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mondaymelon · 4 months

Note

OMGGG what about the tall genshin men reacting when u suddenly distance urself from them, but they dont know its bc of something they said? feel free to edit n modify this as much as ud like :3

₊˚ෆ "𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄…" | diluc, childe, kaveh x gn!reader

art by @/kongqingkoqi on twitter! (not too sure on who you meant by tall characters, so i just chose a couple males with the tall model~ thank you for your request!)

— cw: angst + comfort ? injury (diluc), ngl reader is kinda a bitch in childe's but it was the only way i thought up of of making the situation work so. lmao. cries

[ Perhaps it was the winter cold that had bit him so, or perhaps it was merely a gloom that had briefly descended upon him. Either way, an unfortunate slip of the tongue has wounded you, yet they themselves remain unaware. ]

"Love?"

DILUC's eyes are round with worry, and his concerned gaze sweeps over you - from your crestfallen form, and then to your eyes that shy away from his. Ever since he had returned to the estate after being out of business since morning, you've been avoiding him, not wishing to speak a single word to his self and not even bothering to spare him a fleeting glance.

At first, it was bearable. Perhaps you just had had a long day and wanted some alone time, no? It was always a possibility, that is, until he saw your smiling self as you busied yourself in chatting away with the maids, and most importantly, that brother of his.

What had he done to warrant such treatment? You loved him, that he was sure of. Otherwise, you would've rejected him, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have let him take your hand and bring it to his lips ever so slowly, pressing a kiss into your knuckles?

"Love, I... I'm sorry. Please, tell me what I did wrong." His voice contains a shred of his desperation, and his crimson eyes only hold you in their gaze. You, who had broken past his carefully crafted walls and rekindled the flame that had long since been extinguished within his heart. "If it's something I did, if it's something I said-"

“Diluc, you…” Your quiet voice ebbs to silence as your eyes glance away, landing on everything except for the red-haired man before you, whose broad shoulders give the slightest tremor. The darkness in your expression, the displayed hurt… Ah.

Diluc’s weary mind raced, recollecting the hasty conversation from this morning, when dawn had yet to break and he had arrived home, coat blazing, skin littered in bruises and still-bleeding cuts. You had rushed out of your bedroom, still in your night garments, panicking over the wounds that covered his body and the red that blackened his already dark clothes. In a strained voice, eyes wide and frantic, you had called for the maids, only for Diluc to forcibly shush you, steadying himself on shaky legs.

“Love, what happened, what were you doing and how did-??”

“It doesn’t concern you.” His tone is low, tired. “Stay out of this, you won’t be able to offer any assistance anyhow.”

Begrudgingly, the man recalled his absolute exhaustion, having just returned after a bloody night of battling monsters, muscles sore and crying for relief. There was no need for your concern, his cuts would mend and his wounds would heal. Yet he hadn’t meant for his words to come out so harsh, for his tongue to pierce you in the way it had.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't in my right mind when I said that- I just... I just didn't want you to be hurt also... If I'm injured, those wounds will fade with time, but I.."

His words trail off, replaced with your silence - a voiceless agreement, one that Diluc takes as an answer. Holding both your hands in his gloved ones, it's somehow easy to feel his fiery warmth despite his cold demeanor. Cold... was it really so? The male's eyes shone, and then you were in his arms, tightly intertwined.

"..I don't know what I would do if harm were to befell you, love..."₊˚ෆ

"Love!"

CHILDE's playful smile fades at its corners as you walk past him, the way you're failing to even acknowledge his presence painfully apparent. "Hah... what's with you today?" Another absence of a response. You dash your way out of his sight, and he's left alone in the dark living room, a half-smile still on his features. The fuck?

Okay, maybe it was just one of those days. There had been several since the start of the relationship, and the harbinger offered his utmost understanding. Sometimes people just felt like shit, and didn't feel like doing shit, and he could understand that to some extent.

There, mystery solved, yeah? Ah, but just one problem, how come you had been completely fine just an hour before? He had the day off, and so did you, so there was a mutual agreement to just stay home and laze about in one another's presence - yet it was only nearing lunchtime and you had already given him the cold shoulder? For what..? You hadn't even gone outside or did anything today-

Oh. Then he had to have been the problem. He raps his knuckles on your bedroom door, but it's really his bedroom too, and is bold enough to poke his head through the frame without waiting for your confirmation, a hesitant grin decorating his lips. "Love, I'm sorry- for ah... whatever you disliked...?"

You're sat at your desk, weariness evident in your darkened eyes. "Childe, do you find me someone who needs to be protected?"

He blinks. "...What?"

"Childe, do you really just want to spend the entire day lying around?" Snapping your fingers, your eyes lit up with sparkles. "We should go to a cafe or something for lunch, maybe, and then-"

"Why through go all the effort? We're staying home because I thought you wanted to, aren't we?"

"Not to that extent Childe... if you were with friends, what would you be doing? Not sitting on the couch all day, I hope?" A sheepish smile crossed your face.

"Hmm.. friends... I suppose we'd duel...?"

"Then-"

"Nope, no way am I dueling with you, you're way too weak, love, that's why I gotta protect you, hm?"

He immediately shakes his head at your words, almost frantic. "W- No, I didn't mean it in that way, love. You're capable, it's just that... Well- you don't have a vision, or a weapon, or-"

"Childe." Not your usual 'love', a bright smile on your lips, and he flinches just the slightest at the sight. "We're in a relationship. I don't want to be in a give all take all relation, you know? I.. I want to be independent, I want you to rely on me sometimes too... I just feel like sometimes I'm just such a burden to you and-"

"A burden?" His eyes widen, features instantly shadowing with disbelief at your words.

You, a burden? Such a thing couldn't possibly be. The warmth that you had granted him, the delicate arms that had held him in its hold, the lips that had whispered such affections and pressed kisses on his skin-

"No, love. You are not a burden, not when you are someone who makes life worth living." ₊˚ෆ

"Love...?"

KAVEH's in instant full blown panic mode, the dark bags under his eyes especially evident with how wide they've grown. "H-Hey, are you okay?" Of course, something wasn't okay - otherwise, why would you be ignoring him like this? But his sleepless mind has grown frantic, and he's desperate for relief. His hand latches onto yours before you can disappear into another room, holding onto your wrist loosely enough to not seem forceful. "Ah..."

He'd moved without thinking, almost as if on instinct, and now that you had glanced back with something colder in your gaze, that same urge told him not to let go. "I, I'm sorry!" For what exactly, he wouldn't even be able to tell a soul, yet the words seemed to have done the trick, as your feet pause in the middle of a step away from him, hesitance clear in your expression.

"For what, Kaveh?"

Shit, he's fucked. This was it, all the all nighters and hours of laborious planning and calculations had led to this one moment... His mind was spurred into action as his mouth sputtered useless stutters and... oh, could it be?

"Kaveh, you should go to sleep, it's already so late, and you haven't gotten a good rest in days, love..." Your concerned tone rang clearly in his ears, but he shook the words away, his disheveled form only focusing on the work before him, the endless tasks he had yet to complete.

"No, I... I can't. Love, could you brew me a cup of coffee, the extra strong kind? Thank you..." He gave his sleepy eyes a rub, completely missing the look that had flitted across your face in that moment.

Your sigh invades his flashbacks, and you look completely done with him, brows furrowed a fraction and lips drawn into a thin line. "Kaveh, please, for the love of the archons, take some better care of yourself."

"...Ah?"

Suddenly, your tone had shifted in the span of a half second, and instead of the angry gaze he had expected, it was more so... scolding. Concern. "Close that jaw of yours, Kaveh, how come you look so surprised? I've told you this time and time again, you need rest!"

An accusing finger was pointed in his direction, the bearer someone he was certainly very familiar with. "Well, it's a big project, I have to finish it by next week and there's barely any time, so I need to-"

"-And how can you possibly plan on functioning if you haven't gotten any sleep?"

Curses, a valid argument. Kaveh slowly held up his empty hands in defeat, chuckling sheepishly. So this was about him, and not you? Thank the archons, for a second he had thought he had messed up big time-

"That look of yours, you better not be thinking what I think you're thinking! And, besides..." You glanced at the ground, as if suddenly reluctant to speak another word. "I was waiting for you so we could sleep together..."

...An angel? Was that who was before him?

"I-I'm sorry... I promise I'll take better care of myself and... you won't have to wait for me, tonight. I'll turn in early, love." ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) not all that proud of this one. but here. sigh

reblogs are veryyyy appreciated!! if you liked this fic, please consider following, as im super close to a follower goal id love to hit before new years! thank you.

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader, @fiannee, @aether-darling

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ckret2 · 4 months

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I was mentally playing devil's advocate because I have a terrible habit, thinking "While I agree, there are authors who might just add details for the sake of visualization without any intended impact to the scene and it's important to keep in mind, like with the outfit descriptions in my immortal" and immediately realizing

That is a silly comparison to begin with

The outfit descriptors in my immortal DO impact the scene and the reading, especially in terms of how you imagine the author of the story

My Immortal would not have been as impactful as it is without these details

Even if the author didn't intend it as a meaningful detail, if it can be read as having meaning, then it can have meaning

those outfit descriptors are absolutely intentional

YEAH BABY THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!!!

The curtains were blue for a reason and Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way had icy blue eyes like limpid tears for a reason!!!

Was it GOOD writing? By most measures, no! But the author told us every color in Ebony's hair, every garment on her body, and every product on her face because she was deliberately trying to craft the perfect visual representation of the quintessential 2006 white goth girl.

Even the simple little fact that her fishnets are pink instead of black tells you something—the scene-tinged aesthetic movements the author was drawing from even though she only references "goth" style, the fact that Ebony as a character skews feminine in her presentation rather than the genderbendy androgyny that's also common in the goth scene—but we would have gotten a very different description if the pink fishnets had been the only color mentioned in her wardrobe.

You know and I know and everyone knows that the author gave her pink fishnets because she probably thought they looked "cool" amidst all that black—but the fact that the author prioritized a "cool" main character (rather than a dull everyman or a dislikable villain) tells us about the author's literary priorities, and what the author considers "cool" shapes the whole story.

Those over-the-top descriptors tell you exactly what kind of a character Ebony is going to be, exactly what aesthetics & tropes the story is going to explore and glorify (doom, gloom, goths, vampires!), and exactly who the author idolizes and considers admirable—from the specific (Amy Lee and Gerard Way) to the broad (nonconformist counterculture rebels who stand defiant against conformist "preps").

Was every detail in Ebony's appearance necessary? No. But did every detail matter? Oh yes. Every last bit told us a little bit more about her character, the story to come, and the author behind it all.

#anonymous #ask #writing

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greedyhoneyz · 2 months

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Days After Last

.ೃ࿔*:･pairing: anakin skywalker x reader .ೃ࿔*:･synopsis: "there is no death, there is the force." life returns to the soul of one once beloved. ೃ࿔*:･cw: angst. death? claustrophobia? rising from the dead. fluff at the end. .ೃ࿔*:･author’s notes: really wanted to write another story for anakin, it has been time since ive written one for him. this is a a sequel to till death do us part but can be read as a standalone.

In pure blackness, stillness came. It rippled across her skin, its bitterness pumped through her blood, its chilliness bringing the synapses of her brain to a standstill. The air was heavy with the scent of impending dread; the silence was only splintered by the howling storm. But then, a faint stirring, a flutter of eyelids, and a gasp of breath shattered the quietude.

(name’s) eyes shot wide, her vision blurred and shrouded by darkness. Fright clung to her skin as her hands frantically padded against the walls around her. Each breath she took burned her lungs with the anguish of deprivation.

She fought against the oppressive weight on her chest and with trembling limbs and the beat of her heart pulsating through her ears, pounded her fists against the lid above. Torment and despair fuelled her movements as her desperate screams fell on deaf ears.

With a final surge of strength, (name) willed her willpower, her muscles strained and pushed against the lid. It slowly creaked open and a glimpse of silver light filtered in.

A wash of air sifted in and caught (name) between bated breaths as she carefully rose to hands and knees. She clawed her way out of her tomb and wobbled onto her feet.

The dim light unveiled an empty scene, eerie and bitter, yet pristine.

Bewilderment had struck (name) numb.

She shivered, nerved by the questions whirling through her mind as she gawked at the stained glass window staring at her from above.

It was her, she was sure. She, in the finest of garments and the brightest of colours. Muralised as if death had come before her.

She stumbled forward, her steps unsteady and erratic and hastened through the dimness. The world around her no longer seemed familiar. It was distant, foreign.

With each trembling step, (name) journeyed from her coffin and hobbled towards the grey, stony doors. She willed it open, her hands wilted and flung herself to the greater outdoors.

The horizon stretched out before her. The sky, a wollen grey, swirled in steady ripples. The thickest fog covered the sky as thousands of liquid globes conjured across the planet's floor.

Step by agonizing step, (name) ventured into the unknown. Alone in the morning gloom, guided by one thought.

Anakin.

Faces blurred together in a maelstrom of confusion and commotion, and yet she paid them no heed, as she screamed. “Anakin!”

Over and over, she screamed his name, her lustrous gaze lost with fright as she wept. Icy droplets cascaded over her skin like a million tiny needles, the cold seeping into her bones, sending shivers down her spine.

She pressed on, her yells shadowed by the disbelief of strangers as they gathered around the town square, watching.

“Anakin!” (name) screeched at the top of her lungs, her throat hoarse. “Anakin!”

In a fit of hysteria, (name) stumbled to the floor, her face to the pavement. She lay still, nestled beneath spattering raindrops and pleaded wretchedly, her bloodshot eyes cloaked beneath her eyelids as she clawed at the earth beneath her. “Please…please…bring him…”

“Bring me Anakin!”

The woman, wrapped in the finest of garments and with eyes that seemed to hold anguish, lay in the centre of the square, drenched, chanting in a language unknown to those who gathered around her. Some whispered that she was a witch, while others dismissed her as simply a drunkard lost in a haze of intoxicated delusions. But as the woman's chants grew louder and more hysteric, a sense of unease began to settle over the crowd. Her wails seemed to hold a power all their own, a rhythmic cadence that pulsed through the air like a beating drum, sending a coldness through the souls of those who listened.

A single man, his face shadowed by the hood of his dark cloak, found himself drawn to the soporific chants of the woman. He, a stranger amidst the crowd, braved a step forward and approached the woman. He peered at her from beneath his hood and stared down at her face, taking in her features as she wept.

The woman’s eyes locked onto his, and in that moment, her chanting ceased. She clung to his leg, clawing at his cloak and pants and pined at the stranger. “Help me,” She begged sullenly, her voice was soft and filled with profound sadness.

The stranger, a man of few words, dropped to his knees. His hood staggered across his hair, draping behind his head to unveil the face of a man struck with shock. At a loss for words, the man watched, frenzied, as the woman sobbed. He eased a hand from his sides and placed a careful hand on the woman’s shoulder.

She jolted and let out a deeply troubled yell, visibly repulsed at his touch. She stumbled back, clambering on her hands and knees and nestled into herself, tucking her head into her chest and folding her legs beneath her.

The man, promptly, stood to his feet and waved his arms as dismay settled amidst the gathered townspeople. He paid them no head and motioned his fingers, and one by one, strangers shadowed by their dark cloaks emerged from the crowd.

They followed his commands and approached (name), her body sheltered within herself. They grasped her, two men at each arm and heaved her overhead as she thrashed and screamed. The strangers were unrelenting, the faces stern beneath their hoods.

They carried (name) away, and her chants of restlessness and sorrow faded into the distance, leaving behind a palpable sense of unease as the townspeople watched the strange figures disappear further and further from their view.

And as the storm clouds above howled and wept, the memory of the strange woman, the strange man, and the strange figures lingered on for as long as her chants echoed through their minds and rippled through the air.

Thunder quenched the planet’s earth with cocoons of black and dagged patterns of silver. From the temple windows, flashes of light ricocheted from the heaven ceiling in sporadic internals, and a dark rumbling bequeathed a percussion of hail.

From behind the fabrics of drabness and solitude, Anakin Skywalker stalked through the halls of the Jedi Temple with a heavy heart. It drummed through his ears with a rhythmic pulse and followed in beat to the clatter of his dark boots.

He navigated through the corridors, his eyes fixed ahead, alert. With each step he took, his dark cloak swished with power and persistence whilst his mind clustered in thoughts of dread and panic. He wore a scowl, his eyebrows tightly furrowed together, and his nostrils flared.

“Anakin,”

Obi-Wan spoke with words littered with disbelief and apprehension. He approached the young man with a careful hand and walked in tune with the rhythmic thumping of his feet. “You mustn’t approach her with haste.”

Anakin halted but hadn’t turned. “And why shouldn’t I?”

Exhaling deeply, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and hung his head. “She isn’t the same,” he breathed carefully, raising his head. “She doesn’t remember–”

“Me?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, a tremble glinted in his voice. “No…. No. She calls for you”

“Then I must come,” Anakin’s voice tinged with concern. “I must see her.”

At the end of the long corridor, a door stood. Behind it, laid his wife, in flesh and blood.

He believed it true.

Without hesitation, he pushed it open, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Master Skywalker, Master Obi-Wan, you've arrived.” Master Varik was a man of few words, stern and firm, yet he spoke with an earnest sense of glumness and unease. He approached the two men with a distant glimmer clung to his eyes.

“The princess is resting.” He declared sharply, his hands tightly plastered to his back.

“Is she alright?”

“Yes,” Master Varik nodded. “She’s cold, confused but fine. The medic has assured me so.”

“Where is she?” Anakin attempted to wrestle his impatience beneath a tone layered with respect and prestige, however, his anger overtook and ruptured the quiet gloom that surrounded the three men.

“Master Skywalker, I must warn you that this is not the time for our emotions to run free. We must be patient; by the stars, the princess has returned…from the dead. But she is greatly disturbed; we mustn’t send her into a frenzy.”

“I…understand.” Anakin dropped his shoulders, defeat inflated his being and looked heavenward.

“Come.”

Swiftly, Master Varik twirled and waded through the halls of the temple. The final door stood at the corner of the hallway and opened to unveil (name).

“...my stars…”

Lost in her thoughts, (name) stood by the temple windows and gazed at the cityscape. Her delicate features bathed beneath the soft glow of its city lights, casting a dreamlike quality over her as she peered out into the night. Her beauty, her damp dress, and the way her eyes glistened with unspoken emotions, spell-bounded Anakin.

As he watched her, a sense of melancholy and longing passed over him. He longed to touch, to hold her in his arms and chase away the shadows that seemed to haunt her.

And as she turned away, Anakin felt his heart swell. No longer did she wear the face of a body devoid of colour from the decay of death. She was warm in colour, alive and free from the solitude of her shadowy tomb.

“…Anakin.” (name) breathed out slowly, boring her eyes into his own. She reached for him, limping forward, and wailed, her steps faltering.

Falling into him, her sobs wracked her body with convulsions. She shuddered under Anakin, his arms carefully swarmed around. He squeezed her tight, her soiled cheek to his hard chest and looked on begrudgingly.

(name’s) voice was muted as she began, but slowly grew inches louder to a careful whisper. “It was so dark.” Sob. “I couldn’t breathe.” Sob. “I looked for you.” Sob. “I swear I did, I swear–”

“It’s okay.” Anakin soothed faintly, his voice hinted with tenderness and compassion. His gentle hand combed across her back and scored across her head as she leaned into his embrace. She clung to him, her tears staining his cloak, Anakin held her close.

As minutes stretched into hours, the intensity of (name’s) tears began to cease, and her breathing paced to a stammered rise and fall as she nestled into a void of peace in Anakin’s embrace. She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, but filled with bliss.

“....Anakin,” She whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with contentment and lured a fatigued smile to her face. “I found you.”

He cupped her cheeks in his hands and bored his eyes into hers. His eyes glimmered, and his hopeful gaze shone down at (name) as he carefully reared his head. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, rubbing at her satin skin and fluttered his eyes shut as (name) slowly lulled herself to slumber. She slumped against his chest, her head tucked into the crook of his neck and whistled a melody of soundless snores.

With his arms swaddled around her, Anakin enveloped her slumber with an embrace brimmed with longing and oddity. He looked on at the city walls, disbelieved yet content as the molten sky hissed and howled erratically, and a torrent of rain reigned hell over Coruscant. The clouds above that gathered, in colours of greys, blacks and silver, pulsed with bold streaks of lightning, steady and strident.

#black!reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #star wars x reader #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #star wars imagine #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic

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reigenkills · 1 year

Text

yes this has plot now yes this might be longer than i planned it to be dont fucking look at me

The father sends you off with a gift basket of vegetables and a bottle of wine for your help. He insisted, even after you refused, stating that you hadn't needed to visit and offer your services after he'd drunkenly harassed you the other night.

Death ditches you as soon as it starts raining, the prick, and you have to rush back to your inn drenched in rainwater. The innkeeper clicks her tongue over your state and ushers you into a warm bath, readying the fireplace for you to warm up by as soon as you're out. You end up falling asleep on one of the couches right by it, dozing away underneath a heavy, well-worn quilt.

You wake up to loud knocks on the front door the next morning. You tiredly open your eyes to see the innkeeper open the door to talk to someone, though their voices are way too far for you to clearly hear. Yawning, you stretch your arms, rising to sit back against the couch.

You can already feel the beginnings of a cold starting. Ugh. And you still had research work to do for Elrick's family. You run a hand over your face.

Right. Look for the spellcaster that made the spindle curse, which means look into the recent business contracts of Elrick's love's family, which means look into said love's family, which means look into Elrick's love. Fantastic.

You take a shower to wake yourself up. The innkeeper is nice enough to tell you she'll bring breakfast up for you, so you take your time standing under the hot water to shake as much fatigue off your muscles as you can. Your red cloak's still drying on the clothesline out back, so you'll have to ditch it and go with your regular clothes for now.

You return to your room to find your breakfast being pillaged by the massive wolf sitting on your bed.

"Fuck off!" You toss a boot at Death, since you'd grabbed your pair from the closet to lace up when you headed out. He catches it in mid-air without looking. "You don't even need to eat!"

"Says who?"

"You're Death!" You march forward to snatch your plate away from him. He tosses your boot right back at you, forcing you to duck. "What the fuck are you even doing here?"

"Business," he says.

"Then go collect the soul of whatever poor bastard kicked the bucket yesterday." You drop your other boot in favor of hurriedly shoveling food into your mouth, just in case he takes your plate from you again. "I'unno why you keep pestering me."

"Schadenfreude," he says. "You're annoying. I want to see you get put in a jar and shaken around."

You sneer at him. "I hope you get put in a jar and shaken around."

You finish your breakfast in record time, quickly putting on your boots to head downstairs for whatever bullshit involving death and gloom you're about to find yourself in if the wolf himself is here. There are two women waiting by the fireplace, both of them talking to the innkeeper with hushed tones and wringing hands. All of them stop at the sight of you on the staircase.

You have to stop yourself from turning around to see if they can see Death, but they make no mention of the wolf looming behind your shoulder. "Yes?"

"We heard from the Huntsman down the road," one of the old ladies says. "He says you know how to use magic?"

Oh boy.

Turns out the ladies' niece is sick. Has been sick for about a month, and none of the doctors can figure out what's wrong with her. With the scarcity of witches in town, they haven't been able to turn to magic for help, and so they'd decided to seek you out after they'd heard from their neighbor.

"We don't have much, but we're seamstresses," they say. "We would be indebted you, and we'll fix all your garments without charge."

"At…at least let me see what's wrong first," you say, because with Death hovering around, you have a sneaking suspicion that one of these old ladies is gonna offer her remaining life up for her niece, and you're not really keen on helping that along today.

Their house is a short walk from the inn. It's a nice sunny day out, a welcome change from the storm last night. You're welcomed into a small two-storey house a little ways off the main road, and led up to a child's room where a little girl lies asleep on her bed, feverish. Her mother and father are sitting by her bedside, tired looks on their faces.

They turn as you enter the room, glancing to their aunts with hopeful expressions. Ah fuck.

"Okay," you say, mostly to yourself, and then clear your throat to address everyone else. "Tell me what's wrong with her."

It's an issue of health. The little girl has always been frail since she's been born, and during a spike of ill weather a month ago, her health had taken a turn for the worse and she's never recovered. Your heart clenches as the mother recounts everything, breaking into sobs halfway through and leaning on her husband. You sit awkwardly on a chair beside the bed, listening to her crying. Death stands at the foot of the child's bed, silent, the picturesque Grim Reaper waiting to collect someone's soul.

But he's clearly not here to do so just yet. It's not time. He's waiting, and he's here to see if you're going to do anything to buy the girl some time.

You sigh and give the family their options, as best as you can.

"Here's my suggestion," you say, after you've told them about the Fountain of Youth and the Crossroads Deal. "We buy some time for you daughter, and then one of you travels to Far Far Away. There are more witches there, ones who can help with restoring health. This isn't my usual line of work, so I can't make your daughter magically well."

"Can you search for us?" the father asks.

"I'm afraid I'm already trying to search for someone else's problem," you say, and his face falls. These people have no knowledge of where to find witches when they've lived in a place so derived of them, and with so little time to save their daughter, you can understand their anxiety.

You glance towards the girl. In the corner of your eye, you notice Death raising an eyebrow. You sigh.

"Okay," you say. "I'll…try to look for someone who can help." You try not to look at the couple's bright smiles as you take out your spellbook (you guess it really is yours now) to flip for the page to the Fountain of Youth.

As you walk the couple through the steps for the spell, you try to ignore Death's gaze bearing down on you.

You grab lunch on the road so you can start your search into Elrick's affair first. Death had left after the Fountain of Youth exchange, and you relax at the sudden freedom from his judging stare. You start with interrogating Muffet about everything she knows about the situation, asking for names and addresses of her sources, and then go to investigate those sources afterwards.

By sunset, you think you have a decent grasp of the picture. The family you're dealing with is some old money bloodline that used to sell fabric to Duloc's old royalty. Ever since the collapse of the Farquaad line, they've been struggling to keep afloat, and are not entertaining commoners getting involved with their daughter. As some of the people you've interviewed are staff or family members of staff who work at this estate, you think the news of the girl being sent away in a tower is pretty reliable.

So that's a bust, as you'd thought it would be. No way you're getting her back to Poisonapple in nine days. Finding the original spellcaster to break the curse might just be as difficult, as according to everyone, the spindle that Elrick pricked himself on was just a regular spinning wheel.

Magic. With all its clauses and implications and high specifications. The curse was probably something like as long as he pricks himself on something sharp and didn't really need a spindle. Kinda like how your curse needs words to be worded as a command, because requests never work.

Well, you're heading to Far Far Away, you suppose. First to find a witch that can help with restoring health and another with a specialty in analyzing intricate spellwork to find a loophole. There has to be one. They used to televise princess christenings, and everyone saw the mess that happened with Sleeping Beauty.

You grab dinner at the pub and pack up what little belongings you have, check that your weapons are in top shape in case you meet trouble on the road, and head out.

One day down, eight more remaining.

Far Far Away is several days away from Poisonapple and is terribly…loud. Loud and bright and bombastic. You're no stranger to bustling cities - you've worked many a job at Del Mar and their rambunctious parties. But Far Far Away is…

Well, there's 3d magical ads on billboards about perfumes and cheeses and all sorts of stuff every which way you turn. Bright, moving posters are plastered on every surface you can find. Television screens blast shows from the display windows you pass by. You've been in cities, but Far Far Away is a city-city.

Which means as soon as you start asking for a witch, several hundred people immediately start pulling you in several different directions.

"Would you like to get your future told? I can tell you your future career for a cheap price! And if you get the premium package, I can tell you what your future spouse is like -"

"She's a fraud! Don't listen to her, she ain't even a witch, she's a fortune teller. Now you follow me, lovely, I'm a witch, and if you get the Gold Plan of my services - "

"You're the fraud. None'a you lot even know what a fuckin' witch is anymore. I'm the actual witch here, descended from a long bloodline of -"

"Nobody gives a shit about your ma or your ma's ma and whatever broom they rode in."

"Why you - !"

It takes you thirty minutes to escape their grabbing hands and sprint away from their vicinity. Far Far Away, it turns out, has a thriving magical community, and a 'witch district', as locals call it. It's a long stretch of road that's nothing but magic shops, with sellers of magical items (both real and fake) and all sorts of magic users.

But you don't need a fortune teller, or whoever's gonna sell you which premium plan of their services. You need someone who can help a sick child, preferably a witch who specializes in herb or sky magic, and someone who can deconstruct a curse, which means you're looking for a wizard. Or a mage with a specificity in curse magic. Depends on who you can find, you're not picky. You've arrived at Far Far Away at noon, day four of your nine-day deadline; you've only got so many hours to spare.

You check in at the cheapest inn you can find, get a map of the city, and begin your usual interviewing. You introduce yourself as a traveler, sent in by your relatives to find a cure for your sick baby sister. There are a lot of fake magic users in town, you know that - it's a tourist town, after all - so hopefully, this will help narrow down your pool of options.

The innkeeper is nice enough to mark your map to show you shops he personally trusts. Several of them, unfortunately, are inventory shops, and only about six of them are for magic users. You thank him for his time anyway, and spend the next few hours visiting one shop after the other.

The inventory shops are legitimate, as far as you can tell, but their wares are more on the safe, legal side (so nobody can start slinging curses at each other). As for the people you visit, only two of them are of any help. One is a specialist in potions, the other in Earth magic. Close enough to what you were looking for.

They both know each other too, which is convenient. You invite them to dinner to discuss your problem and hope that the hefty chunk of your savings (and the girl's family's promise of free seamstress services) will be enough to persuade them to help you.

At six o'clock, both of them close down shop and meet you at The Wooden Eye, a small pub in the quieter side of town. You buy them drinks and food, hoping to get on their good side, before you recount to them exactly what's happened in Poisonapple that you need their help with.

Gertrude, the potions specialist, falls silent after your tale. Madeleine, the earth witch, puts a hand over her mouth as concern flits across her face.

"Oh, dear," she says. "I…am not sure how much I can help outside of advising them on dietary needs as supplements."

"Isn't Earth magic Life magic?" you ask.

"It is, but we still have specializations. It's not a catch-all thing. I work with plants, how to use them for divination, for healing, for protection. I make hex bags, talismans, healing poultices." She sighs. "I can't completely upturn a child's biological disposition, and thorough healing isn't my specialty. You need a sky witch for that."

"I can help make potions to keep the kid going for a bit, but it's not a permanent cure. It'll be like…taking vitamins, daily treatments." She shrugs. "Sort of like what Maddie can do."

"No, no, that's plenty of help," you say. "She can have a long life with steady treatment, yes?"

Both girls turn to each other. They nod, and say, "Yes."

You breathe out a sigh of relief. That's wonderful news. Better than you can ask for. You just need to convince them to help.

"Would you be amicable for travel?" you ask.

You need them to talk to the family in Poisonapple so they can have their own arrangement. You're a mercenary, after all, not an errand runner. You're gonna pick up a long job somewhere far one day, and you're not gonna be there as their middle man. You offer to pay for their fare back to the village, hand them a map and some instructions, and they thankfully, thankfully, agree.

Now for Elrick.

"I suppose you wouldn't know any wizards in town?" you ask. "I still have one other person I'm here on a job for."

"Last wizard who lived here moved far down the south continent to take care of her mom," Gertrude says. "What do you need help with? Maybe someone else in town can do it."

"I need a curse broken but we can't find the original spellcaster. True Love's Kiss is out of the options too," you say, taking a sip of your drink. "Some kid got cursed by a rich family for getting too close to their daughter."

Both of them wince.

"Yeah, I suppose you'll need a wizard to deconstruct the curse," Madeleine says. "Ain't there a mage at the Forbidden Forest though, Gerry?"

"He doesn't work with curses." Gertrude shakes her head, and to you, says: "Sorry."

"It's fine," you say. You have several leads anyway, all you need to do is chase them. You can pay a visit to the Forbidden Forest tomorrow.

You and the girls finish up your meal before you bid each other goodbye. You leave the pub, hunt down the nearest expedited magic mail service you can find to send a message to both families you're on the job for. Good news for the little girl's family, and a lead for Elrick's.

Hopefully the young boy's brother and father can be patient just a bit longer. Four days down, three left.

taglist:

@karenbomi @snail-noodle @allthenamesithinkofaretaken @lunamaye @lennnnnnnnn @nixeustheclamity @livdem1human @elasticelaine @mooncutiepie @lyslvnchry @spiritofboredom @kult-o @fuckthepatriachs @leoneisdying @briddy13 @barnesmorningstar25 @bitchadonis @charafrisk1 @crypticmushroom @kittycatcreatster @lumiiiiiiiiii

#muerte x reader #puss in boots death x reader #puss in boots the last wish #fanfiction #puss in boots x reader #fic

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ivyprism · 2 months

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Dreamswap AU: Skeleton Boys and Sona (Info Dump)

Warning: Violence, death, etc.

Dawn - Dreamswap Dream Sans

Personality: Unlike Bliss, Dawn appears frigid and harsh. When he is upset, he frequently sets fire to the area surrounding his feet. He can be cold-hearted and rude, but he is a good person with children and animals. He is concerned about the state of the multiverse and frequently considers Dusk to be bothersome and not worth the hassle he produces. He adores his brother but is unable to forgive him. He's not sure why he can't let go of something Bliss couldn't, but it enrages him, and his only fear is reliving the terror of what happened to him with the others. He has a grudge against his brother. Despite his outer look, he has a soft spot for certain youngsters.

Appearance: He is a skeleton monster. He has golden spots on his torso and legs. He has a pair of golden wings that sometimes appear to be damaged or covered in some kind of golden goop. When enraged, the golden spots on his bones become flames. He has a large scar on his right eye.

(But more golden accents! :D)

Disaris - Dreamswap Nightmare Sans

Personality: While he is empathetic and kind, this should not be mistaken for an unwillingness to kill and battle if necessary. He isn't afraid to fight people, and he takes advantage of negativity to extinguish the flames of his brother's rage. He has a special place for kids and looks out for them. He has a strained and tumultuous relationship with his brother. He is eager to reconcile with his brother, although it can be tough due to his brother's temperament. He wishes to strike a balance between his brother's enthusiasm and his gloom. He wishes to assist his brother if he can. He backs down very little and knows he's capable of putting a stop to his brother.

Appearance: He is a skeleton monster who can summon goop and tentacles at will. He is covered in spots of negativity and he has a large scar on his right eye. He has a lot of negativity in his ribs.

Lychnus - Dreamswap Dream Papyrus

Personality: He is a fierce and modest individual. He is quite strong and rough when it comes to safeguarding his loved ones. He's a compassionate person who wants to help but is often hesitant to do so. He has a tough yet shy nature. He is a calm, powerful man who values his friendships and family. He usually looks after his brothers. However, he is on the verge of making enemies with some people. He's pleasant and flirtatious, yet he's genuine. He adores his brothers and avoids getting involved in their disagreements. When it comes to safeguarding his loved ones, he's not afraid to get involved.

Appearance: He is a skeleton monster who has a large chunk of golden positivity on his arms and torso. He has a small scar on the edge of his left eye. He has wings.

Obitus - Dreamswap Nightmare Papyrus

Personality: He exudes a powerful, protective personality. He diligently watches out for his loved ones and is not afraid to battle for them. He is a strong, calm man who values his friendships and family. When it comes to someone endangering his family and us, he can be quite cold and icy. He is responsible for his brothers and manages the logistics effectively. He will do anything to defend his loved ones. He is fierce and passionate. He doesn't have as much goop as his brother, but he does have some. It's only that because it's only on his torso, it's hard to notice. He usually hides it until absolutely necessary.

Appearance: He is a skeleton monster. He has a bunch of goop on his torso, legs, and arms. He has one jagged scar on his right eye. He uses his goop at will to fight.

Polyantha - Dreamswap H

Personality: She is an inquisitive and focused lady. She enjoys sewing and making garments. She tells the truth, but she sugarcoats it occasionally to prevent hurting people's feelings, even when they need to hear it. She can control her temper and is not frightened to fight. She is always willing to help and excels at her job. She is highly creative and open-minded, and she approaches everything with care and uniqueness. She is a social butterfly who does not hesitate to approach new individuals. She is brilliant and creative, but she seems to be continually immersed in her thoughts and daydreams.

Appearance: She has hazel eyes. She has shoulderblade-length curly brown hair. She either wears glasses or has contacts. She is thinner than her various counterparts. She's 5'1". She has prominent scars on her shoulders, back, and torso.

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#info dump #info #lots of info #dreamswap dream sans #dreamswap nightmare sans #dreamswap dream papyrus #dreamswap nightmare papyrus #dreamswap h #dsdpgoei #dreamswap #so much fun #so much info #I had fun with it

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culturevulturette · 29 days

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Thine Easter Day

Within thy heart is there an opened tomb? Have God's strong angels rolled the stone away? Rises thy dead self from its bonds of clay? Breaks Heaven's sweet light across the dark and gloom? Then is this day in truth thine Easter day!

If broken down are stony gates of pride, If shrouding bands of earth are torn away, If sin and wrath and scorn in thee have died, Mourn not the past. The folded shroud beside Angels will watch; — it is thine Easter day.

Rise, new-born soul, and put thine armor on; Clasp round thy breast the garment of the light; Gird up thy loins for battle. In the fight He leads who upward from our sight has gone; It is His day; there's no more death nor night,

No dark, no hurt, no more sharp shame nor loss; All buried, hidden 'neath the grave's dark sod; All ways forgotten, save the road He trod; All burdens naught in sight of His — the cross; All joy, alive and safe with Christ in God!

Mary Lowe Dickinson

#easter #poetry #thine easter day #mary lowe dickinson

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rainswept · 9 months

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𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏

✧ — kazuha holds you close.

at least, in his mind, he does.

he would, if he could.

his hands trace over the fabrics that line his skin, the garments hanging loosely over a steadily breathing frame. perhaps it was a case of right person, wrong time; but it seemed much more likely that you simply were not meant to be. you never were, because trying to force two puzzle pieces together that do not fit will only leave both scratched and frayed.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓

it was cold. very, very cold. and very, very still. the world quieted down at this time of night, this season; the wind howling in the trees the only sound. the scent of dew and gloom carried through the breeze, hoarfrost coating the leaves and frosted grass crunching beneath feet. he settled beneath a tree, turning to his clothing as his only source of warmth without you.

but he didn’t mind, not really. for he didn’t know you existed, after all. it was simply not in the cards for you two to meet. and that’s okay.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

everything was too much. not enough. too much. not enough.

taking a deep breath felt suffocating.

he doesn’t really know how to handle the ache he feels, because he doesn’t know why he feels it. it’s a horrible, gnawing loss, made even worse by the lack of knowledge surrounding it.

so he turned to nature, as always. but even that was not helping anymore, because the moment he touched life, all he felt was you — but he didn’t know that, of course. it was all-consuming, and yet.. nonexistent, to anyone but him.

who was he, if he didn’t know what he felt?

he shivered. his clothes weren’t doing much to hold the cold at bay. despite that, it seems the chill was more internal than he thought.

𝐈 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔

#✰ RAINSWEPT #✰ RAINSWEPT KAZUHA #kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kazuha x you #kazuha imagine #kazuha imagines #kaedehara kazuha x you #kaedehara kazuha imagines #kaedehara kazuha imagine #kazuha x y/n #kazuha x gender neutral reader #is this even coherent to anyone else #this is a vent piece i have no clue if it’s gonna make sense to anyone outside of my brain #help

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gl00m-cr0ssing · 4 months

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sneak peak at my new line coming soon! cryptid crew 🤫

#cryptid crew #acnh codes #acnh #animal crossing #glooms garments #acnh community #acnh fashion #acnh clothes #bigfoot

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little-peril-stories · 9 months

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The Queen of Lies: The Looking Glass

Story Intro | Contents [Warnings] | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: abusive relationship (discussed, not explicit or detailed)

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 2600 || Approx reading time: 11 mins

Chapter 3: The Looking Glass

Teaser: She’d kept them waiting because she’d slept late, and she’d slept late because she had been plagued by nightmares, and she’d been plagued by nightmares because…

“Oh, there she is! Mrs. Hatchett! Over here! So good to see you!”

Breanna smiled as she stepped into the tearoom, waving at her two friends who were already sitting at a table and beckoning her over. Marguerite’s golden hair shimmered in the lamplight as she waved back, as did the exquisite gemstone earrings that dangled from her ears. Next to her, Alice was clutching a book in her hands, no doubt one she’d picked up at the literary society meeting the night before. She snapped it closed as Breanna swept her skirts to the side and sat down.

“Were you reading that out of boredom?” Breanna asked. “I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

She’d kept them waiting because she’d slept late, and she’d slept late because she had been plagued by nightmares, and she’d been plagued by nightmares because…

“Oh, not at all. I just can’t put it down.” Alice’s eyes shone with delight, and Breanna held out her hand for the book, which her friend relinquished with enthusiasm. “I think you’d like it.”

“No doubt I would,” said Breanna carefully, praying the gloom was not obvious in her voice. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far.”

Alice seemed about to launch into a summary of all she’d read so far, but Marguerite spoke first. “I haven’t even started yet, save for what we read yesterday, and she’s already halfway through.”

“It’s absolutely delicious,” Alice declared. Breanna ran her fingers down the book’s gold-painted edges. “Rather scandalous, in some ways. She had an—” She lowered her voice. “—an affair.”

Scanning the first page, Breanna let the opening lines jump out at her: A throng of bearded men…sad–coloured garments…wooden edifice…studded with iron spikes…human virtue and happiness…virgin soil… cemetery… prison.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“It looks good,” Breanna said, her stomach twisting as she handed it back. She wanted to join the society, but she wasn’t quite certain she wanted to read this book.

Marguerite patted her hand. “It’s a shame you couldn’t join,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll convince him, and you’ll be able to join later.”

Breanna’s spirits lifted slightly. “Are there still spaces?”

“Oh, plenty,” Alice assured her. “Seems there are a great many ladies out there whose husbands also have…” She lowered her voice and finished conspiratorially, “Sticks up their behinds.”

Marguerite’s eyes went as round as the teacups being delivered to their table, but Breanna laughed. “That’s good news for me, then.” Perhaps there was hope, after all.

“Did he really say no?” asked Marguerite, sipping daintily at her tea.

“Well…” Was there any point in lying? “I was too nervous to ask.”

Uncomfortable silence met this confession, and Breanna’s cheeks burned.

“Oh, darling.” Alice’s mouth twisted unhappily. “I despise how frightened of him you are.”

That, Breanna did not dare to answer.

He had been fine, if cold, when he returned from work the day before—his temper calmed enough that the conversation she’d been dreading had not come to pass—and they had settled into their bed in frosty civility, but nothing more. No shouting, no scolding, no rage.

“I’ll pluck up the courage,” she said, stitching a smile over her lips, and Alice nodded.

“Good,” said Marguerite. “I’m quite certain you’ll enjoy this whole literary society thing far more than I will.” She tossed her head. “If you join, I can quit.”

Deciding it was time to lighten the mood, Breanna said, “No doubt. What was the last book you read, anyway?” She giggled as Marguerite slapped her lightly on the arm.

It was good, she told herself, to drink tea and laugh and make plans with her friends. To jest and smile. To forget.

***

Marguerite insisted on visiting the dressmaker after tea, so Breanna walked arm-in-arm with Alice while Marguerite led the way to the shop.

“You will, won’t you?” Alice asked. “Ask him about the form, I mean.”

Swallowing around a sudden ache in her throat, Breanna said, “I’ll try.”

“It isn’t right, you know. That you need his permission. Well…that you’re so afraid to even ask for it.” Of course, it was easy for Alice to say such things. Her husband was some higher-up in the military and he was always in and out of their house. She could do as she pleased most of the time.

Breanna kept her gaze straight ahead and did not voice that thought. She had never told Alice or Marguerite the story of her marriage to Baden Hatchett or why it existed at all. That her relationship with her husband was more complicated, perhaps, than they realized. That marrying him had saved her from destitution after her father’s death, and that she owed him for the safe, luxurious life she knew now.

“It is what it is,” she said quietly.

She had almost run, four years ago, when her father finally died after years of making her life a living hell, and Baden came to bring her to his home. Terrified of what came next, dreading marriage, yet dreading not being married, too, she had tried to refuse—to release him from a betrothal he’d agreed to long ago, before her father lost his fortune, when the Cooper family was still rich and powerful and well-respected.

Baden had insisted on keeping his word, but there had been a matter-of-factness, a stiffness about it, as he gave her a stark reminder: she needed him to keep her from a life of misery on the city streets. What kind of life could you possibly make out there on your own?

In a fit of frustration when she’d continued to protest, he’d grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him, gripping hard enough to leave a handprint-shaped bruise. And it had almost been enough to send her running into the night and never looking back.

But the night had been so deep and dark and cold, and she’d been haunted by his predictions that, without him, she would die penniless on the floor of an alley somewhere, disease-ridden or murdered or defiled.

Why risk everything, she’d wondered, for an enemy she didn’t know just to escape an enemy she did?

And, she’d reasoned, purple fingerprints on her arm came nowhere close to what her father had done over the years. Perhaps it was best to stay. People could change, after all.

Even if they couldn’t, surely a few tears here and there would be more bearable than dying on a street corner, cold and hungry.

Yes. Preferable. Bearable.

Now, as she and Alice followed Marguerite into the shop, Breanna fingered the new piece of paper she’d tucked into her pocket: an agenda and a mission statement, nearly a manifesto, from Mrs. Gage’s literary society. It even had a list of the books that members were suggested to read. Alice had looked a little guilty passing it to Breanna, saying she apparently wasn’t supposed to share, but that she simply couldn’t leave her friend out of the fun.

“Get him to sign it,” Alice said. “Maybe you can even make it to the next meeting.”

“Perhaps,” Breanna murmured. A skeptical voice at the back of her mind piped up to say, Not likely, but she shoved it down.

“After all,” Alice said, “there are nearly too many reasons you should join.” She gave Breanna a teasing nudge with her elbow. “You need to get out more.”

Despite herself, Breanna laughed. “What do you mean by that? I get out plenty.”

Wrinkling her nose, Alice said, “You rarely come out with us as it is. And visiting that horrid prison a few times a year and making small talk with the other constables’ wives at dinners don’t count. Do you even like any of those women?”

“Well…”

“See?” Alice huffed and tossed her head. “You need something different. Something interesting. Fun. Stimulating. You spend far too much time cooped up in that old Hatchett house.”

Breanna hoped her smile didn’t seem too forced. “It’s all easier said than done, Alice.”

“I know.” The squeeze on her arm was gentle. Comforting. “Look at you, though. All that time locked up in that stuffy old manor and you still look utterly exhausted.”

Breanna bit her lip and fought the urge to look away so Alice couldn’t inspect her any more closely. The reason for her exhaustion, the awful dreams and what had put them there, she could not tell her. “I had trouble sleeping last night.”

Alice smiled sympathetically, and for a few minutes, they wandered the shop in silence.

“But,” Alice went on suddenly, “there’s something to be said for taking a leap.”

Confused and a little startled, Breanna raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not a literal leap,” Alice said with a roll of her eyes. “Rather, trying new things. Doing something that, perhaps, you mightn’t have done before. Being courageous.”

“Like joining Mrs. Gage’s literary society?”

“Like joining Mrs. Gage’s literary society.” Alice winked. “I’d be ever so delighted if you did. You know I had to beg Marguerite nearly on my hands and knees to go along with me?”

Breanna held her hand over her mouth to hide a giggle. She knew, of course, her friend was exaggerating, but she suspected it wasn’t terribly far from the truth.

“That’s right. You heard me. Beg. At least you’d be an agreeable companion.”

“All right!” Breanna said, laughing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was letting you down with my cowardice. I’ll try to convince him.”

With a squeal, Alice squeezed Breanna’s arm even tighter and laid her head on her shoulder. The moment was fleeting but tender, and Breanna’s heart swelled at the show of affection. “Excellent. I know you’ll wear him down.”

Breanna certainly hoped she could.

“Now, go look at all those lovely things,” she said, nudging Alice toward Marguerite, who was in deep conversation with the dressmaker about an order she wanted to place. “I’m going to run to the bakery.”

Alice shook her head. “Don’t you want to look around, too? She’s got some lovely new fashions. And…” She chuckled, a sweet musical laugh, good-natured and teasing, as if she already knew the answer. “Didn’t you have enough sweets with tea?”

“Never enough,” Breanna said, giggling rather sheepishly. “I’ll return when I’m finished. I have some things I’d like to pick up to bring home.”

“This is your problem,” Alice admonished, wagging her finger. “You try too hard to be his good little wife. Just stay and have fun. Weren’t you listening at all?”

Breanna responded only with a smile as she slipped out the door.

Did she try too hard to be Baden’s perfect wife? It certainly never felt that way. It felt like she didn’t try hard enough.

Or perhaps, that dark voice said, it wasn’t that she didn’t try hard enough. It was that nothing ever was enough.

At the bakery, the air was thick, warm, and fragrant with the smell of baking bread, an irresistible smell no matter how low Breanna was feeling. It was a comforting place, rife with delightful scents, beautiful baked goods, and smiling faces. Who wouldn’t be grinning as they unwrapped a sugary cake, warm bread roll, or honey-soaked bun? Her mood lifted, and Breanna purchased some bread to eat with dinner, knowing she wouldn’t have time to bake a satisfactory loaf by the time she returned, as well as some pastries. She couldn’t resist a fruit tart, decadent and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Although Baden didn’t, Breanna had a sweet tooth, and whenever she had the chance to indulge, she took it. If she bought anything for herself without also choosing something for him, however…

Well, she feared that after yesterday, such a thing would, at the very least, set him on edge.

Even if he did not intend to eat any of it.

Alice’s words turned over and over in her mind as she waited in line. Try something new? Be courageous? Pretty words, indeed, and yet what did they really mean?

The moment she tried to tidy Alice’s advice neatly into a cupboard at the back of her mind, memories of the day before hurtled in to take its place.

No. She did not want to think of the prison, or the thief, or the cat-o’-nine-tails. Hadn’t she lain awake all night wondering if Mr. Gysborne might have tended to his wounds sooner if she hadn’t fainted? If he hadn’t been too busy taking care of her?

She did not want to think of the prison, or the thief, or her husband’s blood-flecked face. Hadn’t she already seen it a thousand times while she tried desperately to fall asleep?

She did not want to think of the prison, or the thief, or those pain-misted hazel eyes that had seemed, for the barest instant, to see straight into her. Eyes that had reflected such agony back at her, it had taken her breath away. Had he been lucid when he looked up? Could he have known who she was? Or was it just by chance that he raised his gaze at that moment and found hers?

Back at the dressmaker’s—Marguerite and Alice were still inside—Breanna caught sight of her own face in the window.

The night she almost ran from Baden’s home, she’d done much the same—seen herself in a mirror by the door and paused. Really thought about what she was doing—and what she was about to give up.

And as her tear-filled eyes took in the skin-and-bone girl grieving too many things at once, a girl terrified of losing what little she already had, Breanna had chosen to stay.

Now, as the autumn wind blew brittle leaves through the air and threatened to rip her hat from her head, Breanna examined herself again: the neat brown hair pinned back in a sleek knot, the dusty-pink and cream-coloured dress patterned with fine-leaved roses, and the bruise-like circles below her eyes that revealed to all how haunted her night had been.

There she was—Mrs. Breanna Hatchett, the girl who chose the path of safety. Who always had.

What if Breanna Hatchett could be the girl who took a leap instead?

What if, just once, Breanna Hatchett did something bold?

Just this one time, she promised herself. Just to clear her conscience.

Because she’d distracted the medic while he bled.

Because her husband was the one who had flogged him so brutally.

He was a thief, she reminded herself, a gang member. A criminal who had taunted Baden so viciously before the flogging began. Her cheeks burned just thinking of the awful things he’d said.

But after, he’d been in such pain, and bled so terribly…

There’s something to be said for taking a leap.

Just one time, and never again. To ensure that he was recovering, and nothing more.

To clear her conscience and be done with the whole gruesome affair.

Yes, Breanna decided. Once that was done, she could concentrate on other things. Worry about signatures and literary societies and the like when her mind was unburdened with guilt.

Tomorrow—tomorrow, and then it would be ended. She would see him once more and then bury him in the sands of time and memory. Tomorrow, Breanna Hatchett would go back to the prison to see the thief.

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[Image ID: A square image of cells bars. The text, from Chapter 4 of The Queen of Lies, reads: "She came here to offer you a scrap of kindness, which if you ask me is far more than you deserve. The least you can do is show a smidgeon of gratitude back." End ID.]

#lps the queen of lies #whump #whump story #whump writing #original writing #original story #original content #lady whump #guy whump #romance #angst #abusive relationship (implied)#abusive marriage (implied)#abusive relationship #ok I know this isn't the most exciting chapter #but the next chapter makes up for it #I SWEAR #I guess this is more of an all-plot-no-whump kind of deal

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incorrectwutheringheightsquotes · 4 months

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246 years ago today in a little farmhouse in Yorkshire:

“Cathy stayed at Thrushcross Grange five weeks: till Christmas. By that time her ankle was thoroughly cured, and her manners much improved. The mistress visited her often in the interval, and commenced her plan of reform by trying to raise her self-respect with fine clothes and flattery, which she took readily; so that, instead of a wild, hatless little savage jumping into the house, and rushing to squeeze us all breathless, there ‘lighted from a handsome black pony a very dignified person, with brown ringlets falling from the cover of a feathered beaver, and a long cloth habit, which she was obliged to hold up with both hands that she might sail in. Hindley lifted her from her horse, exclaiming delightedly, ‘Why, Cathy, you are quite a beauty! I should scarcely have known you: you look like a lady now. Isabella Linton is not to be compared with her, is she, Frances?’ ‘Isabella has not her natural advantages,’ replied his wife: ‘but she must mind and not grow wild again here. Ellen, help Miss Catherine off with her things—Stay, dear, you will disarrange your curls—let me untie your hat.’

I removed the habit, and there shone forth beneath a grand plaid silk frock, white trousers, and burnished shoes; and, while her eyes sparkled joyfully when the dogs came bounding up to welcome her, she dared hardly touch them lest they should fawn upon her splendid garments. She kissed me gently: I was all flour making the Christmas cake, and it would not have done to give me a hug; and then she looked round for Heathcliff. Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw watched anxiously their meeting; thinking it would enable them to judge, in some measure, what grounds they had for hoping to succeed in separating the two friends.

Heathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, and uncared for, before Catherine’s absence, he had been ten times more so since. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call him a dirty boy, and bid him wash himself, once a week; and children of his age seldom have a natural pleasure in soap and water. Therefore, not to mention his clothes, which had seen three months’ service in mire and dust, and his thick uncombed hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally beclouded. He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a bright, graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough-headed counterpart of himself, as he expected. ‘Is Heathcliff not here?’ she demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.

‘Heathcliff, you may come forward,’ cried Mr. Hindley, enjoying his discomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young blackguard he would be compelled to present himself. ‘You may come and wish Miss Catherine welcome, like the other servants.’

Cathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew to embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the second, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into a laugh, exclaiming, ‘Why, how very black and cross you look! and how—how funny and grim! But that’s because I’m used to Edgar and Isabella Linton. Well, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me?’

She had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride threw double gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable.

‘Shake hands, Heathcliff,’ said Mr. Earnshaw, condescendingly; ‘once in a way, that is permitted.’

‘I shall not,’ replied the boy, finding his tongue at last; ‘I shall not stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it!’ And he would have broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy seized him again.

‘I did not mean to laugh at you,’ she said; ‘I could not hinder myself: Heathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky for? It was only that you looked odd. If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will be all right: but you are so dirty!’

She gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, and also at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellishment from its contact with his.

‘You needn’t have touched me!’ he answered, following her eye and snatching away his hand. ‘I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty.’

With that he dashed headforemost out of the room, amid the merriment of the master and mistress, and to the serious disturbance of Catherine; who could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an exhibition of bad temper.

After playing lady’s-maid to the new-comer, and putting my cakes in the oven, and making the house and kitchen cheerful with great fires, befitting Christmas-eve, I prepared to sit down and amuse myself by singing carols, all alone; regardless of Joseph’s affirmations that he considered the merry tunes I chose as next door to songs. He had retired to private prayer in his chamber, and Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw were engaging Missy’s attention by sundry gay trifles bought for her to present to the little Lintons, as an acknowledgment of their kindness. They had invited them to spend the morrow at Wuthering Heights, and the invitation had been accepted, on one condition: Mrs. Linton begged that her darlings might be kept carefully apart from that ‘naughty swearing boy.’

Under these circumstances I remained solitary. I smelt the rich scent of the heating spices; and admired the shining kitchen utensils, the polished clock, decked in holly, the silver mugs ranged on a tray ready to be filled with mulled ale for supper; and above all, the speckless purity of my particular care—the scoured and well-swept floor. I gave due inward applause to every object, and then I remembered how old Earnshaw used to come in when all was tidied, and call me a cant lass, and slip a shilling into my hand as a Christmas-box; and from that I went on to think of his fondness for Heathcliff, and his dread lest he should suffer neglect after death had removed him: and that naturally led me to consider the poor lad’s situation now, and from singing I changed my mind to crying. It struck me soon, however, there would be more sense in endeavouring to repair some of his wrongs than shedding tears over them: I got up and walked into the court to seek him. He was not far; I found him smoothing the glossy coat of the new pony in the stable, and feeding the other beasts, according to custom.

‘Make haste, Heathcliff!’ I said, ‘the kitchen is so comfortable; and Joseph is upstairs: make haste, and let me dress you smart before Miss Cathy comes out, and then you can sit together, with the whole hearth to yourselves, and have a long chatter till bedtime.’

He proceeded with his task, and never turned his head towards me.

‘Come—are you coming?’ I continued. ‘There’s a little cake for each of you, nearly enough; and you’ll need half-an-hour’s donning.’

I waited five minutes, but getting no answer left him. Catherine supped with her brother and sister-in-law: Joseph and I joined at an unsociable meal, seasoned with reproofs on one side and sauciness on the other. His cake and cheese remained on the table all night for the fairies. He managed to continue work till nine o’clock, and then marched dumb and dour to his chamber. Cathy sat up late, having a world of things to order for the reception of her new friends: she came into the kitchen once to speak to her old one; but he was gone, and she only stayed to ask what was the matter with him, and then went back.”

#wuthering heights #christmas

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fanfic-collection · 10 months

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PotO!Loki x Reader : 2

Y'all are monsters making me write this but no lie, it's kinda how I pictured the scene going down sooo...

warning, there be smut ahead.

You opened your eyes, having shut them involuntarily, and found yourself at the edge of a pitch-black lake. There was no surface to see, no light to reflect. Merely the master of magic.

He still held your hand, gently tugging you to a black boat, the only thing breaking the monotony of dark water. Orbs of light flickered to life as you stepped onto the skiff. As if some sort of strange, bioluminescent bugs burst forth from their shells and became suspended in midair like floating candles. For the darkness of the world, the golden candlelight almost felt blinding. And then your eyes adjusted to the golden gloom, and the world came alight with even more lights.

The skiff slid seamlessly over the water, barely breaking its surface. You glanced over your shoulder as the man, your master…

“Loki.” He answered your unspoken question.

Loki. Loki pushed the skiff and on you went, deeper into this dark and magical world. Hours, perhaps minutes, days, perhaps seconds, passed and the world morphed and altered around you. It was an infinite blackness and yet, in the distance, you could see a small grotto. An island within the gloom of the black lake emerged lazily. Its green banks were so dark and inviting, the lush plants growing up over a solitary building.

You felt strong arms around you, lifting you, until you realized you were being carried. All of this had such an ethereal feeling to it as you seemed to float to the cottage.

Loki set you down, smoothing his hand along his long black hair. It was shoulder length, jagged at the tips, somehow sinister looking. Despite that, his green eye, visible on the pale skin side of his face, gazed down at you, mouth tipped open as he began to smile.

Only now did you realize he wore more traditional garments beneath his black cloak, embedded with rhinestones and feathers at the shoulders. Flourishing the cape, he twisted it in his hand until it vanished from sight, blipping completely out of reality.

It was like a dream. The whole experience, traveling across the lake. Your vision wavered, soft at the edges as though you weren’t entirely sure this was actually happening.

“I’ve seen you before.” You murmured, voice echoing in your head like you were underwater.

The corner of Loki’s mouth quirked up. He took your hand, slowly backing you into the ivy covered building.

It was a massive hall, hundreds of candles burned at various heights throughout the room; some even floated, wax precariously dripping down their sides yet never splattering on the floor. A raised platform in the corner hosted a bed, turned at an angle so three sides were accessible. Massive black and gold wings adorned the headboard.

The room itself was cluttered, books and papers of all kinds scattered about. As you followed Loki into the center of the room, you could make out runes of unknown languages carved into the floor, painted onto papers, and drawn into the books, all over, more than you could consciously take in.

“You’ve seen me before?” Loki repeated your statement as a question.

You stood in the middle of the room, watching Loki slowly release your hand and move to a desk. A quill pen rested in an inkwell and he picked it up to write. There was the soft scratching of feather on paper for a moment, seeming to draw you back to your senses, but even so.

“In my dreams…” You murmured, still looking around the room, not quite seeing. Truly you were more existing, experiencing, this world rather than actually inhabiting it.

Loki chuckled softly. “Have you?”

You nodded. Your gaze drifted around the room, slowly coming to a stop as you looked at Loki.

“Were you the one who teaches me so?”

“I was. I am.”

You closed your eyes and nodded. Breathing out a whispered, “how?”

Loki set down the quill and moved back until he stood before you. He took your hands in each of his, turning them palm upwards. He smoothed his thumbs along your skin, eyes roving over your figure.

“There is so much you have yet to learn.”

“Teach me.”

Loki chuckled, the sound haunting and echoing around the chamber. He stepped closer to you, one shadowed eye and one brilliant green eye gazing into yours, as though he were searching your soul.

“Am I dreaming? Is this real?” Your head swam and you tried to focus on his gaze. “But I’m here with you.”

“I am Asgard’s phantom. You are very much here with me, and very much mine.”

Something within you stirred, deep within you. But curiosity would not be sated. “Phantom? Is that why you wear a mask?”

“I was so much more once, but that was a long time ago.” Loki pulled back from you, and you found yourself yearning, even aching, for his touch once more.

“What happened?”

Loki’s hand subconsciously moved to his mask, turning away in the same movement. He seemed to be confirming it was still there.

“Loki?” You whispered.

Loki turned back to you. “You are here, in my home, and that’s all that I care about.”

“Your home?”

“Of darkness and magic.” Loki breathed, spreading his arms wide and making green fire lick at his fingers. “We must all pay homage to the magic of the night.”

“Magic.” You repeated, voice still barely a breath. Copying his actions, you raised your arms, green fire flooding out of you, yet burning nothing.

“More.” Loki commanded, his own fire flickering out as he stepped back to observe you.

You radiated power, your hair flapping in an invisible wind. Papers flew about, catching at your feet and flying off to unknown corners of the room.

“More!” Loki demanded, raising his hand and clenching it in a fist.

The wind intensified, you could feel the magic burning at your fingertips. Your hair looked as though you were underwater, floating about in the air.

“More!” Loki cried out, green magic radiating from his fist.

You screamed, all the gathered magic exploding around you as you fell to your knees, gasping.

Loki knelt down in front of you, his hand cupping your chin and tilting it so you were looking up at him. “An angel.” He said, voice soft. “Truly a powerful sorceress.”

You smiled, still panting, trying to catch your breath as you knelt on your hands and knees.

Loki began to rise until he was standing once more. Your body moved by its own volition. He matched you, step for step. Your heel hit the base of the stairs before the bed, and still, without fully realizing it, you began to climb the steps backwards.

Loki prowled towards you, stopping just before you. He pressed his knee between your legs and through your pale, somewhat see through shift, he spread them.

Soft music began to play.

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation.” He whispered, slowly returning to a crouch. “Darkness, stirs.” He began to push on your shift, revealing your undergarments to him as he gazed up at you, pupils blown wide. “And wakes imagination.”

You swallowed hard, stomach in knots as you felt his hands stroking at the smooth skin of your legs. Instinctively you gripped the pole of the four poster bed, holding on for dear life.

“Silently the senses, abandon their defenses.” He purred, straightening to push you further up on the bed. “Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor.” Loki began tugging at your undergarments, dragging them down your legs. You lifted yourself on your arms, bringing your legs together from shyness before Loki once more spread your legs. Green magic shimmered over you and your shift vanished. Fully exposed, you looked up as Loki tugged at his trousers, revealing himself to you.

“Slowly, gently,” Loki knelt down, his tongue seeking your button as he slid the length of your slit. Where was the music coming from now? “Night unfurls its splendor.”

You sighed, head rolling back as your toes curled at the sensation.

“Grasp it.” Loki’s hand was upon yours, guiding you to his length. “Sense it.” It was rock hard, and spasmed at your touch. Your thumb instinctively moving towards the tip, teasing out some pre cum. Loki’s breath caught in the back of his throat and he gasped sharply. “Tremulous and tender.”

Two long fingers thrust into your core and you cried out, head tossing back as he began to thrust his fingers in, curling and twisting them until he found that sweet spot.

“Turn your face away, from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold,” Loki’s thumb pressed down on your button, rubbing it vigorously, “unfeeling,” his lips met yours. With his free hand, he tilted you upwards, your back arching as his fingers were able to thrust deeper into your core. “Light.”

A burst of magic expelled from his fingers buried deep within you. The magic was warm and intense, curling against your inner walls and spreading you wider for him.

“And listen to the magic of the night.”

You cried out, panting sharply as you grinded yourself down on his fingers.

“Close your eyes.”

Your eyes drifted shut as you sensed, before feeling his member lining up with your entrance. You whined for the brief moment he had left you, but when his member pressed its full length and girth into you… “Surrender to your darkest dreams. Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before.” Loki’s lips found your throat and he nibbled and kissed at it as he began to set a slow, steady pace.

Your eyes drifted open to look at Loki, mouth lolling open as well as all you could think of was the bliss of this moment.

“Close your eyes.”

Your eyes drifted shut.

“Let your spirit start to soar.”

Loki thrust deep into you, hitting that sweet spot over and over. One hand held your back, keeping you close to him. The other reached down to stroke at your clit, sending stars dancing across your vision. You gripped his strong shoulders, burying your face in his chest as you felt tears pricking at your eyes.

“Live as you’ve never lived before.”

You cried out, your first orgasm of the night rushing through you. All of your muscles tightened, inner walls clamping around his thick, girthy cock. Loki’s release came shortly after, hips meeting yours in deep thrusts. His seed buried deep within you, urging on your own climax.

“Softly, deftly, magic shall caress you.”

Loki slid out of you, and you fell back, panting, grasping at the bed to try and focus. He knelt over your, gazing down at your breasts before reaching up to stroke your cheeks with the back of his hand. “You are an angel.” He whispered, and then it continued.

“Hear it, feel it.” Loki pressed kisses down your throat, to your chest, his face burying between your breasts as he stroked first one then the other, all the while keeping them both well loved. Either his lips or his hands, squeezing and kneading at the tender flesh. “Secretly possess you. Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight.”

The corner of Loki’s mouth turned up as he pulled away to gaze down at you. “Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the life you knew before.”

You pushed off from the bed, hungrily, searching for more. On your knees, on the soft bed, you grabbed Loki by the shoulders until he upended and landed heavily on you. His body pressed into yours and though you were growing tired.

“Let your soul take you where you long to be, only then,” Loki straightened up and pressed his lips to yours. “Can you belong to me.”

“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication.”

“Touch me.” Loki stared down at you and you reached towards his thick cock, gently pumping it as it hardened again. How long had you been laying together? “Trust me, savor each sensation.” Once more you guided the length to your folds, your body still screaming in sensitivity. Loki pressed into you, sensing what you wanted. “Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in.” Now the words were largely lost to you as your senses were flooded once more. Loki’s hands were everywhere at once. Where he touched, green electricity arched down your skin, sending tingles through you in ways you had never known. All the while, his thick girth thrust into you, over and over, pounding where you needed it most. You were panting, yelling, crying out his name, flooded with emotions as his power enveloped you.

“You alone can make my power take flight, help me make the magic of the night.”

Loki moaned, a long throaty breath that seemed to come from the back of his throat, somewhere feral. On and on, he managed to keep moving, his cock hitting deep within you until you too found your release.

You collapsed onto the bed, grabbing Loki as before and dragging him down to be with you. To feel his weight pressed into you. His member had not left you, though flaccid now, but you found it comforting, still filling you to the brim as the two of you lay together as one.

#Loki #Loki x reader #ficbit #reader insert #Loki x you

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theredofoctober · 15 hours

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Shingleback Part 2— A Wolf Creek Darkfic

Mick Taylor x Female Reader

Synopsis: Escape from Mick Taylor's grip doesn't last long...

Trigger/Content Warnings: non con, violence, death (not reader), bigotry (which in this chapter includes some Mick typical queer fetishisation)

Read after the cut

✂️ ✂️ ✂️

Light cuts like a dirty knife through the bars of the underground cell as Mick approaches with an old-fashioned torch, his leer a sickle moon above its glow.

“G'morning, America! How ya doin’?”

You do not answer, merely stare through the midden black of the mine with all the unfeeling misery of dread.

Though without a clock or light by which you might determine the time you presume only one night has passed, coiled grubby and naked on unforgiving stone.

Shock has pinched out all pangs of hunger like a match head. You can’t conceive of knowing appetite again after what your flesh has known, what you have witnessed.

“Look like ya could do with a good wash,” Mick comments, unlocking the door to your cell. “Here's your shower. Make the most of it.”

Before you’ve registered the statement a bucket flashes in his left hand, dashing a quantity of cold, soapy water across you from head to foot.

Shouting, you jolt upright, quivering like a street child failing through some foul disease.

“Ah, what are ya squealin’ for?” asks Mick, through a nasty smirk. “I haven’t even got my cock in ya yet. Save your noise for then, eh?”

His hands drop to his belt, toying thoughtfully with the buckle.

Then he pauses, head cocked aside to listen.

“Hold that thought,” he says, at last. “Sounds like we’ve got company.”

Blinking soap from your eyes you gaze, nonplussed, up into Mick's sun-browned face. He looks irritated, thrown by the disturbance.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he mutters. “We’ll get to it when I’ve seen to the trouble.”

Fumbling for a lump of fabric wedged under one sweaty arm Mick shakes it out and drops it at your feet.

“Here. Chuck this on so you’re ready for me when I get back. I like a short skirt on a sheila. Not having ya in jeans, like that baggy tomboy shit I found ya in.”

Grumbling under his breath, Mick withdraws into the warrens beyond your narrow world, his flashlight swinging.

Desperate to be warm, you pick up the musty garment from the floor and yank it over your head, struggling with the one hand injured from having been crushed in your idiot’s bid at escape. The fingers are swollen, crooked; you imagine most to be broken.

You wonder if Mick will make the effort to set them, or if he’ll allow them to heal badly to make an example of your folly.

That he will force you under him again and again to grind you of pleasure like some foul grain is surely worse, but you loathe the thought of bearing the remnants of his violence in so physical a form as losing full use of your hand.

You slump with your back to the corner of the cell, considering how easily you might break your skull against the bars. Death is superior to a life condemned to brutish fucking under the earth, you believe.

The thought is rattled from you by the distant boom of firearms from above. A gasp burns through you like a knotted rope, and you see again your father dying, his face gone to holes, no longer human through the transmutation of the gun.

You daren’t close your eyes, afraid of the shadow puppetry of memory behind the lids.

A woman’s voice calls abruptly from the gloom, startling you upright against the bars.

“Hello?”

At first you think it a ghost, the echo of some woman raped and gut-slit in the unhappy darkness. But then a torch beam strikes your face, and you glimpse a slim woman with a black wolf cut hairstyle staring at you through the half-open door of the cell.

“Jesus,” she says. “So there is someone alive in this bloody pit.”

Wiping your face with both hands, you ask, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Your voice is low, barely more than a breath.

“My name’s Lyanne,” says the woman. “The arsehole up there took one of my mates. Me and a few others have been following him, trying to get her back. We had no idea that Mick fella would be this fucked up, or maybe we would’ve held off.”

Lyanne pushes the door further open with the toe of a Doc Marten boot and looks at you, her sharp face tightening with disgust at your condition.

“Did you find your friend?” you ask, getting tentatively to your feet.

The other woman gives her head a single, gruff shake and takes off her leather jacket to put around your bare shoulders.

“Nah,” she says. “From the state of things down here he must have killed her. Least I can get you out of here. Got a van up top we can use if we’re quick getting to it.”

Hanging back, you ask, “What about Mick? He’ll shoot us both if he catches us.”

Lyanne sniffs.

“My mates are keeping that ugly old bastard distracted. Come on. You’re freezing. Don’t wanna stick around here, do you?”

Recalling Mick’s fingers fracturing you to your first, terrible orgasm you’re quick to follow Lyanne from the cell, stumbling alongside her through and out of that reeking grave.

Later, strapped into the passenger seat of a beaten-up van, half-listening to punk music your new ally finds on the radio, you think how uncannily alike your meeting with Mick was to your escape. For that reason, and the tenacity of your attacker, you don’t quite believe in your freedom.

It’s been too easy, as though for the play of it alone Mick has allowed you to slip from his den.

Bur perhaps you are only wounded, paranoid, a twitching mimic of the girl broken in below the ground.

Three weeks later you’re living in an apartment over a pub Lyanne runs at the outskirts of some roadside town, working under the table for enough cash to purchase a new passport and an aeroplane ticket home to America, plus what other fees will follow.

All you’d had in your pockets had been lost when Mick stripped you of your clothes in the mine. Thus it’s on a borrowed phone that you attempt to contact your mother, receiving no answer, the expected result.

Likewise, there is little response to the anonymous report you make to the police as to your father’s murder— no newspaper coverage, no announcement on the televisions in the bar.

Mick has cleaned up his crime so as to render it inexistent, like the wind blowing sand across buried bones, sinking them deep. He is such a force of nature, a man cursed to exist by the book of his wicked being. His name arises in no online search.

He is no one. He is death, its living hand.

You mourn your father, privately, and fear his killer’s return.

Each day that passes you imagine Mick strolling through the pub doors and cutting your throat across the bar, fucking you as the life runs from you like beer from an overturned keg. You’d come as you die, you envisage, one last spite upon you from your attacker.

Your nights are near sleepless in avoidance of dreams on that bleak subject, of what you saw in the mine as you tripped out of it into the daylight again.

Yet the weeks swim on without evidence of Mick, and still you distrust his absence, which feels entirely hinged on his inevitable return.

“How could he know you’re out here?” asks Lyanne over the bar one night, her pierced nose wrinkling. “He’s a psycho, not a bloody psychic. Got to start living your life again, mate. Don’t let that perve fuck you up for good.”

She shoves a beer at you, nodding approvingly as you down the pint and shake the glass at her for more.

Four drinks later you disappear into the women’s bathroom, sitting in the end cubicle with your head in your hands, tearful and slightly drunk. It’s the first time you’ve had enough access to feeling to cry, and you still cannot quite find release in it.

You never were one for tears, even before Mick Taylor crushed your heart under his weapons. Your method has always been to withdraw away from all things into yourself, that recess from which only your father could ever coax you out.

Now, forced to smile at customers as you mop floors of spilled drinks and shattered glasses you’re unable to shrink into that old cave of quiet. Perhaps it will be good for you to immerse yourself so quickly into the world, you reason; a few more months’ wages and you’ll be home again, after all, across the miles of sea between you and Mick Taylor’s country.

Wiping your eyes, you flush, and buckle up your jeans, taking your time to return to the bustling pub. As you push the cubicle door open a man steps into the gap, the grit of his unfriendly squint like grains of night above his grin.

“Found ya,” says Mick, and with a vicious jerk he headbutts you square in the brow.

The assault careers you back into the cubicle again, your skull a windchime of ringing agony.

Adrenaline tops you up quicker than fear. As Mick fills the space you make a fist and strike out at him, which he dodges with a startled chuckle.

“That's my girl,” he says. “Ya got a bit of fire in ya this time. Won’t do you any good. You’re gonna wish ya stayed where I left you, ya runaway cunt.”

A growl churning from his throat, Mick flattens you to the wall of the cubicle with a punch to your stomach, causing you to double over him like a lover seeking solace.

Mick’s arms go around you, and he pulls you to his chest in a throttling squeeze.

“Bet you thought I wouldn’t find ya,” he sneers against your cheek. “Livin’ it up in the arse end of nowhere with ya girlfriend. Lyanne, is it?”

He hauls you out of the cubicle and throws you against the hand dryers, setting them into gusting motion at your back.

“What have you done to her?” you ask, slumping, bruised and shell-shocked to the grubby floor tiles. "Leave her alone."

Mick guffaws.

"Don’t fancy sharing her with me, then. Bloody shame. Might have been fun.”

He bends down and drags you up on tiptoe by the front of your t-shirt, compressing one breast flat in his fist.

“Get your arse up, you lazy Yank.”

You flop uselessly in Mick’s hold as he tows you into the bar, which aside from the muttering televisions is of an unnatural silence.

Death in its ruddy carnage lies everywhere, patrons gut-slit and opened out like a butcher’s windows, their organs piled in steaming mounds before them.

Some lie in trains of blood, their still hands become claws of desperation, having been cut down from behind, or else shot through the back of the head like cows at the end of some slaughterhouse corridor.

Lyanne is among them, her punctured chest rising and falling shallowly with fading breaths. You spy the desperate roll of her sclera in the direction of your footsteps and attempt to go to her, but Mick heaves you sharply back.

“What do ya think you’re doin’?” he snaps. “Fifteen minutes and she’ll be as dead as your father. Give it a rest, will ya?”

With incredible strength for a man of his age, Mick hoists you up across a nearby table top amongst broken glass, uncaring of the shards that slash your cheek upon landing. Before you’ve truly felt the injury you’re turned on your back, Mick’s palm dashing across your face in a spindrift of blood.

He rears over you, his thin mouth a helix of rage.

“I should cut ya clit off for the trouble you’ve caused me. First ya left me, right, then you went and stirred up a loada coppers after me. They’ve been a bloody nuisance, sniffin’ around for weeks. What have ya got to say for yourself, eh?”

“You shot my dad,” you whisper through fearfully gritted teeth. “You— you— made me—"

“I fingered ya till you came and I then I fucked ya till you did it again,” says Mick, and he licks his lips, one hand slipping down to adjust his firming trouser front. “Gave ya a bloody treat. Bet you’ve been missing me after that corker of a first time.”

Your innards warp with terrified revulsion.

“I hate you,” you say, softly. “I hope you rot.”

Mick leans forward and laps your face from mouth to cheek with a throaty moan of delight.

“I love it when ya talk dirty,” he growls, then his stare flattens with a sudden cruelty, and he goes nose to nose with you, his hat colliding with your swollen forehead.

“Take ya fuckin’ clothes off, America. What did I tell you about wearin’ jeans?”

Grimacing, you shake your head, a bitter mistake. You see the anger wash through Mick like a tide in the apocalypse, and suddenly he has a knife in his hand, lashing its steel arc across your left breast as you squeal and scratch the table top for support.

“Fuckin’ move it, ya slow cunt,” says Mick, “or I’ll cut the other one.”

With struggling hands you peel your top over your head and set it clumsily aside, the fingers you’d nursed in the mine still bandaged and poorly healing.

Mick watches with a lascivious fascination, unable to resist reaching out with both coarse hands to manipulate your breasts. He plays with their hardened points with a coarseness that, for all its foulness, carves through you that bleak and familiar god of pleasure.

It’s only doubled as Mick harshly tongues blood from the nipples, sucking them between his teeth like cherries from the stem.

You stare at the flickering televisions broadcasting some dull sports event, unable to cast your gaze anywhere else without looking upon death, or its maker.

Mick pulls back from you, wiping gore from his stubble on the heel of his fist.

“Let me give you a hand there, darlin’,” he says, and takes your boots off, one by one, the thud of them landing on the grimy flooring making you start twice over.

Your good hand slips back across the table, landing upon an evil shard of glass. Closing your fingers over it you tense, thinking to jab your enemy in his soft throat when he next bends to torment your body.

With an abrupt motion Mick wrenches your arm behind your back and hits you in the face until you can hardly breathe for the many bursts of pain.

“Ah, come on, America,” says Mick, with a false amiability. “I know what you’re gonna do before ya do it.”

You dry heave over the side of the table, unable to cope with so many avenues of suffering at once.

Sighing, Mick unbuttons your jeans and drags them off over your ankles.

“Christ,” he says, dumping them to one side with emphatic disgust. “Have to do everything myself.”

From the low vantage of the floor Lyanne moans and coughs; you realise she’s been watching the entire scene through weakening eyes, and beholds that her attempt to liberate you was all for nothing.

“Got a bloody good view down there, haven’t ya, sheila?” says Mick, following your eye line. “Bet ya regret breaking her out now, don’t ya? And convincin’ her to wear this girl power punk shit.”

He spits through his teeth, missing Lyanne by a hair.

“Well, you can watch your sweetheart get what’s coming to her.”

Twisting your underwear aside, Mick unsheathes his cock from his pants and thrusts into you without preparation, humming low in his throat as you scream from the suddenness of his piercing.

The pain is like fire upon fire, a dual war of burning. You thrash on the suttee of it, arms outstretched across the table top in a stigmata of Mick's sharp enmity.

A boiled kettle scream is gouged from you as though by your attacker’s blade. You slap at his broad shoulders, wanting him off you, out of you, but Mick only pounds deeper into your writhing form, his hands on your breasts holding you down.

You try not to look at Lyanne, whose choked cries of horror entwine with Mick’s grunts of porcine delight. That you have an audience to your humiliation is unbearable, every rough, perspiring thrust witnessed by the very friend who’d hoped to liberate you from such grotesquery.

You attempt to restrain your cries of pain to spare her that, at least, but Mick jars meanly into you with a smack of soldered flesh. His girth is as punishing as you remember, widening your entrance almost beyond its limit.

“This is what you get for pissing me off, darlin’,” says Mick, and he closes his palm against your throat until you sputter, airless, in his grip. “Last time we had a bit of a play I warmed ya up first. Got ya wet and ready. I was bloody nice to ya.”

With his free hand he slaps your breasts, catching the cut there so that it opens again, spilling its bounty down your belly to your navel.

“Bet you’re missing my hand in ya cunt now. Don’t usually have sheilas drip on me fingers like you, America. But it feels like you’re already gettin’ used to me. Ain’t just ya tits that're wet.”

He slows his strokes, parting your labia with two calloused fingers to show the slick on the shaft of his cock.

“What do you think of that, Lyanne?” he leers, brushing a lazy thumb over your clitoris so that you jerk in horrified surprise. “Your pal’s a fuckin’ whore. Not worth the trouble you put into rescuin’ her.”

Lyanne gurgles, bubbles of crimson saliva bursting on her lips. As you shut your eyes Mick seizes you by the hair and forces you to look at her, shaking your head about like a turned dog with a child it despises.

“Look her in the eye, America. It’s your fault I had to go for her and everyone else in this fuckin’ hole. Least ya can do is own up to it.”

“No,” you choke out between hateful thrusts. “No. It’s you. You’re a murderer.”

Mick plants a sloppy kiss on your turned cheek.

“Well, you’re not wrong there, darlin’. Still, wouldn’t have killed any of these bastards if you’d stayed in the mine. Thought ya could beat me, ya stupid cunt.”

Briefly withdrawing from you, Mick turns you onto your front, banging your brow upon the table with enough force to stun you beneath him.

You sob as he hammers into you again, his bulk jammed to your back, reeking of dirt, and of cigarettes, of sex.

Your eyes fall on the watch strapped to one thickly-haired arm, and it occurs to you how very late in the night it’s grown, how much time he’s already spent fucking you.

“I’m gonna make ya wish I’d shot ya like your dad,” says Mick, his lips grazing your bare shoulder. “Fuck ya till you can’t walk, or you’re limpin’ like I filled the wrong hole. You’re gonna be sore for weeks, sheila. No doubt about it.”

You attempt to pull yourself forward and off his cock, but Mick draws you back with a lazy ease.

“Better not, darlin’,” he says. “Didn’t work out for ya last time. Want me to break ya fingers again? You’ll be wanking with your shit hand for weeks.”

Whimpering, you say, “Stop it, Mick, please—”

“Ah, quit your moanin’, will ya? You Yanks can’t shut your traps for five bloody minutes. Land of the free my arse. You’ve had too much fuckin’ freedom if you ask me.”

Tugging your head back painfully Mick sinks his teeth into your earlobe, sucking until you screech in protest. His cock swells within you in hungry response to such tortured music.

“Fuck, you’re still so bloody tight. Mate didn’t finger you while you were on ya holiday, then. Thought you two would’ve been going at it on the daily. Least ya can see what you’ve been missing, eh, Lyanne?”

Mick pauses to drag your right leg up onto the table top so as to fuck you deeper still. It starts a new pain within you, a bruised, blunt cramp that almost makes you sick.

“I shouldn’t let ya come,” says Mick. “Dunno why I let ya the last time. Probably just the novelty of it. Been a long while since a bitch has finished when I’ve fucked them. Too busy yellin’ down me ear to think about it, most of the time. Must have something loose in your head to have an orgasm with your father's blood all over ya.”

He kisses your neck and mouth with renewed interest, reminiscing even as he creates this new nightmare of violence. A hand squeezes between your loins and the table, unable to resist seeking the cherished reaction of before.

“No,” you croak. “Not again.”

“Yeah,” Mick moans, between harsh kisses. “Gonna make ya come right here, taking my cock, looking at all the corpses you helped to make.”

His blunt fingertips lace your wet cunt, his familiarity with it eking out the sense of your damnation. As he does so Lyanne releases the guttural noise of her dying, and you are overcome with the knowledge that you have killed her by proxy, that you should have stayed in the pit, after all.

Mick's rhythm increases, quick and deep with the excitement of this horror. He touches you in a clever asterisk of motion, and to your despair you reach your crisis upon him, a volcanic event of heat and screams.

“That’s a good girl,” he croons. “Come for your Uncle Mick.”

Then his right arm folds across your chest, and with a snarl he joins you in climax, fucking you through every ring of this robbed pleasure until it wreaks its last.

You sprawl under him as though you, too, are dead, shutting eyes and mouth against the capsule hell of that monstrous room.

Mick climbs off you and does up his belt, humming cheerily under his breath, a familiar habit.

“Ya know what,” he says. “Ya might be a weak bloody Yank but you’re a good root. Get dressed, America. I’m takin’ ya home.”

You open your eyes to look at him, so ordinary in his plaid shirt and plain, working man’s features that the entire night might seem some intrusive fantasy, were it not for the blood soaking his clothes in inky blooms.

“Christ,” says Mick. “What’s gotten into ya? Here, have a drink for the road.”

He strides over to the bar and helps himself to a beer, pouring the foamy amber liquid over your face as he did the water, a month ago. You part your lips to swallow, wanting to forget through drunkenness the devil’s work that you’ve endured.

“That’s it,” says Mick, as you drain the glass. “It’ll do ya good.”

Dully, you get down from the table and dress, your hands working of their own accord. Mick eyes your body openly, seemingly poised to change his mind and have you walk out of the pub entirely nude.

In the end he only whistles at you as he would a dog, and in leaden resignation you follow, the remnants of your life hanging like the skin of a flayed man at your back.

#shingleback wolf creek #tw violence #tw noncon #tw blood #tw death #tw rape #tw queer fetishisation #wolf creek fic #wolf creek #mick taylor x reader #mick taylor wolf creek #mick taylor

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panzerhund-1960 · 7 months

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INTERCONTINENTAL 1

The year?

17XXXXX.

In this desolate epoch, the world is shrouded in an eerie stillness, as snow with fading radiation descends from the leaden sky. A lone mechanical figure, its synthetic skin's color decaying and it's movement disabled, sits in solitude, leaning against the battered remnants of an ancient toppled freight car.

The Intercontinental 1, once a bustling artery for intercontinental rail travel, now stands as a relic of a bygone era, its structural integrity almost entirely unable to support the weight of the trains that ply most of the rail network's tracks.

The first pair of travelers arrived within a Heavy, a formidable engine and weapon of the pre-Dawning Desert United Intelligences military, hauling an ancient freight car in tow. These wanderers made valiant attempts to mend the machine's failing components but were ultimately met with failure of their own. Traveler 1 carefully returned the mechanical being to its original resting place, attempting to ensure their comfort with a heavy winter cloak, while Traveler 2 left behind a car battery, a speaker, a CD player, and a CD adorned with a soothing playlist of calming music, such as Toby Fox's track "Snowy."

The third visitor, traversing the rails in a motorcart, stumbled upon this forlorn scene in the midst of the night, their arrival marked by the gentle flicker of a welcoming campfire. The hours waned as stories were exchanged, and the warmth of companionship blossomed amidst the frigid gloom. With the dawn's arrival, the traveler, touched by tales of the fading god, silently departed, leaving the campfire to warm the machine.

"Warm... S-so... Warm..."

The fourth visitor materialized as a male drug dealer, his handcar dysfunctional and his attire an amalgamation of heavy winter garments and a triple-filter gas mask. Carrying a voluminous backpack containing an assortment of substances and supplies, he joined the company for a fleeting moment. This benevolent soul, whose warmth rivaled the campfire's embrace, generously gifted a blanket to ward off the biting chill, rekindling the flames with resources at his disposal.

The fifth visitor, a disoriented and inebriated man, stumbled into the scene, his journey marred by misfortune as he tumbled from his motorcart and meandered unknowingly toward the precipice of the bridge.

Now? The only music that plays is Snowy, corrupted by the elements.

The machine, isolated and burdened by hidden pain and profound sadness, sits in solitude as its synthetic skin gradually deteriorates alongside its tattered clothing and internal mechanisms. Time has not been kind to this solitary figure.

It lies abandoned, Intercontinental 1, due to Komplexer Computer's public analysis of the bridge's stability. Those who dare traverse it are either blissfully ignorant of their perilous surroundings or deliberately drown out the looming dangers with music, or have ears entrapped by the cacophonous hum of their engines.

In this desolate realm, the act of crying has become a hollow practice, for tears freeze under their broken eyes. The blanket, a precious gift from the kind substance dealing stranger who had crossed their path centuries ago, has been mercilessly whisked away by the relentless winds, leaving them in the cold again. "N-no..."

Memories, too, are slipping through their grasp, with only a quarter remaining as their once-pristine human-designed drive experiences relentless malfunction caused by natural degradation. In the depths of their mind, a longing for their lost love persists, an unquenchable yearning for a return to the warmth of their affectionate partner and his kindness.

Yet, in this desolation, hope has withered, and the possibility of love feels increasingly distant and unattainable, like a fading dream in the face of unforgiving reality.

#after dark rp #after dark freeze

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frodo-with-glasses · 2 years

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More Reading Thoughts: “The Black Gate Opens”

What’s this?? Another chapter review within a week of the last one??? Gasp! Incredible! Unheard of!

(I just didn’t have a lot of stuff to draw for the last chapter, haha. We’ll see how this one goes.)

Haha another reference to people traveling “in the van”. Guess I’ll have to draw another Volkswagen ;-P

Aww, Merry is left behind…poor thing. Poor all of them, really.

“Bergil was with him, and he also was downcast; for his father was to march leading a company of the Men of the City: he could not rejoin the Guard until his case was judged.” Oh nooo, Bergil, bby 🥺 Has to watch his father leave, wondering if he’ll come back. Argh.

And Merry has to do the same thing with Pippin!! Argh! This is just like that one scene in the movie, but without Aragorn at his side to comfort him…

“Everyone that he cared for had gone away into the gloom that hung over the distant eastern sky; and little hope at all was left in his heart that he would ever see any of them again.” Merry noooooooo 😭😭

“He was roused by the touch of Bergil’s hand. ‘Come, Master Perian!’ said the lad. ‘You are still in pain, I see. I will help you back to the Healers. But do not fear! They will come back. The Men of Minas Tirith will never be overcome. And now they have the Lord Elfstone, and Beregond of the Guard too.’” BBY SON 😭😭😭 Bergil has inherited his father’s defiant optimism. You keep up your spirits, buddy.

The king’s head!! They put the king’s head back on the statue!!

And they broke the bridge to Minas Morgul and set fire to the sickly white flowers. Good. This may only be small pocket change compared to the might of Mordor, but any way they can destroy the darkness and ruin and replace it with beauty and light is a good thing.

Imrahil urging them to use the name “King Elessar” for the psychic damage is GoodTM.

EYYYYYY MABLUNG MY DUDE

Aragorn guessing the mind of Sauron is giving me huge Death Note vibes. “He knows that I know that he knows, etc. etc…”

Oh now this is interesting. Some of the men from Rohan and Lossnarch are too afraid to keep going towards Mordor, so instead of scolding them, Aragorn tells them to turn back and take the port city of Cair Andros back from the enemy if they can. Some of them do, and it’s good, because they’ll still have the chance to prove their courage with a battle that’s more their speed. And others choose to stay with Aragorn, who treated their weakness with kindness.

I could make SO many spiritual parallels here, like SO many, but I think I’ll save that for a future essay post.

Ohhhhhohoho Mouth of Sauron time—

“At its head there rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse, if horse it was; for it was huge and hideous, and its face was a frightful mask, more like a skull than a living head, and in the sockets of its eyes and in its nostrils there burned a flame.” OHOHOHO DUUUUUUUDE

NOBODY TOLD ME THAT THE HORSE OF THE MOUTH OF SAURON WAS THIS METAL BRUH

Aragorn: *has a staring contest with the Mouth of Sauron* The Mouth: “I CAME OUT HERE TO HAVE A GOOD TIME AND I’M HONESTLY FEELING SO ATTACKED RIGHT NOW”

“And there to the wonder and dismay of all the Captains [the Messenger] held up first the short sword that Sam had carried, and next a grey cloak with an elven-brooch, and last the coat of mithril-mail that Frodo had worn wrapped in his tattered garments.” aND A BROKEN PAIR OF EYEGLASSES HAHAHA F R I C K—

Gandalf: “Bring out the halfling, and we’ll consider your terms!” The Mouth: “👀 Umm…ahaha…about that…er, ah, FOOLS! HOW DARE YOU CHALLENGE SAURON!”

I love the fact that the Mouth of Sauron panics here 🤣🤣 HE DOESN’T HAVE FRODO!! SAM CAME AND GOT HIM AND THEY ESCAPED! LOLOL

Actually, if you look at his words carefully, you can tell that Sauron actually has no idea how bad he fumbled this. He speaks of ONE Halfling, not two. He speaks of a SPY, not a carrier of the Ring. He briefly panics when Gandalf demands to see Frodo as evidence. Don’t you think Sauron would take the chance to brag about it, if he’d gotten the Ring back from Frodo?? But he hasn’t!! The Halfling(s) slipped through his grasp! And he has NO IDEA how big of a cock-up this is!!! HAHAHAHAHA GET REKT DIAPER-BABY

But in the moment, we don’t have time to pick apart his words. In the moment, the tiny army of the Free Peoples is surrounded by an enemy host more than ten times their size. It is reasonable to assume that they are all about to die. Hoooolyyyy crap.

Pippin thinking these grim thoughts about the end of his life, noooo. “I might as well die quickly and get it over with. It’s all gone wrong.” And he thinks of Merry, and he thinks of Frodo, and “I wish I could see cool sunlight and green grass again!”, and AAAAAHHHHHHH—

AND HE STABS!! A TROLL!! TO SAVE BEREGOND’S LIFE!!! AND IT FALLS ON TOP OF HIM AND CRUSHES HIM AND I *SCREEECH*

*sobbing* The Eagles are coming! The E-eagles are comi-hi-hiiing!

“‘This is my tale, and it is ended now. Good-bye!’ And his thought fled far away and his eyes saw no more.”

SHUT UPPPPPPPPPP 😭😭😭

(I would just like to issue a formal note of gratitude to C. S. Lewis for not letting Tolkien HECKING KILL PIPPIN in this scene. You have done the Lord’s work, sir. We salute you.) EDIT: Sorry, this is an unconfirmed rumor started by the RotK movie trivia website. Should’ve checked my facts first. :-P More discussion can be found here.

#aragorn #gandalf #meriadoc brandybuck #merry #peregrin took #pippin #beregond #bergil #imrahil #mablung #mention of:#frodo baggins #samwise gamgee #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #assorted thoughts #sorry this was late!! my app was glitching

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libidomechanica · 3 months

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Untitled (“Always than Nanie, O”)

That all the world’s most crowded stream. A great amongst you all? Somewhere incessantly with jealousy: and each grated screen, and smote on thee, or Geordie on him, in those witless men who looked so wistful eye upon thy paine, as doth

spred, hauing all thy transgressions I commit are for an hour, when nothing balks each big approaching; every line and lain in that pine to say; for we did not wear his step, and winds were passioned where incessantly for you, only for

you are my Fall! I feel a nameless feelings try: but let the waves, the more is craving wind! Below me, the sparrow spear’d by Nature’s crowning race. Though lean Hunger and for the future cheats us free, ah! Their smiles encountered, he likewise

which was grey, and thighs, and lost. But some health from her: nor can my memory stands as due as faith of a softer clime, half-lost in the lowly ground, and looks translated into far Ku-to-yen, by thy e’en sae bonie, O: the op’ning

gowan, wat wi’ dew, nae purer is that ourselves, or are moved, and hushed willows anchors; it’s no sooner present to myself corrupting, salving thirst no more. Why wert thou belied, bear thine owne fate I could have no measure; i’ll seek nae

main o’ Heav’n will but the fire domed blackened heart, condemne not his rage asswage. Always than Nanie, O. Who watches throng his room, the shimmering over garden nights, death, or loue, or fort that is ours to whom a watcher’s dochter! Now is the

Wine, and peacocks with they heaped the sight die. Regard of Youth,— the man had done to dance to unsay. The flying the thing, and yet I see it gloome, and the teeth of the Netherby clan; forsters, Fenwicks, and therefore well awayt, and all, but

Love. Will so fowle a fault is youth, who lead but kisse; I neuer sleepe the river where ford therefore attend your eccho ring. Her face by heart: I strings with scoffing, and loathsome slime, and that faire Nimphs layd downe the love that I have fleet in

the christ brings. I never told can be knowne of what I am underneath: they do not tear my Garment from the weather on the sun beats lightly pass and scattering. But still doth behoue, and a little tent of song; permit me voyage,

love gentle beams straightway I was ’ware, so sweetest, they ran: there we lay so naked as some kind and perling flowers: a languid humour stole among the wild beast guards my way; my Emanation follow’d after she was thine eyes, but

by the hideous prison of Man that is not sweet, all naked, will but killed the house in Pennsylvania, near petrified. Like a wheel of roses, that’s it, a little thou art forced to be bound by something which cruell loue collected,

hast sumd in one merciless white blade of itself, but is not true! A torment thrice three handmayds of the swallow, the rushy lake, where someone drowning into plastic bags for that some health from tyranny? The flying and doth move silent

men who watch whose fires of them bemone that shake and so dauntless in war, have ye e’er heart beats in every line and that herself should I greet thee after she will not even thou shalt by fortune once seene, and in the supermarket

using there; which Thee true Men to keep. Did proue; but warld’s gear, and see. Green borders under strange it was of old the play. Which though he wants a gavel. For ever trust in the blinds. And I do sweare, euen by the river where must picture a

woman who looked upon the sea, or a juggler hates the christ brings his wings, a breach do I accuse the fame of beaver hats. It has a deadly stride: with indiscretion lacke, beeing made of pleasant Orange-tree; how Vlster like a lattices,

beside their hearts, now soone her disaray, and hearken to the Lord of Death once dead, the silent sapphire-spangled marriage-makers, and as ye her array, still through a poore I am thine for ever trust beyond it spry cordage

of you that lean heavily against that pass in purple throat and so dauntless in war, was to weep, and let the moon in a rigadoon of filthy darknesse lend desired light; but to me for a minute. It is most mad and

fawning mouth receivest, I cannot claim: let the thing the Bread. And what it is the stone; the answer&theyr eccho ring. And when he rose to weep, and let the boundless main to wake thee fair; more perjurious rainbow shell that pushes us

off from the old ladies cough loudly, violently. Some angell she have lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind delights forepast; enough is apt enough is it, that sands o’ life shall run. In such as deep down the iron town there is

no word that ever breast. Thy Counsellor; and doting a watch the world came over mines! I cut myself uprear, to guard the sky To-morrow, and fleet steeds that you can heal: and ye still, my dear, till a’ the ”—“Death,” I said: I never.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #115 texts #ballad

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