#this was a writing exercise of sorts

[statustemporary]

a work of art

SUMMARY: The swipes are precise. Hundreds litter her canvas with red streaks standing out against their pale background. Some are superficial while others gouge unsalvageable marks. Drips are unavoidable, Emma concedes, but the origin of these are the source of irritation.

Her job is not done. She has to work with these flaws to craft something he will be proud of. He is the experienced one, after all.

//

Emma and Killian are low-key serial killers but if you ask them, they're artists in love.

RATING: Mature

WORD COUNT: 1,686 words

TAGS: Modern AU, Serial Killers AU, Graphic Descriptions, Blood & Gore, Implied/Referenced Torture, Anti-Neal Cassidy, no magic, Dark Emma, Dark Killian, Toxic Relationship

AO3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: got this idea from a whumptober prompt that was like "did i do good?" with a mentor/trainee and i misread the rest of the prompt and ended up turning it into a torture trainee wanting to please their mentor. and here we are. lol started out with dark ones but turned them into just serial killers.

this was a way for me to get into the head of someone twisted/evil. promise i'm mentally sane and emotionally okay, this was a writing exercise of sorts. pls dont worry hahaha

Please heed the warnings.

***

“I always have to clean up your messes,” she mutters to herself angrily, eyes glaring down at the red liquid on the floor. The deep color shines vibrantly in the candlelight as it pools together and grows larger as the seconds tick by. She snarls at the sound of labored breathing from the center of the room and slowly trails her eyes up to examine her work.

The swipes are precise. Hundreds litter her canvas with red streaks standing out against their pale background. Some are superficial while others gouge unsalvageable marks. Drips are unavoidable, Emma concedes, but the origin of these are the source of irritation.

Her job is not done. She has to work with these flaws to craft something he will be proud of. He is the experienced one, after all.

Anger fuels her as she moves, her arm sweeping this direction and that. The movements are practiced and learned though she’s used different tools in the past. For the first time, he lets her take the lead and she cannot disappoint him. Especially after all the work he went through to procure such a magnificent canvas. A gift for her.

Weak protests fight to reach her ears but her focus drowns them out, thriving on each new mark she adds, each swipe and each gut-wrenching twist expressing the hurt and the anger she’s held onto for so many years.

When she steps back, it is with a grin.

Neal’s body rests sprawled across a stone table in the center of the room. His lays bare but it goes unnoticed as he shows more blood than skin. His labored breathing is replaced by silence, brown eyes turning an empty black.

Blood drips down to the small puddle at her feet. It grows larger with each tick of the hall clock and she frowns as it pools around her new heeled boot.

Of fucking course. Neal can never let her have anything.

The room smells rancid, blood and sweat permeating the air. Darkness blankets the room like it does her soul, only scarcely lit by a few candles hanging on the walls. Moonlight struggles to shine through the cracks in the concrete to no avail. Emma prefers the darkness now. She thrives in it.

Wailing echoes fill the quiet.

The metal of her dagger is warm in her grip and she shakes her head at the blood that covers the blade. At least that’ll be easier to clean than her leather boot.

She sets to work washing her tools, leaving the rest of the room as it is. She wants him to see how long she kept Neal alive to suffer. How he was aware of every single way she tarnished his body until the very end. The way his nails scratched at the stone so hard until they fell off revealing bloody nailbeds. That even in death, his eyes remained open from his terror.

He still got off easy, in her opinion.

There’s a noise, the muffled sound of a door closing and Emma’s head pops up in delight.

Killian grins wide when he sees her emerge from the basement, sleeves rolled to her elbows and hair pulled back in tight bun. They come together in a messy kiss that’s more tongues and teeth than lips.

She loves the way he loves her with abandon. Every time their mouths meet, he practically devours her and she gives as good as she gets. Fingers wrap around the hair at the base of his neck and she pulls while his hook traces lightly on her skin enough to draw blood but not do any serious harm. It sends chills down her spine every time.

His hands are greedy and he makes an attempt to lift her shirt but she steps out of his arms instead.

“Swan?” he asks, voice gruff and hair mused. He glares at her even if there’s no heat to it and Emma smiles back, nearly giggles.

“I want you to show you something.”

Her hand reaches towards him and he leaves her hanging for a moment. They both love the push and pull of their relationship. To tetter on the edge of a decision builds anticipation. Rejection is just a split-second away but so is acceptance. Not knowing which one will be chosen sends their hearts racing. It’s an effect of their upbringing, she knows. She did take a psychology class in community college after all.

It only makes sense, really. His abusive childhood with a drunk father and a brother dead too young and her untethered young life moving from foster home to foster home without any roots or support. Pain has been something out of their control for so long. Something always inflicted onto them unwillingly. But meeting each other in the back of their Psych 101 class all those years ago gave them a mutual understanding.

Pain can be something they command.

Killian had fallen first. They both tried, for the first year or two, to be better than what they came from. They wanted to have the picturesque life so many promised was to come but they struggled. Depression and temptation waited around every corner and they felt themselves falling into a pit they couldn’t climb out of.

And then Graham kissed her.

Killian and she had been on a break at the time. He was spiraling and Emma was trying to stay on track. Their tempers rose and, for the first time in her life, she walked out on someone else. Graham had been kind, sweet, and unassuming. He worked as a campus security guard and was helping her find her shitty car when he kissed her. Killian had been leaving his class and had a full view of the moment it happened. Emma pushing Graham away only did so much to soothe the anger in his soul.

Then Graham showed up dead a week later in the woods by campus, bruises on his head, marks around his throat, and his chest clawed open with no heart taking up its specified space.

She’d been mad when she realized what Killian did. She threatened to go to the police, even. And then she saw the crazed look in Killian’s eyes, the way he pleaded for her to understand.

“Emma,” he begged. “He crossed a line. You don’t understand. You’re mine. He thought he could have what’s mine.”

Through his tears, she saw the love, the possession. It warmed her to her toes. The unwanted foster kid – wanted by him. She swore she fell in love even more that day.

Emma would lay in bed with him at night and asked how he did it. She requested details, wanted to know every step he took. He would hold her close, his fingers leaving permanent marks on her hips, and she floated as he shared exactly what he did to ensure she stayed his.

It was another two years before he struck again, her by his side this time. Arthur was full of himself, an asshole to anyone who didn’t make more money than him, and dead set on evicting the entirety of their apartment building so he could sell the property to a developer. No one shed any tears at the announcement of his death.

Nearly ten years had gone by and yet this is the most exciting one for Emma. Neal was her white whale, so they say. He’d taken advantage of her sixteen years of life when he’d been nearing thirty and split the moment she found out she was pregnant. Took all her cash and the food she bought the day beforehand for their motel stay. She was left alone as she let go of the child she so desperately wanted to have. Even after he left her, she was still cleaning up his messes.

But now she stands in the kitchen she shares with Killian and raises her eyebrows as she bites her lip in wait. Will he take it or ignore it? Her heart races. Her breath hitches just a moment before he takes her offered hand and she contemplates bypassing her art project to ride him in the kitchen instead.

Bringing him to the basement, she waits in the doorway as Killian steps over the threshold. His eyes scan the room in a slow, calculating fashion. Leaning over Neal’s body, he hums as he takes in her work. Fingers trace her cuts, one dipping into the gaping hole in his side. There’s little left of his genitalia, the ferocious way it was obliterated earning a cocked eyebrow from Killian before he looks over to her with a grin. She blushes at the pride in his eyes.

The squelch from stepping in blood draws his attention to the floor. He dips his hand in the liquid and lifts his fingers to his face. The puddle grew from when she was in there a few minutes ago and Killian takes a good moment to examine it.

“Did I do good?” she asks, hands in her back pockets. Eagerness is undeniable in her voice.

Killian stands suddenly and marches towards her. He grips her hips – the cold metal of his hook sending a chill down her spine as Neal’s blood from his fingers smear across her skin – and pulls her in for a filthy kiss. Their bodies are flush but it’s not enough and the way his tongue strokes against her own has her frantically clawing at his pants.

Wailing echoes in the silence again and they pull apart only slightly dismayed.

The crying brings a spark to Killian’s eyes and Emma is torn between where each of their thoughts are going, both outcomes bound to bring her pleasure.

Killian presses another firm kiss to her lips before he tilts his head towards the other end of the basement where their special project waits for their return. His own white whale he somehow conquered and takes pride in making submit to him.

She knows the question before he asks so she merely grins wide at him as he speaks.

“Shall we go skin a crocodile?”

#my writing #temporarystatus #captain swan #cs fanfic #my fics #captain swan fanfic #captain swan au #please heed the warnings #graphic descriptions #this was a writing exercise of sorts #trying to write evil/wicked/disturbed characters

[t1sunfortunate]

I truly do think one of the largest pitfalls among the "media consumption is my passion" crowd is the tendency to treat characters as human beings with agency rather than narrative tools manipulated by the author

#as soon as you start assigning agency to characters any criticism of the series comes under strawman fallacy arguments #about how humans make irrational choices not always understood by others etc etc etc #thus insulating the author and the work from any sort of meaningful criticism or analysis #i think current popular advice on character writing overemphasizes relatability and likability at the expense of narrative relevance #it certainly isn't hurtful to do exercises where you think about their coffee order or favourite animal or preferred toilet paper brand #but none of that matters in the end if you have no idea what purpose a character is supposed to serve in a literary sense

[pettyprocrastination]

thinking about how as Aemond’s wife you are the model of perfection. 

Your back is straight as you curtsy when you first meet him and hair neatly braided with fine jewels. Your voice is even and never waivers as you speak to him of your family and how grateful they are for this union. 

You are intelligent and beautiful, the perfect wife. 

It’s why Aemond hardly ever spends time with you. 

He bears no ill will toward you, of course. There is no resentment or hatred to his lady wife, but there are no fond feelings either. 

He knows of courting and romance, his mother taught him everything from a young age. The poor woman would hold her son’s hands tight and explain that a man must not only respect his wife, but truly cherish her. Love her in the eyes of gods and men. As he grew older he noticed the way his father would wave off her constant advice and concerns until the dreaded night where she was the only one defending him after he lost his eye.

But practice was one thing. When you were nothing but a concept. A figment of Aemond’s imagination when he was ten and marriage was only spoken of during his lessons. Before he lost his eye. Before he heard the ladies of the court whispering about his mutilation and before he watched a whore flinch at the sight of his scarring when Aegon dragged him to a brothel on his thirteenth name day. 

He learned then that no matter how much he would love and worship his wife, it would not be returned. 

Rather than attempt to force it (he was no brute and had no intentions of doing something so cruel) he simply let you be by yourself. 

Yes you were married. You sat by one another at every meal and formal event and on the rare occasion he would even ask for your hand in a dance. But Aemond’s affections toward you were few and far to find. 

But there were moments. 

Where his icy facade would weaken and you found yourself able to slip through the cracks. 

Alicent had told you of his “moments” when the engagement had been announced. The queen herself taking you by the hand as you walked through the garden and explaining gently of Aemond’s condition. 

“There are times where he feels a great deal of pain because of the-” She paused, chewing on her cheek while trying to find the most inoffensive way to describe the tragedy that befell her son. “-incident he had as a child.” 

You knew enough of it. Many rumors flew through court the day Aemond targaryen walked in with a patch on his eye after Laenor Velaryan’s funeral at driftmark. Some day it was from a sparring incident, others say it was a mark he bore from the first time he mounted the mighty vhaegar. Others say that the Rouge Prince Daemon Targaryen himself gave it to his younger cousin after crude words were exchanged behind closed doors. 

You didn’t know what was the truth. Aside from the day the princeling got his scar, was the same he got his dragon.

A fair trade, some would say. 

But they didn’t live with the attacks he did. 

Nerve damage, is what the maester’s called it when you asked them for more information. His wound may have healed years prior but the prince would continue to live his life with constant bouts of mind-numbing pain brought on by the slightest touch or too sharp of a wind to his cheek. 

“Senseless fits.” Aegon called it. When he heard about your curiosity about his brother’s condition he had all but cornered you late at night in the hall. “Anything will set him off and send him throwing a tantrum like a belligerent child. It’s quite entertaining.” 

But there’s a moment where the elder brother frowns and you see a shred of concern in his eyes. 

“He doesn’t like to be touched during those moments. It makes the pain worse. So if you’re trying to find some way to comfort him I’d recommend you do something else.” 

What was ‘something else’ you learned, was simply being there. 

Sitting by his side when he curled into himself, trembling fingers reaching out to grab yours and not complaining when his nails dig into the palm of your hand as he cries out in pain. When his breath evens out and the pain subsides, he crawls to you and presses his face to the crook of your neck. He’s far too tired to cover the gnarled scar covering the side of his face but you show no fear or disgust at the sight of it. Your fingers run through his hair, gently combing back the silver tresses and ignoring the tears that stain the shoulder of your gown. 

The next morning your husband would wake in your arms and takes a moment to watch your peaceful expression and the way the morning sun kisses your skin. 

That day Alicent notices her son sits closer to you at breakfast, speaking softly to you of something she cannot understand. But when she sees his hand reach out and grasp yours, she smiles. 

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #reminded me of the post about aemond most likely having some sort of nerve damage from losing his eye so- here she be #idk something about composed wives who are just as strong and dangerous if not more than there husband just gets me man #not edited or beta read i just wanted to do a writing exercise to try and clear my mind cause its very blurry atm #this is very wonky wobbly but im trying to keep myself writing even if its silly little things so i dont lose practice yknow!! #for the aemond girlies *passes out* #anyways part two in the 'aemond isnt good at affection' vault because im confident in it #man just assumes you arent attracted to him so he steers clear of you #but is also incredibly protective and a lil jealous

[sisterdivinium]

Lilith might just have made the worst choice she could in going to Jillian, no? Not just because of basically becoming her lab rat and throwing herself into the unknown by walking into the ark, but because of the sharp, undeniable contrast that is painfully drawn between Jillian's love for Michael, which sees her stop at nothing to retrieve him, and Lilith's mother's indifference towards her own daughter.

Of course she had met Jillian before, but season one had another context to it. Now, however...

Here's a woman who will set the whole world on fire in order to help her son if she must; meanwhile, Lilith's mother could care less if she knew about her daughter's little season frolicking in the flame pits of hell after being dragged there by a tarask.

Lilith goes to Jillian expecting the brilliant scientist -- she finds her, but perhaps more than that she finds the devoted mother she does not have. There's a cruelty to Jillian's treatment of her, of course, but in this moment of recognition she realises that a) not only is her worth still seen as tied to her "usefulness" to others, but b) that nobody will do for her what Jillian is doing for her son... And that might just be the deepest wound.

#warrior nun #sister lilith #jillian salvius #and it's interesting lilith makes it seem like her outrage stems only from being used; poor girl truly has mother issues to sort out #i was rewatching scenes for Reasons and it hit me #i should one day sit down to look at all the motherhood stuff in this show sigh #but then who will write the final scene of my current fic? ha #anyway i love that wn functions in different levels at the same time #that sounds like stating the obvious but actually a lot of modern narrative especially is tremendously superficial #i will never understand why there aren't more people digging into this show. i wish there were #it certainly deserves as many analytical perspectives as can be #exercises in observation #analysis and similar

[divinekangaroo]

rewatching S6 in bits and pieces for current fic and ahhhhhhhhhh but the whole Jack, Diana, Mosley and Lizzie final dinner is so *viscerally* fucking satisfying on every sensory and intellectual and emotional level of consumption.

#every single movement facial expression breath flick of an eye the choice of 'mosley' not 'mr mosley' #the way mosley says 'lizzie' for the first time #jack's buildup and his mad fucking innuendo just before diana and oswald show #particularly how every drink is taken and by whom and when #lizzie constantly holding herself back the entire time from Saying Something all these flinches and half-breaths #insane #INSANE #as much as the end of S3 is roaringly wrenchingly furiously emotionally good #this dinner is something else #this whole episode is pretty much something else though fffffffffffff #jack's patronising constant reference to tommy as if he's a much younger man/boy when you look at these two guys and jack looks younger?? #by design i am sure #in the scene with the tie before the dinner.the way tommy's face says one thing while facing away from lizzie #then he puts on that mask as he turns to face her and you can SEE HIM DO THAT jesus #it would a writing exercise and a half to actually try to capture that scene in writing and work out what needs to be said/described #to carry the same effect because @coffeeatnight23 -> this scene is totally Tommy ripping his own heart out then eating it with relish :) #it *is* the saddest thing but also a fucking *reclamation* of something that tommy hasn't had since his suicide attempt. there's lots of #small reclamations of self that happen in post-Ruby S6 i seem to recall. despite flicks old trauma/foggy memory wandering also this- #-sort of structural shift/acceptance he is who he is and that is how he has agency (not solely money?) #anyway it's not triumph but there is *something* that i haven't found the word for yet #acceptance is one word but there's something more vicarious and dark in it that acceptance doesn't connote

[transfemgeorgecostanza]

finished the new walter moers book last night, and i loved it. it is not flawless - some of it feels a bit too familiar within the series - and he may perhaps never again reach the heights of Rumo, City of Dreaming Books, and whatever Der Schrecksenmeister is called in English, but it feels like a return to form. it's less about plot and more about dabbling in the sending up of northern german island culture/tourism, but more focused, more engaging, more Zamonien than, say, whatever Prinzessin Insomnia und der albtraumfarbene Nachtmahr is called in English, or the two thinner volumes of Zamonia novels that felt more like writing exercises than actual writing.

#walter moers #german stuff #zamonien #SOME people have the theory that Moers is not Moers but rather a collective / someone else writing and the writer of the first five novels #as stopped writing them #which i find very weird #and dont believe #MY theory #and this is really nothing but a theory #is that moers has some sort of mega writers' block perhaps brought on by 'external' reasons like illness (or depression or sth) #which is why he a) had someone else draw Prinzessin Insomnia and write sth that is definitely not Zamonien #b) afterwards wrote those two thin books which as mentioned felt like exercises of trying to get back into it #and c) also sorta why the second part of his two part Dreaming Books sequel has still not made it out after what. 12 years? #including i think changing publishers after the first of them? or around that time at least. #we will never know probably #but this makes me hopeful for a future of the series #maybe even that sodding second part.

[inkykeiji]

Have you thought about a Tomura-nii? 🥺

ooooh my god anon

tw: pseudocest (adopted siblings), coercion, taking advantage of a younger sibling’s naive and innocent nature, implied size difference (reader is smaller than tomura), female reader, virgin!tomura, masturbation, blood, noncon, overstimulation, blowjobs, use of the word daddy to describe adoptive father, honestly just really fucking nasty and genuinely disgusting, please be careful with this lil piece words: 792

i have!!! i just feel like he’d be really fucking gross, you know??? disgusting in the most heinous way, like flawless tomura but a hundred times worse. i feel like he’d totally be a shut-in, completely inexperienced because your adoptive father (afo) never lets either of you—his fully grown adult children—out of his or kurogiri’s watchful protection. but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when they aren’t looking.

tomura-nii has never been touched, romantically or sexually, by anyone else, but he is an avid consumer of porn + hentai, so much so that it borders on addiction. and eventually, it just isn’t enough. it isn’t enough to spend hours locked away in his room, jerking his cock until it’s red and wrecked, skin chafed so bad its flaking and peeling and bleeding, thin little wounds that weep crimson staining the lines of his sweaty palm a watery pink. it isn’t enough to throw hundreds and hundreds of his father’s money at those online cam girls, making them do unspeakable acts and recording it all for him. it isn’t enough, he needs more, he needs real; something he can feel, something he can touch, something he can own and mark and sink his teeth into—flesh and blood and bone filling his hands and yielding beneath his fingers and quivering around his cock. 

he needs you. 

and sure, he’s sheltered, but you’re even more sheltered, not even allowed access to the internet without daddy’s heavy supervision—so when he sees you, his innocent, naive, totally fucking clueless little sister, he knows he can manipulate you into doing whatever the fuck he wants you to, because nii-san said so, and nii-san knows best, right? nii-san is older, wiser, the boss, and what he says goes, always. he’s basically second in command beneath your adoptive father; even kurogiri seems to bend and break to his every will and whim and wish. 

so who are you to say anything, to know any better, against your bigger, smarter, better brother? who are you to deny him, to say ew and no and gross and it’s wrong! when he slinks into your bedroom in the middle of the night, waking you with his ragged pants and the vigorous slap of his fist against his pelvis, and streaks that lacy little nightgown with thick strokes of glistening cream, quickly cooling as they seep into the dainty fabric, heavy and gelatinous against your skin?

who are you to refuse him, when he asks if he can see how pretty your pussy is, when he asks if he can play with it, unexperienced fingers grinding and pinching until your rubbed-raw clit is swollen and your trembling thighs are stained with copious amounts of your own slick and your eyes are lidded and glassy, vision downy at the edges and bleary with tears, because it (finally) feels so good, too good, that you’re fucking sobbing? 

who are you to reject him, when he says he wants to show you his cock, when he tells you to hold it in your soft little palms and pet it until it’s oozing something sticky and shimmering all over your skin, when he demands that your lick your hands clean, that you put the head in your mouth and suckle on it, that you glide the tip of your tongue, rounded and hard, over the slit as fast as you can—back and forth, back and forth, until he’s shoving the entire thing into your mouth and he’s stuffing your throat full of something thick and acrid? 

nii-san says that it’s okay, that this is normal and what good little sisters are supposed to do, that brothers and sisters who love each other so much do this all the time, and don’t you love him, too? don’t you want to show him just how much you love him? just how perfect and obedient you are? 

and nii-san would never lie to you, would never lead you astray, would never ever want to hurt you, so you should believe everything he says without question, right? right. 

and, christ, you’re so fucking good, so sweet and precious and daddy’s flawless, faultless little rule-abiding princess, adhering to every order and regulation given to you. but daddy doesn’t deserve you, or your good nature and kind heart and eager-to-please tendencies; not when tomura sees you more often, takes care of you better than daddy ever has or ever will, so shouldn’t you be his flawless, faultless little rule-abiding little princess, too? nii-san deserves your attention so much more than daddy does, don’t you think? you owe him this much, yeah? 

of course. of course you do.

#WHEWWWWW #please please PLEASE heed the warnings alright i triggered myself writing this #if you have any sort of incest trauma at all proceed with extreme caution #stay safe my friends <333 #anon isn't he so disgusting #he’s SO disgusting #eeeee hehehehehe #tw pseudocest #tw noncon #tw coercion #tw blood #i hope u enjoy this anon bb i used it as a writing exercise so its totally unedited HEHE #have a lovely night and stay safe n hydrated!! #inky.bb #clari gets mail #inky.tomura #inky.tomura nii

[birlwrites]

like when i was in 6th grade i started an original novel that i then abandoned mostly-complete, came back to a few years later, and finished it, out of SPITE because i didn't like seeing it in my drafts and knowing it wasn't done.

and was it cool that i'd written a whole novel? sure! do i wish i'd, like... enjoyed it more? ABSOLUTELY YES. but at the time when i began the story, i had no idea how to write something that would feel like me. when i returned to it, proofreading was a massive pain because i was constantly cringing at what seemed like sixth-grade-me's embarrassingly clumsy attempts at writing something Cool™. i didn't see any way to salvage the story. and that was because all it had originated in was that desire to write something Cool™. that goal drove every creative decision. not a shred of it was genuine. there was nothing to salvage. so i just slapped together an ending, out of a sense of obligation, and that was that.

in 8th grade, i wrote a psychological horror short story about someone trapped in a room full of unsynchronized clocks. i think i'd just read the tell-tale heart. it creeped out everyone who read it. it wasn't at all Cool™. it was leagues, LEAGUES better - more sincere, more committed, more impactful - than that novel i'd started a couple of years earlier.

fanfiction isn't Cool™. fandom is still often cringed at in the Mainstream™. but Coolness and the Mainstream are the death of creativity. if all you're doing is imitating whatever's recently achieved commercial success, it will feel empty. a pastiche of booktok buzzwords is just that.

but if you allow yourself to create something ~cringe~, fully and wholeheartedly, then you can connect with your readers. you can figure out how you want to write. and you'll enjoy the writing process, instead of staring at a draft you started years ago, wondering how to finish it with the minimum possible effort so you can cross it off your list.

#and that's also why ao3 helped me embrace my own ideas #because i could post my writing and find people who genuinely enjoyed it #which developed my confidence in my own ideas #that might be a strange take - 'local writeblr developed confidence in original ideas through fanfiction' #but writing fanfiction very powerfully exercises the 'what if' muscle in your brain #which is the most important tool for any sort of creativity #ao3 was where i found readers who weren't like. my family and friends who wanted to be encouraging #just random people on the internet who liked my writing! #even though they had no personal connection to me! #so then i built up actual faith in myself #aided by experimenting with form and story length and narrative conventions #in an informal fun context #rather than cutting myself off by forcing myself to produce Marketable Material™

[hauntedpearl]

hope chest

Gen, Dean studies, sweet fluffy things.

@angelcasendgame mwah mwah mwah thank you so much for being my cheerleader!!! 💕💕💕

There's this bowl in his kitchen.

It's a cheap little thing — cost him barely a buck and some change — he'd found tossed in the back of a thrift store in Ohio. And it's ugly, too. Got this ridiculous, colourful, loopy pattern on it almost as if someone gave a preeschooler free reign of a paintbrush and left them to it. A chip in the rim, like the last owner had chucked it at the wall when the fruit punch inside wasn't quite to his taste.

It's — Well. You get the idea.

Dean didn't make a habit of browsing thrift stores for kitchenware, and he made even less of a habit of buying that shit from them.

But. Well.

There was the bunker, then. New, and solid. Some place to go back to.

There was a room. A bed to call his own.

A kitchen.

So, sue him for looking.

The hunts took them all over, and sometimes, amidst all that adrenaline and the blood and the damn footwork, there were these long stretches where all you'd have to do was put your feet up and wait. For the coroner to get on with it. For the families to realize that the two dudes in cheap monkey suits would believe their outlandish stories. Sometimes, for the monsters to drop the next bodies. (Those really were the worst ones).

Dean had a routine most of the time. Hit up the local diners, the bars. Flirt with a waiter or two. Pick up a copy of some hinky sounding science fiction novel from the dollar bin at whatever run-down grocery store sat on Main Street.

But, then. The Bunker.

Right.

So. The thrift stores.

He'd begun picking up a tchotchke or two. He'd found a hand-painted wooden model of a car, once. A Ford, nice and smooth and yellow. Soft, blue sheets he'd washed thrice before he put them on the mattress in one of the spare bedrooms. Plates and mugs and odd little spoons with engraved handles that always amused him when he'd seen them on TV.

And, then. There was that bowl.

Stupid looking and too oddly proportioned for anything a respectable household might need a bowl for.

Dean wouldn't know, gun to his head, why he'd thought it would be perfect. It just — It seemed so right.

He'd been holding a worn copy of an old-as-balls edition of Cat's Cradle that was chock full of notes in the margins and doodles like the ones he made in his own copies. He remembers that, for some reason. That book. The cheeky cashier who'd sneered at Dean's purchases — a book in shitty condition plopped at the bottom of a bowl that looked shittier. The way he'd felt a little like his entire body was just itching when he'd forked over the cash, wrapped that bowl in newspaper and thrown it in the pile of old jackets and torn jeans in his trunk he never quite got around to throwing out. (He still hasn't.)

And well, it's here now.

All this while later.

In his kitchen.

A kitchen that's wood and tile, not cold, grey concrete. Yellow wallpaper smudged with handprints. Green and Blue and Purple and Orange.

It's not what Dean was expecting when Cas said he'd wanted to brighten up the space a little, Dean.

Well. It is what it is.

There's some meaning to the madness of Cas' little home ec project, he's sure, but he doesn't think he's ever gonna actually get it. It looks a little like shit, all things considered. But, damn, if it doesn't make him happy. Like his chest is filled with fireworks that keep going off.

Because —

Well.

It looks like home. Feels like it.

So, there's the bowl, in his kitchen that's home in a way nothing's ever been.

It's a cheap little thing. Ugly as shit, too. A chip on the rim like someone's taken a shot at breaking it in half...because who'd want it, really?

It fits, though.

In here.

In the kitchen with ugly, hand-painted walls.

They set it on the counter, next to the nicer clay bowl that Cas fills with fruit from his garden. And one of Jack's ceramic plates that turned out a little wonky and holds Dean's keys.

Dean fills it with packets of sugar and salt and ketchup that make their way into his pockets, even now. A few sets of plastic cutlery that accidentally come along when they get takeout. Fancy napkins he'd gotten into the habit of hoarding, because you didn't get to have hand towels when you were on the road, and toddler brothers were messy little shits who got chocolate all over your clothes when you were trying to be nice.

It's a mess of paper on most days, really.

And sometimes Jack sneaks a handful of ketchup packets out and empties them in his mouth, just like that, because he's a goddamn menace.

Dean thinks it's funny. (He does the same with the sugar and salt, sometimes. Old habits and all that. It's not like he can actually say anything to the kid. What? He's not a complete hypocrite.)

But Cas doesn't.

"You're going to have a stomach ache," he'll say, and more often than not, it's true.

They do it anyway, because they're stubborn assholes who eat weird shit. (Dean's proud of his kid, what's there to say.)

"God, the two of you! You're going to be the death of me!" Cas will say, when he sees them racing to choke down packets of hot sauce.

They'll stop, then, but he won't realise that he's gone and punched them in the gut until he notes the way Dean's face crumples. He'll apologize — of course, he will, even though there's nothing he needs to be sorry for — petty fight forgotten. Dean tells him it's fine.

Reassures him with a touch.

A kiss.

But — Alright.

(That one hurts, still.)

Alright.

(Dean hopes not. Dean hopes never again.)

Alright.

The bowl.

It serves no real purpose in their little house, to be honest. Dean can't bring himself to throw it out, though. He couldn't tell you why, gun to his head.

So, it sits there. The bowl that was tossed in the back of a thrift store in Ohio. In his wood and tile kitchen, accumulating packaged condiments.

He thinks it's ugly as shit.

But, Well.

Damn if it doesn't feel a little like home, too.

#doe's writing #spn fanfic #fanfic #destiel established but it's just mentioned for a second #dean studies #IMAGINE YOU'RE A BOWL #HAFSHSJD SORRY KIDDINGGG #i didn't really have an intent here i just started writing as an exercise and this sort of happened. not my usual style or pov of choice #but it hope this tickles your fancy #I'll add the taglist in the notes do lmk if you want on/off! #spn ficlet #spn creators

[wetcatspellcaster]

Read an extremely fluffy book this week that truly warmed my heart and I cannot recommend this enough for fanfic authors. Often when I'm in a 'disillusioned with my own writing' stage, I feel like the fluff scenes/fic I write is boring as basically nothing happens, or at least not anything at all of note (shout out to my standard "we talk about our feelings with stage directions"). But reading this book and noticing when precisely I was squeeing or kicking my feet or having to pace my flat as I gradually lost my mind gave me a newfound appreciation about what beats/emotions fluff hits and how "basically nothing happens" can still send you fucking feral, actually

#emma rambles #(the book was Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands - i talk about it a lot on my main blog) #anyway it was just a really useful exercise idk it reminded me why this shit slaps #my writing #(sort of. not actually my writing at all.)

[vincentmatthews]

WIP Whenever

I was tagged by @katsigian and @timaeusterrored thank you loves💕

Hiding it under the cut because this is embarrassing.

~♡~♡~♡~♡~

My Perfect Little Pet

Hunger. That's the only thing that coursed through his fractured mind. His fangs ached at the thought of the only thing that would sate his hunger. Warm, red, copper tasting, sanguine. His wrists bore faded scars of where he'd been forced to feed on himself in the past. It's been two days since he's been free, free from being under his Master's clawed thumb. Free to feed on anything he desired without having to suffer the consequences.

He'd stalked the woods at night, in search of anything that would satisfy his ever growing hunger. He'd found a rabbit, it was small, white as snow, it wasn't much, but it would have to be enough. For now at least. Until he was capable of finding bigger prey.

He held his hand out for the rabbit, beckoning his the small minded prey closer.

"Shh~♡ Don't worry my dear~♡ I won't hurt you~♡.." He hummed softly, the rabbit's ears went back as it sniffed the air, cautious of his next move. His round crimson eyes narrowed as the creature reluctantly stepped forward. The last steps it would ever take.

Before the rabbit had a chance to realize what the pale elf was, it was too late. It was scooped up but his two clawed, thin, icey hands. A set of sharp, cold fangs bit down on the warm, tender flesh of it's neck. He let out a soft noise, as the hot blood reached his chapped lips. The rabbit trashed in his hands, letting out a sharp agonizing squeak before falling limp in his grip.

He growled, his eyes glossed over and fluttered as he drank what little sustenance he'd had in weeks. He doesn't remember the last time he'd fed, yet it made him exhale through his nostrals with a form of ecstasy. His mind was clearer and he didn't feel so weak. He considered it a massive accomplishment, since this is the first time he'd fed without his Master's approval. He felt powerful, liberated, destructive, yet a small sliver of his consciousness bled through. He unclenched his jaws, which seemed more of a struggle than usual. He brushed it off as a reaction to not eating.

He lowered the animal once he was unable to extract any more blood from it. His stomach knawed at the rare feeling of something in it rather than vial blood of rats. It was almost enough to make him tear up. He shivered at the thought that now he was able to eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He could even endulge himself on the one prey his master forbid him of feeding on.

He dropped the twisted, mangled corpse in the grass below. He felt his chest tighten and his stomach churn. If Cazador knew of what he was doing right now, he'd be punished for sure. He took a deep breath, trying his best to brush away those feelings that seemed to bubble up inside of him, threatening to erupt. He was safe now. He was free. He was able to stand in running water without it burning, able to stand in the sun without being reduced to a pile of ash, and he was able to walk into homes completely uninvited. It all felt so new, made him feel powerful, unstoppable even. Hells, he was probably the most powerful vampire right now. A thought cascaded acrossed his fractured mind; perhaps he was even stronger than Cazador. He might even be able to stake his chance for revenge, so to speak.

~♡~♡~♡~♡~

Don't know if I'll ever have the guts to post this when I'm done with it. So I guess we'll see xD

#I don't know what to say about this. #Other than “Fucking oops” #This is sort of a writing exercise #I don't know.. #astarion #astarion my beloved #Wip #i dont know how i should tag this one because its embarrassing

[ievaxol]

for the spotify wrapped thing, alisaie + 42 >:3c

It's almost over It's just begun Don't overthink this Look in my eye Don't be scared, don't be shy Come on in, the water's fine

All Eyes On Me - Bo Burnham

---

There are days when a rare wind sighs from Nabaath Araeng and washes over the desert, bringing with it a sharp smell of ozone and wrong.

Alisaie hates the phenomena with a passion, even after only experiencing it twice; both times had set her every hair on end and locked her limbs with blind and primal fear that told her to run run run go get out.

These are the days when the sin eaters gather in the largest numbers and crowds what little life remains closer together, roaming the land with claws and teeth -- and they never go without feeding at least once.

The first time she experienced it she was far enough into Qasr Sharl that she could simply duck back inside and weather it and the second Thancred had been at her side, gunblade still an unfamiliar but welcome sight over his shoulder.

The third time --

The third time it happens, all the carers at Journey's Head turn wide, frightened eyes toward her. Alisaie glances behind her shoulder, muscle memory kicking in, expecting all those eyes to glide past her to the person who they really want, except, well.

There's no one but her. Their eyes stay where they are.

Her palms are sticky with sweat as she wipes them on her shirt, desperately trying to buy herself time.

"Alisaie?"

It's Tesleen, gods, and she sounds hopeful. Like Alisaie's presence means something.

"You can protect us, can't you?"

"I," Alisaie begins, only her throat is too dry and it comes out as a croak. "Of course I can."

She wipes, wipes, wipes. There is no question about what she has to do.

Only it has never been down to just her quite like this, has it? Their gazes burn through her as she puts on the bravest face she can muster and grabs her rapier, the focus humming to life in the air next to her.

Never before has her shoulders felt quite so burdened.

spotify wrapped drabbles

#THANK U this was a nice exercise.... this specific song had such a grip on me for like a week straight #anyway my like. thesis. on alphinaud going through extreme growth in arr-hw and alisaie having to face the same sort of. mm. insight? in sh #i can see her so clearly trying to fill shoes that she was in no way ready to try on yet #and getting a taste of the hero's loneliness as she fights to protect this handful of people and being like holy shit its down to me #mine writing

[briefle]

like a child

You know this to be true. It loves you.

It's self-evident, simple. Almost genuine. It comes to your mind not unlike mist. Ever-present in the cold halls — light, playful in its own way, swaying and flickering alongside the blue lantern flames. Faithful it follows your trail — like a child it wraps around your legs fiercely, like a ragged knife its sharp edges it slice through meat and bone. Blood stains ice and snow. It will be gone before long.

Confusion, panic, betrayal. The Voice You Know Well rumbles through the cavern. A timely gift, not meant for you. The Voice You Know Well speaks to you in quiet tones. Laughter, frustration and praise feel like one and the same when the voice you know well turns to you. It takes the shape of the wind, its caresses a ghost-like memory. Water drips from somewhere in the high ceiling above the lake. It's impossibly quiet and it holds your complete attention. You barely see it, just beyond your post, and something painful grips your hears so suddenly, so ardently. It carves a path right through you. Thunder bellows once more. A burning sentence, a harsh command. It is not meant for you; still, you falter too as you turn back.

Sometimes you wonder if it's taunting you. Sudden, icy gusts kick up gold dust, cracks in the black stone deepen like hollow grins, pebbles knock the rust off long abandoned rails. Sometimes you hear bouts of laughter, whispers, the soft flutter of wings, and the soft, safe blackness that has been your home disappears in blinding rage. Sometimes you fall, chasing butterflies. They must be beautiful. You don't think you know what colour is, but butterflies must be so elegant. Sometimes, when you fall, blackness surrounds you one last time.

Down in the depths, the empty, inky blackness bides its time. It waits, hungry. It misses you all the same.

You know this to be true. It kills you.

(It knows this to be true. Despite it all, you love it too.)

[AO3]

#(written before level 4 was even revealed. so like three years ago.) #playing decked out myself has made me feel a certain way #and since i'm making this blog to be a sort of writing exercises archive why not combine the two and resurrect this ficlet. #decked out 2 #.my writing #usually i'd tag characters. #but like. i don't think ''pumpkin the ravager'' and ''pancakes the warden (first of his name)'' really... have... a tag lol.

[recurring-polynya]

How do you feel about historical AUs? I mean, Soul Society is technically one big historical AU, but besides that I mean things like Western AUs or maybe a Gothic Romance AU? How do you feel about reading those?

So, for starters, my bar on what fanfic I will read is very, very low, so I'll read them, but AUs where the characters are dropped into an entirely new setting is one of my least favorite flavors of fanfic.

The primary thing is Soul Society is not an AU, it's the setting. The characters are Japanese and they live in half-feudal/one-quarter fantasy/one-quarter sci fi setting that is based on a Japanese cultural context. Now, all fanfiction is, to some degree, an act of translation, and I think this can be done thoughtfully and with care, but that tends to be the exception, not the rule. It just feels...not-right to me to see Japanese characters plopped into a predominately white, Western setting (I tend to be more forgiving when people from other parts of the world translate things into something personal to them and their own culture, on the rare occasion I've seen it)

The second problem with this kind of AU is that, much like writing in the first person, it can be done phenomenally well by a skilled writer, but it's also the sort of thing that is attractive to beginners, where it is...often used to poor effect. I never want to pick on people's fanfic, because I think fanfic is a wonderful thing that you should do for yourself to explore your own creativity. On the other hand, this sort of AU tends to go hand-in-hand with characters that are unrecognizable from their canon selves. Characterization, world-building, and exploration of the story are the three things I read fanfic for, and if none of those are present, well, what's the point?

That being said, I think it's pretty fun to use the beats of a genre within the canon setting-- for example, there's no reason you can't write a Gothic Romance AU right in Soul Society. You can have big, creepy houses with confusing geometry. Messed-up family dynamics. Dramatic outfits. Fog. Ghosts, either in a literal or figurative sense. That's something I would be much more interested in reading.

#i've tried writing this sort of AU mostly in my short fic #and tbh i do not enjoy it #i do think it's a good exercise for building your writerly muscles #but these days i'd prefer to keep my aus closer to canon

[jamiesfootball]

currently obsessed with in-universe roy/jamie rpf. have you any thoughts on this topic?

So.

I am assuming that this in partially in reference to that fic that's been making the rounds and I did read the fic and I do have one opinion on the fic that has haunted my waking hours which is:

Why would Roy's sister be into X-Files fanfic?

I'm not saying it isn't possible, and this may be a stupid hill to die on, but given her assumed age bracket this was not the fandom I would have given her.

The interest in medicine. The familial brand of sarcasm and sharp wit. The easy assumption that since her brother also has a bit of a dark sense of humor ('avenge me, keeley', ropes) she likely does as well.

You fools. She'd be into House MD.

(no disrespect at all to the author your fic was lovely I am just very much from the age bracket in question and this one detail threw me for a loop the way different experiences sometimes do)

#as for the actual thrust of your question my short answer is idk #usually when i think of how the media audience would work in ted lasso i just...get sad #because it's never just the fans that love you #there's also the fans that despise you. that are watching to see you fail #'the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading' etc #so like with in-universe rpf that would be just a small token of what they have to deal with #and like i get it. this is supposed to be just a fun exercise #fandom looks at fandom through the meta lens of fandom #and this sort of contemplation completely ruins the mood (sorry) #but when it comes to in-universe rpf this is where my mind goes #so yeah i am definitely not the guy to write this fun zany plot #i'd be like 'well roy is used to no privacy having been a dancing monkey in the media spotlight for twenty years' #'every public breakup every ex who spilled gossip about what he's like in bed' #'every time he went through a checkout line and there was a tabloid photo of him in sweatpants with a circle drawn around his crotch' #'so roy thinks he deserves a goddamn break. also how is this different from the sexy polaroids people used to send him?' #and jamie would call him a fossil and tell him people don't do physical photos anymore they do photo manips #and then jamie would show roy a picture on his phone of roy and ted spooning in the moonlight and roy would throw the phone out the window #(and secretly maybe roy's a little hurt because no one ever considers that maybe he'd like to be the little spoon) #ask box is always open

[ehlnofay]

19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?

the profound quiet of a small settlement at night

North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.

Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.

Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.

In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.

But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.

It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)

This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)

Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.

It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.

(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)

That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.

He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.

So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.

Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.

Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.

With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.

Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.

#I considered doing something with post-questline torr for this #but it would have been so fucking sad #and I didn't want to write something that was so fucking sad! #I'll post about torr after the horrors eventually but Not Today. #this was also initially supposed to be an exercise in writing something short that focused more on a distinctive atmosphere #than a scene or character study as most of my pieces are. #oops. #snowballed into an absolute monster of a ramble. #maybe sometime I'll use these prompts to write Actually Short pieces with more of a focus on the worldbuilding aspect... #would be good practice. everything I've written lately has been a thousand words minimum. #I could write about my minor characters or npcs with it too... yeah I think I'll do that at some stage #but. anyway. I quite like this piece as a sort of study #I fucking love writing characters who are having a nice time. with just a hint. just a whisper. of the problems #I enjoyed putting in the reference to the alchemical giant's toes especially because that is an allusion no-one but me understands #to a line in one of my very bad very early pieces on torr #it's not well written but I loved that bit because it's such a wonderful microcosm of the way torr is even before the murder cult thing #Yes he's the busiest most hardworking caretaking boy in the world taking trips into the wilderness (comparatively) to feed his family #and Yes his first instinct on seeing a corpse is to cut it up and sell it for parts #(he's done this to human bodies too but only in extremely specific circumstances. the risk of legal repercussions is too great otherwise) #I'll make a post rambling sometime about torr's ethical system because I'm so obsessed with them and their unhinged point of view #Anyway #done rambling #my writing #fay writes #oc tag #torr #the elder srolls #tes #skyrim #tesblr