#I was hoping the hand would do an Evil dead and live on its own but no loool | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

evanpetersmybf · 9 months ago

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All he asked for was you

Tate Langdon x female!reader

Summary: Tate loves you too much. He would do anything for you, to keep you by his side, to make you love him forever. He would cross any line to make you his, it doesn't matter how evil it is... But was it really worth it?

Genre: ANGST!! and some smut

Word count: 5,104

Warnings: Obsessive, stalkish and violent behavior, implicit toxic relationship; mentions of weapons, murder, mental health issues, family issues, school shooting; use of Y/N, swearing, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected p in v. (i hope i'm not missing any...) NOT PROOFREAD !!

A/N: English isn't my first language!! Sorry if I have some mistakes and if Tate's a bit ooc (i tried to keep him in character as much as i could). I wasn't sure (and still not) if this is good but I spent days writing it, so I had to post it.

A small playlist with songs that inspired me for this: monster by meg and dia, pacify her by melanie martinez, all i want is you by rebzyyx, skyfall by adele, psycho by doko, paparazzi by lady gaga, dark red by steve lacy.

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Tate never believed in love, nor was he a romantic one.

In fact, he despised it. How could he even believe in that feeling when he never felt loved by his own mother? At least that’s what he pretended.

The blond always had the facade of a tough guy, although he couldn’t fool anyone. Constance knew well he was a sensitive boy. Probably the most crybaby ever to exist… And the most unstable one.

Now he was here. His chest going up and down, breathing shallow and fast. His eyes were darting around the room, looking for something or perhaps someone. Some silly tears were rolling down his cheeks while he anxiously fidgeted with a ring on his finger. The clock on the wall continued its tick-tack. The time kept running. His heart kept beating. It was getting late.

He refused to look at the wooden floor. He didn’t want to accept reality. If Tate did that, he would feel like the biggest monster on Earth.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t stay like this.

He had to do something real fast.

Today, 18:40

You were supposed to arrive at 19:00.

But he remained there, next to the corpse of his rival. A bloody ax beside the dead man’s bleeding head.

Whom he thought was his worst enemy, was someone really dear to you.

Well, Tate fervently believed this was something justified. He couldn’t stand that fucking asshole anymore! That scumbag needed to be put back in his place. And Tate only did that. Furthermore, he actually helped him. He took him away from this shitty world. It was a favor.

He had already killed his mother’s boyfriend, so why was he feeling guilty?

Maybe because his victim was special to you. Because his death would hurt you. And Langdon swore to God he would never let anybody or anything hurt you, including himself.

He loved you.

He wanted to be the one to hold your hand forever.

Tate snapped back to the present and frowned. He picked up the weapon, putting it in his backpack. He didn’t even mind cleaning it. Then, he proceeded to knelt right next to the lifeless dude and cleaned the blood surrounding his body; afterwards, he dragged him to the basement and…

19:00

A knock on the door.

You arrived.

“DAMN IT!”

He left his dead foe lying limp on the cold basement ground and quickly ran upstairs, straight to his room. He also left the backpack there.

Tate spent the last twenty minutes cleaning the mess he made in the living room after he atrociously smashed your friend’s head, forgetting that had poor time to get ready.

He desperately looked for clean clothes, scrambling the entire closet in search of fresh garments while he cussed at himself, at his mother, at that freaking boy, at the entire world but you.

Finally he found some jeans and a striped shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror after changing and cleaned the tiny drops of blood that stayed on his face and hands. He never realized he left the bloody clothing on the bed.

Another knock.

19:07

Tate opened the door, immediately throwing himself at you and giving you one of the warmest hugs. His demeanor with you was completely different; you were the only creature capable of changing his fucked up mind into something more beautiful, more peaceful. The issue was that it only happened when he was with you, otherwise he would be aggressive and rude as usual.

You got the best of him.

“Missed you so fuckin’ much, babe…” Voice muffled since his face was buried in the crook of your neck. Tate always did the same thing; clinging onto you like a small koala would.

“Heh, me too, hun!” You spoke with the same soothing voice he adored. Tate giggled and placed a tender kiss on your jawline, then another, and another, and another.

Soon enough, he was peppering kisses all over your neck, making you moan softly. Oh those sounds. He could hear you melting under his touch, his embrace, for the rest of eternity.

He loved making you squirm, making you laugh, making you feel loved.

He was way too sweet.

Only if you knew.

Four weeks before today…

Tate has always had the bad habit of stalking you. Yeah… He wasn’t proud of it. But can you blame him? He’s constantly afraid of you leaving him. He wanted to make sure you never did so… Otherwise he would die. Literally.

Don’t ask how he would die. You already know the answer.

You two were supposed to have a date, albeit you had to cancel your meeting.

And that, of course, made him overthink. It didn’t matter how many times you told him you were going to study; he felt betrayed, as if you were rejecting him. And Tate hated and feared rejection to the bone.

“Pretty please? Please, Y/N! I don’t wanna go home early, mom’s gonna be there and-and–”

“Tate, I can’t skip this. I have like, a test every day next week and I must study. I don’t wanna fail. Please, sweetie. I promise I’ll make it up to ya’, mhm?”

He rolled his eyes and whined, almost throwing a tantrum. He didn’t try to manipulate you on purpose. It came out naturally. “But I need you, Y/N! Why do you always do the same, huh? Am I not that important? Don’t you love me any longer?”

His childish crying continued for a couple of minutes, until it stopped and the blond agreed a deal with you.

You thought he was calm now, but no. How naive.

You went to the library to study as you said… Without noticing he followed you.

Quietly, he got into that maze of books after you and hid behind some shelves.

Tate noticed you sat on an empty table. Thank God. Oh?

Who. Is. He.

A man Tate didn’t know sat next to you. Really close. Too close for Tate’s liking. He tried to think he was a stranger, that he wasn’t going to talk to you… He was wrong.

He clenched his hands into a ball when he saw that idiot talking to you, and the worst part was that you followed suit. It seemed you two were friends or something.

How DARE YOU talk to another man? No, how dare you talk to another HUMAN BEING!?

Tate was insecure 24/7.

If you weren’t there, Tate was falling apart. It was simple.

No Y/N, no happy Tate. Was it too hard to understand?

Three weeks before today…

It was Friday. Tate was impatiently waiting for you outside the campus, hanging a small bouquet of flowers he picked up.

Once he spotted you coming out from the building, he waved his hand and embraced you tightly once you were in front of him. He gave you the adorable present.

“Tate!”

“How did you do? Did you pass your tests? Don’t tell me, I’m sure you did.” Said, grinning from ear to ear. He was away from you for an entire week. How did he survive? He didn’t know, but he was glad to have you with him again. “Tell me about your life in the last days, baby. Please? I feel like I haven’t seen you in years!”

There he was, the one and only drama queen Tate Langdon.

You talked about the tests, about how the teachers were being a pain in the ass (which clearly triggered in him the intense desire of hurting them because they stressed you), and… About a guy. The same guy from the library, with whom you spent the entire last week studying. He couldn’t stand it. He saw him as a threat to your relationship, especially since he was an old friend that you met many years ago.

As the days went by, you gave him more reasons to hate that jerk. Why? Well of course because you spent hours at the library doing homework or studying with him. Or even hanging out with him and other people.

In reality, you went out with him to a museum just once, and then skating with other colleagues. Nothing compared to the time you spent with Tate; in a week, you would hang out with him almost daily, and if you were way too busy, he would go to your place and spend the night there. He was so attached to you to the point he had to see you at least once a day. And that’s why he was so jealous of your friend. Tate couldn’t stand the idea of you sharing your life with someone else who wasn’t him or your family… And he also got jealous of them, but he was handling it.

Two weeks before today.

After Tate’s pleas, you decided to introduce your friend to him.

Probably a big mistake.

The date was really awkward; your friend tried being nice, and Tate acted surprisingly kind. Of course it was odd; usually, he despised all of your friends and treated them badly, yet this time was different. You were stunned, however, you tried to ignore it and instead got happy as he finally accepted a random person as your buddy.

Still and all, he hated that moron. It didn’t matter how much he tried liking your pal, he was jealous of him. He was getting on his nerves. He denied the fact that you had more love for other people that wasn’t him. Tate desired being your only one. Your number one. Your entire world. Because that’s what you were for him. And he was willing to do whatever to keep you with him.

Tate exchanged numbers with him and meticulously plotted a plan to ascertain he would never talk to you ever again. At first, it came out as a simple “I’m gonna scare the shit outta him”, nonetheless, it turned into a darker idea, very likely involving physical violence.

One week before today…

The last few days, Tate won Peter’s trust. Ah yes. That’s your friend's name. You were glad that he finally opened his warm heart and began to meet more people besides you.

You thought he needed a friend, an empathetic person who could support the blond when you weren’t available, that way he would feel less lonely and depressed.

They went to the cinema, to the arcade, even to a music store. Everything was going according to what he planned.

Eventually, he invited Peter to his place to play chess and other board games on a Sunday afternoon, before you arrived and had a date with Tate due to your anniversary.

Today, 16:00

Peter and Tate were eating pizza and having a great noon, talking about their lives and random stuff, like school and music. They both enjoyed Nirvana, and since Peter played the guitar, he agreed on teaching your boy how to.

If it weren’t for Tate’s twisted mind, they would’ve been best friends.

The guitarist wasn’t a bad guy. He was a great buddy that really appreciated you and the crybaby, but Langdon had something else in mind.

18:00

The men watched a movie. Tate didn’t even know its name; in fact, he didn’t even pay attention to it. Instead, he was focused on his next actions, plotting them carefully.

“Crap, mom’s gonna arrive soon…” Tate mumbled with annoyance, biting his nails and tapping his foot on the floor. He was lying. You were going to arrive, not Constance.

“Damn, bro. Well, I don’t have a problem. I wanna meet her.”

“Huh? No no no, you shouldn’t. That bitch is crazy.”

Peter scoffed, disagreeing with Tate’s rude manner to call his own momma.

“Hey, you shouldn’t talk like that. I bet she loves you!”

That pissed him off. “You don’t know anything, Peter. Your family is different. Your life’s different. You won’t understand!” He yelled, standing up from the couch and now pacing around the room, trying to keep it calm.

“Dude, calm down!

“NO! I fucking won’t!”

The screaming continued for a while. Tate revealed his unstable and crystal self. Even something so insignificant could drive him to the edge, like what happened today. That definitely surprised the other one, who used to think that Tate was a sweet boy. “I dunno why Y/N is dating you.”

“What did you say?” Tate abruptly stopped pacing.

“Y/N. Y/N doesn’t deserve you.”

“WHY WOULD YOU EVEN SAY THAT!?” He pounced on Peter, gripping his neck with one rough hand, applying enough pressure on the sides to stop the blood circulation in his carotids and make him lose consciousness.

Before passing out, Peter, getting pale, managed to croak out: “Because she deserves better…”

Soon enough, he fainted, giving Tate minutes to think about what else to do.

Your boyfriend wasn’t planning on murdering Peter today. No, he didn’t have time. He also was supposed to meet you.. But this was the perfect excuse! And not only that; he indirectly admitted he was in love with you! Or that’s what Tate interpreted with his delusional point of view.

Peter didn’t feel anything romantic for you, he was just worried Tate might be too unhinged to be your partner.

Thus, he went to his room and grabbed his backpack. Then, went to the garden shed and picked up the ax that belonged to his father, and a bottle of lye.

He had to get the job done quickly, nevertheless, he lost track of time.

18:30

Tate came back to the living room, just to notice that Peter wasn’t there anymore.

“FUCK IT!” Langdon got nervous. What if he escaped? What if he told you that Tate was crazy? He couldn’t allow this, not at all.

Thankfully, or maybe not, Tate found Peter crawling towards the front door, the poor dude still feeling dizzy after being choked.

Tate didn’t have any mercy.

“Where do you think you’re going, lil’ piece of shit!?”

18:38

Tate finally did it. He brutally murdered Peter, smashing his head several times with the ax.

He got rid of that little issue. He took him to somewhere clean.

Once he assured the other man wasn’t breathing, he dropped the weapon on the floor, making a loud metallic thud.

19:10

Tate was pinning you down on the couch, the same couch where your dead friend was sitting just an hour ago.

His hands were traveling all along your body, tracing sweet patterns on your skin.

Eventually, his fingers were clumsily pulling down your panties, not minding to take off your skirt. “Did you bring this for easy access, baby?” Tate chuckled and buried his face between your legs, holding your thighs in place; his lips plastered messy kisses over the warm flesh, biting it and leaving tiny marks after sucking.

Your reaction was alluring to him; he enjoyed listening to your pleas, to your whimpers. If it was for him, he would spend the entire day making you cum over and over again.

He finally got rid of your underwear, tossing it aside. Without further ado, the boy spread your folds with his large digits, and continued to lick your throbbing wet cunt.

“So fucking pretty… So wet for me, huh?”

His tongue lapped your small clit two or three times, then, traced a zigzag and circles on the sensitive nub. While he devoured you, he inserted his middle and ring finger, pumping them in and out of your cute hole, curling them and hitting the right spot to make you feel butterflies.

Tate could feel his arousal growing; his erection being restrained by the tight fabric of his jeans. He was desperate, yeah. But he always put you in the first place, and that included pleasuring you before him.

After a while, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, fucking your pussy with the agile muscle and now rubbing your clit with his thumb, applying pressure that sent electric waves through your body. He stopped using his tongue on you and instead looked at that stunning face of yours. He was delighted with your flushed cheeks, with every single gesture you did, with the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He wanted to take a picture of you to remember this moment forever.

His thumb increased the pace, while his free hand lifted up your blouse and tried to undo your bra. He couldn’t. You giggled when he groaned in frustration; he was too horny to think straight and that’s why you helped him to take off the garment.

Tate sighed and after that awkward and funny moment, he kept rubbing your bud, using your own juices and his saliva as a lubricant, intensifying the sensation. His left pinched and pulled your nipple, making you gasp and twitch beneath him, whilst his mouth abused your other one, greedily sucking on it.

“Tate, ‘m gonna cum! I-”

Tate cut you off by kissing you harshly; his tongue invading your warm mouth, exploring it and then nibbling your bottom lip until it bleeded. He licked the tiny drops of blood, savoring the metallic taste of it.

Unable to hold on any longer, you reached your orgasm, coming undone while Tate kept caressing your pussy, decreasing the velocity while you finally calmed down.

He left you panting; your heart beating so fast just like his.

You tried to sit up on the couch, breathing deep for more air, but the blond prevented you from going away.

“Where do you think you’re doing? We’re not done yet, you’re gonna cum again!”

Tate carried you bridal style and went upstairs straight to his bedroom. He threw you on the bed.

Without stopping looking at you, he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his jeans along the boxers; his dick already erect and throbbing, the veins thick and the tip leaking precum.

Using the clear liquid as lube, he stroked his shaft for a while, jerking off to the sight of you. He groaned and whimpered, closing his eyes as his hand pumped himself.

One of your hands went to your breasts, massaging them softly as your right went down between your legs, slowly teasing your womanhood and coating your index finger with your arousal, using it to rub your aching bundle of nerves.

Tate’s dark room was now filled with both of your moans; Tate calling your name several times and you begging him to fuck you.

He couldn’t stand this anymore. He NEEDED to be inside you, to feel your warmth enveloping him. “On all fours. Now.” You immediately obeyed, feeling as eager as him.

“Look at me, mhm?” He positioned behind you and rubbed the tip against your wet folds, teasing you for a bit. Afterwards, he slowly entered his cock inside your slit, moving it slowly at first. His thumb went to your clitoris, toying with it just like minutes before. He picked up the pace and fucked you fast and hard; his cockhead brushing your cervix. Grabbing a fistful of your hair, Tate pulled your head towards him, still with the deep thrusting. “Fuck, Y/N! You’re so pretty… So fucking precious, so fucking mine!” Moaned against your ear, voice raspy and agitated.

Panting, you stopped looking at him and instead looked to the bed. Why? Who knows, but you did it. And you saw Tate’s dirty clothes. Dirty with blood. A lot of blood.

You froze. Maybe it was red paint?

“U-uh, Tate?” You muttered, feeling already bewildered by the sight. You tried not to jump into conclusions, although you knew Tate and he has always been… Secretive.. And aggressive, of course.

After your boyfriend heard your shaky whisper, he stopped moving, even if he wanted to keep going. “Hm?”

“What’s this?” Tate sighed and pulled out from you, not understanding what you meant.

“What’s what?”

Without saying anything else to him, you grabbed the shirt and touched the weird stain. It was still fresh. You took your fingers to your mouth to taste it; and the metallic tang was too obvious. “Tate, what the fuck is this!?”

You threw it at him. Freaked out, you stood up and picked up your clothes, putting them on again, all meanwhile Tate connected the dots and realized he was probably going to get caught.

“Wait, Y/N! It’s not what it looks like, I swear, damn it!” He yelled and grabbed your arm, not wanting you to leave like this. He had to save his reputation, he couldn’t let you think bad of him even if you had all the right. Because, why the fuck the fabric was soaked in blood?

“Then what is it, Tate? WHY DOES IT HAVE SO MUCH BLOOD!?”

“CALM DOWN, PLEASE!”

You attempted to get away from his grip, struggling with him until, somehow, you managed to do so. However, you tripped with his dirty shoes and fell, realizing they were also stained with the red liquid. “Tate, what…? Why? What is this?”

“Nothing, I swear!” He didn’t have any excuses. Saying it was paint would’ve been lame. You were too smart and he knew lying wasn’t a good choice.

Feeling overwhelmed with the matter, you went downstairs, walking as fast as you could. Passing through the living room, a very familiar bag caught your eye. It was definitely Peter’s. You decided to grab it and realized it had his phone inside. Something was off.

Tate was standing behind you; fists clenched and heart beating like crazy. He tried to approach you, still thinking about what to do or what to say.

“Tate… What is this doing here? Peter’s here?”

“Huh? Yeah… He— He came earlier and had to go soon, he left this accidentally, yup…” You could see him fidgeting with that ring on his finger, again.

“Bullshit!”

Tate scowled and grabbed your chin, making you look at his dark orbs. “Tell me, Y/N, do you trust me or not, huh? Look me in the eyes and say you don’t!”

The struggle continued for what seemed eternity. You trying to run away from the house and he trying to make you stay. “Please, Y/N, just listen to me!”

“You did something to him, right? I know him, Tate! He would NEVER leave his phone like this! Is this a joke?”

“Why do you care so much about that asshole!? What has he done for you!? Tell me!”

“Oh my, you’re jealous! I knew it! All that crap about being his friend was a lie, right? Tate, you’re being delusional! I can have friends, I can hang out with whoever I want, whether you like it or not!”

Tate pressed your cheeks between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, squeezing the flesh with his veiny, big hand, pressing it tightly enough to leave the mark of his long digits on it.

“You can’t! You’re mine. Only mine. Since the day you were born you were meant to be mine. Not his, not anybody, just me.”

“Tate… We should end this…” You thought this was the best for both. Being in a relationship with him was draining; always being careful to not hurt him, make him jealous or mad. He was such a sensitive boy that always took everything too personally. He felt everything a little too much.

Since the beginning you knew he was unstable and that he had many issues, but you tried to see beyond his sick mind, you tried to understand him despite being so different.

Tate felt so safe with you. You were the only person who understood him, or at least made attempts to.

He felt rejected by the entire society, even by his own mother, until he met you and he had a minimum spark of hope that the world didn’t suck that much.

That’s why he clung to you. That’s why you were his everything. He would lose his mind if you leave him.

He felt like dying when he heard you wanted to finish the relationship.

He couldn’t breathe.

Some tears were now falling to the floor, his eyes puffy and an ugly frown on his face. His mouth twisted as he sobbed loudly, tugging the hem of your shirt while he begged you to stay. He was crying like a newborn, like a baby who had to be apart from his mother for a second.

“No no no no, you can’t do this to me!” He whimpered, his speech cracking as he tried to hold you close whilst you were stepping back. You were slipping through his fingers, you were leaving him.

“Tate, if something happened to Peter, I will never forgive you! Can’t you see you’re hurting me?”

Tate swore he would never hurt you, nor let anyone. But here he was, finally snapping out of it and seeing the cruel truth.

“You’ve been hurting me the whole time, Tate! I tried to understand you, I really did, I tried to help you, to save you from yourself! But it’s impossible. I’m losing myself here with you, I don’t even know who I am anymore! You don’t want help, do you? ‘Cause it doesn’t matter what I do, you’re never satisfied! You suffocate me!”

All those words were like daggers penetrating his skin, touching his nerves and making him die of pain. You were tearing him apart, just the way he was destroying you.

He finally let go of you, feeling a tornado of emotions. Tate felt depressed, mad, resentful, like he was going crazy. Though, he knew he had to leave if that’s what you wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to break another promise.

Thereby, he confessed his crimes to you. He explained he killed his mom’s partner a few days ago, and that now he had killed your friend. Why? He was jealous, he was scared you’d left him. You did it before you discovered the cruel reality, anyways. That’s why he told you. Because he couldn’t lose anything else.

The situation was utterly disgusting. Tate was sick. He murdered an innocent man and then proceeded to fuck you, as it was the maximum test of love, as if his life meant nothing.

You knew he wasn’t what people often considered “normal”. But this was definitely more than just being a “weirdo”. Tate needed psychiatric help… And being arrested, of course.

“You make me wanna puke, Tate! You’re the evil!”

Without hesitating, you left Tate behind, running as fast as you could from that living hell.

You just wanted to cry, curl up into a ball and wake up from this nightmare. You wished it was merely a bad dream.

Tomorrow morning, you’d go to the police, but for now you needed to sleep.

Monday morning, 11:05

You couldn’t sleep all night. You spent hours thinking about everything, about how this looked like a cruel joke to you. Eventually, you fell asleep at 4AM, and didn’t wake up at what seemed almost midday.

An intense sound of police sirens woke you from your slumber. Startled by the loud noise, you rubbed your eyes and went to the window, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening outside.

Police cars and SWAT vans were going in a specific direction… Towards Tate’s street. It couldn’t be, right?

Did his mother find the corpse? Or perhaps something else?

You looked at the clock, realizing it was late and you had to go to class.

08:00

After the most painful night of his life, Tate decided today everything would be over.

He had to cleanse the world… To take people to somewhere else, to some place full of peace away from the piss and the vomit that runs down the streets.

He was doing this not only because of your breakup, but also because of many other reasons. Your split up was the straw that broke the camel and drove him to the edge.

10:40

After shooting the school, Tate left the place, looking unfazed about what he just did. He was unhinged.

He peacefully got into his place, went to his room and stayed there for some minutes.

The blond sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the gun right next to him and stared at nothing. His gaze was empty, but also there were some tears threatening to spill.

His mind was a whirlwind. Some part of him was satisfied, but the other was confused, wondering what was he thinking, what had he done?

What would you think of him now? Were you even there? Did he kill you too and he didn’t even notice?

In the end, he recognized he indeed was the evil you said. Damn it. You were right, again, as ever.

Tate wanted to hear your voice, to comfort him, to hear you saying everything was okay. That he’d be okay. He desired to hear “I love you” from you once more.

11:15

You went downstairs to find your family apparently mourning you.

They thought you were at school when the shooting happened. They believed you were gone, but here you were.

Eventually, they explained to you what happened.

The first thing that popped into your mind was Tate’s wellbeing, still unaware that he was the culprit. You were afraid something terrible could’ve happened to him, you were regretting your last words to him, but you also had to get him prisoner.

Your heart dropped when they explained to you he was the shooter.

No, it couldn’t be possible.

It was possible. After all, he had already killed two men.

Even if you despise what he did, some part of you still longed for him, still was in love with his once kind heart.

A terrifying feeling of dread filled your body, making you feel numb, as if none of this was real…

11:25

After running to Tate’s house and seeing it surrounded by the cops and the SWAT team, everything stopped. Constance’s distressed cries and pleas were heard from outside, followed suit by the sound of bullets. It was over now.

Tate was certainly a troubled individual who dedicated his entire life to searching for something, to feel something, to feel loved.

All he asked for was love, to be loved, to love. All he wanted was you.

But at the same time, your love led him to an never-ending obsession that ultimately broke both of you.

He became your biggest regret.

All he feared, all his nightmares came true. Everything he was so afraid of was him and only himself.

737 notes · View notes

funniestpersonalivefr · 5 months ago

Text

couldn't leave you

wesker lives after the events of resident evil five but returns to find you mourning his death. mentions of character death and the grief that comes with that. not proofread, credit to image owner.

it felt like a scene from a movie. the day was cloudy and grey, providing the perfect atmosphere as you watched the empty coffin lower into the ground. tears fell from your eyes from behind the black veil you wore. your husband was dead.

the dirt was placed over the coffin, it was empty but it still brought pain to your heart. they hadn't even succeeded in finding a body to bring you closure. you didn't want to believe it but after the days passing turned into weeks and then into months the possibility of his death seemed more and more likely.

it was impossible for your mind to believe that albert wesker, the god of a man he was, could've died. his mortality never seemed to be a real factor in his life, you could've sworn he'd live forever.

the tombstone stated back at you, almost taunting you as you continued to read it over and over again.

in memory of albert wesker, a loving husband.

it felt official, he was gone. you couldn't help the tears that slipped from your face as you walked away from the grave as you went back to your car. almost as if the world around you knew how solemn of an occasion this was, the dark clouds began to let rain fall. it felt as though the sky was crying with you.

as you sat in the car, collecting yourself and wiping what tears remained in your eyes. you looked around briefly, you could've sworn you saw him. you blinked and he was gone.

your brain has to be playing tricks on you.

little do you know your husband was standing in the cemetery as you drove away. he approached the grave with a sigh. part of him couldn't help but wonder if it would be better to let himself die. he'd free you from the constant worry and the target that had been placed on your back when you married him but deep down no matter how selfish it may seem, he couldn't leave you.

you had found yourself back in the house you once shared with the love of your life, specifically you were curled up in his study. the study was truly his, his smell still lingered from the countless hours he spent slaving away at his research.

"oh albert, i wish you were here," you mumble into the couch that sat in his study. you had spent the nights following the news of his supposed death sleeping in this very room.

you were already drifting off to sleep, the exhaustion from crying finally taking its toll on your body. the front door unlocked and your ears barely picked up on it but your body was sent into full alert.

did whoever killed wesker decide to get you next?

you searched his office looking for anything you could use to defend yourself, settling on the fire poker. you tried to think of all the self defense tips your late husband had given you but all you could do is cower in a hiding spot by the door, hoping to maybe get the upper hand.

heavy footsteps approach and you raise the fire poker, bracing yourself to attack the intruder. the door opens and you swing, eyes closed as you wait for the impact.

"it's good to see you too, dear," a familiar voice speaks out.

your eyes open wide and you stare at the man in front of you. it was your husband, it was albert wesker. he had blocked your makeshift weapon with ease and it quickly slipped from your hands.

"albert? i thought you were..." you say, getting choked up as emotions overwhelm you. the blonde man pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tight as you begin to sob into his chest.

"shhh, i know," is all he can say as he jaw clenches shut. he's fighting his own tears at this point and he refuses to let that side of him slip, not now at least. you pull back, cupping his face as you cry. a smile crosses your face as you stare at him.

"it's you, it's really you," your tone is filled with disbelief and you can't help but pull him into a kiss. the kiss is desperate as you try to cement in your mind that this is real.

he kisses you back before pulling away, taking in your disheveled state. the two of you spend the next few hours in each other's arms in moments filled with love after he explains all he can about what happened.

his body is marked with horrendous burns that have torn away at his skin, albert won't let you see them. they're covered under numerous layers of bandages and he'd hate to hurt you anymore. albert's head rests on your chest as you comb through his blonde hair. you pretend not to notice when tears start to slip from his red fiery eyes.

his body is mangled and burnt and he's afraid. albert wesker is afraid of you leaving him, his body isn't the work of art it was before yet here he is in your arms.

you hum to him softly as you comb through his hair, you'll never understand how he managed to survive but you continue to thank any higher power for bringing him back to you. his breathing slows and albert wesker manages to fall asleep in your arms.

#resident evil #resident evil x reader #albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #i love albert wesker

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calisources · 1 year ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. all sentences have been taken from the hunger games: the ballad of songbirds and snakes book and some from the movie trailers. might include spoilers for the movie and book. change pronouns and locations and names as you see fit.

“Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.”

“Being from the Capitol doesn’t give you that right. Nothing does.”

“Well, as they said, it's not over until the mockingjay sings.”

“People aren’t so bad, really, It’s what the world does to them.”

“That is the thing with giving your heart. You never wait for someone to ask. You hold it out and hope they want it.”

“Snow lands on top.”

“I think there’s a natural goodness built into human beings. You know when you’ve stepped across the line into evil, and it’s your life’s challenge to try and stay on the right side of that line.”

“Before need, before love, came trust.”

“And try not to look down on people who had to choose between death and disgrace.”

“What are lies but attempts to conceal some sort of weakness?”

“The strain of being a full-fledged adult every day had grown tiresome.”

“You can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, but you made the choices you made, no one else.”

“Wars are won by heads not hearts.”

“There is a point to everything or nothing at all, depending on your worldview.”

“You're mine and I'm yours. It's written in the stars.”

“But better off sad than dead.”

“What young brains lack in experience they sometimes make up for in idealism. Nothing seems impossible to them.”

“I think it’s more important than love. I mean, I love all kinds of things I don’t trust.”

“I’m planning to build a whole new beautiful life here. One where, in my own small way, I can make the world a better place.”

“If the war’s impossible to end, then we have to control it indefinitely. Just as we do now.”

“What was there to aspire to once wealth, fame, and power had been eliminated? Was the goal of survival further survival and nothing more?”

“They were both after all, still children whose lives were dictated by powers above them.”

“Star-crossed lovers meeting their fate.”

“I’m bad news, all right.”

“The ability to control things. Yes, that was what he’d loved best of all.”

“What happened in the arena? That’s humanity undressed. The tributes. And you, too.”

How quickly civilization disappears. All your fine manners, education, family background, everything you pride yourself on, stripped away in the blink of an eye, revealing everything you actually are.”

“A boy with a club who beats another boy to death. That’s mankind in its natural state”

“Please, Coriolanus, I would never forget the favor.”

“Who are human beings? Because who we are determines the type of governing we need.”

“What sort of agreement is necessary if we’re to live in peace? What sort of social contract is required for survival?”

“It’s just the kind of story that catches fire.”

“And last but least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

“Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.”

“If history teaches you anything, it’s how to make the unwilling comply.”

“You know what I won’t miss? People. Except for a handful. They’re mostly awful, if you think about it.”

“And to erase me, they must erase the Games.”

“Why did these people think that all they needed to start a rebellion was anger?”

“And if even the most innocent among us turn into killers in the Hunger Games, what does that say? That our essential nature is violent.”

“It's the things we love most, that destroy us.”

“We all did things we’re not proud of.”

“What are the Hunger Games for?”

"If you want to protect people, then it's essential to accept what human beings are and what it takes to control them."

“Hope is the only thing stronger than fear."

“If the cause wasn’t honorable, how could it be an honor to participate in it?”

“He’s a Capitol boy and clearly I got the cake with the cream, ’cause nobody else’s mentor even bothered to show up to welcome them.”

“To dine with her suggests that you consider her your equal. But she isn’t.”

“The endless dance with hunger had defined his life.”

"In nature, things that are prey, that are weak, are marked"

"The world is not kind to those who don't fit in"

"We all wear masquerades in this Capitol"

, "There's a price for everything, Lucy. Sometimes you pay it willingly, sometimes it's taken from you,"

"Freedom is not given, it is taken"

“I’m not convinced that we are all as inherently violent as you say, but it takes very little to bring the beast to the surface, at least under the cover of darkness.”

#rp meme #sentences memes #rp resources #meme call #roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. )#rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 2 years ago

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Bluebird — Part II — (Azriel x Reader)

Hiiiii. Still don’t know where I’m going with this. Totally just winging lmao. Still hope you enjoy!

Warnings: None!

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“Another attack – this one just outside the village. The most brutal thing I’ve ever seen. It was Alda this time. The tailor’s daughter.”

Your head jerked up. Ale sloshed over the tankard in your hand, dripping onto your boots.

The man sitting with his friend at the bar raised an eyebrow at you. “I hope you’re going to refill that, Y/N. You poured half of it onto the floor.”

Your cheeks burned. “Yeah—yes. Sorry.”

Their conversation resumed as you turned back to the ale tap. The topic itself had lost its shock value, with how often you heard such conversations in your father’s tavern — but you knew Alda.

Well – knew her in the sense that you sometimes nodded in greeting as you passed by each other in the village. Knew her as well as a sheltered, friendless girl such as yourself could know anyone.

You placed the tankard in front of the man – your father’s friend…or associate. Whatever they called themselves. Alf, you thought his name was. “Is…is Alda dead?” You asked.

Alf gulped down a few mouthfuls of ale before he nodded. “She is. Yet another attack from the scumbag Fae. I’m telling you—” He turned to the man beside him, then, “They’re priming to strike and wipe our kind out completely. There’ll be a war before long.”

There was no mistaking the way your stomach plummeted, your body going cold all over. Sheltered you may be, and inexperienced, perhaps naive – but while you had pretty much educated yourself, taught yourself everything you now knew at twenty-one years of age, your father had been the one to teach you about the Fae.

Terrible, evil beings who assaulted and slaughtered humans for sport. Beings who preyed on young, innocent girls and lured them out of their beds in the dead of night. Was that what had happened to Alda?

Was it what had happened to your mother, when they’d killed her?

The Fae hadn’t breached your village in decades – until recently. The attacks were ratcheting up.

“We need to start rallying our forces.” The second man said. “If they’re planning to strike, we need to be ready.”

The forces he spoke of were, in fact, your father’s doing. Though he was an aloof, nonchalant man – not a natural parent, by any means – the visceral hatred he felt for the Fae seemed to bring him alive. You covered his work behind the bar every week while he gave impassioned talks to the men of the village about the evil across the wall. What they were capable of. What they had already done to your kind. The fact that many humans lived in squalor, whilst the Fae lived in the lap on luxury on what was once human-owned land. And it was your job to go around after his talks, collecting the coin that the punters donated to further his cause.

You were privy to everything that was said in The Bluebird Inn. And you’d had no choice but to be aware of the Fae, when they’d taken your own mother from you when you were just a babe, too young to ever hold a memory of her. If the Fae truly were getting bolder, coming closer…if they were picking the village girls off one by one—

You shuddered, wiping down the bar. The two men rose from their seats and went over to join the crowd of rebels that currently surrounded your father, the noise from the group only growing louder, more incensed, as news of Alda’s murder spread.

“Have you ever seen a Fae?”

You looked up to meet the eyes of the handsome, blonde-haired young man who leaned against the bar, bracing his forearms on it – Devin. He was, perhaps, the most dazzling of all the men in the village – only a year or so older than you, and currently completing his training to be a Village Guard. One day, he would join the other guards in protecting your people and warding off more Fae attacks. He was a quiet supporter of your father’s cause, having attended two of his talks now.

“No.” You blinked at him. “Of course not. Have you?”

“I have.” Devin nodded. “Count yourself lucky, Y/N. You don’t want to see a Fae. They’re hideous, horrible beings. Terrifying. You can see the evil in their eyes.”

“I thought they were always rumoured to be quite beautiful.”

His broad shoulders shrugged. “They are – but that’s all a part of the allure. They coax you in with their beauty, and then they rip you limb from limb and leave your broken body to be found by your loved ones. And they do it because they can.”

Sick – you felt utterly sick. And cold. How could such beings exist? It didn’t matter that your father had spent your entire life drilling these facts into your head – the details were never any less horrific.

“The attacks are becoming more frequent, aren’t they?” You asked quietly, pouring Devin a drink.

He nodded, his pretty, pale blue eyes darkening. “They are. The Village Guards are doing all they can, but they don’t stand a chance against magic. These are dark, unsafe times, Y/N. And you’re the exact kind of person they target.”

“I…I carry a blade with me. My father has shown me how to use it.”

His lips lifted into a wry smile. “Smart as that is, it won’t do you much good against a being who can infiltrate your mind and plant thoughts there. They can convince you that you want to go with them, to follow them. They can get you exactly where they want you, and then they’ll strike.” He reached forward, placing a hand on your arm – the contact tinged your cheeks pink. “I know you’re independent, Y/N. I know that you help your father with the tavern, and you run a lot of his errands. But…it’s not safe, right now, for a young woman to be out walking alone. If you absolutely must travel somewhere — send for me. I’ll be your chaperone.”

If possible, your cheeks burned even more. Any of the girls in the village would have killed for such an offer from Devin. He was easily the most sought-after man around here. And to think he was offering you his protection…

“I will.” You said a little too quickly, hoping your face didn’t show how flustered you truly were. “Thank you, Devin.”

With a charming wink, he rose from his seat and took a place amongst the other gathering audience members, glued to your father’s talk that evening. It was obvious in the incensed murmurings amongst the men that the tensions were ratcheting up. That it wouldn’t be long before they struck, and the human-Fae troubles would begin anew.

You couldn’t help scanning each face and wondering which of them would survive to tell the tale.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Azriel went back.

Despite telling himself not to, a few nights later, he went back.

It struck him again how dark and dingy that little village was. But the thought eddied away as he positioned himself in the same spot and waited.

The young woman played the piano again. It was at the same time, by the same dim candlelight. But a different tune.

He wondered if this was a routine of hers. If she played at the same hour every night.

And then he wondered why he damn well cared.

He’d never had much interest in humans. Not from any sort of prejudice; it just seemed pointless — needlessly painful — to build connections with people who he’d have decades with at best. It was easier and far more logical to quietly respect their existence from a distance.

But that mantra was not in keeping with a growing fixation of a human woman he had no business going near.

He supposed it just…soothed him. To imagine a life of peace, where time was set aside every night to play music. Such beautiful, chilling music.

It was a damn sight more relaxing than the ever-present roaring in his head.

And that was why he went back again.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“I haven’t seen you much recently.” Elain sipped delicately from a teacup, brown eyes flitting over Azriel in all his dark glory. “What’s been keeping you busy?”

It was a pleasantly warm day in Velaris. Warm enough for them to take their tea outside. They had so far sat in companionable silence as Elain had admired the vibrant flowers and Azriel had pored over reports while sunning his wings.

But he found himself quietly restless. Eager for nightfall; to spread his wings and fly amongst the stars

“Just business.” He responded vaguely. A far better answer than the truth — that her mating bond with Lucien suffocated him. “Nothing exciting.”

Elain hummed thoughtfully, studying the shadowsinger. There was a pause before she said, a little coyly, “I hope nobody’s giving you grief—about me, I mean.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Grief?”

“I’m a grown woman—female.” She still found herself having to correct her words sometimes. “I make my own choices. And that includes whose company I do or do not wish to keep.”

“I don’t think anybody would expect otherwise.”

Silence was the only response. Because both of them knew what she was hinting at — the warning Rhysand had given Azriel to watch how he behaved around Elain. How Elain had learned of it, Azriel didn’t know. But she wasn’t daring enough to confront it outright.

“I just wanted you to know that.” She said, rising from her seat. “I enjoy spending time with you, Azriel. There’s nothing wrong about that.”

No, there wasn’t. Still…the two of them didn’t usually speak so boldly to each other. Az found himself unsure of how to respond.

And even more so, as Elain leaned down and pecked him on the cheek, her strawberry scent enveloping him. He felt his body go taut, felt his cheeks flush.

“Don’t work too hard.” Elain said softly. And then she gathered up the tea tray, and disappeared inside.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The coins jostled and clinked against each other as you set the clay pot in front of your father. “Tonight’s takings.” You told him.

Rough, dirty fingers rooted around inside the pot. Your father glanced up at you. “Not bad.” But could be better, was what he meant.

You were starting to wonder if there was an amount that would satisfy your father, if you presented it to him. You knew he was eager to further his cause, to build up funds and supplies, but…he always seemed so disappointed.

Still, you hovered in front of him, wiping your hands over your wrinkled shirt. “…Devin said it’s not safe for people like me to go out unattended. With all the Fae attacks. He’s offered to be my chaperone.”

Your father’s gaze flitted to yours. To raise the subject to him was to test the waters. Your unspoken plea lay heavy in the air: go on. Let me have friends. Give me some freedom. You can trust me.

“Devin is a fine male.” He said, and a little kernel of hope arose in you. “But I don’t want you getting any ideas, Y/N.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Yes, Papa.”

“I need you here, helping me however I ask whilst I do my work. That’s your duty. And Devin is training to be a Village Guard. That is his duty. Perhaps when this whole thing is over, things will be different. But right now, I need you here.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Are all the chores done? Have you locked up?”

“Just some trash to take out. I had to kick Kiall out. He drank too much again, and he was becoming a nuisance.” Your voice gave away how downtrodden you felt, but you knew your father would pretend not to notice. “I thought I might play some music for a while.”

“Not tonight, Y/N.” He shook his head. “I head out tomorrow to give talks in the other villages. I need as much rest as I can get — as do you. You’ll be holding the fort here while I’m gone.”

You inclined your chin. And for a third time, you droned, “Yes, Papa.”

Your father dismissed you by easing himself back in his chair and retrieving his glass of whiskey from the small table beside him. You lingered a moment longer before turning on your feet.

But it was in the doorway that you stopped, a feared, plaguing thought arising in you.

“Do you truly think we can win against the Fae?” You asked.

Your father glanced over his shoulder. And something shadowed his face as he bit out coldly, “We have to.”

The tone of his voice frightened you too much to respond.

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Azriel waited. And waited. And waited.

But the woman didn’t appear. And the sweet music didn’t float up to him.

He supposed he felt a little foolish for becoming so…hopeful. For racing to the human lands to glimpse and hear what had occupied his thoughts for the last few days.

Gods, Rhys would chew him out if he knew. Even though Azriel was the damn spymaster. Even though he knew how to stay hidden, and he could sure as shit defend himself against any number of humans — it was still risky. Because he could frighten the humans, if nothing else.

But he still hoped. And when he realised that it was getting late, and The Bluebird Inn was in darkness — that no music was coming tonight — he felt frustrated.

His whole body was restless as he turned and made to leave. He didn’t want to return home yet, but…there was no point in being here. In staring at a bleak, darkened village—

He was just about to take off when he caught the movement in his periphery.

A door opened below — the inn’s side door. And out stepped the woman he’d so eagerly wanted to glimpse.

Azriel’s entire body went still, only his wings keeping him aloft. He watched as the woman — carrying what seemed to be a trash bag — turned into the alley beside the inn.

He shouldn’t have done it, but he did. He flew closer.

Close enough to watch the human deposit the trash bag into a bin. Close enough to see her turn — and pause at the sight of a man who came stumbling seemingly out of nowhere. Azriel tensed, not quite catching what the man slurred at her.

“We’re closed.” The woman’s voice floated up to him, skittering over Azriel’s skin. As sweet as the music she played. “And you’ve had plenty to drink. I won’t be serving you any more.”

The drunken human man staggered closer to her, clutching at the wall. “One more drink, and I’ll leave you in peace—”

“I said no, Kiall. My father is trying to sleep.” The woman snapped. “Go home and sober up.”

She made to step past the inebriated lout, seeming so much smaller than him.

And it was as the man’s hand shot out to shove her against the wall that Azriel acted without thinking.

He swooped down, landing with a thud in the mouth of the alley. His face was a sheet of fury, his wings a blanket of unforgiving night, as he stared at the two humans.

They both paled at the sight of him. The woman quietly gasped.

“The lady said no.” Azriel intoned quietly, lethally, his cold eyes fully on the man. “Leave.”

There was no movement; just two humans gaping at the sight before them. Until the man seemed to reach for some sort of weapon. Azriel almost laughed at the idea.

“Leave,” he said again, taking a step forward, “while you can still leave with your heart beating.”

That was all it took to frighten the man into moving. He shoved the woman away from him, tripping over his own feet as he took off. Azriel tucked in his wings just enough for the man to scuttle past. He left as quickly as his human legs would allow.

And then it was just Azriel and the woman. The woman who so beautifully played the piano. The woman who was still staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling.

He wanted to know her name. But it didn’t seem appropriate to ask. And his head was roaring so much with fury that he wasn’t sure he could even formulate the words.

“Are you alright?” He managed to bite out. He knew he’d got there before the woman had been hurt, but he still studied her for any indication of harm.

She blinked at him, pressing herself against the wall. And then stiffly nodded — just once.

Azriel wanted to hear her voice. But she didn’t speak.

“You should go back inside.” He said quietly.

She paused, and then nodded again. He nodded, too.

“Goodnight, then.” He inclined his head.

He shot into the skies before he could make any more reckless decisions. He knew that the woman watched the whole thing in both fear and awe.

He should go home. And not return. This had been foolish, and dangerous, and damn well pointless. She was just a human woman. Az had seen many in his half a millennia, and he would see many more.

He had no reason to be so transfixed.

But that didn’t stop him waiting and watching, making sure she made it inside, before he turned and flew back to the city of Velaris.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ azriel tag list:

@hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden @emturtles @lostpirateinwonderland @kammsinn @localhopedealerr @pee-stachio @tobifeemo @torchbearerkyle @honeycriess @shadowsingersmate24 @azziessidehoe @camillo-420 @aztheshadowsinger @shadow-singer123 @weirdo-fun @bookscurlsandgirls @limelightsuperhero @eviepeo

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starfall-spirit · 1 month ago

Text

Smoke and Mirrors

@officialfeysandweek Day 2: Mirrors

Read on Ao3 // Dark Feysand Masterlist // Feysand Week Masterlist

Summary: Curious as to how Feyre vanishes from her locked room night after night, her father promises the choice of a bride to whoever can piece it together. The problem, with each night of dancing she falls deeper into the thrall of the Court of Nightmares—and the High King has never been one to share.

TW: Dark!Rhys, mind control, non-con, murder, and further manipulation in later chapters. The dove is dead, my friends. Read at your own discretion.

“There was once upon a time a King who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the other. They all slept together in one chamber, in which their beds stood side by side, and every night when they were in them the King locked the door and bolted it. But in the morning when he unlocked the door, he saw that their shoes were worn out with dancing and no one could find out how that had come to pass.”

~The Shoes That Were Danced To Pieces, The Brothers Grimm

Chapter I

Feyre

“What is that?”

Feyre looked back at Elain. “My new mirror. Do you like it?”

“It’s… a statement piece.”

“It’s hideous,” Nesta scoffed from the doorway. “Not to mention ancient. It doesn’t even suit your room.”

“Yes, well, that’s because mother decorated my room, isn’t it?” Feyre snipped back, still slightly bitter even after enduring the bright color scheme for years now. She finished straightening the oddly shaped mirror over her dresser with a slight smirk, one finger following the curve of the border.. “I think it adds character.”

“I think it looks like something out of the Court of Nightmares.” Feyre and Elain turned to their sister in confusion. “You’ve never heard the tale?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a ridiculous story meant to make children behave. In the Court of Nightmares there lives an evil High Lord who demands his sycophants snatch up children who are a terror to their families. The same is said for women who don’t save themselves for their husbands.”

Feyre scrunched her nose, exhausted with the obsession the men in their family’s circle seemed to share regarding marriage. Their father did enough to ensure that, locking them in their rooms the moment the sun set each night. The things she’d give to see a starry sky for once in her life. She didn’t see what use their astronomy lessons were when they’d never seen a clear night sky. Perhaps that would change with their social debut. She wasn’t thrilled with the concept, but their mother had finally convinced their father that the three of them would soon be deemed too old to be marriageable, particularly Nesta, who would turn twenty-five that spring.

She let herself wonder for just a moment if her husband would let her have more freedom when she was caring for their home or if he would be as fond of the tight leash her father kept. Hope only stretched so far when it came to the “gentlemen” of high society.

Before she could let her imagination unfold on the subject the door swung open without warning, their mother standing in the doorway with her seemingly permanent scowl in place. “Girls, why is it that I still see three dresses where the seamstress left them this morning rather than on your bodies. Feyre,” she snapped. “My gods, you haven’t even bathed! I should have known allowing you to go to the market this afternoon was a mistake. One I won’t be repeating. I—What is that ghastly thing?”

“A mirror, Mother.” Though she itched to make some quip about the woman’s narcissism, she managed to hold her tongue. “You said I could select something of my choosing for my birthday, did you not?”

Eyes narrowing, she huffed. “We will discuss its removal later. Go,” she ordered. “I want you bathed and dressed in half an hour. Your maid will bring your gown.”

Muttering something incoherent, she ushered Elain and Nesta from the room. Alis was there a moment later with a wry glint in her eye and a garment bag in hand. “At least the dress will suit your coloring this time.”

“Yes,” Feyre murmured, drawing the gauzy gown from its protective bag. “At least there’s that.”

It was lovely. Though she loathed to admit her mother had decent taste in anything, formal wear was her strong suit. It seemed Feyre’s debut was important enough to consider colors that wouldn’t leave her looking washed out. The faster she found a husband, she supposed, the faster she would be his burden rather than her parents’. An odd wife instead of an odd child.

“A home of her own to care for and a taste of motherhood will give her a dose of reality,” she’d once overheard. “She’ll learn her purpose one way or another.”

She was content enough to follow her mother’s command, bathing quickly and donning the dusk blue dress just in time for Alis to see to her hair and cosmetics before her mother returned, a sharp nod the only thing resembling praise that she’d earned. “Good enough. Shoes, then join your sisters in the hall.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She glanced over her shoulder to the back of the room, trying to catch a glimpse of herself before going downstairs for the evening, gasping softly at what peered back at her. “What is it?”

“I—nothing,” she claimed, gathering her cashmere shawl. “I’m ready.” But even as she shook off the unease that had settled over her, she couldn’t erase what the mirror had shown her. An obsidian throne crowned by twin serpents she knew would be deadly if given life, and seated on it an otherworldly male wreathed in shadows of his own design. In that fleeting moment she couldn’t make out much of his face. Only a pair of violet eyes that seemed capable of peering into her very soul. The feeling followed her until she greeted the winter sun.

Ushered into their family carriage, Feyre barely concealed her huff when their mother began rattling off orders for the evening party. Hearing it all before, it took an impressive effort to actually pay attention.

How the woman could manage to talk through a forty minute carriage ride was beyond her, but she and her sisters didn’t have a moment to get a word in even if they’d wished to. “And most importantly, you are never to reject an invitation to dance. Gods know each of you need every opportunity you can get.”

The door swung open, the straight-backed footman offering a hand to help each of them down, as their father was not in attendance this evening.

“Smiles, girls.”

~~~~~

Feyre had never been so thrilled to hear her door lock behind Alis as she was that evening. After playing the games of the court for hours, all she wanted was a bit of quiet, even from her dear confidant. To think, the next ball they’d been invited to was only days away, hosted by the very man who seemed so keen on getting to know her. Tamlin certainly didn’t seem like the worst suitor, but there still seemed to be something missing.

Unless she was being a foolish romantic, hoping for a love match.

“Gods,” she groaned, moving to her vanity to remove her makeup. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“Long day?”

She shrieked at the silken male voice that filled the room, frantically searching the space for someone who may have hidden in the curtains or under the bed before she was shut in for the night. Cauldron, she was in nothing more than a nightgown and a man was in her room. “Relax, darling. I won’t hurt you.”

“Wh-who are you?” Perhaps if she locked herself in the bathroom she’d be safe, if confined.

“Now, Feyre, we’ve met already, haven’t we?” She froze, trying to place the voice without a face to show for it. She had never really believed in magic, but now… “I’ve seen your dreams, learned your wishes. I could grant them too.”

Slowly the pieces began to fit together. The voice with no body, the throne in the mirror, the vendor’s hesitation to sell to her that morning—his superstitions she’d brushed away. “It’s cursed, girl. Every time I try to throw it out it ends up right back in my stall, I swear! Tomorrow morning you’ll think I’ve stolen it from you.”

“I was waiting for the right buyer to claim it,” the voice claimed. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, darling.” She could hardly breathe—felt dizzy in her rising panic. “Look at me, Feyre. Look in the mirror.”

Slowly turning, her eyes locked with his. There were no shadows this time, leaving his face and body unobscured. She realized he was likely the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—not that she had much experience with grown men beyond those present at this evening’s ball. But a more important note to make was not how he compared to human men, but to those of his own kind. Because while the contours of his face and broad build might be something one could look beyond, the pointed ears beneath his raven black hair, could not.

She stumbled back, part of her fearing whatever magic he possessed would allow him to breach the glass between them and snatch her from where she stood, virgin or not. “You are a faerie.”

“Now, so quick to cast judgment, darling. I’ve done nothing to harm you, have I? I promised I wouldn’t and if you know anything about my kind then I’m sure you know a faerie’s word is binding. I cannot lie to you, pet.”

“Is this how all fae choose to communicate with mortals, or do the rest find us too plain for their entertainment?”

He chuckled. “All that matters, darling, is that you are worth my attention.”

She swallowed. “And if I do not wish to have your attention?”

His charming grin broadened. “I have been honest with you, Feyre. It’s only fair that you return the favor. If you did not crave my attention you would have been screaming at that locked door the moment I identified myself.”

Feyre pursed her lips. Though his words rang true, she didn’t appreciate being called out. She did crave company, she realized. Even after the exhaustion of the evening, the years of lonely nights outweighed the social strain of a single evening.

“You have announced your presence, but given no name or title.”

“Darling.” His amusement softened to something she couldn’t quite label. Not that she had much need to. His title wasn’t important at the moment, just that she listened to him. Each word he spoke was true after all. “Much better. You’re a lovely thing once those hackles fall, aren’t you.”

“I—”

“Come closer, little mate. Let me see you.”

Another step brought her to the dresser and couldn’t help but reach up to the glass, her palm flush against the faerie’s. It was the strangest sensation when the mirror’s face rippled beneath her fingers, but the soothing hold over her mind did not waver. That is until her hand met the familiar warmth of human flesh, a calloused palm cradling her soft fingers.

“And now you’re mine.”

That strange hold snapped, reminding her of her caution—the fears born of instinct and stories told, each and every one a warning to heed. “What did you do to me?”

The faerie only smiled, squeezing her hand tighter and pulling her into his dark world.

~~~~~

Perhaps it was the strange means of travel, perhaps it was her fear. Either way, Feyre was dismayed to find herself waking curled up on a set of silken black sheets, clearly having lost consciousness long enough to be carried into someone else's home. Not carried—abducted.

She shivered, pulling back the edge of the flat sheet just enough to ensure her clothing was still in place, immodest as it was on its own. Scanning the room to make sure she was truly alone, she scurried across the room to snatch the robe thrown over the cracked armoire. She’d just finished tying the oversized garment when she sensed another presence in the room.

“Show yourself,” she demanded, attempting to be subtle as she scanned the room for anything resembling a weapon. “Enough games!”

“As you wish, darling.”

The space behind her warmed slightly, the solid male form behind her unmistakable. “Who are you?” It was a small miracle, Feyre supposed, that her voice was steadier than her hands as she pulled the neck of the robe together until it pressed flush to her throat. “Why did you bring me here? I have not—I wouldn’t—”

Despite their truth, Feyre couldn’t summon the words that may change the course of her fate. She knew what made a noblewoman valuable on the marriage market. If she could just convince this faerie she hadn’t ruined herself…

“It’s not your virtue I’m concerned with, Feyre darling.” A mark against her childhood stories, if he could be believed. But why else would he abduct a human from her home. “Beastly as most of our customs and traditions may be,” the man continued, “the society I’ve found a home in might be considered progressive in comparison to your human beliefs.”

Feyre turned to face him. “Society.” She retreated another step, praying he hadn’t seen her eyes dart to the fireplace a moment ago—and the iron poker beside it. Which of them would be faster, she wondered, if she could keep her intentions secret long enough to wield the makeshift weapon? What color would he bleed? “You are a lord, then.”

His lips curled into a half smile, as if her assumption of his status was amusing. “Something like it. The caste system you know is a bit different from our own, I’m afraid. But we’ll get back to that.” He took a step towards her, giving her an excuse to draw closer to her goal. The cowed girl he seemed keen on controlling would become a woman with a weapon. “First—”

Feyre didn’t let herself hesitate. The moment her hand closed on the poker she turned the sharp end on her kidnapper with the intent to wound, if not kill.

Only for her body to fail her. Her mental freedom was claimed just as swiftly, cold talons forcing their way past the brittle wall she had seemed to create through her own instinct rather than practice.

“Oh, my pet.” His thumb pressed into her wrist and her hand spasmed, the iron rod clattering against the wood at their feet. “What are we going to do with you?”

She would have been trembling, if she had control of herself. Perhaps it was a small mercy then, that he had this hold over her. “It doesn’t have to stay this way.”

“What do you mean?” she managed to grit out.

A slow smirk bloomed across his disgustingly perfect face just before he reached for her. His large hands were feather light as they followed the curves of her body, finally settling on her hips. The heat of them could have burned straight through the thin fabric of the robe maintaining her modesty. And the way he looked down at her… she wasn’t quite certain how to describe that look. The claws holding her mind began to retract and at last she could think—could breathe again.

“So dramatic, my pet.” Her eyes snapped back to his, her demand lingering on the tip of her tongue before she thought better of shouting at him. He had used his magic against her twice now. He could certainly do it again if she caused trouble. “Smart girl.”

“You can read minds.”

“Read them, control them. It does wonders in keeping the unruly… we’ll say compliant.” She shivered again. “You’ll do well to remember, my darling Feyre, that I am always with you.” Because even now, her body once again her own, a shadow had taken root in her mind. She had a feeling it would make itself at home for a good long while. Until she discovered a way to block him out. The faerie chuckled. “Perhaps in a century or two you’ll find yourself strong enough. If all goes to plan.”

She tensed. “To plan?”

“Later, little one. For now—” One hand slid to her front, fingering the knot keeping her stolen robe closed. “—I’d like to strike a bargain.”

~~~~~

Rhysand

“A bargain?” the girl sputtered. “You really think you’ll get away with this? My family—”

“Your family doesn’t believe in magic, darling. Who's to say their wild little rebel didn’t learn how to pick her bedroom lock and run into the night to avoid a loveless marriage? If they aren't convinced in the beginning, persuasion is my specialty as you now know.”

His little mate didn’t need to know the truth behind his curse. It wouldn’t change the fact she belonged to him—would remain here at his side in the end. Stubborn as Feyre Archeron may be, Rhys had never picked a battle he couldn’t win.

All this victory would take was persistence and a firm hand. The rest would fall in place on its own, starting with the girl and ending with her fool of a father.

“Please,” she began to beg.

He tutted, pressing a finger to her lips. That wouldn’t do. At least not yet. “The details,” he finally purred in her ear, dropping one hand to cradle the same wrist he’d gripped to force the poker from her hand, sweeping a thumb tenderly over that trigger point until she shivered against him. She may not be aware of their bond, but she responded to it all the same. “Each night when your handmaiden departs, you will let the mirror bring you here. Two wraiths will greet you in this room and prepare you for the evening’s activities.”

“Activities?” she whispered, her warm breath grazing his cheek.

“You will dance for me, darling. Some nights before my court. Others may be for my eyes alone, here in this very room. You will be painted with the symbols of my court, dressed in my colors, drunk on my wine.” Her eyes widened when the back of her knees hit the bed, apparently not having realized he was slowly guiding her across the room. “You will belong to me from dusk till dawn, starting tonight.”

Her thoughts were overridden with panic, limbs flailing the moment her back met his sheets. “If you fail to comply, you will lose your privilege to return to the human realm. If you fail to arrive I will cross the veil between us and drag you here myself.”

“You can’t do this!” she cried, still attempting to break free of his hold, even as he successfully immobilized her.

“I’m the High King, darling.” Leaning down, he licked up her neck, delighted when she once again shivered beneath him. “I can do anything I please.” ~~~~~

Feyre

High King. Feyre wasn’t quite certain how different that was from a regular king, but she did know one thing. She had finally found the sort of trouble she couldn’t slip free of. “I—” She choked on her words, startled by the fingers that grazed her clitoris. “What are you doing?”

She tried to wriggle away, only succeeding in further stimulation.

“Providing some encouragement.”

“I’d be ruined.”

“Say yes, pet, and that can be prevented.”

Those talons once again breached her mind, this time gentle, encouraging, as he suggested. “You’re cheating.”

A snap of his fingers and her clothes were gone. “Yes,” he purred into her mind, that cruel mouth leaving a hot, wet trail of kisses from the soft spot behind her ear all the way down to her shoulder. “And I have no intention of playing fair until you agree to my demands. You’ll dance for me, darling. One way or another.

“You. Are. Mine.”

Two thick fingers sank into her and she gasped, kicking and squirming until she felt him brush her hymen. “Please,” she panted, closing a hand around his wrist, not that she had the strength to stop him.

“I’ll give you ten seconds, darling. Agree to live between my land and yours and I will wait to claim you. Try to defy me…”

She would belong to him in every sense. “Ten.” She’d be trapped in this realm every hour of every day for the rest of her pathetically short life. “Nine.” The High King’s whore. “Eight.” Serving his every whim before his court. “Seven.” To agree to the bargain would bring her back into society’s marriage machinations. “Six.” Likely standing at the altar before she turned twenty. “Five.” She may end up loathing her husband rather than loving him. “Four.” But what kind of person would she be if she left her family entirely? “Three.”

“Wait.”

“Two.” His fingers pressed a little farther into her.

“I have conditions!”

He chuckled against her breast, those clever fingers dragging just so. “Of course you do, darling. Do begin.” His hot mouth closed over her nipple and she whined. She should hate this. She should really, truly hate this.

“I’m waiting, Feyre.”

She loathed him. Why could she not loathe his touch just the same?

“You can’t—y-you—”

She was already lost to the pleasure of his touch. She had no chance now of forming a coherent sentence. His teeth pinched down hard on her nipple and she cried out. Better then, to embrace that mental connection. To submit to it. It was a lovely feeling, trusting the talons tightening by a fraction, those subtle shadows from before fading to make room for their solid counterparts.

She let the thought flit across her mind, that he would not leave his realm with the intention of harming her family.

“As you wish, little mate. So long as you come to me and keep our little secret, your loved ones will be safe.” Her left arm warmed slightly, from her fingertips all the way to her elbow. “Now you bear my mark,” he crooned, his satisfaction crystal clear.

An odd feeling niggled at the back of her mind. Saying that this was wrong. Offensive. She couldn’t quite grasp why. Any smart man lays claim to what belongs to him, doesn't he? The more obvious, the better. “That’s right, darling. It will remain glamoured to human eyes. Except for yours. We can’t have you forgetting for a moment who you belong to.”

~~~~~

Taglist: @whatishowedyouinthedark // @sajirah // @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer

The first couple of you that I tagged aren't normally on my list, but I added you because you've been so invested in my snippets. Let me know if you want to be removed or kept on permanently.

#feysandweek2024 #day 2: mirrors #feysand #feysand fic #dark!rhys #evil!rhys #the shoes that were danced to pieces #the twelve dancing princesses #the grimm brothers #au fic #acotar

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nostalgebraist · 6 months ago

Note

I think your post about AI Doom doesn't really acknowledge the fact that, generally speaking, people enjoy being alive for its own sake and prefer it to being dead. Unless I'm misinterpreting, the conclusion of the post is essentially saying that not wanting people to be killed is "out of step with human values" which is obviously not true. Most people do not want to be killed. Killing people is bad. It would not be OK for AI to kill everyone even if it made something else afterwards.

(Pt 2) this all seems extremely obvious to me but I could not come up with an interpretation of that post which isn’t just broadly in favour of people being killed, which seems sort of like. The most evil thing anyone could ever possibly believe. So I am hoping that I misinterpreted

You're not alone, this aspect of yesterday's post was confusing to a lot of people.

FWIW I'm mostly tapped out on discussing the subject matter of that post for the moment, but this does deserves some kind of further explanation, so here goes.

----

First, to address something you didn't mention, but which was broadly confusing:

I am not saying: "when the doomers say AI will kill us all, they don't mean the natural reading of that phrase, they don't mean it will literally kill all the individual humans, they mean some weird other thing instead."

No, they really do just mean it will kill everyone. Sorry that wasn't clear.

----

What I did mean, when I talked about doomers vs. average Joe here, is that the idea of human extinction hits different if you're an anti-deathist transhumanist, versus if you aren't one.

If you're an anti-deathist, what's bad about extinction is, in part, the same thing that's bad about ordinary death. The anti-deathist looks around them and sees, in some sense, a slow-motion and staggered extinction already happening.

Even without extinction, we are all gonna die. Our great-great-great-great-great-grandparents' generation did not die out in an extinction event, but all the same, they are in fact extinct. Dead. 100% fatality rate, for those guys.

Sure, it was spread out over time, and "natural," but -- the anti-deathist argues, quite reasonably -- why should any of that matter to them, the dead ones? Those distinctions don't change any of what it is that's intuitively bad about dying in the first place.

The horror you express at "people being killed"? For the anti-deathist, that horror gets generalized to include the case of people being killed "by death," as it were. By just, dying, of old age or whatever, rather than by the hand of some other creature.

----

Now sure, even for the anti-deathist, there are important ways that extinction is worse than business as usual. Most obviously, extinction not only stops all the lives of people around now, but prevents the lives of any future people from getting created later on. (Plus of course, all else being equal, death sooner is worse than death later.)

If you're not an anti-deathist, though -- and most people aren't -- these special factors that make extinction worse (for the anti-deathist) are in fact your only objections to extinction.

That is not to say that they aren't extremely strong objections. Of course normal people do not want human extinction!

But for the normal person, there is this hard line between "extinction" and "business as usual." For such a person, there is a horror in the former that just isn't there in the latter, even though (as the anti-deathist likes to point out) business as usual still means a 100% fatality rate, on a long enough timeline.

For the anti-deathist, there is not this hard line. Extinction is bad. Getting killed by a person or a machine is bad. Dying of natural causes is bad. And a lot of the badness -- though by no means all of it -- comes from what is shared across all these cases, not what is special to each case alone.

----

OK, now let's talk more directly about your question.

Unless I'm misinterpreting, the conclusion of the post is essentially saying that not wanting people to be killed is "out of step with human values" which is obviously not true.

I mean, yeah, that's obviously not true.

But there are things sort of superficially similar to it that might be true.

And when something is true, but on the surface sounds bizarre and backwards and staggeringly wrong, I often like to play around with the way it sounds -- to just have a bit of fun with the way I can say things that seem so outrageous, and yet might not actually be wrong. Or even really outrageous, when properly understood.

And maybe I get carried with this, sometimes, at the expense of clarity. Sorry about that. (But also, it's my blog, where I write the kind of stuff I like writing. And I do like writing in this way. Them's the breaks.)

Anyway.

If we want to understand ordinary human values, then we need to cope with the "average Joe's" simultaneous belief in the following two things:

I really do not want to die. As a particular case, I really really do not want to die right now, today. But also, come to think of it, dying tomorrow would be super bad too. And you know what, the day after tomorrow? Same deal. And I guess I could go on like this.

I do not, at all, actively want to "live forever." In fact I kind of don't want this. If you directly ask me, I'll say the idea is sort of creepy and weird and bad. Or, even if I don't think that, I don't find the idea motivating at all. It might be acceptable, if it were forced on me, but none of my actions are driven by a desire to make it more likely.

(I am hand-waving away the concept of the afterlife here, which is involved in the typical Joe's actual beliefs in a way that annoyingly complicates the analysis while being tangential to my point. Let's say we're talking about the average atheist/agnostic but non-transhumanist Joe. I think the point can be generalized further, but I'm trying and failing to be brief here, so you'll just have to trust me.)

Now, together, these two beliefs are nearly a paradox.

Maybe they are just a paradox. Maybe you can't, really, think both of these at the same time without, on some level, kidding yourself. This is what the anti-deathist alleges, about the average Joe.

Maybe you agree. If so: congratulations, you're an anti-deathist too. Which is a perfectly valid point of view. Despite all I said in my post, I have quite a lot of sympathy for it, myself.

But the average Joe is really not an anti-deathist. This is just a fact about the world. Average Joe really does think both of the 2 things, at once. Maybe he does so inconsistently, or wrongly. Still, he does.

I think you essentially have two choices here. You can take the road less traveled, fully bite the "death is bad" bullet, and be an anti-deathist. Or, you can do what most do, and be like average Joe.

But if you are doing what average Joe does, and you go on to say things like...

being in favour of people being killed [is the] most evil thing anyone could ever possibly believe

...then you have some explaining to do. You have to spell out what it is this means, if it doesn't just mean full anti-deathism. Which is kinda what it sounds like.

A lot of things "kinda sound like" full anti-deathism. That view is very amenable to being phrased in terms that make it sound utterly obvious.

But we can't let this lull us into thinking that -- because anti-deathism sounds obvious, and average Joe often believes things that sound obvious -- that average Joe believes in anti-deathism. Somehow, despite all that obviousness, he just doesn't.

Somehow, despite all that obviousness, anti-deathism is a fringe position. And if we're not on the fringe, then we have to spell out just what it is that we believe instead.

Now OK, let's be real. You didn't say "being in favour of death" was the evil thing. What you wrote was "people being killed," not "people dying."

And that's what makes the distinction to you, right? I imagine? That it's bad news when some entity actively kills a person, that goes beyond the badness of death per se?

----

That does sound pretty intuitive! But what exactly is it that makes killing worse, here?

I didn't answer that question, in my post. I answered a bunch of other questions, instead. There are still more questions, which no one has asked me, but which I kind of feel I ought to answer, when talking about this topic. Nonetheless, I have to stop myself at some point, or I'll never do anything else. Hence these kinds of glaring lacunae.

I won't answer it here, either, in full. I have some other things to do today, and this is no longer just explicating what I meant earlier, this is new stuff. I'll just make some gestures, now, towards the kind of answer that would make sense of how I treated the topic in my earlier post.

----

So, there are some pretty obvious answers to "why is killing especially bad?"

Say, that it reflects poorly on the killer: an AI that would kill us all is probably an AI that's just plain bad morally.

Or, that we have a norm against it. It's a part of our ethics, the stuff we agree on as part of the social contract.

But you know what we don't have a norm against? If we're average Joe, and not on the fringe?

Killing chickens.

Or torturing chickens, and then killing them. Or breeding lots of them, specifically to be tortured, and then killed.

Sorry for the sudden swerve into vegan talking points! But this is kind of a big deal.

I've heard this cited, multiple times, by doomer types as a motivating case for being worried about how superintelligent AIs might treat us.

Just look at how we treat creatures that can very evidently feel pain -- but just happen to be different from us, not constituted the way we are, and in particular much less smart than we are!

And I, personally, find this argument pretty motivating. This is one of those arguments where even I have to hand it to the doomers.

But once we've allowed this much, we are in danger of conceding some really wild shit, if we don't tread carefully. Maybe we even should concede the wild shit, in the last analysis. Still, we should tread carefully.

Say you take the chicken argument seriously.

You've conceded that human values contain some really fucked-up things about how to treat other, dumber, "more primitive" beings. Beings of the kind that prevailed before the new, "super"-intelligent, sparkly, world-dominating species stepped onto the scene and changed everything.

You've conceded that humans are basically misaligned AIs, of the evil killeveryone Torment Nexus sort.

Remember, that was the whole substance of the argument: to make such awful AIs seem more plausible, by pointing out that such a thing already exists. Namely, us.

But now, what standing do we have to object to the AIs, without it rebounding back on us? Must we oppose ourselves just as fervently as we oppose the evil AIs, for the same reason?

"An AI that kills all humans" sounds pretty bad. Sounds like an evil thing, that we would not want to exist. But by the same token, we're evil, and we shouldn't exist.

(We might have wiped out chickens, if they weren't so tasty. There are plenty of non-tasty things which we did, in fact, wipe out. I and the doomers focus on chickens and the like, here, because what we did them is arguably even worse.)

Would we really accept an AI that's only "aligned with human values," and treats us about as well as we treat other beings when we are placed in an analogous scenario? Or do we hold AI to a higher standard -- one we can't possibly apply to ourselves, for that way lies madness?

Well, I don't know. These are tough questions.

But I would like to leave open some room to imagine, at least, that the advent of humanity was not (or not only) a catastrophe. That it was not, in fact, "the most evil thing possible."

Despite all the evil that we do, I'd like to imagine that.

And I'd like to imagine that, if there is such a thing as "human values," it contains this affirmation of the value of the advent of humanity.

And the value of things like the advent of humanity.

And the golden rule, and the rule of law. Which means, among other things: not holding you to a higher standard than I hold myself.

Even though the apparent implications of this are pretty nasty.

Philosophy is like that. Often you are between a rock and a hard place. Saying "that's a rock, don't you know that rocks cannot be walked through??" in an alarmed tone does not really get at the heart of the dilemma, or point the way to a solution.

----

All else being equal, of course, I would prefer not to be killed.

So would the chickens, I imagine.

We must not pretend there are easy answers, when there aren't.

#ai tag

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 9 months ago

Note

You might’ve already got this before, and I’m asking this in genuinely good faith.

Your essay was very interesting, and convinced me of Erikar as a ship reading. I also really enjoyed your dissection of Eridan as a very honest person drawn into destructive behavior. It very much lines up with his status as a Prince of Hope! One who destroys conviction/belief through conviction/belief.

What confused me was your insistence on the hidden hand of the author. Death of the Author and all that, what’s implied in the text can be taken on its own separate from commentary but you seem to be doing an autopsy— the text implies [this] so *Hussie* must have intended for [this] and then tried to cover it up. If they genuinely thought it was a better ending, why not do it? Why the secrecy, why the feints? I think it’s a little conspiracy-brained to insist on a secret “better ending” that we don’t have author’s word or drafts on.

I’m also a little drifted on your frustration with the deaths of the trolls? You write that the theme of Homestuck— a standard coming-of-age story, a reckoning with society and the exit from youth— is undercut by the deaths of the trolls, because that means they *had* to die, in *punishment*. I disagree. Their deaths are tragic, not just.

Homestuck has a lot of methods of revival, the choice to (for the most part) perma-kill some characters (the trolls for one, and then AR, WQ, and WK) is a deliberate choice to make death mean something. If dying doesn’t mean anything, what are the narrative stakes? Murderstuck marks Gamzee as a threat, Eridan as a tragedy. The deaths there are meant. To be sad. To demonstrate that sometimes kids don’t get to grow up, that sometimes the society they live in cuts them down.

Homestuck is a sad story at times! It doesn’t need an ending where everyone gets to live to keep its coming-of-age conclusion.

I hope this made sense. I’m not trying to attack you, I’m just skeptical of some of your points. I hope you go on to do more analysis in the future!

If you want to believe that, go ahead 👍 again, arguing my points on that front would require its own entire essay, lol, so I'm not really planning to do that as the answer to an ask. The only thing I really want to say here is that while Homestuck is often sad, as you say, its underlying tone is unwaveringly hopeful right up until Game Over/the Retcon, and even kind of beyond that. If you prefer a sad story, then you can have a sad story, but it's just not a reading consistent (to me) with the entire rest of what Homestuck is.

For example, the whole narrative grapples with the debate of predestination vs. free will. Do things happen in Homestuck because they have to, or because characters are making choices? But with the introduction of John's retcon powers, it lands firmly in the "free will" side of the debate: the retcon powers outright defy the power of stable time loops - a reflection of how Breath is associated with freedom and choice. This is the optimistic option.

Another thing the narrative grapples with is the realness vs. fakeness of magic. I don't think it's hard to argue that between LE's "evil wizard" status and Godtier!Calliope's wand-induced black hole that the arrow falls firmly in the realm of magic being undeniably real. This is the optimistic option (and yet another narrative element that Eridan is extremely relevant to).

Moreover, even post-Retcon, there are elements that are kept that soften the tragedy already present in the story - for example, the concept of the Ultimate Self, and the implication that all surviving characters will eventually achieve it, takes the edge off all their doomed and dead counterparts, who won't actually be relegated to double death in the dream bubbles, since in a way, they'll live on through their alpha counterparts. It turns those sacrifices from bitter to bittersweet, and serves as a counterpoint to common takes like John being sad that he doesn't know the version of his friends that exist post-Retcon. The inclusion of it in the post-Retcon story, even with its botched delivery, says to me that Homestuck is still intended to be optimistic at its core, even with the extreme Giving Up that Hussie did.

And let's not forget how Calliope gets to come back to life, no strings attached, and that her stated purpose is only to live. Up to the end, the tone is that of HOPE, and I think there's no mistake that HOPE is supposed to be what defeats LE.

As I said in replies on that post, as an artist, I just can't imagine spending literal years, and literally a million words and thousands of images, writing something that's so thematically and tonally consistent, only to hard swerve right at the end, without extenuating circumstances.

And the thing is, there WERE extenuating circumstances, and they're fairly well-documented.

The kickstarter got funded, and while the story is muddled, we know the production of the game was extremely troubled, and Hussie was having difficulty being a project lead for that while also grappling with everything else. Everything else being, of course, an ever-increasing number of irons in the fire - more third-party artists he had to commission and manage, more merchandise he had to be on top of, bigger updates to sate the demands of the fanbase.

Which, speaking of, was infamously one of the most awful and toxic fanbases to ever exist, and one that Hussie has deliberately attempted to distance himself from since. I can't imagine the kind of daily abuse, harassment, callouts, and worse that Hussie had to endure as Homestuck's creator during the fandom's peak years. I don't blame him at all for turning against them.

Therefore, given the way the tone and themes hard swerve, the way several characters get bent entirely out of shape (you're telling me Karkat had several means before him of bringing his dead friends back and WOULDN'T SAY ANYTHING???), the way several plot threads are simply left dangling in the air, and the way some characters reach really weird and unpleasant conclusions (davepeta, gcatavrosprite), I think it's actually LESS reasonable to assume that the ending we got was the original plan. Hussie saw that to do the ending he wanted to do back in act 4, he'd need to write for a year, maybe two years more, and then looked at his mounting stress and pressure, and looked at the fanbase he'd come to hate, and just went "nope." And I can't even really blame him for it, lol. In his position I'd probably do the same.

Also, please don't mistake "the deaths are undone" for "the deaths will not have mattered" - I think there's a reason that the game over timeline characters still exist post-Retcon. Their arcs don't end with their deaths, and their failures are weights on them that must be narratively resolved - I believe that they go on to be the ones to defeat LE, although I have much less evidence to support this. It just makes narrative sense to me - the post-retcon team focuses down the Felt, various Jack Noirs, and the Condesce - the latter of which is their final boss, as the ultimate representation of the shitty society they're doing away with on their path to creating a new one.

Meanwhile, the dead and "irrelevant" versions of the characters, the ones who grappled with and were harmed the most by what LE represents - immaturity, selfishness, and cruelty - go on to band together after death, and defeat him in the bubbles, a culmination of their vengeance for the havoc he wreaked. And with him being destroyed in the bubbles by the dead and irrelevant, symbolically, he will be rendered nothing more than a bad dream for the waking, relevant, and alive.

Thus Gamzee is still an antagonist, although it becomes (Gamzee) and (Equius) who go on to form LE. Those deaths and those failures still matter, they still happen, they still have narrative weight. Even without the Game Over versions of the characters still existing and still being important, the decision to welcome antagonists like Gamzee and Eridan back into the fold is rendered more complex and more significant BECAUSE we've seen how badly they can go.

The speech originally given by post-Retcon Vriska to (Vriska) is also, to me, a weird artifact of this hypothetical original ending - as it exists within the actual comic, it's said by the wrong person to the wrong person - Vriska with her character development reset to a (Vriska) who's had her characterization destroyed in order to make the first Vriska seem more right. I think originally, it would've come from (Karkat) to Meenah, the latter of which being the one whose idea it was to fuck off with the treasure, and who caused the Beforus team's worst problems, and who has a track record of fucking off whenever she's tasked with taking responsibility. Thus, it would serve as a conclusion to Meenah and Karkat's arc, as well as Game Over Sadkat's arc specifically, would convince Vriska to go with him, and would give Meenah some narrative commeuppance, which would kickstart some sort of Beforan troll feelings jam that would rally them together to actually be useful for once in their lives/afterlives and contribute to the LE fight.

Again, if you PREFER the sad ending, I can't stop you, but the reason I'm going in on there being an "original ending" that isn't sad is because the sad ending doesn't make narrative sense. Why is the ultimate self speech coming from a combination of two characters that barely spoke? Why is it triumphant that Meenah and character-development-reset Vriska get to be the big goods in the fight with LE? Why do multiple prophecies suddenly get dropped right at the end when all other prophecies DO come true? Why does Karkat spend so long being sad his friends are dead, and also why is he deliberately set up as the Friends Troll (blood = bonds), and then suddenly not care that multiple methods exist for bringing back his friends? Why bother softening the blow of all the dead/irrelevant alternate selves if they're intended to be fully tragic? Why introduce a mechanic that would let them save whoever they want consequence-free and then not use it to do that? Why does Roxy love wizards so much and then not get to meet the wizard boy? Why is the entire rest of Homestuck so carefully crafted, so narratively satisfying, so thematically and tonally consistent, and then all of it goes to shit right at the end?

So yeah lol this is the SHORT version lol this isnt even the LONG version of this essay

#anon i think u just like tragedies which is ok 👍

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thebiggestfuckgiven · 9 months ago

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a lil prompt for the few dp x marvel gremlins around. i see you and ily.

Be Like Danny:

-> get contacted by the X-freaking-Men to try to get you to join their school for mutants

-> say no because you can’t explain that you’re technically not a mutant, just half-dead

-> live a normal (Fenton standard normal) few months afterwards

-> get kidnapped from your own school by evil scientists (that surprisingly are NOT the GIW)

-> escape facility using your sheer wits (being annoying) and ingenious fighting strategies (screaming and blasting)

-> run away across rooftops from the guards hunting you down while being injured (and holy shit are we in new york??)

-> get distracted by trying to spot the empire state building

-> get shot with a tranquilizer by aforementioned guards

-> painfully fall down into an alleyway, without seeing the empire state building (boo)

-> begin passing out but not before you see some red guy with literal horns (satan??) fight off the baddies after you

-> wake up hours later in satan’s lawyer’s (???) office, confused, dazed, and a little scared

-> pretend to still be passed out while desperately thinking up how to explain why guys with guns were chasing you down in the middle of new york without getting dragged off to the police

-> hope for the best

Random Excerpt-

Matt didn’t feel comfortable leaving the tranq’d (and fully knocked out) teen out in an abandoned alley. Very few people would, out here in Hell’s Kitchen. He also didn’t feel like bringing in a potential new problem into his home, so he decided on the next best place: the office.

Needless to say, Foggy was scared near shitless when Matt burst into their office in full Daredevil regalia with an unconscious boy in his arms. In Matt’s defense, Foggy wasn’t supposed to be here. He sent out a small thanks to God that at least Karen was nowhere to be seen. Heard. Semantics.

“Is that a kid? Oh my god, Matty, are you carrying a dead kid around? Is there a dead kid in our office?”

Language, Matt bit back.

Foggy’s heart beat a violent staccato as he followed Matt into their conference room, breathing stuttering when Matt laid the kid down on the table and his head turned limply to the side, his hair softly shuffling against the metal.

“Matt!”

Foggy waved his hands around wildly, the sound fluttering in Matt’s ears. Without a word, he grabbed Foggy’s arm and dragged him out of the room.

“Please keep calling me by my name in front of a stranger,” he hissed out, annoyed.

“In case it may have passed your attention, that stranger is unconscious. Or dead, for all I know! Because you haven’t said a damn word since you slammed your way in here by the way!” Foggy was whisper shouting, staying close to Matt’s side. He could almost see how Foggy’s eyes were wide, if he tried hard enough. Listened closely enough.

“He’s not dead,” he let out before walking to the front door to lock it and make sure no one was around.

There was a light slap sound as Foggy raised his hands in a pointless gesture and brought them against his legs.

“Oh, yeah, that’s reassuring,” he said to himself, but not bothering to hide it. Matt heard him walk back to the conference room. He held back a sigh, ignoring it for the time being. There hadn’t been anyone following them, but he’s been doing this long enough to know that some people knew how to keep their distance well, or even knew how to disguise their heart beats (God forbid the Hand had any involvement in this). They could even have a tracker on the kid.

Taking all of this into consideration, he would rather be safe than sorry. He was standing by the locked door, listening intently for any odd sounds outside the building or on any surrounding roofs. Like the same footsteps going by, feet shuffling as though someone was waiting, heavy breathing, the smell of gunpowder, or the sound of a bullet moving into its chamber.

He waited, hearing no signs. It was one minute before he heard the exact moment Foggy found the kid’s pulse.

“Matt,” he heard Foggy’s voice, a whisper. “He-he’s dead. He- oh my god, I’m going to be sick.

The kid’s pulse, or to anyone checking by regular means, lack thereof.

Matt waited one more second before moving away from the door to save himself from the stench of throw-up.

“I said he’s not dead.”

#dp x marvel #i will say the original plan for this in my head was for dd to bring spiderman in #spiderman: *investigating a series of teen kidnappings in the city that he connects to a country-wide mutant experimentation conspiracy*#daredevil: hey so guess what #out of pure indulgance deadpool also ends up involved cuz he had been investigating on his own when #he crossed paths with spiderman #daredevil calls spiderman to tell him what happened #immediately regrets it when he hears deadpool’s with him #’nevermind the kid’s dead actually. no need to come over’#’too late we’re on our way already!’#matt @ foggy: we need to burn this place down now and fake our deaths #no idea whether matt actually hates deadpool or not but i just get that vibe

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saintsenara · 7 months ago

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Seeing as all this excellent ink is being spilled on the concept of Snape and Tonks bonding through grief (and queerness), how about Snape and Tonks the elder, Andromeda? It must be lonely sometimes for Andromeda after the estrangement from her family, however necessary the break was and however impossible a reconciliation would be, with nobody in her new life who she can plausibly befriend having any understanding of her sisters beyond them being evil and hot. But Snape is fond of Narcissa and gets Bellatrix. Added bonus of Snape despising Dromeda’s son in law and rightly believing her daughter could do much much better!

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

and this is a pairing which has occurred to me too... so much so, that there's a little something in the wips folder on this very topic...

as i've said as part of the stonks manifesto, the interesting thing in fics in which snape survives is how authors approach the fact that he has been following a script which has now ended, and how he deals with - for the first time in his life - having no master and having the freedom to live on his own terms.

and i think it’s particularly interesting to mash this into andromeda’s own finished script - the fact that her war has ended so devastatingly, with her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all dead; that she has gone from being a grandmother to teddy’s primary caregiver [and the resentments that brings up - i’m wedded to the idea that she isn’t thrilled that harry is teddy’s godfather]; and, most thorny of all, that her sister is dead and there is now absolutely no chance of bellatrix seeing the error of her ways and trying to make amends [which, while i loathe the common trope that andromeda and her sisters would reconcile easily, is something i believe it’s entirely reasonable for her to have hoped could be possible.]

snape’s post-war relationship with the malfoys - presumably absolutely torpedoed by the reveal that he was a spy - also has parallels with andromeda’s post-war reckoning with narcissa.

would you like a snippet?

[from the very end, because i always write the endings of things first.]

And she looks up at the house, and - although it’s narrow - it’s straight and tall, and it stretches up to a clear sky. And she thinks about Ted, about what Ted used to say about things having good bones, and she knows that he’d chide her for defaulting so quickly to chucking the whole thing in the dustbin. A bit of repointing for the mortar, Dromeda, he’d say, and a new coat of paint, and this’ll be a cracker.

And she can picture the cant of his sandy head, and his wry smile, and his wink, as Snape shuffles down from the kitchen, holding a cup of tea out to her in a thin, cautious hand. The mug is chipped - a big chip right out of the rim, right over the place you’d put your mouth to take a sip - but the tea is perfect, like Snape has watched her carefully over the course of endless cups she’s made them both in her grief-filled living room in order to learn how she takes it. Good bones there, too, Dromeda.

Good bones. Good, marrow-filled bones holding him up, despite all the scar tissue. A thing worth restoring, worth maintaining.

She looks out across the little yard, with its high walls and the gate hanging on by its hinges. Someone has started to hammer through the concrete - Snape couldn’t have done it himself, surely? Snape has asked someone into his space, into his weakness, to do it - and to lay topsoil. She sips her tea and she breathes in and she can smell it, how it smells of earth, and she remembers what Snape told her about fertilisers, about how even the ground benefits from good bones.

He stands beside her, drinking his tea in solemn silence. He doesn’t have his stick - he couldn’t carry two mugs with it - and she can see the pain starting to stiffen him, the blood starting to drain from his face.

She conjures him a chair, settles him in it, and, for once, he doesn't complain. She lays a hand upon his shoulder which he doesn’t shrug off, feels him take it in his own, feels the touch of his lips against her fingers. The kiss is feather-light, but the bump of his nose against the back of her hand is emphatic. And that’s Snape, isn’t it? For all his subtlety, he’s an immovable object.

He’s got a nice nose, she thinks. She likes it, even though this would sound absurd to the person she was twelve months ago. It’s got good… well, cartilage, she supposes.

And perhaps it’s all futile. Perhaps Snape is past repair. Perhaps, if she stays, they will destroy each other, wearing each other thin with constant relitigation of the past, never letting the ghosts in the walls drift away.

Perhaps.

But she can picture Snape sitting in this chair again - the sunshine on his face, warming his paleness away and making the silver threading his temples glitter - chatting to her in a voice which has grown stronger while she potters around the garden.

While things grow.

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #severus snape #andromeda tonks #gardener's question time

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enchantedchocolatebars · 9 months ago

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Tea With Kitty (A continuation of this fic).

Original story

Ao3 version

The sun was shining, the bees were buzzing, the flowers were flowering, pitchforks and torches were on sale, and "witches" were being brutally burned at the stake.

It was just another mundane morning in the town of Gravesfield.

Inside the Wittebane household, a sleepy Caleb yawned into his right hand as he trudged tiredly to the kitchen.

It was quite evident from the bags under his eyes that he didn't obtain enough sleep last night.

Rather than rest, the blonde began to endlessly stress about the letter while in bed.

He knew the negative talks of his brother were false and far from true, but… what if they had some truth to them?

Even worse, what if they came to be true someday?

Caleb wanted to believe that Philip would always remain kind and sweet forever, but… what if he didn't?

Would it be all his fault?

The thought bothered him to no end.

He had to get it off his mind.

Perhaps preparing something to eat might do just that.

Stretching his arms, Caleb enters the kitchen and quickly freezes.

That dead thing from yesterday was still on the kitchen table, its dead eyes staring directly at him as they practically penetrated his soul.

A staring contest commenced between the two as Caleb remained frozen, his brown eyes locked on the furry creature.

All of the dead animals that Philip brought home with him from the woods freaked the elder out, but this one?

It took the cake for being the most bone-chilling.

Caleb couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the animal was... not good.

He felt like it possessed an evil, unholy aura.

He needed to depose of it quickly before–

"KITTY!" Philip excitedly rushed past Caleb and over to the table, where he grabbed Kitty and quickly wrapped his pet into a hug.

He loved Kitty with all his heart, and the precious bond they held could never be broken.

They stuck to each other like glue.

The cuteness coming from his baby brother caused Caleb to let out a sigh.

'Too late,' he thought to himself.

...

Later, the living room clock stuck four as afternoon tea began.

Philip and Caleb were both at the table as Kitty sat in the lap of the smaller Wittebane.

As his little feet bounced idly, Philip couldn't suppress his smile.

His first ever friend was having his first ever tea with him.

The moment excited Philip greatly.

In the center of the table was a wooden teapot along with a small tray that contained a small crumpet and a small English muffin.

Both breads were coated with homemade butter.

Placing the crumpet on Philip's plate, Caleb proceeds to put the English muffin on his own plate.

When Philip picks up his tea cup, he starts eagerly shaking it sideways.

He wanted tea, and lots of it.

The brunette hoped to have his cup filled to the brim.

Caleb sees this and chuckles, taking the teapot handle.

"Hold it still, Pip," he instructs with a sunny smile as Philip does so, and Caleb begins to pour.

Content with the amount of tea in his cup, Philip blows on it for a bit and takes a small sip.

"…," spoke Kitty.

"Huh?"

Setting his cup down, Philip picks up Kitty and holds him up to his ear.

He had communicated something, but Philip didn't quite hear it.

"What was that, Kitty?" he asked.

"…," repeated Kitty once more.

Philip shifts his gaze to his older brother, who is getting ready to pour himself a cup of tea.

"Caleb, wait!"

The elder pauses and looks to Philip, setting the teapot down.

"Kitty says that he wants to pour you a cup of tea!" Philip informs in a happy tone, pointing to his pet.

"Isn't that nice of him?"

Looking at Kitty, Caleb saw his unwelcome gaze on him.

He then looks back at Philip and shines him a nervous smile.

"V-Very nice," Caleb agrees with a stutter. "Kitty is such a caring... creature."

Clearing his throat to alleviate his anxiety, he continues.

"But Pip, I think I'm capable of pouring my own cup."

Upon hearing this, Philip forms a pouty frown on his face.

"Aww, come on, Caleb," he whines. "Let Kitty pour you a cup just this once."

Holding a hand near the corner of his mouth, Philip whispers, "You’re making him feel bad."

"But Philip–"

The brunette proceeds to pull out his biggest set of puppy dog eyes, his big blue orbs sparkling with adorableness in hopes of gaining some sympathy from his brother.

Caleb breathes out a defeated sigh. "Okay, fine," he groans in agreement, giving into the minor manipulation.

Philip smiles brightly at his brother's okay as he brings Kitty over to the teapot.

He then lays his body on the handle.

"…," whispered Kitty.

"It's okay, take your time, Kitty. There's no rush," Philip would kindly reassure in a tender tone.

But, ultimately, Kitty falls flat on the table and accidentally tips the pot of tea down, sending the scorching liquid from the spout spilling onto Caleb's lap.

Ouch.

Judging from the contorted expression on Caleb's face, the tea hits the one spot every guy his age wants to shield from trauma.

Philip could clearly see the painful state his sibling was in as he winced.

"Uh-oh…," whispered Philip.

He gives his brother's sleeve a small tug. "Caleb, are you alright?" he asked in a small voice.

A wheezy chuckle came from the blonde as he spoke.

"Me? I'm fine! No, really, I am. I just… need to... go change."

Caleb rises from his seat.

"Excuse me, Philip."

Watching his brother stagger off, Philip looks to Kitty.

"…," states Kitty.

Philip nods his head in agreement with the statement.

"Yeah, I don't think he's okay either..."

(Author's note: A small headcanon I'd like to share is that Kitty, when "he" was alive, was actually a female opossum, but Philip doesn't know that and just refers to "him" as "he". Just thought I'd share that little fun fact.)

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m4rs-ex3 · 1 year ago

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some context-less cracked season 5 quotes for your consideration

"so did you just make bait a sacred promise"

"well he's not going to feel better if he's dead"

"evil jar of eyeballs, evil jar of toenails, evil jar of... peanut butter"

"focus on being present and mindful 😌" "YOURE SPRINKLING CRUSHED LEAVES ON MY HEAD"

"im not sure ive ever felt this relaxed in my entire life-" "BLOODOFC HILDDDD"

"stab stab buh-bye bad guy"

"down the esopha- i mean corridor"

"i don't wanna get your hopes up, but i think i've might've seen your dad's bum shimmy just a little!"

"GOODBYE CRUEL WOORRRLDD" "WHAT WAIT???"

"it's just a polite way of saying 'shut up already will you'"

"A THOUSAND LEVIATHAN-O-FILET SANDWICHES"

"I NEED THOSE OILS. THEY HAVE LAVENDER 😩"

"he's blind isn't he?" "O HOW DID YOU KNOW"

"goods i got by doing.. ~✨~crimes~✨~"

"these goods are so good they should call em 'greats!' let's say you and i take a walk to my big business boat."

"anchovy?! that's a little far"

"good morning good morrow and top of the sun to you"

"oh you have that thing where you sneeze when you see the sunlight too?"

"then i had a revelation: put an egg on the muffin!" *le gasp* "with the sausage?"

"WHY DON'T YOU WANNA EAT ME HUH? YOU'RE MISSIN OUT ON SOME TONED MEAT"

"don't feel bad. if i was a giant sea monster i would eat you." "really? awww... ty 🥹"

"vengeful pirate, certain death, and no jelly 😞" *caws* "ROUGH DAY."

"oh i'm sorry do you have some kind of nice reason for wanting her dead?"

"i've got the biggest strongest hands! don't you want one of mine! huh? HUH?"

"i do not understand. a hand will take weeks to regrow" "no buddy it'll take way longer than that"

"are you mixing the pentapus ink with your own blood?" "its a spell terry not a pudding recipe"

"🎶do you know the mushroom mage who lives on fungi lane🎶😈 THATS ME 👹👹👹"

"✨ i swallowed her✨"

#tdp spoilers #s5 spoilers #tdp s5 #tdp #the dragon prince

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honourablejester · 8 months ago

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An Idealised, Class-Agnostic Spell List for a Gothic D&D 5e World

Or, to put this another way, a list of all the spells I would love to take on a character who lived in a fog-shrouded gothic realm where soft bastions of light and hope exist surrounded by a grey, weary, liminal world of shadows and despair. I’m going for a tone, here. Not dark fantasy, not fire and brimstone, but something greyer and more tired, softer and rounded at the edges by twilight. The images here are graveyards shrouded in mist and pale moonlight, the warm yellow windows of churches and homes as beacon against the night, vast but intangible shadows across the land and inside souls, tiny symbols of hope held in trembling hands. Gothic. This list is going to be low on damage spells, and high on … aesthetic spells.

Basically because I’m in the mood for random D&D thought experiments tonight. I’m going to do this alphabetically by spell level, because I like organisation. And I’m adding just a little bit of flavour text to demonstrate the tone:

Cantrips:

Chill Touch, Dancing Lights, Spare the Dying, Thaumaturgy, Toll the Dead

The ghostly hand clinging to a victim to drain their health. The will ‘o the wisps dancing in the mists. The gentle hand staving off death. The flickering of candles and the film of darkness in the eyes. The phantom bell tolling out lives.

First Level:

Ceremony, Detect Evil & Good, Faerie Fire, Fog Cloud, Protection from Evil & Good, Silent Image

The rituals and rites of life and death. Divinations to sense evil, and protections to ward it off. The dancing lights that limn and reveal what is hidden. The masking shroud of mist. The silent spectres that can be induced to walk.

Second Level:

Augury, Gentle Repose, Healing Spirit, Invisibility, Pass Without Trace, See Invisibility, Silence, Spiritual Weapon

Rolling the bones in search of answers. The weary servant of the divine laying protective hands on the dead, that they will not be corrupted and torn from their rest by evil. A shining, gentle spirit that heals all who stand beneath their light. The ability to vanish into the mists that shroud the world, to pass through it as a ghost in the night. The mote in the eye that allows one to see where others are shrouded in those same mists. A spell of silence to quiet a trembling world. A ghostly weapon born from a whispered prayer.

Third Level:

Beacon of Hope, Gaseous Form, Life Transference, Phantom Steed, Speak with Dead, Spirit Shroud

A light of hope that restores health, integrity and vitality. A form dissolving into mist, a wisp in and of itself. The sacrifice of one’s own life force to save another. The ghostly steed that arrives to ferry you through the night. Communion with the dead, and their shield against all who would harm you.

Fourth Level:

Aura of Life, Aura of Purity, Death Ward, Divination, Greater Invisibility, Mordenkainen’s Faithful Hound, Shadow of Moil

The soft, silent shrouds that surround the champions of hope, brushing those they pass with life and protection. A ward against death itself, a single determined moment of protection. The touch of a divine force that grants knowledge. A deeper communion with the mists that shroud the world. A graveyard grim, a phantom hound that faithfully guards the boundaries. A shroud of shadows that shall protect you as its own.

Fifth Level:

Commune, Contact Other Plane, Dispel Evil & Good, Greater Restoration, Hallow, Legend Lore

The great, determined effort to reach and touch, plead with, that which is greater than all of us. A shield from all that is liminal and supernatural in the world, a means to drive it back and protect others from its works. A touch that cures all ills. The hallowing of sacred (or unholy) ground, the creation of a sanctuary against the night. The whispers of the forgotten, of secret lore, guiding you towards truth.

Sixth Level:

Eyebite, Forbiddance, True Seeing

The touch of the true void, filmed across your eyes, to cleave those around you to the soul. A means to create a true fortress, a sanctuary against all the beyond the world who would seek to breach it. That mote upon your eye that allows you to see truth.

Seventh Level:

Crown of Stars, Etherealness, Resurrection

A crown of light to mark your brow, and allow to strike out at the darkness. The means to step fully into the liminal, to pass partly beyond the borders of the world. And that last, desperate hope, the means to draw someone back from death, whole and hale, though it sows deathly weakness through your own body and soul.

Eighth Level:

Holy Aura, Illusory Dragon, Maddening Darkness, Mind Blank

A cloak of divine light that spurs all around you into battle against the night. The calling of a vast, unreal shadow, an emissary of the mists and the shadows to strike your foes. The terror of true darkness, called down as a demonstration of night’s might. The sanctity of your own self, your own mind, made sacrosanct.

Ninth Level:

Astral Projection, Foresight, True Resurrection

The means to cast yourself and your chosen fully beyond the world, to pass the liminal and enter the other, if only in spiritual form. A true blessing of knowledge, the ability to see not only what truly is but what may also be. The last, perfect victory against death.

#d&d #spell lists #gothic #gothic fantasy #hope in a weary world #i love ghost stories #and there's a certain tone i love #liminal #shrouded #gentle against the darkness #and there are some spells that fit that #making spell lists is one of my favourite d&d activities #not gonna lie

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 9 months ago

Text

A brother's instructions

Day 5 for @manweweek

Rating: E

Prompts: Free of Evil | Opposition

Pairing: Manwë/Melkor for Sofie (nyarnamaitar)

Themes: Dead Dove | Smut

Wordcount: 2.7k words

Summary: Prior to his wedding to Varda, Manwë’s brother calls on him, offering to teach him how to satisfy his bride in a way he does not expect.

Minors DNI | 18+

This fic is also available on AO3

“I hear you are to be wed.” Melkor leaned against the doorpost, the dark pools of his eyes glinting in the starlight that spilled freely into his brother’s chambers. “And I have come to offer my felicitations, brother mine.”

Manwë turned to face him, his lips forming a bashful smile. His brother’s visits were always welcomed, especially now that an occasion of great significance loomed large before him.

“My thanks, brother,” he returned warmly. “Lady Varda’s wish to be wed to me was wondrous for me to hear.”

“Indeed, brother mine. Indeed.” Melkor was perfectly calm, perfectly amiable. Deep within him, however, anger rose like a tumultuous storm that would have stripped everything around him to its bones had he allowed it. His brother was to be married to another, and the notion distressed Melkor deeply.

Look at him, he thought, while his brother kept up a lively chatter about his upcoming nuptials. Varda is unworthy of him. He is so radiant. So beautiful. So innocent and unsuspecting of the true motives and desires of others.

Dark lips curled into a twisted smile. Manwë was beautiful and radiant, as any of the Valar should be. He was also an innocent who was free of evil and pure of heart, a being who could not truly fathom the secret notions and desires hiding within the dark recesses of the minds of others. And he had not seen the desires that dwelled in his brother’s mind, for they had always been concealed from him. Melkor was besotted with him. It had been this way since the moment his younger brother came of age and Melkor found himself smitten by Manwë after he made himself known to him. This feeling grew with the passing of the ages, and Melkor did little to dampen it.

Innocent and unsuspecting, he repeated to himself. Too innocent and unsuspecting for his own good. Perhaps there is a way yet for me to achieve a sliver, at least, of what I desire, he realized, if I speak the right words. And if I am successful, I may yet have a taste of him before he places himself in the arms of another for all time.

“What you have said is all good,” Melkor began and set his plan into motion. “But it will not be enough. A marriage is more than just a pledging of vows, brother. There are times when a marriage needs more than just tender companionship to keep itself alive. Have you given any thought to the other aspects as well?”

“You mean pleasures of both the spirit and the flesh?” His brother flushed, wringing his hands. Manwë had indeed given the notion much thought, and he found himself praying that he would not fail to please his new bride in any way, for he had abstained from such acts despite the many invitations from others to do so. Oh, he saw nothing wrong with such invitations; he simply desired to wait until he found the companion of his life. “Yes. I know of this brother.”

“Do you desire it?” Melkor asked with feigned indifference. “Does your lady desire it?”

Manwë flushed again, unable to look his brother in the eye. “Yes. To both. Varda is said to be a most passionate woman, and I… I hope that I will be able to please her in every way.”

“I understand completely,” Melkor replied solemnly, pacing his brother’s chamber, his eyes darting to the wide featherbed and its silk sheets. The bed was barely slept in, for they, the Valar, did not require rest and true sleep unless their earthly vessels were weary. And Manwë was rarely weary.

Perhaps it is time that featherbed was put to some proper use. Melkor stopped by the foot of it before turning to face his brother.

“Do you wish to know how best to please your future queen and keep her content?”

“I do. More than anything.”

“Then will you allow me to teach you? I have some experience in this sphere. I could guide you.”

His brother—who had been gazing out the windows—snapped around to look at him, startled by this most unusual offer. “You mean I should listen to what you have to say?”

“Not just say,” his brother answered, laughing. “I will show you by allowing you to take liberties with my body. Come now, brother,” he added when Manwë grew pale. “Have you lost your courage?”

“I… I do not think it is wise, brother,” Manwë said, puzzled. His brother sought to show him how to please his queen instead of just counseling him about what took place in the marriage bed. He did not know what to make of it. What he did know was that such acts were forbidden, not just for the Children, the Eldar and the yet-to-be-discovered Edain, but for the Valar as well. “And it is an abomination, brother, for you and I to cleave to each other in such a way even in the flesh.”

“It is far from an abomination,” Melkor sighed as if in defeat. “But I will leave if you do not desire my guidance.”

“So soon?” His brother cried when he walked past him, comporting himself in the manner of an aggrieved soul. “Please stay, brother; I cannot bear to see you leave so soon.”

Melkor paused by the door, his hand already around its golden handle. The key has found its way into its lock, he thought, pleased with himself, and pleased with how easy it was to bring his brother around. Now all I need to do is to turn it into its proper place.

“You do not wish me to leave?” he murmured, his back to his brother the entire time. “But why must I stay, brother mine, when you call my offer to help a vile and monstrous act?”

“Please stay, brother,” his brother beseeched him. “Please. I… I did not mean to insult you.”

“You will trust me and willingly do what I ask of you?” Melkor turned around to face him, his countenance grave. Deep within, however, he was rejoicing. “All of what I ask of you?”

“I…” Manwë paused and hesitated. Melkor invited him to do something that would go against everything they were taught by their creator. However, he wanted to trust his brother. He wanted Melkor to see that he did not doubt his intentions, and he yearned to know how best to satisfy his future queen. “Yes. But just in the flesh, yes?”

“Of course, of course,” Melkor agreed. “Just in the flesh, and not in the spirit. Too much harm can come to us if our spirits are bonded. Now stay here. There is something I must procure for us first.”

That something turned out to be a clear, crystal bottle of oil that Melkor obtained after some discrete searching. It gleamed atop the little table it was placed on, and Manwë regarded it, wondering how it would be used. Then he turned to face his brother, mustering the courage that threatened to desert him at that moment.

“I… I am ready,” he declared softly. His brother smiled.

“First,” said Melkor, “we must kiss. Come here, brother mine. Place your arms around my neck and close your eyes. I will show you how it is done.”

Manwë obeyed, albeit reluctantly, gasping when he was kissed violently and his brother’s hand tangled in his hair. He willed his mind to open, more than a little frightened by the savagery of his brother’s embrace.

“It hurts,” he exclaimed when his brother tightened his other arm around his waist in a vise-like hold. “It hurts, brother.”

“Tis how it is, brother,” Melkor growled, savoring the warmth lingering in his brother’s mouth. And oh! The sweetness he found lingering within it, the cravings it gave rise to! “Varda will desire this, even act in this manner as well. Listen to me, brother, when I say this is the only way to keep a being like her content.”

“I… very well, brother.” Manwë yielded, whimpering when he felt the sting of his brother’s teeth against his lips and when the heaviness of his brother’s arousal pressed against his lower belly. Melkor wasted little time, ripping the robes off his brother’s person in his greed to feel flesh against flesh. He was not disappointed in any regard, for when he freed himself of his robes and drew his brother close, he found himself sighing wistfully.

He feels so good. His brother’s fair skin was uncommonly soft and smelled faintly of cool mountain air. And it was perfect, devoid of any flaw. Melkor had often dreamed of it—his brother’s pale skin pressing against his own and his soft, windblown hair spreading around him like silk.

And for once, I get to make my vision of us real. Melkor tumbled Manwë onto his bed and sat astride him, marking his throat and arms and torso with his tongue and his lips and his teeth. Manwë—despite the arousal that had already gathered deep within the pit of his stomach—thought this was all too much. Surely the pleasures of the flesh were supposed to be gentler than this?

“Too much, brother. Please.” He tried to resist, to push himself away. His nails inadvertently dug into his brother’s thighs during his attempts to break free. Melkor growled, inflamed, and wrapped his hand around his brother’s throat, pinning him to the featherbed. “Tis too much for me.”

“It is far from too much,” he lilted, bracing his other hand by his brother’s shoulder. Manwë hissed softly when the pressure applied against his flesh increased slightly, and when the weight of his brother came to settle against the cradle of his hips. He could have used his mastery over wind and air to free himself, but he could not bring himself to do so. He could not bear the notion of wounding his brother in any way. “And it is how your lady would desire it—all heat and flames and passion. Do you wish to stop now, brother mine, when you are so close to discovering how to truly pleasure her?

“I… I do not know.”

“Precisely. You do not know. Which is why I intend to teach you. Now stop resisting my embraces, and let me show you the rest.”

His brother looked at him, his eyes wide and full of confusion. And Melkor, thinking an inducement was needed, released his hold and reached down to wrap his hand around his brother’s cock instead. It produced a much-sought-after effect. Manwë arched his back and let out a transported whine, his hands fisting against the sheets, when he felt himself being stroked for the first time.

“Is that a yes, brother mine?” Melkor asked, masking his elation with innocent warmth, when his brother thrust up his hips.

“Yes, yes, brother,” Manwë—unable to stop himself—cried out, when yet another flash of pleasure tore through him.

Melkor groaned when he was addressed so. He did not dwell on it, thinking it would undo him and drive him mad if he did. He set his eyes on the task at hand instead, turning his brother onto his belly, bidding him to wait, and telling him that he had to be prepared for what came next. Manwë waited, ashamed of the want that bloomed and surged through his being, and ashamed for wanting to know more of what his brother had in store for him.

His brother had a great deal in store for him, though, at the time, he knew little of it. The first thing he felt after the weight of the featherbed shifted again was his brother’s legs forcing his own apart. He turned to look over his shoulder, but his brother commanded him to turn back with a heated thought. The next thing he felt was his brother’s hand, large and cool and slick with oil, caressing the small of his back. Manwë closed his eyes.

What will come next? He wondered.

Pain came next. Pain like he had never felt before was searing through his insides. Manwë tried to look over his shoulder again when the finger that had breached him sank deeper.

“What are you doing to me?” He demanded, his words feeble.

“Preparing you, just as I said.” Melkor thrust deeply, pressing his finger against a particular place that made his brother dig his nails into the sheets, tearing at them. His quiet moan was sweet and golden, like music to Melkor’s ears. He pressed his finger against that place again, and his name spilled off his brother’s swollen lips in a whisper. “For Varda may do it as well. There are even special implements that she could use for her pleasure as well as for yours. Would you like to know how she could do this?”

“I… that is yes, brother.” Manwë, still full of shame and self-disgust, moaned again when a second finger joined the first, opening him up even more. Melkor used a generous hand with the oil. He applied it along his length and pushed more inside his brother. Then, when he was more than ready, he gripped his brother’s hips and lifted them just high enough to breach him again without too much trouble. And without warning, he did so, pushing himself inside with one long thrust.

Manwë cried out: from shock, from pain, unable to comprehend how he could accept such an intrusion, and unable to comprehend how he could accept so much of it. Melkor was big—uncomfortably, painfully so. Manwë felt him grunt against the back of his neck and heard him whisper “Finally,” when he sank home. Then he began to move, his shallow thrusts deepening as his pleasure grew.

This is wrong, thought Manwë, even as hunger for more flared through him, white-hot and blinding. This is wrong. This should not be happening. We must stop. I must put a stop to this. I must…

“Enjoying yourself, brother mine?”

Too late did Manwë realize that his moans joined the euphony Melkor had created with his own. Humiliated, he dropped his head, muffling his cries against his arm. His brother did not mind. He took his pleasure as and how he found it, striking the place he found before, bringing both himself and his brother to the very brink by chasing his own release.

“You are close.” Melkor tightened his grip with one hand while the other moved to tangle itself once more in the pale silver of his brother’s hair. He grabbed onto it and tugged hard, delighting in the little whine he heard. “Your release is almost upon you. I can feel it in the tightening of your body. Do you want me to show you what that would feel like, brother? When your queen takes you over the edge while sharing pleasures?”

“I… that is yes, yes, brother.” Manwë was starting to think there was more to these lessons, something that Melkor kept hidden from his sight. Still, he could not dwell on any suspicion. Not at that moment. Not when golden light kept bursting to life behind his eyes. He whispered his brother’s name and chased after it, giddy and lightheaded, forgetting his shame, unable and unwilling to linger on his brother’s motives. He whispered brother’s name again, this time when he found that light. He let it wash over him and drown him in its brilliance, his body trembling and trembling while he spilled across the sheets, his brother’s name parting his lips in wild little cries. He was still shaking when he heard his brother’s deep cry, and when he felt the warmth of his brother’s spend flood his insides. Then his brother went still, and a hush settled over his chambers. It was everywhere, as all-consuming as the light that washed over him before. Manwë slowly opened his eyes.

Is it now over? He made a faint noise when his brother finally slipped out of him and collapsed onto his side. Has my brother’s lesson come to an end?

“Are your instructions over, brother?” Manwë murmured when he could finally lift his head and speak. He regarded his brother discretely, drinking in the shimmering, slate-gray skin and the hair that fell around him like a dark waterfall. Then he turned away, mortified for admiring him so. Melkor had seen him looking and did well to hide the triumphant smirk that threatened to burst forth.

So trusting. So innocent. And finally, mine. Varda will never be able to claim all of him now. My mark will forever be etched on his spirit.

“Our lessons are far from over,” Melkor began after he gathered his breath. “Rest, brother mine. I have so much more to teach you. They too will serve you well, I think, where your new queen is concerned.”

#manweweek #manwe week #dead dove do not eat #manwë #melkor #manwë smut #melkor smut #manwë x melkor #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction #a world of whimsy writes

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reds-skull · 11 months ago

Text

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I'm going back to my parent's house for the holidays, so I'm probably gonna post less in the next couple of days...

Soap’s eyes dart between the 3 revenants in the room, wide and fearful.

Ghost watches how he turns it into rage.

“I’m not a ‘revenant killer’, whatever the fuck they call it.” Soap snarls, glaring at the screen as if he’s looking at Laswell, “I wasn’t killed by a revenant.”

Laswell exhales, Ghost can imagine the smoke streaming from her mouth, “a revenant killer is a revenant that is made to combat other revenants. You were created to defeat whoever killed your squad - to kill Konchar.”

Johnny’s revenge… the reason they’re both stronger than they truly had to be. And yet, they’re different, Ghost muses.

Soap wanted retribution for his dead mates. Ghost? He wanted payback for his own.

Johnny clutches at his hair, hands burning bright, fire crackling dangerously. Ghost takes hold of his left hand, gently pulling it away from his warhawk.

“Johnny.” Soap glares at him.

“So much fuckin’ evil comes out because I lived that day, Simon. Sometimes I’m real feckin’ sick of it.”

Soap tries to fight his hold, but Ghost pulls him closer, towering over him, “then do something about it. The past is unchangeable, you’re already alive. What are you gonna do about it.”

Ghost squints, his voice lowers, “you wanted revenge? Let’s fucking get it, Sergeant.”

Flames dance in blue skies, anger and rage that knows no bounds, uncontrollable forest fire decimating everything in its path.

Johnny nods, determination fueling his flames.

Laswell was the last break they needed before they could truly form a rescue operation. She informs them of Graves’ power limits, his priorities, the reason he captured a platoon’s worth of revenants.

He aims for Soap. One giant bait the American knows Johnny would never ignore. If they could get their hands on the original revenant killer, they hope to be able to replicate his “success”. Create a pipeline of vengeful not-dead.

Gaz will cover the skies, radio in locations of shadows, suspicious movements, and if he can, the locations of their teammates.

Ghost, Soap and Rudy will take to the underground, tunneling under the prison and freeing Alejandro. From then on, it’s a race against time, Gaz and Alejandro using their abilities to find everyone, and Rudy and Soap clearing the Shadows from their paths.

Once everyone is outside his range, Ghost will use Limbo to annihilate any remaining Shadows. Before that, Ghost’s main objective is keeping Johnny safe. Limbo’s new docile state brings with it the long-lost control he had on the realm, the ability to create only a small circle of void around him, one that Ghost thought he’ll never have again. That means, if any Shadows try to grab at Johnny, Ghost will simply let his victims rip them apart.

They don’t have the element of surprise in that Graves is waiting for them, but what the Shadow Company revenant doesn’t know is how much they understand his limitations, as well as Ghost and Soap’s changed powers.

Laswell has to leave soon after they finish planning, Shepherd breathing down her neck. She promises to do anything that might help them, but their group is operating outside any government jurisdiction as of now.

Meaning, if they were to fail, no one will come to save them.

They have one shot. Ghost prays the Reapers that’s all they’ll need.

Johnny drags him to the back of the safe house right before they’re supposed to gear up, ignoring Ghost’s questioning hum.

He slams him against the wall, fingers digging into his shoulders, nostrils flaring with barely restrained anger.

“Let me get the kill on Graves, LT.” Soap says through clenched teeth, “this entire thing is my fault - I can fix this.”

Ghost tilts his head, mauling it over, “if the opportunity arises-”

“No.” flames grow in his peripheral, and Soap lets his hands fall away, “I need to kill him, I need-”

“Revenge?”

Ghost can see how Soap’s heart stops beating. How he stills. Ghost risks a hand, bringing it up to brush Johnny’s hair, wild and unruly from the previous days’ events. “I understand. But remember your first priority, Sergeant.”

Johnny closes his eyes, pushing lightly against Ghost’s hand, “get the others out alive.”

“The others and yourself, Johnny. Graves has his sights on you.” his hand travels down to Soap’s neck, pulling him closer, “if he catches you…”

Johnny nudges his head under Ghost’s. “I’m not easy to hold, Simon. Was made to destroy.”

Simon wraps his arms around Johnny, taking deep breaths of his smell, burning fireplace and safety.

Now that they practically disobeyed their Reapers, he’s not sure anymore that his Reaper’s prophecy isn’t null and void. If Johnny is still destined to kill him first. Simon’s mind conjures a million images, scenes of Johnny laying dead, body broken beyond repair, eyes vacant staring at the sky, never to meet Simon’s again.

“I’m going to be alright. I just told you I’m too strong for anyone’s good.” Johnny tries to joke under him, sensing his sudden tension.

Simon pulls him closer yet, “you’re still mortal, last I checked.”

A huff of breath tickles his neck, where the mask rucked up in light of Johnny’s wiggling. Simon brushes another hand over dark strands, ungloved hand tingling with the sensation, and he gets the urge to bury his face in it.

Simon is used to living in regret, in ‘what would’ve’s and ‘I should’ve’.

He doesn’t want Johnny to become another memory to fuel his aches.

Simon reaches above Johnny’s head, taking hold of the skull mask. With a deep breath, he slides it off his head.

“What are ye-” Johnny looks up in confusion, before his eyes soften, creases smooth over.

Blue eyes dart over his features, mapping the newfound grounds, tilling paths in their wakes. Simon can almost feel their weight, the burn, as they follow scars to landmarks.

A hand, white flames curling around it, raises slowly to brush over his skin, hot and cold, gentle yet firm. Simon feels tears gather in his eyes, and he lets his lids shut, head bowing to rest in calloused hands.

Johnny’s breath fans over his cheek, making him shudder, “didn’t know you had face markings.”

Simon opens his eyes, brows furrowing a little, “I don’t.”

Mirthful eyes follow a track down his cheek, “ye do… right here.” a thumb brushes from Simon’s lower eyelid, to his jaw. “They’re white, reminds me of yer eyes in Limbo…”

Tear tracks.

“They’re new…” Simon relaxes a little when he understands, “when you entered Limbo, I… my tears must’ve left them.”

“Fuck…” Johnny purrs, “You’re breathtaking, Simon.” he lifts Simon’s head when he tries to back away, “beautiful. Knew yer bonnie under that mask of yers.”

“Fuck off…” he turns away.

Johnny laughs, “I’m serious. Let me look at ye, please?”

Simon glares at him before relenting, Johnny resuming his examination, eyes and hands caressing him.

“Thank ye…” Johnny breathes, “thank ye fer… fer existing. Without ye, or Gaz, or Price… I wouldn’t have so many reasons to live.”

Simon inhales shakily, Johnny whispering now, “I couldn’t imagine wanting something more than repent before I met ye.”

“And now?”

He hears the small smile in Johnny’s voice, “now I want to be with ye, fer as long as I can. Fer as long as the Reapers will let me.”

Simon covers the hand on his face with his, “we don’t need permission from them. I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.”

Johnny gives him that crooked grin Simon had come to love so much, “I’m afraid that will be quite a while, m'eudail.”

The dirt in Las Almas doesn’t smell too different from his grave’s, Ghost decides. The mask is the only thing protecting his mouth from its taste, and even that feels too thin.

There’s no place for panic on the field, no space for the soldier inside Ghost to raise his head and shout “I’m scared.”

Soap’s controlled explosions burn that smell, transform it into something more familiar.

Fuck, he could kiss Johnny’s insane exploding hands right now.

Their comms crackle to life, “Shadows didn’t notice you yet, clear to continue pushing.” Garrick’s voice barely sounds over the explosions.

“WHAT?!” Soap yells up front.

Rudy cups his hands to shout back, “keep going, hermano! We’re in the clear!”

“COPY!”

Ghost waits for Rudy, walking beside him to check the map, “how close are we to cellar level?”

Rudy taps a pen over a point, “this is our target…” the pen moves down, stopping about 2 inches away from the cellar, “and this is where we should be, according to my calculations.”

Another explosion shakes their tunnel, Soap rushing back to burn off oncoming debris from the ceiling, “we need teh move faster than this! Tunnel’s not gonna hold!”

Ghost nods, clicking his comms, “Gaz, we’re going to start running, be prepared.”

“Copy, good luck down there.”

Rudy mutters under his breath in Spanish, “may the Reapers keep us alive.”

Soap looks back, “on the count of three!” his body tenses in preparation.

Two…

One…

“NOW!” Johnny lets go of the ceiling, sprinting ahead and practically melting his way, Ghost and Rudy running right behind him as the tunnel collapses.

The three revenants continue running, Gaz informing them the Shadows have started suspecting something’s afoot, until Rudy rushes ahead to grab Soap’s shoulder and shout in his ear, “stop! Alejandro should be right here!”

His Sergeant instantly lifts his hands above him to hold the ceiling. Ghost notes they’re now surrounded by concrete rather than dry earth.

Rudy adjusts the light attached to his tac vest, trying to calculate where Alejandro is exactly.

Ghost instantly aims at the left wall when something goes through it.

Alejandro appears, Rudy and Soap gaping at him, before the Colonel grabs Rudy into a hug. The Sergeant Major returns it after a second of stunned silence, and Alejandro starts mumbling something in Spanish, before he lifts his head and notices Soap.

“You bunch of pandejos! What is he doing here?!” he points at Johnny.

Soap grunts, “can we get to the accusations later?? I’m still holding the steamin’ ceiling!”

Ghost shoves the two Vaqueros out of the way, and Soap stretches a hand to explode the wall to Alejandro’s cell. They all rush inside with Soap behind them.

“Ghost.” Alejandro nods to Soap, “you are aware Graves is after him, right?”

“Affirm. We got intel from Laswell.”

The Vaquero scoffs, “and you still brought him here?!”

Johnny walks around Ghost to confront Alejandro, “I’m here on my own volition. Unless you wanted Rudy and Ghost to walk through the front gates.” he casts a challenging stare at the man.

Rudy lifts his hands like he’s trying to calm an angry beast, “Soap knows the risks. We needed to save you. Do you know where Graves holds the rest of them?”

Alejandro’s face relaxes when he looks at Rudy, “probably on the top floor of the prison. I didn’t see anyone since we got caught.”

“Shadows are moving on your location, Bravo!” Garrick shouts through the comms, “strongly suggest you start moving, now!”

Ghost searches the cell for an exit, spotting a trap door on the high ceiling, “you’re not hiding a ladder anywhere here, do you Alejandro?”

The Colonel shakes his head as Soap follows Ghost’s gaze, noticing the door.

“I’ll get it, stand back.” Johnny’s eyes are locked on the ceiling as he positions himself under the door.

Ghost’s brow furrow, “what are you planning, Sergeant?”

Soap smirks in a way that brings only trouble, and turns on his comms, “gonna use the rocket technique.”

Ghost has to shove the bloody thing away when Gaz shrieks, “without me?! Oh, I’m gonna get you back for this, MacTavish.”

“Sorry mate, maybe next time.” Johnny snickers.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Ghost grabs the two extremely confused Vaqueros, dragging them back, Rudy muttering “rocket?” and sighs heavily, “get on with it, Sergeant.”

Soap smiles at him before looking back up, “with pleasure, LT.”

His Sergeant drops to a crouch, placing his hands on the ground, and inhales. The cell is too damn small for this “technique”, and Ghost has to cover his face with a forearm when Soap explodes up.

Ghost lets his arm fall when he hears a comically loud THUNK when Soap hits his head on the door, watching the Sergeant scramble to hold the edges. Johnny twists his body in a remarkable feat of agility, and kicks the door open before swinging out.

A moment later, a ladder drops down, Johnny popping his head out of the door, “all clear!”

When they climb up, Ghost notices blood trickling down Soap’s temple, and he calls, “Johnny, how copy? Solid?”

The Scot lets out a frankly concerning laugh, “aye, think Ah got a wee concussion, bu’ it’ll heal in no time.”

“It fucking better, Sergeant.”

Soap offers a hand and helps Ghost up, “of course, sir.” he has a dopey smile when Ghost lets go of his arm, “have I ever told you how beautiful yer eyes are, LT?”

Ghost grabs the back of his neck and shoves him forward, ignoring the giggling Vaqueros behind him.

He’s going to smack Garrick for putting this idea in Johnny’s mind next time he sees him, fucking hell…

You guys don't know how long I've been waiting to put the rocket technique in a mission

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