disclaimer: I do not claim ownership or rights to any of the series or characters that I write about except my own. you may not translate, repost, or train ai with any of my works whatsoever for any reason.
blog credits: pfp @ raag jea | blog header @/romancist-i | anti-ai divider @/thecutestgrotto | red divider @/pixopix
I've got on like four sunscreens today: my face sunscreen, my shoulder sunscreen (bc I tan there the most and I'm I wear tank tops in the summer), my tattoo sunscreen (which is mineral), and my lip sunscreen bc u can get sunburnt and cancer on your lips
I think I slept around five hours today. it's not a lot, but progress is progress so I'll take it. it's like 90/32.2 outside and I have to go out to do laundry and run errands bc I have to work at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow 😭
I also have to get, like, more shampoo and body wash and tooth paste and apparently a new razor bc a friend is telling me I have to get it for shaving even tho I don't got the patience
just give me waxing strips /tmi
HOW ARE YOU??? WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR TODAY, FRIENDS?
warnings; some gore, gun violence, and injury to mc
a/n; if y'all would like to see more of this dude, let me know!
This town hid its secrets well. It was a place close to the sea and flanked by an ancient forest with treetop peaks and canopies that stretched forever into the distance, melding into a somber oneness with a perpetually dismal sky.
At face value, this town was nondescript, no more significant than others where travellers and truck drivers stopped to refuel and lodge for a night before continuing their journey. A little novelty along the way, an overpriced fridge magnet and old coffee before hours of wet asphalt and yellow lines. But, you'd seen into this place's guts; its gross underbelly, and now it wanted to keep you there at all costs.
You were not one to be so easily consumed, spirited away; made to disappear by the will of others. When you realized that they were coming for you, you ran, and you've been running through the forest ever since with a wrapped bundle in your arms.
This was what they were after. They would not cease pursuing you until they had it, or you were dead. Or both. Perhaps the only advantageous thing from this entire situation was that you chose to run into the forest instead of on the road. The chance that a passing car would be willing to stop for you was slim, and the chance that you would survive climbing down the damp ravines into the forest if you'd been seen was even less.
So, the forest beckoned you inside its core with the precious thing in your arms that you'd promised to bring back a long time ago. It was round and nestled tightly to your chest as if you were a parent fleeing with an infant. Except it did not breathe life nor retain flesh, and it could not babble or speak to you—not as it was, anyway.
From nearby, a gunshot rang out overhead. A warning. A threat. They were coming to take back what they had stolen themselves, a humorous irony of fate. They had said that the town would cease to exist if you fled with it, that no good could possibly come from the outcome that you desired.
Perhaps, in the end, they would be right. But you loved him. Loved the way he caressed you softly despite his presence and strength. Loved all of his impatience and rage, his understanding that you would eventually be ravaged by time, and he would never, so he treated you tenderly.
Another gunshot sounded, but this one struck you in the calf. You screamed and fell down onto the wet detritus of leaves, moss, and mud with the precious thing still in your arms. You intended to hold it until the last, until you were cold and rigid, and they'd have to prise it from your arms.
The agony stole your voice, your breaths harsh pants as you tried to climb to your knees and crawl towards a tree without the use of an arm or leg. You couldn't bring yourself to look back at your leg, to investigate the warmth flowing freely from the gaping wound, and the smell of petrichor wrapped in earthy decay with a metallic tang.
"Told you didn't we?" said the Sheriff, unholstered gun at his side. "We keep our secrets here, honey. We'll be taking back the Horseman's head."
"No!" you spat through teeth and saliva. "It doesn't belong to you! It never has!"
He spun the barrel of his pistol, readied the next bullet, and pointed it at you—at your head. "Maybe not. But everyone will be a lot worse off if you get your way about things. You'd be willing to wipe out an entire town for that…thing? How sick are you?"
Sicker than most, but not sick enough to hide secrets like these for over two hundred years.
So, you said nothing when the Horseman approached from between the darkness of the trees, cloaked in weathered red and black armor, tarnished sword drawn and raised. You closed your eyes and listened to the Sheriff's shriek of terror end with steel cutting the air, flesh ripping, and blood geysering from his severed neck. His head landed some ways off with an underwhelming thud, like a tree branch hitting the forest floor.
You did not search for the head when you opened your eyes, nor did you seek out the body, though it lay there much closer to you than the head. It was the Horseman whom you were looking at as he sheathed his sword and came to you. His footsteps were heavy and precise, terrifying to anyone who did not know them.
It was getting colder, and your leg still ached, but you sat on your knees as you unraveled the fabric from around the bundle to reveal a pristine skull. While grayed and dirty from age and the time it had spent underground, the skull was without lost teeth or cracks in the orbital sockets. For all of the town's fuckery, they'd taken care of it remarkably well.
The Horseman took it from you once offered, but did not attach it to his empty neck. Rather, he attached it to the belt around his waist and turned his torso towards you. His thick, gloved fingertips sought your face and gently stroked it, smearing blood across your cheek while trying to rid you of your tears.
He reached around your body then, hoisting you up into his arms as he gestured somewhere off into the trees. A white horse with a torn face emerged, emitting an otherworldly whinny as you were placed in the saddle and he climbed on behind you.
---
a/n; if anyone has ever come across the headless horseman story called "in a sleepy town" on here or AO3 in the past, that was by me and one of my first original x reader projects I ever started. it was never finished, but it holds a special place in my heart.
I'd like to fully revamp that story someday with a refreshed plotline. but, for now, this is fine
warnings; themes of arranged marriage, exploration of familial traditions, making a deal with a fae tsk tsk
divider; @/dividers-are-us
please reblog and share your thoughts!!
A fine man astride a glowing silver elk had come to you one night in your time of need.
From his realm, he ventured into the world of mortals, led by your sounds of sorrow, the salt which fell upon the soil as your tears did. The breeze carried your awful human noises through the trees, who were his messengers, and they told him how deeply your agony pierced them, sawed them like jagged teeth because they'd never seen a creature so miserable.
He did not enjoy the companionship of humans as they demanded too much, gave too little, and exploited whatever they could if it meant it would be advantageous. Yet, what he enjoyed less than humans was hearing their despair, as it moved him to undesirable emotions and to things like this. He sought you out through inquisitiveness and to ask you why, little human, did you weep so upon the earth?
You knelt by the water's edge with a shattered jar you'd thrown in rage before melting to the ground and dissolving into tears. Mounting expectations from your town to consent to being the next of your sort sent away, married off to some man of lesser noble status in exchange for meager allowances, had led to your frustrations consuming you.
The jar had been a family heirloom; precious, molded, smoothed, and repaired by the hands of your ancestors over time, yet when you looked at it, all you could manage to see behind your eyes was red and rage. It was through that upwelling of red and rage that you'd taken the jar and thrown it to the ground as hard as you could. It had shattered easily, remarkably dully, leaving you unsatisfied and filled with dread.
How could you return home with only fragments?
"Little human, your cries are absolutely averse to me, but I must know why you do so," the fine man announced himself, immediately ceasing your cries and startling you to your feet. "Now you stop, but why ever were you making such horrid sounds to begin with?"
The sight before you was so ethereal and exquisite that you could not bring yourself to answer him. Before you was a silver elk with sprawling antlers reaching high and far, nearly blending into oneness with the tree branches. It had a soft glow surrounding it, a sort of humming halo of light which made it simultaneously a sight you could not tear your gaze away from, yet still too bright as something standing apart from the darkness.
It wore no saddle or bridle like steeds you knew, but seemed to know, intuitively, what the rider wished for it to do without a spur in the gut or tug of fur.
Aboard the immense animal, the speaker was a ghost-pale man with long, icy hair the whitest you'd ever seen. Though his face was inexpressive, you saw a curious gleam in green eyes and a careful tilt of the head. Most fascinating to you about this man were the antlers mounted upon his own head, ones you could not discern whether they sprouted from his skull or were part of some extravagant ornamentation to his person.
"If you can cry so loudly, surely you are capable of speech, little human," pressed the fine man, growing impatient and bored of your stares. "Does something trouble you to be here at night? What is that there at your feet?"
It was embarrassment that broke your trance of the beauty before you. Your face felt like it was singed by the hearth at home.
"I—forgive me, sir, for being so impolite." You placed a hand across your chest and bowed sharply, a formality among your people reserved for those of important status. "It was discourteous of me to assume that I would not disturb others, even at night. Had I known that, I would—"
The fine man gave a suffering sigh, as though hearing you explain was truly a test of all of his goodness and patience, and said, "That is not what I asked. Answer my question."
"The crying, you mean?" Such a strange thing to insist upon demanding an answer for, but you would give it to him as you wanted the conversation to last. "Well, if you must know, I broke my family's most prized heirloom. That water jug." You pointed down at it. "It has belonged to my family for generations, and in my blind fury, I tossed it down, and it shattered. It is not as shattered as I am, however."
To this, the fine man inspected the dark shards of pottery on the grass from his great height. You were quick to notice the slight twist on his face, a downward tug on his lips as if disappointed. Perhaps he'd expected you to say something else.
"Things can be replaced," said the fine man coolly, looking now to you, "one thing your species will never seem to understand is that your things will be lost to time. Heirlooms and trinkets will tarnish and crumble to dust. They are merely things which you imprint importance upon, nothing more. They are no more than what they are."
You gazed down somberly at the fragments of the water jug and considered his words in silence for just a moment. "Maybe you're right. Maybe things have no inherent value beyond what we put into them. But, for one reason or another, they matter to us. They hold power. The hold memories. They tether us to the past and to family and to tradition."
"Does that make it a good thing?" He seemed to be seriously asking.
"I'm not sure," you told him. "Perhaps it's a bit of both. At some point, I started to resent that water jug because of what it represented in my family. Sameness. Embracing rigid, unchanging tradition. I am told that everyone in my family, at my age, is to go to the river to fetch water and bring it home until I am finally married. And then, if it were to happen, my own children were to take the jug and continue the tradition. It's heavy. It's heavy to carry around with me, and I didn't want to do it anymore. It's not what I want to do. So, in my anger, I broke it."
The fine man didn't seem to comprehend the complexity behind your words: your talk of sentimentality and tradition meant very little to a being such as him. This you were acutely aware of, but you had no other way of explaining your grief. Breaking the jar had given you a release, a great rush of relief through your lungs and soul, yet also a great loss. Something you would never get back.
"I don't want to get married away like everyone else I've ever known," you admitted. "I want to be able to choose whom I marry, but it is also a selfish wish. Not giving my consent to the marriage would mean that my family would not receive their allowance to survive. It's difficult."
"Why must their survival depend on you?"
"Because that's the way it's always been."
The fine man dismounted his steed and approached you. His height dwarfed you, yet under his gaze, you did not feel belittled or insignificant as you often did with men. It was something in the way he regarded you with that curious glimmer in his eyes, even though his face would not convey the same thing. He did not look at you as something to collect as part of many things, nor as something to hold ownership over with titles and contracts and rings and traditions.
He saw you simply as what you were: A human crying over a broken jar and an unknowable future.
"I will offer you this: Come away with me. Give me your name and take my hand. We will ride away to my realm, where you may choose to live however you please, forevermore." He extended a ghostly pale hand towards you, palm facing up. You thought that touching him would warm you. "I only ask that you be willing to keep me company, answer whatever questions I may have of this realm."
You smiled at him and didn't hesitate to slip your hand into his, fingers reaching towards his wrist. The contact was warm as you imagined. It pulsed through you like a heartbeat, like the gentle, glowing hum that encompassed the silver elk.
The fine man's softly pink lips rose into a kind smile, and he asked again for your name.
RYU, WHENEVER I SEE U ON MY DASH IT FILLS ME WITH JOY AND I LOVE SEEING UR POSTS. THEY USUALLY MAKE ME GIGGLE AND I ALWAYS FONDLY REMEMBER UR PERFUME POSTS AND KNOWLEDGE. UR A DELIGHT TO HAVE AROUND!!!
CORT CAN I UNO REVERSE THIS SENTIMENT INFINITELY!!! YOURE SO KIND 😭🤍 SOMETIMES I WONDER IF MY SPAMMY AND NONSENSICAL POSTS ARE JUST TOLERATED BY EVERYONE SO THIS ASK IS MAKING ME WEEP!!! THANK YOU AND IM SO GLAD YOURE BACK AND SPREADING YOUR WONDERFUL CREATIVITY AND YOUR LIFE LESSONS AND YOUR WISDOM ACROSS OUR DASH EACH DAY. IVE MISSED IT SO MUCH !!
GONNA FRAME THIS ON MY WALL, RYU, YOURE TOO SWEETIE GIRLYPOP. I LOVE SEEING UR POSTS THEY MAKE ME HAPPY AND I LOVE THE ENERGY YOU BRING TO MY DASH NEVER STOP 💗💗
I know that my original stuff isn't really many people's cup of tea and that's totally fine and I don't have any expectations for ppl to really look at them, but just know it does bring me immense joy whenever y'all take the chance and do and tell me u like it like sudjajejajfnahdh
like, I've been writing longer than I've been on tumblr, obviously, but I'm trying to remember back to when I simply wrote a bunch of stuff to write it bc I loved the process and having projects to focus on
the writing itself was the entire point, but sharing it is what made it special and folks coming across it and finding that they liked it was just an amazing feeling
anyway, my point is ty for putting up with my writing posts and self-reblogs bc I'm stubborn
somehow made plans with a coworker to go on a weekend trip to the city to chinatown and to see a bunch of museums idk how it happened I thought we were talking about fruits we like 🧍🏻♀️
but, no, genuinely, one thing I'm trying to do irl as well not just on here is staying more social. I'm checking in with my irl friends more and making plans and such. I did all of that before, but now that I'm, like, feeling better all around these days, it's so much easier for me to do
and I still consider friendships on here friendships worth maintaining as well
I'm so proud of one of my best friends irl. she's been going through something pretty awful the past couple of months where I've been worried about where it could lead, but she's recently had a major breakthrough and I'm just......... so proud
warnings; some gore, gun violence, and injury to mc
a/n; if y'all would like to see more of this dude, let me know!
This town hid its secrets well. It was a place close to the sea and flanked by an ancient forest with treetop peaks and canopies that stretched forever into the distance, melding into a somber oneness with a perpetually dismal sky.
At face value, this town was nondescript, no more significant than others where travellers and truck drivers stopped to refuel and lodge for a night before continuing their journey. A little novelty along the way, an overpriced fridge magnet and old coffee before hours of wet asphalt and yellow lines. But, you'd seen into this place's guts; its gross underbelly, and now it wanted to keep you there at all costs.
You were not one to be so easily consumed, spirited away; made to disappear by the will of others. When you realized that they were coming for you, you ran, and you've been running through the forest ever since with a wrapped bundle in your arms.
This was what they were after. They would not cease pursuing you until they had it, or you were dead. Or both. Perhaps the only advantageous thing from this entire situation was that you chose to run into the forest instead of on the road. The chance that a passing car would be willing to stop for you was slim, and the chance that you would survive climbing down the damp ravines into the forest if you'd been seen was even less.
So, the forest beckoned you inside its core with the precious thing in your arms that you'd promised to bring back a long time ago. It was round and nestled tightly to your chest as if you were a parent fleeing with an infant. Except it did not breathe life nor retain flesh, and it could not babble or speak to you—not as it was, anyway.
From nearby, a gunshot rang out overhead. A warning. A threat. They were coming to take back what they had stolen themselves, a humorous irony of fate. They had said that the town would cease to exist if you fled with it, that no good could possibly come from the outcome that you desired.
Perhaps, in the end, they would be right. But you loved him. Loved the way he caressed you softly despite his presence and strength. Loved all of his impatience and rage, his understanding that you would eventually be ravaged by time, and he would never, so he treated you tenderly.
Another gunshot sounded, but this one struck you in the calf. You screamed and fell down onto the wet detritus of leaves, moss, and mud with the precious thing still in your arms. You intended to hold it until the last, until you were cold and rigid, and they'd have to prise it from your arms.
The agony stole your voice, your breaths harsh pants as you tried to climb to your knees and crawl towards a tree without the use of an arm or leg. You couldn't bring yourself to look back at your leg, to investigate the warmth flowing freely from the gaping wound, and the smell of petrichor wrapped in earthy decay with a metallic tang.
"Told you didn't we?" said the Sheriff, unholstered gun at his side. "We keep our secrets here, honey. We'll be taking back the Horseman's head."
"No!" you spat through teeth and saliva. "It doesn't belong to you! It never has!"
He spun the barrel of his pistol, readied the next bullet, and pointed it at you—at your head. "Maybe not. But everyone will be a lot worse off if you get your way about things. You'd be willing to wipe out an entire town for that…thing? How sick are you?"
Sicker than most, but not sick enough to hide secrets like these for over two hundred years.
So, you said nothing when the Horseman approached from between the darkness of the trees, cloaked in weathered red and black armor, tarnished sword drawn and raised. You closed your eyes and listened to the Sheriff's shriek of terror end with steel cutting the air, flesh ripping, and blood geysering from his severed neck. His head landed some ways off with an underwhelming thud, like a tree branch hitting the forest floor.
You did not search for the head when you opened your eyes, nor did you seek out the body, though it lay there much closer to you than the head. It was the Horseman whom you were looking at as he sheathed his sword and came to you. His footsteps were heavy and precise, terrifying to anyone who did not know them.
It was getting colder, and your leg still ached, but you sat on your knees as you unraveled the fabric from around the bundle to reveal a pristine skull. While grayed and dirty from age and the time it had spent underground, the skull was without lost teeth or cracks in the orbital sockets. For all of the town's fuckery, they'd taken care of it remarkably well.
The Horseman took it from you once offered, but did not attach it to his empty neck. Rather, he attached it to the belt around his waist and turned his torso towards you. His thick, gloved fingertips sought your face and gently stroked it, smearing blood across your cheek while trying to rid you of your tears.
He reached around your body then, hoisting you up into his arms as he gestured somewhere off into the trees. A white horse with a torn face emerged, emitting an otherworldly whinny as you were placed in the saddle and he climbed on behind you.
---
a/n; if anyone has ever come across the headless horseman story called "in a sleepy town" on here or AO3 in the past, that was by me and one of my first original x reader projects I ever started. it was never finished, but it holds a special place in my heart.
I'd like to fully revamp that story someday with a refreshed plotline. but, for now, this is fine
I say this mostly bc I work with a lot of nurse anestheists and nurses who are in their 30s and have built their careers since their 20s. so they make six figure salaries and have mortgages on nice houses and can afford to go on real vacations
while I'm in my 30s and live paycheck to paycheck. it fucking sucks and I wish I had done better in my 20s, but that doesn't change my circumstances now, and I'm doing my best to build my life up now
also, something I've had to learn the hard hard hard hard hard hard way: comparison is the thief of joy, don't fall into that trap
what I'm saying: it's OKAY to not be where you want to be, or where you thought you'd be. this isn't a race. give yourself some grace
