#ooc: river speaks

[shinobinvku]

Hey friends! Just wanted to post a heads up that my area is suppose to experience a hurricane. My household is prepared for the weather but the chances of our power going out is likely. If that happens, no worries. I'll return eventually. Wishing for everyone's safety who're dealing with Hurricane Beryl. Much love and happy writing!

[nostomannia]

I decided to play with that randomly generated headcanon and

The first one I got was "Solita has an extreme fear of water"

Goddamn, don't call her out like that

[sanguinelupus]

normally, i don’t like laying things out for people because google is free. however, the genoc1de against palestine has gotten so out of hand & there is so much misinformation out there that finding a credible source isn’t difficult so much as confusing.

but i will say that if you read through this post, watch the videos i’ve linked, read the articles i’ve linked, & you still support israel? block me. with a fucking swiftness.

we are seeing corrupt government & propaganda being spread in real time. pro-israel rallies have paid broke college students to show up just to boost numbers. a palestinian US congresswoman has been silenced from speaking up for her country. israeli soldiers have taken pictures with displaced palestinians making it look like they’re helping, and after the picture is taken, they kill them. israel has cut electricity to a hospital in attempts to move refugees further south.

these events are just the tip of the iceberg. i’ll provide as many links/sources as possible, as well as a boycott list of companies that have shown support for israel or directly given money to israel. it is your choice whether or not to stop giving your money to these companies, but you should know where your money is ultimately going. as if majority of it isn’t already going to corrupt billionaire CEOs to begin with, you will also be supporting this genoc1de & ethn1c cleansing.

sources/articles under the cut. everything will be linked but some screenshots or photos will be provided. majority of my video sourcing is from firsthand accounts of a palestinian in gaza themselves: wizard_bisan1 on instagram. another credible source from a civilian in gaza is joegaza93 (he tends to post graphic images/videos) on instagram.

i hope that after reading through this post, you can stop using the excuse of "i just don't know enough about it" to justify remaining ignorant on the issue. a genoc1de is happening and we cannot remain complicit. palestinians are being silenced and it is up to us to amplify their voices.

link to the history of the conflict from a mostly pro-palestine source. keep in mind that any articles by nicole narea have the potential to read as "neutral" or even pro-israel. VERY LONG READ but worth it.

very pro-palestine article about international politics relating to palestine. (20min read)

i do not like or agree with the bashing of marxism, socialism, and communism in this article, but it details the way israel CREATED hamas themselves and comes from an israeli news source themselves. (30min read)

(5min read) pro-israel rally paying college students to show up to boost numbers:

and a photo of one of the posters blatantly promoting genoc1de at said pro-israel rally:

palestinian congresswoman being silenced. (10min read)

a more recent & detailed article on rashida's struggle. (10-15min read)

israeli soldiers taking pictures with civilians then killing them. (graphic images are shown; 1min video)

israel's claim of hamas "beheading 40 babies" being a complete lie:

one (30min read)

two (20min read)

three (10min read)

israel cutting off electricity to shifa`a hospital (one of the last remaining operating hospitals in gaza) for over an hour. (1min video) & additional source from someone else inside gaza.

israel b0mbing shifa`a hospital's medicine warehouse. (30sec video)

an article by a jewish person that is pro-palestine. (5-10min read)

(5min total video) israeli army having snipers outside shifa`a hospital (north gaza) as well as an explanation of israel lying about there not being civilians in north gaza:

part one

part two

(2min read) short article from an israeli information source stating that under no circumstances should they be attacking a hospital. but they are, under the precedent that "hamas has a bunker underneath the hospital" and it turns out that was 100% untrue anyway (5min read). so they mercilessly attacked the hospital for seemingly nothing, but it was actually to get people out of the north.

boycott list/article. some of these are inherently more difficult than others to boycott, but like i said earlier; it's up to you who you choose to give your money to. if you can live with supporting some of these, then do so. i, and many others, cannot.

NOT LISTED: disney.

[xxm1sspurp1eriv3rs]

Oh boy, I can't wait for my sister to show up on tumblr.. she said she's almost done and yet I can't wait for this to happen!! :D

[frznkingdom]

River back off so help me god-

[championsofthegate]

//honestly because I have dealt with things before if you ever have a problem with something in a thread or whatever, please just hit me up like "hey xyz isn't working can we try something else" and I'll always be cool about it

If you're just annoyed I'm making things easier on myself on my blog you can exit stage right thanks

(also sometimes people have clashing accessibility needs and that's okay but if that is the case it's better to just move on from each other instead of being miserable lol)

[kingofprosperity]

// tag post. wip.

// Sorry everyone lmao

[djsangos]

//i'm adopting all of these immediately they're all canon now

bonus:

real canon lore mentioned

[amischiefofmuses]

Mun vs Muses

[I lightly edited most of them because they looked so wrong without their beards or certain details aH - but here is yours truly and a bunch of my Fae Circle ocs.]

[snookienthusi4st]

quiet men. (nsfw under the cut, minors dni)

men that don’t usually hold conversations. men that keep to themselves, besides you and their small group of friends. men that don’t seek out attention or small talk, even with someone as special to them as you.

you’d think that maybe this wasn’t always the case. that there had to be a way to get them more vocal. but they’d constantly prove you wrong, only leaving you with more intent to keep trying.

and damn, did you try. light touches here and there, subtly rolling your hips into him as he cuddles you, kisses that last a teasing second longer. all subtle things, really.

until they weren’t so subtle anymore.

and your stupidly unwavering confidence that you’d get him to crack is how you ended up on your back and pathetically taking whatever this incredibly frustrated man has to give you, a glare on his face that feigns irritation as he holds you down and mercilessly thrusts into you. don’t expect him to stop anytime soon; this is what you wanted, isn’t it? him to fuck you so hard you’re mewling and moaning loud enough for the both of you.

you find that sex is quiet too, apart from the outward sounds that come from everything else. the bed just barely squeaking as he shamelessly ruts into you, your own soft sounds that you try to muffle with your trembling hand to little avail.

and maybe now and then you’ll get a groan out of him as he feels your walls tighten around his throbbing length when you’re about to cum, but not much else besides his heavy breathing.

the comfortable silence speaks volumes.

kusuo saiki, kyoya ootori, sesshomaru, earth 42 miles, light yagami, sasuke uchiha, (ooc) takashi morinozuka, nate river, miguel ohara, l lawliet, john allerdyce, tomoe + whoever you see fit!

[spider-stark]

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OLD FRIENDS

Gwayne Hightower x Septa!Reader

Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.

Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao

Word Count - 1.3k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering. 

But not tonight. 

Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.

For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.

But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend. 

Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him. 

It’s only when you speak that he looks up. 

“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.” 

Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,” you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.” 

Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now. 

He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.” 

In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters. 

You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all. 

Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.” 

Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.” 

“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?” 

It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through. 

Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for. 

You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.

But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice. 

Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.” 

“Understood what?” 

“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated. 

His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight. 

If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all. 

You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering. 

“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.” 

“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.” 

You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.” 

Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.” 

You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you. 

“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask. 

Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection. 

Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?” 

His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles. 

He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.” 

The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard. 

Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back. 

Strained, you ask, “For what reason?” 

Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?” 

You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close. 

Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods. 

Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them. 

You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side. 

A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin. 

Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot. 

Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.” 

As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.” 

There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin. 

“To who?” 

Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind. 

Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.” 

A stone drops in your stomach. 

“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…” 

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence. 

Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…” 

You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch. 

The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.

a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??

anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!

[shinobinvku]

River. Hey folks, sorry I haven't been around in a while. I believe the last time we chatted, I was in the middle of a move. My partner and I have officially settled into our new place and I've been tending to my artwork as of lately.

I have job training coming up working from home, but I'm hoping to be on my blog this upcoming week to answer replies! Thanks so much for being patient with me.

[nvuy]

poor provincial town — il capitano

summary. your father disappears suddenly, so you set off in search, and discover something much worse than the monsters you were warned about in your quiet little village.

notes. nvuy actually writing something holy shit we lost. it’s a beauty and the beast spin off. i want this man so badly i will trudge across the sahara desert just to lick off his sweat to cure my unbridled thirst.

warnings. 16+, mature themes, you can interpret capitano as yandere but he’s also implied to not be human (riding on the draconic capitano headcanons here) so in general he’s just a weirdo, he’s probably ooc because yeah, gn reader (any usage of the word ‘man’ is just another word for ‘human’), mentions of violence, threatening, violent threats can also be interpreted as sexy i guess, mentions of death, AU sort of because beauty and the beast spin off.

Your father had gone missing.

The news had shaken you to your core, and despite the wrangling on from the poor terrible and boring provincial town that you hailed from, you planned to set out almost immediately in search of him.

The people had warned you of wolves in the forest, flesh eating bugs that crawled in the winter snow, and men with pointy sharp teeth and large claws that could slice you to ribbons. All horror stories from children’s books; the same nightmares you had when you were little. Raging beasts within the trees to make sense of the shadows that moved strangely in the night.

You were warned, denied, almost locked away in your home for protection. But, you moved. You set out, for your father was already old and frail as he was. You couldn’t imagine him being lost to the woods. Not your father. He was wiser than to step out by himself, and especially so deep within the trees.

“It does not make sense for you to venture by yourself. Trekking through the woods is not for people such as you.” The older lady of the town library told you one day. “What lies out there… I could not tell you.”

You took the book from her hands and pressed your fingers into the hard cover. Your nails left a permanent dint in the laminate. “I do not fear death.”

“Not death,” she corrected. “Death is not what lingers.” She then glanced up at the ceiling, thoughtful. “Death is beautiful. What you should be afraid of are people.” She looked back down at you before a sad grin grew onto her lips. “Speak not to strangers, for you may provide dinner for the beasts that roam the woods.”

She did say beasts, you know. Monsters with fangs and fur and hooves that knew nothing but to bite and eat, eat, eat.

But there are various sorts of beasts. Charming, handsome quiet beasts. Kind and polite and patient.

“It is the gentle beasts that are the most dangerous of all.” The older lady sighed deeply, perturbed. She fidgeted in her seat behind the counter. “If you do leave, bring a weapon.”

You cannot fight, though you did pocket a small dagger.

And then you set off. Through the woods, down hills, across rivers, trying to piece together a narrative as to why your father had disappeared. It was winter — though, it did always snow here — and the winds were much more biting than usual. Thankfully, you had brought layers, and the thick hood that wrapped over your head did its job in banishing most of the cold.

It did not stop the lingering gazes of the creatures that crept along the trees, and lingered within the shadows.

You are soaked in snow and wind and cold, but you press on.

You eventually stumbled upon a castle. A grand one, with cracked and broken windows, thorny leafless bushes that surround the forked fencing, and a door so giant your hand can barely wrap around the handle. It is the only source of shelter for miles.

He must be here. Your father was ill. He needed a roof to sleep under. And possibly, despite its state, the castle could have food hidden away if looked for thoroughly.

You push open the doors, wincing from the loud creaking that alerts your presence to anyone residing inside. It looks abandoned. The once polished floors and mangled and ruined, and it a single candle flickers with life. The chandelier sits on the floor, smashed to pieces, and glass spills from every corner.

It is dark, and cold, but it is shelter.

So, you search.

High and low, wandering through the endless halls, trying to trace your steps. You search upstairs first. There are many levels, perhaps maybe five or six, and as you look, you find different rooms. Grand empty ballrooms, bathrooms that once had plated gold edging to every corner and crevice, bedrooms with torn sheets and broken wardrobes. Most rooms were empty — you cannot imagine being able to fill every single one.

Then, you search downstairs. You hadn’t wanted to go below the ground, but your father did not answer to any hushed whisper you called, and you were beginning to lose hope.

The deeper you go, the more you feel trapped.

There are cellars down here, and they stretch on beyond what your eye can see.

The cellars are dark and twisted and cold. It smells of mildew and mould, and every step you take emits a splash from the puddles. The walls are brick and cracked and covered in moss so old it has turned black with time. There are no little white flowers along the vines.

You step further along the wet stone, feeling along the wall blindly. Your nails scrape along, and you try to even your breathing. It’s cold. It’s cold. Frost and snow still clings to your clothes.

That’s when you spot your father rotting away in a cell, and you quickly take his hands through the bars. He’s frail and older now, and so much sicker from being locked away for so long.

You cry out pathetically when he struggles to curl his fingers around yours. Frostbite has taken the tips, and his skin has morphed to an ugly purple and black.

“You shouldn’t have looked for me,” he tells you. Then, he glances down the dark hall. He cannot see anything, for shadows linger across the walls like spiders crawling upon silvery silken webbing, but he knows there is something out there. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

You dismiss his concern. “You’re freezing.” You squeeze your hands tight over his thin skin before you shed off your hood and hand it to him through the bars. “Who did this to you?”

“You need to leave,” your father pleads.

“‘Leave?’” you echo. You try to see through what little light there is for a keyhole. You do not have a key, but the iron is rusted and weak, and you’re sure you can find something to smash the door through with. “I cannot leave. Not without you.”

You search around. You try to steady your racing heart, breathing deeply through your nose. Fog passes from your lips with each breath. Water drips from somewhere, and the constant ticking and creaking of the old bricks make you nervous.

You’re concerned the entire floor will collapse, so you work quick.

The cellars are empty and abandoned. Most of the doors are open, and there’s no keys in sight. There are no weapons, either, nor any long poles to smash the door down.

You panic.

It’s hopeless.

This place is completely empty.

You turn back to your father and try weakly pulling at the door. It does not budge. “Who locked you in here?”

“A beast,” he replies. It is said in a whisper, as if he’s afraid of even uttering the word. “It tore me off my path and brought me here.”

But beasts can’t be real. They’re just fairytales; stories your mother told you when you were little so you wouldn’t wander off by yourself. “Did it hurt you?”

“No. Not yet.” He glances down the hall again. “But it may hurt you.”

“I am not leaving without you. I have searched for days.” You stand up to search for something again, but you know deep down it is futile.

There is nothing.

There’s nothing here.

You want to weep, but that will not help.

It’s hopeless. It’s all so twisted and horrific. There is no beast here. There cannot be. You would have stumbled upon it by now. It would have sliced you to ribbons by now. It would have locked you away with your father by now.

“Listen to me,” your father whispers. “Return to the village and call for the soldiers.”

You shake your head.

“They will not listen to me. They think I’m crazy.” And they do. You briskly wipe at your tears and kneel down in front of the bars again. Then, helplessly you bash at the bars, and the sound echoes down the halls. “How do I get you out?”

Your father tries to quiet your sobbing. “Go back to the village. Find General Zasha, speak with the soldiers.” He grabs your hands through the bars. “The General will listen to you.”

“He will not.”

“He will.” Your father nods once, confident. “I know a man in love when I see it.” Your father kisses your knuckles once before he lets go. “I will be alright.”

He will not be, but you stumble to your feet and back away from the cellars.

And then you leave. You say not a parting word to your father. You pray and hope he remains alive for another few days. You can do nothing else but trek back up the stairs and return to the main halls.

You know they must have been beautiful once. Now everything is old and withered and etched away.

In another world, another life, just maybe, you would have loved to roam the halls of a castle and spoiled endlessly.

You walk slowly, beaten down, cold and alone. Your bones ache with exhaustion, but you will not rest here. You are determined to return to the village and speak to the general, even if you despise him with every inch of your heart.

Your hand reaches for the door handle.

“What’s this?”

And then there is a blade at your throat.

“Another thief roaming my halls?”

You swallow, but all that does is press the blade further into your skin. The discomfort sends you into a panic, and your breathing stutters. Your hand remains wrapped around the handle, but you cannot will yourself to move.

Escape is futile.

You should not have come here.

The blade is removed swiftly. So swiftly that the sharp end glides along your throat and leaves a shallow cut. It stings, and you try not to cry out in fear. Sweat pools down your neck and twists into the new cut. You hiss silently at the pain.

“What did you steal?”

You do not turn around. “Nothing. I am no thief.”

“Then you know the man I locked away.” His voice is deep, and it echoes in the hall. “Otherwise, you would never have come at all.”

You turn slowly, aware he is still armed.

It is a sword he holds, though it is hidden away beneath a large feathered and fur coat that rests upon his shoulders. Long black hair falls from beneath a mask that covers his face, and the shadows below disguise his skin, and anything that can identify him.

He is taller than you. Much taller, and much bigger. You cannot fight him.

“Why did you lock away my father?”

“Your father is a thief,” he replies easily. “And thieves remain thieves until they rot.”

There is no noise. It is just you, and him, and the constant dripping of water from your hair.

“My father is not a thief, beast,” you argue. “You are locking away a sick man.”

“I am no beast,” he denies. “I am man.”

“A man with a blade is no different to a beast.” He must be a beast. There is no reason as to why he would reside in a place such as this. “I will bring back an army.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you will.” It sounds condescending, and you scrunch your face up when he leans down to scrutinise you. “That is if you can leave my grounds alive.”

“You will die before you lay a hand on me.”

You pull out the dagger residing in your pocket. It is a desperate attempt to create space between you, but the knife only manages to garner a simple tilt of his head.

It’s small, barely deadly, but if angled right, you could take out an eye. But the thought of that makes you crumble; you don’t fight.

The man simply tuts. “You are not even worth a chance to spar.” He simply plucks the weapon from your hands. “How you survived out there is both a mystery and a miracle.”

“I am not weak,” you say. You don’t feel it’s true.

“Stubborn. You are stubborn.”

Your finger twitches in frustration. “Free my father from his cell.”

“Bring your army,” he answers. “It has been a while since I’ve been faced with a challenge.”

“You will lose your head before you even unsheathe your weapon.” You’re not sure if it’s true, but you have to trust yourself. Just this once. “You cannot take on one hundred men.”

“I have once. I will do it again.”

“I will be honoured to have your severed head hanging as decoration in my bedroom,” you sneer. “You will not win this. Your arrogance will be your downfall.” You try to twist and make for the door again, but he holds steady on your wrist. “Unhand me.”

The man, or the beast, or whatever he is, does not falter.

“You are small. Whatever army you bring will be smaller.” He pulls once at your wrist and that silences your struggling. It hurts and stings in warning. “Puny. Is this the best you can do? What if you were to run into a real beast?”

“Let go of me!” you try.

His grip tightens. You fear your bones will snap into pieces. You’re unsure if the skin beneath his gloves belongs to a man or a beast. The tips are sharpened and metallic, and you’re sure they can pierce into your flesh.

He leans in close. Too close.

Close enough you can barely identify the outline of lips drowned out by the shadows that swamp his features. A big man, much too big for you, and he terrifies you beyond your nightmares.

You will dream of him.

Terribly.

“Let go of me,” you plead quietly.

“Let us strike a deal,” he whispers.

“I will make no deals with any man,” you defy.

You see a smile and a flash of sharp teeth.

“I am no man, nor beast,” he responds. “Send your men. Send one thousand. Send every man that has ever walked this plain.” He grabs you even tighter, and if the mask did not obstruct his face, your lips would have touched his, and the scar that runs across the vermillion. You share his breath, and you smell blood and ash. “I will kill them all.”

You feel he tells the truth.

Still, you insist. “You will die.”

“If I do so perish, then the wager is in your favour. Have whatever you wish from this place. Destroy it, restore it, it is yours.”

You want to tell him you do not want this terrible castle. You want your father home, but you are aware he knows this. You open your mouth to speak, but a hand abandons one of your wrists to grab your face and squeeze just enough to keep you quiet.

His claws press into your flesh. You try to wretch yourself free and rake your nails down his arm.

“And if I kill every man you send, I will return your father.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“I will have you instead.” He twists you further towards him, and your lips touch. “I will decorate these halls with the heads of every man of your village, and I will ruin you.”

That is a promise. You know it is. You can tell from how he whispers it, and how his grip has slackened into something more gentle than it was before.

“You cannot–” Nothing comes forth from your lips.

“I can.” He lets go of your other wrist and twists his claws into your hair. “It has been so long since I have tasted the flesh on mortal bone.”

The man, whatever he is, releases you finally, and you startle backwards against the door. Blindly, you feel for the handle behind you, trying to keep your breathing even as you finally grip onto the cold metal.

The door swings open behind you and you step outside of the castle. The cold hits you instantly, and you double over in the icy strong winds. You abandoned your hood to your father, and have nothing to shield your eyes. They sting with tears and snow.

Something drapes over your shoulders, heavy and warm.

It’s a coat. The same feathered and furred coat, though it is not laid onto you out of concern or politeness. It is possession, and complete control, ownership when the beast grasps your chin from behind you one last time.

You stare out in fear into the forest ahead.

“Flee, little one.” You feel his lips on your ear. “Time slips away as the clock ticks forward. The world will stop for you, if I so choose it to wait.”

He is warm. Warm against your back, and it provides temporary, ill-fitting relief into your skin.

“I await your return, blade honed, and hungering for your skin.”

You slip from his grasp. “If I don’t return?”

“Your father will draw his final breaths in my cellar,” he tells you, “and once he does, I will chase you to the ends of the earth to deliver the good news.”

[sanguinelupus]

the fact bisan of all people is giving up hope.......i think i'm gonna be sick actually. she's been so utterly positive this entire time, grateful to be alive, making the best of the situations that arise around her.

the defeat in her instagram messages truly scares me.

if you haven't already read it, here's my post on palestine and please remember to continue sharing and posting about it.

[xxm1sspurp1eriv3rs]

IMAGE #01

Hello Faraway Town.. and ignore how blurry this is.. I'm not good with taking photos.

[frznkingdom]

Just casually remembers that Gale’s mom is still out there and likely started climbing the ranks in Atlas after giving up her kid and gaining some money-