#lwrites

[iilaw1ietii]

I love the element of magic which makes Dorian see a crease of cruelty in the painting that basil made for him. The way classics portray magic is so ambiguous, it almost seems real. I'm not gonna have a definite opinion on it yet tho

[iilaw1ietii]

Man, Dorian has become a narcissist. Lord henry is growing kinda annoying with his unsolicited opinions and critiques. Basil is still closeted and that's okay but he's too timid in voicing out against Henry

[holytrohmanempire]

thought DandyAndyFitness was overhyped but alas. It was actually very good. I confess myself jealous.

[papershorts]

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

The water ran deep and dark at the bottom of the valley, it’s warped obsidian surface reflecting only the pale, sorrowful face of the moon. Etho sat on it’s shore, legs crossed and fishing rod in hand. He had yet to cast it.

He knew he shouldn't be here, alone. The reds were still on the prowl, and death was grabbing at the remaining players with hungry hands, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Or, Etho did care- but he cared about this more. His lives ached inside his chest, begging to be let free. He couldn't tell if it was from the greedy call of the world knowing its prey was reaching its end, or if it was the guilt. If his lives knew where they should be, instead of where they were.

A breeze skittered past, ruffling his hair and causing the line of his fishing rod to sway gently. It fractured the moon in the water, drowning wisps of its light before passing on and letting the moon bob back to the surface.

Etho watched the moon struggle to regain its shape. It's going to drown, a voice in his head whispered. Can you save it?

Etho's eyes flickered to the fishing rod held loosely in his hand. It's grip felt worn and familiar, its silvery line strong and durable. But it wasn't quite long enough. He could try, but what was the point of fishing with a faulty line, a faulty hand?

Another breeze skipped through, rippling the water and tearing the moon apart once more. A chill ran down Etho's spine, his grip tightening on the fishing rod. Look, the voice said, it cannot float when it is in pieces. Put it back together or let it die.

Etho felt his breath hitch unevenly as the moon slowly fought to reassemble and rise to the surface of the river once more. He wanted to save it. He wanted to walk into the water, he wanted to pull the moon from the grasping dark, he wanted to hold it together and let it be whole. But the river was shadow, the space behind thoughts, and if he entered it, it would rip him apart and drag him down too.

A third breeze. It was stronger than the last two, and it sent the moon spinning into pinpricks of light, all but disappearing. It's okay, the voice whispered as Etho squeezed his eyes shut, you don't have to watch. It'll be back.

A sob escaped his throat. His hearts pounded painfully against his chest, urging him to do something, anything. But he couldn't. He couldn't move, he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe.

All Etho could do was feel, feel the splintering wood, the hot tears, the cold wind. Look, said an impossible voice.

No one said it would hurt this much, like the heat of a sun, setting ablaze to his veins, his chest. Look up, a voice couldn't have said.

Etho never even gave him a life, a heart, so how did he somehow end up holding both, holding them so tightly that even now, even after they are still clutched in his open hands, burning like stars in the empty sky-

LOOK UP, YOU IDIOT! said a voice that didn't exist.

Something smacked Etho across the face. His eyes snapped open with a gasp, the cool night air filling his lungs. A sharp pain stabbed through his hand, and Etho scrambled to his feet, wildly looking for his assailant. After a moment of panic he heard a low creaking sound, and Etho looked hesitantly down at the fishing rod. His grip on it was so tight that it had splintered, cutting into his hand. Slowly Etho loosened his grip, and gently placed the fishing rod on the ground.

That was when he saw it. A hat. It must've been caught in the wind, and so it hit him as it flew past. He picked it up to examine. The hat was purple and pointy like a witch's, with a floppy wide brim, and it had an orange sash wrapped around it. He flipped it over to check the inside for any identifying markers. In the dim light of the moon he read:

To: STUPID

From:

Etho couldn't read whatever followed the "From". It looked like a name had been written, unraveled from the current universe, then scribbled out. It made his head hurt just looking at it, but he couldn't help the watery grin that spread underneath his mask.

He put the hat on his head and looked up. The full moon lay heavily in the night sky, firm and unmoving. It's safe now, no one whispered, and it thanks you.

"But I didn't save it," Etho whispered back.

But you loved it, nothing said fondly. That was enough.

Then empty space was replaced with something, and Etho was alone. His hearts beat solidly in his chest, full.

Etho chuckled, and wiped at his eyes. He made sure the hat was secure on his head, and picked up his fishing rod. It's handle was broken, but the line was still intact, so maybe he'd be able to salvage it.

He glanced at the moon one last time, and the moon glanced back.

Then Etho turned and started the long trek back, leaving the river behind.

[papershorts]

And the stars shivered and the moon cried and the sky folded in, in, in.

And the blood slowed and the heart emptied and everything stopped.

It goes like this:

There is a game

It goes like this:

There is a man

It goes like this:

The game starts

The game will take what you offer

The game will take what you don't

The game wants you and holds you and and and

It goes like this:

The man is alive

The man has a full heart

The man shares

The man steals

The man keeps and saves and and and

It goes like this:

One is given and dies

One is sold and dies

One falls and dies

One is shredded and dies

One withers and dies

One loves and-

It goes like this:

Why did you look back, Orpheus?

Did you love him too much?

He was behind you the whole time

And the arrow sings and the bow creaks and the grass grows red, red, red.

And a player doesn't exist, and three hearts beat and there is nothing left except the greed of the world.

[papershorts]

Brimstone Garden

TW: Panic attack, Threats of violence, Minor Blood, Mentioned Death

~~~~~~~

Bad stopped walking. "No!" He exclaimed, "You can't kill Skeppy! What's wrong with you, Ant?"

Ant shrugged and stopped as well, turning to face Bad. He could understand where the demon was coming from, but Skeppy was obviously infected, and dangerous animals were put down. "Would you rather do it?" He challenged.

Bad sputtered indignantly. "I mean- no! I don't want him to die. But yes, I'd rather be the one to do it than you! You don't care about him at all!"

Ant looked at him sympathetically, and started walking down the Prime Path again. "You're right. I don't care about Red Skeppy. Because it isn't Skeppy, it's the egg. If you don't want to kill him now, you're just endangering everyone else on the server."

Bad's eyes narrowed as he started following Ant, and his mouth opened as if he was going to say something. Ant cut him off before any sound could come out.

"All I'm saying is that one day someone might have to kill Skeppy. And maybe you should consider doing it now, before someone that you don't want killing him does."

Bad gave an uncharacteristically angry laugh. "I would rather die and bring the whole server down with me than kill Skeppy."

Ant cast a lazy glance over his shoulder at Bad. "I know. And I hope for your sake you never have to," he gave a short laugh, "but for my sake, I most definitely would."

The silence was all the warning he got for saying the wrong thing. Ant had just started to turn around to look fully at Bad when he felt something grab him and slam him into a wall. His paws barely brushed the floor as he scrambled frantically at the hand holding him in place.

"Hey, I'm- I'm a taken man!" Ant chuckled nervously as his eyes raised to meet furious white ones.

"Do you want to die?" Bad intoned, a growl underlying his voice.

Ant shook his head as much as he was able in his suspended state. "Of course not!" His voice wavered slightly, and he attempted to make it less afraid. "I just said I would," he felt the grip on him tighten, "not that I will! It'd be foolish for me to kill a possible threat to my life, only to guarantee a definite threat to my life. Wouldn’t it? "

Bad stared at him with fury in his eyes for a few moments longer before letting him go. Ant immediately started straightening his armor while he tried to subtly inch away from his current spot between Bad and the wall.

He got the sense he wasn't being subtle at all from the way Bad was watching him. "Nobody would ever even think about hurting Skeppy while you were here. You're like his protecter!"

That, at least seemed like the right thing to say. The anger lifted from Bad's face. "You're right," It almost seemed like he was talking more to himself then to Ant. "As long as I'm here, Skeppy will never get hurt."

Ant nodded vigorously and waited until Bad started walking again to follow, afraid to turn his back on him again.

"Anyways!" Bad said brightly, any trace of the earlier rage gone, "We can still try killing Eret!"

-------

He stared blankly at his hands. They were trembling, and the flickering, dim red light of the room made them look like they were covered in blood.

He could feel the vines and rocks digging into his knees. He didn't remember kneeling. Was he praying or begging?

The stifling heat felt like thousands of hands grabbing him, restraining him, choking him.

He felt wet tears slide down his face. He couldn't remember when he started crying, if he had ever stopped. They looked like blood water as they sizzled on the burning floor.

Was he burning, too? It felt like it. The smoke in his lungs stopped his breath and the smoldering in his heart kept it from beating. He couldn't move, couldn’t breathe, couldn't scream at the fire killing him from the inside.

A horrible, broken noise reached his ears. It sounded like a creature with it's soul torn out. It sounded like something screaming in the void, hoping that if the void does not respond, that it will at least take the pain away. It sounded like him.

His hands still trembled with blood. The blood that he was begging for, praying for. The blood that felt like tears running down his face. The blood that was burning through his veins.

The crimson laced itself around him, the blood, the fire.

It burrowed into his heart, to the gaping hole there, and filled it with pulsing vines.

But even it could do nothing about his shredded soul.

It could, however, offer relief. He felt it probing, demanding that he stop being useless.

He knew it was right. He had failed his one use, his one job. He couldn't remember what it was, but he deserved this burning failure.

He felt it grow impatient, and he felt it force it's way into his mind. He wanted to scream, to shout, to make it stop, to tell it that he deserved this-

Bad stopped burning. Or maybe he just stopped feeling it. He couldn't feel the ground beneath him, or the heat of the air. When he wiped his silly tears away and stood up, he felt no regret.

His hands were not covered with blood. They had some cinders on them, but he brushed those off.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to the Egg. "I'm not sure why I got so riled up."

All he did was knock some sense into Skeppy. The lava was an accident, but that was fine because he'd just come back.

Bad walked over to the egg and rested his forehead against it. "I'm sorry," he said again, feeling something flicker in his chest, "I'm sorry."

He felt he was not apologizing to the Egg. But that didn't make sense, because he had nothing else to apologize for. "I'm sorry."

The Egg seemed to hum beneath him, and he felt it beating in his heart, replacing the half that had been torn away.

"I'm sorry."

~~~~

Thanks for reading! Reblogs, likes, and comments appreciated!

[papershorts]

||Minor tw for: mentions of past abuse and torture, blood, violent thoughts||

Two weeks.

It has been two weeks since Quackity had come. Two weeks since he had seen gleaming blades and sharp edges. Two weeks since he had felt Quackity's rage slowly rip him apart, ever eager for more.

Two whole weeks.

In those two weeks he had started to feel his wounds close, slowly healing in ways that hadn't been allowed before with the daily visits.

Two weeks since he'd been lonely. Quackity frequently used to visit, Sam more rarely, but when they came they didn't relieve his loneliness, they amplified it.

His isolation, of course was mostly self imposed, and he stood by it. But the feeling of powerlessness that came when someone else decided what he could and couldn't have was infuriating.

The cool trickle of rage inside him pushed back against the smothering heat of the cell, and gave him something to cling to. It was the fuel that kept him going through the never ending dusk.

If he ever saw Quackity outside, he'd grab him by the face and stick his hand so far down his throat that he could pull his throbbing, pulsing heart out of his mouth.

But nevermind all that. He wasn't lonely anymore. He wasn't even alone. He'd known that this was coming- that *he* was coming- but it was another thing entirely to see him in the flesh.

Technoblade.

For two weeks Technoblade has been trapped in hell with him. It's been... Bearable. Technoblade makes him laugh, in an odd sort of way. Small laughs, pushing up out of his mouth like a bubble to escape. It's been a while since he's laughed like that.

That's not to say he hasn't found amusement in the prison before, but that laughter was like thorns, ripping from his throat, a sound that was a sharp, rusty knife. It was one of his few remaining weapons. He knew he had driven Sam slightly mad with it before, twisting it deeper and deeper in Sam's exposed heart, Tommy's blood still staining him red.

Technoblade was a breath of fresh air, and when they were talking, it lessened the stifling heat of his- their- cage. He was frustrating sometimes, but he knew that Technoblade was just adjusting to a new permanence.

Most of all, Technoblade treated him like a person. Not some fallen idol, not a heartless monster, but a human. His former self would've hated that- he wasn't a human, he was beyond human, he was a God- but his current self relished in it. Most days he felt like nothing. Everyday Quackity came, he would drift further and further from himself, his only tether his anger. The kind treatment grounded him.

There was still a power imbalance, however. Before, he and Technoblade were Gods among pitiful creatures with weak, frail hearts that would deliciously bend and bend and bend and break and break and break. But now... He was no fool. While they both may be on equal footing inside, on the outside Technoblade had people. People who would kill and destroy to get Technoblade back.

Because of this Technoblade had armor, built by many hands, and crafted from love and trust. Sometimes he could almost see it glimmer in the dim purple light of the crying obsidian, or the hot orange light of the lava. He had discarded his own armor long ago, and forged a new set. A set whose few chinks and gaps were known only to him. It was safer that way.

He pried from time to time. He'd push at spots on Technoblade to see if he yield, or close up. Secrets can be spilled through silence just as much as through words. Sometimes when Technoblade slept, he'd watch him. He, of course, had no need for sleep anymore, and he used the time to analyze Technoblade's behavior and actions more thoroughly.

Technoblade was smart, but he was smarter. He knew that attachments were menial, worthless and dangerous. They were weaknesses, and he had no need for those. Technoblade also knew they were weaknesses, he suspected. That's why Technoblade kept them so close to his heart, building walls of netherite and emerald to keep others out and away. He knew though. He knew what Technoblade ignored, that even the strongest walls can fall.

He learned that lesson with triumph, then with defeat.

One day, he knew he'd leave the prison. Whether by shadow or flame, he did not know, but it was inevitable. And when that time came, he'd crush their healing, broken hearts, he'd tear down their walls and burn what was inside.

It was only a matter of time.

[swirlingyouintomypoems]

So y’all remember how i said i was writing a fic based off Dorothea? Well I abandoned it for like a week and went back to it today. Basically i may never actually post it, but so far its really really short so if i ever get the courage to share it, expect like a 10 min read.