#like blood on iron

[siriusleee]

Like Blood on Iron | Part 7

Historical Executioner AU Summary: The executioner has always been an enigma to you - drawing you in. His sword drawing a line in the dirt as he made his way to the village center, and leaving back to his cottage on the outskirts of town. However, your curiosity can't stop the future your family has planned for you.

A/N: Two in a week? Who am I? I wrote most of this today, and should have just waited until my regularly scheduled days to post, but I couldn't.

If you like this fic, consider sending a dollar on ko-fi.

You would recognize his silhouette in a hurricane. Wet hair plastered to your forehead and rain dripping in your eyes doesn't disturb the image of him waiting for you down the now mud swamped road. You push your hood off of your head, trying to let him know to come to you, to come speak to you, but instead he turns and disappears into the narrow alleys between the small shops and houses. 

You should go inside; you can tell from the twitch of the curtains that someone is watching you - watched Jonathan kiss you on the cheek and walk off. You know whoever it is: Mother, Father, Maggie - they're waiting for you to come inside from the stinking rain that's pelting your skin. They're crowded around the window wondering why you won't move. 

You run after him, slipping and sliding in the mud that clings to your skin and coats you in a thin sheen. You can barely make out the edge of his cloak whipping around corners in a seemingly nonsense pattern, always too far away from you for you to catch up. It's not until you emerge at the edge of the village, overlooking the cove that you realize where he's gone. 

You slide down the rocks, scraping your shins, your palms, the back of your thighs against the rough rocks as the rain makes them too slick to catch a grip on. Blood mixing with the rain and the mud, you crash into the sand, dress torn to shreds. Just another to end up shoved in the back of the closet where questions can't reach it. 

Simon's a black mass against the dark sand, a tornado in his own right as the wind pulls his cloak away from his body, whipping it into terrifying shapes - the monster the rest of the village thinks he is. The mask is gone, for the first time you see him bare outside of the safety of his own home. The cross scar shines pale against the rest of his skin, the moon still bright enough through the clouds to illuminate him. 

"Simon!" Your voice is carried away from you by the wind. You don't know if he hears you or knows that you'd follow as he turns toward you. 

He doesn't reach out to you, the reflex you've gotten so used to him showing around you as you come to a stop beside him, your own cloak pulling painfully against you in the wind. 

"Shouldn't you be inside?"

He speaks so low you're not sure if you actually hear him. 

"What?"

"You don't need to be out here in this; you're getting married soon. You don't want to be sick."

His words are like a kick in the stomach - not just the what he's said, but the way he speaks to you. Even from the first time here on the beach, he'd never spoken so flat - so empty to you. There had always been something so uniquely Simon in his voice. But now - this is how he must speak to those knelt down in front of him, waiting for his sword to swing. How he must have sounded to Uncle Henry when he knelt down to whisper to him. 

"Simon it wasn't - it was just a kiss on the cheek. It wasn't anything important."

"It should have been more."

The feeling of it all: his words, the cloak tugging at your neck, the rain and mud sticking to your skin, the burning in your palms, it's too much.

"What did you say?"

Simon doesn't look at you as he speaks, his hands held tightly behind his back, eyes watching the waves that crash heavy on the horizon. 

"He's going to be your husband. You should have been sneaking off with him - you should have followed him. It's the right thing."

His skin is ice cold where you grab him on the arm, none of his usual warmth bleeding through the dark fabric of his shirt.

"Simon, please don't say that. I don't want -"

"Go home."

"No."

Simon doesn't shake your arm free, doesn't shove you away, but he might as well with the look in his eyes when he finally looks at you. Bright eyes unusually dark, the circles underneath them nearly black. 

"Why do you keep coming back? There is so much more for you elsewhere."

You can't breathe, you have to clutch his arm to keep yourself grounded or you think you might let the rain wash you out into the sea. He grabs you, hands warm while the rest of him is freezing. 

"We can dream all we want, but I've got nothing for you but a shack in the woods and a life full of being shunned."

"Better that with you than anything with anyone else."

He's heaving beneath your touch, trying to keep himself from unraveling everything that he's packed so small inside. He doesn't want to speak what he's thinking of: you can see it written in the corners of his eyes, in the wrinkles of worry you're not sure you've ever seen before. 

"You say that now. But what about when you want a family?" His voice is pained at the thought. 

"You are my family."

"This life isn't enough for you, even if you refuse to see it yourself," his grip on you turns bruising - harder than he's ever held you, even when you begged for harder. "I will not be responsible for seeing you suffer in the coming years because you thought you loved me. You told me you wanted to leave and travel - I can't do that with you here."

"I do love you."

You're begging; you will get on your knees to beg if it makes him stop talking to you like this, to stop holding you like he's never going to get the chance to do it ever again. But there's iron in his eyes, and your blood on his skin, and you know that this is it. 

He doesn't have to tell you he loves you - not like when he whispered it into your skin or when he would braid your hair into tangles in the early mornings. It rolls off of him as he pushes you back, mouth capturing yours. He tastes like the rain and something bitter, something you've never tasted on him before. 

You trip over a divot in the sand, but Simon catches you, pulling you up so that your legs wrap around his waist. He walks the two of you back until you're sheltered by the rocks that form the ledge above. 

The rocks dig into your back, but you don't feel them as Simon hitches up your skirts around you. This time it's different - there is no gentleness in the way he takes you; not like all the other times before. The rain covers the two of you, and you know this is the last time. The last time you'll taste him or feel the thick calluses of his fingers on the back of your thigh. 

And when the two of you cross the ending together, he doesn't pull out to spill himself anywhere but inside of you. He pushes you harder against the rocks, keeping himself buried inside of you until he can't stay any longer. 

You can feel the scratches on your back stinging from the rain, and you hope they never stop - one of the last reminders of Simon you know you're ever going to get. 

He doesn't kiss you when he settles you onto the ground, doesn't kiss you as he straightens the tattered and torn edges of your skirt back down, fingers chaste against the soaked and ruined fabric. He doesn't speak as he holds your face in his hands, thumbs brushing the water from your cheeks and you don't know if it's rain or tears, but you're sure he does. 

You don't know if it's the rain or the sorrow that stops your feet from working, but Simon, strong as he always has been, carries you home on his back - a caricature of all the times you've been in his arms before. His boot kicking against the front door is thunderous on the darkened street. 

Father doesn't ask what's happened when he swings the door open and finds Simon sliding you off of his shoulders; he doesn't ask why your knees buckle or why Mother rushes forward to grab you from Simon, her own hand lingers on Simon's a moment to long before Father whispers a 'thank you' and let's the door slam shut. 

You know by the way her hands cradle you that Mother knows what happened out there in the storm. She doesn't let Father touch you, instead pushing him away and calling for Maggie to help carry you up the stairs. Your mother, always so fastidious about cleanliness and the whiteness of the linens, strips you down to your underdress and tucks you into bed, mud and all, burrowing herself beside you, fingers doing their best to push away the fever that threatens to build at your temple.

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry.

You're sick for two weeks, fever burning through your skin. You think at times that the blankets around you must be turning into ash. The people beside your bed flicker in and out: Maggie rearranging the sheets around you, Lily pressing a cold washcloth to your forehead. Jonathan reading something in a book to you, his voice rumbling through the house. 

Mother bathing you gently, fingers brushing through your hair, working the tangles out with a comb. 

It's Jonathan at your side when you wake, a book in his hands and his boots tapping heavily on the floor beneath him. The sound shoots straight through your skull.

"Will you stop that?"   

His hand probes at your temple, fingers taking your temperature. You don't even have it in you to push him off, to tell him to go away. The chair someone placed beside your bed creaks under his weight as he slips off of it, book landing heavily on the floor. He drops to his knees beside you so, eyes scanning your face for any sign of the fever coming back.

"How'd you feel?"

He speaks to you like you're a wounded animal, soft and low. Like you'll run at any moment. but there's nowhere to run this time.

"Like I was trampled by a horse."

His chuckle, just a short breath from his nose, washes over the ache in your muscles. 

"I thought you were when I saw you laying here the first time."

He slides his hand beneath the blankets to grab yours, and you let him, welcoming the warmth and roughness against your still frozen skin.

"Did I sleep through our wedding?"

"Unfortunately not. There's still six days for you to be rid of me."

You can't help the hot tears that start to flow from you - Jonathan doesn't ask why as he brushes them away, pulling himself into bed beside you and letting you turn the front of his shirt dark with your own tears. 

"I know love. I'm sorry."

But his warmth isn't enough - isn't a replacement for what you're wishing for.

The dress is beautiful, you think as Maggie's fingers lace the back up gently. In the three weeks you were sick you'd lost so much weight that the stays have to be pulled tighter to form the fabric around yourself than originally intended. You want to apologize to her; this should have been her dress - she is the one who wants to get married. The weight of your disappointment grows heavier as Lily works around Maggie, her fingers pinning your hair up deftly with Grandma's pins. 

You don't recognize yourself when they step away; the white of the dress sparkling back at you in the wavy mirror, blurring your features as you furiously try to blink back the tears that threaten to ruin the entire thing. 

Jonathan had been there every day you'd been sick, but it wasn't the same. You'd wanted to ask him if the dark shroud was outside, if he was there at all. But you couldn't do it. Couldn't bring yourself to know if he wasn't there. 

"It's going to be alright," Maggie soothes, fingers running down the fabric of your shoulders. "And you'll still be close - Jonathan asked Father if Lily and I could come stay with you for a while after the two of you return from your trip."

"I'm not sure my husband would appreciate sharing a bed with the three of us."

Maggie's distorted reflection smiles weakly at you in the mirror; you clasp her hand tightly, hoping the sweat doesn't stain the delicate white fabric. 

A heavy knock reverberates through the house - you feel it shake the floorboards beneath you. 

"I'll get it," Lily says, slipping out of the door, heavy dress swishing around her ankles. You think of her asking you to tighten her dress, of the way she'd smiled at the boy in the market. Soon you'll be getting her ready for her own wedding, and you wonder if she'll consider it a death sentence like you or look forward to it like Maggie. 

Her voice is muffled; you try to focus on it as Maggie ducks beneath your bilious skirts to help you slide your shoes on. You teeter on one foot, and she grabs your calf to try to help you from falling. Lily's feet patter up the steps, and she trips through the door, skirt catching on a snag on the floor.

"There's-" she's breathless from rushing up the stairs, "there's someone here to see you."

You know who it is by the way she stumbles over the word 'somebody'. 

Maggie's warm hand finishes the lacing on your shoe before she emerges from the cloud of skirts around you, hair disheveled. Lily's still staring at you, the thread of her dress connecting her to the floor, to the house you once so desperately tried to escape from. 

Your heart squeezes in your chest; you grip the lace at your wrist hard enough you can feel some of the threads snapping. 

You know it's a horrible idea: to see him now. But you push past Maggie and Lilly, tripping on the skirt as you do your best to keep your balance flying down their stairs. The feeling of him courses through your veins as your feet hit the main landing; but the entryway is empty. Your stomach sinks; he must have left, must have -

"You look beautiful."

Simon stares at you from the kitchen doorway; hands clasped behind his back. He's devoid of his usual mask; pale skin exposed to the world. His eyes are dark, the skin around them gaunt and sleep deprived. You long to reach out and grab him, but you keep your hands to yourself. He looks so much like he did that night in the cove. The scratches against your back have healed up, but you can still feel them pulsing just below the surface. 

"What are you doing here?" You ask, trying and failing to keep your voice steady. 

"I wanted to see you again before I couldn't again."

A thousand wild thoughts course through you: this wouldn't have to end the two of you. You could still see each other, in secret; you would do anything to keep him, but you know what his answer to it would be. How he would shake his head, and tell you it's impossible. 

And you know that, despite however you may feel, Jonathan doesn't deserve that level of cruelty, not after nursing you back to life for the past three weeks, not after kneeling at your bedside and brushing away tears he knew didn't belong to him. 

"Why today? You could have come to see me days ago."

"I wanted a glimpse into a different life."

It's not sadness that flows through you; the fever burnt that out of you weeks ago. Now it's anger like you've never felt: the anger that you know takes over Mother when she smashes things against the wall in her and Father's room. The anger that takes her over when she makes the walls rattle in her wake. 

"This is cruel, and you know it."

Simon has the good graces to not meet your eyes as he shifts, boots covered in a thick layer of dust. 

"I know."

"I thought you wanted me to forget you."

In the distance the church bell tolls, timing the hour. The minutes to your wedding tick down, waiting for the sun to fully set before Father comes to get you to escort you there. And Simon in front of you wears down whatever resolve that you had to get yourself there.

"I think I'm too selfish for that."

"I wish you were."

He chews on the inside of his cheek, and you know if you were to kiss him right now, you'd taste the iron of his blood. 

"I would still run away with you, if you asked right now."

"We've got nowhere to run to."

"That doesn't bother me."

A sharp staccato of a knock on the door breaks the spell between the two of you. You linger, waiting for Simon to say something else, but the knocking increases, pulling you away from him. 

Simon takes advantage of you walking away to try to slip out the backdoor. The small courtyard is covered in leaves, they crunch heavily beneath his booted feet. The sound of the door opening back up behind him pulls his attention away from the path home. 

He doesn't turn to look back, but he cowardly hopes it's your voice that calls out to him from the doorway. But it's not.

"You're just going to run away? You're not even going to fight for her?"

Maggie stares at him from the shut doorway, all acerbic and sharp edges - the opposite of you. Simon feels like the look in eyes is enough to set him on fire from shame. 

"She deserves better than me; better than a life on the run."

"Who are you to decide what my sister deserves?"

She walks quickly, heels sharp against the cobblestones. Simon thinks she's going to hit him. He would deserve it; he can tell by the way her fingers curl that it would hurt. 

"My sister," Maggie says, nearly whispering at him in the biting air, "could do worse than Jonathan. I had to beg my father and mother to not marry her off to some of the men they had in mind. But she deserves more than just being someone's wife for the rest of her life."

She cuts Simon off sharply when he tries to speak.

"My sister would run to the farthest edges of the earth to be with you - to see the world with you."

She leaves him there, the wind cutting through him, slamming the door shut hard enough behind her to rattle the windows and the wood. 

tag list: @silverianni, @milfs4lifee, @koi-feish, @shirabeastly, @pookie90, @ghostlythot, @hearts4sky, @crystallizedtime, @the-worlds-tempest, @myconglomerateromance, @elena-ph, @chaoticgoblindev, @pipocfamily, @canadianmilkbag, @caspertheassholeghost, @2512121morningstar, @glitterypirateduck, @elli0t3r, @clairdelunelove, @captainprice4life, @generaldestinychild, @crowsjourney, @c0pernicus, @wistfullyhypomanic, @arbesa-mind, @ray-rook, @daisyfrubies, @september-22-1996

[weepylucifer]

one of the weirder more unexplained phenomena on this site are those people you'll sometimes see in fandom tags who make like... stimboards of some completely uncontroversial character and then they have the most bizarre DNIs underneath like. a banner of some cartoon character and "DNI: NAZIS, WAR CRIMINALS, AXE MURDERERS, HOMOPHOBES, POOL TOY FETISHISTS, PEOPLE WHO LIKE CHERRY COKE, ANYONE WHO HAS EVER SHIPPED THE TRAINS FROM THOMAS THE TRAIN ENGINE TOGETHER" and all of these are posited like they're equally bad. but it's only stimboard posts that have these banners. absolutely no one else ever does these

[itstoriirdz]

bloodtober final day, iron lung.

[thedgeofsleep]

mark i'm there day one

[hejee]

stop staring and help him 😭

[fischyplier]

They will get their execution. I will get my freedom.

Iron Lung | Official Trailer

[cloudyydraws]

more saiki stuff

[clonehub]

probably this goes without saying, but I think they have actual full blown doctors on Kamino. not just to take care of the clones (maybe they'd be the kaminoans themselves) but also for the medics. idk. maybe this is just me indulging my interest in medicine, but i really like the idea of clone cadet medics doing things like surgical rotations and learning about more than just field medicine. i feel like they'd have the time for it, you know? their time across their whole lives is divided differently. they can learn faster and start earlier, too.

[ottosbigtop]

Something about mistranslations and perspectives and trying very very hard.

[siriusleee]

Like Blood on Iron | Part 5

Historical Executioner AU

Summary: The executioner has always been an enigma to you - drawing you in. His sword drawing a line in the dirt as he made his way to the village center, and leaving back to his cottage on the outskirts of town. However, your curiosity can't stop the future your family has planned for you.

Warnings: smut, female x male sex, fingering, wedding dress shopping

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Much shorter chapter here for you guys - I just couldn't get anything else out for this one. The characters were not charactering. That's not true, they want to get ahead to the better parts. Anyway, as of last time - I'm not adding anyone else to the tag list. If you'd like to be made away of updates, turn on the notifications here on tumblr or follow me on ko-fi. If you'd like to donate, that will always be appreciated as writing is technically my nice unpaid second job.

find the other chapters here at my masterlist.

You wake before Simon; you can see the sunlight threatening the purple morning outside. Dark shadows argue with the light that tries to slip in around the heavy curtains and shutters. Simon is so warm pressed up against your back, one arm slung over your shoulder and the other underneath your head. It's so warm under the blanket that it's almost stifling - you stretch to try to get some measure of cold air, but Simon's hand moves to keep you in place, rough fingers causing gooseflesh to erupt across your skin.

"Stop moving," Simon breathes against your neck, voice thick with the early morning. His breath is warm and wet against the shell of your ear, causing your hair to flutter and tickle your temple. 

You shift again, trying to get yourself back to a position you relax in; Simon's hand grabs your hips instead and holds them still, fingers nearly bruising in the tender skin. It feels like his hand is burning you, and a flame starts to slowly lick up your skin.

"I need you to be still, my love."

His voice reverberates through his chest and into yours; you can feel the soreness from the night before between your legs, a type of sore you've never felt before. But that doesn't stop your stomach from fluttering at the feeling of Simon's rough hands tracing soft and slow patterns at your hip, at the warning in his voice; his fingers dip dangerously low on your stomach. 

He hits a ticklish spot and you jerk back, rubbing yourself against him. He's hard against your backside; he grinds into you with a gasp like he can't control himself, and you hope he can't. The hand on your hip slides down the back of your thigh, pushing until your legs separate and you're facedown on the bed. Simon shifts so that he's just hovering above you, chest still pressed against your back. One finger teases your entrance, you push your hips back - face burning at the feeling of your body responding to his touch without your thought. 

You didn't know it would be like this - the intense want that consumes you, and makes your body move against your own will.

It stings when he presses one finger into you; Simon moves slowly inside of you - stretching you back out. Hissing against the pain you've never experienced before you squirm, but Simon traced one soothing hand down your back.

"Do you want me to stop?"

He presses a kiss to your spine, tongue tracing the contours of your skin.

"No - it's just -"

He hits a spot inside of you that cuts off your breathing; you arch backwards into him, mewling pathetically into the mattress. Simon chuckles, repositioning himself so that he's straddling you. It still stings, but slowly it gives way to something else.

He works you until you're dripping down his wrist before pulling your hips up a few inches. His length presses into you - hot and heavy. You grind down against him, the wetness of you smooth against his velvet skin; his hands still you. 

"Keep your head down, love."

He still doesn't want you to see his scarred face; to see the mark that he thinks regulates him to a life of being alone. You want to press the issue - you want to see his face so desperately, but when he slides his tip up and down your wet slit the thought is pushed from your mind. 

"What do you want, love?"

You try to press back, to show him what you want, but he pulls back enough that you can't reach him. 

"Say it love."

You can't - the heat creeping through your body keeps your mouth shut; Simon's hands ghost up your thighs, your backside, the curve of your hip. But he doesn't move forward to meet you.

"Please Simon."

"Please what? Don't be shy; I'm not going to judge you."

His voice is quietly smug - a tone you've never heard from him before, but it soothes you nonetheless. Through the embarrassment that swaths around you, you bite the words out.

"Please make love to me Simon."

And he does.

It's different from the night before - slow, but not like he's scared to hurt you. Not like the night before when he thought you would shatter beneath his very touch.

 This time it's like he's trying to memorize the way you feel, the way you grip around him. He takes his time bottoming out inside of you; when he does he folds himself over you, pressing kisses to the base of your neck - your shoulder - everywhere he can reach. He's shaking against your back, struggling to keep himself together. The thought makes you grip the pillow white knuckled. 

He's so deep inside of you all you can feel is him; when he starts to move you find yourself babbling nonsense. He's everywhere inside of you, and you try to tell him how it feels, but you're not sure that you're making sense. You reach behind you, trying to find some grip to pull Simon closer to you. He wraps one hand around your wrist and uses it to leverage himself deeper, to push you so that you arch more.

He wants to go faster - you can feel it in the way he grabs your wrist, in the way the muscles in his arm bunch as they come down beside your face to brace himself. But he's scared of hurting you. You want to urge him to go faster, to go harder, but you know he won't, so worried that whatever he'll do will hurt you.

When you finish, clenched around him, his hips stutter, snapping against yours hard enough to sting until he pulls out quickly. Like the night before, you feel his heat on your skin. Neither of you move as you try to catch your breath until Simon pushes himself up.

"Stay there for a moment."

It's a command and a plea. Don't look at me. His weight shifts on the bed and he pads across the floor, wood creaking beneath his weight. A moment later something soft is wiping at the mess on your back. You shiver at the feeling, the air suddenly freezing.

"You can get up now." Simon's voice is quiet, almost shy. You push yourself up off the bed; he's pulled his clothes on, his mask pulled back down over his face. Your fingers remember the warmth of his skin, the way the scar on his face felt. You wonder what he would do if you tried to reach out and pull his mask off now.

He kneels down beside the bed, nearly eye level with you. One finger reaches out to intertwine itself in your hair. His eyes are soft, but pulled tight at the edges, worry starting to seep through.

"It's early. You should go home."

"I suppose I should. Although I don't think anyone will be looking for me this morning." His hands fall from your hair to your thigh, and you can't recognize the look in his eyes.

But you were wrong. Mother is sitting up in the dining room, so pale you'd mistake her as a specter in the nighttime. Your heart falls to your feet as you let the door shut behind you, hands trembling at the thought that she can smell Simon on you. 

It feels like a flag waving above you: the night before. You're almost sure that if you were to study yourself long enough in the mirror you could see some sort of change, some string that tethered you to Simon all the way across the village. You had read once about red strings that connected two soul mates together. They could become twisted and tangled, but never torn in two.

You were sure there was one between you and Simon, and if Mother looked at you hard enough she'd be able to see it. 

But she doesn't say anything about your disheveled hair or the messy way your dressed is laced in the front. Without looking at you, she swirls something inside her cup, and you have the sneaking suspicion that it's not coffee. When she drinks, it's long and deep, the cup slamming onto the table as if it weighs a thousand pounds. Her fingers trace the top, collecting a missed drop of whatever is inside before flicking it away.

"Go get cleaned up," she says finally without looking at you, "we have to go get your dress finished today."

Her voice is flat and devoid of anything that usually makes her sound like Mother. She had never been the softest woman in the world, but you'd always known her to have a special type of kindness, or what she thought was kindness. It scares you so much that you do what she says without thinking, feet stumbling up the staircase. You can still feel the warm stretch of Simon in between your legs, the way his hands had pressed your knees apart. It makes it difficult to walk up to the second flight. 

 By the time you've come back downstairs, hair damp and a fresh dress loose around you, Mother's glass is empty. But she still swirls it, as if waiting on someone else to fill it up. You wait quietly in the doorway of the kitchen, the minutes stretching on painfully. You're not sure how long it takes before she finally pushes herself heavily from the chair. It scrapes painfully against the floor.

Mother doesn't look at you as she sweeps past you, dress swirling angrily around her. Your cloak smells like fire smoke and Simon, a whiskey headyness that you know Mother catches a whiff of. She freezes when the cloak swirls around your body, the smell enveloping the both of you. But whatever thoughts come to her, she ignores. Above the two of you, you hear Lily's quiet footsteps patterning across the floor. The sound cuts through the empty house, and you wonder why she's not already downstairs beating about in the kitchen. She's never slept in a day in her life, and has never not been elbow deep in dough in the early mornings.

You and Mother don't speak on the way to the seamstress's shop, Mother walking ahead of you in her customary brisk pace. Around the two of you, the town starts to wake up. Window shutters slam open; in the distance the market starts to come to life.

It's morbid, the fact that all these people are moving on with their day in the same spots that destroyed your own just yesterday. But you try to ignore their sounds and focus on the soft swish of Mother's dress in front of you. 

It's ice cold inside the seamstress shop. The fireplace stares emptily at you as you strip down, a silk underdress taking the place of the linen one you'd put on this morning. It takes all your balance to keep steady as what feels like pounds of petticoats are slipped over your head and cinched at your waist. 

In the mirror, you watch as you begin to morph into a real bride. The seamstress pushes your hair up out of her way, pinning it in some amorphous rendition of bridal hair. The only sounds that escape you are the soft gasps as the laces on each layer are tightened incrementally. 

But Mother doesn't speak: doesn't ask about alterations, doesn't mention the way the shoulders puff out. She doesn't loosen her iron stare at you from the lounge on the far wall. 

And you're not sure you can say anything either. Watching the seamstress lace you up in between heavy layers of white ivory and lace you can't help but think about the night before, about a different wedding that could have happened in a different time. With each layer, you can only think more and more about what it would be like to meet Simon at the alter. What it would be like for him to be the one to strip each layer off of you.

Or would he instead push each layer up until he could reach you and fuck you in the entire dress. 

By the time the dress is being slipped off of you, you're hyperventilating, a cold sweat pouring from your skin and sticking you to the underdress. The seamstress has to help you sit down, her gnarled fingers ice cold against your hot skin.

"It's an exciting day for many women," she says, trying to calm you down, "just breathe."

And you try to just breathe, but it feels like the plates of the Earth have shifted underneath you and knocked out any sense of stability you may have had. There may have been a point where you could have overcome the anger of being forced to marry, but after last night - after this morning - you knew there was no way you could ever stand the feeling of Jonathan, of anyone touching you. 

You'd rather never be touched again. 

Mother pays for the dress without a smile before wrapping her fingers so tight around your arm that you think you're going to lose feeling in your fingers from the pressure. She drags you through the door, not caring about the way you slam into the door frame, no doubt a bruise being left in its wake.

Outside people are milling about, and each one of them is polite enough to ignore the two of you, no doubt remembering the way Uncle Henry's head had rolled across the ground. You want someone to look up, to see the way Mother is practically dragging you through the dirt, but they ignore the two of you refusing to come within feet of the two of you.

She doesn't loosen her grip until the two of you are at the front gate; she drops your arm like you're something slimy and venomous; she wipes her hand on her bodice. You try to push past her, but she blocks your progress past her, hands reaching down to slam the gate shut. When she speaks, she refuses to look at you. She keeps her eyes focused on the front door. 

"I hope whoever is lucky enough to receive your attention in such a black time is worth it."

"Mother it-"

"Shut up."

Her words draw you up short. She had never spoken so shortly; you had never heard her tell you or either of your sisters to shut up. In your entire life, you'd only heard her say it once - to a servant girl that had said something rude about Lily helping in the kitchen years ago. It had shocked you then, the way it shocked you now.

Her hands grip the wooden gate so hard you're almost surprised it doesn't shatter beneath her strength. It takes a great effort for her to breathe out, to speak again. The words are chopped short, clipped and angry.

"Jonathan will be home in a month. Like I told you before, I will not stop you from doing whatever it is you do at night. But I hope you know what you are doing - what is in store for you if you slip up."

She doesn't give you a chance to defend yourself before she leaves you at the gate, the front door slamming heavily behind her. 

Tag List:

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[raycatzdraws]

An unfinished Linked Universe / Zelda 1&2 animatic.

I forgot I'd made this!!! I'd gotten to a point where I realized I wanted to understand Hyrule's games better before continuing, so I stopped. Not sure if I'll return to it but I think what's here is pretty cool and worth sharing!

Linked Universe is from @linkeduniverse. The song is Run Boy Run by Woodkid.

The song works so well for Rulie aAAAA!!! The imagery around Hyrule is so fun to play with, too! Red, and blood, and hands, and eyes, and fire, and gold, and the triforce- it's all so good!

(made this in December 2021 lol)

[kulapti]

Shell and Bone bookbinding (duo with author copy), June 2024.

Ficbinding of Shell and Bone by @polymathema, take two! As before, this bookbinding is meant to look like a horror movie prop, with deliberately ripped up covers and pages and fake bloodstains.

For the author copy I went about the staining a little differently and chose to use my typical bookbinding archival paper because I think it looks more grungy than standard white printer paper. I used different ink colors for the fake blood as well, and I think it looks more realistic. Yay!

[factsilike]

Really tired of constantly seeing posts declaring that everyone in MXTX novels is complicated and 'morally grey' and that's what makes her works wonderfully written, and that everyone else who doesn't see that is stupid, or is 'demonising' characters and bashing them for rightfully criticising their shitty, very much unjustified actions.

And ironically it seems so simplistic to just declare that, because yes her stories are wonderfully written and complex, but not for that reason. You're clearly not reading her works and only spouting what you think her stories say. There are many morally grey characters in morally complex stories out there, but MDZS IS NOT ONE OF THEM.

NONE OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS (i.e protagonists and their male leads except for LBH maybe) ARE MORALLY GREY OR MORALLY COMPLEX.

THEY ARE ALL MORALLY RIGHTEOUS.

Just take a closer look at their actions compared to the actions of literally everyone else around them, it's not that hard to see.

Not to mention that MXTX herself literally says that WWX and LWJ are both morally ideal and that ahe hopes her readers can be like them, but people seem to have no respect for the word of authors in the name of their self projection onto the characters being contradicted nowadays 😒

(also saw someone dismissively say that HC may think that the world revolves around XL or whatever, but others don't and they're right??

First of all, did you even read the novel? HC made his judgement based on how others treated him versus how XL did when he was a CHILD. And how XL continues to treat others to this day. He is well within his rights to think the world of XL, especially since XL suffered more than every other person and still doesn't succumb to evil, despite having every right to do so, miles more than others. He all but regards XL as his moral compass, because he's proof that truly good people do exist in this world, and not ONE other person in the novel is shown to be as good as him.)

One of the reasons why I really don't like the Xianle Trio is this; neither FX nor MQ seem to regard XL as his own person with his own agency, who is capable of making his own decisions initially as HC does, and only near the end of the novel do they let up a bit when their asses had to be saved by XL multiple times. (especially considering what fools they made of themselves in that spiderweb cave lmao)

Both of them try to enforce XL ALL THE TIME ("Your Highness don't do this or don't do that or don't say this or don't go there or don't talk to him"), as if XL has not survived perfectly well on his own without them FOR 800 YEARS.

The difference between them and HC is clearly spelled out when FC asks HC about why he is not stopping XL, and HC replies that while he may not agree with some of XL's decisions, he would never force him to do what he thinks is correct, something both MQ and FX are CONSTANTLY shown to try to do.

Like please. Xianle Trio who? More like suffering XL and his pair of nuisances who think themselves to be his babysitters. And most of the time he's the one babysitting them.

Another thing that irks me is that their frequent arguments are often played off for laughs, but XL is truly a saint, because if my friends were constantly bickering over petty things all throughout our dangerous journey and giving me nothing but headaches, especially in survival situations, I'd given them the boot a long time ago.

[canisalbus]

Hello I made you some more art!! IDK Why your little guys have just stuck in my brain as of late but yeah I'm just on a roll I guess!

This piece was inspired by wondering who was present around Machete's assassination, and how people around him would react to his downfall. So I had the idea for a portrait of a final lover's embrace, as Vasco holds his dying beloved in bloodsoaked arms.

I tried my best with the clothing -- especially the shoes -- and I think I did a pretty good job but BOY were they hard! XD Anyways, I hope you like this one, it was a blast to draw! I love machete sm istg <3

.

[lloydfrontera]

my biggest gripe with the manhwa rn is that they made javier more of an asshole than he is in the novel and then took away most of the scenes where we see him being kind and soft with others.

javier can be an ass, he is a brat and he's especially annoying when he's with lloyd, but above anything else he is kind and loyal and selfless and good. i cannot emphasize enough how good javier is. he's the kind of person who cannot see someone in trouble or danger and do nothing about it. he's the kind of person who would sacrifice his life for total strangers and no hope of any reward. he's the kind of person who can't even enjoy a lavish party without feeling guilty because he'd much rather help people in need with that money.

he's so fucking good, lloyd is a little annoyed by it because he keeps getting dragged into life-threatening situations because javier just won't stop helping people they don't even know. mind you, lloyd is also endeared by this and would not want him to change but god can it be frustrating in his endeavor to keep them both alive.

there's this particular scene that i just. i'm so sad it was cut. where javier is helping around the refugee camp, going without sleeping and eating so he can focus on helping as many people as possible and then he spots a little kid that got lost on his way back. so he decides to help him.

and he's so gentle with this kid.

Javier walked over to the kid and called him. The flustered boy looked up. Javier strove to put on a warm smile on his face. "Are you lost?" “...” The boy nodded, his eyes all wet. Javier carefully stroked the boy's head. "I think I can help you with that. Why don't you let me help find your tent?" suggested Javier. “...” The boy nodded again. "But why didn't you eat the food? It's going to get cold. Are you not hungry?" "I am… hungry," the boy finally said. But what he said next caught Javier by surprise. "But I won't eat it," said the boy. "Why not?" "My mother is hungrier." "Is that so?" "Yes." “...” Javier wondered why this kid came out to take the food when he had a mother. There must be a reason, he thought to himself. He held out his hand. "I will hold the tray for you." "..." "I won't spill it. I promise." "Okay..." Javier took the tray and wrapped the boy’s hand with his own.

like. god. javier is not a naturally warm person. he's very reserved and stoic and sometimes outright cold, but he still tries so hard with this kid. because he knows what it's like to be him. he knows what it's like to be a child and be scared and hungry and without a home. and he remembers how much it meant for a kind adult to reach out a hand to him and help. and he wants to be that to others too.

everything he does, he does because he genuinely believes it's the right thing to do and therefore his obligation. and even when it doesn't come naturally to him, like being warm and gentle to a child, he still tries his best to do so.

and like that wasn't enough, when they finally find the kid's mom, javier finds out she's blind. recently blinded actually. that she used all her strength to get her child to safety and now she has to depend on him to take care of them because she can't do it anymore. her blouse is smudged with porridge.

so javier kneels down and explains who he is, why he's there and that he wants to help. he lifts up a spoonful of food and slowly and carefully starts to feed her himself. she's a complete stranger and javier doesn't hesitate one second to do this for her.

this is who javier is!! this is who he is at his core!! he's kind and he's selfless and he's above all else good!!

if your audience can't imagine javier comforting a child, then you failed your audience. you missed the point of his character.

[charlietheepicwriter7]

"I'm telling you, she's the best bloody runes expert this side of the Mississippi," John Constantine told the other members of the Justice League as he raised his hand to knock on the old screen door. He hadn't expected his ex-wife to stay here, in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, but Spittoon, Arkansas, was the hill-billy hole it was when he last left. "If anyone can decipher the ritual to summon the ghost king, it's her--"

The door disappeared before he could knock, and a shotgun was shoved in his face. John smiled the best he could. "Hey, sweetheart."

Alicia Walker glared back at him. "Constantine."

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

This is the "John Constantine used to be married to Danny Fenton's Aunt Alicia" AU. Some idea's I've had:

Maddie introduced them. Maddie had dragged Alicia into studying ghosts, but Alicia ended up fascinated by the occultism of ghosts, more metaphysical than scientific. Maddie, wanting to support the sister that was supporting her, found Constantine, introduced the two, and they got along enough to bang.

it was a shotgun wedding. Alicia got pregnant and damn if she was going to let her baby be born without a father, so John ends up marrying her. He doesn't really mind since Alicia's nice enough and the sex is good, but he isn't exactly an attentive husband.

The baby is actually twins! a boy and a girl.

The babies are born without complications, but the baby boy, the first born... goes missing.

In addition to selling his soul to multiple parties, John had also sold the soul of his first born... probably to multiple parties. And he'd forgotten all about it until Alicia calls him, sobbing, saying their son has gone missing.

Needless to say, once she knows, John is divorced within the week.

the newborn daughter is given to Maddie to take care of; Alicia can even look at her without remembering her dead son, she knows she wouldn't be able to take care of a baby the way it needs. she can barely take care of herself.

(Jazz finds out that her aunt is her biomom when Danny is born. She never hates her aunt for giving her up; in fact, it's Alicia's depression and grief that makes Jazz want to study psychology in the first place)

Alicia moves to Spittoon to isolate herself, but the close knit community won't let her self-destruct. They help her rebuild herself in the middle of nowhere and she discovers a love for farming rhubarb.

John only shows up once before for Alicia's help, but the town chases away that nasty ex-husband of hers before she sees him, with his yuppie-accent and dirty clothes. They don't want him around her.

Alicia grows content with her life. She keeps all her occult books locked in the attic, out of sight and out of mind, and while she might regret not having been able to raise her daughter, she loves her niece and nephew and spoils them when they come to visit.

All's right in the world.

Until one day, Jazz and Danny come to her door in the middle of the night, desperate and injured.

Not too long after that, her yuppie ex-husband come around, asking her to look over some nonsense summoning circle. What's Constantine trying to summon anyway, the demon of astrology!?