forgottengun

[forgottengun]

Hey y’all! I miss all of you a whole heck of a lot. Been busy with college since (and this is the exciting part) I’m in my last semester and will graduate in May! I really want to try and be here and write since you’ve all been so wonderful and welcoming and delightful. I also really want to finish updating his verses page so I can get to writing with more of you. So this is just my way of letting y’all know I may be a little sparse until May 29th when I graduate because I have my senior project and portfolio to finish up before I finish for the semester (plus portfolio reviews the week before but no pressure right?).

In the meantime, I can be found on disc.ord and love chatting/writing! Feel free to add me over at  ghastly fare-theft#9071  but please send me a message letting me know who you are okay? Hope you have a beautiful morning/lovely night lovelies! ♡♡♡

[forgottengun]

which member of your otp says “no” right after the other takes a deep breath

[forgottengun]

☞ . for @peacefulapostle [ 5/5 ] cause happy birthday paul; bioshock flavor.

constants and variables.

when he comes to, he is standing with the help of a man whose face he knows, has known, will know. they stand together on an endless walkway winding and curving but always ALWAYS there is a lighthouse.

“ funny how we always come back here isn’t it? ” 

the man’s voice is soft, blue eyes warm and kind, while issac looks around and finds himself looking from other paths. there he sees himself as gladiator joined with a man dressed in lavish white robes lined with deep purple. a little further he is dressed in furs and leather and chainmail with his hand held by a man dressed in simple robes of earthen color. hell, he even spies himself wearing a cowboy hat and the man joined by him is dressed as a priest. when he looks back at the man, there is an understanding of sorts, a quiet sense of belonging he feels bone deep.

“ we do? ”

fingers reach out, smoothing down his arm and he watches it ripple outward. he sees himself donned in a mask, older, far more tired, setting aside his bow and arrow. it isn’t hard to see in the distance how this man at his side has an effect upon him. each different and yet— his eyes flutter close when those fingers smooth along his cheek, coaxing his eyes away from an endless sea and endless lighthouses. forehead to forehead, he wonders how they’ve found their way here from columbia and searching for the man’s brothers as he was hired to do.

it feels inevitable and familiar all at once when the man kisses him.

the answer to a question finally surfaces, finally slips free as a sigh on those lips. his hands frame the face he remembers, he knows, better than his own. “ paul, ” blue eyes watch as those features light up, as that smile tugs at some long buried ache in his bones. “ your name is paul. ” when the other man’s laughter slips out on his tongue, feather light and fond, he finds himself stepping closer with his hands falling to frame those hips he’s felt, he remembers, and has never touched before now like this. issac doesn’t need to look to know almost instinctively that there are echoing footfalls across the paths, resounding in their certainty of following paul where he leads them.

“ yes, and you are issac. you always were, always will be. ”

fingers touch his lips, as if curious and longing with the familiar unfamiliarity of his breath, his tongue, his mouth parted and teeth leaving little nips across the pads. looking in those eyes it feels easy to drown, to slip under sense and reason. those hands hold him above water and lure him closer, closer, closer. issac is almost startled when the lighthouse is solid and real beneath his fingertips and paul is caught between it and the solid weight of his body.

“ i want you, want to know you, and yet— “

“ you already do and you never have. ”

issac nods, chasing down a memory of touch and feeling paul’s fingers along his jaw. it has him looking away from the endless ocean stretching out beyond, his gaze softening as those fingers settle along his shoulders. paul’s lips press slow along his cheek, breath fluttering against the shell of his ear and nearly coaxing a shudder  as issac lets himself be pulled to the door of the lighthouse. “ wait, “ his fingers take hold of paul’s waist, pulling him back to the empty horizons and dark black sea beneath their feet. how could he not take in the sight of it, of seemingly endless lighthouses and the silhouette of two people finding each other in the twilight.

“ how will i find you paul? ”

paul’s hand is at his cheek, turning his face back towards soft eyes and that look of quiet understanding. issac finds himself touching him once more, fingers lacing together over his cheek. “ you will, ” the man promises him, voice nearly a whisper as issac kisses his palm. issac doesn’t fight this time when those hands lead him away from the setting moonlight and into the darkness. paul’s words are warm on his lips and they are swallowed up in the emptiness as the door clicks shut.

“ you always have. always will. ”

ISSAC OPENS HIS EYES.

there is soft music in the air, a melody haunting and familiar. his lungs burn as he gasps awake and feels cold sweat on his skin. fingers press to his chest as if to slow his hammering heart down. it was the same dream for weeks now, the same blue eyes, the same lighthouse. the same man looking at him as if he knew him, saw his soul, and found that he loved the ragged tattered thing held in his hands. it was an eerie feeling, like remembering a part of himself he had forgotten after sleeping too long.

pulling the cigarettes from his nightstand, he sits up, tapping the pack against the heel of his palm and flipping the top open with a sigh. holding the cigarette between his lips, it’s simple as snapping his fingers to light it. he was no closer to finding answers about the kidnappings lately, how people were vanishing from hope central and a name kept surfacing like a broken song the deeper he looked; seed. yet no one knew where the seed family was, where they lived, and if they were even real.

ash is flicked to the floorboards as he shoves the sheets aside, bare feet silent as he makes his way to the sink. scratching at the back of his neck, issac sighs smoke and chases away the memory of hands on his body and haunting blue eyes. he’s about to start the shower, cold, better to let him think, when there’s a soft knock at his door. a groan is uttered, his cigarette put on the porcelain rim of his sink and tucked behind an ear for later. issac is tired, doesn’t think about making himself decent beyond pulling on pants and slipping suspenders over his shoulders.

when he opens the door, he nearly freezes.

blue eyes and a sad gentle smile. he knows his name and has never met him before yet he’s known him biblically for months. he knows the places on the man’s body that makes him moan, makes his eyes roll back and toes curl. he has tasted his sweat, his cum, licked tears from his cheeks and felt him shake apart. yet he’s never heard his voice beyond the half-remembered dreams.

“ ah, mister morgan, is this a bad time? ”

“ n - no. you’re — it’s fine. ”

a confused little smile is offered, as if amused at how flustered issac gets in stepping to the side and letting him inside. he smells like he does in his dreams, like a piece of wilderness trapped in old heartwood. it’s heady, has his heart racing, and issac fumbles with closing the door as he gestures for the man to follow him towards his desk. of course he moves gracefully, issac isn’t surprised, he does shrug on a shirt though and fumbles with the buttons as he takes a seat with him. those blue eyes have him feeling restless and he’s pulling his half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear. god he feels crazy.

snapping his fingers, the tip lights once more and smoke begins to curl lazily.

“ what can i help you with, mister — “

“ oh! i’m sorry, my name is paul seed. ” issac knows he’s staring and he’s waiting for the punchline. for the part where those familiar hands pull him into shadow and he wakes up shaken to his core. paul doesn’t seem to notice as he smiles politely and folds his hands in his lap, continuing speaking soft enough to make the hair raise at the back of issac’s neck.

“ i want you to help me find my family. ”

he thinks of the lighthouses, of the overwhelming feeling in his chest. he can’t help but think of how he loves this man he knew, will know, and has never met before this one moment. issac breathes out smoke and swears he still tastes the memory of fingers in his mouth. paul is patient, waiting for him with a hopeful little smile. it feels a bit like deja vu when issac nods and offers his hand.

“ i’ll do it, but call me issac, mister seed. ”

paul’s laughter has his breath catching, his hand is warm as he reaches across the desk fingers sliding into his palm as if they’ve been here before a thousand times.

“ only if you call me paul. ”

issac laughs and feels satisfied when those cheeks warm.

“ always. ”

[forgottengun]

“ Everyone knows all about my direction–

                   And in my heart somewhere I wanna go there

Still I don’t go there.”

Independent Kayce Dutton from Yellowstone.

Penned by Adrien.

Established September 2018.

[forgottengun]

                                                   MUSES

[forgottengun]

practices the rpc needs to Collectively Get Back Into:

commenting on peoples’ posts, threads, art, graphics, etc. just telling them that you see it and that it looks good / is entertaining / etc.  –  because content creators can’t read your mind and  as nice as it’d be for us to always serve ourselves with our work  …  realistically we will lose motivation to continue creating without some kind of support.  if you like something then say so !!

sending each other’s muses messages about muses they’re talking to or characters from their canon and just generally getting actively involved in the narratives other people create  &  encouraging those people to discuss them

asking people random questions about their characters without fear that it’s too outlandish, provided the question isn’t invasive or rude

sending honest, heartfelt notes of positivity and making loveposts about other creators and the work they do.  not chainmail, not lazy generic shit, but real kindness, in our Own Words

drawing people fanart of their characters / ships / OCs !!  please !!  really !!  i don’t know when that  EVER  became something people grew too nervous to do !!  most people  ADORE  it.  even if it’s just fucking stick figures, man, i  PROMISE  you that taking the time and putting in the effort to show someone that the work they do inspired the work you do will make their whole fucking day

telling !!  each other !!  that !!  we’re !!  doing !!  good !!  jobs !!

being  NICE  to each other  OPENLY  and  FOR NO REASON  with  NO PROMPTING

making sure other people feel included in discord servers, roleplay groups, groupchats, multi-way threads, art trades, events, and just.  like.   overall

acknowledging !!  each other’s !!  art !!  metas !!  threads !!  worldbuilding !!  and !!  style !!  PLEASE !!  PEOPLE !!  DONT !!  KNOW !!  YOU !!  LIKE !!  THEM  !!  IF !!  YOU !!  SAY !!  NOTHING !!

and  NOBODY  with  ANY  goddamn sense is  EVER  going to react negatively to you Just Being Fucking Nice so stop worrying about doing that !!   PLEASE !!!!!

[forgottengun]

☞ . for @peacefulapostle [ 4/5 ] cause happy birthday paul; far cry/new dawn flavor.

issac was a patchwork of a man made and remade by others.

john broke him, jacob repurposed him, but paul? paul was the first to see the broken edges of his soul and instead of branding him, snapping him further, he reached into his chest and took his heart with a gentle smile.

“ there you are. ” 

the herald spoke, his joy earnest and palpable. issac felt tears sting the corners of his eyes, a wave of pain and anguish and displaced rage choking the breath from his lungs. paul does not judge when he HOWLS, crying out late that night and sobbing as it all comes rushing back raw through his senses. paul tells him later, washing sweat from his brow, that it was hard coming out of trauma like that. a part of him is caught there, the loyal soldier twisted into loyal dog. somehow, the line blurs with each touch, each day spent together in quiet solace issac recovers a part of himself that slipped through his fingers as john and jacob molded him.

how tragic that he should be the judas.

they are far from the same when they meet again, held in john’s bunker. issac has let his rage and his fury guide him the past few weeks when he learned that paul was taken in some belief that a name was all that was needed to warrant capture. how foolish were they? how naive? the resistance were worse than john and jacob had ever been in that one blinding furious moment. they knew of paul’s INNOCENCE and yet — ! when issac sees the limp, the subtle grimace paul hides so carefully on his features, all at once the soldier, no, the dog, feels vindicated in sinking his fangs in so deeply. those the deputy hadn’t killed were left cold at his feet as he combed through one whitetail hideout after the next in search of answers.

where was paul seed?

it was a well worn prayer, a mantra broken only by screams. and now the apostle answers with his eyes heavy with disappointment and fingers white at the head of his cane. here. here was paul seed, the herald of the father, the healer of the lost, the savior of the outcast and the broken. issac could imagine half a dozen titles that fit him and while he did not find faith in joseph’s words, in faith’s blind trust, in any of the seeds’ teachings there is a  truth in those fingers that alight to his cheek tenderly cradling his jaw. issac feels it again, eyes burning and breath shallow and fast. here he would worship.

here issac throws himself to paul’s feet, fingers twisted around a calm and breath rattling out broken and warbling with each cry. “ i don’t deserve to be forgiven, NOT FOR THIS. ” let him be tossed to the judges, ripped apart. he remembers jacob’s fingers in his hair, along his jaw as he choked on his own blood and was taught anew. ‘you don’t deserve a second chance MAGGOT, you betrayed him and you betrayed your purpose.’ but amongst john, jacob, and even faith, they never got further than voicing a promise to kill him if a thought of harming paul crossed his mind. they didn’t know then, they had no clue how deep his devotion ran. that he could curse the father if paul asked it of him, he would set the world on fire for him and feel nothing but relief at being given purpose once more.

fingers card through his hair, the cane hits the ground with a too loud clatter. he is crying, but paul is holding him close, letting him twisting his fingers roughly into the fabric at his back. issac falls apart in those hands, face a mess of snot and tears and drying blood as paul soothes him, carding his fingers through his hair and whispering soothing things as if he has a right to be COMFORTED. the trust between them is broken, held together as threads made of promises and prayer. it takes time to rebuild and renew and god help him, issac tries to do what he can to earn back the right to be looked at with such warmth.

each night is a fresh prayer branded upon flesh, renewed devotion shown in the way he yields to those hands. paul whispers and cries and sobs his name like a mantra as his hands write psalms in the hollows of his bones. pleasure is a balm and issac finds himself desperate for it at those hands. his heart is given words once, late at night with only the stars and the fields of cascade as witness. issac stands barefoot at Paul’s side, his loyal shadow.

“ … i don’t remember a time i didn’t love you, paul. ”

how tragic that the world would descend into fire the coming night.

when the bombs fall, issac is uncertain if paul still lives or not. by all rights he should be dead as well but it was a miracle that he had found shelter in jacob’s bunker alongside a few living survivors of hope county. it feels as though a lifetime has passed in the bunker and through it he holds fast to his affection, lets it sustain him where the fractures of his mind begin to show. it feels as though his mind slips away before he can stop the past from catching up. it becomes easier to bury the soldier and become mere purpose. who could think to survive without a heart? a man could die, could be ripped to pieces, and yet with the remnants of jacob’s militia he found his calling.

the revenant didn’t care for sides, only justice to be carried out.

would paul be delighted? ashamed? issac found outcasts amongst the rubble and did his best to try and rebuild something new. it was never much, just a small nomadic tribe. how carefully he protected them, trained them. but old habits could never be broken, no, he would find himself in the ruins of cascade planting flowers and attempting to make it what his memory recalled so long ago. he sees a robed figure this time, wreathed in shadows and stepping silently with a bow and arrow.

would paul be PLEASED if he killed this man?

and what would he do then, after having lunged, after bringing his knife to the man’s throat if the man was not just a man but his own heart? issac feels frozen when he hears his own name for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. paul’s voice is still so soft but his eyes— they have changed. fingers press slow, soft, along his cheek and he is disarmed, left trembling. and there, there is the soft heart of him beneath the cold malice taken root in paul’s gaze. how easily the revenant bends to the fallen herald. how easily he steals the breath from his lungs.

and if he kisses fresh scars and makes love to paul amidst the skeleton of cascade would paul hate him for it?they lay amongst the wildflowers, hand in hand and stare up at the stars. it is issac that breaks the silence with a small smile, a tired kind of laugh. he finds humor in the impossibility of his words.

“ when we die, i hope we end up just like this in a field full of stars.”

[forgottengun]

☞ . for @peacefulapostle [ 3/5 ] cause happy birthday paul; modern flavor.

new york was a beast of a different kind.

issac knew it wasn’t easy to cut into the underbelly of it, but fuck if his hands weren’t bloody every night.

his boss, a man with a family large as his wallet, was eager to put his enemies to rest in a way that a few well placed bullets would fix. hell if that didn’t say something to the nature of the city issac didn’t know. he’s the bastard of a waitress killed in a hit gone wrong and hell if the old man pulling his leash weren’t eager to remind him of his place. so maybe that’s why he’s in a foul mood when he goes to the club that night working on his third cigarette and listening to james tell him about some drugged up twink that worked his dick so good he thought he’d pass out. a scoff slips free, issac is about to tell james off, his gaze raking the crowd for some pretty girl to take home for the night.

but the words die in his throat when he catches sight of pretty blue eyes.

“ yeah yknow what jamie, go have fun jerking what’s his name off, i got plans. ” issac pats the other man on the shoulder, ignoring the inevitable protests rising up. and sure his plans had been to get wasted, get laid, and fill the night with something good enough to make him feel something other than numbing rage. so it leads him to a little bakery down the street, following those pretty blue eyes without second thought. james is an afterthought as he dips inside, the bell chiming soft, and he looks around before finally spotting the other man again.

he’s got long hair pulled up in a messy bun and the kind of face that makes you think there’s nothing but a heart of gold in his chest. but fuck if he isn’t beautiful, hauntingly, and when issac meets those eyes again he feels a slow smile quirk his lips in response. he should have walked away, just walked out, because there is a sinking feeling that this man will be the death of him. oh how sweetly paul blushes when issac compliments him, when the criminal offers a hand and a charming smile.

“ issac. ”

those fingers slide so easy into his hands and he knows those blue eyes will break his HEART.

“ paul. ”

it doesn’t surprise him that they end up back in paul’s apartment chasing down kisses with gasping breath. something about those hands has issac falling into bed with him faster than the last girl he’d taken back to his place. paul is ripping open his shirt in a way that has him groaning because he’s never had someone want him so fiercely from first hello but the attraction was like embers on lighter fluid. his hands are on paul’s hips, tugging and pulling free his shirt as his mouth falls to the man’s neck. it was worth a shirt to hear those breathy pleas for MORE and feel the way paul’s fingers wound into his hair. he’s only momentarily apologetic when he kicks paul’s bedroom door close.

what surprises him is how in the morning he doesn’t pull away. paul’s arm is draped over his chest and his face is soft from sleep. instead he turns and curls a little closer with his hand settling at the small of his back. it was dangerous, his head was howling, warning him to RUN to get out.

like some self-fulfilling prophecy, when he’s got paul on his sheets a week later issac has to take a moment to breathe. because paul is naked, laid out like a goddamn masterpiece across black satin sheets, with his face flushed and hair fanned out like a halo. the man looks like some saint ready to be defiled by the hands of some kind of demon. when paul spreads his legs in offering, issac’s mouth goes dry and he nearly lunges forward to DEVOUR the heat of his mouth. licking and biting, he’s got those legs up over his shoulders when he looks at paul and breathes out raggedly, utterly ruined, utterly LOST.

“ you don’t even know how fucking beautiful you are. ”

there is color on those cheeks and issac traces it with the pads of his thumbs. what surprises him is how easily he lets paul shove him back onto the bed. how easily he looks up at paul from the thighs framing his face now and parts his lips in silent offer. hands smooth along those trembling thighs and his eyes flutter close when paul begins to use his mouth in earnest, choked strangled noises filling the apartment. issac lets him. he takes and he takes and he takes. paul cries out, shaking and falling apart and falls back onto the inky darkness of cool sheets, trembling as pleasure threatens to drown him.

and oh how DEVILISH issac smiles.

he licks cum from his mouth and follows paul, lets those hands coax him close as his fingers worship the curves of that quaking body. “ i got you baby, ” hoarse growled words pair with soft kisses littered across paul’s face. issac’s hand drops to the wet length of his softening cock, squeezing free that last little bit alongside a delicious whimper that he chases down with a pleased sigh. paul’s hands are restless along his body, touching and feeling every inch with growing hunger. there’s a bite at paul’s neck and issac’s fingers stay curled possessive around his cock until paul is squirming, BEGGING, “ i can’t, it’s too sensitive. ” an answering chuckle slips free and strong hands instead heft paul up the bed, leaving him exposed and shivering.

issac licks his fingers clean and lets paul’s legs drape over his shoulders as he sinks down to devour him once more. his guide is in the way paul’s fingers tug and pull, the feeling of toes curling along his spine. “ oh fuck, ” paul gasps, pleading with god and with issac in a string of whining breath, “ right there, oh fuck your tongue - ! ” when his jaw aches, his fingers slip in wet and messy, working deep enough to find that little spot that has his beautiful lover quaking as he grins against a spasming thigh. those blue eyes are blissed out, rolling back when a soundless cry rips free.

“ that’s it BABY… ”

and maybe he should have left, but it would mean missing the soft way paul kisses him after they fuck like this, after issac rips him apart and licks up every raw nerve and paul touches him like he means something more than a loaded gun put to purpose. paul is panting, sweat glistening on his skin, and issac licks a path up to his mouth savoring the whimpering pleased sigh the other man lets loose. he tastes those dangerous words, all three of them, in the way paul presses closer almost needy to be held.

issac doesn’t think he’s strong enough to leave, he doubts he ever was.

he closes his eyes, lets paul coil up close and winds his fingers through wild strands of hair. a quiet kiss is placed at his temple and he can feel the telltale breath of when paul falls asleep. issac manages a small smile, amused in a fond way that has his chest aching. so he whispers to him, he wraps him up in dark sheets and drags him a little closer.

“ happy birthday paul. ”

[forgottengun]

nobody: nobody at all: me: did you know that even the movie that helped inspire my portrayal of issac (and what i pay homage to with his alias) even shows that he drinks his respect women juice so deeply it almost gets him killed in the end when dealing with a cult lead by woody harrelson?

[forgottengun]

☞ . for @peacefulapostle [ 2/5 ] cause happy birthday paul; yee haw flavor.

it is a balmy summer night.

there is blood in his mouth and the preacher responsible is looking at him with WILD eyes.

issac knows devotion, it fuels his revenge and his desire for retaliation. he knows faith half as well, because wasn’t that what got him in this damn situation to begin with? having blind faith in a father that was there when it never counted then absent when it did. maybe that was where he was damned, having morgan blood in his veins and now issac cannot help but wonder if that made paul a little damned too with that same blood now on his hands.

“ damn you, issac, god damn you.”

whiskey made demons of them all, even a man as passionate as paul. it made sense now why james had come for him in a hurry. because who could dare to stand between the man and his own righteous fury when face to face with the killers at their feet. albright has frankie under an arm when he sees the moment something in the gentle preacher snaps. because issac has STOLEN from him the chance to become a killer by putting a bullet in each man without hesitation. his jaw aches, paul’s look hurts worse, and he spits blood to the side into the dust.

the world had devolved the moment the men at his feet uttered something in cruel laughter about how easy it was to string up those SEED brothers but lord how the sister squirmed. it happened quick as breathing, easy as it too. paul was amidst them, reaching for the gun georgie carried while the two were cornered by five large bodies. the preacher’s finger was on the trigger but james and issac were quicker, far more familiar with the ease that comes with killing often. georgie is the first to move, the first to grab paul and take her gun back from his hands only for him to shake her free and stare at issac with something close to hellfire. least he reckons that’s what it is, the way those blue eyes BURN with wild rage. the rest of the gang moves without being told, georgie taking the reins when issac spares her a nod.

it’s just them and the dead.

paul’s hand rises to strike him once more, his temper pure in that one blind moment. issac catches his wrist and steps over the bodies at their feet to slam the preacher back to the wall he’d been cornered. “ yeah? ” oh how his words hiss out, his gaze narrows, “ that your professional opinion then? ”

how he would take the rage and the hurt compared to letting paul dirty his hands with MURDER. issac would let the preacher damn his soul over and over if it meant never seeing him pull the trigger. his fingers are twisted up in black holy cloth and he can taste the whiskey on paul’s breath. forehead to forehead, issac looks over those lips and watches the way that tongue darts out between panting breathes. paul grabs him just as fiercely, just as rough. they are twined together pressed in rage and nameless tension against the worn wood panels of the general store.

“ damn you. ”

paul’s words are sweet damnation, a test of issac’s devotion in the way those fingers dig in his nape and hot tears wet his tongue when their lips crash together. there is the sweetest of whiskey on his tongue and the tang of copper as blood stains those trembling lips anew. maybe he has soiled him, ruined him, by loving him so fiercely. either way, issac gathers paul into his arms and whistles for jenny grey. it is by some miracle they leave down unnoticed, georgie and the others no doubt returning to camp leaving the pair of them amidst the wildflowers and long grass. issac tossed him to the ground but he knows paul can take it, the slight bite of earth, as he tosses his hat to the side.

skin meets skin, his cheek stings from a slap, before issac catches his wrist and drags him in closer. those blue eyes are red-rimmed and his chest shudders with his rabbit quick heart. the preacher looks so vulnerable down amongst the wildflowers of blue and white, his hair fanned out like a halo through the grass. all that rage is more than merely losing a trail to some kind of absolution, it’s dangerously familiar. issac follows paul down into the grass and the flowers, breathing in their syrupy sweetness with one hand holding those wrists and the other curled round his nape possessive. just to get him to look at him, to get that rage focused on him where he can devour it slow and patient.

georgie couldn’t have known the demons lurking under pain, their ugly fangs bared at issac now as paul pushes up and bites his lips. god help him, when he eases off his grip and lets paul rage against him, lets him claw and rip fabric and leather alike off his body, he just falls a little deeper. the preacher’s hands are twisting against his skin, pulling and pushing in desperation as issac’s teeth work fresh claims across paul’s hammering pulse. “ i wish i could HATE you, ” paul sighs, a whine edging his voice as issac’s hands gentle and he takes his time. a brief sigh slips free and there’s a fond sort of look spared for the preacher caught beneath him.

“ i ain’t letting you become a damn outlaw on your birthday. even for your brothers. ”

oh there is that wildfire again and issac braces himself, only paul’s brows draw tight together as that whiskey works slow coaxing tears from those glassy blue eyes. somehow this hurts so much more than being struck in the face. issac’s fingers wipe the tears slowly and his features soften when he sees paul beginning to lean into the brief touch. “ i know you love ‘em paul, but i get the feeling they wouldn’t want you walkin’ down that path. ” fresh tears leave issac’s fingers wet and he kisses them slow from the preacher’s face. the violence in their veins bleeds out in tandem with their hearts and when paul’s fingers twist into wild blonde hair, he leans into him breathing life off his lips.

issac gives his confession on paul’s skin, wrapped up in the weight of his arms and bathed in moonlight. it is almost sacred, seeing the preacher laid out, spread wide and welcoming, slick with sweat with bluebells and baby’s breath along his skin. there is forgiveness in those hands that reach for him and issac presses a kiss at a palm as he yanks free paul’s belt.

[forgottengun]

me remembering at 2 a.m. issac’s preferred method of dealing with large groups is dynamite arrows: you could say he has an explosive temper.

[forgottengun]

☞ . for @peacefulapostle [ 1/5 ] cause happy birthday paul; witcher flavor.

issac understood birthdays like he understood patience.

both pointless in practice.

truthfully, the notion of birthdays was almost unfamiliar, almost laughably foreign, in the witcher’s mind. one tended to lose track of things after the years passed with only the hunt, ale, and cold nights to mark the passage of time. issac never really gave much thought to such things, it seemed so trivial, almost pointless. no one still living would remember the day, gods he scarcely did. so birthdays were meaningless in his mind, all but forgotten. but then he’d happened upon the ruins of one of the great trees of skellige, the trunk ripped nearly in half, twisted with scorched from flame. he stepped through the burnt corpse of a druid circle and felt death choking his lungs, staining his skin with inky darkness as ash fell in a smoky haze.

how strange then to find one lone remainder of beauty in the wake of so much destruction. issac is frozen by haunting blue eyes ringed with tears.

the druid says his name is paul, he says his brothers are MISSING.

how long now? how long has it been since he offered a hand in uncharacteristic fashion, since he broke his one rule for this man standing before him; promise nothing. the ursine witcher promised the druid that he would help him find his brothers no matter how long it took. issac is certain now as he was certain then he would travel to the ends of the continent and beyond if the man had merely asked it of him. perhaps it was in the not asking that drove the witcher to remain vigilant in his vow, taking it as law as time slipped by easily as the northern winds from the far ends of the great sea in early spring.

somehow he’d come to learn of the druid’s day of birth.

the first time is shortly after hunters come, seeking the man’s strange powers as their own. issac is covered in blood, looking over the bodies he’d cleaved in half when they’d thought to approach paul. ‘oh aye the rumors are true then, the witcher got ‘imself a PET’ it’s only when a gentle hand stays his hand in carving the bandits further does the witcher walk away, temper setting his body to trembling. and as the druid sends the last bandit on his way issac finally turns on him, all rage, all barely restrained disbelief that the druid would allow such dishonor to his name.

“ did you know, today is the day i was born years ago? just as old as the birch tree my brother planted for me. joseph would often tell me to think of the tree as a part of my soul, it began as i began. ”

easily the rage bleeds free, the witcher’s shoulders sinking and he says no more. later, there is a juniper sapling wrapped carefully, left carefully wrapped in fabric suspiciously cut from the same cloth as his cloak. and if the druid were to notice the dirt on his hands? well, issac utters nothing. he merely watches in the evening as paul plants the juniper amidst the graves he’d insisted the witcher dig for the very men that hunted him. issac learns that he may not understand the druid’s customs but the nature of his gentle heart?

issac learned swiftly that paul was the type of man who offered his heart to anyone in need of kindness. the whole world was merely blind as it greedily sank fangs into the selfless offering.

the second time the druid’s day of birth comes to pass, oh they are far more than mere companions. it was remarkable what a year could do, how it would change THEM. now he leans into each touch, now he feels such raw affection for the druid paul’s face nearly colors each time his fingers press to his chest. fingers card through his hair, damp from the eerily glowing springs they’ve taken to bathing within. paul is laid out across the expanse of his body, warm from water and the easy way issac’s mouth works the column of his neck. “ careful witcher, ” the druid’s voice is rough, hitching with lust and affection alike, “ you had best finish what your lips have started. ” a deep rumbling chuckle slips free, his smile visible at his eyes as he leans back and regards the pretty flush of the other man’s face.

wet fingers stroke through his beard, coaxing paul closer with a thoughtful hum only to steal a slow kiss. “ careful druid, ” the witcher murmurs, his hands set to following the curve and dip of his spine. canines tug at his lower lip, fingers framing paul’s hips and dragging him closer by the curve of his ass. “ i may take you up on your threat. ” how sweet the breathless laughter on his tongue is, how easily those hands in his hair set him to sighing with pleasure. the druid so easily kisses and devours the air from his lungs until issac is restless, lifting the other man to sit astride his lap. it’s slow, deliciously slow, opening him up and issac marvels at how beautiful paul looks so lost in pleasure and heat.

“ i don’t think i will tired of seeing you like this, dear heart. ”

issac watches those blue eyes flutter, a shy smile on parted swollen lips that he watches a moment longer as he gives a twist of his fingers. the druid’s voice warbles with an airy sighing moan, his body arching and body trembling. impatience leads to guiding their bodies together, to issac’s hands framed around paul’s hips and a shaking groan ripping itself free as thighs tighten at his waist, water beginning to slosh and sway around them as the witcher rises up to catch the druid’s mouth hungrily. it isn’t the desperate way paul rides him, the taut pull of pleasure building in his abdomen, no, it is the hand spread over his chest. issac watches those blue eyes go glassy as paul comes undone, lips forming a silent cry of his name and muscles tensing like bowstring under his fingers.

the druid reads him oh so easily, FEELS the hammering of his heart.

the witcher hefts him from the water, lays him across the wet earth and drives his hips harder. skin slaps wet and loud, drowning out their matched panting breath. “ issac. ” gods he would never tire of that either, the way paul arched and said his name so sinfully when each thrust drove it from his lungs. issac loses himself in the way the druid’s fingers carve down his back when paul comes undone gasping out, nearly sobbing, his name.

it’s later that night, paul crawls into the shared bedrolls and settles against the witcher’s side, boneless, nearly falling asleep. fingers card through dark hair and issac considers the weight of what he has tucked away in his pack. weeks now, the small pouch of dark leather has sat waiting in his saddlebags. “ tomorrow we should reach toussaint. ” issac speaks softly, smiling briefly as the druid hums in response unaware of the pouch in his hand as he pulls it free and ceases the idle way he brushes the druid’s hair back. as if on cue, paul is tensing, looking up at him with a wordless question to the sudden anxious nature of his heart.

“ issac? ”

the soft leather pouch is offered, a nod given.

braided leather is delicate draped in paul’s hand, the medallion though is of similar style as the one resting amidst issac’s belongings. only where the witcher’s medallion is of a snarling bear, the one in the druid’s palm is an oak tree with twisting gnarled roots cast in gleaming silver. issac’s fingers brush along a jaw, he doesn’t need an answer. he needs nothing more than the way paul’s eyes soften with a quiet sort of understanding to issac’s intent.

“ for your birthday. and to the next. ”

[forgottengun]

u kno that thing where person a enterwines their fingers w person b and brings their hands up to kiss it ??? that shit kills me . All The Time

[forgottengun]

☆ — I am exhausted. but the worst of my classes are almost over and then it should be relatively smooth sailing. see y’all on the morrow lovelies, I’ve got a bunch of replies I’m super excited to get to and just wanted to say thank you so much for being patient. stay hydrated! ♡

[forgottengun]

peacefulapostle‌:

            meeting issac has changed EVERYTHING  .  to go from not wanting protection or a BABYSITTER to what they have now is monumental .  they have trust and devotion towards the other more than paul can say for anyone else  .  even his brothers to a certain extent  .  he’s told many many things to issac in confidence without fear of judgment  , for paul to be such an open book there’s still bits and pieces that he’s not told even his brothers  .  part of his confession had been of his sloth and his gluttony and lust for all of those combined have forced the apostle’s hand to do acts he in his former life he isn’t proud of  .  ENVY across his back for more than one reason  . 

not noticing the soldier was the hard part  .  eyes that resembled ocean and a chiseled face that could have been carved out by god , himself  .  the realization has forced paul on more than one occasion to avert his lustful gaze  ,  altogether leave a room to say a pray for himself and the wicked ways he’s not yet been able to leave behind him  .  one addiction doesn’t need to be lost only to gain another  .  yet they are drawn to each other like moths to a flame  and have been for awhile despite every attempt to derail … whatever this is  . 

paul is always attentive and caring  .  always willing to lend a hand of kindness and generosity where it is needed  .  this though  .  this is different because isaac has dug himself into the depths of his heart without knowing the full extent until this very moment  . getting lost in the moment is ALL too easy once it registers along those handsome features of issac’s  .  they could simply stare at each other like this and his heart would only grow fuller by the second  .

panic almost sets in with the amount of time that passes wondering if he’s garnered mixed signals  . were all those second glances simply that of nothing more than a devoted follower  . his question is soon answered with the hand in his hair releasing it from its bind  ,  fingers finding their way through long longs of dark  .  wanting lips have found his and they are desire incarnate  .  their warmth and the forcefulness speak volumes of how much want that issac has in his heart  . maybe he hadn’t known when the right time was to display it until paul made the first move  . and OH how he does not regret it  . 

the sigh of content that hits his lips makes the apostle’s breath hitch  . he’s damn near to the point of trembling beneath those strong hands and for the first time in a LONG time paul finally feels as if he can truly breathe  . when they part again  , he can feel the warm breath on his face and he closes his eyes to catch his breath and issac’s name leaves his lips as if it weighs nothing to float on the wind  .  almost like a gentle prayer before blues open again to stare into that soft gaze  .  oh how he’s wanted this  . 

they are more than the parts the world made them. it feels like gospel in this one moment, his arms wrapped around paul like he has a right to lay CLAIM to the hollows of his body. how many nights spent confessing sins to each other in the dark? how many times with paul’s gentle heart forgiving him, SAVING him, again and again? issac feels dizzy trying to imagine and put the foundation of what they’ve become into words. addicts alike, how dangerous it was for someone so starved to be WANTED so much by eyes that haunt his waking thoughts. there are moments even now - even with his lips worshipping the hollow of paul’s throat when they part that first fleeting kiss - he wonders how long has that gaze, that need, been echoed in return?

how blind has he been?

breaking free of jacob’s shackles left him gasping, his mind clear, only to find himself drowning in paul’s kind heart. and god how hard it is for the soldier to ignore him, the very grounding force in his lungs beating out his devotion for this man. losing himself in sermons and finding faith was easier once all doubt had been ripped from him, all traces of betrayal and uncertainty washed away wholly. loving paul? it had never been intended, merely a thought that grew far beyond the reaches of john and jacob’s teachings.

“ paul. ”

it shakes him no longer hearing his own voice so full of devotion. what modesty and reserve has fallen by the wayside as he HEARS his own name in a tone that he knows is meant for sermons and prayers. the apostle’s voice is as familiar as his own heartbeat, tugging just as fierce with it’s gentle warmth. he knows it as truth, his own prayer, he would do anything for this man. his hands are reverent in smoothing along the linen shirt along his back, fabric wrinkling oh so easily under his fingers as lips brush along his cheekbone.

one step becomes two quickly joined by a third and he no longer minds the lonely solitude of paul’s home. how untouched and pristine it is, ruined by issac’s ravenous hunger growing in need with each breath. dust spirals in halos around paul’s head and issac finds himself SMILING at him, holding the back of his neck, PULLING him closer to chase the echo of his name on paul’s tongue. it is woefully simple to drag the herald closer, his touch settling below the hem of his shirt to count vertebrae beneath fever hot skin. each touch a reminder, a PROMISE, to press his lips there and re-learn the man beneath the heavy weight of purpose. it feels as though they’re meeting anew and he drops to the couch, with a shaking breath eager and wanting.

his hands frame thighs and coax with barely a tug. he feels damned for praying for such sweet sin. for praying for HIM.

“ paul. ”

[forgottengun]

tenacitybred‌:

John Mulaney Quotes - accepting

@forgottengun​ said:  “That’s what I thought you’d say, you dumb fucking horse.”

     It had been a while since her last human interaction, having scoured the wilds for extravagant and impulsive adventures that helped her feel alive and free but also left her feeling alone once over. To remedy this she rode toward town, thinking of a hot bath, a nice bottle of whiskey, and a couple rounds of cards or five finger fillet – something to help line her pockets some. It was on her travel that she came across the man, overhearing his conversation. 

           “You always talk to your horse that way?” Faye inquired, riding up next to the stranger, slowing down as to not spook him or the horse. Her left brow raised, disappearing behind red tresses and the brim of her worn hat as she offered him a kind smile. He was the first living person she’d come across in about a week and was eager for some socialization be it positive or negative. 

“Only when she’s got a mind to stamp at strangers for not giving up their groceries.” It comes out quick, his fingers busy carding through tawny brown of his mare’s wild mane to soothe the irate stamping of her hooves. Issac tips his hat back, a glance spared for the woman that’s hitching up right alongside him. Pretty gal, she’s get hell waltzing into the saloon alone but Issac has a feeling by the look of her that she could likely hold her own. Cold truth of the matter was most women didn’t survive long out here alone and it tugged at something in him right painfully.

“Pardon my sayin’ ma’am but you often make a habit of approachin’ strangers giving their horses what for bout bad tempers?” Gloved fingers rub affectionately under Jenny Grey’s chin, earning a soft nickering and the eventual settling of her restless steps. It’s hard not to feel a little concerned and harder still to keep from the impulsive offer of buying her a drink.

[forgottengun]

positivity for the rpc : A huge shoutout to all the students and educators in the RPC! Even with all the extra stuff from school and/or work, you’re still trying to be here, and frankly, that’s amazing. There are people who understand when you need to step back from tumblr to take care of school/work first. Don’t overwhelm yourself on our account. Don’t forget that, despite everything, rp is a hobby, and is meant to be fun. Remember to hydrate and take care of yourself first and foremost.