#dawn of ouroboros

[metalby]

Dawn of Ouroboros [Bioluminescence]. 2025. Bandcamp, Spotify, Facebook, Amazon, Youtube. Twitter(metalone). SpiritualBeast (IUCP-16373). ----- Dawn of Ouroboros [The Art of Morphology] 2020

[gbhbl]

Album Review: Dawn of Ouroboros - Bioluminescence (Prosthetic Records)

Special? You have no idea, and this ranks up there as one of the best albums of the year, regardless of genres.

Offering up an atmospheric blend of black and death metal, Dawn of Ouroboros, the four-piece from Oakland, California, will release their new album ‘Bioluminescence’ on March 7th, 2025, via Prosthetic Records. Photo Credit: Rob Watkins (Watkins Media) Dawn of Ouroboros are such a great band, having delivered some strong releases already, least of all 2023’s ‘Velvet Incandescence’, which we…

[lookninjas]

And now, some jazz metal from the Red Room.

(note: flashing lights at about 2:20. There's some light flashing and flickering after that, but nothing as bad as that little three-second burst.)

[kenpiercemedia]

Vintersea Announces "Darker Western Skies" Tour

The Press Release: VINTERSEA – whose unique fusion of majestic progressive metal, harsh blackened death and post-metal beauty draws inspiration from the darkened skies of their Pacific Northwest home – has revealed dates for their upcoming “Darker Western Skies” tour, which begins on Friday, September 24th at The X-Bar in Cupertino, CA, and runs through Sunday, October 3rd. All shows will also…

[themetalgodsmeltdownposts]

Dawn of Ouroboros "QnA" where we quiz Chelsea and Tony about their faves...

[feyreshumanheart]

I thought I'd highlight some of the ways Feyre's established as extremely powerful.

I know sjm's powerscaling isn't that clear because she likes to describe many characters with as some variation of especially super powerful or flowery meaningless stuff like shook the mountain with his/her power and every new magical object is also never been wielded before and Feyre spends a lot of the series either without magic or unable to use her magic, but there's several really indicative scenes.

Her power is described with words like "considerable" and a "behemoth", which is the same way sjm describes Amren's power unleashing when she takes out the entirety of Hybern's army:

Feyre also has super strength, the kind that lets her literally bend lead doors beneath her shoulder. It's established that she's "unusually" physically strong for a High Fae, in a way that shows she's manifesting High Lord powers even before she becomes High Lady-

And this makes it "easy" for her to knock Tamlin down and cause Rhys to stagger without meaning to:

When she goes to the Court of Nightmares the first time as High Lady, a few fae decided to test her power:

Feyre easily plays with them and holds their power with her own, a display literally causes people to faint, tremble, and flee:

She effortlessly breaks through the oldest High Lord's shield and is capable of killing him, which causes other High Lords to remark on her power. It's even said that Beron's flame tried to counter the attack but she was able to push it past. And even before, she had shielded against his attack to Azriel:

She glamours the entire Night Court army of thousands, which another High Lord was skeptical of, to basically create an entire army that functioned like their own for Hybern to see.

Her daemati skills are so strong that she can infiltrate a High Lord's mind without him knowing with work that is established as usually take years to master, protect unshielded minds from attacks of strong daemati, and has a range likened to Rhys's-

Her mental attacks (even while poisoned) can cause 1000 year old daemati (and Hybern commanders and royalty) to flinch:

She can even block Rhys out and Rhys says says that only fae who are "very, very strong" can keep him out:

She forces obedience in death gods and whatever Bryaxis is with her power, can contain the Bone Carver in a fae body she made, and glamour them both without any of Prythian or Hybern's armies realizing:

She walks around Velaris with a damper on her power to blend in:

With her High Lord-specific powers, she can conjure walls of flame, drown and freeze over dozens of Hybern solders at once, and cleave master spellmaker King of Hybern's wards to the point that he's shocked and where he's extra enforcing them.

Despite the faebane being established as still holding the majority of her power, Feyre has enough power contain Eris and his brothers in a net of flame he was working to counteract while also sending power into blows with Lucien to cause a cave in:

She also exploded an entire clearing in flame causing everything to be incinerated and extinguish the flames thoroughly, a display that makes Rhys's eyes widen and swear, as part of her training-

Feyre can also winnow, something described as an ability "only the most powerful" or those "remarkable in magic" can do. It's established that the stronger you are, the farther you can winnow and that bringing others with you is a drain. But it's also dependent on not just strength but training:

Despite not having trained for winnowing that long (so she hasn't reached her potential), Feyre has shown to be able to winnow other people and across Prythian courts.

In acowar, when she retrieves the Ouroboros and Bone Carver, she winnows alone to the Court of Nightmares from the camp in Summer Court (across Winter, the Middle, Dawn, and Day Courts), seemingly in one leap, and then to the Prison (across the Night Court since the Court of Nightmares is the towards the south east border with Day and the island is off the northwest coast of the Night Court), and then back to Summer; in acosf, Cassian mentions Feyre as an option to winnow Nesta and him across the Night Court (from the House of Wind to Windhaven):

Amren says things like Feyre alone doubles your strength" o Rhys, the Suriel says that Feyre is a match to Rhys being "the most powerful High Lord to ever walk the earth" and is unlike anything, the King of Hybern is shocked at how Feyre can break his spells and calls her remarkable and so much more.

But I wanted a quick hit on some of the ways the books establish how unusually powerful Feyre is.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Dictionary of Esoteric Terminology

for your next poem/story (pt. 3)

Esoteric—designed for or understood by the specially initiated alone; may refer to the occult

Athame - a ritual dagger used in Witchcraft and Neo-paganism; has a black handle which is inscribed with symbols

Brahmarandhra - the "Gate of Purity"; a spot at the top of the head described as a hidden aperture; according to some, this spot is the exit for the enlightened soul upon the death of the body

Cromlech - a circle made of vertical stones, associated with Celtic worship of the Sun

Dark night of the soul - a phrase used by St. John of the Cross to describe the depression, isolation, and alienation which afflicts some mystics just prior to the realization of transcendence; hence the saying, "It is always darkest before the dawn"

Dracontia - many temples and sacred sites have been associated with dragons, probably because of their connection with primeval earth forces

Dweller on the threshold - a hostile spirit or being peculiar to each individual, comprised of the accumulated "bad karma" of that individual; such a being could be thought of as the personification of all that holds the seeker back from enlightenment; in this sense, it is like a negative Holy Guardian Angel

Ecstasy - "to cause to stand out"; a state beyond or outside reason and rationality; speaking in tongues may be thought of as an ecstatic trance

Flying ointments - lotion or cremes used to facilitate astral or etheric projection. These mixtures usually contain potent psychedelic agents such as belladonna, henbane, and mandrake

Genii - in Islamic tradition, they are an intermediate race of spirits between angels and people, who ruled the earth before Adam; also known as djinn, genn, or ginn

Hsuan te - virtue through emptiness; the cultivation of one's original nature

I shin den shin - "from my soul to your soul"; direct transmission without words

Khu - literally "clear" or "luminous"; the ancient Egyptian word for the immortal part of the soul; the causal body; symbolized by a plume of flame

Left-hand path - defined by some as the path of black magic; others, as the paths which stress doing and action over being and stillness; most magic systems tend towards the left hand path; most religions tend towards the right-hand path

Lustration - from Latin lustratus, "to brighten"; a ritual purification using water; rituals involving baptism or holy water are examples

Menstruum - an alchemical term for that from which all metals are derived; also mercury wherein gold is dissolved; "Our Water is a fire and a salt. This fire is the true Universal Menstruum of Vegetables, stronger than the fire of wood, since it transmutes the physical gold into a spirit."

Nagas - serpent spirits in Hindu mythology who lived in vast and beautiful temples and palaces beneath the earth

Ouroboros - the snake devouring its own tail; a Gnostic and alchemical symbol of cyclical nature, eternity, or the transcendence of duality; sometimes also used to symbolize the world of illusion

Phoenix - a mythical bird of incredible beauty; is the only one of its kind, living in the deepest desert, until at the end of its 500-year span it dies and is consumed in the funeral pyre of its own nest, then it rises from the ashes in the freshness of youth; generally considered to be a symbol of resurrection, immortality, and spiritual transformation

Prasad - the practice of offering sweets, fruit, or other food to a saint or deity

Pretas - the "hungry ghosts" of Buddhist and Hindu mythology; the ghosts of those who died burdened with great desire and are generally considered to be malevolent; supposedly they are continuously thirsty and hungry, but are unable to eat or drink; described as having huge distended bellies and pencil thin necks

Ruach - breath, wind, or spirit; represents the part of the soul which is the rational mind and the powers of reason; also refers to God's ineffable soul which He breathed into man at creation, thus making man in His image

Secret fire - an alchemical term for the hidden or elemental Fire

Simulacrum - an image used in sympathetic (imitative) magic that is considered to be the magical double of the thing represented; a "voodoo doll" would be an example of a crude simulacrum; in ancient Egypt, simulacra of slaves, animals, and other possibly helpful beings were entombed with their deceased owner; also used by some to describe the visualized vehicle or "body of light" used in astral projection

Speculum - any light refracting or shiny surface which can provide a focus for the attention; mirrors, bowls of water, and crystal balls have all been commonly used as speculi

Theurgy - from the Greek words theos, "god," and ergon, "work"; magic used to grow closer to God or become more godlike, to make changes for personal evolution and spiritual growth; the sacrament of the host could be considered a form of theurgy

Source ⚜ More: Word Lists

[asmocunt]

i thought about this on my way home from work, and as someone who is goth that came from the punk / heavy metal scene, i feel like i Have to do this.

so i have some opinions on what the kings would be if they were goth/punk/metalhead, etc. some of the bands i recommend are not explicitly the genre/sub genre of music i assigned them, and idrgaf about strict genre rules so.

satan: for sure is punk. i can’t see him as anything else. i think he’d really like dead kennedys, dog park dissidents, green day, propaghandi, 7 year bitch, cheap perfume, dream nails and twisted sister.

asmodeus: goth, tentatively. i see asmodeus listening to diva destruction, lebanon hanover, sanguis et cinis, soft cell, switchblade symphony, depeche mode, and tearful moon. there’s others but the list would be very long.

lucifer: i feel like he’s on the other spectrum of goth. whereas asmodeus has a lot of bands that could also be considered new wave and whatnot, i think he’s more of a classic deathrocker goth. he would like die laughing, christian death, specimen, clan of xymox, the cemetary girlz, bauhaus, HIM, and the cure.

beelzebub: i feel like he can go any way. i can see him as punk like satan, but i can also see him as a deathrocker like lucifer, or a nu metalhead. i think he’d get down to killing joke, london after midnight, green day, fall out boy, paralysed age, pink turns blue, plastique noir, scary bitches, against me!, bikini kill, nirvana, linkin park, anything like that. i think he’s a genre hopper. doesn’t care what’s playing, will get down to anything. shake ass crazy style.

leviathan: him and satan are the ones i’m most sure about. leviathan is a bonafide emo, who loves my chemical romance. maybe a little nu metal and heavy metal thrown in there. a little death metal on the side. acid bath, avenged sevenfold, dawn of ouroboros, ghost, flyleaf, evanescence, pierce the veil, black veil brides, the used, specifically 2003-2008 fall out boy, are bands he’d fuck with like crazy.

mammon: mammon was the hardest for me to place. i have no fucking clue. i think he’d like downplay, HIM, kate bush, echo and the bunnymen, soft cell, and ghost. probably sleep token too. the cranberries, maybe? he is an enigma. maybe he’s all encompassing like beelzebub. a little bit of everything.

belphegor: i think he could be a classic goth. major buck-tick fan here. i think he’d also be a babymetalhead. i think he’d also like sisters of mercy, the cramps, this cold night, traitrs, xmal deutschland, sexbeat, and ghost twin.

so obviously i am so imposed to assigning goth immediately, because i am a deathrocker. truly, i think any of the kings could be anything. what do y’all think? i’m pretty solid on satan being punk and leviathan being emo / metalhead.

[dodger-chan]

On this, a totally normal day, please enjoy this short scene featuring demon Steve Harrington:

“They’re con artists,” Steve asserted, rolling his eyes. “They’re nothing I need to worry about.”

It wasn’t that Eddie thought Steve was wrong. He’d read a book about their involvement in that possession and murder case in Connecticut five years back. It had certainly read more like fiction to him.

It was just that demons tended towards overconfidence. Or at least Steve did. Maybe that was more of a jock thing than a demon thing.

“You’re bound to the mortal plain by a two-bit ring from a Crackerjack box,” Robin snarked. “Forgive me if I’m a little concerned.”

There was that, too.

“I’ll have you know that ring cost me fifty cents. It’s solid nickel,” Eddie joked. But he kind of agreed with Robin. The ring was a flimsy object, and entirely incongruous with Steve’s preppy look. Even if the couple weren’t practiced demon killers, the ring would be an obvious target.

“So that’s why my finger keeps turning green,” Steve mused. “Look, I can’t let this stand, but one of you can wear the ring until they’re gone, okay?”

-------

Which was how Edde found himself twisting his old ouroboros ring around his finger, sitting in a diner booth across from Robin. Stealthily watching the demon hunters eat their lunch. Waiting for Steve to arrive. The wait wasn’t long, but it was tense.

Steve ignored them when he walked in, only paying attention to the couple seated behind them. Robin leaned forward and stole some of Eddie’s french fries.

“I think we’re in trouble,” she whispered. She was only half joking. They weren’t supposed to be there; Steve didn’t want either of them associated with a demon. But Robin was not about to let Steve face even fake demon hunters completely alone. And - coward or not - neither was Eddie.

He shushed her, keeping an eye on Steve as he sat down at the hunters’ table.

“I read the contract you signed with Susan Mayfield. Book rights to her daughter's story for a flat fee? Seriously? My deals are more fair.” Steve was facing away from them, so Eddie had to imagine the smug expression on his face. The older couple looked confused.

“Your deals?” The man asked, like maybe he hadn’t put it together yet.

“I’m sitting here right in front of you and you still have no idea.” Steve shook his head. “And you call yourself demon hunters. I knew you were just con artists.”

Understanding dawn on the woman first.

“You’re the demon,” she said, fear in her voice. “The one who killed those kids.”

“I am a demon. But no, I haven’t killed any kids in Hawkins,” Steve corrected. “Those three dead kids, the Mayfield girl’s injuries, that really was a human. People can be evil all on their own, you know.”

“Why should we believe you?” the man asked. He didn’t appear as afraid as his wife, but Eddie was an expert on posturing. The guy was about thirty seconds away from shitting his pants.

“Believe, don’t believe. I don’t give a fuck. I’m not here to keep you from writing your little book and ripping off the American public with your absolutely true demon stories.” Eddie would bet good money Steve was rolling his eyes. “I’m here about this.”

Robin nearly turned around to see what Steve was holding even though she knew what it would be. Eddie kicked her ankle and she turned back.

“You see,” Steve went on, “I made a deal with the Mayfield girl’s brother. It means I owe her a certain amount of protection. So this contract you sweet-talked her mom into signing? We’re going to rework the terms. I’m thinking percent off the gross?”

-----------

Notes:

"that possession and murder case" refers to the Arne Johnson murder trial, where the defense tried to argue the killer had been possessed by a demon. The book was titled The Devil in Connecticut and published in 1983. It's also the inspiration for one of the Conjuring films.

Allegedly (and I'm not doing enough research to confirm it because this six hundred word story has enough notes already) the Warrens paid people flat fees for the rights to their stories and then made bank themselves off of books and films about the 'hauntings' and 'possessions.' Frankly, everything I've read about them makes them sound like unscrupulous con artists.

"two-bit ring from a cracker jack box" is a reference to a Firesign Theatre sketch (The Further Adventures of Nick Danger) released in 1969; Robin knows it from her parents.

Two-bit means cheap in general, but also two-bits refers to a quarter, so when Eddie says he paid fifty cents for the ring he's saying it cost twice as much as Robin implied (still pretty cheap)

I doubt Eddie knows for sure what alloy any of his rings are made of, but cheap jewelry often contains nickel, and nickel can turn your skin green.

"percent off the gross" is revenue percentage rather than a percentage of the profit, so Max can't be cheated out of money via creative accounting.

[doledition]

OUROBOROS

A necklace, a girl, and the feeling of vengeance beneath your rotted flesh- this is all you are, now.

( a IWx PC fic i did way back when for @dolmimi for the dolgl halloween event! be warned this version of Ivory Wraith is not meant to be canon compliant-I take artistic liberties in regards to the canon of the game, so do no expect this fic to be extremely in line with canon. TW for descriptions of decaying flesh, depictions of assault, unreality, etc)

kɨnthaβ̃

There was a woman smoking by the beach. She’d been there for fifteen minutes so far, pacing up and down the strip of corpse gray sand, heeled boots squishing with each step. Every few minutes, she’d stop, face the water, and take a long, slow drag of her cigarette. Deep breath in, and she’d hold the smoke for a bit, as though tasting it. Deep breath out a moment later, and the gray vapor would swirl in the cold fog, twirl and twist into the mush colored sky before fading into condensation. 

She’d gone through five cigarettes so far like this, simply by pacing the length of the beach. It was a cold day, deep in the heart of winter. The sun’s rays had disappeared, replaced by clouds that rumbled and roiled far above. Heading into December, it usually snowed, a downpour of white covering the town proper. It usually turned into a wet slurry by the end of the day, trampled over by hundreds of boots covered in slick and grime, sludge and piss. No fret though; by the next day, a new fleet of fresh snow had replaced the old, pristine and untouched, glimmering in the dawn. 

The beach was one of the only parts of town spared the constant barrage of snow. This was around the time when the fog would roll in from the ocean, thick and heavy, bringing with it the scent of brine and salt. It covered the beach like a thick coat-it felt sluggish to move through in human skin, sticking to flesh with greedy fingers. The air prick, prick, pricked at one’s skin with clumsy, cruel fingers, eager to undo the weak bindings of flesh. You couldn’t see past your own two feet in the fog, so thick was it. It was a perfect cover for all things unseemly, ghastly, with bodies hard and cruel. 

No one in town thought of the beach during the winter as a pleasant experience. Of course, there were still parties held there, deep into the freezing night. The occasional dog walker would pass through, dogpeople lapping at their nervous heels, one second away from breaking free of their leashes. The beach wasn’t deserted during the winter (no area in the town was ever truly deserted) but it certainly wasn’t frequented. 

The woman, though, had been coming to this one spot on the beach for a week at this point. It was fairly easy to trace her path: first, she’d emerge from the thicket behind the orphanage, the ruined one with dead trees and burned grass from bonfires. Sometimes, her pockets would be laced with arrowheads, foraged berries, roots- she’d look positively medieval, an ardent of a nomadic lifestyle long since lost to Britons. Other times, her fingers would be laced red with blood, and her maw would be wild, white splattered about and a bit of something dried and ugly laced around her neck, glimmering in the sun. 

From there, it was one of two options: on the weekdays, she’d walk down a particular formation of alleyways and crosswalks until she came across Connudatus Street. The day market would be forming starting from eight that morning, and she’d always choose the stall at the very back of the formation, facing the intersection between High Street and the Temple. It would always be stocked with fresh produce by the time she got there, farmed from her own hands. Daisies, roses, cabbages and onions, all separated into neat little rows and set out underneath the peppermint striped canopy. Sometimes, she’d bring bottles of baby milk with her, and the bottles would clatter together in the roiling winter wind. 

On the weekends, she’d instead walk to the bus station down the road from the orphanage. It had a rust colored awning and glass that held imprints from watery angels, cold to the couch. She’d lean on them, face pressed and turned into the pane, hand shoved tight into her pocket. The bus would rumble in five minutes later and she’d be the first to hop on. 

Twenty minutes later, it would stop at Oxford Street, and the woman would get off. Her body would be tiny, curled in as she walked past the ornate iron fence walling off the school and into the adjacent museum. As she walked, her left foot would meet the pavement first, then the right, and then the left, until she’d climbed inside and had slammed the doors behind her shut. 

The innards of the museum were scarce, and had been scarce for years now. You didn’t go to the museum to see the three arrowheads locked behind glass cases, or the cabinets that sat undisturbed and filled with dust. You went there for the exhibitions: for the waterboarding, the Spanish Horse, to see a woman writhe and scream, to see a sinner punished for her misdeeds, to see a thief get her due diligence.

Each day at 1pm, she’d take a lunch break. The town was a small town: it didn’t take more than 30 minutes to get from one end to the other. The walk from Connudatus to the beach was 10 minutes, and the walk from Oxford was similarly short. She’d go along a side alleyway, stopping at Sam’s Cafe first to get some sort of lunch before continuing her walk to the beach. It was almost always a fruit salad, except for when she had cash to spare. Then, she’d get a stack of pancakes, laden with pats of butter and syrup. She had a particular spot she liked to sit in: the dark corner near the employee loo, covered in shadows and as far from the shop window as possible. Her eating was quick, sparse. She ate not to enjoy it, but to feed her animal body as fast as she could, before she could poison her lungs with smoke. 

Then, it was to the beach. She always smoked the same brand of cigarettes: Lucky Strike Red, and once she’d finished a pack, she’d fiddle with the packaging before launching it into the ocean. The white box would hit the water with a wet smack and would float upon the waves before sinking, and the woman would watch. Her eyes would be dazed and uncaring, fingers fiddling with the dying cigarette clutched in her hand, before sighing and walking away. That box would turn into mush and melt into the water, to be later swallowed by some poor creature and then regurgitated up. 

Be it to thieves to not care about such small, superfluous details.

From there, she’d make her way back to work. She didn’t take the bus back in either scenario- instead, she simply walked back, eyes trained on the ground. She’d stay at the market, or the museum, until six. Then, it was to the orphanage, room 4B on the ground floor near the back door which rattled in the wind despite being bolted shut, and with windows that lay cracked in their frames. 

The woman would rob others on the way back. It was an indisputable fact of her miserable existence- her fingers would pass over opened pockets, filching at bare wallets and stealing pennies from paupers. When night struck, she’d slip out of the poorhouse and into the houses of Domus, fingers scrabbling against loose change and the last of some struggling mother’s paychecks, all to save her own skin. 

Thief, filcher, burglar, grave-robber, cut from a cruel cloth sewn by greed. She had lungs that sucked the air from the sky and left birds to plummet to the ground; eyes that fixated on glimmering, shimmering things, with a burning desire to rip it away; and hands made for deception, for ripping off a strand of silver once placed there lovingly, never to be seen again. 

Her wrists were fragile. Thin and weak, like a baby bird's neck. They danced upon the air, twisted against restraints and brusquely knocked back against rushing arms. Her wrists were small enough to fit into the smallest of alcoves, such as the ones buried beneath the Lake surface. The home of the Wraith, defiled and destroyed by wrists and hands such as those, her jewelry box raided and memories snatched away with each stroke up to the surface. 

She would pay. Her wrists would shatter, and her body would rip, and she would pay. 

Soon. 

Ėl 

The Ivory Wraith’s body had laid upon the Lake’s ground for millenia. 

At first, it had simply laid there in a perfect fullness that spoke neither of rot or decay. To the untrained observer- if they were able to get down to where her body lay- she looked almost as though in a deep sleep, eyelids fluttering and hair floating against the water's currents. The sea creatures were not at all taken by her beauty, however: the fish dared not swim near her, and the seaweed would grow around her body. The water would churn her body around, as though contemplating her taste. In the darkness of the lake ground, she illuminated like a torch, with the wany paleness of the moon. 

Now though, the skin had sloughed off into the ground, leaving behind a canvass of frail, brittle bones. The creatures played amongst its burrows, hiding behind the bones made rock. Algae clung among the spires, the green bright against the dirty calcium. The skeleton had been half eaten by the rocks in subsequent years, until only a skull jutted out. Deep inside the tunnels of the lake, the Ivory Wraith’s skeleton had become simply just another rock of the ecosystem, another footnote to grab onto for swimmers to haul themselves up. 

The Ivory Wraith couldn’t quite remember what she looked like in life- she remembered long, moon pale hair, that twirled and twisted along the breeze. The Initiate would run her fingers along the strands, twirl them around her fingers into pretty braids, plaits, whatever her heart desired. The Wraith remembered pale skin and freckles emblazoned upon her cheeks, ones the Initiate would count when the two lay in the fields outside the town proper. They’d sit there for so long the Wraith’s skin would burn crimson, and the Initiate would dip her long fingers into pots of salve to smear across her skin. It had stung cold and harsh against the rashes, and after that was done and the Wraith had her fill of complaining, the Initiate would laugh and press her lips against each portion of sun–burnt skin. Her lips would be cracked and each kiss left behind a faint tinge of vermillion on her flesh, stark even against the irritated skin. 

The Wraith didn’t remember the smaller details though. She didn’t remember her nose, the shape of the bridge or the way her nostrils would flare out. The Initiate would say that when she was mad her nostrils turned red and fanned like a rooster, and that it was perhaps the cutest part of her. The Wraith had a birthmark on her knee back when she lived- it was gone now in her ghostly form. Any imperfection was gone, burned by Virgo’s feathers off of her skin. It had been  shaped like a star, and the Initiate would wish upon it. 

The Initiate. She’d had a name. It started with an H- or maybe an A? D? W? Aine, or Fiona? Bronagh? Maeve? None of them invaded her mind, bought her face to face with the Initiate. After all these years, she still remembered her: the way her nose scrunched up in disgust whenever almond milk would be had during the midday meal- she’d hated it, said it tasted like  dirt water- or the way her eyes would shine in the dawn, as though absorbing the light around her. 

The hill the two used to herd goats on was gone now. With the schism, it had sunk down deep into the lake. The Ivory Wraith couldn’t remember what formation it was now, whether it had become one of the alcove’s many caves or fused with the lake floor. Any identifiable landmark that could be used to discern where it had gone had faded into the coldness of the pond, into the winter sky with each flap of Virgo’s wings. 

The Ivory Wraith used to head into town. In the days after their death, when the town was more of a village, they’d stand on what would become the Temple proper for hours. In those days, the Temple was a formation of trees- Sycamore Trees, the ones the acolytes would tend to. It was only later, during the arrival of St. Augustine, were the trees cleared to make way for the Temple. The Ivory Wraith had watched the landscapers tear at the trees and replace them with Apple trees. Soon, they became heavy with pink fruit, and the Ivory Wraith spent days cursing each tree so when the monks would awake the next day to collect the fallen fruit, they found only charred bark and maggot ridden cores. 

The Jeweler had been long dead by the time the Wraith had managed to find him. The old man had sought refuge in one of the nearby villages after the Schism, and was moaning weakly in his bed when the Ivory Wraith arrived at his hovel. He had corroded over the years, weak and trembling in his yellow cot. Maggots and flies had overtaken the village, leaking out of each and every house along the way. Above Head, the cloud of volcanic ash that had plagued the world for years, which the Ivory Wraith would later learn hailed from Indonesia, covered the sun like a brutal fist. The crops had all been dead by then, and it was only a matter of time before the people would die too. 

The Wraith had used to keep post over the Mausoleum. It had been evacuated sometime in the 19th century, and the creatures inside laid to waste. The Wraith had not found out until the 1930’s, when the streets were filled with wastes and men turned into nomads, booze in one hand and a clenched suitcase in the other.

In their youthful optimism, the Ivory Wraith had appeared at the Mausoleum everyday, praying- to whom she knew not- for another spirit. Another soul, another vagabond such as she. She didn’t know where any of her friends had gone: whether they had survived the Schism, or if they had turned into food for Auriga. Half of the village had fled for greener lands, but the Wraith had stayed. 

All they could do was stay, and sit outside the Mausoleum. 

One hot Tuesday, a woman had crawled out of the Mausoleum. Flies were eating the crops, and the Wraith’s children were disappearing, one by one, stolen by wandering hands and pushed into the rumbling black beetles that clogged the roads. Her fingers had turned into bloodied messes, and her clothes were half gone, webs entrapping her thighs. Black streaks- mascara, perhaps- cascaded down her cheeks, and her nose was scrunched up, in the same dizzying way the Wraith had remembered of the Initiate. The sun hit her eyes and the rays were consumed by her irises, and the Wraith felt whatever remained of her heart drop into her stomach. 

The same woman who had stolen her necklace was crawling out of the Mausoleum, pockets weighed down with riches stolen from the dead corpses of all the Wraith had known and loved long ago, with the face of the Initiate. 

The Wraith had dug her bioluminescent nails into the ghoulish wind of her palm and screamed. The wind crashed into the trees and the pond had foamed over, crashing over the shore bed and bursting out of alcoves that had once held mementos of days long gone. 

The Wraith didn’t know how long she’d stood there for, just that when they fully came to, the woman was gone and rain was beating the land. The thief, the murderer, the defiler- she was gone. 

She had the Initiate's face. And she was gone. 

The Blood Moon was at the end of the month. It would bathe the town in its crimson embrace and the Wraith would feel air fill sunken lungs, and her eyes would gain an almost supernatural clarity back to them. And that day, the Ivory Wraith would have her revenge. 

It was only a matter of time. 

Trɨdɨð

The woman hadn’t slept in two days. 

It was the Blood Moon tonight. A wave of crimson had descended upon the town, the stain of blood upon the air. The town at night looked almost like the vip section of Briar’s brothel, with the red filtering through black smoke clouds in rivets. The town looked as suspect from the outside as it was on the inside, finally. 

Some out of towners had arrived. For once, they weren’t interested in the town’s ‘trade’, but in the natural phenomena surrounding it. Telescopes, binoculars, sonar technology, the whole nine yards had been installed in the park for them. The revelers that met in the park hadn’t been there the whole past week, and the streets had been swept of their filth just for the occasion. 

The woman didn’t give a shit. She’d only seen the outsiders twice- once when their van had pulled into town, clanking up the rubble road, and once in the town proper buying supplies for their stay, towed by a retinue of Remy’s farmherds. Their equipment was worth a pretty penny, more than enough for Bailey’s rent that week. She’d entertained the notion of stealing it- all she’d needed to do was slip off her shirt, show them a bit of skin- but she’d looked into the eyes of one of the women, and her face had been turned into something grotesque, pale with blood red eyes and hydra tentacles and an empty chest where once lay a gem-

Suffice to say, the woman dared not steal from them. In fact, the woman had dared not leave her room. It was locked shut, and a chair had been propped up against the knob. Robin had asked her to open the door, but it had stayed shut, and at some point, Robin had sighed and stopped asking. 

There was a tree right outside the woman’s window. The wind had been strong lately, and whistled through the trees' barren branches. Each gust of wind caused a branch to scratch against her window, like nails on chalkboard. They came in three second intervals, long enough for her to pull in a breath and hold it. The air tasted like iron, as though the sky had begun to bleed, and the air was the sticky remains within. 

The world always seemed to shift during the Blood Moon. It wasn’t anything perceptible to the naked eye; more of a gut feeling than anything else. The shadows seemed to drag along the walls, turning into slathering beasts with claws that scraped the ground. Food was meatier, juicier, the fats and juices trailing down your chin and to the earth below. The harvest was always better during the blood moon- turnips were ripped out of the ground with gusto, about as heavy as a pumpkin and with shuddering flesh. Berries were succulent, fat, ripe- they popped in your mouth, with a freshness that spoke of spring. 

It only lasted a day though, sometimes three. The Blood Moon rushed into town and just as quickly rushed out, gone with a flick of The Head Priests robes. The world would return to normal, and almost shrink, shrivel up like a prune. The woman would sit by her bedside and watch with melancholy as the pale moonlight returned, and pop a berry between her teeth. 

Sometimes, she’d go on a walk in the forest during the Blood Moon. Usually, the woman would be inside her room during the late hours of the night, windows locked and buried in between her sheets. The forest during Blood Moon, though, was silent. The creatures of the forest lay in their abodes, hidden from the red reys. The writhing trees and vines lay asleep, their figs ripe and heavy. The babbling brook, the laughing lake, the shivering shore, all lay in a quiet domesticity, a peacefulness that spoke of peaceful mornings and brewed coffee. 

The woman liked to sit on the shore and dip her legs into the water below. It was cold, ice cold, and raised goosebumps against her flesh. There was a certain stillness that prevailed in the area, a calm that made the woman flutter her eyes close and untense her shoulders. A faint buzzing could be heard in the air, and when the woman would open her eyes, lightning bugs would be dancing on the blades of grass, and she’d wonder if this was what peace felt like. 

She hadn’t left her room in two days. Not for anything: not to use the bathroom, not to get food, nothing. Her nose had gone numb a while ago, but she was sure the stink was overwhelming, overpowering. The water bottles and snacks she’d stashed in her room had all gone to waste, wrappers and cans rolling around the room floor. She hadn’t moved from her bed in hours, and her body felt almost grafted to the sheets. 

There was something stalking her. Kylar always stalked her, would always gaze upon her flesh with the look of a hungered dog. The townspeople would follow her sometimes, heckle her and grab at her skin with mirth. Everything in this town seemed to follow her, as though stuck to her like miasma. At some point, she’d become numb to it. 

This following was different. It stalked in dark corners, rotated with each phase of the moon. It whispered in the wind, and had arms that sprung from walls. It had faces, thousands of them, and voices to match. Whatever was following her now was far from mortal…far, far from mortal. 

She didn’t know when she’d started looking in the mirror. Was she looking in the mirror the whole time? Her reflection had turned dark in the reflective glass, backlit by the stream of red coming from the window. The mirror was dirty, always had been, always will be- she saw no use in wiping it everyday. Maybe twice a week she’d wipe it down, but that was the extent of it. The mirror was clear now, shining and cool, almost wet looking. 

There was a woman staring back at her from inside the glass. Her eyes glowed red, and her skin glimmered pale. A long braid of white flickered behind her- no seven braids. Seven braids of white danced behind her head, flicking against the confines of the mirror and slithering against the frame. The scent of salt and brine followed each twitch of the braids, and the woman could swear she saw a barnacle underneath one. 

There was a knock at the door. The woman startled, and the reflection in the mirror was gone. Of course it would be gone; it wasn’t real. Just a trick of the light. A sleep addled hallucination, caused by stress and paranoia. She needed sleep. She needed to rest. 

But first, the door. It was Robin, or Bailey there to collect money. Maybe another one of the orphans yelling at her about missing her chores. Something normal, expected. Despite how odd the town was, nothing unexpected ever actually happened. 

She opened the door. No one. She looked down the hallway, left and right. No one. The hallway lay dim and empty, dismal, the only sound the scratching of the trees upon the window. Some red light seeped into the hallway from beyond her door, casting long, writhing shadows, tentacles sprouting from her back and licking at the door frame. The scent of sulfur filled her room, and distantly, the woman could hear the faint scream of Thief flying upon the wind.

When the woman woke up, she was floating inside a cage. Something pale had grabbed her, slimy and thick upon the water like an oil slick. The reflection from her mirror stared at her like she was a betrayal, a destroyed secret. Her braids were tentacles, whipping against the woman’s skin. Seaweed clung to her arms, and the currents beat down against her chest. Sea Otters, mollusks, fish, krill, barnacles, surrounded her, as though the whole lake ecosystem had come to see her drown. They glowed with a red glow, the glow of the blood moon. Amongst their chattering voices, a whisper of Burglar bit against the salty gloom. 

The woman screamed. 

Her face felt wet. It might have been tears, or it might have been the water suffocating her- there was no way to tell. The pale figure’s hands burned against her skin, and her tentacles swirled against the woman’s fear stricken flesh. Hard, gripping, as though trying to break into the sinew beneath, to stain the water red with shark feed. The woman felt her chest constrict and she choked back a sob. Her arms beat against the figures frame, but to no avail. She would drown tonight. 

The pale figure hissed. Her prodding grew more brusque, sharp, invasive. The figure’s thick arms pried open the woman’s mouth, and saliva streamed past her lips. The pale figure’s fingers were like ice, pale as the moon and slightly freckled. They looked like they’d been crafted years before, from stardust and moonlight. 

She was on a hill. It was lush and green, and there was a bushel of Sycamore Trees growing in the distance. A small group of people congregated on the base of the hill, donned in dark brown robes and golden clover necklaces. The sun was bright, and the air smelled of roast duck. Someone was cooking, far below. 

Goats pranced below. Gray goats, one, two, three, hightailing over knolls and rocks. Each jump in the air was a sudden spike, and their hoofs made a clack sound against the gray rock. A woman ran down below, chasing after them with the speed of a wild cart. Her robes were the same drab brown as the group below, tied at the waist with a brown cord of felt. Her hair was blinding in the sun; her body was the color of stardust, freckles staining her body like brown paint; her feet, when emerging from behind the hem of her frock, became a blur as she ran across the green expanse. A necklace of solid blue and silver bashed against her chest, and the woman felt a phantom shiver go through her arm. 

The pale figure down below glanced up at her. There was a grin on her face, teeth glimmering white in the spring day, and her forehead was slick with pale sweat. Her eyes met the figure’s, and an awareness gleamed inside, a sharp pinprick of knowledge that appeared in a flash and made her red eyes shine all the brighter. The woman’s hand flew up to touch her face as the red ate up the world around them, as smoke hissed into the air and orange flames licked at the braying goats. The ashes floated upon the air, thick and cloying, and the clouds ate her up. 

She woke up. 

Her bed was wet. The woman lay there, entrapped in her blankets, smelling of slime and rot and wet. The detail she was most cognizant of, besides her numb face and aching torso, was the wetness of her bed. Something inside her felt empty, drained, as though it had been torn open from her chest and consumed. A growing abyss, shaped like an alcove worn into rock, ached inside her. A name resonated from within, a voice from eons before. A spire grew from her spine, and saltwater rioted in her lungs. 

The woman didn’t remember if she had a name or not. It felt as though it had washed upon the ocean, buried with one of her cigarette cases into the thrashing waves. The name inside her swelled up, as though eager to answer the query, before sinking back down. 

Up- the hallway door began to shake, cave in, transform. Barnacles bloomed upon the coral wall, pink and purple, as a redness began to seep into the room. The wallpaper began to stink, and bruise-like stains appeared on the white cracks. Dirty water began to leak up from the floor,  and the woman's face in the dark water had turned into sludge. 

Down- the moon outside began to wane. As the water rose, inch by inch, the moon’s reys began to flicker. The red turned into a light pink instead, the color of salmon and pink eye. There was a churning outside, as though the earth was changing course. A humming floated on the breeze, the sound of machinery and weaponry, as pink bled onto trees and roofs. 

Up- The water below her rioted. It sprang up high, high as a building, blasting against the roof and splattering on the walls. The dark brown liquid sprayed the woman in the face, and seeped into her mouth. It tasted foul, like sewage, and as she doubled over trying to choke it out, she could swear she heard a laugh, sharp and cruel, ring out into the night. 

The walls shook. They began to shrink in on themselves, collapse. She was a doll in a dollhouse, too large for this space. The photo of Robin on her bed stand cracked as the wall rammed into the bed, and her closet fell down onto its side, clothes spilling out onto the filth water below. 

The sun peeked outside. Golden reys spiked the town. It rolled over the snow banks outside, awoke the animals from their slumber, and singed the lake shore with its brightness. All the things that thrived in the night had been banished, and the water hissed and dried as the sun touched it. Her eyes glowed, dizzyingly, and she blinked furiously. When her vision cleared up, the water was gone, the laughter had ended, and red eyes flickered in the mirror before receding into the glass, as though it was never there at all. 

The next week, the necklace would disappear from the Museum. Winter mourned it, of course- the woman would see Winter’s glaze turn longing, sometimes, and she’d run a finger across the dust ridden case slowly. The woman didn’t know why Quinn had wanted it, and truthfully, she didn’t care. Whenever she looked at the case, a measure of guilt would bury itself in her chest and she’d hurry away, trying not to think of a pale girl with long, white hair. 

The red eyes were everywhere now. Sometimes, the woman would squeeze her eyes shut, and the red eyes would be there. Watching, always just watching. They’d appear behind the reception desk of the Museum, staring down at her from the high ceiling and melting into her soul. Other times, it would be in the eyes of all she crossed on the street, large, encroaching, unnatural. She’d walk away in a hurry, now, and head into her room, making sure the door was triple locked. 

She wondered about the name. Maybe once or twice she’d think about the group clothed in brown at the bottom of the hill. Her mind would often drift to the white tentacles foaming in the waves, and a gnawing chasm would bite at her. But mostly, she thought about the name. She thought about its echo, its imprint in her mind, and would rub at her chest as though her heart were on fire. 

She heard it on the wind, on occasion. When she’d smoke by the sea, she’d hear it whispered to her on a salty breeze as she wound her arm back to discard her cigarette case. She would focus on it, ears straining to hear. It was too faint though, always, always too faint, always just out of reach. And so, she’d throw the case out into the water (aiming further than the day prior, for extra measure) and walk back to town, red eyes staring at her all the way.

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Bleeding Heart

Inexplicably, despite her relative exhaustion, Lillandyr woke in the thin, gray hours before dawn. She had a deep, eerie sense of wrongness and she sat up, clutching silk sheets to her breasts, eyes narrowing as she looked about the dark, unfamiliar room. All of her nape hairs prickled and stood up, sending a shudder through her. 

She turned her narrowed gaze to her sleeping lover and scowled at Heathcliff’s back. He was asleep. Canting her head, closing her eyes, she listened to the Castle groan and creak the way large places do in the night. Without thinking, she slid out of the bed and stumbled around in the dark, naked, looking for a washroom which she found after a few moments. Tepid water in the basin would have to do as she sunk her hands into it and splashed her face. 

Swiping water out of her eyes, she looked in the mirror. 

It wasn’t her face staring back. 

Despite being the architect of the Curse, she had no idea of the thing she had constructed in her hubris. Insidiously, it coiled itself backwards, biting the hand that created it, an ouroboros, an endless loop of HIS mind and hers. The Curse knew what hurt her most. It knew what would make that brittle excuse for a heart bleed. 

She reeled backwards, inhaling sharply, trembling. 

Lillandyr feared little. She had faced pain and degradation. She had stared down her own death more than once. There had been so many nights she went hungry. That she ate rats. That she stole and got caught. 

She didn’t fear these things. 

To Lillandyr, no greater horror existed than the loss of control over her mind. The Curse knew this, vile thing it was. It only wished to give her everything her nasty, little heart desired. 

Born in the twisted shadows of her thoughts and the poison of her rage, the Curse only wanted to grant her most secret wish. A wish made before she knew that wishes were what curses were born from. 

So, she saw Aronsen’s face in the mirror as he looked at him…or her. She didn’t know. He had long, snowy hair and…he was weeping. 

He didn’t look monstrous then, she thought dimly. In his skin, she looked at his features twisted in torment and anguish. He wasn’t what he used to be. He was a monster and he was so…lost. 

Her hand snaked between her breasts, over her heart, fingers digging painfully into her skin, leaving little red half moons from her nails as her throat tightened and she made a soft, low keening sound of agony. Grief. 

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice strangled. 

Lillandyr didn’t even know what she was telling him not to do. Don’t cry? Don’t hurt? His lips drew back from his teeth and he stooped over the sink so she did too. She gasped and heaved and vomited, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. 

She didn’t know how the straight razor got into her hand and only the hiss of it through a small lock of her gilded hair snapped her free and she dropped it so it clattered to the ground, her hair fluttering after it. 

And still, she was trapped in this vision..no…memory of him. His memory. She watched what should have been her reflection, sheer all of the hair off his head. Her eyes trailed over his tight jaw, the grim look in his eyes. He wanted to be someone else. Something else. 

“So do I,” she whispered. “Anything…but who I am,” she murmured. 

For a moment, she thought this reflection of a memory looked at her. Saw her. 

Saw her. 

Right into her ugly, black soul. 

She flung her hands over her eyes and ground her teeth and shook her head back and forth until her jaw and head hurt. Panting, she lowered her shaking hands and saw only her own face. For a moment, her grimace, reddened cheeks and eyes, reminded her of her former self. Anya. Anya who she had buried in Lillandyr’s grave. 

Terror stole the color from her face because she could feel it. The connection. No amount of trying or thinking…or summoning up old words that had worked before could break the connection. Panic seized her. This wasn’t possible. Shouldn’t be possible. Nothing like this had ever happened before. 

Lillandyr tore out of the bathroom and carefully slid back into bed, body drenched in sweat. She stared at Heathcliff’s back and for…just a moment, she wished he’d wake up. And ask her what was the matter and hold her when she couldn’t answer. Instead, her tears wouldn’t fall and she lay very still until dawn chased the shadows away and she could sleep. 

Maybe things would be different later was the lullaby she sung in her head. 

But she knew they wouldn’t be. 

@wraaronsen

[industria-adastra]

[PMMM] killing you, killing me (one in the same)

Summary: She sections herself into two and bites her tail, bringing about a new dawn.

Note: I am very normal about Madoka's ascension and all that entails (No)

-----

Kaname Madoka steadies her hands, steadies her breath, aiming hope unyielding at despair all-consuming; the bowstring is taught, her aim is true, and Kaname Madoka rends herself into two and is born anew. They scream and she screams, one and the same, chasing after each other in a neverending ouroboros. She swallows her heart and regurgitates; it’s shiny and whole, it’s torn and bitten. Threads her fingers together, palm to palm, singing, screaming. She is hope, she is despair, the alpha and the omega; digging her fingers into her chest and blood-letting the poison.

Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she is silent in the face of non-existence, of eternity on the cross and nails in her palms.

Her humanity is the bridge between abomination and divinity, en pointe on the precipice. Resting in peace, she dreams of coffee and fresh salads, the dull staccato of plastic on plastic and laughter. It is warm, the feeling of “home”. Resting in peace, she dreams of a world where her word is law, where she gouges out her eyes and casts the first stone, unseeing of the rock stuck to her palm or the blood on her hands when she pens in the sheep.

Resting in peace, she sleeps under the light of a new dawn, dreaming with other dreamers; hand-in-hand, they leave behind their regrets. They are one, not quite all the same, but they all dreamt of hope and so it is enough. 

Kaname Madoka inhales, and the Law of Cycles exhales. The human and the divine; gently cradling dreams under the execution of rewritten cosmic code.

Resting in peace, watching over slumbering dreamers, she envisions hope unyielding, and their hands make it true.

[themetalgodsmeltdownposts]

Dawn of Ouroboros Interview for The Metal Gods Meltdown by Seb Di Gatto....

[scpaftermathau]

(◕ᴥ◕) Contents Page (◕ᴥ◕)

Yay! Here it is, have fun reading and looking at the story and the drawings! All the stuff here is in canonical order, and it will be updated whenever I make something new for the lore. Quick key; 🎨 means art, 🖋 means narrative, and 🖍 means trivia, author's notes and tidbits that otherwise don't fit into the flow of the narrative.

Files

🖋 The Ivories of Thanatos (OC)

Character Profiles

🖍 SCP 682 🖍 SCP 049 🖍 SCP 096 🖍 SCP 079 🖍 SCP 035 🖍 Ms. Arachne (OC) 🖍 The Pack (OC) 🖍 SCP 049-J 🖍 SCP 049-J-2

Before (Occured before the breach)

🖍 Birdfolk 🎨 Infant God (TW; Blood, implied malnourishment) 🎨 Round Fluff 🖍 Rot Trivia 🎨🖋 Cave Symbols No.1 🎨🖍 Arachne's Introduction 🖋 Normal People (TW; Medical malpractice, brief gore & bodily mutilation) 🎨 Baby Birds 🖋 Midnight (TW; Implied SA) 🖋 Dawn 🖋 Nurture/Nature 🖋 Imminent 🎨🖍 Staff Memo 🎨🖋 Tutoring 🖋 Swan Song (TW; Descriptions of gore, Death) 🖋 Regret

During (Occured during the breach)

🖋 Motives pt.1 🖋 Motives pt.2

After (Occured after the breach)

🖋 Blurry Lines 🖋 Camp Meeting 🖋 Quiet 🖋 Meandering (TW; Descriptions of gore, Blood) 🖋 Ouroboros

Other

🎨🖍 Dark Meme Compilation 🎨🖍 Revelation

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Saturday, April 26

BUFFY: I'm sorry, okay? DAWN: Broken record much? BUFFY: You can't even take an apology. You always do that. Ever since- I just had a bad day. DAWN: Well, join the club. BUFFY: Can I be president? DAWN: I'm president. You could be the janitor.

~~BtVS 5x05 “No Place Like Home”~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Coffee Over Tea, For Once (Giles/Jenny, T) by waterintheshadows

Promise Kept (Spike/reader, E) by kittenofdoomage

At the End of All Things (Xander/Jesse, T) by arcanedreamer

beneath her fingertips (Anya & Tara, G) by Greensword101

Movie Night with Ms. Calendar (Dawn & Jenny, G) by AnnieInWonderland

[Chaptered Fiction]

Shadowed Suspicion Chapter 372 (Jojo's Bizarre Adventure xover, T) by madimpossibledreamer

Chasing the Light, Chapter 8/? (Angel/Lindsey, E) by CloudSeeker

Cherry Teeth, Chapter 3/7 (Buffy/Spike, M) by Splitterregen

The Alchemist, Chapter 4/? (Buffy/Spike, Spike/Drusilla, E) by noripori

Corrigendo Tabulam, Chapter 47/? (Willow/Tara, not rated) by lyrical_echoes

undone with you, Chapter 2/8 (Buffy/Giles, E) by guin_ramble, TheScholarlyStrumpet (equipoise)

This Saturday (and Every Subsequent Saturday for All of Eternity), Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Maxine Eden

Our Little Secret, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Spikelover4ever

Restructuring Reality [Series Part 3], Chapter 13 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Ragini

Once More,With Fangs, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only) by Cazzy

Exquisite Conflagrations: Part I, Chapters 1-3 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by yellowb, fortes775, Kanita, bewildered, DarkVoid116, MillennialCryBaby, ClowniestLivEver, VoronaFiernan, EverythingElse

Rewind the Rebound, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Tikiriaaa

Exquisite Conflagrations: Part II, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by yellowb, Holly, the_big_bad, EllieRose101, JayeMaru, SzmattyCat, flootzavut, Soulburnt, cawthraven, Maxine Eden, Tikiriaaa

Ouroboros, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by werehorse

Tequila Sunrize, Chapter 8 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Pyewacket

Can't Get No Satisfaction, Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Melme1325

Uninvited, Chapters 6-7 Complete! (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Melme1325

Renaissance, Chapter 2 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Holly

What Happened On Saturday, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by thehuntress

This Saturday (and Every Subsequent Saturday for All of Eternity), Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Maxine Eden

You Have Died of Dysentery, Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Girlytek

Enchanted Dawn, Chapter 10 Complete! (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by VeroNyxK84

Sojourns in Heaven, Chapters 2-3 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by elements

the Eyes, Chapter 17 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Dusty

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: [Drawing of Spike] (partly bare chest, worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Another drawing of Spike] (partly bare chest, worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Drawing of Buffy] (worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Portrait of Spike] (worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Drawing of Faith] (worksafe) by djmanemihi

Gifset: Every Tara look: S6E14 Older and Far Away (worksafe) by lovebvffys

Artwork: [Drawing of Spike/Drusilla] (worksafe) by foundinthevoid

Artwork: When Andrew gets to pick the movíé (Andrew/Warren, worksafe) by garscrucible

Artwork: Hospital AU (Fred/Cordelia, G) by Kittenwritings

Artwork: Grocery Shopping (Fred/Cordelia, G) by Kittenwritings

Artwork: Ivory and Obsidian: The Better Bond (Warren/Andrew, M) by GarsCrucible

[Reviews & Recaps]

ReWatch Review: Angel - S4, E16 by sweetcritique

ReWatch REview: Angel - S4, E17 by sweetcritique

ReWatch Review: Angel - S4, E18 by sweetcritique

ReWatch Review: Angel - S4, E19 by sweetcritique

More Buffy rewatch thoughts: “No Place Like Home” by disquietiswhatitis

Buffy and Angel get POSSESSED! (A Becoming Buffy crossover event) by All Bronze, No Brains

Rewatch: Prophecy Girl Part 2 by Re-Vamped with Juliet Landau

PODCAST: S5. Ep12. You're Welcome by Investigating Angel

[Fandom Discussions]

btvs s5 au where angel came back not too long after leaving for LA and now there’s two awful and pathetic vampires overly attached to the summers women by xaeyrnofnbe

yo 5x07 is so good by professeurm

i think it’s so funny how both spike and faith are so bad at disposing of bodies by greenteacology

i think it’s quite obvious that the major difference between buffy’s happiness levels in the early seasons and the later seasons is not because of her romantic partners at the time by moistvonlipwig

I wonder if the “superstar” episode would’ve worked better in season 5 or 6 due to its final message by femmedefandom

there are two ways to be a short guy. either you’re Jonathan [...] or you’re Oz by femmedefandom

Part of the tragedy in episode Smashed is Spike no longer aspiring to be a better man by desicat-writer

I have many problems with the BTVS fandom but my biggest one is the insistence that Buffy was mad at Faith when she woke up from her coma by jarlskona-evilyoyo

thinking about how, post-mystical universal retcon, Dawn was 11 during Season 2 by lost-in-frog-land

Things you would change by FallenAngel00, multiple posters

The Cheese Man. by Big-Restaurant-2766

Do you think Joss and the team knew Tara was thought to be part demon as far as S4 e14? by DamonAlbarnFruit

If you could put any Buffyverse character(s) into the episode "Halloween", who would it be and what would they turn into? by Big-Restaurant-2766

Hypothetical "Conversations with Dead People" idea I had. by Big-Restaurant-2766

Who is your fvorite “bonus” Scooby and why? by potatoesandmolases_

I just finished the “canon” comics… if you enjoyed any part of them I’d love to hear which ones by Russkiroulette

Fan Theory: Tara was chosen to be the secondary protector of Dawn and has known about Dawn this whole time. by WriteImagination

Anyone not like the Angel series??? by 8HED

Which Buffyverse character(s) do you think about the most? by Big-Restaurant-2766

Do people in the Buffyverse who act with extreme malice/lack of remorse have their souls damaged or reduced in some capacity? by SafiraAshai

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)