#something something red string of fate tainted by blood

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

EDIT: PART 2 HERE

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place. 

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay. 

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle... 

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages. 

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue. 

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox. 

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots. 

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom. 

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger. 

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”  

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious. 

Why would you say that? 

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion. 

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass. 

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you. 

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile. 

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur? 

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you. 

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts. 

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly. 

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you. 

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.” 

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears? 

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat. 

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to… 

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels. 

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats. 

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use. 

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want. 

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man. 

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone. 

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out. 

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand. 

He wants you to guide him to his father. 

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years. 

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens. 

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you. 

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is. 

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh. 

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out. 

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely. 

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory. 

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand. 

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission. 

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm. 

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be. 

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.” 

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick. 

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.” 

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

[black-is-iconic]

The Red Means I Love You

If there was anything Muzan loathed, it was the preposterous idea of fate. An outcome decided even before birth was just…..ludicrous, nonsensical, and completely incongruous from his view. How could one even begin to consider something so inane and injudicious? Only a fool would willing to submit to such nonsense.

Naturally, he didn't believe in the concept of soulmates, twin flames, or any other mystical beliefs that suggested a predetermined fate for one's romantic or platonic relations. Some people believed that these ideals were a gift from the gods, but he didn't see it that way.

He had no interest in seeking favor from entities that had already condemned him to die before he even took his first breath. In his eyes, the gods were his enemies. And everything they smiled down upon should be tainted by the very creature they hated.

Starting with the vile cretins known as human beings, although this wasn't necessarily to spite the gods this was more so his own vendetta against the abhorrent vermin who'd maliciously picked and pestered him as a sickly boy.

Useless parental figures and an iniquitous doctor made his miserable short human life a misery beyond measure. But now with all this power at his fingertips, he could do as he pleased without any interference. With the world at his feet, he could become a god-like never before, and then, maybe then he might actually find peace for a few brief moments in this wretched existence.

He'd never garnered those 'precious' red strings but he never wanted them in the first place, he viewed them and anything else from the gods as a blight on his life.

But just as pieces were falling into place and things were finally going his way (for once) he felt a small tug under the cusps of his sleeve, at first he ignored it thinking it was simply the scrap of paper against his wrist as he flipped through an old book in his the comfort of his study lounge.

However, as the tug became more insistence like a pestilent itch, the more curious he got as to its source. Without much thought, he tore through the taut white linen fabric, revealing a single red thread pulsing in a bright, almost ethereal light, like a freshly lit lantern digging into the flesh of his wrist.

His brow furrowed, he tried to ignore the sensation but couldn't help but think it was slightly odd, and yet not unpleasant, to be honest. It seemed to be growing stronger every second, and the longer he stared the more his curiosity grew.

He rolled the thread between his fingers feeling the soft yet warm smoothness of the silk texture. It was peculiar and felt unnatural like nothing he ever encountered.

He watched as the little thread began spreading slowly into his veins and he furrowed his brows deeper but nevertheless, he sharpened one of his claws and attempted to cut the string. But the string began to glow a bright reddish-orange and burn like a thousand suns, he dropped the strain with a hiss cradling his singed fingertips where it was scorched in an instant.

The pain and sting made his blood boil as he glared angrily at the offending line of color that was now glowing and radiating energy.

He growled in irritation and frustration as it was becoming clear to him that he couldn't just cut through the thread without risking harming himself.

He reached for one of his glass viles shattering it along the edge of the desk and spilling the failed cure-all along the mahogany floor. Picking up a particularly sharp glass shard, he yet again tried to sever the forming connection to whatever contemptible wretched creature unfortunate enough to be on the other end.

And once again, he found himself unable to sever it, instead the blood-red line grew brighter and fiercer. Burning his finger with searing heat as if the thread was molten steel, he let out a displeased grunt dropping the glass and watching as the burned skin that had been holding the glass quickly healed once he stopped trying to pry the damn thing off.

With an annoyed cluck of his tongue, he leaned back into his seat staring down at the thin red thread as it continued to weave itself into his veins and into his skin.

He could hardly contain the frustration and aggravation he felt as it crawled like some vile insect up his arm causing an uncomfortable prickling sensation that ran down his spine, what a bothersome little pest. A thorny nuisance and he wished dearly to destroy it.

But alas it would seem the little thread was here to stay, for now at least until he found a safe way to get rid of it, perhaps…..

[delirious-donna]

tw: extremely self-ship coded, soulmate AU, Daichi is a little bit criminal (it’s hot, alright?), first kiss, suggestive if you squint, based on this phenomenal commission

You tried your damnedest to deny it, to ignore the thrum of energy that started deep in your chest and was now occupying most of your body. He was everything you were meant to hate. A man who sat atop a throne of corruption and greed.

It was your work to expose those that profited from the seedy criminal underbelly, and yet here you were locked in a battle of both wits and stares with someone tainted by blood money.

Never did you think you’d find your soulmate, considering the odds were so low, let alone that he would be the target of your current undercover investigation.

Sure, he was handsome with dark brown eyes that stripped away all pretence with one slow blink and equally thick dark hair that spiked in that perfect messy way. His shoulders and back were broad enough to stretch the fabric of the button up shirts he preferred, and that smile… so knowing, so panty wetting.

That first brush of your fingers as he shook your hand was enough to activate the bond. Neither of you confirmed the sensation that shot up your arms and thundered directly into your heart. But it happened.

Daichi Sawamura was your soulmate, and you were his.

The games you had been playing would have to come to an end, especially when all you wanted to do was lunge at each other like wild animals and cement the bond that would never diminish until your dying day.

All of that was history, or as much as it could be history in the three weeks that passed from that initial touch that sparked everything. Sleep eluded you. Keeping your distance made you irritable and so cranky that your colleagues actively stayed out of your way. It hurt—deep in your gut—it ached to continue to deny what your soul craved. If it could speak it would cry for its other half.

Your ordeal seemed like nothing compared to how Daichi was coping. That is to say, he wasn’t coping at all. His employees were whipped to shreds with his harsh words and unfair demands. He found himself in the ring far more than the occasional fight he had enjoyed and most of the time he had to be physically removed from his bloodied opponents.

His bloodlust was through the roof. A primal warcry echoing in his head to claim what was his, but he wouldn’t take it. He wouldn’t be the monster you thought he was. Instead, he seethed in his office and contemplated how he could make you see that he was a good man at heart.

The situation came to a head when you stormed into his office one early evening. You had been reviewing your notes and something bothered you in the accounts of those you had discreetly interrogated under the guise of being a ditzy and overly friendly socialite. It was nothing, but it was enough to make you finally snap. You wouldn’t admit that you simply missed him and yearned to be in his presence, to smell his spicy cologne and feel the heat that poured from his body.

Now you stood practically nose to nose, or as close as you could get with the height difference. Why were you panting? Did his cheeks usually look that ruddy in colour? Oh shit… you should leave.

Before you could think to turn and run, Daichi lunged. His hand grasped your jaw yet his hold was gentle, keeping you still whilst he claimed your lips. It changed everything.

Your world spun on its axis. Lost in the sensation of his mouth slotting with yours so perfectly. His lips were warm and moved with slow, deliberate care and you wanted more. Burned for more until you were clutching at his biceps and wrinkling the stiff fabric of his black button up.

Oxygen was a secondary concern to that of consuming each other. Your bodies pressed flushed together and if you weren’t careful, it wouldn’t end with just this kiss alone. All that pain and suffering you both had endured melted away, the red string of fate humming happily for the very first time and the silken crimson threads weaved around your hearts.

“About damn time,” Daichi growled when you finally parted to breathe. It only made you giggle, a hand raised to your lips to feel how kiss-swollen they were and to savour the taste of him.

“I was never going to make things easy for you.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes and pulling you roughly against his chest. “We’ve got things to discuss. Here or back at my place?”

Worrying your tingling bottom lip, you tucked your head beneath his chin to speak. “I should probably choose here since that will keep me relatively… safe.”

“Princess, from me and what you’re referring to, you’re safe nowhere.”

[sonicasura]

Madness Combat: Analog Horror

I just realized that Madness Combat also has potential in the analog horror category. Like on the surface, it's a web series consisting of simplistic looking creatures being violently chaotic to the point reality breaks. The graphics alone makes it even more comical. Until you realize the potential context.

A post apocalypse realm where reality itself is slowly destabilizing, non-stop violence in every flavor that buying a hot dog could get someone killed, scarce resources where cannibalism becomes necessity, the dead roam the earth and not even purgatory is safe. Either you adapt or die in the madness driven Nevada. Now imagine something like that breaking into our world.

Project: Madness

An advanced survival simulator game meant to craft various scenarios for learning purposes. These situations take place in a digital construct based on U.S's Nevada and are based on the user's input. It was originally meant to be a simple game for public consumption. What Project: Madness became would wrought a horror unlike no other... And this was just the start.

In Osceola, Michigan there's a mysterious stop sign that only appears at night. An odd thing where crimson paint meant to embolden it's warning is instead replaced with dead grey. It never stays in one place as the sign will disappear the next night and emerge halfway across the county.

Should you see this particular sight, LEAVE IMMEDIATELY. Do not stop, keep running but never look away. You aren't alone as the sign's owner is always there. Those who invite Tricky the Clown into their homes have a welcome party of blood and horror.

Yalobusha, Mississippi is considered the most religious place in the United States. Churches that worship various forms of Christianity can be found everywhere. Rumors have it there been sightings which revolve the Messiah, Jesus Christ.

A figure who walks the dead of night with a halo that shines brighter than the sun. Many fanatics often sought out their savior in hopes for salvation. The ones who don't find him should be grateful. What they really seek is merely a monster that believes he's a savior. Jebus brings disaster to those who get too close.

In the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, disappearances involving hikers and campers has skyrocketed. Any investigator who gone searching for these lost souls soon follow the same fate. No leads have been as time went by.

That is until an broken VHS camcorder was found in a pool of bloody gore with a intact tape still inside. Officials call off the search immediately and lockdown the area. Now they know the terror that comes when one runs afoul of MAG Agent Torture.

A string of grisly murders ransacks West Virginia's country side. The Mothman Killer Crimson rightfully earn their legendary name. Piercing blood red eyes are the only warning you have to run from absolute disaster.

Very few survivors cannot even describe their assailant lest they die of sheet fright. A reaper who rules over the dark and heart tainted black maddening bloodlust. The moment you enter the sight of Hank J Wimbleton, it is too late.

And these incidents are beginning to spread...

That's it for now! Until next time folks, continue to thrive in the madness.

[stagred]

MEDIA THAT INSPIRES MY VERSION OF ALASTOR!

Shawshank Redemption: Andy Dufresne. The themes of accepting your fate. Man imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit becomes a criminal to survive in prison, but still suffers immensely and makes close and passionate friends. Realizes that prison is where he thrives, yet craves freedom and spends nearly 20 years fighting for it

Candyman: Tony Todd's portrayal. Powerful, terrifying eldritch being. Tall, handsome, well dressed, eloquent. In a moment where bees are swarming in his mouth, he kisses the heroine with such divine passion that you almost forget the horror. But also themes of Black suffering, exacting revenge because you need to, not because you want to. Romance as a detriment, a disadvantage, not something to fight for.

SE7EN: Violent and creative crimes committed to force attrition. Embodying sin and punishing it. "People these days, you cant just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them over the head with a sledgehammer. And then you'll find… you have their strict attention." Neon crosses, sex and debauchery, the underbelly of a city. The unnamed city that doesn't exist, but everyone can identify. "Mankind is good, and worth fighting for. I agree with the second part."

We Happy Few: Using happiness and suppression to hide your trauma. Attacking those who don't conform. The sinister fear behind every over-stretched smile. 60s vibes, but forever tainted by 30s and 40s events because the people never moved onward. Muttering to oneself in mourning of the memories you cant remember forgetting.

Bioshock: "No gods or kings, only man." Freedom of expression, but a violent hatred of the beings who control it regardless of the context they're in, like religion and education. Sander Cohen. Art at any cost. Transformation, puppets on strings, playing your part on a stage and diverting from the script. The neon glow of the 60s nightlife, but waterlogged and destroyed by time.

It Follows: A creeping monster that can only walk, but will never stop. Pass it on through acts of sex and debauchery. Vibrant red blood in a glowing blue pool from an entity you can't even see that you injured.

Matilda The Musical: Agatha Trunchbull. "The Smell Of Rebellion." Hatred of those weaker than you to an almost comical degree. Cleverness and loopholes in rules. Hurting people back, because why should you be the bigger person? "A contract is a contract is a contract!"

Carrie The Musical: Voice breaking during emotional numbers. "Eve Was Weak." Religious trauma manifesting physically. Covered in blood and surrounded by fire. "Mother was right."

The Shining: All work and no play makes Alastor a dull boy. Being held hostage by the narrative, regardless of if you're doomed by it. Blood cascading through the halls. "I'm not gonna hurt you… I'm just gonna bash your fucking brains in!" The empty ballroom, the bartender who isn't there.

The Green Mile: Killing a miracle. Percy Wetmore. Burning people alive just to see what might happen. Weeping as you sing "Cheek To Cheek" and face the reaper. Clutching the bodies of two little girls and crying to the heavens because it isn't fucking fair.

The Black Phone: The masks. "It's his favorite game: good boy, bad boy." The phone that doesn't work, and the calls that keep coming in. Little boys floating in the air, throats slit, begging for help. Jesus as a deity to worship for divination. The entire kitchen scene. (CW for child abuse)

Coraline: Forced smiles. Eating bugs like candy. "He pulled a looooong face, and Mother didn't like that." The Other Mother. "She'd love something to eat. / Mothers don't eat… daughters. / I dunno. how do you taste?" Watching victims through the dolls.

Welcome To Night Vale: The specific sense of melancholy and nostalgia that just listening to the podcast inflicts upon the listener. The radio host as the protector of the city.

The Princess and the Frog: Facilier. Friends on the other side. Voodoo in all its forms. "Fun thing about voodoo, Larry. Can't conjure a thing for myself."

[umbra-borealis]

Elements of Chaos Chapter 1 - The first 2K words!

This is the first 2000 or so words from a draft I'm chipping away at, the very beginning of Elements of Chaos. I apologize for the lengthy build up but hey, I did say this was a long haul project! By the way, this is my first time writing something. My first language is dutch, not english, and to top that off I also have ADHD so this isn't exactly a walk in the park. At the moment I'm not exactly looking for people picking apart my grammar, syntax etc. because I have folks I can ask for advice on that. Be nice, thank you! CW: Minor mention of blood

How would you define Chaos?

Would you say it's the unpredictable nature of life itself? How a single drop of water will never take the same route down twice? Does it stand for a time of stress and turmoil? Is it this nebulous state we all find ourselves living in or is there an opposite? An element that binds it, understands it, tames it? And if there is, what would that be called? Order? Control? The fabled ‘red string of fate’ that strings us along, having already decided who sinks and who swims?

Perhaps none of these things matter in the end. After all most of us will go through the motions without ever really having the time or the energy to ponder the way of the world, not to mention the universe around us. Perhaps as we experience our lives our opinion will change and so will our answers, forever having the truth feel just out of reach, so close yet so far away. Then perhaps it’s better to stay in the moment and act accordingly, forever left to wonder if you did so by yourself, or if that too was a pre-written event scripted to happen from the moment you were born. They say ignorance is bliss but is it really? Are we truly free? Are you comfortable floating down a pre-determined river or did any of this make make you long for the endless open ocean?

So then tell me...

--

“Whose side are you on!?”

A voice screamed into the darkness, birds and other small fauna jumping, flying and running off into all directions. The full moon cast her dim glow upon the land below. Her image reflected on the surface of the water as it warped and twisted with the waves. A once beautiful lake surrounded by plains, hills and even a forest off in the distance had become the main stage for a grizzly scene. The immaculate green of the grass had been tainted with the deep red hue of blood, entire patches and trails uprooted making the field appear scarred and bleeding. There’s a tension in the air so dense, so charged with dread and danger that not only those present here and now but those from miles away could sense it. A shift in the atmosphere so severe it couldn’t be compared to an approaching thunderstorm or the early signs of an earthquake. The voice that had posed the question rather aggressively now snarled and with a wave of its owner’s hand the water from the lake behind him rose up, curling forward and threatening to come crashing down on whoever happened to be a bit too close to shore yet at it’s highest peak it stopped.

The silhouette of a hedgehog now stood out against the glistening backdrop of water, the light of the moon seemingly amplified by the reflective surface. He held his hand up above is head, palm open as if about to strike something or someone but instead he just stood there, still as a statue. His eyes pierced straight into those of his attackers, nailing them to their places only a few feet away from him. Heavily armored in white, high-tech protective gear from head to toe and with weapons drawn they kept their aim at the outlaw’s head and chest with possibly a few skilled, or cocky, marksmen planning to switch to the legs should he decide to turn tail and run. Unfortunately for them he had no intention to run.

“I’ll ask you again, nicely, whose side are you on? Because that insignia on your armor says mine, but those guns sure don’t. So what’s it gonna be boys?”

The lone hedgehog’s voice was full of rage though masked by the smug tone he was infamous for. A crack here and there gave away the layer of fatigue building below the surface though and he wasn’t too keen on giving it any more room to breathe or the consequences could be dire. A minute passed though to everyone present it felt like an eternity and when he was given no answer his hand twitched.

“What about you?”

One of the armed ‘knights’ as they liked to call themselves spoke up. A ballsy move sure but perhaps humoring the hedgehog’s ego would be their best chance of survival right now.

“You know what you did! You know why we’re here! At least tell us why!”

Icy blue eyes narrowed at the poor bastard who dared raise his voice at the outlaw whose arm had frozen in place one more. The audacity one had to have to make bold claims like that were one thing and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or get even angrier than he already was, but to ask a man for a reason for something he has no memory of doing? Now that hit him funny.

“Ooooh but of course. Dad croaked and suddenly that’s my fault. For all the funding he put into your dinky little excuse of an ‘elite force’ you guys suck at your jobs. You really think if I had anything to do with it I wouldn’t take all of the credit?”

It was true and the Knights knew it. Their adversary was a known critic of the king, of his father but if he had anything to do with the act of regicide that shocked their nation mere days ago it would be him who would celebrate with a beer and mourn the fact he can’t dance on his grave. No, instead the former prince had kept his head down. It was so unlike him to do so it didn’t make him any less suspicious to some, but to those who really knew the young man it just didn’t add up. Why would a prince who had fallen from grace, stripped of all his titles and possessions and forced to live on the streets of his home city suddenly appear humbled by the whole experience? After all he had spent all of those years on the streets devoted to dismantling the monarchy with all of the knowledge he held on his own family. Murder was not part of the plan though, it would’ve been too easy and too simple. It would mean giving his deadbeat father an easy get-out-of-jail-free card which he didn’t deserve. No, the former prince wouldn’t have gone so far as to use a prototype warp ring despite all of it’s potential consequences if it had been him who did the honors. He would’ve accepted jail, or even execution with that same smug grin and proudly proclaim he did his kingdom, his people, a massive favor.

It mattered little now, the deed was done and the culprit was out there. The former prince wasn’t necessarily a suspect, just damage control. If this really was a coup on the throne by some outside force it made complete sense to him that he too would be a target. As the last heir currently known to be alive, even if bound to the throne only by blood, he posed a threat to whatever or whoever is behind all of this. The hedgehog had heard enough and made his choice, he would drown them all in the depths of the abyss if it meant his freedom, it being a punishment for their insubordination would just be a nice bonus. One wave of his outstretched claws and this whole mess would be washed away--

Just as his hand twitched he heard it, they all did. A deep rumbling, rumbling that grew louder as the ground shook, throwing everyone off balance. Instead of a focused tidal wave the water crashed down on everyone, merely causing confusion and panic. Rather than his attackers being dragged down into the water they would merely get their armor soaked and their vision temporarily obscured. The captain yelled out an order to fire at will and fire they did, forcing the stumbling hedgehog to bolt out of the line of fire. With the ground still shaking it was as hard for him to run as it for them to aim but he still had to try for getting hit with a bolt from their plasma rays would mean getting a hole burnt right through him. He’d never been more grateful for a boulder than he was now as he skidded across the wet grass and came to a stop behind it, crouching and making himself as small as possible. With a moment to think of a next move something stood out to him about this mysterious earthquake. An earthquake normally affects a large area, the lake water should be rippling but it barely even stirred. The rumbling and the distant yelling of the knights was like an awful white noise ringing in his ears, vague orders were being barked to find their target despite the chaos and he was running out of time. The outlaw weighed his options which were to either bolt and run or to stay and wait as something told him this seemingly sudden and highly unnatural earthquake might be the answer to his predicament. Each excruciating second he remained frozen in place, unable to make a decision and with adrenaline surging his heightened senses picked up on the detail that told his intuition to stay. The rumbling of the ground moved. It’s intensity shifted as it seemingly came from beyond the lake, passing underneath the hedgehog and made it’s way to where the team of elite knights were still trying to gather their bearings. Whatever was heading their way could’ve very well heard the noise and commotion and felt drawn to investigate, or worse, it felt threatened. He didn’t dare to take a peek and instead hoped he would hear an opening instead.

And an opening sure did come.

The ground below the captain himself split apart and before he could aim his weapon down or take a step back a blur of gold came right for the visor of his protective helmet that obscured his identity. The frightened yelp finally made the hedgehog move to take a peek at what was going on, too curious for his own good. The mystery gold object would become lodged in the captain’s visor before it could damage anything vital but the person attached to the pair of golden claws that struck him wasn’t finished. They popped out of the ground almost as easily as a fish leaping out of the water and the gap they came out of closed in just a second, giving the unknown assailant solid ground to stand on. They were big, not just tall, BIG, a solid red silhouette illuminated by violet geometric markings on their head and face which emitted a soft glow. Their enraged growl almost sounding like the earthquake from before as they turned to spin the poor canine still stuck to the golden claws that adorned the figure’s balled up fists, dragging him along and off his feet before flinging him up into the air. The rest of the knights were too frightened to move, let alone snap out of it enough to start firing at their new target and they watched their ‘fearsome’ leader make contact with the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

All of their heads snapped back to fix their gaze on the red stranger who cracked their knuckles and roared something unintelligible before charging straight at them. The silence of the awe struck knights broken by gunfire and angry war cries. Curious how bringing hand to hand combat to a gunfight would fare for the stranger the hedgehog stared intently. They moved like a well oiled machine, disarming those that clung to their weapon for dear life, snapping their guns in half like they were twigs, straight up butting their head against the metallic helmets if their hands were occupied and while the knights crumpled they seemed completely unaffected. As the battle raged on the lone hedgehog figured now was his chance to turn tail and run but as he turned his back on the battlefield a hand slipped over his muzzle, covering his mouth and muffling the yelp of surprise that followed. Blue eyes met an emerald green pair as yet another stranger held up his index finger to his own muzzle, the universal signal to tell someone to be quiet. As the loner took another good look it appeared he was no longer the only hedgehog here as this new stranger was a deep, vibrant blue all over. He could practically disappear against the night sky if it wasn’t for the short peachy fur covering his muzzle, arms and chest. Before he could get a better look the blue stranger whispered.

“Can you run?”

Whether this person was friend or foe would have to wait. For now the outlaw would take his chance and nodded.

“Then run with me and don’t look back. He’ll be fine. Trust me.”

That voice. If he didn’t know better this blue stranger sounded so much like him though he lacked the signature gravelly sound. While his thoughts raced the blue hedgehog removed his hand from the outlaw’s muzzle and firmly grasped his hand instead to help him to his feet and start running into the darkness.

--

[toasted-for3v3r]

Archer(my Oc :D) can’t sleep he needs therapy, hand cream and gloves

Archer stares at his hands.

Brown and calloused, big and rough, covered in scars from previous battles; covered in blood-

No. There is no blood. But it feels like it, the red liquid dripping down his palm. An uncomfortable feeling of red staining his hand. The hands he had taken lives with, the hands he used to fight with his weapons, the hands he used to feel something except there’s nothing but the empty, black soul of nothingness in his body.

Archer glares at his hands.

He tightens them into fists. Knuckles growing white as he thought back to the many times, the many instances that his hands ruined his life. Ruined everything he’s ever known. It was him wasn’t it?

It was all him, his hands were used to fight, used to beg, used to cower under those that believed they were above him-

It was not his fault he used his hands.

It was hers.

She ruined his life. She made him use his hands for nothing but the slain lives. She made him use his hands to grab his weapon and kill and hate and take revenge. She made him into this, into this, monster with no heart, no mind, and no soul.

She used her hands and controlled her puppet on the strings. Controlled her little toy, her little doll made for nothing but her own sick entertainment. Because she could. Because she knew no one would stop her. Because she knows no one can.

She used her hands, pointed her lithe finger at him, accusing him of a crime he never dared to commit. His mother begged and pleaded to her, ‘Let me

take his place!’ He remembered, her sorrowful voice filled with anguish,

‘He is just a boy I beg your majesty!’ He remembered the look on her face, contemplating, acting as if she’s considered giving her mercy.

‘Very well’ she said, ‘You will be publicly executed at dawn.’ He remembered screaming, fighting against the guards that held him, pleading for his mother, screaming until he could taste iron in his throat, and then scream some more.

She used her hands, and pointed her lithe finger at his mother, taking her away where he would never see her again. She used her hands and waved him off as if he was nothing but a fly.

Her hands-

Her hands-

Her hands-

It was all her fault if she hadn’t used her hands mother would still be alive-

Her fault-

Her fault-

HER FAULT-

Archer felt blood run down his palms. He opened his fist, crescent shapes on his hand, blooding filling the gaps and flowed like a deadly waterfall.

Archer stares at his hands.

He gets up to grab bandages from

his bag, only bothering to wrap them so he doesn’t have to deal with the blood staining everything else later.

He thinks as he wraps his hands, thinking back to a time when his hands were held with love and care. When they weren’t tainted. When they were innocent and naive to the world. When he was ignorant to everything. A shame. How fate lead him down this path of unrighteousness and hatred; of vengeance.

Archer stares at his wrapped hands.

Archer hates his hands.

[theslothycat]

Seasons

Spring, summer, fall and winter

Strings of my heart tied around your fingers

Spring, summer, fall and winter

Travel through my blood, tracing my veins like rivers in a map

Spring, summer, fall and winter

Collide against my being, my essence, we are a Stellar collision.

Spring, summer, fall and winter

One kiss, our universe made from just a scrap.

Your voice echos inside my ears, moving the engines of my cage.

My fate tied by my ankles, crawling through space with my body made of scales and my mind still a red supergiant. Song of sirens, Eye of the Storm.

Prisoners of time, we seen past and future of ages.

My body crumbles down, ashes, my soul tied by waves.

A warrior eaten by its battlefield and a god eaten by his altar, by his worshippers. Hold me tight in your hands and own my strength within with your kiss. For you I shall become your knight, but you throw my sword as you crown me a equal besides the stars.

I am the Hermes of your sun. The fallen angel of your god.

The sudden gust of wind in your tomb, the hound of Zeus, snatching you for myself like the harpy I am.

Bounded by the ancients blood in my veins, their mistakes falling down my born flesh. Supernova. The god of mars.

But you embrace my flames as you call me your vermilion bird of the south, infiltrate my season, the opposite of me: black tortoise.

The myth of the forgotten god.

Long dead songs sang of you, a walking dream on earth.

Paradise in your slumber, a sweet lullaby in your ears and tender ties in your mind.

Your altars and statues have long aged and decayed, your paintings and manuscripts already returned to the earth in which once they were born of and your prayers belonged to the broken wails of the dead.

But your existence still prevails like Uranium in seawater.

He is a blurry dream that sails in your mind like deep water currents, like the untamed winds of the sea. Something where you can only recall the pleasant parts, but never it’s full history and why he was forgotten in the first place.

Dreams may be paradise, so as can be the sea, but just like it’s body runs deeper and deeper where you can’t see the carcasses of sailors it has laying on it flesh, drowned by the traitorous abyss of subconscious.

My planet overheating with the realization hitting my bones. My master polishing my body to his liking. cutting, ripping, stabbing, breaking, burning, smashing, again again and again. My solemn wings scarred since golden times.

My steps of earth marking each passing of my endless years to come, the endless winters and summers. My past erased as he is locked away, his mistake now my consequence. His friend now my foe.

My rough feet, who only has known solitude and violent bloody floor of the battlefield, paces around the white and clean floors of a prestigious place. Like i wasn’t capable of tainting it in snap of my fingers. Unworthy.

He smiles at me, with a falsity that seems mocking. Smirking like a Cheshire cat, his purples eyes reveal nothing but power thirst: moving us around like paws in his chess game.

Friends in variety, the soberness before inebriety.

You cup my face as you tell me you will never leave me. You are my home for all seasons. You are my sun to my glacial winter, as I am your moon to your fiery summer, I am your fall and you my spring. Because just like to the galaxies to simplest of systems in our world, we are the seasons of our years and the years of our life’s but together we are a entire universe.

[dabisqueen]

Dabi never chose to love you. He would never choose to love someone, he would never in any circumstance taint someone's life with his presence. And yet, here he is drawn by some unexplainable red string to you. Something that has wound his fate to loving you without a choice in the matter.

He loves your smile, he loves the twinkle of mischief you get in your eye when plotting a prank, he loves your ridiculous laugh that fills his whole chest, and he loves the way you yank his breath from his lungs when you whisper those three adoring words to him at night. He loves you. And he hates himself for it. For if anyone deserves to have the perfect boyfriend with the perfect life, its you. You deserve all the easy smiles and benign arguments. You deserve a big fat diamond ring and a white picket fence. Instead you have his broken down bed and grimy apartment. Instead you have him unable to explain why he is leaving at five am in the morning, and why he cant come back for weeks on end.

And though he had no choice in the matter when it came to falling in love, Dabi still chose to continue to show up on your doorstep. He still chose to continue to return your 'I love yous'. He promised you nothing but gave you everything he was able to. You were perfect and he wasn't even one eighth of what you deserved. And still, still you chose to welcome him home.

What Dabi doesn't know is that you don't want a big fat diamond ring on your finger, that you don't want a white picket fence and a white ​Bichon Frise running towards you when coming home from your 9-5 work, being greeted by perfect looking grade-A kids with perfect quirks. You don't want a master bedroom with adjacent master bathroom, silk sheets and a wall-screen TV.

All you want is him. And his broken down bed in his grimy apartment. All you want –no– need are his lips on yours, drowning on his ocean like eyes, running your fingertips over his marred skin and feeling his body, his warm body pressing against yours.

You need him.

Nothing else.

You need the soft giggles when you go out one night and he pulls out a quarter, getting one of those plastic toy rings from a vending machine, sliding it wordlessly over your ringfinger, while averting his gaze, a shy blush spreading across his cheeks.

And you need him, buried to the hilt inside of you later on, while he mumbles those three words back to you, his lips grazing your ears, a thin rivulet of blood trickling down his cheek.

You're just perfect for each other the way you are.

💙

[kokomochi]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃 | 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐲𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐳𝐮

"𝙞 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙮 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚."

SOULMATE AU! BONTEN TIMELINE! they say that soulmates were typically connected through the red string of fate- some believe that they are connected through tattoos appearing on their skin, or even a timer on their wrist. in this story, however, is through glowing hair. bonten's executive, haruchiyo sanzu, never thought that he would be soulmates with the youngest sibling of the notorious haitani brothers.

03. sanzu haruchiyo

the smell of cigarettes, sex, and alcohol lingered in the suite as music softly played in the background.

sitting in front of a table was a pink-haired man who was busy making fine, white lines of coke using his black card.

sanzu haruchiyo, bonten's number two.

he had just finished his way with a prostitute whom he had met at a club just a couple blocks down his building.

the man wasn't usually the type to take a girl back to his place. it was usually them taking him to their homes or right there in the club- but he was desperate and the chick's house was an hour away from the club.

did it stop him from sending her home after sex though? not at all.

which leaves him alone in his apartment, snorting coke at twelve in the morning.

he tilted his head back, waiting for the effects to take place as he glanced at his ceiling, (h/c) colored locks blocking his vision as he shuffled his hair.

when asked about soulmates, sanzu would give them a generic answer- they're a waste of time and money.

as expected of a man who's part of a criminal organization.

in reality, he was kinda scared to admit that he was, indeed, nervous about the thought of having a soulmate.

who would like their soulmate to be a coke-snorting, cold-blooded murderer and many more to be their partner for life? not to mention that the scars on either side of his lips tend to scare people away from him.

he absentmindedly took a few pieces of the (h/c) locks in between his fingers- sanzu tends to do that whenever he's overthinking or zoning out.

he wonders what his soulmate is like. he likes to believe that they're the complete opposite of him. a kind, young woman who's hardworking and innocent. someone who has no blood to their name and someone with no tainted legacy.

does she like flowers? if so then what kind? does she has a job? what is it? do they pay her right?

it really doesn't matter to sanzu what his soulmate is like- he just tends to think the opposite of him to make himself feel bad, a really bad habit of his that really needs to stop.

he snapped out of his say dreaming as he combed his hair back, preparing for another round of snorting when his phone went off.

haitani ran

ran? what does the old fucker want at this time in the evening?

deciding to answer the thirty-two-year-old man, he grumbled as he stood up from his coke-covered desk and wandered to the window wall where he overlooked the entirety of tokyo.

"whaddya need?" he grumbled, eyes flickering along with the lights below him.

"you free this saturday?" the man asked, making sanzu ponder for a moment.

"why? something you need to do?"

"it's my sister's twenieth birthday, it's on saturday." his brows rose to this. he never knew that the infamous haitani brothers had a sister.

"you guys have a sister?" sanzu laughed at this, he can hear the older sibling grumble in the other line.

"that's not the point you fucker. are you able to come?"

"why? am i invited?"

"yeah. my sister wanted the entire bonten executives to be there. she even asked if i could invite mikey."

now sanzu was intrigued. bonten was known all throughout japan to be a notorious criminal gang. having two for brothers was enough- but wanting to invite the entire executive group?

"your sister sounds like a blast."

"are you coming or what?" he can sense the patience running thin on ran, making him laugh.

"send me the venue and details."

with that, the call ended. it wasn't even mere seconds after the call was finished when ran sent him a text of the venue, as well as the details and invitation.

haitani y/n's twentieth birthday.

he glanced at the details, humming to himself as he laid down on his messy bed. the siblings sure do know how to go overboard with their parties.

"a suit? really?" deciding to leave the gift shopping and suit shopping in the morning, he decided to call it a day.

not without thinking about a certain haitani sibling.

sanzu stood in front of a designer clothing shop in all his glory, eyes bored as his subordinates opened the door for him.

employees lined the entrance to welcome him, but he paid them no mind as he looked at suitable suits to wear this saturday.

sure he has tons of them, but he isn't going to show up wearing a shirt that was once covered in blood and alcohol to a birthday party.

"black? nah too plain. grey? who the fuck wears grey?"

he skimmed through the selections, mumbling to himself as he looked through the suits.

it wasn't until his blue eyes landed on a pale (f/c) pinstripe suit.

he took it off the rack and observed it, nodding in satisfaction as he let his subordinates hold it for him as he looked at dress shoes.

again, he is not showing up with shoes that were once covered in blood and maybe in shit- who knows.

choosing the shoes wasn't hard, he got simple black dress shoes to go with his suit.

he took a random card from his wallet and gave it to the cashier, who scanned and bagged his items.

"your total is 1,711,728 ¥."

sanzu simply nodded and waited for his card back, not wanting to argue when it's still 8 in the morning.

after getting his things and loading them in his bag, he decided to stop by chanel to look at possible birthday gifts.

he's somewhat familiar with what women want- money, bags, and him of course.

he took a random bag off a shelf that looked appealing to him and dropped it in the cash register.

sanzu slammed the same card from before to pay for the bag.

"your total is at 1,100,790 ¥."

he nodded again, not minding about spending money since he's got a lot of it.

he was so concentrated on how the woman was bagging his gift to even notice the piece of (h/c) lock on his hair light up for a moment.

[blank-vessel]

His screams were drowned out by the laughter, the sounds of his body being torn apart echoed and yet the worst part wasn’t just how they tore him apart. It was how he began to heal, steam hissed as his wounds burned. Muscles knit back together and flesh grew back, even his whole arm was grown back in mere moments. It left him being torn apart and devoured just as fast as he healed. Why was he the one suffering? Why did he have to be hurt like this? What did he do to deserve this? He didn’t hurt anyone, he didn’t break any rules and yet he was hated. He was despised and torn apart, he was put on strings and controlled like a puppet. Why? What did he even do to be subjected to this fate?

The violent chaos was broken by the girls offer, the words echoed all too loud in his ears as murky tears flooded his cheeks, slowly they darkened until his eyes burned as they bled. He wept as the cultists died and mutated, contorted and twisted by darkness into beasts as glowing red eyes met her pale blue from the floor, anger erupted and despair crashed down upon him as he felt like he was about to be subjected to something far worse than being eaten alive; betrayal. That’s what it felt like, “Why? What did I ever do to you?” He whispered, yet it carried to Izzy’s ears to mock her; “Why do you all hate me?” He wanted an answer, he wanted to know what he did and it came explosively.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU?!” He screamed utterly primal, the lights flickered and tech glitched; the marker flared with light as the taint of the Saint's blood began to rapudly spread, moving as if alive, the taint rushing to consume all as he glared at Izzy, at the girl who was just like the rest… Throwing him to the wolves for no reason other than to save herself. Ah… that was life though wasn’t it? No one cared for him, no one wanted him, he was a mistake and nothing more than a sacrificial lamb for the masses.

L hated it. He hated the people that he had to fake a smile for, he hated the grand hall of the estate where the gala was being held, he hated the man who organised it to show him off like some prized trophy. He hated how he had to wear a stupid fucking black dress covered with red symbols of their faith that showed off his body and exposed skin at the sides and hips, it pushed up and held his breasts to give him a cleavage that made him feel unbearable if he looked down and his scarred arms were exposed as well as his shoulders. His long white hair was styled and he wore a hairpiece made of the marker that made him itch, his feet were simply wrapped in matching strips covered in scriptures, the dress had a shorter front and a flowing back, exposing his thighs with layers.

He wanted to slip away, but the hand around his waist gripping on wouldn’t let him, he wanted to scream as he just held his drink and tried not to cry. It would be worse if he did, he’d already made enough mistakes that he was bruised from that grip. The way everyone talked and looked at them they spoke as if they was married and Carson didn’t seem to look like he wanted to change that assumption. He wanted to scream, he felt so vulnerable and it showed, his eyes glowing red as he was forced to follow Carson around at his side, he just tried to sip his drink and bare it through until it was over.

@izzyfromdeadspace

[maiz-of-light]

@ghiralink-week, Day03, Scars/Reincarnation

The marks we are born with are often believed to be the scars of our past lives. – Unknown

“I can’t deal with this right now!”

The words, rasped through gritted teeth, carry the undeniable cadence of exasperation.

You can, that voice rings cold in his head, and you will, boy!

Indeed, the blade resting heavy against the Hero’s chest is plenty large enough to function as a shield, and is much sturdier, to boot. Splintered bark and pointed stubs prod infuriatingly into Link’s back, snagging on his tunic and scuffing his leather armor. Meanwhile, his thighs have already begun to cramp from crouching in so tight a slot. From his treetop perch, hidden among the thick boughs, he can just make out the faint orange glow of the hilltop shrine.

Although perhaps the cerulean, leaking luminous through the body of that guardian below, is a bit more of an eye catcher.

Steep as the rocky slates may be, it isn’t too far of a climb from Point A to B. The question is, can he dodge the guardian’s laser long enough to reach his destination?

Dark steel pulses in Link’s grasp, exuding the same scathing hostility as the chords growling low from its depths. Should Hyrule’s fate truly fall upon your feeble shoulders, then the scattered herds of humanity are a sorry lot, indeed! A sword is to be wielded, Champion, and wield me you shall, or else!

The boy snaps. How in Hylia’s blessed name is he to plot his next move through these constant strings of jeering?

“Do you ever shut up?!” he shouts.

Mistake.

Through the mottled curtain of oak leaves, blue flashes into violet, a thin red beam blinking in and out of sight as the ancient monstrosity perfects its aim. Bouncing along the walls of Link’s pounding head now is the sword spirit’s… laughter?

“Is something funny, my lord?” the human almost screams.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Cover officially blown, Link leaps from the narrow nesting spot that had so briefly sheltered them both, sticking a landing that jolts him from the joints in his ankles to the crook of his jaw. When he raises his head, he finds currents of white rippling through an unblinking eye, his own blood racing in sync. Link circles the metal beast with burning arms, nerves ignited, inflamed with adrenaline and possibly something else.

Well, my beloved Hero, purrs that honeyed voice, if you must know, this turn of events can have one of two results: you will put my superlative make to proper use, or you will crash and burn as penance for your own stupidity. Either outcome is satisfactory in my eyes.

Suppressing an eyeroll, the Hylian secures his grip with both hands. It takes no small effort, lifting a weapon much larger than himself, but he manages to angle the blade into a high block. The tip plants into the dirt, its wielder meticulously following the guardian’s searing gaze-

-its eye flashes white-

-a low clink chimes fierce in his ears, and Link’s arms move on their own. Divine light, tainted with malice, rattles his bones, pulsing through his hands to his shoulders – and in an icelike explosion, the corrupted mass vanishes, felled by its own flame.

Corroded metal drops into the grass, otherworldly heat leaving a visible char. The silence that follows is eerie, but short-lived. Within seconds, the birds have resumed their meek bouts of chatter, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Not a moment more before diamonds dance silver from the treetops, flitting from the leaves like so many drops of summer rain. They cascade according to the patterns of the breeze, a pleasant warmth on one’s face taking visual form. No obligation precedes this lavish display, prolonged with such blatancy. Still, Link doesn’t complain, rather admiring the surreal exhibition as the pieces of starlight gather, at last, where the guardian had stood mere seconds ago.

The pale demon’s towering frame, thin strands glistening like moonlight even beneath the afternoon sun, never fails to stun. Leather claps thunderously against leather as he showers the young Hylian in slow, sardonic applause, a wry smile playing on white lips.

Chest heaving, Link props the massive sword against his shoulder, lessening some of the strain on his tired muscles.

“Thank you, Ghirahim,” he chirps sweetly, pressing a blushing cheek against the leather-wrapped hilt.

“Honestly, Link,” the demon sighs, accentuating with an exaggerated flip of his hair, “one day you may find I’ve simply left you to time these maneuvers all on your own! Sink or swim, as it were.”

There’s nothing accidental about the way the man is tilting his hips, nor did he forget to don the mantle that typically covers those skintight garments. Once upon a time, Link would have reprimanded Ghirahim for such immodest behavior. Anymore, though, he’s simply learned to roll with it, now running his gaze brazenly over that scarcely-concealed, ashen form.

For once, sword spirit’s shameless preening cuts itself short.

“Come along then, little hero,” he croons, initiating their (hopefully brief) uphill trek. “The sooner we get this trial of yours over with, the better.”

---

The sky hangs differently over the Forest of Spirits, as though beheld through a thin tapestry woven by the gods themselves. Even whilst strewn through dawn’s pastels, the heavens grin immaculately, infinite glittering teeth flaunted proudly upon their admirers.

Of course, only one is awake to enjoy it at the moment.

Fireflies lilt through the treeline while the more raucous insects conclude their nightly symphony. Encircling the odd pair’s meager campsite chitter all manner of fauna, some species more docile than others, yet the clearing remains as safe a resting place as any: not too cumbersome a hike from their most recently discovered shrine, and not crawling with guardian filth. No, the greatest ‘threats’ prowling about here would be the ugly red hides of the Boko clans, frail as dried twigs and not half as clever.

Then again, any beast can prove deadly to the unconscious, presenting the necessity for a constant lookout – and who better than one who requires very little sleep to begin with? Yes, that’s why Ghirahim is so inclined to remain awake, eyes ever glued to the sun-kissed frame huddled beneath their weighty pile of blankets; why he so closely monitors the young man’s breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his naked chest peeking shyly through the covers, comfortably exposed to the cool morning air; why he strokes soft patterns along tangles matted against their shared pillow, flawlessly tousled into a golden mess.

The contradiction that is the Hylian Champion ever occupies the demon’s mind: a fearsome soldier whilst on his feet, possessing no less than the strength of ten of his kind; yet when lain on his back (or, better still, sunken to his knees), so meek and submissive, he proves time and time again somehow greater a force of nature. Even now, slumbering soundly by his companion’s side, lean muscle ripples gently beneath smooth, lightly tanned skin, every curve marked with colorful variations. It stands to reason, thinks the demon, that he ought to examine each for possible injury…

And so, tentatively, he begins peeling layer after layer from the sleeping human, careful not to bare any skin much lower than the waist. Propped as he is, Ghirahim maintains a thorough view, ranging from the top of Link’s golden head to the gentle curve of his hips. Grey, slender fingers ghost over varying paths: a clean slice just shy of the youth’s hairline, its origins hailing from childhood; a soft patch of yellow-green upon his collarbone, where a Moblin had recently landed a well-aimed kick; deep purple splotches along his nape, their cause far more, hm, pleasant; crimson hairlines, speckled along his left arm, that have since scabbed into a deep maroon, a result of having tumbled from the back of an untamed horse. With each gentle touch of claws upon skin, heat pools inexplicably in Ghirahim’s core, until he can almost hear the light crackle of flying sparks.

Arguably more intriguing is the white, sinewy pattern zagging across the young Hero’s ribs, slithering predatorily from the shadows beneath their quilts. Though lost almost entirely to the artful canvas of Link’s body, Ghirahim exercises special care, quickly finding himself fallen captive to a harping sense of nostalgia-

Oh.

As if to punctuate this rearing epiphany, a shudder runs through Link, the gooseflesh pricking his arms at once becoming visible. How easy it is, he observes, whilst succumbing to the lure of ancient memories, to forget that this incarnation is much lighter a sleeper than-

No.

Perish the thought.

He wills it to drown in blue eyes, not like ocean waves so much as slivers of luminous stone. They gradually peek through heavy lids, only to fall shut at twice the pace. As they do, the Hylian rolls stiffly into the other’s chest, groaning softly. He pulls Ghirahim closer, lush lips brushing bare pectorals.

“See anything you like?” he breathes, groggily, into warm cinder skin.

Prides swells momentarily within Ghirahim’s core – surely, the lad’s sharpened wit can only be credited to the spirit’s own tutelage – but is soon swept away by the blithe current of emotion ebbing from that silvery scar. It extends rather stylishly over the younger man’s side, tapering off towards a smooth, sunbathed spine.

“This bearing is aged,” the demon muses aloud, tracing the jagged elevations. What was once a spark fades to an ember. “It would appear to have been acquired prior to the beginning of our partnership. Why, it almost looks as if-”

He stops himself short, afraid to allow his mind to finish the thought – much less his mouth.

The Hylian Champion, lax as his body would seem, maintains a tenuously sharp sense of alertness. “It’s just a birthmark,” he sighs. “There’s no story.”

‘No story.’

Palled lips nuzzle strands knotted and coarse. “Oh, my dear Link,” purrs Ghirahim, breathing in the scent of campfire and crushed leaves and singed grass and clouds. “There is no such thing as ‘just a birthmark.’”

His reflection falls on deaf ears, the little Hylian surrendering once more to sleep’s siren. Sinking wistfully lower onto their downy spread, Ghirahim allows himself to cater to his own oncoming weariness, gingerly carding through Link’s tangles until rest should overtake them both.

Would that you knew…

… sky child.

[vesuvianmess]

Duet for One

Character(s): Arson Kamal | Julian Devorak | Asra Alnazar | Xen Corbyn

Rating: Mature - Contains depictions of sickness, bodily fluids, and mentions of death

-

Sometimes life gives us everything we could ever ask for. But nothing lasts forever.

Two boys who turned their heads away from partners our families chose for us, brought together by chance one evening during a dinner party. I was only fifteen at the time, dressed in silks, hair swept back, and seeking an out from the crowds of adults all drinking expensive wines and discussing their son’s and daughter’s futures.

 I’d managed to slip away to my family’s library. From inside rows upon rows of books made up each wall, some with binders barely holding together, others still retaining their stark white pages. At the far end of the room rested a gilded stained glass door leading out to a garden pathway, my favorite place to be. Pushing the heavy door open I slid through. Even with the place softly lit by strings of hanging lights, it was quiet and free of guests. I remember sitting for some time, enjoying the fresh air and checking on the plethora of colors and scents that surrounded me. Unaware of how long I had lingered, the bell rang out across the estate grounds. The night was drawing to a close. I needed to return to the main hall to send off our attendees. Turning on my heel I found myself very quickly on the ground, wind knocked from my lungs as something heavy fell over me. Cracking my eyes open I noticed it was books, and they’d fallen out of the arms of a boy who couldn’t have been much younger than myself. His hair fell into his earthy brown eyes, dark as a raven’s feathers. A pair of comically big and rounded glasses sat askew from his fall. When he noticed me, he shot up and helped pull me to my feet. 

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have taken so many. I couldn’t see over them…” He fixed his glasses before bending down to gather the fallen books. 

“It’s quite alright. I should have been more aware of my surroundings.” I took a few of the books from him, evening out our stacks. “Arson, Arson Kamal. A pleasure to meet you…?” 

“Xen Corbyn, at your service.” He bowed, nearly dropping his books a second time. “We should probably get back.”

---

We had moved from my family’s estate on Xen’s twenty-third birthday. He mentioned having family there and my own family had visited often enough for various events and festivals. Every year since I was a child I would come across another around my age, perhaps a touch younger, with messy white hair and deep purple eyes. They never stuck around for long, ducking behind market stalls and seeming to disappear without a trace. Still, it had been years since those days and my memory of them was hazy. Something about them felt important. Like a small home away from home. I couldn’t place why. 

It was at our first masquerade that I proposed, at the end of a breathless dance between the two of us. Later that same night Xen had presented me with a soft pink flower from a nearby cart. Tucking it into my hair he called it an ‘azalea’ and whispered that it reminded him of me. We spent the rest of the night dancing, dipping and spinning, hand in hand we assured each other we would be together until the end of our days. 

---

It started slow, one or two dropped in the span of three months. ‘Nothing to worry about, Love.’ Xen had said, carding his fingers through my hair. His words failed to soothe the tiny voice in the back of my mind telling me to run. Something was amiss in Vesuvia, I could feel it in the wind. A faint sickly smell, like something rotting far out of sight. In the coming days, my ill feeling had been proven true. We had been in  the market when we noticed cloaked figures in masks carrying a mass covered in cloth out of a nearby home. The mass was unsettlingly human sized. 

“Xen, something is off. The air here is tainted.” My fingers held tight to a delicate teacup. “Please be safe and keep your eyes open. Take every precaution.” Perhaps I was taking this worry of mine too far. “Love, I appreciate your concern. But I’ll be fine. Fit and peachy.” He smiled back at me as he cleaned the lenses of his glasses. “There’s been nary a sighting on this side of the city.” 

“If you feel we’re safe, I trust you.” I sighed, loosening my hold. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot to mention. Do you remember that child I spoke about? The one with snowy hair I saw flitting around the market when I was young.”

“How could I not? You never stopped talking about them.” Xen gave me a soft laugh. “I wonder what happened to them.” “That’s just it, Xen. I found them. In the market. Someone had bumped into me just firmly enough to push me into a smaller booth. A fortune teller’s booth. Imagine my surprise when I recognized the soul sitting at the teller’s table.” I mused. “Their name is Asra. Finally a name to a face.”

“Oh? Perhaps it’s fate?” He teased.

---

Weeks had passed, the previous unease beginning to tug at my mind again. I could feel it somewhere in me that something was coming. Something foul. I’d heard in hushed whispers that the count had fallen ill. At first I questioned the validity of the statements, until events around the city began to cancel left and right. A good deal of them I could have done without in the first place as they were downright vile. Such acts of violence made me sick to my stomach. I would live my days in peace never seeing the count if I had been able. It was around this time I noticed Xen had begun dragging himself. I’d never seen him so tired before. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, Dear? You don’t look so well, and the coughing has gotten worse.” 

“I’m fine, just a little cold is all.” He assured me. 

“Please be careful. Stay away from the crowded stalls.” 

“I will, trust me. I’ll be safe. I’m off then, Love. I’ll be back before the sun sets.” Xen hefted a bag over his shoulder. “Don’t be too lonely while I’m gone.” He smirked. “I won’t, I won’t. Bring back some ribbon if you can. I have flower arrangements to start on.” I waved him off, watching as the door closed behind him, an uneasy feeling threatening me from the depths of my mind.

-

The light of the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon and Xen had not returned home. My fiance was never late. Something pricked my skin, a cold sensation washed over me and a feeling of dread set in. The rumors, the masked men in cloaks, the body shaped lumped wrapped in cloth… It all came to a boiling point of quiet panic within me. What if something had happened, what if Xen was hurt? I needed to know. Pulling my shawl over my arms, I made for the door. I had to find him. The twisting in my gut only grew worse when the cold air hit me. Had the city always been this cold at twilight? 

I tracked my way through the market, finding no trace of Xen. I stopped by every stall and asked if anyone had seen him. I received a few mixed answers. Some said he left towards the square, others reported seeing him on his way to the south end. I started for the square first, keeping my eyes on my surroundings in case he might pass me on his way back to the shop. When I found the square empty, aside from a few stragglers on evening walks, I turned and made way for the south end. What could he have been doing out that way? 

The sun had long since set and wind swept up around me, sending strands of hair into my eyes. I wrapped my shawl tighter around me and dipped my head low to avoid the rush of air. I rounded a corner, blocking the wind. With a sigh of relief I lifted my head. The Raven was out this way. I would ask the owner if he had seen Xen around. 

I kept my pace even and steady. I tried to keep myself calm by taking each step in time with my heartbeat. Rounding another corner, I could see the edge of the tavern’s hanging sign. I stopped short when I stepped in something wet, a sour smell filling my nose. Probably a patron who’s had a few too many and wandered off to get sick. I was about to keep moving when I noticed a pair of glasses on the ground a few feet away. Picking them up I realized they were Xen’s. Maybe....He’d just dropped them. Yes, that was it. It had to be. 

The closer I moved to the tavern, the stronger the sour smell became. But it didn’t seem like it was coming from the tavern at all. Instead, the source of the smell came further to the right. I can’t remember why, but I found myself following the scent down a small alleyway littered with old papers and empty glass bottles. A few paces in, the smell grew stronger and I again stepped in something wet. This time, it felt almost sticky. I looked down to see a deep pool of red beneath my feet, frothy and tinged with bile. I felt my stomach lurch. I gagged and covered my mouth with my hand. A creeping sense of dread ran up my spine when my eyes followed the trail to a body laying slumped in the ally. I couldn’t be. There was no way. With unsteady footsteps I approached the body and knelt down to get a better view in the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I felt my blood run cold.

“No…” My voice caught in my throat and my palms broke into a cold sweat. “No it can't be. It isn’t. Please tell me it isn’t.” I pleaded to the empty air around me. But I knew this wasn’t some twisted nightmare. 

It was Xen. A disgusting red surrounded his eyes and soaked his hands, running up his arms like a spider’s web. How had I not noticed these marks before? Was I too busy focusing on my arrangements to notice? In his hands he held a glass bird and a spool of pale pink ribbon. My knees met with stone and bloody bile soaked into my pants as I sat there with tears running down my face. I refused to leave until the men in black cloaks came to take him away. 

---

“We need to leave the city.” Asra sat next to me on my bed. “You know now better than anyone it’s not safe here.” I did not answer. 

“Arson, we can’t stay here.” They persisted. “I can’t.” my voice sounded foreign to me. “It’s not right. It’s not fair to him. I have to stay.” 

“There’s no telling--” 

“I’m staying. I want to help find a cure for this. It’s only right that I do. He deserves that much at least.” 

The next day, Asra departed without me. I stuck true to my word and began studying the disease under a doctor named Julian Devorak. A strange lanky sort who spent his off time in the tavern. I joined in mostly for the company. I couldn’t bear going home to the empty house. 

Not even three weeks later I began to notice a change in myself. Fatigue had taken hold of me. Whether it was from overworking or not, I didn’t want to know. No matter how much I dragged, I continued to work to the best of my ability. It wasn’t until the violent coughing fits into bloody handkerchiefs hit that I knew my fate was sealed. My time to find a cure was running short. How many days I had left was a mystery. Some passed within two or three days, some lasted five or six. As my condition worsened, I locked myself up at home, flipping weakly through old journals filled with his handwriting. Scribbled diagrams of the stars in margins of research books, coffee stains, and spilled ink made the pages feel like home. 

The following evening I awoke vomiting and sputtering for air, I knew time was up. I would die before the night was over. I wanted one last dance. Humming a sweet melody to myself I started a sway. Alone in my room under the pale moonlight I danced a solemn duet made for one, the face of the man I loved flooding my mind. The tears refused to stop and whether it was a hallucination or not, I felt like he was there, his fingers intertwined with mind as I gave my final bow. 

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 30

Read on AO3. Part 29 here. Part 31 here.

Summary: Survival, but at what cost?

Words: 3400

Warnings: emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: It's technically Friday right?

I've been done this chapter for days and I've just been sitting on it out of pure anxiety. HAHA. But I did edit it and post it so here you go. Hope you enjoy. It's a bit of a break in some ways, not a break in others. Let me know what you think--I'm ever-molding, ever-receptive!

I love y'all! Stay safe with COVID. <3

You did not remember arriving home, exiting the Audi, stepping out into the searing sun. You did not remember the car ride: a murky journey spent in silence next to your Commander, a sentient shade. You did not remember being led from the balcony down the steps, through the halls, stares sticking to you like sap, stringing syrupy sinews to your skin. You did not remember the moment you stood, or the moment you breathed, or the moment you finally moved. Most mercifully, you did not remember the body--a gruesome, heavy pendulum--as it rocked in the cotton air breeze.

What you did remember was a sharp growl of breath as Johana flung open the front door, eyes rimmed red and burning with the fuel of exhaustion.

“Glad you could make it home, Commander.” She aimed the sword of her stare at you, but it pierced you like rubber. “You must have had a wonderful evening together. Won’t both of you come in?”

You followed him like a zombie, gaze trained on the ground, watching from outside your body as you climbed the steps, crossed the foyer, swept past the kitchen. Tile blurred to wood blurred to a soft Persian pattern. All you could stand to focus on was the wall, the rhythm of your breath, the thump of your still-beating heart.

Unlike hers.

It was only after Johana snapped her fingers in front of your face that you were aware that you’d taken a seat in the parlour room. You’d landed on a dark leather Chesterfield sofa (what was the preoccupation with Chesterfield, in this house?), your Commander and Johana standing at odds beyond the ebony coffee table at your knees. Her arms were crossed. He regarded her like one might regard a swarm of ants on the kitchen table.

“Well?” She looked between you. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Of course, you had nothing to say. So you said nothing. Kylo Ren also said nothing, but his silence was far more unreasonable.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “You can at least bother to explain why you left me alone in the house without so much as a word.”

“I wasn’t aware I owed you my agenda.”

She blinked. “Oh, please,” she replied, “as if I care about your agenda, at this point. What if something had happened while you were gone? To the house?”

Kylo sniffed. “The Knights were present.”

“They’re your men, not Gilead’s. They can’t prevent me from being questioned by the Eyes.” Johana scowled. “They can’t prevent the Council from ordering this house to be torn apart.”

You stared at your hand, at the sprig of cuticle poking from your thumb--you pinched it, tugged it, pain shooting up your wrist. Real, restorative breath would not come to you. Neither would any coherent thought.

“You believe the Council would arrive at my home unannounced. In the middle of the night.”

She blinked, as if he’d asked if she believed the world was round. “After your display with your little slut last night?” she asked, gesturing to you. “I certainly wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She is my advisor.”

Johana snorted. “An advisor to what?” she asked. “Your cock?”

Kylo’s lip curled, and he stepped toward her, shoulders rolling. “Careful.”

She snarled, not budging an inch. “You think that the others don’t see how you look at her?” she said. “You think that they believe your intentions are innocent?” A disgusted, tired laugh escaped her. “Where did you go all night?”

Silence. Kylo was a wolf, thirsty for her rabbit blood. But she wasn’t backing down.

“You never answer my questions,” she said. “Not even after I… I’ve lied for you, taken responsibility for your thoughtlessness, thrown you parties to help with your ridiculously poor public image--”

His fists furled. “None of which I requested.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Her voice was rising. “I did it for you! I did it for Gilead, I--I… I did it for our future!” she said. “One day, we’re going to have a child together, and I want that child to know the Gilead that I know!”

The tear at your thumb split past the nail bed. A child. Your child. Just hours ago you would’ve been sickly elated to be pregnant. Now you wanted to rip your uterus out, barren with bare hands. Gilead was no place to create new life. And Kylo Ren certainly wasn’t the man to create new life with. What had you been thinking? Blood beaded, slipped in a fat drop down your knuckle. It was a relief.

“The Gilead you know is imperfect.” His hands were still balled. “You’re clinging to the past.”

“I’m clinging to what God would’ve wanted!”

“You’re clinging to what Moden Canady wanted.”

Johana’s face tightened, and she sneered, pointing an accusatory finger at her husband. “At least Moden would’ve thanked me!” she said. “Moden would’ve never had an affair with--with some whore, someone disgusting enough to be made a Handmaid to begin with!”

“Johana.”

Flush heat bloomed red at her neck, in her cheeks. “Moden loved me,” she seethed, “he would never have left me alone, he would never have--”

“Enough.”

“--forgotten his purpose as a husband, which is to protect me, to care for me--”

“Enough.”

“--and he never would’ve humiliated me by having some whore wear my old clothes in front of everybody I know!”

A pause. Kylo glimpsed you for only a second--saw your bleeding thumb--but did not respond.

Johana trembled, veins bulging in her neck, and she advanced on him. “Where’s my dress?” When he didn’t respond, she screeched, whirling on you. “Where is my dress!”

You were a statue, a worthy target of her ire, as she lunged and charged you, hand shooting for your hair. Kylo growled, snatched her wrist, and she wailed, jerking back, teeth bared in primal rage. He met her with dispassionate irritation as she twisted, yanked, shrieked in his grip, the rabbit now caged by the wolf.

“Let me go, Kylo!”

She flailed, tried to pry him off, whined as she failed to budge even a single finger. Wrath collapsed into resignation, and she groaned, desperation swelling and dying in her chest, recognizing the futility of it all. Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair with her free hand and straightened.

“Commander,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

He did, and she whipped her arm back, rubbing her wrist.

“Your dress has been returned to your closet,” he replied. “Where it belongs.”

It almost sounded as if he’d apologized, though that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t for her benefit, anyway, if he had--but you were still too numb to notice.

Johana blinked, then recovered, crossing her arms. “If you think that fixes anything, Sir, it doesn’t,” she said. “Really, just keep the dress wherever you want it. Throw it out, for all I care. I’m sleeping in the guest room down the hall tonight.” She leered at you. “Enjoy.” Then she turned on her heel and left.

The word enjoy made it seem as if you could imagine nothing better than spending another night with the man who had murdered your only confidant in front of you. Ofarmitage’s betrayal was forgivable--after all, it was your trust in your own Commander that had gotten her killed. The fact was, her only mistake had been that she hadn’t been sleeping with Kylo Ren. You two had been one in the same. Equally enslaved, equally naive, equally expendable. Had Hux gotten his way, you’d be the one with the broken neck.

In a way, you envied her.

Alone in the room with your Commander, you continued to sit, unable--unwilling--to make eye contact with him, studying instead the dry red river that had now trickled to your palm. The air was still, emptied even of awkwardness. There was nothing between you, right now, that you wanted to feel. Behind you, beyond the large bay window, mourning doves cooed their soft, sage song.

He shifted, his gaze razor wire, slicing your skin at the thought of being around him a second longer. Glaring at the floor, you stood, marching toward the exit. Kylo reached for your arm, and you dodged him like he was a poltergeist.

“Don’t touch me!” you spat, shrugging your shoulder as if to banish his curse.

You stalked through the halls and up the stairs, head pounding with your audacity. He didn’t try to follow you, and you were glad. A storm ravaged your mind--what was the point of this, or the point of anything?

Enslaved in the home of malevolence manifested, tainted. Terrorized. Everything and anything turned to sand in your mouth, pouring and pouring down your throat until you choked and sputtered and wept into a soundless void. There would be no reprieve from this, in this future or any other future, not as long as you remained you, stupid and gullible and more craven than shadows in sun.

No saints in Gilead indeed--and next to Kylo Ren, you were the worst of them; he’d held you in his blood-soaked hands and stained you with his sins. You were worse than unforgivable.

You were unsalvageable.

When you made it to your room, you slammed the door, ripped your wings and bonnet from your hair, and threw yourself on the bed, smothering your face with your pillow.

There was no screaming, no tears--you held the pillow to your nose and mouth, sucking in nothingness, willing whatever black wraith that controlled your fate to guide you out of this hell and the next. You had no hope for heaven, you decided, if it existed--you’d been to bed with a barbarian, sought solace in his arms, spoiled your soul under his spell. You deserved nothing but utter damnation.

Another deep breath of nothing, and another, lack of oxygen burning behind your eyes, your lungs starved--just a little longer, and you’d pass out. Yet despite your self-loathing, the base of your brain kicked in, hijacking your intent, and you rolled over gasping, staring at the ceiling as static sizzled in your sight.

As you heaved, seconds tumbled into minutes, the desire for self-destruction crumbling with it. A soft sigh escaped. Killing yourself would do nothing but award Gilead another body. If anything, you would live out of spite, denying it the satisfaction of your surrender.

In fact, you’d do more than live out of spite. You’d do what you promised. You’d get the blade with Snoke’s blood and you’d turn it over to the Resistance the second you had a chance.

The resolution brought a calm to your chest. The rest of the day whittled away as you did nothing but lie in bed, apart from eating your quick lunch and dinner in silence. Neither Johana nor your Commander made an appearance throughout your day and into the night, allowing you some time to process. Staring into your ceiling, you picked at your thumb again, peeling the scab.

It was difficult to put into words what you felt for Kylo Ren, but you knew that whatever it was, it had been unlike anything you’d ever experienced, before Gilead or after. The sexual chemistry was one thing, of course, but there was something greater than that, something almost irrevocable. It was the vestiges of compassion in his eyes, the throttled tenderness in his hands, the buried loneliness, his persistent phantom--the phantom that knew you, too.

More shredding of skin, a rush of release shot through your veins. That was the fact that most attracted and disturbed you, the fact that bound you together, the fact that tore you apart--the fact that in the depths of Gilead’s despair, you’d found each other, seen the other with needle-sharp clarity, both born into an unspoken but magnetic understanding.

You’d peered into the pits of his pain, he’d held you, helpless and fractured. He’d been your savior, your asylum, your normality; you’d grounded him and challenged and incited him. And despite this ethereal intimacy that wove between you--

Kylo Ren had deceived you and bound you to insanity, eliminated all avenues of escape--except through him. He was a beast unleashed, devouring his prey and his protectors alike in a gambit to possess it all. He was agony and rage, seeking a home. Kylo Ren was a man so long tormented by demons that he had finally become one.

And you truly, unconditionally hated him.

You stared at your ravaged thumb through the darkness, your blood black in the moonlight. Crickets hummed in harmony outside. In the hall, footsteps creaked the floorboards. Long, strong strides. Your heart seized, face hot. Your door opened.

Kylo Ren--your mirror, your spectre, your Commander--stepped through and closed it behind him. Under the glow of stars, his beauty was a black hole, celestial and sinister, hauling you toward complete annihilation.

“I haven’t seen you,” he said. “All day.”

“I haven’t wanted you to see me.”

“You’re angry.” He stepped forward, inspecting your face. “Your life was endangered. You know that.”

Sighing, you refused to meet his eyes, focusing on your gnarled cuticle. “You made me watch her die.”

“It was important that they see where you stand.”

You balked. “What? Where I stand?”

“Your importance,” he said. “To Gilead. To me.” He paused. “And that attempts to disrupt that will not be tolerated.”

“But I’m disrupting Gilead,” you said. “You’re okay with tolerating that?” Sitting up, you shook your head. “You know from the party last night that I’m still working with the Resistance. Shouldn’t I be killed?” You pried more dry skin from your thumb--pain daggered up your wrist. “Don’t you want to hang--”

“Stop.”

You frowned. “Answer my question, or don’t tell me what to do,” you replied. “I’m not different than Ofarmitage. I fucked you. I even--” The word stuck in your throat, a rock. “I even cared about you.” You sighed. “She wanted more with her Commander. She did what she had to do to get it.” Your nails were caked with blood. “Just like I did.”

Kylo stepped toward your bed. “Whether or not she is different is unimportant,” he said. “She is not you. She threatened you--threatened me.” He paused. “It won’t happen again.”

Hot indignation coursed through you. “What, so she’s just… a sacrifice?”

He came closer. “She was an example.”

“She was a person!” you snapped. “ She had--she had a life!” Your body shook with anger. “You killed her! And now no one will know. No one will know who she was.” Despair coiled your chest. “I didn’t even know her name.”

Kylo Ren was silent. His gaze wandered the room, lingering on the vacant window, your red cheeks, and settled on the floor, lids falling in a slow blink. He ground his teeth in thought, following the lines of the floorboards, tracking their notches. The knot in his throat bobbed, and he blinked again. A tiny exhale escaped his nose. Slowly, his focus returned to you.

“It’s… unfortunate,” he said. “But if protecting your life means that others die in your place, then so be it.”

You shook your head, folding your arms over your chest. “You don’t get to kill just because it pleases you.”

“Pleases me?” His eyes widened, a nameless turmoil bubbling to life within them. “Little bird,” he hissed, “I have no choice.”

“You keep saying that,” you replied, “but you’re wrong. You’ve had choices this entire time. I’m the one without a choice! I’m the one stuck here, under you!”

He edged closer, tone like a knife. “There is no choice regarding your safety.”

“But people aren’t expendable!”

Kylo Ren pounced, cornering you, fist slamming the wall. “There was nothing to me but Gilead!” His voice was living death. “Now there is you.” His chin trembled, teeth bared. “And I will keep you alive at the expense of existence itself.”

You stared at him--looming over you, agonized anguish behind his gaze--remembering the man you’d seen the night before, the man whose eyes found you when you’d woken in the morning, the man who’d said your name. Then there was the masked monster pulling the lever, the machine who’d massacred his leader’s mansion, the Commander who’d deserted his duty. Kylo Ren was all of these men--and all of them had done all of it for you.

Swallowing, you dug into your cuticle, popping another twig of flesh free and tearing at it. “You disgust me.” You weren’t sure if you were speaking to him or yourself.

A long, slow breath left him, his chest deflating.

“The worst part of this is that I understand why you did it.”

He eased back, looking between you and your mangled thumb. “You do.”

“Yeah.”

You’d kept the Resistance at arm’s length, paying less than lip service, avoiding their inquiries, denying them information that could liberate not just you, but thousands. Even after he’d killed Poe. Your loyalty likely came at the expense of other lives you didn’t know. At the time, it felt like you didn’t have a choice. Who else was dying, now, because of your reluctance? You supposed if you hated him, you hated yourself, too.

“I guess I’m still just… you.”

You drove your nail into your leision, seeking more thin skin, blood smudging your fingers. Having done that, you flayed another layer, twitching as capillaries were rended raw. Kylo sat at the foot of your mattress, watching you work.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

You shrugged. “I could do worse.”

He caught your hand, pulling you from your self-mutilation, and examined it, rotating your wrist. Holding you in his gaze, he brought your bloody thumb to his mouth and pressed his lips to it, a salve of devotion--and then guided it inside, sealing it between his teeth. Your breath stalled, pulse paralyzed as he sucked, tongue sliding up and around the tender wound, cleaning the crimson new and old. Shivers scampered over you, and he purred in soft satisfaction, laving your sensitive pad, dragging his teeth over the knuckle before pulling it free.

“My bed is open to you.” He kissed your thumb again, his affection like anesthesia. “Come lie with me.”

“Lie with you.” The words withered in your throat. No, you didn’t hate yourself--you didn’t even hate him. But this game of hopeless passion had become too deadly, too personal. You were done playing. “I don’t want to.”

He blinked. “You don’t.”

Frowning, you met his eyes, and found a terrified tempest howling behind them. Your hands quaked; you remembered the wisp of him on your lips, dew drops of worship in your ear, the wholeness you’d felt in his embrace. It thrashed in your chest, luminous and blooming into your blood. And you would sooner dessicate your veins than admit it was there at all.

“No.” You tore your hand from him, cradling it to your chest. “I don’t.”

He didn’t move. His eye twitched. “Come.”

“No.” Staring at the wall, you steeled your jaw. “Just… go away. Leave me alone.”

Kylo Ren swallowed, fear a fog in his gaze. With rash-red lips, he murmured your name.

Heat rushed your spine. You shook your head. “Don’t call me that anymore.”

Silence. He shifted on the bed. “Please.”

You speared him with a glare. “Get out of my room, Commander.”

Kylo looked to your hand, still clutched to your heart, and to your face, searching for something in the quiet of the night. Then he stood, staring out into the yard, fingers tensing. After a moment without a word, he turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hall.

You collapsed into bed, gaze chained to the ceiling. Without him, ache filtered back through your body, your thumb now throbbing in pain. Hot shame streaked through you. Eyes closed, you pressed it to your mouth, futilely trying to taste his lips.

[virlath]

Sera and the small painted box

One of the burning questions I’ve had since DAO is, what exactly was inside the painted box we stole from First Enchanter Irving’s room in the Circle Tower?

I had an epiphany the other day reading more into The Calling, and what follows is a pretty wild theory about Sera, the small painted box, red lyrium, and her connection to Andruil.

spoilers for everything, get your popcorn, and byo tin foil; the rabbit hole goes deep. 

The small painted box

Before the Inquisition and during the events of DAO, Sera was around ten years old, ‘playing with small painted boxes and burying stuff [she] stole’ in Denerim.

Based on her dialogue in DAI, it is strongly hinted the small painted box as part of the Friends of Red Jenny quest in Origins is associated to Sera’s childhood.

The quest seems like a standard fetch and deliver quest and it starts when you find a small painted box in First Enchanter Irving’s personal room in the Circle Tower. 

You then find the following note on a traveler when you are ambushed by Zevran:

The task was never promised to be easy. You said you could enter the Circle Tower, and you were believed. Find the small painted box in First Enchanter Irving's office and deliver it to the door marked in Denerim as agreed, or be prepared to find yourself hunted across Ferelden.

--Friends of Red Jenny

(There is a sketched map of several doors. It requires the box to be placed on it to block out false leads.)

A large shadow and a child’s laugh can be heard from behind the door when the deal is done, a clear hint that Sera was involved in this quest somehow. (also note the large shadow and change in air pressure when the door is opened...). After delivering the box, the quest is complete and you go on your merry way.

But what if the quest was something more? The item in the box was clearly important enough to warrant a manhunt if the person failed to deliver as promised.

What if the entire quest was a blip in a string of events throughout history hinting at bigger schemes going on behind the scenes? 

What if what was being carted around and stolen by the Jennies was in fact an enchanted red lyrium dagger previously used by First Enchanter Remille in The Calling?

The ebony black dagger

The Calling by David Gaider is a prequel book to DAO and recounts Maric’s journey into the deep roads as his party uncovers the Architect’s plans prior to the events of Origins/Awakening.

To cut a long story short, an ebony black dagger is a major plot item in the book, used by Duncan in the final battle to defeat First Enchanter Remille who was using blight magic taught to him by the Architect. 

Reading the story with the hindsight of DAI and Tevinter Nights, I am convinced the ebony dagger in The Calling is made from the same type of magic as the red lyrium idol. I also think there is a good chance the ebony dagger is what was contained within the painted box that we stole from Irving’s room and delivered to the Red Jennies.

Duncan first steals this dagger from Remille’s room in the Circle’s tower at the start of the book. A reminder that the story is set in 9:10 Dragon, 30+ years before the events of DAO.

Duncan was about to start searching the desk more carefully when something tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe caught his eye. Something glittering amid a pile of rolled-up linens. Hidden. A slow smile crept across his face as he knelt down and moved some of the rolls aside. This revealed a red lacquered box, longer than it was wide and with a small golden lock. Very fancy, the sort of thing one might keep jewelry in, he thought.

Ignoring any warning thoughts about magical protection, he examined the lock closely and then reached into his belt to retrieve two fine pieces of wire. The lockpick was small enough to do the job, he figured, and as he quietly plucked away at the lock mechanism he was pleased to see he was right. It resisted him with click sounds until finally it gave way and released. Cautiously, he pulled it out and opened the lid of the box, half expecting it to explode.

It didn’t. Duncan gasped as he looked in the box to see an ebony-black dagger lying upon red silk. The entire dagger seemed to have been carved from a single piece of glossy stone, looking almost as if it was made of glass. Was it obsidian? He had heard of such a material but never actually seen it before. The hilt was beautiful, delicate ridges leading up to a pommel carved into a roaring dragon’s head. As he lifted it out gingerly, he saw what looked like red veins within the black blade, tiny cracks along its surface. He would have thought it was blood, but running his finger along the side told him it was perfectly smooth. Not a stain or blemish.

Now this was worth stealing. This was something special, something that the First Enchanter prized enough to hide within his own chambers...

Chuckling with amusement, Duncan slid the blade into his shirt. Where the smooth metal touched his skin he felt a tingle. Not unpleasant, and almost warm. It made him like the weapon all the more.

Read the entire excerpt above and compare the description to the red lyrium idol in the 2018 teaser...

..and tell me THE DAGGER AND THE IDOL ARE NOT MADE OF THE SAME THING.

Also, note the red lacquered box the dagger is found in.

This is a pretty big deal - not only because it’s now obvious red lyrium enchanted items have clearly been floating around a lot longer than I thought (way before the fifth blight even), but also because there is a very good chance Sera has come in contact with the same red lyrium enchanted dagger in her childhood.

Whether this was by fate, chance, or something else (Andruil perhaps? I’ll get to her later) is anyone’s guess, but I have a hunch her biggest fear, the Nothing (or the Void), is connected to her mysterious past and the reason why she is so scared of confronting her truth.

Prior to this revelation, I always assumed Sera’s painted boxes were like a child’s hobby to pass time. But there is actually nothing in lore stopping the boxes from being containers for stolen items, including being a red lacquered box. 

The Jennies have been around for well over a hundred years (possibly longer) and Sera somehow rose in the ranks at a very young age. Could her involvement in procuring this item as well as her natural talent for bows sped up her promotions?

The thing that sells this theory to me is that First Enchanter Irving actually replaces Remille after he is defeated in The Calling.

It is easy to assume Irving inherited Remille’s magical belongings including the box and the dagger. Coincidentally, the painted box is found in the First Enchanter’s room both times.

Furthermore, the Red Jennies in DAO clearly knew whatever was inside this box was important, and they were very specific with their instructions.

You said you could enter the Circle Tower, and you were believed. Find the small painted box in First Enchanter Irving's office and deliver it to the door marked in Denerim as agreed, or be prepared to find yourself hunted across Ferelden.

Remember during the time of the fifth blight, literally no one knew anything about red lyrium, let alone the blight or even darkspawn for that matter. Most people were even dismissing the idea of a blight entirely! So how was it that the Jennies knew this dagger was significant enough to warrant a manhunt over it?

Enchanted red lyrium

While we’re on the topic of the dagger, let’s talk about red lyrium for a bit.

Thus far only enchanted red lyrium has been able to nullify the effects of the blight/red lyrium. This can be seen with Sandal’s rune in DA2, Dagna’s rune in DAI on Samson’s armour, and possibly even in Tevinter Nights to nullify the piece of the Black City, called Dumat’s Folly. 

I’m convinced the ebony dagger is similarly made of enchanted red lyrium, because Remille initially allied with the Architect on the premise they would taint the entire world, but he never planned to follow through with it. He was only interested in the power of blight magic, and so needed a way to counter the Architect to betray their alliance.

In the final battle against him, no ordinary magic could counteract Remille’s spells. Only Duncan was able to slice through the shadows with the ebony black dagger before it ‘consumed him’.

Desperate, he stabbed at the shadow with his dagger. Better to carve off his own flesh than be eaten whole by this magic. To his surprise, he didn’t stab himself. The moment the blade so much as touched the shadow, they recoiled from it. He began pressing the blade with frenzied haste against his body wherever the darkness touched him, and each time it retreated.

Within moments he had escaped, backing against a wall and breathing rapidly. Terror raced through him as he stared at the inky black pool that lay just a foot from him, now sizzling.

...The dagger almost pulsated now. He stared at it as realization slowly dawned on him. He had stolen this from the First Enchanter’s quarters, something the man had hidden away...he’d hidden it from the prying eyes of the templars and the other mages. It was made of the same magic that the Architect had taught him! 

...

The mage unleashed a sphere. It flew at Duncan, making a shrieking sound as it sailed through the air, and when it reached him he closed his eyes and swiped at it with the dagger.The shrieking turned into a burst of sound that resembled a wail, and he felt a wave of coldness wash over his skin. It was like being dunked into a freezing pool of water, but he didn’t slow and he wasn’t hurt.

The dagger’s enchantment also protected Duncan from the brooches Remille gave to the party at the start of the book to ‘hide them from darkspawn'. The brooches did work as intended, but unbeknownst to them the brooches also accelerated the taint within the wardens which allowed the Architect to track them easily.

This was why Duncan hadn’t been affected by his brooch like the others had. His skin had never corrupted, he’d never heard the Calling, all because the dagger’s enchantment had protected him.

To be clear, it’s never explicitly stated what the painted box in DAO looked like or if anything was even in the box, however I would guess it probably does contain the dagger considering it was left in Remille’s chest after he is killed. Presumably it was later retrieved when the tower was cleaned up and forgotten about thereafter. 

I do wonder why Duncan never thinks to retrieve the dagger for inspection though, considering he and Fiona are later recalled to Weisshaupt to report on the Architect’s powers. The wardens take an interest in studying the brooches Remille gave them, so it’s bit of a mystery as to why they didn’t think to inspect the dagger as well. Duncan isn’t a mage so perhaps he wrote it off as some custom enchantment Remille cooked up and tied to him personally.

And to be fair, no one really had much first-hand knowledge of fighting the darkspawn and the blight for centuries before this, so maybe it was simply an oversight from everyone. Blight magic was and still is a huge mystery because rarely anyone has seen it and lived to tell the tale. The dagger also only activates around blight magic so to most people it would just look like a static glossy black dagger (with red veins through it).

Where did the dagger come from and why did Remille have it in his possession?

It is never explained how Remille obtained the ebony black dagger in the first place, but given the fact he first met the Architect in the Fade I’m going to guess a separate third party got wind of his alliance and offered him an alternative deal. 

Perhaps the Red Jennies were involved behind the scenes and they helped plant the dagger in Remille’s room. Perhaps the mastermind behind this scheme hinged their bets on the assumption Remille would choose sole power over an alliance with the Architect because that is what they expected him to do.

Taking this idea one step further, I believe the mastermind behind this could very well be Flemeth herself, who warned Maric a blight was coming way back in The Stolen Throne. Remember, she’s been around a long time and knows the hearts of men. 

"Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature."

How could she have known about a future blight if she did not have prior knowledge of the Architect’s plans?

Personally, I believe she has been playing a long game of “chess” with various third parties throughout history (the “Old Gods”) in an attempt to seek out her revenge/end-game. 

The issue of the blight is the most pervasive problem in Thedas and it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that Flemeth’s main opponents in all of this are the “old god” whisperers who have been whispering in the minds of men since the veil was created.

I think the Architect (and the rest of the darkspawn magisters) are pawns to higher beings impersonating the Old Gods with the end goal of tainting the entire world. The old god dragons are a different matter entirely - third parties caught between the power struggle of blight vs. no blight, and are unfortunately for them, magically sealed within their prisons underground.

Solas loathes the idea of the Grey Wardens killing off the old gods preemptively the instant he catches wind of it, yet this same idea is explored by the Architect way before the Fifth Blight. I believe Flemeth and Solas are on the same page with regards to this and they both know slaying the Old Gods preemptively is a bad idea.

Flemeth says herself she nudges history, or shoves it when required. But she also says things happened that were never meant to happen. 

Perhaps she tried stopping the fifth blight by making the enchanted dagger available to Remille, but the unknown factored in and the Architect managed to get away before he could be killed. 

When the Architect preemptively started the fifth blight by awakening Urthemiel, she sent Morrigan with the HoF so she had a chance to preserve the old god soul.

And after the events of DAI, her ‘shove’ to history is passed on to her lackey, Solas, because all her chips have been lined up in the previous 40+ years of plotting and manipulating.

As for the dagger in question, a few questions remain.

Do the Red Jennies still have the dagger in their possession and where is it now? 

Did Sera come into contact or use this dagger at any point after the HoF delivered it in Denerim? 

Will the dagger come into play in the future as an alternative way to counteract blighted creatures or even Solas or the evanuris?

Does the red lyrium idol act similarly to the ebony dagger, given the fact it has been described as a ritual blade in Tevinter Nights and possibly was the weapon Merrill spoke of in DA2??? Massive implications if so.

Sera is an echo of Andruil

I am convinced Sera is a wisp or echo of Andruil and she’s retained jumbled up bits of her memories and abilities from ancient Elvhenan. 

The theory has already been well explained in great detail here so I encourage you to check it out:

Sera’s connection to the ebony dagger from The Calling is very suspicious to me, because there is strong evidence Andruil had been dabbling with the blight and the Void, so much so Mythal had to steal her memories from her to cure her ‘insanity’.

If Sera hosts even a wisp of Andruil (which I strongly believe she does), was Andruil ‘killed’ like Mythal at some point in time and is only now just reforming as Sera? 

Is Andruil now trying to help rid the world of the blight instinctively after seeing the devastation it caused first hand?

I disagree with the notion that Sera being Andruil cheapens her character. To be honest when I first heard the theory I didn’t want to buy into it either. It felt too convenient and on-the-nose. But there are simply too many coincidences and foreshadowing that I can’t ignore anymore. There is definitely something special about Sera.

If anything having this theory confirmed would strengthen her overall character arc and the DA universe as a whole to me, because there is still so much potential for her character by the end of Trespasser. Solas says himself, when spirits die they can reform if their spirit form was strong or if the memory was shaped by other spirits.

Sera is a character that is easy to hate but in my opinion, one of the most self aware and insightful characters in the series. She says herself around the start of the game that she wants to see what’s true for herself. 

She was raised as an Andrastian but deep down she knows there’s more. If you read her journal her problems reconciling her religious upbringing is constantly on her mind.

If Andruil really did have her memories stolen by Mythal and her memories are now slowly coming back, triggered by the events of DAI, the big question is whether or not she can eventually face her greatest fear of the Nothing (the Void) to move forward and come to terms with her past self- a part of her she is clearly trying to lock away.

With the blight and red lyrium looming over Thedas, if Sera were to confront her nightmares and memories based on Andruil’s prior knowledge, she could be a very useful ally to have in uncovering Solas’ motives and objectives, how to navigate the Void, and potentially even help to stop the blight.

Personally, I have always felt Andruil was one of the gods who actually wanted to do good, but was manipulated by the people around her for power and so she eventually succumbed to the institution she was in.

Perhaps Sera’s spirit is Andruil but also something more - an echo that actually remembers its past and what it was like to be corrupted by power because that memory and experience left such a strong impression. 

Perhaps Mythal’s sapping of her strength and her reformation in Sera finally allowed her a chance to reflect on her past actions and make instinctive decisions to be a part of the Red Jennies and join the Inquisition to protect the little people instead.

This would explain why Sera hates nobles so much, and why she asks a romanced Inquisitor for reassurance they are still themselves at the end of it all. ‘I just need you to stay you’.

She’s seen power corrupt people first-hand and this is why she believes in the chaotic, undefined hierarchies of the Red Jennies, because she doesn’t believe in glorified rulers with nobles at the top anymore. Which funnily enough, is very much in line with Solas’ thinking.

Remaining questions on her I would love to see addressed in the future:

What was the shadow behind the door in Denerim with Sera? What was even going on in that room that the air pressure inside felt different when the door opened? It sounds magical. And remember, Sera hates and is terrified of magic.

If Sera was involved in smuggling out the ebony dagger from Irving’s room, what did she do with it? She was only around ten years old at the time - why was she even dabbling with this item to begin with?

What is she so afraid of in the Void when she’s never even really been there? (presumably, maybe she forgot or blocked it out of her memory)

Why does she experience deja-vu and why can she sense the veil when she’s not a mage?

Has she blocked out parts of her memories because her dabbling with the ebony black dagger in her childhood caused her to remember too much of her past self?

When she describes the sky as ‘feeling like falling’ is that how one enters the Void? By falling up into the sky of a titan?

And why is she so afraid of a romanced Inquisitor falling into the Void? Her vision/nightmare foretells the Inquisitor’s death and fall into the Void after the battle with Corypheus but what if it foretold a future event, something we may possibly see in DA4?

Personally I believe the events of DAI particularly the Fade and The Temple of Mythal triggered certain memories within Sera that reminded her of her past and the consequences of her actions.

I believe she knows what the Void is and how to wield it’s power, but she’s afraid of confronting the truth because the knowledge of what it can do to a person truly terrifies her. 

When you are corrupted, you forget your sense of self, you forget all sense of time and even past conversations, and you even forget your true face. 

[visceryl]

Age of Corruption - D&D

Here’s a little short story based on a Dungeons and Dragons campaign our group runs. I absolutely adore this group with all of my being. Liam belongs to @angrynar. Elijah belongs to @kas-voton. Safin belongs to @noceurro. Benny belongs to @zuulosdovah. Fennorin belongs to me. Sar belongs to someone off of tumblr!

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“Excuse me?”

Fennorin’s voice rang out in cold shock as white wisps of hair coated red from battle hung down in his face. His chest heaved, the fists locked around his longsword trembling with effort. 

He watched the lanky boy of sickly pale skin hover over a drow. Liam sported a grin sharp and wicked enough to make a heart jump twice in shock, then recoil of fear. A spell buzzed upon his fingertips, the will of the weave tainted black with necrotic misuse. It raised the drow’s veins to the surface of his skin, crowding them with boiling agony. 

The captive yelled out in his mother tongue. A rough, deep language that turned to the sad wails of a creature mourning its emintent fate. The open cavern of the Underdark did little to dampen the echoes of his begs. 

“He deserves to die!” Liam barked back. “They all deserve to die!”

Even Elijah shifted nervously behind the servitor. A fresh ooze of blood filled the spaces between his fingers as they pressed between the loops of his armor where a blade had embedded in flesh. 

“No, Liam!” 

The servitor of Corellon staggered forward a step, his foot dragging over bones that littered the floor. Skulls, ribs, fibias, tibias. From wicked beasts that hunted the unofficial layer escaped from hell to surface dwelling races dragged to the belly of its depths. He stumbled, letting his sword crumble from his hands.

Steel on stone pierced the tension with a resounding clatter.

“This isn’t you! This isn’t what Kainan would have wanted!” 

Liam’s lips curled upon the holy worshipper’s approach. He hated him. He hated the elf that made his insides boil simply by being around him. He hated the way Fennorin always put himself in the way of his nature, parading himself around like a saint when he’d done no better a time or two. 

He wasn’t holy. He put Kainan in the ground and would do the same for anyone here, but not Liam. Death didn’t have to be the final line. He knew how to bring them back even if it wasn’t the same. His fingers curled tighter into the drow’s hair, wrenching his head back to look upwards into his own hellish gaze. 

“You’re wrong. I’ve always been this.”

“I know that’s not true. I don’t care what’s in your blood, Liam. You will always be my family, and I will not let you do this alone. We will get you through this together, whatever those fanatics say, they’re wrong!”

Fennorin was close now. Close enough to reach out for the mage. 

For a moment, Liam’s grip on the drow sagged, letting his head turn back to the floor. He leveled his gaze on Fennorin, jaw clenched so tight it jumped with strain. No one said anything. No one even moved.

The battle had nearly wiped everyone out. Elijah, hanging at sanity’s edge as he waited for any chance to step in if needed. Safin on the ground with Benny’s head in her lap as she eases the bleeding from a nasty wound. Sar pulling on his ears and cursing Allustan for dragging him into a mission he was too faint of heart for. They were all so tired.

Liam skimmed his gaze over them with wavering resolve. He’s wrong. He lies. He just wants to get you to turn yourself over so he can finish you. The voice lingered maliciously in the back of his head. Hostile and full of blinding rage. His fingers twitched in the drow’s hair, the spell held at ready surging wildly once more. 

“Please,” Fennorin begged, his voice softer. The pale skinned elf reached a bloody hand out for his friend to take.

Not this time.

Jet black fogged over Liam’s eyes and the drow dropped discarded to the floor. His own hand leapt up, latching to the servitor’s and the spell released. It shattered through the elf’s defenses. 

A scream lit up the silent cavern as visions of hell warped and tore at Fennorin’s mind. Liam held fast. His dark energy challenged the divine glow rooted at his friend’s core, watching veins of black crawl up Fennorin’s arm, corrupting. 

The elf’s footing quickly caved and a skull splintered beneath him as his knees crashed to the ground. Blood began to soak through his trousers around the area, but the pain went unrecognized up against Liam’s influence.

Elijah fumbled for his blade in a panic. Fingers slipped slick over the pommel before pausing in hesitation. Could he truly raise his sword up against his friend? No. For all the fear coiling tight in his stomach, he knew the blade would never pierce Liam’s skin. But he held it aloft, leveling the mage threateningly. 

“Let him go, Liam! You don’t want to do this!”

Black eyes flicked mindlessly to the large boy. “Except I do.”

He released Fennorin with a shove far beyond his own strength. Like a god swiping down on an ant, the elf was sent crashing back into Elijah, narrowly avoiding the sharp end of the raised blade. 

It was immediately dropped for strong arms to coil around Fennorin. Elijah staggered back, brandishing the weight as the elf struggled to find his footing. He could feel the heavy breaths rattling in Fennorin’s chest, the shivers of mental exhaustion trembling in every muscle.

Liam didn’t wait to level another spell at them. His fingertips curved into wicked claws, his teeth elongated and carnivorously sharp. Rivulets of blood clung to his lower lip and whitened teeth from shredding through the inside of his own cheeks. The spell cracked like a whip, a jet of ebon darkness striking the both. 

Kill them. You don’t need them. 

He watched as Elijah’s grasp on Fennorin loosened. A gasp parted the brunette’s lips, his body arching in a twist of anguish. Both were back on their knees in an instant. Fennorin’s weight rocked onto his forearms as they brandished upon the cold ground. An awful choking strangled in his lungs, strings of blood pooling his mouth and dribbling down his chin.

“That’s enough,” Safin finally declared. She eased Benny from her lap, her palm facing outwards to Liam as a small wooden splinter began to enlarge at the center.

“Don’t.”

Fennorin’s voice scraped out raw, his shoulders shaking. He rose from his curled position like a ghoul from the ground, pallid features turning up to Liam. “It’s not him, Safin. Please don’t hurt him.”

Safin’s gaze flicked between the two wearily. There was the slightest hint of hesitation as if a consideration of ending it had been taken. But she trusted their healer. Fennorin wasn’t perfect. He was stubborn and sometimes blinded by his own faith, but he always got them through everything.

She grimaced and lowered her hand.

Liam’s lips parted in a toothy grin that spanned ear to ear and while her’s lowered, his raised. Another flare of magic readied to smite down the servitor. He stepped past Elijah who lay unseeing, invisible nightmares plaguing his waking mind.

His footsteps stopped in front of Fennorin, an air of disgust wrinkling his nose. The mage knelt down to level them both, the hand flaring with mana coming to rest gentle upon the elf’s cheek. “You should have let her,” he whispered. “This is me now, Fen. Accept it.”

The hand scalded at Fennorin’s cheek. He forced his gaze to remain on Liam’s, his own hand fumbling within his robes to latch onto something solid hung at his neck. 

“I can’t accept that.” 

Liam’s features contorted into an angry snarl. His hand burned hotter on the elf’s cheek, near branding him with necrotic energy. “Why not!?”

Tears surfaced in Fennorin’s eyes like he’d already accepted he could very well die here trying to save Liam’s soul. A sob strangled in his chest. He tore the silver chain from around his neck and feebly lofted his holy symbol up.

It was met with the psychotic laughter of a devil. 

“That won’t work on me, Fennorin. I’m still very much alive.”

“That’s not what it’s for,” Fennorin presses. The salt of tears mixes with the taste of metal heavy on his tongue. His cheek leaned towards Liam’s touch and he managed to grab hold of his other hand, forcing the holy symbol of Corellon into his grasp. “Whatever is in your head, it’s not your god, Liam. Real gods don’t ask their followers to change who they are for them. You have not been abandoned.”

Liam curled his fingers around the symbol carved of pure silver, threatening to bend it in his iron grip. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Something twisted in Liam’s chest as he stared down his friend. How did he answer with such certainty even facing death itself? How did he just sit there and take it? He was the Spawn of Bhaal. A visage of true evil to spread death and destruction in the wake of his angered and forgotten god while Fennorin was a visage of true good. A healer to uphold the light even in crippling darkness. They couldn’t have been further opposites. Why did he care?

“I’m not lying, Liam. The dark gods are cruel. They’re devils disguised as holy beings, and all we can do is endure them, but I promise you, the real gods would never abandon you. You’re no elf. You’re no healer or student of the arts. But Corellon loves you. He loves you because I love you and every night I pray to him to save you! I pray for him to protect you from the devil infested blood running through your veins because blood is not a defining quality! It is a building block of life that gives you the sentience to be your own person. And the person you are is one of my best friends. For that… you will never be abandoned. Corellon will protect you even long after I’m dead.”

“Shut up!” 

Liam’s voice raised in an angry roar, his hand lifting from Fennorin’s cheek only to connect again in a vicious slap that tore claws across his cheek. 

The elf yelped out, his head snapping to the side as skin split beneath the force. It almost burned as much as the magic had. “I will always love you,” he repeated, the words forced through tears.

Another slap.

Then a fist. It sailed into Fennorin’s gut.

Liam couldn’t think. The anger that boiled inside him shifted gears to someone else. That voice. The lingering catalyst to his demise. A noise tore from his chest, sounding of a wounded animal in the night. 

His body shuddered before giving out. He collapsed against Fennorin as the black faded, returning the whites of his eyes and the subtle stormy blue of irises. The holy symbol remained clutched in his grasp as sobs overtook him. He pressed himself closer to the warm glow of the servitor who’s fresh wounds left him complacent against the boy.

“I’m sorry,” he finally gasped. “I’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”

Fennorin swallowed the rock lodged in his throat, releasing a breath that shook his entire being. Arms worked around Liam with an exhausted squeeze, swathing him in an embrace. He pushed his face down to the mage’s shoulder.

The magic holding Elijah released as Liam lost himself in clinging to his friend. 

“I forgive you.” The words that tumbled from the elf wrenched another sob free from Liam and fingers twisted into robes. Desperate. “We’re going to fix this. I’m not going to abandon you. Ever.”

The two held each other fiercely, Fennorin soothingly stroking Liam’s hair until finally the sobs faded and breaths evened out. Sleep took the mage like a silent lover in the night, coaxed by the warmth of his friend.