#ghostscribes

@ghostscribes asked: nicki chomps a little on his arm.

[  …  ]  staring  up  at  him,  a  little  perturbed  though  —  mostly  annoyed  by  the  fact  that  he  was  being  used  as  a  chew  toy  of  all  things.  low  growl  building  in  his  throat,  a  challenging  glare  held  within  his  eyes  as  he  roughly  yanks  his  arm  away.  ❝ what  the  hell  are  you  doing?  back  off! ❞

@ghostscribes asked: ' you really have it all, don't you? ' ( from gwi ma 🤭 )

Hwan   barked   out   a   short   laugh   before   he   could   stop   it.   Not   because   it   was   funny,   really.   He   leaned   back   against   the   railing,   one   hand   still   wrapped   around   the   bottle   he'd   barely   touched.   The   city   lights   below   painted   enough   shadows   across   his   face   to   hide   the   way   his   jaw   tightened   for   a   second.   “Yeah?”   he   said.   “That’s   what   you   see?”   His   eyes   slid   toward   him   then,   sharp   and   tired   at   the   same   time.

a.  shostakov: [TXT  ]  :  just  saw  i  called  you  last  night.  how'd  that  go?  (  alexei  )   ,   @ghostscribes.

[  SMS  ]   ALEXEI.   SENT.     ┈┈     Uhhh  …  Informative.

[  SMS  ]   ALEXEI.   SENT.     ┈┈     Were  you  reciting  that  in  the  bathroom?

The river sang a lullaby for the bone-weary – a low and mournful litany, washed over age-old stones. Faramir stood heron-still on the embankment, with Ithilien sleeping restlessly behind him. Wind tugged at the green folds of his cloak, bringing him the scent of damp earth and bruised grass.

Then came the sound. A muffled thud, flesh to sodden ground.

He moved with the soundless instinct of a hunted creature, his hand to hilt, his mind alight, but what he found was no threat – nor man, nor beast. A figure collapsed beneath a willow’s weeping boughs, slick with the same river-mud that stained the banks of Osgiliath and the fields of Pelennor. Hair like a shadow loosed from the stars tangled against cheek and brow. Blood, rich as autumn wine, soaked his flank. Faramir could smell it, staining the air with copper and salt.

The wounded Elf was beautiful even in his suffering, his pain sculpted by inherent grace. Ageless, though weary beyond measure, laid low as a mortal man might be. He spoke, though barely, his words not a plea, nor a cry, but an invitation to end it.

I have known the desire for oblivion, Faramir thought sorrowfully. I have stood upon battlements and all but envied the dead.

He knelt in the muck and silt.

@ghostscribes asked: ❛ i guess i don't really care if it's dangerous or not. i'm going either way. ❜

the thing is, bucky isn't a stranger to peggy's antics. he's been around her as steve's unofficial gal for months now, & if he's honest, he sees a lot of similarities between the two of them. one of them is their propensity for recklessness, & this mission is practically suicide if she goes alone. steve's away on a reconnaissance mission in the middle of italy, so bucky's the one one the receiving end of this statement, having to do what his best pal should be doing in talking peggy down. but bucky is also not steve, & what his friend would do in this situation is a consideration but not a steady rule. as she finishes, heavy sigh falls from lips, & the look that the sergeant gives to the other is of one's known resignation to fate.

the sound comes out of louis before he can even think to stop it— laughter, near maniacal drawn from the vampire and he doesn't care for the momentary way his vision goes spotty from how santiago thrusts him against the wall. and it doesn't stop the way he runs his mouth either.