#hexillith

[peridipshit]

birthday present art to the coolest 20 year old ever: @hexillith! honestly the coolest ship <3

[graveyardrabbit]

I /love/ your Fear Mythos aesthetics. They make me want to redo all of my shitty old ones.

aaaa thank you! I was going to make a Fear Mythos entry in my endless special interests moodboard series, but there’s just so much of it (and so much I still haven’t read/watched yet) that I didn’t feel I could really encompass it in a single post. So, series it is! *the babbling shall end here*

I think your Fear Mythos aesthetics are really good! I was going to say “especially [x]” but I don’t think I can pick just a couple as my favorites. Maybe it’s just especially all of them.

[weremagi-trials-in-fear]

written by Hexillith - a Fear Mythos story

Read and Follow my fellow writer Hex and their amazing story. It’s pretty much word porn to me, I love it that much.

[wheregiantsrule]

VII - Ailiss

Through the white I can just see Ailiss, jaw set and hands tight round the rope. One breath, and it’s cooler than she expected, crisp, with a faint flavor she can’t place.  It would be pleasant, were it not for the feeling of chill fingers probing her throat, her lungs and nose. Still, tisn’t like the undercity. Ailiss doesn’t believe anything is.

It’s quiet in the white. Her breath is jagged, and she can hear the shuffle of steps, quick and short, from ahead, and the hum of someone’s fingers trailing ‘long the Pipe. West Pipe’s not meant to be exposed like this, bared like the spine of some half-eaten creature. It hadn’t been buried by the time the mist came. Ailiss takes a moment to grumble to herself about that; twould have saved her some effort.

The rope slackens. Someone stopped ahead of her. Ailiss feels panic rising in her chest, but it’s only a moment til she hears the call, cutting harshly through the silence. The man’s voice lilts uncertainly at the end: “I found something?”

A few more steps and she sees it too. There’s the marker, yes, hammered at eye level through the Pipe from the safety of the inside - Ailiss’ boots sink into the earth with a squelch. Her searching fingers probe the Pipe ahead and she feels jagged metal, wounds heavy enough to wound another. She snatches her hand back and watches the blood ooze from it.

“Is that one of the holes?” she asks, hating her voice in the quiet.

“You could say that,” says the older man from ahead of her, the one who’d stepped into the mist like it was a morning walk to the bakery. He doesn’t sound so sure of himself now.

Ailiss moves again til she can see it. It gapes from her fingertips to her elbow; no wonder the ground’s bathed in liquid waste. This wasn’t what she’d been told. The Pipe’d been punctured in a few places, they said, maybe a tree or a stone fell from outside the ditch. But she can see the distinctive marks of teeth on the cool metal. Teeth, or claws? As it may be, she’s never seen a creature that could do such grievous harm to metal.

Absently she licks the blood from her hand, mind whirring between possibilities, each more concerning than the last.

[wheregiantsrule]

VI - Sivan

         Lord Pan, the Horned One, the Serpent in the Garden, Reveler in Folly. We Nephilim have many names, more than Sivan could ever know, certainly more than she’s heard in her meager child’s years, and yet each name’s the same, at its core. A dragon with a thousand heads is one great beast, coiled round the city’s still-beating heart.

         He is like Lamia, and yet unlike her. The Serpent’s an easier sight for human eyes, to be sure; his skin’s warm and living, his bones strong, dark curls like a nest for long curved horns. He springs from his repose, greets Sivan like a noble, lips pressed to the back of her hand. But here, under the cathedral’s ancient skin (the only light born from oil lamps, caged by glass and iron, faint strains of song echoing like ghosts), beauty’s another kind of awful. She looks, reluctantly, into burning amber eyes, and

fever dancing burning bright the fire’s name is life

         listens

just careless cares to speak of, fire’s name is love

         answers his inquiries, her words sure and keen. Flour and grain for Lamia, and fruits to be dried, and to the Orchard goes finely spun cloth and finely wrought stone and finely detailed wood. The deed is done, in Pan’s eyes. Sivan’s free, now, to partake in whatever pleasure she desires. On this night all the Orchard’s hers to roam, and she has never felt so vital, so high, so molten. She barely notices the stirrings of god which demand her attention and her obedience.

         Sivan drinks. She dances with more women than she can remember. One of them’s fearsome, a lady all in black with a quick slash of a mouth and bloody words pouring out of it.  Sivan leads her somewhere she doesn’t remember, somewhere dark where their bare skin’s caressed by leaves and silken grass, and gets a taste of that mouth.

         Afterwards, a piece of god, hundred legs pattering on skin, gnaws its way out from her thigh. The lady hears Sivan’s whimper. Red grin visible even in the dimness, she crushes god’s messenger under the heel of her hand.

[bravemercutio]

Hannibal

Hannibal is a Ravenclaw. This feels so obvious from the fact that when he tears people apart and messes with them (I.e., Will), it’s in his head  that he wants to understand  them, see where they go when they’re pushed.  It’s all a study, or a work of art to him, one that he is meticulously devoted to doing well, beyond all else.  It’s the same as when he kills someone.  He adopts a variety of aesthetics, arrangements and methods. He’s always making a work of art, or something delectable that people who know less than he does will praise him for while he gets to hold to the secret that they’re consuming their own, inferior kind.  Hannibal is a Ravenclaw who does everything as an intellectual, as an artist--he’s just a grotesque one.

Send me a character, I’ll give them a Hogwarts House

[actuallyobsessive]

Regarding HOCD: It is not homophobia, nor is it necessarily homophobic of a therapist to suggest one has it. I prefer to call it orientation OCD, because it can happen no matter your orientation. It occurs when your dystonic intrusive thoughts undermine your sense of identity and the way you actually feel about things (can be connected to religious beliefs but I think that'd be categorized as scrupulosity). (1/2)

(2/2) For example, a gay person who feels comfortable identifying as gay but fears that they may actually be straight BECAUSE the label "straight" does not fit them, not (necessarily) because there is something wrong with being straight. Alternatively, they may fear that they're being appropriative, a lot like when one's afraid one isn't really obsessive-compulsive. The same is true for OCD related to one's gender identity. If anon likes, they are free to message me privately.

Thanks so much! Good info. 

-Mod C

[wheregiantsrule]

V - Breghan

           Faintly, through cracks between softening floorboards, I see the candle Breghan’s lit. He’s crafted it himself, from the dead wax on windowsills and temple floors. The undercity care little for Echo’s factories.

         Magda sits across from Breghan, her wretched face warm in the candlelight. She glances around the little circle, notes the glint of light on Heron’s knife, the copper shine of Breghan’s eyes, Odd’s matted gray locks, and says

         “’Twill be an exciting year for us all.”

         Odd’s left eye twitches. “Exciting in the unwelcome sense. No pleasantry, unless one happens to enjoy the sight of babes’ corpses.”

         “Perhaps,” Magda grants. “But I’d not be so quick to cry doomsday. If we have no hope, we have no will.”

         There’s a silence. Breghan breaks it – he’s no interest in idleness.

         “For the present,” he says, “I’m more concerned about the knockers’ corpses.” Dullahan’s arms reach farther than one might think; the last time one was slain - Breghan was just a tot throwing stones at sparrows, hoping for a meal - ‘twas weeks before the blood stopped pouring, and not all of it was gods’ blood. Nephilim are vengeful sorts, and the Knocker in Moonlight is no exception.

         “Aye, but what are we to do? Keep people from the streets? The hounds’ll flush us out faster than I could snuff this candle.” Magda shakes her head slowly. “We have to protect ourselves. The cityfolk aren’t all children; they’ll act sensibly.”

         “Huddling in their huts,” sneers Odd. “Quaking elders. Babes screaming. My magic will be strong.”

         Breghan pulls fretfully at the hair on his left temple. He tries in vain to will his arm still – he’d rather not have to shave again, he likes to have that option when he needs to look different, and quickly.

         And he’s a nagging feeling he’ll need that soon enough.