#goesblind

[swordluck]

book, sender helps receiver get a book from a higher part of the shelf.

Candlelight trembled against the high stone arches of the library, its glow dancing over walls lined with leather-bound volumes.  Narrow spaces between shelves brimmed with tomes too numerous to count, their worn titles cloaked in dust and shadow.

Anri’s slender fingers glided over exposed spines, moving through the aisles as quiet as a church mouse. The air was heavy with the scent of parchment and wax, now mingled with the rosewater she used to wash her hair.  Beneath it all, there huddled the metallic tang that clung to saintly skin – a remnant of her daily sacrifices.

Tired eyes landed on a book perched beyond her reach.  Gems for Songsters, its gilded lettering announced, despite being dulled by time, faded by its passage through countless hands.  Anri stretched upward, rising onto the tips of her toes, but her arms – marred by the livid marks of her devotion – fell short.  A wisp of a sigh escaped her lips, the effort leaving her to tremble faintly.  Weariness had long been her constant companion.

“Allow me,” came a voice, deep and coarse, its accent a harsh burr unfamiliar to her ears.

Startled, she turned to find Father Gascoigne approaching.  Taller than she had expected, somehow, though she had glimpsed him often in passing.  Now, standing so near, his towering form seemed more mythic than mortal.  Cowled and clad in supple leather, he brought with him the acrid scent of smoke and blood – whether beastly or divine, she could not say.

Without preamble, he reached for the book, hooking it free with the thick crook of his finger, his long arm bridging the distance with ease.  Anri stood frozen, wide eyes betraying awe, feeling herself dwarfed not just in stature but in spirit.  There was something elemental about him, a force forged in fire and steeped in blood.

“Thank you, Father,” she murmured, clasping her hands politely before her, though the gesture sent an ache scurrying through her punctured wrists.

“For the children,” she explained, though the hunter had not asked.  “They adore singing… I thought it might soothe them tonight.”

Soothe them in the aftermath of the most recent hunt – even now, the streets were still being scoured with bristle brushes to purge the viscera left behind.

“Your service inspires us all,” she added softly, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Gascoigne handed her the book with a steady hand, his expression inscrutable but not unkind.  Anri cradled the book to her chest, the faint warmth of his touch still lingering on the leather cover.  A silly, inexplicable flush coloured her anaemia-pale cheeks.

That night, when she knelt to whisper her prayers – not for herself, but for the children – she would also utter one for him.

[embodies]

send me 💬, and i’ll use a line from a sentence meme i’ve reblogged to make a starter. @goesblind.

❛ dangerous to be out so late. ❜ the words cut the air, hiemal crisp of winter cleaved by a sharp and silver tongue. it is not quite a snowfall that graces them at cainhurst castle at present but the bite of frost is seen to glimmer upon every surface and the nobles' attire has shifted from laces and silks to furs and velvets. hearth fires surely crackle and spit inside the castle walls, yet elizabeth has not always played well at the behest of expectations nor pleasantries. joining the chattering crowds bequeathes her little fascination : the same idle small talk, conversation superficial at best given how often hands are changed and new faces are acquainted. the scholars that have joined their midst are interesting, she's sure, but she will glean little from them so early into their envoy. with time, she hopes to leach knowledge from them like sap from a tree. knowledge is power.

for now, she is content to approach the one failing ( or refusing ? ) to conform to those aforementioned fireside rambles, subtly excused from the group to ( she presumes ) reap some fresh air. above them, the moon gleams brightly in an opalescent sky. it is full, pregnant with light. she envies it. caught for a brief moment enraptured with that all - encompassing lunar presence, she permits but a harshening of her jawline for a moment before resuming her train of thought. she wonders, does the moon enthrall you as deeply as it does i ? could kinship be possibly found in these outsiders welcomed into their not so humble abode ?

❛ the castle grounds can be home to some . . . unsavoury guests at this hour. ❜ she is all teasing and allure, a half - crescent curling her rouged lips in an effort to coax some level of camaraderie. really, her curiosity lies in his being here — both in the literal sense of the outdoors, escaping the slowly livening murmurs of regals and academics excitably discussing, but also what his role is in this delegation. what motivates, excites, intrigues. show thou heart unto me. ❛ we wouldn't want you getting lost so early into your stay. ❜ the countess stands adjacent to him now, taking in his taller stature with a tilt of the head. an unspoken question mark. a tinge of hope. of opportunity.

[sxnguinesxnctum]

@goesblind

" you should see the other guy. "

He shouldn't have smirked at that. Not with his Hunter in that state, barely standing in front of him, dropping blood - both his own, and taken from whoever ( or whatever, for the matter ) he encountered in that dark night - on the pristine floor of the Research Hall. A few nurses just... stood there, staring at that giant of a man standing in front of them, tattered and broken, mostly surprised to see him still on his feet.

...perhaps, this was the real reason why the Vicar's smile remained, as gentle as it was delighted, despite how inappropriate it might've seemed to the others. Gascoigne was alive, and still had the strenght to joke about his current state.

Sometimes, that was all that mattered.

"I'm glad you're still in a good spirit despite..." a vague gesture "...all of that, father.

However, I must insist."

A hand points as the nearest chair, at that point.

"You should still take a rest, after all of that."

And the same arm is soon after placed on the Hunter's arm, giving him a good, yet quite gentle pat. The Vicar was certain that not even a punch, if thrown by him, could even be felt by Gascoigne, but he'd rather avoid even just risking hurting him further.

"I'd say you've done more than enough deserve it, my friend... and, if I may? You need it."

[fishermcn]

@goesblind from here.

Godsdamn, but somehow the old man (Gascoigne, right, knew that name he did--) seemed even bigger now that Soot had gotten his attention... or whatever amounted to it, given the bandages wrapped tight around where eyes ought to have been peering down at him from. Makes his already off heart skip another beat, it does, before he catches himself and grits his teeth. Another question (where th'bloody hell ya eyes at mate?) thankfully stays locked up tight behind his teeth, strangled by the common sense that was woken up too little too late to prevent that first question. No sense in tipping the pot over after already stirring it up after all, considering Soot could all but feel more than one pair of eyes on his back from striking up a conversation in the first place.

"Don't know nothin', old man. Wouldn't ask if I did." There's a faint twinge in Soot's neck from craning his head up, up, up to look Gascoigne dead in his own face. From beneath the cloth mask, he rattles out a cough and shifts his weight onto one leg to scratch the other with the toe of his well-worn boot. "Heard ya name. Title. See an axe, a pistol. Ain't none o'that tell me shit, though. Not unless we find trouble and I see somethin' outta ya."

Fat chance of that, given how long they've been out here already without so much as a howl or snarl for all their poking around these parts. Soot doesn't think telling him that is going to wrap this little adventure up any sooner, though. settling instead for letting out a cough or two before clearing his throat with a rasp.

"Suppose I'm a hunter, yeah. Out here ain't I?" For his part, Soot hoists the riflespear up until the trick weapon's slung across his spindly shoulders, soot stained hands settling over it almost nonchalantly. "An' this thing's done right by me so far. Powderkegs knew a thing or two, they did. Reckon ya did one a good turn t'get that pistol." Despite himself, a note of admiration slips out as Soot admires the firearm. "Good work, that. Need me one o'them."

[cemexecution]

[ TOUCH ]  for the taller muse to lean down and press their forehead to the shorter one’s. 

As if it wasn’t enough that her blood now blossomed in his veins, this night’s encounter ended in a kiss. Too generous a description, perhaps, for what amounted to a clumsy smear of lips.  Even so, in it Viola had felt a heat that went far beyond the simple warmth of Gascoigne’s mouth.  He tasted of sweat and smoke, of the sticky and viscous dose of sedatives, but his flavour did not repel her.  Rather, she recognised how easily she might allow him to continue the hunt, far from cobblestone alleyways and empty town squares, and with new quarry in mind. To tear away the white novice veil and rip open dark drapery, to split the bondage of the corset underneath and put her chastity to the torch. To devour her.

There was too much to lose.  Not only her maidenhead, not only her solitude, but her would-be nunhood.  Men were not dissimilar to beasts.  Courtship began with grooming and preening and play, only to end in a knot, in two sets of tracks slinking in opposite directions.  Gascoigne might mantle and mount, might paint his cock in virgin blood, might move on.  Viola would not permit it.  She was not a morsel to be eaten in haste.  Not a floury bap stuffed with a sheet of ham, a slice of cheese, clutched in a fist and consumed thoughtlessly.  She was a feast that would make any banquet table bend low – and the one to eat would have the decency to sit and savour her.

Perhaps she was being unkind, too suspicious of his intentions by far.  Gascoigne was a good man.  This much she knew to be true.  Still she recoiled, still she betrayed herself with the heat that climbed her cheeks, blush blooming like pink clematis.  Beneath the stone archway, on the cusp between the consecrated halls and the horror of the hunt, Viola regarded him with the cool water of her eyes.  It was cruel to remain always in the next room, always just out of reach – but until he gave up the Dream, she would not dream of a future with him.  Her self-worth and stiff moral code would not allow her to settle for throwaway kisses and sweet nothings spilled only on the darkest of nights.  

“Forgive me,” Viola whispered.  All she could offer was her blood, her presence, her conversation, her ultimatum.  Other times, such as now, she awarded him with the meagre weight of her hand in his.  Porcelain flesh vanished up to the wrist, swallowed by his bear paw.  “Please understand, the temptation is too much, the risk too great – ”

Gascoigne silenced her with a bend in his back, stooping to bring his face close.  For a single frantic moment, Viola suspected a second attempt, frightened that this time her better judgement would not prevail.  Chapels and churches possessed many a dark corner, far from the gaze of mortals, though not from the kaleidoscopic eyes of the divine.  It could be that there was a deal to be brokered, that all her glittering requirements would be met if only she was the first to make sacrifice.

Yet his lips did not find hers.  Instead, Gascoigne rested his forehead against her own and together they were hidden under the brim of his hat.  No eyes bored into her, but still she saw the understanding in his expression, his countenance one of patience.  It stung sweetly, almost moving her to tears.  Viola’s hand escaped for both to cradle his hoary face, to smooth thumbs over his whiskery cheeks, tracing the southernmost border of the linen wraps that shrouded him.  He hung like ripe fruit before her; she longed to taste him again.  If denial was a lash, she too felt its burning lick, a dozen welts rising unseen.

“I will wait for you.  Keep safe, and come back to me.”

[lumenfall]

𝟺𝟿. sender promises not to forget the receiver as they share a final night together.

They knew this dance, were intimate with its choreography.  How many times had they dipped and pirouetted through the motions, kissing those same pulse points, unfastening those same buttons?  In the dawn light of Byrgenwerth that she had first looked at him with lichen eyes, her gaze soft with curiosity and wonder.  There, the tremendous backdrop of the lake, fog pooling across its surface, a veil through which the ghostly silhouettes of mute swans could be glimpsed.  Those broad-winged creatures mated for life, she knew, yet every spring they bowed their snow-down heads as they had for the first time, rituals playing out year after year.  Never mechanical, always adoring.

Maria’s breath hitched, squeezed as the narrow channel of her throat tightened in a flash of emotion.  Gascoigne must have noticed, must have sensed it, given how he reached up to cradle her skull in the heart of his palm, tendrils of silver hair unspooling between his fingers.  They had their share of wild nights, in the days of their relative youth.  Drunk on wine and blood, tearing clothes at the seams, violence and haste in their undressing.  This was a more tender nakedness.  He laboured under her with love, husk though she was, half-dead woman.  She thought of stillborn snowdrops that did not survive the winter they were built to endure, bulbs frozen in the earth, crib turned worm-riddled grave.  She thought of drowning, drowning, of being pulled deeper into the cold by a hundred pairs of track-marked hands that grasped and pleaded – “Oh, Lady Maria, Lady Maria, please!”

Lady Maria could not save them, could not hope to save herself.

What shape her end would take, she could not yet say, only that she understood she had already seen her last spring.  There would be no re-emergence, not from this.  No escape from the otherworldly weight of her transgressions.

Capturing Gascoigne’s hand, she kissed the tips of his fingers, and still she rode him, rising and falling.  It was a shared writhing, with his hips heaving, the power of his thrusts registering in her seat bones.  How sweetly he filled the hollow spaces within her, the tip of him kissing the mouth of her womb, leaving room for nothing and no-one else.  If only he could cleanse her with the fire of his flesh.  If only the root of him could offer curettage, purification, absolution.  Everything in her burned for breath, for death.  He had already forgiven her, now he said he would not forget.

“I will be with you, forever.”

In his memory, she could build a home for herself, a nest of moon-kissed petals and fat pinches of undercoat.  There she would roost even as the meat slid from her bones, even as he moved through the remainder of his days without her.  They were not mute swans, Gascoigne would not die from the cracks that spread in hair-fine fissures across his heart, but still she hoped he would carry her with him.

Cold as moonstone against the fever-sick heat of his body, there was warmth in her kisses, in the pink of the slit he fucked into again and again – until a familiar tremor rolled through him, a reverberating growl crawling out of his chest into the pit of his throat.  Maria recognised that primal and bestial sound, saw how his free hand clawed at the sheets.  In answer, the peach fuzz of her pale body rose, goose flesh erupting on marble, the dusky tips of her breasts bunching and stiffening.  She watched him, gazed upon his anguished face, features half-clad in winding linen, tracing the creamy tips of pronounced canines when his jaw fell open in warning.  What had once mattered so much now mattered not at all.

“Shh, dear one, it’s quite all right.  Surrender to it.  Surrender – ”

Maria leaned over him, kissing slack lips, licking around his teeth, murmuring whispers of encouragement and adoration into the holy well of his mouth.  Like the tide, rising and falling, rising and falling, she took him with her, feeling the moment he seized and throbbed, feeling him fill her for the first and last time, sure his seed was spilled on a salted field.

[oldhcnters]

A bell is rung, once, twice. Phantom steps as the hunter comes into the waking world. Brador comes, horns branching out under the skin of his once dear friend. In truth there is no danger to him once he rings the bell, but the hunt must continue on and on.

"Having a bit of wee trouble, are we. Good hunter."

It seems he had found someone else who is also, within the hunt. Astounding, and so big. He feels like a looking at a giant. Perhaps he should have eaten more vegetables to grow big and strong like this man.

@goesblind

[surnativa]

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[cemexecution]

[ TAKE ]  for the taller muse to find the shorter one has ‘borrowed’ a shirt/sweater/jacket etc.  which is oversized on them.  

Summer was not a season associated with beginnings, nor with ends, yet they hovered on the cusp of both.  When they returned as newlyweds and made a home of this steepled house, their days had fallen into a carefully constructed rhythm.  Soon, this normalcy would face upheaval, and the quiet would be broken by the patter of small, soft feet.

Their peace was a sacrifice Viola was willing to make.  Already, she had surrendered her comfort.  In these final weeks of gestation, her rounding belly had ballooned rapidly.  Stretch marks appeared almost overnight, spreading luridly across her abdomen and hips in mulberry-coloured fissures, like stripes of self-flagellation.  One child, the physician predicted.  One child on account of how tall the father was, how generous his mortal dimensions – but when Viola lay in the shallow bathtub, watching ripples shift and swirl and stretch beneath her skin, she felt certain there were two souls housed within her walls.

Whatever the truth, it was impossible to be comfortable.  Her womb full, her breasts swollen in anticipation, nipples darkening like autumn bush-fruit.  Fat as a fool, fat as a fed flea, no amount of bodice-work or pleats could disguise her condition now.  In the privacy of their home, thick with summer heat, Viola chose comfort over propriety.  A shirt belonging to Gascoigne, freshly laundered, slipped onto her aching body instead of folded and returned to his towering chest of drawers.  On her frame, it was akin to a night dress, the hem kissing the backs of her knees indecently.

Window cracked, steam escaped, leaking out over their view of the aqueducts.  Overshadowed by none, shafts of evening sunlight poured golden into their kitchen as she finished preparing dinner.  Pea soup and ham hock, served alongside heaps of buttered bread – the spread was a luxury ill-afforded, but churn-cream would feed their unborn child.  To finish, a suitably syrupy treacle roly-poly.

Footsteps on the front step, then, pushing a cold blade of fear into Viola.  If there came a knock, she would be in no fit state to answer.  Mercifully, she heard the handle turn, knew then that it was her husband returning.  Her presentation left much to be desired, and she lifted a housecoat from where she had draped it over the back of a kitchen chair.  No amount of fussing could coax the robe to close completely over the dome of her belly, and she feared she was left looking slovenly, a slummock.  Defeated, Viola hurried now to meet Gascoigne by the door, the good doctor having returned from his house calls, from administering doses of spiritual guidance throughout the city.  Over floorboards, over vase carpets, she padded barefoot – with child, she found her soles were too warm to tolerate slippers or socks.  Too full of blood, she supposed.

“Good to see you, dear.”

Pale hands rested on the apex of her bump.  Stuffed full, she watched as he removed his hat and shrugged his dark coat from his shoulders.  Viola smiled as he then dutifully stooped to offer her his cheek to kiss, which she neglected in favour of his mouth.  Hands other than her own cradled her belly then, large and warm, and for a moment he bore its blooming weight.  It was a moment of respite, during which the small of her back ached a little less.

“Your timing is impeccable.  Our dinner is ready for the table.  Sit, and I will bring it to you.”

[cemexecution]

❛  i’ll  buy  you  another  one .  ❜

Viola had been intimately familiar with responsibility from the day her mother was lowered into the earth, into the damp pockmark of her grave.  An only daughter, almost always alone, almost always waiting, but never idle – not when there was an endless cycle of chores to meet with grace and consistency.  Clothes to launder, floors to sweep, meals to cook, wounds to suture, markets to visit, church services to attend.  Always an absence to endure.  Keenly felt, it was a raw socket explored with curious tongue tip.

Marriage suited her – and she suited marriage.  A fresh start, their new home newly clean, the scent of carbolic soap and beeswax overshadowing that of fresh paint and sawdust.  Paltry flames writhed in the hearth, a meagre pile of coals smouldering in the shuttered dark.  Viola sat primly on the chaise-longue, unmoving, save when she squeezed her eyes closed as the hunt drew frightfully near.  Still, she refused to retreat to the marital bed without her husband; she was determined to meet him upon his return from the hunt.  She imagined helping him unwind his scarf, his weaponry propped by the coat rack, among furled umbrellas and bone-dry rain jackets.  Boiling the kettle for tea, bringing him crushed comb-honey on buttered toast.  Kissing him sweetly, welcoming him home.  Viola waited, as she had from the days of her girlhood, the hem of her nightdress kissing her ankles.  From the mantlepiece, her wedding brooch gleamed like a ruby, watching like a lonely eye.

It was a relief when dawn arrived in a slow flood of grey light, leaking weakly through the narrow cracks between shutters.  At last she heard the familiar, foreign accent of Gascoigne speak their agreed password, an utterance growled through the keyhole.  Barefooted, she hurried to the front door, unbarred it, and was met with an appetite she had not expected.  No sooner had the heavy door swung closed behind him, no sooner had he shed his sullied weapons, than he was on her, a hound with a spindle-limbed hare in its toothed maw.  His hands were hot, soot-stained, blood drying in the grooves of cuticles.  In one coarse movement, they seized both the high neckline of her nightdress and the sweetheart cut of the laced corset underneath, her feet leaving the ground as he found his grip.  Hooks and eyes bent, buckled, opened.  Narrow slips of whale bone snapped.  Fabric ripped like crêpe paper.  Viola gasped first in surprise, then a second time in desire.  No propriety now, no decency.  No sin in the sanctity of marriage. 

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“… oh, you had better!”

Gascoigne pawed the soft buds of her breasts with one hand, coaxing her nipples into stiff peaks, while the other tore single-handed through her bloomers.  What little clothed her fell in ragged, fraying petals – until she was the pistil exposed.  Although a virgin when they spoke their vows, Viola was no shrinking violet.  Not then, not now, certainly not after the hallowed weeks of their honeymoon when the nights were long and lustful and loving.  Pushed along by the rush and urgency of Gascoigne, Viola’s hip bumped against the frame of their bedroom door.  She jumped into his grasp then, naked and needy, pale arms wrapping around his neck, knocking the hat from his head.  Thighs struggled for purchase around his broad body as she kissed him wherever she could reach – his jaw, his chin, his nose – anywhere but his mouth.  A deliberate denial, answered by one in kind.  Gascoigne peeled her away, and tossed her effortless and harmless onto the perfectly made bed.  Then came the first pause, the silence marred only by their laboured breathing, their shared, unspoken need.

Viola regarded him shamelessly, golden hair untethered, pooling around her head in a silken halo, those tresses diligently brushed with one hundred boar-bristle strokes in preparation for bed.  Mischievous, she parted her knees by slow degrees, wondering if he imagined her in his mind’s eye, if the image he conjured was close to the truth.  His wife, naked and waiting, her body sleek with youth and pre-motherhood, a bluff of sandy hair at the apex between her spread thighs.  Young and eager and wet and his.  Could he smell her arousal, sticky and warm as honey?

It was a second coming as he climbed onto the bed, the oak frame groaning in protest as he sandwiched her unceremoniously between his weight and the crumpled duvet.  It was filthy and improper, how he remained suited and booted and doused in drying blood as he fingered the fastenings of his trousers, freed his cock and stuffed her full, pinning her to the mattress.  Viola gasped, that breathy sound giving way to a moan, her fingertips digging into dressed shoulders, her head falling back in bliss.  So much for tea and toast.

“Welcome home, dear husband.”

[cemexecution]

I have worn nothing but blood and death for years.

It fell from his mouth, a malformed excuse. Hitting the flagstones between them, it lay like a spaniel’s find – a collared dove with its innards spilling out, viscera bulging in shades of rubellite and spinel. Viola pursed her lips, unimpressed. Such was the nature of hunters. Standing apart from their fellow man, tied together with knotted ribbons of blood, wearing the same stink of burnt fur and sour spittle.

The hunt was on tonight. Gascoigne would be soon called back to the horror and she would stay behind, closeted in the sanctuary of the parish hall – their differences were the same as those between shepherd dogs and the livestock they guarded. With the incense smoke burning in her nose, she would remain seated and cannulated until the colour bled from her face, until she was permitted to retire to a candlelit dormitory and there await the dawn. Already Viola grew pale, watched by the cataracted eye of the full, fat moon that peeked through the lead latticework of narrow windows, bathing them all in watered-down light. By the time she saw the sun, Gascoigne would be beyond her reach.

Thoughts of impending separation were what set Viola to thaw, to reach for his hand. How small and cool her palm, how impossible the task of covering his broad mitt with her own. What was in her was drawn into him, with lines of tubing running between them, faux arteries stitching them together like two halves of a heart. There was little romanticism in the observation – Viola knew that organ to be akin to a clenched fist, sinuous and sticky – but she did permit herself to wonder if he could taste her in the capillaries at the back of his throat, if he could feel her girlish vigour pulse behind his eyes.

Frost framed the edges of her gaze as she looked at his face, tracing the winding strip of linen that kept his eyes from her. Blood drip-dried where it painted his clothes in spatters, congealing deep in the treads of his boots. Who would clean them, when the hunt was over? Who would dress his wounds and rub the aches from his shoulders? As the daughter of a hunter, she understood there was work to be done at night’s end. As the daughter of a hunter, hadn’t she too seen her share of blood? It had clogged and caked under her short nails – the blood of beasts, the blood of her father, the blood of her own moon-guided cycles. All those mornings, hollow-eyed and sleepless, hadn’t she mopped the puddles and scrubbed the stains from her father’s front step?

“Do you believe yourself unfit for finer threads?”

Viola had been a child when she first laid eyes on Gascoigne, looming too-large in her father’s house, despite its high ceilings and lofty picture rails. Her stomach had flipped like liver in a pan – not the jittering of purported butterflies, but with a far more visceral, gut-bound feeling. Gascoigne had struck her as kind, even soaked in the briny scent of copper pennies, even as he walked blood into the plush pile of the carpet. As a girl, Viola forgave him for the mess, for the way he crowded the kitchen table. As a woman, she forgave him for being a man and a hunter, for shying when the door of his self-appointed cage cracked open.

“As I understand it, a man chooses his garments, they do not choose him. Perhaps it is time to adorn yourself with something unfamiliar?”

Her interest in men was a rarely sighted beast, a bony shadow slinking across distant moorland. Its infrequency did not render her a fool – Viola understood her desires, but would not indulge them where her standards were not met. After all, solitary life was no terrible penance for one who had been alone much of her girlhood, for one content to graduate to spinsterhood. Could Gascoigne say the same? Would he find fulfilment when old age eroded his teeth to their roots and he was forced to abandon the hunt? Would he be satisfied if his legacy was one only of bloodshed and beasts slayed? Would he be comforted by the expanse of a wide, empty bed? The cold fire of Viola’s eyes warmed by degrees, her elegant fingertips gently prising his digits apart, palm pressed to the coarse hair that sprung from the back of his hand as she tentatively and shallowly linked them together.

“Continue to don your cilice by all means, Father, but do so knowing I would gladly offer you something softer.”

[embodies]

❛ you know, i must admit, considering what they say about you, i thought you’d be … taller. ❜ — @goesblind.

SUPERNATURAL SENTENCE STARTERS. ACCEPTING.

the winchesters have a renown that is hard to shrug off : hunters by birthright and gunsmen by trade, there are few in yharnam that aren't as least familiar with the name. dean knows this, yet it doesn't make the bristling at his neck acquiesce any sooner. with reputation comes little reward to reap, moreso a blight on an already dangerous occupation. harder to blend into the shadows, each corner a death trap of recognition. ❛ y'get your rocks off with that one often ? i can't imagine ya get many people 'round these parts as tall, dark, and— well. 'm not sure if the rest applies. ❜ ego larger than some beasts, bruised as easily as a plum. axe lies — for now — dormant against his spine, his rebuttal delivered with enough sultry charisma to mask whether it ought to be taken seriously. he's also known for his wisecracks.

the cobblestones are wet with rain and no doubt blood, not quite rivers of it though that is yet to come. the hunters' age will soon be upon them. perhaps it is for this reason dean seeks alliances in dark corners he would normally leave well alone. they anticipate the hunt like a chill down their neck, each vertebra rattling in turn. harbingers of the very creatures they kill. ❛ was only a matter of time 'til we bumped into each other, don't y'think ? shit is only gettin' rowdier night after night out there. ❜ he's so used to being a lone soldier ( he and sammy up against the world ) but times have changed and needs call for preventative action. ❛ you can't tell me y'haven't noticed. it's gonna be tough if we keep takin' em on alone. but . . . if you're not into workin' with short people, well, it's your funeral. ❜

[fishermcn]

doctor: how often does my muse visit the doctor? do they tend to go routinely, or only when something is wrong? 

@goesblind // no time to still your heart or catch your breath; the pain's proof you've yet to greet death // accepting.

// sam's definitely not the type to pop in for a yearly check-up or for his annual vaccinations in any setting, and even when things have gotten truly dire he's still quite reluctant to trust himself in the hands of a physician. he'd rather attempt to treat himself and take any and all steps he can to deal with anything wrong with him personally, even if it results in unnecessary scars or a longer recovery time overall.

this is doubly true in yharnam, where sam's general distrust of others is coupled with the yharnamite attitude towards foreigners and his own desire to lay low. the sole exception to this was iosefka, and even then sam refused to endure any transfusions or assistance from the "good" blood.

[cemexecution]

CEMEXECUTION  ❀ a heavily headcanon-based , highly selective & private interpretation of VIOLA from BLOODBORNE as raised by Puffin . sideblog of @lumenfall , lovingly and closely affiliated with the wonderful @goesblind . ♡

themes ↠ the devil you know , only / eldest daughter syndrome , flowers still bloom in hell , motherhood becomes you , making a home where beasts walk , standing by your man , taking no shit / doing no harm .

bio | prompts | verses | thread tracker | inbox : 05 rules beneath the cut :

01 . Puffin. 30s. Ireland. Slow-paced writer.

02 . l only engage with folks aged 21 and over. Don’t follow unless you plan to interact.

03 . OC and crossover friendly. Multiverse and multiship.

04 . Common roleplay courtesy applies. Be kind, be patient, it’s that simple.

05 . Mun ≠ muse. I curate my own online space and I expect you to do the same.

06 . Potentially upsetting and mature themes include but are not limited to : character death, cosmic horror, gore.

07 . PSD, icon and textures from cavalierfou.

[swordluck]

｡˚ ❀ ˚｡ WHAT'S YOUR ROLE IN A TRAGIC PLAY?

desperate narrator.

this story is a cycle, and you're spinning around it like a hamster in a ball being tormented by a cat. you know how this story ends. after all, you've told it a thousand times. but you try to change it every time. you love the people in this story more than anything. so watching them fall victim to the narrative breaks you in a way you can't begin to describe. but all you can do is tell the story── their story── with tears in your eyes. you're prone to anxiety and feelings of helplessness. you have so much love in your heart, and for once you wish it would change something. it didn't. it doesn't. it won't. but you refuse to stop telling the story. and you refuse to stop loving the people in it. in this way, no one is stronger than you. you just wish being strong hurt less.

tagged by: @sunmad and @through-fire-and-flame – thank you both! ♡ tagging: @goesblind, @derjaegermond, @whitesharks.

[fishermcn]

In a fight my muse... (elden ring style).

Bold the applicable, italicize if more situational or nuanced for what fits your muse tries in battle.

closes distance / makes distance.

uses overwhelming force / whittles down an opponent.

can endure a long fight. / cannot.

is quick to start a fight. / is rarely the instigator.

tries to dodge. / tries to block.

uses psychological tactics. / focuses on martial approach.

is a graceless fighter. / elegant fighter.

values honor. / uses dirty tactics.

accepts defeat. / begs for mercy. / cuts and runs.

// a bit of insight for the curious:

1.) when push comes to shove, sam relies on a combination of his more lethal aromatics and exploding jars to ruin someone's day or force an opening for his escape. he prefers creating distance for himself with a cloud of virulent poison or a roaring wall of flame, taking the opportunity space provides to decide on fight or flight.

1.) due to his shortness of breath, chronic cough and heart issues, a fight going on longer than two minutes will exhaust sam. as such a prolonged engagement is off the table, and sam avoids direct confrontation when possible. he'll attempt to weaken an enemy or tire them out with traps or aromatics before attempting to move in for a kill with a knife or his blade.

2.) should all else fail and his arsenal isn't enough to finish a fight, two things will occur. sam will draw a scavenger's curved sword and attempt to bleed out an attacker mercilessly... and he'll ring his spirit calling bell to summon one of two spirits. depraved perfumer carmaan's arrival is heralded with a fresh bombardment of aromatics, while the other has yet to be matched in a fight.

Inspired by a few things across rp tumblr, feel free to elaborate more if you’d like. And feel free to modify as needed for multi-muse blogs. Repost please instead of rbing!

tagged by: @rotten-pest (for this? for tagging me in a fight-prompt like this? homies for life :y)

tagging: @hexenjagd, @vulpesse, @yellowfingcr, @bcwblade, @miserycorde, @goesblind, @lumenfall, and you! i want to know how your muse throws down (ง'̀-'́)ง