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duramaters · 2 years

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Aches and Adoration // Part 1

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summary: It’s been a few years since you became a member of Dauntless and you want to brush up on your fighting skills. Getting Eric to help you was probably not your best idea.

Warnings: Explicit language, violence and injury, fem!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

You sat on a ledge overlooking the Pit, absolutely entranced by the testosterone fuelled dance below. It was a Friday and that meant Fight Night at Dauntless. A great hulking man with a ginger mohawk and braided beard had picked his opponent clean off the floor and flung him into the corner of the ring and you were pretty sure the poor man was already out cold before he hit the ground. Even from where you sat, high above the action, you could hear the rattling of his chest as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. It was brutal and bloodthirsty and you loved it. You had never really bothered to attend Fight Night before, much preferring the quiet of your room and a good book, but you had been dragged along by Will and Christina to watch their friend, the very unfortunate casualty now being hauled through the crowd.

“This is amazing!” You bounced slightly on the cold concrete and Christina let out a chuckle at your shameless enthusiasm. You continued to watch the redheaded hulk make a mockery of his victims until the final bell rang and people began to disperse. Looking over at Will and Christina with a glint in your eye you naively asked if they thought you would ever be able to do that.

“Not a chance in hell.” Will shook his head with a slight smile.

“You’d be crushed like a bug within the first five seconds.” Rolling her eyes Christina nudged your shoulder with her own to show that she was only teasing before standing up and pulling you with her.

“Wanna go get some drinks?” Will walked between you, slinging his arms around your shoulders. You shook your head at him, body still buzzing with adrenaline from the fights.

“Nah I’m gonna go back to my room and try to wind down or else I’ll never sleep.” Sending your friends a light-hearted smile you broke away from them and jogged up the stairs and along the concrete corridors to your room, mind replaying all of the different fighting techniques you had observed over the past few hours. As soon as you unlocked your door you headed straight to your bookshelf and gathered all of your old training manuals from initiation. You had only realised from watching the evening’s entertainment that you had almost forgotten everything you had been taught back when you were sixteen and new to Dauntless. No time like the present to brush up on your old skills, you thought. Hopefully muscle memory and a good trainer would allow you to regain at least some of your old prowess in the ring.

~~~

The next morning found you cross legged on the floor beside your bed scribbling down pros and cons for all the potential Dauntless members you could ask to help train you. Hours had passed, spent with you considering your options. You had deliberated asking yesterday’s winner but you knew his reliance on brute strength and size wouldn’t work with you. You needed someone cunning and ruthless who wouldn’t go easy on you. That last point was crucial but it sadly meant that you had to cross Tori off of your list, she was way too nice to beat you to a pulp just to motivate you to do better. The only option left was one you weren’t too thrilled about, but you had never really interacted with the man before so you refused to pre-judge him based on reputation alone. Eric Coulter definitely met your criteria – he was intelligent, aggressive and uncompromising, exactly what you needed. Unfortunately, Eric Coulter also happened to hate you on sight.

“Absolutely fucking not” he snapped at you when you had sidled up to him during his lunch and directed your bright smile at him.

“I haven’t even said anything!” you pouted. He was nowhere near as intimidating as you thought he’d be, tearing up chunks of bread and smearing them with butter. Inching closer to him on the wide bench you clamped your hands together in front of your chest ready to actually beg the man in front of you.

“Fuck off.” Oh, maybe you should have headed his reputation after all.

“Can I at least say what I came over to say before I fuck off?” You questioned him, raising an eyebrow as he continued to ignore you and focus on his food. You took his silence as a go-ahead. “I want to get back into fighting and I figured you were my best bet at actually getting good.” Hopefully flattery worked with him. He released a breath through his nose and you watched his jaw tick and his fists clench in what you assumed was an attempt to not punch you smack in the nose. You slowly slipped back into your previous position on the bench, putting precious space between you and the apparently seething leader.

“I’m not going to say it again.” Eric’s voice came out in a harsh whisper but there was no way in hell you’d be leaning in to him to hear him better. With a sigh you swung your legs over the bench and left him to his lunch, trying to hide the disappointment from showing through the drooping of your shoulders as you walked away.

~~~

It turned out that the ginger giant from Fight Night was a Dauntless born named Thelonious and he was more than willing to teach you to fight. A bit too willing, you realised in hindsight, but you didn’t have many other options since Eric had refused to even entertain the idea of training you. You had set out the mats and refilled your water bottle in preparation for your training session and had decided to perform some simple stretches while you waited for your new mentor to arrive. He entered the training room flanked by two smaller, but equally as intimidating men and one of them looked you up and down lecherously, forcing to you repress a shiver and subtly glance around to take stock of the rooms other inhabitants. You noticed a flash of green hair and recognised the woman who had done your first tattoo. Good, it meant you had a potential ally in case things turned nasty with Thelonious and his pals. Squaring your shoulders in an attempt to appear more confident than you felt, you stepped forward and greeted the man who had agreed to train you.

“Let’s get started, pipsqueak.” He said, grinning wickedly a you through his thick beard. He clearly only wore the braids during fights, probably so his opponent couldn’t use it against him. You made sure to take a mental note of this. “Be warned. I won’t go easy on you kid.” You nodded in understanding, now absolutely terrified at the prospect of sparring with a man you had seen obliterate at least ten people a few nights ago.

Before you had even had chance to brace yourself against the mat a thundering fist met your abdomen and you doubled over in agony, pretty sure that the man had ruptured your spleen with the hit. Another punch landed against your ribs and you were convinced you felt them shatter beneath his knuckles. The air left your lungs and all you could manage to utter was a soft “ooft” as you were thrown back across the mat. Laughter behind you had you tenderly turning your head to see the two other men mocking you while Thelonious was above you, smirking at your pitiful attempts to get off the floor.

“Stay down and leave the fighting to the men, yeah pipsqueak?” He high-fived his repulsive friends and without so much as a backwards glance at you they left the training room outwardly pleased with the damage Thelonious had delivered to your crumpled body.

“Come on.” A hand appeared in front of your face and you peered up to see a streak of green hair. “I think we should get you to the infirmary, that dick definitely did a number on your ribs.” She said, hoisting you to your feet and gently draping your arm over her shoulder. The walk was slow and hard going, but you made it with the help of your saviour.

“Come see me for a new tattoo when you’re all healed.” She winked and saluted you before diseappering down the corridor. A kind looking male nurse rushed over to assess your injuries, his incessant questioning about what had happened distracted you from the pain until his fingers prodded your ribs over your clothing. Your eyes screwed shut and your teeth clenched in reflex to the sharp pain.

“Fucking ow, dude.” You grimaced. He had the good sense to look sheepish and quickly removed his hands from your side.

“Sorry I’m new, let me grab someone else!” He rushed off and you couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty at how you’d taken your pain out on him. As you settled back into the bed, shifting to ease the pressure on your lower back, you heard voices approaching down the corridor. A rather harangued looking doctor entered the room followed by a man who was too focused on the tablet in his hands to notice you.

“You’re using way too many resources, we need to be practical and only administer medication to people who really need it. The supplies are too low for-” Eric stopped mid sentence when he finally looked up from his tablet and saw you hunched up on the bed. The doctor had delicately lifted your shirt and your new knuckle shaped bruises were on clear display. Eric’s eyes had zeroed in on the discolouration and he had fallen deathly silent.

“I knew you were a fucking idiot.” He muttered under his breath and his admonishing tone had tears welling up in your eyes. The doctor didn’t seem to have heard his cruel comment.

“And what is your professional opinion here Mr. Coulter? Does she need treatment?” Eric merely huffed in response and left the room.

“Is he always such an ass?” You looked up at the doctor with a watery, yet conspirational grin.

“Always. Without fail.” She snickered and set about fixing your injuries.

~~~

You were perched delicately between Will and Christina at the dinner table when two large hands appeared on the table either side of your food tray. You could feel the softness of a t-shirt pressing against the exposed skin at top of your spine and when you leant backwards slightly in your surprise, the hardness of taut abdominal muscles pressing into your shoulder blades caused your breath to hitch.

“Did you learn your lesson or are you still desperate to fight?” You stiffened as you realised it was Eric’s hot breath tickling your temple. He backed up when he felt you shifting to face him, grunting at the bursts of pain radiating from your injuries. Will and Christina watched on with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation as you made eye contact with the man now towering over you.

“The only thing I learned was that I really ought to be able to defend myself against disgusting egotistical maniacs so that the next time that pig comes near me I can annihilate him.” You looked up at Eric, your saccharine smile contrasting your murderous tone. Eric’s responding smirk made your heart stutter and you had no clue if it was out of fear or something else entirely.

“Perfect.”

#eric coulter #eric coulter x reader #x reader #eric coulter x you #x you #divergent #fanficition #reader insert #fluff #kissing #mentor/mentee #jai courtney #jai courtney could smush me like a bug and i'd say thank you #smut #enemies to lovers #fem!reader #i know there aren't many of u left who still think about this man daily but those of u who do i hope u enjoy #no y/n #g writes

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endworldbroadcast · 27 days

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I'm extremely envious of others for every little thing but in a weird, detached way. I don't do anything with my envy so it doesn't encourage me to tear others down or anything, but I ruminate on it a lot. So it... hurts... me... a lot. Part of me thinks it is fine because the only person getting hurt is me, but I don't actually want to get hurt that way. But that doesn't stop me from feeling envious.

I envy people's relationships and intelligence and skills and lifestyles or whatever else, but in part there's this general feeling to it; it's not that I want to be 'better' than others per se or that I even want the exact things those people have. It's more that... uh...

It's like, when I observe other people in their day-to-day lives, they just seem so alive. Like even in the face of problems the nature of their sadness isn't to question whether they 'exist' within a reality or are even a 'real' person. I feel so incomplete and malformed in an existential way, like I have a 'body' like everyone elses but the personhood meant to fill it got crushed into a pulp at an earlier point and persists as a strange, undead glob. I feel lonely and upset that I feel like I'm dead, or like I was never really 'alive' at all and my physical existence is a mistake of not synchronising with my existential reality, then I feel worse from the feeling that my loneliness is seen as irrational, obnoxious and even a sign of my morally flawed character, and then I feel worse that I don't know anybody else who feels the same way as I do, like my problems are simultaneously trivial as to not deserve acknowledgement while also being the only one of its kind.

I feel the problem is not what I actually experience but how I experience it, internally, so that I'm plagued by the hopeless reality that there is no 'fixing' it. I could get everything I envy in real life but it never really reaches 'inside' of me, like there's a barrier between me and not only other people but from reality itself.

Existing is an endless vacillation of desperately trying to 'do' something about it, if only so I don't feel like I'm upset because of a lack of trying, and then not wanting to try at all because I know it all amounts to nothing in the end. I resent everybody around me, but then not really; I just really, really resent myself.

#d #recently I've been having this uncomfortable pressing feeling that while I have been 'loved' before #nobody has ever done it the way I wanted it to be #... It's difficult to elaborate without getting too detailed with it #The Type Of Loneliness Other People Can't Fix #schizoid tag #schizoposting

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jellysharkbat · 1 year

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As much as I like Kallus beating himself up over his time with the Empire, I also wanna see him refuse to buckle under whatever guilt he carries.

He was born and raised within the confines of the Empire. He refuses to apologize for that; especially since it was something he had no control over. He was given an excellent education which served him well throughout his career. He learned to fight and fight well. He'll never be ashamed of his prowess on the battlefield or as a spy.

Yes, the things he's done while blinded by his faith in the Empire was...horrific. Sometimes- a lot of the time- it crushes him utterly and he feels the shameful urge to crawl away and hide. Sometimes it feels like he can only make it up with his own death. He feels like he must suffer to repent for his many, many sins. He works far too much and far too hard in an attempt to atone for even the smallest of the wrongs he knows can't be forgiven.

Above all, he knows the hatred and scorn from his new allies, Rebels, is well deserved. He can't and won't argue that. They have every right to despise him and everything he once arrogantly and proudly stood for.

That arrogance of his hasn't gone away, though. Because every now and then, a few rebels will get the idea of teaching 'The Imp on base' a lesson.

It doesn't work.

Kallus didn't survive being tortured by Thrawn, or throwing himself into that escape pod in a desperate attempt to live, just to be beaten into a bloody pulp now.

He doesn't ever fight back to the fullest of his capabilities, but he never let's them have whatever way they wanted with him either. His new allies leave, cursing him for still standing and nursing new bruises- and tarnishing his reputation even further- but that's okay. They'll survive.

And he will too. Just long enough to help fight some more.

#I like my Kallus!whump fics #but the man is a fighter and a survivor #😤#also who wants to bet that Zeb finds it hot?#Zeb totally likes a fiesty Kallus #swr #alexsandr kallus

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kalitera-stin-erimia · 1 year

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Short reviews of Lovecraft RPF

One of the subsets of my Lovecraft obsession is finding and exploring fiction about Lovecraft, and I finally wrote up my short impressions of most fiction works about Lovecraft that I read/watched. Some of these definitely need larger reviews, and maybe will get them in the future, but one has to start from somewhere and these writings can at least make a foundation for them.

So, let's start. Some mild spoilers may appear.

Shadows Bend by David Barbour and Richard Raleigh: Lovecraft and Robert Howard travel the West of the USA during the Dust Bowl, persued by monsters. I'm surprised that these two meet so rarely in fiction - I mean, they never did in real life, but it still sounds like an obvious idea. Clark Ashton Smith also makes an appearence. I enjoyed the "road movie" feel of the book, and it seemed like the author tried to weave in some lore from the Bishop collaborations, which is the thing I'd love to see more often; however, the book was too plotless and the characterizations too exaggerated, too reliant on the out of date scholarship.

Gilgamesh at the Outback by Robert Silverberg: Another one about HPL and REH meeting, this time in hell. I skimmed this one, reading only the parts about them. Lovecraft is rather bland here, while REH is just bizarre. He has an over-the-top crush on Gilgamesh. WTF was going on in the Robert Howard scholarship in the eighties???

The Planet of Tastless Pleasure by Harry Harrison: One scene parodies Gilgamesh at the Outback. I enjoyed this one more than the Silverberg's book. I like Harrison's humor, what else to say?

Marblehead by Richard Lupoff: I already wrote a large review of this one. Well-researched and I guess well-characterized, but so dry that I'm afraid it doesn't live to the fullest potential. Everything just ends up feeling strangely muted, which is especially jarring in combination with the sensationalist plot and very pulp culmination.

Pages Torn from a Travel Journal by Edward Lee: Ooooof. Lee is not a bad writer, and unlike many others writing about Lovecraft, he clearly knows a lot about him and likes him very much. The other things he likes are (1) rednecks, (2) gore, (3) rape porn. The book is full of all these things and you can make a guess about how well they mix with Lovecraft. In spite of how gleefully campy the book is, the treatment of redneck characters is more sympathetic than I usually see in redneck horror, which is a plus, I guess? On the other hand, Lovecraft getting into an adventure during one of his bus travels seems such an obvious idea for a story, I'm surprised it doesn't get used often.

Trolley 1852 by Edward Lee: I liked this one less than the previous one. It's more creative though, and closer to Lovecraft's kind of horror - which is not surprising, considering that the major part of the book is supposed to be "written" by him as a book within a book (while Pages was rather, ehhh, "historical fiction".)

Pulptime by Peter Cannon: New York period Lovecraft meets aged Sharlock Holmes. Hijinks predictably ensue. A cute calm story which is probably good for removing unpleasant aftertaste of Lee's books (that's how it worked for me, anyway.) What bugged me was that the plot felt too thin for a mystery, and the author seemingly treated the anti-immigrant sentiment of The Horror at Red Hook too uncritically. Lovecraft's characterization was okay, Cannon is better at it than most, but in this book it relied on quoting too much.

The Lovecraft Chronicles by Peter Cannon: Definitely a better book than Pulptime, and the best exploration of the question "What if Lovecraft lived longer?" so far. May get too farcical at places, but I think Cannon finds a good balance between crackfic and seriousness.

The Night Ocean by Paul La Farge: A Very Intellectual postmodernist book which is also a kinda shitposty Lovecraft/Barlow slashfic. Absolutely not worth the hype it had been met with in some mainstream big journals. As far as Lovecraft's characterization goes, I'd say the author tried, however, it's still weirdly superficial and subtly mean-spirited. The treatment of Barlow is even more dissappointing - he was meant to be the center of the book, but the author seems strangely dismissive of his literary and scholarly work and desinterested in his personality. Besides, the majority of the book is not even about them, but about the dull original characters and endless cameos of other historical characters.

Night Gaunts by Brett Rutherford: The play is written by a fan from the zine fandom, and it shows: both in solid characterizations and in bad poetry. I liked this one.

The Lamp of Alhazred by August Derleth: A sentimental story about Lovecraft's legacy. One of the better Lovecraftian works by Derleth, and certainly the one with most feeling.

Balsamo's Mirror by L. Sprague de Camp: Good old "but you probably wouldn't be priviledged in your favorite historical period, gotcha". I've seen better works that poked fun at Lovecraft.

When Death Wakes Me Up to Myself by John Shirley: I was so impressed with this one that I've already reviewed it. What I like the most about it is that it's catches the cosmic wonder aspect of Lovecraft's personality, which was just as important for his life and work as cosmic horror, yet gets written about so less often.

HPL by Gahan Wilson: A story by Gahan Wilson about Lovecraft being a brain in a jar could have been more entertaining.

The Lurker in the Shadows by Nathan Carson: It starts as a very indulgent story about correspondence between the elderly Lovecraft and Stephen King in the 1970s, and then takes an unexpected turn into dark comedy about body switching. Simultaneously one of the least racist portrayals of Lovecraft and one of the most villainous ones, though I'm afraid the author didn't think it through. On the other hand, it's not often that you read about Lovecraft marrying Beyonce.

Lovecraft in Heaven by Grant Morrison: Bad trip.

Night-Gaunts by Joyce Carol Oates: An examination of Lovecraft's life, or, rather, an alternative Lovecraft. Unfortunately, it's one of these tiring takes that talk about how Unhappy, Troubled and Neurotic Lovecraft was, and how Gothic and Gloomy his life was. As far as Oates stories go, this one is far from her best, very slow-going and hard to follow at times. More could have been done with the possibility of Lovecraft's father living longer than he did, though I agree he would probably leave less favorable impression on Lovecraft in such case.

The Premature Death of H.P. Lovecraft, Oldest Man in New England by Thomas Ligotti: Seems to be an another take on body hopping, but subtly so? Very short. Well-written, but I'd expect more from a Ligotti story about Lovecraft.

The Exiles by Ray Bradbury: Lovecraft appears in one version of the story, sitting near the fireplace and eating ice cream. Everyone in this story is benevolently caricatured, so I'm fine with it.

Letters from an Old Gent by W.H. Pugmire: The style reads nothing like Lovecraft (but I think it wasn't really the intention, anyway) yet it still works, somehow. Pugmire's case is similar to Lee's, that is, their fondness for Lovecraft is such that it actually improves the quality of their writing. His emotional intellect also appears to be more developed than in most other Lovecraftian writers.

Lovecraft by Hans Rodionoff and Enrique Breccia: A mix of Lovecraft's biography (in the out of date interpretation) and the usual "but what if what he wrote was real???" I heard there were plans to make a Hollywood adaptation of it, and it certainly felt like one at times. The art was great, but the story was way too visceral and hysterical for either Lovecraft's biography or Lovecraftian horror.

Providence by Alan Moore and Jacen Burrows: Well-researched and well-thought out. Moore definitely cleaned out his Lovecraft game after the dissappointing Neonomicon. The comic is more about Lovecraft's characters, Lovecraft himself appears only in one issue, but plays an important role in the entire story (well, duh). His characterization is satisfying both as realism and as metafiction, though the usual Moore bullshit is still present in small amounts. Not a huge fan of art, and Lovecraft gets black hair yet another time (and looks like in his forties at 1919).

The Strange Adventures of H.P. Lovecraft by Mac Carter: I don't remember this one well, but I remember that Lovecraft here doesn't have much in common with the real one neither in personality, nor in biography, nor in looks. Some things are done with the "underappreciated artist" part of his life, but without the context of his life, they don't amount to much.

H.P. Lovecraft: He who Wrote in the Darkness by Alex Nikolavitch and Gervasio-Aon-Lee: Well, this one is a straightforward biography of Lovecraft, or, rather, his life from 1925 on. As such, it was alright. I liked the way the artist used colors, and that some people from Lovecraft's life like Loveman got more attention than they usually do.

One Night with Lovecraft (Une nuit avec Lovecraft) by Philippe Marcele and Rodolphe: A fan from the future gets a chance to hang out with Lovecraft in the 1930s. Not bad, but had too much padding at times - do we really need shortened adaptations of some Lovecraft's (and one Poe's!) stories within such kind of comic? The artist was great at drawing urban landscapes, but much worse at drawing people.

R.H.B. by Andreas and Riviere: An old French comic about Barlow, his time with Lovecraft and later life. This one would have been better if the artist knew what Barlow looked like. His real appearence would go well with the artist's style.

Rough Riders: Ride or Die by Adam Glass: Lovecraft briefly joins the main team as someone who can see ghosts. I liked the main characters, who were also historical personalities, but Lovecraft himself was super bland. At least the art was decent (and he didn't look grotesque like he often does in the comics.)

Out of Mind: The Stories of HPL: This one is memorable, but mostly because of the actor's performance. The plot is a mess.

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the-hobgoblins · 1 year

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.·:*¨༺ once upon a time, in ireland ༻¨*:·.

( CHAPTER ONE )

Once upon a time, in the lush green meadows of the Irish countryside, there lived a witch who destroyed everything she touched.

The townsfolk feared her, shuttered their windows and locked their doors at night, praying the same evil would not come for their own children. The witch’s parents were deeply and intolerantly religious, but even their severity, their cruelty, their heavy-handed methods of casting out the demons that plagued their daughter did little but to feed the monster that dwelled within her.

Until one day, she’d had enough. There was no cataclysmic event to have caused the switch to flip in the witch, no single identifiable trigger that was to blame. She simply awoke one day, after enduring a steady crescendo of daily abuse, and she ended them. She walked outside, felt the sun’s morning rays upon her skin, beaten and healed and scarred so many times over, and in an instant the deed was done. She willed the stone walls of the house to cave in on themselves, and so it was; her parents crushed to pulp beneath the rubble.

Then she walked the dirt road that stretched through the center of the small town, and did the same to each and every building she passed, until nothing was left.

And then the witch ran.

There were others like her, the witch discovered. They practiced their dark craft in dark, hidden places. They hid from those who would persecute them like insects in the soil, not daring to crawl into the light and attract a predator’s eye, to seek too much power, to want anything too deeply. Wanting was akin to giving yourself over to Death.

But the witch wanted—she craved more, always more. The scraps of power offered to her within the dark, dank coffin of existence into which her kind had entombed themselves was not enough.

She buried her old name in the rubble of her old town, never to be uttered or so much as thought of, again. She went by Morrigan, now—the Warrior-Queen, the Fury and the Doom, the Inciter of War and the Harbinger of Death.

The witches had told her she was a sorceress of chaos; it fueled her, it thrummed through her veins. And so chaos is where Morrigan went looking for more power.

For there was only one source of magic in this land that could be considered chaos in its purest form. The Fae.

For years, Morrigan sought contact with the Fair Folk. She grew desperate, obsessed. The hunger for a glimpse of what she knew lay just beyond her reach consumed her, burying the last shreds of her humanity like the rings of mushrooms in the dirt that Morrigan sought with endless fervor, from one end of the isle to the other.

But the Fair Folk did not grant Morrigan an audience. She could almost feel them laughing their sharp teeth at her from the crevices of reality wherein they lurked; foolish mortal, insignificant bug.

So she turned her back on them, and poured all of her ire into a new task. She built her own coven of witches out of ruthlessness and sheer grit, and she refused to cower in shadow. Soon every practitioner of magic in Ireland knew of them, feared them—Asarlaíocht, the dark mages whose very presence, their threatening, violent infamy that was whispered in the shadows kept their enemies up at night. Morrigan’s power grew of her own two hands, the dirt and the blood beneath her nails as she clawed her way to the top. She forgot her obsession with the high-and-mighty Fae.

Until a raven-haired boy was dumped at her safehouse door.

The beast that dwelled within Morrigan’s flesh sang with that ravenous want from the very first moment she got near the boy, Ozymandias Pryce, like the magic that raged in Morrigan’s blood could smell the chaos that leaked from this child’s every pore, that consumed every inch of its fragile human host. The father who’d abandoned him was too stupid, too blinded by his own arrogance and pride to realize the true value of the prize he’d been so eager to rid himself of. But Morrigan could recognize this boy’s power for what it was, where it came from; a hidden well of magic relinquished from the Fae realm, a tiny glittering pool like a Holy Grail that Morrigan had searched for, had coveted, had been delirious to drink from and quench her blackened, shriveled, power-parched soul for so, so long.

Hers at last, wrapped up and delivered into her waiting hands like a perfect, precious gift.

And Morrigan did not intend to ever let him go.

( TO BE CONTINUED... )

#drabble #headcanon #once upon a time in ireland #origin story #oz #morrigan #mention of child abuse cw

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achy-boo · 5 minutes

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Obsidian Dade

"A mysterious man of Fontaine which nobody but very few know him. His eyes remains close at all time."

Name: Obsidian Dade

Title: Fontaine’s Grim Reaper

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Rating: 5 star

Element: Electro

Weapon: Polearm(it is more like a double edge scythe)

Hometown: Sumeru

Now: Fontaine

Information

Character Details: Fontaine’s Grim Reaper is a man with many mysteries and secrets hidden within. Only few close friends can know it and vow to never say a word about them as long as he wants

Character Story 1: Obsidian is the fourth son out of a family of seven in Sumeru, however due to his..appearance, he was often outcast from any family gatherings. But there is two person who always include him in the family activities in secrecy, his little twin sisters

Character Story 2: He was a black sheep who never really asked for his family’s love and affections as he did not see the need to. His little twin sisters though..he always give them the love and affection they needs since they are too young to know the sins of the world

Character Story 3: He never gets along with one of his older brothers due to the brother’s entitlement and hypocritical ways. Obsidian always avoids him and leads his twin little siblings away because of this as he believes that innocence shall be cherished at all times.That is what his family found out, forcing Obsidian to join the family life but he refuses it every chance he gets.

Character Story 4: In his closed eyes, his younger twin sisters are his world and he will do anything to protect them even making himself the villain in Sumeru. He loved his little twin siblings to death as he wanted them to grow up to be happy and respectful women but..that dream was later crushed.

Character Story 5: The news of his little siblings' disappearance was heard from Sumeru, Obsidian was devastated. He searched high and low for them with zero luck. But when he came home, he saw his older brother with a lot of mora with his other siblings. He asked that brother politely where he got the money..he was horrified that the family sold his twin siblings for a lot of money. Everything went black and he woke to see all his older siblings tied up and beaten up to a pulp…he disappeared before the matra arrived and he was never heard or seen of again.

(Due to how his eyes glow when he opens it, he has them close shut 24/7.)

Vision

Obsidian got his vision after protecting his little siblings to the day of the incident. To this day, he never reveals how he got this vision nor what he did to earn it.

Voice Lines~

Hello:Hello my dear. My name is Obsidian Dade..a pleasure to meet you

Chat: Eyes closed: Even if my eyes are closed, I can still feel everything through vibrations

Chat: Reading: Knowledge is power right? But it can be deadly~

Chat: Skulls: Oh dear. Make sure you did not look at a specific skull. The skull is not too keen on people looking at it.

When it Rains: Oh dear. Here let me give you an umbrella. You must not stand in the rain. I do not want you to get sick now would we?

When Thunder Strikes: Hmph. Thunder..I never had thunderstorms where..anyways let us find shelter immediately

When the Sun is Out: (doesn’t have to be rain related)

When it Snows: Ahh. Snow~! I wonder if I can commit some..’business’ here. Hehe..just kidding~

Good Morning: Good morning, lovely. I have made breakfast for us to start the day

Good Afternoon: It’s Afternoon, do you want to do something?

Good Evening: Ahh..The sun is about to have its daily rest

Good Night: Good Night~ I will make sure that you will have a peaceful sleep

About Obsidian: Warnings: You have been hearing warnings about me when I am angry? Ah..the haunting melody and my eyes are open~ Well..they are not wrong in fact: There is a good reason why those warnings are there~! I will let you find that out yourself.

About Obsidian: Sweets: You saw me eating sweets with Furina and Neuvillette? Now who told you about our whereabouts..ugh.. nevermind that. Yes I have a sweet tooth and no..I am not willing to share my stash of sweets with you..I want to eat them in peace..

About the Vision: Visions..I had no opinion on them..It is not something I am partially interest in

Something to Share: Fun Fact..Do not tell Neuvillette this but I saw him cuddling the Melusines and the cute otters near an ocean and took a picture of it~ My darling Furina was surprised that Neuvillette still has not noticed it~! HAH! Ahhh..what a cutie-pie Neuvillette is~

Interesting Things: Sometimes whenever I have a well deserved day off, I babysit children. Hm? You never think that I have that much of a soft spot towards children despite my..Say that again and I will make sure that you are seeing Wriothesley all gagged up and tied up PERSONALLY!

About Us: I: Hmph. Even though you can from the stars..I..respect you. No sane person can go through hell and back like you..

About Us: II: You are really that famous huh? Hm? Nah, I ain’t jealous..Just amazed that all

About Us: III: How Teyvat is treating you? I know this world is..something else..just focus on your journey..do not worry about me..I will be alright..

About (Furina): Ah, Miss Furina. The beautiful queen who has a love for cakes. I always admire her yet I understand her like those who have gained my trust. Oh, how I wish to dance with her underneath the night starry skies, dancing in such grace and elegance and just- pfft why are you looking at me like that~?

About (Neuvillette): Ah Monsieur Neuvillette. Chief Justice of Fontaine. He is such a fine man indeed. Though..don’t tell him but I had Melodina make some cute art of him, the melsuines and the otters in the water together. Hehe~ It is so cute! No you are not having it..

About (Melodina): Melodina is my best friend and right hand person. They are always reliable yet they are very resourceful. They are usually the one on the high places, spying on people and reporting crime to me so I rely on the information back to Neuvi. Oh Melodina’s pronouns are she/they by the way. They will hit you if you misgender them..they never like the she/her pronouns. It does not suit her as she had hoped..

More About Obsidian: I: Fontaine is more beautiful and fun. It's..better than my hometown

More About Obsidian: II: I used to bake and cook a lot for my little twin sisters but for now I bake for my friends and those cute children in Fontaine, Hm? Do you want some? Okay, say a dessert and I will make it for you darling~.

More About Obsidian: III: A good reading is always a must have in my life though there is my job as Fontaine’s grim reaper and my busy busy schedule but when I have my day off, I use it to my advantage. Say would you like to join me to date? Ahah! Don’t be so red in the face or else you will look like a tomato

Obidsain’s Hobbies: reading a book in the library in utter silence is a pleasant thing.

Obsidian's Troubles: People who expect more from me or try to change who I am..They all had an unpleasant surprise afterwards~

Favorite Food: I do not have a favorite food. I will eat whatever you give me

Least Favorite Food: Hm..It has to be Fish and Chips..I do not hate it..I just..prefer to avoid it

Birthday: Happy Birthday my dear. You have been walking around so much. Here let me take care of you and I am not taking no as an answer~

—-------------------------------------------------

Low HP I: Oh dear..

Low HP II: Tsk..too strong

Low HP III: Back me up!

Ally Low HP I: Go rest. I got this

Ally Low HP II: It's gonna pissed me off, Leave them alone!!

Fallen I: I..failed..

Fallen II: No! I..can’t break that promise..

Fallen III: My loved ones..I'm sorry..

Light Hit I: Hm?

Light Hit II: Is that what you got?! Pathetic..

Heavy Hit I: AHAH! Good..

Heavy Hit II: That’s more like it~!

Join Party I: You want me to join you?

Join Party II: I wonder what the journey leads

Join Party III: Do not fret..I will be keeping an keen eye on you~

—-------------------------------------------------

Sprint Start: I: You wanna catch me?

Sprint Start: II: Oh~ too slow~

Sprint End: I: Woo. What a run~

Spring End: II: Looks like you have been eating the dust

Deploying Wind Glider: I: Oh so pretty~

Deploying Wind Glider: II: No wonder the view is so gorgeous up here~

Opening Treasure Chest: I: Hm, this looks good

Opening Treasure Chest: II: Aha, nice find dear

Opening Treasure Chest: III: Oh~ This is very precious. Let us share.

—-------------------------------------------------

Elemental Skill I: Don’t get cut~

Elemental Skill II: Let the skulls laugh~!

Elemental Skill III: Skulls, get those scums!

Elemental Burst I: Face The Grim Reaper’s Wrath!

Elemental Burst II: Join the afterlife

Elemental Burst III: Sayonara~ AHAHA!!

—-------------------------------------------------

Feelings About Ascension: Intro: Ooh, this feels delightful~! Keep it up sweetie~

Feelings About Ascension: Building Up: Now now, I can not allow this but..I accept this

Feelings About Ascension: Climax: The skulls are pleased with your willing effort.

Feelings About Ascension: Conclusion: The skulls and the grim reaper are pleased.! But you work so hard on everything..I am here to give you a vow..whenever you are in danger or you need someone to talk to. Come to me..I will be your weapon and your comfort. It is the least I can do for making me feel..myself.

"People who see passed my walls..is the ones I trust my secrets with"-Obsidian Dade

#genshin impact oc #ཐིཋྀ ~ rosey’s theater ~ ཐིཋྀ #Obsidian Dade #Fontaine oc

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cassi-misc-art · 2 months

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EAT

Story features a creature eating everything in a rotting house except for the house itself. It's gross.

Outside it was filthy, humid and stinking, the air shimmering with oppressive heat… but inside, it was worse. The foul breeze outside at least offered the illusion of hope that the situation would improve. Inside, the heat and humidity filled the tiny room with a haze so thick that to breathe was a challenge of its own. The stench was inescapable, so intense that it was impossible to determine any single source. Whoever or whatever the corpse on the couch had once been, evidence pointed towards the filth significantly predating their death. Dishes do not pile in the sink on their own, especially not to the point of leaving the cabinets and drawers wholly empty. Nor does garbage spontaneously multiply, no matter what the mothers of teenage boys may say. Death had not fouled the atmosphere of this room, merely contributed to it.

The creature was silent for a minute, taking in the sights and sounds of the world outside the door, before turning to the mess within. Wolf-headed, goat-legged, scorpion-tailed, and altogether inhuman, it made its way to the couch. The corpse resting there was so rotted that when the creature grabbed it by a leg, the limb came off with a sickly wet crunch. But this was nothing compared to the noises that followed as the creature began to feed.

It bit fingers off the hands, crushed ribs between its jaws, shattered and devoured the head, consumed the rotting pulp of organs by the handful. When the corpse had been devoured entirely, the creature lifted a stained cushion from the couch, tearing into it with filthy teeth. Vermin had taken up residence there, beetles and flies and their larvae, and they too found their way into the thing's maw. Nothing was left uneaten. Pizza boxes, soda cans, take-out containers from every steakhouse in town, burger wrappers, and all the moldy remnants lingering within were stuffed down the beast's throat. Shards of glass and plastic and metal and ceramic fell from its lips, only to be retrieved and swallowed, as dirty dishes were consumed. The cabinets were stripped of their meager contents, even the mouse traps and rat poison. The carpet itself was ripped from the floor.

At length, the creature stopped eating. It had resorted to retrieving pennies and safety pins from cracks and corners, and finally there was nothing left that could be consumed without inflicting structural damage. Yellow eyes surveyed the room one last time, and the beast gave a stinking grunt, turning to face the figure that stood in the doorway.

#cassi writes #disgusting #gross #vile #eating

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darkjanet2 · 2 months

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Sonic 06: Lilithmon

Chapter 3: The Brink of the Disastrous Future

200 years later in the future, a snow-white hedgehog was flying around the ruined buildings with flames and a sea of lava. A thick layer of grey smoke darkened the clouds as a massive volcano erupted. It looked like a huge black pillar, reaching for the skies. The sound of rumbling and flashing of lightning filled the air, and small bits of debris were blown all over the place. Everything seemed to be burning as a massive mushroom cloud surrounded the entire city, but it wasn’t visible anymore.

His fur was gray and the collar of fur around his neck was white. He wears gold-banded gloves, and his hands have blue, glowing lines across the wrists, which help him direct his psychokinetic powers when he flies, attacks, or defends. Those boots have aqua blue toes, black sides, and white in the middle. The tongues are red, with gold ankle bands that sport blue, glowing lines to concentrate his psychokinesis. Additionally, he has yellow eyes. His quills were shaped like a star and two long quills in the back of his head.

This world was devastated before I was born. A harsh, bleak place, where we live in eternal darkness. Life is a struggle, and people live without hope. How did this happen? No one will answer me directly. But they always point… to the flame.

A tornado of flame swirled up before the ivory hedgehog, he used his psychokinesis power to clear the flame away. The flames burned down immediately after he made his way through the destruction, but the charred earth was left behind.

These flames. They burn away at my world destroying everything in their path. They come from an eternal life form we cannot truly defeat. The Flame of Disaster is known as Iblis.

"Silver!" a girl's voice rang out in the distance. Silver's furred ears twitched as his golden yellow eyes focused on the lavender cat. An elegant golden collar hung from her neck, a violet tailcoat trimmed with roses, and white leggings. She also wore white gloves and high-heeled rose ankle boots, both featuring white fluffy cuffs on them. A thick white stripe runs down each front of her boots, followed by gray soles and gray heels. A red hair tie adorned four plumes of violet hair pulled up in a high ponytail. Her forehead was also adorned with an oval red gem.

"Blaze! What's wrong?" he asked, noticing the distress on her face.

"He's appeared again!" she pointed to the horizon. A column of fire, almost too bright to look at, was headed right towards us. Silver scowled upon hearing Blaze's words as he raced forward, dodging any stray fires on his way to get ahead of the approaching pillar of fire. As he got closer he could feel its heat as it grew even hotter.

Silver and Blaze arrived in Crisis City shortly after to confront Iblis, the sea of lava began to emerge from the depths of the crater. The firey golem demon was ready to fight, while Silver and Blaze were ready to attack.

"Come on, you monster!" yelled Silver.

Ilbis roared in response before firing a stream of fire in Blaze's direction. "Fireballs!" she exclaimed, using her pyrokinesis to summon a wave of fire to intercept the incoming fireballs. As Blaze deflected the projectiles she noticed Silver staring intently at the ground below him, he quickly glanced upward in time to see Iblis's giant claws shoot straight toward him. He jumped upwards just in time, narrowly avoiding getting crushed into a pulp by the beast's massive claw.

"Silver!" Blaze shouted. "The ground is going to collapse. Iblis is coming up behind you!" She summoned more fire to blast her flaming fists at Iblis. The golem was quick though. Within seconds, the ground cracked open under Iblis's feet. Blaze cried out, ducking to avoid getting hit.

"Don't worry, Blaze," Silver said, "I'm gonna protect you!" He shot a psychokinetic blast at Iblis, who quickly dodged out of the way. Iblis then let out a roar and charged straight at Silver, his fist ablaze with deadly flames. Silver took evasive maneuvers until Blaze could reach him. She wrapped her arms around his chest and teleported herself away to safety. Once she landed Blaze released Silver from her grip and the hedgehog quickly shot a blast of psychic energy at Iblis to prevent him from pursuing them.

The firey monster roared painfully at the sight of Silver shooting his blast of psychic energy at him. His eyes glowed brighter, almost blinding. Before Silver could do anything, he fired another beam of fire. Silver blocked the fire, and it bounced off of him harmlessly. He didn't have time to dodge it. He felt his body tense as the next attack was about to be launched. He breathed a flamethrower at SIlver, but he quickly dodged out of the way. Just as Iblis turned the corner and saw Silver dodging another attack, Silver flew backward and blasted him with an explosive burst of psychokinesis. The force sent the giant golem careening backward. The firey monster went back to the molten lava beneath it, leaving a massive hole in the ground and covering it with a thin sheet of lava that formed a barrier between it and the outside world.

"Looks like we stopped it for now," said Blaze, crossing her arms over her chest.

"But it'll just rise up from its ashes again," Silver hit the brick wall in frustration. "What's the point of all this?! It'll never end!"

"Calm down, SIlver," Blaze comforted him as he calmed down. Silver sighed in disappointment. "Then tell me what we should do. How can we completely destroy Iblis?" asked Silver, as Blaze closed her eyes unsure of what to think. Suddenly a dark voice from the top of the ruined building.

"…By knowing the truth, of course." Silver's ears twitched in surprise as Blaze opened her eyes in confusion and turned their heads to where the voice came from. There was a dark grey and green hedgehog who looked exactly like Shadow, but he had no mouth. His eyes were green with a slit pupils.

"Just as a flower comes from a seed, or a chicken comes from an egg, everything has an origin. You need to find the being originally responsible for this catastrophe," he said as he raised his arms in the sky.

"Is that really the answer to our problem?" Silver asked as he pointed to him. "Tell me, do you know who it is?"

The dark hedgehog looked at Silver with a sinister look in his eyes. "No…" he stated as he walked past Silver. He reached out a hand, and Silver noticed that his fingers glowed pinkish red, "but there is someone else who does." Silver and Blaze glanced at each other in confusion.

"Who are you?" asked Silver.

"My name is Mephiles. If you know the answer, I come to help you," answered the dark hedgehog, walking away.

Silver shook his head and glanced at Blaze. "We'll follow him."

At the Database

"To fix the present timeline, you need to change the past," said Mephiles.

Silver was shocked when he heard those words and he stared up at the mysterious dark hedgehog. "You mean, we need to rewrite the past…?" he asked.

Mephiles nodded. Silver thought for a moment as he pondered whether or not they would listen to Mephiles. "But that's impossible!" said Silver.

"With my help, you can, because I have the power to travel time!" said Mephiles.

"No way!" Silver was surprised at his answer. Was he able to use travel time to change the future where it needed to be?

"If you don't accept my offer, you might never get another chance to fix your future and I won't be able to help you anymore," replied Mephiles.

"Why should we trust you?" Silver questioned Mephiles, narrowing his eyes at him.

"In order to change the past, you must eliminate the individual who has awakened Iblis. The Iblis Trigger," said Mephiles.

Silver and Blaze glanced at each other, both wanting to believe Mephiles's words, then looked back at him.

"If I eliminate that guy, will our world be saved?" asked Silver.

Mephiles nodded, "Yes. The Day of Disaster… Here are my records of this event. This was when Iblis was freed and his flames were released into the world," Mephiles said as he turned on the computer, Silver and Blaze the images of Tirathana.

"And you have this person to blame," Mephiles took out a purple Choas Emerald and showed it to Silver, who examined it curiously. A vision of a blue hedgehog and flames appeared within the crystal.

"That's him… that's who the Iblis Trigger is meant to kill…" Silver mumbled, looking thoughtful. Blaze gazed intently at Silver. She knew something was wrong.

Mephiles continued, I'll send us back in time to the point when the Iblis Trigger was alive."

He created a dark sphere with his hands, placed it on Silver and Blaze, and three of them completely vanished.

Back in the Present of Tirathana

It was a beautiful day outside. The blue skies were full of clouds as the sun gently shined down. The wind rustled through the trees, causing some leaves to fall onto the ground in front of the house. A gentle breeze blew by, carrying the aroma of fresh flowers. The birds were chirping happily. All was normal, peaceful, perfect… suddenly a portal appeared above them. Silver jumped out of the portal alone as it closed behind him. He was looking around the surface, this place was peaceful, tranquil, and untouched.

'Where am I?' thought Silver. "Blaze?" he called out as he looked around. Blaze was nowhere in sight. "Blaze!" he called out again, but there was no response. Where could she possibly have gone?

Silver was standing there in the beautiful place, not sure of how he got there, but he was determined to find his partner and get them home safely. He walked through the meadow filled with colorful flowers and the flowing river running along the side of the meadow. As Silver walked, he leaned down scooping his hands up water with each step to drink, then drank as much as he could. The water was cold and pure, refreshing the taste buds on his tongue.

"Ah, the water here tastes great." Silver sighed blissfully as he gulped down more water. "There was no water back in my future…" he grumbled quietly to himself.

After finishing drinking his fill, he stood up as he was ready to find Iblis once and for all. "No time to lose," said Silver, beginning to walk. "I must fight for the future."

#fanfiction #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #silver the hedgehog #lilithmon #digimon #crossover #different story

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my-name-is-jefferooni · 5 months

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Metal Sonic is such a deep character you guys

IT IS LATE IN THE NIGHT AND I HAVE SCHOOL IN THE MORNING BUT THE BRAINWORMS ARE BRAINWORMING SO I HAVE NI CHOICE BUT TO DUMP THIS SUPER DUPER ANALYSIS ON IDW METAL SONIC AKA THE PSYCHOLOGY OF A ROBOT. PLEASE ENJOY CUZ I AM VERY SLEEPY.

Okay, we all know who Metal is. If I have to explain who this adorkable little scrimblo is to you then why are you reading this? (Hope that didn’t sound mean I’m sorry) And he’s one of the most beloved Sonic characters in the fandom, at least from what I’ve heard, and it makes sense! The guy’s debut was fucking awesome! But even though I know a lot of you love the fact that the guy is just pure evil due to his software and his loyalty to Eggman and blah blah blah… I’m not too into that.

HECK YEAH BAYBEEEEEE IM GIVING YOU REASONS WHY METAL HAS A CHANCE AT REDEMPTION LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Now I will be covering everything that is strictly within the IDW timeline, which is still a bit unclear when it comes to past events. So, for simplicity’s sake, I’ll only be including all the mainstream Sonic games that take place before the comics, including the storybook games as they were referenced in the beginning of the Metal Virus saga. (And also including the OVA to some degree) Now then, with that out of the way, ENOUGH DILLY-DALLYING!! LET’S GET TO THE FUCCIN MEAT OF THIS BITCH!!

Metal was created way back when Sonic was still just a kid. Amy still had a crush on the guy, Tails was still gaining his sense of independence, and Knuckles was still an idiot. And compared to Sonic himself, Metal was the superior to all of them. He had speed, guts, glory, strength, smarts, wit, and a willpower that rivaled the original blue hedgehog! Compared to the rest, Metal was simply better in every way!

But when he went head-to-head against the organic blue idiot, something went wrong. Metal had completed his objective, tracked down Sonic and beat him to a pulp, but then without falter, the guy challenged him to a race… And he won.

How, though?? Metal is superior! He is the better version of whoever the heck this… This weird, fleshy, quillt monster is! He’s faster, stronger, smarter…! Everything about him just screams perfection! So how did he lose to the inferior shade of blue!? Why couldn’t he catch up!? Why was this amateur so much better than him!?

Why did he act like he was better than Metal…?

A few months later, Metal began studying the blue rodent via Robotnik’s hidden cameras all throughout Mobius. He began seeing things from his point of view, seeing how bright and disgusting his life was. But what really caught his attention was when Sonic bled. Red ooze dripped from his knee when he took a particularly dangerous tumble, the liquid from within staining the Mobian’s quills. He washed it out in the nearby river just a few moments later, but that moment always stuck with Metal. He tried many times to get himself to bleed red as well, tried everything from needles to dangerous tests to going out of his way to get beat up all over again! But no matter what he did, no red ooze trickled down his leg like Sonic the Hedgehog’s had.

This meant that Sonic was organic. He was born and raised where he stood, since according to classic Mobian biology, one had to go through many years of growth and development if they were to bleed. Sonic was one of those people, having grown and developed and changed and… Well. That could only mean one thing, could it? Metal had only been born a few months ago, but Sonic… He was probably years old at this point, meaning he had come first.

Metal was not the original.

After coming to this disappointing realization, Metal gained a few upgrades. No longer would he be bested in a race against that disgusting blue rodent, no! Now he was better, faster, stronger than he ever could’ve imagined! And with these new upgrades, Metal swept the floor with his organic counterpart on the icecaps, and didn’t leave any room for improvement on the other’s end.

AND I HAVE TO CUT IT THERE BECAUSE IM FUCKING TIRED AND IDK WHAT ELSE FO WRITE FOR NOW IM SORRY IM SORRY I HAVE TO IT IS 11:30 IN THE PM RIGHT NOW AND I HAVE SCHOOL AND I WOULD LIKE TO GO TO BED SOON OKAY IM SORRY BUT SLEEP IS MORE IMPIRTANT THAN CHARACTER ANALYSIS I KNOW I KNOW

I PROMISE I WILL CONTINUE THIS BECAUSE I LOVE METAL A TON SO YES THIS WILL CONTINUE HOPEFULLY TOMORROW

Thanks for reading and have a great day/night!

#Diayfvbudgfagvbvdfuhbdvfuyb WRITING DRAMATIC STUFF IS SO HARDDDDDDD #OKAY I NEED TO GO BRUSH TEETH BYE #blog/ask stuff

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mabibliothequederecettes · 7 months

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Mouthwatering Moist Meatloaf

Hello! Do you hate dry and crumbly meatloaf?

Well, so do I!

Here's a quick and easy recipe that is sure to satisfy your Meatloaf Mondays!

VEGETABLES:

1 - Medium White Onion, Chopped

1 - Whole Garlic Clove, Peeled

2 - Large Carrots, Chopped

2 - Celery Sticks, Chopped

DAIRY:

1 - Splash of Milk

2 - Eggs

MEAT:

2lbs of Ground Beef

MISC:

1 - Cup of Bread Crumbs (Seasoned or Unseasoned, up to you)

SEASONINGS:

Basil

Beef Bouillon Powder

Black Pepper

Brown Sugar

Garlic Salt

Ketchup (Heinz is my favorite)

Onion Powder

Rosemary

Soy Sauce

Thyme

White Vinegar

TOOLS:

1 - Large Bowl

1 - Food Processor

1 - Loaf Pan

STEP 1:

Peel your garlic clove, onion, and carrots.

Then, aside from the garlic clove, give your onion, carrots, and celery a rough chop.

You want everything small enough to fit inside your food processor or blender if you don't have a food processor.

Once everything is in, puree it until a fragrant and smooth pulp is created.

STEP 2:

Get out a large bowl and dump in your 2lbs of ground beef into it.

Add in the puree, along with 1 cup of bread crumbs, 2 eggs, and 1 splash of milk.

Mix gently! We don't want a tough loaf, so be sure NOT to over mix!

Just mix until everything can barely hold firm!

Once you're done mixing, punch a hole in the center!

STEP 3:

That hole is your seasoning hole.

You will want to add a dash of the following: Basil, Beef Bouillon Powder, Black Pepper, Garlic Salt, Onion Powder, Rosemary, and Thyme

Then fold over a few times sparsely, gently mixing until seasoned.

Preheat your oven to 370 degrees Fahrenheit (Or 187 C for you Metric Folk) and grab your loaf pan.

STEP 4:

Line your loaf pan with your choice of baking parchment paper or aluminum foil.

I'm using the latter.

This will ensure it's easy to pull out your loaf once it's done baking.

While your oven is preheating, form your loaf, and once your oven is done preheating, stick it in the oven uncovered for 40 mins or until the internal temperature reaches 165 degrees Fahrenheit (73.8 C, you're welcome Metric Folk!)

STEP 5:

As your loaf bakes happily in its own juices within the confines of your oven, you will now make the zesty tangy glaze that will adorn your loaf!

Grab a small bowl and squeeze 4 parts ketchup into it!

Come on! Squeeze! Harder! I know you can do it, I believe in you!

Finished? Good. I'm proud of you!

Anyway!

To our 4 parts ketchup, we will be seasoning our glaze with the following:

1 Tablespoon (Tbsp) of: White Vinegar (Balsamic works too) and Soy Sauce

1 Teaspoon (Tsp) of: Black Pepper, and Brown Sugar

A Dash of Basil

Mix thoroughly!

OPTIONAL: Want it a bit spicy? Add a splash of Tabasco sauce or some crushed red pepper flakes to the glaze.

STEP 6:

This is the most critical step in the entire recipe!

This is where we take our meatloaf from the every day mundane, into the great beyond of culinary delight!

Once your meatloaf has only 15 minutes left to cook, you're going to take it out and slather all your glaze onto it!

You want it thick and spread evenly!

Then slap it back into the oven and watch that glaze caramelize into a dark, rich, zesty tang!

If, after your 15 minutes are up, and you notice no changes in color or smell to your glaze, allow the meatloaf to cook for an additional 5 to 10 minutes.

And there you have it!

A mouth watering moist meatloaf!

This meatloaf is so juicy and tender, it falls apart with little provocation.

No dried out husk of meat here!

If you want to be fancy, you can garnish the top of this loaf with some finely minced parsley.

But as for me, I turned it into sandwiches.

Hope you enjoyed this recipe!

#meatloaf #comfort food #thick and juicy #mabibliothequederecettes #moist

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monomorphilogical · 1 year

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The list

Good lord, how I am unable to admit some things to myself.

This morning, it was merely I, who stared into the bathroom mirror; no soul around but my own haggard one. The mirror, partially fogged, did not even show the fullness of me, and yet, yet I could not make myself say the words to my own reflection.

Lord, I was barely able to think them clearly; only a mere concept floating around my head with a notion of truth, not whole and not untrue. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, and I clamped my teeth together hard enough to ache even now, deep into the afternoon.

So hereby; the list of everything I cannot say, but I will force myself to do so anyhow. For the sake of honesty, bravery and spite.

I have been staring at this empty list for twenty-five minutes, hand covering my mouth, astonished, that I cannot even write down the truths on paper. This is because I am terrified of admitting that which makes me vulnerable.

Vulnerability makes me believe I am one of the weak, not because I am better than those vulnerable, but because it opens up the possibility of getting harmed, ridiculed, ignored.

I often get the urge to bury a knife in the middle of my thigh, as a protest, perhaps as a distraction, or punishment.

A gentle touch wakes up a starving animal within me; and it screams to be beaten into a pulp until it cannot growl any longer.

I do not know what love-making truly is, I have never experienced it, and a sick part of me would rather be beaten and gutted than find out.

I understand pain, I do not understand those who do not.

I am writing down these truths first to avoid the ones I am struggling to admit.

I am more comfortable talking about the act of abuse than about the yearning of care.

Sex makes me want to scream out for them to 'tear me apart' because I cannot handle a hand laid upon my skin any longer. No matter the heavy-handedness, nor gentleness (which may be worse).

I think I am very sensitive.

I experience thought, emotion, and art quite deeply; it is like a wound that cannot close.

I feel like a small girl still, and it is bothersome to look into the mirror and see someone so very grown up.

I dislike my mother, and her tendency to manipulate my convictions and emotions, it took me far too long to understand what were her opinions and what were my own.

I wish I had a father who cared for me, and I wish he was one to keep me safe; instead of the source of danger.

I was just a little girl, and I needed my father to hold me, and I needed my mother to listen to me.

I still need my father to hold me, and my mother to be kind to me. (though I will never have this, for this is not something they can ever offer me; nor can I ever accept any form of care from them)

I am fairly certain that I do not know what love is, precisely.

I do not know how to possibly love, but also I do not know how to hate.

I am terrified of being less than someone deserves; or being bothersome.

I am also fairly certain I will make many mistakes in any relationship, and though I will try my hardest; it is up to them to decide if I am worth it. That terrifies me.

I do not believe I am worth it.

I do not believe I am worth anything to anyone but myself.

Intimacy, in any form, is my greatest enemy, and I fear I will fight it until my knuckles crack and bleed.

I am vulnerable.

I want to be cared for.

I am tired of being responsible of care, I want someone to take it off my hands every once in a while.

I crave to be held.

I crave someone to tell me it is all well. No matter the truth in it.

I wish I had someone to look out for me.

I spend all my pastime in my own head; reading books, listing to music, imagining some other version of my life, anything to escape the crushing weight that are my horrid memories.

I am afraid I will not be able to escape in this way were I to be in a relationship.

I am afraid that will make life dull, since all that lives in my head is the horror and grotesque and dramatics, and I have gotten very much used to the intensity of it all.

Almost none of my scars are because of accidents, clumsiness or the cat. I am good at making them look like they are.

I tell people all of them are from my teenage years. It’s only a half-truth.

Were I not afraid of its consequences, I would slash open the entirety of my body.

I often get the inexplicable urge to sink my teeth into my own skin. I do not know why. It makes my teeth ache with want. I suspect it is a form of self destruction.

I am afraid that when I cry to be torn apart, I am really crying to be held gently. I suspect you have to restrain me first, for I will try to kick and scream as you do so.

I want someone to be strong enough to restrain me until I can be held with gentle hands.

I do not know how to ask for anything.

#posting this is the bravest thing I've done #which is objectively pathetic but alright #the things about my childhood are funnily the hardest; the admittance of wanting something and missing something makes my skin crawl #list #writing #mental health #things I can't say #the things I can't say out loud #renae

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v-l-d-s · 1 year

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Path of the Muscle Wizard

You’re a wizard! Perhaps you went to wizarding school on a football scholarship or just picked up a book at the gym and started reading. No matter how you got here, you’re a wizard, one that just coincidentally has massive, rippling muscles. You have the big dumb hat and the book filled with gibberish and everything! You gently remind others, often by beating them to a pulp and cracking their bones, that your magical powers shouldn’t be questioned. You’re a good wizard, the best one, even! And only a fool would say otherwise.

UNARGUABLE WIZARDRY Starting at 3rd level, your unquestionable legitimacy (and immense pectoral muscles) gives you advantage on Charisma (Intimidation) checks made to convince others that you are, in fact, a wizard. Additionally, if someone questions your legitimate magical prowess, you can instantly fly into a rage for 1 round. This rage can’t be extended and doesn’t count against your total number of Rages following a long rest. While in this rage, you can only attack the creature that provoked your ire and the creature’s allies.

“CANTRIPS" At 3rd level, you can call upon your “magic” to cast “cantrips” in combat. You can use the following modifier. You regain all expended uses when you take a short or long rest. While you are raging, you can cast your “cantrips” at will; using them doesn’t count against your number of uses per long rest. Mage Hand. As a bonus action when you hit a creature with a melee weapon attack on your turn, you can use your hand (and you are a mage, after all) to attempt to shove the target over. The target must make an opposed Strength check against you. If your Strength check is higher, the target is knocked prone. Shocking Grasp. As a bonus action when you make an attack on your turn, you can hit your target even harder than usual, a fact which they will find quite shocking. On a hit, the target can’t take a reaction until the start of your next turn. True Strike. As a bonus action when you make an attack on your turn, you can really, truly strike your target. On a hit, you deal an extra 1d8 damage to the target.

“SPELLS“ By 6th level, your “magic” is powerful enough to cast every “spell” that exists (and no one can or will prove otherwise without broken ribs). However, you only prepared the following “spells” today. You can cast each of these “spells” once and recover all expended uses when you finish a long rest. Burning Hands. Your backhand slap is legendary. As an action on your turn, you can make an unarmed strike against each creature within your reach. On a hit, this attack deals bludgeoning damage equal to 1d8 + your Strength modifier. Magic Missile. When you take the Attack action on your turn, you can use your bonus action to make a ranged attack using a weapon you are holding. Because magic missile never misses, you have advantage on this attack roll. Shield. As a reaction when you’re targeted by an attack, you can quickly produce a shield to defend yourself. You gain the shield’s bonus to AC against this attack, even if you weren’t holding it before. If you are hit, you can reduce the amount of damage taken by 1d12 + your Constitution modifier.

MAGIC RESISTANCE By 10th level, you’re such an amazing wizard that other wizards can’t even touch you. While you’re raging, you have resistance to damage from spells.

I CAST FIST Starting at 14th level, you can crush your enemies with your ultimate “spell,” Fist. While you’re raging, you can use your action and bonus action to punch your foe really, really hard. Make a melee attack roll, with advantage, against one creature within your reach. On a hit, you deal bludgeoning damage equal to 8d8 + your Strength modifier. Once you use this ability, you can’t use it again until you stop raging and begin a new rage.

#Subclass #Barbarian #Path #Muscle Wizard

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djarinsbeskar · 3 years

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Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Excuse Me what is pulp and why is it importan?

Good question! And probably one I should have answered sooner. Time to put on the historian hat for this one.

"Pulp" is a term used mainly to describe forms of storytelling that sprang out or were dominant in 20th century cheap all-fiction American magazines from the 1900s to the 1950s. The pulp magazine began in 1896, when Frank Munsey's Argosy magazine, in order to cut costs, dropped the non-fiction articles and photographs and switched from glossy paper to the much less expensive wood pulp paper, hence the name. The pulp magazines would mainly take off as a distinct market and format in 1904, when Street & Smith learned that Popular Magazine, despite being marketed towards boys, was being consumed by men of all ages, so they increased page count and started putting popular authors on the issues.

It was specifically the 1905 reprint of H.Rider Haggard's Ayesha that not only put Street & Smith on the map as rivals to Argosy, but also inspired other companies to start publishing in the pulp format. Pulps encompassed literally everything that the authors felt like publishing. Westerns, romance, horror, sci-fi, railroad stories, war stories, war aviation stories. Zeppelins had a short-lived subgenre. Celebrities got their own magazines, it was really any genre or format they could pull off, anything they could get away with.

Nowadays, although they came quite late in it's history, the American pulps are most famous for it's "hero pulps", characters like The Shadow and Doc Savage that are viewed as a formative influence on comic book superheroes. The pulp magazines in America lasted until the 1950s, when cumulative factors such as paper shortages, diminishing audience returns and the closing of it's biggest publishers led to it dying off, although in the decades since there's always been publishers calling their magazines pulp. That's the American pulp history.

But pulps are a phenomenon that spans the entire world and has a much bigger history to it, because pulps have become synonymous with cheap fiction magazines and those have a much bigger history. In America, before the pulps, you had the dime novels, the direct predecessors of the pulps, as well as the novelettes. England had it's penny dreadfuls and story papers, and continued publishing pulp-format magazines past the American 1950s, and that's how we got Elric of Melniboné. France and Russia arguably got to it first with it's 1800s coulporters, chapbooks and particularly the feuilletons which lasted all the way to the 20th century and created characters such as Arsene Lupin, Fantomas and The Phantom of the Opera. The Germans published pulp under the name hefteromane. Japan also published pulp magazines both original as well as imported, and the current "light-novel" phenomenon started off as an equivalent of pulp magazines (it's even on the Wikipedia page). China has wuxia, Brazil has cordel, Italy has gialli. There were Indian, Persian, Ethiopian, Canadian, Australian pulps and much more. Look anywhere in the world and you'll find examples of "pulp" happening again and again, under different circumstances and time periods.

Even if we stick to American fiction, it's impossible to state that all pulp heroes must come from the 1900s-1950s pulp magazines, because that forces us to exclude some of the most popular pulp heroes like Indiana Jones, Green Hornet, Rocketeer and The Phantom. Pulp may have once been a term meant to refer to pulp magazines exclusively, but it's morphed and lost structure and it's become the closest thing we have to a general umbrella term that allows us to try and consolidate these under a shared history. It's a lot, as you can see, and it's why several pulp historians that broaden their scope outside of 1930s American fiction have adopted Roland Barthes's definition of pulp as "A Metaphor With No Brakes In It", which is still the closest thing to a true working definition we have.

Why is it important? You tell me. I don't like to stake claims about stuff being "important", everyone's got their own priorities in life. Surely a lot of people would scoff at the idea of old populist fiction published in what was functionally equivalent to toilet paper having any sort of "importance". On the other hand, some people definitely want to talk big about the pulps as a cultural bedrock of fiction, something that's baked into the lifeblood of all fiction as we currently know it. Which it is, mind you, but I don't like to talk about pulp fiction's value being derived mainly from merely the things it inspired.

There is definitely a historical importance to be had in cataloguing them. According to the US's foremost pulp researcher Jess Nevins, 38% of all American pulps no longer exist, and 14% of all American pulps survive in less than five copies. Many libraries have very scant, if any, records on them, many collectors are hard to locate and are uncooperative when it comes to sharing information and letting outsiders view their collections. A lot of them are bound up in legal complications that prevents them from taking off in the public domain, and a lot of them ARE public domain but are completely inacessible as research material. And that's the American pulps, foreign pulps have fared far worse in posterity, with records inaccessible to people unfamiliar with the language or locations, many existing merely in mentions on decades-old records, and hundreds if not thousands of them being completely gone beyond recovery or recall.

Gone, dead, wasted, destroyed. They can't be found in barbershops or warehouse or bookstores, not even in antique stores. Hundreds, thousands of characters, stories and creators, gone. Time and posterity have crushed them to dust, forgotten and ignored by their successors. Unfettered by pretenses of respectability that repressed their glossier counterparts, in packages meant to be destroyed after reading, proudly announcing itself as trash. Things that should have never even lasted as long as they did have died many times now. It's heroes peripherical shapeshifters, nearly all of whom seem dead, quite dead, as dead as fictional characters can possibly be.

But they do not die forever. Many of them have, maybe most of them have, but many of them linger on.

"The strange red flickering of 1930’s fiction seems distant now. You hold in your hand the product of a time too remote to recall, and feel a slow stir of wonder. The smell of pulp pages, an illustration, an advertisement, these fragile things mark the slow hammering of time and display what it has done. About you are today’s machines, today’s shadows.

Outside the window, leaves hang against the sky, as did leaves during the 1930’s. The sound of voices are no different then than now. You hold the magazine and feel something quite delicate slipping past. These solid forms surrounding you are all insubstantial. Time’s hammer will also pass across them, leaving little enough behind." - Spider, by Robert Sampson

Many of the things people call dead are just things that have been sleeping for a while or haven't had the chance to be born. Pulp fiction is dead on the page, inert, unless your imagination breathes live to it, and every now and then, one way or another, these characters dig themselves out of dustbins. Maybe it's a brief revival, maybe it's a successful reboot. Maybe they find publishers, or maybe the public domain allows them to find new life. Maybe new creators do interesting things with them, and maybe, just maybe, they live again because some won't shut up about them online. Some curious impulse led you to me, did it not?

We all have our Frankensteins to obsess over, and these are some of mine. As someone who's lived a life perpetually restless over pursuit of knowledge, pulp has lured me like a moth to flame, because I literally never run out of things to discover within it, I never run out of possibilities. As the years pass and the public domain starts being more and more open to the public, more and more narrative real state is brought forth for writers and artists and creators to play around.

Pulp is the dark matter of fiction, the uncatalogued depths of the ocean, the darkest recesses of space. It's the box of your grandfather's belongings, the treasure you find in an attic, a body part sticking out from an old playground. It's the things that don't work, don't succeed, the things that don't fit, that are out of place. That shouldn't live and succeed, and did so anyway. The things that slither in the cracks, the shadows behind the curtain.

Aren't you interested in peering on what's behind the curtain?

The exquisite workmanship of the head, of a pre-pyramidal age, and the hieroglyphics, symbols of a language that was forgotten when Rome was young–these, Kane sensed, were additions as modern to the antiquity of the staff itself as would be English words carved on the stone monoliths of Stonehenge.

As for the cat-head–looking at it sometimes Kane had a peculiar feeling of alteration; a faint sensing that once the pommel of the staff was carved with a different design. The dust-ancient Egyptian who had carved the head of Bast had merely altered the original figure, and what that figure had been, Kane had never tried to guess.

A close scrutiny of the staff always aroused a disquieting and almost dizzy suggestion of abysses of eons, unprovocative to further speculation. - The Footfalls Within, by Robert E Howard, quoted by Stuart Hopen’s The Mythic American Culture

#replies tag #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #argosy #h rider haggard #ayesha #robert e howard #solomon kane

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