#and for caring so much about Carrion!!!!

[callsign-relic]

finished. all the asks I wanted to make drawings for. haugh

#relic answers #now I know how archie-sunshine feels #how do you do it Archie #my back hurts #but fr thank you guys for such amazing prompts #and for caring so much about Carrion!!!! #as always please feel free to send asks about him or anything else hehe

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

I know it's such a highly popular dinosaur but are they any interesting facts about the Tyrannosaurus Rex that isn't well known? I still love the Rexes wishing more dinosaur media treated it in the same way nature documentaries treat modern carnivores as animals just trying to surive and not just ripping up every living thing they encounter.

T. rex is actually one of the best studied (non-neornithine) dinosaurs ever, period. In fact, writing all the interesting facts we know about it is... more work than I particularly want to do right now, lol.

some things off the top of my head:

it wasn't built for moving fast in terms of miles per hour or whatever, but they were built for extreme cursoriality in other ways. Essentially, T. rex and its relatives were built for turning, quickly, on a dime. And they moved faster than the herbivores they were chasing. So these were animals built for short, surprise attacks on their prey. And ballet dancing

T. rex had the best sense of smell... ever. Like, ever ever. And its eyesight and hearing were good too. It had a fairly large brain for where it is in the dinosaur family tree, as well. Essentially, this was a dinosaur built to take in as much sensory info as possible, to pinpoint prey as quickly as possible.

T. rex aged kind of like people! IE, the process of going from infant -> sexually and skeletally mature adult takes about the same amount of time, with similar stages happening at similar times. So, T. rex had an awkward teenage phase! They were tall, but very skinny and lanky, and many researchers think that different ages of Tyrannosaurus filled different niches, with bigger rexes eating larger prey and the teens eating smaller faster dinosaurs.

That said, there's lots of evidence for familial groups and social life in Tyrannosaurs, based on fossilization patterns and footprint records. So it's very likely they took care of their young, and hunted in groups.

did they have feathers? no idea. they're big enough to have lost them for thermoregulation like many other dinosaurs did. they are in a group that have some big feathered animals, though, like Yutyrannus. Maybe babies had feathers and adults lost them. Maybe adults kept them some places and not others. We do know that there are parts of the Tyrannosaurus adult body that had scales. Beyond that - whether feathers were present too, or not - we don't know.

it was not skeletally sexually dimorphic. however, we do know that some tyrannosaurs were female because the fossilized when they were in the process of making eggs. during this process, dinosaurs - including living birds - deposit extra tissue in their bones called medullary bone. This tissue stores calcium to make eggshells from later. It's only present in actively ovulating female dinosaurs. So, we know some of our fossils were making eggs when they died!

the arms were small, yeah, but they were VERY strong. these weren't vestigial organs, yet, though their shortness was mainly due to the strengthening of the neck muscles. T. rex interacted with the world primarily with its head and jaws. The arms would have been helpful with holding on during mating, or possibly for display.

it wasn't a scavenger. it was an opportunist. No predators today avoid easy meals - life is all about minimizing energy spent to get more energy. But obligate scavengers tend to be flying organisms, ones that can cover huge distances, in order to find enough carrion. T. rex was definitely a predator, and had to hunt occasionally, but wouldn't turn up its nose at an easy meal.

T. rex lived all over western north america, right at the end of the age of dinosaurs. It was one of the most successful nonavian dinosaurs, ever, and would probably not have gone extinct so quickly if there hadn't been an asteroid.

#tyrannosaurus #dinosaurs #t. rex #palaeoblr #paleontologist ama

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 18

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: It's Friday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Another day brings you just short of the mountain peak. The pace of the train is ragged as they come to a halt and murmurs crawl up and down the lines. You slump against the frigid wind, nestling your chin into the fur of your cloak as you keep your eyes on Daisy’s neck. You yawn as Bryce reaches over to fix the reins as they almost slip from your grasp. 

“You well, mouse?” He growls. 

You nod. You haven’t spoken much in the last days, not since your first night on the mountain pass. You haven’t known what to say. You know he must have seen the king and yourself, how close you were, and you feel his judgment. You just don’t know how to say it isn’t your want. It would be improper to blame the king. 

“We’re almost there. Castle’s just ahead.” He looks up at the dark shapes soaring through the skies. He pointed out the vultures a while back, inferring there must be carrion near to bring them out. “You’ll have a warm place to lay your head.” 

You hum and offer nothing else. As you think of staying still, your stomach storms as violently as the skies. At least when you have a destination, when you are moving, you can make yourself elusive. Once you’re still, you don’t quite know what you’ll do. 

“Daisy will be relieved to rest, the old beast,” he chuckles, “she’s had quite the campaign.” 

You pet the horse’s mane, your hands mittened in strips of wool the grey soldier wrapped around them. 

“I know what the matter is but if you’re not gonna say it, I won’t neither,” he grumbles. 

You dip your head, hiding under the hood. You come to a halt behind the rest of the party as it stalls completely. You lean and peer over the edge of the horse. 

“Aye, you just wait,” he swings off his horse and lands easily on his feet. The snow dusts up around his tall boots. He comes to help you off the horse, your legs as snugly bound in wool. “We’ll find ya some proper clothes for the road at the castle. You’ll need all your toes.” 

You sigh and cross your arms. You look ahead then behind you. You cough and turn to touch Daisy’s soft neck. 

“I didn’t...” you begin. “I wouldn’t betray the queen. Or the king.” 

He huffs and moves closer, blocking the wind as Daisy nuzzles his shoulder, “I know ya wouldn’t, mouse. Is that why yer so meek? You think I judge you?” 

“What happened--” you voice piques and you nearly choke on it, “sir,” you throw your hands up, “I swear, I didn’t ask for it. The king...” 

“Kings do as they will. It is in their nature, it is their right,” he shrugs, “I am not a naive lad no more. You mightn’t have noticed how my beard matches the sheen of my sword, but I’ve seen many things. The old king... he had a few loves. None of them his wife.” 

“Love? Sir. It was a mistake, surely.” 

He is quiet as he shifts his soles. He turns one way then the other, “do you really believe that?” 

Your heart swells so big your ribs hurt. You cross your arms, hooking your hands over your shoulders. You chew your lip and look up at the tall grey man. 

“I don’t know what to believe. I thought I came to serve the queen. I thought... I don’t know, sir. I don’t. I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone. I wouldn’t want to.” 

“I know it,” he affirms, “you are the gentlest soul I’ve met. Well, since my own wife. Certainly, the king is taken with a summer soul like yours. How could he not be?” 

“Taken?” You utter in horror. “I am a maid. That’s all I am. It’s all I ever needed to be.” You sniffle and bring your hands to the edges of your hood, pushing it back to see him clearer, “sir, it keeps me safe.” 

“It did. It kept you safe when it could but that shield has broken.” 

“And what about you?” You murmur. 

He averts his gaze guiltily, “what the king does behind his own walls, I cannot stop. That night, he was unsafe. He threw caution away. For your sake, I deterred him. Reminded him of his duty.” He shakes his head and frowns at his boots, “you came to serve the king, you said, and that is what he intends.” 

You whimper. How can it be? He is wed. He has beautiful wife. And a throne. And an heir on the way. You’re just the maid. Just a maid. Not... that. 

“So, you would let him?” You challenge, a surge welling up your throat, a heat unlike anything you’ve felt before. 

“I serve the king too,” he mutters. “Though I do care for you, little mouse, how could I not? But I was commanded to see to you. To keep you unbothered. Unsullied.” 

Your legs wobble beneath you and you nearly fold over. You can’t stop the rush of emotion that overcomes you, the fire that burns in your veins and makes your vision bleary. You throw out your arms and shove Bryce. Once, twice, three times. He doesn’t budge, taking each in turn. 

“How dare you, sir! How dare you!” You hit his chest with your fists and collapse into him. “I never wanted it. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.” 

“I know, sweet mouse, I know,” he curls an arm around you and sways, petting your hood, “you’ve every right to despise me. I will take whatever you have for me.” 

You heave and tamp down a throttling sob, “why, sir, why?” 

“It is... my duty.” 

You hear the strain in his voice, you feel the tremor that rolls through him, and how he clings tightly as if he fears you’ll push him away. You can’t. Even if he's hurt you, he is all you have. 

“I won’t beg forgiveness, I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, “but I’ll always be here for you, mouse, so long as you need.” 

You stay again him, silent and weak. You’re angry. You’ve never felt this sort of way. You’ve never felt as if you could tear your flesh from the bone just to let the tension out. You hate it. You’ve never hated anything but that feeling, you loathe it. It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever known. 

“I’m so sorry, mouse,” he continues to rock you, “so very sorry...” 

⚔️

You cannot blame your daze for nearly missing the castle right before you. The dark exterior blends into the rock face, set into the side of the mountain so that an untrained eye might not pick it out. The part splits into several streams, those for the stables, some soldiers to keep watch over the pass, and many more waiting to enter the great castle of Vulture’s Peak. 

As if to proclaim their name right, at least a dozen of the long-necked scavengers perch upon the towers. Bryce keeps you close as you keep astride. You peer toward the front of the crowd. The king’s white hair defines him among the bodies. He speaks with several black-garbed soldiers as Jazlene is helped down from the cart. Neither husband or wife acknowledge each other. 

You sit back and hang your head. Bryce breathes in through his nose and clucks, “right. Let’s get you to the queen.” 

You glance over, numb from more than the cold. He dismounts and brings you down to ground level. He fixes your cloak as it opens and lets in the stirring bluster. He finds a post to tie the horses to before he herds you towards the castle. 

You approach with your head down. The queen stands with a hand on her lower back though her bodice remains snug and flat to her unchanged stomach. The fur cloak drapes from her shoulders majestically as she stands with her head high. You stare at the hem of her skirt and await your orders. 

“Let us see to our host,” the king declares as he offers his arm to his queen, a stiff and despondent gesture.  

You keep your eyes down. You would rather wait without. You sense him pausing, looking around, and he turns to face the facade. He huffs. “Right, Sir Bryce, until I give the signal, you will keep all without.” 

“Your highness,” Bryce agrees and moves closer to you. 

King Geralt stalks through the snow with his wife in tow. Her words drift back behind her, “... so bleak. Is this how they receive a king and queen?” 

The king grunts but gives no answer as he pulls her onward, climbing the steps one by one as she slows him with her odd lean back. You turn to Bryce and tuck your chin down. Neither of you have said much since the pass. 

You wait, blowing into your hands and mulling back and forth. A restlessness stirs through the bodies around you, an uncertainty as you await the king’s confirmation. The lull carries on until the sun shifts into a new phase, or rather, the sky changes hue. 

The doors of the castle creak open and a slender woman descends the stairs. Her skin is smooth like polished brass and a similar hue, her hair is a shade of straw and her eyes are an eerie shade of jade. She wears a plain cloak on her shoulders and a square cap on the crown of her head. 

“Lord Vesemir welcomes the king’s company,” she speaks boldly above the din of curious murmurs. “Please come.” 

She beckons with her gloved hand and turns back to the castle. She walks forward without waiting. Bryce tuts, “typical.” He spins and waves, “you heard her, let’s go. Servants to the east, soldiers find your stations, lords and ladies, the west wing.” 

He spins and grabs your arm, ushering you ahead of the scrambling masses. You let him lead you on, though you might have preferred to stay in the gales.  

Inside, the walls are lit with mounted lanterns. The flames glow along the spacious hall and corridors haze amber to each side of you. Bryce keeps you close as he steps out of the way of the flood of bodies. He stops several other soldiers to direct them on how to accommodate the party. 

“Right,” he peers up the central staircase, with posts like spears, and he points you up it. 

“You know this place?” You keep your voice low as you come to the top. 

“Aye, been here now and again,” he says. “Vesemir isn’t the most hospitable. Not beyond a few, but the king does hold a special bond with the old bear.” 

“Oh,” you peer around at the plain tapestries, no patterns, just cut fabric to warm the walls. There is a single marked banner with symbols you do not recognise. 

“Do not fear. He is harmless. He puts on a mean snarl but he isn’t so mean as he pretends,” Bryce explains. 

You nod and skid to a halt in fright. A large bear stands by the wall, arms raised in attack, it’s great teeth bear in a growl. You squeak and knock into the soldier beside you. It’s white fur reminds you of the king’s tresses. 

“Oh, mouse, it’s long dead,” he pats your shoulder and laughs, “Vesemir claims to have killed the beast with his own hands. He doesn’t mention that no sound or wise man would be so far north as to meet a white bear such as this.” 

You gulp and gape at the large beast. 

“Stuffed. It’s hide preserved,” he points as he gets closer to it, unafraid, “when I first came, I had my sword drawn at the sight. It’s a cruel trick by the castle lord.” 

He touches the bear’s large claw and gestures you forward. You move forward and he takes your hand, putting it to the beast’s large paw. You feel the dried pads and shudder. He lets you go but you do not rescind your reach. You feel the fur of the creature, softer than you imagined. 

“Suppose we should get you where you need to be,” he exhales, taking out his sweet leaves to put some in his mouth. 

You pull back and face him. You wait for his guidance and he presses on. He pauses to ask a servant where the queen’s chamber lays. With his answer, you continue on. 

The two guards stand outside the doors. You recognise the one that is often there, with the coppery hair and sparse beards. The other is not familiar to you, though you’ve seen many faces on the road. Bryce nods to them and they let you through. 

“Don’t trouble her maid, she is in sensitive condition,” the orange-haired guard warns. 

“Eh,” Bryce growls, “mind yer business, she’ll mind hers.” 

“Don’t get your hackles up, old man,” the guard scoffs and you stop to look back. 

“In,” Bryce demands and points you through the door. 

You enter and the door closes out the voices, muffled by the barrier as their argument continues. The confrontation is most unexpected. You don’t recall either of the queen’s men ever speaking to you before. Most times, they barely took notice. You’re only happy Bryce was there to bark back at him. 

The queen is at the foot of her bed. She looks unhappy. You glance around the chamber, for a moment expecting the king to be lurking there with her. She is alone, holding her stomach as she breathes slowly. 

“Would you stop staring like a dolt and fetch a pail?” She garbles behind her hand. 

You grab the clean chamber pot from the corner and bring it to her. She seizes it and spits into it, though she hardly spits up more than saliva. She grumbles and shoves it back at you. 

“This place smells like cinder and dust,” she complains as you return the pot to its place. “And the snow is repugnant. To think, I am to be queen of ice. How dull. We should make our thrones in the summer lands.” 

Her gripes ease you. Those are expected, almost a comfort. 

“Hardly matters where I go, does it? The king never comes anyhow,” she whines and lays back across the mattress, “I carry his child and he doesn’t seem to care. Do you know what he said when I told him?” 

You don’t reply. She doesn’t want to hear more than her own voice. 

“He says, ‘see your duty done before you boast,’” she kicks her legs as they hang over the edge, “see it done? I have his seed in me and he is still distant. Will he see his child in my arms then command me see it to adulthood before my duty’s rewarded?” 

You stare at the wall. Her account of the king’s neglect sickens you, so much that you could spit up in the same pot as her. Is it you? Are you the reason he does not tend to her? Perhaps you do deserve her wrath more than you know. You wish in that moment that she would let it out upon you. You have earned any lashing she may give you. 

Though you may not have chosen your path, not as maid, not as traveler, not as the king’s desire, it does not matter. You will pay for the whims of your masters. As Merinda predicted, though not as she might have dreamt it, they have drawn you into great danger. 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

to leave the blood stay in the veins

monster!könig x f!rcursed!reader (no use of 'y/n') 6.6k words NSFW!

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️CW: extremely NSFW, descriptions of gore, implied consumption of human flesh by a non-human monster, mention of necrotic curse, monsterfucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, knotting (no omegaverse), outdoor sex, ambiguous ending, pre-established relationship, 0% proofread, könig and reader are both fucking unhinged.

Day 01 of the Haunted Hoedown Challenge by @/inklore

taboo au (monsterfucking) + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into." + oh no i'm dating the town serial killer

There is a beast in the woods, and it leaves so little meat on the bone that not even carrion birds find value in the corpses it leaves behind.

It’s a strange town in the foothills of the Austrian Alps, full of little sicknesses hiding in the corners, and you learned them well when you moved here. No one goes past the treeline at night. Hardly anyone is outside of home if they can help it. Tourists are the beast’s fodder.

Your boyfriend thinks it’s funny. 

König, under his ever-present hood–a not altogether uncommon sight in your town, people come here when they have something to hide, something they are uncomfortable with or find hideous in themselves, and he has given an unimaginable amount for you out of love–laughs, sharp in the tooth.

“Anyone dumb enough to head into the trees is dumb enough to die,” he teases, but there is an arrogance and a contempt swimming deep in his bloodshot blue eyes. 

“That’s coldblooded, but not wrong,” you tell him, from behind your own mask. Plain thing, blank in expression, modeled from the one from Eyes Without A Face. It covers the ravages of a curse, numb necrosis slowly spreading up your face through the years. “I still want you to get me a gun.”

“What’s a gun going to do against a thing like that?” he asks, tilting his head, the hood bagging off the curled horns that start at his temples and sweep back over his ears. “Something like that, you need silver. I’ll get you a knife. Big one. Nice and fucking sharp, Schatzi.”

The knife isn’t a comfort when the beast begins to hunt in town. It stalks from house to house, preying on people in their beds, their living rooms, their bathtubs–there is no rhyme or reason, not a whit of discernable pattern. 

Only teeth-gouged bones and viscera ground into wall, tile, and carpet alike. Your neighbor falls victim, and you watch the police from your window, flinching when a veteran officer stumbles out into the fall-frosted grass to vomit, sobbing and pulling his hair.

“It got Emil,” you say, still watching through your sheer curtains. 

König nearly cackles from your bed, lounging as he visits. “Good. Emil was a piece of shit. Depperte Fut.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, over your shoulder, before returning back to the circus in the yard next door. “‘Stupid cunt’ is a pretty strong insult. He was an asshole, but I don’t think he deserved to die like that,” you mumble.

“You don’t know all that much about your neighbors, Schatzi.”

You begin to rock side-to-side on your hips, the enormous silver blade König gifted you turning over and over in your hands, the point digging lightly into your palm. 

It’s insane, the way you begin to tell yourself that you’ve seen König’s face nearly everyday for the last two years—you can see it right now. He lies on your bed, pointed teeth gleaming under his split philtrum in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp and the red-blue flash of the cruisers. You know there is a man under the hood, however odd and satyr-seeming.

And yet. And yet.

The blade digs a little too deep, drawing a curse-blackened bead of blood. König’s eyes burn into the back of your neck, and you can only guess his horizontal pupils dilate into black holes. 

Just quit your job. I’ll take care of you.

It’s a simple enough promise, and one you know König will keep, but not one you’re willing to make. You have few shreds of independence, hard-bought through years of fighting back against misfortunes and setbacks, and, no matter the depths with which you love him, you’re not willing to trade your shit wage on faith for love of a man. It doesn’t matter how helplessly besotted he is. 

It’s this molar-cracking grit that delivers you right to the beast. Because you were forced to pick up an extra half shift at the hotel to fold towels behind the front desk, because you needed the money, because you wanted to pay back your beautiful, bloodthirsty boyfriend for the ridiculous blade he begat you. 

The god forsaken thing lumbers down a deserted street, blocks from your little rental, and something fucking horrendous seizes you. It’s enormous, walking on cloven hooves and back-bent legs. Its arms are too fucking long, clawed, jagged. And worst is the skull, bleached white and glowing like a beacon in the dark, an enormous rack of brutally sharp horns dripping trinkets of bone and gold that glints in the street lamp it approaches. 

A horrible fact hits you. It’s not lumbering, it’s wandering. Putting a massive, craggy hand on fences and peering into houses, taking its time, evaluating. You swear you can almost hear it humming. 

You don’t know when your hand found the handle of the silver blade strapped to your belt under your coat, but the leather on the grip bites your palm with the force of your grip, a nauseous, cold sweat terror tearing apart your ability to think. 

It’s a primal fear, one that makes you want to protect your soft, vulnerable neck, even if the blood that warms it runs venomous. 

It’s a bad choice, but there are no good ones. When the beast lifts its head and scents the air, skull snapping your direction and shaking its grisly trophies, you run. You snap the huge blade off your hip and drop into a dead sprint, cutting between yards, trying to escape the horrendous bellow that reverberates through the bony chambers of the monster’s skull.

Choosing to run instead of freezing maybe bought you a few extra minutes before death decided it was time to seize your pulse in reclamation, and it hurts. The physical exertion it takes to bomb through the last stretches of suburbia before the forest closes in feels like you are breaking every bit of your body by forced choice, listening to that awful fucking thing chase after you. 

Your blade makes a slicing sound cutting through the air at your side, the monster’s hooves pound the dirt as it digs in and chases after you, but, good god, it doesn’t sound like it’s even trying.

You don’t dare look back, pushing your body past agony, your lungs shredding in your chest. You’ve never moved this fast, you’ve never run this hard for this long. Your body is TV static—hissing, popping, distant—and, insanely, the urge to cry drills into your eye sockets.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die, stupidly and dumbly and pointlessly, because you wanted to pay your boyfriend a stupid sum of fucking money, for a stupid fucking knife that he bought you on a stupid fucking joke. 

Two meters from the second worst decision of your life, the monster snaps out, rough hand between your shoulder blades, crashing you into the goddamned dirt. Your eyebrow splits on a tree root, your eyes roll in the back of your head, your hand stays manically tight on the blade, slicing your other arm. 

“Schaaaatzi,” the miserable fucking thing hisses, pressing that same hand between your shoulder blades, pinning you into the freezing dirt. 

Oh, god, no, it has König’s voice. It’s—it’s not him, but it has his voice, thin and washed out as low-hung fog, but you would know that voice. In hell, in high water, in the dirt with a massive, bark-rough hand grinding your skin raw through your coat—you - know - his - voice. 

Furiously, you slash the blade over your head, behind your back, screaming and digging your feet in the dirt. For a brief second, as you hack at the wood of the monster’s hand and wrist, you’re even able to push yourself off the ground by mere inches. The beast growls and shoves you back down twice as hard, knocking the wind out of you, spasming your hand open. The knife drops, and you begin to blindly try digging and dragging yourself away. 

“Stop…hurting…me,” the beast lows, still in your boyfriend’s voice, and you imagine a bathtub full of gnawed bones, a living room with scattered body parts, your kitchen smeared with blood like cave wall art, and you start to scream as loud as your lungs will allow, your mask filling with dirt in your horrendous and futile bid to escape. Bloody murder bellows, filled with rage, wanting to kill and consume and conflagrate.

If König is dead, you will take your pound of flesh. You will either die fighting, or win, and you will hack apart this freak-fuck’s corpse to burn in your woodstove to warm your home. You’ll mount its fucking skull on your front door, so anything else in these woods will know you won’t hesitate to make trophies of them either. 

Bone, warm to the touch, presses against the back of your head. When it breathes, the air is as hot as exhaust, almost scalding your back. “Schatzi,” it bids you slowly once again.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” it rips your throat raw to shriek it, reaching back and almost dislocating your arms to rip at anything you can. Your hands fall on the dressings attached to its horns, you tear off a vertebra, and a gold wedding band, and a bracelet of rave kandi in plastic beads. “IF YOU HURT HIM, I’LL YOU FUCKING KILL YOU!”

The head presses harder, driving your face into the dirt. There is something desperate in the pressure. It spits all at once, grating and wide in a voice you know better than your own, “You pissed off a fucking witch, because you ran out of riddles to tell her, when she was ransoming you to your arshloch grandmother. She never paid. That’s why you were cursed—no one gave a fuck. But I gave her my face for you, to stop it halfway, better than fucking nothing.”

Your rage freezes immediately, your chest heaving under the weight it presses down on you. 

No one knows that. Only König. He’s the only person who would know about his lonely and quiet climb up to the Scottish highlands. Besides you, and the witch, König is the only one who would know why his human face was distorted, malformed, made animalistic. 

“Lee?” you pant, unleashing part of his first name, the only one he ever tolerates. And, fuck, instantly the pressure pulls away, the skull rubbing against your back to soothe it.

“It’s me, Schatzi,” the slow voice promises, nuzzling you. There’s rustling above you that you don’t dare turn to see. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

A tinkling piece of jewelry lowers in front of your eyes, and you can see that it dangles from an enormous, ligneous finger. You’re being shown a sterling silver charm bracelet. You’re being shown your bracelet, the one you thought you had lost months ago. 

Your hand shoots out, wrapping around the finger, the peeling bark shearing off under your grip. You find instantly that you can pull yourself up on your hip, sitting, caged and protected under the beast’s massive body—under König’s massive body. 

He shifts back onto his digitagrade haunches, holding himself over you, still offering your bracelet. He shudders at your touch on his hand, and you imagine that he may’ve never been handled with kindness in this shape. Which makes a certain amount of sense. Because he fucking kills and eats people.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, staring dead into the hollow sockets of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head. “Why—you have me so fucked up—what have you been thinking—?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you have to—”

“Yes, I have to, fucker.” It’s impossible to wrap your head around the magnitude of what a simple secret and a silver bracelet has done to your understanding of the world. A complete unraveling—upheaval, utterly. 

You take the bracelet from his finger, on which it fits like a ring, and push it into your wrist, sitting up on your knees and grabbing him by the underside of his jaw. Though it puts you in his blind spot, staring dead center at the sinus dimples between his eyes, it feels like you have a mote of power over him. 

(If he were asked, he would say the power you hold over him could corrupt, absolutely. He would badly like you to ask someday.)

“Why are you—what are you? Have you always been like this? Or was this new, with the fucking witch? Are—Jesus Christ—why are—the monster isn’t supposed to come into town, why are you in TOWN?” you run off at the mouth, words stalling and crashing and fusing together as your thoughts overwhelm just how quickly you can speak. 

And up from that impossibly deep throat–simultaneously from the center of your brain, and from all around you all at once–crawls König’s pitchy hyena-laugh, edged, always, with cruelty. He butts the jagged end of his nasal cavities into your stomach, catching on the threads of your sweater. 

“Leshy, Schatzi, say it for me.”

Your hands pull his jaw closer, digging the bone into your stomach, wondering if he can feel the pressure of your deep breathing. Oh, fuck, you could crack. This is your König. You start to wonder how many of his perverse buttons you can hit, the part of you that felt shame for your attraction to what the world discarded as ‘ugly’ long ago removed from your emotional bank.

“Leshy,” you say, really leaning into the word, saying it deep in your chest. One of your hands travels the long length to the hinge of his jaw, gripping tight, directing his head to turn so you can meet one of his empty eyes. “Answer my fucking questions.”

The laugh doesn’t come this time. In its place is a near-violent whole-body shudder that wracks through you. 

“Old! Alwaaays been this way,” and even in the strange disconnect of his voice from his physical form, you can tell his arousal is eating away at him in big bites–clipping his speech, broiling his brain with body heat, “can’t remember ever being young, haa-haa. And why do you think I’m hunting in town?”

Another trap, a stupid pop quiz, wanting to test your knowledge of him, or a gotcha! to check your observations and what you had missed.

Your hands get tighter, and you pull his jaw open, marveling at the sharp grooves ground into his teeth, like nightmarish, ivory rook pieces, tall and straight in the dry sockets. His chest begins to heave, his breath fogging into steaming clouds over your hands, and, remarkably, it smells like nothing at all apart from pin needles and snow.

You’d thought you’d smell decaying flesh or rotten blood. The only blood you can smell comes from your own busted brow and sliced arm, crusting black on your skin and in the fabric of your sweater as it coagulates.

“If I was working on a hunter’s instincts, I would say that Schladming has become too good at keeping people out of the forests. Even during daylight hours. It cuts down on prey,” you say, ice cold and clean as a slit throat. Your eyes flick back up to the socket, surrounded by the feeling that those glass-blue eyes of his humanoid form are drilling into you. He’s waiting for you to hit the hook. “But I’m working on your logic.”

“Oh, yeeaah,” he drawls, his hips shifting, and you feel as if he would bite his lips in anticipation now, if he could. 

“Oh, yeeaah,” you echo him, “the logic of a fucking crazy asshole.” He feels like a huge grin, hands on his muscular, bunched, and flexing thighs. That detail is not lost on you. “You’re hunting in town because you’re pissed off. You reached a limit, and you got tired of sitting on your fucking reaction.”

You swear to god he moans a little. Just softly. It could be a breath, but you know him too well to dismiss it out of hand. 

“That’s good, Schatzi. I like that. I like that you figured that out,” he says, definitely panting in rhythm now, his fogging breath giving away the rhythm secondary. “People are looking at you too much. I don’t fucking like it when they look at you too much.”

That’s a sudden thought that had not occurred to you, and you lash yourself silently because it hadn’t. König has always been possessive of you. Jealous. Protective. And he held grudges in ways that could spark blood feuds and successive generations of death.

Like a curse.

It’s a testament to how fucking cracked and perfectly matched the two of you are that you start laughing, stroking his orbital bones in big, pleased pats, kissing the bridge of his nose. 

“Schatzi, please,” he groans, pressing into you insistently. “Promise you won’t tell. Promise me.”

“Why the fuck would I tell?” you laugh, losing track of your faculties, your very sense. What does it matter? What does it all even mean? You’ve found a man that loves you so deeply and truly and twistedly that he slaughters those who desire or deign you. You’ve found, and fallen in love with a man that would sell his face to save as much of yours as he could. “Who the fuck would I tell?”

The slope of his shoulders relaxes, and he moves closer to you, once again shielding you with the massive bulk of his body, warming you in the cold air. Tucked under his chin, you can study the soft suede-like material of his body, how the bark covering his arms gives way to a ruff of dense, double-layered fur around his shoulders and his long, muscular neck. 

The rest of the muscle on him is horrendously hard, flexed like steel cabling under a layer of fat. There is something about this body that reminds you of the shape of the human one so well–long legs, a nipped waist, and flat hips built to strut and rock, all of it buttressing a broad set of shoulders.

You press your face into the ruff, pushing your fingers into it. Dear god, your hand goes deeper and deeper, and it just never seems to stop. His scent is–it’s almost familiar. He’s in there, somewhere–his musk, the metallic tang of blood seemingly sunken into his skin–but there’s so much more to it. Green, and earthy, almost like soil and moss. 

A sound comes from his body, like a house settling. A deep, broad creak. The trophies on his horns rattle together, clinking like dull wind chimes. “More,” he says simply, leaving you to figure it out. Simple enough.

Your hand drops from the ruff, tracing over his convex chest, down to his stomach. Another shudder, and he pulls those big arms around your entire body, a fuller, more protective hug than you’ve ever felt. 

“Schatzi–would you let me…” he breathes, a heaving sigh. 

Another laugh cracks out of you, hysterical, constricted by your mask. Why not? Why shouldn’t you? You’ve always been a woman that loves monsters. You, yourself, are one. You can’t find a reason to halt your hands, nor your body, nor his desire.

In an odd show of tip-to-tail, you push the mask off your face, and kick off your boots, going for your zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, come on. Show me,” you urge him, pawing at his massive waist as you struggle out of your jeans. 

He groans and this obscene trill escapes his body–a low, rattling moan that travels miles through every cell of your body, his legs spreading wider. You laugh in delight and mania, watching rapt as his cock slides out of a sheath you hadn’t even caught sight of, his monstrous body a foreign land you hadn’t traveled yet, but, fuck, do you want to learn the lands well enough to call them home. 

It’s heavy in your hands, a little slick, and, childishly, you almost giggle (holy shit, that is a sound that has never left your mouth in your living memory, and yet, here you are). It’s hot, hotter than you expected, and a vulnerable shade of pale, like a plant slip. Oh, and it’s elegant, almost spiraling. He huffs as you stroke the length of it, pushing your fingertips into his sheath at the base. 

“I don’t think this is gonna fit,” you warn him, and it somehow feels as if you’re challenging yourself with the statement.

He takes it as a challenge for himself, though, and an aspiration to hold for you, “You are going to take all of it. I’m going to make sure.”

His massive hand comes to the back of your waist, finding your fulcrum without needing to search, pulling you off your knees to hold to beneath him. “You naked yet, or still fucking around?” he asks, breathing heavily, and you shove your jeans off the rest of the way. 

“You’re being a little bitch,” you snipe, a dumb swipe at reclaiming dignity after you realize you’re so wet that it slicks your thighs, having darkened the crotch of your freshly abandoned jeans pathetically. 

He throws another coarse laugh, haa-haa, shifting his massive body long, pulling you into place. 

It’s on you, then, to figure out the logistics. Somehow, it just works, even through layers of physical translation. Under your hands, he reads König, loud and clear. 

There’s a brief, flighty moment of terror as you rub the head of his cock between the lips of your cunt, rolling your hips to stimulate your clit against it. It is just fucking enormous, almost half again the size of his human cock. But then you grit your teeth, tipping your weight back so your shoulders rest against the dirt, bleak and unyielding ruthlessness seizing your mind.

You do not back down, you have never done it once in your life, and tonight is no different. 

His head lifts, bottom jaw dropping, and he bays as you push yourself down on his length. The sound crashes into you, rocking your entire body, and the stretch burns, but you buckle down. What are the people in the houses just at the edge of suburbia thinking? Has the fucking abberation that has been slowly killing its way through their number taken to a different form of punishment? Has someone unlucky fallen to its new tastes?

It cuts your mouth into a horrid grin. If they only knew that you were no victim at all, if only they had an inkling of the fact that you are a victor. That you are the hand holding this nightmare’s collar, and he attacks for the sake of you.

Inch by inch, a slow journey, he fills you, pressing completely against your walls, body shaking with the effort it takes not to thrust fully into you. Oh, what destruction that would result in, what a wreckage that would make of your body, what lengths he would go to not ruin you in such a fashion.

“Fuck–fuck–Liebes,” he mutters, just for you, the moment he is as deep in you as he can go, most of his length still outside of what your body can handle, pleading, “I can’t–I. I have to move. Please, meine Liebes.”

“Go. Go-go-go,” you answer back, almost frantic, too full and occupied, needing motion or you might split apart into atoms. The way he answers is instant, undeniable, desperate, rocking into you as if testing waters, going faster as if he finds them warm and welcoming. 

You lose yourselves to it, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, gripping onto the elbow of the arm suspending you, blood rushing to your head in an ache from the way you hang off him, forcing you lightheaded. Sap-like blood from where you’d hacked at him in rage drips down your arm, your waist, clinging to your skin in a way that feels permanent. 

He tenses all around you, panting, clouds of steam fogging the air over your head from his pants. Words escape him, leaving nothing but animalistic grunts, the grinding of his dry, exposed teeth as your desperate pussy sucks him deeper and tighter.

You’d taught him as a human to find your g-spot, to destroy your brain with a steady climb, and he doesn’t even need to search now, every movement pressing every inch of his cock into it, and unrelenting onslaught that makes you shake and nearly drool, being fucked like a sacrifice. 

König raps his other fist above your head and pulls out without warning, shaking his head and breathing roughly. 

You imagine brutally grabbing him by the scruff and biting his ear–what kind of punishment would that even be, no worse than a bug bite to him, more likely than anything else–for the loss of his cock. Mostly just an impulsive fantasy, too barbaric and stupid to actually act upon, but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, and it feels like hell to be split open against him with nothing inside you.

Breathless–and naked, sweating, and trembling in the woods–you start to sit up on your elbows, cunt throbbing. "What is it? Are you okay?" you ask, your love for him–your fear for him–overwhelming even your damnation-worthy starvation. 

König, massive and so dark he's almost indistinguishable from the night apart from his skull, shakes his head again and puts up a clawed hand. Fine, the gesture says, and you’re realizing he’s beyond words now, but trying his best to communicate. Then he curls it into a loose fist and pantomimes masturbating and finishing.

"Christ!" But you’re laughing, tugging at a tuft of fur on his chest, spun out in your giddiness. It’s still him, you’ve already known, but to see it. To find him through this–this utterly new reality. "They teach you that signal in the forces?"

In his hollow sockets, twisting his body to watch you closely, he looks pleased with himself, ducking forward, bracing on his free hand to one side of your head as he nuzzles into your neck and breathes deeply.

He huffs, rough fingers running over your back, claws trailing the parts of your spine he can reach as he holds you, before he taps the side of your thigh with his other hand. At your eye level, he turns his finger in a slow loop. Roll over, maybe? It's worth a shot.

"Okay. Alright," you sigh, relieved. When you try to roll in his palm, he shakes his head and sets you down, pressing down against your body, pushing his arm under your ribs. With his other hand, he gestures a flat line on the ground. You ask, "On my stomach?"

Two knocks against the ground next to your head. Yes.

You stretch out flat over the frost-crisp grass, too hot to even register the chill against your bare skin, and König lowers with you, sliding the arm under you down to your diaphragm. With his knuckles, he taps your outer-thighs until they're drawn back together, and your breathing hitches when you understand what he intends.

With his legs on the outside of yours, he uses his free hand to run his cock up the length of your seam to tease your pussy, but he takes his sweet time with it. Impatient, you slide onto your knees with near-perfect timing, driving your entrance against his head, snarling with indignation when he bows away. "Fucker!"

He rumbles something almost humanoid, between a laugh and a gruff, trilling ‘rrrr’ you recognize as cousin to a sharp, challenging hum he makes when faced with an idiot comment in his human shape.

"Stop teasing me. I can't stand it," you try instead, turning to give him big eyes over your shoulder because you know that it works well on him.

He bends down and barely-barely nips the top of your ear, a startling move that leaves you perfectly inflamed all over again again. Greedy brat, it says to you, so pleased in the fact he is so desperately wanted. 

The feeling of him inside you is extraordinary. He lubricates in this state, but you hardly need it with the nearly absurd way you’re wet, slick down your thighs. You wonder if your cunt is glimmering under the dim moon and streetlamps, because he'd said that to you once. Heilige sheiße, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen, could just stare at how wet you get for me forever, he'd laughed during one delirious, marathon session of staying sunken between your legs.

He begins to rock his hips, growling quietly and pleased at the wet sounds of your of cunt squelching around him–another sound he enjoys, a marker of pride, how wet can I make my girl get–settling onto his forearm and pressing a little weight against your back. 

He rests his head across your shoulders, burying his snout in your hair, breathing in hard-bought bursts of restraint.

"Yes, honey," you almost seethe, loosening your body, giving up a little of your own iron will to become just a little lost in the feeling of him. You relax your walls in a bid to take more of him, breathing tight, voice pitching up into a plea, "Yes, baby, that's perfect. That's so perfect, keep going. Just like that."

He rocks a little faster, thrusts a little deeper, breathes a little harder. The hand around your waist shifts up to your breast, but isn't dexterous enough to do more than give it an encompassing squeeze. 

With your thighs pressed together, you feel as if your body can't stretch properly to take as much of him as you want (and you want all of him, every burning hot inch, fucking him so well that he cannot disappear into one of his miseries where he will not let you follow, because they all live in his head). 

He ratchets back his speed, tries a new motion with his hips. He rolls instead of thrusting, a more fluid movement, brushing your insides in new ways that leave your swollen clit screaming for attention and your eyes watering. You breathe in ragged pants, fingers digging into the turf over your head, trying not to rip it with the force of your grip by the fistful.

You might cum. You might cum. You want to cum, and you might, and he's so much deeper now, panting hot as fire against your shoulders. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench and dance, his horns cutting the air in swipes of agitation above you, and he is so much this way. König: bigger, sometimes bloodier, but always so, so amplified.

"Honey, honey, honey," you whine in a chant under your breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to encourage him. You squeeze your thighs together for the extra stimulation, but you know you’re going to orgasm from him alone, no extra assistance needed. You’re just greedy, you just want it all, but you want him the worst.

When he pulls out this time, you snarl loud and gnash your teeth, digging your dirt-packed nails into his unyielding skin. You were full to the brim and on the wire-edge of climax, and he is so suddenly fucking gone it's almost as abrupt as violence. 

"KÖNIG!" you shout, his callsign cutting from between your teeth like the desire to slit a throat, shattering the quiet around you both, reeling to find him with your burning eyes. 

He collapses onto his side, cock jumping and leaking, and he whines deep in his throat, pulling at you with the flat of his hand. Your thigh, then his hip, your chest, then his–more hand signals, a story-told like a man with a sucking chest wound needing saving. He snakes his arm under you again, whining growing deeper, and you understand.

You roll, throwing your thigh over his hip, tucking tight against his chest. You give yourself one second of feeling cool air against your overheated pussy before you take him in hand and direct him home, and his deep, slick slide into you knocks the air out of your lungs like a punch to the solar plexus. 

You’re only seconds away, and he can't be much farther, driving his head under yours to give you something to rest on that isn't the ground.

You don't utilize his offering, craning your neck as if you'll somehow get a glimpse of your connection from this angle–flat against him from belly to breast, resting your cheek and forehead against his heaving chest. His whine turns into a series of small, strangled howls and gasps as your voice crawls from whimpering to keening.

You’ve known you were going to cum, but you’re still somehow surprised with yourself at how quickly it's raced up, and how overwhelming it feels like it's going to be. You feel like you’re going insane.

His other arm wraps your ribs, too, squeezing you to him like you’re the only thing in the world worth keeping close, and damn him for it. You don't know why, but damn him.

"Cum, baby, cum," you instruct, gasping when you aren't clenching your teeth. You curl close to him, as close as your body will allow, spreading your legs as wide as you can. You drive back down into his thrusts, giving as much of yourself as you can, taking as much of him as you’re able. 

You want it all–everything–every little bit of blood and bone that's built him into a home he offers only to you. "Cum in me. I'm ready, I want you to cum," you demand, finding it truer than true, finding yourself right on the razor-edge.

The command is all it takes. Three hard thrusts, and he's buried in you to the base, punching the wind out of your lungs, and filling you to the point of what feels like impossibility with his spend. It forces you to finish as well, lighting you up like a lightning storm, swallowing him deeper as you cum and cum like you'll never be able to stop, soaking the both of you. 

You gasp a raw-throated howl, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and you praise him as his cock kicks and kicks, emptying everything he's got to give into you.

A pressure builds inside you, beginning nearly unpleasant, until something just gives and his knot anchoring him to you feels right. 

It feels special and dazzlingly intimate, and you’re boggled, again, with the knowledge you’re the only person in the world that he's ever shown himself to this way. It’s just a thing you know in your marrow, an immutable truth, like the sun setting in the west, or the cruelty of witches without their wants.

You wind down, sweating and panting and filthy in each other's arms, and you rock against him,  holding him inside, clenching around him what little you can. You feel so wonderfully safe, so immaculately powerful, so stupidly, crazily, fantastically in love.

When your combined breathing evens, and the knot between you retreats, you groan when König shifts back into his human form, but only for the resituating you both have to endure. 

The body against yours is familiar again, and you’re dreadfully sleepy, though you want to clean yourself and eat. You crave something raw, something bloody. You hunger the way an animal hungers after a hard fuck. His spend drips out of you now that his cock's returned to normal, and it forms a trail of cooling wet down the crease where your thigh meets your ass.

You feel lovely.

König laughs, rough and spent, tucking hair out of your face and kissing your closed eyelids. "Holy fucking shit, Schatzi," he marvels, looking at you like you are the only god that has ever mattered. 

Your smile cuts sharp, and your fingers find his pulse point, tracing it thoughtfully. “You hungry? I bet you're fucking starved,” is all you say in return, eyes trailing the way his hand finds the charm bracelet newly returned to your wrist, touching it like a token.

It’s late and dark when you both manage to stumble your way back to your rental. He stays close, needy and soft, his hand on your hip, tugging you into his body when he can, careful of not knocking into the big, silver knife you’d placed back in the scabbard on your belt. 

The hood is back on his head, rolled up to his nose, and his split mouth kisses against your neck and behind your ear, his eyes closed like he endures a waking dream. You, in your own filthied mask again, allow it, craning your neck to give him more room, anchoring him with an arm around his waist in return.

It is late now, and the neighborhood is silent. Again, you wonder what the quiet lives inside must be thinking–whether they think the crimes have increased into a new field of brutality, if they are fearing and wondering what body parts they will find at the treeline come dawn. 

You know they will not leave the safety of their homes to investigate. They would be stupid to do something like that.

“That shower is going to feel so goddamned good,” you mutter, unlocking your door, and he nods against your skin.

“Oh, yeeaah,” he says, and the familiarity of the phrase makes you hum a laugh, shutting your eyes as you push through the threshold. "Get that blood off your skin before it stains. Your poor face, your poor arm. Poor Schatzi."

He splits off from you with a facsimile of a kiss–your masks pressing together at the mouth–and he pinches your ass before he takes off to the kitchen, his stomach growling, not even bothering to take off his boots.

You, however, kick off your shoes, and pull together clean clothes, heading toward the bathroom in the hall, the one with the big shower, in case he decides to join you.

Sleepy and content, you listen to his boots move heavily over the kitchen tile, the sound of the fridge door hissing snickt as he pulls it open, and shoves things around in his search for food. You nearly sway up to the closed door–why is it closed, you barely manage to wonder–your eyelids lead-weighted.

It takes only one thing to make them snap open wide, your back going ramrod straight. A dark smear, curling around the knob, around the edge of the door where it seams to the jamb.

Cold grips your lungs, sending your heart galloping painfully in the cage of your ribs, wondering if it really is copper you smell, or if it is a trick of your mind. The hall is too dark to tell if the swipe on the white door is red or black–if it is blood, if it is König’s or yours. 

There is a presence at your back, and enormous hands on the door on either side of your head, so fast you cannot tell if you were even able to blink before you saw his wide, scarred, and knuckle-broken limbs spreading wide across the wood.

Your hand finds the grip of the knife, looking at the brutal gouges you had hacked into his forearm earlier in the night, and you are thinking faster and harder than you ever have in your life, realizing in a terrible microsecond that you will have to make a decision–that you will have to choose what reality you are willing to live with, or that you are simply mistaken. 

Either way, you are moments from learning.

“Something wrong, Schatzi?” your boyfriend’s familiar voice asks, low and raspy, hot against the nape of your neck.

The laugh in his tone is cruel, and you can’t tell whether it belongs to König, or something pretending to be him.

tag-list: @alittleposhtoad @bitchoftoji @dotcie @kastlequill @miyabilicious @moths569 @parttimeprophet @pssytrux <3

#hauntedhoedown #konig #könig #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #konig smut #my work

[idiasmentalhealth]

GOD DAMNIT

MY HOZIER OBSESSION IS GOING TOO FAR‼️‼️‼️

I AM NOW LINKING MULTIPLE HOZIER SONGS NOT ONLY TO KURAS AND LEANDER BUT TO GRIM

SO I'M GONNA TELL YOU EXACTLY WHAT SONGS ARE REMINDING ME OF HIM BECAUSE THE BRAINROT FROM FINISHING MY FIRST PLAYTHROUGH IS VERY REAL

there's so many...

cut just so the post doesn't look too long

OBVIOUSLY THIS ONE HAS TO BE FIRST SUNSHINE.

"But whose heart would not take flight?

Betray the moon as acolyte

On first and fierce affirming sight

Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight"

"Once I had wondered what was holdin' up the ground

But I can see that all along, love, it was you all the way down

Leave it now, I am sky-bound

If you need to, darling, lean your weight to me

We'll float away, but if we fall

I only pray, don't fall away from me"

THE WAY I HAD TO STOP MID PLAYTHROUGH TO PLAY THIS SONG ON REPEAT AND THEN CONTINUE

"My life was a storm, since I was born

How could I fear any hurricane?

If someone asked me at the end

I'll tell them put me back in it

Darling, I would do it again, ah, ah

If I could hold you for a minute

Darling, I'd go through it again, ah, ah"

AGAIN WITH THE LIGHT

"Could this be how every day begins?

The sky set to burst

The gold and the rust

The colour erupts

You filling my cup

The sun coming up

Like I lived my whole life

Before the first light"

psychopomp... get it cuz he's... the grim reaper...

"The feeling came late

I'm still glad I met you

The memory hurts

But does me no harm

Your hand in my pocket

To keep us both warm

The poor thing in the road

Its eye still glistening

The cold wet of your nose

The Earth from a distance

See how it shines"

"Some part of me must have died

The first time that you called me baby

And some part of me came alive

The first time that you called me baby

These days I think I owe my life

To flowers that were left here by my mother

Ain't that like them, gifting life to you again

This life lived mostly underground

Unknowing either sight nor sound

'Til reaching up for sunlight

Just to be ripped out by the stem"

"When you move

I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be

When you move

I could never define all that you are to me

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby"

and last, but certainly not least,

"I didn't care much how long I lived

But I swear I thought I dreamed her

She never asked me once about the wrong I did

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her"

#two and a half studios #a date with death #grim reaper #hozier #hozier songs #hozier lyrics #Spotify

[arson-09]

Acowar Review✨✨ sjm needs to pay for my therapy✨✨

Its not as infuriating as acomaf but its still… bad.

Point 1: the court of ignorance and dumbassery

Lets cut to the chase. why the FUCK didnt feyre read Tamlin and Luciens minds at ANYPOINT while she was doin her hot girl shit of taking the spring court down??? huh sjm??? why is your fmc only powerful when convenient. So much could have been cut down. Acowar was way too long.

The whole destroying of the spring court didnt even make that much sense. Im all for a girlie getting back at the people who wronged her but feyre ended up hurting a lot of innocent people in the process. Feyre even tries to ignore the consequences of her actions. She had to invade peoples minds and manipulate people to get them to turn against tamlin and all this could have been avoided if she read his damn mind and learned he was a double agent. Lucien even hinted towards it

Part One: Princess of Carrion »

Chapter Six

None. It was either go to war with the Night Court and Hybern, or ally with Hybern, let them try to stir up trouble, and then use that alliance to our own advantage further down the road." "What do you mean," I breathed. But Lucien realized what he'd said, and hedged, "We have enemies in every court. Having Hybern's alliance will make them think twice." Liar. Trained, clever liar.

If feyre is supposed to be so smart, and she did pick up on this, why didnt she do anything? This is so frustrating.

Then once she leaves the spring court i found myself frankly not caring. Acomaf hadnt given me enough to care about the inner circle so i didnt and sjm cant make me like rhysand. which i have so many gripes but for word counts sake let me name my main ones

Point 2: Sarah Janet Maas and her shitty love interests

the ignoring rhysand sexual assault of feyre and EXCUSING it and his little habit of not telling his court things

Part Two: Cursebreaker »

Chapter Twelve

Was it going on before you even left?" I whipped my head to him, even if I could barely make out his features in the dark. "I never touched Rhysand like that until months later." "You kissed Under the Mountain." "I had as little choice in that as I did in the dancing." "And yet this is the male you now love." He didn't know-he had no inkling of the personal history, the secrets, that had opened my heart to the High Lord of the Night Court. They were not my stories to tell

here we have sjm acknowledging that yeah, rhysand Sexually Assaulted Feyre UtM in Acotar. Without her consent he dressed her inappropriately (which she was uncomfortable with) had her dance provocatively in his lap, kissed her, and made her drink alcohol so she wouldn't remember the details all without her consent. Yet Sjm is going “its fine” now and feyre herself going “you just dont get it…” ⁉️⁉️⁉️

Now see if sjm actually planned for rhysand to become the love interest why didnt she just avoid all this by having Amarantha make rhysand do this to feyre? Because that would have solved some issues but no. Because Rhysand did all this of his own free will in acotar. He actively chose to do this to feyre. To humiliate her and anger Tamlin because rhysand is obsessed with Tamlin.

Rhysand also loves to not tell his own court things. I was and still am very angry over him not telling Mor, Azriel, Cassien and at the very least his Wife about his plan with the court of nightmares. Just why.

Mors anger towards Nesta also makes no sense. sjm stop writing girl on girl hate challenge impossible

Point three: That one toy story scene “I dont wanna play with you anymore!”

Now tamlin. Tamlin tamlin tamlin im so sorry love for what sjm has done to you. If i start ill never stop. What Tamlin said to feyre and rhysand at the high lords meeting was out of pocket but he also wasnt wrong about some things. Also from established character these actions make no sense and his actions havent made sense since acomaf because sjm threw him and his character away to play with shadow daddy and bad morals. But she also cant commit to making a character of hers actually evil so tamlin saves the whole day by bringing the autumn court to fight and saving rhysand life. Tamlin has redeemed himself by sjm standards but she then wrote the holiday novel which i have read and detested.

Overall the plot was fine. i guess. it probably looked better when compared to the characters.

Sjm learn to redeem characters outside of “ooh they were abused and have trauma so everything they do is okay” for guys and “she fell in love/had sex with the most PERFECT MALE TO EVER MASCULINE.” its boring and flat. Also i know what happens in Acosf (i will not be reading that ty) so wtf happened to Nesta bro. she got the tamlin treatment. boooo 👎

to end off heres some of my favorite highlights from acowar 50%+ thru the book.

#a court of wings and ruin #anti acowar #anti sjm #sjm critical #anti rhysand #anti feysand #tamlin #pro tamlin #This book was bullshit

[gofishygo]

hitherto ; simon 'ghost' riley x gn! reader

summary (more of a footnote but whatever) : simon 'ghost' riley with a civilian reader who loves animals heals me in some unspoken language <3

notes: mentions of past trauma (ghost), mentions of animal abuse (ghost), fluff and (maybe) hurt/comfort ?? not proofread; 639 words

He knew his footsteps would always leave a trail, no matter how lightly he treaded or how stealthy he was. He'd killed hundreds after all, all in the name of the world's safety- a legal killer, worthy of purging the unclean as classed. Not to mention the remnants of his past that always followed, violence and abuse and his family always legible in his surroundings like a ghost. He'd always wondered whether his stain had hurt the world more than healed it.

And then there was you, with your light treads and invisible presence and pretty smile. You were everything his hardships had prevented him from being- so much softer and warm and wholeheartedly loved. Always avoiding the bloodied fields of war and doing your best to slip through the world undetected. Simeon had always known that he never deserved anyone, let alone someone like you. And yet you still traced the markings on his calloused hands, talked to him with that bubbly voice of yours, held his face despite the black medical mask that would cover it. You held your world in your hands, and his world was right in front of him.

Your presence is a gentle hand to his marred and bleeding one.

But still, he can't help but glance twice at any snake he sees. His suvorexant holds him down through the nightmares instead of alleviating them. It almost feels to him like he's betraying you when he can feel his chest tighten when you scoop the stray cat up into your arms amidst the cascading rain, ignoring it's indignant hisses and the hair that now messied your formerly clean sweater. He can make the figure of his father in the darkest corners of the alleyway, mangled carrion bodies and blood in the garbage bags of the trash can.

" should put the lad back, doll. " he does his best to hide the grit in his tone.

You only reply with avid pouts of refusal. "it's pouring, si !! I'm not leaving some poor, defenceless animal in the rain !!"

His expression softens. He trusts you; he truly does. But the smell of dog blood is still cloyingly bitter in his nose, and it’s a scent that still stings at his brain.  It's too late for him to react though- you’ve already dashed off back to your shared apartment while covering the feline with your now soaked sweater. Simon follows suit without protest.

He watches as you wrap the cat in the fluffiest towel you can find, careful as to not scare the cat any further. Your gentle rubs to it's fur could never compare what he had seen in his childhood- menageries of vicious snapping teeth and growls , the smell of blood and unkempt fur. You're rummaging through the cupboards and microwaving a can of tuna, nudging it towards the creature to try soothe it's fear. Simon feel his hands start to relax, his grimace fading beneath his mask. You're nothing like that shadow of a man, nothing like Ghost or the little boy before him. You were never going to make the same mistakes, never going to end up as the same monster. A little thing clicks in him, a small shift of his aorta. You were the one he would choose to stand by his side in the old and grey.

"sim ? you've been zoning, is there something wrong ?" you're scritching the cat's head, giggling at its soft purrs as it nuzzles its head closer to your fingers. A doe eyed look of concern as you grace over his features, checking for any sign of turmoil in your boyfriend.

"nothin' to worry about, love." he wraps his arm around your shoulder as you continue to play with the cat, the movement of your muscles as you play with the cat allowing him to take a new breath. "just thinking."

#oh by the way we're naming the cat tofu #ill fight u guys on this trust #୧ ‧₊˚ 📧 ⋅ #🍵 cod °｡ ⋆⸜ #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #cod x reader #cod x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #cod writings #cod fluff #call of duty x reader #requests open

[3zethe3zr]

STP Voices preening headcanons

These are mostly based off of my designs for the voices (silly little anthropomorphic corvids - each a different species with a different accessory) But i thought they were too fun not to share :]

Now, in some particular order:

Takes absolute shit care of themselves and their feathers:

Broken (Collared Crow)- I feel like this one is self-explanatory. Its Broken. His feathers are fifty shades of fucked up and hes trapped in too much self loathing to ever consider preening, social or not. The manacles have damaged his wing feathers to the point that even without the chains, he cannot fly. Cold (Common Raven)- Feeling nothing does not mean they experience any discomfort when unkempt and sees self maintenance as wholly boring. Is absolutely rank. Also considers social preening an absolute waste of time, is lucky to have Hunted as a bestie Cheated (Chough)- Never gets in horrid enough condition that Broken and Cold do, but somehow manages to be worse. Does not see the point in self maintenance when his feathers are just going to get fucked up in the future, but the second he feels he's too unkempt he will start complaining. Doesn't enjoy social preening either, so the others have to force him at metaphorical gunpoint, and he whines the entire time

Takes insanely good care of their feathers:

Opportunist (Eurasian Magpie)- First impressions matter! He is always ridiculously well put together and shiny. Wants the connections social preening could give (and maybe a friend), so tries to initiate it frequently. Often the one badgering Cheated to take care of himself by appealing to Cheateds' better nature. Cheated does not have a better nature. Hunted (Malayan Black Magpie)- Well maintained feathers have a fuck ton of benefits for a Weird Fucked Up Prey Creature so Hunted is insanely diligent about making sure every feather is in order, and gets cagey and on edge when this is not the case. Social Preening is its primary way of bonding and it greatly enjoys it. The one keeping Colds feathers from getting too nasty.

Perfectly average preening habits, nothing to write home about:

Hero (Carrion Crow)- Tries his best but often ends up a little scruffed up around the edges Skeptic (Taiwan Blue Magpie)- Normally keeps themselves very presentable, you can tell when their mind is occupied as they get unkept very quickly Contrarian (Steller's Jay)- Always looks perfect without having to try at all. Everyone else hates this.

Would have good care of their feathers BUT:

Paranoid (Rook)- Anxiety is a double-edged sword, he takes very good care of his feathers due to it, but can also over-preen and has a few bald patches. His gloves bend his wing feathers out of shape and that only stresses him out more. Does not trust any of the others to preen him. Smitten (Blue Jay)- His feathers are ridiculously well groomed, and he cares about looking good. However, he does not take that helmet off ever, and nobody else is allowed to take that helmet off- so his facial & head feathers are as fucked up, bent and grimy as Broken and Colds. Perhaps even worse. Outside of the helmet thing, he delights in social preening. Stubborn (Jackdaw)- Being in good condition means he can fight for longer, so preening is a worthwhile investment to make. Post fight, you're going to need a fucking construction crew to put him and all his feathers back into place. Doesnt enjoy social preening and gets fidgety and bored fast.

#fridge rambles #slay the princess #stp #stp voices #oh god im going to have to tag everyone arent i #voice of the broken #voice of the cold #voice of the cheated #voice of the opportunist #voice of the hunted #voice of the hero #voice of the skeptic #voice of the contrarian #voice of the paranoid #voice of the smitten #voice of the stubborn

[kxizoku-ou]

Have you had any thoughts on hybrid versions of the one piece characters? I love seeing what animals people associate with the characters 😅. Also ears and tails are cute

Hybrid Au, my beloved!!! owo I tend to go heavier with the animal research/xeno than just "ears and tails", but yes, I absolutely have thoughts— here's a handful of my favorites/who comes to mind!

. . .

Kaidou — Auroch bull: The now-extinct relative of modern cattle, closely related to Spanish fighting bulls. Bull feels fitting for Kaidou, I think— they're huge, potentially dangerous animals that get screwed over in blood sports or as slaughterhouse bait, and near-universally seen as aggressive because of instincts that are based in self-preservation or protecting a herd. And of course, ending up as a bull hybrid is just what happens to my favs, by now... (@senjuushi)

Judge — Tawny eagle: His "Garuda" theme implies a bird of prey from the start, so it's an easy pick! Described as "opportunistic", with a habit of feeding on carrion (and stealing other animals' prey), yet still "a bold and active predator", tawny eagles fit well with Judge's vibe of regal, pompous, and trying way too hard. They also tend to mate for life... and male birds are known for flashy courtship habits. Reiju, Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji would be the same species for this Au.

Sanji — Mourning dove: Keeping with the bird theme of his family, but a far less bloodthirsty species. Mourning doves are fluffy, vocal birds that are known for being "prolific breeders". They can be territorial between males, but are also social pair-bonders. Sora would have been a dove too, and Sanji sharing her species is just one more sign that the modifications failed. There's also something very fitting about a "caged bird" theme for his experiences with Germa.

Spandam — Giant panda: Useless animal that would be extinct by now without human intervention. Clumsy, pathetic, and admittedly pretty cute, but not good for much other than existing under careful supervision in a zoo. Of course, Spandam's terrible personality ruins most of the cuteness effect his hybrid species might have— ultimately, he's a needy, spoiled idiot who's eternally dependent on the care of others. And personally, I think he should have a cute, sensitive little stubby tail, perfect to yank on when he's being a brat.

Katakuri — Grizzly bear: Linlin is a grizzly hybrid as well, and the shared species adds to Katakuri's reputation as her "perfect" son. He's huge, powerful, and highly threatening... but would be just as content to gorge himself on snacks and all but hibernate afterward. If it wasn't for his self-imposed standard of perfection, that is. His fucked-up mouth seems even worse on a large predator species, too, which definitely adds to his complex/self-consciousness over it.

Perospero — Red fox: I saw a fanart of him as a fox hybrid on Pixiv, and it convinced me. A smug, sneaky bastard who takes after his mother's carnivore tendencies, but with far less of an intimidation factor to back it up. Annoyingly talkative and far more socially oriented than he wants to admit, as well as capable of being an absolute nuisance when he wants to— all of that sounds very fitting for Peros, I think. And fox whining noises fit his crybaby side.

Cracker — Bushy-tailed woodrat: Prey animals that are described as "vocal and boisterous", and nuisances for "creating general noisy havoc"— seems appropriate for Cracker, an overconfident brat who's far less tough than he acts. Packrats (the overall category) are nest-builders, too, which fits with how he spends so much time hiding in his biscuit soldiers to avoid direct combat. Woodrats also apparently have a foot-thumping tendency; a good match for his clapping!

Pudding — British longhair cat: Babygirl-looking murder machine seems highly appropriate. British longhairs have the sweetest little faces and soft coats, but cats are nature's finest serial killers at their core. Pudding would be perfect as a needy, jealousy-prone kitty who's way too good at playing up the cutesy kitten act to get on people's good sides— right up until a tsundere moment kicks in. Then, she's all puffed-up, twitching tail and poorly stifled purring.

Caesar — Axolotl: Like his pet poison slime thing! Axolotls are apparently "used extensively in scientific research due to their ability to regenerate limbs, gills, and parts of their eyes and brains", which feels fitting for Caesar, as does the fact that they're tricky to take care of as pets (and keep getting put in cages by people who don't treat them well, at that). Also, those feathery external gills are cute!!

Queen — American alligator: Lethal fat fuck of a reptile, exactly how Queen should be! Alligators can be lazy and kind of goofy-looking, but they're still dangerous and very strong. The huge, thick tail is also an obvious plus (the "Brachio-Snakeus" trick haunts me). And really, can't you see him sprawled out all lazy, for gator-style sunbathing?

Drake — Rottweiler/Border Collie mix: A strong, intelligent, capable, and work-oriented animal, that would (as a dog-experienced friend put it), "tear a house down to the foundation" if left without enough to occupy it. Drake gives me "beaten dog" vibes, in general, and it feels fitting that his hybrid species could easily have been sweet, if not for the trauma and DEEP psychological issues.

Law — Shorthaired silver tabby: Law is so very catboy-coded. He's a grumpy, fussy kitty who will both claw your arm open if you try to touch him, and could just as easily be reduced to a purring puddle if his guard gets torn down enough to allow it. Cats are highly effective agents of violence (and can be total bastards, when they want to), but also absolute babies. And imagine tiny, angry catboy Law getting scruffed by Rocinante to prevent the aforementioned clawing.

#Hybrid Au #One Piece #Kaidou #Kaidou of the Beasts #Judge #Vinsmoke Judge #Sanji #Black Leg Sanji #Spandam #Perospero #Charlotte Perospero #Katakuri #Charlotte Katakuri #Cracker #Charlotte Cracker #Pudding #Charlotte Pudding #Caesar #Caesar Clown #Queen #Queen the Plague #Drake #X Drake #Law #Trafalgar Law

[goodqueenaly]

I’ve never come up with an entirely perfect working theory on Coldhands, but the one I lean toward most is that Coldhands is - somehow - an “ordinary” wight (to the extent the word can be used) whom Bloodraven has skinchanged into, effectively taking over from the Others' control of him, and is using as his agent, so to speak, outside the cave of the children of the forest. Whether or not this sort of skinchanging is even possible, I have no idea - but I gravitate toward this idea because I could see Bloodraven using, and justifying the use of, such a being to achieve his ends. As a wight, Coldhands would presumably raise no suspicions among other wights, and perhaps not the Others either - a useful cover for one who had to travel across many hostile miles between the Wall and the cave (and indeed, when Coldhands shows up to save Sam and Gilly, there doesn't seem to be any indication that the wights are going to attack him). Supernatural agents serving as his spies or as part of his spy network is of course nothing new for Bloodraven, given his actions in his political life: even if the stories Dunk remembers that Bloodraven “could change his face, put on the likeness of a one-eyed dog, even turn into a mist” and command “gaunt gray wolves [to hunt] down his foes” and “carrion crows [to spy] for him and [whisper] secrets in his ear” were not all completely true (though some, I think, undoubtedly were), Bloodraven was certainly willing to use a glamour to disguise himself as a hedge knight at the tourney at Whitewalls. From fabricating an identity, and face, to garb himself as another person, Bloodraven has, perhaps, progressed to taking over another person (or at least, their body) entirely, projecting himself into the world as he no longer physically can. 

More to the point, I like the way that Coldhands as a skinchanged wight controlled by Bloodraven might in a way represent Bloodraven himself (beyond merely serving as his agent). Like Bloodraven, Coldhands is a Night’s Watch ranger, both complete with tattered old blacks that once reflected their Night's Watch membership, seemingly dead “long ago” but in fact alive (or as much as either can be deemed alive, anyway). Coldhands is, like Bloodraven, a figure both sustained and bound by supernatural power. As Bloodraven has “lived beyond his mortal span” thanks to the weirwoods’ magic, so Coldhands, though killed long before his encounters with Sam and Bran, walks and talks like a living being; however, just as Brynden is fated sooner rather than later to “[go] into the trees” completely, to remain permanently in the cave and join that lineage of greenseers on their weirwood seats, so Coldhands is restricted to the wilds beyond the Wall, permitted neither to cross the Wall’s boundaries nor to enter the children’s warded cave. Coldhands no more hesitates to serve Bran, the Reeds, and Hodor the physical flesh of Night’s Watch deserters, despite the horror of cannibalism, than Bloodraven hesitated to serve Daeron II and Aegon V, metaphorically, the flesh of Daemon Blackfyre and his sons and Aenys Blackfyre, respectively, despite the proscriptions against kinslaying and violating guest right (albeit perhaps with some personal qualms for Bloodraven to the former). In the sort of amusing twist Bloodraven himself might appreciate, the man who once spoke with the king’s voice as Hand now perhaps almost literally has another speak with his voice while he himself sits on a mystical throne. Too, as Bloodraven had once appeared to Dunk looking like “a living corpse” as the former rode through King’s Landing, so now a real living corpse, just as pale, would represent Bloodraven as he rode across the lands beyond the Wall. 

What I like about this idea as well is the way in which it adds to the nuance and ethical questions surrounding Bloodraven and the magic he uses. To be clear, I think Bloodraven does care about saving the world: the literally superhuman effort put in to shepherding Bran to becoming his greenseer successor is I believe indicative of this aim. Nevertheless, by skinchanging into a raised wight, Bloodraven may be approaching something close to the rather more nefarious magic employed by the Others; if the very evil of the Others is in their enslaving the reanimated dead for the purposes of destruction, how moral or immoral is Bloodraven’s similar use of a wight, albeit for ultimately positive (or intended to be positive) ends? This potential willingness to take over a human body through magical means, with all the accompanying implications for and discussions on the morality of the actor in question, echoes not only in Varamyr’s disturbing Prologue (with his attempts to seize Thistle) but even in the otherwise very sympathetic Bran and his forcible takeover of Hodor, especially in non-survival or unintentional situations. Obviously, I do not think Bran is malicious or evil, much less on the level of monstrous Varamyr, but I do think the author wants readers to recognize the horror implicit here - through the Others, through these circumstances with Bran, and through, perhaps, Bloodraven’s control of Coldhands (hence the chilling self-identification of Coldhands as “your monster, Brandon Stark). 

#asoiaf meta #coldhands

[ladyredmoon13]

DCxDP prompt

The Legacy of Carrion Crow

Ida Manson has seen many things in her days. Many good and bad things that have passed before her eyes at moments without her control. She's just glad that the creation of the Justice League was one of the good things she could see happen in her life time.

Back in her day there was no JL, and it showed; but that didn't mean there weren't heroes. There were, just not as many as there were today. And as spread out as they were they would rarely cross paths with one another. She would know, she kept tabs on all of them.

Now back when she was young the thought of a woman fighting at all let alone fighting crime was simply not excepted. That didn't stop her though. Ida started the way most heroes now began. With a crime-infested city, a father in peril, and a desire to change things for the better.

She became something of an urban legend. The Mob feared her. The streets whispered about her. The police respected her, or rather the cops who weren't dirty did anyways. Hey, what do you expect from 1960's Chicago?

Anyways she was something of a Batman in her time. A vigilante, a detective, a hero to many, and a nuisance to many more. You couldn't prove she was real but you know she existed. There was just one difference between her and him though.

She's not proud to say it, but Ida had blood on her hands. Both as Ida Manson and The Crow. The number of times she had to take out a monster not worth redemption could be counted on one hand, but it was there all the same. This was how she got the name, Carrion Crow. She thinks that's why she respected the Bat so much. He never killed. He never thought there was no other option. No other way out.

Then again Batman never looked Richard Speck in the eyes and saw no hope. She's just happy she managed to find enough evidence to put him away for life. The cops were happy about that.

Working with the cops was also how she met her late husband. He was a detective and a damn good one at that. He had a 97% conviction rate but he never bragged about it. He was just focused on doing the right thing and helping clean up the city he loved. It was no wonder he became commissioner later on.

They met on the rooftop of the old Chicago PD building. The commissioner at the time, Johnson; introduced them and later made him the liaison between the police and the Crow. They hit it off. Like two peas they were.

She shared her identity with him and he shared his past with her. She knew he was the bastard son of a mob boss and yet she didn't care. He was a good man with a good heart and that was all that mattered. The fact he didn't mind and even encouraged her to be the Crow didn't hurt either.

Time passed, and she got older. Deciding to retire was a hard decision but one she was forced to make. Only for the youngest of her two sons to take up the mantle. She was mad, downright furious when she found out.

She should have expected it, of course. Out of the two he was the one that was the most like her. Her oldest son taking after Idas' late mother. As much as that annoyed her. She still loved Jeremy but goodness he needed to loosen up.

The decision to leave Chicago was a hard one. She was born here and grew up here, but her husband wanted to live someplace a bit quieter than the bustling city in his old age. So they moved to a quiet little town almost an hour away from the city.

Leaving the house to her youngest son so that he could still use her old Crows Nest. Jeremy didn't seem to mind much about his brother getting the house. After all he and his new fiance were going to be coming with them to Amity Park.

Time passed and she lost her husband. She became a grandmother and boy did her granddaughter remind her of, well her when she was young. And boy did little Samantha love her uncle. She thought he was so 'cool' and was practically glued to him when he came to visit.

He once jokingly said that if she keeps growing up the way she is we might have another Crow flying around. He made the mistake of saying that right as little Sam skipped into the room. They were forced to lie to her. She didn't want to but Jeremy didn't know about her nightly activities from years ago. Nor did he know that his baby brother was now doing the same.

So lie they did. Sam for her credit was very smart and had known that something was up, but still let it go because her 'awesome' uncle asked her to. And because he promised her ice cream, before dinner!

Tragedy struck not long after that. Her youngest son, her baby boy died. Not as the Crow though but in a motorcycle accident involving a police car chase of three bank robbers. They were devastated, none more than poor Samantha.

Crime got worse in Chicago after that. Apparently crime bosses were smart enough to realize that the Crow was gone but not smart enough to figure out who he was. She made sure of it. She had done worse than send mobsters on wild goose chases before after all.

Soon Sam grew into a spectacular young spitfire. Much to Ida's delight and her parent's chagrin, they could get over it. After all, it was genetic. Though she couldn't say the same for that little friend for her granddaughter's.

Yes, she knew all about Danny and his little secret. She suspected as much when she noticed him acting strangely not too long after his little accident in his parent's lab. An incident that coincided with his shift in behavior and after some digging Ida found what they were hiding. She was still a detective after all. Retired as she may be, but still sharp as a tac.

She decided to help where she could. Jumping in when she knew she could get away with it. She even began teaching Sam some martial arts when things seemed to be escalating. Then the GIW showed up and things only got worse.

Ida tried to get ahold of her some of her old contacts. She even tried some that were even affiliated with the JL, but nothing went threw. For the first time in a long time Ida was afraid for her family, for her home. Danny could only do so much for this town and she could see that it was weighing on the poor lad.

He needed help. He needed someone to watch his back. Not just the way she had been for almost a year now. Ida Manson knew what she needed to do and with a little convincing, she could manage to pull it off.

Once summer came Ida and Sam would go on a little pilgrimage to Chicago. Maybe take her friends with them if they can manage it. Once there this old Crone will take them down to the Crows Nest and do what should have been done long ago.

The Carrion Crow will fly again, and this time they're not coming for mobsters and petty thieves. She's coming for the GIW.

#danny phantom #batman #dc x dp crossover #sam manson #danny fenton #tucker foley #justice league #justice leauge unlimited #justice leage of america

[gallusrostromegalus]

You mentioned Senbonzakura has fruit in the summer. What happens if you eat it?

They won't do anything bad to whoever eats them- if anything, they're exceptionally filling and restore spiritual power surprisingly well. Senbonzakura is generous with his bounty as well- he takes his role as a member of a noble house with extreme seriousness, and paramount of all his duties is to provide for those who shelter under his branches. and thus his fruits are free to all who have to courage to approach and pick them.

Which is actually quite few.

In the early years of the Court Guard, the Kuchiki Clan sought to improve it's public image- and catch a break from Senbonzakura's complaints of ignoble behavior- by opening the doors to the Kuchiki Clan compound to the general public every spring solstice, so that everyone might rejoice in the springtime ritual ov viewing the cherry blossoms, and the most beautiful blossoms were on the Kuchiki clan's anicent cherry tree, which coincidentally shared the name as the Clan Sword.

It was a wild success, with many hundreds filing through for a peek and much praise heaped upon the clan, and they resolved to repeat the ritual at the autumn equinox, when Senbonzakura's fruit matured- a bit later than most cherries, but well worth it.

Many gathered and Senbonzakura's branches bowed, offering the beautiful, deep red cherries to the hundreds of reaching hands. the fruits were bitten into with anticipation, but instead of the expected sweet-but-astringent flavor most cherries have, the fruit of Senbonzakura is...

...Meaty.

He is, after all, a weapon. ...and anybody who thinks about it for a minute knows full well upon what soil he feeds his hungry, thirsty roots.

The event is cancelled almost immediately over Senbonzakura's protests that he would never harm anyone with his bounty, and the fall ritual is quickly covered up and not preformed again for over a thousand years.

...Until Byakuya takes up the sword, and Senbonzakura realizes he is finally in the hands of a truly kindred spirit.

.

The nature of Senbonzakura's fruit does not deter everyone though.

Humans live in an uneasy truce between the fact that they are both creatures of conscience and apex predators, but not all find the complexities of carnivory unnavigable, and come to peace with their place in the great natural cycles. They understand that the nature of the the universe is transformative and that eating a fish that eats worms is not the same as eating worms.

Byakuya understands this. It's part of why he and Senbonzarkura as so close, much moreso than most of Byakuya's ancestors.

Ginrei Kuchiki might wail and gnash his teeth but he makes no move to stop Byakuya every September to a remote part of the Rukongai- the exact location changes every year, to avoid unwanted attention.

Carnivores do tend to be shy, after all.

Once he reaches the site of pilgrimage- somewhere secluded, with good deep soil and water for Senbonsakura to dig into and drink- he plants the sword in the ground and, even more than the yearly Springtime ritual, is when he really blooms. He grows- massive branches stretch towards the waning sun, then bow, groaning with the weight of fruit, resplendent in his excess.

The birds arrive first- they always do, freed by the wind to come and go as they please, and it's only minutes after dawn when they descend upon the upper branches- migrating waxwings and finches, omnivores who care little from whence the calories come but rejoice in the feast. Crows and carrion birds, the unappreciated undertakers of the world, enjoying their meat fresh for once. Eventually, the party is a figurative and literally crashed and there is much scattering and squalling as the Eagles and other hunting birds arrive.

With them comes Zaraki, son of the greatest of all eagles, and Byakuya's closest friend. It was Zaraki that took him under his wing as a lonely adolescent, and helped him make peace with the cycles of death and transformation. Byakuya won't tell him, but he never partakes until his step-father has his first bite before him.

Birds are not the only beasts of the air to arrive, as the last of the season's insects come to partake as well- ants and wasps in particular. Byakuya has not, strictly speaking, actually seen Soi Fon at the feast, but she was never the benevolent queen bee- more the ravenous Hornet, incessantly hunting for meat to put on her family's table, save this sole occasion where she dines alone. It'd be fine if she were to take the fruit home to her family, but Byakuya and Senbonzakura agree that she's learning to come and do things just for herself.

..

As the feast continues and the midday sun spreads the scent, other carnivores arrive- the smaller ones that live as both predator and prey are fleet of foot or belly and arrive soon- foxes and a weasels and snakes looking to gorge before hibernation feast upon the fallen fruits at Senbonzakura's roots, heads bowed in gratitude.

Retsu will sometimes arrive with them, a being well acquainted with life and death and the many stages of minutiae between the two. She is far too dignified to play at being reticent, and rejoices openly. Even before he heard of her past in explicit terms, Byakuya knew she had been a Kenpachi as well.

Most people get to blithely ignore that someday, they too will be consumed as meat, but no such privilege was granted to Ukitake, who comes to the feast as well. He has been prey inside his own body since infancy and rejoices in the opportunity to turn the tables for once- Mimihagi can only halt the spread of his disease, but Senbonzakura's fruit can actually heal and even reverse the damage, and Ukitake will eat himself sick again trying to regain every millimeter he can of his body.

...

As midday fades to late afternoon, the crepuscular giant predators rise from sleeping off the heat and amble over- great cats like leopards and tigers, Bears, Boars, Apes and packs of wolves. All beasts of such scale that the consumption of meat is necessary for survival.

It is only in recent years that Sajin has joined them. His muzzle has a bit of trouble spitting out the pits so he eats more slowly than most, and being a pack animal, tends to be social about these things anyway. He'd come to terms with his heritage long ago, and the resolution that just because he wasn't human didn't mean he wasn't deserving of personhood propelled him through the academy. It was the fear of reprisal from humans that kept his helmet on, not disgust with himself.

"-Even then, it was less my own fear, and the fears of Yamamoto-sama and Kaname. Though given what Yamamoto saw growing up during the warring clans era and what happened to Kaname, they each have seen the worst of the species- no offense."

"None taken." Byakuya nods. "I am well aware of the actions of my ancestors."

"It's not an insult if it's true." adds Tousen, who has started coming with Sajin. He still abhors violence without reason, but to Tousen's mind, this is the opposite- far from violences and the best of all reasons. Byakuya puzzles over this declaration, and wonders how the fact that the curse Kaname suffered under was so visceral in nature fits into that puzzle.

.... As the sun sets, the final guest arrives.

Unlike the others, Yamamoto is not here in his capacity as a carnivore, but as the Commander that Byakuya and Senbonzakura swore their loyalty to. Yamamoto is the virtue by which Senbonzakura is allowed to live as a sword, and demands his tithe as a Just Commander.

Being right and correct in his demand, and holding to his promise to offer fruit to all brave enough to come and take it, Senbonzakura offers the final fruits of his labors without complaint. Yamamoto never wants much- just a handful of the small fruits- but the ritual must be done, and the mutual fealty sworn again for the coming year.

Afterwards, the great tree is barren again and he collapses back into a sword, and the revelers return to the city.

.....

All are invited, of course, and as he sits in the courtyard of his family homesome weeks later, watching Senbonzakura shed his leaves, Byakuya cannot help but speculate on those who do not attend.

Several do not attend out of what Byakuya can only describe as an aggravated sense of the Heebie-Jeebies. Captain Rose threw the invitation out the window with a shriek like he'd been handed a live spider, and Captain Hirako looked like he'd sprinted off mid-conversation to be sick.

Yoruichi is a puzzle- Cats are some of the most obligated of carnivores, and the 2nd division is no stranger to the horrors and blessings of the flesh. So why does she abstain? Perhaps, when she gave up her position as captain, she thinks gave up her invitation as well. Or perhaps that's what she tells herself instead of confronting something more uncomfortable.

Both the scientists have standing invitations to the feast- hell, they can even take samples back to the lab to study, they just need to come collect them. As humans live in a balance between the fallen angel and rising ape, each scientist seems preoccupied with the opposite ends of the scale- Urahara bellowed bloody murder at Byakuya for inviting him, equating it to cannibalism and calling the feast base and animalistic and only just stopping short of threatening Byakuya with harm if that year's feast went through. Kisuke was, to Byakuya's estimation, too much of an academic to see the truth. Mayuri had instead stared at him utterly blankly, completely motionless until Byakuya decided that a lack of affirmation was the same as a polite decline, and left, the door to the scientist's office slamming shut so fast his scarf almost got caught in it. For all his declarations as a great hunter of the truth, deep down, Mayuri still thinks of himself as something hunted.

Captain Matsumoto is at least, perfectly honest that she doesn't attend because she's still in mourning. She attended with Gin until The Catastrophe, and doesn't want to ruin the feast grieving over the man she thought we was. Maybe next year.

Shunsui is the truly odd one out, but Byakuya has a theory. Yamamoto is elderly. That is merely factual and not a judgement. He will need to choose a successor sooner rather than later. Jushiro is wise and well-liked but frail. Mayuri is just generally unacceptable. Zaraki is probably the best leader the 11th has ever had, but really only functions well in emergencies. Rangiku is shaping up into a terrific commander but is still young and stuggles to keep up with the workload already. Tousen is a a terrific organizer, but that's not quite the same thing as a leader. Sajin is methodical and fair but prone to overthinking things past the window of opportunity. Byakuya himself refuses to allow any Kuchiki, least of all the clan head, to assume that much power and bring back the warring clans era. Shinji's a bright man but has all the social grace of a three-legged gazelle on an acid-coated escalator Retsu made Yamamoto swear to not 'dump' command of the court guards on her more than a millennium ago. Rose is... adequate. but that's all he is. Soi fon and Yoruichi both have clan issues like he does, and the spy tactics of the 2nd division are infamous for sowing political instability. ...of all of them, Kyoraku is the one with the command experience, diplomatic skills, correct social connections, sense of duty and raw strength to potentially take on the job, and Byakuya wonders if Shunsui won't turn up at the feast until it's his turn to show up in his capacity as The Final Guest.

The final leaf falls from Senbonzakura and he collapses back into a sword, ready to rest for the winter, and Byakuya carefully retrieves and sheathes him, carrying his friend back to the stand in his bedroom. Well. We'll see who attends next year.

#AEIWAM #an elephant is warm and mushy #Bleach #Bleach fanfiction #senbonzakura #byakuya kuchiki #implied cannibalism #(sort of but not really but tagging in an abundance of caution)

[ghouljams]

Hey I'm not sure if you answered this already but I wanted to ask what Soaps Fae form really looks like. I read the drabble about the horror artist but it wasn't entirely clear. Is he like a shadow man with cobweb-like tendrils emanating from his form or am completely wrong in how I read that.

I hope your doing well. Stay hydrated and take care of yourself 💗

I'll be real with you my love I have no fucking clue.

Soap is based both on old school djinn myths, old leanan sidhe myths, and the essential angler fish. He was meant to be sort of spider-y but then Threat snapped up that imagery up from under him. I'm going to.... I don't know!!! I think he's almost forgotten what he's supposed to look like. He's been pretty for so long, so desperately pretty for too much of his existence, that he wouldn't be able to take the coat off. No easily at least. Even a seer like Liebling wouldn't really see "him" they'd get that electric feeling, the horror of something uncanny and inhuman, but his beauty is a true part of him. It's the type of fae he is.

Leanan Sidhe are beautiful, they glow with an ethereal energy that draws people to them. They're full of life and allure, made to be muses. The djinn part is where I steal his extra chompers from, gotta have the teeth needed to bite through bone and carrion. But they can also give inspiration to poets, and soothsayers! Soap is multi-talented what a man... The angler fish is self explanatory.

This is where I say again that I think Konig is an anomaly. He's old old old fae so he isn't quite humanoid yet, an old monster stalking the woods. Proto-fae, before humans discovered they were more than mindless animals. He has a monster form, but that's also just the type of fae he is. Soap is not that sort of fae, but the vibes are there. He has the big guy's vibe in pretty shiny packaging.

Now the other answer is that he might have a hollow back like a Huldra, but huldra are pretty solidly Nordic creatures. Still beautiful and alluring, but it's said if you gaze into the cavern they carry in their back it will suck your soul into it. Anyone the huldra decide to sleep with are never heard from again, killed for the crime of being unable to satisfy the creature... ANOTHER possibility is having charred extremities, lines of soot from the fire in his veins, his fingers black from heat, his internal fire sustaining and burning him in equal measure. A pain he's long grown used to, if he can keep himself well fed that is...

#ghoul speaks #john soap mactavish #fae!soap #just some thoughts #I don't see any of the boys having monster forms #they're not really those sorts of faeries #1fae1

[historia-vitae-magistras]

What does an archivist do? Is it a librarian but older books?

Historically, we've been described as the handmaidens of historians. The properly feminine little ladies organize everything. The archive is a feminized entity, with the head of the archives of the Second French Empire describing archives as things to be mutilated by war. Historians describe archives and their keepers as seducers. Other times, the virtues of housewives express themselves in the field as neatness, obedience and passivity.

In reality, we're more like Valkyrja than anything. Less buxom and blonde, and more like the original terrifying winged demons in female form who flocked to the battlefields like carrion to carry away the choicest bits of mankind. We are individuals, usually women, who are charged with the incredibly outsized role of deciding whose voices the future may hear. Choosers of the slain. As an individual, acquisition archivists choose what to add to the archive in my charge. We have policies, guidelines, and feedback, but no matter how much support and consultation is given, the position has a lot of power, so our ethics are incredibly important. Our education in sociology is as important as our education in history. The Valkyries chose the bravest, the bloodiest, to feast in Valhǫll. Our parameters are much different but no less rooted in death.

As archivists, our duty to our communities is to hear them, take their advice, and respect their memory and death. When our job is done properly, our chosen slain represents a fair cross-section of the society that produces them and does its best to compensate for the biases of our predecessors. But it almost always comes when people have passed and their children seek us out to judge the importance of their papers.

For me, Þögn from the Nafnaþulur section of the Poetic Edda is my favourite of the Valkyrja. Her name means silence, but my understanding is that it's almost a verb, so maybe it's more like silence-taker. A concept called 'archival silences' is one in which the words we find are less important than those we don't. That's overwhelmingly white men of the upper classes and, to a lesser extent, upper-class white women. So, for the acquisition archivist I work with, that means searching for and accepting as much material as possible from the working class, labour organizations, enlisted ranks, women, and minorities. That material can be books and papers, but it can also be art or clothing. Any piece of material can be archival material.

But we are also nothing of the valkyrja. We each feast upon death, but their violence brings their selection; care brings ours. Gathering that material means listening, participating, being a part of our community and doing our duty. It means approaching everyone who comes to us with a full heart and open ears. Tell us, speak to us. What needs to be preserved? What's in danger of being lost? What does our community want to remember? Archivists largely decide what we keep, but it is the community that decides our pool of slain.

My job as a research archivist is less about choosing the slain than caring for their remains. I mostly answer the questions of the curious, but I also maintain the collection. Selection and protection is part of why our ethics can sound so fucking medieval. Defend the voiceless, protect the defenceless, seek justice, and do nothing without truth and integrity. I may not lie, I may not hide, I may not do anything without a heart and head full of empathy for the seeking living and the dead being sought. I don't get to leave these words at the door of my job, but they have to follow me into every part of my life. Once, the archivist would have sat upon its hoard like a dragon; now, I am Charon on the river styx. I ferry the living to speak to the dead. I answer their questions, find the information, and find and grant any who come to me either with what they need or where they can find it. But neither you nor the dead need coin to cross.

#the ask box || probis pateo #i am celebration drunk so i have no fucken idea if this makes sense #voice of the sead

[sonic-adventure-3]

more-or-less finished my sonic ocs, carrion the cat and squabble the pigeon! they’re part of a trio of freelance postmen/hitmen

+ alt reference, doodles, and more under the cut

jacketless when off-duty + their bases. their colourations are based on karpati cats and lahore pigeons, respectively, though ability-wise squabble is actually a homing pigeon. side note; do you know how many pigeon breeds there are? there are a truly insane amount and some of them are so fucking wild to look at. highly recommend looking up fancy pigeons

concept sketches + two carrion sillies. i had a pretty solid idea of what i wanted for carrion, but the only thing i knew about squabble was her name and species for the squab pun, until i doodled a design and was instantly captivated. i just had to stick with the newsie-amelia aerheart cosplay-ema skye-razputin thing she had going on

i think the squabble in the very upper lefthand corner is the cutest thing i’ve ever drawn in my life

various things about them i should mention:

i’ve yet to design these, but they all have mailbags as part of their uniform, and squabble has a pair of heavily modified skate type extreme gear that have wing accessories like the ones on her head as a reference to hermes, messenger of the gods. also they have a plane. a mail plane? still working on that

not set in stone yet but carrion is abt 16-17 and squabble is 11-13

carrion is a trained assassin, born into it, skilled in close quarters combat, they’re proficient in all kinds of weapons including firearms, they also really like knives and keep a collection of all sorts. she’s probably a cat. they don’t speak all that much. incredibly skilled at many things, especially combat related. skilled tactician but doesn’t care to tell anyone anything anytime so they suck as a leader. just generally doesn’t care to say anything. carefree and more-or-less easygoing; they’re just kinda vibing 90% of the time. perma-blep. poker-faced, will do everything with the same blep expression. very protective of the ones he loves, cares about squabble more than everything else in the world, would and has killed for her. will play along with any bit. ultimately: he stays silly

squabble is an untrained pilot, scout, and mechanic, as well as an enthusiast of mail delivery and explosives. she really really likes explosives. has killed before and will kill again, carrion and rig aren’t completely sure she knows that they’re assassins—she does, she just has such a completely out of whack sense of morality and common sense that it’s hard to tell. she has an infectious joy for life that creeps into everyone around her. she’s the beating heart of the trio, and the one who came up with the idea of the matching jackets. is a homing pigeon, has magnetoreception, and therefore makes an excellent navigator and scout. she always knows the way back home, and her home is with the other two. has a completely out of whack sense of danger, is something of a thrill-seeker, but real serious danger she is very acute to. is a mechanic, but not quite an engineer; she repairs, maintains, and makes heavily illegal modifications to machinery, but she doesn’t build her own completely original designs and tends to stay away from electronics. comes off as a little klutzy bust she’s rather proficient in various things.

the third of their trio who is now designed and named rig is a sniper. she’s a fair amount older than the other two, somewhere around 22-24 i’m thinking? the delivery service was just euphemistic for their assassination services before the other two walked into her life. doesn’t pay taxes

chaotix-like in many ways

they’re a weird non-traditional colleague-family. they’re family-ish :] they love and care about each other, despite it all :] THEYRE FAMBLY!!!!!

they fully do kill people, but also a good portion of their hit missions tend to be for robots or to cause non-lethal commotions instead of straight up assassinations

they have a reputation for this and often take on odd jobs that very loosely fit their job descriptions

they get super suspicious job requests like ‘please “retrieve” “my” ““parcel”” from this heavily secured gun base and deliver it to this super secret off-grid address xoxo~’ and fully deliver on them

thank you for reading about my sillies! i’m bad at talking about ocs cause i never can tell what’s interesting or what i’ve shared, but i like thinking about them a lot :]

#i’m still hashing out a lot of details. many things i’ve yet to design or think about sufficiently #but i like talking about them #thank you very much for the feedback yesterday! it really helped! #my art #doodles #oc posting #ocs #squabble the pigeon #carrion the cat #sonic ocs #sonic oc #sth #tiny sonic cameo in there too lmao #i feel like the whole assassin thing is barely necessary but also i really like assassins #and what’s the point of sonic ocs if not to indulge in the things you like wholeheartedly?

[guess-that-ship]

S11 Round 1

Icarian Carrion

Character A is alone in the world, abandoned or let down at an early age by those who were responsible for him. Character B is the first person to truly see him beyond his faults, noticing his skills, initially becoming a sort of mentor, and refusing to give up on him. This makes a huge impression on A, who has trouble connecting with people due to fear of rejection, but who lets down his walls for B. Then B leaves for career reasons, and after an accident, is eventually presumed dead by everybody except A, who cannot believe this. When B reappears some time later, it's A who 'saves' him, and A continues to do so throughout the story, as they become not only close friends, but also coworkers. They go to any length for each other, A never giving up on B and vice versa.

Character A, fiery, strong-willed and protective, finds reassurance in Character B's steady warmth. Likewise, B finds himself able to confide and trust in A's unwavering loyalty and faith. A notices B's PTSD flashbacks and helps him cope with mental illness; B constantly stands by and cares for A. They trust each other, more than anything, and the depth of their bond pierces through realities on occasion. They will always find each other, and save each other over and over again, no matter the cost.

Knight(s) in shining armor

cw: major spoilers

Green and Blue were rivals turned genuine friends, although there was attraction for more from at least one of them. But the circumstances didn't allow for more, partly because of the constant stress they're under as part of their job and the plot, and partly because of the irruption of a third person, Red, who also has a big crush on Green and is close to him. However, Blue realizes upon dying that he loves Green too much to break the promise he made to Green, and thus simply refuses to die. Motivated by their mutual love, he manages to go back in time under a different identity, which turns out to be Red, in order to save Green. He then proceeds to push his past self and Green closer, becoming his own wingman in the process.

During this time, the one now known as Red also tries to get closer to Green himself, and after some rocky beginnings the two end up getting along as much as Green and Blue do/did. Green was heartbroken after Blue's death, and found comfort in the arms of Red, who he only learned was actually Blue after Red was killed too. Green then used the power of love and courage to avenge his lover(s) and save the people they both cared about, and ultimately resurrect Blue, securing their shared happy ending that Green had died for twice.

#s11 #tournament poll #s11 round 1 #spoilers