#✦.~*>> A PERFECT REPLICA. | visage

[sercphs]

"The name's Fischl. One of the Nameless, though I've been away from the express for a while. Mind catching me up on what I missed?"

[cirqosmos]

broken lipstick. yjw

2024 | 16+ | ONESHOT 1.8K. | G-yandere; W-obsession, possessive, unhinged jungwon lol, forced kissing with lipstick yes.

DIRECTOR's CUT, found an old note of ideas in my phone from 2022 about jungwon × lipsticks, and thought that it would be a pity to not write about it so here it is. this is kind of like an experimental storytelling, just finding my way with the rhythm and pacing of the words, sentences, and grammar. so if it kinda sounds weird, apologies in advance lol !

finding yourself trapped in this world he created for you drives you terribly insane.

down, and down you go.

every words he spills—he claims that he had spent hours and days of effort for this room, curating it just how you would like it; makeup palettes and brushes, lipsticks, magazines, jewelries, pretty and dainty sundresses, coquettish bows and laces perfectly matching your taste.

everything single thing before you—was all you've ever dreamt for, wished for, manifested for. bare skin planted firmly on this king-sized bed you've listed as one of your life wishes, wrists and necks adorned with saccharine gemstones—ones you've often seen on magazines.

every single damn thing was here.

he claims that he did it because he wishes nothing but to see the finest shade of happiness be illustrated on your visage; for bliss and satisfaction weaved under the strings of fairy tales, you shall wish nothing more but to remain abode.

yes, it is an exact replica of your dream room yet a lot more bigger, lavish, but certainly not home. a doll house would be a much better, fitting term. or perhaps, a prison—masquerade as the definition of your perfect little utopia.

his eyebrows knitted at the way you worded it, saying that such comparison is absurd, and certainly is not the truth. for all that was before you, is all yours to take—and so is he.

all yours to take, he says.

but if it was yours, then why can't you wear all it outside? has he ever thought that all these things is fucking useless if you can't even bring it with you out of this sickening room? what's all these even for, you asks. he replies with that same sickening smile, "why, silly, of course it's for you."

you repeated it with spite, "no, this is not for me. you're doing this for you."

"if you say so," he brought his finger against your cheek, stroking it ever so sickeningly, causing you to lean away. "you're my priority here, your wants and needs are at the best interest of my heart. nothing more, nothing less."

it didn't miss your eyes how his composed visage falters ever so slightly, so subtle—it almost slips away from your fingers but you saw it and you didn't care.

his soul, you despises—every word etched of his existence, you loathed. death shall greet him, and you'd never spare a glance.

why would you? when just a month ago, a world filled with the brightest prospects was all waiting for you, but his grim arrival dims every glowing lantern ahead of your path, ultimately sealing the door to your future tight and begone.

akin to a rat in a trap under a cat's claws; your sanity wilting with each passing day. how many days or months has it been? you lose track of time. where is your phone, even? oh why, he asks? books and magazines was what you'd prefer over some petty little devices, so why would you need them now?

rage, despair, helplessness; you released all these pent-up frustration with each object you slammed against the floor, scattered about in a hazard mess. broken, shattered in pieces like you do. he should see it, feel it, of how his own hard work are gone into the drain, like what he had put you into.

footsteps approaching from the distance.

the door flew open, just like how he often appears, ruining every single opportunity you had back then. he appears too composed, inexplicably unfazed at the ravage scene before his eyes. his own efforts obliterated into nothing, every single thing he spent time on perfecting was wasted, in downright shambles.

you drop on your knees, suppressing your sobs as he approaches with small steps.

it was all too silent, with only your shaky gasps blending with the solemn air. with your head down, eyes locked against the wooden floor, and on your clenched fists shaking with grueling anticipation, you glance nervously at how he stands so still—staring down at you like you were an object.

you wish he just would kill you right now.

in your peripherals, however, you caught the sight of his fingers grabbing the tossed lipstick, now broken in half—it's smoothened tip now uneven. you waited for him to say something, perhaps throw profanities at you for ruining this dollhouse he had spent hours and days at.

grow mad at me, hate me, and then throw me away. in your head, you chanted these words—prayers it ultimately morphs into.

however a gasp spills out of your lips, your breath caught at the back of your throat upon seeing him applying the lipstick on his lips, still and all—while humming a melodic tune as he does so.

"is this how you do it?"

you didn't answer, only imbued with aghast at the deep shade of crimson hugging his lips. as peculiar as it may seem, you can't deny that this visage of his perfectly adorns it.

he steps closer, alarming you—manifesting straight to your eyes widening in sheer panic.

with strong arms, jungwon catches your legs before you could push him away, pulling you closer where he forces you to face him, gripping your jaw so tight and suffocatingly so into his well of eyes; with it's depths you could never fathom till your last breath.

yet he begs you to drown in them, to answer all the questions written all over within—what's so fucking wrong to just stay obedient, and be his oh so sweet darling? why can't you see his love and dedication for you? of how he's ready to give up everything for you?

maybe a slap to your pretty face would tighten the screw in your head a little, or perhaps a yell pulled out from his throat would do the trick, but oh darling—profanities don't suit you, nor does it do you justice to be treated so harshly.

fragile you are, and such a fragile one should be nested, sheltered away from this merciless world. you do not need to lift a finger, or tire your pretty little head over useless things but..

but why is it that you refuse to understand him?

evident it was, through the way you dug your nails on his hands, imbuing your ever growing hatred to him. not a single word spoken, nor spitting at each other but through your eyes—your rampant wishes of spitting him death grows enormous.

die, die, just die.

you held your breath, as a stroke of his finger on your temple—slides down your cheek. a grimace takes form on your feature as he leans in, propelling your body to fight harder against his—though, he remains stronger and faster—pouncing on you like a prey, diving in with his venom-laced fangs into your lips, forcefully so.

his carnal desires takes form across your visage; smudged, blotted, and smeared. a shade so intensified through his vows to make you understand his perception of love.

they say that love is patient, love is kind, love is forgiving.

no, that's bullshit. it's fucking slippery, a mess, metallic taste leaking out from your lip—spilling into his tongue, only for him to hum in frenzied delight. a taste so sweet, so divine, like caramel melting in his cavern.

tilting his head sideways—his tongue went further into yours, twisting and knotting like wet fabric—pooling an amalgamation of saliva, blood, and lipstick down the corner of your mouth. sticky palms on the back of your neck, spiralling you down and down into these candied greed.

heat, searing, throbbing immensely—this pain, do you understand it now? that's how his heart mourns towards your ungratefeful, petty actions. have you perhaps realise it? maybe not yet, as you still had this little fight in you, a funny sight to behold.

your head spins, flashing in mismatched colors, jaw throbbing by his gracious mouth of flames—infiltrating every corner.

soaking everything in you with his relentless rhythm—a pace you could never match as it accelerates beyond what you can take with each second. his lips, like a paint brush—and you, like a paper being crumpled into every way possible. moulding your speech into incoherent sentences, strings of pathetic cries for help drowned out into the void, your prayers to god himself had been engulfed by a devil's kiss.

what's a god, even? they say humans are made in the image of god, but he dare say that not even god are comparable to you, nor those who reign above the heavens—angels, sirens, succubus or whatever the hell are there—your feet they shall kiss.

a canvas you are—pure, and untainted. a masterpiece in the making, not even the greatest artist known to mankind could do justice to your beauty.

you're his haven, his abode. yet also a temptation, a sin, his inferno. every edge of your portrait tweaked perfectly into his own ideals and fantasies, yet also a curse, the poisonous bane of his life, so toxic—it contaminates his soul.

decaying, decomposing—perhaps he was the serpent, and you're the tenant of the garden. insatiable, the apple of eden couldn't be as mouthwatering as your visage.

so why, can't you understand his love?

if you couldn't see it before, then he'll make sure you'll see it now.

dragging you across the floor, jungwon forces you to meet your reflection in the shattered mirror. on your knees, you met this drowned out visage of yours, all visible for you to observe; disheveled hair, your cheeks bathed in intense shades of red, all the same to your neck and shoulders, lips swollen with a visible cut, drenched in all his unspoken words. a mess, you are.

his pretty little mess.

yet what a masterpiece you are, still. he coos with lips pursing up in a sweetened grin, as if he had sucked out all remaining little bits inside your little jar of hope. do you see it now? how every part of you belongs to him, all for his lips to take and taste.

"you look even prettier, all broken like this." jungwon isn't very much different, but while you look like a corpse bludgeoned into mayhem. the image he bears was of a bloodthirsty demon, an animalistic abstraction.

through the mirror, you could see him shuffling around—looking for something amongst the mess, only for the same lipstick he used as an instrument for this macabre play—returning to his palms.

with him back to your side, he delivered a stroke down your hair, tucking your locks behind your ear. a chin he places on your shoulder, one hand under your tummy and the other looped around your shoulder to reach for your lips.

the same broken lipstick, made its way on your lower lip. a shade so deep, so heavy, amplified by his twisted affection. all dolled up for only his eyes to see. your luscious hair—inviting him closer and closer, savoring the way it hugs his fingers. too delicate, the broken mirror could only shy away from you.

"mirror, mirror on the wall," the lipstick tossed on the floor, replaced by his thumb lapping your lip. "who's the fairest of them all?"

© 2022-2024, pieroulette on [tumblr].

[evolutionsvoid]

The Mother of Monsters birthed many strange and horrid creatures during her reign. There was no end to their malformations and vile abilities, yet there was one Teraknon that stood out amongst them. One whose form and powers were so bizarre, that even the legends fail to understand its tale. The reason for all this is tied to the “father” of this Teraknon, for Miteras had used an egg for one of her personal sessions. When relieving herself with such objects, their essence would influence the child that would be born from this profane act, yet the egg seemed to have done that and more. It would later be suggested by interpreters of this tale that the use of an egg for such a thing had somehow “broken” the cycle of birth. Eggs are vessels of unborn life, yet this unformed child had been used to stimulate the creation of another. Somehow its essence created an infinite loop, of life begetting life in its rawest form. Miteras would later give birth to an egg as well, the child produced from this act. At first, it was believed the Teraknon would hatch from this vessel, but it was soon found that this egg, in fact, was the child. So began the strange existence of Chalaz.

The egg would eventually crack open, but no newborn would emerge. Only primordial fluids and a barely formed embryo. This was Chalaz, not just the embryo, but the shell and its contents as well. A broken vessel of ceaseless unborn life. They would grow like any child, but forever remained in this odd embryonic state. Lacking limbs, Chalaz simply floated in the air, like a fish in water. Their shell and its fluids would form a crude body, with a cracked portion serving as their mouth. Despite their strange form, they could eat and speak, but that wasn’t the part that drew attention. It was the fact that Chalaz was creating their own life, perpetually birthing bodies from their own primordial form. 

Forming and shedding from their side in a never ending process were countless humanoid bodies. They lacked bones and organs, their anatomy hardly anything more than a bag of raw fluid. All they possessed were crude veins running through their bodies, and a single eye-like yolk. Over the course of hours, they would slowly emerge from Chalaz’s ruptured flesh, taking shape until they budded off and fell free from their parent. These “yolkmen” were extensions of Chalaz’s will, separate bodies that could be directed and used as they pleased. While their squishy simple form would seemingly make their uses limited, there was still one trick yet to be revealed. For even in this crude human shape, they still carried a piece of Chalaz’s unending birth. If a yolkman came in contact with a human, or a creature of similar shape, they could choose to steal their visage. Their yolk eye would swell and rupture, filling their body with its golden fluid. Their body would contract and condense into a single squishy egg, at last rupturing to birth an exact replica of their target. The mimicry was perfect, said to even be able to copy their abilities and personal tics, however, this dupe was still a fragment of Chalaz. It was a trick that a yolkman could only perform once, this shapeshifting being permanent til the end of their days. This was just fine, though, as this ability alone made Chalaz an indispensable Teraknon for Miteras’ efforts.

Chalaz’s mimicking yolkmen were used to infiltrate the Church of the Divine Wealth and plant the seeds of dissent within its territories. The simplest version of this was the catching and copying of regular citizens, then using the duplicate to return home to start eroding the locals’ faith. They would speak doubts on the Church’s actions or teachings, sabotage their efforts and get people to question their beliefs. Though a single villager doesn’t seem enough to turn the opinion of an entire settlement, one should remember that a single crack can eventually crumble even the mightiest of walls. Plus, the mimic would find ways to lure other prominent citizens away to be stolen and copied, thus adding more dissenters to the mix. The real heavy hitters came when the yolkmen were able to dupe priests and other high members of the Church, like those abducted by their sister, Sheelnagi. There they could get inside the entire organization to steal information and break things down from the inside out. They would taint humor supplies to poison partakers, twist the words of sermons to make people uneasy and make choices for the Church that would eventually ruin their reputation for entire towns. Yolkmen would call upon the controversial practices of the faith, inflicting penance at inappropriate times to make followers angry and doubtful. Some would even impersonate missionaries so that they could botch the attempts at conversion so bad that Miteras’ people would cling even tighter to her. And when the Church discovered these infiltrators, things didn’t really get much better. 

The knowledge that Miteras had embedded spies and saboteurs into their organization caused panic and distrust to run rampant. There was no telling who was real and who was an imposter, and past choices or events suddenly came into question. In time, they would discover that a yolkman could be exposed by cutting into them to see golden yolk seep out instead of Blood. However, this didn’t fully fix the damage they had caused. The mere act of accusing dissenters or doubters of being yolkmen worked against the Church. It would look to the people that any critic of the faith was instantly labeled “inhuman” and “demonic,” while also having the Church pretend every bad action they ever committed was to be blamed on a mimic. The deception of the yolkmen certainly didn’t paint Miteras in a great light either, but that didn’t matter when their sheer existence had the faithful at each other’s throats. When the Golden Pontiffs learned of Chalaz’s existence, the slaying of this bizarre Teraknon became priority one. Especially when they discovered that a good portion of soldiers in Miteras’ forces were also yolkmen, bolstering her numbers and image with these never ending children.

As a strange, dripping egg, Chalaz themself didn’t seem like much of a threat. What they churned out endlessly was the real danger. Legions were sent to where Chalaz dwelled, armed to the teeth and ready to kill the monstrosity. When they attacked, Chalaz unleashed waves of yolkmen to fight back, each one copying the soldiers and forcing them to fight their own clones. There was much chaos in the battle, as it became difficult to tell who was who. But eventually, the yolkmen were slain and Chalaz was left helpless. The remaining soldiers tore Chalaz to pieces, their weapons shattering their shell and reducing them to a gurgling puddle. Though it had been a tough fight, this terror was over. Or so they thought, as the pool of Chalaz’s corpse bubbled and swelled, until an egg rose from the remains. In an instant, it cracked open and its insides revealed themselves. In the span of seconds, Chalaz was alive and whole once again. There was a moment of shock and confusion, but the warriors took up their arms and killed the reborn Chalaz. But then he simply came back once more. This effort would continue over and over with little success, all while Chalaz vomited forth more yolkmen to fight them. At last, a retreat was called and the few survivors limped back to the Church to tell them what they witnessed. What they learned that day was chilling, and it was the fact that Chalaz couldn’t die. A being trapped in perpetual birth, every time Chalaz was struck down, they simply birthed an exact copy of themself. No matter if blade or magic was used, or if the corpse was burned to ash, Chalaz would come right back. This was why they were known as The Unending One. And it certainly seemed like a terror with no ending. 

Soldiers, mages and battle priests were sent to slay Chalaz, with the hopes that certain spells or techniques would do the job, but all failed. It became clear that the Six Fingers of God were required to end its reign, and so the call went out. One by one, the Fingers would arrive and try their hand at slaying The Unending One, but they too made no progress. Etzba’s hammer shattered the beast, but they only reconfigured back into the whole. Tommel’s poleaxe carved through their flesh, but these wounds vanished with every rebirth. Secundus riddled Chalaz with burning bolts, then scorched the remains with Yellow Bile, yet The Unending One returned. Amah’s spear looked to pin the Teraknon to the earth, and trap their undying flesh, but no weapon could hold them. Nameless’ Blood magic fried Chalaz over and over, but the warrior found that they would run out of Blood before Chalaz was even bothered by it. Things were looking hopeless for the Church, as even their greatest warriors couldn’t best the monstrosity. But there was one Finger left to slay the beast, and Malik knew it all rested on her. 

Compared to the other Fingers, Malik was always the odd one out in tales. While the others aligned themselves to the Four Humors or Ichor, it was said that Malik was tied to none. It was true that she was incredibly fast and skilled with her insanely sharp blades, one would still wonder how she was going to slay Chalaz. Once you boiled it down to facts, she had the same abilities as just a common soldier, and it was already proven that they couldn’t finish the job. Yet, Malik still went forth to challenge the undying Teraknon. She knew that they would throw yolkmen at her, those that would wear her face. For that she recalled the times she trained with the other Fingers, and of when she lost those duels. The weaknesses her comrades exploited to best her would be put to use this day, as they would give her an edge against her own copies. The battle with these duplicates was long, but her skill and knowledge allowed her to slay them. She was at last face to face with Chalaz, who hung there uncaringly as they knew she couldn’t win. Her simple blades would do nothing but trigger another rebirth. Chalaz knew their power and fate all too well, knowing that this ceaseless cycle would never end. But Malik had something that The Unending One didn’t suspect.

Malik called out to the glorious Ichor and asked for a miracle, one that would grant her the power to slay this abomination. And in that moment, the golden fluid of the gods answered. A brilliant light of gold shined down upon the Teraknon and burned away its profane powers. With the divine grace of Ichor, Chalaz was severed from the cycle of rebirth. This is the punishment of the demonic heretics, and this monstrosity would suffer the same. Stripped of the one ability that made them immortal, Chalaz was helpless as Malik thrust her blades into their flesh and killed them. The Unending One had at last met its end. And with the death of their main body, all the disguised yolkmen melted into wretched sludge. With that, Miteras’ greatest weapon was destroyed.  

The slaying of Chalaz is a glorious tale of the power of the Church, showing that even the most impossible foe falls to their holy strength. However, miraculous as it is, it is a Finger legend that is not told all that often. It is certainly one of the least popular ones, and some folk say the reason is that it is….kinda confusing. While no one will say that the killing of Chalaz wasn’t crucial to the Church’s success, they would say the tale surrounding it is a bit weird. From the stories, Chalaz was an immortal, a being that broke the rules on death and rebirth. All the other Fingers couldn’t kill this abomination, no matter their method, but yet Malik stabbed it once and it just…died? For a legend of glory, it is a tad anti-climatic. And doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why was Malik the one who called upon Ichor to erase Chalaz’s greatest power? Surely the other Fingers could have done it, especially the reverent Etzba who bound himself to the golden Ichor. The Church claims only Malik could have achieved it, since she was the last hope. Only in the most dire of times will Ichor grant a miracle such as that. While that may be true, the question still stands on why the defeat of Chalaz was so simple. All the other Teraknon required clever strategies and exploitation of their weaknesses, while The Unending One was simply erased. Some would argue that Malik hardly even did anything in this story, the victory being more the Ichor’s. And why was Chalaz’s body never cleansed or used? All the others had their corpses utilized in a way, but this body was destroyed completely to leave no traces. Of course, people say it was so The Unending One couldn’t return, but didn’t the miracle of Ichor make that impossible?

Yet the fact still remains that The Unending One died that day, no matter how questionable the story. Even if one argues about the method or who did the deed, there is no denying that Chalaz was slain. But the sheer abruptness and oddity of the tale continues to puzzle skeptics, especially with the corpse being hastily destroyed. Was it truly a blessing from Ichor that struck this monstrosity down? Were these precautions really meant to ensure this abomination would never rise again? Such questions make a few wonder if there is more to this tale, something being deliberately omitted. Maybe another power had been called upon during this battle, a force that could destroy Chalaz for good that the Church refuses to admit…   

There is one detail that does get noticed in the tale, and it is the description of the yolkmen. Fluid filled humanoids with a single eye. Sounds awfully familiar, especially with their birth being seen as “profane” and “unnatural.” Perhaps there is more reason to the Church’s hatred of the Academy’s homunculi than mere faith. Maybe these strange artificial beings remind them of a terror they faced so long ago… 

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

A weirdo by even Teraknon standards! But I love them so!

[allasticus]

Your character receives an anonymous package. Within it is a seems to be a bag of extremely fine black and gold sand. A small handwritten card within reads: "Pour me out but don't worry, I'll always return to the bag when you're done." (The sand will magically create the image of a person's face or the entirety of their person as a perfect replica of how you remember them. This person though has to be deceased for it to work. Who does your character think of? Why them? Sending this to a bunch of folks for the holidays so they have a surprise IC gift that might also hit them in the feels! Happy Holidays!)

“It is not just your duty—it is your responsibility.”

The Patriarch’s biting words reverberated in Allasticus’s mind like the echo of a hammer striking iron. Father and son locked eyes, one radiating unyielding resolve, the other simmering with defiance. Yet, as always, Allasticus felt himself shrinking beneath his father’s piercing gaze, his defiance faltering in the shadow of that iron will.

“I understand…” he muttered, his voice barely audible as he averted his eyes.

Adonis flared his nostrils, his tone sharpened to a cutting edge. “Spare the fire, boy. Save it for the battlefield—whether it’s the dirt or the ballroom. This is the path you must walk as my heir. Do you hear me?”

A flicker of irritation crossed Allasticus’s face, but it was fleeting, swallowed by the weight of the moment. “I hear you,” he said quietly, his words clipped but obedient.

Adonis gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, his stride steady and deliberate as he exited the room. Just as he crossed the threshold, Haldir stepped into his place, his presence measured and deferential.

“Package for you, my Lord,” the Majordomo announced, presenting an ornate box adorned in intricate patterns of silver and gold. “There is no name… other than yours.”

Allasticus barely acknowledged him, his gaze distant, his mind still heavy with the lingering weight of his father’s words. Haldir, accustomed to the young lord’s moods, placed the package on a nearby table and excused himself with a quiet bow, leaving Allasticus to his solitude.

The silence that followed was a reprieve, though it carried a subtle hum of tension. Allasticus approached the box, his hands hesitating briefly before settling on either side of it. His curiosity, tinged with a faint gratitude for the distraction, compelled him to lift the package and turn it over in his hands.

With careful deliberation, he opened the box and extracted a small, unassuming bag. His brow furrowed at the sight of it, confusion deepening as he read the accompanying card. Lowering the card, he returned his attention to the bag.

A voice in the back of his mind urged caution, but curiosity won out. He turned the bag upside down, watching as fine grains of sand spilled onto the floor in a quiet cascade.

At first, there was nothing—just an inert pile of sand and the faintest pang of guilt for the mess someone else would inevitably have to clean.

But then the sand stirred.

It seemed to awaken, shifting and coiling, rising into the air as ethereal strands twisted and wove together. Slowly, impossibly, the sand began to take form, and Allasticus’s breath caught in his throat.

The figure that emerged stole the air from his lungs.

His mother’s visage materialized before him, her features delicate and unmistakable, her expression serene. The calm in her eyes and the gentle curve of her smile shattered the stoic façade he had so carefully maintained. Memories surged forward, vivid and bittersweet, flooding his senses with emotions he had buried deep.

“I am so proud of you,” her voice sounded in his mind like a whisper carried on the wind.

Allasticus’s knees weakened, his head bowing as the bag slipped from his trembling fingers. His shoulders shook as he wept, raw and unguarded, the dam of his composure breaking at last.

@dinthoqaf

[valeriefauxnom]

Accidental Minor Plot Holes/Misnomers!

Dragalia in general was surprisingly astute to its tangled mass of lore, but they were not perfect. Every so often, there were little tidbits that on closer thought/lore diving, make no sense with later information!

Take, for instance, the launch wyrmprint "King's Countenance", which intersects both well and poorly with later details on him and his kids:

Its description relays, starting in its 3rd stage:

Now, the king sits and ponders his future. He knows that if he continues on his current path, he will have to pay with his life. And yet, there is no hesitation whatsoever on his visage. For the king had eight promising children who had learned much from watching him fight to support the kingdom. Any of them was more than worthy to take the reins of the country's future.

On the bright side, this works well with the details that Aurelius, when heading to the Binding Ruins, knew he was playing with fire and chose to anyways in the hopes of helping Nedrick, whom he had newly discovered was alive and not-still-quite-so-well:

...But on the flipside, well...

I'm a royal fam major when it comes to Dragalia lore, and even I, uh, would not be so bold as to claim that Aurelius has 'eight capable children' to take the throne. Leonidas, Phares, Chelle, even Valyx, sure. Beren, whom has been locked in the dungeons since being an infant???? Emile??????????? Zethia, who has forsworn the throne herself to be the Auspex? Whoops.

And it's not as if Aurelius has blindingly rose-colored goggles on, either. He's Concerned enough about Emile to not only appoint Magnus in the hopes of teaching him some better morals, but also granted him the authority to outright kill Emile if he gets entirely out of hand in several worlds.

So, yeah, there's one incongruency. Speaking of kings, though, let's wind back the clock to the OG King of Alberia!

This one's pretty small and easy to explain. To put it briefly, his replica in The Blood That Binds shapeshifts into a dragon he should not have been able to: Brunhilda.

Why? Because she never pacted with Alberius in the first place!

Speaking of which, there's several more hmms in Mym's life. Her dragon story starts out with this narration:

One tiny little problem- Greatwyrms never, ever, are hatchlings. Later lore stated that all Greatwyrms are sterile and do not follow most other natural life cycles even for dragons. They also have a nice little auto reincarnation feature as primordial forces, though they do not keep memory between incarnations.

This is likely just a case of writers unintentionally bumping into each other with much later lore for Mids' and Mym's words here, as this info drops in ch.24 vs the base game with Brunhilda's story, but still technically a contradiction!

It also creates a new odd timeline. Greatwyrm ages are ambiguous, but we do have several rough ideas/implications:

-Jupiter is the youngest (Mym address him as a brat and otherwise younger than her)

-Brunhilda is the second-youngest (she's generally treated by the others dragons as a younger one too)

-Zodiark likely eldest

-Mids is under 1k years old, since he did not experience events with Ilia and does not remember them

However, Brunhilda's story again puts things in a major bind. Her story has her lying in fields for 'centuries' and then holing herself in a volcano for 'ages more' so much so that the land itself shifted until Alberius came. Alberius, of course, was 300 years ago. This leaves surprisingly little time to put her as definitively younger than Midgardsormr, who is canonically under 1k.

On the flip side, it partially explains her exact moody nature- she's hardly talked to anyone in her centuries and has largely been asleep for them, making her much less experienced in contrast to other dragons who have not made indications of sleeping for centuries. In essence- she's acting younger than her apparent age would suggest, because she's spent a majority of those years asleep!

Another little error comes with Luca and Sarisse, specifically which is the elder. The vast majority of the time, Luca is addressed as the elder. But in Luca's lines...

...Despite Luca's description correctly ID'ing him as the elder in that same base version!

Last but not least, another minor error funnily occurs in Cassandra's story, where Elisanne, despite speaking correctly in the first story, incorrectly labels the castle of Sol Alberia as 'The Halidom':

We never actually got a name for the castle, if it has one. It just is the castle in Sol Alberia, the royal capital. However, it definitely isn't the Halidom, as this scene takes place in the royal castle for Aurelius' marriage, which, again, is made all the funnier by Elisanne recognizing that this was not the Halidom earlier:

Now, I don't know the original text, but these last two might well just be a translation error. That being said, how it was written and published makes them contradicting!

So...yeah! That's been my Dragalia Lore Contradictions post, brought to you by too much memory devoted to this game!

[writernopal]

Some Lines!

I've been tagged over the course of the last month by so many lovely peeps to share some form of Last Line, Heads Up Seven Up, 9 Lines etc, and because my brain is everywhere these days, I decided to combine these and just share some lines with y'all!

Thank you to the following (some more than once!) who've tagged me 🥺💙

@duckingwriting @tabswrites @sarahlizziewrites @acertainmoshke @sam-glade @talesofsorrowandofruin @squarebracket-trick @lassiesandiego @mister-writes @mysticstarlightduck @teamdilf @scifimagpie @autumnalwalker @writingmaidenwarrior

Leaving this as an open tag to anyone who would like to share lines of their own!

cw: mild body horror, blood, asphyxiation

From AASOAF 3:

I dropped to my knees as something bloodcurdling cut through the air; a haunting and piercing cry, followed by the most pleasant and airy laughter. The two sounds battled with one another, but they were not just making noise. They were speaking. A tongue so ancient, but familiar all the same. As if I'd heard it in a dream. Or perhaps another life. I forced myself to listen, but could only make out a single word: traitor. The sound of a maelstrom entered the fray, drowning out both voices and then the lake brightened, emitting great warmth as if the sun itself lurked beneath its surface. From it rose two pale female bodies. They were locked in a tight embrace, both barely clothed and exposing the knuckles of their spines. On the back of their necks, an eye of a bright blue with a golden pupil. They were perfect replicas of one another. Both horrifyingly shrunken and so pale, nearly translucent. A crunch followed. Their heads fell back to look at me and they cried out for help, tears of blood dripping from where their two eyes should be. I backed away fearfully, crushing the delicate lilies around me with the heels of my palms. Their cries rose louder and louder and with them came a pressure pressing down and down on my chest. Stealing air. Stealing warmth. I gasped. The lake churned furiously, and a great fire wrapped their bodies. Screaming gave way to squealing and a high pitched hissing. The sound bounced about the room, finding pockets where it resonated and thundered. My hands were uncooperative, numb and stupid, as I tried to shield my ears. And now it burned deep inside me. My head lolled back, facing what would be the sky. Horror-incarnate knelt so I could see her form--the familiar visages of the gods, shadowed and desperate. And as my vision faded and my body lightened, a single phrase prevailed. Save us.

AASOAF 3 Taglist: @outpost51 @thelivingdeceased @faelanvance @captain-kraken @illjustpretend @elshells @writeblr-of-my-own @the-mindless @zestymimblo

Join/leave the taglist using this Google Form.

[silhouettefms]

[ … ] ❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed { PHEOBE SPENCER } walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who { SHE/HER } is ? they kind of look like { MIKEY MADISON } and i could be wrong but i think that they might be { TWENTY-FIVE } years old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last { TWENTY-FIVE YEARS }. and i don’t know if anyone has ever told them this before but they kind of remind me of { KATHERINE PIERCE } from { TVD }. if you stick around the town long enough you might catch them in action working at { SALTY SAILOR BAR } as a { BARTENDER }. you see this town isn’t really that big of a place, some folks like to call them the { THE DAMSEL OUT OF DISTRESS } of palmview! they took a liking to the name too after a while, go figure. oh crap, they must have heard me yapping. they’re coming this way. i got to warn you though, rumor has it they can pretty { MANIPULATIVE } at times. i wouldn’t take it too seriously though, from the times i’ve spoken to them they seemed pretty { SELF-ASSURED } to me. we see each other all the time since they live in that { ONE-BEDROOM } apartment beside me over in { SUNNY SHORES }. i better leave you to it. it was nice meeting you!

" WHO IS THAT DIVA ?? "

full name: pheobe rose spencer

age: 25 / twenty-five

gender/pronouns: cisfemale + she/her

sexuality: pansexual

job: bartender in sunset villa

label: the damsel out of distress

counterpart: katherine pierce / tvd

"WHY ARE YOU SUCH A BITCH?"

pheobe rose spencer was born and raised in palmview grove, fl by her parents. greg spencer, a blue collar man, and rose spencer, a job hopper with expensive taste.

being raised by a narcissistic mother who was built on nothing but anger and selfishness and a father who stood idly by made pheobe's early home life quite catatonic.

pheobe, from a very early age, had a sass to her. or in her mothers words, bitchiness. pheobe knew what she wanted and she learned selfishness and bluntness from someone who did it best. mother dearest.

this shaped pheebs into not the kindest person. she was thick skinned and unaffected by what people thought of her but at her core, she was at war with whether people deserved her softness. she was molded into a perfect replica of her mother and though she'd never admit it out loud, she hated it. she'd also chew you out for pointing it out for her.

making friends throughout her school years proved to be a challenge. she ended up making friends that were scared to be on her bad side or manipulated friendships to further gain whatever status pheobe wanted to maintain to feel valued by her peers. it was very rare for her to find deeper relationships.

but pheobe was fine with this. with age, she became very fond of being her own best friend. she liked the fact that she could be her own personal cheerleader and always get what she wanted because she was always looking out for numero uno. herself.

now, she's living over in sunny shores apartments working a bartender position at salty sailor where drunk gawkers tend to like her feistiness. she will tell you your flaws with a smug smile on her face, spill your secrets the moment it benefits her and smoke a cig while she watches the bridges crash and burn. she's nearly lost her job two times because of her mouth. what? like she cares?

to put it simply, pheobe thrives in chaos. and it follows her wherever she goes.

"I'M A WALKING FUCKING AESTHETIC."

pinterest board. visage. playlist.

[aeftrglow]

[evolutionsvoid]

The Academy's efforts with the homunculi show how success can come from failure. Their wish is to be able to create perfect artificial life, one that is on par with humans while being free of the same needs. Smart yet unflinchingly loyal, driven but with no need for food or fluids. With this as the goal, it would seem that they are far from success, yet their experiments in this field have wielded great results. From the tiny first homunculi who serve as couriers and spies, to the refined version that now fills the ranks of their bizarre armies. They are far from perfect, but they certainly get the job done. That is the wonder in their research and attempts, as it can bear some interesting fruits. Sure, there are many tries that end in bubbling globs of congealed fluid, but there are a few that produce fascinating results. For example, while trying to learn how to refine and utilize the homunculus formula, Alchemists have turned to other arms of the Academy, and started injecting their research into these artificial creations. It is an obvious line of thinking, in seeing what other fluids may be added to the formula and what may emerge from this primordial soup.

One of these experiments had the Alchemists turn to the Antiquaries, to see what Eitr would add to this mix. It is no secret that the Antiquaries are obsessed with the dragons and that primeval age, to the point where they seek to create their own. The dracomatons are poor replicas of these ancient reptilian lords, constructs merely wearing their scales and visage. Thus, the Antiquaries seek other avenues to master their wielding of Eitr and its use in creating primordial life. So when the Alchemists started making homunculi, it seemed inevitable that the Antiquaries would one day be brought into collaboration. If the Academy was capable of birthing this artificial life, than perhaps this is what the Antiquaries needed to realize their dream. Sure, the Alchemists were struggling to even make a human-like homunculus, so creating an entire dragon instead seemed impossible. But the Academy refuses to call anything "impossible" and find value in trying things that are supposedly doomed to fail. Science is not a field of absolute certainties and playing it safe. Sometimes the way forward is attempting what others claim can't be done. Will it explode in your face? Most likely. But that in itself can yield valuable information, and may one day direct you down the right path to making something that doesn't explode in your face.

So with Eitr from the Antiquaries, the Alchemists introduced this bestial fluid to their formula, and through many trials emerged the beings known as the "Dracoculus." Compared to the true dragons, these entities are hardly even a shadow. They stand just taller than a human, and lack any kind of scales. Like the other homunculi, their bodies are fleshy fluid-filled sacs. Their "wings" are nothing more than feathery tendrils that undulate and writhe uselessly. Their "horns" are merely hardened flesh, more akin to cartilage than any real dragon horn. A cyclopean eye is the only real organ they have, similar to the early homunculi. Yet, there are some interesting differences found within them.

One promising development is the presence of hardened bone-like structures inside their flesh. Random malformed plates in the head, and gnarled spines in their gut. At the tip of their snout and hands are sharp spikes, a hollow bony proboscis in which they can suck up fluids. When threatened, these same spurs are capable of firing a fine stream of liquid Eitr, which bursts into Primal Flame once it comes in contact with foes or its surroundings. Natural weaponry and precursors to an internal skeleton is quite promising, and the Alchemists celebrate this advancement. For the Antiquaries, though, those details don't matter. What they immediately honed in on was what grew within the Dracoculus' gut.

It is a structure that comes with the birth of any Dracoculus, a hardened shell within its belly. There is no way to deny that this strange growth is an egg. A teal shell floating within primordial fluid, with something churning inside. When this was first seen, the Antiquaries lost their minds. Though the Dracoculus is far from a true dragon, perhaps its progeny would be closer. This could be their chance to birth a whole new race of dragon. So the Academy was quick to safeguard these original specimens, and ensure they received everything they needed to fully form their eggs. But weeks went by since their birth, and no changes were found. The egg did not grow, its insides didn't form and the fleshy fake drake appeared completely oblivious to what lay inside it. Eventually, the Antiquaries grew frustrated and decided a sacrifice in the name of science was needed. One of the specimens was euthanized and the body sliced open to get at that egg. They pulled it free and ran countless tests upon it, before finally cracking into it. What spilled out was congealed lumps of Eitr, with hardly anything remotely looking like an embryo. There was no dragon spawn to be found, which was upsetting to the Antiquaries. But when they tested these clumps of primal fluid, they discovered that it was of a finer purity than the Eitr they used to make it. In an instant, the Dracoculus went from a disappointment, to a promising tool.

It would seem that the Dracoculus is capable of consuming a variety of fluids, and then filtering it within its body to feed their egg. By doing so, it seems to nourish the Eitr inside and refine it in mysterious way. Cracking open this egg results in a soup of special refined Eitr, which the Antiquaries are thrilled to test with. While it does take more Eitr to make a Dracoculus than what you get from the egg, there is no denying that this process is a new form of filtration for crude Eitr samples. Thus, the Antiquaries continue to make and keep around the Dracoculus, as living filtration systems and incubators, dissecting them when their time of use is at an end. While they are not suited for being servants or assistants like the other homunculi, their size and Eitr spit does make them simple bodyguards if needed. Most Dracoculus remain in Academy labs, as their bodies are not suited for long distance travel. Antiquaries are better off using Dracomaton for journeys and personal defense. But some have been carted to areas where Eitr is pooled, as they can use their bodies as storage vessels for the toxic and volatile fluid. The false dragon will bathe in the blood of a fallen true one, and spirit away this life force to the labs. Their warm fleshy bodies are also used to incubate samples or specimens, carefully injected into their inner fluids to be kept safe. With their special refined Eitr and bodies perfect for incubating eggs both natural and artificial, some have wondered if these Dracoculus have wound up being the "parents" to the Primal Beasts found ravaging the land. After all, when Antiquaries discover new strains of Eitr, one of their go-to test methods is inject it into something and see what happens.

While some use has been found in the Dracoculus, efforts to refine the process have not stopped. It is honestly believed that proper research and materials could one day yield an egg that is not sterile. Perhaps there is a special combination that could create a viable embryo within, and the Dracoculus may give birth to a new kind of dragon. That day is far away, but the Academy is a place of patience. And the promise of obedient dragons is definitely a concept too tempting to abandon...

[yuu-says]

Happy

hi! owo i commit post and run good bye! ahahahha!

truthfully, this fic has been in my phone since before i even switched to a new one (so uhhh three years ago i think?). I only found it recently while cleaning up and rewrote it a little bit owo so enjoy my past obsession!

Pairing : Asra/Reader || Fandom : The Arcana

Word count : 675

Warning : Very!! Spoiler!! Heavy!! For Asra's Route!!!

Summary : Asra ponders about the past, the present and everything that is transpiring in his heart.

You were always a light sleeper.

At least, you used to be.

He didn’t know what was harder for him- losing you? Or having you here, when nothing could ever be the same as it was before?

You’d lost yourself when you went into the fire.

When he did what he did to make sure you came back. 

He dragged you out of the fire and back into the living world.

Only Asra didn’t realize that the one coming back wouldn’t be the whole…. you.

Of course it wouldn’t have been. He was naive to think otherwise- the whole you died in the fire, afterall.

The you who was with him - even with the same face, the same voice, the same appearance - the you who was with him just simply… wasn’t… you. Physically and outwardly, it might have been. A perfect replica even. But personality-wise? And on the inside? You were… different.

Different from what you used to be.

The puzzle pieces weren’t quiet there.

He could see so much of the you from before the fire, in the you that lay beside him every night but it wasn’t the same. Try as he might, it just wasn’t the same.

Sometimes he’d lay awake at night - his mind far too jumbled to allow his headspace to clear. The thoughts and theories in his head struggling to find a home for themselves - constantly buzzing and moving and regurgitating in and of itself. 

It wouldn’t allow sleep to claim him. 

And so on those nights, Asra would simply lay beside you - wanting nothing more than to reach out and tuck the stubborn lock of hair behind your ears, to wrap his arms around you as he sought refuge in your warmth, to whisper words of affection into your ear that would ultimately lead to your waking -

But he never does that.

Instead, the man simply lay there, observing the sleeping you who was oh so familiar and yet so different from the person who existed in his memories.

He missed you sometimes. Not you who was in front of him, but the you from the past.

The you who would startle awake when he was forcefully dragged from his slumber- nightmares nipping at his reality and causing him to be thrown into panice.

He missed the you who would wrap your arms around him, whispering soothing words into his ears until his breathing evened and his heart rate calmed.

He missed the you who would pamper him, pushing him back under the covers as you busied yourself to take over his task for the day. Sweet smiles and heavenly laughter falling from your lips as you handed him a cup of warm tea. Murmurs of affection, a press of the lips and the drifting scent of your shampoo as you headed to open up shop.

It was unfair.

Truly, wholly and wholeheartedly unfair.

Not only of the world for taking you away from him - but of him to you; for his constant comparison of who you were in the past and who you are in the present.

You were still you, after all. Regardless of how you looked or how you acted, everything was still tied to you. After all the pain and trouble the both of you had went through, you were here and he should be happy.

He should be happy.

Asra reached a hand out, brushing your bangs away from your face as he stared at your sleeping visage. He didn’t know how long he was staring for - the prick in his eyes and the ache in his heart both not being an indicator of time. His eyelids - heavy with sleep and mired with fatigue- however, was.

As he slowly closed his eyes - as he slowly let his arms fall - his last thoughts echoed once more in his brain.

He should be happy.

Shouldn’t he…?

[goldaegontargaryen]

Aegon had been worried about the gloominess of Dragonstone.  The few times he’d visited as a child, it had always seemed like a cold and foreboding place.  The stone walls held little warmth and while Aegon adored dragons, the ones carved into the walls were almost intimidating in their snarling and cruel looking visages.  One of the advantages of moving to Dragonstone was how close he and Helaena were to the children.  Aegon had disliked the fact that their separated rooms in King’s Landing had made him unable to hear if one of his children called out for him during the night.  Now though, they were only a short walk through the living area which comforted him greatly.

To his surprise, once he and Helaena had began decorating their chambers, he started to feel a sense of homecoming.  While Helaena set up her glass cases that displayed her bugs, Aegon set up the random decorations he’d gathered over the years and deeply treasured.  There was a small painted replica of Sunfyre, a portrait of him and Helaena created a few days after their wedding, and the various crafts his children had made for him over the years.  Aegon didn’t know much about how to decorate cohesively, but with Helaena’s direction the room had started to come together.  

Aegon’s favorite feature of their new room was the huge balcony that overlooked the water below.  It let in a large amount of sunlight when Dragonstone’s weather was clear and it instantly brightened up the room, reflecting off their various gold decorations making the space almost seem to glow.  The best part though, and what Aegon imagined it had been made for, was that it allowed Aegon to watch the dragons fly past and interact with each other.  Outside, Aegon could see Sunfyre skimming his back feet along the water before flying up into the air again, clearly enjoying the water on a warm summer’s day.  

He was pulled from his thoughts by Helaena’s question and he nodded, stepping over to help her pull down the curtains.  They’d added quite a few of them around the room to mask the stone walls, but he could agree that some of them looked a bit plain.  They hadn’t had a solid plan when they started decorating the room, instead throwing up whatever bits of fabric they had.  Aegon examined the light fabric in his hands before turning to Helaena with a bright smile.  “Whatever you choose to decorate them with will be perfect.”  Aegon had yet to meet anyone more talented at creating stunning embroidery projects than Helaena.  

As expected, he was right.  A couple of days later, Aegon assisted Helaena with rehanging the curtains, this time bearing silver patterned suns and stars.  He took a step back to look at the finished room, their combined belongings and the sun and moon decor that represented both them and their dragons.  Aegon had been uncertain about the move and he was still anxious he didn’t have the skill it would take to govern Dragonstone, but he was starting to see how this place could begin to feel like home.  

Moving In

Character challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Challenge: Write a post about your characters apartments/living chambers/bedroom.

(Collaboration with @goldaegontargaryen)

💛🌙 💛

——————————————————————

It had only been a few days since Princess Helaena and Prince Aegon arrived on Dragonstone, so the two were still in the process of shaping it up to be their perfect new home. At the current moment, they were focused on their shared chambers, redecorating it to their liking. Their liking included lots of gold, sun and moon patterns, and dragon themed things around the room.

Helaena walked all around the room, studying everything, searching for things she thought might need changing. She felt strange in their new chambers, as it was so different from their old room. The walls were stone, as all the walls were on Dragonstone. She had already taken the time to place some of her own decorations on the walls, which were thin cases of dead bugs that she had collected over the years. A strange thing to display, others had commented, but she knew Aegon did not care, so she kept them up.

She’d already paced around their living area, a luxury to their room they had not had back in Kings Landing. The largeness of their new chambers was almost intimidating to Helaena, as she was so unused to having so much space, she did not know what to do with it.

She knew it was better for the children now, as their bedrooms had doors that led directly to her own. They were free to come and go as they pleased, and they were happy about that. They could spend lots of time in the living area, Helaena thought, and it would be fine. She would eventually warm to everything, is what she kept telling herself. Though, she did truly believe herself, and was optimistic about their new home.

Her examining around the room eventually took her over to their new bed, which seemed bigger than their last bed, at least to her. It was gold, with a gold bed frame, gold pillows, and even gold curtains. She ran her hands across the curtains, pulling on them. They were… gold, which was clear for anyone to see. But they felt as though they were missing something. Helaena looked behind her shoulder, scanning the room for her husband. When her eyes found him, she held the curtains tight.

“Husband, I think I want to make patterns on these, if that is okay with you. Would you please help me get them down?”

[missblackstar]

inuokko week, day two

it's actually 25th here, so it's inuokko week, day three, sorry, i had a rough day yesterday, taking my first hit of vaccine for covid-19, and i felt like my head was being split open ;-; i couldn't really concentrate and write anything. so here, have a delayed ficlet for day two and in few hours, late evening probably, i will post sth for actual day three, hehe.

i was supposed to stick to tier 1, but i love soulmate au, so i couldn't resist lol. hope you'll like it. it's mainly hurt/comfort, i would say...

warnings: mentions of blood, injuries and child abuse, beware!

*

inuokko week 2021 | tier 2, day 2 | soulmate au

"to think we would bruise so easily"

and I think about it all the time,

lights went out, you were fine,

you kinda struggle not to shine,

he's four and there's a small cut on his right wrist, he could swear wasn't here before.

it's barely visible and his mother just shrugs, says it won't even scar, probably.

she's right. but the cut doesn't hurt.

he's seven and in the span of last three years, there were a lot of fingers-shaped bruises, suddenly appearing on his wrists, or ribs. as if out of nowhere.

slashes on his forearms, near his neck, blood dripping on the new carpet; those ones scarring more easily.

he's eight and he already knows what it means.

he knows what it mean to get an angry red mark and don't feel anything.

(no pain, or the shock of it, nothing.)

but still be able to press on it; see the skin there reddening, in the middle of the night, tissue raw and blotchy.

a soulmate. he has a soulmate. someone made only for him. with whom he will share everything. as he is sharing now.

all those marks and bruises.

a constellation of purples and yellows. of faded scars and untold stories.

(he just wished he could share the pain too.)

he's nine and his mother screams, dropping the plate she's holding, look of absolute horror and incredulity on her face.

he looks in the mirror.

his brows furrowing, this is a new one. an entirely new shape, new texture to the skin, placed right under his left eye; it's something he didn't see before, something he's not accustomed to.

(later he learns it's what cigarette burn would look like.)

(his heart breaking and bleeding and burning, all the same.)

(it's kind of funny.)

(as his soulmate would never know that.)

(it's not a thing you can see, after all.)

he's ten; a whole month have passed, with no blemish coming into view.

that makes him wonder.

if his soulmate is already cold and dead, buried somewhere, and he didn't even stood a chance to meet them and save them, or if they're finally safe.

(he wish for the latter.)

he's eleven when he gets a scar of his own.

the gash on his left knee bloody and itchy. bordering on painful. as he tripped on his way home, running after his friends, laughter bubbling inside his chest.

now it's tears gathering at his eyelashes, even if he thinks of himself as old enough, to not let them spill.

(maybe those are tears of joy really.)

(as he thinks, it's finally the time.)

(for his soulmate to have something of his imprinted on their body.)

(if they're even still out there.)

he's fifteen and amethyst eyes are boring right into his. the light in them stunning, taking his breath away.

one of his friends knocks their sholuder against his, snapping him out of trance.

(he still can't remove that one thought from his mind, though.)

(this is the most beautiful color i've ever seen.)

he's still fifteen when he sees the boy again. it's quick, in passing.

so he doesn't have time to yell, to stop him, grab his attention and asks.

even if he needs to ask, because he has time to see, and he saw plenty enough.

(he would never forgot those scars.)

"i've heard inumaki's mostly mute"

"really?"

"yeah, that has something to do with his biological mother"

"meaning?"

"she was abusing him. abusing him badly. they finally did something about him, when he was nine. they found him a new family, stripped her off custody. he moved here last year. i've seen him using sign language though"

he stands there, unmoving. listening.

soon, there's a sob threatening to leave his mouth, throat contracting. he looks at the inside of his right wrist and reminiscences.

a cut there, when inumaki was only three.

(he dosen't think about all the bruises and marks.)

(appearing only to fade.)

(before he can even remember them.)

(he doesn't want to.)

he's sixteen and he finally meets his soulmate.

(more like get his courage to finally approach the boy, looking so soft and sweet, with an oversized sweater and strands of (almost)white hair falling into purple eyes, from where the boy's perched on the bench, book in hand.)

(the sun setting around them. orange, red.)

there's an undescribed amount of emotions he feels; joy and love and strange sadness, the pity and gratitude.

relief. (that his soulmate is alive and here.)

his fingers are itching for him to touch. to map all the scars he can see, all the imperfections attached to fair skin.

(inumaki's really a sight to behold.)

(the boy's skin a perfect replica of his own. of what they will always share.)

but for now, he settles for a smile. genuine, albeit shy.

"hi, i'm yuuta"

'i'm toge', his companion signs, the book suddenly forgotten; it doesn't escape his eyes, when the other boy takes his full visage in, amethyst eyes brimming with disbelief. and something else shining there.

(is it relief also or happiness, or something in between?)

(the feeling you gain when it all seems to click, just like that.)

(like you just found what you needed the most.)

(that you've been forever searching for.)

his smile widens, warmth spreading inside, heart fluttering. he takes a shuddering breath, in and out, brings his hand up and signs back.

'it's really nice to meet you'

i still love you, though,

i still love you, though,

i still love you always, |x|

*

it's much longer than the last one, huh. the ending is quite open, so you can see what happen next as you wish, but in my mind they will only grown from there, fiding their place, right next to each other.

in this story, every person have their soulmate, and everything that appears on your soulmate's skin will appear on yours, and viceversa. i didn't give much thoughts to drawings and tattoos, if it would include them too, but i guess it could, just didn't write any scene impling it. though the things will appear on your skin, at the same time, there are "inflicted" on your soulmate's, there is no pain, or any other feeling of discomfort to it.

i'm sorry that i made toge suffer, that just seemed to do well with the idea and overall story. toge, i love you.

my grammar is awful xD

[dvilsdesire-a]

The true form of Haarlep was not overwhelmingly different from Raphael. Perhaps Mephistopheles had crafted him with all intentions to mimic his son, but unfortunately, not even the Devil himself was able to make the perfect replica. Instead, beneath the red toned skin of Raphael's, Haarlep's skin was a cool shade of blue, long, dark hair and striking eyes. Handsome still, some may have even considered him far more handsome than Raphael, but nobody other than the Devil and his son had seen that form, and even then, once he had shared bodies with Raphael, he had remained Raphael's form at all times in his company. Honestly, Haarlep almost forgot what he truly looked like...

The incubus grinned in response. Oh yes, definitely, especially when someone like him came prancing through the door.

"I couldn't agree more," he chimed. "Look no further if it is beauty you are after, for you have found it here, right before your very stunning eyes." Of course Haarlep was all charm, he was an incubus, but the other man could certainly be his match.

"Haarlep," he greeted, "And what is the name I should put to such a handsome visage?"

Ah, Avernus. Hot, desolate, miserable, filthy, infested, displeasing to the eye, Avernus.

It was dreadfully easy to come and go from the Bronze Citadel. Put on a tiefling face and no one looked twice at you, so he was there often. Zariel would be beside herself if she knew how frequently Graz'zt strode the paths of her citadel, raced an infernal war machine in her wastelands, drank in her taverns, and found pleasurable company in her soldiers. And that was just the fun stuff.

This particular visit was for business rather than pleasure, though. As far as anyone in the citadel knew, he was Luz—a vinter and merchant who heard the call to adventure perhaps a little too often. But Luz had associates, distributors, employees; they only needed to see his face every so often to keep the persona alive, believable. The rest mostly took care of itself. All the better for him to play.

He could have easily returned to the comforts of home after an odious day of dealing with devils, but he wanted to see the fruits of his labor. His wine was working its way through back-alley bars and upward, and the more people drinking, the better for him. Soon, it would be everywhere—or at least everywhere Zariel wasn't looking.

Which was what he was doing in what might have been the most disagreeable bar in all of Avernus. It was small, dark, dirty, and crawling with the lowest forms of devilkind capable of drinking from a cup. It was vile; it was lovely.

"Luz" took his place at the bar and ordered whatever the bartender felt like giving him. A well-dressed mortal was clearly an odd sight there, even a tiefling, but no one bothered him.

At least no one bothered him until an incubus strode through the door. Graz'zt knew he was there before ever looking up from the bottom of his cup, which he only did when the figure was suddenly occupying the space next to him. Of course.

When he looked up, his vision blurred and shifted with the familiar lens of Truesight showing him the reality beneath the illusory form. Interesting, but not necessarily unusual. He might have felt bad for wasting the poor thing's time on the hunt for presumably a meal, but instead he smiled and tipped his head in greeting.

"I've found the foulest places sometimes hide rare beauty. Don't you agree?" The unspoken question behind the guileless smile: Is that not why you're here?

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“Only the old were left. And they began to die off. Those who did not die left the village by other means. In the end there was only one widow left, a dressmaker, and she began to sew the visages of those who had vanished. She hand-stitched the bodies and the clothes; she perfected the faces. Each and every doll was a precise replica of someone who once lived there.” - Esi Edugyan, Washington Black

[quotespile]

Only the old were left. And they began to die off. Those who did not die left the village by other means. In the end there was only one widow left, a dressmaker, and she began to sew the visages of those who had vanished. She hand-stitched the bodies and the clothes; she perfected the faces. Each and every doll was a precise replica of someone who once lived there.

Esi Edugyan, Washington Black

[atropaanimus]

Empty space one second, filled the next, all it takes is Milo glancing away for but a briefest moment and looking back to see the present that may as well have appeared out of thin air next to them. As if there was any doubt as to who it was from, with the wrapping paper shifting in color from purple to magenta, velvet ribbon wrapped around it, and a tag very simply addressed to Milo.

Inside, there's a check for a few million, a very typical gift from Miranda. And, as usual, it's not the main event, as what sits underneath is the true present.

A necklace. Made almost like a piece of armor, little interlocking pieces to cover the bottom of the neck and crest the top of the chest. Except it wasn't made out of metal. The entire thing was carved out of smooth, pale bone, created by a delicate hand and a fine eye for details. All across it, there are the winding images of vast coral gardens, stretched out in a shallow sea under a starry sky, covered in constellations like dreams. Little gems inserted in to show the points, distant suns that humanity surely had its own constellations for, and yet became something entirely different to mer. Legends and stories, monsters and myths, all unlike any of which the land knew, etched out in fine detail across that bone.

And, sitting center, was a massive pearl, shimmering and iridescent, carved to perfectly mimic the surface of the moon.

It was more curious as to how the gift appeared within a blink. Few ever managed to surprise Milo, let alone with a gift. The packaging left no doubts about who it was. Even so, there was a gentle tug of the velvet ribbon, and as it loosened it would be set aside for later.

The check was often standard. Not that money meant anything to Milo, and of course Miranda, but a gift was a gift and it would not be squandered. Into the back of their phone case it went, and a shining glint made them pause for a split second.

Looking at it made them pause for a few seconds more... languidly reaching out to the necklace, feeling the detailing and intricate design.

Feather-light fingertips felt every intricate detailing, every traced marking, every word and expression in the art. Several hundred stories, or perhaps an epic... the reaper felt excitement, joy, sorrow, anxiety, pride... but it was all comfortable, and made their chest swell as a flame in a comforting hearth would on a cold day.

A single finger rest on the moon within bone. Milo closed their eyes, sitting at that table with a smile. When they opened them again, they were not where they had left. That warm room was suddenly gone. Instead of the walls of a building, were cobblestone barriers. An ancient garden, moss covered, bramble guarded, and smatterings of wayward lights. Milo crossed flora of various types, ones that seemed to harmoniously cooperate with one and other despite nature having deemed it impossible.

At the end of a stone path was a small, flora taken shed. A small window with a warm glow inside was what greeted Milo before they opened the wooden door, a creak welcoming them inside. There was an old work stable, covered in timeless parchments, ink bottles with quills made from beasts long since passed, and plants growing out of intricate vases of all kind.

Milo took the piece of art gifted, and set it around their neck. A sheet of perfectly clean glass gazed upon their visage. On the desk, an empty parchment being stained with the darkest of inks. Once the page was stained enough, it was brought up against Milo’s reflection. Once pulled away, the mirror was left as immaculate as before... but Milo’s reflection bore nothing of Miranda’s gift, despite it being still on their body. Instead there was a perfect replica of the item draw in ink on the parchment.

They hummed a little tune to themselves. A chest somewhere else in the small structure, opened itself as Milo approached with light steps. The image was placed within a collection of several others, all depicting different items of all kinds.

“A keepsake...” Milo whispered, a flattered smile across their face.