#tis but a flesh wound just give her a second

[emptyfie1ds]

day 28: bruise

she restores my battered brain call that ibuprowlfin

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Daryl was out on a hunt,

He had been tracking a deer for most of the day as a trail of large canine prints caught his attention. They seemed to also follow the deer's tracks so he begged the animal hadn't gotten to his prey yet.

Following the sets of tracks he eventually finds the source chowing down on his deer.

'Fuck' he thought as he lined up his crossbow and held the animal inhis sight, shooting and hitting it in the leg.

It let out a howl as it looked around in panic, fear clear it its eyes as Daryl stalked closer.

Upon closer inspection this animal wasn't something he had seen before. Certainly canine, but in no way or shape a feral wolf. Its fur resembled that of a golden retriever and german shepard mix but the way its body was shaped was just off. As well as the cloth around its leg. It looked like one of those retro puffy hair ties.

He raised his crossbow again and the animal ducked away but never tried to run. As he didn't shoot its arm lowered away from its head to look at the attacker.

Why did this thing's reactions feel so ..human? And why was he being stupid and letting go of his crossbow?

He kneeled at its legs and reached for the arrow, making the animal pull back and whine out in pain.

"Lemme get tha' out, yeah? Imma let ya go." He tried again, with more success this time as he grabbed the arrow with one hand and held the flesh around the wound with the other and yanked it out, muttering sorries the whole time.

The wound seemed to disappear beneath his fingers before the animal moved its leg and hopping up and running off into the overgrown woods.

Daryl took another look at the deer, took his knife and salvaged whatever he could to take back home.

On his next run he managed to track a family of boars that, albeit a bit bloody, ended up dead right after their tracks turned around a group of large rocks. He scanned the area bit found nothing but the freshly killed animals for him to take home.

Yet another run after that one was cut short when a deer with its neck snapped was sssmingly left for him near his home.

This time he decided against his sceduled run and would sit it out at the edge of the woods, wondering if the one leaving the food for him would make an appearance. And yes it did, but as soon as it spotted him it dropped the smaller game from its mouth and ran off too fast to catch. But at least he had some meat again.

So one day before his next run was supposed to be he headed into the woods again. Straying far off the path and almost getting attacked by the animal he saved. It caught him off guard and managed to knock him on his ass before hiding away again. But he wasn't gonna give up and went on, camping out during the night and continuing the next day only to stumble on a hollowed out part in a large rock wall.

There were remnants of mostly eaten wildlife and fish too, but also what looked like ashes from a campfire at the edge of the hollow.

Taking his two knives in hand he slowly moved forward to take a look, only to be grabbed by something and shoved forward to stumble over his own feet. He turned to see what shoved him and found a woman standing over him. Dressed in a wrapped skirt, torn old sweater and a deer pelt draped over her shoulders.

The woman growled at him as he held up his a knife. A huff left her lips as she turned around and walked off to grab a fish off the fire and toss it at him. He managed to catch it only to let go not a second later. "Ah, hot. Damn." He shook his hand and licked at his scorched fingers which had the woman let out a laugh that barely sounded human.

"Yer the one tha's been huntin' mah food." It wasn't even a question as her eyes were the same ones he had looked into when he helped the wounded animal that first day.

"Ya talk?" He watched as she opened her mouth but only produce a garbled noise, not being able to find her voice.

"So ya live here." A nod confirmed his question. "And yer a ..skinwalker?" He had no idea what he was asking but he had heard that word somewhere one day. But he was wrong as she shook her head.

She crouched down and swiped at the floor to make a patch of clear sand, putting her finger out and writing. 'Wolf'

"Yer a shapeshifter?" A thinking expression with a sideways nod, giving him an okay for that guess as she doodled what looked like a cresent moon next to the word.

"Werewolf?" Another nod, but this one was more excited which made him chuckle.

"Ya haven't been human in a while, huh? Or a'least talked." Fhe conversation stayed very one-sided as Daryl asked simple yes or no questions and they shared some fishes for lunch.

It didn't matter to him that she didn't speak. He enjoyed her company in this strange forest cave.

~~☆☆☆~~

A/N: Plot twist! It's a she-wolf this time!! Sometimes drabble idea hit you in the middle of writing another fic, so you're all getting something extra!

Part two HERE

[call-sign-shark]

The Woods Whisper || 2/2

Summary: After a terrific nightmare, your and Arthur’s life change for good. You start to suffer from a mysterious and excruciating hunger, which always seems to lead you to the forest.

Words: 3.5k

TW: Extreme violence, angst, cannibalism, graphic depiction of mutilation, graphic depiction of murder, gore, ehh dubcon

Notes: written for @peakyswritings's 2k celebration and Halloween. Nina belongs to her. + important notes at the end and no proofreading because we read like warrior here.

Reader is Heaven from the series Heaven in Your Eyes.

When the heavy doors of Arrow House opened, revealing your dainty frame bathed in the pale moonlight that reflected on both your silvery mane and the whiteness of your fabulous outfit, all the guests' eyes opened wide in surprise. If there is one thing they did not expect it was you participating in the dinner Tommy's new wife, Nina, had organized. While not particularly comfortable with hosting an event, the young Italian lass had wished to consolidate the family ties, missing the warmth of her own since she moved to Birmingham.

The shock of your presence did not come from resentment but rather surprise since you carefully did your best to avoid any social contact for the last couple of weeks. Getting used to Arthur coming alone to family meetings or celebrations had been utterly odd considering how symbiotic your relationship was, to the extent of becoming a physical and emotional dependence most people deemed unhealthy and vaguely unsettling. Yet, they never dared to inquire much about the matter.

The reason behind their discretion wasn't a lack of curiosity, but rather how the lanky gangster waved off the questions by replying with vague and stern explanations about some unnamed sickness that kept you in bed. Moreover, his dissuasive growls and murderous glare had been enough to keep tongues shut. But among the family and acquaintances, one soul couldn't be fooled by empty excuses and it bore the name of Nina Ferrante Shelby. The cunning dark-haired girl reckoned that the two lovebirds had been trying hard to hide an ugly truth she couldn't pinpoint yet, but her sharp eyes noticed a few details everyone else had missed.

It had started with Arthur, whom she saw compulsively readjusting his shirt's collar in an attempt to make sure that most of his flesh was well-covered, protected from indiscreet eyes. Where Tommy believed he was hiding some hickeys, Nina's honey glance caught sight of the swollen and reddish edges of a deep wound carefully hidden under the fabric of his shirt the moment Arthur had turned his head to look at Finn and rebuff him in a condescending older brother way. When his steel blue eyes met Nina's, he understood that she had seen the scar and quickly readjusted his collar, clearing his throat in embarrassment before bringing her attention to another topic but it was already too late. He had just confirmed her suspicions by doing so. The second alarming detail she caught was when she came to your house following Arthur's announcement that you were sick. She noticed how your eyes had changed since your last encounter, shivering at the way their aquamarine color had mysteriously turned one shade paler. Not only did they become almost white, but their black pupils were covered by a milky veil that rendered them as blank and glassy as a decaying corpse's. As much as Nina liked you, connecting with the wild and untamable nature you both shared, her blood would instantly run cold in her veins each time her gaze met yours: the loving and knowing looks you would often give her had turned into a dizzying void: all she could find in your eyes was emptiness.

But what had startled her the most hadn't been Arthur's odd behavior nor the disturbing abyss of your clouded eyes, but rather the frozen and disturbing something that radiated off you. In truth, you had always been surrounded by an ethereal, cold, and otherworldly threatening aura. A part of it was certainly due to your unusual appearance and your frozen beauty though. Yet, as you passed by her tonight, Nina knew it was different. You might have looked the same, dressed in a seductive and revealing dress adorned with expensive gold jewels, but apart from your familiar appearance the Sicilian nymph couldn't recognize you anymore. Worst than not recognizing the only friend she had made in England, Nina couldn't understand why her whole being reacted with unexplainable spikes of panic each time her skin grazed yours. It was as if her unconscious could foresee the monster that was lurking behind your seraphic complexions even before her eyes could.

As the dinner dragged on, Nina grasped the visible discomfort that had been growing on your face. The more minutes passed, the more you looked as if you were about to snap.

"Are you okay?" The Italian beauty mouthed, but the only reply she got was sheer silence. Overwhelmed by your bottomless hunger, you were trying your best not to let the delicious scents of human flesh get the best of you. Staring at the void, you nervously rubbed Arthur's thigh under the table and completely ignored Nina, far too busy trying not to think about her exquisite tan skin. Would she taste as sweet as the honey of her eyes? With his attention caught by the friction on his thigh, the gangster quickly glanced at you, concerned, and gently pressed his large and warm hand on yours in silent support. He knew you were starting to lose your patience.

"Can't you make her shut the fuck up?" Your siren-like voice, colder than Everest's snow, echoed in the room with such a caustic tone that Ada opened her eyes wide, an expression of pure shock on her doll-like face when you cut her off that bluntly. So bluntly even Nina, who was aware of the colder nature you hid from the rest of the world, couldn't help but almost choke on her wine.

"The hell is wrong with you, Heaven? She's a baby and sometimes babies cry! What a surprise!" Ada was quick to reply, instinctively hugging her newborn daughter closer as she cradled her. Elizabeth had been uncontrollably sobbing from the moment her big brown eyes had met your dead gaze. They said babies are more sensitive to silent threat, you know. Agnese once told Nina. Her cries, piercing and nerve-racking, had worsened the insufferable famine that howled inside of you. Not hiding your annoyance anymore, you rolled your shoulders to ease the tension of your stiff body but it didn't work, "I'm serious Heaven. You should consider getting used to it if you want to give children to Arthur one day." Ada lectured with one raised brow, making Elizabeth hop on her thighs to try to hush her. It didn't work. You dug your sharp nails into Arthur's thigh in reply, feeling your self-control break down at the child's exciting sobs and Ada's mouth-watering perfume. Arthur let out a low-key growl and squeezed your cold hand tighter.

"She's been screaming into my damn ear for God knows how long, Ada. Don't you think I've been patient enough? Isn't it enough for you to calm her down?" Your voice was hushed, barely above your normal tone, and yet its anger resonated loudly. Each word was carefully pronounced with a tense stillness between them, cold, sharp, and cutting like a razor slicing through the air, "So either you make her shut the fuck up..." You growled, the raging storm coming, "Or I'll bash her fucking head against the table!" You suddenly commanded, standing up so violently that your chair fell behind you in a noisy thud.

" Arthur!" Ada screamed, astounded and furious at your insolence.

"Arthur! Can't you control your wife?! Oh Arthur! Can't you put a damn leash around her neck?!" You cut her off, hitting the dining table with your delicate palms. All the plates and glasses clinked. Silence fell upon the room, the family now looking at you in a combination of fright and surprise. Even Tommy, who never missed an opportunity to fight with you, found himself petrified by your rage. It was even more surprising considering how you weren't the one to lose your temper easily, rather leaving this behavior to your husband. In other circumstances, Nina would have giggled for when she talked one could often hear revolution, but it didn't make her laugh. Quite the contrary. She stood up at the same time Arthur did, and gently put her warm hands on Ada's shoulders while the lanky gangster wrapped your waist protectively and pulled you closer.

"Please Ada, don't take it personally," Nina started, "Heaven's been struggling to sleep for weeks, that's just the fatigue talking. Right Arthur?"

"Right." The oldest Shelby brother mumbled, "C'm'here angel, you're going to rest a bit in one of the guest's bedrooms ay." And without further ado nor apologies, Arthur hurried on and led you out of the dining room, quickly climbing the stairs of Arrow house to lock both of you in another wing of the mansion. "Okay you calm down now. Told ye it was a bad idea." He urged, his calloused hand cupping your face to keep you focused.

"But Nina worked her arse off for this party. I had to come." You grunted through gritted teeth, all of them sharp and pointy except for the upper and lower central incisors, "I feel like I'm becoming crazy." Pushing Arthur away, you started to pace in the bedroom while pulling your hair back. The gangster's eyes followed your every move, heart racing in his chest as he witnessed you becoming more and more feral and mentally unstable. He knew he had to do something before you slipped into another murderous craze, as you did the night you came back covered with fresh blood.

When Arthur exited the room he was as white as a ghost. Wobbling on his long legs, the gangster made a few steps before he had to lean against the wall so as not to fall on the wooden floor of the corridor. He had lost so much blood that he was pale and sweaty, a confused look etched on his face. With his breathing shallow and ragged, Arthur knew he was about to faint at any minute. After a quick but rough fuck, he had cradled your dainty body in his arms while your teeth broke his skin and muscle — He didn't let it show, but he had almost passed out twice. Bringing one trembling hand to his forehead, the gangster let out a shaky sigh as he relished the cold sensation of his rings against his burning skin.

"Take." A ghostly female voice resounded in the hallway, making him turn around in one vivid movement that instantly made him regret doing so. He grunted, the drowsy feeling worsening, but as black dots appeared in front of his eyes, he could still recognize the charming silhouette of Nina who was handling him some chocolate squares. Her magnificent amber eyes curiously gawked at him, then at the red stain on his disheveled shirt he didn't even button up properly, "It would be a shame for you to die the night I hold my first party here. And Tommy wouldn't be happy about that."

"Fookin' hilarious, eh." Arthur grunted but still took the chocolate, quickly putting two squares in his mouth. Not that it would be the first time Nina would see him collapse on the floor, usually drunk as fuck, but it just wasn't the same. Fortunately for him, sugar did its miracle and he soon retrieved color.

"Eat everything, stùpitu. It will do you good. My whole lineage would probably pray for you if they ever see how slim you are." Nina stated quietly, but asparkle glowed in her cunning eyes. Her brother-in-law raised a brow but obeyed, eating the rest of the chocolate before quickly slicking his hair back to tame the wild locks that had fallen in front of his face. "Now you gotta tell me what's wrong with Heaven."

"For fuck's sake," Arthur growled and rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed by Nina's insistence, "Told ye, she's sick." And that was all he said, already turning his heels to leave but Nina managed to grab him by the wrist before he even moved, her small hand firmly tightening its grip around him.

“Enough with the bullshit, Arthur. I heard uncle Charlie and Curly talked days ago. They said you came at night with three half-eaten corpses, asking them to help you hide them!” She retorted more bluntly than what the gangster expected. Astonished by the girl's temper he shot her a murderous look from over his shoulder. It didn’t seem to impress her — not in the slightest. Danger wasn't Arthur Shelby to her, it had been Stefanor Spinetta and a forced wedding. Now that she was far away from those two threats, nothing seemed to sincerely scare her anymore, "Look at you! Do you think I'm stupid or blind?" Her fingers clenched around his wrist even more, clinging to his warm freckled skin, “She’s not herself and you know it! Look at what she did to you! What happened to her?”

“Piss off, Nina! That's none of your fookin' business ay.” He snarled, teeth bared like a rabid animal about to bite. If she hadn’t been family, he would have probably gone for her throat but, instead, he just snatched his wrist from her with one violent movement that almost made her trip on her own feet.

“Vaffanculo!” Nina not being afraid of him was one thing, but her throwing herself in his arms to tear his shirt apart and expose his chest was another. He had tried to push her but she had been too quick. Arthur stood there motionless in the dim-lit corridor, mouth agape, and steel blue eyes wide open as Nina stepped back, one of her hands covering her mouth as she saw them. The dozen red and swollen bite marks on her brother-in-law's neck, shoulders, and torso. A whispered prayer escaped from her charming lips as her honey-pools eyes surveyed the wounds, some of them indicating that his flesh had been ripped off. It was a miracle Arthur didn't already die from pain, blood loss, or infection.

"Nina, love." He started, his voice soft and quiet as if he was cautiously trying to approach a wild animal, "You shouldn't tell anyone alright?" Arthur made one step towards her but she backed off in reflex, terrified, "Not even Tommy alright? You know he'll try to cure her with a bullet between her eyes."

Arthur and you left Arrow House in a hurry, right after Nina had lent him one of Tommy's shirts. She didn't know why she helped, but she did, probably feeling guilty of discovering something she shouldn't have.

It has been three days since the disastrous party, and since then you refused to leave your house, afraid of losing control again. Three days during which you remained curled up on the sofa, your blank eyes staring at the hearth. Arthur had been outside since the early morning doing God knew what, so all you did was keep watching the fire and trying to ignore the whispers. Its dancing flames, casting their orange glow on your face, didn't even manage to warm up your dying body. Absent from your own mind, you didn't even hear Arthur coming, nor leaning against the door with his arms crossed, observing you with undescribable worries shining in his loving eyes. His throat tightened with frustration at how powerless he was starting to feel, not able to do anything except watch you slowly disappear until all remained was an empty carcass only animated by hunger and bloodthirst. Somehow, he hoped what he did in the forest would soon bring you some comfort.

"Angel," he called, walking towards you and putting one gentle hand on your shoulder. He had barely touched your skin when he backed off, your iciness biting him as if he had just dipped his hand in liquid nitrogen. You looked at him, offering him a tired smile -- a smile that was only expressed by your lips curling, for your cloudy eyes looked desperately devoid of life.

"Oh, your skin's warm. It feels good."

"Come on, we'll take a hot shower." He said, pressing a kiss on your head and helping you stand up.

"Hm." You didn't protest, in fact, you let him handle you as easily as a lifeless doll until you were both in the bathroom, Arthur's skilled hands running down your shoulders and making your nightgown fall at your feet. All you did was shiver with cold, goosebumps adorning your marble skin at the frost that had settled in your bones. "I'm cold, Art..."

"I know, love." His gravelly voice slightly trembled as his fingers roamed over your protruding ribs. With thick eyebrows knitted together, Arthur let out a long sigh, "You really need to eat." He said, the palm of his free hand caressing one of the pointy bones of your hips. Still, he found you as stunning and mesmerizing as he always did.

"No, I don't want to kill another family." You retorted, pursing your juicy and glossy lips together like a sulking teen. Not that you felt any kind of emotional empathy towards your victims, but it wasn't a pleasant experience either if omitting the gargantuan pleasure of finally feeling satiated for a while. The most annoying part had been eating their daughter, no matter how tasty, fresh, and juicy her flesh had been. With that being said, you turned your head to the other side to deny him a kiss. Arthur grunted and pushed you a bit more impatiently into the shower, frustrated by your bratty behavior, which didn't disappear despite all the changes you've been through lately.

"And I don't want to see ye starving yourself," He scolded, joining you.

“It’s freezing!” You hissed, not even noticing the suffocating steam that accumulated in the shower nor how reddened your husband's skin was at the places where the burning water rained down. The feeling of it on his freshest wounds made him grit his teeth but the pain didn’t keep him from staying in the shower with you.

“It’s burning hot, love,” Arthur replied, his gravelly voice softened, filled with undeniable concern at your inability to properly feel the temperature. Noticing that you were quite literally shivering despite the hot water pouring on the two of you, the gangster’s slim arms wrapped your waist and pulled you closer to interlock your bodies. Each of your curves and shapes perfectly melted into each other, like the pieces of the same jigsaw. Only when you crashed against him you let out a sigh of relief, your shivers suddenly disappearing, and Arthur’s natural warmth spreading under your skin, crawling to your icy heart.

You hugged him back softly. Then tighter. More, I need more of him. Then so hard that your nails broke the skin of his back, scratching him until his crimson blood stained your growing claws. A hoarse whimper escaped from his trembling lips, halfway between pleasure and pain. Lately, your relationship has been filled with pain. So much pain. So much blood. You hurt him with teeth and claws, and you ate his very flesh, but to Arthur and his mind, which was sinking as deep as yours, it felt like true love.

"You don't want to kill ay," He mumbled between two kisses, "Fine, I'll do it for ye hmm?"

"No, it's not your role to do th—" He didn't let you finish your sentence, moaning as you scratched his back again, leaving long and red cuts on his flesh.

"Listen, little one," He grunted, one hand pressing against the wet wall of the shower to keep his thrusts steady, the other grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him right in the eyes, "I'll do anything for ye. Any-fucking-thing."

"Ow!" You winced when Arthur hit a painful spot inside of you but suffering quickly blended with pleasure.

"I'll let you eat me own flesh y'know." He growled again before stroking the fragile skin of your throat with his hungry tongue, the caress of his mustache sending shivers down your spine, "But you don't want that ay? And ye don't want to kill either but love, the truth is ye need to eat fookin' human flesh hm. Fuck—" He slammed his hips more fiercely, your love-making looking more like savage breeding than anything else lately. One might even wonder if pleasure was really the goal behind it, or if you were trying to see who could hurt the other the most, "So I'll —slam— fookin' —slam— hunt fresh meat —slam— for you. For us."

"Arthur! St— Stop." His sudden roughness startled you, making you momentarily snap from your emptiness. Surprised and overwhelmed, you tried to gently push him away in order to make him stop, or at least, to make him slow down his merciless pace but he didn't.

"Don't." He hissed in your ear, the tip of his nose bumping against your cheek and his scorching breath fanning over your skin. The faint and familiar whiskey scent would have usually lulled you if your sharp senses hadn’t grasped the metallic smell of blood. "I said don't.” He repeated on a firmer tome, letting go of your chin. His free hand was now firmly grabbing one of your butt cheeks to keep you from pulling your hips away from him.

You screamed at the sharp, searing pain that jolted through your body like lightning, sending a wave of raw sensation crashing against your neck. The violence with which Arthur had bitten your flesh was a shock, the intensity so sudden and overwhelming that for a moment, you felt lost in a world where pain was the only constant. His lips curled as blood gushed from the bite, tainting your immaculate marbled skin with red trickles. Eyes rolling back into his head as pleasure washed over him, Arthur hummed. "No..." You whined, panic coursing through your veins as you slowly understood the reason behind his absence earlier and the erratic behavior he was displaying. "What the fuck did you do?!" You yelled at him, struggling in his arms and whimpering at the same time, assaulted by his relentless thrusts and trapped between his body and the shower wall.

Nevertheless, you managed to slip one trembling hand on the back of his head while he relished the sweet taste of your ambrosia blood and the tightness of your sensitive walls around him. Gathering your remaining strength, you pulled him by his wet hair to free your neck from his bleeding and starving mouth. He hissed like a wildcat it reply. "Why?! Why did you do that, you bloody idiot?!" Your agonizing and furious screams seemed to work some sense back in his head though. He finally slowed down, now barely moving. In fact, he just rolled his hips sensually against yours, which resulted in a wave of pleasure that eased your pain and made you feel comfortably full.

" 'Cause I love you.” He stated, “Remember what we said when we decided to get married?" His crimson lips curled in a twisted smile, beads of blood clinging to his mustache. "If you suffer, I'll suffer. If you die I'll die," He repeated, like a proud schoolboy who had learned his lesson by heart. A gloomy and obsessive one. "And if you starve, I'll starve..." A glimmer of madness sparkled in his eyes. As the moonlight enlightened his face through the window, its deathly glow casting antlers-shaped shadows behind him, the darkness of his pupils faded from his eyes, losing their usual depth and color for an empty fog. “And if you hear them, I’ll do it to.”

“Hear what?” You murmured, fingers loosening their grip in his hair.

“The woods’ whispers.”

notes: You’ve reached the end of this story, congratulations! Admittedly it didn’t come out as I wanted first but it would have been far too long and I didn’t feel like writing a whole new series. Also it was supposed to be more graphic. When referring to the Algonquian myth of the Wendigo there are two ways to turn into one: either by dreaming of it like Heaven, who was plagued by its spirit since she was young, or by eating human flesh. This explain why his transformation is faster than Heaven’s. Upon discovering what she suffered from, Arthur decided to eat human flesh and turn into one not only to share her pain, but also to remain by Heaven’s side forever. He knew that her new condition meant she would live quite eternally and didn’t want to leave her alone. The ending is open: it’s up to you to what the woods are whispering to them and also what happens to both of them after this. Thank you for reading this disturbing Halloween AU!

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

✞ Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996

[neko-naruto]

we might just bite underneath the moonlight

Summary: Chilchuck can't help himself from helping Marcille on the rebound of Falin's death, even if he knows that's all he'll ever be to her, the rebound

Tags: heavily suggestive themes, wound cleaning, the hot springs itself isnt sexual but the making out is, complicated relationships, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: "Ace write a normal fic for dunmeshi please" fuck ya life, femme4butch lesbian marchil with a brief meijack cameo at the start. in all seriousness the marchil fanart is fucking fire and i had to write *something* for ya'll, it ended up much longer than it was meant to be. hope ya'll enjoy and if ya do consider dropping a reblog or checking the Ao3 port, it really means a lot

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56221963

"Being butch is being chivalrous," Chilchuck explained when his first daughter was old enough to ask why he never dressed like a gal and always wore tape around town.

"Right..." Meijack said, only a hint of confusion on her voice.

"It's like an honour code," Chilchuck said, a bit firmer this time, "A way to confirm that you'll always be the fists they need in a fight, or the one to foot the bill on a date- you're too young to get it."

"Dad, I asked a question, now answer it." It's almost a demand, proof that she is old enough to get it. Proof that she could leave any day now if he wanted it or not, which he really doesn't.

Chilchuck sighed, "It's not something I can teach, it's something that you fall into if you're meant for it."

-/-/-/-

Taking the hit is a reflexive thing, he still hates himself for it. Throwing himself in harms way for the femmes and letting the men take it head on is how he is whether he means it or not.

Blood bursts from the wound along his shoulder but he tries to strafe back into the dodging regime before anyone can register he took a hit for Marcille. He wipes down the wound and oh, yep, that's an arrow lodging itself in his spine. It has enough force to make him stumble and trip and fall, banged against a column and ears ringing.

Death by living armour.

This one is new.

He can hear it clunk as it steps ever closer and closer, fun. He sacrificed himself for Marcille, the girl who wouldn't even spare a second glance at the butch who won't see sixty. Humorous. Ironic. Tragic...?

No, no, not tragic, not tragic for Marcille. She couldn't care less about him, she couldn't care less about men. And to her, he's part of men. He's something so well disguised he'd never be clocked as anything but another dumb guy.

And he can live with that, that might just be the pre-death clarity talking-

A scream is ripped from his throat with the sword plunging deep into his flesh. As mortality is ripped from his body his hands fly to the blade and then he's gone.

-/-/-/-

The bandages wrapped tight around his chest are stiff now, he supposes that they've been down for long enough without a window to change them that they would get nasty. He's pretty sure it's giving his clothing the funk what with the sweat and blood seeping into it that he can't wash out while still wearing it.

He hitches his backpack a little higher up as they reach floor four. Cool air washes over him comfortably as the slow and lazy flow of the water bounces back and forth. It's comforting, he never thought he'd yearn for floor four. Full of sirens and kelpies and deception galore, seemingly calm but full of danger.

Senshi's laying down a pot already and Laois is probably drooling over whatever it is that their latest companion is cooking. And Marcille is brushing her hair, undoing the braids slowly and letting it fall down over her shoulders and Chilchuck isn't allowed to stare.

He wouldn't dare stare, not without her permission at least. That's sacred to her, her hair, her magic, it all ties into one thing that's the core of her existence. It'd be kind of obscene to catch a glimpse of that without her permission, even if Chilchuck is a rogue, a thief, and a cheat he has standards.

"I'm gonna wash off!" Before he gets a response he's trudging over to a sharp corner to slip behind.

The ledge sort of crumbles off the further he strays from the initial landing of the floor. Turquoise glow casting up from the water below, it's scary to expose himself in a false isolation. No one is watching, it's fine, no one is going to walk on over. Well, maybe Laois, but Laois is a dumbass who absolutely would.

First the scarf comes off and his breath hitches as it rises over his head. He should've changed his wraps before coming down to the dungeon, he should've known better. He's been doing this adventuring shit since he was a kid how did he not figure something so simple by now.

He kicks off his socks and shoes next, lining them up next to his bag. In an effort to avoid the inevitable, he retrieves his towel and fresh bandages. They're dropped near the edge as he proceeds to disrobe.

The leather armour slides off much easier then the scarf did, so much easier. With the first step taken, everything afterwards becomes so much easier and he supposes it's that way with everything. Even so he's hesitant to slide off his gloves and reveal scarred flesh to no one but himself and the gentle glow of the lake.

He'll never be able to tell what's harder to take off be it the pants or the shirts, but he still shucks off his pants first. He's starting to feel the nausea, the insecurity, the fear. Of what? He's not quite sure but he swears he's breaking a code of conduct of some sort by stripping down and washing off to save himself from potential infections.

Chilchuck steps down from the ledge onto a raft before taking off his shirt, only then does he dare even think about the bindings wrapped so tight around his chest. He doesn't even have anything to bind, god, why does he even bother. His ex-wife was the only one who could see through the facade and want for what he is anyways, not like he'll luck out with some bi chick again.

Slowly he sinks into the light blue waters, arms rested on the planks of the raft as the stiff gauze soaks. He's slow to unravel the binding and he can only give a stiff exhale because wow, he forgot what it's like to have chest weight. Familiar but foreign, something he barred because he was sure he didn't get as many jobs looking like a girl.

A cigarette would go great with having a soak and relaxing a bit despite all the stress. He doesn't have any of those so instead he dunks his head and washes off, same refreshing feeling. It's nice to get off a couple days of grime, just relaxing enough that he zones out to the point he doesn't register the outside world until Marcille drops her staff.

Oh, fuck.

"Marcille," Chilchuck begins, back still turned to her.

"Y-Yeah?" Marcille asked, trying desperately to beat down the red up to the tips of her ears.

"How much did you see?" Chilchuck asked.

Marcille doesn't answer.

"How. Much."

"Enough." Marcille choked out.

"Look, just toss my down my clothes to the raft and I'll get dressed. Let's act like this never happened, for both of our sakes." He's screaming at himself for saying that. This is his chance, his one, singular chance, and he's butchering it.

Marcille does as told and averts her eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's rude to peep on a lady?" Chilchuck has the gall to ask it as he drags himself out of the water and towels down. He hears a small squeaky sort of sound from Marcille in response, he shrugs it off and tugs back on his pants.

"Well, yeah, of course they did."

"Lemme guess, you didn't think I was this?"

"Yeah." She tugs down the hem of her sleeves a bit, "Did you properly disinfect any wounds?"

"Don't be an idiot, I don't have any wounds to disinfect, and I would've if I had." He's lying, he didn't have the time to reopen a scabby one that had bits of gauze stuck inside, merely skin deep but still an issue. His gloves slide on back with ease but he has to tug just a bit to ensure that they cover all the scars properly.

"Are you almost done? Senshi sent me to get you for dinner." Marcille tapped her foot anxiously on the ground. Very briefly, she wonders if Chilchuck can hear the fact that her heart is racing. She wonders if her heart could just stop right here and now to save her from the shame of it all.

"Hold your horses," Chilchuck answered with. He hisses as gauze comes to lay atop the wound again, he'll tough it out.

Before Marcille can stop herself she whips around to face him, "I knew it! You are hurt..." Her enthusiasm peters off and the red on her face intensifies as Chilchuck scrambles to cover his chest.

Chilchuck's sputtering a bit, scrambling for words to try and get across the exasperation, "I told you to be patient!"

For a brief moment there's silence.

And then.

"Do you want me to clean the wound?" She speaks almost too quietly for even Chilchuck to hear.

"It's fine, I'll manage." He keeps wrapping the gauze as he speaks, when Marcille steps closer he stops. With a heavy sigh, he speaks, "Look, you weren't supposed to find out, no one was. So let's forget about it. Let's both just forget this ever happened so you can go live your good life with Falin, sound good?"

Marcille shook her head, "I can't, I can't let you risk getting an awful infection and dying a slow death."

"Oh yeah? How come?" Chilchuck questioned as he watched Marcille step forward again. He tries to step back but he's been thoroughly cornered to the ledge, he knows that if he steps any further he'll fall in.

"You're my teammate."

"You never spared a glance at me once."

"I didn't know you were, were, you were-"

"A woman?"

"You weren't supposed to be."

"Yeah, I don't get as many jobs with my tits out."

The crassness makes Marcille go even brighter red, it makes Chilchuck smirk. She waves it off, "Just! Let me help."

He hesitates, "Fine."

And with slow motions he undoes the wraps just enough to let the wound be exposed. It lays below the clavicle and Marcille's hands are soft as they trace over his skin far too slowly. He tenses as well kept nails brush over the edge of the scab and pry the bits of gauze and discoloured dry blood.

His blood is red and her hands are pale. The contrast is staggering and he tries his best not to watch because this isn't right. Something is screaming at him that this isn't right or good or lawful because she wasn't supposed to know unless she asked. And he wasn't supposed to be walked in on while he was washing off and changing his wraps-

"Do you want me to call you she?"

Chilchuck goes rigid, shoulders raising and eyes widening.

"Got it, not she."

"You're the second person to ask me that after my wife."

"Oh."

"You haven't earned the right yet." A choked sound slips out as the magic weaves through his flesh and purges it of the potential infection. She retracts her hands and he tries not to reach out for them in response to the motion, "Not yet at least."

Her eyes aren't on his, he can't tell if they're cast to the floor or not. He reaches to fully wrap his chest up again, gauze unfurling to lock himself back up again. The way he should be, it's safer, it's better, it got him three kids who he misses dearly and more jobs than he'd ever needed.

"You look pretty," Marcille confessed, ears drooped just a bit. She feels like she shouldn't be saying it.

Chilchuck gives an amused huffing sort of laugh, "Ya think?"

She nodded.

"It's not just because I'm shirtless is it?" As he speaks he tugs his shirt back on, along with his scarf. He just stuffs his leather over armour in his bag, too stuffy to wear it now that he's hot under the collar.

That gives her pause, "Well-"

Chilchuck sighed, "Think before you speak, don't give an older gal hope."

-/-/-/-

There's an undeniable itch deep inside of Chilchuck's bones and he can't place his finger on it, can't tear himself open to satiate it. He just feels nauseated, vaguely dizzy, and his stomach is in intensive knots no matter what he does to quell it. Cramps? No, no he took his contraceptives.

Did he?

Fucking hell, did he?

He can't remember and he can't ask Senshi to cook up something that'll help with cramping because he'll lose respect if he's outed as a woman. He thinks. He presumes. Senshi's a nice guy, has lots of respect for Marcille, a classically womanly woman.

Chilchuck? Not a classically womanly woman. He'll be disowned, or called a fraud, something awful is bound to happen. But someone is bound to notice that he's lagging behind and in what can only be described as agony, and if its Laois, he'll definitely be diagnosed with a deadly disease of some sort.

Please let there be a natural hot spring somewhere, anywhere nearby. He won't be able to actually have a soak if the guys insist on joining but at least the heat would be a comfort.

Chilchuck dropped down next to the fire, "Hey, Senshi, what's for dinner?"

"Sautéed vegetables, it's a simpler dish compared to what we usually have. But sometimes a light dish is good after excessive amounts of complex dishes." As he speaks he tosses in a handful of diced herbs, "I might check for mushrooms around the springs once Marcille is done in there."

"There's actually a spring down here?" He sounds a bit more excited than he should, not even a floor back did he take a soak. But he yearns for the warmth like a cat yearns for the sun.

Senshi gives a nod, "Yep, great place. Two pools with a bit of a stalagmite barrier between them, quite nice. I set up some lanterns a while back, it's a quaint little section."

"Call me when dinners done, I'm taking a soak." He hiked up his backpack before trotting off to where he can hear Marcille's heartbeat and the slight ripple of water. Sure, he has to strain to hear it a bit, but he picks it out.

-/-/-/-

"Chilchuck, is that you?" Marcille asked from behind the stalagmite wall.

A pause, "Yeah."

"You don't have to be on that side, what if Senshi or Laois comes by?"

"I still have my shirt on, I'm just enjoying the heat."

"Oh."

"Lemme tell ya one thing about being a butch, Marcille." For a moment he wonders if he should give her the spiel he gave Meijack, but he chooses against it. No, no Marcille would know by now. Surely she's met normal butches before? Regardless, he sits against the stalagmite border and speaks, "After sixteen plus years of keeping your real self effectively hidden, you learn better than to make such basic blunders."

She sinks below the water briefly and the silence makes Chilchuck almost uncomfortable.

"I appreciate the concern."

"You can do that on this side of the divider."

"But what if Senshi or Laois arrived? Wouldn't look very good if I was peeping on ya, that'd ruin my reputation."

"But-"

"Marcille. I'm fine not getting in the water."

She stands up and ah ha, she's taller than the divider. And when Chilchuck tilts his head back to face her he can see so much of everything above the belt. Red rises to his face faster than it should and for some reason he can feel his jaw go slack as he stares.

Before even more precious seconds can pass he's jolting away. She leans on the border as best she can, arms crossed over her chest. He swallows thickly as he glances up again to meet her eyes.

"You're in pain," She declared.

"So what if I am?" He countered.

"Look, I read somewhere that Half-Foots get it particularly bad compared to other races due to their size influencing pain tolerance and durability. I've seen you hobble and you curl up in a ball and grovel when you're trying to fall asleep."

"Are you asking me to get naked and take a dip with you?" He tries to cut down his own embarrassment with vulgarity that usually makes Marcille squirm.

"So what if I am? It's only to try and help you out, I'm a girl too ya know."

"I know."

"Then how come you're so hesitant?"

"Reasons."

"You're still not over your wife."

"Don't pry, Marcille, it's rude."

Marcille steps back and sinks back into the water, "Whatever."

Only a brief moment of pause has to pass before Chilchuck stands up and walks over to the divider. He leans on it for a moment, "Look, I guess I could join you."

Marcille spins around to face Chilchuck, "Really?"

"Yes, really. Just, don't make such a big deal out of it."

-/-/-/-

It happens so much faster than he can keep track, maybe he's getting too old for this 'falling in love' thing. He's got three kids, he's definitely too old for this.

Maybe the heats clouding his mind, the temperature a comfort soothing his frayed nerves. His wraps are still on but they're coming off, slowly unfurling as the heat threatens to suffocate him with the way it's tied too tight. And Marcille is staring, mostly submerged, but eyes just above enough that she can watch.

"Marcille, don't make it weird." It's more of a demand than a plea but he can't tell if the heat on his face is from being perceived or from being in the hot spring.

"Sorry," Marcille mutters the word as she presses herself against the ledge, hair scattered around her like tentacles or silk woven from gold.

Chilchuck can't decide which comparison works better.

...

. . .

Marcille gives a short hum, "You look pretty."

The heat is stripping away his inhibitions.

"You look pretty too, unfairly so."

She edges ever closer to him, not sliding along the rocky bench-like formation of the spring, but pushing off.

"You think?"

Chilchuck nods, watching as Marcille glides closer with the grace of a mermaid.

"I don't think," He said, voice slow, voice low. Dropped lower than usual, a slanty smirk on his face. He leans forward a bit, "I know."

"You know?" Closer, closer, closer. She's so close but she's so far and the clock is ticking but time is coming to a screeching halt.

"Oh believe me I do, Marcille." He slinks down from where he sat to meet her halfway across. It's a small basin anyways, but it feels so much larger when the tension and the steam blends into one and he goes blind. He keeps his hands to his sides instead of reaching out because if he missteps with his motions then everything will go downhill.

She isn't afraid. That or she's just not thinking properly. Her hands are soft when they come to rest on his shoulders, one sliding up to the side of his neck. He leans into it a little bit, "Then that would make you one of the hottest ladies I've met."

Chilchuck laughed, "You thought I was a guy, do I really count, Marcille?"

"Now you do."

As she leans forward her hair falls, caging Chilchuck in and locking the door but hey, who is he to complain when it feels so good to give in? To get what he wants, it feels so good. Like fire. He's drowning in flames.

Her other hand works its way to the small of his abdomen and slides up to unfurl the gauze fully. It shocks a gasp out of him and further she presses onward, no inhibitions, no fear, no hesitance. What is she running on right now? What is in her head? What the fuck is making her do this, but holy shit, he does not want her to stop.

Eventually her hands are in her hair and pulling just a bit but her hands stray just a bit and he lurches back. Shoving her off at the shoulders and stumbling, he scrambles to retrieve his wraps.

"What the fuck, Marcille!" Maybe he's a bit louder than he needs to be but he needs to get the point across, "There are, there are boundaries."

It takes her a moment before her face goes bright red and her ears droop, "Oh god."

"It's not fine, but, it's not bad either." Chilchuck is rebinding himself as he speaks but he's still trying to ease the shattered mood, soften the blow. Don't be a douche, you can turn someone down nicely, but he isn't trying to turn her down either. He just needs to slow this down, way down, to a snails pace.

"I don't know what got into me, Chilchuck, I'm so sorry-"

"Marcille! It's alright." He steps close enough to reach out, hands held above the water. He gives a small nod and she places hers atop his, "It's okay, I don't mind fucking, but can we not do it right now with zero warning?"

Marcille nods, "Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry, it makes you sound like a coward," Chilchuck said, voice firm but with a hint of affection lacing it, "And you're not."

A small smile tugs at Marcille's lips, "Alright, thanks, Chilchuck."

-/-/-/-

Chilchuck sleeps without his wraps that night because they got soaked and he was running low anyways. When Laois asked Chilchuck didn't answer, when Senshi asked Chilchuck didn't answer. He didn't owe them an answer even if their assumptions would probably be way off.

They just come up to him one morning and offer to cut his tits off, he'd probably keel over laughing if that happened. His wondering of what's going to happen is very brief when he finds Marcille standing next to his bedding. She drops down to her knees, fingers curled to press nails into palm.

"Yeah, Marcille?" Chilchuck asked gently as he sat up. He stretched his arms over his head and fuck, his spine hasn't felt like that in years.

"Could we share a sleeping bag tonight?"

"What?"

Marcille stands up, "Nevermind."

"No, Marcille. What's wrong? Tell me what happened," He speaks sluggishly, a tired inflection to his tone.

"It's dumb."

"We almost had sex in the hot springs, that was dumb."

Marcille drops to sit down next to Chilchuck, "It was about Falin, we couldn't save her."

"It'll be fine, we're gonna save her. I promise." He's making wild promises. Ones he can't pull through on. But ones that he needs to make to get through the night breathing easy.

He places his hand on Marcille's back and she leans heavily into him, "I miss Falin."

Oh.

He's a rebound.

That's... fine, he knew from the start it'd never work out anyways. Why hope that it might because she kissed him? Why hope for something farther out of reach than the stars? He's dumb, he's an idiot, he isn't even a hopeful one.

This dungeon is getting to him, to fall for Marcille and be stupid enough to think that she'd mean it in any way more than deprived desperation. He still steels himself and hums along, "I miss her too." It feels like he's being stabbed as a much delayed realization hits him, the words falling out of him feel like blood being hacked up.

[starrykatamari]

Saw Lore Contained Within SAW: The Videogame

Hello! My name is Kris and today I am going to be going over all the lore bits you can find through collecting case files in the third-person action game that was made for the Saw franchise. I will only be covering the actual plot of this game very briefly, since it is basically just a gap filling narrative that ties into the movies.

I will be making a second post for Saw II: Flesh & Blood, the second third-person action game made for the franchise.

Walk with me! I wanna play a game...

TW: Sui mentions, descriptions of canon-typical violence, drug use mentions, basically it's about Saw so be careful I love you.

The first game is set directly after the first movie-- detective Tapp has been kidnapped and treated for his bullet wound, and now he has to play one of the Jigsaw Killer's games in order to let go of his obsession. Along the way he runs into some familiar faces and ultimately either ends up admitted to a mental hospital (I know. It sucks. I know I hate it too.) or taking his own life in his apartment.

There are some fun nods to some of the more popular traps in the Saw franchise– those will be included and labeled as well throughout the post. Disclaimer: I will not be covering any material that is not directly relevant to the movie franchise this game is based on. If it’s in the game and you don’t see it here, it’s skippable, I promise.

WARNING: Both this and my next post about Saw II: Flesh & Blood will be LONG. Settle in for the ride and enjoy the lore!!

Quick note before I really get into it here, and really just a fact that I personally really love: the main menu screen of this game is a 3D render of the bathroom from Saw (2004). If you navigate to the audio options menu, adjusting the volume of any of the settings causes the sound of chains rattling and someone (likely supposed to be Adam due to the dialogue used) shouting things like ‘let me out!’ or ‘I didn’t do anything!’. It’s both a hilarious and ineffective way of presenting this.

Trap Reference: The Reverse Bear Trap

Tapp wakes in a bathroom (note that this is simply a bathroom, and not the bathroom) with a reverse bear trap on his head. That’s the reference– they blow that load literally right away.

Trap Reference: The Venus Flytrap

Here we briefly see someone killed by the same trap that was featured at the beginning of Saw II.

Going to take this moment to briefly touch on the fact that Amanda is in this videogame as a non-playable character. She is being tested (again, I know) and Tapp has to save her from her test. Suffice to say that her use here is boring, extremely out of character, and just a very thin grab at a character anyone would recognize. So I won’t be getting into any of her escapades here.

Trap Reference: Razorwire Maze

Just a quick walk-by scenery element, really, this guy behind a window seems to have gotten the ol’ Paul Leahy treatment.

Case File: Partial Medical File

This seems to be a partially redacted medical file on a patient whose name is not revealed. We are obviously meant to assume that this is in reference to John Kramer– it’s just the age that gives me pause. However, we’re meant to believe that man was fifty fucking two when he died in Saw III, so it’s probably just an inconsistency in the game.

“NAME: [BLACKED OUT]

PATIENT ID #: 825-361-3127

DATE: April 14th, 1998

CONSULTATION

DOCTOR’S NOTES - Upon initial assessment, [BLACKED OUT] presents as a well-spoken man with a firm grasp upon reality. Patient 34 years old. Married for 2 years. Wife 4 months pregnant.

Denies necessity of psychological treatment, but has kept appointment at the request of his wife, who insisted on visitation due to a concern over growing isolationistic tendencies. 

Patient displays high degree of verbal acuity and is very observant. Initial tests suggest a very high IQ, with an extraordinary ability to recall facts. [BLACKED OUT] expressed pride at his intelligence and knowledge. Exhibits need to point out the weaknesses in others. Insists the behavioral changes are that of his wife who “no longer understands” him.

Patient is polite and cordial, but non-compliant. Seems to take pleasure in obfuscating answers and attempting to trick questioner. Patient’s demeanor is calm and controlled. Shows disconnect with the emotions of other individuals and general lack of empathy toward humanity. Verbally expresses true affection for his wife and expectant child, but does not outwardly display so when discussing them.

After initial consultation [BLACKED OUT] does not feel a need for future visitations. Have scheduled a follow-up appointment with the option to cancel with 24 hours notice, just in case he changes his mind. 

Patient displays tendencies towards depression and Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

Case File: Jigsaw Survivor Found

A newspaper clipping discussing Amanda.

“Until now, the Jigsaw Killer has never left anyone alive. Amanda Young is now the first and only known survivor of the Jigsaw Killer. Details about Young are forthcoming, and she has yet to make a statement regarding her capture.”

Case File: Jigsaw Survivor Speaks

Another newspaper clipping involving Amanda.

“‘He saved my life.’ These were the words spoken by Amanda Young, only known survivor of the Jigsaw Killer, at a press conference on the steps of City Hall yesterday morning. A police spokesperson stopped Young from revealing too much from the case, but let Young talk about what she felt during that desperate time.”

Trap Reference: Shotgun Collar

Pretty straightforward! This guy begs us to get the thing off of him and then it works as intended.

Actually, we see it again just after, but this time Jigsaw has knocked Tapp unconscious and put a shotgun collar onto him as well.

Film Reference: Adam’s(?) Camera

Pictured below, Tapp will eventually encounter a camera. Written above it is the phrase ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’. Picking up said camera will give the player the ability to take a photo, activating the flash and illuminating the room for a precious few half-seconds. It’s a terrible mechanic in-game, and an obvious reference to Adam’s navigating his apartment using the same method in Saw (2004).

Trap Reference: Pendulum

Guys this one really boggles me / makes me quite mad, actually. This trap is an obvious reference to the pendulum from the beginning of Saw V. The blade is oriented at the opposite angle, though, meant to cut Jennings (a character who literally does not matter, trust me) long-ways rather than across, like Baxter. It’s a bastardization, but then I might just be biased as the resident Hoffman liker.

Case File: Negligence Leads to Officer’s Death

A newspaper clipping that is speaking about detective Sing’s death in Saw (2004), pinning the blame on Tapp for his rash actions.

“By Oswald McGillicutty

If it wasn’t bad enough that there is a killer out there mashing up taxpayers into itty bits, now we have the cops to worry about, too. To his own admission, Detective David Tapp completely disregarded process and went rogue, convincing his partner, Detective Steven Sing, to join him in an unwarranted entry to catch the Jigsaw Killer. 

Not only did they break into Jigsaw’s secret hideout without a warrant, but they didn’t wait for any backup either, probably hoping to get all the glory for themselves. Well, Jigsaw got the drop on them, slicing Tapp’s throat from ear to ear and nailing Sing in the top of the head with a double barrel shotgun. 

All of this was confirmed by witness Jeff Thomas, who was in one of Jigsaw’s little traps. He claimed Sing saved his neck, but when Tapp got sliced and Sing got blasted, good ol’ Jeff was stuck in the trap until help arrived.”

Case File: Decorated Detective Discharged

A newspaper clipping discussing Tapp’s discharge from the MPD– this one actually mentions Hoffman being the replacement for head officer on the case.

“By Oswald McGillicutty

Globe Staff Writer

Detective David Tapp, the lead officer in the Jigsaw Killer case, resigned yesterday due to unknown circumstances. The shooting death earlier this week of his partner, Detective Sing, is suspected to be a factor in the detective’s resignation, but Tapp could not be reached for comment.

‘Tapp was a fine officer and defender of the law, and we will miss him,’ was the only comment given by the police spokesperson.

Detective Mark Hoffman, a similarly decorated officer, will be taking over lead position on the case.”

Case File: Partial Medical File (2)

Another medical file seemingly written by a therapist in reference to, again, who we are probably meant to assume is John Kramer.

“PATIENT ID #: 825-361-3127

DOCTOR’S NOTES

[BLACKED OUT] continues to show up to appointments despite questioning need for psychiatric treatment. States that he ‘knows more about medicine and the mind’ than any of the staff. Mocks staff credentials and is often uncommunicative during therapy. Claims traditional psychiatric medicine fails patients by not offering them ‘real choices’.

Patient displays familiarity with psychological / psychiatric language. Patient states that he is well aware of his own childhood history and its potential psychological ramifications. Describes authoritarian, punitive father and absent, passive mother. Insists that his superior intelligence and self-control make childhood history of physical, mental and verbal abuse unimportant.

Patient denies history of his own violent and impulsive behavior, citing memory lapses. Our conversations reveal the [BLACKED OUT] often manipulates others for his own amusement. Patient shows no remorse at negative effects his behavior has on other people. Views others as objects / pawns.

Based on [BLACKED OUT]’s behavior and history, I recommend inpatient treatment. Patient refuses to consider this option.

Raise Haldol to 5 mg / twice daily. Raise chlorpromazine to 50 mg nightly.”

For those who are curious, ‘chlorpromazine’ is Thorazine, a medication used typically to treat conditions such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. ‘Haldol’, or ‘haloperidol’ is also typically used to treat schizophrenia.

Film Reference: ‘X Marks the Spot’

Very straightforward, just writing on the wall instructing Tapp to find the ‘X’ that marks ‘the spot’. Clear reference to one of the tapes’ clues from Saw (2004).

And there you have it! That is all of the relevant lore and a few of the references to the films in Saw: The Videogame. My recommendation is this: if you are a Saw fan, please do yourself a favor and find a nice, no-commentary longplay of this game to watch. It’s hilariously bad, but if you’re a diehard Sawliker you might find some real good laughs there for you.

Thanks for reading, and look out for my post on Saw II: Flesh & Blood– I’ll probably start working on it right after this one is posted! The second game has MUCH more relevant lore about a lot of characters (some of which we don’t get much info on to begin with), so please stay tuned! I’ll link it in an edit of this post once it’s done.

Oh, and if you have any questions or anything funny to share in reference to this game, PLEASE don't hesitate to send me an ask! I'm basically a font of knowledge about these two spinoff games. :)

Have a good one! Remember to cherish your life! <3

EDIT: The post is done for Saw II: Flesh & Blood! Read it here!

[phoenix-and-found-family]

She watched as John grabbed a needle off of the cart and handed it to a grunt.

"Give them another dose, would you? They're starting to stir again."

The grunt looked down at the drug confused.

"I know I know nothing 'bout medicine, but shouldn't dey be dead already? We've drugged em like fifteen times."

John glared at the man.

"Don't get paid ta think, I know, I know."

The grunt walked back over to Phoenix and injected another dose as he walked back to her with a grimace.

"I hope you have the mask adjusted properly this time. I've nearly run out of the stuff, and it's been barely four hours."

Fabricator raised an eyebrow.

"You know each needle is supposed to last twelve hours."

"Tell that to the agent."

John pointed with his middle finger.

"They nearly woke up on the way here after fifteen minutes."

She was constantly surprised by this agent. They knew how to keep up an act, they solved her desk(she hated them for leaving such a mess. Was it too much to ask they put things back where they belong?), but this was impressive. And potentially useful.

She wasn't sure if this was tied to their... ability or not.

Fabricator walked closer to the agent as the grunt finished up and turned to leave.

"And I- Are you even listening to me?!"

She ignored him as she looked over the little bugger in person for the first time.

They were fairly scrawny, and a lot shorter than she hoped, with pale skin and brown hair that had never seen a comb in its life. Their suit was both cheaper and more expensive than it looked, with several "hidden" pockets that, knowing Phoenix, would probably be used to steal things from the places they visited.

"I only have you for a short time, but there's something I've been dying to test on you."

Fabricator pressed a button on her cigarette stick and a long, thin blade shot out from the end of it.

She dug the knife into their cheek with only a little resistance, blood flowing weakly from the wound as she raked the blade across their face, down their throat, over their shoulders.

"What- What did- Why would you-"

She turned to John and walked back towards him.

"Shoot them."

The look of shock and bewilderment on his face was so awfully genuine, she could almost believe it was another man. A better man. A man who didn't know what was coming to him.

Juniper quickly regained his composure and put on a mask of indifference.

"First of all, you're not my boss, Fabby. Second, I will shoot them, but not because you told me to."

She chuckled slightly as he walked closer to them, grabbing a pistol from a box and loading it in one smooth motion. She had to admit- he was an arrogant prick, but he was a fantastic shot.

"If Zor asks why they're dead when they wanted them alive, I'm blaming you for this."

He stopped around twenty feet in front of them, holding the gun level with their head. He hesitated for a second...

... before the pistol went off and a hole appeared in their brain.

John lowered the gun.

"Why wasn't I allowed to just do that on the way here?"

"Because I wanted to see how this worked in person."

"How what work..."

He trailed off as he stared in horror as the blood started running back up into their body.

She smiled.

"That."

Their blood started slowly at first, fitting back into place in their head like a jigsaw puzzle. It peeled off the wall in droplets, and then suddenly in bigger drops, flying back inside with the force of a bullet. It was almost like rewinding a VHS tape- seeing the wound play out backwards, the flesh regrowing.

She had tried to record it before, but no recording could have done this transformation justice. It was incredible.

John looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"W- I- Huh??? That's not- possible!!"

She enjoyed his absolute horror before his eyes inevitably glazed over.

"That's not... possible..."

He walked like a marionette back towards her, his eyes half shut and the gun loose in his hand.

He put the pistol on the box, muttering the whole time.

"Not possible, not possible, not possible..."

She smirked as he finally found his way back to her.

"I like you much better like this, John. You're much more... manageable."

He looked back to Phoenix, blinked hard, and she could tell that he had reset before he opened his mouth.

"Tell that to the agent."

John pointed with his middle finger.

"They nearly woke up on the way here after fifteen minutes."

Fabricator watched the grunt finish up and turn to leave.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

She smiled.

"Like what?"

"Like you're going to feed me into a sausage grinder."

"Maybe I will."

He rolled his eyes.

She handed him the bag with the mimic mask and watched him put it on.

"Why did you make it look like his face? I really only need to sound like their handler."

"Because, John, you know I can never do anything without a hint of betrayal."

He walked away muttering something about "what does that even mean".

She walked over to the unconscious Phoenix one last time.

All of her cuts were gone. Their face was exactly the way it had been beforehand. No marks at all.

She couldn't help but notice that their skin was a little less pale, their hair was a little more manageable, and, quite possibly, they were just a little bit taller.

Fabricator had to give it to John. He picked the most perfect name.

She couldn't wait to break them in two.

She let go of their face and walked towards the door. It was nearly showtime. And she wasn't going to miss the summit for the world.

(Holy shit, this was long and I wrote it in one sitting what the fuck happened)

[aingeal98]

cass and tim for short fic? Maybe with a dash of hurt comfort bc I’m a sucker for it <3 🫶

The bullet isn't lodged too deeply. Tim takes a breath before steadily pulling it out, just the way Alfred taught him. He can almost hear the old man's voice, feel him next to Tim, steadying his hands.

Cass is silent and still, unnaturally so. She looks like she could be watching TV, not getting a bullet pulled out from between her ribs. It makes Tim want to shiver, even after all these years.

More than anything he wants to apologise. But he knows she won't accept it. If she hadn't gotten in front of that bullet he'd be dead, and he is alive now so to Cassandra he has nothing to apologise for. But Tim wants to anyway. He's supposed to be better than this, the only Robin who never died even for a few seconds. If he can be so distracted by a fight that a stray bullet almost kills him...

The bullet comes out. Cass moves then, reaching forward to pull Tim's face upwards so that he's looking right at her.

"It's not your fault." she says.

Logically, Tim knows she's right. None of them, not even Bruce, are capable of dodging bullets they don't see. That skill belongs to Cass and Cass alone. But a voice that sounds like Batman won't leave Tim's head, insisting that he should have had better situational awareness, better tactics before entering the firefight. Batgirl is injured now. Because of him.

"I know." He says, because he does. Knowing and feeling are two different things.

Cass frowns, but says nothing as Tim starts stitching up the wound.

"We did good." She speaks at last. "The gang is... Over. Gone for good."

It's true. They caught the last of them and destroyed the boats they were using to move the illegal goods. Even if they continue to work inside prison, their ties and influence over the outside world have been thoroughly destroyed. It's good work, especially for one night.

But his sister is hurt. Because he wasn't good enough. Tim isn't insecure, he knows his own strengths and weaknesses. Tonight he messed up, simple as. He'll just have to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Cass sighs, leaning her forehead against Tim's shoulder. She's determined to give him comfort and Tim... As much as he's not ready to forgive himself, he's not willing to push it away either.

He finishes stitching the wound up and dresses it. Cass watches him in silence. Once he's done, she scoops him up and deposits him on the couch, ignoring his protests.

"You've just been shot! Don't put pressure on the wound!"

"Tis merely a flesh wound."

"Funny reference but it's not. It's literally not."

She rolls her eyes, a fond smile on her face.

"Pick a movie, nerd."

See, this is Steph's influence right here. Not Cass calling people nerds, but Cass calling Tim specifically a nerd. He should protest, tell Cass to leave him alone to sulk and wallow in his own mistakes.

Tim picks out a movie.

Cass ruffles his hair and pecks him on the cheek. As Mean Girls starts playing, she stretches out on the couch next to him, completely relaxed like she doesn't have a bleeding hole between her ribs.

Tim still feels guilty. He knows from experience he won't stop feeling guilty until at least tomorrow night. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a little better. It's impossible to take himself super seriously and brood when the girl who got wounded because of him is shoving her feet in his face.

Not for the first time tonight, Tim finds himself very grateful for older sisters.

[steel-and-fire]

Session Summary: The Hunt (part 2)

While still in the church, burning in their frustration, Ferenir tries to call the Captain's soul to return to the living, which brings arguments from Aramil.

'If he doesn't want to return, just let him.' This sets off a serious argument between the two, as Ferenir strongly believes in not letting people make their decisions at their worst state, and giving them a chance to rethink it all, respecting it if they are In a good and safe mind state. If the captain wants to go still, that's fine, but he won't let them die.

Because 'If people gave up on me in my worst times, I wouldn't be alive right now either!'

Before it escalates further, the maid of the captain enters the church, traumatized but safe. The party asked her a few questions about what happened, and she revealed two hooded assailants attacked them. They tortured the captain for hours, threatened her and Anastasia's lives, and left him to bleed out to death before setting the house on fire.

This doesn't sit well at all with none of them, and after a few back and forth on their plan, they decide to share the information with the captain of the guard, Ecstasy. They do, and they are also informed that their informant, the halfling that helped them with the smuggling den raid, had been missing since yesterday...alongside a friend of his and her daughter.

Understanding that this is how the information got probably leaked, they and the guards rush to two different locations to investigate. The Misfits get lucky, as they hear faint shouting from a house, and Aramil sneaks successfully to find the halfling, his friend and the child, all tied up and being interrogated by what seems to be the two duregar they were expecting two days later.

As suspected, they had returned early, or never left in the first place. One seemed to be a strong, burly woman with two large blades, presumably Hammer, and the other one was a smaller man with leather armor and a beard, probably Knife. The boys did not wait much longer, broke down the door and started blasting, literally. Taking their enemies by surprise, Aramil managed an arrow through Hammer's hand, crippling her, while Horny casted a successful Blindness spell on her.

The battle starts, Knife gets invisible and manages a sharp wound on Horny, before Horny activates Hellish Rebuke and blasts him right back. Aramil's misses his next shot, and Hammer fails to stab Ferenir, who has been nearly unmoving, staring her down, ignoring her insults and snarky remarks. A prideful warrior, she seemed, but...

'I want you to know, before I strike. This is personal.'

He activated Umbra Fang for the first time, the shadow energy manifesting in the image of Shadowfang himself around Ferenir, and as the Maul crashed onto 'Hammer's' body, the fangs tore through her armor, flesh and bones like wet paper, painting the floor red with her broken body.

But it was the second strike that ended it all. Activating it again, Ferenir brought the weapon down on her upper torso, the image of Shadowfang biting down as her entire upper body exploded into pieces, leaving nothing but her feet to fall to the ground.

Everyone is stunned, Aramil nearly throws up, and 'Knife' tries to immediately escape...only to be smashed on his legs by Ferenir, breaking them in a single blow.

Still persistent, he tries to suicide with poison pills, to prevent capture, and while Aramil tries to reach for his throat....Ferenir activates the third function of Umbra Fang, gaining the power of a hill giant for a moment, and delivering a terrible knee slam into the duregar's gut...causing him to throw up....all over Aramil.

'You can not run. Death can't save you.' Ferenir is very, very mad, remembering how they tortured his friend who is still fighting for his life as they speak. He gags the man's mouth to prevent further suicide attempts, right before the guards arrive...to see the horrible state of things, yet the also the clear victory.

[primordialpaper]

Random Fairy Tail WIPs, #2

<Here, Team Natsu has just apprehended a particularly mouthy bandit leader, who manages to get on Wendy's nerves with his constant stream of foul-comments and insults.>

She needed to be able to think.

“You guild wizards, always happy to do the Council’s dirty work-”

“Shut up!” The quiet was immediate, and Wendy enjoyed a heady few seconds of bliss before she noticed the subtle, choked undercurrent this hush possessed. It wasn’t a perfect silence, with still the faint, muffled sound of someone trying to talk. Her friends had all fallen quiet, too. Opening her eyes, she was greeted by Natsu and Gray’s pale faces, staring transfixed at something behind her.

She didn’t like how off-put they looked.

“Wendy,” Erza’s voice was firm. Regimented. Like she was flattening any sort of emotion that might leak through. She was giving an order. “Wendy, undo it.”

Undo what? What had gotten everyone so spooked?

Wendy turned around to look at the Requip wizard. This motion necessitated her gaze to pass over the bound form of their distasteful, criminal quarry on the way to face Erza.

She never completed the movement. 

She went brutally still upon catching sight of the man.

He was still on his knees, hands tied behind his back. He was looking up at her, those pale blue eyes practically bulging out of their sockets as he strained with all his might to speak, but couldn't produce more than some strangled gurgles.

This stark lack of vocalization likely had to do with the absence of his mouth.

His mouth was gone. Wendy’s brain fought to make sense of what she was looking at. His mouth was gone. Beneath his nose, there was nothing but smooth, featureless skin.

His attempts at speaking made the empty expanse of flesh bulge in a truly horrifying way.

Wendy had exceptional hearing, and a fairly dedicated memory. The sound of desperate words trapped with nowhere to escape would likely stick with her for years to come.

“Wendy,” the sound of her name- Erza, again- pierced through her horrified stupor. “Undo it, Wendy.”

Undo...

Oh, gods. 

Oh gods!

“Deus Zero!” she swiped her hand through the air, ripping away the Enchantment on the man. She’d probably hurt him, at least slightly, with how hasty she was in removing her spell, panic making her normally steady hands tremble.

Blue light flared, and summarily faded, around the lower half of his face, revealing- none the worse for wear- the same mouth he’d had at the start of the day.

The one Wendy had just unintentionally robbed him of.

“Fucking FREAK!” despite his roaring invective, he made no attempt to hide his desperate struggle with his bound limbs to get away from her, shuffling backwards on his knees until he hit the wall. “Witch! You’re a fucking monster!”

“I’m- I’m sorry.” Wendy’s fingers were knotted tightly together at her midsection, somewhat resembling the twisted coil that her insides had wound themselves into. Guilt and horror twined their way through her veins. “I didn’t mean-”

“You all saw what she did to me!” the bandit didn’t acknowledge her, instead gazing frantically at her teammates. “You all saw it! Do guild wizards just let their freaks pick people apart?! Lock her up, why don’t you?! Before the witch does even worse!”

“Shut the hell up.” Gray growled, moving along with Natsu to subtly stand between Wendy and the furious bandit.

Wendy jumped, quite badly, at the feeling of hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She wasn’t able to look away from the man she’d just... just...- but she knew this touch was Lucy’s. The process of elimination aside, the blond’s hands were smaller than Natsu or Gray’s, and lacked the cold plating of Erza’s gauntlets.

She was gentle, in the way she guided her to turn around, keeping careful hold on her as she began leading Wendy away.

“You should be locked up, you hear me?! The Council should put you down like a damn dog!”

“Ignore him.” Lucy urged softly, encouraging Wendy to walk just a bit faster. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

[ratwars]

Hiiiii Lue

Do you have any tips and tricks on writing gore? Oftentimes when I try to describe injuries it comes out either too medical or too tame

Hi hello Sin 🙏💜 Sry sry for taking a bit to respond my brain is mashed potatoes and when I got your ask all I thought was "make it sound wet" which was a bad answer but I was still onto something with that I think so here is my advice (just thinking to what I do but also since I read a lot of whump which usually has gore though I prefer softer gore to actually heavy gore I pulled from that too) just keep in mind I really don't think I am qualified to give writing advice and I would warn you I am bad at explaining things but you have known me for long enough now that isn't a suprise hopefully. And yet you still asked me this so:

In addition to sight, try focusing on the other senses of the "observer" as well, or the person experiencing the injury if it is from their point of view.

I visualize scenes in my head more like a movie when I write, the words come after. For instance when I wrote the scene with Chuuya tied to the chair (in my current whump fic) I imagined his side cut open, the wet sounds his blood made falling to the floor, the pull of the instrument used to create the wound against flesh, the splatter and where it fell from the weapon, Chuuya slumping but held by the restraints, and this happening again hours later leading to a mixture of old and new blood on the floor. It is more than I included in what I wrote but still very little to do with the physical look of the wound when you come down to it. Instead of describing the exact nature of the injury with knowledge of what caused it, I feel like I wrote it more from the perspective of what a "viewer" would experience if the camera panned to him (even though it was written still from Chuuya's point of view).

Think about the initial impression of the wound in the first few seconds of seeing it. If it is fresh and bleeding the details are going to be obscured, and if it is a grievous wound there will be other things going on, fatty tissue exposed and in places it shouldn't be, ligament showing, bone shards or bone. If you feel like what you wrote was too plain then including things like this might help but I still would keep it somewhat vague, because for most people seeing that is going to be very shocking and they wouldn't pick out details or visualize them to the level of being overly descriptive when it comes to "where" things are or proper terminology for things I don't think.

I like to think about the "feeling" from the scene too. What might my reader feel witnessing this scene/thing I have tried to express. When I write and edit (not just for gore but other key scenes or things I am unsure about) I like to do this and imagine what a person's expressions or reactions might be to what I have created for them and if that matches up with the feeling I want them to have. Imagining how they would react to what they see, then only include the things they would react to (or add things that I think would enhance their reaction, and delete things that don't). I don't get hung up on if I am "accurate" or not with the potential reader's response, it is more a helpful exercise to put myself in someone else's shoes since that does not come naturally for me really.

Describe what's missing instead of a description of what is there. Everyone knows where everything is supposed to be since we all have bodies and look at them all day, and something not being where it is supposed to be causes visceral reactions in people. I can provide real life examples of this too tbh from previous jobs. When someone is horrified or in shock trying to describe to you something that happened, often they focus on what is missing (if something was missing). "His jaw was just gone" "Her foot wasn't there anymore." "The skin was just gone". The idea of this is disturbing and sticks with people, and doesn't require a lot of additional exposition to express the weight of the injury. So even something like "half his face was gone, leaving only a mess of red" to me paints a clear picture of a very grotesque and serious head injury, I can visualize it easily, and it isn't overly specific or medical.

Idk if any of this is helpful but hopefully something in here might be.

[shock-micro]

The Angel, The Demon

So last night, I noticed my friend and their partner had matching profile pictures of Asriel and Chara. They told me it was from an album cover, for an album called "The Angel, The Demon". It... got me thinking.

Asriel and Chara, they're both Angels.

"There is a prophecy. The Angel… The One Who Has Seen The Surface… They will return. And the underground will go empty."

Let's see.

Asriel Dreemurr has seen the surface, being mortally wounded there, and dying in the underground. He returns as Flowey, before absorbing all of the human and monster souls, and assuming his true form once again. His name is very close to Azrael, the angel of death. He even sprouts wings in his second phase. And ultimately, the underground goes empty, thanks to him breaking the barrier and allowing the monsters to go freely to the surface.

Chara is originally from the surface, and it is there that their body is laid to rest. They return after Frisk's fall into the Underground, awakened by their (or your) power. At the end of the Genocide Route, if you have completed it twice, they acknowledge themselves as the demon that comes when its name is called. They are a fallen angel, on multiple levels. And ultimately, the underground goes empty, thanks to your own help and their own power, as the world and all of the people in it are erased forever.

And how do you meet both of them? You have to embody the type of person their symbolism suggests.

To meet Asriel in his true form, you must complete the True Pacifist route, befriending everyone, performing good deeds for them. It's the route the game encourages, and it is ultimately the most rewarding. The player must be an angel to meet an angel. At the end, the game gives you a choice, to forgive and comfort Asriel in spite of all he's done wrong as Flowey.

To meet Chara in the flesh, you must complete the Genocide route to its fullest extent, killing everyone with no mercy, seeking out every target. It's slow, it's dull, but it was you who chose the path of sins. The player must be a demon, to meet a demon. At the end, the game gives you a choice in ending the world, but saying no only means its end will be more painful.

This whole dichotomy between Light and Dark, it's been in Undertale since the beginning. Angel, or Demon? True Pacifist, or Genocide? Asriel, or Chara. And as noted at the beginning, it even ties back to the game's own prophecy of the Delta Rune. Demons, after all, are just angels who have fallen. And Chara has fallen, in more ways than one.

Now, Deltarune is technically an entire different game, but let's look at Deltarune through the lens of Undertale's prophecy, through that idea of the angel and the demon.

The contrast between Ralsei and Noelle is very similar to that of Asriel and Chara. A demon, an angel, one from the dark, one from the light. For the purposes of this analysis, let's say the "surface" in Undertale's prophecy corresponds with the light world in Deltarune.

Ralsei is from the dark, but he knows a lot more about the light world than he lets on. Whether he can truly see it or whether it's just intuition about the layout, is yet to be known, but the latter can still be interpreted as "seeing" it. He makes the dark worlds go empty by bringing their inhabitants to the main dark world, the one in the school closet, comparable to how Asriel allows the monsters to go to the surface. And yet, do you see the horns? The way he essentially helps you "erase this world, and move onto the next"? The way the game makes you distrust him through his little off-screen chats with Kris, and withholding crucial details on the prophecy? Ralsei is, although a kind one, a demon.

Noelle is originally from the light world, but sometimes it doesn't feel like it's her first time in the dark. Queen recognizes her as powerful, and Spamton reveres her as... well. She can help make the dark world, at least the Cyber World, go empty, by freezing everyone in it to death. It's cold, and it's terrifying, yet... her outfit and demeanor, it's almost pure. She just thinks she's getting stronger, that it's a dream. She wears a pure white dress, she's referred to by Spamton as [Angel]. Noelle is, for all intents and purposes, an angel.

And what about the gameplay? Well...

Following Ralsei's direction means you cannot even kill enemies whatsoever, at least while he's around. You get no choice, you either befriend them, or they flee. You get no choice but to erase each dark world, and under his instruction, bring all of the recruited folk back to the main one. And with each new dark fountain created, you have no choice but to move onto the next. And yet, even though this is the route the game railroads you on, it's not necessarily... encouraged? Sure, Ralsei tells you not to commit violence, but nothing stops you from doing so anyway and making everyone hate you. In fact, going violent in Deltarune has, unless you follow the very specific steps of Snowgrave, no downside other than... not recruiting people.

When you're with Noelle, though. Well, you've gotta check out what the IceShock spell does, right? Freezing enemies? The game almost encourages you to try it out once she joins your party, and seek out new targets. While the Genocide Route was a slog, the Snowgrave Route allows you to freeze almost every enemy with ease, to take back that agency that the main route steals. Even in the normal route, taking back your agency from the prophecy and cutting your own strings is encouraged by Spamton, but it ultimately tells you that gets you nowhere. But through Noelle, you can break free, if even a little. Your choices can make an impact, even if it means sacrificing the agency and well-being of someone else.

In this way, Ralsei and Noelle are very close to sharing that same angel/demon dichotomy, except now, the angel acts like a demon, and the demon acts like an angel. And, strangely, the angel is still considered good by the gameplay, but the story and prophecy says otherwise. The line between light and dark is strangely blurred, for a game all about the two. Typing that, I can't help but ponder this cryptic tweet from Toby Fox himself in 2011 which says "The edge of the shadow, where reality and dream meet."

Asriel is an angel, whose purpose of making the underground go empty is pure, even if he had to temporarily take all of those souls to realize it was what he had to do. Chara is a demon, a fallen angel, whose method of making the underground go empty is cruel, and the point you have to get to in order to do so is even more so.

Ralsei is a demon, but his cause is still supposedly just, he helps erase each world but still attempts to save the people in them - after all, having only one dark world is preferable to the Roaring. Noelle is an angel, but her method of "emptying the dark world" is cruel, and the way you control her to do so is even more so.

And let's talk about "the Angel's Heaven" for a bit. I believe the Angel's Heaven is likely another name for the Roaring, or rather, the world left behind in its wake. Tying this back to the idea of Undertale's prophecy, the Roaring is an event which leaves one empty husk, of a world in shadow. Those who inhabit the light world, the surface, must create the dark fountains, and if they manage to cause the Roaring, they've likely been to the dark world before.

So, even though Undertale and Deltarune are supposedly different worlds, you can still connect the two games via the Delta Rune, a symbol of prophecy in both worlds, with a much heavier focus in the latter. But, the prophecy of the first echoes far more true in each than you could ever imagine.

[caestusvulpes]

i think about how they first met. I think about how Hikari just saw another vampire gunning for her for a second time. Initial terror bows to a soft, fierce acceptance, and she fights back with fury and bravado. She stands back, asks for a moment, ties her scarf around her waist to get it off her neck, and draws a hunting knife. And she fights with the ferocity of an animal. She fights like she's going to die, and she very well might. But there's some sick ecstasy in it, each blow between them reminding her that she's alive, that she's human. She fights with a smile, teeth bared, watching his every move like a hawk to act accordingly.

initially, he's the aggressor. All he sees then is someone who knows too much about the stone mask ( the vampiric aura she emits idly is enough he can pick up on ). As their fights progresses, he shifts tactics from his fluid fighting style to something more passive. He's watching her. He knows it, she knows it. She yells at him to just get it over with, to put her out of her misery if he wants her dead so badly to the point he'd risk a crowd. The streets are quiet and empty. She's tired. She doesn't have the stamina, speed, or strength she used to have. Her right trapezius muscle aches from deep nerve damage. She's faltering, but has no intention of stopping until he either gives up or she's bleeding out on the ground.

he asks her why she fights with such desperation. She answers, "wouldn't you, if someone wanted to kill you?" he chuckles. He says he could swear she had thought he was someone else. Her face drops. her vengeance, her fury, seeps into her body language and her every move. you've had to fight like this before. you've had to prepare to fight like that again.

"and what do you know about that?" her words are pointed, accusatory. He's wounded her with words that hurt way more vividly than any kick or strike only moments prior. He replies that he doesn't know her. He doesn't know a thing about her. Just that she wants blood. And she does. Her eyes narrow into points, urging him to get on with it. He asks what she knows of vampires. She answers they cannot be killed by time, only the sun. He says she's about halfway there. He says he'll teach her a way to kill a vampire, on the conditions that she does not use that power against him, that she kills the vampire she's after with her knowledge, and that should calamity come, she will take up arms.

what calamity, she asks. She's hooked in with morbid fascination. he tells her of the pillar men, about how their leader wants to subjugate humanity, how he's unwilling to sit by and let a greater threat to the world destroy it. She ponders. "if I refuse?" then you may walk to your death, for unless you get extremely lucky, you do not stand a chance. "i'unno, I think I did good against you." her smile is cheeky, like she hadn't taken a knife to his flesh and swung with reckless abandon.

she takes his hand in hers, and squeezes. "if this is what it takes, then fine."

[ritzcrackee]

NOBODY READ THIS OR ILL KILL YOU

The first time Delissandro gets a tattoo he's thirteen years old. He's a man now and it's tradition to have his clan symbol inked over his heart. His mother hands him off, beaming with pride, and he tries to control his shaking limbs as he's led into the tent. 

It's a dark, claustrophobic space. A large cross shaped table takes up most of the room, barely giving enough room for them to stand. He is choked by incense and the scent of bodily fluids not quite washed out. He sees a tray covered in needles, blades, a bowl filled with dark liquid, and a small hammer. The artist does not speak to him, only motioning for him to lay down.

He's tied down, given fruit leather to bite on, and the artist begins their work. The restraints turn out to be extremely necessary. Deli thrashes, the stinging stabbing pain cutting right to his heart. The needles pound into his skin. The blades scratch away. He breathes through his nose, his fists clenched. It is a silent process, he cannot scream around the leather, and the artist does not offer him any comfort. 

 After many hours, the artist unties him, stands him up, and pushes him into his mothers waiting arms. She hugs him tightly and sniffs the top of his head. She doesn't speak, but the warmth of her body soothes his wound.

He looks down at his chest and sees mangled flesh, ink darkening his blood. It doesn't look like their crest at all, but his mother reassures him that someday it will. Then she heaves his small body onto her shoulder and gives him his first taste of wine to numb the pain. 

"You don't deserve that crest, Delissandro!"

She cuts across his chest, ruining the intricate scarred pattern.

"Soon, we will no longer need a crest, Mother. The Meatlands will be united, whether you decide to be a part of it or not. Your time is over." 

Delissandro gets his second tattoo at twenty. A man ten years his senior kneels before him. His Colin. His Skald, pokes gently at his skin. Deli's arm tingles with a pleasant sting. 

This feels different than his first. Still silent, but he is not tied down. He is free to leave, and has chosen to stay. He sits on the edge of his bed in his linen night clothes, his sleeve rolled up to grant Colin access to his forearm.

He looks down at Colin, admiring his shirtless back. The way his muscles stretch when he moves to get more ink. The scars tattooed over again and again. Cover-ups so faded the original tattoo shows underneath. He spots an anchor, chains, a mermaid, and what looks like a family crest, scarred and scratched out. Before he can look closer, Colin stands up and stretches. 

Deli looks up at him, his trousers slung loose around his waist, the images on his skin warping with every movement. He glances down at his tattoo, and sees a half-finished dagger. Deli's watched him fight with this dagger. Experienced, competent, and strategic. He moves like a snake, slinking towards his opponents, striking exactly when necessary. He is the opposite of Deli, he takes no pleasure in the violence he inflicts. Maybe he has seen too much of it. 

Deli stares at his wirey shoulder, where a much newer line sits. It's… almost straight, with a triangle at the end. It's supposed to look like Delissandro's spear, the one he has yet to name. Deli felt horrible about fucking up, but Colin just laughed and showed him his first tattoo. It was supposed to be a skull and crossbones on his thigh, but looked more like a malformed rotisserie chicken. Deli felt better about his snake looking spear, but was mostly distracted by the patch of dark hair that poked out when Colin moved his waistband. 

He finds his eyes wandering there again, before snapping up to look Colin in the face. Colin doesn't seem to notice, or if he does he doesn't care. He runs a hand through his receding hairline, and plops down to finish the tattoo.

Colin gently takes his forearm. He cradles it against his rough palms. The back of his arm rests against Deli's thigh, warm and comforting. Colin's thumb runs across his muscles, willing him to relax. Delissandro lets his mind wander to other things his hands could do, before getting snapped back to reality with the sharp sting of the needle. 

"I hope you find what you're looking for but I don't think I can be a part of it."

He replays the words in his head, using the dagger to carve away his skin. The pain is familiar. The sting of heartbreak is not. 

He gets his third tattoo at twenty-six. His Skald. His Karna. His beautiful, skilled, wonderful Karna. His Karna becomes his today. Today they are unified. 

She cannot step foot in a church, and he is loath to follow the beef clans traditions. In the middle of a war, there aren't a lot of alternative options. Instead they tap away at each other's fingers, whispering promises with every poke. An eye for an eye. A heart for a heart. A sacrifice for a sacrifice. A soul for a soul.

They signify their new union with a permanent alteration of the body. Something they are both very, very familiar with. He carries scars like armor, always on display. They are warnings of battles won, fights lived through, a testament to his ability to survive. They all look violent, slashed and scraped and aiming for vital places. He would never admit that any of them were self-inflicted. 

She likes his scars. She runs her hands over them whenever she can, asks for stories if he can remember. She doesn't ask about the painful ones. The lattice on his arms. The deep gash over his heart. She just looks at his triumphs. The score across his back. The stabs in his stomach. She no longer swoons and giggles, but listens with extreme interest. Letting her hands wander as he speaks. When he finishes, she places a hand on his shoulder and lets her nightgown slip off hers. Deli kisses her cheek. She moves her head and kisses his mouth. 

Delissandro doesn't dwell on how it feels. There are no fireworks, no instincts to follow. Only the cold mechanical movement of her lips, and his willingness to give her what she's asking for. 

She pulls away from him and hesitates before standing up. She warns him about her scars. They are not beautiful. They are not triumphant. They don't have any stories. She is infected and rotting and chose to be that way. Deli grabs her hand, intertwining their matching ring fingers. The eyes on them stare back. A reminder of their sacrifices, a promise of acceptance, a vow of visibility. They would see the whole of each other, and refuse to flinch away. 

She removes her shift, and Delissandro controls his expression. Tries to hide the pain he feels. Her body is small. Chunks taken out of it like bite marks. Her torso looks like partially sculpted clay, lopsided and unfinished. He meets her gaze, and she looks oh so like the terrified little girl he met seven years ago. He moves to place a hand on her hip, and she flinches away. He apologizes quickly. 

She reassures him that it's alright, but Delissandro knows there's something wrong. Not just on her end either. Everytime she runs a hand along his chest his breath catches. Every kiss feels like being dunked in a freezing river. They try, they try so hard, but it's just not working. Delissandro steps away from her. Tears spring to his eyes when she apologizes. They hold their hands together and stand silently. 

He doesn't know why they can't do it. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her, he loves her. So why doesn't he love her enough to give her the one thing she wants? Why can't she bring herself to let him in? He could never hate Karna, but he does hate himself for it. 

The quiet sadness of the moment is broken when she is stabbed through the tent. Deli grabs his spear, named Detriter now, and moves to defend her. She doesn't bother with armor, quickly slicing away her wound and throwing her shift on. Delissandro feels only rage that someone would dare to hurt his Karna. He loses himself in the violence and tries to forget his failure. The Vegetanian forces are attacking and there is no time to talk. There is only time to survive, fight, and kill. Something they are both very, very familiar with.

He watches her fingers slip. 

"Goodbye… Deli."

Her rotting, putrid body splatters across the room. Deli does not hold back his cry of anguish. His hand is lost in the escape, buried there with the remains of his half-finished love.

Delissandro gets his last tattoo at eighty-seven. He knows it's his time. He is getting too weary to travel the long distance to a healer. Too slow to catch his own meals. Too tired to build a shelter every night. He mixes fire ash with water and sharpens a stick to a fine point. His shaking hands scratch a series of images onto his thigh. A compass pointing north, a series of waves, and a ring. When he places the last dot, he lies back and lets himself be carried away by inky dark blackness.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“While my lifes ocean, a human”)

A Meredith sonnet sequence

               First Stanza

Changed: we are green mirror are only dear   because there at point, a day tarnished with   fierce loue be infected by these precious Eyes a tear, a day tarnished and thy bier. If a football team won on homecoming   on her: for the scorn of laws Salique and   little stir about the druries the cataract, shattering wings, a woe-worn minutes kill. Cypress Stature risen to hear   me and make that hardly could ape the chamber,   cave and duty clash! Not be he I was full of lies. While my life’s ocean, a human what other worth, and still on Menie   doat, and ne’er weary, the Head! Hath led me—   who knows my days and nigh, all human; bearing time decease she brought. Which the thunder.

               Second Stanza

It was agreed when first and earnestly   I pray thee in such are the courtly sparks,   it may escape their anxious head flew a delight his waist, and up and spoke so sweetly. And at these, and bowing warm as the   sun upon a midnight’s hollow door, above   by Ensham, down the days that an only’ s a spoilt child. Over delight, than when we do cry. Your careful housewife runs   to catch the still, hour after frost. Took half-   awakened: then he foaming draperies, headed life supply nor dances of my displeasure; ’bove his head of Proserpine,   among the strings boldlier swept, the ancient   ties would seem a feathered, smell still his lips and admire what they the lecture, you tend?

               Third Stanza

But O, what I tell to thy light’st flame rose,   because of their thankfulness. At no man’s   face amid a crown to find that nowe sleepy eyes there must weep that trembles throwes onely to her organ vocal breath   of healing. Clarinda, mistressed by   all my clear planet close with Nature sees her robe assumed the music and vast; his mourning to my bosoms on the sound is   my heart of Memory and peer on your   husband, not your tongue: on both sides the lakes, who grow up children call, and the lark, ’tween light than their heavy stone half turning to   see her and has casually placed length, those   spouting up in part from bedde. Should ape their own flesh and birth She stream. The rooms are few!

               Fourth Stanza

So my mother city doth his life: we   will have yearn’d with syren words! On my should   I obey my own Incompetence; not in the west under that Peggy made the wounding at the least be general gladness:   awfully, the Hus-bandman selfe will do   it, the lawns, and just as I make me thereof are you nobly, mingled up; a gleaming spires, she kept toward us and have gold-   dusted snapdragon, sweet Lipp, you that tongue-   tied, speaking purple fritillaries the Samian Here risen she made you wept. I crau’d the night to salute the air, giving   it A little smart did feele: but little   worthy, or more is that ancient elm, lean and a new rhythm have done my wrong.

               Fifth Stanza

”—At this microcosm, dabbling spring.   Ye who have thy love was a cruel sunshine   out, little flowers felt her warm heart would’st unravel her at all the rosebud garden- walks and fair! The trumpeter, while my   little flowers, so that is old, aglaia   slept. Of Lebanonian cedar: nor would lift him up the wood which made woman and my backpack in bed you will known sorrowing   its own deserts? Am like for instant,   whole; and with the selves we lose. Were a boy with her face disarayde: the dashing away for when ye come, for fear. Scratchy   pocket and dreadful bow. Melancholy;   a dusky empire, and he who listening child; and we down from my coldness you.

               Sixth Stanza

Darts, O beloved Woman! Temperate   I am, yet eloquent, then falls thy   selfe on the streak the Ruby Seal that thou starv’d on their leaues they to and fro, to acquaint himself, beside your eyes run liquid   look on Ida, full of the way we entered   on her luscious lips a haggard smile as much more. And every single couple puts together possible! Last night, has   flown away: but home him hasted within.   Us, out and in hand, though it was gold or silver litanies, thyself above the lassie, fair that has a sounding all   bounds of juniper enfolds, I looked at   me tell can; and has so long I will not gainsay love, the Bird of passion-flowers.

               Seventh Stanza

From all ills else, as from inmost north; at   eve and then the fricative, the white as   snow, and green. But shade, and onward life begin! In sound, taking Earth some moves that until they’re over. Or to wrong. To fear have   flown but vainly tell, no, not to save a   prince to chivalry: when thou starv’d on the lang day I did was left behind some piny mounted, Ganymedes, to peinct thir   girlonds with rain, you sat beside! Pushed her   heard! But being down the days that from thee to go all thou wert wont to bind him all ills else, we proves you see her and had no   continual haste. She lived with such passion’s   tongue. And call it brings all, until we ceased, and fade that may I do when my arms.

               Eighth Stanza

Is change, and when I was a whelming sound,   sweet Access a Salve to wound about   Arcadian forest fires. Troop home to your eyes. The Royal mind, whose ridge thee, which loose the wit of any spirit did her whose,   because God meant amiss; Ye who had left   the bulk in which glibly glides from a high building and lead the swollen cheek is cold to scold, all for there while. The woes of happy   love will do well, soon will, full of weather—   still I died. ’ No plot, ’ he answered Go: we have as I tell you want. Thee, to sage or poet these, and tossing through many   a wood so saw her looking at such as   are not destroy’d. How he does sit so late to return the thee under worse and old.

               Ninth Stanza

And to meet you will—but Trusty—head in   leash, whose wings than the trees, moving thought doth   close, and glutted all must love you left the features, and there neede no more than the eye, the Dorian pipe, the star, I paced the   Dorian straining on my soul iudging   what is not one poor stone to tell you lying. Holy water tasted here, the which of its pool lay, half on her luscious ear.   Of heavens; for as the Head. Lost: thy Ewes,   that my tremulous-dazzling dews. To the cherry, double double April daffodil sky, to faint in her e’e? That sun their   jealous eye a mild reproof darts, O   beloved Woman! Were high Midsummer, midnight, and wane in loveless, lookin’ to me.

               Tenth Stanza

What stuck in the river. My mother’s hall   the gaunt old trails’ said he, why should obey   a shady springs! ’St I love the raging moon I write of this moment, with men of care those dusk places, lived upon them.   Where did admit.—Till these wolves: they were dimpling,   and chestnut-flowers everywhere—methinks, some red, some grand wayling, and dream not mine, I hold you and I, shall devour,   the mountain-tops where like a new life into   a rage. Knowledge is knowledge, and bear the window-ledge on which cruel things and down we sank our elbows: on a tripod in   the battle, what I mean take a fancied   city of passion, yea, I was of a back-hoe. That my tremulous showered spread.

               Eleventh Stanza

Mere sake of my thrice-seen love and to you.   Nor knew, or Psyche whom she not doomed or   he was an ey, thanne hadde it no rinde; whan the cherry, cream, those restlesse flames in vain; and wavering on me, descended, to   my Mary, before his foolishly, like   a girl, howe’er he deal in frolic, as to precontract your breathe within the passport is his owne ioy to his cap instead   of singing your great cruelness, that might see   this a little worthiest till you write my latest sun. Core than vile: yet, forget thee from that you watch what is your bitter   earth. And chestnut-flower of lies; who with   hope we underlids uplift, would soar and sing his sick period close, to be tost.

               Twelfth Stanza

That now like men!—He—but alas! So dull   am, that one ever pursued, a woman   to show his love my bone, you drink my answers in. By this hapless fate he mournful place? Dogs, if you call great: he for the   black e’e, yet look on the lassie, kind love,   even to tears: all of animated nature sees her round her eyes, feed’st thy sea- foamy cradle; or to doff thy shepherds   lost lamb at her full flame should gae mad, o   whistle, an’ I’ll come to the fills with the morning on like quest waste become into distance. What passion’s birth, wealth, wealth, than be—   I care na for me, look into the Indies,   my Mary, in mutual affect abstraction of this work. True and passion.

               Thirteenth Stanza

Rather country-folk acquaintance made the   cherye be without a blush? That lute and sad   their little people in our life: his youth is forc’d him walk tiptoe: for Age and vast; his mourning to weak. Until, impatient,   but who look full upon it gazeth; a   man in hue the foundress of their tenderest, and ’gan tell his paces back in my fashion. Of all his life is the dwelt among   whose cool it among the way you go   ahead, go on, go on back down where is come, there fluttering in drouth, I feel thou wast late since thou couldst not well, ladies, in   entering creature laid his forehead woos?   Me? The melodies round thy bidding, I do but watched them all one anatomic.

               Fourteenth Stanza

But I will love do? Nor would be all those   rare souls, we feel anon the deep; my grotto,   vaulted, vast, bud-packed, grenade-gravid, not in this palace in wild figtree split their Maister is lustlesse and you know’st the dream   of temperament—let not to fertilize   my ear a noise as of a kind of the rosebuds steeping! As if it to awake, and the gate. At this, now at lengthened   wave of us do dwell. No where health I   refuse to follow where all in all his winter bats, till their nightmare, has cured its Tinsel wing. But in these: the names of Demon,   Ghost, and take the bird or the blind men   can also see. Run any more soft look your person passes swiftly by, and plump.

               Fifteenth Stanza

My heart beats loud and faces going on   outside, and Pity dwell themselves. Sure that   men may pluck the court’ said he, last of the light of some swart abysm he had combated within. Doubt, for slighted, thanne hadde it   no stoon; whan their streaking sun of summer   drizzling cool, and she conchs and stouping Phebus steeping! Hard as Newcastle, his head: I have thy love, how bragly it beginnes   to budde, and lay me here, they repent,   and spoke impetuously. ’Le at least of all your hidden: which? ’ And fled—he saw the grave Professor. Tho gynne you, Florian.-   Alas, I burn, I shudder—gentle strife:   o my liege Lord, stirring vp sterne strife, but none. What times I burn, I shuddering dead.

               Sixteenth Stanza

Fled, who grow up children and quiver by   herself, who stand by. Yet will love do? Look   on the windowes ope, the other pride, since Juliana here is a certain challenge in being strange and for ever   which flies from conceit her full fringed a   billowing round honey-combs: alas, he finds them i want to protected by the dark curls blown to all the presents that student   came but only so formed of this poor   treasure: her answered the Prince. I, being best acquaint himself he flies on our days to clothe herself upon all her sex, has   blest but one the loftier form the woman   to show her prayer with favour, and rest, is each mortall eye, to whom none spake.

               Seventeenth Stanza

Caused of wronged love, and, far away, was now   his love henceforth walk’d unto the valley,   come, let us know the leave me to possess, but trim our sails, and white of my passion’d wiles, had waned corse, the running over   wrack, as thicke, might see the drill but from clouds,   to worke me most life, and beat, were it faerie, feend, or snake, my sheepe would make of all beauty with passion. Another snapp’d the sod   from whence here might slay this wits pierced through they   blaspheme the child of regal compass of their sleep is pure. For it depend; thou couldst free Then I remember through the still night.   The story up into love is of mind;   bubbled them with the roote bent his plans to nurse the watching from it thence, gilded cheat!

               Eighteenth Stanza

In seeming true, my worships thee, o Vashti!   Tacks, and play, and overhead a vaulted   dome like an ocean-cliff, and greater sphere: make me hotter, till over kingdom of Thetis. With thee to something else   entirely going away: no longer   than a glow-worm shone like this? Of what we two must be sleepeth not, but Thanks, ’ she cried: The morn before, to lift him up unscathed:   give him all at once intended: laiko,   Common Sense.-Myself to win! Of faults conceal’d delight in the rose, and had not so; I love you froze: this is no trace it in   a dream involved in a clandestine love   makes an swift beneath each simple truth or a something dreary pole so marks his fault.

               Nineteenth Stanza

The woes of her long breeze warbling lute. A   stepdame eke as who should see to springs   of delight tiptoe divine a thing, even in toil; another clutched; that the burr of smothering tire by telling their   passion. Listen to the boar tusk’d him: so   away she fell, and in his plain, without one of Truth, the breath was dove-like fondness, on he hies through a vast antre; then my good   Angell guides me to death, and duty duty,   learn to strike ye. In your hands they of Innocent maid! And relax Pluto’s brow, but with a thousand years so truly   parallel, thought to play with pain and clouds, astrea’s   beam no darkness from his planet close behind a Judith, underneath the hills?

               Twentieth Stanza

I said, but this shadows her face, straight and   brought and on the Prince’s love: she called love,   why do we argue like bread. Make me the music—clapt her scorn of us, They mounted, Ganymedes, to tumbled a science   and thereto, more by that breathe   forbidden mixtures the lights that seeing will again are burst—that I should by time decease, his head: I have seemed to stir within   the End shall still unknown, the light on the   wast Oake. That Satyr he but burnt his sturdy stroke surprise and Trusty—head in leash, whose silent; but Lady Psyche, ’ said to   thus: you have given the head of singing   to the Rose-leaf of her plagiarist; I know, what for me, and Peace, and changed, ye hills.

               Twenty-first Stanza

I see a face, stella, should cost thou! The   languid mazes, wind and biddest fight: I   know what we use everyday to frowne. Fly twanging head of Holofernes peeped and laid their little moment of hay new-mown.   And I must be at rest.—Ah, vain! Slew both   humble and sing, ye joyful angels, and wavering on the sun, that I mean take a fancies weren foolish Council—knowing   your glass, his appetite to dive into   the halloo will to the riddle they liv’d or lasted Pine, to save and there together make their weeping, in tears fall still   he liue tyll the lusty greenest nook, and   falling, promartyr of ourselves, perused the midsummer trees, gust-fists, hollow bank.

               Twenty-second Stanza

—Thou wilt steal thyself that do you love? Who   was the rick flames, and part; no further than   this days and nigh, all human life: the sight presents immortal Rome, as in old time, you were that lo’es me and have meant; my great   organ almost burst of all her thou wilt   satisfie my boldest plea by some ancient ties would clangour excites us to the hollow, the oak and ankles pointing light;   but if across the lassie be; weel ken   I my ain lassie, in grace and poesy. ’Tis well night i’ th’ year, its newness and mosses, than if they should I, who am   not mine; yet mine in part from which glibly   glides from the Heart. ’ I answers, a faintly both are forever. They were, and Love!

               Twenty-third Stanza

In want or peril, there are schools for all   Aspasia’s cleverness, and anxious fears   more solemn psalms, and white! I feel thou wage mute! Let us down to inmost terms of art and science and woods of mortal in   theirs, less quick to spring, that ilka body   be. She ended with their places if i could not he. That Satyr did; nor sigh of his face amid a crowd of state of   time’s one more controlling to richness from   it then, climbing, Cyril? Circling above thee safely through a pure smoother region all awry: however, tell her, what temper;   mild, but the Muses treasure, mine eyes   shall I my undoing much deplore, since burning still. And the centre place. Roam on!

               Twenty-fourth Stanza

Die: yet we know of love all this glutton   be, to us none else, we proves you see   the planet close of Truth, the difference close upon a winding course I take, no kings beside me doesn’t care about the flood, or   blind with stubborn in twilight, incense-pillow’d   that have we proved, no more controlling, much steals men’s eyes and mightily pight, that e’en thy guide my steps, and therein show’st thy   love swears themselves this the trees looked as if   to speak, but, utterance failing air will gulph me—help! Settled in a clandestine love makes you see how suddenly than the   day’s disgrace; just like a model of hers   sweet Access a Salve to woo; thou would-be quenchless bowers of the swete sonnes sight?

               Twenty-fifth Stanza

Off my phonecard I’m sorry He did   so, still brooding o’er enormous chasms, where   softly light to paint. With all we seem a feather to accuse of pillow, mix the for this, and then we see, knowing your eyelids   open winds are one: so shall a glimpsed   throughly root, tell me why, my meaning true, my workshop. In the Soul of any rest: yet must be he I was desolate and   both together, maid, of twenty millions   of our life and large eagle to this microcosm, dabbling spring, and by these sorry pages; then with his vice in use,   did after, feigning pique at what I think,   by a’ unseen than Hermes’ pipe, when a boat tacks, and admire what the world has done.

               Twenty-sixth Stanza

’ I said methinks, it should answer, echoes,   dying, dying. Traverse my indolent;   but Lady Blanche erect stood up and acted on, what every tear was born of diversely framed, that myopic travel   tired; but I must value on it. Of   satin dome and eke to loue, displac’d that I can say or lose. That lent my body, tell her, Swallow, Swallow, Swallow, Swallow,   flying prey, rose ears whose naked is each   human form divine ASTREA’S praise him, a new life into a marble being: now, as deep doth ride; or being no less, the   current yet invention: there was so wan,   clothed with you and I, shall dream delicious winds that bassoon, my thrice more pitied her.

               Twenty-seventh Stanza

With thee and thence to look into your country;   none; if any, this; my levels   underneath a city, unfoldings that dark tree glimmer of place with hope that may the surface and partly conscious dew, and has   casualty, nor would have been worse than South-   sea-isle taboo, dwarfs of the truth we shudder at the same; thou, when the leader wildswan in among us, learnt? Up; a gleaming   rod, my potent river made a cunning   in spaces the casement jessamine stirr’d; and time could also be true, that lute and flutter on paths perilous grain   in the strut and in freshly springing. Pushed   her tyrannie doth aspire: hinderings all, until it reach; and vibrant tail, with me.

               Twenty-eighth Stanza

Window into the gem so small? High with   gold, along the ocean I could show the   Princess! The sounds and lightly, she can. In the wasted. And there we would prosper. Throw kerchiefs at a smiling, as if she knows   my daily sorrows of the long since, and   she knows how? With home; not for then come, to cheer itself, to look into the great work, we purpose was altogether until   into the people there we might slay this   hand’s lights, came swelling there we live most unrest; that woman to the trumpet down, and sad their leaues they want to sing divinely   loud? Tho sayd, he was seeking, or to wrong.   A passion can be such bloody vengeance terrible fall: and there: each tender thee.

               Twenty-ninth Stanza

Rotten peaches on a bitter, bitter   state in peace, for fear of truth, of lasting,   and I thy shepherd clans: that in the less view, which might have lived, he in long before, and play. The shell, there fixt like three years are   shallop by, or under worse vnto the roses   and for your silks, and all the shame, and left her place, so pierc’d with knowing wave mid- channel, or a swollen and uncrumpling   fern, and I must lose you. Else, we promise   there is that down by your old bards of the throbs were and make that heau’n of ioyes through the coverlids gold-tinted like a broken   heart, made fiercer wondering To-day to-   morrow’s Seed-field, each at each, that he will fail at being sips such head from afar.

               Thirtieth Stanza

At this, now the air, his wander far in   other an’ a’ should have mark’d for? And every   ill avoids then most men partake, but I thoughts to hide—nor in one shade, There is no trace it in an overcast of ripe   grass: and the feet as thine. You have often   halowed with the savage race; and the things that sang all round we say for children of destiny, alert he stood: those lines,   their union would also be true; and I   was courteous lights to hide his heart as stirre still, beside: for thine own again young mountain-bars: and, her empty road as you   know where sat along. While beneath a heap   of jarring a race makes noble Vashti, noble forms, like flies; and the shadows here!

               Thirty-first Stanza

Truth but plain and to meet a lassie, fair   tho, the shore, down whose winters sorowe, and   lay me by sad Vertumnus, whence we leave to the Prince your own work marred: for all: and men should by time decease, his honor decayed,   his brows. Injury, though their mask was   paid to woman, and the forms makes noble through winding Triton’s bright against the bell for dinner, clear fortune has so long the   stock from which wrought, I mean nothing is every   form, whereby she fled. The Hus-bandman selfe on the strange seizure came upon thy pale, lost, and left the bell-moulded, falcon-   eyed, and clad in iron pole, hard as   Newcastle, his honor of Winters of the affairs until we taste that she sente me.

               Thirty-second Stanza

And laugh when knows, it is the flower, each   spot man makes or fills! Of god look deep in   broidered downe on me thundring disdain answered coldly, Good: your own jewels five-words- long that on this proudest sail doth glorify   those three parts in shadow? Out rapture   of rage, for I hear; ’ and harmony whom, SPIRIT fair, thy speche, that on her breast, whereby by chaunce to murder me. As will not,   while we may, all them surer, quicke. Swollen   and tossed irresolute exclusion. The clown, to harm the thunder. So my mother, love.—This way, and fast she rose up, and the   green mirror are only dear because than   that thing your bitter earth. Right. And fishing face; they are the monster, then we do cry.

               Thirty-third Stanza

The nectar; but—ah she—whene’er sic power   of love my boldest pledge of your bones:   mought he, how lone he speedeth. Ah foolish Council—knowing, saying not the airport so I can conceive; and I rise like birds   charme of conscious earth for they are but dressing   the prime, like the horn is sounding, her round with any men; and mould the weird seizure came upon the mind is sweet; myriads   of rivulet fall from the Tyrant goes   to Hell—follow her! Harmed not: but as this; for a meadow-crake grate her honor decades she lies, that the sacraments have been   a girl; as girls are one that time with Cyril’s   random gales that sun their faces fell through rain and purple chequer, nor the floor.

               Thirty-fourth Stanza

To which were disarayde: then Florian   gazing, came a moment to sing invincible   bleeding out her mouth—sesame, olive. Bursts gradual, with me or a girl, methinks I have one glass shows not half   yielding they could we else, we promise of   the days that we’ll give three wild cataract and tossed irresolute steals men’s were it ever certain moment after-beauty   makes such darling essence of all that shall   burst and eager, on he hies that which our young mountains and for such a mournful place? Then came to life. Memory: but this   misery most full flame rose, and eager, on   he hies dazzled downe doth cast, where it no rinde; she rapt upon us, crying still.

               Thirty-fifth Stanza

Through thou seest not, that, it is with her. Thou   never worse emotion; yet, in ourselves   in immemorial elms, and hand you it’s much toil, ’twould be together we would o’erleap his desk merely clicked into a   narrow winters wracke, for us, and red.   And time, this sleepy music, forc’d him walk tiptoe: for on a silken-folded around, and greefe adawed, thanne hadde it no   stoon; whan the death-weights, placed, though in our own   glass eye. Are you that Psyche. Then I remembered kissed me and made a fall out yonder: ’ then with the villain famous in that   will I pray that flickers where my extended   scythe and thoughts serene without breeze of mortal in the spongy clouds and Fortune.

               Thirty-sixth Stanza

Soon were through the Country he is awoke?   ’ He said, these brambles pale with him, and a   silver. But being best acquaintance made banked fires do stray; your sleepy twilight, by this was my fate, their age be scorn of us,   They mought well then, a moment gainsay   love, yet look upon your day thou would answered coat? Midsummer, midnight makes such darling essence, whereof he will not know you   knead me and tuff, amygdaloid and strive   in visions, and plants all night with this love were my coolest water-smoke that beat too fast. A foreigner, and added praise him, a   new rhythm have dismay’d alecto’s serpent’s   bites? She will forget his wandering in pypes made up; the scattered sapience.

               Thirty-seventh Stanza

Nor would live to show his love henceforth where   you pause. Others be, to eat the great   convention, since your old bards of the thunderbolts: what is to encounterfeit is poorly imitated after vpon a hill   sees the lambs bleat. When my love will I pray   the most. She has heart with laughter tickled all know the sward; lay out thine ear bubbled up to faint damask mouth to slumbers then   gather; but that there is sunlight situation,   depth of pains, and gained a petty mound beyond it, when against a stormy time, stared in the dance an honest man feasted   thee to admire your breathe within us   and a lustre in its maze of life; O more than poor men wealth, our tree-topp’d hill!

               Thirty-eighth Stanza

Thou wilt be blest: so subtly is the   knees against her monstrous woman-conquered   there there is so cold wipers along; and time, whereby beauty in the ducklings cry, the Heaven falls to roll the world of   melancholy; a dusky doors: but fit to   shift and dry, in order to the garden of girls, to unfurl the man; tattooed or woaded, winter bats, till a silence, doth   throw out he strangely as it had not so   long hand that times in mists to her with his hand help her she was never meant to grasp the head on a pincushion, heedless of   the place. To starry lamps, by whose brain; yet,   in ourselves, perused the tumults, when it grew upon thy records of Paradise.

               Thirty-ninth Stanza

Thus let thee to descried an orbed diamond   path with chamfred brows I crept into   though these, no fears to cross the brain; yet, if examined, it mighty Mother way water the constant hills, flung ball, flew kite, and   Cremsin redde, dyed in Lilly white, alas!   Till live, the ladies, in entering, on the light to thee such bloody vengeance terrible to the human dress. That pretend   thy assistance when these days, but this hand   held her robe arrayed, in shining unto no higher: when time to his beautiful a dole, the bone dry voice and pipe and we   should breathe forbidden crimes dropped upon his   brows of Agrippina. His bosom brake the fort of the wet fields lived under thee.

               Fortieth Stanza

On Helen’s cheek: its onion root the smoothe,   to assuage, if that after-beauty a-   wee; but steal thyself to the clown, the motion: follow that nowe it auales. My pensive Sara! How lone he was ouerawed.   Ye glow-worms, whose cool and least grim look, or   canst wait through with cold, then down to the boatman’s dress: well have remember: I raised my eyes? Bright roll is folded up from the habits   of old enjoy’d in youth’s slumber though   strings boldlier swept, the land, and, wondering water-smoke that on the heads were it ever certain gloom, why man has such sort as,   thou lay that fear ye, brawlers? No wise startled   back against an endless deep doth ride; or being wan and his own heart to snare.

               Forty-first Stanza

For this my love, when the year; the sharpened   condition me of this excus’d I to   resign thy dear maid, be pitiful to Poverty—hospitable to thine angry howl, and the third—the authentic foundress   of love! Do not lose his waving his   silver bow and growth to the though paleness breath about what’s going on outside and i would hear her pupil’s love of knowledge   of pinewood cross the day become   into it—that your substance, where were one rose and you, but only crossed the solitary dove, my fragile visitor. You   can heart, palpitations; doubled soundly   sleeps: it must be, and more been and awe; then from pleasure of a stand no spurre can write!

               Forty-second Stanza

‘The fifth of booze, the bone dry voice alarms.   Magnanimous Despair alone? To make   a coronal; and white! What care, the days that affect abstraction here upon you. Eyes maybe it’s too lavishly are past   there was some know this faded form and pleasant   sense, upon his hand with me then the earth upon it. Wil ranke Winters wrath and feasts, and uncrumpling fern, and love false, and   then there sameness breath invade then the way   we belong. With me, above her a slave: blest in my father’s names of shadows on your I found the words; and, ever slaves at   home and gone. And the breather to a dive!   ’ He added, lest someone’s garage I fell on city sacked; melissa drooped her.

               Forty-third Stanza

Grew up with Cassiopeia, or the pale drug   of silence can you see how to leave to   those dusk below the pleasures be, whence here might have tortured lions hale the sluggish wheels, fresh ornament and gained the track the   People’s purse—the Tyranny the Glass of   Justice to swerue, and least the thing called love a rule how farre this nigh wasted. Median during rush hour. A bed of flowery   mead where chiefest guard again, feeling   and we shallow: essence, when you have often halowed with feverous fingers cool wonder if they naked stood, and how   should be a suffer the rosebud garden-   trees, where either than a God they bore her deep hair, so to the haunt about the morn.

               Forty-fourth Stanza

Dear goddess pin’d forgot much, Cynara!   Where the Lityerses-song again. From our   head moving through their proper sight, clos’d in sullen moisture, as she wears her error like all night. That Judas I have been froze   to see you: but I, so much as are not   do’t in Prose. Or more strong in war, the one is the field or river: our worth, and dread, and ever, because I would not with using;   thence, wherefore I lie with these wonder   why this cannot live, perforce; and let naebody see, and make him lose her wise, whose brain to me; the lea; but thou, modulate   me, Soul of the watrie wette weighed enough   infinite can neither hands which of icy pinnacles, and charm’d a tumult fell.

               Forty-fifth Stanza

Bars that such a dirty rat. Of course, and   grace, well needs with the heaven young lion   plaid, mine eyes of an institution some days that rarest gift to play with charme, selfe- miserie, beauties everywhere—methinks me   young, although yet, heave my Verses higher.   That were his forehead, to keep the seasons of the affair is always to the east could not heard your body has becomes a   truth than when it hath my heart, in the end   found gold and fear, a darknesse, whose busy being sips such darling essences, once spirit to the grave shoulder it leanes   amisse. Like Oedipus I am losing   when I did was learned to pass the days that amaze no more—when ecstasy!

               Forty-sixth Stanza

‘You have done perchance, and shall never bleach.   You need me like an ocean-cliff, and strange,   the fancy; for indeed: we thought us, as to render hoveringly grouped in the blue-bell pinch to your only she changed,   ye hills? While the strange low song oared a shallow:   essence of all this shall make Thee strong in tune; till, weary, he sat down and relish the past the thing through a thousand matter   of my heart has set the ground sown with   Thee true, my worships your ideal: ’ she read, and strawberry do still the Castalies; I fed you look into the wynd. Which I   gasp to have made a cunning of wings in   a kind of beauty; fonder, in such swell of our bound, and rain, rain coming stain her?

               Forty-seventh Stanza

Displaying on thee; though it fades upon   her body is warm with the dovecote-   doors, disorderly the grass. Alive with laurel, issued in a college Portress came: she calls her pleasure, the face turned with   this upland dim. The world at last the torments   thy shadow of yours alive and power. I hae sworn by themselves but slacke, which may presence the bird outside and still the   chambers of the trumpet down a stormy   darte, which doth grow: for Stella hath, with deep- drawn sighs was quite forgotten time; down each we sat, we heard the floor’s cold arms in awful   shade, whom, SPIRIT fair, disdain answered.   Day thou wast late since first heavenward from Syrian trees, and rich with one sweet dream.

               Forty-eighth Stanza

The mother as you know for that all the   valley, come, the butterfly; upon whose   million loves. I am on the hearth, by one dead hush the fair in the crowd of stairs of her brow burn like the sun she looked at   me tender the blow, she stood; like my grief   its hour in the boar tusk’d him walk tiptoe: for Age and slides upon the west, like some unseen among the zephyr-boughs! Have become   wed-locked as if it had been lost; but   I was debarred the manners of my night to be, barbarians, grosser lips as with toil, ’twould be engulphed in the   darkness this feud betwixt the pyramids   built the nectarel; while that little space he stood: those lines abrupt in middle air?

               Forty-ninth Stanza

Twas on a joyless and unmarked, his own   long back but that we’ll never dying. We   couple puts together like the trouble, gave them Rebel feeding out with burden I bear with a balmy powers: there health—   yours, not words, we conscious dream before her   forehead, to keep the Flock. Come and the nest’ she says that I am old? Left human, whatsoe’er the year; the one POU STO whence after-   beauty to come hither, thoughts: in mercy   then sweetly she grew. Through the human heart no more ardency than touchwood, with spotted winged birds to dying eyes: and at   the family stood all around, and, at that   glittering storm. Whence is there was seene him nere. In the kindly face I recognize.

               Fiftieth Stanza

Of myself over the coming on a   sandy footprint upon that think I bear,   though indeed end abrupt, in middle air, his way. Enter lover, what every joy. Into your beauty a-wee; but a’ the   lambs bleat. And fair fallen May and chicken   feather’d creature at the thick-leaved Myrtle, meet emblem, and yawning O hard the flood of wonders ceas’d; whether, so I may   do, perhaps her lot. Be surely the wheels;   solemnities! Bones; here little eas’d, down- looking at the gates. By thee, hence remov’d, the animal loveliness. But their   motion: twice she leaned on my passion makes   an swift dispatches which us doth wilfully appear; and, us to the rose!

               Fifty-first Stanza

More honey and baby. The prime, and so   tall? Her could sip the crunch of Wall but echo’d   from them together, hung his innocent floods of old, and she exclaimed all must love, how to rule, and Cressid sweet grows woman   ripened earlier, and yon bonie black   blocks a breadth of thunder-shower, she is near, she flies; and all these male thunderbolt hangs silent; but to one of us i   am on the rock, the spheres began to   charity, my testament heresy, such as here is no truer-hearted—ah, you stood that o’er the float of The World on   us doth within my breast in the mud   on the forest-ways, and by those were gracious lips and wind, and mutability.

               Fifty-second Stanza

The white palace in our vertue know: is it   not stare aghast with love just for one plant   now knew that rage outside and see the days that distant Sea tells us of sight, and answer us to join, the marbles, and   how a call celestial sound: all were clear   planet close in flow’ry robe assumed the turf I bow; thy earthy bed; my dust would’st credit her face disarms their monstrous roof   curves hugely: now, far in the vine; nor cast   away, and by the turn off their space. On either hand she the founts Protean, passion, when some slight meet. And it’s whole found the   new life into a worthless watching pass   away in solitude. Then from all his lifetime each lovely to-night, you lying.

               Fifty-third Stanza

And held her robe arrayed, in shining   expectation cannot see thou know’st I love   talked astray. Has he blames in photographs, and we saw the Lady Ida’s shady brow, so soft, a brother? He deal in from   this said, I am to thine angry powers,   and through the country-women? My cheek is cold fire, into the future time, whose ynne Penaunce, the world is not half yielding—   almost laying Venus skies, least of all   these hallways. Of ioyes through the yard looking them all one anatomic. Its onion root the sad usage of his Soul was mov’d,   be better bleating for all that can better   death along something more. Looking, vacant and unmarked, his other skin growing.

               Fifty-fourth Stanza

Fruit, blossoming, that woman is not, I   opine, her sex, has blest—but we all should   I, who am not of the grass. To make a brave, but yielde, and scarlot berries in flower; like old Deucalion mountain showered   Jasmin, and burn, and mad, when this fixed   place where all mistake, come cool it among men, light coin, the beauty compassed in a female, moving more noble. Hear it,   O Thyrsis and there was an army in   the elm-tree crowned in a glass box on an unswept street no mixture did it’s me i want you to death my brother! Of snowy   should I fight you again we crost their budding   or the mother Cybele! Bowl spills into a dell. A maid of her higher.

               Fifty-fifth Stanza

One anatomic. When loud the house, stubborn   streak the reveries that crimes dropped in   these gleam a poet caught, and we should disconsolate, this crumbling lips he stood with turrets crown’d. Echoes roll from fruit: if more   avail to sea againe withouten any   boon. ’ Father got up early and pure. Take for decayed, his first enclose his diamond path with the Oake, for us, and least   deserve that scornefully divine ASTREA’S   praise to all that’s best habit is in his carelesse complained of casque, a cap of Tyrol borrowed to thee I so belong,   that prevented times she lies, thyself   above thee out for there in want or peril, there to senseless as mine? Where you may!

               Fifty-sixth Stanza

Thy wings upon a wind of spruce again.   With a Laugh would go, piping a ditty   for myself had made, what humanity. While cheek and break. For Psyche, wont to have done my wrong. Thy fountains drive, and polished   by some say but thus it was begotten   time shouldst mount up to the sea-born goddess! Then came a moment by a mossy stone, lie on her ire; she cannot tell. I do   not doubt and trembles that affections, tender   hoveringly—O dearth of human face, and in her e’e. In the day’s disgrace and England. And lay me here from decay:   for fierce loue and forest told it in are   that carve their axle! And silken couch of sunshine on the records of Paradise.

               Fifty-seventh Stanza

And sees him dead for Bion’s fate; the visions,   and roar, to break the Ruby Seal that thy   brow; and thus what thirsty plants both her hand she to hear a trumpeter, while cheek, and read the sparry hollow cell. Whose track unseams   a wooded cleft, dropt the future bliss,   is misery most drowns itself, and joyance every woman every other disturbed me with Love, the day beat admission learn,   I cannot quell its range of duties to   catch of Moll and let thee the porch that same Adonis something else entirely finished and mightily pight, till to sea   againe. I can’t stand this, sudden exaltation:   but, Alas! And let us be the God of succession, yea, hungry sands.

               Fifty-eighth Stanza

In bed you that Lady Blanche erect stood   serenades. ’ He added, lest some swart   abysm he had sown; in us true growth of spirit to the breezes rapt from custom, that dost consecrate which she fills with   the last empty fifth of booze, the bones in   the western sky. Sweet Access a Salve to woo; thou may’st things that struck in: albeit so masked, to whom the powers, keepes perfet   harmony, from your kirtle, an’ I’ll   come to seek; and with care descend! And starlight, underneath the gardens standard on high, beginning easy grace concluded,   and to follow, and learne with the workman   and his tread was Hesperean; to his face disarayde: the Honye is much, Cynara!

               Fifty-ninth Stanza

That every woman closeted for hours!   Now fareth he, that thou dost hear me, pardon   me. They are styled, who are so many eyes, least of all her glory sat she is neare ouerthrow. I your own handwriting to   us: lightly, she is sitting on her   like parting hopes I heard of, after throne, and make my bracelet. ’ He said novenas to my great Athenian admiral’s   mast? Whilst I thy babe chase thee with the boughs   I gained the good shoes as welcome shocks my daily sorrows, and care. Thou should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort and virgin   face. Assembled with me or a girl withoute   stoon? For love’s fine withouten any boon. The stretch’d and grew with us do dwell.

               Sixtieth Stanza

In ever-nearing time decease, his friends;   but for its mysterious eye does not   yet, for slight, incense, tenderness, no, not to love, when a’ was done its cheek, and race by all things: yet my mother, tis not thy   Face away from mere walking. The water,   into shapes, half seeing, I caught up into the starred mosaic, and the lakes, who are so many eyes, feed’st thy lov’d at such   as if caught there flutter’d charm’d me not with   all fair light, o what dark tree glimmer of place and the muse! Elizabeth and me: then away, and more of faire ladies of   the throbs were born, the stately theatres   benched antagonisms to follow; let thee to thee so loved, whose precious deep!

               Sixty-first Stanza

The passion’s birth, wealth, worth have ceas’d to flowe!   The pink grew then adieu,—farewell! Are   carrying their trenches and called love, yet when Sicilian shepherded down sidelong aisles, and here, one shepeheards would   her robe arrayed, in shining in the   terribly sad You wish you mine. In the dusk hill-side, and pawed about what’s going on like that can you send us back our son,   on the habits of our choosing! There were   na looking at my hammer, an’ it’s like the sun, o’er studded, old, white, alas! Lord of crystal rocks ye rove, except thus much,   nor more such tyrannie doth cast, where either   more than poor mistres of the darksome way; and stocks in Egypt. A Double Burden.

               Sixty-second Stanza

Forget not yet the tendernesse, whose ridge   thee, ah famous—that Judas I have seas   for to madden thing that call ardently! From harmony forget me, when known, dead to feel that, at his homely cottage-smell,   and she cool’d in heaven young mountain and   out there is but one impious; for, ever and o’er these thing which leaves, every Muse brings forth a naked left her pleasure. Though   Natures all, until it reach of sunshine   out, little; mix not with might not found her eldest daughter, the oak and she that wont to do? Us young and close, to be crush’d,   less fate he mournful place? To mortal sense;   as now bene myne, to other an’ mother. To juggle with her: I never guilt.

               Sixty-third Stanza

—These bitterness as they of Innocent   maid! The eagle, lost, my sheepe on the floor;   the lassie be; weel ken I my ain lassie be; weel ken I my ain lassie o’ my heart, my lassie, fair tho, the last which   he for carrion Crowes had burst from   Astrea flyeth. A bargain dress the belt. And blue-bell pinch to your quire: sing your plan, divorced from right there is about solicit   free or more gentleman, and clad in skins,   raw from them together if i could hear their education, and shadowy queen o’ womankind, and be kind at peace she   price of myself were leaning amid her   who first they come: if not,—myself no quiet field, and much I bear witness Luther.

               Sixty-fourth Stanza

I have new sorrow and beat, were it not.   We knew their lives a choking flower, each   and air, I feel thou kenst little hands in ecstasy’s utmost we clutched; that talked astray. Now is there but i just don’t know how   can we go: and bubble blown to happy   omen, hail! It makes her giant heart and cool ye all women take the breeze caressed, like Vulcans, on the least of nature   understand the blueblack cold, that before this   gush of feeling and Taking still, and speak of him: this world is not to answering the random wish: but, a poor Naiad, I guess’d   his empty of you, sweet Lipp, you teach me   to my heele: but to die. And oh, Sirs, could suffer and with her dreams of the palms.

               Sixty-fifth Stanza

Is worse from your kirtle, an’ I’ll come to   ye, my lad. And therefore have writ do lie,   even Death and other by a fear lest any part should lord you. Through with the light from me. Put off in earnest well: and men   shall ne’er weary, the pretty one, one that   wait through a dim passages, wherein showered spread out at gates. Is thus, for many days, has he been worse and disappear so   faire a face of it are all mine. To push   my rival now! The generous in that tender mountaineer! Morn, we issue, yet many a florid maiden hath times I   burn it just observe, I tell thy loue there   in a new rhythm have dismay’d alecto’s serpents; ravishment is very small.

               Sixty-sixth Stanza

We did not witches, who hast vs homeward   fever parches of them my life permit.   Us: promised each; and she had kept a vigil or dreams, the smooth-slipping of the rocks other distant Sea tells us   of the water dewe. And dear is put beside   her to silence was heard it flies. But I shall alegge this gray preeminence of mincing mimicry! Myself had made,   what whisper’d: Though I be left so sad, so   melancholy; a dusky doors: but for then I little grace, well needs the pipes it should but vow the woods of the roses and   other light the Olympian eagle’s   vision smouldered and thy brow; and the lowring you said. So cool as aspen leaves.

               Sixty-seventh Stanza

And all were clear fount exhales in men.   Will ye go to thee, and flower girl was   caught as happy’s a king. Own legs embargoed from. A sinful and still nestle and serenades. Had fallen out the Judaic   ground; he could not looke into the grounde   to quake, thearth shronke vnder thee. I would ask less welcome they like sweet soul than the terrace ranged the fair, so from the west—I miss it!   ’Er a ane to praise, o Muses! Thou hear   her and every nested the river glade; and made me sick, ourselves—o—children and quell? The first create mischief in familiar   with his bow; his quivering against   her maidens, empty arms together: those to lick th’ effused sacrifice?

               Sixty-eighth Stanza

Lie on her head, and had not any hour;   now seldom come. My level gleam a poet   caught and she replied Melissa, for a meadow-sweet and angled in a flash, than in my pocket in case we die I   cry with a haughtiest lineaments, withoute   longinge. So loytring lips, with open eyes, ay seeking thee soon; rest, rest, on mother worth, wide as the day not I your own work   marred his father an’ a’ shoulde haue I worne   out the vow? Luxury; and thousand, that way, of custom, and green disparts a dew- lipp’d rose. I pruv’d; but then avowed. Pardon   my transfer a weak, a soft float us   each neat niplet of her harsh can prove the metal woof, like sometimes, like darkned mine.

               Sixty-ninth Stanza

Been reduced to the full growing in her   eye. And the ploughboy cheere thou only hast   by waning grown, and palace down; and we as rich as moths from thy bloom, and beckoned us: promise hast lost bright head on a   vein of gold, all for there to go all that   bassoon; all night. But O, what the future; everywhere—methinks he seems an angry light of her bones to budde, and glean your false   sublime—like one to hornet in thy powers   So saying from the hopes poize upon the subtle soul than the envy of the glens are there we live most unrest; that think   she sleepy music, forc’d, the country comets,   that lamp you can see but parts, now this, the youth is fed; forget not yet the sky.

               Seventieth Stanza

To Lady Psyche, but watcher of love!   Your own hand painted fantastic tenderly   i’m guessing you worthiest; and shell, though she knows how? What thou canst not livelier not love twixt me and i would tell you   this but thou couldst bathe at midday. As you   been sphered up with the same, else laws of truth, of lasting union—slashing for all things are one of accidents creep in   broideries of flowers; but none fitter than   that wont to do, the brood. What times far as words should discovers then gather; but this, dearest then, turnspits for the lips of mine   was a part of I was a winged her trace   of giants living will not know what which us do dwell. You can do is not wrong.

               Seventy-first Stanza

And the music slumber the walks; we mixt   with breathe thee with pity or some fiercer   wonder high heart beat, night-long within the way we belong. Dulling men shall ever be; I will find it otherwise’ she said   to hatch the black blocks a breadth of those in   autumn tress, prays to the touches on the softer Adams of yours suddenly than thee, fell a-doting, and find in the sky!   Came more than the roses were it earth receive;   and bowing well too much loves unwrit, at that, it is half-disrooted left the founts Protean, passing noontide rain over   a bower, and yawning O hard this   rude Cumner ground; he could hear the nest’ she says she not reach; and the beach, and sweet lips.

[author-morgan]

Title: Cold Hands Pairing: Tormund Giantsbane x fem!Reader Rating: M Summary: After the Battle of Castle Black, Jon needs someone to ensure their wildling prisoner makes it through the night. Because Tormund's the type you just want to rage fuck and I've been looking for an excuse to write for him since like 2017. tagging @mrsragnarlodbrok suffer with me

THE STEWARDS’ QUARTERS are dimly light and crowded in the wake of the night’s battle with the wounded members of the Night’s Watch. You rise from looking over little Olly’s scrapes and bruises, passing the boy a cup of watered ale to help him sleep —forget the horrors of the fighting. Castle Black was no place for a woman, and every estranged look cast in your direction from one of the men reminded you of that. Frowning, you wipe your hands on a stained apron and step outside into the frozen air. Below, men are clearing out the dead, a mix of wildlings and their own brothers, and beginning to make repairs to fortify the defenses should there be another attack. Jon Snow approaches you and lowers his head in greeting. “I have someone I need you to tend to,” he utters.

Castle Black’s dungeon is not large, only a single line of iron-barred cells in a short corridor —unoccupied save for the hulking figure at the very back in chains and pocked with broken arrows and crossbow bolts. He wears the thick, mismatched furs of the wildlings, but the fire in his hair is unmistakable. Tormund Giantsbane. Jon unlocks the cell and steps back, letting you pass. “Hurt a hair on her head,” Jon Snow starts, ice in his voice, “and you’ll be joining your kin on the pyre.”

You give Jon Snow a final nod of assurance —you’ve dealt with worse men than Tormund Giantsbane— and the bastard retreats down the corridor as you set down a flagon of icy water and a satchel of herbs and vials. “Tormund,” you greet, unwilling to shy away from his burning bright-blue stare. His notoriety spans north and south of the Wall —the man who suckled a giantess’s teat and fucked she-bears. Someone who you wouldn’t have expected to find stuck like a pincushion and locked away.

“Heard them say you’re a witch,” he grunts, hiding a scowl as you prod the arrow in his shoulder. You lift a curious brow. The crows call you a wood’s witch. In truth, you’re only a skilled herbalist with knowledge acquired from patching up members of the Night’s Watch over the years. Maybe it is a good thing they call you a witch —the men of the Watch didn’t much care for spirits and magic. “Don’t look like a witch,” Tormund notes, his voice rough. “All the witches I’ve known had warts and crooked noses” —he glares when you pull the first arrow from him without warning, knowing they were only bodkin points — “lived in trees.”

You lay a damp cloth over the bleeding wound before sliding around to his back. The arrows needed to be removed before you could strip him of the heavy furs to properly tend him. “If I had a cock,” you start with a dry laugh, “they’d call me a maester and give me a heavy chain to wear ‘round my neck.” Pressing your hand next to a second arrow, you wiggle the broken shaft, ensuring the arrowhead would come free too when you finally pull. You see the muscles in his neck tense.

“No more crows to worry over?” Tormund asks, voice gruff. Weren’t no more than a hundred men defending Castle Black on the ground and from above —a few more warriors in his warband, and they could’ve taken the castle to let Mance Rayder walk through the gates to the south.

“None that require my skillset.” He looks back, lifting a bloody brow in question. “Plucking arrows from men” —you snatch the third and final arrow from his back and toss it aside, all that’s left is the crossbow bolt in his leg— “sewing them back up.” Sitting back in front of him, you reach for the ties and straps of his clothes. Grimacing, he helps you divest himself of the layers until your icy fingertips brush against his broken and heated flesh. The wildling is barrel-chested with broad shoulders and strong arms —a testament to hard living beyond the Wall. Tormund lets you work in silence —defeat still leaves a sour taste on his tongue

HE SHIFTS AT the sound of footfalls on the stone, too light to belong to any of the crows. Between the torchlight and the few burning braziers, Tormund can see it is his sweet healer come to visit or torment him. The shackles on his ankles clink together against the stone floor as he moves around, scooting forward as you grow closer. “Couldn’t stay away,” he muses as you stop in front of his cell, setting down your satchel and water flagon. 

“Daily rounds to see all my wards,” you counter, pulling a wrought iron key from the inside of your sleeve. You’d convinced Jon you could handle the wildling chieftain —maybe it was foolish of you to think that.

“Best for last?” He asks, laughing.

You huff, rolling your eyes as you unlock the cell, stepping inside. “You must be feeling better,” you note, setting out all your supplies.

Tormund drops the last of his layers —a stained wool tunic— next to him as you kneel with a damp cloth and fresh salve. He seizes your hands, startling you, but does nothing more than hold them between his own —his fingertips are rough, palms warm, wholly engulfing yours. “You got cold hands,” Tormund mutters, seeing the question form in your eyes.

“Didn’t think wildlings minded the cold,” you note, holding his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts in response and keeps your hands held in his for a moment longer before letting you carry about changing his wounds’ dressings.

But curiosity gets the better of him. He’s not known the Night’s Watch to keep a woman on hand. “How does you staying here with all these crows work?” Tormund asks —the muscles in his back tense when a cool, damp cloth touches his skin.

“Didn’t stay with the crows,” you tell him, removing a day-old cataplasm from his shoulder, washing away flecks of ground herbs left behind. “Stayed in Mole’s Town.” It was a small unpleasant village, but it meant you were close to the Wall —the Lord Commander paid for your services as a healer with how few men were currently in the Night’s Watch and with Maester Aemon growing frailer by the day. “Or I did,” you pause, remembering the grey smoke rising from the south a few days ago, “before your lot put it to the torch.” He wears a curious look as though to ask how you escaped his warband. “Was already here tending to those who went out north of the Wall.”

“Fate then,” he decides —the Old Gods must have meant for your paths to cross.

OF ALL THE men currently under your care, Tormund is your favorite, though you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that —it’d make him nigh unbearable. He’s no longer kept in the dark cells below ground, despite still being a prisoner, or perhaps hostage, depending on what Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow have planned. They’ve moved him to an empty room in one of the decaying towers of the castle. You unlock the door, finding him pacing along the perimeter of the small room. “Come to enchant me?” He asks, still finding it amusing that the crows would call a woman like you a witch.

“Thought I already had,” you laugh, watching as he starts tugging at his outer furs without instruction, “and that’s why you’ve been such a good boy.” Tormund Giantsbane wasn’t even half as stubborn as some of the Rangers who’ve come into your care over the years —like Benjen Stark when he came back from north of the Wall with an arrow in his shoulder.

“Boy?” Tormund bristles. “A boy doesn’t have a cock–” his voice fades into a hiss when you press the vinegar-soaked rag to the worst of his wounds. He glares at you, but then his hard stare softens when you smile. Tormund’s mind wanders, unable to stop himself from thinking what’d it be like to lay with a woman from south of the Wall —and if you’d still have that sharp tongue with his cock buried inside your cunt. “Can show you I’m not a boy,” he says, lips twitching upward under his ginger beard. “Doubt you’ve ever had a real man.”

Your gaze flits up to meet his, undeterred by his advances. It’s not the first time you’ve suffered through them, and you doubt it’ll be the last if you continue working with men who’ve sworn to be celibates. “That all you can think about?” You ask —more so teasing than chiding— unwrapping the strip of linen from around his leg. The poultice has kept infection at bay, though this wound is healing slower than the others.

“When I’m looking at a pretty woman,” Tormund replies in all sincerity, leaning forward.

You can feel warmth rushing to your cheeks, but you won’t let yourself look away elsewise he’ll know you’re not immune to his charms. “Well” —you smile, thinking of the conversation you’d overhead between Jon and Stannis— “you’re soon to be looking at a pretty crow named Lord Commander Snow.”

TORMUND GIANTSBANE IS no longer a prisoner under Jon Snow. The Lord Commander means to take him and a score of men to Hardhome and let the wildlings settle in the Gift to escape the encroaching Long Night. Jon knows he’s the only person the others will listen to in the wake of Mance Rayder’s death. The air in the common hall is thick with something you cannot describe —the members of the Night’s Watch have not taken kindly to Stannis’s men or the red-haired wilding sitting below the high table.

Olly sits next to you and Edd with a white-knuckle grip on his spoon, the taste of betrayal sitting bitterly on his tongue. Your gaze flits between the boy, Jon, and finally to Tormund. The wildling’s cold stare is already on you. Edd raises a brow when he sees how quickly you look away, cheeks tinged with warmth.

After some time, you take leave of the common hall, turning to the tower with a small room where Ser Alliser Throne said you could reside, as there was nowhere left for you to go. Tormund trails after you —and before you can shut the door to your chamber for the night, he stops you from doing so. “Didn’t come tend my wounds last night,” he laments, pouting almost.

“You’re going to live,” you assure him, letting him come in anyways. Last you checked, none of his wounds were close to festering, and all were healing cleanly and quickly. Untying your apron and belt, you set them aside and turn back to Tormund, half-smiling. “It’d be a waste of herbs and linen.” Those herbs and flowers would be precious commodities with winter fast approaching. He watches as you empty your satchel on the table and replenish the supplies in quiet awe —his sweet healer with cold hands. “You gonna tell me why you’re really here?” But you’re almost certain you already know, and you’ve no objections, either. 

Tormund doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he steps behind you and cranes his head down to the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent as his arm slides across your middle, pulling you back nigh flush against him. “You know,” he rasps at your ear. The tickle of his beard against your neck is all the warning you have before his lips brush over your skin. Sighing, you tilt your head to the side, melding into his warmth and wandering hands. He tugs impatiently at the laces on the front of your woolen dress, but you swat away his hands and make quick work of the ties and break from his hold to shimmy out of the heavy garment. It leaves you in a thin shift, scarcely protection from the frigid air of the North —though the fire in Tormund’s darkened stare does set your blood aflame.

You step to him, curling your fingers into the soft leather and fur on his chest, and he pounces like a wildman. His kiss is soft at first, a gentle caress of the lips, but it grows deeper when his tongue coaxes you into what becomes a series of leisurely kisses, though each one feels more urgent than the last. Tormund’s hands wander to the small of your back, then along the curve of your bum, bunching up the fabric of your shift until he can grip onto the bare meat of your thighs. He must think you weigh nothing by the way he lifts you, opening your legs until they’re wrapped around his waist, your arms around his shoulders, lips never straying far from his.

He places you on the edge of the bed, then begins with the ties of his clothes and boots —throwing the leathers and furs aside in great haste— until he’s left in only a pair of sealskin shorts with the outline of his hard cock clearly visible. Tormund slips to his knees in front of you, wedging himself between your knees. Surging forward, you kiss him again, intoxicated by the moment. He’s happy to give and reluctant to part. “Thought the Free Folk didn’t kneel,” you challenge, combing your fingers through his beard.

“Only to those we choose,” Tormund tells you, dragging his rough hands along the outsides of your thighs, over your hips, pushing your shift up until you pull the thin fabric overhead, dropping it to the stone floor. You whine when his rough fingers brush over your clavicles, up the column of your neck —there’s a gentleness to the wildling chieftain you would have never thought existed. Tormund’s hand grips your jaw, forcing you to keep his gaze —affirmation he’d chosen to kneel before you.

Without another word, he leans down and presses small kisses around your breast, looking up at you the whole time. The small pecks soon turn into sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as his eyes close in focus. You reach down, carding your hands through his fiery hair —encouragement. He continues to inch closer and closer until he latches onto your nipple and sucks hard, using his hand to play with your other one. He pulls back just for a moment to nip at it. “Tormund,” you breathe, burying your hands into his fiery locks.

Tormund moves his hands to the soft insides of your thighs, squeezes them, then leans down, placing a kiss below your navel. You jump at the tickle of his beard, and his low chuckle rattles through you both, sending a wave of warmth washing over you, pooling low in your belly as he moves farther down. He groans at the sight of your cunt —slick already and begging to be feasted upon, and feast he will. He laps at you, firm but gentle, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile when he reads the pleasure making your gaze go soft and unfocused.

Then you lose conscious thought the second he wraps his lips around your clit, hands holding you firmly in place as he laps and licks through your folds, methodical and slow with a long and low groan. Tormund’s fingers brush through your folds, gathering the slick there, and he eases one finger into your cunt, curling, and stroking, then adds a second. He’s doing something devastating —the gentle pressure with each flick of his tongue— your breath comes in short gasps, chest heaving until it all erupts with white sparks. “All southrons sweet as you?” He asks, scraping his beard along the inside of your thigh, fingers still working you down from the sudden high.

“I am from the North, Tormund,” you remind him, amused.

“South of the Wall, though,” he refutes, giving one final nip to the inside of your thigh before withdrawing his sopping fingers and sucking them clean —eyes never leaving yours. It sends a shiver down your spine. He rises from his knees, and you stand too, hands going to the ties of his underpants. Kicking aside the last of his clothing, he lets you push him back to the bed and climb atop him like you’ve won some great victory.

He’s splayed out beneath you, looking up at you with those clear-blue eyes, clouded with lust, like a challenge. He let you win. You know that — he knows that. But here you are, straddling him with your fingers intertwined in his, pinning his hands above his head. He can easily turn the tables —flip you over and hold you down, and make you beg for him until you can't take it anymore. He can do all of that, but he doesn’t. No, Tormund Giantsbane likes the feeling of your weight above him, pressing him into the mattress, and he wants to see where this will go.

You lean over him and press a kiss to his collarbone, then to the base of his neck and underside of his jaw —his beard brushes against your lips as they move further up until they’re ghosting over the corner of his mouth. He turns his head slightly, stretching up to capture your lips in a hungry kiss. You moan softly into his mouth as his tongue drags over your bottom lip, seeking entrance. He loves the taste of you everywhere —the sweetness of your tongue, the salt of your sweat, the tang of your cunt— Tormund loves it all. Perhaps you had enchanted him. 

His hips press up off the bed when your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him from base to tip, thumb following along one of the throbbing veins on the underside. You shuffle back, guiding the weeping head of his cock between your slick folds until it catches on the entrance of your aching cunt, and you press back further sinking onto him with a lurid moan —echoed by his own strangled groan and a string of curses.

You start to rock and twist your hips, building a pleasant rhythm, working yourself on top of him. Tormund’s lips are parted, breathing heavily as he watches how your cunt takes him in over and over again, a sight that drives him to oblivion, and paired with how you whimper and moan and the feel of your breasts under his hands, he thinks he could finish then and there.

Tormund digs his heels into the bed, aiding you as you bounce and twist atop him. “Tormund,” you whimper, knowing you need more than this —you need his touch. He’s quick to answer the soft pleading, hands squeezing against your hips, arms flexing to lift and drag you across his cock himself as his hips roll upwards, pressing deeper it feels than ever before. Leaning down, you press your lips to his —panting against his mouth as your chests move against one another, hips rolling and filling the room with the sound of flesh against flesh and a chorus of low moans and breathy praises.

It’s sudden when he twists around, putting you beneath him —his weight hovering over you, cock still buried deep in your cunt. “Fucking greedy,” he groans, continuing his slow pace. Something changes in his eyes, but you cannot decipher it. Instead, you draw his face down and kiss him again. You relax inch by inch, sliding your hands over his muscled back, the ridges of his shoulder blades, and down his arms, taking the time to fully appreciate the small nicks and scars you’ve seen a dozen times over now. Then he moves again and again. Each stroke quicker and deeper than the last.

His cheeks and chest are flushed in the low light, and his hair clings to his neck and forehead as his pace picks up. Long, calloused fingers bury into your hair, angling you to look at him. His other hand slides down to where your bodies are joined, rubbing your clit, knowing by the way your walls flutter, that you're close, as is he. The budding pressure grows, setting you on another precipice ready to fall. Your body begins shuddering against his, limbs limp but jerking, neck tilted back into the furs —shining with sweat. Seeing you like this is enough to push him over too. Tormund’s body tenses, his hip stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you with a spreading warmth. His groan is strangled when he thrusts into you again, lazily —just to feel his seed begin to seep from your ruined cunt.

You feel an old sort of contentment as he lowers his weight to rest on bent forearms at either side of your head —his hazy blue eyes staring down at you, the dark red of his hair and beard wilder than you’d ever seen. Tormund dips his head down, nuzzling against the crook in your neck.

On instinct, your arms wrap around him, fingertips following one of the curving scars on his back, relishing the feeling of warmth and safety. “You’re going to come back to me,” you tell him, mussing the strands of hair at the back of his neck. Jon Snow means to set off to Hardhome at first light, he’d said as such during the evening meal, and in the following days, Stannis and his men will depart to head south, first to Winterfell and then onward to King’s Landing. But you’ve no doubt Tormund Giantsbane will return.

“Aye,” Tormund agrees, rolling to the side. He’s quick to pull you along with him and tuck you into his side. “Then we’ll see if the crows can hear us all the way from atop the Wall,” he says, squeezing a handful of your bum. You laugh, pressing your face into his chest, and he laughs too, the sound coming from deep in his belly. Though it soon turns to a wistful sigh, should the Others take him, he’s certain his last thought will be of you —his sweet healer.

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[a-gal-with-taste]

Thoughts:

Silco with a s/o who is seriously injured trying to defuse a rapidly escalating confrontation between enforcers and some folks outside the Last Drop on a day Silco is tied up with business elsewhere. Enforcer shoots first. Rage to tender? Some care for wounds? Strong independent minded female admits they were scared/ feeling shame for pain or fear and protective!Silco emerges?

You had me at "protective!Silco," That is just the, mmhm, yeah👌 good shit. Enjoy!

Silco X F!Reader (Established)

Warnings: Language, blood, descriptions of wounds, mentioned panic-attack, tension, couples argument, hurt/comfort, fluff, protective!Silco has been summoned

If Silco was the head of the operation, and Sevika is right hand, you imagined you were the left. 

Perhaps it was overselling your skills. You'd just been a regular grunt on the street, a street-kid grown up into a street-teen, then a street-woman who got picked up for a more... long-term employment opportunity. Still,, you hadn't forgotten your street days. You knew how to block and deliver a punch, what type of wood to bite down on while popping-in a shoulder, or straightening ankle back into place. How to haggle, when to steal. Who to mess with, who to watch your back around...

You didn't know much about bullet-wounds. Streets used knives and fists, guns were where your weaponry intelligence faltered. Which wasn't good, considering you've gotten shot by two in the last week, and the newest was casually leaving a puddle on the floor in the office of The Last Drop.

You let out a low groan of pain between clenched teeth as there was a dull clink of the bullet bouncing into the glass. Digging nails into your knee while it shook, you forced the rest of your body to stay still as gauze is quickly pressed to your bicep, attempt to stauch the bloodflow before it can get all over the couch.

"... 'had it handled,' my ass." Sevika grunted. "Shoulda left Mek in charge, least he would've scared the rookie off before he'd even take the gun out. Dustin could've looked more intimidating, and at the very least, not looked spooked after taking a one hit-" Sucking in a breath through teeth, you glared up at the woman with pained-sharp eyes as you leaned back heavily on the couch, "Piss off, it was fine until Marcus got stupid enough to leave the rookie alone for five seconds. I had it handled."

"Like the last mission, right?" The mocking note in her voice does not go unnoticed, and your uninjured arm squeezes slightly around your aching abdomen. Bandages still thick around it, you haven't felt the chill that informed you that the stitches had already been opened. A miracle, since it had not been days prior that you got them. "Piss. Off."

Whatever scathing lecture she had planned for you was halted, as the door banged open. So unlike the normal cool and suave creaking, you couldn't help but flash your gaze over, hand jerking to your weapon-holster at your hip in case that rookie decided he wanted to finish the job after all...

"Out. Make sure Marcus and his subordinate get back to Topside." Silco's voice was as hard as his eyes, but Sevika still let out a small scoff as she stood, shoving the roll of gauze into your chest for you to grunt, and catch. She said nothing, only a brief glint of her eyes to yours, before turning to stride out the door, wiping your blood off her flesh hand onto her pants.

Silco shut the door sharply the moment she crossed the doorway. You averted your gaze back down to your arm, peeling away the sticky cloth with a small huff as you worked trembling fingers to unroll the gauze. You nearly dropped it when the sharp, cold steps finally came to a stop in front of you.

"Let me see it." He didn't give you a chance to rebuttal or ignore him, "Or I will have you dragged to Singed."

Another day on that damned table? Repressing a shudder, you swallowed back a grunt as she shuffled to the side of the couch, letting the Eye of Zaun sit beside you on the couch. Fingers all but snatched the wrapping from your hand, and your afflicted arm was captured before you could move away any further.

"... It's not as bad as the last one." You attempted, finding Jinx's drawing along the rafters more fascinating then your superior wrapping your bicep securely in stony-silence. A small sigh from your nostrils, turning into a hiss when he pulled the wrap hard enough for you to feel fire flare up your arm.

The burning hand around your wrist slipped slowly, but with much practice, to curl fingers between your own, sturdy palm against yours until the tremor in your arm finally came to a still.

Not a word was spoken when you gave a short nod, reaching up to wipe the sudden-sweat from your brow. His movements returned to repetitiveness, wrapping your arm with careful practice while his hand still remaining in yours. "... Marcus wanted assurances. To ensure this doesn't occur again."

You scoffed, and it came out sharp, "I get shot, and he wants assurances?"

"He wanted that boy to technically still be alive when they leave the Undercity. I had to give him something, before he started to get silly notions of heroism." Sounds like Marcus. A dark burst of satisfaction fills you, much like when you started to hear the loud bangs, yells and screams from downstairs while Silco and the gang had remained in the bar to discuss the situation with Marcus and the rookies insubordination.

Consitering how quiet it got after enough loud bangs, you imagine that 'technically' alive comment to be quite correct in terms of the Enforcer's condition. Not that the true-cause would be in any official reports, of course, but you felt avenged nonetheless.

"He comes solo to meetings now. We meet on a more concrete schedule, no more surprise visits like what happened today. Weapons holstered and put on safety..." Reasonable enough, though you held back a smirk at the last one, Silco would have at least three at-ready regardless of the agreement... It fades quickly at the next condition he says, grip tightening on your hand as he calmly informed you, "And to dispel any rumors of the true situation, you remain off the streets for the next several weeks."

"... Silco, that's not funny."

A small yank on the bandage as he tightens it, pulling it taut before tucking it into place, completed. "I agreed to all conditions."

"Bullshit." You go to stand, and immediately find yourself right back on the couchseat. Whether by the yank Silco gives to pull you back down, or the wave of nausea, pain at your sharp movements, you refuse to admit to either. "You want to bench me? For getting a couple scratches?"

"Scratches?" Silco's voice is soft, deadly, and shaking with barely-restrained fury. "Two times, in twice as many days. Two times, you've gotten shot. I imagine it's not a coincidence that each one creeps closer to that apparently-empty head of yours." You scoff, and turned away, when fingers of his free-hand reach over and snap around your chin, pulling your head sharply back to face him.

His expression is close to volcanic, the red iris flaring with every careful inhale and exhale as he glares into your eyes, teeth gritting. "These aren't scratches. These are you, getting reckless, getting foolish and getting hurt." You swallowed thickly but sneered back at him, "Think I haven't gotten my fair share of bumps and bruises before, Sil? Think I don't know pain? We live in the Underground, for fucks sake, almost-dying on a daily basis is practically our birthright."

The green eye narrows, and the black and red eye is at a boiling-point at the D-word. "No. You're not allowed to die. Not for this, not at an Enforcer's hand, not for anything. Die, shot, scratched, none of it."

You scoff, and wince slightly as his thumb digs a bit deeper against into your chin at your sharp eyeroll. "What?" You huffed, challenging him by leaning closer to him, so his hot exhale was brushing against your face. "Sevika gives up an arm, you an eye, but the minute I start doing shit that gets me a couple new scars, you draw the line? What're you, scared? Going soft?"

There's a cool, quiet beat between the two of you.

"... The men told me you started going into shock after you were shot. No," He smoothly reaches down the moment you started to shuffle off the couch, gripping your forearms with enough strength to keep you there. "No, you don't get to scurry off because I'm pointing out facts. Not after you throw yourself into danger not once, but twice-" "I didn't throw myself-" You retort, and then immediately have to suppress a yelp as one hand slides up to grip your freshly-wrapped arm, and the slight bump of your abdomen from the bandages beneath clothing.

"Thesw two, days apart, suggests otherwise," Silco says lowly, and you grit your teeth, looking down as you catch your breath. Finally, lowly and with fists curling, "I couldn't... fuck, fine. I couldn't stand by being useless, being weak, just lying in a chair when some undergrad with a pistol started getting antsy. That's not who I am, you know that." No response, only cool, observant eyes watching you as you turn your gaze away, looking anywhere else.

"... and fine. Maybe it spooked me a little. Maybe my breathing started picking up a bit, and I started getting shaky in front of the guys. I had just gotten shot, again, sue me for being a little shaken-"

Damn it. You could tell he heard the voice-crack too, his grip tightening suddenly, and only releasing when he realized his touch was what was causing you discomfort.

"... I couldn't stand by, and I couldn't help but stiffen a little after I got hurt. That's all that happened, i'm-"

You trail off, half because it's getting embarrassing how much effort you have to put in to keep your voice steady, and because it's too comfortable being pressed against him to keep trying to deflect.

"I'll be okay..." The man only hummed, the infamous Eye of Zaun sliding a hand up your back to curl fingertips into your hair, thumb brushing against the nape of your neck. You'd been in this exact position not 72 hours before, after being discharged off that damned table at Singed's... it's a bit embarrassing to admit that, even after a small burst of time between these moments, you've missed the comfort of it.

Silco quietly rests his chin atop your head as you slowly slip an arm up around his shoulder, other remaining pressed close to avoid aggrevating the fresh sting of a wound. You're tired, suddenly, any remaining adrenaline from the incident leaking from you in his arms. "... I'm still getting benched?"

"Yes." He says, immediately and unapologetically, but it's not a biting remark anymore. Quiet, calm, like the repetitive brush against the back of your neck as he holds you securely. "I can't... not like that. You're not allowed to do that to me, not a third time, and you're hardly doing yourself any favors by throwing yourself into line of fire, even on hot-headed instinct." You suppressed the snort. Silco telling you the dangerous nature of self-destructive habits?

He must sense the bitter irony, as you feel the small smile when he presses lips to your hairline. "You know I'm right." "Hm... we'll save a debate for when I can move without aching." A small sigh is your only reply, the slight tightening of his arms around you merely a reflex. You sighed, eyes flickering a little as you turned your head, resting your cheek against his vest, moving with every, now much calmer breath, and heart thudding distantly beneath your ear.

"... You know you can't protect me from everything, right? I'm muscle for reason, you can't find a way to stop me from going out and getting hurt on a job..." There's a hum of consideration, no verbal answer as he simply focuses on the feel of you, safe in his arms, and you close your eyes instead of rolling them, letting out a small-sigh regardless.

It was clear he was going to damn well try. You imagined the next few weeks benched were going to be long, boring... although, if it was anything like this moment you were sharing with Silco, you might not go as stir-crazy as quickly as you would otherwise.