#macabre⟡reblogs

[macabrefag]

he/it + neos / certified FAG & taken. using this sb to reblog and occasionally post my art. my likes and follows come from phwc.

im a system & my nsfw interests are all over the place. dni if you're not a freak or if you're a minor. i dont really care to check but you know yourself so wtv

i can get a little unserious :P im just here to have fun

tags: #macabre⟡thoughts - stuff i wrote #macabre⟡art - art i've made #macabre⟡reblogs - reblogs, ofc #macabre⟡media - posts with media #macabre⟡favs - love this post!!

sources: faysayk & sacred-portal

[lil-mr-slipstream]

-Voices-

A collection of portraits depicting the voices from Slay the Princess, taking inspiration from the style of the video game Disco Elysium! The Voice of the Hero, a knight, an iconic silhouette against a luminant halo. A color palette of black, blue, and teal.

The Voice of the Hunted, a beast trying to protect its heart from danger, represented here as a crosshair.

The Voice of the Smitten, the knife wound letting loose lovely streams of swirling bodily juices into the air.

The Voice of the Cold, dark, and angular. Something completely unafraid to kill.

The Voice of the Skeptic, attempting to fly, tearing himself away from chains and what looks like his own body.

The Voice of the Paranoid, Frantic and multi-eyed, clutching at a wound.

The Voice of the Contrarian, flying in stark contrast to the others, glowing instead of secluded, a mischievous fairy or will o' the wisp, instead of a grotesque figure.

The Voice of the Broken, shattered and leaking. A humanoid figure is no longer recognizable.

The Voice of the Stubborn, Fiery eyes, and big meaty claws. The brushwork is chaotic.

The Voice of the Cheated, smoke leaking from puncture wounds still embedded within him. He's holding a cigar, too; probably where all the smoke is coming from.

The Voice of the Opportunist, carrying multiple masks on his person, and wielding a poorly concealed knife.

And finally (for now) The Long Quiet itself, the night sky, swirling sigils blurred in the dark.

[angelicbook]

my acc has been rather dead lately sooo…REBLOG GAME TIME !!!

( example ↑ )

reblog this post with your f/o and I’ll assign them a food !! ( Sweet, Savoury, Sour, etc,, )

i pray this doesn’t flop…

[anistarrose]

This isn't something I would describe as a prominent or even intentional theme, but there's something fascinating to me about how TAZ Balance characters associated with composing and performing music are almost entirely correlated with either being forgotten, or having an incredibly warranted fear of being forgotten.

Johann is obviously the latter. I have an ongoing fic about his parallels with Barry — who plays piano, and who is the character we see spend the most time knowing he has been forgotten by people dear to him, and grappling with it. And I've seen the Johann and Lup dynamic get well-deserved attention in AUs where she lives, and they get to relate to each other as violinists — yet the parallels are at their strongest in canon, where Lup is the "most" dead of all the undead characters, the "most" forgotten, the most reduced to a near-invisible specter haunting the narrative, and the most like Johann's worst nightmare.

There's even a parallel with Davenport, who is a beautiful singer, and whose life story and dreams and achievements are all completely erased. So that's three different characters whose forgotten stories — which Johann obviously does not know — still serve to silently justify Johann's fear of the same fate, emphasizing just how likely it is that it could come to pass. How yes, it would be that horrifying.

And as a non-musician, but an artist of a kind myself... it all resonates. The fear of one's legacy being forgotten is a common fear in general, but it has a particular type of teeth to it for us creatives, who shudder in terror at the thought of a masterwork — that feels like a piece of one's soul — being forgotten, let alone cut short by untimely tragedy.

But that's why I treasure, so dearly, that all of these musically inclined characters — Barry, Lup, Davenport, Johann — are not forgotten permanently, but instead immortalized by the Story and Song, no matter the varying degrees of alive and dead that they wind up in the end. I treasure the parallels between these characters that say being forgotten is a grounded, reasonable thing to fear; that it is scary — but that no matter what, memory will still find a way.

[sweetlurr]

[loundervenus]

Hi there! I’m Lo (she/her), a 28-year-old Midwest mom navigating life with a love for the macabre, the obscure, and everything in between. My blog is a blend of whimsy, dark academia aesthetics, and cosmic curiosities, with a sprinkle of memes and a soundtrack of shoegaze.

✨ Here’s what you’ll find here:

• Obscure Reads & Eerie Vibes – Book recs, quotes, and deep dives into the worlds of dark fiction and the paranormal.

• Cosmic & Whimsical Themes – Dreamy, surreal art that sparks wonder and chills.

• Tattoos & Aesthetics – Whimsy, dark academia, and inspo for ink lovers.

• Music Love – Shoegaze playlists and tracks that feel like stargazing through your headphones.

• Midwest Mom Life – Snapshots and thoughts from my life, raising an awesome autistic kid and dreaming about small-town charm and Alaska adventures.

If you vibe with any of this, let’s connect! I’d love to create a little community of fellow oddballs, dreamers, and stargazers.

🔮 Follow me, and let’s get lost in the cosmos together. Don’t hesitate to say hi or reblog if you find something you love! 🌌

[grayve-mistake]

! Schoolrust Edit !

Images from the anime Another (2012), this Tokyo Teddy Bear MV, a stock image site, and yours truly

I couldn't decide which filter I liked best so I'm sharing all of them, let me know which one you prefer!

[sleepywolverine]

Me at age 9: There is no way I’ll turn into my mother and end up replacing lyrics with cats.

Me at age 19: I just wanna pet, I wanna pet my cat in the moonlight

[deathswcrn-a]

closing my inbox for a hot second whilst i catch up on stuff in it <3

[whiskykitteeeeee]

I'm a little kid and I believe her every time.

Grandma likes to give me hugs. She squeezes me so hard, my bones pop out. I am now a jelly person and I am unable to hold myself up. She has to keep squeezing me so I won't flop to the floor.

She asks an important question. I have to answer so she can put my bones back in me! "What color do you want your bones?"

I had many answers over the years. Blue with stripes and polka dots, covered in stars, pink glitter, glowing orange, red like fire, rainbow like me!

"Grandma's Bones, No. 6" Acrylic on Rescued Canvas, 8x10. UV reactive.

[gghostwriter]

Out of Sunshine

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Having forgotten your dinner date, Spencer comforts his usually sunshine girlfriend Trope:Fluff & Comfort w.c: 1.2k a/n: been very overwhelmed with responsibilities and wants lately that I just needed to write a self-indulgent fic. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer’s knock on your apartment door was met with silence. It was a starry Friday night and he had arranged a dinner reservation with you, his girlfriend for a year and a half, to the newly opened French restaurant along the main street. With a certain spring in his step, he settled with Hotch, and by extension the team, that he couldn’t be disturbed unless an emergency case comes in—something he silently wished not to happen. He had also picked up a bouquet of your favorites from the local florist. An array of whites that reminded him of the dress he first saw you wearing at the park.

He knocked again, ears straining to hear anything behind the dark wooden door. There was nothing. He balanced the bouquet on one hand and reached for the phone inside his satchel. It was quite unlike you to not answer the door.

The number you dialed is either unattended—

“Strange,” he muttered under his breath. During his morning phone call with you, a much needed routine to tide him through the macabre of his job, you sounded so excited about the dinner he’d planned and had even promised to wear the same white dress that had plagued his eidetic memory. He chuckled in reply before asking any plans for the day. There was a slight pause on your end, no doubt thinking of ways to pass time before night winds down, and you answer—

The studio, he remembered. You mentioned passing by your art studio to occupy time. He sighed in relief as he enters his vintage blue car parked on the the sidewalk, bouquet placed securely on the passenger seat. The clock on the dashboard tells him there’s still time to make it to the reservation, granted he wasn’t sure if you were ready to go.

A non-descriptive tune played from the radio as he turned left to enter the designated parking space of your studio building. It was a mixture of soft piano keys that sounded like spring and sunshine, both adjectives he loved to use to describe you.

When he finally found the courage to fumble his way in asking for your number, the smile that flashed on your face was blinding. It was as if he stared directly into the sun with little to no protection for his vision.

Over the course of multiple dates, he found himself waxing prose about you in his head. The pinking of your cheeks reminded him of strawberries ripening, so tempting to touch with his own pair of lips. The twinkle in your eyes, full of adoration and trust, made him feel strong and protective—like he was some kind of crow guarding his loot of sparkling treasure. And the bounce in your step wherever you’d go had him envisioning a sprig of wildflowers growing from each footprint, the nymph of his very own Spring.

He let himself in the studio, grateful you’ve trusted him with a spare key. “Sunshine,” he called out.

The light inside the four cornered room was on, windows all open for the paint fumes to escape, and there you were, hunched over an easel, furiously painting without any care of your surroundings.

He called your name, softer this time, as if to slowly ease you out of the artistic trance. The timber of his voice and his sudden presence led you to squeak in surprise, paintbrush dropping on the wooden streaked floor.

“It’s me, sunshine,” he raised his hands in front of him in surrender. “It’s me.”

Your nose scrunched up in question, a streak of blue dried paint on your cheek, adorable. How adorable you were in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you bent down to grab the brush before resuming your old position.

“It’s 7:50, love.”

You swiveled to face him, eyes wide in distress. Hands promptly reaching to turn over the faced down phone. “No, no—oh my god, I am so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he tries to placate you but his words of comfort seem to fall on deaf ears. “Really, it’s alright. It happens to everyone.”

Tears were starting to build up in your eyes. Your hands were wrangling with the apron tied around your waist as you mutter a series of apologies again and again. “I’m sorry. So sorry—we can’t make it to our reservation now, can’t we? Spence, I’m so so sorry. I—I forgot,” a sob escaped from your throat. “I don’t know what to do.”

He puts down the flowers on the nearest available space, your stool, and steps into your space. Filling it with his perfume and warmth meant to comfort you. He could see how distressed you were—rocking on your heels, hands unable to stay put, and lower lip sandwiched in between your pearly teeth.

“Breathe. It’s completely fine, love. No harm done. Really, it’s alright.”

The tears come rushing down, staining your flushed cheeks with its tracks. “It’s not—how could I forget?”

“Sunshine, it’s okay. It happens to all of us and I know you’re quite busy, it’s understandable.”

You burrow into his chest some more, afraid of separating from him and the haven he brings.

He continued on. “I also know you’re overwhelmed, the exhibit is just around the corner and I know how important it is to you, I understand.”

Laying your cheek near his beating heart, you mutter a reply. “It’s really not—I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me too.”

His hands cupped your face to stare into your saddened eyes. Spencer couldn’t see the warmth and brightness that was always present in his sunshine. There was a cloud of rain and doubt covering its’ greatness. He understood no one could always be happy all the time but it bothered him to see you breaking down from stress.

“Shouldn’t I be the one worried about that?” he lightly joked. “I’ve cancelled on dates so many times and did those ever make you feel less important to me?”

“No. Never,” you sniffled.

“Then what makes you say I’d think that, sunshine? I would never, I promise.”

The corners of your lips lifted up to a small smile. There it was, the rays of sun peeking behind the clouds, bringing warmth back to the dark crevices of his being.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” your lower lip jutting out in a pout. The air of anxiety slowly dissipating around you.

Spencer laughed, noting the tear stained marks littered on his purple button down. “That’s alright. Why don’t we order from your favorite Indian place down the block? We can get your favorites and have our dinner date here instead?”

“You’d be okay with that?”

He leaned in to kiss your temples, taking in the twinkle back in your eyes framed by your wet long lashes and the flush on your cheeks from emotion—good and bad.

For Spencer, you had never looked more beautiful. The reason behind of your breakdown was raw, intimate, and it made him see you in a new light. Heat bloomed in his chest, like a series of red roses, filled with love for you.

“Anywhere with you is good for me, sunshine.”

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[hexasart]

The Diaphonized Wet Specimen pins are now up for sale!!

And so are the stickers!

If you're interested, or were international and unable to pledge to the kickstarter, check them out!!

ETSY - All international (And domestic)

The Hexabeast - US and Canada only

PLEASE reblog and spread the word! It helps me out so much, especially because tumblr suppresses links in the tags, still.

[justcruisingaroundrevived]

How about yandere Pete with a mysterious loner reader who’s secretly a vampire

You Better Lie Down cause The Angels are Watching

Summary: Yandere! Pete x Vampire! Reader

TW/CW: Yandere tendencies, obsessive behavior, blood, animal, assault (on reader), blood drinking, toxic relationship

A/N: Decided to make this Pete post TFTM, but pre epilogue because I feel like this was be the perfect time for him to make a new “friend” <3

Reblogs are appreciated!

- For this particular scenario, I can see this right after the comic book fire

- Pete, forced to work midnight shifts at his father’s deli because “If you like horror movies so much, maybe ya don’t mind working in one!”

- He’s forced to clean up the blood that drips on the floor, section the meat for cold cuts, prepare the sausages, and worst of all, close the up the shop itself. Leaves him a 5-10 minute walk to his dingy, dirty, rotten house

- You had just move into Eltingville. Needed a fresh start, you said to yourself. You lived in a tiny apartment thanks to years of scrounging pennies and dollars. It was not much, but it was more

- There was also another reason….news articles talk about THAT incident, but you didn’t need to worry about there here. You were just….well, you

- Always came in the last 30 minutes to an hour of Pete’s shift. Always asking for the leftover raw meat for “tonight’s dinner”

- It was like Cupid struck Pete at that moment. Just watching you open the door had restart his heart. It was like you were placed on this planet just for him to

- It was so bad. He just shook with excitement as he handed the order to you (definitely creamed himself)

- Cuts to him back at him, watching his typical snuff films, and all of the hot butchered woman was now just you. Your (H/C) flowing so easily while your (E/C) showed fear before being completely drained…it got him going

- God, just the mental image of following you home, figuring out your routine and using that to dissect your life, routine, even the little things

- He started to shake uncontrollably when you came in. You didn’t even notice, just focus on getting your fix. At this point, Pete was watching you with all of his eyes. From the moment the bell chimed to the moment you walked out, you consumed his whole being

- Got to the point where he was carving himself in the name of you. You were his savior, his sanctuary. He didn’t know a life without you, and he’ll make sure of it

- So one day, he follows you out. Closed extra early and followed you 20 feet behind. The scars, still fresh, painted the side of his shirt. He hadn’t showered in days, possibly weeks even. You were the only thing on his mind

- In fact, he started collecting taxidermy animals and even preserved animal fetuses to send you (once he found your address). You were just that special to him <3

- Unfortunately, a stranger just came out of nowhere and dragged you to the nearest alley. Pete froze in fear, watching you try and fight off the intruder.

- Heart thumping, he grabbed his Swiss army knife out of his pocket and ran straight down the alley…

- …only to discover you sucking down on his neck. Thick blood pooled from the are while the intruder screamed in agony. You didn’t want to do this. You being this way was the entire reason you moved…but now look what happened.

- Worst of all, the butcher just saw you….staring at you. Expect, it wasn’t out of fear. No, it was worse

- Pete was panting aggressively. His face, now a crimson shade of red, lapped up the bloody site he was seeing

- “Holy shit. You can’t be…are you-“

- “A vampire? Depends on who you’re asking”

- He’s a weird companion. Since you’re a vampire, you probably don’t mind the macabre and strange. AKA: his “gifts” are weirdly charming, albeit creepy.

- His knowledge of horror was expansive, and his knowledge of vampires in media is pretty scary. Almost as if he was studying to be a professor for old horror media.

- You may or may not have to politely tell Pete about some of the more absurd stereotypes (“No, Pete. Vampires don’t bleed glitter.”)

- What IS creepy is his constant need for you. Always following behind you, stalking your every move and taking notes of the spaces you hang around

- Would absolutely die of happiness if you were the vampires that are goth/emo/alt. Would demand to dress you every single day. If you agree…expect your assets being shown for the whole world to see

- Luckily, he’s a good blood source. You can survive on animal blood, but human blood is ideal. Luckily, Pete’s the perfect test subject for stuff like this

- Would keep your vampirism a secret. It’s the perfect way of controlling you and it makes him feel special

- It’s a toxic, co dependent relationship, and Pete couldn’t be any happier.

[itsgivingmami]

“And Burn With Her I Devout Too”

Rhea Ripley x reader

Sappho Fragments- 105a. 16. 49. 1. 34. 48/49(translation dependant) 147. 58.

Before we get into it I just wanted to thank you for the lovely comments, positive reception and generally good vibes you gave on part one. Likes, comments and reblogs are always more than appreciated but just reading is always enough.

—

It’s not immediate.

The night she watched you sleep—whispering poetry into the dark and holding herself back like a saint—she thought maybe she could survive this a little longer. Maybe if she buried it deep enough, she could carry it without spilling.

As the sweet apple blushes on the end of the bough, the very end of the bough which gatherers missed, nay, missed not, but could not reach.

Virtue has never been her strong suit, always destined to enjoy the deep and edged qualities of life. Her tendencies fall toward the macabre—how wonderfully ironic your light feels to her. She’s spent time wondering if maybe you’re supposed to bridge the gap between her and the pearly gates, proof that she hasn’t fallen so far she can’t still reach for heaven.

But each day makes it worse.

It starts small.

At catering, your hand brushes hers reaching for the same plate. You laugh. She doesn’t.

Not because she’s annoyed, but because your fingers linger. Because she can’t help but think of all the things she would do with them. Because your smile hits her like a bruise she asked for, unlike the countless others that come with the job. Because the second you pull away—

She wants you back.

She could be pinning you in piles of poems she’s never written, only spoken softly in the dark. She’s never understood Sisyphus more than she does now. Some might argue she becomes him every time she wins a title just to lose it again—storylines and expectations shifting like wind. But the boulder never seems to fall as fast as her heart does when your attention drifts elsewhere.

She hears someone compliment you backstage—calls you “adorable” in a way that makes her jaw tighten—and you thank them, oblivious, like it means nothing. But Rhea can’t stop thinking about it. Not because of what they said, but because she wants to be the only one allowed to think that. To say it. To prove it.

It’s no use,

Later that week, you show up to rehearsals in a crop top. She chokes on her water, despite needing to cling to the cold it provides.

“Wrong pipe,” she says quickly, as if you haven’t been knocking the air from her lungs daily.

Your laugh is light, unbothered. She plays it off with a smirk, but when you turn around—

She actually growls under her breath.

It’s driving her insane.

You may blame Aphrodite,

You don’t even know what you do to her.

And yet—every moment you exist beside her is another verse etched into the searing script in her chest. You steal her hoodie on a cold walk through the lot. She gives it freely, like anything you could ask for. She’d give all seven of her figures away just to have yours beneath her at night, beside her in the morning.

But she doesn’t mention it.

She can’t.

As soft as she is she has almost killed me,

You curl up on her couch with your legs tucked beneath you, still in that damn crop top, wearing the necklace she bought you three cities ago—something low-key, something no one else would recognize.

You sip, leaving deep red stains on your glass and in her vision, and she can’t stop imagining bruising your mouth with hers. You speak, and she swears no instrument on Earth compares. You tease her, and every time you laugh or glance at her over the rim of your glass, her resolve splinters just a little more.

She’s beginning to crumble—like a statue of Persephone eroding under your sun—finding herself drowning in the fabric of your presence.

She sits beside you in long stretches of silence, just watching the way your lips glisten, the way your bare knee touches her thigh and doesn’t move.

You keep laughing.

You keep sipping.

The stars around the beautiful moon

Hiding their glittering forms

Whenever she shines full on earth

Silver…

You’re not sure when it shifts.

Maybe it’s the way her hand brushes your back as you pass by her in the suite’s kitchenette—soft, deliberate.

Maybe it’s the quiet hum of the speaker in the corner, looping some low, dreamy track like a heartbeat.

Maybe it’s the way she’s watching you now—like she’s stopped pretending not to. Like looking away would wound her.

You’re on her couch again, knees tucked beneath you, sipping from the glass she poured. Your shorts ride higher than you meant them to, and her eyes flick—just once—but it sends heat crawling up your spine.

“Come here,” Rhea says softly.

You look up. Her voice is velvet—unmistakably velvet—but there’s no room for misinterpretation.

You set your glass down slowly, suddenly aware of the silence. The moment feels electric—taut, pulled between two truths aching to finally touch.

“You came and I was longing for you,”

When you move toward her, she meets you halfway. Her palm slides behind your neck, thumb brushing just below your jaw. She tilts your face up with such gentle command that your knees threaten to buckle.

“Do you have any idea,” she breathes, her lips inches from yours, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Not with the way she kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not desperate.

It’s devout.

“You cooled a heart that burned with desire,”

Rhea kisses you like she’s been writing this moment in her mind every night and only now dares to say it aloud. Her mouth moves over yours with aching reverence. Her hand cradles the back of your head like she’s afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

There’s a pessimistic voice in her head urging her to enjoy it before it ends—but the greed takes over before she can silence it. Her other hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against her.

She guides you onto her lap, and you go willingly, breath caught. The second your hips settle, she exhales against your skin, pressing her forehead to your cheekbone.

You both move like tectonic plates—inevitable, earth-shaking, unstoppable. You wouldn’t even notice the destruction around you if it came.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, voice cracked and raw. “You feel like sin.”

Her grip tightens. One hand low on your back, the other trailing heat along your thigh. Her lips find your jaw, the hinge of it, the column of your neck—like an architect building a cathedral out of reverence.

She doesn’t just kiss you.

She reads you—like scripture, like a favorite passage she’s never dared underline before.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she whispers. “And I’ll thank you for it.”

Your fingers tangle in her hair, pulling just enough to make her groan—a sound that clenches something low and primal inside you.

She notices.

Of course she does.

“Me?” you scoff, breath catching. “I’m going to ruin you?”

Rhea slides a hand under your shorts, up the back of your thigh. Her calloused palm drags across soft skin. Goosebumps rise like prayer.

She pauses at the hem of your underwear, exhaling against your throat.

“Say the word,” she murmurs, “and I’ll worship you.”

You don’t say a word.

You kiss her harder instead.

Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time.

Her mouth is everywhere.

Reverent. Relentless.

The way Rhea touches you—it’s not about possession, though it stirs something feral in her soul. It’s about devotion. It’s about memory. She moves like every inch of you holds verses only she’s allowed to read.

You feel drunk on her.

On this.

On the holiness of it.

She mouths at your collarbone, teeth grazing, lips apologizing. Her breath is unsteady. Her hands are not. She maps you like a sacred text, fingers brushing your thighs, rings cool against flushed skin.

“I’ve imagined this,” she confesses, low against your shoulder. “So many fucking times. The way you’d feel. The way you’d sound.”

You try to respond, but each time you open your mouth she steals another sound from it.

She leans back to look at you. Pupils blown. Jaw tight. You touch her cheek softly, willing her to relax.

“You’re more beautiful than I let myself believe.” Her voice breaks just barely. She presses your hand to her cheek, then to her lips—kissing every part of you she can reach.

No part of you is out of her grasp now.

Clothes fall like petals—yours first, then hers. Every inch of bare skin is kissed, praised, held. She mutters soft things you don’t catch, just feel: pet names, affirmations, worship.

She makes you feel small in the safest way. Powerful in her eyes. Eternal beneath her touch.

“Let me take care of you,” she breathes, holding herself above you. “Let me show you what I haven’t had the courage to say.”

You nod.

That’s all she needs.

What follows is slow. Heated. Intentional. She asks with her eyes, listens with her hands. When you fall apart beneath her—soft, trembling, divine—she kisses your temple and whispers your name like a prayer.

Like she’s home.

Like the scales have finally balanced.

Beauty endures only for as long as it can be seen; goodness, beautiful today, will remain so tomorrow.

Time doesn’t exist afterward. Not really.

You’re curled into her chest, cheek to the warmth above her heart. Her fingers trace secret patterns on your spine—circles, hearts, soft lines.

The city hums outside. In here, it’s golden.

You shift. She kisses your forehead. Then your cheek.

“Y’alright?” she asks, voice rough with affection.

You nod. “Heavenly.”

She smiles—crooked, sleepy, dangerously close to love.

She pulls the blanket over your bare shoulders, arms tightening around you. Her nose tucks into your hair. She breathes you in.

And then—

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

A breath. Barely spoken.

You pull back just enough to see her eyes. They’re open. Honest. Vulnerable.

“I already have,” you whisper.

She kisses you again. Slower.

Like the beginning of forever.

You set me on fire, she thinks again.

But this time… she’s not afraid to burn.

Some say an army of horsemen, some say foot soldiers, still others say a fleet of ships is the loveliest thing on the dark earth, but I say it is the one you love.

⸻

[myownwholewildworld]

veni, vidi, victus sum (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: marcus returns from war with the worst news possible. a/n: considering that i started this story here by posting the end first... may i interest you in how it all started? c: i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. pure angst because i don't know any better. death of a secondary character. w/c: 2.3k

July, 106 AD

Marcus’ right hand shook uncontrollably. So much so, he had to wrap his left around the opposite wrist and squeeze as hard as he could, hoping to stop the tremor that suddenly took hold of his muscles and soul.

He hadn't even had time to wash off the mud and sweat. Nor to process everything that had happened in the last few days. Once his mission was done and dusted, only then and in the privacy of his own company, would he give himself permission to break down. He would be a terrible General if he let himself be dominated by emotion at such important moment for the Empire.

Returning from Dacia after an intense campaign, Marcus had been at the head of the Roman column that would carry out the offensive towards the east of the Dacian capital, Sarmizegetusa, while General Atticus, his inseparable friend to whom he would have blindly entrusted his life, and son-in-law to Emperor Traianus, led the battle towards the center of the town.

That week the Empire had annexed a new region that would bring great wealth. But Marcus, personally, had lost much more than what he truly had gained. Lady Justice had spoken, letting the balance tip completely in favour of collective Roman rule and not his personal one.

Marcus walked between the marble columns of a secluded hallway in the Domus Flavia, the public area of ​​the Imperial Palace on Palatine Hill, as if he was an umbra. He put one foot in front of the other automatically, his mind on a land more than six hundred Roman miles away.

The siege of the Dacian capital to the east had been especially bloody. The enemy had presented a good strategy; the thread of many souls being skewed by the Parcae on both fronts. Among them, that of his own son, Augustus. At eighteen years old, he had been a great military promise, the best candidate to one day replace his father.

If Marcus closed his eyes, he could still remember Augustus’ warm, battered body in his arms. His empty orbs, observing the infinite, reflected the horror of his last seconds in this world. A thick and rudimentary pilum protruding from his chest was a macabre picture Marcus would have trouble forgetting. Its tip so sharp, it had pierced through the segmented lorica with ease, embedding itself in his heart, blood still gushing out.

By the time Marcus’ knees hit the ground by Augustus’ side, Pluto had already claimed his son to join His ranks. The bloodshed had continued to unfold around him, a maddening dance of swords, as if the world had not just stopped —as if Marcus had not just lost the only reason that kept him standing.

His reality had just sunk into the blackest misery and the rest of humanity was there, present yet impassive, blind to his pain.

But there had been no time to grieve — not there, during the darkest hour.

An enemy sword hovered over him, and he had to react.

When the battle died down and his soldiers celebrated the victory, Marcus dragged the corpse of his only son to the edge of some oleanders, where he managed to dig a hole with the help of his gladius and his own fingers.

Time was of the essence, which prevented him from laying Augustus to rest following the rituals of the Roman religion. He could only place a bronze coin over Augustus' mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, before throwing dirt on him. He then had composed himself as best he could, letting the General's façade fall on his face, and headed east, unaware that his friend Atticus had suffered a similar end.

On one day alone, he had lost two of the most important people in his life.

His mind returned to the present. From his right hand hung the decapitated head of Decebalus, already so decomposed that there was no blood left inside. The coward had tried to escape to Ranisstorum and, in his last desperate moments, committed suicide when Marcus and another officer, Tiberius Maximus, were hunting him down.

Finding his enemy defeated by his own demons was an anticlimactic moment, given the events of the previous days. Tiberius circumambulated towards Sarmizegetusa again, while Marcus and his legion, along with Atticus’, returned to Rome.

He was defeated, physically and mentally. Marcus just wanted to finish that damned mission and return to his villa. An empty one, devoid of a family he once revered.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in the throne room, with Emperor Traianus staring at him, a sardonic smile painting his lips. After placing the head of Decebalus at the feet of the Emperor, he gave his last report of war. When the time came to deliver the news that his son-in-law, General Atticus, had perished in battle, the smile faded from Traianus’ face. That would be a hard blow to recover from.

Marcus explained the details that had been entrusted to him, omitting the death of his firstborn and ending with the fact that Atticus’ legion was carrying his corpse through the streets of Rome at that very moment, heading to the basilica of the Domus Flavia to begin with the funeral rites.

At least one of the two would have proper burial.

He said goodbye with deferential courtesy and shuffled out of there. He still had one last assignment: to inform the wife of General Atticus and daughter of the Emperor, you.

With heavy feet, Marcus ambled towards the most private wing of the Palace, the Domus Augustana. One of the maids guided him through the unfamiliar corridors, leaving him in front of a basin raised on a half column. Marcus took the hint, realising that there was still dirt—and specks of dried blood—embedded in his face. He did as he was asked, drying his skin with a linen cloth, before resuming his pace.

Finally, they stopped in front of double doors, and the maid knocked.

A minute later, they swung open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Marcus bowed his aching back, keeping his eyes on the expensive stone that lined the floor.

“Domina mea (my lady),” he greeted you with deference.

Keeping busy while worry stalked the back of your mind was a colossal task. One you should have been used to by now, but it was nonetheless nerve-wracking.

Having to wait around until you heard news from your husband was not how you wanted to spend your days, but for love you had to. For Rome, you had to. Your husband, Resius Atticus, was your father’s most trusted ally, which meant he was kept away from you for long nights.

You flicked through the pages of the shabby parchment, its ink slowly fading with the passage of time. Finding yourself reading the same paragraph again, you decided to put it aside. You curled up on the chaise lounge, hugging your knees as the sun filtered through the slit window — a ray of sunshine kissing your skin, leaving a warm trail.

Closing your eyes, you revelled in the rare moment of quiet, of peace, a smile lingering on the corners of your mouth.

A knock on the door swept the instant away, and then your heart fluttered uncontrollably.

Today was the day when Resius was meant to return. To his duties in the court, but also to you. You looked forward to settling back into a routine with him, lazy afternoons spent by the private gardens, talking sweet nothings to each other. Despite the years spent by his side, you didn’t tire of him, of your unbreakable relationship.

So, when you swung the double doors open with a pearly smile tugging at your lips, you did not expect to see your husband’s best friend instead.

Your heart suddenly stopped in your chest, swelling to an uncomfortable point. It stretched, a crawling feeling tearing your skin apart from the inside out.

Widened eyes, they locked on his, searching for answers and finding none. Marcus wore an impassible expression, but the way he averted his glassy eyes told you everything you needed to know.

This could only mean one thing. Your worst nightmare taking form, escaping from your dreams and filtering into reality.

Still shocked, you saw the server scurrying away, leaving you alone with the General — but not your General.

“May I come in, Augusta (Imperial Princess)?” his soft voice broke through your blocked eardrums.

Jarred, you nodded, stepping aside to let Acacius in.

You stood there, numb and confounded, your brain trying to find another reason for General Acacius’ visit.

“Please, let us sit down,” Acacius spoke gently, a firm hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the chaise lounge.

This truly felt like a dream, ethereal and foggy, something your vivid imagination had come up with during an unrequited afternoon nap. That had to be it, because this could not be it. You still had a thousand lives to live besides Resius — you had prayed to the Gods for his safe return and they never failed you.

Under Acacius’ direction, you sat down, the pillow underneath giving way to the weight of both of you.

“Domina mea, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword, defending two of his fallen soldiers from certain death,” his words shook your system, the numbness taking hold of all your being.

Silence lingered, and you both sat there with eyes fixed on nothing.

This just wasn’t real, couldn’t be. You refused to register such cruel information, shaking your head to unhear what had been spoken aloud.

“No, you have to be wrong, Acacius. I am sure you are,” you finally replied, eyes looking for his tired orbs. A hand flew to one of his resting on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You are wrong. This must be some twisted joke.”

Acacius’ sight did not lie though. You could see the pain emanating from his eyes, the utter bareness they exuded. With pursed lips, he just stared at you, his free hand hovering over yours on his knee until he stroked it warmly.

“I am truly sorry, Domina mea. I… I wish I was lying,” his voice faltered momentarily. “I lament not having been by his side. Had I been, I would have gladly traded my life for his. I would have…”

Acacius did not finish the sentence, because the wail that tore through your throat interrupted him. A fresh wound split your chest in half, all emotions pouring out in a sudden burst. Tears welled up, blurring your vision, and you clutched at your chest, your lungs shrinking with your heart. A burning sensation filled you and then deserted you, leaving you empty, cold — broken.

Losing Resius was a death sentence to your heart, to your soul. To all you were and would be. Life would not—could not—be the same if he was no longer brightening it for you. Hope was no longer your companion, the easy happiness that usually shimmered within you all gone with the blow of a few simple words.

Something crawled inside you, twisting and twitching and breaking and consuming. Something dark, something sad, something shattered. Grief suffocated your heart. This was not pain, this was torment. Living hell.

The raw intensity of it all clouded your mind. Your fractured soul looking for a chink of solace, wanting to cling onto a sliver of hope. Before thinking, you let go of the dam of your emotions, sobs flooding your mouth, as you turned around and hugged Acacius.

Little did it matter the blood and dirt on his worn armour, you needed the comfort of a friendly shoulder. Acacius would understand your pain, the suffering that crushed your soul, because he had also lost his best friend. The two of them had been inseparable for decades — you both had lost someone important that day. He would understand. You knew he did.

Threading your arms around his shoulders, you cried your sorrow in the crook of his neck, kind palms rubbing your back, commending your pain to leave your body. So, you wept until your eyes were bloodshot, until they itched and dried like a river during the worst drought of the century. Trickles of tears stained your cheeks, lashes clumping together under the heaviness of tearful dew.

Time was lost to the dragging pain, and only when Acacius’ hands stroked your shoulders, did you venture a look in his direction, leaning back. The naked expression on his face told you how much agony he carried. The soreness his eyes distilled was on par with yours.

“I am sorry for your loss too,” you offered your condolences. After all, he had lost his best friend. “I trust that your son Augustus found his way back home safe.”

Before their departure, Acacius and his son had paid you both a visit, a meal shared at night between old friends’ jests and company. You remembered Augustus’ enthusiasm to make his father proud on their first campaign together. How Acacius had looked at his heir with adulation and pride — the apple of his eyes. Acacius’ wife had died during childbirth, which had only reinforced the close relationship between father and son.

A feeble smile loitered on his mouth, a brief nod putting your mind at ease. Neither of you needed more suffering tonight.

“He is resting now,” was his succinct reply.

But Acacius always was, so his reassurance soothed your soul a little.

At least Acacius and his son had made it out alive.

[varian-caboose]

I was at the ritual!! Here's the stuff I remember (it's probably not all of them I'm very forgetful). Obviously spoilers under the cut

This won't be in order.

Opened with the intro for the new album (peacefields). Spirit, ritual, majesty, devil church, from the pinnacle to the pit, year zero, mummy dust, the future is a foreign land, monstrance clock, rats, darkness at the heart of my love, mary on a cross to finish, square hammer, satanized, lachryma, Kiss the go-goat, He Is, dance macabre, and a new song for Skeletá

If I remember more, I'll reblog with it!!

Anyway, more onto the actual show. INCREDIBLE. The lighting rig above Papa was in the shape of a grucifix and rose or sank depending on the song. It was so cool and immersive!! The confetti went EVERYWHERE during mummy dust!! I've got some in my pocket right now, it's all silver. And then more came down at the end of dance macabre!! That was all rainbow. I only got a small yellow one from that though

The visuals on screen were insane. For certain songs the lyrics came up!! Like in Monstrance clock, it read 'come together, together as one, come together for lucifers son'. And for the majority of the show, the screens showed the regular church-like backdrop. But then after one song, the backdrop changed (I think it was after year zero). And it was like the stained glass of it shattered, leaving a starry night sky. And after a few moments of peaceful quiet music, 'he is' started playing!! And the starry night sky changed to dawn.

The Ghouls are awesome!! Rain, Swiss and the Ghoulettes were wearing the nun's veil, while Mountain, Dew, and Phamtom all had the top hats and regular skeleton outfits (I'm not exactly sure about this because I couldn't see very well). They were in their usual positions!!

At some point, the visuals changed completely. Mummy Dust was Incredible, same as monstrance clock and Dance Macabre was INSANE.

Any questions are welcome <3