he's a bloody demon

Raven ~ Ghost ~ They said I was from hell but they don't know the half of it

[princesspatema]

Who said being a human was a good thing?

After all…

     Humans kill,

     humans die,

     and humans are shattered

     by their own emotions

     as they cry.

What if I never wanted to be one at all?

I mean…

     I’m better now, right?

     I’m not so weak.

     And I can rip out

     the pathetic, soft

     throats of the meek.

Though, these days I tend to lie.

          — Yes, my tongue is in knots with the untruths I’ve told.

Because…

     When you’re not human,

     you’re alone.

[master-cifer]

[laniister]

pj meme: [2/5] male characters - nico di angelo; son of hades (art by viria) ↳Then there was Nico di Angelo. Dang, that kid gave Leo the freaky-deakies. He sat back in his leather aviator jacket, his black T-shirt and jeans, that wicked silver skull ring on his finger, and the Stygian sword at his side. His tufts of black hair struck up in curls like baby bat wings. His eyes were sad and kind of empty, as if he’d stared into the depths of Tartarus—which he had.

[wormwxxd-blog]

                    you’ve got the motherfucking right to remain

                                      v i o l e n t. 

[master-cifer]

[painottomuus]

[xdarlingwendy]

It was absolutely awful, what this island did to everyone. It tore at the last bits of decorum, or anything along those lines of speaking, until there was nothing left of who you used to be before you set foot on its soil. It turned you into someone else, really. Then, afterwards, everything just stops making sense. The homesickness, the pain, the fear; it all blends in. You soon start questioning yourself why bother being tolerant of the others, when, all the while, they refuse to show you any genuine kindness. Well, kindness was a rarity, because it was either kill or be killed, deal with the miserable life which Neverland offered or be dealt with. That didn’t mean that there weren’t any decent people somewhere among the chaos, but they, too, were an odd anomaly. Hence no one expected any shape of civility from anyone, ever. Perhaps, you could say, it was too good to be true.

So, here he was, questioning her in a disbelieving manner (would you really do that?), as if he expected her to leave him bleed to death. Sure, a puddle of water from a soaking wet boy (which you have just met) was quite the pesky thing, but a puddle of blood was much, much worse. The wet floor was of no importance. It would soon dry off by itself, but his wound wouldn’t disappear anywhere near as quickly. If Wendy had the opportunity to aid him, and she did, then there was no justifiable reason not to do so. She didn’t specialize in the magnificent art of medicine, but she wasn’t completely clueless, either. Wendy had closely observed Tiger Lily whilst she mended her wound, one similar to Cameron’s, and it didn’t seem impossible to achieve. Clean the cut, bandage it and tie it up tightly in order to stop the blood from pouring out of all the wrong places. Yes, Wendy could do that.

"Oh, don’t worry about the floor." Wendy said, smiling. It seemed almost funny, in her head. She wondered if he would have even taken notice of his cut if it hadn’t been for her to bring it up. People somehow managed to ignore the pain, and that would forever be a riddle which she couldn’t decipher. Did they simply learn to suppress it to a point where it didn’t hurt as much, or did they pretend to not feel it? She remembered what it felt like when Felix had slashed through her pale skin. It wasn’t something which she particularly enjoyed going through. “I wouldn’t want to leave you bleed to death, would I?”

Wendy moved across the room, searching for a piece of fabric which would be suitable for a bandage and one which could be used to clean the cut. She soon found the required items, leftovers from her failed attempts to take care of her own wound when Felix had sliced her flesh. She soaked one of the cloths in a pail of water which she kept beside her bed at all times, and promptly returned to Cameron. “I apologise if this stings.” Wendy murmured as she began cleaning the cut, careful not to apply too much pressure.

[demonic-raven]

She was so proper, so polite. Her words were almost lilting, her apologies and smiles and manners which had no place in Neverland, like a bird's song and this hut was her cage. It repulsed him, as cats shied from water and humans from the sword. Kindness was deadly. Kindness was what got you killed, kindness lead to foolish trust and sacrifice. Why did anyone think it necessary to put on an act for the benefit of another, just to make them comfortable when it did not benefit them whatsoever? This Wendy had nothing to gain from helping him. If a child, wounded and confused, had shown up at his doorstep, Raven would have laughed and only deepened the gash. He did not understand, and he was simultaneously angered and fascinated by that which he did not know. That was why he was still here, forcing a grateful smile in return for her lightly teasing words. He did not understand, and he sought to. There is a grain of truth in the saying that opposites attract, for each one of us is drawn towards what we do not have, to a certain degree. Raven would pick apart this mysterious, this girl hiding in a cabin that shouldn't even exist. Then, having learned another secret of both the island and the human persona, he would be on his way.

Her every movement was refined as she rummaged about the hut for whatever she needed, hurrying to collect the necessary supplies to treat the slice on his arm. Raven cradled it closer to his body, the warm liquid staining his opposite hand while he watched her, quickly rearranging his features back into a mask of confused gratitude before she returned.

He was not quite prepared for her fingers to brush against his skin again and he recoiled, not because her administrations hurt but rather because her touch could have scalded him. Her purity pained him; the darkness that resided within him rejected the light that her pathetic kindness exuded, and a hiss escaped his gritted teeth. No matter. This would probably hurt most people, right? Cameron would surely be in some sort of pain. It was alright.

In reality, her touch was quite gentle, and Raven willed his muscles to relax; his gaze darted back and forth between his wound and Wendy's face, the last traces of fabricated fear in his eyes giving way to confusion, puzzlement. He brought his eyebrows together and opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again, as if he was not sure what to say.

"I -- I don't understand," he mumbled after a moment. He went to point to the forest beyond her window, about to indicate the 'people' that had been 'chasing' him, to reflect upon how presumably cruel they were, but ended up jolting his arm, prompting what he thought to be an appropriate wince and sending him into silence again. "The people on this island make no sense... This island makes no sense."

[picalilies-deactivated20140616]

Raven had a certain air of arrogance in his face, as blank as it was. It was given away by the way he jerked his chin towards her as he held out the stick. Even though she knew what he’d done to Jacky—she’d seen the scars and the dried blood that caked her face like a burgundy frame—she couldn’t muster any contempt for him.

She would remember what’d he’d done, yes, but tonight when they were working together and there was still a chance he could stick a knife in her back, she wouldn’t do anything. He didn’t know that she knew what he’d done to Jacky, and it was best she kept it that way.

Tiger Lily couldn’t help her sarcastic laugh as she took the stick and lowered it into the fire. She had barely kept it in before the front of the stick was burning steadily and crawling down the wood toward her hand. Tiger Lily turned to the skins and tossed the makeshift torch, her hands still tingling from the warmth. The torch landed on the edge of the furs Raven had lined up, and the dreamshade lit up as bright as the night sky.

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[demonic-raven]

The dark-haired boy just nodded in silent assent, watching her watch the fire blaze. The emotions that played across her face intrigued him; there was triumph there, yes, a fierce sort of victory, but behind that muted horror. He wondered briefly if she would regret it, this merciless destruction. What an odd thing, regret. It almost made him wonder how it felt. Raven had done a good many regrettable things in his life -- images of Cheney's limp arm gave way to the sight of the girl in the forest's bloody face in his mind's eye, then to plans that had yet to come -- but none of them were tempered with anything near regret. That was something that just seemed to be missing, absent in his life and in his very composition. What was done was done and then it was time to move onto the next task... And like she said, their work here was complete.

"A job well done, if I do say so myself." Raven turned his eyes towards the catching flames as she had, the two of them standing side by side as the Compound came crumbling down before them. "Until next time, Tiger Lily." The words themselves were relatively harmless, almost polite, but his tone as always had an undercurrent of something darker even now when it was almost cheerful. Next time, they might not be standing together shoulder to shoulder but on opposite sides of the sheet of fire. What lingered in his voice was a promise, a warning. This alliance had been temporary. Next time would be different.

Not one for lengthy good-byes, Raven simply turned on his heel and went back the way he had come, the chill settling around him once more the farther he walked from the fire.

He almost could have thanked the young woman, words that had rarely crossed his lips. She had given him an idea, it would seem. Now to think.

[neverlandbaelfire]

There’s only one person on this whole damn island who has magic, as far as I know.

Baelfire had feared this answer, and yet he had fully expected it – he took it silently, without breathing a word, his words falling off Raven’s face as he stared straight ahead of him, his jaw clenching subtly – Peter.

Peter was his friend.

But Peter was also the piper, Peter had magic, Peter was treated as King in a land without rules – and Baelfire was starting to believe that if Peter hadn’t been directly dishonest, he might have concealed from Bae the extent of his hold on the island, the extent of his magic. He’d heard whispers, he’d heard things – he should have been paying more attention, but nothing had ever been concrete, nobody had ever said it clearly – and people didn’t truly talk to him. From the start, Baelfire had something of an intruder among the Lost Boys – he felt it from Felix, more than any other, until recently when things had shifted, but it was a general sensation that came from everyone.

He was as much a Lost Boy as he wasn’t. He was practically an orphan, or considered himself one, but he wasn’t like them. This had been rather obvious for a while now.

And then Raven kept speaking, thoughtlessly twisting the dagger he had shoved into Bae’s chest – Pan, keeping people captive here. Pan, taking lives, owning them, like a tyrant…

Baelfire shut his eyes for a second before opening them, wide and eager in the dark, as if he was trying to swallow the gloomy sight of the Hollow. He considered saying something, but he kept quiet – because as much as Baelfire wasn’t trust if Peter could be trusted, he was his friend, and the same couldn’t be said for Raven. Despite his willingness to lead him back to the compound, Raven wasn’t trustworthy. There was something decidedly dark about the other boy, and while it had seemed to fade as they fell into conversation, Baelfire refused to give too much weight to his words, out of sheer cautiousness. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him – he didn’t know what to believe, or who to believe.

No, Baelfire didn’t trust Raven. But that didn’t mean his words hadn’t left another dent in an already cracked foundation. Bae simply refused to be manipulated, as he had in the past – by his own father, by Hook, and now perhaps by Peter.

So he kept silent. His demeanor was tense, and he was staring into the shadows, but he refused to ask anything more about the shadows, or Pan. Raven had said enough.

“Are we almost out ?” he asked, trying to peek through the darkness, trying to see the end of it. He was growing weary, and the prospect of being at camp, even around some boys he disliked, was much more pleasant than being here. 

[demonic-raven]

The boy's silence said more than his words ever could. In that silence was doubt -- belief would have been optimal, belief in the deeper darkness behind the shadows -- but the seed of doubt in the false light that Pan exuded was a close second. 

"Almost," Raven said evenly. He took his time stooping to shift a rock at the edge of the clearing to reveal a hole beneath, from which he pulled a small pouch. There was nothing in there of particular importance, but he had told Baelfire that he needed to get something from 'home,' and he might as well keep up the excuse while they were still here. Baelfire was a suspicious one, he was. Rightly so, but Raven would have his fun either way. The black-haired boy pushed the stone over to recover the shallow pit, brushing his hands off on his pants as he straightened up. "Come on, then."

His candle flickered as he walked, burning low and pooling in a hot puddle of liquid wax in the center. If Raven stepped wrong, it would spill and coat his hand, which would be rather inconvenient if nothing else. In a way, this candle was very much like the boy by his side. If handled carefully, this boy could unwittingly pave the path before him just as the candle kept the Shadows away; but if he tipped his hand, either could fly back in his face. This was enough for today. If Baelfire's doubts took hold, chances were he would find Raven again, and he could push forward. For now, Raven would take him home as promised.

The Dark Hollow was relatively small compared to the shadow-filled airspace above, and it was not long before they reached the other side, passing by half-buried bones and long-abandoned possessions; most were left behind by Ghosts who lived up to their names, now forgotten. Before and above them swirled the shifting veil, more distinct shapes emerging the closer they came. If you looked hard enough, it was evident that the shape and size of the shadow reflected that of their former owners -- they were tall ones and squat shapes, outlining every age and stature. There were even a few that were child-sized, and it was one of these that was highlighted by the dying flame of Raven's candle as it flitted away from the light. Then Raven stepped through, waiting passively on the other side for Baelfire to follow.

[fleshmaid3n-deactivated20201226]

[maleficiatus]

Շɦﻉ { ƤƦƖƊЄ }

                    тHαT KeEpS YoU So   ̻̥͒̐͜͡F̥̻̻̥̐͒͒̐͜͜͡͡E̥̻̻̥̐͒͒̐͜͜͡͡Ḁ̻̻̥̐͒͒̐͜͜͡͡R̥̻̻̥̐͒͒̐͜͜͡͡L̥̻̻̥̐͒͒̐͜͜͡͡E̥̻̻̥̐͒͒̐͜͜͡͡S̥̻̐͒͜͡S

ωιƖƖ вє тнє тнιηg

                              tнαt ℓєα∂ѕ tσ уσυя { ĐɆȺŦĦ }

[jackybrune-deactivated20140731]

Jacky watched blood drip out of the little wounds on her attacker’s face, feeling the thick fluid creep down her wrists, eventually pooling against the dam that was her jacket sleeve. She figured that, eventually, they’d be covered in each other’s blood. It really depended on who was soaked worse that would end up revealing who would come out victorious. A little place in the back of her mind whispered fearful thoughts into her ears, telling her that at this rate, she would be the one who’d need a coffin.

It was times like these when she remembered she wasn’t too keen on dying, that she’d rather have another day to breathe the captive air of Neverland than meet a horrible demise. It was times like these that she almost wished she was some emotionless psycho instead of the struggling girl pinned to the ground with a knife at her chest.

Her jaw clenched tighter, the muscles of her face beginning to cramp from the varying pressures she was putting it through. Careful, honey, your face will stick that way. Jacky could vaguely remember her siblings shining candlelight against her sleeping eyes, snickering at the unhappy cinching of her nose and mouth. She could remember her mother scoffing at the disgusted expression she got when served meatloaf. She could remember the laughter of the boys who caught her in tag, and the scowling that followed.

The brunette hoped that her face wasn’t as horribly funny to laugh at as it was when she was younger - so soft and round, yet moodily wrinkled. Her eyes were less humorous, less full of light. She had dead eyes, ones that felt heavy in her head, as if the anchors that kept her grounded in reality.

Jacky was wary of the quickly burning tree beside them, even more so now as the branches began to crumble and fall. “Go ahead, then,” She grumbled tiredly, “If you’re not gonna kill me, that tree you so carelessly set fire to will kill us both.” In upon speaking, blood dribbled more freely into the cavern of her mouth, dripping down her throat and making her sputter pathetically.

She wondered if he was close enough to tell just how fast her pulse was racing at this point. The rushing in her veins was probably quick enough to beat a horse in a 100-meter-dash. It probably wasn’t helping to stem the bleeding, either.

The brunette hastily released his hair and face, favoring a position tightly wrapped around his throat. Jacky didn’t expect a lot from attempting to choke him - she rarely expected anything from her actions, and look where that got her. She supposed it was some sort-of last-ditch effort - at least, the only one not quite so pathetic. She supposed that she just wasn’t ready to die.

[demonic-raven]

Then her fingers were around his neck, slick from his blood but fueled with the strength of desperation. Perhaps emotions weren’t as useless as he always thought them to be, if they tethered people so powerfully to life as to make them cling to it with bloody fingernails and exhausted eyes, when perhaps just letting go would be merciful.

Raven wouldn’t know.

For some people, death was about what you left behind: their family, their friends, their hopes and dreams and everything that they had worked so hard for. For Raven, death was merely an inconvenient deadline that no one bothered to give you a date for. Death was about what it forced him to leave unfinished, about what he would not be leaving behind. He wasn’t ready to go either, not any more so than the girl who had her stupid little bloody hands wrapped around his throat, making him cough, sucking in a ragged, constricted breath full of smoke and dust. He wasn’t ready to die, because he not yet accomplished what he aimed to, to send something toppling down and watch it burn. (A tree doesn’t count, not really. No one cries for a single tree.)

Many people spend their lives doing great things, so many that they all blend together into one banal blur of good-deed-doers, a wall of names and faces that no one will remember. But no one ever forgets the villains of the story; the names of those who brought us the most grief will live on in infamy, whispered in childrens’ ears to make them behave, recanted by the bards for centuries to come. Were there bards in Neverland? Perhaps not, but the tales of cruelty here were growing stale, getting old. Pan had held the crown of darkness for far too long, and it was time that someone relieved him of the title. Not that Raven wanted it for himself — oh no, far from it. The worst chaos ensues when a leader is left unsucceeded. That is when the darkness in each and every one of us rises up to fill the void left by the absence of an overarching shadow, overflowing and flooding the world. That was what Raven wanted. But in order for that to happen, he kind of had to be alive.

The girl with the red-stained hand might have eyes that blazed with fire and life, but Raven’s shot daggers and ice even as embers fell and singed his back. Her fingers twitched, and a strangled sound escaped him, lips parted and teeth bared though little air passed them. He did not plan on dying today, despite how little value he placed on his own life. Dying would just inconvenient, more than anything.

Now he couldn’t even smell the blood trickling across his skin, with no breath to do so. Raven knew that living things didn’t last long without oxygen, even less so than you might expect. He had watched with morbid absorption and listened to their trapped breath whistle between his fingertips if he let it. The living rapidly became the opposite without air, taken so much advantage of and so much under-appreciated. And as much as he might like to pretend otherwise, he counted among that group. He was still very much human in the most basic sense of the word, and he was no exception to these laws of nature. He was just as mortal as the next person, and he too could be broken.

With uncharacteristic urgency, Raven lunged forward and tucked his chin in to slam the crown of his skull into her face. He took extra care to hit the side that he had already split wide open, never one to shrink from fighting dirty. Honor and mercy lay on the same plane of existence as compassion and sympathy, which he had never explored and did not care to.

All he cared about at the moment was getting up, leaving this girl to burn or live another day -- the outcome would would have to be determined by her own mettle. Raven liked a good game, but this was not worth his life, not now. It was not worth the heat of the flames that were too warm on his back, sending droplets of sweat across his skin to mingle with the blood. Like any good predator, he only hunted if the prey was worth the risk.

A growl escaped him as he backpedaled, twisting his body away from her in an attempt to wrench himself from her grasp. When he did so, the knife that he still held pressed above her heart slipped, nicking her heat-flushed skin and releasing a thin line of darker red.

[fractuspuer-archive]

         Don’t you get it?                             There’s   d a r k n e s s   in his [ eyes ]                                                     and   i c e   in his [ heart ]            He cannot love.                               It’s part of   t h e   r i d d l e   of his [ being ]

[fractuspuer-archive]

        oɴce a killer,                  ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs a killer.

              my hands are ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ in blood.                                       and not even your salty tears                                            of ƒσяgινєηєѕѕ and ℓσνє,                                                                       can ωαѕн away                                                                 the ＰＡＩＮ I have   c a u s e d .

[repentiisms-archive-blog]

soaking wet from the b l o o d on my ( hands )

but it wasn’t mine

[jackybrune-deactivated20140731]

Jacky realized a bit late that freak was an understatement. He wasn’t just crazy, wasn’t just an outcast - he was entirely self aware. This guy knew that he was nut-so, and probably took some sort of sick pride in it. Of course, it was too late for her to check out of the situation. It was probably too late once he decided to see the tree on fire. She should’ve ran for the Wanderers first thing. All of these thoughts ran through her head as his knee drove into her ribs, a stubbornly-withheld gasp getting caught in her throat. I’m gonna fucking die, oh my god.

His blade touched her already chilled cheeks, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. He was too close, the ground was too close - everything was just seemed to be closing in. She briefly wondered if her forehead was bleeding quickly enough to kill her within the next two minutes. Jacky didn’t want to die some horrible, lengthy death. She doubted anyone would want to.

Her thoughts were racing far too fast for her to register whatever he had been creepily breathing into her ear, the fight-or-flight instinct working overtime to get her the hell out of this situation. Not quick enough for her liking, either. Jacky felt his knee push harder against her torso, and the withheld gasp from previous was let out in an ugly, croaky sort-of way. She grit her teeth, trying to focus on the pain. Anything that would stem the rushing thoughts stampeding through her skull.

He focused on her face in an obnoxious fashion, and she grit her teeth audibly, little bits of wheezing breaking through her molars. She was a bit unprepared for him to stick his knife back into her face, and was equally unprepared for the warm blood the oozed out of a new wound. Her already pain-blurred vision was further obstructed by the fluid to run against her eyelashes and into her line of sight. Jacky forced her further-wounded eye shut, keeping the other one at least halfway-trained on the freak show of a male that seemed intent on pushing her to the limit.

"Go to hell, asshole," She hissed messily, little flecks of crimson flying off her lips, "I’m not into that." The brunette was at a terrible disadvantage at this point, and, at the moment, half of her body was out of commission. So, Jacky did the girliest thing she ever thought possible. She stuck her fingernails in his face and pulled on his hair as hard as possible, though knowing she was probably just poking the bear.

[demonic-raven]

Was Raven surprised that she lashed out, carving scarlet crescents into his skin? Perhaps. Unpleasantly so? Not really. He didn’t flinch, not even when her blood sprayed from her lips to spatter his own skin, the vague ghost of his smile never faltering.

Raven was no stranger to pain, on either side of the equation. He inflicted it with pleasure, and tended to receive — and ignore — it with nearly equal gusto. Where most children had learned that it was fun and games until someone got hurt, that message got confused somewhere along the line when he was growing up. In his mind, when blood started flowing, the fun had only just begun.

Maybe it stemmed from the first time he stepped on the neighborhood stray’s tail, making the cat yowl and schreech like he had never heard. It sounded like the animal was singing, he had told his mother, like the ladies did in the choir at church. Needless to say, his poor mother took as much offense as was due, and her son stopped attending Sunday mass shortly thereafter, deciding that he had better things to do. She didn’t know how to stop him.

Maybe it was the first time he had discovered that hovering a sliver of glass over a colony of ants made them writhe in agony as they burned alive. It looked they were dancing, he told his mother, like the older kids did at recess. Raven stopped paying attention to what the older kids did at recess shortly thereafter, once again deciding that he had better ways to spend his time. His mother just shook her head, his teachers just shook theirs. No one knew what to do with Raven, so they just left him alone.

Good.

That, he thought, was the best way to spend his time.

But the real answer probably lies in the first time he was stung by a bee. It seems like a relatively innocuous event, commonplace in the life cycle of any child. But for Raven, it set the stage for one of the greatest revelations of his wretched life.

A bee, when it stings you, knows that it’s the end. You can see it in it’s wobbly trajectory as the stinger pulls away from the body to remain embedded in your skin, trying to crawl away to a suitable place to die. It looks drunk, and from what Raven had heard, being drunk was fun. He was a child, what did he know, besides far too much? But then the insect curled up on itself, twitching, it’s legs tucked inward to let its fuzzy body rock — back and forth, back and forth — even after it was dead, weight unevenly distributed on its rounded back and stubby wings.

And Raven’s knee began to swell, turning the most fascinating shade of red-purple, raised and ugly and bruise-like. He was impressed, quite frankly. Impressed that so small and insignificant a bug could have such a dramatic effect on his far superior body.

Perhaps that’s when Raven settled upon how he himself wanted to affect the world.

But mostly he admired the odd inherent equality of it — each party received their own reward. He now had the venom circulating through his veins, and the bee that had done the honors had met its end in the best way that a simple bee could.

The best games, after all, are fair for all.

So he was okay with this, his own blood tricking from beneath her fingernails and his hair tugging from his scalp.

She was just evening the playing field a bit.

“Don’t hurt yourself, honey,” he hissed through gritted teeth, bared in a vicious smile — a grimace? It was hard to tell, for it seemed like the two were nearly one and the same. “Don’t want you to break a nail.”

The blood trickled down his cheekbones, making her fingers slippery, leaving deadly handprints on his skin like the war paint of the savages. It was thick and cloying in his nose, sharp and metallic, and he knew that it would linger about him for days, at least until the jagged marks on his cheeks healed to leaving behind white crescent moons marching across his face.

Slowly, teasingly, he moved his knife from just beside her eye once more down the side of her face to glide down her neck, taking pause where her pulse jumped at the hollow of her throat. The blade left a thin red streak behind but did not draw any new paint from beneath her skin. It was light enough to pass for a butterfly crawling across her flesh, if butterflies had razor wings and left trails of blood in their wake.

Beside them, a branch fell in a blaze of sparks.

But his eyes never left hers, chips of blazing ice in the flickering light of the fire. He continued, not stopping again until he reached her collarbone, his knife finally finding a home with the point pressed lightly into her skin, directly above where her heart beat, caged in her chest.

He could kill her like this easily, at such close range. He wasn't going to -- oh no, she was much too fun to play with. He was not about to put her out of commission just yet. But she didn't have to know that.

[demonic-raven]

For anyone who has killed love within himself is capable of doing evil.