#this is the corpse of a life they outgrew

[tache-noire]

the most striking moment of “we will never understand each other” i’ve ever had with my mom is when we were in the car and i pointed out a house that I liked the look of, with a black roof and dark brown, weathered-looking exterior. and i mentioned that I just like old, weathered, ruined houses in general, thinking about abandoned houses in neighborhoods like the one i was born in and the one my grandma used to live in.

and my mom said “you’d like venice, then.”

and i couldn’t really explain that that’s the wrong kind of old and ruined without sounding insane or suicidal.

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (Din Darin x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature 

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: nothin much. no smut. canon typical violence, explicit language, blood, Mando being Mando. im posting this bc im petty and because I feel bad that I never posted it in the first place. also this is over a year old so I apologize it’s not great 

Never, in the entirety of your life did you think you’d return to Tatooine. Tatooine for fuck’s sake. A literal sandbox that upholds no feasible joy unless you count the annual womp rat raid or the pod races in Mos Espa. Even then—yikes.

Didn’t think a kid nicknamed Wormie would be the one to blow up the Death Star either. Or yknow, dethrone Jaba the Hutt with some fancy laser sword. Or was it a chain? Ah, whatever—good riddance to that slimy pile of sentient boogers. 

Anyway—

You should have followed Wormie’s example and steered clear of this place—taken up that permanent post as Red Leader for the Alliance and live out your days in a cushy position on Naboo or something. But, you never did enjoy taking the path of least resistance, you’re a pilot after all. Live and die for all that risky shit—the thrill of a fight and near brushes with death. You’d rather stake out your own journey in life—forge out a path so bright that other’s cant help but envy.

Growing up on Tatooine, there weren’t many kids your age—you were always the youngest by nearly four years (not that it ever stopped you from nipping at the older kids’s heels). To this day you can still recall every face, every dumb nickname and inside joke you all created—all the dares and stupid challenges like licking a womp rat’s tail or eating a handful of sand (you always won). Wild and free like a pack of yipping dogs—smiling, dirt stained faces and scuffed up boots worn down to the sole each month. Scrapes and bruises were flaunted as trophies, a chipped tooth like a shiny metal pinned upon the chest. Trouble wasn’t in the vocabulary of your mouth’s—back then it was just fun.   

But time has a way of twisting and mangling the glimmer of childhood. Everyone grew up—more responsibility and less time to play on the dunes. School instead of riling up a nest of whatever doomed creature you could find. Petty arguments that turn into venomous resentment, culminating rifts in friendships and the battle of loyalties between friend groups. 

You’re not sure when the bitterness of living on Tatooine settled in. Sometime between your first schoolyard fight over who would get the desk near the window and the gossip of your upbringing that followed you around like an ugly second head. Or maybe it the way everyone assumed you’d morph into the collective—a moisture farmer or maybe a mechanic like your aunt. One thing always stayed the same. You never outgrew the snarling beast that festered in your chest, it only grew with you over time.         

Call it the age difference or the simple fact you were more feral creature than child, the two people who stuck around for the long haul were the neighbors’ kids. You chased off everyone else—decided that being alone was better than falling in step with mediocracy and someone else’s footsteps. If anyone would leave Tatooine first, it was going to be you. 

Then Biggs left. 

The Skywalker’s farm burnt down, the entire family too, shortly after Biggs’ departure. Everyone assumed Luke died along with them—you believed it as well. Scoured the farm and the corpses with blurry eyes and the hurt, worse than ripping off fingernails with tweezers, bloomed in the cavity of your heart. The worst part of it all was no one cared. No one gave a shit about the culprits or impeding war that was always glossed over on the local radio—they were all fine with sitting and becoming complacent.       

A year passed—and the night of your sixteenth birthday you jumped ship the second the opportunity presented itself. Living in a space port had it’s perks—someone was always going somewhere. You snuck on board of a clunky freighter headed towards Takodana and that was it. Fueled by spite and the need to be part of something bigger. 

The rest happened in a blur. You joined the Alliance—you found Biggs and Luke, alive and well, only to be ripped apart by different destinies another time over. You became a pilot—Red Leader in fact, and damn good at it. Helped blow up the Death Star (the second one that is) and that was that. 

No one tells you that returning home is the scariest part of it all. But—it’s Tatooine for Kriff’s sake. Hardly anything had been touched, the people all the same and uninterested in the outside world. A relieved hug from Peli had been expected—no anger at your unapproved departure—just a resentful frown at the stitched up laceration over your brow and part of your cheek. She didn’t yell about how worried sick she’d been or the lame and infrequent, encrypted holovids you sent to assure that you were still alive and not blown to bits. You told her you didn’t expect to stay long…funny how it’s been five years since then.  

Look at you know, you think with a bemused scoff. Washed out and living in your aunts hangar in the prime of your youth. Guess your glory days had come to a lazy, halting stop.  

The life of a mechanic in Mos Eisley is never overwhelmingly busy—a day or two off every now and then if you so choose. Only thing you frequently find yourself doing is participating in a long standing rivalry between you, a broom, and and the congregation of overly curious Jawas. One night—one kriffing night you left a rusty speeder and a couple power converters out and now they think it’s easy pickings—  

Whatever.

As long as they don’t start physically manifesting inside the spaceport it’s fine. Totally cool. 

Besides swatting the little creatures away with your trusty broom each morning to clear a path, there’s not much to do on Tatooine—not unless you fancy throwing in on a Sabaac tourney or brushing elbows with none too desirable folk. You stick to the landing dock and work. Busy hands keep the mind occupied after all.

But it’s Tatooine—

Dust storms that’ll scrape up the insides of you nostrils and make your nose bleed or leave you blind, Imperial sympathizers, smugglers, you name it. You never make a habit of familiarizing yourself with whoever lands in your hangers—bad for business and honestly? You’d rather not get kidnapped and sold off to the Spice mines on Kessel for opening your big fat mouth. 

So, naturally your only option for a cheap drink and the affirmation that, yes, you can in fact still leave Tatooine whenever you’d like, is to go off-world.  

Bakura is a hop away—far enough you never run into anyone twice and close enough that the charter fare is dirt cheap. It’s always the same cantina, same back left corner that provides an excellent view of the exit and the neighboring lavatories that boasts amusing in-house drunken brawls. What’s better than this? Guys being dudes—petty squabbles over fragile masculinity and an urge to prove something dumb.       

Tonight is slow—regulars night you suppose. Or is it a weekday? Maker you don’t even know what day it is. 

Sighing, your eyes lazily crawl over the drab decor in the cantina, sipping on a neon blue drink that tastes like those little blue candies. Y’know—the ones that grandmas always have stashed away in delicate glass bowls and insist you take a handful even though the candies are the same age, if not older than grandma. 

You pinch the little black straw between your fingertips and take another sip. Too sweet for your liking, but a damn good chaser for the Corellian fire whiskeys you’ve amassed. In fact, just as you’re putting the rim of the shot glass to your lips, the liquor already bright and hot against your bottom lip—you see him.     

There, in the opposing corner of the dingy cantina, you spot the familiar sheen of tempered beskar.  Neon lights from the nearby exit reflect off his cuirass, hyperspace blue that switches to fuchsia pink then back again like a dizzying light show. His helmet is tilted in the direction of the bar, analyzing the couple lingering near the last two stools. You know the little lime green Twi’lek—not by name—but because she’s always somehow wrist deep in her target’s pocket while they all but drool over the deep cut of her cleavage. None the wiser as they’re robbed blind. The poor bastard currently playing into her finely spun web is no different.  

Good for her—

You flick your eyes back over to the Mandalorian and force down a surprised cough as the full weight of his attention settles on you. The likelihood of him being here on matters concerning you are high, but Stars, you weren’t expecting him. How’d he even get inside without you noticing anyway?

The guy is a walking armory donning beskar that sparkles brighter than kriffing diamonds and worth more than than the entirety of Tatooine you’d bet—he’s not an easy thing to miss. Mando is broad—even more so with the added bulk of armor, and in theory that much metal should make some sort of sound.

You scratch your brow with your thumb and sigh. Fuck. You must be loosing your edge or you’re drunker than you thought. 

Well, no use just sitting here and having an awkward staring contest you certainly won’t win—might as well invite him over. You raise your hand in a begrudging wave and pull your face into a mask of an indifference. Mando places his hands on the table and pushes off to stand, tattered cloak scraping along the sticky floor as he covers the short distance between you. 

Gesturing to the open seat on your right, Mando takes up the offer and sits with a muted grunt—guess that armor is heavy. 

“Funny seeing you here,” you sigh, kicking back a shot of another fire whiskey. The glass clinks against the sticky table and joins the growing array of crystalline tumblers. One of those nights where the pain of the past stings worse than alcohol splashed into an open wound. “Did Peli send you? I left a note, y’know.”

“I’m not here for you,” he assures, a smooth rasp even with the static distortion of the vocoder. He turns his head and sweeps the room with poised nonchalance—your heart jumps as the darkened visor returns to you with a weight heavier than the catch and pull of a black hole. “You got a habit of running off?”

Your bottom lip tastes bitter as your tongue passes over it. “Depends on who you ask.” 

“Hm.” Mando’s pensive hum tapers off into stagnant silence. 

This is why, you think with a miserable frown, you always drink on your own. Too many awkward pauses like this and the embarrassment of being tipsy in front of a sober person—you’re off your guard. Plus—you’re not even sure why he’s here— 

You clear your throat and beckon over the bartender with a wave of your hand—Ekah is working tonight. A Mirialan around your age—skin the color of fresh honey and pale green eyes to compliment. Ekah taps two fingers to his temple in acknowledgment and finishes scrubbing down a tumbler with a rag that’s seen better days. He steps around the bar and wanders to your table, his right brow quirking in curiosity at the sight of the Mandalorian.    

“Finally making friends, Skitter?” The hexagonal tattoos inked into the sharp slopes of his cheeks crinkle as he smiles. “And here I was, thinking I was special.”

“Fuck off, Ekah.“ You scowl. “Neither of you are my friend.” 

Ekah gasps and places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “So cruel for such a sweet face.”

Your eyes narrow. “Ekah—“

He sighs, roll his eyes and waves his hand in a shooing motion. “Alright, alright—what is it you want?”

“Closing tab—“ you spare a glance at Mando. He cocks his head to the side. “—uh, unless—do you want…anything?”       

Stars that was awkward. 

Mando lifts his palm off the table and shakes his head in a no. You figured, because of the helmet and all…Worth a shot. 

“Great—“ You nod, shifting onto your weight to fish out the credits in your pocket as Ekah announces your total.

Yet before you even have the physical money in your hand, Mando reaches into his supply bag and pulls out the full amount, plus a hefty tip. “I’ve got it.”

Mando hands it over much too quickly for you to protest and Ekah, opportunistic as a bartender is, collects his credits and shoves them into his pocket, never to be seen again. 

“Cheers, metal man,” he grins. He spares Mando a salacious wink and spins on his heel, a couple midnight black strands of his hair falling out of place as he hurries back to the bar. “See ya ‘round, Skitter.”

Your brows furrow as you puff out your lower lip, head swiveling to glare at Mando. “Why’d you do that? I can pay for myself.”  

Mando has the audacity to shrug. “Wanted to. We’re friends aren’t we?”

He knows damn well where he stands. You clench your jaw and jerk your eyes back to the table. It never sits right with you when someone offers to pay—feels like a slimy rock in the pit of your stomach. On Tatooine you learn to fend for yourself at an early age—leaning on the help of others tended to land you in more trouble than you could shake off. Worst case you ended up at Jabba’s Palace as a nice little side dish for the local rancor, best case you payoff the favor working at a moisture farm for a couple days. 

Simply put—no one does a favor simply for free.   

Anyone who offers is cause for suspect. 

But then again—Peli trusts him…

You exhale loudly, irritated by the sudden bout of silence, and shift to move from you chair, but he stops you with a question.  

“Why do you call yourself Skitter?” He says it softly, not meant to offend or demand your compliance. Whatever he picks apart, he does it with precise and patient skill—simultaneously seeking insight on who you are while granting that thin veil of anonymity. Simply wedging his foot into an already cracked door. 

Your eyes slip from the harsh lines of Mando’s helmet to the splotchy grease stains covering your knuckles. No matter how much you scrub or pick at them, the dirty smudges never seem to disappear—permanently ingrained into your skin like a gods awful tattoo. Doesn’t stop you from roughly rubbing the pad of your thumb over your index finger in hopes that it might just work this time. You sigh and curl your fingers into fists—no use. 

Lying to him crosses your mind—spin some absolute bantha shit story about how you won the Boonta Eve Classic and how you earned the name. Or maybe you could tell him you’re a part of a highly covert crime ring and speaking your name aloud will assure you a one way ticket to the grave within the hour. You’re not sure how well that one will fly, but hey—you’ve convinced a couple of morons here and there.    

However—Mando is no moron.  

He wouldn’t pry the truth out of you like a crooked incisor with rusty pliers—no. This is a game of trust. By extension on Peli’s behalf you’re reliable—one of the good guys that offers safe heaven for himself and the little green terror each time he lands that literal pile of scrap metal in hangar four—always hangar number four. 

 It still doesn’t negate the fact that Mando knows jack shit about you. Just a grouchy mechanic with bloody knuckles and a mouth sharper than a bowl of tacks. This is him offering an olive branch of his personal trust. By choosing to lie you would be severing the rare reveal of a kind heart with a vibroblade dipped in venom. You don’t know what he thinks he’ll find or what’s to gain from you revealing a bare thread of yourself but—  

Whether it’s the blend of spiced rum and fire whiskey that helps loosen your tongue into speaking, or just the simple fact that you actually kinda…enjoy Mando’s company—you tell him.  

“Peli—“ You begin, your lips quirking at Mando’s unsurprised huff upon hearing your aunt’s name. “I was, like, a little kid when I went to live with her—four or five maybe?” 

You spare a quick glance at Mando. His vambraces chink against the edge of his cuirass as he leans back in his seat. He laces his fingers together and rests his hands just above where his codpiece should be; and as you draw a breath he tilts his head ever so slightly to the right, exposing more of the metallic earpiece to better hear you. 

He’s being polite—

You blink and drop your eyes back down to the empty glass you fiddle with. You never dwell or find it in your to care about what others think of you—too much energy wasted on perceptions that you’ll never be privy to. Say what you mean and repercussions be damned. So why is it that your heart begins to flutter like a distressed creature in the clumsy palms of a curious toddler? 

A wildfire blush races up your neck and burns hotter than a miniature sun in your cheeks. You swallow and reach up to toy with the loose baby hairs that curl next to your ear. “Y-you ever, um, see a sand skitter before?”

Mando shakes his head.

“They kinda look like slugs,” you say, separating your forefinger and thumb to show Mando a guesstimate of their size. “Fast little fuckers though—they like to hang out around Jabba’s Palace. B-but anyway—“ 

You clear your throat and continue. “Peli always said I looked like them back then—squishy and small. It didn’t help that I ran around around like a wild waste creature either—got into more trouble than you can even imagine.”

Mando’s amused huff crackles out of the vocoder. “I think I can.”

Another blush heats your cheeks. It’s the damn alcohol—it must be. You should tell him to fuck off—take his metal, bucket-head looking ass straight back to Tatooine and leave you alone. What makes him any different from all the other people you’ve batted away? You don’t  know—you don’t know—

Instead of all the things you should say, you wrench off another branch of yourself and gladly put it into his outstretched palm.   

“I..uh—I don’t think I’ve used my name—my actual name in years,” you confess quietly. The admittance is a strange one—makes the back of your throat tighten while plucking at tender heartstrings you didn’t know existed. “Even in the Rebellion I was just…Skitter.”

In the Rebellion everyone has a number, a nickname, a call-sign—no one cared who you were because when they risked doing so they opened themselves up to pain. It’s easier to be nameless—keeps you focused on the task at hand. 

But it’s over now—it’s done.   

He lets the silence settle and you know what he’s going to ask. You see it in the way his armored shoulders raise to take a breath and the crackling curiosity that practically sparks off the metal. Nonetheless, it’s still like getting shot pointblank in the chest the second he asks.   

“Will you tell me?” 

Such a simple question shouldn’t scare you. Pure and simple fear that better belongs on a feral fyrnock backed into a corner with only it’s sharp teeth to protect itself. Joining the Rebellion should have scared you—hoisting yourself into that worn cockpit every day with the promise of death and gut wrenching adrenaline should have terrified you. The crash on Endor that left a scar over your left brow and broke seven ribs is far more daunting than someone asking you for your name.           

“I’m willing to trade.”

You’re clever enough to realize that this is his way of assuring you that trust is a two way street. He knows the importance of a name better than anyone else—how these sorts of things aren’t meant to be traded—but both of you are making exceptions tonight, even if it’s dangerous. 

You’re both playing with matchsticks around a barrel of coaxium, one slip of a finger and you’d both go up into volatile flames that will rattle the very seams of the galaxy. Mando is showing you how willing he is to offer a piece of himself at your feet—so long as you do the same. 

You sigh and close your eyes. “O-ok…yeah—yeah.”     

As you lean to the side he folds at the waist to meet you. You take another inhale—the last breath before plunging into an ice cold sea—and maybe…maybe it’s not as scary as you once thought. 

The chapped swell of your lips brush along the frigid beskar as the syllables of your name bubble past your teeth. It tastes foreign and odd in your mouth, like cotton or the creaky hinges on a rotting window pane. 

You like it better when he says it.  

The slow drawl of your name repeated back to you is the first breath of spring in the unending winter within your chest. There’s always been a slowness, a stillness in the delicate redwood needles of your bones that glitter with a thick layer of frost. No clever fox or brightly plumed bird resides here—no whispering, pushing wind that dances with the slow creak of ancient tree trunks. Here there’s only overgrown, dark rooted trees and bone white snow—something mistaken for being alive.

Skitter is the name of a girl who drowns in the acrid smoke that bellows from her lungs and disastrous flames that spill from the gaps in her ribcage. It outmatches nebular implosions, leaving behind entrails of embers that burst and flake off from her skin like brittle wood thrown into a funeral pyre. Even the sharp curve of a rabid smile shows something of that all-consuming hunger—something never meant to survive for long. No life has ever made its way into her bones, but the flames that transform blood into ash and anger shine in her eyes.

Your name—the one that sun speckled light touches and spreads inside of your lungs, urging Mando to whisper in quiet tones meant only for your ears. It promises that this is only the beginning—that there is gentle starlight instead of war smoke and here there is something beautiful waiting for you. Someday the heavy snow that buries your body under its weight will melt and give way to the delicate bloom of ferns and creeping lichen. Hope crackles in your blistered palms, transforming into the wings of a sparrow and the very same warmth that you dream of holding.   

Goosebumps rush down your spine and every inch of skin as Mando repeats your name a third time—speaking it as if it’s a prayer to some long lost deity wearing a circlet of stars and a mouth made of rose petals. But it’s only you. You who sits in the back corner of a shitty cantina, dressed in neon light while you and a Mandalorian whisper secrets that are long since forgotten to the world into each other’s ears.   

But the slow grace of become gentle is a long one, and there’s much to learn. “You call me that in public and I’ll strap your tongue to a belt sander and set it on high.”

Mando chuckles at your empty threat and leans more of the broadness of his shoulders into your space. “My turn.”

The icy cold beskar touches parts of your ear and jaw, his even breathing amplified by the static crackle of vocoder. This close, you can feel the helmet buzz over your skin. 

“Din.”    

It suits him—sweet and simple. 

And like he knows you’re itching to shy away from the chilling unfamiliarity of bearing your heart, Din leans closer. You’re not trapped, but he’s forcing your hand to either flee like you’ve always done or confront him. 

You stay.      

He moves his hand glacially slow so as not to startle you, granting you an opportunity to slip free, but you hold steady. The padded leather covering his thumb touches the side of your chin, and out of habit you flinch. The weight of his thumb immediately retracts, but with a mumbled apology and a weak smile of encouragement, he returns. 

Mando—Din—cradles your chin between his forefinger and thumb and traces a light back and forth pattern, the worn leather soft against your skin. Desire bubbles in your chest like heartburn, and all you know right in that second is you need more of him—hungry for any scrap he offers. You lift your hand and curl your fingers over the top of his knuckles and with a little tug, you coax Din’s open palm over your cheek.

Staring into that endless black visor, your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his hand. Vulnerability tastes strange on the tongue—still have to wrestle back the urge to snap and chase him away. You’d be content staying like this all night but… 

Tonight is not the night for it apparently—

Fuck—

All those drinks hit you with a gut wrenching wave of dizziness worse than clipping a short corner in the Diablo Cut—same kinda feeling you get after pigging out on starcherry pies and then taking a high-stakes joyride on your dad’s spiffed out speeder. 

You squeeze your eyes until you see little bursts of light and suck in a deep breath, beating back the nausea with sheer willpower and the very present dread of puking all over Mando’s chest plate. What a fucking spectacle that would be.  

You cringe and slump from his palm and into the dark fabric of his cowl, the sharp smell of ozone and something woodsy a pleasant surprise to your senses. Maker—you could stay here all night, breathing him in. You’re lucky he’s wearing his helmet—you fucking stink.You’ve been marinating in the acrid stench of cheap spirits and cigarette smoke for hours and you know it’ll take days to scrub it off your skin and clothes like shitty perfume or spilled jet fuel.  

“Are you taking a nap?” Mando accuses—the lip of his helmet knocking against your ear as he tries to confirm his suspicion.

“No,” you grumble, “‘m smelling you.”

“What?” Din’s shoulder jump with a unbelieving snort. 

You huff and bury your nose deeper into the swath of fabric. “You smell good. Like—like one of those…those candles.”

You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh. “I think it’s time to go home.”

“So you are here for me,” you scoff, raising your head to shoot him a weak glare. “How’d Peli convince you?”

“Offered to take it out of your pay.” 

“Damn, that shit sucks.” You retort, lifting yourself from the stiff beskar to rub at your tired eyes. “Lemme—lemme guess—“ you hiccup and point an accusing finger. “That piece of junk ship got fuckin’ trashed and—and you expect me to fix it.” 

Din cocks his head to the side, shrugs and moves out of his seat, offering you a hand. You shoo it away with a feeble glare and help yourself up, albeit a bit wobbly.

“You have talented hands.” He purrs next to your ear as you attempt to stomp past him. “I’m sure you can manage.” 

“Yeah—“ You sniff, each step a blurry stumble towards the exit. “You bet I fucking do.”

His soft laugh whispers behind you—

You hate how much you like it. 

Din ushers you onto the very ship you vowed never to take a ride in, solely due to the fact that this thing has been trashed more times than you can count. You cringe just thinking about the innards of the Crest you so begrudgingly fixed—probably all fried to hell and busted up again—     

Surprisingly, the ship flies fine. Suspiciously smooth sailing, enough that you even manage to doze off in your chair. Until you’re so rudely awakened.    

It’s a little tickle on the side of your temple—like a stray hair pushed out of place by a breeze. Half lucid, you grumble and furrow your brows at the sensation, hoping it’ll piss off and leave you be—

The bluntness of calloused fingertips caress over the ridge of your brow, then sweep to the shell of your ear, thumbing at a lock of hair in muted wonder. The same kind of fascination you’d see on someone who’s never felt the texture of another’s hair because of the heavy gloves they wear like a second skin. You crack an eye open, confirming the culprit just as his bare hand dances over your cheek and skins along your jaw. 

Din’s hand freezes, hovering in midair the moment your sleepy eyes catch over his visor. You roll your lip between your teeth, attempting to solely focus on his helmet instead of the brown, sun-kissed hand inches from your face. You’re not sure what’s considered rude or blasphemous in Mando culture, but airing on the side of caution with things like this is best. 

“You snore.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said you snore in your sleep.”  

Din spins on his heel faster than you can process and exits the cockpit. Huh. 

Alrighty then. 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stand and follow after him. You squint as the loading ramp is lowered, the change in lighting creating a dull ache behind your eyes. Mando hovers at the end of it, patiently waiting for your sleepy self to join him. He’s docked just on the outskirts of town you note—he’s not staying for long. You were just a detour.      

You sigh, face souring as the first rays of sunlight whisper across the glittery yellow smudge of the horizon. Sand scrapes your cheeks and tickles the inside of your nostrils as a gust of torrid air sweeps down from the nearby bluffs, promising another scorching day that’ll make the skin on your nose peel and flake off. Absolutely putrid. “I fucking hate this town.”

Mando makes no comment on his end, just rests his palm over your lower back and guides you forward. This shouldn’t be miserable— 

He isn’t marching you off to your death or anything—just an end of a chapter you didn’t intend on closing so soon.

 Isn’t it funny when you’ve got an entire speech’s worth to say and yet all of it decides to stay stuck on the roof of your mouth? But that’s the problem—you’d have no idea what to say—just an endless turmoil of emotions you aren’t able to pin down and decipher. You’re not even sure if you want to anyway—

All too soon you’re reaching the blast doors that lead into the space port. Din stays outside when you offer to go get his kid from Peli’s care. He’s bundled up in a spare blanket, tucked against Peli’s side—both asleep. Without waking your aunt, you slide him into your arms and make your way back to Mando. The baby whines and cracks his large eyes open. 

“Hello, Creature,” you greet, sweeping a thumb over his large ear. “Dad’s here to pick you up.”

His eyes slide back shut, nuzzling deeper into the swaths of blanket as you hand him back to Din. The Mandalorian happily accepts the little creature and tucks him against his side. Cute.    

“How long are you staying?” You’re cracking open another door for him, letting the soft glow of an imaginary future spill past your fingertips even though you know it’s far fetched. He shuts it with a gentle sigh and a weak shake of the head. 

“We’re leaving today. It’s not safe for us here.” 

Your brows furrow. “You’re being followed?”

The way his shoulders stiffen tell you that it’s a long story. That it runs deeper than just a mere skirmish and bad blood. You don’t like his answer when he tells you the short version of things. Don’t like the way your whole body seizes and doused in a vat of ice water.  

“That’s…no. That’s not—the Empire was destroyed.” Your breaths turn sharp like frayed lungs hacked at the stem and the cold dread of a returned horror. That part of you, the one that fought tooth and nail for the galaxy perished in the flames of war alongside every friend and ally you’ve lost. To say that something you played a part in ripping to shreds for good, is back—it’s digging up ghosts and dusty skeletons you’ve buried long ago. “Din—the Empire is gone."  

“Not all of it. They’re after the kid.” The baby, now awake, squeaks and looks up at Din, his little fingers wrapping around his thumb. “If I stayed any longer I’ll be putting you both at risk.”  

You wrap your arms around yourself and study the tips of your boots. “You’ll be gone for awhile then.”

You lift your head and study the sharp lines of his helmet and the dark strip of visor. His silence carves out the fragile hope cradled in your chest with a rusty knife—throws it at your feet with bloody uncertainty. He chooses silence over hollow promises—could be years or three weeks the next time you see him. Or never.   

“Take care, Skitter.”

“Yeah…se ya around, Mando.”  

You watch him leave, the beskar glittering in the early morning sun until he disappears from view.   

You should’ve asked him to take you with.

[shit-enmu-says]

Phantasmagoria: Part 4

Note: here is part 4 of the Drabble I’ve been working on regarding Enmu’s human life. I aim to write him as someone who has been through some very difficult things in his life but also a highly manipulative person who cares more about his own needs than the needs of others.

CW for gore, death, medical malpractice, abuse, and manipulation

Part 4

Enmu’s body shook. He couldn’t clear his head. Why were his eyes stinging like this?

Are you sure you can handle this, Enmu? His brother’s words echoed in his mind, This clinic is no place for the delicate.

But I am not delicate! he thought as he took in a slow, deep breath. Now was no time to let his emotions influence him. He blinked until his vision cleared and approached the examination table. Could it be that whatever mauled his former patient had gotten his father as well?

An odd mark on Sato’s ankle caught his eye. He lifted the tattered leg of the man’s trousers. There was no denying it. Those marks couldn’t be anything other than rope burns.

Hideki Sato hadn’t simply fallen off a boat and drowned. No, something more was at play. Enmu carefully examined the torn flesh of his upper thigh. There was an awful lot of bruising around the wounds for a post mortem injury. Similar bruising around what was left of his chest. Neck, too. Were those fingerprints around his throat?

The more he saw the more disturbed he became. No, this was no mere fishing accident, but someone must have wanted it to look that way.

But why? Who? Sato was fairly well liked, at least from what Enmu knew of him. Just an average, humble, workaday man nearing middle age. Nothing about him really stood out. He was only middle class so it was unlikely he was killed for his money.

Enmu lifted one of the man’s mangled arms. Scraps of his tattered shirt still clung to the body, practically glued in place by congealed blood. He began the tedious task of removing the tattered remnants of clothing for a better look at the wounds. Yet as he pulled away what was left of the shirt, he saw something that made his own blood run cold.

It wasn’t the large chunk of flesh missing from the man’s shoulder that caught his eye, but a smaller wound just above it. The sight nearly made him drop his scalpel. Had he never removed the shirt he wouldn’t have seen the unmistakably human teeth marks in the flesh. Well, human save for a set of deep gouge marks where the canines would normally be.

No matter how many times Enmu looked away then back at the bite mark on the corpse’s bruised flesh it didn’t disappear. He bit down hard on his lower lip, something Ayumu had termed a disgusting habit Enmu never outgrew. Pinching himself never seemed to illicit much pain, anyway.

Yet the sight in front of him never wavered of changed even as pain shot through his lip and the sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. The more he examined the various places on the body where large chunks of flesh had been torn away, the more bite marks he found. He took a step back from the cadaver as a bead of cold sweat trickled down his forehead.

The idea was too absurd to even entertain. Cannibalism? Sato-san being eaten alive? Murder in a town this size? It was preposterous. If he told Ayumu what he discovered he’d think Enmu had lost it completely.

If his sanity was called into question he would lose everything. Enmu never had any hope of escaping his brother before attaining this position. He wanted more than anything to flee the city and go somewhere far away where Ayumu could never find him. A place where he could live life on his own terms.

He was offered this opportunity through nothing more than sheer dumb luck. The family clinic was passed down through the generations father to eldest son. Ayumu had been unable to maintain the position due to failing health and had no other option.

After all, the Tamio’s were a rather secluded bunch. Enmu was even more so. His episodes became worse after his father disappeared, enough to disturb the peace of the townsfolk. After that Enmu wasn’t allowed out of the house much. Ayumu only loosened the reins upon realizing he needed a replacement. As isolated as he was up to that point, it was unlikely his former identity would be remembered by many.

The position was fairly lucrative at the start. Yet by the time Enmu fully took over Ayumu’s position their clinic had competition. Within the past decade the little town had grown quite a bit. Similar businesses were starting to crop up, resulting in less customers.

If things kept going the way they were, Enmu wouldn’t have enough money to escape until his mid thirties. Something had to be done.

Yet if his sanity was called into question it would all come crashing down. Not just his job but his future plans. Any shot at freedom would be dashed. His very identity could be at stake. Enmu couldn’t bring himself to live as that person again. If he had to dirty his hands to avoid such a fate, so be it.

He already had blood on his hands. One of his patients passed away months after being discharged from treatment. The patient’s wife had been unable to prove anything. The resurgence of her husband’s symptoms had been chalked up to relapse. What was one more lie?

Breathing heavily he covered the body with a sheet. He’d seen more than enough. Enmu was aware that leaving the townsfolk in the dark about something like this placed their safety in jeopardy but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Whatever happened back there it’s of no concern to me, he thought as he peeled off his bloody gloves, whatever is lurking out there probably only attacked Sato because he was in it’s territory. Same with Father. But I know better than to go back there now. I’ll be safe.

At least that was what he told himself.

[reptileranting]

Mijira -Mijira - Scales, Blood and Darkness

Ok, here goes nothing. I was writing this story since last year, when i got stuck with Endtown fanfiction. Eventually, it outgrew the other project. It's a story about an anthropomorphic dragon barbarian in a dark-ish fantasy world and her misadventures. I'll try to post ~1 page weekly. I don't know if i can keep up. We'll see!

I don't want to say too much about the world; i got a lot of worldbuilding written down, but it's kinda boring to read through, imo. It'll be revealed as the story goes on.

For the people of Royalroad: i have posted that story on your website on the day of editing this post and own the account doing so.

Stuff to watch out for here: (Light?) Gore, Fantasy Racism, Slavery, Torture

Chapter 1: An unhappy place, an unhappy world

She woke up, felt a stinging lash on her belly. But it was nothing next to the pain in her head that felt like a ´Saur had stomped on it and the numbing cold that gave the world that peculiar syrup-like quality spun her head around.

"Wake up, Drake. There‘s ore to mine." Before her was a dwarf clad in that grey, iron-like dwarf metal, brandishing a barbed whip. Reflexively, she tried to move or speak, but realized they‘d fitted her with an iron muzzle and  bound her legs together with iron chains. How quaint. True to her captor‘s word, they were in a mining tunnel of sorts. She smelled the freshly broken iron and the mammal sweat from deeper in, but the fat of weapon oil and mushroom wine too.

"I see your clan, dwarf. Shouldn't miners like you have no business wearing arms and armor?“ She pressed out. "That‘s none of your business, lizard. You are here for crimes against dwarfkind, massed slaughter and demon worship. And, if your tone does not change, you‘ll stay in these mines for the rest of your stinking life." Another lash sped towards her, but she was faster. Gripping the whip flying in the air, she let the barbs dig into her scales. Muscles and pain fought Strength and wrath. Her tongue flicked out for a split second as she bared her fangs in anticipation. Fear. The sweetest of smells. The dwarf, trembling with terror, yanked the whip around and blood sprayed from her hand. No matter. The rising dark wrath of her kin was greater than any torment he could  cause her.

She leaned in, miming the mammal’s kiss as a jet of blackish flame erupted from her maw, setting the dwarf’s head on fire. The jailer screamed in agony as the fire spread to his hair and skin, flesh and blood beginning  to melt off his bones. The heat turned her muzzle a searing bright yellow, an ardency which made even her growl in pain. She tore her hands free from the already brittle chains. Just in time. The rest of the guards came charging, only to find their dying colleague rolling helplessly on the ground. Pale fear and wrath spread among the warrior. The brutality of death gave them pause.

In a blur, she grabbed the small jailer and threw his burning body into the approaching mob. The beast hasted backwards, seeking the narrow and low tunnels. The horrified shrieks of the wardens followed her, alongside their flying spears. One of the bolder guards lunged at her feet, pulling on her still chained feet. This fierce recklessness nearly knocked her off balance. Reflexively,  she grabbed the assailant. With a tortured roar, she hoisted the dwarf up, right into the flying spears of her pursuers. Heart-stopping screams of agony echoed through the cave as the iron rods tore into the dwarf like lightning strikes. The horror of the clan brother quickly turned to rage that fueled their thundering charge. But as the battalion pressed their attack, the corned dragon did not relent. Wrapping the still hot chain around his neck, she snapped his head off in one fell motion. The resulting fountain of blood cooling her iron mask. She tore the numerous spears off the limp and headless corpse and leaped back, some of the dwarves slipping and falling over their companion‘s bloody remains, their falls meeting with a well placed spear through their backs. Now they‘d finally reached her, but the tunnel meant they had to come in one after the other and her size meant that, weapons being equal, she had the greater reach - and their metal coifs left their heads unguarded. It was a slaughter lit only dimly by the flaming corpse left behind them. Soldiers entered - innards and body parts flew out. Around the fifth or so, the clang of metal and hastened feet signaled their retreat. But turned backs meant one thing for her: easy targets. Only when she was left with two spears did she stop, watching the small men run back, presumably towards the surface.

She grabbed a hammer from the side of one of the better equipped dwarf corpses and dragged herself into a nook behind a minecart, falling down on the ground as her legs quivered and tail twitched. She tore the muzzle off with her shaking, healthy hand, gasping repeatedly for air. It was not as her people had told her. She found not a merry cave filled with drink, coals, and warm forges, but a dank, miserable pit where the cold crept unto you and it's people cursed your name. "Demons take these dwarves!" She shouted. Her paws wrapped around the tiny handle of the hammer as she worked on her leg chains, trying to remember how she got into this situation in the first place.

[gofancyninjaworld]

I've been really annoyed at a lot of takes I see on Reddit and couldn't put my finger on why, but today I realized it's because they have a lot of snobbery towards shounen and assume ONE is making fun of every element of it. which I don't think is true. he pokes fun for sure, but I see a lot of "he's deconstructing the shallow shounen trope of blah blah and ridiculing it" which feels excessively mean. Most of the time someone presents the trope being "deconstructed," it's something shounen already handles with nuance. So it's extra annoying because it sounds like people who don't actually read shounen and just assume everything in OPM is ridiculing it. OPM is definitely subversive, but idk. It reminds me of how people who read "real literature" scoff at YA fiction as if there's no way it could ever tackle nuanced themes. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. I guess I just dont wanna think of ONE as being so petty and snobby. What do you think? Maybe i'm too sensitive

Talk about a late, late reply. Sorry!

It's a good observation. I'm not the right person to talk about shonen in detail because I tend to dip in and out of individual titles so there's a lot of nuance I do miss, but you're right, people who dislike a genre tend to lump all its tropes together into an undifferentiated mass.

A slight digression as I introduce you to Boulet, a fantastic French comic strip artist, has a splendid comic collection online (https://english.bouletcorp.com/). Sadly, I'm unable to find the specific strip I have in mind but in it he's imagining how vastly different films would feel if you just kept the camera rolling a little longer. So we get to the aftermath of the Ewoks's victory and see these cute critters dragging the corpses of the Stormtroopers away, mocking some of them... really changes the feel of it. The thing that's different about ONE's handling of shonen tropes in One-Punch Man isn't that he deconstructs them per say -- he loves shonen stories and really has put a lot of thought into how they work -- it's that he keeps the camera rolling. What happens then? So what? What happens as a result? And then? That's what makes it feel like a deconstruction and also serves as the springboard for its seinen genre...

More seriously though, One-Punch Man isn't a parody at its heart: it has a lot of parodic elements but its focus isn't a genre -- it's got bigger things to tackle. ONE does remind me of Terry Pratchett in a way: the Discworld series may have started out as parodies of common fantasy tropes but they quickly outgrew that purpose and the stories became much richer explorations of various aspects of human nature, all while staying fantastic and funny.

I tend to say that ONE parodies heroes -- he loves the weird, contradictory, earnest people who step forward when everyone else avoids trouble and there's a lot of affection for them even as he pokes fun at some of the silliness the superhero genre has thrown up. He satirises corporate culture, and there's a lot of horror that's just put out there without comment for the smart reader to notice and piece together.

It does get annoying when there's fans who claim it can all be understood at a high level and that it needs must be a zero-sum game: if you like OPM, you must disparage the 'standard shonen'. Fortunately, one can simply... ignore the fools. I know I do!

Life is short. You won't stay young forever -- unproductive discourse is something to cut hard and early out of one's life!

[hobbitsnapes]

YOU GUYS ARE DATING

Corpse x MGK!sister reader

(Found this image on Pinterest so all credit goes to artist, if you know who it is please comment below so I can credit them)

A/N: this was requested by @heyitssab

Tree is tall of sex in this, but it’s more in a joking matter, plus corpse has stated he doesn’t mind as long as you are not a minor or send or tag him. I’m literally 2 years younger than him, and have no intentions of ever tagging him or sending him any of my work XD

Summary: how many idiots does it take to tell the brother and friend they’re dating? Apparently takes 2 very forgetful people, who kept their relationship secret without knowing it.

It had just been by chance, a small chance that he had been scrolling through his tags. liking and reposting art, when he saw a tag from someone he followed. He wrecked his brain for when he had followed her, coming up empty. She was cute, no denying the beauty she had as she laughed in the video. It was a clip from a stream that he didn’t know she had, as he couldn’t even remember her name, wearing his merch as it fit her snug. It fit her perfectly in fact, the large hood covering her face, hiding the flush to her face from her rather large chuckles that left her body. He couldn’t help but like the photo, and he couldn’t help but to press message either.

It was first only small likes to posts, an Occasional message, and a view on their livestreams, but that all changed when he spoke of the song he was working on with her older brother.

It all started that night, when both lay in their beds as they talked, laughed, and felt their hearts flutter each time they heard one another speak.

Her phone rang violently in her bag, nearly making her drop the to go bag all over the ground as she walked. “Hello?” She asked, as she held both bags with her hands as her shoulder gripped the phone as if it’d fall down a cliff. “Hey bug!” He exclaimed, making her chuckle as she heard the booming sound of his voice. She had always detested the nickname, as he gave it to her as kids due to her horrendous fear of the creatures. But, it brought more joy to her, as it reminded her of their youth. Having been adults for years, it was fun to hear such a childish name that’s stuck.

“Hey mopey.” She chuckled, as that was the name she gave him when he was in his emo phase that he never outgrew.

Both talked as she walked towards the elevator, mainly about how his day had gone as she silently listened.

She had always been this way, always the shyer of the two, the one to listen to others first before she said a word. He had teased her for it most of their childhood and teen life, but he had grown to love it, as he could let loose or rant to her about anything, and he knew she’d be there just to listen to him.

“So what’re you doing right now?” He asked, as she got into the elevator. “Just grabbed some dinner a few minutes before you called and nearly made me shit.” A smile painted on her face at his boisterous laughter.

“Are you at home?” He asked, as he heard the sound of the elevator beeping in the background. “No, I’m spending the night with my boyfriend.”

She had mentioned about a month prior that she was seeing someone, the joy it brought him to hear the excitement and joy in her tone as she gushed about their first date.

If this was 7 or 8 years prior, he would be bombarding her with questions about the man, who he was, where he lived, where he could meet him to find his intentions with his baby sister. But, in the last few years, he found himself feeling calmer whenever she’d mentioned her love life. He knew she was smart, and would never date a man who treated her poorly. The few breakups she had, they always ended amicably, her head still high as she told him. So, he never asked her any questions about the man, as he could tell from the few times she mentioned him, he could feel the love this man had for her, and Vice versa.

The strong barreling of her phone alerted them awake, both groaning out as she reached for her phone without lifting her head from his shoulder. “Hello?” She mumbled, voice slurred as the saliva was thick in her mouth, barely awake as she fought to listen in on who dares to wake them up.

“Hey!” He exclaimed, making her equally exhausted lover groan. She shifted off of him, laying on her back as he turned away from her, as to hopefully shut his eyes and fall back asleep. She was used to her brother's large voice, as it hardly phased her after growing up with him. “Colson, why are you calling me this ungodly hour?” “Oh come on, it’s not that early.” “Col its-“ She pulled her phone from her ear, eyes shutting violently as the bright light blinded her “5 o’clock in the morning. So again, I’m going to ask you, why did you call me at the asscrack of dawn?” “You don’t remember?” He asked, making her irritation grow. “No, that’s why I’m asking.” She says, as she rubbed her sleep crusted eyes. “You were coming up today to hang out with casie, remember?” Her hand stopped rubbing her face, as she felt her heart stop momentarily. “Wait, you mean today? I thought I was coming Friday?” “No, both of you settled on today, remember I told you that’s perfect because I have a day off?” She felt her heart pain as she heard the sadness in his tone, knowing he’s expecting her to bail. “Yeah sorry, I thought you meant Friday so I mixed it up, let me get ready and I’ll be out the door okay? Love you” she said, as she hung up the line.

Before she could even move, she felt his arm wrap around her body. A tired groan leaving his lips. “Nooo stayyyy.” He groaned, pulling her body to his. She smiled as she looked down at him, wrapping her arm on his chest and the other behind his neck. “I wish I could live, but I can’t.” Planting a soft kiss against his lips. “Stay in bed for a few more hours, please?” Her heart pulled at his tone, hearing just how tired he was. “I can’t, casies wanted me to come up for weeks now. And it takes a good 3 hours to get there. I wanna spend as much time as I can with them before it gets dark so I can get back safely.” He groaned at this, wrapping his arms around her. “Yeah but it’s only 5, it wouldn’t be safe to drive since we went to bed like, 2 hours ago.” “Yeah, and whos fault was that mister?” She teased, “hmm, sorry but I just couldn’t keep my hands to myself after not seeing you for a few days.” He mused, pulling her body closer to his, planting his lips against hers. A small hum left her lips as he pulled her thigh over his, grabbing the flesh harshly as their lips cascaded together. “Mm, no no no, you’re not gonna convince me to stay here just to go another round.” She said, as she got off from his warm body, throwing his large hoodie over her bare body. “Oh come on babe, are you sure about that?” He said, making her turn around to him. A small gasp left her lips as her eyes took in his milky white complexion. His honey brown eyes looking back at her with a small smile etched onto his face. His hair a tousled mess that resembled a bird's nest, some pieces falling onto his face. “Honey, I’ve been wanting to see my family for weeks now, I see you almost everyday and practically live here. I’ll be back tomorrow so I can grab more clothes from my place okay?” She placed a kiss to his lips, both holding one another in their arms. “I don’t know why you don’t just say fuck that place and just move in.” He mumbled, making her chuckle and heart warm. “Don't you think it’s a little soon though? I mean we’ve only been together a few months love.” “Yeah, but you’ve practically lived here since we got together, you literally just go there to get more clothes that you end up leaving here.” She looked into his eyes as she thought about his words. “Hm, I’ll think about it today okay?” She mused, planting a kiss to his lips. A soft okay leaving him as she got up.

“And babe, remember if you live here, we can have all the sex we want and not have to worry about driving to get one another.” He exclaimed, laughing at the loud honey she screamed from the bathroom.

She couldn’t help but laugh out as she watched, as her niece tried her hardest to braid her fathers grown out hair. It was near impossible not to, as pieces would fall out, resulting in her pulling them harsher, nearly pulling his eyelids back due to the tension from his temples. “Okay okay you’re gonna fuckin scalp me.” He chuckled , as all three bursted out in large laughter.

“So how’s school going this year?” She asked her, as she delicately painted her nails. Both of the girls had found themselves on the floor in front of the nice coffee table, as colson sat and chatted with them. “It’s going really well.” “Oh yeah? Make any new friends?” She teased. “I mean, kinda.” She couldn’t help but hear the wavering in her tone, spotting the faint blush dusting her skin. “Ohh, so there’s a someone eh?” She teased to her, making the preteen hide her face as to conceal the flush. “His names Garrett, and we both take social studies together. He always sits next to me at lunch, and we’ll draw on my notebook.” She gushed, making her smile. “Soo, do you think he likes you?” “I mean, that’s what everyone keeps saying.” “Yeah well don’t worry about it to much cas, you’re not dating anyone for many more years. You’re still a kid.” Her das said, making the young girls face fall.

Y/N knew he was only saying this to protect her, as he said the same thing to her growing up. “Hey, don’t be bummed out about it. He is right, you both are only 12 and should focus on school. But don’t worry, he’ll come around. He was just like that with me up until my current boyfriend.” She whispered, making the young girl chuckle.

“Speaking of which, how are you guys doing?” He asked, as she hadn’t mentioned hun to her in a while. He didn’t think it’d hurt to ask. “Great actually, we’re thinking of moving in together actually.” “That’s great! I’m really happy that y’all met.” “Yeah, I am too.” She hummed, a flush dusting her cheeks.

Both men laughed as they chatted on the phone, talking about anything that would come to mind. What was once only a collaboration for a song, turned into an amazing friendship that caused both of them to call at late hours just to shoot the shit.

A yawn left his lips, as he listened to colson ramble on about another song he was making. “Woah, you tired man?” Colson asked, shocked to hear the sound. “Yeah sorry, was up most of the night last night.” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Were you feeling alright?” He asked, worry laced in his tone. He knew all about his friends illnesses, even once being on the other end of the phone during a bad spell one day.” “Oh yeah yeah yeah, was just, up with the misses last night.” He chuckled, a flush blooming on his cheeks. “Ohhh yeah? And how was it?” This shocked him, nearly feeling his heart stop. Like, does he usually know about his sisters sex life? He didn’t think much of it, as he knew just how close both were. “It was absolutely fucking amazing. Like I thought we’d be done for the night, fully tapped out but after like 5 minutes she’d be right back on me for another round.” He chuckled, his flush even worse than before. “Ayyyeee good for you corpse, glad to hear that puss is bussin.” He laughed at this, throwing his head back. “Yeah, it’s bussin bussin.”

Both men talk as they read from their phones, eyes wide in absolute awe of the love they received from the song. They had just dropped it a few days prior, not expecting the cry of joy from both fan bases.

He didn’t even look up from it when she walked in, until she bent down to plant a kiss to his forehead. “Sorry I had completely forgot about the tea I made you an hour ago, but I put it back on the stove to heat it up so if it’s twisting funky just tell me okay?” Before he could even thank her, both their heads whipped towards the loudness from the other line. “Y/N? Is that you? What in the hell are you doing there with corpse!” He didn’t sound angry, more shocked than anything, both of them looking at the phone in confusion. “I, I love here? Remember I told you like a month ago I was moving in with him?” “WHAT!” Both jumped at the loud scream. “Wait so you guys are dating!?” Both we’re even more perplexed, until it dawned on both of them. Their eyes wide as they turned their heads to one another slowly. “Wait you didn’t tell him?” “No? He’s one of your best friends so I thought you did!” “He’s your brother! So I thought you did!” Both whisper, until all three lay silent. That was until, the large cry of laughter that leaves the two, leaving colson even more confused. He wasn’t mad, not at all actually. More shocked and confused than anything. Until he started thinking, it does make sense, all the times they spoke about one another without him knowing, all the times they mentioned-“OH GOD!” He yelled, gagging violently, making them stop their laughing fit. “What's wrong? Why are you yelling?” She asks “like a month ago corpse was talking about how he was tired cause he was up all night having sex AND I HAD NO IDEA HE WAS TALKING ABOUT YOU! OH GOD WAS THAT WHY YOU WERE LIMPING THAT DAY WITH CAS AND I!” Both laugh even harder, as they listen to his ever growing gags.

“So yeah,. That’s literally how we had no idea we were keeping the relationship secret from her brother.” He laughed, as he red the comments and listened to his friends' laughter. She sat beside him, head laying on his shoulder as he told the story. She couldn’t help but to look back up into his eyes, as he glanced down at her, planting a soft kiss to her lips. “Keep it pg guys.” Colson said from the other line, making them chuckle.

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S PRICE - CHAPTER 64

*Warning: Adult Content*   

Rejoining the others, they find Alpha Dane Hunter and his sister Freya Hunter have the situation in hand. 

Aengus is locked in a pair of irons, chained to a point of his own star, a rag bound over his mouth and guarded by Freya. 

Nearby, Dane tends to Mathilda's injuries with the first-aid kit he keeps in his car. 

For her part, Mathilda kneels in the grass by Penelope's body and holds her daughter's hand, seeming hardly aware of the man taping gauze to the side of her head. 

She's lost both her children in roughly the span of a week, Noah Hunter reflects but while he'd have hardly guess she even knew Brutus or Penelope, she weeps. 

Aileen sits at the corpse's other side, also in tears, while August stands a few feet away, hugging himself and looking miserable.

"Poor Penelope," Noah murmurs as they approach. "I know you think she was as bad as the rest but... I think she deserved better."

Ambrose Thorne squeezes Noah’s hand but holds his peace. 

Spotting them, Dane leaves off his ministrations and strides straight for Julian, catching him in his arms. 

Then the two speak soft and close and Noah hears Dane say something like, ‘shouldn't have’ as he touches Julian Hart's pointed ears. 

Julian shrugs self-consciously and mutters ‘Would have had to, anyway’ and the two embrace again. 

A low whistle draws Noah’s attention away from them and he cringes as he turns to find Freya taking in the view. 

Ambrose is still on full display. 

Noah know she's filing away all sorts of information for his future torment but when my sister turns her attention his way, her expression carries only concern.

"You okay, little brother?" she asks. 

He’s a year her senior but she's been calling him that since she outgrew him at age nine. 

"What happened? We heard that howl and then your man there took off like a bat outta hell."

As Julian and Dane join them, they quickly recount their misadventures with Thomas.

"A Lycan?" Freya gapes. "Holy shit, Nono. Good thing you had a dragon on your side."

"Good thing he had a Fae, more like it," Ambrose allows. "It was fair Julian who finished the beast."

Freya and Dane both stare, one with surprised admiration, the other with undisguised fear but Julian merely shrugs.

"I snuck up on him and stabbed him in the back. No big deal."

Julian shrugs again, looking uncomfortable. 

"Hey, what's Pack for?" he says but then he meets Noah’s eyes and goes slightly pink.

Noah blinks and then nods an assurance that he understands. 

Julian would risked his life to fight at his side, as Noah had once fought at his, refusing to let him face danger alone. 

If any part of Noah had not yet forgiven Julian for betraying his trust, he forgave him now. 

They were Pack and that made them brothers, even if they didn't always get along.

"So... What now?" Dane asks, indicating Aengus and the relics, which still rest in a pile on the altar at the center of the seal. 

Ambrose sighs and runs his hands through his long, soot-streaked hair.

"I've an idea," he says, "but it's not my choice alone to make."

He nods towards Mathilda, Aileen and August.

"It's the only sure end to all of this but it's for them to decide."

"Decide what?" Mathilda asks, looking up at them with weary, grief-reddened eyes. "What is there to decide? You must destroy the relics. Aengus must pay for what he's done."

Blood and tears streak her face, her hair is a mess, her clothes are torn and half her head is wrapped in bandages. 

She looks more human than Noah has seen her yet and he likes her better for it.

"I agree," Ambrose says, "Of course. But Ainach did not lie, to take one Gift, he must take all. Furthermore, there must be an exchange. In taking the Gifts, Ainach shall return your mortality."

"So, we will die," Mathilda states, sounding not at all distressed by the idea. "So be it, then."

Ambrose, though, shakes his head. 

"No. Time stopped for you and the others, save Aengus, of course, the day you made those deals. When you lose your Gift, that clock will start again. You will have whatever remains to you of your natural lives, during which you will age and grow old, as you should have long ago and then, yes, you will die. What you do with the time between now and then is up to you."

There's silence for a moment and then Aileen speaks.

"It's more than we deserve," she says. "I don't object."

August, to Noah’s surprise, nods as well. 

"I don't know if I can change but if you give me a chance to try, I'll take it."

Mathilda sniffs and wipes at her eyes. 

She still kneels by Penelope and now she carefully arranges her daughter's hands over her unmoving breast and leans to kiss her death-paled brow.

"My poor Nellie," she murmurs, getting to her feet. "If any of us deserved such a chance, it was she."

Noah hears the echo of his earlier words and swallow the ache in his throat as he understands that what Penelope had said was true, the Oakfields and Thornes hadn't set out to be awful. 

Even Aengus had good intentions once, though he'd used them to pave his own road to hell.

"What you're offering is a Gift in its own way, though what happens to us hardly matters now," Mathilda continues. "As long as this is done, and over for good, then I don't care. Do as you will."

Aengus makes a strangled noise of protest and pulls at his bonds but Ambrose only shakes his head at him. 

Then Ambrose turns to Noah.

"Little wolf," he says, taking Noah’s hands in his, "How do I love you so? We've not known each other long but I know well enough I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Just as sweet raspberries were my favorite treat as a lad, picked ripe from the banks of the River Tay and are my favorite still  and shall be my favorite, I'll wager, for as long as I live, so I know that my love for you shall remain as fresh as that very first, tart taste of pleasure. And I know that you would say the same," he continues cutting off my attempt to speak, "But you must understand that while my love for you is constant, I, as you know me, am not."

"Ambrose..."

"Just let me finish," he says, cutting me off. "I know you would give yourself as my anchor and my heart, willingly, readily because it is your nature to give what others need. I'm asking you to wait. Let me do this and then... Well, then it shall be your choice. You shall see me as I am, Noah Hunter and then, if you still want me, I am yours."

Noah raises his eyes, sees the open, honest pain in Ambrose’s eyes and nods.

"Alright, Ambrose Thorne," he says, trusting what he sees in his eyes. "Do what you must. Then, dragon or man, you'll know what it is to belong to a Wolf."

Ambrose nods, his eyes flaring with a heat of love and desire that sears Noah to the bone and kisses him so he tastes fire on his tongue. 

Then he pushes Noah gently to the edge of the seal, where Freya wraps him in her arms, before turning his attention to the relics piled at the center of the nine-pointed star. 

The dragon's shape is reptilian, gracile and thin, with four limbs, a long tail, enormous wings and a mouth full of bladed teeth. 

He looks down on them with catlike eyes of yellow flame as he writhes in coils of fire and smoke. 

As terrifying as he is, Noah understands that he isn't really there, not physically, anyway. 

What he’s seeing is a projection of Ambrose's soul, just as he might see a wolf, if he really looked at Noah, which he's opened as a kind of window to that other realm, where Ainach's greater nature resides. 

So, Noah lowers his gaze and focus on the man himself, wreathed in flame, naked, inhuman and wild and meet his eyes through a veil of fire. 

Noah loves him, still and offers him what he can in a smile. 

Something in his expression eases, then and as he lets his head fall back, his dragon-fire flares and in that burst of incandescence, the relics are consumed. 

As they burn, spectral mists emerge from each and take shape at the empty points of the star. 

Noah sees a man with curling auburn air, much like Ambrose's own, whom he assumes is his grandfather, Rowan Oakfield. 

Beside him, Brutus stands with his blustery expression gentled to a bewildered calm and then there is Thaddeus, looking about him as though lost in a wood.

Finally, there are two more, Penelope, who smiles with restored innocence and a beautiful young man with dark, long-lashed eyes, a slightly curved nose and toasted brown skin, Jack, who would have been Shanti's human brother and Aengus' son. 

At last, only one relic remains, a gold watch with a broken face. 

As Ambrose's hand hovers over it, he hesitates and lifts his gaze to each of his living relatives and to the shades of those who have died. 

His eyes land on his cousin, last and Jack's shade gives him a wink and the crooked, knowing smile of a partner in crime. 

He was Ambrose's only friend, his hero and Noah realizes, with a twist of irrational jealousy, probably his first love, as well.

Ambrose returns Jack's smile, then shifts his gaze to Noah who offers him a smile of his own. 

Jack might be the best memory he has of his past but Noah is his present and he hopes his future happiness. 

As Ambrose’s eyes lock with Noah’s, his expression shifts from nostalgic fondness to pure desire and he ignites, releases his full fire and turns Aengus' relic to ash. 

In the air above, Ainach's form spreads wings that cover half the sky and burns with a brightness that makes Noah shield his eyes. 

Then, like a burst firework, or the petals of flowers falling in a spring breeze, he comes apart. 

The deals are undone and he is free. 

The Oakfields and Thornes too, are free.

Aengus shrieks as his body falls to blackened ash and dust, as it should have long ago and the gathered shades rush towards him as one and carry him off into the night air, where all dissolve as mist below the glare of the moon. 

Then Ambrose's fire dims and diminishes to the glow of coals, gleaming along his veins and in the depths of his eyes, as the living heave a sigh of relief,and at last the night is still. 

Ambrose still looks a little wild and a little lost as Noah goes to him, drawn by instinct like a moth to his flame.

"Hey," Noah whisper’s carefully joining his hands with Ambrose’s. "It's over now. It's okay."

“Over?" he echoes soundlessly, looking about him at Aileen, Mathilda and August where they kneel in the grass around the points of the star and at the lumpy remains of Aengus' blackened bones and empty clothes. 

Noah nods as Ambrose completes the circuit and meets his eyes again and then he slumps, exhausted and Noah barely catches him before he falls. 

Then a much larger arm than Noah’s slips around Ambrose's shoulders and takes his weight.

"Hell of a show," Dane says. "You okay?"

"I think so," Noah answers, though he watches with concern as fire continues to flicker fitfully beneath Ambrose's skin. "The others?"

“Seem to be," Dane grunts, nodding towards Mathilda.

"I'm all right," she says, climbing to her feet, "Though I don't feel much different, to be honest."

"I do," Aileen says, dusting grass from her knees. "I feel better, I think."

"Me, too. Better," August echoes, blinking through a watery smile.

"Ambrose?" Noah asks, as he hasn't answered, though he's regained his balance and shifted away from Dane to lean on Noah once more, his arms at his waist.

"I'm all burnt out, little wolf," Ambrose whispers raggedly, kissing the side of Noah’s head. "But I'll be alright, with a bit of rest, I think."

Fire continues to flicker in his veins, though and Noah’s not completely reassured. 

As he examines him, Freya walks over to kick at Aengus' remains with the toe of her boot. 

"What now?" she asks, directing her question at Dane. "We got three bodies on our hands. Your cop friends gonna be cool with this?"

Dane shrugs. 

"We'll tell the truth, mostly. Though..." he looks at Mathilda and the others, "...we'll need some help."

"We will take care of it," Mathilda says, surprising me. "We will say that the man, Thom, killed Penelope before attacking me." She touches the side of her bandaged head. "And that August killed him to save me."

Dane nods.

"Chief Coleridge knows not to ask too many questions," he says. "It should work. As for the rest of us..."

Dane’s eyes to go Julian, who has wandered off a bit and stands staring up at the moon, clearly inhuman and looking as if he hardly belongs in this world.

"Well, I guess I understand why Shanti saw us at the Standing Stones tonight," he sighs, watching as Julian hums to himself and literally reaches for the stars.

"What? Why?" Freya asks, glancing around for some new threat.

"Because tonight time is steady between many worlds," Shanti herself answers, emerging from the shadows at the edge of the yard and making us all jump. "What passes in one realm shall pass in another, equally, it is one reason Aengus chose it for his ritual. Things are in rare balance, tonight."

"Wait... are you saying Juju's gotta go to Faerie-land, now?" Freya asks.

Dane nods unhappily. 

"Using his Fae abilities, on top of it being the full moon... He can't stay like this. Not here, anyway. He needs his own kind," he adds, grudgingly.

Noah looks at Julian, at the way he shimmers with ethereal light and realize that Dane is right. 

"At least one of you won't have to bear being apart longer than the other," Noah says, taking a bit more of Ambrose's weight as he leans on him. 

Shanti smiles. 

"Is it not better, after all, when there is a burden to bear, to share it equally?"

Noah agrees but also feels a little thrill of unease because while it seems she's speaking to Julian and Dane, her eyes are on Ambrose and him.

[bitterfrosts]

I posted 4,605 times in 2021

1269 posts created (28%)

3336 posts reblogged (72%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 2.6 posts.

I added 396 tags in 2021

#britty watches word of honor - 72 posts

#song lan - 64 posts

#britty watches wu xin the monster killer - 42 posts

#britty watches legend of twin lotus - 37 posts

#self reblog! - 31 posts

#britty watches guardian - 31 posts

#to read later! - 31 posts

#joy of life - 30 posts

#love and redemption - 29 posts

#li bowen - 29 posts

Longest Tag: 83 characters

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My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Song Lan is the kind of guy who thinks putting a spoonful of brown sugar into his oatmeal every morning is fun and exciting

Now what does it say about Xiao Xingchen that he KNOWS that and still his initial thoughts after meeting him were “oh I can’t not fuck him”

222 notes • Posted 2021-03-19 18:55:39 GMT

#4

Oh the Eldest Daughter yanli feelings are hitting hard again. She saw how her parents were irreparably damaging her brother and martial brother and said “I’ll just raise them better myself” and she didn’t have to, especially since her parents also did that shit to her and she had no one to Eldest Daughter her. Deserved better. :(

265 notes • Posted 2021-03-04 05:31:13 GMT

#3

Thinking about the first time A-Yuan leg hugs Lan Xichen and he has to go excuse himself to cry because it was TOO CUTE and it reminds him of when his own baby brother would do that but only to him, and he outgrew it too quickly. 

428 notes • Posted 2021-01-01 07:01:22 GMT

#2

“I can fix him” well I can use demonic cultivation to turn him into a fierce corpse

554 notes • Posted 2021-09-06 23:56:52 GMT

#1

They should have just kept him in the glasses. Probably would have worked out better for him. He has my ultimate trust. I would let him do my taxes. This man is just a humble accountant and he committed no crimes. He exists to balance spreadsheets.

2288 notes • Posted 2021-03-17 18:19:47 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[fuckblizzardbearlover]

Kinda sad there wasnt more angst over bertrend. Or rather sad cus i cant help but thinking of what id do in this group. I wanted to make an ignorant but well meaning monk/paladin a young guy who grew up in a snall monestary that didnt have much time for naval gazing as they spent most of their time farming and fixing and working just to take care of it since they were in the middle of nowhere so they had to be completely independant. And he left the monestary when one of the occassional visitors thry cloth and feed, that comes around now and then, killed many of them in their sleep and used their corpses to kill the rest.

Like i think that would be fun to explore especially with this group. Basically someone who grew up with a found family of 20 or so people who emphasised kindness and enjoying life (monestary would be modeled after Taoism which from what i read was more earthly and focused on doing good in life) and being efficient but compassionate. And while thry treated him right he didnt have a strong childhood cus he had to work so much and the few kids his age outpaced him (being a human monestary and him being a half elf) so his childhood friends outgrew him. So he has all this joy for life but has never seen the world, a will to help others and make friends but no experience with people . And spent his whole life being taught to be compassionate to strangers and respectful only for his whole family to be killed for truating the wrong stranger.

And how thats his conflict. Knowing and being raised to be open to strangers when he can only be out in the world because trust is what murdered his family. Trying his best to be kind in a confusing world even though deep down he doesnt know if these weirdos in the world deserve it

And then he does meet some new people, they protect him and help him and are kind to him if a little strange...and then one who reminds him of his "uncles" and "fathers" is suddenly killed. And even the most compassionate seem to accept it or want to move on quickly like.. and hes thinking "is there even a point to making friends if they can just be taken a way?" "Was i a fool to consider him my friend" "if i died would they be going through my pockets and shrugging " "am i being to harsh?" "Am i expecting to little?"

And just feeling like people are just to good and bad and both and more than he thought possible

[besottedghost]

written for the mafia/brothel au by @new-endings

@ new-endings, Your au was amazing and everything I didn’t know I wanted, but I couldn’t handle the angst....i’m sorry

* there’s slight nsfw in one paragraph

---

It’s just business, dear.

The words felt amplified while Crowley stood there silent, face blank behind dark glasses. His hands were clenched tight around the lead pipe, turning his knuckles white. Specks of blood were splattered across his sharp chin, his angled cheeks, and high above his brow. The sight alone would’ve made anyone run for the door, but the only thing Aziraphale feared was him leaving his life again.

The years without him were monotone and silent. Filled with bittersweet memories that made him ache while drowning out plaguing thoughts with a bottle of wine most nights. How have you changed? Are you taking care of yourself? Is your hair still streaming down your shoulders? Did you find someone who makes you happy as much as you made me?

It grew bearable when the brothel came into his possession, and he assumed the role of Master. Between taking care of his partners, building clientele, and managing the brothel’s reputation, his mind had no time to wander. Routine took the place of disappointment, and the number of years he spent without Crowley outgrew the ones with him. Even in the quiet moments of his days where loneliness waited, it was easier.

It was what he was used to.

Until Crowley sauntered back into his life, handsome as ever, and propositioned him in his office as if there wasn’t a mountain of distance between them. They agreed it would just be that one time. So Aziraphale allowed himself to revel in the pleasure Crowley gave him that far exceeded any fantasies he had. All the while servicing him in return that Crowley enthusiastically enjoyed despite his lacking experience.

It was meant to be a heated memory he would survive on in his empty bed, but his old friend didn’t share the same sentiments.

After that night Crowley never failed in visiting the brothel every week, only asking for Aziraphale, paying more or the same but never less for a night with him. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to look forward to his visits with heat curling in his belly, wondering how Crowley was going to make him cum this time. Will his serpentine tongue lick into him, mouth kissing his hole while fingers were wrapped around his cock? Maybe rough hands will bend his legs back above his head and pound into him with a snarl. Or will Aziraphale get to chock on his cock with his hair being pulled and guided into bucking hips? Moaning angel until he cums down his throat.

It was all different variations of him wrapped around Crowley’s cock, but the end was always the same. Gently being cleaned up and having arms wrapped around him while they laid in his bed. Gold eyes filled with fondness as he listened to Aziraphale talk about his week. Grinning when he laughed from the stories of Crowley’s rancid coworkers, kissing him long and slow before they both fell asleep. Waking up alone each time disappointed and angry for forgetting.

A fuck is a fuck and love has no business here.

“How much for a contract with you?”

Aziraphale blinked, snapping out his thoughts, “I beg your pardon?” He asked because it almost sounded like he wanted to form a contract with him.

A few clients had favorites among his partners. They didn’t want to share them outside of their time together, so they formed a monthly renewable contract. It was incredibly expensive and had additional rules meant to protect his partners that many clients didn’t think was worth the expense. Currently, there were only two active contracts, and only one of them planned to renew.

“You said it was only business,” Crowley clenched his jaw and threw the bloodied pipe next to Gabriel's head. “So how much will it be for you to be mine alone?” He growled and crowded him against his desk.

Aziraphale found it hard to focus with Crowley towering over him, his expensive cologne distracting him along with a stray red curl that dangled on his forehead. He looked down at his shoes and placed his hands in his pockets, toying with the inner seam hoping Crowley would give up and leave.

He did not leave. He offered a price that would comfortably retire two of his partners in their early thirties for the rest of their lives. It was an offer that was too generous and incredibly idiotic.

If the other brothels ever knew the details between him and Crowley, they would be jealous of not having such a client. They would say he had it easy and call him foolish for even hesitating at the offer.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with wide eyes and blurted, “there is no else!”

Crowley froze, and he took the opportunity to move away from him to hide behind his desk, separating them. Giving him enough space to breathe while Crowley looked at him warily.

“Before and after you, there was and will be no else,” Aziraphale swallowed. “So, there’s no need to o-offer such a ridiculous amount.” His hands reached for random papers and shuffled them around. “In fact, I think we should end our transaction. It already brought trouble here by sending out the wrong message. I will have n-no more of it!” His voice trembled, and he accidently knocked over his mug. Cold tea spilled over the edge of his desk and dripped to the floor.

He heard a clack and saw Crowley’s glasses upside down next to his pen. He looked up nervously and saw the same look Crowley always gave him before bedding him. His heart fluttered, and he couldn’t help the way his breath hitched when Crowley’s arms braced him against the desk, trapping him.

Aziraphale turned his head and closed his eyes when he felt them water. Not only did he fail in lying to himself that this meant nothing, but he turned something simple into a mess. Now how was he going to clean this up? What was he supposed to do now that his heart grew three sizes too big since Crowley came back into his life? It felt heavy and warm with every smirk, laugh, and touch he gave him. How long will it be until his heart shrivels back down cracked and smaller than it was before when Crowley inevitable leaves again.

“Why,” Crowley asked softly.

Someone else could give your money’s worth, he could say, and direct him to any of his partners for the hundredth time. He could pretend to be oblivious. Delay this dooming conversation until another distraction or when Crowley would reluctantly leave when he had other matters to attend. But there was a corpse on his floor. And he was tired.

“Why does it matter?” Aziraphale sighed and flinched when he felt fingers brush against his cheek. A rough palm cupped his cheek and guided his face back to Crowley’s. His eyes flew open when he felt his forehead rest against his. Gold eyes were filled with a strange vulnerability he hadn’t seen since Crowley left with a goodbye all those years ago.

“Angel.” Crowley swallowed. His voice low and soft, “you’re everything to me. Always was, and I’d rather be alone than be with anyone else that isn’t you.”

His eyes widened as he stared at Crowley who patiently waited. Warmth bubbled in his chest, and he dared to hope that maybe his love wasn’t unrequited after all. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was afraid.

He left before what’s stopping him from leaving again, his mind cautioned, it would be worse this time. You already gave him your body, how will you recover from giving up your heart to him too?

But he came back, his heart opened up, with his heart on a platter for you. What more are you asking for?

“I love you,” Aziraphale breathed and watched gold eyes lit up while a broad smile broke out on Crowley’s face. He licked his lips and felt a small thrill when Crowley’s eyes flickered down at his mouth. “My dear, I-I loved you then and I love you now.”

An arm went behind his waist and pulled him against Crowley, whose other hand tangled itself in white curls and pressed a short, chaste kiss on his lips. He pressed another kiss, long and slow but sweeter until their teeth clacked from smiling.

“No more separations. No more transactions. No contracts.” Crowley’s hands cupped his face, holding him as if he was something precious. “Let me take you to dinner, angel. I know a place that serves twenty-three variety of crepes.”

Aziraphale beamed and threw his arms around Crowley’s neck before kissing him once more.

---

-i was goina write a scene where Madam Tracy goes looking for Aziraphale only to find him in his office making out with Crowley while Gabriel’s dead body keeps bleeding on his rug but i got lazy

- I did not do any research on brothel’s so i’m not sure if they actually do something like contracts i got the idea from Harlots when one of the worker’s was paid to be a mistress (i think? it’s been a while since I’ve seen the show)

- @  new-endings I don’t think this was the direction you were going for with this au, but I hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you again for the fic idea that haunted me in the best way possible!!

[5lazarus]

For Imladris, please. What is your favourite way to pass the time? Do you have any hobbies? If yes, what made you choose it?

so after the joke about all those elvhen gates being dick-shaped and looking at this prompt, I had to write this! I hope you enjoy!

We were hunting the snowy wyvern in one of the fetid swamps the Inquisition had the misfortune to take me to, but the architecture at least was fascinating. After slaughtering and butchering the creatures, I sought a dry spot to clean my robes. I heard Sera scream behind me and Solas snicker. I sighed. I wanted Solas to answer a few questions about Ghilan'nain's Grove, and the Dread Wolf statues that littered the place, and thought it would be a good idea to expose Sera to the history of her people as well. Instead they had spent the entire trip sniping at each other. One would think a middle-aged deity would have more patience for a teenaged girl--Sera had to be barely eighteen, if that at all. But he was always tricky to read.

Blackwall sat next to me. I began to unlatch his greaves and get him out of his heavy plate. He already smelled enough, we didn't need gurgut mud adding to his general funk. "You know what this place was, Inquisitor?" he asked. "You studied archaeology, right? With the Dalish and in Orlais?"

I grunted, working at one particularly stubborn strap. The mud had already hardened over the buckle. "Oh yes. Once upon a time." Really it was the best part of this whole Herald of Andraste business--I spent too much time in decaying ruins. It would be enjoyable but for the reanimated corpses, the gurgets, the occasional screeching ancient elvhen priest revived as a demon, and of course, Corypheus ripping through the Dalish layers to get straight to the last of Arlathan.

Blackwall nodded at a particularly magnificent trefoil gateway that had to be at least as old as Solas. "Then--I have to ask this, and Solas'd probably lob a fireball at me if I asked him--"

"Tom," I dropped his arm, exasperated, "I'm not answering any questions about my sex life," while Solas was around, I did not say aloud.

I was expecting him to ask if Solas liked to fuck in ancient ruins, which he didn't, it depressed him too much, but Blackwall says, "No, no, not about that--wait, what?"

"Carry on," I said hurriedly. I caught movement in the corner of my eye. Sera had strayed too close to another pack of wyverns, and they were chasing her around while Solas watched serenely. He would freeze them once she was actually in danger. I hoped.

Blackwall gave me a look, but kept talking, "Why's the gate so--" I watched the drama play out on his face. He did not want to say "dick" or "cock" or "penis" in front of the Inquisitor. He did want to know, genuinely. And he was looking for ammunition, I knew, to get back at Solas for their next card game. Solas had won two griffon rocking chairs and half a year's wages last time Blackwall had been dared to challenge him to a match. I thought: why not? Let's stir the pot.

"Phallic?" I supplied. "Honestly, I've no idea. I could bullshit you like an Orlesian and tell you it's likely of some ritual significance, but why don't we ask Solas?"

"The elvhen artifact himself," Blackwall muttered. I heard a yelp, and turned to see Solas batting at a dragonling with his staff. Fuck: not another dragon nest. You would think the Dread Wolf would be better about not getting set on fire. Blackwall and I cleared out the gurgets and the dragonlings, and then we strayed close to the nest itself and had to run while a dragon hurled balls of lightning at us. We sprinted through the horrible swamp, squishing the whole long way back to camp.

I snarled at the requisitions officer to leave us alone and threw myself by the fire. Solas helped me take off my armored robes, and the four of us began to administer to the cuts and scraps we'd gotten on Vivienne's little errand. I was drowsing in the warmth of the fire as Solas combed the mud out of my hair when Blackwall finally said, "So, Solas, answer me this: why're all those elvhen gates dick-shaped?"

Solas jerked the comb and I winced away. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

Blackwall chortled. "Well, you have to see it. I mean--was it some ceremonial purpose?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Big space, big dick shape, what's a man supposed to think?"

Solas was silent for a moment. I exchanged a glance with Sera. Sera was grinning. Finally, Solas said reluctantly, "I suppose it makes it worse if I tell you they held mirrors."

Blackwall cackled, and Solas sighed. He looked at mournfully. I shrugged.

"You have to admit," I said. "They are rather phallic."

"They're lotuses," he said.

"Which can be considered phallic," I countered. Solas looked at me pitifully. What did I like to do in my free time? I liked to ask my favorite elvhen artifact bad historical questions, and see how flustered I could get him. If I could deflect and get Blackwall or Sera to do it, so much the better. I settled against him and smirked as he wrapped his arms around me and tucked my head under his chin. Blackwall was still giggling to himself, muttering something about "bobbing around in the moonlight" that I decided I did not want to know.

Sera looked at us. "The ancient elves were weird, yeah?"

"Yes, da'len," Solas said. "Though one eventually outgrew the public orgies in roadways."

[thanais]

“Mother”

Gorgeously translated from russian by @vanithesquid ! No, really, that’s a truly masterpiece of using language! Thank you so much! 

Blood carried the taste of iron. Iron was forged into weapons. Weapons that were forged to spill blood. It was so elegantly simple. Back in the orphanage, when Tharaêl still trailed his older brother with the curiosity of childhood, he had known other truths. That high above the highest caves laid a field of clouds in the sky, like seafoam taking to the air from atop the crest of the waves, dreaming it could turn into birds. That beyond it all shone the sun like the largest of lanterns, filled with the brightest yolk that anyone could imagine. They hadn’t quite managed, back then, to determine who it was that switched the sun on and off, or why there was a night at all. They never had the time. The birds tumbled from the heavens, catching fire under the lamps of Barnabas the Mechanic. The seafoam scattered and settled as mold and rot on slimy walls. The sky was made a prisoner far beyond the dome of the caves. And so his world had narrowed down to the dust of the Arena. Her truths were much simpler. Clearer. And above all, they were the truths of life itself. She throbbed with the howls of the crowd, pulse weakened by disappointment, strengthened by ecstasy, frenzied by the sight of blood. She breathed the deadly dance of swords, in and out, in and out. She devoured with the same greed living men and corpses alike, while the despair and depravity of her rotten womb warped the mind, giving birth to ever more monsters in their mother’s image. He’d had to become part of her, to follow that pulse and breathing. He’d had to learn to strike for the kill and to bury his pain when struck. And he’d succeeded. The result of a well-learned lesson soon came to squirm beneath his feet, and the pungent smell of the dying man’s excrement left him vomiting. On that day, he outgrew childhood like a babe did its diapers. She was his teacher. His tutor. His overseer, wetnurse, and mother. The Arena. She was an eye reflecting all things with Pyrean accuracy — a world built from blood and iron, from greed and from poverty. Eyes were the mirror of the soul, and the Arena was the mirror of the soul of the whole world. The warmth of Letho’s name, the warmth of family, sheltered him from the Undercity’s unending winter. It caressed and comforted him with a tenderness beyond words, always smiling, ever thoughtful, kind as no other things could be. It promised protection and safety, even when an inch of steel lodged itself between Tharaêl’s ribs, or when he was left to crawl in refuse like an overgrown rat. It lit his path like a lifeline through all the darkest, hardest days. It was a fire that cast no shadows. A flame that warmed without scorching. A candle that the mirror of the Arena could not reflect. Tharaêl feared that he would lose that candle. Down in the Dust Pit’s ring, at times, he saw not the eyes of his foes, but different ones, bright grey and strict — and in those moments shame came to encase Tharaêl’s soul in ice. How dare he kill? Letho would never. Never in his life. But his life had ended, and that life was over. In this life, this new life, he was taught by the Arena. And slowly, softly, she pushed the back of her exhausted child ever on, even when he could barely make it out of the ring by himself. Until, one day, he was pulled out of his thoughts by a voice — a voice that should not have belonged to a living man. “You’re not afraid of taking blades and blows to your face.” Tharaêl raised his head in silence, and stared intently at the mark of the Rhalâs before nodding. “We need mercenaries like you.” Four years of constant effort, of taking a knife to his soul to shear off all the weight he could and reshape his very nature. Four years of betraying his brother with every breath, every step, every fight in the Dust Pit. To become a mercenary? No. “I don’t want to be a mercenary,” Tharaêl answered. “I want to join the Rhalâta.” The cold, dark eyes of a hardened murderer bore down on him and his words, in that same way a stern dog would push its puppies into the ground. As the silence slowly lengthened, Tharaêl thought himself over. To be killed for his insolence, to be made to die in pain with his guts splattered by his sides, to be— “You will say that to the First Seer,” came the Rhalâim’s answer. Mother Arena encouraged her offspring as she always did, whispering in his ear with her rotten, putrid breath, ever yearning to know how well she had taught her children. And somewhere, gray eyes watched, solemn and sorrowful.

[daemonusdea]

Zero and Her Sisters { meta }

  This is something I don’t think I’ve ever talked much about, maybe individually with some people or just vaguely, but with Zero’s sisters being an important key to Zero herself as a character and their roles as a concept in the games I really wanted to lay all of it out!

I guess this is technically??? Spoilers for the game…So uuuuh just be aware of that I supposefnjg. Other than that here we hecking go, under the cut! It’s long, so strap in!

  The first to get out of the way, is to know that her sisters are, put blankly, not actually her sisters– the sisters are more like corpse copies of Zero. In an attempt to preserve itself when she tried to dig the Flower out of her own chest ( which would kill her and the offshoot Flower, as well as any chance to destroy the world like it intended ), it spat out five copies, five little girls each with their own Flower. Along with that, they were given false memories, though each girl differed in what they believed to be their past, how their ‘parents’ were, and how they lived. To make these girls, the Flower used resources from Zero such as a chunk of her magic, split off between the five of them. But most importantly, it took the faces of girls Zero knew or killed when she was alive, and took fragments of Zero’s own psyche to base their personalities off of. Now onto the sisters individually!

Five. Five is the youngest of all the sisters. Five, being extremely promiscuous, gluttonous and greedy, got her appearance from a nun Zero killed while trying to steal food. Lovely irony. Five is materialistic, and has a lust for finding and conquering the ‘next best thing’. Her desires reach out into sex, exotic foods, and clothing, but once she obtains what she desires, she immediately loses interest and moves on to her next conquest. She believes to have a longing for her father who died before she met him. Five is the part of Zero that could never truly grasp her desire for happiness. She turns to meaningless instant gratification, but it fades in an instant to leave her empty and finding the next thing to strive for. It’s shown as well in her final moments before Zero kills her that she has an intense desire to live, even if she loses sight of who she is. When Zero was alive, her sense of self and life quickly dwindled down to nothing as she suffered more and more, to where she shut off all of herself just in hopes of surviving. There was a distinct dream to pursue a life where she was happy, but with how twisted and vacant she’d become over the years, she had no real way to achieve that– she didn’t know how. Life had stripped her of everything, and she wandered and killed and stole until she no longer could. It was an empty way to slowly die, but it was almost a hope that if she kept living, kept surviving, perhaps she’d finally get what she desired. Five continues this and amplifies it, so desperate to live and obtain more she forcefully regenerates herself into a zombie-like monstrosity.

Four. The second youngest, self-righteous and always seeming the morally straight one, her innocence and loathe of fighting are all a mask for a vindictive, cruel, and paranoid truth. Four is plagued with a pride of higher-than-thou, trying to hide a hideous inferiority complex, though if pushed on it is easy to crack that good girl exterior, suddenly switching to insulting your character with any flaw she feels she can expose and twist to make you seem the villain. She holds a secret disdain as well, mostly for anything non-human, going as far as degrading what she thinks as inferior, even going past orders and common mercy to slaughter retreating elven sky pirates, gleefully so. She has memories of Zero being a sweet and caring sister that she looked up to, and hated her parents. Four is a particularly irking one, as Zero sees her just as she was as a young girl while in the brothel; the fighting urge to cling to the last bits of pride she had. This becomes even more irritating with the knowledge that Four, out of her own pride and repressed attitude, is a virgin out of all of the Intoners, who all harbour high sex drives. Four is a culmination of repressed anger, jealousy, and self-hatred. A high paranoia of trusting the people around her, really an image of Zero and her outlook on the world, mostly while she was still alive. A girl trying to hold onto nothing, lashing out whenever she feels threatened.

Three. The third youngest, and the most strange. Lethargic most of the time, she falls asleep in any spot, and seems to fall to laziness whenever things don’t interest her. Which is most of the time. She speaks in riddles that hold no meaning or make any practical sense to anyone but her. When her interest is sparked however, her personality seems to switch. She obsesses over ‘dolls’, creations she makes by her own hand, often monsters operated on to create soldiers she wants in often horrific experiments. When asked about them, she sparks into excited, fast-paced speech and acts quite animatedly. Unfortunately, her experiments have delved into human territory, using them to make mishmashed monstrosities with other creatures, killing many in her attempts to successfully create a doll, others falling victim to tests she’d created to find the core of a human’s strength. She enjoys making toys so much, there’s no regard for the lives she’s brutalized, only interested in why strange things are the way they are. She comes off very childish, an unending curiosity, simple-minded likes, tantrums, and even a juvenile humour. A broken Intoner. She disliked her parents. Even Zero finds difficulty in understanding just where Three even came from, but knows without a doubt that she’s a very dark, twisted facet of herself. The child in her questioning why humans are the way they are, why humanity behaves the way it does, and a dangerous, empathy-lacking disregard for lives she takes the more she goes on. A complete dissolution of her own humanity, the numb carelessness she developed while she was still alive, murdering more and more not even out of necessity.

Two. The fourth youngest, and another oddity Zero finds quite bizarre due to how wildly different they are. Two is bright and bubbly, effortlessly trusting, and endlessly caring ( even continuing to treat Zero kindly, and like a normal big sister NOT trying to kill her ). She runs an orphanage, taking care of the children who were left behind in the previous wars alongside her disciple Cent, and considers them a giant family. Out of all the Intoners, she was the only one to actually form a romantic relationship with her disciple. She enjoys cooking, and takes to carefully watching over all of her people. She is, in essence, very happy. Until her power outgrew her, and her mind buckled under the weight of it as well as the trauma she suffered from having to kill her soldiers and the orphaned children she cared for, turned into zombie-like undead and a monstrous conglomeration homonculus respectively. Two loved her parents immensely, who she noted were very loving. Zero finds however, that Two makes more sense than originally thought. Two is the culmination of everything Zero wished her life could be– who she could have become, if her life hadn’t been so horrid. A girl with everything; a girl who could be happy, who could trust and find love and have a family. Two is what could have been, dead dreams Zero could never reach.

One. The second oldest under Zero, with the face and voice of the rebel Zero briefly knew for the time she was chained up with her outside the Bastille in Cathedral City. With the rebel having been tortured ( her eyes being gouged out ), One’s eye colour defaulted to red, in essence of the blood Zero saw in it’s place. One is intelligent, tactful, and has a strong sense of justice. She is the one who lead her sisters to defeat the corrupt Lords of all the lands and freed the people from the endless warring. She’s the strongest of her five sisters, a formidable match for Zero, not even needing a disciple to help control her power of Song. With this, she is one of the only ones to discover something amiss with their power and place within the world ( the other being Two ), and decides to delve further to find an answer as to why the Intoners exist. One remembers having no parents, only all six of the Intoners living together. With how opposite Zero and One are, they constantly butt heads, and Zero questions once again just where One came from. She speculates for a while that maybe One is a product of the Flower trying to go against her; giving a powerful rival that would keep her from killing them all off. It takes the final battle for Zero to finally understand– One is a true part of herself. A facet that could never be satisfied with given answers, with a so-called truth of her own fate. The pure confusion and anger over the injustices of the world; how she could never accept such a cruel life where she was constantly betrayed, used, and tossed aside. Where the good were constantly stepped on like cockroaches and suffered, where the evil were rewarded and won out in the end. In Zero’s last moments, tried as a murderer and sentenced to death, she hated the world, yet still tried to grasp for an answer. How could she accept something so unfair, how could she ever be satisfied? One is in her entirety the burning dissatisfaction of cruelty and those who perpetuated it.

[rednether]

Superman - My Starter Pack

Inspired by @davidmann95​‘s own post, where he does basically the same thing. recommending people where to start in regards to reading Superman.

I do think that to begin with, this is still what I’d read in general about Superman. and what appeals to me in terms of being about the character.

1. All-Star Superman

Whats It’s About: Superman saves the first-manned mission to the sun, led by Dr. Leo Quintum of P.R.O.J.E.C.T., which has been sabotaged by Lex Luthor via him sending a genetically modified suicide bomb in human. Superman manages to save the ship and it’s crew, but ends up powered beyond the norm to fatal levels. as a result, he’s now dying due to solar overexposure. leaving Superman with only a year to live. this is his last deeds.

Why You Should Read It: It’s Superman at his greatest and finest, written and drawn by what could be debated is the greatest writer and artist duo in all of history. it’s not just the best Superman story of all time, it is factually and objectively the best superhero story period (to quote Davidman). on one hand, I’d recommend reading this last because it does kinda read better the more you know and like Superman. on the other, I recommend to just drop in blind because it’s an out of continuity book that doesn’t require you to have read the mainstream comics. 

2. Grant Morrison’s Action Comics

What’s It’s About: The debut of a depowered Golden Age-esque social crusader Superman clad in a T-shirt and Jeans in the modern day, fighting corrupt politicians and rich people suppressing the weak and the oppressed. before basically moving to the Silver Age by fighting the very alien Brainiac after spending his career so far as a Bully Hunter. signified by him starting to work at the Daily Planet and moving from the Daily Star. as the forgotten first Superman, Adam Blake returns to Earth to take away Lois’ niece, Susan Tompkins before the planet is destroyed. Superman decides to kill off Clark Kent because he feels he outgrew him, while ultimately coming to blows with Captain Comet and convincing the latter to turn over a new page at the end of their fight. Vyndktvx finally enacts his plan, attacking the Man of Steel at all points of his life alongside the Anti-Superman Squad and their wild card, Super-Doomsday. though Superman ultimately wins through tricking him to say his name backward by having the entire Earth including himself say their names backwards thus banishing Vyndktvx back to the Fifth Dimension.

Why You Should Read It: It’s the definitive Superman blueprint, merging the character’s Pre-Crisis life from the three eras he was in: Golden, Silver and Bronze ages with some small aspects of his Post-Crisis history (Super-Doomsday for example), creating a definitive Superman who spans all of his life in a consistent manner. 

3. Greg Pak’s Action Comics

What’s It’s About: Superman reunites with childhood friend as well as one-and--off love interest Lana Lang years later, after her departure from Smallville when they were teenagers.as they investigate an ancient civilization that lives deep beneath the earth that is full of bizarre and appears dangerous while attempting to decide which race needs their protection the most, humanity or the underworlders? two months later, after the conflict with Doomsday that resulted in Superman almost turning completely into the beast itself as well as Brainiac’s latest attack. Lana and her lover John Henry Irons travel to Smallville for a vacation, only to discover that the graves of her parents have been mysteriously dug up and the corpses gone.Lana’s parents seemingly back from the dead as zombies, meanwhile. Clark Kent has started placing more importance on his secret identity, helping rebuild Metropolis even while he has a feeling that something appears off. so he flies to Smallville to check on it, only to discover a mysterious fog surrounding it and that he can’t initially get through, getting teleported miles away when he tries to get in.ultimately Superman does make it through, discovering that the dead are seemingly walking amongst the living, not just the Langs. to his horror, he now discovers he can’t make it out. all the while, something is wrong with Smallville’s denizens who appear to have developed psychic ablities as a monster from the Phantom Zone called the Ultra Humanite has made it through to Earth, feeding off the fear, terror and darkness found in everyone. including Superman himself.

Why You Should Read It: One is an Science Fantasy story starring Superman and Lana Lang also taking inspiration from sources like Indiana Jones, which is awesome. As they investigate an ancient civilization that has secretly existed beneath the Earth all this time, the other is what a sci-fi horror starring Superman as the main protagonist look. being bone-chilling enough while still being more than inspiring enough, Greg Pak also is the only writer who truly expanded on in some fashion what Morrison set up in his own run. allowing Superman to save the day while also giving him pyrrhic victories.

4. Batman/Superman

What’s It’s About: A still young Superman and Batman have their first initially forgotten meeting, where they initially fight against each other. before being transported into another parallel world by a rogue goddess, while some things appear the same, others appear distinctly different. The two rookie heroes end up meeting and teaming up with older more experienced versions of themselves to get home. Years later, the World’s Finest remember said alternate earth with the alternate versions of themselves. They’re given a second chance to save Earth 2 and it’s version of the the Trinity, though they ultimately choose not to intervene too much. Angering Kaiyo, who teleports the three of them back to Prime Earth while also erasing the memories of Superman and Batman. leaving them completely different people than they normally are. And it’s up to Lois Lane to convince the amnesiac Batman as well as a Superman who’s lacking his moral compass to remember who they truly are. After that, a mysterious foe obsessed with Superman who knows all of his secrets begins killing all those who ever stood by him just to thoroughly his true target. Superman now has a Joker of his own, It falls to the Caped Crusader and the Man of Steel to track the murderous madman and stop him, but with no real clues and leads to follow will they ultimately be outsmarted?

Why You Should Read It: Greg Pak begins his winning streak, developing Superman and Batman into the heroes they’re meant to be as they become the best friends they normally are. from a rough-and-tumble social crusader Idealist Superman and a Batman who has no interest in running his company, preferring to spend his time being in disguise as he watches kids beating each other up in the streets.

5. Superman: Birthright

What’s It’s About: Clark Kent is a man with no direction who is a freelance reporter, fighting for truth and justice. Traveling the world, he tries to get a handle on what it is that he wants to do. But with the tragic passing of the Ghuri political leader and human rights activists Kobe Asuru he decides to return home, having decided to learn more about his alien heritage. Opting to become Superman, he takes the cloth from his ship and turns it into a costume. transforming Clark Kent into a disguise alongside it. He moves to Metropolis, getting hired by the Daily Planet.

Why You Should Read It: It’s the best canon origin story for Superman, bringing back his teenage-hood  friendship with Lex Luthor. Making Clark Kent accepting of his alien heritage once more after Byrne changed it so Superman completely disowned the fact he was from Krypton. it manages to humanize the character while not changing him to the point that he’s completely unrecognizable or that you forget that this is Superman.

6. Superman: American Alien

What’s It’s About: Superman as one of us, done correctly. Clark Kent here is the true identity, with Superman being a pair of tights and nothing more. seven important events from Clark’s life that shape the way he thinks without even realizing it sometime, such as realizing that it’s OK to be strange. realizing that only he can help in certain scenarios, learning to expand his horizons. deciding  to finally use his powers actively to help people, his first encounter with a supervillain. the power going to his head, not thinking about the implication. becoming obsessed with Krypton which leads to him being called out on it, learning to move on and accept the fact that he’s been raised as a human, on Earth even if in his mental state.

Why You Should Read It: It’s seven disconnected tales from all through out Clark Kent’s life, from when he’s eight to when he’s around 25. Citing his development into Superman, that he is still just so damn nice that he just wants to help with no strings attached or have to be manipulated into. With no tragedy influencing him, that he can just no longer stand aside and watch as people die. so he stops doing so, beginning to actively help because he just wants to. Because that is his better nature.

7. Superman: Kryptonite Nevermore

What’s It’s About: An experiment turns all Kryptonite on Earth to iron,  rendering Superman truly invulnerable,but a mysterious doppelganger of the Man of Steel with the ability to steal his powers and weaken him is born as a result, can Superman save his adopted home planet and defeat this devious clone of his without coming into direct contact with it so as to not destroy the Earth?

Why You Should Read It: Also more accurately known unofficially as The Sandman Saga, this is the story that kicked off the Bronze Age era of Superman. toning down Superman’s insane strength to more manageable levels, as he was no longer able to juggle planets and fly to the other end of the universe with ease. additionally making him somewhat wiser and a more human character.

8. Superman Smashes the Klan

What’s It’s About:  The year is 1946. Teenagers Roberta and Tommy Lee just moved with their parents from Chinatown to the center of Metropolis, home to the famous hero, Superman. Tommy makes friends quickly, while Roberta pines for home. Then one night, the family awakens to find their house surrounded by the Klan of the Fiery Kross! Superman leaps into action, but his exposure to a mysterious green rock has left him weak. Can Roberta and Tommy help him smash the Klan?

Why You Should Read It: An important tale about the dangers of genuine racism that is especially relevant nowadays, what with Trump’s supporters running rampant and lashing out at black people due to their skin color & nothing more.

[daily-star]

This cemetery in Italy is a museum of dead bodies, you will be shocked to know | Troopel.com

A sneak peek into the history of the world, and you will come across many unnerving facts of different cultures and traditions. The centuries-old traditions and beliefs of various countries may sound unique and peculiar, but they are still followed by people. Italy is one of the oldest countries in the world. This is why the traditions of ancient Italy dwellers reflect the mysterious and shocking beliefs prevailing in Italian society for ages.

There is a cemetery named Catacombs of the Capuchins (Catacombe Dei Cappuccini in Italian) Palermo, Sicily, Italy, where in ancient times the dead bodies were not buried. Instead, they were mummified and hung on the walls. The bodies were kept in chemicals to avoid smell and decomposition. Palermo's Capuchin monastery outgrew its original cemetery in the 16th century and monks began to excavate crypts below it. In 1599 they mummified one of their recently dead brother, Silvestro of Gubbio, and placed him into the catacombs.

As scary as the story of this cemetery is, the way to reach here is also scary. A person with a weak heart cannot even imagine going to this cemetery in his life. To reach the cemetery, one has to go through a dark staircase, which is extremely creepy and eerie. 

The Capuchin Catacombs hold 8,000 corpses as well as around 1,252 mummies and is open to the public, for those who want to spend their day with dead bodies. Notably, the dead bodies were kept according to their social status, which speaks of the reality of social discrimination prevalent in the society in those times. Separated according to their occupation in life, social status, gender, and age, they have appointed locations to be displayed. The social hierarchy order placed priests on the top, followed by men and after, the women. Also, to identify virgin girls, a metal band is kept on their heads. However, in 1871, this tradition was discontinued by Brother Riccardo. Despite this, in 1920, the body of a baby girl named Rosalia Lombardo was mummified. The body of the young Rosalia is preserved in such a mysterious way that by looking at her one would think of her as a sleeping doll and not a deceased person. The mummy of young Rosalia has been named Sleeping Beauty.

Catacombs of the Capuchins are among the religious monuments, so during a visit, it is recommended to comply with standards of conduct and dress code, and the use of mobile phones and consumption of foodstuffs or beverages is prohibited here

Due to the Corona period, the countries are getting worse from the worst in the world, in which the biggest crisis is facing all the cremations and cemeteries and people living in the areas around them.

Smoke emanating from the burning pyre in thousands and a large number of buried coronas are indicating continued danger in the infected environment. If the situation is worsening with a similar problem in your area, please inform Troopel.com.

For more details

Contact Us: 9755020247, 9589902487

Mail Us: revolution@troopel.com

[wxrgirl]

Headcanon - Marian's Mother

tw: suicide, blood, gore, pregnancy, death, sickness, depression  Scroll down for the tl;dr

She was born in Athens when the city was at the height of its power. Her mother was a healer, a follower of Persephone, and - some whispered - a witch. The young girl was given the name Althaia, healing herb, for her mother wished for her to learn the art of healing, too. But when Althaia outgrew her childhood she also outgrew her mother's study and guiding hand. Far too often the people she wished to heal suffered even worse injuries afterwards, or the fevers she treated could not be broken. Far too often she lost her patients to Charon and the waters of the river Styx. Some began to say that Althaia was cursed, her hands tainted with death instead of life.  The whispers grew louder, amplified by many voices, and when she lost her own mother to a terrible sickness Althaia had no choice but to believe them herself.  She left the houses of healing and turned down a darker path, finding the Children of Pandora, an ancient cult that sacrificed to darker gods, prayed to Hades himself. And so Althaia joined them, swearing body and soul to the underworld she became a priestess in a hidden temple far from Athens' famous pantheon. She walked over black marble and traced golden arteries with her fingers, slipping deeper into the shadows with each and every day. She lost herself, grew thin and sickly, with no sunlight to gaze upon her pale skin.  It was during that time that a terrible plague hit Athens, a punishment of the gods for the people's Hybris. For weeks that sickness ravished the once clean streets of the powerful city, the dead piling up on the graven fields. Athens was at the edge of a catastrophe, its enemies already waiting, ready to strike like some kind of animal stalking through the dark around the city.  The House of Hades, as the temple called itself, wished to bring an end to the suffering. They worshiped death and the God of the Underworld but what was happening in Athens at that time scared even them. And so they begged Hades to stop this, to save them from the sickness and the pain. And one after the other the priestessess took their own life, turning their bodies and souls into a sacrifice upon the steps of the temple's altar.  Althaia knew sacrifice would not stop the sickness from spreading, she knew the god of Death was not capable of mercy, but death in autumn brought life in spring. And so she was ready to follow her friends into the afterlife. At least she thought she was. For as she kneeled in front of the altar, knife in hand, she hesitated. There was still so much to do, so much to see, and so many people to help. Althaia remembered that her mother had once told her about finding purpose in life, about how her own purpose was to help and to heal. How had she strayed so far from this path? As she combated these ideas within her mind, kneeling in front of the altar, surrounded by the corpses of her former friends, Hades himself stepped out of the shadows. She fell for the god as fast and as readily as he gave her heart to her. She was life and fire, love and passion in the hands of a god that had known only death and apathy, cold and pain for far too long. She reminded him of the balance that needed to be found in all things. Hours stretched into weeks as they made love on black marble tainted with gold and crimson. She had taught him about life and he taught her about death. They found a fragile balance, a balance the god of the underworld has sworn to protect ever since.  "And now you belong to life again, to hope, and to spring", he whispered in her ear, before leaving, taking sickness and death with him, lifting whatever curse had been on Athens' streets. Only after the god's departure Althaia realised that she was carrying his child under her heart. A demi-god, a child of promise, a hero to be born. She could not believe it. And neither could the people of her hometown. When she emerged out of the darkness of the hidden temple the people of Athens had already found a new culprit they suspected to be behind the terrible plague: The House of Hades and the Children of Pandora. They came for the temple and Althaia had no choice but to flee.  She left Athens, hidding for an entire summer, while her belly grew and her feet became weary. Eventually she found a new home in Thebes where she met Heracles. Her child was born on the first day of spring but it was not the hero she had hoped for, the hero that would open the gates of Athens for her once more. It was a small girl. But while she held her for the first time a woman appeared on her bedside, Persephone, goddess of Spring. And she blessed the child, giving her the name Macaria, she who is blessed. Macaria returned to Athens years later as the daughter of Heracles and it was she, Althaias very own blood that saved the city and its king Demophon from the army of Eurystheus. It was her blood that mixed with her mother's in the soil beneath the temple, her sacrifice that brought winter to its knees.

tldr: Althaia was the daughter of a healer, but she decided upon a darker path, becoming a priestess in a secret temple dedicated to the god of the underworld. She served there during a plague that came upon Athens, and because of her light and life Hades himself was intrigued by her. They had a short love affair that led to Althaia becoming pregnant and leaving Athens. When her child was born in Thebes Persephone appeared to bless it. And so Macaria was a demi-goddess blessed by Spring and ordained by Death. She sacrificed herself when the armies of Eurystheus were at Athen's gates, leading to Persephone granting her eternal life in a circle of Rebirth.