#providence agent

[i-am-an-accidental-hipster]

Some Generator Rex themed minifigures for your D&D or Gamma World campaign

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506741069/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506739433/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506719665/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506739448/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506740008/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506741912/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506713421/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506736225/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506744052/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506739399/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506742353/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506719160/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506744566/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506749206/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506737839/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506738570/

https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D506715771/

happy gaming!

[dailyagent4]

day 134

not happy about this one but watever.. me when all the refs of a character i find are blurry

[triysn]

Y’all ever think about how Rex is like. An orphan. Of all his cartoon contemporaries, he’s the only one whose parents are just straight up, explicitly dead.

And like, yeah, you could argue that for some, their relationships with their LIVING parents are like equally traumatising as having dead ones (cough cough phantom cough). Plus Rex has holiday and six.

But like holiday and six are very much paid to take care of him. Like, no matter how good their intentions are, they are still very much people with jobs and their own agendas.

You think Holiday ever had to ignore how wrong it felt to experiment on Rex and take samples and reduce him to a bunch of numbers and test results but she HAS to because that’s her job and she needs to find a cure for Beverly, needs to figure out how he works.

Or Six having to train Rex to be a weapon, probably in the exact way he was trained. The dual motivation of “this is for his own good, to keep him alive” and “I’m literally being paid to manipulate this kid who trusts me with the goal of ensuring the outcome providence wants in battle” and wondering if one can ever cancel out the other.

Like they care. They care about him so much. But Holiday still does her tests and Six still trains him and doesn’t tell him about Noah. Neither of these things is for Rex’s own good. They’re trying, but they work for Providence. They are literally, undeniably complicit in Rex’s abuse. All they can do is control the extent of the abuse. They love him and they’re getting their paychecks from controlling him.

That’s so fucked up. That is so cool.

[jennilah]

[nectarine-neuroticism]

having fun working on a commission for arturo. he wanted one of his ocs (angel, left) included in the commission, and another oc (paulina, right) that we brainstormed together for the sake of this fic.

i decided to let my computer charge a bit after writing for a while, so i decided to make picrews of the ocs (couldn't resist with makowka, long time fave tbh) just to help make the visualizations of them "tangible."

then i decided to make the rest of the mcs as picrews lol. take this as you will.

anyways,,, enjoy.

also, before you ask, yes. i did give benji a little gay boy earring. i asked simon if it was okay and he said all things are as they should be.

[starpirateee]

For drabbles, may i request an alternate universe where Curt fell instead of Owen in SAF?

Oh anon this one's MEAN, straight up. I'm more than happy to oblige, though!

tw for blood, injury and death (your canon typical act 1 part 1 nonsense 😔)

"Hands up, both of you!"

Owen subtly slipped his pistol into the inner pocket of his jacket as he and Curt backed off so far they ended up backing into each other, and raised his hands as a point of surrender. They had been on a rather impressive chase through the halls of the facility, to the point where there had been a second where Owen had thought they were going to get away.

But, typical to their luck, that wasn't the case. Someone was pissed about the plans that Curt was about to steal, and perhaps the fact that Owen had offloaded into a guy's kneecaps didn't exactly help their case…

Feeling Curt pressed against him brought a little bit of calm to the storm, he supposed. The two of them were in this together, after all, and it was a comfort to know that included going down together when something went wrong.

The Russian agents began to advance, forcing Curt and Owen that little bit closer to one another. Owen counted six on his end, all holding various firearms. They weren't messing around, one of them would likely shoot if they so much as moved in a way they didn't like. He felt Curt take a heavy breath against his back, his shoulder blades rising and falling like he was trying to pull himself together. He dared to try and shoot him a glance over his shoulder, and then the entire building shook beneath their feet.

"Curt?" Owen's eyes widened, watching the agents fall to the ground one by one. He and Curt had built such a sturdy support system by accident that they managed to remain the only ones upright.

Curt looked around frantically, eventually meeting Owen's gaze. "I lied! I set the timers for three minutes!"

Owen decided he would think about that at a later time, when there was less chance thay were going to be actively killed. "Oh god… Curt, you're gonna be the death of me, I swear to-"

"We don't have time! Kill me later, we gotta go!"

The pair of them started running again, Owen only a few steps ahead of Curt. he gripped the railing as tight as he could manage, pushing himself up and trying to work out their next move before it happened. They needed to stay ahead of the game, and it helped that he already knew the layout of this place a little.

Curt was trailing his path. His footsteps clattered against the metal staircase, keeping good pace-

Until they came to an abrupt stop.

"What're you doing, old boy?" He asked, slowing his pace a little.

No response.

Panicked, Owen glanced back, at the exact moment he heard a piercing scream rip through the air. When he turned around, he just about managed to catch Curt slip through the gap in the railing, caught on the tail end of…

Of the banana peel that he'd left on the ground not a quarter of an hour before.

Owen gasped, rushing forwards and reaching out for his hand. "Curt! Hold on!"

Their fingertips brushed together. Owen made an effort to lean forwards as much as he could, but he couldn't get there fast enough. Curt fell through his grasp, through the balcony…

Owen's body carried him away from the balcony until his back slammed against the wall. He breathed, his eyes wide, and then scrambled away from the scene. He didn't have the time.

He raced out of the facility, hearing the vague sound of pursuit behind him. There was one thing on his mind, and that was escape. Escape before the two of them succumbed to the same fate. Escape, so he still had the chance to go back and look for Curt after-

There was another violent rumble that shook the ground and forced Owen to sturdy himself against the nearest wall. God only knows he was powering himself on pure adrenaline alone, and he was well aware of the mere seconds he had left before the whole building caved in on itself.

This rush of adrenaline carried him out, and in the moment, he'd almost completely forgotten that he was running alone, that he was no longer clearing a path for another man.

As the blasts became more frequent, he turned, instinctively checking for Curt. But, there was nobody following him, neither Russian or American… What the hell did Curt think he was playing at? Where was he?

Oh.

Of course.

Curt had fallen from a sizeable height off the balcony, and he wasn't coming back. All logic dictated that he was already dead, though Owen's better instincts begged him to believe that wasn't the case. While there was nobody to blame for Curt's fall but Curt himself, it still hurt to think about how he was almost not the first one up the stairs, or that Owen had not bothered to protest when Curt refused to lock in the saftey barricades. He had set his timers for three minutes. He'd blatantly lied… Now look where he was.

Owen didn't have the time to curse him out, because just as he turned and went to carry on running, the building started to come down just beside him, and he was thrown back into the air. A sharp fracture of broken brick hit him square in the face, tearing the skin of his cheek, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground. He didn't know how long it was before he regained himself, but it was darker than he remembered when he finally opened his eyes again.

Immediately, he was hit with a wave of something that was in equal measures pain and nausea, and winced, bringing a hand up to his face. His forefinger brushed against his cheek and he winced, drawing back slightly. When he tried again, forcing himself through the pain, his fingertips came back bloody. Brilliant. One more thing to deal with… And he knew for a fine fact that he didn't bring the usual amount of supplies with him, because this was supposed to be an in-and-out job.

His gaze landed on the wreckage of the facility that he'd just escaped from. Part of him seemed to have some instinct to look for survivors, but he knew that, unless they'd escaped like him, there wasn't a chance they'd survive under that much debris. He hauled himself to his feet and started to run a survey to the best of his ability, while trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the way his face muscles were twitching in an attempt to alleviate the tension caused by the wound.

"No…"

A building in shambles, barely identifiable beyond the rubble. Owen could do nothing but stare at it, as he forced himself not to cave. His knees were shaking, his eyes stinging from the anger, the guilt and the grief that racked him all at once.

He was alone.

He was the only one to have made it out on time.

Upon the realisation of that fact, he screamed into the echoing mess of the old facility. His nerves won over, and he collapsed to his knees, gripping the sleeves of his jacket like his life depended on it. Nobody else survived. Nobody could see him right now, taking his pain out on a pile of broken bricks.

"NO! CURT!"

But still, there was no response to his cry. The world breathed in Owen's stead, for he was struggling to keep his in check. This wasn't like him at all. He was supposed to know how to keep himself together. He was supposed to stay composed; god forbid that's how everyone saw him anyway.

Owen Carvour, who never lost his cool under pressure. Owen Carvour, who had a comment for everything and a cool head to combat trouble. Owen Carvour, who didn't know how to break.

"Fuck-" A sob left him, desperate and torn. His eyes met the rubble, the facility that had blown from the ground up, the place where Curt was lying dead. "FUCK! Mega, you're such a FUCKING IDIOT!"

He felt the heat in his throat. He'd ran himself hoarse in complete futility, screaming at the air, over something that he still hadn't begun to process.

For god's sake, he had to pull himself together. Where could he go from here? How did he declare to the Americans that their mission was a total failure, not only because they lost the blueprints they were supposed to acquire, but because their best agent just died in the field? This wasn't his mission, thank god. He was here as backup, it wasn't even fully under MI6 jurisdiction. All that meant was that he was lucky it wasn't him in that rubble… He'd have to pray that the fall would've killed him, or he knew for a fact that his agency would.

Hadn't Curt's scientist associate said she wasn't far away? A few miles… What did that give him?

There was a port a few miles away…

Without trying to think about any other alternative there might be, he let himself start running. He ran down the street, knowing only the vague direction that the port was in. The only reason he'd known about it's existence at all was because he'd caught a glimpse of it as he came into town.

Eventually, the paved road gave way to something less level, and he paused, looking past the high walls and straight into the marina. That had taken… Longer than he'd expected, but he had never had the reason to fault his sense of direction before, and he'd been right in trusting at least that part of himself this time too.

Thing was, he only knew this woman by her surname. Apparently, he was driven enough that he didnt care, and he walked the length of the marina trying to call after her.

"… Agent Carvour?"

A voice drew him out of his search, and completely startled him in the process. He turned around, wide eyed, and laid eyes on a short, blonde woman standing a couple of feet away from him. But her voice sounded familiar enough that he was able to recognise her without ever having seen her face.

"Oh my-" He breathed, beyond the point of pretending that he wasn't afraid, or heartbroken in equal measure.

"You were asking after me?"

"Doctor Larvernor…"

Her brow furrowed. "What happened to you? You sound… Rough. And… where's Curt?"

"I sound what-" He blinked. Just saying those words out loud had made him realise exactly what she was talking about. "Shit. I didn't even realise…" But it was true. Through his hoarse voice and the absolute multitude of stress that had piled on his shoulders in the last minutes, he had barely noticed that he had slipped back into the accent he'd upheld until he was a teenager. He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It's fine… I'm fine- I'm still bleeding…"

"At least stay for long enough to let me look at that for you?"

"Oh- uh, you don't have to, doctor…"

"Call me Barb, Agent… Everyone else does," She smiled a little, maybe offering a slight of comfort along the way.

"Barb…" He nodded. Then he met her gaze, and in return, offered, "call me Owen. Please."

"Come with me, Owen."

She led him to where she'd been staying for the duration of Curt's mission. He had to duck to get through the door, but it was considerably roomier on the inside. She motioned for him to make himself comfortable, and he took a rather awkward seat on the first chair that he saw. Immediately, she busied herself with getting some supplies, and he brushed his hair back from his face so that she could have as much access as possible to the gash on his cheek.

"What happened there?"

"Debris, I think. Somethin' hit me in the face. I am fine, you- you needn't worry…"

She waved a hand dismissively. "You get used to patching up agents when you do it as a side job… It's nothing."

"You- uh- you asked about Curt… That's why I came looking for you, actually."

Barb stopped mid way through picking up her supplies from the table where she'd laid them, and frowned briefly. Her silence was a good indicator for him to continue, and he chose to do so as an ample distraction for the gravel he could feel delved into his skin.

"First of all, the blueprints are gone. They were- god" He winced involuntarily, and Barb's hand drew back.

"Sorry, sorry…"

He screwed his eyes shut. If he had a reaction after that, it wouldn't be so severe. "They were destroyed when the facility went up…"

Barb frowned. She knew that it had been a risky move to let Curt off with blowing up the facility, that man was too reckless for his own good sometimes…

"… Along with him."

The world went silent. Barb felt her chest ache, and realised she'd been holding her breath. "What?" She prayed he didn't mean what she thought he meant.

Owen hadn't come to terms with it yet, and at the rate things were going, he wasn't sure if he ever would. But, he had to admit it one way or another. It wouldn't be awfully fair if he was the only one who knew of Curt's fate, and then he went off the grid too… He heaved a sigh, trying not to let his reactions break the mask that hid his true feelings. He couldn't handle the weight of the world if they knew about them.

"Curt, he's… He's dead, Barb. He fell. I didn't- I couldn't- save him in time."

[opal-owl-flight]

Someone has to tell her so I guess i will, 8 I get you were mad and are tired of violence but insulting captain for being quite doesn't help and 4 just got over hateing herself, you kind of knocked that recovery down a few notches. You're normally rational

“Captain has twice allowed someone to completely insult or punish them without even attempting to show rank. Ive seen how much they beat themself up over whats said or done to them. Dont you think Im tired of seeing that too? If I dont tell them to be more assertive, this will just keep on happening. Things will continue to spiral. Everyone will fall apart easier and easier.

And Four?

She made promises to me. To never do what she did to the Captain again, and to help me feel safe in this new world.

So forgive me for being disappointed over broken promises.”

[moonmoonthecrabking]

i just rewatched one step ahead and the staircase scene (because i don't know i just wanted to feel something). and of course it hits, because the relationship between curt and owen is very well written and well acted and all the parts come together beautifully and you feel for both of them, especially after seeing curt's journey through the musical and recontextualising the dma's actions.

but it hits in another way that it didn't (for me at least) when i first watched it, which is in owen's motivations. chimera has the ability to make spies obsolete with the use of technology. a box in a room can do what a spy does, but in seconds. nowadays, ai can write and be "creative" (massive asterisk there) with predictive text models, typing a book in a matter of minutes. but curt says it sounds boring, that they as spies should remember the impact they had on people, the lives they saved. because a computer cannot measure the emotional impact its works have on those it benefits (also i'd argue ai can't actually make art). ai cannot care about what it does, there is no emotional resonance with what it does. but it's easier, less costly, maybe less dangerous, so it takes those opportunities away, substituting human works for machine bullshit

i just think it's neat how, with time, this awesome and multi-layered musical has had another layer added to it (or brought to the surface). anyway watch spies are forever. or rewatch it.

[panic-flavored]

WAIT I HAVE A SOLUTION TO MER STONE BEING ABLE TO GO ABOUT ON LAND

One of these bad boys

There he goes!!!

[bambeptin]

stuff they'd never wear

[usafphantom2]

On this day in 1961, U.S. military advisors in South Vietnam first use 'Agent Orange.' Over the next 10 years, more than 20 million gallons of chemical defoliants will be sprayed in Southeast Asia destroying 12,000 square miles of jungle and poisoning 3 million people.

@MilHistoryNow via X

[onedaughterofman]

Premature burial (Mary Goore x g/n reader)

Summary: Papa orders to bring someone back from the dead. As his skilled necromancer, you obey.

Tags: Rated T. Description of corpses, rituals, necromancy, a bit of blood. Mary Goore being a weirdo. Around 2.3 K words.

Disclaimer: I’m not a qualified necromancer, please don’t try this at home.

“Bring him back."

Even after time, Papa's words still resonate loud inside your ears. Rummaging through the old wood box he handed you, a small piece of paper catches your eyes. The black ink is faded, porous paper having absorbed most of it years ago. Still, the name scribbled on it is relatively easy to decipher.

Mary Goore.

There are a few droplets of ink around the name and the lines are unclean, as if whoever had written it was in a hurry or holding the pen with poorly contained anger. For a moment, you wonder what could Papa need from this person, what kind of connection he had with the Clergy.

It doesn't matter how much you think about it, there's no answer to your questions inside the box. One leather jacket, an almost empty packet of cigarettes, a guitar pick, and an old cassette booklet is all you find. "Spawn of Pure Malevolence," the black and white artwork says. It doesn't ring any bells inside your head.

As the sun falls down behind the horizon, languishing golden rays barely peeking between the dying autumn leaves, you prepare all the necessary tools to perform the ritual.

The moon is high in the night sky when you first set foot on the sacred grounds of the cemetery. The dusk spreads all over the long forgotten place, from one corner to the other. Years into studying the occult have taught you that death is not a still, unmoving force. Instead, it expands like a disease, penetrating the ground and dyeing the grass of a pale, brown color.

The wood box is sturdy between your hands, old yellowish paper resting on top of it. "Mary Goore," it says, and your mind repeats it over and over again like a chant, like an invocation.

You're calling for him tonight. And he better answer.

Necromancy is not an trivial task. It took you years to learn it, even more time to gather the courage to perform the rituals alone. The dead are in a state of rest and, in most cases, they do not wish to be disturbed for menial reasons. Some of them are nothing but the empty shell of the person they used to be. Some others hold only the rage or fear they felt during the final moments.

Not every person can be brought back in both body and soul, you recognize it.For a long moment, you wonder if Mary Goore is someone capable of standing the shock of the magic, if he'll be able to do whatever Papa needs him to or if he'll be, instead, nothing but a hollow puppet.

Sadly, most of your rituals fall into the second case. You can bring someone back, order them to perform a task and then go back to sleep again. It is rare for them to be sentient, conscious or communicate beyond a few words.

And, of course, it’s truly time consuming. These types of ceremonies can last hours, days, or even weeks before the spirit finds its way back. Besides, it mostly depends on how long the person has been dead. Necromancers prefer to summon the recent departed, since they still retain some lucidity.

In general, that timeframe is limited to twelve months following the death of the physical body. Mary Goore has been gone for more than a decade. Whatever Papa needs, it might be too difficult to find here. Most of your success will depend on the circumstances around Mary's demise.

According to the ancient scrolls, it is believed that in the event of a premature or violent death, the corpse retains part of that unused vitality. If Goore died before his time, then he should still have some energy inside of him.

It is only a matter of carrying on with the ritual and discovering it.

Setting up your energetical barrier, you begin to draw a circle in a desolated spot of the graveyard. This will protect you from the anger of the deceased and other lingering spirits. The talisman required to enhance the protection hangs from your neck, a stable and comforting weight over your chest.

Now, you need a sacrifice and a connection. Sitting on the humid ground, you begin taking out the elements from inside the box. Placing the guitar pick, the cigarettes and the cassette booklet on the dirt, your hands stop when they come into contact with the cold leather of the jacket.

This will do. One arm after the other, you put on the jacket. It looks big on you, and the material is too rigid, creaking with every little movement, but it doesn’t matter. Wearing the clothes of the deceased will help you get into the right frame of mind, allow you to begin with the conjuration.

Before performing the sacrifice, you light up the chosen herbs: a bit of hemlock, mandrake and opium. Taking a deep breath, you let the smoke fill your lungs. The adrenaline is so high you barely feel the sharpness of the dagger in your skin, poking at your finger until the blood tricks down, falling into the offering you laid out on the ground, staining the artwork and the cigarettes.

Closing your eyes, you begin chanting the spell, those old rhymes and words that will serve as a guide for the soul to come back. Over and over again, you call that name into the night.

Come back, come back, come back…

As the time passes, you begin to think this will take more than one session. Yet, you realize that’s not true when the smell hits you. It comes from beneath the ground, a bit of sulfur and smoke, sweet and sour at the same time.

Then come the maggots and the earthworms, rising from the dirt and infesting the grass around your protection circle, climbing up from the tombs. The air feels freezing on your skin, too cold inside your lungs as the temperature descends and descends.

This is new. You’ve performed quite a few necromancy rituals during your time serving the Clergy, but you have never obtained such an aggressive reaction before.

Who is Mary Goore? Why does his presence evoke such chaos around the graveyard?

The answer to those questions is closer than what you expected. A low, horrid growl coming from behind your back makes your whole body flinch. You turn around, hand clutching the protection sigil around your neck.

Goore is standing there, immobile, right at the edge of the circle. He’s covered in blood, face obscured by the remnant of some old black and white paint. It reminds you of the Papal face paint, except this one doesn’t seem to be so detailed, so curated.

Upon sensing your eyes on him, Mary’s head rises and you’re staring right into the darkness of his pupils. Those lifeless eyes are set deep in his face. He jerks his head violently, dirt and insects flying off his hair.

It worked. Mary Goore is back, from the dead, from beyond the grave.

“That’s my jacket.”

The sound of his voice is raw, raspy, barely audible over the beating of your heart. This shouldn’t really be possible. Goore has been dead for too long to have retained consciousness like this.

When you don’t reply quick enough, he continues. “Give it back, you thief.”

Swallowing doesn’t undo the knot inside your throat. Mary stays still, body swaying in place. He’s wearing dark pants ripped at the knees, a gray battle vest full of patches. The toe of his combat boots toys with the salt that forms your circle, not touching it by a few centimeters. It’s like he’s testing his limits, analyzing how far he can go before your magic stops it.

Again, you think this shouldn’t be possible. The hair stands at the back of your neck when he locks his gaze with yours, not a single light behind them. It’s such a morbid scene. It makes you feel as if you have accidentally unleashed an unknown force, resuscitated some kind of ancient evil that takes the form of a long dead rockstar.

Whatever the case might be, you have to take the reins. “Mary Goore,” you begin. “I’ve brought you back to the world of the living. From now on, you obey my will.”

A deep, slow chuckle is all the answer you get. He takes a step to the side, beginning to walk around the circle searching for any crack, any weak spot. It reminds you of a predator stalking a prey.

You will not allow it. “Don’t try me. I have power over you.”

“Do you, Necromancer?”

Goore doesn’t seem intimidated by you, not one bit. If anything, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I can undo the spell that binds you to this realm,” you warn. It doesn’t work.

“Is that so? Do it, and then you’ll have to drag my dead body all alone back to the grave. I’ve been told I’m heavier than I look.”

As Mary lets out another series of short, breathless chuckles, you go over the ritual in your head. Every little part of it was performed perfectly, with all the caution required. You made no mistakes. Then, how is it possible for him to have such independence, such freedom?

When Goore leans farther ahead, the energy coming from him strikes you right in the face, right through the barrier. Even if there are no holes in your protection, you can feel the raw energy exuding from his pores, the crude anger that causes you to falter.

There has to be an explanation. “Tell me how you died,” you command. He stops laughing, staring at you through long, dark eyelashes. After a moment of consideration, Mary indulges you.

“Oh, you know. The usual,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Fell asleep during a bad flu, woke up inside a coffin, mouth sewn shut and so fucking cold.”

Fuck.

“You were buried alive.”

In the middle of the gloomy graveyard, Goore’s pupils shine like two lanterns. The moon reflects on them, filling the dead scleroid with light. “Yes, I wouldn't recommend it honestly. Those dumb motherfuckers thought I was dead. Or maybe they just couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

Again, the energy hits your body like a wave. This man was trapped in a premature burial, and now his spirit is full of anger than cannot be tamed. He was kept for years in a prison underground and now, he’s prepared to let it out.

A demon. You’ve unleashed the devil.

Never stopping his stalking around your circle, Mary continues. His voice becomes louder, harsher.

“Do you know what happens when they bury you alive? You feel like your joints slowly freeze, how your body begins to decompose even if your heart is still beating. And no matter how loud you try to be, it’s always nothing but a silent, voiceless scream,” he says, fingers running through his hair.

After a few seconds, he continues. “It’s so dark inside that fucking box. A boring place to spend all eternity. It makes you wish you could die faster, so you can finally burn in hell.”

Under the pale moonlight, he does look straight out of hell. A beautiful, scary sight that has put you under a spell. This man is evil, full of resenting and hate, someone who only wishes to expand doom on this earth. A profane saint, born under the midnight sky, hugged by the shadows and the chaos.

Maybe you’re beginning to understand why Papa wanted him back. He could be good for the Clergy, a new influence for the Ghost project.

Ignoring your inner turmoil, Goore stops right in front of you. He’s still outside the protection barrier, staring right ahead with a tilted head. When he notices you’re watching him up and down, a small smirk tightens his lips. “Well, at least I was an attractive corpse. Can’t complain about that one.”

“That's enough,” you stop him. “I’ve brought you back following the orders of my boss, the head of the Church of Satan. You’ll meet him tonight.”

Again, there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Satan?” He inquires. “Whatever. Can I at least have my jacket back or some cigs? It’s freezing out here.”

It’s useless to try to remind him he’s dead, and he can’t feel the heat. Your fingers trace the metallic zipper of the jacket, following the shape of the sharp teeth. Slowly, you remove it from your body, those dark eyes never looking away.

“Try anything, and you’re back underground.”

“I’ll behave nicely,” he promises, but there’s not a single clue of honesty there. “Come on, I just fucking want it back.”

Inch by inch, you get closer to him. Mary doesn’t move. Body tight and muscles tense, he stays put in place. You’re not even certain he’s blinking as you stretch out your arm, jacket hanging by the tip of your fingers.

Gradually, Goore lifts up his arm in your direction. You feel his energy grow steady, like the background noise of an engine. As your hand exits the barrier, the rumbling becomes an energetic growl when he grabs your wrist, yanking you out of the circle.

Violently, your body hits his, the smell of wet dirt and blood filling your nostrils. This is the first time you realize his eyes are a blue light color, and not just dead, black pools.

Fuck.

Fuck no.

This has never happened in the past.

Before you can fully react, the leather jacket is on his shoulders and you’re on the ground, wet grass under your fingertips. You hurry to your feet, debating whether or not you should reverse the spell or try to regain control.

It’s useless. Mary turns around, fingers fidgeting with one cigarette. “Now, none of that doe-eyed bullshit. Let's go. You said someone important wanted to meet me.”

Leaving the cemetery behind, you follow him into the night.

PD: Mary Goore, what a (hot) weirdo. Just keep my lifeless body away from him and we're good.

It's my fist time writing him, so I hope it was good! This was supposed to be less than 1K words long, but I got carried on. Ask box is always open if you want to say something ♥

[brother-genitivi]

do you think M ever wonders if how they are with the mc is what life felt like before their turning? being able to walk into a shop and not wanting to scream at the sound of the clock coming from the other end of the building. touching someone's hand and it not feeling like a thousand needles jabbing into their skin. is that how life could've been? and how it is, with the mc at their side?

[vaguely-humanoid-form]

this place is not a place of honor. no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. nothing valued is here.

[reviiely]

Shameless self-promotion. Cue the AOS theme song.

[cosmo-elegans]

They twinning