translate now?” he demanded, the look on his face indicating that he was eager to get back to his work and to put the very concept of his boss having active nether regions out of his mind.

“ ���Give me your fingers, so I can show you just how much I desire you,’ ” Tav answered in an absurdly straightforward fashion.  

Kilzire stared at her.  His mouth tightened in a deep frown.

“I studied at the top universities to be competent enough to serve an Archduke of the Hells.  Now, here I am, doing this,” he lamented. 

“Think about it,” Tav started with her prepared argument,  “has Raphael hurt you or threatened to hurt you since we started our honeymoon?  Who has he flayed?”

His eyes hit the rafters and he swallowed slowly in a deep show of indignity.  “No one, Lady Tav.”

“Do you want to keep it that way?” Tav inquired.

Kilzare took a deep sigh before translating the sexually charged statement for her. He gave her the phrase in Devilish Infernal, and Tav took detailed notes about each word choice he made.  There were only a few small adjustments from the initial translation that she had fabricated earlier.  “Can I just translate them in bulk?” he asked with a twinge of disgust.

Tav sighed, trying to respect his boundaries but also trying not to betray the real reason that she needed the phrase list updated daily.  “Not really,” she grimaced.

Tav’s assessment of her husband’s reaction to infernal seduction turned out to be correct.  He was never going to do what she asked, and it made him too excited to last long.   Tav utilized the second half of the effects many times, much to her displeasure.

***

One night, Tav woke to cambion claws gently tracing her naked curves and a very hard erection pressed into her lower back.

“Raphael?” she asked, still slightly sleepy.  He hummed a throaty acknowledgement into her ear.  They were spooning, with Raphael draped around her and caressing her with his free hand.  The one laying beneath her grasped her stomach.

“There you are, my dearest.  I was just admiring you.”  His fingers traced circles around her nipples, making them hard.  Tav sucked in a breath of anticipation.

Raphael traced his forked tongue down the back of her neck.  His tail had crept all the way up her thigh and squeezed gently in a subconscious rhythm.  He left kisses down her back and shoulder.

Tav moved to try to roll under him, but his tail and the arm stroking her wouldn’t let her move.  “Naughty, eager Little Mouse,” Raphael whispered in her ear.  “I want you just like this.  A slow, languid bit of pleasure for us to enjoy.”

Though he held her facing away from him, she reached back around him to grab his ass and run her hands over the ridges on his hip bone.  He raised his hand to trace a claw over her jawbone, and Tav lifted her top thigh, so his legs could entwine with hers.  He shifted her so that the arm that rested under her was able to assist in soft caresses.  Tav brought her hand to her clit and pressed in firm, slow circles.  She let out a soft, breathless moan.

His free hand grabbed his hardness and pushed it between her legs, waiting to enter her.  Tav quickly tested how wet she was.

“Not yet, I’m not wet enough,” she breathed before going back to touch herself.  Raphael continued to kiss her back and shoulders, though they became staccatoed instead of soft with an undercurrent of frustration.  As Tav let out another soft groan of pleasure, Raphael replaced her hand with his and took her place pleasuring her.  She could feel his restlessness pulse through his tail and his erection between her legs.

Tav pressed two fingers into her entrance and scissored and thrust them in a rhythm she liked.  The moan she let out was no longer soft or breathless.  Raphael grabbed her hand and removed her fingers.  He brought her slick fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

“Now?” Raphael asked softly with an air of tension in his voice.

“This feels so good, finish me,” Tav moaned as Raphael continued to stroke her.

He stopped stroking her and ran his hand over her breasts.  “Such a greedy, greedy Little Mouse,” he growled in response.  Her husband thrust deeply into her.  He was slow and languid as he moved with a consistent rhythm.

Tav angled her hips properly for Raphael’s movements, and he began to take his pleasure in earnest.  He held her tightly within his arms, one hand gripping her hips while the other wrapped around her torso with his hand gripping between her shoulder and collarbone.  She enjoyed the joining and the pleasurable way his ridges dragged within her, but this angle refused her friction where she wanted it.

Tav reached between her legs to stroke her clit.  Her breathy moans met Raphael’s.  After a few more thrusts, Raphael grabbed the hand stroking her clit and removed it.  He replaced her fingers with his own.

“I am your pleasure, my Little Mouse,” he growled into her ear.  He gave a few more thrusts before coming inside her.  “My beloved,” he purred in her ear.  He held her tightly and fell asleep again still inside her.

It had been two tendays of their honeymoon trying to get Raphael to do anything to please her.  The Infernal flirting and seduction had only served to wind him up more.  He didn’t actually listen to anything she asked for or consider anything she wanted.  It was so much simpler for him to buy her things and fuck her rather than to try to build some sort of actual relationship.  S he really was just an object to him, exactly what Haarlep had told her.  She was his new sex toy.  That was all she was ever going to be.  Forever.

Tav closed her eyes tightly as the cambion lay wrapped around her and softened inside her.  Sleep was not going to come easily.  She had a new plan, and she had to begin tomorrow.

She was going to find the divorce loophole for her contract.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #16: Scorched and Chipped

Prompt: third-rate || Master Post || On AO3

---

Synnove’s eyes popped open at the first sip, and she set down her mug.

“Halulu.”

Her tonberry assistant grunted.

“Halulu.”

“What.” The tonberry finally looked up from the stack of papers she was grading.

Synnove shook the mug at her, the gentle sloshing of liquid loud in the otherwise quiet office. “What the fuck is this?”

Halulu stared at her. “Coffee,” she said, as flat and emotionless as a knife blade.

“No, this is an abomination,” Synnove said. “This is burnt, and oily, and yeasty, and bland all at the same time. This is the result of a roaster who doesn’t give a damn. Or someone put all the defective beans into a bag instead of the trash. I would not serve this to fucking Gaius Baelsar. I would not serve this even to Bahram Zarir.”

“I am trying to break you of your gods-awful Death Wish addiction,” Halulu snapped.

“And you do that with another good coffee,” Synnove whined. “Full-bodied, low acidity, notes of chocolate and toffee. Where did you even get this swill?”

“Guild stores.”

Synnove cringed. “Definitely someone put defective beans into a bag, then.” She might be the only one in the Guild who ever consumed the high caffeine monstrosity produced by a Cieldalaes consortium, but her fellow nerds all appreciated good coffee and tea to keep them fueled; there was a reason they leveraged their first purchase rights for those above most other goods coming into the city. Combine that with one of the baby assessors possibly not doing a quality check before purchasing from the merchant…

She dropped her head to her desk, cheek pressed against the wood, and made the biggest, saddest eyes she could. “Pleeeeeeeease may I have good coffee?”

Halulu stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You are pathetic.”

“I am desperate. And also in charge of Range scheduling for next moon.”

“Finally, bribery.” Halulu hopped down from her chair and shuffled for the door. “I want the entire eastern side of the island for two days.”

Synnove raised her head up, brow furrowed. “…What do you need the entire eastern side of the Range for two days for?”

“Fester and Necrotize variation testing.”

That she didn’t need the Farm obviously meant not the epidemiologic elements of the spells. Hmm. That was potentially a really, really big boom.

Synnove had not had a good boom in a while.

“You find me really good coffee,” Synnove said slowly, “I’ll give you three.”

Halulu cackled, and left the office to tromp down the tower to raid the mess hall stores.

[kingcunny]

Tbh i always tought Vis had some type of Diabetes type 2, but because Westeros is a medieval society thet didn't had our confiable metformin and insuline 😔👌

i think that is what hes supposed to have! diabetes is kinda the stereotypical ‘fat king disease’ and it would not be diagnosable or treatable in that time.

also supported by the fact that diabetes can cause heart and lung issues, viserys complaining if chest pain and shortness of breath.

also the fact that his illness was adapted into leprosy for the show. i know diabetes=leprosy SOUNDS crazy but hear me out. over time high blood sugar can damage nerves and blood vessels, leading to neuropathy (lack of feeling) and poor bloodflow in the extremities. people with diabetes also often have trouble healing wounds. these things combined leads to the phenomenon of the ‘diabetic foot’. diabetics getting injuries on their feet that they cant feel, that wont heal on their own. if untreated the wounds can fester and ulcer. this is why you sometimes hear about diabetics getting their feet or legs amputated.

now what does leprosy do to the body? the bacteria attacks the nervous system (+respiratory system, skin and eyes). leading to neuropathy. it can cause lesions and rashes on the skin, that due to nerve damage may not be noticed by the patient (as well as any just, regular injuries) left untreated… again. opportunistic infections, wounds festering and necrotizing… leprosy doesnt cause your limbs to rot off but it can prime them for the infections that will.

until diabetes gets BAD its not a very visual disease, but once it does well… the physical symptoms look very similar to leprosys

[opheliajupiter99]

Enodi: The Faceless Clown (Might get sad and Lovecrafty)

Enodi.

It wasn't the poor little bard's real name, of course. He'd forgotten a long, long time ago - instead, he made up a new one. He picked Enodi, not for any real good reason, simply because he thought it sounded funny.

It felt like 'funny' was what he was supposed to be. He could recall oh so very little, he had only the barest little traces of memory, floating about in the blank void that was his mind, and the little bits and pieces that the townsfolk recalled about him.

He sat upon the edge of the fountain in the center of town, just thinking, as he stared up at the sky. It was a routine thing for him, and on his foggy morning in particular, he was recalling what the townsfolk had told him, about the faithful day he first recalled...well, anything.

Apparently, he was a travelling bard, ever so long ago, entertaining crowds with jokes, and smiles, and songs, with a lute in one hand and a flute in the other. Then one day, when he stopped to perform in this very town, he joined a group of adventurers to take part in a quest on the outskirts of town.

The people of the town that witnessed him and the others said that they wondered why he did this, as he seemed woefully unprepared for combat. Some guessed that perhaps it was because the quest was -supposed- to be very simple, so perhaps he thought he wouldn't have to do anything too taxing.

Others still, however, think it had something to do with the young Wood Elf that was a part of the band of the adventurers. They seemed to know each other, and the woman looked remarkably like the young bard, the occupants of the tavern they visited thinking it likely they were siblings. Perhaps his dear sister had convinced him to accompany them on this quest?

Whatever the reason, they left later that day, and were found early the next morning on the outskirts. Or rather...what was left of the party was found.

The entire adventuring party, beyond Enodi, had been slaughtered, butchered beyond recognition like they were nothing more than sheep ravaged by a passing wolf. Those that stumbled upon the sight could never get the image of poor little Enodi, laughing madly as he sat in a sea of carnage and gore out of their nightmares.

Enodi was alive, but the healers of the little town were quite baffled. Not just because the rest of the party was dead, but because of the state the Wood Elf was in. Necrotic scarring and festering was all over a good chunk of his body, though oddly, it didn't seem to be spreading, staying in specific areas, as if those parts of his body were hit by some kind of spell.

The worst area of this was by far his face - or rather, where his face used to be. His face was not just mangled - it was gone. No nose, no eyelids, no lips, no cheeks, just rotten, festering flesh, teeth fully exposed into a macabre smile, and eyes wide and manic, a horrid yellow color rather than a natural white to his eyes.

No matter how hard the healers tried, they could not get the necrotic portions of his flesh to regrow. He was even sent off to a large healer facility in a neighboring town once, in the hopes they could do something, or at least ease it somewhat, but alas, that failed as well. He still had his ears, or at least most of them, and he had his hair, it was merely the front portion of his face that was gone. The only boon, if it could be called that, is that the man felt no pain, likely due to the nerves dying in those areas.

He also, of course, lost any and all memory of not just what happened that night, but his entire life. He couldn't recall his name, where he was born, what he'd done for a living, he couldn't even recall his dear sister, though perhaps given the circumstances that last part was for the best.

To this day, no one has a single idea what could've possibly happened that night. The quest was merely to investigate a man by the riverside, who had been acting very oddly lately. It was figured that at most they would have to drag him back to town kicking and screaming, if he had gotten dramatically worse, or at the least he would've been completely reasonable and gone back to town on his own.

There are hints as to what could've happened though. The horrid affliction placed upon Enodi could've only been done by a true master of dark arts, and the dramatic damage to Enodi's memory and sanity on top of that - as well as the quite worrying whispers the bard reported hearing on a near constant basis - have made the townsfolk worry deeply that it could've been an Illithid, or better known to the average person as a Mindflayer.

But of course, that merely raised more questions. If it -was- a Mindflayer, why in all nine hells was the man still alive? He'd been examined for a Mindflayer larvae behind his eye, just in case, and nothing was found, and beyond the necrosis and clear mental instability, he showed no signs of developing mutations.

The healers of the town's best guess is that a horrific curse was placed upon the party, and he had simply managed to survive the torturous affliction by some wild miracle of chance.

Enodi cared little for all that though. He quite loved his life, even if most people he interacted with were either terrified by him or disgusted by him, or some combination of both, or simply pitied him. As long as he could entertain people in some regard, he was fine. And besides, he had mask; a comedy/tragedy mask that was among the various things he was found with that night, as well as his lute and flute, which by some miracle he still remembered how to play.

The music was one of the only things he could remember, as well as his love for entertaining. So now, he performed, mostly in the town but sometimes would travel, doing clown acts, singing, and attempting to play his instruments. They sounded...unique, to put it politely, especially his flute, as playing a flute without lips didn't exactly produce the best sound, and the rot upon his hands made playing the lute rather awkward, but he loved playing them so very, very much.

As far as he was concerned, his life was perfect. Yes, he was rotten, yes, his friends and family were either dead or long since forgotten, yes, there was a constant flow of maddening whispers echoing through his head that made it quite difficult to sleep, but he was oh so very happy.

Was he overjoyed because he was insane? Oh, most certainly; but he was overjoyed, and that was much better than some could boast.

[museofthepyre]

Did a fun Q&A thing on insta about my ocs, here are the highlights, lore and shit! For context I am writing this into a horror-ish book as we speak. Brewing my dastardly schemes (gay tragedy).

Q: Is Eden also a cannibal?

A: Eden isn't a cannibal in the way Harlow is. I mean he eats people but only because Harlow's cooking is too good to turn down /hj. Eden's thing is... kinda the opposite.

He's slowly being consumed by the rot that's festering within him, a manifestation of hatred and shame. To him love is consumption, and he is inedible. Insert vulture metaphor here w Harlow. For every rotting corpse there is a very greatful vulture who will look past the decay, and see your worth. Eden is ultimately finished off by something that loves him, a consumptive love, unconditional and indiscriminate.

Q: ABOUT THE ROT, HOW DOES IT WORK? HOW IS IT AFFECTING HIM??

A: This rot is really the only story element that isn't totally grounded in reality. It's an illness that's a manifestation of his self hatred/ repression/ internalized shame- not an actual condition.

It appears at first like it just affects his chest- but it’s been slowly burrowing deep into his body. Its spreading like roots/ mycillium through his flesh and will finish him off in one foul swoop once it's finished spreading.

In the meantime, it manifests like a chronic illness- his muscles are all atrophied and he feels constantly drained of life. It's taking small pieces of flesh to sustain itself while it spreads (the chest cavity is the result of that-though the REAL damage is invisible. It's the ticking time bomb roots beneath the seemingly unaffected surface). It functions like a slow acting Chronic Wasting Disease (aka zombie deer disease, humans can't get it in reality, but it was the inspiration)

Q: What happened when Harlow discovered Eden was a guy

A: Eden is trans, and closeted in his life. Harlow is the first person he ever discusses his truth with.

At first, Harlow was just kinda... confused? Transness is not a concept he was familiar with. At ALL. The idea alone was completely unheard of to him. Again this is the Bible Belt in the 8os, the area so rarely encountered visible transness- trans people existed of course, but so many stayed hidden to survive. The roaring tre of bigotry did not have much tuel in that regard... no trans people to propagandize against. It was not on the public's vitriolic radar. In that way, Harlow hadn't developed the knee-jerk reaction of hatred... he was more fascinated than anything, but it did challenge him to understand at first.

Unlike his journey with accepting homosexuality this was not so much a task of unlearning as it was just... learning.

Also Eden's whole rotting thing adds another layer to this Harlow is stupid and takes everything VERY literally- he thought Eden's condition must be divinely brought.

Harlow saw a gift from God, a rare flower planted in inhospitable soil, wilting before it ever got the chance to bloom. Like the angels sent to Sodom and Gamorrah in human disguises, to test the townspeople's virtue. To present them with something foreign yet beautiful, to judge their inherent goodness based on how they treat it. Like in the biblical story, the townspeople were so vile and inhospitable that it endangered the angels and forced them to leave, burning down the town behind them. Harlow saw this as prophecy. He was eager to get to the “burning down the town” part.

Part of my motivation for incorporating that specific biblical story is SPITE btw since so many people use it to justify homophobia. Reverse uno idiots. I'm putting you in my GAY BOOK as a metaphor for hateful queerphobic societies.HA!

Q: Describe the rot in Eden's chest in sensory detail (texture smell “cause" etc) I want rot details!!

A: I used CWD and necrotizing fasciitis as building blocks for this thing... starts in the brain, spreads like roots through the body, eating away at muscle and skin as it does. Once it's fully spread, it'd rapidly worsten and bring death within a matter of hours.

In the meantime it sustains itself off of non-fatal bits of flesh (his chest here, since it's a manifestation of self hatred and all, and dysphoria is a bitch). It is an open wound so it'd feel scabby and it is perpetually weeping... which is how Harlow finds out about it so quickly (seeps through white nightgown after being left unbandaged for a few nights). He would also have to take care to hide the smell of decay

It advances throughout the story and by the end there's barely any soft tissue left on his chest, nothing alive anyways. The final overtake begins, and his organs enter the early stages of consumption (which happens very rapidly in one foul swoop). That's when they decide it's time for boy dinner!

Q: How smart are they

A: GREAT QUESTION! HARLOW IS FUCKING STUPID. LIKE not only does he lack emotional intelligence entirely, but he's also very impulsive and reckless. The ONLY reason he's getting away with his murders is because the society around him has shot itself in the foot with its homophobia. Noooobody is suspicious of him for the string of missing attractive dudes. They're looking for a "vengeful woman" profile, or possibly a "debt collector with many social connections" or something. Not some solitary redneck who barely shows his face in town and is very polite and quiet when he does. He appears, in all respects, like a normal guy in public.

Once they have mutual blackmail (and also start caring about each other)... Eden realizes that if Harlow gets caught, he's fucked too. So partially for the sake of self-preservation, and... partially out of pity for this stupid stupid man... Eden starts to help him cover up.

Harlow is pretty disillusioned as to how society functions as a whole, since he grew up pretty far from it. Eden is the opposite, he was suffocated by it and learned how to be sneaky as a result. Eden is very good at getting people to trust him, he's good at lying, he's good at acting. Thing is, he's overly trusting to his own detriment. He's desperate for genuine connection and easily deceived himself. He's bad at reading people.

Q: What happened to Harlow's mom?

A: Harlow's mother died due to complications during childbirth. He never had a maternal figure in his life, he was raised as an only child by his father, who had become calloused and would never remarry. Harlow dropped out of high school and kept to himself at his house/ in nature after that very isolated from society. Considering all this... he not only lacked a maternal figure, but any female influence... at all. Which manifested as this warped and idolized understanding of women as a whole

He thought of women in a very high and almost mystified regard- like how a child would imagine a mythical creature. One massive blank filled in by a clueless imagination. He respected them greatly, he feared them like gods, and he felt a need to repent to them as such. He never properly processed the guilt he felt over his mothers death-largely thanks to his father's handling of it. This guilt left him feeling indebted, like he owed the world for what he “took", like if he ever so much as inconvenienced another woman it would be an irredeemable sin.

This all sounds like it comes from a good place, but it's really all just deluded naivety this is not a positive trait of Harlow's. It contributed a lot to his toxic masculinity, the pressure he put on himself to "be a man", etc.

He's not a white knight, he's a cowardly dog.

This is why he didn't just kill Eden on the spot after being caught, he needed to make sure...)

MORE TO COME IM SURE I LOVE GETTING QUESTIONS ABOUT THESE FREAKS IF ANYONE HERE HAS ANY

[necrotic-nephilim]

i personally have very complicated feelings on the Gotham Knights video game and the routes it takes with characterization. i think it has a charm to it and it goes in an interesting direction with everyone (especially within the confides of the plot of the game) but it does have certain moments that veer painfully fanon for me. (such as: the dialogue where Tim drinks too much coffee) it's an interesting story for what it is but i don't view it comics-based for characterization and therefore don't care to interact with it much for like. fanfic purposes.

that *said* though. i do have to give the game some kind of credit for giving one of the top five JayTim moments that lives rent free in my mind. every since i played the game, the cutscene lives in my mind daily. it's the specific cutscene where Jason and Tim are arguing about whether or not Jason's non-lethal bullets are too dangerous for the field, and the argument leads to TIm *standing in front of the target* Jason is shooting and telling Jason to shoot him. it lives rent free for me. i never stop thinking about this.

the absolute certainty Tim has that he is in no danger standing in front of Jason, who has a loaded gun pointed at his face. the way Jason *hesitates* for just a moment before lowering the gun. he thinks about it for just a second. Gotham Knights JayTim seem to get along very well and can rely on each other, but Jason still clearly holds a bitterness about his death and Tim that flickers through in some lines of dialogue under the guise of jokes. especially since this game deals *heavily* with concepts of Pit Madness causing an altered state of consciousness, i think it's believable that occasionally, Jason fights the urge to fight and hurt Tim for the feeling of being replaced.

i like their tension so much in this canon. they get along but you can *tell* Tim is afraid of addressing Jason's trauma or even addressing Jason head-on, and Jason leans into spooking Tim about it. which isn't very comics feeling in their dynamic, but it is an interesting way to place their dynamic if you're playing with a more timid Tim who's newer to the role of Robin. (which he seems to be in-game) he really doesn't want to offend Jason, or worse, piss him off. but he'll still face Jason head on for things like this, while completely aware of what Jason could be capable of.

and Jason seems very protective of Tim and respecting Tim as a Robin in typical Jason fashion. if Tim pushes, Jason *will* relent. he knows this is a kid who's proved himself and should be treated with equal respect, sometimes even more than Dick and Babs do in-game.

so for all that to culminate in Tim stepping in front of Jason's loaded gun that he *knows* is on the edge of being too dangerous, just to force Jason to listen? it's the most unhinged way Tim could've gotten his point across in this scene. he was literally daring Jason to hurt him and playing with a very dangerous fire. but he did it anyway bc he believed he could make Jason heel just at the thought of hurting Tim. and he was *right*. they're gay and i'm feral ty.

[dungeon-strugglers]

✨New item!✨ Trident of Treachery Weapon (trident), legendary (requires attunement)

The barbs on this trident gleam wickedly, and those who wield it see betrayal lurking in every reflection. The magical effects of this weapon are not revealed by the identify spell and any attempt to uncover its nature without attuning to it fails. The magical effects of the trident cannot be spoken, written, or conveyed to anyone while you are attuned to it.

While you are attuned to this trident, you can't be surprised as long as you are conscious. Other creatures don't gain advantage on attack rolls against you as a result of being unseen by you. Additionally, you have advantage on Wisdom (Insight) checks made to discern a lie, and creatures have disadvantage on Charisma (Deception) checks made to deceive you.

Each time you regain hit points from an effect or spell cast by another creature, an amount of negative energy equal to the number of hit points you regain is also stored in this weapon. If you ever attack that creature, your first attack with this weapon has advantage. The first time you hit that creature, this trident deals extra necrotic damage equal to the total amount of stored negative energy from that creature. Each pool of stored negative energy can only be used against the creature that created it by healing you, and it's expended when it’s used. The trident can only store 5 pools of energy at a time. Killing that creature traps their soul within the trident, permanently granting it a +1 bonus to attack and damage rolls and preventing that creature from being resurrected. Only 3 souls can be trapped within the trident at a time, and they are released if you end your attunement.

Curse. Paranoia begins to creep into your mind, convincing you that everyone is scheming behind your back. It’s only a matter of time before they turn on you and by that point, it’ll be too late. Those who are the most generous, have the darkest schemes. Each time you are aided, or you regain hit points from an effect or spell cast by another creature, your paranoia is piqued and focuses on that creature. You feel the need to conceal your thoughts and intent from them. Each act of kindness towards you must be an elaborate ruse that will culminate in a torturous annihilation of you and all that you love. You cannot reveal your suspicion to anyone, and you can only hope to manipulate less suspicious individuals into unknowingly helping you protect yourself. This paranoia grips you closest when you try to sleep. If you have been healed or aided (determined by the GM) by another creature within the last 24 hours and you attempt to start a long rest, you must make a DC 7 Wisdom saving throw. On a success, you drift to sleep uneasily, beset by fearful dreams. On a failure, you act on your fear and must immediately attack the last creature that aided you. It’s best to attack secretly and to make it look like an accident or outside incursion. If you successfully dispatch the creature in question, your accursed paranoia abates for 7 days and you are convinced you have resolved your dread. The DC for this saving throw increases by 1 for each bonus point to attack and damage rolls that the trident gains. Even after you are cured of this curse, a hint of doubt lingers in your mind and you are forever slightly mistrustful of those closest to you.

A devious item, lovingly commissioned by Exphemia, the Betrayer, to wriggle its way into the minds of mortals like a maggot into an open wound. As it empowers the wielder, it subtly opens their periphery to the rotten nature at the heart of humanoidkind, and festers where once there was trust. Entire dynasties have crumbled, brother turning on one another, as treacherous whispers drift on the wind. All the while the Betrayer, deep below, gorges itself on bloodsoaked earth.

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[wolfxplush]

rotting gary smith

GEHDHAJDJSJJD GRINS. You know the rules.! Read tags for warnings!

Rotting in Happy Volts

Gary Smith sat motionless in the corner of his padded cell, the room reeking of antiseptic and stale air. He hadn’t moved for days—maybe weeks. Time was nothing but a cruel joke now, slipping away like the memories of his former self. He used to be sharp, cunning, unstoppable. Now, he was something else entirely. He was rotting.

At first, it was subtle. His body, stiff with disuse, ached in ways he hadn’t known were possible. His skin, once taut with the tension of his schemes, had grown pale, hanging loosely over his bones like a sick parody of his former self. He could feel it—his body was giving up, breaking down piece by piece, decaying from the inside out.

He still refused to move. Refused to let them win. The orderlies would come in and check on him, poke and prod his limp form, but he’d just stare straight ahead, his lips frozen in a twisted grin. Let them think he was broken—he was far from that. Even as the smell of rot began to cling to him, he didn’t care. His body might be falling apart, but his mind was still there, trapped behind his dead eyes, screaming to be let out.

The real horror began when his flesh started to blacken. It started at his fingertips, the skin splitting like old fruit. Dark, necrotic patches spread slowly up his arms, veins bulging as if they were trying to escape from beneath his skin. His nails peeled off, leaving raw, bloody stubs that wept and festered. He could hear it sometimes—the faint squelching of his decaying muscles, the soft slurp of tissue breaking down into liquid beneath his skin.

The stench was unbearable, even for him. The smell of death clung to him, thick and pungent, filling the room like a dense fog. The orderlies gagged when they entered the cell now, covering their faces, but no one dared to touch him. They were too afraid, too disgusted. His body was a breeding ground for filth, for rot, for disease.

Gary relished it. He could feel the maggots crawling beneath his skin, burrowing into the muscle, feasting on what was left of him. His chest, once full of life, was now a hollow cavern. He could see it in the mirror on the wall during the rare moments when he caught his reflection. His ribs were visible through his skin, the tissue between them melting away. His eyes had sunk deep into his skull, the whites turning yellow and bloodshot, like two rotting eggs in a shattered face.

But he didn’t care. He sat there, still, unblinking, his mind buzzing with a thousand incoherent thoughts. The pain was dull now, a distant memory like the feel of his own limbs. His legs had long since given up, blackened and stiff like tree roots left to rot in wet soil. His lips cracked and bled every time he smiled, but that was the only movement he allowed himself.

In his mind, he was still winning.

The worst part was the smell—an overwhelming, oppressive scent of putrefaction that seeped into every corner of the cell. His body was decomposing in real-time, and yet, somehow, he was still alive. His organs were shutting down, turning to mush inside him, but his heart—his heart kept beating. Slow, labored, like a broken metronome ticking away to the rhythm of death.

His teeth had started to loosen now, falling out one by one, clinking softly onto the cold floor. His tongue was swollen, the taste of his own rotting flesh filling his mouth like copper and death. Every breath was a struggle, a wet, gurgling rasp that echoed off the padded walls. The air itself seemed thicker, saturated with the sickly-sweet odor of his decaying body.

One of the orderlies finally snapped. Gary watched through half-lidded eyes as the man bolted from the room, vomiting into the hallway. The others followed, terrified, unsure of what to do with the living corpse in cell 102. They couldn’t take him to the infirmary; he was far beyond that now. He was beyond anything they had ever seen.

Gary’s grin widened, his cracked lips pulling back to reveal the rotted stumps of his teeth. His gums were black, festering. He didn’t care. Let them run. Let them fear him.

He was Gary Smith. He would never stop rotting, never stop decaying—but in his mind, he was still in control. His body might be a decaying mass of putrid flesh, but his will—his will was eternal.

As his body continued to liquefy around him, Gary let out a low, wheezing laugh. His vocal cords tore with the effort, blood and pus dripping from the corners of his mouth. But it didn’t matter. The walls could rot with him for all he cared.

Because Gary Smith wasn’t just rotting. He was the rot.

Time didn’t exist anymore—not in any form that mattered. The concept of hours, days, or weeks was laughable now. The clock in Gary’s mind had long since stopped ticking, and his body had followed suit. His limbs had atrophied, the muscles shrinking and receding beneath the skin, which clung to his bones like old, dried leather. His fingernails had fallen off completely, replaced by the jagged, yellowing tips of exposed bone that scratched at the floor when he moved—though movement was rare these days.

The staff avoided him now. He was a lost cause, an untouchable. They couldn’t risk the contamination. What he had—whether it was a disease, a curse, or just the product of his madness—they didn’t know. All they knew was that Gary Smith was rotting in his cell, and no one could do anything to stop it.

The doctor had come once. That had been amusing. A fool in a white coat, clipboard in hand, trying to stay professional, trying not to gag at the stench. Gary had been slumped against the wall, staring through sunken, half-dead eyes as the doctor rattled off some pointless questions.

“Can you move your fingers, Gary?”

“How do you feel today?”

“Does anything hurt?”

Gary had just grinned at him, lips peeling back from his teeth like decaying meat from bone. The doctor had left after five minutes, handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose and mouth, face pale as if he’d seen a ghost. In a way, he had. Gary was no longer part of the living world.

Days passed—maybe. Gary had lost count. The smell, once unbearable even to him, became background noise. The reek of rotting flesh was nothing compared to the screaming in his head, the sound of his own thoughts echoing back at him from the dark corners of his cell. His mind, once sharp and calculating, was beginning to fray at the edges, unraveling like an old rope left to rot in the rain.

He was aware of the rot, the way it spread through his body like a cancer. He could feel it in his stomach, the slow, insidious liquefaction of his organs as they gave way to decay. Sometimes, he would cough, and thick, dark blood would spurt from his mouth, staining his chin and dripping onto the floor. His lungs had begun to fill with fluid—a vile, sludgy mix of pus and blood that gurgled with every breath, making each inhale a ragged, desperate effort.

But still, he laughed.

It wasn’t always audible. Sometimes it was just in his mind, a sharp, cruel cackle that echoed off the walls of his skull. He was rotting, yes, but he was winning. The world had abandoned him, forgotten him, but Gary Smith wasn’t about to go quietly. Not without leaving his mark. His hands were the worst. They had shriveled into twisted claws, the fingers curling inward, skin tight and blackened. His bones had begun to poke through in places, jagged splinters of white against the necrotic tissue. He could see them, the veins under his skin, dark and swollen, pulsing with the slow decay that had taken root inside him.

And his face… oh, his face was a sight to behold. He caught glimpses of it sometimes in the reflection of the steel toilet bolted to the floor. His once piercing eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, surrounded by dark, rotting flesh. His nose had begun to collapse, the cartilage eaten away, leaving a gaping hole that leaked a constant trickle of thick, greenish fluid. His lips were cracked, split down the middle, revealing the few teeth he had left—most of which were chipped, yellow, or simply gone.

But his eyes… his eyes still glimmered with the same cruel, calculating light they always had. The rot hadn’t reached his mind—not yet. He could still think, still plan, still hate.

He sat there, day after day, stewing in his own filth and decay, as the world outside moved on without him. The walls of the asylum seemed to breathe with him, exhaling the same stench of death and rot that clung to him like a second skin. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he could hear the whispers—the voices of the other patients, lost in their own madness. They murmured about him, about the “dead man walking” in cell 102.

He had become a legend in this place, a figure of fear and disgust. Some of the younger orderlies refused to even enter his cell, muttering about curses and plagues, about how Gary Smith was something beyond human now. He was no longer just a patient—he was an infection. A disease. A warning to the others of what happens when the mind breaks beyond repair.

But Gary didn’t mind. Let them fear him. Let them avoid him like the plague. He was still Gary Smith, still the smartest, most dangerous person in this rotting asylum. His body might be falling apart, but his mind—his mind was as sharp as ever. And as long as he had that, he had power.

One night, as the moonlight filtered weakly through the barred window, Gary felt something shift. It was subtle at first—a faint crawling sensation under his skin, as if something was moving, alive beneath the surface. He looked down at his arm, the blackened, leathery skin twitching and bulging.

Maggots.

They had found their way into him, burrowing through the rotted flesh like worms in a corpse. He could feel them wriggling inside him, feasting on what little was left. A normal man would have screamed, would have begged for help, for release.

But Gary just smiled.

The maggots were merely doing what they were made to do—consume, decay, destroy. In a way, they were kindred spirits. They were breaking him down, piece by piece, but they would never touch his mind. His mind was untouchable. Invincible. The body was weak, yes, but the mind… oh, the mind was eternal.

He plucked one of the wriggling things from his arm, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It squirmed in his grasp, desperate to escape. Gary chuckled, a low, rasping sound that tore at his ruined throat. “You and I,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “we’re not so different, are we?”

The maggot wriggled, and he crushed it between his fingers, the tiny body bursting with a sickening squelch. He wiped the remains on his tattered clothes, leaving a smear of yellowish fluid behind.

The rot had taken almost everything now. His legs were useless, blackened stumps that oozed pus and blood. His torso had collapsed inward, the skin sagging like a deflated balloon, revealing the jagged outline of his ribs. His arms were little more than sticks, covered in peeling, necrotic tissue.

But Gary’s mind was alive—oh, it was alive.

He could hear them now, the whispers growing louder. The other patients, the doctors, the orderlies—they were talking about him. They were afraid. They didn’t know what he was, what he had become. But Gary knew. He was more than just a man. He was the rot. He was the decay. He was death itself, living in a broken body.

And as long as he existed, they would never forget him.

———

So fun fact I have a deep phobia of maggots. I did almost throw up writing this!!!

[the-masked-ram]

Grief- Hiei x gn!reader drabble

A/N: I have been through a very big loss. Something that very few have been able to help with but the amount of support my friends have shown just by listening and checking on me has been enough. I have been meaning to write this, but I needed time to get my thoughts together.

CW: talk of loss/death, talk of grief, graphic depictions of grief metaphors, soft Hiei

---

Life was such a fragile thing. Mortality was a thing Hiei never knew nor understood. He only really began to even consider it when he was with you. With the softness of who you were, without even any real power to protect yourself, he was always on the watch for things that could injure you.

Yet he never expected what this loss would do to you. How much mourning someone you'd grown so close to would destroy the smiles he'd come to crave like the brush of fresh air. Yet, Hiei didn't comfort people, he didn't know what to say or do in these situations. Not when you were randomly sobbing for days on end. Certain moments you were okay and then others... you would be shaking and clawing at your skin while he tried to stop you from ripping yourself apart. It was like you felt physical pain when all it was, was sorrow.

Human emotions were confusing for Hiei, and you knew that. You couldn't explain it to him. Not in a way that would make him understand. He didn't need to understand though, he just needed to accept this was a thing. That this gaping hole in your life, this festering wound needed to be gouged out with a hot poker over and over until the necrotic tissue was gone. It would take time. Time for you to grieve and open the fissure over and over again until finally it stopped bleeding and just scarred. Time until finally the burden of that missing someone was soothed away and the sharp pain changed into a soft ache.

"Just listen," you said. "Just hold me."

Hiei knew he could do more, he should do more. Yet, you didn't tell him what he could do. How was he supposed to know if you didn't tell him?! Frustration at himself, at the situation, and at you roiled inside him but he tamped it down. Because, though he desperately wanted to disappear for a week and cool down, he couldn't leave you like this.

Instead he gather you in his arms, and you melted against him, inhaling his scent of burned conifers and cinnamon, and in that single moment the shaking stopped. The crying stopped. Everything just stopped. The pain trickled away through your fingertips and you were wrapped in blissful ignorance, until the next wave of emotional agony gripped you again. But for now, this reprieve for however long it lasted, was enough.

[nugget-gender]

literally have an algebra test in less than 4 minutes. bUT. LOOKING AT THE NEW SEVEN DEADLY SINS OCS. LOOKING WITH MY BIG OL EYES > >

OKAY HI i actually have an order for them(its the order they joined the guild in ^_^ i love mmorpg setting). names will be in-game ones i havent decided on real ones yet. none of them have met in real life so it doesnt matter all that much.

1. Pride

Name is Luxsol Superbia. Very pretentious and leans into the roleplay. Guild founder and leader. Her race is Manavoid Nephilim [C] and her class is Magebane Inquisitor, with a profession of Inspiring Guildmaster. I'm gonna give her sun imagery once i figure out how to draw. Signature Skill: Anti-Magic Decree

2. Sloth

Name is Eragon Baggins. He can't be assed to come up with his own name, hence the obviously ripped off ones. Annoys the hell out of Luxsol by not engaging with roleplay very much, if at all. Race is Rot Lich [C] and class is Festering Rotlord, profession is Necrotic Architect. Imagery for him is gonna be stone and spirals. Signature Skill: Domain of Rot

3. Wrath

Her name is Gideon Bigdick. Very competitive, and also less engaged with roleplay. She plays as a Primal Rune Elf [C] with a class of Elemental Stormfist and a profession of Expert Glassblower. Imagery for her would be lots of fire and thunder. Signature Skill: Wrath of the Storm

4. Gluttony

Plays Karsel Voidmaw, the least human character. Frequently holes up in their laboratory doing alchemy shit, but will do roleplay when they remember. Race is Prismscale Lizardfolk [C] and class is Master Alchemist of Voracious Ambition, lacking a profession as it fused with their class. Their themes would be lots of intoxication and blood, both literally and metaphorically. Signature Skill: Voracity

5. Lust

Elesya Sanguine plays the role of Lust in the Lucifer guild, often found seducing unwitting players and then using their bodies as material for constructs. Her race is Human Bloodthirster [C] as a Profane Fleshwarper, her profession being Luxurious Provocateur. Her main thematic element is grasping hands, with minor cannibalism as well. Signature Skill: Self-transformation

6. Greed

Drake Silver is the guild merchant and taskmaster of the lower members. He is one of the big reasons Lucifer is considered an evil guild, since while most of them have edgy races and classes, he engages in copious amounts of NPC slavery. Race is Dragonkin Orc [C] and class is Avaritious Soulmaster, having the Slaver Baron profession. Massive chain imagery here, as well as some precious metals by dint of being Greed. Signature Skill: Binder of Souls

7. Envy

Because of course I made Envy the last one. Jason Dark, team infiltrator and intel gatherer. Kind of a dick, in the "it's what my character would do" way. Insidious Devilspawn [C] and Psy-Mage Infiltrator, class of Accursed Trapper. I gave this one some nice frost and shadow imagery, which definitely goes with the sneaking. Signature Skill: Psionic Mana Shroud

Extra:

The Lucifer guild is newer in popular MMORPG SHIFT/DREAM, but already infamous. From the guildmaster allegedly being the ex-girlfriend of the game's lead developer to the generally unsavory playstyle of many of the guild's players, there really is a lot to complain about. However, complaints are likely to be met with a "git gud scrub" from their most Slothful member.

SHIFT/DREAM was popularized for its machine learning integrated into all parts of progression, allowing the player to truly shape their experience. Differences in playstyle will allow for new and different classes, races, professions, skills, items, and even creatures. Of course, it all starts at character creation. For classes, you choose from one of three archetypes, and from there you choose a sub-option. The Heavy Warrior archetype can become Guardian, Berserker, or Fighter, with the Light Warrior branching into Archer, Rogue, and Monk. Then there's magical options, with Caster branching into Evoker, Healer, and Enchanter. Race is chosen from a large array, from simple Humans to fantasy Elves and Goblins, as well as more exotic options such as Lizardfolk or Nephilim. Finally, the game has a system for Professions, which are gained during gameplay depending on the path the player takes. Often they involve crafting, but many are social in nature.

[punderdome]

WIP Wednesday!

The Fine Print: Chapter 7: The Honeymoon

Summary: Raphael convinces Tav to share a honeymoon with him, and the Archivist provides her with some critical knowledge to help her survive it.

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

The Archivist absolutely needs a name, especially after all the shit Tav is about to put him through.

Tav visited the archives after breakfast, allowing Raphael the chance to get some contracts finalized.  The Archivist was pouring over a tome and making notes on the side about a pair of gauntlets sitting on his desk.  They hummed with Weave and required a thorough characterization.

“Good morning,” Tav greeted warmly.  For the first time, the Archivist looked up at her and caught her gaze.  He seemed displeased by the interruption but completely unwilling to express it to the Master’s wife.

“How may I assist you, my Lady?” he asked patiently.

“What is your name?  I’m Tav - Tavara,” she corrected, unsure if he would ever consider using her name or if titles were all she was going to be given.

“Kilzire Ozvius, Master Archivist of the House of Hope,” he returned the gesture.  “Now, what can I help you with, Lady Tav?”

“I am trying to learn proper Devilish Infernal, can you help me with a few translations?”  Tav held out the Infernal copy of the book on Asmodeus that he loaned to her a few days prior.  The Tiefling considered her question for a brief moment before he nodded.  He gestured for her to show him the passages she was struggling with.

“I have been struggling with this passage that describes Asmodeus’s true serpentine form.  I initially read this as ‘wounds dripping of acid black blood’ but the Common tongue version says ‘a series of never-healing wounds that exude blood blackened by sin and torment.’  Can you help me understand the difference?”  Tav requested.

He took a second to understand her request before going through the section rune by rune.  “I see,” there was a look of slight hesitation in his eyes.  “So you’ve never studied Devilish Infernal before?”

Tav swallowed.  “No.  My lack of study is what led me here.”  Kilzire had a look in his eye that twinged with embarrassment, though whether it was from her husband’s view on Tiefling Infernal or some sort of forbidden knowledge of how she actually became the Archduchess, she couldn’t say.

He pointed out the runes that described the blood of Asmodeus.  “This word means never-healing wound in Infernal, but in Tiefling Infernal it means just wound.”  He gave her a different word in Infernal to indicate that the wound could be healed, then added a suffix to indicate that the wound was in the process of being healed.

“May I have some parchment and a quill, I would like to take notes.”  She wrote down the new terminology along with other examples of various types of wounds that may or may not be healable, in the process of being healed, mostly healed, failed to be healed, festering, fouled, necrotic, infected, and filled with devilish black pus.  He went through and explained the subtle differences between them, often with only a single letter difference or a change in inflection or tone marked by the slight changes in angle of the letters.

“In spoken Infernal, your original reading would be sufficient to communicate most of your ideas, but written down or in a contract, the translation provided would be the correct way to interpret the writing.”  Kilzire walked out from behind his desk and into the stacks.  He returned with a relatively thin book bound in brown leather.

“Wound Treatments for the Front Line of the Blood War?” Tav asked as she read the title on the cover.

“Should you wish to practice your new knowledge,” Kilzire explained briefly.

Tav realized how much of his time she had used, and she only asked for clarification on a single word.  “Thank you, Kilzire.”  She collected the two books and her notes and returned to her room.

She lay the books on her table.  She had an eternity to learn to properly read the works in front of her.  It was the only way she was going to be able to correct her mistakes.

***

Tav walked into the archive, and saw Kilzire taking copious notes on a scroll over something he had been reading.  He gave a slight smile as she approached.

“Good morning, Lady Tav, how may I assist you?”

“I need a Devilish Infernal translation of something.  Can you help me smooth out the language?”

“Why yes, of course.  Whatever do you need?”

“I need you to teach me to say ‘I belong completely to you, and you’re the only one who will ever have my body ever again’ in Devilish Infernal,” Tav explained.

Any warmth that had been in his guise or his voice immediately vanished.  “You must be joking.” 

“Not in the slightest.”

“You realize that there is an entire section dedicated to erotica right over there!” He pointed wildly at a back corner.  She would have to investigate it later.

She steadied her emotions.  “Will you help me or not?”

“I studied at the top universities to be competent enough to serve an Archduke of the Hells.  Now, here I am, doing this,” he lamented.  He gave her the phrase in Devilish Infernal, and Tav took detailed notes about each word choice he made.  There were only a few small adjustments from the initial translation that she had fabricated earlier.

“Thank you,” Tav said quietly as she left the archive.

***

Tav entered the archive, and Kilzare gave an audible groan.

“I don’t want to hear it, my Lady Tav,” he protested.

“Raphael needs to hear it, Kilzare.”

“Hells, what do you want me to translate now?” he demanded, the look on his face indicated he was eager to get back to his work and to get the very idea of his boss having active nether regions out of his mind.

“‘I want you to trace my entire body with your tongue,’” Tav answered in an absurdly straightforward fashion.  

Kilzire stared at her.  His mouth tightened in a deep frown.

“Think about it,” Tav started with her prepared argument,  “has Raphael hurt you or threatened to hurt you since we started our honeymoon?  Who has he flayed?”

His eyes hit the rafters and he swallowed slowly in a deep show of indignity.  “No one, Lady Tav.”

“Do you want to keep it that way?” Tav inquired.

Kilzare took a deep sigh before translating the sexually charged statement for her.  “Can I just translate them in bulk?” he asked with a twinge of disgust.

Tav sighed, trying to respect his boundaries but also trying not to betray the reason that she needed the phrase list updated daily.  “Not really,” she grimaced.

[cookie-nom-nom]

On the Subject of Religion and Rot: Part 2

Part 1 is here. A short story about the Elder, a mushroom hivemind, devouring the World Tree.

Cyra pulled her headscarf around her mouth tightly to shelter from the spores, taking breaths so shallow that she felt light-headed. But perhaps that was simply grief. Her pilgrimage to the World Tree had taken years, only to discover her goddess being desecrated by a necrotic cult. While scholars and priests sang the praises of the Elder, overjoyed with the advancements in science and art, Cyra hardened her heart to them. To defile the origin of Life was so abhorrent she tasted bile. 

But the Elder had answers, if she could swallow her pride and loathing. Its worshipers swore Its blessing was bestowed upon any who had an offering and patience. No knowledge was forbidden under Its wise benevolence. Cyra thought It to be a gluttonous parasite that would whore Itself out for any fool willing to get their hands bloody. But she may as well test how kindly It took to heretics. 

The floor of the World Tree was stained with blood. The consumption spiraled downward, tracing the tree rings as they plunged into the earth and burrowing into the roots that threaded the underworld together. Radiant mycelium etched gorgeous runes along the walls, outlining the quarry stretching impossibly far to the depths below. Upwards, too, hollowing out the branches that constellations roosted in. Cyra swallowed roughly as she realized the destruction carving through Her flesh was perfectly designed so that humans could traverse it. The paths were lined with countless statues of worshipers who sacrificed themselves to the festering rot. The Elder beckoned people to come and partake in the harvest of the World Tree.  

Her lungs burned, but she was terrified of breathing in. Cyra stumbled through the dark to the closest human husk she could find, hurling a dead passerine at Its feet. For a split second, the sprawled network of mycelium glowed. Cyra scowled, stunned by the sudden illumination. Wouldn’t have been as much of a shock were lanterns allowed, but they were expressly forbidden. It made traversing a nightmare. Cyra hated them for that, too, but the cult destroying her goddess could do little right by her. 

Cyra bent her head in supplication, though her humility was a thin veneer for the loathing in her mortal soul. But if this was the price for learning how to save her goddess, Cyra would sacrifice it a thousand times over. And so she hummed a quick prayer to the World Tree, and when calm once more besought Her enemy thus: “Can She be saved?” 

— —

The only salvation for the dead is through those they nourish. 

It’d been weeks since Cyra left the songbird to rot, and now she clutched its dry bones, staring at the message carved into them. Dead. The World Tree was dead. Her goddess had been murdered. Would the stars plummet from the sky? Would the dead be barred from the underworld? What apocalypse had they unleashed? 

Uncaring of the risk of contamination, Cyra ripped back her sleeve, holding her shaking arm out to the glowing mycelium so that she might read the hymns permanently inked upon her dark skin. She hummed them over and over, till the pain in her throat grew too great and a keening note tore out of her. Cyra began to sob, realizing her hymns were laid at the feet of a dead goddess. Nothing could save mankind from this. Cyra alone knew to mourn existence, and the grief of it was far too much to bear. 

She choked on every syllable. Who was she to sing the eulogy of Creation Herself? 

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