#and the blue blood spatter pattern on his shirt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lumpofwhump · 2 years ago

Text

OC Picrew Masterlist

Here are all my OCs in one place! More details on each will be added if and when they appear.

Topher Farley (he/him)

Role(s): Whumpee / Caretaker

Continuities: Sci-Fi Whump Series

[Image description: White man with messy teal hair, darker blue eyes, and glasses. He has a plain white shirt and a brown coat. He has a shy smile.]

Clee Dternás (she/her)

Roles: Caretaker / Whumpee

Continuities: Sci-Fi Whump (The Scavenger & the Forgotten)

[Image description: Pale green woman with long pointed ears and fangs. She has bright blue eyes, freckles, and large, bushy hair light brown hair. She has a baggy brown coat over a white shirt. She looks skeptical or frustrated. Antennae and broken horns not pictured.]

Radu (E2218R7) (he/him)

Roles: Whumpee

Continuities: Sci-Fi Whump (The Scavenger & the Forgotten)

[Image description: A grey-skinned man with pointed ears and long, stringy grey hair. He has exoskeloton/horns and yellow-ish eyes. He has a blanket draped over a white shirt. His expression is frightened/disoriented. Not pictured are his larger size, older age, and wings.]

Harlowe (she/her)

Roles: Caretaker / Whumpee

Continuities: Sci-Fi Whump (Prisoners of War)

[Image description: Brown-skinned woman with short, dark brown hair and a yellow eye. Her other eye is covered in an eye patch. Her face is splattered with blood, and she has a scar along her face and a black eye. She's wearing a black t-shirt. She has a displeased or challenging expression.]

Byron Hackett (he/him):

Roles: Whumpee

Continuities: Sci-Fi Whump (Prisoners of War)

[Image description: White man with short, messy blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and glasses. He's wearing a black t-shirt over a long-sleeved white shirt. He's bandaged up on the side of his face, his nose, and his neck; has dark circles under his eyes; and is blood-spattered. His expression is frightened, and he's holding his hands up defensively in front of him.]

Samantha Koutoujian (she/her):

Roles: Whumper

Continuities: Sci-Fi Whump (Prisoners of War)

[Image description: A white woman with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes. She's wearing a collared white shirt and a grey collared uniform jacket. She's smirking.]

Barclay Fletcher (he/him):

Roles: Whumpee / Carewhumper

Continuities: The Enclave

[Image description: A young white man with almost shoulder-length dirty blond/light brown hair and odd eyes - the left green and the right a neutral color. He has freckles and dark circles under his eyes. He's wearing an off-white collared shirt. He has a smirk with large prominent front teeth.]

Other characters:

(From left to right):

Alina Maddox (she/her) [Pale white woman with long neon green hair and pointed ears. She has tinted orange lenses, and fangs. She's wearing partially unbuttoned blue overalls over an orange sweater over a black t-shirt. She's grinning or laughing with an open mouth. Not pictured: Yellow eyes with oblong horizontal pupils.]

Zail Quendatt (he/him) [Green-skinned man with unkempt brown hair and yellow eyes. His ears are long and pointed. He has a coat over a white shirt. He looks indignant. Not pictured: Antennae, left one bent/broken.)

Lenavee Yuim (she/her) [Green-skinned woman with horns and long pointed ears. She has long white hair and bright blue eyes. She's wearing earrings, a sleeveless black shirt, and a floral-patterned shawl of sorts. Not pictured: Antennae.]

Alaric (he/him) [Tanned-skin man with pointed ears, shoulder-length dark red hair, and red eyes. He has a beauty mark on the right side of his face. He's wearing a white shirt with a baggy brown coat. He looks unimpressed.]

Kethry (she/her) [Green-skinned woman with long, dark red hair in a pony tail and long, pointed ears. She has bright blue eyes. She's wearing a green coat over a white shirt. She has a shit-eating grin. Not pictured: Antennae.]

Paul Waldrop (he/him) [Middle aged white man with wavy grey hair and grey eyes. He has rectangular glasses, and is wearing a grey suit with a striped collared shirt and a blue tie. He has an uncertain look on his face.]

Sarah Kyzer (nee Maddox) (she/her) [White woman with shoulder-length pink hair, pointed ears, and yellow eyes. She has a grey bow in her hair, and is wearing a dark red and grey capelet. She's smirking and licking blood off her right hand.]

Usalmy Shem (she/her) [Green-skinned woman with long, pointed ears, dark purplish hair, and dark blue-grey eyes. She's wearing a lilac cardigan over a pink collared shirt. She has an unpleasant smirk on her face. Not pictured: Antennae.]

Jas Knossos (he/him) [Light tan-skinned man with pale grey eyes and black hair kept in a pony tail. He's wearing a light grey button-up coat. He's holding up a bloodied fist and looking quite unimpressed.]

10 notes · View notes

discipulusmaleficus · 2 years ago

Text

scxrytxles:

Nil folds his arms, and leans back in his chair. One long leg crosses over the other, foot bouncing languidly to the ticking of some unheard, internal metronome. Kalmar shrinks away from him and his questions, refuses to engage and so Nil offers him the kindness of becoming particularly invested in a loose thread on his shirt.

Hm, how did that get there?

Kalmar opts to ask a question, rather than to Answer and Nil sucks in a slow breath. He holds it, debating whether or not he ought to dig his heels in and demand that Kalmar come clean Right This Instant, Young Man.

But, well. Now that Kalmar’s opened the door… He can focus on this newer, much more interesting (sarcasm) topic.

Nil sighs. Keeps his eyes down as one hand deftly shoots out to pluck the tray from Kalmar’s lap again. His sandals scrape with each step, a slight limp throwing the rhythm of his gait off kilter. He sets it down on a cart. Pushes the cart a few more inches away from the bed.

“See, it’s funny you ask that-” Nil begins, mildly. He peels his eyes up and lets them settle back onto Kalmar’s face: Wane, clammy. Pale. Plum colored bruises splotch his jaw and arms from where he’d been held down while he seized, likely from when he fell and possibly from his two unwitting accomplices when they realized just what they’d been made party to.

His expression darkens, his tone sharpens. “Because I personally have no idea what exactly happened.” Nil snatches up the medical chart from the foot of the bed, flicks past the very official paper he’d filled out with the more mundane aspects of Kalmar’s condition and pulling up blood flecked, ink spattered pages detailing an intricate ritual. He stares at the pages, as if willing them to combust.

He drops it onto Kal’s lap, in lieu of the tray. “I can guess. I know approximately what stupid bullshit it is you were trying to do-” His voice is rising, a certain shade of judgement coloring his tone a deep and wrathful red.

“But if you want exacts, all I know is you had a GRAND MAL SEIZURE in a dark, dirty shed in the woods while your friends panicked over you and whatever it was they had just helped you do.”

A hand seizes the railing of the bed, rattling it just slightly and he takes a moment to collect himself. He shouldn’t yell. Remember your bedside manner.

“That’s a recipe for turning yourself into a lich. Correct?” He already knows, but he wants to hear Kalmar say it.

He stays still and quiet, stares down at the white-blue patterning on the backs of his hands. Twitches slightly when the tray vanishes again, when the bars rattle.

It's not often he's seen Nil get properly angry about something. It's. A little alarming. Maybe more than a little, from where he's sitting.

"S’rry." He tilts the clipboard up like he's not entirely sure he's allowed to touch it, blinks at the topmost bit of paper. Recognises first the tangled scrawl of his own handwriting -- the sort he uses when he's not performing, at least. Skims the words, half in shorthand, half in Latin, and feels something click into place.

It’s more feeling than concrete memory. Oh, yes. He was doing something rather like that, wasn't he? It was -- a nebulous future possibility, until it wasn't, because -- hell, he knew he could do it. Because, just then, he could do just about anything -- and how much longer could these half-baked measures holding him together possibly last? Who knew if he would have another opportunity? Carpe diem, as they say --

Better than rotting in here.

"Ii-it's." His voice is thin. Shriller than it was a minute ago. "It's a step. Pr... Probably? The most important. In a series of steps. I guess it --"

Shut up, Oakheart. You're wasting everyone's time.

"--Guess. Guess so. Yes." He dares a glance up at Nil's face -- Happy? Slightly mollified? Honestly, Kalmar isn't sure he understands why he's so upset. Still can't quite fit the rings and the ritual and the (big, bad) seizure together into a cogent narrative.

"Won't happen again," He mutters. Fumbles with the corner of the page, turns slowly through a couple more fragmented, disorganised diagrams and lists before pausing.

(This one - though particularly crumpled and stained - is in Plain English, written in a remarkably steady, legible hand. It leaves out over half the steps and substitutes out the venom for something far milder.)

#q #scxrytxles #OH YOU ADJUSTED IT ALRIGHT

8 notes · View notes

retroateez · 4 years ago

Text

Prophecy - Chapter Eight

wc; 2338 Prophecy Masterlist

It wasn't until the next afternoon that a pair of guards you hadn't met before came to collect you for your meeting with the king. They said nothing to you as they took your arms, pulling them behind your back and tying them in a fasion you'd become much too familiar with.

"What's the king like?" you question as they guide you through the same route you were taken through yesterday.

They maintain their silence, so you opt to imagine what the king is like instead.

You picture a rather plump, older man, probably in his 50s. He's got short, snowy white hair and a inky black beard speckled with tawny brown and silver. You imagine him to be stocky and built, but years of war have slowed him down considerabley; he's wise, but a complete dick. It would make sense for him to have such a youthful kingsguard, (Seonghwa can't be any older than 26, you guess), a king worn by age wouldn't be able to protect himself as well as he could in his prime.

Instead of taking you to the study, the guards manoeuvre you past the room and up a spiralling flight of stairs, leaving you wondering just where they're taking you.

You get to the top of the staircase, and you're pushed immediately to your right. One of the guards raps loudly against the hard wood of the door, and waits until a voice unknown to you shouts for you to enter.

The guard opens the door, and they shove you in harshly, your shoe getting caught on the worn, patterned rug and almost losing your footing. The door slams shut behind you, and you realise the guards haven't followed suit; you're alone.

The room appears to be both a study and a miniature library, considerably bigger than Seonghwa's room downstairs, but you assume it's far from the biggest room in the castle.

To your right, the three walls are lined with around a dozen ceiling high bookcases, each shelf packed full of books or stacked high with parchments. Two wooden benches are placed back to back in between the bookcases, each one has a soft-looking blanket thrown over the seats. You can only wonder what magnificant beasts those pelts came from. Above the benches is an extremely luxurious chandelier made from a dark, wrought iron, the only spattering of colour being a small but beautiful collection of assorted jewels dangling from the center, and the lit candles in each placeholder make them glitter softly.

Shifting to your left, is a fairly large, mahogany desk, except this one isn't cluttered with notes and books; it's clean, bar one unrolled piece of parchment that you can't read from your position at the door. There are two, plain, high-backed chairs on your side of the desk, and a much grander, intricately carved seat on the opposite side. The wooden seat is hidden by a velvety soft, navy blue cushion, and the back is covered by a fur similar to that on the benches. That one is clearly for the king.

Just behind the royal seat, is a lit hearth, enveloping the entire room in an inviting sunset glow. There's a mirror hanging above the fireplace, the golden frame embossed by rubies, sapphires, emeralds and other precious stones you couldn't even hazard guessing the names of.

The room exudes wealth, and you feel disgusting even just standing in it, adorning your shoes, caked with dried mud and your borrowed clothes from Yeosang. They're simple but any of these royals wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything of the sort.

You want nothing more than the ground to swallow you up whole. But you take a deep breath and compose yourself. After all, you're about to lie to the king of one of the most powerful kingdoms on the planet.

Speaking of the king, where is he?

"I don't give a shit, Hongjoong!" You hear an all too familiar voice suddenly shout.

"Excuse me?" 'Hongjoong' seethes back. "Who do you think you are to address me like that?"

"I'll address you however the fuck I want until you give he-"

"Yeosang?" you interrupt the tense argument between the two men, astonished to see the mage in front of you.

The blonde leaps up and hurries over to you, wrapping his shaking arms around you and pulling you into his chest without a second thought.

"I was so worried, thank the gods you're okay." he mumbles against your hair. All anger and pain you had melts away, as Yeosang had never shown you affection like this all the while you'd been his student. You decide to question him about it later, the other man in the room clearly about to voice his distate about the scene in front of him.

"Well isn't this sweet," the man Yeosang referred to as Hongjoong scorns, glaring at you both like you're something on the bottom of his incredibly polished boot. "If you could unhand my prisoner, Yeosang, I would be much obliged." he upkeeps his politeness, but does so with his teeth greeted.

You have zero idea who this man is, or what he could possibly be doing in the castle.

You inspect him from across the room; he's got light, honey brown hair that's short at the top and longer at the back; travelling down to the base of his neck where his shoulders connect. As well as a small, sharp nose and rows of perfectly straight teeth. You notice multiple pieces of jewellery covering both his ears, as well as a necklace and an assortment of rings. He looks expensive; he looks regal.

He's also wearing a huge, light brown fur coat, probably from a bear, but you couldn't be sure. Honestly, the coat drowns him and makes him look much smaller than he really is, but it's an impressive piece of clothing nonetheless. Underneath is a plain white shirt, not too different from the ones Yeosang wears. Simple, sandy breeches and black boots like Seonghwa's. He's fairly short too, probably the same height as you, but much shorter than Yunho.

"Your prisoner?" you scoff. "Who even are you?"

You direct your gaze to the man whose face is burning with increasing anger, and you miss the colour drain from Yeosang's face as he watches you insult the most important man in Ateez.

"Who am I?" he bellows. "Who am I?"

Yeosang steps away from you and stands by the desk, like he's trying to referee the conversation. Although he's probably just trying to stop Hongjoong from killing you.

"Iris," Yeosang explains. "This is King Hongjoong of Ateez."

Your eyes widen and you freeze completely.

"You're the king?" you repeat.

Hongjoong's face turns a deeper blood red, and you're worried he may pass out.

He isn't what you expected at all.

He doesn't appear strong, or wise, or battered by war and struggles like the storybooks paint kings to be. He's young. You estimate he can't be much older than Yeosang or Seonghwa, or even yourself.

"I'm the King." Hongjoong spits with his teeth gritted together, and you can tell by his narrow glare that he's thinking of the quickest way to kill you.

Instead of insulting him further, you bow your head.

"I'm so sorry, your majesty," you apologise. "I didn't mean to cause any offense."

You glance over at Yeosang for approval on your apology and only get a 'it-could've-been-better' shrug in response.

Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply to recollect himself. He's going to murder Seonghwa later for making him deal with such an irritating excuse of a human being.

"I'll excuse you, but only on the basis you have potentially useful information for me." he replies coldly.

"Information?" Yeosang shoots you a confused frown. "What information?"

"About the prophecy." You stare Hongjoong straight in the eyes, seeing a fire ignite within them.

"Well?" The king prompts. "Out with it."

You internally prepare yourself for the lies you're about to conjure, like an actor about to make his debut on stage; your performance could make or break your future.

"Why should I simply just hand over my information?" You tilt your head slightly, ignoring the daggers Yeosang is shooting at you for once again being rude to the king. "What can I expect in return, your majesty?"

Hongjoong's lip curls up into a nasty snarl; he's furious that you're challenging him, but- and he'd never admit it- he's impressed at the way you're bargaining.

His tongue comes out to poke the inside of his cheek and he turns his head to glance out the window. "I should've expected this from a common thief." he bites.

A moment or two passes of absolute silence. It would've taken the sharpest sword smithed by Hephaestus himself to cut through the air.

"Very well," Hongjoong suddenly barks. "What is it that you want?"

"My freedom," you rush out quickly. "And a favour, when the need should arise."

"A favour?" Hongjoong scoffs. "Why don't you go ahead and ask for my firstborn while you're at it!"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Do you want help with your prophecy or not?"

"...Fine. You're no longer a prisoner, however if I find out at any point you're lying to me I will not hesitate to throw you back in jail." He turns his attention to Yeosang. "And as for you, you'll get much, much, worse."

You nod, but panic starts to bubble up inside you, as you are in fact lying to the king at this very moment, and intend to continue lying to him until he notices otherwise.

"So, what information did you have to share with me?" Hongjoong takes his beautiful fur coat off and hangs it on the back of his chair, pulls the chair out, then sits himself down and examines the parchment laying on his desk.

Both you and Yeosang take this as initiative to inspect it also, so you both walk around the sides of the table to stand behind Hongjoong.

The parchment appears ancient, frayed slightly around the edges and faded a burnt beige colour from age. The ink is fading, and you have to squint in places to read it. That is, if you could read it.

"What language is that?" you blurt out.

"It's Latin." Yeosang answers before Hongjoong can question your lack of knowledge. "I'm not fluent but I can pick out certain words."

He points to a word near the top of the scroll. "The Exitium?" he reads. "The destruction?"

Hongjoong nods. "The destruction, the ruin of this kingdom." he explains. "Every century, according to this prophecy, the gods send an incredibly powerful being to bring about the end of Ateez. So far, my ancestors have managed to locate the threat and quell it before it can occur."

"If it's prophesised, won't it happen one day anyway?" you ask, recalling your prior discussion about destiny with Yeosang.

"Of course it will," Hongjoong snaps. "But if we catch it early, we can delay it for another 100 years. Only this time it's become increasingly difficult to find. I'm worried we're dealing with something more than human."

"Anyway, that's where you come in," Hongjoong abruptly stands up, his chair scraping on the wooden floor and forcing you and Yeosang to step aside. "Surely your information will prove useful?" he challenges.

"Well... I-"

"We'll need an astrologer." Yeosang interrupts with a cough. Luckily, Hongjoong diverts his attention from you just as your plan begins to crumble.

"I've already consulted one, I'm no fool, mage."

"Of course you have," Yeosang nods. "But you haven't consulted this one."

---

An hour later, you and Yeosang stroll out the front gates of the castle grounds, having struck a deal with the King of Ateez himself.

The giant oak gates close behind you with a thunk, and you turn to Yeosang. But before you can speak, he raises a hand and smacks you across the back of the head.

"That's for being so careless!" he barks.

You rub the back of your skull, looking up at him in bewilderment.

"Careless?!" you repeat. "You abandoned me! What else was I supposed to do?"

"Anything that wasn't agree to help the king on a subject you know nothing about!"

"Well I'm sorry, Yeosang! But I was all alone, and I didn't know what to do and I-"

Yeosang cuts off your rambling by once again tugging you into his chest, this time pecking the crown of your head as he hold you close.

"Obviously I was planning on coming back for you, fool." he whispers so softly you wonder if your ears are playing tricks on you.

"Well now you've gotten us into this mess, Iris, we're going to pay a visit to a friend of mine."

"You really know an astrologer?" You're shocked, thinking that Yeosang was plucking ideas out of thin air.

"Of course I do. Except he's a little reserved, so whether or not he'll help us is another question. But first, we have something else to attend to."

"What?" you question.

"You," he stops in his tracks and turns to face you. "need to pass your alchemy exam".

You roll your eyes. Of course Yeosang would prioritise that over a deal that could result in both your deaths.

"You are my student, after all." he explains. "I wouldn't be much of a teacher if you didn't have at least one qualification to your name."

"Anyway, come here. I'll teleport us home."

"You could teleport this entire time?!"

Yeosang shrugs.

You sigh as Yeosang pulls you against his side, telling you to close your eyes before he teleports, otherwise they'll most likely explode inside your skull and that was less than desireable.

You can't keep the small smile off your face though, glad that even if you've landed yourself in a potentially life-threatening deal with a king, at least you have Yeosang by your side.

That was all you needed.

Or so you thought.

Chapter Nine

#ateez #ateez au #medieval!ateez #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho

8 notes · View notes

rhysreece · 4 years ago

Text

Hide and Seek

7͍̻̝/̹̼̠̫7̣̻͓̠̦

̬̗̼̹̠̱̟H̤e͍͇'̝̦̗̞̫͕s ̭͓̩͍̭h̦͉͖e̱͈͎̮̝̱͎r̩͕̝̺̬e̦̹̗̣̱͈.

A̫̠̝̗̖r͈͍͖͈̠e͍̺ ̙͎̼y̻̥̞̞͕o̙u ̦rḙ͉͖̙͇̬̲a̪͎͈̹̯͓d̞̥͍̹̝y?͎͈̣̣̪͈

Patton has the distinct feeling that something is wrong. He hears no crying. No begging. With all his kiddos under punishment, it’s far too quiet. He puts down his newspaper (its not news, it’s just pictures of dogs), sets his coffee next to it, and starts looking around.

He sticks a head into Logan’s room, it’ empty, and a tip, he’d have to clean that later. He looks round Roman’s room, tidy as ever, but empty. All as it’s supposed to be. And then he decides to go check on Lo-Lo and Virgie.

The noise he makes when he sees that they’re gone, a shriek that makes your hairs stand on end and your blood freeze. It echoes through the mindscape, waking the pile of escapees. Almost immediately, the air takes on a heavier, foreboding feel. Patton is on the hunt.

He stalks back to the kitchen, covered in blood and dog hair, carrying a bloodied, blue bandana he ties around his wrist, and grabs a knife from the drawer. If the kiddos want a fight, then he is more than happy to oblige. Who doesn’t love a game of hide and seek?

As he walks through the halls, malintent and purpose in every step, he scans each room he passes for signs of life. A blood spatter here, a smudge on the wall there, all lead him to the forest, dark and ominous in the artificial night. That doesn’t stop him, though, and he ploughs on forward, silent through thick trees swallowing up what little light the stars provide, and acting as the perfect cover for him.

The sound of footsteps thudding away draws his attention, and his head turns to face it, more than a normal human could, a full 180 to track the noise. In that topsy-turvy state, he follows the noises, nigh-on growling, shifting his grip on the knife.

A deep, primal growl bubbles up from goodness knows where, and he spots them. A blur of white screaming and crying, a blur of blue helping him. His first targets, apparently, his dashing prince and his clever darling boy.

He draws closer, loud enough to draw their attention, the goes still, letting them look around in confusion. Then, he lunges, talons of a beast, sharp as the reaper’s scythe tearing at their chests. He gets a good hit on Logan, but misses Roman, giving him time to get them both away, even if the smell of blood lingers.

“Boy, that isolation really was a swell idea! The look in his eyes, so good! I just wanna pluck them out!”

He mimes along, a smile splitting his face clean in two, revealing rows of inhuman teeth, quickly covered up as another duo walks past. Virgil is holding Janus’s arm, guiding him through trees as quickly as they could go. Unfortunately, it wasn’t fast enough.

With the knife and the claws and the teeth, its no wonder Virgil collapses, chest and face torn apart, and Janus is knocked into a tree, slumped unconscious in its lower branches. Filthy snake.

His final prey should be Remus, all by his lonesome. He is of course chasing the wildlife with his peepee out, and Patton just won’t have it. Someone needs to teach him a lesson in behaving, and none of the others are nice enough to do it.

He grabs Remus by the wrists, and pins them to a nearby tree, knife already impaled into his stomach. With one swipe, his hands fall to the floor, and it doesn’t take much effort to pluck out his eyes, the nasty green things, like a sickness. He looks so much prettier!

From behind him, he hears the others, regrouping and sneaking behind him. That simply won’t do. He tuts, opens his mouth, and screams. That same unearthly wail echoes through the trees, setting off a murder of crows above them.

Somewhat funny, in a sick way.

The others fall to the ground, and the prophecy comes to be as Roman had predicted, which isn’t always good.

I’ll spare you the graphic details, but when they’d done, Logan’s body is impaled onto a nearby tree branch, the width of an arm, limbs discarded about the clearing.

Roman’s body is decapitated, eyes gouged out, hands cut off, and shirt stained his signature red.

Remus’ corpse lays in little bitesize pieces across the floor, already rotting.

Virgil was the first to die, so his corpse is just propped up against Logan’s tree, decaying.

Janus’ body is dangling from a puppy-pattern rope tied to the tallest branch of a tree, neck lolling at an angle.

Patton looks down at the mess on his shirt, and heads back home, to start on dinner. They’ll be back by next week, tops, and he can’t wait for the next big holiday to have this kind of fun again.

He pulls out a worn notebook, and flicks to the latest page, under the heading ‘Halloween 2020 Plans and Notes’ and adds to his notes that separating them didn’t work. Oh well. There’s always next time. For him, at least. For them?

Not so much.

Happy Halloween, kiddos!

3 notes · View notes

sulfurousdreamscapes · 5 years ago

Text

"The boy is tired of drawing mermaids, let him draw something else." It was a pointless appeal, but the Father had to try. He had seen the Boy's listlessness, the way his entire body seemed to droop, the way he no longer resembled the child he used to be.

"The boy has got to learn." It was the same thing the Master had said, her brow furrowed. "And if I don't teach him, who will? You?"

That evening, like every evening, the Father made supper. The Boy glanced at it, like it was a dead rat in a gutter—worthy of an ugly voyeurism, nothing more. He drew five more mermaids before he was in bed, sleeping on his back, ever a light sleeper.

Every man has a limit to his patience, however, and the Father had his own. He stormed into the Master's studio, a bull in a cabin, and snatched the Boy by the wrist. "Enough mermaids! He's coming with me!"

The Master offered no protest. She merely glanced at the Master, even as he waited for her to stop him. The way her eyes looked at him, it was like he was the dead rat now, left to be devoured. It was enough for a moment of weakness.

Before the Father realised it, the Son's arm slipped out, and he ran out of the studio. The Father gave chase, calling out the Son's name, until his calls became more aggressive, more commanding. Whatever it took.

But the Boy had disappeared amidst the trees, he had slid down the dirt and stones, and he had run along the road until his body seemed to be giving out. His father long left behind, the Boy jogged and descended, until he was at the beach. His face covered in grimace, his body keeling over, his skin reddened by no mud.

"Where are you?" he called out, and he approached a grey-blue sea chopped by the wind. His clothes were spattered with paint, more vital than his own blood.

When he was ankle-deep in seawater, he took his shirt off and tossed it into the receding wave. A second wave buffeted his chest and salted his hair.

"Where are you?" he screamed. His body resisted it, but he forced himself to walk deeper into the brine, until his feet could not hold anymore, and he was a ragdoll, unconscious, lost to the whims of a god too ancient to name.

When he awoke, the searing pain in his chest radiated to every nerve along his body. Standing up felt like he was tearing himself out of the membrane of the earth. It hurt him more than it hurt the earth.

And she was there, then, still alive. Her eyes fixed on his, red and watering; her body shimmering and smooth, caked in sand. Her tail flapped pathetically. Her arms struggled.

The Boy stared at her, until he had memorised every shape, every curve, every line, every pattern along her body. She stared back at him, her rage overtaken by the throes of death.

Once she was lifeless, the Boy lifted her in his arms, and he carried her back into the water, from where she had come.

He knew now. He had seen it. He remembered the shapes, the curves, the lines, the patterns—it was all there now.

But the sea would not let him go this time.

94 notes · View notes

tcrniishedcopper · 6 years ago

Text

Loneliness to an archangel was a painful mistress. Much like the infinite expanse of memory that served to plague them with the ability of reliving scenes with a perfect clarity.....loneliness was experienced in a greater purity than any human could ever feel. A constant pull and pain. A never ceasing ache. And not even the feeling of blood coating fingers and the humming vibration of an age old wrath blazing through veins like a fire, could dull it. Momentary rage only serving as an outlet. The bodies of the sinner scattering the floor as the air crackled. The scent of electricity riding it. Gaze burning in blue eyes. Turning them luminescent. Skin translucent to the blue-white glow from within a barely containing human form.

It had felt good for that moment. Good to feel the burn of grace searing human flesh under touch and the crack of bone like chalk in his hands. Good to feel the old testament wrath in his nerves. Good to let go, to smash His broken, flawed toys. As had once been his job.

And who would cry over the spilt blood of murderers and thieves?

Now however, the taste of distress was just as acrid on his tongue as it had been before his violent outburst. Dried blood on the Archangel’s hands only feeding the cold under his skin. Spatterings of crimson on his face like a pattern. Shoes had echoed on the empty over-polished penthouse floor. The space the rage had made in him, now only serving to feed the ache. Gabriel forcing it down. Curling it tight in the pit of his stomach. A practiced feat. A learned reaction. The feeling a familiar one as his grace stretched out, called out, for it’s counterpart, for a connection that didn’t answer.

The expensive suit jacket peeled away from celestial shoulders. Tie, shirt and pants following and leaving a trail of bloodied discarded garments in his wake as he moved to the bathtub. Scar marring a smooth chest, on full display. Wings unfurling from where they were kept so closely tucked away to his being. White and coppers glinting and shifting as angelic appendages settled against stiff, tired muscles.

The metallic scent of blood soon mixed with that of rose water. Gabriel stepping into near scalding liquid without so much as a flinch. The heat barely felt against marble skin. Water turning the lightest of pinks as the blood on ethereal flesh swirled in. The archangel lowering himself into it. Wings tight to his back despite the large expanse of bathtub around him, curling around his shoulders automatically as knees were pulled up. Water lapping. Hands making no move to clean away the blood on them or on angelic features however. That wasn’t the point of this. No. Not now. It was warmth that was wanted. Comfort. Despite how unattainable that was. Expression a masked veil as arms rested on knees. Fingers flexing and curling, coiling that ache tighter as it threatened to bubble. Eyes watching the tinted water ripple.

Washing could come later.

#[ a drabble ? ]#[ and open starter? ]#[ both? ]#[ he's pining for his brother ]

9 notes · View notes

fangirlingincamouflage · 6 years ago

Text

Blind Hope: Chapter 4

NickTitle: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1376 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Assault and Battery, Injuries, unwanted sexual advances.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Dinner is a stop at a food truck just outside the theater. As the cold night closes in, you order streetside tacos and bottled drinks, he goes for tortas. His arm slinks shyly around you and you lay your head on his shoulders as the nights of the city flicker on. The movie is formulaic, and riddled with tropes, but you find yourself not caring because he is right there beside you. The broadness of his shoulder skims against yours as you both reach for the same pile of snacks that he insisted on picking up. Every now and then you turn your head to catch him looking at you like you are priceless, and he can't believe that you are here.

The smile you give him tells him that you can't believe it either.

“Is the date over?” he asked when the credits rolled.

“It doesn't have to be.”

Desert came next, stopping by yet another late night food truck where massive waffles were piled high with sugar and jellies and whipped cream. There is not clean way to eat it, you realize as you two take a seat on the edge of a drizzling fountain.

“Of all the places you'd want to go for vacation,” you say as you navigate the best corner to attack your late night waffle from. “And you pick Alaska?”

“I like the cold,” he admits, swirling a practically useless fork through sugary foam.“And the snow.”

“What are you doing in LA?”

“Eating waffles.”

You laugh, and he smiles.

“I like your laugh,” he tells you. “You laugh like you mean it.”

“With you? I do.”

The look he gives you borders on awe.

“What?” you ask. “What is it?”

“I think you are magic,” he whispers, like he's afraid to say it out loud. “I don't mean like wands or elves or Brights, I mean like...like-” He looks down, and you don't even think he's seeing the slow escape of a single strawberry. “Like the kind of magic that comes from a perfect BBQ or piles of snow. It's...it's all natural.”

You bite you lip. “You need to stop asking your partner for advice, Nick. You make a person feel special all on your own.”

“Yeah?” He perks up.

“Yes.” His ears flick as he smiles and you barely resist the urge to reach out and touch them. “So. You like the cold, and the snow.”

“Yeah, I mean, can't you just imagine it? Waking up one morning to a deep gray sky, a fire roaring in one of those big cast iron stoves. A pile of blankets and-” He cuts off, seeming to realize he's rambling. “I just like the idea is all. Why? Where would you go for a...a dream vacation?”

You find yourself thinking about Alaska. It was not number one on your list of potential vacation destinations, but now that you have listened to Nick describe it you find you can't quite stop thinking about it. “Well, Alaska doesn't sound horrible.”

“You don't have to say that.”

“You're right, I don't...but I just did. I mean, okay, so, sure. Most people might choose Disneyland or Milan, or Japan as their dream vacation destination, but you, darling, you went for non traditional. And that? I like.”

Nick leans in for a kiss. Your body goes warm, tingling from lips to toes in anticipation. Your eyes are already half closed when you realize that he isn't moving in any further. In fact, he's pulled away. Confused, and a little embarrassed, you open your eyes again and look around.

“What's wrong?” you ask.

His gaze is fixated not on you, but behind. The warmth from them is gone, replaced instead by something distant and uncomfortable. There is a line of visible tension running through his shoulders. A spike of uncertainty spears through you.

“Nick?”

“I smell gunmetal.”

Your uncertainty devolves into fear. You freeze, uncertain what to do, if anything. Just having a gun can't be a problem, right? It's America. Lots of people own guns. You try to comfort yourself with this, but there is something about the look on Nick's face that tells you the comfort of statistics is not going to help much in this situation.

“Jakoby,” a deep, guttural voice says.

“Hello, Isaac.” Nicks words are stilted. His fingers flex around the cup of waffle that he holds.

“You know this Unblooded?” a lighter, but no less guttural voice asks.

Nick's lips form a stark, empty line. He remains still as stone.

A group of orcs saunters around you. At first glance there is a distinct similarity about them, not just in clothing choices; though they must all shop at the same place, but in the pattern of their spots, and the shape of their eyes. They are related, you decide, and, by the length of their sharp teeth, blooded.

“We all know this one,” another orc says. “He's the cop.”

A hiss of contempt ripples through the group. Blue lips peel back to reveal chomping teeth.

“Unblooded and badged,” the smallest of them says. Her eyes, lined with the brightest blue you've ever seen, flick up and down Nick dismissively. The thick, golden earrings that dangle from her lobes glitter as her head tilts in your direction. “And mixing.”

You hear a sharp intake of breath. It's your own. Anger, unexpected and hot, flares through you. You don't know who these people are, but they are making Nick uncomfortable and you do not like that. The only thing that keeps you in your seat is knowing that at least one of them is carrying a gun.

Nick shifts his weight, and somehow you find his shoulder is in front of yours. It's not much, the smallest of movements, but it speaks volumes on its own. Other than that, he remains completely still. They notice.

“Look at that,” Isaac snorts. “Showing some teeth.”

“Come on guys. We don't have to do this.” Nick shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Shara, how bad does an orc have to be that he can't even get another round tooth to look at him?”

Shara's runs her tongue across her teeth. “Pretty bad.”

“Can't even shoot for elf flesh. Gotta settle for human.” Isaac makes a sound that comes out like a snarl. “But it's always been like this for you, hasn't it Jakoby? Always chasing after humans. Trying to dress, like them, act like them. Even tried to take one to prom. What was her name?” Isaac steps forward, his eyes glittering and angry. There is a chip on the side of one of his long teeth, making it look jagged, and sharp. A thick lattice chain with a symbol you don't recognize glitters around his neck. “Laura? Barbra?”

“Becky.” Nick says, growling out the name. “Her name was Becky.”

“You know,” one of the others says, reaching out with a thick fingered hand to tug at the collar of your shirt. “This one isn't so bad for a human. Nice skin.” He brushes his finger over your cheek. You yank back.

Nick surges to his feet, and it's this action that everyone seems to have been waiting for. A circle forms around him, shoulder to shoulder, blocking you out. You stumble, your waffle falling to the ground.

“Hey!” you shout.

“What are you going to do, Unblooded?” Isaac demands, ignoring you. “You gonna show teeth?”

Nick's jaw clenches until the speckles on his cheeks go pale, but he says nothing. You can see his hands clench and unclench. There is a trembling anger there and you wonder what would happen if it snapped.

“Course he wont,” Shara's voice drips with disgust. “Not even for his piece of flesh.”

Your name leaves Jakoby's lips. He says it softly at first, barely more than a whisper.

“What was that?” Isaac demands, “What did you just say?”

“That is my date, not a piece of flesh.” Jakoby's lips twist upwards. “And my date has a name.” He repeats it again, and this time it comes out as a snarl.

“What the fuck do I care what your date's name is? All that matters, Jakoby, is that you made the mistake of walking down this street, dressed like a fucking elf, with a piece of human flesh-”

You aren't sure who is more surprised by the strike; you, Nick, or the gathered orcs. But Nick's swing connects with Isaac's cheek with a resounding strike. Isaac's head snaps to the side. A spray of blood gets caught against his teeth, turning them from pearl white to angry red.

There is a moment of absolute motionlessness. You forget to breathe. You don't completely understand the complexities of what's going on, but you know enough to know that what Jakoby just did broke some kind of rule. The circle of orcs all look at him like he just stepped on a mouse for fun.

“You drew my blood,” Isaac says, disbelieving.

Nick's eyes are wide. He looks at his still closed fist and the spattering of blood that dapples the leaden blue. He looks up. Your gazes meet and you can see the regret that fills them.

Isaac's strike catches Nick in the stomach, doubling him over. A second hit to the back of his head sends Nick to the ground. Someone's foot flies out, connecting with his jaw. Blood and spittle come out in a high arc, landing on damp concrete. Shara's fist slams into Nick's ear. After that the strikes come in quick, ugly succession. The sound of fists slamming into flesh becomes a terrible drumming. You keep waiting for Nick to fight back, but he doesn't. He takes every hit without more than a grunt of pain.

“Stop it! Stop!” you cry, but they don't hear you. No one seems to.

You spin in a circle, looking for someone, anyone to step in and help. But all you see are uncomfortable looks and diverted gazes. One lone teen is capturing the entire incident on his phone. When he sees you looking he smiles, abashed, and runs off.

“Remember your place, Unblooded!” Isaac is snarling as his fist come down again and again on Nick's back. “Remember what you are.”

Nick can't answer, there is blood spilling from between his lips. His hands are planted on the ground, his head bowed as if he is receiving benediction rather than a beating. A heavy foot slams into his back, driving him flat against the ground.

“Nick?” you call, unable to help yourself. “God, Nick!”

He doesn't look up. You dive for him, and Shara catches you. With incredible strength she shoves you backwards, her lips twisted into an ugly grin. Unable to stop yourself, you throw your body towards Nick again. Shara, faster than you expected, catches you for a second time. Her hands dig into your shoulders, giving you a hard shake of warning.

“This one has more fire than Jakoby.” She turns and spits at him. Her eyes meet yours. “You deserve better than an unwanted round tooth.”

She shoves you back before you can answer. You stumble, landing hard on the ground. Your head connects with the side of the fountain, and all you can see before your vision starts to go blurry is a single, whip cream dappled strawberry falling into the fountain.

#Nick Jakoby x reader #nick jakoby #Nick Jakoby fanfiction #angsty #assault tw #battery tw

105 notes · View notes

prismaticquartz · 6 years ago

Text

Falling Down (TW- Gore and Self Harm)

Despite the beautiful baby blue of the sky and the white fluffiness of the clouds, Shay was filled with dread. The ground was far out of sight and she kept falling and falling. Her brother was unconscious, he was farther below her, still falling at the same speed. The sleeves of his light red catholic school uniform was stained a darker red with his blood, cuts in strange almost tribal patterns all over his arms. There was no question in his sisters mind that he was bleeding out. There were cuts on his arms, legs and torso. It was almost as if he enjoyed physical pain to a sickening degree. Shay tried as best she could to get over to Chance, but to no avail. Her brother was out of her reach. She tried again and almost as if it were a cartoon, she seemed to swim in the air, flying downward. Just a bit more... she held out her arms trying to reach him and embrace him in a hug. Her caramel brown hair flicking and flapping about. She shouted as loud as she could. “BROTHER!! BROTHER WAKE UP!! PLEASE!!” It wasn’t that loud but somehow Chance seemed to hear. He stirred but didn’t wake up. Shay grunted in frustration, she reached further until she could touch him. She grabbed Chance by his blood spattered sweater vest. On the right side of the sweater vest, near where his heart was, was usually a small white cross, stitched into the fabric as a part of the uniform. It was noticeably, violently ripped out, all that was left was a hole that exposed the bloodied dress shirt underneath. Shay screeched and shook Chance hoping to wake him up. “BROTHER!!! WAKE UP WE ARE FALLI-“ she was cut off. Their descent was slowed, the baby blues and whites of the sky around them fading to black. Chance grabbed Shays arms, staining them with his blood. They could hear no more wind so they could hear each other clearer. Chance grinned wildly.. “You want him? Come get him..”. His eyes sprung open, revealing the eyes she remembered as being blue and crystal like, to be crimson and blurred. Everything stops.

Shay shoots up from the couch, gasping, her eyes glowing bright orange. She heaved and sighed, she was laying on the couch at her friend Malik’s house. It was pitch black aside from the dim kitchen night light beaming behind her. It was completely silent, everyone asleep, aside from their golden cat Karat, who stared at her with crystal blue eyes. She looked to the floor to see her black socks on the familiar ugly brown rug she was so used to seeing. It was stringy. She sat up and rested her feet on it. Feeling the strings caress her soles. She sighed and laid back down, covering herself with the blankets. She spoke quietly to herself in an empty tone of voice, so as to not wake anyone up. “I guess this means I died.”

21 notes · View notes

creamcoffeelou · 4 years ago

Text

First Lines Challenge

Hi I got tagged by a few people like....15 days ago but I’m finally doing it :D

rules: list the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). see if there are any patterns. choose your favorite opening line and then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I’m not going to do all 20 even though I do have 20+ fics published, but I’ll do my favorite fics I’ve published plus a few WIPs!

I am tagging only my bestie because I know she won’t do this <3 @eeveelou

A Diorama We Could Live Inside *WIP*

Harry learned of his mother’s death from a man in a suit with a misbuttoned undershirt with a mustard stain on the breast pocket. His belly stuck out against his shirt like a pregnant woman, rounded only there with thin legs and hollow cheeks.

“Harry Styles?” He’d asked, stood at the stoop of the door to his maths classroom. “Come with me, son.”

Untitled *WIP*

Clouds of smoke hung thick in the air, stagnant and stale between gusts of air from the rarely opened door. A record spun soundlessly from the left of the bar, the DJ having abandoned his booth to use the toilet only leaving the loud ruckus of the men playing pool and talking too loud from the farthest corner of the bar.

The sign on the outside of the door read gentleman’s club, but he’d heard the whispers of the men on the street that this is where men with eyes for other men found themselves in the evening. He’d heard it hushed first, stacked between whispers of sin, only until the gentleman he’d been speaking with had realized he didn’t have a wife.

High Noon Or Midnight, I Don't Want To Know

Sunlight wanders into the small space between consciousness and wakefulness in Harry’s dream. It’s warm, bringing him to lazy Sunday afternoons with fresh biscuits and sandwiches and a table full of his family. He wakes fully with a sleep tainted groan, sitting up and reaching his arms above his head. His bones creak as he stretches, pops and cracks filling the otherwise silent space of his room.

last blues for bloody knuckles

Louis wiped his hands dry on the apron tied tightly around his waist as the sounds of the city below slowly came to life.

The warm yellow wallpaper bounced early morning light around his flat, surrounding everything in a soft, warm glow. Slightly wilted flowers sat tied with a bow in a vase on the windowsill that he’d brought home from the shops a week earlier. A framed photo sat on the same ledge, the back having broken off of the frame where he used to hang it on the wall.

Adore You

It was just past ten when Louis sat up in bed to find Harry still sleeping soundly beside him.

He’d just gotten back from filming a new music video in Italy the night previous, and Harry had always been the type to get hit hard by jet lag. When he’d tumbled in at half past three in the morning, Louis had been the one that told him to strip out of his jeans before he just crawled under the covers with them still on.

Running In The Shadows

The road is empty as Harry speeds down the endless black of the pavement.

Hot, summer sun beats down against the road, sending waves of the unbearable heat all around him. Not a single cloud sits in the sky, but rather an expanse of light blue fills the entire world above him, never ending. Beside him on both sides miles and miles of desert run on, a seemingly never ending expanse of nothingness, mirroring the sky. All of it is a little overwhelming - the pure nothingness. The way that there’s so much of absolutely nothing on every side of him, that seems to stretch on for longer than he can handle.

technicolor

It’s a friday when Louis finds himself sitting in one of the cushioned seats of the jet he sees the inside of far too often. They’ve been in the air for nearly an hour, just long enough to get at a cruising altitude, when he stands and moves towards a screen.

Niall is typing away at his computer as images flash on the projector screen at the front of the plane, showing all of them the horrors that have been documented this time. “Sorry for not being able to do the briefing in the office,” He says to his friends around him, “I got an emergency help call from the Two Lakes police department in Oklahoma just before we took off. We currently have three victims,” Niall presses the button to display the three images behind him. “The first victim was fifteen year old Millie Kristen. She drowned.”

End Game

Harry cocks his head to the side and flashes a smile, perfect white teeth contrasting the spatters of bright red blood on the walls, on the floor, on his arms. He hums softly, just a low sound in the back of his throat as he pulls his hair up into a bun, twisting the curly strands of hair away from his face and up to the top of his hair. He runs his tongue over his slightly-chapped lips, then clicks his tongue and takes a few steps closer to the man, bound and held in the chair in the center of the room.

Last Day Alive

Each day, in and out, has always been the same for Harry. The sameness, in a way, has always helped him keep himself at peace, always helped him cope with the questions he’s had about life. Each question he finds, he’s never able to find the answer to, but in a strange way that’s always left him feeling at ease. It’s something about the way his entire life has always felt still, stuck in place and motionless, that has allowed him to trudge through each day’s responsibilities without thinking about the unanswered questions.

Gentle Autumn Rain

“We believe she was shot here, sir.” A beta officer says from the left of Harry, her voice high and annoying in a way Harry hasn’t experienced in a long while. It has a lilt to it, high pitches at the end of her sentence that gives truth to how intimidated she is to be around him, and the airy tone that tells she’s really unsure of what she’s saying. Perhaps she’s just spitting back information she was told, because in just a single glance at the scene, he can already tell this person was not shot.

0 notes

thefaeriereview · 4 years ago

Text

Tour: Flowers On Her Grave

https://ift.tt/3f1F6eI

We're thrilled to be a part of the virtual book tour for FLOWERS ON HER GRAVE by crime thriller author Jennifer Chase. Scroll down to find out how you can pick up a copy of her book!

FLOWERS ON HER GRAVE By Jennifer Chase Crime Thriller On the floor, amongst the piles of freshly pressed laundry, lay the woman’s lifeless body, her pale yellow nightdress soaked in blood. “I didn’t do it…” came a whisper from the corner of the room. Detective Katie Scott has never seen two people more in love than her aunt and uncle as they danced on the decking the night of their wedding anniversary party. But the next morning, when Katie finds her aunt’s body sprawled across the floor, that perfect image is shattered forever. All fingers point to Katie’s uncle, Pine Valley’s beloved sheriff and protector – after all, his prints are all over the antique knife found at the scene. Grieving, but certain of her uncle’s innocence, Katie is consigned to the cold case division after she’s discovered searching the house for clues. Does someone want to keep her as far away from this investigation as possible? Ignoring warnings from her team, Katie digs into her uncle’s old case files and discovers photographs of the body of a young girl found tied to a tree after a hike in search of a rare flower. Her body is covered with the same unusual lacerations her aunt suffered. Katie knows it can’t be a coincidence, but every lead she follows takes her to a dead end. Moments before the sheriff is arrested, Katie realizes that a single piece of thread she found at the crime scene could be the missing link that will stitch old crimes to new. But how can she prove her uncle’s innocence without throwing herself directly into the line of fire? She doesn’t have a choice, he’s the only family she has left…

5 out of 5 fairies

Flowers on Her Grave is chilling. Katie is a powerful and relatable heroine. Her loyalty and determination in the face of such overwhelming odds is amazing. The story will absolutely chill you to the bone - a brutal murder, one family member gone and the only remaining one with their life on the line - how far would you go? An absolutely captivating story.

PRAISE FOR FLOWERS ON HER GRAVE:

Her Last Whisper is a work of crime and detective fiction penned by author Jennifer Chase. Written as the second book in the Detective Katie Scott series, this action-packed thriller sees the return of our anxiety-ridden heroine as she battles both her PTSD and a whole new mystery. When local nurse Amanda Payton is found dead, Katie uncovers a trail leading back to a case that was overlooked some weeks ago. And when a new young woman also fails to arrive at work and is linked to Amanda, Katie soon realizes that she’s uncovering a whole pattern of victims she must endeavor to save. Gripping, emotive and highly realistic, this is a fantastic and in-depth crime mystery for fans to devour. Katie is a capable heroine, ex-military with lots of sharp mental connections made and a strong stomach, but she also has real-life struggles that many ex-military personnel have and it makes her really endearing as a central figure to investigate the mystery. Author Jennifer Chase doesn’t spoon-feed information either but lets it weave naturally into the descriptions and dialogue, allowing us as readers to piece the clues together with Katie in what is definitely a well thought out plot. The conclusions are exciting but also satisfying when all loose ends are tied up, though it makes for a harrowing journey along the way. Overall, Her Last Whisper is a fantastic and thrilling crime read which is sure to please fans of the genre for its depth and development. — K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2IOsQQW

PROLOGUE

Stepping from the main hiking trail, the park ranger took a moment in the shade to catch his breath and stomp the caked dirt from his hiking boots before beginning his search of the camping ground. Just as he was finishing the last dregs of his water, the static from his walkie-talkie interrupted the quiet of the forest around him. “Rob, are you there yet? Over.” Pressing the button, he replied. “Just got here. Over.” “See anything? Over.” Looking around the campsite, he saw a pot with remnants of soup, two bottles of water, and a blue tent. Everything looked normal, until he saw some blue shreds of fabric tangled in the low-lying bushes. Curious, he walked over to them, leaned down, and pulled one of the long pieces of fabric out of the brush between his fingers. Something dark spattered the end of the fabric. “Rob? You there? Over,” headquarters asked again. “I’ll get back to you. Over,” he said securing the walkie-talkie to his belt. “10-4. Over and out.” And then the radio went quiet. Rob turned, searching the nearby area. “Hello?” he called out. “Hello?” he said again—this time louder. “Cynthia? Cynthia Andrews?” No response. Rob scanned every tree and bush within the vicinity, but there was no sign of the missing grad student. Perhaps the girl’s family was right to be concerned that she hadn’t contacted them in several days. He let out a sigh and watched as a light breeze swirled dust clouds on the dry earth in the distance. And that’s when he saw it. The shredded remains of a tent. His first thought was a bear attack, but few inhabited this area. His hand twitched at the gun in his holster, readying himself for what, or who, he was about to encounter as he approached. Camping gear was scattered around the area: a large canteen lying on its side; two extra gallons of water; several packets of freeze-dried foods; a small skillet and a boiling pot. Ten feet away there was an open journal lying next to a pink hoodie. He pulled out a small digital camera and took several photos to see if Cynthia’s family recognized anything as hers—if it came to that. He’d watched enough forensic shows to understand documentation was extremely important for any type of search or investigation. Reaching for the sweatshirt he flipped it over to find one of the sleeves stained with dark blood, almost brown in color. He dropped the garment on the ground in horror as the forest closed in and a flock of birds burst from the trees above him. Eyes darting, he noticed large heavy footprints moving north accompanied by a set of smaller, barefoot prints heading in the same direction, as one followed the other—or chased. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and down his arms as he followed the trail through clustered pine trees. Deep into the woodland the footprints disappeared, replaced by divots and drag marks, the obvious signs of a struggle in the dirt. Where did they go? The wind, picking up, whipped and whispered through the trees forcing a shower of pine needles and cones to drop around him. He spied an area where small branches had been broken and followed the trail into a clearing where he was surprised to find ropes tied around a large tree trunk in unusual knots. Slowly, filled with dread, he walked around the tree. What he saw on the other side would be burned into his memory forever, he thought. The excessive violence. The horrifying, gaping wounds. The terror in her glassy eyes. It took every ounce of strength he had to take in the devastating scene before him. The young woman, barely clothed in a workout t-shirt that read “No Pain, No Gain” and a pair of panties, had been bound to the tree with ropes across her chest, hips, and thighs. Her arms were fixed above her head, which now flopped forward limply. In between the restraints were wounds, huge slices down each side of her stomach, allowing her intestines to spill out. It was unclear if the wounds were caused by her killer or wild animals. Chunks of her thighs and calves were missing. Rob stepped back as her hair stirred in the wind and stuck against her face, caught in her slightly open mouth. He ran back to the original base camp and fumbled for his radio. “Dispatch, we need the police up at the first camp area from Dodge Ridge as soon as possible. We have… there’s a…” he couldn’t find the words. He cleared his throat and tried it again, “Dispatch, we have a dead body.”

Jennifer Chase is a multi award-winning and best-selling crime fiction author, as well as a consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master’s degree in criminology & criminal justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent psychopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling. She is an affiliate member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists, and member of the International Thriller Writers.

Website: https://authorjenniferchase.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JChaseNovelist

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJenniferChase/

via Blogger https://ift.tt/2YfZ8vv

#Blogger #book review #Book Tour #Mystery & Thrillers #review

0 notes

twdmusicboxmystery · 7 years ago

Text

2017 Re-Watch: 7x13 - Bury Me Here

Wow. I really didn't expect to find much that was new in 7x13, but I did. I'll admit most of it is tied to Morgan and Carol's arc rather than Beth's, but there are lots of important Beth-symbols in this episode.

This episode is very, very heavy, probably heavier than most people realize. The obvious thing is Benjamin's death, which is tremendously sad. I also think there's a lot here that will be catalysts going into S8.

The most obvious thing is the melon symbolism, which I do believe is a representation of Beth's arc. Ezekiel has to give the Savior's 12 melons as tribute. When they arrive, there are only 11. Later we learned that Richard purposely put the shopping carts across the road and took one of the melons to start a war with the saviors. He thought he would be the one to die. Instead Benjamin is shot.

It may sound a little ridiculous to say that the melons represent Beth. I didn't think that at all when I was first watching it. The yellow crate and Morgan finding it were what really tipped me off.

In the opening sequence, Ezekiel puts one melon in the back of the truck. The melon is on its own, tied in place with blue ties, and left there by people who could represent TF. When the doors are shut, we see blood spatter on the door that looks like it could've come from a bullet wound.

We have a lot of sunrises at the beginning of this episode. They're not focused on as they are at the beginning of a new arc, so I don't think that's what's happening here. We see Carol having nightmares, which means she has not healed by being at the cabin by herself. When she goes to the kingdom to ask Morgan what really happened with Glenn and Abraham, the sun is rising. Morgan also teaches Henry, Benjamin's little brother, with the sunrise. It's emphasized because Henry asks why they had to get up so early.

Morgan says, "Check your feet, because if you're feet ain't right, nothing's right." It jumped out at me as possibly being part of the Lost Shoe/Foot Symbolism around Beth. I've said before that maybe she'll literally lose a foot in the show, or maybe it's symbolic. This line makes me think it's symbolic. We saw the shoe by Beth in Inmates and she started to cry. Maybe the lost foot thing means that something simply isn't right. It could just be representation that something about her death "ain't right."

Also remember just one episode ago, Rick pulled the foot and shoe off a walker, during a scene which felt like a heavy parallel to Beth.

When Carol talks to Morgan, he refuses to tell her what happened at Alexandria, but says, "I will go with you to Alexandria if you want. You shouldn't go alone." He asks if being alone turned out how she wanted, or was it just a just "too late to get away?"

I think it shows that Carol's solution to her problem isn't working. She's still having nightmares, which means it's not healing her. When Morgan asks about this, she starts to cry. I think she's finally realizing that going it alone is not going to work here. We'll see a continuation of this theme in the finale. I'll talk about it more when we get there.

So here's where it gets really heavy. This wouldn't have jumped out at us the first time we watched it. Let's return to Carol's arc. I've said that children always die around her, and whether we see it or not, whether she's there when they die or not (such as Sam) she thinks of their deaths as her fault.

I didn't remember anything in particular about Benjamin's death being her fault. In fact, she didn't get close to him at all because she was so afraid of hurting him. If anything, I saw it as her being very callous. Unfortunately, there is something here that suggests she could've present prevented his death. Chances are, Carol will have to deal with this next season.

When Carol goes to the kingdom, Benjamin tries to talk to her and she keeps giving them the brushoff. Finally, Benjamin asked if he can go with her. He says, "We have a drop today, but I can miss it. I want to learn from you and see how you do what you do." Carol says, "No, go do your drop." The point is, if she'd let him come with her, he would have lived. It follows the pattern of Sophia, Mika and Lizzie, and Sam. Sucks to be Carol.

This is a little random but it occurred to me because of something @Paolo_pedini (IG) said to me. Nadina, Ezekiel's gardener, gives him a speech here that mirrors Hershel's from 4x01. She talks about how no matter what you do, you can always regrow things. Check out these similarities:

Hershel in 4x01, talking about tomato plants: These leaves are gonna be in the shade, so we won’t get any good fruit from it. So we just pinch it off here. Things break, but they can still grow. These little bristles, they’ll take root, and we’ll have a whole new plant.

(Aside: we’ve seen tomatoes specifically around Carol and Morgan, but @Paulo_Pedini suggests maybe the tomato plant = Beth. She broke, but she can still grow and start a whole new arc. Seeing the tomatoes around Carol and Morgan could represent her entanglement with them, or them being paralleled with her.)

Nabila in 7x13, talking about having to burn the royal gardens because the plants have weevils: Here’s the beautiful thing, Your Majesty. You can tear it out and cut it down. You can burn it and throw it all away. But if you want, it can all grow back.

(Aside: I’ve also wondered if we could somehow connect this weevil story to the Aphid symbol and the wolves...)

Then there's the bullfighter picture. Check out my analysis of it at the links below. Definitely some suspicious colors and such.

Morgan asks who the girl is who helped Benjamin fix it. I've honestly always been skeptical about it being Beth. But it's emphasized, as Morgan asked him two different times who the girl is. Both times, Benjamin refuses to answer. So whether it's Beth or not, I think it's important. Hopefully will get an answer in S8.

Okay, let's move on to Morgan's arc. When Benjamin brings the fighter picture to him, he quotes the aikido book, saying, "To injure one's opponent is to injure oneself." Then Benjamin says, "I guess you get injured no matter what." They emphasize this again when Benjamin is shot. When they take him to Carol's and is on the table, he grabs Morgan's hand and repeats the line again.

This ends up being a major theme and foreshadowing for Morgan. On one hand, I think it refers to the saviors. Benjamin's death brought Ezekiel and Carol into the war, and we gotta figure eventually TF will prevail. So the saviors injured themselves by injuring Benjamin.

It also refers to Morgan himself. Morgan killed Richard and psychologically/ emotionally killed himself. We can tell by how messed up he is afterward.

We have a lot of evidence here what's going on with Morgan. After Ben dies, he leaves Carol's cabin and goes off by himself. He has a breakdown in the road and we see flashbacks of Morgan's previous arcs, including images of his wife and Duane. (Remember he later calls Benjamin Duane, which is heartbreaking.)

Finally, he kicks the yellow bucket and finds the melon. It's obvious that he regarded Benjamin has a son. When Benjamin died, Morgan went back into the PTSD state that he was in after Duane. Morgan still feels guilt about not being strong enough to shoot his wife, which led to Duane's death.

In S7, Richard begged him to fight the saviors. Because Morgan didn't, Benjamin is dead. Or at least Morgan probably sees it that way. So Morgan is in a very dark place as we head into S8. I also noticed that when Morgan freaks out, he's wearing a blue shirt, which shows he's psychologically imprisoned again. Remember, before he wore a white shirt which shows change or freedom. (White Shirt Theory).

Near the end, Carol convinces him to stay in her cabin for a time. I remember there being a lot of talk about whether someone else was in the cabin. Morgan turns to look behind him, as if he heard something. That didn't seem to be the case.

We do see a black handled ax on top of the wood pile. I think black shows death or preparing for war.

Morgan is sharpening the end of his stick to make it into a spear. This is the epitome of turning a plowshare into a sword. In other words, he's preparing for war. I don't think this is necessarily a good thing in Morgan's case. Of course we want him to fight with TF, but he's descending into a darkness like he was in before Eastman helped him. A lot of people have speculated that Morgan will die in season eight. We can't be sure of the time frame because they move so slowly, but I have to agree that I think Morgan's heading into his death. Even if it doesn't happen until S9, I think he's close to it. I'll explain why.

So Morgan kicks the yellow bucket and finds the melon. Yet another reason I think Morgan found Beth. We've have 3 major evidences in the show of him finding her.

1) The after-the-credits scene of Coda.

2) Him finding the white horse in the S6 finale, which represents Beth. (Horse Theory)

3) Him finding the melon after it was "taken" from the others. The yellow bucket = escape and/or Beth's yellow polo.

(Maybe we could even throw in a Rule of Threes here. Now that we have 3 sequences to show this, now we’ll see the real thing in S8?)

The interesting thing is that Morgan doesn't take it back to where the other melons are. That would've been possible in the show (he would've had to knock on the Sanctuary's front door) but the symbolism is still interesting. He takes it, instead, to Richard.

Here's the interesting thing about that. I noticed that in Richard's room, we see maps on the walls. I can't tell for sure if they're maps of the D.C. area, but they probably are. Why wouldn’t they be? I was going to mention them as random details that reminded me of maps we've seen before. Then it hit me. If Morgan found Beth, he would have taken her to back to Grady. That's the theory. In this case, he found the melon and took it to Richard. In both cases, there are maps on the walls in the background.

So in this allegory, Richard's room = Grady. Morgan took the melon there.

Richard gives an interesting speech to Morgan when Morgan confronts him. It has a lot of parallels to earlier events in the story, including Beth. I don't think it's entirely about her. I think a lot of it is about Rick and I want to do an edit about it, so look for that in the next week. I also found some interesting titles stuff in this episode, but I'll talk about that later this week.

So a lot of what's in this episode backs up what we've said about both Carol and Morgan's arcs. Morgan is getting into a darker and darker place, which is why he probably will die soon. After analyzing this dialogue, I think Carol may actually be on the upswing. She's far from being healed but I think she's finally recognized that she's going about things the wrong way. Hopefully will start to see some more positive stuff from her. That's all I have for this episode.

Thoughts?

Relevant Theories:

Conjecture About Benjamin and TD (This was written before 7x13 aired; you can check the dates. When I wrote this theory, spoilers for 7x13 weren’t even out yet. I could just tell by Ben and Carol’s interactions where it would go.)

7x13: General (TD) Analysis 03/13/2017

7x13: TTD Clues 03/14/2017

7x13: Thoughts on Morgan and Carol’s Arcs 03/16/2017

7x13: Details 03/17/2017

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance

5 notes · View notes

aion-rsa · 5 years ago

Text

Watchmen Episode 2 Easter Eggs Explained

https://ift.tt/2WqCsaw

We're piecing together all of the clues and Easter eggs in the Watchmen HBO series.

facebook

twitter

tumblr

This article contains Watchmen episode 2 spoilers.

HBO’s Watchmen episode 2 continues the pattern of the first episode, not only reminding audiences of its ties to the comics, but also offering echoes of the original story in unexpected places. And just as we did with episode one, we’re here to track down all of the Watchmen Easter eggs on the HBO series.

If you spot something we missed, let us know in the comments or on Twitter and we’ll get this updated!

THE TITLE

The episode’s title, “Martial Feats of Comanche Horsemanship” references the painting that the camera ominously lingers on in Judd’s house during the wake. That painting is a 1834 work by George Catlin, known for his depictions of Native Americans. Weirdly the episode title has rearranged the original name of the painting a bit as it’s titled “Comanche Feats of Martial Horsemanship.” The Comanche were accomplished horsemen, and often fought on horseback. I’m not fluent enough in Native American history or 19th century art to fully explain the possible significance, historical or otherwise of this painting. Please enlighten us in the comments.

THE SQUID RAIN AND THE NEWS

- This episode gives us our first mentions of both the New Frontiersman and Nova Express, the right and left wing papers (respectively) of the Watchmen universe. Rorschach was a massive fan of the New Frontiersman, which in this timeline is also owned (surprise!) by Roger Ailes.

- While the squid rain showers appear to have been going on for quite some time, it appears that the one that we saw in episode 1 was particularly widespread, with people talking about them happening simultaneously in multiple cities across the globe. It’s also interesting to note that people in this world consider them “false flags.”

- And, of course, we get the newsvendor giving the audience the running commentary on the state of the world, just as we did in the original book. While not the same character as the one from the book, this guy, Seymour, is roughly the same age and played by Robert Wisdom (The Wire), and also made his first proper appearance in the second chapter. Also note that in a world without the internet, newspapers are still far more important than they are to ours.

- We finally meet Senator (and Presidential hopeful) Joe Keene. Robert Redford is currently serving his 7th (!) term in office and isn’t planning on running for an 8th. Keene is the conservative candidate most likely to make a run for it. His father was responsible for the Keene Act which outlawed masked vigilante activity in the wake of the police strike of 1977.

RORSCHACH

- To say that Detective Looking Glass is the Rorschach of this show would perhaps be a little too obvious, hence his display of emotion with “then why am I crying under here.” On the other hand, later in the episode we see that even at home he eats with the mask on, Rorschach style. This COULD play into the idea that, like Walter Kovacs, Looking Glass sees his mask as his true face.

We wrote more about Rorschach and his connection to the 7th Kavalry right here.

SISTER NIGHT and THE WHITE NIGHT

- The flashback to “the White Night” is the first piece of Angela’s Sister Night origin story that we get in this show, and like it was for characters in the original book, this will be teased out over future chapters.

- The version of “Santa Baby” that plays during the flashback sequence to the White Night appears to be Eartha Kitt’s. Eartha Kitt wore a mask herself as Catwoman during the third season of the 1966 Batman TV series. It’s interesting to note that the song slows down as danger increases, perhaps to illustrate how time slows and senses sharpen in moments of great duress.

- Also, when Cal wants to open his present it’s “two minutes to midnight.” The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists tracks how close humanity is to annihilating itself via its “Doomsday Clock.” The clock began at “7 minutes to midnight in 1947, hit “two minutes to midnight” in 1953, and has been as far away as 17 minutes in the ensuing decades. It is at this moment once again set at “two minutes to midnight” in part to reflect the growing threat and reality of climate change, as well as reckless nuclear saber rattling by world leaders who probably should know better but obviously do not.

It’s also a killer Iron Maiden tune, but you knew that.

- The blood spatter on Angela’s face almost could be another mirror of the “minutes to midnight” blood spatter pattern on the Comedian’s badge which has long been considered Watchmen’s logo.

- Note that during the flashback in the hospital, Judd’s bandages correspond to the old bullet scars we saw on him in episode 1 when he was putting his shirt on.

- Angela’s phone number is 539-176-2442. At the moment nothing happens if you call it. Not that I've tried or anything.

THE COMEDIAN

- In Nixonville, Red antagonizing a crowd and then losing it when somebody throws a bottle feels very much like the similarly antagonistic Comedian, back when he was partnered up with Nite Owl, taking on a crowd of rioters during the police strike in 1977 before the passage of the Keene Act. Of course, Red and the Comedian would share very little in common politically.

read more: How HBO's Watchmen Was Brought to Life

- Angela’s discovery of Judd’s...um...costume...directly mirrors Rorschach’s discovery of the Comedian’s costume in Edward Blake’s closet in the first issue of Watchmen. Like Angela, Rorschach had no idea of his colleague’s double identity. The difference here is that Rorschach and Comedian worked together professionally as masked adventurers, and didn’t know each other’s secret identities. Rorschach instead stumbles on Blake’s true identity while investigating his murder.

NITE OWL

- Angela and Cal’s children are wearing “pirate” and “owl” costumes. The pirate remains a key pop cultural touchstone in the Watchmen universe, as pirate comics filled the void that superhero comics never needed to fill, as illustrated by the “Tales of the Black Freighter” story that runs through the Watchmen book. “Feed ‘em to the sharks” feels like a reference to that particularly macabre supernatural pirate story.

The “owl” is a reference to Nite Owl, and while Dan Dreiberg has so far been absent from this show, he’s here in spirit in a number of ways, perhaps especially in the goggles we Angela using to search Judd’s closet at the end of the episode, which look suspiciously like Nite Owl technology. In fact, between the Owlship style hovercraft we saw used as a police vehicle in episode 1, this, and the revelation via HBO’s official supplemental materials that Dan Dreiberg was arrested in 1995 for actions that violated the Keene Act, it might be possible that his punishment might involve creating technology for the police. Or it was simply handed over, confiscated, and then duplicated.

DR. MANHATTAN

- The weird, floating magnetic castle that Topher is building looks very much like the red sand castle we saw Dr. Manhattan building in the first episode. The big blue guy also dismissed that with a wave of his hand. Both structures look suspiciously similar to the castle occupied by the guy who is most certainly not Adrian Veidt (ahem) that Jeremy Irons is playing.

- In the background of Topher’s room there’s a reproduction of Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory,” the “melting pocket watch” painting that could be the surrealist’s most famed work. Considering Jon Osterman’s (and now theoretical Adrian Veidt’s) love for pocket watches, this could be significant, especially when paired with the apparent affinity Topher has with the dwellings/constructions of both characters.

- The play that the “mysterious gentleman” is putting on at the end of the episode is a dramatization of Dr. Jon Osterman’s transformation into Dr. Manhattan, right down to one of the “clones” (if that’s what they are) adopting the character’s blue skin tone and traditional nudity. It wouldn’t be a Watchmen show if there wasn’t some blue dong. If only it was glowing. I’m sure we’ll get there.

AMERICAN HERO STORY AND HOODED JUSTICE

- Opening with “Fraulein Mueller” typing a piece of propaganda can’t be a coincidence in the same episode where we have the “American Hero Story” episode about Rolf Mueller, Hooded Justice.

- The propaganda leaflet dropped on black American soldiers marching towards the line in World War I is word for word from an actual historical leaflet from 1917.

- The FCC warning on American Hero Story: Minutemen feels like a jab at the kind of self policing common in liberal circles. Robert Redford is apparently an exceptionally liberal President, and not everyone is thrilled about it. Note, for example, how the newsvendor jokes about Redford’s “libstapo.”

- American Hero Story focuses heavily on the early days of Hooded Justice. The painting on the back of Rolf’s corpse’s jacket is from a particular Dave Gibbons illustration in the book, meant to be a photograph of Muller as a circus strongman in his prime. The fact that the narrator hints that this isn’t him is a nod to the fact that the corpse was so badly decomposed that they weren’t able to make a positive identification on him.

We wrote much more about the convoluted mystery surrounding Hooded Justice right here.

You may also note that, like Judd’s dead body, “Rolf” is only wearing one boot.

- Incidentally, the style in which American Hero Story is presented, from the use of slow motion to the speed-ramping to the oversaturated colors and absurdly self-serious and unintentionally hilarious narration and tone, all feel a little like how Zack Snyder envisioned this world in his 2007 Watchmen movie adaptation.

- Interestingly, they use a kid hawking newspapers to set the stage for Hooded Justice’s first major adventure, and he’s referring to Orson Welles’ famous “War of the Worlds” radio broadcast and hoax. However, Welles’ broadcast took place on Oct. 30, 1938, while Under the Hood sets the supermarket fight as Oct. 13, 1938. This isn’t an inaccuracy on HBO’s part, and is likely instead just an example of the American Hero Story producers taking artistic license to place the Hooded Justice fight in the fall of 1938 rather than tie it to a specific date.

ADRIAN VEIDT?

- Based on the candles on the cake, it appears to be Veidt’s SECOND anniversary wherever he is, even though only one day has passed for everyone else. Is this a sign of how time passes where he is, or perhaps the perceptions of those around him?

- “Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends,” were Dr. Manhattan’s last words to Adrian Veidt before departing for...redder pastures...at the end of the book.

- The stopwatch kicks off at 9 minutes to midnight. There are nine episodes of this show, hence “it has only just begun.” Incidentally, the Doomsday Clock has been set at 9 minutes to midnight twice in history, once in 1974 and again in 1998.

MUSIC

- The Temptations’ “Ball of Confusion” plays as Angela heads back to Judd’s murder scene, which...seems a little on the nose as far as music cues go.

- The episode ends with “Egg Man” by the Beastie Boys over the closing credits. The egg has been a recurring theme in these two episodes, whether it was Angela making the “smiley face” with the yolks in episode 1, or Will’s affinity for hard-boiled eggs (and the egg timer) in this episode. Look, any time we get a deep cut Beastie Boys needledrop anywhere it’s cause for celebration, and this song, which comes from their second LP, Paul’s Boutique. The song is a simple ode to the joys of throwing eggs at people. Considering the original Watchmen story takes place around Halloween, and this episode airs mere days before “Gate Night” when egg throwing and other mischief is a New York (and elsewhere) tradition, this is both playful and brilliant.

MISCELLANEOUS STUFF

- The paparazzi are wearing wings, and referred to as “moths.” This is likely an evolution of the crude flight technology that former Minutemen member Byron Lewis, the Mothman wore. The last we heard of Mothman in the original Watchmen book, he had suffered a nervous breakdown and was institutionalized. His fate is explored further in DC’s Doomsday Clock comic book sequel.

- Henry Louis “Skip” Gates is indeed a real person, a prominent African-American historian, teacher, and literary critic and scholar. We wrote more about him right here.

- In the alley behind Angela’s bakery you can see the same graffiti that the Knot-Top gang in the Watchmen comic painted. It’s a silhouette of two lovers, intended to evoke the shadows burned into the walls of Hiroshima by the atomic bomb. Somehow that motif made it to Tulsa, Oklahoma.

- Will is 105 years old. He jokes about being Dr. Manhattan, which obviously he is not. One thing notable is that the Bass Reeves silent film in episode 1 featured him wearing a costume that looked an awful lot like Hooded Justice. And Will is fond of the red and purple color scheme of that old masked vigilante. It's probably a coincidence, though. Right? Oh wait, there are no coincidences in the world of Watchmen.

Did you spot anything I missed? Let us know in the comments!

Keep up with all our Watchmen news and reviews here.

Mike Cecchini is the Editor in Chief of Den of Geek. You can read more of his work here. Follow him on Twitter @wayoutstuff.

Read and download the Den of Geek NYCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!

facebook

twitter

tumblr

Feature

Books

Mike Cecchini

Oct 27, 2019

Watchmen

HBO

DC Entertainment

from Books https://ift.tt/2BQdzvs

#aion-rsa #Books

0 notes

faierius · 7 years ago

Text

Good Enough (Chapter Five)

Holding his glasses in one hand, Ignis rubbed his eyes with the other. They had exhausted the locations Gladio was familiar with and had chosen to split up to look for Prompto. He felt silly treating this the way they were, searching for Prompto as though he was a runaway child instead of an independent adult.

He had been on his own half an hour now, stopping passersby to ask if they had seen his friend. As of yet, no one had. Prompto must have found an obscure corner of the small city to hide away in because not a soul had seen him. But he continued asking. This would have to bear fruit at some point.

It was late in the evening, nearing ten PM. For the lively denizens of Lestallum, this wasn’t late at all. For Ignis, who frequently rose before dawn, it was much too late to be out and about. He was worried, exhausted, and desperate to set things right with Prompto. His chest ached at the thought of their budding relationship withering before it even had a chance to blossom. He cared deeply for the younger man and hated to see him hurting. Ever since that night at the camp fire when Prompto’s honest admiration brought him to tears, when Prompto held him silently for long minutes without judgment, when Prompto promised he would never let him go hungry for human contact, Ignis’ heart belonged solely to him.

Yes, he had his duty to Noctis to consider first and foremost, but now he knew love beyond familial bond and the undying friendship and camaraderie he shared with the others.

Ignis swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. He needed to find Prompto and tell him just how important he was. Though something told him Prompto would vehemently disagree. The young man refused to believe he had any self-worth. Ignis wasn’t sure what gave him that impression, but he would change that perspective.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Ignis approached a pair of women leaning against the side of a building.

“Miss? Well ain’t you polite?” the shorter of the pair laughed, standing up straight to face Ignis. “What c’n I do for ya?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you a question,” Ignis replied, a friendly smile on his face.

“Sure,” the second woman replied with a one-shouldered shrug.

“I am looking for a friend of mine. He’s shorter than myself, blond hair, freckles, was wearing a black top with a white pattern, and coeurl-print jeans. Have you seen him at any point this evening?”

Both women furrowed their brows in thought.

“Hey, wasn’t that the guy Izzy was talking to at the bar?”

“Oh yeah! He was cute. I was working up the nerve to talk to him myself. He left with her, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

Ignis felt his heart leap into his throat. “Could you point me to this bar?” he asked, swiftly concealing the hitch in his voice.

“Yeah, sure. Don’t know what good it’ll do since that was almost two hours ago,” the short woman answered.

“Just go through that alley, take a left at the end, then a right at the house with the yellow door, then up the stairs. Really, just follow the thumping they pass off as music,” explained the second woman.

Ignis dipped his head in a shallow nod. “Thank you very much, ladies. Enjoy the rest of your night.” He didn’t—couldn’t—wait for the ladies to respond before heading in the direction he was pointed. His stomach flip-flopped, and nausea washed over him. How could Prompto go off with some stranger? Was he really so desperate to drive Ignis away? It wasn’t like the shy, sweet, awkward Prompto.

Hands shaking, Ignis walked quickly. He was unaccustomed to this kind of anxiety. It was clouding his judgment and making his muscles twitch. He briefly feared this anxiety would cause him to do something stupid when he eventually found Prompto. Though as he walked, almost ran, toward the bar, he didn’t have much time to ruminate on the problem before his phone rang in his pocket.

Not slowing his pace, he pulled out his phone and checked the display. Noctis. He answered.

“Specs, where are you?” His voice was tight.

“On my way to a bar where Prompto was seen.”

“Where?”

Thinking for a moment, Ignis gave the best directions he could, basing the Leville as the starting point.

“Okay. Wait for us there. Prompto’s in trouble.”

Before Ignis could ask, the other man disconnected. His blood ran cold and his hands balled into fists. Forcing his feet on, he prayed Prompto was okay.

***

The room wouldn’t stop spinning. The boxy, industrial-turned-living space cell he was stuck in turning, rotating, quick, slow, clockwise, counter clockwise, it wouldn’t stop. Blood caked his nose, his lips, his chin, shirt, spattered on his pants, and the floor under his head. His lip was swollen, he was sure he had a nasty shiner on his left eye, and his cheek felt tender and bruised. And that was just his face. He was sure bruises littered his chest, back, sides, and legs, wherever the barrage of punches and kicks landed.

Prompto thanked the Astrals Joe was not a strong man. He felt no worse for wear than he had after starting his combat training with the Crownsguard. Though he still felt pretty crappy. Sore, achy, dizzy, and wanting a week-long nap. Things wouldn’t be this bad if his hands hadn’t been bound behind his back.

Prompto’s fingers twitched, wanting freedom.

“Did you really need to make such a mess of him?” Izzy sighed, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to one leg.

“Stop worrying about shit that doesn’t concern you, Iz. I just roughed him up a little.”

“His entire face is covered in blood and bruises!”

“So what? I didn’t kill him.”

“That’s not the point, Joe! Do you think they’re gonna pay us what we ask now that he looks like this?”

“Shuddup!” barked their leader, tossing Prompto’s phone onto the couch beside her. “The prince is gonna meet us at the lookout at midnight. Five hundred thousand gil.”

“He’s not gonna pay that,” mumbled Prompto, wincing at the pain in his lips and jaw. “I’m not worth it.”

“Not anymore, with your face looking like ground Garula meat! Gods be damned, Joe! This was supposed to be our ticket out of here!” With a huff, Izzy dropped to a squat before Prompto again, wrinkling her nose at him. She clicked her tongue, she stood again, punched Joe on the arm and plopped down on the couch.

“Jeez, calm down, Iz!” Joe grumbled, turning away to join his friends.

Inhaling a painful breath, Prompto closed his eyes. He was tired, had no will to move, yet at the same time wished he had something he could use to escape with. He couldn’t tell his captors there was no way Noct would pay what they were asking. Not because he didn’t think Prompto was worth the ransom, but because they simply didn’t have the money.

Prompto’s fingers twitched again. He wanted something to defend himself with, something he could use to escape. The only weapon he had in his arsenal was ballistic firepower, and even if his hands were free, he had no plans to shoot anyone. While he would defend himself if need be, he hated violence and liked to reserve his bullets for daemons and MTs.

A tingle of magic rippled through Prompto’s fingers.

Brow twitching, Prompto opened his eyes again. The trio was conversing quietly on the other side of the room while he lay here, bleeding. But that tingle brought back a hint of that bravado he felt half an hour ago. It was strange, though. It was the same sensation he felt when he summoned his guns, only his guns didn’t appear in his hands.

His fingers twitched again, and he felt a definite connection to Noctis’ magic, the magic that allowed him to access his weapons. But there was something else there. A block of some sort. Kinda like when he was first learning how to summon his pistols. He could feel it, just out of reach. Frustratingly close, yet uselessly unobtainable. The more he struggled to call on the ability, the more slippery it became. He needed to relax, breathe, focus, but not force it. It was second nature to him at this point, he didn’t even have to think when calling on his arsenal, so why was this different?

Blinking long and slow, Prompto tried to shake his blood-sticky bangs off his forehead. When he opened his eyes, he watched the trio carefully, flexing his hands in his ropes. They weren’t paying attention to him, too busy working out how they would conduct their exchange. As long as they were distracted, he could focus on getting out of this.

Rolling onto his back with his hands pinned uncomfortably under his body, Prompto forced himself to relax. Pain jolted through him, but he struggled to keep his muscles loose. Keeping his breathing slow and regular, he called on his connection to Noctis and the Crystal. With his body blocking the ethereal blue glow, a weapon materialized in his palm.

Prompto swallowed hard at the feeling. He could have cried. Without seeing it, he could only make a guess, but somehow he knew the perfectly weighted weapon he now held was one of Ignis’ daggers.

Rolling the blade in his hand, he ran his thumb over the handle, feeling the embellishments, the weight of the artistic sculpting that made the bulky hilt, the flare of the handle to keep it comfortable in hand.

Carefully flipping the blade so he didn’t drop it, Prompto repositioned the weapon so the edge was against his ropes. He arched his back to avoid cutting himself and started wiggling the dagger. Keeping his movements to a minimum, he worked the sharp blade against his restraints. As he worked, he nicked his forearm with the tip of the blade. He bit his tongue against the sting and continued with the ropes.

It took a few solid minutes of gentle maneuvering of the dagger to slice through the rope. He had to freeze occasionally when one of the group glanced over at him. Eventually, he felt the edge pop through the final strand, and he sagged in relief. He wasn’t about to give away his newfound freedom, however.

Keeping his arms behind his back, Prompto moved back onto his side and gripped the dagger tightly. “I dunno why you guys picked me, but it’s really not gonna do you any good. You’ve seen my friends, right? You think they’re just gonna give you money?”

“Prince Noctis seemed pretty willing to make a deal.”

“Good Gods, I shoulda taped your mouth shut an hour ago,” grumbled Joe, turning back toward Prompto.

The big woman, whose name Prompto still hadn’t learned, smirked. “Never too late to shut him up. Might be more effective than the love taps you gave him. We’ve gotta deal with him for a while yet. Duct tape is in the drawer over there.”

Prompto watched Joe move over to a chest of drawers, his muscles tense with anticipation. He waited for him to grab a roll of silvery duct tape, then saunter over to Prompto. Grinning, he crouched before the blond.

“Y’know, you guys are really bad at this kidnapping thing,” taunted Prompto.

“Yet you’re still here, helpless,” replied Joe, peeling back a corner of the tape.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Swinging his leg up and forward, Prompto caught Joe off-guard. His ankle hooked the man’s throat and knocked him backward. With a speed his battered muscles screamed at, he propelled himself upward and on top of Joe. Straddling the man’s waist, he held him down with one hand and brandished Ignis’ dagger at the trio.

“What the hell?” squeaked Joe, eyes wide.

Prompto grinned, barring bloodied teeth. “Weapon summoning. Perks of being friends with the future King of Lucis.”

#writing #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #ffxv #ff15 #prompto #prompto argentum #ignis #ignis scientia #promnis #ignis x prompto #violence #blood #prompto is a badass #faierius writes

8 notes · View notes

dontyoudarestiles · 8 years ago

Text

Fic: A Voice of Naught and Night

First attempt for Gradence, hope everyone enjoys!

(Original) Percival Graves/Credence Barebone | E (Explicit Sexual Content In The Future) | ~4500 | Chapter 1 of ?

Summary: Percival Graves is a detective in the small Irish village of Perth, living in the shack along the sea his father had lived in and his father before him. Raised on myths of merrowmaids and selkies, when he finds a mute, beautiful boy washed up on the shoreline, he can't help but provide shelter. And eventually, love.

| ao3 |

Graves

The boy who washes up on the seashore is mute. Pale and salt-soaked, he’s curled up in a ball near shallows, protecting the naked slip of his belly and the curve of his genitals from the knife-laced wind. When Graves first sees him, he thinks he’s a faerie from one of the silly legends his da liked to tell back in the day—skin as soft as powdered snow, hair as black as pitch and drenched from the sea, cheeks ruddy and pretty as the sunset. But Da’s faeries never had lips that went bluey or nail-beds that flushed purple from the chill or flesh that froze in the cold Irish December. “Are you alright?” Graves shouts over the whistling wind. The boy says nothing. For a short second, Graves thinks about just walking away. Because he can see Trouble lurking over the boy’s shoulders, hiding in the shadows of a clenched jaw, stalking the boy’s feet. But then he sees the eyes. Dark and liquid and wild, they flutter and thick lashes beat against the boy’s high, cold-flushed cheek, and Graves reaches out.

It is nothing to shrug off his coat and place it about the boy’s delicate, frozen shoulders. The boy shudders into it, clutching at the fabric jealously with blue fingers, and that makes up Graves' mind. He carries the boy home in his arms, a slight, kitten-weak thing that clings to Graves' shoulders tremblingly. Graves can’t remember the last time someone touched him in this way, if anyone had ever touched him in this way, desperate and trembling. And although he knows the boy is snuggling down into his shoulder in search of his body heat, and not out of affection, Graves can’t help the flush of pleasure from the sweet touch, can’t help but close his eyes as he feels strands of wet hair brush against his cheek and settle icily against his neck.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” he whispers and feels the boy shake. His home isn’t much, a tiny cabin sat on a high sand bank that overlooks the craggy shore, but the boy only looks about wonderingly and closes his eyes greedily as they step into the living room, the warmth sweet and loving on his chilled body. Graves runs the boy a steaming bath, worried for the state of the little fingers and toes. They are more a pale blue than a dark, evil purple though, so he thinks the digits are safe from frostbite, but still. He blows on them with his hot breath, instructs the boy to do the same while he gathers towels and lays them on the radiators to heat up. The boy makes a little noise of pleasure once Graves settles him into the bath, a soft “oh,” that sends shivers down Graves spin as the hot water splashes and smacks against numbed, slicked skin. He’s a pretty little thing in the water, long hair swirling about him like a cloud of ink in the water, white skin flushing peach and apple from the heat, eyes gone dewy with pleasure. But he’s too weak to wash himself, fumbling fingers nearly dropping the soap and he can barely raise his arms to splash his face with warm water. He makes a wretched sound, frustrated and sniffling, and Graves' heart breaks. “Here, love, let me, c’mon.” The boy watches quietly as Graves kneels next to the tub, ignoring his aching knees (he’s just turned forty last month, his bones aren’t as young as they used to be) to help this soft-eyed boy who needs him. And it’s a strange feeling to be needed for something as mundane and as simple as taking a bath. A strange, but heady feeling, being needed, a surge of power that makes Graves shudder from it. But power or not, Graves takes the soap and a soft washcloth gladly and runs it down the sweet dip of the boy’s spine, so thin and delicate that he can count the gentle bones. The boy hums happily, lids half-open, and it fills Graves up with a well of warmth, not unlike drinking a hot drink on a dreary day. It’s only when Graves starts washing the thin little chest and smooth belly that he sees the bruises. They’re mottled all over the boy’s soft hips and thighs, patterning the boy from dark blues and purples to shades of rotted green and yellow. Graves is frozen at the sight of them, cupping one slim thigh as he stares at the ugly print of a man’s hand on this boy. A red film descends over his eyes, tinting everything in shades of blood, and he can feel his heartbeat throbbing with anger.

(The very thought of the boy, sobbing and in pain under the heavy weight of a faceless, cruel-fingered man makes Graves' stomach roil, a beast roaring in his chest, fingers clenching around an invisible throat).

He only jerks out of his trance when he feels the boy quivering. At first, he thinks the poor thing is cold and reaches out to start the hot water tap, but then he glances at the boy’s face. The tears slide like rain droplets down the boy’s cheeks, some of them slipping over the plump of his bottom lip, and his nose goes bright from sniffling. “Oh, love,” says Graves softly, sleeves heavy with water, knee caps aching from kneeling too long, and he draws the boy close, lets the sweetling dampen his shirt as he cries. He feels the soft, smooth skin under his arms, hears the boy stuttered, hitching breaths. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” Inside, he thinks what happened to you? What are you running from?

…

Graves dries the boy with heated towels, and it’s a challenge—the boy cannot stand, eyes glazed and not all there, unable to help. His skin now burns with sweet fever, delirious, and so he lies listless in the tub as Graves pats him dry. It’s easy to carry him from the bathroom, a white towel dangling from boyish hips. Graves places the boy onto the cover of his bed, and it’s startling, the moon skin bright against the dark sheets. The boy swallows a few Tylenol with a little coaxing and draws long pulls of water from a tall glass Graves keeps by the bedside. It’s only once the boy settles against the comforter that Graves kneels in front of the boy, sliding reassuring hands over the little one’s wrists when he whimpers in confusion, skin hot to the touch.

(Graves refuses to think about how easy it is, to get on his knees for the soft-eyed creature, a priest supplicating himself before God and his angels.)

“I don’t want to, darling, but I have to check,” he whispers into the night.

The boy trembles, but nods as Graves gently, so gently, unwraps the towel from around the boy’s waist, revealing the plush, bruised thighs and the plump, soft cock. Graves sucks in a breath—the boy is so white, the few points of color the beautifully pink nipples, flushed cheeks, the berry mouth, and peach-headed cock.

(And the ugly, spattered bruises, but thinking of it gives Graves heartburn).

But Graves is not here to gawk without reason, and so he gently spreads the boy’s legs. The sweetling lets out a little cry, but there is no shame, only gentle confusion, and the boy only sighs as little as Graves trails a finger down his little ass to press at the smooth, silky skin of his rose.

Graves does not linger, simply feels the untouched flesh, not allowing himself to look, and retreats, blushing like a milkmaid felt up the first time, but unbearably relieved. The boy is furled tightly and dry, no blood or wounds or abnormal ridges that Graves can feel.

If the boy had shown signs of sexual assault, Graves doesn’t know what he would have done. He doesn’t.

But the boy was not harmed in that horrific manner, and Graves breaths a prayer of thanks to God for the first time in years.

He tears his eyes away from the sweet swell of hips and avoids looking at the pretty pink bundle between the boy’s white legs. He’s trying to be good, trying to be kind, so he wraps the boy up in soft fleece blankets and herds him out of the bedroom and in front of the warm, fire-flaring hearth of the den. The boy shivers, still nude, as Graves scrambles around looking for clothes.

But still, the boy doesn’t speak. He responds a little as Graves gently clothes him in his softest longsleeve and sweatpants. “C’mon, love, head up,” Graves murmurs, helping the boy pop his head of curls through the hole. “Good job, good job. Give me your feet now.” The boy’s lithe, pale legs slip into the pants easily, and Graves is very careful not to let his fingers linger anywhere inappropriate. It’s rather funny, at first, to see how very ill Graves’ fit the boy, sleeves hanging loose over thin fingers, the sweatpants dragging across the floor, but then Graves looks too long and it becomes arousing—the silkiness of a bared shoulder, the lovely hollow of the throat, the sharp jut of his pelvis poking up over the waistband.

Graves feels hot, dazed, meets those depthless, fever-bright eyes, and jerks out of it. He mumbles an excuse and busies himself by moving his little lumpy sofa as close as he can to the fire, so the boy can settle and thaw more easily. He’s in a bad way, breath thick and rattly in his chest, and Graves can picture him slipping, growing cold and blank, and a sudden terror fills his lungs like ice-water.

“Please don’t take him,” Graves finds himself praying. “Please, Lord, don’t do that to me, please.”

...

Graves stays awake half the night watching over the little one. He dozes in his favorite armchair, ten minute stretches at a time, slams open his eyes awake to smooth the thick, damp hair away from the boy’s heat-slick forehead and tend to the low-lying fire. He coaxes cool water down the boy’s throat, rearranges the blankets, is even able to get the boy to swallow a few mouthfuls of sweet porridge in a slight moment of clarity. The boy himself wakes Graves up a few times during the night, shrill little whines from nightmares pulling Graves out of his sleep and drawing him to the boy’s bedside.

“Go to sleep, sweet, shh,” he murmurs, and the boy settles, tossing and turning receding under Graves' gentling.

God against all odds is kind for once, and the fever breaks a few hours after midnight after raging like a forest fire for most of the night. But still, Graves doesn’t retreat to his room, but curls up more properly in his chair and grants himself sleep.

It’s only when the sun stretches grey-lavender fingers across the clouded sky that he gets up, puttering around to make breakfast and brush his teeth, letting the boy rest for a mite longer. “What happened to you?” Graves murmurs aloud, and is almost startled when the boy shifts and sits up, awake. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, lad.”

The boy trembles for a moment, eyes wild and blown wide for a moment before recognition sets in, and the shoulders untense. Thankfully, the boy seems incredibly alert compared to only a few hours before.

“It’s alright, lovely, you’re safe here.” Graves keeps his voice low and smooth. The boy’s hair has dried into long, glossy ringlets, and Graves can’t help but brush his fingers through them gently, feeling the silk curl against Graves' rough, wind-chafed skin.“There’s a lad. Could you tell me your name?”

The boy blushes at the gentle touch, but shakes his head, taps his throat. Can’t speak. But then a light blooms in the dark eyes. He mimes writing in the air, hands and arms trembling with the effort. Luckily it only takes a few moments for Graves to track down a pen and paper. Credence, scrawled in a swirly, girlish cursive, stands black and striking against the white of the paper. “Credence,” Graves reads aloud, a heavy name. “You’re safe now. I swear it.” Credence smiles, and, with his lips pink and soft instead of paling, chapped blue, he looks like the most beautiful thing Graves has ever seen.

The boy writes quickly, but his hands tremble clumsily with exhaustion, and the long sharp strokes nearly rip the page in two carelessly.

What’s your name?

Graves is faintly ashamed at not having introduced himself from the very beginning—his Mam would’ve surely killed him for not minding his manners.

“Ah, I’m Graves. Or Percival, but hardly anyone calls me that anymore, not since Uni.” He huffs a laugh, deliberately soft so as not to startle the lad. “What are we goin’ to do with you, then, eh?” Credence blinks up at him, butterfly-shy and nervous, and he goes for the pen again, but the boy fumbles and there’s the clatter of metal falling to the ground, and the boy is going pink and wet-eyed with frustration.

“I’m so sorry, lovely,” Graves murmurs, reaches out to the pat the little weak hands and put them into the boy’s lap to rest. “But you’ve got to be patient. You nearly died out there.”

Credence bows his head, staring out at the flames in the hearth. The flicker of light across the high cheekbones and the deep lips and dark eyes make Graves blink and wonder if the boy really is a faerie come to life.

…

DS Tina Goldstein doesn’t know when to mind her own damned business.

“I’m sure we can manage just fine, Graves. It’s only a week off. I’m just worried—you haven’t taken a vacation day since last Christmas,” and her voice dips with suspicion. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Graves mutters into the phone-mouth, casting long, distracted glances at the pretty boy asleep on his couch. “It’s—erm, it’s family business, you understand. An old aunt called up.”

“Oh.” He can hear the confused frown through the phone. “Well, let me know when you’re ready to come in.”

“Of course, yes.” Graves half-heartedly makes vapid small talk for a few more minutes before they say their goodbyes and what not, and the phone clicks into its holder when he puts it down. He tiptoes carefully into the sitting room, knowing Credence is dozing gently, unwilling to wake him. The boy sleeps deeply, lashes casting long, deep shadows on his cheeks in the firelight. He’s sprawled on the couch, half covered by the mountain of blankets and pillows Graves had collected for him, and even though Credence looks incredibly comfortable and warm and safe, Graves has such an intense urge to carry him to Graves' bedroom and tuck him gently in bed that he wonders if he’s losing it. He clenches his fists and tries to distract himself by turning to the book he’d abandoned before finding Credence on the seashore. But his heart’s racing and his thoughts are full of Credence, the faerie he fished out of the sea, not the droll protagonist or her lackluster love interest, and five minutes passes before Graves realizes he’s been staring at Credence in repose instead of turning the page. He slaps the book shut with a sigh, and gives in. He sits next to the boy napping on the couch, carefully touches the smooth brow to check for fever. Credence is warm, but not sickly, and instead looks remarkably healthy for someone literally spat out of the sea only a day ago. Cheeks flushed prettily, breaths deep and even, he could’ve been anyone’s son, sleeping through a perfectly good Saturday, avoiding schoolwork and responsibilities. Or perhaps someone’s lover, drowsy from post-coitus and happy and spoiled. Graves hates to wake him, but it’s been a good five hours and the boy hasn’t had anything to eat since the fever broke. So he touches the warm shoulder and murmurs, “Wake up, lovely, wake up. Time for a quick bite.” Credence wakes like he’s swimming up from a deep pool, slow and elegant, lashes lifting gently, legs and arms shifting under the blankets, the smooth arch and stretch of a neck and the waggle of fingers. “Hullo there,” Graves whispers, unbearably charmed. Credence smiles brightly, eyes muddled for a moment before clearing. The boy sits up, rubs a fist in his eye too roughly for Graves' tastes, and yawns, little pink tongue curling like a kitten’s. “Had a good nap there, did you?” Graves says. “Hungry?” Credence merely blinks at him, and there is a low grumble of hunger from the boy’s stomach. Credence blushes and Graves laughs. “That answers that, I think.” Graves stands. “Do you—what would you like? Do you eat meat?” Credence nods, looking around for his little pen and pad of paper, and Graves retrieves the items from his writing desk, knowing the boy is still too weak to stand by himself.

“You think you’re strong enough to write some today?” he asks. The boy nods eagerly. He proves himself by scribbling a little note and pushing the crumpled paper into Graves' palm, fingers soft and cool and only trembling the slightest bit. Thank you. The words follow Graves to the kitchen, where he fixes sandwiches for them both and brews a hot pot of tea. “Time for a change of scenery,” Graves says, coming back into the living room, only to find Credence trying to stand on his own—unsuccessfully. The boy is clinging to the back of the couch, trying to rest his weight on legs too weak to cooperate, and Graves scoops the boy up quickly, just in time to see the boy’s knees buckle. “Jaysus Christ, are you insane?” Graves yelps. Credence is a trembling, warm, terrified weight in his arms, and the boy hides his face in Graves' neck. “Oh, love, you’re not well yet. Yeh have to have patience.” Credence makes a little, dissatisfied noise, and Graves huffs a soft laugh, ruffling the long curls at Credence’s nape. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just a small bump, don’t worry.” He carries the boy into the kitchen, sits Credence down at the table, making sure he’s comfortable. “Good?” Credence nods shyly, staring at the little cup of tea sat next to his hand. Graves scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Wasn’t sure what’cha liked, exactly. Didn’t know if you preferred sugar or not.” He quickly pours two spoonfuls of sugar into the tea, watches the powder melt down and tries not to think of what Credence would taste like after drinking it, warm and sweet and earthy. The boy smiles up at him gratefully, and Graves feels the tops of his cheeks warm before he clears his throat loudly and focuses on his own food. But even that distraction is short-lived, because although Credence can’t speak, he can hum and make little, satisfied noises that disarm Graves terribly. He glances up and he doesn’t know why it’s so satisfying, seeing Credence devour the food with the reverence of a priest receiving communion, but Graves feels a flood of warmth in his ribcage, a sort of self-satisfaction humming in his blood, and he thinks I did that as the boy makes his little happy noises, soft hums, eyelids falling to half-mast with pleasure. …

Credence

Graves, the man who’s rescued him, is kind. His voice is a low, gentle burr, his hands are large but soft on Credence’s paper-frail skin, and he has a light in his eyes that the Other Man didn’t. His home is warm and his hearth is lively, and Credence could stay and stare at the flicker of the flames forever and never be restless.

The food Graves makes him is strange, but good. There is no tang of salt or bitter aftertaste of fish, but instead tender, savory meat placed between sweetbread, the crunch of lettuce, the soft give of cheese. He eats greedily, never having tasted anything so good before.

Warm and full and good, he thinks to himself that he wouldn’t really mind being caught by this man. Not really.

…

Graves

He wakes up two mornings after the boy appears to an empty house, and he panics. The couch is neatly made, the blankets folded and pressed, the pillows rearranged prettily, and Graves is terrified. He becomes an idiot for a good few minutes before he finds his mind enough to glance outside and—oh. A pale figure, down by the shoreline. Credence is bent down, ankle-deep in the very water that had tried to kill him only a day ago, water lapping at his hands playfully, and he looks up guilelessly when Graves calls his name. There’s a quick smile, visible from even this distance, and Graves breathes. “Credence!” he calls, and there’s an overwhelming sense of relief, yes, but also fury. The boy was so weak the past day he could barely walk, and he wakes up this morning and has the gall to dare the universe to try and drown him again? He’s not dressed for the weather, either, only an overly large sweater and soft, damp-hemmed sweatpants barely protecting him from the chilled wind. The boy straightens with obvious effort as Graves reaches him, but he’s still smiling, the fool, and Graves is about to yell at him for risking his life and thinking himself invincible when the boy reaches out and the wrath dies in Graves' throat. Credence’s hands are freezing and wet, and so are the smooth, glossy pearls that are dropped into Graves' palm. Graves freezes. “What’re these?” Credence just smiles and blinks up at him, closes his lax fingers around the little treasures. A gesture: for you. Graves stares at him, down to the pearls, and back again. They really are quite gorgeous, smooth and hard and cold, like perfectly rounded ice that won’t melt, and they’re worth more than what Graves could make in a lifetime. An almost overflowing handful, and the boy just gives them to Graves. “Where in the seven hells did you find these?” Graves finally forces out. But Credence shakes his head and steps back when Graves holds them out again. “Credence, I can’t take these,” Graves insists, thrusting the little pearls into the boy’s chest. “I can’t, I won’t. Do you know how much these are worth? What you could do with this type of money?” But Credence looks at him, pleading with his eyes, plum mouth trembling, and if the boy starts crying because Graves won’t take money that’s rightfully Credence’s, Graves' going to have a stroke. “We—we should talk about this inside,” Graves stammers, shoving the goddamn pearls into his pocket.

It becomes very evident that Credence only made it this far out from sheer effort, because he walks very slowly and very carefully. The second time Credence nearly lands on his face, slim feet stumbling in the damp sand, Graves scoops the boy into his arms and carries him the rest of the way and feels a sense of déjà vu that he never wants repeated. Even the memory of Credence naked and cold and near death makes something freeze deep in Graves' gullet, and a reddish cloud of anger gathers in his chest as he thinks about what he would do to anyone who tried to hurt the poor lad. “Cocoa first, and then we’re going to have a chat,” he says forbiddingly, but the boy only ducks his head down into Graves' neck, breath sweet and warm against Graves' throat, and tightens his grip on Graves' shoulders. Graves feels his anger fade in favor of exasperated fondness. He presses his lips to the wild curls, and thinks I’m in trouble.

Credence likes the hot cocoa quite a bit despite it being made from store bought powder and not from Kowalski Quality Baked Goods, Graves' favorite. The boy sips carefully, but reverently, and Graves has to audibly tell the boy to slow down.

“It’s a bit rich, innit?” he says with a wink. “We don’t want you getting any tummy aches, now.”

Credence blushes delightfully, and Graves only lasts a few minutes of watching the boy drink slowly before pushing a little platter of butter biscuits towards the boy. He’s seen the Credence’s ribs in the bath, stark and terrifyingly vivid against the skin. He never wants to see his boy so thin again, could never deny him hot food or drink because of it. When Credence became his boy, he’s not quite sure. But so it is.

Credence smiles, but then frowns as Graves places the not insignificant pile of pearls on the middle of the coffee table, the clink and clatter of them ringing out in the kitchen. The boy produces his pen and pad from nowhere, scribbles something quickly, insistently.

For you, Mr Graves. A thank you.

“Credence,” Graves says lowly, seriously, and catches Credence’s eyes so intensely the boy stares with alarm. “I swear on me life, on me Mam in heaven, that no matter what happens, no matter how well or how ill you get, you will always be welcome here, free of charge. This?” He picks up one of the pearls, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, puts it down again firmly. “This isn’t necessary, my boy.”

The boy looks faintly embarrassed at the display of kindness, head dipped down and cheeks red, and Graves captures one of the little pretty hands in his bearish palms before the boy can retreat.

“Oh, you’re such a good, kind boy,” Graves says fondly. “So considerate."

Credence looks stunned, and then hides his pleased smile and kittenish eyes in his shoulder, squirming with delight, and it takes everything in Graves not to lean over and ravish the boy where he sits.

“Good boy,” he whispers instead. “My good, lovely little boy.”

#gradence #credence barebone #percival graves #credence/graves #gradence fanfic #mywriting

60 notes · View notes