#[smirke's 14] 🕸

[itchyeye]

🕸 the web | spiders and control. your will not being your own. being manipulated or puppeted. the worry you’re caught in a trap you can’t see.

[itchyeye]

web statements don't really get to me (i'm not afraid of spiders or of fate) but this line was a real gutpunch this time around

[itchyeye]

i'm not generally a fan of soulmate aus but magverse has really appealing mechanics for executing them in the most malevolent way possible... pov the mother of puppets has cocooned you together with your red string of fate... you never wanted this, no. but i'm afraid you absolutely did choose it. in a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on... do you love him? i don't know. i believe he is my fate.

[itchyeye]

jonah + decay

He dreams of it often, and always the same. He knows it is his dream, and no one elses. He knows it because it never has the sharp, singular clarity of the dreams he watches in his Archive cycle. It is vague and shifting, produced by a human subconscious. And always the same.

A corpse propped against a stone wall, its decay spurred by the dark, dank air of its makeshift crypt, left rotting in a forgotten pocket of air a mile beneath the earth. Its leathery face shrinkwrapped around its slack jawed skull. Its ragged, empty sockets hollow and infinite behind its drooping eyelids.

Each time, Jon's dream brings him to its mausoleum and leaves him there to make his own choices. Each time he will draw near, stoop to his knees, take the blind death's head into his hands, and press his living lips to its. He will wake uncertain and afraid.

Something has marked him, he frets, given him this vision apart from all his others. The Buried? The End? What force calls to him so arduously from beneath the earth? What force waits nightly for his breath to pour over its cold, unfeeling lips?

He waits nightly for his dream to change. For spiders to pour forth from the corpse's mouth when it meets his. Or Filth to swarm out from its face and into his.

Most ardently, he hopes the death's head might one night wake beneath his lips. To tell him its secrets, give him its name, and kiss him back.