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skinnyazn · 4 months

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I Will Not Ask and Neither Should You

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 2/3 Notes: inspired by Hozier's Like Real People Do, Jag Backstory unlocked!!!

Part One | Part Three | AO3 | MASTERLIST Why were you digging? / What did you bury Before those hands pulled me / From the earth? I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask and neither should you

___

You were in the kitchen getting water for the both of you when the message came in.

55.7249º N, 37.5541º E. Tuesday, 14:00.

The +7 country code made a cold sweat break over your body. Russia. You didn’t know how the sender got your number, but if it was who you thought, they would have their ways. All you could do was stare at your phone as your heart hammered through your chest.

“Everything al’right?”

You hadn’t even noticed Simon come up behind you.

“Mmhmm,” you managed, passing him a glass of water as you set your phone screen-down on the counter. You lowered your head onto your arms, resting them on the surface to hide your face while you backed your nakedness against the colossus of a man. A raspy grunt was his response.

“Dangerous, Jag,” Simon warned, but closed the gap all the same. He kissed your shoulders and back, setting down the glass of water next to your phone. “Heart’s racin’,” he murmured against your skin as his hands smoothed down to your hips. “Can hear it from ‘ere.”

“You have that effect on me.” It wasn’t a lie—not usually. But at present, the contents of the text message were still etched into your brain. You felt like throwing up.

“Thought you needed a break, luv.”

“Changed my mind,” you tried your best to even your voice, but it still came out shaky.

Ghost’s hands stilled on your hips as he paused. “We don’t ‘ave to—”

“Need you, Simon,” you interrupted, raising your head to look back at him while snaking his tattooed hand up and around your neck.

Dark eyes glinted in the low light, looking at the phone on the counter, then searching yours for a moment—for an out, a reason. But all they found was benediction. He tightened his grip around your throat and kissed you softly.

When your beautiful man was finally asleep, sound and unsuspecting, you hated yourself for exploiting his weaknesses. For knowing that he got sloppy around you in this domestic setting; that he slept deeper—you both did—after a few rounds. That he knew you’d get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or refill your water.

You slipped out of the warm bed, packing as quietly as you could—shoving your life with Simon “Ghost” Riley into your black duffel. Hating yourself more as you scribbled on the back of a receipt and set it down next to his mask.

Something I have to do.

You looked at him one last time—perhaps for the final time. His blonde hair was exposed, his ultimate layer of trust in you; you watched his scared back softly rise and fall as he slept. Numbness ran through your body at stupidity of thinking you’d finally escaped your past. Cut all the ties. That you naively thought you had built something here, too. People in your line of work never get happy endings. Your throat tightened as you slipped through the front door, locking it behind you. Your cab was already gone by the time he woke.

______

Moscow was frigid and covered in a light dusting of snow when you landed. And all those memories of a life left behind seeped back up from their well of suppression on the cab ride to the coordinates. It seemed like a lifetime ago. In a way, it was. There was a split in the road then, where you made a choice. One that lead you to San Francisco and to Kokshetau and to Leeds. One where you chose your life.

Yet here you were, back in the cold and snow—despair growing in the pit of your stomach with each mile passed. You worried your jaguar pendant between gloved fingers.

The cab stilled in front of large bronze doors, now a dull green after centuries of oxidation.

Новодевичье кладбище: Novodevichy Cemetery.

You paid the fare and got out, duffel slung over your shoulder. There were tourists and locals alike visiting the historic cemetery. It made you even more on edge as you entered through the double doors. You were too vulnerable out here in the open.

Checking your watch, you were thirty minutes early, giving you enough time to scope out the location. It calmed you some, passing by the beautiful tombstones and monuments of Russia’s most notable and respected citizens. Anton Chekhov, Vera Mukhina, Lyudmila Gurchenko. Pristine marble and greying stone and wet concrete. It was an odd location for a meeting but you hoped with all the people around you could let your guard down a little. You wandered through the maze of the deceased. But then you saw it: a mound of freshly laid earth and an ornate marble bust. You stopped completely. Felt your heart stuck in your throat and a flush of heat to your face. Your hands went numb as you just stared.

Vladislava Ignatyev.

The thread that lead you to where you were now. In memory you heard the gentle clink of a tea cup and the soft rustling of a maid’s dress.

You’d make a fine spy one day, my beautiful Odette.

That your wish or mine?

Neither. It’s your nature, dear. The same way a fish takes to water or a swan flight.

…

You can give me that look but you know I’m right. You were a caged, pretty little thing when I discovered you. And now you’ve grown majestically into your true nature. Just remember who gave you your wings when you are enjoying your freedom. My door will always be open for you…

The marble bust on the cold floor did the older woman no justice. It failed to capture her elegance and the magnitude of her character. You’d learned so much from her. Vladislava was a woman who silenced a room when she entered, through no other means than just being her. And now she was in the cold ground beneath you. Beauty and stature decaying. You wanted to cry but the tears would not come.

“It’s you…”

The gentle voice snapped you to the present again. Standing across from you was a handsome man, with blonde, wavy hair falling to frame his young face. His blue eyes took you in.

You inhaled deeply. “Dimitri.”

He smiled and you felt a tightness in your chest.

“I…I was not sure you would come.” Low chatter from the other visitors passing by filled the silence as you took each other in. His smile grew wider. “You look so different, and yet exactly how I remember you.”

“And you’ve grown,” you found yourself returning the smile slightly. Dimitri shifted on his feet, like he wanted to take your hand like he used to, but knowing that too much time had passed. You continued, “Surprised you even recognized me.”

He looked at you kindly and chuckled. “You weren’t always in ballet attire, my lisIchka. The short hair suits you though.”

You ran your gloved fingers through your choppy hair, recalling the muscle memory that had sleeked it into a taught bun countless times in the past—not a flyway in sight. Streamline. Efficient. Orderly. Your true nature.

Dimitri stepped around the grave so that he was facing it too, the both of you staring at the bust on the floor.

“We were just kids, then, weren’t we?”

You hummed. “You more-so.” You sucked in a breath. “When did she pass?”

“Last week. A stroke. It was so sudden—she had been in perfectly good health," his voice wavered slightly. “I was the one who found her in her bed in the morning. She just looked like she was sleeping...”

The statue’s hollowed eyes stared into nothingness. You had to look away, so you looked up at Dimitri. “I owe your mother a lot. I… I’m sorry I never came back,” you paused, studying the side of his face. He must be twenty six now—a decade gone in the blink of an eye; all those memories of the two of you when you were younger filtered back. You steadied your breath. “But I had to experience the world for myself.”

The younger man turned to you. “I understand. Never could keep you caged. No one could.”

You smiled but it didn’t meet your eyes. Nostalgia was a deceiver.

Dimitri cleared his throat. “There is another reason I asked you here, though. Something I have for you. From Vladislava.”

He reached into his wool peacoat and procured a long velvet box. Hesitating, you reached for the it, staring at the plain box in your hands before opening it.

It was the necklace that Vladislava had worn the night you first met: a massive canary diamond choker, surrounded by ornate gold and diamonds. You recalled the burning in your legs as you took your closing bow for the Vaganova Ballet Academy, peering into the crowd and seeing a glint of yellow among the blur of the audience. She’d come to you after, as you were removing all the feathers and makeup backstage. Introduced herself. You had no idea her influence at the time; you were only eighteen. But soon you were living with her. Wandering her massive estate with Dimitri. Being her eyes and ears at events with the most affluent; sometimes the most corrupt as well. Learning all you could from her as you started down a completely different path than when you first moved to Russia.

The significance of the necklace wasn’t lost on you as you stared down at the gorgeous piece. You closed the box quietly.

“I can’t take this, Dima,” you passed the box back to him, but he didn’t move. He just looked down at you, fondness in his eyes at the familiarity of his moniker. He wrapped his hands over yours.

“I'm afraid you don’t have a choice, lisIchka. It was in her will.” His hands stayed for a moment, then fell back to his side.

You simply stared at the box.

“You know,” he said softly, moving slightly closer to you, “there’s always a place for you here. In Moscow. At our home.”

And for a moment, the sun peaked through the grey day, alighting Dima’s golden hair. But when you looked at him, all you saw was Simon and his flat and the rain and his warmth. You gave a sad smile.

“Ah,” he said, understandingly.

You reached out and took his hand, running your gloved-thumb over his knuckles. “In another life, perhaps.”

He squeezed back. “I’ll look for you, then.”

You heart hurt at the whole situation. Vladislava was a force, now extinguished. And a childhood crush had clearly become something more. You held onto him for a while longer, then finally let go of his hand.

“Well, you must be exhausted from your travels,” Dima looked around. The oppressive sky was continuing to lighten. “To be honest I wasn’t sure you would even come, but I reserved a room for you at the Kempinski anyway. Stay as long as you need.”

You tucked the box into you jacket and looked at the younger man one last time, reaching up to touch his face. “Thank you for everything, Dima.” He leaned into your caress. “Take care of yourself.”

“And you.”

You gave a final glance at the grave, then left, not looking back. ______

Dima bb we're so sorry T^T Thanks for the wait, one more chapter to go! if you'd like to be (un)tagged for updates let me know! @deadbranch @solidly-indulgent @aalxrose @dotcie

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tlbodine · 3 years

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So I Tried Feeding Some Horror to an AI, and it Didn’t Like It

A friend sent me this link to play with: https://app.inferkit.com/demo

You can feed this bot a short passage of text, and it’ll try to complete it. I figured I’d start with a couple lines from my current WIP:

By the time Silas had finished with his morning stroll — blessedly solitary this time, with no more surprises on the shore — and emerged fully dressed and freshly shaved from the bathroom, Moira was up and decent. She had changed into proper clothes and done her hair, although she’d been lazy with the makeup. She was now happily wearing a long blue dress with three-quarter sleeves and a deep V-neck. The choice of clothing was a change from the casual cardigans and jeans she’d been wearing for the past week, but it was still not what she’d considered to be appropriate for what she had in mind.

“You’re thinking the same as me,” he announced, arching his eyebrows.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I can’t imagine why.”

“Good. I don’t want to be overwhelmed by all the cliches.”

The bold text is what I submitted, the rest was provided by the AI. It seems this AI has romance on the brain. I do enjoy that self-awareness about cliches. But okay, fine, it’s confused about the wider context, that’s not playing fair. Let’s give it something horrifying to look at:

If I hadn't had so many photographs in front of me to compare, I might not have recognized him. His flesh was sallow and waxy, pulled tight over his skull. His sunken eyes were dark and empty, his lips peeled back from yellow teeth. Most of his nose was missing; in its place was an ugly gash, twin jagged holes like something had gnawed off the skin and plucked out its cartilage.

Gambier's first victim, on 9 July 2011. An autopsy revealed scars on his legs suggesting that he'd had an amputation at some point. | Center for Investigative Reporting

Gambier had pulled up a corner of the sheet, exposing his chest, where he had a tiny, smoldering ember of a cigarette between his index and middle finger, or perhaps between his middle and ring fingers. It was the same sort of cigarette that he'd been lighting when the paramedics had arrived, but

Interesting. I give it a zombie, it gives me back a coroner’s report. I’m also very amused by the fixation on Gambier’s cigarette, here. I wouldn’t recommend smoking under a sheet, buddy. And which fingers were you holding it between exactly? And if you’re killing people why are you still smoking at the crime scene after? I have many questions.

But, fine. Let’s try something else? How about a bit from The Hound?

Having eaten his fill, the dog turned away from the corpse. He turned, moving easier now, his body as loose and languid as smoke. In two easy strides, the dog passed Nat and into the yard beyond. He smelled of sulfur and the sick-sweet scent of decay.

It was a smell that made even the boy shiver. The dog stretched, then followed the path out of the yard, taking its time over his leaving.

***

Charlie closed the door and looked around the kitchen. Something about it reminded him of his time in the hospital with his mom, but it wasn't just that. There was something in that kitchen, some life, that lent it a weird familiarity. Something more than the same old one wall, same old floor, same old counters. Something that wasn't quite the same,

Now, this is interesting. The AI seems to have picked up that there should be something weird/uncanny/creepy, but it can’t figure out what to do with the dog or any of the other set pieces in play so it just strong-armed it into a new narrative instead.

What if I make it witness a murder?

Her mouth hung open, pulled into a slack "o" of surprise, and her eyes went wide. Confusion flared, then her gaze hardened, went glassy and distant. Dark blood gurgled out from between her lips, and her knees went weak, collapsing out from under her. But she did not fall. Instead, she stayed in place, weightless now, suspended like a fish on the ebb and flow of the tide.

I sat up. "How... how long have I been out?"

Tamsin's voice was a mere rasp, a barely audible whisper. She still looked about a million years old, though. Her brown hair was knotted into knots at her nape and shoulders, and her skin had taken on an ashen grey tinge. "Um...," I said.

"It has been five minutes since I last gave you medical treatment," said the old woman. "Five minutes, since you last ate or drank, five minutes, since you last laid down on a

There’s a lot going on here. The AI’s just going to skip right over the part at the beginning, and I have a lot of questions about the paragraph it offered me. Intrigued by this Tamsin figure with her knotty-knotted hair and ashy skin; more intrigued by the narrator’s apparent short-term-memory loss. If you can’t remember eating five minutes ago your head trauma is probably pretty bad, homeboy.

But fine, fine, maybe the murder wasn’t explicit enough...

From the ground, it was easy to see how the trap had been laid. A deadfall rigged to the door. When the door opened, swinging outward, it triggered the pendulum free-fall of the weighted axe, the sharpened blade of which was now buried deep in the back of Abby's skull. The shadow slowly vanished back into the room behind them. One last scream cut through the air, wavering in and out of existence like a confused cloud before it finally came to an end.

All of the sounds were now drowned out by a sort of loud and low rumbling that sounded like an earthquake. The floor and walls of the room started moving, the dust in the air raising up slowly as it became apparent to Red that they were no longer trapped. All that they could do now was watch.

The Shadow

Well, hey, that’s progress. The AI figured out we’re writing a scary thing! I think. I do love “wavering in and out of existence like a confused cloud.” I also enjoy that they are no longer trapped, yet all they can do is watch. I feel like if I discovered that I was no longer trapped, I would want to run, but that’s just me.

Anyway. I don’t think this AI very much likes my murders :(

Give it a try to see if you fare any better. Reblog with your best AI-completed passage, if you want!

#writing #funnies #AI #fun with artificial intelligence #good times #horror #my writing

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macdonvlds · 5 years

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tarot cards spread beneath trembling fingers, bubblegum and cigarette breath, never speaking a wish out loud for fear it won’t come true, knuckles whitening around a steering wheel as you slam on the brakes, laughing till your throat is raw, shimmering eyeshadow and flowing skirts rimmed in mud, only catching your breath on the roof, wilting daisies in empty firewhiskey bottles, oversized hoop earrings, ice cream dripping sticky-sweet down your wrist, looking your mother in the eyes when you lie. ┊ if you’re looking for MARY MACDONALD, you’ll probably find HER in the GRYFFINDOR dorm with the rest of the SEVENTH years. they’re the TWENTY year old MUGGLEBORN who looks kind of like MEDALION RAHIMI. they seem INQUISITIVE, COMPASSIONATE, VIVACIOUS to me, but apparently they’re also ESCAPIST, DEPENDENT, FLIGHTY. maybe that’s why their patronus is A HUMMINGBIRD. ( cis female & she / her )

mary macdonald was born maryam madani, to an iranian mother who wasn’t expecting her, but loved her nonetheless. zahra madani came to england for what was supposed to be graduate school, but instead turned into a surprise pregnancy with an english boyfriend who didn’t stick around very long after zahra told him she was pregnant

it took zahra a while to finish grad school with a newborn baby but she did it !!! we stan a queen. eventually started her own private psychology practice in birmingham

a single, immigrant iranian mother raising her daughter in 1960s england ?? that’s tough bro ! madani became macdonald, zahra became sarah, and maryam became mary in order to make mary’s childhood as seamless as possible

but even so, mary was always different as a child in ways her mother couldn’t explain

spoiler: it’s cause she’s a witch

mary always was kind of an awkward loner as a child. it meant she studied a lot tho !! lil baby nerd spent all her afternoons at the library cause her mother was working and it was cheaper than paying for childcare

wow tb to when mary was good at school... #spoileralert

anyways and then they found out that hey ! mary was a witch ! whoa

so she started at her semi-local wizarding school super excited n then found out that everyone else already knew so much more than her.... she just felt so behind and dumb and very discouraged yanno

plus she was far from home for the first time !!! she missed her mom !! homesick bb

when she went to hogwarts she was like. fuck this i’m reinventing myself. i’m gonna be the Fun And Exciting one

so she was always the class clown, wore a lot of badly applied makeup, goofed off in class and hiked her skirt up a few inches shorter, spread rumours about herself to make herself more interesting, talked loudly and made inappropriate jokes and got drunk on school nights

she liked attention and liked being liked

she bases her self-worth on how other people view her..... girl thats Unhealthy but idk she does it anyway

was ofc getting flak for being muggleborn but she kind of put on a v carefree attitude to hide it

obviously her grades were slipping but she kept on that who cares attitude, and at home told her mom that p meant perfect

as the years passed, she felt more and more like an impostor, searching for her passion and her place in the wizarding world, flitting from friend to friend and fling to fling, quitting different clubs and joining another

but idk as loud and crass and aimless as she could be .... she never rly had a bad word to say about people ? she always believed in the best possible version of other people

SCARS TW / until she woke up one day in fifth year, eighteen years old, in the hospital wing with jagged white scars running along her side and across her chest, and no memory of how they got there / END TW

madam pomfrey told her she’d been attacked and was found unconscious and badly hurt in the third floor hallway. but whether it was the result of a spell, or the trauma, or because she was under the influence, mary has no memories of the night

the rumours all point to mulciber, and she chooses to believe it because it’s not like she has a better idea

the week before her attack, her divination professor told her there was danger approaching. at the time, mary brushed it off with a laugh and an eye roll, but she fixated on it afterwards

now idk she’s really into divination ? it’s one of the few things she takes seriously. she always has her pack of tarot cards on her. her line of thinking is that if magic is possible, why can’t divination be possible ? it’s kind of a coping mechanism i guess. she needs something to lean on, something to believe with all the uncertainty in her life

she knows she’s a cliche and a cautionary tale but she doesn’t know how to be anything but

she’s not super happy rn but listen that just means there’s room for character growth

ok that was a rambly mess but um ya ? come plot with me

#epoch.intro

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