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bakughosts · 3 years ago

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ask me to bleed (for you i will)

geto x reader(ish)

wc: 3.1k

a/n: wrote this bc i couldn’t get it out of my HEAD lmao i have... so many Thoughts about Things. spoilers for jjk manga (gojo’s past arc)! a lil bloody a lil unhealthy. this is tbh more of a character study than anything but.... i love him your honor. tw mention (singular, in passing) of domestic violence, canon typical violence.

Life hinges on balance. A feather weighed against a beating heart on the scales of judgement. In order for there to be a perfect world, there has to be a vessel in which the imperfect is stored.

The vessel never sees absolution. It must be destroyed in order for everything it houses to be destroyed as well. It was decided for Suguru long ago that he would be this vessel.

He couldn’t name the moment that this was decided. Perhaps it was as early as his birth, when he was gifted the innate talent to absorb and manipulate cursed spirits. Perhaps it was later, when he pushed himself to his limits to redefine his own understanding of strength beside the man he’d always considered the feather to counterbalance his beating heart.

Or perhaps it was the moment that the bullet met Amanai Riko’s temple, passing through her skull and robbing her of the light in her eyes, on the tail end of his promise to take her home.

The exact moment doesn’t matter. It was decided that Suguru would be this vessel, and he is okay with this, because he knows that his are the only ideals that are unflawed.

He knows that he is right.

He’s tracking a cursed spirit to potentially add to his collection when he meets you. The curse is still manifesting, in the closest thing to a fetal state that a non-human entity can be. It resides in the proofing oven of the oldest bakery on Sanbangai Street, sandwiched between a clothing boutique and a used records shop.

Each day, it grows stronger.

He doesn’t care to know what, exactly, is feeding this manifestation of greed and guilt and grief. He only cares to make it his own. Another useful tool, another knife for his sharpened collection, all glittering like incisors in the back of his mind, teeth gently scraping cerebral membrane.

He likes to sit at one of the bistro tables within the bakery, paying two hundred yen for a small almond croissant that provides him no level of sustenance compared to the waves of energy put out by the growing curse.

There were always people that told him his energy was twisted, made different by his proximity to cursed spirits. Perhaps they were right. Suguru is aware that he is a monster. He is under no impression that he deserves salvation. He is the vessel—these things come with the territory.

It’s one of the many things that Suguru could choose to meditate on, though he stopped meditating the day he left Jujutsu Tech. There are too many voices inside his head, so many of them his own. Some of them not. Old friends, useless memories. So many voices full of doubt, another thing that Suguru left behind along with his former life.

He focuses on you because you are the one that does the baking. Each morning you lower dough into the proofing oven, let it breathe in the growing malice of the people in the bakery, the building, the entire city block, and take it out when it has risen so the sins can bake into bread.

The croissants never taste like hate. This is something Suguru allows himself to notice before his focus returns to the task at hand.

You will most likely be the one that the curse kills first when it reaches maturity. You are a non-sorcerer. You are oblivious to the danger lurking in your own proofing oven. Suguru cares little for you, though tries to be polite when he orders so as to not draw unnecessary attention towards himself.

He is unsuccessful. This becomes obvious when you, without fanfare, add something new to his daily plated croissant. The first words you speak to him outside of the commonplace give-and-take of cashier and customer are: “Do you not like chocolate? I have a few vanilla wafers I can give you instead.”

This is in response to him asking what the scalloped-edge chocolate biscuit is doing on his plate, dusted pretty with powdered sugar, the same as his croissant. The sweetest thing he allows himself these days.

He tells you that the biscuit is fine. He eats it at the table once he has finished his croissant. He listens to the murmurs of the curse, growing in its womb-like oven, becoming more and more sentient with each passing second. Suguru no longer meditates, but he allows himself to sit quietly enough to hear the employees speaking in the back, to tune everything out of his brain except for the voices past the swinging metal door of the kitchen.

I think it was sweet, one of the non-sorcerers says. They begin to sound the same to him. Complaining and begging and sobbing. It’s all noise.

It was embarrassing, you say. Your voice rings in his ears. Not unpleasantly. He ate it just to be polite.

Suguru no longer mediates, but he sits with this information for longer than he perhaps should, lets it click against his teeth like hard candy. One of the voices in his head that he no longer listens to teases him, says, You always were a heartbreaker, Suguru. He ignores it.

You have taken notice of him, and this will not change anything. He is here for a curse, and you will be the first to die.

It is difficult for Suguru to put a finger on when you started reminding him of Amanai. There’s something in the half-moon curve of your smile when you take his order, letting him tell you what he wants though you already know what he’s going to say. Something in the care with which you line up assorted treats in the pastry case, the action meticulous but seemingly effortless.

Or perhaps it is simply the death sentence you wear like a badge, so obvious to Suguru, though you do not feel its burden.

He once thought that a death sentence was an easy thing to change. That he could make a difference. Now that he knows the weight of a life taken, he has realized the futility in trying to save someone that has already been condemned.

You persist, however, with your foolish actions. Offering him a cup of coffee to go with his croissant, of herbal tea after he has told you he’s not a fan of caffeine. Putting little biscuits on his plate each day—sugary cocoa batons and heart-shaped butter cookies and brightly-colored miniature macarons.

There is a creature borne of the filth of humanity brewing in the proofing oven in the kitchen behind you and you’re trying to provide quality customer service.

Suguru has long been disgusted by non-sorcerers, but this is just another thing that makes his days drag long—that make waiting for this curse difficult. Every day he’s forced to interact with you is another time he has to look upon a human resigned to their lot. No ambition. Happy to work their fingers to the bone for nothing but scraps.

Suguru knows that he does not deserve salvation, but he also knows that he has at least lived his life with more purpose than the non-sorcerers he interacts with every day.

You disgust him with your simplicity, with the human way in which you’ve come to believe you deserve nothing better than the minimum, with the quietly pleased look you get on your face when he thanks you for the food. It’s disgusting, he tells himself, despite the fact that some mornings he wakes with the curve of your smile still etched into his subconscious.

It is not until your efforts to manipulate him into some kind of symbiotic relationship cease that Suguru realizes what about you, exactly, reminds him of Amanai.

The day that things change, you are one of two people at the bakery. This is unusual—though the front isn’t often well-staffed, he can usually feel the muted energy of three or four non-sorcerers running around in the back, doing mundane tasks that will fulfill them until they die.

You greet him with a smile, but it is more tired than usual. There is no half-moon quality to it, no quiet radiance.

Suguru cares little for you—for this bakery, for anything but the curse he is here to acquire—but old instincts force him to ask what is wrong. Too polite, too gentle, too kind. You’re a bleeding heart, Suguru. These are things people used to say of him before he slaughtered a village of humans that didn’t have the capacity to learn how to be grateful. Before he learned what a heart really looks like when it bleeds.

“We had a bunch of people quit with no notice,” you tell him. The skin under your eyes is lighter than usual. Make-up, he realizes, and he wonders briefly how dark the circles are that you have hidden. How badly you slept last night because of stress that you have never seemed to succumb to before.

The power of the curse grows daily, its influence reaching tendrils further and further, drilling into the hearts and minds of anyone it can reach. Perhaps you have finally succumbed to it.

“The owner, um. He…” you begin to say, but a sharp look from the older woman behind the pastry case quiets you. You apologize to him though you have done nothing. Wordlessly, you tap his order into your register and plate his croissant, never fully looking at him though you have had no problem meeting his eyes before.

Suguru knows that his convictions are true. He knows that he is right. That although he bears the weight of his own sins, he is only doing what is best for the world.

However—it is, perhaps, something of a shame that he is right. It was that light in your eyes that reminded him of Amanai. That ineffable quality to find joy in the mundane, to wish for nothing more than to live your life how you want to live it.

It’s a freedom that not many have. That Suguru has never had. It was decided for him long ago that he would be the vessel. That he would never see absolution.

And Suguru is okay with this. He has always been okay with this.

Despite everything, it saddens him that your freedom and joy must be sapped out of you before your inevitable death. Amanai died with the idea in her head that her saviors were going to take her back to her home. That she would live freely, the way she wanted to, because Suguru foolishly believed that he was strong and that his counterbalance made him stronger.

But he is not a god. He is not anything more than what he has always been. He is simply the beating heart on the scale of judgement, collecting sins like arteries.

You will die just as every other non-sorcerer dies: alone and afraid. And Suguru will let it happen, because he knows he is right.

When Suguru walks into the bakery and sees blood soaking the tile floors, he believes it is time to collect his curse. He calls his allies to him, twisted figures that fight beside him in shadow, and allows the stores of his cursed energy to flow through his limbs, alighting each bone, each knuckle and joint, with a thrum of power that quiets his too-loud mind.

It is when he walks into the kitchen, stepping over the corpse of the harsh-looking woman that had silenced you the other day, that he realizes he has been too hasty in his judgement.

The curse still grows in the proofing oven, its skin stretched taut over too-long bone, its sharpened teeth gnawing at its own arms. It laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and there is no blood on its hands.

The watery breath that Suguru hears from the body crumpled at his feet is not that of someone with a wound delivered by a curse—but, rather, a human.

Though Suguru kneels for no man, he kneels for you. You’re still breathing, though your throat is cut rather badly, blood no doubt making its way into your esophagus, slowly drowning you in your own life force.

More gentle than he has been in a long, long time, he brushes your hair back from your face. Runs his knuckles down the curve of your cheek. You’re a bleeding heart, Suguru. Pleading eyes meet his. You cannot speak, but he can hear you asking him for help. Begging, just like every other non-sorcerer on their death bed.

It’s strange—Suguru always knew you would be the first to die, but this feels wrong. It feels like your life has been cut off too early. Someone else, greedy, has taken the kill from that which had already claimed it.

Suguru doesn’t even notice the man standing at the other end of the kitchen until he starts yelling. It’s unintelligible, not worth wasting the energy to try to understand. Your skin is warm. He wouldn’t expect this from someone who has lost this much blood.

“Was it him?” he asks you.

He means many things by this. Was it him that caused you to lose that spark of joy you always seemed to carry so effortlessly? Was it him that stopped you from sneaking whatever extra biscuits onto his plate that you could get your hands on?

Was it him that hurt you?

You nod.

There are many ways to create a monster, and Suguru has seen plenty of them. He is the product of plenty of them. So he will continue to do what is expected of him—all of him: the monster, the god, the sorcerer, the man.

And Suguru no longer meditates, but if he did, and if he gave himself time to listen to one of those voices that have again and again expressed their doubts, he might consider that perhaps, this whole time, he has been wrong. Perhaps the blood on his hands has stained more than skin. Perhaps—though he does not deserve salvation—there is a chance that it could somehow be allowed.

This, he realizes, is a foolish train of thought. Suguru has been a monster for far too long to pray for forgiveness. How do you stop a monster from repenting?

You give it reasons to be monstrous.

In an instant, the man that hurt you becomes nothing but blood and tissue caked into the far wall of the kitchen. It’s an unpleasant sight, but not as unpleasant as the one before him—you, haloed in blood, your shaky fingers entwined with his, skin glowing in the halogen aura of the overhead lights.

He thinks, if things were different, he might have spoken to you. He might have asked your name, your hobbies, your aspirations. Why you feel the need to cling to life this dearly, despite its mundanity. He might have known you—such a delicate notion. Bird-bone fragile and tucked into the breast pocket of his coat like a good luck charm.

So many things he might have done. So many things he must do.

Days from now, Suguru will learn that the man he splattered across the white-tile wall was the owner of the bakery. That he had beaten his wife to the brink of death just days before, causing most of his workers to quit, excluding the two employees that didn’t have a security net to fall back on. That he made bail, came to the bakery to hide, and had lost his temper when you protested.

At this moment, all Suguru knows is that you’re rapidly losing both blood and consciousness.

You are a non-sorcerer. You are amongst those he has condemned to death because of the pain you bring to the world. The negative emotions that are so strong, so potent, that they can create beings that take pleasure in maiming and killing the sorcerers that put their lives on the line to protect those that will never understand the lengths of such sacrifice.

But it’s difficult for Suguru to find the negative edge to the half-moon smile you gave him as you tucked a few extra Belgian waffle cookies underneath the flaky edge of his favorite pastry. You’ve never brought pain to him with your offerings, with your warm skin and kind heart—and he is the monster. He is the one that is supposed to thrive in pain. He is supposed to be the vessel for it.

But he wonders: can any vessel truly be without limits?

Suguru learned the weight of a life taken at a very early age. He has seen countless die, many at his hands, many at the hands of others. It’s a silence that sits in the eddies between bones, in the filaments of each muscle, pulling a body taught enough to crumble inwards.

The weight of a life saved is much more profound.

Everything in him seems to be pulled outwards, things that were once forgotten drawn to the forefront. Suguru no longer meditates—but he takes the time to sit under a blooming gingko tree in the Shinjuku Gyo-en Park, just upwind of the river. He takes the time to breathe in the scent of spring, the breeze of new life replacing old rot. He takes the time to ponder the value of your life versus another.

You’re a bleeding heart, Suguru. Perhaps he is.

Not every life is precious. Not every soul is kind. Suguru knows—though he has come to realize that the things he knows are not always set in stone—that his path cannot be diverted. He is just the same as the current that propels the river in front of him, as the way the chrysanthemum blooms sway in the wind. Nature has its course and Suguru has his.

You, however, were worth staunching the flow of fate. He watches, silent, unmoving, his legs crossed beneath him, as you walk across the bridge further down the river, laughing prettily at whatever the non-sorcerer you’re with has just told you.

Suguru thinks that out of everything he has ever done, preserving your half-moon smile was the most important.

He knows that he can never touch you again. The tides of your life are inextricably tied to all he stands against. But he can at least make sure that no matter what happens from here on out, you will still be able to smile.

All vessels have limits. All monsters have souls.

Suguru is under no impression that he deserves salvation—but when he sees you taking joy in the simple act of being alive, throwing your head back in a laugh and exposing the bone-white scar that runs across your throat, he thinks he might have found it.

#geto suguru #fics

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iwrestlenow · 3 years ago

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Many More To Die, Chapter 12

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 12)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: While the assassin makes another attempt on Roman's life, the necromancers find help from an unexpected source--and an all too brief reunion between Logan and Roman has some disturbing results.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: None really, not this time.

Told you this one would come faster. XD It's bigger than most, because the next one is gonna be a whopper--and also, the next installment will be the last! But fear not: I'm already planning a sequel.

...and tbh, I can't stop writing these adorable jerks so you'll get lots more stories outta me. :P

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1022, A.A.

“Pass the glue?”

Logan blinked, slowly looking up from his jacket to gradually focus on Roman's face. Watching him rise from something that had swallowed his whole attention was hopelessly adorable—a thing he could never tell Logan to his face, but could never hide the smile that crept across his face when he watched Logan surface like a pearl diver.

He saw the moment Logan's face shifted, the moment he finally returned to reality. Scanning the craft supplies scattered on the riverbank around them, he located the glue pot and passed it to Roman with a curious frown.

“What are you gluing?” he asked.

Roman held up the white mask he'd selected to go with his costume for the final night of the Festival that Logan had invited him to.

“Feathers! I want to be one of those things you showed me in the graveyard—the creatures etched on the one tombstone?”

“Angels.” Logan reminded him. “You know their wings go on their back, not their face.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “I know that, Starlight. I can't exactly get a pair of wings for my costume on such short notice, though, so I...Logan?”

Roman set his mask down, scooting closer to the other boy with a cold lick of concern in his belly. Logan was staring at him with an intensity that made him want to squirm, and his face had gone completely ashen.

“What's wrong?” Roman asked, reaching for his hand. “Logan, are you all right?”

Logan blinked, drawing a trembling breath before briskly shaking his head as if to clear it.

“I—yes, I am fine. I just...” He trailed off, and that look was on Roman again.

“Why did you call me Starlight?”

Roman couldn't stop himself from frowning, confused. Gesturing to the jacket in Logan's lap, he shrugged.

“The beads you're sewing onto it—it looks like the night sky. It's—it's just a nickname, like Specs. I won't use it anymore if it bothers you.”

“No,” Logan insisted, “it is perfectly acceptable, it's just...it surprised me, that's all. Starlight is actually the name I use for the Festival. As I told you, we forsake our identities at the celebration, so we all use different names. Mine is—is Starlight.”

Roman watched Logan blink, and would have accused Logan of lying except that Logan never lied. He took things too literally, he was just...not the kind of person who did it. Not with Roman, at least. So if he said he was fine...

So why did he look like his whole world had been shaken?

“...Muse.” Roman spoke before he could think about it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Muse.” he repeated, feeling confident about the decision. “That'll be my name for the evening. Muse.”

Logan just stared at him for a long moment before huffing, shaking his head as he scooted across the grass until he was leaning against Roman's side, shoulder pressed to Roman's arm.

“You're not required to do it. You're not part of the tribe.” Logan pointed out.

“It's your tribe, though—and I don't want to be disrespectful.” Roman insisted, reaching for the bag of feathers Logan had brought for their costume work. “Besides, I...I like it. I understand it. It's all to make the dead feel less alone, isn't it? I want to help.”

Roman focused very hard on picking the feathers he wanted to glue to his mask...and tried not to pay attention to the way Logan's head tipped to rest against his shoulder and just stayed that way for a very long time.

**********

1033, A.A.

“So that's how you did it—this is a problem.”

Roman blinked, shaking his head. He hadn't lost consciousness, he was certain of it.

...well, relatively certain.

Glancing around, Roman realized he was in his father's bedchamber, held fast by a palace guard on either side. He tried to tug free, but they held him fast, staring straight ahead with glassy, unfocused eyes and blank expressions.

“Don't bother—I've been rotating soldiers through dungeon detail for years. Nearly all of them are mine now.”

Roman's chest seized with cold, cloying horror and disbelief. He could feel warmth in the hands that held him, see their chests rising and falling with breath...

He turned to the man standing before him—salt and pepper hair and overly tanned features, with piercing blue eyes Roman was starting to realize he should have known on sight.

Colonel Mori—if only he'd remembered before this moment...

“The same curse you used on my father, I take it?” he asked, proud of how level his voice came out, clear and firm.

“Something like that.” Mori replied, idly tossing a familiar ring into the air, catching it, and repeating the action with casual thoughtlessness. “It's always been a specialty of mine—generational curses. You only have to curse a single man, and an entire bloodline or brotherhood will fall...would, at least,

if not for you and that idiot progeny of mine.”

Roman wasn't aware that he'd lunged until he had one guard's arm around his throat to hold him back. He'd actually slipped free, and found it hard to breathe until he consciously stopped trying to wrestle free of his captors.

“Logan is not an idiot.” he snarled. “He's stronger than all of us—he's the best man I have ever known.”

And just like that, he was aware of all the memories that infernal talisman had been holding back—the stolen moments, the beauty of learning new things about Logan's people...the purity of that young love that had been stolen from him.

He thought of Logan now, that lean and handsome face hardened by ten years of imprisonment...and how it opened up to him the night before, how Logan tucked against him in his sleep and clung to every touch like it would be taken away from him, just as he had when they first met...

Mori's hands were suddenly on him, gripping his chin and yanking his hair until Roman was staring directly into his eyes.

“Logan Crofter is a good man—and that is his downfall.” Mori spat as his eyes began to glow with an unholy orange light. “Good men have too many rules and too many weaknesses.”

Roman tried to shake his head, but couldn't fend off the impossible grip of the necromancer before him, the light of his gaze causing a slow, dull throb through his skull.

“Decent men have rules to keep them decent. Evil men like you have rules so they can revel in breaking them.” Roman replied flatly. “Good men don't need rules. They simply choose and act.”

The pain in his head grew, forcing Roman to close his eyes—but the light was still there, behind his lids and in his brain, turning the dull throb into a burn.

“So I'm looking forward, Colonel, to watching you face a good man with no rules—and nothing to lose.”

Mori's laughter was grating in his ears as Roman slowly began to lose the ability to think coherently.

“He has one thing, Your Highness...he has you. And I'm going to make sure he comes to find you so I can get what I want: the soul of another Lazari.”

There was some shuffling, a voice—and Roman's blood ran cold as he hung helpless in the grip of a guard and lost his hold on reality.

“Remy Somnum! Bring me Lord Janus. It's high time I added his life to my collection.”

“Yes, Master.”

********** 1023, A.A.

“You're certain this is where it is?”

Roman nodded as he finally opened the padlock on the door of the long abandoned storeroom, deeep in the bowels of the palace dungeons. “The locator spell Remus gave me works. He knows more about magic than half the court mages, even if he can't use it.”

“Picking locks as well.” Logan observed with a raised eyebrow.

Glancing over his shoulder at Logan, Roman just grinned at his expression.

“Remus didn't teach me that.” he declared, pushing the door open and ushering Logan in ahead of him. “If I'm going to be king one day, I shan't rely on anyone else to rescue me—what if I have to break free of some prison or shackles?”

Logan stepped into the room ahead of him, but immediately stopped and turned to face him, looking at Roman with blue eyes that glittered with something Roman couldn't name, something that made it hard to breathe.

It happened so fast he almost couldn't process it—Logan's hands in his tunic, the sudden feel of warmth crowding his front...

The soft, firm, smacking press of a kiss to his mouth that made his heart, and the rest of the world, stop.

For long moments, they just stared at each other, Logan seemingly reeling as much as Logan was.

“I...I am—I'm—apologies.” Logan stammered, trying to busy himself with straightening his tie instead of holding onto Roman's tunic. “I did not mean...that is to say—I just—your intellectual moments, they just—you're so—and I--”

Roman snatched up Logan's hand, pressing his lips to the back of it. He could feel Logan trembling, and Roman felt his heart tremble in sync with it.

“Me, too, Starlight.”

For a second they just stood there, Logan's hand in his, and Roman's heart...

He had never, not once in his short fourteen years of life, ever felt so tranquil or so powerful, and definitely not both at the same time.

Roman forced himself to be the strong one, releasing Logan's hand so he could shut the door and finally take proper stock of the room.

There was barely any light through the bars on the small window in the door, but Logan moved forward with purpose, locating a torch and lighting it with some spell Roman didn't recognize—one that ignited a dazzling blue-white flame that was far clearer and brighter than the golden flicker of normal torchlight.

The layer of dust covering everything in the room was so thick Roman could feel the urge to cough bubbling in his throat just from breathing the air. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and could have made it easy to mistake the space for a library save for the fact that there were very few books on any of those shelves.

“It's like some kind of storeroom.” Logan observed. “That, or...perhaps a trophy room?”

“I told you,” Roman reminded him, “this palace is full of hidden nooks and crevices—places to hide, or to hide something you don't want anyone else to find. I hardly ever notice this door, but the locator spell sure did.”

“So...who does this belong to?” Logan wondered aloud, venturing over to one of the shelving units that had a few books scattered throughout. “And if these are trophies, what are they trophies of?”

Roman wondered the same thing, so intensely it took him a moment to realize Logan was no longer by his side. Shaking himself, Roman crossed the room carefully, painfully aware of the layer of dust his feet were disturbing as he came to stand beside Logan in front of the shelf. His eyes scanned over the objects and books displayed there until...

“Here!” he suddenly blurted, reaching up to pluck a book off the shelf. “This binding matches the Tomes in the palace library.”

Passing the small, leatherbound volume to Logan, he watched as Logan ran his fingers over the cover with a strangely thoughtful look, head cocked just slightly before he opened the volume.

“Is that it?” he asked hopefully. “The geneaology?”

Logan stared at the first page, shaking his head. “No...I mean, it is one of the Tomes, the one you likely said would have the magical bloodlines of the royal family, but—Roman, this was hidden for a reason. It's one of the Forbidden Tomes.”

“What?! Weren't those lost before the fall of the Animator?”

“Affirmative...this one, however, is quite new. Old still, mind you, but maybe two hundred years old at the most.” Logan looked up at Roman, eyes wide.

“I think this volume is a reconstruction.”

That rattled around in Roman's head, untethered and incomprehensible. “Who would be old enough to be able to rewrite one of the Forbidden Tomes? And how do you know how old this book is?”

Logan just stared at it...then flipped a couple of pages before going weirdly still.

“I can...it's an incorrect description, but I can hear it. The Tomes are written in mystical dialects, languages laden with power. My power.”

He lifted his head, meeting Roman's gaze head on with an intensity that stole Roman's breath.

“The mystical dialect this book was composed in is Mairome—the language of necromancy.”

Roman couldn't get his voice to work for a long moment as Logan turned back to the Tome and began reading, eyes flicking back and forth at a speed that was vaguely dizzying, trying to consume every nuance of the page, drinking it all in.

“What...what does it say?” he finally managed to ask aloud.

Logan didn't answer for a long moment. He shut the book gently, his gaze cast downwards.

“It says,” Logan finally answered, “that King Thomas Roman I is the name of the Animator.”

“...that can't be true. That...that means...”

“It means that the king did not slay the Animator—it means your ancestor assassinated the king. It means the Necromata have a legitimate claim to the throne.”

Roman ran his hands over his face, dizzy with the onslaught of information. “Who knew this that they had to take this book from the palace library and hide it here?”

“I think I know that, too.” Logan croaked, handing the book to Roman. “Start here—you should be able to read it.”

Roman accepted the book and peered at the page. Most of the text was a blurry mess of gently glowing lines and strange symbols, but some of the words were written in clear, plain English in various parts of the page.

When he was done, he passed the book back to Logan, reeling.

“Mori...I know that name.” Roman realized. “What are these?”

“They are the True Names of the monarchy.” Logan replied. “I know the name as well—it is the name of the man who tried to kill me when we first met.”

“...you never told me that.”

“I did not know his place among the palace guard—if he was someone close to you, I feared for your safety if he knew you were aware of his crimes.”

“Corporal Mori...he's a member of the dungeon guard.” Roman murmured. “My brother and I used to sneak into the dungeons to play at adventuring when we were little—he was a new private back then, and cruel to both of us. But...Logan?”

“Yes?”

“The name in there, below Thomas Roman I. Is that the Animator's son?”

Logan swallowed thickly. “It is.”

“But...but his True Name is Crofter...that's your last name.”

“Affirmative. At least...it was. Just as Mori's name was once Thomas Roman Sanders.”

Roman couldn't speak around the sudden tightness in his throat. Instead, Logan spoke for him.

“The Animator...he's not your ancestor, Roman—he's mine.”

Then the door of the storage room opened, slamming against the pile of detritus behind it.

Roman froze. Logan, however, snatched the book and rose.

“I'll lead him away—get back to your rooms at once, and look after Virgil.”

“Logan--”

He was cut off by another abrupt kiss, this one on the cheek.

“We'll get out of this, one way or another. I swear it on the Spider's Thread.”

Then Logan was gone, diving between the legs of the figure in the doorway to lead him away from Roman's location.

********** 1033, A.A.

“Paddock.”

Patton looked up from where he was crouched beside Logan's prone, writhing body. Logan's eyes had rolled back into his head and he was muttering incoherently while he twitched and twisted with an agony Patton could only guess at.

The voice that had spoken aloud belonged to a prison mage he recognized. The man was tall, dark, and tanned. He was handsome, mostly—he always wore dark glasses that hid his eyes, so it was difficult to be sure.

“What're you doing here, Somnum?” Remus asked sharply. He was awfully fast, next to Virgil one minute and the next standing beside Janus in front of Logan's prone form so Patton could only see Master Somnum through the space between their shoulders.

“Remy—the name's Remy, you fuckin' killjoys.” the mage sighed. “Will you just move already? Patton can vouch for me.”

“I can?” He asked uncertainly. Patton's nostrils flared on reflex, trying to scent the air—and immediately felt his magic rise, all animal instinct and threat.

The smell of death, old and ripe, was on the air. Not the smell of corpses or long settled dust, but death, fresh damp grave dirt and sticky in his lungs like worms crawling.

But...

Patton turned to Virgil, crouched beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder. Virgil just looked at him, then at Remus and Remy, and nodded before focusing on his brother again.

Patton stood and came to stand next to Remus. He could feel more than hear the subsonic hiss building in the back of Janus's throat nearby, and found his gaze to reassure him before he faced the prison mage.

“He knows my True Name.” Patton admitted. “Janus can confirm it...but how?”

Remy didn't answer right away. He just stared at Patton, making him feel squirmy stomach and trembly. Breathing felt...not hard, but strange, and he wasn't sure if he liked it--

Reaching up, Remy removed his dark glasses.

“'Cause mine's Graymalkin.” he replied softly.

“What does that mean?” Virgil snapped testily. “Quoting Macbeth at each other won't--”

Patton didn't hear the rest. As far as he knew, Black Dogs and Heralds couldn't fly, but he couldn't feel the floor under his feet anymore...

...oh. Oh, he couldn't feel any of his legs anymore. The world was spinning, too—kind of like playing Statue Maker as a boy, grabbing his friends' hands and spinning, spinning, spinning before he had to stop and strike a pose--

“Patton.”

Patton blinked, and suddenly drew a deep, shuddering breath into his lungs before he started coughing. He—oh, he hadn't been breathing. That wasn't remotely good, willikers!

As he tried to get his breathing normalized, Patton found he was on the floor, being cradled in Janus's arms. His forehead was tucked against the scaled side of his neck, a lovely contrast of cool scales over warm skin and so much softer than anyone would think scales could be. As Patton calmed, he drifted, and gently rubbed his forehead against those scales, sighing at the soothing texture of their satiny surface brushing his skin, the edges gently catching in ways that sent pleasant little buzzes of sensation from his forehead to skitter over his scalp.

Finally, he lifted his head—and found Remy kneeling in front of them, staring at Patton.

His eyes were pure onyx, from sclera to pupil—solid black orbs in his head, barely glinting in the light of the room. They were the eyes of a hijacked body, a resurrection gone wrong. The owner of the body was gone, and another soul had taken its place.

A soul Patton was fairly certain he knew.

“Patton?” Janus's voice, a question.

Slowly, Patton nodded.

Remy sagged visibly in relief. “You remember...Paddy, I'm a Reaper. I can help Logan. Will you let me?”

Feeling more like himself, Patton nodded again. Without thinking, he twisted and tipped his head up to kiss Janus's cheek before he got shakily to his feet.

“Virgil, Remy's gonna help.” he announced, still watching Remy with a secret fear that this would be a dream and that he'd vanish.

“Fuck you. I don't--”

“He's my brother. Please, Virge.”

There was silence for several moments, but then Remy was moving off some indication from Virgil, and Patton twisted to watch Remy drop to his knees at Logan's side. He touched his forehead, taking his hand and watching him closely.

“Motherfucker knows the only real way to kill a Lazari, and he's using the king to do it.” Remy muttered. “Let's see...nerd's Claim is holding, that's good, but his mind won't hold up under the Baccanal...lemme see, gurl...”

Remy shut his eyes, bowing his head. As he did, Patton suddenly felt a gust of warm air touching the back of his neck, making him flinch and whip his head around.

“Easy, Sin-ammon Roll.”

Prince Remus was there, his hand a buzzing gnat in Patton's awareness as it sat on his shoulder. He was watching Patton with a look he couldn't read—his features were like Janus's, well schooled into calm lines, but his eyes were clouded with some very turbulent emotion.

“Is the prison mage really your brother?”

Patton opened his mouth to answer, but no sound was coming out. The words were all there, but they were sort of...clogging in his throat, too many coming too fast, all fighting to escape at the same time. Fortunately, Janus's arms were suddenly there again, wrapped around his waist, cradling Patton back against his chest, warm warm warm and comforting in their familiarity.

“Patton was four years old when his brother died.” Janus stepped in. “Remington Morell was not quite fourteen—essentially executed in the street. Patton told me when they were children...their mother loved the Scottish play. Quoted it all the time--'I come, Graymalkin' when Remy called for her, 'Paddock calls' when Patton would cry.”

“...but the kid died.”

“Yes, but...it's the black eyes. They indicate the presence of a Raptor.”

“Like the dinosaur?” Remus asked.

“Like a body thief—a soul that hijacks a coprse during a botched resurrection.” Janus sighed, rolling his eyes as Patton twisted his head to look up at him.

“Ohhhh, I mean—wow.”

“Lucky for me, children age in Shadow.” Remy's voice piped up. Refocusing on Logan, Patton realized his best friend wasn't writhing and muttering anymore, just...laying there, asleep. Seemingly, anyway.

“What'd you do?” he asked, gently removing himself from the circle of Janus's arms to move towards Remy as he stood.

“Guided Logan to the Loom of Memory.” he replied. “It'll protect him for a while, and let him communicate with Roman if I'm right about how those two are bound—Mori's got the king under the Baccanal.”

“Cursing him with madness?” Patton breathed, his stomach churning with horror as he covered his mouth with both hands. “That's forbidden, Remoo.”

“Yeah, well, the Animator ain't known for playing by the rules, gurl.” Remy replied with a shrug. “So burning away a man's mind, one layer at a time until he's a drooling vegetable? Totally on the table.”

Patton felt something loosen in his chest as he grinned up at the other man. “You really are Remy, aren't you?”

Remy opened his mouth, brow furrowed with confusion—then understanding filled his features and he grinned, laughing. “Ah, geez—Remoo. You started calling me that when you were two 'cause you couldn't say Remington.”

“It's the only thing I remember really well.” Patton admitted, rushing forward to fling his arms around Remy with a choked laugh that quickly melted to tears.

“Mom and Pop kept your Vigil every Festival—but I never stopped.” he giggled wetly. “Every day—I had an altar in my room...”

“I know.” Remy soothed, holding onto Patton tight and reaching up to tousle his curls in a manner that Patton didn't recognize, but still felt weirdly familiar. “I heard you. Why do you think I snuck back when I realized you were in trouble?”

Patton pressed his face into Remy's shoulder. The smell of the mage's trade clung to him, acid and alcohol and herbs, but under that was something that set of primal echoes in Patton's head of family home safe loved, loamy earth and fresh rain.

Remy held on tight, just for a few seconds, but when he pulled back Patton felt steadier than he had in a very long time.

“We need to get the Lazari outta here.” Remy instructed. “It's a long story, but I was sent here to drag Lord Scaly off for execution. Plans changed, now I'm takin' you all somewhere safe.”

“Where's that?” Virgil asked, flinching when Remus swooped in to gather Logan up into his arms before Virgil could.

“Long story, tell you when we get there. Everyone move.”

********** When Logan opened his eyes, he was home.

It was a very familiar part of his home, however—none other than his childhood bed, wrapped in a familiar pair of arms.

Lifting his head, he had to fight not to lose his composure when he saw Roman's face. His head was nestled into Logan's pillow, features slack with repose...

Then tense, a low noise of distress rumbling in his chest, vibrating against Logan and shooting straight to his marrow.

Reaching out, Logan dug his fingers in beneath Roman's ribs. Fortunately it worked: immediately, Roman woke up with a squeal that was wholly undignified, and melted immediately into giggling he promptly cut off.

“Roman, it's okay...shhhh, you are safe. It's Logan, I'm here.”

Roman stared at him with a blank, unfocused look that scared Logan—actual fear he could not deny any longer, cold and cloying and sticking to the inside of his chest. Those green eyes were glassy and unseeing...they did not know him.

Very deliberately, Logan reached for Roman's hand, meshing their fingers together. He held them up in Roman's eyeline.

“Hold on...do not let go.”

That struck a chord, bringing some focus back to Roman's eyes. After a moment that stretched into eternity, Logan felt Roman's fingers tighten around his. Roman stared at their joined hands, mouth working soundlessly...

“I...never have.” Roman finally replied. “I never will.”

Logan's throat closed up, his eyes burning.

“Swear it on the Spider's Thread?” He hated how small his voice sounded, how desperate.

Recognition finally sparked in Roman's eyes.

“...Starlight.”

Logan lost control then, flinging himself into Roman's arms. Roman let himself be bowled over onto his back, let Logan stretch out atop his body, press his face into the curve of Roman's neck, and just held on tight as Logan wept for the first time in ten years. Deep, heaving, wretched sobs that Roman soothed him through, a hand running over his back, Roman's deep and beautiful voice murmuring soothing nonsense directly into his ear.

Time passed. The slow, steady rhythm of Roman's fingers gradually smoothed the jagged edges until he could reach out and touch them without getting cut open again.

“Did you know?” Logan finally asked, lifting his head to meet Roman's gaze.

Roman stared back up at him, uncomprehending as his fingers drifted up to caress Logan's cheek. Logan found himself unable to resist leaning into the tender touch.

“Did I know what?”

“That day by the river—before the Festival. Did you know that you changed my True Name.”

“...not until we found the Tome. I...suspected something happened, but wasn't sure until we read about your grandfather.”

“What about later? When you came to me in my cell and gave me my new Name?”

“I...I'm not sure. I know I wasn't supposed to remember what you were to me, but...”

But he had. Reaching up to catch the hand Roman still had pressed to his cheek, Logan felt like he understood. Not really, but...but that was the point.

Roman never should have remembered enough to care about Logan, yet he'd come to find him, and helped him in his moment of need.

“I think,” Logan began hesitantly, “that it is as Grandpap often says. The stuff of Shadow—the things we are not allowed to know.”

Roman frowned pensively. His brow furrowed with it, and Logan let himself surrender to the temptation of bowing his head and kissing that line away.

“Miracles.” Roman murmured. “Shadow brought to the light.”

Logan made a sound of affirmation, nose brushing along Roman's hairline.

“Or an outsider brought to the Loom of Memory.”

Roman shifted under him, seeking out Logan's gaze with wide, curious green eyes.

“Is that where we are?” he asked, awestruck.

Logan nodded, running his fingers through Roman's hair.

“It is...and time moves differently here.” he explained, mouth hovering over Roman's.

Time Logan was going to take...because if Logan was Lazari, that meant he had power. If he was descended from the Animator, the First and most powerful, he had more power still. If he was bound, soul to soul, to the ruler of all the Kingdoms, Logan had power beyond magic.

He had all the power, maybe more, of his ancestor. Power enough to corrupt.

So he allowed it to corrupt him. He let himself be ruthlessly selfish.

He was not going to allow Roman to be taken from him again.

Never again.

********** He expected to feel a warm, strong pair of arms around him when he rose from a deep and restful slumber...but instead, his groggy mind was rattled by voices.

“So you've just been...what? Fooling him into thinking you were zombified? That's hot, don't get me wrong, but I don't see how he'd buy it.”

“Gurl, greedy men are dumber than a bag of hair—ain't that right, Emi?”

“Eh—yes, sweetheart. Basically, anyway. It takes a great deal of focus and power to control as many dead as Mori currently is.”

“That's why our people don't normally do it—raising a corpse is way different from resurrecting someone to life. Grandpap told Logan off for even suggesting the raising of more than two corpses at the same time. It's doable, but I think five is the limit before you risk madness under the weight of all those deaths.”

“So these are really zombies? Not people he resurrected? Gosh, that's just...scary.”

“Easy, baby brother—none of 'em are coming the fuck near you. That's why I got a heart-healer on my side...they don't tell people that they study necromancy on the side, y'know.”

“Remy, please. We don't...er...well, we don't study all of necromancy. Just necromatic theory—its relation to the mind. The function of the Cleansing, body theft, the psychological toll of magic...that's sort of how Remy and I met. I'm a bit of a bookworm...”

“Shhhh, he's waking up!”

Finally opening his eyes, he moved to sit up, reaching, fumbling until strong fingers caught his.

“It's okay, Loganberry—you're fine.”

“Logan—where is he?”

That was the moment he froze, his question coming out...strange. Deep, but not deep enough, well enunciated but too stiff.

“Logan?”

That was his voice...but it wasn't his voice saying Logan's name.

“...something's wrong.”

He looked around in confusion. Something was wrong with his eyes, the world fuzzy and haloed in blurs of color. He could recognize Remus only from the color of his tunic and the sound of his voice.

“Remus? What's happening?”

“Hold on—Virgil, his glasses.”

He didn't wear glasses, what the--

Then a pair was being set on his face, and the world suddenly came into painful focus. He was laying on a low couch in one of the palace offices. Remy and the heart-healer, Emile Picani, stood off to one side. Virgil and Remus knelt by his side now, with Janus and Patton wrapped around each other by the window.

Trembling, he lifted his hands in front of his face.

Pale. Slim. Long, lean fingers that had run through his hair so greedily, touched him so tenderly, blunt nails scoring skin in the depths of his mind...

“...Roman?”

Lowering Logan's hands—now his hands—Roman looked into his twin brother's eyes, into the face that he shared with him.

Or had at the start of the day.

“Please tell me that my brother did not just swap bodies with the fucking king?” Virgil squeaked, looking visibly ill as he swallowed thickly.

Roman, wearing Logan's skin, nodded slowly.

“I think he did,” Roman replied, “and in doing so...he just gave Mori exactly what he wanted.”

#necromancer au #sanders sides #fanfic #fic #logan sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #ts creativity #ts dark creativity #ts morality #ts deceit #ts anxiety #ts logic #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #this is all the artist's fault i'm just the hapless writer that stumbled across it

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aceoftrashies · 3 years ago

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Ohh boy, finally finished the list- and, fair warning, it’s a mess ahsvHSV (feeling super delirious from classes rn, so my apologies,,)

Also! The typical, pretty blatant ‼️ spoiler warning ‼️ for anybody who hasn’t finished Julian, Lucio, and Asra’s routs,,

Possible scenes w/Julian

-VI, A Gift and a Curse; The “hidden garden” paid scene. Could probably, slightly, cross into Laying Low as well?

-VIII, Master Of Disguise; the typical “hold back or you’ll give away your identity” kind of thing??

-IX, Lost and Found- I mean the player literally sneezes there, so I don’t think it’d be too far-fetched,, idk

-XI, Pursuit of Knowledge; mainly in the memory paid scene- the one showing Julian when he first contracted the plague? Maybe??

-Legit any scenes during the Masquerade, because,, yknow,,, the feathered masquerade outfit,,

-XVI, Head Over Heels; the spell paid option,, maybe the MC went a little overboard with the “cool things down” option- you can probably use your imagination from there 👀

-XVIII, Dream Within a Dream; the “snowball fight paid option- that one’s pretty easy to imagine tbh, especially with the “make a sparkling snowball” option where,, y’know,,, it literally explodes into a cloud glitter upon impact shsHSVS

-XXI, Towards Tomorrow; the final paid scene in the upright ending, when the MC throws a dustcloth at his face ahsvHSVHSV

-XXI, After The End; any time after Julian’s reversed ending, where he and the MC travel out to find their friends again,, because,,, idk, there’s a whole new magic-stricken world out there, and I just really like the way they left it open ended/hinted at the possibility that things could get better & continue from there and fUCK, MAN,, I could write an essay on how much I love both endings, don’t even get me started,,, /pos

Possible scenes w/Lucio

-VI, Beyond the Veil; when Lucio’s appearance is returned to normal, it describes the transformation as a sort of whirlwind, sweeping up all the ash around him- you probably get where I’m going with this ahsvHSVSHV,,

-VII to VIII, The White Forest, to Old Ghosts; I know this bastard grew up in the South and is canonically pretty immune to the cold, but shh let me obsess in peace

-X, Rescue and Reckoning; that scene where the MC saves him from the snow after he’s been trapped there for an unspecified amount of time? Yep, absolutely clinging to that concept and running with it ahsvHSV

-XII, Vicious Cycles; the second paid option. Mainly when he gets stuck in a bush ahsvHHSVS

-XIII, A Very Long Shadow; just about any time after he gets his body, namely with the baking paid option?

-XIV, Night To Remember; mainly the scene where you have to hide him from Vulgoria ahsbJSB,,, I,, am a sucker for scenes like that ngl,,, Same thing goes for a similar scene in XV, Out of the Frying Pan,,

-XIX, Weight of the World (GOD I LOVE THAT CHAPTER NAME AAA,, man,,,) during the “what future do you want?” paid scene,, or just anywhere in the second half of the chapter, since they’re in a massive flower field,,

-XXI, The Road Goes On (AAA THAT TITLE AS WELL,,, god most of Lucio’s chapter titles just resonate with me, as cheesy as they are); during the second to last paid option in his upright ending. (Mainly based on that headcannon/technically cannon that Lucio absolutely cannot handle spice ahsvHSV,,)

Possible scenes w/Asra

-VI, The Other Side; the paid option where the apprentice can explore the oasis with Asra?

-VIII, The Low Road; if you’ve played through this one, then it,, probably speaks for itself,,,

-VIII, Away from it All; the baking scene !! Because I,, have zero self-control,,,

-IX, Shelter from the Storm; this one is also pretty self-explanatory,,

-XIV, Visions and Illusions; I know this is supposed to be focused on Asra but damn it Julian you prick- Y’know that scene where Julian is riding up on one of the masquerade floats, and the MC has the choice to prank him? If you’ve seen that scene I’m sure you know where I’m going with this ahsvHSVS,,

-XV, Faustian Bargain; the “light the incense” paid option 👀

-XXI, The Great Divide; the aforementioned moth scene in the reversed end, but extended, ig? I dunno man, I’m out of ideas,,

The endings themselves leave room for some general sf-scenes too, but that requires a little extra brainstorming, and quite frankly, I’ve gone so far with this hyperfixation that I’ve burnt myself out ahsvJSV,, /lh

-♠️

That's a pretty cool list! I haven't done all of those, so I don't know everything you're talking about, but I'll look into them to find out!

And the 'Stay In Bed' option you showed me, except that one is legit,,

#♠️ anon

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amwritingmeta · 5 years ago

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21 Supernatural Questions

I was tagged by @deletingpoint - thanks for the kind words, girl!! Made my day! You rock the block! And yes don’t mind if I do join in, this looks fun. :P

1. When did you start watching Supernatural?

I’d seen stray episodes before - I’ve absolutely no clue which ones - but then I binged S1-6 in 2013 while being ill with the flu and I was hooked before it came up, because I loved S1-3 and the brother dynamic and thought it was a really awesomely well-written piece of television, but when they introduced the will-they-won’t-they-make-this-uber-masculine-guy-be-into-guys-and-specifically-the-guy-with-wings I was pretty much gone for. So I caught up on the show and watched it until a few episodes into S9 (don’t judge me, I was surface watching and couldn’t get with the program at the time because why wasn’t Dean gay already??) and then I quit watching for a few years because I couldn’t stand the grey area and the uncertainty. I also wasn’t invested enough to stand it, tbh, and felt, naw, I’ll get back to this if it ever seems like they’re actually gonna do anything with this thing they’re hinting so strongly at. Picked it back up while S12 was airing and here we now are.

2. Who is your favorite in TFW?

But the other two might get jealous!

(okay, it’s Cas)

3. Who is your least favorite in TFW?

They’re the holy trinity and none of their character progression works without all of them taking up their allotted space in the narrative and how can you not love them all what is wrong with this question why am I hyperventilating why aren’t they beloved equally gaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh

(but Cas is my favourite)

4. Tag your top 5 Supernatural blogs!

I sincerely can’t, but I can tag a few people whom I very much appreciate and whose answers to this questionnaire I would be intrigued to see: @godshipsit @charlie-minion @mad-as-a-box-of-frogs @waywardliliana @natmoose @purgatory-jar @myed89 @inacatastrophicmind @rustling-pages @angelneedshunter @nerdylittleshit @obsessionisaperfume @assbuttboyfriends @misskittyspuffy @starsinursa @postmodernmulticoloredcloak @casismybestfriend @mittensmorgul @elizabethrobertajones - you’re all like bursts of colour and glitter glue and I’m happy you’re around! :) (btw I always find it awkward to tag specific peeps because there are so many of you lovelies that I would honestly tag so just know that this most likely includes you) (yeah that’s right) (YOU) <3

5. Who is your favorite character (not including TFW)?

Jack

6. Who is your favorite woman in Supernatural?

Rowena

7. John or Mary?

Mary

8. What were your first opinions of Sam, Dean, Cas, and Jack?

Sam: my first impression of him was very coloured by my impression of Jared as Dean on Gilmore Girls, so to hear someone call Jared Sam and then this Sam call someone else Dean was a bit jarring while watching the pilot. My earliest opinion of Sam was that he was kind, good with people, skilled, independent and, yes, haunted by past choices.

Dean: Immediate impression was oh, he’s one of those guys, and then almost straight away that first impression was blown to bits and everyone knows that he’s very, very easy to fall in love with quickly, so my love for him grew strong within a few episodes, for sure. First opinion formed holds until this day: someone who’s lost and who’s searching for a way home. In every sense of that sentence.

Cas: Holy shitballs, who’s this now?? was pretty much my first reaction to Cas’ entrance. It blew me away. It was an absolute game changer. It made me sit up. It made my brain go... are they... are they going to make Dean Winchester... is Dean Winchester into men?? And because on my first watch I’d not seen the little hints of this that now are so damn glaringly obvious, the chemistry between Dean and Cas literally made a lot of shit click into place for me regarding what I was potentially actually watching, and raised my emotional investment sky high considering the possible social commentary baked into the overall message of family and identity, and yeah, that still holds true to this day.

Jack: I was ready to fight tooth and nail for him after 12x19. That episode is still one of the best 42 or so minutes of television I’ve ever seen. The plant of Jack as a needed push for Cas’ progression hit me in the heart, and once it clicked that Jack represented the holy trinity of Heaven, Hell, Humanity, and how he might narratively prove a knitting point for TFW, something for them all to rally around, well, I was pretty much done for.

9. What’s your favorite season?

This is a really hard question because watching a season from start to finish means taking all of it in, and all of them - when start-to-finished - I feel are rather outstanding, but twist my arm and I’ll say: S1 or S4 or S5 or S8 or S9 or S11 or S13 (I can’t narrow it down to just one season alright?) and S14 and looking at what we have so far with this unfinished season I’d name S15, definitively.

10. What’s your least favorite season?

Oh, man. Make a girl sweat. So, here’s the thing, I genuinely see each season as adding something valuable to the whole, you know? I suppose S6 drags a bit, but I really like the tone and the noir sensibility of it, so I wouldn’t really call it my least favourite, but if I were to choose one season to binge over a weekend, S6 wouldn’t necessarily be first pick.

11. Opinions on Destiel?

Ah, yes, the obligatory essay question. Please see attachment. *points to blog*

12. Do you believe Supernatural queerbaits?

Look, to my mind, the reason Dean and Cas aren’t together yet is character related. They need to get their fucking ducks in a row. (and then those ducks will hopefully be fucking all over the place) (okay that’s graphic bird sex but you know what I mean) (not literally Dean and Cas dressed up as ducks and fucking) (but like... good stuff for the eyes will be happening that isn’t necessarily fucking feather related) (wait) (oh ffs brain!!) (you HAD to go there didn’t you??) (moving on) (or rather answering the question) --> I don’t believe they queerbait, no.

13. Seasons 1-7 or 8-14?

8-15x03

14. Favorite villain (plot wise)?

*chills are multiplying*

I love Chuck as the Big Bad, sincerely, but oh mannnn Michael.

15. Do you think they should end the Lucifer plot line?

Yeah, this questionnaire has been in drafts for a while now so um... I mean, the Lucifer plot line as it pertains to SAM should reach a satisfactory conclusion, but as it pertains to Lucifer’s play for Jack and breaking God’s toys etc. yeah, no, done.

16. Who do you think has gone through more trauma (Sam, Dean, or Cas)?

That’s too relative to their highly linked, and yet wholly individual relationship with their past and lingering sense of trauma. I think @deletingpoints reply was something along the lines of: Can you measure trauma? And I agree. They’ve all been deeply traumatised at different stages of their life and they’ve all dealt with their individual trauma in different ways.

17. What’s your favorite Supernatural episode?

I’m sorry, what? I thought you just asked me to pick one favourite episode out of 3678916236363487236783 times infinity. This is mathematically impossible and since I’m sadly not fluent in math and have absolutely no access to any type of calculator or abacus or, I don’t know, a neighbour who happens to make amazing fucking latte and dresses in knits and is attractive in a non-conventional way and also happens to be a math genius, I must reject the question outright and plead the 105th. (i.e. I cannot possibly)

18. Do you like case episodes?

Where’s that gif of Dean going Dude Yes?

^^^

19. Who do you relate most to in TFW?

Darling Cas. Socially awkward and lost but growing into his own skin Castiel. My God, I love him so dearly. There are not words for how much I relate to him, or for what he’s done for my personal self-reflection, or how much I’m now re-relating to his need to push himself out of his comfort zone and dare. I owe him. *hugs into oblivion*

20. Why do you like Supernatural?

Ohhhhh, goody, one of those multi-choice questions. Is it:

a) because of the absolutely stunning character journeys

b) because of the absolutely smashing world and all its mythology

c) because of the underlying social commentary and the intricate use of subtext to effectively, though subtly, bring ideas linked to the conscious/unconscious sides to us into not only the use of already mentioned mythology, influencing the world building, but also wholly guiding, impacting and giving momentum to the already mentioned stunning character journeys

d) all of the above

e) all of the above, and a little bit more that would take an actual book to relay

E. It’s E. All the way the answer is E.

21. If you could bring back one character and kill off another who would they be?

I’d bring back Eileen and holy moly Shoshanna is coming our way. And I don’t have a character to kill off tbh. Let them live, I say. :)

I genuinely tag EVERYONE. Go on, everyone, you know you wanna! :) xx

#tag me if you decide to #tag along #:D

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hotshithaxxorbitch · 5 years ago

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Dirk&Roxy==> Get Engaged

Dirk

Just because you're the new Champion doesn't mean you stop camping with your Pokemon, so it was no surprise Roxy was in the room with the Switch, and that's exactly what Dirk was planning. So it was right on queue when he kicked down the wall from the other side, revealing the secret passage he had been constructing and finished with this dramatic entrance. Clapping dust out of his hands and shaking debris out of his hair, he nodded to them. "Rox, come check this out. I made a passage to the top of the mountain."

Roxy

Roxy was stooped over the switch, eagerly shaking a little feather wand in the face of her sylveon, Peppa. Her trance was interrupted when suddenly a nearby wall literally burst open in front of her. Startled, she let out a shriek, the switch falling into the couch cushions as she moved. Standing in the hole the wall left was Dirk, dusting himself off and asking her to follow him through a mysterious tunnel. Just a day in the life, tbh. "Is this what you've been doin' for the past month? But sure, let's go, give me a minute to throw on clothes, I'm sure it's cold in there." Roxy waved an arm around before ducking into her room. She knew Dirk, and he'd been particularly weird lately, and he was definitely up to something. She was also pretty sure it was about to pay off, whatever the fuck it was, so she wanted to pull herself together. Once she was dressed and presentable and like, wearing shoes, she returned to the common room. "Aye aye, cap'n, let's go."

Dirk

He held out his hand, letting them take hold before he led her up the large tunnel. It was very roughly hewn, an obvious rush job, but very clearly structurally sound and safe. He wasn't nervous, not really. He had planned it out very carefully and had already processed his emotions about the whole thing some time ago. He was confident. "You ever go to the top of the mountain? It'd be even easier for you than me, since you could just phase through and I have to go outside or use one of the other tunnels I made. I go up there sometimes." Well, a lot more real recently, but it was true, sometimes he climbed to the top just to breathe for a bit. It was why he knew around now would be a good time. The lighting was perfect.

Roxy

She followed along beside him, letting him slip his hand into hers as she started up the tunnel. "A few times, yeah, but not in awhile. I don't think I've been up since we really got settled in here."

Dirk

"I like it. It's weird, even though my planet of Sburb was just tall ass buildings, I liked it. Something about being up high calms me down." It was eerie, how easy this stuff rolled out of him. He normally had trouble pushing aside his metaphorical shades. Maybe Roxy has been more of an influence on him than he realized. "You know, this whole mountain thing started out as a massive joke, and also a way to ensure a large and secure base of operations, I keep finding myself decorating it like a home too. You seen the carpet I added to the southern hallways? Shit makes you forget there's nothing but pure hard stones it's so soft."

Roxy

"Well, you did spend your formative years in a big ol' skyscraper above the floods, so I 'spose that makes sense." Roxy smiles up at Dirk, leaning over and popping her hip into his. "Of course it's a home, dummy, we live here. We may be freaky clone babies, and you may like to pretend to be a lifeform that's evolved beyond the need for basic emotions, but we're still regular old pack bond happy humans." She laughed quietly, nodding. "Yeah, that shit is plush."

Dirk

His lips tilted upwards slightly, in what some scientists could possibly argue was technically a smile as he yanked them up a little faster, picking up the pace. "You remember that question you asked a while ago, and I told you we would talk about it later? You know, about marriage and whatever?"

Roxy

Roxy sped up slightly as Dirk tugged on her arm. He was smiling, or at least what passed for smiling for Dirk. "Ah yes, my very eloquently composed response followed by you sayin' "We'll talk later bye" and digitally running out of the room?" She smirked at him playfully, quirking an eyebrow. "Yes, I remember."

Dirk

They finally reached the top, coming out through an admittedly small door. The sun was setting at just the right angle, and the clouds were the right shape to reflect the golds and reds and pinks of the slightly darkening sky. There was a large statue of two people, very obviously Dirk and Roxy but a good nine feet tall. The Dirk figure was looking out at the sky, his face set in Dirk's default (and arguably only) facial expression: stone faced stoicism, which worked quite well in stone. The Roxy figure had a hand on his shoulder and was looking back and down at them, their other hand reaching down as if to invite whoever was looking to join them. Some real sappy and legendary shit, honestly. There was a small box in the palm of the stone Roxy's hand. "My answer's in that." said Dirk, gesturing to said box.

Roxy

Dirk pulled them both up out of the tunnel and up to the mountain's peak, any questions Roxy had about what he'd been up to lately. He'd been carving the top of the mountain into a statue. Of them. Well, that was certainly very Dirk, wasn't it? Sitting in the statue's palm was a small box, which Dirk was gesturing to as he spoke. Logic very clearly dictated what was in that box based on context. Roxy came to a halt, her hands drifting up to hover over her mouth. She was frozen in place, her eyes struck wide. "Dirk..." she stammered quietly "Is this...? Are you...?"

Dirk

Dirk shrugged, gesturing to the box again, his hand on the small of her back. "What, like it would change anything between us? I fully plan on spending the rest of my eternal life with you in it. And if that means doing things like making a big fucking fuss about how we'll always be on our own side, then this party's going to be weird as shit." He pushed her forward, gently. "Just take the box."

Roxy

Roxy stepped forward, glancing back at Dirk, equal parts nervous and curious as she tried to glean literally anything off of his face. Carefully, she picked the box out of the giant stone version of her hand and pulled the lid open.

Dirk

The ring glinted in the burning sunset, the intricate patterns all across the outside resembling electrical circuitry. The gem glowed softly, a deep pink with some sort of light in its center that flickered like a living thing. Handmade every step of the way by the man himself. Dirk had taken off his shades. He took a deep breath, his arms held out to the side lightly as he stood behind her. "Let's get human married, you weirdo."

Roxy

A sound escaped from Roxy, somewhere between a manic giggle and a sob, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She nodded, not quite trusting herself to formulate english, or any other languages, in that exact moment. Her eyes flicked from the ring, pink and glowing softly from within, up to Dirk, who had pushed his shades up into his hair to let her see his eyes. Roxy nodded again, her head bobbling rapidly as she did. She held the open ring box towards Dirk. "Put it on for me?" she asked quietly, smiling with watery eyes.

Dirk

He rolled his eyes, but they were smiling more than his lips as he took the ring out of the box, batted said box aside and gently took her hand. He slid it on, like how he'd slipped it on hundreds of times to the exact replica he had made. He'd made sure it would fit perfectly.

Roxy

Roxy grasped Dirk's hands as he made to pull back after slipping the ring on her finger, pulling him back closer to her. She took a moment to look down at their clasped hands, and the pink stone glittering on her ring finger. With her other free hand, she reached up and cupped the side of Dirk's face and grinned at him. "Yeah, let's get human married."

Dirk

There was a rumble in his throat that was in the philosophical range of a laugh or chuckle. He bent forward ever so slightly and pressed his lips to hers.

Roxy

Roxy leaned up, returning Dirk's kiss and burrowing him into him before looking up at him, beaming. "Hey. I love you. Weirdo."

NEW MESSAGES

Dirk

"I know. Me too." He didn't even break the hug, he just lifted her up and started the descent down the mountain again. "It's getting cold, and I have rubble to clean out of the game room."

#plot #closed #we did it kids

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lemonsandstrawberries · 4 years ago

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feedback for The Pitted Olive from Yuki

The Pitted Olive 💕

Hello there!!

I came back again from death to read the final chapter of The Pitted Olive! God I’d love to ask anyone who read this post to go back and read this fic serie again and then come back to clap endlessly to you for writing it!

Since Tumblr is a mean b1tch, somehow it managed to hide the notification from me and hid the chapter 9, so this will be about Chapter 9 too!

Like OMG Tony is visiting Sarah for the first time after Steve told her about them (and who Tony was for him)... yes I was part nervous and part not, part nervous because I know how intense the drama could get into your fics, and I love it very much! Don’t you dare to take it away XD I like a good cry reading your fics, you know it.... But! I was not worried since she seemed to love Tony from the beginning (who wouldn’t love him.... honestly).

I enjoyed the chapter so much, specially the part where they were talking about the photo album, Steve’s childhood and how he met Bucky, there were so many emotions that went from happiness to concern to awe in no time. It was def my fave part of the chapter, this whole serie had this magic on it and I really love it.

So, now for chapter 10, I have to say that it was an expected but unexpected end (?) I mean it was a great way to end the serie and I was expecting it since the chapter 9 ended, but I wasn’t before reading that particular chapter ending XD sounds confusing, I know, but to be honest I couldn’t imagine from chapter 1 how this serie would end, certainly not this, yet it was a perfect way of finishing it 💕 I really loved it!

Speaking of unexpected things, there was a bunch of them!!

First Madam Wrath idea was perfect, somehow I imagine him like MamaRu.... not want to offend anyone but he would look great in drag too 👀! Like with a big blonde wig with curls... or black one, maybe all in black and glitter, diamonds, feathers and all mysterious aura around her.

New drag! Miss Parfait joining the club (not the olive but you know, the drag Queen club) making it better, I love the change in Sam’s mind, from not wanting to know he was the owner of a bakery and a gay man to this, I’m so proud of him tbh.

Of course Bianca del Rio featuring here was probably my favorite part of it 💕 you know how much I love the girl, so it was an instant fave there!! I imagine Sarah being surprised when she found out that she was her drag mother and not her real mother, yet she’d be good with it, I suppose Bianca would be a caring mother in her way (just like she is) and Sarah would know it too.

God I need to mention it too! I love Tony’s ring tone 👀💕 very much probably, it’s even perfect! I somehow imagine Tony would have loved to go out doing drag with Freddie too, the idea sounds great! Unfortunately Tony was so young on this universe for that.

Anyway, sorry about the delay reading your fic and sending you feedback probably late too, but know that I love it so much 💕 so sad it had to end but just like Meow Cafe is one of my fave series! I enjoyed it very much, so thank you for writing it. Also ah! Congrats to them (?) I always get all emotional by reading Steve and Tony engaging.

— Yuki

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

bahahaha! I sometimes like to add a dramatic twist, but with this series I wanted it to be more uplifting!

Well, yeah, I kinda heavily hinted on the ending in chapter 9 *wink wink*. The Pitted Olive never had a specific draft, I wrote it more as I went, adding new stuff, I didn't know either how it would end until last two chapters!

I am gonna leave the image of Madam Wrath to your imagination! Because Fury as a drag queen was also unplanned.

Sam's story... I didn't know how to handle his storyline either at some point. He bonded with Bucky, so it did seem a good idea to get him in drag for some closure.

I was kinda nervous to feature Bianca, but since I chose her as Tony's drag mother, it was a must! I just hope she never finds this fic and won't sue me for using her image, haha. I kinda imagine Bianca being with Tony how she was with Adore, Bianca mocked her, teased her, but was helpful and supportive when it was needed!

Not gonna lie, the Queen song was mentioned for you ;D

Thank you for your feedback! Meow Cafe, The Pitted Olive and Double Trouble all my favs too, I consider them a holy trinity of my fics ❤️

#ask #the pitted olive #YOU SEE PEOPLE #THAT'S HOW YOU FEEDBACK #submission

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bastionkeeper · 7 years ago

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Ficlet idea for ya: Kravitz and maybe Ango teach Taako to love winter again [TBH he hasn't loved winter since age 11, it's always associated with Bad Times for Taako]

Another fine idea for you: Fluffy Taakitz where Taako catches some vicious 'flu and starts off being a whiny li'l bitch, but Krav is just so CONCERNED that Taako tries to play it down but it's too late, he genuinely feels like hell by then...

I’mma combine the two BOOM

“Yeah, this is unnecessary, I’m gonna go back inside,” Taako said, jerking a thumb back towards the house and shivering. He was wearing a sweater, a coat, a cloak over the coat an enormous scarf, a hat, mittens, and a pair of earmuffs shaped specifically for elven ears. Still his teeth were chattering.

“Awww, please don’t go in yet sir! We’re making a snowman!” Angus said, beaming up at Taako with glittering eyes.

“Look, it’s a snow-Leon,” Kravitz chuckled, drawing a frowny face on the snowman.

“...okay that is pretty funny, but Taako is freezing his cute little ass off out here so...” Taako turned and was about to head back inside when a snowball collided with the back of his head.

Taako whipped around, his ears twitching and his eyes folding into a furious glare. Kravitz and Angus immediately pointed at each other.

“Okay, you’ve done it now,” Taako smirked, pulling a spare wand from his pocket and casting cone of cold on the pair.

“Sorry, sir, but Kravitz and I are expert snowball fighters!” Angus pulled out his own wand and cast a dispell, giving Kravitz time to launch another snowball at his husband.

The next several hours were spent in all out war: Kravitz and Angus against Taako. It might have seemed like an unfair match, but Angus and Kravitz mainly stuck to snowballs while Taako was casting spells left and right. At one point Garyl showed up and kicked a snowbank over onto the pair. Kravitz and Angus popped out of the pile like fresh flowers and laughed so hard tears came to their eyes.

“Give up?” Taako smirked from his perch on a nearby tree branch.

“Alright, we surrender!” Kravitz put his hands in the air. “Please oh merciful wizard, all we ask for peace is your famous hot chocolate and cookies!”

“Hmmm...well I suppose you losers do need something to cheer up after I totally destroyed you,” Taako said.

“You cheated!” Kravitz laughed.

“There’s no rules in war, bone baby.” Taako jumped down from his branch and lifted Kravitz’s chin with his wand. Then he helped Angus out of the snow pile. As the three walked home Taako was surprised to find he was smiling.

Winter had been nothing but a risk of freezing to death for as long as him and Lup had lived on the road. Then it had become an uncomfortable reminder of freezing fingers and aching bones, it wasn’t like Taako had gotten any better at regulating his temperature. Still, hanging out with his man and his boy in the snow had been fun.

So fun that he didn’t realize he was shivering harder, and sneezing.

The next morning Taako woke up at three in the afternoon, groaning and moping around the house with a blanket wrapped around his body.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Kravitz teased, kissing where he assumed Taako’s forehead was under the blanket.

“Mmph.” Taako grunted, laying down on the couch.

“Are you alright?” Kravitz asked.

“I’m dying,” Taako croaked hoarsely. “You and the twerp killed me. I’m dying.”

“Did you catch a cold?” Kravitz asked. He reached a hand into the blanket and felt Taako’s forehead. It was warm, but not too concerning yet. “I’ll get you some tea, you’ll feel right as rain in no time.”

“No I won’t, I’ll be dead. You’ll have to take me to the astral plane.”

Kravitz decided to fix Taako a very late breakfast to go with his tea, and by the time he was finished with that it appeared the elf had fallen back to sleep. Kravitz chuckled softly and sat down on the couch in front of the elf. He brushed some hair out of Taako’s eyes and as he did his hand brushed against his forehead.

Kravitz swore, Taako was burning up. He may not have much experience with mortals, but he knew a fever that high was bad.

He wished Angus hadn’t been at school, he could have asked him what to do.

“Taako,”Kraivtz hissed, shaking the elf lightly hoping to wake him up. Taako just flailed loosely and groaned quietly. “Oh my god Taako are you really going to die?” Kravitz shook the elf harder.

“Krav...quit it...” Taako murmured, still not opening his eyes. Then he shivered and drew the blanket closer around himself.

Kravitz felt his stomach swirl in fear and he went into full over-protective husband mode. Seeing Taako shiver, he pulled the elf onto his chest and manifested his reaper wings. He folded Taako into his feathers and tried to keep him as warm as possible. Whenever Taako coughed weakly or murmured in his sleep Kravitz almost whimpered with panic.

By the time Angus got home to inform Kravitz that Taako, while most likely miserable and very sick, was not in danger of dying, Kravitz had fluffed out his wings like a mama bird and had made his arms sore from clutching at his husband.

“He just needs some rest, Magnus says that Taako gets like this when he’s sick. He probably has a very low immune system,” Angus explained.

When Taako finally woke up from a fever induced nap, Kravitz kissed his forehead a dozen times and swore: “I will never make you stay out in the cold again.”

“You big baby,” Taako smirked, kissing Kravitz back.

#blatantbalderdash #taakitz #taz #the adventure zone #internutter

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thunderboltswarrior-withins-blog · 8 years ago

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fashion/appearance stats

tagged (twice) by: @revxli

tagging: N/A

BODY.

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs.Skinny arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame.Voluptuous frame. Petite frame. Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails.Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Average waist. Thick waist.Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers.Short fingers. Average fingers. Broad shoulder. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT (click here to convert to feet ).

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m.

SKIN.

Pale. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Soft. Freckled.

EYES.

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Squinty. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR.

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight.Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length.Buzz cut. Bald. Jaw length. Mohawk. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Blondette. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Auburn. Greying. Red. Dyed any “unnatural color”. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows.

TATTOOS / PIERCINGS.

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angelbites. Labret.Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). Dermals.

COSMETICS.

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer.Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Never wears make-up. (adding in Blue lips tbh)

SCENT.

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather.Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whisky. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Acetone.

CLOTHES.

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt.Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting dress. Cardigans. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports tshirt. Sweatpants. Cargos. Tanktop. Fur. Faux fur. Faux leather. Designer. High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skit. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harlem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sportsbra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Chemise. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Black. Dark colors. Armor.

SHOES.

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes. Neon colors. Pastels. Black. Dark colors. Armor/Leather Boots.

famous first lines of poetry bold the ones that apply to your muse. ITALICISE the ones that inherently/may apply.

i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked // tyger tyger, burning bright // i have done it again. // do not go gentle into that good night.// the sea is calm to-night. // let us go then, you and i, // april is the cruelest month, // pretty women wonder where my secret lies. // there is a place where the sidewalk ends // i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

two roads diverged in a yellow wood, // whose woods these are i think i know // let us twain walk aside from the rest; // once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, // i taught myself to live simply and wisely // it so happens i am sick of being a man // i wandered lonely as a cloud // does it dry up like a raisin in the sun ? // o my love is like a red, red rose // o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; // out of the night that covers me, // it was many and many a year ago, // you may write me down in history// do not stand at my grave and weep // some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.// hope is the thing with feathers // the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, // no man is an island,

remember me when i am gone away, // i met a traveller from an antique land // ‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves // this is thy hour o soul, // when we wear the mask that grins and lies, // death be not proud, // and death shall have no dominion. // laugh, and the world laughs with you; // the art of losing isn’t hard to master; // to see a world in a grain of sand // is there anybody there? said the traveller // nobody heard him, the dead man, // that crazed girl improving her music. // come to me in the silence of the night; // where the mind is without fear and the head is held high // when you are old and grey and full of sleep, // in flanders’ fields the poppies blow // i thought of you and how you love this beauty // life, believe, is not a dream // it may be misery not to sing at all, // if starry space no limit knows

come live with me and be my love, // had we but world enough and time, // my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense // bright star, would i were steadfast as thou art– // thou still unravish’d bride of quietness // how do i love thee? let me count the ways. // heaven is what i cannot reach ! // my dear, my dear, i know // in visions of the dark night // shall i compare thee to a summers day? // break, break, break // she walks in beauty, // i had a dream, which was not all a dream. // he clasps the crag with crooked hands.

#mun got tagged #headcanons #muses infos #Urbosa & Karru #long post

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