I am a heartless beast, the blood on my Canine is a wound . The bleeding ashes of my soul, that softly merge in the scent of the air, asks for parting from a corded Ghost.
Channing M, The Monochrome of Darkness
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@wulffsbane
I am a heartless beast, the blood on my Canine is a wound . The bleeding ashes of my soul, that softly merge in the scent of the air, asks for parting from a corded Ghost.
Channing M, The Monochrome of Darkness
John
@wulffsbane / :D
“Always good to see you, buddy. And I mean always. Even when you come around just to mess up my honest business. You here for work? Or play? I got a highly illegal poker game going in the back, if you want me to get you dealt in. Special friends-only offer, Bigs. Or a drink! You look wound a little tight, you know.”
“No thanks,” Bigby declined, brow arched in suspicion of the offer. He was a decent kid, if the sort of enthusiastic that had Bigby ready for self-defenestration after too long. But he was useful. So Bigby indulged him. A little. “On the job. You know how that goes. But I got a couple of questions to ask about your constituents. Namely, where they are right now. They back there? Your poker game? This’ll only take a second.”
minathevampireslayer:
when something bad happens to your favourite female character:
i’ve only been on here a few days and i am so pleased by the warm response! it’s actually closer to 170 now but sh i know Aerith is sometimes not the most popular of characters, but the reception has been so great that i wanted to do some shout outs. follow these lovely people if you are so inclined!
THE CREW. ya’ll told me to make this dumb blog.
@hallowedhearts @aitaiiyo @strifedhearts @geostigmatist
THE FLOWERS. ya’ll have been sooo nice and welcoming, and i’m enjoying or looking forward to writing with you!
@lockedfighter @fearlessmonk @ofrxvia @fiircstartcr @sxbjectxvii @backwaterheroics @altruria @nightscaped @bialyxwilk @dirthera @raguid @soldierentity @hxjiime @wulffsbane @lupusirae @mortedistelle @seeressheart @duxbellatorum
THE BUMBLEBEES. i’m admiring ya’ll from afar and waiting with bated breath for u to notice me ;o; (jk but yall are great)
@exxciineriibus @luxarcum @oracle-stella @chocosnap @forgettinglegacy @zeroesnumbereleven @trashkingizunia @meteorisms @nymphaxea @asomniari @rcmncnt @astralfell @mageright @blackmage-lulu @ofsilverguns @tyyrant @jjillekkot @praesiidio @solisaeternum @reapers-folly @blkmagics @devilglow @firxga @hissrading @swornscar @cursedhorn @aglaive @avindicta @tsengofshinra @dreamled @violentremnant @croweoftheglaive @greetingsfromnibelheim @masterchcf @sanguinepeccatorum
flower girl
Aerith smiled down at her flowers without turning toward the voice—not that she needed to. She recalled the gruff delivered matched with the careful wording, an oxymoron completed by his massive size and rough appearance.
“Well, of course he liked it, silly,” she called back to him, sweeping her loose hair from her eyes as she sat back on her heels. “It was a very pretty flower, and you gave it to him so genuinely, I’m sure.” She glanced back him, flashing an encouraging smile over her shoulder. “You can come in,” she offered. “Lingering in doorways is suspicious. Besides, I want to hear the details. Did he kiss you? Did you kiss him? Are you going to dinner? Where will you take him? Did he say anything? Sit there,” she said, pointing just beside the flower patch with a soil-smeared hand. “What does he look like? Is he pretty like a sunrise, or like nighttime? Is he warm or cold? Does he wear nice clothes? One day I’d like to be in love,” she sighed with a resignation beyond her age. “Are you in love? What’s it like?”
He approached more readily at her invitation, though he stood at the end of the first row of pews, still keeping his polite distance. “No kisses,” he replied, informative, but not curtly. Like delivering a report. “No dinner. Not his time, at least.”
And then a wave of self-consciousness took him over, realizing it was the first time in as long as he could remember that someone had asked so fervently and enthusiastically after him. So he took the seat by her flowers, just as she’d indicated, settling in with a nervous clearing of his throat. Almost felt like talking to a friend. Almost.
“I presented it to him, saying I noticed he hadn’t had one in his lapel in a while,” he began, smiling shyly with his eyes cast to the hands wringing anxiously in his lap. “He laughed (he laughs so pretty), then he pinched my cheek like a grandmother, cooing things at me in his mother language. I don’t understand a word of it. But I got the sentiment. Anyway, he was pleased, asked me to pin it to his lapel for him. Which I did, but my hands were trembling so hard I nearly crushed the calyx by the time I’d finished. But he didn’t seem to notice. Or mind. He’s very good like that. Makes you feel comfortable. Like you’re a special person to him, even if it’s just in that moment that you’re talking, but that moment’s ... important. Every time.”
He laughed a little to himself. “He’s very pretty. So pretty I worry you might think so, too. And I don’t do well with rivals. But maybe it’s the suit. Turks always dress to the nines. It’s a little daunting.” He looked at her, wistful as she was. “I don’t believe for second you’ve never had a first love. No silly childhood crush? No young men coming to give you pretty smiles and ask you to the festivals?”
@petalwind
It was too late for her rounds by the time his shift had ended. He rarely saw her out and about very long after sundown (presumably because her wares had faded by that time), and made the decision to see if he couldn’t find her at her little church.
Zevran had told him where to find her. A paltry morsel of information for a Turk, but an important one for Bigby. He’d thought of returning to see Aerith since the fateful deliverance of the lily she’d recommended to him, to uphold the promise she’d extracted of him. It was a silly inclination, but the thought of someone to share in his unexpected good news was something he couldn’t quite stop himself from indulging in.
He found her in the apse of the church, tending to her flowers with a delicate purpose, amidst the soft light that filtered in through the stained glass rose windows above head. “He liked it,” he said, announcing himself from the threshold, before stepping into the nave proper. “He liked the flower. I thought you should know.”
petalwind
She laughed at that, a high, ringing sound in the alley. She moved a step closer, tucking the lily into the buttonhole at the man’s lapel before reaching for a matching one.
“I’ll give you two for the price of one,” she said. “The lover’s deal. But you have to give him the other flower, that’s the deal. To show him you noticed. Promise? And then come back and tell me what he says.”
“We’re not lovers—” he protested weakly, silenced by how sweetly she offered him the second flower. Would Zevran think it bold of him? Too sentimental? Too old fashioned? Well, at least he could blame the gesture on the insistence of a quaint little flower girl.
“Thank you,” he muttered, the look in his eyes earnest as he nodded his appreciation. “I will.” And he disappeared back into the city’s bustle, under a neon glow.
petalwind
It didn’t rank as one of the best explanations she’d ever heard. She could think of a half-dozen flowers that could apply to. But she only sold one like that.
She rifled through the contents of her cart and pulled a cream-colored lily from the depths, fringed with pale yellow and sagging softly between her fingers.
“Was it this one?” she asked, holding it out to offer it to his nose. “It’s a lily. They have a patchwork past, but maybe that’s why I love them. They can mean humility and devotion, or innocent love, or rebirth and resurrection. Or death,” she added cheerily. “Some say they’re angel’s flowers. Or that they came from the milk of the gods. Some people don’t like the smell when they’re in full bloom. But what do you think?”
Bigby took a tentative step closer, reaching for the bloom carefully before changing his mind and ducking his head to sniff at it. “Not the same,” he said, a little gruff, a little disappointed. “Looks the same. Might be it. Except I recall it was sweeter-smelling.” He blinked a revelation. “Maybe that was him.”
pretty flower girl
Aerith rather thought that there were better ways to introduce oneself to a stranger. Cornering someone in an alley and asking them not to scream probably rated pretty low on that list, comparatively speaking. She was ready to kick him in the shins, to knee the soft bits between his legs or under his ribs,or maybe scratch at his eyes, if she was feeling particularly vicious. But his delivery delicate in spite of the inherent gruffness in his voice, and she let the tense set of her shoulders relax as she unfurrowed her brow.
“I know flowers,” she said with wary care, still seeming ready to bolt if he let loose of her hand. “As much as anyone can, I suppose, without some kind of fervent botanical schooling. What is it you’re looking for? Are you trying to buy? Is this your business pitch? It’s very unique so far.”
“No,” Bigby said, ducking his head and shifting back to show her he meant no harm. “No, I just .. I was curious.”
It was a weak explanation. Why he decided that he needed to tell her more was unknown to him. Maybe he thought she might be more inclined to help him knowing the particulars of his situation. But there was a certain enigmatic familiarity to her, some ease, some openness about her, that he was compelled to elucidate further. “A friend—” No, that wasn’t right. “My coworker.” Better.
“He wears a flower,” he explained, a little exasperated. “In his lapel. It’s pretty. Pale. Like a creamy white. And it smells real nice. Like real sweet. Not floral.” He turned his palms out helplessly. “That’s all I got.”
@petalwind
Maybe slipping after the flower girl when she cut through the alley wasn’t the least suspect thing that he could do, but it wouldn’t look right, a SOLDIER lollygagging while on patrol, hitting up pretty girls in the streets. So he took his chance and followed after into the dark, catching her hand as he could.
“Hey,” he called softly, putting a finger to his lips to beg for her silence, letting go of her hand. “Don’t scream. I don’t mean you no harm, alright? I just have—” He grimaced, trying to find the words. “You know flowers, right? If I described one to you, could you tell me what it was?”
blue note.
@bountyhearts
The door shut behind him, leaving an effluvium of smoke and vanilla and another green sort of plant Bigby could never discern (but recognized with a sensory memory jolt when he did), and the lingering image of his backside in his double-vented Italian cut suit.
It wouldn’t be a debriefing with Zevran if Bigby wasn’t left in a compromised state afterwards. But this time, he’d not stayed holed up in his office, breathing in that confounding cologne until it had dissipated, faded into the musty scent of old paper files and wood paneling and stale, cheap cigarettes.
The bar down the street was nothing better than a dive, replete with flickering neon lights and too many shadows, languid jazz playing on fraying speakers, and a cloud of smoke to soften the hard looks of the seedy patrons hunched over bottles of half-skunked pints.
For the second time tonight, Bigby had been greeted with another stellar and impossible-to-ignore ass, though this one had belonged to a particularly slippery woman he’d only just released this morning. And it was to her that he walked over his ordered drinks, slipping decisively into the stool beside her.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, planting a scotch down in front of the illustrious Faye Valentine. The liquor splashed against his fingers, which he brought to his mouth to quickly suck off. “I had to listen to you spin doctor that heist-job-that-wasn’t-a-heist-job involving your two-boyfriends-that-aren’t-boyfriends for six hours, so you’re going to listen to me rant, and maybe if you’re feeling generous, you can tell me how I end this suffering without hurling myself off a bridge here.”
Passion gives me moments of wholeness.
Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry from The Diary of Anaïs Nin: Volume One, 1931-1934 (via luthienne)
aphrodite.
Princess Lady’s siren wail roused Dite from a rose-apple wine-drenched sleep, pulling her to sit up on an elbow as her ears strained against the sound of steady rain and ocean waves. She thought for a moment that another raccoon had come in through the window to eat her dried fruits. And something did rifle in her kitchen, but in a clandestine sort of way reserved for humans and their ilk.
She gathered her knit shawl around herself, breezing into the kitchen in a cloud of sleep-stained cheeks and messy curls. A large figure—naked as a newborn—hunched over her dry storage cabinet and clutching one of her fresh bread loaves on his hand.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, rapping on his back with the sharp on her knuckles, like knocking a door. “At this hour? Naked, in my kitchen? Stop it, Lady,” she said, kicking the cat from between her skirts with a delicate foot. “You look like a maniac, you know. Although I guess lunatic would be a better term,” she said pointedly. “You’ve tracked mud everywhere. Get in the bath, and then clean your mess up. Some of the boys who visit left behind some clothes, I’ll see if I can’t find some that fit you. And an aconitum reduction,” she added, noting the too-long teeth and ears still plaguing him. “To nudge the process in the right direction. And you’ve blood all over your mouth! You better not have gotten into my swans or bunnies in your fit, Bigby. I’ll never forgive you, I mean it.”
He flinched at the strike she delivered to his shoulders, the touch unexpected, though she wasn’t. He’d heard her approach, on her soft-worn slippers, even with her feather-light footfalls. Even her reproach was sweet, delivered smartly with a timbre as dulcet as little bells chiming in chorus.
“Nice to see you too, Dite,” he said, a little jovially, as he tore another morsel of bread from the heel in his hand and popped it in is mouth. “Your animals are fine. Worse threat they face today is the thunder.”
“Broke free of my ropes this time,” he told her, holding up is hemp-burned wrists, as if in proof. “There’s a witcher in town, so I cant risk walking back to the village looking like a mess. So clothes would be great. A bath, even greater.”
“Aconitum still gonna work?” he asked, padding towards the direction of her privy. “I thought I had to take it before the moonbright. And even then, you always charged me an arm and a leg for it. You feeling generous today or something?” He sniffed the air quickly and discerned a newer scent. “Maybe someone inspired your good good today?”
do you know how long I’ve been dying for a Sin City AU
@eromai
Full moons left him feeling ragged, but none the worse for wear. A few new scrapes on swollen knuckles, fingernails torn jagged, lingering strange tastes in his mouth that felt foreign on his human tongue. Returning home to his village after a full moon’s absence was usually a quiet affair that often went unnoticed. But there was a witcher about, and one who surely would find Bigby’s return a little more than peculiar.
He’d broken out of his restraints this time, his clothes likely gone with the wind. Clearly less of a state to be returning home in. But at least the rain might hinder the early risers who begin their day at first light. So he navigated downwind to the coast, where Aphrodite’s cottage sat quaintly upon a cliff, the little gaggle of swans tucked away under the eaves of her manger to wait out the downpour.
Bigby himself chose the shelter of Dite’s kitchen, sneaking in the back door to warmth himself by the hearth before rifling through her cupboards for some cheese and stale bread. The damned cat made her appearance first, mewling something wretched at him until he bent to offer her a pinch of cheese from his fingers.
“You’ll wake your mistress, you little savage,” he cooed at her, reaching for her soft ears. “Not too much, now. I’ve got to replace this later.”