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tojisun · 8 months

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our shallow graves — 01

recom miles quaritch x recom fem reader

!! smut (between fuck buddies outside of main pair) - minors dni; heat (as a theme); mean quaritch; power imbalance; references to (made up past), including death and prev dead lovers; worldbuilding; fast slow-burn; the reader adopts a nickname (callsign) which gets used // 3k words

: this chapter lays the foundation of the fic and introduces the initial dynamic of quaritch and the reader; reader’s callsign is 10/10 from that one penguin in madagascar; this fic made me fascinated with deja blu fr; hope u guys would luv it <33

next // m.list

you don’t understand why you were one of the early ones they awakened. sure you signed up for the shitty program – because who wouldn’t want to be an eight-feet tall blue alien? apparently, other than the scientists, you were the only one in your squad who wanted the transfer – but you didn’t expect to be the first in the line up.

to be in colonel miles quaritch’s squad.

other than walker and mansk, you knew absolutely no one from the deja blu team. but you’ve heard of them, alright. who wouldn’t? they have lines of kills and assists in terra and, now, in pandora; they are warmongers at most, rascals at least.

you stare up at their imposing figures, trying to make sense of the fact that they’ve all been killed in action.

despite not remembering much, you’ve come to terms with your own death during the initial war – a lone pilot, only meant to be an escort, gunned down by trudy’s bird before being further propelled into the lush forest floors of pandora by the banshees. it is a boring life story, one that is only worth telling because of your “sacrifice” in alien territory.

(you still don’t understand why the shrink insisted on showing you the syphoned clips of your death.

“it’s to help you move on,” she said as if she could ever understand the horror of seeing yourself fall to your death. as if you had not been a human trapped inside a fucking burning bird, being torn to pieces by, what could literally only be, flying dinosaurs. as if you were just another collateral. just another number added to the charts.

“i’m sorry,” she added, a small smile on her face as she turned to you, her hair tied in a neat bun and her white blouse tucked in her pencil skirt. “ultimately, thank you for your service, ma’am.”

fucking piece of shit.

you wondered if she even has a licence or the RDA just handed your files to some science nerd and was told to play god for their little blue alien. to fix you right up so that they could send you to another suicide mission.)

but that wasn’t the case for the rest of the deja blu. you know they were directly fighting; leaders of smaller squadrons, following the beat of papa dragon. walker and mansk, themselves, have touched down with guns in their amp suits, directly under wainfleet’s command. you don’t know how they died – you couldn’t even fathom wainfleet dying. and yet there he stands with the others, bald as fuck but imposing nevertheless.

your eyes shift to the man beside him. not the tallest, zdinarsik got that title, but the one in command.

colonel miles quaritch. big, blue, and seething.

one more thing you noticed in this whole fuckery is that your recombinant body is short. you stood about two inches shorter than walker, and she’s a full head shorter than anyone else. as you line up beside her, with fike on your other side, you three could very well make a groupie of santa’s little helpers.

wainfleet smirks like he’s thinking the same. you would have rolled your eyes at him but the colonel began to move close, his combat boots echoing against metal floors, snuffing out any noise from the squad.

“and who are you, kid?” he asks, standing directly in front of you.

you tell him your name, internally wincing when your tail unconsciously coils around your leg. you still don’t know how to control it – an easy tell of your anxiousness. the colonel’s lips lift up in a smirk, his eyes flashing at your tail in slight mirth, before recognition crosses his eyes.

“rico?”

you startle at the use of your unofficial callsign, a feat only made possible after climbing up the ranks and being heralded as one of the best pilots.

(trudy had been the best pilot in hell’s gate; the one with the most medals, and rightfully so. she was the one who ripped through the skies with her samson, zigzagging like she had been riding a banshee instead of a plane.

the one with the kindest heart.

there is a part of you that is grateful that it had been trudy who took you down.)

“yes sir,” you reply, blinking up at him after he’s dismissed your salute, feeling a little shy at being recognized, somewhat, by the colonel.

quaritch hums, tilting his head to the side in thought, watching you with narrowed eyes. briefly, you wonder if he’s asking himself why it had not been socorro who was awakened. to be honest, you are asking yourself the same thing because it doesn’t matter if you were one of the best, not when socorro, sweet and gentle and pregnant socorro, had the colonel’s favouritism.

(socorro’s child was a beautiful boy with sun-kissed hair and chocolate eyes. he was such a darling even though you’ve only seen the infant in passing, held lovingly in his mother’s arms.)

they could’ve made a blue alien baby this time around. maybe, then, they’d be happier too.

the colonel certainly doesn’t deserve it but socorro does.

“were you a private, rico?” quaritch asks, pulling you from your thoughts. he leans close again, dramatically bending his head down which highlights the difference in your heights.

“no sir,” you reply. “i was a lance corporal, sir.”

he hums again, finally backing up and giving you more room to breathe. then, he sends you a smile. “well then, welcome to the team, kid.”

the tension seeps out of you as you nod, thanking him before he turns to the other recoms, chatting amiably. walker bumps you with her shoulder and you see her smile from your peripheral.

you give her a smaller one before willing your tail to finally uncoil from your damn leg and act normal.

of course it just swishes behind you.

-------

training is gruesome. you honestly thought that it would be easier with your stronger and newer body, but with the colonel around, that thought vanished.

suicide drills were the squad’s least favourite, you especially. not only were the stakes increased to push the limits of your new bodies, but you all were always watched by the scientists, with their little sticks poking at your bodies and their little wires strapped down to whatever skin they wanted to bother this time around.

wainfleet started screaming at them, calling them “fucking losers,” and barking at them to give the squad some space. quaritch quickly took over, grunting that whether they were losers or not, whatever they were doing was necessary. that said, he sent the scientists a heated glare, making it known that his words do not necessarily reflect his feelings – wainfleet had taken this as his victory.

the tests weren’t fun, but you appreciated their purposes; through them, you learned that your na’vi DNA was extracted from a tipani warrior. the sentiment isn’t lost in you – they robbed the graves of the na’vi. you think you are used to what humans could do all for conquering pandora but for many days, you were unable to stomach any packet meal they fed your squad. walker had to talk you out of it because your unintentional hunger strike made you lag behind – an error that had you being summoned to the colonel’s office.

“we’re all tryin’ our best here, rico,” quaritch’s voice echoes in his office.

you’ve never been inside the one he had back in hell’s gate and you had hoped that you would never see the day of being in his current one, but there you stood, tensed as the colonel studied you.

he refused to sit on his customized chair, choosing instead to pace just behind his desk, his bulging arms hidden from your view as he clasped his hands behind his back. quaritch’s lips are pursed, almost pouty, and you beat yourself up at the thought of finding him – your nose scrunches at this – attractive when he’s busy scolding you.

“our circumstances ain’t ideal, but we’re back as some lab-grown native and we oughta take advantage of what we’ve become,” he says, continuing his tirade amidst your silence, snapping you out of your humiliating thoughts. “your little stunt costs us a delay on proceeding with a recon of the area and the only reason i’m not benching you is because the general has faith in you – faith that, frankly, i’m still not understanding.”

your back straightens at his words, and you tamp down the need to wince at his scathing tone. he is right, after all. for some fucked up reason, the general – both ardmore who’s stationed in pandora and gonzales who’s still in terra – backed the need to have your soul transfer commence. you still don’t know what it had been for, given that past your flying skills, you are just another idiot who knows her way around a gun. not memorable to many, except, apparently, for those in command.

(‘maybe this was why the colonel doesn’t particularly like me,’ you would think later, safe in your room. ‘socorro may have the colonel’s attention but what is a colonel – one who already failed his priority mission – against two generals?’)

“i’m sorry, sir,” you utter, clear but not loud, and quaritch just watches you again with his unwavering stare.

finally, he grunts, turning his body away from you to fully face the glass window that oversees the lower-level operations. you take this as his dismissal and scurry out of his office.

-------

“and she’s finally back from tryna kill herself!” wainfleet’s voice echoes in the nearly empty mess hall and you roll your eyes at him, glowering when he just proceeds to chuckle.

you plop your tray in front of walker, sending her a small smile which she returns with a cute beam. her braids are out of her hair tie today, letting them frame her face in the way you saw the omatikaya prefer. shooting a quick glance at zdinarsik’s way and it’s clear that someone else prefers it this way too.

“what’d the pukes say?” fike asks, sloshing around his packet meal, sneering in disgust when it jiggles like a slab of jello. more than the fact that you found out that your gene came from a corpse, this ‘food’ is about to do the trick of making you want to pursue starvation again.

“said i needa take so many pills.” you shrug, tearing open your packet of faux meat with pinched lips and your shoulders tensed like you’re expecting to be shot at. “apparently, i stunted my growth.”

prager laughs. “aww, you gonna remain short?”

“aww, you gonna remain hairy?” you shot back, snorting when prager just pouts as he raises his hand to rub at his fuzzy chin. gross.

wainfleet barks out another laugh at the exchange before reaching across the table to place an apple onto your tray. “‘ere ya go, rico. real food.”

you don’t know where he got the fruit, you don’t even know if it’s ‘real’ like he just said, but you do not have room to complain. fake fruit is a whole lot better than the slush in the compound.

“thanks,” you say, smiling bashfully, not expecting wainfleet, of all people, to adopt the mother hen role. he winks at you in reply, wiggling his brows, before straightening back up and fooling around with prager.

you dump the packet back to your tray before picking up the apple. you wipe it on your shirt before bringing it up for a bite, humming in delight at the crunching sound it made.

“delicious?” mansk asks from beside you, his lips quirking up in a smile when you turn to him.

“yummy,” you reply, humming, taking another bite. he snickers, bumping your leg with his, before placing his own apple onto your tray too.

“you gotta eat more,” is all he says when you make a questioning sound before bending over to hover his lips on the shell of your ear. “news spread fast that you got your ass reprimanded by the colonel yesterday.”

“uh-huh,” you mutter, unable to focus on what he’s saying at the sudden surge of heat engulfing you.

your lips feel dry all of a sudden, your throat parched from unknown thirst, and you turn to mansk, wanting to ask him what the hell is happening to you – was this the fault of the fucking apple? – only to see his own face flushed, blue skin turning into dark purple.

his eyes meet yours and all of a sudden, you feel like you are doused with gasoline and set ablaze.

huh. well, if that isn’t interesting.

-------

“jesus- devin, not too ha- ah!”

your back arches at a particularly hard thrust, your jaw falling open for a drawn out garble. the explosion of pleasure races across your synapses, filling you up with nothing but a deafening white noise. blearily, you recognize mansk’s bigger hands wrapping around your waist, lifting you up from his lap only to drop you down again. a hiccupped moan escapes your lips, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, feeling your walls spasming around him.

“rico, fuck, so good. so good.” mansk’s voice is faint, falling from his kiss-swollen lips in murmurs. you would have missed it without your new heightened senses, but the sound of his voice tickles your ears, making your tail flick behind you as you preen at his praises.

a giggly “thank you” barely makes it past your teeth when mansk manhandles you again, humping his hips up to grind himself along your pelvis, driving him deeper. you choke on your words, unable to stop the moan that is punched from your lungs, the sound so loud that mansk had to cover your mouth with one of his hands.

“not so loud,” he mumbles, bumping his forehead against yours. the sound of his rugged voice makes you clench around his length, making you feel utterly stuffed. you drag your blunt nails across his back, your eyes fluttering rapidly, feeling yourself tipping into the peak of your orgasm.

mansk laughs. “y’r unbelievable.”

you do not know what it is that you said, your wobbly voice still smothered by his hand, as you get lost in the way he bounces you on his lap. mansk goes quiet, only letting muffled grunts pierce the air between the two of you, and you feel the sudden surge of primal need unleashing deep in your belly.

the tight clench of your abdomen almost hurts, your orgasm ripping through the remnants of your sanity. your last thought was: ‘motherfucker, why did no one ever tell you that the na’vi have heats?’

it is later when the haze lifts up that the warmth licking up from the core of your muscles – almost like it is burrowed deep within your blood vessels – is finally snuffed out.

mansk is asleep on his bed, dead to the world. you shuffle out of his loose embrace, blinking blearily before realizing that he had cleaned you two up. a small smile graces your lips as you fully slink out of his bed, looping your tail around your leg as you pick up the pieces of your off-duty apparel.

pressing a kiss on his forehead, and rolling your eyes when he sleepily bats you away like you are a fly, you grab your respirator and quietly leave his room.

standing in the empty hallways, turning your head from side to side, you study the stillness of the metal walkway with bated breath, afraid that someone will eventually see you making your walk of shame to your room. when the silence continues, you finally begin to move, lithe steps only broken by the continuous hissing from your respirator as you occasionally take slight sips of air.

nearing your room, your heart finally settles, your tensed back loosening up at the feeling of safety. you cross past one of the intersecting hallways, quick in your steps, when a hand reaches from the dark and grabs your wrist.

a scream nearly bubbles from your lips when a palm is shoved to your face, shutting you up once again. panicked eyes turn, trying to see who’s got such a strong hold on you, only for your heart to careen even faster when you make eye contact with quaritch.

no-

his sneer is terrifying, his bright amber eyes glinting with so much malice, it pins you right on the spot. cold dread washes over you like a tide, chasing away the quiet elation that settled deep within your veins. the heat is returning, you know that, but it is muted and mingled with fear that you can’t even feel the need to scratch the itch.

your ears are pinned onto your skull, your tail drooping as it wraps itself around your leg again. this time the colonel doesn’t look at it in amusement, instead he continues to glare at you.

“colonel-”

“next time, fuck around quietly,” quaritch barks out, cutting you off. “and go take a goddamn shower. you reek.”

he snatches his arm from your wrist as though he’s been burned before marching away, his combat boots echoing in the hallway. tears prick the back of your eyes and you run to your room, heaving, trying to calm yourself.

anger, hurt, and shame bubble deep inside your stomach, expanding, until you are finally reduced to tears. you cry your frustration away, hoping that by doing so, you would stop thinking about how good the colonel smelled as he glowered at you with his sharp eyes.

(if only you had glanced at quaritch as he walked away, you would have seen the way he burrowed his face on his palm, chasing the sweet scent that roused him from his sleep and pushed his own heat into its beginnings.)

#suns.f #our shallow graves #miles quaritch x reader #recom quaritch x reader #quaritch x reader #quaritch x you #recom miles quaritch #miles quaritch #recom avatar #suns #avatar the way of water #atwow #cliffhanger my beloathed (as reader) n beloved (as writer)

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cassrage · 2 years

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#obi wan kenobi #obi wan #ewan mcgregor #obi wan my beloved #obiwan #shallow grave #alex law #roman sionis #moulin rouge #down with love #catcher block #star wars #curt wild #velvet goldmine

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cryoshad · 1 year

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master kenobi (otherwise known as the love of my life)

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sprout-fics · 3 months

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simon + royal ball + "you are the bane of my existence--and the object of all my desires. night and day i dream of you." :3333 thank you!

Bane of my existence (Valentines Day requests)

Tags: GN Reader (Though aimed more towards male reader), Royalty AU, Bodyguard Ghost, Brat coded reader, Confessions, Possessiveness, Forbidden love if you squint

They call your protector the specter of death.

Clad in dark armor, an obsidian sword in his sheath, your knight sports a helmet with the engraving of a skull- a warning to all that dare approach him that he himself has escaped the grasp of the grim reaper.

Ghost, he calls himself, the dark knight that is your constant sentinel, following ever at a distance and caught in your shadow. He refuses to divulge his real name no matter how you attempt to pry it from him, offering only short, curt remarks to your questioning. He speaks little, your bodyguard, hardly seems to eat or sleep, adheres to his oath of your safety even as he seems to not even notice you are there.

You were still young when he was assigned to your side, still a young heir who was carefree and naive about the danger that surrounded your life. You had been sick for days with the assassination attempt, the poison curling low and viscous in your inside until you’d miraculously awoken. Ever since, the man who becomes your constant guard had remained at your side to keep you safe.

You resisted at first despite the fear left inside you from your near death. You had try more than once to shed him, had snuck out windows and crawled down trellises only to find him standing irritated at the bottom, had dressed a maid in your likeness and stealthily escaped to the stables, only to find him leaning against the stall with your beloved mare, waiting. You’d tried to annoy him so he’d leave you alone, but the ghost who had become your knight seemed to not notice your childish antics. He’d only offered wry, cutting remarks that had you demand he be taken from your service- only to be told no other knight in the whole kingdom was as skilled as he.

He’d endured your petty attempts to shake him at first, bored and annoyed at your behavior. When you’d ridden too fast in the glade outside the castle he’d cast your mare’s reins and led you back to the stables despite your protests. He’d caught you as you slipped from one of the roofs in an attempt to climb it, had even tossed you over his shoulder despite your shrieking protests when you’d attempted to dip your toes in the rushing, flooded river near your garden.

He’d muttered under his breath, had called you petulant, spoiled, naive, all the things you were, you’d been enraged.

Yet as the months and years had passed, and the weight of your future crown began to weigh heavy on your head, you’d learned to listen to him as he scathingly scolded you for sliding down the banister, for climbing a tree to rescue a kitten, for getting too close to a sword fight in your desire to watch.

Older now, you’d grown out of your youthful childishness and into a true heir to the throne. You know now the grave responsibility of your birthright, realizing your previous frivolities were nothing more than a immature rebellion in an attempt to find freedom despite your destiny. Ghost, likewise, had eased as you’d matured. At first your knight, he’d become your instructor, your ally. It had been Ghost who had taught you to wield a sword, to make a bow from scratch and hunt birds for the arrow feathers. It had been Ghost who’d strictly overseen your sparring practice, who had reluctantly offered his advice in your studies of battles and armies. And so, a deep friendship and bond has blossomed forth between you over the years, one unshaken by the forces that guided the ruler you would be.

Neither of you would ever say it aloud, but ‘friends’ felt too shallow a term foe the thing Ghost had become to you. You trusted him innately, sometimes more than yourself, easily offering your life into his hands so he could keep it safe. For him his duty to protect you always came first and foremost, but you knew that he too had grown fond of you.

You felt it in the way he offered dry humor to your conversation, stepped before you at the first signs of danger, indulged on rare occasions with a drink that had him lift his helmet to expose his plush, pale lips. You recognized it in the way he indulged the remaining reckless streak of your youth, raced after you on horseback or sparred with you. It annoyed him still, the occasional bout of rebelliousness you offered if only to fondly annoy him, and you knew he allowed it only because it was you.

And secretly, in the midnight darkness of your chambers, you pined for him.

When it came time for you to marry, you sought further camaraderie with him as you offered wry commentary on your matches he was all but happy to return. You were stubborn about the whole affair, had sent away multiple suitors in endless frustration to your father the king. Yet when he had looked to Ghost to speak sense to you, Ghost found himself with his eyes anywhere but towards his liege.

In the glittering lights of the ballroom, you sip idly on wine as another suitors tries desperately to curry your favor.

“The wine sours with the company.” You remarked to Ghost, and your suitor froze before exiting dejectedly. Ghost sighs, exasperated, and you grin at him.

“If I climbed from the balcony to escape here, would you follow me?” You ask him, cheeks warm with the bitter taste of liquor.

“Maybe I should let you fall.” He answers back, eyeing you with a side-long gaze. “Might teach you a needed lesson.”

You know he doesn’t mean it, and it makes your heart grow all the fonder.

“How soon do you think I can escape this?” You ask, nodding to the lively music and twirling couples in the dance hall.

“You should stay.” Is all Ghost offers.

“And if I don’t?” You inquire

You needn’t ask. You know he’d follow you. If you were to ever walk to the edge of the earth, you know he’d jump first if only to catch you.

“I’m sure if you took your helmet off you’d be the talk of the ball.” You tell him in a meek attempt to see the face you’ve never been witness to.

“Hardly.” Ghost scoffs.

“Are you ugly?” You ask, and Ghost levies a clever stare towards you.

“Far from it.”

You tell yourself the warmth that rises to your cheeks is just the wine.

It’s a few more minutes before you sigh, stand and make your way to the balcony with Ghost trailing after you. You stand there in the cool night air, looking to the stars beyond the palace walls and wondering if they can somehow see your future.

“Will you leave me when I ascend the throne, Ghost?” You ask quietly as he stands by the doorway.

Ghost pauses.

“No.” He answers at last. You huff, head drooping as you refuse to look at him.

“Why not? Your duty was to ensure I survived to become monarch, nothing beyond that.”

Ghost remains silent, and you try to ignore the way your chest clenches around his refusal to speak.

It fails, for you turn to him, expression bitter, and ask him: “Is that all I am to you? A charge, a duty? Something to be protected and then abandoned when the time comes?”

In the light cast by the ballroom, you see Ghost's eyes go wide.

The silence hangs between you, and as it stretches on you struggle to tear your eyes away from his.

At last, Ghost steps towards you, and in one fluid motion removes his helmet and sets it at your feet. His gloved hands cup either side of your face, and you gasp at the full display of emotion on his face as he finally speaks.

"You are the bane of my existence--and the object of all my desires. Night and day I dream of you." He tells you, chest thrumming as his voice deepens. “I will follow you to the throne, into battle, I’ll lay down my sword if you commanded it. If ever you should desert the crown, I will follow you there too.”

You listen with widening eyes, chest thumping as your heart threatens to tear itself asunder.

“Ghost.” You manage at last, emotions strangling your throat so his name is nothing more than a garbled gasp.

“As long as you command it, I will stay by your side.” He tells you, hands suddenly tightening as if he’s restraining himself from the cataclysm of his own confession. “You are mine to follow.”

You hands, shaking though they are, find his as he raises your face to his.

“Then stay with me.” You whisper as his lips draw closer. “Until I have nothing more to give you. And even then, stay longer so that I can have you by my side.”

The kiss that you bestow upon him feels like the epilogue of a long, wondrous tale.

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #valentine's day requests

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ladysunbite · 1 month

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@fallesto || x

A broken heart? "Does it mean his beloved perished during the siege? Was she fatally wounded? Is Regis with him?" verily, it was easy to call her unfeeling and distant, yet she understood that particular pain. Especially, if it was not an end caused by nature, but a brutal, senseless one. Oh, Orianna wished bitterly, that that night of all nights she was a shallow, simple monster the witcher painted her to be. As for Dettlaff - he was a true culprit of her loss, not the maddened garkain they had just buried, along with six, small bodies.

She should have gone for garkain's head herself, to quench the blinding, bright anger - at her old friend, at her little ruva, at the foolish witcher at her side. "The garkain killed the children that were mine. For such an offence I was in the right to ask for his life. Even a human law would give me such satisfaction. So would have I claimed the head of that bastard, who abandoned those he was..." fighting the urge to massage her eyelids, the sun-eyed lowered her arms in front of herself, a gesture graceful and regal. "...but I smell his blood and that of his wife upon your clothes, witcher. Justice is triumphant and properly served." There was no reason for her to seek an approval of the famed white wolf, he was clearly much less endowed with an open, quick mind then Regis painted him to be. Yet their sharp and sour conversation provided her with another thing she was in need of, besides clarity. Stalling for time. Like a beggar. She did not want to return inside the ravaged house, she did not want to uphold justice, which she praised so highly in her stately speech. She must cease to be sentimental and weak. Law was law, it was one of the earliest, crucial ones and her children followed it, and were protected by it. "We clearly perceive a heart differently. I judge its presence by actions, not by hollow words," a hairpin into his side. How dared he to condemn her? How dared he to speak as if it was his right to decide Dettlaff's punishment? He himself was ignorant of laws and customs of the land. Deprived even of a collected, impartial, cold state of mind!

"I see, you must be worried about your payment. Follow me inside, and you shall get your coin for digging the graves, master witcher. As well as the fulfillment of my promise to you," politeness laced with poison. If not by the claws and fangs, let her ravenous wrath be sated by another, haughty kind of cruelty.

"But be quite. Antoine had just fallen asleep, and a good rest is essential for his recovery," another slip. Clearly, she was exhausted, in spite of her best efforts. Although, there was no reason why she should guard the names of her children from a stranger, who would not see the rising sun again. The white wolf was merely sniffing for a bigger pouch of gold, certainly promised to him by the Duchess. There was the true reason behind his offended virtious, kind heart. Was it the reason why Regis send his so called "friend" to a certain death?

#lullaby of woe (ladysunbite rp answers)#fallesto

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devirnis · 5 months

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✨Fic Writing Review 2023✨

Words and Fics

94,435 words published to AO3

2 fandoms (9-1-1, Gears of War)

Most recent drop: Don't Listen When I Scream (10.9k, M)

Longest fic: Burning Up (12.9k)

Top Fics by Kudos

Burning Up

Nevermore To Leave Here

here (in your arms)

just a little hush

A Shallow Grave (Where I Can Keep It Safe)

Fandom Events in 2023

Bad Things Happen Bingo

Kinktober 2023

Upcoming Events and Projects for 2024

I have one more fic to drop before the ending of the year, my Last Holiday AU - Packing Light

for next year, continuing my BTHB card >:3

money laundering restaurant front au (my beloved) - this will probably be my next main focus once the holiday fic is out of the way, since I've got a good chunk of it written

second chapter of let you set the pace

tags and rules under the cut!

Tagged by: @exhuastedpigeon @underwater-ninja-13 @honestlydarkprincess

Rules: Feel free to show whatever stats you have. Only want to show Ao3 stats? Rock on. Want to include some quantitative info instead of stats? Please do this. Want to change how yours is presented? Absolutely do that. Would rather eat glass than do this? Please don’t eat glass but don’t feel like you have to do this either.

if you wanna @bigfootsmom @homerforsure @princessfbi @disasterbuckdiaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @sibylsleaves @spaceprincessem @shortsighted-owl @daffi-990 @lemonzestywrites @messyhairdiaz @capseycartwright @colonoscopys @try-set-me-on-fire @housewifebuck @giddyupbuck @wildlife4life @jeeyuns @bvckandeddie @malewifediaz @eowon @loserdiaz @shitouttabuck

#tag games #fic writing review 2023

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tobiasdrake · 5 months

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I used to play Magic: The Gathering for a decent chunk of my life. There's this one card that's always stuck with me, because it espouses a philosophy that I find interesting. I talk about this sometimes, when consuming heavily intellectual media. I mentioned it recently while doing Desuhiko's substory in Rain Code.

"The correct answer to a barbarian's riddle is to choke on your cleverness and die."

This is sort of what I'm getting at when I say things like, "Violence may not always be the best option, but it is always on the table." It's what I was thinking about during Yomi and Makoto's confrontation, when I was like, "Where did the guns go that were in Yomi's hands a second ago, and why isn't he just shooting everyone?"

It's something I think writers of intellectual media often forget about. Like. You've solved for the mystery, but have you solved for violence? If X person just starts throwing haymakers or discharging guns, how are you going to stop them?

This comes up, for instance, in Ace Attorney. The first Ace Attorney game has two separate instances where Phoenix manages to get his hands on critical game-ending evidence during investigation, only to be violently assaulted and have the evidence forcibly taken from him. A third time, he corners the killer outside of the courtroom and nearly ends up in a shallow grave for his trouble.

But Ace Attorney also runs into this as a flaw. The first Great Ace Attorney sees its protagonist Ryunosuke, at one point, solving a crime on a ship at ocean. The killer is someone beloved to all the crew, and all of the crew are in on it. It culminates when he reveals the truth to everyone... everyone who is co-conspiring on the murder, mind you... And. Then. What?

The game has it play out that the killer confesses and agrees to turn themselves over to the police when the ship enters port. But. No. That is not what would happen. What would happen is that Ryunosuke never makes it to port. People fall overboard and die at sea all the time. No one would ever see a day in prison.

Ryunosuke solved the puzzle, but the game failed to provide an adequate explanation for how he solved for violence, dragging down the mystery.

That's something I want mystery writers to always consider in these scenarios. Ask yourself: Have I written my protagonist into a situation where the culprit can just stab him and leave? Murderers are, by definition, people willing to use violence as a problem-solving tool. Don't get so caught up in your own cleverness that you forget the Barbarian's Riddle.

#mystery #writing #ace attorney #master detective archives: rain code

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bejeweledblondie · 7 months

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Hello! God, I recently found your blog and I love it!!! I'm also a big Taylor fan and I've had this idea in mind! You are free to do it [or not do it] and modify it!

Based on *All too Well*

I was thinking of one of these guys

Jonh Price / Köing/ Ghost/ Philip Graves

"You kept me like a secret and I kept it like an oath"

"But you keep my old scarf from that very first week' Cause it reminds you of innocence And it smells like me"

And maybe we got lost in translationMaybe I asked for too much"

I love the song and I can't stop thinking about them!!!

-🌙

Hello! So happy you’re enjoying the blog! No joke I had this sitting in my drafts debating on whether or not to post it! I lost my voice last Friday SCREAMING “All Too Well” in the theater. Even if you’re not a swiftie it’s just a lyrical masterpiece

All to Well 🧣

Captain John Price x F! Reader

Summary: Based on the ten minute version of All Too Well, John has to face what he had done to his beloved red scarf & all

Warnings: cheating, John being a dick, the usual

“And maybe we got lost in translation maybe I asked for too much, maybe this thing was a master piece before you tore it all up”

Heels in hand Y/N sat on the steps of the hotel where the military ball she was attending with John was being held. She was sobbing her eyes out into her hands. While trying to figure out where he wandered off to, she stumbled across him & his secretary having sex in a bathroom stall. He had told her not to worry about her, but her intuition told her otherwise. These past few months had been excruciatingly difficult. He spent his time home out late, leave her to sit by the front door waiting for him to return. Shallow excuses coming from him over the phone had made her cry herself to sleep one too many times. The sickening smell of his secretary’s perfume lingered on him when he’d come home, & yet he gaslighted her into believing otherwise.

She stood up as she saw the Uber she had called for pull up in front of the hotel. John was adjusting his dress uniform bow tie while running towards the doors to intercept her. Other officers looked at him confused as he sped past them. His secretary Camille wasn’t too far behind him calling his name. Y/N turned her head back when she heard him calling her name. With haste she closed the door to the Uber & ordered the driver to speed away. John was left standing on the sidewalk watching her go. He let out an annoyed sigh & turned around to see his team at the doors. Laswell looking so disappointed in him, & what he had done.

It had been months since Y/N moved out. Contrary to the rumors, Camille didn’t move in with the Captain. She was swiftly fired from her position, & was forced out of the contracting community. Laswell made sure of that. No, John was forced to live with the ghosts of his past lover. Just last week he found the red scarf that she adored hidden in a couch cushion. He inhaled the scent of the red wool trying to remember what her perfume smelled like.

Kyle was deeply concerned for his superiors mental health ever since he ended his relationship so they decided to go to the local pub. After a quick shower & shave he got dressed. He grabbed his jacket off of the rack. The red wool scarf hung beside it taunting him of his mistake. He grabbed it & put it on before leaving. Simon greeted him at the door & they all got a round then headed back to a table in the back corner. He was starting to feel himself go back to happy self before he ended things with Y/N. That was until she walked in with a couple of friends.

They locked eyes, & there was shift in the air. It felt tense. Simon picked it up on the body language shift in his Captain. He followed John’s gaze & sighed as soon as his spotted her. She looked equally as emotionally distressed.

“Talk to her,” Simon said. “You look absolutely fucking miserable Price, & you two have a lot to fix.” Price looked at Simon knowing he was right, this was his mistake he needed to fix. He reluctantly stood up & wiped his hands on his jeans. Her friend Este, stopped mid sentence to glare at the bearded man. She turned around knowing it was coming sooner rather then later.

“Let’s get this over with.” She sighed following him out to the street. You both sat on a bench only a few shops down from the pub. John had planned thousands of things to say to you but now he was speechless.

“What do you want John?” She asked looking at him. “Did we get lost in translation, did I ask for too much?” She spat. Embarrassment & shame turned his cheeks crimson red.

“I wanted to talk.” He simply stated. “I was a fucking selfish prick.”

“I’ll say.” You scoffed. “I swear all you men have the fucking audacity I swear.”

“I don’t disagree.” He replied in agreement. “Listen, I’m in a new hell Y/N.”

“You don’t think I am?” She cried out. “What we had was a masterpiece John before you tore it all up.”

“And I was a fucking idiot.” John said.

“You told me if we had been closer in age, maybe we would’ve been fine.” She stated. “God I still do love you dearly, John. But how can I make sure you won’t break me like a promise?” He took the red wool that lingered of her vanilla fragrance & placed it around her neck.

“Because instead of mailing your things to you, I kept a whole drawer of memories you left behind hoping you’d return to me. You’re the only real thing I’ve ever known.” He replied honestly. She was taken a back he kept even the littlest things she left, from hair pins to the red scarf. Anything to still have a piece of her. He placed a hand on her now flushed cheek. The bitter cold London air started to nip at their exposed skin. Little flecks of white glistened as it started to fall from the sky. The first snow of the winter season. He grabbed her waist & pulled her in for a deep kiss. After they both pulled away they sat in the moment to remember it all too well.

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i-did-not-mean-to · 16 days

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April - Maedhros & Maglor

Ah, MoonLord my dear reader has come up with quite an interesting batch of prompts for me!

So, after all the smut, have some gen stuff :D

Pairing: Maedhros & Maglor

Prompts: Sibling relationships, Babysitting, war, musical instruments, heat

Words: 2005

Warnings: Sadness, regret, loss

“Don’t,” Maedhros said automatically as something whizzed past his head. It was only when he saw the charred bone—a bleak, white accusation—roll down the hill that he remembered where they were.

Long gone were the days when the twins would throw clumps of dirt and paper-thin skins filled with water at one another and their older siblings in mischievous glee.

His heart ached as he thought back on those blessed days of carefree annoyance; their mother, dutiful and devoted, would sneak off with his half-uncle’s wives to gossip about their husbands and unruly children, and he’d be left in charge of a whole pack of feral youngsters.

Back then, he'd been the oldest, but he hadn’t been able to fathom yet how terrible it would be to feel old.

“Food shall be ready soon,” Celegorm declared in a voice so hollow, that it was clear to everyone that he didn’t care whether his brothers would devour the spoils of his ruthless hunt like wild animals or shun them like petulant children.

Once upon a time, his steps had been so light that it had been impossible for anyone but Huan to hear him approach, but his dark deeds and bitter regrets had weighed him down so much that his every movement seemed to set his surroundings atremble with cold dread.

Habit drove the old-familiar words onto Maedhros’s tongue, “Come on, children!”, “Food is ready!”, “Wash your hands!”, but he didn’t speak any of them aloud—what for?

They were elflings no more, and the blood on their hands could never be rinsed off.

It felt to Maedhros as if he already sensed that terrible, blazing heat that had taken their father lick at his ankles, and he thanked the Valar for his prodigious height. No matter how voracious the flames of their Doom were, they’d have a far to go yet before consuming him whole.

Surely, it was also that secret fire’s pervasive, poisonous smoke that made his breath come in shallow, ragged bursts and drove tears into his bright, gentle eyes.

There was no place for pity or nostalgia in a war camp, and if he missed Caranthir’s rare fits of raucous laughter or Curufin’s earnest devotion to crafts of beauty rather than of violence, it was a small price to pay in the pursuit of Fëanor’s expectations.

Suddenly, the dutiful, unerring uncrowned king wondered why their father’s wrath and single-minded determination felt shockingly alive when everything else—their hope, their joy, their very vivacity—seemed to have died so long ago.

These things were not for him to consider or to know, though, and he turned his attention back to the gaggle of brothers, all beloved and regretted already, who closed in on the fresh kill like hungry wolves.

He wished Fingon could be there—he’d always been so good at distracting them by making a witty joke or feigning interest in the various interests that kept the infamous sons of a genius enthralled.

No, Maedhros corrected himself harshly, he was being unfair to one whose heart had ever been more generous than he himself could even fathom—thus, Fingon had probably genuinely cared.

He’d cared so much that he’d died for a cause that had never been his own, many times over, and Maedhros welcomed the crippling pain of loss and guilt washing over him like a wave of sharp-toothed darkness—he deserved to be denied even the comfort of mourning the death of his best friend and true love.

Some of his brothers might have wailed and raged, others would have curled up around the throbbing core of their suffering, but he was allowed neither.

The one person who might have understood and had wise words of comfort to impart was Turgon, and Maedhros knew that he’d probably never hear that calm, grave voice again.

That, he also more than deserved.

“Will you not eat something?”

Maglor appeared with a shallow, cracked bowl in his famed hands. He resembled their father’s family much more than their mother’s on the surface, but he had inherited Nerdanel’s gentle, calming smile and the look of indulgent fondness they all missed so desperately.

“I’m not hungry; give my portion to the…”

“Little ones?” Maglor laughed mirthlessly. “Do you know that, for the longest time, I was convinced that you abhorred sweetmeats and treats? You’d always pass on your cake to me, and I believed that it was due to a personal dislike rather than a sincerely stupid act of self-denial.”

Kneeling gracefully before his older brother, he held out the simple meal stubbornly.

“You need to eat, lest you fade completely. We need you—and I know how cruel and selfish that sounds, but we cannot do this without you. I cannot do this alone.”

And, because he remembered what his interim kingship had done to his creative, wild-hearted brother, Maedhros accepted the proffered bowl wordlessly, nodding his thanks.

“Eat, brother,” Maglor insisted; he’d known Maedhros for too long to be fooled by his courteous manners and his uncanny ability to dissimulate how much he was buckling under the burdens put upon him. “I shall sit with you and make sure that you’re honouring Tyelko’s effort appropriately.”

Grimacing, Maedhros took a tentative bite—the meat was chewy and tasted like wet coal, but he forced a smile onto his lips to assuage the swirling worry in his brother’s eyes.

“It’s not very good,” Maglor whispered conspiratorially, “but it’s warm and nourishing—that’s all we can ask for.”

Maedhros heard the “all we deserve now” even though it was not spoken, so he bowed his head in agreement and went on spooning the tasteless sludge into his numb mouth mechanically.

“Come over, sit by the fire with us,” Maglor went on as he took the empty container back. “Surely, you won’t refuse a bit of comforting heat out of petulant brooding and self-flagellation?”

Not sure whether his wickedly witty sibling was referencing the warmth of the reluctant but unbroken brotherhood or the mundane effect of the small campfire, Maedhros cocked his head and waited.

“I could play the harp,” Maglor went on, unrelenting. “Like in the old days when I’d help you babysit the horrors.”

Out of habit rather than real annoyance, Maedhros sucked his teeth. He might have been prejudiced, but he’d always staunchly claimed that none of his brothers was even half as terrifying as their female cousins.

Indeed, he’d ever believed that Finrod had been dealt the trickiest hand, but the mere thought of his former flippancy on these matters made him now flinch as if struck.

Too many of their kinspeople had perished, and he felt terrible for ever having had a single ungracious thought about them.

“Nobody wants to hear your howling,” Caranthir hissed, but—as per usual—nobody paid his ill-tempered outbursts any heed. Moreover, his two oldest brothers hadn’t forgotten the seemingly endless period when that little red-faced boy had only been able to fall asleep in Maedhros’s arms while Maglor hummed lullaby after lullaby.

“Father would not want you to isolate yourself,” Curufin agreed in Fëanor’s voice, mirroring Fëanor’s grave mien, moving his strong fingers in a perfect imitation of Fëanor’s gestures.

“I…I can’t stop seeing those who are no longer there,” Maedhros replied, shielding his sensitive eyes from the flickering light of the fire—he’d grown to dread the devastating element that had robbed him of all he’d held most dear.

If his brothers understood his words as a thinly veiled reference to their parents, he would not correct them, but he knew that his mazy thoughts comprised others whose very names had become anathema to the precarious survival to which they clung with despairing obstinacy.

Their Flight, the Ice, the burning of the ships, the confrontation at the feet of King Thingol—there had been too many incidents that had torn them apart, but—just for one dark, bleak night—Maedhros allowed himself to miss the children he’d watched grow up in the Blessed Realm until his chest hurt with suppressed sobs.

It was generally accepted that the Oath had erased all other considerations in their crazed minds, and—once again—he wouldn’t correct anyone who believed so, because the truth was so much worse.

He remembered everything: every ephemeral sandcastle, every scraped knee, every impromptu nap against the narrow, bony ribcage of a young, hopeful prince of yore.

How he wished that he could forget that he’d held, defended, comforted, and loved them long before they had righteously started loathing him! If he could excise those memories from his heart, he might well have reclaimed the Silmarils by now; instead, he was torn to pieces by contradicting loyalties until every minute movement made his body and soul writhe in agony.

Maglor had unpacked the battered, old harp he carried around in a worn, oiled skin as if in defiance of their present situation and their hopeless quest.

Little by little, the conversations died as the initially random, mournful notes melted into a variation of an old lullaby, overwhelming in its simplicity and never-changing beauty.

Eyes closed and lips pursed, Maglor conjured up visions of lush gardens and mellow, silvery reveries which stung and soothed their hearts in equal measure.

With every stroke of his calloused, weary fingers, the melodies grew more intricate and enchanting, and even the dead trees around them seemed to bend towards the life-giving solace flooding the barren clearing like a wave of pure light.

The last time his brothers had heard this piece performed, there had been many different instruments interweaving their precious song with Maglor’s flawless harp play, but the stark absence of a supporting accompaniment felt oddly fitting now as it perfectly mirrored his solitary, desperate effort to dispel the omnipresent, suffocating gloom miring them down.

Cruelly aware of how tense and unmoving his forcibly dispassionate mien must have looked, Maedhros tried to let the music drown out the painful knowledge that, had they lived, neither Fingon nor Finrod could have resisted joining their skill and voices to this pitiful concerto.

Alas, they had fallen, and no fire or flame in all of Arda could have replaced the healing, cheering warmth they might have dispensed.

“You have everything you need to succeed,” Fëanor had said as he’d lain, broken and burned, in the loving, trembling arms of his oldest son, and Maedhros had nodded, ready to swear any oath if only his words could soothe his father’s evident agony.

He’d been right, the disenchanted, weary minder of his quasi-orphaned brothers now realised; at the moment of his demise, Fëanor could not possibly have foreseen the terrible, devastating losses his sons would have to face and bear in the single-minded pursuit of their ill-fated vow.

It might well have been a wilfully naïve stance, but Fëanor—having himself left his beloved wife behind in the Blessed Realm—had been convinced that helplessly, uselessly yearning for those who were happy and safe within the keeping of their ungracious jailors was counterproductive and needlessly distracting.

Maedhros wondered how their father’s tune might have changed if he’d known his wife, his brother, his very followers to have died miserably.

In many a way, it was a mercy that he’d died before learning of Fingolfin’s arrival or his subsequent death—despite all his bitter words, Fëanor might not have stomached that knowledge as comfortably as he wanted to make others believe.

Through a veil of flickering flames, Maedhros caught the knowing, understanding gaze of his favourite brother, and his mouth curled into a genuinely fond smile as Maglor intoned a simple song he’d learned at Maedhros’s elbow so long ago.

For the first time in what felt like ages, comfortable drowsiness descended upon the camp as their younger brothers pulled up their bedrolls around their shoulders, bowed with grief and unspoken fear.

They’d sleep soundly tonight, and that alone was worth the terrible loneliness of the two elders whose wakeful watch would not end until the merciless sun came up once more.

-> Masterlist

@fellowshipofthefics: I am still on it :D

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statichvm · 8 months

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— URL SONG TAG.

i was tagged by my beloved @shallow-gravy to spell out my url with song titles! thank you. 🥺💜 i tried to use my on repeat as a fun lil challenge but alas… i had to outsource to my liked songs for a few.

tagging @jackiesarch @unholymilf @florbelles @blissfulalchemist @adelaidedrubman @roofgeese @confidentandgood @chuckhansen @queennymeria @kyber-infinitygems @nightbloodbix @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @loriane-elmuerto @marivenah @indorilnerevarine @shellibisshe @leviiackrman @simonxriley @cptcassian @moonmothers @gwynbleidd and @risingsh0t

S - SHAME / LUKAS FRANK, PHOEBE BRIDGERS

T - THE GOLD (ACOUSTIC) / MANCHESTER ORCHESTRA

A - A HOUSE IN NEBRASKA / ETHEL CAIN

T - TELL ME NOW / THE BLACKWATER FEVER

I - IT WILL COME BACK / HOZIER

C - COCAINE JESUS / RAINBOW KITTEN SURPRISE

H - HARD WIRED / SHAKEY GRAVES

V - VENUS AS A BOY / BJÖRK

M - MERCY / SIR CHLOE

#personal ramblings

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foursaints · 25 days

Note

what is your favourite sleepover movie??

karfy my beloved… it’s shallow grave (1994). i can’t stop showing it to people. a beautiful young ewan mcgregor enters a murderous throuple & immediately gets a bloody nose. what more could you want from a movie…

#sleepover tag #i’m mostly curious about your answer though O_O

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cheetahsprints · 4 months

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Prompt #8: Heart

Inspired by this post

• Sonadow Prompt Fills •

• Ambience Music •

Shadow could hear every shallow beat of his heart. It was slowing down... too slow. His wounds were too severe. Shadow hated that he had let this happen at all. He should’ve been here. Curse his stupid feelings which he had been trying so hard to keep from the other. Now he could lose him forever.

Blood was pooled under him and continued departing rapidly as though it had somewhere better to be. He wasn’t going to make it. Shadow wasn’t sure he could allow that.

Sonic wasn't one who should simply give up and go in peace if there was another route... but what if that's not what he would've wanted...? Sonic idly mentioned once that vampiric abilities looked cool. He would come back even stronger than before... albeit with some... trivial... limitations. But he’d still be around... they’d be together forever... except...

Sonic wasn’t really with him. Shadow didn’t own his heart, yet he was about to make a questionable decision on its behalf. Sonic was unconscious... he couldn’t consent... he might despise Shadow for what he was about to do. He didn’t even know Shadow was a vampire. He was careful to hide his weaknesses and habits, he wore sunglasses along with a harness and leather jacket at all times around Sonic to conceal his special features.

Shadow lifted his head up and bared his teeth, sinking them into Sonic’s neck. His blood was a bitter-sweet tang across Shadow’s tongue. It slithered down his throat. He tasted Sonic’s trembling pulse until it stopped.

His heart would beat again... it was a common misconception in their world that his kind were essentially dead... Well, they had one foot in the grave at all times, but their hearts didn’t stop, they were just shallow and unnaturally fast. Their bodies were tough and cold, but they retained emotions... dulled emotions... other than when it came to their beloved.

A vampire loved once and only once.

He couldn’t lose Sonic. It would break him. The world wouldn’t survive a remorseless Shadow if his heart was gone. He bit into his own wrist and dripped his sluggish blood into Sonic’s slightly parted maw. He sped Sonic to the nearest graveyard.

Shadow picked out a nice spot by a pretty tree in spring bloom, an odd splash of cheerfulness on the gloomy landscape. He removed his gloves and raked his claws into the dirt. He dug a shallow grave... though grave wasn’t the best term... Sonic was going to be reborn… it was more like a cocoon.

He carefully maneuvered his temporarily stiff and lifeless form into the hole and covered it back up. He curled in a ball at the roots of the tree and waited.

Shadow’s head immediately lifted when the dirt rustled. Sonic, now decorated with fangs, yellow sclera, and leather wings, emerged to rejoin the living as a creature of the night. He looked as incredible as ever, and the sight of him returning to the world nearly arrested Shadow’s own heart.

“Sonic.” Shadow slotted himself next to Sonic and carded fingers through his quills. Every fluttering beat of his undead heart was because of Shadow, now. “Please. Forgive me.”

Sonic eyes slid open. He wouldn’t blink anymore unless he did it on purpose. His gaze was squinted for a moment as he adjusted to his considerably sharper vision. “I was... dying... I... is this a graveyard? What did you... do to me?”

Shadow took off his sunglasses and freed his red wings as Sonic’s gaze turned fully on him. He gasped. However, he didn’t seem appalled.

“You’re like me now. I couldn’t lose you, Sonic.” Shadow stared at him, begging him to understand. “You’re everything to me.”

Sonic hesitated a moment, then flung himself at Shadow, wrapped his arms around him. “I’m not mad. My last thought before I passed out was... that I wished I could tell you that I love you.”

Shadow wished his tear ducts still worked. He had never been so happy, not even before he was turned. He settled for squeezing Sonic back as hard as he could, comforted that Sonic would be able to withstand his full strength as a vampire as well. No longer would his affections be restrained.

He dropped down so that he could press his ear against Sonic’s chest, reassuring himself that the heart which Sonic now shared with him continued its important task and this wasn’t a merciless dream. Sonic kissed the top of his head.

#sonadow #prompts #sonadow au #vampire shadow the hedgehog #vampire sonadow #cw blood #dubious consent (for vampirism)

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adelaidedrubman · 11 months

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whoa. wednesday whatever

i was tagged today by my beloveds @socially-awkward-skeleton and @direwombat to share a wip, thank you!! sending some as always no pressure tags out to @florbelles @henbased @unholymilf @ishwaris @trench-rot @poetikat @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @schoute @confidentandgood @nuclearstorms @roofgeese @strafethesesinners @corvosattano @v0idbuggy @afarcryfrommymain @jackiesarch @voidika @strangefable @bluemojave @harmonyowl @sukoshimikan @josephslittledeputy @deputyash @fourlittleseedlings @inafieldofdaisies @purplehairsecretlair @wrathfulrook @cassietrn @inquisitors-grave @firstaidspray and anyone who would like to share and @ me!

guess what! we actually do have new wildfire progress! so, you know, warnings for descriptions of amateur cremation services, body horror, and implied drug induced hallucinations/paranoia/panic/etc.

Jess wiped her mouth; rose to her feet. “I’m not fucking sticking around for you building a human barbecue pit.”

“Fine!” Jessie called with a wave of her arm towards the woman marching with quick intent out of the courtyard. “Y’all go raid the church for supplies, then!”

She reached to pull Sharky back by the shoulder as he moved to follow behind Jess at the order.

“And I guess I’ll take care of the bodies my fuckin’ self,” she grumbled as she tugged the straps of the backpack of his flamethrower to remove it, throwing it to the ground and snatching the hose gun from his hand.

“Hey, be gentle with ’er, now — she ain’t used to nobody’s touch but mine, and I —”

Jestiny squeezed her finger around the trigger to release a burst of fire from its nozzle and silence Sharky with the pressurized whoosh of hot gas propelling it forward.

The flames quickly caught to lick at the gasoline soaked rags the corpses wore, devouring the fabric in a ravenous frenzy before sinking down to nibble at their flesh with a slow, steady crackle.

So empty, so hungry, Jestiny thought of fire as she watched it work turning the dead to smoke and ash. Don’t care what it ends up consuming. Just hungry.

She caught the widening of an Angel’s lifeless eyes as the fire worked up towards their face, causing eyeballs to swell from the building heat just as the flesh surrounding it was eaten away by the flames — then a sharp snap of their neck lifting so that those bulging eyes now framed by ridges of bone showing through patches of roasting skin seemed settled on hers, looking at her.

Was that one not really dead either?

A louder pop, a thrashing bend of their spine, flinging their torso back — as if they were raising themselves to the heavens in offering, trying to leap from the flames like a fish flailing as it jumped from the water, mass of bodies joining them to writhe in offbeat rhythm in the inferno.

Supposed to cut the tendons. She remembered learning in a history course once that the soldiers who dug up and burned Rasputin’s body swore it came back to life, that they saw it rise up and begin walking towards them. But it was just the tendons in his back shriveling up from the heat and twisting his spine, a mundane spectacle of the human body made grander by imagination. Doesn’t happen if you cut the tendons before cremation.

Just gotta cut the tendons next time, she assured herself as she turned her back to the pyre, hurrying along the pavement and up the stairs leading out of the square depression of the baptistry.

She stopped as she reached the cover of the white lattice canopy, thinking better of turning left to meet Jess and Sharky in the church and instead hanging right to investigate the structure attached at the opposite end of the archway.

But even without looking back to the fire, the smell hung in her nose as she walked, the whistle of flesh blistering and popping still finding her ears so that she could practically feel it crackle and bubble just beneath her own skin — as if it were too late, as if she was already burning up from the inside all along.

She smoothed a hand along the length of her forearm as if to soothe away the sensation — panic briefly spiking as her fingers found gaping holes in the flesh, like the flames really had eaten straight through.

She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her lungs on the exhale as she reminded herself it was just the bitemark the Angel had given her.

#wip

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stesierra · 7 months

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@winterandwords tagged me! Sorry to be so slow to get to this! I'm just getting my brain back in gear after some med changes.

You visit your own grave and someone asks "did you know them?"

What's your answer? Tell us what your OC/s would say to this, bonus points if it's in their voice/a mini snippet

I'll tag @anonymousfoz and @teacupsandstarlight and @dyrewrites.

You guys ready for this? I have a lot of OCs. I'm going to interpret this a bit loosely. Hope that's ok.

Antea from Stitches and Memories

"That's Antea's grave," the stranger said. "Did you know her?"

It was an impossible statement, or should have been, but the truth screamed in Antea's head, in the little space her headache left free. She was buried there, three feet down in a shallow hole made by someone who couldn't be bothered, and her skin was already degloving from her hands as she rotted and became one with the dirt. She was dead, some version of her, and Jadan had died with her. He was curled around her in that pit, for eternity.

Behind her, Jadan was telling the stranger that he was wrong, that she was alive. But Antea said nothing. She fell to her knees and threw up.

Nelone from As Immortality Fades

"Nelone's grave?" I said, gazing up at the elaborate mausoleum that had been added to the City of the Dead. It certainly looked like the grave of a beloved queen, one that her subjects had spared no expense to honor. There was one problem: I wasn't dead.

"Did you ever meet her?" the stranger asked. "They say she ruled for five hundred years as a teenager before her age caught up with her all in one day."

I laughed and touched the lines on my face. "It was bound to happen eventually. And yes. I knew her."

Zisha from Cast Out

I stared down at the plain, unmarked stone. I wanted to ask, are you sure? Is this really me? But instead I signed, "A little" and sat down in the loose dirt where someone (me?) had just been buried. The stone needed a painting. A face, immortalized forever. But I didn't know if I would paint myself there or a stranger.

Elise from the Bone Queen

I stared at the grave for a long moment. And then, without thinking about it much, I started to laugh.

Mausart put a hand on my shoulder. He murmured in my ear, "It can't be true, love. You're not in there."

I giggled, utterly delighted. "But if I AM, I'm peaceful and in a grave. Idony didn't chain my ghost to my bones. She didn't lock me in servitude forever! And do you know what that means?"

"What?"

I spun towards him. "She lost."

Adam from Triangle Park

Adam stared down at the gravestone. It was carved with angels and his name and dated to a year ago. The birth date had been left blank completely. It looked like a human grave, except no human was just named Adam, of no last name in particular. But faeries didn't carve gravestones.

Lizzy shuffled her Birkenstocks beside him and said, "Sorry. I thought you were dead. I thought... I just wanted something nice. To commemorate you. You know?"

"That's, ah, very thoughtful," Adam managed.

Rabbit tugged on his hand and leaned her head against his side. "What's this? Why's there a big rock?"

Adam crouched beside her. "To remember the dead. It's a grave."

Rabbit wrinkled up her nose. "But it's got your name on it!"

He cast a glance up at Lizzy. "Yes, well..."

Rabbit stuck out her lower lip. "Maybe it's a different Adam. Because you're not dead. Not like Sniffer."

"Maybe it is," Adam agreed.

She beamed up at him, her face full of relief. "Did you know him?"

"I can't say I did."

Mindral from the Halfway Revenant

"We dug you a grave," the man said, gesturing down at the open pit. "A grave for Mindral Thideet, who destroyed her family."

Mindral's fingernails cut into her palms. "How kind of you."

"A grave for Mindral, who is dead. Go on. Climb in."

She snapped, "I'm not dead. Do I smell like a woman who died a month ago?"

He leered at her, perfect teeth bared. "There's an unbinding symbol carved into your brow. That body's heart may beat, but Mindral Thideet's soul is with the gods. You're nothing but a filthy godkin."

"Would a godkin do this?" Mindral asked. And she shoved him into the grave.

Kerra from Court Phoenix

I cradled Hes against my chest and looked at Chujulan through the curtain of flame that danced across the phoenix's back. "What do you mean, I died?"

The sister of my heart stared at me, her shoulders rigid and feet set as though she expected to weather a charge. "You died, Kerra. That's your grave. I lowered your body into it. Mounded up the dirt with my own hands. I wept. I haven't wept since Cherin died." Her voice was a raw, wounded thing, the cry of an animal dying in a corner.

My blood rushed in my ears, whum whum whum. "But--"

Her green eyes flashed. "You died, and I've spent my whole life refusing to believe in ghosts. I've mocked all the lordly who hide from them by sleeping through their days. I've walked outside of the city wards and laughed. So how dare you come back."

Hes screamed, a mournful wail that didn't even sound like it came from a bird's throat.

I wanted to say something. But the words didn't come.

Juniper from School of Souls

I stood in front of my grave. And the worst thing, the thing that made me want to run through the streets until someone ran a red light and put me out of my misery, was that it really WAS my grave. My aunt had stuffed my body into a pretty, sterile coffin and laid it to rest next to Mom and Dad. The school had so helpfully sent my corpse to my next of kin. And now I could never go home.

Besides me, Ophelia smiled like a shark and said, "Oh, look at that! Little dead Juniper Fellows. Rotting in a pit in the ground. How sad. Do you need me to help you forget? I can make you think you've never heard the name."

Franklin, on my other side, balled his hands into fists. "Fuck you, Ophelia. Shut up."

Ameryi from the Many-faced Princess

I didn't need him to defend me. I found my voice. "Like you forgot your name? It wasn't Ophelia, was it? You just stole Ophelia's body and her life and forgot everything that came before."

Ophelia laughed joyfully. "And why not? Why shouldn't I forget?"

"Because you're a murderer? Because you're a thief? Because you're DEAD, like we're all dead?" I was shouting by now, and my voice should have echoed off the manicured cemetery lawn and rows of polished stones. But instead they swallowed it. Franklin put a hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged him off. "We shouldn't be here. None of us. We don't deserve it."

I was crying now. But not for me and my dead body. For the girl whose body I wore. Because she was dead, too, only no one would ever give her a grave.

Rebeka from Mud-Child

Ameryi stared down at the little mound of dirt. "Princess Ameryi is buried here? There isn't even a marker."

The gravekeeper spat. "She was a face-shifter. She worshipped Akihel. She's lucky they didn't feed her to the dogs."

Ameryi kept a pleasant smile on her borrowed face. "What did she look like when she was buried? Herself?"

He spat again, this time right on the grave. "Does it matter? Dead's dead."

It didn't. Ameryi already knew the answer. She knew who had died in her name, who she would never be able to repay. And she would blame herself forever.

Rebeka said, "Fuck that. I ain't dead."

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