#i deserve to rot in a shallow grave

[reddesires]

Birds of a feather. [Sunset Trio x Human!Reader]

Implied Noa x Human!Reader

Song fic.

Fandom: (Kingdom Of The) Planet Of The Apes

Rating: No Warning.

A/N: I just had to write this song fic. Birds of a feather just screamed out the Sunset Trio.

I want you to stay

'Til I'm in the grave

'Til I rot away, dead and buried

'Til I'm in the casket you carry

You had never thought that you would up in this kind of situation before, you knew of hardship and bitterness in the unforgiving world outside of the Eagle Clan but you were unfamiliar with the soft look in Noa's eyes as he extended his hand out to help you out of the darkness that shrouded you, you could feel a tingle in your fingertips as you yearned to reach out in return for him, you were wanted by him and you badly wanted him too. It was like him and his clan were the missing pieces that you were looking for. You knew you just may be with them till the day you died.

If you go, I'm going too, uh

'Cause it was always you, alright

And if I'm turning blue, please don't save me

Nothing left to lose without my baby

You're willing to follow Noa anywhere. He was the light source that led you exactly where you are today. He was more than deserving of your loyalty, and you promised yourself that wherever he went, you would go too. You were aware of the risks he was taking when he took you in and tended to you as you lost all the will to live, it was like you were a baby bird that fell from it's nest and Noa revived you just so you could live to see the skies.

Birds of a feather, we should stick together, I know

I said I'd never think I wasn't better alone

Can't change the weather, might not be forever

But if it's forever, it's even better

Seeing the relationship the trio had was something that you found yourself admiring, but it set an almost hollow aching in your chest. You've never bonded to others the way they have bonded with each other. A reserved expression settled on your face as you watched the teasing and happiness radiating of them, your thoughts engulfing you entirely. As your thoughts lured you away, an embrace pulls you back as you snap back to reality, Soona is gently leading you between them all with all the intention of you being one with them. Birds of a feather.

And I don't know what I'm crying for

I don't think I could love you more

It might not be long, but baby, I

In moments of seclusion you couldn't help the tears that refused to be held hostage in the depths of your eyes, your life wasn't an easy one and you've lost more than you've ever received. Being accepted into the Clan, into a tight-knit community of sorts, wasn't an expectation you could've had before, but now you're living in it. You obviously try not to get this emotional in front of the others. You don't want to throw them into a panicked frenzy.

I'll love you 'til the day that I die

'Til the day that I die

'Til the light leaves my eyes

'Til the day that I die

You ran in the opposite direction of the burly ape escaping his grasp, a breathless laugh escaping your lungs as you tried to keep away from the doom of being drenched into the river behind him. Noa was on all fours as he followed after you in another attempt to grab at you. Even though you weren't really fast, you were still very agile in your movements. You bobbed and weaved to your best abilities before he finally caught up to you, you playfully screaming in response to being scooped up by him. Anaya and Soona on the sidelines hooting and hollering at the scene before them, also running to the shallow river to join in on the splash out.

I want you to see, hm

How you look to me, hm

You wouldn't believe if I told ya

You would keep the compliments I throw ya

You watched as Soona easily weaved the twine between her dexterous yet thick fingers. You admired the way she eased the intricacies into the adornment she was invested in. She looked to you in between the process, she was amused by the wondrous look in your eyes as you watched her hands, your expression reminding her of a young chimp that was intrigued by something so mundane. "Soona, it looks so pretty!" You grinned seeing her obvious expertise in the craftsmanship, she preened at your compliment, happily indulging in your commendation.

But you're so full of shit, uh

Tell me it's a bit, oh

Say you don't see it, your mind's polluted

Say you wanna quit, don't be stupid

Noa would sometimes have to talk you down from your self-deprecating headspace. You felt less than deserving of the all good that's come into your life. He doesn't understand why you think that way, and he tells you that it's stupid and it makes you choke on your spit at the dubious tone he takes on in response to your conflicts. "Stupid. Echo belongs..with us." He says gruffly, a pout like expression overtaking his usually kind features. You can't help but shyly chuckle in response as you bump your shoulder with his fur covered one "Yeah, you're right. You're always right. "

And I don't know what I'm crying for

I don't think I could love you more

Might not be long, but baby, I

Don't wanna say goodbye

The tears slipped from your eyes as you looked into the communal fire that lay in front of you, Noa gaze was soft as he hesitantly wiped the stray tear with his calloused finger. You looked to him as he stared back at you wordlessly, you were uncertain if he completely understood the pain you carried but you knew for certain that he was willing to try as he searched your expression with his green irises. Your lips pulled back in a watery smile as you intertwined your smaller finger around his. He was recipient of that.

Birds of a feather, we should stick together, I know ('til the day that I die)

I said I'd never think I wasn't better alone ('til the light leaves my eyes)

Can't change the weather, might not be forever ('til the day that I die)

But if it's forever, it's even better

You laughed as you watched Anaya hang upside down with his feet gripping the branch of the tree, he was handing you a ripe apple and you gratefully accepted his kind gift of the fruit, he always happily shared with you since you ate in smaller portions compared to him. As he looked at you, he tilted his head as a thought crossed his mind. You curiously gazed up at him. "Echo up?" He asked. You smiled as you outstretched your arm for him to take. He hoisted you up with his upper body strength plopping you down on the nearest sturdy branch. "Now Echo can reach apples too!".

I knew you in another life

You had that same look in your eyes

I love you, don't act so surprised

You knew that you loved them. They've become the highlight of your life. You loved Anaya like he was your brother, you loved Soona like she was your sister, and you love Noa with something more and you were unsure what it could mean but you knew that they were all meant to be apart of you in one way or another. You were accepted by them, and you accepted them too.

Birds of a feather.

[oh-yeah-i-exist]

A Partner, An Equal (Astarion x Durge!Tav)

Synopsis: The first night of Astarion's second life, free from Cazador and with her by his side.

Author's Note: This is technically written with my Tav (named Eiji) in mind, but I didn't name her in the text so it's pretty much up to you to imagine 'her' as you will. Also, a great song to listen to while you read this is:

Because of the line, "I'll make you a star in my universe..."

Content: Astarion x Female!Tav. FLUFF, tooth-rotting fluff, because my sweet boy deserves only love and safety and comfort and everything nice after, and I quote, "two centuries of PURE shit."

Warning: Might contain SPOILERS for Act 2 and 3!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Perhaps a graveyard was not the best place for their first night since Cazador's defeat, but the idea of having her there with him at the very beginning of his new life felt right to Astarion.

"We'd better get back before the others start fearing the worst," She says, zipping up the side of her under-armor. They are getting dressed together in the shadow of a large oak tree.

He doesn't jump anymore when she reaches for him. "Here, let me," she readjusts the collar of his undershirt to fold properly around his pale neck. With the little gesture done, her hands linger at his jawline as her gaze trails up to study his face.

"Something's the matter, my love?" He raises an eyebrow when she softly brushes her thumbs across his high cheekbones.

A dreamy smile spreads across her face, a distant look in her eyes. Oh, how she adores the lines around his lips when he laughs, the faint mole on his right cheek, the way his silver hair curls delicately over his ears. He once asked for nothing but shallow praise from her; it is as plain as the sky is blue that he's a beautiful man, a creature meticulously groomed to be the very object of everyone's desire. But that's who Cazador made him to be. That's not why she loves him.

"I didn't ever get a chance to tell you..." She begins slowly, as though she is trying to pull herself out of some reverie. "But I'm so sorry, for everything that happened to you. You didn't deserve any of it. I want you to know that you're perfect, just the way you are."

For a moment there, he was getting worried that she might be having second thoughts. But this incredible woman keeps taking his breath away, keeps exceeding even his wildest dreams. Without hesitation, he bends down and swiftly scoops her up in an embrace, holding her tightly against his chest. Bittersweet tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and he buries his face in her hair - during their intimacy, she let her hair fall out of their usual buns and cascade over her shoulder, as dark and silky as the night sky. She smells of lavender and campfire, a bouquet he has committed to memory a million times over. He all but melts against her as she gently places her arms around his shoulders, her fingers ghosting over the upper ridges of his scars to stroke the hair on the back of his neck.

"Thank you," He murmurs, pulling her even closer.

"You never have to thank me," she replies. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he nudges his forehead against hers, grinning like a fool. Precious, unadulterated bliss fills his cold, dead heart for the first time in centuries.

And he could have stayed like that for centuries more, had it not been for the sound of the crypt keeper coming around the corner.

"Come on, lest we get accused of desecrating someone's grave," she whispers, pulling him behind a tree and towards the exit.

"Oh please, it was my grave, and that gives me permission to do whatever I want on it," quips Astarion, even though he follows her back into the walkways of the Lower City. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, knows every out-of-the-way alley and hiding spot, knows exactly where the poor and naive can be found. His accursed brain won't let him forget the faces of those he met in this city, those whose lives his vampiric touch has ruined. Seven thousand in total, all innocents who had the misfortune of falling for him. Guilt threatens to engulf him once more, but the feeling of her fingers entwining with his own guides his attention back to the present.

"It's strange, you know," she looks around as they walk. Her dark brows crease together with a hint of frustration. "Something in me feels like I know this place, but for the life of me, I cannot recall. I try to reach into the darkness of my past but keep coming up empty."

Ah. Nearly everyone who looks into her brain comes to the conclusion that it is damaged beyond repair. Astarion was there when the party had encountered that frightful hack doctor in the Mindflayer colony, back in the Shadow-cursed Lands. Kressa Bonedaughter was her name, the vile wretch that took a bit too much pleasure in retelling how she had operated on his beloved. They couldn't have put that woman down sooner. But they did figure out that the Mindflayers were not behind the damage - she had arrived on the Nautiloid with her mind already in tatters. And from what 'Archduke' Gortash implied, Bhaal's Chosen, Orin might have something to do with all of it.

"If it is what you wish, I will not rest until we have your memories restored," says Astarion, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

She is unsure that there is anything to be done, but she is touched by his sincerity all the same. Looking away from her surroundings, she pauses for a moment to think.

"In a way, I don't regret it," she shakes her head, much to his confusion.

"How so?"

"Well... Whatever happened in my past, whatever it was that has landed me here," she explains. "It has led me to you. I wouldn't change that for the world."

"My, my..." he teases, though his lovestruck smile betrays the maddening giddiness that has befallen him upon hearing her words. "Aren't you quite the hopeless romantic?"

"It's the truth..." she mumbles, the tips of her ears growing red from the embarrassment. She begins rushing them towards the Elfsong Tavern before he can make another sly remark.

When they finally make it into the party's rented chambers, they make a beeline for one of the empty bunks. As quietly as two mice in a barn, they slip under the covers. Her body fits against his perfectly, her steady heartbeat luring him to slumber better than any meditative trance. And he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he could go to the Hells and back, battle a gargantuan, all-powerful floating brain, and do damn near everything if it means he gets to spend the rest of his nights just like this.

[actual-changeling]

I shouldn't have.

It should have been him, he should have died instead of Sarah, he should have been the one to get shot, the one who bled out in the grass, his last memories nothing but pain. He should have run faster, turned quicker, put himself between her and the soldier, her and the danger, her and the gun, should have sacrificed himself to make sure that she is safe because that is the only job he has ever had and he failed.

Joel not only tried to kill himself because Sarah was gone but because he does not deserve to live anymore, he should have died right there and then with her, hell, a part of him did die with her. Most of him did. There is no justice in him getting to live while she died, forever fourteen, the definition of innocence, his innocence, and he watched her blood dry on his hands for hours, watching it peel and crumble to dust.

Dust and mud and dirty water while she rots in the ground in an unmarked, shallow grave somewhere in Texas.

Joel shouldn't have lived but he did and he regrets it every single day.

[artist-issues]

i don't know man. I was feeling a rare flare up of empathy for Jezebel I guess. Because she was human too. A sinner like both of us. A sinner in power, unlike both of us. Does any human deserve to be torn apart by dogs? Solomon and David did similar things, and sure they did repent so maybe you could say it doesn't count, but would they have deserved an equal punishment? Take a man's wife, take his life (probably premeditated) if David hadn't repented, doubled down, at the critical juncture, would he have deserved that type of justice? Solomon doubled down, on the worship of idols spreading through his kingdom, but he repented a bit too late. As far as we know Jezebel was not an old woman when she died, perhaps mid fifties at the latest. Solomon lived longer.

And there are too many kings that allowed the worship of idolatry, did they get punished in the same manner? I know Athaliah was removed from the temple to be executed, but the boy king was even weaker than her, once his mentor the priest passed on.

i know there's lots of kings who got their own... comeuppance, in literature terms, over the issue of false worship, and some just as horrible. Jezebel's ending is not as unique in the greatest of schemes.

Like I said, it was just a flare up of empathy. I understand why she deserved it. I also think it was a violent and undignified death. And I also know she did the same to others.

But monarchs changing the state religion also murdered the religious in the way of their goals, so shes not unique. And Ahab was okaying a lot of her decisions anyway.

but the idea of who am I to question God who gave the prophecy to Elijah? Who are you? I think it's important to question. Not like an idiot atheist who wants to play word games to show how worldly and arrogant they are. But asking questions takes me to interesting answers. Even if it's just a new angle to the situation. I don't ask questions for the ultimate why. Because we are on earth at the moment. And I don't think on heaven the answers get less complicated. Just to see a bit more of the Truth. Which is comprised of many things.

This stone walling, in your initial answer, fine go ahead. I'm grateful for the verse, I didn't have a chance today to hunt it down myself. But I find it tasteless, this stone walling, who am I to question. If you don't care to engage with certain things, go ahead. I should also do the same, but I'm not there yet.

I question because I want to and I can. I think that if I was Jezebel I would have been in a shit ton of pain unable to think anything but beg for it all to stop.

I think that if God said my brother was going to rot from the inside like Herod I would think, fine, he deserves it. My brother caused me pain, I wanted to kill him myself once, I think he should have suffered, fine it's fair. But at the same time if I had to watch, if I had to know that my brother who I hated was in agony, I would have wanted a dignified death, a painless one for him, out of my weak and shallow capacity of love for all living things.

I agree that Jezebel should have died. I even appreciate that all that was left was a skull and hands. The amount of people she had put to death, the lives she ruined, she deserved less than a funeral. The hunger and thirst for righteousness is satisfied, because evil has been cut down at last.

But I am supposed to love my neighbor. And I think all my neighbors, deserve a swift death and a proper 6x5 grave. Or a pile of ashes.

Not to say I will do these things. I too am overcome by rage and hatred and also very capable of justifying to myself why an evil person should be thrown to the pigs.

....this is why I don't engage in empathy that often.

Okay, you gotta be really careful here, man. God did not give her a 6 x 5 grave, and you're saying that's what "all your neighbors" deserve. So was God wrong, not to give her "what she deserved?"

I mean, I can see where you're coming from with the whole empathy thing. Of course it's hard to wrap our minds around, being human, and seeing what God did to a similar human. Of course there's room for understandable mental wrestling, when, like you said, He seems to kill some horrible rulers in shocking ways, but gives grace to others. Of course.

But you didn't ask me a nuanced question. You asked a question about "deserving." And the bottom line is, God alone gets to decide who deserves what.

There's a difference between asking questions to better understand Truth, because there's something you don't know yet— and asking questions despite the fact that the Truth is already plain. The truth with what Jezebel specifically "deserved" is already plain: God gets to decide what people deserve, and God decided very clearly what she deserved, so she deserved it.

There comes a point where questioning something obvious isn't intellectual or empathetic. Because you're having to bypass the simple truth to even ask it. You can't be analyzing-from-a-different-angle something you're bypassing. You have to bypass the Truth "God decides who deserves what" to ask the question "did Jezebel really deserve to die like that?"

It's just "vain reasoning." Romans 1:21. You know the answer, but you're not focusing on it, which is tiptoeing right up to the line of "knowing it but refusing to believe it." That is a dangerous place to be, and an arrogant place to be, and I can say that to you because it is a place I've been and still wander to, except for the grace of God.

I'm not saying that's where you're always at. I'm saying, that mindset is what your question sounded like. So while you call it "stonewalling," what I'm trying to do is simply answer with what's true. There really is nowhere else to go with your question, if truth is what you're after.

Please don't mistake my tone. I know it doesn't always come through online. I'm being firm, but I'm not being accusatory. You asked a question that indicates the above mindset. Maybe you didn't mean it like that, or I misunderstood. But I'm responding because I genuinely believe, and I think you genuinely believe, that what God says is all that matters at the end of the day, and we both need that reminder.

So when it comes to that, thank you for the question.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Tagged by @thesingularityseries​​ @shallow-gravy​ @henbased​​  @eclecticwildflowers​​ and @inafieldofdaisies​​

Thank you all!

So I haven’t got much writing going on but I have been working on some art. A hint of the ending of the soulmate AU. I just think Kit deserves to be part of the family at the arrest

Tagging: @adelaidedrubman​​ @direwombat​​ @clicheantagonist​​ @josephslittledeputy​​ @strangefable​​ @florbelles​​ @poetikat​​ @schoute​​ @purplehairsecretlair​​ @trench-rot​ @inquisitors-grave​ @vampireninjabunnies-blog​​ @confidentandgood​​ @roofgeese​​ @derelictheretic​​ @strafethesesinners​​ @detectivelokis​​ @voidika​​ @turbo-virgins​ @redreart​​ @marivenah​​ @nightbloodbix​​ @wrathfulrook​​ @madparadoxum​ and anyone I missed or who has something to share please consider this an open tag :)

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

souls stripped bare

Happy New Year’s Eve, y’all!

When - starts maybe a half hour after ‘A measure of reverence, Part 2′ which takes place in Season 2, the morning of “Chupacabra.” This story is a bridge to the afternoon of the episode where Daryl gets badly injured and hallucinates Merle.

What - after all that goes on, you and him cannot shake the feeling that you’ve seen each other stripped bare, right down to the soul.

Relationships - Daryl x reader. You help him through a freak out, he physically carries you.

Perspective - it’s Dixon’s POV this time. We see your thoughts once, but he’s got the wheel for this one

Genre - heavier. Souls are getting bared here

Pronouns - she/her

How much time will I need to read it? - depends, but there are ~5,680 words

Should I read all the other stuff in The Slowpoke Series? - oh heck, yeah!

Which ones if I can’t binge all the chapters rn? - the ones directly referenced but not too necessary to reread are Quarter!, There’s also a bar., and Ain’t nothing..., and the stories that will help a lot with context are It was a pragmatic cigarette, and What were your nightmares about? and of course, the chapter directly before this A measure of reverence, Part 2.

(Trigger warnings are below for space)

TWs - Daryl has something of a panic attack, there’s discussion of break-in and subsequent fatalities including that of minors, discussion of killing in self-defense and of guns, foul language, fighting, mention of ‘putting down’ walkers including that of minors, reference to child abuse (Daryl’s scars), and there’s a part where Daryl recognizes the pattern that sometimes occurs in those who have been abused where they may in turn also develop abusive tendencies.

..............................

Him

The other two people got a shallow grave out back with a rock as a place marker and a simple “I don’t know how it all works, but I hope you had some kind of repentance,” out of her. He would’ve left them out to rot or maybe tossed some lighter fluid and a match on them to send them to hell faster.

“They don’t deserve even a damn hole in the ground, Y/N,” he’d said to her when he saw what she was doing.

“It ain’t about ‘deserve,’ man.” And sure enough, she’d dug their damn hole in the ground until her shoulder gave out and her side started bleeding again, so he grit his teeth and finished it for her. Why, he wasn’t sure of.

As for the family, Y/N had carried the baby out first, wrapped in a blanket, then the toddler. He’d carried out the old woman first. They kept them together. How they got the others out was a blur, but he knew that at some point he busted the side-door open and soon he was digging.

The garden had been tilled real good, so there weren’t any roots or rocks to deal with, just the overgrown vegetable plants.

When her arm gave out again and she couldn’t use it anymore, Y/N trudged off to the well to refill their water bottles.

It was right after that when he’d started fucking bawling, and by the time Y/N had gotten back, he still hadn’t stopped.

Slowly, she used her good arm to rub her hand across his upper back and rested her head against his arm.

At some point, he was sitting on his ass in the dirt smoking a cigarette. She’d given him some space for that and, apparently, was gathering up what dead chickens there were and giving them a teeny little grave, too, if her dragging each one with the shovel to that spot by the birdbath and scraping a hole with her foot wasn’t his imagination.

When he was done blubbering like a kid who scraped his knee, that’s when he finished digging the grave for the family.

She brought out a cross that had been hanging on the wall inside, a handful of those prayer bead necklace things, and a blanket that had the Mexican Mary lady on it.

She laid the blanket over bodies after putting a string of prayer bead ropes with each family member. He noticed she pocketed some extras.

Then, together, they covered the family with dirt.

Her hand curled around his and she offered some words that sounded like she was familiar with their type of praying.

Their fingers ended up laced together. Why, he wasn’t sure of.

After the people walkers were given that ‘measure of reverence’ and ‘put out of their misery,’ or ‘laid to rest,’ whatever you wanna call it, Daryl shoved the cross into the ground and secured it with some rocks before storming back into the house.

There was some kind of alcohol in there and he was gonna find that shit.

He checked all the upper cabinets to start, and the first bottle of something useful he came across said ‘p-u-l-q-u-e.’ He didn’t know what that was or why it looked like curdled milk, but it was there, so he uncapped it and chugged some down while pacing back and forth.

This thick, syrupy, sour milk and beer flavor assaulted his mouth and cleared his nostrils.

He kept pacing. Y/N leaned against the counter opposite him and gagged after having a swig of her own.

Another cigarette, that’s what he needed, fuck.

He pulled out his pack and meant to light up, but when he saw his…

His fingers.

His fingers were so…oh my God, they were covered. Shit—his hands, his forearms, his everyth—fuck, fuck, he was filthy, he was—he was covered in dirt!

Her voice sounded far away. “Daryl, what’s wrong?”

Oh God, oh God, his whole body, everything was filthy, fuck, fuck, he needed to get it off! It was all over him, he needed to get it all off—

“—Whoa now, it’s all good,” her voice cut in again. “Honey, come with me, I got ya. Sweetheart, come with me, we’ll wash it off.”

When exactly he’d made his way to the sink and started trying to scrub with a dry sponge, he couldn’t remember.

“Daryl, no, no, with me. With me, baby, this way,” that gentle voice cut in again. “There’s a rain barrel outside, it’ll be nice and clean, c’mon. You got this, man, it’ll be okay, we’re gonna get all off.”

She was cooing like he was a three-year-old and he didn’t even care, he just needed to get clean!

..............................

You

You didn’t think you’d see Daryl Dixon ever panic about dirt. To be fair, you didn’t think you’d see him panic about anything. When he stumbled to the sink and started rubbing his skin raw with the dry sponge, you pried it away, grabbed a dish towel and soap, and lead him through the side-door to where the rain barrel was.

That at first he’d flinched and swatted and drew back from your hand guiding him clued you in further that he’d been treated very badly once.

After he wrenched off the rain barrel’s lid and began to frantically wash up, you gave him his space and stood guard.

You avoided looking at him because when you did, you had the oddest sensation as if his soul was being bared to you against his will.

The most fitting way you can best describe it was as if you’d accidentally walked in on him naked.

On that topic, he yanked off his button-down (one of his only shirts he hasn’t cut the sleeves off). You picked it up and shook the dirt from it.

Now, he was still wearing that worn, yellowed, stained tank that had been his brother’s, but because the straps were so thin and the tank he was in fell lower than Daryl’s do, you thought you briefly saw more tattoos and what looked like…it looked like either bruises or scarring on his upper back.

You checked yourself and avoided looking but wished you could avoid thinking about what you saw. It was just another piece of evidence to how bad things once were for him.

It truly felt like you were seeing pieces of his soul that he wanted to keep hidden, that were meant to be protected. You felt so unbearably close to him, it was insane.

Not two minutes passed before your poor Daryl bent to the side and threw up in the pachysandra.

You rinsed the dish towel in the barrel, delicately pressed it to his neck, then gave him space again.

Besides, you needed a bandage on your stitches and maybe a clean shirt and some painkillers. Going back to camp bloodstained would worry people.

And, those were some Coronas you saw hiding on the top of the fridge, right? Those would help your friend calm down and get the sick taste out of his mouth.

..............................

Him

When he stopped bugging the hell out, he saw that his shirt was folded and set on a lawn chair. He pulled it back on only to discover a bunch of buttons were missing. He stared at his hands, now clean. Scrubbed red.

That morning at the CDC when Y/N kept wiping her hand because she felt like her friend’s blood was still on it popped into his head. The sweet one, Andrea’s little sister, what was her na—Amy. Amy’s blood.

He ran his fingers along his palm to prove there was no grit on there, it was just him bugging out. He looked at his fingernails where he’d scoured every bit of grime from underneath to prove they weren’t still jammed with dirt, it was just him bugging out.

One final splash to his face and he headed back into that house.

Y/N was inside the kitchen, holding an unopened a beer (where the hell she find that, I need one) and looking at all the pictures. There were a lot of family photos. Old ones, new ones, vintage ones. A bunch of what was probably saint stuff.

She turned and sat at the table table. “My eldest sister said pulque was really good fresh, in its defense.” A nod at the beers and the ‘pool-kay’ bottle. “Sit?”

No argument there. He chugged down the can she handed him in one fell swoop before throwing it when that sumbitch decided to screw with him and suddenly be empty.

He felt like Y/N just walked in on him with his boxers down or his back exposed or something, fuck.

Ugh, then his stomach started to churn again.

That was half the reason why when, after tossing a glance at Y/N, only to see her looking at him all pitiful like he was some crying child, got him barking “How are you so—calm? You just had to put down f-fuckin’—” he wouldn’t say the word ‘kids’ and couldn’t say ‘and a baby.’

Her jaw tightened and she took deep breath.

Then another.

The ticking from Dale’s watch and the sounds of the breeze and birds outside filled the silence. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

That broken, soft answer of “I thought you knew I’ve had to do it before, man,” made him forget to breathe for a sec.

The tick, tick, tick, tick got louder.

His brain told him to crack open another beer and slide it to her.

One corner of her mouth lifted but she looked drained. “Very pragmatic.”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He heard his pulse thudding in his ears.

His friend took a few gulps from the can and stayed quiet.

“Was that what made you want that cigarette and a drink?” he asked carefully, trying to sound as nonabrasive as he could swing it.

His friend shook her head. “Mama had done it for a ch…for a child, out of necessity twice before I ever had to.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if the memory physically hurt. “Remember how unreal it was findin’ out how other than a blow to the brain, injuries and conditions what no one could ever survive meant nothing to a walker? S-so even if a cure came along, they’d all be dead just the s-same?”

“Can’t forget it.”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

“We—she—laid them to rest after that, once they’d died. One of our foster kids caught it early on. We kept her in a room after she’d died and turned. Then a neighbor’s kid we’d taken in ’cause his family turned, he’d been bit. When he turned, we put him in there, too, until we found out that it was just the virus usin’ their bodies, that their souls had moved on because they’d died.”

Through her shut eyes, tears made their way out. “But it was when my-my middle sister and,” she swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut. Her lip wobbled. “Um, all them, my brother-in-law, the kids, they all caught it and died and turned, so Shane and Mama and I had to…” her gaze darted up to meet his for a second and she didn’t finish the statement, she just shrugged.

“But that’s not why you were tryin’ to get out of your head the other day?”

“No. That was—” Like she did when she was nervous, she started babbling and stuttering a little. “I-I had gotten reminded of a…bad thing I had to do. An, an objectively bad thing I had the moral obligation to do, you feel me?”

‘An objectively bad thing’ she had ‘the moral obligation to do.’ Sounds like something the old man would say.

“It was two, or, maybe three weeks after what we had to do for my sister. Right before we were gonna go with the Grimes to Atlanta. Tried to go to Atlanta.” She licked her teeth and huffed, a sure sign she was mad. “Can you believe they fuckin’ firebombed them? Wh-what did they achieve with that? All those lives…”

“Less of a crowd to evacuate,” he muttered back. “Fuck the fed.”

“Fuck the fed.” Y/N had another sip of beer, then slid the can back to him. “It was two days before that when, um, Shane and me had g-gone back to the house, we’d been—it doesn’t matter, but, um…”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Did she realize she was tapping the table over and over and bouncing her legs? A heavy exhale came before she mumbled, “I did promise I’d tell you, didn’t I?”

All the agitation or whatever the hell was going on with him before fell away and in its place was this urge that his friend not be hurting anymore. “You don’t have to, it ain’t like that.”

“A deal’s a deal, a promise a promise,” she tried to joke.

“M’serious, Y/N.”

“Me, too. You trusted me with your story about bein’ lost in the woods for over a week when you were a little kid, I can trust you with this. Ain’t like it’s a big secret, it’s just…what it is. We all got at least one story like it nowadays.” She gestured around the room, not really looking at anything. Her eyes looked glazed over. “When Shane and I got back to the house, it had been broken into, just like here. Mama and the dog were dead.”

His initial reaction was to push the beer back to her and avoid looking at her.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Now it made sense why she kept wanting to knock and call and wait yesterday and today before they went into houses.

The weirdest thing started to happen.

He felt as if it would be doing something wrong if he looked at her. It was as if she were, like—he didn’t know how to word it, but it was as if she were naked, so he shouldn’t look.

Like that expression he’d heard about somebody’s soul being “beared” or “bared.”

After another sip, Y/N placed the beer can to the side. “She must’ve been in the early stages of being sick when she was killed, just like some of the people here. We found her walkin’,” Y/N explained simply, avoiding all eye contact. “Had a big old wound this side of her chest.”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

“The guy whodunnit had shut himself in the bathroom, turns out. Mama had got him with her shotgun, but she—not even with buckshot, she fuckin’ had it loaded with birdshot ’cause she didn’t want to kill, just fend off.”

His friend’s eyes suddenly grew wide and she covered her face. “Oh fuck, I’m insulting my dead mother for bein’ a good person, what the hell, dude?”

“Hey, nah, no way.” He sat up straight, put his hands on the table, and didn’t have to think before telling her: “You ain’t insulting your ma, you’re just mad she got offed like that.”

She didn’t move a muscle, but she did sniffle out, “Yeah, I love you, too, man.”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Daryl knew she said those words to the others (and seemed to actually mean it), but that was the first time she’d said it to him. His heartbeat started to pound in his ears loud enough to drown out the tick, tick, tick of the watch.

He took another gulp from the can and pushed it back to her. That she wanted her gun out before going inside made sense now, too. “What happened to the bastard?”

She took another sip and pushed it back to him. “He jumped my brother.” Y/N was starting to sound out of breath. “It was right after Shane took care of our mom, we’d seen the mess, then saw her snarlin’ for us. We, w-we didn’t realize the perp was still in there, rookie mistake, and boom the guy was on him and, I, um—it was all over in a few seconds, and—”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

The hand she had covering her eyes flopped to her lap.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

She finally looked at him. He couldn’t tell if she was still angry at herself or just sad, but she did try to crack a joke. “Sorry, it ain’t my intention to be all dramatic. At the rate I’m baring my soul down to its skivvies, one of us will have to buy the other dinner.”

“You already owe me dinner,” he reminded her with what may have passed as a one-sided smile. Y/N probably didn’t even remember how she’d awkwardly cracked that joke back at the CDC after she, um, didn’t realize she had her damn boob pressed against his hand while getting his blood sample. “Guess I’ll cover the next one.”

The corners of her mouth did raise a little bit, to his relief.

“To finish up what happened,” she slowly said. “I reacted quick and took care of it before he offed my brother, too.”

Reacted quick and took care of it…‘Took care of it’…

Y/N killed him. Y/N had to kill somebody.

His memories shuffled back to the quarry when she was giving the kids that lesson about throwing punches and all that. “You don’t look like you should be teachin’ no fight club,” were his exact (joking) words to her when she’d asked him to help because she hadn’t actually punched someone before.

Never punched someone, yet she’d had to…damn. He took another sip and drained the last of the beer.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He hadn’t had to kill a living person yet. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, but it was prolly gonna happen sooner rather than later.

Shit, he didn’t know what to say and now the beer can was empty so he couldn’t push it back.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

When he managed to look up at her, her hand was back over her eyes.

Quietly, she drove home that “It was done to protect somebody, Daryl,” as if she were defending herself. “And we buried him, we still gave him that.”

“You did what needed doin’, Y/N.”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

She stared at the table and tried to nod. Looking at Dale’s watch, she sighed, mumbled “We should oughta go,” and stood up from the table, tossing the empty cans into the recycling bin in the corner (nah, really, she dead-ass sought out the bin with the little hand-drawn recycling sign).

Then, always trying to lighten the damn mood, she added, “If I unpack anymore baggage in here, I’ll have to spend the night.”

Joke’s on him, that comment made him remember what he’d found. “Wait, the shed—come with me, lemme show ya.”

Backpack on, she followed him out the door and into the yard. “What was in there?”

“Little sleeping area between some bins and the wall, had a tarp coverin’ it, too.”

“Dude, are you serious?” Y/N squealed, jogging ahead of him and throwing the shed door open with her good arm.

“Right over here, see back behind those containers?”

A swallowed groan when she moved the wrong way came before what sounded like a happy sob when she saw the little sleeping area. “Are there any more signs? A trail, a, a—”

“—Depends on if she was here before or after the damned storm yesterday. Let’s look around the fruit trees first, she woulda eaten from those and the garden.”

“Daryl, we dug up the garden.” That terrified look came back to her eyes and her voice rose and the babbling took over. “D-did we ruin our chances of findin’ her? It’s my fault, it’s my fault, I insisted on bury—”

“No, we’d still find a trail leading away from it,” he cut in, hoping to stop that shit in its tracks. “Nothin’s ruined, Y/N, and you sure as hell didn’t do nothing wrong. Trust me.” He pointed in the direction of the grave. “The family was owed at least that. One little measure of reverence. Now let’s go look for more signs of our girl.”

Before exiting the shed, she paused and got distracted at the tool display on the wall. “Guess that’s where the perps got the bolt cutters.” There was an outline around a hook that showed the same size and shape as that big pair she’d found by the hatchway. “I’m bringing ’em them back for Teddy, he said he wanted a pair. Back when he was still in the city, he almost got caught by walkers when he was cornered by a fence.”

And the two of them began the search once more.

She followed him for a while, but branched off when nothing was showing up on the property.

They scoured every damn inch of it and the surrounding wooded areas, but there was nothing concrete. The vegetables or fruits could have been eaten by animals or fallen off naturally. The long grasses and the muddy area by the well that should’ve shown something definitive didn’t show shit. Sophia wouldn’t have left heavy footprints, she took up less space, moved lighter than most.

As more time tick, tick, ticked by, it felt as if the air was turning more and more thick. Felt like it was walling him in or smothering him.

He kept looking back at the gravesite and got more and more jumpy, kept looking around the trees and expected to see another chupacabra or a herd of geeks.

Y/N’s scared look didn’t go away, either, it got worse, and she started to seem more and more out of breath, got more and more sweaty, kept bending more and more toward her injured side.

It was when they happened across another dead chicken in the wooded area by the house that she spun around and leaned with her good arm against a tree as she dry heaved.

“Daryl,” she panted, clutching her side again, “Let’s go to the ridge, she wouldn’t have stayed here .”

His thoughts exactly. “This place would’ve scared the shit out of her.”

“I just need me a sec.”

While she caught her breath, doubts and all that stuff he didn’t want to think of started to smack and hit and whip their belts and switches against his back.

You ain’t gonna find her, alive or dead.

You failed at the one useful thing you’re supposed to do.

She’s dead because of you.

You as good as killed that little girl.

The little cot in the cupboard of that farmhouse could’ve been from anybody.

The little sleep area in that shed was probably from the kids who lived there, playing.

You ain’t found shit.

Merle’s gone and you’re all alone again because you couldn’t find him, neither.

By the time they got back to his bike, he began to question if Y/N would even be physically able to climb up the ridge.

She looked awful, plain and simple. She couldn’t seem to use her injured side to hold onto his shoulders while they rode, neither, so was holding on with just one hand as he drove.

But he was getting too desperate and set on making it up there as soon as possible that he didn’t say nothing about it. Those fists and belts and switches hurt, and they kept beating at him over and over.

When they got as far as they could go on the motorcycle and needed to continue on foot, he was feeling almost postal. Getting angry was a hell of an easier emotion to let through rather than crying again.

As for passing on the blame? Saying shit he knew was cruel? That started happening whether he consciously wanted it or not.

And so, that his friend was visibly in pain started to not bother him as much as it probably should’ve.

Soon, it didn’t phase him at all.

Time was running out, so Y/N had to suck it up. She chose to come out today, she chose to dig and carry and do all that stuff she shouldn’t have, she made her bed and was lying in it.

So when she cried out in pain when trying to use her bad shoulder not two minutes into the climb, it was like a fuse blew.

“Just get on the bike!” he exploded, ignoring her trying to pass it off like nothing just happened, and rushing himself down the embankment to the point that it was basically controlled falling.

“Whoa, Daryl, what’s going on?”

“I’m gonna find that little girl on my damn own. I said I needed a horse to get up there, and a horse will be a hell of a lot less annoying and a hell of a lot more useful.”

“Why would you s—why would you say that to me? Where’s this comin’ from?”

He heard himself and how he sounded and he hated it, but didn’t seem able to control it from coming out. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, sto—“You’re slowing me down and I need you gone. You already wasted enough of my time and Sophia’s time back at that house with all that bullshit.”

Why was that annoying bitch still climbing? He almost climbed back up so he could yank her back down—and all at once, the very truth that he just considered that action scared him.

Why would that have crossed his mind?

“Daryl, just help me up there, we’re here,” she pleaded.

Why did she sound scared, too?

Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop his brain again tried to tell him.

Yet, after Y/N swore, yelped, and slid onto her knees down a particularly steep bank, he twisted the knife instead. “See? I can’t babysit a fuckin’ liability, get on the bike!”

If an actual bucket of cold water was thrown in his face, he wouldn’t have known the difference when she grit back at him, “Go on, keep runnin’ your bitch mouth, Ed.”

She just compared him to—him?

Nah.

No fucking way. He w-wasn’t like...shit. Please, no. Not him, he wasn’t like him, he wasn’t like Ed, he wasn’t like his dad, fuck, no, no, no.

Daryl knew plenty about beaters but he himself wasn’t one of them, he wasn’t. Right? He wasn’t gonna turn into that.

No, no, no, no, no, he was not like him.

But as angrily as he wanted to cuss her out, his ability to respond drained. “That supposed to make me feel bad, scare me or somethin’?”

“If I wanted to do that, I’d just throw some dirt on you,” she had the audacity to spit out, but it still wasn’t as cruel as he’d just been.

That’s when he finally registered that he was watching a dark stain spread wider and wider where she’d gotten stitched up. It’s also when he realized she was wearing a different shirt than before because that one had gotten bloodstained, just like yesterday.

His mind shut off for a second.

It turned back on, he blinked, and saw that she was trying to get up, but couldn’t, not without shaking from how bad it must’ve hurt.

He had to look away after that weird feeling came back that he was seeing her without clothes on.

Y/N started trying a new tactic, inching down the incline while seated on her butt. She was being ridiculous. She was bleeding, she needed help.

“You got a bandage?” he called quietly. His anger was gone.

Hers was not. “The fuck do you care?”

It felt like a slice to his chest, but he accepted it and said nothing back at first. He let his eyes venture up to see if she was making any headway. What he found was her shaking, sweaty—it was too much, way too fucking much. He needed to make her pain stop.

Asking if she ‘wanted’ help would lead nowhere, she hated feeling like a ‘liability,’ he knew that. Asking if she ‘needed’ it wasn’t much better, but his friend liked honesty and that wording would be more likely to keep her honest. “Y/N, d’you need help?”

He heard her swallow a whimper. When he looked, he saw that she slumped where she sat on the ground.

It took her a few moments, but she admitted, “A little.”

So, he walked to the incline, feeling weirdly like he’d just blinked out of the kind of nap you take when you have a fever. He avoided looking at her for too long when reached her and crouched to help her stand. Hopefully, the angle he lifted her from wouldn’t hurt her more, the way he’d done his best to do last night and on that day at the CDC.

As soon as she was upright, she pulled away from him, he pulled away from her.

But when she tried to step down by herself, her knees buckled—and he caught her without really thinking about it. Then, he lifted her up and started to carry her without really thinking about it.

It was an almost immediate reaction for her to stiffen, wriggle, and squeal “Put me down!”

Immediately, he set her on her feet and backed off.

“I didn’t mean to fuckin’…” His anger tried to perk back up, but fell flat. “I didn’t mean to scare ya, Y/N.”

“If you throw out your back, then neither of us is any use.” There it was again, he recognized. She had this thing where she’d push herself too damned hard because she needed to feel useful or whatever it was.

“I won’t throw out my back,” he said to her.

What was the name for the emotion that was kicking his ass? It was like this really, just, unbearable…closeness. He wanted to help her. She was hurting, so he wanted to make it stop. He needed to make it stop.

“I wanna help you,” he told her quietly.

And her responses were getting weaker, which was a good thing. She needed help and she knew it. “Y-you’ll get sweat and blood all over yourself, man.”

He almost smiled when he asked her point-blank, “Think that’ll bother me?”

To that, she made half-hearted giggle, if you can believe it. And she nearly looked at him with that tiny smile on her face, but then she looked down and closed her eyes instead. Her posture slumped again.

“Y/N,” he murmured. “Please. Lemme help you.”

Her head turned to the side and she covered her eyes when she had no other option but to whisper, “Okay.”

Carefully, he walked close again and lifted her in his arms, her bad side against his chest. Using her good arm, he guided her hand to grip the back of his neck for more support.

He felt the thud, thud, thud of her heartbeat against his chest. Felt weird. Not a bad weird, but…he didn’t fucking know, man.

Carefully, he maneuvered down the steep incline.

He kept on carrying her after they reached more level ground, until she lightly tapped him and gestured to be put down.

Carefully, he placed her on her feet. Quietly, she thanked him.

They walked apart from each other. That awful closeness made it feel like there was a string tied in between them. Weird shit.

Once they got to the bike, he asked her to wrap her good arm around his waist so she wouldn’t fall off. She grabbed the sissy bar instead.

He isn’t sure why but he spat before starting the ignition and speeding off, but he knew that he wanted to both get and stay angry at her but simply wasn’t able to. That awful closeness wouldn’t let it.

In its place, the helpless feeling of desperation came back with an extra portion of guilt, plus a new feeling that was a whole lot like confusion.

Y/N had just seen him full-on crumble and need someone to help him out of it. He’d just seen her completely vulnerable and need someone to help her get up from it.

It really felt as if they’d seen each other naked. As if they were stripped bare right down to their souls, if he still believed in those.

These past few days, it’s like the two of them had somehow gotten fused or welded or maybe branded together? Jerry-rigged together with old planks and nails and zip ties was probably closer to it, but that’s what it looked like when he thought about it. It was so fucking weird.

At a sharper turn in the road, Y/N held in a groan and finally hugged his waist with her good arm and adjusted her thigh on her good side so it acted like a hook on his leg. Her forehead pressed to his back and he felt her breathing. He made a point after that to drive slower so the ride wouldn’t hurt, hopefully, at least.

They reached the farm and he slowed down to a crawl once they hit the gravel. Still, it was too much motion and she hobbled off the bike and began to walk. He tried to help her, but only ended up with his hand brushing along her forearm.

He turned off the engine and walked the bike the rest of the way alongside her in silence.

Once they were close enough, Sophia’s ma Carol waved at them from the campsite and stood there, seeing yet again that her daughter still hadn’t been found.

The air started to close in on him again.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He slammed down the kickstand and left his bike where it was. All of this was too much and he needed to get that horse and get back to the ridge, ASAP.

“Daryl, wait.”

“What?” He spun around and would’ve glared if he was able. The invisible string tugged.

She shrugged her bookbag off her good shoulder and slung it on the ground, then knelt down to unzip it.

“Take it,” she muttered, and held out one of those kid walkies. Her green one. “Glenn’s got the yellow one, she’s got the pink one,” she let him know, gesturing to Carol.

Without a word, he took it and slid it into his pocket.

“Sweetie, you’re bleeding, a lot,” came that woman’s scared, quiet voice.

Y/N visibly shrunk down in what looked like defeat. “It looks worse than it is. There’s another bandage over it, now, it’s okay.”

“It’s not from a…?”

“No, this ain’t a bite, it’s just my stitches.”

“You probably popped them.” Carol shook her head and helped her stand. “Let’s go see Hershel. Daryl, are you hurt, too?”

“He found something at one of the places we checked,” Y/N changed the subject while letting herself be escorted to the farmhouse. “It looked very plain that somebody little had been in there.”

Which seemed to do the trick because Carol gasped and clasped her hands together and pressed them to her mouth.

Daryl only grew more desperate when he saw the look on her face. He couldn’t fail that woman, he couldn’t fail her little girl. No way, no fucking way.

“I’m headin’ to the ridge now,” he told her, standing taller. “If she’s in our grid, she’s comin’ back home this afternoon.”

Tears flowed up and out of her eyes, but he wasn’t sure if they were happy tears or something else.

At that moment, he hated himself. If again he didn’t find Sophia or at least another sign…

“Please be safe!” Carol whimpered. “I’ll be praying for you.”

Y/N’s exhausted “Honey, don’t die, don’t get bit,” was the last thing he heard, and it made him feel as if the damn string was tugging around his middle and drawing him backward.

So, he booked it for the stables. It was time to steal a goddamned horse.

..............................

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[cheesecakeyuri]

@maopll @venusandsaturnsrings @yandere-daydreams @blackopals-world hey! I admire your writing work and fic on tumblr. I wrote this piece for a literature assignment not too long ago so I wanna know what you think as more active authors.

236,000 humans drowned this year. Do you mourn one? … I mourn all.

I’m responsible, named on the grave, cause of death: The harsh of the wave.

Is Poseidon to blame? No, it’s his wife! Amphitrite! Take note! This water is called she!

For millennia those men brave our rouges and our storms.

Millions lost yet billions borne.

Rán trawls her net over their boat thus yanking them into their final bed of rock and sand.

Ganga and Marina cry, their tears; typhoons

Eingana watches with mixed expression as she sees all her creation fight forces they can’t understand.

Mazu protects what’s hers, leaving the sanctity of her lagoon to do so.

Praised for beauty and poetry yet feared for the fact we she are of the few things one can’t command.

Those dead in deep water can’t be found.

The ocean leaves no trace, nor nothing that can save its face.

Families left, no peace for ones gone, unable to rest, it lingers in minds, a burden one cannot heal.

A wish to not be helpless, nights spent under the waves accompanied only by fish.

Over time it was a slaughter, bodies lost, souls gone, left to the sea.

What do they feel? The grains of sand or the teeth of a fish, The scales of an eel?

A body of death becomes a feature of new life.

A reef on the bones of the deceased.

The creatures do not know or care, It’s home now.

Their Thieves of remains, they desecrate the dead yet provide them purpose.

Perhaps they deserved to die? Men are not sinless creatures after all.

Especially considering how they treat us, isn’t that right Magwayen? they treat us with more than just spite!

How can they assume us to be kind when for centuries they’ve used us?

Sending fleet after fleet onto our surface and tipping their waist into our swash!

They have no right to treat us this way when the tears we cry are of the same pain

They doom our icecaps we so graciously froze just so they could come to fruition, I refuse to accept this!

How half of them refuse to take the blame while others drown

How they make shallow promises of prevention and change

yet you find those same mouths wet by lies of the above line

And those sinking cry why!

Hypocrites! all of them!

Notice how they call their most powerful, important, and feared things she!

Yet they call upon the husbands for safe passage through OUR waters!

They boast their achievements of deep-found treasure, but they turn coy at the mention of how they got there!

People are left to rot when the stem of their problems is of their own kind.

The lot of them are savage! Acting as gods pretending as if they too are not animals.

Everything in the universe is made from the same dust, and yet the humans audaciously claim they are of the most importance!

People beg us for mercy, to save them from their self-inflicted fate

They do this so much so, they forget they are the ones to blame!

We should send our rain and waves to condemn all for their ignorance!

Humans call the ocean treacherous and harsh! The foam of the waves is a sign of rough sea!

We will send raging storms, floods, tsunamis and even cause droughts!

All to make them fear us and come to terms with the fact they are ultimately powerless in the face of Mother Nature!

Mother! Not father! We will prevail in the face of man. We will leave them no time to even attend to the damage!

We will cull those who seek to conquer our home and make all who come after fear us!

Caging them inside a trap-like purgatory

They deserve it for all they’ve done to us!

The end of men! We will bring forth a matriarchy like no other!

No longer will we desire for respect and fame

Sing in Joy for the day of our redemption has come!

[skywlker-sluvtt]

i want padawan obi wan with the long hair to fuck me so bad i literally cannot stop thinking about it omg like literal brain rot i feel like you would understand this he is ALL i can think about today

like i know he'd treat me so well and respectfully but be absolutely SINFUL when i give him the go and i CANNOT get enough of it

OH MY LAWDDD DON'T GET ME STARTED!

shallow grave is one of my favourite movies for...reasons ewan mcgregor long sexy hair

i will never forgive them for giving obi-wan the goofy ass padawan hair cut. "but it's like jedi tradition" IDGAF obi-wan deserved to have some nice luscious auburn locks because it suits him so muchhhh.

i'm gonna write a lil padawan obi fic and i'll tag you cause i'm going feral for him rn HEHEHEHE

LOOK AT THAT HAIR

GOOD LITTLE PADAWAN BOY

please fuck me

[shiroi-shika]

The Stalker

Why did I get lost? My life was comfortable, I had a future full of possibilities and a history filled with nothing but success. By all means I should have known where I would go. I was the one who would have lived the life everyone else wants.

I didn’t have anyone or anything I needed to get away from, no complaints, no worries. And yet, there were those dreadful, knowing eyes. Whenever I would try to convince myself that I was truly happy, they would pierce right past my shallow facade. Her gaze was an inescapable constant in my life. I was told it was just in my head, that it must just be my anxiety playing tricks on me, and for a time I did try to comfort myself with the thought, but we both knew that I’d have to face it, face her eventually.

Everything I did right, every success, every celebration washed away, as my mind grew more and more defenseless.

She probably knew how I would feel, and now I have no doubt that she planned it all from the very beginning. 

No, that’s not it. She wasn’t cunning, and she wasn’t mean. I knew that. In her own way, she really only did want what was best for me.

It was more like she had witnessed my destiny, and now sought to guide me to it.

That is why I had to meet her. She was different. Where everyone else told me how I could live my best life, she knew I yearned for nothing more than to carve out my own path.

When I ran away that night, that was my decision and no one else’s.

There was no need, no obligation, just that tiny little ember, almost extinguished by my own complacency.

I knew it was a horrible idea to feed it, and I would just end up burnt, but I couldn’t let myself care anymore.

I took nothing with me but the clothes on my back, I didn’t need a keepsake or a lifeline. I went into the unknown ill-prepared, scared and aimless, but I did so on my own terms.

She was here too, of course she was. Just out of sight I felt her presence as it warmed me for what would come next.

In the deepest darkest woods, where the sun dares not to shine, where all sane men run away, I knew I would find my answer.

The howling wind whistled a sweet melody and the grand firs watch over me, and it was as though they were welcoming me. Their Bark, that had petrified centuries ago, were the sturdy walls of this new home I chose for myself. Their branches reached out to me, lending me a hand and leading me safely through the dark.

The grass, overgrown and dried up was the sturdy footing I needed, with each step it cracked under my weight and marked my footprints as though it were freshly fallen snow. With it’s help I would never again end up back where I don’t belong, and when I’ll break down, it will be there to break my fall, to catch me and let my soul rest.

The fauna, though shy, was the companionship I needed. They  watched and walked with me, fellow hermits who would never judge me, who would never crush me with the love I did not want.

I started to freeze, the cool night wind carrying all the memories I had run from. All of those who truly cared for me, who were there every step of the way, my friends, my family, my home, my passion. All of it was cursed and bitter, and as the breeze slowly lifted them off of my shoulders, I could feel myself getting lighter.

And as my mind got clearer and clearer, and I was rid of all that was wrong, I could now see more clearly than ever my one true companion, who was never fooled by my happiness, who never had to make me feel as though I deserve a good life. Even now she was still there, just outside of my field of view, but I knew that soon I would meet her and it would all make sense. In the center of these hallowed woods, that’s where my destiny was calling me.

I saw the bodies of the prey and the graves of the cowards, those who did not finish their journey, those who accepted a life that was good and kind.

Each headstone, and each rotting carcass strengthened my resolve. I knew that I would never again leave the forest, I couldn’t. It would break my heart. And besides, she was watching me all the way, and we both knew that my place was deeper inwards, where the crowns of the trees will hide us away from even the brightest stars. I can not stop until all light is gone from my world, all but her eyes. She will be there when everything else is gone, and I will finally know why.

As the hunger ravaged my body and the wolves crept in closer, the trees stretched their branches out further, clawing away more and more of the night sky, thousands of tiny cuts letting the constellations bleed out, and soon enough even the moon would see me for the very last time.

I was losing a lot of blood, my arm was pulled off as a monster with a familiar face tried to bring me back. It fought hard, refusing to let me go, unable to accept that I had chosen this path for myself.

It’s cries soon faded away as I felt her right behind me. With not a sound to break the beautiful silence, she let me know that I would find what I was looking for at long long last.

So, here I am, my wounds dragging me to the floor and all the friends of the forest here with me, ready to rip out all that I would leave behind. With heavy breath, I sit down against the tree I had been walking towards all this time. Barely awake I see her as she finally comes closer. All that could get in the way is gone. With nothing left to blind me, I can for the first time see her true beauty. Her light embraces me as the world fades to a blur. She sits down next to me and I can feel her chest move together with my dying breath.

“I have waited oh so very long, but I never worried, for you would find your path one way or another.

I feel as your eyelids grow heavy. You will die a truly pointless death, and with it will come the pain of all those who survive. To them it will be a devastating tragedy, I’m sure. To them this will seem like a cruel joke from destiny, but not to you, for you understand it’s mercy.. Be it a Tombstone visited by generations to come or an unmarked, empty grave in the darkest pits, you wouldn’t have found salvation no matter what. Rest, for you have nothing left to lose.” I close my eyes and smile. I stop breathing. I feel my body relax, and the last beat of my heart completes the painting, my corpse embraced by the water dyed red, my hand now too weak to hold the razor.

thank you 

[jace-todd]

Did anyone ask for an au where Sebastian Moran and Luke Castellan are the same person? Where Luke is saved from Tartarus by James who gives him a new identity and a job? No. Absolutely not. But did I write something for it anyway? Yes, absolutely I did.

@detective4blog not what I promised but that story will be coming, don't worry.

....

When Luke breaks the dirt hold, the first sky he sees in what could very well be years is dark and full of stars. He’s bloodied and broken - in more ways than just physical. Tartarus is a place that kills its inhabitants, from their body to their mind and their spirit. Luke is no longer the kid that was optimistic and caring, that started a campaign against the Gods for the sake of others - he’s lost that spark in his eyes and had been replaced by a cold violence. A violence borne out of necessity. The gods had cast him into the worst place in existence for his insubordination, and had left him to rot and break apart. 

But Luke was a survivor - he made it years on the run by himself, he took care of an entire camp, an entire army, had embodied Kronos and had won. Tartarus was just another thing Luke would have to overcome. And overcome he did. Luke grew better at fighting, learned how to kill monsters he had never seen before, and not die another painful death. It took some time to adjust to Tartarus and the pain it wrought but Luke managed it. 

Shaking off those thoughts, Luke takes in deep breaths as he finishes heaving himself out of the ground. The dirt is dry, breaking easily under his palms, which makes it a little difficult to pull himself completely out of the shallow grave. Luke succeeds in getting his knees under him and leans back on his haunches, eyes going to the sky. Immediately, Luke can tell that he’s no longer in the States. The stars above his head, the constellations that Luke memorized to point out during Campfires to calm scared and curious minds, were completely different. Luke smiles despite all of it because he had missed the sky. 

Luke had missed all of this - the feeling of the night air caressing his skin, stars above his head, faint noises of population in the distance as people go about their day-to-day lives, unbothered by the corruption of the higher world. Luke had missed feeling human. For years, even before his death, he felt like a weapon and a puppet. He was wielded by the Gods and then by Kronos, made to be pointed and shot. Luke was strung up and danced around the stage for the enjoyment of others, never once taken into consideration. In Tartarus, Luke became a human monster. He was drenched in blood more often than not, he ate what he could get his hands on, and he lost all of his emotions and empathy. What had blossomed in its place was sadism and aggression. 

Kneeling in a random graveyard, being able to hear the driving of cars a few hundred feet away and even the loud laughs of drunk college students, Luke felt like a traumatized college aged kid. A kid who fucked up and deserved to be punished for some of his actions, but not to the extent done onto him. 

Any other thoughts in Luke’s head halted as someone shuffled a few feet away from him. He tenses, hands lowering off his thighs to the ground, preparing to launch himself at what could possibly be a threat. Luke moves like a predator, methodical and aware of his space, to find who’s there. 

It’s a man. 

There’s a man. Standing there. Watching Luke.

Luke’s breath hitches. The last person Luke talked to was the Judges of the Underworld as they gave him his final punishment. The last person Luke talked at was his father, down in Tartarus, begging for Hermes to help. 

The man isn’t very tall, maybe an inch below average height, but it doesn’t matter. His mere presence is demanding and powerful. His head is tilted back, challenging and observing, dark hair and dark eyes. The suit he’s wearing is expensive, perfectly in place. No wrinkles or tears. His shoes are damn shining. And if Luke wasn’t tuned into the presence of the gods, he’d fleetingly think that this was Eros or Aphrodite. 

In the space between them is a duffle bag, closer to Luke than to the man. Luke looks between the duffle bag and the man and when he catches the dark gaze, the man tilts his head towards the duffle bag as if inviting Luke to grab it. So he does, slowly, he reaches out to grab the straps of the duffle, not taking his eyes off the man.

There are clothes inside, water and food. But sitting on top of all of that are weapons. Guns, swords, knives. 

Luke traces over the sword - it’s made just like Backbiter but there’s a different magic thrumming underneath his fingertips. He felt comforted by the presence of a real sword and not the makeshift blades he made in Tartarus. 

“Luke.” The man’s voice reaches him. Luke, starting to piece together what happened and how he got from Tartarus to this graveyard, shifts once again to kneel better and stares up at the man. “I’ve got a job for you.”

[vvasilisa]

"If you would indulge my curiosity, what is the meaning behind your paint? Does it represent something? Someone?"

curiosity often slains the cat, that's how the story goes: a single yet swift drop, like a waterlogged corpse breaking through the surface of a still seahead. yes, a deadly region to poke & prod where dirty little fingers do not belong ―― they are digging into skin, no, beneath the skin, digging into the hallow gaps of marrow ―that ivory husk that stirs with horror, terror etched into the pitted walls that bubble against blood - ah, curiosity will rot you entirely― a budding rot that now takes shape, a shape so cruel - curiosity, she is cruel ― but in this case, the cat takes its name & eats her whole―& swat at the tail ―― temping a new found-forged curiosity.

& she blooms like posies in the winter's harshest storm, it is true, it is the most beautiful thing to witness, but it is meant to die / wither away against the cold's breath. how it eats at the soil, gasping for warmth - for purpose. HOLDING ON. WAITING. SLIPPING AWAY & before long, it will die ― DIE ― DIE ――― DIE AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN&AGAAAAINAGAINAGAINNNNAGAINNN―breathe.

curiosity, is it worth it?

it never has been for you.

' a dangerous thing, curiosity. but- ' you lose your words as swiftly as they come [collect them]― you lose yourself again. hm. & you bite at nails, you bite anxiously at uneven grooves, how fast you become stales― your nerves are set afire, they ache & twist like buried roots; coiling over anatomy, coiling within your thin veins. & the futtering of a cage / your heart gives you away. this simple query has now soured your stomach, & you have yet to even ponder it ― yet to even dare. so don't ponder too long.

' someone. ' someone. yes. someone. someone that was held once, held so near, so dear ― long ago, held within your fingers / hands that felt more than flesh ― you know her― her name― her eyes, & her shapes & forms. the freckles that matched the skies, the stars that only dreamed to be so bright. & most of all, so so so so often, the shallow grave you find her in ― the cycle, it repeats. rebirth, reunion, death ― repeat. [is she even alive now?] ' someone i loved. ' loved? [as in no longer? or till you find her again. how do you weigh love? a heartbeat? a body? what is it?]

the pigment of hues, they once meant love / life, the sweet reds of roses & hair, lips & cherries ―――now, visceral rust / gore / war-stuck limbs, it sticks to a brush like honey, seeping into the teeth / clogging your instrument with cruor. each stroke made, it is full of sorrows / full of nothingness ― nothing is the same. that passion that stirs a gullet, it is smothering up your throat. a thick & hot ash coats airways [your other muse doesn't deserves notice.] for now, you bury her deep inside that chest / hide her away / hide her far from eyes.

' or rather, they once were for someone. ' yes. once. now you paint without refinement, a crude imagery - how many restless nights are accounted for? this image, horrors one could not even comprehend. these horrors, recite your sorrows, little artist, recite them to canvas ― like skin, you draw over such tender texture / yanking / stretching / pulling till it fits your frame [reorganize your bones, they need a nicer shape.] splatter colour onto it [ripe out your organs, a pretty vermilion will suit it well.] all you have. is art. & art, it is a process of giving, & giving, give till you are no more. else, what would be left of you? the husk of a woman? [ an unused paint] a husk & no art at that. ' maybe that's why i have not painted in months. '

&, & you could sit & ponder this for many lifetimes, more than maybe even you have. ' it's sad. now, i feel it lacks any meaning. truly, how should an artist cope when they have lost their muse? ' you don't. ' hm - no matter, i hope that satisfied your curiosity ― '

〈 *   &. RANDOM.  -/-  @dracourge

[demotastic]

Haiku Collection

1

Autumn leaves rustle. Warm colours paint the fresh snow. Orange, white and blood.

Final breaths shallow. It's grave even shallower. Beautiful roadkill.

Watery black beads. I tried to ask: how and why? It just stared at me.

2

When the last snow melts It wets my lips, baths the plants. warm spring, blanket me.

For now it's still cold. I cling onto mismatched gloves. I'll find each pair soon.

I do not fear death. I fear for those who love me. Will they see their sun?

3

Hear that? It is spring! Winter's claim now rots away. a warm bed for growth.

This body is mine. Calm and steady in the mulch. This corpse is now yours.

Plant flowers in me. So I'd give you allergies. We'll be sick together.

4

Radiant summer sun. Even behind my eyelids, you shine so brightly.

Your brilliant warmth, it baths and cleanses my heart. flooded with pure joy.

Even when it rains. Your glow lights the morning sky. Part into rainbows.

5

Sweltering summer. I never hid in the shade. Bare myself to you.

I thirst for a drink. Will you let me have a sip? Do I have to bite?

Might rip out your throat. Might paint the tiles like Pollock, roll around in it.

6

Like moss to a stone. Like parasite ferns cling to trees. Like my hand on you.

Let me be your last. I know your pain, how it stings. Let me stitch those wounds.

Death do us apart. It can try, I'll never budge. Locked between your legs.

7

The air is so still. it is not cold, nor is it hot. painfully absent.

The thunder-less storm. Blots out the moon and stars. A featureless void.

A hand on my chest. I tell myself it is okay. No need for sorries.

8

Block from the birch tree. You carved a puppet of me. Pull my strings gently.

When you give me moans. Want to flay to the bone. Stitch you to my tomb

How you say my name. Enough to take me as claim. Now for you to tame.

9

Dance, the snow it dances. Twirling, spinning, refracting. A billion colours.

It is beautiful. But I want only this one. The colour of you.

I want to paint you. My wife would look cute in you. This colour, so rare.

10

Bite the hand that feeds? No, you're just used to the fist. That beats, batters, breaks.

I open my palm. I know you've bite my arm. but what's another.

Hate the iron taste. My white knuckles blistering. Your pain, I hate it.

11

The dead of winter. black, gnarled fingers reach up high. reaching for heaven.

but there is nothing. just cold bitter winter air. breaking off branches.

bury all the twigs. but I cannot be that cold. you deserve some warmth.

12

You said such nice things. Those sweet words flooded my chest. stuck like spring pollen.

I felt dirty and cheap. My lungs tried to eject it. my heart rejects it.

It is wasted here. It felt nice while it lasted, but I spat it out.

13

Just for you I would. Would wear it around my knees, This dirty rag.

I'd let you stand there, Let you let me bleed out. Beautiful roadkill

Infect every vein. Fuck you with my disease. Fill you with ichor.

14

He is winter skies My eyes dry out when he sighs For I stare, no blinks.

Winter, hope he stays. My excuse to hug my wife. Keep her warm, love filled.

She is spring, it's clear. Sometimes I yearn the cold nip. but it bleeds my lips.

White petals stained red. Her beauty coloured and flush. A shy pink of fear.

Is it so greedy To have two favourite seasons Have one for each hand.

Each snowflake unique. My lungs warm with her pollen. Tongue glued to his frost.

15

Love, it comes and goes. Love, you make it in your bed. Love, never enough.

Hate, gun 'bout to blow. Hate, it lingers in your head. Hate, never runs out.

They both blush your face. They both tie your heart in knots. But one always wins.

16

That was my problem, I held on to it too tight. In return? Frost bite.

I could be evil. Be the prophecy you spoke. Cut it off, Bleeding.

I still have my spring. A boiling, beating heart, loved. And six more fingers.

What will you become? While I have my peace to heal. You? Alone, crying.

You will be rotting. Left there where I first found you. Broken and rotten.

17

I though it was done. Here I stand a tired fool. broken by a call.

a call in the white. Left hand glued to the phone booth. Will my right hand bleed?

Crushed red spring petals. Smelled like love, they smelled like home. but will there be space?

18

Yeah, it's 2am. Got a pocket load of friends. and I feel again

2am again. I'll never feel alone. with friends in my phone.

After all these weeks. Never I've felt such a peak. 2am again.

[smoochi-modest]

✿ [ Wilted ] ✿

—> Genshin Impact - [ Xiao x Reader ]

—>  [ Fem! Reader. Blood. Gore. Character death. Fluff into angst, with a rather bitter ending. ]

—> Description - [ It all started with a promise, and now here you were. It seems Xiao will never escape his karma, he thought. The hope you once gave him began to escape within his tears. ]

—> Note - [ 2,231 words - I hope you enjoy;; it'll be one of the few times I write angst, I can't bring myself to hurt him more. ]

" Xiao... you're immortal right? "

Head rested peacefully on the adepti's shoulder, you couldn't help but smile fondly towards the boys face. Xiao had been staring back at you for quite some time now, you were unsure why but you hadn't been bothered to ask. Feeling safe under his watchful eye.

" I am still able to die, just not by time. " Xiao said firmly to you in response, his normally sharp glare found itself to soften the moment you lock eye contact. A feeling of nostalgia bubbled beneath the surface of his skin.

"Mm... That's no good, that means you'll have to die in pain. Right?"

He was taken back by your words for a moment, a frown creeping onto his features. Brows furrow while listening to you patiently. He opened his mouth, only to shut it once more for you to continue.

"I mean... You're already going through enough pain as it is."

He was. And he knew it hurt not only him, but you as well.

"Will you be alright when I'm gone...?"

No. He wanted to say oh so desperately. Closing his eyes, Xiao leaned his head to the side, nuzzling on top of your own while he whispered gently.

" Please do not utter such words. "

Then there was silence, within the heavy atmosphere there was clearly something plaguing your thoughts. He feared it would trap you in a world similar to his own, a place full of pain and self doubt.

" . . . "

" I am an adepti, not a child. "

" . . . "

Yet again more silence, that is... until you shot up from your seated position, knocking your heads together on accident while whining in the process. You lifted a hand to your head, muttering small curses. But now wasn't the time for that! Brushing off the complaints, you make light of the situation. A new idea found it's way in that pretty head of yours, as he stared at you rather irritated by the sudden bash of skulls through your unexpected excitement.

" Wait! I got it! " You seem to beam, " I'll just reincarnate as soon as I am dead! Then I could embrace you just like this, all over again! "

Xiao scoffed, looking to the ground as a sudden warmth found its way across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. A rose red hue, adorning his face.

" Reincarnation doesn't work like that, you have no say in how long it takes for you to return. "

This seemed to make you pout, sitting yourself back down, you take his hands in your own. The sudden connection, brought him to lift his head slightly to have a glance at your expression. Your fingers intertwining with his.

" Fine then! Just watch me, Xiao. I'll prove you wrong. "

"I'll even promise you!"

That day was forever imprinted in the back of his mind, staring down solemnly at your gravestone. He couldn't remember the last time he felt your touch, oh how he craved to feel it again. Wishing to go back in time, and replay everything all over again.

Xiao missed the way you'd hold his hands ever so delicately, bringing each knuckle to your soft lips. With each kiss, came so much unfamiliar warmth. He wishes he could have told you just how special you were to him, but now it was too late.

You were always the one to nurture his hands, the way you'd caress them with your thumb- leaving tingles behind. You'd claim time and time again, that those hands weren't only used for bloodshed. But for love as well.

His hands let him eat Almond tofu, grasp onto your face while peppering you with soft love pecks. He can almost hear you giggles still, whenever you'd try to push him away out of embarrassment.

Now he awaited for your promise to come true... he's waited nearly a decade now, or had it been more? Visiting your grave whenever he had the time, he treated your gravestone like it had truly been you. Leaving flowers behind, all different colours. Some white camellia, all the way to some dandelion he picked from the ground during his travels.

Ever since that day, the fateful day of your demise- Xiaos life fell into shambles. Feeling tears swell up beneath his mask each day as he slaughtered all his inner demons, along with many threats that came too close to the city of Liyue. His life didn't feel the same, forgetting what he had done on a regular biases without you by his side. So much pressure weighed at his faltering heart. A pressure that almost made him feel equal pain to his karmic debt.

He longed for a day to come where he could have worn the mask and danced with you in his arms — not to conquer demons, but to the tune of that flute amid a sea of flowers he heard once before, long ago. Before he had met you.

The once glittering sun found itself to rest behind the ocean's view, darkness consuming your gravestone and him along with it. Allowing the moon to grace Xiao with it's knowing call, a sign of more pain to come, a call reminding him of his duty that he must serve for the rest of his lifetime. He bid your grave a farewell after adjusting some of the fallen flowers.

Everything around him seemed to be void of any sound, slashing away at potential threats in his path. Piercing monsters abdomens like it were a kabob, before ripping his weapon of choice out in swift motion, allowing blood to spill out of the inhumane creature. Spinning his jade-winged spear to rid of any remaining traces of blood or guts, the ground had been painted in the horrifying colour which you seemed adore. A rose red.

There had been very few times where Xiao was caught off guard, however it was during this onslaught that something abnormal began to sprout like a rose bud. A harsh force knocked him off his feet, collapsing to the ground as he winced in pain. A weight then followed, hovering over him as a small hand grasped his throat. Choking on his breath, his piercing gold eyes widen at the sight ahead of him.

There sat a young girl, resembling his fallen lover. He couldn't allow this inconvenience to halt him from his duty, yet Xiaos mind began to churn still. Ripping the mystery girls hand off his throat, he kicked her off of himself. Quickly standing back up, in a more defensive position.

The two opposing figures stare at each other with undecipherable expression. Both wearing their own masks. His of an Oni, hers of a butterfly. The broken mask only covered the top left half of her face, and he prayed his eye's were playing tricks on him. A familiar colour of messy hair, lips coated in blood as it appears she had previously bitten herself while taking the impact of his kick. But what really through him off was that single eye. An eye that resembles your exact image. But why here? surely this couldn't have been you, he pleaded for it not to have been you.

" Wait! I got it! " You seem to beam, " I'll just reincarnate as soon as I am dead! Then I could embrace you just like this, all over again! "

" Fine then! Just watch me, Xiao. I'll prove you wrong. "

Feeling a sudden rush of pain course through his veins, Xiao stumbled backwards. Clutching onto his mask, desperately trying to snap himself back into reality. A low growl seems to rumble from his throat as he gasps, picking up his lowered head, the girl had yet to approach him.

After one more glance, the adeptus made up in his mind that it must have been you. The way those now empty eyes pierce into his tainted and damaged soul. It sent shivers down his spine, a feeling he had been unfamiliar with. Was this fear? He had no idea. Afraid that this was the fate you two had met, was this his karmic debt returning to torture him in every possible way?

Xiao could understand why he was brought back into his world of inner demons, but why... why were you here? you didn't do anything to deserve this. The girl he once knew, wished to live a happy life, one full of flowers and pillow talks. All that innocence, silly promises that seemed to make his heart flutter all came crashing down.

Fighting through the pain, he got back into a protective stance. You noticing his caution, slowly approach him. This caught him off guard, and that was his first mistake. Allowing your expression alone to throw him off. A single tear seemed to stray down your cheek, lunging forward at him with impressive speed. He lifts the shaft of his spear ahead of himself, protecting himself from the blade you pulled out from your hip. Deflecting it and jumping back, it was clear the boy had no interest in harming you.

" If you are who I believe, please listen to the words I say- argh! " Another sharp pain shot in the back of his head, interrupting his futile attempt to have a conversation with the reborn you. Xiao was unable to accept the fact you had become something so opposing to the angel you once were. Old memories of you smiling in his direction ate at his rotting sanity.

He knew this had to be you, a you that Xiao wished he didn't have to see. Your figure was covered head to toe in blood, hair knotted as you seemed to huff out shallow breaths. It was clear your body had been worn out from whatever you previously were doing.

" Please, you made a promise to embrace me once again. So why are you standing so far away, don't you remember?! "

His normally calm nature seemed to crack, a voice unbearable to hear. The way it would crack mid sentence, he was at a breaking point. Not wanting to harm his love.

The silence between the two of you felt like hell, air so heavy he could hardly breathe.

Xiao knows all too well, he had the upper hand in a one on one fight with you, but harming you was the last thing on his mind. Pleading once again, realizing his voice didn't seem to reach you at all.

He missed those small talks.

The screams all sound the same.

After another moment of silence and hesitance, you crouched down. Fingers tracing the ground without removing you gaze from his. He asked for your gentle stare to return, the way you look at him now with such emptiness- it truly hurt.

Its the old voice in his head that held him back.

Realizing what you had been attempting to do, it was his time to lunge forward. Pushing you away from the graphic pile of your now comrades bodies.

Xiao managed to gain a firm grip on your wrists in a single hand, while you were trapped beneath him. You squirm, thrash and scream in a desperate attempt to escape. Each shout felt like a knife had been plunged deep into his heart.

He hated to see you like this, the mask once keeping his face hidden found itself to dissolve in thin air, allowing you to see his saddened expression. Brows furrowed, tears streaming down his once expressionless face, his body began to quiver knowing what he had to do for this all to end.

"Will you be alright when I'm gone...?"

His unoccupied hand reached for his spear. Lifting it up above your form beneath him. He wanted this to be quick, a painless death... but that pain would only transfer back to him. Know that the hands you once adored, would be your own bitter end.

" How are your hands so soft, Xiao?? smooth~" You coed " I could touch them forever... " You brought his hand up to nuzzle your cheek into its warmth. Your smile always felt contagious, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as well.

Pitiful hiccups erupt from the boy, unsure how to handle the flood of emotions.

After a while, your struggle seemed to end. Not realizing what he had done. The ear piercing scream you let out, went unheard by the boy who was so focused on old memories, his head pounding. Opening his eyes, they widen in shock.

There you were, blood spilling from your chest as his eyes focus on the weapon now dug deep within your chest where your heart was.

The same weapon he used to slay evil, the weapon he used to protect you with a long time ago. Now, the weapon that he coated in your blood.

A sudden sense of distraught met the boy, crying out for you only to hear his own echoes. Still sat on top of you, he removes the weapon. Throwing it to the side as he clutches your body close to his own.

Blood and tears merge together.

Embracing you just how you promised, he wrapped one arm around your waist while the other allowed his hand to hold your head against his shoulder, nose nuzzled in the crook of his neck. Your blood painted his torso, staining his clothes.

You used to adore hearing his heartbeat on late nights like this... oh how he wished he could hear yours in this moment too.

[potteresque-ire]

Gg,

I’ll say this using the simplest way too. I’ll also say this, knowing it doesn’t solve anything ~

You didn’t start the culture of comment control (控評) and the fan circles that execute them, which stifled any rational discussions about entertainers. You didn’t start the culture of treating constructive criticisms—even opinions that fall short of being praises—the same as malicious slandering, something to be buried under a pile of positive comments, of rainbow farts. You didn’t start the longstanding frustrations among netizens, who felt they couldn’t even gossip freely when entertainment is all about the gossip. You didn’t ignite the antagonistic views of non-fans against fans that would one day turn into support for that movement against you.

You didn’t criticise fan circle culture on one hand, and encourage the practice of comment control on another. You didn’t tie the act of comment control to patriotism, didn’t mobilise fan circles to perform comment control on message boards in support of the Hong Kong police in 2019, taking advantage of the fan circle’s high level of organisation, their experience in performing such task, and their intense need to be seen as patriotic such that their idol will be viewed favourably by the government. You didn’t praise these fans who were there for their idol 阿中哥哥 (Chinese GeGe) — a virtual idol who personified the Chinese government—and called them patriotic. 

You didn’t make performative patriotism a pre-requisite for entertainers to survive in c-ent. You didn’t require performative patriotism to be placed above logic, above personal preferences in expression. You didn’t portray performative patriotism as a goal sufficient to justify any means. You didn’t teach impressionable young fans that as long as the cause was deemed by the powers-that-be as patriotic and honourable, one can ignore the laws, scale the Great Firewall and go to otherwise banned websites; one can cause havoc on and trample on their perceived enemy’s communities. 

You didn’t equate silencing one’s opponent with patriotism.

You didn’t market reporting culture as an honourable, noble deed. You didn’t resurrect reporting culture from its Cultural Revolution’s grave, with the knowledge that it had always been a weapon against people expressing different opinions. You didn’t ask your media arm to pen articles about the rewards to be made by reporting. You didn’t list the people who had reported on your official website like they had made honour roll. You didn’t make reporting so open, so righteous-sounding that many didn’t think twice to join the effort, even if it was only about a piece of fiction they didn’t like.

You didn’t make reporting of certain content on a website sufficient grounds for censoring an entire website. You didn’t make censoring a thing. You didn’t censor one of the few remaining websites left with relatively free expressions, while the rest of your team was already performing heavy-handed censorship on a certain pandemic—a certain pandemic that had killed, that had brought much anger, sadness and frustration. You didn’t put a chokehold on people who had already felt they had no room left to talk, when they were bound to their homes and could do little but talk. But vent.

You didn’t create a system where venting against the powerful could get one into trouble. You didn’t marry the politically powerful with the commercially powerful. You didn’t build the society where the few people left with perceived higher social status and who could still be attacked with little consequences were entertainers—especially young, recently break-through stars with little backing from the media companies, and the commercially and politically powerful people behind these companies.

You didn’t start 227.

The moment the axe fell on AO3, Gg, there was very little you could do, very little you could say. 227 was indeed an explosion, from too high a pressure from freedoms of speech that have been too strangled. They said you were mute? So were the theys who called you that, who didn’t have the guts to take their complaint to those who deserve it. You became the eye of a storm you didn’t brew, the eye that could’ve been anyone else—anyone else who wouldn’t have known better what to do. 

Offer guidance? Exactly what kind of guidance? Tell your fans that AO3, which does host material offensive to the Chinese government, has the right to remain inside the Firewall? Tell your fans that reporting is wrong? 

Is your guidance asking the solo and cp fans to keep their peace? Fans fight. Solos and cpfs fight. These fights happen on a daily basis, and there would’ve been no 227 if they were the cause of 227—because everyday would’ve been a 227. 227 became 227 because one of these fights, which happened to be between your fans, also happened to have knocked upon one of the most important pillars that prop up an authoritarian dictatorship: suppression of the freedom of speech; it stumbled upon what had already been a field of landmines, the buried anger of the people who have been silenced, censored over the years.

COVID put in a full, fresh layer of landmines, still buried shallow and waiting for inexperienced youngsters—who could be fans or non-fans, fans of any idol—to trip over their sharp corners.  

These days, people call the youngsters who tripped over them the shrimps.  One explosion triggered another and in the din, you were accused of not warning the youngsters, and thrown into the exploding field for punishment. To set off all the other landmines in danger of exploding. No one asked why the landmines were there. 

Appropriately, perhaps, or ironically ... have you thought about this, Gg? That your silence might have played a role to your survival in the industry, the support you’ve got lately from the state media? Because you took one for them, for those who created the storm and buried the landmines, who did all the things you didn’t do. Because you became a convenient punching bag for a country of 1.4 billion who needed something to punch. Because you took the blows gracefully and without complaint, didn’t utter a word that would’ve made obvious the instigator of the damage you’re now apologising for. You eased the guilt in the people doing the punching by having so many gifts they didn’t have; it must have given some people cold joy to land their fist on your gorgeous face. You’ve gritted your teeth and stayed silent even after the water armies, the yxh’s entered the scene, eager to feed on your corpse. The rot they smelled was the commercial value on you.

Have you thought about this, Gg, that you might’ve already performed the social responsibility implicitly demanded of you and in flying colours, by being the punching bag, the landmine sweeper? That when you promise to take more social responsibility in the future, that you may be asked to do something similar?

No one asked why the landmines were there. They’ll pile up again.

Yes, I��m frustrated. I read your letter and wanted to scream. I understand why you said everything you did, understand the realistic need to issue an apology and I respect and adore you, as always, for your maturity, your emotional intelligence. This letter is therefore neither a complaint nor a criticism against you; this is me, venting my frustration, from that half of me that knows painfully well that your letter is necessary and the right thing to do.  

Still, the other half of me wants to say your letter is utter nonsense.

Because your only mistake, Gg, is that you’re too likeable, and too likeable, perhaps, at the wrong time. You have too many fans who made all these issues you didn’t create so much more visible. You had too many fans at a time when COVID took too many victims, when the whole sociopolitical climate demands one voice and when every fan of yours is an individual with their own voice, their own likes and dislikes. You have too many fans who dearly love you but also require you to become a “public figure”—I’m putting this term in quotes as you did—a “public figure” who can help them decipher the conflicting messages the society is sending them re: the meaning, the responsibility of a fan, a “public figure” who, as you admit yourself, requires construction from Gg the Idol and Gg the regular person from Chongqing.

Gg the Idol and Gg the regular person from Chongqing who, you also said, require mutual acceptance. Gg the Idol and Gg the regular person from Chongqing who, therefore, must have significant conflicts—mutual acceptance isn’t necessary otherwise.

Who’s this “Gg the public figure” that will emerge? Or, what? How human will he/it be? How much will he/it still be you? Where are you going to be in this “public figure”?

And that’s the most difficult thought to endure this morning. To become a better self—you keep emphasising, as if you weren’t good enough, kind enough, courteous and respectful and professional enough to begin with.

A better self, may I ask, to who?

[spencerreidalvez]

two feet under

Post Tobias Hankel stream of consciousness thoughts

tw: bug imagery?,  injury, violence, death, suicidal ideation, drug use, yk canon typical but like a little angstier? 

*

There’s not much Spencer can say to them as he rides in the backseat of the SUV, pressed up between Morgan and JJ, Hotch and Emily in the front seats.

He’s caked in dirt and blood and the scent of rotting fish lingers on his clothes like a disease.

JJ’s trembling beside him, hand flexing intermittently like she wants to reach out to Spencer but doesn’t know how.

While JJ’s clearly scared and upset, Morgan’s angry. He’s boiling beside Spencer like he wants to go back there and kill Tobias all over again.

Spencer doesn’t know how much they saw, he just knows they did. They must’ve to have been able to find him. He doesn’t know how to open his mouth, to start the conversation, fear of bugs crawling out of the dirt that’s sticking to his very bones, pressed to the roof of his mouth, coating the back of his throat. He’s scared that if he does try to speak, he’ll realize he died back there and this is nothing more than a conjured dream to help him shift into death more easily. He doesn’t want to know that he’s still underground, still in the grave he dug himself, still choking on dirt, lungs caving in. He doesn’t want to know. He’s happy living in the pretenses of JJ sliding her pinky finger over his in a small show of care, of Hotch checking on him through the rearview mirror every thirty seconds, of Morgan pressing their shoulders together strong enough for the both of them, of Garcia’s voice coming through Emily’s phone scared out of her mind and desperate to hear that Spencer’s okay, of Emily’s sweater wrapped around his shoulders keeping him warm. He’s okay to live here, in this transfer of life to death, where he feels comforted and cared for and loved in a way he’d never felt before joining this team.

They park outside the hospital, despite Spencer having already been checked by the EMT’s on scene, and Hotch turns to look at him properly.

I knew you’d understand, rings in his ears and he wonders if maybe Hotch did find him, if he’s here, if he saved him. He wants to apologize for saying those cruel things about someone who’s been a better father to him than his own blood, he wants to thank him for everything, he wants to say something, anything, to convey the cocktail of emotions he doesn’t know how to decipher. Nothing but cobwebs come out.

Hotch is saying something, something that Spencer doesn’t hear, and JJ’s shifted so her whole hand is over his, encompassing it and him, like a warm blanket that does nothing to stop the cold, harsh bite that hasn’t left him since the moment he entered that cabin.

Time is meaningless as they talk around him, about him, in words that just sound like jumbled static, and eventually, JJ’s hand disappears and is replaced by Morgan’s guiding him out of the car and onto his unsteady, broken feet.

He blinks down at his legs, almost caving under the pressure of holding up so much fear and hurt, dirt falling away from his jeans with every movement.

A hand lands heavy on his shoulder and he turns to look, but by the time he can see again, he’s sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, feet dangling over the edge and dirt-caked nails the only reminder of being dirty.

He’s not wearing his jeans anymore, replaced instead by a hospital gown, and panic flashes through him like lightning, like the drugs that he so desperately wants back to make the feelings go away.

He hides behind a wall of intelligence, of facts and reason and statistics and logic. Emotions never played a part because they weren’t so easily quantifiable, too difficult to understand, to pinpoint, to put words to. A robot, he’s called, a walking textbook, a genius brain with no heart to accompany it. God, they were so wrong. It was just easier that way. He wants the numbness that Dilaudid provides, he wants to be able to forget, he wants to wipe the slate clean for even just a moment.

If he’s dead, and this is just some elaborate fantasy to make the passage easier, this is just as painful and confusing and scary as dying alone in a shallow grave would’ve been.

The heart monitor behind him picks up the pace, flashes of what would’ve been, of that grave, that ending, making themselves known.

He’s alive, but he might as well just be cobwebs in the place of who he once was.

He was saved, rescued, unearthed, but he might as well still be two feet under, a grave of his own making.

Tobias was gone. Spencer killed somebody innocent, it wasn’t like Tobias chose to have a father like he did, he didn’t choose to be tormented, he didn’t ask to have DID. And he’s dead because of Spencer, because Spencer couldn’t take the punishment Raphael believed he deserved.

How is it fair that Spencer gets to sit here, showered in affection and love and worry, while Tobias, an innocent child, rots in the earth.

He opens his mouth, dirt on his tongue and cobwebs between his teeth and bugs in his throat, he squeezes his hands together and says, “I’m sorry.”

[stereotypcd]

ooc;; okay but like a 6 or 7 yr old debs holding makeshift funerals for any dead bugs or on occasion a squirrel or bird. the sandbox filled with graves of dead bugs / small animals, pretty rocks she painted the names on them. The other kids r weirded out n some scared. Ofc she doesn't understand why bc everyone deserves a nice place to sleep forever- even animals.

Ofc realizing tht everyone u know is going to die n rot in the dirt n give like to trees ? Grass ? Hm, they didn't know tht part. But imagine hearing crying so loud, scared n sad, they run out n see kids crying n Debs holding a dead bird. The teacher grabs her but her shoulder not wanting to touch her arms or hands. "Deborah. Sweetie, don't you remember what we talked about yesterday ?" She asks, turning and putting on rubber gloves n steps towards Debbie. Her head is down, looking at that dead bird- asdfghjkl who knows what it's got.! "Uh, yeah, you, like, said ta' stop, like, buryin' the animals and stuff in the sandbox," She nods at her. "But that's, like, the thing, I wasn't goin'' to bury the bird in, like, the sandbox because you, like, said it was upsettin' the other kids. But ! I was gonna keep it in my lunchbox and, like-" She doesn't get to finish her sentence bc the teacher was reaching for the bird. Debs took a hesitate step back, eyes wide n shaking. Panic takes over and she rushed for the door, the teacher back up, taking off the gloves n pushing the trash bin away from her- sitting cross-legged, a soft smile on her lips. It had never been her intension to scare the little girl she just couldn't have her keep holding tht thing.

She takes a deep breath, but explained tht she's going to have to call her parents, she can hold it until they get here. She hands her a paper towel so Debbie can place on the table. The little girl watches her turn n walk to the desk- she's like a feral scared cat. She tried to be patient n understand her students n wht makes them different n fun n interesting n sure she's had her fair share of strange thing her kids have liked- one girl like to pick her nose n hide it under her desk but could draw pretty good. So it was an interesting mix. Debbie is washing her hands when her parents n the principal step in. ( There's more I wanna write lol but this is turning into a fucking shit story XD )

Her obsession w death / dying is extremely concerning. But her parents say it's normal. " She used to bury any animal her little arms could carry and give 'em a proper resting place." Nigel explained with a smile. The teachers look pale, shocked, worried n overall confused. "We raised Debbie in the Savannah for a few years. " She says, cheeks warm and a nervous grin. "...So we thought it made sense to just be open and honest about it." she explained tht Debbie had already made friends with the vultures since she would save small bits of fruit n raw meats from her meals over time n started feeding them. ( N ofc now she's befriended a group of crows. ) they thought using vultures helped her to understand better tho-

She also overtime started giving other kids pets when one of the popular girls asked if she could bury her hasmter bc she was scared to touch him n her parents would just throw it in the garbage n she doesn't want her beloved friend to be treated like tht. Debbie does it, she paints a rock with the name, digs the shallow hole by the girls tree in her backyard. So tht was one of the nicer parts of it. She made some friends from it, she was still weird n stuff but the other kids liked tht she seemed to care abt their pets even tho they were mean to her.

This is where my brain ends. I'm not done I think. Idk lol