#the original shadow and bone cover looked so cool
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Shadow and Bone- open roleplay -
(so this is a third version from the original two that are dead and unfinished. Hope someone likes it. Please please please comment and reblog! They are my bread and butter to post on here!)
What do you get when you mix a manipulative bone spirit with an obsessed shadow searching other worlds for their ‘lost’ mate and willing to do anything to bring their ‘mate’ home and to his senses?
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Cold amber pupils set in icy blue sclera flicked over the many small balls of floating bone and shadow…
looking…
searching…
watching…
Long black claws in a semi tanned hand plucked one of the small orbs looking at the victors of the fight. Cold eyes zeroed in on the golden humanoid monkey looking tiredly at the cheering group while glancing at a black humanoid monkey. A small flash of pain crossed the golden monkey’s face before it was covered up under a mask. “There you are Peaches…”
The cold eyes shifted to the humanoid black monkey a slight scowl crossing the being lips. “…Soon… you’ll be back home… safe and sound…” a black claw tenderly ran over the zoomed-in face of the Golden monkey before switching over to the black one. “But first… to remove the competition…”
()()()()
A golden humanoid monkey sat calmly on a stone in the middle of a river not very far from a waterfall casually dressed in only a pair of black pants with a few bandages around the ends and a simple sash tied at the side around his hips as he meditated to clean and cleanse his body of the leftover icy magic he could still feel on his back just crawling under the skin. Golden eyes opened as the monkey gave out a frustrated groan. “Why isn't this working!? It's been a month and I can't get it out!” the Golden monkey ranted in anger and frustration as they stood. ‘Why can't I pull it out?! Gods I can already hear Macaque laughing at me. ‘Come on Wukong your the great safe surely a little Frost magic can be removed by your great power.’’
They stepped into the shallow water marching up to the falls and dunked themselves under the cool waters to wash away the frustration so they could try again. They stilled when they felt a presence even though they had asked to be left alone for the day. “Who’s there?!” the Golden monkey called out hands fisted and body tense as he looked around noting the silence that before had been filled with forest life.
A tall figure in a white hooded cloak that slowly faded to a pale purple stepped out of the forest with frost spreading out under them. The Golden monkey shifted his stance. “Who are you? How did you get past my wards?” the Golden monkey demanded.
The figure remained silent as the Golden monkey growled. “I’ll ask one more time who are you and how did you get here?” he demanded of the cloaked being.
*”I simply walked in.”* The figure spoke, their voice warped enough that the Golden monkey had to pin back his ears from the sound.
“No one but those I permit can pass those wards.” the Golden monkey stated with fact before he moved to attack the cloaked being.
The being easily dodged the Golden monkey’s fast fists before catching one of them in his hand with a firm grip. Golden eyes widened for a second before Frost started to crawl up the Golden monkey’s arm from the caught fist making it numb.
The Golden monkey tried to pull his fist away but the grip was far too firm leaving him no choice but to break the hold.
The Golden monkey struck with a kick only for the figure to easily pin the leg to his side while warped chuckling came from the cloaked being. *”You’ve improved… but I'm still better Peaches.”*
The Golden monkey stilled with his eyes shrinking slightly before he growled. “Who are you!?”
The figure was a tall tan skinned monkey of about eight foot even with long white fur that had an icy blue tint with six lotus petal ears all in different shades of blue with pale purple edging that matched the monkey’s blue-tinted sclera with pale purple irises. The monkey looked much older then the one the Golden monkey knew. Said golden monkey growled. “Stop playing games Macaque! Now let go!” the Golden monkey ordered.
Instead, the tail of the other weaved behind the Golden monkey and touched the cold spot on his back sending an icy cold through the Golden one's body and causing his limbs to go slack and numb unable to move. ‘What the-!?’ the Golden monkey was caught in a firm hold pressed to a chilled chest under the cloak as his head was lovingly nuzzled by the taller monkey. “I’m here now Shihou and you won't be leaving me *ever* again.”
‘I can’t move!’ the Golden monkey thought in panic as he was picked up in a bridle-hold with his head tucked close in the monkey’s neck as more cold seeped into his body making him drowsy. [Mac… Help…] the Golden one mentally called out before the cold caused him to fully shut down unconscious.
The taller monkey purred happily as he pulled his cloak closed allowing the Golden monkey he held to ‘rest’ against him just as he had done long ago.
“Lets go home Shihou… that imposter is already there waiting for his punishment for keep you from me.” the White monkey spoke as he clasped a necklace around the Golden monkey’s throat.
A blue-tinted portal of shadows opened before them as the white monkey stepped through entering a majestic bedroom of pale icy blues and pale purples with a rich black nest-like bed in the very center of the room curtained by sheer lilac drapes to keep in body heat.
A low growling sound came from the left of the figure who scowled as his cold gaze fell upon the black monkey currently bound in diamond chains with a tight muzzle on his face and a silver band around his forehead that looked like angry eyebrows. “You lost your chance a long time ago. Shihou is *mine*. At least your rotting corpse will be good for something with how badly you have failed.”
The White monkey continued his path to the bed with pale purple shadows opening the sheer curtains as he tenderly placed Wukong’s limp form on the bed clearing up the frost on the Golden fur completely oblivious to the purplish blue tint to Wukong’s lips and limbs nor the subtle shivering the Golden monkey was doing in his unconscious state. Instead, the White monkey proceeded to strip Wukong of his wet pants and bandages tossing them into a shadow as he grabbed something else from the shadows and pulled out a peach-pink outfit and easily used his pale purple shadows to dress Wukong’s form. “Perfect.” the White monkey nodded as he stepped back letting the curtains close so Wukong could ‘rest’ in peace. “Try anything and that muzzle will be the least of your problems corpse.” the White monkey coldly stated to the black one before he vanished in a whirl of snow followed by the chains on the black monkey coming undone.
TBC
…
At some point
#fanfiction#lmk au#lego monkie kid#shadowpeach#collab help#cowrite#amwriting#lmk rp#discord 1x1#discord rp#sun wukong#six eared macaque#sun wukong x macaque
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pls talk about the shelf
i was desperately hoping someone would ask me to rant abt it akehdjshd i'm kissing you sweetly on the forehead anon
okay so if anyone sees this out of context: i have a shelf in my bookcase dedicated to hannibal. yes it's kind of like a weird little shrine but leave me alone.
be warned this is going get LONG.
so, it has the obvious: the hannibal books, the tv show box set, the tv show's cookbook, my fancy copies of the divine comedy (they're hardcover with gorgeous sleeves that have art printed on them to match each book), and i also have the iliad and the odissey in there in a single big book that i bought on a whim when out once and then after buying it i found out it also had the original greek alongside the italian translation and i lost my mind. i've never felt such pure joy and i can't even read greek. yet.
as for decorations, as of right now there's a piece of driftwood that is kinda shaped like an L so it stands up on its own and it also kinda resembles an antler.
there's this fuckin box, i don't even remember how i got it, but it's made of bones. it's shaped kinda like a stereotypical treasure chest but it's literally made of bones. the inside is lined with red velvet.
i'm not sure what else to decorate with? i've put in a seashell but it can't even be seen because the shelf has glass doors but the shell is covered by the frame (might move everything to another shelf where the frame is not in the way tbh just so i can decorate with tiny things at the front).
i just moved this whole thing from my other bookcase (i just got this new one today because i have too many books and in my first bookcase the shelves are literally bending with the weight of the books piled up on them) and when it was there i also had a teacup in there along with a lighbox that says "bone saw time! 🖤" but this new shelf feels very elegant and there's also not enough space for the lightbox. i also had a bust of dionysus there but i'm going to move it to my dionysus altar.
i've got an old scalpel somewhere too and i'll try to find a visible spot to put it. i also have 3 tiny japanese plates that were all given to me as gifts and some souvenirs from japan from a friend too but idk if i wanna put japanese stuff in there. like it's fitting but at the same time idk if it's disrespectful or not.
if i had money and more space i'd make this whole thing bigger and get like. a little frame with fly fishing lures like the ones will made in the show and maybe something like some ethically sourced taxidermy. a snake skeleton and a mongoose skull would be really cool. maybe i could print out a little something with lures instead of buying real ones and like. a fake death's head hawkmoth taxidermy. i'd need some of those shadowbox frames and i'd make it so the pictures stand out a bit from the back so it looks like they have shadows. bc like i'm fairly certain real death's head hawkmoths cannot be ethically sourced at this point in time because ever since silence of the lambs came out people have started going insane over them.
i think my grandpa has this framed thing somewhere with sailing knots made with actual ropes in it rather than just pictures. haven't seen it in ages so i'm not sure anymore if it was my grandpa's or someone else's. probably my grandpa since he was in the marines when military service was mandatory in italy but idk maybe i saw it somewhere else. i could print out a small picture with various illustrations of sailing knots.
i also have these cards that my aunt gave me at one point that have prints of a lot of famous paintings with descriptions in the back and i THINK one was the primavera. it was either that or the birth of venus i'll have to check but either way there's at least one botticelli in there. i don't like botticelli much tho so 🤷
i plan at some point to also get physical copies of all the movies but idk when that'll be since i've found a different box set for the tv show with gorgeous covers that i plan to buy as well. also of the ones i currently own i think one of the dvds stopped working bc it got scratched while inside my pc because i was pausing and rewinding/forwarding too much. we'll see i guess.
now for the rest of the books. i have a medical book in there called the abc of the human body. i think the title is kind of hilarious for a hannibal shelf. i just found out today while moving books back and forth from one bookshelf to the other that i actually have two copies of this book and one of them was owned by a doctor that died i think like 15 to 20 years ago. i have a few other medical books that said doctor also owned on the shelf above. he also owned the scalpel i mentioned before.
there's the book skulls by simon winchester, which is a collection of pictures of skulls from one of the biggest skull collections in the world, along with a few inserts on biology if i remember correctly? i originally bought it for art references and i LOVE the cover so i made sure it was facing forward in the shelf.
there's the resurrectionist, which is a sci-fi/fantasy book kind of in a frankenstein-esque vein where the main character is this made up doctor who manages to make some mythological creatures through surgery & digging up dead bodies and i won't spoil it any further. the second half of the book is a whole bunch of medical/biology style illustrations of said creatures, their skeletons, their muscles, how certain parts of their bodies would function (for example i believe it goes into explaining the lungs for both mermaids and harpies). i don't think it quite fits thematically with hannibal but i think it's got The Vibe so i put it in there.
there's a book on saint lucy, who is the patron saint of sight. i have it because i was born with my skull being asymmetrical and the doctors immediately told my family it would likely cause problems with my eyes, and so instead of, you know, starting to take me to eye doctors from a young age, they swore me to saint lucy and left it at that. i'm likely going to go blind on my left eye at some point in my life btw lmao thanks st lucy <3 i do like her though. i like her iconography a lot, she's always portrayed as holding a plate with her eyes on it.
there's damien by hermann hesse, which is one of my all time favourite books. it's written in first person and it starts with emil sinclair's childhood, explaining that he sees the world in a very black and white way, and does so very literally because he speaks of the world of light and the world of darkness, which are kind of meant as good and evil. but then something happens to him that starts blurring the clear line he thought was between the two, which sends him into a moral panic until he meets max demian, who starts to make him see that there's more to both sides. the story as he grows up follows his "corruption" into someone who is neither good nor evil. it has a lot of implied homoeroticism, as it was written i think either in the 20s or the late 1800s so it couldn't be explicit but it is very much there and is expressed mostly through demian's mother. there's also a weird cult thing going on and the ending is a bit ??? and honestly i need to read it again because for such a short book SO much happens that i'm having a hard time summarising it accurately.
the only other books i remember being there rn (it's 1am i'm not turning the lights on again) are dracula, because cannibal/vampire count with a big castle, the butchering art, and les fleurs du mal, plus two other books written in french that i haven’t read yet because my french isn't the best, whose titles i don't remember rn, and one in italian that i've found at a used books stall once but i believe it's from a local author and i've never seen it in a bookstore nor online so there's definitely no english translation of it. i still haven't read this one either and i don't even remember what it's about, it might be a poetry book? not quite sure. but yeah these few ones i haven’t read are there like. on trial. if i read them and find them fitting they'll stay otherwise they go to another shelf. i also haven’t read les fleurs du mal nor the butchering art yet, so the same applies to them. i think that's all of them? i plan to put my art history books and regular history books on the shelf above as well next to the medical books to kind of carry the theme over lol.
i would like to maybe someday get some of the books that we've glimpsed from the bookshelves on the show but this is it for now!
anyway. tysm for asking me about it dear anon. you said but a few words yet they meant the world to me <3
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Sun - Yautvember day 6
Content: Yautja Prime is sun and light, fire and lava. It's the perfect place to raise a pup... normally.
Warnings: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, abandonment, angst
A/N: Good evening, fellas :3 I am literally shocked by the amount of love this little things are getting, it really helps keep going. Thank you all for the support and if you want to join remember to check @jacklycan for the original prompt list!
It was said that when Go'ra was born, her mother had looked at her with disgust and thrown her in the canyon nearby.
Of course, like all the stories born from hate, it wasn't completely correct.
Yes, Mother did look at her with disgust when she was born. Her pearl white skin and bright green eyes had made her think of a larva of the weakest kind, but she didn't throw her out right away.
She had been way crueller. She had kept her and brought her up until she was able to walk and talk and understand she was her mother, and then she had thrown her in the canyon.
Go'ra remembered that morning like yesterday. Mother had told her to follow her outside, even if the sun had already risen, and she had obeyed, trailing behind her at the faster speed her small feet could make her.
Mother had taken her to the cliff outside of the village’s border. She didn’t speak, not until Go’ra got closer to her to cover in her shadow.
She had flared her mandibles, eyes squinting on her tiny shape, and her voice uttered, icy: “Why did Paya curse me with you?”
Go’ra had looked down, as always, preparing for the moment Mother would have moved to go attend her duties, leaving her exposed. Then, suddenly, she was falling.
In a first moment, she screamed, scared to the bone as Mother’s silhouette got blurred by tears, then she impacted the rock wall and all her being had gotten sucked down in a spiral of emotions.
She felt pain, for her body was rolling with no control, getting cut on any surface it faced.
She felt fear as the light hurt her eyes and blinded her.
She felt anger… but she didn’t have the time to understand this one before she hit the bottom.
She experienced a moment of numbness so strong and visceral she could have said she was at peace. She sucked in the air, floating in her own mind, then it all came back.
It was hot. Excruciatingly hot. And bright.
She forced herself on her belly and crawled around like a worm with no other thought than flee that infinite torture.
Her blood was fire and her skin tissue paper that got dustier and bloodier as she staid under the light. The rocks under her body got mixed to the bones of the ones that preceded her and didn’t make it. Would she be like them, tiny white bones that shone dimly under the moons’ light?
It had been the fear of becoming part of that army of traitors that kept her moving, ignoring the drop of her stomach every time she recognised the kind of bone she was pushing onto. She could still remember the warmth of the sun, like a heavy cloak on her head, pushing her down to surrender.
Eventually, that pain had flagged and relief had come to replace it.
Go’ra had savoured that feeling like fresh water in summer, until she felt strong enough to open her eyes and lift. She had made it to a rock spur, whose shadow had been the source of the relief she was feeling.
Paya have had mercy, even of a weak and broken thing like her.
She had curled up under her refuge and cried until she had nothing left inside.
When she calmed down, she was burning with a fierce desire to see Mother. She wanted her cool shadow and powerful energy, but she also wanted to bite her and destroy her weapons.
It was a confused feeling, something her pup mind couldn’t elaborate further than the physical push to survive and do both of these things, so she settled for coming back.
She had studied the rock wall she fell from, following the shadow until the night came, and then she started her hike.
It took her more than three days of climbing at night, hiding from the sun and eating the very few and small insects she managed to catch to get to the top.
She had surged from the canyon with a pathetic whimper, rolling on her back to breathe as her heart slowed down. Her body was a constellation of scars and blood, but she was alive.
It took a little to stand again after that physical effort: she felt a suckling again as she wobbled towards her home on tired legs. She had banged on the hut’s door with all her remaining forces, pleading, threatening and sighing until the adults of the neighbouring homes had come to push her away.
Mother was not there, they said. She had left and she had to do the same if she wanted to keep moving with her own limbs.
Go’ra had cried that night, and many others, for pain and anger to the point she couldn’t see the line that separated the first from the latter anymore.
She hated her skin more than anything else. That ugly and useless white that could not protect her from the heat of her world, but shone brightly under the moons revealing the green veins underneath. She had thought many times of cutting it off.
All of it, inch after inch.
She would have used her teeth, like a bird breaking its egg, and once done she would have found a dark and tough skin, just like her mother. Thick and cool and useful. And she would have come back to her home, where the adults would welcome her as one of their own, and become a hunter, a Matriarch even! Everything would have been perfect or at least better than this.
She never did it, though. Surprisingly enough, her will to survive had been stronger than her suffering and she kept going.
She discovered that the night could be her day. That stealing food and weapons was easier if she was faster than anybody else. That a hunter makes a melodical sound as they die and that honour was bullshit.
Against what she had ever thought of herself, Go’ra had made it to adulthood, but never saw Mother again.
#yautja#yautja oc#yautvember#predvember#the predator#original predator character#original female character#albino character#angst with no comfort#selfharm#general pain#oh god what have i done to this poor baby of mine
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Living Time Piece
I had this idea a while ago and even started writing it, never finished it though. But when considering what Snatcher related story I could write for Halloween this year I randomly remembered it so here it is, entirely rewritten because my original go at it wasn't that great, perhaps part of why I never finished it.
~
The living soul that had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of Subcon turned out to be Hat Kid again. Not surprising, she was the only would that could do that kind of thing as far as Snatcher knew. Still it had been best to make sure lest it be someone else. Now he could leave and go back to what he’d been doing. She’d no doubt find her way over to him sooner or later, but that would be a problem for future him. He didn’t quite turn away yet though, continuing to watch Hat Kid instead.
She was climbing the big tree in the center of Subcon. Despite having only been at it for what couldn’t have been more than a few minutes she was already halfway up. She was being reckless, not paying much attention to safety in her seeming rush to get to the top. The risk of falling was high to say the least and at that height it would likely cause severe injury if not death. Maybe Snatcher should…
As Hat Kid hopped to a new branch, it snapped underneath her. She fell without a sound. Snatcher teleported over, intending to catch her but… was just a bit too slow. She hit the ground in front of him with a horrid wet crunch of breaking bones.
Before he had time to do anything more than flinch, the world jumped and he was suddenly hidden in the tree line again, looking up at Hat Kid as she climbed Subcon’s large central tree. What the fuck? She deftly avoided the branch that had broken as if she knew… and well, perhaps she did.
It had to be a Time Piece, right? She had one on her person somewhere so it would break if she fell. Still risky though because what if she landed in such a way that her body would cushion it enough that it didn’t break? Also, didn’t she make a big deal out of how using the Time Pieces too much was dangerous? It could end the world or something like that. So why was she being so frivolous with its use now? Surely she should at least be more careful because once again as she put her full weight on another branch, it broke, sending her to the ground.
From over here, the crunch of her body breaking as it hit the ground was still unfortunately audible. But just like last time, the world immediately jumped back to when Hat Kid was safely up in the tree, only a short distance away from where she’d fallen.
Snatcher had had enough. Shifting out of cover of the shadows, he floated over to hover and loom over her. “Hey kiddo.”
Surprised by his voice, she messed up her jump. This time Snatcher caught her well before she hit the ground. He levitated her over so he could frown down at her.
She smiled, lifted a hand in a small wave. “Hi Snatcher.”
“Didn’t you make a big stink about not using the Time Pieces? So why are you risking breaking them to climb a tall tree of all things?”
“What do you… oh, wait! You remember me falling?”
“Uh… yeah.”
Her smiled widened. “It must be because of how much you’ve been wearing the hat I made for you. Or maybe the phone I gave you? I don’t really know. But you remember now too which is cool.”
“What are you talking about?” The hat – one similar in many ways to her own – and cellphone she’d given him as gifts more than a year ago now and had absolutely nothing to do with anything right now.
“I’m not using a Time Pieces to save myself when I fall and stuff. I’m like… a living Time Piece, I guess but also sort of not. When I die or break, time jumps backwards to shortly beforehand. Like the Time Pieces, yes, but I’m pretty sure the rules are different for me because most of the time no one except for Bow remembers when I break like they do when the Time Pieces break. And I’ve died a lot without anything bad happening so the way it works must be different and thus I can break and reverse time as much as I want and it’s fine. Other than the fact that it hurts anyway, that part sucks pretty hard but it only lasts for a super short time so it’s not too, too bad most of the time.”
If it wasn’t for what Snatcher had just witnessed he wouldn’t have believed it for a second. But that would also explain Hat Kid’s lack of fear and general recklessness; why be cautious and fearful of death if she’d always come back from it? … But wait, if this had always been the case but he was only just now able to remember it for whatever reason… “When we fought, did I successfully manage to kill you?”
“Yeah. A few times, more than anyone else actually.”
Yes! He wasn’t so pathetic to have lost to a kid during their first tussle. She’d had the unfair advantage of multiple tries and recalling all her previous attempts while he hadn’t. Of course he’d still lost which was embarrassing but now it was slightly less so.
“Now,” she continued, interrupting his triumphant chuckle, “can you put me back so I can get back to climbing the tree?”
“First, why are you like that? Is it an alien thing or what?”
She shrugged. “My theory is that I was made in a lab as an experiment and then something happened when I was still too young to remember and that’s how I ended up in an orphanage. I don’t really know though. Bow says I might be an entirely different kind of alien or maybe only part alien somehow. I try to keep it a secret. Which is easy because almost everybody doesn’t remember when it happens. Except back on my home planet, people there tend to remember more often, not always though. But still I almost got caught a few times and had to…”
Bored of listening to her chatter, Snatcher levitated her over the the tree and dropped her back onto it. She caught the branch just barely but pulled herself up with no problem.
“Oh, okay. Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later after I reach the top.”
Snatcher floated away without an answer. That revelation had certainly been interesting. The fact that she didn’t know why she was like that sucked though. Perhaps he could do some experimentation and figure that out himself. Like he’d been planning to do with the Time Pieces before she’d stolen them back. He was going to have to think on that idea for a bit to sort out how best to go about it. Perhaps by the time she caught up with him later, he’d have an idea in mind.
~
My original idea had this being longer via having this leading into the Death Wish contracts and probably multi-chaptered as a result. But due to lack of time, I decided to just leave it with a vague suggestion of that happening instead.
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I'm sorry but the cover for the traditional published version of Masters of Death by Olivie Blake is so ugly 😐 I was really looking forward to it because it's the only other Olivie Blake book unrelated to The Atlas Six I have read by her... i'm just glad I have the self-published book now lol
I mean, LOOK how clean and cool is the old cover! The white-black contrast! The font! The elegance!
True masterpiece!
And then look at this green thing 😐😐😐
The only thing I like about this is the hands with the stick - I guess there's not many ways to represent the "balance is king" quote. And I think "balance is king" would have been better on the cover... I mean, the quote that is on it rn is alright and fit the theme but I don't even remember if it's in the book - while "balance is king" is a key quote for the story.
And wtf is up with the skeleton, my god. There wasn't even skeletons or bones in the book! At least, I don't think so... This makes me question my memory lmao, and I read the book five months ago. Like, I know there aren't many ways to represent death - and death, immortality, ect. are the main themes - but there are so many other good elements to represent the story that could have been on this cover. Just to name a few - the tables, clock/hourglass, crown, if you insist on bones - a skeleton hand, a faceless person in shadows (like in the original cover), a notebook, even a scene of the book.
Like, damn, I'm sorry but I can't get over how ugly this cover is.
#i'm complaining about it because i have read this one and i loved it even more than the atlas six - and i freaking love ta6#like... fuck that's awful cover#this book deserves better#i will nevee understand how can someone like this cover#even more so the cover reveal post for alone with you in the ether was boombed with comments beginning to bring back the old cover#i want the same for masters of death i can't understand why is it not happening 😭😭😭 I WANT JUSTICE#masters of death#olivie blake#my post#books
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Tracker: Vague Prompts
Adapted from the Vague Prompts collection originally posted by @ladylike-foxes
VAGUE PROMPTS 1:
Secret that stays in the cave
Buried beneath a mountain of furs
“The concept of wolves will never get old…”
Haunting night song; brother sleepwalking
Moths in a forgotten shed
“There’s an unfamiliar perfume on her wrists, I don’t recognize the scent.”
Following your idol too closely
Plucked every red rose from the garden and burned them
“You keep lifting me up—but this time, I won’t come down.”
The temptation of giving in, surrendering to dark, sweet elysium.
A thing no god wants to see
“Keep the cloth from covering her face.”
The bed is empty when (….) get(s) back
The line between them is a thick mistake
“I watched you watching me from the window.”
Fingers scrubbed to bleeding
The Woman in the Painting
“We need to look beyond the ghosts we’ve created here.”
Things that die over and over
Keeping dead flowers
“Perhaps it was preordained, perhaps it was simple circumstance.”
The comedy of gulls
The feeling of hollow kisses
“It’s hard to breathe when you look at me like that.”
VAGUE PROMPTS 2:
“Who gave you such radiance?”
Wounds too deep to spill blood
A new sweetness, a new pleasure
“Just that unknowable shadow under your eyes.”
The comfortable chaos between
Bells ringing that no one has shaken
“You worry is needless; it won’t consume me.”
A sacred little fragrance
Like running with a knife in the dark
“You don’t know whether you are damned or martyred.”
Fever dream statue, gilded in gold
The painted figurine of a desperate heart
“We bared our throats for our god.”
Fondness for bruises left by love
Silence that cuts like a knife
“I guess I’ve been dead for a while.”
Minor gestures of springtime joy
Like wood with a gift for burning
“My bleeding out, is that what sets you free?”
Violence of a different kind
Spreading within the bones like slow mycelium
“Don’t you have a home these days?”
Secrets beneath floorboards, memories in the walls
First warm breath of the dawn
“Remember what brought you here and what drove you out.”
Bare skin on damp ground
Deafening beat of a bloody heart
“No one sings while they burn to death.”
Milky-eyed stare, blank but knowing
The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers and decay
“They say she sold her soul to a dark god.”
Sun-bleached bones, picked clean
Lips the color of a violent death
“Those are not a cat’s eyes…”
A sprig of hemlock twirled between fingers
The numbness of fear clawing its way inside
“Who is the grave for?”
Pouring unfamiliar potions into bottles of fogged glass
A maze of empty tunnels
“Shh. Wait for The Singing to pass.”
If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.
Seeking revenge for denial of flesh
“Something has been following us for awhile now.”
Driven mad by the whispers
Fleeing spiders their only warning
“Living things can haunt too.”
VAGUE PROMPTS 3:
Thin as moss under naked feet
Not the drowning but the breath after
“There is nothing quite as sublimely unsatisfying as infatuation.”
Tucked away with a soft smile into a pocket
Ritual burning of incense
“The poor fools don’t hear their echo in each other.”
Eighty-four rules of decorum
Veins ahum with the thrill of a shared secret
“She’s fond of being dreadfully candid.”
Sounds of music still playing in the distance
The fog of warm breath on cool glass
“So lovely, it makes my bones ache.”
Climbing the narrow stone staircase by candlelight
A modest diadem, worn uncertainly
“But I’ll still linger there when there’s nowhere else to go.”
Eyes like stone grave markers
Baby blue and cruelly soft
“Oh, I’m quite sure I’ll regret kissing him.”
A glisten caught in the sand
Feeling it safely in hand
VAGUE PROMPTS - EERIE EDITION:
Bare skin on damp ground
Deafening beat of a bloody heart
“No one sings while they burn to death.”
Milky-eyed stare, blank but knowing
The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers and decay
“They say she sold her soul to a dark god.”
A sprig of hemlock twirled between fingers
The numbness of fear clawing its way inside
“Who is the grave for?”
“Shh. Wait for The Singing to pass.”
If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.
“Something has been following us for awhile now.”
Driven mad by the whispers
Fleeing spiders their only warning
“Living things can haunt too.”
A forgotten room In the Shadows (Yvaine Cousland/Nathaniel Howe)
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‘ as bad as it seems , there is good and you will find it . i promise . ’ //kukui
A MILLION LITTLE THINGS. // @fatesrot feat. professor kukui.
HE CLOSES HIS EYES WITH A DOWNCAST SIGH, rubbing his grime covered neck with a tattered black glove, looking wearily at his fellow professor and managing a demure smile. Kukui meant well ( he always did ) but optimism was a luxury for the prepared, and never in his wildest dreams could Professor Willow have prepared for the devastation that Primal Groudon and Kyogre brought with their long-awaited reappearance.
“Thank you,” he whispers a tone too gruff, eyeing the water bottle in Kukui’s hand while he reaches to take it, opening its cap and letting the searingly cold water gush down his throat. A few seconds later and the bottle is capped again, gently handed off to its original owner.
“Well, I believe we have a few more things to attend to first,” the Professor quips without any of his typical zest, turning his gaze upon the length of the ocean boardwalk not yet covered by cooled-down lava. “During the Reemergence Protocol, Team Rocket’s explosion allowed them to ambush The Trainer and steal the Shadow Registeel I gave them for safekeeping. More importantly, thousands of Pokémon have been displaced far from their natural habitats. I haven’t even read the reports for the human numbers yet, and on top of that, Candela is…”
No. He wasn’t going to finish that thought, though the exhaustion wrings his bones regardless as some deep corner of his mind recalls that familiar silhouette standing tall and defiant amidst the fiery backdrop of Slateport City. It had all happened so fast. And judging from the hand that now rests on his shoulder, it seemed like the Alolan Professor was also somewhat aware of his unspoken fear.
Professor Willow looks back to his fellow professor and opens his mouth, staring dumbly when the words don’t come out. He softly closes his lips, clears his throat in a muffled manner and ignores his own glossing eyes as he speaks again.
"—-Candela is still out there somewhere. You have to help me find her… please.”
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Not a fan of redesigned covers
#this applies to the books of bayern and the grisha trilogy#i LIKED the original designs :'(#the original shadow and bone cover looked so cool??#and bayern DID have cheesy covers but the colours were nice and the size and feel of the book was real good#this is sort of aimless sksjf;l k lsdkjf ; i care a little too much how a book looks and feels#ALSO i really don't like that thing they do when the front cover is cropped so that you see the thin edge of the colourful page underneath#i don't know why that bothers me but i am not a fan
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Shadow & Bone and Russian Culture
Due to the (unexpected) popularity of my post on Russian naming conventions in Shadow and Bone, I’ve decided to write another post giving some historical/cultural context to the Grishaverse. Specifically, I’m going to talk about keftas, kvas, oprichniki, the tsar-vs-king dichotomy, and Russian calligraphy practices.
Again, this is merely for educational purposes. I just think it’s cool to learn about other cultures! (Quick note: I am Russian, but I’m not a historian by trade, so the text below is mostly surface-level stuff — do correct me if I make fumbles).
1. Kefta. Okay, so the Russian language has these two similar-sounding clothing items (both originate from the same Turkic word):
kofta — this used to just mean “cardigan”, but today it’s an umbrella term for all light long-sleeved clothes except sweaters, jackets and button-down shirts.
Here’s a random Google search for koftas for sale:
kaftan — a type of outer garment (of West/Southwest Asian origin) similar to either a robe or a long suit, anywhere from mid-thigh to floor-length. Styles vary from culture to culture, but it’s generally worn as an overcoat. Still in everyday use in some Asian countries (but not in Russia, where it’s considered a historical clothing item).
Here are some Ivan Bilibin illustrations feat. kaftans:
Here’s Alexander Lemtov (Dan Stevens) rocking a snazzy kaftan-like coat in Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga:
And here’s Oberyn Martell (Pedro Pascal) looking regal in a kaftan on Game of Thrones:
2. Kvas. Not an alcoholic drink! Yes, it’s fermented, but the alcohol content is at around 0.5–1%. This is soy sauce levels of spirits, and kvas is legally classified as non-alcoholic (meaning it can be sold 24/7 and is available to minors). It tastes kinda like kombucha and people drink it as a healthier alternative to soda. It’s also used as an ingredient in a soup called okroshka. I should note that in like ~10th century kvas was indeed a stronger drink and you could get drunk off it.
If you’re writing Slavic-inspired fantasy and you want your characters to get wasted on something other than vodka, here are a few cooler options:
braga — 3–8%, normally sweet, very old-time-y.
zubrowka (aka bison grass liquor) — 40%, herbal vodka liquor. Illegal in the States due to ATF regulations, so you can only buy an ersatz version.
samogon — the Russian word for moonshine.
3. Oprichniki (“outside men”, “aside men”). This was a type of bodyguard corps that existed for a super short period in Russian history during Ivan the Terrible’s reign of terror (16th cent.), and then thankfully never existed again. They were infamous for a “rape, pillage, kill” mentality, cruel public executions, and thinking themselves above the law.
In true Nazgûl fashion, they rode only black stallions. Popular iconography also normally depicts them with brooms and dog heads attached to saddles (the dog heads are not a verified historical fact, but they do make for a pretty striking image). In short, this is a very dark, grim figure — think of a cross between the Spanish Inquisition (there was a religious component to their doctrine) and the SS.
From the 19th century onward, the word has been used metaphorically to mean “government henchmen who enforce excessively repressive measures”. NOT a compliment.
As a bonus, here’s the dog head + broom icon on the covers of Vladimir Sorokin’s The Day of the Oprichnik:
4. Tsar vs king. Olden day Russia consisted of a bazillion duchies, each with its own ruler, known as knyaz (“duke”, “chieftain”, “prince” — translations vary). By the 15th century political power was centralized in the Duchy of Moscow, and Moscow knyaz Ivan III (granddad to Ivan the Terrible) started calling himself tsar, because it sounded cooler. Come 18th century, Peter the Great thought the title “tsar” wasn’t cool enough and became emperor instead. Since then, the rulers of Russia were called emperors; however, “tsar” remained part of the full title and was also used in less formal settings.
Russian has a separate word for king (”korol”), but it’s only used towards monarchs outside of Russia. Here’s the king-vs-tsar dichotomy:
Russian monarchs are called tsars (NEVER kings), and prior to being an Empire, Russia was a tsardom (NOT a kingdom);
in Russian, ancient and/or Biblical kings are also called tsars (”tsar Solomon”, not “King Solomon”);
the word tsar is used metaphorically, e.g. “tsar of the hill”, “tsar of the animals”.
foreign monarchs (e.g. European royals) are kings.
TLDR: king -> kingdom, tsar -> tsardom. It’s an either/or situation.
5. Vyaz. A type of decorative lettering/calligraphy consisting of elongated interlocking letters, historically used for book and chapter titles. The word “vyaz” comes from the verb “vyazat”, meaning “to knit”, so this is basically “knitting with letters”. And much like knitting, it’s meant to form an unbroken ornament, i.e. without spaces between words and ideally without spaces between letters, too.
This style is super old-time-y and was out of use/fashion in the Russian Empire due to low readability.
That’s presumably what Shadow and Bone was trying to go for with this:
It looks nice, but real vyaz normally has tighter interlocking (done either via small letters or decorative elements) in order to eliminate awkward empty spaces, which here are all over the place. For comparison, here’s a real-life historical example, from Acts and Epistles of the Apostles (the first known book to be published in Russian):
Nowadays, vyaz is gaining popularity in the Russian lettering/calligraphy community, because a) it’s pretty culturally specific and b) it looks amazing. Here’s a modern-day example by Andrey Martynov — note the tiny E’s and O’s used for a tighter fit between letters:
And another example, by Vlada Ruzhitskaya — this one relies more on decorative plant-like elements for interlocking:
That’s all for today! I hope you enjoyed this and learned something new.
#russia#shadow and bone#sab#leign bardugo#oprichniki#fire saga#dan stevens#game of thrones#oberyn martell#vyaz#pedro pascal#grishaverse#grisha trilogy#text
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Mein Gott, I’ve been working on this after my shifts for like a week XD
Then realized I forgot to draw the clothes… yeahhh
Still! I’m excited bc these lil paintings were fun to do and pretty new to me! Pls zoom in I spent too much time on them
So! Yara’s full first name is actually Yaroslava, which is a Slavic first name that means “fierce and glorious”, derived from the Sun god Yarilo. Yara itself is one of the many nicknames associated w the name, albeit an uncommon one. It is basically synonymous with ire or fury. I am infodumping about words.
Some details of symbols below the cut:
Colour: Green. Life, nature, reassurance, healing/growth, greed.
Flora: Sunflower. Loyalty, strength, honesty, peace. Each is actually thousands of teeny flowers.
Fauna: Manul. Elusive wild cats with a round shape and a glare that could kill. Learn to growl before they open their eyes, start hunting at 4 months. Aggressive, slow, and solitary. Prefer to stay out of sight. Growl when excited, can’t meow but do purr. A group of manuls is called a destruction. Let them be known
Object: a neat looking rock you found on the road. (The you and on the road are key to the experience). No known origin or worth, but it’s hard, cool, heavy, and comforting in your hand. Pictured is serpentinite which is a very cool rock. Well, a group of minerals. They make up the oceanic crust and tectonic plate boundaries.
Song: Zov Krovi by Melnitsa. Ok ok ok I have to translate this because please the parallels between the game and the lyrics are pretty neat. This song and album cover took me the most time hahaha. Translated from Russian:
The Blood’s Calling
Your path,
An autumn wind,
A steppe eagle
Spreads its wings.
Your path,
A tight whip
Sweeps away every footprint with dust.
Your path
On the land’s bones.
Your path
Through the water flows.
Upon springy paws
The beasts walked,
Smelling trouble.
The blood’s calling.
On the dragon’s armour
The sun flares.
The blood’s calling.
How long ago did you realize
That no one returns?
In the great hunt
The day starts.
A sign of the sun dances
On the bowstring.
From the back, silently
Shadow spreads
In the intertwining
Of bristly grasses.
The path flows along the ridges
Of wild mountains,
Of dry feather grass,
And of gray feathers,
Where death burns its bonfire.
You are breathing in the smoke.
The blood’s calling.
Hawk’s vision,
Human eyes.
The blood’s calling.
Trunks burst aflame,
There’s no way back.
The blood’s calling.
And the steel laughs,
Drunk with blood.
Do you know how much they’ve waited for you here?
There was no life,
There was only war.
With light steps you enter death.
Crawls apart, burning, the fabric of being.
Fury is bright, your blade like a torch.
And no underworld will accept you,
But you will be welcomed with a smile
By a warrior god
The blood’s calling.
With a lupine grin,
You’ll laugh in death’s face.
The blood’s calling
You always knew
That you wouldn’t come back.
The blood’s calling
The blood’s calling.
https://youtu.be/Gll0pX00iKE
youtube
Emotion: Spite. To live despite it all, out of pure spite. That’s really what it comes down to.
Scent: Pine. Fresh, sharp, and slightly sweet. A bonus point if it’s early morning, your breaths leave your mouth as fleeting mist, and there is frost prickling at your cheeks.
Also! Evil moment! I’m gonna tag @siriskulksnerding @heniareth and @wild-houseplant to do this meme, in either writing, moodboard, or drawing - whichever is more fun!! Here’s the og template!
https://twitter.com/cereovo/status/1386801352328683525?s=21
#my oc#oc#oc:yara#dao#grey warden#warden amell#I feel like I went too far w this#but ALSO I get to share fun facts about everything which is a fun bonus#like heck botany biology geology AND languages?? sign me up!#linguistics#it’s called linguistics#also have associations instead of scent and objects but hey those r fun#art#my art#my oc in symbolism
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Begin Again | Thranduil
Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!Reader
Genre: Fluffy new beginnings
Warnings: ---
Words: ~2k
Note: If you’d like to be added to a tag list for any of my works, there’s a link on my page 💕 Also, I’m big dummy and lost the original request, so I couldn’t remember what all you wanted in this one-shot. So requester, whoever you are, I’m so sorry! And if you’d like another part to expand on your full request, please let me know!
It’s strange.
You’re whole life, you’ve always heard about how horrible it is for an elf to lose the one they love. It’s been described as feeling as though you’ve been ripped into two pieces, forced to live on without your second half. You’ve heard it feels like tiny needles stabbing into your heart until you can’t feel anything but a stifling anguish that seeps into your bones, poisoning your body from within until you eventually fade away.
Yet you feel none of that. You feel nothing at all, like a soul wandering aimlessly for the rest of eternity, cursed with never finding a purpose or reason to stick around. But being forced to endure, none-the-less. You can sail, as an elf that’s your right, and perhaps you would find peace, wrapped in the warm embrace of Valinor as you forget all your fears and pain.
But you don’t want to be happy, because being happy means you forget, and you're not ready to forget your beloved yet.
The forest floor beneath you is damp from the rain that blessed Eryn Galen a few days ago. The mud sinks in between your toes as you nearly melt into the soft ground. The forest around you is lush and green, wrapping you in its warm embrace that allows for a moment of respite from your thoughts.
The forest is empty, only the gentle sway of the trees and emerald leaves falling to the ground your company. You stare up at the sky that peaks through the canopy of leaves, the stars are out tonight and they burn brighter than you’ve ever seen them. And you wished to climb to the tops of the trees if only to feel the soft glow of moonlight on your skin.
But that would be a foolish thing to do, a whimsy only a child would fulfill. So you simply stand in the clearing, selfishly hoarding the only spot you’ve discovered that the sky is visible.
You thought yourself alone, something you covet more often than not.
And yet.
“Forgive me, I did not realize this spot was currently occupied,” a baritone voice sounds behind you.
Your heart pounds against your chest, the owner of the voice easily recognizable through your deep daydreams. Whirling around quicker than you’ve ever moved, you see King Thranduil standing at the edge of the clearing. He’s lacking the usual extravagant attire he usually dons, instead opting for a slightly more casual outfit. But he still wears clothes that could’ve been woven from silver and gold, the cloth glittering in the dim light.
“My king,” you say, immediately bowing your head down in respect, thoroughly inspecting your dirtied feet. “I will take my leave.”
“There is no need, it was I who interrupted you,” he moves further into the clearing and closer to you. His movements are smooth like a cat, his icy blue eyes lazily focusing on you.
“Yet you are the king,” you reply, voice hardly above a whisper.
King Thranduil is an intimidating figure, anyone within five feet of him would agree. Not in the way that lady Galadriel of Lothlorien is - her power so great you can’t help but feel suffocated, yet it is her kind smile that soothes even the most skittish. Lord Elrond carries himself with a warm presence, like a father he is kind and caring, but stern as well.
No, King Thranduil carries a sense of tragedy with him that can’t be masked by his cold eyes or looming figure. He is the shining example of how horrible things could get for an elf when their other half passes. So far gone is he, they whisper, that not even his son can pull him from his melancholy.
“Then as king, I order you to stay. It would be nice to have some company,” he responds, leaving no room for argument. So you nod your head in agreeance, but keep your head lowered, tracing every speck of mud covering your toes.
“Would you not even look at your monarch?” he asks, but his voice isn’t laced with anger or malice and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there’s a hint of humor in it.
“I apologize, My King,” you say, lifting your head to meet his gaze. Your eyes meet his and for a second, you jolt, a sensation filling your body, something you haven’t felt in years.
“I have never seen you before. How have I never seen you?” he questions, thick brows furrowing in frustration and confusion, but his eyes remain locked on you, as do yours.
“Y/N, My King. I just arrived here a few moons ago from the Lorien,” you respond. He says nothing for a few moments, keeping his intense gaze locked on you. And for a brief second, you swear that he could read each and every thought that passes your brain, that’s he seen every memory you have.
“Well then, allow me to formally welcome you to Eryn Galen, Lady Y/N. Tell me how have you found my kingdom, thus far?” he asks, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture as he welcomes you.
“It is very beautiful, My King. The trees are so tall and the leaves so green,” you say, glancing up towards the sky, enraptured by the emerald canopy above you.
“Do they not have trees this tall in the Lorien? I was under the impression their forest was quite beautiful,” he replies, sharp eyes locked on you.
“They do but not quite like here. Do not misunderstand me, the Lorien possesses great beauty, the mallorn tree is magnificent to look upon, but Eryn Galen offers a different beauty. I find myself in great need of change these days, it would seem.”
“Perhaps one day you could humor me and tell me of what would need to warrant such a drastic change?” You turn to look at him, meeting his steely gaze, and he raises a single eyebrow at you. However before you can open your mouth to speak, he turns and leaves. Leaving you behind in the small clearing, and for a moment, your heart starts fluttering in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
And you turn back around, watching the leaves dance through the sky, free from the confining grasp of the branches. A small smile rests on your face, losing yourself in daydreams you never thought you’d see again.
“Lady Y/N, how lovely of you to join me,” King Thranduil's voice is crisp and clear, perfectly projecting across the large room. He sits languidly at a chair, carved from wood with delicate engraving dancing on the tops of them. A glass of wine in one hand and the other slung over the top of his chair, he is the picture of ease.
“It is my pleasure to join you, My King,” you reply, lowering your gaze to the floor once he meets yours. With slow and tentative steps, you move towards the open space to his right, where a glass of wine already poured. Your heart is racing, sweat building up in the palms of your hands as you open and close them. What feels like a lifetime later, you reach the chair, a guard so still he could’ve been a statue, pulling it out for you as you sit in it.
“Thank you,” you quietly say as the guard pushes your chair forward.
“Please, leave us” Thranduil’s voice is commanding and firm, not allowing any room for questions he does not wish to answer. Silently and quickly, every guard in the room filters out. And as their light footsteps disappear, you and Thranduil are left in the room...alone.
A small burst of courage surges through you, your gaze leaving the fine china it was tracing over and over again to meet his gaze. His eyes are just as icy blue as you remember, but somehow they seem softer than they had been in the forest. Or perhaps the light is playing tricks on you.
Everyone knows that elves only truly love once.
Your mouth is dry, nerves suddenly overtaking you. What are you supposed to say; to do? You’ve never spent much time in the presence of royalty, often preferring to stay in the shadows, content with a simple life. Yet fate seems to have other plans for you. Or is this just simply Thranduil, and the gods have nothing to do with his intentions - whatever they may be?
“Do not be so nervous. Please, drink. The food will be ready momentarily,” Thranduil says, motioning towards you with a wine goblet in hand. You nod, still silent as ever.
With a shaky, damp hand, you reach towards your wine goblet, grasping the cold metal in your warm hands. Taking a deep breath, you pick it up, bringing it towards your lips. The wine is smooth as it pours down your throat, cool and soothing to the dessert inside your mouth. It’s slightly sweet, not at all holding the bitter aftertaste the wine of Man possesses.
You set the glass down, turning your attention to Thranduil. He watches you with sharp eyes, an expectant look on his face.
“It is very good, Your Grace,” you mutter, and in exchange for speaking so quietly, you manage to keep your voice steady.
“Excellent.”
You smile, and it’s all nerves and anxiety, closely resembling a grimace rather than a beaming grin. Your heart is fierce against your chest, and you fear in that moment he will hear it. But if he does, he doesn’t comment on it.
“If I may be so bold, Your Grace, might I enquire as to why you’ve called me here?” Your voice is louder this time, but there’s a slight waver towards the end, betraying everything you feel.
He’s silent for a moment as if he’s gathering his thoughts, figuring out a way to deliver whatever is running in his mind. You nearly crack, the apology for overstepping your boundaries on the tip of your tongue when he finally speaks.
"Am I not allowed to simply get to know my subjects?" Thranduil asks, a sly smirk resting on his lips. He brings the goblet of wine to his lips, slowly sipping it. He lowers it slightly so that it rests just below his chin.
"Of course, but I suppose I'm just curious as to why you've invited me to a private meal with you. Am I correct to assume you don't do this with every one of your subjects?" you say, your eyes wide like a doe, with hands in your lap. Your fingers intertwine with each other, a way to distract you from the anxiety in you.
Thranduil continues to watch you, an unreadable expression in his ocean eyes. He inhales deeply, leaning farther back into his chair. After a few moments of silence, he opens his mouth.
“I find myself wanting to get to know you better. I find you intriguing.” Your mind turns blank, all sense and reason leaving it. For a moment you don’t believe you’ve heard him correctly, not grasping that a king would be so curious about you.
“I do not understand, what about me is so interesting? We’ve only met once, hardly having a full conversation,” you say. Your voice is firmer than before, drowning with disbelief.
“Then it would seem you’ve made an impression.”
You open your mouth, and then promptly close it, not sure how to proceed. Your heart is fluttering, though due to anxiety. Not this is something… different, a type of nervousness, but not due to fear. A light feeling that also leaves you light with giddiness and not weighed down by dread.
But it can’t be.
Elves only love once. Yet the mantra you’ve repeated over and over again seems to be losing its weight, the words no longer feeling as true as before.
“Would it be alright, if I were to get to know you better, My Lady?” he asks, his voice softer than before, his fair face still neutral, yet less austere than it had been the first time you met.
Elves only love once.
And yet.
“I would like that very much, Your Grace.” Your smile widens, less unsure than before, your eyes shining like starlight. The prospect of something new is exciting yet also terrifying at the same time. You should run and hide, fiercely guarding your already fragile heart like a dragon watches over its treasure hoard.
Elves only love once. And yet.
You push aside those fears, in favor of welcoming a chance at a new beginning.
And yet.
o0o0o
Tags:
@lunatichaotiche | @aearonnin | @emiliessketches | @vibratingbones | @moony-artnstuff | @ranhanabi777 | @kenobiguacamole | @ceinelee | @thranduil | @samnblack | @abbiesthings | @Strangebananabatranch | @bitter--fruit | @keijibum | @lifestylesleep | @lilith15000 |
#thranduil imagine#the hobbit imagine#thranduil#the hobbit#lord of the rings#thranduil x reader#the hobbit one shot#mirkwood elves#mirkwood imagine
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Good Pitches
Rating: Teen and Up
Words: 3179
Read it on AO3
@today-in-fic
Summary: post-ep for Milagro/The Unnatural
April 1999
Something had shifted after Padgett. She’d been afraid that this would end like it had with Jerse, Mulder angry at her indiscretion and further than ever from understanding her. Maybe this was different because they were different, closer than they were when she met Jerse. Maybe it was what Padgett had said, about her being in love. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to refute that statement, but she also hadn’t been able to meet Mulder’s eye. Did he know? She could admit to herself that she wanted him to. Maybe if he knew, he’d be brave enough to take the leap that they were both too chickenshit to take, each of them too fearful of learning that they were wrong, of being rejected. How could they carry on after that? If Mulder knew how she felt about him, maybe that would be all it took.
The way he treated her after he found her blood-soaked on his apartment floor was nothing like the derisive cut of his words after Jerse. He was so incredibly tender with her, holding her like a glass vase, soothing her like a brittle plant. Even in her abject terror, she had noted the feel of his fingers against her sternum while he unbuttoned her blouse, and the gentle flutter of his touch as he explored her torso for wounds. If not for the state of shock she was in, she may have caught his eye, and told him without words that Padgett was right, she was in love. Instead she folded her tiny body into his, tucked safely against his chest. Even as the crime scene investigators wandered in and out, even as Skinner came by and eyed them suspiciously, she never let go of him. She was unashamed, for once, of needing him. And he was unashamed, as always, of wanting to be needed by her.
That night, after her bloody clothes had been collected as evidence, he drove her back to her apartment wearing his t shirt and basketball shorts, which fit her like capri pants. He’d packed himself a bag under the excuse of his apartment being tended to by the crime scene cleanup crew, but really he just didn’t want her to leave her alone. He’d stood by her side in the bathroom and chivalrously turned his back so she could step into the shower, standing guard nearby in case she needed him. Watching blood swirl around the drain as it sloughed off her skin, still unsure of it’s origin, she’d wished desperately he were right beside her under the water, something sturdy to lean against. Her touchstone. Knowing that he would be here in a heartbeat, if only she’d ask him, somehow made it even worse. When she shut off the water, he stood just outside the curtain with a towel held open wide, protecting her privacy until he wrapped it around her shivering frame, and she steadied herself against him, breathing in the smell of his skin through his t shirt. They stood there like that for a long time, until finally he wordlessly scooped her up and carried her into her bedroom, seeming to sense that she didn’t have the strength to get herself there. Seeming to know that she would allow and even welcome this particular show of intimacy and care. She’d had the overwhelming urge to tell him she loved him, but she didn’t. Sitting on the edge of her bed he’d dressed her, first pulling her t shirt over her neck and then allowing her to pull her arms free from the towel one at a time and thread them through the sleeves. She was relatively sure that he could see her breasts, but it didn’t seem to matter. What was a breast when he had seen her broken open in grief, in pain, in fear? Her nakedness hardly seemed as private as all that. Next he’d held her pajama pants at her feet so that she could slip each leg in before standing to pull them over her hips, discarding the towel. He didn’t give her underwear and she didn’t question it, knowing him well enough to predict that he thought it would be an invasion of privacy to open her underwear drawer, and seeing that she was too distraught to care about underwear.
“You should eat something” he told her as she crawled under the covers, his voice laden with concern.
She shook her head; food was a foreign object right now. All she needed was sleep. When he went to leave the room, she sat up, her eyes full of fear. She didn’t need to voice the question.
“I’m going to take a shower, is that okay? I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
She nodded solemnly.
“I was going to ask if you wanted me to sleep on the couch…” his voice trailed off as her face answered him. She wanted him close. Needed him there. He nodded. “I’ll be right here, just give me a few minutes.”
She lay there, listening to the rush of the water, waiting for him to return to her side. She was so incredibly exhausted, but unable to sleep. Each shadow seemed to take the form of the psychic surgeon, each creak of the floorboards was Padgett here to look into her soul. Within 5 minutes, Mulder slipped into the bed beside her in a t shirt and his boxer shorts, his skin warm and welcoming, his hair wet and spiked. She went to him, without regard for personal space, professionalism, boundaries or logic. Tucking her head just under his chin, she pressed the length of her body to his and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her somehow even closer than she had gotten herself. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and dampened his shirt, and his hand gently rubbed her back, his lips planting soft kisses to her hair.
“You’re okay, I’m here” he told her, and she wished she could somehow crawl inside his body, needing him even closer than this, wanting him in more ways than she had previously understood.
She fell asleep to the sound of his heart beating, the metronome to which she kept the time of her life. A rhythm unwritten but that she knew by memory. The sweet song of Mulder.
Since that night, something was different, but delightfully so. She felt less guarded with him, more free to laugh and be silly. Unafraid of incidental flirting or mixed messages. When he’d asked her to meet him at the office on a sunny Saturday afternoon, she’d had the girlish idea that he had ulterior motives and that this would be something like a date. She was disappointed to find that he just wanted her help digging through the archives, but the playful way he interacted with her, culminating in him stealing a bite of her ice cream, set off butterflies in her belly in a way she hadn’t experienced in years. She’d spent the rest of that day in a dreamy stupor, smiling idiotically at nothing, garnering friendly hellos from passers by and her neighbors. Had love made her more approachable? Returning from the grocery store to his message, she’d talked herself out of changing her clothes or freshening her makeup, not wanting to read into this something that wasn’t there. The case he was researching was baseball related, after all, so in all likelihood he was asking her to join him there for help with the case.
She was able to keep her demeanor cool and unaffected right up until he put the baseball bat in her hands and curled his long body around hers. His breath hot on her neck and his fingertips on her hip bone made her heart race; this definitely wasn’t work related. When the kid running the pitching machine told Mulder that his mother was expecting him home and took off, she’d felt the words rising in her throat to bid him a good night and go home herself; that’s what she would typically do, after all. Instead she swallowed and waited to see what would happen if she didn’t leave. What would have happened so many nights if she’d simply stuck around?
Mulder walked into the small dugout, sized for little leaguers so that he had to duck a little to fit. He was putting the bat, glove and baseballs into a large duffel bag, perhaps also preparing himself for the night to end. Ignoring the nervous flutter in her gut, she followed him into the dugout and sat down on the little bench that ran along the back wall. How was it that after as many dangerous situations as she’d been in, as many times her life was at risk, that this felt scarier than any of them? How could she know exactly what to do with a gun pointed at her, but be completely lost when it came to something as simple as telling him how she felt? When the choice was possible death or possible rejection, she only knew how to risk her life, not her heart.
Mulder sat down beside her, an open bag of sunflower seeds in his hand, and propped his feet up on the half-wall that faced the field. He held out the bag and she took a handful, which was a rare occurrence. He always offered them to her, though 98% of the time she declined. The few times she had accepted, the delighted smiled on his face was worth the unpleasantness of picking shards of shell out of her teeth for hours (she wasn’t nearly as skilled as he was at cracking them). She felt like now was a good time to make that sacrifice and see that smile, and he delivered. She held his gaze for a moment as he beamed at her, the doubled joy of her sharing his interest in baseball and sunflower seeds apparent on his face.
“How do you open these things without destroying the shell, Mulder? What’s the secret?” For every time she’d rolled her eyes at the things that excited him, she was going to make up for it now.
“It’s all about breaking the shell at the right angle, watch.” He held a seed between his front teeth with his lips pulled back so she could see how he applied pressure until it split evenly along the seam, then deftly used his tongue to pull the seed into his mouth, flicking the shell away with his breath. She mimicked him and he laughed when the shell and the seed splintered, an inseparable mess. They shifted their bodies so that they were turned towards each other, one leg bent against the back wall of the dugout. He showed her several more times and she was an eager student, studying the position of the seed, but also taking the opportunity to admire the fullness of his bottom lip and the shadow of his stubble sprouting so late in the evening. When she finally got it, the seed emerging intact, she smiled at him so broadly her gums showed, a rare sight. He gave her a high-five and their fingers instinctively threaded together upon contact, dropping down to rest between on the bench them still interlaced. Her heart started to race, recognizing the tension in the moment and the desire that flickered in his hazel eyes. She knew he wanted to kiss her, and she knew she wanted him to, so why was this so hard? She was afraid the moment would pass, but she couldn’t figure out how to capture it. Should she lean forward to signal him? If she did and he didn’t reciprocate, she’d die of embarrassment.
“What are you thinking about?” His voice startled her, and she was suddenly afraid he could hear her thoughts.
She gave him a shy smile and chuckled, averting her gaze.
“I was thinking about” he started, “being up to bat, playing baseball.”
She gave him an incredulous look. Maybe she had misread his signals after all. Their hands were still wrapped together between them.
“Hear me out, Scully.” He responded to her expression. “I was thinking about being up to bat and looking for the good pitches. You only want to swing on the good ones, or you’ll strike out, right?”
She nodded, indicating that she was following him.
“But sometimes, you’re so afraid of swinging on the bad pitches that you miss the good ones too. And I was thinking that….sometimes I feel like that with you. I’m not sure if it’s a good pitch, and I don’t want to fuck it up. I don’t want to strike out, so I don’t swing at all.”
She met his eye and smiled coyly at him, understanding. Feeling a surge of bravery.
“You could always ask, Mulder.”
“No, that’s definitely against the rules, Scully. You’re not allowed to ask.” He was being glib, a typical response to his own discomfort.
“Different game, different rules” she offered, shifting slightly towards him, almost imperceptibly, but he picked up on it.
“So, if I were to ask you.” He paused to take a breath. “If I were to ask you if it would be okay if I kissed you right now, would that be a strike or a run?”
“The baseball metaphor lost me, Mulder” she answered, the lean of her torso increasing towards him steadily, the hand that wasn’t holding his floating up to meet with his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheek.
He slowly closed the remaining space between them, his lips meeting hers in a gentle brush, then sighing as she slid her hand to the back of his neck, pulling him into her and pressing the full pout of her mouth against his. His free hand found her waist as their lips separated briefly and then met again, this time slightly parted, and she darted her tongue out to slide against his lower lip before she pulled it into her mouth and sucked it gently. He made a little sound in the back of his throat that sent a rush through her pelvis and she had an overwhelming urge to crawl into his lap. Mulder must have intuited that urge because he let go of her hand and slipped both palms under her thighs, pulling her on to him. Pivoting his body so that he was again facing forward, towards the ball field, she steadied herself with a knee on the bench on either side of his hips and sat on the tops of his thighs, the suggestive nature of the position sending a thrill through her. Her hands on his neck and his on her hips, they explored each other’s mouths, licking, tasting and nipping each surface, recognizing something familiar and yet entirely new. When his hands pushed down to cup her ass, a little moan escaped her lips and he growled in response. Breaking the kiss, she pulled back a little, breathless and flushed.
“We should probably go” she heard herself say. The reasonable side of her brain was taking back over.
“Probably should. Go where?” He asked, unsure if this proposition was a conclusion or a location change. His hands were still on her ass.
She laughed “It occurs to me that we’re in a children’s baseball dugout. I’m not sure it’s the most appropriate venue.”
He nodded, agreeing begrudgingly. “I just need a minute, if you don’t mind.”
She laughed again, ignoring the new wave of desire that sent through her, and stood up, moving to sit on the half-wall opposite him.
He took a deep breath, blowing it out hard through puffed cheeks, then looked at her with adoring eyes. She felt so beautiful when he looked at her, especially like that. She resisted the urge to go back to him and and pick up where they’d left off. After a moment, he slowly stood and picked up his duffel bag, and she followed him out of the dugout and towards the parking lot. He draped his arm over her shoulder as they walked, neither of them speaking. What was there to say? This moment, a culmination of years of tiny brushes of intimacy, didn’t need explanation or discussion. They both knew, intuitively, that it was the start of a new chapter, perhaps even the opening of a new book, and that they’d discover where the plot took them as they went along, just as they always did. They reached her car and he set the bag on the ground as she opened the door, leaning against the body of the car instead of getting inside. They stood there facing each other for a moment, awkwardness again taking root, both knowing what they wanted but unsure of how, or who, to initiate. Finally Mulder spoke.
“Thanks for coming. I had fun.”
She dipped her chin with a smirk and a blush, the implication of his statement both exciting and embarrassing.
“Likewise” she forced out, meeting his eyes only momentarily. She wished they had driven together so there would be a reason for them both to end up at one of their apartments, and at the same time she was grateful that wasn’t the case because it would probably be too much, too quickly. He stepped toward her, but the lack of height in her shoes meant he towered over her, a full foot between their faces.
“I’ve always known you were short, but it’s suddenly much more noticeable” he cracked, and she turned her face up to his, smiling softly.
“You’re a smart guy, Mulder. I’m sure you can problem-solve your way out of that conundrum.”
He stooped a little and lifted her by the hips, eliciting a delighted squeal, and pinned her against the car with the weight of his body so that they were face to face, his hips planted firmly between her thighs. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders for stability and her breath caught at the feel of his groin pressed firmly between her legs.
“See, I knew you’d figure it out” she teased as his hands danced under the hem of her shirt, lightly grazing the skin of her sides. Her pulse was quickening again, but there was even less privacy here than in the dugout.
He shook his head at her as if to chastise. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, G-woman.”
“I’ve never known you to avoid trouble, Mulder.”
He laughed then, and kissed her, softly, twice on the lips before dropping her back down to the ground. She was surprised that she felt disappointed that it hadn’t continued, but given the venue she knew it was for the best. She climbed in to the driver’s seat of her car and buckled her seat belt, leaving the door open. Mulder leaned in as she turned the key in the ignition and kissed her again, three times, before pulling back.
“To be continued” he said, then closed the door and walked towards his own car several spaces away.
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dazed ‘n’ confused (part 1)
A/N: Literally this is just a combination of frustration and gender envy I have for rodrick heffley. both characters are 18 :)
Ship: rodrick heffley x OFC
Warnings: none in this part, probably NSFW in later chapters
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Nicole had never had a more boring summer.
She and her family, (Mom, Dad, and two younger sisters) had moved to this rinky-dink town in April, and Nicole squeezed in two months of school without making any friends before summer hit in a disgusting, sweltering mess of dry lawns and humid nights.
She managed to get a job life-guarding, and that was the highlight of her days through July and August. Her initial blistering sunburn on the tops of her feet and legs turned into a nice tan, and she usually walked the two miles from her house to the pool, so she stayed in good shape (minus the five or six ice-pops she would eat during her shifts).
Mainly, the reason she enjoyed life-guarding so much was because her neighbor, Rodrick Heffley, would come to the pool almost every day and stay until closing time (which also happened to be the end of Nicole’s shift). She tried not to think too much into it.
Nicole wouldn’t usually be attracted to boys like Rodrick. He was loud, and generally harassed the other kids in the pool, and splashed the old ladies when he cannon-balled off the diving board. He and his friends were always goofing off and violating pool rules. Nicole blew her whistle more times for him than she did for anyone else. Every time she did, she would point at him silently, and slowly give him a thumbs down.
And every time, he would give her a salute back and a shit-eating grin. It made her heart flutter funnily, and she would glower at him from behind her sunglasses.
Still, Nicole only worked at the pool four days a week - that meant her Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were all abysmally, utterly free. Nicole tried to do things that made her happy - she practiced bass, and even a little guitar, and learned a few songs by heart. She redecorated her room, twice.
From her window, she could occasionally see Rodrick pass by in his attic room - never anything indecent of course, but it always made her tummy feel funny to think of him, in his room, doing Rodrick things. She knew he was in a band, and played the drums - the whole block could hear their band practice on Friday nights. It was a little cringe, she knew, but she moved her bed under the window so she could glimpse his shadow when he walked by, coltish and gangly as it was.
She wanted to know more about him though - his favorite song, what he put on his burgers, even what his sheets looked like (which she blushed to think about. Get a grip.)
One blisteringly hot Thursday in August, Nicole decided to bike to work instead of walking. It would take less time, and would hopefully generate a little breeze to cool her off instead of trudging along on the soft asphalt. And, of course, right as she was about to turn off her street, her tire blew.
“Are you shitting me?” Nicole said under her breath, moving her long hair out of her eyes to look at what could’ve possibly punctured her tire.
As she knelt down, a voice called “Need some help?” from behind her.
She turned to see Rodrick on his own bike, standing on the pedals and arms braced in front of him on the handle bars. He was wearing cargo shorts and a DIY tank top, obviously an old t-shirt with the arms cut off. Nicole’s eyes were drawn to his toned brown arms and the slip of torso she could see. She swallowed heavily before replying.
“Yeah, stupid tire blew out. Do you have a spare?” she asked, not really thinking about it. She didn’t know why she felt so comfortable asking Rodrick for help. They had never really talked before - only passing on the street, raising a hand to each other in greeting. The only other consistent interaction they had was Nicole reprimanding Rodrick for pouring cherry slushies in the kiddie pool.
“For sure - follow me. I'm Rodrick, by the way,” he said. "I know who you are - everyone at school told me to stay the hell away from you," Nicole teased, and began to follow Rodrick back toward his house, Nicole carrying her gimp bike over her shoulders and Rodrick walking his bike beside her.
"And all my friends said to avoid Nicole Tagliaferi like the plague,"
"It's Tagliani, dipshit. It's Italian."
"Sure, sure, whatever," Rodrick said teasingly, before turning to look at her, “You like lifeguarding?”. She could tell he was trying to make conversation, and it made a small secret smile appear on her lips.
“It’s alright - when you aren’t making trouble for me,” she replied, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She saw his signature devilish grin appear, white teeth flashing.
“But otherwise, you’d just be sitting in the hot sun all day, watching old ladies do aqua-cize or whatever they call it.”
“Do you mean water aerobics?” Nicole laughed, trying not to let her mirth get away from her and let out a snort of amusement.
“Exactly. At least I bring something good-looking to the table,” Rodrick preened, jumping on his bike and riding it up the last leg of his drive way. Nicole followed him into the open garage - it smelled as most garages do, of rubber and dust and wood projects that the men of the family have yet to finish.
Nicole watched as Rodrick moved some boxes aside and reached up to grab a spare bike tire off the wall - her gaze slipped down to see his shirt ride up over his hip bones, revealing a flat stomach and a dark happy trail. Her mouth went dry, and she became increasingly aware of how hot the back of her neck felt, even in the dim shade of the garage.
“Let me grab a wrench and I can get started. You want anything to drink? Coke, lemonade?”
“Coke sounds good - thanks,” Nicole replied after a moment, still recovering from her earlier lapse of concentration.
While she waited, Nicole decided it wouldn’t be the worst thing to look for some music - she found an old radio in the corner and found her favorite classic rock channel. Luckily, they happened to be playing Led Zeppelin, and one of Nicole’s favorites, too. The slow, wailing guitar guided her hips as she started to dance a little around the garage. Being the nosy busy-body she was, Nicole had no qualms about letting herself get comfortable in other peoples houses. She was always looking in boxes and admiring little trinkets, imagining what it would be like to live there. Not that there was anything particularly interesting in the garage besides Rodrick’s drum set.
She swayed over to the shiny instruments and picked up the sticks, sliding around the back to the seat and beginning to try and replicate the beat from the song.
“Sorry, neighbor, there's only room for one hot drummer in this band,” Rodrick said as he came back in the garage. Nicole stopped playing immediately, feeling flustered at being caught and simultaneously being called “hot”.
“Is that the noise I hear coming from this garage? You call that music?”
Rodrick rolled his eyes, handing her the ice-cold coke. “You sound like my Dad. Let me guess - you listen to Taylor Swift?”
Nicole shrugged, taking a sip of her coke. “Taylor Swift is fine. So is classic rock, and nu-metal, and Mozart. I’m not picky.”
Rodrick gave her a funny look, wandering over to her bike and beginning to unscrew the washers from the flat tire.
“So what's your favorite classic rock band, then?”
“The same as many others, I suppose. Zeppelin, AC/DC, the occasional Metallica. My dad raised me on Rob Zombie and Bob Marley, and my mom learned more toward The Beatles and Carly Simon.”
Rodrick stopped what he was doing to look back at her, his mouth slightly agape. Nicole felt a swell of smugness at flooring this over-confident boy with her knowledge of music he obviously thought was “superior”.
“Loded Diper was originally a Motley Crue cover band, did you know?”
Nicole hid a laugh behind another sip of coke. “No, I didn’t know that. I’m assuming now you write your own songs?”
Rodrick blushed, turning his gaze back to the task of fitting the new tire onto the frame of the bike. “Yeah, I dabble in song writing. Mostly the chords, I’m shit with lyrics.”
“That’s a good skill. It takes practice to learn how music sounds good together. You can’t just throw random chords together and expect it to sound good.”
“You talk like you know music,” Rodrick said, looking over his shoulder at Nicole.
“Yeah, I dabble.” Nicole replied, throwing his own words back at him. Rodrick tightened the last screw on the tire and reattached the chain.
“There. Good as new,” he said, swinging the bike back around toward Nicole. She reached for the seat and the handlebars at the same time, and without thinking about where she placed her hands, ended up putting them right over Rodrick’s. It only lasted for a moment, but she swore she could feel all the air leave the room. Her eyes met his liquid dark ones.
“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, and hopped on her bike without another word, coasting down the driveway and pedaling as nonchalantly and quickly as she could toward the pool.
Rodrick didn’t follow her. She wished that he had.
#rodrick heffley#diary of a wimpy kid#rodrick heffley x reader#rodrick heffley x original female character#one-shot#fanfiction#fanfic#rodrick heffley fanfic
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Vague Prompts from @Ladylike-Foxes
I really liked these, but the OP @ladylike-foxes used them to track their fills, so I put them all in one place without the strikethrough text. There are also links to the original lists.
Vague Prompts 1:
Secret that stays in the cave
Buried beneath a mountain of furs
“The concept of wolves will never get old…”
Haunting night song; brother sleepwalking
Moths in a forgotten shed
“There’s an unfamiliar perfume on her wrists, I don’t recognize the scent.”
Following your idol too closely
Plucked every red rose from the garden and burned them
“You keep lifting me up—but this time, I won’t come down.”
The temptation of giving in, surrendering to dark, sweet elysium.
A thing no god wants to see
“Keep the cloth from covering her face.”
The bed is empty when (….) get(s) back
The line between them is a thick mistake
“I watched you watching me from the window.”
Fingers scrubbed to bleeding
The Woman in the Painting
“We need to look beyond the ghosts we’ve created here.”
Things that die over and over
Keeping dead flowers
“Perhaps it was preordained, perhaps it was simple circumstance.”
The comedy of gulls
The feeling of hollow kisses
“It’s hard to breathe when you look at me like that.”
Vague Prompts 2:
“Who gave you such radiance?”
Wounds too deep to spill blood
A new sweetness, a new pleasure
“Just that unknowable shadow under your eyes.”
The comfortable chaos between
Bells ringing that no one has shaken
“You worry is needless; it won’t consume me.”
A sacred little fragrance
Like running with a knife in the dark
“You don’t know whether you are damned or martyred.”
Fever dream statue, gilded in gold
The painted figurine of a desperate heart
“We bared our throats for our god.”
Fondness for bruises left by love
Silence that cuts like a knife
“I guess I’ve been dead for a while.”
Minor gestures of springtime joy
Like wood with a gift for burning
“My bleeding out, is that what sets you free?”
Violence of a different kind
Spreading within the bones like slow mycelium
“Don’t you have a home these days?”
Secrets beneath floorboards, memories in the walls
First warm breath of the dawn
“Remember what brought you here and what drove you out.”
Bare skin on damp ground
Deafening beat of a bloody heart
“No one sings while they burn to death.”
Milky-eyed stare, blank but knowing
The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers and decay
“They say she sold her soul to a dark god.”
Sun-bleached bones, picked clean
Lips the color of a violent death
“Those are not a cat’s eyes…”
A sprig of hemlock twirled between fingers
The numbness of fear clawing its way inside
“Who is the grave for?”
Pouring unfamiliar potions into bottles of fogged glass
A maze of empty tunnels
“Shh. Wait for The Singing to pass.”
If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.
Seeking revenge for denial of flesh
“Something has been following us for awhile now.”
Driven mad by the whispers
Fleeing spiders their only warning
“Living things can haunt too.”
Vague Prompts 3:
Thin as moss under naked feet
Not the drowning but the breath after
“There is nothing quite as sublimely unsatisfying as infatuation.”
Tucked away with a soft smile into a pocket
Ritual burning of incense
“The poor fools don’t hear their echo in each other.”
Eighty-four rules of decorum
Veins ahum with the thrill of a shared secret
“She’s fond of being dreadfully candid.”
Sounds of music still playing in the distance
The fog of warm breath on cool glass
“So lovely, it makes my bones ache.”
Climbing the narrow stone staircase by candlelight
A modest diadem, worn uncertainly
“But I’ll still linger there when there’s nowhere else to go.”
Eyes like stone grave markers
Baby blue and cruelly soft
“Oh, I’m quite sure I’ll regret kissing him.”
A glisten caught in the sand
Feeling it safely in hand
Vague Prompts - Eerie Edition:
Bare skin on damp ground
Deafening beat of a bloody heart
“No one sings while they burn to death.”
Milky-eyed stare, blank but knowing
The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers and decay
“They say she sold her soul to a dark god.”
Sun-bleached bones, picked clean
Lips the color of a violent death
“Those are not a cat’s eyes…”
A sprig of hemlock twirled between fingers
The numbness of fear clawing its way inside
“Who is the grave for?”
Pouring unfamiliar potions into bottles of fogged glass
A maze of empty tunnels
“Shh. Wait for The Singing to pass.”
If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.
Seeking revenge for denial of flesh
“Something has been following us for awhile now.”
Driven mad by the whispers
Fleeing spiders their only warning
“Living things can haunt too.”
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things that remind you of them w the demon bros+ (un)dateables
highkey tw for some unhealthy behaviors and uhhhhh maybe sensitive stuff idk just keep that in mind
lucifer
an impromptu orchestra concert in an abandoned church. a forgotten off key piano found at the back of an antique shop. tradition worth more than luxury.
the crackling of fire. glittering glasses of wine. changing a vinyl with naked hands, brushing the dust off its hard body. a cold hand touching the back of your neck in passing. whispered words of affection in the ear of your sleeping beloved.
running on air. falling with your lungs full of fire. trying to rebel against fate, against the inevitable moment the ground will break your bones for trying to cheat the laws of nature and its gods.
the heavy weight of perfection bending you backwards. counting down the moments until it will finally break you. measuring your worth in work, in being good at, in being useful, in being needed.
sticking up with family, with rules, with loyalty despite your own desires. acting like you’re the first but always putting yourself second.
being afraid to dare to be selfish and to love. being scared of your own devouring passions. waiting for your beloved to take the first step and running the whole way to finally meet them.
mammon
the fluttering of wings in the silence of a white september afternoon. a sea of crows watching your every move from atop a nearby building. finding a black feather on the ground and keeping it in your pocket for good luck.
the friction between leather seats and leather jackets. heavy cologne mixed with the scent of sweat and leather. the purr of a motor. finding a half empty pack of cigarettes in the pocket of your old jacket.
winning second place so many times you’ve given up on first. still dreaming of clawing your way onto the top of the podium sometimes.
the heavy burden of capitalism of having your worth monetized. having to constantly show the word you’re worth something. selling your soul for value.
wanting everything you could never have before. overspending, oversharing, overwhelming. being too much but also never enough.
finally being someone’s number one. strong arms holding you while you cry. a reassuring presence, a constant in your life
leviathan
imposter syndrome. feeling like you’ll never fit in, like you’ll never be good enough.
replacing real life with dreams. looking at life from the outside. living inside your head.
playing games until 3 am on a school/work night. letting your passions consume you. still feeling guilty of not doing anything measured in money or public approval. calling all your hobbies guilty pleasures because you still care about what others think despite appearances.
finding comfort in the solace of the ocean. sitting at the bottom of the pool holding in your breath and your tears. crying in the shower. letting the water wash you clean and reborn.
letting someone in. being accepted for what you are and the little you can offer. vast depths hidden by shallow waters.
satan
rage. pure unfiltered rage. the desire to stand up to authority figures. clenched fists, heavy calming breaths, tightly closed eyes. tears of anger, of not being right, of never being good enough or smart enough.
subtle jabs. heavy sarcasm. veiled ironies. cruel eyes and bloody smiles.
putting your nose in a cat’s fur and smelling home. holding a small being full of love and feeling fulfilled. finally feeling like you want to protect and not just destroy.
having to put a book down after reading a certain line that perfectly described that unknown feeling you’ve had all your life. rereading the same line again and again and feeling the knot in your heart and stomach loosening. knowledge as power turned into knowledge as a way of truly becoming yourself turned into a shelter of understanding guarding you from the anger.
swearing in other languages under your breath. reciting poetry aloud by candlelight while drunk on wine and desire. heavy whispers full of hot meanings in the ear of your lover during dinner in languages spoken only by you two.
finally getting the happy ending you’ve always read about. finding your anchor. being a better you for your beloved. improving and helping each other with their shortcomings. balancing each other.
asmodeus
perfectly done make up that had you wake up 2 hours earlier than the others. using concealer to hide a pimple or any imperfection. pants too tight to walk in. the sound of heels in an empty hallway.
caressing your desire while taking a hot bath. focusing on carnal needs, on your senses, on what you feel, on the present. drunk kisses. flirting with strangers at moonlit bars. red lipstick stains on blushing necks.
drinking a glass too many despite the warning in your head. drinking to forget yourself. drinking to escape your fears, your inhibitions, your shortcomings. drinking to become the perfect you the others always expect to see you as. but also drinking to be selfish and feel good for yourself and yourself only.
the sad knowledge you’ll never be the best ever again. being compared to others and ending up comparing yourself to them. knowing your worst enemy is yourself, but trying to hide that fact with mean jokes and confident airs. feeling afraid of being known, but even more afraid of having no one knowing the real you.
beauty at a price. happiness sold for beauty. cruel beauty that devours its worshippers.
the reassuring hands of a stranger holding your hair as you let it all out, the alcohol and the guilt. crying with your head on the cool toilet porcelain after you came home from a party that you thought would help you escape.
help and love coming from where you least expect it. noticing the little things. noticing the person behind the character.
beelzebub
an unknown hunger gnawing at your insides. trying to fill the empty inside but always choosing the wrong meal.
feeling satisfied after a good meal on a good day, feeling bursting on a bad one. devouring until you can’t. still feeling empty, still needing to fill yourself up but knowing it is useless.
feeling breathless and weightless after a run. being high on adrenaline and feeling like you can do anything. the smell of a sweaty used gym and leather boxing gloves.
falling in love so slow and easy it feels like a meeting in the middle of an already drawn path.
belphegor
living just to pass the time. living for others. living but forgetting how to live. being told to do better, to be better, to just get up and do something.
sleeping in. falling asleep at 6 am after a night of insomnia. hearing the world wake outside when inside you’re just going to bed.
strong emotions with no release. feeling full without escape. dark humor. saying too much, revealing too much, being to much so you hide.
getting away with shit because you’re the smallest and feeling no guilt.
the feel of fresh bedsheets. being covered in a blanket just right. feeling warm and protected in the comfort of your room.
love that comes like a question and an answer. love that feels heavy despite it’s light.
diavolo
a commanding tone bringing silence to a room. respect earned justifying the respect you were born with.
luck of birth. being born with a silver spoon. being sheltered, being always different, being untouched by the world outside and its people.
being born with a burden. accepting your prescribed fate. believing in legends and asking yourself if you’re the hero or the villain of your own story. realizing that life is more complicated than fairytales.
abandoned castles. ivy walls and moss floor. a lit figure at the window of an empty mansion. the creaking of old staircases at night when you’re home alone. feeling like you’re from another time.
a strong hand squeezing your thigh under the table. the reassuring warmth of your lover’s presence in a time of need. being loved and not just desired. finally being touched where it matters.
barbatos
unwavering loyalty. living to serve. giving up on your individuality.
a shadow following you at night while you walk back home. sharp eyes locked onto yours from across the room.
passive aggressiveness. hiding behind a smile. an impenetrable facade of public politeness.
the ennui of knowing too much, of living the same day, of being hungry for a breakthrough. knowledge as a burden but also as a gift.
knowing everything about others but no one knowing anything about you. making small thoughtful gestures that remind others of your deep knowledge of their habits and wants.
finally being noticed and seen for yourself alone. getting the surprise you were craving. being taken care of.
simeon
living different lifetimes through your writing and through books.
the smile of a pretty stranger in the train that will forever visit your dreams.
a handwritten message in cursive on the fridge. a hastily written poem on the back of a receipt.
being the outsider. the watcher. being the director of the play of your life and not the actor.
tea that s just hot enough to warm your insides. falling asleep on an armchair with a book in your hand. sunkissed skin. the softness of summer. the fluttering of invisible wings.
ageless wisdom.
rewriting a cursed tale of history. going against tradition. trying to carve your happy ending. succeeding.
solomon
knowledge coming at the price of youth and life.
a thirst to know. devouring books. staying up until 5 am reading. eyes burning dry. feeling like you’re still not doing enough. head full of little nothings. feeling like you will never know anything however much you try read or learn.
notes in the margins of a book you took from the public library. wondering who is the person behind the words. fleeting attachments to the wrong people for the wrong reasons.
being the outcast. the kid at the back of your class reading a russian novel in the original language underneath the table during math class.
a house in the middle of the woods with smoke coming from its chimney. rituals in the dark. wet moss on your soles, the moon lighting up your eyes. the silence of night on a full moon.
whispering prayers and praises to the earth under your breath as you go. feeling drunk on fire. noticing the magic around you. kissing the earth. finally grasping the knowledge you sold your soul for. asking yourself if it was really worth it and having no answer.
love as an adventure. finally feeling and not thinking. giving up on reason and embracing your heart’s guidance.
#this is also me reading the boys#but also showing their more unromanticized sides#or their actual selves#which are tbh more relatable than how they want to appear#some of these lines slap so hard thank u baby jesus for the 6am inspiration#this is truly a christmas miracle#mine#my post#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me lucifer#obey me mammon#obey me leviathan#obey me satan#obey me asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me belphegor#obey me diavolo#obey me barbatos#obey me simeon#obey me solomon
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True Form- Mammon
The boys are cute in their devil forms I’ll give them that. But I want something more monstrous lol. Here are some headcannons of mine of what the boyos look like outside of their glamours.
I’m not doing the gang in any particular order, all will be accounted for in due time. Just my favorites come first :p
No, I regret nothing and yes I would still 10000% smooch the monster.
Next up: Asmodeus
Mammon
- Interestingly enough, his human glamour shows none of the wounds he bears from the celestial war. But his true form? It is a testament to his strength and a stark reminder that he is the second strongest of the cardinal sins.
- Mammon takes the shape of a great winged beast. The original number of his wings have been lost to time but old records speak of ever shifting numbers. Should he lose one two would grow in it’s place type deal. All that remains of their splendor are three mismatched ones on his back. Since they are not even he is incapable of flying, but he can still glide for quite some distance and with tremendous speed.
- He resembles a mixture of a crow and Strix. He has four large taloned feet that can carve through rock and slice though even demon flesh with ease. His multitude of eyes are bright and simply mesmerizing. Like the twinkling of stars in the night sky. His eyes are the only physical trait left of him from his time as an angel.
- Old scars pepper his hide under his oily sheen feathers. When he shifts they flash the briefest hints of silver and faded pink. But, the most noticeable wound on him is his beak. The upper mandible is broken, the front half blasted away leaving behind a jagged mess of bone. The magic used against him makes it impossible for him to regrow it. He remembers clearly the blow that marred him. It is one of his recurring nightmares.
- He keeps a den, hidden from the other brothers deep in the Devildom forests where he hoards all his most precious items from over the millennia. Whenever things get too much at home he will come here to lay amongst his treasures and reminisce of simpler times.
Mini fic
Mammon could feel the need brewing deep within him. The gnawing emptiness slowly eroding at his psyche till it was all-encompassing. His brothers possessions calling to him like a sirens song day in and day out. Goldie simply wasn’t going to be enough this time. He needed his cave, his little sanctuary, carved out in secret so many years ago.
He sighs lovingly. Just imagining the feel of currencies from empires long since fallen and priceless treasures offered to him in sacrifice under his talons feet was euphoric. His second skin ripples under his glamour in anticipation. Humming under his breath, Mammon takes the steps to the main door two at a time. In his excitement, he almost collides with the latest item of his attention.
“Oi!” He barks, skidding to a halt in front of you. He makes a grab for your shoulders stopping you before you toppled down the flight of stairs. He can’t help the smile forming on his lips to match yours. His human looks up from the files overflowing in their arms. The emptiness inside rattles its cage. Add them to the horde. His molars crack under the strain of his clenched jaw.
“Oh! Sorry, Mammon! It’s kinda hard to see around all this.” You smile sheepishly, scooting off to the side for him to pass. “Are you well?” You notice his stiff posture, hands clenching, and unclenching over your school uniform. He hadn’t let you go yet.
Unsurprising really, he was one of the clingier brothers. Not that you minded. It was nice sometimes to feel so wanted. Though it was different this time. You could feel the ebb and flow of his magic rippling in the close space. Usually, he had the best control suppressing it in your company. It would have been terrifying if it had been another one of the brothers. Last time one of them ‘lost their cool’ had ended badly for you. “Mammon?”
“What?” He twitches, head jerking to an odd angle. His eyes turn sharp as he looks at you appraisingly. Hungrily. “Oh right, sorry.” The demon releases you. “I’m fine, just need to stretch my legs is all.” He pushes past, for once trying not to give into temptation.
“Can I join? I need a break from all this paperwork. I know I said I’d help Lucifer, but damn.” You laugh placing the stack down on an end table. He chokes on the idea. Yesss~ his inner beast coos in delight. You were making this too easy. He could keep you all to himself, tucked away where no one else could have you. Lucifer would never know.
“I-I don’t want the company.” He grits out, rolling his shoulders in agitation. At himself or you, only the devil would know. “Ain’t a place for little humans.” His response is short and sharp. He could feel his talons growing under his nail beds. Mammon hisses in irritation, he didn’t want to scare you away. Not after everything else you’ve been through.
“Oh…” It hurts him to hear you so dejected like this. Perhaps- you had handled a lot so far. One more thing won’t kill you.
“Look-promise not to tell and you can join.” Mammon turns scratching at his neck. "I don't need my brothers knowing where I go. Our little secret?"
“Our little secret.” You take his hand with a coy grin.
It wasn’t a long walk. It was pleasant your warm hand wrapped in his. The connection quelled some of the avarice brewing inside. He approaches the edge of the cliff with satisfaction. The precipice looks down into the wilds of the Devildom. It was a beautiful sight really. The heavy gloam of eternal twilight cast a purple haze over the treetops. In the distance, the downtown district twinkle. Mammon exhales happily into the breeze. The wind was picking up. Good.
Mammon turns to you taking in your apprehension. You lean over the side, looking down into the abyss. "This isn't much of a walk." You chuckle nervously eyeing the deadly drop. A strong gush upsets your balance. Squeaking, you grip onto his sleeve. Your little human nails dig into the leather of his jacket. Cute.
"Not done yet." He sheds his glasses and coat folding them neatly by the ledge. "It ain't much farther, but it is a ride." He could shred the pants and shirt. Luci owed him a new wardrobe as is. Stretching his arms over his head he grunts. His remaining wings practically vibrate in anticipation. "Promise not to scream?"
"Scream?" Your question is lost in the ruffle of feathers and creak of bone. You gasp back away from the massive beast in front of you. Mammon stood beside you, his body almost blending in with the darkness around you. Dozens of eyes blink owlishly at you, they glimmer like diamonds. They are bright and breathtaking, the depth in them almost sucking you in. He clicks the remnants of his razor-sharp beak expectantly. "Mammon?" You approach, palms outstretched.
He cocks his head to almost disappearing into the night as he closes all his eyes at your touch. He adjusts himself as you pet down his large head. Overly carful of where your hand was to make sure you are not in danger of cutting yourself with his damaged beak. "How many more layers to you brothers are there?" He laughs in relief, cawing loudly as you bury your hands in his feathers. "Ok. So what's the plan?"
Mammon crouches low bumping his shoulder to you. You take the hint and clamber onto his broad back. Shifting awkwardly he squawks as you pull some feathers. “Sorry! Sorry!” He turns and pecks at your hand gently. Pulling at your sleeves, he makes sure you have a good grip at the base of his neck. Feeling you settle he leaps.
Bounding for the ledge, his strong wings flex and catch the wind. He glides on the gust with practiced ease. Years of plummeting and failure made this success all the sweeter with you there as he carries them higher. He could feel your laughter through his body. Your shouts of elation get swallowed by the howling around them. Oh, how he revels in it. He wants more of this.
The flight was quick. Before long he descends, unfurling his legs as he lands. Long talons cut into stone as he grasps the side of the cliff. Effortlessly he slinks up the side. The hard coils of muscle on his back and legs bunch and pull under you body. The sinuous roll of it causes you to grip him tighter lest you fall off. He purrs at the feel of you clinging to him. Perhaps he should keep you here, all to himself. Mammon reaches his destination and allows you to slide off of him to look about.
The mouth of the cave was cast in heavy shadows from surrounding trees. The moon covered by clouds flashing briefs glimpses of deeper in. You follow as the Great Mammon lumbers past you to delve deeper. Jogging after him, you place a hand on his flank trusting him to guild you. What did he have here? This looks nothing like a place Mammon would go to. He chirps and caws trying to talk though it was impossible to understand as he lead you down deeper. His tail swooshing excitedly behind him. It was sweet, his palpable joy rubbing off on you.
As you reach the inner depth of the cave you left go of him to shield your eyes. The sudden light accosting you. The inner cave was huge, eternal sconces lighting as he entered to reflect off of a dazzling array of items. Mammon crows smugly leaving you to gape at the entrance.
The demon crawls into a nest made of gold and bolts of expensive fabrics. Yawning widely, he wiggles himself deeper into the coins. Large crystalline eyes drooping pleasantly at the warmth of his cave. While he dozes you walk around the large treasure trove. You run your hands over no doubt priceless jewels and sets of armor. Clothes and jewelry litter the floor as maps and pieces of art cover most of the walls and ceiling. Their golden frames glowing from the light of the sconces making the space glow richly. He even had some tomes stacked neatly in the corner, each cover embossed with gold and silver. You pick one up intrigued by the design of the cover.
"You sure you were a dragon in a former life? " You ask flipping though a few pages before putting it back. Mammon snorts rolling his eyes. You grin eyeing his bed of treasures. "Can I join you?" It looked rather comfy and he obviously wasn't going to be moving anytime soon. Knowing Mammon there was no way you could leave this place without his help. So might as well get comfortable.
Mammon is silent for a moment before clicking his beak, wings opening to invite you in. You scramble up close grabbing a few stray pillows as you go. Making a mini nest of your own beside him you tuck yourself in.
If a bird could smile he would be beaming at the feel of your body resting against his feathered side. Draping a wing over you he settles in for a nap.
Yes, you would be the perfect final piece to his collection.
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