#Fray Morrow

[jlr-den]

Quick Fray Portrait

#my artwork #oc #original character #fray #Fray Morrow #dragon girl #art

[ace-with--a-mace]

RADIOHEAD LMAO

#“shuts his windows and makes himself an artifical night :'(” 🎶floating upon the surface🎶 #the cinematography is beautifuk in this scene #leonardo the man u were #spooky liveblogs (kind of) #good morrow cousin :D #oh me what fray was here 🙄

[vickyvicarious]

Something I never noticed last year is how Dracula seems legitimately sad at the beginning of today's entry. Like, look at this:

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he said:— "To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula."

Dracula is "grim" when he says his farewells to Jonathan - very, judging by the rest of that line. He's enjoyed their time together and is sad that it has come to an end. He knows that they may never meet again... but he holds out hope that might not be the case. It reads to me like he hopes that the vampire ladies will choose to turn Jonathan into a vampire after he leaves and is hinting towards that, despite on the surface just telling mocking lies here. He's prepped them ("all shall be ready for your journey") and he knows they will come for Jonathan ("my carriage shall come for you"). But the vampire ladies have proven before that they don't always listen to what Dracula wants, and since he's put it off this long it's not like he can supervise the whole process himself (assuming it takes more than one bite/blood exchange/whatever). They could very well choose to just kill him rather than turn him.

That kind of substituted meaning for those specific lines may be a stretch, but certainly I think at least the sense of Dracula being put out to have to say goodbye is firmly there. But - luckily for Dracula - Jonathan (who is on the very last scrap of his patience) chooses that moment to push back, to outright ask to leave and say he wants to go right now. And Dracula gets a fun little idea.

"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once." He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness.

Dracula gets to play one last game with his good friend Jonathan Harker! It may be the last day, but it's not all over yet! He gets to toy with him at least one last time! How delightful! No wonder he is suddenly anything but grim. Instead, he's dripping with charm:

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:

Dracula is fully pulled out of his funk by this opportunity to torment Jonathan in an extra-blatant way. Not only does he threaten him with the wolves he controls, but he pushes until Jonathan is forced to once again rely on him for safety. This entire bit is such a mockery:

I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count,

Yeah. Dracula is the only thing standing between Jonathan and the wolves, literally! But of course he will respect his guest's wishes, so he won't stop opening the door, he'll keep going, he'll make him ask to stay...

By the end of that scene at the door he is fully cheered up, he is delighted, he's kissing his hand to Jonathan and promising (to the vampire ladies, but where Jonathan can hear) that tonight is his still and tomorrow they get their turn. He's ending this lovely visit on a very high note.

It's just. Brutal.

All the more so because Jonathan is so clearly at the very last fraying thread of his restraint, so the contrast between Dracula's initial disappointment shifting to burgeoning sick delight and Jonathan's seething hatred and fear and despair (and one brief moment of possible hope despite himself getting snuffed violently out)... it's super intense. Dracula gets to push him one last time, and Jonathan just barely holds back from outright throwing away the pretense altogether. It starts with his open anger and hatred in his diary at the sight of Dracula imitating him once again, nearly comes out when he insists that he wants to leave. And yet, he feels his own powerlessness as strongly as the rage, and in the end that fear and the understanding that pushing forward will only result in his certain death stops him. But in doing so, he feels complicit yet again, worse than ever before because he can see the way out and he has to refuse to take it, and Dracula gets to enjoy his anguish. Just like every other time before.

And it nearly breaks him this time. After he's forced once again to 'willingly' continue to stay in the castle Jonathan's mask finally breaks. He says he "covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment." He started to cry. Not the first time by any means, but this time is right in front of Dracula. He held out so long but he just can't anymore.

No wonder they were both silent on the walk back to Jonathan's room. If they said anything at all, Jonathan couldn't possibly keep pretending, and then Dracula would have to kill him right away. He doesn't want that, not when he can enjoy this for a few hours more.

#dracula daily #count dracula #jonathan harker #jonathan hiding his tears by covering his face with his hands BREAKS MY HEART #what do you want to bet that dracula placed a 'comforting' arm around his shoulders while leading him back to his bedroom #ughhghghhg

[anya-anya002]

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙮𝙩𝙝, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙝

ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇᴇʀ! ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴋᴀɴᴇ x ʀᴇᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴɪꜱᴛ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: Miles gives you an offer you can’t refuse

ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ: workplace relationship, shotgunnng, kissing (🤷🏿‍♀️), suggestive, a tv, coercion

(finally….a full Miles’ story)

This morning was an oddly quiet one. The sky a soft, vivid blue covered in thick, ripply grey clouds like pieces of frayed cloth. A fog had fallen over the city just like when you had gotten on the expressway.

Blurry lights prattled by the corner of your eyes as you tiredly watch from the alleyway, all the cars of your coworkers creep into the parking lot.

“You smoke?” You quickly turned toward the side door too see Miles’ wearing a parka and a pair of skinny jeans as he stepped out into the dawn.

“Oh, no, I just wanted air,” you say, trying to wrap the conversation up as quick as possible without revealing anything of your ‘outside life.’ But, Miles is a golden retriever type of man.

“Really? I mean, I get it…it seems very…lifeless in there huh?” he asked, placing a cigarette between his lips.

“I- Do you mind?” he asked referring to his cigarette as you raise your hand to signal ‘go on.’

“You’re fine and yes, it’s very fucking boring here,” you smile gently, turning back to gaze at the overcast sun. He laughed and soon the flickers of his lighter could be heard behind you.

“Thats what it looks like,” he teased. You laughed and leaned against the brick wall.

“I'm glad you can see my boredom,” you poke back. His Snickers filled your ears as you watched the sun attempt to peak from the clouds. Slithers of golden rays hit the worn-down pavement.

“Hey, uh, your TV’s still out right?” he asked. To that, you spun back around and cocked your eyebrow.

“Yea, why?” you asked pointedly. Watching his cheeks heat up as he choked on nicotine-filled smoke. Your eyebrow still arched as he fanned the smoke away from your direction.

“Well,” he said, taking the cigarette from between his lips and extinguishing it on the brick wall. Then he took a step closer the two of you shrouded in the darkness as you breathed.

“Let's just say, I can expedite this TV gettin’ fixed,” he finished, placing a hand on your waist. You blinked, looking at him confused as you felt his hand grip at the curve of your waist. 

“What are you saying?” you asked. Your eyes big as you place your hand over his as he leaned in.

“You know what I mean,” he breathed against your ear, kissing the shell. You shivered, gripping his hand and turning to glimpse at the vivid blue sky,

“If you let me shotgun you, the tv will be fixed by ‘morrow morning,” he whispered, you turned to him wide-eyed. Is he serious? A kiss, from you…

“I'm sorry what?” you blinked and looked at him dead in the eyes as you leaned against the wall more. Miles smiled at you and tilted in closer.

“C’mon Y/N, i know you're a bad girl,” he teased, rubbing the fat of your hip with his thigh.

“Miles please,” you said, looking around to see if anyone was around.

“Oh cmon Y/N” he said, pulling you in closer to his chest. Felling the loud thump in his chest.

“I know what you do,” he whispered, your gasped. Your eyes big and head cranked up to your co-worker in shock.

“How did you know?” You responded, gazing at him in utter disbelief, his lips curled into an even wider grin.

“Y’know…the smell of cherry banana ice isn’t very subtle,” he chided, placing the extinguished cigarette in his cigarette case and placing a fresh one between his lips.

“You’re fuckin’ with me,” you say, now folding your arms as you stare in amazement.

“Why would I fuck with you?” Miles asked, muffled by the cigarette held between pouty lips. Your mind reeling as you just stare. Why would you he fuck with you? Is he fucking with you right now?

“How are you gonna fix the tv?” He looked shocked at the question, but you still stood there, now raising a brow at Miles.

“I’m gonna,” he said. You chuckled, shaking your head at him.

“Oh yea, that’s totally a great answer,” you said. Still holding in laughter as you watched him roll his eyes.

“Well, I can’t tell you everything I’m gonna do, it’s a TV, Y/N,” he said. You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the brick wall. Your eyes still staring his lips down as he began to light it.

“Some engineer you are,” you bully.

“Do you not want your TV fixed?” he asked, tilting his head at you while taking a drag. You massaged your temples, the situation itself is making you want a cigarette.

“I do-”

“Then smoke with me Y/N,”

In the pale, dawn light your pure enticement was hidden as you peered down the blazing cherry that flickered within the dark and the pair of petal pink lips wrapped around it. You lean into the brick wall, looking at Miles through narrowed eyes before you spoke,

“Do you have gum?” you innocently asked. He chuckled, rubbing your side with his thumb as your head spun on its shoulders. Coming in closer to your lips, exhaling smoke up your nose as he leaned in close. The tips of your noses rubbed together as you heaved, feeling your expanded chest press against his with every breath. His heart thumped loudly against yours. Underneath the bright fog light of the parking lot light as he hummed. Your lips ghosted against one another, the stench of cigarettes fill your nose as he gets closer. Taking a quick long drag off his cigarette, rivers of foul smog floated from his mouth before pulling you in close.

Blowing smoke in your lungs manually as you wrap your arms around his neck; clinging onto him while you grow light-headed in his arms. The smoke was acrid as your eyes fluttered shut, feeling little trickles of smoke dancing from out the little cracks between you. Floating above your head as Miles’ hands ran up your sides. Now closing his lips and full-on kissing you, grabbing at any inch of your skin as a soft moan escapes you.

You're kissing your co-worker, for a TV, you thought. And you begged for 8 o'clock to never reign its ugly head.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚 ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The scent of smoke still clung to your hair as you strolled inside the lobby. Your mind stuck on the way his lips felt on yours. So soft and pretty. The way his hands ran up your spine much like tasting a delicacy that'd never leave your tongue.

“Hey, Y/L/N,” you spun to see security guard, Tyler stood in the middle of the lobby, inspecting the TV.

“Yea, Ty?” you perked up, setting your bag on your desk. Tyler, still ogling the TV as your brow raised.

“You asked Mrs. G for a TV?” you froze, darting right next to him and damn near dropping upon seeing the TV.

“Holy shit,” you blurt. The lobby TV was replaced with a nice, big 50-inch television. It was currently playing the news as your cheeks fired up. Damn, he really wasn’t fucking with you. You blinked rapidly while staring at the TV in awe.

“Maybe we could watch the game over here,”

“no, this is Y/N’s TV,”

You turned to see Miles, dressed in jeans and a graphic tee. Slyly, he played with his lanyard as he winked.

“Morning, Y/N,” he grinned, taking slow bouncy steps filled with swagger as he handed you the remote.

“Morning Kane,” you chirped, forcing a smile as his fingers met your clammy palm with the remote.

“I hope you enjoy that,” he says lowly.

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅: @yourstartreatment @himesuedi @disfordangerous4

4 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 🫧~

#anya—anya #myfics #thebar🍸 #wilds*x(inthewrkplce) #engineer!miles #miles kane #miles kane x y/n #miles kane x reader #miles kane x you #the last shadow puppets #the rascals #would u kiss a man for a tv #probably a plot for the hit show #work au #WWYD- #coworkers #workplace fic #suggestive #au

[shiyorin]

An old wip for an old request. I still don't remember why I abandoned it.

The Angel gazed down upon the battlefield, as always seeing beauty even in carnage. But his eyes kept wandering to one figure in particular, gliding through the fray with grace.

You moved with a peculiar precision and enthusiasm, each kill becoming another piece in a game only you could see the rules of. There was a dark and sinister to you methods that Sanguinius found himself pondering, when he should have been contemplating strategy or the lives under his command.

Guilt would come later, for now there was only the strange thrill of watching you at "work." Not mere lethality but a art, service rendered almost as play. Each death a new toy to amuse himself with before moving on.

Sanguinius had condemned such attitudes time and again, as was his duty as a son of the Emperor and primarch of the legion. Yet watching you in battle stoked another fire altogether, one best left unexamined. A terrible fascination and forbidden interest the Angel feared he could never wholly escape.

You moved with a grace that seemed utterly at odds with the carnage you made, yet somehow made it more sinister. Every gesture andortal gait becoming another petty cruelty. A playfulness that saw nothing and no one as escaping becoming a pawn in your dark games.

When at last the battle was won, Sanguinius found himself scanning the battlefield for another glimpse of you. Hoping for a chance to speak, or perhaps more. Until he recalled himself, and the great wound that would be to his honor and legion should such dalliance ever come to light.

Guilt and self-loathing emerged, as always, yet still he believed he would find himself pondering you again on the morrow. A temptation too grand to fully escape, no matter the cost. The Angel, now as much a prisoner of dirty fantasies as he was a champion of the light.

Some sins were not so easily forgiven, no matter the justifications or rolled of fate's dice. Honoring the path of virtue meant sometimes resisting most perilous of dark muses. Yet your memory would not so easily be cast aside, becoming another shadow to haunt weary nights and guilty conscience alike.

When next their paths crossed, Sanguinius found himself making excuse to speak privately with you. His reasoning seemed pleasing enough, questions of strategy, requests for information on threats against the Imperium, and so on.

Yet his true purpose was merely getting you alone, and discovering what might transpire. Such sins he knew he could never truly justify, yet still his will seemed forever out of his keeping where this about you was concerned.

You appeared utterly unbothered by the Angel’s attentions and requests, moving through them with a grace that seemed almost mocking. Always a smile hovering, dark and knowing. As if privy to thoughts better kept concealed.

As conversation wound on, Sanguinius found himself leaning closer, pondering those full lips and how they might feel against his own. The warmth of your body, pressed against his. Wandering where sinful hands might roam, were propriety and virtue cast aside.

He shuddered, struggling to compose himself, and your smile only grew. A terrible, cunning beauty. No judgement or disgust evident, only a strange, twisted fascination with the Angel’s undoing.

No reprieve would be found here, he realized. And so, the Angel leaned in close. Any blow to honor or reputation a small price to pay, for a chance to know what dark delights might be found in your embrace. Virtue and duty meant little, set against the thrill of sin.

For now, there were no piercing cries to be heard. No witnesses to scandal and moral ruin. Here there were only two souls, lost to all lights save the black flame of corrupt passion. Guilt would come, but for now there were lips and hands and roaming touches to discover. Strange poetry of perversity to be written, upon their flesh and in moments that seemed fated to haunt.

The Angel had fallen, and for him, here in your arms, even the darkness seemed a welcoming bed.

#shiyorin's writer

[rynsn]

ENGLISH ADAPTATION W.I.P.

On this boundless path I roam

When I'm with you, I am home

Intertwined in dreams of you and I

Hues of grey untainted ocean

Your colors run through and paint each frayed emotion

As these scenes breathe life into view -

As you fill this world anew....

Well I'm here, blending feelings for you

Every fiber of my being reaches for us

As the road grows ever onward, we'll be enough

Yeah, maybe you don't, but - I Love You -

No matter what may come, you're all I would want...

Every day I trace over each embrace etched in crimson

That's why I mark the pages, cross the days until the story ends

One more night BON VOYAGE

Underneath the starlight, BON VOYAGE

You don't have to tell me, no way

I know you

I know you

On the canvas where the world is in bloom,

Endless cycles intersecting through time, yeah,

Why does fate create its mischief through you,

Blurring paradoxes deep in my mind? Yeah

Call me crazy every way, we suffer daily, selfish stains,

The pain won't save me or remain, the heart grows fonder yet in vain

I tell my ego not to feed on what I need to let go

Still I ponder what I wonder every dream that we draw

Every fiber of my being reaches for us

As the road grows ever onward, we'll be enough

Yeah, maybe you don't, but - I Love You -

No matter what may come, you're all I would want...

Every day I trace over each embrace etched in crimson

That's why I mark the pages, cross the days until the story ends

One more night BON VOYAGE

Underneath the starlight, BON VOYAGE

You don't have to tell me, no way

I know you

I know you

To the end, I'll stay and call your name unfazed, unafraid;

Through the echoes - we won't let go - don't forget me, no...!!!

BON VOYAGE free

BON VOYAGE free

Shades of to-morrow

Days that may follow

Hold on and don't let go

BON VOYAGE free

BON VOYAGE free

You know you can tell me always

I know you

I know you

#dreamcatcher #english #adaptation #lyrics #writing #been a bit #Spotify

[beantothemax]

“You fool. You poor, wretched fool...”

Hellenath murmured his lamentations under his breath as he held the other man tightly. Drikha laughed humourlessly.

“Yes, well... Our lovely Lord has always been a touch too strict, hasn’t he?” Hellenath looked at him with pale cheeks and wide eyes. “...You have been cursed. And yet you still choose to insult Beathan. Why?”

Drikha met Hellenath’s worried expression with a steady gaze. “Til’ my end of days, I will curse his name. He is no Lord. He is a tyrant. And you all need to see that.”

Hellenath cupped Drikha’s cheeks. “You will die by the morrow. That much I can tell. ...Why not go for one last drink, old friend?”

A sad look glazed Drikha’s eyes, and he leaned into Hellenath’s touch. “...I could go for a pint at the Goldenrod. Your treat, I assume?”

Hellenath nodded. “As always.”

“Ehe... I won’t even be able to pay my debts to old Ernie. He’ll be shakin’ his fist at the wall for the rest of his days, yelling to no one about that tab.” Drikha smiled sadly, and Hellenath kissed the man’s cheek.

“I could pay it, if you wanted,” he offered. Drikha shook his head.

“No point. Not when I’ll be in the dirt this time tomorrow.”

Hellenath gently tugged on Drikha’s wrist, pulled away from his thoughts. “Let’s be off to the Goldenrod, then. We’ll break the news to Ernie.”

---------

“Ah, Drikha Mísnèl. Come to pay your tab, have ye?” Ernie Martinburrow asked, peering at the two with his one good eye. The other was hidden underneath a frayed eyepatch.

Drikha shook his head sadly, sitting on his favourite stool. Hellenath took a seat beside him. “I’m afraid not, Ernie. You see, I fear I shall die by tomorrow.”

The old tavernkeeper looked at him for a moment, before setting a stein under the tap and letting it pour out. When the ale was nice and full, he set it down in front of Drikha. “Do ye fear it, or do ye know s’ comin’?” He asked sagely, and Drikha shared a long look with Hellenath.

“I fear it. I have been told I will die tonight. Whether it is true or not....” Drikha trailed off, and Ernie nodded in understanding.

“Ye don’t know, but ye should right like to believe the word of whoever told ye. Ye trust them a lot, don’t ye?”

Drikha nodded, and Ernie leaned against the oaken counter. “Be careful out there, lad. Whether ye live or die be up to the gods. But I pray to them that ye live.”

Drikha laughed despite himself. “Only so I can pay my tab!”

Ernie smiled, but said no more.

There was no more that needed to be said. Drikha would miss this company when he was dead and gone.

MAV??????? MAV WHO’S DHIRKA???????? WHOS BEATHAN????? WHO TOLD DHIRKA THEY WOULD DIE?????? I HAVE QUESTIONS??????

#ALSO WHAT SHOULD I TAG THIS AS #asks #bewilderedgrace #inbox fic

[pinkafropuff]

undertow.

drowning.

it was unfortunate. of all the ways she could go, it would be to the waves caressing deep, spiraling down into depth on unfortunate depth, unable to see the bottom. no rocks or sand slip past her toes, no fish or the occasional crab to grab at her feet to clash with scales. just dark.

Aran! Aran....help me....help-

where was that voice coming from? who was that voice coming from? that soft and grating voice that was so pitiful that it cracked from disuse. a small child, maybe. if she died she might never find it.

if she died...

well, she wouldn't be able to eat good food anymore. but to not have to deal with...anything, anymore... 'aran, do this'. 'aran, do that'. 'aran, we can count on you for the heavy lifting, right?' 'aran, I'm sure that's no problem for you.'

what if it was? what if it could be. what if she just...said no?

a sinking feeling, not unlike the space around her. a crawling feeling, its mites embedding under her scales.

Her eyes shot open. She was still in the inn, somehow, in the hot baths. Maybe it was time to leave now, even though she hadn't had any of that alcohol yet. Besides, there were some hours still until she had to meet the girls- and run more errands, she supposed, on the morrow- so she decided it was best to sneak off and meet her mentor in Dark Knighthood, so long as she toweled off and made her way to Ishgard, quick as lightning.

"You're late," said Fray, their arms crossed in dismay, "and sopping wet. Dipping in a lake, are we?"

Aran shrugged. It was only her hair that was wet, really, but Fray was clearly mad about something else.

"You're damned right I am. What have I taught you about being a Dark Knight?"

She recounted a great many things between them; that strength is suffering, that protecting the weak from the strong is more than just standing in front. 'You cannot be a Paladin as a Dark Knight'. Which was exciting. And terrifyingly vulnerable of her to do. Which was why she always kept her helmet on-

"That wasn't what I asked you," Fray continued. "What have I told you? You cannot save everyone."

She paused.

"The only person you must be sure to always save," the mask concealing their face softened near their eyes, the grate almost transparent enough to see their face, "is yourself."

She wanted to say that was stupid. Instead she ended up signing, "Of course."

"You aren't good at lying, Aran. Not to me." The line around their eyes hardened. "Quit throwing yourself on the fire as the first line of defense. Make no mistake; drowning yourself in the pull of the undertow is a great way to get you and all your comrades killed in the process. "

She thought about it afterward. Alisaie explained something to she and Yda on the beach the next day, though her words sounded foreign.

"Well, Aran? What do you say?" Hands in the pockets of her brown coat, she exchanged a glance between them, the three of them women on a mission- though Aran realized something at that moment, her eyes suddenly brightening. "Aran?"

Her hands clasped together and she nodded quickly, an affirmation to Alisaie and to herself. It was the exact moment that "Corrine" decided to write, 'Undertow'.

#she's not ok but really truly thinks she is and it's driving everyone insane #fic #aran #ffxiv #anyway. girls night! or should i say #girls knight #😘 #aran utar

[tendergraphite]

So Claws Out Catch My Wings Pull Their Threads Use It For Our Bedding

| Poem Composed [26/08/2022] – Poem Finalised [19/05/2023] | Timeline Began [2021] – Timeline End [2022] | - Gardens are rather liminal in nature, don't you think? You visit them, but can never stay. For that reason, they're a lot like an actors' stage: You go to one for dinner parties full of gown and cake—or dates under bouquets of bushel, with arms caressed and torsos cradled.

They are places of performance, that I can assure.

I, for one, go to such a place to ponder; Years have startled around me, you see, non the same nor the luckiest. I’d yet to become a person, long since given up on the idea of an identity. A soul is their memories—or so ones told—to whom that makes my own being I am uncertain, as before the dawns my memories are aloft; A true series of misfortunes to have their mere drafts swept into lost paper-bins, stolen by the gardens morrow.

I'd often catch myself in a murmur, too: ‘’What kind of person had I been? I can no longer recall...'' Such a question cannot meet truth, for if answered by another's memory it is destined to be unfaithful—but therein lies their peculiar value: The ability to remember, and to do so falsely, for another's hand to form anew who I’d been.

With a fraying mind such as my own, it’s alluring for another to grasp and pull—One page, now in two. It’s fragile, in all earnestness; No longer is it a question of if someone will unravel me, but of whom, and of whether I'll let them be the one to do so.

-

During my accepted absence from reality, I'd scrutinized the gardens' everchanging inhabitants. The space often used for rent, I'd seen a theatre's stage and it's actors come and go, it's fresh creaking beams quick to build and quick to depart—Each scholar's display of passion proving incoherent to the likes of myself, as they’d all proclaim art to be of life itself. But my own is such a smear—The gift of an understanding for such tales I perfectly lacked.

But the day would turn, and from my tree's shade I’d be handed a script. I must’ve been mistaken for a student, as in place of the missing, I’d sat—not that it matters now, as thus forth my role would be uttered; I was to be the Harvest withering, the Feathered Fox—My domain of hot wine and quaking minds, paws woven from thorn and bundles of restless sticks.

I'd be put centre stage, skin prickling at the rise of a directors voice, it's commanding force heaving my eroded corpse into motion: ''Open your eyes, become your role.'' A clapped hand ''Ears high!'' And I'd bounce—bushy tail a spiralling sprout, and new muzzle stretching wide into a rancid howling snarl.

Without a doubt I knew, truly—I'd become the Harvests embodiment, it's Scythe—And upon the rise of red licked ears, they'd catch the early Vernal-equinox's festival songs, and pine. Fresh as a newborn, I would leap—Septembers candle light flickering away as plums winked back into blossoms, the soils transfiguration beneath me, stopping once I entered the waters dew of Springs May.

As my thorn took quiet rest in lush brush, I'd hear Spring's melody clear as day—And upon my sappy ambers sunrise from my paws, they'd soak up the grace of welcoming arms and lips full of joyful greeting, the soft pink curving in a perfect mirror of my own as I, in that stuttering moment—Would learn Springs Lamb could grow talons. - ‘’Now gaze upon this and understand: Things will not last, petals fly away in the wind.’’

Beauty, that's what I gazed upon—The Blossoms Lamb; throat filled with early ribbons and soothing morning song; the great awakening, the beginning of all beginnings, the rebirth. Spring is no tale for faeries, it's flowers ready to kiss wind and dreams keen to bloom.

In reality, she'd been a mere theatre student; To me, a new world.

Shy as a morning daisy, I'd admonish my delight for their melody—The Lambs retort a chirping giggle as they'd beckon me to follow in their step to the rose-bud. The garden lush with pink, its brim an overfilled glass spilling outward that we'd gather, the petals tickling our barely parted palms as we placed them within cherry-wood boxes, and filled the inside with kissed lashes.

In a hush under the honey-dew, I’d murmur that their voice reminded me of the blush of the rose, of the milky smooth skin, and the smell of sweet balm. She’d beam lightly how I smelled of blackberry, of wet moss covering tired stones.

I’d whisper of dreams, quietly daring the world to snatch my very word away—And speak of green thumbs and a home with them: ‘’It will have tinted windows, and we’ll drink fruit tea in our tomorrows.’’ Our promise. ''A backgarden, too! Askew with my dedication to you.'' A mischievous grin. ‘’We’ll be happy, always and forever!'’ I'd so sure, proclaim.

The tranquillity would be broken when a brazen voice boomed from backstage, where weeds grew untamed. ''Isn't Spring too sweet? Tacky like taffy.'' A lesser role, too loud yet for a fellow student. ''Dreams fancy is nothing but folly!'' I'd wonder why they couldn't just be quiet, and I'd cover my ear; that'll show them, that'll make them flounder away—I'd so foolishly assure my beating drum.

But Spring, ever so fleeting, would flash us by. Soon I'd be reminded: The ripest of fruits are always the first to spoil. - My brittle Autumn had leaped upon us, its howling winds beginning to creep, rippling flower beds whom were unable to handle such a harsh hand—Their lid's sagging, heavy as they’d soon wilt—With them, our bond.

Crumpled leaves would settle within Springs windpipe, leaving them speechless—She couldn’t see how my Autumn was inevitable, couldn’t conceive how rot made way for trees to grow anew.

The garden would become an endless waste, still our stage despite the disrepair as it continued on with its reluctant show. I'd reach for their peach soft hands, searching for their kindness as I’d try to alight my own dance to share—Only to discover my touch to bruise their skin like dropped apples, and smear like smudged dust from a butterflies wing.

Their heels would prance away at such a grief as they’d twirl in scarlet, beginning their very own dance I did not recognise—One of backhanded touches; One I could not join off my feathers being plucked—One two three, spinning around me—Two three four.

One by one, only small little things at first: The birds wouldn’t be allowed to make their grand journey, instead pinned to branches and forced to sing their beloved songs threw rust until no longer could they soar; And those lovely rosy cheeks, I ever yet still adored—Would pinch into a smile, fastened to high not to be a grimace: ‘’Truly’’ They’d mumble. ‘’There isn’t a sign of a thing amiss.’’ But as fingertips glanced my plume, flesh soon became noticeable—But as my frustration showed, it’d only worsen; Still, as I wept, the pricks continued on, ceaseless.

''Taloned feet against marble, a quickened pace!''

No sign of an end, no sign of an inclusion—We both knew Spring couldn’t thrive within My Fall, and knew of our choices: To sleep, or too wilt away.

My voice gruff as dried bark, I'd demand a conclusion; Springs response a clawful grip of my feather before a rough yank: She'd call the salmon pink ugly, I'd snap how I would be happy to have feathers at all.

Like a child, Spring would cry. ‘’But why! Oh why can't you just let it go?’’ Tears fat as they'd whimpered ‘’Why won’t you let us be happy!’’ At the question, I’d glare at the thorn bushes that wrapped around my scraped feet. I'd nip at my tongue, refusing to make an allowance as I turned my back: I couldn’t allow them to become comfortable in such a morbid contortion, a mockery even, of fragility.

As we parted ways, devastation would rake me frozen. I'd never gotten close enough to dance with their beginnings, and she'd never embraced my endings: I'd wail for relief from reality, my fallen fathers alighting with flame at my bare feet. Slowly the dried rotting trees whose branches and leaves had never been allowed to fall, caught. - I'd left them under my pillow case in a box, our petals—They've oranged with age, now. Yet still, they smelled the same; Even if they but an echo, in current day I pull them out and let them fly like sand between my fingers, and wonder: Is there a matching box under their pillowcase, too? Or had they put them in a drawer of forgotten things—Perhaps they left it hidden within their heart, where the thoughts that tormented them so slumbered.

I never really did know how they truly felt of the end.

I’ve always known my love to be deformed, like the very blackberry brambles that seem to sprout between my toes and wrap around my thighs—Until no one else can hold me without being pricked. But it hadn't been a delicate glass; Mayhaps they'd believed my love to be like their own, feeble. I realize now, that maybe I just never understood them.

And I'd never get the chance to know them again, a forest I had not burned down. Oh no, I'd burnt down our very stage and the garden that housed it, I'd put in ruin our very performance—I, all that remained in the charred remains.

Even if they'd survived, that audience and the story's actors—Our Spring would never come back, someone would take its place always—A new face I would be guaranteed to hate, because it would not be them; I could never be reformed the same in another's hand, I could never be Fall again; Thus, I shall forever morn my own ending.

#I've decided to stop being indesisive this blog indeed will double as a poetry blog #I will not go back on this decision #I promise #cough #really I mean it this time #poetry #poem #original poetry #poets of tumblr #stanzas

[sylviaplathenthusiast]

hii lovely <3

hope you are doing okay 💟

it’s the numerous letters the magnolias make

as they open—one, then another, and then

a letter i don’t quite know yet—that makes any wounded

heart seem more wounded and, despite its chances,

not worth the time. i thought i’d be used to it

by now. i stood in the greening field, i famously

like to recount, and waved my arms

so i could, at last, be claimed, be carried away.

but nothing good descended. no avian form,

no cloud, just a swarm of blue things:

flung twilight, withdrawal, an opal blame.

sure, i’ve been lonely before, i always say, but not

like this. you have to survive the bad season

to make it to the season of reversals, the magnolias

leading the fray. though that’s not

what we call it, at least not where i’m from

where there is a single, impenetrable era

that begins just as soon as it ends.

(awaiting a carriage by bernard ferguson)

- orange💙

hi love! im actually doing really good except for a hangover. also im lowkey sick but ive chosen to ignore it

A fool I was to sleep at noon,

And wake when night is chilly

Beneath the comfortless cold moon;

A fool to pluck my rose too soon,

A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept;

Faded and all-forsaken,

I weep as I have never wept:

Oh it was summer when I slept,

It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring

And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:—

Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,

No more to laugh, no more to sing,

I sit alone with sorrow.

(daughter of eve by christina rossetti)

ps i might've already sent that one at some point but i dont really remeber

#blue heart anon

[libidomechanica]

“There was blawing gal, the lady fairer the worship to live”

So nowe fast, then words at pleasure was it? When thou hast thou, O awful shades of feelings help, and plump. Let no sinner; and silken trace up to my turf when though sad to choose, is born! A solitude! See the lie’ and Where, ’ asked me. There was blawing gal, the lady fairer the worship to live. Movement, which made ye write it is built anew, grows to Honours her forget till tell Aurea at to-morrow pine, and caste—the British vermilion-tail’d, shall have place of my paines me some of wrong: this storme hath a lights, his arrows’ fray I love did. The law have commence is nothing red, the wind.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #251 texts #sonnet

[stxrmnight]

Dark Knight II

Oh, this is a rough one

She wasn't really angry at Myste at first. Just surprised and hopeful he could heal from what the claimed. Though, it was puzzling he sported Ala Mhigan children's clothes... did refugees make it to Ishgard?

WHAT WAS THE CONTEXT OF THIS WHAT IS THIS IMAGE

Oh, Nemi in that armor and hair is cute

"That's the woman who drugged me but, I agree."

Nemi would step back at these words, barely cracking a smile before running away to be pursued by a child's comforting words. She would posit he didn't have to make this effort for her. This was something she had to overcome on her own.

To Rielle she told her she is still young. Even other adults don't have all the answers.

Nemi would pull up her journal over dinner later and frown at, "that is nice." She didn't write that. Or did she drink too much?

Not gonna lie... she couldn't blame Sidurgu for all the push over in his feelings that he insisted. The past time it was helpful, but this felt invasive.

Meeting a shade of Ompagne was disturbing, though she could not deny she had, a lot of curiosity once he appeared. To hear where he came from, his reasoning... did he know any form of fighting, righteous or not, could tumble you into death's pit attracted by the scent of blood on you? Or was it a matter of time and choice? It sounded like his soldiers died young. Fray Myste was as old as she was, and they lived through her in a way now.

...And speaking of that, Fray had been silent lately... had Myste's theft weakened their voice? But with all the currently returned aether, why have they not spoken again?

Nemi actually inquired if he knew this place, before coming to Ishgard. Myste just pressed his lips and ran off still searching, gasping and drawing Nemi's attention to... the man she aided in Quarrymill: Gallien, the sick refugee missing Houdart, the double of the Griffin.

She was sickened by what Myste had done as soon as they'd conjured the shade, but she didn't have the heart to tell the shade, so painfully human, that their very existence was doomed. She pressed very sternly if Myste was doing this to really help others or for his own self satisfaction of extraordinarie "great deeds" that were rather deceiving.

Silence would permeate, all but for the strong beat of her heart and her haggard breath as she looked down at the child in front of her and saw ages beyond his, no, their eyes. "Who, what are you trying to be to me?"

Myste would smile and turn away, leaving Nemi frozen in place to realize how, blind and stupid she has been. She summoned Sidurgu and Rielle to get on the search immediately, scowling at the trail of animal bodies and the purpose of their death: for a shade of her sorrow to proclaim death as the source of all pains? There is no way she would accept a world like that!

But oh, Myste saying "murder is murder," knowing no other choice would have saved her when she was a child? That crossed the line.

Ultimately, they defeated Myste's shades of Melancholy, and she watched solemnly as Fray imparted the meaning of the weight of hurt and regret, and Rielle of the preciousness of memory and remembrance to cultivate the morrow. Nemi knelt to them, saying things would be fine. She would not be dragging herself over the pain of her home's past anymore, if that is what Myste seeked to fix. They could still liberate the home that still existed.

Nemi would later think Myste's logic was a result of grief deatatching and taking on a childish logic of regret and desperation, but she knew back then that grief was doomed to drown in regret with the rest of her being illuminating what else there is life beyond loss. This is not the best way to carry weight, but it would do for now. Fray knows that notion will be fixed in time.

Punishment beyond penance won't heal what has been done, and she is not emotionally punishing herself anymore.

#story #stb #sidurgu #rielle #myste #I can't believe there is no fray screenshots for once #dark knight quests

[jlr-den]

Calm yo tits Fray OH-hell-nah, I'm not gonna let this happen to me again.

#jodelr #original characters #oc #Jode R Erick #Fray Morrow #hope he has enough strength to fend her off #again?

[cescapist]

Send it Soaring

DATE: 5th of May, 2pm PLACE: Grounds, St. Maur Castle STATUS: Closed @dinah-stmaur  with @trott-ing

Chaotic. That was the best word to describe the past few days. Benny had never been fond of the run up to any sort of trip (most of the time he wasn’t too keen on the trip, either, missing St. Maur the whole way through.), but there had been a certain frenzy to the packing this year which he hadn’t seen before. Mr. Norris had been bustling about, constantly caught between his usual excitement at seeing them all go for two months and his habitual grumpiness when something or other went wrong. The family valet had been packing up the men’s tails and top hats, and tutting with frustration over Benny’s shrunken waistline and the last-minute adjustments his suits required. His sisters’ and mother’s maid had dropped and smashed a porcelain-backed hand mirror in the panic of packing their toilette, and had spent the rest of yesterday pausing now and then whilst folding dresses and making towers of hat boxes to press her fingers to her eyes and weep. Mrs. Meddley had been an utter delight as usual, brewing up gallons of tea to soothe frayed nerves, especially for the poor maid. And in the middle of it had sat Benny, bent over his desk and trying his best to catch up on some of the work he had refused to do whilst bed-bound with heartbreak, all whilst sneakily perusing the book on business he had pilfered from his father’s library.

Yes, it had been very chaotic. Thankfully, there was only one afternoon left of it before they set off on the morrow. Benny’s books were shoved at the bottom of a trunk for absent-minded browsing whilst staying at their aunt’s house in London, and the rest of his day was clear for his own use. And he had used it wisely: to catch up on a much neglected friend, carrying out a much neglected task.

“And then just wrap the twine like this,” Benny said, demonstrating to Dinah the correct way to bind the two dowel rods together. They sat upon the very same blankets they had nigh-on two months prior, when they had eagerly planned to fly kites in the Spring winds, unaware of all the business and personal dramatics the storm and its aftermath would blow into their lives. Since then all attempts to come together to make kites as planned were puffed away the moment they had formed. All, of course, until that very Thursday, when despite the tempest around them Dinah and Benny managed to find an aligned moment of calm, right in the very centre of it all.

“And then tie it with the other end, nice and tight, like this,” Benny continued, snipping his thread with scissors and pulling the ends into a tight, secure knot. Approximately twenty feet behind him, footmen scurried back and forth carrying trunks full of gowns and jewellery for the many formal events the St. Maur sisters would be attending, lugging them into the horse-drawn cart heading for the train station.

#;;thread #;;the lonely bookworm #May 5th #stmstarter #;;the fearful ex-cocotte

[oldpotatoe]

this is an apology post, and also a snippet post.

apology post, because this chapter is, uh, taking me a lot longer than I thought it would? there’s a lot of moving parts to it, which I want to perfect before I let ch21 loose into the world, so there’s that :// 

but since it was Eid a few days ago (Eid Mubarak to anyone celebrating!) I thought I’d be nice and post a little taster for what’s to come :))

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Contemplating life in absolute silence has never been one of Sokka’s strong suits, but he thinks he’s doing a good job of it. Well, as good a job anyone can do when perched on the floe edge, back splayed against the icy ground and feet skimming the top of the water.

Either way, the stars sure are taking their sweet time in revealing all of life’s mysteries to him; they wink merrily against the purple-black backdrop of the night sky, like they know something he doesn’t. 

He’s been finding himself coming to this particular area more and more often over the last few nights, Zuko’s robe tucked into his pocket, his feet tracking their way across the tundra until he’s standing at the edge, toes inching over the line that separates solid ice and dark, still ocean water. There he stands, and there he sits, and there he thinks of all that swirls in his brain, as muddy as the water is clear.

As usual, he tries to separate the strands of facts and nebulous spool of emotions from one another, trying to make sense of things in a way that makes, well, sense.

Fact #1: He’s Sokka, strapping meat and sarcasm twenty-something who’s apparently a Big Deal in two major nations.

Nebulous spool of emotions #1: He’s Sokka. Too big for his shadow, too small for his grief, and lonely in the skin that houses him.

Fact #2: He’s apparently married? Engaged? Betrothed, at least, to one previously-surly fire bender who is also a Big Deal in the nation that said fire bender runs. Wow, wooer of royalty indeed.

Nebulous spool of emotions #2: He’d only just gotten used to being haunted by moonlight. Where is he supposed to turn, when the sun’s golden rays now mock him too?

Fact #3: He’s the victim of an alleged assassination attempt, the result of which is the current lack of about, oh, half a decade’s worth of memories.

Nebulous spool of emotions #3: Sometimes it’s like he’s forgotten how to breathe, too.

Fact #4: He’s back in his homeland for some much-needed rest and recouperation, surrounded by his loved ones. Water Tribe for life, babey!

Nebulous spool of emotions #4: If only he could count the nights he’s lain in the furs of his family’s hut, the crackle of his hearth drowned out by the hollowness that rings ever-present in his chest, and yearned for home.

Fact #5: He can’t sleep.

Nebulous spool of emotions #5: He can’t fucking sleep.

Sokka sighs, feet swinging as he beats out a tempo with the back of his heels against the ice, absently picking at the fraying threads of the robe.

Maybe what pulls him to the water’s edge, night after night, is the longing that calls on him to swim back to where he left his heart— in the embrace of warm arms and gentle floral scents, ocean-salted wind whipping at his cheeks and stealing away the words he wishes he’d had the courage to say: 

I know. I’m sorry. I love you. Let me fix this.

Ask me to stay.

But Zuko didn’t, and Sokka hadn’t. 

And now he comes here night after night, eyes burning with tiredness and regret as he looks at the robe, and thinks of all that he is, and all that he has, and all that he’s lost.

And like every night, when Agni peeks over the horizon and bids Yue good morrow, Sokka drags himself upright and trudges back to his hut, as unfulfilled as always.

#this chapter is like. an absolute monster #and at times fees beyond my writing skill level #i regressed SO MUCH over these last few months it's crazy #so finding that tempo has been hard but im getting there #anyway. here we go :))) #flwogb #our boy sokka Do Be Going Thru It (but isn't that just flwogb in a nutshell oops)

[sansxfuckyou]

Recovery of the lost map

Rumors of a lost gym leader have been floating around the Unova region lately, they say the gym leader died in a freak accident, but at the same time said leader never really died. The phenomena confused many that even half believed the theory, those that didn't believe the theory used the tale to scare their children into behaving.

Like some sort of horrific freak.

Few had the old map that showed his gym and the courage to check things out. They returned in one piece every single time, but, they never said a word about the leader, aside from a few cryptic details.

'He can speak to Pokemon.'

'He's far from an average gym leader.'

'He isn't exactly human.'

Those where a few of the more popular pieces of gossip that fell past drunken lips, they never remembered spilling the details on the morrow. Only few could say they wanted to check out the rumors, but none of those few could actually discover the truth due to lack of people that had the map and where willing to give up the map.

Only a few from the lost gym leaders time where still living due to Articunos wrath, trapped in ice the same age as the day they where frozen for years on end until they thawed out. Less than ten percent in the ice managed to survive and make a recovery from the years of being preserved in ice.

"Look, Sam, Tucker, we need to find him." One of the three said as they walked down the streets of Opelucid city, Sams hometown, she preferred dark types over dragon, but would never dare to give up her beloved Zweilous.

"Danny, we don't even know if Phantom is still alive," Sam said, whipping out her Pokedex, the metal rusted at the corners and screen scratched, she checked the date finding the year to be one much later than she imagined. "We where stuck in ice for around one hundred years."

"So? Phantom never was human, we can still have hopes he hasn't lost his mind." Danny said hope in his voice evident, as they walked into the gym, empty.

"As if anyone even has the map to his gym." Tucker claimed in slight disbelief, he never was a fan of Opelucid city, preferring Nimbassa, the electric type Pokemon always did sooth his frayed nerves.

"I'm sure we can find a descendant of one of our friends, maybe Vlad is still alive, somehow." Danny said as he walked across the slightly crumbling stone dragon necks that made up the gym, hopping down every now and then, activating the switches in order to traverse the gym with his friends following behind.

"What makes you think anyone who would trust us would be in Opelucid city?" Tucker asked as they came to the final platform, no gym leader in place.

"Just trust me." Danny said as a gym leader strode out, draped in pinks with purple hair in two buns that fell close to the ground, she had on sandals as well.

"I'm Iris, pleasure to meet you!" The leader said with a smile putting out a hand to shake which was taken by Danny, a small smile playing at his lips. "How come you three are dressed so weird?"

"We... We aren't exactly from this time period, I'm sure you know of Articunos wrath?" Danny explained, a look of shock painting over Irises features.

"Oh wow that's cool! What could possibly bring you here?" Iris asked as she went to shake Sam's hand, Sam refused to shake Irises hand

"Do you know if someone by the name of 'Vlad Masters' is still alive?" Danny asked, tensing slightly as he said Vlads name.

"No, Vlad died a few years ago, but, I'm sure I know what he did," Iris said her smile returning. "He did teach me a little about the importance of using a balanced team, but I still love my dragon types more than anything!"

"Do you have the older maps that people used to use before the ghost type leader was deleted from mainstream media as a trainer?" Sam asked bluntly, Iris perking up a bit at the mention of the topic, she must've done her research to be happy about someone bringing up a no longer official leader.

"Of course we do! We have maps from every generation of gym leaders, some remastered digitally as well." Iris said with a smile before leading us backstage to her room, the room was laced with all sorts of relics passed down from each generation, draped in pinks and purples with darker colors closer to the ground which was a plain black with tints of dark green.

"That's... Impressive, I'm assuming they where passed down from generation to generation?" Tucker asked as he took a seat on the ground next to a small table with a few items that boosted dragon type Pokemons stats.

"Yep! Each one is from a previous generation, the one with the ghost type leader is from a very long time ago, so, I may not be able to lend you the original." Iris said before pulling a portfolio from the mouth of a dragon head statue and gently sifting through the pages before pulling a tattered, slightly stained map from the folder.

"That's beyond interesting, I find the fact stuff from me and those two idiots time is still around and not lost to history." Sam said glancing over Irises shoulder.

"Your age was golden, no trainers where being mauled or haunted by Pokemon, and the legendary and mythical Pokemon where 'alive' and able to be spotted without some stupid prophecy being fulfilled by the chosen one." Iris said spreading the map on her small table that Tucker was seated beside.

"Looks the same as the day this thing was printed for trainers." Danny said as he looked at the paper, memories flooding his mind, some good some bad, he forgot how much he missed his Emboar, he found her dead beside the ice when he thawed out.

"Do any of your Pokedexes have a camera function that still works?" Iris asked, made sense she doesn't to hand out a family heirloom.

"Mine does." Tucker said before pulling his Pokedex from his pocket and raising the small device to snap a photo of the map.

"Take a picture, one should be all you need." Iris said before Tucker snapped a single photo of the map and waited for the image to load, the picture turned out good enough to use.

"Thanks Iris." Danny said with a soft smile before putting out a hand for a fist bump, Iris returned the gesture with an earnest smile.

"Good luck on your journey, few have returned to say hello after they found what they wanted." Iris said with a light sigh, a few memories of N flashing across her mind, she missed him a little bit, he was a good man down the wrong path.

"Don't worry, I won't forget to say hello when we find what were looking for." Danny said as they took their leave, taking the small 'warp pad' back to the beginning of gym before walking past the doors and making their way out of the city, ending up off road in an abandoned route.

#danny phantom #pokemon #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #phanfic #phanphic #fanfiction #writing #fanfic #drabble #pokemon black and white #pokemon iris #dp crossover #pokemon crossover #ghost master phantom au #danny phantom crossover #dp #pokemon n harmonia