#Earthing Copper Strip

[midseo]

Earthing Solutions, Earthing Electrodes, GI Earthing Electrodes, Chemical Earthing Rod, Pune, India

We Are The Pune Based ISO Certified Chemical Earthing Manufacturer and Supplier of Earthing Solutions, Earthing Electrodes, GI Earthing Electrodes, Chemical Earthing Rod, Pune, India.

[kasakuelectricals]

Type of GI Earthing Electrode.

Earthing electrodes are crucial components in grounding systems, designed to provide a low-resistance path for the dissipation of fault currents to the ground. There are several types of Grounding (GI) electrodes commonly used for earthing purposes:

GI Pipe Electrode:

A galvanized iron (GI) pipe can be used as an earthing electrode. It is typically buried vertically in the ground. The length and diameter of the GI pipe depend on the soil resistivity and the electrical system requirements.

GI Plate Electrode:

A GI plate is another common type of earthing electrode. It is usually buried horizontally in the ground. The size of the plate is determined based on soil resistivity and the specific requirements of the grounding system.

GI Strip Electrode:

Similar to the GI plate, a GI strip can be used as an earthing electrode. The strip is buried horizontally in the ground, and its dimensions are determined based on the grounding system requirements.

GI Electrode with Backfill Compound:

Some grounding electrodes are treated with special backfill compounds to enhance their conductivity and reduce soil resistivity. This helps in achieving lower resistance to earth.

Chemical Earthing Electrode:

In chemical earthing systems, a compound or mixture is used around the electrode to improve conductivity. This type of electrode is designed to maintain a low resistance value over time, even in high-resistivity soils.

Copper-Bonded Electrode:

While not made of pure GI, copper-bonded electrodes have a thin layer of copper bonded to a steel core. This combination provides the benefits of both copper and steel, offering good corrosion resistance and electrical conductivity.

Cast Iron Electrode:

Cast iron electrodes are less common but are used in some specific applications. They are durable and have good corrosion resistance.

The choice of the earthing electrode depends on various factors such as soil resistivity, space availability, local regulations, and the specific requirements of the electrical system. It's essential to consider these factors to ensure an effective and reliable grounding system. Consulting with a qualified electrical engineer or following local electrical codes and standards is recommended when designing and installing an earthing system.

[greenwirepowersolutions]

Use of Earthing Rod Copper in Making Your Dream Home

The immediate discharge of electrical energy by the use of a low-resistance wire to transfer charges straight to the earth is known as earthing. To reduce or eliminate the risk of electrocution, several forms of the earthing rod copper are utilized to connect the metallic components of electrical appliances or installations to the ground.

[true-power-limited]

True Power Chemical Earthing & Lightning Arresters

True Power Group, renowned for India's No.1 Chemical Earthing & Lightning Arresters with a total of 8 different verticals under their Flagship, is available across PAN India at its more than 10,000 distributors in 32 major Cities, Metros and States. These products are also available in selected countries like Abu Dhabi, Nepal, and Bangladesh. Close to 15 more countries are in talks to join the league. From Chemical Earthing to Lightning Arresters, Solar Panels to Hot Dip Galvanized Module Mounting Structures, Transformers to Wires & Cables, and Home Appliances including Fans, Geysers, and Iron. True Power has its own 3 State-of-the-art Manufacturing setups equipped with the latest high-precision modern machines, quality labs, testing bench, and latest gadgets and instruments to conduct stringent quality inspections and test several times during production before submission of the product for the final inspection. With 1,000+ on-roll employees, including industry experts, qualified engineers, and a trained and technically skilled after-sales team today, True Power has become the most relied name across every household and office.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, very intense gore and body horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, being hunted, VERY intense religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, etc.

A/N: All I can say is that I'm sorry...take that as you will

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He was still watching you when you woke up, groggily blinking and your mouth dry. It was amusing to him, really, how you twisted your lips and furrowed your brows before you shoved your cheek back into the pillow away from the cold light. 

Simon tilts his head and stares—letting you come to your senses while he sits in his chair. He hadn’t moved once, thinking and stewing in questions. 

It wasn’t rare for him to completely forget what he had gotten up to in his…state. More often than not, he remembered only the scent of blood and wind; broken earth and the taste of the moon. This time it was different. 

You were different. 

Simon remembered your scent. Recalls tracking it down as he abandoned all the others in the air. Racing to it with a rapid heart like a simple fool. He knows he held you down, laid his great snout along your neck, and tried to scent you—layer your flesh with him so your sweet fragrance mixed with his own. 

The thought made his lips thin and his hands clench, the blanket sitting tightly wrapped around his waist as his body expanded with a tight-jawed huff. 

There was still a spark of pain in between his legs, but at that, he welcomed the grounding reality of it. In fact, a bit of pride even made his nose twitch. Simon’s lashes caress his cheeks as he blinks at you, shifting his thighs wider as his hands hang off the arms of the chair. 

He hadn’t expected you to come to this forest during his little problem—this could have gone very, very wrong. The man runs a hand over his head, pushing his fingers through his locks and watching you slowly sit up; confusion is seen in the lines on your forehead. 

“Can I ‘ave my fuckin’ clothes back now?” You flinch at the low question, sleepy eyes snapping open and locking onto the nearly nude man in his chair.

The air stalls in your lungs, strangled down as you bite your tongue so hard you taste copper. Brown eyes flicker to your mouth before Simon’s lips move in a thin smirk. 

“C’mon now. Easy, then.” 

“Mr. Riley,” you clear your throat, gawking at the rippling tension in his abdomen and the scars along his pecs. Your entire soul burns as you snap your head away from the image of his face—the first time you’d seen it fully. 

Stubble along a strong jaw; bent nose and carefully crafted lips with pulling disfigurements. 

“You…you’re back,” you push out, fingers intertwining into the sheets. Simon gazes into the sliver of flesh from above the collar of his shirt that you wear, licking at the corner of his mouth before he looks away. 

“And getting cold, Love,” he levels to you. The strips of his own clothes had been thrown on the table, no use wearing them as they offered no coverage. All he had was the blanket. “You hear?”

“Right,” you’re still not looking at him, nervous. Standing quickly, you stubble and brush your hands along the man’s top—flattening it before scampering to grab your clothes from yesterday. 

Ripped and dirty, you drag them to you while having to stand closer to Simon as his knee hits yours. He tenses lightly but doesn’t comment. 

“My apologies, Mr. Riley, I didn’t want to dirty your bed, you see.” Your hands are shaking. “I suppose I could have taken the floor, of course, but I admit, I didn’t think about—”

A hand grabs your one shoe and hands it to you, Simon having stood up and his chest against your shoulder. You still, breath hitching tight. 

You stare at the shoe before your free hand carefully moves out to take it, being side-eyed by an earthen stare and blank expressions. Fingers blush, and you have to swallow a sigh at the heat you feel emanating from Simon’s bareness. 

Taking your shoe back, you clear your throat. “Thank you.”

“No need to apologize—that’s my bloody cross, yeah?” He moves back from you, and your lungs take down air again. You don’t like how you respond to him or his touch. How you’re stuttering and stumbling over words. 

Sure you found him attractive…incredibly attractive, but with the knowledge you now held all of this became jumbled. The memory of your sheer terror flashes, a mad dash and gripping thorns. The murders. Your wounds pulse.

“Mr. Riley?” You ask, lips twisting at his comment. The man rubs a hand over his face, and you notice the bags under his eyes with a small bead of concern. 

“Simon,” he glances at you. “Just Simon. Figure with all I’ve done that’s better than nothing.” A hand hovers over the bottom of your sleeve, pushing it back a smidge to look at the bloodied bandages. “Fuckin’ hell, I do this?” 

He leans closer again, picking at the bandages as you explain. 

“No,” you breathe. You’re taken aback by his attitude—his flickering eyes as they slowly move to look up at you. “No, I ran through some thorns.”

“Can smell the blood.” Simon bluntly eases out, releasing you and taking a step back. “Get dressed—there’s a stream. I’ll get some fresh water.”

Before you can say anything, the man’s walking outside in nothing but a tied towel, the door opening and quickly closing behind him. Gobsmacked, you blink rapidly as you open and close your mouth, pushing your clothes farther into your chest. Inside your ribcage, your heart palpitates; the flesh is an inferno of contained fire. 

“My neighbor is a werewolf,” you breathe, putting a hand to your temple. “Simon Riley is the Ghost. Oh,” you drag. “Where’s the alcohol when you need it?” 

Dressing went quickly, and you hope Whistlejacket is out of the forest and was able to find shelter like you had. It became obvious as you tightened your belt and slipped your silver blade into it, that Simon would not hurt you—not in this state or the other. When you’d woken up, you’d feared that if the man was back in the monster’s place, he would snap at the sight of you. 

Damage control. But now…

“Now I’m just bloody confused,” you huff, glaring down at your one shoe as you wiggle your toes. Back in your skirt and shirtwaist, you frown at the damage done and vehemently avoid looking at Simon’s own scraps. It would only serve to make you angrier.

Pushing your gloves into your pockets, you grimace at the aching in your wrist and legs but push forward until you open the door to a small covering of snow. The world overnight had continued without you, it seemed, and you frown as you wrap your hands across your chest from the chill. 

Wherever you look, the forest rules. It speaks and lives—writhing and bending; this place wasn’t meant for you or your kind. It was meant for monsters. 

But was Simon a monster? 

You find with all the memories you have in your head, you can’t answer that question anymore. Before you can, you need to get answers. 

Real answers.

You wait for the man to return, and he does so with a wooden bucket sloshing liquid over his blanket-skirt. Blinking, you hold open the door and allow him in. He grunts in thanks, running his eyes up and down your outfit. 

“You fell from your horse.” It isn’t a question, but the tone makes it seem like he doesn’t know for sure. Simon places the bucket on the floor and gathers his clothes that you’d folded.

“Miriam’s horse. Yes.” You take down a breath. “Simon?” He stares hard at his shirt, nose twitching and eyes going small. 

The man’s fingers clench over the fabric before he comes back to the present. 

“What is it?” He forces the shirt over his head, blanket holding fast. Simon has to stop himself from shaking as your scent buries itself into his nostrils. A noose around his neck that makes his voice gruff and breathy. 

“You’re going to explain to me what’s going on.” He grunts. 

“Bit complicated, that is—”

“What’s complicated is that I just got chased through the forest by a dog as tall as a damn statue that stands on two legs. Not to mention the strange obsession you have with smelling me.”

“It’s not fuckin’ me,” Simon growls, eyes flashing. You tense and he settles, snapping his head away to glare at the far wall. He grabs for his blanket and you just manage to snap your head up before you see anything besides the very tops of his large hips and the dip of his pelvis. 

The fabric hits the ground and your under-the-skin hellscape spreads all the way to your curling toes. 

“You weren’t supposed to be in here.” The man pulls up his pants, shoving himself into them and pulling the strings tight. “Got distracted.” 

“I apologize for having work to complete,” you huff, still hyper aware of every sound from the man a few feet away. “I wasn’t aware that I’d get favored by a dog.”

A low growl lets you know his displeasure at the comment.

“Dog, yeah?” Simon grunts.

“Am I wrong,” you state dryly, glaring at the ceiling. 

“Bloody mutt can’t compare to me, Love.” The man scoffs and pushes his top into his pants, walking over to his trunk to peel it open and snatch at the pair of large boots inside. 

“Oh,” you breathe, slowly looking back to him and sighing when he’s fully clothed. “I’m so very lucky, Sir.” 

“Would you quit it?” Simon snaps. “Christ, just ask your damn questions. And use the water on your wounds.” 

Rolling your eyes, you walk forward and pull out a chair at the table—grabbing at the bucket and pushing up your sleeves. You tap at your forearms with your fingers, open your mouth as you think, and begin to speak. 

Yet something’s missing. A weight at your side. Something that was there before but is now absent.

Pausing, you blink slowly, finally able to calm yourself and get a handle on your emotions. Looking down at your hip where the comfortable weight of your satchel is supposed to be, you grow tense. 

Wait a second…

Simon pulls out a rough-looking jacket from the trunk, shifting his large arms into it and quickly fixing the collar as he rubs at his chin. 

“...Where’s my bag?” 

The man pauses, hand leaving the last few buttons of his shirt open to glance at you—confusion grows in his eyes. 

“What?” You’re already standing, turning in a circle. 

“My bag,” you say again. “I had it on Whistlejacket but now it's gone. I…must have dropped it when he bucked me off.”

Simon’s jaw clenches, expression going somewhat tight at the mention. “Thought you said you fell.”

You wave a hand and step around the bucket, walking swiftly to the door with your one shoe and intent on trekking back to the path. 

“Same thing,” your lips utter, frowning. “It must have slipped off my shoulder. Hell.” 

You’re only able to put your hand on the barrier before you’re pulled back into a firm chest. You’re reminded of the blanket of fur that had encompassed you just yesterday, and while the sensation might not be the same, the pure muscle underneath is still just as prominent. 

An arm circles your waist and you’re lifted easily.

“Hey!” You shout, but Simon says nothing until you’re dropped back down into the chair and you’re glaring heavily at him. His heat leaves for only a moment before he pulls up your sleeves with his large palms; fingers slipping under the bandages and caressing your skin with scars and calluses.  

Watching, wide-eyed, you grumble out, shocked, “What exactly are you doing, you brute?” 

“Making sure that you don’t get fuckin’ sick if you insist on being difficult.” You pull your head back, lips parted. 

“I’m the difficult one? Simon, you do realize that you turn into a god-forsaken gigantic wolf in your free time?” You’re leveled with an unimpressed look and dead eyes. “Don’t you stare at me like that,” your face burns, nose pointing up. “You know I’m right.”

“You speak too much,” the accent gravels, blunt. 

“Well you kill people too much,” is the answer, and none of the fear that should be there is. It’s as if the second you realized that the Ghost was Simon Riley, the terror had leaked out of you steadily to form annoyance instead. “And rip up all of my work.”

Simon clenched his jaw and reached for the water in the bucket, picking up a rag from the table and dipping it in before closing his fist around the fabric to wring most of the liquid out. 

“I pay you,” he tries, voice hissing. 

Growling, you glare into his head as he presses the rag into your small cuts. “Not enough.”

“Why were you in the forest,” you’re snappily asked. You try not to show how his grasp on your wrist makes you weak to him, the scent of his body so close bleeding into your nostrils. Even Simon seems to react to the close contact, a pulse in his veins making his grip tighten before loosening. Something flashes his deep browns; brows tight on his scarred forehead before he grunts and rolls his shoulders.

“I needed wool from the farmers.” You huff, body lightly shifting on the chair. “Why did you kill all of those hunters?”

“They were trying to kill me.” Tight orbs glance up as the inside of your forearm is soaked with the warmth of his touch—the essence of his inner care. You tilt your head, narrowing your vision. You could believe that, of course, but there was one man you couldn’t.

“And Mr. Lambert?” Simon pauses, chest expanding with a grating sigh. But even he knows you won’t be taking anything short of the truth. 

He shifts his feet, moving back to grasp your ankle and begin peeling at the wrappings there as you blink in surprise at his willingness to help. You rewrap your arm and frown, shivering at the slide of his hand under your calf; yet you can’t stop the shaky inhale you take.

The man delays, half-narrowed eyes turning their attention to you in slow intervals of flicking earth and glinting charcoal. He stares, not blinking, not moving. Exactly like the beast that had waited at the edge of the glade to lock eyes and turn your insides outward—splaying you open like a book and flipping the pages of your mind. 

You don’t know how someone can stare like that, can’t make sense of it. If those brown eyes kept stuck with yours, you wouldn’t find it entirely unpleasant.

Simon grips your leg tighter and blinks, tilting his head away. The rag lets water drip long down your flesh, but it’s wiped away by a thumb before the accented voice graces your eardrums. 

“He was trying to bite you.” You’re torn back to the present, your face and neck tight with burning sin. You clear your throat and re-think the words you’d just heard. 

Silence falls for a moment.

“He…what?” Simon’s lips flicker into some semblance of a smirk. He stands and tosses the rag to the table. 

“Vampire.” It’s like your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. 

A Vampire? Speechless, you stand carefully and turn your head to the side in rapid thought. 

“That’s not…” Simon interjects.

“Pinned him to the tree branch, right?” He had done that. “Never came to visit, ‘cept at night, yeah?” The man shrugs, putting his hands into his pockets. “Could smell it.” Watching. Dead burial-mound eyes. “Didn’t like him comin’ ‘round to bother you.” 

It’s how he explains this that makes you wonder, an internal understanding as you stutter a question.

“You don’t remember things when you’re…like that,” you breathe, “do you?” 

He had said the beast wasn’t him—that had stuck with you. The shock of Mr. Lambert being a monster sunk in, dots connected with thread. It made your shoulders tight to imagine what could have happened if Simon wasn’t there every time the other man was. There was no way you’d be able to fight something like that by yourself. 

The man blinks, and for the first time, he can’t answer that question honestly because now he truly doesn’t know how to. 

Simon hums, looking at the door. 

He only remembered you despite all else. 

“I’ll bring you back to the path,” the man grunts, moving to the door and exiting the hut with a last comment over his shoulder. “Keep the knife on you.” 

Simon slips out of the house, door open and the chilled breeze filtering through. You watch him take a silent deep breath and begin walking into the trees. With one last shaky twitch of your hands, you look at the journal on the desk and dart after him. 

It’s a silent affair until you speak, and Simon had known without a doubt that you would the minute the dark trunks were all around. He guides you with heavy steps.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Don’t know.” A lie. 

“Why did you shove your head under my neck?”

“I don’t know.” A second lie. The man’s tone doesn’t change, a bare grumble as he walks ahead of you.

“What else lives in this forest?” Simon stops walking. The dead air all around you is thick and heavy, like a blanket of uneasy weight; you can put a description to it now, and your last question wasn’t only out of curiosity but a hunch. 

It felt like the very trees were listening when you spoke.

“Things like me. Things that are worse.” Simon turns and gives you a tight look as you stare up at him and barely feel yourself breathe. “So never for one second leave my sight.” He nods his head to your knife in a quick jerk. “And ever lose that if you don’t want to end up on a bloody butcher’s block, eh?”

You nod slowly, swallowing. The man looks like he wants to say more but refrains, making a noise in the back of his throat before he locks onto the shivering of your body. Not even noticing that the cold was getting to you, you had words coming off your lips in small chatterings of teeth. 

“W-Well, if all of the things in this forest will let me live, they can’t be that b-bad.” Squeaking, a jacket is layered over your shoulders, and in a flurry of skirts, you’re picked up into a bridal hold as your hands snap to wrap a thick neck. 

A voice in the shell of your ear.

“They’re not like me, Love.” Your eyes widen. “An’ they won’t take a fancy to you like I ‘ave, hear?” 

He carries you with as much ease as the trunks of fabric for your shop, stepping over rocks and easily stomping up ravines. From the side of his eye, he blinks at you as his smell surrounds your body to coat it just the way he wants it to, even if he hates the instinct with a bitter grudge. 

Why couldn’t you have just stayed away until he came back to the city? When all of his senses were eased back to normal, when the song of the wolf was no longer in his head—that call and primal embrace of fang and claw. 

There was a reason he left, there was a reason he always wore your clothes to keep him here—away from others and not to seek you out. 

Your scent.

The oils on your flesh that press into him and make his head swim; hold you tighter into him to take it in. Simon’s heart pounds, his eyes going small the longer you stay here with him. 

You were both a blessing in the dark and the very phantoms that haunt it at the same time. A hurdle and a stepstool. You made it worse, but, damn him, you also made it better. 

Grunting, Simon shakes his head once, staring straight ahead and willing away the sharp pinch of claws poking from his nail beds. He clenches his jaw as you melt into him, legs swaying with the loping movements of his legs. Your hands around his neck dig into the skin softly, letting it mold around you as you lick your lips and avoid his eyes, shy to this type of chivalry. 

You shivered far less than before. 

“Thank you,” you say, hesitantly. 

Simon huffs a chuckle at the tone. 

The man carries you through the bed of thorns that you remember, and he hikes you farther into his arms until not even a single one thinks to touch you—no sharp drag. Your face gently rests on Simon’s head, the top of his scalp as your nose itches at the feeling of his hair. 

You blink softly, holding on as he moves you back down after the threat is gone.

“What other monsters, Simon?” Your voice is tiny. “What’s out here with us?” He sighs, and you feel it. 

But he doesn’t answer you. 

“When I get you out,” Simon explains. “You don’t come back. You never come back.”

Your heart skips a beat. “And what about you? Do I just…” You trail off, licking your lips. “Do I just let you keep living like this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Simon,” his hands tighten on you in warning, but you continue without fear. “I want to help you. We know each other enough to care, don’t we?” You both make it back to the path and Simon clears off a rock with his foot before placing you down next to the large boulder from yesterday.

Simon turns to look around the area for your bag, glancing at you with thin lips. You grow more serious and ask him again, “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

“It’s nothing that you need to know about,” you’re glared at, though it holds no true venom to it. 

“I have been thrown from a horse,” you stand, pulling Simon’s jacket closer as you spot your lost shawl off in the bushes. “My practice insulted, and most certainly thought dead by now. Mr. Riley, I am not asking you for answers—” You set your jaw. “I am demanding them. So speak and be a good boy.” 

Simon watches you, his face blank and his mouth slightly slackened. He doesn't answer you for a long time, as if put in a trace as his eyes flash with life for a moment. You hear him clear his throat at your last sentence, cheeks gaining a sheen of red that could be played off as a reaction to the cold. 

His stomach flips. 

“It’s your scent,” he says, low and even like a steady promise. You had already started to gather that, at least, so it wasn’t as much of a shock to you—but it was still strange. “It’s like a fuckin’ opium. Can’t get it out of my damn head.” 

Simon speaks as he looks around as if to distract him from what he’s telling you. “Whenever I smell it, it’s like my head’s about to cave in, yeah? Like I can’t think of anything else.” 

He leans over the small hill to where you fell, and he hones in on long three-fingered drag lines along the earth. Simon’s brows pull in, eyes fluttering from one tree to another, his ears twitch. 

You don’t notice, sitting back on the rock and rubbing a hand on the back of your neck as the air changes. 

“But why, Simon? I don’t understand what’s so important about that—besides what soap I use.” You mutter the last bit and groan. “This is hurting my head.” 

“Stop talking.” The forest is dead. No bird wings flapping, no wind, even. No smells besides yours, which makes Simon back up a step. 

Yet, no…no there was something else. It smelled like flesh rot and maggots; a church’s pews that had been laid with black fire.  

You throw up a hand at the man’s comment. “Would you stop saying that to me—!”

A palm is placed on your lips and held there firmly, fingers digging into your cheeks. Simon’s eyes bore into you, far darker than they had been at any other time than when you’d been face-to-face with the wolf. You take in a swift breath, hand snapping up the wrist and gripping it in shock. 

The snow begins falling again, flakes sitting in his hair as Simon puts his free finger to his lips and motions you to not speak again. Growing more and more nervous, you nod twice before the flesh is removed.  

“Get your knife up.” It’s a deep rumble like a falling stone. Felt more than heard. “Stay behind me.” 

You do so with a swift hand, knowing something else is going on just by how he keeps glancing at you and then at the trees. That's when you hear it—the low whispering like it’s almost speaking in tongues. 

The same you had heard on short occasions when you’d been with Whistlejacket. And then far off into the woods, that shaping of bark. 

It wasn’t a twig—you’d known that. You glance at Simon and he seems tensed for something to jump out at the two of you, his large shoulders hiding you from most of the view. One of your hands grabs onto his shirt, your un-shoed foot freezing but you don’t make a comment. 

“Simon?” You whisper, and he holds out his hand to once more tell you to not speak. 

The long shadows in between the trees darken, and that whispering choir infects your ears—what is it saying? You can’t make any sense of it…it jumbles and jumps like these flakes of snow as they fall to the ground. 

Girl…Girl…Listen

You flinch—free hand releasing Simon and coming up to your head to grasp at it as a bad headache starts to form. The man ahead of you, for whatever reason, seems to not be affected by this.  

He stands rod-straight and you see his fingers curling into fists, the knuckles going white and facing deep into the open forest—wound up and tight. You try to speak but it all goes like metal on metal behind your skull. The whispers come into focus before the light is swallowed by a shade of gray.

It is a void of all else; you have forgotten what your heart feels like as it pounds in your ribcage.

I can show you the sound of your soul tearing in two.

You gasp and then the screaming starts. 

Dropping your knife you fall to your knees, your fingers both dig into your scalp and draw blood from the sheer volume of voices inside of your head—yelling in tones accumulated by victims and imprisoned specs of being. Old, young, middle-aged, yet still the rattle of diseased bones going through osteonecrosis; clacking of baby’s teeth. 

You’re screaming with them. 

Simon’s panicked face comes into view, grasping at your hands and trying to move them away from your flesh. He’s calling to you, loudly and in an ordering tone, but you can’t hear it. 

The screaming, oh, the screaming. This is what Hell sounds like.

Something in you is ripping, and you plead for it to end as Simon begins looking around the space, standing and bringing you with him as he keeps you to his chest; you feel his heart hammering twice as fast—hands grasping at your clothes and pressing you into him with all his might. He’s growling and snarling, trying to find what’s hurting you so he can help. 

The reverberation of his challenge is felt in the vibrations of his throat as you scream again. Simon flinches, cursing, and you feel the poke of claws on your spine as the scent of your fear enters the air—your suffering. 

Your body is shaking; quivering, and in the state of here and there reality begins to blur like a musty window, like mud on a cup. In Simon’s grip, you’re entirely slackened, coughing and choking down saliva. 

But then it all stops. 

You gasp so loudly that your busted vocal cords finally snap, blood is expelled from your mouth and it ends up all over Simon’s neck, staining his clothes and splattering onto his cheek. Trying to force down breaths, you push at the man’s abdomen—begging to be released weakly.

Your legs don’t work beyond the shaking. 

Watching you with wide eyes and panting breath, Simon’s canines had gone sharp, claws on your spine fully out; he’d even grown taller, your feet only brushing the ground as pale skin began to gain pigment along his neck. 

He lets you down just as you vomit all over the snowy grass, sputtering and letting vile tears make lines down to your chin. 

“What in the bloody hell..?” Simon breathes arms still around your waist. Your ears are ringing, high-pitched, and reverberating in your skull. “Fuck!” 

Whispered laughter makes you whimper through a sob.

Simon can’t get the smell out of his nose—the maggots, the black fire. He knows what this is, what game it plays. 

It wants a show.

Oh, you never should have come here. This forest…it wasn’t just a place of black trees and buried deeds; of monsters. 

It was a prison. And these lesser beasts were the wardens. 

The shadows grow closer, and Simon, as a wailing breeze picks up from the South, covers you with his changing body; hiding a breathless gasp on his lips as muscles tear and ears elongate. 

Pain encompasses him, making him bury his face into your neck and grunt out garbled curses as his teeth morph and shatter to re-form. You shake, shell-shocked, from under him, feeling the brushing of fur and the tear of fabric before you’re encased in a canopy of shaggy blackness and snapping jaws. The arms around your waist broaden and elongate, bones snapping.

You’re both panting now, breathing hard and in pain unimaginable. The glint of your blade is far off into the side of your fluttering eyes.

A figure forms from those wisps of shadow—those thrown-away memories of death and the recollection of ancient cities burning back to before the creation of metal machines or the wheel. Formed before oceans or continents and ultimately trapped here in ages long past when these trees were saplings. 

You felt it under fur and muscle just as the Ghost did atop you as your shield, his eyes now shining with rage and horror. 

This being was not old. It wasn’t even ancient. 

It was primordial.

Your eyes look up slowly from behind the curtain of obsidian, arms shaking as they twist into the Ghost’s lengthy forearms still anchored to your waist. His snout slips past your right ear, digging you into him as a low snarl emanates from the back of his throat. 

It stands on two legs, and has two arms—you could mistake it for a human at a far-off distance. But its body is malnourished, nothing but thin, twisting, skin over bone as if devouring maggots live under that barrier. Your terror increases the longer you look at it, snow hitting your eyes not even making you blink. 

This being was a very stain upon reality as if the body it takes is a rip in time itself—a ripple of disease and an unforgivable sin. 

Look at me.

You are looking. 

Looking at a featureless face and the large black hole that takes the place of nose, mouth, and eyes—unending and limitless as if what had once been there had been ripped through and replaced with eternity. The shadows writhe to make an imitation of wings on its back, a leaking circle above its head, and the slash of fleshy, pulsing horns that secrete blood down to the snow. 

Fingers that shake and twitch as if in the throes of death. Its arms are melting like gray wax. An appendage slowly leaks out from the void of its face, forming a hand holding something like rope, and then a long, blackened arm deeper than a moonless night. It turns over and the intestines, not ropes, are dropped from its grip. Long and viscera-coated; flies dig themselves out from the tubes and you have to stop yourself from heaving again as they flinch and quiver.

As if the owner was still alive.

The hand splays itself, waiting for another’s palm to slip over and grasp it. An invitation as it’s clicking body takes a stumbling step forward.

It’s calling to you.

Look at the face of God.

The Ghost roars and you snap your vision away, burying your face into his neck to shake the image from your brain. 

You don’t know what to do—what to think. But you knew you had to run. 

“Simon,” you gasp out, and the Thing laughs through muttering generations as sigils flare to life on its skin, words and powers that have no meaning to living souls. “Simon!”

A panting maw shifts to you and the threat of violence is still in the air. Large human-ish hands tighten as blood drips off your chin. 

“Run.” Your hand scoops back up your blade, and not seconds later the wind is making your clothes ripple all around you as you’re lifted and carried away. Arms around the Ghost’s neck, you breathe shakily, your head still pounding something awful as the Primordial watches Simon’s rapid dash—far faster than any dog or horse. 

It tilts its blood-slick head, and, for some inner intuition…you know it’s smiling. 

The beast below you keeps you tight to him, one hand pressing on the small of your back and the other under your knees, not at all slowed by your weight; he can smell your fear and it makes him enraged. 

The Ghost’s eyes are small when you press your face into his cheek, but they flicker to you as you send your bone-deep distress his way. He lets loose a low whine in between pants of breath. 

“S-Simon, what was that—”

There’s a glimpse of that monster from over his shoulder and you startle, head popping back up to stare fully as you pass trees at an alarming rate. But when you blink the maggot body is gone. Looking behind, you see it again as the Ghost runs faster, taking a sharp right and you once more get the view blocked by a large stone. 

Everywhere you look, that blackened halo shows up, hands grasping the side of a tree or watching from a river—its third hand outstretched. Whispering still dances in the shell of your ears, and in your heart, it feels like a string is being plucked; stitches undone from a tapestry. 

Until it ends up right in front of Simon in a blink of a second. 

All he can do is roar and twist himself, curl around you as his claws kick up snow and dark earth before there’s a sudden sweep of power that ricochets through the trees. It breaks down trunks and makes the world scream, and you, trapped under the body that does anything to protect you, hit the ground hard.

You think perhaps you flew through the air at first because you seem to remember the sensation of flying before the ground came up to meet you. 

Yelling Simon’s name, you shatter and slide, clothes ripping more, and other shoe gone to the wind. Flesh peels and tears, cheek skinned on harsh material. 

And the whispers laugh, and giggle, and speak in a million voices of the damned.

Look at me. 

You cough and stagger upward, stumbling with twigs in your thighs before backing up and immediately looking for Simon while keeping this monster at the edge of your vision. This was more than fear—more than terror. You can’t describe a feeling like this; can’t put it into words or thought. 

It made your body shake just by it being here, made you want to turn your blade—which you’d held onto, miraculously—on yourself to end it. 

Simon was the only thing to stop you, and you kept backing up, feet knocking over roots and stone. You find his limp body far to the right, wisps of shadow leaking out. You yell, glancing at the Thing as it limps to you with failing legs.

“Simon, get up!” You can’t get to him without taking your eyes off the Primordial—can’t risk that faster-than-light movement as if it wasn’t falling apart just by standing. Its third-hand dribbles black liquid from its fingertips; pooling it in its palm. Closer now. “Simon, fucking get back up!”

You can’t leave him here, but the instinct to run was infecting you just as much as your care for him. The more you looked the harder it was to turn away, mind slipping from you. But you can’t move your eyes from it either. 

What was this? This temptation and possession? Oh, God, it was sucking you in. 

The great blackened beast does not stir and you grasp your blade until your knuckles ache. 

This headache was ripping your brain apart, and you gasped and gripped your head again, noises of agony escaping your lips. 

It laughs, but the action makes it sound like an entire world is on fire. 

Groaning in suffering and wrenching your eyes closed, you send your palm into your skull; hitting it over and over again.

“Get out of my head!” 

Your voice echoes off the trees, breaking and desperate. Shaking your head back and forth, you growl and whine like a dog with a knife through its stomach—intestines in your body bunching and turning in knots.

The presence gripping your mind leaves. 

Immediately, you sag to the ground; knees slamming into the earth. Eyes still closed but able to think again, you take a breath, cold sweat falling quickly down your temples to mix with congealed blood and bile. 

Knife-hand burning from all of the force you’d exerted, you loosen it and sag forward to take a deep breath. 

A hand lightly captures your chin, and you sigh out easily, leaning your weight into the grip as a thumb caresses your cheek.

“Simon,” you open your buggy eyes in relief but only see a void. 

You freeze, comfort immediately turning to pure horror. Black sludge drips down your neck, staining your shirt and burning as it absorbs into your flesh. 

Its head tilts, and that blackened limb levels your face with the nothingness behind the vale of its ripped-open flesh. There’s a jumbled twitching and horns that make the tight skull dance like it's on a string. 

There’s a brush against your mind and the fingers dig into your flesh; pushing and breaking the skin. You can’t move. You can’t look away. 

Its face moves closer, demented elbow bending as your neck is dragged forward to meet it. Infinity rolls out behind your quivering eyes.

Don’t worry, it breathes, though you don’t know how because you can’t see its chest moving. God sees you. 

Your throat closes, and the black dig of its hand leaks into your open flesh, tendrils of infection that move like worms into your being and up your veins; maggots, flies. 

You start choking on air, your spine arching and your hands jerking around, tensing up closer to your chest. There’s foam at the corners of your mouth, eyes still stuck open into the bleak reality of your future. 

You smell rot. You smell like rot. 

Simon, you think of him—of his actions in the city and the way he always came to you to fix his clothes. You wondered then, in a moment of numb hysterics and revelation, that if he liked your scent so much then he must have stuck around you because of it. To feel your presence and bask in your company. Recalling moments of soft words and looks you could not decipher before. 

Surely he could feel when he was going to change, he could have slipped out of his clothes and left them somewhere. 

The question that you think of in the small moment before your hand twitches over your blade is like a spark of light.

Was he purposefully wearing them because he wanted you to fix them for him later? 

A sniffing nose can almost be heard in the clutch of your neck, and the whispers dim. One shoulder shaking and spasming, you’re able to push back just a small bit. 

Brown eyes and ivory fangs. A deep voice that you can feel against your heart. Blood runs from your nose, down your face, and splatters to your bent knees. It bleeds down your throat; your chest and your shirt. Bathing in it, mixing with black damnation. 

The grip on your lower face tightens, fingers drilling deeper until muscle tears and snaps.

Your fingers tighten along the hilt once more.

It clicks at you as its bones break in its throat, corpse-like body’s flesh opening to let unearthly tendrils of blackness leak out like it was a cup of wine only holding something until it can be drank down. 

The corpse shivers with pleasure. My Vessel shall please Him. Let your soul join His choir.

Your throat feels like it’s being slit, your very essence being corrupted. It’s hot, burning—it all gets brighter, like a fire and a pit of ice. A beast at the very center of Hell; three faces and bat-like wings under every chin. Great and terrible—beautiful and disgusting. 

A slobbering, wordless being punished just as all sinners for eternity unending. 

You throw up black blood, and as the concerning amount of gore floods you, your mind flashes one last time.

The man carries you through the bed of thorns that you remember, and he hikes you farther into his arms until not even a single one thinks to touch you—no sharp drag. Your face gently rests on Simon’s head, the top of his scalp as your nose itches at the feeling of his hair. 

You blink softly, holding on as he moves you back down after the threat is gone.

Simon, you plead, Simon, oh, my Simon. 

Your hand seizes over the blade and in a brief second of fading thought—mind flickering between screaming souls and black fur stuck in your ears as blockers—you force your watering eyes to blink. 

And when you blink you bring the silver blade up…and then stab it directly into the oblivion of a starless sky.

It rips its fingers out of your skin, screeching louder than a mountain being split in two. You do as well, arm jerking out of the gaping face and bringing the smoking limb to your chest. It was like you’d just put your arm into an oven—your sleeve was on fire before you fell backward and shoved it into the snow, yelling and screaming in pain.

It mirrors.

Third-hand snapping and waving as it whips its head back and forth, its halo quivers and melts atop of it like black fire; sigils glowing brighter. Smoke comes out of its face, wings jerking up and down. 

You notice none of it—mind fading fast with maggots still in your flesh. Worms. Parasites. You can feel them moving, up and down and to the sides of your ripped jaw, to your burning arm. 

Infected. 

Infected.

Infected.

All you can do is lay there and vomit them out—black writhing blood mixed with crimson. You feel empty inside, void of something important. Cut in half.

The Thing backs up and as it does it begins to bend in on itself, body splintering like a wet piece of paper before it begins to stretch back out. Reality shifts, time warps as you blankly watch through leaking eyes that hold burst veins.

Its legs break backward as its rib cage pushed in, but before it can entirely be sucked away, it points at you. 

You will never forget how it speaks. It’s a wail—a brand of unholy tongues and a world lost to distant memory. A clanging of war bells and dark deals signed in a night of eclipses and the hidden homes of shadow. But you know what it says to you.

I know the sound of your soul and I mark it as mine in Hell!

Something snaps in your chest, and you flinch wildly, bending over yourself and shrieking. 

And then there’s a strike of wind and a roar of rage, and the being gets sucked into itself without another word. 

You pant, slamming back down to the ground and laying limp—quiet. Dead to all else besides the agony you can now express. With one last wheezing breath, your eyes flutter closed and you pass off into a blessing of unconsciousness. 

—

The Ghost’s nose sniffs the air, eyes tight and small, head roving from where his back is large in front of you. You see his tail lightly swish, feet lifting and settling back down to the floor. 

Simon seems confused, one leg limping more than the other and leaning heavily to one side; he shakes his large head and his ears slap as he does.

It’s deep night now, and you slowly, weakly, push yourself to stand up. You’d been out the entire day.

Your blood is all over the snow, and as you stumble to your feet, you can’t speak beyond a slurred gargle from your ripped-open jaw. 

How have you not bled out yet?

“S–Sim…” A black head snaps to you, but there’s nothing familiar in those eyes. 

They shine in the moonlight and those ivory teeth glint. Ears swiveled forward with sharp tips and tiny whispers of tufts. Long arms that scrape the ground in front of a bent spine.

He doesn’t blink. 

Stumbling, one leg giving out, your only option is to breathe through your mouth in shallow gasps. 

The Ghost’s nose twitches, but otherwise he is deathly frozen. Too frozen.

Like he can’t recognize your scent.

Infected. 

Your burst eyes widen, but it’s already too late. 

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatoes, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[emmkitt]

CONNECTION: LOST AU

(Inanimate Insanity + HFJONE + BFDI)

IVE WANTED TO MAKE AN OSC AU FOR SOOO LONG AND I FINALLY HAVE AN IDEA ahem

shoutout to @somebean81 for helping me figure out some of the details of this. GET READY FOR A LOTTA WORDS

—>”i” is an Algebralien. Within this universe, Algebraliens excell not only in arithmetic, but understanding of the concept of death. The Radio— which exists in The Waiting Room after an object becomes deceased— is monitored and controlled by the Algebraliens, and the sequence of numbers input within the machine determine the universe the object will be transported to.

—>’i’ became enamoured with this technology, but frustrated with the fact they were excluded, as they were not a number themself.

—>’i’ began to experiment with The Radio, managing to hack the systems and create a new input, that being “i”, which would instantly teleport an object to him. Being as the input was figuratively and literally “imaginary,” the only being capable of producing the input was ‘i.’ An object would input a numeric value into The Radio and ‘i’ would hack it before the antennae could be raised.

—>Almost immediately, when strange objects began running about, the other Algebraliens discovered ‘i’s shenanigans.

—>One of the biggest offenses was to tamper with The Radio systems, which led to ‘i’s immediate exile to Earth.

—>As ‘i’ could not appear as an Algebralien on earth, he was forced into an object disguise, that being a character he deemed ‘Steve Cobs.’

—>The Algebraliens had yet to understand simply how Cobs had managed to hack The Radio, and until then, Cobs was able to continue hacking the system. He would only teleport a single object on occassion, as a means of ensuring the Algebraliens would not catch on.

—>A new type of object Soul Cobs had not yet known about was discovered immediately, called a Wandering Soul. Wandering Souls are deceased objects which have existed in The Waiting Room for centuries, leading to the object no longer retaining any idea of their former identity. These souls appear as amorphous blobs and tend to be quite disoriented.

—>Cobs initially felt pity for these souls, and in his first experiment he created a robotic phone-shaped body for one of the souls. The first experiments, however, proved unsuccessful, and the souls were completely destroyed in the process of attempting to ‘revive’ them.

—>After three failed experiments, however, Cobs finally managed to perfect his creation. Mephone4 was the first Wandering Soul successfully revived.

—>Mephone4S, who was created shortly after Mephone4, was another success, however unlike 4, 4S retained the knowledge that he was once dead. 4 was programmed without this memory. When 4S sacrificed himself to save 4 (which ultimately destroyed his soul), Mephone4 received the memories about how he was technically not ‘alive.’ (Cue the existential crisis!), along with some of 4S’s memories.

—>As time went on, Cobs began to program his creations to be less and less human and more robotic in nature, completely stripping the once living objects of their humanity. He figured that would make it easier for him to inevitably send his Mephone creations to get revenge on the Algebraliens.

—>During his quest to find more Wandering Souls, Cobs accidentally teleported a regular soul to his laboratory, that being a copper lantern known as Airy.

—>Cobs debated between simply killing Airy to send him back to The Waiting Room, but the other convinced him to let him live, with the offer of his knowledge of The Waiting Room and The Radio.

—>With his apathetic personality, Airy became a great assistant to Cobs, and proved to be quite intelligent with the technology. Cobs soon programmed robotic enhancements for Airy, as a means of ensuring Airy would not be easy to kill.

—>With the newfound invention of Recovery Centers, the amount of Wandering Souls available was becoming scarce. Cobs, being dead set on his goal, begins to resort to living objects, figuring that any soul should work.

—>Obviously, theres a bit more moral and ethical conflict there, especially since these souls understand who they are, unlike the Wandering Souls, and Cobs was essentially forcing them into a new form and role.

—>The first victim to this was Fan, who was immediately discovered to be missing by Test Tube.

—>One of 4S’ memories which Mephone4 retained was that of Cobs’ plans to resort to living souls to create more Mephones. Initially brushing it aside as a silly dream, Mephone4 realizes this is serious, and that Fan had probably been kidnapped.

—>Next, Tissues and YinYang also disappeared.

—>As a Mephone, Fan (MeFan1) was programmed with the least humanity. He’s essentially a shell of the formerly enthusiastic and friendly object he used to be. Fan was Cobs’ first target, as he has almost unlimited knowledge of the II contestants, which was the only memories Cob’s allowed him to retain.

—>As a Mephone, Tissues (MephoneT) glitches a lot (condishawn) and is deemed a failed experiment by Cobs because of this.

—>As a Mephone, YinYang (MephoneY) was a bit of a tricky case for Cobs. Not realizing that they essentially shared two souls, Cobs wiped their memories and unknowingly only wiped Yin’s successfully. Yang retained their memories, and because of that they talk back to Cobs and refuse to aid in his plans. Yang eventually becomes distressed, as his brother is basically gone.

—>Mephone4 realizes something must be done about this before he can lose more of his contestants. Something involving The Waiting Room and The Radio. However, Mephone4 realized he could not die again, otherwise his soul would not be recoverable.

—>Eventually, an Algebralien is finally sent to earth to investigate after The Radio signals start going haywire. That Algebralien is Two, an Inter-Dimensional Manager, who disguises themself as a kiwi.

—>They meet Mephone4 and the II contestants, who are immediately suspicious of the newcomer. Two ends up disabling their disguise as a means of gaining trust. Mephone4 remains skeptical, but the contestants are desperate to get their friends back and agree to listen to the Algebralien.

—>The plan is simple; A contestant would die to enter The Waiting Room. They would use Two’s notes to defend the radio against Cob’s hacking, and then Mephone4 would recover them.

—>Test Tube was the one who volunteered for the job, as she desperately wanted Fan back.

—>Everything seemed to be going according to plan, however shortly after Test Tube entered The Waiting Room, the II cast were under attack by Cobs and his mephone army.

—>During the fight, Mephone4 ended up sacrificing himself to save Bot. MephoneY (YinYang), as they had some of their memories retained, managed to rebel against Cobs and also died protecting the living objects from the mephones.

—>By successfully disabling The Radio, the Wandering Souls Cobs had collected to create his mephones glitched out, and his army collapsed.

—>In the EPIC FINAL BATTLE!! Two was able to use their power to transport Cobs and Airy (I didnt forget him) to The Waiting Room permanently, with a radio that does not work.

SIDE NOTES:

-When a soul is transformed into a Mephone, living or wandering, the soul becomes no longer recoverable, meaning when they die they’re permadead.

-Test Tube is stuck in The Waiting Room now, sorry :(

-As they were not Wandering Souls when transformed into Mephones, Fan and Tissues did not ‘die’ when The Radio was disabled. However, they are not able to be reverted back to their old form.

-Airy received several robotic enhancements from Cobs.

-Two is one of the head Algebraliens, and is responsible for maintaining balance between universes and managing The Radio systems. This is part of the reason why they are rarely at the equation playground; they’re often bouncing between universes to deal with dimensional nonsense. They have a radio built into their ‘stomach,’ which allows them to quickly travel through space and time.

-Along with Inter-dimensional management and radio system management, Algebraliens all have an object disguise form, and occassionally visit The Waiting Room to help newly deceased objects grow accustomed to the place.

-Other characters not mentioned, such as MePad, other II contestants, etc. DO exist but dont really divert much from their canon lore so I didn’t feel the need to mention them here.

UHHH THATS A LOT. if u have questions about the au feel free to ask im soo normal about this idea you dont even know

[leeannsparksauthor]

How Could I Hurt You?

*SPOILERS FOR DARK URGE PLAY THROUGH*

This one right here is for all the people who wanted a little more angst with their dark urge character. Personally I loved the story for the dark urge but I wish there was more of a reaction from companions at the fact that you died! So here's a little angsty treat for my fellow gamers who've put in over 300 hours into this game.

“I have a gift for you child. You will use it to lacerate this world.” No, the only word that echoed in your mind. You will not accept any gift from your so-called god. There is good in this world and your free mind knows this now. It is evident in the companions you have picked up along this journey. In the love of a pale elf, the kindness of an archdruid and the determination of tieflings. You have felt it in every gentle hug, tender kiss and smile that did not come from the release of death. 

“No, no, for once I’m free! I have seen life, I’ve seen beauty! I have loved, I have been loved…and I am never giving that back!” Fuck your god, fuck destiny, fuck everything that came before. The autonomy of your body was suddenly stripped away as you were raised into the air by invisible claws. Back breaking under the force answered only by cruel laughter.

“Can we kill this little freak!” The vampire spawn was ready to rush forward and imbed his knife into the puppet pulling the strings. You knew that he would be killed if he so much as put a kink in the plans of the cruel god. 

“Karlach…keep him away!”

Your father laughed at the weakness you showed so openly. “What a disappointing spawn you’ve become, my most promising, possessed by pathetic emotions. I remember when the very act of murder reflected in your gaze, oh the terror you inspired, the horror.”

The words Astarion spoke to his former master echoed within your mind, giving you courage, determination. “I am so much more than what you made me.”

“You are nothing without me, child. What I have given freely and what you have rejected most unknowingly I will take back. I will give you back to the rotting earth you hold so dearly, nothing but a dead fool, food for the worms. Even below the ground you will still feel the blood I rain upon this world, the fire that will consume the forests you called home. Your blood is mine and I will see it returned.”

You could feel the very blood he spoke of fall from your eyes like scarlett tears, your breath trapped inside your lungs begging to escape. The taste of copper fills your mouth as it dribbles down your chin. You’ve never felt so cold before, even in the harshest of winters. Bones seemed to snap and then as if clutched in a grasp of fury your heart shattered within your chest a silent scream caught in your throat. It was instant death but somehow still prolonged beyond the mortal plane.

There was no more chanting within the Bhall temple, no foreign word. Yet the scent of blood still lingered, the screams of your name like an echo being absorbed into the walls. 

You watched events unfold outside of your body and wondered if this is what all of your victims experienced after their death. Or if this torture was designed just for you by the lord of murder himself. 

Astarion had rushed over as soon as your body fell to the cold stone below. His hands cradling your body with a fierce protectiveness you had never seen before. His hands searched for a pulse, something, any sign of life you would give him. “Karlach give me a bloody scroll!”

“Astarion it won’t work…” she was right, it won’t. She had seen first hand instant death at the hands of devils, like a thread cut with a pair of scissors. 

“You don’t fucking know that, we have to try! Halsin do something you useless druid! Darling, look at me, please, please. I promised, I promised it wouldn’t have you my love, please…” Oh what you would give to embrace him, comfort him.

Light illuminated the blood that stained your face, warmth from Halsin’s palm, the warmth of nature itself. It would do nothing for you now. “Oak Father, hear me, aid me, protect this child of Silvanus.” The light flickered, a soft breeze tussling the hair surrounding your body. You had never seen such sadness on Halsin’s face, not even when his grove was threatened or when all hope had seemed lost in the darkness of the shadow curse. His hand engulfed the one that rested limply by your body, “forgive me my heart.” He brought the hand to his lips, warmth against deadly cold skin. 

“Your god is as useless as the rest of them! Potions, Karlach in my bag, hurry please…” his words were cut short as the large tiefling cradled the back of your head. Her forehead came to rest against yours, horns knocking against the ones atop your head. Soft lips brushed across the place where lines and creases would form the most.

“Rest easy Soldier…I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“Get away! Fuck you, fuck all of you, we have to help them, there must be something…” as if a candle had been extinguished so did his fight. “No, no…oh darling…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry my love, my light. Forgive me, please come back, I promise I’ll keep you safe please come back, don’t leave me, please.” They would tell stories about you, the hero who sacrificed everything to save Baulders Gate. Would they tell of the love you got to experience before it all ended? Would they speak of the friends you made? The adventures you had? 

Would they speak of the man who emerged from his crypt only to enter a temple and offer a choice?

The hardest choice you would ever have to make. Only it’s not a difficult one is it? After all it’s only one more battle until the rest of your life. Yours now, no one else's. You could close your eyes forever, spare yourself the view, the consequences. 

When the breath was returned to your lungs and the shattered pieces of your heart put back together one by one your body lurched forward with the first sight of your new life. 

Cool lips pressed against yours, fangs almost puncturing skin with the ferocity of a lover who held death in his arms. Words whispered against your mouth, “don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”

A small, breathless laugh, “how could I leave my little star behind?” How could you leave this behind?

[swordsandarrows]

Golden Light

Fluffy bkdk one shot. No cw's. 1,064 words.

Available to read on AO3 if you'd prefer ♡

It was one of those rare mornings when Izuku woke, the bed was still warm. The other half still occupied by the silently breathing blond.

Izuku wasted no time turning over, propping himself momentarily on an elbow. The soft glow of a barely risen sun snuck through the slats of haphazardly closed curtains covering the window opposite the bed, allowing emerald eyes to take in the glorious gift beside him. The rays cast streaks of gold across pale skin, igniting stray strands of messy platinum with soft copper tones, and highlighting the near-invisible dusting of chest hair across sculpted pecs.

The arm closest to Izuku was partially stretched out - bent at the elbow, forearm hidden beneath the pillow cushioning the blond’s head. The position made his bicep bulge, beautifully displaying each divot between hardened muscle, while revealing the strips of serratus leading toward the broad curve of his lat spread against the mattress.

It had been nearly four years of drinking in the sight of waking up next to Katsuki, but Izuku didn't think he'd ever tire of it. How could he when the blond was the most incredible creature to ever walk this Earth, and Izuku got to call him his? His Kacchan.

Sometimes, especially in moments like these, it still felt surreal. Like Izuku would suddenly wake up and realize the past four years had been nothing but a fever dream. That he was still in a coma after the war and this Kacchan was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

Rather than dwell on the negative thought process, the greenette took advantage of Katsuki’s position and carefully maneuvered himself to where he knew all too well he fit like a puzzle piece. Face tucked in the nook between Katsuki’s jaw and shoulder, chest nestled against his side, an arm across the blond’s chest, and a leg hooked on his hip.

Izuku couldn't help but to inhale deeply, relishing in Kacchan’s intoxicating scent of something akin to burnt sugar with a distinct natural spice entwined. He filled his lungs with the sweet musk, nuzzling his face more securely against the satin-soft skin on the expanse of Katsuki’s neck, his heart palpitating with the onslaught of emotion that rapidly filled him.

The hand Izuku had across Katsuki’s chest traced over the length of his collarbone to his shoulder, and down his arm. Committing every bump, curve, and scar to memory over and over again despite how well he already knew every inch of his explosive partner. Izuku dragged his finger tips back up, retracing his path before letting them ghost over the slightly puckered scar beneath his collar, and finally to the broad patch of marred skin in the center of his chest. They were scars that Katsuki wore proudly in a show of protectiveness toward Izuku - something he liked to put on display as a reminder of just how far the blond was willing to go to protect what he cared for. Who he cared for.

Izuku’s heart strained almost painfully in his chest as the love and adoration swelled once again. He would protect Kacchan with his life a million times over, for as long as he was still breathing. He swore it, swore it, swore it.

A large, calloused, searing hot hand suddenly covered Izuku’s own. “Oi, nerd, quit huffing on me like a fucking gluehead. Shit tickles.” Katsuki’s voice was rough with sleep, but his gravelly tone held nothing but affection.

“Sorry, Kacchan. Didn't mean to wake you.” Izuku adjusted, settling his cheek in the concave of Katsuki’s shoulder where it was particularly pillowy with muscle. He hooked his thumb over the blond’s knuckles, squeezing a fraction tighter.

Katsuki grunted in response, maneuvering the arm Izuku was partially laying on to lazily drag his fingers through soft green curls.

“I didn't know you had today off, too.” Izuku spoke again after a beat of silence, relishing in the way Kacchan’s deft fingers carded through his hair, nails scratching pleasantly against his scalp every so often.

“Thought it’d be a nice surprise, or some shit. It feels balls early, go back to sleep. You've got all day to stare at me, or whatever creepy shit you've been doin’.” Despite his words, Kacchan’s hand never stalled on the greenette’s head.

Izuku couldn't help the blush that heated his face. Kacchan wanted to surprise me! God, I love him, I love him, Ilovehimlovehimlovehim - Kacchan always wanted to surprise him, really, but it never got old. The blond knew him better than he knew himself, of course, so it didn’t take that much effort to catch Izuku off guard.

Doing a last minute shift switch to get an impromptu day off together. Izuku coming home after a particularily rough patrol to a candlelit bathroom, the tub filled and steaming hot with his favourite eucalyptus scented bubble bath, a glass of his favourite “disgustingly sweet, I don’t fucking know how you drink that shit” white wine already waiting on the edge. A particularly pleasing breakfast item that would make an appearance once in a blue moon that would have Izuku doing a happy dance in his seat (“Calm down, Tickle-Me-Hawks-ass-nerd. It’s just a crepe.”). An in-box, limited edition piece of All Might merch Izuku didn’t have with a bouquet of green roses, adorned with an orange ribbon waiting for him on the kotatsu. A new notebook and a pack of those super nice glidy pens. The list was endless.

There was just so much Kacchan did to surprise him, and no matter how mundane (like the time Kacchan bought that particular shampoo Izuku mentioned he liked the scent of like, maybe once, in passing) he still couldn’t help but to respond as if Katsuki had literally given him the moon. He may as well have, because everyday Izuku woke up and was reminded that Kacchan was the other half of their “Wonder Duo”, that they lived together and shared a bed, that Kacchan was his boyfriend, his partner, his everything - it was like being gifted the moon over and over again.

A smile spread across Izuku’s face as he nuzzled his cheek against Katsuki’s soft skin, a faint murmur of, “Kacchan sugoi,” escaping his lips.

The man in question squeezed Izuku where he held him, a small smile of his own tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Such a damned nerd.”

[rizatouchesthewalls]

Gotta Catch Em’ All!

trainer!hobie brown x gn!trainer!reader

text that is small is an optional detail!

pls give advice on hobies accent

fluff, headcanons + mini scenarios, pokémon-au

POKEDEX: HOBART BROWN

Name — Hobie Brown

ID No. — XXXXXX

Britain Pokedex — Earth-136

Money — Thief!

Battle Points — 947283

He’s a menace to say the least. Not in a quirky but in a way where he’s actually a national problem.

He likes Fairy and Ghost types. He feels like people aim for physical and elementally strong Pokémon because they’re known to be efficient; but who said that he couldn’t beat them? Snap out of it!

He found Mimikyu one day behind a brush in the woods

Love at first sight fr

He gave it a spiked collar and a spiked-mohawk-headband

He doesn’t use Pokéballs unless Mimikyu is seriously injured and there’s no where to rest at the moment

“It’s just controllin to keep em in there.”

No doubt about it he’s one of the greatest trainers you’ve ever seen

Him being pretty helps too ig

“A-and he just stole from my mansion—!” The exasperated man shouted at you. “Aren’t you trainers worth any good? Use your Pokémon to stop him!”

“Yeah yeah old man, I got you!” You lazily scanned the area and went around the back of the mansion.

Everything’s normal so far until you see a large picture on the porcelain white walls of the mansion.

There was a large “mural” in black, dark blue, and red. In huge letters it wrote: PUNK-MON WINS! Noticing that the thief was still finishing the painting you turned the corner and walked towards him. He had a mask on and held a spray can in his hand.

“Yo—!”

“Ki-ki-ki-kyu!!!” You felt something slash at your leg, causing you to crash to the ground.

“What on earth is that?! Your scary Pokémon just bit me or something!”

The tall boy picked it up. Speaking of which, what was that thing? It looked like a wannabe Pikachu with spikes attached on it’s head. “Good little Mimikyu, beatin’ up stalkers whereva you see ‘em.”

“Stalkers? Huh—hey you mean me! I’m not a stalker!”

He helped you up. “You betta not be a copper.”

You glared at him. How are you gonna trip someone and then accuse them of trying to arrest you? Who is this loser?

He removed his mask.

Suddenly you’re not mad anymore.

“Aha, um… I see we got off on the wrong foot.” You batted your eyes. “Emphasis on foot… what is that thing?”

“This TING!!! Is my baby. My punk bunny. Mimikyu say hi!” The little creature garbled and babbled away.

“Was that ‘hi’ or possessed screeches?”

“Ion even know m’self to be honest.” He looked a little disturbed by Mimikyu, but then smiled. “My name’s Obie Brown, and I’m the number one criminal of rich-heads like this around town.”

“Very cool Hobie Brown. Only problem is that rich-head thinks Pokémon are the cause of all this vandalism and he’s trying to take down all the gyms in this area.”

“Oh!”

“Oh.”

“Right then. WE’RE GOIN TA KILL A RICH GUY!”

“Ki-kyu-ki-ki-ki-kyu!” Mimikyu excitedly garbled.

“WE’RE GOING TO WHAT?! HEY WAIT I WANNA JOIN IN!”

You couldn’t believe you were robbing the house of guy you promised to help. At least it’s not like he needs said money anyway—he has a whole nother vault on a separate island. The goal was to strip the old man of everything he owned in this mansion.

You wedged the metal bar Hobie had lended you inti the crack of the safe’s opening. “Darn. [Poke!Name], a little help here?”

Your Pokémon croaked a little noise and threw an attack at the metal door, which surprisingly made a big enough dent to pull at.

The doors hinges dropped and inside revealed a tomb of gold and stacks of money. Including golden Pokéballs.

“Woah…”

Alright! No more marveling. Here was the hard part of the mission—getting all of the things into the cheap school bags you had stolen bought and throwing them out the window.

Needless to say, it was a rather taxing job. You were constantly on your toes watching out for a stray maid or butler to come in.

“Okay! [Poke!Name], we’re finished. And no thanks to you… You’re lucky I love you.” The moment you slightly pushed the vault door open an alarm blasted. You winced as the painful ringing echoed in your ears. “It must’ve not been triggered when we blasted through it, but opening it does.”

You managed to hurl some bags at the window. But your own escape was more difficult—and you could heart the rapid footsteps coming down the hall.

“Darn—!”

“DOWN HEYAH!”

That familiar British voice! You stuck your head at the window and saw Hobie with outstretched arms.

“JUMP DOWN! I’LL CATCH YA!”

“ARE YOU COOCOO FOR COCOPUFFS?”

“TRUST!”

You anxiously rubbed your arms as you heard the servants working on the entrance door. Who would win: your fear of heights or your fear of jail?

“Open up!”

Darn, darn, darn, darn—

Your Pokémon pushed you out the window. WHAT?

You were falling—you were falling—you were going to meet your death—

“Ya not fallin anymore you damsel in distress.”

You blushed out of embarrassment and got out of Hobie’s arms. “Ahem, thank you.”

He suddenly grabbed your hand tightly and started running away from the mansion. “So, what’s the name? I never caught it!”

You sighed. You really got yourself into some sort of mess. “[Name]. Your new partner in crime.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“I WAS BEING SARCASTIC.”

[alchemistoftheend]

Thrown Away (Case #0092302)

Pre-Statement

Statement of Kieran Woodward, regarding items recovered from the refuse of 93 Lancaster Road, Walthamstow.

Original statement given February 23, 2009.

Date of Event(s): August 8, 2008

Statement

Woodward works as a garbage collector, whose crew is comprised of David Atayah, Matthew Wilkinson, and Alan Parfitt

100s of assorted doll heads in a bag

The heads were battered, like they’ve been dragged through rough concrete

Few months later, at the start of spring there’s another weird bag

Inside was long strips of paper, with the Lord’s Prayer, the Our Father, written on it in Latin and slightly singed around the edges

The third bag, 2 weeks later, was filled with thousands of teeth🤮

“It almost felt like a ritual”🤨

The elderly could who answered the door wasn’t aware of what was in their trash

Alan got worse, more irritable and short-tempered

was fired after falling asleep behind the wheel and was replaced by Guy Wardman

On August 8, 2008, 2:09 am Woodward got a text from Alan that read “Found him”

Woodward went back to 93 Lancaster Road

There was a fourth bag, tied off with a dark green bow

Inside was polystyrene packing peanuts, and bronze or copper that had been carved into an anatomical heart, with “Alan Parfitt etched into it with “machine-like precision”

It was cold, like it just came out of a freezer

That was the last sign of Alan

He asked a friend to dispose it in a medical waste incinerator

Post-Statement/Thoughts

There’s been no more strange bags

Alan was reported as missing by his brother, Micheal on August 20, 2008

The teeth bag case was managed by Officers Suresh and Altman

The third bag contained 2780 of the same tooth, all it different states of decay

Do doll heads, Latin, and teeth

The Lord’s Prayer goes like this

Our Father, who art in heaven,

Hallowed be thy Name.

Thy Kingdom come.

Thy will be done,

On earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,

The power, and the glory,

Forever and ever. Amen.

The Lord’s Prayer was a way for Jesus’ disciples to express their reverence towards Christ, their worship and devotion to the divine

It’s also in Latin

In ep 4, I marked this quote “Latin fell out of favour as a language for academic texts in the 18th Century. Since then it has only really used for religious texts”

Ep 4 also reference King Solomon so more religious references

This book was also singed along its edges

This is the second instance where some kind of Latin text was burnt, ep 4 being the prior

I guess teeth would be associated with The Flesh

For the dolls and Latin idk

Just looked at the Fear Wiki

If I had to guess all the fires associated with the Latin could be The Desolation and the uncanniness of the doll heads could be The Stranger?

[kasakuelectricals]

What is the Earthing Electrode?

Kasaku's range of advanced gel earthing electrodes are designed to offer superior performance and durability. These electrodes are made from galvanized iron, which provides excellent corrosion resistance, ensuring long-lasting protection against environmental factors. What sets Kasaku's earthing electrodes apart is their innovative design and construction. The use of high-grade materials coupled with advanced engineering techniques results in earthing electrodes that have low resistance levels, allowing for efficient dissipation of fault currents. Another notable feature of Kasaku's earthing electrodes is their easy installation process. With their user-friendly design, these products can be quickly and securely installed without requiring extensive technical knowledge or specialized tools. In addition to providing reliable grounding solutions for residential buildings, Kasaku also caters to industrial sectors where electrical safety is paramount. Their copper bonded earthing electrode is specifically engineered to meet the rigorous demands of industrial environments while offering enhanced conductivity and longevity. With its commitment to quality and customer satisfaction, it comes as no surprise that Kasaku Electricals has gained a strong reputation in the market. Their team of experts ensures that every product meets industry standards while delivering unmatched performance. Whether you're an individual homeowner or a business owner looking for effective grounding solutions, consider choosing Kasaku Electricals' diverse range of earthing electrodes. With their exceptional quality and reliability, you can have peace of mind knowing that your electrical systems are well-protected against faults and potential dangers.

[canmom-art]

“I volunteer for the keel.”

Tain Shir, the ‘Bane of Wives’; the scene in The Monster Baru Cormorant where she keelhauls herself as a flex. Thanks to @vi0 for commissioning ‘tain shir looking scary’.

Certainly owes a lot to @badasserywomen‘s interpretation, and of course Jen Z’s art for Hades, but I tried to make my own spin based on the book as ever!

Other Baru pics: Baru Cormorant, Tain Hu, Tau-Indi Bosoka

And, the scene from the book...

Ormsment seizes her by the elbow. “Some of the marines say you had a chance to kill Baru. The ship whispers that you let her go.”

“I missed,” Shir says.

“The fuck you did.”

“Reprimand me, then.”

“You know I will. I hold this ship together, Shir. My authority. You can’t be seen to get off easy.”

Shir shrugs off her jacket and strips her workshirt. She accepts the world as it is and the world accepts her thus. She is not mastered. What is done to her cannot confine what she will do.

“What are you doing?” Ormsment says, not out of surprise but curiosity. “Are you willing to be lashed?”

“No lashes.” Shir kneels to untie her boots. “I volunteer for the keel.”

“What?” Ormsment stares in astonishment. The sergeant-at-arms and his marines flinch as if Tain Shir has just doused herself in lamp oil and reached for a smoke.

“I volunteer for the keel.”

She walks barefoot to the prow. Here the keelhauled are shackled and thrown under the ship to drag against the razor barnacles of the copper-jacketed hull. Most pop out the stern drowned or mad.

The sailors stare at Shir in warrior awe. The scar-streaked hatch of her back, clamped shut over brute muscle. Her pillar-thick legs. Heavy arms and strangler’s hands all limber and loose. Upon her tall torso one of her breasts is cut crosswise by an old and devastating scar. The soft of her gut would disqualify her from the gymnast pageants in Falcrest but she is not a gymnast nor is her work a pageant.

“King of fucking kings,” Ormsment breathes. “What a wreck they’ve made of you.”

Elsewhere we learn that Falcresti marine jackets are red. As for skin tone, Baru describes her skin as ‘the colour of good earth’ in Traitor, so... this is my best guess. I didn’t find an explicit description of hair, but it’s often mentioned that characters on ships keep their hair short to prevent lice, so that’s why I went with a short hair interpretation.

At some point i would like to draw her in her armour, but that will require working out what Falcresti marine armour looks like, and I thought it would be harder to recognise her behind the mask. So this seemed like the best scene for a first portrayal!

[true-power-limited]

https://www.truepowergroup.in/copper-bonded-earthing-electrode.html

Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode Manufacturer in India

Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode is an essential component of any electrical system. It is designed to provide a low-impedance path for fault current to flow to the ground. The Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode is made up of a copper rod that is coated with a layer of high-quality material to ensure that it is protected from corrosion and other environmental factors. This ensures that the electrode provides a long-lasting and reliable connection to the earth. True Power of Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode lies in its ability to protect electrical equipment from damage caused by lightning strikes, power surges, and other electrical disturbances. The Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode is designed to absorb and dissipate any electrical energy that may be present in the system, ensuring that it does not damage the equipment. This means that the Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode is an important safety feature that can help protect both people and property from electrical hazards. When it comes to selecting a Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode, there are a few things to consider. Firstly, it is important to choose an electrode that is appropriate for the size and type of the electrical system. It is also important to ensure that the electrode is installed correctly and maintained regularly to ensure that it is functioning correctly. Overall, Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode is an essential component of any electrical system. It provides a reliable and long-lasting connection to the earth, which is essential for ensuring the safety of people and property. So, if you want to ensure that your electrical system is safe and reliable, investing in a high-quality Copper Bonded Earthing Electrode is a must.

Contact us:

Call us: 8318455691

Email us: seotruepower@gmail.com

Address: D 242, Sector 63 Rd, D Block, Sector 63, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301

For more information visit: https://www.truepowergroup.in/copper-bonded-earthing-electrode.html

[drowning-in-cacophony]

to break and to keep

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 231: a promise to break

[Summary: promises are made, one to keep, one to break]

Some promises you make to keep.

Oaths. Swears. Bound in blood and in kisses, to treasure deep to your heart. Tightened like a ribbon across your chest. These you’d rather die than break. These you’ll take to your grave, or to theirs.

They make the promise to break it.

-

Somewhere in the dark, a stream’s falling.

Somewhere from her bitten lips, blood’s tracing a river. She stares at him, wide eyes and wet lashes.

“You’re sure about this?”

His eyes, winking jewels in the dim, and his fingers press their tips into the skin of her wrist.

“Very. If you are.”

She lets him trace her solemn nod, the shape of her skull and the flopping of the locks of her hair. Her heart thrums, a new instrument inside her chest. It’s a sound the organ’s never made before, anticipation crossed with nervousness, this sort of paralysing burning. Against her bones, they’ve wrapped a secret, one of the deadliest ones out there. His secret, smouldering like embers and made into the thing she’ll build herself around. His secret – the thing people would do anything to own, and now the only thing stopping them from getting it will be her promise.

Her oath, woven into her cells in a dim cave, somewhere a hundred miles below the surface. Like the place his secret will bury inside her.

The news will get out. The news will get out, and eventually – weeks from now, maybe years. Maybe days if they’re particularly unlucky – someone will come asking. Wheedling, convincing. There’ll be evidence to why she should spill. Atrocities, dangers. Does she want the blood of a million upon her shoulders, as tangy as the copper working its way from the tiny punctures her teeth have ripped into her mouth? Does she think her muscles strong enough to hold all of that, the guilt and the rage and the candles snuffed out without a care? Does she not have responsibility?

They’ll persist, push, and eventually, she’ll give in. Open her chest, carve it out, confess it all. The embers stitched into her very soul. Her promise, shattered at her feet, and her lashes will hold a constellation of tears, but they’ll tell her it’s all worth it, because of what he did. It’s worth it, they’ll say, even as a different ember ignites in their own eyes.

They’ll find him, with his secret revealed, her words ringing like a bell. They’ll find him, strip him back, drag him before their lord, watch in righteous fury as the punishment sets to begin. Of course, that would be where everything would go to shit. Embers would turn to a howling blaze, and the truth would fall as soundlessly as his head. Her skin would streak; the world would go on, a different path to tread. A worse one.

This – this is precaution. This is trust and foreplanning, because this is a promise he needs her to break.

His mouth ghosts her cheekbone, presses a touch against her skin. His fingers, still delicate-light against her wrist, and if she was to look down she’d see the glowing burn of their oath, sealing them together.

There’s a chance the promise might never need to come under the axe. There’s a chance this oath will just be an oath, her carrying his secret for the rest of her mortal life. But if that chance was wide, they wouldn’t be here.

In breaking this promise, eventually, tomorrow, at the end of all things, whenever – she’ll be giving him the only chance he might have. So even if it feels wrong, a betrayal of everything she’s ever been for him, she closes her eyes, feels his touch against her skin, and seals their oath. She'll do this, for him - and that's a promise she won't break.

-

And later, when she stands before all those concerned eyes, the devastation and ashes bright on their cheeks, she thinks about the stream’s drizzling, somewhere deep under the earth. The place where his gambit was formed, among the writhing muscles of her core.

She opens her mouth, and smashes it all open.

[c0rpseductor]

i dont want to be like TOO mean when i hear people have invented a new twee word to call themselves because i may find it a little embarrassing but it's not For me. every one on this earth has the right to be twee even if i don't like it. it's not hurting anyone.

however. i really do draw the line at being included. i'm not ~neurospicy,~ i'm disabled. you know? i can't think of other terms right now but sometimes with transmasc stuff i feel similar, like i will jokingly call myself a boy very frequently because i'm short and effeminate and it's funny but i really draw the line at like the whole like completely genuine "baby trans softboy" thing. because i'm a grown man, actually. i do not want to be a little boy forever.

like more power to people who enjoy it i guess, it's really really not to my taste but nothing can be for everyone. one man's cringe is another man's cool and all that. but god please don't fucking call me neurosparkly or whatever i will strip the copper wiring out of the walls in your house and start an electrical fire in there.

[y0ur-maj3sty]

~Nikola Tesla Electric~

Nikola Tesla discovered that useful energy could be extracted from the heat of the ambient air, and that electric power in the form of Radiant Energy could be broadcasted to everyone in the world, through the ground and the air. Free Energy! Tesla says:

“When we raise the voice and hear an echo in reply, we know that the sound of the voice must have reached a distant wall, or boundary, and must have been reflected from the same. Exactly as the sound, so an electrical wave is reflected, and the same evidence which is afforded by an echo is offered by an electrical phenomenon known as a “stationary” wave—that is, a wave with fixed nodal and ventral regions. Instead of sending sound-vibrations toward a distant wall, I have sent electrical vibrations toward the remote boundaries of the earth, and instead of the wall the earth has replied.”

In his article “The Problem of Increasing Human Energy”, He talks about a machine that can gather heat from the ambient air. He calls it a “Self-acting Engine”, since it could run indefinitely from the solar energy stored in the air. He called it “the ideal way of obtaining motive power”. Tesla’s experiments showed that the air at the ordinary pressure became distinctly conducting, and this opened up the wonderful prospect of transmitting large amounts of electrical energy over great distances without wires.

This above picture is the geology of Peru. The Nazca Lines are where that dark brown strip is(Cretaceous IOCG). IO is iron oxide(Fe3O4), and it’s an electrical conductor with strong conductivity. CG is Copper and Gold, which are also highly conductive of electricity. The iron is very important because, Tesla was dependent on it for his various machines. Now, for those of you that are familiar with the Billy Meier story, the Pleiadians gave Billy the information that the Nazca Lines are electrical channels that were used to direct electricity. They’re half-tube channels below the ground that carried electrical current somehow, to provide to the people that were there at the time. So, the people who were there when the Nazca Lines were being formed/made, it’s probable that they already knew about the methods that Tesla had re-discovered.