#𝐢𝐜

[iceiclehorned]

starter for @crimsononiarataki

A few months had passed since the ending of the Vision Hunt Decree, and the difference in the people was undeniable. Spending day after day walking through the city, graciously greeting people from other nations around Teyvat, learning more about the cultures they have, and having that chance to go to Fontaine with her big brother had been everything Kamisato Ayaka had ever dreamed of. The lockdown had encouraged a depressive cloud to rain over the heads of all who had been locked within Inazuma, which had only left a weight over her heart.

Considering it had also impacted her favourite oni, Arataki Itto.

Granted, there would never be a shred of an outward appearance of entrapment, but she knew that the way he had been treated so viciously must have left some part of him scathed, right? Seeing somebody so expressive and witnessing that beauty firsthand was enough to lure her into spending time with him, her brother and Thoma. Her heart always warmed as the four of them experienced many adventures, even if they weren't deemed as grand as the traveller's. The memories were always replayed in her mind just before she fell asleep each night.

On this day in particular, the Shirasagi Himegimi had managed to get the day free from all responsibility whilst Kamisato Ayato and Thoma went into town to run some errands together. She knew that they would be gone a while, so she decided to grab the latest book she had purchased from the Yae Publishing House and opted to find a nice resting place outside, preferably under a big tree -- after all, the sun's gaze made her feel like a popsicle.

A few feet outside of the front gates, and her eyes seemed to fall upon the white haired oni she had been thinking about just moments before. Coincidences were not usually something she pieced together, but perhaps this truly was one? With an even stride, she closes the gap between them, her head moves itself back in order to even look at him.

"Itto... what a pleasant surprise," her soft voice calls to him, a fondness to it that could not be mistaken. "Is there something I can help you with?"

[enruiinas]

@climatact asked:

She probably should have called. Or at least sent a text. Nami didn't even know if Law was home, or even in town... but the moment she felt their child's first movement, she was ordering a train ticket. Within hours she was standing in front of his door, unable to bring herself to knock on it. And talking to herself, of all things. "Okay, we got this. It's fine." A hand ran along the small bump, just at that point between barely noticeable under a flowy black dress and jacket. After several minutes, Nami finally found the nerve to knock on the door. All the while she chewed on the inside of her lip nervously. What if he never forgive her for leaving? What if he didn't want to have anything to do with her ever again? She wouldn't blame him if he took one look at her and slammed the door in her face.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Two hours and elbows-deep into a total laparoscopic renal bypass, nearing the end of of what had felt like one of the longer shifts of his surgical residency career a few blocks uptown, it would be several hours later before Law would know anything of the unexpected arrival of an orange-haired woman on his apartment doorstep.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Several hours before months of the desperate habit he'd formed in her absence proved themselves a good decision despite every long minute spent wondering why he was wasting his time writing those notes out. Every day, the same brief sentiment - Mikans in the kitchen for you. Your things are in the top right-hand drawer. Back soon. The only thing that changed were the hours scrawled at the top of the folded sheets of paper. Each time he left, whether on shift or out to run an errand, the note would be replaced with a new one, tucked beneath a loose brick near his apartment door along with the spare key he'd once told her about.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Several hours before he'd trudge his weary way past that very hiding spot, not bothering to check and confirm what part of him had long suspected would always be the case. The note and key would still be there: they always were. But they'd be there when he went to swap the sheet out in the morning, and at the end of a shift, the last thing he wanted was a reminder that another day had passed without her. He would face that in the morning, when he was on his way out and there was no choice but to get in his car and to keep on going. He'd learned that lesson the hard way - suffered one too many hangovers on shift the next day after checking on his way in in the evenings. Long hours of nights spent alone were not the time to think of the futility of it all; other than the disappointment, he knew if he thought about it too long on his own, he would eventually have to come to terms with reality and he knew he'd stop writing them.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ And when that time came - when he truly gave up on her... What was he supposed to do, then?

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ So, no. Law did not check to see if note or key had been disturbed in his absence. He strolled determinedly past it, the two bags of groceries he'd stopped to procure on his way home tucked under one arm as he fished in his pocket and slotted the key into the lock to let himself in. He didn't let himself think about the night he'd spend on his own tonight, or how he'd realize, as he always did, how quiet the space seemed when he laid his head down on his pillow a few hours later. These things would creep up on him as they always did, but he wouldn't give them a second of his attention until they were upon him. Every day, it was the same routine: get through the door, drop the keys on the counter on his way through to the kitchen, put the groceries away on nights he'd had to stop by the little corner market. A shower to rinse the day away, the water warm to soothe the aches that followed long shifts on his feet and hands that ached from hours of operations. Dinner: usually what he'd stopped to pick up on the way home; sometimes something he'd bothered to put together for himself - occasionally leftovers from something a friend or coworker had prepared for him for the week. Depending on how late it had gotten, he might read or turn the TV on and unwind as he scrolled through his notifications to see if he'd missed anything eventful throughout the day. More often than not, this was where the thoughts would find him. Somewhere along the way, he'd grown to favor early nights, though sleep rarely came easily or lasted long despite his best efforts.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ It was routine. Methodical. Habit. It had to be; that was what he'd clung to in the months since he'd awoken to the empty space beside him. Variation on that routine was highly inadvisable and never resulted in anything good. And it was for that reason that Law didn't notice anything was amiss until he was setting the bags down on the kitchen counter. It took a moment to place the strange feeling that crept over him - that sense that he'd missed a step in this rotation, but couldn't quite place what that step had been. Because it was one of the small things - the filler between those big steps he'd learned to focus on. He'd come through the door. Set his keys on the counter. Was moving to put the groceries away.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ What he hadn't done was turn the kitchen light on. Or the hallway light, for that matter. One by itself, he might not have thought of; methodic as he was, even Law forgot to turn a light off here and there. Two was unlikely. Three was unheard of.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Especially considering, as a glance at his surroundings revealed, the third light was the living room light. He didn't even bother turning that one on in the mornings; he certainly hadn't left it on that morning.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Law's pulse had grown suddenly deafening in his ears, his heart lodged somewhere in the general vicinity of his throat. The groceries lie forgotten on the counter behind him, for before he'd even realized what he was doing, the doctor found himself moving numbly through the open-floored apartment, turning the corner until the living room came into view in its entirety - coffee table, dark-screened TV, couch, and the woman asleep upon it.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ A woman he'd never thought he would see again and never stopped hoping might one day be there waiting for him.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ His breath caught in his throat.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Either Nami had come back for him, or this was both a dream and the cruelest trick the universe had ever played on him.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Law froze on the threshold.

[halfdent]

POV: he's growling at you

[rayplacement]

hi *explodes*

❝ Tragedy. Loss. Fear. Corruption?

Citizens of Eden; I have an announcement to make. An unexpected turn of events took place today. At around 12:20 pm, a passerby had exploded out of nowhere.

The Eden police force are currently at the scene now, with an immediate investigation put forth.

Who was this anonymous citizen? A Father? Mother? Son? Daughter? To our staffs dismay, the person exploded to so many pieces; we are, as of now, unsure at the moment.

The second I turned around to see them, they just... bursted to pieces.

Was this an attempted attack? A plan in motion for an assassination? Who knows why they did what they did, or what their motivation was.

We may never know. But how sudden that was to come next to someone and do such thing....is strange.

For now, until we have come to a closed investigation; let us put our rests assure and pay our sorrows to the one who has fallen. Anonymous citizen, we of Eden hope you are now at ease....

Stay tuned with us for your daily broadcasting!! A game show and Must Dance will be shown momentarily after these messages ! ❞

[raytm]

@dupliciti continued ฅ/ᐠ˶> ﻌ<˶ᐟ\ฅ

Gepard looks like a revenant, swathed in dark clothing. he had not realized he still bore the mark of an executioner, a smear of drying blood high upon his cheek, he had thought it effaced, he was negligent. sampo looks upon him not with the anticipated shudder of trepidation but penetrating concern, heaving him away from the precipice of nihility, his senses numb then, suddenly, acutely coherent. he blinked, slowly, cognition lethargic as it seeps back into him. part of sampo was tensed, a quarry's instinct to flee from the snapping jaws of a predator, he recognizes it in the way his gait carries him, in the slight tremor of his hands. gepard’s own hands trembled, lithe fingers, pallid, calloused from years of combat, it was only when he discarded the pouch that he realized that the daze of ire had waned into his heart’s stuttering alacrity in his ears and the desiccated feeling of bile raking up the back of his throat. he felt nauseous, it hadn’t plagued him when he was striking flesh and pulverizing bone. it was like all at once the reality of the night had swarmed in on him, compelling him to avert his eyes, that the hands that yearned to reach for him might find him putrefied. outwardly, he was not much different, save for the slick of sweat which beaded upon his forehead, his palms clammy. “.. I’m not.” he manages, as far as reassurance went, it felt rather brittle. his knuckles were bruised a grotesque smattering of lurid purple. something felt fractured - or broken, the sheer force behind the impact of his fists appalling. his muscles ached with it, reverberations of such incessant strikes, absentmindedly his hand strays to his shoulder, applying pressure as if it might alleviate the dull ache. the flickering light is cast across his hand, the signs aren’t obvious but beneath the wan shafts of fluorescence it’s easier to put the pieces together, he looked as if he had been in a fight. “ Ive got more than what is sufficient.” it felt stilted to speak like this, as if they were business associates, as if sampo’s mouth hadn’t flush to his, his fingers firmly holding gepard’s wrists, delicate - when one was stripped down to obscenity. “ although what I am to ask of you cannot be repeated. I trust you have your ethics about you when it comes to such things..” sampo’s eyes are adhered to the copious amounts of cash, perhaps it’s better that way - that he does not see the shards of guilt that rear their abhorrent heads, the darkness that settles across gepard’s expression. “ I need you to move something for ..” he hesitates, pauses then continues “ with me.”  in that moment gepard was neither the amorous lover nor the obdurate guard, he was a patron, someone with money to splurge. “ what I ask of you - it will not be pleasant.”  had their interactions prior to this ever fell beneath a mantle of pleasant, a strenuous chase which ended in him exhausted and, more recently, ineffably flustered. “ can you handle that?”

[videoaux-a]

*﹕// " OF COURSE I WON THE POLL ; you really think that sad, pathetic excuse of a king could compare to THIS? " A sad, pathetic excuse of a CEO?

[moralpuppet]

@mayorspet 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 : " hey, Kiddo! What brings you.. here- "

A slight wave of concern, standing up from his desk at the Mayoral office.

" He's out, sorry if you needed something- otherwise, what's up? "

Leaning back against his desk, giving a friendly smile

✟ UNPOMPTED

The  man  at  the  desk  is  friendly  ,  in  good  spirits  ,  usually  so  would  Orel  be  as  he's  here  ;  he's  looking  for  his  father  so  there  is  only  a  smile  for  the  sake  of  courtesy  .  ❝  I  came  to  see  my  Da- ❞  𝐎𝐡  .  𝐇𝐞  𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰  𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰  𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝  𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝  𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲'𝐬  𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭.  𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲  𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

❝  It's  -  uh  -  family  stuff  .  I  guess  I  shouldn't  really  bother  him  even  if  he  was  at  work  ,  ...  or  drinking  .  ❞   Despite  the  boy's  chiper  tone  it  drops  off  at  the  end  in  a  slip  of  disappointment.  Grandpa's  condition  is  only  deteriorating  ,  Orel  at  least  thought  he  should  inform  his  father  on  it  considering  Clay  had  been  avoiding  both  Orel  and  Arthur  at  home  .  It  can  wait  until  he  gets  back  later  tonight  ,  or  in  the  early  hours  in  the  morning  .  Hold  on  Grandpa  .

For  now  he  forces  a  smile  and  says  a  little  . ❝  Thank  you  .  ❞ Before  turning  to  shuffle  out  of  the  door  once  more  .

[allstag]

𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵   𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑   ╱    ❝ 𝘼𝙇𝙏𝙍𝙐𝙄𝙎𝙏 ❞       𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐃     ᶠᵒʳ  ʰⁱˢ     𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒   … 

↪     plotted  starter  for  @highstakcs

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄       𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐒       𝐈𝐍       𝐇𝐈𝐒       𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓        /        𝐇𝐈𝐒    𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐒    𝐀𝐑𝐄    𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑    𝐓𝐎    𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐄    𝐈𝐓    𝐎𝐔𝐓.                 ⸺                his   chest   was   already   torn   open,   it   wouldn’t   be   difficult   to   reach   beneath   the   cut   flesh.   to   dig   his   fingertips   between   his   ribs   and   rake   out   the   feeling   like   he   was   scrubbing   mold   from   the   inner   walls   of   his   chest.   a   cleansing.   an   exorcism. 

(        it’s    been    so    LONG,    but    he    thinks    this    is    what    it    felt    like    to    die.       )

alastor   sinks   his   claws   into   the   fabric   of   his   undershirt,   having   long   since   torn   off   his   jacket   in   a   fitful   attempt   to   get   a   lungful   of   air.   the   stickiness   of   blood   coating   his   skin   is   usually   a    WELCOME    feeling.   but   there   is   something   about   knowing   it   is   his   own,   feeling   the   hot,   gaping   wound   that   acted   as   the   source   of   it,   that   made   the   clothes   on   his   chest   feel   far   too   tight.   the   haggard   overlord   undoes   the   topmost   buttons   of   his   shirt,   as   if   loosening   the   neckline   of   his   clothing   would   do   anything   to   cease   the   impending   wave   of   panic   cascading   over   his   shaking   form.

(        his   mother   spoke   of   love   in   words   of   olive   branches   and   petals,   like   adoring   was   designed   to   save   you.        …         it   is   cherry   wine    ﹠.    brown   sugar    ﹠.    sun.         …           perhaps   she   experienced   a   love   different   than   the   one   lingering   within   alastor’s   weary   bones.   this   love    …    felt   like   teeth   to   tendon,   bloody   palms   &.   the   mortifying   ordeal   of   being   predicted   and   known.       𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑    𝐆𝐎𝐃    𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄    𝐆𝐄𝐓    𝐈𝐓    𝐎𝐔𝐓    𝐎𝐅    𝐌𝐄    -     )

the   breath   of   air   he   tries   to   take   sounds   tight   and   forced   in   his   throat.   clawed   fingers   make   their   way   through   his   scalp,   pulling   his   hair, YANKING it   from   its   roots   until   handfuls   of   it   lay   useless   in   his   palms,   dotted   with   crimson.   hot   streams   of   blood   begin   running   from   his   chest   down   his   legs,   intent   on   ruining   each   bit   of   fabric   that   it   touches.   something   about   it   makes   alastor   feel   so     UNCHARACTERISTICALLY   FILTHY,     a   sort   of   filth   only   satiated   by   tearing   his   skin   from   his   body   and   starting   again. 

(         you’ve   been   touched   by   the   divine        /           you   know   you   were   never   made   for   holiness.         )

.        .        .         he    feels    a    weight    around    his    throat,    and    briefly    he    wonders    if    it’s    a    panic    attack    or    the    collared    end    of    a    chain    being    pulled.       he’s    not    sure    which    is    worse.

the   panic   attack   crashes   headfirst   into   his   chest,   through   the   gash   that   ran   sternum   -   to   -   hip,   burrowing   into   him   and   clinging   there.   he   gasps   for   air   alone,   just   as   he   always   has   ;   spitting   blood   to   the   floor   as   dizziness   builds   a   black   vignette   around   the   borders   of   his   vision.   it’s   only   in   this   moment   that   the   fleeting   thought   of   death   passes   him   again.    𝐇𝐄    𝐌𝐀𝐘    𝐃𝐈𝐄    𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.     surrounded   only   by   loneliness   and   the   remains   of   a   radio   tower,   lingering   with   the   realization   that   he’d   found   it   in   himself   to    DIE    FOR    SOMEBODY.    come   morning,   they’d   find   his   body,   and   they’d   speak   of   him   as   a   hero   willing   to   sacrifice   all   he   had.

(         and    which    is    worse    ?        /        the    living    or    the    dying       ?         )                   ;            HE    DOESN’T    HAVE    AN    ANSWER.     in   that   moment,   he   wishes   for   neither   to   live   nor   to   die.   he   can   wish   for   little   else   but AIR, but   it   seems   he   cannot   even   be   granted   that   kindness.   he   chokes   again,   yanking   out   another   handful   of   red   and   black,   feeling   blood   soak   his   fingertips.   the   smile   on   his   face   does   not   waver    ;    though   it   appears   more   like   a   pained   grimace,   lips   pulled   too   far   back   to   reveal   darkened   gums   underneath. 

(      if   he   dies   here,   may   they   remember   him   a   monster.   may   they   think   of   him   unlovable.   may   they   lie.     )

[sheisthenorth]

There's a long, curled tail, an elegant whisk, right in the corner of your vision as she passes. She's prancing through, delicately, soundlessly, but it seems she's on a mission.

[iceiclehorned]

Starter for @crimsononiarataki

The sun was shining valiantly outside, gracing the neighbourhood of tall, elegant houses, each clearly maintained to a standard above what would be considered normal. The streets were immaculate, with gold-plated doorknobs sparkling within view, regardless of the direction turned in. It would be the chirping of the birds that would stir a young woman awake, a slight headache blossoming into the circle of her awareness, enticing a groan to rumble in the confinements of her throat.

What time was it?

It was the morning after Kamisato Ayaka spent the entirety of the night attempting to get a few of her business papers completed, opting to get an advance on her schedule to indulge in some much needed time off, only to spend it obsessing over a celebrity she had accidentally stumbled across. Opting to turn the radio on for some musical encouragement, only to be enthralled with the sound of an angel. The irony striking that the voice was behind a rock band. Still, her curiosity had been piqued, with an eager, thudding heart staring at her ratio expectantly, awaiting the name to grace her ears.

Menace.

Crawling into bed, forgetting the work laid out on her desk, she finds herself lightly researching the band, coming to find that the lead singer referred to himself as Itto, and how on earth is it possible for somebody to look so damned refined? Long, white hair, facial markings that seemed to enhance every feature, and those muscles? In one night, the businesswoman had managed to find her type (a single man) and fall into a rabbit hole of his music. Spending half of the night memorising as many songs as possible, finding an enjoyment in something so broadly different to the tastes she had been introduced to since birth. After listening to countless songs across several albums, her fingers would be searching for his personal social media platform, basking in the glory of discovering it within a few struggled searches.

Somehow, within the realm of the night, when her mind was switching between shutting off and remaining determined in her searches of the band itself, Ayaka had sent Itto a few texts via the social media platform she mamaged to find him on. Even as the Kamisato lazily drags herself out of bed -- which was unlike her, even with the zombie status -- there would be no remembrance of it.

The texts would read:

'I love you so much feuwkdtgh'

'I'm so sorry, i'msoskeepy but you do madke some good music'

'ignoreme'

By this point, she would realise her phone is dead, placing it on charge before going about her shower, opting to pretend as if she had been awake all morning whenever she would bump into Ayato. Times like these almost required an ignorance, because the moment she learns that she texted Itto, much less with spelling mistakes from her half-asleep state, there would be a flood of humiliation hitting her full force.

[enruiinas]

@climatact asked:

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ "My, my, what big eyes you have." (You know what verse)

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Glancing up from the casual perch he'd assumed against the lobby's lone reception desk, Law made little effort to conceal his appreciation of the approaching woman's features, golden orbs blazing a path along her frame with each step she drew nearer. Admiring the swish of fabric along her legs. The wave of tangerine locks swept back into the bright red hood she'd donned for the occasion; the unassuming bottle of what he was sure was some sort of liquor in her little woven basket - and the way large, brown eyes glimmered with amusement as Nami studied him in his coordinating attire.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ As warily as he'd regarded her when she'd suggested the matching costumes, he had to admit they made quite the image standing there: him, the wolf, with a ring of dark "fur" she'd stitched to the neck of his dark t-shirt; Nami looking the part of a comically-convincing, innocent Little Red in her hood. Perhaps not as underwhelming a choice as Law had imagined - if the quiet looks the pair drew from the lobby's scarce inhabits were anything to go by.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ A low whistle escaped his lips as he took the few steps it took to meet her. ❝All the better to see you with,❞ he chuckled in response. And what a sight she made, said his second once-over. Even like this, with her hair tucked away and her thighs hidden by what was likely the longest skirt he'd ever actually seen her in, Nami was a vision. They didn't have to be dating for him to appreciate that much - though he took complete advantage of their status pretending otherwise to openly admire her. ❝Luckily for me, as it happens - you make quite the pretty, unsuspecting maiden,❞ he added with a smirk. With the arch of an eyebrow, he extended an arm in offering. ❝Ready, Little Red?❞

[halfdent]

They  were  in  mid-speech  when  a  displaced  piece  of  debris  from  their  inner  ,  corrupted  eye  decides  to  momentarily  distract  them  .

It  was  nothing  they  were  unaccustomed  to  but  this  dark  speck  in  particular  proved  to  be  a  persistent  irritation.

❝  FUCK !  Hold  on  ...  bastard floater right where I can't ignore it . ❞  It  was  pointless  trying  to  read  someone's  expression  when  your  scrutiny  was  only  half  as  reliable  .

[rayplacement]

who is jojo and why did he have a bizzare adventure????

Jojo? Jojo Jojo Jojo.... Hmmm doesn't ring a bell.

I'm not sure if I have met someone by the name Jojo before. Granted, I do know many names. Along with having to remember many other names.

Is this possibly another joke? It sounds like a pretty bizarre question to me.

If anyone who sees this and knows a ' Jojo who had a bizarre adventure ' do let this anonymous person know.

Thank you for the ask, citizen. Unfortunately, I couldn't answer with such certainty.

[calebron]

He loves the beach. Topless guys everywhere ❤

[raytm]

the dining room felt barren; once, that grand, lacquered table had hosted the whole family, their seats now tucked neatly beneath regal, blue cloth. the woefully empty porcelain plates with elegant roses on sinuous vines stared at gepard, his sole consolator within that narrow hall of judgment. he was only ever summoned there upon their father’s whims, often capricious, lurching violently from commendations for his exploits into fierce tirades, accusing him of incompetence, in his duties, in life. he could often gauge his father’s stance from a guarded distance, having grown adamantine beneath his irate thrashings. for now, he is pleasant, yet their conversation is pervaded with tension. his father was insistent that gepard yield to his decree of marriage, that he had a besotted aristocrat's daughter lined up for him when he finally realized that his father knew better than him.  it was an enervating conflict. gepard landau was many things, resolute, dependable, principled, he could not permit himself to view another person as nothing more than an asset, furthering his father’s avarice. it was a stand still they had crested many times, that always ended in rancorous arguments, that gepard capitulated before because he knew his father was a vile man, he would not put it past him to fetter that responsibility onto his sister if given the opportunity. “ I will hear no more of this nonsense, boy.” he had a penchant for hitting him with that epithet, acrid and demeaning, as if he were a child - not a man. “ I have given you enough time, enough chances.” fingers adorned in thick, golden bands curl around his goblet, striking it to the table for emphasis. “ you have done nothing but disgrace this family’s name, do you know what they say about you.” he lies, he was practiced in it, if anyone knew the renown their family name held, the burden of that esteem, it was him, the one who had to preserve it, epitomize it. he doesnt realize he’s standing, that the edges of those thorny vines grow amorphous, the red bleeding into the green, the green into the off - white. “ I was a fool to entrust you with your own affairs.” 

 he takes a breath, a shuddered inhale, compelling himself to remain composed, to not let the barbed defamation sink beneath his skin. “ father.” he manages. it was a title bereft of any sort of paternal fondness. his gait carries him, stride after stride, past the chair his sister serval used to sit in, her elbows propped on the table, talking loudly, despite their father’s chagrin. past the chair adjacent to their fathers where once their mother had sat, a lovely, ethereal apparition, her countenance gentle, her eyes cornflower blue. he stops before him, his father, unbothered by his audacity, accustomed to his puerile efforts to revolt. he tilts his head back, their eyes meet in a clashing of glacial steel, the temperature in the room descending sharply, as cold as the inhospitable winter outside. “ you believe yourself wise.” his tongue is laden with disdain, his mouth contorted in disgust. “ if you will not concede to me - then I’ll have your sister do so in your stead.” it’s a threat, buried to the hilt in his chest, his father knows he would relinquish his hold for their sake, even if the repercussions left him in anguish. his father recognises the weakness in his eyes, the reluctance in his rebuttal, he knows he has won. he is dreadfully wrong in his surmising. until that moment, where ire pulsed through him as a second heart-beat, he had not realized his hands were clenched, that they trembled at his side. it takes a second, only a second, for that smug expression to be scoured from his face. the impact is dreadful, his fist collides with his father’s face and his jaw jerks forward, blood filling his mouth, a tooth dislodged, agony billowing in its wake. his father turns on him, cradling his jaw, screaming - gepard is so sure he was screaming. he doesn’t hesitate the second time, nor the third. it was as if he were an unadulterated rendition of violence, his arm drawn back then thrusted down, each blow a keen, incensed weapon. his father’s face crumples, his broken nose drove further back into his face, his eyes bludgeoned and bleary. he was scrabbling to find purchase against his son’s arm, digging his lamentably blunt nails into his white, now stained red, livery. the fabric twists, slick with blood, as if his father were hanging onto him in hopes of salvation. he sinks his fingers into his father’s hair, he teeters on the verge of unconsciousness, inhaling in rasps, sputtering mouthfuls of blood. without warning gepard pulls him back, his body sagging, slamming his head violently into the corner of the table. again, again, again. each time his father’s skull caves a little more, the clumps of hair and blood glisten with rime. gepard’s breath is ragged, heat seeping from between his teeth in a visible haze. it was as if all the warmth had been drained from the room, shards of ice prickling along his viced fist, smeared with cruor. 

he strains to release his fingers, as if they were rigid and frozen, his father sinks to his knees, then falls gracelessly to his side, blood pooling from his opened mouth, his eyes blanched and sightless. he isn’t satisfied. he brings his foot down upon the man’s sternum, the sound of bones cracking eases his smoldering fury, it doesn’t bring it to cinders. “ you bastard…” his voice is unrecognizable, a grating cadence of years of resentment. he applies more pressure, his muscles straining as he feels the tenuous bone give way, skin sagging and organs squelching.  “ you fucking bastard..”  he keens, it’s an almost laugh, deplorable and shuddering, waning into a soft, furious sob. he does not feel sad. he notices how blood pools in the white, porcelain dish, how his chalice lays on its side, disgorging wine onto the blue velvet. he cannot tell where the wine coalesces into blood, where his father’s dinner mingles with fragments of skull and streaks of gore. his body hums stridently with the adrenaline of it, with the abrupt, moribund silence. his father would never be ushered to such quietude unless he was dead, that was how it rose to the surface, that it breached the threshold between gepard’s blinding, incarnadine rage and his returning senses. his father was dead.

[moralpuppet]

˗ˏˋ 🐕 ―   ❝  He  has  risen  !  Hallelujah  !   Happy  Easter  ,  everybody  !   ❞