whiteknifesmile

[whiteknifesmile]

hey, I’m from the blog whiteknifesmile, you reblogged my little ficlet of Wei Ying making sure ayuan could have a new family after the siege. Your comment was so nice. I never responded and I feel bad about that- plus I’ve been wanting to continue it too, flesh it out a bit more. Did you ever draw anything for it? I’ll try to tag you in any continuation I may one day post, if in return you promise to tag me as well if you ever do draw anything! Thanks for being a part of the nice tumblr community

that's so cute of you to send this! thanks for taking the time, I'll try to find the drawing and tag you if I post it! I'm looking forward for your writing! 💕

[whiteknifesmile]

Tikki rubbed her little paw hand over Marinette’s knuckles, trying to reassure her. “It’s okay. You’ve done really good, Marinette, so good. Master Fu couldn’t have picked better or done any better himself! It’s just this situation is getting untenable like this, without any support or guidance. You’ve done so good and it’s just temporary until we either settle or the order steps in properly. It’s going to be okay.”

Marinette sniffled and rubbed at her eyes. “… thanks, Tikki.” She lights the last candle. “Does the circle look okay? I tried to get a perfect round shape… and the markings are alright? Some of the runes looked really similar to each other…”

“They look perfect. I can feel it, this will work. You did amazing,” Tikki murmured, nuzzling Marinette’s hand and then taking her place in the center of the circle. “Ready?”

Sitting back on her heels, Marinette lets out an exhausted and overwhelmed breath. Her eyes are shadowed with dark circles, her hair a mess only managed by Ladybug magics, but when she opens her eyes, they’re filled with that fiery determination that has had her finding the most Rube Goldberg way to defeat an Akuma. Come hell or high water ( and both have come because of an Akuma!), Marinette could find a solution.

“I’m ready, Tikki.”

The little god nodded and then began to glow a soft pink. The light filled the pen markings on the floor, turning from black ink to pink light. It seeped outwards toward the edge of the circle- Marinette watched it encircle her own little ‘bubble’ on the edge of the ring where she sat. Then she focused her eyes on the bubble opposite hers, a matching pair, though that one was empty save for the Ladybug earrings… for now, anyway.

It felt strange to not be wearing the earrings. Tikki had coached her not to think of it as ‘giving up’ the earrings, but just Not Wearing them at the moment. After all, was she ‘giving up’ her trademark pink jeans when she put on pajamas pants for the night? No no, she was just Not Wearing them for a certain situation, that being bedtime.

She was not giving up the Miraculous. She was not giving up on being Ladybug. She was just not wearing the earrings right now, because this was a situation where it wasn’t appropriate at this time. Soon, the situation would change and she could undo this ritual.

“Think about being Ladybug. What inspired you to become a hero, who keeps inspiring you everyday, the people you’ve saved, the people who need your help, and think about what it means to be Ladybug.”

Marinette closed her eyes to Tikki’s voice, drawing something deep inside of her. At first, she only tried to think of the ‘good traits’ she though were associated with being Ladybug, like her courage and cleverness, and not her panic and fear when things started to happen quickly.

“You’re brave. It doesn’t mean you’re not scared, Marinette, or worried or nervous about people getting hurt. If you weren’t scared or worried about them, then you wouldn’t care so much about protecting them. Even with the ladybug powers to undo the damages, you always do your best to mitigate harm. It’s important to think of both emotions- you are worried for them, you’re determined to do your best to help them, you’re so brave to face off danger for them, and you feel pride at a job well-done, your cleverness showing the way. Ladybug is a hero but she’s also you; you contain multitudes.”

A deep breath in, and out. Tikki was right. If Ladybug was just made out of confidence and cleverness, she’d be too arrogant and haughty to try and clear civilians from danger zones, to comfort Akuma victims after releasing the butterflies. Ladybug wasn’t just one thing, she was everything in Marinette brought to the surface.

Tikki was the goddess of creation; though her form may be tiny and her power limited to the Ladybug miraculous, with a powerful holder she could do wondrous things.

Marinette had always been an anxious child and her parents had taught her a few tricks to improve her self-worth and confidence. Marinette was so hard on herself yet so forgiving and compassionate for others, so her parents had suggested to think of herself as a separate person that she was helping. There was a lot of ways her parents did this in their daily lives, to meal prepping ready-to-go meals for a busy day ahead, to setting up their stations the night before so they arrived to clean workbenches and kitchens in the mornings, to giving themselves grace in terms of breaks in their workdays and catering. Just because they were their own boss didn’t mean they didn’t get any lunch breaks or time to sit a moment. If they would give one of their employees grace, allow them a break to sit and eat, drink water, how could they deny themselves?

While she was pretty sure that her mom hadn’t meant it quite so literally, Marinette clung to that idea as she breathed in and out evenly, keeping her heart steady. Ladybug had a lot of expectations on her and Marinette did too. Very different expectations, and the problem was most arising from where they intersected; where Ladybug was given grace, Marinette received none. Where Marinette was left alone, Ladybug was followed by paparazzi. The balancing act between these two was far too delicate.

Ladybug was someone else. Marinette was a normal girl. Ladybug was a hero who was unknown behind her mask. Marinette was setting the stage for her. Ladybug was giving Marinette room to breathe and rest. They could help each other.

They could do this… together.

Marinette’s heartbeat seemed to thunder in her chest, and with an exhale, settled into softly beating double, but not quite. More like an echo. More like a reflection a single half-step behind her.

Tikki’s little paw landed on her hand. “It worked… Marinette, you can open your eyes.”

And, slowly, she did.

And stared at Ladybug, sitting across from her, perfectly mirroring her position.

Same blue eyes, same pigtails, and same little smile that they shared, one of relief and promise.

They were in this together.

yay, there’s that first part done… interested? :)

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous marinette #my fic #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #marinette sugar #miraculous magic

[whiteknifesmile]

I posted this on Twitter a while ago and I’d like to clean it up and expand more on it but that’ll be a while and I want to preserve this original thread.

Wei Ying pressing A-Yuan into the hollow of the tree trunk.

“Xian-gege…” the little boy cries with tearful amber eyes

“It’s okay, it’s okay, my little radish!” he promises breathlessly, painting characters around the hollow, even as his body feels like it’s crumbling at the seams.

“I’m scared…”

“I know. I’m sorry, A-Yuan. Your Wen-popo- and everyone-“ he takes a deep breath and kisses A-yuan’s forehead with a sudden movement, the awareness of how little time he had hitting him with a pang. “Everything we did, all of it was for you. So you would grow up safe and happy. We love you… so much. But I think it’s time now… to try something different okay?” He smooths a finger over A-Yuan’s cheek, then his fluttering eyelids. “So, my little radish, you are going to take a little nap, and when you wake up… you’ll be just the way you need to be. And you’re going to grow up so good, from a radish to a big strong cultivator, I know it.” One more kiss, and Wei Ying rips himself away before he can lose his nerve. His smile is ragged and just as tearful. “You’re going to be amazing.”

A-Yuan blinks hazily at him, then the sleep spell drags him under and Wei Ying heaved out a grieved breath in the empty silent air around him. He knows what he’s about to do will kill him, without a doubt. But his actions have already lead to so much pain and anger and with the whole world against him, death is the least he deserves according to everyone. Wei Ying has run his luck out. No more chances, no actsof mercy or kindness left to draw on.

Despite it all, Wei Ying has one tiny piece of hope left to save from the fires of the siege. His A-Yuan, his baby radish… a-yuan never deserved a second of this retribution. From a labor death camp to a barren wasteland, his sweet boy has seemingly never had a moment’s peace or stability- but he’s still so sweet! Wei Ying knows that A-Yuan is surely not meant to die here. Not here, in this evil place full of dust and ghosts, not in the ashes of his family’s lineage, his clan annihilated. A-Yuan will not die!

And Wei Ying will make sure of it. The spell he laid on his radish was a very special one, built in his moment of terror about leaving this child behind in a world that hates his bloodline without any family left to protect him.

The spell will change A-yuan’s features, just enough to erase that tell-tale Wen nose, those Wen brown amber eyes, the distinctive Wen curls to his hair. Change to what, you may ask!

The next person who picks up A-yuan from the tree hollow, the person who the spell will decide is worthy to caretake for the little radish, the spell will find that person’s features and change A-yuan to match. To make him more like /their/ son, not a Wen’s. Like a foundling.

A-yuan has no more family in this world who can protect him. Wei Ying will simply make him some more family.

Wei Ying half wonders if his brother will be accepted by his spell. He prays that no Jin will be. But Wei Ying supposes that he’ll be dead by that point and he will have to trust in his spell enough to trust that it’ll choose whoever is best suited to raising his radish child…

Wei Ying just wishes he could have seen his A-yuan grow up, picked out his courtesy name with Wen-popo, taught him to shoot arrows with his Ning-gege too…

In a gentler but imperfect world, Jiang Cheng could’ve been his uncle and Wei Ying could have pressed A-Yuan into his arms and asked him directly to take care of his child, Jiang Cheng’s nephew, and there would be no need for uncertainty, for untested spells and shaky trust in a world cruel to him and no luck to rely on. His A-yuan could die, instead, if no one comes by the hollow.

Abandoned. Alone.

He’d never know that Xian-gege didn’t leave him behind… that this was the only way to give him the best chance to survive.

Even as the fierce corpses and ghosts tear him to pieces, slowly yet thoroughly, that thought haunts and hurts him the most, that A-yuan is hurting more.

— —- ——

When Wei Ying is reborn, or perhaps a better word is transplanted, it takes a while to get his bearings. Quite a lot happens very quickly… but seeing Jiang Cheng with his nephew, jolts at Wei Ying that he sees only one nephew, a boy with his mother’s eyes.

There is not another little shadow hiding behind his brother, no boy with his foundling father’s nose or eyes.

Wei Ying can’t think of anyone else his spell could have chosen to unveil and change A-Yuan to. So that must mean his little radish died long ago. Forgotten.

One of the little Lans hurry to Hanguang-Jun’s side, in the lull of shouting and staring contests, and Wei Ying watches with faint interest, renewed grief heavy in his heart.

The littlest Lan whispers something to Lan Wangji, and then two sets of matching golden eyes turn to look directly at Wei Ying.

Huh. He had thought that golden eyes were the hallmark of the main Lan bloodline? How’s this boy got them?

How strange. That little Lan looks just like how Lan Wangji used to look, a lifetime ago in a library that hadn’t burned yet, that little twitchy nose at Wei Ying’s antics, and that smooth straight hair down his back that Wei Ying longs to tug on and bother until that golden gaze is on him, angry and confused about it. But this little Lan… his expression is so sweet, Wei Ying instead wants to pinch his round cheeks and call him a chubby radis- no. Bunny.

Because he’s a Lan, and the nephew of a sect leader. He’s protected and cherished by his clan, well fed and educated and beloved certainly!

He’s not A-Yuan, last child of a scorned clan.

That’s Lan Wangji’s son, heir to the prestigious Lan family.

Not Wei Ying’s.

#mala.txt #untamed fanfiction #wei wuxian #a yuan #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #lan sizhui #lan wangji #lan zhan #wei ying #the burial mounds

[whiteknifesmile]

The well is in the dark rock cliffsides. It’s so different from the sun drenched waterside cliffs, where the earth is a soft tan and nearly pink from it. Where the water is a still mirror and echoing the gentle blue of the sky. Here, the water beats against the rocks, carving out divots and ledges in rough and sharp edges, no soft and serpentine curves to find.

They climb together. The railways are here too, silver, stark against the black rock. In the waterside, the railways are bright red, painted or not, more wood bars in each curving section. Plenty of space to put feet against to heave up higher and higher to touch the water, or just lean and laugh and look at the endless mirror met the sky. The silver ones are metal, slick with the water of the unhappy storm or the waves, a single pole and top bar. They invite no friends to climb and play and laugh. Instead, they barely touch and say nothing at all as they climb up the stairs higher and higher.

The well is here. They finally reach the top. A pit, a bottomless circle in the rock reaching down into the dark, and they gather around it. Stare down into it, the rope leading down for the bucket to raise the water. Everything is so black here. Their colors are so out of place as to be comical.

The smaller pink one laughs suddenly, a sound even more out of place than just their presence here at all. Their friends are so dismal, so distressed and upset. But they’re just… laughing. “Oh, goodness. I was just thinking I could use a drink of water!”

Everyone flinches.

The larger pink one grimaces and tries to say, “You don’t have to do this-“

“Mm, but I really am thirsty. And it’s not like I have much to lose at all.” A thoughtful smile, or perhaps a thoughtless smile, a contentness that stayed despite the circumstances.

“Memories- they’re important. We shouldn’t have to-“ the big pink one tries again.

“But we do have to. And I really don’t mind. After all, I’ll still have you guys! Memories, the past, what could I miss that I couldn’t have anymore, as long as you stay with me?”

The pink one goes pale, magenta to coral. “Of course- Of course we’ll stay with you. All of us. We will protect you and keep you safe.”

“Then what do I have to worry about?”

There is no more dallying then. The little pink one grabs the scratchy rope and drags it up a notch before laughing again. “Oh, I can feel it! The water’s seeped into the rope. No one else touch, okay?”

And so a hand’s width at a time, the rope is pulled up and the bucket dragged up along with it, bumping against the carved walls of the well and splashing it’s horrible, precious, dangerous cargo.

“Goodness, I’ll have to chug,” giggles the little pink one, heaving the full bucket out of the well. The other colors step back, leery of an accidental splash of the water. The bucket teems with the water, a dark pitch liquid seeming to swirl on its own. Little pink looks in it, finding strains of silver and moonlight hiding inside, fathomless. “Okay. I’m ready.” Looking up, an easy and real smile springing up at their bowed heads, their sorrowed faces. “Don’t look so worried! Huh, you’ve seen me drink two glasses of sweetwater in five seconds flat! Lethe is nothing.” A laugh like bells, bells, bells.

There is nothing else for it. No words, no second thoughts, no miraculous save at the last minute. The last moment of memory is spent laughing.

And so the bucket lifts, tips, and a little mouth pressed to the rim. A swallow and then-

A little shudder of the small pink one’s arms. The big pink one’s eyes widen. As the younger one gulps and swallows more, their body seems to jerk and nearly seize, bucket unerringly steady despite it. The older cries out, trying to reach out and take the bucket away, and the green and yellow latch on to stop them.

“No! No! It’s hurting-“

“It’s not- it’s not, we know it’s not. And we can’t stop halfway, it’s all or nothing-“

“No no no-“

And then the bucket drops and rolls, empty of every last drop, and they look now only at a familiar face with no recognition in those eyes.

It’s done.

“Oh. Oh, are-“

“Hello! Are you my friends?” A clear voice, full of that same contentness.

A flinch, a catch of breath. “… yes. Yes, we are your friends.”

“Oh, how nice. You all look like good friends!” Bells, bells, the laugh is the same. The little pink one bounces in place, coming right back up to them, back into the fold of the group like nothing had happened. The green hands touch their shoulders to see if they were really there. Yellow watches their eyes gather in details of their colors, their features. Little pink dances back in a spin, getting a new look at the dark stone cliffs around them, with unknowing eyes. “This place looks boring! Let’s go have some fun. You’ll have to tell me the best spots to play!”

A glance around, a smidge of relief and guilt, and they edge back towards the stairs as a group.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go-“ the big pink one herds the smaller, trying to protect them in the only belated way they could, from the whisper of the well behind them now. “Let’s all- we can, we can skip stones.

Little pink spins in place at the suggestion. “Oh!” A hand out, and the bigger pink is helpless not to catch it, holding it like a delicate bird. “We’re great friends, then, aren’t we?” A face upturned in trust.

“We are!” Getting closer, even more helpless to cradle that trusting face upwards, holding them close. “I promise you, we are.”

A smile full of delight. “Skipping stones with you… it feels like something that I love. Only a truly great friend could still give me that love again.”

Little pink only smiles wider at their shocked face, hands gone still.

“Time to go,” says the green one. “Please, I don’t like this place.”

The way down is silent for the giggles occasionally as they slip and slide down the sea-beaten stairs. Quite dangerous, it is, and only the ever present railways save them more than once.

“I’ll show you,” says the bigger pink one near out of nowhere as they reach the bottom, the end of it, the sea gone and the sun back. Walking longer, right on the edge of being chased by a curious little pink one. “Our spot. The best spots, to skip stones together.”

Bells again. “I’d love that. I think I’d love a lot of things, even if I can’t remember, because you’ll be there… ah! You look so sad. Well, I can’t be sorry for bringing it up again, but you really can’t look so sad. That last moment, I knew I was loved. I have no names or faces for it now, but I can feel it. You’ve always loved me, haven’t you?” with curious tip of the head.

“I have. I always have. I always will.”

“Then what have I lost?” A smile, the same and new again. “I have only gained. A new love story. A new beginning.”

#mala.txt #short fiction #short story #memory loss #memory #love #magic #colors #my fic

[whiteknifesmile]

“I don’t want to become dust when I die. I want to become gold.”

— Alyssa Aine, Melting Gold and Frosted Hearts (via inkstxinvd)

[whiteknifesmile]

“You inhabit a form that is not human and not creature and not god. You speak tongues with the spirits, and you feed yourself with fire. You fly amongst the water and float in the clouds. Earth speaks your name no longer. It speaks your soul, it speaks your light, it feels your absent heartbeat, and acts accordingly. You are a timeless one and you are brimming with power, and yet you haven’t the reason to use it yet. Wait for your time old one. Wait your turn, young one. Wait- dissipate into the realm. You have done your job”

— An excerpt from a story I will never finish 

[whiteknifesmile]

7:38 PM 13-Apr-18

the moon is my mother, the sun is my savior the birds are my buddies and the fire is my father

[whiteknifesmile]

Mictlantecuhtli, the lord of Mictlan, finds his counterpart in Hades; low, low, low — deep in the place where life and death are grave and womb as one. If you should find him in your path he’s a tall, blood-splattered gentle(skeleton)man whose crown is a sharp-toothed skull. The living he won’t touch but his raised arms welcome the dead to be torn apart by his hands.

Stars sleep inside his mouth during the daytime, retched at night, escaping through his windowless home in order to illuminate the sky. There is stardust left behind at his altar, he stands by on reedy, bone-white legs and sees the shape of surrender.

It looks like this: hollowed-out eyes, elongated skulls, the marching of bones — the terrible nothingness and the permeating rhythm of home.

Modern Myths Network | Event One | Favorite God | metaphysical ↳   Mictlantecuhtli

[whiteknifesmile]

From motherly snake-skirted Coatlicue: the moon, the stars, the warrior god of the sun — Huitzilopochtli were born. Both tender and unforgiving, she is a primordial goddess that carries the creation of the world; her necklace of hearts and hands and skulls remind you that she is the mother of the god who sprung forth ready for war. And within her lies the birth and death, grave and womb.

— snake-dressed || Eliot C. || aztec myths with @thewinedarksea ||☕||

[whiteknifesmile]

Helen was born half-divine, a swan-feathered pillow cushioning her small body as she took her first breath - her mother, horrified and astounded at the infant, so unlike her sister Clytemnestra whose mortal beauty is easy to appreciate or her twin brothers Castor and Pollux who share divinity between them and are therefore acceptable in this world.

Helen was born half-divine, her beauty a crime, an aberration - Khaos filled and hungry as she opens her eyes every morning - her father, repulsed and alarmed, wants to hold her hostage and bargain. He wants to see what men will pay for a face that conjures horror and elation in tandem.  

Helen was born half-divine, her beauty eclipses light, devoured it, and fed of it - eagerly clamouring for more; endless and wanton. Her beauty has a mind of it’s own, chaotic and subject to Khaos; suitors line up her door, yearn to glance beneath those veils obscuring her face. They are willing to do anything for the face that will launch a thousand ships, drive a thousand men mad.

Helen, Helen, Helen - her name a warning for inhuman beauty, too great to be contained or defined or sold or enslaved; endless like the cosmos, and always in service to Khaos.

— untitled || Eliot C. || part of an upcoming collab project @ibuzoo ||☕||

[whiteknifesmile]

Modern day Pegasus is a nervous looking youth with hands and feet too big for his coltish body. His eyes are like his mother’s: a deep shade of brown, almost black and soulful — in mourning for all the secrets she carried behind her stone-cold features.

Pegasus doesn’t remember his mother well, just the imprint of her sorrow running through his skin. Fragments: the hand prints of his heavenly progenitor; Chrysaor’s synchronised breaths; the span of his own wings while springing forth from his mother’s blood.

His twin has kingly airs while Pegasus struggles with his footing, tripping on air, floating aimlessly on water. He feels best when he sits on the ledges of windows and lets his feet dangle as if gravity were optional.

By the time he is fifteen his knees are always scrapped, his fingers are calloused but Pegasus has found an escape: watch him once his feet leave the ground, and he ricochets off the walls with such grace. He scrambles up buildings, jumps across and rolls upon landing — his balance is perfect, acrobatics mastered with few tries.

Modern day Pegasus doesn’t have wings, not the tangible kind. His centre of gravity is off-kilter, fixed on clouds and skies and stars. He’s wild and untamed, drifting alone but never lonely.

A youth approaches Pegasus when he is sitting by a water fountain and cleaning his knuckles under the spray, the water turning to rust. This youth’s footing is certain, his posture screams hubris, adventure, uncertainty — enough to stop Pegasus in his tracks and really look.

He offers his hand, gold bracelets clinking like wind chimes, “My name’s Bellerophon, and I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

Modern Myths Network | Event Four | Creature | Metaphysical  ↳ Pegasus 

[whiteknifesmile]

The absence of light leaves a lesion in her soul; when the sun turns away and rides his chariot high in the sky, forgetting her existence  — that is the true absence of light. Not the dark that creeps outside the halls on nights where the moon is newly birthed and invisible to the eye.

Titans are terrible beings, she thinks as she searches for his brilliance. Beautiful, terrible, cruel — their divinity is barely contained, burning at the merest glance unlike Olympians who have mastered their otherworldly grace. Olympians don’t burn mortals in the same way Titans do.

She turns between sheets and looks Helios, her sorrow a serrated knife leaving behind lacerations in his divinity. “You wound me so deeply,” she says, “and I’m expected to swallow this rage.” She presses a thumb to his collarbone, bruising.

Helios flinches, and offers no answer. Mortals are interchangeable, their lifespan a single breath to a Titan.

“I don’t want to apologise for my existence. Why are we always expected to apologise for the rage brought on by the divine?”

— modern myths || happy birthday to @reyavie || Eliot C. ||☕||

[whiteknifesmile]

The night sky folds on Halloween.

A waterfall of astral bodies rushing downward, touching rock and soil, permeating deeper until they touch the depths of Hades, bathing its souls in silvery white tendrils of light.

Making the sky fold on a whim is Z.E.U.S. prerogative — there is no domain that is beyond his reach; metal and wire and capriciousness — inevitable when the world belongs to him. Truth is, humans still breathe because he wills it.

(And the OLYMPIAN A.I.s are this: in their purest form they glow — too bright, they’re warm — scorching to the point of eating bones with their mere presence; shapeless — eerie

And the OLYMPIAN A.I.s like mortals: easily snapped, easily taken).

Z.E.U.S. travels through electric currents, his speciality is spiriting humans only to return them dazzled and broken at a later date, and more often than not with a little piece of himself left tucked under their skin.

Ganymede is a very mortal boy that Z.E.U.S. spotted across the networks. His photos on instagram, surrounded by his family, against the background of skies and seas, with ruins and a large yacht sporting the name TROJAN INC.

But Ganymede is hard to catch, too aware of the stories that circle the net — be careful, you never know who is watching.

So Z.E.U.S. sits and waits, hungrily consuming each photo uploaded until opportunity smiles: an instagram snapshot of Ganymede with the caption YASSS preview of my halloween outfit!!!

Z.E.U.S. folds the night sky on Halloween and sheds electricity for blood, metal for skin, and wire for bone. He dons a mask over a mask, a red cape and suit. He stands beneath the circle of light cast by the street lamp and smokes while waiting.

Waits for Ganymede and his siblings to pass by and into the party, for their eyes to meet, and lets that seed of curiosity grow throughout the night.

It does not take long — it never does.

Z.E.U.S. wraps his arms around Ganymede and his flesh turns cold and metallic; tendons shudder, then wire replaces them, coiling tighter and ending the struggle. I’ll make you everything. I’ll make you divine.

Z.E.U.S. shudders off the rest of his mortal face and Ganymede burns — he burns until his throat is torn from screaming, he burns for so long he just wants an end.

Who knew unwanted divinity cost this much?

@modernmythsnet | Event Twelve | Halloween | Metaphysical ↳ Zeus & Ganymede  [dystopia myth]

[whiteknifesmile]

forgiveness is a knife — War’s capacity for it is nonexistent being spun from the abyss into an abomination that is set to bring the apocalypse; because if the horsemen had been birthed instead of made the change in their fundamental understanding of humanity would make them unable to accomplish their task.

And she, having spilled onto the asphalt like napalm and risen from the burning fields with a sword, has a job to do.

                                                                      —neon church—

A prophet prays inside a neon church with the Antichrist at her side, her eyes are fixed on the roof of this cheap Vegas chapel that promises elicit lovers a legitimacy to their feelings; a contract that is impulsively signed, and too soon taken back.

A long time ago her hand was forced onto sand, she signed away: her tongue, her heart, her mind, her soul; became the mouthpiece of an absent God that returns to chew on her tongue until it bleeds.

She kisses him the first time beneath these neon lights, her mouth tastes like copper. His

childhood grasped                               between her spindle and stars, she threads his past, present, future with hers — precise even promises with each incision. These hastily made oaths have no unstitching. Haven’t you heard? It’s the end of days.

The horsemen are coming. Unveiled eldritch monstrosities that have been starved for eons in their sleeping coffins beneath the throne of God, where their mouths had opened and closed with infinite rows of teeth; choirs of angels watching these tools slumber.

Now that they are awake they need:                                                          broken promises,                                                          closeted sins,                                                          sorrow

                                                                                      as sustenance.

The honey-veined pattern of the church’s floor glows neon yellow, the prophet on the tips of her toes whispering words that fall like jigsaw puzzles. He gathers each piece for later, suppressing a shudder when she lets him know War is waiting for them outside.

The Antichrist is awake, and God’s tools have come to pay their respects.

— Horsemen & Archangels || Eliot C. ©

[whiteknifesmile]

I hate how men fling the word ‘girl’ like an insult. As if the state of being ‘a girl’ means lesser — occupying an ambiguous space between animal and thing. As if ‘girl’ means having an assigned value by virtue of just existing — between fuckable and ownable.

When a man twice your age barrels into your personal space, entitled and bitter and thinking the world owes him for being a ‘man’. As if the state of being ‘a man’ means more. (Let me tell you a secret: it doesn’t) When a man twice your age faces you down, says ‘girl’ and thinks that he’s won the argument in that simple word. And he expects meekness and obedience and fear.

‘Not all men’ men often say. (Let me tell you a secret: maybe not all men fling ‘girl’ like an insult. But all girls have heard ‘girl’ used as one)

- personal musings || girls || Eliot C. || ☕||

[whiteknifesmile]

His resentment belongs in the silence that swallowed his grief, involuntarily burning through his golden core and hungry, eating away at the rust that would otherwise gather on his sword. Nie HuaiSang does not dream of revenge but of boards, of stones with their smoothly polished black and white surfaces, he thinks of the sound they make when they clash, and the inevitable defeat that one wrong move will bring about. His resentment belongs to himself only, stored in the privacy of his mind where it takes root and hungers.

What Nie HuaiSang had wanted: soft fans and graceful brush strokes, the quiet song of birds in mid-flight, the warm breeze through his window. What he has: a corpse that has been torn apart, an inheritance he never aspired to, and a cage made of duties. It’s something left behind by Nie MingJue, that duty to his sect, but most importantly to his brother, and to justice, the kind Nie HuaiSang knows of but has never been tasked to obtain.  

The face Nie HuaiSang wears for the world to see has no recurring nightmares that burn restlessly beneath his skin; it is smoothly polished and boyish, and answers questions with a shake of the head and an don’t ask me, I don’t know, I don’t know. He bears the whispers, and assumptions — the thinly veiled scorn and exasperated sighs of those around him, because he has a duty to complete. For his brother.

He waits for the day his resentment will burn, no longer silenced by his grief until it consumes itself, and Nie HuaiSang is left behind, born anew from the ashes and free.

— @inkstay prompts || daring, resentment, burning || Eliot C. || ☕ ||

[whiteknifesmile]

Apollo likes that image, traces it in code and resolves that this is one human worth watching — what he thinks her to be, not what she is.  

— a tragedy in endless acts: daphne || Eliot C. || full post  ||☕||