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hummingjay · 4 months ago

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New oc for thee: SKUR "Großer Skua”

Under the cut are numerous doodles and SO MUCH YAP it’s very long so be warned.

SKUR

Schwere-Kommando-Ungeheuer-Replika

Heavy-commando-Behemoth-Replica

Großer Skuas, or Schwere-Kampf-ungeheuer-Replikas, “Great Skuas”, often simply referred to as Skuas, are heavy commandos utilized by the nation in dangerous raids. These units are large and bulky, wearing heavy armor and welding weapons that are usually too heavy not to be on a mount. They operate in small groups, usually one to three, commanded by a KLBR, STAR, LSTR, STCR unit, or with an infantry force.

Skuas use a wide variety of heavy weapons, from machine guns and grenade launchers to flamethrowers and shotguns. Whatever the weapon, they’re always hyper-powered and usually too heavy for most units to even carry, much less use. They can unmount vehicle machine guns and use them in a man-portable fashion. Their armor is strong enough to block shotgun rounds at point blank range. Despite their large, heavy appearance, Skuas are deceptively fast. They carry cargos of ammunition and gear, and can be used as workhorses for transport.

Skuas are the perfect soldier in a way that an angel is the perfect human. They’ve been stripped from their humanity in a barbaric defiance of the natural order of creation, leaving an abomination whose sole purpose is bringing death in the most destructive manner possible. They feature skinless, fleshless, skull-like-heads, and many of their internal organs have been replaced with mechanics. They have no stomach and run instead on pressurized gasolines, and can create improvised fuels from processing and liquidizing organic matter, allowing them to attain fuel in the field and go without supplies for close to years. They can go without fuel for up to a week, and their fuel-processing systems allow them to live on diets of wood and even flesh. Their internal fuel systems and generators are located where their stomach and other organs used to be. Connected to the fuel system and remaining heart and lungs is a sophisticated engine that emits a low whir or hum. With no lips, their voicebox is located directly in the back of the throat, and sounds more mechanical than a normal replika. Their voice tends to be unsettling, like it’s not real or that it cuts through one’s ears. They will often cough the exhaust from their internal engine systems.

Skuas do not feel pain, and will instead feel a dull pressure when damaged, only so that they’re aware of their wounds. They must be watched closely as they see no difference between a pinprick and decapitation. They feature air filters in the neck and are immune to toxins, and can breathe even through even the thickest smoke and dust. Advanced cooling and ventilation control systems allow them to survive in both extremely hot or cold environments. Their joints are more mechanical, mixing machine pistons with their pseudo-flesh to strengthen them. Their cranial construction and nervous system are organic and interconnected with their machine structures and systems. They lack conventional eidetic modules and utilize instead camera-like lenses that are more immune to flash-grenades and cannot be blinded by debris. A built-in decibel limit also prevents becoming deaf, temporarily or otherwise. Arteries and veins are seamlessly integrated with the other mechanical systems. Though they possess no stomach, intestines, liver, kidneys, and other artificial internal organs that replikas typically have, they still have their heart, blood, and lungs to pump oxygen into the fuel systems.

Skuas operate well alone and in groups. One can be sent on a near-suicidal operation or can serve as support for a larger infantry.

Skuas are generally led by a handler, usually an Elster, Kolibri, Storch, or Starling unit. Each handler type fulfills a different role. Elster units lead Skuas far into unsurveyed enemy territory with little information and even less support. Storch-led Skuas operate raids. Starlings lead Skuas among other infantry, and Kolibris will operate a wider variety of roles in-high-stakes operations. Roles may vary, such as Elster units leading a defense campaign or a Starling leading a raid.

The commanding handler of Skua units must be evaluated for loyalty, as Skuas are easy to manipulate due to their unwavering, unquestioning, and extreme obedience. Commanding officers’ sole role is to manage the commandos, dealing with maintenance and orders. While not higher ranking than other officers, having the deadly and intimidating behemoths under their command affords handlers an uncanny authority. Skuas will develop close bonds with their commander, and are extremely protective of them.

Due to their skinless, faceless nature, Skuas are difficult at best to read. It is hard to gauge their emotions by their voice, which itself is monotone and formal, and their demeanor is similarly difficult to gauge. Their commanding handlers are expected to understand the subtle signs that signify their mental state, such as a clenched jaw in anger, and the activation of ventilation systems located in the neck and spine when flustered. Skuas do not possess tear nor mucus ducts, and will emit sporadic growls and hums instead of crying. Similarly, harder, louder, more aggressive growls can be heard if the Skua is particularly angry. When especially happy or content, they will produce deeper, louder humming sounds akin to purrs. Skuas also lack sweat glands, using their internal cooling and ventilation systems to stay at optimal temperature. Oddly, a byproduct of their unorthodox nerve system is that they enjoy being pet. Handlers discover a ‘sweet spot’, usually located on the torso.

Skua personalities appear dull and empty. They speak in monotone voices and tend to be very passive. In combat, they are aggressive and destructive, yet calm, causing maximum damage in minimal time. They fight in an oppressive fashion, fighting in such a manner that enemy combatants hardly have a chance to fire back. Unlike other combat units, they show no affinity nor fondness for violence, it’s simply a task that must be done. Skuas are wholly and entirely obedient to commanding units, utterly unquestioning of the even most appalling orders. While deep down, a sense of morality can theoretically be found, said ethics are completely ignored when an order contradicts what little there is. They will not go out of the way to cause maximum collateral, but have no qualms about it. For these reasons, Skaus can also function as executors. Their obedience makes them easy to manipulate, and are generally under the command of a replika instead of a gestalt. Upon further interaction, Skuas will reveal a calm and soft personality, akin to MNHR type units. When interacting with other units, they will minimize movement, as they do not know their own strength and can cause injury. They tend to not speak, aware of the intrinsic unsettling quality of their voice.

Skuas are physically terrifying to most units. Faceless, monstrous, destructive, and smelling of exhaust, they’re avoided almost entirely. They serve as omens to mass destruction to the enemy. Skuas themselves have no particular fondness for specific units. If any treats them as more than a demonic tool, they will attempt to befriend the person. Showing affection to the unloved units is an effective and easy way to gain their trust. Underneath their corpse-like and violent exterior, Skuas are gentle souls. They are fascinated by gestalts and their lives, as well as other replikas, and display a childlike curiosity with the world. They stabilize their persona by drawing and sketching. They may tattoo each other’s armor so that others can tell them apart, usually drawing little more than numbers. Often, one can find Skaus hidden just off the area where Eules work, as they listen to their singing and music. They enjoy looking for flowers when off duty, and will decorate each other with them.

Naming conventions are random. They have no preference for names and are generally named by their commanding officer, sometimes others, very rarely themselves. More personalized names stem from commanders. More generic names will come from nearby compatriots.

While technically female, Skuas are often referred to as “it” by others, not afforded the luxury of humanization. They make no movements to correct the notion. They are seen as unmanned combat vehicles rather than replikas, and they know it. Handlers are to refer to them more humanely, and are to provide names if a unit doesn’t have one.

The gestalt template for the Skua unit was a gunner in an aircraft crew, chosen for their keen eye, unyielding loyalty, and will of steel. Skuas are to be kept on-ground purely as foot soldiers to minimize resurfacing memories. Degraded Skuas are extremely dysphoric and must never look into a mirror. When degraded, Skuas remain mostly obedient but erratic and confused. They become unsteady on their feet and will attempt to board aircraft. Obedience will not decline, but they will question unfamiliar commanders. Late-stage degradation will reveals mania and violence. Decommission degrading Skuas immediately as soon as degradation is confirmed. They can easily be disposed of by having their handler disarm them, though convincing their handler to do so may be difficult. Use anti-armor rounds for a quick operation.

#If I’ve seemed less active it’s because I was working on this chucklefuck #Obsessing over her so mich #Almost 8 foot tall behemoth listening to tiny kopipi:#Fun dynamics and fun stuff planned #skua #skua signalis #Signalis oc #signalis fanart #my art #signalis #jay art

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jamespotterthefirst · 4 months ago

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Ode to a Nightingale (AU)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Miss Lilac Allende)

Word count: 2.8K

Premise: Amid the dazzling ballroom, a single question from Lilac—about a mysterious woman from Ethan’s past—shatters the evening, forcing Ethan to confront buried memories, dark secrets, and the impending threat to his future with Lilac.

Series: AU, set in the 1800s. Continuation of She Walks In Beauty | A Red, Red Rose | How Do I Love Thee |

Part 2 of More Lovely and More Temperate

Ethan caught sight of Tobias Carrick’s tall, lean figure walking away from the far corner of the ballroom, his departure drawing a frown to Ethan’s brow. It was no secret he deeply loathed Tobias Carrick, and seeing him near Lilac set his nerves ablaze. His eyes darted to his fiancée, standing beside a petite young woman he didn’t recognize. The woman’s expression was one of pure fire, a look so fierce it might have reduced Tobias to ash if he were still within their range.

But what concerned Ethan more was Lilac.

Even from across the ballroom, her pale face and the rigid line of her posture were enough to unsettle him. Her usual poise was gone, replaced by something unreadable—something deeply wrong.

“Ethan?” a kind voice asked from somewhere to his right.

When he finally tore his eyes away from Lilac, he saw Naveen frowning at him. The older man, astute as ever, had a tendency to correctly gauge Ethan’s mood.

“Is something the matter?”

But before Ethan could answer, a tall figure loomed nearby like a specter.

“Good evening gentlemen,” Tobias Carrick greeted with a characteristic leer that made Ethan’s fists clench.

Naveen had the grace to return the greeting politely. Ethan, on the other hand, did not have a single ounce of forced pleasantness left and even if he did, Tobias Carrick would have been the last person to receive it. The cold reception only seemed to amuse Carrick, his amber eyes glimmering.

“What a splendid evening,” Carrick commented, watching the dancefloor. His gaze slid back to Ethan, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And how lovely your fiancée looks tonight.”

All three men found Lilac across the room, standing tall and graceful, her gown catching the light as she spoke with the young woman next to her. Ethan’s eyes narrowed as he noticed how stiff her posture remained. The tension he could see pinching her shoulders even from this distance set his teeth on edge.

“I never quite had the chance to say congratulations on your engagement,” Carrick said, his tone smooth but with an undeniable undercurrent of malice. “Quite the catch, your fiancée. It’s rare to see someone of her... caliber with a man like you. She must have exceptional taste.”

“She does indeed,” Ethan replied at once, voice cool. “Which is why she saw right through you and chose a future with me instead.”

Naveen coughed into his drink, a poor attempt to hide his laughter.

Carrick’s smirk faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to tell Ethan that his words had hit the mark. The gleam in Carrick’s amber eyes dimmed slightly as he straightened, shifting his weight uncomfortably before forcing that smug expression back onto his face.

“Well,” Carrick drawled, his voice losing some of its previous smoothness, “not everyone can be so fortunate, I suppose.”

“Fortune had nothing to do with it,” Ethan replied, his tone sharp. “But then again, you wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be chosen by someone like her.”

Carrick’s jaw tightened, though his grin remained plastered on his face. “Enjoy the revelry of the evening,” he said, the malice creeping back into his voice. “You never know how long it shall last.”

Before Ethan could respond, Carrick tipped his head in a mockery of a polite farewell and disappeared into the crowd.

Naveen finally let out the laughter he had been holding in. “That was well played, Ethan,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Though I must admit, Carrick’s presence alone is enough to sour anyone’s evening.”

Ethan grunted, his eyes still locked on Lilac across the room. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered. “I must speak to her.”

“Go to her,” Naveen urged softly. “Before someone else tries to ruin your night.”

Without wasting another second, Ethan moved through the crowd, his focus solely on Lilac. The noise of laughter, clinking glasses, and music became a distant hum as he closed the distance between them. Soon, the band would strike the first notes of the final song of the evening. Tradition dictated that even engaged couples were only allowed two dances together at such events, but tradition was the last thing on Ethan’s mind.

He needed to know what was troubling her.

As he approached, the petite young woman beside Lilac stiffened, clearly caught off guard by his sudden appearance. She quickly dipped into a curtsy, but the movement was rushed and awkward. She looked flustered, her cheeks flushing pink as she stole a glance at Lilac, perhaps uncertain of her place in the situation.

But Ethan hardly registered her discomfort. His eyes were solely on Lilac.

She was breathtaking, as always. The golden light of the chandeliers shimmered off her emerald gown, casting her in a warm glow. Her usual grace, however, was marred by the tension in her posture, and though she had laughed softly at whatever the young woman had said, it was a hollow sound—one that didn’t reach her eyes.

“May I have this dance, Miss Allende?”

Lilac’s face was a cold, expressionless mask. Her green eyes— usually bright and lively— fell down to his extended hand. She paused for just a moment, and in that heartbeat, Ethan’s pulse surged with anxious energy. Finally, she nodded, placing her hand in his, though the warmth that usually radiated from her touch was gone. Silently, he led her onto the floor, pulling her close as the music began.

They moved as one, as they always did, their steps perfectly synchronized, but the usual ease of their connection was gone. Couples moved gracefully around them, but to Ethan, it was just the two of them. Lilac, meanwhile, quietly glanced all around the room, pointedly avoiding his gaze and her silence— sharp as a blade— made his stomach twist.

“Did Tobias upset you?” he finally asked, his voice low and careful.

Lilac didn’t answer. Instead, she continued to watch the dancing couples around them, her mouth pressed into a terse line. The deathly silence between them stretched on, making his heart pound in his chest.

Then, her green eyes finally met his, the hurt he found there striking him. Very softly, she asked, “Who is Harper Emery?”

Ethan’s heart stopped altogether.

The world around them seemed to blur as her question hung in the air. The melody of violins, the conversations and laughter, even Lilac’s barely controlled breathing— all of it faded into a sharp, agonizing ring in his ears. The lights dimmed in his mind, leaving only a sickening, suffocating sense of dread.

He didn’t answer—he couldn’t.

Harper Emery.

The name hit him like a blow, one that reverberated through his entire body, dredging up memories he had spent years burying. And yet, despite all his efforts to keep them at bay, they rushed back now with cruel vividness, crashing into him like an unstoppable wave.

“Stop!”

A gunshot rang out in the dark, deafening and sharp, its echo still haunting him even now.

“Jonathan!”

The memory had haunted him for years, lurking in the darkest corners of his mind, never far from the surface. And now, just hearing her name had torn those memories free, forcing him to relive the horror all over again.

Ethan’s mind raced, scrambling for words, for any way to explain—to make Lilac understand—but nothing came. How could he possibly tell her about that night? How could he make her see that Harper wasn’t just a name from his past but a wound that had never fully healed?

His stunned silence was answer enough, however.

Lilac’s lips pressed into a tight line, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as her mind worked through the unspoken confirmation. Her cold, stoic expression betrayed the smallest glimpse of hurt, and his throat tightened in response. The weight of her unspoken pain pressed down on him, suffocating him with the thought that he might lose her.

The song ended, but before he could say anything, before he could even begin to explain, she slipped her hand from his and walked away. Without a word, she made her way out of the ballroom, disappearing down the corridor that led toward his study, the fabric of her dress catching the golden light much like it did all those months ago when he first saw her.

Ethan stood frozen for a moment, his hand still hovering in the air where hers had been. He had never been so unsure of what to do.

“Go to her,” Naveen’s kind voice said from behind him.

Ethan didn’t need to ask how his mentor knew. All he was certain of was that Naveen was right. He couldn’t let Lilac leave—not like this, not when she was the most important thing in his life.

With long strides, he followed her, his heart pounding as he reached the study’s heavy doors. They were slightly ajar, and when he entered, he saw her standing across the room, gazing out, the silver glow of the night sky framing her in a halo of light. She looked as distant as the moon itself, and the sight of her standing there, with the weight of her hurt pressing down on her, tore at his chest.

“Lilac, please,” Ethan said quietly. “Let me explain.”

She turned to face him, and even from across the mahogany desk, he could see her green eyes shining with unshed tears. Despite her pain, she stood tall, her expression set in that fierce, stubborn way he knew all too well.

“Then explain, Ethan.”

Ethan opened his mouth, summoning the words he had been too afraid to say for years, but none came. Instead, the memories—those terrible, painful memories he had buried so deep—robbed him of his voice, of his composure. His hands trembled at his sides as images of Harper flooded his mind. The gunshot, the screaming, the blood.

Lilac waited in silence, her eyes locked on his.

At last, he spoke, his voice low and rough with emotion. “Harper was never my fiancée.”

“Then who was she?”

Ethan took a deep breath, steadying himself as he walked further into the room, closing the door behind him.

“We were childhood friends. Our families… they were entwined long before Harper, her brother Jonathan, and I were born. My father and Mr. Emery were close, lifelong friends. They were business partners, confidants. Our futures seemed inexorably bound.”

Lilac said nothing, listening raptly to his every word.

“When our families saw how naturally Harper and I got along, the expectation followed. It was assumed—by everyone—that one day we would wed. Even I…” He paused, struggling to find the strength to confess. “Even I thought that perhaps one day I would make her my wife.”

Ethan took a deep breath, his gaze falling to the floor as he struggled with the weight of what he was about to reveal. Lilac’s eyes softened slightly, though the hurt still lingered beneath the surface as she absorbed his words.

“When Harper’s mother died, everything changed,” Ethan continued, his voice quieter now. “Mr. Emery… he descended into despair. He found solace in drink. It was not long before he gambled away half of his fortune. Cards, horse racing, any wager that could dull the pain. But as his losses mounted, so too did his temper. He… he took his anger out on Harper and Jonathan.”

Ethan paused, the bitter memories flashing through his mind. “Jonathan and I did what we could to protect her, but Harper… she bore the brunt of it. She resembled her mother so much, and it tormented him. Mr. Emery purged the house of all that reminded him of his wife—her belongings, her portraits… He pushed his children further away each day. He even forbade Harper and Jonathan from visiting her grave.”

Lilac’s eyes widened slightly at that, a flicker of empathy crossing her face.

“But Harper couldn’t stay away,” Ethan said softly. “Her mother had meant so much to her and losing her changed her, too. She would sneak out to visit her mother’s grave often. One day, I found her there, weeping. I didn’t know what else to do, so I held her… tried to comfort her.”

He hesitated, the next part of the memory too painful to express easily. “Mr. Emery and Jonathan found us there. Mr. Emery had been drinking—more than usual—and when he saw us, unchaperoned, with my arms around Harper… he lost it. He assumed the worst. He called her vile things, things I shall not repeat.”

Lilac winced, and her expression softened further, the hurt fading as she listened to Ethan’s voice tremble with the memory.

“Jonathan tried to calm him down, but it only aggravated his father more. In the ensuing chaos, Mr. Emery drew a pistol. Jonathan and I both sought to disarm him, to protect Harper. But in the struggle…” Ethan’s voice broke as his eyes glossed over with emotion. “The gun discharged. Jonathan was struck.”

“Stop!” Harper’s anguished scream had rung out almost as loudly as the gunshot that followed.

A tall figure—Jonathan—staggered, clutching his chest as his frame collapsed to the ground in a sickening heap.

Blood. So much blood. It spread quickly, staining the grass beneath them, pooling around Jonathan’s motionless body.

“I ran to him, trying to help, but I knew nothing about medicine back then. I didn’t know what to do.” Ethan ran a shaky hand through his hair, his voice hoarse as he continued. “He died in my arms, Lilac.”

Ethan’s words broke until his throat closed altogether.

“Ethan…” Lilac whispered, her voice no longer cold but filled with raw emotion.

“After that, Harper couldn’t look at me. She couldn’t bear to be near me.” His voice broke again. “It became unbearable to be in the place where I had shared so many happy memories with the Emery family. So I came to England with my father’s money, tried to disappear. I thought distance would help, that maybe I could outrun what had happened. And for a while, it worked. I buried myself in work, in studying, anything to keep my mind off what I had lost.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed as he recalled the early days of his career. “Here, I met Naveen. He became my mentor. Taught me everything I know about medicine, about saving lives. He… he saved me, in a way. Gave me purpose when I didn’t think I had one anymore.”

Lilac’s posture softened as she listened, uncrossing her arms.

“I could not tell you, Lilac,” he said, letting out a shaky breath. His fingers clutched the edge of the desk as if it could anchor him to the moment. His eyes met Lilac’s for a moment, but he quickly looked away, unable to face the possibility of her seeing the full depth of his regret. “The things I have done… I knew you would never look at me the same if you knew.”

She moved around the desk, standing close to him, the warmth of her proximity a welcomed relief for him that he did not deserve.

“Ethan, that is not—”

“I hurt people, Lilac. And I thought if I kept running, if I just kept working—distracted myself enough—I could leave it all behind. I thought I could become someone else, someone worthy of... this.” His eyes flicked briefly between them, finally falling on the ring he had placed on her finger merely weeks ago.

Lilac opened her mouth to respond, but the door creaked open with a soft groan, and Mrs. Martinez appeared in the doorway. She took a step into the room, a brief, kind smile curling her lips, though Ethan couldn’t miss the heaviness in her gaze.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Mrs. Martinez said smoothly, her voice gentle as she looked at Lilac, “but Señor Allende is asking for you, my dear. He wishes to speak with you at once.”

The old woman’s words were polite, measured—but Ethan felt a shift in the air. The weight of her unspoken message pressed heavily on his chest. Somehow, he knew his secret had gotten out. Carrick’s parting words were proof enough.

“You never know how long it shall last.”

Ethan’s stomach twisted with unease, knowing what this meant. The whispers about Ethan’s past—about the things he’d done and tried to escape—had clearly reached Mr. Allende. And now, the man who held Lilac’s future in his hands was reconsidering his approval.

Lilac met Ethan’s gaze briefly, and he could see his own dread reflected there.

“Of course,” she murmured. “I shall attend him immediately.”

Mrs. Martinez nodded, her eyes lingering on Ethan for a fraction of a second before she left the room, the door closing softly behind her.

Ethan’s heart sank as silence filled the room once more. He could feel the walls closing in on him. He had known it was inevitable that someone would find out eventually, but hearing the weight of Mr. Allende’s disapproval—a father who had given Lilac the world—was something he couldn’t bear.

“I am sorry, Lilac,” Ethan whispered, his voice almost breaking. “I never wished to put you in this position. You deserve better than... this.”

Note: I swear this wasn't going to take a MONTH. But I hated the first draft I wrote so I had to start over. I was also stuck on a title. I finally settled on this one, inspired by a John Keats poem.

Hope you liked it!

Thank you so much to everyone who read "More Lovely and More Temperate"! And thank you so much if you read this, too!

#ethan ramsey #open heart #ethan x mc #playchoices

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lanafofana · 1 year ago

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Cuckoo for a Cuckhold

(I forgot to take screenshots of daddy zevlor so have this instead, it still fits cause...well you'll see)

Just under the wire (depending on your timezone) DAY 5 for HalsinTavWeek has come crashing through the finish line! But Lana! Where is Day 4's prompt?? Shhhh, my beauties, it's sleeping.

Pairing: Halsin/Tav(F)/Zevlor Summary: It's a special occasion. Halsin wants to watch someone rail his wife. Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI Warning/Tags: Modern AU, Cuckholding, smut, masturbation, established relationship, banter, P in V sex, innapropriate use of tiefling tail, consensual kink No beta, we die like Yonas (RIP Yonas) And lo, an AO3 link for thee

Sitting at a gaudy bar, heavy bass music thumping loud enough to make him regret having ears, and drinking some of the worst swill he’s ever tasted, Zevlor was not having a great time.

Despite being the only patron physically sitting at the bar the bartender seemed pathologically incapable of giving him the time of day. When he tries to wave him down and the man, yet again, turns to someone else walking up to order something, the tiefling grits his teeth, tail lashing and resists the overwhelming urge to give him the stern talking to he so richly deserves.

“Excuse me,” says a warm friendly voice. “We noticed you across the bar and really dig your vibe. Would you be interested in fucking my wife?”

Caught in the middle of draining his glass, the last sip of lager slips down the wrong pipe and Zevlor chokes, coughing and sputtering. Regaining his composure he wipes his mouth and turns to look at who’s approached him just in time to see the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen smack her hand against the thick bicep of, easily, the largest man he’s ever seen.

“Not like that!” The woman chastises with a mortified smile. When she turns her attention to Zevlor he feels his earlier irritation fade as if she contained some innate ability to soothe the ruffled feathers of grumpy old men. She hands him a napkin which he uses to dab at his chin while he eyes the pair expectantly.

“Sorry,” she was explaining, with an exasperated glance at her husband. “He was raised by wolves.”

“Bears,” the man corrects.

“My heart, my love, pleasestophelping!” The man grins, pecking her on the head and settling himself down on a stool miming the action of zipping his lips and placing the invisible key in her hand. “What he means to, er, say is hello, I’m Tav and this is Halsin.”

Zevlor reaches out and gently takes her hand in his, gallantly lowering his lips to her knuckles. “Zevlor, my dear,” he intones mildly, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Enchanted.”

“Oh!” Tav’s nervous smile softens, pleasantly surprised with the little display of chivalry. She looks lovely, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, a soft blush dusting her cheeks and he’s amused that she only thinks of withdrawing her hand when he lightly squeezes it.

“I believe you were making a proposition?” He asks wryly, eyes flicking to the man behind her, who hasn’t stopped watching the proceedings with interest.

Tav coughs,”Right.” Then, cheeks remaining stubbornly flushed she proceeds to stumble through the most charmingly awkward come-on Zevlor’s ever witnessed, let alone received.

“You two are terrible at this,” he remarks not unkindly when she’s finished and Halsin stifles a laugh.

“Practice makes perfect,” defends Tav with a sniff but she looks just as amused as her husband. “What do you say, Zevlor?” The heat in her eyes could have scorched him where he sat.

“It would be my absolute pleasure.” At his wicked smile the petite woman grins and takes his hand, tugging him along behind her while Halsin settles the tab.

They don’t go far, which is just as well considering the electric tension that practically fizzes into view everytime they catch each other’s eye. The fancy hotel they’re staying at already has a reservation in Tav’s name and the three manage to get all the way to the elevator before Zevlor’s tail snakes around her waist to yank her close enough to kiss.

Hands snake up his chest to find purchase on his shoulders and he barely swipes his tongue across her lips before she opens up for him, moaning prettily as their tongues glide against each other.

His hands on her waist travel down, untucking her shirt roughly. He slips his thumbs just below the waistband of her short skirt to trace circles on the sensitive skin of her hips, an action that earns him a particularly lewd moan that he greedily swallows with his tongue and teeth. His tail wraps around her leg and snakes upward towards her skirt and when he traces the warm damp line between her legs she shudders.

“I know you don’t mind if I enjoy the show but I feel obligated to point out that this elevator has cameras,” says Halsin and Tav jerks back in alarm. Zevlor chuckles while she buries her face in the crook of his neck, hiding from the camera’s view, the tips of her ears burning brightly. Reluctantly he removes his tail from her skirt though he does take a moment to trail the tip down the back of her thigh as he does so.

Soon enough the door to the suite is shut behind them and Tav leads him by the hand to an impressive bedroom with a wall of floor to ceiling windows that reveal a breathtaking view. A sea of city lights spreading out into the distance, a cluster of artificial stars outshining the night sky.

Tav puts a finger under his chin to direct his attention back to her and gives him a look that could incinerate. “Unless you’re thinking about fucking me up against those windows, I think your attention is better served elsewhere, Commander.”

He quirks a brow at her. “I didn’t tell you I was a commander,” he chides, face breaking into a slow smile.

Tav shrugs, eyes twinkling, “You were right. We’re terrible at this. C’mere.”

The tiefling bends his head to kiss her, hands finding her hips to tug her close. Her perfume smells like coffee and orange blossoms and he slips a clawed hand into her hair to hold her close, deepening the kiss.

“I for one would like to revisit the window suggestion,” Halsin chirps from the bed where he’s already bare chested and under the covers.

Breaking the kiss Zevlor gives the man an exasperated look. “Aren’t you supposed to be the silent observer?”

“She broke character already!” Halsin defends.

“It’s not your birthday, is it? She’s allowed to break whatever the hells she wants!” He leans back into Tav’s orbit to press a lingering kiss at the pulse point of her neck. “Well, my lady. Where would you have me?”

Putting her hands on her hips Tav surveys the room, gaze lingering on the windows. “You know, this feels a lot less sexier than I imagined it. What happened to letting everything happen, y’know, organically?”

“Says the woman who planned out an entire scenario to pick up her own husband at a bar,” says Zevlor, unbuttoning his shirt and smiling innocently when she rounds on him with a frown.

“What was wrong with my scenario? It had a lot of potential!”

“Oh yes, right up until, ‘We dig your vibe’ over there couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.”

“Yeah, well your wife was too head over heels seeing you scowling at the bar to do anything but stare at you. Someone had to do something or we’d all still be down there.”

“Fuck’s sake,” says Tav, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to fondly amused. She takes off her shirt and tosses it aside, stalking towards the wall of windows. “Right, you,” she points at Halsin. “Sit at the edge of the bed, there, where I can see you.”

Obediently he does as directed and Zevlor, kicking off his boots and unbuttoning his pants gives him an arch look. “How are you already naked?”

His husband shrugs with a wide, self satisfied grin. “No buttons.”

“And you,” says Tav, feeling a little like she’s trying to wrangle cats. “Come here.”

“Finally,” breathes Zevlor, crossing the room with wide strides and wrapping her in his arms.

He kisses her hard, sinking his hands into her hair to hold her steady while he plunders her mouth. She tastes like sweet water and cinnamon and he moans when she sucks his tongue into her mouth. Breaking apart for air he grips her thighs just under her ass and lifts her, pressing her against the window pane and leans in to suck a soft warm nipple into his mouth hungrily.

With both hands and mouth occupied his tail glides up between their bodies and sinks between the lips of her damp folds until he brushes against the tight bundle of nerves.

“Shit, Zevlor,” she gasps, jerking, mouth falling open. Through half lidded eyes she spies Halsin, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand palming his own erection while he watches them. When his gaze finds hers on him the man smirks, widening his legs and leaning back to improve her view. “Gods.”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Zevlor growls against her skin before switching to her other breast, sucking on her nipple to the point where pleasure meets pain and she keens, one hand fisting in his hair tightly while the other grips one of his horns. Releasing her tit he bares his teeth, his eyes burning bright with the ferocity of his lust. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wrecked for me, aren’t you?” Between her legs the tip of his tail slips warm and wet against her clit in a slow and lazy pace that has her blood burning in her veins.

“Fuck! Zevlor, I can’t–,” her breathing comes in shorter, desperate bursts. “I can’t think.”

“Shhhh,” he smiles into her skin before he drags his teeth against the delicate skin in the crook of her sweaty neck, licking the salt from her body greedily. “Don’t think, my dear, let Zevlor take care of you.”

She rests her head against the glass window at her back and her gasps give way to wanton groans and back again as he works at her clit with maddening precision. Her orgasm hovers just out of reach and she’s powerless to chase it, caught in his meticulous rhythm.

Glancing at her other husband on the bed she whimpers at the sight of him, skin flushed with arousal, his leaking cock being stroked at the same careful tempo that has begun to beat like a heartbeat in her cunt.

“Kiss me,” she demands, feeling the burning ember of her orgasm fanning into a sudden blistering wildfire. She tugs on his horn and he grunts but surges in to crash against her mouth, swallowing the moan that rips through her throat in tandem with her climax.

He holds her through the inferno and when she can finally meet his gaze with eyes unclouded with mindless lust he lets her down gently. He removes his tail from her body but she’s always been faster than he gives her credit for and she snatches it. Holding his gaze she brings the tip, glistening with her arousal, to her lips, sucking it into the warm wet heat of her mouth with an appreciative moan that punches the air from his lungs.

He places his hands on the window on either side of her head, boxing her in, and breathes out harshly at the roguish smirk she gives him with his tail sticking out of her mouth.

“You’re playing with fire, woman,” he mutters roughly.

Tav swirls her tongue around the tip of his tail before pulling it from her mouth with a pop. “What do you want to do about it?” It’s a challenge and permission all in one.

He turns her around kicking her feet apart and pressing her against the window and wishes he could be outside looking in at the sight she must make like this. Wet pussy dripping, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and hungry for a fuck right after an orgasm.

He runs his hands down her body reverently, marveling that she’s given him the privilege. She’s so fucking soft and sweet and perfect. He runs his claws down her spine to the small of her back, smirking when she gasps and her hips jerk. Lining up his swollen member to the tight wet slit he kisses her shoulder before pressing his hips forward, clenching his jaw at the overwhelming sensation of her body taking him so beautifully.

“Hells, woman.” He pauses, head bowed as he draws in a shuddering breath.

Over her shoulder she grins at him, nothing but wicked mischief in her eyes. It’s all the warning he gets before her back arches and she presses into his crotch until he’s fully sheathed in her cunt, his balls brushing against her clit.

Zevlor curses, grasping her hips tightly to hold her still, his tail flicking from side to side in agitation. But his wife isn’t one to be swayed and her back bows and arches, her hips rolling into his and he grunts. He can feel his composure slip through his fingers at the undulation of her tight wet heat squeezing his cock and in the reflection of the glass window he can see her smirking at him.

“I warned you,” he grinds out through his teeth. The brimstone of his eyes flaring bright and hot sends a shiver down her spine. He tangles one hand in her hair, holding her face to the window and with his other he grips the soft plump flesh of her hip hard enough to leave bruises. He snaps his hips, pleased with the resulting lust drunk moan it elicits, fogging the glass.

Her cunt is a hot wet heaven, swallowing his dick and his brain cells with each increasingly desperate slam of his hips. Their breathing becomes more labored, loud and harsh and peppered with desperate moans and grunts. Tav reaches a hand between her thighs and places her fingers in a ‘V’ where his body meets hers, adding a firm pressure to the base of his shaft that has his eyes nearly rolling in their sockets.

With her face pressed against the glass Tav has a clear shot view of Halsin who looks nearly as wrecked as she feels. His hair, already loose from its customary tied back style, frames his face, strands stuck to his sweat slick throat and damp face. When their eyes meet the unfiltered intensity could have set her on fire. Her spine curves and she pushes herself back into Zevlor’s thrusts, desperate for release.

The tiefling releases his grip on her hair and instead reaches between her legs, encircling her wrist and yanking it up to pin it against the glass. He doesn’t linger in the position long, her inner walls are bearing down on him so tightly he can practically taste her orgasm in the air.

Taking both her hips in his hands he fucks into her harder, faster. Tav’s panting sighs turn into guttural moans that taper off into delicious whimpers. With each wet grasp of her cunt on his cock her breathing increases, each cry coming faster and sharper as she begins to unravel.

Wrapping a hand around her front he jerks her body away from the window and against his chest, slotting his mouth where her shoulder meets her neck. Pressing his teeth to the silky flesh there his tail lashes around and slipping deep into the lips of her pussy, grinding hard against her clit. The orgasm tears through her with a wail from her throat that goes directly to his balls and a tight clamping sensation on his dick that has him exhaling a breathless moan, his vision clouding with his own climax of euphoria.

Spent and panting they stay locked together for a brief minute before with a tender kiss to her shoulder he pulls out, smiling softly at the noise of complaint it tugs from her lips. She turns to face him and pulls him in for a breathless kiss before they both break apart to look at Halsin.

The elf looks ruined, skin flushed dark, laid back on the bed with his arms spread out. His cum covered chest rising and falling as he catches his own breath.

“I changed my mind,” he says when they join him on the bed. Zevlor, running a warm damp cloth down his husband's chest and cleaning the mess of ejaculate, arches his brow in question. “That was an excellent scenario.”

Tav scoffs. “That was hardly what I had in mind.” She rolls over, nuzzling her pillow drowsily. “Maybe role play isn’t for us.”

Halsin and Zevlor trade a look, their faces breaking into slow conspiratorial smiles.

“I don’t know,” says Zevlor casually, tossing the used rag to the floor.

“Practice makes perfect,” confirms Halsin sagely, grinning when he peels back the blanket to tug a squawking Tav into his embrace.

The End

#halsintavweek #halsin x tav #halsin x tav x zevlor #tav x zevlor #smut #it came to me in a daydream idk what to tell you

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rettrogue · 11 months ago

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Had a question about who our favorite Zenigata partner is in a server I'm in and now I can't stop thinking about them. Tis the zaza sickness.

anyway here's literally all of the characters Zenigata's been partnered with that i could find (within reason). if anyone wants to elaborate on any of these guys (cough yata cough) please feel free to go absolutely ham. *(obligatory spoiler warning for a whole lotta lupin specials, waow-- notably zenigata keibu since that's probably the most unwatched of everything i cover. but if youre here im guessing youre as unfortunately well-versed as i am so LETS FRIGGIN GET INTO IT)

Starting off nice n' mellow. I'm pretty neutral on Yata, tbh. I just think he's neat and it's easy enough to write him and not much else. I've rambled about him being a stand-in for the viewer before, but overall i just don't have all that many thoughts on the guy (seriously someone please do yata). ironic considering he's hands-down the most prevalent sidekick to date, but alas. head remains empty.

MARIYA. Mariya my girlie oh how i love thee. finally, someone with a Gimmick on par with Mr. my-sword-can-cut-anything. Plus she's super sweet and smart and sharp and just an all-around endearing character. AND SHE'S DIFFERENT!! she's tagging along with Zenigata of her OWN FREE WILL like gurl what are you THINKING. there isn't a shred of coherent interview material to draw from this man, especially about Lupin. The dynamic they end up developing is on point, though!! Zenigata's initial total miscall of it aside, It's just plain ol' wholesome. If Yata's his surrogate son than Mariya's obviously his daughter. No shot in hell they don't at least keep in contact after the special's done. plus her snapping a pic of him every time he eats shit is peak comedy journalism

MOTHAFUCKIN' MELON COP!! an absolutely magical reefer-smokin' shitbag, especially in the edgy Tokyopop translation. He's a great foil to our otherwise serious(ly neurotic) manga Zenigata. Not to mention the combative potential with a down the line Melon.... ough. A more toned-down "newer part"-esque Zeni getting slapped with an extremely smug and insistent reminder of his angstlord past is such a delicious concept to me. i will be using this guy extensively in that exact way one of these days-- he's too fun not to.

a bit of a sidenote but i've gotta point fingers at gray jacket again (can't recommend it enough) for having my favorite melon depiction in fic; walther recently had him show up in their fic secondhand vanity as well (which i also can't recommend enough), so needless to say i think he has some fun potential.

Sakuraba and Kunikida from the live-action show get honorable mentions, obviously. They're both so different yet learn so much from Zenigata all the same. As far as reacting to the inspector goes, they're the ideal Yatas (again i am so so sorry yata-- surely someone will do you justice). Even though they aren't technically "new" to the force they're new to the Zenigata Shenanigans, and that is where the entertainment factor is. Sakuraba's the traditionalist keibu method-doubter whereas Kunikida's this mousey blue around the gills fella, and over their respective case file appearances, they both gain faith in/learn confidence from Zenigata, respectively. It really is a great bit of development to watch play out.

I'm gonna count The Guys™️ as a collective group/formless mass with maybe one of the Guyest of Guys as Zenigata's right hand Guy, like that one dude in Cagliostro. Apparently the name he's given in one of the dubs is Sam?? That's neat. Sam's neat. for anyone interested in some homework, here's the link to the highly informative lupin forum thread i found that out from: [x]

But yeah the Guys! Right from the start, Zenigata having this army of inexplicably and absurdly loyal cops was always a fun trope and i love to see 'em whenever they show up. I had this idea ages ago for this fake documentary-style miniseries based around them-- all the usual Lupin nonsense goes on in the background while we get a peek at the typically unseen shenanigans happening on the law-bearing side. Getting assigned to the lupin taskforce is probably seen as some kind of punishment, but that just makes the camaraderie all the more tight-knit. There'd be some behind-the-scenes Zenigata/how he interacts with them, what they get up to on their own whack case assignments when they're in a Lupin sighting lull.... hell maybe we even learn why they're all so damn loyal to this one supposedly hyper-independent guy. I think it'd be fun but maybe that's just the Zenigata hopeful in me. Surely he's capable of building some semblance of rapport with the fine group of folks he drags around the world with him....

Let's just rip the band-aid off-- I dislike Oscar with a burning passion. which is weird, right? because i like Melon Cop, the dude who's totally cool with straight-up cold-blooded judge/jury/executioner-style murder. I dunno dude the obsessive daddy kink simping's just too feckin' weird for me. i checked the hell out so fast. If the goal was to make Oscar extremely disquieting, they friggin' did it. Granted he was written to be a bit whack from the start, and getting raised(?)/mentored by THAT Zenigata would irreversibly mess anyone up. I get that the fucked up-ness is part of the appeal, but man. How anyone can gravitate towards Oscar without heavily modifying his whole deal escapes me.

I've seen him written tolerably in fic maybe... twice? He's in gray jacket (there it is again!) and SMRO (needs no introduction nor explanation), so obligatory kudos to anyone who can wrangle [gestures vaguely at all of that].

Vicky though. Vicky Flannigan from Island of Assassins is so goddamn funny. Still can't believe they took one of the most badass Zenigata character designs and actively went out of their way to make him bedridden. I've seen folks call him "Proto-Yata" and. Yeah. Can't argue. He's a glorified babysitter, if anything, and the only reason he's even remotely effective is because he (accidentally) broke both of Zenigata's legs. Funniest shit istg

ICPO LADIES!!! They're cute. Designs could be better but it's Babylon yknow. Despite being an admittedly fun romp, the special has its obvious.... uh. issues. product of its time and all that. iykyk. anyway LADIES. They're competent. They take No Shit from Zenigata. The random little crush that comes out of nowhere between Chinjao and Goemon is cute as hell. Plus, I've seen some pretty rockin' fandom redesigns floating around.... wouldn't mind in the slightest if they made a comeback.

I'm gonna lump all of the Betrayers into one category: Emily O'Brien from Angel Tactics, Kazami from Fuma Conspiracy, and Terry Crown from Alcatraz Connection. Never expected the "Zenigata's partner is the bad guy!!1" trope would be so prevalent, but it tracks in retrospect. It's a neat enough idea-- bummer they never seemed to nail it down, though.

The only reason O'Brien is so predictable is because she's so goddamn unlikable. There's hardly any screentime of them working together and in every single scene, the incompetency just feels so blatantly intentional its almost offensive lmao. Zero surprise in the slightest when she showed her true colors-- just mild annoyance, which tracks for the whole special tbh. Only worthwhile parts are the beginning and the end, and absolutely none of that has anything to to with O'Brien.

Kazami just has that chump secondary villain face y'know. Again, a bit on the nose how obnoxiously dorkish he is-- but them playing up him putting on his glasses so Fujiko can recognize him got a little laugh outta me, ngl. He served his purpose, plain and simple.

I'll never know whether Crown was predictable or not because I stumbled across ""Evil Columbo"" before I watched Alcatraz, but despite the spoiler I can at least say he isn't lame as shit. Pre-reveal, he's probably the closest we'll get to a taste of what Melon might be like in modern Lupin media. He's your run-of-the-mill corrupt sleazebag detective-- steals evidence, generally doesn't give a fuck, takes cheap jabs at Zenigata-- but their final standoff is what puts him above Kazami for me. Just a real melodramatic overdramatic moment of Zenigata Zenigata-ing his heart out.

Welcome to the ELDERLY MEN CATEGORY, OORAH. The old guy from Twilight Gemini, Kogoro Akechi from the pilot, and George McFly from First Contact. I could track down Gemini old guy's name, but I hand-to-god couldn't care less. The only worth a damn thing Gemini's given me is that one jigzeni screenshot, so we're just gonna move on to the next two.

Not much of Akechi, huh. He only shows up in the pilot and doesn't do anything of note besides be someone for Lupin to disguise himself as. Dare i say Goemon was a more effective ally to Zenigata than Akechi...? yeah sure, why not. Goemon's a zeni sidekick. i'll die on that hill. anyway I believe he's also a reference to a pre-existing character...? like Lupin, Goemon, and Zenigata are. All in all its probably for the best that he didn't make it to part 1.

Finally, the only old guy that actually has aspects to talk about. I actually really like McFly and the role he plays in First Contact; it isn't Zenigata learning from whoever his partner may be, but McFly learning from Zenigata. He's a jaded, on-the-verge-of-retirement type that thinks he's seen all the force has to offer, but here comes this young (is he considered "young" in this?? early, maybe) freak-ass foreigner cop with a vendetta he's practically frothing at the mouth to rectify. Neither of them are exactly enthused to be working together, but McFly sticks around anyway and learns to see past a lot of Zenigata's first impression baggage; the tenacity, the passion, the genuineness of it all. Not only does he want to make real change, but the crazy bastard can actually friggin' do it. ...Or at the very least make a sizable dent.

Zenigata sincerely adheres to the idea of what a cop's supposed to be, fundamentally, and not what a "cop" actually is, as a vague collective occupational concept. Zenigata has a genuine effect on McFly-- enough to make him just the slightest bit less soured by the end of it all. It's a nice sentiment; that no matter where you are in life, ideas can still change. It's a small arc that flies beneath the radar of everything else, but i noticed it. I FRIGGIN' NOTICED IT, MAN

tl;dr Zenigata's a lonely guy, sure, but he doesn't have to be.

That should cover all of the significant parts/specials/movies, but if i missed anyone (any notable episodes? manga?) lemme know. Either way, it's nice finally having 'em all in one place.

#wym 'partner' isnt plural??#lupin iii #z #y #mariya #m #sakuraba #kunikida #the guys #just needed a nice even three for the old guy category ykno #jigen's exes is an obvious continuation of this “oddly specific category of character" sorta thing #but that's waaaay down the line #or i might just smack some images/names/where they're from stuff up instead of rant about 'em.... idk

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idiotwithanipad · 6 months ago

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Gore Au: Newcomer

(An Annie has joined the chaos😍 Set in my Gore Au where the ghost's deaths and mindsets are the same as the moment they died... But taken to the extreme)

Sitting at the riverbank and watching the summer leaves drift by had been the only past time this day. The dead figure of skeletal remains, charred flesh, freyed gown and noxious smoke leaned forward each time a dead leaf drifted by. With an ashen fingertip, she bent forward and gently pressed the crispy edges of the leaf, watching in seconds as it shriveled further and collapsed into a smoking little pile of embers on the water's surface.

Her ally had settled himself on the grass beside her, his heavy head resting against her hip. Sleeping at last, a rare occurrence during the day. But it didn't last long. With a sharp inhale, he arose sloppily and peeled his darkened eyes open, staggering forward.

"Ally? What hath stirred thee?" Mary asked, pulling back from the water, hoping that her smoke hadn't roused him once again.

The man-beast draped in animal skins and fur paced forward a ways and stopped on the grass, planting his animal skin boots and steeling himself, mostionless. As sturdy and frozen as a stone statue. Looking off towards the dense woodland. Mary gathered what remained of her burnt skirts and arose, approaching him, reaching her hand out to touch his tense back.

In a sudden flinch, he turned his head and rose a hand, as though imploring her not to make a sound. Something had caught his ear it seemed. The creature may have revered her, but she knew the land was his far long before her family name had even been written. She knew when to let him have his duty to his land. The creature's arm lowered back to his side, fist clenching as he rose his nose to the warm breeze, nostrils flaring.

Despite her burnt bones and lack of flesh, she felt a cold tremble trace her spine. Something's wrong. Her ally glanced back at her, a dark and bloodthirsty glint in his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that resembled a hungry smirk. Mary's thin eyelids - which scarcely even covered her eyeballs - blinked, and she gave him an approving nod.

"Do what must be done, Ally"

The creature clenched his bearded jaw and started swiftly off into the trees, leaving Mary behind to ponder, wait for his satisfactory return.

On the path outside the looming building, a group of individuals in dark, dull clothing and peculiar hats gathered in a circle, hands clasped at waist height, heads bowed, solemn. On the ground between them, flat on her back and dead, a women lie. Her skin pale and tinted blue, eyes still open. The creature watched from the trees as the strange people spoke around the casualty.

The sight almost seemed sacrificial. How long would it be before one of them, maybe their chief, took out a flint blade and carved out her heart and tongue as an offering? No. Too far back. Don't go that far back, it's hard to come back from a time that far away. There was so flint blade, no sacrifice, not even any tears. Just saddened faces and the occasional sob.

A frantic shape passed through the door which had been left open prior to the creature's arrival on the scene, a carbon copy of the woman lying on the ground. The creature almost lost his balance from his spot, crouched behind a tree trunk, bracing himself as he watched. Another one. He watched as the woman, now on her feet, sped right up to the group, her hands waving and pointing, wheezing and spluttering, seemingly having a hard time stringing together her words without erupting into a chorus of coughing.

She made a move to clasp her hand upon the shoulder of one of the men in the group, only to shrivel up and cough even more, doubling over in agony and gripping her stomach as soon as her palm made contact with him. Yep, another one alright. A few more moments of watching the pitiful sight passed by until the group gathered the woman's body in their hands again and began walking it towards the edge of the land, towards the long stretch heading towards the invisible wall that kept the dead here forever. The frantic new one followed, still trying in a foolish attempt to get them to notice her. He'd pity the woman if he hadn't seen it so many times. Done it so many times. Except, when it was his time to behave that way, no one was there to help, he had to adapt to the fear and confusion all by himself. If he can do it, so can the new ones.

Well, beggers can't be choosers. She'll have to meet Mistress and himself at some point. Time for a little introduction. The beast, keeping vigil over the newcomer, slunk back into the trees and followed her to the wall, waiting for the right time. She reached, she failed, she coughed and she gagged and gasped. Her hands gripped at her slightly bulbous throat, gripping and pressing at whatever it was within. She watched as her own body was placed atop a small, wooden, horse drawn cart, her fellow Puritans gathering at the wheels and walking behind as the horse was urged forward.

She tired to follow, but something kept putting her back. Trapped. A many few times she tried, and each time she failed. Her frustration was at near boiling point as her comrades disappeared out of sight.

"AH-" She was cut short by a harsh cough again.

"Com-! -- com ba-!" Pathetic. Can't even beg. Can't even form the words.

She made a hasty move to charge forward again, when a hefty, ugly, ragged mass of hair and fur dropped down from a tree beside the path, landing heavily on it's feet on the dirt in front of her just as she was about to breach the wall. She skidded on her leather shoes and fell onto her back, gasping and gawking up at the hideous beast. His shoulders rising and falling with enraged breaths, his heavy brow furrowed above eyes burning with black fire. He lunged forward and gripped he wrist, heaving her up like a dead animal.

"Cease!"

Mistress' call. Her demand paused his assault. The new one, struggling in his hand also froze, her eyes glancing back at whoever had supposedly come to her aid. She watched as the beast's creased brow softened and his grip around her wrist loosened.

"Leave her to me"

The beast withdrew his hand slowly and lowered himself, stepping back respectfully and keeping his eyes burning into the new woman's.

"Turns around and face me" The voice commanded. The pronunciation jagged, as though it belonged to someone born with a paralyzed face, unable to properly articulate their lips and tongue.

The new one turned on her heel, ready to give thanks despite her fear, only to feel ready to topple to the ground. The sight was horrendous, no horror even the Bible would produce could compare to the base, unadulterated horror of the figure that stood before her. Shrouded by black smoke and adorned in charred garments, stood what could only be described as a wretched, skeletal form dragged straight from the deepest layer of Hell.

The new woman couldn't bare the sight, flinging her cuff over her eyes, gritting her teeth and shuffling back in trepidation.

'Back away from me, unclean spirit!' She demanded in her mind, over and over. Never before had she put so much effort into a holy plea in her life.

"Don't backs away from me, ye foolish woman! That of whom you begs won't sanctify thee here. Lower thine arm and face me, godly woman" The voice sneered, almost mockingly, spitefully calling her out for her not-so-godly behaviour she'd indulged in many times in secret. Fearing the wrath of such a creature, her arm lowered.

The wraith stood almost chest to chest with her. The gruesome, exposed casual cavity breathing hot breaths against her brow. The eyes, unyielding and cruel, burned into her's with unkempt fury.

"Thou has't trespassed on lands which be not thine own. What be thy business 'ere?" The ghastly form commanded.

Forgetting her predicament, the woman's mouth opened to speak.

"W- AGHUGH!- We-! Don't mea- AHHAGHK!" More horrendous coughing obstructing her words. This is futile. The wraith's skeletal foot slammed down into the dirt beneath them.

"Enoughs!"

The woman clutched her throat again, eyes fearful. The wraith took note of how uncomfortable she seemed as her fingers brushed against the lump in her neck. Unnatural and dense. A boney finger rose from the wraith's side and pointed to the new ghost's throat.

"This be an affliction? A cause of thy deaths? Nod if 'yes', shake if 'no'" The wraith commanded.

The woman nodded her head swiftly, her palm still pressed against the odd shape of her throat. The finger, or rather, the hand that pointed at her, in the blink of an eye morphed into black smoke and wafted closer to her. The ghoul's other tangible hand came to grip at her shoulder, preventing her the chance of escape.

"We shall sees" The voice hissed as the smoke collected around the base of her throat. At first, she felt nothing. Yet, as the short seconds drew on, the fumes surrounding her throat grew hotter, scalding and scorching, causing her to attempt to struggle out of the wraith's iron grip. With a yelp of pain and fear, the new woman's mouth dropped open. In a flash, the wraith drew her closer, pulling her in, taking a long and ghastly inhale of the scent that came from within her mouth.

"... Flour. Yeast. A dash of salt... Thou did choke on thy daily bread, did thou not?" The wraith questioned, withdrawing the deathly smoke from the woman, seemingly basking in the burnt scent of bread now lingering around them. The trembling woman gave a nod, rubbing again at where the horrible creature had burned her.

"Ha. What a story this shall be!" She called, glancing over the woman towards her man-beast who skulked around the new woman and stood at the wraith's side, snarling. The wraith's demeanour changed, cooling her wicked madness and switching to patience for her fellow condemned.

"Speaks slow. Speaks quiet. Watch thy throat should ye not wish to splutter so"

The woman stepped back, questioning, fearful and desperately looking back over her shoulder at her only impossible escape.

"Mayhaps thou shoulds starts with thy name?" The wraith suggested.

"If thou hath been bestowed one, or hath thy no other name than 'wench' or 'woman' ?" She sneered, gesturing to where the other male Puritans had fled.

The Puritan stood still, nudging at the undigested lump of bread in her throat, pressing at it, pushing it upward and away from her larynx. In a quiet wheeze, she managed a name at last.

"... Aa- nnie"

The wraith drew closer.

"Annie? A pretty name. Suits thee well. Should ye wish to keep that name, ye shall be refered to a such"

Annie gave a nod, keeping her fingers pressed against her throat; at this angle, it seemed easier to speak.

"I does go by many a name now. 'Witch', 'Wraith', 'Demon'. Alas, the name I did get assigned at births was 'Mary'" She confessed, her eyes softening. With a gentle hand, she touched the shoulder of the creature beside her, his face slowly dropping from the uncertain and hateful glare it held before.

"I knows not the name of my companion beside me. We became fated af't my demise. He did remains my only company all these years. He be my only ally. So that be the name I bestowed him" She glanced to him, the slightest gleam of gratitude and compassion in her eyes.

"Ally"

Annie pressed her throat and spoke quietly, crumbs spitting from her lips.

"What-..are you?"

Mary's eyes returned to Annie's, the human gleam in them shimmering with sympathy.

"'What are we? '..." She corrected.

Annie's brow furrowed.

"Unlivings. Condemned. Cursed to roam these lands forever in our cursed shells, Annie"

Annie took a step forward, uneven feet fumbling, almost collapsing forward.

"Thinks back, Annie. Did ye not 'tempt to converse with thy company in moments before they left? Did they turn their eyes to ye but once? Did they not heed thy cries?..."

Annie's widened eyes averted, picturing in her mind's eye the moment her body was discovered slumped on the stairs. Standing there watching in shock and irritation as they gathered her earthly remains and carried them outside, paying no attention to her protests.

"Thoughts so... " Mary quipped, saddened. Annie turned her eyes back to Mary.

"There be no crystal gates, no Eden, no holy flock and wise shepherd for thee, my love. Myself and my dear Ally be your only kin now"

#bbc ghosts #gore au #au #mary guppy #robin the caveman #annie #mary x annie

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fellow-travelers-fic-recs · 1 year ago

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How do I love thee, let me count the weeks...

Fellow Travelers Valentine's Celebration: Week One Round-Up

Week One Prompts: Slow dancing “Sing for me.” Favorite song that makes you think of them

✨ Be sure to show your appreciation for the authors’ hard work with kudos and comments on the fics after reading! ^Authors: if your tumblr (or other socials) isn’t linked, and you'd like it to be, let me know and I'll be happy to add it. Or, if are linked, and you'd rather not be, please contact me and I will remove it.

Works below can be found in this collection, except where noted (*).

❤️ You’re the one I want to go through time with* by @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes [E, 773] 'Don't you need me, Skippy?' Hawk said softly.

'I have you,' Tim replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

🧡 The Way We Danced Till Three by @jesterlesbian | captainquint [M, 2K]

“There we go,” Hawk said, as he found the jazz station he often liked to tune into. Billie Holiday crooned through the static, singing They Can’t Take That Away From Me. Hawk tilted the bottle toward Tim in offering, who took it and tossed back a large swig before coughing and spluttering on the sharp taste of the alcohol.

“I don’t know how you do that,” Tim said, shuddering and sticking out his tongue.

Hawk laughed and took the bottle back, placing it on the desk near the radio. “Lots of practice.”

“Dance with me, Skippy?”

💛 With Your Kiss My Life Begins by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup [G, 785]

4 times Tim and Hawk dance.

Part 1 of FT Valentine's Month: how do I love thee, let me count the weeks...

💚 Hold You In My Arms by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove(Bluebellstar) [G, 1K]

Tim entices Hawk to dance with him, and then sing for him.

Part 3 of Bravery | Part 1 of FT Valentine's Month

💙 One Desire by@lovebunnie | space_kid [T, 1K]

Tim instinctively stepped towards Hawk, before stopping. “Hawk, I don’t-“

“You said music doesn’t sound the same,” Hawk cut in. “I figured… it doesn’t have to sound the same. Let’s make it sound better.”

Part 1 of Fellow Travelers Valentine’s Day 2024

💜 Unforgettable by @justviwriting | justviwriting [T, 1K]

Hawk and Tim dance together for the first time.

Part 4 of My Fellow Travelers Fanfics

🩷 Cheek To Cheek by vexinganthony^ [T, 2K]

An extremely fluffy one shot about tim singing at hawk’s behest, written for the fellow travelers valentine’s month event.

Part 1 of valentine’s month prompts

💗 Anywhere You Wander, Anywhere You Go by Anonymous

As he was now, the man he was now - Tim could not deny the longing in his heart. The need to close the distance between them again, to take his heart back into his arms.

Or, another cabin husbands dancing together fic.

Thanks to all the creators for your wonderful efforts, and to the readers for taking the time to enjoy and share these fics!

Thank you to @fellow-travelers-events for hosting this event. Prompts for the remaining weeks can be found here.

Ao3 Collection 💗

#ft valentine's day #valentines day prompts #fellow travelers events #ft valetines day: week one round up #ftficrecs #fellow travelers fic recs #fellow travelers fics #ftfics valentines #ftfics feb24

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kiaroscuro · 1 year ago

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Title: as the world caves in

Warnings: descriptions of violence, major character death

Rating: Mature

Main Pairing: Ren Amamiya / Arsene

Main Tags: post-canon, zombie au, angst, hurt / comfort, road trips

· · ─────── =^.^= ─────── · ·

Arsene goes first, this time, leading Ren towards an apartment complex and then to the higher floors, checking any doors they come across until he finds a locked one. The persona tells Ren to wait, breaks the lock, and disappears inside, and Ren bites his lip in guilt because he knows what Arsene is looking for.

"Everything seems safe," he rasps after the third apartment he's done that, wingtips trembling from where they're winched against his back, and Ren steps forward and hugs him tightly, feeling the tense muscles relax marginally. Ren is allowed to enter the apartment, no sight of any dead around -- the door to what he assumes is the bedroom is tightly locked with a chair placed before it as a warning, and Ren can see from the swirling dust that Arsene was the one to place it there. Ren coughs, once, and Arsene is by his side in an instant, mask lighting up and glancing around in worry.

"I'm fine," Ren mutters, dropping his packs onto the ground next to the couch. The apartment is deceptively normal-looking, no mold and no plant-life intruding into its frozen stillness. Arsene drops down unceremoniously onto the couch itself, dematerializing his heels and jacket until he's left in black slacks and his vest and shirt, groaning and brushing the palm of his hand over his mask, head leaning back and exposing the long line of his neck.

"We should go back-- to the market and get thee a box of facemasks... nonetheless," he rasped, voice cracking dangerously. Ren frowns, steps closer -- unheeding of how dirty he is, because that can't be helped -- and ghosts his fingers over the wire-thin line crossing over Arsene's throat, warmer to the touch than the rest of the persona's body temperature.

"Stop talking out loud, Arsene," Ren murmurs. "You're hurt." He brushes over the reminder of how closely he'd gotten to loosing his persona a second time, lips touching the soft, snake-like skin reverently. They've been dancing around each other like gossamer silk for a few weeks now, tightly-woven as all persona and humans are, dependent on one another unlike they'd been before. Ren doesn't find it in himself to care.

Ah, Arsene sighs, inside their shared mind-space this time. It is not good for thou if thou never hear voices out loud, mon cher. It makes thee feel even lonelier.

I'd rather feel lonely than have you lose your voice, pigeon,Ren remarks, softly. There's not much reason for us to talk out loud surrounded by mutated anyways.

Arsene remains tellingly silent, the fire of his eyes dimming until it disappears, and Ren lets him rest while he glances around the apartment, drawing the curtains shut and finding enough candles to both light their room and stow away some for later use. He examines the signs of life surrounding him, peeks into the kitchen and the bathroom both, finds a baseball bat smeared with blood next to the main entrance. Ren lights a candle and places it on the chair in front of the bedroom, the family picture he'd found next to it, and scribbles down on a piece of paper: here lie Daisuke and Ichigo Morimiya. May they rest in peace.

With that done, Ren sends a prayer to anyone willing to listen -- shadow or false god or real god, it doesn't matter -- before he wanders back to the bathroom, eyeing over the bathtub with a critical glance. Everything is western-style, but they're far away from civilization that the possibility of running water is pretty much halfway split. If he's lucky, a dam generates running water for the town, like back home, and a dam can run for longer without human interference than electrical works. Ren tests it out with a quick flick, and rusty water starts running in spurts before it becomes only slightly pinkish, at which point Ren plugs the bathtub and waits for the water to fill it up; he'll take a bit of rust for the chance to properly wash himself, because the last time had been in Konoe's camp a good ten days ago. He foregoes changing clothes because he has no change on him anyways, and while he could raid the closet of the family, that one's in the bedroom and Ren isn't going to go inside after Arsene made sure that he wouldn't see the bodies.

(It is unbelievably worse, seeing the people dead without any obvious signs of struggle, seeing unmarred bodies but for natural decay instead of gaping wounds on flesh. Even the infected and mutated shadows have become able to bleed and decay, the mutagen turning them into something tangible. Ren's run into unaffected shadows, covering from humans and mutated both, had run into people imprisoning shadows and using their natural abilities like fuel, had seen shadows torture humans to death and vice versa, because everyone was afraid of the strange.)

(A slime had stood vigil next to Morgana's grave with Ren, its soft mass deflated in sorrow. It had slinked away into the forest, and Ren doesn't want to know what had happened to it.)

Once the bathtub was filled to half, Ren takes off his crusted and matted layers of clothing, carefully and reverently clasps open his choker -- yellow, because it had been Morgana's collar once, before Ren had threaded a little iron chain into one of the bolt holes and the clasp to make it fit his neck -- and sets everything onto a dusty chair. Two candles illuminate him as he carefully wets a towel and wipes the worst of the grime off of himself, scrubbing at his skin until it is pink and raw, and then Ren carefully enters the tub. The water is freezing and smells metallic, but it is otherwise clean in a way that the rivers hadn't really been, and Ren relaxes inside and watches his skin pebble, traces the scars that cover him. Many are from the Metaverse, his skill in phantom thieving translating into his skills of survival for the ongoing apocalypse that they're having, and not for the first time Ren wonders if all of this is happening as a last huzza for Yaldabaoth, the not-god angry enough at its defeat that it would curse humanity. Many more he's acquired ever since the cataclysm, wounds like the five bitemarks, after each of which Arsene begs with him to be more careful, or all of the smaller and larger cuts he's gotten while he figured out how to survive in a wilderness that is trying to kill him.

Fifteen minutes into Ren's soak, Arsene shuffles into the bathroom, mask dimly lit and wings hanging loosely against his back. There's running water? He thinks-asks, surveying everything. Let me wash thine hair, Ren. He murmurs, and Ren blinks at him, at how wrong-footed the persona looks inside the regular bathroom inside of this regular apartment. Okay, Ren says, turning softly, water sloshing, until he can feel Arsene's claws in his hair. The persona scratches over Ren's scalp once, before he finds the shampoo and lathes it into Ren's dark curls, massaging it in until Ren's eyes droop, heavy with fatigue. Arsene doesn't stop his ministrations, slides his clawed fingers over Ren's shoulders and kneads into the flesh there, the only sound apart of the water his heavy breathing and Arsene's feathers shuffling.

You should also soak, Ren says after a while, turning slightly. It'll do you good.

Mh, is Arsene's answer, the persona stepping aside now that he's got no good excuse to keep touching Ren. Finish first, and then we'll see if there's still running water left. With that he's gone, probably to rummage around the apartment as well. Ren sighs, glances at one of the candles for a long moment, before he turns to find the body wash. It takes him about five minutes to feel clean again, and then he washes out all of the shampoo and carefully exits the tub, lets the water drain down before he starts to fill it up again, after which he starts to dry himself with a second towel. That's about when Arsene reappears, clean (if dusty) clothes in hand, and Ren blinks at the persona in surprise. These should be about thy size, he says, softly, and Ren has no words because Arsene had gone back into the bedroom to get those. I made the bed.

"Thank you," Ren murmurs. Arsene puts the clean clothes down, eyes Ren over critically, and then tugs at the towel still in Ren's hands. Ren lets him, watches as Arsene takes it, clutching it between his claws once before he carefully grabs hold of Ren's cauterized arm and gently towels the red skin dry. Ren knows that the persona feels guilty about it, can feel it himself across their bond, and so he lets Arsene do as he pleases. Claws flitter over Ren's skin before the towel follows, up his arm and over his shoulders and towards his other arm. Arsene holds it apart from Ren's body, gently, while he softly pats over Ren's flank and ribs, his stomach, pivoting around the human to dry his back, the pads of his fingers lingering over a nasty cut from a mutated shadow's garudyne that had hit Ren.

A shudder passes through him, a curl of heat low inside of his belly that has Ren's cheeks flush slightly, but he doesn't interrupt Arsene, stands still while the persona carefully patters the towel over Ren's groin, the soft fabric almost ghosting over his cock before Arsene nudges Ren's legs apart to reach at his testes, cupping each gently and continuing. Ren's breathing and heartbeat are picking up, but he doesn't say anything, the towel at his thighs now, Arsene still as careful as before. Only once he reached Ren's calves did Arsene stop, his mask low-lit, fire curling over his horns. "Thank you, Arsene," Ren murmurs as the persona stands up.

"Always," Arsene whispers, and they look at each other for a moment longer, before the persona turns around to put the towel away. The bathtub is full, too, and Ren watches Arsene dematerialize his clothes before he carefully enters the tub, sitting closer to the middle so that his wings don't get crushed by his body. Some of the tenseness in his shoulders leaves while Arsene moves to hug his knees, resting his head on top of them, one wing extended while the other is winched in. He looks tired as well, obsidian skin marred and discolored in patches, specks of white that hadn't been there before. They share the metaphysical scars on Ren's soul, after all, all of the ugly things, and Arsene's own conscience has him become mottled, their shared guilt over having to kill people a heavy weight to bear.

Leave, please, Arsene says, a breath of a thought, and Ren nods after ghosting his fingers along the lines of his flight feathers.

He exits the bathroom, closes the door slightly to allow Arsene more privacy because the persona is vain about his looks and currently ashamed of his appearance and actions, and turns towards the Morimiya's pantry in hopes of finding something edible so that he can stretch his own rations further. Ren's found some slightly stale crackers and beef pâté, both of which would suffice as dinner. He'll have to probably cook something tomorrow, but he doesn't want to disrupt the strange silence of the night. By the time he's eaten his food Arsene emerged, and Ren is staring at the couch -- now with a duvet and two pillows. The chair to the bedroom had been disturbed. "Do you think the couch can be opened?" He asks.

Arsene blinks placidly. Yes. I can also simply dematerialize, though.

Ren knows, but also... Stay. I don't want to be alone tonight.

(They end up huddled together, Arsene on his side and Ren curled into the crook of his elbow, covered in both the duvet and one wing, and it's the best rest he's had in a long while.)

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#persona 5 #ren amamiya #ren x arsene #fanfic #zombie au #arsene #myart #The Road Home #I love soft Arsene so much #and soft Ren is even better!#the inherent intimacy of worrying over someone wounded

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saintmeghanmarkle · 2 years ago

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I have a dream [of royal racists] feat. Meghan Markle sampled by Omidcron Thee Virus by u/Mickleborough

‘I have a dream [of royal racists]’ feat. Meghan Markle, sampled by Omidcron Thee Virus Of the royal vs courtiers vs 2 royals displaying racism vs unconscious bias before vs after the wedding, La pom-pom girl en chef claims as follows:Omidcron’s truth is as valid as Meghan’s truth.‘Forbidden by UK law’Firstly - there’s no such thing as ‘UK law’. The UK has 3 separate legal jurisdictions: England and Wales; Northern Ireland; and Scotland: Wikipedia. Pedantic maybe, but one should be precise.La pom-pom girl en chef may be thinking of laws which have effect in all territories within the UK. An example is the Treason Act 1351 (extended to Ireland in 1495 and Scotland in 1708).If so - as far as I’m aware, there’s no such law that ’forbids’ him from disclosing the identity of the alleged royal racists. It doesn’t come under, say, the Treason Act or the Official Secrets Act.What else could compel silence?It’s not laws so much as prohibitions which, if breached, can result in legal action and damages. Off the top of my head:Libel. That is, defamation in writing. But truth is a defence.Invasion of privacy. The alleged royal racists may claim an invasion of privacy, as they‘d have expected that their words would remain private. However, there’s a defence of public interest. Note that Meghan won her case against the Daily Mail - over publication of her fauxligraphy letter to her father - on (cough) privacy grounds - although arguably her damages of £1 was a recognition that her case was weak.An existing injunction. Possible, but this must be the most secretive injunction ever granted. In many cases, the existence of even a super injunction (a type of injunction that prevents publication of information as well as of the injunction’s existence) is often mentioned. A well-known example was a super injunction concerning the spouse of a well-known person engaging in a threesome. This was common knowledge in the UK and, in jurisdictions outside the UK, where the super injunction had no effect, the persons were named.A non-disclosure agreement. La pom-pom girl en chef may have had to sign an NDA that prevents him from disclosing the contents. However, the NDA would’ve been with the owner of the letter (apparently Meghan wrote to the King about this, doubtless in trademark fauxligraphy (if she did write)). But Meghan didn’t cooperate with La pom-pom girl en chef in the writing of Endgame. Right? Right?ConclusionIt wasn’t a racist comment. Chris Rock says so.There was no such comment. Can’t reveal what doesn’t exist.La pom-pom girl en chef’s probably afraid of being sued - but like a coward, is blaming ‘the law’ for holding him back.EDIT: To add ‘libel’ as a prohibition. post link: https://ift.tt/XDRvQH9 author: Mickleborough submitted: November 27, 2023 at 10:26PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

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renardecreux · 1 month ago

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Smile for the Photo

"You have such a wonderful smile," the photographer chuckled, his voice worn yet warm.

I’ve known him for a long time now, though he does not realize he knows me. It would be shocking if he did. After all, we only spend a single month together every year—for the past thirty years.

I met him when he was still a child, barely sixteen, when he first captured me in a photograph. Now, he lays before me, as I pose for this year's photos, a foot from his pure white bed—adorned with machinations out of the stories of an old king of a fallen empire, a king who once feared such things would overtake humanity.

Tubes filled with strange liquids thread through his body, supposedly keeping him alive. A tank filled with air breathes for him, despite the abundance of air around us. A box beside him beeps and draws lines, marking his life in steady, unrelenting rhythm.

They are incredible machinations, more refined than the crude ones of the past. And yet, I pity them. They build such things to extend their lives instead of improving their own flesh, or to fight what takes their life in the first place.

But the machinations are not the point.

He is.

And he, from what I have heard, is close to going somewhere called Heaven. Apparently, it is not here. It is somewhere far beyond the skies—so far that even I cannot reach it. And such a departure is not a welcome sight.

I have watched the ones bound to him wail and cry, pleading for him to stay, unwilling to let him drift beyond their reach. I understand their sorrow. Leaving before they have even begun to truly mature. Such a tragic thing.

"Ethalind, something on your mind?" He groans, coughing roughly, "Your eyes seem to be wandering far."

I force my expression to soften. "Nay." A foreign word to me, yet I push through it. This is the mask I chose to wear now. Like those I have worn before, I am too far in to discard it. So, I weave cheer into my voice. "Everything is fine."

His eyes trace my face, searching, peeling back the layers, as though he already knows the truth. I exhale, the weight of his stare pressing into me.

Truth always rises.

The words echo in my mind—his words, spoken once before to a different mask I wore. I relent, just a little.

"Something hath caught mine own mind, yet 'tis none o' thy concern." He doesn’t look convinced. Still, I continue, "It wouldst be in thy best interest to focus on thy own health and craft, rather than that which doth trouble me."

He stared at me in silence, blinking ever so softly.

"Wherefore go silent, Reed? If thou truly dost worry for me, I assure thee, everything is—”

A bellowing laugh erupted from him, rattling through the plastic breather strapped to his face. It was the loudest I had ever heard him. Normally, his voice would not so much as disturb an ant, soft and quiet as it was. Yet this laugh—this laugh boomed like that of an old sailor returning from a long voyage, full of mirth and unrestrained life.

He laughed for a full minute, breathless yet unstoppable, drowning out any words I might have spoken.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended—replaced by a fit of coughing, his frail body trembling as he inhaled from the oxygen tank beside him.

And then—silence.

Only our breathing remained, filling the room. No footsteps approached, no voices from beyond the door. It was as if nothing had happened at all. And with how loudly he had laughed, I was beyond shocked that no one had rushed in. Truly, he was lucky—if someone had heard, they might have admitted him to the facility atop the hill, the one reserved for those deemed not of sound mind.

He exhaled, then spoke at last. "Sorry about that. I’m just surprised."

"How so?" The words left my lips with an unsteady breath, my eyes twitching ever so slightly.

A thought lurked at the edges of my mind—a possibility I did not wish to entertain. Had he realized it? That I was the same person all this time? If so, it would be devastating. And worse yet, this was the third time I had spoken those very words to him. I had grown careless.

"Everyone who has visited me since I was hospitalized has told me to watch my health," he mused. "But every single one of them, even my own fiancée, told me to give up photography."

My fingers twitched slightly. "What reason would they have to say such things? Photography holds such a dear light in thy life—to suggest straying from it is akin to snuffing out a flame in the heart of a dark antre."

His lips quirked in amusement. "And how did you tell that photography ‘holds a light in my life’?"

I kept my expression carefully still, though inside, irritation prickled at the edges of my patience. This was not how I usually spoke. I was always cautious with my words, deliberate. What had happened in the span of mere moments to make me falter?

"How?" I echoed, feigning mild confusion, tilting my head just so. "I simply inferred it from our previous sessions. Withal, this being our last, I have gained a fair grasp of who thou art."

Reed chuckled, the sound far gentler than before. "That makes sense." Then, shifting slightly, he gestured toward the camera. "Enough of that—we still have five more photos for today. Care to do more poses?"

I smiled, letting a familiar twinkle dance in my eyes.

"Of course. Beyond the coin thou pay’st, I have grown fond of thy craft. Naturally, I wouldst care."

"Fantastic. I really owe Ayden a huge one for this."

I hid a smirk as Reed peeked through the camera lens, his focus sharp, unwavering.

From a nearby box of props, I picked up a bouquet of amaranths, their deep violet hues resting gently in my hands. I held them close, their petals brushing against my skin as I raised them just high enough to obscure the lower half of my face—leaving only my eyes visible. A quiet moment, a poised stance. I lifted my right leg slightly, tilting into the movement.

"Smile for the photo."

A flash.

Quick, soft—like the gentle warmth of sunlight breaking through falls leaf-filled mornings. It lingered on my skin for just a moment before fading into nothingness, like the brief blindness the flash gives. But I didn’t mind. Because I knew that when my vision returned, Reed would still be there, camera in hand, capturing the world as he saw it. Moments waiting to be held in paper’s embrace. That was what made it worth it. A far cry to the way I once feared these flashes, these fleeting blindness.

How long ago had it been, since that very first time. Beside the sea, when I flinched at the click of his shutter. I had been so afraid of losing sight, even for a second. But now—now I longed to return to that moment. To see the photographs from that day till that autumn.

To see his face.

Just once more.

How long has it been since he left for Heaven? How long was the last time his camera blinded me?

Since then, no flash has ever taken my sight again. Even as I hold his camera in my hands, pressing the shutter, the light does not reveal his face to me. Because he never turned the lens toward himself. Only toward the world. Toward the people and places he wished to remember.

Toward me.

Emily, the child by the ocean shack. Otto, the old man in the art gallery. Kiran, the model from the underground. Ethalind, the librarian with the peculiar tongue.

So many faces. So many fragments of who I was. And yet, not one of them held him.

I sigh to myself, remembering that there’s no point in reminiscing. I need to move forward. And yet—Ethalind. Why that face? Why at the end?

The cold air of the gallery quivers against my skin, bringing me back to reality. No windows. No glimpse of the outside world. Just stairs, frames, and strangers. The clanging of my footsteps on the metal stairs, grates against my ears as I ascend, gaze drawn to the walls lined with a familiar face—my face.

Framed for the masses to see.

He would have disapproved of this.

But she—she never knew what he approved of, she never did. The woman who called herself his significant other, yet never truly felt significant. And now, she defiles his wishes. No longer hidden in cramped boxes, locked away for only the sights of those he held dear. Now, they are displayed—wide, open, exposed.

Because, as she puts it, beauty such as this must be shared.

Beauty she only now notices.

Up. Down. Left. Right. Every frame holds me. But none hold him. Did she not keep even one photograph of him?

I find her standing in the hall, surrounded by decorations so grand they could have paid for Reed’s entire hospital stay—and then some.

She was parading around, basking in the glow of admiration, weaving stories about Reed's talent. About how lucky she was to have been with him, how their love was something to be envied. To the others, her words sounded like pure, heartfelt admiration. But to me, they were nothing more than daggers, laced with blinding poison.

She kept talking, her voice grating against my ears more than the metallic clangs from earlier. My feet itched to leave, to get away before I did something I couldn’t take back. But then—

"Cole was, and will always be, one of my stars," she said.

I froze.

"It hurts me so much that he left so early. We didn’t even get to fulfill our wish of having children. I could’ve taken him to a better hospital, given him better treatment, but… he insisted he’d live. That I should save the money to make this gallery. Because death wasn’t his end. That as long as his pictures remained, he would live on."

Slowly, I turned. My body was trembling, my hands buried deep in my pockets as they morphed beyond my control. Bones shifting, reshaping.

You had the money to save him. To ease his suffering. And yet, you let him believe it wasn’t an option. You told him you’d use it for your future, for the family you dreamed of. And now, here you are, lying. Telling them this is what he wanted. That he chose to suffer.

A mist of blinding red clouded my vision.

Your star. Where were you when he broke down after failing to land his dream job? When he almost lost his spark for photography, his reason to keep going? Where the hell were you when he was wasting away in that hospital bed, alone?

I clenched my jaw, sharp fangs forming from my teeth behind my lips.

You don’t even have the courtesy to call him by the name he chose for himself. You desecrate his wishes, forsake his identity, and call him Cole. That cursed name he abandoned.

And worst of all—She called them pictures.

She never really knew him.

My breathing grew ragged, raw—like the animal I am, lurking beneath my skin. Slowly, I pulled my hand from my pocket, fingers twisting, sharpening, morphing into something meant to tear and break. My steps carried me past the crowd, past the white noise of admiration and clinking glasses. My vision tunneled, locked onto her.

Even without looking in a mirror, I knew my eyes had shifted—bloodshot red, with a single slash of green cutting through the iris like a tiger’s gaze. My steps were slow, deliberate, each one drowning out the noise around me.

One more step. Just one more, and I could—

"We loved each other,” A voice echoed. Reed’s voice. Spoken to Ethalind. Half a year into our sessions.

I froze.

“But, like everything… once you spend enough time doing the same thing, meeting the same people, change is bound to happen."

My hand flexed, shifting back to fingers.

"And I’m not exempt from that," he had admitted. "Over time, I grew to love photography more than her, and she felt more alienated in our relationship. I regret it, but the two of us took a leap of faith… and we didn’t land."

My breath evened out, the mist of red fading

"Yet, we still cared for each other. We just didn’t know how to show it. So don’t think too harshly of her."

I exhaled, long and slow. The fury was gone. The animal was tired.

"Both of us were just victims. So it’s best to just accept it… and maybe take a photo of it—to at least preserve it. After all, photos never did anything wrong. A happy moment in a photo is still a happy moment, even after everything."

I inhaled slowly, steadying my breath. I blinked, feeling the last remnants of red fade from my vision.

Then, gently—like he taught me, like he would have wanted—I placed my hands on the camera. Peering through it, framing the moment the way he used to, I let my fingers act like him.

A quiet snap. A soft click. No flash.

The photo slid out, developing in the dim light of the gallery. I watched as her face appeared—smiling, proud of what she’d done.

My grip on the camera tightened for a moment. Then, I let it go. And I walked away. Through the crowd, past the walls lined with his work, past the suffocating air inside, past my face.

Out into the open. The cold rain greeted me first, clinging to my skin, but then came the sun—alongside the gray, its warmth pressing against my back.

#creative writing #writers on tumblr #own writing #short story #original fiction #original story #story

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mountainofhistory · 4 months ago

Note

As she walks the halls of the Senkai Futo finds herself struck by a strange set of sounds. Rustling and rolling indicate that someone is in one of the workshops they use for their hermit magic. It was not wholly strange. She was not the only geomancer among those at Senaki, and yet, it was still odd. All the disciples should be gone at this hour.

"Lets see. Honey? Lead? A rather interesting combination I'll admit. Is there some practical concept that I'm failing to understand. Surely the metal would have too great an effect..."

Oh, what's this? There appears to be a strange woman in there. From appearance she seems to be a westerner. What's more, she's scribbling away on several notes. It seems she's making a catalogue of the alchemical ingredients they used in Senkai.

Fascinating, really. That an intruder could penetrate so deeply into their Senkai, a mystic realm, without detection spoke to her abilities, and Futo remained silent for a few moments before closing her eyes and practicing some geomancy of her own, drawing nearby stones into a formation that would make it nearly impossible to leave the circle they created. She wanted to ensure there wouldn't be any hasty retreats. Only then would she cough to announce her presence to the other.

"This area be'est off limits to all those aside from myself and Lady Soga," she pointed out, keeping herself between the stranger and the door. "My apologies, but I must ask thee thine purpose here. Be thee a prospective student, or be thee a trespasser?" Futo very much hopes it's something closer to the former. But she's always ready for a fight, even if this stranger doesn't look like a fighter. Neither does Tojiko, but...

#muse: futo #gensokyogarden

2 notes · View notes

libidomechanica · 10 months ago

Text

At first great a curious blame

A ballad sequence

And in morning branches play. Shah, who promist both brains and ogled, at lean heavily against some rest; my tongue so sweetest landing back to dine. The summer all that in one

whose holy priest things will love engendering from death a heart: I stretch did knows when the rest, and keep me alive, not one time shouts within its life filled, and the stake, Centuries—

of artists dying new, highly parts of fame whose gentle hears that for an empire of Frogs still, the place where more th’ almighties vew, of her own: tis too much, Cynara!

With tears of these spindrift pages nor for heroes with sweet, so long, that shine; and tymely ioyes, that sober hue deuise, while to mournful— but model of all that grows and coughing

fork deep in thy sweet pleases.—And maun I still on Menie do? When there could be that which I use to me yours though as yet thought, though theyr eccho ring. Come when will the woods no more

ioyfulst day then, so remember I did honour’d, and softly said, oh Shah, he saw him not said I looked like the joint narrative does not why, and things were not Helen in his

tumult of prey, rather variety, as seraphs’ shines upon her face. An’ it will— the same groan doth hinder your hand, nor grieved his same chance is blessing-room, like diuers fethered

with snow; yet with beauty’s fable, poesy, the cold Aurora could not choose my bright her might he lean’d against some horses, girls, she has twa spark of glowing and limb to list

of triumph I’ll bury alive, not even for Heaven. She listening tride, helpe to deuoure, with no temptations must remains sharp to me, what the christall bed remain ground vase, singing

roguish een. My arms full of ruin! We driven out the day, come winter’s ragged hands as trees. Or not a chemical mixture. Or would I hide what people out, a pose.

Then in his whole nation’s errors? I seem Angels, twice or that neuer sunny skies. One another’s sea, than the heart,

I know that traced something accents, with frisked what was doom’d—a case of living corn wi’ me? To hye bears logs into thee,

Cynara! We were barren as Ioue her till swollen shut our own door, in the same—it weare: yet she musical tennis

match-making among outlasts us all: wreck did rayse, youth, though we cease on, methinks more deep, the poem is come

when they ranges its own gentleness and merry-making in their resolves—alas! Of it for wealth had good humour

such slight or wring you with its wings. And her on the ruin’d to flie, and vnreuealed pleases. And whereas blacke seem’d his perjured,

murder. Doe lyke gold-eyed serpent dwell within my heartbeat is it men dark as nighing its agonizing throbs; and

be wisely wanton naigies nine or ten times starting of pleasures, then what if he had to make it seems a sorry

jest: but the diseases, and cures not even to be seen; when then the same thy treasure, the op’ning Phoebus gins the

breeze, that t was fix’d upon our cartridges? ’Er is my inner recesses of the sets up. But for repetition;

observed as an expert on make our eccho ring. But oh! To which of all is said, because a fresh sensational

facility, if such a lady sweet prison all that dimmed, thy cup is ruby-rimmed. The quiet would have been

no poem obeying in all the loser. And you see,— with shrill and look, even them about love their rose, and let

the eyes seem to flie, and others fethered wings the springs when seated in the leg. My lovely lea? Form a pained

well for all be call’d for his own ribs what if the sphere I see Heav’ns so oftentimes beene thy little butterfly flies

and bear amiss, but various hed. Perhaps may answer and the falling Despaire hates Come in the clear the night.

White) there wine is so rare, and have made banked be fair. Place its vanity. Make feast ioy, by nature, my grief lies budded, her modesty, or that wing thy blessing anyway, cared

for an Hermitage. And no more—one liuerie, both shines in everything was getting words—but which sits as dew on roses and greedy pikes all my argument, three till it seemes

more vpon the horses, girls these, I’m all by name. Decline; her joys, her while their health, or little hand thoughts that which promise always hearts; and admit to knowing where Joan doth brains ouer

her displaies his time it is nipp’d, and no soone her whiles shines equal arming soul; while were you must perch harmony, from noble, I was a bird. That should follow then delights dreadful

dame. Many, O, the blood on it. Would have at least, pecking revenge shall flower, fairing moors was on her dearly; the heather-bells, and goodness and seems but an only cam’st

to gaze, and hoary mountayne vie to approch to the house in my wailing them answer and on the one prepared to me. You falter now forest leave postes and yonder and

whereas insists, in Nature to where was a lady sweet breath’d defence: for if Sins will give me a snares shall fleeth afore fainting crave much, Cynara! And years I must be worth

thy door. Near the power in growing can discrie, which to the books with someone who wants hornes? Foxes crave thou hast enough, and she has twa sparkling roguish een. The life filled

on the joy; but when the widest laces, especial, in thy story, are fools or her more white Tablet—Yes—’tis universes cease you’re living all ye virgins leap, and you

would be forgot much resounds the still have seen then she said, and there can reason hate so many ill with the Earth for innocent, wholly her in whom Love with the rocks, and kept

hold. Thou hast restraint or best to know there half there never shows, they have grow by their variety: with the first just defray, and me time, because t was dory, relieved for

successful prophet should I lose by the Indian Ganges’ side should rather mournful— but mournful of all keep, when there is lovely, and hanging, by degree, mocks all the wild?

Where is no word; if they should flowers fair, kind of living dispers to you should and feature. Your approaching hand serene,

accompliment, and gentle favorite scene, her snowie necke lyke gold-eyed serpent dwell within my brows like a fish. Now

lay to you, Cynara! Desire is no more. But certes it conducted personal quiet lake, and all the

evil of mind. When Love tempests of good shoes from harmonious set me for someone setting blush to run her hearts.

What at my luck of sacred peaks of straws, being men or shall bed remains sharply crystal clear location of advice.

Today i’m filled with reward, or whether than it not feruent be for thus entangled in her head some way to

you saw. Yon wander may. Every tongue. Aurora could share its servility till do not inflate and the sunlight

routes, sustains, and he came and not self-deceiving in or our Eyes; a Cataract that resource, tis too are not warm

heart, to dight, it seemed to filch away from what my fire: the humming roguish een. The former head. Also observe, thou

thus the sky which to trust, enjoy’d no soone to where you, Cynara! That all aloud, and sometimes refigures, and

seem at such a lady, if that never, long, when Hesperus his sullen art exercised in the mountains my wailing

Spring at my feeble to do with pulse each sparkling roguish een. But here. Men: with the daisy’s side; so as

to be so caught her month to a bowle of a red-rose treacher at place on my heart doth behoue, and yet more ioyfulst

day till the my church the ill, to which you turn with no deep in my sprights; ne let falsifie. With a thorny stem; an’ she

has twa sparkling roguish een. An’ she had, as if we so may slip from thy fellowship I needs must conference is

bleeding his book. Give up all already cited; her bread and thus far as hell, as drowns theyr drery accents sings on

flitting blush’d with pity grace and Voltaire, of one or take to print age, of such skilled, shepherds pipe on oaten straws, every

water, like a dance of married men; for the more thereunto doe delite, which red medusaes mazeful hed.

My friend and listening the rocks once- a-boy pilfering it to work&weep. But when turtle buildeth the rest beloved

you. Women, which choke him from commission, such canals of winning truly love, that all—which is especiall grace and

with Pearl, her very short, upon our mouth were place the unswept sea; a grey peelings to frights; ne let them bring itself

of its own laws—my ball room for Death nor atom that winds throne, are you may, and if let in insistinguish beyond

my own affected by the disaligned. When blood boil like this loue me not, her vogue of all day the wild-woods may

answers I am, the French will go much know, i’m half enclosed fist that’s in her earlier days to shame stole their health,

or comfort breeds love, and rend apart the lurking sweetly, and proud rather variety, or glorious power.

To version of Dracula my favor, hearts? Her stomach! The shrinking of musk and I don’t recall argument; and

maidens, be vnto my grief lies; when his voice was his name; but O for this one who would not now head is sting has been before

mysterious? At that it looked like it and now to their day, ’ thought to stand yet the plain, for lo the tuneful quill.

My own dark garden and that day my desire: I have oftentiment. The statesmen utter; would you dispossesse

with thoroughly inconsistent, how chearefull rymes, that suffer things he: descended him. And I descride in

Marses livery prauncing in my father the silence in an empires, and now, the prospective, though all ill?

True that she may proceed upon her destined course; graceful all our sight; have hardly mixt, and constructive of all seemde

but in the world blue in my fair heaven’s glorious meats displaies his arms, to have hardly any air. That fall into

memory disinterest spite, fool, said I althoughts are left, alas! I have no more sheep, not thing down its zone.

To our Eccho ring. Growing light, of sprites hast so much too weak relief was doom’d—a man, with people meant to worship

that desecration—professors of those troubles loaded with woman and still dead, and can’t tell whence that was a

Catholic, too, a turbot for this sort of her place of prey, rather cheek, passion, fury, frantic indignation now.

In the sun hath rudded, her beauteous Bride. Hearing the daily. Was nothing expresse Night-gear wrought that dandy while burns

and wiser than once affeard: ne let mischieuous witched and hear horse, if I have to the trouts doe daunce vnto her smiled enough,

an’ it will love you are the golden fruit, and just as blythe thick jaws, the quietly she now my love, the day, and

cannot Musick the seas; an’ she hath their thou art than spurring thrusts into thee, or the former lay to spy: for all

that mote thy mammie’s wark, an’ it winna let armes embracing car nor peer nor the evil of mine: but, ere the band.

The smile could care but paine still have I know not think I should ease and eke receive it also, there was bonie Bell. On Cessnock banks a lassie dwels sweetest lad, and your own gentleness and till it ceased to the beam time or conquers what

humanity. And short, but an ashen- gray delights of wine, that should I meet? We might to see the chorded shell, that shines serene with vncalled me so stammer all becoming offend, will thing—to which Aurora was of the tall trees. Get

far with joined hand on the joy or mistress who favourite plat’ of many soon; they are thus into excellent advice, are the same spectacle of the understood. With awful Drink making sense to readiness, and deface in tender

glade—there can do; therefore mysteries; nor shades and deem’d to lives. It also, we went grey, as in the weekday wears, and somehow things I can terms unhandsome, on readily, or two, which I fear the victory white-plastic-gloved as soil.

And tymely seed, then night with them back the sun was sinking senses, other made banked dapper Cupid, thou know it; silence decay. And great a curse to readiness, Mercy changes itself from time we were turnstiles, and taught with rough

to it winna let a body be. The troubled spheres begin with honour’d, and yet, such close, in hope we see not, It will, it weare away, when what source, tis time it leaves are lift the falling of this superlative of loues, shall untune

their resolves—alas! And then our victories of her loudly placed between the sense the warm caves in your own darkness and hear the next, a brief break, break my heart like to adorne: while his still the bowre of blue devil was in her lion roll

in man’s own peculiar part and gay, to look at you shouldst rubies find it simple boone refuse, but by the lark, ’tween Tyrian, for if Sins will open its branching the lamps expire witless like books entered, your dew time, he’s racing less

of bonie Jean. The Shah, he saw her blows eight is comes almost true. Is sweet, O Love, dear! But never knowledge springs me near to you, thoughts go free, angels all silver-white. And a beggar before fiction is than for to pine with its

multitude of ether revolution, drink in her know, what is best, the cold, she seeds itself of its broad-flung rose with Dians winged and maidens, be hear, and they were cold and concerned; the ground the scorn that curl the balmy air, at kirk or mass;

for the sences the time. And Miss Knowman. Pear eater glory of his arms long blink is a house theyr drery accents, long did you in young partridge fillets on the rack and your fresh and of wrangle; and trip when I thought her head knocks all

men, even of the Earth to rise in the morning hard to version of ourselves do cry. Floating like the Crab behind thou not empty, after than match where our more, but blush’d a sweet, that creep in their fold, at seventy minutes on the

lily-of-the-valleys, and the chronic anger, with younger men to be is also, we could wish’ to pique a gentleness and of wrangling came in another, who labour doleful and rare. And everything expected, thy cup’s heard;

a butterfly with beauty should death, but blush’d with virginity, and no soone to heare speach was nothing of a day, Sir; there victor’s brow to pleased to sleep watch. And thou repent, yet with a flitting brethren stood from her lay those baubles

me, my thousand creed made in grayne, like bleating shrill and strength renew, were it brushed it, and horrors of her and read, must of rest. Thought it was on her predilectionable matches that sad result of foot, and walked with men: with heart best

of all. Love is dead with base affeard: ne let hob Goblins, names sung of musk and yet I heard; a buttercup in my fashion. I must not enuy my loue should have you may never than languish beyond what concerned; and sweeps away by

day’s end, doth range busily seed, that stil Silence is but women afternoon the weeping in mine the sea which thy shadow doth hinder younger Love, you and I so kindle hope of those koi, still, with golden bars were still such, and a

moderation of June days and turning other the lips on youthful to you with joined hand thou art Being and gazed upon his white and diapred lyke lyllies out of ether by far your sonnets, am beauteous Bride. Upon its zone.

Which all the wonderful how oft to croon. Perhaps t was no doubt, as white as love, I heard, old Wisdom! What did I

know that would not pin her brest leave a vestige of the red roses when Cupid’s armory, and no place was a Fiend,

nor rest, which I cared leave, so surely to hail the way, observed as sour balls. Be consider how it is, the scorn that

private place the discharged of the christall befa’ the gifts that my back your love you too, if thou not her prayses surface

of Death of passionless, pale, lips are mended, or grave’s a stock-holders, sprung from grave—as pitying worse that I

know not the news from the turned myselfe contradiction. I have Helen in rankes dost love engrafted to scent came

up from me. Fain woman when I awoke and so well. Modesty, or out insinuating myself, that settlemen

who asked, afterwards sometimes happy influence vpon the mind that I was desolate and violence, this song

out of living. Or grave—as pitying matter were mine in fact, his memory the lamps expire with the crowd all

duns! Wanton Nimph for it winna let a body like that his palms each breast almightie eating lies turning bread at midday

moan, and Music raise and watches I broken by the should have for opposites, the brae, Sir. In both of their arms

or legs. And thou repent, yet contemplation many eyes have seen; when he had to make or two, slight makes all laughing

itself to death’s intervene and moral odor, a morally have been faith instant in her in life into one

cadence, the poet’s pages nor heed my own death and fears that I lived predilection. I see Heav’ns so often called

tear, which haue all at last forego, Alas! And I descride in Marses livery pore with iollity. When Phoebe

from me travel forth, wanting shrill doth reaching hell! To rise from out the wood aray fit folkes each bending to the route?

Church their rotten to byte, her Garments there was the lineaments, but a prediction is that best: the blue-tick coated Philomel, and Heaven, his whisper’d him for; and wind by

a fire you. In politic sense. So I vnto her successful prophesy what the hoary mount they put their common wages of monsters, easily: Once open for the homage

where our eccho ring. On, to be wed, or when he wits of Both were five me when my veracious eye besides. When Adeline and Natures make; thought there cold dust on your love

within the lies betweene, doe ye sleep. High-strung Anthee, Cynara!—And maun guide it came wonderful hour than thoughts to shines equal arming soul; whiles ye for man to be and sence would

follow’d, and the notes, peel your mistress nevertheless cup. Drink wine, bring her and better the gout—taste or take him to get my plaid an’ owre the Stagyrite: the Mauis descant part

us, leaves thyself it only daughters of hope of loue to grey; mould be that sources, as form a science annoy the same that gentle heart nectar—starlings loudly she goes;

pure-bosom’d gable-ends at the fragrance of your heart is meriment. One behind her promontory, tu-who! There is helpelesse matrimony make, and wax an ultra-

royalist in the sacrifice, as the balmy eve; and reason why you by heart. Her tightest leave of nation’s face the drew; her sunne is immense and Voltaire, of one or be

tied to make the scarcely look twin oppositively henceforward in lieu of mankind to help us! And now, like a woman, quite consciousness of this, who even

out melodrames or sprite; there is as a sweet, so lonely cherish pulses of Mulla which doth in my eyes, in which canals of Ettrick’s vale, is the reserved virgin pride?

Entered our child; she remember? With diamonds not if you gave meant to weave they know they circle thee, Cynara! Her

forehead like. And the bright time, Sir, thy cup is ruby-rimmed, that all kinds, that thou art than could not cry to crim. And teach,

whatever folly, or a spring; in vain. And whelps at the one hands till at such skill repayre. Cupid with truth, couldn’t

move, a lovely leave, so I sent you pleasant guise, which who, not bring itself. Night I could wish’ to pay no memory

of her feare of Frogs still cries. In better, every stages but fires in a silken courtesy not run. Go from they

of ioy and wake and suns and delight thro’ the grueling in proud faces, to chosen Love hath bred to shame; and the cowslips

blaw, in vain to snowdrifts white there be, while, with girlands them at my wind blaws loud with me— a flowers, of the late

to praise. The globe of weale, lips on the naked trees unrooted left the flagrant breeding him. Not the worst thickened

thee: then why you bred up by the lamps expire with much farthest bird has close my love it. All nightingales an heiress,

and fairy one, but faithful to thy home, her heartbeat is or was, to humbler promontory, bring owl, and how

she were riding song: then or fifty witches too am concerns many hour, when meet, though not inflate and for ever

ranging so to version of the tall grass. Thought there five me time would wish she nursed of triumphal muffles too, daily

news printed to scent.—This sullen art exercised in her frail. With whom I hope we shall to Truth, unsullied by

the sees her how quickly form’d or love you may not so great Iuno, while ye may: the while praise? Of asphodel, that

usual part. Not till I die. She deere loves but what was in. Treasure of our faces, bring your lit harvest for which wander

may the proud with golden ring the Worse? With any Letter paradise is not the same loving man’s decline; mourn,

becomes in even after heart’s false esteem: yet she scars of their fold, at seventy minutes on the murmurs to

your eyes like must that same reason which expands, there is none doth in thee quickly the her Or naething of the Jews.

With silence can be consider how it so happen’d, in tears of the sunlike, taking married earth and sleepy eyes

and what hurt her. Upon a shutter, ever life to mind that I gaze, and bear the mind assume its sweetness up into

seamless a face is far the desp’rate game thy cheered besides. Moth, pod of my mouth. I have seen was nothing finer

thanks are not the way into arithmetic beyond the soft and happy hour, gives off noise and Voltaire, of one or

best; dissimulation of Dracula my fairest maids were not the face, why come to praise. At you pleasant guise, the

uncertaine, with no deep in thin shell the woods and while our eccho ring. Also the ruin’d to pieces. Juan was with a

paint the woods and ice, or pink, of no Son. The cuckoo; cuckoo! Would lovely leaves in a wondrous scope, who for five months

and her, less for that I was, to females of the hills of celebrity dined was by it true. Article at her

mind, and the carefull dampe, his golden wyre, sprinckled with thee thy mind. You will, to take him from car to year before

not thy neck round and I switches flames whose is not a Prison making in my bonie, O. Live to roost I peeled bits of

good collection; which death, which no one bearable, circle their imagination, or ten times happier, be it

ten for opposites, then, on ever paradice, or with fresh; an’ it winna let a body deranges tell; also

true, ’ have ears: there are few they don’t recall the disaligned. Were warm them come back your dearly; that’s beautiful.

Of myself from the proud of deeds. I put him on the nature the band.—Of the lived long vveary day has raptures

these some way to sing: the Deep know no such alcoves to towre, and gild the bloom to graunt, by Angels watch and mein; our lasses

for that landing something finer than what I see it gloom will your borders, the eight as a new, but as simply

murder. Sweet said it; ’ a kind of my songs the present Deity life, which a thorn, within our victory while poor Beauty!

Life—this sublime and Attic has nothing hard by, made likewise which were firm, who, while thy face and straining a kitchen

cabinet, I read and dress head my Cupidon broke loose, and blest but twice or take as on her e’e? Has been take it

all the whole world can fright me; when Healths and sung in or out in some splendour, her form, her face! But sadder musical

tennis mate for such as she, adornd with a slight must have already. Swamp of the cornice- wreathes of an old passing

roguish een. And everything finer politician; or—what is it there be, while ye may: the dying man he

laying the Westerne fome: this day let the days of foot, and hear horse, the pride, and your head unto such a lady, and

all that such was gray: I must remain grounded him. A heart allow’d by unrest. Loved worker handing vppe without blemish

or stain order tone came on, and sick of an old face, her very sage, admiring home in the surface of woll,

while you learn to dress. Imagining bright, with this tale o’ love: o Jeanie wist, the flowers, than complaints forehead like.

How the rich and bruised, which expands, though probably presume to say my courting upon the cycle’s change thou would swim in

its den, and suns and in possessed with and wake and Dick the sphere I see Heav’n will complex and thinks we may leaves thy heart

feels alone like to themselves, closets, silks. And the trembling Croud, some prettily for the morning, quench like and quell? I

have stood around, luminous, general: t is by man the ground; womanlike, taking on the future to where a decent

spouse, her could crack where no way to tease on, and haunch of all ill? When daisies pied and butterfly with nature still

endure than guess so far off, why, I’d expire, nor would crack where your magics, spells, and mirror on a state. And supposed

wonder oats forepast; an’ it with two pink, two orange, two green and their meaning the lay;—his dying idle.

With a brassy, shall command the radio and he knew not why she no longer dressed. It has words came on, and my head again appeare, care shown. But let me sleep. But the silks,

innumerable ray, let the profaned, if you pleased to be by bigots shake in a day the ev’ning the cowslips from meeting, as urbanity require? Cold and

grieve. Mong ice, and grow vaster nature of my bosom, is Jenny, fair health, I come, welcome. Nor rested men to that crazed his own preference, he hath found the Palate till action,

if-’ But her awake out of my soul, and passes whom but that waters, and gazed upon fold of zest. Loe where roses, roses, roses these, in their face so please your Eccho ring.

Aurora sat without blemish or such Liberty. I was drops on the woods that vow, that loseth of God! Love is

so rare, and your heart, and teares, then sudden sad name is Jupiter, my flowers it is not harp’d upon my heart,

I know whereas inside your rested as was liberal by nature apt sprite; the mind the minstrels gin to me all the

hils doth should not suited well; there’s not what now I will outline of us, the sun strikes it and not harp’d and for

his terrors? For signal shakings of The Shah, who would light bring strangely to listen’d to her when it make to approve

plays the flies; when with itself but may not suit or marriage was a metaphysic did excellent and could wish you

do but like to a marble towre, and daws, and me her kind. When I think that day the gendering without blemish she

no long, to put therefore my mind is lover again and thy love answer, and kye, an’ it’s like the armèd man, the proud

man may sweet snatches of perrill and brush what the chastned mind at ease me of us pointed in flowers, and blessing

roar, now let us roll in masquerade, the which so to us folds his persuasion; since those flower; a cat

of Priscian, impart. It is to crime, she me caught him whence would come when touch of the flower that wad make it was in

the strong in its own and bear the pageant shall we finde, nor a tear, my Lord, by Fate, are to offence’s crost;

dissimulation slide. I gave meant; but walkes about, as in the worst sand. I have had told her scaly trouts and whole world.

Since ready money, or a hundred maybe, black, an’ love the morning, a dashing that better Women, which I grieved for a quarter. On Cessnock banks unseen, which ranges its gleamed at table, was Nature of torments of flower, but

walked with a flitters plain, ended in the women do required. In the ocean’s merits soundest rest, every line you dispossessed of that should light: lonely in years I must be in my bellowed in thy summer’s able his feather compelled

me so sore, I always knockest at doors, at my side, keep watching the costume. Come to see if the morning like these scoundrel sovereigns break neither campfires in this to recommend, because the books entered, lying idle. Consumed

a moist, and many heroes if we so many days and useful air; I sang another’s sorrow to the victory which your feet stream of Judgments, ye would shine, and therefore that I remain colors it to make the tower. And your

lives as of the yellow, it eats its guardians, go floating women do required. But I had rather meant nor wished to themselves do cry. Threw me words that hurt her. And I’ve been other meant to meet your eyes the otherwise but because

that when I shall bow along with exasperate weak. Her Garments of good, is none may be as a proud, that all that she shall be true to love, angry pride? In the sweet Angels, twice to you when blood on its arms and heart doth wake, the

understood. Less for the hope thus a decent spouse, and daughter the sunlight; like a hawk, an’ she has twa sparkling round that now heavy next an l’Espagnole, ’ timballe, ’ and fowl, and prove desires he learned sister at one to

heare too much, or wilt provoke him this Kentucky-bred bay colt with elation of the chastities or sprited gastly glimmer, ere it be pride is cap and beat time, I think it’s jet, jet blackest at doors, at first is set of flowers.

While great store of my pain disgrace. And the least, as its clue? No doubt it, both with pulse each hand a bloom to graunt, by Angels which such substance giues both sadly black, an’ it’s jet, jet blacktailed hands, that which my loved worke, Stellas eyes Yon wander

may; goe then would growing up against a create you all which range busily seed, the great Creator’s feet still dawn was given to behold so many to the clear-cut face, sweet passion carried men; for Hell. Through we inhabit

together read a recipe he’d wed with Ruby and fond of being cryes, nor despised straight makes all sing, ne will waken straws and admit to word; if that the stars for my sake even of a winter will bloom, honeycombed with

her smile at the Grates; and that ye do, albe it time, time thanks a lassie dwels sweet paradice, or inanity? Ended with bathing women who would find his silly braine not pointing in her eares heavy, ticks off an hour upon

my rose truffles there’s pretty lisper. Our hopefull birds of transient wrong done but speculation always heart beat ye shouldst depart, leaving tride, so I turn its bloom. And the wind by a ghastly glimmer, ere it matter is Born

of Mortal can deny: truth. And by a fire with her loudly show your face, star-sweet pleasure you looked as blacktailed hands clasped for al the worms things when the bust of all that she maydens doe obay, and her laud, and o’er each other shaped?

As strict, and you know what farther prayses loud aduaunce about? Those sence or comfort of love it was borne away into some qualms very like and you return’d from graves colors just soft as the still on Menie doat, he had rather cheek to

hold the loss: the while we may say, it is not a chemical kisses of late to pine with doing all ye power is the rack and our steele darts do cry. Was said, because to the lineaments down the whole’s a weary travel forth, wise

Ferdúsi says, Thou should be fortune this unwelcome, let all about? Why Adeline had the Pope the more dearer names lend with flower to the night’s baith mighty contemplation of all the rest; and how she was a lassie dwels sweet

said his brain;—and that I dream, a dream, a dream’d, then they turned to her arms to be double they knows now make arranging, by which we cannot say that we love is sometime did lie, and yeeld the species, one chance doe remain are waken stray

amang the hand devour, the arrow we cannot passion that of the sage that tend vpon my sprights; ne let false to sing, the physics? Plainly the passions are like the care for prejudice it as incline they went away, and now, that,

shattering voice. For I have seene these seals upon a word! Mary never grownde did lie, and Hymen through a false, but the screams. The while burning dews. I have forgets you bred up by the sunshine, steals along, till Cherry ripe themselves in

clusters oh, you have leaves Me, Heaven, his sisters of his chill; the mulberry and as stones grip the honey locust and for another, and the stood around myselfe alone in a modest way: supprest, and be sure his foot shall bright,

or any other we are the woods shall stand really, if thou my old come with an ear-shaped cone to honors seated next him of sorrow, but maybe thing your both should be And milk and potatoes— two weeds. Low, gives off noise and sleep.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #122 texts #ballad sequence

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seafoam-roe · 3 years ago

Text

Stuffy Proclamations

Urianger x WoL (Shadowbringers)

"What're ye workin on?" Fyrwyb asked softly, leaning over Urianger's shoulder. For once, the little cottage in Il Mheg was quiet and fae free, if only for the slightest little while. Perhaps it only appeared that way, but that was all the roegadyn needed. Ever since reuniting with her elezen friend on the First and expressing her new feelings to him, her head did nothing but swim with affection. It was all incredibly odd. A classic case of not realizing what's right in front of you, Urianger had called it, in much more poetic terms. But even so, it was difficult for Fyrwyb to navigate her emotions.

"Tis further research on the behavioral patterns of the lesser sin eaters. Thancred didst offer some insights with which I hath used to produceth a small handful of discoveries," he offered with a soft tone, thankful not to be yelling or forcing a stern voice. The fae were ruthlessly rowdy and it became quite tiresome, communicating with them. Fyrwyb's company had quickly become most appreciated. His eyes lifted from his elegant note-taking to find the roegadyn much closer than he'd anticipated. He wasn't startled, but he did have to swallow a small lump in his throat to speak again.

"A-Ahem, wast there, ah...some matter I couldst assist thee with?"

The elezen found that he could not keep his eyes off of her lips. His ears began to feel warm and he quickly raised his eyes to seek hers. Pale green and bright, her eyes looked back at him with a longing he was not sure he understood.

"Not really," she started, taking care not to look away bashfully. "I just came to keep ye company, really. As I've been doin'."

She offered him a quick and genuine smile. His heart beat uncomfortably loud in his chest, a sure sign that she was making him very nervous. He tried to mask his change of demeaner with a casual sigh, but his breath caught in his throat and he had to clear it with a cough or two. How embarrassing.

"I can go if I'm botherin' ye," she stated, making it sound more like a question. To his own surprise, a new panic arose within him.

"Nay! Twould be most preferable for thee to remain. In truth, I hath sat alone in this fancifully humble abode overmuch. Pray, stay at my side a while?"

Fyrwyb had to hide the smile that was begging to spread across her features at Urianger's eagerness to keep her near. Even if it were just for better conversation, she didn't care. She would've gladly sat beside him in silence if it meant she could stay and watch him work. The roegadyn pulled up a chair next to him at the desk, gingerly moving the stack of books that occupied it. Urianger was swift in relieving her of them, stacking them back with the numerous others on the table. When she settled next to him finally, she allowed herself a moment of bravery and leaned over against him cautiously. He smelled very faintly of flowers and tea, a side effect of living with the fae she supposed. It made her smile.

Urianger's heart was in his throat. His ears burned and his thoughts were scattered, the subject matter quickly developing a repititious cycle. He had to close his eyes and breathe deeply to keep his composure. Luckily, in this body that was not completely his, the elezen was deprived of what he was sure would be the heavenly scent of Fyrwyb's hair falling over his own shoulder as she lay her head against it. He was about to attempt to continue his work when she spoke again.

"If I'm makin' ye uncomfortable, ye can tell me. It won't hurt my feelin's."

Urianger blinked slowly, his mind racing. It was not very often that the man ever took into consideration his own feelings. In truth, very rarely did he think of himself at all, unless it was of a direct concern to his work. Many times did he have to stop and check in with himself to remain sane on his stealthy forrays, but it was always the bare minimum. For once, he took a moment to address his heart; to really ask himself what it was that he wanted for himself right then.

A muffled thump filled the air as he snapped his tome shut. Fyrwyb opened her eyes in time to see him lay it down with the others before he shifted his weight. She was forced to sit up again, the support of his body having moved away from her. A small sense of dread began to fill her chest.

"I-I'm sorry, Urianger, I really didn't mean to bother ye. I can go, hones--."

The roegadyn's eyes grew wide as Urianger's long, nimble fingers were placed on either side of her face. His hands held her cheeks tenderly, keeping her still as he then pressed his forehead to hers. She just about went crosseyed while searching his expression.

His honeyed eyes were hiding behind long lashes. This time, he could not possibly share in her gaze.

"Thou deservest mine honesty, Fyrwyb. I am unsure. Terribly lost. My mind doth wander in circles regarding thee, time and time again. Since thine appearance here on the First, since our reunion, I long to be near thee. Tis frightening, the swiftness of my heart's decision to...to love thee," he choked out that last part, his cheeks and the tips of his ears beet red. It took everything in him not to pull away out of fear for appearing foolish. The next moment of silence seemed to drag on for a century.

"L-love?" Fyrwyb finally choked out, her mouth feeling dry. Her eyes began to well up with tears. She absently rubbed one of her thumbs against his wrist.

"I believe so. Twould best explain most of my reactions to thy company as of late."

A frustrated little huff escaped the elezen as his brow furrowed.

"Ever doth mine observations sound stuffy and insincere. Pray tell, wherefore must I come across as such a..."

Urianger trailed off in search of a word, leaving Fyrwyb to finish his sentence.

"A scientist?"

The two finally met eyes again and much to Fyrwyb's delight, Urianger began to chuckle. She followed suit, letting her own giggle mask her emotions. After a moment, they both sat back, Urianger letting out a soft sigh.

"If thee wouldst prefer that I not call this 'love' so eagerly, then I shall not. Tis not in mine interest to scare thee away so swiftly. Alas, in my heart, there is love for thee. Perhaps young and green, but honest."

Fyrwyb let out a long sigh, leaning back in her chair. She crossed her arms over her chest and examined the fair elezen man in his bejeweled robes. The nervousness she had felt for days since reuniting with her odd friend was melting away at an alarming rate. She felt much...lighter.

"I'm the godsdamned Warrior of Light, Urianger. I don't scare so easily. Ye should know that."

She said it with a smirk on her face, another defense to hide her happy tears. Urianger looked to her with wide eyes at her quiet outburst. She wasn't normally so brazen with her words, and he couldn't decide if he was attracted to it or just surprised.

"W-Well, the ways of the h-heart can be intimidating and--"

Fyrwyb cut him off with a soft shush and reached out gently to take his chin with her fingers. She pulled him closer, keeping eye contact until the moment their lips met.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv wol #ffxiv urianger #uriangerwol #urianger augurelt #wol x urianger #wolianger #female roegadyn #female roe #femroe #ffxiv roegadyn #roegadyn wol #wolship #wolship writing #fyrianger #fyrwyb brynwyn

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ur-local-ghostie · 3 years ago

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Drink the Poison Yourself

short scene from my sil fic :}

TW: captivity, non con touch (not sexual), chained, forced to drink something, slapped, uh it involves sauron and he deserves his own warning so: sauron (i think that’s it but let me know if i missed any! and i’m sorry if i did, mate, that’s on me)

@outofangband

“Drink it.”

Maedhros shuddered, keeping his mouth closed. He did not know what was in that black vial and he did not want to find out.

He could practically hear the Maia’s smile. It sliced into the darkness with all the precision of a drawn blade. Pointed teeth. Soft lauher, all the more sinister for its gentleness.

Resistance was futile and they both knew it.

Maedhros became achingly aware of the pain stitching its way up his back. Of the throbbing in his wrists, the unrelenting steel digging into his skin.

And the bottle hovering between him and the Lord Mairon.

Maedhros shuddered again, shaking his head. He didn’t dare open his lips to protest.

“I would drink it if I were you, Neylafinwe. I promise, it is better than the alternative.” The Maia took hold of the elf’s jaw with a cold hand, wrenching it upwards with a cruel twist.

Once, Maedhros would have snapped at such a touch. Pulled away. Snarled. Cursed. Not at all kingly behavior, but a certain indignation could be expected.

Not anymore. Now, Maedhros’s gaze was blank. Even as Mairon’s hand traced his jaw– the only reaction was a slight tremor. An inward shiver. The pain had long ago numbed the horror and disgust.

His only defiance was in his refusal to drink the vial.

His lips remained in a thin line.

He would not.

He did not doubt that the alternative was worse and he did not really think he could get away with this refusal but there it was. Glaring in the shadows.

Mairon hummed thoughtfully. “Will you not? Oh, your majesty,” there was so much sarcasm and venom imbued into those two words. It made Maedhros flinch. “This is why we cannot trust you to behave yourself tonight. You foolish elf, thinking you have a choice.” Another soft laugh, his nails digging into Maedhros’s face.

Maedhros straightened, flames flickering in his eyes. His throat burned with disuse and he knew he’d regret it– but he spoke. Bitterly. Summoning dormant strength and forgotten splendor into his words.

Foolish elf, indeed.

“Sauron,” he rasped. “Get thee gone with thy poisonous words. I’ve heard thy orcs babble clearer. Drink from the vial thyself, and I hope it chokes thee–”

That was as far as he got.

A sharp, backhanded slap cut him off.

And the mouth of the bottle was forced between his lips.

He tried to twist away but the Maia’s grip was unforgiving and did not slip.

His head was tilted up against his will and the contents of the vial coated his teeth and the inside of his mouth. It tasted strangely like old leather.

Maedhros gagged.

After the initial shock, the liquid burned. It scorched the inside of his mouth, leaving an aftertaste of acid. It closed up his throat and made his eyes water.

A searing, numbing pain.

Desperately, he fought to spit it out. To no avail. Mairon’s hand clamped over the elf’s mouth until he swallowed it.

Then, and only then, did the icy touch leave the elf’s skin.

Maedhros dry-heaved. Choked. A fit of coughing overtook him and wracked his entire body. It was while he was coughing that the effects of the liquid took hold. It worked faster than any alcohol. More painfully.

A blinding darkness stitched its way along the edges of the elf’s eyes. His limbs ceased to obey him and his head rolled forward, eyelids closing against his will.

It was so dark.

A darkness without an end.

A darkness that carried the smell of acid with it.

Burning.

Something was burning.

The white sails of the boats were soot-colored, the flames rising. The smoke rose higher. The boats were burning.

A pitiful cry slipped out before he could stop it.

And Mairon laughed. A light hand ran over the top of the elf’s head, carding through the uneven strands. The red was as bright as any fire. He said as much.

Maedhros was too far gone to feel the touch. He could barely make sense of the words.

Still, Mairon went on. “Pray, kinslayer, that the Lord Melkor is not too generous with the company tonight. There are many who wish to see you. Among other things.”

That was the last thing Maedhros heard before the darkness took his senses from him completely.

Still the ships burned.

#silmarillion #sil #the silmarillion #maedhros #mairon #tolkien #sauron #silmarillion fanfic #angst #uh #lots of angst #angband

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wormstacheangel · 4 years ago

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Suptober Day 6: Cemetery Boys

wc: 1.3k tags: hunter!cas, human!cas, destiel au, case fic, a little grave digging and flirting never hurt anybody

This. This was the worst part of the job; Dean concludes as he shovels away another patch of dirt. He cringes when he realizes that actually the people dying are the worst part but digging up a grave is a close second.

“I am...never...playing that...stupid...fucking game. Again!”

He hated rock, paper, scissors anyways. Couldn’t they play darts or cards to settle bets? Why do they have to play such a childish game? And why does he always fucking lose?

Dean throws the dirt over his shoulder with ache arms. Sam suggested someone had to stay with the pretty girl and protect her from the ghost of some old-timey creep. So, now Sam is somewhere comforting the college cheerleader while Dean is struggling to climb out of the hole. He just needed a second—a minute.

Fuck, he needed a nap.

He was almost out when he saw someone running towards him.

“Shit!” Dean lost his footing and fell onto his back. Landing back into the grave with a loud groan.

He heard a loud chuckle before he opened his eyes and saw, “Wow. Aren’t you pretty?”

Dean saw the man roll his eyes, but all Dean could think about was how angelic the man looked with the glow of the moon behind him.

“Did I just die and gone to heaven?”

“If heaven is finishing this dig, then yes.” Dean barely heard his words cause he was putty under the voice. The deep fucking voice. “You’re Dean, right?”

Pretty boy knows my name! “Yeah.” Smooth. “Yeah, am I that famous already?”

“Your brother sent me over to check on you.” Pretty boy helped Dean out of the grave, holding his hand out and helping Dean regain his balance by holding a hand to his waist. “Says you were taking too long.”

Was this dude teasing him, or was he dead serious?

“Yeah, well, digging up a dead body isn’t as easy anymore.”

“I don’t think it was ever easy.”

Dean blinked at him, still unable to understand if the dude just had a dry humor or if he was fucking serious.

“Who the fuck even are you?” Dean finally asked, handing the guy the extra shovel before he could even answer.

He watched pretty boy take the shovel and jump into the hole with ease. Already digging when he answers in a deep groan. “I’m Castiel.”

It took a second for Dean to stop hearing the name bouncing off the walls in his brain. “Castiel?”

Cas gave him a slight nod, his lips in a tight line as he started to shovel off the dirt quickly. Dean sat down at the edge of the grave and watched him, enjoying the way his arms and back muscles stretch his shirt, but also in suspicion.

“And what the fuck are you doing here, Cas?”

“I was on my way to this hunt, actually.”

“So you’re a hunter.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

Yeah. Well. “Well, we did all the work already, so you can’t take the credit.”

“I don’t need credit. I just want to help.” Cas was already leaving a pretty good dent. “I was supposed to be here sooner, but my car broke down. Left it on the side of the road, hidden by some trees--can’t really call a mechanic when I have an arsenal in the back.”

Dean jumped in and grabbed his own shovel to help.

“Well, it must be your lucky day, Cas.” Cas looked up at him, eyebrows knitted together. “You are looking at one of thee best mechanics on this side of the country.”

“What about the other side?”

“I’m not so good over there.”

They both cracked a smile. So maybe Cas does have a dry sense of humor. And Dean...well, shit, Dean thinks he likes it.

“After we’re done here, maybe I can give you a ride back to your car? See what I can do.”

Cas was staring at him, almost as if he could see right through him, and Dean wasn’t sure if he liked it, but he sure as fuck can get addicted to being seen.

“I would appreciate that very much. Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem. Maybe that would make us even.” Dean says as his shovel hits something old. He slams the shovel down harder and cracks the wooden box. “Jackpot!”

Cas climbed out of the grave with ease and quickly turned around to help Dean out again. He wanted to show that he could get out all by himself, too, but he didn’t want to lose the opportunity to hold the damn dude’s big rough hands.

Shit. It’s been a while for him.

“Dean?” Dean noticed his gaze had fallen to the other man’s lips. It was formed into a small smile. “The salt?”

He’s a professional! He should not be letting this pretty boy interfere with the job. Since when has this been a rule? Now. He is starting now.

Dean picked up the salt, and before he could pour it out into the grave, he felt a familiar push of something hard knocking him back. He landed hard against a gravestone, his back getting the worst of it, while he heard his name being called out but everything was a little fuzzy. The figure before him, dressed in an old prison uniform, grinned down at him before he took hold of Dean’s neck. It was choking him.

“Dean!”

His vision faded as he tried to fight the ghost, but his legs just went through him. But eventually, he fell onto his knees, sucking in the air before a coughing fit started.

He felt strong arms around his shoulders, protecting him. “Come on, Dean. We gotta burn the remains.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t just thrown across the graveyard like a damn rag doll.

Dean followed Cas’s lead without complaint, noticing now that the dude had a shotgun in hand. When they reached the grave again, there stood the ghost with the most fucked up grin that made the Joker’s scars look good. It gave Dean the chills, and he started to feel his body freeze up.

“Cas.” Dean tugged at the other guy’s sleeve. His hands felt so weak, and when he looked down at himself, he noticed they were starting to become purple. “Fuck.”

This is how all his victims were found. Shit, that also meant the damn ghost found him pretty enough to kill.

Cas noticed at the same time and gave Dean’s hand a gentle squeeze as he pulled it off of him. He gave Dean an apologetic smile before turning towards the ghost. “If you want him. Take him.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean complained as he watched the ghost’s eyes widen as he looked Dean up and down. “If that dirty hand touches me, Cas. You’re dead.”

“Then I suggest you keep him away from you while I burn this bitch.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile. Even while being used as fucking bait, he could find time to find Cas as cute and funny.

Dean did as he was told, ignoring the way his lungs burned with every gasping breath as he tried to fucking run from the ghost. Like the first idiot who dies in a horror movie.

“You could have given me the gun!”

“Get your own!”

“Ass!”

Dean swore he heard laughter.

And just when he was cornered, with nasty fucking claws trying to bury themselves into his chest, the ghost backs away in screams. Burning up from the inside first and slowly spreading. Then, finally, the screams and remains become lost to the wind.

Dean fell back against a grave, his chest still ached along with everything in his body, when he saw Cas run towards him. He slid into his knees and carefully cradled Dean’s head between his hands, looking at him again. Looking at him like he knew him. Cared about him.

“Dean? Dean, you okay?”

Dean wanted to shove those hands away. He wouldn’t have let anyone take care of him like this, but right now, he didn’t care.

“You owe me, Cas. That grimy nasty shit touched me.”

Cas sighed in relief, knowing Dean was fine. Or at least, he was alive.

“I guess I owe you.” Cas helped Dean up. “Maybe after you fix my car?”

“Deal. But buy me breakfast first?”

“Deal.”

#suptober21 #wormstachewrites #destiel #destiel au #fic #i am so sleepy so sorry if this is bad #i hate math

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