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at-thezenith · 1 year ago

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dissertation story !

given that this monstrosity was the reason i couldn't work on any original work basically all of last year, i figured that i might as well share part of my dissertation here! it's about a professor who has been given a research grant to write a story, but he is searching for something wholly original (i.e. actually never been done before, which as we all know is impossible). in the process he goes through literary history trying to find the last original idea, and goes...a little crazy. here's the first part! i'd love to know what people think of it :)

The well was utterly dry. Nowadays, the Professor could not stand walking by a bookshop, watching smiling drones try to sell empty books to empty heads. The displays were fly traps designed to lure in poor hapless insects starving for something that looked new.

Instead of walking amongst the drooling troglodytes, the Professor spent his time in his study. Often he would find himself lost for days in the ocean of words, leaving clothes to crisp under the iron, food to burn in the oven. Endless shelves encircled the room in a wooden ring. There was not a sum of money in the world that could part him from his beloved books. Of course, he hadn’t read them all; some were in languages even he couldn’t understand, but he was confident that no-one since the Alexandrian guardians possessed such amounts of knowledge. In his earlier teaching years the room had brought him comfort, when he would read a particularly bright student’s work and panic, eyes darting around for the information that they knew, that he had missed. But he would read the rest of their bungled papers and glance up, the millennia of knowledge smiling down on him.

His own works were not in the study. He never read the published versions, incinerating every copy sent to him. If he read them, he ran the risk of copying himself, and then where would he be?

Washed up, unoriginal. Boring.

The last novel was now ten years old. The Professor’s levity when entering his study had been replaced by a cold shiver, the windows flashing in the daylight like a taunt. The door had remained locked for the past week as he worked up the courage to smell the once-hypnotic scent of old books, run his fingers over the smooth wooden shelves. What madness had possessed him to try again?

The research grant had been too tempting to ignore. Its golden promise distracted him from the red-printed envelopes that piled up at his door. The words ‘FINAL NOTICE’ were stamped onto his retina, and only when he had cut the telephone cord in half did he stop hearing ringing at all hours of the day and night. He had thrown himself into his work, upending his study and brain for any new project, idea, thread of inspiration. He trawled through every myth, legend, epic, ballad, play, novel, poem, fairy-tale, parable, coming up blank every time. Everything he read copied something else, a formula stretched thinner than a hair. He read in French, Italian, Spanish, German, Arabic, Mandarin, Ancient Greek, Latin, even Esperanto when he got desperate. Nothing. Zilch. Zero.

For a week he wandered about his house in a fugue state, discussing his ideas with a bust of Homer as if it were a skull just to imagine another human voice. His work had once satisfied him enough, his soul a smithy, his passions the uncreated masterpieces. To let them be compared to others? Impossible.

And yet, think of the works he had already let loose in the world, directionless without their father. He had allowed opinions to taint him, let them crawl into his skull like maggots, feeding on his brain. Had they succeeded?

He thought of the novels he had written. Drama. Done to death! Crime fiction. One in a thousand million! You could swim in a sea of stoic, suited men frowning over a woman’s corpse.

When he first thought of an idea, its beginnings scratching the back of his mind, he was unsure if it was the first sign of madness or a genuine eureka. He looked back at Homer, along with his other busts of great writers. There was a reason there wasn’t a single modern author in their midst. Who now could audaciously claim that they were equal to the likes of Plato, Callimachus, even—he chuckled drily—Lucian of Samosata? Was he committing the same blasphemy?

But why then did the papers laud him so, endless letters spat through his door singing his praises. One review had called him the modern–day Bard, that didn’t come from nowhere. So maybe it wasn’t arrogant to write something original. He had received the grant money; the Committee thought he was more than capable.

The busts gleamed in the dim glow of his lamps, the only ones he allowed in his study. They were his only audience, sternly reminding him of what he had to live up to.

Well, there was no better time to start than now. Yesterday would have been better—he remembered the teetering piles of red envelopes—but today was just as good.

He wrote by hand; typewriters were slow, beastly things, and computers were not permitted in the study. Once, a colleague had tried to bring his laptop in, and it took three weeks before the Professor could enter the room again. Visitors were promptly banned. He would only write on sheafs of specially-ordered paper. This did make up a good chunk of his expenses, but he disregarded it. Mathematics did not belong in his hallowed hall.

Writing on this paper was a privilege bestowed upon one pen. Black, sleek, engraved silver tip. It had serviced the men in his family for well-nigh a century. These men had left grooves in the sides, dulling the black to soft charcoal grey. No-one had ever set the pen to a manuscript, using it for business deeds, contracts, and the like.

All of that was gone. The accounts had been picked clean: by his dead mother, by his distant siblings, and by him, financing his novels when publishers refused to accept his work. No matter: his work sold well enough to keep himself afloat, and he still had the pen: the weight of three generations in his hand, his grandfather’s initials scratched delicately into the side.

The Professor sat at his desk, pulling some paper towards him. It was mid-morning, sunlight streaming through the windows.

He put pen to paper, and started to write.

At first, the pen flowed elegantly across the paper, happily spilling its inky entrails as the Professor scribbled, stopped, crumpled, scribbled again, tore, scribbled, and eventually sat back, frowning at the midnight-blue words. There was something so…empty in the swirling letters. Saying nothing, taking up valuable space. The beginning words were not hooks but lazy hollers. What was wrong? In the past, he would scribble down prose like it would vanish from his head if he wasn’t careful. Now the words were wisps of smoke, and he was armed with just a net.

He grunted, picking up his pen. Net or not, he would get this down.

The papers began to fly over his shoulder as he scribbled and scratched out words, smudging the ink across the paper. His desk resembled a snowdrift, the flakes crinkling as he wrote. He tried aiming for his bin, but most papers were tossed without direction. One flew with such force that it hit a lampshade, spinning around and sending crazy shadows across the walls. The Professor barely paid attention, scrawling out his latest opening line.

In a hole in the ground there lived…

“Fucking Tolkien!”

He crushed the page in his fist. Around his feet were repetitions, reinventions, lesser copies of famous first lines.

Call me Samuel.

It was a queer, humid spring, when they killed—

There is a fact universally known that a single man—

Distinguished and rotund, Biff Murray came down from the landing—

It was love at first sight.

He couldn’t stand it. He was half-tempted to call up his publishers, to manually examine every single letter for piracy.

And how would he know if he had copied? He had not even read every book in his library. And all the works lost to time, what about those? He supposed only the long-dead authors would know those first lines, but it was the principle of it.

He sighed, looking around the room. The shelves regarded him pityingly but expectantly. They leaned towards him, eager. If they had mouths they would be speaking to him. Perhaps the best time to start reading all his books was now.

Reading them meant he could find something no-one else had written. Something no-one had even considered. He would work his way back through time, starting from the last great novel released, find the last original idea. None of this modern nonsense. Its rude and useless language might corrupt his thoughts.

#original fiction #dissertation #this took me SO LONG and has had SO MANY revisions #but it's over now! and it's been marked so it's not like i'm plagiarising myself lol #writing #short story #prose #my writing

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littlefreya · 4 years ago

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August’s Box of Mystery

Summary: He left you all alone in his great castle by the sea and requested that you shan't touch yourself... can you keep your loyalty?

Prompted by @gotnofucks: “How do you feel August would react to knowing his girl uses sex toys when he is away? Would he feel jealous? Angry? Turned on?More importantly, what does he do? 👀”

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader (No description of ethnicity or body type)

Words: 3k

Warning: 18+, smut + romance and fluff in the end. Female masturbation with a sex toy, voyeurism, sex-tape, cockwarming, mildly rough unprotected sex, breeding, breeding as punishment if to be exact, slight denial, MaleDom, creampie, a lot of it. Read the warnings properly, please.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, or parts it and claiming it as your own.

A/N: I am anxious about this one and hope you’ll enjoy, i’ve been rather influenced by Angela Carter writings. Many thanks to @the-soot-sprite @wondersofdreaming for feedback and @agniavateira for her review. Added notes and credits in the end!

Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

August’s Box of Mystery

Outside the bedroom window, the waves roared in a tempest's rage. Torrent after torrent, the sea unleashed brutal tentacles onto the salty iron rocks in a keen, vindictive urge to dismantle them to nought.

It was your own unruly longing that the ocean sensed: forlorn and listless, lying on your bed, the blue mist cloaking your heart.

August's sea-fort was a gilded cage. He had given you everything: diamonds brighter than the moon, sheets made of the softest golden silk, and even a ring to bind you to his unbreakable siege.

His only demand was that you will always wait for him, not only by flesh but soul as well. Despite his dark ambitions, trust and loyalty were qualities August valued beyond anything else.

But soon, you grew tired of watching the reflection of the tides refract upon the naked ceiling. A woman with fire for blood, you were forever tormented by your sultry nature and daydreams of that would make the devil blush.

Frustration gnawed at your bawls until—enough! You shot up from your bed—a storm of silky linen whirling around you like Venus emerging from spume on shore; and just as the goddess of love and beauty, you too yearned to be penetrated. Nibbling your nails, you glanced at the open door, your mind seeing beyond thick walls into his office where he kept a chest filled with illicit delights.

Every now and then—when August's muse struck—he would bring one of his toys to the bedroom, but you weren’t allowed to play on your own.

Body.

Soul.

‘Certainly, August won’t be able to tell if I would be careful?’ You hoped and followed the oceanic breeze hymning from the corridors.

Sand stuck to your bare feet, the wooden planks gently wept beneath your stride. Tipping on your toes, you snuck into his cavernous study, the key stolen from his nightstand already seized between shaky fingers. Though August was absent, your heart thrummed with ire upon setting foot onto the furry rug, as if he was to appear behind you at any given moment.

It was a room that reeked of debaucheries of all kinds: "borrowed" works of art depicting naked nymphs adorned the cherry-wood shelves, divine entities hung onto the wainscoting, and trophies he kept from his victims were encased in a fancy vitrine. Even the slate-blue view felt different from this spot; the rocky piers seemed like a pathway to a marine graveyard.

You paid no mind. You knew who you married and gained nothing but ethereal bliss whenever August fucked you against the window for the shark and whales to see.

Like a girl crawling into the rabbit’s hole, you took half a twirl. There, below the large monitor plastered to the wall, stood the locked chest. Black and gold roses ornamented its exterior and a trident crest was engraved on the lock. Only a fool would overlook such blatant temptation, and though you were no foolish girl, you were feeble at the face of seduction.

Falling to your knees, you made haste to unlock the chest, your heart drumming in your ears with the notion that you defied the words of your strenuous lover. But the same muscle that pumped you with fear, pounded wickedness into your blood.

If only you were blessed with a shred of your husband’s patience.

All the toys inside were placed in order, sanitised, and appropriately boxed in such fashion that you knew August would notice if something was misplaced. The man had the capability of finding an eyelash on the carpet. Still, unrelenting desire strung the cunning finger you ran over the loot, carefully picking one of the familiar vibrators he used on you before.

'Here?'

Standing at the centre of his tidy office you contemplated, suddenly aware of how the room leaked of his entity; scented notes of old leather binding and his woodsy cologne threatened to adhere to your skin, making this mischief taste like a crime. It was best to keep all disobedient whims in an isolated location, you assumed and allowed your eyes to further drift and glide upon the large monitor and the antique desk where August kept the remote. An abrupt wicked idea swam into your mind, reminding you of his private collection.

Catalogued alphabetically, he kept them on his streaming device.

'It should make things quick...' you convinced yourself whilst nibbling on your bottom lip. How worse could it be, anyway? You already rummaged through his chest. Taking a gander at his not-so-secret directory was puny in comparison.

With your lungs in fists, you slipped your panties to your ankles and settled on the cosy leather chair in front of his desk. Ignoring the red flag waved by your anxiety, you reached for the remote and clicked the button.

August made no effort to hide his recordings, simply naming the directory as "Films," as if it contained ordinary Hollywood blockbusters. Impatient, you scrolled down the list, trying to keep the jealousy from simmering in your bawls. August wedded you in this fort, but he never captured you on film like he did his girls. All lovers from the past, of course, but still it almost irked you; yet you brushed these concerns away and picked a file with the name you liked most and pressed “play”.

The ocean's lament was instantly swallowed by guttural howls and grunts that took every empty space within the chamber. Before your flaring eyes appeared the most forbidden of spectacles— your husband taking a different woman. It was odd to hear the familiar timbre of his groans laced with the voice of another. It was even stranger to sense the unmistakable spark of desire jittering in your cove.

Poseidon himself could not compete with the glory of the man, naked and drenched, all muscles and might. Furious, he took her on her knees, his fingers cradling her skull, pushing her head to the pillows while restraining her wrists above the small of her back. She wasn't you and still you clenched, aroused by the sight of the sweat glistening the fur of his torso and by the lack of mercy in the violent motion that ended with the dutiful grind of his sac against her swollen lips.

You hadn't even realised how shamefully you dripped upon the oxen leather of the seat, your thoughts focused on the odd mixture of envy and lust that penetrated your blood.

Desperate to unleash the monstrosity building within your core, you spread your legs over the desk and pressed the toy between your slippery petals. A shuddering whine rode your breath at the brush of the buzzing device, the pleasure so unimaginable it nearly drowned your senses. Gasping, you fought to maintain a hooded gaze upon your lover and his ‘whore,’ and imagined that the rosy silicon phallus that entered your anticipating hole was his swollen cock.

Your walls quickly clenched around the toy in true longing while the window trembled under the muffled rumbling of thunder. Perhaps your passions thickened the clouds. Or maybe it was the immoral streak of ecstasy laced by danger. Whichever it was, it urged you faster toward imminent bliss.

The other woman’s moans entwined with yours while your wayward hand mimicked the rhythm of bodies slamming together in the same frantic chaos that swept you.

Sweat-riddled, your ankles lost way across the smooth surface of the desk, leaving oily markings in a frenzy as climax drew close.

‘Almost…’

‘So close…’

‘August!’

"Enjoying yourself, my little princess?"

Lightning painted the room bright purple, announcing the thunder that tore through the ocean. It wasn’t half as frightening as the low timbre of his voice, which cruelly withheld your ecstasy. The fervour in your veins turned glacial; one moment you ascended to the heavens and the next, got rejected at its golden gates. All the while the growls of his reflection on the monitor echoed through the chamber along with the buzzing toy still buried inside you.

It granted no pleasure now, but further stretched the guilt.

Calm and forebodingly stoic, August reached a curious hand between your quaking thighs, seizing the toy and flicking the switch off. Unable to lift your gaze to meet his severe face, you struggled to swallow and kept your eyes glued to the monitor. Yet, there was no escape from his reflection—the “real�� him present in the room peered back at you through the glassy screen. Standing behind you, he etched his fingers around the headrest of the chair and tutted.

“Do you like watching me with others, sweetling? Did this video make you wet?” he asked curiously.

Before any words formed on your quivering lips, his hand fell to your mound. An intrigued “hmm,” flowed from his throat as he found you overflowing with arousal. Like a whore, you couldn’t help but squirm into his touch, your body still enraged of being denied pleasure, and so was the sky that now threatened to turn the ocean upside down.

You nearly gasped at the heavy patter of rain that began to hit the window.

“I…”

“Disobeyed me,” he completed the sentence, his voice mellow and pleasant though the caress of his breath on your face burned.

“...missed you.”

Your attempt to pacify him did not go unnoticed. Lips stretching to a slanted grin, he dared to replace the toy with two fingers that drove inside your gaping hole—sensing how you wrapped and suckled around his long digits like a carnivore plant.

“Such a sweet gesture,” he retorted, “and still, my love, my dear wife who I’ve given everything to, has defied me like a lawless brat…unable to wait for her husband to return from his very important meetings.” His dainty fingers pumped crudely deeper, not to please you but remind you who you belonged to.

Writhing in your seat, you fluttered your eyes shut. “Where were you?”

Ignoring your question, he leaned down, his lips mere inches from your ear and whispered, “I think it’s time I’ll tame my bratty woman for good, don’t you?”

You shuddered to think what punishment he had in mind, your heart sinking to a dark pit at the deadly kiss he offered next to your ear; but then, he took your wrist and in a surprising tenderness guided you from the chair to bend over the desk.

Predictably, the movie had run its course and started again from the beginning, her promiscuous moans and the pounding of their flesh stealing your attention for a split second.

Having you at a disadvantage, August drew an invisible line from your spine to the curve of your behind, his fingers mimicking lines drawn on soaked sand. “All this sea salt in the air around us and your skin is still so tender,” he murmured lovingly and secured a hand around your nape, holding your head forward.

It excited you to watch them before and now with his groin hot and hard against your bare crease you were nothing but craving his cock.

“Is this going to hurt? Will you spank me? Treat me like that whore on your film?” you asked naively, smoothing your sweaty palms across the antique wood with dark anticipation.

“No, my beautiful angel.” his belt clicked and dangled like a set of heavy keys of a warden toying with his captive, “You are not my whore, but my wife. Which is why I’m going to put my child in your reckless womb to end your wicked ways once and for all.”

A gasp of shock left your throat, dazed by his threat you turned to protest. But the air drowned in your chest and your entire body stiffened as August’s ‘leviathan’ split your succulent flesh. Vulgarly you were penetrated, his size stuffing you so deeply, you felt the aching pressure in the pit of your belly.

August stilled for a moment, lingering at the sensation of your hot cove fitting around him in both a strenuous protest and the pathetic defeat in which your body seized the beast, milking it in an attempt to rope him into your womb forever.

“Oh, my sweet wife, I will stretch your little cunt to sheath me that not even these toys will please you. You see, everything here belongs to me, even your defiant womb. And I will leave a piece in me there to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t think I am ready!” You whined, but the thought of being bred and carrying his child made your cunt unwittingly twitch. Your canal sucked him even deeper if it was even possible.

August sensed your convulsion and growled, his hips pressed unfathomably tight against your rear, making your cheeks ache from the press of his bones. It was torture with the film playing right in front of you; falling into a lucid delirium, your mind replaced her with yourself, yet your August refused to move, withholding your pleasure, owning it, owning you.

His cock anchored hot and thick inside you, its throb as powerful as the thunder hammering the ocean.

You wanted to cry.

“August, please! I need you! I missed you!”

With a harsh pull, he drew back and bludgeoned your crease, his might so vulgar the tip of your toes levitated from the ground. Again, and then again… he grunted at the choke of your flesh around him. Paying you no courtesy, he shook and pounded you almost terrifyingly as meticulously as he did this woman.

His fingers burnt around your waist, so harshly you thought you’d never be able to sense anything but his grip under your skin.

“Oh!” fat tears rolled down your cheeks, your breath a wheeze. Piteously you crumbled onto the desk. Thunders, cries, sounds of rutting flesh, and grunts surrounded you in this cavern of sin; you didn’t know which were yours and which were from the recording. All you knew was that he never took you so zealously before, you were at the brink of either rapture or falling to the abyss.

“You’re too deep! Too rough!” you wailed, unable to adjust to his pace but truthfully you didn’t want him to slow down. Currents of bliss submerged your loins the rougher he fucked you. The hot tingle in your core stormed with every collision of his cock with your cervix.

August reached from your neck to your jaw then and held your face to the screen.

“You wanted to watch her while touching yourself. Do you want to be her?” he growled and increased the pace, splitting through your body the way Dagon ripped open the waves.

Even if you had words, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

“You can never be her my darling,” August said and removed his hand from your hip. There was a quick drag of his drawer behind you and a rummaging sound. “Here, I’ll make us a short film; memorise this moment when you conceive me an heir.”

Struck by his words, you turned to stare. The sight of him behind you, inside you, was far more worthy than any film: sweat trickled down his messy curls and arduously strained face, his cerulean shirt damp and his mouth open as his fingers clutched the camera that was directed to the point where you were joint.

Unrelenting, your orgasm flooded through every muscle like a wave of destruction that wrecked every organ within you until you felt nothing but bliss. You felt August’s heart beating in yours.

There it was. Euphoria.

You drowned in it. The maelstrom inside you swallowed and sank his ship as well. With a loud shout of surprise, he broke apart and erupted inside you, his creamy gift ploughing your womb until it overflowed and dripped down your quaking thighs.

The rumbling from outside eased now, the clouded sky groaned with a release, their tears melding into the ocean never to be seen again.

August remained inside you, his breath thick, his hips gingerly grinding into yours to make sure his seed will take.

“There you go, my special girl.” his voice came huskily. “Now you will never be alone, unlike these women I can’t even remember.”

Your hand instinctively snapped to your lower belly, soothingly caressing it in a reverie. You felt battered, full, and disgustingly and arousingly dirty as he swam inside you.

Yet the thought that he impregnated you made your heart flutter.

Was there a more eternal symbolism of love than a legacy?

“August…” you whispered. Beneath you, the desk slightly shook, little tremors vibrated against the delicate pads of your fingers. Turning your head back, you offered him an enamoured glance and reached a hand in plea to lace fingers with his.

His storm-kissed eyes softened and he broke into a sigh at the sight of his wife at her best submissive behaviour. The greatest of all delights was to refine a crude rock into a fine delicate diamond. Proudly, he took your hand in his, entangling your fingers together, yet he kept the video-camera aimed at your joint bodies.

“Don’t move,” he breathed behind you and carefully pulled out his shaft from your flooded hole. A velvety chuckle played on his tongue, impressed by the wet plop and thickness of the cream that leaked off your entrance. Your cheeks burnt as you realised what he has done; your lips parted open to complain but then, with his cock already fully rigid and thick, he plugged you once more, shoving his seed back inside you.

“What are you doing?”

“Waste not, my angel,” he tutted and remained still, brushing his knuckles up and down the curve of your rump.

“Oh, how long?” you whined, uncertain if you are capable of staying this way with him throbbing between your taut walls.

“Until the sky clear up?...” he suggested, voice haunted by lingering satisfaction.

The waves of your previous orgasm were yet to ebb, and now stronger tides began to emerge. Frustration grew within once again and sadly, August’s will had the mettle of an anchor.

“At least tell me where you were!” you yelped.

August scoffed, and wrapped his hands around your waist, only slightly guiding you back into his hips. “No, no, my love. Every marriage needs a little bit of mystery, as you’ve already learned. But now do me a favour,” he uttered and placed the remote next to your hand.

“Play us another one? We might be here a while.”

Credits: Dividers by @firefly-graphics. Themes Inspired by Angela Carter’s Bloody Chamber. Leviathan inspired by @sillyrabbit81!!

Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or Mission Impossible.

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker x reader #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill x reader

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undergrounddweller89 · 4 years ago

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Pen pals

Killian's in prison, one that belongs to the agency but it's more of a place to help people reform, but that's not the main part of the story , this is just Killian going though the moments he and Walter interacted , thinking about what he'd like to do with him and gets a surprise request later that day.

This is a one shot, so if you want to know what happens next well that's up to your imagination to decide <3

Killian likes to think of Walter...alot.

and I'm just hoping you enjoy this.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Everything followed order, up by seven, breakfast by eight, therapy by ten, lunch by one so on, so forth…

Killian was tired though, he was plagued by nightmares of the past, thankfully not every night, there was respite on the nights he dreamed of one Walter Beckett, his therapist had called these dreams and his emotions a form of rescue romance.

It was yes a reasonable conclusion but at the same time, he was willing to indulge his fantasies for the peace they brought him.

To have been faced with someone so kind, someone willing to save him, he found he could not turn away from the idea of that light after so many years in darkness.

He had to be strapped down when he slept, with the screaming and thrashing they’d said it was for his own good, after the first few times he’d hurt himself and other staff members.

Killian could tell, none of them wanted to admit it, he made them uneasy, he’d nearly destroyed their way of life, he would have succeeded if not for one man he’d greatly underestimated.

Kindness, a better way?

These ideals, ideas had once been a joke to him and yet they were exactly what brought him down and the reason he was alive.

Yes a better way.

Leaning on the cafeteria table, elbow on the surface, chin in palm as he played with the plastic fork, how easily he could crush it between his fingers, turn it into tooth picks between steel claw tips.

It was thanks to Walter Beckett he was here; thanks to him he still had his robotic arm with controlled strength so he couldn’t crush anyone’s skull with it…sadly.

They couldn’t exactly rip out his eye… but then again considering the history of the agency, Killian would not have put it past them, all they would have to do was put him under and have it removed and if they felt kind enough replace it with something plain.

Yes he’d heard about it, agents had even mocked him saying he had a fan in that little nerd, they called Beckett a weirdo for standing up for him, his devices had been disabled so they only functioned as eye and arm, again, that was because of Beckett.

A fascinating creature, unusual…what would it be like if he could sit down and talk with him, properly.

Man to man.

He took a bite of the mashed potatoes on his tray, lip curling, bland as anything.

Oh one more thing Walter had written and appealed to let him have his face mask, his argument had been closer to the truth than he cared to admit.

He did hate seeing it, that ugly reminder of what Lance had done to him, on bad days he couldn’t bare to look at it, the scars felt fresh as the memories would come crashing back…it wasn’t always like that but to have to see them constantly may have caused a genuine decline in his mentality.

Killian did miss having decent hair product and his own hair brush, of course, something he wasn’t allowed, you could easily shove the handle down someone’s throat, gouge an eye out, find a way to whittle the handle and make your own shiv.

You know just the small personal things.

Killian stared at the food; of course it was hard adjusting to what limitations he had but did the food have to be so plain.

Would it kill for a little seasoning, though Killian was sure if he filed a complaint it’d be put through the shredder, it wasn’t as if he was a favoured prisoner after all, his crimes he was sure made the guards act less than favourable, oh nothing that would get them in trouble, just looks, only going to points A and B, no conversation unless it was to get answers or be given orders.

He was grateful to be alive all the same, it meant he could still enjoy the ocean view, to see such vast waters that could lap gently one moment into great thundering storms...some people did not know just how privileged they were to see such things, he’d grown up in a land locked country with next to no time to travel, spending time with those he’d cared about and lost.

Poking at the tasteless food with a sigh, he thought of Beckett’s eyes, some type of god had poured the ocean into them...replaying visuals like a little black box, ones he could only see, he’d often look at Walter and how the light caught them, they were beautiful...his hair fire and copper, pale skin dusted lightly with freckles he wondered if they were also on his shoulders or the back of his neck, the idea of pressing his lips there tenderly was certainly a warming fantasy.

Killian smiled just a little, a fond one, you might just think he was planning revenge and enjoyed the thoughts, he knew others assumed all he was doing was cursing him, thinking up violent ways to tear him apart.

No, he was doing anything but that.

Killian’s days here had been spent reminiscing, going over each moment, ohhh having bionics that could record and store whatever he wanted was truly a wonderful thing.

Of course there was that first moment, where he’d stepped on him, being able to go back over the moments, he could think about how the dirt on his face made his eyes all the bluer, how brave he’d been, to face him, he’d only mildly fascinated him when he’d flipped him over onto his back with his foot, moving his shoe from his pretty face down to his chest.

A fleeting thought of what was someone like him do running around trying to stop him, he should be in someone’s bed surely...perhaps his had it been another time another place.

Walter had been surprisingly calm, but still trying to tell him there was a better way but the moment he’d heard Lance’s name, such pleas were falling on deaf ears, at that moment Killian would do anything, anything to hurt Sterling and a pair of pretty ocean eyes were not going to deter him from his mission.

So simple and yet genius to have escaped using a handful of breadcrumbs, the agency would have sooner murdered him, heh darling sweet Beckett perhaps a little too innocent for this world despite his age, no doubt reality had at least begun to set in even just a little ehhh probably.

Reaching for the salt and pepper in an attempt to bring some flavour to this god awful meal, brow furrowed in thought, recalling the battle, when he’d almost shot Walter when the M9 drones gun had been knocked from his hand, the laser fire just missing him and knocking down the wooden planks hiding his location at the time.

Until that point he’d believed he was dead...because he believed he had killed him in that moment when he’d sent the M9 drones to blow up his submarine, just to get back at Sterling ...well at least he’d tried to make that death quick, he could have taken him in and tortured Beckett right there in front of Lance.

There had been a moment of satisfaction in Lance’s pain, but it was fleeting, after he’d left Sterling to mourn he himself had needed some privacy a stiff drink...a moment to mourn the young life, the ocean had reclaimed that strange creature once more.

Killing was easy, but...that one, Beckett, hadn’t even screamed, kicked, cursed, scratched at him, didn’t even try to dig his fingers into flesh as he was pinned down, he continued to tell him there was a better way right up until the moment where he’d nearly mangled his face, anything he could do to hurt the agent who’d ruined him, he’d been willing to do.

Yes, when he’d seen Walter was alive there was a sense of relief and guilt lifted for that death...after Sterling through the effects of the truth serum exposed Walters plan, he’d briefly thought about incapacitating Walter, but no, he had a chance to let him live this time, instead he’d called a drone to run, Beckett was not a part of his vendetta, something about him was different than the others and despite his rage and pain when he looked at Walter he saw innocence, something similar to how he’d once been before Kyrgyzstan and the events that’d occurred there.

Killian felt a twist in his stomach at the thought of someone killing Walter, guilt at his own attempted, scrubbing a hand down his face; unable to eat he pushed his tray away.

Hearing the guard clear their throat and glance at the tray, Killian rolled his eyes, picking it up he disposed of its contents, he’d lost his appetite anyway and decided he’d feel more at peace in the recreational green house and headed off there.

They’d been given a choice of small jobs here and he’d chosen to work on the maintenance of plants, after all if he ever managed to leave this dammed place, a pleasant little flower store on the corner of Beckett’s Street might be a rather good way to live out his days even to just make sure he was safe.

But there was another reason he’d chosen the greenhouse besides that, entering through the steel and glass door, outside of the windows framed iron, with wooden paneling and seating beside them, you could see you were high up, oh but that view, the ocean vast and wide as if it never ended, all manner of colours during the summer days from blues to emeralds scattered in gold, grey and destructive during storms and rain would hit like mini stones over the glass...beautiful.

He touched over the soft velvet petals of white roses and irises, they were his favourites, stars in the night or perhaps as he looked them over, there was another reason he favoured the contrast, light and darkness could not truly co exist without the other, you could not appreciate much unless you had the opposite to see the difference.

Pulling on a glove for his human hand, he took up the pruning sheers on the table where the tools were set, if he so much as tried to leave the room with these an alarm would go off, they were all tagged and would cause problems for anyone trying to smuggle them out of their correct location.

Tending to the plants, making precise slow cuts, searching for any little weed, the soil was rich and soft, rolling small pieces between gloved finger tips, there was a peace to be found in tending to such beautiful fragile things...he’d tend to Walter if he could.

It had all meant to end in bloodshed.

He thought to himself.

Justice for what happened to the people who’d been innocent, the ones who’d sooner have died themselves than spilt a single drop of blood purposefully.

Killian honestly didn’t give a shit about any of the people he was surrounded by now, he had no ties no reason to, the spies the people of the agency, oh he still hated them, he would gladly see them die and-

He stilled a rose head falling against the dark earth...his bionic eye went from red to blue again, staring down at the flower, a wasted life that had done nothing but simply exist...

Placing the shears down, clearly it wasn’t a good idea for him to he holding sharp instruments right now, instead he picked up the white flower and cupped it in his palm, long metal fingers gently prying off each petal and placing them on the dirt one by one...looking up he knew exactly why white roses....

Beckett’s pale skin and the ocean waves that paled in comparison of his eyes...why did Walter of all beings bring him the same peace of a sunset shore highlighted in warm tones fading into the calming tones of dusty pink as the night sky began to settle in.

Hands empty now he stepped closer to the window, looking up out into the spread of clouds highlighted in the afternoon sun, only now beginning to show signs of the evening.

Killian had depended on that one moment when he’d brought Walter face to face to him, he could have head butted him, he knew exactly how to do that and carried him off, dropped him even, but that moment of fear that showed in his eyes, his first thought was perhaps he could reason with him.

“If you shut them down now you’ll kill us both.”

That look as Walter had turned his head to see just how high they were, he could have used the drone right there at his disposal to shoot him, destroy the device on his wrist, something anything, but the idea of seeing the light gone from those eyes, empty and cold...no he’d had to hope he could change his mind...but then again negotiations had never been his strong point.

“And you’re no killer.”

That was it.

That was all he could think off to say to him!

He could have said

‘I’ll stop the attack if you come with me, I’ll leave, drop this mission if you come with me! ‘

Instead he’d just assumed that Walter wouldn’t dare cause them both to die, with his talk of doing things differently...that moment when he’d said

“No I’m a hugger.”

It had baffled Killian entirely and then...that device separated them, Mcford had tried to reach out, he couldn’t believe it, despite their difference, his naive view on the world, Walter chose to save him.

Seeing him fall, time itself had slowed, he knew what was going to happen to Walter, his despairing gaze only turning when the drone had been deactivated and realized he too was heading back to earth.

Now the question was...would Walter have done the same...if he’d not had the inflatable hug? Indeed that was something to ponder on.

Something told him though his choice would have been the same...but at the price of both their lives, he could settle for losing his own but it grated him, the idea of such wonderful potential almost lost because of his own rage, the idea of Walter being...

Killian glanced over at the scattered white petals...yes just like that.

It was strange...

Killian sat on the window seat, the cushions were thin and in need of a change for new ones, however this was a prison not a five star resort, shoulder pressed to the glass and looking down where the docks were, empty at present, no new arrivals, visitors usually came by helicopter.

How peculiar that a man he barely knew had wormed his way under his skin, into his heart, was it infatuation?

Scratching at his cheek lightly, disrupting his hologram, metal softly grinding on metal.

The thought of Walter being dead, cold, buried in darkness unsettled him, something more like a glass coffin would be more suitable, he should be displayed like a pretty china doll, yes the idea of him being dead that alone could smother out the sun itself.

Killian would never forget that moment he was sitting inside that inflatable ball, defeated, arm inactive, at first stewing in his defeat, the fact that glitter and bubbles had practically put an end to his plans to get the justice he’d for the last ten years had been seeking, that irritating squeak as the waves caused it to gently bounce against the rocks, he remembered feeling exhausted, knowing it had all come to an end and not the one he’d wanted, how his victory had been stolen, he was supposed to die getting that revenge , end all that anger, to have his pain silenced.

Oh it still hurt to think back on the past but as he heard Eye’s voice, that amazement and awe.

“He saved him.”

It soothed something in him, his rage dissipating as he placed a hand on the interior of his plastic prison and asked, even though he knew it was impossible his first response, his first question had been a small yet hopeful thing

“Is he alive?”

Killian had expected the worst but to hear he’d survived, he didn’t care how, Walter was alive and that was all that mattered, his choked sob of relief had left the onlookers baffled but he didn’t care, their opinions didn’t matter to him just Walters.

In a world where violence was met with more violence, death, endless and continuous…his angel had taken the hands that had intended harm and smiled, offering his life for his, not literally of course but the metaphorical substance was there, Beckett could have saved himself and the agency, but those eyes looked up at him and without a word said

'You are worth saving.'

How could he ever thank Walter for that chance to live and start over, Killian didn’t think he could ever repay the mercy he’d been given.

No one had ever done something so selfless, at least not for him, the best he could do was to try to think more like him, even if to show he valued Walters ideals and respected him, he’d been reminded that violence was not the only solution, but learning to forgive, to try and move on was a start, it would be a long and arduous that much was clear, especially with Lance in the mix, that definitely soured things but maybe there was more to Kyrgyzstan, metal claws flexed instinctively, he’d locked in one thought , a play over again and again of what happened until he was no longer a man but a monster, now that life had been breathed into him…what did that make him now?

Sighing, Killian rested his forehead on the window, everything was so complicated now, if he could time jump, reverse it, he’d slip back into that moment when he and Walter where being carried away, he would make a bargain, a trade of shutting down all of the M9 assassins from their course, all but the one that held them above the surface of the world in their own private little paradise, all Walter would have to do was agree to come with him, be with him forever and ever, after all that wasn’t really so long at all was it, not if it was happy and full of wonder.

A small smirk formed on Killian’s lips, knowing already what the answer would be, after all Beckett was so eager to save people wasn’t he, but he, Killian would actually show his genuine appreciation for it, he wondered what his darling sparrow was up to now, had the agency thrown him in a corner, commemorated him for his astounding work, one could never be quite sure especially with how they continued to allow Lance to carry on after what happened in Kyrgyzstan.

Killian had, had his little daydreams though, like waking up and finding him sleeping on his chest as the morning sun caressed over them, exposing those subtle freckles that dusted over Walter’s cheeks highlighting auburn hair, which would be a mess after a night of love making, fingers stroking through it and down his spine, Killian couldn’t help but wonder if Walter’s skin was soft.

Thinking of his own scars, Tristian was also curious to know if Beckett had any of his own from science projects gone wrong, in places he’d never see but long to kiss if only to show him he found each and every part of his body beautiful.

He wanted to know how he looked when laughing, the sound of his laughter, to see how his look of want would be beneath or above him, back arching and flushed.

How sweet would he sound at tender kisses to his neck, being held and softly whimpering, maybe the fantasy was better than the reality, but with his current situation he would never have the chance to find out and well…it was highly unlikely that Walter would ever see him in such a way right?

Killain smiled at the thought of getting to talk to him in a situation as simple as having a coffee at some quiet little corner shop, asking about his day, even if there was no chance for romance…the man who’d helped Sterling still had to be interesting to say the least.

Someone who could hack into his bionic arm had to be highly intelligent, no one else had even thought of it…himself included, obviously or he would have put in more precautions to make sure that couldn’t happen, Killian knew he was lucky in that circumstance that Walter was kind that he believed in a better way or he could have very well turned his own robotic arm against himself, what an irony that would have been.

He flexed his metal claws, of course it had the right firewalls and software now after Walter put in the safety measures himself.

Looking up as the greenhouse door was opened, was it another inmate? As much as he wished the place was just his he was not the only one who enjoyed a little therapeutic time with the plants, it turned out to be a guard holding an envelope, looking less than pleased.

Sitting up Killian eyed the paper with suspicion, usually guards didn’t hand deliver letters unless it was from someone higher up, had something been overturned, given the death sentence behind Beckett’s back…no if that was the case no doubt the guard would be looking pleased with themselves, either way it’d been opened and the vetting team hadn’t even tried to hide it…maybe it was the guards and they had come to tell him something, after all who was even left to send him mail, who’d want to.

“Seems that weirdo, wants to write to you.”

The guard laughed extending their arm as they handed Killian the letter.

Frowning at them, he purposely took it with his claws, finding satisfaction at how they flinched when they snapped sharply together.

“I think you’ll find that weirdo has more intelligence in his little finger than you do your whole body…are you jealous that he’s not writing you, after all I hear you constantly bragging that you think if some nobody can become boss of his own division why can’t you, he’s not a no body unlike you he’s a genius you troglodyte.”

Smirking as their expression soured, the guards fingers flexed, they were someone who thought themselves above the rules but Killian unsettled them enough that they didn’t mess with him, it wasn’t worth the fear of looking over their shoulder and with Killian's model behavior since arrival they wouldn’t be able to say that it was in Mcford’s character, it would look alike they’d provoked him…of course there were also cameras in the corners of the green house to.

“Whatever.”

They grumbled and left.

Killian pulled off the gardening glove he’d been wearing and set it down before pulling the paper from the torn envelope , Walter’s stationary had pigeons on it at first he wondered if it was some in joke about their first meeting in Venice, though as he read through the five pages the young man had sent him he understood and somehow Beckett was now ten times more endearing to him, it was easy to imagine him being excitable as he told him about his day of course keeping out top secret information he wouldn’t be privy to but still.

The numerous facts on pigeons, talking about the little things that went on through the day, asking if he was alright, hoping he was being treated well, that one day he’d like to come visit him.

Beckett couldn’t be real, no one was this nice and genuine, he had to be in a hospital bed in Kyrgyzstan in a coma and dealing with death and Walter was just waiting for him in a heaven he was welcomed in, that had to be it.

The hand writing a mix between messy and curly, written in Walter’s own hand, it made it all the more personal than some printed out thing that was signed at the bottom, finger tips tracing over the paper, this was something Walter had touched, it was for him.

These words were written for him, even if the security had checked it over, it made it no less important or special to him.

He would of course have to write Beckett back, it would be a terrible thing to leave him hanging like that.

Reaching the final words on the last page he stilled and had to read it again…and then again…and again to process what he’d been asked by the younger man.

Pen Pals?

He wanted to be

Pen Pals?

Well now wasn’t that interesting.

‘Would you like to be Pen pals and see what the future can bring?

Sincerest wishes for your better future

Walter Beckett

P.s

I sent a picture of myself if you want to throw darts at it in case you hate me, but if not use it as a book mark or something.’

Killian looked at the picture he realized was still in the envelope which surprised him, his heart nearly exploded from how adorable he looked, smiling at the camera with a white and brown pigeon nesting in his hair, oh that must be the Lovey he’d mentioned in the letter, how cute, he smiled fondly, well he’d be doing more than just using it as a book mark, it’d help him get through lonely nights to, not that Walter needed to know that.

The gesture was wonderful, if he could hold him he would have, resting his back against the window he held the letter and picture to his chest, the giddiness that swelled inside him was like being in love for the first time all over again.

In a soft tone he whispered a thank you, eye closing as the other went dim.

Could they be pen pals?

Of course the answer was yes.

He’d love to.

#Walter x Killian #Killian x walter #lime #killian has suggestive thoughts #it's really just a long thought process #spies in disguise

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chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

Text

pirate king (29) || atz

“What?”

Time seems to slow, you can hear the blood rushing in your ears as your heart pounds frantically, utterly confused. What did he mean by he didn’t lie? Seonghwa’s whole family got hanged on false charges, and he had the gall to deny the truth?

Lucio Bartholomew’s smile is sad as he answers Seonghwa.

“Your parents were not hung on false charges, Hwaseong.”

If you were shocked, Seonghwa is utterly destroyed. You can see his pupils dilating in shock, almost swallowing the soft grey of his irises. Stumbling backwards until Wooyoung catches him by the arm, he stares at the official, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“You’re lying. They were the kindest people I’d ever known, the only blade my father had held his whole life was a kitchen knife. Don’t lie to me.”

Trembling, Seonghwa shakes his head desperately and buries his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder, as if doing that will change the truth. But Lucio Bartholomew does not lie. You can feel the genuine honesty in every word he says down to your very bones, and maybe that is what scares you the most.

“When I visited your parents in the eatery, I had an ulterior motive, you know?” Lucio says softly, staring at Seonghwa. The cook refuses to look at him, one of Wooyoung’s arms coming up to wrap around Seonghwa protectively as he glares down the official with venomous eyes that you hope are never aimed at you. “I had found out some information about them, so I went to investigate that. Did you know, Seonghwa?”

“Know what?” Seonghwa snaps, still unable to completely believe that Lucio Bartholomew is lying. The official looks at him seriously.

“Your parents were pirates, Seonghwa.”

The words have the impact of a punch, every wisp of air knocked from his lungs as the statement bounces around in his skull. They seem to have taken Seonghwa’s ability to speak as well, because he simply stares at the man in utter disbelief and shock.

“What?” The words slip past your lips. Lucio smiles at you, a little sadly. He holds a book in front of you, pages slightly yellowed with age. It’s a book of records, you realise, as you lean in to make out the writing on the paper.

Park Seonho and Eun Jung, pirates, to be hanged for theft, instances of piracy and betrayal of the Crown. Wanted for the murder of 57 people, the prominent of which was Levi Bastiville, former Commander of the Royal Navy Red Rose Fleet and his wife, which left their only son an orphan.

Seonghwa’s parents were pirates.

Pirates, who the Royal Navy had every right to execute.

Pirates charged with the murder of a married couple.

Pirates who had caused a young boy to grow up completely alone, devoid of any paternal love.

“You met him, didn’t you?” Lucio sighs, almost wistfully as he turns to Seonghwa. There’s something mournful in his eyes as he sets the book down. “He was the one who almost arrested all of you.”

Levi Bastiville’s son.

Leon Bastiville.

A shiver runs up your spine at the thought of the man, goosebumps racing over your skin as you felt the gun at your head once more, the way his fingers dug at your throat, the sheer lunacy in his eyes, the sadistic smile on his face as your captain had been whipped half to death in front of him.

And yet, Seonghwa could understand him now.

“He was left alone, completely without extended family. The orphanage took him in, but the other children bullied him for having come from a rich family.” Lucio tells you quietly, and you can see Wooyoung’s knuckles turn white. “He didn’t have the same sort of support and family you did on board the Treasure and he grew up twisted and sadistic, into the man you saw that day.”

A sob leaves Seonghwa’s throat.

“In fact,” The man continues softly, shaking his head dryly, “he was a boy much like you before the fateful day of the hanging.”

Seonghwa’s parents had destroyed lives, much like Lucio had destroyed Seonghwa’s.

And that itself is like a knife to Seonghwa’s throat.

“I was initially going to ask your parents to sell us information about other privateers as well as to check whether they might still pose a threat to Nassau.” Lucio continues, his words firm and unyielding. “I didn’t even think about hanging them for a life of crime they had so obviously left behind. But Leon found out, you see. He ran and told the town officials, and in the end your whole family was put to death.”

“It wasn’t you?” Seonghwa manages to ask between restrained sobs, Wooyoung patting him on the back gently. Lucio shakes his head honestly.

“I was merely the head of investigation.” He answers in return to Seonghwa’s question, and in that moment Seonghwa shatters into pieces.

“No…”

He’s been living a lie this whole time.

“According to the reports of Sir Lucio Bartholomew, the head of the piracy investigation, I find the Park family guilty of consorting with pirates and ****…”

Seonghwa remembers now.

The memory comes back, as if resurfacing from the bottom of the ocean where it’s lingered the last six years. It returns, clear and unblemished by time, no longer hidden behind his own biases and beliefs.

“...Guilty of consorting with pirates and p*r*cy-”

He had heard it that day.

“...Guilty of p*ra*y…”

He had chosen to forget that one memory.

“...Piracy.”

He had lied to himself.

“So, Park Seonghwa, are you still going to kill me?”

The gun falls from Seonghwa’s fingers and clatters to the ground. Seonghwa lets out a wail so painful it sends chills down your spine, as if there is someone physically torturing him from within.

“Seonghwa-hyung-” You begin to say, but Lucio begins to speak once more.

“I could give you the name and identity of the man did kill your parents and siblings.” Lucio says softly, his eyes resting on Seonghwa’s shaking form with sympathy. “But your parents did kill his wife, who was pregnant with their unborn child.”

Horror wells up in your chest and Seonghwa lets out a muffled scream into Wooyoung’s sleeve.

“I only imagine that he wanted them to feel the same pain he did.” Lucio continues, as if unaware of the agony ripping Seonghwa apart. “I’m not saying that he was right in what he did, but anyone would have understood why. He’s lived with the guilt for the last six years of his life as well. He still hears their voices in his head and hasn’t had a night of sleep since that day.”

You don’t know what is happening anymore. You can only watch as Seonghwa crumbles before you, Wooyoung holding onto him desperately like his only lifeline to reality. But you can see the fog in Seonghwa’s mind clearing slowly as he learns to accept the truth.

“I hate you.” Seonghwa manages to choke out finally, but there’s mixed feelings in his own voice. “I hate you for telling me the truth. But thank you.”

Lucio smiles gently, and to your surprise, Seonghwa doesn’t shy away from it this time. “I’m glad you escaped his wrath. What I can do to make amends is tell you where your family are buried.”

Seonghwa’s eyes go wide. Prisoners who have been hanged are usually just tossed into pits in the ground, not given the luxury of a proper burial.

“Thank you.” Is all Seonghwa manages to say, furiously wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Hate, Seonghwa, is the path of the devil. It is tempting, and it will attempt to entice you with all sorts of logical explanations and compelling reasons, ones that boost your ego and raises false heroes.” The official’s eyes are a little wistful as he and Seonghwa meet each other’s gaze evenly for the first time that night. “I wish I had known that before. That there is no prize worth the corruption of your soul. There is no relief in revenge, only more pain and destruction.”

“I understand.”

And he really does, because as much as he wants to hate the man who killed his family, he can’t bring himself to. His parents’ guilt and responsibility weigh themselves on his shoulders, just as much as the hatred towards the man who had murdered his parents had once been.

“So what are you going to do now, hyung?” Wooyoung asks Seonghwa, helping him wipe the tears from his eyes as he shoots Lucio Bartholomew a look. Even after finding out that Bartholomew isn’t the one directly responsible for the deaths of Seonghwa’s parents, he still looks like he wants to blow the man up anyway for giving his crewmate so much grief.

“I don’t know.” Seonghwa exhales, turning to look at you and Wooyoung. He looks a little lost, a little confused, like a man who’s reached the end of a road and doesn’t know where to go next. “Maybe go to my family’s grave and pay my respects.”

He glances back at the Lucio, who nods. “They’re buried by the sea, at the little fishing spot you and your family used to go to.”

“Thank you.” This time, his words are full of surety. And for the first time since he’s stepped into the room, his shoulders sag in relief, as if a massive weight has been lifted from him.

Wooyoung holds him by the shoulders, steering him out of the room gently.

You linger for a moment more, your eyes searching the room for a glimpse of the book that had started it all. But it’s not there.

“Are you still looking for something?” Lucio asks, and you whip around in surprise to see the official still standing there, a distantly sad look of regret on his face as he stares out of the door. Even though he was the one who’d turned Seonghwa’s life upside down, you can’t help but ask.

“Is there something wrong?”

The man snaps out of his little reverie, shaking his head.

“Oh, no… I just wish I could have had more courage.”

Courage?

“I wish I could have told that boy the truth.” Lucio Bartholomew looks at the doorway, but there’s something like wistfulness in his eyes. You frown at his words. What did he mean by the truth? Didn’t he tell Seonghwa the whole truth already?

“You should go too.” He gestures to the door, but you can’t help staring at him even as you leave.

Then as you shut the door behind you, you hear him speak once more, this time seemingly speaking to the empty room.

“Marie, my love, Janice, my sweet child…” Lucio Bartholomew murmurs softly, lost in a world that you can’t seem to see. “Please watch over that boy from heaven to atone for my sins.”

The door clicks shut.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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secret-time-is-here · 3 years ago

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Aftermare week 2021

Day 2 - Unforgettable

Day 1 - Day 2 - Day 3 - Day 4 - Day 5 - Day 6 - Day 7

It felt as if years had passed, looking for the odd skeleton that had wriggled his memory into one of his many souls. The one who had no idea of the crimes he committed, the terror’s he has inspired, of the current lakes of blood and dust on his hands-and surely, one day, the oceans of all those he’s killed and harmed.

He was only able to find the answers he needed by stumbling across other travelers of the multiverse, the few that didn’t hate or fear him that is-that and Ink. The soulless idiot was the only one that didn’t seem to care about all he’s done-or even his atrocious looks, despite knowing well of his usual past times.

“Hey, as long as ya aren’t destroying the AUs, I could really care less, bud.” The God had said once, “Do you see me stopping every human that does a genocide?”

“Genocide?”

“...Yeah genocide timelines. I thought you were a multiverse traveler- come on that’s the basics of timelines, nearly every AU has a genocide timeline.”

“...Including the original?”

“Yeah, there are hardly any nowadays… Error doesn’t like 'em for some reason.” Ink shrugged

“I offer my gratitude for the… highly useful information, Ink.” Nightmare’s smirk twisted, and Ink matched it with his own fanged, blank smile, “I look forward to future trades with you, but for now, I have someone I need to catch.”

Regretfully, it took far too long to find the right Genocide, since Ink had failed to mention that “hardly any” still reached the hundreds in numbers. Not to mention Error interrupting before he could even speak to whatever Genocide he had found-and just in case it was the right one, he would have to spend ages fighting the insane monster.

With a great sigh, he mentally tallied another day and went to the final timeline for today.

“Hey, ya bastard! Took ya fuckin’ long enough!” Genocide hollered.

“You really had to leave yourself so vague?”

“Just given’ ya a run for ya money.” Geno’s smile widened cheekily, “Curious if ya could figure it out with askin’ for help.”

“I’m here now you bumbling asinine bastard.” Nightmare spat out, letting the tendrils that came with his highly transformed state form a chair for him to sit on. Sitting regally before Geno. “You are an odd one...”

Geno merely smirked.

“Says the brunt octopus.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Nightmare cringed, “You are indisputably liquifying like a candle, not to mention you look like rejected permanent candy that forgot most of its stripes.” Geno burst out laughing, “What are you laughing about? It was hardly a joke, the fact is you look like-”

“Pftt… haha… I know… I know.” Geno wiped away a tear from his only socket, “Stars… that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard...”

“Again, I beg your pardon?”

“Just the way ya speak, what, do ya got a thesaurus in ya fuckin’ skull?” Nightmare merely scoffed.

“You are intolerable.”

“Don’t forget unforgettable.” The other smiled knowingly.

All characters belong to their respective creators

Aftermare week was started by @bluepalleteuniverse

#Undertale #UTMV #utmv #aftermare week 2021 #Day 2 #Aftermare week day 2 #Nightmare sans #Nightmare #Ink sans #Ink #Error sans #Error #Geno sans #Geno #my works #my wrting

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ok-ak · 3 years ago

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✨ Tag 9 people to learn more about their interests!

i was tagged by the other half of tumblr’s fav otp: @holyshit 💐💐

MUSIC

fav genre? r&b, indie, signersongwriterthiswillmakeyoucry songs

fav artist? i simply cannot pick one only. frank ocean, bon iver, ben howard, james blake, NAO, corinne bailey rae, lianne la havas, taylor swift, harry, louis

fav song? promise-ben howard

most listened song recently? tisbury lane-mae

song currently stuck in your head? nothing head empty no thots

5 fav lyrics?

only 5?! impossibly but here are 5 i love:

“and i’m seeing you see everyone but me”

“what would you do if i broke free and left us in ruins, took this dagger in me and removed it, gain the weight of you then lose it, believe me i could do it”

“Comfort came against my will every story must grow old. Still, I'll be a traveller a gypsy's reins to face. But the road is wearier with that fool found in your place. No man is an island, of this I know. But can't you see- or maybe you were the ocean when I was just a stone”

“I'm sure we're taller in another dimension. You say we're small and not worth the mention. You're tired of movin', your body's achin' We could vacay, there's places to go. Clearly this isn't all that there is. Can't take what's been given. But we're so okay here, we're doing fine. Primal and naked, you dream of walls that hold us imprisoned. It's just a skull, least that's what they call it and we're free to roam. “

“I laugh in my head Cause I bet that my ex looking back like a pillar of salt”

BOOKS

fav book genre? fiction i guess

fav writer? toni morrison

fav book? sula by toni morrison

fav book series? the sloppy first series by megan mccafferty

comfort book? the secret life of bees by sue monk kidd

perfect book to read on a rainy day? mmm idk

fav characters? jessica darling. she is me i am he we are one.

5 quotes from your fav book that you know by heart? too tired to recall alskdka

TV AND MOVIES

fav tv/movie genre? tv- comedy or crime drama, movies- rom coms

fav movie? brown sugar

comfort movie? how to be single

movie you watch every year? love actually

fav tv show? new girl, schitts creek, insecure

comfort tv show? law and order, sex education, bold type, and my fav shows above

most rewatched tv show? new girl

ultimate otp? tony x ziva

5 fav characters? ziva david (ncis), analise keating (htgawm), iris westallen (the flash), alexis rose (schitts creek), issa rae (insecure)

this made my head ache so i’m not gonna tag anyone specifically but feel free to do it! ❣️❣️❣️

#kay you and your panic over the book questions alskdlsksnlmaoooo ily #KAY(AK) 4EVA #tagged

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newagesispage · 3 years ago

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JULY 2021

THE RIB PAGE

*****

They are still uncovering statues on Easter Island.

*****

Everyone is talking about ‘Exterminate all the Brutes” from Raoul Peck.

*****

Vampire bats, prevalent in Latin America may be on the way to the U.S.

*****

What they call faith, I call strength.

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Criss angel will open CABLP, a restaurant in Overton, Nevada. The letters stand for breakfast, lunch and pizza and will include a free meal outreach program to help under privileged and pediatric cancer families.

*****

A fifth ocean in Antartica??** There have also found 4 new ocean species: Apolemia, Tegula Kusairo, Leptarma Biju and Duobrachium Sparksae.

*****

In China they have found a possible new species in a skull that is 140,000 years old.

*****

Why would Jeffrey Toobin be back at CNN?? Surely there are more young deserving talking heads around.

*****

The Keystone pipeline is dead.

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5,000 pounds of explosives were discovered in a home in South LA. LAPD seems to have detonated the fireworks in a truck right there in the neighborhood. They were too dangerous to transport but not enough to blow them up??? How stupid are these people??

*****

Days alert : So glad to see Clyde again even if it is only for a moment!! **BTW, I do not understand the Daytime Emmy noms this year as they relate to Days. I really was pulling for Victoria Koneful (Ciara) and she won but George DelHoya (Orpheus), Tamara Braun (Ava) and Cady McClain (Jennifer)??? I was shocked when Cady McClain won. I mean, she was so whiny. I question my own ability to judge a performance. In most categories, the winner was usually the one I thought was the worst option. I was happy for Max Gail and CBS Sunday Morning. Some performances were sure overlooked. What about James Read (Clyde), Paul Telfer (Xander), Bryan Dattilo (Lucas), Robert Scott Wilson (Ben), Daniel Kerr (Eli) and Lindsay Arnold (Allie) ?? As annoying as the Kristen character is and as long as it took me to get used to Stacy Haiduk in the role, she kicked ass this year. Did they even submit clips?? And, they are not often on but Tony and Anna forever!!!!!!** And how wonderful is it to see the Dimera boys all together and recounting the whole fam for the votes? **And one more thing, Days was not even nominated for writing while Bold and the Beautiful spends every other show with the Liam character standing in front of the fireplace making excuses for the same shit! Just push repeat, C,mon!!**Philip had a great line for Brady about following Kristen like a zombie.** Dis Eli really say, “Peacock and chill??’ Are these the things they will have to do to do to stay on the air? It took me right out of the show. It was the same day the ads for Days on Peacock started. OMG

*****

Texas Gov. Abbott vetoed a bill that would make it illegal to chain up dogs without water.**ATexas churches have lost their 501(c) (3) status because it actively ‘educates’ its members on electing specific Republican politicians. –Pete West* This should have been happening long ago. Many churches I know of do this and should not be allowed to have it both ways. #tax the church

*****

Ellen Burstyn, Jane Curtin, Loretta Devine, Christopher Lloyd, James Caan, French Stewart and Ann-Margaret in Queen Bees and directed by Michael Lembeck?? Yes please!!

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NY has suspended Giuliani’s law license.

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Miracle Workers: The Oregon Trail is coming to TBS, this will be season 3 in the series.

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What is this about Bowen Yang?? A podcast about a sperm bank heist?? Yeow!!

*****

David Geffen has given $150,000,000 to Yale drama school: Every student will be tuition- free in perpetuity.

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Allison Mack was sentenced to 3 years.

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The latest in sexual assault news: James Franco has agreed to 2.2 mil settlement in sexual misconduct case.** Kyle Massey was charged with immoral communication with a minor.**Bill Cosby is out and here are some reactions: A terrible wrong is being righted.: a miscarriage of justice is corrected. I fully support survivors of sexual assault coming forward.- Phylicia Rashad*I really don’t ever want to hear again as to why many survivors don’t report their rape or assault.- Charlotte Clymer* Women are showing great restraint in not burning everything to the ground right now and I don’t know how they do it.-Jeff Tiedrich

*****

Amazon is making a series of A League of Their Own with Nick Offerman as the coach.

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Does anyone else have family members that are rich, transient, know it all snobs??

*****

It looks like New York’s ranked choice voting is leaning toward Eric Adams for Mayor.

*****

Michigan republicans investigating voter fraud found 2 incidents. One is for a lady who voted by mail and then died, the other was confusion over a man who had the same name as his Father. That was it!

*****

Jamie Lee Curtis will get the Golden Lion for lifetime achievement at the 78th Venice International Film Fest in September.

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Jerry Seinfeld will star in and direct ‘Unfrosted’ about Pop-Tarts.

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Why is Airbnb still listing properties in illegal settlements and outposts in Palestinian occupied territories? –James J. Zogby

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Merrick Garland has announced that the Justice department sued Georgia over the voting rights.

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The NFL says that it will halt the use of “race norming” which assumed black players started out with lower cognitive functioning in a $1 billion settlement of brain injury claims. The practice had made it harder for black players to qualify. –The Associated Press.

*****

Scary Clown 45 ended his ‘From the desk of Donald J. Trump’ blog after 29 days. Word is that he felt he was being mocked in the media.

*****

Religious leadership keeps engaging in partisan politics on behalf of politicians that are particularly unpopular with younger people and they wonder why younger people are disenchanted with the church. – Schooley ** Give young people credit as well for seeing through the hype and lies of these religious hypocrites who use God only as a weapon and a threat. –Larry Charles

*****

Amazon will stop drug testing for employment. Can every other company jump on this bandwagon? Let’s judge employees on the work they give.

*****

The Backstreet Boys and NSync are going to work together??!!

*****

Showtime is bringing back American Gigolo with Jon Bernthal.

*****

If Biden can carry out air strikes without proper authorization, the Senate can raise the minimum wage without the Parliamentarian. –Alexandra M. Hunt

Reality Winner is out!!

*****

Judy Woodruff has been given the Peabody award for journalistic integrity.

*****

Donald Glover is bringing us Hive. Malia Obama will be a writer.

*****

Nicholas Cage has married Riko Shibata.

*****

Catch and Kill: The podcast tapes, is here on HBO.

*****

Bryan Cranston and Annette Bening will star in Jerry and Marge go large.

*****

Amblin Partners and Netflix are partners.

*****

Fall 2022 will bring the Roybal School of film and television production for underserved communities. They are looking to help 9th, 10th, 11th and 12th grade students. Among others, the program was cofounded by George Clooney, Don Cheadle, Kerry Washington, Mindy Kaling and Eva Longoria.

*****

Will there be a Wedding Crashers2??

*****

The Mysterious Benedict Society stars Tony Hale.** I would love to see he and Danny Pudi in something together.

*****

Actor Stephen Amell from Arrow was removed from a plane after getting into it with his wife. A source said he was drunk and screaming. An official source said that they removed “an unruly customer.”** Andy Dick was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon, allegedly assaulting his partner, Lucas with a metal chair.

*****

So.. Fox news was digitally altering the faces of people they did not care for??? Is there no end to their bullshit????

*****

Mark Ronson is set to marry Grace Gummer.

*****

Crime shows seem to be in the cycle of prisoners and the women who get a thrill from helping them escape.

*****

Wolfgang Van Halen has released a debut album: Mammoth

*****

Everyone seems to love Danny Trejo’s memoir and its honesty.

*****

David Spade will take over as host of Bachelor in Paradise.

*****

I am sickened when I see the first question that pops up on an online search is the net worth of a person. Oh this twisted world.

*****

Life is a short pause between 2 great mysteries. –Jung

*****

Prince Harry and Meghan had a daughter that they named Lilibet ‘Lili” Diana.

*****

Michael Flynn’s brother Charles (who withheld help from the capitol on Jan. 6), leads the U.S. Army Pacific and commands 90,000 troops.

*****

I am so excited to read ‘The Boys’ from Clint and Ron Howard, due out in October.

*****

Dave Chappelle closed out the Tribeca film fest with a surprise concert. This was the first in person film fest since Covid. Look for This time, this place which premiered there.

*****

Ron Wood will release the album Mr. Luck: A tribute to Jimmy Reed on Sept. 3

*****

Howard Stern signed a new $500 mil contract with Sirius XM. He is taking the whole summer off and many fans say they will cancel their subscription because they don’t want to pay for a summer of reruns.

*****

Acorn will bring Jane Seymour back to a series. Seymour will be co -executive produce on Harry Wild. Her character will be a retired University professor who loves her whiskey and solves crimes.

*****

Annie Murphy stasr in ‘Kevin can f*** himself about a sitcom wife which airs on AMC.

*****

I still do not understand why Rep. Mike Nearman hasn’t been arrested for letting insurrectionists into the Capitol.

*****

There is a wing shortage??

*****

The Pulitzer prizes have been announced. The list includes Ben Faub, Barry Blitt, Katori Hall, Emilio Morenatti, AP photographers Marcio Jose Sanchez, Alex Brandon, David Goldman, Julio Cortez, John Minchillo, Frank Franklin II, Ringo H.W. Chiu, Evan Vucci, Mike Stewart and Noah Berger. There was a special citation for Darnella Frazier who filmed the death of George Floyd.

*****

Conan’s last TBS guests were Martin Short, Jack Black, Bill Hader, Mila Kunis, Dana Carvey, Patton Oswalt and JB Smoove. There were some surprises. The big musical number never happened when Jack Black hurt himself. It was all funny and sweet but Conan never mentioned the band in the last show WTF????????????????????????????????????????? Music is so important to him and he does not thank the band? ** Colbert and Brian Stack gave Conan a cute send after4, 368 shows on CBS calling him a ‘Slenderman Ron Weasly’. Kimmel wished Conn well also.** Hope his HBO MAX variety show goes well.** BTW, the Duvall interview with Colbert was great to see but why does nobody ever mention ‘Get Low?’ What a performance!!

*****

Tattoos are on the rise.

*****

Fast food drive thru’s sometime close with fake excuses like the equipment is down or something because they don’t feel like working. Good people can’t find work and so many waste the opportunities they have. AAAAGHH!!

*****

Valerie Bertinelli and Demi Lovato will star in ‘Hungry’ on NBC.

*****

Hulu will bring us David E. Kelley’s Nine Perfect Strangers with Nicole Kidman, Michael Shannon, Regina Hall, Bobby Cannavale and Melissa McCarthy.

*****

R.I.P. Gavin Macleod, Frank Bonner, Joy Vogelsang, Benigno Aquino, Champ Biden, victims of the Miami building collapse, Robert Sacchi, Stuart Damon, Johnny Solinger and Clarence Williams III.

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kathyprior4200 · 5 years ago

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Alastor: Unofficial Character Profile and Timeline

Character profile

Name: Alastor (meaning Greek spirit of vengeance/tormentor)

Birth: January 24th 1896, New Orleans, Louisiana (VA Edward Bosco’s birthday is January 24, 1986)

Human name: Alastor Roscoe Duvalier Cajun (Roscoe means deer forest and is also an old term for a handgun. Duvalier is last name of Voodoo genocidal dictator of Haiti.)

Race: Part White (French-American from his father) part Creole (Native American and African-American from his mother).

Hair color: Brown (red and black in Hell) usually short, sometimes in a small ponytail or brown ends reaching slightly past his ears

Eye color: Brown (red in Hell)

Skin color: Light brown (pale gray in Hell) thin pointed chin, lanky agile body

Clothing: brown/white nice shirts with bow ties, dress coats, hunting boots, wine colored pants, the occasional top hat with voodoo pins sticking from the top.

Items: Hunting rifle given to him by his father, sharp knives, a staff with a microphone on it decorated with small golden antlers curved near the top. (The staff became a red vintage microphone with an eye and magic powers in Hell that became part of him as per the deal he took)

Date of death: 1933

Cause of death: Bitten by dog with rabies, experienced hallucinations, inflamed brain, strange excitement and paranoia. When he sees water, it’s nothing but alligators, leeches and the darkness of an ocean. He ran from police and into the woods at night. The police sent several police dogs after him, appearing to Alastor as werewolves. He encounters Hustle, a deer hunter, yelling in agony, almost caught by police. Hustle alerts the police to his location, saying “Target criminal’s over here!” Alastor grabs the gun from the hunter and shoots himself between the eyes. His body is mauled by the police dogs and the hunter sinks down to his knees in shock and fear.

Demonic life: deer demon, overlord, radio host. His deer-like shadow has a mind of its own and reveals his true feelings.

Likes: cooking, singing, dancing, electro swing, Rosie, Mimzy, Charlie (as a friend), his mother, hunting and skinning deer, being out in nature, people failing, dark coffee, the Picture Show, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, theater, liquor, dad jokes, Jambalaya, epicurean food, making voodoo dolls of the Hazbin characters

Dislikes: being touched, strawberries, post 30’s technology, dogs, anything sweet, frowning, Vox, his father, Angel’s sexual remarks, tea, spray can foods, ketchup

Abilities: supernatural powers, voodoo, radio broadcasting, shadow manipulation, warping space, singing, charm

Kalfu is Alastor’s main voodoo deity, as both are destroyers and dark sorcerers.

Mother:

Loretta Marie Duvalier (last name became Cajun): (named after Loretta Petit, real life American radio personality born in New Orleans. Duvalier is last name of Voodoo genocidal dictator of Haiti.)

Speaks French. As a human, she had dark skin, thick black short hair and often wore bonnets, dresses, and on occasion, charms around her neck. She went to Heaven for her selfless actions in comforting Alastor when he was bullied and abused. She was the only source of light in his life before he snapped.

Her voodoo deity is Erzulie, the goddess of beauty, love, femininity and motherhood.

Alastor secretly cuddles with a voodoo doll of his mother every night.

Father:

Louis Francois Cajun: White man and Christian French immigrant, descendant of two French Canadians. He fell in love with Loretta, but bi-racial marriage was frowned upon, so they held it in secret. He is a skilled hunter and taught Alastor to hunt deer and game at a young age. When Alastor was younger, he told him to “beware the gators” in the nearby swamp. As Alastor grew older, he became more abusive to him, even molested him after sleeping with another woman on a Friday the 13th. He died brutally by Alastor in the 1920s/30s.

Louis became an oppressive black deer overlord but was defeated by Alastor a second time.

In Alastor’s vision, Louis is represented by Ogun, god associated with dogs, warriors, hunters, conflict. He’s symbolized by an iron knife and has fondness for pretty women and rum.

Samuel Cajun – Grandfather

Antoinette – Grandmother – Voodoo Priestess and Hoodoo oral practitioner

Racheil: Alastor’s friend and love interest (though he doesn’t want sex or serious romance.) She has short blonde hair and looks similar to Charlie in dapper clothes. She, like Charlie, is nice to him and loves to dance and sing. She tries to help him become a better person but after he snapped, she broke up with him and left him to solve his own problems. She almost got stabbed b him but managed to escape with her wife Agatha (whom she had married in private).

In Alastor’s dream, she appears as Oshun, a goddess connected to beauty, sexuality, wealth, pleasure, and rivers.

Alastor later makes a voodoo doll of Racheil’s similar counterpart, Charlie along with dolls representing the other characters.

Mimzy: Alastor’s friend and temporary love interest (Alastor liked to flirt with her but didn’t want to get intimate nor be tied down). Mimzy likes singing, jazz, desserts and doughnuts. She doesn’t like rock. Confident in her singing, she is the owner of a jazz club, both on Earth and in Hell. She is a short, chubby woman who wears pink/purple flapper dresses, a headband with pink feathers and short blonde hair. Her eyes were blue and her skin white as a human, in Hell her eyes were black with hot pink pupils.

Mimzy and Alastor sing several duets together on stage in both realms and even share a kiss much to the disgust of a jealous (human) Husk. As time went on however, Mimzy started falling head over heels for him, while Alastor wanted to stay friends. (She heard about his radio shows but didn’t suspect he was the killer until later). One night, a love crazed Mimzy (who had also had several drinks) tried to undress him and even reached for his private parts. He shoved her off and threatened to kill her if she assaulted him again. Then she realized in shock that he was the serial killer when he defended himself with a bloodstained knife. She tried to call for help, but he choked her with an insane look in his eyes.

Alastor keeps a voodoo doll of Mimzy in his lair with the straw arms missing.

Rosie: Alastor’s friend, fellow overlord, and associate. Rosie wears dark pink dresses, and a large pink hat with skulls, pink feathers, and black flowers on it in Hell. She has black eyes and sharp teeth. She is the owner of her emporium, after Franklin got eaten by demons.

As a human, Rosie looked similar to Mary Poppins: black hair, white skin, elegant dresses and an umbrella in her hands. She owned an emporium on Earth. Alastor used to sing with her and help her out like a gentleman. However, this was before he became insane. Rosie went to Hell after forcing her employees to work long hours with hardly any breaks (It was during a time where people worked their lives away). Like in Hell, she was self-centered and didn’t hesitate to overpower others to fulfill her ends. Hence, she became an overlord due to the impact of her evil actions.

According to Vivziepop, their relationship is similar to Jack and Mary’s relationship from Mary Poppins: both Jack and Alastor help out their lady friends and are polite to them. Like Mary, Rosie is stern, sophisticated, elegant, and a perfectionist. She’s “practically perfect in every way” at least in her opinion. Both Rosie and Alastor love singing, dancing, performing, and killing people. The three of them met up with Mimzy and all sang together.

Alastor keeps a voodoo doll of Rosie in his lair.

However, Rosie, like nearly everyone in Hell, has an agenda of her own: using Alastor to further her status. In fact, she often views those around her as mere friends and servants who purpose is to make her life easy and orderly. She, along with Vox, Valentino, Katie, and Sir Pentious are listed as antagonists.

Niffty: A small cyclops demon with a hot pink skirt and short pink hair with a yellow undertone. She is the maid for the Hazbin Hotel: she cleans the rooms, cooks meals and likes to sew, read and write. She is obsessed with men and was summoned by Alastor. She died in the 1950s as a Japanese-American woman at age 22. She is hyperactive and fast…and also a hopeless romantic who indulges in her own fantasies. Niffty isn’t afraid to use manipulation to get her way. Alastor summoned her from the fireplace but before that, he had charmed her into making a deal with him shortly after she arrived in Hell.

Alastor keeps a voodoo doll of Niffty in his lair.

Husk: A black and white cat demon with red wings with card suits on them. He has long red eyebrows, wears a black hat and wears a large red bow tie. Husk loves drinking, gambling, cards and magic shows. As a human, Husk interacted with Alastor as a broad man with short black hair. He went off to serve in the Vietnam War, gambling and drinking his problems away. He died in the 1970s.

In Hell, Alastor summons the grumpy bad-mouthed Husk to help man the front desk of the hotel for “charity work” and transports him there. Alastor got Husk to make a deal with him by promising him booze, cigars, and drinks spiked with catnip. Husk can speak many languages and is good with children.

Alastor keeps a voodoo doll of Husk in his lair.

Alastor’s ancestor from his father’s side: Marie LaLaurie, (1787-1849) real life New Orleans serial killer, cruel to Creole slaves

Dr. Facilier: distant relative

Alastor’s cousin from his mother’s side: Clementine Barnabet: (1894-1923) real life Louisiana voodoo priestess and serial killer, killed families with an axe.

Real life Axeman of New Orleans serial killer 1918-1919

Killed women and primarily used an axe. Spared those who played jazz in their homes

Albert Fish: serial killer, child rapist and cannibal 1924-1932 crimes, died in 1936

Alastor "Hazbin" Roscoe Cajun/Duvalier born January 24th, 1896 (Edward Bosco's b day Jan 24th 1986) to Francois and Loretta Cajun, born at 3:00AM; Loretta gave birth in the woods on the way to the hospital (born 3 weeks early). Light brown skin, brown eyes, round glasses, short brown hair with reddish tint, pointed chin, thin agile body

1897: Age 1 Things start off normal in New Orleans, infant Alastor plays in his crib and loves the music on the radio.

1898: Age 2 Alastor meets his uncle and aunt and discovers the marvelous outside world

1899: Age 3 Alastor watches musicals on the picture show and falls in love with them. His mother makes him Jambalaya, his favorite food of comfort

1900: Age 4 Reading and preschool, Sunday church goings which Alastor finds boring

1901: Age 5 Kindergarten: Alastor is teased for his freckles and whenever his hair glows a reddish tint in the sunlight

1902: Age 6 First grade: Alastor learns reading, writing, math, and art. He hates gym and loves music and art.

1903: Age 7 Second grade: Alastor's parents get into a fight for the first time in a while; Alastor is sent to his room whenever it happens. After he comes back upset, both his parents say that frowning is weakness. Loretta says "Remember to smile, Alastor, it shows dominance and confidence. You're never fully dressed without one." He takes that lesson to heart for the rest of his life.

Vision 1: Alastor dreams he is a young red deer who performs onstage and receives a standing ovation, representing childhood innocence.

1904: Age 8 Third grade: Alastor discovers his love of theater. He finds joy in attending and watching Mardi Gras parades and the costumes. He says 'Throw me something, mista!" during the parade but the other kids got to get the prizes thrown from the parade instead.

1905: Age 9 Fourth grade: A group of boys start to bully him and even punch him badly. Alastor smiles through it all. He tells his father and mother. While his mother comforts him, his father scolds him for not fighting back.

1906: Age 10 Fifth grade: Alastor gets his brutal revenge by daring the boys to enter into a nearby swamp. One of the bullies gets eaten by a crocodile while Alastor just watches. Alastor gets nicknamed by his father and bullies as "Alastor Hazbin."

1907: Age 11 Sixth grade: Alastor goes hunting with his father and his father shows him how to hunt and skin deer and other game. He becomes skilled over time and loves the meat. He also learns how to cook from his mother...Jambalaya being his favorite to make.

1908: Age 12 Seventh grade: Alastor gets slapped by his father for not participating in sports. Other kids make fun of him for being of mixed race. Loretta begins teaching him about Voodoo and Hoodoo. Alastor connects with Kalfu the deity and learns of his heritage as part French and part Creole. His grandmother was a powerful priestess and was believed to orally pass on stories and display feats of magic. His Grandmother was born in Haiti, moved to France and then to the U.S. His Uncle, Father, and Grandfather were Canadian/French Christians. His aunt was conflict avoidant, unlike his uncle and father. Loretta tells him (though he soon doesn't listen) that Voodoo is not to be used for evil, sacrifices, nor cannibalism and to only resort to cannibalism for survival.

1909: Age 13 Eighth grade: Alastor's father yells at him for not showing interest in girls. One fateful night, his father sleeps with another woman and Alastor notices. A helpless Loretta watches as Francois whips, humiliates and molests him in his room, warning him not to tell or "he'd kill (them) both." Loretta comforts him with hugs and Jambalaya. As he eats, Alastor imagines eating off his father's fingers.

Alastor is diagnosed with anxiety, narcissism and psychopathic tendencies. He is bullied in middle school and is not interested in sex and girls like the other boys. He finds it gross and pointless.

Loretta's Jambalaya nearly kills her when a drunk Loretta (too much Scottish Comfort) puts gunpowder and wasabi into it. Alastor's father makes him memorize Bible passages.

1910: Age 14 Ninth grade: Many girls both in school and outside fall in love, but Alastor isn't interested. A Satanic Ritual book appears after it was dropped by accident by imps. He looks through it with great interest and makes a deal with dark Loas: gain near unlimited power in the afterlife in exchange for his soul and the soul of a loved one.

1911: Age 15 Tenth grade: High school was a nightmare. The bullying was worse and Alastor became more and more withdrawn. During this time, Alastor becomes interested in being a radio host and also reads books on weapons and cannibalism.

Vision 2: Alastor dreams he is a red buck, who runs from hunters representing the elite white people. He evades a crocodile, resembling his father and his mother appears as the Voodoo goddess of beauty and motherhood.

1912: Age 16 Eleventh grade: Alastor applies to be an apprentice for a local radio station several times, but doesn't get in. His father and uncle berate him everyday and his mother is busy at secretary work, and Voodoo rituals every month.

1913: Age 17 Grade 12 Alastor graduates and applies again. He starts at the bottom, but rapidly moves his way up. He starts by telling dad jokes, then wants to talk about murder and crimes "far more interesting than the weather and social events."

1914: Age 18 After experiencing harsh critiques from mainstream stations, Alastor is fired. However, he soon decides to pursue his goals on his own. His makes radios from scratch and starts his own shows, with a few private listeners at first.

World War One begins! Alastor uses this opportunity to broadcast on a private station news of deaths in the war in graphic detail. More people start listening and his soon starts making money. Alastor makes his first kill when a man assaulted him and beat him up for him being "Black and outspoken." He was able to get away and he wondered what it'd be like to do it again on the ignorant folks.

1915: Age 19 Alastor promotes war efforts through announcements and songs, including his ending song "You're Never Fully Dressed." However, he still describes brutal murders for the sinister folks.

1916: Age 20 Alastor meets Husk and Mimzy at a jazz bar and club for the first time. He dances and sings with Mimzy, loving her confidence and sexy looks. (Though he doesn't like to be touched by anyone other than his mother, due to fatherly past trauma).

1917: Age 21 Alastor meets Racheil (alternate form of Charlie) and they become fast friends. He learns of the Axeman, a fellow serial killer and learns to be careful.

1918: Age 22 Spanish Flu Pandemic occurs! Sadly, Alastor's mother becomes gravely ill and passes away. Alastor smiles even as he cries. Alastor's father doesn't seem to care. Alastor gets raped again and his father abandons him. Alastor's mother goes to Heaven and Alastor, not knowing what else to do, eats her remains.

1919: Age 23 Alastor becomes depressed (and even suicidal for a while). He doesn't eat much. Alastor eventually snaps and begins his life as a serial killer. After his mother’s death, Alastor lost his remaining traits of humanity…succumbing to his demonic nature. At that point, he didn’t care who he ate and/or killed…it was the last think he could do to keep himself sane along with drinking liquor, coffee, sewing voodoo dolls, and broadcasting the murders by himself.

1920: Age 24 Roaring Twenties and Jazz Age. Alastor becomes known (though no one suspected it was him) by several names "Bayou Butcher," "Deer Devil" "Louisiana Lunatic" among others. Alastor revels in his fame and becomes richer and more materialistic. He buys himself suits, and a cane with deer antlers on it. One of his disturbing hobbies was using his gentleman charm to lure women into his home where he would lie them in the basement and kill them while broadcasting their screams.

Alastor plays in a jazz band and enjoys watching musicians play while smoking and drinking liquor. He often cries in private and makes straw dolls. He drinks dark coffee every morning.

1921: Age 25 Mimzy falls in love with Alastor and touches him inappropriately. He threatens her with a knife and she discovers he's the serial killer. She rushes to call for help but Alastor takes her into an alleyway and stabs and chokes her to death. Feeling slight remorse, he takes her home for his meal.

1922: Age 26 Racheil breaks up with him after being concerned about his sanity. Worried he might be caught, Alastor lays low for a while before starting up again. After Alastor's father comes back, he decides to get his revenge. He ties him to a tree and tortures him during the night. The predator becomes the prey. Alastor tracks him down to a local bar. (Although he usually doesn’t stalk or chase his victims as it breaks his moral code, but his dad is an exception. Also following others/sneaking toward them are often required to kill others.) His father had been secretly afraid that Alastor would be stronger and would want to kill him, thus proving his son more dominant than himself. He had weapons ready, but Alastor had set up several traps in advance. Though Alastor was physically weaker than his father, he was very clever. He had packed a backpack of all his weapons, rope and essential tools. His father says “You and your heathen mother deserve to die” only for Alastor to respond, “Nobody talks about my mama that way.” Seeing his father knocked out, Alastor raises his knife to kill him but stops. That would merely be too easy. He supports him by the shoulders, pretending to be concerned for him as onlookers watched in shock, “It’s okay sir, you just fainted from the heat. Let’s go for a walk in the woods.” He takes him deep in the forest and chuckles darkly.

Alastor knocks him out and ties him to a tree in a forest, waiting until he wakes up. He starts (smiling the whole time) by slicing off his father’s dick among his father’s cussing (“when you screwed me once”), inserting a hot knife inside his father’s privates (“when you screwed me again”) then slicing off his ears (“this is for all the times when you wouldn’t listen to me”), shoving his own severed penis down his throat (“When you shoved your macho beliefs down my throat”) he whips him, then slowly cuts deep down his chest with a chainsaw, organs revealed (“this is for mama”) and finally shots him in the heart (“and this is for me, you heartless bastard.”) He eats his father’s flesh over jambalaya and it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

1923: Age 27 He kills his victims in various ways: some hanging from trees with their organs spilled out, some buttered and eaten, others buried alive, some people shot and stabbed when he doesn’t feel like dragging it out. He’ll often poison other’s food/drinks and watch their reactions with a grin on his face. He enjoys tricking others into corners/tight spots so he doesn’t have to run after them. He’s found of pranks, especially deadly ones done on others. He saves brutal killings for racist men and women and those who think ill of him and his show. He becomes known as the “Deer Devil Dealer of New Orleans.” He only started killing people and animals at random after his mother died and he lost his mind.

1924: Age 28 Vision 3: : He has nightmares about a demonic skeletal deer covered with maggots and sores with chunks of meat over bone and one eye hanging loose running after him. He finds himself in a dark snowy forest, a fierce biting wind. After it seemed like he had been defeated by the monster, Alastor looks into a puddle and sees another, far worse monster, a demonic wendigo reflection staring back at him…Alastor sees a horned face and malnourished skeletal body, ripped red pinstriped dress coat, four clawed hands, red and black hair and red eyes, sharp teeth, large black antlers…the wendigo form resembling his current demonic form in Hell. After killing the alligator representing his father, the wendigo Alastor look-alike shadow appears and says “This is who you really are,” before Alastor wakes up.

1925: Age 29

1926: Age 30

1927: Age 31

1928: Age 32

1929: Age 33 Alastor enjoys the Stock Market Crash and uses the opportunity to enjoy watching orphans suffer. It helps remind him that he's far better off than many, besides the fact that kids were annoying to him. Alastor makes an "Axeman letter:"

"Hell, 1929 Stock Market Crash Esteemed Mortal of New Orleans: The Deer Devil/Bayous Butcher/Louisiana Lunatic/Hazbin of Hell

They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the sound waves that surround your earth. I am not a human being, but a demon and overlord from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians call the Deer Devil. Down here, I’m the inevitable Radio Demon.

When I see fit, I shall appear and claim other victims as I see fit. I alone know whom they shall be. No clues will be left behind, save for what you might hear on the next broadcast. Tell the police and the racist, elite scum of the world to beware. Let them try not to discover who I am, for it’d be better for them not to have been born than to incur the wrath of the Deer Devil. You’ll have a deer in the headlights look and won’t have any idea what hit you until after it’s too late. Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a monster and murderer. But if I wanted to hurt anyone else here, I would have done so already. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. I could kill every one of your best and worst citizens, for I am in a close relationship with the Shadows of the Other Side. At 6:06 pm next Friday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans and then visit those in Hell. I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is: I am very fond of jazz music, electro swing, and jambalaya. I swear by all the Loas and deities that I will spare those who can provide me with some great entertainment when I visit. Word of warning, I can read you people like a book, and see into your very souls. Anyone foolish enough to challenge me will have their corpses consumed and their screams muffled by the lovely sound of jazz bands jamming the night away. I have been, am, and will be, the worst spirit that ever existed in fact, fantasy, or realm of Hazbins. Smile and stay tuned! ~Deer Devil (Alastor)"

1930: Age 34 Great Depression occurs!

The event hits Alastor and many others hard...he runs low on food so he eats others and hunts more and more to survive. Now Alastor kills at random instead of focusing on the racist mean people.

1931: Age 35

1932: Age 36

1933: Age 37 Alastor's Death

The police eventually track Alastor down with the help of Racheil and Chasseur, a fellow deer hunter whose daughter had been killed by Alastor. Not too long before the police discover where he is, Alastor gets bitten by a rabies infested dog. For the next several hours, Alastor experiences hallucinations, paranoia, brain inflammation and a fear of water. In water, all he sees is leeches and alligators. In his hallucinations, he is being watched by a wendigo. The police chase Alastor though the dark woods, police dogs hot on the trail. A local deer hunter, Hustle, joins in on the chase. Alastor navigates the woods, trying to find a place to hide. The hunter accidentally shoots him in the back as he ran, thinking Alastor was a deer.

Alastor experiences extreme agony when the deer hunter spots him, pointing a rifle at him. The hunter announces his location to the police. Seeing no other way out other than pain and imprisonment, Alastor takes the gun from the hunter and shoots himself between his eyes. The police dogs maul his dead body and the hunter sinks to his knees in shock and terror. Strangely enough, Alastor dies with a creepy smile on his face, the mark of Kalfu appearing behind his cold neck, unnoticed by anyone.

1933: After death: Alastor's old body falls away as the deal with the Loas takes fruit. The shadows give him his immense powers in the shadow world and he transforms into his demon form in Hell. He gets his microphone staff, which enables him to broadcast his murders and victories. He is known as the Radio Demon. He conquers several areas of Hell, eventually getting the attention of the overlords who know to stay wary of him.

Alastor befriends Mimzy and overlord Rosie and they sing, dance, talk and murder other demons for fun. Alastor treats them both with respect and knows not to piss off Rosie as she's stern, violent, and "practically perfect in every way."

Every year when the Exterminators appear, Alastor broadcasts the chaos during the 24 hour period, and will go out and kill the angels too.

1950s: Alastor makes a deal with Niffty who becomes obsessed with him and men. She becomes his servant/slave/associate and cooks and cleans for him.

1970s: Alastor makes a deal with Husk and Husk becomes his servant/slave/associate after Alastor promised him a better life with money and booze and the promise of " finding love."

2019: Alastor sees Charlie on TV and decides to help her with the hotel (for his own enjoyment, of course.) He dances and befriends Charlie, forming plans to use her to dig deeper into the royal family and eventually take the throne and rule Hell. He hopes that with a shadow army and more possessed members, he can invade Hell, Heaven and even Earth to spread his chaos. He defeats Sir Pentious and changes the name to Hazbin Hotel, his formerly mocking nickname he embraced.

Future: Alastor helps Charlie and the others protect the hotel from Sir Pentious, Vox, Valentino, Velvet and other villains.

Other non canon versions of Alastor:

Stalaros (commonly known as 2p Alastor). Alastor with opposite colors and personality: he wears white and blue and cries a lot. He is one of the clients at the Haven Hotel run by Caoline Egnam, Heaven's princess. Stalaros is gay and horny like Angel Dust.

Lavender/Purple Alastor: Peaceful and confident, an OC made by fans.

Radiodust Alastor: An Alastor that loves Angel Dust. Popular with fans.

Charlastor Alastor: An Alastor that loves Charlie romantically. Popular with fans.

Redeemed Alastor: Appears as a man with a deer head and human-like traits in Heaven. In this universe, he reunites with his mother.

FHE (“For His Entertainment”) Alastor: Alastor in his truly evil form: he takes over all of Hell and possesses the demons. His shadow can turn into a monster wendigo. This Alastor has a hole between his eyes from a bullet wound, and antlers stained with blood.

#hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel theory #alastor #human alastor #alastor lair

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if-the-crown-fits-translate-it · 4 years ago

Text

Duchy Conversation 8

[The following transcript details the conversation is between one of the Crown ARG Discord members and Duke on Twitter]

Donti: “Its always a roll of the dice as to who I will talk to! Who is it today, I wonder? :Dc, Hello!”

Duke: “Hello there, Donti. I do hope I haven't kept you too long. It is the Duke, little lamb.”

Donti: “Hi Duke!!! Sorry I kept you waiting, didn't notice you had messaged me ^^'

How have you been ?”

Duke: “Apologies are in order for myself as well it seems, the little bird did not notify me you responded!

I have been doing as well as I can be. My sister is hurt and it is the fault of a cretin, it is not something I am in joy over.”

Donti: “Oh, I heard about that, I'm so sorry :(. I hope it didn't change your views on the family, I'm sure they regret it

((we are simply the best at responding))”

Duke: “Oh indeed we are truly the most wonderful at responses! It does my heart well to see such our skill. In a more serious tone though, I will say that it did in fact impact my view of the family. How could it not?

Donti: “That's fair, I was just being overly hopeful :/ How are you feeling? About it I mean.?”

Duke: “I feel disgusted.

These people are animals, brutes. There are few in this family who can even have the honour of being called kind - Prince, Baron and Jester are the only ones suitable for humanity. Countess perhaps as well, although I am unsure.”

Donti: “Those are strong sentiments Duke, even if they are justified... Have you talked to Crown about it? He cares about your well-being, after all.”

Duke: “I will not speak to Crown on this matter. I do not think his constitution can handle the reveal of my inner feelings. What will he suggest, that I simply apologize? That I forgive and forget? No. I will not.”

Donti: “What are you going to do then? Hold a grudge? I have learnt the hard way that people don't enjoy those.

When you hold a grudge. People will make you let go of it.”

Duke: “No one will make me do anything.”

Donti: “That's a good thing.”

Duke: “I will rise with the sun and set with the moon. I will traverse oceans and watch mountains crumble. I will live and laugh and love but in my heart, I will gaze upon these beast's faces and know that I will howl with joy at their demise.

They hurt my sister, Donti.

They hurt her.”

Donti: “Yea... Did you talk to her about it?”

Duke: “I have. She is doing much better now, but the fact still remains sight will never return to one of her eyes. Her face is forever scarred because she had the audacity to care about me. They have lied to us, kept information from us, mocked and jeered...... And now this.

If you cannot see my reasons for a "grudge" as you call it so then I am afraid I do not understand your way of thinking, little lamb.”

Donti: “Oh I see your reason for a grudge. Don't worry. I would do the same. But are you planning on,,, acting on this? I wouldn't advise it, but if you are, don't be rash.”

Duke: “I have no plans as of now. My current goal is to ensure my sisters' safety and comfort as she adjusts to her current prediciment.

Of course, if King or Baroness notice a few missing items they adore then it is not the fault of I, but a wonderful coincidence”

Donti: “If by chance it were to happen, it would be well deserved. Although, I would suggest that the plants be left alone... I would feel bad if a living thing were to die for a grudge against another.”

Duke: “I do not view plants the way you do but it is understandable, I suppose. I'm sure whatever hooligan is committing such crimes will know.

May I ask you something Donti?”

Donti: “Of course you may ^^”

Duke: “Do the strong not devour the weak?”

Donti: “... They do. I have learnt that many times over.”

Duke: “Then if that is how the world goes, is it so terrible to be one of the strong? One of the victors that taste the honey-sweet sense of delight?”

Donti: “But to be one of the strong. Certain things must be sacrificed. Pity. Kindness. Empathy. To taste victory, one must pay the price”

Duke: “And if the price has been paid, who would we be to deny the gift thats been given?”

Donti: “And if your fellow lions defend the mice?”

Duke: “Then the lion must bring itself to slaughter.

Do not fear though, this is much more of a.. Personal issue then one that deals with your flock, little lamb. I hold no ill will towards any of you”

Donti: “It looks like you've already paid the price of victory... Not that I blame you. I would be a hypocrite to say otherwise. But sometimes the lion who cares for the mouse will call upon the mice and see that it is answered.

Is it worth losing the trust of many.. Even all?”

Duke: “Then how does the lion prevent the mice from coming for the mouse?

What I crave, what I've decided, hurts no one physically. Those who may grieve for a moment will move on with time, and if not? Then they can weep, for I have conquered.”

Donti: “Well said. Although. One must remember why he chooses to conquer. Or he may lose sight of his goal”

Duke: “I want to live, Donti. Is that so bad? So selfish? To have a life that is my own?”

Donti: “No. It isn't selfish. But you have to remember that you share your life with others. Or you'll find yourself losing everyone.”

Duke: “Of course, of course. One would be foolish to forget that, after all people enrich our lives. Without my sister life would be horrid, a misery existence filled with only shades of grey.”

Donti: “Losing a sibling is terrible, I hope it never happens to you.”

Duke: “Do you have experience?”

Donti: “My sibling and I simply drifted away... We were close, once. Sometimes they visit me, and I them... But. It's just not the same. We have chosen different paths

Nothing that you could help...”

Duke: “How terrible, little lamb. I mourn for your loss. Perhaps the Crown could help fix that - but I must say I do prefer you as you, dear one.”

Donti: “Yea.. Maybe. But I enjoy being myself. My other self has never awoken... Not that I try to contact them.”

Duke: “You are you. There is no one else, and if there is? Pay them no mind. You are yourself. Do not contact them. Do not engage. Only you exist, only you must be in mind.

You are you.”

Donti: “Oh, alright.. Why are you against it? Aren't you sharing another's mind?.. Although. Your counterpart is asleep..”

Duke: “Do not speak of him

Do not.”

Donti: “Alright! I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable ^^”

Duke: “There is no one else in this body but I. There is no one else here but I. And if there was? He does not matter. He is weak and I am strong. I have won, but that is redundant because. There. Is. No. One. Else. Here.

I am myself, Donti. All of it.”

Donti: “Of course. I'm sorry for bringing it up”

Duke: “Good. Thank you for apologizing, little lamb. What you said was quite rude.

It is alright though! Do not fret. I forgive you, it was just a simple mistake after all. Do not fret.”

Donti: “Yes, thank you for forgiving me, i think i forgot my manners ^^""

By the way, have you ever played video games?”

Duke: “You did, little lamb. You did indeed. I am forgiving however, and you are young. Do not worry, such transgressions are already forgotten. We are friends after all, and it would be cruel of me to hold it against you so.

On the topic change, what is a video game?”

Donti: “Oh! it's a type of digital entertainment? There are many different kinds of them!

Us lambs enjoy them, and there are a lot of multiplayer games that I think you would enjoy”

Duke: “Fascinating, what exactly do you think might be suited towards my taste? I find myself intrigued.”

Donti: “Hm... You seem like someone who would enjoy RPGs? Roleplayers games! There are also online competitive games you might enjoy...

Before we... Drifted. My sibling and I would play cooperation games! Two people would share a keyboard and work towards a common goal. I would suggest you look into a few”

Duke: “Those do not sound so bad. Perhaps it is time I look more into these things instead of letting new experiences pass me.

I am sorry about your sibling. I truly am. Perhaps have them be dreadfully injured so you must nurse them back to health? A bond will grow out of the feeling of debt if nothing else.”

Donti: “Ah. My sibling is very. Independent.. Even if they were to be injured, they would deal with it on their own. If I were to help them, they would go. I love them, but they don't need me anymore. I’ve accepted that..”

Duke: “Oh dear, you poor thing. It must be horrible, to be all alone. I knew how that felt once. With so little support, barely anyone to depend on..... I think the worst part of it all is the quiet, no? The lonesome silence that settles into your skull.

You need not fret, while I am sorry about your sibling you do have my sister and I. We would never do such a cruel thing to you.”

Donti: “Thank you Duke.. That is very kind ^^ It hurts to think that you have been here too. I'm glad you're happy now!”

Duke: “Thank you. I am glad to be in such a place now, after that dark time. One day you will be here too.”

Donti: “That's a possibility I hope comes true!”

Duke: “It will”

Donti: “Unfortunately, it's getting late :( I must regretfully take my leave

Until next time!”

Duke: “Until next time, little lamb. I hope you rest well.”

#on:twitter #by:duchy #by:duke #if the crown fits

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whirlybirdwhat · 4 years ago

Text

from one dead man to another (the world is changing)

Skyjacks x One Piece Crossover - Read on Ao3 for better quality!

*shows up out of month?? month absence to post niche crossover fic*

@oceanaromantic finished it!!

-------------

Summary:

On the deck of a flying ship, one dead man (a skeleton, really, from an era long past) talks to another over a laying of cards.

(Freedom has always been a crown, no matter if ships sail on land or sea, and Orimar Vale has always reached for things bigger than himself. Brook just wants some company, for once.)

---------------

Brook has almost never quite seen a man like this before. He is like him, but not in the ways that matter. (Not in the ways of flesh and bone and the lack thereof.) Yet.... there is a gleam to his eyes that Brook will never have again.

(Not that he has eyes… skull joke!)

Brook strums his guitar, an old thing from an era long past and fallen, and laughs.

“Yohohoho! It is a pleasure meeting you, dear sir.” The bones of his face shift into a smile, gleaming white, with an aura of things not quite from this world (not anymore.)

(This world is not his anymore.)

Still, despite the walking, talking skeleton, the man across from Brook does nothing but shuffle a pack of cards.

“My name is Brook, though long ago I went by many titles. And Oh! What a time that was. I’m sure you, of course, have tales from before.” Brook tilts his skull back as he looks at the captain.

The captain.

Not his captain, of course (there will never be another– Brook has only ever had two, and the last one would be his until the end of eternity.

He is loyal, and no man should forget where is loyalty lies.)

But it is important to recognize the power and confidence of the man before him, a presence that could only belong to a captain. So -

The Captain it is, who continues in his task, ignoring the eyes of a dead man.

(Which one?)

The cards in the man’s hands are being played across the table now, flipped over one by one to reveal pictures of grace and beauty.

Of danger and threats.

The Forest Queen.

The Island.

The Maiden

“How many ships have you conquered, do you know? Conquests taken, lovers kept and hearts broken? Did you free people or take them?”

He’s a captain of course, a powerful one, which means he must have done this in some form, even if on accident. This is one of the truths of the world that Brook has long since etched into his nonexistent heart. People like them… they do not live life calmly.

More cards. The captain across from him waves his fingers across the designs on them, hands calloused with the marks of a pirate, a sailor, though the seas are not troubled by anyone now, for the most part.

(Often, Brook wishes they did.)

(Perhaps he would have more company then. A few more memories to play around in his mind.)

The Children.

The Soldiers.

The River.

“My crew, my beloved friends, they did it all! I hope, where ever they are they are continuing to do so – chasing dreams across endless waters and freeing countries from tyrants and gods.” The captain does not acknowledge the odd lilt – something like a breaking, a shattering – in Brook’s voice

The breeze from the sky rushes against their cheeks – that is, if Brook had any. Skull joke! The skeleton smiles at the wind as the tune from his instrument wavers across the sky. The man across from him, again, does not react to the wind or the sky or the sun. This table that they sit at, this duel between souls, is on the deck of some ship, but the captain does not seem to care.

Seem is the key word, for Brook knows souls and he knows this man.

He loves the sea and open air and sky. He loves freedom, if freedom has changed from water to air now. Freedom is still a crown, after all.

The captain is smiling, if his face does not show it.

Ringed hands place three more cards down.

The Union.

The Loom.

The Perfect Crime.

“My captain, my King, did both you know. Free people and take them, all at once. He was so selfish, so foolish, so brave. He took me from the fog and brought me too the light, and never told me that I would be his forever more. Funny that, that with his freedom came power and chains of love.”

The captain sits back now, shuffling the remaining cards once more. There are jewels in his hair and jewels decorating his neck, his coat like a louder, more imposing version of Brook’s own Captain’s coat. Red, and burning and bold – a captain in spirit and force and presence.

Brook does not know much about this man sitting before him. A captain, perhaps, a dueler maybe. A man who wants to be king, most definitely, and a player for sure.

But his soul? Brook does not want to say for certain, for all that it rings for love of the sky, but he things this is the kind of man his captain would have liked.

He’s certainly tall enough, towering as he is, and the confidence in which he lays these cards out is one Brook finds rarer these days, when one is not gambling.

“Do you like your crew, good sir? You seem the sort too. All good captains do.” Brook’s skeletal fingers pause on the strings of his guitar as he stares at Luminaries on the table. He’s played before, who hasn’t in this world of seasons and sky? A gamble was a gamble and a life was a life. Brook had neither money nor life but he did have a siren song, and a good game was a good way to past the time.

In bars, performing on a stage where not everyone screamed his name (Soul King! Soul King! Was a cheer he heard before but nowhere near as treasured as Brook! Brook! From dear friend’s voices) he had seen many a man and woman and person lose their way to the game. Only stupid sailors walked into a game expecting to win without loss.

The captain is not a stupid man, but expects to win nonetheless.

But they are not playing on this empty, floating ship deck.

They are merely talking, existing.

One dead man to another.

Brook looks at the cards.

“A reading of man, aye? Of the future or the past? I have already lived longer than most, longer alone than with company, but you learn to treasure moments spent together. And fate, dear captain sir, has no bearing on my life.”

The captain raises an eyebrow, the first expression he has given thus far. Brook takes pride in it.

“Yohohoho! It’s true!”

Luminaries, spread out upon a table, with no board or setting or anything of the sort, is an art that few know now. Brook was there for the birth of these Luminaries, and he was there for their rise and their not quite fall. This is a game he knows well.

The Luminaries dictate a life lived or a life to live.

Brook has been given the gift of life and ordered by his Captain, his beloved Captain, King, Lord, Savior, to keep living until the natural end.

Brook will never mutiny, and thus, the Luminaries can only show what he has already lived for Brook has almost quite lived it all. There is nothing new the Luminaries can tell, nothing that Brook doesn’t know is already coming.

And what use is there to know? The end of the story takes away the fun of living after all, yohohoho! His captain, not this captain, had made sure to teach him that.

The captain before him is on his second life, but Brook will leave it to him to figure out the truth of a life twice lived.

Strings of the divine pull at him as he begins to strum again, a familiar tune filling the air.

“Yo-hohoho, Yo-hoho-ho, Yo-hohoho, Yo-hoho-ho – Oh, I don’t suppose anyone knows lyrics to that one these days. Shame – it is my favorite! Though I suppose I could play something more fitting to the mood, dear captain sir?”

The captain nods his head, short and simple, looking out over the clouds as Brook readies a different tune. One more familiar to the skies than the sea.

Funny, how the world changes. Brook had sailed in the sky before, to islands made of cloud and beautiful sights, on a ship fit for a king, but nothing quite like this.

Sustained flight – oh how his crew would marvel!

The captain stares pensively at his cards as Brook hums the song in tune with his guitar.

“Health to the strangers who've ever been kind, And once for our friends ne'er to rise…”

In the sky there are no dangers for devil fruit users that would not kill any other.

In the sky, Brook has learned more truths than not, stories of the second fall and the truths behind the devils that lurk in his chest.

There is a church of a slain god now.

Do they know that before, men (a man, a king) dueled with gods instead of worrying himself with mortal affairs? Do they know of the bones that lie on the moon, and the beast that dwell in the deep? The ruins of a kingdom long fallen at the bottom of the ocean and the countries above the ships where even the loftiest air ships could never reach?

Brook knows they do not know, but still, he wonders.

(What if what if what if – what if he was not alone?)

“Ah, good captain sir. Tis a marvelous day. I hope you find joy in it.” He’s lost his train of thought. It’s common, now, in some nine hundred perhaps thousand years of life.

Truly, though, he’s no worse than when he was in the fog. At least this time he can go where he pleases, and feel the sun shine so warmly on his sea bleached bones.

The captain takes back the cards he splayed out for Brook and reaches into his coat pocket. A card, slender and gleaming, of much better quality than the rest, is held between his ringed fingers. The card is slipped into the Illimat deck and quickly hidden but –

Brook knows better.

He watches, fingers still moving on the guitar, as none other than Orimar Vale, the man with the smile of the devil, picks his own fortune.

There is only a single card chosen this time. Orimar Vale is in his second life, yes, but his first ended too early for a man of his persuasion. He has much to live for – much to dream for, Brook hopes (knows.)

The wind blows.

The sun shines brighter.

The flag of the Uhuru flies in the wind, jolly roger gleaming proud in the sky.

The captain, the ‘Devil’s Grin’, places a card upon the table between them.

A smile curls Brook’s bony face.

The Straw Hat.

(The mark of the Second Pirate King shall never be forgotten.

Brook had made sure of that in the creation of the Illimat, even if only the worthiest of sailors knew. A man dies when he is forgotten, and his captain will never die.)

This deck’s straw hat is wreathed in gold, shimmering in the light. The red band around it is vibrant, like slashes of blood on golden jewels, and it is a sort of fitting ruthless in the open air that makes Brook wish to sing. As it is, Brook looks at the way the hat is tilted like a crown and the way a crescent design beneath it slopes like a familiar scar.

(Now, people say that design is tradition, a tribute to some moon or star or other pattern. In reality, it is just the face of his captain, captured imperfectly on paper. A pity, really, but Brook will take it.)

“A king, aye? A worthy goal, dear captain sir. Do you have what it takes? Do you have the Will of Kings, the Will to reach for freedom?” Brook asks, meeting a dead man’s eyes with empty sockets at last. A grin forms brighter then, a smile curving lips of bone and flesh alike.

The captain winks.

“Yohohoho!”

Orimar Vale is not a successor, and never will be. The throne of Monkey D. Luffy will never be over thrown, of that, Brook is sure.

But – to have someone to challenge the seas, the skies, to take what he sees as his, with his beloved crew at his side? To have someone be bold and daring and unchanging again – to have the will of conquerors and kings that are from an era long past, beating again in time with the waves of the crashing sea?

That is a challenger.

Brook will gladly see him fight.

(Win.)

Something solid settles on his chest, and it feels a little like hope again.

(A little like freedom.)

“Then, dear sir, I will be taking my leave.” Brook has his answer to his unasked question. It wasn’t something he expected to find when venturing upward to some strange, divine pull, but it is welcome all the same.

Orimar is dead, but so is Brook. Neither of them are forgotten however, and the sea does not let hers go quietly. The sky is the same.

“I do hope you succeed, dear sir, and I will be watching. You love your crew, don’t you? The Uhuru is a place for the lost and the lonely. Perhaps soon I will join your ranks – though not as a crew member I can assure you that.” Brook chuckles at this, collecting his violin and placing his cane over his wrist. “It’s been so long, dear sir, since I have been part of a crew.”

To their left is a commotion, a crashing of crates and the shouts of chaos.

“Ga-Gable! Do, do, do not rush in so brash!”

“Dref. There is something aboard this ship – something that should not be here – and it’s not the fucking captain! What do you expect me to do?”

“Relax?”

“Travis, I don’t think you should be telling that to Gable.”

“Oh hush, Jonnit – wait, did you hear that?”

The deck had cleared out when Brook had stepped onto the Uhuru. He was no conqueror, but his soul was powerful. He could influence those when he wanted to.

But an angel – oh, and a seer? A changeling? Oh, those were mighty souls indeed, some he had not seen the likes of for centuries.

(Yes, Orimar is most definitely like his captain, to be able to pluck the strongest, most unsuspecting people and trap them into the most selfish loyalty one could have. The strong gravitate to him, people from unlikely paths, and somehow, Orimar does not seem to care – but only seems to love.

Just like the pirate king indeed.)

However, unlike the necromancer, Brook has no real urge to mess with the warriors of the divine at this moment. They were simply not fun, always trying to smite him when he smiled at them in the most kindly of fashions.

Orimar does not look behind him as the scolding draws closer, only watches calmly as Brook jumps onto the railing, steps feather light, like the breeze could blow him over at any moment. “Take care of them, won’t you, dear captain? Friends are the most cherished type of freedom.”

Orimar nods.

“Then, Farewell! Till we meet again!”

And as the captain’s inner circle rounds the bend of the ship, Brook steps off the ship a thousand yards above the sea, and falls into the open air.

Behind him on a lonesome sky ship bursts of confusion echo, but Brook only laughs as he falls and falls and falls, into the embrace of the sea.

And all Orimar does, when Dref murmurs about him and plucks the Straw Hat card from his hands, is winks.

Yohohoho!

#anyway brook is the mariner send tweet #idk if this will show up in the tags since I link my ao3 but oh well #READ BOTHHHH #op #one piece #brook #orimar vale #skyjacks #campaign skyjacks #campaign-podcast #campaignpodcast #dref wormwood #gable #travis matagot #jonnit kessler #everyone have emotions about pirates with me!!!#whirlywhat #whirlywrites

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illshowyourhurricanes · 5 years ago

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Flash: Zoom (Part one)

Sometimes, there’s this thing that happens and a request grows a mind of it’s own, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. This is what happened here, and the culprit is @something-tofightfor, who snatched up this image prompt and made a request before anyone else had the chance:

This one is something a little differently than I’ve done before, and with that being said, it’s quite the ride, but a fun one! Here, we see Billy as a Marine, and over a decade later, as a TBI patient. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy-- there’s a lot more to come in this one!

Image prompt 7: Billy Russo x reader

Rating: R for language; possible trigger warning in mentions of crime and mental health

Word count: 3530

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

Billy smiled like he’d never seen the atrocities of war. He grinned, and he showcased perfectly straight, unnaturally white teeth. His expression always reached his eyes, dark eyelashes framing his lids and accentuating the slight upturning of the corner of each, the left and the right. His jaw, strong and angular, could cut glass. Billy Russo was so organically gorgeous, so naturally photogenic, it was frustrating.

“People spend all of their money and years of their lives to maybe get photographed for a damn JC Penney catalog, yet here you are putting zero effort forth and looking like this.” You stopped fanning the instant Polaroid, took one more look, and rolled your eyes, offering the photograph to Billy. “Take a look, George Clooney.”

Billy smirked and plucked the photo from your fingers, giving it a quick glance before handing it back. “Imagine how much better they’d come out if you let me buy you a real camera. What’s your brand, Y/N? Nikon? Canon?” Billy turned toward you, his palms skimming down the length of your arms. “You want somethin’ digital?”

You cocked your head at Billy. His hands had dropped to your hips. “Polaroid. Classic. I’m all about instant gratification, Russo.”

Billy laughed in a deep timbre, pulling you closer and into a lingering hug. “One day,” he spoke into your hair. “When you grow into having patience… patience waiting for me until that next time I come home… I’m buying you that camera.” His New York accent was coming through strong, and that tended to happen when Billy really believed in something. You tightened your arms that were circled around his middle and pressed your cheek to Billy’s chest, listening for his heartbeat.

As you listened to that rhythm, your face fell and your posture deflated with your exhale. You slumped your shoulders and your arms dropped from Billy’s midsection, but you continued to linger in his arms. He always made sure to speak as if coming back was a guarantee; as if fighting on the front lines in Kandahar was just a normal trip overseas. You swallowed past a lump that had formed in your throat. You wouldn’t succumb to it in front of Billy. Not yet.

He was attuned to your posture, however small the shift in the way you carried yourself may be. Billy was attentive— he knew things about you, little nuances, unconscious mannerisms or habits, why you hated steak fries but loved waffle fries. There was a file in his brain, one specifically dedicated to you. He cared about you, your well-being and your happiness… your life. And he was a part of it, an essential part, whether he knew it or not. When he was gone, across oceans and continents and hemispheres, he took that essential part of your life with him.

It wasn’t lost on you that you were long past the falling head-over-heels, missing meals because your thoughts were all- consuming, dreamy-eyed and irrevocably smitten phase of what you had with Billy. You cared about him a lot, maybe more than he cared about you. The two of you had never exchanged “I love you”s; it was very rare and circumstantial the handful of times you or Billy talked about the future. And he’d made nods toward that precarious, never guaranteed place twice in just the last 10 minutes.

Lifting your head, you looked up at him, that woozy feeling of being drunk with one look into his darkened eyes very akin to that intoxicating feeling that came with love. “I’m holding you to that, Lieutenant.”

***** *****

You’d snagged a job with a popular psychiatric publication, and you chalked it all up to luck. Between your blog, business cards, spending all of your free time (and money) advertising, and networking with anyone who’d pay the smallest bit of attention, your name had been mentioned to a person with serious media connections. A random, brief phone call during a leisurely shoot one afternoon in the park resulted in a request for a viewing of your portfolio. Deemed “supremely impressive”, you were hired for a very specific field job.

That was how you ended up at Sacred Saints Hospital, deep in the heart of New York City.

New York was home, yet you’d been away for a good amount of time, traveling to build up your portfolio. The health facility you were to feature in the job you’d be hired for was a well-known facility. Sacred Saints was expansive, offering physical health services—surgery and recovery, intensive care, extensive stay— as well as mental health services and rehabilitation. Your goal for the piece was to photograph a host of mental health-centered techniques and options while still presenting patients as “normal” human beings, human beings that were not untouchable and should not be stigmatized.

The challenge was going to be finding a balance between clear, clinical photos and those of therapy at work versus the personal aspect of mental health care. Whatever got written wasn’t up to you, but one of your niches was getting shots of moments that captured emotion: someone throwing their head back in laughter, a person staring blankly, eyes full with tears of grief. You could only hope those shots would provoke receptive emotions in their viewers. Photography was deeply personal work when allowed to be. It was also a matter of legality in many situations, and this was one of them.

You needed clearance. The publication had kicked things off by securing permissions from the hospital-- you’d been issued a temporary badge for security issues, identification and such, and being cleared to enter the wards. The rest of what was required was consent from patients being photographed. The latter was much trickier given certain mental disabilities and the quick unpredictability that came with some personality disorders and brain injuries, but it was necessary, no exception. Day 1 was mostly dedicated to obtaining patient consent.

You treaded lightly. These people were still mothers, sons, sisters, uncles, still human… still people. They had the right of integrity, and you weren’t there to take that from them; you were there to bring awareness to the public, to remind everyone on the outside that the people inside of this facility were no different than those that read the magazine… that humanity is something every person deserves and should be given.

You were satisfied with your work for the afternoon, which had been surprisingly productive. A small stack of patient consent forms had been signed, and if you could get one to two more, you could start with your favorite part of the job-- the actual photography-- the next day.

Not merely content but happy, you walked along the tile floor of the main corridor with your camera hanging around your neck. The glint of artificial light reflecting off something shiny grabbed your attention; it was a badge on a policeman’s uniform, just above his left chest pocket. You felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Another deputy appeared from the threshold of what appeared to be the same room and your footsteps quickened, your shoulders and head held higher as you approached them. As far as you’d seen, there were no other rooms guarded by any sort of law enforcement official on the ward. Your mouth was dry in anticipation; you knew you had to get into that room, to do all you could to coerce the patient to be photographed. It was blatantly obvious they had something no one else at Sacred Saints did, and that something needed to be captured on film. With a professional nod and a smile, you greeted the policemen, showing them your temporary badge of secured access and offering a short summary of what your goal was.

“I did notice you’re the only two officials on the ward,” you added, coming toward the end of your hopefully successful allowed entry of the room to your right. You’d only gotten one quick glance through the square-paned window set in the patient’s door and the only thing you could make out was dark hair, cropped close to the skull.

One of the deputies, a short and stocky male with a no-nonsense expression, eyed you with one raised brow. “We ain’t here for fun, lady. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several counts of murder for starters. This ain’t the circus… though the asshole looks like a sideshow freak.” He elbowed his partner in a jovial manner, the two of them snickering.

You narrowed your eyes at both officials, a total lack of any sort of amusement apparent on your face. You were seriously doubting this level of holding guard was necessary, as if these two clowns were serving a purpose standing outside of this person’s room dehumanizing him to a stranger.

“I understand he’s a felon, officer, but the two of you seem like competent individuals.” Taking a long stride to peek more closely into the patient’s room, the taller of the guards stepped in front of you. Holding up your hand, you continued to speak. “It seems he’s restrained to the bed, his arms and legs are strapped like he’s in a straight-jacket. What harm can he possibly do in such a position?”

The steeled look you’d been given by the cop attempting to block you from entering softened marginally as you stated the obvious. The patient couldn’t move from the bed, convicted felon or not. He was utterly powerless.

“You ain’t gonna get nothin’, lady,” the first man you’d encountered piped up. “He claims he got no clue why he’s in here, don’t remember, nothin’.” This policeman’s thick Brooklyn accent gave you some sort of uneasy deja vu, but you couldn’t put together the pieces, what it was a reminder of.

“I just want to ask if I can take his picture. No coercion, a simple yes or no question. It won’t take longer than five minutes, if that long, and you can see the entire interaction if you open those blinds.” There were windows the length of the room on either side, though the view was obstructed by cheap, plastic blinds, drawn so no outside view was available.

Both officers looked extremely bored, ready for you to get out of their hair and scamper away in defeat. You weren’t giving in, and you stood even with them, brows raised just a fraction in anticipation. The cops shared an exasperated glance, and the one standing in your way moved to the side. “We can see all we need through the door, ma’am.”

Of course you can, you thought to yourself bitterly. This man doesn’t have the freedom to move anything more than his head.

“You’re wastin’ your time even askin’.” You turned your head to look blankly to the cop from Brooklyn, his increasingly stupid, know-it-all commentary really starting to irk you.

“It’s my time to waste, officer.” You managed to plaster a forced smile on your face, taking another step toward the door. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” You spoke to the less obnoxious deputy only. Your hand already on the doorknob, you stepped inside the room within half a second, closing the door with a soft click behind you.

***** *****

He hated being strapped to this goddamn bed. He hated that his goddamn face hurt. He hated that he couldn’t fucking sleep because of those fucking dreams, and he hated every goddamn thing about this fucking place. The cops guarding his room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; the nurses who tiptoed around his room, terrified; that stupid bitch of a doctor who wanted him to finger-paint like he was in kindergarten; that woman who was always at the foot of his bed, just standing there and staring with a self-righteous smirk of contempt and satisfaction. All of it was a living hell, but he hated nothing more than to be strapped to this goddamn bed.

He could hear voices outside his room; the useless cops, no doubt, and also the voice of a female. Everything was muted, words muffled; he couldn't hear actual words, but he could hear sound and tone. Who was the woman this time? Was it Dr. Dumont? The mystery woman who watched him sleep? A nurse, perhaps? Whoever it was, Billy didn’t want to be bothered or provoked… but maybe whoever it was would unstrap him. He could ask Dr. Dumont, or scare a nurse into asking for him. God, he wanted to walk, he wanted to go to the fucking gym, he wanted to look outside. Anything but these same four, drab walls, the smells and sights and sounds of Sacred Saints hospital.

With a click of his door opening, in walked a woman he’d not seen before. Who is this? Billy was in thought immediately, but the question he’d asked himself didn’t unnerve him that much anymore. People were always in and out; some repeat offenders, some he’d never seen before and would probably never see again, if he had any luck in his new joke of a life. But the one person that should have been there, that was never there, was Frank-- his best friend, his brother, the only family he’d ever had. Where is Frank?

Nobody ever answered him. He just continued to wonder, to ask, to hope. Desperately, he attempted to push the question from his mind, peering at the woman who had just entered his room. At least she ain’t a repeat offender.

He’d never seen her before, and through his suspicion and wariness, he didn’t fail to notice that that she was extremely attractive. In another life, he’d stride over to her, get her number, and her legs would be wrapped around him that same night. She’d be writing beneath him, screaming his name. In another life, Billy, he thought bitterly. In another life.

***** *****

There was already a small pit of sympathy that had settled deep down in your chest. This man had obviously done some terrible things, but who knew what had been haunting his mind then, what was haunting it now. There were no excuses that needed to be made for him, but to be talked about and ridiculed by men of the law that stood just outside his door… that would be dehumanizing for anyone.

As you opened the door cautiously, stepping inside in the same fashion, you kept a shadow of a smile on your face and somehow kept it from faltering. Not because he was confined, strapped to his bed— you'd seen that through that small excuse of a window paned with plastic in his door— but because there wasn’t a man looking at you as you’d expected; it was a phantom.

A stark white, generic plastic mask was pulled down over his face, and all you could see that reminded you that this was indeed a human being were his short spikes of black hair. And as you got closer, you felt your heart quicken at the stark contrast of inky black and blinding white between eyes and mask.

You kept your wits about you, but couldn’t help but think how badly you wanted those cops to be wrong, how badly you wanted and needed a photo of this man— how this was what you felt deep in your soul that you were trying to convey. This opportunity was fated; nothing this perfect happened by chance.

Just as you spoke a hello, a loud rapping at the door interrupted your pending introduction and in walked an older woman, wearing scrubs, clogs on her feet that squeaked over the flooring with each step. She held a small paper medicine cup in one hand, a drink of water in the other. She set both down on a bedside table.

“Time to get you out of this.” She reached out and roughly tugged at the restraints, a deafening sound of the pulling back of more Velcro than you’d ever seen in your lifetime. The man in the bed pushed himself up, still not saying a word as he was given medication. “The Tylenol you requested.” With a turning of his head, the man lifted his mask just enough for a quick swallowing of the pills, still revealing nothing. As he turned back to face you, he rolled his neck to the right, then the left. You briefly wondered what the mask meant to the patient as the nurse took his trash. Nodding at you briskly, she quickly left the room, leaving the two of you alone.

The stranger in front of you was tall, the length of the bed he lay in, and rail thin— skeletal, even. There was nothing imposing about him, no danger or peril in the air. From the little you’d seen, you couldn’t imagine this man as being dangerous at all, much less a felon, a murderer. But he was quiet— so quiet. Not one utterance, one word, one sound since you’d entered the room. You wondered if this was a tactic, a technique, or a result of his TBI.

Greeting him again, you got down to business by introducing yourself, explaining why you were there. “I’m Y/N, and I’m a photographer. I was assigned to take photographs for a periodical, and wanted to ask if you’d mind if I took a few pictures.” You spoke in a professional manner, kept your voice amicable, and spoke at a volume just shy of what you considered “normal”. You felt the need to keep the patient placated, at ease, and you wanted the cops to hear nothing you said.

“I have a release form, I’d just need your name and signature, and if you choose, your photo won’t have to be captioned and your name never mentioned. I only need the information for your release. Nothing more.” You gestured to the clipboard you held, the thin stack of release forms secured there, and tried not to look as hopeful as you felt.

This could be it— the photo, the one that would give you more exposure, and more importantly, the one that would evoke emotion and draw readers in. The humanity and recognition for these patients that you were initially working to capture could very well be debunked by this one photo of a man who was desperately trying to shroud his humanness. Then again, the obvious contrast could be striking. That, however, was ultimately left up to the writer.

Your attention was captured as the man in the bed slowly tilted his head to the side, regarding you through the cut-out eye holes of the plastic mask. The color of his eyes were jarring, almost black, and they bored into you with a type of intensity you’d never encountered before. Your pulse quickened and you could feel the pounding of your heart against your chest. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several murders for starters. You remembered the policeman with the Brooklyn accent, his warning, and just as you felt a cold, creeping fear crawling up your spine, you remembered the rest of what had been said: This ain’t the circus, even though the asshole looks like a circus freak. Your fear twisted into determination, and you didn’t shy away from his stare; in fact, your posture shifted as you stood up straighter, never looking away from this masked man.

“You got a pen?” The voice was muffled by the barrier of his mask, the tone was deep and rough from disuse. He also had somewhat of a Brooklyn accent and his voice sounded vaguely familiar… you rationalized that you didn’t know this person, and perhaps the voice just reminded you of that arrogant prick of a cop you’d had the pleasure of meeting just outside. In response to his question, however, your triumph skyrocketed. You knew your emphatic nod was eager.

“Yes, right here.” You calmly took the few steps to his bedside, keeping in mind to not ambush a TBI patient with sudden movement. Holding out the clipboard, you referenced points of the release to be filled in with the pen he’d asked for. “All I need is your name, printed here, today’s date, and your signature here. This second box can be checked, stating you do not want to be identified as the subject of this photo at any time.”

He took the pen and clipboard and you began to toy with your camera, adjusting the focus, the drive mode, and the aperture. Your fingers were quick, working deftly, and you peeked once through the viewfinder for verification. In the silence of the room, you heard the faint sound of pen scratching over paper, and then, the clipboard was raised, pen laid on top. Holding back a beaming smile was difficult, but you managed as you were given back the clipboard, this time with a signed release.

“Thank you, Mr—“ You glanced down at the information he’d given you, and your heart seized in your chest. William Russo. It was there in clear print, block letters you recognized from your past, a signature so familiar you’d know it anywhere... the certain curving of the R and perfect circle of the O. Your stomach lurched and a wave of nausea washed over you, and then, your voice was stolen and replaced with his own as he finished for you.

“Russo.”

#dani's 150 followers event #drabble requests #image 7 #billy russo x reader

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carmen-sandie-go · 4 years ago

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River Styx: what do u think happens when we die

Hey anon ,

This question made me think. Like think think and then the sudden harsh reality that I am going to die someday and not be a teenager anymore but actually some old grandma hit me hard so thanks for that bruh.

I really don't know what happens. I believe that once the body does the soul goes to a court room where it is presented in front of god and according to the karma in this life the fate is decided. If you have done exceptionally well and good things you go to heaven . Which I believe would be the case for 1% people. You then are able to attain moksha or the freedom from the re birth cycle. If you have done evil deeds then you serve your time in hell . Which would be the case for 20% people give today's crime statistics. Now the people who have done their time in hell get a choice to either become a demon , re birth or heaven I believe that most would choose heaven . Lastly the rebirthers people who neither belong in heaven nor in hell but this doesn't mean they have not don't anything wrong or anything good.

According to Hinduism

Among the collected hymns of the Rigveda (which may date from 1500 BC and probably constitute the earliest known book in the world), there is a “Song of Creation.” “Death was not there,” it states, “nor was there aught immortal.” The world was a total void, except for “one thing, breathless, yet breathed by its own nature.” This is the first recorded insight into the importance of respiration to potential life. To the intellectually inclined Hindu, the eternal, infinite, and all-pervasive principle of Brahman alone is real, and the acquisition of cosmic consciousness allows humans to become one with it. The individual soul (ātman) is merely a particle of this cosmic principle. Think of it this way , a drop propelling out of the ocean its different from the ocean for a while but in the end it is made up from this ocean and returns back to it.

After death At the cremation site, a lighted torch is handed to the eldest son or grandson, who ignites the pyre, near the feet of the dead woman, at the head of the dead man. While the body is burning the soul is thought to seek refuge within the head. The intense heat usually explodes the skull, liberating the soul; when this does not happen spontaneously, the skull is deliberately shattered by blows from a cudgel. Other traditions hold that the soul passes out through the nose, eyes, and mouth. Some believe it is better still if it leaves through the anterior fontanel, an opening in the skull that normally closes during early childhood. Such theorists hold that if the deceased has practiced yoga or intense meditation, this opening will reopen, allowing free passage to the soul. In some parts of India it is believed that the souls of the really wicked depart through the rectum, and in so doing acquire such defilement that endless purification is necessary.

Immediately after death, the soul is not clothed in a physical body but in a vaporous thumb-sized structure (linga ṡarīra). This is immediately seized by two servants of Yama, the god of death, who carry it to their master for a preliminary identity check. Afterward, the soul is promptly returned to the abode of the deceased, where it hovers around the doorstep. It is important that the cremation be completed by the time of the soul’s return, to prevent it from reentering the body. By the 10th day, the near relatives have purged some of the defilement (mṛitaka sutaka) they incurred from the death, and the chief mourner and a priest are ready to carry out the first śrāddha (ritual of respect). This is a step toward the reconstitution of a more substantial physical body (yatana ṡarīra) around the disembodied soul (preta) of the deceased. A tiny trench is dug in a ritually purified piece of land by a river, and the presence of Vishnu is invoked. Ten balls of barley flour mixed with sugar, honey, milk, curds, ghee, and sesame seeds are then placed, one by one, in the soil. As the first ball is offered, the priest says (and the son repeats after him), “May this create a head”; with the second ball, “May this create neck and shoulders”; with the third, “May this create heart and chest”; and so on. The 10th request is for the ball to create the capacity to digest, thereby satisfying the hunger and thirst of the newly created body. Bungled ceremonies can have catastrophic effects. Prayers are offered to Vishnu to help deliver the new entity (now perceived as some 18 inches [46 centimetres] long) into the power of Yama. The balls of barley are picked up from the trench and thrown into the river. Further śrāddhas are performed at prescribed times, varying according to caste; one of these rituals makes the soul an ancestral spirit, or pitṛi. With the completion of these rituals, the soul of the deceased leaves this world for its yearlong and perilous journey to Yama’s kingdom. The family is now formally cleansed. The men shave their heads, and the women wash their hair. The family’s tutelary god (removed by a friend at the time of the death) can be returned to its home. A feast is offered to Brahmans, neighbours, and beggars—even the local cows are given fresh grass. There is a sense of general relief: if the śrāddhas had not been performed, the preta could have become a bhūta (malignant spirit), repeatedly turning up to frighten the living. For the deceased, things would have been worse: the preta would have been left errant. (A similar fate befalls the soul of a person who commits suicide.) The horror of dying unshriven that haunted people in medieval Europe resembles the despair of the devout Hindu at the prospect of having no son to perform the śrāddhas.

The soul, in its substantial envelope, is meanwhile proceeding on its journey, holding onto a cow’s tail to cross the Vaitarani, a horrible river of blood and filth that marks the boundary of Yama’s kingdom. Throughout, it is sustained by further śrāddhas, during which friends on earth seek to provide it with shoes, umbrellas, clothing, and money. These they give to a Brahman, in the hope that the deceased will benefit. During such rituals relatives have to avoid all sewing, which might occlude the pitṛi’s throat, rendering it incapable of ever breathing or drinking again. After a year, the pitṛi in its yatana ṡarīra reaches Yama’s seat of judgment, where it is sentenced to a strictly limited term in heaven (svarga) or hell (naraka) according to its deserts. This completed, it moves into another body (the karaṇa ṡarīra), whose form depends on the individual’s karman. It could be a plant, a cockroach, a canine intestinal parasite, a mouse, or a human being. Unlike Jains, Hindus believe that whatever body the soul eventually moves into, it inhabits as sole tenant, not as a tenement lodger

#asks #wow #idk what to say #philosophy #yeeeehhh #getting older

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sparklyjojos · 4 years ago

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CARNIVAL DAY recaps [9/13]

Today’s recap: The wave, the dragon, and the hell of heaven.

FORTY-EIGHT

05 July 1997 — 11 July 1997

THE DREAM CONTINENT / THE GREAT TSUNAMI

The Billion Killer cases came to an end some time ago, but detective organizations are still bombed every week, so on July 5th every employee leaves the JDC building near 1 PM just in case. It’s a great day for XX, Outa, and Suzuki, as it’s the release day of 19box. The JDC building doesn’t explode at 1 PM (instead some poor detectives in Spain lose their workplace).

...but XX still has a horrible feeling that something bad is about to happen, and he’s proven right when they see the news: a giant tsunami is going to hit Japan in twelve hours.

Different people react differently when given a time limit like this. Some start committing all the crimes they never had the occasion to commit; some helplessly wait with their friends or observe the chaos in silence; some attempt to escape to the highest mountains or safer countries; some pray for a miracle. Some keep on their posts out of the sense of duty, some abandon them and run. The JDC Band, which was supposed to have a concert in Chiba that day, performs for free for all who choose to stay there, determined on playing until the very end.

Strong J Outa calls many of his authors. He, XX and Suzuki wonder what they should do while everyone around is leaving the JDC building. Suzuki believes they won’t manage to escape anyway and that everyone must die some day. Despite XX’s earlier dread when waiting for the 1 PM to pass, he now doesn’t want to run either. Outa decides to stay in the JDC building with them and pray that a miracle will happen.

The three are drinking and watching the news in anticipation. XX still doesn’t understand his own lack of desire to run. It’s like something deep within him is telling him not to move and stay where he is, a feeling similar to that when he thinks someone else is writing using his hands. A feeling like he’s going to describe the current events in his book in the future.

The giant wall of the tsunami is almost at the shore of Japan. The TV announcers say their goodbyes and the broadcast ends.

Outa and XX wait for Suzuki to return from his bathroom trip, but he doesn’t come back, and they realize he must have escaped in the end, leaving them alone.

Kyoto is deserted and quiet around them as they wait. They wonder how much time it will take for the wave to get here. They wait and wait, but it doesn’t come.

Finally, the TV broadcast comes back on and delivers breaking news.

A miracle has occurred. While the tsunami flooded the shore regions of Japan, it had subsided enough before it hit that many regions of the country are safe.

It’s later estimated that a billion people worldwide fell victim to the Carnival Wave—truly a Billion Killer. Many regions were completely flooded. The JDC band and their audience all perished. The only reason why the death toll wasn’t bigger was that the mysterious continent sank again, and the ocean rushing back into place pulled away some force from the waves, shrinking them to 100-300 meters instead of a kilometer in height.

People died. Too many people died.

(...Kakuusan Kanke, real name Mizuno Yuriko, was on Easter Island at the time. Below is Kakuusan Kanke’s testimony. [Originally in first person.])

Things were getting weird in JDC. First Christmas kidnapped Hanto Maimu and Kuraimu, then all three disappeared along with Yaiba, then Kirika vanished leaving a suicide message, then Dokuson announced he’s the Billion Killer and booked it, then Manji Tawawa stated she was going to catch Dokuson and also vanished without a trace. But even before Dokuson fled, things were strange.

Kanke’s reasoning method is at its best when she’s jealous, which is also why she’s good at solving crimes born out of envy or jealousy. But something didn’t sit right with her about the murder of Jouka by jealous grieving Jounosuke fans. She wasn’t sure what, though. Maybe the murder happened because there hadn’t been enough security guards around or something—perhaps Dokuson made a mistake and didn’t want to admit it?

But Dokuson told her (in his usual philosophical rambling way) that he was not like all those cowardly elites who live in fear of mistakes, and that unlike God Tsukumo Juku, he was very obviously human (which was of course yet another reason for why he was so great). Dokuson was at that point in time the world’s greatest genius, yes, but he had arrived there by making the world’s greatest mistakes. Past himself had been the world’s greatest fool, but he saw no shame in that, as the mistakes had let him grow this much. Nowadays, as someone the closest to perfection, he would not tolerate any mistakes from himself and would readily admit his fault without excuses. And also, he noticed how other people would feel content with small successes and give up developing further, and he was very insistent in telling Kanke to always keep on growing.

Hearing that rambling speech, it was hard to think that Dokuson made a mistake he wouldn’t admit. But something still felt off. Kanke asked him if he knew some hidden truth behind Jouka’s death or the kidnapping incident with Christmas.

Dokuson said he’d noticed that Jouka could be in danger, and warned her several times against investigating Jounosuke’s death. In the end, Jouka was murdered not by a random jealous person, but by a member of the fanclub of Minase Nagisa and Dakushoin Ryusui, the same group that was responsible for the Cosmic Jokers case. (Dokuson didn’t want to say much more about them, as it could put Kanke in danger.)

Dokuson also noticed that Christmas had become unusually withdrawn since his trip to Egypt. He was seen talking with Kirika a lot shortly before she disappeared.

Kanke investigated more by following Christmas’s past actions. That’s why she was on Easter Island when something bizarre happened: with a deafening rumble, the entire island suddenly started rising high into the air, sending giant waves in every direction. Then the sea seemed to disappear—instead, Kanke saw a massive land down below. It’s like Easter Island had been just a tiny protruding part of a giant sunken continent. After some time, the continent receded underwater again.

Kanke stayed on the island to investigate, and when a week later she looked at the sky, she saw a dragon.

FORTY-NINE

12/07/97 — 18/07/97

DRAGON

(And in the latest news…)

...On July 12th, a giant unidentified animal is spotted flying near the Mariana Islands after apparently having burst out of the ocean. On the evening of July 15th, the creature swoops down towards Easter Island, topples the Moai statues, slides down the beach to the sea and disappears underwater.

Nine skulls of the Billion Killer are left on the beach. All face the same direction.

The unidentified animal is described as being thirty meters long, black, with a long neck and wings, similar to a dragon. Scientists think this dragon might instead be some sort of a vehicle.

...if the Crime Olympics continue with the same speed, it’s estimated that over 3,7 billion people will have died by the time of August 10th...

...on July 18th, RISE sends “the last message” to the UN, informing them that they’re going to make the Cosmic Bomb (the Moon) crash into the Earth on Carnival Day...

...the rumor says that the JDC Band had belonged to the suicide cult DICE...

...ever since the Carnival Wave, global unrest is soaring...

Suzuki never showed up again, but Outa and XX continue to work. XX starts writing about the Crime Olympics in earnest. It’s impossible to grasp and understand an event as gargantuan in scale, but he’s doing the best he can.

All the research and writing makes him notice things, have doubts and suspicions. Carnival Dice, Carnival Wave… what’s with that word? A lot of people would associate Carnival with the joyful time in Rio de Janeiro. The word is said to have originated from the Latin carne levare, “remove meat”, as the time of the Christian season of Carnival comes right before Lent. The term often means a celebratory masquerade. It’s also distressingly similar to the world cannibal.

Outa notices that the name DICE is quite fitting; the word “dice” is the plural of “die”, so signifies a lot of deaths. Maybe it also had something to do with gambling with people's lives.

As for the mysterious landmass in the ocean, Outa thinks it could be Mu, the lost continent that according to its popularizator James Churchward had been obliterated and sunk in a single night. A similar story was told about Atlantis, so the two continents were often theorized to either be one and the same, or to have sunk during the same cataclysm. Mu was described as reaching from the Marianas to Easter Island, and from Hawaii to the Cook Islands.

Outa also talked about OOParts (Out Of Place Artifacts), objects found in an unusual context that challenges our knowledge of history, for example the golden Quimbaya airplanes or the Mesoamerican crystal skulls. Many objects sometimes considered to be OOParts seem to have a connection with the Billion Killer—the Moai statues, the Nazca lines, Stonehenge, Cappadocia, Machu Picchu, the stone spheres of Costa Rica, the Pyramid of the Sun, Mohenjo-daro, the Great Pyramid, the crystal skulls…

The connections continue. The Billion Killer skulls are made of orichalcum, which according to legends was a shining mineral occuring on Atlantis. Another hypothetical lost continent was called Lemuria, just like the S-detective.

Outa seems to always have an answer to anything, so XX asks about himself—who was he before he lost memory? Outa answers that he was working for JDC, though not as a detective.

What he means is that XX is none other than the security guard Nakamoto Hiroya.

FIFTY

19 Jul 1997 — 25 Jul 1997

NIGHTMARE OF HEAVEN / BOTTOM OF THE SEA

(Christmas Mizuno went through quite a lot during the Crime Olympics.

Below is Christmas Mizuno’s testimony. [Originally in first person.])

When the old woman Cassandra finished telling Christmas the truth about his brother Pyramid, four new people showed up. Three wore black suits. The last one looked exactly like Christmas and used a chloroform cloth to knock out the detective.

When Christmas regained consciousness, he was in a small room together with the old woman. She told him they were in RISE’s “underground heaven”, Shangri-La, a camp for Beasts—former prisoners—who have been gathered here to fight in “criminal world championships”.

Christmas quickly learned the place was hell on earth. Corpses and bones everywhere. Crazed naked people running around, more similar to actual beasts than humans, looking at Christmas and the old woman like they were going to become their next meals. The old woman explained that this place had no food at all—except for other people. Fortunately, the “beasts” were weak from hunger and seemed to know they wouldn’t stand much chance against Christmas right now. They also feared the darkness of the cave’s lowest level; there was fresher water there, but they could easily fall into a trap of smarter “beasts”.

The old woman stated there was no way out of Shangri-La, or at least it hadn’t been found so far. Her own last mission was guiding Christmas around the place and explaining things. Like she had said before, she wasn’t a member of RISE, but had mutually profitable relations with them (that entire thing with killing people who climbed the Pyramids). Christmas was chosen to become RISE’s guest, but first he would be tested in Shangri-La. The woman all but ordered him to go into the darkness below. She said that if he didn’t go, his brother Pyramid’s sacrifice for him would be in vain.

Christmas ran into the darkness. Once he was a good distance away, he looked back and saw the old woman being surrounded and attacked by the “beasts”. She died without even trying to defend herself.

Christmas had no choice but to wander further into the complete darkness—or rather, to get lost in the complete darkness, as getting lost was his unfortunate specialty. No matter how far he went, he couldn’t find anything but more darkness. Thirsty, hungry and exhausted, he eventually collapsed on the ground for who knew how long.

Eventually two voices came from the darkness, telling him that the Great King Enma was awaiting him. Christmas was picked up and taken somewhere, but he lost consciousness halfway through.

When he woke up, he was in a dimly lit room. The round door had an eye in a triangle drawn on it. Aside from Christmas, there were three people in the room: one had silver clothes and a mask of a bull, the other two had masks of a horse and a deer. The minotaur held a skull of the Billion Killer in his lap, its glow the only source of light.

All three spoke Japanese, but claimed they were using “R language”. The minotaur said they would test Christmas in a very simple way: he was to answer a few questions truthfully (and since he had problems speaking from exhaustion, nodding or shaking his head would do). The minotaur warned that he had the power to see through every lie, then started the questioning.

Was Christmas told by the old woman that there was no escape from Shangri-La? (Yes.) Did Christmas know there was no other way to survive in Shangri-La other than eating human flesh? (Yes.) Did he think he could get out before he died of starvation? (No.) Then what would he do—simply wait for death or kill others? (...No.) Then he would still try to escape until the end? (Yes.) But he’s too weak to try escaping now. Wouldn’t he kill and eat someone to gain the strength to escape? (No. “Just water…” he managed to say.) What a stubborn guy. But if the masked trio was the one to hunt and kill, and just gave him the human meat, would he eat it? (No!) Well then, the last question. A choice. Eat human meat and survive, or don’t eat it and die. Which would he choose? (... … “The first one”, Christmas answered in desperation.) Oh, and here was the first lie! But Christmas had already made his resolve obvious.

The three masked men left him alone in the dark room afterwards. Christmas’s memories from that time are fuzzy. He wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. In a situation so hopeless, facing his own death approaching, he couldn’t spare the energy to cry over his fate. Instead, he found himself smiling—a faint, pure smile in the unending darkness—the only thing he was able to do to keep his spirits up.

After the longest time, the three masked men returned and informed Christmas he was officially invited to the Sanctuary as a guest. They somehow carried him out of Shangri-La, one of them leaving a Billion Killer skull behind “for the future”. Christmas was in critical condition, so he received urgent medical treatment in the Sanctuary, including a period of cold sleep in a strange capsule. Then he met his friends, saw his look-alike die, met Tierra. Quite a chaotic time.

In July, RISE invited all the guests to Heaven—El Dorado, the opposite of the hell of Shangri-la. The Sanctuary moved towards the bottom of the Mariana Trench...

[>>>NEXT PART>>>]

#sparkly reads carnival day #maijo and jdc stuff

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