♔ queen sephy ♔

p e r s e p h o n e MATILDA WILDE fifteen. playfully sadistic. underground syndicate. u n h i n g e d ROLE: SCOUT/ASSASSIN KILL COUNT: 103CRAVINGS: Fresh blood.HEALTH: 80%

[jason-lakha]

"They would, wouldn’t they."

[wildesephy-blog]

"I feel a lot like fixing it! Don't you?"

[jason-lakha]

"The streets would look better in red."

[wildesephy-blog]

"So would our hands, brother."

[maddoxmagnus-blog]

"What do you mean, no?”

[wildesephy-blog]

"Why, I mean no, of course. Didn't mama ever teach you that word? He's my kill! Get another playdate!"

[butcheringbenjamin-blog]

[ The melody of the teenage boy’s whistled tune lifted an octave and began to skip daintily around him, dancing upon the rouge splatters dripping from his fingers, clothing and rusted knife. A girl was up ahead. She was small, blonde, sinister and had a devilish grin. Damon’s pale skin dashed in red bunched up at his cheeks as his mouth crackled into a toothy grin. He knew her. Well, Benny knew her. He’d wanted to come out and play that night but his counterpart had been adamant to keep him caged. At least he could have his fun now. He remembered her fondly.

The knife in the boy’s slippery palm was shoved to the back of his trousers where it belonged and he did not care for the blood that still caked it and now trickled down the back of his waistband. No. He relished it. He loved being messy. He loved to spread the blood, his paint and medium, as far and wide as possible. He wore it like a war paint as he rode it into battle. He wore it like a make-up, a foundation giving him a smooth complexion. A fair gleam. A beauty to behold.

Damon walked nonchalantly down the alleyway towards the girl. He had not a care in the world but he walked with the pride of a king; he was royalty amongst peasants with all the perks and none of the disadvantages. His back was straight and there was confidence oozing from every step that he took. With a squelch he stopped in a midst of the dead child’s puddle blood and he tapped the toe of the trainer in it out of mild fascination. ]

I believe we’ve partially met.

[ As he spoke in his gravelly voice his mouth curled into an amused smile and his eyebrows rose slightly, cracking the blood that was drying on his forehead. The consumption of the child didn’t disgust Damon but it didn’t appeal to him either. He would not eat like an animal. Even though he killed like a feral beast, he refused to eat like one. Most people would be terrified of the petite blonde all smothered in the blood of an infant – most people were as evidenced by their yelps and cries – but he was not most. Equally so, most people were mortified to be in his presence. She must not be most either.

Looking down at his chest he found a section of his shirt that wasn’t quite so bloodied and he wiped his palm across it. He moon pale skin underneath was stained a pinky colour from the blood but it was better than it was. ]

My name’s Damon.

[ The older lad reached his hand out as he spoke and his cleaner palm touched to the girl’s cheek and then chin, cupping up some of the dead infant’s blood that was layered there. When he retracted his hand he held it out and moved his other next to it for comparison. The palm with the blood from the girl’s face was a brilliant red and it felt thinner, slicker almost, whereas the blood covering the hand from his kill was thick and gloopy. It was a darker red. Marroon. ]

Yours is brighter. That is why you eat the flesh of child not the man.

[ Damon didn’t ask her, he stated. It was the only deduction that could be made. The dark haired lad held both of his palms to the little blonde so that she could inspect them for herself as he spoke. His blackened eyes trained on her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Two youths comparing the blood of the dead over a corpse while the screams of beggars cheered them on in encore. What wasn’t funny about that? ]

[wildesephy-blog]

[ He adorned his gleeful grin like a medal of honour, the corners of his bright ebony eyes crinkling like the feet of a crow. His smile was like a beam of blinding light and young Persephone was sun burnt by it. The edges of her lips twitched in response, the child's beam mirroring his, her personal brand of ambrosia and nectar forgotten in the light of this new arrival who was far more fun to play with than any dead thing. Corpses never bit back, but the live ones occasionally came out to play.

The carcass of the child, plucked from it's youthful stem before it had chance to ripen, hit the earth, bouncing once, a dull 'thud' emitting from the body as blood coated the cobbled streets, running through the gaps in the pavement like concrete veins, spilling the streets of their ungodly empire with blood. ] Damon. That's a pretty name. You're different to the other boy, aren't you? The one with shaking hands and a voice that pitches-- yes! You are! You're his keeper-- aren't you? You're the cat and he's the your mouse. Well, you're more fun than him.

[ Steely blue eyes, unforgiving and cold, watched eagerly the ginger movements of his hand on it's journey to her face, the damp lashes of her lids brushing her freckled cheeks as she closed her eyes to the world, sensing the destruction that this same hand cold cause, feeling through his touch the power that it held -- how this hand could crush bone, break spines, tear flesh. It was a beautiful thought. Her lips puckered into a smirk as the press of his fingers traced down to her jaw; he was the artist and her skin was the easel, his finger the paintbrush and her bitter blood the paint.

A sigh of content broke through her lips like a trickle of water spilling unwillingly from the faucet, a childlike giggle tittering from her small mouth as bright steely eyes flashed open, examining the blood on his hands. It was beautiful in the most haunting of ways. Side-by-side the two bloods lay like a warning sign reading 'guilty', her eyes examining them as if they were a colour chart, relishing in the stark differences between them. Pushing herself up onto the balls of her bare feet she leaned in towards his blood-stained face, her lips brushing his jawline and locking against the skin of his cheek in a kiss as she tasted the tears of the devil, her mouth pursing like she were sampling a fine wine -- it was thicker than hers; lumpy. The blood of an adult. Children's blood was much more enticing, unbridled by the poison of alcohol or medication or a life hardened by the infection of the Fringe. ] Children have a sweeter taste; the younger the blood, the fresher it is.

[ Turning her face to the woods the young imp lifted her face to the crescent moon as if it were calling her and she suffered from an unquenchable homesickness to be with the stars. Clotted curls flapping against her bloodied white chemise she began sprinting towards the tall oaks of the wood, her bare feet pounding the turned soil. Persephone paused at the foot of an elm, turning back towards her new friend, a mischievous smile on her elfin face, and outstretched a bloodied hand. ] Coming to play with the wolves?

[brightstardreamchaser]

Visit Original Link

[wildesephy-blog]

I'm gonna fight 'em off  A seven nation army couldn't hold me back  They're gonna rip it off  Taking their time right behind my back  And I'm talkin' to myself at night  Because I can't forget  Back and forth through my mind  Behind a cigarette 

[wildesephy-blog]

I DO WHAT I WANT | a playlist for the devil incarnate. [listen]

i. keep awake - 100 monkeys | ii. slaughter your world - looking for group | iii. loverly spring - thomas newman | iv. don’t mess with me - temposhark | v. i eat boys like you for breakfast - ida maria | vi. kill everyone - hollywood undead | vii. stayin’ alive - the bee gees | viii. i can’t decide - the scissor sisters | ix. when you're evil - volitaire | x. cannibal - kesha | xi. a gorey demise - creature feature | xii. irish ballad - tom lehrer | xiii. die, motherfucker, die - get set go | xiii. girls just wanna have fun - cyndi lauper.

[nicolas-haseley]

[ Night fell quickly these days. Nicolas’s breath came out as a puff of smoke as he rose to his feet, pushing against one of his knees for leverage. He looked to the sky and exhaled in a blow, watching the air from his lungs filter out and scatter into the ether. His mind, which had flown so high, needed to be brought back down. Nicolas would use whatever means necessary. He wasn’t allowed to float, not ever unless he was working. People wouldn’t kill the gravedigger. Not if they didn’t want the perpetual stench of death to evolve into a miasma. When he was burying the dead, people kept their distance. They always had, and they always did, but she was different. Really, he should have known from the start that she would want to watch him at his most vulnerable; when he allowed himself to think. Nicolas turned and angrily wiped a tear from his burning cheeks. ] Why should I run? This’s my squalid, can’t you tell? It’s a whole shanty of people like me. [ Nicolas shot her a deathly look and turned back around to pat the dirt flat. He dropped to his knees and pushed on the loose earth until it hardened under his palm.

Nicolas was angry with her. She wasn’t supposed to be here. He was alone here. He was always alone here, aside from the cats in the bush and hawks in the trees who watched patiently for rats and mice to scurry through the wooden and stone tombstones. Death attracted mice, it seemed, but mice attracted beasts. Nicolas watched a fox pounce on the edge of the green through the corner of his eye. He sucked in a breath and turned from the dirt, rising again and wiping his hands on his pants. She wasn’t leaving, so neither would he. Nicolas didn’t trust her not to dig up the baby. The image of the girl standing over the baby’s grave, with her hands and mouth stained red- it flashed into his mind and Nicolas flinched, wishing more than anything that he was able to will it away.  

The night was warm. It wasn’t too hot nor too cool, either, and if she wouldn’t leave, he surprised himself by realizing that willingly, he would sleep on the grave. A defiance burned brilliant in his chest. To be played with like a toy made him feel pathetic and incapable, which he knew he wasn’t. Yet, she made him feel so little. Nicolas touched the edge of a damp wooden box a daughter insisted would keep her father safe from the demons. Nicolas knew better. He buried him deeper so the devil could get to him first. Nicolas brushed his knuckles over the old wood before sitting down on its top. He propped his elbows up on his knees and steepled his fingertips for his chin to rest on. In many ways, he looked like a boy in prayer. His face looked calm, his brow free of any creases, but he was gathering himself, collecting his mind, so that he could haul it to the ground in a single swift swoop. Collect, compose, calm. Revert, regress, realign. It took a moment, but the stubborn gears turned again, and he let his eyes open numbly and focus on the dirt grave by his feet.

She was a tick, latching onto his neck and burrowing into his skin. It discomforted Nicolas, but he felt no pain. If he was oblivious, he would have been serene, as would a mother who didn’t see the leech sucking on her baby’s breast. A piece of broken glass caught the moonlight suddenly and Nicolas took it in between his fingers. An overwhelming urge shook him by his shoulders, sent a dagger of pain from his temple cobwebbing down his shoulders and into his gut. He dropped from the brown wooden box, pulled his legs to his chest and hugged them out of desperation to feel whole again. Nicolas hated it when people watched him bury bodies. 

Ironically, it was the thing that sent him reeling that grounded him in the end. She asked him a question, and those required attention. Nicolas let go of the bloody shard of glass he hadn’t realized he’d grabbed into a fist. He swore and let the pain spread like he knew it would before removing it delicately and throwing it across the graveyard. He swung a pouch he’d filled with water and poured it over his hand. That made it sting, but he didn’t mind. Quite the opposite, really. ] What?

[wildesephy-blog]

[ The look he shot her was sharp enough to cut ice; a lethal shard that could carve right into her like a dagger to the heart if only she had one. Whatever empathy Persephone had was stolen from her during her callous childhood -- she was just what Daddy wanted, now: a beautiful, little monster. It was the type of glare one reserved for their mortal enemies, but Sephy knew that the child before her did not want her dead; she was under his skin, in his bloodstream, probing his every thought and that irritated him -- she could see it in his pale, blue eyes. She had sunk her claws into his flesh and he could not rid himself of them no matter how much he squirmed -- he was caught in her mousetrap and he ought to be afraid of her, but for some reason he'd made the dangerous mistake of not running while he had the chance. Now he would face the wrath.

Persephone's lips pursed characteristically as if a rancid smell had intoxicated her upturned nose, annihilating the comforting scent of blood while she observed him, her fingers idly curling through the bloodied strands of her silken blonde hair. Little grave digger boy, do the dead bite back? Do they cut you with their claws, do they catch you in their cold dead eyes? Do the dead whisper, too? Are you one of them, boy? Inside, is there a beating heart or cold, dead rock? Her mind wondered as he perched on the coffin like a helpless child and her cruel, embittered mind began to fathom who he was; lonely. She would fix that. She'd give him the company he needed, but not the companionship he wanted, and in his company she, the predatory cat, would skillfully destroy her mouse in the most beautiful of ways. She would corrupt him with gentle, calculated moves, drown him in lies and spin him into her web one centimeter at a time. He was hers for the taking, now. She always did love it when they strayed willingly into her path, but the hunt was not so fun if they already desired their own corruption. 

Rolling onto her side the callous young criminal propped herself up onto her elbow, knees digging into the earth just feet above the cold, rotting corpses that lurked below the surface, skeletal fingers scratching the dirt -- let me out, little grave digger boy, let me out. Her lips cured into a smile, victorious in having caught him off guard, and she repeated her prying question, lifting her chin at him. She was playing, now, throwing her net out to catch the unsuspecting fish, and he would swim to her: they always did. ] Do you. Think. I'm 'pretty'? [ A nefarious glint twinkled in her eye as she eyed the boy with satisfaction, silently basking in the power she held.

Her eyes flashed wide as he cursed, flinging the bloodied shard from his hand. Pain: an emotion encasing physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury. Death's daughter watched as he shivered under the cool faucet of his water pouch, an impish smile playing upon the child's lips. She shuffled closer to him -- the fatigued, ragged nightdress she wore billowing around her knees and into his lap -- and gingerly she took his bloodied fingers in her own and raised them to her lips. Her eyes eyes never once left his as she began to suck the cut on his finger to stop the bleed, the metallic taste of his warm blood lapping into her mouth, her demon's touch as gentle as a kiss. She wouldn't suck him dry -- she could control her hunger for human meat, though his blood was sweet. She didn't want to sink her teeth in, chew him up and spit the shattered bones out just yet, though; first, she would claim him, and when she had him in the palm of her hand she would make him desire his own gift-wrapped corruption. ]

[ms-moretz]

Chloe Moretz for Teen Vogue [October 2014]

[butcheringbenjamin-blog]

[ Bony, desperate hands pushed frantically at Damon’s chest as he soared forwards. The end was inevitable. It was no use the man fighting back. Damon didn’t mind. He found it exciting. His grin remained cracked into his pale skin as his teeth bared in his enjoyment. His eyes were filled with an eery nothingness. Not even his elation was visible there. They were just blank and dark like only more darkness lay behind the monster’s eyes, for he was a monster. He was a creature of darkness. He was the bogey man hiding under the bed waiting to stab you in your sleep. He was the demon that lay inside of everyone but for Benny it had been awakened. Damon was far from dormant.

He was animated. His palm was slick in cold sweat about the hilt of his germ infected knife. The tendons in his neck were perked up with his discouraging laughter.

One of the man’s hands slipped from his shoulder and tried to grab onto his t-shirt but couldn’t gain a firm hold. Damon gave one last cackling howl into the air before he turned his teeth to the hand on the right side of his chest. His teeth sunk into the bod’s bony wrist until blood was drawn and the man screamed and recoiled his limb. The wild adolescent surged and plunged the knife into the guy’s gut until it sunk in so far that the hilt hit his flesh. Damon twisted the blade and could feel the organs inside being slit and wrapping around his rust.

Damon ripped the blade free of the man’s body and a stream of blood followed the blade out, splattering over his front with splashes running down his wicked face. With his other hand he punched the guy in the face until he fit the floor, sprawled in the doorway of the squalid.  The blade sunk into the centre of the lanky bod’s chest as Damon came down on him. He left the knife there, grotesquely protruding the convulsing body. The blood painted boy landed on the guy and drove his hand at the stomach wound. He ripped at it, tore it open with his bare fingers and then had no qualms about sticking his hand inside the man.

Screams pierced the sweaty air. Cries and pleads of the bod at his finger tips and the shouts of panic from the other beggars. Damon revelled in it. He let the sound of pain and terror fill him up and swell with sweet pleasance inside him. It was like music to his ears and he was the skilled conductor.

His hand fished inside the man’s body until his digits wrapped around what felt like his stomach. He gave it a squeeze and watched the agony wave in the man’s already fading face. His belly felt full. ]

Lucky dip!

[ In one swift movement he gripped the stomach firmly and pulled as hard as his tense muscles would allow. From the hole he had gouged the stomach came out cleanly. Maybe cleanly wasn’t the best way to describe it. Blood shot everywhere until Damon was dripping in it and the bod had a good covering of the sticky substance. Damon dropped the stomach beside the body as it gave a few final twitches.

Scooping up the knife, Damon stepped nonchalantly over the corpse – dripping blood as he did so – and into the squalid. He proceeded to fill his rucksack with all sorts of goods: food, clothes, even a new blanket. As he routed through the dead man’s belongings more screams met his ears and they were not his doing. How interesting. Well, of course he had to discover the source. It was in his nature, after all. Not being one for sentiment, Damon strolled out and back down the street heading towards the commotion and leaving the ripped body where he had discarded it.

His jovial whistle from earlier resumed as blood trickled down his caked cheeks and beggars scarpered out of his way. ]

[wildesephy-blog]

[ A mother's cries that could curdle milk hallowed the city of tortured souls, her screams like an eerie symphony to the young imp who feasted on the body of the banshee's son. Merciless teeth stripped meat from bone, brutal fingers clawed at eye sockets, murderous fists clenched lungs, hands snatched fragile, freckled skin, devouring it all piece by sinful piece. Persephone Wilde wasn't a human -- she was a beast, a feral maniac who lurked in the alleyways like a tiger stalking it's prey, just waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. Sephy was a cat who toyed with the mice, stabbing her claws in until they begged for their deaths, before she finally tore off their heads and ate them in one, ravenous gulp. The shell of a girl was a clockwork beast with a heart carved of stone; she had lost all of her humanity and totally succumbed to primal savage instincts, a wild untamable creature that cared for nothing but her own monstrous desires.

Sucking the blood from her glazed fingertips Persephone pushed herself to the bloodied soles of her bare feet, grasping the mutilated remains by a clump of pale hair on it's hollow head and began to trail along the civilian streets, snack in hand. A plate smashed behind a window in front of her, the raucous sound ricocheting like a bullet. A bone-chilling scream sounded from across the street, high enough to make the hairs of any normal child stand on fearful end like soldiers rising to attention. Several merchants scurried for cover, their pained faces distorted into expressions of horror, disgust and fear like ancient Greek masks. Jealousy, Sephy snorted as she minced down the alleyways, her claws boring a hole in the carcass' skull for another succulent bite. 

This land of fear and pain was her Kingdom -- in suffering, she thrived. She rose above the fearful hordes in their abundances to claim what was rightfully hers: the crown jewels. She was a Queen in these parts, ruler of the chess board, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do to stop her-- she'd stop their pretty little hearts if they tried. Blood dripped from her plump, chapped lips in crimson streams as she flitted through the backstreets, a mythical elf, gentle hums of music tittering from her lips. Bloostained fingers traced the cracks in the wall leaving haphazard marks along her path of destruction like murder clues, baby bouncing in her nurturing arms. Her brows furrowed, the deranged little girl lifted a finger to the remains of the baby's lips, shushing it in a whispered tone. As zealous steely blue orbs devoured the distant outline the disheveled heap of a city with fervid curiosity, her runs receding to a delicate elfin skip, the little cutthroat cleared her chest and in a high soprano began to sing. ] 

---If you go down to the woods today, you'd better not go alone. It's lovely down in the woods today but safer to stay at home! [ Her singing was abruptly cut short by the sudden appearance of a boy at the end of the alleyway -- dark hair, ebony eyes surrounded by an ominous but endearing shadow, tall, well-built, formidable. She knew this boy -- she had met him before -- but this certainly wasn't the boy she had met; he was something else entirely. Unlike his fearful predecessor with wide-eyes and shaking hands, he didn't walk: he strutted, sauntering through the Fringe as if he were a king and it was his empire. Blood cascaded from his hands in great droplets, mirrored by those which fell abundantly from the feral girl's lips as she sucked daintily on the child's meat. Her eyes meeting those dark abysmal ones of the enigma before her, a sinister grin split across the little blood elf's features, delicate giggles tittering from her bloodied lips. Yes, she was going to like this one. ]

[truebloodgifs]

[butcheringbenjamin-blog]

[ The day was dimming to dusk as the sun slinked gracefully behind the decrepit buildings of the city. On the cobbled streets there was less grace and more shambles. Like ants people scurried through the crowds, all bustling to get back to their sqaulids before dark set in. Night’s blanket was being laid across the skyline and shadows began to merge with the lack of light. The raising of fear bubbled in the air as they all rushed to escape the dank streets. Dangerous creatures lurked in the darkness.

Through the crowds and the bustle strolled Damon, his back straight, head cocked to one side and a sneering smirk turning up one side of his mouth. It amused him the panic that seemed to set into the ants as soon as the evil of night flashed its veil. As if their squalid could protect them. If evil wanted to them it sure as hell would. It could sniff them out, smell their stench of fear and dismay. He could sense the sweat beading on their foreheads and running down their backs at the mere thought of a blade under their quivering chin, at the mere clipping of facial stubble against steel.

A jovial whistle blew from Damon’s pursed lips as he pulled his rusted knife from the back of his trousers where Benny often secured it. He then proceeded to pass it from hand to hand, still whistling, while he headed towards his target. There was a man living just down the street from where he now was who Damon had clocked as being more well off than he let on. He kept a lot of food in his makeshift shack and if he had food then he must have some means of getting it. Damon intended to kill him and loot him for all he was worth. Old habits die hard, you see. And Damon always was a thief and a murder. Damon was a creature of habit.

As the wild haired, crazed looking teen reached the corrugated metal framework of the man’s home, he mockingly rapped the tip of his knife if the roof if it and ceased his whistling to call out to him dryly. ]

Come out, come out wherever you are… The devil’s knocking and he wants to play, little boy.

[ A shallow chortle growled from Damon’s throat at his own words. 1… 2… 3… The man appeared. A confliction of confusion and fear was scribed into his worn face. He was about to expire anyway. The man was several inches taller than Damon but he was wiry in stature. Damon grinned at the chap and as the bod opened his mouth to speak, Damon stepped towards him rapidly, his knife brandished in his right hand. The beggar’s hand made contact with Damon’s shoulder and chest in an attempt to hold the lad back. A bone grinding laugh ripped from the dark haired boy as he just kept pushing into the guy’s arm.

Behind them the other Beggars scurried for cover. They didn’t intervene like Damon knew they wouldn’t. The ants didn’t have a death wish. Instead, they all scrammed as soon as any form of commotion arose. ]

[wildesephy-blog]

[ Night crept down on the crumbling city, stealthily creeping it's way along down the ominous alleyways and into the gutters through the drunken bodies that stumbled down the streets, and the cold ones who would never flutter their lids again. A scattering of stars congregated above, the narcoleptic sky a rich, deep, blue like a velvet blanket had been wrapped over the Earth as the slumbering crescent moon lit up the sky — the fickle streetlamps long-since burned out. 

Armed with a bloodied bowie knife and her sharpened incisors, the feral little girl rampaged on, following the scent of fresh blood. Her elfin face was already bloodstained, great streams of crimson dripping from her chapped lips and across her ragged smock, but one thought consumed Sephy: hunger, and she wouldn’t stop until her appetite was fully sated.

The civilian slums were where the child always took herself to perform the weekly grocery shop, for they stocked only the best of meat -- young, old, pure, anesthetized, fat, thin, greying on top and fresh out of the womb -- all of them lined up like wooden dolls in a toy shop anxiously awaiting her arrival, singing their choral song "pick me! Pick me!" The ones she liked best were always the ones who gave her a good show -- 'Spare little Tommy's life and take me instead!' 'No, Mama! Don't do it!' 'Monster! Devil! I cast you out!' -- for she would often lean back against the door frames examining the flecks on her bloodstained fingernails as families argued between themselves who would be the victim of her wrath.

Often it was more fun to let them choose between themselves -- she watched their emotional struggles and relished in her untethered life. Relationships were weaknesses, and sooner or later someone was bound to exploit them. In the times where they took too long, she would grab the nearest hostage and make do, but the children were always the best. Their meat was the purest, unaffected by drink, drugs or the toils of lifelong servitude to this microcosmic hell on earth.

Lurking at the end of the block of shanties Persephone's fervent eyes scanned her surroundings, focusing on the infant body of a child cooing in their cradle on the makeshift porch of a wood and iron slum. Mother goose had left baby to fetch the bottle of milk -- her back only turned for a split-second -- but a split second was all it took. Quick as a bullet shot out of a gun the child was in Sephy's arms as she hurtled away from the scene, a mother's agonized yells filling her ears, but the little imp wouldn't stop for anything, her bare feet carrying her to the edge of the slum. Her heart hammered in her rib cage as she darted through the streets -- right, left, double back, straight ahead, U-turn, right, left, duck, over the rooftop, down the alley -- the consistent beat of her feet on the Earth the only thing preventing her from tearing the child to pieces the second it touched her hands.

When the pains of starvation became to heavy for her heart she fell, knees slamming into the earth like the pounding of her chest. One thought engulfed her: feed. A baby's scream sounded like a siren. Fangs clenched down on jugular and the screaming was cut short. Blood lapped into the blooded girl's mouth and she fed, greedily devouring all that she could, lapping up every last morsel. She had missed the taste of human meat . It provided a satisfaction that no animal ever could. The metallic taste blood -- dripping from her lips like a pretty little killer, bruised knuckles and broken bones -- was her addiction. She craved fresh blood and she would have it if she had to burn a whole empire down. ]

[hungryxyes-blog]

[ The voice was so childish that Teddy could almost immediately picture her, a tiny little thing flitting through the alleyway, maybe even shorter than her own tiny stature. Already, it irritated her. Things ground so easily on Teddy’s nerves, like nails against a chalkboard they got under her skin and they never quite relented until they drove her mad. But she was already mad, wasn’t she? One day her negligent sanity had blew swiftly out an open window, and never had it returned. A thread so quickly unravelled had snapped and then came the rest of her. But maybe mad was the best way to be. Encountering people like the little imp approaching her now, mad was the only way to survive. ] "And is it you that’s dangerous, little one?" [ A grin flashed across her lips, teeth as white as pearls flashing against the darkness. Catching sight of her, Teddy found that the girl was just as tall as she was, thinner perhaps, more spritely. Eyes dragged slowly over her, judging, watching, waiting. Gaze catching blood, she almost shivered at the crimson sight. Blood did something to a woman like Teddy, it warmed her so much that even her own blood boiled within her veins and as cold as a silver lady may be, she still felt it. It coloured every white part of her in red. Red, red, red. ] "You don’t look quite as terrifying as you might think you are, darling." [ She mused, voice hanging in the air with the tone of a bored child, already done with the conversation. But her eyes, they lingered on the red. ]

[wildesephy-blog]

[ The delicate, impish smile never once left her porcelain features, cerulean irises wild with frenzy as they so often were during her frequent periods of mania -- if anything, her grin only grew wider, an expression that looked so out of place on a child sodden with blood which wasn't her own, dashes of crimson dripping from the snow-white nightdress she adorned. The spritely lilt to her voice evanesced when she spoke, her words cutting like daggers, her tone a chilling symphony. ] Do not call me 'little one' when you are hardly tall enough to reach the biscuit shelf, mutt. Little -- tiny -- youthful; I am none of these things; I was bred to strip lungs, to tear out hearts, and to crush bone. I am no child to you. 

[ The angelic smile returned to her mischievous face, features stretching into an expression of delight as she lifted her index finger to her lips, devouring the excess blood from her spree. Clotted curls fell about her head, thick with gore, but under Luna's shining light she still looked like the pretty little child whom the world mistook her for. It was her greatest asset -- people never knew what to expect with a child, and Sephy completely abused it. The usual sing-song lilt to her voice returned to her words as she began to parade towards the wolf girl, spilled blood staining the soles of her bare feet as she sashayed across the alleyway. ] No? That's a shame. My ultimate goal in life is to terrify you, Sweets. [ The Syndicate flashed the elder girl an innocent smile as she casually began to circle her, traipsing around the girl like a cat playing with mice. Sephy was a predator -- a cold-blooded killer, and what made her so good at what she did was that no one had the slightest clue. Even if she told them, they wouldn't believe her. Daddy always said the other children would be jealous. Persephone was gifted. Her gift just happened to be a little unconventional compared to the run-of-the-mill talents like singing and art. But murder was an art in itself, was it not? ---And an art that the feral little girl had perfected. ]

[nicolas-haseley]

[ She was being a poet. She was being eloquent and elegant and it seemed wrong that something so venomous could sound so graceful at the same time. Nicolas refused to look at her, only stared at the tears in her clothes and the pelts at her hip. He focused on the way blood stained fur and how missing eyes did nothing to make something appear less gruesome. He knew all these things already, as did he know that deadies grinned sardonically in their graves when the worms ate their tongues, and that no matter how hard you tried to bury deep, the animals would always try to dig up the corpses. They didn’t care about the dead. Didn’t care, didn’t mourn, didn’t think, only acted on instinct. Nicolas would have pitied the animals, thinking they were pathetic, if he didn’t know better and respect them.

A finger on his lip would have been fine if it was anyone else. Nicolas would have preferred a murderer’s thumb fixated in slicing and dicing or even a big baddie who used kids his age for personal pleasure. He understood those people. He empathized with them and knew how they worked. He knew how to run from them and how to fight them, when it came down to it, but she was one of the special ones that he couldn’t read, and Nicolas despised being illiterate. The sounds didn’t catch in his throat. They were scared noises, and he’d part his lips each time to breathe and taste her skin and hold the baby to his chest and pray she wouldn’t realize. He knew she was playing with him. He knew that she liked him. He just didn’t know why.

There was nothing special about Nicolas, nothing that he could think of. Of course he was clever, but so were so many others in The Fringe. If they were all stupid, they would all be dead. He didn’t see himself as unique. He just knew that he was an insignificant little pawn, and it was hardly his fault if he had the heart of a knight. One, two, diagonal. One, two, evade. One, two, capture. Nicolas would pretend that he was in control, but he was at the mercy of the elements. Pretending was for children. Nicolas wouldn’t pretend that he didn’t loathe the absence of her finger as much as he loathed the girl it was attached to. It was twisted, he knew, and wrong, and it could get him killed if he did anything about it. But he wouldn’t pretend he didn’t miss it. Nicolas wanted to be clean. He wanted it desperately, and if that meant being spoiled in the same way a cat would a mouse, then so be it. He could writhe from her claws later. Spiders never played with their food, and so he would refuse to believe she was one.

Though he listened to her words with a perverse fascination, he made no attempt to acknowledge them. As soon as she’d pulled away from coddling both him and the baby he held, Nicolas turned to an empty patch of dirt and gently settled the bundle on the ground. He dropped to his knees and dug at the earth with his hands, letting it lodge under his fingernails and filthy his hands. Under any normal circumstances, he would have fetched a shovel, but babies were small. They didn’t need big holes, but the smallest coffins were always the heaviest. His coffins were made from fruitless prayers he whispered in his head. While Nicolas dug, he thought. Detach. Float. Don’t look at your hands. Don’t look behind you. Alone. Silence. It was peace and it was sadness. Melancholy tasted so bitter. 

The moment that the gravedigger deemed the pit deep enough, he took the baby into his arms again and lowered it into the ground. He let her sit there for a moment before tugging its blanket up to cover her eyes. She would become one with the earth, the universe’s sustenance. People were never truly destroyed, Nicolas reasoned. They lasted forever, transforming into energy that fed trees and animals and inevitably stars and the ocean. Everyone had been stars and were children of constellations. He had as much a right to be as the trees and crashing brooke. Nicolas held his breath and shoveled the dirt back over the body, returning her to her home. Her tombstone would be unmarked because her parents wouldn’t provide one, but he would never forget where she was. Nicolas never forgot. ]

Why are you still here?

[wildesephy-blog]

[ Persephone watched with ardent curiosity as The Boy's hands clawed at the earth like an animal's claws. She could feel his desperation, could even smell the sweat on his brow from the tombstone on which she perched. A lack of emotions had meant the child thrived on her senses, heightening them as a means of determining the so-called 'feelings' of those she encountered. Sweating. Common causes included heat, working out, strong feelings, fear, embarrassment and sickness. Likely cause of incident was embarrassment or fear, but she could be wrong; disease spread like wildfire in the squalids of the Fringe.

Her eyes gazed across the child's remains once more before The Boy dropped her into the abyss below and pulled the blanket it up over it's pretty little face, but a blanket wouldn't protect her from getting eaten alive. She was fresh meat now, and the creatures that lurked below were just as vicious and bloodthirsty as those above them. Nimble fingers reached across and flitted through a pile of earth, collecting the sod in her hands to sprinkle over the child's lifeless face which, like all dead things, would soon be consumed by Mother Nature, who stole away the dead to feed her young.

Her pale, deft fingers fingers drummed against the top of the the gravestone, their edges coated with a thick layer of crimson blood that dripped artistically across the faded names on the graves; people long since dead who nobody had ever cared about -- their homes had probably been ransacked for all their treasures as soon as their eyes rolled back into their skulls. His question caught her off-guard, but the child's face remained stoic. ] Because you're not running.

[ Her blood-stained lips pursed regally as she lifted her chin, viridescent eyes scrutinising him piece by piece, as she devoured. She stripped apart his face, her eyes slicing into his deep blue irises, studying the upturned peak of his nose, the curve of his lips which she had traced with a dampened finger moments previous. She tore apart the line of his neck, his collarbone, cleaved the buttons on his ragged shirt, her eyes cutting into the barely-visible contours of his chest that peeked from under the material every now and then. Her mind robbed him of his belt, cross examining the outline of his legs, the suggestion of his boyhood, the sharpness of his knees, and finally fell to his feet, annihilating him like a slab of meat.

He was her prey; her new toy -- the next little project whom she would make her own to do with as she pleased: tease, torment, tell all her secrets to. She would corrupt him entirely -- she'd utterly destroy him, and it wasn't hard to see that he would willingly allow her to. She'd tear him to pieces, she'd burn the heart out of him and leave nothing but coal in it's wake, and then when she was done he would look at the rubble of his life and thank her for the beast she made of him. Who could say she wasn't a kindhearted, selfless citizen?

Slipping down the front of the gravestone, Persephone's eyes didn't once leave his, until she finally came to rest lying across the strip of earth above the dead, hair cascading in spirals around her head, her limbs draped at irregular angles as she sprawled six feet above a long-since rotten corpse. Her eyes traced the pattern of Lupus in the night sky, finger reaching up to trace the constellation as if she could touch it, as her mind drifted to smell of blood that she feel close by -- maybe her own. Turning her head, her eyes danced over him once more, an elfin smile on the Devil's lips. ] Do you think I'm pretty, Boy?

[mudwerks]

Visit Original Link

[wildesephy-blog]

About a maid I'll sing a song, Sing rickety-tickety-tin, About a maid I'll sing a song Who didn't have her family long. Not only did she do them wrong, She did ev'ryone of them in, them in, She did ev'ryone of them in.

[ms-moretz]

New ‘Laggies’ still

[i-know-i-am-not-the-only-one]

[nicolas-haseley]

[ Something stirred inside of him. She made him mad. Maybe it was her smirk that tugged at his human nature to destroy and defile beautiful things. She was so pleased with him, and he didn’t know why. Nicolas averted her gaze, unnerved suddenly at the prospect that it was her eyes corrupting him and making him think such horrible things. Nicolas was aware of the taste of blood in his mouth, and it tasted like animal blood. Did human blood taste the same as animal blood? He wondered and let his hands ball into fists against the bundle’s cold back. ]

Nightmares are dreams, too. [ As the words fell from his lips, he made a face. The saliva that pooled in his mouth tasted like acid on his tongue. Nicolas wasn’t hungry, not that hungry at all, but his body betrayed him by anticipating comestibles and encouraging him to lick his lips. He wasn’t an animal. Wasn’t. He wouldn’t lap at the blood like one. Nicolas shouldered the corpse to one of his arms and began rising his sleeve to wipe at his mouth, damn if she tried to stop him. She moved when he did, and he froze pathetically. Slowly, he brought his hand back down to cradle the corpse.

Nicolas let his eyes follow her fingers before darting them back up to monitor her expressions. He wanted to know her. He wanted to understand why she was mad. His defiance turned into a fervid curiosity, and it only made sense that he would be intrigued by fire. Tomorrow he’d want to touch it to learn why it burned. Today, his fascination terrified him. ] Don’t be stupid, it doesn’t suit you. The demons are all dead, too. They’d kill you for taking their job if they weren’t. [ The words spilled before he could stop them. They weren’t intended to be spiteful, nor a compliment, either. She looked confused to him, and he stepped back out of instinct.

When beautiful creatures killed, they became monsters. When monsters killed, they became stories. It was sacred, murder. A spark of wonder questioned whether anyone would remember him if he was killed. The bodies would pile, and The Fringe would find a new Nicolas, that was all. So why be afraid if you hadn’t anything to lose? It was selfish, living. A selfish, selfish thing when you knew how many were deprived of breath. Nicolas’s eyes fluttered shut, confused, and then scared again. He was smart enough not to be brave. While courage would make you bold, fear would make you desperate. Nicolas decided he didn’t mind being desperate if it meant he’d survive.

Her wet thumb pressed against his face, and it felt alien how gentle she could be. Nicolas felt it against his skin and fought to keep from pulling away. He still needed to show her that he wasn’t a fawn, but he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and wasn’t so sure himself. Nicolas counted in his head and tried to control his lungs. No sound, he promised himself. None. Only words. ] She’s gotta go in the ground, now. Will you let me by?

[wildesephy-blog]

[ Corruption was like a path of stepping stones over an ominous torrent of water -- each small leap over the vicious waves was a benchmark, but should he go too fast for his innocent mind he would fall into Death's eager palms and drown. Persephone was sweetly sinking him, pulling him into the river, bit by bit, so that when the sudden plunge came and it utterly consumed him, he wouldn't even want to fight it. ] Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.

[ She was close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest, the shallow breaths that escaped his lungs heavy on the hollow of her neck as they stood, the two children and the dead baby, staring fervidly into each other's eyes, neither moving, silence consuming the scene. Her eyes watched him with an ardent amusement that claimed him, a stare that could tie the strings around his wrists to make him her Pinocchio. She could make him do anything -- fear her, hate her, she could even make him want her. The ball was in her court and she had total control.

Gingerly, as if he were a highly breakable object, she slid her dampened index finger across his bottom lip, her movements purposefully slow and calculated as she caught every crease and crevice of his chapped mouth. The stain of blood wiped off on her finger, replaced by a delicate sheen of saliva as her finger paused at the crease, approaching the heart-shaped dip of his full top lip, warm and moist against her hand. This was what it felt like to be the puppeteer, mere mortals entirely at your mercy, reduced to rubble before you. She liked playing with this one -- his eyes caught her, like tiny hooks gripping hold of her skin, as if he were trying to be his own chessmaster and catch her, too, but Persephone couldn't be caught out by games. She was formidable.

The soft, muted sounds that hesitantly escaped from his smooth-as-velvet lips, despite his obvious pleas to restrain them, were symphonies to her ears as she basked in the effect she could have on the boy, the occasional breaks in the silence fueling her. The game hadn't been fun with the other boy; the Wanderer -- he hadn't let her get closer than arms width away, but this one didn't even flinch, and any tremble that may shake him would not be the result of fear. Impishly, Persephone withdrew the finger from his swollen lips and dropped it into her mouth, sucking the blood from the tip like the beautiful monster she was. ] Sweet. [ And stroking a hand across the dead baby's forehead once more she took a step back from him to allow him passed in the once-white over-the-knee socks that adorned her shoeless feet, graying with age, their soles thick with mud.

Curious for the display, Persephone resided to the back of the next-door grave, leaning over the ancient headstone, her arms draped across the name as her chin rested on the cold marble, observing him in his endeavors. Death was tragically beautiful -- a artful parasite that fed upon a host until it entirely consumed them. And with Death cradled in his arms and the sheen of washed-off blood on his face, the gravedigger child looked tragically beautiful, too. ] What's your name, Boy?