#mausoleums: a house that houses a tomb

[widowshill]

cinema sins ding but positive connotation. cinema virtues.

[certifiedlurker]

Frank and Bill's story in Last of Us reminds me of Flora's (Bly Manor) parting statement at the end of the show.

"It's a love story".

I mean I have never played the game but I think Last of Us follows the same premise. It began with Joel's love for her daughter and then her death made him retreat into his shell.

Tess-oh lovely Tess, she was always there, standing by Joel in her love and finally when she decided that maybe Ellie was worth it, worth running out of good luck- maybe it was out of love that is so intrinsically humane. "Love" for us, for people who have now been forced to just survive and not live.

And now in the third episode, I witnessed one of the most beautiful love stories in media. Like you know that someone out there loved these characters dearly. And in their love- they took what they had to from the game, and then painted them in hues of their love. Frank and Bill lived. And Frank and Bill died. And they had been in love.

And Bill might not have liked Joel- but he still wrote a letter with the thought that out there in that miserable colony Joel needs every help he can get to protect Tess. So that they can live and one day they may grow old too.

It is unfortunate that it would never come to pass. Tess isn't there anymore but Ellie is. Ellie fucking is.

[attila-werther]

d'artagnan, athos gets black out drunk on the regular and all aramis can tell you is that it has something to do with a woman, this is not a man who mentions anything

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

100 Vocabulary Words for Gothic Fiction | For Writers

Hello Writers! I've put together a list of 100 words to help you expand your vocabulary for writing gothic fiction in October. I categorized the words for easy reference. I did some research using thesauruses and dictionaries to compile this list for you. I hope you find it helpful! 👻🎃

Atmospheric Words

Tenebrous - dark and gloomy

Oppressive - overwhelming and unpleasantly powerful

Ominous - suggesting evil or harm is imminent

Eerie - strange and frightening

Uncanny - mysterious and unsettling

Nefarious - wicked or criminal

Malevolent - having evil intentions

Sinister - giving the impression of evil

Melancholy - deep sadness

Lugubrious - mournful or dismal

Sombre - dark and gloomy

Dreary - dull and depressing

Desolate - empty and lonely

Bleak - cold and depressing

Dank - unpleasantly damp and cold

Character Descriptions

Pallid - abnormally pale

Gaunt - thin and bony

Haggard - looking exhausted and unwell

Cadaverous - corpse-like

Wan - pale and sickly

Spectral - ghost-like

Enigmatic - mysterious and difficult to understand

Brooding - appearing darkly thoughtful

Tortured - suffering mentally or physically

Macabre - disturbing due to focus on death or injury

Architectural Features

Gothic - relating to medieval style architecture

Dilapidated - in a state of disrepair

Decrepit - worn out or ruined due to age

Crumbling - breaking into small fragments

Decaying - rotting or decomposing

Ramshackle - in a state of severe disrepair

Crypt - underground room or vault

Turret - small tower on a building

Parapet - low protective wall along the edge of a roof

Buttress - structure built against a wall for support

Supernatural Elements

Apparition - ghost or spirit

Phantasm - figment of the imagination

Specter - ghost or phantom

Wraith - ghost or spirit

Revenant - person who returns as a spirit after death

Ethereal - extremely delicate and light

Otherworldly - belonging to an imaginary or spiritual world

Paranormal - beyond normal explanation

Preternatural - beyond what is normal in nature

Occult - supernatural or magical

Emotions and States of Mind

Dread - great fear or apprehension

Foreboding - fearful apprehension

Trepidation - fear or anxiety about something that may happen

Anguish - severe mental or physical pain

Despair - complete loss of hope

Melancholia - deep and long-lasting sadness

Hysteria - exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion

Delirium - state of confusion and hallucination

Madness - state of severe mental illness

Obsession - persistent disturbing preoccupation with an idea or feeling

Gothic Settings

Moor - area of open, uncultivated upland

Wasteland - barren or desolate area

Labyrinth - complex maze-like structure

Catacomb - underground cemetery

Dungeon - dark underground prison

Mausoleum - building housing a tomb or tombs

Sepulcher - small room or monument where a dead person is laid

Necropolis - large cemetery, especially an ancient one

Citadel - fortress that commands a city

Monastery - building occupied by a community of monks

Weather and Natural Phenomena

Tempest - violent windy storm

Miasma - unpleasant or unhealthy smell or vapor

Fog - thick cloud of tiny water droplets

Mist - cloud of tiny water droplets in the air near ground level

Gloom - partial or total darkness

Twilight - soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon

Umbra - the fully shaded inner region of a shadow

Penumbra - the partially shaded outer region of a shadow

Crepuscular - resembling twilight; dim

Tenebrous - dark, shadowy, or obscure

Literary Devices and Narrative Elements

Foreshadowing - warning or indication of a future event

Omen - event regarded as a portent of good or evil

Portent - sign or warning that a momentous or calamitous event is likely to happen

Harbinger - person or thing that announces or signals the approach of another

Presage - sign or warning that something will happen

Doppelganger - look-alike or double of a living person

Grotesque - comically or repulsively ugly or distorted

Gothic double - character representing the duality of human nature

Unreliable narrator - narrator whose credibility is compromised

Frame narrative - story within a story

Liminal Spaces and Concepts

Threshold - strip of wood or stone forming the bottom of a doorway

Liminal - occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold

Betwixt - in between

Interstitial - of, forming, or occupying interstices (small spaces between things)

Twilight zone - undefined or intermediate area between two distinct states

Purgatory - place or state of temporary suffering or expiation

Netherworld - imaginary subterranean world of the dead

Abyss - deep or seemingly bottomless chasm

Void - completely empty space

Chthonic - concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld

Miscellaneous Gothic Terms

Sublime - of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire awe

Ineffable - too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words

Eldritch - weird and sinister or ghostly

Atavistic - relating to or characterized by reversion to something ancient or ancestral

Numinous - having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating the presence of a divinity

Happy writing, and Happy October! 📜🕯️- Rin T.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile. 

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket. 

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority. 

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers. 

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.” 

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement. 

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx. 

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences. 

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.” 

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books. 

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.” 

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately. 

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind. 

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head. 

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle. 

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into. 

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own. 

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first. 

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room. 

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves. 

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize. 

“Good work as always, Tomb.” 

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms. 

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day. 

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well. 

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?” 

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt. 

“Kate?” 

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?” 

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him. 

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?” 

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin. 

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain. 

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put. 

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair. 

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching. 

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm. 

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse. 

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern. 

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around. 

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces. 

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.” 

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.” 

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat. 

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you. 

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain. 

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet. 

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.” 

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?” 

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained. 

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of. 

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.” 

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye. 

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious. 

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light. 

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed. 

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply. 

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all. 

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.” 

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job. 

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?” 

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces. 

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?” 

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.” 

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles. 

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.” 

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man. 

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.” 

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.” 

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far. 

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up? 

Why did he want to see your laugh? 

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.” 

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise. 

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats. 

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either. 

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words. 

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!” 

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. 

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders. 

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm. 

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground. 

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!” 

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands. 

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it. 

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off. 

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes. 

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back. 

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags. 

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.” 

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing. 

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side. 

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you. 

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes. 

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again. 

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes. 

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest. 

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks. 

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care. 

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.” 

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John. 

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin. 

Angled up, your face is on full display. 

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring. 

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch. 

His panic spikes again. 

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.” 

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut. 

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells. 

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead. 

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out. 

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises. 

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking." 

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.” 

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave? 

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand. 

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries. 

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[obeythebutler]

Welcome to the Devildom. It is your first time here and things might seem scary and confusing, but it is not so. You have been chosen for this exchange programme, and we believe you are a suitable candidate. Please refer to this pamphlet for guidelines in this realm, and you will have a wonderful stay here, rest assured if you follow the rules. You do not need any clothes or other items, for you will be provided with them.

(Part 2 House of Lamentation)

The Devildom is still acclimating to angels and humans, and given their different biologies and habits, several modifications have been made to the environment. Nature has been humanised as much as it would allow us, but we are still in the process of learning and understanding each other, so please, be patient if any mishaps do occur.

You are prohibited from being outdoors in the Devildom unless accompanied by one of the seven Avatars. Failure to do so may result in unexpected consequences. That being said, take care to be polite to the Seven Lords. Your transgressions may be forgiven once, but do not offend them twice.

Please note to not mention the name 'Lilith', 'Fall' or 'War' in front of any of the brothers, angels or the Prince. You are an exchange student, nothing more here. Know your place.

Most of the locations here are safe to visit, but they have their own rules to be followed, which you will find in the programme overleaf we have provided. The Mausoleum is not to be visited alone. It is a place that is hostile to humans, and the animals there are not tame. Keeping in mind the previous point, do not look into the eyes of the snake at the entrance for more than a minute. You may find yourself to be in a place you were not earlier.

Do not go into Siren Beach. Leviathan has released Lotan into the sea, and the sirens are craving human prey. If you must visit a beach to get your dose of vitamin D that is necessary for you, you may ask Lord Diavolo for the Sun's rays to shine upon you briefly. The warmth of it feels like forgiveness

Create pacts at your own discretion. Your soul is irresistible to demons, and you may be tempted into acquiring power, but remember where you are and where mortals end up once they die. The gates of the Celestial Realm may close in on you, and whom does your soul belong to you now?

Your shadow may seem like it is shifting, or has too many hands or legs for a human. Ignore it, as it is only your psyche adapting to the Devildom. Nothing more, nothing less.

If your preconscious tells you that something is wrong, it probably is. Ask the brothers for help, and let them handle the situation. Be quiet and thankful. Humans are adept at sensing danger, it seems.

The House of Lamentation holds many secrets. It is for your own safety that you do not roam about into forbidden rooms. There may be red paint spilled in rooms or claw marks indented into stone, it is only the felines which Satan likes to care for. The red is one of the many spilled cans of paint, pay it no heed.

Your chest may feel heavy in the Underground Tomb, if you find yourself there. It is a sacred place, hence it is imperative that you pay your respects to the girl etched on the stone. She was the catalyst for history to deem worthy to be remembered.

Do not misplace your D.D.D. It has been enchanted with spells, but you never know who might be snooping. Intruders are not be treated kindly, right?

If you hear heavy footsteps anywhere in the Tomb, or barking, call for Lucifer in its presence. It will know and obey him.

It is sacrosanct to attend annual events in the Devildom, like the Night Lantern Parade, and the birthday of our Prince. Pay your respects and ignore what you dislike. Do not ask the Prince why his claws have grown sharper, or why it is your second year here when you were supposed to be home

Beware of Solomon. Yes, he has been here before, and he is human. But the sheep that survive amongst demons do not remain the same.

Do not lie in the Devildom. No matter where you are, honesty is a virtue. Plus, we have ways to find out if you are lying. The consequences may not be pleasant.

Take care to not sneak out and get lost. If you find yourself in the lower layers of the Devildom, please hide immediately and call for the brothers. Do not talk to the creature that asks you for conversation, because you will be grateful that you did not when it rises on two legs and sheds its skin.

Do not attempt to make contact with a figure sleeping on the slab of gold. You may be drawn to it, but resist and leave. You were not supposed to witness this, and you do not want to attract the wrath of others.

Repent for your sins in front of the angels if you desire to. They are His envoys, and you may find it benefitting you. But do not anger the older angel, and take care to not offend the younger one. Do not confess your sins to demons, watch out for broken halos and leering smiles.

If you find yourself having memories of places or events when they have not occurred before, ignore it. Your sense of time is simply warped. Ignore the phantom pains in your neck, or the dread that fills you when you see the attic.

Remember that the seventh brother is in the human world, not in the Devildom. Ignore any voices, they are only mimics. Do not go where the eldest denies you entry.

Look into the mirror everyday and observe your reflection. Remind yourself that humans have two hands and two legs and two eyes. Angels have halos, demons do not. Halo means angel broken halo means fallen and oh god there are so many eyes angels do not look like that

Please refer to the next page for site-specific rules! If there are any questions, please contact Lord Diavolo or Lord Lucifer. Remember be a good little lamb!

[lulublack90]

Prompt 19 - Unbreakable Vow

@wolfstarmicrofic March 19, word count 391

 Remus was tumbling through an old book of ancient magic that Sirius had stolen from his family library to give to Remus as a birthday present. 

Remus was enjoying learning about all the old magics that he knew nothing about and learning a bit more in-depth about the ones he knew. 

He flipped the page over and read the next spell, the Unbreakable Vow. 

“My family tried to get me to make one of those one.” Sirius perched his head on Remus’s shoulder, making him jump. He’d been engrossed in his book.

Remus cleared his throat. 

“What were they trying to get you to make a vow over?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him. 

“Oh, they wanted me to swear that I wouldn’t disgrace the House of Black.” He said as if it were a simple request. 

“Godric, Sirius. Did you make it?” Remus could think of multiple ways Sirius had brought at least some disgrace to his family’s name since the summer. 

“No, of course not. I’d be long dead by now. No, Great Uncle Alphard managed to get them to stop as he pointed out that any little slip-up and they’d be out an heir. It sucks for them because they ended up losing an heir anyway, but at least I live to bring disgrace to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.” He nuzzled his nose into Remus’s neck. Remus snorted as Sirius’s hair tickled him. “Thanks for helping with that, by the way.” Remus pulled his head back and looked questioningly at Sirius. 

“My family have no use for male family members who prefer the company of men and having you at my side, and nothing they can do about it must be making so many of my ancestors spin in their ridiculous mausoleum tombs.” Remus raised his eyebrows as mischief flashed in his eyes. 

“Oh, so I’m a trophy gay? Just keeping me around to look good and annoy your family?” Sirius wrapped his arms around Remus’s shoulders. 

“Hmmm, yes. My incredibly sexy trophy boyfriend who just so happens to be gay. Who, I am about to take upstairs and allow him to disgrace my family name just a bit more. 

Liking the sound of that, Remus shut his book and hurried after Sirius as they climbed the stairs to the boy’s dorms.      

[zara2148]

Continuing my messed up Quickstart imaginings post Saltburn, I just imagine Oliver's dissatisfiction with a large empty house (a tomb, really, Oliver has stolen himself a mausoleum) setting out to get his hooks into the one other bit of Felix still left out in the world... Setting his sights on Farleigh.

Only, in what he can't quite admit is loneliness, develops a new obsession for an attractive man.

And Farleigh has a perfectly functioning danger sense, but also damn, being wanted desperately is kind of hot to someone used to being the second string.

After all, isn't it easy to say Farleigh wore his signet ring to that fateful party night not just out of habit but BECAUSE he wanted to be noticed by someone.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Clandestine

Nothing bad can come of kissing the devil, right? For @feedthepheasants. Enjoy my lovely!

'I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me.' - Haunted, Beyoncé

Tav crept through the dark, up to the mausoleum. Astarion was beside her, his hand brushing hers with every step. Gale was at her back, motes of light dancing through his fingers. The faintest trace of cherries and musk underneath the dead cold of this cursed land, washed in sulphur. She paused.

‘I’ve got this,’ she said. ‘Wait.’

They obeyed with not even a word. She kept moving, the yellow light spilling from the tomb illuminating the devil. He turned his head to fix her with a cool glare. ‘You shot me,’ he said. ‘Naughty.’

‘Couldn’t resist,’ she said flippantly. ‘You’ve been pissing me off.’

‘Hm. I respect your courage, little mouse. Not many can draw blood from me and live to gloat about it.’

‘You must be going soft,’ she shot back. He approached, watching her defiant stance. Tav dare not blink. She saw no anger in his expression, only amusement and the spark of challenge.

‘I’d really rather we didn’t have an audience for this,’ he drawled, hand striking out to grasp her wrist. In a heartbeat the darkness dissolved, giving way to the garish sumptuousness of the House of Hope.

‘What the Hells are you doing?’ said Tav sharply.

‘Stoking the fire.’ He passed behind her, hot breath sending chills down her spine and raising gooseprickles on her skin. ‘You enjoy your games, little mouse. Allow me to indulge mine.’ Raphael reached for her shirt collar, pausing. ‘May I?’

‘Do you promise to take me back unharmed?’

‘You have my word, little pup.’ Astarion calls me that.

Tav hesitated, heart in her throat. Nobody has to know. ‘Yes.’

The devil drew the laces on her armour loose slowly, fingers warm even in the oppressive heat of his house. She drew shaky breath, hissed when he bared her shoulders, bit down on her bottom lip when he kissed the nape of her neck, smirking as the shiver thrilled through her body in response. ‘You are exquisite,’ he murmured, the heat of his tongue and drag of his teeth drawing a whimper from her. ‘Oh. Do that again…’ his hands snaked around her to rest on her belly, pressing her body back into his searing, hungry touch. His lips trailed fire from nape to shoulder, where he sucked a bruise into her skin.

‘Fuck,’ she hissed, feeling simultaneously the thrill of the ilicit and the acute sense that she’d lost a battle. He held her tight against him, immovable.

‘Do you think they can stand to wait a while, little mouse?’ he purred into her ear. ‘I am rather enjoying myself. And something tells me,’ he said, tugging on her earlobe, ‘that you are too, hmm?’

Tags:

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana @amorgansgal

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@netherese0rb @crimson-and-lavender @reeseykins @medra-gonbites

@roguishcat @weaverofnetheril @galedekarioswifey @hyperfixationstation128 @lastlight-inn

@astarryvamp @feedthepheasants @dabigstinky

[asoulwithadream]

Shoscombe Old Place / Part 2 - Sherlock & Co From the diary of ASoulWithADream…

I'm so excited that we're getting a three-parter after three-parter. They're brilliant and as the production quality increases exponentially, these drawn out adventures holding more content are so important to me.

Live Soul Reaction (my little on-the-spot commentary):

The episode sub-title just makes me think of Fast Car by Tracy Chapman. "🎵 You've got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere,"

John explaining the stupid social hierarchy, state-till-8's, the little 'I dunno's' of doubt, as if he still feels a bit confused or insecure about the whole situation with Carrie and him. The way he phrases it makes me think of superficiality.

"Like some big slobbery traitor!" I like how the roles have switched to Sherlock defending Archie from John.

Again with the card references!

Gary Lineker's mate. That's the second time HE's been mention. There's been an awful lot of emphasis on repeating motifs. Makes me wonder what else from last week's episode will feature today.

"You're invaluable, Watson!" "Awh." "Cheers!" <33333333

"Ah! Goodness! Hello Bob- UH, Robert Knob- Robert Norbertson! Ugh, spit it out, John."

"Just what she needs. Just… what she needs." Bobby you are not making yourself look more innocent you smoldering drama queen.

Sherlock swallowing a fly 😭

Lineker again!

Jump in the river. Jumping into a body of water. This is the third time. For fuck's sake.

"World's colliding. New friends, meeting old friends."

Who's calling John a twat on the internet???

Ash. Ash on the leaves, on the nettles, on the bark of the trees. Didn't Sherlock mention smoke? From the house, Shoscombe? Last week, he said it very explicitly. Smoke.

"It's a house for the dead." "A mausoleum." "Yes, a very tired one."

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE.

"Sherlock." "Yes, Watson." "Quick question." "Fire away!" "Are we… trapped? In a… four-hundred year old mausoleum?" "Trapped is a rather subjective term. We did CHOOSE to enter." "Sherlock." "Yes actually, I think we are."

Pick a tomb, mate! COS' I AM GOING TO KILL YOU >:(

"Brings a certain perspective, doesn't it? Being in here, with the long dead."

The way John realises that he's snapped just immediately forgives and dismisses Sherlock as the cause of their predicament really goes to show the bond they share, how they're able to adapt and just remain sane in their situation.

"What… feels like home?" "Baker Street." <3333333333333

"Rivers are just as doubtful, Watson. Just as unsure. They take the course they find easy, through the soft earth. That's why their paths are winding and splintered. They look for the easy way. Only the most determined bore through the hardest rock. Overtime, much, much time." More water, which could mean nothing. But seriously speaking, I love Sherlock's perspective on things, and how he reassures Watson with these beautiful metaphors, connecting their surroundings and the information he has consumed to describe his dear friend. <3

"Even the torrents that seem so wondrous to us will reach their end in a sea, a lake… a waterfall." HE SAID IT. Before I thought I was being delusional! Anything could be water, but the hesitation, the torrent he speaks of being a metaphor for both himself through John's perspective and the adventure that Moriarty will pose for them both, but especially for Sherlock Holmes!! I'm freaking out!!

"Shout out to Pro- ooh, Professor!" I AM DEAD. I HAVE TO PAUSE. IT CAN'T BE. WHAT I WAS JUST JOKING BEFORE. I'M BEING DELUSIONAL.

PROFESSOR JAMES MORIARTY.

JAMES MORIARTY.

MORIARTY.

WHO IS LISTENING INTENTLY, TO EVER WORD.

WHOEVER THAT ONE TUMBLR POSTER WAS WHO SAID "haha what if he got a shoutout" YOU WERE RIGHT. I'VE TRIED TO TAG YOU BUT I CAN'T FIND THE POST, BUT YOU WERE RIGHT. FUUUUUUUUUU-

"I can hear the corpses from the seventeenth century crying into the mic! I've lost my mind!" I doubt you're as much in shock as I am right now.

I was trying to appreciate their little pre-crypt banter and pep-talk, but I can not stop thinking about the ballistic missile which was the waterfall-shoutout section. Absolutely bonkers, and balls to the fucking walls. The balls are everywhere.

I better not see "42 - The Final Problem - Part One" on my Spotify on the 16th of July in the Year of our Lord 2024.

[delicatuscii-wasbella102]

"The Taj Mahal is an ivory-white marble mausoleum on the right bank of the river Yamuna in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India. It was commissioned in 1631 by the fifth Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan to house the tomb of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal" 

[blueiscoool]

2,000-Year-Old Roman Mausoleum Unearthed Near London Bridge

No burial artifacts were recovered from the structure itself, but the surrounding area yielded over 80 Roman burials containing copper bracelets, coins, glass beads and a bone comb.

A "completely unique," 2,000-year-old Roman mausoleum that has emerged from the rubble of a development site in central London is the most intact ever discovered in the U.K.

The monumental tomb — of which low walls, entrance steps and interior flooring remain — is bejeweled with two mosaics composed of small red tiles, each featuring a flower enclosed in concentric circles. More than 100 coins were also strewn across the tomb's floor.

Archeologists only found the second mosaic when they dug beneath the first one. This indicates the mausoleum floor was raised at least once while it was still being used for burials, they said.

The discovery, which is nestled within the city's central Southwark area, "provides a fascinating window into the living conditions and lifestyle in this part of the city in the Roman period," Antonietta Lerz, a senior archeologist at The Museum of London Archeology (MOLA), said in a statement.

Roman invaders under Emperor Claudius founded London, or Londinium, around 47 A.D. and ruled the city through to the early fifth century, when dwindling military resources and incursions across the rest of the empire forced their withdrawal from Britain.

The recent excavation bears the marks of this decline. "This relatively small site in Southwark is a microcosm for the changing fortunes of Roman London — from the early phase of the site where London expands and the area has lavishly decorated Roman buildings, all the way through to the later Roman period when the settlement shrinks and it becomes a more quiet space where people remember their dead," Lerz said.

The mausoleum would have originally housed coffins and other burial artifacts, according to the statement, but none were recovered from the structure itself. However, the excavation site around the monument yielded Roman-era items belonging to more than 80 burials, including copper bracelets, glass beads, pottery and a bone comb.

Archeologists will now examine these recovered items to better understand central London's Roman past.

Only the wealthier members of society would have had access to the mausoleum, which may have been used as a family tomb or belonged to a "burial club," requiring a monthly fee to secure a future grave, according to the statement.

What remains of the structure indicates that it was a two-story building with large buttresses in the corners for support. The high walls were probably dismantled for reuse elsewhere during the medieval period. Inside, a raised platform cemented with pink mortar containing crushed bits of pottery and brick — a widely used Roman building material known as "opus signinum" — designates where the burials would have taken place around three sides of the mausoleum.

The discovery follows that of a 26 foot (eight meter) long Roman mosaic — the largest unearthed in London for more than 50 years — in February 2022. The newly excavated mausoleum will be put on public display once construction has concluded, according to the statement.

By Sascha Pare.

[clazberryk]

HALP.

My lovely Baldurs gate peeps. I need you to answer me something.

So in my recent replays of the game I never seem to trigger stations simple plan speech. It is always the you are a complication I never saw. Speech. The one where he says thank you after telling that drow he is his own person.

Now I think it’s down to 2 things. When I do the shadow cursed lands I always go to the house of healing first (for the lute) and I kill malis. Then I do the bar and then the roll collector. After that I go to the mausoleum to prompt Raphael’s cut scene regarding the orthon. Then o do not go in.

I infiltrate moonrise. Do everything in them. Saving the prisoners the very last thing before I leave. Then I take the boat to last light with them and then long rest. Which prompts the thank you scene with our favourite vampire.

I will then speak to gallon and do the shadow not cursed thingy then finally move into general thos tomb and do all the lady shad stuffs Orthon Included.

Now my question is. Should I kill the orthon first when I originally prompt Raphael’s cut scene. Then leave the mausoleum once Yurgir is dead and then do everything else?

Or has that simple plan cut scene just been written over because my approval rating with Astarion is always exceptional by this point?

Please can someone clarify this. Because o do like that nice simple plan/can we talk scene.

@roguishcat @shewhowas39 @slothquisitor @loquaciousquark @asweetlovesong

Any help would be grateful.

[morbidology]

Carl Tanzler, a radiologist residing in Key West, Florida, developed an intense infatuation with Elena Milagro Hoyos, one of his patients. Tragically, Elena succumbed to tuberculosis in 1931. Consumed by his obsession, Tanzler took extraordinary measures to preserve her memory. With the consent of Elena's parents, he commissioned a mausoleum to house her remains, convinced that it was preferable to her decomposing underground.

Night after night, Tanzler would visit Elena's tomb, unable to let go of his fixation. Eventually, his obsession took a disturbing turn when he decided to bring her body home with him. In his bed, he kept Elena's corpse, attempting to restore her decaying form by replacing her deteriorating skin with plaster. He adorned her with a new wardrobe and perfumes, meticulously maintaining the illusion of her existence.

The disturbing truth came to light in 1940 when one of Elena's sisters grew suspicious and confronted Tanzler at his residence. To her horror, she discovered Elena's decaying corpse lying in bed, dressed in an elegant gown. Tanzler's grotesque act of necrophilia had been exposed. Subsequently, he was arrested and charged with crimes such as wanton destruction of a grave and unauthorized removal of a body. However, due to the expiration of the statute of limitations on the charges, he was eventually released.

[marvin-the-ever-victorious-fish]

Thinking about Gideon and Crux - two fixed points in Harrow’s life - elbowing each other to spill their blood to open the tomb to save Harrow’s. Aiglamene - the other constant in Harrow’s life, the only other person other than Crux to give a damn about her as a person rather than a house scion - saying “Die for her…it’s all any of you ever knew how to give her. You could have lived for her…but you didn’t know how.”

Thinking about Harrow taking one look at the end of God, the one thing she was created to keep contained, and deciding to live in case she ever woke up.

Thinking about how Harrow cracked open her own skull and endured brain hemorrhages for months just so she could keep Gideon alive in her brain, how angry she was that Gideon would even think to die for her.

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was a mausoleum to two hundred children even before she was born, watched her only friend sacrifice herself so that Harrow could live, put that sacrifice and her lyctorhood at risk for just the chance at keeping Gideon alive. This girl is sick and tired of people dying for her; she wants so badly for someone, just once, to live for her instead. No wonder she is so enamored with Alecto, who swore fealty to her the moment she woke up.

Harrow wants so badly to live, but even more than that, she doesn’t want to live alone.

[desognthinking]

im fascinated what is tomb guardians au i am immediately imagining ava trying to get (very serious about her job) bea to talk to her (t4t aka tomb for tomb communication) like “it’s because you’re always on that damn guarding the tomb” and bea staring at her like “oh (relevant semi-religious curse word/deity invocation), i HAVE to fuck her”

Hi 😄  tomb guardians au is exactly that! except a little weirder, i think. Because they arent the guards stalking the graveyard they are the inhumanly stone-and-metal-but-not-really guardians themselves ☺️it's like what if beatrice had two heads and stood watch over the sealed, entombed heart of a bloodline. And ava was the new, terrible protector of a clan of craftsmen on a hilltop, buried with chambers of generations of their art. And what if they were necropolis neighbors 😳

This is one chunk previously posted and this shorter thing is set a little later, during the wedding mentioned in the first part. i think it kind of matches this ask pretty well 🥺:

Weddings are just like funerals: they’re never safe. The procession overflows from the courtyard at the mouth of the tombhouse, and nobody turns their attention to the other side of the hill. That's Ava’s job. Beatrice, perched carefully atop her roof in a long line of others she can vaguely make out, stretched across the rim of the hills, can see her sway and duck through kitestrings and tree-hung lanterns blowing in the wind as she keeps vigil. 

There’s fire, and an uncoordinated symphony of chattering accompanying music, and colored smoke that drifts up and drenches the air in pinks and yellows. The party had started at the Salviuses’ inner city tombhall, and then wound its way through the cobbled streets to settle here sometime around midday. Now the sun has cooled from its boil and the clouds are dissipating in streaks leaving swatches of color overtop the trees.

Celebration mixes with ceremony in equal parts, and Ava’s soaking it in, so she told Beatrice herself. Amidst the rush of activity at the Silvas’, she’d found her way over yesterday, dangling her human legs over a particularly stubborn branch that tipped over a brass gate, lurching under her weight towards brown grass.

“And, if you want,” she’d said quickly, “the view from atop our central mausoleum is incomparable.” Following the parched trajectory of Beatrice’s traitorous eyes, Ava had reached up to hurriedly smooth out the colorful combs that had erupted from her crown as she blurted out the offer. “You could see the dances up close.” 

She paused, as Beatrice reached out, at first hesitantly, then bravely, to gently still Ava’s hands from patting down the sharp, fiery crests. It’s okay.

(I like them.)

“We’re close enough that you could still keep a lookout for things over here.” 

Proximity, of course, was in truth the last thing that Beatrice feared would compromise her duty, and she knew that Ava knew it too. 

They sat in silence, not uncomfortably. Hot plumes, from where the days-long feast was being prepared in great earthen pots and pits on the rolling green surrounding the Silva walls, thinned out as they passed through the trees to Beatrice’s clearing. 

Whispers of stews, and meats, and spices. Beatrice felt, suddenly, terribly hungry.

“Will you ask again tomorrow?” she chanced, finally. 

Ava, bright and shocked and delighted, laughed. In her relief she nearly fell backwards off the branch, taking with her Beatrice, who had joined her on the tree.

Razor-edged fronds sprung up again from the top of her sun-warmed head. “Horrible”, she joked. 

Beatrice disagreed, and let her know.

Now, the sky is dampening, and the wedding party, in dribs and drabs, pauses to refill its cups and light its candles. In this twilight Beatrice lets herself turn to the west.

It is not easy to see, but the creature on the Silva house is there, beyond the clasp of woods, and when Beatrice meets its eyes its form unfolds in magnificent, menacing span and its unmistakable, jagged tail rises, quick and high, as in warning or challenge. 

From this far away, and half-hidden by foliage, it is impossible to make out the details of that bolted, harsh surface, but Beatrice knows how it feels under her palm, fluttering and leathery and spiny and warm, just as she knows by a glance the towering shape of the display and the exaggerated, daring, silly invitation that it extends across the space between their roofs. 

Ridiculous. 

Ava – terrifying as she extinguishes the numerous wraiths that have already sought to take advantage of the guardian transition, serious as the new caretaker of an artistic legacy, and an achingly, brilliantly quick learner of that uncommon dialect spoken by Beatrice’s house – lifts off her roof in a dramatic jump, and lands with a shaking thud that sends shivers through the ground all the way over. 

\

Help arrives so quickly that Beatrice knows said help is going to give her a hard time. 

“Mary,” she greets, relieved all the same. “Are you sure you don’t mind keeping watch?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Shannon's got it all handled back home,” Mary traces the perimeter easily, scanning the horizon in each direction and then feeling the hollows and convexities of the tombhouse in quick reappraisal. Beatrice stands aside as she smoothly pads across the surface of what she must have judged to be possible points of weakness, tests the robustness of a couple of Beatrice’s carefully constructed defenses, then nods, satisfied. 

A great-aunt, peeking out too to watch the celebrations, looks up, sees Mary, and waves. Mary sends her a bow. 

“You know, Bea, she’s right,” she hums, finally. “It’s not too far away, and you’ve always been focused when out visiting.”

The bait is not particularly subtle, and Beatrice narrows her eyes. 

“I just don’t think it’s safe to reduce any protections during a celebration when everyone’s guards are down.” She busies herself with cleaning up the place, tightening the wards and doing some final redundant sweeps and checks. “It’d be easy for someone or something to slip through, especially with so many unfamiliar faces.”

“Mm. And you’d be distracted.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure.” Mary circles, then sits down, settling in and getting comfortable. She uncoils and reaches out to nudge Beatrice gently where she’s examining the shifts in some stones very conscientiously. “And I promise not to look over.”

“Mary.”

“What?” She shrugs, casually puts out a strong claw and kicks Beatrice firmly off the parapet. “Time to go-o.”

There’s a shower of stone fragments as Beatrice shakes and gathers herself to snap and snarl halfheartedly and harmlessly up at her from the ground. 

Mary looks over the edge and shakes her head, grinning. “Oh, baby girl,” she tsks, “Don’t tell me you need me to teach you how to fuck her.”

“Mary!”

Mary’s laughter echoes as Beatrice turns and steals into the darkness, necks hot with embarrassment. “Now hurry up, Beatrice,” her call seeps, howling, into the roots. It warps with the topography of the earth into something deep and old, sinking its frigid teeth into Beatrice’s bones. But the shape of the wind whipping past Beatrice’s ears is fond and teasing in its turbulence as she tears through the thicket. “Your poor girl’s waiting for you.”