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goldenamaranthe-blog · 1 month

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Jazzercise!: Hazbin Hotel

Buckle up, Buttercups! This one's long.

Charlie: (wearing a pair of pink leggings, rainbow sneakers, white exercise t-shirt, and a red sweatband around her head) Alright, Everyone! Today, we're going to be doing some team bonding exercises throoooough- Da-Dada-Daaaaaah! -Exercise!!!

Hazbins: (all groan in dismay and grumble and clamor in annoyance)

Angel: (wearing powder pink leg warmers and neon green leotard that looks like it came out of an 80s) Is there any way we can sit this out? Some of us are hungover.

Vaggie: (wearing a black and purple sports bra and black spandex shorts that cut off halfway down her thighs, hair tied up in a ponytail) Still? We celebrated the hotel's grand reopening last week.

Husker: (wearing your stereotypical gym teacher windbreaker pants but no shirt or jacket) The empty liquor wall at the bar will verify.

Lucifer: (magically appears wearing a pair of bright red, men's booty workout shorts from the 70s, white Dad sneakers with tall red socks, and a white and red sleeveless shirt tucked into the shorts) Well, I'm all for a little sweat and hard work! Whatcha got for us, kiddo?!

Charlie: Dad! (Averts her eyes) What are you wearing?!

Lucifer: What?! I wore this in my college days!

Angel: Oooooh! While I'm not complaining there, Short King, I don't think Charlie appreciates seeing the "King's Apple" lodged in your shorts.

Lucifer: Huh? (Looks down at the natural, indiscreet bulge in his shorts) ........But these shorts cup the boys so nicely.

Charlie: (about to puke like when she watched Angel's best porno during show and tell)

Vaggie: Babe, let's just focus on getting the workout done. Alright?

Charlie: OoOookay.... Um... Do you mind taking over? I actually have no idea what I'm doing.

Vaggie: (sparkle in her eye) Sure thing, babe. (Turns to the rest and squares her shoulders) Alright, we are going to start with two easy laps around the track followed by partner bear crawls for two hundred meters, thirty burpies, and ending with twenty inverted push-ups! Any questions?

Hazbins: (awkwardly glance at each other)

Niffty: (wearing a 50s style one piece workout suit) YAY!!! PAIN!!!

Vaggie: THEN MOVE!!!

-One Hour Later-

Hazbins: (moaning and groaning in agony as they lay defeated on the track)

Angel: (rolled out like a spider that got run over) Charlie..... Toots.....

Charlie: (gasping for breath as she falls to her knees and holds herself up on shaking arms) Yeah.... Angel?

Angel: (Looks over to Vaggie who is on her third iteration of bear crawls and using an equally dead Lucifer for weight) If this psychopathic bitch of a stamina monster brings this kind of energy to the bedroom, (wheezes and coughs) then I'll pray for your loins the next time you guys have sex.

Charlie: (panting as she rolls onto her back, too tired to even correct the inappropriate statement) Thank you, Angel. (Tilts her head up and leans on her elbows to watch Vaggie)

Vaggie: (finishes the bear crawls and drops Lucifer off with a jump) Thanks for being my partner, Sir. (Breaks into her burpees)

Lucifer: (wheezes through little spindles of smoke) No problem, Vaggie. Anytime. (To Charlie) What do you feed that girl?

Charlie: (watching Vaggie intently with a fresh blush not caused by exertion)

Angel: Charlie?

Charlie: (watches the muscles in Vaggie's thighs and shoulders work as she speeds through her burpees)

Lucifer: Chaaaaarlie? (Snaps fingers) Little Duckie, are you alright?

Charlie: (hearts beat in her eyes and Careless Whispers plays in the background somewhere as she watches Vaggie's leg, shoulder, and back muscles contract and flex under the duress)

Vaggie: (finishes her burpees and goes into a handstand, briefly getting her balance before starting her handstand push-ups)

Charlie: (watches a bead of sweat follow the contours of Vaggie's shoulder muscles and scars and drool starts dribbling down her chin) Angel.... I need that prayer now....

Angel: Huh? (Follows Charlie'sline of sight and groans in pain as he brings his hands up in prayer) Our Unholy Father of Debauchery, please see that this horny bitch's snatch makes it safely out of the upcoming pounding she is about to receive. May her holes be elastic and well lubricated to avoid tearing, her legs be flexible as they reach behind her head, her orgasms shake her very foundation, and the aftercare be filled with all the cutsey cuddling she can handle. Amen.

Charlie: (continues watching) I wanna climb her.

Lucifer: (awkwardly) Uhhhhh.... Vaggie's not a tree, sweetie.

Charlie: I want her to *CENSORED* my *CENSORED* and *BEEEP BEEEP BEEEEEEEEP* while *CENSORED*,and then *BEEEEEEEEEEEP* and *CENSORED*

Angel: (gasps and clutches his imaginary pearls) Holy Fuck, Babe!!! Cool your jets! (Pulls out his phone and starts recording) I gotta use some of these lines at the next recording!

Charlie: When she smacks my *BEEEEP*, I want to *CENSORED* *BEEEP BEEP* and *BEEEEP-EP-EP-BEEEEEEEP* to taste *CENSORED*.

Lucifer: (faints after hearing his daughter saying such filth)

Angel: (stops recording) ......Fucking-A, Charlie, that's even making me feel dirty.....

Thank you, @sevi-fuk, for giving me the idea of Charlie going fiendish about Vaggie and her muscles.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel incorrect quotes #chaggie #charlie morningstar #vaggie #angel dust #husker #lucifer morningstar #niffty #hazbin crew #Vaggie is a stamina monster #supportive big brother angel #charlie gets turned on by Vaggie's muscles and physical capabilities #exercise #muscles

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tacticaldiary · 9 months

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Where One Goes, The Other Follows

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Angst.

Note: Mentions of attempted suicide. Death on a mission

"You said we'd get out of this, remember? You promised."

She feels him shake his head minutely, a movement she might have missed if not for how close she was pressed against him. "Promised you'd...get out."

A/N: I don't feel great, so you get to not feel great with me! You're welcome!

Masterlist

It hurts.

Everything aches, a deep-seated anguish pulsing through her entire body. Like a shot to heart...no, a shot to the heart would have been quicker than this. Painless. Instant.

Merciful.

She chokes on shallow breaths as blood pools between the shaky hands pressed to the middle of her abdomen. Crimson gurgles up in her throat, so metallic she can almost make herself relax with the familiarity of it.

A simple mission, they had told her. A simple in and out, no clearance to engage. Keep it clean and quiet. When Price had handed her the packet of information, Ghost already flipping through a similar one, she'd joked about it being a vacation from the gruelling environments the team is usually forced to tough out.

It was supposed to be easy.

So why does she have a bullet lodged in her stomach? Why did they pick up the intel in a suspiciously empty warehouse, only to be ambushed by a few dozen Russian soldiers laying in wait? Their intel was rotten, she grits her teeth at the thought.

Pinned behind a metal container, the roar of gunfire crescendos over her ears. Pressed thigh to thigh, she feels hopelessness claw at her when Ghost makes a frustrated sound at the empty clicking of his last pistol.

Nothing. They had nothing but the slowing beat of their hearts and the uncertainty of their lives.

Despite the situation, she laughs. A tortured, humourless, choked sound as her head hits the metal behind her. One soldier injured, the other soon to be ripped apart by dozen. What a way to go out.

Ghost glances at her, eyes a little too wide under his mask.

It was funny. Everything was a little funny under the prospect of dying right now.

"Keep pressure on that." He orders when her hands slip. "They don't know we're out of ammo." Patting down his vest for a second, he unclips a grenade. The last one there, a last resort. You didn't throw a grenade like that in a close quartered environment unless it was a last resort.

"We'll make a run for the shutter on the left once this goes off, yeah?" He says, eyebrows knitting together in what's blatant concern when she doesn't respond. "Copy, Sergeant?" He says sharply, moving to shake her shoulder.

"I can't move, Simon." Comes a soft reply, the resigned tone sends chills down his spine. "I'll stay here and distract them. You take the shutter. Gotta get this intel to Price."

"Negative." he barks, shifting into position. "We move as I planned. Evac is just beyond those doors in the field. They won't follow us there, not enough cover against heavy fire."

For a moment she comes back to herself. Did he not hear her? "I can't...Simon I can't move-"

"Heard you the first time, love." That's all he says before pulling the pin out and tossing the object. There are a couple of clinks as it rolls, then the shouts and yells of their enemies as they recognise the threat. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

Hope dwindles, like the last rays of light before the sunset. There was no getting her out of here. She knows that. Dead weight is tough to deal with, useless in their line of work.

"Promise?" She breathes out roughly, a joke for a dying soldier.

The conviction he meets her eyes with, fierce and determined makes even her dark thoughts halt in their tracks. "I promise."

She closes her eyes, braces for the loud noise and flying shrapnel, only to be yanked to her feet and thrown over a broad shoulder. The movement makes pain wash across her body, enough to make black dot her vision, but she gets her bearings and clutches onto the back of his vest anyway, letting him do as he pleases.

The explosion sounds, ringing in their ears and Simon takes off instantly. Ducking behind containers, he almost makes it to the exit before shots start firing again.

He grunts, jolts more than a few times before he reaches the shutters, slipping out and slamming them shut behind him.

The metal and concrete is scraped from her vision, replaced with a green field and the sound of a chopper's blades whirring. Wind blows against her hair and for a moment it seems surreal.

She thought she was going to die. A shuddering gasp makes its way through her as they stop midway through the field. Simon moves to set her down gently-

And sways.

"Simon-?" She starts to ask, halfway to the ground. Eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration, she can't help but notice the way his mask is damp from sweat...his clothes too, and surely that much of a run wouldn't have been enough to wear him out. She's so making fun of him the moment she can suck in a full breath if that's the case, and-

Simon buckles to the ground, taking her with him. She lands on top of him, pulling a strangled groan out of the man. "Shit, are you...you okay?" She pants, clutching a hand to her wound before sitting up on her knees next to him.

Her entire front is covered in more blood that it had been before, and that's odd because...oh.

His front is stained with enough blood to make his previously green vest the colour of wine.

The sight stuns her, knocks the breath out of her because...what?

"Hey, you-Simon you're bleeding." She gasps, abandoning her own woes to take a better look at him. Blinking away the sluggish dizziness from her own blood loss, she carefully tears off his vest and-

His torso is riddled with bullet holes.

Too many to count. All of them bubbling and bleeding, pouring out liquid that should be inside him because he needs that, it's important and he's going to bleed out if this keeps going...

Hands hovering over his chest, they move from injury to injury, not knowing which one to press down on. For each one there were three more, and the fight against the rising panic and bile rising in her is getting tougher and tougher by the second.

"Made it out, at least." He breathes, shallow and raspy.

"You-you're bleeding." Is all she can manage to say, voice shaky.

In shock.

"I noticed." His humour isn't appreciated.

"I'm sorry." She chokes out. "I didn't...you got shot because I-"

"Oi." He grits out. A shaky, trembling hand moves to cup her jaw and despite the state he's in the touch is grounding and as rough as ever. "None of...that."

"You can't die." She encases his palm with her own, keeps it pressed there uncaring of the blood slicking her face. "You can't. Simon, you-it's okay. It's going to be okay." A sob rips its way out of her, though she tries to choke the rest back.

"Can't...can't kill someone who's already dead...love." He mumbles into her hair, blooding it with blood that he's coughing up way too fast to not be concerned about.

"Don't leave," She begs, hunched over him, clutching onto his gear. She wants it off, wants to rip it all off and feel his skin, press her hand against his chest, and make sure his heart never stops beating. "Don't leave me, Simon. I can't- I need you." With a scratchy voice, she pleads and begs, trying to keep him talking. "You promised, remember? You promised we'd get out."

She feels him shake his head minutely, a movement she might have missed if not for how close she was pressed against him. "Promised you'd...get out." He croaks, bleeding out but nevertheless the same strong, still presence as always.

Still...still?

Her breath chokes her, her entire body trembling as her grip on his shirt tightens. "Simon...?" She whispers. No answer.

A sob rips out of her, raw and painful because this wasn't real. It was a dream. There was no other explanation.

She'd wake up in her room, head pillowed on his chest and pretending to still be asleep just to have a few more minutes of his warmth. Simon would chuckle, she'd feel the motion under her skin, and he'd prod at her side, line kisses against her forehead until a smile broke free and her ruse was up.

They'd be happy.

She'd be happy.

Her face stays pressed against him, her grip iron. She doesn't pull away, letting the primal fear and grief mix with the senseless hope that maybe he was still alive. She hadn't confirmed it. Hadn't peeked up to see it, so maybe he was still there, waiting for her. Like he said he always would.

Hours, days, maybe minutes? A period of time later footsteps thunder behind her. Shrouded in delirium and grief, she's still a soldier, and her instincts kick in.

Protect, protect, protect.

It's a mantra in her head as she curls over him, unwilling to let them take him away from her.

People surround them but her grip does not falter. Hands grab at her shoulder and someone's speaking, saying words, what...

"-go, you have to let go." The voice is...shaky?

Gaz?

Confused, she tilts her head up a centimeter to catch a glimpse of the person who has her. Gaz. It was Gaz. Looking exhausted, shaken but determined. His eyes flitter away from Ghost on the ground repeatedly.

"Gaz?" She asks, voice cracking. He nods, taking her confusion to his advantage and pulling her to her feet. When she makes a strangled sound and hunched over, he finally notes the wound on her abdomen and curses.

"We need a medic." He calls over his shoulder, pulling to sling her arm over his shoulder. "We've got you, exfil's here. You're gonna be alright now, yeah?"

"N-no." She shakes her head, fuzzy and full. "Not me, I-...Simon...Ghost, you have to help him he's..." A hacking cough cuts her off, sending sharp flares of pain all across her body. Gaz firmly keeps her head towards the front when she tries to look back. "What-...no, not me." A weak attempt at pulling away is made, "Simon, Gaz I need to help...Ghost." Mumbling to herself half incoherent, she finally bats his hand away and turns to cast a glance back.

Her steps falter into nothing when she sees her boyfriend.

The sliver of skin beneath his mask is a sickly pale, blood dripping out from under it. His balaclava is soaked in blood, a strange waterboarding technique to chart for the future, her delirious mind unhelpfully supplies.

It's the stillness that jarrs her, makes the reality finally sink in.

Simon was quiet, he was purposeful, he could lay looking through a sniper scope in one place for hours but he was never still.

This kind of stillness was one brought by the absence of the warmth of light.

Gaz is talking...is he? His mouth is moving that much she can see out of the corner of her eyes, but all she can hear is static as her mind clicks together a devastating picture, a scene that would haunt her for as long as she lives.

Dead.

She thinks she might throw up.

Simon. Ghost. Simon was dead.

They were supposed to be a pair. Unbreakable. Where one went, the other followed offering the silent reassurance that neither of them would ever be alone.

Where one went, the other followed.

She lunges against Gaz's hold, the strength in her battered form surprising the soldier enough to allow her to rip free and stumble over to her lover.

Shaky hands fumble around Simon's body, one of them grips his gloved one in her own tightly, God he was cold, how was he already cold? until cool metal meets her fingertips, slicked with their blood.

People call her name. One person...maybe five? It doesn't matter, nothing matters right now but the press of the barrel against her forehead.

There's no hesitation when she pulls the trigger.

But there's a distinct lack of blinding pain.

A stunned, heavy silence takes hold of the field. Slowly, guilt and dread and hate and self-loathing curling up in her gut, she peels her eyes open to see her team. Her family.

And if the cold corpse of her lover beside her wasn't already punishment enough, the devastated, broken, confused looks on theirs' definitely does.

Soap makes a strangled noise when she pulls the trigger again, her head full of cotton.

Click.

Oh.

That's right.

The chamber was empty, wasn't it?

Staring numbly at the gun, at the pistol that Simon had carried with him throughout his entire career, she doesn't fight the hands that grip at her, that pull her up.

Doesn't fight the way Simon's cold hand slips from hers. When the gun is gently pried from her iron grip.

Words fall upon deaf ears, a buzzing sound accompanying her glazed over expression as she stares at two soldiers dragging over a body bag towards him over Price's shoulder.

"It's alright, lass." Soap mumbles in her ear, and distinctly she notes the sheer of tears in his eyes out of the corner of his own. "We've got ya."

"He's..." She says faintly. Simon's head is zipped into the bag out of view. "Gone..."

And then she cries. No, crying is too lenient a word, for what leaves her is a sound reserved for a wounded animal, a sound that not even the most experienced interrogators could ever hope to coax out of her. She wails and cries, hoarse and raw because nothing about this was okay. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.

Because she was alive.

And her other half was dead.

And she was still alive.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

(1/08/2023)

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dailyadventureprompts · 1 month

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Mystery: Oh, How the Iron Coffin Hungers!

There's been a rash of graverobberies across the kingdom that have the authorities suspecting necromancy. For their part, the necromancer's guild has nothing to do with these crimes and is willing to hire your party to help clear their name. The investigation will lead you to through tombs, black markets, and haunted crossroads of the realm, as it becomes clear the culprits are seeking far more than coin or corpses at the bottom of those defiled graves.

Clues & Complications:

A missing body is usually a dead giveaway that a necromancer has been involved in a grave robbery, as most criminals only care about grabbing what valuables they can and wouldn't result to bodysnatching unless someone was going to pay them for it. How unusual then when a few of the bodies begin turning up days after they were exhumed, one in an abandoned cellar, one on the side of the road, and one in a completely different town, which may give a hint as to the culprit's movements.

Working for necromancers has its benefits, the guild is aware of the habits of the corpse trade (only in a theoretical sense, you understand, yes?) and can use their magic to extract information from the cadavers. Strangely enough it appears all the corpses bear the marks of previous magical questioning, hinting that it might be information the robbers were after, not flesh or treasure.

The bodies all belong to minor gentry or well-to-do merchants, the ideal targets for graverobbers who don't mind breaking into a tomb or fussing with a trap (both of which the party might have to do during their investigation) if it means access to better plunder. If the party press deeper however they'll notice a recurring symbol, on a ring or a tattoo or etched into the gravemarker, resembling the crudest sketch of a jawbone.

Just like it seems the party is getting answers, the corpses they've been trailing sit up and lunge for the nearest individual's throat, transformed by dark power into a rampaging ghoul. Chaos ensues as this awakening occurs not just with those corpses that have already been found, but also with those that were previously undiscovered as well as a half dozen or more random bodies scattered across the countryside. Though they seem too possessed with hunger to be capable of speech, if the party manage to restrain one of the ghouls and sate its unholy hunger, they may just get the last few clues they're looking for.

Background: In life all of the bodies belonged to a secret society known as the jawbone club, a bad pun on one of the first mystical objects they'd obtained; a crude weapon made from the skull fragment of some great beast, unearthed on one of their founder's estates by some adventurers clearing a nest of monsters.

Their association started a few generations before as a mostly innocent affair, a nameless but exclusive social lodge where those in the know could smoke and gamble and make the sort of back room deals that occupy much of the energy of the idly wealthy. Those who took an interest in the jawbone realized that whoever held it had greater luck in their personal affairs, in no small part because of the unlucky and sometimes disastrous circumstances that would befall their rivals. They became secretive, an inner circle within the lodge that took on more authority as their powers grew, understanding emerging that if they fed their blood to the jawbone it would grant them power.

Power does not spring from nowhere however, as the weapon was infact an artifact dedicated to the ghoul-saint Doresain, the avatar of a hungry and terrible demon god who was in turn feeding on the hungry ambitions of the inner circle. Unconscious impulses became whispers became visions, as the tithe of blood raised to sacrifices of flesh and fingers, because what was letting the razor teeth of some dead beast scar your body if it meant your hateful old uncle suddenly took ill just after rewriting his will to leave you his fortune.

Things came to a head with Catiro Wayte, the youngest and least favored son of a large noble family. The Wayte clan owned land and mills aplenty and were no strangers to ambition, Catrio and his siblings were practically weaned on it. So when the opportunity came to take hold of his fortune at the price of only a little pain Catrio was only too happy to pay it, and keep on paying so long as he had blood to let and skin to scar. After they'd come to understand what it could do the Jawbone Club had made rules about how often its members could make use of the artifact, fearing not only discovery but one of their number growing in power above the others. Catrio begged, bartered, and blackmailed to jump the line every time he could, hacking away a little more of himself each time, not giving his wounds time to heal up between sacrifices.

One night, when the itch of pride and avarice overwhelmed the pain in his infected flesh Catrio broke into the jawbone's sanctum. It was too late when the others found him in the morning , he'd carved open his belly looking for more of himself to cut away and had died with the artifact buried in his guts. Such heedless sacrifice opened a door for the ravenous hunger of the gnawing god, transforming Catrio's corpse into its mouthpiece, hungry and cruel. For all their resources the Jawbone club were unable to slay their former friend, instead sealing him in the lodge's basement and later an iron coffin they had constructed. They had a select number of their most trusted find a place to entomb Catrio's body (along with the bone it still clutched) in some unknown location and swore all the rest to secrecy, dissolving the jawbone club and swearing never to speak of it for the rest of their days.

The Culprit & The Consequences:

Catrio left much behind on that night he met his end, including a commonborn mistress and a daughter named Heliana only a few years old. One could theoretically source his ambition to his desire to make a place for them in the world, but that would be making things far too simple. Unrecognized by her father’s family and cut off from Catrio’s support Heliana and her mother ended up scraping to get by, with her ending up in the gravemaking trade out of one part practicality, one part wistful desire to perhaps one day find where her father was buried.

after nearly four decades after she and her mother were forced out on the street, Heliana’s crime spree began when by chance she found the first of the Jawbone marked graves. Remembering the stories her mother had told her about the club and its excesses, It took only a little convincing to have her fellow undertakers help her unearth the body, and a few charms learned from a travelling death priest to get the cadaver talking. After that it was just a matter of asking which corpse knew what, tracing her way through the postmortem ranks of the Jawbone club until she found out what had happened to her father and where his body lay.

Originally, all Heliana had wanted to do was give her father a proper burial alongside her some years dead mother, as she was told was always his wish. Plans changed when her father began to speak to her within the iron coffin after she’d unearthed it from its secret hiding space. Through the magic of the ghoul-saint he knew her, knew of her hungry years, and of the long dormant pride and ambition he’d handed down to her along with his blood: a desire to be recognized no matter the cost. He whispered a plan into her mind, a way for him to return to life and use the artifact he still carried to make everything as it should be. Naturally when they caught her agreeing with the corpse, most of Heliana’s muscle deserted her, and might give your party a much needed lead in their tall tales.

The animation of the other jawbone club members as ghouls was only a warning sign, a byproduct of Heliana breaking through the outermost layer of the iron coffin’s wards in preparation of something far more calamitous. Her father’s plan (or rather, the thing wearing her father like a mask) is to have Heliana burn the iron coffin along with her mother's bones in a ritual pyre at the heart of the Wayte estate. Catrio’s spirit will be free, devour the grounds (and his unwelcoming family) and use the power of the jawbone artifact to remake them all as they should be, with him as lord of the manor, united with his lover and child. While she’s more than willing to even the score with the people who denied her birth and threw her mother out on the street, why Heliana doesn't suspect is the horde of flesh eating undead and other malign spirits that will be unleashed should the ritual be allowed to finish.

Art 1 Art 2

#mystery #undead #necromancer #mid level #town encounter #cultist #yeenoghu #dnd #d&d

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mythicalmyles · 7 months

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Masky, Hoddie or Toby (You decide) with a hippie m reader ✨😤🫶🏻

Punk!Masky x Femboy!Hippie!Reader x Punk!Hoodie their implied demons

Guns/noncon/bottom male/degradation/feminization/cameras

The lake was welcomingly cold as you dipped your feet into it, the feeling of the flowers blowing in your hair was therapeutic. The sun was warm as you tilted your head back, eyes closed and soaking in the suns rays. Lately it seemed harder and harder to get yourself out here, despite living less then an hour away. The normalities of life always seemed to intercept your journey here lately, the last time had been two months ago.

The wind lightly blew at your skirt, the ruffled fabric rubbing against your thighs. A loud twig snapping had you spinning around, eyes searching the forest. Luckily the forrest only had black bears, at least you had a chance. However if it was a pissed off moose you considered your life already over, you had always been on the naive side of things. Convinced if you minded your business then everything else would leave you alone.

You stood up on shaky legs and quickly slid your shoes back on, making sure to keep darting your eyes around the forest. Part of you was annoyed, it was the only place you had been able to freely be yourself and now it felt like it was about to be ripped out from right under your feet. Your instincts kicked into overdrive, you felt like a tiny mouse backed into a corner.

You should’ve payed closer attention to your other side. A heavy body suddenly had you being shoved to the ground, whining as you hit the ground.

Your mind whirled when you heard the clicking of metal, ice flowing through you as the sound of a gun being cocked next to you overrode your brain. Panicked eyes turned to see the cause, the barrel of a gun filling your vision and trapping you still. Stones and broken branches dug into your thighs but you couldn’t take your eyes off of the gun. Your entire body quivered when you shakily looked up to see a masked man.

You didn’t need to stand to know the Goliath of a man was easily double your size, your breathing was shaky. Your mind was entirely frozen. The sound of a camera going off behind you felt like a bullet as you quickly flipped yourself over to see another man, his mask seemed impossibly black with red eyes and a big frown stitched on. You whimpered and pushed yourself back only to feel stone cold metal pressing against your now exposed ass.

Your eyes never left the gun as he used it to push your skirt up further. “N-no.” Was all you could choke out with a whimper, drawing a chuckle from both of the men currently standing over you. Tears dripped from your eyes as you looked up at the man with a frown, his camera set on you as his friend used his gun to dig into your ass. He intently watched as the gun made indents in your ass, biting his lip under his mask as he teased you. The sight of you shaking beneath him, so easily accessible had nasty thoughts running through Masky’s mind.

You let out a scream when Hoodie suddenly darted forward, his leather clad hands gripped your wrists tight as he yanked you up. You begged and sobbed until Masky’s gun pressed into your cheek. “It’s cute hearing you beg like a good bitch.” Masky’s voice was incredibly gruff, sending warmth to you stomach that you cursed.

Hoodie tied your hands behind your back, as Masky slipped his gun into your mouth. You whined around the metal as you sobbed openly, Masky wasted no time sliding the metal into your throat. He watched you without blinking as he fucked your mouth with his gun, you struggled against the rope Hoodie had bound your arms with.

“Well, theres no point in hiding.” Masky smirked as he pulled his mask off, dropping it to the ground. He had a few piercings and tattooes covering his face, you would’ve found him attractive if he didn’t currently have a gun lodged down your throat. You hated it but you could feel your own cock twitching under your skirt. “Look how hard she is.” Masky’s tone was mocking as he pulled your skirt up, Hoodies rough hands grabbing your biceps hard enough to bruise to keep you still.

You tried to turn away but Hoodie’s hand was quick to wrap around your throat, keeping you pinned in place. “Ple-please don’t do this.” You sobbed out, feeling petals fall from your hair and down your shirt. “But you made yourself so easy for us.” Masky chuckled, dark eyes pinning you in place. Masky’s hands carefully listed your shirt, dragging his leather clad fingers against your skin. His free hand kept the gun pointed under your jaw, giving you no option but to submit to the men currently having their way with you.

You gasped when Masky’s finger began circling your nipple, arching back into Hoodies strong chest. They both towered over you, Hoodie using one hand to keep you pinned to his chest while his other played with your other nipple. Desperate whines flew from you, your cock leaking precum. The rough leather of the gloves sent sparks running up your spine, dizziness enveloping your mind. Suddenly Masky was putting his gun back into its holster, freeing up both of his hands to grab and tug at your flesh.

Your face burned with shame as you moaned, Masky pulled your shirt over your head, leaving your arms trapped. The tight material of the shirt pulled your shoulders back, causing your chest to push out. You felt unbelievably weak completely defenceless between the two men.

You wanted to plead again for them to stop, instead biting your lip as you knew it’d only spur them on. Masky was groping your chest, his fingers squeezing and pulling your nipples. Both men relished in the moans they forced from you, Masky had to take a moment to appreciate your fucked out expression, his hands gripping your cheeks. All you could do was stare up at him with teary eyes as he examined your face. Tears dripped down your cheeks and your hair was stuck to your face, flowers that once lay neatly in your hair were now torn and you were left with petals tangled into your locks.

“Atta boy.” Hoodie praised, hand rubbing your stomach as your body finally dropped in their hold, submitting. You knew you had no use in fighting, and it’d only hurt you in the end. The feeling of fingers sliding into your hole had you tensing back up, yelping loudly as two digits began roughly slamming into your virgin hole. It burned but his long, thick fingers easily found your prostate. He was set on slamming into it, your screams echoing through the forest. “A-ah fuh-fuck!” You elled as you came, body curling into itself as Hoodie forced you through an orgasm.

You fell into Masky’s chest sobbing, wailing louder when he pulled your ass apart, spreading you open and allowong Hoodies fingers to dig deeper into you. You choked on the drool flooding your mouth, eyes rolling as your body was assaulted with pleasure. Your fingers had never gotten this deep and it wasn’t long before your overstimulated cock was back standing at attention, Masky’s thigh wedged between your legs. Your cock scrapped against his rough jeans, leaving your breath stuttered as the scratchy material ran against your balls and thighs. Hoodie slipped another finger into you, barley wasting a breath before roughly fucking you with them. Your thighs squeezed around Masky’s, high pitched keens leaving you as Hoodie fucked into you hard enough with his fingers to push you harder against Masky’s thigh.

“Fuck the slut already.” Masky growled out, Hoodie chuckled as he pulled his fingers out roughly. The squeal that left you went straight to both of their cocks, surprised either of them had managed to hold off for so long.

Their patience had worn thin though and Hoodie wasted no time in burying his cock into you. You voice caught in your throat resulting in you choking, shaking on Masky’s chest as Hoodie bottomed out. He felt impossibly large, his cock stretching more then you every thought could be done. Masky pressed his lips against yours, tongue easily sliding into your dropped mouth. He wasted no time in lapping his tongue around your mouth, the taste of you driving him insane as he swallowed every whimper Hoodie fucked out of you.

“He can’t take both of us, look at him with just my cock. Bet you like it though, right slut?” Hoodie grunted the most depraved things into your ear, arms wrapped around your waist. You could feel your drool soaking into Masky’s shirt. “Such a good little slut, letting me fuck your tight little pussy.” You tried to protest, Hoodies words embarrassing you yet twisting something deep inside.

Hoodie didn’t think he’d last longer with your ass clenched tight around his cock, every time he pulled out your body resisted, trying to pull him back in and it drove him insane. He railed into you hard, insistent on emptying hiss balls deep into your stomach. It almost felt painful, his cock brushed right against your prostate. Every drag of his cock had you crying out, arching your back.

You came again, broken sobs flying from your lips as your body turned to jello. Hoodie couldn’t take how tight you got around him, his own eyes rolling back as he shot his load straight into your stomach. You could feel it flowing into you, his cum causing your belly to bulge further. All you could do was sob as you looked at your swollen stomach, your cock twitching with pain after being dragged through multiple orgasms.

You barley had time to recover before Masky pulled you into his arms, making you wrap your legs around his waist. “You should be able to take me now.” His words left you shaking, you could barley take what you had already been given. Masky moaned when he heard your high pitched please’s to stop. “Thats it baby boy, beg nice n good for me.” You felt trapped, anytime you tried to stop him it just seemed to invigorate him.

Masky seemed even rougher then Hoodie, slamming deep into you and bouncing you on his cock. Your loud wails and moans bounced back to you, leaving you certain anyone in a hundred mile radius would hear you moaning with overstimulation. Masky grunted loudly in your ear, biting down onto your neck and drawing blood as he roughly bounced you on his cock.

Hoodie pulled his camera back out, taking pictures of Masky railing into you like a ragdoll. His muscles bulged as he bounced you restlessly on his cock. You wondered if it’d ever be over. Masky’s large hands grasped your ass, bunching your skirt up at your waist. Hoodie got some nice pictures of his dear friends cock sliding deep into your hole, your panties pulled to the side to accommodate Masky’s cock.

Your arms were wrapped around Masky’s shoulders, sobbing into the crevice of his neck as he abused your hole. Masky fucked Hoodies cum out of you, it dripped in globs from your puffy hole. Hoodie moved closer, taking pictures and using two fingers to spread you open causing more of his cum to come dripping out.

Masky suddenly slammed deep into you, his cum flowing through you. You almost felt like you were going to be sick as you felt Masky blow his load into you.

You felt practically no shame in openly crying when Masky dropped you to the floor. He used his foot to shove you onto your stomach, using his boot to press into the flesh of your ass and spread your ass cheeks. He groaned at the sight of your abused hole, dripping blood and cum. He could hear Hoodie snapping up pictures, Masky grinned as he pulled out his knife and sliced through the rope. You couldn’t help the moan that left when you were finally freed, blood quickly rushing back to your hands. “Get up.” Masky had no patience, instead grabbing you up. “Spread yourself for the camera.” You tried to plead only to end up with a harsh smack to your ass. You whimpered and quickly turned around. “Wait.” Masky mumbled, pulling your panties down to rest under your ass. He pushed to fingers into you and you sobbed loudly, the sound of Hoodie’s camera going off being blocked from your mind.

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mutant-distraction · 8 months

Text

Shana Marie

Devils Tower, Wyoming

Wikipedia:

Devils Tower (also known as Bear Lodge Butte) is a butte, possibly laccolithic, composed of igneous rock in the Bear Lodge Ranger District of the Black Hills, near Hulett and Sundance in Crook County, northeastern Wyoming, above the Belle Fourche River. It rises 1,267 feet (386 m) above the Belle Fourche River, standing 867 feet (264 m) from summit to base. The summit is 5,112 feet (1,558 m) above sea level.

According to the traditional beliefs of Native American peoples, the Kiowa and Lakota, a group of girls went out to play and were spotted by several giant bears, who began to chase them. In an effort to escape the bears, the girls climbed atop a rock, fell to their knees, and prayed to the Great Spirit to save them. Hearing their prayers, the Great Spirit made the rock rise from the ground towards the heavens so that the bears could not reach the girls. The bears, in an effort to climb the rock, left deep claw marks in the sides, which had become too steep to climb. Those are the marks which appear today on the sides of Devils Tower. When the girls reached the sky, they were turned into the stars of the Pleiades.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month

Note

Dear Dire Crowley,

I am writing this letter in advance because there are responsibilities which you so graciously dumped on me I have to tend to. But I am in desperate need of your help.

You see– you haven't given Grim or I the allowance that you promised to hand us for school supplies and other basic necessities. Although I have been saving up to repair some of the damages *the kitchen sink keeps leaking, the floorboards are creaking, the water pipes are not piping* to make Ramshackle more comfortable to live in, there were urgent matters in the school *totally has nothing to do with some nasty students* that cost us madols/thaumarks.

So oh-so-kind and benevolent Headmage, could you please give us our allowance? I know you are incredibly generous and I promise I will continue to actively work hard on my schoolwork AND meet your high expectations. I will deal with all the crazy shenanigans that the NRC students are up to. I will deal with EVERYTHING even the constant overblots you claim are rare.

From,

Your tired and desperate Ramshackle Prefect/Supervisor: A Shrimp!Yuu

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

The mail ghost had dropped off a letter for you in the morning. Pitch black, with a glossy sheen, reminiscent of a raven's feathers. You broke the golden wax seal bearing Night Raven College's emblem and opened the envelope.

Your heart leaps and seizes in your throat.

It’s correspondence from Crowley.

Dear Prefect,

I hope you are doing well down in Ramshackle. The other day I happened to pass your lodgings while on an errand rushing to aid in an emergency in the Alchemy Labs. My, hasn’t the building been spiffied up! The dorm that was once destitute and in disarray is no more. I hardly even recognize Ramshackle without all the leaks, creaks, dust bunnies, inconsistent electricity, and busted water pipes exceedingly rustic charm.

I’ve heard that many of those that temporarily stayed at Ramshackle for the VDC training camp donated their second place earnings toward its renovation and refurbishment. Isn’t it wonderful what the power of friendship can do for oneself? When you so generously give to others, they will give back a hundred-fold.

I have, of course, taken this important work you do for our Night Raven College into account when calculating your monthly allowance. However, let it also be known that I have also taken note of your new living situation—which is significantly different from what was originally provided for you and Grim-kun. These new accommodations take quite a bit of upkeep. Working water, electricity, wi-fi… those amenities do not pay for themselves!! Therefore, I will have to deduct a portion of funds and redirect those to pay for the newly renovated Ramshackle dorm.

As requested, enclosed is your allotted allowance—meant for your school supplies, living expenses, and other necessities. Do not spend it all in one place, and please do keep doing your urmost to meet my expectations!!

Sincerely,

Dire Crowley

Headmaster of Night Raven College

You closed the note and peered into the envelope it had arrived in. It didn’t feel very thick with cash, but perhaps there were some substantial notes tucked onside. So, inverting the envelope, you shook vigorously.

Out drifted a few thousand thaumarks and a flashy coupon. “500 thaumarks off one item of your choice!” shouts the bombastic text upon it. You recognize Sam’s funky scrawling letters, the colors of the Mystery Shop.

The money and the slip of paper drifted to the floor at your feet. You stared blankly at the pathetic trove. Thinking that you must be mistaken, you checked the envelope again—but alas, there is nothing more left to reap.

Trembling, you squatted down and hurriedly collected your bounty. As little as it is, it was still something.

The reassurance did little to quell your undulating emotions.

You crushed the meager amount of thaumarks—and your 500 thaumarks-off coupon—in your hand. Taking a deep breath, you unleashed all of your pent-up frustration in a single roar, shaking your fists at the skies.

“Curse you, C-r-o-w-l-e-y…!!”

Your voice carried across NRC and up to the headmaster’s office, where he happily scribbled away at a contract. Beside him was a platter piled high with sweet treats and baked goods.

(“Certainly NOT purchased with money pilfered from school funds!! Why, that’s embezzlement, which is a grave crime,” he would scoff if you asked him about it. “I work hard to earn my keep; I deserve to spend my wage as I like, fufu.”)

“Ah, I see that my charitable gift has finally reached its recipient!” Crowley hummed. “Good, good. May the Prefect put their money to use, just as I have.”

With that, he sunk his teeth into a tea cake and drifted off on a cloud of sugar and butter.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Dire Crowley #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #Reader #self insert #Two Ravens at the Writing Desk #book 6 spoilers #book 5 spoilers

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bullet-prooflove · 4 months

Text

Lake Tahoe Series - Part One: Black Bear Lodge - Manny x Reader

Part of @storiesofsvu Holiday Bingo! The square was Sledding!

Tagging: @darqchilddaydreamz @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @theesirenteller @darqchilddaydreamz @wnbweasley @bonni-98 @skyesthebomb @yezzyyae @delightfulbelieverwerewolf @redpool @trublu2u @fleureeee

Set a few years after End of the Line which ties in to a Hank Loza storyline

It’s at Black Bear Lodge in Lake Tahoe that you meet Manny. He’s sitting at the bar in a white sweater, his thumb chasing over the etchings in the crystal tumbler that he holds in his hand as he studies the amber liquid.

You’ve been sitting here for a couple of hours now, finishing up an article you were writing up on Reed Mather, a tattooist that works out of Lake Monster whose use of bold colouring was proving revolutionary in the field.

It’s the reason you’re up here at this time of year, four days after Christmas. The truth is you have nowhere else to be. You have no family; your friends are all settled, and you can’t stand the idea of another seasonal blind date. The people in your life, they’re well-meaning but they don’t understand that being alone, isn’t the same as being lonely. You enjoy your own company; you’re not looking for a relationship. You enjoy the freedom you have to travel, to explore.

You’ve got another three days booked in the Lodge, you’d splashed out on one of suites with a jetted tub and planned to spend a couple of hours soaking. It’s when you close your laptop that a drink appears in front of you, you pick it up surveying the amber liquid before raising it to your lips and taking a sip.

It’s smoky and warm on your tongue, the heat flowing through your chest as you meet Manny’s gaze across the bar. He smiles before tipping his glass towards you and you smile back.

That’s how it starts this thing between the two of you.

A glass of top shelf whiskey on a Chesterfield couch, laughing so hard that your ribs hurt.

“So, what brings you here?” You ask him, drawing your legs up underneath you. Your arm comes to rest on the back of the couch, the sleeve of your jumper riding up towards your elbow. Manny’s fingertips trail across your bare skin, sending a rush of anticipation chasing through your synapses.

“My daughter.” He says softly, the edges of his mouth turning up into a small smile. “She’s always wanted to go sledding and we don’t get much snow up in Yuma. We went to that place further up, Heavenly Lake.”

“I bet she loved it. I’ve been up there a few times; it turns out I’m terrible at winter sports.” You tell him and he laughs, it’s such a rich, genuine sound, that you feel all the way down to your bones.

“Yea I discovered the same thing.” He confides. “My daughter took to it like she was born to do it. We had a lot of fun together on the sleds but everything else…”

He shakes his head.

“I’m not made for the cold weather. Her mother, my ex, picked her up this afternoon and I’m kinda at a loose end tonight.”

You turn your hand over and his thumb smooths over your underarm, tracing over the tattoo of a laurel wreath on your wrist. The one you you’d gotten after you’d won an award for your photography collection ‘The Ancient Art’ – documenting different tattoo methods throughout the world.

“I know this work.” He says, before his eyes flicker up and meet yours. “Hank Loza out of Santo Padre.”

“He’s done all my tattoos.” You tell him and you see Manny’s interest pique, his gaze straying to the contours of your navy-blue sweater. You imagine his hands straying underneath it, ghosting over the tattoos that decorate your body. He wants to see them, you can tell.

“The Tattoo Journalist.” He recalls, teasing over the leaves etched into your skin. “The two of you used to be a thing.”

“A couple of years ago.” You tell him, watching as his fingertips trail across your palm. “He’s settled now, has two kids with a lovely woman called Maggie.”

His fingers caress yours before they settle within the grooves, entwining. The silver stacker ringers you wear upon your fingers clack against his own.

“No lingering feelings?” He questions and you shake your head with a wry smile.

“He needed someone more present and that just wasn’t me.” You tell him honestly, cradling your glass of whiskey to your chest.

“Ah.” He says, nodding his head in understanding. “That’s the reason my marriage fell apart, I wasn’t very present. I’m a good father, a decent President but a shitty husband. We co-parent and she’ll always be the mother of my child but…”

“Sometimes two people just aren’t right for each other, no matter how much you try to make it work.” You say and he smiles that handsome smile of his before he brings your hand to his mouth.

His gaze is heated when he looks at you, you can see his desire simmering in his eyes as his lips brush over the hollow of your wrist.

“You wanna get out of here?” He murmurs against your skin. “Continue this someplace else.”

“Yea.” You say, setting your glass of whiskey down on the table. “I think I do.”

Love Manny? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#storiesofsvuholidaybingo2023 #mayans #mayans mc #mayans imagine #mayans fx #mayans fanfic #manny x reader #manny #manny x you #manny montana

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theroyalhouseofwindenburg · 4 months

Text

The Black Death: Part 4

A year has passed since David succumbed to the relentless grip of the plague. Windenburg now stands on the precipice of despair, desperately in need of assistance. More than half of its once-thriving population has perished, leaving behind haunting echoes of life. The streets are eerily silent, with the only signs of movement being the body collectors, the last living presence in a city now dominated by decay and suffering. Westsimster, once a bustling metropolis, now lies almost empty—a haunting testament to the devastating toll exacted by the merciless plague.

Within the walls of Windenburg Castle, a grim atmosphere hung heavy. King Wilhelm, seated in his office, brooded with frustration. The once-thriving farms that supplied the kingdom with grain and livestock now lay in ruin, consumed by the merciless flames of the plague. The farmers, along with their families, had succumbed to the same cruel fate. Realizing the gravity of the situation and driven by the need for a drastic solution, King Wilhelm summoned his trusted advisor, Sir Oliver Coles, to enforce his command.

In a sinister turn of desperation, King Wilhelm, confronted by the grim realities of the plague in Windenburg, resolves to hoard the meager medical supplies and resources within the castle walls. Disregarding the anguished pleas of his suffering subjects, he instructs Oliver to summon the guards and seize any remedies, tonics, and herbs meant for the common folk. Defying the Jacoban Church, Wilhelm orders the immediate closure of local apothecaries and medicinal dispensaries. A disbelieving Oliver looks to Wilhelm and exclaims, "Your Grace, you can't possibly be serious... stripping the people of their last resources will surely lead to their demise. Moreover, closing the apothecaries will anger the church; without their support, we may be in grave danger." Enraged, Wilhelm rises from his desk, slamming his fists down violently, demanding compliance, "The only thing the people in this slum of a country have brought me is agony and dread. Let the Watcher do his job and rule out the unworthy!" he shouted.

By seizing control of the limited supplies, Wilhelm selfishly secures his own survival, leaving the remainder of Windenburg to plunge into an abyss of despair. The duty of a king, sworn to protect and serve his people, morphs into a grotesque exhibition of selfishness. Consumed by paranoia, Wilhelm places his well-being above the lives of those he vowed to govern with compassion, tarnishing the very essence of his regal responsibilities.

Upon exiting the room, Oliver senses an impending danger and an unsettling fear that King Wilhelm is descending into madness. Driven by concern, he chooses to seek out the Queen in the east wing of the castle. In this secluded area, Queen Cordelia resides with her sons, Prince Wilhelm and Prince Alvin, as well as her step-daughter Augusta, their refuge from the growing chaos that has engulfed the kingdom.

Suddenly, a knock echoed through the halls, prompting Cordelia and Lady Philippa, her newly appointed governess, to answer. To her surprise, it was Oliver, bearing urgent news. In a desperate plea, Oliver details the King's alarming intentions to Cordelia, imploring her to intervene and divert him from this perilous course of action. Cordelia, consumed by anger, reacts vehemently to her husband's callous plans. Unable to fathom such cruelty, she instructs Oliver to convey to the King that she and the children are departing for Bagley, seeking refuge in her brother King Henry's hunting lodge. Windenburg Castle, once a haven, has become a breeding ground for peril, and Cordelia is determined to shield her family from its encroaching darkness.

Cordelia, Augusta, and Lady Philippa ascended the stairs, seeking refuge in the upper chambers. There, Lady Philippa diligently packed their belongings, a task undertaken with urgency. Despite the impending wrath of her husband, Cordelia couldn't endure the relentless suffering any longer, determined to seek solace for herself and her children beyond the castle walls.

Within minutes, King Wilhelm arrived with his two guards, effectively blocking the stairway, a furious expression etched onto his face. "I'll have your head before I let you take my sons anywhere!" He shouted, his voice echoing through the stone corridors. Cordelia met her husband's gaze with a mix of defiance and rage. "Your kingship mirrors your parenting—absent, callous, and utterly devoid of any genuine care. Our marriage is but a charade, a reflection of your egotism and disregard for the family you've torn apart. Your rule brings nothing but suffering, and your skills as a king are as feeble as your ability to be a father. You've become the embodiment of a king without a kingdom, a ruler without a realm, and a husband without a heart." Cordelia's searing words threw Wilhelm over the top. In a fit of unbridled anger, he lunged at her, striking her hard in the face and knocking her to the floor. He then seized the pearl necklace around her neck, the one he had once made for her, and tightened his grip, choking her. "Your actions have just cost you your son!" Wilhelm bellowed before finally releasing his grip.

Augusta swiftly came to her stepmother's aid. "Guards! Collect Prince Alvin and take him to the west wing," Wilhelm commanded, his tone authoritative and cold. As he was about to exit the room, Augusta, unable to contain her disdain, muttered "Tyrant" under her breath. Wilhelm turned sharply towards her. "Augusta, much like your mother, your treasonous tongue might have consequences. It seems the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree," he declared, his voice laced with menace. Augusta, fueled by a mix of anger and despair, could no longer contain her emotions. In a fit of frustration, she confronted King Wilhelm,

"Your crown sits upon a heartless head! The plague has claimed more than our people; it's revealed the rot within your soul. A ruler who abandons his own kingdom to a fate worse than death. You're no king; you're a puppet in regal attire, dancing on the strings of your own incompetence," Augusta boldly declared. King Wilhelm, consumed by rage, violently seized Augusta and threw her against the hard stone wall, knocking down furniture in the process. Despite the physical assault, Augusta met his gaze defiantly. "You can hurt me all you want, but you will always be who you are. My mother's blood stains your hands, and no amount of power can wash away the darkness that shrouds your soul. You are not a king; you are a tyrant, a betrayer of the very realm you claim to rule."

Wilhelm yanked Augusta up from the ground, pressing her forcefully against the wall with an intensity of loathing in his eyes. "You are nothing, an incessant stain from the moment you entered this world. A mistake I regret not correcting sooner. I should have fed you to the wolves when your mother died. The only reason you survived is because of Cordelia's misguided pity."

He then turned to his guards, his voice echoing through the chamber, "Seize her!" he yelled, The guards promptly approached Augusta, binding her wrists as commanded. With a malicious tone, Wilhelm declared, "Let's see how grateful you feel after a few nights in the dungeon." Wilhelm then ordered his son, Prince Wilhelm, to follow him out as well. The young boy stood from his seat in a rage after witnessing the brutal argument. "I'm not going anywhere with you!" the boy shouted at his father.

"You're no father to us, just a king in title. Your crown is a mere disguise for the monster within. Mother deserves better, and so do we. You're not a protector; you're the source of our torment. the kingdom crumbles not from external enemies, but from the decay within your own heart," the boy boldly declared. "Your insolence knows no bounds, child. You speak of torment, yet fail to recognize the privilege and protection my rule affords. Your Mother was well aware of the implications of this marriage, and you, in your naivety, dare to question a king. The kingdom flourishes under my guidance, and your accusations are but the pitiful cries of ungrateful offspring." Wilhelm shouted

In that moment, Cordelia threw herself at her husband's feet. "Please, Wilhelm," she begged, "Don't take my children away from me; they're all I have." Wilhelm looked down at his groveling wife in disgust, pushing her away, In swift motion, Wilhelm advanced toward his son, seizing him tightly, and headed for the door amidst the boy's desperate screams and pleas to be released. As Wilhelm left the chamber, the guard inquired, "Your Grace, Should I leave the door open or board it up?" Walking away, Wilhelm coldly commanded, "board the doors up; let her starve." The young prince's terror-filled screams echoed through the corridor upon hearing his father's heartless words.

Beneath the castle, in the dimly lit corridors leading to the dungeon, Augusta was led to her cell by one of Wilhelm's guards. As he placed her on the bed, he removed the binding from her wrists and, to her surprise, closed the heavy door behind him. With a swift motion, he took off his helmet, revealing an expression marked by the shadows of loyalty and conflict. "What your father did to you was wrong," he declared bluntly, the weight of the truth evident in his words. After a moment's pause, he added solemnly, "I want to help you. There are others who share our concerns about the king's reign." Augusta, astonished by this unexpected ally, found herself cautiously hopeful for the first time in the midst of the kingdom's turmoil.

In the dimly lit confines of the dungeon, Augusta and the guard had a conversation that stretched on for what felt like an eternity. They delved into the depths of the suffering inflicted by Wilhelm's almost 30 year reign over Windenburg. They crafted a plan to liberate Windenburg from his oppressive rule. The guard, his voice laced with determination, spoke earnestly to Augusta, "We cannot let the tyranny endure any longer. Wilhelm's reign has left a trail of suffering, and it's time to bring an end to it. I will gather a group of like-minded guards who share our concerns. Together, we'll expose his cruelty, collect evidence, and seek support from disillusioned nobles and the Jacoban Church."

As they strategized, Augusta felt a glimmer of hope in the face of the kingdom's despair. The guard continued, "Our coordinated effort will reveal Wilhelm's misdeeds, hopefully sparking a revolt within the castle. The people deserve better, and we shall strive to restore Windenburg to its former glory." With a resolute promise, he turned to Augusta, "I will return for you, and together, we will ensure that Wilhelm's days of tyranny are numbered." The dungeon, once a symbol of despair, became the birthplace of a rebellion.

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scotianostra · 3 months

Text

On January 30th 1649 King Charles I was executed.

His execution caused a change of sides by most of the Scots who had previously supported the Parliamentarians in the English Civil War as, for all his faults, Charles was still a Scottish Stuart king.

I love these accounts of what happened on occasions like this, it brings history alive for me and I can imagine being in the crowd at the time, I have a similar type post lined up for February 8th but this is an from tells us of a bitterly cold January day. Charles was wearing two heavy shirts so that he might not shiver in the cold and appear to be afraid. The following details of the event comes from an anonymous observer and begins as the doomed King addresses the crowd from the scaffold.

“[As for the people,] truly I desire their liberty and freedom as much as anybody whomsoever; but I must tell you that their liberty and freedom consist in having of government, those laws by which their life and their goods may be most their own. It is not for having share in government, sirs; that is nothing pertaining to them; a subject and a sovereign are clear different things. And therefore until they do that, I mean that you do put the people in that liberty, as I say, certainly they will never enjoy themselves. Sirs, it was for this that now I am come here. If I would have given way to an arbitrary way, for to have all laws changed according to the power of the sword, I needed not to have come here; and therefore I tell you (and I pray God it be not laid to your charge) that I am the martyr of the people…

And to the executioner he said, ‘I shall say but very short prayers, and when I thrust out my hands - ’

Then he called to the bishop for his cap, and having put it on, asked the executioner, 'Does my hair trouble you?’ who desired him to put it all under his cap; which, as he was doing by the help of the bishop and the executioner, he turned to the bishop, and said, 'I have a good cause, and a gracious God on my side.’

The bishop said, 'There is but one stage more, which, though turbulent and troublesome, yet is a very short one. You may consider it will soon carry you a very great way; it will carry you from earth to heaven; and there you shall find to your great joy the prize you hasten to, a crown of glory.’

The king adjoins, 'I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown; where no disturbance can be, no disturbance in the world.’

The bishop: 'You are exchanged from a temporal to an eternal crown, - a good exchange.’

Then the king asked the executioner, 'Is my hair well?’ And taking off his cloak and George [the jeweled pendant of the Order of the Garter, bearing the figure of St. George], he delivered his George to the bishop…

Then putting off his doublet and being in his waistcoat, he put on his cloak again, and looking upon the block, said to the executioner, 'You must set it fast.’

The executioner: 'It is fast, sir.’

King: 'It might have been a little higher.’

Executioner: 'It can be no higher, sir.’

King: 'When I put out my hands this way, then - ’

Then having said a few words to himself, as he stood, with hands and eyes lift up, immediately stooping down he laid his neck upon the block; and the executioner, again putting his hair under his cap, his Majesty, thinking he had been going to strike, bade him, 'Stay for the sign.’

Executioner: 'Yes, I will, and it please your Majesty.’

After a very short pause, his Majesty stretching forth his hands, the, executioner at one blow severed his head from his body; which, being held up and showed to the people, was with his body put into a coffin covered with black velvet and carried into his lodging.

His blood was taken up by divers persons for different ends: by some as trophies of their villainy; by others as relics of a martyr; and in some hath had the same effect, by the blessing of God, which was often found in his sacred touch when living.”

A bust of Charles is on the wall outside the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall, London near the spot of his execution, and today as usual supporters of the Stuart King will lay flowers

There are no shortages of depictions of the execution, I have chosen a few.

#scotland #scottish #history #The stuRTA #Execution #Regecide

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tsukimefuku · 2 months

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Right, wrong and the in-between (Part 2)

Previous chapter | Next chapter

You and Higuruma were assigned to investigate the disappearance of women around Shinjuku. This led to a dicey situation regarding what place Jujutsu sorcerers occupy in this world and what is their role to play when non-sorcerers get involved.

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". There is currently a sequence of short stories and random drabbles for a fic I'll eventually write (eventually). To see the ever-growing list of one-shots, please visit my masterlist :) The "Right, wrong and the in-between" will be a 4 (maybe 3) part short-story set in this AU. I hope you enjoy! The tags below will be applicable to every chapter.

Tags: oc/f!reader, soft/implied Higuruma x reader, soft/implied Nanami x reader, slow burn, mentions of violence and non-con/abuse among side characters, canon typical violence, some angst, some fluff, just characters being themselves driving the plot (and me) insane. Some philosophical debate will be in place.

WC: 1.9k

Nanami had been tracking down this curse for what seemed like hours underground, and he started to become tired and annoyed. It was a little before 6PM, and if he didn't end it soon, he'd be caught up in overtime for the third time that month.

The sorcerer removed his tie and started to wrap it around his fist, just to be ready in case he needed to use his collapse technique.

What a bore, he thought to himself, as he kept walking underneath the streets of Shinjuku following the semi grade 1 curse through the sewers. This curse was detected that morning by an assistant that worked for Jujutsu High, and it was a yet unregistered one. It probably sprung into existence not long ago, and was using the sewage system to move around Shinjuku's area.

Nanami heard a faint noise of a possibly slimy large body dragging itself a few meters ahead. He pulled his blunt sword from its support, on his back, and started to walk quickly to meet the curse. As he turned the corner to the tunnel, Nanami was met with an unsightly vision. The curse was a giant crimson and black worm, covered in holes, and had no eyes, only six sets of arms spread across each side of its body, which it was currently using to drag itself around. Even if the thing was big, it moved rather quickly.

Nanami charged at it, dealing a 7:3 blow perpendicular to the ground, but the curse reacted swiftly and crawled its way around the tunnel, getting glued to the top. At that moment, it spurted a green, thick liquid in the sorcerer's direction, which he managed to dodge. The liquid started to slowly melt the ground it hit, leaving a deep hole behind. Nanami sighed as he saw his wristwatch marking 6:02PM. He felt his cursed energy output increasing, and jumped from the side of the circular underpass, bearing his blunt sword, in a new attempt to hit it. The curse sensed him, and once again, evaded his blow by letting go of the walls and hitting the ground. It started to make a run for it, and Nanami promptly followed suit.

As it turned left, so did he, and then — nothing. Nanami heard some ruffling above him, and saw a sort-of manhole for ventilation. The creature had lodged itself in there, and was trying to escape the sewer. From what little Nanami could make out of the grids that covered the hole, it was in a secondary street, and no one walked or passed by during the time he observed it.

He calculated his odds and decided to risk a 'collapse' strike to bring the worm curse down.

***

"Wow, what was that?" You asked Higuruma, yelling, as you both felt the ground tremble underneath your feet.

"Perhaps an earthquake." He answered, nearly screaming too to make himself heard under the club's loud music.

The moment the robe woman took the girl inside the building, you both followed them, just to find that the door auto-locked itself. The cursed energy traces were all over, and matched the ones found on the other scenes. Higuruma considered bashing the door in, but you dissuaded him, arguing it would be a bad idea if the woman was truly the curse user behind the disappearances. You had no idea what her ability could be, so you had to have a smarter and less confrontational approach. He sighed in agreement.

"Let's wait for the club to open and find them from the inside, okay?" It was your suggestion, and it was exactly what you both did.

Now inside, the place was dark, neon, sweaty, noisy and filled with an assortment of women spinning on shiny poles. You knew this was a club in the red-light district, but you didn't expect to be caught up in that situation with Higuruma by your side. One of the waitresses had already offered her services to him, and you had to hold your laughter at that scene while he refused.

"Come on, that seems to be the back part of the operation." He said, tapping you lightly on your arm and pointing to a more illuminated part of the club, covered by a folding door. You both made your way inside, when suddenly you heard an older woman's voice.

"Sleep."

You nearly fainted at that moment, falling to your knees, and Higuruma began to collapse just like you.

Shit, shit, shit!

It was a cursed speech user, and you both fell right in her trap.

"Higuruma, run!" You shouted, as you conjured one of your grenades, putting your hands together, and threw it upwards, exploding a lot of dust around you both. He seemed to be more resistant than you, and started crawling his way out with the chaos that ensued, being able to get up and walk away, with all the people screaming outside from the blast and all the running around. He looked behind and decided it would be safer to pretend he left, just so he could avoid being imprisoned too, and squiggled his way under the bar counter, deciding to hide behind a few boxes of booze until the cursed speech effect had dwindled enough. Higuruma had to focus all his will into not passing out.

As you started to drag yourself to the door, a hand grabbed you from the back of your neck and bashed your head directly on the ground, removing all the air from your lungs and leaving you completely disoriented as you felt a drop of blood making its way down your face.

"I said sleep, now." The female voice grunted. You heard two sets of footsteps making their way to you, one carried with them the familiar robe, and the other seemed like a male pair of feet wearing sneakers. You couldn't lift your gaze anymore, as you fell unconscious.

***

"Hey, wake up." You heard, while you were tied to a chair, both arms to your back, separated by ropes, and both legs wrapped together. The woman was standing in front of you, smoking on her cigarette, and the guy was leaned over on the edge of the room. It kind of looked like a shady interrogation room, and smelled terribly.

"Ugh, this place stinks." You said, trying to weave your way out of the ropes.

"No use. I tied these up myself, and I have a lot of practice in doing so, honey." She answered, while puffing her cigarette smoke directly onto your face. "Where is that fella of yours?"

"I hope that he's miles away by now." There was a clock on the wall, and it read 6:25PM. You were out for just some time, thankfully. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Oh, darling, I'll ask the questions." She slapped you hard across the face, leaving a bad burning sensation on your cheek. "How did you find us? Tell me."

The urge to speak suddenly took you over, and you had to bite your lip again in order to not rat out on Jujutsu High.

"Feisty one, huh? Well, let's try it again." She leaned over to your ear, while you were completely helpless against her technique. "Who sent you?"

"Jujutsu Tech." You blurted out, defeated.

"The what now?" She asked. This woman has no idea what Jujutsu Tech is? You figured out a couple of things from that. Matching the sloppiness of her kidnappings, this woman was probably a newly awakened sorcerer, unaware of the full extents of her power. Also, given she had no idea what Jujutsu Tech was, you could use that as leverage, being careful not to lie in case she pushed you to relay more information about anything. Her cursed speech seemed to be pushing people to do things, like sleeping, waking up, or telling them something, but it was much weaker than Inumaki's power overall.

"I'm a jujutsu sorcerer, like you, and I work with them. They're probably sending people our way as we speak, to rescue me. So… You should really let me go."

"Jujutsu? Hm." The woman seemed to contemplate her options for a moment. "Do they have the money for a ransom? Tell me the truth."

That urge again. It was pretty strong. "Probably," you spat out. What a fucking nightmare.

She smiled and said, "it's settled, then. Toshio, grab her phone and call... Who should we call to inform you've been captured and request the money, darling?" The woman asked, while looking at you. You thought about your options, and who could get there faster to your aid.

"Nanami Kento. Call him." I'm sorry, Nanami, but you're the closest and one of the smartest. Please, may you talk to Higuruma before you get here.

***

As Nanami finished climbing his way out of the sewer, after exorcising the cursed spirit, he saw many people running out of a nightclub, screaming about an explosion. He felt residuals of cursed energy over the building, and grunted as he decided to investigate, given that he was already on overtime clock hours.

He went inside, and chaos was the word to better describe the scenery that ensued. Nanami started to walk around and search for more cursed energy residuals, as he stepped inside the same room you were attacked with Higuruma minutes prior, now empty, but with vestiges of your cursed energy all over. As he was ready to walk out, Nanami felt somebody behind him. He turned around, ready to punch the person, and found Higuruma still recovering.

"Not so nice to see you." Higuruma said, supporting himself by putting a hand over Nanami's shoulder and bearing a half smile on his face.

"Same to you." Nanami replied, unimpressed. "What happened? Where is she?"

Higuruma's hand tightened around Nanami's shoulder. "They got her. There is a cursed speech user here. We need to hurry."

Nanami tensed up immediately, even though his vacant stare was the perfect disguise for the anger that had bubbled up. "It's bewildering how you never fail to disappoint."

Nanami's phone rang, and it was you on the other side of the line. He pushed Higuruma's hand out of his shoulder as he answered it.

"Nanami, I've been captured, and I need help." You said. There was some fumbling on the line, and a man started to speak. "We demand a ransom to let her go." He then proceeded to demand some absurd sum of money and wait for a few seconds.

"Of course," Nanami bluffed, knowing that would be their best alternative for rescuing you, "but where and when should this… ‘exchange’ take place?"

They gave him an address that was near enough to where he and Higuruma were currently, and said, "meet us there in half an hour, sharp". The line went silent, and he ended the call, inhaling deeply.

"Accompany me and make yourself serviceable, for once." Nanami sharply said at Higuruma. "This is the place we have to go. Let's see, however, if we can get a few things sorted out before we leave."

Higuruma sighed deeply and agreed to work alongside with Nanami, albeit begrudgingly. "Fine. Let's do this."

They had their first encounter right after you saved Higuruma by injuring yourself in the process, due to Higuruma's irresponsibility, and Nanami held some kind of resentment against the man since then. Nanami was still reluctant regarding Higuruma’s acceptance as a whole — a curse user that had actually killed people before coming to Jujutsu High, had his sentence suspended, and acted irresponsibly with colleagues in the battlefield.

"Help me locate something we can use to our ears properly."

#jujutsu kaisen higuruma #higuruma x reader #jjk higuruma #jjk hiromi #hiromi x reader #higuruma hiromi #jjk imagines #jjk drabbles #jjk x you #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jjk fanfic #nanami x reader #nanami x you

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onyx666 · 4 months

Text

☽◯☾ let the moon settle you ☽◯☾

chapter 1

pairing : finnick odair x black fem!reader

warnings : none

don’t hesitate to click on the links （＾ν＾）(underline text)

In the dimly lit room, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and the echo of distant memories. Reclined on a worn leather chair, the cold sensation of the tattoo artist's gloves on her neck is sending shivers down her spine. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries depicting scenes of both despair and triumph, a visual testament to the haunting stories etched into the skin of those who sought solace here. The steady buzz of the tattoo machine hummed in the background, filling the room with an ominous soundtrack as she braced herself for the ritual about to unfold.

The inker, a silent figure with eyes that held the weight of countless stories, prepared the ink that would soon be embedded into her skin.

As the needle met flesh, the pain mingled with a strange sense of catharsis. The molnija, a symbol of the life she took in the arena, began to emerge on her skin like a dark omen. Each stroke of the needle echoed the haunting memory of that fateful moment, the arena's unforgiving atmosphere, and the desperation that had led to the kill.

The room seemed to absorb the shadows, amplifying the somber mood as she thought about that soul she had annihilated on that battleground. The flashing ghost that lingered in the recesses of her mind, its presence intensified by the ink weaving its way into her skin. The pain and regret converged in a melancholic dance, leaving an indelible mark not only on her body but also on her soul.

The lodge became a sanctuary of shadows, the only illumination emanating from the dim glow of the artist's lamp. The mark, now etched into her skin, seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a macabre testimony to the harsh reality of the Games.

Near the end of the process, a heavy silence settled in the room. She, marked by the indigo ink that told a story of survival stained with sorrow, rose from the chair. The molnija on her skin was a permanent scar, a visual echo of the arena's brutality and the darkness that had seeped into her soul.

In the mirror, she confronted her reflection—a visage altered by the weight of her choices. That mark is going to stand as a haunting emblem, a constant reminder that, in the pursuit of life, one will have to confront the shadows that cling to the edges of survival.

Capitol - [17 - 19]

As she stepped into the grandeur of her victor's party in the Capitol, the contrast between her humble origins and the extravagance surrounding her was stark. Winning the 69th edition of the Hunger Games became real. The venue, adorned with opulent fabrics and sparkling lights, gleamed with a decadence foreign to the simplicity of her home District. The air was filled with the lively hum of Capitol citizens, their colorful attire and extravagant hairstyles creating a spectacle that seemed to defy gravity.

Finding herself in a world where excess was the norm. The walls were draped in cascades of silk, shimmering in every hue imaginable. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic patterns across the room. The Capitol's eccentricity was on full display, with citizens dressed in outfits that defied logic and science—feathers, metallic fabrics, and avant-garde designs that hinted at a creativity untamed by the constraints of practicality.

A live band played a lively tune in the garden, the music pulsating through the space and drawing Capitol attendees to the dance floor. Still adjusting to the splendor around her, she couldn’t help but observe the vibrant dance of colors, both in the attire of the people and the kaleidoscope of lights that danced above them. Waiters glided through the crowd, bearing trays of delicacies that she had never imagined.

The exotic scents of Capitol cuisine wafted through the air, tempting her senses with a richness she hadn't known in District Eleven. Golden platters held bite-sized treats adorned with edible gold leaf, and glasses filled with effervescent drinks bubbled enticingly.

Despite the festive atmosphere, she felt a pang of homesickness. Her gaze lingered on the holographic displays showcasing scenes from Eleven, a stark reminder of the life she had left behind. The Capitol's citizens, however, seemed oblivious to the disparities between the districts, lost in their own world of excess.

The eccentricity of the Capitol population was a spectacle in itself—each person striving to outshine the other in a display of flamboyance that bordered on the surreal.

As she navigated the party, she encountered Capitol citizens eager to engage with the new victor. They complimented her on her triumph, but their words felt like a distant murmur amid the overwhelming opulence. The Capitol's fascination with the Games manifested in their insatiable curiosity about the victors, turning her into a temporary celebrity in this glittering world.

She exchanged bitter pleasantries with Capitol officials, their polished manners contrasting sharply with her straightforward sincerity. The conversations were a delicate dance between the genuine and the superficial, as she struggled to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of political niceties.

In the midst of the celebration, her eyes met those of a fellow victor from a previous Hunger Games. A mentor now, they approached her with a knowing smile filled with sadness. Their eyes held a shared understanding of the harrowing journey she had undertaken, a journey that went beyond the glitz of the Capitol.

One Capitolite, a woman, with an elaborate headdress that seemed to defy gravity, giggled and remarked, “You must have had quite the adventure! I can’t imagine living without all the luxuries we have here.” The implication hung in the air—her life in Eleven was inconceivable, a distant and inferior existence compared to the opulence of the Capitol.

Despite the glittering surroundings, she felt an undercurrent of isolation. The Capitol citizens, in their pursuit of entertainment, had forgotten the humanity behind the victor. It was as if her struggles and victories were reduced to a theatrical performance, a diversion for their amusement.

The conversation fading in the back of her mind, her eyes met those of the fellow victor who had approached her earlier. There was a silent acknowledgment between them, a shared understanding of the dichotomy they faced—the duality of being celebrated and yet diminished to mere entertainment.

As the night unfolded, She found herself torn between the allure of the Capitol's extravagance and the memories of District Eleven. The party was a swirl of colors, music, and laughter, but amidst the celebration, she couldn't escape the shadows of the arena that lingered in her mind.

In this juxtaposition of luxury and survival, her, the young victor from Eleven, stood as a living testament to the resilience that could emerge from the darkest corners of Panem.

In the midst of the discomforting conversations, she felt a rather presumptuous touch on her shoulder. Turning, she found Finnick Odair, the charismatic victor from District Four, wearing a smug smile that hinted at both arrogance and mischief.

His tanned, sun-kissed and golden skin provided a striking contrast to his sea-green eyes, a captivating blend that reflected both warmth and depth.

He seamlessly interrupted the group, his presence demanding attention.

“Care for a dance?” Finnick’s request was accompanied by a challenging smirk, and he extended his hand, as if daring her to refuse. With a mix of reluctance and annoyance, she accepted the offer, escaping from the scrutinizing gazes and disconcerting questions.

The sudden shift from interrogation to an invitation to dance was met with a collective pause from the attendees. Finnick's effortless arrogance had transformed the atmosphere, turning an uncomfortable spotlight into an impromptu moment of forced celebration.

As she took his hand and joined him on the dance floor, the live band adjusted its tune to a rhythm that matched the graceful movements of the two victors. Finnick's skilled steps and her stoic expression turned the dance into an unexpected spectacle, a blend of tension and compliance.

Their dance, devoid of any genuine warmth, became a symbol of reluctant participation, a forced interlude against the Capitol's tendency to objectify victors. Finnick's cocky banter and her occasional biting remarks created a dance that mirrored the power dynamics of their world. The Capitol citizens, momentarily intrigued by the unexpected turn of events, witnessed a performance that teetered on the edge of social discomfort.

As they twirled and moved across the dance floor, Finnick maintained his smug demeanor, enjoying the discomfort he had thrust upon her. Yet, she refused to let his arrogance go unchallenged.

"So why did you accept? Was it my pretty smile or the infamous reputation that lured you into this dance?" Finnick's voice carried a mocking tone, attempting to unravel her composure.

A wry smile played on her lips. "Oh, Finnick, don't mistake my acceptance for admiration. I merely thought a dance might provide a more tolerable alternative to your insufferable conversation."

Finnick's attempts to steer the conversation away from personal matters met with her sharp retorts, turning the dance into a verbal battleground.

Undeterred, he leaned in with a sly grin. "You can't deny there's a certain charm to this it. Perhaps you'll find it more enjoyable than you anticipated."

Her gaze remained unwavering. "Your charm may dazzle those pigs you occasionally call your friends, Finnick, but it holds little sway over me. This dance is a strategic maneuver, nothing more."

He chuckled, a low, confident sound that reverberated through her. "A strategic maneuver? You give this dance far too much credit. Perhaps you're not as immune as you'd like to believe."

The response was swift. "Charm is a fleeting illusion, Finnick. It holds no power over substance. This dance is a calculated choice, not a surrender to you."

Finnick's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Most would have succumbed to the allure of the Capitol by now. Yet here you are, dancing on your own terms."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed her eyes. “If you gaze long enough into an abyss-”

"The abyss also gazes into you" Finnick finished her sentence, intrigued by the cryptic response.

The party, once an uncomfortable ordeal, had transformed into a nuanced dance of social dynamics, where she navigated the Capitol's expectations with a mixture of defiance and composure. Meanwhile, he, though seemingly victorious, couldn't deny the unexpected complexity that had unfolded beneath the surface of that interaction.

As the dance concluded and the crowd rejoined them on the dance floor, they slipped away, finding solace in the secluded beauty of the garden. She couldn't shake off the resentment for what he represented – the embodiment of the Capitol's playboy image, a pawn in their elaborate game.

He noticed the lingering tension and attempted to break the ice. "You know, not all of us chose this life. We're just pieces in their twisted puzzle."

She shot him a skeptical glance. "You seem to be enjoying it quite a bit, playing the part they want you to play."

Finnick sighed, his eyes momentarily betraying a hint of weariness. "It's all about survival. You play the hand you're dealt."

She scoffed. "Survival? You seem to be doing pretty good from what all Panem and I can see."

He paused, his gaze meeting hers with a flicker of sincerity. "Not everyone is as free as they appear. There are strings attached, and cutting them comes at a cost."

They strolled amidst the vibrant blooms, the moonlight casting a delicate glow on their conversation. She couldn't deny the complexity of his existence, even if she resented the role he played.

"I've navigated shadows, walked paths I'd shield from the sun," Finnick admitted, his voice a delicate unveiling of vulnerabilities veiled by his charming facade. "But survival, that's the currency they demand from us."

Her skepticism softened into a momentary understanding. "Surviving at what cost, Finnick? Your fucking soul?"

He chuckled bitterly. "The Capitol doesn't leave much room for souls, darling. They don’t even care for it"

She sighed, the weight of the Capitol's influence pressing down on them.

He met her gaze, his eyes revealing a complex blend of defiance and resignation. "Did Snow spoke to you?" he asked dodging the look in her eyes.

"Not yet. Why?" she replied, searching for understanding in his guarded expression.

Finnick shrugged nonchalantly, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just curious. The Capitol tends to play its games, and Snow is the puppet master. Always worth knowing whose strings you're tangled up in, especially after a victory."

She frowned, a knot of unease forming in her stomach. The mention of President Snow brought back memories of his looming presence in the Capitol, a figure synonymous with control and manipulation.

"What does Snow want with me?" she questioned, her voice tinged with actual concern.

Finnick chuckled, a wry edge to his laughter. "Who knows what goes on in that twisted mind of his? Just be cautious. Capitolites love to weave narratives, and we're all characters in their grand spectacle."

He deftly shifted the conversation, steering it away from the enigmatic dealings of the so called regent.

“What was the anchor that kept you going in the arena ?” he asked.

A pensive silence hung in the air before she began, “It’s not a memory; it’s a feeling—the warmth of the sun on my face as I worked in the orchards, the rustling of leaves, and the quiet whispers shared between workers.” Her voice carried a nostalgic lilt, a reflection of the simple and rarejoys she had known in District Eleven.

Finnick listened attentively, the subtle dance of moonlight casting shifting patterns on the garden floor. “But in the arena, that warmth turned into the cold steel of weapons, and the whispers became the screams of those who fell.”

Her words bore the weight of the transformation, a metamorphosis from the familiar embrace of home to the unforgiving arena.

As she spoke, the moon’s glow accentuated the contours of her face, revealing a tapestry of emotions etched in every expression. Finnick, still standing in the shadows, observed with a silent intensity. The night seemed to unfold like a novel, each sentence adding depth to the narrative they were constructing.

“What about you, playboy ?”

He painted the scene with his words, “It was during the calm before the storm. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the district. The waves gently lapped against the shore, and for a moment, the air was filled with tranquility. I stood at the edge of the fishing docks, surrounded by the familiar scent of the sea. In that brief respite, I found a seashell on the beach. It wasn’t much you know, but it was enough. Just a simple reminder of a world beyond the brutality that was awaiting. Holding that seashell, I felt a connection to something pure, something untouched by the darkness that we were immersed in. It was a moment of quiet pride, watching the boats return with their bounties. I believed in a future where I could contribute to our district, make it better.”

Finnick’s gaze held a mix of nostalgia and sorrow. “But dreams have a way of shattering. The hollowness set in after the celebration, and the silence in my heart matched the quietude of the sea after the cheers faded away. I faced the reality that awaited me, all of us, as a victor, and it just became a distant echo of the life I had hoped for.”

"Live fast, die young, be wild and have fun....they say." she expressed with a bitter laugh slipping off her lips still cringing at the mantra.

As the gloomy moonbeam reflected on the side of her face in the moonlit night, she spoke with a grace that caught the peacock's attention, still standing in the shadows. The moonlight painted her face with a soft glow, revealing a tapestry of emotions in every expression. As strands of her hair danced in the gentle breeze, Finnick observed in silence.

The night, wrapped in the luminous embrace of the moon, held the promise of a new narrative written in the language of stardust and whispered confessions.

"I believed in the country Panem used to be." she said, still holding hope for the person she wanted to become.

In this moment, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, she became Moon, a celestial muse -a constellation of emotions and experiences that left an indelible mark on his heart, even him not noticing it.

Their conversation meandered through the intricacies of their existence, touching on the compromises they made to survive in a world that thrived on spectacle. Finnick, typically a master of charm, revealed fragments of a soul that yearned for freedom beyond the Capitol's whims.

As they continued to wander through the garden, the dichotomy between them softened. She glimpsed the cracks in his playboy facade as he caught a glimpse of the fire that fueled her resistance.

a/n : i keep seeing ppl do the ai voice cloning thing for a more immersive reading so why not try it

1) Finnick and Moon are 19 and 17

2) since the majority of Eleven’s population is predominantly Black and Native American/Indigenous, it seemed logical to me that Moon came from this District.

#finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick x y/n #finnick fanfic #finnick x you #finnick x oc #hunger games finnick #let the moon settle you #finnick odair smut #thg series #thg finnick #thg #thg fanfiction

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march-hare01 · 7 months

Text

Article by: GTHO bible

“It was love at first sight,” is how Gary Thompson remembers the night he saw his 1970 Falcon GTHO Phase Two for the first time.

“It was up on stands on the lot at John Gigante Motors on Parramatta Road in Croydon,” reminisces Gary today from his home in Mount Annan, New South Wales.

“My friend Paul Bianco and I were headed to the ‘brickies’ for some street racing action.

We had just driven by when the bright orange of the car caught my eye, and we immediately turned around to go drool over it,” remembers Gary. “They wanted around $4,200 for it. The salesman didn’t mind letting a 21 year old behind the wheel of such a powerful beast either!” After the road test, Gary talked turkey with the salesman clinching a deal that afternoon which included a then nine month old Electric Blue 351 XY Falcon 500. “They gave me $3,000 as a trade-in,” smiles Gary. This was fifty one years ago back in 1972, and the barely one-year old Falcon GTHO was just out of warranty and had just been traded-in by its first owner.

*** I’LL NEVER FORGET THE NIGHT THE FLYWHEEL EXPLODED THROUGH THE BONNET! ***

“I’d had the Phase Two for just ten days when my good mate Paul who was the test driver for Jack Brabham Ford where we both worked, lined me up to race his peppermint green Lotus twin-cam Mk1 Escort.” “We’d taken off in a symphony of noise, dust and wheel spin.I was revving the HO to 7,200rpm in 1st gear when I clutched to change to 2nd gear. We were flat out side by side on Newbridge Road at Moorebank, it was just before midnight.”“There was a loud bang! Then everything went pitch black.”“I had no headlights, and no dash lights. The electricals had been cut completely.” “Thunder struck, here I was doing 70 mile per hour trying to steer the big Falcon in complete darkness as I slammed on the brakes.My foot went straight to the floorboards and it took me a second to register that I was steering a runaway freight train!” tells Gary as he relives those harrowing frightening moments gripping the thin steering wheel with white knuckles whilst attempting to pull up a ton and a half of an out of control hunk of metal. If anybody had been watching this event unfold, they would have heard a loud explosion, and witnessed pieces of flywheel shrapnel explode through a bulging bonnet, and sparks coming from under the car where the rear of the engine block was tearing up the road. The gearbox bellhousing had also taken leave with the exploding flywheel, leaving Gary with a gearbox full of neutrals. “I was about a kilometre down the road before I came to a stop.”“Paul’s Escort had also suffered shrapnel wounds lodged from projectile bits of the flywheel embedded in his door panels.”“My ten day old car looked like it had been struck by lightning.”“It’s bonnet bulged upwards with a huge gaping hole where 20 ounces of flywheel had exited like an Apollo 11 rocket. The engine was now pointing skywards pressing against the underside of the bonnet.” A tow truck was quickly called from a nearby phone box, and the damaged Falcon GTHO taken to a local panel beater. “The next morning I was told it would be a write-off,” tells Gary, who then decided to have the car taken to another panel shop instead. “I’ll never forget the night the flywheel exploded,” says Gary. Two weeks later the Falcon was all repaired like new again. “The panel shop had offered me an XY GT style bonnet which came complete with air-scoop shaker assembly left over from a Falcon GT. The original XW grille was left on, but we added later model XY taillights.” Gary opted to remove the original black GT side stripes, “We did this for no other reason than to make it look different.” Mechanics at Jack Brabham Ford rebuilt the original motor with new bearings, and fitted a steel flywheel instead of the cast iron factory unit which had exploded into a million pieces. “They even had to repair the dowels at the back of the engine block which had broken off when the motor scraped along the road! The gearbox input shaft also needed to be replaced because it was bent like a banana. We ended up fitting after-market extractors as the original exhaust manifolds had been severely damaged. Before having the engine repaired, Gary who worked in spare parts at Jack Brabham Ford knew John Goss from McLeod Ford. “I had actually bought his ex-race car motor from his Phase Three GTHO for $300. I was going to rebuild it, but it was cheaper to repair my original engine. I sold this bare motor, less the Phase Three race camshaft which a mate fitted to his car, and broke even getting my money back on the whole deal. Originally registered with GT-187 number plates, the HO was re-registered with GT-388 after the repair. Gary kept his Falcon GTHO for a few years after this, and vividly remembers the first time he took it off the clock winding it past 140 miles per hour. “My wife and I were returning from my in-law’s house in Queanbeyan, and as we went through the township of Collector along the Federal Highway, a small Datsun 1600 was right on my backside along the windey bits.

“On the first open straight of road, I took the HO off the clock!”

“My nervous wife looked at the speedo and said ‘it’s on the H where it reads MPH (miles per hour)’.”“I took her word for it.”

“I wasn’t game to take my eyes off the road at that speed!” laughs Gary now.

Five decades would pass before Gary laid teary eyes on his old bright orange Falcon, which is now in the hands of Melbourne collector Joe Barca.

“I never thought I’d ever see my GTHO again,” says Gary in disbelief.

“I was thunder struck again, this time though by the condition it’s in now which is better than it was new!”

Chris Dent from Falcon GT Restorations in Sydney had completely restored this super-rare Ford for a previous owner to a Gold standard Concours condition, resulting in winning the Grand Champion

‘The Best Car of Show’ at the 2015 Falcon GT Nationals.

The current owner Joe tells,

“It had won every category in the show it was entered in.

It cleaned up every trophy! I had to have it.”

It was this moment that Joe knew he had to buy this outstanding GTHO should it ever come up for sale.

As chance would have it, not long after the Falcon came onto the market for sale by tender, and Joe was the successful bidder paying $500,000 for this very special one-of-a-kind car.

“It’s also my wife Debbie’s favourite colour,” states Joe with a wink, as he justifies this expensive purchase.

This said, the Phase Two isn’t Joe’s first rodeo as he’s owned many Falcon GTs and probably more GTHOs than anyone else on the planet.

Unbeknownst to Joe at the time, Gary Thompson the former owner was also the under-bidder who wanted to get his old car back.

Gary’s son Trent then arranged for his dad to see his old Falcon.

“As you can see Dad was very teary seeing it again,” says Trent.

“At least he got to sit behind the wheel again.”

It was at this time that Joe learnt more about this car’s history from Gary who shared his story and photos about the night the flywheel exploded.

This helped Joe to make sense of some minor existing battle scars in the transmission tunnel on the car.

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