#ceaseless watcher turn your gaze upon whatever the fuck this is

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NO AO3 YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME I HAVE A CHAPTER TO POST

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One of my sorority sisters taught me how to open bananas that way, and let me tell you what, if one of the frat boys was being a douche and she (or I) looked him dead in the eye while snapping a banana in two, they shut up real quick.

Banana Shenanigans. Bananigans.

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I'm so glad to see that I can save NINE WHOLE MINUTES by taking the bus from church to my friend's house instead of walking.

[somanyfuckedupiftruebooks]

JonMartin Week 2022

Day 4: Divinity/Red String of Fate

Read it on AO3 here!

Warnings for sexual content (mostly descriptions/discussion of sexual attraction and arousal). It is not explicit, with no depicted sex acts or descriptions of genitalia. 

'Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing!'

The words were still ringing in Martin's mind hours (Had it been hours? Minutes? This whole 'time doesn't exist anymore' thing was really inconvenient) later as he followed Jon through a seemingly desolate stretch of wasteland. He couldn't stop picturing the way Jon had looked as he stared down the nightmare monster wearing their dead friend's stolen face and just… fucking smote it.

It was an image he longed to capture in a poem, but Martin knew he would never be able to find words that were evocative enough for that. How could he possibly describe the way that Jon had seemed to radiate divine might? It was like nothing Martin had ever seen before. Jon had been resplendent, with his long grey-streaked hair whipping around him as though caught in a vortex of his own power. Eyes had opened everywhere; not just in Jon's skin, but in the air itself, creating a glowing green halo all around him. It had seemed almost effortless, the way Jon simply shredded the NotThem into nothing like a goddamn avenging angel.

And witnessing this terrible, glorious act, something low and hot had uncoiled itself in Martin's gut.

The Carousel was far behind them now. Jon, drained and maybe even a little scared by what he had done, had been eager to move on quickly and had hurried them away before Martin had time to process what he had seen. Both of them were recovered now, Jon from whatever toll Beholding had taken from him in exchange for that display of power, and Martin from the giddy rush of seeing his boyfriend utterly obliterate someone. Unfortunately, the low deep heat inside of Martin had only become more insistent, continuing to demand his attention despite his attempts to ignore it.

Oh for fuck's sake. Martin had been in a lot of absurd situations in the past few years, but this was just ridiculous, not to mention inappropriate.

As though hearing that thought (good lord Martin hoped Jon wasn't listening in to his thoughts right now), Jon caught Martin's hand and brought them both to a halt.

'We… should probably talk about what happened,' Jon said, not meeting Martin's eyes.

'Now?' Hearing how high pitched and squeaky his voice sounded, Martin cleared his throat before continuing. 'I don't think we need to dwell on it right this second.'

'I just… things got a little, um, intense back there, and I just want to make sure you're doing okay,' Jon said.

'Me? I'm fine! Just, you know, really … normal.'

'Really normal,' Jon repeated.

Martin nodded. 'Yep! Let's keep going!'

Martin tried to keep walking but Jon stayed in place, pulling Martin back by their joined hands.

'Martin, just– wait, please. What's wrong?'

Jon must have felt the static rise behind those last words too late to stop himself from speaking. His eyes widened as, gripped by compulsion, Martin answered immediately.

'I can't stop picturing the way you looked when you killed–' he said, before yanking his hand out of Jon's grip and clapping it over his mouth. The rest of his answer was muffled and unintelligible.

'Martin, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!' Jon cried.

'Don't do that!' Martin snapped, as soon as he could speak normally again.

'It was an accident!'

'I know it was, just– be careful!' Martin took a deep breath before continuing. 'I apologise for snapping at you. Can we please drop this?'

'I'm sorry, I just– I can't handle you being afraid of me–'

Martin rolled his eyes. 'I'm not afraid of you just because you asked me a question.'

'No, I mean…' Jon gestured helplessly back in the direction of the Carousel. 'You saw me murder someone, of course you're afraid.'

'Oh! No, that's no big deal.' Martin saw that Jon didn't believe him, so he took Jon's hands again and raised them to his lips, pressing a kiss against the knuckles of Jon's burned hand. 'As far as I'm concerned, that thing got exactly what it deserved. I'm not afraid of you, I promise.'

'Are you s–' Jon began, before catching himself and starting over. 'I would like to know how certain you are of that.'

'Oh Jon. Come here.' Almost overcome with a mix of fondness and exasperation, Martin pulled Jon into a firm hug and rested his cheek on top of Jon's head. 'I am absolutely, positively, one hundred and ten percent certain that I am not afraid of you.'

Jon said something muffled into Martin's sweater. It sounded like 'It's not possible to be more than one hundred percent' so Martin ignored him.

'Am I afraid for you? Yes, absolutely, terrified constantly and forever. But of you? Never. Not even a little bit.'

Jon didn't reply, he just held the hug for several long seconds. Finally he let Martin go, frowning slightly.

'But if you're not afraid, then what is–'

Thinking only of cutting Jon off before he could finish asking another question, Martin loudly and foolishly said, 'It's not like fear is the only reaction people have to displays of power.'

Oh no, Martin thought, as Jon's eyes narrowed and his all-seeing gaze focused entirely on Martin. Why would I say that? What's wrong with me?  

Honestly, by this point Martin really should know better than to be vague in front of Jonathan Sims, otherwise known as The Man Who Is Utterly Incapable Of Ever Letting One Single Thing Go.

'I'm not sure what you mean by that,' Jon said curiously.

'I don't mean anything by it, let's just go already.'

Martin tried to walk away again, and this time Jon did allow himself to be pulled along by the hand. He followed Martin quietly for a few seconds(?) before speaking again.

'Upset,' Jon said.

'What?'

'Upset. That's a reaction someone might have to a display of power.'

'Oh for– I am not upset,' Martin said, 'and you better not start Looking in my head or trying to Know things about me.'

'I won't,' Jon promised. 'I can figure this out on my own.'

'No! There's nothing to figure out. We're not playing the "Guess Martin's Emotional State" game.'

'Hmm… confusion.'

'No.'

'Anger.'

'I am not angry!' Martin said angrily. 'But I will be if you don't give it up. Stop guessing.'

Jon squeezed Martin's hand as if to reassure him, but Martin knew that was bullshit. Jon was frowning in the way he did when he was puzzling his way through some new mystery, and seemed to have completely forgotten that Martin couldn't actually lead their way through the domains.

Whatever. He would just aim them towards the Panopticon on the horizon and eventually they would stumble upon some new horror and Jon would have to stop to make another statement about it and everyone would forget about this whole thing. It would be fine.

In the tone of voice one might use to cry 'Eureka!' Jon suddenly announced, 'Oh! Arousal!'

Martin groaned and buried his now burning face in his hands.

This seemed to remind Jon of the implications of his realisation.

'Oh,' he repeated, in a much lower tone of voice. 'That's why you were acting… differently.'

'This is the most humiliating moment of my life,' Martin said into his hands.

'I don't see why that would be the case,' Jon said, sounding simultaneously more euphoric and more unbearably smug than Martin had ever heard him sound. 'You just think I'm… sexy.'

'Yes, Jon!' Martin snaps again, throwing his hand up in the air with exasperation. 'Obviously I think my boyfriend smiting our enemies out of existence with his awesome divine power is sexy!'

Jon laughed, and stretched up onto his toes to kiss Martin on the cheek, which Martin allowed despite his embarrassment.

'So... do you want to–? I mean, uh, you could … do something about it…' Jon said.

'Like what?!' The words burst out of Martin in an undignified squwak.

'I don't know! Whatever you're comfortable with, I suppose,' Jon said. 'I'm sure there's something that you would normally do in these circumstances.'

'It doesn't matter what I would normally do, we're in the middle of a wasteland of unending nightmares,' Martin said hotly.

Jon just shrugged. 'There's no one around.'

Martin stared at him incredulously. Then, without saying anything, he raised one arm and indicated to the entire expanse of the unblinking sky above them. Then he lowered that same arm and pointed towards the Panopticon in the distance.

'Well obviously those don't count,' Jon said.

'What do you mean they don't count?!' Martin demanded. 'How could they not count?!'

'Fine, if you don't want to be exposed, I can look for somewhere that feels more private,' Jon said, scanning the area around them.

'No, Jon, oh my god, I don't want you to go looking for some sort of … terrifying apocalypse closet where I can jack off,' Martin said. 'Please just stop it. It's fine. I am a grown man, I can deal with being turned on and not doing anything about it.'

'Well, if you're certain. I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable.' Jon's voice took on a distinctly teasing edge as he spoke. 'You know, because you can't handle how sexy I am.'

'Oh, trust me, I can handle it just fine,' Martin said, rolling his eyes.

'Okay, well you do that then.'

'I will!' Martin said indignantly. 'Now can we please stop talking about it and move on? It's really not fair to pick on me when you don't have to deal with this.'

'Alright, I'll drop it for now.' There was a bounce to Jon's steps as he moved ahead and resumed leading their way. 'But you have to promise to tell me more later about how you think I'm so sexy when I'm looking people to death.'

'For the record, I also thought you were sexy before you had powers nigh unto a god.'

And I will again, Martin thought, as Jon turned back to grin at him like a smug idiot. Once we fix this and everything goes back to the way it was before.

@jonmartinweek

[sanguinesorceress]

Marked For Death (Part 3)

[Part 1]

[Part 2 ]

Suspicious Death of Magister Deemed Homicide

 Toxicology reports have uncovered the cause of death for a Kirin Tor Magister to be a deadly toxin more commonly known by its street name of “Zanzil’s Slow Poison.”  Believed to be completely incurable, the outlawed toxin is either ingested or absorbed through direct contact, triggering the gradual deterioration of multiple internal organs before resulting in what can only be described by medical experts as “an excruciating death.”  Authorities are baffled as a recent interview with the medical examiner has revealed “there is no definitive way of knowing precisely when the victim came into contact with the toxin. Several factors such as body mass, diet, exercise, and the use of other medications, can alter the timeline when attempting to calculate the exact moment of poisoning.  Unfortunately, we are working with an approximation of one week at best.”  If anyone has any information regarding the suspicious death of Magister Jadex, authorities are encouraging them to come forward at this time.

As the ‘Tide Seer’ dispersed with a splash of salt water and collapsed into a lifeless heap of seaweed on the shore, the Sorceress appeared on a cliffside elsewhere.

 "Such an intriguing cloth to wear,” remarked the watcher from the shadows as he stepped to her side, “especially when used to turn a suspicious eye toward the already disreputable Kvaldir.”  She could feel his frigid stare burning into the crimson fabric of her hood, but she dared not glance his way.  Not yet.  For now, her eyes remained glued to the Kaldorei’s silhouette down below, watching him saddle up in preparation for his immediate departure.

 As per their agreement, her co-conspirator had tailed the assassin across the continent while taking every precaution to ensure his presence went unnoticed.  Looming high overhead, he observed the Sorceress’ performance from the safety of a cave through a network of scrying orbs she had organized beforehand.  Already confident of the answer, she sought the opinion of her companion for the sake of making conversation.  “Do you believe he will comply?”

 "You understand your prey, Sorceress.  You know their weaknesses and just how to exploit them,” he remarked dispassionately.  “The living will throw all caution to the wind when love is concerned, whether to obtain said infatuation or to protect it, I find it quite pathetic, really.”

 She glanced over her shoulder, rivaling the intensity of his gaze with that of her own.  “Is that so?” she prodded, and an amused grin pulled her sable lips tighter than a garrotting wire, “Is there nothing in this world you would protect with your life?”

Her question brought a telling smirk to his face. Haunting was that subtle gesture, the look of a man who housed layer upon layer of intricacies that were nearly impossible to unravel. "Blindness" he scoffed, and although the word was little more than a whisper, his authoritative voice carried above the crashing waves, refusing to be overcome by their ceaseless roar. "Blind love. Blind actions. Blind movements in the dark. Flailing arms trying to grasp at hope, at an opportunity to free one’s self from whatever chains they have shackled themselves with.” His eyes found her target, the shaken Kaldorei, and his grin stretched into something far more sinister.

 "What I cherish, dear lady, cannot —and does not— need protecting.”  His eyes flared into a mixture of blue flame and shadow, as his gaze returned to the Sorceress. "You need only notice the bones under your feet, the cuts you make, and the lives you absolve from this realm.  Gaze deeply into the eyes of those you claim, bask in the realization of their fate —of their untimely end—then, in those eyes, you will see what I love."

 It was for this very purpose she had chosen him to carry out this important task in her overarching plan.  The man’s ideals were iron-clad, armoring him against unwelcome influences, thereby distinguishing him as a powerful ally.  Having served his tenure under the Lich King, the Shepherd, once awakened, vowed to never again succumb to the same ‘blindness’ as the living. Perceived to be walking abominations in the eyes of mortals, the two shared the belief that they were lucid dreamers existing alongside a comatose society.

 “I would like for you to continue your surveillance on the young assassin to ensure he fulfills his task.”  She handed him a satchel, and judging by the clinking sounds coming from within the leather bag, it housed several glass vials.  “I have procured enough invisibility potions to conceal you from the scrying eyes in Dalaran.”  A single, cautionary finger stabbed the air as she relayed a warning. “They will only hide your appearance, not your aura, therefore I advise you suppress any urges you may have to use magic over the next twelve hours.”

 A trying task. The simplicity of it was presented before him, yet the request was made all the more complex in the back of his mind. For one who dwelled among the shadows, who lingered out of sight only to be seen as the last thing to be seen, he understood intimately that strategy was paramount in a situation such as this. "Hide what I am.” It was a familiarity that soon reclaimed him. Conceal yourself. Don't let them catch you. Pallid lips twisted ever so slightly as he accepted the Sorceress’ magical aid. "Be it by shadow, unholy magic, or physical inevitability… Death always collects its due.” He curled his plated fingers around the bag and held it close to his chest. "You shall have your result."

From the moment the Tide Seer dispersed, Oneth knew the clock was ticking.

 12 Hours.  Starting now.  Think fast, you can do this.

 Eliminate target number one = 4 Hours (Including travel time, cleanup, and disposal.)

 12 - 4 = 8

 8 Hours

 Target number two would require preventative methods and careful planning.  His death won’t be nearly as easy to cover up while meeting the Tide Seer’s conditions of a ‘slow and excruciating death.’

 Excruciating Death = Zanzil’s Slow Poison

 Acquire reagents from usual suppliers = 6 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

6 + 4 = 10

 8 - 10 = Dead Wife

 Not an option. Try again, Oneth.

 Acquire half of the reagents locally, the other half from usual suppliers = 3.5 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

 3.5 + 4 = 7.5

 7.5 Hours (with 30 mins serving as a buffer for small errors)

 This won’t be easy, but if it will save her life, I have to at least try.  Now, to make this happen and not fuck up.

He had worked tirelessly through the night, and thus far, not only was everything going according to plan, but according to schedule.  Perhaps lady luck was on his side, or maybe the Gods had finally decided to smile upon him. Whatever the reasoning, he was not one to question his good fortune.

 Even with the use of portals, the majority of his time was consumed by travel.  The places he was required to visit were remote, and with good reason.  Herbalists were forbidden to stock the full ingredient list and alchemists were outlawed from making or carrying the deadly poison. Anyone caught with the knowledge of its procurement were obligated to report suspicious activity to the authorities, and there were few business owners willing to risk their livelihood or their reputation on an assassin regardless of how tempting the bribe may be.

 Each reagent had to be purchased from a different supplier, then combined in the privacy of an undisclosed location to avoid suspicion.  This was not the first time he had created Zanzil’s Slow Poison, but it was certainly the first he had done it on such short notice.

“Your tea, Sir,” trilled the waitress as she placed a steaming beverage before the Magister.  “Only a half-spoon of honey; just the way you like it.”

 Scholar’s hands, smoothed by the caress of only the finest parchment in Dalaran, wrapped around the teacup.  Stolen warmth snaked its way up his arms and scalded his lips as he flashed her a heated smile.  “My dear, sweet, Lady.  It appears you are working late, yet again.”  Despite what he would have others believe, the Magister was not as gentle natured as he feigned.  His tips were overly generous, particularly when it came to pretty faces, and such generosity would grant him a night or two with a supple body to warm his bed.  (Before they discovered the dark, sadistic desires he harbored behind closed doors.)  This evening’s prize had been particularly elusive over the past several weeks and tonight he was certain she would succumb to his particular brand of charm. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not fret for your safety at such a late hour.  Would you allow me the honor of escorting you home after your shift this evening?”

As the two conversed, Oneth carried on with his work, seemingly overwhelmed by the persistent duties of being a porter.  Tables were cleaned, empty glasses were cleared, and bottles were retrieved from the cellar upon request.  Never did he cease to move, the buzzing bee that he was, and he flitted from table to table with the enthusiasm of a young lad eager to please.  Let them grow comfortable with the diligent worker so they may overlook the stinger at his back.  It was menial work, but necessary in order to maintain certain appearances, and the bustle of the tavern helped to bring a semblance of normalcy to an otherwise unorthodox lifestyle.  Now and again, Oneth allowed his gaze to wander in their direction, waiting for the exact moment when all of his careful planning would come to fruition.

 Twenty seven minutes and counting.

 After an excruciatingly painful exchange, his coworker managed to, yet again, artfully decline the polite pervert and evade his overeager hands.  Evidently the Magister would be going home alone again, but tonight’s loss would do little to thwart his redoubled attempt tomorrow. Oneth had witnessed this ‘act’ on more than one occasion.  He would be doing her, in addition to his employer, a favor by ridding the world of this viscid parasite.

 Eighteen minutes.

 Long after the tea, and his advances had gone cold.  Magister Jadex commenced his nightly exiting ritual.  The empty teacup was returned to its saucer, followed by the jingle of too many coins being placed upon the table in a grandiose show of ‘appreciation,’ and lastly the dabbing of his lips with a paper napkin.  Only this time, the napkin would bear both the message and the means of his demise.  At first, the Magister appeared not to notice the writing, but rather than make a scene, he lowered it to his lap where he could read the words discreetly.

 One day I will return and you won’t be around to see me rise again.

 No dilation of pupils, no widening of eyes, no frantic searching for the culprit ensued. Nothing occurred despite knowing with absolute certainty that he had received the message.  Oneth found himself both perplexed and slightly intrigued.  Perhaps this was not the first threat the Magister had received.  Instead, the note was pocketed, and he bid his coveted prize a good evening before gracefully taking his leave.  

 Unfortunately for him, this was not just a threat.  It was a delayed execution, and with the strange pearl already concealed within the Magister’s home, all he had to do now was wait.

[ Co-written with @lazraelbandtherion​​ as his respective part. ]

@hmratking​​ @loveherdekay​​ @safrona-shadowsun​​ @duraxxor​​

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So funny story I want to tell about this.

One of my friends and I were collaborating on a novel, which spawned off of a forum-based RPG site we were both part of, about our characters from the RP and their siblings growing up as neighbors and being friends. Except that in the RPG, our characters (the youngest siblings of both families) had never met before they started working for the facility, so this was already an AU of the original setting. We plotted out this whole storyline, how they met, how they grew together, what happened after. We'd decided that the oldest boy in my family and the oldest girl in his family would get married someday, and we'd even named all their kids, and we'd written some post-novel stories.

And then one day we were joking around on IM about what the ship names would be in the fandom of our novel, and what the most popular ships would be, and while obviously we knew Anton and Svetlana would end up together, we agreed fairly quickly that there would be a HUGE Dmitri/Anton fandom and that would be the most popular non-canon ship. We called it "Dmanton" because we liked the sound of it. And just for shits and giggles, we decided to write fanfic of our own novel and write a non-canon Dmanton story.

We. Uh. Ended up realizing that Svetlanton was the non-canon ship, and that Anton and Dmitri were definitely, definitely endgame.

Anyway, later on it turned out that the friend I was collaborating with was a system and what we'd always thought were just characters he was more able to RP when he was at certain points on his bipolar swings were actually entirely separate personalities, and we ended up abandoning the novel, but it was definitely a fun time.

thinking about aus for ocs is so funny. like i already put this guy in a situation but what if i put them in another totally different one

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''you do you just don't do me'' need that on a shirt

I have extremely limited graphic design skills and a Teepublic account. I can probably make that happen.

[thegayraven]

I'm not a poetry expert but I THINK "ceaseless watcher turn your gaze upon this wretched thing" is actually headless iambic septameter or whatever the fuck since it's an odd number of syllables and begins and ends with a stressed syllable? I dont think trochaic has an unpaired ending like iambic sometimes does (the so-called feminine ending). but again I'm no expert and this is all based on what I learned in a forms and genres poetry class

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so fun fact for everybody

today was my friend's son's eighteenth birthday party and my mom and I went out after church and bought him gift cards and birthday cards to put in them and when we got out to the car I added a personal message to mine. you know, as you do.

anyway this kid has had a REALLY shitty few years; his dad was an emotionally/verbally abusive asshat and the divorce was unnecessarily acrimonious and the final custody arrangement undid a lot of things that had made him and his sister feel safe for a while. my dad was also emotionally/verbally abusive even if it never escalated quite to the level that theirs did (it didn't need to because my mom didn't have the same support network our friend did, but that's beside the point), so as part of my personal message I assured him that, while many aspects of adulthood suck, it is in fact infinitely better than being a child. after signing it, I added a postscript that said "if you want advice on changing your name at some point hmu" before sticking it in the envelope, swearing silently at the shitty glue that wouldn't stick, and giving up and just tucking the flap under.

ten minutes later I suddenly remembered that the card was a joke one that said "how to be a true crime fan: 1. discover a new true crime podcast/tv show 2. devour the entire series in a 24 hour period 3. realize that everyone you know could be a serial killer 4. never sleep again" on the front and "happy birthday to someone I am 100% certain is not a serial killer. right? right???" on the inside.

so I added a second postscript that just said "I just realized how this sounds with the context of the card. I stand by it."

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@ent-is-undecisive I hope you don't mind me preserving this tag, because it's surprisingly motivational.

this is nothing that a little weed and a reasonably priced cocktail and a themed dinner party and a bisexual he/they and a paperback novel from the discount bin and a bucket of movie theater popcorn and central ac and a personalized playlist from your best friend and clean sheets and a slam poem and a four hour video essay and a pair of comfortable jeans and freshly washed hair and complete political reform and a single, perfect strawberry can't fix

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All right.

Look.

I know he goes by his mother's surname, not his father's, BUT...

Somebody PLEASE draw Gerry in this outfit.

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I finished the first chapter of my next long project.

Tremble before me, mortals.

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[Image description: A component for a computer with a label on top that reads "Works, but makes Sad Noises". /end ID]

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I have so many other projects going right now including the "Tim gets hired as Gertrude's assistant after Danny dies" AU I made the mistake of joking about in the notes of Chapter 68 of promise and now am invested in, but sometime in the last 48 hours I got randomly struck with an idea for my version of a "Martin is a selkie" AU and I have lore for it and honestly at this point it's going to be whichever of those two I figure out the endgame for is going to get written first.

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Found out you're on Tumblr from the latest chapter of "And If thou Wilt, Forget" and thought I'd pop in and say hi! Hi!

Hi! It's good to officially meet you. ^_^ Welcome to the madhouse.