#dicks out for saint taurus

[noinoi10101010]

What your favorite Sams Eals Eaps character says about you

sun : You want to give him the love and care he desperately needs and you probably kin him or have him as your comfort character you also can come up with the most heartbreaking earth shattering angst at the drop of a hat.

Moon : you always like the snarky sassy characters and your probably aroace finally glad your getting good rep you also probably have massive self worth issues

Eclipse: your a simp..............and emo but mostly a simp.

Lunar: you will dick ride this guy and defend him no matter what like he could kill someone and you would all still say " well but he was traumatized so he justified"

Blood moon: you are adamant blood moon should have gotten redeemed and ignore all bad stuff he has done.

Kill code: you are literal saint and an extremely wholesome person and are very passionate about a character that was barly shown

Solar: you probably very overworked and have a bad home life and like with sun you probably have him as your comfort character or you kin him you also can't watch his death without balling your eyes out

Earth: you have and will defend her for any stupid criticism she gets you are also a huge fan of queen Kat and her work.

Monty: you have either daddy or mommy issues or both and can and will scam people for there money

Dark sun: you love any all sun and HATE moons you also have a lieing problem

Nexus : you think he is justified he is not you think he is a good person he is not you also ship him with solar

Gemini: you love star signs and probably have a twin brother of sister of your own and your probably a massive lunar x gemini shipper

Nebula: your a shy quite horsegirl

Taurus: your very serious and give good advice

Dazzle: your a child

Jack: you have ADHD and are obsessed with Halloween like Halloween flows through your mind and vains

Creator: you are very free bread my firend

Sunshine: you are very childish and energetic your basically the sun fans before trauma

Moonshine: your a gamer....or a streamer...or both most likely both

Ruin: your a massive theater kid and I'm not gonna say your British but you definitely have an accent your also a massive solar x ruin shipper

Ballora: you are a massive girly girly and have confidence everyone envys

Epas monty: You are basically like the Monty fans but more guy

Kerian: you are a very fruity

Rez: you are a lunar x rez shipper

[sanctus-ingenium]

Saint Taurus & a handy size chart based mostly on relative size rather than Actual Size (so ignore the little human figure).

Once the church threw itself into the hunting of dragons and subsequent harvesting of their ichor, a new problem arose: the transportation of thousands upon thousands of gallons of highly volatile, toxic dragonsblood. The harvesting process takes months, and it is a continual race against time; dragonsblood in liquid form will become gas at very low temperatures, and a good 50% of all spilled blood is lost to evapotranspiration after a battle. Transporting this precious liquid safely is a greater challenge than harvesting it.

Taurus provides a simple solution. Stationed in the most central region of the empire, Taurus can reach the site of a battle and start transporting ichor before the dragon has even died. Taurus is the biggest of all the beasts and by far the strongest, and his harness & transport barge consist of the largest manmade structures within the empire (and potentially beyond it, as well). In fact, the fire shield at the front of the barge is the single largest continuous piece of metal ever designed by the armoursmiths, but it serves a vital role of keeping sparks from the exhaust flames from reaching the dragonsblood. Although the barrels are sealed, the danger of dragonsblood ignition is so great that all caution must be taken.

As if the logistical and metalworking challenges of this venture were not enough, Taurus must also be heavily armoured, with his main connection points to his barge reinforced. Poachers who can't bring down dragons to get their own dragonsblood engine fuel frequently choose to attack the barge. Taurus is considered to be unstoppable, too large and tank-like to even attempt to take down, but he still needs an escort of ground soldiers to watch the back of the barge, or occasionally a companion beast if the risk is high. It's a tricky operation - the scale of the barge is such that it becomes difficult to watch every inch, and on nearly every single excursion there is some ichor lost to theft, even if it is only as much as a single person or horse can carry.

The knight rider of Taurus, Sir Bounty, always rides with an inspector in his throne chamber, after an incident fifty years back wherein the previous Sir Bounty was found to have been taking bribes from poachers from outside the empire. He would linger at certain points on the route long enough to allow significant theft of ichor from the barge. Since then, all knights are regularly tested to ensure they do not succumb to the sin of greed, and that their vows of poverty remain unbroken. The punishment for the crime matches that which the old Sir Bounty suffered; death by immersion in hydrargyrum.

[jennydevic]

Soul of Stupidity 2.2: How Dohko lost his groove and Aldebaran always had his, but no one ever noticed #Taurus Saint Appreciation Week

Aldebaran: I can’t believe this cosmos! Why, it can belong to no other than Old Master Dohko!

A selfless Saint who dedicated over two hundred years guarding a waterfall to ensure that many generations could live in peace and harmony.

Aldebaran: Old Master Dohko! It is I, Saint Aldebaran of Taurus! Hurry, we must stop Greatest Eclipse!

Dohko: Oh that? Eh, no worries. Want to go drinking?

*Later

Aldebaran: Old Master, why aren’t you even concerned about Hades trying to conquer the world again?

Dohko: Oh what’s the worst that can happen?

Aldebaran: He killed nearly all of your friends in the last battle.

Dohko: Yeah, that’s true and normally I would care, but as the wise ancient chinese phrase goes: Next Dimension bù mài. Cùjìn Asgard zhēngqǔ gèng duō de shōurù.

Which Google translates to: Next Dimension Myth Cloths doesn't sell. Promote Asgard for more money instead.

Besides, who do you think people will buy more of? God Cloth Aiolos or Sagittarius Gestalt, you know, the one who was tricked into thinking he was half-horse?

Aldebaran: Alright, but even if you ignore the past, don’t you think us coming back from the dead is very suspicious? 

Aldebaran’s actual dialogue: We, the Gold Saints, perished in the Underworld, yet were revived here in Asgard. It’s clearly at someone’s will. Someone is playing with our lives here.

Dohko: Mysteriously revived by another deity? Oh come on, what’s the worst that could happen.

*FLASHBACK

Saga: We’re back bitches!

Dohko: Oh yeah… I forgot about that.

Aldebaran’s actual dialogue: Aren’t you infuriated? We only work at Athena’s will. And yet a Saint like you lounging in a place like this?

Dohko: But things are great over here! I can drink and fight and I’ve never felt as alive as I do now!

Aldebaran: But what about the others outside of Asgard?

Shunrei: Oh my goodness! What is wrong with the sun?

Shiryu: Where the hell am I?

Athena: Uggh, this sucks.

Dohko: Eh, they’re all important characters. The plot armor will save them. You need to relax, big guy. 

Aldebaran: But you’re acting very out of character!

Dohko: I know, but don’t worry. This is the third Saint Seiya series I was in. As long as there is a villain that’s a bigger dick than I, the viewers won’t notice.

Hercules: MWHA HA HA! COME OUT GOLD SAINTS! I am Hercules of Tanngsnir! I am here to kill you two and I am willing to hurt innocent women and little orphan children to do so!

Dohko: Jackpot!

Dohko: Alright big guy, you’re up!

Aldebaran: Me? But I can’t fight! Athena doesn’t allow personal battles.

Dohko: Look, I already fought a bunch of personal battles already and my armor didn’t abandon me. Trust me, if you do this, it’s cool man. 

Aldebaran: Fine, I’ll put on my Cloth, but because this is a personal battle, for the sake of Athena’s honor, I will not fight.

Hercules: Ha! If you are just going to stand there, I will make you fight!

Aldebaran: By the Goddess! He’s attacking the crowd! Dohko! You’re in the stands with them! Stop standing around and use your light speed and rescue all of those people!

Dohko: Sorry big guy, but you have to prove to the audience that you are really powerful.

Aldebaran: I don’t care about showing off! There are innocent orphan children there! If you are a true Saint, you know what to do.

Dohko: Okay fine. Since I am a Saint...

Dohko:...kids, if you outrun the nuclear blast, I’ll consider you worthy and you can come train with me on the five peaks of China. 

Aldebaran: DOHKO!?!

Dohko: I’m joking. I think the writers screwed up my character in this episode. But they got you down pretty well, big guy. You’re a true and underrated Saint so show them your stuff for #Taurus Saint Appreciation Week.

Aldebaran: That’s right! GREAT HORN!!!!!

Hercules: Ahhhh, run away!!!!!

Aldebaran: Ah, finally, a battle where I don’t get my ass kicked or lose to some metro-sexual flute player. Okay Dohko, where should we go next?

Dohko: Hmm, that tree looks pretty evil in the distance. 

Aldebaran: Goddess, it’s like a mushroom cloud from a nuclear explosion!

Dohko: I agree. Hey Aldebaran, what are you thinking about?

Aldebaran: It’s your character. I was reading the script and was thinking that maybe they switched you and Deathmask’s plot lines.

Dohko: How so?

Aldebaran: Shouldn’t Deathmask be the one who was fighting in an Arena, drinking all the time, not caring about Athena or anything due to losing his Cloth, while you would be the one caring for little orphans, playing cards and donating your winnings, and falling in love with a kind woman after missing out on that part of your life as a hermit for two hundred years?

Dohko: Aldebaran….stop making sense.

[edierone]

26 and 77 for the mash up list

Five Miles Is a Long Way to Walk In Florsheims

She really did it. 

She — she just pulled over, told me to get out, and — kept on driving. 

I know I was pissing her off this entire case (but especially today), I know I probably (definitely) pushed it too far when I did the vehicular version of Dutch-ovening her just now, a little juvenile humor to lighten the mood … ok, honestly, with the heat on, it was really kind of nauseating, even for me. 

She’s threatened to dump me out before, like a dad yelling at the kids to pipe down or he’ll make ‘em walk home. 

But — this time, she really did it. And here I am, by the side of a two-lane road in the far yonder of cow country, in a cold drizzling rain, in my suit (minus the jacket, which is … still in the car) and cheap dumb dress shoes from JC Penney — thank god I left my Nunn Bush oxfords at home, I guess? — watching the rented Ford’s taillights recede in the far distance.  

I’ll wait a few minutes. She’ll come back. 

Nope. It’s been fifteen already. New plan: Walk till I’m just over that next rise — probably she’s sitting there, waiting for me to catch up, parked on the narrow shoulder with the radio on one of her channels (theory: might’ve been the fourth airing of “Livin’ Lovin’ Maid” that pushed her over the edge; note to self, that’s enough classic rock for today). I’ll show up, she’ll forgive me, and we’ll get back to finding the Phantom Murderin’ Cowboy of BFE. 

*************

Nope. Fox and his tired old dogs are walkin back to Cowburg. 

*************

Five miles is a long way to walk in Florsheims, especially when the seams start to give and your socks are soaked and your hair is in your face and even your belt is ruined. It’s enough time to get titanically self-righteously angry, then run out of steam on that and rethink your position, then feel like utter dogshit for the way you’ve treated the most important person in your life, then script and rehearse your most abject apology speech dozens of times, refining it to remove all traces of self-pity and accusation and adding a few jokey lines so she knows it’s you and not some shapeshifting asshole wearing you as a skin suit or something. 

I’m — I’m properly chastened, is what I’m saying, and all I want is to get back in her good graces. And maybe get some dry clothes on; my balls are rubbed pretty raw at this point. 

Room 27, adjoining room 28, the last two on the end farthest from the road. I start to feel just how bad off I am as I cross the parking lot: I’m freezing, my left knee hurts like a bastard, my ankles feel swollen to the point of sloshiness, my back is killing me, and my feet — oh god, my feet … I limp to good old 27, then realize with a wave of despair that my key is in the pocket of my suit jacket, which I can see crumpled on the floor of the Taurus’s backseat. 

Shit. 

Rather than add “broken rental car window” to my list of crimes and expense items, I gather what’s left of my dignity — there ain’t much — and shuffle over to 28. 

“Knock knock, it’s the bog monster of Black Rock Creek, I’m here to —”

The door swings open so fast I almost fall through it. 

There she is, keys in hand and coat on — that determined/worried little furrow between her eyes quickly smoothing out and hiking skyward as she takes in my bedraggled state. I don’t get a chance to give my apology speech, because she’s already launched into hers: “Jesus, Mulder, you look like a drowned rat! I’m so sorry — I thought it was only a mile or so, but it took you so long, I got worried — you — I was so angry, I guess I just didn’t realize how far it was — oh, look at your shoes! I was coming to get you — god you must be so cold —”

The whole time, she’s dragging me inside, running to the bathroom to grab towels which she tosses at me, bending to help me shuck the worthless bits of leather that used to be size 11 Fed footwear, checking through my sopping-wet hair for head trauma — at least I think that’s what she’s doing, but I don’t really care cause it feels pretty good. 

But I can’t let her do all the apologizing, so all the while, I’m trying to interject with my own mea culpa — about how it’s OK, I’m OK, I was being a dumbass and I deserved it and I’m sorry for questioning her take on the third vic’s cause of death (she was right, I was reaching, and being a dick about it besides), if she wants to Dutch-oven me as revenge, I’ll take it like a man … 

That one finally makes her stop fussing and laugh, her big surprising Scully-laugh that makes me feel like a god for bringing it forth. 

“Mulder …” she finally says, looking me up and down with a mixture of pity and amusement that kinda makes me tingle. “I’ll save that idea for another time. Why don’t you go get a hot shower and I’ll — try to find something to eat. I’m already dressed to go out anyway.” 

I agree to this plan, and in less than an hour, we’re side by side in comfy warm sweatpants on the surprisingly decent couch, eating some of the best tortilla soup I’ve ever tasted. She brought icy cold glass bottles of Coke, too — “Hecho in Mexico, oh man, Scully, that’s the stuff!”

She puts hers down and hops up, going to dig something out of her trench pocket. “I almost forgot! I found something else to warm you up.” She holds it out to me — a pint bottle of Jameson’s. 

“Heyyyyyy!” I reach for it, cracking it open and smelling it. “Where’d you get this? I thought this was a dry county.” 

“It is,” she smiles, with an arch aren’t-I-clever look. “I bought it off the front desk clerk — smelled something on her breath and took the big investigative leap. She charged me a pretty big markup, but I thought it was worth it, under the circumstances.” 

I agree, and ask if we have glasses — but this isn’t the kind of place that furnishes barware, so I guess we’ll have to swig it like a couple of winos under a bridge. 

“I don’t mind swapping spit with you, Scully, if you’re ok with mine,” I say, landing a pretty ill-timed glance at her lips that I hope she doesn’t notice. 

She does. It makes her blush a little, which she brazens through with a big manly belt of the Jameson’s. She hands the bottle to me and dares me with her eyes to do better. 

I can’t, of course, but I try, and as the first gulp slides down my throat, warming me from the inside, I have one of those hot pulses of the deepest kind of affection for her — the kind that just shouts in my head, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou, so loud that I almost give it voice for real. 

But, of course, I don’t; we finish our dinner, taking occasional nips of whiskey, calling out increasingly sloppy answers at Jeopardy! and then Wheel of Fortune on the crummy motel TV. 

The news is next and neither of us is in the mood, so I click through the five working channels and get lucky: North By Northwest is just starting. I scooch around to get comfortable, but I must’ve stiffened up — both of my hip joints and something up high in my back crack audibly, and the girly scream whistling out of me at the way my calf just seized would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much. 

Well, I guess it’s funny to Scully — she laughs, but apologizes. Then laughs again. She’s ruthless, not to mention mean. I tell her so. She laughs harder. I pout dramatically, and eventually she relents.

“All right, all right — you’ll be useless in the morning if I don’t get you fixed up, and I don’t plan on carrying your bag through DFW airport. Get up on that bed, I’ll massage the kinks out.” 

I swear I do not even have time to open my mouth before she warns, deadly serious: “And if you say one word about this is how some of your favorite movies start —”

Ahh, she knows me, doesn’t she? 

I make like a totally innocent man — pure of heart, mind, and deed — and lie down on my stomach with my feet toward the headboard, propping my chin up on a pillow so I can keep watching the movie. Scully gets to work. 

And she’s good. Got those doctor hands. Whoever’s in 26 must think we’re making the world’s weirdest sex tape in here, or else that we’ve kidnapped a moose that sometimes converses with Cary Grant. 

By the time she gets to my feet, I feel like a melted marshmallow.  

Scully says dreamily, “I remember watching this once somewhere when I was about twelve, and thinking Eve Kendall was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.” I make an inquiring noise. “You know — this scene —”

They’re on the train. Eva Marie Saint’s lookin ol’ Archibald in the eye, telling him she’s twenty-six and unmarried and likes his face, how it’s gonna be a long night, and

“And I don't particularly like the book I've started,” Scully murmurs along. I crane my neck to look back at her; her lips curve upward in the most delicious-looking arc, her eyes twinkling with that sort of mischievous/impressed look she gets toward me sometimes. 

I love it, but it makes me a little jealous, so I tell her so. She just giggles and says, “Oh, don’t be jealous of old crushes!” I want to ask her who’s the crush, Eva Marie or Cary, but she grabs the other pillow and flops down on her stomach beside me and suddenly I can’t talk — I just lie there, grinning like a fool. 

She passes me the one-third-full Jameson’s — one more sip each before she caps it for the night. We watch for awhile longer. During the next commercial break, she turns to me, studying me with a gentle smile.  

“You look a little dopey,” she says fondly, and I laugh. 

“I’m also happy, sleepy, and tipsy — wonder where the other three dwarfs are?”

Her eyes are on the TV again. “Doc … Bashful … Horny …” 

Suddenly my heart is thumping way too hard. When I talk, it comes out softer than I meant it to. “I don’t think ‘Horny’ is one of the original septet, Doc …”

She shifts a little. She’s smiling but she won’t look at me. “Neither is ‘Tipsy,’ but I spotted you that one — fair’s fair, Mulder.”

“Oh, we’re being honest?” Where did this voice come from, the one that makes her shiver? There — just then — she did, she did shiver. I saw it. “Well, maybe there was a Horny. And a Woody, and a — Smitten, and a —”

“I think you better stop there, Prince Charming,” she interrupts, finally half-turning her face toward me. She still won’t make eye contact; maybe she knows, like I do, that if she does that, we don’t stand a chance of keeping this from happening. 

The thing is, I want it to. I have for a long, long time, and I think — so does she, so has she. 

That’s the source of so much of the tension between us; that’s really why we fought earlier, why there’ve been so many of these little flareups lately, embers dropped into dry grass and then stomped out with such vigor. We’ve been careful not to get into situations like this one, where the space separating us is so small that we can feel the other’s exhales on our own skin. 

I drop down from my elbows to lie flat, facing her. I can see her eyelashes silhouetted against the washed-out lights of 1959 onscreen. “Scully,” I say, barely above a whisper. 

It’s a long moment before she finally whispers back, “Not here.”

I know what she means, of course I do. Not on a case, not in a janky motel, not even a little bit under the influence. 

“Then where?” 

She shakes her head, a tiny movement that makes her hair fall forward, obscuring any part of her I could read. 

She doesn’t know? Or she doesn’t want to say? I can’t tell, so I try another question.

“Soon, do you think?”

She tenses, and for a second I think she’s going to get up, or order me out of here. But then she drops her head to the pillow, facing me. Her eyes are huge, serious, full of something unnameable that I nonetheless understand. 

“Soon,” she agrees. 

I nod, nearly overwhelmed by my love for her, the tremendous weight of this moment, the desire that’s been there for so long I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t. 

She reaches to touch my face, skimming lightly along one side, barely barely barely there on my eyelid, so softly; I close my eyes as she traces where she likes. 

Her hand falls eventually, coming to rest in the little valley between us. I take hold of it, gently, risking a glimpse at her. Her eyes are shut now, but I’m not sure she’s asleep. 

“I love you,” I say, but silently, the coward’s way. “So much.” 

If she hears me, it’s only subliminally; that’s all the daring I have tonight. Sweet dreams, Scully, I think as I drift off. Sweet dreams. 

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

[Thanks for the long-ago prompt, anon -- from the Fic Trope Mashup list, Massage Fic and In Vino Veritas]