#hesnipe

[gekkajuu]

“OoOkay.. s-so i-it is true. GOT IT.”

[nullcfied-moved]

@hesnipe replied to your post:

DO IT I’LL DUET WITH YOU

   ❝ OH GREAT! What about You’re welcome? If you have other in mind I’m open! ❞ 

[authorcbscura-blog]

“You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.” - the adventurer

comfort starters ; accepting ; @hesnipe​

        The statement catches the detective off guard. Him? Strong? He’s so taken aback, it’s almost laughable. He hasn’t seen strength in himself in years. If the Timelord had known him before all of this he would have seen a weak, pathetic wretch of a man. How can anyone look at him and see strength ?

He’s stubborn, certainly, and more determined than he has any right to be, but he’s nothing compared to Twain or Louisa. They’ve both been through so much and, unlike him, it hasn’t made them cruel. They’re still able to laugh and trust and find joy in their lives despite everything that’s been done to them. That’s true strength, in his eyes.

“I’m not sure what you see in me, Twain, but in my opinion, you’re giving me too much credit. I’ve never been strong in my life…” He glances towards the Timelord out of the corner of his eye. He disagrees with his statement and yet, it pulls at something in his chest. His heart warms under the way those eyes look at him- like he’s something worth looking at…

Slowly, carefully, he seeks out the Adventurer’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. 

Has he ever initiated physical contact with Mark before? He isn’t sure but, knowing himself, he doubts it. There’s a first time for everything.

“But…thank you.”

[domineer-blog]

hello is this the krusty krab

     no this is yosano.

[inkblccded-moved]

💟 for ranpo !! let the adventurer dote on him like a Concerned Sibling,

blankets! ; selectively accepting ; @hesnipe

     Ranpo stared straight ahead, out the Tardis doors, into the vast expanse of space and, not for the first time, was faced with a reality that he could not understand. 

They had left Margaret down on Earth with no memory of any of them, and why? Because she was something that wasn’t supposed to exist. A human timelord. A metacrisis. She had become what Ranpo had always been and she would have died because of it if Twain hadn’t done something about it…

So then, why ? If what he was was impossible why was he alive? Why was he the only one ? Why didn’t he belong anywhere, not just socially but biologically ? 

Being one of a kind is– 

His thoughts were interrupted by the Adventurer as he settled down beside him. Before Ranpo could speak, there was suddenly a thick blanket wrapped around him, covering his head like a hood and pinning his arms to his side, leaving him to sit like some kind of burrito on the floor of the Tardis.

There was a long moment where the Earthling didn’t know what to say. After it passed, tears sprung up within bright green eyes, reflecting billions of stars within their watery surfaces as he turned his head to face the timelord beside him.

“Why…?” Had Ranpo’s voice ever been so soft before? Knowing himself, it was doubtful, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to reach his usual volume. “She was like me, wasn’t she? Why was it killing her? I don’t get it...!”

[authorcbscura-blog]

with the piano music filtering through the TARDIS's main room, it's a shame to just be lounging around; precisely the reason twain offers a hand to the author. "c'mon. dance with me, will 'ya?"

@hesnipe

      “Dance? You want to dance…with me?” 

Goodness, how long has it been since he’d danced? He can hardly remember, which…is most likely a bad sign. The music is pleasant, though. Poe has always had a fondness for piano ever since he had taken up playing it, but that’s a story for another day.

He eyes the Timelord’s hand for a moment before reaching out and placing his own hand in his grasp. He rises to his feet and gives a nervous smile, hoping, at least, that he won’t end up stepping on Twain’s feet.

“What’s the occasion?”

[authorcbscura-blog]

“Where am I?” owo

meme ; not accepting ; @hesnipe​

      Stretching around on all sides is a rose garden in full bloom. The flowers are various shades, some petals pale like winter frost, some bright like the sun overhead and others a deep, blood red. It’s well-kept, if a bit overgrown, with barbed vines coiling and reaching from the gaps between the delicate flora. 

At it’s center stands a young boy- skinny, pale, no more than 10, with dark hair woven and tied into a loose, haphazard braid. There’s a woman sitting by with a book in her lap. The resemblance between the two of them is striking, from their unruly curls to their eyes- the same dark shade of violet. They were dressed relatively well and their home was modest. One might even call it dull, as the garden was the only splash of color on an otherwise earth-toned canvas. All in all, It was a peaceful scene to look upon.

The boy, eyes locked upon a single white rose, reaches for it and grabs the stem. Thorns sink into palm but the boy doesn’t release the flower, even as he flinches. He snaps the stem, pulling the bloom free of the bush and adjusting his grip carefully to avoid further injury. He hides his injured hand behind his back as blood dribbles freely from the puntures in his flesh and holds the rose out towards his mother with a radiant smile, face glowing with pride.

“Mama?”

“It’s lovely,” The woman smiles, taking the flower carefully between her thumb and forefinger to admire it up close. An eyebrow arches as she spots the red-stained thorns, turning her attention back to her son. She holds out her free hand, palm facing up, tilting her head expectantly. “Show me your hand, Edgar.”

The boy lowers his head, expression turning sheepish as he places his injured hand into her waiting grasp. She clicks her tongue in mock disapproval and a smile edges back onto his face as he makes the same noise in return, drawing a chuckle from the woman. “Lets get back inside so we can take care of that.”

“No!” Suddenly, the child’s eyes are wild and his face is panic-stricken as he jerks his hand away. “Please, mama, it isn’t so bad. I want to stay out here, I don’t want to go in there while...while he’s home...”

She frowns, eyes turning sad as she nods slowly in understanding. Slowly, gently, she plucks a few petals from the rose in her hand, pressing the white overtop of the red. His blood soaks through the first quickly, but the longer the petals keep the minor injuries sealed, the more subdued the bleeding becomes.

Soon, the boy is back to exploring the garden as if nothing had happened at all while his mother sits by and watches with a fond smile. Her expression drops while his back is turned, into one of concern. She hadn’t been feeling well recently and today was no exception, but she could at least keep a brave face for her son.

She raises a white handkerchief to her lips and begins coughing and as she pulls the white away, she’s horrified to see it stained with red.

[domineer-blog]

hesnipe replied to your post:

slorp………………… mood

     language is so interesting in that this could be nonsensical to so many people without the proper context. i’m barely keeping up here.