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theredofoctober · 6 months

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Shingleback— A Wolf Creek Darkfic

Mick Taylor x Virgin Female Reader

Synopsis: A road trip to visit relatives ends abruptly when Mick Taylor crosses your path

Trigger/Content Warnings: non con, violence, death (not reader)

Read after the cut

Smoke in your lungs, your mouth, in the porcelain shard of sky you see through the one eye not shut with blood. The air reeks of engine oil and char, and blackened flesh.

Someone is surely dead in the wreckage of the car, and you are not yet sure that it’s not you.

Footsteps, crunching through glass and stones. A whistle in the quiet.

Someone crouches over you at the side of the road, blinding you in a black trough of shadow.

“Fuck me,” he says. “Still breathin’. Ya got lucky. Your fella’s a goner, sweetheart.”

Fella.

Your father. He had been at the wheel, championing a road trip to visit obscure relatives, whom you’d never met, nor particularly cared to.

The drive had been harsh, all stark light and barren road.

Dread was in the yellow of the horizon. The air had hissed with its song.

“I don’t want to go,” you’d said. “I don’t know these people. It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. It’ll be weird.”

“Ah, it’ll be fine,” your father had replied, falsely jolly, consulting a map. “They’re all solid blokes. What are you worrying for?”

You rested your brow against the windowpane, soothing the beginnings of an ache.

“Just don’t feel like going. Can’t help worrying about Mom.”

The drive had continued in silence, for a time. Neither of you had wanted to reach for the radio.

“Yeah,” you father had said, at last. “Same here. But there’s no point stewing at home waiting for her, eh?”

You’d begun to answer, your words blown away in a gale of events.

Something had taken out a back wheel, then a front one. There had been something up ahead— a sign, you’d thought, and then the vehicle had been through it and over it and on its back, and burning.

You’d come loose from the car like a coin from a threadbare pocket, and now you’re lying in the silhouette of a man that smells like sweat and gunfire.

“Let’s have a look at you, then,” he says.

His voice is rough, friendly, salt of the earth. A working man’s accent. Trustable, if you did not know what he had done.

He brushes your hair back from your forehead, grunting at the cut that splits it like chopped wood.

“You’re gonna have one beauty of a scar if I don’t see to it. Looks like you’re coming home with me, love. I’m Mick, by the way. Mick Taylor. Nice to meet ya.”

You see the gun on his arm, know well that he put out the wheels.

Your lips part with a whispered rejection of his aid.

Mick scowls, his eyes squinting, all narrow malice.

“Eh? Listen, you can lie here like your mate there, or I can stitch you back together and getcha lookin’ decent. Choice is yours.”

The man chortles, a filthy, porcine sound.

“Just jokin’. I’m keeping ya. Know what’ll happen if you lie out here all night? Dingos’ll eat ya. Snakes’ll bite you. Either way, you’ll wind up fuckin’ dead, right. Don’t want that, do ya, Sheila?”

“My Dad,” you whisper—the fire has guttered your throat, leaving you with a geriatric croak. “He needs help.”

The figure leering over you shifts back slightly, and you glimpse his face. Sun-beaten skin, small, malignant eyes. Cleft chin. Hair grown down either side of his haw like chin straps, bookends for a blunt-toothed grin.

“Your Dad’s fucked, darlin’. Legs burnt off. Probably got one foot in the grave. Or not, eh?”

Another rattling laugh. You try to sit up, going limp under a wash of pain.

“Here ya go,” says Mick, helpfully turning you onto your side. “See for yourself. I pulled him out of the wreck, but he’s barely hangin’ on. Doubt he’ll see tomorrow.”

Your father slumps, a charred half-man, still in the road. All the heat runs out of you through your head, and you sit up as though from a dream.

One of your ears buzzes, an imagined sound. You will never quite unhear it again.

“Dad,” you say— your voice is still barely audible, even to you. “Dad?”

His mouth twitches, and you glance up at Mick, knowing you cannot go to him for help.

“Bugger’s alive, is he?” asks Mick, noticing the stir of movement. “Must be bloody sore. Better put him out of his misery.”

Concussed, you do not understand the statement until Mick strides across to your father’s body and hefts the gun.

Three shots ring out.

The dying man jumps and dances briefly, festooned in a display of blood. Then he falls, faceless, his head dangled on the blown-off reed of his neck, and you look at Mick with a hollow terror that makes you almost calm in its flat emptiness.

“Did you both a favour,” he says, all broad, square teeth. “Wouldn’t want him watchin’ what I’m going to do to you when I get ya back.”

You leave your heart there on the road, another burned, dead thing in the humming afternoon.

Mick takes you to the remnants of a mine, carrying you down into the dark across his shoulder, as he might hoist the body of a deer. The stench of rot and ammonia passes over you in an acrid haze. A menagerie smell, of human animals.

There have been others, held here. Others killed in the belly of the ground.

Mick sits you against the bars of an iron cage, pleased by your lack of resistance.

“That’s it,” he says. “Nice and quiet. Wouldn’t want to have to cut your tongue out. Can’t scream me name if ya can’t talk.”

He goes over you with brutish hands, looking for injuries. One wrist violet with bruising, both knees skinned, the slash across your brow: aside from this, and the concussion, you are otherwise unscathed.

“You must be made of rubber,” says Mick, as he cleans your wounds with a bit of murky alcohol on a rag. “One hell of a tumble you took, there.”

Thanks to you, you think, but say nothing, are still an hour back in time, watching your father’s body leap in the force of gunfire.

“So,” says Mick, sitting back to observe his work under the dim light. “What were you and your dear old dad doing here in Australia?”

You do not answer, owe him nothing, this shooter of men.

Mick’s face darkens. Reaching forward, he squeezes your sprained wrist until you cough up bile between your legs, black stars churning in the cell before you.

“Start talkin’,” says Mick. “I’m not pissin’ around.”

“Dad’s from here,” you choke out. “Was. We were going to visit family.”

Your captor grunts in disbelief.

“Doubt it. Ya talk like a Yank.”

The disparagement in his tone is a steel edge you know better than to touch.

“My Mom’s American,” you say. “I grew up there. That’s why I don’t have any accent at all.”

“Hmm.”

To your relief, Mick softens, seeming to regard you with a more favourable look. His eyes are small, light, with a cold friendliness about them that you might have liked, had he not introduced himself in such slaughterous practice.

His tone, too, is conversational, as though he did not wear the shrapnel of blood and bone upon him, still.

“Where’s your Mum, then?” he asks.

You look down at the bile cooling in the dirt, its bitterness another stink in the fetid gloom.

“She ran away.”

Mick’s smile hardens.

“Got sick of your Dad, did she?”

“No. She’s got mental health problems. She stops taking her meds. Runs off. Comes back a month or so later. Nothing we can do.”

It seems a trite conversation to share with a killer, but you will sustain it, if it distracts him from thoughts of harm.

“So your Mum’s left ya,” says Mick, “and your Dad’s dead. Halfway to being an orphan, eh?”

You wipe your face gingerly, appalled by the absence of tears, the correct emotion. Certainly you feel it, somewhere, kept as though beneath an upturned glass. But you cannot express it, though it may buy you favour to cry.

“Dad’s family are gonna worry about me,” you say, softly. “If I don’t turn up.”

Mick’s brow furrows. It is a mistake to threaten him, even so subtly as this.

“They can keep worryin’,” he growls. “Can’t send ya back, now can I? You’d go tellin’ everyone about what I’ve been doing out here. Can’t let ya do that, Sheila.”

You push your hands behind you, clinging to the iron ice of the bars until your palms burn.

“But I don’t know what you’ve been doing,” you say. “I don’t want to know. I’ll say I don’t know who attacked me and my Dad. I didn’t see your face. I don’t know your name.”

Mick moves towards you, and you shift along the side of the cage, your spine ringing across the bars.

“I don’t trust ya,” he says, quite pleasantly. “You seppos can’t keep your mouths shut for one bloody minute. You’d be spillin’ your guts before ya knew you were doin’ it.”

He takes hold of your right leg and hauls you towards him, scraping your back as your t-shirt rides up across the floor. A knife is produced from somewhere, an evil fragment of silver moonlight, and you gasp, rigid in anticipation of it against your throat.

“Don’t piss yourself,” says Mick. “I’m not plannin’ to kill ya after doin’ such a stellar job of cleanin’ your injuries.”

Knotting his fist in your shirt, he cuts it from your body, repeating the action with your ruined jeans. You don’t dare raise a hand to prevent him, seeing the proficiency with which he wields his blade.

“Oh no,” you whisper, pathetic in your dread of what he means to do.

“Figured it out, have ya?” asks Mick, and grins, one crude hand snapping the elastic of your thin undergarments. “What else would I do with ya? Didn’t bring you down here for a chat.”

You close your bandaged knees, but Mick snaps them tersely open, turning the knife under the light again until you slacken to his will.

If your heart beats quickly, you cannot feel it: you are numb from the head down, insensible. Staring through the man before you, seeing the darkness in him waver, a living shadow.

Mick crouches between your legs, his fingers upon you with a hostile agility. He watches your face closely, eating of even the merest gesture of your suffering.

“Fair warning,” he says. “I’m going to hurt ya.”

You’re dry when he enters you, but as his knuckles clench you’re quickly soaked, the sounds of your flesh awakening to him an echo in the mine.

Mick’s eyebrows jump in bald surprise.

“Strewth, you’re a bit of a dark horse, aren’t ya, daddy’s girl? Do ya always get this wet for blokes old enough to be your father, or just your Uncle Mick?”

His thumb roughs the jewel of nerves you’d hoped he’d avoid. You gasp strengthlessly, roll your head on your neck. Stare into the corpse flavoured dark; anywhere but his face, his eyes.

A blow to the face has you jolting back up like a roused snake, blinking, stone drunk with shock.

Mick leers down at you, his thick fingers still hooked through your cunt.

“Make some bloody racket, will you? I ain’t fuckin’ a dead sheila tonight. Would have left you in that burnt-out wreck of a foreign car if I thought you’d give up the fight this quick.”

You try to focus your stare, find the veins of your fear to bleed for him. The impression of Mick’s hand throbs across your eye, swelling the lid.

“Stop,” you rasp. “Stop it.”

Movement in your gut: a maggot of shame.

The old man smirks, and leans over you, his beer-musked breath making darts of the down on your bruised cheek.

“There ya go,” he says. “A bit of protest. I love it.”

He kisses you, forcing his tongue between your chipped teeth, all spit, and cigarettes, and drink. His thumb keeps up its relay across your clitoris, its callous tousling your silk. Cunningly, he hunts your climax, knowing he can turn it out.

Weakly, you scrape backwards on scabbed palms, Mick’s tongue still slid across yours. With a muttered oath, he kneels down on one leg, his weight a hanging rock.

“Keep your arse where it is. You’re comin’ for me, or I’m breakin' your fuckin’ legs, and I won’t be neat and tidy about it. Ya know what a compound fracture is, don’tcha? Bone through the skin, and a bastard to set right. Probably never seen one, a city brat like yourself. But you know what I’m talkin’ about.”

You watch his arm move, tanned tawny gold, bound in tattoos long faded by the sun, can’t look at his face in its ugliness and age, and slavering appetite. Sweat opals your forehead, and fevered shivers rip at you. Your mouth opens; the moan that drips free is someone else’s shame, a weak response to touch.

“You tourists are all the same,” says Mick, equally pleased and repulsed by the noise. “Whinge and whine about me putting me hands on ya, when all ya want under it all is a good root. I can feel you’re on the edge, orphan. Hips movin’. Hole squeezin’ down tight. Mind you don’t take me bloody fingers off, will ya?”

He chuckles, and brings his free hand to your breasts, pawing their flesh in his workman’s fist. The pain, the mockery— a signal crosses some incorrect road in your senses, for as Mick leans down to kiss you again you feel a tug of mad, sudden pleasure, casting itself through your loins and up into your mind like a flare thrown into the night.

His hand fucks you through it, pressing, relentless into your treachery. You break your fingernails on the filth beneath you, feel yourself torn, unwilling, from your distance like a marlin from the deepest sea. You breathe in sickly pants.

Savaged. Wounded.

“You’re a beauty,” says Mick, bringing his wet hand to his face to study its stolen glaze. “Take a look at the mess ya made. You oughta thank me, givin’ you a service like that. Half the time, I don’t bother. Just wanna get me dick in a hole and get to it.”

Sitting back on his haunches, he licks his hand, smacking his lips with a juicy pop. The noise—like gunfire, bullets in a tyre, in your father’s skull—startles you into action. The cage door is partway open; you lurch past Mick on your knees, all instinct, no thought as to what you’ll do beyond the mine.

“And where are you runnin’ off to, eh? Ya silly cunt.”

Mick is on your back in under a second, smacking the cage door shut on one of your outstretched hands. A scream evicts itself from you— parched, almost soundless, knocked back in by the blade Mick shunts beneath your chin.

“Told ya,” he growls, rutting against your hips for emphasis. “Either I fuck ya, or I kill ya, and I didn’t carry you all this way and stitch you up to finish ya quick. It’ll be slow and hard, and it’ll hurt. See how ya scream then, eh?”

“Please,” you say, to the knife as much as the man. “I can’t do what you want me to. I’ve never— I’ve never done that before. I’m scared.”

Mick puts the knife away and draws your head back to look you in the eye. His stare is hunger and dusk. Of hunting things in the desert.

“I know. Could tell you were a fuckin’ virgin. Bled on me hand, didn’tcha? Ain’t gonna stop me fuckin’ ya, though. Means I’ll be keepin’ you down here for a long time. Usin’ ya whenever I feel like it. But first, I have to break ya in.”

“Why?” you ask, as his belt buckle rings at your back, his shooter’s hands arrange you beneath him with the same familiarity with which he’d load his gun. “Why do you hurt people?”

Mick pauses, and when you glance back at him over his shoulder you see a real loathing sheen the vicious glass of his eyes.

“Because it’s what ya deserve. You, and all you cheap, noisy Americans, coming here, soiling my bloody land. Good thing you’ve got some Aussie in you, or I’d have to kill ya on principle. Not enough in you for me to turn ya loose, though.”

His knee opens your thighs, and you hear him clear his throat to spit in his hand, a home-grown lubricant. You stare at the bars of the cage until, in your vision, they smear into one broad stroke of rust. How cold the mine is, around you, in its coffin velvet darkness. All death, all hopeless night.

“Usually have to protect meself when I screw you tourist girls,” says Mick, conversationally. “Tend to be crawling with all sorts of nasties. But you’re clean as a whistle, ain’tcha, with a virgin cunt like yours.”

There is force at your sphere of heat, massive, bracing in the shoving pain that follows, the dirty grunts and curses blown against your ear like wind from some wretched sun-scoured isle. You dry heave across the dirt floor, spittle falling from the tip of your tongue in an unholy christening.

Surely you are baptised, now, by the way of brutality, a shingleback forced to mate, to exist beyond this point of anguish.

Mick’s hands punish your hips, their grip testing the joints. How comical he must look, plaid shirt pulled taut over his belly, the old hat still looming over his brow, with his untidy thrusts and growling breath. You know, as if by telepathy, how he savours the assault, how he sees himself the hunter, sinking his teeth into the meat of his quarry.

His cock beats a note of pain so close to pleasure that your nerves cannot mark the difference.

Perhaps it is easier, to take something from this agony, to find something amidst the fog. But then, perhaps you would rather it only hurt, a violence upon you, no different from the twisting of a spear up into your abdomen.

You’re wet as he fucks you, loudly so, the slick of it the music of the mine.

“Never had a girl drip on me cock like you, Sheila,” says Mick, slapping your flank heartily as he withdraws. “Let’s getcha on your back so I can have a look at ya.”

He turns you with a careless shove, snorting as you cover your eyes like a child afraid of the beast under its bed.

“Christ,” says Mick. “Can’t stomach seein’ an old bloke like me makin’ ya come? Probably finger yourself thinkin’ about some soft bloody film star. Well, you can get over it. You’re mine now, darlin’. Never lettin’ you go.”

He drags you to him by the hips, bending your legs back at such an angle you sense, with certainty, that he means to fill you to your greatest depth. You tense, try, with feeble hands, to push at his chest as he bears down on you again.

“Please,” you say. “Please, no more, please, please...”

Terror strikes through you in a fork of black lightning as Mick leans down, his eyes narrowed, hateful.

“Shut up,” he sneers. “Look down, ya uptight bloody American princess. You’re gonna watch me fuck ya.”

With a terse jolt he moves your head downwards. You see his cock in one tanned hand, pushing back into your ravaged entrance in one slow, mean thrust. Unnatural, the size of him, a surrealist nightmare depiction of male aggression.

The tempo of it drawing in and out of you may as well be the digging of a grave in all its dark purpose. Your breasts rise and fall with its movement, your skin awash in the hideous light shone down from the naked bulb overhead, the yellow of a cartoon sun.

You hear your own voice, disembodied, the chatter of a ventriloquist’s doll.

“Mick. Mick, it hurts.”

“Should bloody hope so,” he sneers, and he hits you; the rusty pain in that same abused cheek runs down your neck into your loins, and you are afraid of yourself as much as this monster, in your weakness.

You cling to Mick’s arms suddenly, which are firm from his grisly work, and he snickers.

“Like that, do ya? Never would have guessed it, to look at ya.”

He palms your chest, yellowed teeth bared as he rolls upon you, chafing your spine against the floor. His ugliness is your greatest shame, every line in his weathered face mocking you with its affront.

You cannot wrench your eyes away, staring up at him even as you wish only to turn to the dark. Ghosts seem to whisper to you from the corners, holding you accountable for the plaits of ecstasy that wind your cunt tight around your attacker.

You throb with the need of release, with its inevitable approach, uninvited.

He killed your father. He has raped and killed and rode his ruthless path through the Outback for decades, and you are going to come with him within you. Come from the chemical bewilderment of fear, and grief, and the force of him in the new wound of taken virginity.

If you survive him, it will be as a ghoul, undead, unfeeling. You yearn for him to return to the knife and end you, but you know from the glee in his eyes that he means to have you live as long as your flesh can withstand his horror.

“You’re a looker, y’know,” breathes Mick, putting a hand behind your head in a rancid performance of romance. “Scars and all. Give me a kiss, eh?”

He runs his tongue through your lips, and you gasp as a vent of andesite heat bisects you in your climax. Your enemy gives a throaty laugh, fucking you through each layer of orgasm until all that is left is the pain, and the width of him within you.

“Bet you’ve never come like that before, have ya?” he gloats. “Look scared to death. Jesus. I could fuck ya for days.”

But you feel his strokes taking an erratic quality, hear the shortening of his breath. He’s close, and you doubt he means to save you the dread of him finishing in your satin warmth.

Still, you beseech, feel at the very least that your begging will end this.

“Don’t... I mean, inside me, I...”

Mick smirks, gripping you by the chin to bring you eye to eye.

“Darlin’,” he croons. “I’m gonna be blowin’ me load in ya cunt until the day I kill ya.”

He licks your face of sweat and blood, and grips you to him as he reaches his bellowing crisis. You feel him pulse, the overflow of his spend trailing your inner thigh in its salt moisture, and close your eyes, stepping in to embrace your defeat.

Mick stands up, buckling his trousers, whistling a jolly, off-key tune. You lie as he left you, thinking of nothing, your mind and senses ground out into ash. Day in, day out, this is to be your life, whore to the devil of the land.

It seems that you died in the car, after all.

By God, you wish that you had.

---

Chapter Two is now here

#wolf creek #wolf creek fic #tw violence #tw noncon #dead dove do not eat #mick taylor x reader #mick taylor #darkfic

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8-rae-rae-8 · 3 months

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idea for rudy and graves’ play date >:3c

okay first things first, deer regressor rudy and coyote regressor graves. alejandro was worried about the two being together both because of the betrayal and because he knew from the 141 he could be very excitable and rough. but soap and ghost who were visiting las almas for some business reassure alejandro that it will be just fine.

so it leads to alejandro driving two of them out to a nice grassy field for a hike of sorts. the grass and shrubs dry but a large creek, filled with rocks and large stepping stones that seemed to have been there naturally as well as some that were placed down. a grand willow tree that had to have been atleast 40 feet tall and a clear group of branches one could climb onto. a rope as well, used and dirty but tied over where part of the creek was deep enough to jump into.

very eagerly phillip is jumping out of the car at the first chance he gets and runs through the grassy field. rudy looking back at alejandro a little anxiously waiting for an affirmation of some kind that he could join in. of course alejandro nods and the boys jump through the field together happily. feeling the breeze and warm sun on their skin. phillip running through the creek with big splashes, rudy goes over on the stepping stones but still catching up with the other. they cool down a little in the water. rudy being cheeky and sneaking up the willow tree and jumping into the water. soaking phillip completely. seeking revenge he gets out of his shirt as best he could, pawing at it before figuring it out and now only in his shorts with his little tail attached to his belt loop. he jumps in and splashes rudy right in the face. the two happily giggling together and having fun in the water.

some notes:

- alejandro has to get aloe on the both of them after

- alejandro had known about the creek but the others didn’t so he already had towels ready

- rudy and phil both end up snoozing on each other on the car ride home

-🐇

Oh that's so cute anon !!!!

The splashing !!!!

AND THE INEVITABLE SUN BURNS 😭

Graves burns for sure, but with sun exposure, you can see lots of freckles peeking out across his cheeks and nose !!

I LOVE THEM

It doesn't matter if they're still soggy, they'll cuddle up as much as they can. Graves insists on holding hands for sure

#🐇#cod #cod mw2 #cod agere #call of duty #rodolfo parra #rudy parra #phillip graves #philip graves

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pumpkinsnhollyhock · 6 months

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Mausoleum

Summary: When a secluded ghost at the edge of the world receives a strange visitor, he remembers why he willed this dangerous plot to house his bones in the first place.

Fic tags: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader/OC. AU. Quirkless AU. Song fic. Soulmates. Lost love. Pining. Soft Tomura Shigaraki. Tomura Shigaraki is a Ghost. First POV. Reads like a love letter.

Found myself listening to Mausoleum by Rafferty on repeat while writing my long Tomu fic. Here's the result. Happy spooky season :]

My first tangible thought in countless long years is, What dullard dares to traverse this deadly terrain.

These stone walls I call home were strategically located atop this most avoidable peak, and I reveled in my decision — laid out in clear terms by my final will and testament — when the dismally unfortunate masons cursed taking the job with their every breath. I watched them silently as they fought against the menacing squalls and crumbling ground, letting their ill tempers wash vicariously over my noncorporeal form, and smiled.

For what I craved more than anything in my last days was eternal solitude.

Yet here you come, determined to rob me of it.

Between my isolation and the ceaseless decades, I have become barely more than a wisp of lingering spirit, my memories and emotions eroded away like this baren cliffside. So this stir of annoyance at your unsolicited calling is, I admit, at least some small reprieve from the monotony.

I follow your painstaking progress — a smear of cloak among the tall grasses, winding to and fro, rising steadily through the topology — and find my distaste begins to wane as I resign to tolerate your presence.

But as the minutes turn to hours and you draw ever near, I am decidedly touched by your fervor.

You are panting, relief and pride sculpting your posture, as you arrive on my marble stoop, and I am surprisingly delighted when you rest a soft hand against the entrance to my permanent residence.

I watch, still and silent, as vitality rushes in and out of your lungs, as your hair sticks to your flushed face, whipped into knots and strewn wildly by the merciless gales that claim dominion over this rocky shoreline, and a grin settles delicately on your lips.

I am hollow. I am nothing. Detached from the physical realm. But something within whatever I now am aches at the sight of you.

You, who are alive.

Come inside, I gesture though you cannot see, my ghostly hand reaching toward yours before I decide to do so, Come grace these cold, forgotten walls with your guileless company.

The iron gates rattle and creek when you pull them wide, and I realize for the first time how much my august abode has been humbled.

When I was first laid here, I explain as your eyes alight over every surface, this granite gleamed white and pristine. And the cast iron filigree, I point out when your fingers delicately trace a sconce and search for a match to light the candle there, was as intricate as it was imposing.

But, I amend when warm modest light blooms before us, I would argue the stone cracked and mossed, the iron rusted and worn, has its own certain beauty.

I think, perhaps, you agree, unable as you are to refrain from touching everything you see, studying each surface without concern, but with loving caress.

In life, I recall hearing gripping tales of those beyond bewitching the souls of the living, and how even the most gallant individuals would cower at the thought. But as I watch you, my eyes never wavering from your tender, reverent progression through the walls that hold my decaying bones, I think the stories could not gotten it more wrong.

I, too, lived life through careful study, I start to ramble, the urge to impress you — to capture your attention as you have stolen mine — as inescapable as the grave, Diligently observant, I was a collector of lives, of their tales and histories, making sense of the passing of time through their lives and deaths.

Morbid, perhaps. There were certainly those who thought so. But it was through them that I found any attachment to life.

You smile, and I think it might finally bring me peace, releasing me from this cursed mortal plane.

Forgive me, I say, a flush of long-stilled blood illuminating the silver scars along my transparent neck, Perhaps it is my sudden musings on life, but you... seem somehow... familiar.

There was one... a remnant of memory from centuries past.

She, too, smiled at strangely beautiful things.

Suddenly I am overcome, drowning as forgotten images surge across my vision — fingers interlacing, palms meeting; bare feet in the dew damp earth strolling to meet the blushing sun.

When I resurface, your smile has faded, and I lament that there is nothing I can do to bring it back.

You pause — your fingertips, feather light, as they linger on the ornate brass picture frame.

Those I left behind were kind enough to leave me with a solitary memory, I whisper in explanation.

I drift behind you, my steady presence at your back all the company I can offer, and I catch the fading scent of your perfume as reach forward with long grey fingers to curl around the other edge of the frame.

Aren't we a sight, I sigh.

I pretend I can feel your weight against my chest, imagine gently swaying you, and for a moment we are a macabre lovesick couple as together we hold the only remaining proof of my time on this earth.

I don’t look at it, for I am watching you, your eyes shimmering as they hold the image of mine.

You have a sadness about you, I coo, wishing I could tuck a stray lock back into place behind your ear, It seeps deep within your soul.

My chin drops to your shoulder.

I can sense it on your quiet breath.

My lips are drawn to the flush at your neck.

I hear it on your every heartbeat.

And I curse Kronos, the Fates, and all the years that divide us that I cannot hold you.

A tear falls between us, our faces intimately close but eternally separated. Its splash upon the frame is jarring amidst our easy silence, and finally I tear my eyes away from your loveliness in curiosity of what ails you.

I still, rooted to the spot.

For you stare back at me.

Across the centuries, from the fading sepia page of my history.

From the photograph of you and me.

And realization hits me, as harsh and welcome as the fiery dawn hits these cold cliff walls.

How I have missed you, my everything.

Your tears seem to surprise you as much as they did me, confusion falling delicately upon your features as you wipe them from your beautifully flushed cheeks. You while you press on with graceful poise, and my eyes drink in your determination alighting your every movement as you take the last few strides to the final depths of my crypt.

But as you gaze upon my bones, you dissolve and begin to weep.

Please, my love, don’t despair. Time is cruel and we were destined to forget.

I fail to pry your soft bony hands away from your crying eyes, cursed to merely watch as you fall apart before me.

As I have watched you fall before, your dark locks disheveled by the unforgiving winds that whip at my stone walls, at these cliffs which claimed your life and house my tethered soul.

You are so tragically beautiful it pains me.

My love, do not be troubled, I breathe, enveloping you in my ghostly arms, Your sorrow is a gift. Your trembling grimace — your bloodshot eyes spilling with donations of love — are proof of a life enrichened with depth.

You begin to chill, but I am loathe to release you after all these long decades without you, so press closer still. I can hear the ocean’s churning, her tumbling tempestuous crashing of waves, echoing in your ears.

I chose to follow you in death, chose destruction over my sorrow.

Desperation — regret — tears at my throat, threatening to overtake me, so I continue.

And now, my everything, you must leave me.

Or else, I will you to stay.

Because as much as I long to relieve you from your despair, I cannot deny how your presence tempers mine.

I think of how I would destroy everyone and everything should you ask it of me, of how I itch to turn this entire world to rot so that the centuries would cease to turn and we might be together once more.

Then — just as our separation becomes too much to bear, just as I think I might rob you of the chance to move on — your feet begin to remedy the distance that must always be between us, and grief and joy flood me in equal measure.

You spare my bones one last glance, those eyes — those very same eyes — piercing my soul, and I see you as I saw you last.

Your billowing dress. Your hair whipped and matted by the gales. My hand, outstretched to you, grasping nothing but cold sea air. Your wheeling arms as your feet no longer find purchase on the crumbling ground.

You leave the candle burning for me as you pass beneath my once-gilded archways, and I watch the wax drip like the tortuous passing of time, the wick growing shorter and the flame dimmer, as you make your careful way down the winding path.

It dies at last, gentle smoke trailing as delicate as a veil, and I wish upon it as it is swept away to sea.

Be well, my love. Until next century.

Find this and my other works on ao3 :]

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x oc #mha fic #mha au #soulmates #song fic #soft shigaraki #shigaraki tomura is a ghost #reads like a love letter #pining #lost love #quirkless au #mausoleum

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digitalagepulao · 10 months

Text

A new arrival

Huaguoshan was rocked by the thunder-sound of the eternal rock splitting open, and the blaze of light that came forth from it not long after. As usual, the old langur Longan leaves her distressed troop to investigate.

Fic below, featuring A-ma Longan and An-Kong.

word count: ~1k

It had been a turn of the sun and a half, since the stone upon the summit of the mountain split, and a turn of the sun since A-ma returned from her journey to investigate. The gibbons on the crown of the trees called in the morning, loud and clear the news of the day for all the beings above and below. The birds flocked about, but none approached the graying monkey as she traveled at a leisurely pace. They knew better than to interfere in her duties to the beasts of the mountain, and until she approached them, they would keep their distance.

The wizened langur trekked her way across the mountain side, through loping branches and swaying stones, and into the small shallow of a once fallen, again blooming tree, with grasping branches reaching to the heavens. The limestone gave way in a deep rift beneath the arch of the tilted trunk, moss and ferns obscuring the entrance, and riddling all the walls and floor. The echo of dripping dew rang as the monkey waltzed through the slanting path, up to a small creek that had chiseled the entry open over the centuries. She could still recall when the path was a struggle, having to shimmy herself through the narrow parts that now had ample room for her.

At the end of the tunnel was a round concave wall, where the moonlight would hit from where the water pierced through, and cast her shadow upon the wall. It was a mere dead end once, but now it was decorated with a humble but beloved shrine. A shallow stone to catch incense, half of coconut husks for libations and palm leaves for offerings. The walls were painted with fruit and flower dyes, with finger and palm straw brush, decorations of phoenixes and unicorns, praying animals of all stripes and spots. Beaded wreaths of stone, seed and clay hung from the protusions in the stone and the drapes of ferns above.

The langur stopped before it, sitting comfortably before tapping her knuckles over the moist stone.

"You bring a newcomer with you." comes the stone-gravely voice, and from the limestone and red earth sprung a burst of creeping vines and lumps of black clay. A familiar figure formed from it, and the two primates regarded one another for a moment, and neither made a move to approach the other.

"Then don't keep us waiting, and come greet him." The black and white langur says in a stern but calm tone, almost chiding.

The figure at last stirs, long draping green-gray fur and dyed flax robes revealing the wrinkled moon-round face of a bearded orangutan, who stands and walks over to the crouched yao in a loping gate. Dark indigo eyes examine the small figure clutching to her furred chest, bright orange fur surrounding a stone carved face. The silence of nature envelops them, and the Tudishen frowns.

"This... being. Whence have you found it?" He asks, wary.

"Upon the peak fo our mountain." She says, and neither mind the sharing of the tutelary duties. "The eternal stone that sat upon it has cracked, and from it came an egg, and from the egg, this little one was born." She explains, and holds up the tiny monkey in her hands for the tutelary god to look. The little monkey grumbles and squirms at the attention, large brown eyes gazing every which way.

"It is like nothing we know, old woman. Is it wise to welcome it to the mountain?" He muses, still watchful of the little monkey. A-ma doesn't give him a side eye for his caution. She knows all too well how the old tudi has suffered under plenty of demon lords and higher deities than him.

"It was born of nature, and so to nature it belongs. It should live among us as one of us." Longan says. "Besides, it's wise to keep it close, so that if should try anything, we'll know it best and so how to defeat it or reason with it." The learned monkey explains, casual in her dryness as was her temperament. The mountain's grandfather hums in thought, still watching the wriggling baby like one looks at a particularly sharp knife and his beloved smirks with a knowing look.

"Why dear, don't tell me you fear this little pebble?" She teases. Said pebble is now crawling under her armpit, trying to reach her back to escape the land god's gaze, but is held back by the langur's foot cradling its head.

"It's only reasonable. This being is unlike anything this mountain has ever seen, if not this world. How can I not be cautious?" The Tudishen spoke, at last reaching out with a finger to touch the stone baby. It squeaked in surprise, but allowed the head and ear scritches with a pleased hum.

"I said afraid, not cautious. Are you afraid?" Longan pressed, watching the interaction with a fondness in her amber eyes.

"...No. Not yet, at least." The deity admitted, huffing at the glint in his old love's gaze.

Longan reached out, cradling the land god's large palm in her two long ones. "You've trusted me to help you guard this mountain for this long, you can trust me to keep an eye on this little oddball, hm?"

The old god gives her a deadpan glare, which she easily matches with her own. With a sigh, he waves a long dark-clay hand dismissively and she snorts in triumph.

"Very well, very well. Raise him them, and guard him well. I leave the other introductions to you." He says grumpily and makes himself comfortable upon his shrine once again. "Come bother me some other time."

"I shall, with more incense and fruit." She says simply, knowing he adores when she deigns to bother him with offerings and prayer, and wine and conversation to share on the new moons.

He hums, and the fondness buried beneath the dismissal is for her ears only, and she wouldn't have it any other way. She adjusts the baby on her chest, and makes her way back outside.

The evening is cool and the clouds gather for a late night shower, but she's unbothered. The monkey stands on her back feet, straight and deft as any human, and stretches her arm above her head. The little stone monkey grumbles at the shift in height and marvels up at the stars.

"Be still, little pebble, and I shall tell you of the Twenty-Eight Mansions another day." She promises, rubbing his furry back. The yao leans against a tree and mutters a small song to entertain her new child. Said baby turns to gaze up at her, brown eyes almost innocently unremarkable. Longan knows better, her own visions still peppered with starbursts from the blaze of light that came from the child when she encountered it.

The orange ball of fuzz gurgles and presses his face to her chest, enjoying her thick fur. She huffs with a pleased smile, and gently cradles the small form in her arm.

"You're a precious gem, aren't you? Can't wait to see what new wonders you can show us."

#jttw #journey to the west #xiyouji #jttw au #sun wukong #jttw sun wukong #jttw oc #jttw fic #Sun clan au

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theblackphoenixwritings · 2 months

Text

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟓 - 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬: 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬/𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐨 & 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬/𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐀𝐔/𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏𝟎

Thorne's silence rang like a bell inside Marius. They walked the road back to Cripple Creek together, he and Thorne in front and Amadeo and Daniel behind them. Thorne seemed locked in thoughts that distressed him, but it was as if he felt, that this was not the place to share them. The slow advance of the horses, brought them near the cemetery that stood just outside the village. Its flayed wall composed of stones that were crumbling, and irons that had bent under the scorching sun, were not a pretty sight to be greeted by. The large beech tree, now dry, cast its dark shadow over the small chapel, which was also in poor condition, only the graves were pultite and tidy, a sign that citizens were visiting their loved ones. Marius had repeatedly argued for the cemetery to be restored, but the answer he always received from the city council was that, that plot of land belonged to the Church, and only the Priest could ask for it to be settled.

And of course Santo had no intention of giving up the alms, which went into his pockets, much less to fix the cemetery. Another reason why Marius hated the man, another reason why Marius wondered why the faithful did not chase him away. Marius slowed his pace until Wise stopped at the cemetery entrance, Thorne left him with a gesture pointing to the sheriff's office, Marius nodded. Daniel stopped beside Wise and stared at the tall figure of Marius entering the cemetery. When he turned around an auburn-haired figure was running after him. Daniel struggled with the idea of stopping him, but then decided to let him go and silently walked with Thorne toward the village.

Amadeo caught up with Marius, standing still, his black hat resting on his chest, and his long blond hair blowing in the wind, his sad eyes staring at the name on one of the many tombstones. Amadeo stopped beside Marius and lifted his face toward him, he knew at once that there rested someone Marius had loved deeply.

"He is my father," Marius explained, without taking his eyes off the tombstone.

"Did you love him?" asked Amadeo, and not because he didn't know, but to give Marius a way if he wanted to tell him about his father. Amadeo did not want to see that distressed expression on Marius' face.

"Oh yes," Marius replied with a smile " Immensely, little one, he was my father, to me he was perfect, even when he wasn't," Marius said, bending his head to the side " One should not be perfect but concrete, dedicated and loving. Without mistakes, none of us learns what to do or how to right a wrong. It is much harder to be able to admit a mistake and apologize and try to be better, than to simply be perfect." continued Marius, looking at Amadeo with his cobalt blue eyes, Amadeo seemed to think hard about those words before nodding.

"It's good to have someone to push you to be better and to support you, even if they make mistakes, in the path you take." he concluded.

"What about you?" asked Marius " Did you love your father?" the question caught Amadeo by surprise and his black eyes stared in wonder at Marius' handsome face. Amadeo seemed to consider his words.

"Yes, I think so. I have never questioned my father except before my faith.I understand now though, a father would want a son to embrace the world by living, and not by deciding to immolate himself. I don't know what became of him, but I think he too, like your father, wanted to see me confront the world and not be swallowed up by it. Whether it was because of my faith or something else matters little. He wanted me to be better, because he knew I could be." A large gloved hand was laid on Amadeo's shoulders, and he clasped Marius.

"Do you want to say a prayer for both of us?" asked Marius. " But don't say it for the dead, say it for the memories and for those left on this earth with an example to follow." concluded Marius.

So as the evening wind, began to sway the dry branches of the beech tree and raise the dust, Amadeo's words embraced his and Marius' hearts and reached out to those who were lovingly remembered on this earth.

"Come on, little one, I need to talk to Thorne, I think there's big trouble on the horizon," Marius said, trying to hide his concern. Amadeo looked at him with the eyes of a boy who is looking at the one important person in his life.

" Do you think I can be better?" asked Amadeo. Marius laughed, a cheerful laugh, different from his usual low rough laugh.

" What about you little one? Do you think I can be better?" asked Marius in reply.

" Mh.... I think we can work on this together." winked Amadeo.

"Shut up," mouthed Marius, covering Amadeo's face with his hat. Amadeo's laughter resounded in the silence of the cemetery, cheerful and spontaneous.

They reached Thorne and Daniel who had settled in the sheriff's office. The pot of coffee was always hot, and a bottle of whiskey had been opened and left on the desk, on top of various papers and documents. Marius grabbed the whiskey bottle and took a long sip, before putting it back on the table and leaning against the large wooden desk, behind which Thorne was sitting. Daniel was sitting on a stool in front of the fireplace, which was lit; the temperature dropped a lot at night; if they were to stay there and get organized, the fireplace was essential. Amadeo sat quietly as close as possible to Marius.

" What were you doing at the canyon my friend?" asked Marius quietly as he tried to organize his ideas.

" I've been looking for you, things here have been falling apart fast, I was hoping to meet you on the way back. And before you take me back, I wouldn't have left town if I hadn't heard rumors of strange deaths, and God only knows what the heck is going on! I could only hope to find you, and I was extremely worried. Tom came here to tell me that a whole herd was found dead, and they can't explain how, Tom says it's an epidemic of I don't know what. The stagecoach arrived and there was no one on board Marius. The horses arrived, exhausted and sweaty, scared to death, but there were no people and not even John and Grey to drive it. There was luggage, weapons, even the day's newspaper and a pair of binoculars. But the people? Gone. The train only started arriving at night, and it looks deserted, no lights, no music, no voices, nothing. And a guy as pale as death itself drives it! Never seen him before. Jack has come to tell me that macabre sounds and mysterious noises are coming from the old mine. No one passes by there anymore. You can well understand, therefore my concern, when I did not see you come back." Thorne looked devastated and really confused by the whole situation. Marius exchanged a look with Amadeo and Daniel.

"What's going on Marius?" asked Thorne.

"If I knew where to start, but first of all please believe me, my friend, what I am about to tell you is absolutely true and I have seen it with my own eyes." And Marius told the whole story, the rescue of Amadeo, the escape, until his reunion with Daniel. The bewilderment on Thorne's face gradually increased to the point that he turned pale and brought a hand to his mouth.

"So tomorrow we have to go and talk to Mr. Carson and we also have to investigate about Santo and his church," concluded Marius, who was puzzled as Thorne began to shake his head.

" Those who attacked us in the canyon cannot be Mr. Carson's men," Thorne asserted decisively, Marius suddenly silent, unsure what to do.

" Really my friend, it's just not possible," Thorne asserted with conviction.

" And why is that?" blurted Marius, who was confused, by that confidence of Thorne's.

"Because he is dead, Marius. Mr. Carson is dead." said Thorne, staring into Marius's blue eyes.

" One of his people came, the second day since you left. He said that Madame Eudoxia, sent him to warn us, that Mr. Carson died of a strange illness, which took him to the grave in three days. Their whole estate is afflicted with this disease. Madame Eudoxia took over upon the death of her husband, and apparently managed to survive the epidemic. Now they are trying to contain it." finished Thorne, leaning toward Marius.

"Did this emissary come at night?" asked Daniel from his corner, continuing to stare into the fire. Thorne looked puzzled then nodded.

"Damn it!" blurted Marius, who calmed down when Amadeo rested his hand on his arm.

" That's not all my friend," Thorne continued," I thought this was the lighter side, but I understand you know something I don't." Marius sat down and stretched his legs under the desk, seemingly deep in thought.

" I had to take the worshippers out of the church." Marius looked up and stared at Thorne in disbelief.

"Saint had locked them all in, babbling that a prophet had returned and shown himself to him. He spoke of a blood queen who had come to rule the World and show the way to God. Things to make your skin crawl! He spoke of fire and flames and blood, offerings and sacrifices. People got scared, they started screaming. It was terrible. Santo looked possessed, spirited, almost unrecognizable. His eyes were those of a madman. Rachel's family stayed, and Donna's family stayed too. No wonder, you know how attached they are to the Church, but I thought they would understand that Santo is up to something extremely dark. But they want to stay." Thorne poured himself a cup of hot coffee." There now you know everything. So tell me what do we do?"

" Are the people in the church safe?" asked Marius.

"I don't think Santo has harmed them," Thorne added.

" Tomorrow I will try to talk to him, and in the evening we will scout out Mr. Carson's lands. And God help us all, if what I fear is the reality we should face."

#writing challenge #my writing #western au #marius/armand #marius/daniel #vc #western Au part 10

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temporegal · 7 months

Text

Full list of IF games i’ve played.

i will have summaries and full explanations of each eventually. updates will be consistent but for now i just want this post to be out there before i start editing.

more games are to be added on later, this is just a list i made for a friend at the moment.

i the forgotten one

replica: between universes

the golden rose

the moonless

breach: the archangel job

lemonade

werewolf noir

you live and fern

my love will never die

novaturient

crown of ashes and flames

the marked

esper

villains promise

a world without you

superstition

project 0

before dusk sets in

fields of asphodel

swan song

the sword of avalon

emberwood

everything is blue

crown of exile

the scars i live with

the kings hound

honor amongst thieves

witches of ferngrove

greenwarden

wayfarer

wayhaven

these crimson strings

blood moon

the error

next in line

forgotten names

adoriels tears

the abyssal

hollowmoon valley

rippers plague

when life gives you lemons

the operative: fires of revolution

faeted

once&future

defiled hearts

vendetta

remember you will die

fox of sunholt

graves of heirs

arcadie second born

myrk mire

speaker

creme de la creme

blood money

faith of gods

checkmate in three moves

the exile

when twilight strikes

body count

out of the blue

disenchanted

dead weight

after dark

the sword of rhivenia

snakeroot

the porthecrawl witness

fallen lights

the ballad of devils creek

mind blind

zombie exodus

zombie exodus safe haven

wild summer

invoker

the soul stone war

shepherds of haven

ofna birds of a feather

triaina academy

the caged songbird

keeper of the sun and moon

keeper of day and night

totem force

unnatural season one + two

fatehaven

evertree inn

sordwin

lux the city of secrets

gray eyes of death

a kiss from death

the nascent necromancer

life of a mercenary

fallen hero: rebirth

the lost heir series

the parenting simulator

blood for poppies

samurai of hyuga series

fifty

the shadow society

demon: recollect

hero or villain: genesis

life of a space force captain

dancing with demons

tin star

pon para and the great southern labyrinth

new witch in town

pon para and the unconquerable scorpion

paranormal preparatory school

tally ho

psy high

runt of the litter

heart of the house

witchcraft u

werewolves: haven rising

battlemage: magic by mail

deathless: the citys thirst

the eagles heir

sword of the slayer

a wise use of time

neighbourhood necromancer

blackstone academy for the magical arts

choice of robots

the mysteries of baroque

choice of magics

#interactive fiction #if #interactive fiction games #twine if #twine games #choice of games #hosted games #virtual novel

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sassyfrassboss · 1 year

Note

I know nobody wants to go there because we all think she is a proper crazy b**** but now Im seeing Meghan's SA interview in a completely new light. She was probably legit sooooo exhausted with Harry's braindeadness and NO ONE ASKED GER IF SHE WAS OK!

Like, seriously though... The moment she came on the scene the family fled. Thanks ked their stars someone wanted to take Harry's crazy ass on and skiddadled out of their like the Looney toons gif. Noone told her it would get this crazy, and bitch was totally blindsided.

Imagine married to him and living with this. Just to give her the benefit of doubt here but ...

Maybe in the boat in Scotland she was t singing to the seals, she just screamed because she is so far from being countryfied it's tragic. Harry just thought she was singing and then stripped and jumped in the sea. Wtf. I can just imagine Meghan's expression there. (Insert a David from Scott's Creek gif here)

At Diana's grave, Harry probably insisted she commune with her headstone. And she probably just took a selfie and then her foot got Tangled in the undergrowth and she tripped. That's when Harry came back and found her "on knees with her hands on the stone, eyes closed" muttering under her breath about the lengths she has to go for this fool. And he thought she was talking to his dead mama.

I won't touch the miscarriage and burial but. The dog bowl! Uff ...

My first thought was that meghan was away for a few days and when she came back she found Harry with very suspicious looking scratches on his back. So he came up with this elaborate story about how Will punched him, he landed on the bowl and he broke his precious necklace. Meghan heard that and was super quiet because even she k ew that sounded nonsensical. She just sat there on the bed consoling Harry about his necklace and sharing a side-eye with Guy, who looked up at her while he was eating from the said dog bowl.

The rest of Harry's delusions about ghost talking she just has to out up with. Poor girl got more than she bargained for. He is nuts.

Hahahaha!

Harry cheats on Meghan and the girl got a little nail happy so Harry goes “yeah my brother came over and beat me up and I fell on the dog bowls!”

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greyshadowfaux · 1 year

Note

did lamb ever go down on the path?

Cursing, Lambert shoves open the door. The smell of death makes his eyes water, and it’s almost as bad as the smell of charred flesh coming from the outside of the cabin. The room is damp, dark and Lambert can see where the Rotfiends burrowed in through the wall, daylight peeking in through the broken stone.

Kicking a chair out of the way, Lambert pokes around the small space, making sure he hasn’t missed anything. The last thing he needs is more necrophages returning because he left a body behind.

Something small, hidden away under rubble, catches Lambert's eye and he freezes.

Pressed into the corner, his pacifier still attached to his roughspun tunic and teddy bear in his hand, the boy could be sleeping. He’s tiny, and Lambert swallows the lump in his throat as he approaches.

Lambert fucking hates his job.

***

Rumours of a witcher crying like a child had Eskel pricking his ears. The cabin is easy enough to find, though he isn’t sure it’s Lambert he’s tracking until he finds a burnt out campfire on the outskirts of a town. The scent lingers where Lambert’s rubbed against a tree, and Eskel follows the musk to a small clearing. The burnt pile of ashes out the front are a good indication a witcher has been through, and Eskel tethers Scorpion to a tree to investigate.

The cabin is in ruin, the roof sagging in one corner and the stone front cracked. Searching behind the cabin, it doesn’t take Eskel long to find Lambert. Sitting beside a small, freshly dug grave under an oak tree, Lambert has tear tracks down his dusty face. His lip trembles as Eskel approaches.

‘Skel-’ Lambert manages, before bursting into loud, shuddering sobs.

‘Oh Lamb. Come here pup, I’ve got you.’ Scooping Lambert off the cold, hard ground, Eskel cuddles the pup to his chest, Lambert’s sobs muffled by the thick jerkin Eskel wears while travelling the path. The sweet scent of regression mingles with the sourness of distress, and Eskel soothes the pup as best he can, carrying him back to where Scorpion is tethered.

Using one hand to dig through his pack, Eskel uses the other to keep Lambert against him, the pup still wailing into his shoulder. Retrieving a stuffed bear, carried for this very purpose, Eskel offers it. The cries quieten at once, and Lambert suckles on the ear of the stitched animal, crafted by Vesemir. Lambert hiccups, looking over the bear and up at Eskel with eyes still brimming with tears.

‘There we go, I’ve got you Lamb. You’re safe now.’ Eskel means it, too. Heaven help anyone that tries to get between him and Lambert while the pup is in this state.

Lambert sniffles, using the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes and smearing dirt across his already filthy face.

‘Do you want to ride on Scorpion with me Lamb? I saw a creek a little way over the hill, and I think you need a bath.’

Still sucking on the bear, Lambert nods, and Eskel wonders just how far down he’s dropped. Even as a toddler, Lambert is usually rather chatty, but as they ride together across the field, away from the decrepit cabin and the child’s grave, Lambert is silent.

Lambert remains quiet as he’s lifted off the horse, and doesn’t complain as Eskel divests him of his clothing, giving the items a much needed wash before coming back to carry Lambert into the shallow water. Cupping the cool water in his hand, Eskel rinses the grime from Lambert’s hair, using his thumbs to clean away the dirt from the pup’s face, and finally, the rest of him. Lambert nuzzles into Eskel the entire time, his fingers gripping the rolled up sleeves of Eskel’s jerkin.

Once he’s clean, Eskel carries Lambert back to a soft patch of grass. Reaching for his gear, Eskel pulls out his kit. The soft cloth is wrapped around Lambert’s hips, a makeshift diaper, and Lambert babbles softly, still clutching the bear as Eskel dresses him. Lambert looks even smaller in Eskel’s clothes, the sleeves a little long, and the shoulder’s a little wide, but he seems content enough, laying on his patch of grass, so Eskel deems this a good a place as any to camp.

Hanging Lambert’s wet clothes from a tree, Eskel lights a campfire, and sets a small pot filled with water on to boil. He doesn’t have any milk, or a bottle, but Lambert manages well enough to swallow down the soup he makes, provided Eskel holds the spoon.

Setting out his bedroll, Eskel lifts Lambert to lay against his chest, the pup settling quickly against his warmth. With the bear held safely between them, Eskel rubs small circles between Lambert’s shoulders, and the pup’s breathing evens out. The crackle of the fire, and the quiet, wet, sucking noises as Lambert nurses on his thumb allow Eskel to fall into a light meditation. He won’t sleep, not tonight.

Morning dawns bright and early, and Lambert rolls off him, the scowl firmly back in place.

‘Morning pup.’ Eskel says lightly, stretching his aching limbs. Being used as a pillow for almost ten hours hasn’t done wonders for his old bones.

‘I- uh, thanks.’ Lambert says sheepishly, tucking the teddy back into Eskel’s pack.

‘Of course.’

#the witcher #age regression #little lambert #papa eskel

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blubushie · 9 months

Text

1/8/23 Tennant Creek, NT

It's a bittersweet welcome stepping off the plane and back onto familiar soil. My first day I stay at a cheap hotel room in Sydney. That night I drive five hours to Parkes. I wake up to rain pattering the roof of the car I've made my temporary home. But home is where the heart is and mine is far from here. I get out and turn my face to the sky and let a mother kiss the face of a wayward son because I've never lived a day she hasn't loved me and she's done her best to steer me straight. I paint my face and settle business.

I drive through Undoolya, my childhood home past the Hayes Station where I first learnt to ride a horse past the cattle that watch me with unease and I camp at my old lookout where as a boy my father taught me how to use a rifle and where I used to spend evenings shooting tinnies. I recognise the emu in the sky that's guided my way for so long and his drumming lulls me to sleep. I wake before dawn to a twitch on my thigh trigger finger acting out of muscle memory and I wonder if the dingos I've been dreaming of were only in my dreams. I close my eyes and think of her, thousands of miles away locked in a gunsafe somewhere, and how a rifleman without a rifle is only a man. Outback nights are cold, nigh freezing and I long for a furred warmth atop my chest making the cramped space of my swag just a little more cramped. I long for ears to stroke and tail to brush and freezing nose pressed into the softest parts of me. The memories come to me in the dead of night tiller in my grip and windows down tapping my fingers on ribs to the beat of AC/DC on the radio. A durry between my fingers, rolled before the drive its short life drawn out over the past twenty minutes. Horsehair fisted in my grip with leather reins the rise and fall of steady breaths against my thighs the slap of a stockwhip on my thigh with her gait. Lying on my back in the dirt and rocks I dream of spinifex and gum trees and a girl beside me as I lounge in the sun. Her hand is on my unmarked chest her lips at my neck my fingers coasting through her blonde hair trying to get the tangles out. I dream of her giggle when I compare the strands to barley or the shine in her hazel eyes when I make a bad joke and she laughs out of pity because no one else does. I dream of my memories of her tucked against my side as we plotted the future before I'd ever entertained the idea of asking her to marry me. Before I wake up I dream of the morning after she said no. I recall her orange shirt in the light of the morning sun as it came through the wavy glass of the hotel window and the white sheet laid over her and the peaceful look on her face as she slept and how her fingers were curled into the musty pillow and how I tried not to acknowledge that was the last time I was ever going to see her. I awake before dawn to the memory of her hand in mine of the press of lips I'd never kissed against my skin of the first and last time we made love and of my stupidity in asking her such a question. And I sit for a bit and think think of her alone, five feet deep in Tennant Creek still waiting for me to come back. I pack my things and drive. I stay through the day and climb the wall at night and find the only fresh grave. I dig a hole in front of the stone and I leave the ring I'd bought for her there.

14/12/2000-12/7/2023 Olivia Carter

#blu muse

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onyx232323 · 6 months

Text

An Adeptus' Last Wish- Zhongchi fic

(11/30)

More chapters here!<333

Summary-

After the Gnosis incident, Childe decides to take a much-needed break away from Zhongli.

However, how was he supposed to react, when all of a sudden Lumine showed up outside his apartment sounding terribly mortified, "Childe......Zhongli.......Zhongli....is in grave danger."

Of course, he was going to do anything to help the dying man.

Sure, he still felt a lot of contempt for him, after what he did, but his heart still loved him.....

But, what he hadn't expected was the sudden wisp of golden light that somehow transported him during the times of the Archon War?!

What the FUCK?!

_____________________

Chapter 11: Yearning Hearts, Confused Feelings Pt. 5

Ajax looked everywhere for something to focus his attention on.

Anything at all; anything to distract himself from the swirling memories in his head.

But the colorful trees that covered the landscape in its mellow shades of ochre to emerald green, the tall yellow grass waving as the wind swept by it, and the fresh air that washed past him, made the heavy feeling hidden deep inside of chest bubble up like boiling water. With his free hand, Ajax wiped at the tears attempting to fall out of his eyes, with the ends of his billowing sleeves.

Everything melded together, creating a sick painting right in front of his eyes; like those bizarre paintings Ajax had seen on his voyage in Fontaine. They were mere splatters of pigment on a canvas, but had clear intent to show a landscape in whatever abstract form they referred to it as. Just like those paintings, the colorful world in front of him was melding together, creating the illusion of something that was.

He was growing delirious by the second, barely registering the baritone voice of his beloved god begin, “We are almost there, do not fret.”

Ajax looked up with his tear-filled vision to see his beloved god’s back, strong and firm; like the very same stone he created with his bare hands. His god's back was covered by a more form-fitting brown shuhe with golden and white designs embroidered elegantly on the ends of his sleeves, and his back. Designs that depicted elegant dragons with powerful long sharp claws and of dainty water lilies covered his ensemble.

Even without his usual formal wear and even with the slight dirt that covered both his pants and boots, he managed to look regal. And that fact alone made something in him shake with a certain intensity he could not place. He would always look gorgeous no matter what, he would always exude power and elegance no matter what he wore.

He was sure of it.

The god pulled him a little rougher than expected and he stumbled forward, a soft yelp escaping past his lips, tearing himself from his thoughts. The reason for this was simple, they were crossing a small creek, covered with wild flowers of a multitude of colors and green shrubbery that covered the small creek. His god did not say a thing, merely holding his wrist tighter with his hands, careful not to put too much pressure. If he would, there was no guarantee that his wrist bone would not snap under his strength, that made a shiver pass through Ajax's whole body.

A few seconds later, Morax came to a stop. His grip on his wrist did not loosen, but merely tightened even more.

Ajax looked up at the god, hoping to see what was the matter, he gasped. Before them was something he had never seen ever in his life; a soft sun warmly blanketed the scenery before them in a golden light, there was a tall tree covered with a strange blue color to it glowing ever so daintily, the rush of a waterfall was heard, and just a little ways ahead Ajax saw a lake, its color a vibrant cobalt blue.

The god loosened his grip before he turned to face him.

His long messy hair was tied into a tight ponytail, held together by a small wooden hairpin with flowers engraved onto the wood, his eyeliner was slightly smudged from the vigorous exercise he was probably subjected to, his eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his molten eyes oozed a certain softness.

Even now, his god was just as beautiful as before; a beauty in his own right, a stunning flower. The feeling in Ajax's became harder to hold back, how desperately he desired to pull in the god and embrace him, never letting go as he breathed him in. How desperately did he wish to kiss the god, until his own mouth became numb, and red. How desperately he wished to wrap himself around the god and bite down gently on his collarbones, hearing as his god cried out in pleasure.

'I love you.'

The words he so desperately wanted to whisper into his god's ears, threatened to spill past his lips. The thought he had pushed back into the recesses of his mind, came forth once again, desperately attempting to escape his mouth.

But, he couldn't, not now.

He pulled his sight away from the god, deciding to focus on the pain in all of his limbs instead, and the soreness that would most likely follow him the next day. He felt the rush of tears sting at his eyes, before any tears could escape, he rushed to close them. Stubbornly refusing for the tears to slide down his cheeks, letting the pain in his muscles overtake his sensations, that way, he would not feel anything else but that.

A few seconds seemed like eternity, Morax finally let go of his hand, and presumably leaned down, as he could feel the warmth of his breathe on his lips, “Ajax, we are here….are you alright?” his breathe smelled of sweet chamomile tea; it reminded Ajax of warmer days.

But the gods question remained unanswered, as Ajax's thoughts slipped right out of his grasp once more. The god stilled a bit, before asking once more, his voice soft and gentle, "Are you alright?"

Of course he was okay.

Why wouldn’t he be?

Morax and Guizhong had lost a dear friend of theirs, and had both seen the horrors humanity had to offer the world, they had both seen their companions get massacred before their eyes, they had to endure so much. Everyone had to endure so much, go through so much, see too much.

So, why was he pitying himself?

Just because he was homesick and missed a man he himself chose to leave behind and walk away from?

He was being an idiot, a giant one.

Everyone around him were going through and had been through travesty after travesty, and yet despite all of their tragedies, they were not wobbling in their own self-pity. They were not breaking down crying just at the slightest provocation, so why the hell was he?

And yet.

He could not stop the tears from sliding down his cheeks, as the feeling of bitter loneliness filled his system, like a giant ocean tide.

He was pathetic.

He froze into his spot and stood still; too stubborn to say that he was and too miserable to say he wasn’t.

He let the tears slide onto his lips, tasting the mild saltiness of it, eyes still tightly shut, refusing to budge no matter what.

He did not want to go through this anymore. He didn’t want to be so damn depressed over nothing, Zhongli was still not dead yet, he could still save him.

And besides, he had everyone here to support him and stick by him. So, why was there still this heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, eating away at him, until the pain became unbearable?

“Ajax, are sure you're alright?” Morax’s voice rang in, pulling him back, the way it always did.

His voice was soft like a whisper, nothing like the stern and loud voice he projected during meetings and during predictions. No, something about this voice sounded softer and ever so worried.

Just like-

Ajax would not contain the evident sob that escaped his lips, he curled into himself, placing his face into the palms of his sounds, desperately attempting to shove back the sobs that were threatening to escape his throat.

He collapsed on the floor, curling into himself further as he brought all of his legs to his chest, burying his face into his knees.

Thoughts swirled around his head, memories he so desperately attempted to cling onto, no matter how much time passed. Memories of him and Zhongli down by the harbor chatting away about everything and nothing at all, by the many beaches of Liyue collecting starconches, having dinner at the Wanmin Restaurant ordering nearly everything on the menu, going to each other’s apartment and sharing a warm cup of tea. The lingering stares between the two of them, the butterflies in his stomach whenever Zhongli would slightly brush up against him, the excited feeling he would get whenever Zhongli would ask to go out to dinner with him, the kiss shared between the two of them. And the night spent afterwards, where Ajax felt nothing but the searing pleasure and the feeling of Zhongli against him, their hands entwined together, the day after and the brush of a warm hand brushing through his scalp, and the promise to be.

He remembered it all.

________________________

“Say, Zhongli….this might be a bit imprudent of me but, what exactly are we? I don’t want to misconstrue anything, so….” Ajax had said, lying in Zhongli’s bed, the silken sheets pulled over his lower torso.

Zhongli’s eyes flitted down towards Ajax, as his eyes tore themselves from the pages of his book. He looked at Ajax, and sighed, pulling his glasses down his face and placing them onto the nightstand beside him, “Well, we are what most people would label ‘lovers’, no?”

Ajax felt his face heat up as his eyes avoided Zhongli’s intense stare, “Well, yeah….I just-wanted to make sure…”

Immediately, he could feel the intensity of Zhongli’s stare burn a hole through his skull, followed by a warm hand on his head, playing with the hairs tenderly, “Ajax. I love you so much my soul cannot bear to be apart from you,” his hands strayed south and started to stroke his cheek, “I adore absolutely everything about you, from your smile, to the way you talk about your family so fondly, to the kindness you so desperately try to hide away, to the way you talk about your passions so reverently to me, to your thirst for power and battle, and even the way you scream out my name so reverently from your lips,” he traced his lips with his thumb, gaze fond and loving, “Do you believe me, now?”

Ajax felt himself choke, he had never imagined Zhongli in a million life-times say anything so scandalous! He sputtered for a moment, the butterflies in his stomach fluttered more than he had imagined they would, he swatted Zhongli’s hand away, blushing furiously. Sputtering pathetically at the man before him, “O-kay…..I believe you, shut up please...”

Zhongli chuckled, the sound warm and fond, “I was just making sure, dearest treasure.”

Ah..

Ajax’s heart soared when he heard the term of endearment, and the giddy feeling he had been repressing finally started to rise up into his stomach. Ajax buried his face into the pillow, and groaned, earning another chuckle from Zhongli (smug bastard).

Then, he felt a warm hand pass through his hair, and slightly pull at his hairs earning a deep shiver to pass through his entire body. Zhongli chuckled once again, but continued his ministrations and scratched his scalp slightly with the ends of his nails, causing another shiver to pass through his spine.

Zhongli continued on, before he moved near Ajax and wrapped his hand tightly around his waist, burying his face into Ajax’s chest. Zhongli breathed into his clothes, as if he was attempting to commit the smell to memory and let out a small sigh of relief, causing him to bury his face deeper into Ajax’s chest.

Ajax eventually wrapped his own hands around the man’s head, feeling slightly embarrassed at the predicament, “Zhongli? Zhongli? We have work in an hour, we can't slack off… ”

Zhongli did not say anything and merely dug himself deeper into his chest.

Ajax paused slightly, before letting out a small huff, “Fine. only for a few more minutes, then we have to go to work.”

Zhongli did not say anything once again, dead asleep it seemed. Ajax to let out a small sigh and place his head on top of Zhongli’s, dozing off into his own slumber.

After a few more minutes, Zhongli opened his eyes and gazed up at Ajax’s face, the face of his beloved, his soulmate.

He looked the same as he did all of those centuries before, the only difference was that this Ajax was not an adeptus.

He did not remember Guizhong, merely regarding her as a Goddess of Dust he read in a history book once. He did not remember Xiao, merely raising an eyebrow at the name once Lumine had brought him up. He did not remember Cloud Retainer, citing her as an adepti he had seen a figurine of down in the market. He did not remember Sky Bracer, the name bringing a confused expression, wondering if Sky Bracer was the name of a dish. He did not remember Mountain Shaper nor Moon Carver, only recalling that he had heard a play about them. This Ajax did not remember their history, did not remember what he so reverently called his family, the adepti.

This Ajax did not remember Zhongli.

_______________________

Zhongli was not sure what to expect after so long.

Living century after century was getting tiring, he was getting worn out. All of those beloved to him had long since perished before his eyes, those left had isolated themselves in the mountains.

Zhongli did not remember the last time he had seen them in person, only appearing to them through his dreamscape.

It had been ages since they all got together and talked about what business or the trouble they had found themselves in. It had been ages since Zhongli got to enjoy the sweet feeling of sitting at a table where warmth was so easily spread; where he felt welcomed and at home.

But, Zhongli could not blame them.

After The Archon War, and then, after The Cataclysm ravaged their land. After suffering loss after loss, death after death, misfortune after misfortune; it hurt too much to be with everyone all over again.

Celestia knows how much it pained him.

And after it, there was a period of time after the many wars where he himself committed himself to total isolation, ignoring those around him, wallowing in nothing but bittersweet memories.

Being around everyone again, reminded Zhongli of the better times, where everyone was alive. A time where Guizhong would laugh care-freely and attempt to lighten up the mood with her antics, where Cloud Retainer would let loose for once and go along with Guizhong, where Madam Ping would play her zither and gaze fondly at Guizhong, where Sky Bracer, Mountain Shaper, and Moon Carver would share more about what interesting things they had seen.

A time where his beloved would laugh freely, a wide toothy-smile sprawled on his face, sat next to Morax who felt enamored with the wild spirit next to him, unsure of the extent of his feelings for the man.

A feeling he soon came to understand as the time passed, and the wounds healed.

But, Ajax.

Ah, Ajax.

He missed him, dearly.

His beloved, his soulmate, his other-half.

Morax had spent ages attempting to find something to fill the void he felt ever since he was brought into Teyvat. A huge gaping void filled with endless nothingness, with a feeling he would later recognize as loneliness.

He was overwhelmed when Ajax came into his world; a splash of color into his mostly gray world. Morax thought he would only ever adore Guizhong; she was the first to come into his life and pull him out of the bitterness that was his hatred for the world. But, when Ajax had burst into his life, everything he had thought he knew was proven false.

Ajax was a raging flame, eternally blazing with the light of a thousand phoenixes.

He was reckless, impulsive, caring, gentle, loving, emotional, determined, hard-headed, loyal, stubborn, bloodthirsty, and his sense of justice was unlike anything Moraax had ever seen. His hair was bizarrely red, turned into burning embers once in contact with sunlight. His face was distinctly handsome, if not a bit boyish, his jaw shape was sharp, his eyebrows equally as sharp, eyes doe-like, lips plump and slightly chapped, smile too wide, freckles peppering his face, body well-built and scarred over with countless wounds. His voice was light and teasing as he talked carefreely to Guizhong and Morax, excited and eager to inform them of his new discovery.

Zhongli loved him so much.

He was everything to him, his hope and the brightest star to him; shining eternally as he saw him from within dark corners. He grabbed at his star and held him close inside of his arms, feeling the warmth and brilliance emitting from him.

He clung on, no matter what.

But as time began to pass, the light from his dearest was starting to wane, starting to fade out. He attempted to grab at his dying star, reaching out to claw him back to him, reaching out to keep him forever by his side.

But, no matter what, his beloved star slipped past his fingers, his bright light fading away until there was nothing left of him; mere memories of his brilliance remained.

Zhongli was not sure what to do afterwards, caught in a standstill. Wishing to go back in time, to see his beloved star once more. Wishing he had clung onto his beloved a bit longer, wishing he had held him closer than he had, wishing for more time.

The centuries passed, Ajax was merely a name in everyone else’s mouth, a fleeting memory just like the others. The adepti would rarely talk about Ajax ever since, feigning to remember who he was. Some even scoffed at his name spitting at his memory, wanting to forget about the reckless man they once knew. While others blinked back tears at the mere mention of his name, wishing to forget in order to get the pain they felt in their chest to stop.

Zhongli felt as if his heart was ripped out all over again, everytime his name was brought up during meetings in his own dreamscape, which nearly made the dream collapse and the ground underneath them to shake, earning exchanged glances between the adepti.

Zhongli was sure that after that slip up, they made a pact to never mention his name because they never did.

At least, not in front of Zhongli.

Many more years passed, he lost all hope to ever feel that way again, sure he would never feel like that for another ever again. Many suitors propositioned him to a night in bed, where they would feel nothing but the pleasure and the warmth of another, but he refused.

Ajax was his only.

Ajax would be the only one he would ever love, the only he would ever desire.

The years passed and Zhongli settled into the monotonous way of his own life. He had made a deal with the Goddess of Love, the Tsaritsa herself, in order to give up his rule over Liyue; the city Ajax dreamed would come into fruition.

He hoped to live a mortal life, to give up his godhood. There was no war to be won, no threat to his people, and no meaning to his existence anyways. He was going to live a mortal life, and be a nobody, just like he always wanted. He was going to fade into the shadows, and life with the common folk.

He had even gone as far as to get a job as a Funeral Consultant, which he felt was fitting. He had long since been surrounded by death, and as a twisted turn of fate, had come to know many things about the customs and traditions of a burial. He had gone up to his boss, had talked about what he knew and got the job in no time.

She was a peculiar girl, too comfortable with death, walking the thin line between death and the mortal realm. However, she provided enough entertainment to distract Zhongli from his own mind and he was reminded of an old friend in her. They were both equally as enthusiastic and cheerful, but in completely different ways.

He thought he was going to continue his routine forever.

Until he got a letter from the Tsaritsa:

Dear Zhongli,

I hope you have been doing well in these past few years.

From what I’ve heard you have settled into the humans quite nicely, even going as far as getting a job as a Funeral Consultant, how interesting. I am doing great as always, but I willstop with the small talk now and get to business. I have an addition to the contract we have formed, if it would not be too much of an annoyance. I formally inquire, would you be willing to be a guide to my dearest 11th?

You see, he is quite the personality and always causes a ruckus wherever he goes, quite the bloodthirsty thing in fact.

And while, I understand your plan from what he had formally agreed prior, I cannot have him causing such unnecessary ruckus that would draw too much attention to our plan so early on. My dear nation, Sne zhnaya is already in quite hot-water with my dearest 8th’s encounter with the Anemo Archon, Barbatos.

However, since you do require there to be a distraction from your plan to retire from your position as the Archon of Liyue, my dearest 11th is and will be perfect for the plan. I just simply do not wish for him to tarnish Snezhnaya's sacred name nor earn himself a bounty directed straight at his head.

He is precious to me as are my other Harbingers.

And so, would you be willing to guide him around before the time is right?

Best regards,

Tsaritsa

Zhongli was not sure how to react to the letter before him, on one hand, he did not want someone like her 11th to be too obvious. If he was as bloodthirsty and problem causing Zhongli did not want him causing a ruckus before the main event had even started. However, on the other hand, if it meant that he would be able to free himself from his age-old shackles and life freely as a mortal, then he would take it.

He pondered it for a while, before finally coming to a decision.

A few weeks later, he stood still on the docks of Liyue harbor, watching as a distinctly Snezhnayan-styled boat strolled onto Liyue’s shores. It was quite the large vessel, nearly as tall as Captain Beidou’s own boat, The Crux.

The boat finally anchored down, and the doors of the boat burst open, revealing several masked Fatui staring at Zhongli head on, “Who are you?”

The person who said it was a woman, a long reddish brown braid draped over one of her shoulders, dressed in violet and black clothing. Zhongli merely cleared his throat and extended his hand, a professional smile taking over his face, “Hello, my name is Zhongli. I was assigned to be the 11th’s guide, pleasure to meet you.”

The lady did not take his hand and merely nodded, ignoring Zhongli and marching up to sit onto the harbor ground. Zhongli blinked before he paused, following the lady with his eyes. He had expected that cold of a welcome, and vaguely pondered if it was the right boat he was supposed to be looking for-

Before he could think anything else, a soft chuckle was heard; the voice was light and airy, like spring, teasing and light-hearted and painfully familiar like an old memory, “Now, now, Katya, that is no way to treat our most trusted guide, is it?”

Zhongli whipped his head around faster than he had ever.

His eyes widened as he recognized the man in front of him, bright red curly locks that burned like embers, with a small mask tied to his head, wide toothy smile, light freckles peppered all over his cheeks, dressed in mostly light gray and white except for the red scarf around his neck, his eyes that familiar shade of dull blue.

Ajax.

It was Ajax.

It was his Ajax.

It was his beloved.

Zhongli’s heart was hammered in his chest, his throat was dry, his palms were sweaty and his eyes watered with unshed tears.

The man stepped forward, and eagerly grabbed Zhongli's hand. His palm was cold, his fingers were thin, long and calloused, and his fingernails were neatly trimmed.

Zhongli felt as if he had been thrown into a loop; for the first time in centuries, he felt as if the words were trapped inside of his throat, unable to escape their prison. He was transfixed onto the man in front of him, and he barely managed to keep up with the firm handshake he gave him, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Zhongli. Call me Childe, the 11th of the 11th Fatui Harbingers, at your service.”

The feeling in his stomach deflated as his heart began to sink, “Childe?”

The man stopped in his steps, his smile slightly slipping off, “Yes, that is my nickname, doesn’t it fit me quite well? While Tartaglia is my official title, I prefer to be called Childe. Because in my opinion Tartaglia sounds too formal, isn't that right Mr. Zhongli?”

His heart reached rock-bottom, the tears dissipated, he felt twice as miserable as he initially had felt. He had accidentally mistaken another man for his beloved, of course this man was not his beloved. It couldn’t be, his beloved had long since ceased to exist a long time ago. It would not make sense of him to be alive once again.

His eyes were the same color, a deep and empty ocean color and the distinct long opalescent horns that shined like rainbows were gone.

He was not Ajax.

He was not his Ajax.

Zhongli regained his composure and slapped on his professional smile once more, “Yes, it is quite the fitting nickname Mr. Childe…Now, shall we go?”

Childe grinned, “Lead the way, Mr. Zhongli.”

The days progressed, the more of he saw of his beloved Ajax inside of Childe. He saw it in the way he fought, in the way he listened attentively to Zhongli’s ramblings, the way he treated others, the way he gazed at Zhongli, the way he held his chopsticks, to his lust for power and battle.

It was driving him crazy.

Morax was slipping past tightly secured chains.

His obsession and possessiveness over the man for the last hundreds of centuries had finally come back full circle, unable to be contained behind a placid smile. The aching desperation to hold the man he loved so dearly until he could not take it anymore was starting to leak into the way he purposefully lingered his touches with Childe. The clawing madness that was love for him, started to fizzle out and pour onto the way he ate the man up with his bare eyes.

It becoming harder to restrain himself from the delicious meal in front of him. Especially when the man in front of him would lick at his lips so seductively, and would remain eye contact as he would lean down to pick up an item he accidentally dropped onto the floor, and the way he would slide back up so slowly and teasingly. And the way he would unconsciously lean back his head when he laughed, revealing an unblemished neck, and how desperately he wished to bite into it. He could almost feel his teeth burn whenever he saw it.

But, it was not his beloved.

Zhongli knew he should not feel that way for the man, he was merely supposed to be a piece in his elaborate chess game, a small piece of his much larger plan. But then again, the man who was going to be coming to Liyue and indirectly helping him in his master plan was not supposed to look exactly like his beloved.

It was becoming harder and harder to hold his instincts behind tight bars.

And sometimes, on calm days, Zhongli could feel the guilt he had been pushing down, come up once again. He knew he was betraying the man that was starting to consider him a friend, no longer business partners after spending so many afternoons together. Zhongli might be somewhat ignorant to the feelings of mortals, still largely unaware of how to act in certain situations, he was aware that revealing the extent of his plan could potentially hurt Childe.

It would ruin his friendship with Childe, it would push him away; and with him those feelings of Zhongli as well. It would be beneficial for Zhongli to distance himself from Childe; after all, it was blurring his vision of the future, it was blurring his goal. It was hindering his progress to finally fully surrender himself to the mortal world.

But, Zhongli wanted to keep deluding himself and wanted to keep the only light in his dark room close to him forever. He wanted to bask in the sweetness of having company again, he wanted to pretend he was with his beloved once more, he wanted to pretend everything was fine when it was not.

However, as all things do.

They come to an end, and change with time.

After a rough afternoon, spending time with Childe collecting starconches, and hearing himself ramble on about the many history facts relating to the starconches themselves.

Childe turned to him and shoved a huge starconch in his face. Zhongli was startled at first, stepping back slightly, blinking at the strange thing in front of him. He slightly adjusted his vision and carefully retreated it from Childe’s hands, the star on the shell was bright and strangely opalescent, glittering rainbows when the light hit it, and the color surrounding the rest of the shell was ocean blue.

Childe looked up at him and grinned, “Isn’t it gorgeous! I found it buried in the sand near the tide, isn’t it beautiful Xiansheng?”

Zhongli nodded, making sure to pretend to not feel the way his chest hammered in his chest from the sight of Childe’s smile alone, “Yes, it is quite the beauty. I can’t say I have found a starconch this vibrant in all of my life.”

Childe nodded, and snatched it back from Zhongli’s hands. He held it in his hand for a while before long tendril-like hands materialized in Childe’s own hands. They looked strange and were entirely made out of water. They danced around a few times before they took the form of hands and grabbed the shell, holding it up to Childe’s eyes, “Yeah…You know, in a way, it almost reminds me of Morespesok. Back there, there are quite a lot of these littered near the coasts. It's the only thing familiar about Liyue, if I'm honest.”

Zhongli nodded, eyes fixated on the water before Childe, “Yes, I have heard the tide carries many of these shells to Snezhnayan and Inazuman shores.”

Childe nodded, “Yeah, maybe that’s why,” holding the shell in his own hands now, the water-made hands seemingly disappeared into thin air.

Zhongli blinked before he tentatively asked, “Childe…may I please ask you something?”

Childe tore his gaze from the shell, eyes on Zhongli, his head tilted cutely to the side and he nodded, “Yeah, sure. Ask whatever question you’d like Xiansheng, I don’t mind.”

Zhongli paused for a minute, making sure to choose his next words carefully, “Are you able to mold whatever you’d like with your hydro vision?”

Childe stared at Zhongli, his eyes piercing and hesitant, “...Why do you ask?”

Zhongli cleared his throat out, “I....had someone dear to me who was similarly able to mold anything out of it, he was quite adept at controlling his element, you see. And so, I was merely wondering if you were able to do the same.”

Childe seemed to pause himself before inside of his palm there was a small whopper flower made out of nothing but water, “Yeah, what a strange coincidence!”

Zhongli nodded, staring at the hydro whooper flower inside of Childe’s palm, beginning a strange waltz, “Yes, it is quite interesting……Then, are you perhaps able to mold it into any sort of weaponry.....or can you not?”

Childe seemed to sprout into life as he immediately materialized a pair of twin blades and held them out in the palms of his hands, “Yeah....Although I usually only resort to using them when I get too frustrated with my bow.”

Zhongli carefully drew his hands near and touched the blades, they were sharp enough to make him bleed if he pressed slightly harder into the blade. They felt as cool as iron usually felt when wielded, and were surprisingly light in his hands, “Hm...They are surprisingly light.”

Childe let out a chuckle before he grabbed the blade from Zhongli’s hands and hastily put them away, “Yeah, they are made out of water, after all.”

Zhongli paid no mind to the slight jab and kept going, “Can you make other weaponry as well, or only twin blades?”

Childe shook his head, “No, I can. During my Fatui army years, they had all of us fight with different weapons, bows, scimitars, claymores, swords, polearms, and they even had us train with a catalyst. So, I can properly wield most of those weapons.....Right now, I’m wielding my bow, since it is my weakest weapon, which is why it is my primary weapon.”

Zhongli felt his heart sink in his chest, it wasn’t making any sense.

Ajax was able to wield all of those weapons, he had seen him in battle personally. Ajax was similarly able to wield his hydro element into whatever he wished; he had seen him tell stories and illustrate them through his vision with the children in Liyue. Ajax looked like Childe, and even acted like him. His dazzling stone was before him once more, his precious treasure.

But he wasn't.

And the desperation ate at his chest.

The tight knot he had been attempting to keep tied inside of his chest come undone.

Morax was set free once more.

He could not take it anymore.

After they parted ways, Zhongli made his way up a mountain; determined to gain answers for the plethora of strange coincidences. He marched up a mountain, went to the nearest glaze lily he could find, and began to talk to it.

Even if Guizhong was gone, some of her soul remained in every single Glaze Lily she had ever made, “Guizhong, I am unsure. He reminds me ever so much of our dear Ajax, and yet, he does not remember you nor the rest of the adepti. He is not even an adeptus, he’s a mortal. I….I’m lost, and require your assistance, dear friend.”

The minutes passed and the Glaze Lily remained still, and Zhongli felt the small smidge of hope start to dissipate away.

Right, even if a bit of Guizhong lived inside each and every Glaze Lily, that did not mean that she was still living. She had long since turned into the very dust she had governed, she was gone.

He felt pathetic and felt his patience start to dissipate as well, desperation taking shape as anger,“Answer me!”

The lily did not respond back, causing Zhongli’s anger to swell up, “Why did you leave me behind! I can’t do it alone! I can’t do this alone! I don’t know how to solve my own problems without your advice!! Why must I be so pathetic.... ”

The flower remained still, he couldn’t take it anymore, he tore at the flower uprooting it, throwing it onto the ground, “ANSWER ME!”

The flower remained still, and the boiling anger turned into bitter sorrow. He carefully picked up the flower and replanted it, feeling as tears started to form in his eyes, falling down onto the ground below.

“I….can’t do this alone…please”

Zhongli sat there, holding his face in his hands, feeling the weight of this pathetic behavior set in. He let out a silent sob as he cried into the palms of his hands, feeling as pathetic as he had always felt.

When suddenly, a bright light disrupted Zhongli from his pathetic sobs. He looked up, to see a translucent golden light lean over to him before laughing lightly. He blinked once and then twice to see the golden light take the form of his dearest friend, Guizhong.

Dressed in her favorite blue and while qixiong ruqun, along with her favorite hair stick holding her hair up into a half-up half-down style, a small smile on her face, “Silly Morax…I never left.”

Zhongli could not believe it, and blinked his eyes once more, but the figure would not vanish. Guizhong let out a small chuckle before placing a small warm hand onto Morax’s cheek and pinched at his cheek in the same teasing manner she used too, “Of course I’m actually here. Where else do you think I would be?”

Zhongli felt more and more tears fall down his face as he basically threw himself at her figure, embracing her tightly, “Guizhong …”

Guizhong's laugh was watery as she wrapped her arms around Zhongli as well, “I’ve missed you too, old friend.”

Zhongli let out a broken sob into her shoulder, feeling as she patted his back softly, “There, there, you silly old dragon.”

Zhongli chuckled and dug his face deeper into her shoulder, slightly smelling the familiar scent of glaze lilies and fresh herbs on her clothes.

They held each other for a bit longer, before Zhongli pulled away, and wiped at his tear-streaked face with his long sleeves, “...thank you..”

Guizhong chuckled and waved her hand dismissively at him, “Nothing to thank Morax….Now, go say hi to Ajax for me, won’t you?”

Morax paused, eyes widening as he gazed at Guizhong, "What…do you- ”

Guizhong grinned before she patted his head, reaching up with the tips of her toes to do so, “When the time comes, say hi to him for me again, okay?”

Morax froze but nodded as she pressed a hand against his forehead, “So long, old friend.”

Zhongli woke up in a flash, sweat beading at his forehead, the faint smell of glaze lilies and fresh herbs surrounding his senses. He looked around to see his room, he was lying in his bed.

When did he get there?

He did not remember crawling to his house, nor does he remember falling asleep onto the bed. He was certain he had hiked up the mountain and talked to one of the glaze lilies. Did he dream of that encounter with Guizhong? Or was it all real?

Yes, it couldn’t have been merely a dream, if the smell of glaze lilies and herbs was not a clear indicator after all, lying on his nightstand there was a glowing glaze lily humming a faint song.

Zhongli felt the relief wash over him, and the exhaustion following it soon after. His beloved was still on this earth, he had somehow come back to him, he had been confirmed of his identity, and yet, Ajax did not remember.

He stared at the glowing glaze lily, watching as the faint golden light oozed out of it everytime it hummed, he felt his determination growing.

Even if it would take him another century, he would make sure Ajax remembered him. He would make sure Ajax would come back to him, no matter what.

___________________________

Ajax stood still on the floor, sobbing into himself.

He missed his own era, he missed Zhongli, and he missed his family. He was homesick and he wanted to leave, he needed to leave.

He knew it was selfish to think that way, to think about only himself, but he couldn’t help it; at least, not when Morax’s touch was as warm as it was.

Not when Morax’s gaze is as fond as it was. Not when Morax’s voice was as gentle as it was. Not when Ajax was so miserably in love with the man.

He knew it was pathetic, he felt pathetic, he felt small.

He felt useless.

Here he was, sobbing once more at Morax’s feet feeling like he was about to fall apart once again. He was being selfish, Morax and Guizhong had lost a loved one, and yet they were still persevering through their own lives. They were still pulling through, and running the race no matter how tired and worn out they got. So, why was Ajax stopping at the first sign of distress, why was he quitting a race he had not even started yet?

He had made a promise to himself that he was going to find a way to save them all, that he was going to find a way to get through it all and get to see Zhongli again. He made a promise to himself, and yet here he was wanting nothing else but to break it.

He was selfish, he was putting others lives in danger just because of his selfishness, he wanted to put their lives in jeopardy just because he was feeling homesick.

What kind of sick monste-

“Ajax, are you alright?” his eyes met Morax’s molten gaze, a shiver ran down his spine.

Something in Morax's gaze shifted as his eyes carefully inspected Ajax's face. In a flash, Morax grabbed his chin and lifted it up, his face mere inches from his. He stared into Ajax’s eyes, gently wiping the tears from his face, “What is the matter? Why are you crying?”

He was sitting in front of Ajax, watching him carefully, a dull worry tainting his gaze.

Ajax felt his self-restraint shatter.

He pushed Morax’s gentle hand away and slumped forward onto Morax, burying his face into the cloth of his shuhe, choking back sobs. He heard a slight groan as he bumped into Morax but other than that he felt him stiffen underneath the curve of his body.

Ajax kept his head buried inside Morax’s chest, hands curling around Morax’s waist in a vise grip. Morax did not move, and let him do so, preferring to place a warm hand on Ajax’s hair.

Morax slowly moved a hand through Ajax’s hair, feeling the soft curls in the palms of his hands.

He did not say anything, letting Ajax cry to his heart's content inside the safety of his warm arms; only on occasion would he move his hand downwards and trace small words on his back, feeling satisfied whenever he felt Ajax shiver.

Ajax remained still, harsh breathing eventually calming down and turning soft. His tight grip had settled down after a while, loosening up and falling down onto the grass below. And after some time, he let the entire weight of his body settle cozily onto Morax.

Morax stood still for a while, before starting to stir from his position on the ground. After being in that particular position, his mortal form’s legs were starting to fall asleep and he felt the familiar ants crawling up his leg.

He carefully picked Ajax up, realizing he had fallen asleep.

His precious treasure.

His eyes were shut revealing the sheer length of his long wispy eyelashes, his eyebrows were much more gentle when he was asleep, settling down on his face more loosely than usual. His lips were slightly parted, and bleeding. His eyes were puffy and his nose was red, a clear signifier that he had cried.

The treasure in his arms looked at peace, Morax felt something inside where his gnosis was, stir once more.

He carefully brought the man up in his arms and began to walk towards his own house. Taking the man to his own house would be ideal, but it would most likely be completely dark out by the time they got to his house, a sign of the setting sun.

Morax held the precious man in his arms, and felt a swell of indescribable feelings bubble over.

He stared at his face, and the place where his gnosis was began to hammer away, swelling up and spilling all over. He brushed a slight stray hair behind his ear, and saw how Ajax stirred and slightly batted his hand away…..he felt his chest begin to swell up once again, with that feeling again.

But just what was it?

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ledenews · 8 months

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Mysteries Surrounding Lost Souls Along National Road in Ohio County

While growing up in the Triadelphia area I was always fascinated by many of the historical sites and buildings that I observed on my daily travels. Entering the town and seeing the welcome signs which announce Triadelphia as the oldest town in West Virginia always made my mind wonder what this area would have been like to live in over 200 years ago. Triadelphia was incorporated on July 29, 1829, as the Village of Triadelphia by the Commonwealth of Virginia. Wheeling would not be incorporated until 1836. Just the meaning of the town's name alone is quite interesting too. The origin of Triadelphia’s name is derived from three settlers, Jonathan Link, Presley Peak, and William Hawkins who were killed by a band of 20 Indians along Middle Wheeling Creek in 1781. As I explain to my History of Wheeling students at Wheeling Park High School, “The tri-part of the name is easy to figure out, but what does adelphia mean?” Wheeling has a strong Greek heritage and every year a few students always speak up and say “adelphia means brother!” And there you go, Triadelphia is named after three friends or “brothers” who perished there during the frontier era. While traveling east through Triadelphia on the National Road you can find historic brick homes dating back to the early days of the National Road, remnants of the old Valley Camp Coal mine, and shortly after you encounter the unincorporated area of Roney’s Point. The Old Stone House at the corner was a tavern that dates back to 1818, but has since been demolished. The Legends Roney’s Point is sort of a junction that connects you to Dallas Pike Road and, of course, what most people know today as a backway to The Highlands or Interstate 70. Roney’s Point, though, is so much more. I’m sure many of you notice the Old Stone House at the corner that dates back to 1818 as a tavern. It’s since been demolished, but there were also two other structures nearby that housed travelers. There was also the old Southern States Co-Op that served farmers and residents throughout the area, and when the railroad was still running deliveries could be picked up at Roney’s Point. Only remnants of the Schmulbach Mansion remain on Roney's Point these days. At the junction of Roney’s Point, if you turn onto Point Run Road after a short ride you will encounter Country Farm Road which leads you to the ruins of an estate that was once owned by Henry Schmulbach. After his death the property was sold to the county and used as a poor farm, tuberculosis hospital, and later a mental hospital was built on site. I plan on telling more of the Schmulbach story another time, but for this article I would like to focus on the Roney’s Point Cemetery that is located on four acres of the property. Residents of the Ohio County poor farm, tuberculosis hospital, and paupers were buried in this cemetery starting sometime after 1916. Approximately 59 graves that were moved from the Peninsula Cemetery in Wheeling were also reinterred at Roney’s Point to make room for Interstate 70 just east of the tunnels in 1964. I had visited the cemetery for the first time on May 8, 2008, and after doing some more research recently of the property I was motivated to see what has changed in the cemetery since then. This is how the entrance to the County Farm Cemetery appeared on May 2008. Resting Souls In 2008, the gates still remained the entrance to the cemetery. So, on a warm May Spring day, I parked along Point Run Road with Brittany Fehr as my extra pair of eyes to locate the cemetery and explore. At the base of the cemetery, we walked through a small field. Someone had recently mowed a wide path through it which made walking through this part easy. In this field, I remember seeing a few grave markers, but on this day we could not locate them. As you enter the woods and walk the path which was probably once a small road used to maintain the cemetery we found small cement markers with numbers on them. The markers appear as if they were tossed about on the ground, but after further examination, most have been disturbed from the growth of trees, brush, and years of neglect. Our hike into the woods was more difficult than my first visit in 2008. Fallen trees and the overgrowth of briers made the trek a challenge. I was convinced that I led us too far into the woods and missed the grave markers I saw in 2008. We persistently kept pushing forward, though, and were able to discover an area that Brittany could tell that at one time was probably a clearing of property. After pushing through more brush we were able to discover small metal markers designating the location of those reinterred at Roney’s Point from the Peninsula Cemetery. A walk through this brush lead to Peninsula Cemetery grave markers The metal markers read “Unknown - Peninsula Cemetery - Grave # 713,” for example. These markers represent some of the 59 graves that were removed from the Peninsula and relocated to Roney’s Point. What has always struck me as odd is why the markers say “unknown.” Glenna Dillion’s Book, The Cemeteries of Ohio County provides a description and history of the cemetery, along with a list of those buried at the cemetery. Grave #713 is not unknown at all. It represents John Bartkovich who was interred on October 19, 1966. The records also state that he was not an inmate and White. Bartkovich was born on June 24, 1892 in Poland, served in the Polish army, and his death certificate indicates that he spent most of his life as a coal miner. He resided at 2148 Main Street at his time of death. It was unknown if he was married or widowed when he passed away. What remains a mystery is why the marker says Peninsula Cemetery when his death certificate says he was interred at the Roney’s Point Cemetery. It’s likely he was interred at Roney’s Point as a pauper, although that fact is not specified anywhere. This is one of only a few grave sites that has remained in clear view. Another interesting point to make about those buried at the Roney’s Point Cemetery is the story of Lucy Zantanna. Zantanna has a monument at the cemetery that is dated 1913, the year that Schmulbach moved into his Roney’s Point mansion. Zantanna died April 22, 1913 in the rear of a home at 1204 McColloch Street. She was married, a housewife, and died from food poisoning. Zantanna ate raw oysters that had been kept in the family refrigerator Saturday afternoon until late Sunday without ice. According to her obituary, “When they were removed it is said they had a disagreeable odor but Mrs. Zantanna ate them, although others refused to do so.” Within a few hours she became ill; a doctor was called who made every effort to save her, but she died shortly after. Zantanna was just 25 years old. Zantanna was interred at the Peninsula Cemetery. Zantanna’s monument must have been moved around 1964 to Roney’s Point. What remains a mystery is where all monuments moved, and what is the story with those metal markers? Upon further research, Zantanna had a 6-month-old child that died March 22, 1911 and was interred in the Peninsula Cemetery. Zantanna’s husband John remarried in 1915 and moved to his wife's hometown in Pennsylvania. What’s unknown is where Zantanna’s daughter is now buried. Still in the Peninsula Cemetery? Possibly moved to another local cemetery? Records indicate she was not reinterred at Roney’s Point. This is another mystery for Brittany and me to solve. A good portion of the Peninsula Cemetery, one of the oldest in the city, was removed to make way for the interstate. The Road Goes Through In September of 1963, it was announced in 60 days 1,100 graves would be disinterred by 14 experts in the field of moving graves to make room for Interstate 70 just east of Wheeling Tunnel. According to state law, it was also required that a certified mortician be on hand to oversee the project. Cemeteries used for reinterment included Greenwood, Mt. Olivet, Mt. Zion, and the county graveyard at Roney’s Point. The article stated that a marker would be placed on each grave at its new location, known or unknown. It was also stated that all monuments would be reset on new foundations. That movement probably occurred in late 1963 and was finished in 1964. Glenna Dillon’s research revealed that the last internment according to Ohio County records at Roney’s Point was in 1987, but her research all discovered internments as late as 1993. Although the current state of the cemetery is in poor condition, it would be much worse if it weren't for the efforts of Gary Kestner. In 1998, Kester spearheaded a movement to clean up the cemetery grounds and make an effort to keep the gravesites clear of future brush and tree growth. Kester sought help from the local community with clean-up, restoration of the wrought iron gate, and a new sign was placed at the entrance. Today, the sign and gate are gone, and every year the woods claim a little more of the cemetery's history. This is just a small glimpse of the history that surrounds the Triadelphia and Roney’s Point area. I plan on researching future topics about this area and the Roney’s Point Cemetery. In my eyes, the cemetery is important because it tells the story of the sick, the unknown, the poor, those who succumbed to tragedy. Their story is important and it must be told and remembered. Ryan Stanton is a 2002 graduate of Wheeling Park High School. In 2006, he graduated from West Liberty State College with a bachelor’s degree in history and later earned a master’s degree in social studies education from West Virginia University. For 12 years, Ryan has been a social studies teacher at Wheeling Park High School where he teaches college-level U.S. Government and Politics and the History of Wheeling. Read the full article

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