#but no I want the agony of that linked image

[sorceresssundries]

Gale sketches by @orangekittyenergy <3

CHAPTER 2 (of 2)

Link to chapter 1 here

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: Set post-game where Tav did not feature in Gale's troubles in Baldur's Gate. A whip-cracking, fedora wearing, Indiana Jones inspired mini-adventure - where Professor Dekarios is tempted out of the classroom, and on yet another perilous quest.

Warnings: THIS IS NSFW! *blares smut horn* Plot with smut. But, you have been warned.

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Just a bit of a fun based on the Gale as Indiana comparisons. Also, he looks like a young Harrison Ford, how could I not? This is not the stuff I'm used to writing! But it's been enjoyable and nice to try something new.

Elltavia’s senses were prickling again, whatever was buried in the remains of this temple was beating like a rotted heart, pulsing decay and corruption outwards through the forest. They were close to the cause, she could feel it. She just hoped whatever was the cause of the infection didn’t get to her before she could save her home.

Along the far wall of the room were four murals that stood out in a line. The once clean, carved scenes were eroded and time-beaten, but just about decipherable. 

The four images depicted monks in various states of torment. The first monk strained under the weight of a massive rock, muscles taut with effort as it pressed down upon him. The second monk, blood dripping from his hand and ears, was feverishly inscribing words upon a scroll, clearly in agony. In the third panel, a monk appeared submerged and drowning beneath a cascade of shimmering gold, his features twisted and bloated. 

The final tableau showed two figures, stripped bare, entwined in an act that should have been pleasurable. However, their expressions were ambiguous, dancing somewhere between ecstasy and agony. The knife suspended ominously above their heads left little doubt about their fate.

Underneath each carving was a word in an ancient language, which Gale was able to translate. 

STRENGTH. KNOWLEDGE. WEALTH. LUST

Hovering above the scenes of suffering was a much larger image of a monk in resplendent robes, his hands covering his eyes as he sat before a closed book as if to shield himself from an unbearable truth. The book sat on a carved pedestal, and shimmered with golden light. The lines of the monk’s robes flowed gracefully, dancing in a breeze that no longer existed. The expression of the hidden face was left to the imagination, but Gale’s imagination didn’t have to work very hard. The monk was shielding himself from whatever was written in that book. 

Gale‘s chest suddenly went tight, as though the orb that had once branded his skin and burned an aching, insatiable hunger within him was back. The ghost of a pain which would never truly leave him.  He couldn’t help but see himself in the image, as though it was a mocking interpretation of his great folly. 

Unlike this monk, when he was tempted, he had not been strong enough to cover his eyes. He had suffered the same torment as the other tortured souls. It wouldn't have seemed out of place to see a carving of a wizard with a dark orb branded upon his chest, bent over and crippled by unending pain and sharp regret. His hand once again absentmindedly moved to his chest.

“What is in that book, do you think?” Elltavia was started to get concerned by the faraway look in Gale’s eyes. She had not known him long, but she knew it was unlike him to be this quiet. Whether in a classroom, or on an adventure - he was a born teacher. He had the engaging, adaptable, patient, rare soul of someone who had collected knowledge like precious treasure, and all he seemed to ever want to do is share it. He was not made to be silent, and it worried her.

"Fortune and glory, Kidd." Gale continued to read the fragile inscriptions—warnings, death sentences, holy scriptures, and gold-tinted promises of doom for the unworthy. Yet, for those with the resolve to grasp it, an ultimate blessing. "Fortune and glory."

After more studying, Gale pressed his hand against an indent in the wall, and a rumbling echoed around them.

"I think we've found where the ritual would take place," he murmured.

The carved, ancient pedestal holding the book shown in the mural rose from the ground in the room’s centre, a half-decayed corpse resting against it, its mouldering hand still holding the book open, as if in a final, desperate grasp for whatever it contained. 

"That book should not be open." Gale could feel the power emanating from it, warping and stretching the weave of magic around it. This was no ordinary spellcraft; it was far beyond his capabilities. Once, he would have been desperate to grasp it, to drink the forbidden magic until it drowned him. A long time ago, It almost had.

The source of the blight was finally clear. The book had to be closed, or the rot would continue to spread, cursing the forest and luring as many as it could to this place. The book was a lure, a power to draw people here to be tested, indifferent to the fate it bestowed upon them. The burning ache of the sussur, which had been simmering under his skin, began to flare and bubble. His magic tingled in his bones, demanding to be used, to cast protection over him. His mind was flooded with the weave, and the agony of not being able to use it was overwhelming.

“Close the book!” He hissed through clenched teeth, doubled over in pain. 

Elltavia approached the book tentatively, with ranger’s care. The closer she got, the more Gale’s words became a far-away song, trailing distantly away from the fluttering pages. Each turn caused a soft rustle; leaves whispering secrets in a forest grove. It was the sound of her home, and it was calling to her. The book cast a gentle glow, soft as yellow moonlight. And with every intake of breath, she could swear the scent of pine mingled with the earthy perfume of petrichor sank deep, holding and soothing her. 

Surely within its pages lay the answers they were looking for. It called out to her with a sweetness that stirred her soul, a siren's song promising sanctuary. The glowing page was right there in front of her, she just had to read the inscription…

I am the lure in darkest gloom, A whispered hope, a flick'ring bloom. In greed-drenched shade, I bide my time, Thy greatest urge will feed my shrine.

What am I? A tempter, sly, In every soul, doth ever lie. Resist the call for but one hour, Prevail, and gain the worthy’s power

“Elltavia, NO!” 

And she burned.

It felt as though tendrils of flame were invading her through her nose, her mouth, sinking through her skin, licking the very bones of her. It was tugging at her, calling to her, scalding all the way through her. She was a woman aflame, and there was only one way to extinguish the fire. She needed Gale, and she needed him now. 

He rushed over, and managed to close the book - but not before catching a glimpse of the inscription within. As soon as he had read the words, the book and pedestal began to descend ominously back into the ground.

“Gale..” Elltavia’s voice was suddenly breathy and skin clammy as Gale grabbed hold of her and started to check her over. 

“It’s the test, Kidd.” He appraised her pupils to see that they were blown wide, her breathing heavy. The spell was undeniably affecting her, not just emotionally but physically too. Her skin glimmered with a light sheen of sweat. Were her lips fuller, even more inviting than before? Surely it was a trick of the light? The urge to press his own against them, to run his tongue along her bottom lip, was all-consuming.

He pulled away abruptly, almost harshly, startled by the intensity of his desire. He had anticipated challenges to his resolve, but not in this way. He had mentally prepared himself for his ambition, his hubris, his self-worth to be cut out and dissected in front of him, to once again have to pull himself back from the brink of his unending desperation to prove himself. It was his tragic flaw, it always would be. He had not prepared himself for this.

The atmosphere crackled with a potent mix of heat and something deeper, something elemental. Lust. It hung thick in the air, dense and suffocating. It wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace, seeping into the marrow of his bones. He was suddenly starving, and she was ripe and ready to be savoured. He remembered when she had bitten the apple from his desk. How her eyes had met his as she bit down, how the juice had trailed down from the side of her lips to her chin…

“It sai..said.” Elltavia had her arms wrapped around herself, as though trying to hold herself back, and Gale desperately wanted to unfurl them and spread her out on the ground like a map. There was priceless treasure to be discovered. He ached from not touching her.

“It said something about lure.. Temptation..” Her breathing was heavy and lust-soaked. “Resist for an hour.. And we’ll pass the test.”

An hour of this, he thought bleakly, he did not know how he would stop himself from devouring her.

“I have rope” she panted “In my pack. You should tie me up.”

His response to that was a low, feral groan which seemed to rumble from deep within his chest. “I don’t think bondage will help me out here, Kidd.”

Struggling against this overwhelming desire was futile; he was a weary child resisting the pull of the receding tide, or a final leaf clinging to its branch before the onslaught of autumn's chill. He was no match for her; he was a raft-bound castaway - and she was the oncoming tempest. 

Together they melted into a pool of tongue and hands, rushed and heavy. There was no softness or words of delicacy, no declarations or promises of what would come after. There was only urgency. There was only her and him and now. At the meet of their lips and the ripping of her shirt underneath his strong, tanned hands there was a rumbling noise which ripped around them and caused loose stone and dust to fall from the ceiling. The shock of it managed to distract them long enough to prise themselves away from each other. The second they pulled apart, the noise stopped. 

“An earthquake?” He questioned through rough panting, speaking out loud rather than to her in particular. He quickly moved to one of the far walls and ran his hands over it, feeling for any structural damage and waiting silently for an aftershock.

As soon as his fingers stroked the grooves in the stone, Elltavia was behind him. She pushed him against the wall, and pressed herself against his back, standing on her tiptoes to lick and bite at the nape of his neck. 

“Who cares?” She whined. Her hands made their way up the back of his shirt and she dragged her nails down his skin. The sound he made was sinful, and as soon as her tongue licked at the sweat trailing down his spine, the rumbling started again. This time they were both knocked backwards by the wall Gale was pressed against, as it started to straighten out and move towards them. 

“Fuck.” He groaned, on his back. He could barely think straight, all his focus and all his blood was currently gathered in hard desperation between his legs. Urging to be sank into the ranger panting on the floor next to him. 

She swung her leg round to mount herself on top of him, pinning him to the ground under her hips.

“Wait” he hissed through gritted teeth. She managed to stop herself from sucking on his bottom lip long enough to hear what he wanted to say, she desperately hoped it would be something filthy. Her restraint in her longing for his mouth didn’t stop her grinding her hips down against him. She gasped at how hard he was underneath her. To her shock, he grabbed her upper arms and managed, with difficulty, to push her off him and he sprang up and backed away from her with his arms out. 

“Listen, Kidd, when we give into our temptation, to our urge, it sets off the trap.” 

She tried to take in what he was saying, and she used her sharp, predator’s focus to survey the room. She had not previously noticed the heavy layer of dust which had settled on the holy ground. Bonedust. The bleak realisation sank in. This was all that was left of others who had been tested. The book was an incendiary, designed to spark simmering desire into a roaring flame. Resist it, or be crushed.

“I am your temptation?” She rasped. “Gale, of all the fucking things to desire?!” 

“You’re one to talk!” He snapped. The cord that felt wrapped around him was tightening in frustration. This woman was literally going to be the death of him. This stubborn, infuriating, smart-ass was how he was going to die. He wanted to take his whip out and coil the leather around her… 

“Fuck!” He said, turning around so he could no longer see her pouring out of her sweaty, ripped shirt. 

“The temptation is each other… right?” She breathed.

“Obviously.” 

“Then… then we can still.. Touch ourselves, can’t we?”

It was like pouring oil on a bonfire, the thought of her unbound and lost in her own touch, bringing herself to the brink of pleasure and plunging over a cliff of her own making was unbearable. He wanted to palm himself right there in front of her just from the thought of it. 

She didn’t wait for him to answer, her hand quickly found its way into her underwear and to where she needed it most. She was a writhing mess on the floor - but the walls did not move. 

He sank and crawled to her, and positioned himself over her, resting his forearms on the ground next to her shoulders, clenching his fists in frustration and caging her beneath him, but not touching her. He allowed one of his knees to push her thigh upwards, splaying her further apart. But he did not give her any further contact. He just held himself over her as she moaned and bucked her hips into her own hand. His gaze was as desperate and intense as any touch could be. Beads of sweat traced paths down his temple, falling onto her skin like liquid fire. Every inch of her felt alive, every nerve alight with anticipation. As he lowered his head, his breath danced against her neck, tantalisingly close yet never touching. His lips hovered, a mere whisper away, and she teetered on the edge of combustion.

“I’ve wanted you since you flashed your thigh at my desk.” His voice was almost unrecognisable, dark as sin itself. The lilt of his words caressing her skin. “I wanted to be that fruit on your tongue. The flesh on your lips.”  She gasped, but could not respond. Her eyes fluttered shut as she imagined how he would taste as he spilled herself down her throat in ecstasy. 

“Don’t you dare stop looking at me.” He growled.

Her eyes flashed open again to meet his, and his command would have sent her spiralling, but something was wrong. 

“I can’t.. It won’t…” She removed her hand in desperation, and it took every ounce of resilience he had not to grab hold of her wrist and drag her lust-soaked fingers between his teeth and roll his tongue against them. “It just makes it worse.” 

The walls were still at each end of the room, they had barely moved. The two of them were safe, maybe there was time to…

“Fuck it.” He said, and he lifted her robe and tore her underwear off her. Gods, the scent of her. He wanted to spend a whole day with his nose buried at the source of her divine, needy musk.

 He did not have a whole day, he had minutes at most. 

“Is this what you want?” He asked, shaking with the resolve it took to show her the decency she deserved.

“No” She responded, but before he could even attempt to pull himself away from her, she wrapped her powerful warrior's thighs around him and flipped them so he was beneath her. 

“This is what I want.” 

She turned round above him so her cunt was hovering over his face, just out of reach. This position gave her the chance to unbuckle his belt and finally get her hands where she wanted them. There was no time to undress him, to peel him out of his tight trousers the way she wanted to. This would have to do. He moaned beneath her as she finally freed him from his confinement, and without grace or hesitation - took the whole of him into her mouth. 

In response, he grabbed hold of her hips and pulled her down against his lips. Locking her tight against him, he groaned and pushed his tongue into her. The taste of her was technicolour.  He worked as quickly as he could to relieve the tight, coiling need which was squeezing the life out of them, but not quickly enough. 

The walls had pushed towards them quicker than he anticipated, and it wasn’t long until he felt the hard force of it suddenly pressing against his feet. 

Elltavia must have become aware at the same time he did, because her mouth was suddenly off him and she rolled away, completely disentangling them and stopping the movement of the walls. 

They were both slick with sweat, and with each other. 

“Get over to the far end. Now.” He snapped at her. The narrowing of the walls had now turned the large, circular room into a slim corridor. It would only take a couple more metres of movement and they would be crushed to dust. 

“Do not bark orders at me!” She retorted with a hiss. “That is really not helping the situation!” She retreated as far away as him as possible, pressed her thighs together, and put her hands over her ears so she couldn’t hear his heavy, laboured breathing.

The hour may as well have been a day. They faced away from each other, breaths heavy and skin slick with sweat. They had both tried to cover themselves back up with what little material had not been ripped. At this moment the threat of being crushed by the weight of an ancient temple wall seemed inconsequential compared to the overwhelming intensity of this moment. Gale thought that If this were to be his end, he would welcome it with open arms. At one point in his life, he had resigned himself to the fact he would die alone at the order of a pitiless Goddess. What a privilege it would be then, to die in the arms of a merciful one. In the arms of Elltavia Kidd’Alka. 

He thought of her as he faced the wall. He thought of her in every way except the one which had pushed its way to the front of his mind and coursed its way through his blood. He thought of her fierce loyalty to her home, how she had travelled far and risked her life. How she was blunt and forthcoming and how she refused to dull any of her bladed wit. He thought of the shimmering seasons of her eyes, of how long it must take her to braid her hair, how she has the wisdom of an elder and the bright laugh of a child. He thought of how much he wanted her to live, and how much he wanted to see her again. And suddenly, the urge simmered - it was there, but it no longer suffocated him. He could breathe. His lust had been mixed with something else, and the sweet combination had strengthened his resolve. He could do this. 

Elltavia thought of the forest. Of her home. Of the children who fell out of trees and laughed in the dirt that caught them. Of the people who had spent their lives telling stories and weaving tradition through play and prayer. Of the mothers who had fletched arrows with babes at their breast. She remembered the first time she summoned an animal, and how the swift spring bird had flitted between branches and sunbeams to settle upon her shoulder. She remembered the poor autumn fox which she had found dead from the spreading curse. She would beat this. She would return home, and she would show Gale the place they had saved together. Her blood cooled, her resolve steeled. She could do this. 

An hour passed in silence. The two of them focused and determined. Two people who ached enough to not touch each other. And it worked.

Suddenly, it was as though they had emerged from holding their breath in ice water. The walls rumbled and slowly retreated back to their stations. 

“Is it over?” Elltavia spoke quietly, too nervous to turn round or remove her hands from her ears. Her answer came when a strong, comforting hand placed itself on her shoulder and she didn’t burn from the touch. She let Gale turn her, and take the hands from her ears to kiss them. 

“Not for me'' He said gently, stroking her cheek and tucking a braid behind her ear.  Before he could kiss her properly, without magical kindling feeding his flame for her, the book reappeared. It fluttered once more, and settled on its final page.

“Is it safe?”

“I think so” He said, more calmly than he felt. “We passed the test.”

He made his way to where the soft glow welcomed him to read, and spoke the book’s final inscription aloud…

Behold, two souls of spirit true Live long - old magic rests in you. 

“If this is some bullshit about how the power was inside us all along, I'm going to be really annoyed.” Elltavia was still breathless, but relieved.

“Maybe…” He said thoughtfully, but from the book and the murals and tenacity of the ancient magic, Gale didn’t believe that was the case. There must be the mentioned ‘reward’ somewhere… But, he was not interested. Godly gifts he could live without. There were other things more worthy of his attention now. Other desires to fulfill. 

“What do we do about the book?” she asked, closing it and running her finger over the cover. “Will you take it to the Academy?”

“No. This belongs here. It’s as much a part of the forest as you are.” He turned to look at her, her bright eyes fierce, “You know what lies here now, you can tell your community - you can spread the story and let them become guardians of magic and knowledge. And this can stay here… closed.”

He bent down and kissed her, soft but purposeful. Full of the promise of things to come.

“You know, Kidd. Before you dropped by my lecture I was reading about this amulet…”

She entwined her fingers with his as they made their way back into the lush greenery of her vibrant forest home. “Sounds interesting professor, I take it the next adventure would also require you to bring along your whip?” 

“Oh, most definitely. I could give you another demonstration now if you’d like?”

Her bright laugh echoed through the trees as they walked into the distance, unaware of the ancient gift bestowed upon them by the temple in the forest. Perhaps one day, Gale would notice his hair wasn't greying as quickly, or that the furrows between his eyes no longer deepened despite the endless days of laughter shared with Elltavia. Maybe then, they would realise they had been chosen as timeless protectors: the wizard destined to safeguard the magic he once sought to consume, and the ranger courageous enough to save her homeland.

[mzminola]

Thanks to the animated adaptations of Under the Red Hood using the greenless Robin uniform that Tim wears in the animated series and post-Kon’s-death in the Preboot era comics, my brain parsed the first image in this set not as Bruce and Jason, but as Dick and Tim.

Which is. Very ouch.

[thisbuildinghasfeelings]

After a brief hiatus from fic recs, we are BACK!

To make up for what we've missed, this week we are going to be focusing on fic recs from the first SIX EPISODES of season 3:

3x01 The Big Chill, 3x02 Thin Ice, 3x03 Shock and Thaw, 3x04 Push, 3x05 Child Care, 3x06 The ATX Files.

Here are this week's prompts:

Ice storm arc!

The 126 separated

Marjan being a badass

PUSH--the coma, the wakeup, the "hey baby, breathe," the aftermath that the show didn't have time to give us so our wonderful fic writers had to craft it for themselves, etc.

Detective Carlos Reyes

Tommy coping with her husband's death

Judd becoming a father to Charlie/Judd becoming a father to Wyatt

Rules:

Every week there will be a different prompt, and everyone is encouraged to share a fic (or a few!) recommendation that meets the prompt and tag a few fic-reading friends. The game can be played all week, so no pressure to post right away. Please feel free to use the banner above, to make your own, or to not use one at all!

Finally, please use the tag ‘Rewatch Read-Along Week 17’ and at the end of the week @911lonestarrewatch will post the link to the tag for the comprehensive list of fic recs!

Thanks to @guardian-angle22 for the banner!

Here are my recs:

Chapter 2 of The Center of the Maze by @carlos-in-glasses

Obviously I highly recommend the entire fic, but Chapter 2 is the part that deals specifically with what we're focused on this week. A heartbroken Carlos sobbing on the side of the road...is there a sadder image?? 😭

Seven Ways (Back to You) by @welcometololaland

An amazing series made up of 7 fics that deal with TK and Carlos finding their way back together in far more depth than the show could have ever given us!

Half agony, half hope and Coming and going by @goodways

The first is a wonderful Push coda filled with yearning and love and sweetness and making up and MAKING UP 😏, while the second is a truly delightful fic occurring in the aftermath of TK's coma where, as Shannon so aptly puts it in the summary "TK and Carlos boink so hard that TK passes out." I couldn't choose between the two, so I'm reccing both!

all my blood for the sweetness of his laugh by @alrightbuckaroo

Carlos reflecting on what he missed about TK while they were apart and how much he likes TK's laugh. Carlos' joy at making TK laugh is always one of my favorite things!

My Family, More or Less by @lightningboltreader

Carlos coming home to TK and telling him about his eventful night helping Katie get reunited with her parents...with a little help from his father-in-law more or less!

Learning, relearning by @fallout-mars

A really beautiful little fic a few weeks post-coma, with TK and Carlos so in love and so happy to be back together.

Tagging some fic readers who might have recs to share:

@lemonlyman-dotcom @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @reyesstrand @strandnreyes

@vineofroses @bonheur-cafe @alrightbuckaroo @herefortarlos @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad

@heartstringsduet @liminalmemories21 @lightningboltreader @fangirl-paba @reyestrandd

@chicgeekgirl89 @firstprince-history-huh @noxsoulmate @ladytessa74 @sznofthesticks

@literateowl @nancygillianmvp @bonheur-cafe and OPEN TAG for anyone else who wants to share some fic recs!

[alvivaarts]

Ask and ye shall recieve- you all voted yes for both art and an excerpt! The excerpt will be BELOW THE CUT for those who want to avoid spoilers! For those who do want to suffer, hold onto your butts! I wonder if anyone will notice the thing I did with the dialogue :)

I hope ya'll are happy with yourselves 😊 💗💗💗

Here's a link to the actual fic so far: Simulation Swarm on AO3

Excerpt from what is currently Chapter 32 in my drafts (titled: You're Doing Your Best, Just Makin' it Run)

-----

He can hardly reach out, he can hardly even get to her through his own bars, but Leon fights against the chains and the cuffs wrapped about his hands just to offer something, any comfort he can muster. She yelps, trying to curl away when somebody steps over to fiddle with something above them and out of sight.

“N-no-!”

“Ashley- hey! Hey, look at me! Look at me.” Leon starts, pull her away from the panicked gasps, even if she just starts to cry all the more as she looks around. Her eyes are wild, all over the place, but finally she looks at him.

Leon speaks without thinking.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He almost babbles it, with it muffled behind the oxygen mask, the muzzle, the plane engine, the boots shuffling about to do something to put them back to sleep. It’s agony to watch the way her pale face goes clammy, how her eyes are already red rimmed,  “I know it’s scary, but we’re gonna be okay. Okay? We’ll be out before you know it, ‘kay bud?”

“‘Kay.” She sobs, and she doesn’t believe him. Oxygen mask fogging up, her tears roll down her face as she sags against the bars, face pressed there as she shakes, her claws curl around his hand as he holds her. The image of it is so stark- Leon remembers her pale fingers gripping onto his back in El Pueblo, he remembers her screaming. He remembers how she’d clung onto him for dear life, like she had when she’d fallen in that house and started seizing, like she had when she’d woken.

Like she does now.

Like every kid who’s ever relied on him, ever.

Leon almost chokes it out as he ducks to press his forehead against the bars beside hers, huddled in the tiny space he has to move.

“It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

And god, if he doesn’t want to believe it for her sake.

“-o-okay… okay- okay, okay.”

“Okay.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Helping Hand 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You sit in the sterile waiting room, slouched like a guilty dog as you stare at your scuffed work shoes and cradle your arm. It feels heavier by the moment, the tenderness only growing, and a regrettable crack sounds as you try to shift it. You grunt and teethe down on your pain. Jonathan looks at you but says nothing.

It feels surreal, sitting there beside him, waiting on a doctor. This isn't how you saw your day going. But when did anything in your life go to plan? Twenty years of marriage flushed away for a younger woman and a midlife crises. Working a job meant for college students in your forties. It's all going just so spectacularly.

Your name is called before you can sink any further into self-pity. You get up but Jonathan doesn't follow. You're happy for that at least. He at least is aware of some boundaries.

It's a small office with only a few doctors. You're put in the room to wait some more and when the physician enters, she introduces herself as Dr. Marguerite Garcia. You try to smile and return her basic niceties. It's hard to focus on anything but the agony. She checks your chart and verifies your history before asking questions about your injury.

She nods and sets down her clipboard. "Do you mind if I do some tests? I'll need to feel your shoulder and move your arm."

"Yeah, that's fine. I'm pretty sure it's just a pulled muscle," you explain.

"Sure, but we should make sure," she nears and you sit up.

She lifts your arm and you squeak. She moves it slowly at different angles, feeling around your shoulders and back, then along your neck. Your eyes fill with tears by the time she lets you put your arm down.

"It would appear like a torn rotator cuff. I could send you for imaging to be sure but I'm fairly certain," she grabs the chart again.

"Really? What does that mean?"

"We won't go straight to surgery. Right now, we'll start with the basics; rest, ice, and physical therapy. I will have some exercises printed out for you to do, along with a link where you can find videos. If you like, I can write a referral to a therapist." She continues as she scribbles with her pen, "I'll send you off with some painkillers as well. You seem like you need the relief."

"Oh, thank you," you smile.

"And I'll get you into a sling. Just for a few days to take some of the pressure off."

"A sling?"

"It shouldn't be too much and it'll be a reminder for you to not use that arm," she girds. "Let me just go get that script filled and I'll have the nurse come fit you."

"Sure," you accept as you look down. Great, a prescription, how much is that going to cost you? And you highly doubt they're giving the slings away for free. Just another expense, just another step backwards.

💙

You get the bottle of pills before the nurse sees you. You take one for good measure as the throbbing overwhelms every other sense. Finally with your arm confined and a pocket full of painkillers, you're free to leave the office.

As you come out into the waiting room, Jonathan stands at the counter. He tucks something into his jacket pocket as he faces you.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Um, I think I have to pay for--"

"Already done," he interjects, "better get you home so you can rest."

"You paid? You didn't have to--"

"Please, it is nothing," he waves you off, "come. I'm sure all you want to do is lay down."

He isn't wrong and you're all out of energy. You're not going to argue with another man that day. You're going to let the pills kick in and leave the world behind.

You let him lead you outside and he opens the car door for you. You're not sure it's any sort of gallant behaviour, rather practical as you are down to a single arm. You get in and awkwardly pull the seat belt across you.

He closes the door as you jam the buckle into place and sit back with a sigh. You shut your eyes. You just can't wait to be home. Alone.

You sense the shift of weight as he gets in on the driver's side. He starts the engine as you stifle a yawn behind your lips and open your eyes, a swimming wobbliness in your vision. The pills are hitting harder than you expected. Well, you hadn't eaten much, just coffee and maybe half a cracker.

"You alright?" He asks as the car rolls into motion and you open your eyes.

"Great," you grumble and let your eyelids droop as your head drifts towards the window. "Tired..."

You watch the buildings pass, other cars stopping and skimming by. You lose yourself in the lazy traffic and the dimming blueness of the sky. Your lashes sink further and further, until they meet, and that hot fuzziness coaxes them together. The pain in your shoulder dulls, barely tugging at your consciousness as it fades away.

[sommerflue-22]

Carrying You After Battle — Kamaboko Trio

You got injured during a mission and couldn't really move. You could wait for the Kakushi brigade to help you out, or you could send your Kasugai crow to ask for an aid. Your partner doesn't think it's a good idea. The best thing to do is to carry you as fast as they could to the nearest Wisteria House.

Featuring: Tanjiro Kamado, Zenitsu Agatsuma, Inosuke Hashibira

Warning: Demon Slayer!Reader, major character injury, broken bones, blood, near death experience

Word Count: 1,6k

Author Note

This is not beta read and it's my first KNY headcanon here. I've attached the link of images to help you visualize how they did the carry. As always, feel free to interpret these actions as platonic and/or romantic. Feel free to request something if you'd like, just leave it in my ask box! Hope you enjoy this :)

Tanjiro - Pack-strap Carry (Image)

You tried to regulate your breath as you chased the demon. It was running away from you and Tanjiro. At that point, you were sure the demon realized how it was no match for the both of you. You were a few inches away from slashing the demon's head when you lost your footing and fell on your knees. A part of your pants near your right knee was torn by a protruding tree root on the ground..

You weren't sure if it was just your imagination, but you swore you could hear your bone cracked. You let out a scream as you lay face down on the forest ground.

"Stay still, (Y/N)!" Tanjiro yelled as he continued chasing down the demon.

You bit your fist, trying to hold back your tears. It was so painful to the point where it made you feel dizzy.

Tanjiro came back only a few moments later, panting. It seemed that he succeeded in slaying the demon.

"Oh dear, (Y/N)!" Tanjiro kneeled next to you. "(Y/N), what... do you think you can stand up?"

"N-no." You choked up, finally letting yourself go. Guess it was the Tanjiro Effect. His presence let you loosen up your tough façade. Tanjiro was one of the few people who had seen you cry.

"Alright, alright, it's okay. I'll carry you, okay?" Tanjiro caressed your cheek, wiping off the tears. "I'm sorry, this might hurt a bit."

Tanjiro gently flipped you to your back. You winced in pain as he helped you up, maneuvering until your chest was against his back and he was holding your arms close to his chest.

"I got you, (Y/N). It's okay. We'll meet up with Zenitsu and Inosuke. I've sent Matsuemon to get help. It's okay, I got you."

Tanjiro kept trying to calm you down a little bit as he made his way to the rest of the squad member. He could feel every inch of his body screamed in agony, but he pushed through. There was no way he would let you on your own feet when your leg started to get swollen.

You met up with the rest of the squad. As usual, Zenitsu started to panic and cried seeing your injured leg. Inosuke cursed at you for not being careful enough. Tanjiro shushed them as he carried you, while also leading the squad, out of the forest.

The Kakushi brigade finally came. They examined your leg and thought it might be fractured. A member offered Tanjiro to carry you on their back so he could rest for a little. Tanjiro refused.

"It's fine. The Butterfly Mansion isn't that far, is it?" Tanjiro turned them down with a genuine smile.

All of you made your way back to the mansion.

"You don't have to carry me, you know?" You said, resting your chin on Tanjiro's shoulder.

"I know, but I want to." Tanjiro replied. "It's okay to cry, (Y/N). I know it hurts. You don't have to pretend to be strong all the time. Just wait for a little longer, yeah."

You muttered a protest but couldn't help yourself. You cried. It really hurt like hell.

Zenitsu - Bridal Style (Image)

You heard a familiar voice calling out your name, a few meters away from where you sat. You realized it was Zenitsu. You wanted to call out to him, to tell him that you're nearby. However, you couldn't bring yourself to say anything. Your hand was clutching the right side of your stomach where the demon had attacked you, resulting in a deep wound across your lower abdomen. You could only coughed in pain, yet it was enough for Zenitsu to locate you.

"(Y/N)?" Zenitsu crouched in front of you, panic written all over his face when he saw blood on your uniform. "(Y/N), what happened?"

"I got... slashed..." You panted.

"(Y/N), you're losing a lot of blood."

"I know..." If you were in a better state, those words would come out way more sarcastic. You were quite literally dying, either you and Zenitsu could tell.

"Oh, (Y/N), I'm so sorry!" Zenitsu whined as he easily scooped you up into his arms. "I'm so sorry! I didn't know you were hurt!"

"...It's fine, Zenitsu..."

"No, it's not fine!"

You could tell by the way his voice trembled, Zenitsu was in the verge of crying. You leaned your head on his chest and looked up. You were right, tears were pooling in his eyes.

"Zenitsu," you reached out to touch his cheek, "It's alright..."

Zenitsu didn't say anything in return. He kept running, trying to bring you to the nearest Wisteria House before it was too late, while starting to sob. You were both sent to finish off a demon that had been haunting a small village. You managed to chase it to the forest nearby, but as you slashed its head off, the demon delivered its final move. It cut your abdomen quite deep.

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything. You just looked up to the sky, watching your crow led the way. Ah... How wonderful the sky was... The sun was about to set, and it turned into a lovely orange color. So bright and warm, like the color of your partner's hair.

Zenitsu cried even harder when you closed your eyes. He knew you weren't dead, but he still felt guilty for not coming with you to the forest faster. If only he was braver...

With lots of effort and tears, you both finally reached the house. As if they could sense your arrival, a young female staff quickly opened the gate and ushered both of you in. Zenitsu let you go, wouldn't budge from where he stood until you were out of his sight.

After being treated by a doctor and cleaned up by the staff, you were put inside a room. It took you a whole day to regain consciousness and the first person you saw was Zenitsu. His face was red and his eyes were puffy. He saw you opened your eyes and immediately cried (again).

"(Y/N)-CHAN! I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONE!"

You winced in pain. "Oh, shush Zenitsu... You know nobody can get rid of me easily..."

You wouldn't tell your other friends, but you let Zenitsu craddle you for a whole day after that.

Inosuke - Firefighter Carry (Image)

Normally, being sent on a mission with Inosuke is not a problem. You both are good fighters and was able to work together to exterminate any demon. However, that one time you both got sent to a mountain. The terrain was really steep. Inosuke might be used to it, but that wasn't the case with you.

You kind of struggled during the fight, but you didn't want to worry Inosuke. You tried your best to hold on for your dear life. It's okay, you reminded yourself over and over again, it won't be long, now.

Even though it was way more difficult than your usual fight, you managed to defeat the demon. It approached you in a fast speed, but the blade of your sword was faster. You took a step back, bearing your whole body weight in one of your legs, and slashed the demon's head off with all the power you had.

As the demon's head rolled to the ground, you let out a scream. You were just so relieved. You couldn't wait to go back and take a shower.

"(Y/N)!" You heard Inosuke called out your name. No, he wasn't laughing maniacally, he wasn't boasting like usual...

Inosuke's call sounded more like a warning.

Before you could asked him what was wrong, you felt the ground underneath your feet crumbled. You couldn't think of anything as you fell. While fighting the demon, you didn't watch where you were going and stood on a hillside. The ground wasn't really solid as it has been raining the day before. As you stepped on it, it broke down and the land slipped.

Thankfully, it wasn't a fatal landslip. You only fell nine feet from where you first stood. Yes, it was bad, but it could be worse. You could only lay down on the ground. It felt like your whole body was smashed and you were dizzy. The last thing you saw before you passed out was Inosuke jumping off to save you.

"Wake up, underling!" Inosuke shook your shoulder. "Oi! (Y/N)!"

It was no use, you fainted. You hit your head pretty hard, resulting in a concussion. Inosuke stayed silent, his eyes widen and mouth agape underneath the boar mask. He couldn't believe it, you—someone whom he considered a strong person—fell down from a landslip.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Inosuke yelled in frustration. "Damn that demon!"

He picked you up rather gently and slung your unconscious body over his shoulder. Inosuke knew it would be awhile until the Kakushi arrived to clean up and help you. So, he took matters into his own hands and started sprinting. He ordered your crow to lead him to the nearest Wisteria Mansion, spitting profanities and curses as he ran.

Once you both arrived, he made sure the people there "fix" you almost immediately. He swatted anyone who was about to clean his own wound, yelling "You mind my underling first!" He hated to admit it, but he was scared you'd die.

You regained consciousness the next morning, just before the break of the dawn. Your body felt like it could break anytime soon, but you forced yourself to sit up from the futon. You didn't notice at first, but Inosuke was lying down, resting his head near where your thighs were. He even took off his boar mask. He wouldn't like anyone to see him like that, so you remained quiet. Though, you couldn't help but touch his hair, thanking him for saving your life.

Let me know if you enjoyed this! I really did read a few sources to write this headcanon so T^T

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 22: Glass shard, “Watch out!”

Folks I’m ngl, this one is very intense. The first bit is the worst, but the end is kinda creepy too, and overall it’s just bad times, so uh, you know. There’s your warning. Per usual, if you think this needs more warnings, please tell me :)

Read on ao3

Warnings: see above, canonical character death (...sort of) blood, significant injury, brief mention of vomit, and creepy vibes

————————————————————

Somehow he knows it’s over.

His breath is coming short in his chest, blood dripping through his fingers as he tries to hold it in from too many injuries to count. The Master Sword was knocked from his grip ages ago, and he’s not sure what happened to his shield.

Something moves in the corner of his eyes, but there’s blood on his forehead and he moves too slow, Navi’s chime frantic in his ears.

“Watch out!” she shrieks, but Link can’t move fast enough, can barely breathe anymore, and when the huge sword cleaves his chest, he knows it is over.

He doesn’t know if it’s him or Navi who screams, or Zelda maybe, wherever she is. All he’s really aware of is the white hot agony ripping into him, the yellow eyes that stare into his, Ganon’s face upturning in a wild grin when he realizes what he’s accomplished.

A bellowing laugh of victory blots out any other noise, any cry Link might make as Ganon raises him into the air, still impaled on his weapon. His vision goes white at the edges as Ganon lets him hang there, and he knows he screams when the blade is ripped from his chest, dropping him to the ground with a sickening noise.

There’s a desperate wail he thinks comes from Navi, but all there is is light and sound and shattered glass beneath his broken body, only spilling more of his blood onto the floor.

You failed, his mind whispers, even as his eyes flicker and Navi wails again. You failed.

Something warm is spilling from his mouth, his chest, pooling rapidly beneath him. There is a new voice now, shouting something that makes bright lights appear in the edges of his vision, and he tries to turn to them, but can’t.

Zelda, his mind whispers. Trying to fix your mistakes.

He closes his eyes, grief and shame and horrific pain so intense that he can’t handle the weight of them. Something in his chest moves when he breathes, something that’s not supposed to, and it joins the rest of the agony pounding through him, breaking him into pieces like the shattered glass beneath him.

He wants to go home.

A cough bubbles out of his chest, something thick on his tongue, and wings suddenly brush his face.

“Link,” Navi sobs as she nearly falls onto his cheek, clutching at him with tiny hands, “Link no, I’m so sorry, I was s-supposed to protect you—”

Link lets out a sound somewhere between a cough and a sob, and Navi cries, her tears falling to his cheek like glowing snowflakes. He wants to reassure her, gently cup her in his palm, but he knows it’s the end.

Nothing can save him now.

Zelda’s voice sounds choked as it echoes along with six others, almost like she’s holding back tears. Ganon suddenly screams, and Link feels the tiniest wave of hope as his senses desert him, his ruined body failing.

He hopes that Zelda and the sages will take care of Ganon, that they’ll stop him, seal him, won’t let him destroy the kingdom more than Link has already allowed him to.

But he’ll never know for sure.

Link takes in one last gurgling breath, blood almost stopping him from breathing his last. Navi holds him tighter, and Link exhales, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as his body falls still.

His fairy’s sob is the last thing he hears as his world disappears into nothing but velvety darkness.

—And Time bolts upright with a choked off scream before he even fully realizes what’s happening.

Images swirl in his head with such dizzying clarity he can’t focus on any of them. Blood and weapons, blue and yellow, stairs and music and the booming laugh that haunted his nightmares as a child—

Time clutches his chest, gasping in a shaking breath. He feels sick, horribly sick, phantom pain slicing into his stomach, terror sinking its freezing claws into him. Sweat pours down his face as the laugh echoes in his ears again, a shrill scream, and he tries desperately to reassure himself it wasn’t real.

That’s not how his fight against Ganon had happened. It wasn’t, he was fine, but his heart was pounding and his lungs were still straining like they couldn’t get in enough air—

(A trident, ripping through his chest, choking on blood, too much, too much—)

Time gags, and someone’s hand lands on his shoulder as he vomits into the grass, holding him steady while they wait for him to stop.

He finally catches his breath, head spinning, stomach still unsettled. The emotions from the dream sharply linger, failure and hopelessness and a fear so intense that Time is nearly sick again. The hand on his shoulder squeezes, and he finally looks up, meeting Warriors’ worried blue eyes.

The captain doesn’t say anything at first. But he hands Time a cloth to wipe his face, and steadies him when he gets to his feet, legs still trembling.

Warriors leads him to the fire, and Time sits down, forcing the shaking in his body to still. But it’s impossible, not when he can still hear Navi’s shriek ringing in his ears, feel blood pouring down his chin. Ganon’s triumphant laugh booms in his ears for the third time, and Time hunches down in his seat, mind unwillingly going through every single detail of the dream.

Just like he has for the past half a week.

The detail of the dream has increased each time he’s had it, but tonight’s was the worst yet. Time clutches at his forehead as his head pounds, and lightly rubs the bridge of his nose.

Nightmares rarely effect him to such a degree, but this... this time it had felt real.

What’s happening to me?

Warriors sits next to him without a word moments later, holding a water skin. A scarf settles around his shoulders, and Time nearly gives in to the childish desire to bury his face in it, hands still shaking.

“Time, are you... well?” Warriors asks finally, his voice gentle and worried.

Time sips the water he’s been given to give himself more time to reply, and lowers the skin with a quiet swallow.

“It’s not a sickness,” he croaks finally, hating how shaky the words come out. “I know it’s not. It’s...”

(Navi crying, Ganon’s roar, the rich tones of an organ as tears fall down his cheeks—)

He shudders.

“It’s the same dream. Every night,” he whispers. “Exactly the same, only they’re getting... worse. More real.”

He doesn’t explain what happens in the dream, but Warriors doesn’t push, instead staying silent as he thinks for a moment.

“Every night?” he asks finally, voice soft and worried.

“Tonight was the fourth in a row.”

Warriors goes silent again, the crease on his forehead deepening.

“Something must be going on,” he says finally, firelight shimmering off of the embroidery on his scarf. “Things like this... they’re very rarely a coincidence.”

“I know,” Time whispers, voice still terribly small. “This... this isn’t natural.”

“Could this be the work of the enemy?” Warriors muses, staring at the fire. “A spell? A curse?”

Time shakes his head, feeling at a loss. He knows the feel of curses, and the dreams don’t feel like that. They have more of a... heft to them, like anticipation before a battle, or the pressure before a rainstorm.

They feel more like the nightmares he had as a child, visions of Ganondorf’s attack, leading up to the day he left the forest. There’s a weight to these dreams, one that boasts of nothing good in store for their group.

But Time doesn’t voice any of this. Warriors doesn’t need yet another thing to stress about.

And besides, perhaps I’m wrong.

So instead of saying anything further, Time silently rests his head on his brother’s shoulder, scarf still warming his arms, and listens to the sound of his breathing, steady and strong.

He misses the look Warriors gives him, and at some point, falls back asleep, a hand carding through his hair.

(...)

The dreams don’t stop, their violence and clarity only getting more intense.

The others are aware something is wrong now, Time waking them all up with a bloodcurdling scream the very next night. They discuss ideas, but nobody has a clue what’s going on, what’s affecting him so deeply. Time sees several of them having conversations out of his earshot that day, furtive glances cast his direction, but he pretends he doesn’t notice.

If they want to talk about him behind his back, so be it.

They all generally give him space at night, but with the repeated nightmares, now his boys have take to sleeping much closer. And when Time wakes up heaving for breath, someone is inevitably there to calm him down.

After a week goes by with no relief, Time admits to Warriors and Twilight, quietly, what his nightmare consists of, in hopes it will aid in solving this. All it really does is make Warriors’ face twice as concerned when he wakes him from a nightmare, and Twilight’s eyes hold a nervousness when he looks at him now, like he’s afraid his dream might suddenly become reality.

Time debates not sleeping to escape the nightmare as it continues to plague him. He’s barely getting any rest anyway, he might as well skip sleep entirely.

He’s had plenty of practice, after all.

But after three nights of no rest, the others put a stop to it, several of them nearly shouting at him they’re so worried. Time nearly yells back, but he stops himself at the last moment, weariness settling upon him.

He does want to sleep. Desperately. But he can’t so much as close his eyes without the nightmare creeping up on him, blood and screams and pain pain pain—

Staying awake is almost more restful.

The others gang up on him that night though, and bury him in a pile of limbs and blankets, Wind settling himself right by his head. Time falls asleep feeling hopeful for once, but he still wakes up with a scream later that night, and Wind ends up calming him down as he tries not to sob.

He feels even worse after that (it’s not Wind’s job to comfort him, it should never be—), and pointedly moves himself away from the others at night, in hopes they’ll get the hint.

They don’t, really. In fact, they pointedly ignore it and continue to sleep by him, even when he wakes up thrashing and sick and nearly gives Hyrule a black eye one night with how frantically he’s moving.

He knows they only want to help, but he only feels like more and more of a problem.

They go through a portal and end up in Legend’s era, and Time wonders if the nightmares will stop with the changing of location. But if anything they get even worse, starting earlier in the fight, each slice in his skin burning when he wakes. He’s barely sleeping now, the shadows under his eyes nearly as obvious as the tattoos on his face.

No matter what he does, he can’t seem to break the grip of the nightmare, and he’s becoming a liability, slow in traveling, clumsy in fighting. They try everything to help him, healing, potions, magic— they even visit a doctor in a town they stop at, but he can’t tell them anything they don’t already know.

Time even writes to Malon about them, desperate to get his thoughts out to someone who understands, but he folds it up and doesn’t send the letter in the end, finding himself veering into questions even he doesn’t want answers to.

Has it finally been too much? All of what’s happened to me? he wonders as he tries his hardest not to cry in Warriors’ arms one night after the nightmare.

Am I going insane?

With the amount of sleep he’s been getting as of late, he wouldn’t even be surprised.

They make tracks for Legend’s house, hopeful that a real bed for Time to sleep in will help somehow. Legend also has a vast amount of magic objects and items, and he seems hopeful that at least a few have a chance of helping him.

And if not... well, perhaps the Zelda of this time will have some ideas.

But the night before they’re set to reach Legend’s house, weeks— has it truly been weeks? A month?— after the nightmares start, something finally changes.

Ganon stabs him and he breathes his last, Navi sobbing as Zelda and the sages desperately seal the beast away. He fades into darkness, simultaneously light and heavy, warm and cold, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s dead.

But the dream flickers here.

It’s as if an impossible amount of time goes by, and yet equally mere seconds, and the darkness falls over him again.

It seems to last for an eternity, wrapped around him, coating him in its hold as it intensifies, and suddenly Time is aware this is a dream, and snaps to sharp attention, looking around at the void.

It’s pure black, deeper even than the night sky, and Time feels his heart speed up at the suffocating thickness of it.

He’s not injured anymore. In fact, he’s himself, not the version of him that fought Ganon all those years ago, and Time stares, looking frantically around at the void.

Why hasn’t he woken up? Why is he aware, for once, that this is merely a dream?

Why is it continuing?

He doesn’t have long to ponder this, as the darkness parts eventually to show a room, stone walls, stone floor. Time has only just begun to study it when a noise hits his ears and he turns, watching in horror as a body falls to the ground, bloodied and broken.

Something moves out of the shadows and grabs the body’s face, and Time squints, trying to make out both the body and the figure shrouded in darkness.

But he can’t make out any features, the room too dark, dream too uncertain and wavering. Time feels something tense inside of him as he makes out the three gouges that mar the body’s chest, and tries even harder to see the other figure as well.

All he can make out are robes swishing over feet, in a color almost as dark as the room.

The figure studying the body finally lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back as a hand caresses a chin.

“Oh I’ve waited a long time for this,” the figure hisses in a voice that seems as if it could be familiar, and drops the head none too gently, blood still spilling to the floor.

Darkness suddenly snakes from the figure and trickles towards the body, thick and unnatural. Time has the urge to grab the body and pull it out of the way, but he’s unable to do anything but watch in horror and disgust as the darkness reaches the body, wrapping around it like only tentacles, holding it tight. It seeps into the countless wounds, and the figure lets out a laugh as the body gives a full-body shudder.

The figure straightens suddenly, standing up from where it had kneeled beside the previously very much dead body. Something moves by the figure’s face, and suddenly it falls to the ground, robes rippling as it collapses onto the floor with a very, very faint moan.

But whatever had moved by the face stays up, floating somehow, and bobbing very faintly up and down.

Time feels the slow horror he’d been experiencing suddenly increase, familiarity freezing him like a blast from an ice rod at the sight of the dark shape floating in front of him.

He knows what it is. He’s sure he does, but his mind won’t even let him entertain it.

It can’t be.

The hovering shape turns slowly to the bloody body on the ground, then floats almost leisurely towards it, watching as the tendrils of darkness continue to weave through and around it. The body gives another shudder, and the thing suddenly slips down and latches on to the body’s face.

Time can only watch in horror as the body’s back arches, like it’s trying to fight back, even just a little, but then it goes unnaturally still again.

Then it sits up almost calmly, facing away from Time as it looks at its hands and feet. The body gets to its feet then, shuddering slightly as more blood drips off of it and falls to the floor.

Time wants to look away, but he can’t, all he can do is continue to watch in absolute horror as the body straightens, dusting off its ragged tunic, brushing a hand entwined with darkness over the injuries gouged in its chest.

“I’ve always wondered what this body would be like,” a voice muses, even more terrifyingly familiar, and Time sees a flicker of yellowy-orange eyes. “And now I’ve finally got my chance. How fun.”

The yellow eyes turn and stare directly at him, framed by a heart-shaped mask.

“Isn’t that right, Hero of Time?”

And the dream shatters, Time jerking awake with a name and a scream on his lips.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

The Beast of The Endness

Summary: Aemond was doomed to death the moment he claimed his birthright. The events that follow define his very identity | Word Count: 960~ | No warnings

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

A/N: I listened to the live version to this song for the first time in ages, and I just really liked the idea of Aemond doomed to his fate the second he claimed Vhagar. And that his actions which killed Luke set into motion the chaos they’re thrust into.  Leviathan is sometimes described as being a dragon, the embodiment of chaos and eating the damned after they’ve died. It’s sometimes associated with the deadly sin, envy.  It’s probably crap, but it’s completely self-fulfilling. I also translated the lyrics myself so they might be crap, oops sorry.

It was inevitable.

That is what the stories would say.

That is what the songs would be sung about.

 Ones that evade, and ones that are chased away.

 Power was taken away, as easily as power was given.

But claiming Vhagar was not easy. There was loss, grief, bloodshed. All in the name of doing what he perceived was his right, as a trueborn Targaryen.

 He was defending himself. That is what his mother told him.

He attacked them and called them bastards. That is what they'd told his father.

And that it had been justification enough, for all his pain. His mutilation.

 Ones that falsify the end, and the ones that announce it.

 Each day reminded that, despite his standing, despite his heritage, that he was somehow below them.

He found it absurd.

And every day he was reminded, his father was not his father. It was as he had said it.

He was only his King.

 He was weak. Refusing to address the situation he'd placed his family and heirs in, as well as the realm.

Would his father face his truth? That he had done as much damage to his family by doing nothing at all?

 Ones that violate in emptiness, and ones that suffer death.

 "Set aside your grievances" he had said, in front of them all, but had dared to cast a glance at him.

 As if his own son had dared to set upon the little bastard in the first place.

 He stared down at the table. Not giving his father his gaze.

What happened had already been done.

The story was written and the ink was dry.

He had set into stone the ending to his fiction the moment he allowed Rhaenyra to leave Driftmark without consequence.

 Ones who take no note of the end, and ones who announce it.

 His sister and her offspring dared not look at him. As if he were a spirit, wandering ceaselessly, only needing the words to make his presence known.

If they poked him, he would surely pounce.

But he watched them. Watched him. Hiding behind his whore sister's skirts like a pissy little child. Terrified.

 He had smirked when the child locked eyes with him.

 The gaze was kept, nurtured by his desire to see how what he had done, had made him the monster he was today.

 To look upon his consequence.

 Even now, we should not call the beast by name

 They have no idea.

The pain. The never-ending agony.

And how he wants to make them know. To feel how broken they made him feel.

 To take away their happiness. With fire and blood.

 With the light on the right side.

 Look at my eye, bastard

 Darkness on the left.

 Look at it.

 No matter which hand is closest, the balance tilts.

 There is a debt to be paid. One that has remained ignored for so long.

The King was dead. And another in its place.

 One that wasn't him.

Forever cast aside. The curse of the second son.

 They will hate and love this place, more than anyone else.

 The dragon he had paid for with his eye. That was power. One which would not be taken from him.

They were both warriors. Vhagar and him. Both with loss. Both too big for this world.

 The Beast of the Endness, its name was Leviathan

When it awakes from the far-flung, the world will face the end

 The monster. The man whose image could cast those down at the sight of him. The One-Eyed Prince was never born.

It was made.

Made the day Lucerys Velaryon took his eye.

Nurtured with time.

 Hard as the bottom stone of a mortar

Seeing bronze is like decaying wood.

Made fearless.

King of all the proud.

 For a little thing, he was craven, bold.

He dared to lust for what it would be like, if the old dog had not allowed the little bastard to leave.

Dreamt of the day where he would be allowed to seek a debt that his mother had once sought to be repaid.

 With the light on the right side. Darkness on the left.

 ‘He was just a child’

Why did all seek to explain the incident as if he was not much older himself? Set upon by four of them.

While all he had was himself, drunk on finding the identity he had craved for years.

  No matter which hand is closest to the hand that draws fate

 I am a man now.

The Blood of Old Valyria.

Fire made flesh.

 They will create and destroy paradise in this place

 There was nothing but the stench of flesh and blood in Vhagar’s teeth. Breath reeked of death.

And the flapping of Arrax’s wings as they hurtled back to the storm below.

 The body of Lucerys Velaryon, was not really a body any longer.

 Was it rain hitting his face? Or blood?

 The Beast of the Endness, its name was Leviathan

When it awakes from the far-flung, the world will face the end

 A darkness settled on his heart. Heavy and oppressive. Something was pushing his insides around, making way for a feeling of intense regret.

 Swallowing up the sea, to the land of destruction

Embraced by flames, time will roar

 And underneath that, was a feeling. The feeling of being wide-eyed awake and aware. Like being woken suddenly, with a hand over your face. And a layer of sweat over your brow, pupils shaking.

 It was the tragedy of who he was. And who he had become. That chill settled into his bones worse than any natural storm ever could.

 Swallowing the darkness into the sky of the end

Falling stars will consume time

 And underneath that is another feeling still.

Something so dark and ancient.

A finality that could not be described in mortal words.

dividers by @firefly-graphics​ 

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[most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer]

Darkness Lane by Joan Hassall [ x ] - the piece that most inspired my recent woodcut-style piece.

When I found out I was drawing for @gorgeousundertow's regency AU fic, Half Agony, Half Hope, as part of the @ineffableidiotsbigbang, I started looking up Jane Austen novel illustrations for inspiration and ended up finding some really cool art and websites! I'm posting about some of the images and resources I found because I think it may be interesting to others too (and even if it isn't, I'll have gotten the infodump out of my system haha).

Illustrations from Mansfield Park by Joan Hassall [ x ]

The link above points to a gallery on pemberley.com which has deliciously old-school DIY website HTML and a wealth of Jane Austen illustrations, as well as references for regency clothing. This was where I discovered Joan Hassall's work and decided I wanted to do a woodcut style piece (and then subsequently regretted it many times during the process of making it because I had no idea what I was doing). The detail, visual texture and dramatic lighting in her work is so cool and I just got more obsessed the more I saw.

See more Joan Hassall on tumblr via @uwmspeccoll (a very cool account!) here, here, and here.

The gallery on pemberley.com also had a bunch of Charles Edmund Brock illustrations, which I could not get enough of and so returned to the searchpage and found Molland's Circulating-Library. SO COOL! Jane Austen fans have bought illustrated editions of her novels and uploaded scans of them and oh my gosh they are all so beautiful.

Northanger Abbey watercolour illustrations by C.E. Brock [ x ]

Side note about Henry Tilney (Catherines' love interest in NA), I also came across this old fan page for him from a mostly-broken-links-now site called THE CULT OF DA MAN and um it's great haha, check it out. (reviews of artists representations of him, more delicious HTML, and pixel art (!) of da aforementioned man)

There's also an article on Molland's about Charles and Henry Brock and their Jane Austen works that I found interesting. Charles is better known and did far more JA illustrations, but I do really enjoy Henry's tinted line pieces! (the article also dunks on some bad reproductions of them haha)

Pride & Prejudice tinted line illustrations by H.M. Brock [ x ]

C.E. Brock also did really cool title pages and when I found out that fic banners were a thing I knew what I wanted to do! (with the help of the symmetry tool and undo haha, so much respect for traditional art)

Title pages illustrated by C.E. Brock [ x ] and my banner - the banner design uses elements of both of the Brock images.

So, research in hand/bookmarks folder and banner completed, I decided on a scene from Chapter 10 where our beloveds are standing beside the Thames in the moonlight after walking around London for hours together and talking (CUTE). I wasn't sure what buildings to include in the background, so @gorgeousundertow gave me a few suggestions: Old Southwark Bridge, London Bridge, Southwark Cathedral, and Clink Prison. I realized after a bit of sketching that bridges would be hard to show with the straight-on view I wanted to do, so I decided on the Cathedral, partially because I had also considered drawing a scene that takes place in Salisbury Cathedral in Ch. 7.

OK BUT HOW? I struggled finding reference images for a while until I realized this was LONDON and would be very Google Earth-able. Big ups to Frank Cosgrove, whoever they are, for uploading this haha. This was also where I found out that all the suggestions were from a very small area!

View of Borough High Street, London, 1830, by George Scharf [ x ]

The building in front of the cathedral looked too new, so I went searching for an older image and found the second image. It's a completely different angle but it was enough to get me past the 'oh no idk what do'.

the much brighter concept vs the much darker finished product, featuring a barely-visible Southwark Cathedral

While looking for images of the Thames pre-Google Earth, I also found this website called Dictionary Of Victorian London which has a whole bunch of old images and excerpts from newspapers, etc on a variety of topics. One of the categories, Sex > 'unnatural offences', had this excerpt from The Times (1863), which reads:

Thomas Lane, a coffeehouse keeper, No.9, Love-lane, Eastcheap, city, and James Mortimer, a seaman, were charged with unlawfully meeting each other to commit an unnatural offence. ... The Magistrate committed both prisoners for trial.

Ugh. I hate that so much. Some sexy stuff happens right after the moment I'd chosen, and reading that reminded me that such things would be much more comfortable and safe in darkness (or if ppl just stopped being homophobic, but barring that). I wanted them to feel alone, like the whole world was asleep and it was just them, outside of time.

With that in mind, the iconic Thames Walk Lamp had to go bye bye, and when rendering the background I tried to minimize any light - it's just the suggestion of buildings. I also added tree cover! I tried to imitate how Joan Hassall does trees in some of her artwork, but when she rendered trees like this they were usually farther away/smaller, so my version looks more stylized with how prominent they are.

The ribbon border and book quote presentation is of course more Brock, but by making it black and having the interior image use it as a border instead of a fade-out inside it, I made it a bit of a reference to the very cool foliage edges you see in the very first Hassall image at the top.

I used the procreate brushes from this post on the Procreate Folio forums if anyone wants to try them!

Also fun fact! The font for the quote is called Chanson D'Amour <3 (I initially downloaded it when making the banner before changing the banner font to one called Dark & Black)

------

That's all I have to say about the process for the piece, but here's a comic from Dictionary Of Victorian London, Thames > Sanitary condition that I thought was cute (and gross ig? but also cute):

a Punch comic from 1850, I can't link the page due to how the website URL system works but it's from the Thames > Sanitary condition page

[hamliet]

Hi~

What are your thoughts on recent BSD chapter? I mean Fyodor's emotional outburst while interacting with Sigma. Of course we all know it was just a performance to trick Sigma, but I think maybe there is a sincere element to it. This scene of Fyodor screaming in agony reminds of Nikolai's fake execution scene, they have similar vibes to me. In spite of having 'suicide for the sake of freedom' philosophy, Gogol is scared of dying, and I don't think his emotions during 'execution' were entirely fake. So I was thinking that Fyodor's inner conflict somehow influenced his behavior in last chapter as well.

I am screaming lol. (Is there a translation yet? If so, someone link me!)

The Akuatsu talk was EVERYTHING. Atsushi, finally acknowledging that Akutagawa isn't just darkness incarnate!

Ahem. But the other stuff was fabulous too. The only character I'm genuinely worried about is Fukuzawa, but he might pull through this. We'll see. Sigma, Atsushi, Akutagawa... they'll be fine.

I agree with you about Fyodor. I absolutely do not think he was faking it to trick Sigma--I think he was doing what the best liars do, and what certain key Dostoyevsky liars (Verkhovensky, Smerdyakov) have done: use the truth to manipulate. I do think Fyodor is actually in agony, and much like the Dostoyevsky character he is most directly based off (Kirillov), he desperately wants to live but has no idea how. The final scene of Kirillov's from Demons--a scene critics have actually called "the most harrowing in all of literature"--is the scene that came to mind when I saw the images and translation. We'll see if there's actually any direct references, but even if not, I think the function is the same--to show the internal agony.

[ryndicate]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ  A Drop in Time

Don’t listen too closely to the silence. It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

Vampire!Megumi x reader (fem body/pronouns)

notes: this installment was proofread by a friend who deserves all my love and i could wax poetic about them all night.... but here’s the first chapter! A true introduction to the world we live in. Also, just because he’s a background character in JJK, just know that Shouta was the dbag that was mean to Junpei lol, no relation to any other character cause I definitely used some names from other shows to name my other minor characters. 

Warnings: non-sexual penetration, memories of physical assault, depictions of death/grief, descriptions of arranged marraige/misogyny, mentions of ye olde birth control, religious themes

By expanding, you are consenting to viewing adult/dark content, and all warnings listed above. 18+ Minors DNI

Blog Rules & Main Links

⋆⁺₊⋆ Prologue ☪︎ Masterlist ☪︎ Series Warnings ☪︎ ch. ii. ⋆⁺₊⋆

Something bright irritates your eyes and a terrible stench greets you as you stir, movements leaden.

"She's awake! Call the priest, quick!"

Your eyes blink open slowly, a fierce ache in your head making them flutter closed almost immediately. Your body feels on fire as you curl in on yourself, feeling much too stiff, brittle like old bones.  You've never been in this much pain before, not even when you cut your leg on your father's tools as a child; the fever then almost killed you, according to your mother, but your memories of the time are broken at best. Sleep threatens your mind once more, blackness tinging on the edge of your vision.

"Little one, are you well enough to speak?"

Struggling, you look towards the familiar voice and make a final attempt to remain conscious. You've only met him a few times as he's the only priest for the few villages in this area. He makes time to visit for his duties once a fortnight. Everyone trusts him. 

The wariness in his eyes is enough to fill you with unease. This man was present at your birth, and has never given you more than a firm scolding in your life. The grim set of his jaw is unfamiliar, wrong. 

"Father?"

Your voice is small, dry and rasping, reminding you of the pain from the night before. Your throat burns, agony exploding across your senses as you wheeze and cough. Your hands immediately raise to cover the wounds on your neck, eyes growing hazy with tears. You can sense the others nearby looking on with curiosity, but too fearful to approach. Their wary stares fill you with panic.

"Dear child," An ounce of care filters into his tone, but it remains unyielding. "You must submit to an examination. You were bitten, do you understand?"

"Yes, Father." Your answer is swift and subdued. It is nothing short of a miracle that this opportunity is being offered. No one would have questioned the choice to dispose of you for the safety of the village. 

"Peace be with you." He bows his head. "We will move you to the church. Try to be still and send your prayers to above. We plead for the Lord's mercy today, should we be fortunate to receive it."

Father nods to two young men hovering nearby and they rush forward as if grateful for a task, bundling a sheet over you and carefully raising you between them. Through the gaps of the frayed fabric you catch sight of rising smoke, and realize with growing horror that the awful stench is that of burned bodies.

You close your eyes tight in hopes of erasing the horrifying image, wincing as their uncoordinated movements jostle your wounds, and try to gather your strength for whatever is coming. 

The church seems prepared for your arrival, several of the sisters who accompany the Father moving around to prepare a table with an assortment of items.

You try to be mindful as they hover, murmuring prayers, sprinkling waters and oils over you, clutching your fingers over the silver cross they’ve pressed into your hands, but your mind keeps drifting to the horrors of last night. It’s struggling to remember hazy details, but primarily in a daze over the fact that you’re somehow still alive.

It’s a short moment before you realize the sisters have shuffled out, the cross slack in your hands as your eyes refocus to see Father gazing at you, somber. Fear jumps to your throat at the shadow in his eyes, suddenly fearful to speak. Are you condemned?

His eyes avert from yours. "One last thing."

You jump uncomfortably as he steps closer, his fingers closing on the hem of your nightgown. 

Realization strikes you in an instant, paralyzing awareness.

"Father, please no," you beg him softly, panic lighting your eyes. "It did not, I swear on my life."

"Little one, I must." There's an air of discomfort surrounding the old priest now. "This is for your sake as well. We must clear your name of any rumor."

"I'm begging you," you whisper. Shame twists your features, hysteria bubbling hot in your chest as the heat of embarrassment is added to the brew of this nightmare. 

He pauses, solemnly reading your face. "It was Shouta?"

You nod, tears beginning to streak down your face to be acknowledging it. You wipe them away hastily, too overwhelmed to realize you’ve only wiped the soil of your gown down your cheeks. 

"As long as what you say is true, then I will tell no one."

"Do you promise, Father?" You daren't hope. Shouta and you both had known the damage that could be done to your image if your intimacy had gotten out. He'd persuaded you sweetly at first, then persistently. After a time, you'd reluctantly allowed him, in favor of earning his approval instead of his ire. He was to be your husband after all, ‘til death do you part. So you'd been careful, meeting him discreetly and taking the tonics the neighbor’s eldest daughter had gotten for you at the price of teaching her her letters. She wanted to attend school at the capital and now you’re wildly wondering if she’s even alive.

But for all the care you’d taken, you couldn't hide your shame from a priest. 

"You're safe with me, child. Vows taken or not, you are sworn to him. You are a good woman, and you will be a good wife for Shouta. He chose well in you, and this will not reflect on that. The Lord knows your heart; it is not my place to cast judgment." 

It had been your parents that chose him, but you remain silent. It would not serve you well to be any more honest now. Your father is away now, Shouta at his side, as they apply for a marriage certificate in the capital. Marriage… The man your father chose is a respected one, the village leader's son. You don't know if you will ever feel love for him, but you do know your life will be lived well at his side, lacking for nothing. You would never dishonor your father by rebuking the life he planned out for you.

Discomfort burns in both of your cheeks as the priest proceeds. As much as you know it to be necessary, it leaves a poor taste in your mouth. But if having the backing of the village's respected priest is what you need to return to your quiet life, then you can suffer this. The last thing you need is the hateful and fearful rumors that you might be with child by a monster.

"It is done. You are well, my dear. Let us see to your wounds."

"Thank you, Father." You can't help but slump in relief, weariness setting in now that your safety is assured. 

At his call a couple of sisters reenter the room and immediately begin fussing over you. Father bows and makes his exit, and they promptly strip you of your soiled nightgown. You are not sorry to see it go, the stiff fabric bloody and unsalvageable. As they dispose of your clothing in the hearth, you manage to voice some of the things you’ve been wondering about. They answer softly, informing you that it’s almost been two days since your attack. The priest has been monitoring you, afraid to move your body for fear of worsening your condition. It had been his call to leave you untouched, making no attempt to inspect your wound, to allow your wound to clot. The decision had been a risky one, but it had probably saved your life. 

There's profound relief on the women's' faces that eases some of the ordeal, and you allow your eyes to fall closed as they brush a warm, wet cloth over your wounds and skin, content to be in someone else's care even if just for the moment. Your body aches after nearly two days of sleeping on the bare ground. You want nothing more than to fall asleep somewhere comfortable after this. You can’t stop thinking about the blanket your mother had received from her relatives last winter. Thick, soft, and made from animal pelts you hadn’t seen before, it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. To fall asleep under that now would be bliss.

Thinking of that blanket has your thoughts wandering towards your mother. You wonder briefly if your parents and Shouta will hear of this incident before their return, or if you will have to tell them yourself. You don't look forward to reliving the experience for their sake. 

"Come, young miss. We drew an herbal bath out back. It will be cold, but twas the best we could do."

The water is bracing, but you're more than used to it. Whatever herbs they cast into it tingle along your skin pleasantly, relaxing you, and washing the grime from your skin helps you feel more clean. You can only hope it will help wash away the memory of the demon's touch. His hands were almost like fire. You shiver.

One of the sisters notices and tuts. "Oh poor dear, come now. Let's finish up and get you warm and dry. Father has asked us to accompany you to your home for the evening in case you have need of us."

"Thank you," you murmur softly, standing from the water and taking the clothes they offer you. Despite your wish to be alone, you have no doubt you'll be grateful for their presence. It will be much easier to brush off the old creaking of your home on them moving about instead of letting your fearful imagination run wild. 

You wrap the worn shawl around your shoulders more tightly as they accompany you towards your home. There are still men about, busy cleaning up the mess of the attack. Some glance at you warily; others nod and continue with their work. It seems news of your examination is traveling slowly, but the overall mood of the men you pass is enough to make you hopeful that all will be well soon. Everyone looks focused on rebuilding your quiet little village. 

"Of those attacked, were there any more survivors?" Beyond the loss of the baker's daughter, you know of no one else who had been lost. You're grateful all of your family had been away for the attack. 

The women look forlorn as they exchange glances. "Not many, we're afraid. Most had wounds too deep, others were in danger of turning. There are a fair few missing as well. You were very lucky, miss."

The words feel thin. Lucky is not how you would describe nearly dying, held down and helpless at the hands of a monster—but you suppose there are no good words to describe such a thing.

"I apologize for the mess, we were not expecting visitors." The etiquette slips from your lips automatically as you show them inside. Your home is humble, but well built. Your father works a steady trade, and he saw to it that the house is well-maintained. 

To distract yourself you help see to their accommodations, pulling out linens for their bedding. You fear if you remain idle…his voice will haunt your thoughts. 

You will not suffer needlessly.

You close the closet door more fiercely than you mean to, chills covering you from head to toe.

How dare that monster say something so horrific. How were you meant to not suffer when he drank from your flesh? The pain of that encounter very well may follow you to the afterlife. 

You make your way back to the sitting room to find that the women had made themselves busy stirring the hearth. The warmth is most inviting and you will yourself to relax.

"There isn't much here for now, but there is bread in the kitchen and enough to make a light stew. I can make enough for us all."

The appalled expressions on their faces is almost comical.

"Heavens no!"

"We're here to tend you, miss! You've suffered something terrible, you should be resting."

After their sharp demand, they wave you towards a chair near the fire until you sit, straining your ears to hear the hushed voices as they bustle about your kitchen. They seem to still be worrying for your health and the few others who are in recovery. Your fingers brush delicately against the bandage on your throat, wincing at the lingering pain. You're not used to being taken care of in such a manner, not since your mother had taught you to care for the house and how to prepare meals. 

She had gone with your father to the capital, ever the dutiful wife. Before she had left, she had told you to enjoy the few weeks of peace before Shouta's return. She seemed to recognize the lack of personal attachment you felt for the union. This small time for yourself has been a gift from her to you.

It's not long before the attendants return, placing a small bowl of stew in your hands. The vegetable broth is soothing, the added warmth in your stomach making your eyes droop as fatigue settles over you. As they help you to your room you're grateful for their assistance, but you find yourself longing to be alone once more. One of them refastens your window, the one you had climbed out of last night when you’d heard someone enter through your front door. Even after they leave the room, you cannot help yourself from tiptoeing over to the sill and making sure the latch is tight.

You would never be able to sleep without checking for yourself. 

The morning comes far more quickly than you'd like. You wake feeling unrested, moving slowly. You’re certain there are unsightly circles under your eyes, but when the ladies ask how you're feeling you fix on a smile and tell them you're feeling much better. There wasn’t much sleep to be had when the echoes of groans filled your ears, and every small shift sent your body aching.

Breakfast is not a big affair, just plain porridge before you send them on their way. Despite the fatigue of your body protesting every step of the way, you spend most of the morning tending the house, clearing out dust, washing the linens, and cleaning the floorboards. Afterwards you sit in the sun pouring through the open window as you eat a light lunch, more tired than usual from your affairs. Sweat beads across your brow from the exertion but you wipe it away without complaint, along with your tears. 

It feels like you've not stopped crying since you awoke yesterday afternoon. Any time you find yourself with what should be moments of peace, his groans fill your ears, his breath dusts on your neck and you feel the ghost of a body right behind you. Your wrists still ache from his crushing grip and your neck twinges with pain every other moment. Unable to bear the silence, you heave yourself to your feet and march to the front door with purpose in each step.

Even if you're tired and your chores have finished, surely with everything that's happened there's more work to be done. Wrapping a shawl around your shoulders, you push out the door.

The village is bustling with activity as you make your way toward the main street, but everyone is subdued. Grief is all but tangible in the air, eyes downcast and lips set in frowns. Even the children aren't running about, clinging to their mother's skirts or each other's hands. 

You make your way into the market and catch the eye of the young nephew to one of the farmers. He's stopping each passerby and offering something from the basket at his side. Curiously you make your way towards him. 

He turns to you as you approach. "Do you need any?" He tilts the basket towards you gently, showing you a mound of eggs. "Uncle said with everythin', folks’ chickens probably wouldn't lay, so he sent me out with the extra. You can have some."

"I don't need any, but thank you. I was actually looking to see if anyone needs my help."

"You could always ask the market marm, 'm sure she'd know," the boy says thoughtfully, "But I heard Mama say the weaver was killed, and the husband has his hands full with the kids and the shop. You could check on him." He pulls a cloth from his pocket and carefully places five eggs in it before tying it. "I was gonna go that way later but here, take these with you, 'm sure he'd 'preciate it."

Thanking him, you accept the makeshift package and your feet carry you towards the weaver's shop. You can hear the wail of an infant before you even open the shop door. 

Cautiously entering, you peek around to see the weaver's husband bouncing a toddler on his hip, another child tugging on his trousers as he tries to break up what appears to be an argument between his two eldest. The young boys are screaming at each other, faces ruddy and pinched with anger.

"It’s your turn—"

"I did it yesterday—"

"No you didn’t, you rotten little—"

"Boys!"

A small hand curls around two of your fingers, causing you to startle silently. You look down to see a young girl, no older than four, looking up at you tearfully. You recognize the weaver's youngest daughter and click your teeth in sympathy when she reaches for you, a silent but clear request to be picked up, and haul her into your arms. She clings to you, her soft curls brushing your cheek.

"It's okay, little one," you sigh, adjusting her weight and clearing your throat, making an attempt to make your presence known. Raising your voice is no longer a simple feat. "Excuse me—"

The beleaguered father finally notices you, his eyes filled with frustration at his children's behavior. "Toshi, Gin!" he snaps at last, loud and gruff in a manner that makes both boys freeze and hunch their shoulders. "You know better to behave like that in front of customers, apologize to the lady."

Both boys glance at you and duck their heads, muttering apologies that you don't quite hear as the toddler in the man's grasp begins to wail, frightened by his raised voice.

"I'm sorry, miss, but now might not be a good time. If you'd like to come back I'm sure I can help you find—"

"It's okay sir, I actually came by to see if you might need anything?"

Your words are timid, almost coming off as if you're making a request. His blank stare causes your cheeks to heat up, and you stutter, searching for something else to say. "One of the farmers also sent these eggs. They had some to spare."

A little awkwardly, you hold out the makeshift parcel until he readjusts his hold on the tyke in his arms and takes it from you, appearing just as awkward as you feel. After a short moment, he clears his throat. 

“Gin, take this and put it up in the kitchen.” He places a palm on the head of the girl still clinging to his clothing. “Hime, go help your brother. Toshi, take the little one and put him down for a nap please.”

The young girl nods silently and takes Gin’s hand as Toshi takes the youngest. They all trudge off, glancing back at you as they go before they disappear around a corner of the shop. 

“Here, I’ll take her,” he offers, but the girl clings to you tighter, whimpering into your neck. “Come now, Yachi.”

A look of consternation crosses his features when she doesn’t listen, tucking herself deeper into your neck. You wince as she presses into your bandages, but you’re quick to assure him. “It’s fine sir, I don’t mind holding her.”

He grunts at that, but relents, eyeing you cautiously. “You’re that girl from the other day, aren’t you? The one that—” he glances at Yachi, “—that the priest visited.”

“Yes, he said everything was well.” You duck your head nervously, but he only shrugs, looking off to the side. Apparently he trusts the word of Father as much as you do.

“What’s yer name?”

“Rumi, sir.”

“Hm. And what is it that you said you came for?”

“To see if there’s anything I might be able to help with. I heard in the market that…” You trail off, glancing down at the child in your arms. You’re not sure how much the little one would understand of what transpired during the attack. 

Grief glitters in his eyes, and he appears to be struggling to answer you when the eldest comes tramping back into the room. “We finished Pa. Gin and Hime are playin’ in the room with—”

“Toshi, can you take Yachi? I need to speak with the little miss.” There’s a small break in his voice that you think the elder man hides well, but the seriousness on the boy’s face makes you think twice. 

The boy might very well be less than half your age, but he appears to carry himself with responsibility. You assume he gained such a trait as the eldest of his siblings.

“Let’s go Yachi,” his voice is much softer when he speaks to her, “Gin’s telling that story you like. I bet he’d start over if ya asked nice.” 

Yachi peeks at him, her eyes still wet, but after a short glance at you, she nods and allows him take her from you. He only struggles with her weight for a second before his step bounces in playful exaggeration and her giggles at his antics carry throughout the shop even after they leave the shop floor.

“You have a very lively family. They seem to get along well.” It’s a paltry attempt to fill the silence that stretches between you, but he still gives a nod of thanks at your words.

“They’ll need to, to get through this,” he mutters gruffly, running a hand through black hair flecked with gray. He’s a well built man, who looks like he’s no stranger to the labor trades.

“I’m sure they’ll—”

“I haven’t told them about their Mama,” he interrupts you suddenly, looking you in the eye.

Your shoulders stiffen as you realize what he’s saying. 

“They didn’t see it,” he continues, speaking low in case the children might be trying to listen in. You step closer to help him in this, allowing him to speak even more softly. He unravels the bandage you hadn’t noticed on his forearm, showing you the wound that nearly matches your own. “I didn’t see it. The bastard got to me first, but it wanted her. Hit my head, and I was so out of it that I couldn’t… She got them all hidden away in the pantry before runnin’.”

“I’m so sorry.” Horror and nausea swirls in your gut as you picture the scene, the helplessness of it all. 

Shame and misery etch themselves to the lines of his face so deeply it was as if they’d always been there. “I found shreds of her clothing in the morning. Covered in blood. I c-couldn’t tell the little ones, I couldn’t. How do you tell a child their Mama was—” he inhales shakily. “I told them she’s helping the priest, but I think Toshi is beginning to realize what really happened. He’s old enough that I can't hide these things from him.”

"He's a strong boy, I can tell," you murmur softly. Your stomach heaves as you realize she met the end that you so narrowly escaped. That it could have been you, naught left but a puddle of blood for a loved one to discover. Swallowing tightly, you try to keep your voice steady and reassuring. "He'll help you take care of the little ones."

“He shouldn’t have to!” the man snaps fiercely, causing you to flinch noticeably, wincing as the sudden movement twinges in your neck. An awkward expression of regret paints his features. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t right of me—”

“No! It’s fine,” you murmur softly. This man has been through enough. Of course he’s on edge. “Just please, um…” You realize you can’t quite recall his name, though you’re certain you’ve heard it around the village before. 

He sighs, softening considerably, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he makes an effort to pacify himself. “The name’s Shin, Miss Rumi.”

“Shin, sir, please just let me know what I can do to help you. I’ve nothing else to do with my time but sit at home. I’d rather be useful.”

Shin regards you carefully. “I suppose, if you’re offering… the shop.” He glances around wearily, and you belatedly notice there are half-packed crates and parcels everywhere. “I’m packing everything up, but it’s a lot to handle on my own. Toshi wanted to help but I need him with the littles ones.”

“Of course.”

Grateful for something to do you set to work, carefully folding textiles and lining boxes with spools of thread. Shin works beside you, mostly silent save for some sparse instruction when you lose track of where to start next, wrapping a series of tools and devices with purposes that escape you. He’s so delicate with them that you are certain of their importance to the weaver’s craft. There’s so much to be done, you’re not sure that he would ever have managed to do this without assistance. When the light begins fading, only half the shop has been put away. 

“Rumi.” Shin glances outside, his eyes shadowed as they fix on you. “You should get on home before it gets any darker.”

Anxiety prickles at your skin at the idea of being out after dark. Alongside the obtrusive fear of what creatures might still reside in the shadows of your little town, you also don’t wish to be caught by rumour, staying overnight with the now unbonded man, so you gather yourself to go. Hastily giving your goodbyes and promises to return, you dash out the shop door and hurry back down the streets toward your home. The shadows of the setting sun seem more imposing tonight, and the streets are already quiet despite the long lingering orange light. It leaves you unnerved, and the tension refuses to sink from your limbs until the front door is securely locked behind you. 

The house is too quiet now, and you find yourself wishing for the sisters’ company as you go about what has been your nightly routine since your parents and Shouta left for the capital. You make a sparse dinner for yourself, having neglected to go to the market this morning, clean up, and draw yourself a bath, spending the extra effort to heat the water. While the fire crackles you carefully unwrap the bandage from your neck, unable to look at the bruising of your throat, the redness of your wound. You’re quick to apply the salve the sisters left you, and cover it with a fresh wrap, tears threading your lashline at the persistent pain.

It’s an effort to distract yourself. You know it, as you spend extra time making sure you’re entirely clean, scrubbing as much grime from under your nails as you can until the water grows lukewarm, and eventually cold as you sit, pondering. Shin had kept a careful hold of his grief today, but such a deep emotion can never be completely buried. Your heart aches for the man, despite how little you knew him and his children. You wish there was something you could say that would soothe his heart, if even a little.

You wish your mother were here. She might know what to say to a grieving husband. You have such little experience with such a thing, but your mother knows more of the world than you, has lived much longer. Surely she’s comforted at least one grieving person. 

Sighing, you step from the basin, and begin to dry and dress yourself for bed. There’s nothing left to look forward to tonight, no warm wishes for your dreams from your mother, no kiss on the cheek from father—something you’d complained about every day since you became of age, but now you miss both terribly. As you settle in your bed for the night, tucking your covers more tightly around you, you’re grateful for the fatigue that now rests over your body more securely than any blanket. It numbs the ache of your healing wounds and carries you to sleep faster than any fairy.

a/n: next chapter we get to meet one of the support leads, i wonder who it will be? :3

Reblogs are appreciated!

© All rights reserved to @ryndicate. Do not modify, translate, or repost.

[twistedtummies2]

Top 12 Portrayals of Jacob Marley

The last two characters I’ve covered in this little marathon were the two most important human characters Scrooge encounters in “A Christmas Carol.” Of course, not all of the major characters can exactly qualify as “human” any longer. Enter Jacob Marley: Scrooge’s former friend and business partner, and the first of the phantoms he encounters in the story. While Fred and Bob Cratchit stand as opposing foils to Scrooge, Marley is something different: just like the words he utters, he, himself, acts as a warning to Ebenezer of what his ill behavior could lead to. Through Marley (and the other Tormented Spirits Scrooge sees), not only does Dickens create arguably the scariest and most unsettling scene in the original book, but he also conjures up a karmic punishment so ingenious, Lucifer himself should really take notes! Here we have a man who is forever doomed to wander around, forced to see hardship and suffering and realize he is truly no different from any other human soul. He can do nothing to help, only reflect on his mistakes, his guilt, and his inability to make amends and atone for his crimes, however direct or indirect they might have been. The only “comfort” he has are the very material objects he hoarded in his lifetime, lashed about him to ironically provide even more agony, with every link of the chains that strap them to his form acting as a reminder of a sin he can no longer redeem himself for. As harrowing as Marley’s scene is, there’s also a good deal of humor to it, given the very surreality of the whole scenario and Scrooge’s snappish personality. There’s also a hint of something deeper and sadder under it; in the book, at least, it’s revealed that Marley himself is the one who arranges the whole debacle and manages to get this whole story to get underway, and he does it because he wants to give his friend a sporting chance to escape. It’s not clear if Marley, himself, will get anything out of this, but he tries his best to help Ebenezer, which shows a great change in his character, and helps to sell the message of the story: it’s really never too late to change. It CAN, however, be too late to do anything about it if you don’t shape up in time. Redemption and forgiveness are two sides of the same coin, and Marley is a prime example of that: he sees the error of his ways, but it no longer matters. That is the tragedy of the whole situation. This is yet another character I’ve played, and I’d love the chance to do so again. (Annoying as the costume requirements may be.) With so many versions of the Carol, Marley has been played a lot of different ways: some make him more frightening, others more human, and some even make him a more comical figure. All of them are fairly solid and viable options, if handled right. With that said, here are My Top 12 Favorite Portrayals of Jacob Marley!

12. Mr. Slate, from A Flintstones Christmas Carol. (Here the character is referred to as "Jacob Marbley." Because rock puns. :P )

11. Goofy, from Mickey’s Christmas Carol. (He ranks low only because it’s so weird imagining Goofy “robbing from widows and swindling the poor.” Like…something there doesn’t sound right. Unless this is Jack Kinney’s Goofy, maybe. :P )

10. Basil Rathbone, from Shower of Stars: A Christmas Carol.

9. Ed Asner, from A Christmas Carol (1997).

8. Statler & Waldorf, from The Muppet Christmas Carol. (Here they make up the duo "Jacob and Robert Marley.")

7. Jason Alexander, from A Christmas Carol: The Musical (2004). (A lot of people seem to dislike this take on Marley, but I personally love it.)

6. Everett Sloane, from the Campbell Playhouse Radio Production (1939). (For these entries, I'm not including images of the cast in a Carol costume, because...well...they're from a RADIO production. Just wanna make that clear. XD)

5. Frank Finlay, from A Christmas Carol (1984).

4. Royal Dano, from Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol.

3. Alec Guinness, from Scrooge (1970). (“Use the Force, Scrooge!”)

2. Bernard Lloyd, from A Christmas Carol (1999).

1. Sir Michael Hordern, from Scrooge (1951) AND A Christmas Carol (1971).

[cdyssey]

Valentine’s Day

Summary: On Valentine's Day, Barbara and Melissa have their worst fight yet. [Pre-2.14 Fic]

CW: Sex Mentions, Adultery Mentions, Emotional Infidelity

AO3 Link

—

The last time that they had fought so viciously, Barbara had openly called Joseph a manchild to Melissa’s face.

He had cheated on Melissa, had lain with another woman in their own damn bed.

He was more than a manchild.

He was an utterly selfish pig.

But Melissa hadn’t been ready to hear it yet, still in love with him, even though he had hurt her and hurt her and hurt her so many thousands of times over, like their marriage was a cartoon and his inability to be an adult was a recurring joke.

(The unfailing punchline was Melissa’s dutiful and obsequious forgiveness.)

She didn’t talk to Barbara for an entire week after that, ignoring all of her calls, brushing past her in the hallway like she was nothing, until Barbara found her one day in the supply closet on the second floor, sitting on top of an overturned mop bucket, gripping the phone in her hands like it was a loaded gun.

“I’m divorcin’ him,” she had spat, directing the words to the scuffed and stained floor. Her body was visibly trembling, everything that was usually solid and sturdy about her simply undone. “Kickin’ his sorry ass to the curb, so he can go fuck whoever the hell he wants to. Let the next woman deal with his beer breath and his goddamn scratchy beard. I’m so sick and tired of never bein’ enough for him. Blow job after blow job, and he still—“

But the second grade teacher had abruptly stopped herself, perhaps remembering that there was another person in the room, pressing her whitened knuckles against her red mouth as she looked up at Barbara, who could only stare at the wounded creature on the floor with horror and pity.

She could not get the disgusting image that those last words had conjured out of her head—Melissa on her knees in front of Joseph Lombardo.

Like a sinner touching the hem of Christ’s robes.

“You were right,” the younger woman said, and her voice was more than terrifying.

It was broken.

“I... didn’t want to be,” Barbara rasped, vehemently shaking her head, lowering herself to the ground as fluidly as her arthritic knee would allow. She anchored herself by palming Melissa’s upper thigh, only realizing a second too late that the touch was far more intimate than should ever pass between two friends, even very close ones.

She blushed profusely but didn’t withdraw her hand, thought it would be too awkward since she had already extended the gesture.

It didn’t escape her notice that she was the one of her knees now, a holy suppliant.

(She was incapable of envisioning herself in anything but the role of a worshipper.)

“I wanted you to be happy, Melissa,” she continued, unsure whether she was hurt that the other teacher’s gaze was averted or thoroughly relieved. “I wanted you two to make it…”

Well, at least part of that had been true. 

She would pray for God to forgive her for the lie later.

Whether Melissa actually believed her—(unlikely)—or didn’t have the energy to argue—(more likely)—she didn’t challenge her on it either way, dropping her face into her hands as her shoulders began to silently heave, all of her limbs wrought in unspeakable agony. Barbara didn’t hesitate. She encircled her friend with her arms and held her in the dark of that tiny room for a long time, resting her chin against the crown of that vivid head, whispering soothing words into the negligible space between them. You’ll be okay, sweetheart. I’m here for you. We’ll get you through this—I swear on my life, Melissa Ann Schemmenti.

And that was the end of the worst fight they had ever had.

This fight, though, the one that they’re currently having about Gary the Vending Machine Guy, is somehow far more ruinous.

Barbara, arms defensively folded across her chest, grips the skin of her forearms with her nails as though trying to physically hold herself together.

At the end of this conversation, this confrontation, this reckoning—Melissa might never speak to her again.

“You knew,” she snarls furiously, pausing her incessant pacing long enough to jab an accusing finger in Barbara’s direction. They’re in Barbara’s classroom, the door completely closed. The room is still papered with pink and red hearts that her children had cut out with safety scissors. She made them all sugar cookies for the holiday. They colored pictures of Cupid at recess today because it was still too cold for them to play outside. “You told him to set up the ring in the vending machine. You kept me outta the teacher’s lounge all day. You listened to me blather on and on about how I was afraid he was cheatin’ on me, but you knew he was doing something far flipping worse!”

Barbara can’t refute any of this. 

It is absolutely true that Gary had informed her that he was planning to propose. It’d been just last month, in fact, on a double date that she and Gerald had gone on with Melissa and her boyfriend. They’d all adventured out to dinner and a car show, and when Melissa and Gerald had walked over to ogle at some old Chevy or another, Gary had told her his intentions. He was gonna pop the question sometime that Sunday, maybe spring for a nice dinner at Applebee’s and ask her when the Eagles game was at halftime.

What d’ya think?

Barbara had been visibly, entirely, and perhaps even offensively mortified, had told him absolutely not, sir—here was how he was going to do it instead. He was going to cover the teacher’s lounge in rose petals on Valentine’s Day. He was going to buy her a bottle of Prosecco. Not the cheap kind from a bodega but a moderately priced vintage from that fancy wine cellar with the French name downtown. He was going to put on something nice—no bowling shirts, no cargo pants, and definitely no gaudy chains. He was going to be cutesy and strategically place his ring in the vending machine, attaching it to her favorite candy bar.

Snickers. 

She loves Snickers.

Come hell or high water, Gary the Vending Machine Guy was going to show Melissa Schemmenti that she was loved.

(Did it ever occur to Barbara when she was meticulously planning all of this—staying on top of Gary for an entire month, ensuring he was following her plans to the last detail, overseeing him like an overzealous hawk—that she was being a hypocrite by propping up this man’s unquestionable mediocrity? Saving him from it even? Joseph had been so careless about these sorts of occasions too, always forgetting his and Melissa’s anniversary, thinking that a gift card to his favorite restaurant was ever an appropriate gift on her birthdays. )

(It did, in fact, occur to Barbara.)

(She often thought about it.)

(Obsessed over it even.)

(This lone question has tormented her for weeks upon weeks now, kept her up at night, made her sick with guilt—but what, pray tell, was the alternative that she could have lived with? Discouraging him and risk Melissa ever finding out? Enduring yet another circular fight about how she’s too judgmental, and she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, and she should butt out of it because Melissa is a grown ass woman who she can make decisions for herself?)

(Has she not known from the very start—deep down inside the anguished well of her soul—that as nice as Gary is, as well-meaning, he's a far from a capable partner for Melissa? That he's but a type and marginally improved shadow of Joseph? That he is a man who is comfortable with settling, never once trying something new? Yes and yes and undoubtedly yes, but Barbara can’t confront any of these questions without asking a tougher one of herself. Why does she care so much?)

(There is but one answer to this particular inquiry that would destroy her where she stands, that would render her incapable of looking at herself in the mirror the next day—and all the days after that. There is an unspoken truth residing in the lily-white paradise of her moral worldview, where everything is neatly partitioned into a knowledge of what is good and what is evil, except for in the ungodly amalgamation of that one damn tree.)

(She loves her.)

(It’s as simple and as complex and as utterly horrible and as exquisitely beautiful as that.) 

(Barbara loves Melissa in a rapturous kind of way, has long elevated her to the Holy of Holies in her reverent and besotted mind. She loves her like a condemned sinner. Guilt defiles the temple of her chest every time she so much as catches a whiff of the other woman’s floral perfume. She loves her in the same way that she had loved Vivian—that girl from church camp all those many decades ago—when she was just fourteen, and their hands had accidentally brushed when they sat on the same log as the whole choir of God-fearing kids sang “Amazing Grace” around a roaring fire. They gingerly kissed behind their cabin one star-strewn night and never spoke to each other again.)

(She loves Melissa in a way that she has never quite loved her own husband. Gerald is kind and good, and he is good to her. Hell, even good for her. So steady and so gentle, the sturdy warmth she has curled up to in their shared bed for over three decades now. And she has loved that—has undoubtedly loved him—but their kisses have historically done nothing for her. She can only have sex with him when she’s a little tipsy. She desperately hides that from him, though, stuffs that dirty secret beneath her beatific smile like it's an empty bottle of Merlot hastily shoved under a bed; it isn’t fair to him that she can never get aroused. She convinces herself that no one has libido after menopause. She conveniently ignores the fact that she never had any long before that physiological change. The weight of her elaborate wedding band constricts her fourth finger like a cuff.)

(She sometimes feels that she should hate Melissa for making her feel any and all of these strange and estranging things, but she never does. She just loves her, even though it feels so wrong, except for those choice times when they’re alone in the same room together, side-by-side, taking up mutual intimate space, and Barbara has every reason to suspect that Melissa loves her right back.)

(So, yes, she planned Melissa’s proposal; she engineered the everloving and God almighty mess out of it.)

(Melissa seems happy enough with Gary.)

(She has made it her punishment and life’s mission to swallow that.)

Barbara blinks rapidly at the other’s vitriol, feels her own pride rise and rush to her defense.

“It’s worse that he proposed to you?” She cries incredulously, taking a step forward as Melissa takes a defensive step back, her leather-clad leg accidentally knocking one of the children’s tables. She winces and swears angrily under her breath, some Italian word that Barbara is sure God doesn’t like the meaning of. “You’ve been dating him for over a year now, Melissa. I just thought—“

But Melissa cuts across her violently.

“You didn’t think, Barb,” she laughs bitterly, crossing her arms over her chest, a gesture that nearly always means that she’s starting to shut down. “You hoped.”

“Excuse me?” Barbara’s heart feels liable to explode inside of her chest, throwing itself against the wall of her sternum like a wild animal. 

Feral

Unhinged.

Inconsolable.

“I said that you hoped,” the younger woman repeats herself, and the sound is somewhat quieter—if still wounded. Less of a gaping cut that a pulsing, chronic bruise, and somehow even more painful because of that. “You hoped that if I got shackled to Gary, I’d be all happy ‘n whole again. You hoped that maybe a shiny new ring would fix everything about me that my last marriage broke, and you wouldn’t have to—we would never need to—we could just keep pretendin’ that—“

But Melissa can’t seem to wrap her blunt tongue around the words in the same way that there is one tree that Barbara cannot eat from, let alone touch. She can only admire from afar and wonder to herself if its fruit would fit perfectly in the palm of her hand.

“Why—in God’s beloved and Almighty name—did you say yes to him then?” Barbara asks, her voice utterly alien to her, cold and so detached from the chemical reactions currently disrupting and denaturing her entire body. Her stomach churns. Her throat aches. Every nerve in her body is alive to the fact that there is now a new ring wrapped around Melissa Schemmenti’s fourth finger.

Because that is the crucial fact—the younger teacher said yes to the proposal.

Just minutes ago.

And she had smilingly accepted all the sweet congratulations from their colleagues that she received, and she had plopped a big kiss on Gary's laughing mouth—(making Barbara immediately want to wretch)—before dragging Barbara back here—("Just need Barb to help me take a good picture of it! Gotta rub it in my dumb cousin's face!)—so they could row about it.

About the fact that she said yes. 

Melissa dramatically falters, looking as though she’s been shot.

She glances down at the ring, as though she's expecting a bullet hole.

“What would we have done if I hadn’t, Barb?” She finally chokes out, rubbing the silvery band. “Kissed? Fucked? Lived happily ever after?”

It’s Barbara’s turn to be stricken now, to feel as though the mere six feet between them has suddenly become six-thousand, and the space between them is an abyssal depth—impossible to cross, let alone capably survive—but because she's Barbara Howard, because she is entirely used to adjusting her mask in the face of intolerable crisis, she gathers herself and all of her practiced composure together one more time, a hand resting just above her nauseous abdomen.

“I don’t know why you’re insisting on making yourself unhappy,” she hisses and almost finds it unbearable to look her best friend in the eye, hot tears threatening to form in her own. “It makes me sick to watch.”

But Melissa is apparently waiting for this particular response—locked, loaded, and brutally prepared.

“If we’re playin’ by those rules, hon, then you make me sick all the damn time.”

The effect of those words is immediate, visceral, and raw. Barbara feels as though the floor has been knocked out from under her, as though she is falling, falling, falling through that endless abyss. 

“Don’t say that, Melissa,” she utters, and she’s horrified that the words stumble out as a plea. “Never say that to me again.”

Melissa must hear it in her voice—her desperation, her denial, the presentation of her most deeply espoused fears—because apology briefly flashes in the darks of her eyes. She reaches up and scrubs her weary face with her hand, the one with that stupid, awful ring on it.

Barbara even helped the man pick it out.

Melissa likes simple jewelry.

Nothing intricate.

Something practical and sturdy—exactly like her.

“Goddamn, Barb,” she mutters, the curse muffled when she drags her palm over her mouth. “I’m engaged.”

It was already true—it’s been true the entire time that they’ve been having this accursed conversation—but hearing it aloud is too much on top of everything else. Her own hand splayed at the hollow of her throat, Barbara bows her head and fails to repress a sob.

[aurabird]

Desperate Measures

Sparrow attempts a risky experiment on himself out of his desperation for abilities. The results of his efforts are nothing short of painful and traumatizing.

Owen’s latest New Life episode gave me many thoughts so I bring you this.

Tw: Implied body modification, body horror, self-experimentation.

Ao3 Link

----------

Sparrow checked the machine for what was probably at least the hundredth time. It had to work perfectly, otherwise...

...he didn’t want to think about the outcome of what would happen if just one of the mechanisms was even the slightest bit off, shaking the unbidden horrific images from his head.

Everything was in order, yet a sense of dread washed over him. He was desperate...so, so desperate, for some kind of power, ANY kind of power.

Gaining abilities after death was not a certainty, for while some of the residents in this land had in fact in fact died and simply come back with different abilities, they were hybrids to begin with. He was only human, nothing more; there was no way he could be sure what brought them back would work on him.

He could have approached this in some other way of course, it had crossed his mind to simply experiment on the hybrids in this land and try and figure out what made them what they were so that he could then replicate it.

But he’d shot that idea down instantly at the image of Scott in a cage laying in his own blood, the carefree and joyful glow in his heterochromatic eyes dulled from being drugged or tortured. No, Sparrow could never do something like that to him; or any of the other hybrids he’d met for that matter.

That’s what led him down the path he had gone. If he refused to experiment on hybrids then he would experiment on himself instead.

It began to rain as he shakily approached the chamber, trying to ignore the various devices that would dig into him once he sealed his fate.

The door of the chamber closed once he was inside, his back against cold metal. Restraints clamped around his wrists and ankles, a precaution to ensure he would not struggle.

The walls shut around him, casting darkness over everything. Sparrow was alone now with only his fear and mechanical whirring sounds for company.

All at once pain shot through every atom in his body. It was like he was being torn apart and then pieced back together on a molecular level. He supposed, that probably was exactly what was happening to him, given what he designed the machine to do.

Sparrow could not fight back the reflex urge to cry out in sheer agony as the machine worked, even though the scream was simply swallowed up by the sounds of everything else.

The worst part of everything was that Sparrow could feel the overwhelming energy that came with having far too many conflicting powers, feel his body try and adjust to the changes being made to his DNA.

Everything hurt, everything burned. Sparrow just wanted it all to stop! Please! Make it stop!

Once more a cry was wrenched from his throat, this time followed by a resounding BANG as behind his closed eyelids Sparrow saw a flash of white, felt the warmth of the explosion that had occurred.

And then he was on the ground, sobs racking his body as he cried, curled up tightly in a ball for comfort.

Elemental particles of all kinds swirled around him, parts of his body ever-shifting between various stages of corporeal. Two pairs of wings had torn free from his back, the feathers and leathery membranes coated in a deep crimson; feline ears were pressed flat against his head, curling horns nestled between them.

Even his scaled tail thrashed with discomfort and pain.

Sparrow forced himself to open his eyes, finding his vision was mismatched. From one eye, he could see color; from the other, only monochrome shades.

It was then that the horrifying realization of what he’d done in his desperation finally dawned on him.

He’d introduced several types of hybrid and fauna DNA into his own without any care for what it may do to him.

He almost didn’t want to see what he’d turned himself into, the newfound feeling of appendages he definitely did not have prior to stepping into the machine and the fact that his body felt like it was floating but also on fire told him everything he needed to know.

Despite his fear, Sparrow began to crawl; away from the machine behind him, away from what he knew were several sharp objects stained with his own blood. He made his way over to the edge of the peninsula he called home, towards the ocean to get a look at himself.

He tried to ignore the fact his arms were not human anymore.

Cool water lapped against his webbed and scaled fingers as grass turned into sand. The ocean called to him, yet his instincts also told him to get far, far away from it.

The face that reflected back was still his, save his mismatched eyes and the horns and ears. At least some of his facial features from before had remained; he didn’t want to think about what would have happened if no one realized that he was still Sparrow.

He then turned to inspect the rest of him, being met with the sight of something not human nor hybrid; some kind of chimeric, humanoid creature.

This was the price for his hubris...and it was something he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.

That was all it took for him to break. Sparrow curled into a ball once more and wept, his sobs the only thing audible underneath the static that filled his still-ringing ears.

He didn’t know how long he lay there in the sand, but soon another sound aside from his sobs could be heard. Were those...voices?

Sparrow opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, only a hiccup and a gasp. He could feel nothing but pain, couldn’t see anything but a mess of colors blurred by tears. If someone...or something was here, maybe they would just put him out of his misery.

A whisper of reassurance and a brief flash of orange and cyan broke through the fog of his mind, a familiar face...before everything went black.

[nicklloydnow]

“The life of an army is always active. And one cannot imagine "Contemplative" soldiers. Most often, if the games of war are "contemplated," it is to denounce their extreme absurdity. This was done from 1914 to 1918. To live up to the values of battle courage, the gift of the self - it is a bad idea to reflect on them. You must let yourself be swept up by them. But there is an exception.

No one has described the battlefield and its horrors more acutely than Jünger. I want to show that there is an equivalence between war, ritual sacrifice, and mystic life: they involve the same play of "ecstasies" and "terrors" through which man links himself up with the games of the heavens. But more often than not, war is distorted: we cover up its glories and its horrors. This is why I cite Jünger, who does not avoid anything.

"The horror of this spectacle outstripped all predictions; peoples' strength evaporated in the presence of this sad, gray figure, sprawled out on the side of the road, around whom fat flies were already making their rounds. His face and all those that came after it reappeared again and again in many different poses: shredded bodies, cleaved skulls, pale phantoms that harrowed the memory . . . During the long nighttime marches in this agonizing desert, the heart felt as isolated and stranded as if it were far above the mortal reflections of a sea of ice. The inevitable ambush that surrounded us extinguished the flame of our zeal. How many times did someone's dying cries expire without an echo in the course of their slow agony! . . . Although we had spent many years wandering these abandoned wastelands, we would always return to them with our bodies trembling profoundly, as when one wakes after a fit of madness . . . Where were we? On some outcrop on the craterous surface of the moon? Cast off into the depths of hell? This land, surrounded by yellowish flames, where the infernal dance of death would rage, could not have been any place on earth." This is how Jünger described the front.

Jünger goes on: "The smell of rotting bodies is unendurable, heavy, sickly-sweet, repulsive, penetrating like a viscous paste. It would waft so intensely over the plains after great battles that starving men would forget to eat. We often saw groups of heroic fighters, isolated in the mists of battle, clinging to part of a trench or a line of ditches for days on end the way that shipwrecked people cling to sundered masts in a storm. In their midst, all-powerful Death had planted its flag. Fields littered with men, mowed down by their bullets, unfurled before peoples' eyes. The corpses of their comrades lay beside them, mingled with them, with the seal of death on their eyelids. Their harrowed faces recalled the frightful realism of old images of the crucifixion. The heroic fighters, almost collapsing with starvation, would stay crouched down, enveloped in a stench that became unbearable every time the storm of steel set the tragic dance of death in motion once more, launching rotting corpses into the air. What good would it have done to cover the tatters of their flesh with sand and quicklime? What good would it have done to hide them under tent canvases to shroud their black and bloated faces from sight? Their number was truly too great! Our pickaxes collided with human flesh at every strike. All the mysteries of the tomb revealed themselves, so atrocious that the most hellish nightmares seemed as nothing in comparison to them. Tufts of hair came flying off their heads like autumn leaves from trees. Their putrefied bodies took on that greenish hue of fish skin and shone, at night, from between the gaps in their ragged uniforms. Our feet, squashing them, would leave phosphorescent footprints. Others dried out like chalky mummies that were slowly falling away to dust. The skin of others sloughed off their bones in a reddish-brown jelly. During the heavy summer nights, these swollen corpses seemed to wake like phantoms and, from their wounds, eructations of gas escaped with a whistling sound. But the most horrible spectacle of all was the wriggling of the worms . . . Is it not true that we stayed on the road four days, among the corpses of our comrades? Were we not all, the living and the dead, covered with the same whirlwind of bluish flies? Is there anything more terrifying in all of Horror's kingdom? Among those who were sleeping forever, more than one had shared our nights of vigil, our canteen of wine, our scrap of bread! . . . When, after days such as these, the bent, ragged soldiers trooped off toward the rear for some rest in long, gray, silent columns, their march would freeze even the warmest heart. ‘They look like they just stepped out the grave,’ murmured one passerby to his daughter."

This is the language of mysticism. The great care taken over horror is neither a vice nor an effect of depression. It is the threshold to a church.

"Blood,” writes Jünger, "gushes through the arteries in divine incandescence when a man advances on the battlefield fully aware of his valor . . . Whoever arrives at this highest point of his personality has respect for himself. Is there anything more sacred than a warrior? A God??? . . .”

He adds: "Courage is the total wager of one's own person. . . . If one . . . understands the true reason for combat, one cannot fail to honor heroism, to honor it everywhere and particularly in one's enemy. . . . The warrior defends his cause as bitterly as he can and we have shown this to be true on both sides of the barricade - we, warriors the world over . . . we have broken the stone vessel of the world . . . we have chiseled a new face onto the earth . . . the vast swathes of sacrifice that we have agreed to form part of a single holocaust that unites us all!”

Only the horrible "slowdown" of the war of 1914 could have permitted this kind of "contemplation" of horror and oneself - as well as this mysticism. Mysticism, paradoxical contemplation, occurs when the contemplative person acts, when he contemplates action! The overly rapid rhythm of classical wars prevented anyone from probing their depths: people would travel across the kind of landscape Jünger describes at breakneck speed (instead of haunting it over four years). The feat of having overcome the impossible - and having communicated such mastery - is a moment of decision and of [rupture?]. But nothing can alter the natural law of things: war does not want to have its hidden depths revealed, and the lyricism of horror is poorly suited to it. The lightning war brings about well-known conditions: conditions wherein "the rest is silence."

If not for the acute crisis that has stricken us since 1914, Jünger's reactions would be unintelligible, out of place: to proclaim them would be unacceptable. The army acts without making proclamations. When it comes down to it, its showy aspects and the fanfare of its parades go alongside its modesty. The macabre horror and the grimace of Christ on the cross belong in a church, not a barracks. Soldiers want action, not ecstasy. Jünger's lyricism profited from the momentary impotence of a will entirely dedicated to deci-sion. It fed itself on failure and sluggishness. But just as a slow-motion film breaks down the gallop of a horse and allows one to understand how it works, a slow war and the form of expression it inspired revealed the underlying game. We look for "terrors" and "ecstasies" in combat as much as we do in a church. The bugles deny it on parade, but that ostentatious denial is nothing but a hurried impulse and a systematic easing of the game. Jünger's testimony, weighty as it is, is more legible: "A remark on ecstasy: this state that is particular to saints, great poets, and great lovers is precisely analogous with true courage. In both cases, fervor raises one's energy to such a height that the blood boils through one's veins and foams as it flows through the heart. It is an intoxication that surpasses all intoxication, an unleashing of forces that sunders all ties.”” (pages 95 - 100)

[metatemu]

casteshipping is i fucking hate you, i hate every inch of you, you're a reflection of everything i hate most in the world, we're bonded intimately by shared pain and agony and your blood stains my hands, you're a shadow and an image and you're the boogeyman under my bed and your smile haunts my every step and i don't even know you but your existence is branded in my skin and your teeth are tearing my flesh and your hands in my ribcage and around my throat and i struggle and break your bones with my canines and your skin still hangs from my bones and you're so linked to my story that we're one in the same and i can never be seperated from you and every day i think about you and my life has no purpose without fighting you because you're everything i've lived and died for and i want to hurt you, i want you to suffer, and i drag around your corpse in my arms, and this isn't love it's violence but all i know is the language of violence and pain and we could have been friends in another life--in fact we were our echoes are--but it wasn't meant to be but your blood is warm and that's all i know now and you are everything to me i hate you you're all i have left you're the only one who understands i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you and when i kill you when you're dead and buried i'll crawl into your grave because all i know is death and all you are is death and i cradle your body and we're together consumed