#people are strange creatures and all that

[hyukascampfire]

THE TERRIBLE HALF-TRUTHS OF THE UNDEAD ҜING

⠀(🍂 ) 𝓡EVENANT in folklore, a revenant is a spirit or animated corpse that is believed to have been revived from death to haunt the living ... ( 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 )

1︎5.5k revenant!yeonjun · ƒ ! r ft. soobin ⸺ ✴︎ 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗒 ... smut, violence, angst, death, animal death & vivid descriptions of animal death, major character death, unprotected sex, cumming inside, dry humping (because bring it back), biting, dom yeonjun sub reader, mentions of death in childbirth, reincarnation, teasing, breast worship, yj calls reader ‘my love’, def some typos

🪶 ⦂ how fun is this collab? :,) this fic was so fun to write. i personally believe that tsfawc enjoyers will love this one,, but you'll have to read it to confirm that, right? hehe. and of course, go read everybody else's if you love this one! they're all set in the same world, and everybody worked so hard on these fics. send some love their way!

rꫀׁׅܻblogs & asks arꫀׁׅܻ always apprꫀׁׅܻciatꫀׁׅܻd!

𝒪𝑁𝐶𝐸 𝒰𝑃𝑂𝑁 𝒶 𝒯𝐼𝑀𝐸, in a land far, far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky and the water sparkled under the glowing sun, where mountains rose high, and long, deep caves ran through them, where the sea met shore in collisions of swirling, foamy punches, where the undead walked among the living, where the winged flew above the finned, there was a land where things beyond reason and rhyme existed perfectly true. Among those strange beings and within the veils of Aethera, there was a girl loved by death. 

He sits on your shoulder, a dark, boding shadow and glared at those around you with promise in his eyes.

That’s how it seems, anyway. That’s how everybody looks at you. They dodge you, whisper about you, evade your gaze as if he might reach his claws for them next if they linger for too long.

Crows with dead eyes arrive at your doorstep like some lover’s cheeky gift, other poor creatures like fat grey mice are left to rot in the wheatfields, and yarrow stocks wilt outside the wall of your room. If Death thinks that you are flattered, he misunderstands you. You are terrified of nothing more than dying. The first time, it was a sly joke. Then it happened again, and you watched their eyes change. And it happened again and again, and your people are a suspicious type. Something can only be a coincidence so many times.

When you began to sneak into a little shack with a village boy, you thought that maybe, somehow, this would all pass. He died too. There’s really no coming back from that, is there? You don’t blame them. You’re not the freak that they all believe you to be—none of them get close enough anymore to know that, though.

The wickerbasket’s handle creaks under your fist. You usually only forage along the shallow line of the forest; you pluck from bramble bushes topped with plump berries that crawl between trees during the summer, and when the crab apple tree’s branches hang heavy with the fruit, you snatch those up too. You’re more useful to your family out here, in the woods that they deem just as cursed as you. Where you won’t be their burden.

Crisp autumn leaves crunch under your boots. You scan between them—more grey and rotted this late in the season than fresh and orangey—for the edible mushrooms and roots that you usually forage at this time of year. The basket’s already pretty heavy with a variety, black morels and sorrel and burdock, as you bend down to pull a truffle from the dirt against a tree.

You drop it down with the rest of your finds. The basket smells like earth, no doubt your hands do too. You dust your palms off on your skirts and go to rise back from your squat.

A deep, billowing horn pierces the forest’s silence. It’s both far away, wiggling between the whispers of rustling leaves, and much too close. It draws out. Long. Bone-chilling. You freeze, scanning between each tree trunk and praying that you won’t find what you fear you might.

You are much deeper into the woods than you usually are. Than you ought to be. And you know what that horn means—you know that it means something far worse than what you’d been afraid of, coming into these woods. Much more primordial than the hide-behinds you were scared you might find this deep, much less avoidable than the faerie rings you stepped around.

Why would The Wild Hunt be here? A shudder runs down your spine, and you curl your fingers into your skirts and lift them as if to prepare to run, but you don’t. Your feet find root in the forest floor and all you can do is stand terribly still in catatonia. Their horn sounds again, and a procession of wicked whoops and howls follow. Wild hoofbeat rumbles under it all—the hunt and their rides. You hope that they’re just passing through, and you won’t so much as see one of those wild riders. There were plenty of folktales that the matrons of your village would bolster to terrify you as children, but you knew even then that their stories of the riders, with their flesh falling away from them and their pale or beady eyes and their gnarled maws and frightening figures as they rode on the backs of equally terrible steeds, were not fabricated. They are not a bogeyman or a wailing banshee; they are death made in the flesh, and they are here. In your forest. 

Your legs won’t work. You curl your clammy fingers tighter around your basket and lean into the tree beside you. How deep had you wandered into the forest? Hopefully not too far; when you gain the courage to run, you hope that they do not send their hounds to snap their foul breath on your heels. Maybe just standing here and blending into the trees is best. The Hunt would love a chase, and you don’t want to become their next.

The next call comes and you throw that all to the wind. Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you let your basket clatter to the leaves and you take off. You fly over roots and shrubbery and between the trees, your blood roaring in your ears faster. You’d oblige if you could.

Above the loudness of your frantic mind, the harrowing whinnies and The Hunt’s ruckus dulls until it’s faraway again, and then it’s gone. Well, you don’t stop to check if they’ve really passed through the forest. You just run.

“There you are, love.”

His voice cuts through your frantic escape and stops you dead in your path. You almost go crashing down over the ground with the force that you dig your heels into it. Though the voice is non-threatening, you don’t turn to face the source.

He speaks again. You already know who it is. He, old as the earth you stand on itself, leads that band of wild riders. Is the king of the undead, collects souls for reaping.

And he’s the one who’s plagued you with his attention. Death.

“Why do you keep your back turned to me?” he says. “I frighten you. That hurts.” His voice lilts with amusement and sharpness. “I wish that you would face me.”

You’re not fond of the way that he speaks to you with a familiarity. But then again, you’re not fond of dying, either. Your legs are boneless beneath you. Turning, you slowly indulge him, though it takes a great amount of willpower to not run again like your jittering jaw and trembling hands ask you to.

The King of Death stands tall and utterly preternatural, leaned against a crooked tree in the woods behind you. His smile cracks across his face in a jagged way that suggests he finds you amusing, but none of that meets his eyes. They’re the color of the greyish, rotted leaves beneath you. The dark shadows beneath his eyes are the only thing belying the weight that his infinite life might have on him. That, and the hollowness that rings from him.

And though he sounded entirely playful, you are shaken by the sorrow that you find in him now that you’ve turned. Even more so, you’re not sure why you feel it echoed somewhere in the hollows of your bones. “I’m sorry,” you say. It trembles terribly. You want to say that you’re sorry you caught his attention, but it seems you’ve always had his attention. It’s more that you are petrified down to your marrow that the time’s come that you face this… strange infatuation. Here he stands: the one who leaves hollowed out husks of creatures at your doorstep. Should you run or thank him? Is Death as prideful a creature as the other kinds that inhabit Aethera? “I don’t mean to…”

He pushes off his tree, fixing his cape that cascades over only one of his shoulders. It’s tattered and falling apart like the rest of his clothing, though you think that the bronze stitching and swirling oakleaf patterns in the black say that they might have been immaculate at some point. Or maybe they weren’t, and they had started that way. He is Death, anyway. “You’re sorry?” he says. “Why are you apologizing to me? You’ve hardly done a thing to warrant it.”

Faltering, you wet your chapped lips. You’re not really sure. Holding back another apology for fear that you’ve offended him and he’ll now strike you down for it, you say, “I thought that, maybe the hunt was…” Wow, you sound stupid. You can see in the sly smile his lips form that it amuses him. That’s almost worse than angering him: intriguing him. What you really should be doing is boring him so that he’ll find you a waste of his time. Then, maybe, he’d give up haunting you.

“After you?” he finishes. Shaking his head, he says, “My hunters only answer to me.”

“Oh,” you say plainly. Part of you wants to ask why that should comfort you, especially when you’re the one that he sends little bits of death to, but rationality keeps those words in the back of your throat. You don’t really want to know. “Why are you passing by here?”

Something akin to old longing passes through those witty eyes, and then he eats up the distance between you with languid steps of his long legs until he’s nothing more than one last step in front of you. The closeness consumes the air in your lungs, leaving nothing for you but short and shallow drags. The forest has gone dead silent aside from the sound of it. His voice is even more magnetic now that he’s so close.

You recoil when he brings a hand up to brush the pad of his thumb over your cheek and then cup your jaw, as if afraid that he might snuff you out here and now. His fingers are softer than you thought they might be, and the lines of his face sharpen into what you think is hurt. Hurt that you flinched?

“We go here and there,” he says, “but it’s been a very long time since we came here.” There’s a certain thickness to his words; a certain tension coiled over them from something that you’re not privy to. And yet, there’s a farawayness, too. You bet he’s full of a lifetime of secrets. Lifetimes of secrets. “But I think I’ve found myself a reason to finally return.”

Breathy and still struggling to flatten out your breathing, you ask him, “Why?”

The Undead King’s smile turns wicked once more, and he doesn’t answer you. It’s awfully eerie.

“Do you have… business here?” you try again. It’s a roundabout way of asking, do you have someone to take away?

“I have business wherever the living go,” he says, letting your face go but not giving you any more room. You narrow your eyes. He’s quite good at non-answers. “Nothing is more certain than that I will greet every living thing eventually. I’ll come to take you, too, when the time comes.”

Your mouth dries up. The entirety of your home, all the people you’ve ever known, fear you for all the death you bring. Not one of them fears it more than you do. You’ve seen it enough to fear its frightening finality.

The drop of your face must’ve told him how much that scared you. “Dying is not such an awful thing, love. Living pales in comparison.” Searching your eyes, he adds, “But I’ve not come to take you.”

That’s easy for him to say: that death isn’t something to fear. His words don’t calm your thundering heart, but you offer him a, “Thank you…” It trails off toward the end when you realize that you don’t have his name. If he has one, anyway.

“Yeonjun.” He tilts his head, strands of sparrow hair brushing over his watching eyes. “Most don’t know it, but you’re not most people, are you?”

Your breathing had just begun evening out. It’s a shame, the way that it kicks back up at the way he looks at you. “What do you mean?” you say, but of course you know. Nobody else is given dead things like you. It’s not like you yourself are very strange; you like pretty dresses and sharing gossip with friends just as much as any other girl your age.

Giving you another one of those knowing smiles that he uses just like words, he steps back. “I’m sorry that I scare you how I do.”

You don’t answer him. What could you say to that? That he doesn’t? That would be a lie, and he would know it.

Yeonjun’s eyes flit over your face, over your cheeks made pink by the autumn cold, lingering on your lips for a few unexplainable beats, and then landing on your eyes where he searches and finds something that sends his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I don’t mean to be your monster. It’s only that…” He steps back again. “You remind me a terrible amount of someone I once knew.”

“Who?” Though your shoulders relax a bit with some distance between the two of you, you do your best to not let your guard down. All the stories that you recall being told, all those cautionary tales passed down through word of mouth around a fire, end with some stupid girl thinking that the monster could be changed or tricked. You’re willing to bet that the man in front of you, no matter how human he looks or how enchanting his words are, could be neither.

That doesn’t explain the ache in your chest when he holds your eyes for too long. But you shove that feeling way, way down. It’s nonsensical.

His voice takes on a parting tilt when he says, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Death takes us all.” Yeonjun dips his head at you. His smile wavers. You’d think that crooked smile on his mouth was indelible had you not seen it twitch down at the corners only for a moment. If you’d have blinked, you’d have missed it. “You think I’ll hurt you,” he says, “well, don’t let me stop you. Go ahead, run. I apologize for your basket.”

Death takes us all. You’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean, coming from him, but it sends a cold wind up your spine and goosebumps crawling over your skin.

He watches you go. You don’t look back when you do, but his gaze sits on your back until you’re sure you’re out of his sight. When you return to your home, your mother asks where the basket full of ingredients for supper went.

You imagine what her face might look like if you told her the truth. But that was impossible, so instead you tell her some stupid story about a wolf that startled you so bad that you ran home paying no mind to where your basket was. It’s close enough to the truth.

༺ ꘏ ༻

It doesn’t matter what you do; you can’t get his face out of your head. While you cut butter into flour and then roll out dough, simmer fruits over flame and you slice cheese off blocks, you replay that meeting in the forest. The memory spins and turns over no matter how hard you try to put it away from your thoughts.

It’s not every day that somebody meets the likes of him. You can’t blame yourself; he had such captivating eyes. Dark, playful, and endless. There they are again. You sigh and dust your hands off. Maybe you are just as strange as they all think that you are. Morbid curiosity is like that, though. Taking the most normal of us and making you wonder what you absolutely should not wonder about.

And you absolutely should not wonder about him.

The sun has begun to hang high in the sky, but the breeze that crawls through the window you pulled open before you got to work is a crisp one. Autumn’s really come, now. Outside the window, a huddle of children play around in the leaves that you’d raked up. You’ll have to rake those back up, but you hardly have the heart to tell them to take their playing elsewhere. Their giggles and small voices waft in with the breeze, and a traitorous part of you yearns for a family that you know you’ll never have. No man would risk that fate, not after what happened to the last man who paid you any attention. You grit your teeth at the memory.

Having a face for the thing that’s made your life the way it is is strange. Seeing him in the flesh, with handsome eyes and a taunting mouth, looking something near human, you think you’ve come to resent him for it. How dare he ruin your life? He, more than anybody, should know how fleeting life is. What is in it for him to deface what little time you have? You keep going back to that thought: why did he ever even appear to you in that forest? There is not one story in which you remember Yeonjun showing his face to those he hasn’t come to claim. Death makes his visits swift and purposeful.

Moreover, why on earth would he even look your way? You wish there was a plain way to ask him why, or even to plead with him to stop. Whatever it is he’d ask of you, you think you might give him. To get back to living, you would.

A deep, familiar voice from behind you gives you pause. “Want some help with that?” Soobin says. He stands  in the doorway, his head nearly brushing the top of the frame. It’s made too small for him. Most things in your tiny village were made too small for Soobin. There had been a time where you’d been taller than him, that had hardly lasted long enough.

“As if,” you dismiss and gesture at his dirty hands. He’d no doubt been out working his family’s field, his tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  “Cow shit isn’t an ingredient.”

Anybody else might’ve scoffed or taken offense, but he just laughs and invites himself in anyway. It never fazes Soobin. He doesn’t let you push him away.

It’d be better if he did. How long before he ends up dead, too? Alive one moment, and then a husk without a soul next. You don’t think you could handle seeing cold, dead eyes where the annoying, warm shine should be. Of course it would be better if he stayed away, if he had half the mind to. Even most of the children have heard enough from their mothers to stay a healthy distance. He’s not too much better than a child, though.

“Isn’t it?” he says. His cheek is smudged with whatever sort of dirt he’s got on his hands and under his nails. “I’m done with work for the day. Want to go out to the field?”

You two have always ran off and avoided your life in between willowy, flaxen wheat stocks. They were just tall enough at this time of year to hide you away. But, for some reason, your stomach does a quick flip at the thought of being outside. It’s silly; couldn’t he find you here, too? “I’m busy,” you say. You’d already kneaded this roll of dough plenty, but you dig your fingers into it and begin again.

“Busy?” he scoffs, “Since when are you too busy to get away from work?”

Gritting your teeth, you let the sounds of your kneading answer. Now, more than ever, he should keep his distance. You know one thing that you’re sure nobody else does: Death’s come to visit. 

His brows shoot up in your peripherals. “I don’t get answers today?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, giving up working the over-kneaded dough only because your arms ache. “Why don’t you go talk off the ear of some other poor village girl? I’ve heard as much as I can handle today. And then when that one’s tired, you can bother the next, I’m sure.”  You soften the words with a quick smile his way. No matter how many times you say something sour in hopes that it’ll send him away, as soon as you glance up at his face, you reel it in.

His company is all you’ve ever had. The least you can do for him is make sure he doesn’t end up like carrion, even if he chooses to take that risk himself. You don’t know why he does.

Voice playful, he says, “I’m glad to hear that you believe I’ve got ladies falling at my feet, but I’d rather not annoy a pretty girl, so you’re my only option.” He pokes at the sleeve of your simple cotton dress. “Should I drag you out of here? Don’t your arms hurt doing all that?”

“Oh, you are a refined man, aren’t you?” you say, shuffling out of his reach. Damn him, he makes it difficult. “Well, I am a pretty girl, so you should take yourself elsewhere.”

Soobin smiles easy. “I’m bored out of my mind. You’re just going to let me suffer?”

“That’s not my issue.”

“I’d argue that it is,” he says. “Come on. Why are you giving me a cold shoulder?” Leaning, he tries to get a look at your face. “Did I upset you? I wasn’t aware that you cared much about what I thought.” When you spare him a sharp glance, he says, “I think you are very, very beautiful. Would you stop ignoring me, now?”

You wish you could fall into the easy banter that comes with being around Soobin, but you can’t. You can’t let him be around you. “Soobin, stop it,” you say, draining your voice. You don’t look at him while you say it.

Going quiet, he seems to notice that today’s different. His gaze is heavy as he stares at you for a few long moments. Crossing his arms over his chest, he asks, “What happened?”

You swallow. “Nothing. I’m just doing something.”

“Oh, alright,” he says, tone inflicting in a way that says he doesn’t believe you one bit. He pushes off the counter. “I’ve put up with you pushing me away for years. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Soobin,” you warn. If you look at him, you fear you’ll be forced to watch the only one who never cared much what a risk it was being around you leaving. So you don’t.

Your friend raises his hands in the air defensively. “Okay, then.” He makes for the doorway with languid, lingering steps. As if he doesn’t want to leave. “Tomorrow..”

That’s both a threat and a promise, knowing him. Sighing and watching the rowan tree out your window sway, you bid him a curt goodbye.

If only that jerk took offense to things. It would make things an awful lot easier for you.

༺ ꘏ ༻

Being out in the wheat fields brings you peace when you’re alone, but you find it to be terribly lonely. The earthy, sweet scent of it wraps around you, and the stalks whisper against each other in a soothing way.

When you look beside you, the patch of wheat imprinted with the shape of your bodies is empty on his side. You are quite weak; it makes you want to go knocking at his door for his company. But that would be the selfish thing to do, so you card your fingers between the golden straw instead.

A chill trickles down your spine. You feel his presence before you even see him; it’s a feeling that you used to get fleetingly, as if something far away was tugging at you. But then he became real, a living thing in front of you that can touch, and that is much different.

“Why is it that I always find you out in the wilderness?” Yeonjun says. His voice comes from behind you.

Has he been watching you? You stand and dust your bottom off, heart kicking to life. “It’s nice out here,” you say. In truth, you haven’t come outside since that day. You’ve dodged Soobin and made a million excuses as to why you won’t go anywhere past the fences of your home. “I like to… watch people go about their days. It’s interesting.” It’s true—you always watch from afar how the village folk interact. How groups of girls your age link arms and whisper to each other, how neighbors come together to fix up a shoddy fence. You watch them be a community that you are not a part of. Watching it tastes bitter sometimes, but mostly you take pleasure in imagining yourself there with them. You’re not sure why you try making small talk with him, but what else? Should you go running again? If you were to listen to your pattering heart, maybe that’s what you’d do. He’s hardly shown you any bad will, though, and he’s the one that’s come to you. Maybe it’s silly to wait until something bad happens to be cautious.

A thousand pounds in stones sit at the center of your chest, though, and his voice makes them feel lighter. Why on earth that is, you’re not sure. It’s a nice relief regardless.

He smiles. It's different from the ones he showed you before. It’s knowing; more sweet than cracking over his face like the smile you would expect from the likes of him. What use might he have in being sweet? “Could I join you?”

Blinking dumbly at him for a second, you nod. “Oh, uh… Yeah.” Settling back down into your spot, you spare him a few curious sideways glances.

The breeze billows over the gold stems, moving them like gentle waves over the ocean and blowing your hair in it too. The flattened bits rustle under his weight. He doesn’t even turn his face toward the village; instantly, his gravitational eyes are on you.

“Do you come here often?”

“I do,” you answer. Mostly when you and Soobin have too much to do and not enough will to do it. “It’s nice. The village doesn’t like me much, so it’s easier out here.” You don’t mention that mostly you don’t come here alone.

Yeonjun’s face becomes far away. It looks strikingly like somebody forced into an old, unpleasant memory. “Don’t like you?” he asks, “What reason would they have for that?”

“They fear me. Things go wrong around me, that’s all.” You pluck at the hay absentmindedly. “Things die. They’re smart to stay away.”

The hay whispers much louder for the long moment he remains quiet, digesting what you’ve said. Maybe deciding what to say, considering that it’s his fault.

“Die?” he asks, voice inflected with surprise.

Turning to him, your brow creases. Shouldn’t he know? He’s the one that’s done it to you. “Everything that gets too close ends up dead. Everything,” you say, resting your temple on your knee. “So, I guess, I just keep it all at arm’s length.” You look back at your tiny village, a collection of familiar, un-familiar thatch-roof homes. 

Continuing to blink at you, his eyes narrowed in a strange grimace, Yeonjun says, “Death follows me, too.”

What? A laugh of disbelief bubbles up in your chest. Of course, death follows him. You cover your mouth with a hand to obscure your laugh, but you just giggle at him harder.

A laugh twitches at the corners of his mouth, too. “I mean it,” he says. The lines of his face become distant again, eyes both trained on your face and melancholic as if the sight reminds him of something.

It ignites a question in your mind about something he said in the forest. “You said that I reminded you of somebody,” you say, testing the waters. “Who?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. He looks away, as if he can’t look at you while he says it. “I loved a girl from this village once. When I was human, no less than you.”

You falter, mouth falling open to ask all the questions that flurry through your thoughts. You settle on one. “You were human?”

“I was,” he says ruefully. “And I had everything. I had the love of my life. I think that even the most bitter of creatures on this island had envy for our love. She would braid dandelions into my hair, and then I’d braid them into hers.” He swallows thickly and pauses, as if the wound was still festering and fresh. “And then she died. She died starting our family. She died because of me, in my arms.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just look into his shining eyes as if that’ll help. You’re not very useful with people, much less comforting them.

“I couldn’t accept that. I wouldn’t. So I went where I shouldn’t have gone, and angered something much bigger than myself. They thought it would be a fitting punishment for me to live an eternity, the King of Death who could not bring back his dead lover.” The harrowed look that he gives you, only briefly, has your chest heavy all over again. “They have a sense of humor, the forces.”

You imagine what it would’ve been like for him to lose his lover in that way. How far he’d gone to try and have her back, but death does not give back. Where had he gone to have been turned into this? An immortal thing, forced to roam the world and scoop up the souls of the living for an eternity? To be bound in ancient bones and made to remember forever how you had lost your lover?

The grandness of what you want to say is too big, but all those words feel pitying and patronizing in a way that you don’t think will actually bring him any comfort. Rather, you doubt anything you say will be able to patch up a wound older than you could imagine. Simply, you offer him a raw, “I’m so sorry.”

Yeonjun lets a crooked smile replace the trembling at his lips. “As long as I live, so too will she,” he says, placing his palm over his heart. “Death doesn’t so much happen when we leave behind our bodies, but when we’ve left the minds of the living.” Narrowing his eyes at you, he brushes hair behind your ear with his knuckles. “I know she lives on, somewhere out there. Somewhere. I’ll find her.”

That intrigues you. “Is there some way that you could bring her back?”

The grim light in his eyes tells you his answer. “My curse is to take life,” he says, “not to give it. But the one who made me this, he is cruel in a twisted way. If I were to find her, as a human or an animal or a blade of grass in the forest, only then could I rest.”

It is cruel. “You’ve been searching, then,” you conclude. “When you find her, you’ll both be able to rest.” But how could he find her, if as he says, she could be any living thing? Where would he even begin?

Slowly, he shakes his head, throat bobbing. “Death needs a farrier.”

She would become what he is. You swallow thickly. Was it not him who caused the deaths that follow you? Or, at least, it was not on purpose?

Opening your mouth, you go to tell him that you’ll help him look. You’re sure you’ll be of no help. He’s spent an immortal lifetime searching, and he still hasn’t found his dead lover. Nobody would know better than him where to look.

The ground shakes beneath your palms with impact, and something cuts through the wheat. The noise of its bleating becomes nearer until the both of you scramble up to find out what’s in such distress.

A deer stumbles around wildly. It looks lame, but you don’t see anything wrong with its legs. Your throat tightens at the awful sound, piercing and sad. Frozen, you watch it try to stay upright before it finally collapses down, legs still kicking as though it still wants to run but its body has begun weakening on it. “Oh my god,” you say, stumbling back. The sounds; its sounds are awful, echoing in your bones and constricting your thoughts until they’re a pinched panic.

There’s an arrow lodged into its ribcage, deep and at a terrible angle. You already know that it’s pierced some vital organs, if not its heart. It continues to writhe on the ground, not ready to give up. You’re not sure if you should approach it—you don’t want to scare it, and you can tell by the look in its wet eyes that it already wants to be away from you.

Or, maybe it had come to you. How else had it found the two of you in the middle of this field?

Yeonjun’s already on it. He puts his knees into the dirt and dried wheat to kneel by it, running his hand over the beast's pelt in long strokes. The small buck flinches at first but relaxes once he learns that his touches are gentle, not the gnashing of hungry teeth ready to make him a meal.

Blood runs like lead through your veins. You say, “Can we help it?”

He shakes his head. “He’ll die.”

Whip-lashed, you swallow thickly. He says it so unphased, and you’re sure he is. You can hardly make yourself mirror that serenity that he exudes as he runs his hand over its flank, but you get on the ground beside him anyway.

The buck’s breaths slow to desperate drags for breath. For a few long minutes, the two of you sit in silence and stay with him until he no longer fights, until his breaths are ragged. You feel his side, still warm and alive, but you see the life going from his eyes. You sit here, talking to each other about nothing just so it hears gentle voices as it goes, for a while.

Eventually, he’s gone. Quiet and at peace, no longer hurting. This time, when you look over to Yeonjun who still smooths over the deer’s skin even as he goes, guiding him delicately into whatever greets us when we go, you see death as a gentle thing.

༺ ꘏ ༻

Though you never seek him out, Yeonjun always finds you. In hidden places, away from prying eyes, he appears behind you and makes himself known. Well, you have a feeling that he watches you for a while before saying anything. It’s hard not to feel the strange tingling of his gaze over your form. It’s akin to the sixth sense that’s supposed to keep you safe out in the dark hearts of forests, an innate feeling that tells you some beast with a rotten, pale maw watches you between the trees.

Yeonjun doesn’t feel rotten, though, preternatural and eerie as he is. As you shirk your duties and talk with him for hours, you stare into ancient eyes and watch his crooked mouth move around his words and you feel an odd comfort. As if he’s the only one who’s ever understood you, or maybe that your strangeness pales beside him and for once you’re nothing but who you are. So many nights, the sun fell on your talking until the night insects buzzed from the grasses and your eyes were heavy.

Sometimes, as you dozed off with your back to a hay bale or a hardwood wall of the abandoned home beside yours with its sagging thatched roof, you caught such festering longing in his his eyes that you’d let your lashes fall and pretend to sleep so that you could imagine what it was that he longed for. No doubt his lost lover. When you imagine him, bound in bones and coming back to haunt the living for an eternity as he mourns her infinitely, searching for her in impossible places, your chest aches with a gnawing intensity.

It’s a terrible, cursed existence. Even the nothingness of death becomes a paradise beside it.

“Is it scary?” you ask into the air, sat criss-crossed on the thick duvet of the bed. He sits across from you, looking perfectly lazy. Moonlight pools in like sterling mist through the shutters.

“What?” He watches you, sitting in your plain dress, as though you’re the only thing in the world.

You’ve begun to wonder. Wonder about those looks he gives you.

Shifting, you fix the shoulder of your soft chemise where it’s slipped down when you catch his eyes lingering on it. His throat bobs. “Dying,” you elaborate. “Is it really nothing? After we go, all of it was for nothing?”

A slow smile tugs his full lips, made a bit red in the middle where he likes to worry it. It’s such a human habit to see on something so far from human. “Hardly,” he says. “It’s like going home, right where your soul is supposed to be. Who do you think rides with me?”

Furrowing your brows, you tilt your head toward one shoulder and let your hair pool there. “The riders are dead?” You had thought they were undead in some way like Yeonjun, other sorts of revenants come back to life with their own purposes. Then, are their creepy horses dead, too? A chill goes down your arms. Sometimes, sitting here with him when his face is made soft by the orange glow of the fire he puts on, you forget what he is.

“They are.” He nods, leaned back onto his elbows, his eyes alight with a hunger that makes your insides feel funny. “It doesn’t stop once we’ve died. You don’t need to be scared, my love. So many things end, but then so many things begin. The earth no longer holds you down, the weight of being is gone. You don’t know anything like it; you don’t know leaving behind the pleasures of earth to know the ones that only the afterlife can show you.”

His eyes laced with something entirely else, he adds, “And it’s not the end. Not for everything. For some it’s only the beginning, and for others, those who have not yet fulfilled their purpose, they come back to the flesh. They return.”

You can’t tell if he means himself, or something else. The weight in his eyes, dark, endlessly swirling pools, makes you wonder again why it is that he’s lingering here: the place that he had not visited once since the death of his lover, for the fact that it still hurts too much. Why his shadow of death, his fault or not, was tangled in your soul enough to brush its fingers over the things around you.

“It’s scary,” you say, breathy. The thought of eternity.

Soft hairs brush over his eyes as he tilts his head at you. “Do I scare you?”

“No.”

“No?” he echos, pushing himself up so that he leans back onto his palms. “Isn’t that strange? Pretty little thing says she’s not afraid of death, but her heart races when I’m near. Her sweet heart jumps at just the brush of my leg. Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, love?”

Your blood roars in your veins, inflaming your cheeks and making your head dizzy. Nobody’s ever looked at you like that before. Hair prickles on your skin. “Yes,” you breathe.

Feral delight sparks in his eyes, black as pitch. His smile turns up all feline at the crooked corners. “Crawl to me, then.”

Like how fire licks up oxygen in any room it is in, his words steal the breath right from your lungs. What does he think you are? You blink at him wide-eyed and dumb for a moment.

How can he say that as though it were nothing? Moreover, how does the ravenous flare in his eyes, his head tilted back as he watches you down his nose expectantly, do that to your belly?

Your mind glazes over with something thick and heady, and you damn the nerves in your belly and begin to crawl from your end of the bed to his. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, making sure you feel every inch of the taunt in his eyes as he trains them on you. When you’ve gotten to him through the thickness in the air, you settle into his lap and bracket his waist with your thighs.

Yeonjun takes the soft fat of your hips in his fingers. “Fuck,” he says. It sounds like he’s barely holding the gates on something endlessly consuming. Something that might break loose on the two of you, and leave you changed forever with its hungry, gnashing teeth. His head hits your collarbone. “Tell me to stop. Please, tell me to go. Because I don’t know how.”

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t stop. I want it, Yeonjun. I want this.”

He straightens, pupils blown and eyes as tense as his set jaw. “No, you don’t understand what you’re asking for. All I’ve ever done is ruin. All I’ll ever do is ruin. I won’t ruin you; not again.”

That rings bells somewhere outside the heavy fog that’s infiltrated your mind, but they don’t sound too alarming when he looks as though he wants to drag his teeth over your heart to taste its beating. It doesn’t touch the ground, when you want him to, so badly. So badly that you taste it on your tongue and it tinges your words as you tell him, “I do know what I’m asking for. I want you. Yeonjun. Don’t you want me too?” Voice and confidence wavering, you pull back. Maybe you’ve read this all wrong. A tickling shame crawls over your skull. “Do you not want me?”

“You think I don’t want you?” he says, straightening up and meeting your gaze. His breath is hot on your mouth. “I want you so fucking bad. You are in the marrow of my bones. Fuck, I have done nothing but want you, but I am foul. I will only hurt you.”

He takes your hand and places it over his chest, where a heart should be. Beneath your palm, you do not feel the thumping of an alive thing. Yeonjun has no heart. You knit your brows and examine the strain of his features. Does he think that you’ll be disgusted? Maybe the girl you were in that forest might’ve been, but being near Yeonjun has changed you in ways you couldn’t start to put your finger on. “I’m asking you to,” you say. “Show me what you want to do to me. What you’ve wanted to do to me.”

Searing silence burns between you as he drinks that in, and then he shoves you onto your back. Supporting himself with an arm beside your head, he curls his fingers into your hip and nudges your thighs wider. He doesn’t lift the hem of your chemise like you expect him to. No—Yeonjun begins to grind himself into your cunt through all the layers of your clothes. Though your dress is bunched up and his pants lay between any real contact, Yeonjun’s hard and that friction tastes fleetingly sweet.

“I want you to beg me for it,” he says, grinning down at you with cruel intention. “Beg me, and make it so pretty.”

You let little sounds linger in that back of your throat and become hungrier each time he grinds against you. It’s so much, mind swimming and sparks spraying up your spine, and yet each time it is not near enough. Damn that foxish smile on his face; you beg for him anyway. “Yeonjun,” you breathe, curling your fingers around the wrist of that hand with which he pins your hip. “P…lease, will you help me? It feels so good; I want more, please.”

He raises his eyebrows at you and an eager grind comes right over your throbbing clit. 

You know he wants more than that, but mortification already is making your voice unsteady and your cheeks burn. “Yeonjun,” you huff, hips wiggling.

The king of the undead delights fully in your shame and rewards you with more of those pointed, dry grinds. Your legs tremble; he’s giving you so little, and yet your need takes it and magnifies it into something grand.

Though he pretends he’s on some high ground, you hear his shuddering breaths each time his fucks his hips against you. He feels that roiling, liquid need in his belly just as vehemently as you do. The room fills with your breathy pants and grinding bodies. You catch your lip in your teeth and begin to meet him half-way. Your moans are low and sweet, and each one sends his jaw tighter. 

You twist and grind against each other like fumbling teens until you’re coiled up so tight that he has to pull himself away. Your throbbing cunt protests, but you know he doesn’t want you cumming like this.

“You want me to show you what I’ve wanted to do to you?” he says, working at his pants. His eyes are so drunk on you, and his cheeks betray his state. “Open your legs, my love. Let me show you a little death.”

Throat gone dry, you slowly let your thighs fall open. The dull throbbing between your thighs roars to life. He slides your skirt up your leg, stopping when he frees your knee to pepper a few hot kisses into it. Once he’s got it bunched up at your ribcage, he runs his tongue over his dry lips to wet them. “Fuck. Such a pretty pussy. I want to fucking eat you up.”

“Yeonjun,” you whine. His name is all you can muster out, anticipation sharpened to a knife point.

Flashing his teeth, he purrs, “You like that, you filthy thing. I bet you’d like for me to fuck you till your brain’s gone and all that’s left is my name. Isn’t that right? Is that what you want?”

Your thoughts stall and you nod, making your mouth into a filthy pout. God, how you want that. Maybe he’s right about you being filthy. Coming from him, it sounds like a delicious thing to be.

The pretty, leaking tip of his cock brushes your clit as he slides it up and down your slit to collect the mess there. Your thighs jump to close before your mind gets the better of it. He does this a few times—up and down, letting you feel and get used to the size and length of him all the way till his cockhead kisses your clit and you squeak.

“Are you comfortable, love?” he asks, shifting your hips with strong hands. “Do you need anything from me?”

It’s so at odds with his other, nastier words. Your head spins, the moonlight blurring. “I’m okay,” you tell him. “I… just want you. Want you to put it in, want to feel you.”

His cock catches on your hole, and he begins to push forward with promising pressure. But then he pulls back, smiling downturned. You whine; why can’t he save his capriciousness for later? You’d almost had it…

“I could give it to you, or I could not…” He hums. “Wouldn’t that be so cruel of me? To leave you wanting?”

You flutter around nothing. Every inch of your body buzzes. Alive. You are more alive now, at the promise of Death’s touch, than ever before. The irony might be something to wonder about if you weren’t dribbling down onto the bed sheets with crude need. “Stop it,” you say. Your voice is whiny. You’re glad you can hardly hear yourself past the pounding in your bloodstream.

That delights the King of Death. He wrinkles his nose at you, burning you alive with his eyes as he presses his palm to your belly and guides himself into you with his free hand. You wrap around each inch of him slowly. The air between you bows under the weight of your gazes; he holds your eyes the whole way, inch by inch until he’s seated fully into you with his groin flush to your body. He stretches you to fit, and yet it’s just right. You could ask for no more or no less; you might even think your body was made for him, were you not too busy circling your hips to feel him.

“Good?” he says, squeezing your hip. “Do you need a moment?”

Pursing your lips, you test out the shape of him with another wiggle. “Maybe… Maybe a second.” Truth be told, you need a moment to grapple with the sparks sprinkling over your mind more than you need a moment to adjust to his stretch. You let out a shuddering breath.

He traces circles into your belly, just beneath your navel. The pad of his thumb goes round and round, warm on your flesh. “As long as you need,” he says, but it’s more like a triumphant, playful coo. There’s that lopsided smirk. One day, you’d like to kiss it off him. Taking that hypnotizing finger, Yeonjun trails it up your stomach, over your ribcage. He hooks it beneath your dress and drags it higher, revealing the soft swells of your breasts to the air. You shudder, body so, so hot that your nipples peak and tighten against the cool air.

“Such pretty tits,” he says, brushing his knuckle up the underside of one. “Everything about you. Such a pretty, pretty body. God, I don’t know if I want to worship it or ruin it.” His breaths fan over your skin as he bends down and pops an eager nipple into his mouth, lavishing it before releasing it with a lewd pop and letting his mouth fall all over your breast. Lick here, nip there, until you’re squirming adequately and squeezing him like a virgin. Then he blows cool air over it and watches with eyes like a cat toying with its prey as you shudder harder, your chest jumping. “Fucking look at you,” he sneers.

“Junnie,” you say, lost for breath. You think you’ve walked yourself into the lion’s den.

His breathy laughs fall over your breast. Taking his teeth, he drags them over your skin, right over where your heart thunders a rhythm fully for him, and then he bites. Nothing more than a shallow mark, the shape of his teeth in your soft tit. He lingers there, admiring the sight before he straightens himself up again.

“Fine.” He pulls out of you slowly, but you know what comes after that, so you savor every second of it. “I suppose you’ve wanted after it long enough. Let me hear your sweet voice again, my love.”

Yeonjun fucks you just right. His cock nudges right up on your sweet spot as if he’s done this before. Like he knows where to find it. You gasp and whine—you’re just happy he’s finally giving you something. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mewl. His shoulders wear the red crescent marks of your nails. “That’s—so good right there.”

Ever egotistical and cocky, he croons, “Yeah?” Rolling himself back, he makes it his mission to hit it ruthlessly.

A sharp, pitchy sound comes tumbling past your lips. You bring your hand up over your mouth, letting your eyelids dust your burning cheeks so that you can brave the flipping in your spine and deep in your belly. It’s nearly insufferable—the way pleasure licks up your spine, how it spreads out into your veins and takes control of you.

“No,” Yeonjun growls. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Let me see that look in your eyes when you cum.”

Your eyes are heavier than they’ve ever been, but you open them. The sight that greets you is worth the effort. Yeonjun’s lip twitches and then he throws his head back, the column of his neck on display as his Adam's apple jumps around a thick swallow.

If that sight wasn’t enough to send you teetering down into whatever depths of lust and ecstasy that he crawled out from, then the angle he hits as he pushes one of your thighs to your chest is. The world frays, deep tremors starting at one small point in your cunt and then exploding up through your stomach and down the back of your thighs. Your chest arches off the bed and you mewl helplessly, fighting and embracing your orgasm in an intoxicating death.

“Oh, fuck,” Yeonjun growls, strained with something whinier as he watches you shake beneath him. “Fuck. I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum…” His voice chokes as his hips become stuttered more than pointed, the slick sounds of your own release tangling up with his grunts and pants until he shudders and stills, cumming into your puffy, fluttering cunt.

You both catch your breaths as if there’s no air in the room left for a while. His hair’s damp on his forehead, as is yours on your neck, and his eyes droop lazily. More lazy and content than you’ve ever seen him.

Collecting you to his chest, where only your heart thumps away frantically, he presses his mouth to your ear and says, “Do you think death is so scary now?”

With your limbs nothing more than boneless and liquid pleasure floating slowly through your thoughts, you smile.

A little death can be more visceral than living, you think.

༺ ꘏ ༻

The tree stump beneath you makes your tailbone ache. You sit criss-crossed, watching Soobin work away at the soil and tend to that section of the fence that’s begun to rot and sag. Your mouth moves endlessly, filling the space that would otherwise just be made up of his grunts of hard work.

“You know, you ought to help me if you’re just going to sit and watch,” he says, straightening to swipe at his forehead, sweaty despite the cold in the air.

“Totally improper,” you say, smiling at him cheekily. “Are you saying that you can’t handle yourself, strong man?”

He glares at you with the venom only somebody made to put up with hours of chatter could muster. “What’s got you so talkative?” he says.

You know he means why you’re suddenly not glaring him away. You can’t tell him that you’ve spoken with Death himself, so instead you say, “Nothing.” Letting your legs dangle down, you smile at him.

Yeonjun hadn’t done any of it. It’s a comfort, to some degrees, to know that. It’s not your fault that they died. Being around them, being around Soobin, won’t make them turn up dead. The rest of them still don’t know that—and they wouldn’t believe it, anyway—but the black shadow hanging over your shoulders dissipates.

For the first time in so, so long, you do not feel marked by death.

“Sure.” His smile tilts. “A week ago, you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Rolling your eyes, you decide to give him a hard time. “Not true. You just have a way of getting on my nerves.”

“I take pride in that.”

“Take pride in what? Being insufferable?”

Crinkling his nose, he says, “Knowing how to bother you best.”

“Get back to work, stupid.” Your heart soars. It’s good to have friends. To let yourself have friends is an ever better thing. Is this how it is? To be with others and not feel like their burden, or like they’re crossing their fingers behind their back to ward off whatever bad things you might bring onto them? He’s made it his mission to hover around you no matter what, but this feels different.

Maybe, for so long, part of it has been your own gloom that’s obscured it all. Maybe if you didn’t bare your teeth to anybody who got too close, it could’ve been like this always. You hate to think that your own isolation could be some part your own fault. But how were you not to show your teeth when someone tried to reach their hand out to you?

It doesn’t matter now. You shove that all down and let yourself feel the slight warmth of the sun’s glow on your skin where it peeks through the clouds. It’s a nice day, you shouldn’t ruin it with those thoughts.

The sun’s begun making its descent when Soobin’s done. He takes a long drink of water, hissing with relief and crumpling down to the ground with his back to your stump.

“Are you making any way with that girl you were talking to me about?” you prompt.

Giving you a long look over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t.”

“What?” You laugh a little, raising your brows down at him. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You know what you’re doing,” he says, voice flat as he picks stickers out of his fingers.

Soobin’s had a thousand different crushes. There was that daughter of the shepherd, and then the wealthy merchant’s daughter and her long pretty hair, and then the neighbor… Well, you could go on. None of them ever really came to fruition for the poor guy. He thinks that it’s because he’s a poor farmer’s son, but you always tell him that it’s because he’s got an insistent mouth, and that he should be more grateful that you deal with him. Your lips turn up at the corners a little thinking about it—he’ll find the one eventually, but you like the indignant look on his face when you say it.

“I mean it!” you say, nudging him with your leg. “Tell me. I want to know.”

“You won’t even tell me what’s happening with you. Until one of us quits keeping secrets,” he says, placing accusation heavy over the words, “I’ll keep my dealings to myself. What’s it to you, anyway?”

Feeling the weight of his head as he lets it loll lazily against your thigh, you decide that it couldn’t hurt to tell him. The itch to tell somebody crawls under your skin. Especially to tell him. “You know the other day? When I was… being awful?”

His body shakes with a vindicated laugh. “If you’re nothing else, at least you’re self-aware.”

You skirt around that with your own, more awkward, laugh. It’s nice that he thinks so, but you don’t feel it. “Stop,” you huff and nudge him again. “I was foraging out where I usually go. But I guess I wandered out farther than I thought I did. You remember when they used to tell us stories, right? Like the bogeyman. That he’d come snatch us up if we didn’t listen.” Your mom especially had loved that one, back when she cared what became of you. Would she care again, if you told her that everything was fine? “Well, I don’t know if you remember the one about The Wild Hunt, but… Anyway, I was picking some stuff, and…”

Sitting up from his exhausted slouch, Soobin looks like he’s suddenly come back to life. “What?” he interrupts. His voice is strangely serious.

“What?” you say, brow creasing. “They travel here and there… but they were here. In the woods. Like, I heard them.”

Tersely, he asks, “What were you doing that deep in the woods?”

“I mean, I just kept on finding nice stuff until I just… was deeper.” You survey him. You hadn’t thought that he’d react like this. “So I ran, and then there was this guy,” you say, watching realization fall over his face. He knew those stories as much as you do—knew where you were going with this. He is as starkly superstitious as the rest of your people, you forgot. Pushing past the grimace on his face, you say, “And I knew that he was the king. The one from the stories. It was so weird; it’s like you can feel it. And I spoke to him, and then…”

Stood up now, he cuts you off once more. “Are you kidding?”

“Why are you being like that?” you say, messing with your skirts to quell the defensive bite in your tone. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t do anything? Are you trying to get killed?” He throws up his hard-working hands. “We have rules for a reason. Don’t go out into the forest, don’t make deals with faeries, don’t follow a banshee scream. And then you go and talk to the king of death? How am I not supposed to be upset about that? You know that…” Soobin blinks a few times as if second-guessing what he’s about to say, but he says it anyway. “You know that he’s the reason that they treat you how they do. You know that he’s the one who ruined your life. Why would you ever mess with that?”

You push yourself up from the ground, eyes burning. That stings like a cut. “He didn’t do it. None of it is his fault,” you say, furrowing your brows. “What are you trying to say, Soobin? Just say what you want to say. Come on.”

“He didn’t do anything?” He scoffs, letting a heavy silence hang suspended in the air for a moment before saying, “Is that what he told you? And you just believed it? Listen to yourself, does that make any sense? He’s played with your life like it’s some fucking toy, and now he’s come to rub it in your face. Think about it: do animals just fly into anybody else’s windows and die? Do the trees that they pick from just end up dead? It’s his fault that they all treat you the way you do.”

Mouth opening and closing, you don’t know what to say. 

He sees the hurt in your burning eyes and tries to reel it back in. “What I’m trying to say is—”

“I know what you’re saying,” you say, grabbing up the lunch you’ve been nibbling on. “I know exactly what you’re saying. I just never thought you’d say it out loud.”

“Say what?” Soobin says, his voice raising behind you as you storm off.

That you think it’s my fault, you want to say. That they all die because I am a plague, and you are a charity worker for being my friend. Instead, you just leave and try to choke down the tightness in your throat.

༺ ꘏ ༻

You curl your arms around yourself, the night biting cold. Yeonjun had dragged you from bed, and who knows what hour of the night it is? If the heaviness beneath your eyes is to judge it by, it’s far too deep in the dead of night to be outside with your boots half-laced and nothing but your sleep chemise on.

You might’ve just stayed wrapped up in your blankets if you weren’t so lonely as you’ve been. Soobin’s been scarce. The most you see of him is in the fields from morning to afternoons. You hope that he’ll stop by your doorstep and knock so that you can groan about it but swing the door open anyway each time, but he doesn’t. He thinks that you won’t want to see him, and so he allows you your space.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s hard to be the one to come back after a conversation like that, though. You watch him from the windows and hope he understands at some point instead. It’s an awful lot easier.

Other than preparing meals and window watching, you’ve been up to nothing much at all. You hadn’t realized how much you had, but you feel him in his absence. 

“It’s cold…” you say. The fog of breath that punctuates it makes your point. Whatever he’s brought you out here for, you have no doubt it’ll be something strange. The grin on his face tells you as much.

Leading the way, he heads for the Darkwood. “Only you would come rushing out without a cloak for your shoulders.”

“Well, only you would drag me from my nice, warm bed at this time of night. For what?”

“Can’t anything be a surprise with you?” he says, shooting you a cheeky glance over his shoulder. “Surprises are fun.”

“Surprises!” you say, working your legs to catch him. “Not surprises that involve you bringing me out into the woods. You know, it’s awfully suspicious. Somebody who sees this might think that I am the type to… sneak out with men.”

“Aren’t you now?”

Your lips tug down. “You know what I mean.”

He laughs in his airy way, a twig snapping under his foot. You’re well in the woods, now. Probably somewhere near where you’d first met him.

Lifting a brow, you look at him expectantly. Maybe a will-o���-the-wisp will come floating through with its light bouncing off the trees. That would be a nice surprise, you admit.

Yeonjun circles you. His presence behind you tingles in the way it always does, but true chills erupt when his breath puffs against your ear. “Close your eyes. I have something I want to show you.”

Your mind wanders back to what Soobin had gotten so twisted up about. It might be naive and reckless and against everything you ever learned, but you let your eyes fall shut to blackness. If he was going to hurt you, you imagine he’d have had that opportunity a mind-numbing amount of times before.

“Are they shut?” he asks, waiting for your nod. His voice comes from in front of you now. “I want you to keep them shut. You can’t open your eyes, or it will all go away. Okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, mind full of a bounty of questions. You don’t even know where to begin to assume what he’s got going on, so you stand there shifting your antsy feet.

There’s a strange, rustling sound that catches you off guard with your eyes closed. It drags on for a long moment. Curiosity pries at your eyes; you want nothing more than to just crack an eye open to spy the source of the ruckus. 

It’ll be gone if you do, anyway.

You let out a surprised squeak as something rises up beneath you, as if risen from nothing more than the dirt and roots of the forest floor, bringing you up from the earth. You wobble and send your hands out to find a perch.

A horse. It’s a horse, its mane so tangled and windswept, but matted and clumped with leaves that crunch under your palm when you find them. It reeks of mud—everything around you begins to smell of earth and decomposition.

You know that if you open your eyes, you’ll find yourself sat upon the pale white steed of the Undead King, its eyes white and its knobby knees almost as famous as the leader of The Hunt himself. It chuffs beneath you.

“Are you ready?” Yeonjun says over your shoulder. You can hear the feral grin in his voice. It’s the leader of The Hunt, a creature of folklore, that sits behind you now. He curls an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, securing you against the wall of his chest. “Hold on tight, my love.”

The call of the wild, that horn, bellows again like it had the first time you heard it. Rather than coming from nearby as you thought it would, it dances between trees far off just like it had that time, too. Your heart jumps up into your throat.

Taking off with a howl, the Wild Hunt follows it.

You dig your fingers into Yeonjun’s at your waist. Weight melts away, and you know you’re in the air. Your belly swoops in tandem with the howls and hoots of the riders, heart palpitating to the hoofbeats. How there’s hoofbeats as you ride through the air, you’re not sure. The ghostly fleet manifests around you in vivid imagery, though you squeeze your eyes shut. They are wild enough to imagine just what they might look like: with their clothes and flesh in tatters, with their eyes beady or pale, with their hounds piercing the air with their calls and running alongside them, they are a perfect personification of freedom.

Whip-lash sends you reeling, body going rigid. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes harder, wishing that you’ll touch ground soon and that everything would become real again.

Yeonjun feels you go stiff. Bringing his head back to your shoulder from his own delight, he says, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Let it into your bones. Do you think I would let it hurt you?”

He is their leader. If it got too much, you know Yeonjun would be there to catch you. Curling your fingers into his, you release that tension and allow their drumbeat to echo through you.

And when it does, your blood begins to sing along. The wind whips your cheeks and your hair, and you begin to laugh with them. The Hunt twists and turns and dances through the air, an apparition in the night, but nothing more than that.

It comes to a slow, eventually, until the noise and even your steed crumbles back down into the dirt it appeared from. Your eyes pop open hoping to catch at least a glimpse of them, but only the dark forest and pale moonlight answer. Your legs threaten to give out on you, veins still thrumming, but, oh, do you feel alive.

You feel more alive than you ever have, more than you ever could have hoped to have known. Mind spinning, you stumble. Yeonjun catches and steadies you before you can go scraping your knees on a rock.

“Oh my fucking god,” you say.

The laugh that Yeonjun breaks into has you sending him a glare, but you break too. Everything about him is ironic; and how ironic indeed that Death himself should show you how to be alive, rather than to just live?

༺ ꘏ ༻

The air is so fresh in your lungs when you step outside that it nearly burns. You clutch your basket of warm fig tarts. Songbirds trill and fly between tree tops that slowly become more bare the deeper you fall into the season, singing their sweet songs that sound like new beginnings.

Raising your hem from the ground churned up into mud from the afternoon’s trickle, you prance into town with a lively pep in your step. You spent all last night making these—Yeonjun had kept you company, watching you how he always does as you pored over making them just right. His cruel snicker when the jam had simmered over flame for too long and became too thick bounces off your bones in a sweet melody. You’ve come to adore his wicked delight, the way his smile cracks over his face and the facetious raise of his brows, more than you fear it.

Sending small smiles to the people that you pass, you stop by a huddle of kids digging sticks into the mud. They look up at you with curious eyes, stopping to gawk.

“Hey, guys,” you say, pulling back the cloth laid over the sweets. “I’ve made some fig tarts. Do you like fig? I bet you’ll like them; they’re sweet.”

The kids stand up, eyes big as they share a look. They don’t let out so much as a peep before they scurry off home.

You blink. Well, you’re used to weird reactions, but that was… different. Picking up your deflated shoulders and hesitant limbs, you make a shoddy attempt at not letting it dampen your good morning. You were expecting wary looks, anyway.

You head down a little further toward the far side of your home village, the side that breaks off after a fenceline into a great, grassy field. There’s a bustle, mothers washing their clothes in pails and hanging them up to dry and a few others whispering at each other lowly as they go about their days.

An old woman so old her back curves and her fingers have gone knobby makes her way to wherever the day’s duty demands her to be. Your neighbor—an eccentric old lady bound in her times. You decide on her: the elderly are forgotten by the young. She might enjoy knowing that her neighbors still know she exists.

“Hello,” you say, showing her your basket with a hopeful, excited heart. “I have some treats that I was wanting to give out. I know they might not be much, but would you like one? I’m not the best baker, but I do it often enough.” A face like that, dragged down by her years on this earth and not long to death, has no doubt spent many years making meals for her family. You imagine your goods would be nothing beside hers, but it’s the gesture, no?

“Oh, girl,” she says, voice crackling as she clutches her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’m afraid it’s best if you found yourself missing from this place. Hurry yourself up and spare the drama.”

The incessant cawing of a crow from a clawed tree fades into the background as you furrow your brows and lower your basket to ask, “...Huh?” Your belly goes up in knots; terrible knots done up tight and fast. You haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about. Elders always did speak a bit strange, though. It could be nothing much; she’s a stern old lady.

But her eyes are not angry and glaring in the way that a harrowed old hag might turn her nose up at the youth. They drag down with a cold pity.

“Listen to me, girl.” She points at you with one of those worn, sun-spotted hands. “You had best leave. The boy’s gone, and they are already not fond of you. Who will they point their fingers to?” the woman says. “I hardly know you, but I would hate to see it.”

The rest of her words fade into the roaring in your ears, the feral drumbeat of your heart like a wardrum in the cage of your ribs as it beats against them as if to escape from you. You don’t feel the basket in your hands, don’t feel the solidity of the earth beneath your feet, and don’t feel a single one of your thoughts like tangible things. They flit as if liquidated into a rotten, sick mush.

Nothing. You can think of nothing. Nothing real; nothing holding you to the earth.

“What?” Your voice hardly reaches your ears, but what does is weak and broken and like a plea for her to tell you that it’s not really what you think it is.

And if you could see or hear anything beyond your fraying little rift in reality, you would’ve heard the man coming up to you. You would’ve heard the words coming from his angry, sneering mouth, and would’ve done something when he picked up a pail of water, and you would’ve been shaken by the nasty ice water that runs down your frozen body and plasters your hair and clothes down as he pours it over you. But none of it cuts through your stupor.

He yells some awful, stabbing things at you, and a few others join him. They tell you that you are nothing but a plague, tell you to leave and to not come back here.

But this is your home. Where else would you go?

With your sopping wet dress clutched in your shaking fists as though that might keep you grounded, you choke down the tightening of your throat and sift through their faces, searching for his face. Those brown eyes, brown and always shining with nagging playfulness, do not come up anywhere. Jaw trembling, you search harder. Out on the field where he should be at this time of day, at your doorstep demanding that you go spend the day doing nothing with him, in someone’s yard helping them fix up a broken fence, no matter where you look, neither his broad silhouette nor his cheeky, dimpled face is there. You continue to stand stricken dumb, looking for him even though you know by the churning in your belly that it’s true, and you’re just hurting yourself trying to find him right where he should be.

Fine. Alive. Untouched by your disgusting, destructive presence.

When you can no longer fight the strangling tightness in your lungs and your dress is as heavy as your heart, you take off. The hem of your dress drags in mud and sticker bushes and catches on stray twigs, and you don’t know where you’re going, but you just run. You’ll give them what they want. 

You stumble, probably like some lost, undead thing, until you find yourself at the edge of the forest. Only then do you let the wall of whittle-edged tears roll down your face. And you assume you sound like a choking, dying animal with how you choke and heave on them, but he was the one you might’ve dropped your head and cried to, so what’s the use of making it pretty? No; you let it all fall as it is.

Soobin’s dead. Soobin’s dead, and it’s nobody else’s but your own fault. You clutch your chest to staunch that old ache that’s grown teeth and tears at your heart; you have and will always be the end of everything that comes near. You are just as much the plague that you began to pretend, to believe, you weren’t. It was your stupid hope that maybe you could have something and not watch it become carrion that drove that pick. It was by your hope that he’s gone.

The hair on your arms begins to raise. You pick your head up and find Yeonjun standing in front of you.

There’s a few beats of long, dreadful quiet as he takes in the state of you. He drags his eyes down and they become liquid flame—something different from the impious delight that he is made of. He becomes the King of Death.

“What happened?” he says. The chills on your arms prickle furiously at the words, furling out distant and yet furious like the center of the fire.

You shake your head, wiping your soaked cheek.

“What the fuck happened?” he growls again, taking your face into his hand. “Who did this? Who did this to you, my love? I need you to tell me who the fuck did this to you.”

Letting the venom in your mouth out, you shove his chest and say, “Get away from me. Don’t fucking touch me.”

Yeonjun’s face twists up, looking scalded. Not surprised, though. “Don’t do this,” he says. “Let me hold you while it hurts. Don’t push me away. I can’t… I won’t lose you again.”

All the pieces that you had been putting into the corners of your mind snap together at that. As many suspicions as you had, though, it feels sour hearing it confirmed from his mouth. That you are his dead past lover, reincarnated or whatever you are. That it was his presence—because even though he stayed away for centuries, a part of him still lingered with you—that now has torn down everything you ever thought you could love. He, standing there in front of you like a kicked puppy, is the ruination of your life in the flesh. The flipping of your stomach is nauseating.

“I hate you,” you spit. “I hate you so much.” You repeat it a few more times, and you sob it into his chest as he takes you into his arms. “Is this what you wanted? You’ve been waiting for this forever, haven’t you? To find me again, so that you can die and fucking leave me here. So that you can make me exactly what you are, while you get your peace. You are a liar and a thief. All you’ve ever done is steal and take. How could you do it? Huh? Tell me…” Your voice trembles and staggers off. “Tell me how you made love to me, how you made me believe that you loved me, and all you ever wanted was to save yourself? You betrayed me.”

Pulling back, Yeonjun says, “No.”

“Yes,” you say, stumbling back away from him with a shaking, accusatory finger pointed at him. “Yes you did.”

Fingers itching to reach out to you, he holds them back by curling them into fists. “No. That’s not fair. I have spent an eternity loving you. I spent the entirety of my immortal, monstrous life searching for you, just so that I might find you in any form. I would have been glad to find you as a leaf in a tree, as long as I found you. But, then, I find you alive. Alive and back, as if… it never happened.” He steps toward you, aching to be near you. His voice wavers. “Please, don’t do this to me, love. Please, just let me have you again. I’ve waited… I’ve waited and I’ve waited, and I finally have you, and now you’re looking at me like I… Like I’d ever hurt you. Finding death—finally getting to die would be worth nothing if you weren’t there with me. It was never about that.”

“I could never love you,” you say, matching his steps forward with steps away from him. “I could never love a monster that does… Does nothing but kill. Take.”  You know your words are cruel, but you need them to be. You need him to hurt, you need him to go so far away from you that never again will you cause another living thing’s death. 

“You did.” Yeonjun’s mouth cracks into a pained smile, sharp at the corners. “You loved me just as much as I love you, once.”

“Just leave me. Leave me, and I wish to never see you again. If you love me, then you’ll give me that.” 

He looks at you, clever eyes intense and glassy, for a long time. And then he says, “Would that make you happy? Would it make it so that you could live a happy life, and find yourself something to live for?”

What’s left for you? A small village that won’t ever embrace you? No, it wouldn’t fix your life. But you open your mouth and tell him, “Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, brushing his knuckles over your cheeks reverently. He swallows in your features, running over them for what he knows is the last time he’ll be seeing you—the very last time he’ll see the face of his undying love. When he finally opens his mouth again, his voice is gentle. “I’ll leave you. If my being here hurts you, then I won’t be selfish. I love you, darling.”

Don’t go, you want to tell him. Please don’t leave. Please, hold me. But your mouth is dry, and you let the radiant hurt in your chest stop you. You let him go.

༺ ꘏ ༻

There’s only one place you can think of going to. It’s the only place your vagrant feet take you.

His spot still is held sacred by the flattened, gold wheat stalks. Your best friend, still living here on Earth in at least one way even if he’s not here to listen to your stupid rambling. And he would maybe complain, but he’d always listen.

The last thing you’d done was fight with him. What an awful thing—what an awful way to repay him for being the only one who ever dared to get close.

You sit in your spot, beside his, and rest your chin on your knees. If only the ground beneath you would open up and swallow you whole. You’d deserve it.

What’s left for you? Is there a place in the world that would keep you happily once they see what you do? No. There is not. You wish you knew what to do; you wish you had somebody to ask.

Releasing a long, tight breath, you just sit and wait for something to give you answers. A gentle breeze makes your hair dance, but it does not whisper anything to your ears. Something’s circling over head, but it doesn’t caw in the cadence of his laughter.

The day moves along without you. You’re not sure how long you sit, but it stretches somewhere between a few minutes and eternity. No matter how long you wait, there are no answers. No matter how long you mull over it.

Conceding, you begin to push yourself up from the ground. A rustle in between the foliage stops you before you stand.

A tawny hare leaps out in front of you. It sniffs around you, nose twitching. Then it stands back on its haunches. It stares straight at you, an intelligent light in its eyes that knits your brows. The wild thing stands there with a purpose that is uncharacteristic of a forest animal.

But entirely familiar in the face of your best friend. That shine in its eyes as it stands there, nose still twitching, makes your chest tighten up.

“Hey,” you say, as if it might answer you. Your eyes well up with hot tears again. Of course, it doesn’t. 

Maybe you’ve gone mad, but you know that it’s him. That idiot, coming to show you that he’s okay in the afterlife—to visit one last time and to let you know that you shouldn’t worry for him or cry for him. Look at him, full of life once again, he seems to say. The hare blinks its beady eyes. It lingers there for a long time, the ease of peace found in his gaze that Soobin hadn’t had in this life, saying that there is still something waiting out there for us once we go. You reach out a hand. He does not flinch as you scratch behind its ear.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m glad to know you’re alright. I know what I need to do, now.”

He blinks.

You laugh a hoarse, breathy laugh, familiar in only the way that Soobin could achieve. “You look stupid.”

Indignantly, the hare stops a bratty foot in a way reminiscent of one of Soobin’s huffs before it settles back down onto its forelegs and scurries off. He goes to live out this new form of life, because it’s true: life does not end in death. He’s shown you that.

Maybe, like this, he’ll find that pretty lady that loves him the way he deserves. That loser.

༺ ꘏ ༻

You spend only one night in your home and you know that what you’ve chosen is right. After spending your day out in the field, you sneak under night’s cover into your husk of a room and let yourself sleep there under the covers one last time. When morning breaks through the window, you gather your weary bones up and leave. 

You run into your mother on the way out. She doesn’t yell at you to leave, but her eyes have gone cold. Colder than you’re used to. You’ve killed again, in every way that counts. So you don’t bother with bidding her or any of them any grand goodbyes. You couldn’t handle the relief you might find falling over them, should you.

Plopping down to the floor, you take a few bites of the cheese and bread lathered in sweet jam that you’d swiped from the kitchen. The grass is long and willows in the wind, bending and dancing prettily. It’s so soft; you enjoy the feeling of it beneath your fingers in your quiet serenity. The scent of it, fresh over the baseness of dirt, you breathe into your lungs.

It would be the loveliest place to spend the rest of eternity.

For the first time, Yeonjun appears in front of you rather than behind you. He materializes from nothing, his elbow on his knee as casual as if he’d been sat there the whole time. The darkness beneath his eyes seems heavier, but then again you know that exact heaviness. It sits right in the very center of you.

You both are quiet for a bit. You let the tall grass whisper, instead.

“Bread?” you say and slant your lips into a smile. Bringing it up, you offer it to him.

His smile wrinkles his nose and curls at the edges. Entirely him. Yeonjun accepts the bread, ripping a bite out before throwing it away into the sea of green. Once he’s chewed, he leans in and captures your lips in a kiss that’s utterly at odds with his sharp mouth. Your lips move over each other gently, save for an indulgent nip or bite here and there.

He pushes you back into a bed of sweetgrass, never letting your lips go. Not to breathe, not to say something that’ll pale in comparison to the sweetness of your mouths on one another. He kisses you until he’s had enough to fulfill a lifetime without it, and then some more.

“My love,” he whispers into your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Mine,” he says, pressing a kiss into the column of your neck, and then he says it again with a hot kiss to the place where your dress suggests your breasts. He says it a handful more times as he pushes your skirts up your thighs. “My love forever. I waited for you so long, and I would do it again.” Lowering his voice to a honeyed whisper, he adds, “I would find you no matter what.”

Laughing softly, you run your fingers through his raven hair to better see his eyes. You know he would.

Gently giving you one more of his lingering kisses that make your skin tingle, right into your bare shoulder, he presses into you. You loose a soft breath, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The beating in your chest slows to a content purr as he begins languid thrusts in and out of you, rolling pointedly and unhurried.

Yeonjun makes love to you in a thousand dusted kisses and sweet words, your hands holding each other’s soft edges. Yeonjun traces the lines of you, taking the pads of his thumb down your cheeks and your lips and then his hand over the swell of your breasts and down your belly and over your thighs. Clamping down on him as your belly grows tight in the way it had the first time you had done this, your thighs begin to shake.

 Breathlessly, as you hurdle over the edge, all that you can say is, “I love you, ‘Junnie.” 

Yeonjun smiles at you and then presses his face into your neck. He doesn’t even brace himself against the grass to chase his own peak. Neither of you want this to end; you want to hold on to this moment and let it span forever. Slowly, Yeonjun rolls up into you until his hips finally stutter and he cums into you, his cheeks pink. The weight of him above you as he shakes with your shared ecstasy, and even as you both have come down and are nothing but lazy, is the only thing in this world. He is the only thing in this world.

Once you’ve both evened your breathing out, you roll apart and face each other, still just two forms bending the grass into your shapes. Blinking slowly and digesting his features one at a time—the angle of his eyes, softened but never tamed, the line of his nose, the line of his mouth always so proud and playful, and that pretty dot below his left eye—you let them solidify fully in your mind.

“Yeonjun,” you say, finally meeting his eyes across from you. “I want to go. I’m ready.”

The gentle, knowing look that he gives you soothes over the way your heart begins to race in your chest in rebellion. “I know,” he says.

Of course he had known. Yeonjun had been called here to ferry you into the afterlife. He had known the moment he appeared in front of you that his last soul to reap would be you; an ironic circle of karma that should be cruel, but you two make it something sweet. Chewing on your lip, you will your hands to not shake as you curl toward him. You’re no longer scared of going. You know that if you’ll be with him, it will be okay. It won’t be so scary. A hot tear rolls down your temple and then drops into your hair. “Will you be with me? I won’t be there alone?”

He tucks some hair behind your ear reverently and then leaves his hand there. “I don’t know,” he answers. “But I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here with you.”

You lay there for a long time. Chatting and giggling and just looking into each other's eyes, until your heart becomes slow and all you feel is the wind singing in your blood. Yeonjun presses one final kiss to your forehead.

Maybe, in some years, somebody might dig up your bones and find you immortalized like this in your love. Your bones bowing toward each other, as if even death were not enough to stop you from reaching for each other. Or maybe they’ll just find yours, and Yeonjun still curling into them how you know he will for an eternity more.

Either way, the going is still slow and gentle, as death always is.

🪶 ⦂ tears. omfg i cried writing this which could totally be me being a bitch baby but it DAMN. omfg.

rꫀׁׅܻblogs & asks arꫀׁׅܻ always apprꫀׁׅܻciatꫀׁׅܻd!

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[bwobgames]

They see a slumped, defeated looking Owen and a pensive Simon on one of the tables.

“Now that’s not the mood for a fancy train ride. Cheer up, strange creatures!”

“No can do, for the future only brings ruin. Forked paths. Uncertain fate. Such an herculean feat of Atlas proportions”

“What”

“We’re thinking”

“Are you?”

“They’re bummed out because they have to choose a career for university”

“WHA- WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?”

“Around”

“Is that what’s worrying you? Career prospects?”

“It’s more than that! I took a year off to ~find myself~ but uh. I mostly played videogames and got a cool haircut”

“And now I have to actually do the damn thing, and I still haven’t found out what I want to do!”

“It’s alright Owen, the university life is not for everyone.”

“No no, I know that! But I need to know what is it that I want to do for the rest of my life!”

“That does sound like a Herculean feat of Atlas proportions”

“Well, what is it that you like to do?”

“Uh. Listen to Medieval versions of popular music?”

“…As like. A hobbie”

“Don’t worry, a lot of people don’t end up working as the thing they studied. I was a security guard for a good while!”

“Security! That’s it!”

“A security expert? That’s a noble job”

“I’LL BECOME THE NEXT DOMINION!”

“The guy is nowhere to be found, and people found he sold all the stuff he stole so he must be loaded, right?”

“And! I get to have a cool costume!”

“You think it’s cool…?”

("He thinks it's cool?!")

“Owen that’s how you get in jail. And at least a few broken bones. A person needs to be borderline crazy to believe they can pull off the stuff Dominion did”

“Because he was like no other, truly. Amazing, mysterious, charming…”

“A complete lunatic”

“less than three”

“wh- Did you say the heart emoji out loud?”

“Well, if I can’t be Twominion then what do you think I should be, Mr. B- Oliver Beebo?”

Hmm… Something that Owen would enjoy…

“I think you’d do it well”

“Well, that does sound fun, but uh, isn’t that a bit… low on employment?”

“That is true, but. Does it really matter for your type?”

“My type?”

“Rich people."

"You have connections. Your parents have connections. No matter how low-end a career path might be, you’ll get to do anything because of your family’s name”

“Ollie, you’re not wrong but I don’t think that’s what the kid wants to hear right now…”

“Why not? It means he’s free to do whatever he wants. Look at Nadia”

“Oliver…”

“She’s studying film. In a country with barely any movie productions. Less so known ones aside from some closed circles. On a private University.”

“Yet she’ll be able to do all the movies she wants and be successful because the Margulis name is strong”

“…Excuse you. Are you implying I’m not able to be successful on my own?”

“Ah, you certainly have talent Nadia, I wouldn’t say anything against that”

“But that talent can be found in millions of people. People who might be even more talented. But we’ll never know because they won’t be able to reach the place it has been given to you on talent alone”

“You will. Because you have money. Because you were born with money.”

“…You-“

“SIMON! HAHA WHAT ABOUT YOU SIMON? HUH? WHAT DO YOU WANT TO STUDY HAHA”

“C’mon Beeb, only I’m allowed to fight the child”

(“Fight?")

Simon thinks for a second

“…Marine Biology”

“Although mom always gets weird when I say it. I think she might hate fishes”

“Bu- But you are good at cooking yeah? Didn’t you love cooking?”

“I am good at it but… The cooking scene isn’t very nice…”

“And I refuse to cook Lobster! It’s terrible and cruel!”

“Well, what if you become a vet! And specialize in fish! Or become the owner of an aquarium!”

“That just seems like a roundabout way to get to marine biology”

“You could have your own restaurant! Fish free!”

“I think it’s fine."

"If you like it and you think you can make it, then go ahead. Biology is hard though, think about that”

“I’m pretty good at it”

He seems relieved.

While he can’t speak for the others, his blonde roots and white shirt made his eyes look… almost green.

Eugene never got to study what he loved. He’ll make sure Simon does.

<-PREV START NEXT->

[anothermaletfwriter]

Don't Climb the Stairs in the Woods

Carter isn’t what you would expect from his appearance. He hated how even in the year of 2025, people made assumptions based on what he looked like. Yes, he was a twink but that didn’t mean he was gay. In fact, he was the opposite. He was the elusive straight twink, having the slender youthful pale white frame often held up by gay men as one of their beauty standards while having only attraction for the opposite sex. He was entirely straight, not even remotely bi-curious. It was a constant social problem but it particularly plagued him in his love life. The hot girls he wanted to bang friend zoned him as they wanted their own little gay best friend. Surprisingly despite his looks, he wasn’t very tolerant of the gays or their lifestyles. Unfortunately, he would learn tolerance and acceptance the hard way.

Today was one of the few dates he snatched with a woman. His tactic of deepening his voice and making his flirting extremely obvious worked this time. He was in the middle of talking to the cute blonde named Carrie at a coffee shop when her muscle-bound gay Asian best friend, Tristan, came along. He sashayed in his walk, wrists limping and hips swaying, as he hugged his bestie. While Tristan’s only direct interaction with Carter was a friendly wave and “Hello, how are you?”, Carter felt the atmosphere had been spoiled. He got sick of the man at first sight and hated it even more when Tristan opened up his mouth and all that came out was his overtly-flamboyant cadence. Carter abandoned his date and left the shop instantly, explaining that he didn’t want to date a girl with gay friends like Tristan.

Now he was walking through the woods, attempting to find a peace of mind like he always did. He took on his usual trail, passing some pine trees and a pond that had geese and ducks. Strangely enough, there were no sounds of creatures. No things hissed or slithered. Even the ducks that honked at him were silent. Everything in the forest was quiet save for the crunch under his feet and the breezy wind that haunted him. Something is wrong here.

He tried to turn back on the trail but the forest had reorganized itself, his path now blocked by a thick brush of trees. It was too thick to get through. He turned forward and a staircase stood there. It was made of concrete with graffiti of rainbows and nets of vines on the side. Chills ran through his heart that warned him to not get on it. He became paralyzed as voices without a source whispered for him to go on it. There was something exciting only seen at the top. No matter how hard he tried to push his legs back, they could only move forward, his body out of his control.

“I don’t deserve this. I wanna go home,” He tried to speak out but his tongue didn’t follow. He hoped that this was all a bad dream and not karma for acting like an asshole earlier.

As his sentient body slowly went up the stairs, the voices got louder. As he got on the top, the voices felt like they were screaming in his ear but with both feet on the final step, only the ground afterwards, it stopped. Everything was frozen in time like someone had paused the channel. The only noises he heard were his heartbeat and stomach churning before it all returned. The trees swayed in the softer wind and the ducks quacked and tackled each other in the pond.

His entire body felt cooler, and he felt his raised goosebumps. He was naked! All of his clothes gone and out of sight. God this was embarrassing. He covered his average-size junk with his hands, realizing he was in control of his body again.

Happy that nothing severely bad occurred, Carter carefully went back down the stairs.

He noticed that the steps seemed lower down than before, as his legs made larger strides. His skin was changing, while initially thinking it was a trick of the light, he finally realized his skin tone was shifting into a darker and tan shade. His flat cardboard of a chest popped up like two meaty balloons as his skinny abs hardened into a vascular 8 pack. His jawline felt sore as it elongated into a more rectangular shape and chiseled out for a more mature appearance. His stick-thin legs became tree trunks. His curly brown hair shortened into jet black and straight short hair dyed with a tinge of brown. On the arms he held on the rail, they exploded with muscle. His bicep grew more prominent with veins that pumped testosterone through out his whole body the closer he got on the bottom. His ass felt heavy as it had expanded with muscle.

After getting off the stairs, Carter ran to the pond and was shocked by the stranger in the reflection of the water. He was a Chinese hunk now!

His member poked out as he became aroused from his own reflection. The more he stroked, the more of his memories transformed. All the nights he spent in his car banging woman turned into Sniffies and Grindr meetups where they flip-fucked in his car. His attraction to woman replaced by an attraction to men, notably Asian muscle men like himself, like a real man. His name was not Carter, it was Cade. Before he could climax, his phone dinged, ruining his streak.

He sighed, opening past the lockscreen off his near naked body in front of a tropical sunset to a Grindr notification. It was from Azn muscle, “U at the trail yet?”

“Yeah. Got so horny I almost got off lol.”

“Lmao save your hot cum for me. Be there soon.”

Cade exhaled with impatience. After a blink, a backpack and bike manifested on the ground next to him. After another blink, a pair of tight white shorts appeared on his body, not leaving much to the imagination. He began to remember that he was biking shirtless as usual to his Grindr hookup spot and passed the time by admiring the gorgeous nature and his handsome reflection.

Once his hookup, whose name was Tristan and was complaining of a bitchy straight white twink earlier, arrived, it didn’t take long for them to get on their knees on the warm sun-heated ground, taking turns as they pounded each other’s bubble butt with their monster Asian cocks. Cade reveled in being used by a fellow muscle Asian, their mouths fondling their asses and cocks. After they filled each other with their hot potent seed, they parted ways, messaging each other to meet at the same spot again next week.

Cade returned to his apartment to prepare for the rest of the hookups for the day. In an hour, he had to meet in the bathroom of a closing down mattress store. In three hours, he was back in the trail. He would finish his last hookup in an upscale luxury apartment at the stroke of midnight before sleeping on the stranger’s bed.

Cade sometimes had nightmares that he was a straight white twink lost in an eternally paused forest but they went away after a few weeks. After all, he had always been Cade and no one else. He was a gay Asian muscle slut and was proud of it.

[lola-theshowgrl]

World-Building #1 - Vadramia

Hello, and welcome to the very first of my world-building posts! I'm not sure how frequently I'll do these, but for now I'm thinking maybe once a month, or so? Today I'm going to give you an overall view of the main continent the foreseeable stories will be set in, Vadramia.

Vadramia is made up of nine countries, each ruled by various races, though there are many more mythical creatures who also make their homes there. Despite the fantasy setting, magic is extremely rare across the peoples of the land, and usually comes with some great burden of expectation whenever it manifests itself.

There is a single, widely followed religion, though this is split into two temples, which has often been the cause of conflict across the land. The Hallowkin Cloister follow the ways of the goddess Vitari, bringer of life, and the Hollowkith Cloister follow the goddess Mortis, bringer of death. They are both queen and consort to one another, their powers dependant on the other, and so unity is encouraged by both temples. The Protectorate are the religious soldiers who quell any disputes, and enforce the religious scripture of both temples, referred to as The Maxim. This is overseen by the high priests of each cloister, and the grand-high priest, who has supreme power over all religious matters across all nine countries of Vadramia.

The first country is Peregrine, in the south, and home to the humans, or "Peregri". Peregrine is a warm climate, rich in trade as their people can adapt to most weather or surroundings, and so can comfortably move between all realms of Vadramia.

To their west is Remni, home to the gnomes, and the smallest and only landlocked country in Vadramia. I've kept my gnomes fairly traditional, living as one with the land, and one of the only two small-statured races on the continent. They are easy to get along with, and often left to their own devices, which they prefer.

In the south-west is Anzude, a large, tropical forest nation, inhabited by wood elves, who are deemed to be the most vicious and dangerous of all the ruling races, and are largely given a very wide berth where possible. The wood elves of Anzude have an almost Roman influence, where feats of physical prowess and fortitude are prized, and lineage is everything.

The west coast is the realm of Isorna, home of the bovaur, a race of humanoid, horned people with hoof-like feet and cow ears. The bovaur people have one of the greatest educational systems in place on all of Vadramia, and many of the high nobility across the continent will be much more inclined to hire one of their people to tutor their children as a matter of course.

In the north-west is Runzod, a strange, cold, mountainous country that is essentially split into two. Upper Runzod is the home of the Dragai, or dragon shifters, who make their homes in the high peaks and vast valleys of the land. Lower Runzod is the home of the dwarves, whose kingdom lays far beneath the ground, cities and mines all the way to the borders. The two realms have a somewhat tumultuous relationship, but currently are at peace thanks to the two sitting monarchs.

To the central north of Vadramia lays Dizut, the home to the orcs. They aren't going to be what most of you will expect from the race, as while they are strong, proficient warriors, they are also a nomadic people. For the most part, the orc clans of Dizut are cattle-drivers, living in tents and moving from place to place with their families and their livestock. This said, there is a lot of infighting between the clans, and this is what often keeps the rest of Vadramia from worrying too much about the possibility of them turning their weapons outwards of their borders.

In the north-east is Tarve, home to the wulver, a shape-shifting race of wolf people. The wulver have a feudal culture, each Pack ruled by a single leader, and internal territories that are fought over regularly. There is an established pecking order within each Pack too, and often this means a great deal of politics, but the idea of betraying your own is abhorrent and therefore punished severely.

To the far east is Atraria, an almost entirely landlocked country, save for a strip of coast only around twenty miles wide. Atraria is the home to the sun elves, a peaceful race that value beauty above all things. They are widely known as skilled artisans, musicians, and dancers, and due to their long lifespans, will often dedicate their lives to following their artistic endeavours.

In the south-east is Toth, the realm of the marsh elves. The marsh elves are a race of lavender-skinned dark elves, and Toth is a humid land of wetlands, broads, swamps, waterways, fens, and, of course, marshes. They have a built in resistance to poisons due to the toxic surroundings, and trade often in alchemical supplies that can't easily be obtained, as well as rare animal hides that have exceptional protective qualities. Marsh elves tend to have a very dry wit that not everyone catches, and are often mistakenly labelled as very serious, with no sense of humour.

I hope you've enjoyed this little insight into my world. If there's anything in particular you'd like me to go into next time, whether it's an area I haven't yet addressed, or something I've mentioned that you want me to expand on, please let me know.

Thanks for reading!

[quibbs126]

You know, I really think there’s merit to be had in a TFA-style dynamic with Optimus and Megatron, with the two as strangers and Megatron being so much older and basically from a completely different Cybertron. Particularly with a corrupt Autobot government

And also if you actually explore their dynamic more, since TFA didn’t really do that

Like they start off as pure enemies, each thinking very lowly of the other, but their continuous conflicts giving them an odd sense of respect for one another, or at least Megatron for Optimus

And then there’s also the juiciness of their completely separate backstories, or more specifically Optimus learning Megatron’s. I think it’d be cool if Megatron had an absolutely horrible backstory, one so terrible it made him want to burn it all down because he saw no other way forward. In part because my faves must suffer, but also with this backstory being at the hands of Autobots or people who would become Autobots. Like maybe some of the leaders, while not directly responsible, did turn their heads in some way and deny responsibility. Like Megatron is a monster, but he is the monster created by the Autobots

And maybe over time, while he never agrees with him, Optimus starts to understand Megatron more, that he’s more than just a creature of pure evil. And maybe in a scenario where Megatron is captured like in Season 3, Optimus finds himself seeking out his advice and words, because while he’s no paragon, he’s the only person who will tell him the truth, because the Autobot command certainly won’t, and he wants to understand it all better; Megatron, the Decepticons, the Autobots, the war, all of it. Both in prison and out of it, Megatron ends up strangely becoming a sort of mentor to Optimus

I don’t think this Megatron would be one that gets a redemption arc. He’s too far gone, even if he has a tragic backstory and he’s more complex than just a cartoon villain (and also I need to remind myself that just because I feel bad for Megs doesn’t mean he should get off scott free, particularly since he was the villain originally). I also think Optimus should be the one to kill him, with Megatron maybe even being happy with this outcome, that Optimus is someone worthy of doing him the honor of death

I may have gone a bit specific, but I think this older, more experienced Megatron should be a way for Optimus to grow as a person; to learn that the world isn’t as black and white as he thought, and to learn to question the establishment he lives by, so that he can see its corruption and work to truly make it better. Because even if this Optimus isn’t the leader of the Autobots in the story, that is what he tends to ultimately become. I think it could be so good, if in the hands of writers willing, and more importantly able, to explore this as a concept more (though mandates can be a bastard, as seen in other shows)

Oh and also, nothing romantic between these two. With this scenario my brain cooked up, I just don’t see a place for it. Give Optimus his own separate love interest if you have to, just not Megatron, let them be platonic in this instance. Could you say this is because I’m not a fan of TFA megop? Sure, but I say this because I realized this is how I feel about TFA Megatron and Optimus; there’s potential I see in their dynamic, I just don’t like when it’s only for romantic reasons. There’s so much more here, that I think can stand to be more interesting than leading to them kissing. Probably true of other iterations but this is where I stand with TFA at least

[pineapple-downside-up-cake]

Trying to figure out Legendary!hybrid TF141.

Price is a dragon.

Instead of having heats they have this compulsion to take a hoard. Could be anything - people, places, things. There's no set time frame - happens when it happens, but it can be...messy when they stake their claim.

Very territorial creatures, dragons.

Obviously Price's hoard is the 141. He's older and wiser and maybe he tells it like he knew when it happened that the bond had slipped into place, but there's a commander on base who will, for the price of a large bottle of whiskey, tell you how the training grounds ended up with such a strange shape.

It's hard to fit in when new people are assigned to the team - Price is many things, but flexible isn't particularly one of them. He sniffs you over, standing rigid in his office, smoke trailing from his nostrils and his cigar, curling around you.

It's hard to stand your ground, to not be threatened into fight or flight, but eventually Captain Price retreats to his desk, settles in the seat of his power.

"You'll do."

You're not even a soldier - you're here primarily as an intelligence and communications officer. You haven't done field duty since your last recertification. But Price had chosen you and despite being half terrified of the man - hard to be all-terrified of a man with a mustache like that - you find yourself striving to make a good impression.

You don't realize what it means, that Price has accepted you as one of His. You thought the regular check-ins were just that - normal business. A superior making sure their underling was performing at their best.

Not until hostiles storm the satellite base while the team is away, when you're locked in your temporary office and struggling to recall the quickest escape route, hands shaking as you close the shutters and hide under the desk.

Price comes back. He comes back for YOU. Alerted by some horrible dragon sense, knowing something of his was in danger.

A storm of red rages behind the blinds and you resist the urge to peek, until everything is quiet again, gunfire ceased, the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning seeping through the cracks.

Just when you think it's safe to leave, worth the risk of poking your head out, the door crashes open.

It's Price - covered in soot and blood that may or may not be his, looking like an avenging god, and in a moment of weakness you fling yourself into his arms.

He came for you.

[alabasterwasps]

I do not want them to be together just cause, I have reason.

Jack disliking the Operator becausd he was sacrificed to it by dumbass peers who didn't know their ass from the ground or what they were doing.

Some other strange god like or paranatural creature took over.

[In the ogstory it's like chernobog or smth but I'm pretty sure that's a real god, I just don't like using real deities that are more complex than ooo scary y'know, don't wanna be blasphemous to other things I don't know about or whatever]

We see higher entities/beings taking over the bodies of humans in the wider Slenderverse [Habit & Evan, implied Patrick & Michael].

I think, unlike other cases, in this ritual for a god/creature to use a human body as a vessel, something went wrong. The god/creature didn't take over and rather it's consciousness merged with Jacks. One being, with all the memories and thoughts and feelings of himself as a human, with those of this god/creature added to it.

College student "blessed" with this above human knowledge and capabilities and hunger but is limited by his human body. Black ichor runs through his veins and he's sometimes primal and walks funny and has these urges that he's never had before. He has ancient memories and knowledge he can't quite explain, and he understands things he doesn't know why.

But he's just a kid, he was a 20 something with prospects and dreams. He wanted to help people, now look at him, some weird freak.

Those who did that ritual on him mixed up this diety with the Operator. Jack was mad at his peers who didn't do any research and screwed him over. The god part of him is mad at the kids and the Operator.

I think he and Brian would connect over their disconnect with themselves, something about finding themselves in each other.

Jack was a med student.

Brian was likely a psych student. [If you base it on his actor, he was also likely in part a med student. I like to headcanon he majored in medicine and psychology and took film for fun/recreationally]

They could've taken the same classes, been in the same dorm even.

Something something, this guy, Jack, good friend of Brian, just goes missing.

There's a massacre in the local woods, which could intensify some of the fear when the MH group starts going missing, I digress.

Then you have Brian being left to bleed out by Alex, there in that hospital.

Jack being able to smell the fresh blood, finding Brian's body, head smashed in, and he watches with some ache because he recognizes him before watching the Operatoe take him, and then.. he's back, Brian is back in that pool of blood and gasping and he sits up.

Maybe Jack was sacrificed to that god but maybe it was also for the Operator (though not quite in MH cults do seem to be recurring in MH, and Alex implied sacrifices were made in Rosswood to appease something), hence why they try to take away his notable facial features, or whatever, or why it's done in the Operator's woods.

I’m having thoughts okay.

[starpros-sunshine]

My knowledge on culturally significant media is like. The only thing I have going for myself who am I if not the guy that knows fun little references about things...

[hyrules-warrior]

Stanley is well aware of the true creatures of Gravity Falls and that is why all his Mystery Shack exhibits are fake

What better way to re-direct people from noticing or searching for the real things when he has evidence of those "real" things".

After the portal incident it didn't take long for Stan to come across the real anomalies living in the woods of Gravity Falls. And where Ford treated them as things to observe and study, Stan decided to actually get to know them. He needed to work on the portal and keep the house in good shape so it was best to get to know the creatures around the house and make sure they would not cause trouble. He also needed to search the woods for the other journals and it was easier to do that when everything living in the forest wasn't trying to ruin his day.

So he did what he did best and he talked. He went into the woods to look for the journals and chatted up everything he met. He now has regular meetings with several of the creatures that live nearby. The manotaurs are great fun to arm wrestle with and compare scars, the multi-bear has great taste in music, and the gnomes were easily pacified to stay out of his garbage with the occasional box of pizza and a new pin-up model calendar each year. The unicorns love to share gossip and scamming strategies. He also reached a truce with the giant, no way was that thing taking his precious stanleymobile!

The fake creatures of the Mystery Shack keep people from looking to hard at the creatures in the woods and that works out well for everyone.

A part of him thinks he could write an entire journal for each creature with the things he knows about them compared to his brother's single page entries. He often wonders how Ford would handle that realization.

[lifenconcepts]

Oh I’m utterly fascinated by how people of the past expressed the unexplainable through art and poetry, turning their turmoil from being alone and misunderstood into something beautiful that all may see.

Honestly a shame that people now just whine about not enough flags to represent them when at some point in the past many individuals would not even know how to justify what they were feeling nor find people alike, and to atleast find comfort in the solitude escaped through music and literature, fanaticising about worlds where such a thing was normalised or turning themselves into a beast, to share with the world the level of their inner workings.

[aihoshiino]

ok i'm cooking now. hear me out.

choice-based romance visual novel with a long ass title i will work out another time that abbreviates down to 愛喰らい (Aigurai), meaning the act of or the creature that partakes in devouring love (or you know. Ai.) It's an AU where the KamiAi relationship & breakup still happened but rather than getting pregnant, Ai just had a pregnancy scare. Thus, by the time we join her at age 20, she's much more desperately alone and thus vulnerable to these sort of toxic dynamics.

Each route focuses on a different side of the entertainment industry - Fox Route is about the idol scene as experienced by the talents, the ease of media manipulation when you can sell a good story and the way talents are incentivized to compete with each other when they should be in solidarity. Snake Route is about taking the idea of 'talent management' to its logical extreme and exploring the mindset of fans who prefer idols as nonthreatening and infantalized. Hawk Route would be about the absurd levels of control and dehumanization within the entertainment industry and just how quickly a person can become a product to be sold. And then the final route - Wolf - would combine all these elements into a single, cohesive takedown of idol/oshi culture and parasocialism as a whole.

The intensity of content escalates from Fox to Snake to Hawk to Wolf, with Fox being the least bad of the four but still uh. Not exactly great.

The LI for Fox Route is a fellow idol who admires Ai and wants to ensure her success - she's not just a fellow idol, but his oshi. So he's sort of a Nino type, I guess. The main tension of his route is the gradual realization of just how conveniently Ai’s fellow idols and potential rivals start vanishing from public view, how often scandals and other shit happens at just the right time to keep her on top. He never hurts Ai, just the people who might stand in her way.

In the good end, Ai comes to accept that she’s safer when he’s by her side, even if she doesn’t fully understand what he’s done for her and sort of resigns herself to turning a blind eye to his misdeeds, since they're being done on her behalf and nobody's ever cared about her enough to get their hands dirty for her. In the bad end, she discovers the full scope of his actions and rejects him, only for her career and reputation to be destroyed in the process. He offers her the only safe place left at his side and at her wits' end, Ai takes it.

The LI for Snake Route is an employee at Strawberry Productions... some kind of talent health manager, ig? Who's brought in and tasked with looking after her when she has a strange health scare out of nowhere. Predictably, her health starts to deteriorate and put her in his care more and more often to the point that it starts negatively impacting her career, since she's no longer able to work consistently... there's probably like a scene where she's returning to work and has some sort of scary/embarrassing and very public health emergency (vomiting on set or something) and it causes a scandal.

In the good end, her career is basically finished and Ai thinks it's basically her own fault for being in such poor health. She feels abandoned by the world at large but finds comfort in the LI's arms. In the bad end, she discovers that he's the one who's been making her sick, but before she can act on it, an "accident" ends her career. She survives, but now she's fully dependent on him just like he wanted.

The LI for Hawk Route is some high-ranking executive in the entertainment industry - like a producer or an agency president... or idk, maybe even a guy with yakuza ties. He's really captivated by Ai and wants to help her career flourish with his connections, but he 'loves' Ai in the sense of loving a pretty decoration - she's something to be owned, cultivated and kept in line by any means necessary.

The good end has Ai surrender entirely to him, beguiled by the idea of someone who accepts her to the point of wanting to possess all of her in her entirety. In the bad end, she fights back and he basically crushes her career like a bug overnight and she disappears from the public eye, never to be seen again - because now she belongs exclusively to him.

Hikaru would be the final route, though I don't have as clear an image of how his would play out. I have the themes in mind pretty strongly, though - it would be a sort of culmination of all the prior routes combined into one character. Fox Route is about protection, but Hikaru makes sure she doesn't NEED protecting, because there's no one left to threaten her but him. Snake Route is about dependency and Hikaru doesn’t just make Ai depend on him, he makes her believe she was always his to begin with. Hawk Route is about control and Hikaru takes this a step further by manipulating Ai to such an extreme that she believes she's acting of her own will even when she's playing into his exact wishes. Other than that, I only have a few ideas. He'd show up in all routes via flashbacks and occasionally a cameo and in his own route - Wolf - he appears partway into the common route when Ai's already had a few interactions with the other LIs. He very much represents an oasis/safe space away from the other LIs, at least up until you realize he's the worst one of the bunch <3

Hoshino Ai was born to be the heroine of an otome game populated entirely by yandere guys who would put her in a dog cage

[darkfictionjude]

Please Jude I want to hate on Nia to give her and mc relationships development

I never know what you guys are expecting when you tell me you want to hit Nia or verbally assault her…

[lemonthepotato]

Cringe warning: very bad Esperanto.

Mi povas mergi min en Esperanto čar mi ne faris multe da progreso ekde 2019. Mi kredas mi komencis lerni en 2019, sed mi rezignis dum (por?) unua jaro. Mi rezignis la hispana, la franca, la japana kaj la irlandano čar… nu, estas evidente kial. Tro da lingvoj lerni (por lerni? Lerni sentas malgxuste.)

Sed, mi restis kun la Esperanto(n?) čar gxi estas facila. Mi volas lerni lingvon por la sakeo (that’s… is that seriously the word? Sakeo? I joked once that Esperanto is 80% English words with -o and the end and 15% other languages with o- at the end, but I digress) de lerni lingvon. Homoj diras ke tio estas malbono kialo, sed, kial? Estas amuza… ne estas krimo amuziĝi.

Honeste, mi estis (estis for ‘have been?’ doesn’t feel right…) uzi Google Translate por helpi min, sed ne por lambastono. nur por kontroli se mia gramatiko estas bona. Ne estas, evidente, sed… mi estas nesekura pri gramatiko. Mi scias ke gxi ne estas bona, sed gxi estas probable pli bona ol mi sed mi ne uzis gxin.

Cxiuokaze… mi havas punkton kun ĉi tio; estas malfacila mergi en konlang! Jes, mi povus aligxi servilo de Discord, sed… la embaraso. Mi estus kiel, “Bonvolu… mi estas…” kaj havas furzo de cerba! Cerba furzo? (Googling how to stutter in Esperanto. Great.) (also I’m realising I said bonvolu instead of… oh my god? Am I seriously forgetting hello? Oh, Saluton!)

Cxu mi probable lernu la lingvon de miaj lando, la irlandano? Probable, sed honeste? Neniu parolas la irlandano en la nordo. Ili apenaŭ en la sudo. (Ne estas sude, mi ne zorgas se Google translate diras alie… ne sentas gxusta.)

Cxu mi havas punkto kun cxi tio? Ne. Sed, hej, diras al mi kiel CLAPPED mia Esperanto estas. Kaj, jes, mi eĉ ne provis traduki clapped cxar gxi estas pli amuza al ne.

Mi estas tiel malbona pri Esperanto. Mi devas fidi al tradukistoj por helpo. Mi uzas Google Translate por helpi kun tempoj kaj gramatikoj, sed la vortoj estas plejparte el mia cerbo, se tio havas sencon.

Mi ne havas kialon pri ĉi tio. Mi supozas, ke ĉi tio estas testo de miaj kapabloj. La rezultoj? Tre malbona, sed, hej, mi afiŝos ĉi tio, ĉiuokaze.

Edit: after writing this post, I got an easy, actually video about languages recommended… lol

[filurig]

When the basilisk are in their bird-like forms do humans see them for what they really are? Is it only when they're in their humanoid forms can they disguise themselves?

yeah! essentially, all basilisk forms function the same way and possess the illusory effect while its not present in their basilisk form. their basilisk form is their "baseline".

when in any other form other than their "baseline" they "exude" more anda* than usual which is what contributes to it not being percieved as it looks like physically. they don't do so in their basilisk form, so it is therefore illusionless - its also not a conscious process they can turn on and off. the illusion will just work on anyone as long as the requirements for it are met!

extra little tidbit... the extra anda that they generate in their shapeshift forms also mean that they have greater caloric needs than that form would normally! obvs their caloric needs depend on the size/metabolism of the animal they are imitating, but it will tend to be a little bit greater than the average for that animal bcs of it.

*anda in case anyone needs a refresher cuz i think i just made a text post about it a whiile ago... but basically it is another form of energy in this universe much like electricity, heat energy, etc. and basically drives consciousness, perception, (self) awareness, etc.... basically the "subjective" experiences of any animal. in pareidolia most vätte abilities are driven by utilizing this form of energy. this is also the reason that most vätte "magic" tends to have things to do with illusions/communication through unorthodox means/altering perception!

[wheucto]

i should rewatch iis1

[orykorioart]

Welcome to the silly little clown corner that I call my art side-blog!

Update to my Pinned msg (NOV2024)

I will temporarily have to close my inbox, since tumblr recently did this cool trick where it deleted a couple of the msgs (new ones that I wasn’t able to see and I think an older anon one that I know for a fact existed, rather confusing tbh since its not like I have a lot of asks) so I’d rather close it for now in case new asks get yoinked again 😅. In addition to that, since my asks are mostly for art requests/suggestions, I’d also like to close and finish the ones that are still pending (well, the surviving ones) before re-opening.

I will update this pinned msg (and probably put an update somewhere when I post an art) whenever this changes!

Cheers!