#just slow going

[mcmissileproof]

favorite hobby when I'm driving is to catch someone trying to climb up my back bumper while I'm going a completely reasonable speed and just slowly take my foot off the gas. you seem upset, brother. why don't we slow down and enjoy the view awhile

[sarcastic-clapping]

“sad day for devil’s minion enjoyers” girl WHAT? armand turned that old man. he sucked him silly. do you really think nothing else went down or was said in that penthouse? on the unreliable narrator show where they love to breadcrumb pieces until you get the full truth? hello? i’m popping BOTTLES

[gunstellations]

encounter (1/?)

next page

cont. of unfamiliar side

[vmkhoneyy]

I think if I could be the kind stranger in someone’s memory, that’d be enough.

[endivinity]

okay here we go!!! first of the season with Sailfin! It's common along the southern coastlines to see deathclaws whose vertebrae have developed into broad fans. These are flush with blood vessels for absorbing the sun's heat.

[hinamie]

domain expansion

[mohntilyet]

still i think the one of the more fun differences drawn between illario and lucanis that was lost would be illario's ability to endear himself to others but serious lack of empathy, vs. lucanis' (self perceived) inability to be charming but how much he cares. it's interesting that the game has gone with the "lucanis' ability vs illario's lack thereof" because i think illario being the dellamorte 'best in show dog' vs. lucanis' attack dog would have made me so unwell.

lucanis is... awkward. he's not unlikable, because he is usually very polite, but he doesn't speak much and only seems to care about the other dellamortes. he once sent viago de riva a knife with no note (who knows what he could have meant by this). he does what caterina asks of him, and by his own admission, cannot say no to her. he is a dramatic and prolific killer, and that makes how untouchable he is even worse.

and the crows like illario, sure, AND he's a good assassin! he's even a good crow! he's so good that he can make lucanis smile, and so he is the charming, sociable one. he's the one that stays in treviso and can be relied upon to care, illario's even the one people prefer over caterina and lucanis!

but illario is decoration. he's the prize poodle, and even if poodles were bred to be working dogs, nobody will ever pick him to protect the house over the german shepherd that regularly mauls intruders. anyways the analogy is getting away from me. the point i'm trying to make is that i want illario to have a different kind of jealousy/hatred that's not just over 'being bad at killing' but also an arrogant loathing for everyone around him that is getting harder to hide, because they've forgotten he can bite and is just itching to rip someone's jugular out. illario is very good at hiding his family resemblance to caterina, while lucanis suffers under his grandmother's, and his own, reputation.

[glitteraffe-art]

russian roulette with the boys (by boys we mean detective smokesalot, new mexico's most catholic murder suspect, and a guy who will find out hell is 800,000 other people in the next five minutes)

(stock photo & quote sources under the cut):

quote from:

stock photos from:

https://knowyourmeme.com/forums/meme-research/topics/60260-hand-pointing-gun-at-screen

https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/long-barreled-revolver-with-a-black-plastic-handle-isolated-gm880976852-245339152?searchscope=image%2Cfilm

https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/hand-pointing-a-gun-at-the-target-gm516186054-88869963

https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/hand-holding-revolver-gun-ready-shoot-81031411

https://www.westend61.de/en/photo/PKF00085/man-holding-gun-close-up

[m4rs-ex3]

i am so obsessed with the fact that out of everyone, runaan is the one who is so fucking Done

i can literally hear him thinking "yeah i've gathered. the walls in this house are only so thick."

[demaparbat-hp]

Regarding the Cherry Wine Incident.

[why-the-heck-not]

me, a responsible being, working on the coding project as I should vs. me, a dysfunctional shithead, getting distracted by reading about brains (once aGAIN damnit (it's my favorite "I need to study my field but bc I should do that it's an impossible unthinkable feat now, so I'm reading about something else to fool my brain I'm still being productive"-topic))

[ed-died688]

Im still grumpy about them not dancing so here you go :]

[lucabyte]

you dream of devouring your friends whole

[pricetagged]

Part 2 of that wifehunter john piece instead of working on my wips 💖

Masterlist l Previous l Next

Warnings: implied stalking and voyeurism. Nothing too bad...yet.

Unedited, typed on my phone during break, abrupt ending (part 3 ig?)

_________________

He thumbs at the book, tracing the swirls of your penmanship until the ink fades off and the paper turns to felt. It leaves his fingertips stained, dark as indian ink, and he can't help the satisfied burr that catches his breath as he presses the sticky whorls of his prints into the pages.

Stained. Blackened.

Imprinted.

It's what he wants to do to you in something more indelible than ink, something that would burrow under your skin and linger. (This parasitic desire, he'll bury it in you, make you feel his presence deep in your guts, squirming and wriggling at the back of your mind-)

Of course he returns the book. Returns it to you marked and dogeared and of course you're grateful for it. Tripping over your words and choking on the thanks that build up and tumble from your delicate throat, feelings and words too big for you. 

He knows that, sees the slight hesitance in your eyes as they flit to the window where he knows your useless Buck is ambling about. Shambling. (This marriage is a sham, his claim on you is a sham, one that John is more than willing to seize upon and squeeze until it all crumbles and all that is left is you malleable and soft in his hands).

"Where...where did you find this? I thought-" He sees how you choke down condemnations, not wanting to crack open that door that leaves your husband exposed.

Is it loyalty? Obedience?

Whatever it is, he wants it. Wants to redirect it his way. It itches at him, sits awkwardly like a broken seam, seeing you waste this fidelity on something still wet behind the ears.

On a man who can't even protect his own home, can't even cherish his own wife and has to call John in to pick up the mantle-

"It's good work. Shouldn't leave it lying around, sweetheart," he raps against the front cover, needs to do something with his hands before the impulses take over and he does something hasty. Something that would send you darting back to your husband's arms instead of in to his. "Would be a real waste if it got lost. Taught me how to transplant herbs, now I've got some parsley on my windowsill that's still alive."

It's a lie. He must have strangled the roots, harvested it too soon, something-

But it makes you happy. He can see the glow that warms your cheeks and brightens your eyes. They way your face plumps up, softens, due to your shy smile.

"You should've tried mint, first. It grows like crazy, basically does its own thing. Basil, too." You're grinning, in your element out here. Surrounded by green and the rich, earthy scent of the soil that you till. Geosmin. Oakmoss.

"I'll have to get you over to show me sometime."

He plays gallant so well, offering to help you with the weeding and trimming. It wouldn't be the first time he got down into the muck and the mire. Wouldn't be the first time he stuck his hands in, got them caked and dirty right up to the elbow in order to get what he wants. In order to do what needs done. It's as familiar to him as the uniform he wears.

And your company makes it so much more pleasant.

You smile at him, glancing up from the flowerbeds each and every time he passes you a tool. Eventually you feel comfortable enough to call for him - John? - to tap at his wrist and redirect his hands around the roots and stems below you both. It's a beautiful symbiosis: you, who are so good at wringing life and he who is so good at taking it.

He catches the way the living room curtains twitch, the shadow of the young buck pacing and pawing just out of sight. Too much energy, not enough courage. Not seasoned enough to come out and plant himself between the challenger and his wife. It's stable vice, sending him spinning, uselessly watching as John sidles in and digs his paws into the very foundations of the house. It makes him smile, big and broad as he tugs at a particularly stubborn weed with a grunt.

And when you can't quite get the rubber of the yard gloves to slide over your wrist, he just has to help you. Has to grip at your soft forearm, cooing as you wince.

"Big pull, that's it sweetheart."

You brace yourself so well, pulling back in a counterweight that just digs his fingers in tighter. Blinking back tears, you laugh a little awkwardly. A little thrilled.

And you thank him for it, shaking your arm out and stretching your fingers. All damp from the soil and your sweat.

Unoticing uncaring of the ring that's no longer on your finger.

He has the urge to shake it out of the glove onto the dirt. To burry it and trample all over it until it's dull and forgotten and dead.

But -

But it's still warm from your hand.

It's so fragile, too small to fit properly over his thick fingers and swollen knuckles.

He thumbs at it on his drive home, plays with the smooth face and angled edges as he thinks.

He won't give it back, the thought draws a scoff as he signals into his driveway. No, the only way you're getting a ring from him is on the same day that the ink dries on your marriage license.

But there's the matter of that ugly possesive thing that lives in his ribcage, so close to the surface that the lines blur and shimmer until he's not sure which skin he's wearing. It has him feeling hot, burning up and itching to watch the fall out.

He settles on the settee, cigar in one hand and your wedding ring in the other.

It sits tight just barely at the first knuckle of his forefinger. The screen in front of him illuminates it, makes it glint cold and sharp as it moves lower and lower, over the slight give of his stomach until it reaches the bulge pressing into his zipper. He palms himself, hisses as he feels the metal dig in a little to the sensitive, aching flesh.

With another slow drag, he flicks open his fly and settles in.

Even the slight pixelation of the monitor can't disguise how pretty you are.

_________________________

Someone with a big brain please help me to name this haha 💖

Sorry for the delay. Been super demotivated lately. Still got several k of wips that need attention :/

[yuhi-san]

Oh hey would you look at that! My post! I totally forgot i put that snippet on tumblr. #snippet of s story i know i will never finish?

Well, Observations and subjective perception currently has over 70k, has a few more chapters already written and while it is on hiatus currently due to life, it is not at all abandoned!

Defenestration

Knives watches with utter disgust as Vash excitedly bites into a salmon sandwich. Neither of them needs to actually eat but Vash still seems to enjoy it, something Knives could never understand, even as they were living with Rem. It’s just one of these things where Vash acts more like a human than the independent plant that he actually is. It is at least half the reason for Knives disdain for food. 

Across the street are some human children playing and one of the older ones vaults through an open window to go and hide.

“Oh, that reminds me, Nai,” Vash says. “If thrown through a window or having to break through one, the safest way is to tuck your arms and legs in, cover your face and break it with a foot first. Also try avoiding the frames, if possible. They hurt.”

It’s not unusual for his brother to say something completely random and equally useless. It does not stop Knives from leveling him with a frosty stare. “Vash,” he drawls tetchily, “Why the hell do you feel the need to mention this?"

“Just in case?” Vash replies, with the expression of innocence personified.

Knives feels himself bristle and he wants to grit his teeth at that. Thankfully for Vash he has a better grip on emotions and impulses than brutish humans do. “I may have agreed to that asinine proposal of you and that girl-”

“Meryl.”

“-but if you believe I will ever be put in such a situation, you are sorely mistaken, brother.

Vash is now paying only half attention to Knives, seemingly distracted by a cat he spotted preening at them from around a corner.

“Well, I sure hope we can stick to that! The not breaking through windows thing, that is,” he says in that overly cheery tone he likes to use. It’s more fake than it was when they were children, although Knives has a harder time than he would ever admit to himself to tell just how much of it is fake and how much is genuine. He should probably also consider that his brother is turning the chipper up to eleven just to spite him, or make a point. it doesn’t really matter. Even if he were entirely genuine it wouldn't dull the irritation at all.

“But you did nearly knock yourself out that time you jumped out of the window after me in July, so you know…” This time Vash goes for that casual tone he also uses a lot, far more than it is actually appropriate.

Knives right eye twitches. Vash pspsps’ at the cat while waving a piece of salmon he dug out of the sandwich, clearly no longer paying any attention to his brother.

[nyaawn]

FFXIV Dawntrail CG Promotional art