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HOPE IS A DANGEROUS THING FOR A WOMAN LIKE ME TO HAVE ( BUT I HAVE IT ). —— independent, fandomless crime / thriller original character. 21+ only, mature / triggering themes.
martyred by rylan.
#im reblogging this here as my final post probably#since this is where i have the most followers#to see#how truly incredible#and truly inspiring rylan is#when i tell you how deeply loved fred is#i mean that with every remaining fibre of who i even am#i like to call rylan a full package deal#every single thing you see will be so perfectly and beautifully curated#not just that but LOVINGLY curated#fred is such a fantastic character that i often forget she's not already a movie#please please PLEASE go follow#if you want a dash that features only the best and most well thought out of characters#i advise you get rylan on it#<3
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i’ve moved! please come see me here x
#i really needed to get away from these ghost follows#they were Impacting me wanting to be here#so here i am#fresh new reborn alive#feel free to break mutuals at this point as well <3#i simply kisse u all#and wish the best x
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brutlist. / heugh.
" 𝐨𝐡 𝐧𝐨 , 𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 . i just don’t give a shit is the thing . “
@kryetar // sc
“ ... right. ”
“ - i appreciate you .. not giving a shit, then. thanks. ... could you just ... pretend you didn’t see anything ? ”
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ira has terrible hayfever. TERRIBLE hayfever. spring happens and he is just streaming from his eyes and nose for a good solid four months. this man has anti-histamines in the hundreds. he has nasal sprays in his desk at work, his desk at the blind wolf, his bed, his bathroom, his car, and two coat pockets. april 1st ticks over and ira just feels this sense of dread. please Know his struggle
#i'm taking this opportunity to ask you to please#look at my carrd#for it has been Updated#thank you#i used the word 'largely' so often i had to control find all the times i used it to cut it down a bit#that's how committed i am#to providing good literature#it's not even done and i've been doing it all day#exhausting
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perdefinitio. severin of mercia.
The distance between them lingers distressingly, even with Ilias momentarily gone; even under the protective shelter of darkness, even with all pretence rendered superfluous. In these faithless shadows, there’s echoes of even colder, crueller nights – only now they’re apart when they could be right beside each other, only now the prince barely moves, barely speaks. A hollowed husk, Severin thinks, skin and bones without any of his burning spirit to hold together what should amount to him. It stings, this image of the man he’d lost and thought he’d found again; stings just as much as if he’d reached out to plunge his hand into the flames. "No, Ira.“ A disobedient animal ��by nature, he refuses to capitulate so easily: neither in front of Ira’s baseless contempt nor the torturous loss of his temperament. "Listen to me”, he implores, looking up from the fire with similar blaze behind his eyes, "listen to me.“
They sit too far apart to be anything but incidental accompaniment on an arduous journey across the land. And isn’t that alone glaring misery, injustice that cries out to the heavens, to discover them so far removed from each other after such long years of separation? Severin finds himself gesturing at it, this tall nothingness between them, frustrated and uncertain. "This”, desperately wanting to sound inflamed, though lacking the fortitude for it, "this can’t continue to stand between us. You must see that he belongs with us.“ And he’ll insist, and he knows Ira knows he will; and when Ira’s anger is so much easier to dismantle than this gaping desolation inside of him, Severin cannot be blamed to pounce on the more palpable target. "I wouldn’t be here with you if it wasn’t for him. I wouldn’t be–” He cuts himself off when he has to look away. Alive, he wants to say, only they’re both aware that can’t be true. A willing participant in life? A man more than an empty hull?
He can’t help the sigh, weary enough for an entire regiment of men, that escapes when he realises he lacks the words for this. That he lacks the eloquence of a man like Ira, before he’d forgotten how to be himself. "Ira, please.“ With his stick thrown to the flames – a childish display of aimless aggression –, he shifts to move a little closer. "I know you to be kinder than this.” Finally, his hand finds Ira’s knee; one calloused palm beseeching him for peace. "Why won’t you listen to me?“
while severin seems frantic with energy, trembling with static, ira is the opposing force; almost as if the magnetic electricity between them that has crashed the pair together has been put under a weight so significant it severs them apart even still, despite their now proximity. as if ira has turned poles, steadfast in facing the opposing side, whether he knows it or not. he observes the other’s rampant pleas without moving an inch, rooted in non-motion, though he is almost certain the sharp-gazed mercian can spot the slips in his expression of a long - aged defeat. organs writhing under his skin with discomfort, ira squeezes the fingers of his left hand with a calloused right to spare his attention elsewhere from the way his stomach muscles tighten, aching incessantly. as if in preparation for the way this expanse between them might never end. rather destructively, there is a part of him, shadowed in the far corners of his mind, that yearns for the holy numbness he had succumbed to not so long back. 𝖆 𝕸𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘, 𝕲𝖚𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖂𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙. his palms sore without either the want of machinery prayer, or the aged leather hilt on the spiritless claymore; either of them destined to demand some blood recompense. he had perceived himself a man so clad in chainmail armour, so hidden under dust and white tabard, that he may not have even been a man at all, for some time then. the contrast stings him. once a thoughtless agent of chaos, now weakened, exposed, defenceless, optionless. all of this so much so, in such intensity, that he automatically flinches under severin’s touch.
the hurt becomes a violent apparition in the other’s eyes. ira would have given everything to peer in them again not so long ago, but now he can hardly look without scolding himself; he has allowed the reaper to shelter him from the pain of loss, but now the reaper demands payment for it’s services. his whole self bare to severin, the God - fearing man is small without his armours, shrunk without his weapons, and isn’t entirely certain who he even is now. wordless for a moment, without idea as to what it is severin wishes for him to say, to show; he lets a moment as thick as smoke push past them.
“ i’m sorry, ” is all ira manages. and sorry he is, for not being what severin had been dreaming of in all their time spent apart, not being quite able to accept their unplanned new way of life, for being as closed a book as he is a desperate shell, aimless in seeking where it’s soul went. ira is sorry for allowing the wrath of his namesake to fill him up and push everything else out, for in it’s infernal wake, he has become hollow. he feels not the warmth of severin’s hand, nor the shiver of the fire before them; and while this lack of feeling inspires his screams, his petrified cries, ira can hardly curse the very thing that has kept him alive in his lover’s absence. it seems too close for comfort still, that pervading memory of the day he found himself alone for the first time; sunken to his knees, scraping his fingernails bloody in the dusty earth, howling with agony in a way almost inhuman, crying out for him. trauma seems to bubble away under the surface of his skin. all too suddenly, it seems far too much to hold without it becoming apparent about him; a knot chokes in his throat. returning to emotions other than anger and grief have chastised ira so gracelessly that he squirms around them, uncertain of how to remedy it. juvenile, shrunken, perhaps even guilty, he finds himself closing the gap between them further still; his body earths itself between severin’s legs, his face slowly comes to hide against his shoulder. “ i .. ” words fail, lips parted; ira might spill over with a noise indicating his suffering instead. the road ahead of the three of them is certainly long; but the road ahead of ira seems to the man impossible.
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bythieves. victor.
its strange to hear what he can only assume is a compliment, and this shows before he can consciously think to hide it; amos is the expert, his immediate, jarring first thought, not me. never me. there’s a moment of blinking, like a machine processing a new command, before he shakes it off———returns to his expressionless state, simply quirks a brow, offers the smallest nod. this close proximity makes him feel unsafe, almost cornered; he wonders when that happened to him, when distance from another became security.
victor’s thoughts jump from one topic to the next and he realizes he must look jumpy, fidgety; a hand reaches back to scratch at the base of his neck, and subconsciously he takes a step away. ❛ alright. ❜ a simple word, scratchy in his throat, ❛ give me a number, an estimation, and if its good enough; i’ll try my best to sort this out. ❜ that’s not good enough. amos’ voice enters his head again; not try your best, you will. he quiets it with a final puff of smoke. ❛ and considerin’ you’re askin’ me and not goin’ through my boss, i reckon this is, uh … meant to be on the down-low ? ❜
needless to say, when ira had earmarked victor as the one to carry this task out, he had done so with considerable thought beforehand. he’ll take in the younger’s step backward almost as a sign, despite thinking it’s hardly as grounded in tactics as it is for seeking comfort; ira can assign time later to thinking all of this meeting through, though. there’s a look of momentary relief on him. he’s not even entirely so desperate to get their stock back; he’s more concerned about circling whoever they work for. noting victor’s findings for later on, as and when it’s required. picking up the goods is only a minor benefit.
“ - that’s right, ” he returns. this isn’t something ira wants the general population of their shrapnel world to be aware of, and will likely keep this from as many people as possible. ( even maria. even severin. ) he pulls in a breath and lets it out audibly, a sigh to snap away some of the anxiousness. “ so if you can keep this between us, i would appreciate it. ” there’s something distinct in that. whether victor necessarily thinks he can trust ira or not is one thing, but they’ll be sharing this knowledge regardless of the outcome; ira is allowing the lines between his role and kel’s role to blur intentionally. “ - if we have a deal, i’ll let you know later today how much is in it for you. ”
#imagine me writing this weeks ago and FORGETTING !!!#we can end this one here if you wanted <3#bythieves
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they got married
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to have and to holde, from thys day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, to love and to cheryshe, tyll death us departe. ——— — marriage liturgy, book of common prayer ♥ @kryetar
#id just like to let everyone know#when nat posted this#i saw it on my phone right#as i was sat at my desk at work#and i actually exclaimed so dramatically#that my coworker asked me what i was screaming about#and i had to just be like#oh its ok its just my friend : )#and for the next hour#i couldnt actually concentrate on anything#so nat i just want you to know#i KNOW you want me to get a new job but#that is some serious TECHNIQUE !!!!#i fucking#have no words#im crying#im screaming#im weeping#they only went and FUCKING DID IT#MY BOYS#IMMORTAL VERSE SUPREMACY.#SORRY.#you've made me FERAL#WITH THIS MANIP#SHUT YOUR ENTIRE MOUTH#I LOVE U#I LOVE IT#IM NOT OK#I NEED TO TAG THIS#GOD HELP ME IDEK HOW
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“ YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I CAN TRUST. ” @hammurabicomplex . ( sentence starters; accepting )
in the glittering lights of the infamous city that sits gregariously before him, ira supposes he looks quite different to the man who first arrived here to see her, mere weeks ago. las vegas isn’t exactly the sort of place he’d envisioned himself in, in all truth; he had more openly resigned his world to duller, quiet corners, isolated structures or lonely flats, solitary peeling leather armchairs, unloved exceptions to humanity to wallow in. needless to say, it’s with a great surprise to him that he finds himself enjoying it this much. one unknowing of his nature would simply see a handsome patron of the summers that sin city has to offer, with a sharp suit, and an even sharper gaze; perhaps a gambler, a business man, perhaps anything. ira finds himself somehow fond of this anonymity, this slip of something unwary. if vegas is good for anything at all, it seems to be an excellent spot to reinvent yourself.
it’s pat’s words, however, that commit his attention, and tug forward his focus. he peers at her with an expression somewhere sauntering between gratitude and pride. “ i can’t be the only one, surely ? ” he queries; a front enough to hide some of the softer ways in which it connects him to her, separates them from the space they share. he looks very 007 with that vesper martini in his hand; and what a pair they must make together. under a small, meaningful smile, “ ... does it help if i said the feeling is mutual ? ”
#hammurabicomplex#> : )#i kisse#i've set this just before The Party and after pat splashes on a suit for him ? ?#bc ... <3 <3
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perdefinitio. SEVERIN. year 1223.
@kryetar: ❝ everyone who isn’t us is an enemy. ❞ ( meme: game of thrones prompts; accepting )
Between them, the crackling fire casts long shadows: the gloom of darkness rendering Ira’s features unforgiving and cruel. His furtive whisper sounds almost part of the spit and hiss of the flames, nearly as harmful, certainly just as unkind. It is not his Ira speaking but one from many lifetimes ago. It is as though they’re transported back into another century’s perilous woods, freshly alive and clawing constantly at each other’s throats – only now, Ira’s animosity is directed not at him, but someone else. Curiously, it pains him so much more this time around.
"Which us are you referring to?“ It isn’t the late hour infusing tiredness in his tone, but the repeated return to the subject at hand. Like Ira simply cannot let it go, like a man possessed by his own self-righteousness. Try as he might (and he has tried desperately), Severin cannot understand. "You and me?” He glances at him above the soot and smoke; not enough by far to challenge him, his warning weary at best. "Or all immortals except one?“
Perhaps it’s his own fault. He’d underestimated the toll it would take on Ira, spending so much time deserted in Jerusalem. Perhaps it’s him who is being impatient, who is asking too much of his companion. He thought Ira would see: that they have been blessed to find another, to count a new brother in their midst. That they have Ilias to thank for reuniting once more at all. Instead all it’s caused is strife, and for ancient regal malice to return to Ira’s gaze – and caught between the two frontiers, it is slowly tearing Severin apart. "He’s one of us, Ira”, he tries for the hundredth, perhaps the thousandth time. His anger you know, we’re all the same. Dejected, he starts poking between the burning timber with a stick. "He always will be.“
ira scolds like the fire before him. his gaze, distinctly set to focus on nothing but the way the purifying flame seems to shake and wind in the darkness of night, there is a volcanic temper to him, that despite having been somewhat maintained for the day, oft threatens to erupt at any moment. had it been those endless hours without severin by his side that had made home for shadow ? had it been the ugly earthiness to the bubbling apathy for humanity ? or had it been ilias alone that lit the coals ? these questions seem to frail without answer. even with the norseman gone, searching for firewood or something or other, ira senses that the remainder of their trip home will be taxing. he had been so alive in their pilgrimage to jerusalem, so satisfied with simmering under the west asian sun to bring those that defy righteousness to their inevitable judgement day. so filled with rapture to stand where Jesus himself might have stood. now all he wishes for is for it all to never have happened in the first place. isolation, and isolation under God’s violent and penetrating gaze, has rendered the disgraced prince burnt and raw, struggling to accept any warmth, agonized to accept any comfort from having grown used to life without it.
“ i know, ” deepened like the distant sound of lingering thunder. perhaps to add further insult to injury, he can feel severin’s discomfort, and could watch it pull deft creases on his face that simply do not belong there, if he was daring enough to look up. if he had enough hatred of self to let slip attention to rest on his rebel, his severin. a cavern seems to have swallowed them both whole, and has implemented them apart, positioned them on opposing sides; may they stumble through the squalid darkness to find one another again, but not without letting some of that waning penumbra in. being separated from severin has tortured ira in ways too much for him to bear, too great for him to comprehend just yet; the nightmares that come thick and fast, unrelenting in their assault, threaten to penetrate his skull forever, the rest of time, the entirety of their lives from this point forward. the truth sits before severin, plain as day; ira has drowned in his grief, and with lungs still full of water, can hardly speak without letting it spill, spit everywhere, all over him, and all over everything. unfortunately for ilias, he makes for an exceptional scapegoat.
still, in spite of the dwindling effects of more than a decade of suffering, the crusader, the warrior of the Lord, clutches his rosary in a way almost childlike. at last he risks a look toward his lover. perhaps there is hope for me still, ira wonders; even if the man is threatened by pain, he is there. he sits before him, he is real, no fragment of his mind this time, no vivid delusion. some scraps of ice pull off his expression. “ are you hungry ? ” spoken quieter then, as if an effort is being made beneath the surface to begone of the clouds. as if he is trying. ( at the very least to change the subject. ) “ i have some fruit. ”
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“ BEING MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD ISN’T NONSENSE. ” @crimewrought . ( sentence starters; accepting ) year 1929.
how warm, how weathered the chuckle must sound, mellifluous cotton; while there is some degree of severity to her tone, ira can’t seem to help but find the humour there, as though their world is some grand aging sketch. he supposes maria has much yet still to learn about life. in part, it’s perhaps cruel of him in some way to draw attention to the apparent absurdity of the concept at all; perhaps a little callous of him to let it inspire a laugh. even still, ira suspects that she might too find the spring of comedy in things one day, just as he did. “ you lose your aversion to it eventually, ” tone certain and assured, the pair of them walk in unison down the beaten track, as it winds through lush english countryside to the cottage. birds busy themselves in the tops of oaks and willows around them, shafts of yellow sunlight sneaking the leaves. severin is home, he knows; the thin plumes of smoke rising from the roof gave it away.
“ i’m not entirely certain whether or not that’s meant to be a good thing, but it definitely helps. ” ever still though, the great death, the final whistle of breath in the lungs, lurks somewhere faceless in the corner of his mind. it’s with this thought, then, that he looks to her. while she is justified in her apprehension of it, ira imagines himself capable of at least easing some of her worries. “ there’s very little any of us can do to change what will happen, min bearn, nor can we see what the future holds. if it’s meant to happen, then it will. all you can ever do is try to make sure you’re happy with the choices you’re making. ” a small pause; he pushes his lips together. “ - and i think ... being kind to yourself helps too. we might live differently to everyone else on the earth, but that doesn’t mean we have to have all the answers. ” conscious of appearing too much the preacher, there comes a small smirk. ��� just make sure that if anyone does get the best of you, you give them hell when you get up. ”
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in a quiet museum somewhere outside budapest, severin and ira make an unfortunate discovery in a display. part 1. @perdefinitio .
paramount to the way in which they transverse through the summers of the earth, two bodies that renew despite the hazards of life, time seems to come grinding to a halt. under shining spotlight, ira is the driver, he who slams forth the rusted wrought iron brakes; severin’s energy seems scattered, fragmented. he sensed this, as he sensed the man’s growing unsteadiness, too; may it masquerade itself to others, or be as simple as daylight. he cannot remain in shadow to the long-lost prince, nor does ira believe he ever wishes to. the magnitude of the moment between them seems significant enough to push waves on a Richter scale; ira has a honeyed gaze trained on his husband, as though to look away is to commit a cardinal sin. there is something burning behind the glass. why else would he retract so apace ? for what other reason would the cool, effortless breeze of the rebel-hearted mercian, shift so corruptly to an exhausted downpour ? he sensed this in him. hunger growing for it’s source, ira cannot hear severin’s pleas. centuries of devoting his mind, his soul, his body to him, has rendered the man incapable of playing devil’s advocate. he will seek out the source and he will eradicate it.
heavy steps, weighted, take the man forth, as though he were a knight on some valiant trail to glory. indicative of the hundreds, if not thousands of times he has marched onward for severin, and for severin alone. though it pains him to perhaps pay semblance into his love’s disquiet, ira is not such a timid man as to simply lay bare to it; he is a lore, a legend, THE WINCHESTER WIGHT, the terrible 𝔚𝔲𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔣𝔬𝔡 that smirks the rotten forests with sharp teeth and sharper blades; he will not sit idly by and watch severin ache. though he may wish it were simple as a bodied foe. when the ancient eyes find author of the other’s alarm, he, too, is shaken.
the lights in the glass casing are harsh and bold, synthetic. there isn’t a scrap of activity beside them; the pair are in the room alone together. the room itself is peeling, unloved, with draping grey cobwebs in tall, unreachable corners, and splintering wooden floorboards. some scrap of carpet in the corner is stained, perhaps having seen hundreds of onlookers. in-keeping with the theme, it seems, there is no wholesomeness to the way the letter is displayed. blistering under the spotlights like kindling. as if that’s all it was ever for. ira’s gaze widens.
“ ira, ” the name seems to lose itself in the ether, sound appears to fragment. “ let’s just move onto the next room, please ? ”
but the man is silent. there isn’t a thing severin can do to remove his focus, nor can he detract from the severity of the situation. this letter, damaged through time, marked here and there with the bloods of dirt, is not so simple as a shred of history; this letter is a whistle-blower. this letter is a mark of the oppression they have faced their entire lives. this letter, in writing so obviously severin’s, is a heron, and it caws at him as if it were hellish; this letter is, quite simply, trauma. he doesn’t recognize it, can’t place it’s nature, and can’t seem to dedicate a year to it, either. simply that it speaks of a time they had been apart, and that it had been lost along it’s way to finding him. from how he has written it, ira wonders if this had been in separation forced; how long had it have been at this point ? where was he, if not by severin’s side, where he is to belong for eternity; when was it from ? WHY WAS HE NOT THERE ? somehow, underneath the stoic exterior, though no sound breaks the barrier, ira feels himself lose breath in a motionless whimper. the spring of his confident guise slips almost immediately into a cold, harrowing winter. every moment he has ever spent away from the other seems to taunt him, suddenly, as though the room floods with cackling demons.
if severin speaks to him again, ira can’t hear him. it’s only when he feels the man’s touch, open palm flat against the brace of his forearm, that he breaks the fog. his gaze retreats to meet the other’s. oh, the agony you have had to endure my love, and the agony i have not been present to remedy. he can’t move, can’t uproot his boots from the spot; an oak destined to stay put, stay still, to wait, to wait for severin to arrive, to watch that pine doorframe until the small hours of shivering morning, and still remain without him, still remain frozen, still feel the scolding chill. ira blinks.
“ i can’t leave it there, ” he manages. his voice is too ruptured, too split apart with anguish. he searches severin’s eyes. there is too much pain there to cope with all at once; the perpetrator is not some gall-faced thug, this time; no. the perpetrator of severin’s pain is loss. ira cannot wield a sword to it, can’t cut it open for it’s wrongdoings, can’t remind it of it’s sins by squeezing life from it; for he, in some sense, is the cause of it. there is a small shake forming on his fingers. “ i can’t, sev. ”
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❝ why do people have to tell lies? ❞
❝ i don’t bite, unless it’s called for. ❞
❝ why me? ❞
❝ being murdered in cold blood isn’t nonsense. ❞
❝ it’s the truth. ❞
❝ you’re blocking my view. ❞
❝ i think i sprained my pride. ❞
❝ isn’t there something constructive you can do - like start an avalanche? ❞
❝ that’s a face you don’t forget. ❞
❝ you’re the only one I can trust. ❞
❝ i’m very confused. ❞
❝ what’s all this got to do with me? ❞
❝ it was quite unintentional, i’m sure. ❞
❝ do you know what’s wrong with you? nothing. ❞
❝ i’m having a nervous breakdown. ❞
❝ any morning now you could wake up dead. ❞
❝ how about making me vice-president in charge of cheering you up? ❞
❝ i don’t want to be alone. i’m afraid. ❞
❝ how would you like a punch in the nose? ❞
❝ i wish you’d let me help you. ❞
❝ are you quite sure you know who i am? ❞
❝ words can hurt. ❞
❝ stop treating me like a child. ❞
❝ we’ve got to do something! ❞
❝ promise me you’ll never lie the way they did. ❞
❝ it’s terrible. you just made it up! ❞
❝ that’s all i ask of anybody - the simple truth. ❞
❝ quitter. you give up awfully easy, don’t you? ❞
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todays revelation (courtesy of these fine specimens) is that ira cannot handle spicy food whatsoever. yes the water is too spicy. leave him alone
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–––––– many of the cages that you are trying to escape from, don’t exist at all. indie & selective crime oc. a study in moral ambiguity and consequence of choice.
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“so are you good guys or bad guys?” — “depends on the century.” // an immortals group verse feat. @asynjja + @stfreds + @kalixus + @kryetar + @crimewrought, inspired by the old guard.
#nat are you SERIOUS#ARE YOU BEING SERIOS#SERIOUS#???#NAT#/NAT/#//NAT///#MAKES THIS MY DESKTOP BACKGROUND ??#I'M SO FUCKING ????????#FUCK ???????#IMAGINE ME CRYING#EXCEPT NO ONE NEEDS TO BC IT'S REALITY#.#TBT#CAPS LOCK PERMANENTLY ON#THANK YOU#icb nat just drops this on a MONDAY NIGHT
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while the crusades rage on, FRED comes to find IRA disillusioned in the dead of night. featuring @stfreds .
POMEGRANATE SEEDS CHOKE BETWEEN HIS FINGER TIPS, spitting burning red poetry on otherwise coarse skin, weathered from decades of unending warfare. he, too, is weathered, a man eroded by the dust of time immemorial; it is under an honest and unfailing moonlight that he sits, in the encroaching mercy of, imploring a sky adorned in sparkling pin-pricks of stars for answers to the questions he perhaps dare not voice aloud. for in some sense to simply speak them is to make them real, to attend focus on the misery they speak of. severin has been gone for years now. as sweet as the thought of the man may once have been to him, the red rose stem harbours an unholy secret, and much as though the thin, watery juice is in truth that of ripe fruit, an insightful eye may consider it blood, and may consider the seeds to, instead, be thorns.
an ache lingers cruelly in the base of his stomach, though for it, the usurped prince has no such appetite to speak of. he lets the seeds spill on the earth beneath him, limp and lifeless. what a waste, he will consider briefly. though will continue to crush them, one by one. he may take the remainder of the white flesh and squeeze it together in the maw of one merciless, God-fearing hand, should the need for something more tangible arise. bright drops of vermilion colour drip from his finger tips and stain the limestone step, like some glorified offering to the heavens above. this is when he feels he is no longer alone.
a short glance to his side confirms the suspicion that had reared itself; at the very least, the copper tresses of fred’s hair may inspire some repose, if simply to get the silent, grizzled wolf to speak. while his attention may return on the seeds, “ i couldn’t sleep, ” ira admits. the usually brass contours of his voice seem burnt to a crisp under the unending heat of the west asian sun. how irreparably cruel it is for a man so devoted to the Lord to sit upon his saintly doorstep, to at last take root in the Holy Land, and yet to feel further from Him than ever before. “ ... i needed some air. ”
#stfreds#immortal verse tag tba.#when i tell you how much fun this was to write#i hoPE ITS OK#aaaaaAAAAAA#the show is on the road. i repeat#the show#is on#the road
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