#holy fucking shit I just. goddamn. this is good.

[ananxiousgenz]

(I know said art would happen, but uh, this happened first. Enjoy?)

1/?

John Doe stood in the cold water of the river. His feet were buried is thick, stoney sand. The surface of the icy water drifting softly past, half way up his shins. He leaned down, and scooped water up with both his hands. Quickly bringing it to his forehead, he splashed it over his hair. Rivulets dripped down the back of his head, and down his face. Leaving fresh chilly trails over his cheeks and lips.

He could feel the first shivers of true cold take in his muscles. His arms and hands were beginning to shake. His fingertips, and toes had gone numb too many minutes before. John knew his bath would have to be cut short. He looked further down stream where Akke stood in the water. Her head hung down to drink. John watched her, as a shiver ran up his spine, somewhat envious of her constitution to the cold.

“Ah! Dammit,” came a hiss behind him.

Akke’s head snapped up. She looked in John’s direction, past him. Her ears moving back and forth. There was a deep, exasperated, long sigh behind John. Akke snorted, and with a swish of her tail, turned and trotted slowly away, further down stream.

Every fiber of John’s being wanted to follow her. To get out of the icy water, and go warm up at their small camp.

But something deeper kept him rooted, as his toes grew colder. Frozen in place.

“Guess that fall was worse than you thought,” John said, trying to sound as cold as the river around them.

A series of low grumbles, and indistinguishable curses muttered low, was all that answered him.

John chanced a glance behind him. Turning ever so slightly, as not to disturb the water. Pressing his frozen, wet fingers under his arms, close to his ribs. Trying to warm them.

Arthur Lester sat naked on a rock, a little further upstream. His back to John, only his feet in the water. An empty burlap sack draped over his lap for decency, John could see the ends hanging over Arthur’s thighs. Scars dotted Arthur’s back. Some white in the late day sun, some pink, still fresh and healing. But the most obvious blemish against his skin, was a deep blue and purple bruise over his left shoulder blade. It had grown angry, and speckled as the days passed. Arthur had been moving slowly, and found it hard to use the arm since John had helped set it back in place.

Guilt ate at John’s stomach as he turned to fully gaze at the deep mark. Lost in thought. It was his fault. He hadn’t told Arthur in time. He had been too distracted as they ran, dodging bullets. Arthur had fallen so far. John had expected to find him dead when he reached the bottom of the hole. But he survived, and John was so, so thankful.

But he could never tell Arthur that.

Never.

“If you had just stopped when I—-,” John started, turning away, his words and tone betraying the concern, and the guilt, and the desire to find somewhere safe for Arthur to mend while John—-

“Oh shut up, John.”

Arthur’s retort was sharp, and quick. John’s every muscle froze, his mouth clicking shut. His teeth rattling his skull, as the cold suddenly felt so much colder. He felt so small. The guilt overwhelmed his gut. Arthur didn’t sound angry. Or even irritated. He sounded tired.

And above all.

Disappointed.

John saw Arthur’s head sink low out of the corner of his eye. He saw the fingers of Arthur’s right hand run through his dark blonde hair. His shoulders dropped, and he hissed in pain.

“Just…,” Arthur started, but he trailed off, and sighed, interrupting himself.

His head came back up, his shoulders too. But he didn’t spare John even a glance.

“If you’re not going to help. Just be quiet,” Arthur said sternly, resuming reaching slowly down into the water, with only one hand this time.

Arthur knew it was John’s fault. He knew that between their mission against Larson, and whatever had happened in the cabin. The fireworks they would never speak of again. John had been distracted. He had pit distance between them. A barrier. All to protect some part of John he wouldn’t talk to Arthur about.

And to Arthur’s credit, he hadn’t pushed John. He knew it was there. But John would either tell Arthur himself, or keep it locked away.

Arthur had agreed to work with John, and that was that.

Which is why it had hurt so much when Arthur forgave John for not warning him of the hole in time. Causing Arthur to fall so far into a hidden shaft. It resulted in a few fractured ribs, a dislocated arm, and a gash on his head, that would eventually give Arthur a new scar at the edge of his hair line.

John almost wished Arthur had yelled, screamed, maybe even punched him.

But upon waking up, all he did was tell John, “Its okay. I’m alive. Its okay.”

John stared at Arthur, as he carefully scooped up water. One handful at a time. Splashing his hair, scoop, his face, scoop, his chest, scoop.

He pressed his lips together, and after a brief, but deep thought, he turned to walk up upstream. The current wasn’t strong, but each step felt unreasonably heavy. Like John was walking against white rapids.

Water splashed on the rocks of the shore as John finally came up behind Arthur. Making sure their skin didn’t touch. Arthur stilled, feeling the heat from John’s skin despite the temperature still returning to his limbs.

“What do you need help with?” John said in a small voice.

I. YOU. I JUST. I WAS CHECKING THIS HELLSITE ONE LAST TIME BEFORE BED AND I FIND THIS SLIPPED IN MY ASKS???? CASUALLY?????? LIKE ITS NO BIG DEAL????? OH MY GOD???????? JAW IS QUITE LITERALLY ON THE FLOOR RN.

@percymawce-arts DUDE COME LOOK AT THIS OH MY GOD

[senselessalchemist]

Bow problems (+ other nonsense)

[whollyjoly]

for some reason i can't explain i know saint peter won't call my name

nothing that lives, lives forever - an immortal soldier!alton more au

(1.1k of snippets from my old guard(ish) au where alton more is old, too old, and has been living and fighting far longer than anyone should. full description/other thoughts at the bottom. tw: blood, violence, mentions of death)

Alton clicked the lighter closed, running a thumb over the silver case. The night was warm, sticky in a way that he never could get used to. He sucked in a breath from the cheap cigarette, letting his head fall back against the rough side of the barracks.

It was quiet. Typically, there would be no end to the commotion coming from the small building, one of many that littered Camp Toccoa. The wall of sound was ever-present, no matter if it was shouting or laughing or snoring. But whatever the cause, there was always noise. 

No matter if it was a blanket of noise he knew well, unchanging except for the language and the scenery. Soldiers are soldiers, and some things are a constant. It could almost be comforting, if it didn’t also mean that the need for soldiers was a constant as well.

However, tonight was a Saturday, and it was one of the few weekends that Sobel had allowed Easy the use of their weekend passes. Almost every man in the company had jumped at the chance to get off base, to travel home if they could and spend time with loved ones. The ones with farther-flung hometowns had spirited off to Atlanta, happy to spend their time drinking and dancing and fucking instead of slogging through another run, three miles up, three miles down.

Normally, Alton would have joined them in their carousing - it was easier to pass the time with the effortless camaraderie built during a training camp than bored and alone. 

But today had been a bad day. The sound of swords and the shift of sand beneath his feet followed him out of his nightmares, the humid summer of Georgia morphing itself into the baking, dry heat of the desert. 

His shouts must have been real, because when a hand came to shake him out of his dream, the first face he saw was not that of a grouchy NCO, but of a blood-caked Saracen, eyes alight with righteous fury. 

Alton didn’t think. He had grabbed the knife from under his pillow, an old thing that had been sharpened more times than he could begin to count, and was on the man in less than a breath, pressing the blade into the side of his neck. The familiar thrum of blood beat against his fingertips, the grit of sand scratched his gums. He knew what he had to do, had done it a thousand times, a thousand thousand times, what was a little more bloodshed spilled across his feet-

Alton had blinked, and came to himself in a rush.

Instead of an unnamed Saracen, the ashen face of Johnny Martin stared up at him, eyes wide behind the knife.

Alton drew back his hand, retreating almost as quick as he had lunged earlier. He mumbled a quick curse and apology as he stepped out of arm’s reach from the man. It wasn’t until Martin’s eyes widened even farther that Alton realized his tongue was slipping out Arabic of all things.

Usually, Alton was better about remembering himself, who he was almost as important as where he was. But for whatever reason, his demons had decided to catch up with him that night.

After a quick smile and some quip about the Krauts in his dreams, he managed to wave an only-slightly-mollified Martin off. The shorter man apparently hadn’t forgotten it though, if his watchful eyes during chow that morning were anything to go by.

Alton was just glad that no one else was awake to see it, at least. That was the last thing he needed.

And so, instead of joining in on a weekend of broads and booze, Alton found himself waving away the invitation by an eager Smokey and bemused Alley. When the horde made their way out of the barracks, fantasizing in bawdy terms about their planned misadventures, he felt like he could breathe easy.

Fucking finally.

~~

Alton took another drag from the cigarette. He watched the smoke curl, up and up until it faded into nothing amongst the darkening sky.

The lighter was a welcome weight in his hand, grounding him to this time, this life.

The design was worn by now, details barely visible after a half century of worrying. It still managed to amaze him, sometimes, what people could do with the smallest of canvases. Alton didn’t feel the same wonder however, wasn’t as mesmerized by the beauty man could create as he once was.

But in the quiet moments, he could still appreciate the time some French craftsman took to transform a hunk of metal into a small token carried around by a dead man.

Luz had spied the lighter one weekend, and laughed at him for using something so old-fashioned. Alton just shrugged, not caring to admit that he was still getting used to having a light at his fingertips. It wasn’t all that long ago when he was still lighting a pipe with a flintlock pistol, and not so long before that when he would carry around a flint and steel.

Time was passing all the more quickly these days, technologies changing and advancing, and everyone was obsessed with needing things to be quicker, cheaper, simpler. Alton scoffed. He could hardly find it in him to care.

He glanced down at the lighter in his hand, shifting it back and forth in a practiced motion and watched as the light skittered across the sides. 

It had shown flowers, once. A veritable garden of carnations, daffodils, and lilies of the valley, with leaves spilling across the front panel onto the back. They represent good fortune, he was told. Good fortune, luck, and hope. 

When the merchant described it to him, eyes ablaze with a passion known only to those with wares to sell, Alton didn’t try to hide the snort that escaped his throat. 

Fortune and Luck had abandoned him long ago, and hadn’t returned since waking up in a battlefield abandoned by all but the dead, sword in his chest and blood in his mouth. 

And what the fuck was Alton supposed to do with hope?

It was the quote on the back that had caught his eye, all those years ago in a street market in Reims. The beveled edges had faded with time, the familiar letters Alton traced were more memory by now than any physical mark. Une vie honorable est une vie éternelle.

An honorable life is an eternal life.

Alton couldn’t help but stare at the message, both then and now. He hated that goddamn word. Immortal. Unending. Eternal. 

They were such flowery words, used by people who craved what they couldn’t have, what they shouldn’t. The romanticized idea of the everlasting, the fountain of youth, the gift of life! Alton was sick of it.

This wasn’t life. He was a fucking dead man walking. And he sure as hell didn’t do anything honorable to deserve it.

months ago, while thinking about the absolute insanity of the almost...cavalier? attitude we see alton more have over the course of the series, an idea hit my brain: what if there was a reason nothing seemed to phase him - not panzers, not being a breath away from a car wreck, not bastogne, not speirs? what if this wasn't his first war? that thought spiraled me into a minor insanity that is this: my immortal soldier!alton more au, loosely inspired by the movie the old guard (2020). the idea is that, once upon a time, there was a soldier in a land many centuries ago. one day, he died in battle. and then, he woke up. and then he died. and then he woke up. over, and over. drawn to countless battles, conflicts, and wars, each one etching itself into the core of his soul. a never-ending cycle...until one sweltering summer, where he found himself at a training camp at the foot of a mountain. anyways. at some point, i plan on writing this as a full story, but that is admittedly a long ways away. however, in celebration of alton more's birthday today, i wanted to post my favorite scene that i've written for this au! it's set sometime at the beginning of the story, in the early days of camp toccoa. mostly, it's just a character study of this version of alton more. hope you enjoyed! and of course - happy birthday alton more!

(song insp.)

taglist: @sweetxvanixlla @coco-bean-1218 @bucky32557038ww2 @georgieluz @samwinchesterslostshoe @xxluckystrike @next-autopsy @ronald-speirs @land-sh @ronsparky @panzershrike-pretz @theredrenard @kyellin

[jae-birde]

HOLY SHIT WE HAVE AN INTRO AND A DATE Y'ALL!

It's October 3rd, mark your goddamn calanders, we're getting season 3 y'all!

[waitineedaname]

I love cooking so much

[lili-of-the-wildfire]

the elaine slander in the azriel x reader tag is INSANE rn

[fear-ze-queer]

i did not expect to have my heart ripped right out of my chest while playing dlc for a five nights at freddy's game but here we are

[hazzzyrider]

just realized for the first time that Power was named POWER because she directly contributed and mirrored Denji's own slow accumulation of self-identity, confidence and EMPOWERMENT. She wasn't just a companion, she was his ally and defender even until the very end. That power inside him was so powerful it had to be personally torn out so control could be exerted over him again.

[criminal-sen]

Btw I found out the worst thing uiu can possibly do on this site which is. to fall down a rabbit hole of weird fetish stuff when yr half asleep and then. fumble your phone and accidentally slide your finger over the share button:)

[a-dragons-journal]

Recently, I've seen the take going around that you can't be, say, kistunekin and Japanese-American, or faekin and Irish, etc. because it's just you as a human from an ethnic group projecting onto a cultural concept that's meaningful to you and mistaking that for a kintype when it's not. At the risk of starting drama, I am here to ask how one would tell the difference between projecting onto a cultural concept and being 'kin? Asking for a me.

..........Well, I've certainly heard the idea that you can't be [x] without being from [y linked culture] (because that's "cultural appropriation," even when it's... not), but this is the first time I've heard the opposite! Guess nobody's allowed to be a creature from a specific mythos at all anymore lmao

Genuinely I do not know what to tell you other than that is a fucking bonkers thing to say to someone, where the fuck are you hearing this, what wild circle of alterhuman drama am I missing out on. We have graduated from "You can't kin outside your race" to "You can only kin outside your race," what the genuine actual fuck, oh my gods I have been laughing about this for ten minutes now

*deep breath* Okay, sorry, sorry, I'm taking this seriously, I promise.

I am genuinely sorry that you have apparently been made to feel like you're not allowed to have a kintype from within your own culture, but - seriously, genuinely, I need you to understand that that is a RIDICULOUS thing for these people to have said, even by alterhuman drama standards, What The Fuck. There is no reason on God's green earth that you would have to be any more careful about mistaking "projecting onto a cultural concept" for a kintype than literally anyone else would be - like, that's a normal part of the questioning process, "is this actually a kintype or is it something else".

(To which the answer unfortunately is basically "nobody can tell you that except you," typically by answering questions like "does it make me happier to be seen as/referred to as [x]" and "does it feel deeply, intrinsically Right to imagine myself as [x]", etc.)

Hopefully that's at least comforting, if not especially helpful?

[vaugarde]

Me: The PMD anime specials are fun but man they do so many little things and changes to the plot of the games that they bug me and I'm glad there isn't really a question that they're canon to the games or superior in any way

Also Me: Fuck you Special Episode 5 if you check the anime special you CLEARLY see that the Sableye do NOT fear Dusknoir and are his special little guys!!!!!!!!!!

[alecscudder1987]

AZIRAPHALE DIDNT SAY HE LOVED HIM BACK IM GOING TO FUCKING LAUNCH EVERYTHHIGN INTO THE SUN

[peachcitt]

oh my god college life

[finalhaunts]

Full fucking offense but iam genuinely considering offing myself lmao i want to tear the fucking skin off of my face so bad its not even funny

[ajdrawshq]

WHAT. THE FUCK J7ST HAPPENED. WHAT IS HAPPENING .?

[sad--tree]

my spotify search history atm is so funny lol its like, renowned canadian singer-songwriter leonard cohen! danish death/doom band konvent! whatever the fuck u would describe heilung as (wikipedia says "experimental folk" which, like, sure. but also its like some kinda ancient germanic/viking type of thing) ! classical chinese opera & folk songs ! cannibal corpse! harvest dawn from tes oblivion ost! celtic frost's A Dying God Coming Into Human Flesh! moist ! carmina burana! and so on & so forth ......