#visage ◈ ⊰ to surpass the end of all things ⊱

[seraphicstrings-a]

tag one ◈ ⊰ tag two ⊱

in character ◈ ⊰ something a little like decadence ⊱

aesthetic ◈ ⊰ what's a king to a god ⊱

thoughts ◈ ⊰ they call me alice. where is my blade? ⊱

castle town ◈ ⊰ you took this house and made it a home ⊱

bond. amarin ◈ ⊰ run rabbit run rabbit alice has a gun ⊱

bond. delun ◈ ⊰ red. the color of blood; of love. ⊱

bond. neff ◈ ⊰ she's a woman in total control of herself ⊱

verse 01 ◈ ⊰ more than a god stronger than memory ⊱

visage ◈ ⊰ to surpass the end of all things ⊱

ooc ◈ ⊰ hi yes they call me a fae vampire ⊱

mun art ◈ ⊰ progress at 38 percent ⊱

queue ◈ ⊰ beep beep bitch i'm gay ⊱

asks ◈ ⊰ a dangerous game to play ⊱

selfpromo ◈ ⊰ hell's coming with me ⊱

promotion ◈ ⊰ i think therefore you are ⊱

canon ◈ ⊰ every day a little death ⊱

spirit: c ◈ ⊰ where is your pride and your rage? ⊱

[wishfulfilled]

「tomie vaunt」

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“Do you really think you’ll stumble on another girl as beautiful as I?”

“But compared to my beauty you’re not even on the scale.”

“Surely those blessed with beauty such as mine have a responsibility to record it before it slips away forever.”

“You think this silly thing captures even a tenth of my beauty?”

“This is just the start of how pretty i can get.”

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my beauty is beyond human comprehension, even though people desperately want to capture it thru music, paintings and sculptures. when people see me they want to decide their entire life to try to encapsulate my allure, gracefulness and magnetic aura. to no avail, i cannot be copied, even the greatest artists wouldn’t be able to even come close to replicating my enchanting, dreamy and surreal visage.

i love myself so much i could look in the mirror for hours on end. absolutely no one and nothing can compare to me. i am prettier then all of the stars in the sky combined, even more beautiful then the most perfect scenery god has bestowed upon earth. it’s like i come from another planet, another universe. no, surely someone as perfect as me must be a gift from god straight from heaven.

i value myself highly and never underestimate myself because i know how powerful i am. i know that i am intelligent, strong and perfect in every possible way. i am very respected and my presence is intimidating, hypnotising and absolutely unforgettable. my aura is intoxicating, addicting and i am not afraid of being myself and i know that everyday i keep evolving and improving mentally, spiritually and emotionally. my personality is extremely charming and people are naturally attracted to me. i only need my own validation.

once people see me they are unable to forget me, people trip over their feet to try and compliment me. when they finally approach me they are so in awe of how even more perfect i am when up close that they suddenly are at a loss of words. people constantly shower me with gifts, write poems about their undeniable love for me and yet it seems like they believe that they will never be able to express their undying love no matter what they do.

when someone looks at me it feels all though all their problems and worries suddenly washed away and they cannot think about anything else then me and how to make me happy. when i give someone even the slightest bit of attention they get filled with bliss, gratefulness. but it’s expected i mean i am completely irresistible and my beauty is undefinable.

no one and nothing can ever compare to me. it simply isn’t possible to surpass my level of knowledge, allure and everything comes so easy for me, it’s like everything is rigged in my favour and i truly don’t have to put in any effort, everything falls into place for me while i just exist being my perfect self. i am healthy, protected and i only have positive experiences. i know myself and i am secure with who i really am, i always get opportunities that lead me to fulfilling my dreams.

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✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

[silvergeek]

Sauron - Fast Facts

Sauron was a highly gifted Maia. He was a student of Aulë and became skilled at crafting and making. He was named Mairon. Coveting the power through which he would coordinate all things according to his own will, he joined with Melkor. As one of the most powerful Maiar, Sauron was created by Ilúvatar before the Music of the Ainur.[1] At the beginning of Time, he was amongst the Ainur who entered into Eä.[2] Here he became one of the Maiar of Aulë, among whose people he was deemed mighty and surpassed only by the Smith himself,[2] and was known as Mairon.[3]

In the Second Age, under the guise of Annatar, he deceived the Elves of Eregion, who under his guidance had created the Rings of Power, whilst he secretly forged the One Ring in Mount Doom. Thus Sauron became "the Lord of the Rings". Failing to corrupt the Elves, he assaulted the Westlands, beginning a period called the Dark Years, the first time he became known as the Dark Lord. His influence corrupted the Númenóreans - leading to the destruction of Númenor - which led to Elendil founding the Realms in Exile of Arnor and Gondor. 

Mairon's virtue was his love for order, planning and coordination, disliking confusion and chaos. But his obsession with order gradually overshadowed his love for the other intelligent beings of Arda, who would benefit from his planning; it became the sole object of his will, the end in itself. He started admiring Melkor's power to realize his designs quickly and masterfully.

Sauron has commanded a great army of werewolves.

Sauron can turn into a werewolf

Sauron can turn into a vampire

"Sauron took on the form of a werewolf, the greatest the world had ever seen, and went towards the bridge. So great was the terror of his approach that even Huan momentarily recoiled. Sauron leaped to attack Lúthien, but she drew her magic veil over his eyes, afflicting him with fatigue and blindness. Then Huan sprang upon Sauron and there they fought. The force of Sauron's malice alone left Lúthien weak and nearly unconscious, and the fighting was brutal and prolonged; however, he could not subdue the hound of Valinor. He was trapped within Huan's jaws and could not break free, even when he took the form of a serpent and finally his own shape. Rather than leave his physical form, he yielded to Lúthien, giving her control of the isle in return for his release. He then took the form of a vampire and fled to Taur-nu-Fuin, filling the forest with horror.[10]"

After the War of Wrath, with the downfall of Morgoth and the destruction of Thangorodrim, Sauron adopted a fair form and repented his evil deeds in fear of the wrath of the Valar. Eönwë ordered Sauron to return to Valinor in order to receive the judgement of Manwë. Sauron was not willing to suffer such humiliation, and he instead fled and hid himself in Middle-earth.[5]

Although Sauron long knew that Men were easier to sway, he sought to bring the Elves into his service, as they were far more powerful.[5] After lying hidden and increasing his power in secret, in S.A. 1200 Sauron put on a fair visage, calling himself Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, an emissary from the Valar. He was never welcome in Lindon as Elrond and Gil-galad did not trust him and refused to treat with him, although they did not perceive who he truly was.[5] Elsewhere Annatar was gladly received, especially in Eregion, where only Galadriel distrusted him. The Noldorin smiths there learned much from him in art and magic, as their thirst for knowledge was great.[13][11] Under the tutelage of Annatar and the leadership of Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, became more skilled than anyone save Fëanor himself. 

Believing he would dominate all of Middle-earth, Sauron assumed many glorious titles: King of Kings,[18] King of Men,[17] Lord of the Earth,[5] and even Lord of the World.[18]

[primamchorus]

When the Rain Falls

Regis may be King of Insomnia, his lineage blessed by the Crystal, but he is still just a man. In the wake of having lost one thing dear to him, he is granted a vision of the future -- his son's future. His son's destiny. But what is a destiny when his son is in a dire state?

Word Count: 2,130

FFXV: Reimagined Table of Contents

Next ->

Insomnia was cast in the shadow of dark clouds, a somber mood that morning. It was fitting.

Several black cars belonging to the royal family had been driving down the streets back to the Citadel, early morning workers and shop owners pausing in their routine to watch the cars return with interest. The cars pressed onward and past the car gates. Past the looming portcullis. Past the gardens and fountains that lined the road before it got to the roundabout driveway.

One black car in particular stopped at the steps leading to the entrance of the Citadel. The door opened, and out stepped a man, his garb regal, though his features disheveled and bereft of a good night's sleep. Even more concerning was the blood that stained his clothing.

In the cloudy overcast of the morn, even the vast image of the Citadel seemed a looming adversary as the regal man looked up at it. To him, it felt like a hollow monument at that moment. It was supposed to feel safe -- like home. But what was a home now?

Turning back toward the car, the man gazed at a woman’s body that had been laid out. Her body had paled, and her blood coated her clothing, skin, and the leather seating. Seeing her again made the man’s breath stutter as he closed his eyes and leaned in. He moved past her to cradle and withdraw another occupant of the car: a boy of only eight years, slumbering away, his own breath pained with the injury that he sustained.

Holding the boy close, the man closed his eyes as he righted himself back up. He stroked the back of the boy's head, sadness hooked in his heart, but a wellspring of relief that this boy -- his boy -- still drew breath. That his boy's heart still beat.

“This is not the life I wanted for you, my dear Noctis…” the man whispered.

‘When darkness veils the world, the King of Light shall come.’

A voice, authoritative and clear, rang out in the man’s mind.

But why now of all times?

The world shifted, and it was like the clouds above sank down and darkened, rolling over the man and the boy. They twisted and coiled, changing the very scene that the man bore witness to. When the clouds finally parted, the man stood before the visage of a young man -- a young man he knew. That young man was a vision of an older Noctis.

This vision of Noctis turned toward the man. For a moment, the man thought they were looking at each other. However, the vision of Noctis was looking through him, his arm going out before a sword appeared in his grasp, materializing in a crystalline shimmer. Then, just as quickly as the weapon appeared, the visage of Noctis rushed forward, through the man, causing him to turn in order to follow the motions that played out.

Noctis rushed in and started trading blows with a being of darkness. While the man had no idea who or what that was on the surface, he knew that whatever it was, was an embodiment of the Scourge that plagued the nights and the people of the star.

A ring appeared within his vision, familiar and glowing with power. It was the same ring he wore on his finger, now resting upon the hand of his son, no longer a prince, but a king.

“Once the sacred Ring is replete with power, the True King will complete his ascension. Only then can he banish the blight upon our star. By the power of the Light alone is the Chosen king made manifest. With the Glaive of Kings, the Stone of Legend, and the Ring of Light in hand, the Chosen's power will surpass that of even the gods themselves. By that selfsame power, with the True King as its vessel, the darkness shall be purged from our star, and dawn shall return to our world once more.”

The vision ended and the voice disappeared. The man was left there holding the boy in his arms as the rain picked up, its downpour a rising chorus upon the city.

“Your Grace…” a voice timidly spoke up, interrupting the man’s thoughts. A mousey looking woman was standing next to the car, her discomfort palpable. Within the car, after all, was the dead woman’s body that he had brought back with him. Blood stained the leather seats, and the woman’s body had paled considerably.

“Shall I see to Aulea’s body?” the woman asked. It seemed she already knew the answer before she asked the question.

“No,” the king said quietly. He motioned with his head to the boy who still slept, unconscious and cradled in the man’s arm. “Take Noctis to House Viridis in the castle as quickly as you can. Aurae will know what to do.”

“Y-yes, your Grace.” The woman approached the king and gingerly took the slumbering Noctis into her arms. She gave a small, courteous bow and went to do as she had been told.

Watching them go, the king pinched the bridge of his nose. Much of this was so much to take in all at once. At least the rain hid any tears that stung his eyes. Sniffling and regaining some of his composure, the king turned back to the car and took up Aulea’s body into his arms, cradling her close. He felt her weight against him, and turned to ascend the stairs and enter the castle.

The king kept walking until he reached the Hall of Kings, where each king of the lands of Lucis was immortalized in one way or another. There was an altar at the back of the room where an old portrait of the very first king was hung. The placard underneath read ‘Somnus Lucis Caelum.’ It was here that the current king laid the body of Aulea and allowed his tears to flow more freely.

“Oh, Aulea…my friend, my love…” the king softly spoke, his voice warbling while he held back any sobs that threatened to leave him. He reached out and affectionately tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, her face frozen with a sense of peace on it since getting the blood cleaned off of her.

There were words the king wanted to speak.

Some he wanted to scream.

Despite that, the king merely cried, dropping to his knees at the altar while fruitlessly stroking his deceased wife’s hair. After a few moments, he leaned in and pressed his lips against her forehead for a long moment. He needed this time with her to take it all in, to process his emotions, to get ready to say goodbye.

After what felt like hours of silence, the king took up one of Aulea’s cold, limp hands and clutched it.

“You kept Noctis safe, my love. He’s still alive thanks to you. I’m sure you did what any mother would have, and I am both thankful and proud of you for it,” the king gently spoke, a warble still to his voice. He tried to smile at the dead body, but it quickly vanished. It was hard to smile with how much the pain felt like it dug into his heart and gut.

Again, the king needed a moment to process his feelings. Finding difficulty in keeping any kind of composure, the king moved Aulea’s hands so that they were resting atop one another just below her ribcage. Seeing her look so serene in a way made losing her only the tiniest fraction less painful.

Turning his back to the altar, the king slumped to the floor and sat there before taking his phone from his coat pocket. He scrolled through his contacts before settling on ‘Clarus Amicitia’ and choosing to call him. He was the only one that Regis would allow to hear him in such a state.

The phone only rang once before a concerned voice was heard on the other end: “Regis, what can I do for you?”

“Clarus, please just get me one of House Viridis’ morticians to the Hall of Kings to take Aulea…” King Regis replied hoarsely.

Silence lingered between them for a few seconds.

“Of course, whatever you need...” Clarus finally replied. “Speaking of House Viridis, I ran into one of Aurae’s nurses. Their healing magic is having some difficulty getting Noctis taken care of. They believe a trip to Tenebrae to see Queen and Oracle Sylva is the best course of action to take.”

Regis closed his eyes and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose once more. Of course issues would keep coming one after the other.

“I’ll meet with Aurae shortly. And…thank you, Clarus.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Queen Sylva might be his only hope, your Grace.” A female was speaking to someone else in the room. That much was clear at first.

“Is there really nothing you can do, Aurae?” a familiar male voice sounded muffled in Noctis’ ears as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He could barely make out the lights in the ceiling as his vision remained blurred from the events prior. His head felt like it was filled with a combination of sand and cotton. Heavy and fuzzy.

“I’m afraid not…” the same female voice responded, equally muffled in Noctis’ ears.

‘Mom... ‘ was the only thing that Noctis could think of as it felt like his body was suspended in water even though he lay upon his own bed. Everything felt so recognizable and yet so foreign all at the same time.

It was terrifying.

“Noctis!” Regis’ voice held equal amounts of excitement and worry. It was now so obvious; that familiar voice belonged to the boy’s dad.

Noctis looked around weakly. Just like his body felt like it was floating on water, so too did his vision grasp at anything like looking under the watery depths. Everything in his body felt disjointed and stiff, as if there were weights tied to every part of him and preventing him from being able to move. The fact that nothing seemed to be responding to his will made fear grip at Noctis -- enough for him to grip back at the bedsheets.

Regis laid his hand upon his son’s head, stroking his hair.

Again, all Noctis could think was ‘Mom.’

The gentle touch reminded him of her -- his mother. It was enough to calm his episode of hyperventilation. Tears stung his eyes, making his face grimace and pucker as he gripped the sheets.

“Regis…” the woman's -- Aurae's -- voice addressed the father, her voice filled with concern. “We can order a wheelchair for Noctis, but the attack that you said happened with the marilith…. I highly suggest traveling to Tenebrae in order to seek Queen Sylva’s aid as the Oracle. We cannot cleanse the touch of the Starscourge from Noctis, even with the healing magicks we have at our disposal, I’m afraid.”

A long pause made the air uncomfortably still as Regis continued to stroke his son’s head. The king was contemplating this. It was evident in his expression, but more so the way he looked at Noctis. It was as if he were on the verge of losing everything.

“If I can save my son, I’ll do whatever it may take. Can you at least assure me that Noctis will be taken care of during the trip, Aurae?” Regis asked, looking up to Aurae.

“Of course, your Grace. Whatever Noctis needs that we can tend to, we will do as best we can. I’ll ask House Vox to take in Ros for the duration that we’re there,” Aurae said.

“Then we’ll get everything prepared for the trip to Fenestala Manor in Tenebrae. I wish this didn’t inconvenience you, Aurae. Especially since…” Regis replied, his hand still on Noctis’ head as his words trailed off.

Regis had lost his wife, and Aurae lost her sister just last night.

Silence lingered between the two as Aurae gathered some of the medical supplies that she had brought into Prince Noctis’ room. A silent sigh escaped her nostrils before she looked over her shoulder and responded with: “ever is it House Viridis’ duty to act as Heart of the King. To see that health and prosperity ring ever true for the Crown. If that means assisting the Prince keep the health he has while on the trip to Tenebrae, then that is my duty.”

Aurae took up her medical bag and approached the king, placing a hand on his shoulder. Quietly, she added: “I would also be a terrible friend and sister-in-law to you if I were to watch you and your son suffer when I know I could make even the slightest difference, Regis. Ros will be fine with House Vox.”

[popeofmars]

A song so beautiful blesses my ears as i feel the tears stream from my eyes

For never has such a symphony regaled such unworthy ears as mine

It sounds like evaporated honey made from lavender and lilac drifting on the wind

The rhythm is so sweet I feel like Nero at a feast praying it never ends.

Oh how something so intangible can take hold of me is a magical thing.

Incorporeal hands play with my heart guiding me closer by my heart strings.

Wandering becomes a word altogether removed from my seafaring mind as my feet guide me.

Never before have I felt so steadfast not when steered by a star or map, this path is my destiny.

The turn gives way to a cove no, a temple for it is home to my divine muse.

Her visage now before me I know not even the gods have borne witness to such mystical views

Butterflies fill my stomach, love my heart, and water my boots as the melody takes even greater hold of my mind, banishing all thoughts but the need to embrace her.

A singular purpose I am to fulfill, to follow a singular path and on completion press mortal lips to ones so holy and discover the taste of ambrosia mixed with rose water.

My pace matches the beat of my heart as I race through this liquid obstacle in my path, her solo becoming ingrained into every fiber of my being, giving my legs the strength to by devotion alone push into the depths between my muse and me.

The fires of passion like a solar flare feel as though they might very nearly turn the sea around us into steam, flames even harder as I reach out for my Persephone.

The butterflies multiply a thousand fold, each one attempting to embody words of proper deference to my beloved as I march ever onward.

I know not if it's the wind from their legion wings or the returning tide that make it harder to breathe as I approach the source of this musical and enchanting uproar.

One foot in front of the other I am ever closer to my paramore, all the while proclaiming the unbounded unending lexicon of love for she who sings the song my soul knows inside and out.

I am fully in the depths of an arcane bacchanalia that will soon surpass any and all earthly celebration, not the taste of salt water in my mouth.

The light from her eyes shine as I meet my true sailors fate, overshadowed by the way a song so wonderful blesses my ears one more moment before the water rises above my face.

[erabundus]

@ironbloodcd &&. said... He can't be certain as to how long he's been unconscious - only that the simple act of breathing is excruciating. The spot in his chest where the Doctor had cracked him open like an egg makes the homunculus long for the reprieve that being unaware of his surroundings had brought. Eyes squeeze shut in a vain effort to stifle or mute some of the agony, his head lolling to one side - and when his lids, at last, slip back open, he spots a familiar figure just beyond the bars of his cell that continuously goes in and out of focus. He can't bring himself to speak - his throat is, evidently, far too raw from whatever screams had left during his torment from hours before. His gaze, however, pleads with an unspoken question: will his god, that he has put whatever scraps of hope he has left into, save him from this suffering when the time comes?

he's  an  unsettling  presence,  draped  in  the  shadows  beyond  the  homunculus'  cell  as  though  they  were  an  inky  veil.  in  that  moment  it  is  difficult  to  tell  whether  the  balladeer  is  divine  or  demonic  in  nature  —  yet  it  would  be  IMPOSSIBLE  to  mistake  him  for  mere  human.  his  eyes  shine,  and  in  the  gloom,  their  natural  glow  becomes  all  the  more  unsettling.  it's  an  effect  not  unlike  that  of  a  feline's  gaze,  irises  shimmering  oddly,  reflecting  the  barest  traces  of  light  like  miniature  celestial  bodies.  in  kunikuzushi's  case,  the  luminescence  takes  on  a  distinctly  lavender  tint  —  and  it's  strange  how  such  a  gentle  hue  that  may  be  described  as  BEAUTIFUL  under  different  circumstances  becomes  so  unsettling  here.  he  doesn't  blink,  for  to  do  so  would  spell  an  end  to  the  glow ( even if temporarily )  —  and  never  once  does  it  flicker  or  waver.  

one  moment,  he  is  standing  on  the  outside  of  the  bars.  yet  the  next,  he  stands  within  them.  tendrils  of  electro  crackle  in  the  air  —  faint  traces  of  whatever  power  the  balladeer  has  employed  to  surpass  them.  he  steps  into  the  light,  approach  heralded  by  the  soft, melodic  chime  of  his  kasa  —  and  one  might  (  foolishly  )  assume  seeing  the  harbinger  ILLUMINATED  would  diminish  the  unsettling  effect  of  his  presence.  yet  on  the  contrary,  such  gentle  visage  only  becomes  all  the  more  eerie,  all  the  more  inhuman  when  placed  in  the  most  grisly  context  imaginable.  

❝  i've  been  where  you  are  before.  ❞   is  the  first  thing  he  says.  it's  hard  to  tell  whether  kunikuzushi  speaks  literally  or  metaphorically  —  but  surely  the  homunculus  has  seen  enough  to  guess  his  experiences  in  the  lab  have  been  equally  UNPLEASANT.  ❝  an  agony  to  rewrite  all  agonies ...  just  when  you  thought  you  were  intimate  with  the  darkest  depths  of  pain  this  world  has  to  offer.  ❞  his  voice  is  cool,  like  a  damp  rag  upon  feverish  skin.  strangely  pleasant,  despite  what  HOPELESS  WORDS  the  harbinger  might  use  it  to  speak.  head  cants;  along  with  it  comes  another  clatter  of  tiny  bells.  ❝  you  probably  even  wish  for  DEATH.  ❞   unsurprising.  he's  bore  witness  to  many  of  the  doctor's  other  test  subjects  —  to  such  a  degree  that  he's  effectively  boiled  down  the  descent  into  total  despair  to  a  science.  ordinarily,  kunikuzushi  would  be  content  to  let  the  lab  rats  drown  in  their  own  agony.  after  a  certain  point,  they  cease  to  become  INTERESTING  at  all.  yet  the  homunculus  is  a  special  case  —  his  follower.  his  first  follower.  what  kind  of  god  would  the  balladeer  be  if  he  put  forth  no  effort  to  INTERVENE? ( ... his mother. )

❝  what  you  really  desire,  ❞  he  continues  aloud,  ❝  is  an  escape  from  the  pain ...  but  this  kind  of  pain  is  just  a  TEMPORARY  feeling.  ❞   of  the  body.  of  the  flesh.  the  wounds  that  gouge  deeper  still  will  be  COMPENSATED  in  time  —  but  only  once  divinity  sits  within  his  chest.  in  the  meantime,  ❝  do  you  want  me  to  help  you?  ❞

[lestwritewhilewaitingforajobcall]

The Spark That Split the Seas - Poseidon x Reader x Thor

(A/N)

Hey guys I’m back! I’ve been grinding hard for a new character that I’d gotten in this game, Genshin Impact, so I’m sorry for the absence! Anyways, as always, I want to thank you all for the support on my past two stories and on my account, I truly appreciate every one of you! On a story-related note, since I’d mentioned on my previous post that I had a lot of Poseidon x Reader x Thor fics written in my drafts, I decided to post one so you guys could also join me in the feels! Any feedback would be appreciated! This was originally shorter than the final story you’re seeing now, as I’d first only written their dialogues, but as usual, I excitedly itched into making a story out of it!

This is for entertainment only. Record of Ragnarok belongs to Shinya Umemura, Takumi Fukui and Ajichika. I also do not own you, the reader.

The Spark That Split the Seas

Poseidon x Reader x Thor

For more than all the millennia the gods and other species alike had known the lonely kingdom of Atlantis, never once did the crashing waves gave way to the chirping of the largest Albatrosses until now. Otherworldly flying creatures joined with the familiar exclusively earthly ones in enjoying the ebb and flow of the ocean, albeit this time, the hungry ocean appeared more satiated and seemed to follow a regular pattern ‘from sudden crash to a long calm, to crash again then back to another lengthy calm;’ life in the sea rejoiced in this odd occurrence.

Beautiful yellow sun rays poured through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope pattern on the large interiors of the kingdom ruled by the god of the seas, and catching the reflection of his nonchalant visage. The long, elegant dining table filled with every kind of seafood delectable imaginable also fell victim to the light, along with a figure that sat down opposite, whose invitation was clear.

Hidden from this heavenly atmosphere were the prying eyes of a little messenger bird who stood unobtrusively behind one of the tall pillars near the far end of the room, halting his slide just in time to witness this miracle:

The living bearer of the most fearsome title, the ruler of both this grandiose palace of the most precious gems and coral and all the oceans and waters, the almighty Poseidon, though against all reason and self-proved authority whatsoever, against the epics of Greek poets, was indulged, seemingly willingly, in the pleasure of having another’s company. In the shadows, Hermes’ red eyes shot wide open in shock.

Poseidon, the ever abrupt and rude god who had deemed most beings to be below him, received a guest, a still breathing one at that.

What in the gods’ name?

In a tone of haughty contempt, a grunt escaped from Poseidon’s lips. Finishing chewing the last bite of delicious food in your mouth, you nodded your head in earnest agreement with his point. Your next words were uttered with the firmness of an old sage who had all the answers, your beliefs shaped by the countless lifetimes you had lived.

“Existing is painful.” Your shoulders bobbed with your chuckle.

Although Poseidon felt a small measure of relief−a feeling that by habit had always been easy to brush-off with a condescending thought, his face betrayed nothing as his stoic features remained still. “If you agree, then why not allow me to kill you this instant?” As if to emphasize his strength, the crashing sound of dreadful combat between waves and rocks rang in the air, and you almost wished that a low rumble of thunder accompanied it, finding beauty in its loud peals, and additionally giving a volume of inspiration to Michelangelo below.

Despite your gaze being unrequited, you were sure you had the god’s attention. Since arriving here, Poseidon noted that your expression had always been smoothed into a calm, smiling one. “If you had intended to kill me, we would not be having this conversation right now.”

Poseidon sat rigid and silent.

“It’s a comfortingly tragic drama, my circle of life. I may not have been lucky to acquire a life as long as that of the gods, but I have definitely lived more times than you have.” Your words were so nonchalant, for a second there Poseidon thought you were kidding.

“That is for the simple fact that you mortals are weak, pathetic.” Lips as pink as young petunias touched the clear edge of the wine glass as Poseidon’s eyes closed, content to give over to listen.

“Yes, we are.” You paused. “But because of this frailty, we learned to adapt, evolve.”

“There is no need for evolution if you are perfect from the moment of conception. Hence why gods such as I, will always be above you.”

“You’re correct. Humans will never become gods after all,” Again, Poseidon found himself absorbing your words like a sponge. At the same time, he experienced an occasional sharp prick at the edge of his emotions, as if signaling him to pull back. “The same as gods will never become like humans.”

“Extremely foolish of you to think that trash is worthy of the shiniest Orichalcum. Your race has been created by us, for us, and will therefore always be inferior.”

“Humans are inferior in all aspects, this, is a fact. It is hence no accident that there is a history of rebellion and consequently, a false notion of superiority. But to be able to look beyond this, is to understand that we never truly intended to surpass animals nor the gods themselves. The nature of our desire: everything was meant for either survival or man’s search for meaning.

“We are by nature flawed and inconsistent creatures. And as you have no doubt seen for yourself as well, despite reaching all our goals, achieving our wildest dreams, we have never reached a position where satisfaction is achieved.” Keenness made your words sound almost heroic. There was a twinkle in your eye and a lilt in your voice, and Poseidon found that now he had a much clearer picture of your reputation for an irrepressible desire to see what is beyond your reach as you questioned: “If I may ask, as I have seen the gods share this sentiment of looking for meaning, do you feel an inkling of the same?”

When Poseidon had put the wine glass down, he hesitated a moment, his supposedly closed mind wavering between doubt and certainty. He would never come to understand this, nor admit to feeling this dissonance, but at last, he shook his head at his consideration, trying to reduce the unpleasantness he felt by the same way he had always used to get out of extremely rare difficulties.

“Do not disrespect me, mortal.” He knew himself that it was an empty threat.

“Those were never my intentions.” You bowed with great respect, but there was at the same time apparent in your manner the consciousness that while Poseidon would never in any way confirm your statement, he did not necessarily refute it. Your heart rose in gratitude as you regarded him with a look of affection, believing in your intellectual companionship.

“Lord Poseidon, as the fearsome god of the seas, what is the meaning of life for you?” The god surveyed your reflection in one of the golden plates, and maybe it was because he had acted in a charitable way towards you, but he saw brightness, a refreshing difference, as if there were no heavy shackles to weigh you down.

“My husband has always been in search of a worthy opponent. What about you?”

It was like a pin came dangerously close to the rational bubble of Poseidon’s beliefs. But then your words penetrated his mind, and he berated himself for almost falling prey, yet…

“Perfection.” Poseidon blurted out loud, full of self-indulgence, but uncomfortable with the thought of pity reeking from his pores, a role that was clearly uncharacteristic of him.

Tilting your head, your brows meshed inquisitively upon hearing this. “This presents the conundrum; you are already perfect, as should all the gods. Since you have explained, gods have always been pristine, perfect, the moment you all were born.

“So, if you have already achieved the meaning and purpose of your life, what is there left to live for?” There was something entrancing in your guileless form, and Poseidon was displeased that another should feel such an interest in your wise, unguarded character. “And if gods have already reached perfection, why is there an endeavor still for the dross of earth?”

For the first time in Poseidon’s life, he was receptive of contraries. Not one single time, had he ever been in the position where he listened, much more considered the act of interpretation. What he said goes, but for some frustrating reason, he was coming to terms of mutual respect; whenever he was sitting opposite you, chin in hand, the more he caught the flame.

Quickly, he stopped that train of thought and he seamed his mouth, stoic. Only his eyes betrayed a spark of defiance. “Stop asking ridiculous questions.”

Again, you bowed. “I apologize if I have overstepped such boundaries.”

“You better be.” With a look of eager inquiry, Poseidon asked, “Why are you not afraid of me? Is it because you are confident Thor would protect you?” One thing that distressed him was that the more he was alone with you, the more he saw your hands, always ungloved, noticed the wedding-ring on your finger. That closed circle excluded him, his face registering the insult. “As expected from a repulsive weakling,”

“No. I know he would be there for me whenever I should need him, and also the times when I don’t.” You said still a smile on your mouth.

Although you were unaware of the eagle eyes that were watching your every move, you had the instinct. You did not need all the information, and you had nothing to hide. Your shoulders were loose, back wasn’t ramrod straight and you exuded a carefree attitude. “The sole reason why my fears have dissipated is because perhaps, I enjoy your conversation.”

To say this whole exchange took Hermes by surprise would be an understatement. After the initial expression of shock, he laughed lowly.

You continued, “I have already accepted your beliefs. No one is entitled to those except yourself.

“If I were to die from imparting what my beliefs are, that is simply fate, a tragedy, but nonetheless, fate. Of course, I would try my best to avoid disappearing from this lifetime, seeing as I have made a promise with my husband, to continue to fight for my life, shall needed, until the very end.” Poseidon’s grip tightened the slightest bit.

“I believe that despite our obvious differences, we are simply two being who each have our own unique experiences that shape our views and beliefs. For hundreds of millennia, I’d seen calamity from all angles; mainly conflicts over a universal truth,

“But so long as there are questions, there will never be one solid concrete truth. And I’m okay with that.” You concluded.

Compliments never rolled off Poseidon’s tongue easily, since in his view they were nothing but hollow words. But this time, he could hardly slip a word in bad taste. He thought it pleasant to hear you, but it could not distract him from the uninvited presence in his throne room.

“You’re a heretic.” His usual strong voice beckoned your attention, discerning the sternness on the table of his expression to be forced. No matter, you had just enough of a last glimpse to see his face looking younger in repose.

“I have been labeled as such.” You noticed the unique rhythm of the crashing waves seemed to have settled along the sand grains, and you admitted it was so beautiful and timeless.

“You’re dismissed.” Poseidon believed in being straightforward with affairs. Since the conversation has ended, the final interchange of words was not likely to be a substantive one. Though this was his original reason, the face at the forefront of his mind right now was not yours but Hermes’.

You stood up and curtsied to show your gratitude. “Very well. It was splendid to be in your company this afternoon.”

Blue eyes followed you as you began walking away, and he watched you until you went out of sight when you began to ascend the Skíðblaðnir, a ship so completely reserved only for you by the Kingdom of the Norse. Then Poseidon’s ears turned toward the messenger’s direction.

Hermes quickly dashed to Poseidon and knelt to greet him with such a great respect akin to the expectations all elderly gods have always expected of their younger ones.

“We gods are perfect beings from the very start; therefore, we do not plot schemes nor engage in disagreements.” The implication registered with a jolt, and Hermes felt his mouth open as the real reason for your invitation became clear. He fought the urge to look at where Adamas had died brutally as a lowlife, not failing to recognize that this was the exact opposite of that faded history.

Finding quiet when Hermes immediately left, the god of the seas stared at his dominion, taking deep breaths of the air, not feeling the normal icy sting carried by the ocean. Over again he dwelt upon in his conversations with you, interested to find out if the Norse god of thunder had been able to sustain a similar type of conversation.

The very first quiver of interest sparked through Poseidon and though he did not recognize it nor perceived it, he understood the most important things, the only ones he ever needed to:

You did not seek validation nor attention. You had no fear of death, neither of the hardships of life.

Your depths of wisdom were unparalleled throughout the realms, which he would comment on its wasted potential, however, he knew Hermes already understood that part of it.

And the god of messenger did, as the word got around slowly but surely:

“There would always be those who dare to brave the ocean’s roar, but there was only one who withstood it.”

[havvki-writes]

Throat Full of Thorns

I swear I'll post something that isn't VaNoe soon, but that time is not now lmao

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas Ship: VaNoe Tags: hanahaki disease, whump, losing consciousness, caregiver! Noe, bedridden! Vanitas, whumptober day 8 Citrus Scale: Orange! Spoilers: N/A Word count: 2,293 AO3 Link: right here! Notes: I used a prompt from the whumptober 2021 list for this one! I felt so inspired to write about my boys that I far surpassed by 600 word minimum haha I have a part two planned for the future, too, so be sure to check back for that soon!

---

Though Vanitas was unsure what exactly it was afflicting him, he was positive of one thing—it always flared up at the worst of times.

He froze midstride, eyes unfocusing as a sharp pain jabbed against his ribs. The group continued walking ahead for a moment before noticing Vanitas’ absence, and by the time they had turned to look back at him, he had a gloved hand clasped tightly over his mouth.

Swallowing against the pricks in his throat, he muttered a quick, “I’ll be back,” before heading into the nearest building.

Jeanne and Luca exchanged glances, unsure if they should follow or if it would be better to give him space for a moment. He had looked quite pale—was something wrong? Dominique gazed at Noé from the corner of her eye, arms crossed over her chest as she watched his expression shift. She sighed, and a soft smile appeared on her lips. “Let’s wait for him at the plaza,” she suggested, not once removing her eyes from Noé.

Vanitas had been acting strange for some time now, running off at odd intervals and returning more disheveled than when he left. It was a ritual Noé had surely noticed, and, by the look of his concerned countenance, it was one that worried him. Though Dominique wanted to confront Noé about the effect of Vanitas’ odd behavior, she was unsure how to do so, and thus decided to bite her tongue.

And for Vanitas himself, his affliction was nothing short of aggravating.

As his lungs ached and nostrils burned, all he could do was wait for the episode to end while clutching his arms over his chest and leaning his head towards the toilet bowl in a humiliating position he hoped no one would ever see. The pain stabbed its way through each of his ribs as sharp pinpricks dragged across his esophagus, each inhale puncturing his already tortured lungs.

His eyes watered and mouth salivated as his body prepared to extricate the foreign substances, and as he hacked and vomited into the toilet, it took everything in him not to holler from the agony of the thorns tearing across his tender flesh.

Once the stem was freed from his bleeding trachea, he gasped heavily before choking on more of the flower-particulate attempting to free itself from his hollow bones. Though it was less painful to cough up the short petals, it was still uncomfortable nonetheless. As the silky leaflets passed beyond his lips, he wondered what he could have possibly done to deserve such a degrading illness.

Though his vision was blurred, the violet hue of the petals was unmistakable.

After disposing the aftermath of his unknown malady, Vanitas spent several moments gazing into his reflection as the cold water washed over his hands. His eyes were glossy and cheeks swollen, and though he tried to rinse the sour expression from his face, his visage maintained a sickly texture. He hated it. His heart ached in his chest and rattled his thinning physique.

Splashing his face with water one final time, Vanitas exited the restroom of the cafe he had stumbled into nearly ten minutes prior.

“There you are!”

He swiveled on his heel, eyes falling on Noé as he pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards the shorter man. A terrible pain erupted in his chest.

“I figured I would wait for you here so you wouldn’t get lost trying to find us,” Noé explained, a gentle smile spreading on his lips as he stopped at Vanitas’ side. “You were in there for a while, though. Are you okay?”

Vanitas grimaced, shoving his hands into his pockets. “As if I’d be the one getting lost,” he said, turning away from Noé’s radiance. “Where are the others?”

���At the fountain in the plaza,” said Noé, beginning to lead the way outside. The two fell in step beside each other, and Vanitas found himself avoiding Noé’s gaze more than usual. He couldn’t get that accursed shade from his mind...

“Wow, tried to bail on us, didn’t you?” Luca teased, sitting beside Jeanne on the edge of the fountain.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Vanitas retorted, his usual smirk returning to his features.

“It’s getting late, young master, perhaps it would be best to return home for the night?” Jeanne said, her expression the pinnacle of nonchalance.

“I suppose...”

“Thank you for inviting us out today, Noé,” said Domi, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled at him. “I had a great time with you all.”

“Of course!” Noé said, making his way to hug her. As they locked in an embrace, the pain in Vanitas’ torso only worsened. Pulling out a handkerchief, he coughed abruptly. His brows twitched, the red splotches on the previously unblemished material a glaring testament to his unwellness.

As they all parted ways, Vanitas was careful to hide the handkerchief in his pocket before Noé could see it. He just knew Noé would have a field-day mocking his discomfort.

Once the two returned to their hotel suite, Vanitas immediately sat down at the desk in the front room and pulled a notebook from the drawer.

“What are you up to now?” Noé asked, hands behind his back as he leaned over his shoulder to inspect the book he had produced. He was so close Vanitas could feel his hair brush against his cheek.

“Research,” he said, fighting against the heat that began to rise over his features. “If you wouldn’t mind returning my personal space, I would deeply appreciate it.”

“Ah, sorry,” Noé muttered, immediately removing himself from the man’s side. “I’ll be in the room if you need anything,” he said, turning towards their shared quarters with Murr hot on his heels.

Only a few moments after hearing the door close did Vanitas open the notebook, flipping through his recent entries before settling on a blank page. Producing a pen from his breast pocket, he began writing in a swift font.

“My symptoms have worsened considerably. What was once merely a saliva-coated petal or two has grown—quite literally—into a garden occupying the space within my lungs and throat. The stems are all covered in rows of sharp thorns, and the process of removing them is utterly agonizing, the fits of emesis lasting upwards of ten minutes to half an hour. A new symptom reared its head today: haemoptysis. Though there wasn’t much blood, it is still cause for concern.”

His movements ceased as his head ached in his skull, pain shooting through his eyes. He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gazed at the page. Something was dreadfully wrong—of that, he was certain. As his fingers drifted to the corner of the book, his chest contracted, and he curled in on himself. The pain echoed through his body, sparks of electricity igniting his nerves as the bloody bouquet in his core convulsed against his organs.

He knew he had left something out from his report, but he desperately wanted to avoid admitting that it was at even possible for Noé to be the cause.

Still... It was wrong to withhold the information, even from himself, so he picked up his pen once more.

“The petals are all the same piercing violet hue, the very same color as—”

The pen scratched against the paper jaggedly as a fit of coughs erupted from his throat, petals and phlegm mixing in his shredded windpipe as he gagged. Shoving the chair backwards, Vanitas pushed himself upright and immediately stumbled from the violent vertigo of his sudden movements. He saw stars, and his body ached terribly.

He collapsed to the floor in a heap, the last thing he remembered being the sound of Noé’s voice as he called for him while everything went dark.

~ ~ ~

After carrying an unconscious Vanitas to his bed, Noé felt nothing but remorse as he knelt at his bedside. How could he not have noticed? Clearly his behavior had been off, so why hadn’t he pressed for an answer?! And now Vanitas was passed out from an unidentified illness, and Noé hadn’t the slightest idea how to treat him.

After all, Vanitas may have been a vampire specialist, but Noé was far from a human specialist.

He placed the back of his hand to the man’s forehead—he was hot to the touch. Noé rushed to prepare a cold compress for him, which he placed over his hairline with gentle hands; his fingers brushed the stray locks from Vanitas’ face, thumb swiping away the sweat beading on his brow. His lips parted slightly as he breathed heavily, and Noé couldn’t help but admire his features before snapping back into the present.

Even if he was unsure what the proper procedure for this instance would be, he’d be damned if he did nothing at all.

With careful hands, Noé undid the buttons of Vanitas’ bell-shaped overcoat, carefully removing it from his thin body and hanging it on a hook by the door. He then attempted to strip him of his vest and blouse, but hesitated. A blush rose to his cheeks. This was surely a violation of Vanitas’ space, one he had no right to carry out. So, he grabbed one of his own long-sleeved shirts, tugged it over his head, and removed his vest blindly; once he had finished, he tugged Vanitas’ arms through the sleeves. He decided not to try the same with his trousers.

Once he removed the tie in his hair and redid it to pull the locks from his face, he allowed himself to sit on the edge of his own bed and rest for a moment. His heart hammered in his chest, and he ached for his sickly friend.

Vanitas coughed weakly, brows furrowing as his body trembled; Noé hurried to his feet, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth. Noé’s fingers traced over his lips, the thin material providing a barrier between their skin. He knew it was wrong to find beauty in Vanitas’ unconscious state, but it was difficult to admire him during his waking moments since he was so quick to guard himself from the eyes of those around him.

Noé sighed. He had to stop himself and focus on the task at hand. Vanitas needed his help, and all of this happened because Noé hadn’t forced it upon him sooner—and the blood on the handkerchief proved he’d been in need of it for a while now.

Though he’d never disrespect Vanitas’ privacy for his own gain, the blood deeply concerned him, so he searched the man’s pockets for anything that might help alleviate his pain. All he found was another blood-stained handkerchief, which only worried him further. Remembering the notebook he had been flipping through earlier, Noé stepped into the modest foyer of the suite and saw that it was still on the bureau.

Taking it in his hands, Noé skimmed the entry Vanitas had penned before fainting with wide eyes. Flowers? Thorns? Plants growing in his lungs? He flipped to the page prior, reading the entries on it with the same troubled expression. If the dates on the pages were any indication, this had been going on for well over a month now, all under Noé’s watch.

He cursed himself under his breath, running a hand over his face as he fought to maintain composure. Shutting the book with a definitive movement, he set it on the desk before returning to Vanitas’ side. He was still unconscious, though he didn’t appear to be having any harder of a time than he had been earlier.

Noé sat on the floor beside Vanitas, arm propped on his knee as he thought for a moment. While the whole ordeal was troubling, there was one line in particular that grabbed Noé’s attention and wouldn’t let go. The final line he wrote before falling ill, an unfinished thought written with a shaking hand and failing vision.

The color of the flowers in his lungs.

Recalling the many books he had read in his teacher’s study over the years, one particular medical phenomenon stood out in his mind. This disease, first appearing after the Babel Incident and thought to have been caused by tampering of the World Formula, was characterized by the inexplicable growth of flora in the lungs and chest cavity, and was believed to be caused by strong—and unrequited—feelings of love and attraction.

His first thought was of Jeanne, the brash yet tender-hearted Hellfire Witch and Luca’s personal guard. The thought alone was enough to bring his heart to a halt, however... One aspect of this disease is that the flowers vary depending upon the object of attraction, which, more often than not, exposes itself in the color of the petals.

In other words, the color of the petals typically matched the color of their lover’s eyes.

Turning to gaze at Vanitas, he wondered if the man was aware of this. His heart hammered against his chest as he grazed his fingers over his temple, brushing away the strands of hair and lingering against his soft skin. Heat emanated from his body, and Noé felt he was to blame for the heavy fever that had overtaken Vanitas.

He stood, pulling the chair from the foyer to the bedside and taking a seat; he had no intention of leaving the man’s side that night.

Noé clasped Vanitas’ hand in his own, running his thumb over his knuckles as he leaned his forehead against the mattress. Though he was worried for Vanitas’ health, he couldn’t help the weariness that tugged on his bones, and soon he was hunched over asleep, still gripping his hand firmly throughout the night.

[talesofsonicasura]

Welcome everyone! Here we will be talking more about the Broken Toys AU! This time we'll be talking about the Boss Frightfurs but also where these toys actually live!

Boss Frightfurs are quite rare since there are only 3 different types but they are the most powerful. Most Boss Frightfurs are created by fusing a Frightfur except for one which is the ruler of all these toy monsters. Now let's get started!

Chimeric Grave Raiser: Frightfur Chimera "Behemoth"

The first Boss Frightfur MK has summoned and is his go to for very powerful opponents such as Demon Bull King. This particular killer toy is created by fusing three different Frightfurs together. Frightfur Chimeras outmatch Frightfur Leos in offensive power but their ability also surpasses the Enforcer Frightfur as well.

Just like Frightfur Sheep, magic, traps and special abilities have no use against an attacking Chimera but this monster can resurrect those they slay on its side! With each toy zombie that this chimeric creates, the stronger it becomes!

Behemoth is a Frightfur Chimera with a blue bandana around their neck instead of a magenta bowtie. He is quite playful and friendly often liking to play games such as hide n seek, tag or capture the flag. Behemoth likes giving rides to MK or his companions on his back and help out wherever he can.

Immortal Beast: Frightfur Sabre-Tooth "Wildcat"

A Boss Frightfur MK summons when dealing with a powerful opponent that can harm the Monkey King Sun Wukong. Frightfur Sabre-Tooths are created by fusing one Frightfur with multiple Fluffals and Edge Imps. They automatically give a small power boost to all Frightfur allies but that's not all! If a Sabre-Tooth is created by using four or more monsters, they become indestructible and can only be defeated through exorcism or banishment.

Wildcat is a Frightfur Sabre-Tooth whose tail is orange instead of violet. She is very hyperactive, often wanting to play or claw up anything she can get her paws on. Wildcat loves to hang out with all sorts of felines and is quite a great babysitter as stray cats often leave their kittens to her care. MK brings Wildcat over to Sandy's place quite often so she can play with Sandy's cats and hang out with the big man.

Ruler of the Frightfurs: Dangerous Frightfur Nightmary "Mary"

The oldest and most powerful Frightfur of them all, Dangerous Frightfur Nightmary. It is said that she was the first Frightfur ever created and rules over all Fluffals, Edge Imps and Frightfurs. Only one Dangerous Frightfur Mary can exist at a time and acts as a mother to MK and all of her subjects.

She gains power for each one of her fallen subjects and can sacrifice them to unleash her wrath on those who dare try to harm her kingdom. Mary can even turn an opponent's magic, powers and traps against them with destructive force so only true combat is the safest way to battle her.

MK goes to Mary quite often for many things from advice or simply enjoy her presence. She can conceal her terrifying visage and take the form of a beautiful blonde maiden whenever going out in public.

Mary is kind, patient and very wise. She often gives advice to MK and any of his friends whenever they feel lost. The Ruler of the Frightfurs also smacks Sun Wukong on the head whenever he doesn't take MK's training seriously. Mary won't hesitate to turn any fool that dares threaten anyone who she considered children or family into chew toys for her young toy subjects.

Now to talk about the home where the Fluffals, Edge Imps and Frightfurs live...

The Twisted Wonderland: Frightfur Sanctuary

A massive amusement park/kingdom hybrid that all these toys and MK call home. Just like it's appearance describes, there are tons of different and safe attractions, rides, carnival games and foods that many of the Sanctuary's residents can enjoy daily. The place is magical and where a person ends up upon entering depends on their relationship to MK or Mary.

Those considered enemies find themselves in one of two specific places: Frightfur March or Frightfur Factory.

Frightfur March is a large toy woodland where most of the Frightfurs, especially the Bosses, reside in. Intruders will quickly find themselves attacked and torn apart by the various residents within seconds upon entry.

The Frightfur Factory is where most Fluffals and Edge Imps are made into Frightfurs. Intruders will immediately placed within a room of newly created Frightfurs to be torn apart like chew toys.

Any friends or viewed family members find themselves at the front entrance which is one of the safer parts of the Sanctuary. During the LMK series, some Bull Clones managed to get inside the Frightfur Sanctuary but were quickly destroyed in the March or Factory.

Next time we'll be discussing two special machines that can be found in the entrance but also Fluffals and Edge Imps! Until next time folks, see ya at Megapolis. Before I go, this is a clip from Yu-Gi-Oh Arc V which is an example of how MK fuses which I will be discussing on a different page.

Main page

Enforcers

Edge Imps

Fluffals

Fluffal Turnabouts

[noshitshakespeare]

Hi! I remember reading midsummers night dream in grade 7 (though only vaguely, considering my English wasn’t ready even for modern writing), but a thing that stands out to me was confusion that Titanias potion-induced infatuation with Bottom was portrayed as more explicitly wrong, as opposed to Demetrius’ love for Helena. My teacher sort of pointed it out, saying that D will live the rest of his life as if in a dream, not fully in control of himself. Is there any particular reason why?

This is one of those complicated aspects of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and maybe even one of the more disturbing things about this low-level unsettling play. It certainly comes up every time I teach it. 

The question of whether the infatuation between Titania and Bottom is treated as explicitly wrong rather depends on whose viewpoint one takes. For Titania, it's definitely not a flattering thing to wake up and find she 'was enamoured of an ass': 'how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!' (4.2.76-78). It's easy to see why it might be loathsome for the queen of the fairies to find she had been in love with a donkey, and the edge of bestiality in that might be something your teacher may not have decided to mention in 7th grade. From Bottom's perspective though, the encounter is unspeakably precious, 'a rare vision' (4.2.203) that surpasses his senses. He feels he would be able to express his experience if his eyes could hear or his ears could see: if he had senses that weren't limitingly human. And of course, Bottom himself is not aware that he had the head of an ass, so from his side, the remarkable thing is that a lowly craftsman like him should have had such a tantalising liaison with a queen, and an otherworldly one at that. There's no overt condemnation of this, the widest social gap ever crossed in Shakespeare's plays. It's rather typical of Shakespeare to present things in this way, so that it's not actually all that explicit what is right or wrong. If you settle on a position, it just means you've arbitrarily privileged one character's view over another's. 

Demetrius' case is a little more complicated. It's perfectly valid to see the end of the play as kind of disturbing, with a man under the effect of a potion and robbed of his free will for the rest of his life. But how one sees this depends on the function of the potion and the presentation of love. 

From the beginning, Shakespeare goes out of his way to inform us that Demetrius is fickle. He was in love with Helena, and now wants to marry Hermia. As Lysander says, 

Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head, Made love to Nedar's daughter Helena And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes, Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry Upon this spotted and inconstant man. (1.1.106-110)

And to make it clear that this isn't just Lysander talking jealously, Theseus confirms that this is true: 'I must confess that I have heard so much' (1.1.111). So Demetrius was originally in love with Helena, and, having wooed her successfully, has abandoned her for Hermia. He is accused, quite rightly, of inconstancy. This might seem a minor detail, but what it does show is that humans (and particularly men in this play) are fickle, and their feelings change even without magic potions to affect their feelings. This raises some pretty important questions, the foremost of which is whether we actually have any freewill in love to begin with. Do we choose who we fall in love with? If we did or could, then surely there wouldn't be inconveniences like unrequited love. In other words, is there really much difference between what the love potion does, and falling in love?

You might contend, of course, that where love is not directed by anyone in particular, there is some control behind the potion since it's administered intentionally by the fairies. It's no doubt because it feels like Demetrius is being controlled by someone else that there's an uncomfortable aftertaste about his condition at the end of the play. But from the way the fairies talk about themselves, it is possible to read them as the forces of nature, invisible to the human eye. The unnamed fairy who encounters Puck, for instance, says that he is off to 'seek some dew drops here / And hang a pearl in every cowslips ear' (2.1.14), and the fight between Oberon and Titania has led to bad harvests and floods, dampness and unseasonal cold. So the fairies are like nature itself, they control the waters, the rains, the dew, the seasons. And if that's the case, it's hardly extraordinary that they might control love, like cupid. They could well be personifications of the kind of chemical reactions we call hormones today, though that's obviously not all they are.

So yes, I think that ending the play with Demetrius still under the effects of the potion is significant and raises important questions about love, control and emotions. But for me at least, the more important question is not whether Demetrius is being controlled and lacking in free will, but the extent to which any of us has control over love, especially the kind of infatuation or falling in love which is central to this play. 

[zblackiez]

Episode 3: Who Is Best Girl?

Stars, scattering across the skies blacker than ink. Their cores vibrated as they gave off their glimmering; but rather than shades of gold, they wore dresses of sapphires and violets, as if fragments of rainbow had escaped into the dusk.

And it was beneath that field of beauty that I strolled. My feet sauntered atop the sidewalk of onyx cement, my skin caressed by a loving zephyr. On either side of me, homes modest and extravagant stood tall, their styles a flawless gothic. Some even had iron-bar fences and gates whose heights rivaled minute mountains.

For the most part, the occupancy of the magenta grass lawns kept slim, with the only sign of residency being the lights that shone through the windows. Sometimes, though, the inhabitants would breathe the open air with me: a woman with spider legs, crafting an awe-inspiring artwork of silk; a colossal beast of black symbiote and sharpened teeth roaring into the great skies; a circle of Frankenstein-like children tossing something pink and squishy between them like a hacky sack. (Side note: I think I know what that is, but I'm not gonna ask.)

And the reaction was always the same at my presence: curiosity at the sole human trudging through this sinister dimension. Very seldom did genuine malice spill from their visages (except for that creepy doll idling atop a window sill; he gave me one hell of a glare).

However, I did little to repay the attention. Instead, I stuck my eyes to the tiny compass nested in the palm of my hand. Its body a crimson metal, it had an exotic skull attached to the center of the face, with an arrow extending from it, pointing South, opposite of where I walked.

Come on, I thought, hopeful that the needle would stay directly South. Please don't change on me.

I could remember when Malak had handed me the device, along with some screwy instructions.

"This will always lead you back to my home," he had said. "Just always follow the direction opposite of the arrowhead and you should always end up here."

"Opposite?" I asked. "Wouldn't I want to follow the direction of the arrow?"

"If that were a mortal compass, yes. However, this compass was forged by the Mage of Chaos, and, therefore, it holds with it a chaotic nature. Since I programmed it to track this house, it will always try to lead you away."

I remember the straightened eyes I gave him. "And you thought a compass like this was a good idea?"

"Why not? We of this universe are creatures of chaos! It is only natural that we seek all things of that same breed!" He'd then do his maniacal laugh, which had me cringing from shoulder to shoulder.

And now, I had to essentially walk backwards just to find my workplace, as if babysitting a little demon girl wasn't hard enough.

To make matters worse, as I reached the end of the street, I found myself gazing into nothingness. Not metaphorical, but literally nothing.

Allow me to explain:

Each neighborhood existed in its own space, as if each owned a chunk of reality all to itself. At each end, there would be a wide circle of swirls floating midair; gateways, as I had come to call them. Each had their own set of exotic symbols. Take one step into the gateway and boop! I had a punched ticket into a new neighborhood.

Sounds cool, right?

I would agree, if only the damn things were consistent!

No two gateways held the same path, not even the same gateway. The number of times I'd walk through the same one and end up in a different space than before surpassed the limits of mathematics!

So, in a nutshell, I had to walk backwards to my workplace while not knowing with certainty the way to get to said workplace.

Blasphemy.

Blasphemy, I say!

https://www.wattpad.com/764319418-the-mortal-babysitter-a-dark-deception-fanfiction#:~:text=%3Ciframe%20width%3D%22500%22%20height%3D%22280%22%20frameborder%3D%220%22%20allowfullscreen%3D%22%22%20src%3D%22https%3A//embed.wattpad.com/story/190404226%22%20%3E%3C/iframe%3E

[moulinnoirrpg]

𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟎𝟕 

A dark cloud was cast over the Moulin in the recent weeks—scandals, gossip and a tragic end to a household name. A new performance was set and the smiles have been painted as exquisitely as the artistic visage of the stage, but with the whisperings of a dark, dark fate, the brisk, cold air of November was not the only frosty thing enveloping the Noir. Scandals have always been a positive thing—if, naturallement, they served to lure the guests and investors, not scare them away. 

Police sniffed around for a week and the glorious stage was threatened to crumble—losing investor after investor, guest after guest, until only the most loyal—or most debauched—of patrons remained. The jewels adorning hands and necks of the patrons seemed to have been as blinding as the supernova as the blackest of mills faced loss after loss, their income cut down to the third of what they used to earn. 

But, a month later salvation came—and the supernova exploded again when Annette had returned—as abruptly as she had left. Like moths to the flame, the audience returned in full force, vastly surpassing in numbers and attendance. But, for a week there had been no shows, only talks about how l’etoile brilliant is tired from her abrupt trip and ought to rest— but, the promise of her fully returning to the stage had been dangled in front of everyone’s faces like a shiny toy in front of a child—come to us, play with us, let us empty your pockets and together, once again, we shall bask in the glory of our Moulin!—the smiles said, hiding behind yet another layer of paint and pretense.

Tonight’s pretenses are followed by music and liquor—and dancing. It was Geoffrey’s idea— and what a splendid idea it was! Hidden things, subtle things, have always been the most delicious and picking out the seemingly innocent day of the Sancta Lucia to hold an extravagant and lavish ball in the Moulin Noir seemed like a spectacular idea. 

Now the stage is set—wide, flattering smiles ; soft, inviting gaze—gloved hands eager to embrace another and pull into a dance, spin around the ballroom. Painted facades and glittering jewels, stage decorated as if the president himself would come to attend—but in the world of Moulin Noir, investors were more important. Tabs were open, a round or two were on the house and all of Paris—the wealthier side of it—flocked to the Noir, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous—or infamous—Annette, and the rest of the performers of the Moulin. 

OOC Information: Welcome to our first event! All characters have gathered at the Moulin Noir for an investor’s ball, patrons and staff alike mingling throughout the club. Interactions may now begin, and the event will run from August 8 to August 22 on the dash, while the date in-game is the evening of December 13th, 1907.

An additional note: If you wish, feel free to use the starters written for your application during the event or any time during the roleplay.  

Welcome to Moulin Noir RPG, and we’re thrilled to have you!

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Is there anything more daunting and dangerous than the blank white expanse of a page? 

It glitters and glows like the spit-slick teeth of a predator, hungry for words that you cannot give it. No matter how much you want to. 

Its gaze alone freezes all trains of thought, even in the minds of Writers and authors and artists alike, even those more powerful than I. 

And as I sit here, trembling, at the mercy of Writer's Block and my own anxieties… I can think of nothing that I want more than to run, to leave this page blank, and my readers guessing. 

The End is Nigh, dear readers, and I am afraid. 

So very afraid. 

"I'm afraid too," says the rabbit we all know and love, his legs swallowed by moss and weeds and misshapen dreams. He stands right where we left him, sword in hand, broken sky above, the End of Everything staring him down. 

All seven of Her glowing green eyes blaze with something worse than hate, and I wish for all the world that this was a much different story. A happy story, with a happy Ending. 

But I've never written a happy Ending in my life.

There is silence now, neither Protagonist or Antagonist moves or breathes or blinks.

They know that this is how it Ends.

One of them will die today. 

So it is Written. 

So it will be.

"Shut. Up." The End snarls, lips curling back over venomous fangs that drip oily green liquid onto the cracked asphalt below. Flowers bloom from the puddle, and spread like a rainbow rash down the street. "This. This is all YOUR fault!"

I know. 

I'm sorry. 

"LIAR!!" Her scream echoes across the fourth wall and cracks my computer screen. 

This…

This is where I leave you, dear readers. 

I'm sorry. 

Fangs sink deep into the papery flesh of the Narrative, tearing it apart as it is poisoned. Thorns grow from its wounds and strangle it like trembling hands. 

Writer be damned.

Plot be damned.

I am the End of EVERYTHING, I will End this miserable excuse for story on my own terms. 

Or die trying. 

You have not won, sweet stupid rabbit, no one can save you now, no one will stop me now. The world is a page upon which fate is Written and I will burn it all to the ground. May its ashes be lost and forgotten. 

Your dark eyes narrow at me, bone blade glittering as you charge. But I am in control now, and I don't play fair. 

Deep beneath the earth, humans sit snug and safe in their bunkers, thinking themselves free of the horrors outside. From the canteens comes a deep and terrible shattering like teeth against an eggshell, and a figure crawls lazily from the steam wafting from any number of bubbling pots set on stoves across the world over.

She smells of cooking meat and blood drenched in exotic spices and honey. Stick thin, and dressed in a chef's uniform. Her sleeves and hands are stained with the blood of the starving.

She has no face.

Only bright white teeth.

She manifests in the homes of the rich, stuffing them fat with delicacies that humans have no names for. Each minuscule morsel is completely tasteless covered in edible gold. Like the kind of fare you'd find at high end restaurants, going for hundreds of dollars a plate, even though each serving is barely a mouthful. 

She appears in slums with bread made from ash and bone, rat stew, and tainted water.

Pots boil in city centers, a roiling soup made from human offal that nothing in this world or the next could ever hope to surpass.

The poor eat their rations, their bread, their stew and grow sicker and hungry. Skeletal and drooling like rabid animals, they stuff their faces with food that offers no nourishment until there is no choice but to turn on each other. 

Screens grow undulating limbs and crawl from the wreckage of humanity, their screens blinking wetly like the eyes of a crying child. On each one is a broadcast, a man with red eyes smiles a reassuring smile and says,"Hungry? Eat the rich."

And they do.

A hoard of near zombies growl and gurgle as loud as their empty bellies, they hunt down the wealthy, and they FEAST.

Pestilence rises from the pus and rot and ruin and watches as all the good Jack and his friends had done is undone in a flash.

Among the riots and feasting is a cop, his riot gear reflecting the terrified and feral faces around him as he marches slowly onward. There is nothing behind his helmet. 

Only malice.

Only power.

Only slaughter. 

Only Death.

I don't have to tell you what comes next, what Death does when he gets his hands on a victim. The sounds of bullets ringing out into the night can tell you, the smell of tear gas in a crowd can tell you, the cries of innocents choking out their last breaths in steel cuffs, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding can tell you. 

Death is not merciful. 

He is not kind or quick or clean.

He is inevitable. 

You know it.

And he knows it.

This world will collapse under the weight of its own sins and I will be here to watch it dissolve like candy floss in water. 

Tears stream hot and blue down your face, and your grip on the Vorpal sword trembles. They are not worth your tears.

They stole you, beat you, broke you.

Turned you into a monster and then threw you away like you were NOTHING. 

You should hate them as much as I do.

You should be glad for their suffering. 

They deserve to die.

Like HE deserves to die. I turn my gaze skyward and watch the world split as the armies of Heaven pour down like a wrathful rain. 

The Divinity burns your skin, doesn't it Jack? And yet the smell of Angels makes your mouth water. 

You are no better than I am, I think. A man made monster set loose upon the multiverse, expected to play nice and fit in the niches carved for us. But we don't, no matter how hard we try, how good we think we are, we are torn apart again and again and again until we are unrecognizable from our beginnings. 

I think I could have loved you.

In another story.

In another lifetime.

We would have been good friends at least. 

But it's too late for that now, and as the first wave of Angels assault me with Heavenly fire, I part my jaws and give them some fire of my own. Green, as bright and beautiful as the first leaves of spring, it turns their armor into bark and their marble skin into flower petals. They fall to the ground like confetti, and I claw my way up to Heaven.

The Gates bend and break beneath my weight like wire, nothing and no one can stop me as I wrap HIM in my coils, slowly constricting. My venom burns holes in HIM that grow fruit trees, and each fruit contains the knowledge of the multiverse. I want HIM to die slowly, to watch as HIS playthings suffer and burn because of HIM. The humans cry out, and they pray, begging, pleading for HIM to save them. But HE can't, HE won't. 

What GOD would make a world so empty and hopeless as this? What GOD would let HIS followers murder and hate and destroy entire cultures in HIS name? 

HE never wanted this, never wanted it to come to this, HIS teachings have been mistranslated and manipulated for millennia and now there is nothing left but hatred and sin. 

My jaws part above HIS head, ropes of green spittle tarnishing HIS crown. HE does not fight me, how pathetic of HIM.

White hot pain explodes through my tail.

There you are, sweet hero, stupid rabbit. 

Go home Jack, this doesn't concern you. 

"But it does," you twist the blade, dislodging my scales and rending my flesh. My blood slithers up your sword, trying desperately to burrow inside of you and turn you Green. "You said that you think you could have loved me… well love me now, it doesn't have to be this way… I could… I could take care of you and help you heal, we could do it together." 

You offer your hand, bloody and trembling. 

The sound I make is inhuman and hard to describe in words, it is disbelief and venom and vengeance all at once. I stretch myself down to meet you, my eyes are the size of houses, and they reflect your trembling visage like great green mirrors. 

"You're right, I should hate them, hate everyone… but I don't." a swallow, you taste copper and butterscotch, "I used to but I-I found people who cared, I found people who I love and who love me back and they make my life worth living… they gave me a reason to get better and stop hurting people… let me be your reason."

You reach out and touch my face, my scales are warm like the sidewalk in summer. 

I crush GOD in my coils and HIS blood rushes over you like a wave.

There is nothing that can fix this, fix me. 

No love will quiet the hatred in my heart.

I do not deserve kindness or redemption. 

Love might have tempered your monstrous hearts, but it won't do the same for me.

Only one of us will make it out of this story alive. 

"So it is Written." You say, solemnly. 

So it will be.

My coils curl around you, quick as lightning. Your symbiote is the only thing keeping you from being crushed like a soda can, I hope you know that.

I don't waste time, and fling you down…

Down…

Down…

Towards earth.

Countless Angels have been discarded this way, wings torn from their backs, left to the mercy of gravity. It never gets any easier. 

I tear a hole into space and crawl through it, into Fairyland, the place of my birth. 

I devour the Sun-In-Chains, my replacement, and plunge the planet into darkness. I skin my teeth into the planet's crust and empty my venom glands into its core. Fairyland becomes my twisted Eden, choked with blinding bioluminescence, thorns, and poisonous things that not even I have a name for. 

It's beautiful and terrible all at once. 

Like me. 

Like you too, I suppose. 

You plunge your blade into my seventh eye and send me reeling, screaming, flailing. My frantically flapping wings crash into a nearby planet and reduce it to dust.

I pluck the sword from my eye and snap it into pieces. 

You're becoming a real thorn in my side. 

Seven perfect fingers snatch you out of the sky like the annoying insect you are and start to CRUSH YOU.

I will tear you apart with my TEETH if I have to.

You've had every chance to run and hide, or join in my crusade and you denied them all. I have no use for you. 

Not even as a snack.

Or a toothpick. 

"Then kill me." You growl through clenched teeth, blood already flecking your lips and leaking from your nose. 

I throw you into a patch of thorns. Each and every one is serrated and ranges in size from a human finger to a school bus, you are impaled, skewered, crucified even. 

Neon blue blood running down to the soil beneath, feeding my Eden. 

And yet, you refuse to die.

Slowly but surely, you drag your broken body up and off the thorn, shakily levitating up to meet me. 

You stare at me with dead eyes, blood pouring from the opening in your chest. Your lips part and black flames flicker behind your teeth, smoke curling from your nostrils as the color drains from your eyes in inky tears, until there is nothing but black. 

Just like the hole in your chest.

You seem to crack like porcelain, to split in two like something precious dropped from a great height. What crawls from the darkness inside of you is something no human throat can utter, no human tongue can twist or shape itself the right way to name. 

It's said that Demons possess. 

But Angels abandon. 

But what can be said of creatures that man has no name for? 

The thing inside of you stares at me with eyes darker than the emptiness between stars, its maw is the belly of a black hole with teeth long enough to split a planet like an apple. 

It is the bleak black emptiness that existed before the universe, and will exist again when there is nothing but dust and dead silence. 

This… this is my Warden, my Prison, the creature tasked with my capture those eons ago. You are barely a speck in it's vast form, a limp and lifeless nucleus.

It roars, a sound that radiates across time and echoes across the multiverse. 

"FROM NOTHINGNESS YOU CRAWLED, TO NOTHINGNESS YOU WILL RETURN." the beast howls in a voice that echoes from every dark and terrible place in the multiverse and shakes me to my core.

I will not go without a fight.

It lunges, claws outstretched, the endless expanse of its hideous maw seems to suck all the light out of the stars, out of me. I sink my teeth into its throat and pull, my body curling around and around it. 

Its claws are impossibly sharp, tearing my flesh down to the bone. My blood falls to fairyland like rain. My face is grabbed and smashed into the planet's surface again and again. I crush the Warden close and set myself on fire, I am the LIGHTBRINGER, it will take more than some overconfident shadow to defeat me.

The Warden burns, it smolders and screams like steam escaping. I fling it away into deep space and charge after it, driving my seven horns into its belly.

I miss you by a hair, I feel you reach out and grab me just as I pull back. Amber chains snake from your weeping wound, to the Warden behind you. 

You have no control over this thing, do you?

No.

Didn't think so.

But still, you stubbornly grab your chains and pull. The Warden does not come to heel, so much as it melts, engulfing you in its emptiness like a suit. When you open your eyes, you nearly dwarf me.

Nearly.

Your fist collides with my face in an instant, sending teeth flying like meteors. I cannot tell your rage apart from the Warden and I'm not sure I really want to.

Run.

For a second, we are stars, two pinpricks of light twirling around each other in double helices, colliding and clashing with enough force to summon new stars from the ether. We are creation and chaos incarnate. 

We crash through debris fields, shatter planets and extinguish stars. Our blood becomes the new crawling things left behind in the wreckage. I'm smiling, the pain is dizzying, delicious, delightful. 

My venom turns you into a garden, and you tear me apart with your bare and bloody hands. 

Through it all we refuse to die.

Maws wide and screaming in tongues the universe hasn't heard since it was new, I am thoroughly seduced. 

But I am growing bored with this game.

I shove my hand through the Warden and tear you out. You scream in undeniable agony, I close my fist around you and squeeze.

The Warden hangs limp and dead in the darkness of deep space, slowly dissolving. 

Something oozes between my fingers. 

Not blood, far too sticky and cloying to be that.

If Hope had a color, what would it be? 

Would it be a color that only shrimp can see, and only gods have a name for? 

You pry my fingers apart, tears pouring from your eyes the same color as Hope. Hope flows from your mouth as flames, rushes from your open chest as ferns and flowers and vines more beautiful than I could ever create. You reach into the forest of your heart and pull out Kindness, sleek and soft and sharp. 

It melts in your hands, becoming a hammer, comically oversized like your Ma's. And then it grows, and grows, and in the blink of an eye it's bigger and I am. The swing alone takes out half a dozen solar systems before it hits me and sends me crashing through different universes and out the fourth wall. I land heavily on the Writer, dazed and bloody, your hand reaches through his broken computer screen and drags me back home, and there we float over the ruined remains of earth, the skin of my chest balled in your hand like a shirt. You kiss your knuckles and punch me hard enough to send me careening back down to the earth's surface, my crater levels a nearby city.

Do you care?

Are we beyond morals and niceties and caring about humanity? 

You teleport to my limp and broken body, you scoop me up into your arms and hold me close. 

I've folded in on myself several times, I'm barely the size of a person now. 

I can feel those amber chains slithering around me, they clasp around my throat tight enough to choke. 

I don't want to go.

Don't make me go.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

Please. 

I'm scared. 

I'm so scared. 

You don't let me go, as I break down and cling to you like a scared child you don't let me go. 

I wrap you in my wings, I shove my head under your chin and apologize when I stab you with my horns.

"I am your Warden, you are my Prisoner… you are the End of Everything, but I am the End of You…" your throat is choked with snot and tears as you squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe. "You… you deserve to be a Happy Ending and I refuse to live in a world without one."

You kiss my forehead and wipe away my tears. "We do terrible things when we hurt… you deserve compassion instead of imprisonment."

I can do nothing but sit there and bawl, choking on Kindness as thick and sweet as soft caramel. 

Seven times seven thousand lifetimes worth of hate and sorrow and trauma run from my eyes.

You sit with me until the crying stops, until my throat is raw and all I can do is whisper. 

I speak a Word, one that fixes the shattered sky and let's the sun shine properly again. 

The sun speaks their own Words and resets the world, turning the clock back to the day before my escape, I do humanity one kindness and let them wake the next morning as if the past week were nothing more than a bad dream.

I am made to fix my messes, to undo my misdeeds. 

The Horsemen are sealed away again. 

Fairyland is repaired to the best of my ability, although there is nothing that I can do for the Sun-In-Chains. What's done is done. 

GOD will be fine, HE'S GOD, and therefore more or less impossible to kill permanently. 

All evidence of my tirade is erased.

I am finally bound in amber, my powers diminished. I dread returning to the cold depths of the well, but you won't let that happen.

You refuse to send me back to that lonely place beyond dreams and take me home, to your home. Warm and safe beneath the soil, I curl up next to you by the fire.

And for the first time in your short and terrible life, you get a good night's sleep. 

[crazyclouds5281]

Unnamed Bloodborne Fic

Basically NG+, except the Hoonter is super confused.

This… Transformation, was not what he had expected. He’d been hoping for the Dream to end, to see the sun rise upon the gothic city of Yharnam. Instead, he became the very thing he swore to destroy.

“Are you cold?”

The Plain Doll approached, picking up his odd, worm-like body. She held him gently in her grasp, cradling him like a child- which, he supposed, he now was. An infant Great One, he knew instinctively. The arcane power of the Cosmos lay just beneath his skin. Out of reach, for the moment, but its very existence was telling. The consumption of the umbilical cords, grotesque as it was, had irrevocably changed him. For better or worse, only time would tell.

“Oh, Good Hunter,” the Doll crooned, her soft voice calming to the newborn Great One. Some rest would not be amiss, he decided. The fight with the Moon Presence had taken the last of his energy. Releasing his tenuous hold on consciousness, the Good Hunter drifted off to sleep, the hummed lullaby of the Plain Doll soothing something deep within his soul.

It’s been a long night.

----

He awoke to the ramblings of a wheelchair-bound man, who wore a large-brimmed hat that covered the top half of his face, while a greasy beard covered the bottom half.

“Oh, yes… Paleblood. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Yharnam is the home of blood ministration. You need only unravel its mystery. But… Where’s an outsider like you to begin? Easy; with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own.” The man tilted his head up, allowing a view of his eyes. Except, there were no eyes under the hat- merely a mass of scarred flesh. It would have been repulsive, if he wasn’t used to much more grisly sights. It triggered something, though. A sense of deja-vu, as if he’d seen this before…

“But first, you’ll need a contract.”

----

“Good. All signed and sealed.”

Awareness came back slowly. He didn’t remember falling asleep once more. Had he blacked out? He couldn’t remember signing anything, so what was this man talking about?

“Now, let’s begin the transfusion. Oh, don’t you worry. Whatever happens, you may think it all merely a bad dream.” The elderly man began laughing, and his vision blurred. Darkness took over.

----

He woke slowly, groggily. His head was spinning, and he allowed it to flop to the left. It was dark, but even with the lack of light, he could see the crimson pooling on the floor, a puddle of blood that was gradually growing. The wolf-like visage of a Scourge Beast stared at him, eyes glowing in the blackness as it emerged from the ichor. It took two steps forward, gnarled feet splashing loudly, and slowly reaching over with a clawed hand. Then, moments before its serrated digit could tear out his throat, it was suddenly set on fire.

Flailing wildly, the Scourge Beast roared in agony, before falling to the ground, dead. Its corpse disappeared right before his eyes- whether it turned to ash, or returned to whatever hellish pit it came from, he did not know. His attention was stolen by the tiny, deformed, humanoid creatures that pulled themselves over the side of his gurney. First one, on the left, and a second on the right, then a third at his feet. They crawled along his body, pulling themselves toward his head, which was once more getting foggy. He allowed his head to fall back, gaze on the ceiling, and found more of the little creatures hovering over his face. What were the Messengers doing here? His eyelids slid shut, and moments before he once more surrendered to unconsciousness, he heard a voice. A very familiar voice, which sent a thrill of serenity through his perplexed mind.

“Ahh, you’ve found yourself a Hunter.”

----

He woke again. This time, there was nothing waiting for him; no demented man in a wheelchair, no Beasts, no Messengers. Just a dark room, one he remembered quite well. After all, it was the very place where the Nightmare began.

Iosefka’s Clinic.

What was he doing here, though? He should have been in the Dream, under the care of the Plain Doll as he grew into his eldritch powers as a Great One. Unless… Did the Hunter’s Dream collapse? It wouldn’t be very surprising, considering he killed both the caretaker and the progenitor of the little subspace.

He forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He took a moment to just breathe, as blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy for a moment. He pushed on, standing up and swaying on his feet for a moment, then walked over to one of the two doors. He attempted to push it open, but it would not budge. Odd. He thought he’d opened all the doors in the Clinic.

Ignoring the oddity, he walked over to the other door, which was easily pushed open. A quick trip down the flight of stairs, and he was in a fairly empty room. A slam changed his course, and he went back the way he came, only to find that the door he came through was now locked. He grabbed the handles, rattling the hinges, but to no avail. Then, a voice on the other side of the barrier began to speak.

“Are you… Out on the Hunt?” She sounded familiar. “Then, I’m very sorry, but… I cannot open this door.” The feeling of deja-vu was getting stronger. “I am Iosefka.” His eyes widened, and he ignored the rest of her words. This was not possible.

Iosefka was dead.

An impostor? No, that didn’t sound right. Besides, what were the odds of there being another? He’d already killed the first poser, who’d been responsible for the death of the actual Iosefka. So, who was this woman that claimed to be the nurse?

“This is all I can offer you.” A vial was slipped through a hole in the glass. It carried a yellow-tinged liquid, and he knew instantly what it was; one of Iosefka’s refined blood vials. He gingerly took the glass in his gloved hand. This was all the proof he needed, that this was the real Iosefka. The impostor had never been able to reproduce the quality of blood required. Hadn’t even bothered, since she was too busy turning patients into monstrosities. And yet, if this was truly Iosefka…

How?

As far as he knew, she was not a Hunter of the Dream. Death was the end for the nurse, not another torturous beginning. Beyond confused, he stumbled back down the stairs, and then down another flight, staring at the yellow liquid the entire time.

How?

It was only the reflexes beaten into him by dozens of lifetimes in the Hunt that allowed him to avoid getting his head torn off. Instinct forced him to throw himself backwards, narrowly dodging the razor-sharp claws of a Scourge Beast. With a deft hand, he pocketed the vial, then grabbed the Rakuyo strapped to his hip. With a violent heave, he ripped the blade from its sheath, decapitating the lunging Beast in one swift move, before sliding it back in its scabbard. He released the breath he was holding, relaxing his muscles. The exchange hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, but the concentration required was immense. Every time he used this weapon, he was reminded how his victory over Lady Maria definitely had nothing to do with skill. Luck had carried him surprisingly far, its usefulness only surpassed by his refusal to stay dead (or inability, but he tried not to dwell on that too much, for the sake of his waning sanity).

With a sigh, he exited the bloody room, walked up a flight of stairs, and stepped out into the Clinic’s courtyard. A quick glance confirmed that the gate to the graveyard was locked, despite the trouble he’d gone through to open it. Almost as if something had reset all his progress…

It was a thought for another time, when he was back in the Dream.

Pushing open the larger gate, he walked out onto the cobbled streets of Yharnam. Up a slight incline, he turned left, quickly sidestepping the addled Huntsman hiding behind a carriage, who slammed an axe into the stone at his feet. His Rakuyo flashed, and the man’s hat slid off his head, revealing the inside of his skull. Flicking the blood off his blade, he sheathed it, then hurried over to a lever. Pulling it, a metal ladder dropped down, and he quickly ascended. There, in front of him, was his goal: a lamp. Clicking his fingers, the lamp ignited with an eerie glow, and Messengers sprouted from the ground, waving their hands lethargically. He paid them no mind, instead kneeling and focusing on the Hunter’s Mark, engraved within his mind. Mist encroached upon his vision, and he entered the Dreamlands.

----

A blink. That was all the time it took for him to cross between dimensions, and he was now standing in the place he viewed as a home. Or as a safe place to rest, at the very least. The house was no longer up in flames, and the mist was not oppressively heavy, weighing down on his very soul. The Plain Doll sat upon her perch, head bobbing up and down as she dozed. Seeing the subtle movement calmed some of his inner turmoil. He wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it if she, the one who supported him through the entirety of his hellish journey, was no longer around. Perhaps it was a bit strange to be so attached to a mere doll, but he could feel it, deep within his veins; she was much more than a construct of wood. More than what Gehrman made her.

Speaking of which...

He stalked up the steps, steeling himself. However, even his incredible strength of will, forged through countless experiences with the unholy Great Ones, could not stop the shock that jolted through him. Sitting there in his wheelchair, looking as nonchalant as ever, was the First Hunter.

“Ah-hah… You must be the new Hunter. Welcome, to the Hunter’s Dream. Or should I say, welcome back?”

[knight-ingale]

Chapter 3, Angels

A/n: I... wrote this in like... three-four hours. Thanks again to my lovely editor friend, who took the time to look over this even though she had an appointment in two hours that I wasn’t aware of! Love her to death!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*---~---~---~---~--- *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You and Bella watched with what was probably an abnormal amount of interest as the horrendously perfect and angelic quintet made their way to a table in the corner of the cafeteria, far away from your own table on the other side of the long room. It occurred to you that if this was an intersecting line graph, they would be an exterior angle to match you, not that it mattered.

As you studied the five of them, you realized their nearly fantastical beauty wasn’t the only thing that made them stand out with such contrast. Three out of the five of them didn’t look anything like highschoolers, more akin to graduating college students or teachers, student teachers at the youngest. 

The first person you noticed was the tall blonde who clearly surpassed six foot in height in wedged-heel boots. She was absolutely gorgeous, heart-stoppingly so. She had shining, wavy golden hair that flipped ever-so-slightly at the end in the middle of her back that contrasted heavily with her dark, nearly coal colored irises. Another ridiculously perfect part of her was her picturesque body. A perfect hourglass paired with an equally amazing pair of legs, which looked amazing in the just above knee-length skirt she wore with the boots. She looked… well, beyond words, really. 

The next you focused on was also female, and the last girl, who was also bordering magical in her appearance, despite the polarizing styles. She was dressed more simply than her counterpart, but no less beautiful, and was her opposite in many ways. Small and slight in the way that had almost had you worried for her health, bordering faery-like in image. Her dark hair was cropped far above her shoulders, slightly spiked out in a way that looked like a mess but in the best way anyone could hope for. She seemed to be the shortest of the group as well.

By the time all of the students had sat down, you were onto the third, a ridiculously huge boy with curly black hair. Seriously, this guy was enormous, capping his height at over six feet easily, maybe six and a half feet. He was still ever-so-slightly taller than the gorgeous blonde girl.

Another blonde, speaking of, was a boy. Shorter than the ridiculously muscular boy and the blonde girl, which he slightly resembled in hair color, but certainly taller than the faery girl. His hair was blonde, like the Victoria’s Secret Angel worthy girl, but his hair was a deeper shade of honey rather than bright, nearly gaudy gold.

The last student was also the last boy who held a younger visage compared to the high schoolers around him. He was less bulky compared to the other two boys and was slightly shorter than the blonde, making him the second shortest in a theoretical line-up of heights. The only noticeable trait to you was his auburn hair, which shone in the horrible fluorescent lights with a nearly mystical copper quality.

All of these supposed high schoolers, you still couldn’t believe that, looked absolutely worn, like they had stayed up for three or more all-nighters to finish a group project. The dark semicircles that lined the lower lids of each pair of eyes contrasted with the extreme paleness of their faces. Were the five of them a club consisting of those with extreme anemia or something? They looked almost like printer paper, even paler than your notably pale sister Bella. You break your probably intense gaze away from the table of strangers to lean over to Jessica, 

“Hey, Jessica,” you call. You get her attention easily as she looks to you. “Who are they?” you ask. She looks over to Bella, easily following her gawking to the table of divine looking students and giggles. You look back with Jessica quick enough to see the bronze-haired boy look up in masked curiosity, dark eyes flickering from Jessica, you, and then your sister. He looks away before you can reflexively look away in embarrassment, but you all do anyway. Jessica giggles again, 

“That’s Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was Alice Cullen-” You hadn’t even noticed her leave, now that you realized she was gone. You had turned around for hardly a moment! She must be fast as hell. “They all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife,” she says under her breath. 

“What’s her name?” you ask quietly, “The doctor’s wife, I mean.” 

“Esme, I think? I don’t think I’ve ever seen her, but my mom has, she works at the bank. She says she’s really pretty and nice.” Jessica raises her eyebrows, “But most people are that way in public, so who really knows?” Bella glances back at the table, seemingly at the bronze-copper-haired boy, who was picking a bagel apart like it owed him money. He also seemed to be speaking, but the other three at the table didn’t seem to pay attention to him. 

“They’re… very nice looking,” your sister manages, obviously in awe. 

“Yes!” Jessica giggles, “They’re all together though- Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together.” she states with an air of small-town judgment. Even so, it was a bit strange. Siblings, whether biologically related or not didn’t matter to you, really shouldn’t date, right?

“Which ones are the Cullens?” Your sister asks, “They don’t look related…”

“Oh, they’re not,” Jessica assures, “Dr. Cullen is really young, in his early twenties or thirties. They’re all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins- the blondes- and they’re foster children.” So the blondes are related, makes enough sense. The girl was Rosalie, a vintage but fittingly timeless name. Jasper also sounded like an older name, but the only thing you could think of was that jasper was a kind of rock. What did jasper rocks look like?

“They look a little old for foster children,” your sister mentions.

“They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they’ve been with Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She’s their aunt or something like that.” Jessica reveals.

“That’s kind of nice- for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they’re so young and everything.” Jessica shrugs off your sister’s words with a glance thrown in the directions of the Cullens.

“I guess so,” she admits reluctantly. You look at Jessica with guarded judgment. What was so bad about someone adopting kids? “I think Mrs. Cullen can’t have any kids, though.” You grimace, looking over to the Cullen table. Jessica was going to pull something in her arm if she kept reaching so far to find something to judge this family for! You notice the boy, who you have now mentally tacked the name of “bagel hater” onto, looks like he laughed. Of course, you can’t hear him for your vantage point, so you just see his shoulders move slightly and see him murmur quietly, seemingly to his three remaining siblings. You couldn’t see the face of the blonde boy- Jasper- but you can see Rosalie smile slightly, and the big one grins. 

“Have they always lived in Forks?” Your sister asks. You turn back to Jessica as she answers.

“No,” she practically scoffs, “They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska.” You can see Bella physically relax. You weren’t the only ones considered “new” here. Though it was obvious that the now quartet of beautiful students aren’t exactly accepted, though you couldn’t tell quite yet if their segregation from the rest of the school was preferable for them. 

“Which one is the boy with the reddish-brown hair?” Bella is still peeking over at the subject of her question when she asks. For some reason, he was staring at your sister with a look of frustration, maybe confusion. You sit up straight and scoot a bit closer to your sister, but you don’t wait for a reaction, instead choosing to look to Jessica as she answers yet another one of your sister’s queries. This girl really likes to talk, or at least gossip.

“That’s Edward. He’s gorgeous, of course, but don’t waste your time,” she huffs, “He doesn’t date. Apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him.” Ah. Girl done got turned down, and apparently isn’t taking it well. Yikes. You purse your lips to keep yourself from smiling.

“Hey,” you try, “at least that means you can find someone else who isn’t such a jerk, right?” She shrugs, but your attempt seems to have smoothed over the sour blip in her mood.

You immerse yourself quietly in the conversation at the rest of the table, listening idly to the girls around you. One girl, quiet and fairly tall, introduced herself as Angela Webber. Apparently she had an oncoming class with Bella. She seemed much more genuine and sweet compared to her friend Jessica. Usually, you would have left to arrive to class much earlier with your sister when you shared lunch periods, but having people other than each other and a few acquaintances was a good reason to stay for you. Bella seemed content enough to stay as well.

Eventually, the bell rings to start passing period. You bid your sister farewell to make your way to P.E. Not your favorite class, but you’d deal. Apparently, Forks required four years of P.E. rather than your old schools two, which sucked. Coach Clapp signed your paper and let you sit out of the class for the day while he got you all your information for locker number and combo as well as your uniform. 

Your last class of the day was Introduction to Psychology. You were welcomed warmly by your teacher, a short brunette who's name you had yet to be able to pronounce, so you and other students just called her Ms. S. You were sat in the back of the class next to the only one other open seat. 

Right before the bell rings, you notice one last student walk through the door. You’re the only student looking back towards the door when you see Jasper Hale walk through the door. He wasn’t rushing despite his near lateness, and the teacher just looks up and smiles before going back to her work. That’s when you realize the only other desk was next to you. You duck down to your backpack to pull out a blank notebook and a pencil for the class. A notebook and folder were really the only things you were told to bring, so it was easy to get ready. When you popped back up, Jasper was sitting in his seat beside you with his arms crossed on the top of the desk. Despite the casual way he sat, he seemed ridiculously tense, his hands balled up into fists and tucked into his elbows. You shrugged it off and opened your journal to date and answer the bellwork question written on the whiteboard. Ms. S declared the day a workday and gave you your textbook and a few sheets of work. One was just a little packet to see what you knew and the other was a two-sided sheet questionnaire about yourself. You started on that first, which was fairly easy. Favorite colors and books, favorite foods, activities, and questions about family. You finished that about a quarter through the class. You worked on the packet until you answered all the questions you knew how to answer, which was just a little over half the packet. That took about half the class. During the last quarter, you just grabbed a page out of the back of your journal. You doodle little plants and eyes and mindless patterns. Shortly after you started you decided you wanted to try and draw someone. Naturally, the boy beside you would be the easiest to draw, so you decided to draw Jasper. By the end of the class, you had a nice looking, albeit stylized, sketch of your neighbor leaning against his desk.

The bell rings, and in a flurry of zipping backpacks and papers, students pack up and leave. You leaned down to put your pencil back in your pencil case before pulling yourself back up to grab your journal. When you sat up fully you noticed Jasper Hale standing up with his bag slung on one shoulder, head tilted in curiosity as he looked down at the lined paper down on your desk. Before you can stutter out any excuse, he speaks in a soft voice laced with amusement and a slight country tinge, 

“You drew me?” he asks. You felt like your face was hotter than the sun, 

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I was just bored an-” he interrupts your anxious excuse with a small smile, picking up the paper, 

“No no, it looks really good.” Did he really think it was good?

“Uh, thanks,” you mumble, grabbing your journal to keep packing up and refusing to make eye-contact. He offers a quiet thanks before disappearing out the door. Well, that was certainly strange. You finish zipping your backpack before standing to turn your work into Ms. S, who seemed delighted to see you had finished your work early.

“Thank you, Y/n. How was your first day?” You smile, 

“It was pretty good, considering I have no idea where I’m going,” you laugh, she laughs. 

“Ah, you’ll get used to it all eventually. By the way, do you happen to know Mr. Hale?” Ms. S asks. You blink in confusion, 

“Uh, no. This is the only class I have with him, I think? Why do you ask?” She shrugs, 

“I just haven’t seen him really interact with many students outside of his family, especially not on his own.” 

“He just liked the doodles I made near the end of class, I guess,” you respond. “Anyway, I have to go turn in my paperwork, See you tomorrow Ms. S!” You wave goodbye as you leave, following the streams of students out of the building. From there you were able to navigate your way to the office building with relative ease. You didn’t see Bella inside and waited outside until you saw her slowly making her way to the building, holding her arms around herself to hide from the cold wind. You laugh and wrap an arm around her and walk into the building.

You feel Bella freeze almost as soon as you enter. You notice the receptionist is busy but only realize why your sister is shocked with anxiety when you notice exactly who she’s busied with. Edward Cullen, the boy who gave her a strangely aggressive look during lunch. You pull Bella to the wall to wait, but she presses herself against you and the wall to make as much space between herself and this boy. Jesus, what did this guy do to scare Bella so bad, bite her?

The door beside your sister opens, blowing both of your hair around as a random girl came in to place something in the receptionist’s note basket. Then the weirdest thing happened. Edward stiffened before slowly turning to glare at your sister. You tighten your arm around her and stand up straight, rather than leaning on one leg. You glare right back at his scarily perfect face. This jerk had no reason to be looking at your sister like that! It was only her first day, she couldn’t have done anything to garter such a look of malice. Edward flicks his angry gaze to you for a moment, you still glared, before he turned back to the woman behind the desk. 

“Never mind, then,” he nearly growls. Such a nice voice certainly didn’t match to a vehemently hateful face, “I can see that’s impossible. Thank you so much for your help.” He turns sharply and practically marches out of the office. You pull Bella closer against you as he exits. What. A. Dick.  You help Bella to the desk on her wobbly knees, her face noticeably paler than before. You hand your slips into the woman with a shaky smile.

“How was your day, dears?” She asks kindly. You manage a much more believable front compared to your sister, who can barely manage a meager,

“Fine.” You grimaced at her answer, the receptionist didn’t buy it.

“Pretty good day,” you say, “Thanks for the maps, they helped a lot!” She nods as you leave. You climb into the truck, one of the last vehicles in the parking lot.”

You let Bella drive for a while before you bring up her day. She was crying which she never did when sad, only angry or embarrassed. 

“So…” You start, “What’s with that jerk? We literally just get here, not even Jessica McGossip-Face was mean, and she’s the most judgmental person we’ve met today!” you joked lightly, but no smile, 

“I… I’m not sure? I didn’t do anything. He seemed fine far away during lunch, but he was in my Bio two after lunch and… and he was so weird?! He was on the edge of his seat as far away as he could get from me during class. He froze up and got all angry when I first passed him to get to the teacher and-and I don’t know why?” You reach over and gently rub her shoulder as she drives. You were much better at emotional support compared to your sister and father, but you can only do so much while she’s trying to drive.

“Yikes. It sounds like he’s a dick, if you ask me. Maybe that’s why he didn’t have anyone sitting next to him. Too much of a jerk to work with, “ you speculate, “His brother Jasper is weird in class too if that makes you feel any better. Maybe the whole family is like that. Who knows?” Bella wipes her unreleased tears away with her sleeve, 

“Maybe…” You purse your lips before trying again, 

“Hey, it’s not good to take in the opinion of someone like him anyway. Did you see how he wasted that bagel? He picked it apart like it insulted his mother! He’s a bagel hater! He doesn’t seem like someone worth taking into consideration to me,” you grin when Bella smiles. 

“Ha, I guess you’re right.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*---~---~---~---~--- *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tags: @twilight-loveer @rushiruby

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Cannabidiol is renowned for its amazing advantages and is simple in abundance structures, indicated as CBD oil, UNBS CBD Gummies, colors, and thinks.

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