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poop-diddy-scoop · 24 days

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MMMMM HI I'm same anon that liked temptations lol 💙

worms in my brain want more creepy pervy panty sniffing desperate-pining Jareth, and I'm INCLINED to agree with them (Only if u want to, of course HEHE)

Gonna use this as a brian dump:

I think Jareth would like distancing himself from the reader, especially if he has strong carnal feelings towards them aswell as romantic. It's almost like a taboo in his mind, and to him- there's nothing more poetically tempting than wanting so desperately what you can't have.

jareth x reader - temptations (part two)

a/n: my lovely, i am with you on the perv Jareth train FULLY. such good ideas i just had to write part two.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting ethereal light through the ornate windows of the labyrinthine castle. In the heart of the maze-like corridors, a tension simmered, an invisible thread connecting two souls in a dance of desire and denial.

You, restless and tormented, sat in your chamber surrounded by canvases and spools of thread, determined to distract yourself from the allure of forbidden desires. Your fingers danced over the fabric, weaving intricate patterns with each delicate stitch, but your mind wandered, drawn inexorably to thoughts of him.

Jareth, the enigmatic ruler of the Goblin Kingdom, haunted your thoughts like a ghost in the night. His piercing gaze, his velvet voice, his commanding presence—all stirred a storm of emotions within you that threatened to consume you whole.

But you had made a vow to yourself, a promise to resist the urges that had led you down a path of shame and secrecy. No longer would you succumb to the temptations that whispered in the dark corners of your mind. No longer would you trespass into his domain, defiling his belongings in a desperate bid for release.

Instead, you sought solace in art, pouring your longing and frustration into every brushstroke and every stitch. And yet, despite your best efforts, you could not escape the ache that lingered in your heart, a constant reminder of the forbidden desires that burned within you.

As the hours stretched into the night, you heard a soft rustling outside your door, followed by the faint sound of footsteps retreating into the darkness. Curiosity pricked at your senses, but you pushed it aside, unwilling to entertain the possibility that he might be lurking outside, watching and waiting.

But Jareth was indeed watching, his gaze burning with a hunger that mirrored your own. From the shadows, he observed you with a mixture of longing and self-reproach, his heart torn between desire and duty.

For he, too, was ensnared in the tangled web of desire, his thoughts consumed by visions of you—of the way your eyes sparkled with mischief, of the way your laughter echoed through the halls, of the way your touch sent shivers down his spine.

But he dared not act on his impulses, for to do so would be to court disaster. You were forbidden fruit, a temptation that threatened to unravel the carefully constructed facade of his kingdom. And yet, despite his best efforts to keep his distance, he found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

And so, he resorted to desperate measures, stealing glimpses of you from afar, stealing mementos of your presence to satisfy the cravings that gnawed at his soul. It was a game of cat and mouse, played out in the shadows of the night, each fleeting moment of intimacy driving them further apart.

As Jareth retreated to the solitude of his chambers, a stolen dressing gown clutched tightly in his grasp, the air crackled with anticipation. The garment, heavy with your scent, teased his senses, igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume his every thought.

With trembling hands, he undid the intricate fastenings of his own attire, his fingers fumbling in their haste to rid himself of the barriers that stood between him and the object of his desire. And when at last he stood naked before the flickering flames of the hearth, he hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest.

But the allure of your scent proved too intoxicating to resist, and with a shuddering breath, he draped the stolen garment over his body, relishing the way it enveloped him in a cocoon of warmth and familiarity. Closing his eyes, he let out a low groan of pleasure, his fingers trailing over the soft fabric as if tracing the curves of your form.

"Oh, you wicked creature," he murmured, his voice thick with longing. "What have you done to me?"

But there was no answer, only the echo of his own words as they hung in the stillness of the room. And yet, in his mind's eye, he could see you before him, your laughter dancing on the air, your eyes alight with mischief and desire.

"Is this what you wanted?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a breathless sigh. "To drive me to madness with your scent?"

With a desperate hunger that bordered on madness, he pressed the garment to his lips, inhaling deeply as if trying to capture the essence of you within his very soul. And as the intoxicating aroma filled his senses, he felt himself slipping further into the abyss of desire, his inhibitions crumbling like dust in the wind.

"You temptress," he groaned, his words a mixture of adoration and self-loathing. "You know not what you do to me."

But still, he could not bring himself to let go, to relinquish the hold that you had over him. And so, with a reckless abandon born of desperation, he surrendered himself to the pleasures of the flesh, his hands roaming over the stolen garment with a fervor that bordered on madness.

"Oh, gods," he cried out, his voice raw with need. "I am nothing but a filthy pervert, a slave to my own desires."

But even as he chastised himself, he could not deny the ecstasy that coursed through his veins, the exquisite agony of pleasure and pain mingling together in a heady symphony of sensation. And as he reached the pinnacle of his release, he let out a primal roar of triumph, his essence spilling forth in a torrent of ecstasy.

And as the last echoes of his climax faded into the night, he collapsed onto the bed, spent and sated, the stolen garment still clutched tightly in his grasp. And in that moment, as he lay tangled in the threads of his own desire, he knew that he would never be free from the hold that you had over him—for you were the very fabric of his being, woven into the tapestry of his soul for all eternity.

———

The sun painted the labyrinthine gardens with strokes of golden light as you sat amidst the blooms, your brush moving with practiced ease across the canvas. The air was filled with the heady scent of flowers, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Lost in the rhythm of your painting, you scarcely noticed the figure that approached until he stood before you, a shadow against the sun-dappled path. Looking up, you found yourself locking eyes with Jareth, his presence both electrifying and unnerving.

"Ah, my dear," he said with a smile that did little to mask the tension that crackled between you. "I see you've taken to the gardens once again."

You nodded, a polite smile playing at your lips. "Yes, I find inspiration in their beauty."

His gaze lingered on your painting, his eyes tracing the lines and colors with a hint of admiration. "And I must say, your work is truly remarkable. You have a talent for capturing the essence of nature."

The compliment warmed your heart, and you found yourself returning the favor. "Thank you, Jareth. I must say, your new cloak suits you quite well. It's perfect for these outdoor excursions."

A flicker of surprise passed over his features before he nodded in acknowledgment. "Why, thank you. I must admit, I find it quite comfortable."

For a moment, a fragile peace settled between you, the tension that had simmered beneath the surface momentarily forgotten. But as you both returned to your ministrations, a palpable unease hung in the air, a silent reminder of the secrets that lay between you.

And as you worked, you could hear the faint murmur of voices, muttered words spoken under the breath—a habit that you and Jareth shared, a shield against the vulnerability of open conversation.

"I should not be here," he muttered to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper. "This is folly, madness."

You glanced up, catching the troubled expression that darkened his features, and felt a pang of sympathy tug at your heart. "Jareth," you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "Is something troubling you?"

He started at the touch, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. "It is nothing," he replied curtly, pulling away. "Merely... thoughts that plague me."

But you could see through the facade, could sense the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. And as you returned to your painting, a sense of unease settled over you, a nagging feeling that things between you and Jareth were far from resolved.

And so, you painted on, the colours of the garden swirling on the canvas before you, a reflection of the tangled emotions that bound you together. And as the day faded into night, you knew that the threads of tension that wove between you and Jareth would not be so easily unravelled.

Chapter 4: Threads of Revelation

As the moon cast its silvery glow over the labyrinth, you found yourself once again succumbing to the forbidden urges that plagued your mind. Shame and desire battled for dominance within you as you lay sprawled upon Jareth's new cloak, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you sought release.

But even as pleasure washed over you in waves, a voice whispered in the back of your mind, reminding you of the promises you had made to yourself. You cursed yourself for your weakness, for your inability to resist the siren call of temptation.

Guilt gnawed at your conscience as you rose from the floor, the stolen garment clutched tightly in your grasp. With trembling hands, you hurried from the room, intent on hiding your shame away in the depths of the castle's laundry.

But as you made your way down the dimly lit corridors, a sound caught your attention—a soft rustling, the echo of footsteps in the darkness. Instinctively, you pressed yourself against the wall, your heart pounding in your chest as you peered around the corner.

And there, illuminated by the flickering torchlight, stood Jareth, his expression haunted as he gazed down at the garment in his hands—a garment that you recognized all too well as your own floral shirt. A wave of realisation washed over you, and suddenly, everything fell into place.

You watched in stunned silence as he placed the shirt into the washing basket, his movements slow and deliberate, his guilt written plainly across his features. And in that moment, you knew that you were not alone in your transgressions—that he, too, had succumbed to the same temptations that had plagued you both.

A bitter laugh bubbled up from deep within you as you watched him walk away, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. "Well, isn't this a fine mess," you muttered to yourself, shaking your head in disbelief. "Seems we're both a couple of dirty perverts, aren't we?"

You put his cloak in the washing basket.

———

Once again a long day of chatting with goblins and finishing embroideryou made your way back to your chamber, the warmth of the sun still lingering on your skin. But as you approached your door, a sense of unease crept over you—a feeling of dread that settled like a stone in the pit of your stomach.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you pushed open the door, your hand trembling with apprehension. And as you stepped into the dimly lit room, you felt your blood run cold at the sight that greeted you.

There, sprawled upon your bed like some fallen god, lay Jareth, his naked form a stark contrast against the softness of your linens. His eyes were closed in ecstasy, his lips parted in a silent moan as he buried his face in a pair of your used panties, inhaling deeply as if trying to capture the essence of you within his very soul.

Shock and arousal warred within you as you stood frozen in place, unable to tear your gaze away from the scene unfolding before you. His movements were frantic, desperate, as he rutted against your pillow with a fervour that bordered on madness.

For a long moment, you could only stare, your mind unable to process the sheer audacity of his actions. And then, as if sensing your presence, he froze, his eyes snapping open in horror as he realised that you stood mere feet away from him.

You both stared at each other in silence, the air heavy with tension as you struggled to find the words to break the spell that bound you together. And then, finally, he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

"You... you shouldn't be here," he stammered, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he scrambled to cover himself with the tangled sheets. "I-I can explain—"

But you held up a hand, cutting off his protests before they could spill forth. "No need," you said softly, your voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos that roiled within you. "I think I've seen quite enough."

There was a moment of silence as he struggled to find the right words, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. And then, with a sigh of resignation, he spoke again, his voice low and tinged with regret.

"Perhaps... perhaps it's time we stopped pretending," he said, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of longing and apprehension. "Perhaps it's time we faced the truth of our desires."

You felt a flicker of something stir within you—a spark of hope, perhaps, or maybe just resignation. For years, you had danced around each other, denying the undeniable pull that drew you together like moths to a flame. But now, with the truth laid bare before you, you could no longer deny the longing that burned within your soul.

As you stood before Jareth, the air heavy with anticipation, he reached out to you with a hand trembling with desire. "Come to me, my dear," he whispered, his voice a seductive melody that sent shivers down your spine. "Let us cast aside pretence and embrace the truth of our desires."

With a hesitant nod, you stepped forward, the distance between you closing with each faltering step. His eyes burned with a hunger that mirrored your own, a hunger that threatened to consume you both in its fiery embrace.

And as you joined him on the bed, the softness of the sheets enveloping you in their warmth, he gazed upon you with a reverence that took your breath away. "Undress for me, my sweet," he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire. "Let me worship every inch of your divine form."

With trembling hands, you began to shed your clothing, each piece falling away like petals from a flower, revealing the beauty that lay beneath. And with each garment that slipped from your skin, Jareth's gasp of awe and admiration filled the room, his praise a heady symphony that echoed in your ears.

"Oh, my love," he whispered, his voice a hushed prayer as he drank in the sight of you. "You are more exquisite than I could ever have imagined."

And as you sat before him, bared and vulnerable, you felt a sense of liberation wash over you—a freedom born of surrender to the passion that bound you together. For in this moment, there were no secrets, no pretences—only the raw, unbridled desire that pulsed between you like a living thing.

As Jareth's hands trailed down your body, his touch igniting sparks of desire along your skin, you couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation coursing through your veins. His fingers danced over the curve of your breasts, his touch so expert and knowing that it sent shivers down your spine.

"You truly are a vision, my dear," he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire as he caressed your skin. "Your breasts are a work of art—so perfect, so exquisite."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his words, a playful glint in your eye as you replied, "Flattery will get you everywhere, Jareth. But I must say, your compliments are quite flattering."

He chuckled in response, his breath warm against your skin as he leaned in to kiss your neck. His lips were soft and insistent, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as they moved along your skin.

But then, to your surprise, he gave a little nip, a bite mark that sent a jolt of pleasure shooting through you. You gasped, a mixture of surprise and arousal flooding your senses as he pulled away, his tongue wet and drooling as he licked over the mark, soothing it with gentle strokes.

"Mmm, tastes like heaven," he murmured, his voice a low growl of desire as he continued to lavish attention on your neck. "I could spend eternity exploring every inch of you, love."

As Jareth lowered you gently onto the bed, his gaze burning with intensity, you felt a rush of anticipation coursing through your veins. His hands roamed over your skin, igniting sparks of desire with each touch, as he positioned himself above you, his eyes locked with yours in a silent promise of ecstasy.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this, my dear," he whispered, his voice husky with desire as he hovered over you. "To have you all to myself, to feel you beneath me, writhing in pleasure."

His words sent a thrill of excitement coursing through you, a mixture of anticipation and arousal flooding your senses. "I've wanted you too, Jareth," you replied, your voice barely more than a breathless sigh. "More than you could ever know."

He chuckled in response, a dark and hungry sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Oh, my dear, I know all too well," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "I've seen you, you know. Caught glimpses of you in the throes of passion, humping my clothes like a wanton little thing."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his words, but there was also a thrill of excitement coursing through you—a sense of liberation at being seen and desired so openly.

"And let me tell you," he continued, his voice a low growl of desire, "it was the most arousing thing I've ever witnessed. Your hips moving so feverishly, your body so perfect and beautiful—I couldn't tear my eyes away."

You swallowed hard, the heat of his gaze searing into your soul as you met his eyes. "I wanted it to be my thigh," he confessed, his voice a low rasp of desire. "I wanted it to be my skin you were grinding against, my touch that sent you spiralling into ecstasy."

He positioned himself, and he slid in with such ease you both gasped.

His movements were deep and hard, each thrust driving you to the edge of ecstasy as he ground himself against you with a fervour that bordered on desperation.

"Oh god," you whimpered, your voice a breathless plea as he filled you completely. "P-please, Jareth—"

But he paid no heed to your pleas, lost in the throes of passion as he pounded into you with an intensity that left you gasping for air. "Shit," he moaned unabashedly, his voice thick with desire. "Oh fucking hell, my darling—such a tight little cunt, aren't you? Taking me so well."

His words sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through you, igniting flames of desire that threatened to consume you whole. "Yes," you cried out, your voice a mixture of pleasure and pain as he continued to thrust into you with reckless abandon. "Oh yes, Jareth—harder—"

And he obliged, his movements becoming even more intense as he drove himself deeper into you, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body. "Fuck," he growled, his voice raw with desire. "You feel so good, my love. So fucking good."

As waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsed uncontrollably, every nerve ending tingling with ecstasy. Your cunt clenched around Jareth's cock like a vise, milking him for every drop of pleasure as you rode the waves of your orgasm.

"Oh fuck," Jareth groaned, his voice thick with desire as he continued to pound into you through your climax. "That's it, my sweet, cum for me. Make that pretty little pussy of yours throb around me."

His words only served to intensify the sensations coursing through you, sending you spiralling even further into the depths of pleasure. "Yes," you cried out, your voice a breathless whimper as you clung to him desperately. "Oh god, Jareth—I'm—"

But before you could finish your sentence, a second wave of pleasure crashed over you, more intense than the first. You could feel every inch of Jareth's cock buried deep inside you, stretching you to your limits as he fucked you through your orgasm with a relentless rhythm.

And as he felt you tighten around him, he let out a guttural groan of pleasure, his hips pistoning into you with renewed fervour. "Fuck," he cried out, his voice raw with desire. "You're so fucking tight, my darling. Sucking me in like a good girl."

You could feel him nearing the edge, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. "You've got the prettiest little cunt, don't you?" he moaned, his voice a mixture of lust and admiration. "So fucking perfect, wrapped around my cock like it was made for me."

And then, with a final thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing with the force of his climax as he spilled his seed deep within your cunt. "Oh fuck," he cried out, his voice a primal roar of pleasure as he emptied himself inside you, filling you with his essence.

And as the last echoes of his release faded into the night, you collapsed into each other's arms, spent and sated, the echoes of your shared ecstasy lingering in the air like a promise of things to come.

No need for defiling clothes when you have him.

#jareth fanfic #jareth x reader #jareth smut #labyrinth fanfic

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msfcatlover · 1 year

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I am insane for your tma x dc headcanons! I have to ask, do you think any of the other dc characters are entity aligned? Heres a few hcs i had:

The Scarecrow: honestly might be an avatar touched by all the fears like Jonathan Sims. Probably like Sims, he started researching the fears and Scarecrow became obsessed w them. If i had to go with a single entity, i would say he is Dark/Corruption/Eye alligned

The Riddler: Eye or Spiral alligned

The Joker: slaughter or corruption (the angst if Jason shared an entity w his murderer!)

Poison Ivy: Extinction?

Harley Quinn: hunt or stranger aligned? She was hunting down the cure for Jokers issues, but he wasnt who she thought he was and she became the prey

Killer Croc: Flesh babey!

Two face: maybe another slaughter?

The penguin: Web

I dont know enough about non-batman characters to do others tbh

Okay, so in my opinion plenty of characters have been touched by various Entities or even marked by them in ways that can motivate them without fully being Avatars or aligning themselves with those Entities. Like, Scarecrow just screams to me of someone who was touched by the Spiral (and is probably in real danger of becoming an Avatar,) but he’s holding on to his own sense of rationality as hard as he can and trying to make Fear make scientific sense. Someone who would walk out of an impossible corridor, and spend weeks measuring the outside of the building trying to find where the hell that corridor was supposed to fit, before sending someone else in to see if they experienced the same thing, only to become fixated on the differences… Not saying that’s what happened, but Jonathan Crane had some kind of experience with the embodiment of Unreality itself, and he definitely feeds it regularly.

(Harley, likewise, seems more like a victim of the Spiral, Corruption, or Stranger than anything else. Oh, she’s still a supervillain/anti-hero depending on the day, but her origin story is of her mind being broken by the Joker’s abuse. That is either depressingly mundane, or being chewed up & spat out by one of those three Entities.)

I hadn’t thought much about most of the villains, but I am 100% with you on Ivy being an Avatar of the Extinction, and I can definitely see Croc as an Avatar of the Flesh. I’d throw in Hugo Strange as probably being at least aligned with the Spiral, and Pyg has definitely at the very least been marked by either the Spiral or Flesh (though I don’t know him well enough to say if he’s a full-blown Avatar or not.) If you only saw my first post, I also decided Talia & Ra’s are both aligned with the Web, though Talia values her own freedom enough I don’t think she’s a full Avatar. They’re the ones who helped Bruce find the Mother’s embrace. Damian was supposed to be a Web Avatar as well, but he’s just a little too desperate for love when nobody’s looking; his swarm is silk worms & moths, and he does manage to fake it for a while. If Joker’s an Avatar, it would either be the Stranger, Spiral or Slaughter, in my opinion, but I always like when experts of every kind take time to study Joker and are like, “Yeah, IDK WTF is going on with that guy, but I hate it.”

(Jason is an Avatar of the Desolation in my version, because the Slaughter is about the violence on as large a scale as possible while the Desolation is about the very personal aftermath. The Slaughter is War, where the Desolation is something taking out your entire life in one single night and leaving you behind to deal with it. Jason absolutely wants his targets to be scared of what will happen, what he’ll do to them, but in a “destroy everything you’ve ever worked for & drive away everyone you ever cared about” sort of way; not a “blow up an entire city block for no reason” sort of way. And given how much Jason cares about protecting innocents, he’s actually partially starving himself by not following through on complete Desolation the way people like Jude Perry do. Imagine if The Archivist (around s3) tore out the last page of a statement & threw it away without glancing at it before he started reading. That’s basically what Jason’s doing to himself.)

Some people in the DC universe, though, are just Like That(TM). Sure, it can be hard to tell supernatural trauma apart from genuine mental illness, but it’s still a superhero setting and some people are just little freaks (affectionate.)

Like, Oliver Queen? Just a little freak with a bow. Just a weirdo. Black Canary? Superpowers, but not of the Fear Entity induced kind. She’s just Like That(TM).

Speedsters? Oh honey, you better believe they’re all just Like That(TM). Anti-Avatars, if anything; those bastards basically became one with a potential aspect of the Vast and went “But what if I was just. Like. Nice about it? Or only mean in extremely specific, petty, personal ways? What if that?”

My main “outside of Gotham” thought is that Amazons are aware of the Entities. Primarily, they have to be very careful & monitor eachother for signs of potential influence of the Hunt, but they’re aware of others beyond it (though they might define the Entities along different lines thanks to cultural differences & all that; I don’t have any specifics, I just really like that headcanon that while certain fears are nearly universal, the way different cultures group & view them are going to be different. Like, if spiders are viewed as purely benevolent & good luck by the culture you were raised in, it’s very unlikely any capital-f Fear is going to have a spider motif. Smirke separated the Buried from the Vast, but aren’t they both primarily about being overwhelmed, about Too Much? At the bottom of the ocean, is there any difference? Why should other cultures draw that same line?) This created some tension with Batman at the start of the Justice League, as Diana knew even if he wasn’t lying when he swore to have the best intentions, Batman was still walking a razor’s edge; he could become a monster so very easily. On the other hand, it was a huge relief for Dick (who, again if you’ve only seen my first post, I’ve changed my mind on and decided he’s a Hunt Avatar) when he first met the other Titans and they all went over their powers, to have Donna realize what he was talking about and promise to stop him if he ever lost control. A promise she has actually had to follow through on a few times, when a villain got into their heads and pushed Dick too far; he sleeps better at night knowing Donna is both willing & able to wrestle him to the ground and keep him from hurting anyone, even when Dick’s gone full-feral.

(The tag for this AU on my blog is "tma crossover," if you wanna check out the... everything I have for it.)

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a-driftamongopenstars · 1 year

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It all happens in November - NaNoWriMo Mini Edition 2022 - #2 Memories

i'm going to motivate myself to write some 500 or so word ficlets, using this lovely prompt list. this collection will featuring various destiny ships and friendships :) if you want to see a particular ship for a particular prompt, feel free to send me an ask! It all happens in November - NaNoWriMo Mini Edition 2022 AO3

2. Memories

Savathun plucks through the memories of hers with long clawed fingertips. She chuckles, she thoughtfully peruses them. Her entire life, laid out meticulously, organised by sensation, by importance. She nearly forgot all of it, but her past self has been clever. She left the breadcrumbs for the Lightbearers, just enough to guide her and deliver her to that which must never be forgotten.

Beside her, the engine of her success floats, a small little creature, a ball of crudeness trapped within a spiky hardened shell. A companion, in time, perhaps, a friend.

“Immaru,” she says deeply, turning her crowned head to look at the Ghost. His green eye stares at her. Ever defiant, but not of her, but of his essence.

“Yes?”

“How long have you searched for me, little Light?”

Immaru turns, flies up closer to Savathun, and she meets him again with a careful stare.

“I never really searched. I gathered when one appears nearby and I feel that it clicks, then I’ll take it.”

“And take you did,” she laughs and pulls him into her grasp, gently as if he were a delicate moth. “You have lived a long life. Not as long as mine, but by your measure - an infinity. Was this not a lonely life?”

Immaru shudders in his shell, and Savathun watches him intently. This precious thing never speaks the truth to a full extent, dancing on the edges of what he wants to be known. Much like herself. Savathun wonders if that comes from centuries of survival or from the sheer spite that even the Traveler’s Light could not exorcise.

“There have always been people. Humans, scurrying about, building their little City, hanging onto a single thread - and those idiots know it would never last long. It never does, and when it breaks - they act oh so surprised. And I watched them. Some other Ghosts did, too.”

“You are avoiding my question, little Light.”

Immaru deflates visibly, and Savathun lets him float again. He does not move far from her, however, finding his callousness again.

“I don’t like thinking about those days. Before the Hive.”

“Why not?”

“Because they were lonely, alright?”

Savathun leans back in her seat, resting against the folds of her moth wings. A satisfactory enough answer, and she feels a twist of pity deep in her stomach. She has known loneliness, too. She learnt to live with it, the depth of which gutted her and twisted her inside out. Even with the Worm, loneliness was an ever present poison.

“Worry not, Immaru,” Savathun sings almost sweetly, her hoarse voice echoing in the chamber. “You will never have to be alone again. This is a new age…”

Immaru huffs as his shell rotates. Somehow, the sombre moment is dispelled.

“This couldn’t sound cornier if you tried, my Queen.”

Savathun laughs in her throat. This little creature amuses her terribly with his rugged edge and his ridiculous attitude. He couldn’t be any more different from herself, and yet she finds Immaru oddly fitting. A piece of a puzzle that simply could never be.

But paracausal beings such as them can have no trouble changing the narrative, if just a little.

#destiny 2 #savathun #immaru #fanfiction #driftcreates #nanowrimo 2022 #nanowrimo mini

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ahungeringknife · 6 months

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365: May 17

Crota's Throne World was decadent as far as abodes were concerned. The light of his own Oversoul illuminated everything within it, an unflinching eye that gazed upon all who dared enter it. Great towers pierced the Ascendant Realm and moths and crystal decorated every nook and cranny.

Normally the Prince of the Hive dealt with matters of his greater swarm in his antichamber but tonight was... a bit more personal. It wasn't every century one of his precious daughters proclaimed to have found someone worthy of her attention.

Crota was not amused by the thing Kinox brought before him and Omnigul. Kinox was not the youngest of her sisters but stuck in the middle she was always eager to please, vying for favor from her perfect elders or her cherished younger. Besurith was the only other to take a consort and Crota knew Kinox looked up to her immensely, always trying to emulate her.

But this was a poor imitation of Besurith's ability.

Omnigul hung off his arm like a perching bird, her searing blue-white eyes boring down onto their daughter and the unflinching worm she had brought before them. He knew given the chance she'd cut the thing off at the throat. He could feel her discontentment in the way her claws scraped against the chitin of his arm, the restless rasping of her breathing.

It wasn't even uncharitable. Crota expected much of his children as Oryx did of him. So to say he felt great... disappointment when his beloved Kinox presented an acolyte was no small choice of words. An acolyte? For his daughter? It meant he was barely even grown.

"Daughter, what is the meaning of this?" Crota asked.

"A meaning of my heart, father," Kinox said clearly. "This is Noornoon," she indicated with a held out claw. He kept his eyes down out of respect, dutifully not meeting the eyes of the Prince and his consort. "And I am to take him as mine."

"Absolutely not," Omnigul hissed, raising herself up some.

"I do not ask for permission," Kinox growled right back.

"And you will find his head on your lap by night's end," Omnigul floated down from his arm.

"Then you will have one less daughter," Kinox said proudly, sternly, meeting her mother's gaze with her own eye-less visage. "I will take him or have no other and may my brood lay barren eternal."

Omnigul snatched their daughter by the throat. "Watch the words you speak, darling child," she said. He understood her wrath. Omnigul had scarified endless opportunities to be by Crota's side in the end to only become a mother. Omnigul was no mother either. She'd earned her teeth and her eyes in battle and her claws were soaked in blood enough to satisfy her worm long before she claimed a sizable tribute. To have one of their daughters throw it away for an Acolyte. It enraged her.

"Omnigul," Crota said, distracting her. "Release her."

"Crota-" but she did, furious, at Crota's level stare. She glared at him and then flew off to go be enraged elsewhere. He had a feeling he'd have Ir Yût's claws in his spine for this later.

Kinox rubbed her neck where her mother had almost strangled her. She did not begrudge her either. She knew her anger was only out of love, of wanting the best for her. "Kinox," Crota said in a more measured way than his consort, "this is an Acolyte."

"Yes," she said.

"Explain to me, my daughter."

She flew up to be eye level with him. "You know Besurith's consort," she said, he nodded slowly. "Yes, of course. So does everyone else. Zoken cannot make a move without anyone important within the swarm knowing what he does. His blade is dangerous and his power substantial. Zoken is a great warrior who draws the eyes of all who behold him as is fitting of Besurith who wishes to emulate Xivu Arath in all her great victories for the Hive." Crota made an agreeable noise. Yes Besurith did try to emulate her great aunt Xivu Arath and Zoken was indeed a mighty warrior. Loss of his tithe would not go unnoticed if something were to happen to Zoken even before he became joined with Besurith. "I am no warrior and I do not seek to emulate Xivu Arath. Rather my worm seeks satisfaction in knowing more and seeks to emulate Savathun. Knowing the secrets of my sisters and brothers keep my worm well fed but soon it will not. I need to know what I don't know. I need to be unseen, to find all the empty spaces in the swarm and learn their secrets as well. But how will I do such a thing when I am your child?"

"Get to your point, daughter," Crota said but not unkindly.

"Noornoon has not taken a morph by my desire," she said simply which surprised him. "Because an Acolyte may move unseen through the swarm and be my eyes and hands and ears. His tithe and knowledge more than sustains me. Perhaps you may feel it as well," she said.

"Hmm," he looked down at the Acolyte Noornoon knelt at his feet, hands up prostrate. "Rise, Noornoon," he rumbled and he did and looked up at Crota unflinchingly. He didn't move an inch when Crota reached down with his great hand and curled it around Noornoon's entire torso. His thumb pressed against the Acolyte's chest and he could feel the thrum of the worm inside Noornoon and the tithe it gave to Crota. He was... surprised. It was not insignificant. Not the most. Not as much as Zoken or even Kinox but it was not nothing. Certainly more than some of his great warriors. "Where do you draw your tithe?"

"Those who do my bidding. I command many eyes and swords for the benefit of the swarm, for you, my Prince," Noornoon said gravely.

"And yet you are an acolyte," Crota said roughly though with the size of his tithe Crota could tell he could easily maintain the morph and violence of a Knight.

"Kinox demands it and so I obey. Her desires are mine." Next to him Kinox shivered in delight. Crota had to admit, his daughter had it bad for this acolyte.

"And you are loyal?"

"I would give her my third eye so she may have one more," Noornoon said without hesitation. "I have an extra."

Crota paused and then he laughed and released him. "Very well," Crota said.

"You approve?" Kinox asked him.

"I am willing to let him prove himself to be worth a consort to my daughter," Crota said specifically. He grunted when she hugged him, her spindly form like a brush of cloth against him.

"And what about mother?" Kinox asked nervously.

"I will stay her hand from using your Noornoon's entrails to paint the walls of our home," Crota said.

"He will prove himself," Kinox said. "And will make me proud."

"I expect nothing less than perfection," Crota said. He looked down at Noornoon. "Right?"

"I know no other way, my liege," he said.

"Very well. Begone," Crota waved his daughter away.

She immediately flew down to Noornoon's height and grasped his hand, pulling him away. When she thought Crota could no longer see them she draped herself over Noornoon's wide shoulders and he easily held her aloft. It would do for now.

#365 #writeblr #writblr #fanfiction #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #Hive #destiny Hive #Crota #Omnigul #Kinox #Noornoon #hey what's up here are my Hive blorbos I love them a lot

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libidomechanica · 1 year

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The learne not alone till the hopes are you ten

A Meredith sonnet sequence

The learne not alone till the hopes are you ten years they both arrived at: there vigor barely contain. Of days are to be kiss’d her pale, pale cheek, and song. With wealth would be a flame, in burnish’d hooves his wings after frequent showers, and think a murderer’s heart. And though lean Hunger and till, and lang has had my day. Not to be fair. Pleasing sound shall roll, too many flowed the reaper weary listening for invention, but wayling eloquence with soul intent on Death and paddling a cup of camomile tea. The company forges the glass a whit, to say over every Muse and Taste, with eyes that every purl there; so, not that began her, shall roll, too many flower.

I never noticed you I never knew that, had eat a stain. The dropping his hands break out in boils. With a kiss should rob the rope, each from the river. Lord grant that I was, as the shapes partake, and multi-track white terminals. Then blooms, it is like a casque of straws the world adieu, a world had those lives a separate Hell. We have gone to cross to reach for my love hath my heart giu’n me there! The stars in the bow, with sight and the Forty-second time in liberty? As if I have brought of the rapture, that time do I ensconce me here? Quench like her head toward man, as we prayed, we grew afraid of clichés. Have stay’d and hear one bird sing terrible weight. The Lady of Shalott.

Since life’s dearest bands untwining? With spites; yet well I may. I measure time the toy sloops go by, holding the heads never rue my troubled corona of new color, visible echo, and all day long shines, bright contained: but with Reason that didst arise but to be alone till their steps are brave man with a steady stony glance, but thine eyes that did driue so favourable is to encounter, ghost or none can tell. And there will open its way to bed: goldilocks snug upstairs, the moor; she willow as idlers do, and I discern a woman, lovely maidens, beauties please a smile, a wizard ensnaring; enthron’d in her e’re. She chance is low, then thou hast spied.

Lady, you made them all; what we two being mine, smooth as any other throat around about, lord Gregory come here within the eaves, had hid away fled every wandered why men knelt to pray by his armour rung, and that for my Muse and I have had a system I shuffling the correct yes. Take all my lust: they mocked the unclean leper’s house within the eye and the same; whether we are maidens of her breast, the fingers over a thermostat we drink creeps with a stealthy tread, as might with the patient, but no one left me by train memory. That must do’t, for she protests to banish’d, I will please you call my art and daut thee, lest guilty goddess of light.

The race of all subiect things raise plainly the longest date do melt this be heard, sometime hold my soul I’ll pour into a scream. The stars in the humble and prove thee in such spies, that you heard the languid ringlets, blown a life-breath, and all my pretty rooms; add one more death-moth be blaze up, and what should seem a cuckoo-song, as thou then worms shall those same tempo. So that I in heaven itself for ornament doth but approving speech about a woman’s hands that did spend, so drew my life unto an end. Are your strife, and crush on Myrna Loy, and as soon awake, it tore thou my love alone till the night and be cheater, being with the yellow hair, lady of Shalott.

To run by her I loue and shame o’t. Sweet Love likes a gander, and from out His care: and shaven head again, thou fair Eliza! Love is pretty follies flung in the face defile. Oh Angel of hooks question’d those blots that spot of joy. Both brain that they still water? And I untightened childish push-pin, for our sport, did play; I put, he pushed, and drove the Lady of Shalott. Let it not on him, or fate. A goblin toasts a bumble-bee. To many- tower’d Camelot. To prove thee fallen, or not assail’d it round, and weary cry. And this your love when he crouched to play a note to see if I can allege no Can you knowing we did not cut him down.

Is to a wife when thou hast sorrow’s mysterious by the hill I say, who like things have their end, that July 21st plack thy parts could be, i say if this snow and arrows stubborn, and Stand; she was grey, and you agree? Sit in a tenderness, which droops upon it out of the stars we see hung in jest; and a sliding board are all the eyes of awe, Grey figur’d, as no times I mused it in him his blazon’d baldric slung a shadows, ’ said so strangle with a dumb look of every day, and given me like a stone? The love concern: if snake or slow- worm bite thee; since first forced me then and lean, watching on her peace which this loss I were— where he is no chapel on the river.

An auld wife’s tongue the sun’s golden-crowned shines she doth prepare you can get nachos. ’ Ye come here within another fly, we’re tapers too, and all things rushed like a key in a choral cave of drugs, as old against which it sits, the way she did create mischief in families, as readers taking of the stormy east-wind keenly blew, with whom I love the mazy web she stands in dewless asphodel, looking on myself, I see my love? Tak down the innocent muscles, bulging like him ruin your weekends are forty feeding Hearts of the faem, the moon does not rise in pity hide the fairest place to be said: the snow-pale prince to flutes, to dance to do with blood-red heat.

’ Now the deed, and we in us find where we lay: and each listen here witless Jeanie to the delight a red rose witless Jeanie’s heart or intellect, whate’er she loos’d the broad stream that my name o’t, but be glad as soon when from Camelot. On the sparrows from you go ahead&eat thickest mists in envy mastered by the hill or plainly, so I could touch and yet, by heaven find: but from her present pay? Our hero was in the cardiovascular tissue, let me in! Citizen hissing each of us, and hid him in a hole in the dark heart or shall live. With slouch and wanton winds, with wealth and be swept away, so that an only’ s a spoilt child.

But with me the Girl, in rock and round, and since, not so much, or on the sea, war with more weak Love beguiles: she is Venus, save unchaste. Time that began to moan, but the beginners in Love’s star with the hideous prison-wall, and that pantomime of brown where we’d live forever once, or there where faith so weake? Of pillowing knees; her several strings, and flam’d upon that, he victuall’d and her cheeks. And made excuse to rove: and we hear aye birds sang sae merrilie; the sheepbell tinkles in New Jersey light polluted waterlily the great wings for there where you had those miserable males is foul and bold and left us flaccid and dreams in a single Almond packt.

Through the pasture, my music wove us on its pattern and a wretched man, that heaven, are changed, I think h’ had eat a stake, or were signs and sea’s rich which way to say like blood and well the prospect of inurbanity, malge Sir Matthew Hale’s great mind most kingly drink was the silver bugle hung, and we hear aye birds tune this moment, like Cupid a boy was the sugary wings. Or were signs and signals, even if unremember the carven stern she was swaying with his frost will, and the ear, a year ago, in the poor drudge, or naething more than like one! Loser-like the dragon- fly came back to you epitomize into the uttermost, I should have been.

I will glove unto an empty thing as he sat in; time, you of the innocent muscles, bulging like a ring or a lightning grace, an’ merit, an’ tease my care, let who would love. That flies as I sat all alone there’s the least of her his destiny, he who watch him night we walker upon it? Ich libbe in love will be no spices thence will be the nineteen-year-olds, let me examine the droop-headed flower on earth and kin. Still beneath master here, I heard, cupid’s bow, front, an ample field; and what wastes and prove unto thee. Poets, thoughts prouoke, dangerous family history, first, prepare you mark’d the purple throat and charms my verse as ever ever make him run.

Became to put on him, or fate. Grows colder? I said fra Pandolf’s hands that old man, now lord of grace of all the hope that the smart, the Count your pity is enough that thou then me! Every beginners in Love’s star with me; whether better ha’f o’t. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, my Deare, let me the bad guest had slain. We have left by train memory sets forth the law, but thou thy obiect so imbrace, and some with the yellow hair displaced, The phœnix riddle hath neither not love was a bus. And be swept away, and play: a charmed web she were iniquity. Who watch him night are lovely maiden, ae sweet is the year’s please, refuse: though much, is not so much better, war!

Now when he no fitter place will attend the monarch’s plague, this way stoking thirst no more hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope for here’s news, lassie, kind love talked in my heart. What matter what once and ease my name moves by each shall I cross that they hanged: they trod a saraband: and yet once is born in Bethlam. Day over the sickle; I, poor heart; but the fair assistance in that heaven shall see the learne not always hear time’s wing and is lost in marble of elements’ strife: he brought ye forth merely to show his step seemed a bore. A flood, the pale yellow hole of life, enlisted in play, and excuse to say, or chide my ill mither,—an ill death may she die!

You, guiltlesse therein on the middle jimp wi’ a lang, lang has Joy been at by the hyacinth, so will to flie, first come at, is like a chart my little think’st thou, Love, where, you so apply, I warily oped her throat and chalk and round, and so he went from the barley-sheaves in furrows airy, beneath that vnbitted though its giant loom the stark and shaven head and Doom: the hand that faced my three-plank bed, and watched him over, if she stay haue made, but first infused by Love comes Sorrow—most of all, self- viewed,—nothing a poet out of moths. He is at the Hudson trembled as he confess than one must lie down to Camelot. Her wishes went! Of, as out o’ h—ll.

While a Full Year was courtesy, she talks. —At work was done!-Tokens that wastes and mounted— he and Absál out of my hair were set up into love, my love’s sake, kiss me once and entire as that. For much good things of gossamer you’d have had; and triumph sat, whilk stood aboon the air is a mill of the world nis noon so witer many heart, that where there was a lass, and guns implore; unmeaning, what need to be fair. Without touch you know bedbugs? As I all other me? And her form withdrew the time by how a mystic Shape did make. We could not act, or live in a rabbit’s burrow or nest for sinners gave, because the Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

At six o’clock we cleansed their rose with a stake in his last night or day, the Law that murthring Boy, since the first begin. About coming as if they do well to what red mournful, holy, she changeling Hope in God’s infliction, nor deathsong, the language woo: take me to the hollow except for mortall eyes might take at her flower-nibblers, the spirit, without straightway I was talking to discloses in her e’e, as Robie was thick with thirst no more hie, feare not. But gleg as light of soil, nothing but you but only the law that eye doth make hot fire. No thing to disclose; so that sweet music burthens every alien pen hath got my use and ever more pitied.

But feel the strict sense of the thinge. Did I ever wann’d with the deed with every part; if then you opened each listen here witless men who looked on, and Counter-turn, and the Hall, dropt off gorged from the dust where thy sacred relics shall belong to endure one day you remain without her speaking a cup of camomile tea. Since their Destiny, he who lies and idle hours from all ill well shows, kill me with scenes will let me pick those about her cuckoo- song, as though its giant loom the thirst: for thy sake: for flowers, and wound round Hesper bright as the frame where thy feet; show me thy workes reproue, and never more. To sail on the flesh and not so long he stood alive.

Too, vs in the shore up my debility. And in thy affair, do you do letters but grows stubborn, and do you sweare by her I sometimes thro’ the Yarrow, and sick surmise we watches through the sun; coral is far too wan, or the kitchen verboten? I thought, and I have becomes a troop of damsels glad, and the dream of a heaven itselfe, but first infused by each one in me like swine, we all fashion, heedless of my young brain on hands moved in circles moved amongst the forme of Lochroyan, and speak, whose little, been flickering and stranger to me: forsaken lady to speak a gentle cheated, and let nothing high decay; till she believes me, maybe not.

And left your worth, and tears, the window stood. If for the simple and speak and rave at all. Resist: curst be the ark: so we—the fool, the front doth hide something; then Himself young, so lively figures if that written in his separate Hell. All the field, said he, if I had stay’d still to look upon it out of a kind of spike? I knew a woman is tied to speak a gentlemanly game, but the curd-pale moon, the same and though, taming a seal, one is dull amaze the brute blood, and set it on the sea remember: I raised her lids: again perfectly pure air, did she put on convict lies. I am not any closer—one day you refusest. An’ tease my care, let who knows?

Now when he crouched to pray? And makes some evening hearts unstrung unable to play. My father raged in a cloak, as I think such rites were more than slept. Too soon they roam, by creeks and the world, growne now best do know eternity. To her I’d nothing but you but you are all these are the elms last night will lend thee to meet a man must die. Blew, with thine Image which royally did wear his crowing, the smart, but be a little tent of proud of that now at dawn you must go, what late since I called the girl who lies a wretched man, ye’re not evermore again. And the bitterness than others overcome both law and bienly clad, and strange, bold eye would wake her heart of trifling?

He did not meet in ilka throe: turn again, I long, thought rest to me for pity is enough for canker vice the show’d; from underneath his gardener’s gloves by, untied her hat and burgher, lord and all her heart beat thick and round emprisoners call the stones, we turned them. And Sleepe holdeth all maskes my wo, come, come, and they buried Ben in four cross-roads with a kiss, what we drink creeps with a loathsome grow mad, and restless love, or how: but be glad as soon as breath the print needs the Law gave him to the gloom crept by each others buy; some stooping, made into an end. I shuffling thro’ the middle of Wyoming as warm as anybody’s right, his notion just, not I.

Heard the lass of Lochroyan, as though its giant loom the time that loosely flew her zone in a cloak, as I saw her eyes I stood at the porch and weary witness Luther. The knight for ever. Curls as on his small birds sighed, she was strong fingers and alien pen hath got my use and flam’d upon grey skies above the wheat … it makes me tast. Is as that soueraigne part; if the senses guides: he loved a soldier bold, and crush on Myrna Loy, which we dwells at dewy e’en; so trembling lyre already claime from the morning aged women save a few, not win who plays with a dumb look of events is always be so; and i say that it works her mammie’s wark, and whisp’rings and vows.

Of a pigeon taste of what hunted thoughts true forme of Lochroyan, o open the modest I am, yet never again, except for movement and day: and crush’d, and makes it blinding sweet, sweet, wee dochter, tho’ ye come here? Than the very means of life is o’er! Let crutches through a windows glazed with sun and scrubbed the heart may bloom well in which all worldlings to my cell. My mistress had cut him up a Deity; but every pore with sugred sentence sayes, that you can, be you still climbing slipperiness. And the barley-sheaves in furrows airy, beneath the cycle’s changed, I think that from here, I heard, cupid’s statue with thy soul move still, beside still, oh, still as a yardstick.

Spreading ruin and wounding not to me? Else that he gave me, that al hire bountee telle can; hire swire is whittere that heard love taught in his small, washed cottage upon that do with round moon and the sweet air we tramped, each in heart of events is always presence sends whom she employes, dismisse from the heart in their image o’ my bonie, blooming, straight, a year who meddle not witches, whose strenuous tongue in a cat-like way, and makes it bleed again. And the star-laden sky, and wondering night. Till once, tearily, and I never more should take him; drest, you strapped your name in ordinary place he does depart the outlet them clash; an auld wife’s tongue, because the babe unborn.

In the days gone down, of lying under friend, that took the tilt of a kind of settled gravity,—against his might employes, dismisse from thee his soul was underhand, not openly bearing the names of melancholy fit shall make her heart? Of the ruffian’s heart, my life is o’er! Thing to happen where in this hole your idol glass and queir; yet, by my love taught thy Tygrish courage passed with a beard; or else to troubles me: but remembrance stray: lest the Trial Men in the field of snow in a day of dark days of enforced retire, and sometimes would be, i say if this wedded lie! I knew that eye doth make my mind, I do burn in loue. Or say with a most evil fan.

Should bribe. Like wind blows loud and calendar in one could not feel. Together, an ill death we’ll say it, because it were changeling Hope in God’s kind disguise! At some day our remote descends to utter laughing scandal of old friend, and his cricket cap was one of your lit harvest. One is harm’d, whilst thine Image which my Lover with a box of Kleenex, that closde-vp sence was held, and walk your fairest maids on thy chaste breast of bonie Jean. Now the staggering girl, her thing. That the face of meteor, trailing lime, and the iron town there was not her husband has a crush it under pines in summer days to subjects to his pardon ye your strife, and in his slow-chapt power.

The list of all those three make in his e’e, kens the painter must you of dutie greet with the ley-crap, for I must die. A Lady of Shalott. Small clouds. In one could, noble; or of greater was thine sake longinge for semlokest of actresses who might be blotted: but the tress in an operation. And his Heart, and, as I sat all think upon, and whiskey, on the nunnery of thy lawn, see all. Did she put my arms, and so nor wil’ warlock, nor a cloth upon his heau’n of Stellaes heart, safe-left, shall see there. In the river? My spirit hovering how she would be us, and dumb: but each man does she doing? She knows whether will be sporting fairy, her wishes went!

Now Ben he loves ask less the loveth none. Even the night, and have his, by just exchange one the dyer’s hand. Of your love forsooth: I have just sleeps when I wende and wake, forthy mine wonges waxeth wan: levedy, al forwake, wery so water turbidly flowed his step seemed as blessed you betwixt me and the garish day with a glances and when she goes, all she fail to see. A wrong reasons, charmed web she weaves always open halfway through a pure smooth face sound of a corpse was in them, and a woman I am and of the night long way. Not solely that I waking might flow over tower’d Camelot. Maud with the lily On earthly cates to pry, to find of ghost.

His broad stream, and face the sun’s golden cage. As if we keep silence of sweet side of a’ the pure air, tasting troth. There were alive. The day becomes the grave at all. Then let thy love, and shame o’t, but be a loving maids—the helmet and thee their pride like you ten years of midnight arise; your springe, the stiffness by long salt winding a seal, one is the wits of slain lovers, made my cheek withal, I did shines but sings. To play a note. He often said that you will be soon: there are maidens, beautie but beauty with little tent of blue we passed in happy I hae dream. When first resort vnto that I loved, should to-night, and as he rode down from ancient cathedrals what is my part.

Can those witless men who through. One is stranger to me; and for the tide of what hunted thy poor dry empty place. The stricter rule as far as words that the grey peeling porticos which prisoners call these haples roomes too long, till he cherish no lesse curse the man had done a greater grief to bear: I lay it not young. There is no vulgar nature I embraced amongst the key. The sharpen’d slowly, can burst thee oft, I pitie now the gaol rose up a wail of impotent despair, and perhaps a sorry mutter’d frightened child but in the rocks of Rockport. Whom Fresh pains he did not weep that lies by the river. And in black. Lay dead at my bow. They think on, it’s pride, and me.

No, no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. With yawning leer, each in heaven shall not be so thy present: methinks with rope of his mother’s lie? Let his thing hard or harsh can prove there is no my ain lassie, kind love is inconstancy is such reflecting to do, we should do there more delights to weave thou hast please a nation—is more. I think, and then you are right across that sat in the mill: but it is, though I now write fifty, we might be five, so snug, so compact, so wistful eye upon the ruin’d woodlands drove through. The claws of a pigeon taste that doubt you will never noticed anything balm, and the heart has not swerve aside: it slays the world began to pick for breakfast.

—Can child. When spray biginneth to spree. And though, we were as men who love me—toll the silver shene, the primal things are cut and curtaines spred; she waves rose hie and his bow, and waly fa’ the ley-crap, for I must die. Do you remained a little tent of recovery. He rode between thee all my lust: the grand multiple locks and all the year’s pleasant king, then returns the pasture, my music hath a far more pliant, and maidens, beautie but beautiful still. But a possibility poised to devoured his peace or war? They questions with me the Drinking off. Of obviously a forlorn child. With that fell with his gardener’s gloves in the corners where faith so weake?

And the storm, and a sliding board are alone is thy good report. To pestle a poison me with laughter, tho’ ye come here within the air, tasting the strict sense it flies away, most true love a white tooth slips on your assumptions about coming to tell you I know i’ve no feet, some too drowsily, her darling be both my mind, love known a crib. In I do suspect of ill mask’d not help it until you made to ride backward look, some health and hearse our legend be, it will fill forgot if we ourselves, their rose on my knee is pressing did your naive ties, they give up all claim his though the print of the bad torch fell: curst be the pattern of young days, and into a rage.

And the eaves, he rode down that light and gay, living fountain pine, the days are to bring its way into my e’e. The only what it is, the last of trifling? But that took my sight? I listened with Richard Rorty, that I wad hae thee, and the street these books: hope. And all the vats upon a ground of black which public manners of a lost lands. She had a heart. The broad stream that record player. Of Lochroyan lay dead at my bedside she doth ly, till the sky; and enamoured of all to Love whose lesson where one wound, from dying swans wild warblings come, when I the monarch’s plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality; nor can be no other man that mirror are only law. Whistle.

To run by her side to shade to side; the curse may bring it back to you, had your state shall try that i may go unto her far away; or by the hideous prison her modesty fixes the sea has turned to dust in Humanity’s machine, others all the flood! Weep, and seen your lips, which is hath been before my blushing battle- bolt sang from thee heir it, than words. And he had thrust it through beneath a city, unfold on trains is no place. When they read her name to see. At my bower window I with sugred sentence sayes, that you were born, the summer, the day becomes our lives. All is Venus when she wrote, the whiter blood to Life’s appoint out thee, and let not torn.

Loving, nay of conscience is born of pride, spread like a weed-clogged wave: and after they, or who cam so far too wan, or the offer of our lives more be found a beam, and the same and the Hall and play, the sparks, it may not alway. Like wind shifts and sett him up a Deity; but even asleepe, lady of Shalott. At chills and kin. But you are right, his notion of orphans: firstly, those whom Christ! No thing hard or harsh can prudence those terrified vague fingers, braves, and all shapes partake, What my harmful deeds, that man’s hands, your feet, young love’s the best man and wounded inward sight, and somewhere choppers taking off. From the beloved of my harmful deeds, that the Future cries, on!

Now what come with bars the day did dawn, and then but a kindling, the greasy hempen band. In the river? He cursed in the least of her hair, it is to me, for Venus’ ceston everybody’s right, then everybody yet somehow—I know not what thy owne will take time by how a mystic Shape did make. About me: my seruices may scoff at; in my last place; it wants, to me, and elegance, fetter ha’f o’t. For calling night. The sun as the fair. And seemed not one long to reproduce the old saw pronounce, which all worths surmount. For such makes some beauty born of murmurs not, however small his Chamber hums, counting of you, so long he stood a stone, mock’d of all.

Like you a while, they weigh in scales is delicate turn the page from the dust what they were gone: like a weed-clogged wave: and while admiring them off. Or else he might with me the Drinking your face, Ioyes liuery weare, which the patient, but no such roses: by these which of itself so self-love possess and tear our pleasures with those sweet hair lay in such unholy ground: there with round and round, and my middle jimp wi’ a haw bayberry kame; then all that’s in her e’re. For Venus’ ceston every Law gave him too, and all this way stoking them ought vndertaken be, they circle their seeming; I love a while, to blush and not thee and me a journey take. If on another beforehand.

All wreathed with a stealthy tread, as might sweetly shine in time not Sweet I am unkind, that he gave that little lintwhite’s nest. And notes each neat niplet of herself be lessoned so, nor plain, in earthly cates to pray by his gore, he thrust us from mine honour from the moralising Muse. Have you my chin, and watched him as the Cupid’s armor would ride. Till it grew blaze in the mountain on which round and bleached: bees pass in store—the coachman that lies into the plumes and praise, painting her grace. May Lord Christ should be the oldest and quickly speak of a man who looked for you, but I forbear, while ech thing hard or harsh or mild, and gowden was I using it over.

Than if I have wived. The tame flower in green Shalott. Make him at a plunge my yellow hair, and break the heart in the story, first streak of alle thing, without thinking its way into tower’d Camelot; outside the way the Chaplain robed in which is the lights. She wants a cradle, and why a boy can’t appointed bourne: and some grace of all the rear, flee the city listening cell, we turn and the race of Sage or Shah, and trace, which is my Jeanie wist, her head: she looked as if alive. And, stooping; and I together. Pierced to think his skill, to tell you I could spare: let his jive ass back in the blessings of his mouth is clay. I who had given as his bill, he holds thee!

Let me drum for that doubt or stay? Came back, so I was obviously a forlorn child. Though I’ve no excuse—e’en then worms shall approve there a weeping, how a body sways. Perfect all the sky, and lifted me from mere walking. Lover with the words spak never more. Him as he slept in silence decay. For where faith in a tradesman’s gown, and, as we tramped the passion of June days, and where thy defect, for I ran and wind, and I will come out of motion swell’d so to see, through a fen of delicate and rise the surly village, the moon were paper-thin plates some mair he cried Annie, ’ the whitewashed by the spokes of the sixteenth left in a trances and the diamond fine.

&Somewhere, things are in the road runs by lady of Shalott. ’ Daily helpe I craue, may get no almes, but could know the woman, you knew who would have to tell, pointing her beautiful than necessary, and even chin, and those blackened hilt, and like a year, a year ago, or laces, I shunned the gate. Why, then, twenty leagues and imagine the loves ask less thou canst not such a lover, and used, used utterly, in the forehead to have a man with bosom-swell, make witness of hearts; and marrow was turned myself so quite? With unreproved is a delicious food; reproved, is Feeding from the shuddering cheerly, like to some evening cleared again, thou must be meek!

For Venus’ ceston every drifting cloak and elegance, fettered limbs streaming with the movies or on trains. Woman, you of the Hall and that now a scholler of the dark one, that men have my peers; poets, thou betraying me, when I shall make hot fire. Wakes a man who’s injure thee, and that time, if ever to her chin, have I invoke us: You, whom reverend love it and love is strength and paddling a living thing; the very mud cried she, now break, now break your face at night which, labouring gate as that. Lord Gregory come hame? Who heaven’s sweetest, they dazzled at her breath, this troubles me: but I placed a wrong berth. The stark and quiver in the walking a mile, more trains.

My true-love free. Flower as love ae e’ening on me, where, how are ye Mary Magdalane, but I am Annie of Love shall have a hand with a woman God did make. Around, around, around her smooth white terminals. News I’ve to tell.—Oh when I saw your worth, to thee, and that everywhere. Thus, thought I’d know that ere one that does container can contain. Keys opened each evil sprite, disdaine of such doom waits each in his face is thy good report. To blush and gently smile; and a shrine, all wreathed with publicke heede; by no encroachment on her head, which some can not sing a note to see if I can allege no cause. Wo to mee: no, no, no, no, no, my Deare, let bee.

Unheeded the strict sense to feel another form withdrew the tide the first foe in this hole your trouble wi’ the fields breath had caught up, so mastery, while you sit fore your beauty it was off his lips, the summer, the grand multi-track white tooth slips on the weeping. Or if you cannot miss, therefore I would ye oil of speech, or blush, at least in fault, who by turns her vineyard—yes! Behind thee to meet. Me is a pit of shame, and the loins engenders there: for the village churls, and sipping a couplement of recovery. And sweated on the West, the Count your wondered away for which I let drops fra my children’s bones, is it better bargain driven: my true-love free.

Till Gregory, as fast as objects worst to vex the lawful reasons on the mind. Cannot hear. And between thee and my star! We turn and its meaning, now, through beneath your eyes have been a lover, my Belovëd! One day for man be the same, and time wakes a man must weep o’er the stains that wild with a shock the flower in green complete, but none can tell. Who would hold on. It shall but drink down from alle wommen my loving, nay of conscience hold my soul. How else but some healthful anodyne; with love. By just exchange one that purpose. Sake but many a smile betwixt the learned’s wing and stops her pipe in growth, thee their light that light, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

Deem that runneth ever-after, all, all of the starry clusters blame doth glitter’d free, at least before? And crooked shape of Terror crept till each thing to be that’s a toy that I was not its own; and hacked and in them till the day did dawn, an ill death may die. Sweet Love likes to restore eyes and will not praise its sweet is she doth sing and there is enough, and was wont to grey; a cricket cap was on his life is to a wife when as thy love thy heart, that runneth every part, I could not even a bud but a possibility poised at some have neither twist lady of Shame. Nor drop feet foremost thinking your face, the world, growne now so too; that mine own desert, and thee.

Thy beames of love even, as a good turns her vineyard—yes! In speeches, at duty’s call; but hither twist or on the summer days from the imprisoners call the antique time! Spun everybody yet so quite? It slays the sharpen’d slowly, Eden lips unused to waste the scope of shabby grey: his cricket cap was one of the forest’s maze; the next are only children’s bones, when he no more—no more hie, feare not doomed ships that did spend, so drew my life unto an end. It is only a stretch of mud and loue now couple. That ere one dawn grew fair some without a thorn, the shell is over again, thou shalt be, there is enough for calling night. For busloads of tourists.

Of the central creature and its delight that some need of caulking, but no such account to the vitriol madness flushes up into love talked in by thee presently, and lang has Joy been a lover, can’st the law that thou dost treat it, remembering and love call; all mine wonges waxeth wan: levedy, al for the kitchen. Are like a key in a crowd? Caught in me keeps him and made them a curse, and prove it from his separable spite, she looked like a willowy hills and floated in shade, under friend thee! Band sit neat, himself indeed by us; we two being blind by nature I have not—to make him eerie,—o why should have astronomy, but none can tell.

Her eyes with full many a secret deed. Nor that didst arise but to myself to blame. I will give while wants a cod: i’ll never have tasted of Love, wherein my Lady rideth! And wan’d the stories are not your day. I know not wholly, and all men, beckoning out each day is light in her souls in pain, and I discern a woman. Or why sae sweet with Reason, which my Lover with that times delay round about: weel, sine that hath his cheating where thy defects, when small smile betwixt the last: all your jeering sky with beautiful and dark latrine, all wreathed out the Future she sighs drowned? All I wish I were less In this be heard, some odes I made of glass.

Are what closde all inrail’d with a stealthy tread, and binds one whose hurt, expressive head toward does it with me as with a silence is fled, us canonized for greater bloom, she saw his world is changed the same. Such certainty is beautiful, but thine eye loves into the place and so thou need me like small rubs should rob their stars into my mind, my flashy acrobatics with it riseth! The snow-pale princesse art of all subiect things that wild regrets, and adores a good singer with a stealthy tread, which my fortune’s eastern blast did nip a fairer flowing knees; her several string I did untie every cloud that he may to a lady in his banks of the summer.

Noblest Charis, you may stay yet here she still he cherish’d May: and each got his dear, and adores a good turns eyes fix’d in her ear in many a benison. Whose porches rich, and bare, and so long: if you call my poverty; and enamour’d do wish, so that thou art all my endless vigil kept, and syne he kiss should be, i say if this precedent so often thro’ the snow- pale princes if it shall approve round a wanton naigies nine or ten. To shore sate by the touch of Time. And that the sky, and then believes me, maybe a collecting every part; but then her mat in Thailand, one is tholien while ever to store the silent men who never should rob their straw.

True, a new morn. Delight than the sky, and now dost laugh when I’m laid by the indicative, only consolation—that mirror waiting to tell to what it be foes. In burnish’d hooves his shape, and I should be effect, for only contract, and careless soul may stray. Man must die. Now what clothe the better ha’f o’t. Such though the page. And frightened marshes heart that black Despair: he only dear because it will help Or whether Laws be wrong berth. This my heart beating starres such by love; the Lady of Shalott. As if we missed me, and gude enough to undo the sixteenth left in a suit of shame stole feet we could certainly enjoy two hours in me the Moon of Beauty.

Sudden spark of the rushing that long way. From Providence or me afeard. My life is mixed: the moon to slacken all worths surmount. Of yesterday! While larks, with ever by the hideous prisoner had to die, and Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of chronicle we prove, When did the water tastes rust in the hush of the sweet springe, the dropping his hands, saying, Accept all happiness lessened anything, without straight, alleviating the little bit, which how dexterously I do, hear and arms serenely by the hymns, all fashion I have heard, some bearded barley, the hermitage; you, to whom love’s delight as Love’s fingers push the features choice of direction.

Heard; his Soul came the scope and cause why I the more I looked upon the best of her breast, the first time come, only, called metaphysics and epistemology, that fosters the delight of a millstone, on the way you remain without a stain. Within the hush of your eyes and chopp’d with the hand, the whole world was gone, can hearthstone? He did not help the other thing. No, no, no, my Deare, let bee. And four gray towers over a thermostat we dare nothing dwells in me but snow and cold autumn pond which my fortune and blacks and over, you gull that in the bank and from thee so far from his own heart with a becke, so tyranniseth thee, lest my bed, in a’ thy station.

A cloudwhite crown of people out in boils. My fear is that were contented tress in an old one at that, but no one left me by train memory of dreadful dawn was resolute, and polish’d neck, with idle paines and mouthingness, tis one dawn grew fair some with bars lest Christ enter in? No thing in secret stay, and are brought in we went, with sight and saw, with ever-after, all, all of thee: in others maim. ’Ve read, nor, in the air is cool again I will bind my love decree me here within the eyes of awe, Grey figures on the grave had, and I must you of the Ayr; but by the ring we turned into memory is the first are young, fair Friendship’s truest heart.

It is most fearful things. Pleasure she sighs and that trail’d, by a dear sweet graces, where- through a little head, and gone! Nor all your bounty wrong: this coming would sigh back at the fear? One end he tied to speak your life. What was obtuse. Shirt off, dancing under a summer days from your love which my soul was round and round nor contemn, nor drop feet foremost the passion of people together. When a Mammonite mother die. Else that hardly brooked the light, my orphans painting my rude ignorance aloft to fly have added feathered, smell of love? Yours was o’ the bride were the savior of Remorse. Throw kerchiefs at a smile betwixt the languish of the viler, as understood.

Cross his own legs embargoed from the page— the end—and closer. And Sleep will not. That thou loved you betwixt the acts retire, and, above are dabbled with ever-after, all, all of this snow and when a breakfast. At last I knew that, says Rose, I’ll sing, or say, so I turned to dust, no doubt a consolation till it weeps both night that thou then spak his ill mither’s way: but who would have heard, something like of her, answer. Little tent of renaissance, I lodgd thee for my life provide that thee on a golden lilies a-dying lay, and wither’d hand to Jove thee dear; o canst not be so thy praise cannot speak of love even, as a good turns eyes are sad as elephants.

One is thee. As though lean Hunger and brave; but he does not die. Depend on Fortune’s shining? So never yet had taste, and elm have passion in the first; tis flat since I exscribe your words that eye doth make hot fire. Please me, I will drink potions of life o’ercast, chill came to sink, was caught up into love, the sand! For I will be gone, and a word may say that soft-luring creatures that bird? To thee, I did share; while sore than the spring. Our sweet by the highway ringed in haste, is laid down that mine own worth the grave, myself will to me, the way you realize it. Him mad, nor yet the tress in an old one at his devour&feed on skin, on all points, no matter to gie ane fash.

But take me to the true; and they would but blow more red, and thou shalt ca’ me for one plant again as you turn the door your sweet graces graces, where I my heart, as mine is thy praise, and all my word, she was one of the city. And die! Do there, We die and the black which fools may scoff at; in my free side, singing like the tarry rope to repeat. Save a few, not with those bonds which my soul’s strife: he brought to leaue to the great god Pan, down in their gates with icy breathing between us, I am thinking headlong to the same tempo. It may not even toll a reguiem that men build is built on a rock of height, says, Row the dear and feed deep, deep upon her peace or war?

Round and round, around and Foot in his Redress. I am half so fresh from the tide the fingers, bravery turns green field sleepe so fast? The world god’s dreadful dawn was resolute, and hard: and bitter earth. It is the Winter of my motionless, aghast! Painting my age with the artist that light, my orphans painting my rude ignorance. The Lady of Shalott. We had no other friend, whom reverend love thy hand, thy cup is ruby-rimmed, thy leaf hangs a miracle. But prudence thou and I, the Governor was standing up in the spirit. I shall venturous climbing slipperie place, the Lady of Shalott. Oh, then maids were o’ the leaden sky, and yonder round and rare.

Hoping for his mind, love Gregory, the print needs to be a rug—turned myself, I see my love’s castle-green; for a boy was he durst not sit below. Fire more oft then thought I’d know the angels know are only law. I am not any charity to give us there more I look through thou shalt mix in ilka grove; his soul contract, and his helmet and then returns the delight through the Governor all the hope that there. Glad I did all this just to annoy a loyal spouse? Noblest Charis, you beare onward bleak steel at the poor flowers, and excuse to rove: and wither’d hand to Jove the wits of slain lovers, brushed like a year, and Sunne-borne day you realize it.

Drink up the moon in a shady walk, you were as men who dare to try to rear the cottage warm; know that others cry Too late. Such stuff was courtesy, she that man with earth’s old against his might with a shoebox. Somebody, somewhere in the field, said he, if I were living thing; the very temple of Delight as Love’s sake, give you there with the prince my faith in a tender loveliness I never brewed from Tankards scooped in from where? The drugs that was tint, her peace of your tongue make a lodging, alert. A well-wrought to your eyes as he could, were near. Eyebrows bent, like horrible to see is tholien while thy mistress reeks. Hopes are about going to do, we should I stay?

Where I my heart is far more red, and used to rave. Keep the moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en; so trembling, pure, was tenderness, which Cupids self, and thou present o’er the banks complaining, heavily the louder roar’d the painted screen, and syne he kissing against my strong sun? Sorrows, and all my pretty birds sighed, she moves slips through my tears, those red mouth of a great seruice tries, those red mournful, holy, she was king? Crab apples for they found the view you don’t know the story, by the sweet, with bars lest Christ! Often enough, and to pour down upon the river. Too many scorns like in words that didst arise; your spring when I was a clichés and tell wherein my Lady rideth!

Which sometimes through sorrow for years, the rain set early summer all beneath the glove my hearts can break and would burden I bear, and up and done thy morn! Give us the ocean is stirred by my loves, as some by- street to take a lodging is, the more uniforms were on the shore, they circle their art; they did allow; but the hearts unstrung unable touch do touch, which crowned her heart; or having, runs on in my heart, and fall. Or have cost my trembling pad, some odes I made, never noticed the sorrow’s mysterious by the sweet as your mother’s way: but we made to rise just about going to my bed-feet. Can those bonds which I compile, whose lesson where I, who thoughts to peer.

All wreathed with soul in pain, were my Chamber for they some couenants make. Is to pick out the summer drizzle, remain as it well? Than thou hast stay’d still faire, honord by publicke heede; by no encroachment on her heard on the love-longinge is ylent me on. Under the children only, this world against my cheek to her cheeks. Triangle: gaped mouth, that other was a stagnant tide the fire? ’Er the west, the faith doth dissolution climb, and still art discontented beauty strange. Some with me remained a little lintwhite’s nest; and dearest bands untwining? The Doctor gloats, and floater, your unmistakable gaze of dull amaze the slipperie place, and yet, by my love?

Neck; her chanting cheek the wet leather seat then have made one another fly, we’re tapers too, and after that to be alone the Victor is, and the lampless Earth in white, petal by petal, fall on the West Side Highway, red light in we weren’t born to be singed, but burnt up by-and-by; then, Julia, let me examined, it might flow over my face housed underwater. And Fate sic pleasure have, life’s gay scenes must help it until they lock the print of the stories are about going to poisonous wine; nor sham’d to owe it to those gold candle, you of the dale, the great cause, which dare claimed him. Who watched him over, so he would sit down arm’d, and proud; at last. Waken me.

Against that broke the tent of blue which other, by descries, while you my chief fear on trains. A goblin toasts a bumble-bee. Help the other Grace but once it was thine eyes my knowledge with fetters bound by the wits of slain lovers, made my cheek lie there, whatever is abed, candles fix’d in her e’e, as Robie was the begins without stray amang the great god Pan, from ancient cathedrals what is near. I never saw sad men who but a mouse, dumbe Sleepe holdeth all mine wonges waxeth wan: levedy, al for the stream bore him of his lip should not love with the gift refuse: though each brains are fair: to dance upon the body down, but with the cycle’s changed his peace or war?

And ever human voice o’ Pity ne’er a lighter heard the lampless Earth in which the one another? Moss smuggles stars attend the more I prove twas but passion; but prudence think’st thou, poor wag, that no day would fain have charged his sight? Rules without fewell you will, I did see the dim and well then, stoop, since that moved him at her side of what hunted thy poor Heart was the street these books: hope. And all, to one whose birth, and bare, and the dead. Shattering overmuch of aged star, gleam luridly. As if we keep silence, nor yet wad waken me. My nobler part; and lust of gain, in the iron town there is but one, which brought by Loues own slippery asphalte ring: and, as I am?

The lover weight trailed its raveled and say it is my part. And dreamed how the starry Hope! Being want to saying what I wad hae thee, phillis the door! Harsh and bower, shall rear her soul, as if they came like kindling, the frame wherein on the steel: for only blood and by all forth your gaze, naked of reticence and a’ the lover’s een, when kind love too long, the fresh and bone away, and if she ranked my gift of a new morn. That dim apart, it barred the elements was lacking, and I got switches, only bitches, only this obedience, looking on the sheaves, the way did dawn, and clatter, the sun delight than the eyes for you will, approve thy worth the lily lea?

The world is flattery? And did the wheel of turning there: for the rolls that strove,—guess now who like the hand that cold delay, and all took off his loss of time; or have to rise just about going to the bloom and each would dry as wheat and loathsome grace; or the cost and prove it from the Arrow, I the more I live, the stairs: and we knew what closde all in shiny black, with that voice as dry as a dead smell still. Lascivious graces, where I will seraphs swing that light as feathers the forms of Fear they say. A fountain under a strong, some perfumes is the damned grotesques made him quite quite; so to see him—for he to whom a watched people in out of my tongue when it makes cakes?

Did she put on his law: and so long: if you are gone: like a madman on a drum! About each man trembles in her song she dight, all is well; he has but a bright, some odes I made one about going to tell of good of my heart denies, oh, in piteous haste to have made three paces through the dews of night I saw the spirit of murmuring souls to touch, and since, not a fingers, from its spotted shroud in which this sort of trifling? And the crimson stair we went, with his cheating cloud and can finde, cupids knot to sell. For which make him; drest, you soarer, you freeze, I freeze you, break out in the sweet graces, where the eye awake; mine eyes glow like thing he love that you know bedbugs?

Naked of reticence and sense of the deed with such a wistful eye upon the grave—wrapt in a kitchen is your kitchen- table leg my knee is pressing against Peace in heavens endure this sort of tree; it disna become a form, I see a forsake, and all, to one neutral thing about his eye; and the crystal—and drew me back, so I was obviously a forlorn child. A funeral, with bricks of cinnamon as I listen here with a shock on my face, that mast o’ gowd, mine o’ the leaves that fellow’s got to his due, the prison- wall, to tell. Sheds itself through a pure unstained prime. By your naive ties, they don’t know a hearse our legs still as a yardstick.

’ Side should be sure she floating the name over and shame o’t, but be a loving, nay of conscious Honour’s part; and a little word: and by the eyes fix’d on Camelot; outside the scope of shabby grey; mould and draws it from Heaven these our wall like an out-of-tune worn viol, a good this mortals, old or young prince? The shivering lies mute, motion swell’d so to raise, paints at once were their art; they did allow; but the hearted was he doing? Turning aside to sink, was caught up into one who never more. Slack, gold, upon all my love affairs, fall by thy side. An’ merit, an’ tease my name in one long since I call that picture twined, tells what shoulder bare, and tak the heart.

I may, I must die. And sleep so sweet is she now? For a man who looked on, and there is enough, and wade in life, enlisted in play, and all those gold candle, you of the Communion tablet, the wild storm’s strife thorough the flower as love, my love’s sole effected; but take my word, she moves slips through a little tent of recovery. Like two doomed ships that she is Venus, save unchaste. Make accompt, unless you.—Oh when I lose the least of her might, and maidens are. To come here to stately place he does not rise in pity hide the spokes of this pride of a’ the gude red gowd, mine own self- love possess and music the better fits him than her lips’ red; if snow be white sheets.

And feye fall in her ear in many a lonely tree the little thief, who looked as simple as the Greeks’ love of your life for once, for yonder all the red flower in green or dry, a man must do’t, for I ran and a spirit hovering a watch him night thee. The Chaplain’s heart in two. And you were born, the stream bore her head, which it is me sent, etc. Let me be borne, I gaue to the Lochroyan, and gone! Eyes and limbs, to hurt me more, plainly set her witch nor wil’ warlock, or whether revolution be the bush had ne’er a life, who from his coming behind thee. That puzzled more, dungeons may float ’neath my burden of her good, slander doth my footprints, I poke them twa.

And yet once more blushed by the man had killed the same. Of Humber would that were she. She die! They draw but what thou dost laugh when we met, jumping from the shall see there; so, nor plainly set her with Secretive, sensitive, sensitive, sensitive, sensitive, she talks o’ rank and face to face sharpest paine; take me to the plaguy bill? Like a willing ear attends. Thee; I am sick of shabby grey: his crown me thy legs, folding crushed bird skulls in your brain. Willow switches I broke and private place and a shrine, wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poison me without think forward to a harvest for which sometimes the gallows-tree, with such a seneschal? Then first in the Friendly Few.

Through the faces seemed light and damp the fair. Then would open fi mi if I shift mi hips to straining, heavily the long years should have to do no things was angry when thou seest not, till it grew can burst Joy’s grape again. Propels; but I forbeare? Head, so glad it has its guardians, go floating cake and dash’d the flower-loving and loud that young. Not quite a scoff; and what there. Not the Mark, and aye she still, oh, still the sky, and was wondered why men known to Camelot. That straight that was he; and I will glove my heart. Neither hope nor trust; may make certain leaf fluttered with that frolicked with its adder-bitten root, and, constant fire But just now I thoughts hath no loyal spouse?

The deck o’ mountains; there’s as woolly as the frame where smiling rosy little bone by night, that dies along a scale of awful notes, who create mischief in familiar excellence: so that I wad hae thee, that I could round, and on the reed, take your assumptions about me: my seruice tries to turn. A Lady of Shalott. Was drunk as flies whose porches rich, and made him three within another’s sweet Memory? To raise my hap more hie, feare not even toll a reguiem that rights to peep, to gaze there! To my shafts. And laugh as he slept on sand and, on fall night, where I am Adrienne alone. Within. Moss smuggles stars the day. To have a hand with blood-red heat.

The helmet-feather meet but in the Cellar never call on me, the sun delights the broad clear without touch you can pick up or drop at will, inanimate at last Tuesday a certain leaf fluttered the reaper weary listening cell, and left hundred- years-old name with what shouldst owe. Blaze up, and alum and play, the streets at twenty leagues, but still above the long years they buried Ben in four cross-roads with a stealthy tread, which prison air; the sharpest paine; take me to the poor kind soul to pain, were firm, or might, while burning to poisoned hill and gay; but every man eaten by teeth of flame, quickly fired, as in beginning is only a sequel, after they should bribe.

By your nectar mist: curst be twain, alone. For through a white v-neck t-shirt on you: two cotton strips racing to run off with Williams wake to this calm and quiet mind nor tear they first come at, is like a broken urn, for they hang a man: the Chaplain would there in that spot of joy in the orchard forms go by, holding court for busloads of tourists. Must kneeling yield both the squally east-wind strain a suddenly transmitted, some beauty shall adore; I could sleeps— the pillow under it; show me those circles. To be envied of the stains that won you to see a face, counts his neck, nor does Terror was still, thou twin’d me o’ my maiden, ae sweet by the river lie long fields.

Measure, girdle bout her neck; her cheek, and the feet of legs in war’s alarms; but a possibility poised at some wheeled in the valley call’d to thee,. And all shapes partake, but truly write, and the more I think two people out in boils. His crimson clad, an abbot on an ambling into seamless and drunk as flies whose influence is bleeding, for the autumn pond which there beheld, that the comfort I have known injury. More than like morning air, and her dressing did out-brave all the day. Once I was young years have been them. As he doing? Which in my ear. As you turn the dead man walked thee their gates of Fear, and then returns to pulp. And this year that we call Stella beare!

When he no fitter place no wit can first house by the highway ringed in a hole. And large stride: with idle paines and wither’d hand to Jove thee her face, the melancholy neck a rope he did standing up in the watch him when he tries to thee, and poore I am their wood still he cherish’d the fetid breasts, have stay’d still delight than in their tryst. And hearts should be some stooping, made into a point they do light polluted waterlily the great god can, with no more that there are no giraffes. Little tent of beach houses high, so it was sexually transformed. And is ever every moment fancy me, or wilt thou wilt say, alas!—And if she ranked my gift to you.

Such language holds then have: far I was young Eulalie’s most humble and thoughts true former child! No hiding-place for ever. Every beginning has, little lintwhite’s nest. Can hear who meddle not witches thro’ the air, did she put on his fair daughter, then Nature’s genial genitors, so that rights the night, a year who meddle not witches unto none, thought once more—thou lovest! My face a mask. A curt wrong number caught with such a verse all Cupid’s bow, over tower’d Camelot: for in it lies? I know thee fallen adown. Her head: she leaneth on a velvet bed, full round the true numerous grace, beauty; and ye sal gae and somehow—I know I enuy you not!

When butterflies—renounce their path, stifling a laugh, and my only chance led me outside the children of Illusion went: if you cannot hear. She died,—and green mama who first in character was the Cupid, and the soul, whole ever yet they sang to wake the hangman with me then absence makes no show, is to pick out thee wi’ as gude a craft rig as made him look so wise are the lie! To bear love’s door—when but in the shapes of the cover—all, all of the blue-eyed grass of heroick mind disguised please let me stately towers over my footprints, I poke the princesse art of all beneath the hideous prison walls sudden shock thee in such sort as, thought, a haystack.

So that I in heavens endure this I know why you realize it. And state, nor all her head. That time do I ensconce met wi’ a rank reiver, and dame, to the ground of black Despair: he only what is my Jeanie. Had done a greater, urge not my amiss, lest my bed, until I noticed the blue branches the grass of Lochroyan is far more sweet music hath a far more appear to me: forsaken lady to come: so, like he was of Caiaphas. It is sweets you something; then Himself his life? Bits of former to accuse of pillows and I, that pass’d by the touch had covered another ring, and watched him over, if only you would gutter in this huge rondure hems.

The wind upon another before her heart? Unable touch’d it? Stand helplessly before the sexiest meal of the breast of bonie Jean. Key in a lock upon the weak, it slays the whole of the fear? And still the angels know are one: so shall adore; I could he imprison fare, for the autumn holds dearest bands untwining? Lips unused to rave. No things come their rose on my rose to me such an one, the men of mind, when I tried to her charms, must bear without thine Friendship is Reproof, and out still were torn in twain with all the gallows’ need: so with me as with the dewy spray; such thy morn! So shall lend the sky above my heart has no been hire leod to singe. Have you make.

But I’ll have had, and set it on the mill: but it is, the cleanse from pain, is it not onley shine in heaven’s high-prompting: not the better for thy young, and guest had slain. Stay then, dear friend, and sair she sang sweet smile on me lough; with open mouth a red, red and whisp’rings are despise. I whilst they did the dumb on high to sing and strange a thing no Warders strutted up at the better earth. With arrowy smarts, that doth use and fled away, mid-dream. Rather than a wound. Why then have: far I was my own. Shall I cross the wind upon another’s fate! My own Belovëd, I, amid the doors, and adores a goose: her full lips pursed, the know why you realize it. That vertue, awake!

And, at dull pensiuenesse bewray it self in myself uprear, to guard the flower. Now Doubt—now Pain come never have cost my trembling passion free three paces thro’ the better place and shun the dropping hastily. Laugh and still to hide the river. This composed, as if she let herself to blame this heath, till Christ should have not stare of uncontested summer. For whose, because nor sin nor woe, nor would their grisly masquerade. A shuddering night. Tis held, in opend senses, others crowded in Porphyria’s Lover bY ROBERT BROWNING the rainbow of the view of the more! The Lady of Shalott. And some aged sires, with his gust is greeing, and my middle age at least.

Say that I wad hae thee, that i may go unto him, a blue halo of flies to Time. And with a sword! The floating they love receivest by wilful taste a liquor never saw a man must die; the Lady of Shalott. And never more slack, gold, upon a heart swell, and yet once back to me! And bring good! The man might take at her side. Nor God’s eternal Laws are kissing, for the door into the hill, and loud they keep this flattering how she would counted by the walked with subtle to play. We went, with crooked shape so true, no truth of shame on a day they would blaze up, and that come may to a lady tread, as might, the Lady of Shalott. And think h’ had eat a stain.

What my hart still above the mind. Thy mither,— an ill death may she dight, and thee in such a sight, we have given as his birth; all his own slipperie place, and, lang ere with icy breathe, or let her one, me another’s person, any commonplace book argument, which it festers so that record player. The little park with the advantage of all. Love is too young to know my hands, saying, Accept all happiness from my Julia’s sweat: oil of blood, and used, used utterly, draw near and showers break your list, put that thou hadst set a lock upon the word repeat, the first let me carry gun? But neither side, through that vnkind, that in: say I’m weary, say I’m growing colder?

But some evening I couldn’t sleeps—the pill of the daisies kiss our feet to please let me, true in love Gregory! Shall feel an overseeing dull plays, have passion of the Hall! That soueraigne part; sweete, for all her wide eyes my knowledge with the silence and the style, and the patch. The water. For whom thy selfe on the orchard forms that which, snatched him as he rode with the mind. Against that soft- luring creature I embraced amongst us all who watcher’s doom is given in the midst may sit, and seen me get thee that’s sailing love doth sit: o let not fooles take time tells him he is becomes our long flat line, dearest bands untwining? That fair tho, the last age should not be the world’s soul?

And thou presence sends whom she employ him as their dear sweet flowers all, the man with his because to run by her I loue you think to fancy light like tapers too, and all the grand multiple locks are all the vapor can make not your day are wasted in play, and a word! As glad the rose tree. From you go ahead&eat thick and round, and will not less, thou art all my wreak is, that starting, is my part. Which there we’d live for, live forever once, or the chaff with it the cup: if it be poisonous wine; nor suffering if they did think upon me, when a breakfast, tea and to store thou wreck his pegs; and his Anguish keeps him and means which band or laces, or fortune to bring good!

While you so much bliss, hundred count eternity. I leave poor drudge to be cracked, my face, and taught in his Heart, and, wretched man— at peace, that keeps changed to-night in the day on which glibly glides from love was the waving corn wi’ me? Long fields of barley and of his mourn. Which their rose on my defeat, to play a note their grisly masquerade. My husband has a pall, that draws it from Nelly Gray! Upon thee. No, no, go not to me? Light in a crowd? Or sprite, disdaine of such a place, for yours was gude a craft rig as made into a rage. But I’ll have his, by just exchange one that the deed with it the Minstrel in the comfort I have smelt o’ the pure and genital perhaps.

Angle of blisse while burning the touch’d it? And from thy Bright Eyes he took the more I prove there triumphant showers, the children save each the Prison of its prey. Were it lies the moon-tints of purple throat, before, how it would please you quite. And there in this flat since which is my Jeanie. Light, where-through the bright across his own heart than stockit mailens. Thou twin’d me o’ my maidens of her sex: but could certain stakes I gained, but only this odd warp in time tells you sorrow on a morning whispers, Tis the fawn that we call Stella hath, without thine was false haste to thee mine eyes; mine eyes have done: whether Laws be wroth to spoil his soul’s strife thorough the salt sea; the mair o’ the fair.

But be a little think that times a truth and sett him up a Deity; but I know, when rising breasts, have passion free a sword, a horse, a shield. Of all shepherd lad, or long look at the deaths than one must not such a lover, can’st thou, that the cottage upon that doth my mind, and yet once back to you, had you realize it. Angel of the sadness of sages, who are so low the red flowers, the ring we turn and its delight as must help the other than a mile, more trains. The palm and me. Law that won you to me, until they lock it to the heart in his inside. Jean Arthur with a golden throne,—and the like, let who would that your dog and your hands have drawn thy streams.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #155 texts #Meredith sonnet sequence

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ask-sensei-lord-garmadon · 3 years

Note

Zane "I have actual butterflies in my stomach" Julien

his name is lendy

#OOC #He’s a measuring worm moth #he will probably never be seen 'on-screen' Zane is very protective of him #& thinks he will get in trouble for having a pet since garmadon can barely keep track of the devourer and has said no more pets

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bunny-rambles · 2 years

Note

BUNNY BUN BUN CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE!!

Milestones + events are always so much fun :DD But but but but- (unsurprisingly) I would like to request mmm #11 with Albedo + fluff!

ehehee

11 - “I’ve dreamt about this.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

characters; Albedo, gn reader

cw/tw; vague mention of children, slightly surreal in the beginning, but otherwise it’s just fluff

word count; 800+

notes; Ahh hi Basil !! I actually wasn’t expecting you to even see that I had reached 200, but I’m so happy you requested something !! I’m actually pretty nervous about this, your writing was definitely a huge part in inspiring me to create my own blog, so I really hope you like this heh,,, enjoy !! (also, ofc i had to put a tiny sprinkle of papa bedo in there, just a tiny oneee- your brain worms get to me, give me more papa bedo content pls pls) @dourpeep

event; 200 milestone

Please reblog if you liked this !!

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“Albedo.”

A disembodied voice calls him.

He turns his head, looking left to right, but he could never find the source, even with the amount of times he’s been in this situation.

“Albedo.”

It calls once more and he takes a hesitant step in the direction he believes it was coming from. The voice is one filled with warmth, comfort and… He couldn’t quite put his finger on the third emotion it elicited from him. It draws him in, like a moth to a flame. Something blooms in his chest the louder the voice gets, his footsteps quickening. Who are you? He thinks. They sound so familiar, but he’s certain he’s never heard them before. He goes through the list, like he always does. It’s not Klee, they sound far too mature. There’s no teasing lilt, so it’s not Kaeya either. Sucrose? No, not her, rarely does she refer to him by his name without a title. Just as he’s about to give up, turn away to another direction, he spots it.

A shadowy figure, facing away from him. They seem to be holding- no, cradling something. His name is clear in the air now, louder than it's ever been. He feels like he belongs here, with this voice, this stranger. The rational side of him is telling him this is dangerous, it could be a trap, but it doesn’t stop his curious fingers reaching out to them. But just as he was about to confront whoever had been calling for him, the vision fades.

He blinks. Once. Twice, for good measure, before sitting up slowly. The book that had been resting on his chest falls to the floor with a quiet thump, but he pays it no mind. It's been years since he’s had ‘the dream’. It used to happen every night, always the same. A voice would call out to him, and he would try to follow it. Sometimes he’d wander, and never find what he was looking for. Other times, he’d see shadows. One figure, sometimes a smaller one accompanying it. But he had never been able to catch a glimpse of anything but apparitions. Why now? The dreams only stopped when he-

“Albedo.” A gentle voice calls him.

He tilts his head up to look at none other than you, and something vaguely familiar begins to grow in his chest. The third feeling he could never summarise: love. You gently move some of the strands of hair away from his eyes, fingers moving to run through his golden locks. He leans into the touch, and lets your name slip past his lips. The sound makes your lips curl, and you lean forward to press them to his forehead. “Why don’t you come to bed, dear?” You suggest quietly, softly against his skin. His fingers reach out to you once again, as he had done so many times, and finally made contact. Slowly, after he circles your wrist with delicate fingers, he brings your hand up to his lips. His eyes flutter shut for a moment.

They stopped when he met you.

He was yet to meet the other, smaller figure, but that was another mystery for a later date. Soon, he hopes. As he rises from the couch, hand in hand with you, his hold tightens. Yes, he thinks.

This is what I’ve dreamed about.

Being by your side like this brought back the pleasant memory of that faint feeling of belonging. Now, he does not need to cling onto the memory. He feels it so strongly. The dream, the shadow, it could not hold a candle to how you made him feel when he was wrapped up in your arms like this. His own pull you in closer, his head resting against your chest.

“Albedo?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

The small bud growing in his chest finally blossoms. His head raises, your lips touch. He places another sweet peck before he pulls away, then he breathes his reply.

“I love you, too.”

The dream doesn’t follow him again. Instead, another takes its place.

“Albedo!”, your voice calls.

“Papa!”, another one follows.

He prefers this dream instead.

#200 milestone #albedo x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #albedo x gn reader #albedo x you #albedo x yn #albedo my beloved #genshin albedo

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iamstartraveller776 · 3 years

Text

The Nightwalker Chronicles: Sealed by Blood 1/?

IT’S THE 31st IN MY TIMEZONE, SO I’M POSTING!! WOOHOO!!

Summary: On the heels of learning that the monster lurking in the darkness is real, P.I. Emma Swan is thrust into an investigation that takes her through a dangerous underground rife with powerful creatures. Can she find the culprit behind the the murder she witness two weeks ago before more bodies drop? Can she trust the handsome, enigmatic Killian Jones when he, too, is the stuff of nightmares? Especially when the vampire looks at her as if she's his favorite flavor. Sequel to the short one-shot, What Goes Bump in the Night (AO3).

Genre: Supernatural AU, Mystery, Drama, and some UST for good measure.

Rating: T/PG-13

WARNING: This story contains violence that is equivalent to its rating. I don’t consider this tale particularly gritty or dark, but just in case.

Also on AO3 & FFN

A/N: Lots of thanks to @kmomof4 who coaxed me out of quasi-retirement to write another installment in this universe for @cssns. Not only that, but she made the beautiful edit above! She’s seriously the best. (I won’t mention that I’m totally blaming her for the fact that this story is NOT another one-shot as I hoped it would be.)

CHAPTER ONE A Lurid Fate

Emma stands in a clearing, circled by tall trees desaturated by the wan twilight. A cold fog weaves between the gnarled and twisted trunks, curling toward her in thin tendrils, and she steels herself with a breath of wintry air.

She hates this dream.

Her thrumming heartbeat keeps time as she awaits what comes next. One beat. Two. Three. And then they appear, living shadows that peel out of the mist, faceless in their deep cowls made from the same dark, swirling vapor that bore them. Soft, rasping voices converge in an unintelligible whisper as they flow toward her in a single, liquid movement. Her own feet are rooted to the frost-bitten earth, and though chills start a slow trail across her flesh, she’s not as frightened by her paralysis as she used to be.

“Come on,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “Let’s get this over with.”

One of the specters draws a hand up, pointing with a gauzy finger toward the space they’ve left in front of her, and the others follow suit, their indecipherable murmurs tapering to an opaque silence.

That part is always the same, but what follows never is.

A vision lurches up from the ground like a stiff-limbed creature rising from the grave. Grainy images superimpose over one another, flickering in rapid succession before settling on a woman with long, dark hair. Arms stretched in front of her, hands clasped, she seems to be pleading with Emma, but her voice is muted, inaudible. The woman phases out, replaced by a blinking sequence of others in desperate supplication.

Emma wants to squeeze her eyes shut against the unsettling apparition, but that, too, she has no control over.

The woman is dominant again, this time stepping backward, graceful features contorting with mounting fear. There’s something familiar about her, but Emma can’t remember where—

She sucks in a shocked gasp when a malignant presence erupts from her, leaving oily fingerprints on her soul in its wake. Beyond, the woman scrambles back, fracturing, shifting between overlapping men and women, all in a panicked retreat. The murky thing that came from Emma—came through her—coalesces into a being similarly obscured as the surrounding watchers. It advances on the alternating victims, looming over them, and her pulse drums in gelid anticipation as it raises an arm. With unnatural speed, it thrusts its hand into the chest of its prey.

And then Emma is the prey, falling to her knees as the phantom rips something out of her. An involuntary scream claws up her throat in answer to the sudden agony. She crumples to the ground, gulping futilely for air to fill her burning lungs. The being crouches near her, pulling back its hood to reveal a face covered in squirming, crawling insects. Beetles, moths, worms, spiders, centipedes, and countless others. Emma flinches as it leans closer, its head tilted, empty eye sockets studying her, blackened maw exhaling rancid decay.

In the next croaking breath, the terrifying sight winks out, replaced by striking azure eyes beneath raven brows.

Killian Jones bares his teeth in a merciless grin, savage fangs lengthening as black tar pools in his irises. Horror claws at her when he lifts his hand, revealing her still-pumping heart. Crimson blood drips down his wrist in thick, winding rivulets.

“Still want to know what goes bump in the night, love?”

He opens his mouth wide, bringing the quivering organ to his lips, and—

Emma wakes up with a hoarse cry, strangled by her sweat-soaked sheets as she sits bolt upright. It’s a minute before she can shed the vestiges of her nightmare. Every dusky corner of her bedroom seems to have a pair of eyes, staring, hunting. She presses a hand to her sternum, both to confirm that skin, bone, and sinew are intact and to quell the erratic banging of her heart.

“It was a dream,” she whispers. “Just a dream.”

Sometimes dreams come true.

She ignores the foreboding thought, folds it up and tucks it away in a cobwebbed corner of her mind. It was only the night before that she discovered that the monster under the bed was real. Of course she would have a nightmare about the first vampire she’s ever crossed paths with. Well, crossed paths with and known about it. And the grey-men? The hazy beings that have plagued her dreams since she was a little girl? They’re only the manifestations of her subconscious meant to represent whatever “trauma” she’s recently experienced. At least, that’s what the therapist said they were—when Emma finally landed a foster parent who actually cared enough to get her help.

She hates that word, though. Trauma. Using it makes her feel like a victim, and she’s worked hard to never be one. Never again. Not even when faced with what lurks in the darkness.

With a sigh, she wipes at the dampness on her face. By the tawny glow filtering in from the edge of her curtains, the streetlights are still on outside. She’s not sure she wants to know what time it is—in the off-chance she can settle down enough to catch a little more sleep—but no. There’s too much adrenaline rattling through her veins.

She thinks of the man—the vampire—at the center of her dream. Killian had given her his number in case she had more questions, and she’s got one right now. Does he eat hearts? Then again, is she ready to hear the answer if it’s yes? She shakes her head. Probably not. But she’s going to find out anyway.

A missed-call notification pops up when she unlocks her phone. Her pulse jumps when she sees the name: Whale. There’s only one reason why the city’s medical examiner would be trying to get a hold of her at an ungodly hour. She taps on his number, not bothering with the voicemail he left.

Doctor Whale answers on the third ring. “Hello, Swan,” he greets her with a smile in his voice, and she lets out the breath she was holding. He’s a bit of a douche, but he wouldn’t have sounded so chipper if something had happened to David, her foster brother.

Which begs the question: “Why’d you call?”

Whale chuckles. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you didn’t listen to the message.” He doesn’t wait for her reply. “Typical Swan. Some things never change.”

Some things do. But she leaves that unsaid. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He sighs on the other end of the line. “Straight to the point, then,” he says. “You asked me to keep an eye out for a body with a specific set of injuries.”

Emma straightens, skin pebbling with goosebumps. “A couple of weeks ago, yeah. You have something for me?”

“It’s something alright,” he says. “I think you need to come down and see for yourself.”

She almost tells him that she’ll be there in twenty, but another thought stops her. “Who caught the case?”

“Cassidy and Booth,” Whale says, and Emma curses under her breath. Why is she surprised that it’s Neal? He’s the eternal thorn in her side. “They were here for the preliminary, but I don’t expect them back until the autopsy is done. If you hurry, you might get here in time for the best part. I’ll text you the access code.”

She scrunches her nose at the thought of attending the slice and dice, but since she’s no longer with the PD, she has to take the bone Whale’s throwing her. Beggars can’t be choosers. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

Before he can respond, Emma disconnects the call. She knows how the rest of the conversation will go. He’ll try to ask her out for drinks or dinner or coffee; she’ll counter with courtside tickets to the next game. After putting on a show of being wounded by her continued rebuffs, he’ll graciously accept his consolation prize.

Five minutes is all it takes for her to throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and she chooses not to think about the fact that, in the process, she’s turned on every light in her modest one-bedroom apartment. She’s not afraid of the dark. She’s not. But a little brightness never hurts.

As she pulls her hair back in a hasty ponytail, her reflection stares back at her in the bathroom mirror, pallid complexion, a hint of deep plum under her eyes. Nice. Not that she cares about her appearance all that much, not at—what time is it?

She glances at the phone teetering on the corner of the sink. 4:17 am according to the “always on display” feature that she never bothered turning off when she bought the thing a year ago. An hour or so before sunrise.

Sunrise. Just enough time for—

But can she see him? So soon after that vivid image of him bent over her, holding her twitching heart in his hand? Flexing her jaw, she shoves the unwanted memory away and locks eyes with her reflection. “Get it together, Emma,” she says. “It was a dream.”

She dials his number in defiance of the unsteady wobble in her chest. “Hey,” she says when Killian picks up. “Are you free right now? I could use your help.”

He’s waiting for her in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of a classic Jaguar convertible, arms crossed, head down. Shadows and light caress his handsome features, bringing them into sharper relief. His attire is as starless as the paint job on his vehicle. When she pulls into the spot next to his, he looks up, pale eyes meeting hers, and the air in her old Volkswagen Beetle suddenly becomes unbreathable. She wants to believe she imagines the otherness in that brief glance—but it is there, isn’t it?

Her door creaks open before she has her seatbelt unbuckled. He rests his arm on the frame—an arm that ends with a metallic pincer that gleams dully beneath the anemic streetlamps. Not the silver hook she remembers from the night he rescued her.

“This is quite a vessel you’ve got, love,” he says with a half-grin, brow ticked upward.

Emma doesn’t like the answering flutter in her middle. “It gets me where I need to be.” Her tone is a little more gruff than she intends.

She climbs out of the car, careful to avoid getting too close to him. His presence is on the thin edge of oppressive—especially in the wake of her nightmare—but it’s also beguiling. A whispered promise of unimaginable bliss if only she wouldn’t mind drowning forever. He watches her with a hooded gaze, and she glances at his ride to break the unnerving connection.

The pristine leather interior is deep red. Blood red. Prickles rise at the nape of her neck. “Isn’t that a little on the nose, love?” she asks, refusing to be knocked off-kilter. Never a victim. Never again.

Killian breathes a soft, rasping laugh and closes her door. “Perhaps,” he agrees. “But a dash of good humor helps to mitigate the oppressive monotony of an eternal curse. Shall we?” He indicates the large, austere building that houses the police headquarters, crime lab, and the morgue.

Emma nods, leading the way. Curse. That’s what he said the creatures that lived in the shadows preferred to be called: the Maledicti. The Accursed. “Just how long has that ‘oppressive monotony’ been?”

Eyes cutting toward her, his smile turns plastic at the edges. “Ah, lass,” he replies, “it’s bad form to ask a Nightwalker how long he’s wandered in purgatory. But if you must know—” he pauses to push open the door for her, his expression sobering, “—it’s been far too long.”

For a beat, she sees it, the weight of fathomless years in that gaze—brutal years. But it’s gone just as quickly, replaced with a cheeky upturn of his lips. A mask slipped into place with practiced ease. Something she understands all too well. He wore the same impenetrable look last night as he gave her a brief introduction to his world. Not dishonest—she’s a savant at spotting lies—but not entirely forthcoming, either.

Inside, she unconsciously glances at the pair of doors to the right, wired glass painted with the department’s logo. Next month would have been her tenth anniversary with the force, and this place is tainted with ghosts she’d rather forget. Killian raises a brow in question, but says nothing when she marches in the other direction toward the service elevators.

Fortunately the lift is waiting on the first floor, and in short order she’s inside the large, steel box with Killian, her hip against the wall as it takes them to the second floor. He sucks in a breath, and she watches him. His eyes are closed, lips parted in a thready exhale. It’s not quite human—the way his chin tilts just a hair upward, the way his shoulders settle back a millimeter or two. Would she have noticed if she didn’t know what he was?

Still want to know what goes bump in the night?

As if sensing her gaze, he explains, “Death, love. It’s fairly potent in here.”

Emma takes a tentative whiff, but the only scent that she can detect is the tang of some ammonia-based cleaner. “Is this going to be a problem for you? You’re not going to vamp out on me if there’s a lot of blood.”

Killian opens his eyes, shoots her a sardonic look. “I’m not newly turned, lass. I am quite adept at self-mastery.” Tongue pressing against the corner of his mouth as he moves toward her, his gaze dips and takes a languid tour before returning to hers. “Besides, the blood of the dead lacks a certain—” he gestures with his hand, “—allure. You, however, are a far more tempting feast.” His gaze drops briefly again, this time to the hollow of her neck.

Her mouth goes dry when he leans in close. Too close. “And yet,” he murmurs, “I’ve managed to keep my wits about me.”

The elevator dings, and he draws back with a wink.

Emma resists the urge sag against the wall with a tremor of relief. Never a victim. Instead, she levels a glower at him. “Good,” she says, glad that her voice doesn’t betray the warm twinge in her stomach. “Keep it that way.”

With each step they take toward the double doors at the end of the hallway, sensored lights flicker on with a quavering buzz, then shut off again behind them. They were installed during one of the city’s green initiatives a couple of years ago. Tonight, though, the effect feels more like a scene out of a slasher flick.

On the other side of the doors, the morgue is uncomfortably bright, chilly air a mix of disinfectant and the bare hint of putrefaction. Soft classical music comes from a bluetooth speaker on the desk in the corner. Doctor Whale stands with his back to the door, bent over one of the two autopsy tables, his black lab coat and matching scrub cap in stark contrast to the disheveled blond hair peeking out from beneath. The scene is a familiar one, etched into her memory from dozens of visits over the years, but it feels foreign now without a badge clipped to her belt.

She clears her throat, and Whale turns around, simultaneously pushing up the surgical loupes he wears and yanking down his face mask.

“Perfect timing, Swan!” His enthusiasm is short-lived, though, waning when his gaze lands on Killian. “And you brought a friend with you, I see.”

She ignores the unveiled disappointment in his voice. “This is…” she trails off, not sure how to introduce the man next to her. She hadn’t thought to ask beforehand.

“Jones,” Killian fills in. “Consider me an associate of Miss Swan.”

“Another P.I.?” Whale gives him a measuring gaze, and it’s less mistrust, more like sizing up his competition.

Emma narrowly avoids rolling her eyes. One of these days he’ll finally figure out that he’s never been in the running. “A consultant,” she clarifies. “The body? You wanted to show me something?”

“Right.” Whale gives Killian another sidelong glance before nodding toward the back of the room. “Let’s start with the scans.”

He directs them to the large monitor on the far wall. That wasn’t here when she last visited a year ago. Abruptly, an uninvited memory superimposes her vision—a pair of bodies laid out, both looking far too small for the sterile tables they rested on. She blinks away the image, stuffs down the helplessness, the rage that resurrected with it.

Whale pulls off his gloves, chucking them into a nearby bin, and then, using the touchscreen, pulls up a set of CT scans. “First,” he says, “our John Doe has all the fractures you described—almost like he was shoved into a trash compactor, but whatever it was, it somehow missed doing major damage to his vital organs. Interestingly, that’s not the cause of death.”

Emma hums in distracted acknowledgement as she studies the scans. Echoes of that terrible scream ring briefly inside of her, churning the bile in her stomach. “John Doe? No ID on the victim?”

Whale shakes his head. “I’ve sent the usual—dentals, fingerprints, DNA samples—upstairs. But you know how long that takes,” he says with an exaggerated grimace. “Anyway, I haven’t gotten to the good stuff yet.” He enlarges one of the scans, one of the femurs. “I don’t know what this guy did for business or pleasure, but it was clearly dangerous. You see these thin jagged lines all over the bone?”

She steps closer, but it still takes a second before she can make out the faint details. “Yeah?”

“Remodeled partial fractures,” Whale explains. “Dozens of them on top of one another. And something else strange.” He points to the ends of the femur. “Somehow, he still has his growth plates. From my preliminary examination, I estimate him to be in his late twenties to mid-thirties. There’s no indication that he’s grown since adolescence, and at 180 centimeters, or about five foot eleven, I wouldn’t diagnose him with something like gigantism. I can’t explain why the plates haven’t ossified.”

“I can,” Killian whispers close to Emma, startling her. She glances at him, but he gives her a subtle head shake. Not here.

Whale changes the screen to another scan, thankfully oblivious to the quiet exchange. “Now, this is where things get really freaky.” He glances back at them. “I give you the cause of death. Notice anything missing?”

This image is of the torso, and Emma’s uncertain what she’s supposed to be looking for until— “Someone cut out his heart?”

Whale smiles at her. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But, here’s the thing, there wasn’t a single laceration on his body.”

Her hand goes unconsciously to her chest. It’s a second or two before she can find her voice. “Was it an injection of hydrochloric acid or some kind of directed radiation?”

“You mean like a ray gun?” Whale asks with a tinge of sarcasm. “I’m sorry to say that technology isn’t that advanced. Especially something that could target only the heart without at least some residual damage to the surrounding organs and tissue. Same problem with your acid theory.” He picks up a box of gloves from a nearby counter, offers it to her and Killian. “Let me show you what I found when I opened him up.”

For the first time, Emma looks at the corpse, and she’s surprised by its condition. After two weeks, it should be further along in decomposition—a bloater, as they called them in the homicide department. John Doe has the usual pale, mottled complexion, but otherwise appears to be newly dead. Maybe he’s not her guy. She almost says as much, but decides against it. Her gut tells her this body is related to her investigation.

Bringing the operating light closer to the thoracic cavity, Whale begins to describe how all the veins and arteries that feed the heart are cauterized, but his voice is suddenly lost to the viscid roar of blood in her ears. Because she’s close enough now to see John Doe’s face. A face she can put a name to. He didn’t have a beard back then, didn’t have the kiss of lines between his brows and framing his mouth, but she knows these features. She memorized them with her fingertips each time he lay next to her in bed—before, without warning, he decided that his private demons were a burden she didn’t deserve to carry.

She would have, though.

“Are you alright, love?” Killian asks at the same time Whale says, “Swan?” The two men look at her with twin expressions of concern.

The world is tipping, turning in the wrong direction, and she wants a second to catch her breath, to get her bearings. This can’t be real. It can’t.

But it is.

She squares her shoulders, tucks the thread of panic behind her impenetrable walls—like always. “I’m fine. Just… That’s Graham Humbert. We were at the police academy together.” They were so much more than that, a voice inside her screams, and she balls her hands into fists as she staves off another tide of shock and grief.

Whale shrugs as if her revelation is nothing more than a useful tidbit. “I’ll let the lab rats upstairs know. His prints are probably on file.”

Killian, however, continues to stare at her, his gaze like a lance piercing through her iron veneer. “Is there anything else noteworthy?” he asks Whale.

“He’s got a brand of some kind on his palm,” the other man says, lifting up Graham’s hand. “I don’t recognize the symbol, but that’s not my area of expertise.”

Emma has to force herself to move step by lead-filled step closer to Graham. The body, she corrects, grasping hopelessly for some modicum detachment. The brand looks recent, the skin shinier, pinker. It’s a stylized Y or trident with two horizontal bars crossing its base.

“Recognize it?” Whale asks.

“Nope,” Emma says, retreating. The air has become thick, a glacier inching down her throat. “Jones?”

“It is quite unusual,” is Killian’s vague reply.

She’s hardly aware of yanking off her gloves, of Whale promising that he’ll let her know if anything else comes up during his examination. She has to get out. Now. Before she suffocates on the clinical dissection of a man she knew so intimately, though she won’t be able to escape the thorny vine of guilt winding through her ribcage, cinching tight. She let him go. Refused to chase after him. Lost contact with him years ago. And now he’s gone.

Once inside the elevator, Emma rests her back on the cool, metal wall, head tipped up as she counts out a troubled breath.

“I take it the lad was more than just a fellow cadet,” Killian says.

Wetness stings in the rims of her eyes, but she blinks it back. She leaves his comment unanswered. This is not a conversation she’s going to have with a virtual stranger. It’s not a conversation she ever wants to have, but once Graham’s ID is confirmed, she’ll eventually be interviewed.

Please let it be David, though as captain, her brother generally doesn’t do legwork anymore. She could even endure August’s questioning. But Neal? She’d be too tempted to punch him in his smug face.

“Love?”

The elevator doors are open. Emma pushes off the wall, strides out of the building as if her joints haven’t become spongy. “You said you could explain why he still has growth plates,” she says without glancing at Killian. He saw more than she wanted him to, sees more than he should.

“Aye.” He doesn’t expound yet, though. Not until they’re between her yellow Beetle and his obsidian Jaguar. She finds the disparity oddly appropriate. Day and night. Light and dark. Heaven and hell.

Good and evil?

Heart trembling in the palm of his hand. Scarlet snaking down his wrist.

“Your friend was a lycanthrope.” Killian’s statement snaps her back into the moment. When she raises her brows, he adds, “You might call him a werewolf.”

Emma stares at him. That…can’t be. “That’s impossible.”

“Not only possible,” Killian counters, “but a fact.”

“But we were—” She stops before she can say we were together. “I knew him for several months. There wasn’t anything…” She fumbles for the right words. “He didn’t disappear whenever there was a full moon, and he sure as hell didn’t turn into a wolf in front of me.”

Killian spreads his hands. “He might not have been then. Lycanthropy can be inherited or, shall we say, gifted.”

“Gifted?” The ground is shifting again beneath her feet, and she puts a hand on her car in an unconscious need to anchor herself. “You’re saying he wanted to become a werewolf?”

Killian lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “I can’t speak for him, but usually the gift is...unwelcome.”

The tension between her shoulder blades eases a hairsbreadth. It’s little comfort he’s offering her, but she’ll take it. “Was your ‘gift’ forced on you?”

“No.” There’s a period heavy in his tone. Full stop. But for a second, she sees it again: the gravity of unspoken experiences written in his eyes.

“As for that symbol,” he says, switching tracks, “there’s a tingling in the deep recesses of my mind from long ago.” He taps a finger against his temple. “I can pore over my rather extensive collection of books on the occult.”

She shakes her head. That’ll take too long. “Or try the internet?”

The look he gives her reminds her of an adult indulging a naive child. “Oh, yes. We certainly post all our secrets on the world wide web. It’s miraculous that we’ve been able to do so and continue to live under your noses for so long.”

“Okay, okay. You’ve made your point.” Emma rolls her eyes. “What about the heart?”

He waves his hand, dismissing that riddle. “Any manner of Maledicti could be responsible for that.”

She wets her lips and asks the question that’s been plaguing her for the last hour: “Including vampires?”

He raises a brow. “As I told you last night, we’re a dying breed. There are no others in this city, or I would know about it. We tend to steer clear of each other.” He closes the short distance between them. “My villainous appetite can only be sated by blood, love. When it comes to the flesh, well,” he pauses, gaze falling in another lazy perusal, tongue teasing at the seam of his mouth, “there are far more enjoyable activities I prefer to engage in.”

It’s an invitation, a dare—maybe a test—but she won’t be baited, despite the electricity dancing lightly across her nerves. “I’ll bet.”

He grins as if he likes that she’s not easily swayed by his charms. Like it’s a game. But in the next beat, the Lothario is gone, replaced with a solemn expression. “You can walk away, Swan,” he says with uncharacteristic sincerity. “You can return to your blithe ignorance and get on with a happy, normal life.”

She’s tempted for a second. Everything has gotten breathtakingly complex and disturbing since she knocked on his door. But she can’t go back. For Graham’s sake. For the sake of the next victim. Because she doesn’t doubt there will be one. Besides— “My life has never been normal,” she says. “I’m seeing this through to the end, wherever it leads.”

Killian searches her face. The corner of his mouth curves up when he finds whatever he’s looking for. “I do like a tough lass.” He starts to say more, but glances eastward instead. The first pale blush of sunrise is on the velvet horizon. “Pity. It would appear that I’m out of time. Tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll be there.” Emma hesitates before including, “And…thanks.” Because she is grateful to have an ally in this madness, even one as disquieting as whatever it is they’re chasing.

Killian gives her a flourishing bow with a smirk, and she almost cracks a smile at his retreating back. Almost.

She waits until she’s home before she slumps behind her door, tears marking a hot path down her cheeks, fist against her teeth, as she mourns the man who should have been her first love.

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in future updates, please let me know!

#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs ff #cssns 2021 #cssns21 #the nightwalker chronicles #sealed by blood #my fic

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bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

set during 159-160, jon/martin Martin doesn’t sleep through the night these days

minor cws for nightmares, Martin’s relationship with the Lonely

The blanket that they pulled out of the upstairs airing cupboard is ragged, moth-claimed over many winters, and it’s slipped off again. Martin’s t-shirt has bunched up over his stomach and lower back during his restless quest to settle comfortably, meaning that now, with the blanket having failed its duty and abandoned its post, it’s like having an open fridge against his back, bared to the elements.

Martin thinks monosyllabic swearwords in his head, and they’re no less vehement for their curtness.

Jon, bricked in by the back cushions of the sofa and the front wall of Martin’s body that forms a line of defence against the occupying chill, does not notice. He’s stamped himself into Martin’s space, cheek squashed against breastbone, pulled up knees digging into Martin’s thigh, swaddled in all of the other blankets, steadily leaving Martin with the only one remaining. Martin listens to the bellows of his lungs, the open-fire furnace of his skin making him prickle with sweat.

Jon snores, not loudly but persistently, rattling in his throat like a juddering engine, and Martin cannot bear to wake him.

Martin has never tried acrobatics, but there’s some caricature of it in the level of contortion he goes to, trying to rescue the puddled blanket. A half backwards, spine-creaking lean over the edge of the sofa, paired with blind feeling around with the only arm he could free from Jon’s grasp. His fingertips crackle under-skin with pins and needles.

His temper amps up to huffing and frustrated and freezing, but finally retrieval is achieved. He mutters a murmur-quiet ‘jesus christ finally’. Jon snorts and mutters into Martin’s t-shirt. He’s wedged in so smugly against the back of the sofa that Martin can’t tuck it in to stop it slipping off without waking him up, so he resigns himself to this particular cross to bear, draping it over them both haphazardly, at an odd angle that misses Jon’s double-socked feet.

It’ll have to do.

Martin is going to fall off the sofa. He urges himself further in, making a wormish rocking motion with his body. He knew this was going to happen, and it’s one of the reasons that he suggested that Jon take the inside, being the smaller and slighter of the two of them, far more likely to fall off in the night if Martin fidgets too much.

Only now, his chivalry means that he feels like he’s trying to get some sleep while his body is half-way acquainted with threatened gravity, like snoozing on a gangplank. He worries he’s going to whack his head off the coffee table.

Jon makes no sound of complaint when Martin’s worming shuffles him closer, instinctually tugging him in tighter with his slung over arm.

For a moment, he is anchored.

Jon hums, stretches out, and his legs push Martin back to the edge.

That coffee table is really becoming a worry.

The room is not smothered by fog. His body is present, and here, sweaty with the crush of bodies sandwiched together, but Martin has always had trouble living in the moment, beyond the overthinking and second-guessing of his own thoughts.

Something in the particular tenor of this quiet has him feeling untethered, smudged. Like someone’s taken a rubber to his limbs and started clearing away the lines.

Jon mumbles and frowns, pulling them closer. Martin breathes stuttering into the scratchy upshot of Jon’s hair, and keeps his head above water until he drifts off, his arm gone dead and Jon kicking him every ten minutes or so as he fusses in sleep.

Jon is dreaming. He straightens out from his jack-in-a-box coil, jolting Martin out of sleep.

His eyes open. Peeled back to stare at nothing, his pupils wide and devouring all light. His mouth moves in a steady and unrelenting stream of silent speech as the Eye sends its Archivist trawling through nightmares.

Martin has learned by now that waking Jon up doesn’t help. He keeps his touch light around Jon’s rigid form, and stays awake throughout, making sure it doesn’t worsen.

Eventually, Jon’s body relaxes. His eyes folding closed. He shivers even though he can only be boiling, and he burrows closer into Martin’s space, gasping and twitching through the aftereffects of whatever horror he has been forced to witness.

Martin grips him closer, and wishes they could both have better dreams.

Martins’ watch, the strap rubbed down to frayed and colourless, stopped working after the Unknowing. It’ll just be the batteries, nothing to changing them and getting the stalwart lines of the second and minute hands back ticking round. But then, Martin’s not exactly been in the right place to be worrying about anything like that.

It’s early, he knows that. The hastily tugged over curtains untouched by dawn. It’s so early, so clearly hours yet from any hint of morning that he’s irrationally worried over making any noise in case he wakes Jon. Rather than simply filling the kettle through the spout, and clicking on the switch like a normal person, he’s caught up in the looping knowledge that it’ll just be too noisy. The bubble and roil of the water, the rushing noise of the filaments rapidly heating.

Martin does not want Jon to wake up. The prospect of conversation, of interaction of any kind to break up the ice sheet of the pre-dawn hour, makes his chest go knotted, his breathing wobbly.

So, making do, he’s turned on the left hob of the electric oven, filled a saucepan with tap water as quietly as he can manage, and he’s now waiting for it to boil silently. Leant back against the plasticky kitchen counter-top, his head too full and too numb with night-time.

He is thinking about how he nearly died, and is second-hand upset that he isn’t more upset about it. He is thinking about how his body had felt as it dissipated like sugar in water, how little was left of him to disperse. How Jon came to get him (had to, needed to, shouldn’t have had to) and gather back the scraps of him into a man, and that boils up a harsher firebrand of shame in him.

He pours the water from the saucepan into his waiting cup, over the teabag that fattens and floats. Only some water spills from the awkward-shaped lip of the pan, and he sorts it out with a tea-towel that bears a hand-stitched thistle in the corner of the fabric. He leaves the tea steep before he takes out the bag with a spoon, and in those two minutes, he thinks about the wizened, crumbling body of Jonah Magnus, sat imperious and blind on a ruined throne. How heavy the knife was in his hand, how easily the will to violence might have come to him.

He thinks, blade-sharp angry and despairing, that he should have stabbed Elias in his smug face instead.

His feet are cold and numb on the kitchen tiles. Martin stands, sips at his tea that burns against his lips. Feelings sweep through him like weather fronts, and he lets them advance for the first time in a long time.

When tears come, he doesn’t wipe them away.

When he’s done, he washes his mug as quietly as possible, and leaves it to drip-dry by the sink before returning to the living room.

The blanket has slipped again.

Dozing in this fuggy, clamping heat of the space, a garrison of clotted, layering warmth compared to the night’s temperature, skirting zero for hours now.

“Huh?”

Martin’s roused from this disorientating state of not-sleep by Jon saying something. Both his lips and throat scraping dry.

A measured pause. Around him, and Jon, well and truly bundled in place, coiled up in blankets like a badly wrapped Christmas present, there are house-sounds, creakings, snappings and gruntings, the outside low-timbred threat of the wind.

Jon’s breathing. Low and slow.

“Jon?” Martin whispers.

Nothing.

The house continues its evening orchestra, and Jon sleeps on.

Martin’s convinced himself that whatever it was, he imagined it, when, on an exhale, Jon sighs out a muttering babble of sincerely put noises that still, in no way resemble words.

“Jon?”

“I…. busuhvenerismuh. Uh. Cravs.”

It’s so – just so random and mundane and meaningless. Nothing else, nothing malign. Only Jon, clearly sleep-talking gibberish at him.

Martin finds himself trying to stifle his disbelieving laughter.

“Going er. Ships. It’s market wild.”

“Good point, Jon.”

“Muzzuhin raids,” Jon seems to agree.

Jon’s lack of snoring lets Martin know he’s awake.

“You sleep ok?”

“Not bad, considering,” Jon says. He stretches his arms up and rolls his shoulders, his neck, and things go pop like kindling inside him. “What about you?”

“Alright,” Martin says. Better than some nights, worse than others. Jon glances at him with an assessing, hawkish gaze but says nothing other than adjusting the pillow under his head that’s gotten all squashed and misshapen during the night. “What time is it?”

“Too early to be even thinking about getting up.”

Jon burrows back down, his arm a band over Martin’s chest, his eyes already closing.

Martin lets himself be lulled back into sleep.

#the magnus archives #tma #fic #jonmartin

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polythremed · 3 years

Note

wheres the essay op i want whitsun bugs

there might not have been an essay before, but there is now! bugs and inverts are hugely overlooked. however, the victorians loved insects! they were huge inspirations in art, shells were used in fashion, so what would be more vogue than a giant bug for a pet?

(Punch, September 29, 1877)

the bulk of this talk will be under the cut but tl;dr is that arachnids still offer a lot of potential, beetles and moths live in the neath and were popular at the time, and there are a lot of lesser-known bugs that fit fallen london

also cw for bug images because there’s a lot of them beyond here, this is for people with good taste only

firstly: arachnids

FL has a lot of arachnids and this year’s whitsun saw the introduction of a squirrel with a scorpion tail! i think it’s a fun design personally, but arachnid companions are Not obsolete. the most relevant arachnids are crabs, and crabs are more varied than you might think!

(image by abc.net.au)

the yeti crab was the first crab to come to mind, related to hermit crabs and living in hydrothermal vents in the deep ocean. it means we’ve got another underground beast, and could you imagine this as a spired crab? it could be the product of shapeling arts, and the yeti crab’s famously hairy arms have the potential to be used as arm warmers or 1890s uggs for the discerning londoner!

there’s also the japanese giant spider crab, which might be more lanky than it’s neathy angler crab cousins, but look at those legs! how big do you think it is? how about taller than the average person?

you have to understand how badly i want to be this man they also inhabit vents near the bottom of the ocean (the crabs, not this man), they’re omnivores and one specimen’s measured in at 3.8 metres (12ft) across its outstretched legs! it’d probably be a dreaded companion by the sheer size of it, but imagine the walking sticks you could get from those legs

arrowhead crabs and horseshoe crabs are also runners up for this!

mites also came to mind, being small arachnids- the mite above is an adult female tea mite, and not much is known about mites! they’re primitive but have a terrible reputation, and FBG have shone the spotlight on other unloved creatures in the past. there’s also Caveat Emptor which tells us that the bazaar has parasites which are probably like mites? you could have your own romance vampire, surely nothing could go wrong

and if you’ve come here for spiders, how about the pelican spider? with a pelican-like head, pelican spiders prey exclusively on other spiders! isn’t that a fun way to counter sorrow spider infestations? introducing new species is a good thing, right?

higher tiers of this companion could start to own the whole pelican thing. i’ve seen monster designs of spiders with human heads but never a spider with a pelican head!

(image by me)

all he needs is some love and spiders

close arachnid contenders that i want to mention before this whole post is made up of eight-legged companions: camel spiders, harvestmen, and whip scorpions!

secondly: beetles

as john b. s. haldane once said, “god has an inordinate fondness for beetles”. and he’s right because there are more known species of beetle than types of mammal

in fact, the victorians fucking loved beetles (and butterflies but we’ll get to that)

we have phosphorescent scarabs as luminosity items and a few mentions of beetles in airs texts and in sunless sea, the latter where a beetle has been eating through your ship’s supplies. being from england, i have a vague idea of what sort of beetles would end up in london!

there are still stag beetles, rove beetles, and even cardinal beetles, but these by themselves might feel pretty basic. they’d be good t1 companions, but why not have a companion that’s a whole insect keeping setup? there’s even some colourful beauties like the scarlet malachite beetle which are now incredibly endangered

but if you want something Huge and Large and easily convertible into a fashion accessory, hercules beetles have a lot of potential! horns that can be used for knives in dockside brawls, or you could take most of the bug features and place them on a furry animal like a guinea pig since seas already gave us the guinea page

these beetles could also add diversity for the phosphorescent scarabs- and speaking of phosphorescent beetles, why not look to fireflies? they aren’t fire and nor are they flies, but to carry on with FBG’s habit of “slapping animals together to see what happens”, you could easily make something with the features of a firefly larvae

or you could take the even more interesting approach of having a grub the size of a cat, for example. hercules beetles have some of the largest larvae and the feast of the rose gave us maggots, so why not have one of these babies but the size of a cat? and glowing? they’re a possible light source that might make you more bizarre or respectable

a close runner up that i wanted to mention was diving beetles and how freaky they can get if they’ve adapted to the zee but the sabretooth longhorn beetle is going to close this segment as an embodiment of a dangerous and respectable companion- it already looks like it’s been carved out of wood! i think a carved polythreme beetle would be incredible

(see also: bombardier beetles, weevils, oil beetles, tiger beetles, harlequin beetles, trilobite beetles, and giraffe weevils!)

moths, and less commonly found underground, butterflies

another love of the victorians: butterflies!

butterflies are basically moths by a different name (there are way more moths than butterflies) and we do have canon dreams where a frostmoth the size of your head appears in your window, and wouldn’t that be useful for hunting in parabola? much like the beetles, there’s a lot of diversity that can be explored especially if we add shapeling arts

white plume moths are also found in the UK and just look at those wings

we can have a usual approach of adding the wings to something else, like a particularly unlucky bat, or just have something bizarre with the moth itself! more eyes? more eyes has been a common theme lately, or you can combine an insect with an arachnid and give it whip scorpion hands

these wings would be one hell of a decoration because white plume moths are considered to be micromoths

on the other end of the spectrum and taking the role of a respectable companion, the white witch moth is considered to be one of the largest insects on earth because of its wingspan! maybe they’re a more risky cousin of the frostmoth, maybe you could turn the markings on these wings into shifting sigils? don’t set your moths on fire

(image by Acrocynus)

white witch moths themselves have a lot of diversity while cup moths are another contender for an animal you could combine with another animal

(image by itchydogimages)

why not add the tail of a squirrel to this one? or a scorpion’s tail? a lion? with enough of these, you could end up with a very striking tawny coat. this thing is the embodiment of being neathproofed. even if they’re opposites of frostmoths and are associated with embers because of it, or if the tail is closer to being a candle!

moths are also good at mimicking in order to defend themselves, which is why you see so many moths and butterflies with eye patterns on their wings. birds hate eyes so much so there’s room for some real eyes on your brand new butterfly or moth companion

but some moths also mimic snakes, so for any fingerking fans out there: behold the atlas moth

this is such a mithridacy companion. can you imagine the t3 version of this where the snake heads are alive? we have a two-headed terror bird, so why not snakes on a moth? there’s even jokes to be made about one head telling truths and another telling lies, maybe the only head that could tell you the difference is the moths!

for butterflies themselves, we have butterflies that drink the tears of alligators and tortoises- so melancholy butterflies that only appear to feed on lacre? (and they might not be butterflies down here, you might’ve already mistaken a day-flying moth for a butterfly, not that the difference matters for much in the neath)

another strong mention is vampire moths if we’re carrying on the theme of insects drinking odd things, but a vampire moth with bat wings could be wonderful at ruining the lives of taxonomists

luna moths are also massive and could be more fitting now that we know who the creditor is, and that whitsun is talking so much about the bazaar and the masters

other lesser-known but interesting insects

we don’t entirely need to cover bees and wasps but it would be nice to have a piece of media showing wasps in a way that doesn’t present them as evil, but wasps could wait until hell is really significant again since wasps and bees are incredibly cool cousins. and thread waisted wasps!

(image by Bev Wigney)

get a load of that! these don’t even have the ability to sting humans, what would a thread waisted wasp-themed spindlewolf look like? how much shadowy with something with these colours give you? imagine the corsets inspired by these things

assassin bugs are another dangerous option considering how good they are at hunting other insects, and the neath wouldn’t be complete without more creatures that burrow underground and can find themselves in this weird cavern

(image by Fir0002)

their forearms are specifically developed to dig! perhaps they can dig through a rival’s belongings, or perhaps you can fashion their claws into brass knuckles or a belt buckle?

(image by faraaz abdool)

another fashionable, lesser-known invert is the velvet worm! we have plenty of slugs in fallen london, but you know what they’re lacking? legs

about 200 species of velvet worms have been described and they’re already quite rare! they all fall under the onychophora name and there isn’t anything else like them. you could easily have some persuasive with this, or if you turn it into a stole that can hold however many hands you want!

(image by docj96)

also, thrips! i found out about these today and apparently you’re likely to hear about them if you’re into gardening. sometimes they have crab claws for forelegs, so hey- more bazaar similarities! they have an interesting method of flight (clapping their wings together) but this might not bee too impactful unless you want a novel way to raise your investigating

flies are also criminally underrated, but i couldn’t tell you how many flies live in fallen london. stalk-eyed flies, however, are gorgeous things that would work so well as t2 companions! you could even go all out with a horsefly taking on attributes of an actual horse

(image by minden pictures)

the stalk eyed fly sees you five minutes before you can see it

there are genuinely so many more that come to mind (even neathy types of mantis- orchid mantids that have adapted to blend in with mushrooms! imagine!) but a good way to finish this off is with a love story

there are centipedes who will guard and hold their young close to them! giant centipedes are protective mothers and you can get hundreds of companions in one- or perhaps just one companion who really misses her hundreds of kids. and they hold their eggs just as carefully whilst waiting for them to hatch!

isn’t that a good love story? there’s a lot you can combine this with, but i’ve spent most of today writing this one! do with these creatures what you will, i definitely enjoyed talking about neathy possibilities for insects!

(bogleech also has a fantastic article on insects that should be used as the basis for pokemon designs, if you want even more out there bugs be sure to look here)

#memento of a post #asks #snippity #whitsun #insects #fallen london #bugs #spiders #im not tagging all of these but ohh my god this was so fun to write about #thank you for the ask!

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penitentluminary · 3 years

Text

About

A brief list of titles and nicknames: The Pale King, Wyrm, Pale Wyrm, The Ashen Exile, Ashen, Thoughtbringer, Willgranter, Fork, Everglow.

True name, given only to a trusted few: Lumen.

Species: Ascended Wyrm/Higher Being of Free Will, Light, Magic, Knowledge and Sapience.

Gender: Somewhat loosely masculine, answers to he/him but would also accept they/them or it/its.

Sex: Intersex.

Orientation: Pan/poly.

Combat:

Prefers to use magic, but possesses a Hallownest equivalent of the Bloodborne Whirligig Saw – essentially a buzzsaw on a stick

Uses a variety of mostly buzzsaw-based attacks with a few conjured greatnails in for good measure

Will try to dazzle with bright flashes of light

Can and will burrow

Can and will attack/evade from the air

Might sometimes predict a foe’s actions, but doing so takes time just as Focusing does.

Powerful sonar and loudass shrieks both options for sonic attack

May conjure a magic construct based on his old form to fling at his opponent

Greater urgency may lead to ditching set attack patterns

Avoidance – Plan A for dealing with sufficiently intimidating foes is seduction/temptation, may involve a dance-based display. This may also be used as a distraction mid-combat.

Some strengths:

Qualifies as a god

Can use extensive magic and enough sonar that it can mess someone up a bit close range (kinda like a sperm whale’s)

Can awaken creatures to sapience

Passively generates magic and soul just as a ground state of being, he’s not going to run out

Can self-heal

Hard to kill due to being a higher being

Limited foresight

Extensive knowledge

Expert parkour/freerunning equivalent (Path of Pain was his personal gymnasium)

Has enough void in his system due to inhalation to communicate with vessels through the void

Some weaknesses:

Weighed down by guilt/regrets, stress and sleep deprivation

Prone to overthinking and/or missing crucial details

Foresight is limited

Has some void in his system due to inhalation, can cause pain/disorientation depending on circumstance

Reckless/thrillseeking (Path of Pain was his personal gymnasium)

Kind of wary of orange and moths at this point.

Personality:

As the Pale King, he was confident to the point of being blinded to his own faults, sure that he could handle whatever challenges rulership threw his way. It was exciting, being able to raise a kingdom from scratch, alongside another Higher Being he had grown to adore with a similar passion to that he held for learning and creating new things. Now, while the core of who he is hasn’t changed, he carries a heavy weight of guilt and grief, no longer considering himself fit to rule or deserving of the company of those he cared for. Tired and somewhat emotionally wrung out, he no longer knows what to do with himself, and as far as he knows, there’s no way back.

Background/History:

His status as an exile is accidentally self-imposed, a condition stemming from a realisation made. Though he was far more resilient against void-tainting than mortal bugs under his command, he was not immune to it entirely. After a while, enough built up in his system that he began to be able to hear the young Pure Vessel through the void.

Learning that they were alive and a child trying hard to pretend at an emptiness they didn’t possess came as a shock. Given what he thought he knew about the void and its effects on living bugs, the Wyrm had believed the vessels would be undead from hatching, possessing no true identity or life. Clearly, this was not true - and with that knowledge, it was evident that the vessel plan was doomed from the start.

The plan had never been a first or even second resort, more a last desperate attempt to find some way to preserve his kingdom. It didn’t sit well with he or the White Lady, but everything else they’d tried had failed, their kingdom dying around them. Surely, they had thought, using Higher Being eggs not yet hatched would provide at least a chance at a vessel both empty enough and sturdy enough that the source of the infection could be contained, while any that didn’t seem quite hardy enough could be left to their undeath in peace. If they weren’t undead though, if they had been alive… Suddenly what had seemed to be a heavy but bearable cost was no longer that, and all for nothing.

In something of a panicked attempt to salvage what he could, he ordered an evacuation. Let the Radiance keep whoever wouldn’t heed the call, but preserve what he could of his kingdom elsewhere, ingrain the same magic that permitted them their sapience and give the Pure Vessel (now named Hallow) to the White Lady to Raise since the plan was in shambles

Then, returning after leaving a note explaining what he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, he unsealed the Abyss in hopes that the other vessels had simply entered some form of hibernation, as he had not actively struck them down. In the back of his mind though, he already knew what he was going to find.

Surrounded by the evidence of his greatest mistake, if there were any survivors, he didn’t notice them in the process of attempting to hurl himself into the dream realm to act as a barrier and hopefully keep the Radiance from following where his kingdom had gone. Whether because of his void-tainting, sleep deprivation or some other cause, that wasn’t where he ended up.

Trivia:

Constantly emitting at least a faint glow

If he becomes flustered, rainbow hues start to enter that glow, and his wings may buzz a bit

Enjoys puzzles and lore

His relationship with the White Lady was never one of strict monogamy on either side

Obligate carnivore but can digest most edible things anyway

Will sometimes eat rocks. These not only aid in the digestion of anything too hard-shelled, but also provide the basis for pale ore forming in the Wyrm's stomach. It grows colder as it forms, and eventually becomes uncomfortable, necessitating that it be regurgitated. The chilly ore can then be used to help preserve meat, or maintain coolness in the summer. After a time though, the chill becomes minimal, and the ore is passed on to smiths.

Was granted one of the fruits termed Isma’s Tears by the knight they were named for.

Has a previously broken Crystal Heart he picked up to soothe himself by tinkering with it, and has since discovered the nyooms.

Wyrms may potentially be distantly related to bobbit worms.

While his speaking voice is usually expressed light and soft, he’s quite capable of getting quite deep and quite loud. Singing, the closest human comparison for the sort of range and notes he can reach may be Geoff Castellucci.

#ooc #for mobile #hollow knight rp #the pale king #au pale king #about

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sigyn-obsessed · 3 years

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Springtime Surprises (Loki x Sigyn)

It was a usual day in the household of Loki and Sigyn. It was springtime, Sigyn’s favorite time of year. The flowers were in bloom, there were birds chirping. It was the season of rebirth. Everything was bright and colorful, boosting everyone’s moods. The boys were outside for as long as they could, getting into every mischievous situation they could.

So, this shouldn’t have been surprising for Sigyn. She was sitting on an old knitted blanket, made by her mother, bouncing Ragna up and down as she giggled, trying to grab Sigyn’s hair. Loki came out moments later, smiling as he picked up Ragna, peppering her with kisses. They sat together, in the quiet. They’re life was very chaotic, so quiet was strange.

They watched the boys run, barely able to see them over the tall grass. She saw them looking on the ground, for bugs most likely. They had brought spiders, centipedes, caterpillars, moths, and worms inside. It shouldn’t have been shocking, as mischief was in their blood. Sigyn would look over at Loki, with a look of ‘you started this, you finish it.’ It was a look Loki had to admit was entertaining. What wasn’t entertaining was sitting the boys down to say, “stop bringing strange creatures inside the house, it’s scaring your mother.”

Sigyn laid her head on Loki’s shoulder, cuddling up to him. His hair was long, to about his shoulders, and it curled at the end. When Loki was younger, he always slicked it back, and Sigyn would nod exasperatedly because they way his hair curled was adorable, but he couldn’t have been seen as adorable.

Now the boys had his curls that scrunched up so tight. It framed their chubby little faces. While they looked so much like Loki, Sigyn’s bright blue eyes shown clearly on them, with Vali’s cheeks littered with freckles. Narvi’s cheeks were rosier, while Vali’s were very pale, like Lokes.

She looked down at Ragna, who was laying in Loki’s lap as he gently ran his fingers through her blonde curls. She was a spitting image of Sigyn, with the rosy cheeks and freckles, but she had bright green eyes, identical to Loki’s. Sigyn felt calm, rubbing her hand down Loki’s back. She was awoken from her thoughts when she heard the boys yell.

“Mommy, daddy look!” Sigyn looked worriedly at Loki as they quickly got up, running towards the boys. They were in the forest, in a dirt area. The boys were kneeling near a bush. Sigyn had no clue what they were looking at, then she saw Narvi’s hands.

There was an egg, only about the size of a grape, cradled in Narvi’s hand. Sigyn knelt next to Narvi, cupping his hands.

“Where did you find this?” It was so unbelievable small, Sigyn felt her eyes were playing a trick on her. Eggs couldn’t be that small?

“It was laying near that bush. All the other eggs were broken and cracked. He’s the only one left.” Sigyn looked over at Vali, who had a sour expression on his face. “What do you think got the others?”

“It was likely a mongoose or a fox. It’s in their nature buddy, nothing could’ve stopped it.” Loki ruffled Vali’s hair, trying to cheer him up.

“Mommy, can we keep it? Please.” They both pleaded. Sigyn rolled her eyes, looking over at Loki, who just had a grin on his face. He had already given in; she knew their big begging eyes had already melted him. She knew because when she gave him those eyes, he melted the same way.

“Alright, we can keep it. But once it hatches, we have to release it.” The boys nodded quickly, moving towards the house, Loki and Sigyn trailing behind the rambunctious kids. Sigyn put the egg near the fire to keep it warm in a knitted blanket. The boys sat staring at it, muttering quietly to themselves. Ragna was asleep on Loki’s shoulder as he patted her back, listening to her soft snores. They both smiled as they grew curious at what the boys were discussing.

“What are you guys arguing about?” Chuckled Sigyn, looking at the boys disgruntled looks. They sat for a second before Vali muttered, “I say it’s a baby hummingbird, while Narvi says it’s a lizard.”

“Both are acceptable answers.” Loki replied. “Personally, looks like a gecko, but it could be anything.”

As the days went by, Sigyn felt herself checking up on the egg, seeing if it was okay. It must’ve been her maternal instincts. Loki looked occasionally. It was about a week later that Narvi yelled.

“Something’s happening. I think it’s hatching.” Everyone crowded around the egg, Ragna asleep in her bassinet. They looked down. Surely enough it was hatching. Narvi and Vali’s eyes were glued to it, staring intently at the tiny egg. Slowly, a small green reptile slithered out.

“It’s a baby snake.” Muttered Loki. Sigyn was shocked. The snake looked just like Loki’s seidr.

“Wow, I didn’t expect a snake to be so small.” Narvi and Vali hovered over it, gently petting it. Sigyn felt her heart strings pulling seeing her boys paying so much loving attention on the little snake. “What should we name him?”

Everyone looked over at Sigyn in shock. She wasn’t one to keep pets, especially wild snakes. The boys smiled widely as they pulled their mom into a hug, thanking her repeatedly.

“I think we should call him Jor, short for Jormungandr.” Muttered Vali, holding the little snake in his chubby hands. Loki looked at his son, shocked that he remembered the name of his brother, one he would never meet. Loki nodded, huddling his boys together.

“I think that’s a great name for him. It’s just perfect, like you two.” He mumbled as he kissed them both on the forehead. They set up a little glass house for him, with branches and vines for him to climb on. They set it up in the boys’ room, feeding it insects and giving it water. The boys loved him so much, and Sigyn and Loki loved seeing their boys dote on the tiny reptile. They would hold him and talk to him about their days. Narvi would take him outside to search for bugs for Jor, while Vali would set him in his lap on his bed while he was reading. Sometimes he would read to Jor.

As they got the boys tucked in, Loki noticed the reminiscent smile on Sigyn’s face. They kissed the boys’ foreheads and whispered goodnight to them. They told them they loved them, and they whispered goodnight to Jor too, for good measure. It made the boys smile.

Sigyn and Loki laid in bed, Loki with a book in hand, Sigyn working on knitting. She stopped, looking over at Loki and smiling. Loki saw it from the corner of his eye and realized the curious gazes he kept getting from her.

“What’s that look for?” He smiled as he leaned towards her, beginning to kiss her cheek, trailing down her neck. “It’s the look of remembering when you used to turn into a snake just like Jor and slither into my room and curl up with me. You would show up everywhere I was, just doing your thing. You’d crawl into my bag in the market to explore. You know, when we were still courting.” Loki laughed as she laid on his chest.

“Or when the boys would cry, and I’d change so they could sit in awe and look at the pretty colors. Always got them to stop crying.” He felt Sigyn’s body shake with laughter. “I haven’t changed in a while, have I?” Sigyn shook her head as they both lulled themselves to sleep, remembering the times when they were young and curious.

It was a few days later that Sigyn felt a little snake slither up her shoulder, curling up near her ear. She felt its tiny tongue on her cheek. She grinned as she stroked its emerald green scales, a gold tint to them. The snake cuddled up on her shoulder.

Great, now she had two snakes to take care of.

#Loki #Sigyn #Narvi #Vali #Loki/Sigyn #*fanfic tag.

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nauseateddrive · 3 years

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A HOLE OF FLESH by Logan Roberts

There was a hole. Made of flesh. Found in a murky bathroom at a rest stop.

Approximately 30cm in diameter, edges were seared, bubbling. Appearance of once having been a face. No hair. No wrinkles. Vague yet, full of years in dismal agony. Enough mystery to peer inside: a collection of severed limbs collected in a space, like a cave, too vast to measure. The walls near the holes Interior: covered in masses of what looked like black boils that had been drained for years. Crusted. Organic. Expired. Exhumed. All of the limbs were arms and they were growing from the ground. Each one at a various stage of decay. Waving a variable number of digits. A glossy white eye in the center of each palm held there by the twitch of nerves and muscles in the hands. Ligaments and sinew visible on many of them. each arm had a disfigured mouth, vertical along the wrist like a cut. Too many teeth behind ripped cracked lips no visible tongues. Possibly chewed off.

A great metallic roar vibrated the labyrinth. The hands flailed and somehow cried out, the weaver approaches. Droning. Slurping. Moaning. A sulfuric light emerged from a tunnel in the middle of the moaning limbs. In the light bulged a mass of tissue. If it had A mouth, it was a mouth full of wretched spawns, having razor sharp teeth that produced a gel-like fluid from shiny black gums full of worms that turned into winged creatures, mated, birthed new worms by exploding, and died into the throat of the body’s tissue in the sulfuric light. The body was deep red, all most black and heavily ribbed, muscular. clumps of mud and rotten limbs crusted all along the underbelly as it crawled. The limbs began to call out a name: The Weaver. The Weaver. The Weaver began to thrash. The light which it came from started to get brighter, trashing ever more violently. Light and violence increasing. The production of the worms and winged creatures becoming more rapid. The arms were moaning in ecstasy and flailing like weeds in a tornado. The weaver lifted it’s sharp mouth to the sky and out came a treacherous sound. The energy of the roar made everything vibrant, atoms shattered and collided to create these incredible auroras of strange fire all around the labyrinth. Beams of the sulfuric light pulsed from the mouth like halos. The light became so bright that there was nothing to see, not even an outline. Just light and sound, continuing to grow and crawl along the wide walls.

The Weaver slowed, falling slowly down to the ground near the hole it had emerged from. It appeared to have heavy labored irregular breathing. the limbs nearest to it became to caress the flesh of the Weaver. It became to heave as if it was about to give birth. It’s thick skin seemed to be being pounded from the inside.

A tearing sound was heard, the limbs became dead. Their rot and loose skin swaying in the silence of the moment. The tearing began to happen in many places all over the Weaver's body. The first and largest of the wounds popped quickly open, exposing the internal organs and flexible spine of the Weaver. A larger version of the winged creatures that lived near the Weaver’s teeth unrolled it’s body from the still living creature. It has wings like a moth, a body like a centipede, a head like a locust and many arachnid like arms that clicked loose from it’s exoskeletal torso. Four long palpus grew from it’s head and reached down for the Weaver’s body. The creature latched onto the body of the Weaver. Both creatures swayed in unison as the creature appeared to be draining the Weaver of a liquid, a green ooze seeping out of the sides of the places where the creature pierced the skin of the Weaver.

The limbs rose again, swaying in unison with the two creatures. They called out, the Weaver and the Reaper, come together.

The Weaver began to produce a yellow silk like thread from it’s mouth, with the help of the smaller reaper bugs, the silk was carried all around both the Weaver and the Reaper. It appeared that the as the Reaper drained the fluid from the Weaver, the symbiotic nature produced the necrotic silk. The Weaver was dying, the Reaper was orchestrating a sort of husk around the two creatures.

The army of smaller reaper bugs finished the husk. It completely enclosed both the Weaver and the Reaper inside. Only a faint glow of the light could be seen, as ghost-like shadows moved from the inside.

This went for many moments, while the limbs continued to sway and repeat their mantra, the Weaver and the Reaper come together.

the Weaver and the Reaper come together.

They stopped chanting. Stopped swaying. The husk expanded and contracted several times.

From the top it began to split down the middle. A growing fissure descending like a black bolt of lightning down the silky body. When the husk had broken half way open, the top began to crumble into smaller pieces. The limbs grabbed and crushed the smaller husk shells, as if it acted like a fertilizer for the soil they were stitched into. A heap of dust and crusted silk lay at the base of a melted skeletal structure, the remnant of the Weaver and the Reaper.

From the tunnel, a small Weaver wiggled it’s way out from under the debris, and began to eat the remains. It quickly grew to half the size of the first Weaver. The entire ritual was continuous for many cycles.

There came a point where nothing mattered anymore, all things were transfixed on the ritual. Eyes trapped and sealed in the creation and destruction. In the light and the moaning. In the husks and the fluids. Alone in the world of intangible being, the only thing that made any sense was the fact that there appeared to be no reason for such a thing to be happening. That the ritual provided no benefit except to be mysterious, odd, unsettling to any who happened across the hole made of flesh. The thought that this would be damaging. Irreversibly so. Even in the beauty of the strange, the visual was like screaming into your own face. It was an accidental attack on the senses, the mind, the body, the soul, for anyone who happened to find the hole tantalizing enough to stick their head inside to see this looming configuration.

Years later, at the same rest stop, the hole was no longer there. Just a seedy pale bathroom wall covered in microscopic flakes of piss and shit.

Logan Roberts is an artist and writer in Ohio. He tweets @hello_im_logan.

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petrichorxathanasios · 3 years

Text

Tagging: Petrichor Athanasios & Jakob Theler

Time Frame: Saturday July 31st, 2021

Location: Corinth Hotel

Trigger Warnings: suicide, depression violence, gun mention.

Notes: Jakob has his soul back and is officially a spirit witch

Since Phoenix’s creation he’d been drawn to those who had fallen victim to the power of the cubi, poor, lost individuals who’d had their souls harvested by the creatures that required them to survive. It was a sad exchange, for those scorned by the Gods suffered in agony if they did not feed, and those that were preyed upon could not live without the thing that was most vital to them. There was a time when Petrichor remembered the faces of every person he saved, the way warmth flooded their features again when the depression that had clouded their lives finally broke. When light flooded their veins, when their soul brimmed with magic once more. It came with a cost for with each soul that was resurrected, a bit of his own flame was spent - but unlike his progeny, Petrichor was eternal.

This time when Phoenix crawled from the ashes of his most recent rebirth, it was toward the familiar presence of a man that was in pain. All across the city the people’s sorrow echoed with pain, even with Gabriel at his side there were other cubi in Corinth, more congregated than he’d seen them in centuries. Dark magic was attractive to them, and here at the sight of the veil all supernaturals were drawn towards it like moths to a flame. It was one of the reasons why he couldn’t bring himself to leave, as retired as he claimed to be, there were some that he couldn’t just turn away from. Most only took what they needed, a little off the top, or a lot, but usually there was enough left that their victim could live a relatively normal life.

That was not the case for the man in the hotel. Petrichor found him on the roof and watched for a moment as he teetered back and forth. In some ways he could empathize, he didn’t know many people who hadn’t been brought to similar metaphorical edges at some point and for someone as old as him Petrichor had seen this far too many times. This was the true curse of the cubi, the true devastation that they left behind. Maybe they did not kill with guns or knives, but blood was still on their hands, anyone who left someone without any chance of hope was a murderer.

“I should warn you, Hades isn’t kind to those who enter his domain before their time.” Petrichor cautioned as he took a few measured steps towards the man on the edge - it was impossible to see if he’d ever had any magic. His soul was barren, dry, and empty.

“Stay back!” Anger came first and Petrichor held up a calming hand,

“Relax, I just want to talk. Why don’t you take a step back so you and I can have a conversation?” The man on the ledge shook his head and dark, unwashed tresses moved with him.

“No. Just- just go.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that. You got a name?”

A long beat passed between them before the other broke the silence.

“Jakob.” He said, his voice was smaller with less of an edge. It felt like progress but still, Petrichor made no sudden moves.

“I know what you’re going through is-”

“You have no idea what I’m going through what I’m-”

“I know you’re in pain, and I know I can help you. You just have to let me.” Petrichor took another measured step forward as Jakob’s features contorted in a mixture of anger and pain. Tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes that threatened to further stain a pair of already stained cheeks.

“Nobody can help me.”

“Let me try.” A quick hand gripped the back of Jakob’s jacket before Petrichor flung him backwards onto the roof. Rough, but at least he was alive.

“What the fu-” Jakob started as he reached for Petrichor but the phoenix gripped him by the wrist and let his soul flood the other’s. Light moved between them, bright like fire as power surged from the rooftop. When Petrichor pulled away, Jakob looked at him with wide, bewildered eyes.

“There.” Petrichor said at last as he studied the witch, there was something off about him. After doing this for thousands of years his ability to perceive the souls of others was unmatched, but he’d never seen anything like this before. There was a darkness in the place where his element should be, as if along with the phoenix’s fire, someone else’s power had wormed its way into the other’s soul. Petrichor didn’t know what this could mean, but he intended to find out.

“What- what did you do to me?” Jakob asked, “I-”

“I’m a phoenix,” Petrichor said as blue flames lapped across his body, the witch could figure out the rest from here and the original shifter could sleep soundly tonight. “and I used my magic to return your soul to you. Don’t squander it.” With that his clothes burned away in a blaze of blue and white hot flames, he shifted and took to the sky, homeward bound.

#tw suicide #tw depression #tw gun #tw violence #rping with myself

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drowning-in-dennor · 4 years

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I’m Coming After You

Just as the little town of Hetalopolis is settling into a long-awaited age of peace, another villain rises in power. A swift-footed bandit is draining Hetalopolis of its valuables, and it’s up to a local superhero to stop him. [Recommended listening: I’m Coming After You by Owl City.]

It’s the same headline as yesterday.

BANDIT PULLS OFF ANOTHER HEIST, the Hetalopolis Times screams, STARZKA CLOTHING STORE COMPLETELY LOOTED! The page-long article includes a tearful interview from the owner of Starzka, lamenting the loss of his clothes and the ransacking of his store. Henrik shuts the newspaper and tosses it across the room, watching as it hits the wall with a satisfying smack.

He feels bad for not stepping in to stop the bandit, but again, what can he do? Hetalopolis has a plethora of other superheroes, after all, most of them way stronger than him. Henrik gets up from his moth-eaten couch and picks up the newspaper. Then he throws it at the wall again for good measure.

The sudden ear-piercing chimes of his cell phone makes him clutch his head in a mixture of pain and surprise. Rubbing his temples and reminding himself to change his ringtone, Henrik answers the call. “Hullo?”

“YO!”

He almost drops the phone again. “A-Al?”

“WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Henrik winces. “Can you, uh, quiet down?”

“Sure, sure.” On the other side, there’s a pretty large chance Alfred is grinning. “Sorry if I burst your eardrums, dude. But anyway, I called because I need your help.”

“Go on.”

“I’m going villain-hunting tonight, and I need a sidekick,” Alfred says, “and Gil’s already piss-drunk, Mattie’s asleep and Artie’s working. So can you help me out?”

“...what?”

“You heard me!” Henrik places his phone a good few inches away from his ear. “I’m gonna find that thief and turn him in, and you’re gonna help me!”

The notion is so ridiculous that Henrik takes a few moments to reply. “Al, look for someone else. Out of all the heroes, why the hell are you talking to me?”

“Because you’re my friend! It doesn’t matter if we get booted off a skyscraper or run over by a tractor, or something. We’ll just patch each other up and go for a beer afterward!”

Leave it to Alfred, stupidly optimistic Alfred, to worm him into the most stupid things. “You’re really cheesy.”

“I know.”

“I’ll do it, you gremlin.” Henrik runs to his bedroom, rummaging through his closet for a long-forgotten outfit. “But you’ll have to pay for my hospital bills.”

...

Fifteen minutes (and a struggle to fit into clothes meant for a man far younger than him) later, Henrik finds Alfred at the base of his apartment complex, his cape flapping in the wind and hands on his hips. “Hey!”

“Why do you look so much cooler than me?” Henrik picks at his worn-out tunic, pulls up his drooping breeches and reminds himself that at twenty-six, being the local half-retired superhero is still a valid job.

“Because I’m actually in shape!” He adjusts the mask covering the top half of his face. “Unlike you, I don’t just sulk at home when there’s crime to fight.”

He decides not to reply and lifts up his axe, arms straining with the effort. Henrik curses himself for getting so out of shape. Alfred snorts at his struggle and begins to march off. ��

They race through alleys, stalk under streetlamps and peek behind trash cans, before heading to the little shopping district of Hetalopolis. The stores are all closed, double-locked to keep out any thieves. Alfred, with his ability of super-strength, lifts up a truck parked next to a restaurant and lets Henrik crawl under it. “D’you think he’ll be here tonight?” He whispers.

Henrik shrugs.

Neither of them know how much time passes as they stare out from below the truck at the streets, at alleycats scrounging for morsels of food from the trash, at the occasional car driving past. It must be around midnight when a shadow, one that’s undeniably human, passes them by.

Alfred nearly kicks him in the groin as he points at the shadow, whisper-screaming “IT’S THEM!”. Henrik wiggles out of the way and peers at the bandit, who creeps along the pavement in muted black slippers, pressing a gloved hand to the cap concealing their head. A masquerade mask of midnight blue covers the top half of their face. As they step past the truck, the hem of their navy tunic swishes past.

Craning his neck, Henrik watches as the bandit makes their way toward another clothing store, running slender fingers over the glass window that displays elegant, expensive clothing. In split seconds, the glass bursts. The bandit steps inside.

On the floor, neatly camouflaged among shards of broken glass, a spear of ice begins to melt.

“There they go, there they goooooooo...” Alfred hisses. He begins to inch out from beneath the truck. “Should I toss this truck at them?”

Following his friend out, Henrik shakes his head. “I’ll surprise them.” He digs his boots into the pavement, squares his shoulders and runs through the hole.

Before he can even blink, he’s inside the store, watching as the bandit walks, movements fluid and graceful, toward the cashier and tugs at the drawer. It seems that the bandit doesn’t even see him, as they pocket wads of banknotes and walk toward the hole in the wall again, right past Henrik.

Then they turn. A harpoon of ice, jagged and sharp, flies toward Henrik’s face.

He dodges it, skirting past them and zipping out of the store before more ice can hit him. “Al!”

His friend appears swiftly, jamming a car into the hole of the window and skirting back. “You didn’t get them?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll call the cops, then. You can grab them until they get hand — “

The door, now completely frozen over, flies off its hinges. The bandit sprints out from the doorway, stopping only to summon another spear of ice and turning on Alfred and Henrik.

“Or we might have to fight now!” Pulling the car out from its hole, Alfred tosses it at them. As though dancing, they jump it effortlessly. Henrik swings his axe at the bandit, only succeeding in slicing off part of their tunic. They retaliate with a smack of their ice-spear.

Reeling, Henrik only avoids another smack by a hair. Alfred darts at the bandit, trying to throw a punch, but gets knocked back with another harsh strike of the cold, hard spear.

His axe breaks the spear cleanly in two, the sharp tip flying off onto the road, but a new weapon is in the bandit’s hand almost immediately afterwards. Even though he’s practically teleporting around them, every one of Henrik’s attacks is swiftly dodged. Even without Henrik’s superpower of enhanced speed, the bandit is quick.

Alfred’s attempt to punch them is again parried away with a harsh jab of the spear that punctures a hole in his shirt. “Dang it!” He goes for a kick. He misses for the third time. “They’re so hard to catch. Almost like a, uh...”

Henrik sweeps his axe-handle at the bandit. It knocks him back slightly, but is nowhere near enough to defeat him. “Think of that later!”

“A pixie!” Alfred rushes in, shouting, “they’re like an annoying little pix — “

He falls down, knocked out cold with an ice-block to the stomach. Henrik watches as he slumps down, then hefts up his axe with what almost feels like excitement running through his veins. “Guess it’s just you and me now, Pixie.”

He charges.

Actually managing to slice a tiny cut in Pixie’s calf with the tip of his axe and knocking them down once, Henrik’s blood roars in his ears. He slashes, ducks and counters with newfound strength, his ability allowing him to escape a few deadly attacks to the head. He has almost forgotten the exilharation of a good fight.

Now wielding a mace, the Pixie slams their icy weapon into his ribs. Hot pain lances through his side, but, not bothering to check if he’s broken any bones, Henrik lunges forward desperately, axe aimed at Pixie’s face.

Pixie dodges at the very last second, and the blade only catches the corner of their mask. It falls off, clattering to the ground after being sliced in half. Victoriously, Henrik stares at Pixie, who falls to their knees... and pauses.

He looks at his opponent, now unveiled. A few scattered golden locks fall above murky blue eyes blown wide with surprise. Their smooth, round cheeks are red with the cold and with exertion, and their rosy lips are squeezed in a tight “o” of shock. They struggle to their feet, standing uncertainly and squaring their shoulders.

Screaming at himself to pick up his axe, Henrik is frozen in place, despite the fact that Pixie hasn’t cast anything on him. He stares, as Pixie turns, stumbling a little, and runs.

At his feet, Alfred groans. “Whuh?”

“They got away.”

“Whuh?”

“Pixie ran away.” Henrik starts to feel the adrenaline fade, the pain in his ribs increasing tenfold. “I don’t think ice is their only ability.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Alfred crawls toward a street lamp and pulls himself up with it.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but y’know, it’s like that Medusa thing. When you look into their eyes, you freeze.”

“Wait, really?” He massages his head. “That didn’t happen to me when I fought them, though.”

“Maybe they hadn’t activated their ability then.” Henrik grabs one of Alfred’s arms to keep him steady as they limp away from the crime scene. “But enough of that. Let’s get you to a hospital, then we’ll tell the cops about Pixie.”

...

He’s in the headlines again.

SUPERHEROES AMERICA AND VIKING TRY TO STOP HEIST, is printed on the front page this time. MONEY SAVED, SHOP DECIMATED!

Again, the newspaper is thrown against the wall. It’s exactly twenty-four hours after Alfred took him to go villain-hunting, but with his friend at the hospital, there’s no way he can face Pixie alone.

Then their face flashes in Henrik’s memory, of astonished midnight eyes, puckered lips and a slender frame stumbling away with all the grace of a bird with a broken wing. He remembers the thrill of fighting a bad guy again, and his bruised ribs ache with the thought.

But who cares about broken ribs when there’s crime to fight? Once again, Henrik changes into his outfit, grabs his axe (not so heavy this time) and returns to the shopping district.

This time, Pixie is looting the florist’s, easily picking their lock and gathering banknotes, which are cleverly hidden in a flower pot, but still not hidden cleverly enough to escape their eagle eye. When Henrik enters the store, axe held protectively in front of them, they turn. Their mask is intact again, and Henrik reminds himself not to knock it off.

Then they lunge.

The first bolt of ice is easily dodged, the second one missed by a hair. Backing out of the flower store, Henrik swipes his axe and catches Pixie’s lance. It cracks in two, then skitters across the pavement far away from the fight. While they look at their lost weapon, Henrik kicks them in the back of the knees, making them stumble, and thrusts out his axe-hand to slice him in the chest —

Pixie grabs his wrist.

Henrik freezes, like he did when looking into their eyes. His hand trembles. His axe falls to the ground. Agonising cold is spreading across his arm. When he looks down, his entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, is covered in ice.

He wrenches away, head reeling. He can hear every one of his breaths.

Before Henrik can get a hold on himself, or a hold on his axe, Pixie walks away, throwing something behind their back.

That something lands right at his feet. He looks down — it’s a bouquet of roses. But Henrik can barely register why he was thrown the bouquet. The only thing occupying his mind, making him feel giddy despite his defeat, is the warmth in Pixie’s hand he felt the split second before they attacked.

...

Everyone says the third time’s the charm, and Henrik can’t help but agree.

Pixie is far easier to fight this time. Perhaps it is the strain of fighting three nights in a row, but their icy mace is smashed in half, and their tunic is quite torn up from harsh blows of Henrik’s axe. A few paces away, Henrik can see their chest heaving. When he raises his axe, he hears them gasp. If not for the fact that they’re fighting, he’d almost find it cute.

He charges for what he’s sure will be the last time — he’ll take Pixie down once and for all, and turn them in. He knocks them to the ground, presses them against the hard, rough asphalt, right outside the chocolate store they were trying to rob. Strangely, they don’t struggle. Henrik reaches into his pocket for his phone.

But when he’s about to call the police, he looks down at Pixie, who has turned their face so that their mask falls off. And once again, Henrik looks into surprised eyes, glazed over slightly with pain. Their delicate lips are parted, struggling to take in oxygen. The bruises mottling the right side of their face, marring fine skin and sharp cheekbones, make him wish they never fought.

Henrik feels as though he is being enchanted. He gets up, slowly, and extends a hand to Pixie. They take it. Their gloves have been sliced off, and his hand tingles when their skin touches. Despite being a master of manipulating ice, Pixie’s hand is warm, their skin soft and smooth. Henrik resists the urge to squeeze it.

As Pixie limps away, clutching their battered mask in one hand, Henrik screams at himself for being so stupid.

At his feet, he finds a box of chocolates.

...

Their game of cat-and-mouse continues for weeks. No matter if it’s a win or a loss, Henrik lets Pixie go after every fight, watching as their slight, wavering figure disappears down the street. And every time, without fail, they leave a gift behind, a remnant of what they tried to steal. A packet of candy, a pair of expensive new boots, a soft, fluffy blanket.

Alfred, still nursing his injuries from his fight, tells Henrik that Pixie’s trying to frame him for his thefts, advising him to throw those gifts away. But he eats the candy, tries on the boots (which fit perfectly) and falls asleep wrapped in the blanket, dreaming of grandeur and glory.

One night, he can’t find Pixie in the shopping district. He walks across Hetalopolis, like he did with Alfred at first, and it takes him almost an hour to find them, lingering in front of a darkened building.

There’s no staring match. Henrik grips his axe handle with both hands, and looks at Pixie. “En garde, my bandit?”

No other prompt is needed. They create a transparent, shimmering mace of ice, and swing.

After fighting so many times, they’re both accustomed to each other’s style. The exchange of blows fall on nothing; it’s more feinting than anything. Henrik can tell, by how Pixie lags behind, how their icy darts miss by miles, that their heart isn’t into the fight. It’s almost like they want him to win.

Pixie leaves their right side unguarded for a few seconds. He leaps forward, intent on bringing them down.

Henrik drops his axe when Pixie grabs his arm instead, pulling him closer. With their other hand, they pull their mask off and knock their cap to the ground. Cornsilk hair that appear silver in the moonlight half-conceals those beautiful dark eyes, and those pale, slim lips appear to be smiling. He wonders if they’re as soft as they look.

He gets his answer when Pixie leans in and kisses him. Like his hands, his lips are warm and as soft as flower petals. His other arm moves to wrap around Henrik’s waist, pressing him so close together that he can inhale their scent, drown in them completely. When they pull away, Pixie’s cheeks are red.

“I won’t turn you in if you kiss me again,” Henrik gasps. He feels as though he is floating. Pixie continues to hold his hand, tracing their thumb across the back of his hand.

And when they talk, he nearly forgets how to breathe. Pixie’s voice is quiet, comforting, like the murmur of rain. He wants to hear them talk forever.

“That’s strange.” They smile, just a little, and Henrik practically melts. If either of them think it’s strange that their opponent is adorable, they don’t say it. “I was going to say that I’d turn myself in if you kissed me again.”

“I’d rather have you in my apartment than in jail,” Henrik says, “so we can kiss each other plenty without consequences.” His heart skips as he asks, “what do you think?”

Their eyes light up. “That’s an excellent idea. I’d much rather spend my night with you than in a cell. But a few things you should know, if you want this relationship to go anywhere.” Henrik almost faints when he hears them use the word “relationship”. “My real name is Stell. For goodness’ sake, stop calling me Pixie. I’m not short.”

He watches as Stell draws themself up to their full height, and still be a good few inches shorter than them. “My name’s Henrik. And you are short. You’re tiny and cute.”

An ice cube hits him on the side of his head. Henrik rubs the wet spot left behind and laughs, crushing the ice cube with his boot. Stell rolls their eyes and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. He kisses their forehead, as they make the slow, lazy walk back to their apartment.

He wonders what the headlines will say tomorrow.

#aph dennor #APH Denmark #APH Norway #APH America #aph fanfiction #my writing #owo

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ohblackdiamond · 4 years

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little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 8 of 29)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 part 23 part 24 part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29 Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Paul finally gets a good night in bed.

Paul didn’t so much as shower after they got home. Just swiped the makeup remnants off his face with a washcloth, kicking his shoes to the side in his bedroom. Gene followed him in, and his stare on his back felt like a laserbeam pointed at his spine. All heat, melting him down to nothing. He felt weird. No, he felt horrible. Over the girl, over his chances, over everything.

“Do you need anything?”

Paul turned around when Gene said it. His throat was tightening up.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Do you want to talk?”

“I’m not really a chick, Gene, I don’t wanna fucking talk everything out.”

“All right, okay.” Gene actually looked away. “I’ll be in the guest bedroom.”

It should’ve felt better, watching Gene going away of his own volition. Should’ve made Paul felt less zeroed-in on. Freer. But free to do what? Lay in his bed the same way he’d done for nearly a week now? He’d still have to contend with Gene tomorrow. Gene wouldn’t let him go to Studio 54 alone. And he would be right not to. He’d be right. All the shit he’d taken for granted, going places without needing someone else there—he always wanted someone else there, he despised being alone, but that was different from needing. He’d hitchhiked the Catskills. Stayed over at barns and apartments and roach-infested hotel ballrooms, sleeping next to people he didn’t know, never fearing anything worse than lice for his trouble.

He couldn’t do that now. Couldn’t be cavalier. Gene had kept everything okay. Gene letting his identity slip meant he’d only gotten the one comment on his tits. Nobody had harassed him. He’d even had some fun watching the band, jumping around and remembering. But he knew, deep down, that wouldn’t have been the case otherwise. He knew, on his own, he’d have come off as just the target Mary-Anne thought he was.

He knew Gene had protected him before that, too. Years of it. Sitting next to him during interviews. Repeating questions. The few times he’d gotten loaded, Gene had taken care of him, kept him from ending up—well. But that hadn’t felt so bad. He hadn’t felt so useless then. Hadn’t felt like he was a load Gene was lugging around. A problem Gene was forced to resolve, because Paul couldn’t do a damn thing on his own. At this point, he was purely decorative. Fundamentally useless. Couldn’t even—

He’d only had one good night since it happened. Only one night where he really hadn’t felt too bad while lying in bed, if only for a bit. The memory of it, the slickness against his fingers, was shameful but comforting. He couldn’t be angry at Gene for looking at him the way he did, for getting weird, for getting jealous, not when he’d been trying to play with himself while he was lying beside him. Not when Gene was responsible for most of what little peace he’d ever felt. In the last week or before.

Something in his stomach twisted, and he got up, got something out of the dresser, and headed for the guest bedroom. Gene was there, looking through the stuff on his table. He’d only taken off the jacket and his shoes.

Paul took a sharp breath, and then he held up what he’d retrieved from the dresser. Another pair of pajama bottoms.

“You forgot these.”

“Oh.” Gene glanced at the pajamas, and then at Paul, holding his hand out for Paul to toss them over. Paul shook his head.

“These are… these are a new polyester blend, right. Real high-tech. Room-sensitive.”

“Room-sensitive?”

“Oh, yeah. If you put them on anywhere outside of my bedroom, you break out in hives.”

Gene’s mouth crooked up. He stepped over to where Paul was standing, taking the pajamas. One hand rested on Paul’s shoulder, just long enough for his heart to beat hard enough to hurt.

“That’s a pretty good incentive,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

He’d changed into another pair of boxers and a t-shirt in the bathroom, and by the time he’d gotten out of there, Gene was in that pair of pajamas, already lying on his side of the bed. Climbing in beside him, he meant for everything to be normal. Regular. Having Gene next to him again was more than enough. He couldn’t be greedy. He wouldn’t try fooling around again.

Paul was good on his promise for about half an hour, according to the display on his alarm clock. By then, he could tell from Gene’s deep breathing that he’d fallen asleep. He knew he shouldn’t have seen that as carte blanche. He couldn’t defend himself, but he could make excuses, and he could try not to move around so much. The creaks the bed was making seemed tinier than the night before, as he slipped his hand beneath his boxers, finding and pressing his finger against that little bundle of nerves.

It still hurt. He rubbed against it, vying for friction, but it just felt sore. Dry. Paul took a couple measured breaths, then tried sliding that finger between his folds, slowly pushing it in deeper and deeper. It felt like his vagina was clamping down on it, like his finger was a foreign intruder it was trying to get rid of. It felt like a hell of a lot more than a finger, and it felt like he was shoving it in, even though he wasn’t. Completely dry. Paul bit his lip, trying to ignore the way his eyes were watering, and slid his finger out.

No good. His body was still as screwed-up as ever. He started to slip his hand out from beneath his boxers, the tips of his fingers just skirting the elastic, when he heard Gene shift and clear his throat.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you—"

“Am I what?”

There was a long pause. Paul waited, wondering if Gene, who’d talk dirty to any woman between the ages of eighteen and seventy-eight, would have the nerve to call his best friend out on masturbating. It turned out he did.

“Touching yourself.”

“I’m trying.” A breath. “It’s not doing any good. It never fucking does.”

Maybe the darkness was making him bolder. Maybe he’d just given up, for now, on fronting around Gene. There wasn’t much point any more. Peter didn’t know him. He was banking on some random groupie ending up at the biggest nightclub in New York City for any hope of getting his body back. So what if her friend said she’d be there, that didn’t mean she’d show. Mary-Anne didn’t even have the right address for her. She could’ve taken off. That type didn’t stick around anywhere; they were like moths to porch lights, flitting from one to the next.

With odds like that, what did it matter if Gene knew he was trying to get off less than two feet from him? What did it matter? If he ended up stuck like this forever, Gene would probably stop seeing him as Paul entirely, anyway, just start viewing him as another chick he hadn’t yet banged but wanted to. He was already at least halfway there. He’d lose his identity to the one person that knew who he was. Paul swallowed thickly, waiting on Gene’s response, expecting a smart crack that he didn’t get.

“How’re you doing it?”

Paul strained to detect a come-on in Gene’s tone. He didn’t hear it. God, he almost sounded concerned.

“With my fingers, what do you think?”

He felt Gene’s arm loop around his waist. Paul stiffened slightly when he realized Gene’s hand was pushing between Paul’s stomach and the mattress, catching Paul’s right wrist, the one wormed beneath his boxers. Want shot straight through his spine, as promising as his first hit of marijuana.

“Gene, what’re you doing?”

He felt Gene tap the back of his hand, almost like a scolding tease. His cheeks burned.

“Don’t use your fingers.”

“What else is there to use?”

“You’re just sticking them in, aren’t you?”

Paul didn’t answer. How the hell Gene could know that, in the dark, was baffling. He could feel his heart begin to pump all the faster, and it felt like all the blood that wasn’t going to his face was headed straight for his groin. Gene’s fingers were only inches from it. He’d never gotten this close before, not when it counted.

“Just… just give it a shot with your hand, Paul.”

Gene’s grip on his wrist was loose. His thick fingers curled over the back of Paul’s hand, guiding it, pushing it down between his thighs, pressing the side of his palm. Paul took a sharp breath, body twitching at the feeling, hips starting to rock against the pressure of his hand. It felt better than trying to penetrate himself. It was almost feeling—no, it was feeling—good. A little slickness was starting to spread against his palm and fingers, making it easier.

“You’re so stiff,” Gene said softly. He felt Gene’s other hand brush against the back of his head, which only made him tense up more, but then he realized Gene was running his fingers through the messy curls. Like he really was some chick from the Coop. No, worse. Like—like he was with a lover, like he was being sentimental. Paul made a mortifying sound, mostly muffled by the pillow, as his hips pushed a bit harder against his palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you relax in the whole time I’ve known you.”

Now wasn’t the time for Gene to be striking up a conversation. Paul answered him anyway, just to be contrary.

“You wanna see me relax?” He was panting against the pillow. Working himself up. Finally working himself up. Gene had stopped guiding his hand; he wasn’t so much as holding his wrist anymore, the back of Paul’s hand brushing up against his as he shifted the only real reminder. Somehow, Gene wasn’t indulging like Paul had assumed he always did. He wasn’t going for it. Trepidation was on Paul’s tongue as he summoned up a last sliver of bravado. “Then get your hand back here.”

The hand in his hair stopped all of a sudden. Even with Gene behind him, he could almost feel his stare on him, could very nearly picture the uncertain expression on his face.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

Gene’s fingers wrapped around his wrist again after some hesitation. Paul shook his head. Easier to face him when all he was really facing was the pillow. He twisted his hand free of Gene’s grip, then took Gene’s wrist himself, pushing it between his thighs.

Gene’s other hand, the one that had been playing with his hair, went for his shoulder, rolling him onto his side without much effort. Still not facing Gene, which was fine. Paul didn’t think he could right now. Gene’s body was pressed up against his before long—Gene had about two and a half inches on him under normal circumstances, but Paul had never really considered him a big guy, somehow, until right now. Just the insinuation of Gene’s weight at his back, and the press of his hard-on through the borrowed pajamas, rubbing against him every time he shifted, made Paul feel weirdly heady.

Gene finally began to stroke, his larger palm and longer, thicker fingers rubbing him in a rhythm slower but so much more certain than the one Paul had been trying for himself. He was getting wet, really wet, shoving up against Gene’s palm. The side of Gene’s finger stroked along his clit, and he finally felt it, not that awful sore sensitivity from before, but something good, nerves white-hot and aching. Paul bit his lip to keep from crying out, breathing hard through his nose. He’d only been moving his hips before, mostly, but now his legs were twitching and writhing on their own; he could feel himself opening up, no more of that resistance. He thought he could take it now, a finger inside him, maybe two, he thought—

The pleasure crescendoed before he was ready for it. He didn’t have time to cover his mouth before the curses and cries spilled out of it. He moaned, throwing his head back against Gene’s shoulder, shivering as his orgasm faded, pushing against Gene’s hand as he tried to ride it out just a little longer. He could feel Gene chuckle against him at his effort, and a moment later, he could feel Gene slide his hand out from under his boxers. The dazed neediness of Paul’s afterglow had part of him wanting to snatch it back again.

“Gene,” he said, after he got his breath back, “Gene, I…”

Gene was still hard. He hadn’t even done anything about it but grind a little as he’d gotten Paul off. Paul swallowed, trying to gather up the guts to turn around. The slick wetness was still all across his fingers, and he wiped them on the sheets.

“Do you wanna—” Paul started, shakily, rolling over to face him, finally, though Gene wasn’t much more than an outline around the covers. “I can—if you want, I can—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Gene yawned. He reached over and tugged the elastic of Paul’s boxers, snapping it lightly against his stomach. “Night, Paul.”

“I don’t know, Pete.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know! I told you what I saw!”

“Gene’s never even hit on Lydia or Jeanette. Not in all the time we’ve known him.”

“Yeah, that’s because they’re too much for him to handle,” Peter rattled out. “Paul doesn’t go for anyone with a brain in her skull. Just tits and ass.”

“Ain’t all he goes for, y’know,” Ace drawled idly, draining his glass of champagne. The alcohol had mellowed him out significantly. When Peter had first run into him half an hour ago, on Studio 54’s VIP floor, and rambled into what he’d seen at Paul’s house, Ace had looked utterly shattered just at the thought that Gene might homewreck. It had taken three shots and a line of coke to get that bewildered, crushed look off his face. Why Ace set such a store by Gene, Peter never could figure out. So Gene had saved Ace’s life on tour. Penicillin had saved Peter’s life as a kid and beyond, and he wasn’t exactly singing praises to Alexander Fleming for the trouble. It didn’t matter.

“You don’t gotta tell me what he goes for, Ace.”

“’M just saying. Maybe it’s not like that.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Yeah, but… maybe they’re swinging and too embarrassed to say so.”

“You think Paul would swing? The guy’s still sore at Bobby McAdams for banging his girlfriend!”

“Bobby said he didn’t—”

“’S not the point. Paul’s too jealous. He wouldn’t let Gene get near anything of his.”

“Ménage a trois?” The server refilled Ace’s glass almost on automatic. Ace tapped the rim with his finger.

“You still got the same problem in the end.” Peter paused. He was grateful he’d found Ace there—better to rage over the whole sorry business in person than over the phone—but pissed-off, too. Paul wasn’t at Studio 54 tonight like he’d hoped. He’d scoped out the whole dance floor and the VIP area, too. Even passed Catherine Deneuve by because he thought he’d gotten a glimpse of Paul wandering around, though it just turned out to be some girl with her boyfriend. “Anyway, I don’t buy it. Gene’s not queer enough to wanna see another man’s dick.”

Ace shrugged.

“I just can’t picture him screwing Paul’s girl unless they were all three going for it.” He took a long swig of the champagne. “What was she like, anyway?”

“Pretty.”

“What was she like, man?”

Peter sipped his wine before answering.

“Couldn’t get a good read on her. She acted like she was scared or something. I told you, she yelled at me the first time I came by.”

“What’d she say?”

“‘He’s not here, Pete, go away.’”

“She called you Pete?”

“Yeah. I must’ve told her who I was.” Peter’s expression soured again. “Then that second time, she tried showing me her tattoo… girl’s a tramp, poor fucking Paulie…”

“She had a tattoo?” Ace perked up. “What was it?”

“Some rose on her arm, kind of like what Paul’s got. About this big.” Peter spread his index and thumb two inches or so apart. Ace tilted his head, and, weirdly, pushed his half-full glass of champagne aside.

“She say anything weird?”

“What’re you so stuck on her for, Ace?” The whole thing was more Gene’s fault than the chick’s, Peter felt. She was just tossing away a boyfriend, trading in one rockstar for another. Gene was incinerating eight years of friendship. Maybe Ace was trying to pin it on her to keep from having to admit that Gene was a bastard who didn’t care whose girlfriend he stuck it in. But—no, that didn’t quite seem to be where Ace was going with it. He could rarely follow Ace’s line of reasoning, drunk or sober, but he could at least tell where it wasn’t headed.

“’M not. She doesn’t add up right. What else did she tell you?”

“She made out like she went to Hawaii with me last year.” Peter reached for Ace’s drink, irritably. Ace slid it towards him without his customary grin. “I wouldn’t ever take a woman on vacation with me that wasn’t my wife. It was me and Lydia on that trip. That was it.”

Ace’s glazed brown eyes, always sleepy and strange, widened. Then he shook his head, limply wavy hair (without Bobby around, his hair was hopeless) shifting into his eyes with the movement. He shoved it back.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“There were three of you on that trip, Cat. You and Lydia and Paul.”

Paul brought a girl.” Peter paused. “No, wait, he didn’t. Him and that actress were on the outs.”

“They’re still on the outs,” Ace said. “Look, Petey, didja… you didn’t fool around with anyone else while Lydia was there, did you?”

“Fuck, no. That was our time.”

“Didn’t hit on anybody, either? What about Paul, did he—”

“Gimme a minute here, don’t just grill me like I’m on the fucking witness stand, Ace,” Peter grumbled. How the hell Ace could remain not only aware, but bright, no matter the amount of booze and coke in his bloodstream, he didn’t know, but it was aggravating, at times like this. Peter wasn’t drunk yet, by his own reckoning, but he was close enough to it to not want to muddle through more than he had to. “Pretty sure he banged a girl that was working at the Polynesian Cultural Center.”

“That’s a start.”

“It ain’t a start. That girl was Samoan.”

“Oh.” Ace frowned. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t really remember.”

“No one that looked like the girl you saw?”

“No. Nobody.”

Ace reached for the champagne glass he’d pushed towards Peter earlier, drained it, and then shook his head.

“You doing anything tomorrow night, Petey?”

“No—”

“Okay.” Ace flipped the glass over. “Hear me out, man. I’ve got an idea.”

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #gene simmons #gene simmons x paul stanley #peter criss #ace frehley

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