#(featuring Dante: a voice of reason)

[rosetintedgunman]

February 14th

It was a very busy evening at the Moonlight Roller. Many couples had decided to choose the venue as their date night. And why wouldn't they? Those who favoured the cheesy holiday would be rewarded with bright, heart-shaped decorations, special deals that were literally too good to be true, and plenty of activities to encourage a good night out.

Except... Wilford wasn't anywhere to be found.

That was rather unusual. After all, wasn't this a holiday that was made just for him? It seemed someone else had drawn this conclusion - the person whose home he had crashed.

Dante was not one to observe Valentine's Day, but it was one of the rare times he allowed himself to indulge in a simple pleasure from his human life and read a romance novel on the couch. Wilford was on the floor, one hand holding a joke book in the air as he debated on whether he wanted to read it.

It was... surprisingly peaceful, taking the reporter's eccentricity into account. In fact, it took some time before Dante realised something rather important:

It was a good question, and one that Wilford didn't immediately answer. Instead, he placed the book on his lap and slumped against the piece of furniture.

"I don't think I'm th' expert of love I always claim ta be." Wilford leaned his head back until it lightly pressed against the arm of the couch. "I mean... I know I cared fer Celine an' all, but that love was fake since she didn't love me back. I was just an escape."

-

Dante hummed, closing his book to give his friend attention. "This isn't like you. Normally you'd redirect your attention to your love of your friends."

"True, but I can't really have friends hangin' in a date night zone tonight, can I?"

"I doubt it would be a helpful night to find someone single."

"Nah. With how things have been fer me, it's th' best time ta find that lover, or somethin'. My days are in order, I've barely fallen into other times, an' I'm on a good no-kill streak. I'm practically safe as a baby! But...." The humour in his voice disappeared, leaving a sense of deflation behind. "It's almost as though me bein' like this makes me feel like I gotta keep an eye out an' protect th' chickies."

"The... 'chickies'?"

"Yeah! All th' younger folks goin' through th' loops!"

"I don't think you need to worry about 'age difference' between us and adults of consenting age when those of our fate are unable to feel the progression of time in the same way."

Wilford put his book down so he could roll sideways until he was kneeling against the side of the couch. "What if they think I'm old an' not hot?"

The entity quirked an eyebrow. "You sound ridiculous right now."

"What if I'm losin' my hotness radar an' I can't find anyone of my type 'cause I dunno what that is anymore??" Truly, what a rotten fate!!

Unfortunately, Dante was not the person to lament to. "You act like I know the answer to your problems."

"Yeah. Yer smart."

"But about a matter such as love? I grew up in a loveless family and died a bachelor. I'm not a fountain of knowledge."

Wilford slumped forward until his chin bumped against the couch. "Yeah, I 'spose... I'll get all that figured out in time." That appeared to be the end of it, as his eyes half-focused on one of the back cushions. "Ya think I ever found love in between then and now?"

Dante didn't know the answer. However, he had to give some sort of response.

"Romantically? I think you did. I'm sure you'll remember something about it that will help you remember your 'date skills'."

Wilford chuckled, moving his gaze to Dante. "Yer a good friend, y'know that? I'm gonna help ya find a date. Least I can do." Wilford's offer did not go down well.

"I can barely tolerate myself most days. I won't subject anyone else to do likewise."

[lvmimis]

cw: fluff? reader has described magic.

“It should have been Eva, you know.”

Nero is almost surprised by the sound of your voice, piping up suddenly after nearly a half hour of silence, where you followed him close as he trudged forward despite the fact that you are supposed to lead, as you are the one with the sought after ability.

Now that you’ve made it through the corridors that lead to the underground lab, the two of you have paused, separating even further as you wandered off to peruse the ruins and he found himself unsure of what to do next. Nero had possibly resigned himself not to speak until you did, perhaps still smarted by your irritation with him (only partially fabricated), and found himself perched against a wall, waiting for… he’s not sure what exactly. But right now, he’s not much more than a bodyguard, and you seemed to need a few more moments before deciding how to best approach the task at hand.

So when you spoke suddenly, he found his heart skipping a beat

He didn’t expect you to bring up his grandmother.

Hearing her name, in this new context, is often still so discombobulating to him. When he thinks of family, he thinks of Kyrie, of Credo, of his adoptive parents - lately of Dante.

Yet it’s hard for him to think of Eva in anything more than a somewhat religious feature, and even in that setting, she’s shrouded in mystery. 

But Eva is Dante’s mother, and his grandmother, and Eva’s blood runs through him, with just as much gravity as Sparda does. The bulk of his humanity springs forth first from her.

“What about her?” he asks, gruffly. He pretends no longer to be interested in anything you say, but the truth is, for some odd reason, he’s always liked the sound of your voice. Ever since you first addressed him years ago - there’s something in your eyes and the way your lips move and the way your voice rises and falls and rushes too quickly, sometimes too slow, as if the thoughts in your head and the twists of your tongue are never exactly in sync. He finds himself wondering what you’ll say next, if only it could be kind when it came to him.

When he tosses his head in your direction, you’re not returning his glance at all - rather, your fingers are lightly tracing a dusty textbook. He wouldn’t know it just by looking but you’re looking for a trace of demon or angel influence, the aura of those primordial beings far too powerful to fade or ignore. You’re not as gifted a sensor as your mentor, and will never be, but she’s taught you a few tricks that can help sometimes.

There’s nothing there. You continue to muse.

“We worshipped Sparda like a god, but it should have been Eva. Eva is who reached out her hand first.”

Nero watches you as you smile to yourself, then look around the room. You’ve lost interest in the book, and now are prodding at a few clumps of rubble with the tip of your boot. 

He’s not here to waste time.

Nero pushes off from his leaned position against the wall to stand, but you speak again and unwittingly he stops in his tracks.

“I wonder if when she first met him she was afraid.”

Nero feels like the appropriate thing to do is to roll his eyes and tell you to hurry up, but he’s curious too for a moment. He was raised to hate demons, he feared being found out as anything close to one for so long, but Eva must have immediately sought humanity in Sparda who was nothing but that. A demon.

“It probably doesn’t matter either way,” he points out. You look at him, but instead you’re smiling instead of scowling, a dreamy look in your eye. “It didn’t stop her from…” he pauses. “You know.” He gestures vaguely with a turn of his hand.

You laugh, and he’s actually surprised that you found him funny.

“That’s true. But the reason why I think it should have been her is because her love is what led to the very salvation we prayed for.”

Nero watches you. He’s surprised you can even talk about love fondly.

“Love that humanizes,” you murmur in continuation.

How has he ended up in a room with a woman who hates him, now proselytizing about love?

Nero runs his hand through his snowy hair, visibly frustrated. “Do you want to hurry up and find this portal or…?”

He looks at you and you’ve stopped smiling, a faraway look in your eye.

“I suppose ___ is Dante’s Eva,” you murmur. You’ve started to move, and you’re now looking again, on task.

Nero moves a little closer, deciding somehow if he helps you along, you’ll be able to leave quicker. “I can see that,” he admits. 

“And your Eva would be Kyrie,” you say and he pauses.

That’s not- he wants to say, but he doesn’t really know how to argue for or against. He loves Kyrie. She’s the most important woman in his life, without question. You look at him for a little bit too long, and he can feel an uneasiness in his chest, a pressure building he cannot so easily disperse.

“Maybe,” he decides. Cutting his losses with an unnecessarily uncertain answer.

Admitting that his childhood friend he loves dearly has that sort of immense pull over him feels suddenly uncomfortable to do in your presence. Sparda turned against his own kin for Eva. Nero would do anything for Kyrie, he’s sure of it. But as he looks back at you, he feels as though the confirmation cannot come out of his mouth, not at this very instant. 

You’re looking away from him again, and he hates that.

Why oh why does your lack of attention upset him so?

“I’ve dreamt of having my own Sparda,” you muse. Your hand passes against a sunken bookshelf, then lingers. The portal must be here.

“Does my grandfather have to be involved in your romantic fantasies?” Nero tries desperately to crack a joke, but it falls flat. His ears grow hot as you look at him suddenly, your face blank.

“You’re right, maybe I need a different way to describe it.” You say, simply, even though he expects you to get upset, to retaliate and receives nothing of the sort in return.

If this room suddenly became overrun with demons, Nero could hack and slash his way out easily. But it’s just you, and thus, he has to live with the warm sensation creeping up his neck. 

You sigh. “I’ll shut up.”

“I wasn’t asking you to.” Nero says but he trails off. 

You laugh to yourself. “I’m talking to you like you’re one of my girlfriends. I must be bored.”

You place your hand on the glowing center of the portal you’ve located. Your eyes close, and you feel warmth on the runes tattooed onto your wrists.

“I don’t have to be one of your girlfriends, but I can be a friend.”

Magic glows from your wrist to your palm as you concentrate. Your eyes furrow, squeezed shut tight as you concentrate.

The way you use magic, the way you pour yourself into it, is not unlike Kyrie’s singing, Nero thinks. For a moment, he wonders if you are able to sing, if you’ve ever tried to carry a tune. 

The portal closes, and your eyes shoot open. Nero quickly finds something else to look at.

“I think we’re done,” you murmur. There’s a softness to your lids that suggests fatigue, but you’re still steady on your feet. Slower to move, and Nero wonders how he could offer you a lean on his shoulder. Carrying you would not be hard, but he knows you would object to being so close to him.

You don’t talk anymore. Not about Eva and Sparda, or about Dante and your mentor, or about him or Kyrie, or your version of Sparda that you haven’t met yet -

Someone who you’d be allowed to love so much it would be a sanctifying force.

“Hey.” Nero takes a few quick steps to overtake your fast pace and step a little ahead of you, not unlike earlier.

“Walk slower, okay?” He shakes his head, as if annoyed. “And stay close, there could still be demons prowling.”

You’re too exhausted from using your magic to argue with him.

“Sure.”

He walks slower deliberately but as he anticipated, it doesn’t take long for you to suddenly find yourself lightheaded.

“I… I don’t think I can…” Your head spins. By the time he turns, you’ve already fallen into his arms and he’s just in time, ready to catch you.

—

Your weight is different in his arms than Kyrie’s is, the distribution less familiar. You smell different, like something it feels too sinful of him to parse out and describe, and even the soft way you snore, fast asleep almost instantly, is different. It occurs to Nero that he hasn’t held very many people in his life, not like this.

You’re easy to carry, physical strength aside, and in just moments, he has almost forgotten that he’s holding you when his mind wanders.

How did Sparda know Eva was the one? Had he ever loved anyone else? Had he loved before? 

If only you had spared him all the romance talk, it wouldn’t make this situation so very awkward. Kyrie would kill him if he saw the way he holds you right now, like a princess, carefully, tenderly. Perhaps he could shift you so that you’re no more special than a backpack.

But that feels wrong and untrue.

He doesn’t know when this desire for you to like him came to be, but he can’t shake it. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something that you aren’t allowing him to know, that you are supposed to mean more to each other than this strained relationship. Otherwise, why do you feel at home cradled in his arms?

Eva probably never saw Sparda as a threat from the very first time she laid eyes on him. She loved him from the start. And Sparda always protected her and the home and the city she loved.

Their love was easy and natural, not a single obstacle in their way. No false starts or missteps or bickering back and forth.

Yet, despite all that, where are either of them now?

Nero doesn’t realize he’s close to the front of the castle until Dante is raising his eyebrow at him.

“So what were you two up to?”

The uptick in his voice is playful and Nero ignores it.

If he’s carried you today, he should remember to carry Kyrie twice as long. Your mentor rushes quickly to check on you, relieved that you’re still bleeding and believing Nero’s account that you’re just fatigued.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” she offers.

Nero shrugs.

“Does this happen often?”

“Not as much as you’d expect.”

—

The car ride back is shorter than Nero wants. You rest your head precariously on Nero’s shoulder, rising only once to look in his eyes without recognition. His heart pounds until you place it again and fall back asleep.

Did Sparda get butterflies?

When you murmur thank you ten minutes later, he is sure he did.

[icycoldninja]

Can you write the DMC boys having a small crush on a fellow devil hunter of the DMC crew who dresses and fight in a similar fashion like the hunter from Bloodborne?

(Imagine having to explain to them, especially Vergil that a pizza cutter-like weapon is actually practical and not for show)

Anyways, the reader always have her mask up, and it kind of confuses them like “Never during my time with you have I seen you without your mask” and it doesn’t help when she also rarely takes off her hat as well, making them harder to map out her features

So one day, while on a mission to slay a devil, let’s say the devil’s claw barely misses her face when she duck, letting the claw tear down her mask accidentally. While she’s busy ducking, the boys are caught up in a trance like:

Only when she called them out to give her a hand, did they snapped out of their trance as they assisted her.

Finally after slaying the devil, she was busy grumbling about her torn mask and chipped hat did she get a small tap on her shoulder, stood the boys shyly (but somewhat in a smuggishly flirty tone) complimenting her looks

She looks somewhat perplexed like “You know there are scars and burn marks right?” And they’re like “Nah, you’re still one hell of a fine lady”

P/S: this is a bit of the info about the hunter if you’re interested (https://bloodborne.fandom.com/wiki/The_Hunter)

Yes, of course! Enjoy!

Sparda boys + V x The Hunter-like!Reader headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

-Dante always thought you dressed like a badass, thinking all that leather was cool as hell.

-He likes your hat, because he has a hat too, though he wished you'd unmask yourself every now and then. He wanted to see you, to see what you looked like.

-Then one day you guys were out fighting some demons, the damn things clawed at your face and ripped off your mask. Though you managed to kill them, your face was now exposed.

-Not to worry, Dante wasn't going to judge. If anything, he was amazed, unable to take his eyes off of you. It was like a baby getting to see his mother for the first time, the love and adoration he already had for you surged through the sky now that he had a face to connect to the voice.

-While you stood there, grumbling about your destroyed mask, Dante snuck up behind you, tapped you on the shoulder, and immediately began complimenting you, saying you had to be the most beautiful woman he's ever met besides his mother.

-He doesn't care if there are scars or burn marks; you're the fairest in the land in his eyes.

■ Vergil ■

-Vergil thought you dressed in the way befitting a demon hunter, not really caring whether you kept your face hidden or not.

-Couldn't understand what your giant knife thingy was for, and after a while of thinking about it, came to the conclusion that it was a massive pizza cutter. Imagine his surprise when you explained it had a practical function.

-One day, as you guys were battling a group of particularly nasty demons, your mask was ripped off.

-While you and Vergil worked to clear away the demons, the latter discovered he was having a very hard time taking his eyes off you.

-After the fight was over, and you stood panting and mumbling about where you'd find another mask, Vergil approached you, and with a slight frown, he told you he thought you were beautiful.

-It didn't matter whether you had scars or not, he thought you were the most gorgeous woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

□ Nero □

-Nero liked your fighting style and your clothes, thinking you were pretty badass for dressing like that.

-He was honestly thinking about dressing up like you, but didn't want to copy your style.

-He knows there's a reason for you to keep that mask on, but when he tried asking you about it, you ended up having a back and forth (kinda like Ghost & Soap if u know who those are) that didn't end all that well.

-When you were fighting demons together, Nero was shocked to see a demon run up and rip your mask off, though it was a good thing that it only got your mask and not your face.

-Nero was absolutely frozen in shock as he stared at you, all awareness of the world around him disappearing for a few short minutes.

-When the fight was over, Nero walked up and somewhat shyly confessed that he found you extraordinarily beautiful, scars, burns, and all.

● V ●

-V always thought you were enchanting, from the way you moved to the way you spoke.

-He couldn't care less whether you showed your face to him; to each their own.

-V was fascinated with your weird pizza cutter weapon, and loved to watch you use it.

-When you were out fighting the demon and got your mask torn off, V was mesmerized. Your beauty was unlike anything he'd ever seen, unique and dazzling all at the same time.

-Had Griffon and Shadow not yanked him out of the way in time, he might have died.

-Once the fighting was over, V approached you and gently tapped you on the shoulder, expressing how lovely he thought you were, despite anything you might feel insecure about.

[vexic929]

Chronal Decay

Chapter 2

Warnings: Hartley being Hartley

Chapter 1: link

Barry hated that Eobard had been right.

Flashpoint had resulted in disaster. Wally, a speedster but nearly dead. Joe, an alcoholic on the brink of losing his job. Cisco, a wealthy tech mogul and a certifiable dick. Caitlin, a pediatric ophthalmologist? And worse, Barry had begun forgetting all of them the way they were before, just as Eobard had warned he would. His parents were alive but...at the cost of everything else.

So, he went back. And broke things further.

Cisco's brother, Dante, was dead and apparently Barry just...hadn't been there for him though he couldn't fathom why. His new (well, not new apparently, but new to him) coworker, Julian, was an asshole who apparently hated Barry as much as Barry hated him. Iris and Joe weren't on speaking terms for some reason he had yet to figure out. God, it was all a mess.

So, he went back. Again.

Jay tried to stop him, had sat him down at a diner on his Earth to explain that he could never put things back the way they were before - the timeline would never be fixed, could never be fixed, not really. But nothing anyone could have said would change his mind. He was just saving Dante - that's it. Cisco deserved that and, anyway, it was only a few months. How much could possibly change?

Everything, apparently.

When Barry entered the Cortex, he wasn't sure what to expect, if he was honest. Everything seemed...normal? Cisco was explaining something to Joe that Joe clearly wasn't following. Iris wasn't present but he hoped that wasn't because Joe was. Caitlin was in the medbay. Hartley was-

Hartley?

Before he could process Hartley's presence, he was interrupted by a boisterous man who looked like Harry but probably was not striding through the doors behind him, a tray of Jitters cups in his hands.

"Sumptuous day!" Definitely not Harry. "Oh, wait- no, on this Earth, I believe you say..."

"Good morning." Cisco supplied with a mildly amused look.

"Good morning!" Not-Harry echoed with a wide grin. "And it is, isn't it? I took the liberty of reading through your ledgers last night. A lot of information to absorb, but let's see how I did."

The man approached him first. "For you, my fleet-of-foot friend...you'd best stick to decaf." He handed it over with a theatrical wink.

Barry forced a laugh as he took the cup. "Probably for the best, yeah."

Not-Harry spun on his heel. "San Francisco!" To Barry's horror, the man put on an obnoxiously terrible French accent. "I have prepared for you a French roast with a touch of creamer."

Cisco grinned in amusement, taking the cup. "Thank you."

"You're welcome!"

Barry wondered if he was always so cheerful as the man glided across the room, handing Joe a cup.

"Detective West. A grounded man. One sugar, no cream. Classic."

Joe chuckled. "Appreciate that."

"Now Caitlin!" Not-Harry twirled theatrically, nearly spilling a cup but recovering it just in time. "White mocha, iced, plenty of whipped cream for our dear doctor with an extra shot of espresso for those sleepless nights of late."

Barry wondered what sleepless nights Caitlin had been having as she took the cup with a tired smile.

"Thanks, HR," she said. Barry wasn't sure if that was the man's name or not.

"And last but never least," he called, walking toward Caitlin's desk where Hartley was seated, typing away at a laptop, "for the maestro of multitasking himself - Hart-and-Soul! Soy cappuccino, half-sweet, dash of cinnamon. Because you, my friend, are a symphony of spice and subtlety."

Hartley met HR's eyes finally, a blank look on his features. Barry held his breath as Hartley took the cup.

Without looking away, without a word, slowly, deliberately Hartley dropped the entire cup into the trash beside him. The paper hit with a soft, wet thunk.

Steam curled faintly upward.

Hartley turned back to his work.

Silence.

"Well!" HR said brightly, voice only cracking a little. "Not a coffee guy, after all. Message received!" He chuckled awkwardly, turning back to the more friendly faces in the Cortex. "Did you know, on my Earth, coffee crop was wiped out by blight? I mean, that's one more reason to stay on this Earth, for the coffee alone."

Hartley rolled his eyes and snapped his laptop shut audibly. "If you stay." He commented, picking up his laptop and brushing roughly past HR to leave the Cortex.

"Hartley-" Caitlin called but Hartley interrupted her without turning back or stopping.

"I'm not going far. Unfortunately."

Caitlin sighed and exchanged a look with Cisco.

"He's going to your workshop," she said at the same time as Cisco said, "he's going to my workshop." with a sort of tired, indignant exasperation.

Barry wasn't sure why, but he followed.

"Hartley!"

Hartley didn't stop or even slow, as though he hadn't heard Barry at all. Barry persisted, following him until he arrived in the workshop and abruptly turned to face Barry, surveying him critically. Barry felt briefly that Hartley could see straight through him.

After several moments, Hartley spoke.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, eyes narrowing before bluntly adding, "I tried to kill you."

Barry tried not to look startled by the proclamation. "I-"

"You don't remember that, do you? Just like you didn't remember HR. Just like you don't remember that I loathe you." Hartley scoffed, continuing further into the room to set up his laptop on a workbench. "We're not friends, Flash. I'm not interested in rekindling whatever camaraderie you remember us having before you fucked everyone over."

Barry tried not to flinch at the harsh rebuff.

"I don't-" Barry hedged but Hartley interrupted.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Allen. You changed the timeline. I may have no idea what exactly you changed for me but I'm certain my circumstances can't have been worse." Hartley turned, sitting on the nearest stool and opening his laptop again. 

Barry wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't defend himself, Hartley was right. He had fucked everyone over. He fidgeted in place, rubbing his palms together as he tried to come up with a passable explanation.

"I...look, Hartley-"

"Save it. You're going to need to work on your acting skills before I'll consider accepting an apology. I doubt you even know what you'd be apologizing for," Hartley said flatly, staring Barry down through his glasses.

Barry blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it again, throat locked tight around the words. Hartley returned his attention to his work, waving his hand as though swatting away a fly.

"Shoo, Flash."

Barry didn't know what else to do, so he left.

[dostoyevsky-official]

I’m about to tell you the craziest love story in literary history. And before you ransack the canon for a glamorous rebuttal, I must warn you: Its preeminence is conclusive. Dante and Beatrice, Scott and Zelda, Véra and Vladimir. All famous cases of literary love and inspiration, sure. But these romances lack the 47-year novelistic drama of the craziest story. They lack the stolen gun, the border crossings, the violation of federal law. They lack the forged birth certificate and clandestine love letters. But above all, they lack the leading lady: the secret muse.

[...] I don’t pretend to understand women,” McCarthy told Oprah Winfrey in 2007, commenting on the lack of them in his novels—despite the fact that he was married three times. And for decades, readers took him at his word.

Upon McCarthy’s death, however, the mystery of his personal life has drawn close enough for us to unravel assumptions into their opposites: Cormac McCarthy did not shirk womenkind in his novels. On the contrary, it turns out that many of his famous leading men were inspired by a single woman, a single secret muse revealed here for the first time: a five-foot-four badass Finnish American cowgirl named Augusta Britt. A cowgirl whose reality, McCarthy confessed in his early love letters to her, he had “trouble coming to grips with.”

[...] It’s monsoon season, and lightning bobs and weaves in the corner of your eyes all day like floaters. There are three separate storms to the south, delicately wind-tilted on the horizon. Lightning races them in a stitchless thread, and to the north rain shimmers through the sheerest rainbow, stamped perfectly horizontal against the mountains like the execution line on a document.

[...] Britt says she lived a normal life until the age of 11. That year, and for reasons she never quite understood, her family moved from the snowy plains of North Dakota to the border town desert of Tucson. This is where the muse’s novelistic question mark emerges. An origin story beginning on an ellipse. Something hideous happened to her in the desert. Something traumatically violent. Something that destroyed her family.

Every time she was hit, whether by her father or a foster parent, she would disappear inside herself. It could take weeks, months to reemerge. It got to the point where if it happened again, she didn’t know if she’d ever come out. And she could no longer live like that.

“So I’ve decided I’m not going to be hit anymore,” she told McCarthy at that motel pool. Here she pauses, and you must imagine the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard—a sweetness that isn’t afraid to pull triggers first and ask questions later. “I’m just going to shoot anyone who tries.”

“ ‘Well,’ ” McCarthy said, “ ‘That would explain the gun.’ ”

“And that was so Cormac,” Britt laughs. “And I thought, Thank God this man gets it.”

Just imagine for a moment: You’re an unappreciated literary genius who has not even hit your stride before going out of print. Your novels so far have circled around dark Southern characters who do dark Southern things. You’re stalled on the draft of a fourth novel, called Suttree, which features an indeterminately young side character named Harrogate, not yet written as a runaway. You’re sitting by a pool at a cheap motel when a beautiful 16-year-old runaway sidles up to you with a stolen gun in one hand and your debut novel in the other. She reads in her closet to stay out of violence’s earshot. To survive her lonely anguish, the wound she’s been carrying since age 11, this girl has only literature to turn to: Hemingway, Faulkner, you. She flickers with comic innocence yet tragic experience beyond her years and an atavistic insistence on survival on her own terms. She has suffered more childhood violence than you can imagine, and she holds your own prose up to you for autograph, dedication, proof of provenance.

[...] After learning Britt wanted to be a nurse, McCarthy also introduced a character named Wanda to Suttree, an underage love interest Suttree meets in the month of August. Wanda reads stories about nurses and steals away to Suttree’s tent in the small hours of the night. She is also Britt’s debut death, crushed under a rockslide.

[...] Posting an essay on my favorite writer to Substack on April Fool’s Day, receiving a cryptic comment from his secret muse, and now driving with her to see her horses feels more miraculous than fate. And yet there is something so natural about spending time with Britt. There is a shimmer of recognition with her, an intimate equidistance. After all, I’ve been reading about her for half my life. And now here she is, in the flesh.

[...] The first thing you notice about her, leading Scout and Jake up a dormant streambed to their stalls, is how novelistic she is. She is a woman of compelling themes, tragic patterns, hooks, plot, question marks. She says things like “Cormac warned me I couldn’t hide forever” and “That was back when we had one eye out for the law.”

[...] That’s the muse for you, full of equine wisdom, horse sense. And while she certainly has a way with words, words also have a way with her, as McCarthy found out in 1976. As do landscapes.

[...] He was 43, she was 17. The image is startling, possibly illegal. At the very least, it raises questions about inappropriate power dynamics and the specter of premeditated grooming. But not to Britt—who had suffered unspeakable violence at the hands of many men in her young life—then or now.

[...]One measure of fame is how suddenly cognizant one becomes of the looming biographer, archivist, or graduate student peering over posterity’s shoulder at your personal correspondence. But McCarthy began writing his love letters to Britt when he was out of print, and they brim with an unusual voice—that of Cormac McCarthy in true love’s perfect candor. They’re less like sketches for a painting and more like confessionals. They are written by a man infatuate.

For the first few days of my stay in Tucson, the letters sit in the same Converse shoebox they’ve been stored in since the ’70s. I’ve been giving them a wide berth. To a McCarthy fan, they’re like the Holy Grail. It somehow doesn’t feel right reading the blue ink meant for her blue eyes. What will they be like? Joyce’s encrusted epistles to Nora? Nabokov’s letters to Véra? Or more like letters to a Lolita?

[...] We can expect a writer to be different in person than on the page, but Cormac was very different on the page to Augusta. He was clearly in love, clearly “gone on the subject” of her, from the start. He ends each letter with an “I love you” or something synonymous. (He ends the ones after their romance cooled the same way.) But what we appear to have with lines about pressing “my face between your thighs” is a writer with his nose pressed into the pure perfume between the open thighs of a book.

Then, sometime in the ’80s, McCarthy sends her the manuscript for All the Pretty Horses. “The first thing I see, obviously, is the title. And I thought, Oh my gosh. I started reading it, and it’s just so full of me, and yet isn’t me. It was so confusing. Reading about Blevins getting killed was so sad. I cried for days. And I remember thinking to myself that being such a lover of books, I was surprised it didn’t feel romantic to be written about. I felt kind of violated. All these painful experiences regurgitated and rearranged into fiction. I didn’t know how to talk to Cormac about it because Cormac was the most important person in my life. I wondered, Is that all I was to him, a trainwreck to write about?

“I was trying so hard to grow up and to fix what was broken about me. I still thought I could be fixed. And this felt the opposite of fixing me."

[pueraeternal]

"Limb Bus" Company

"I'm Serious, where is my arm!" Ryōshū stood near Heathcliff wiping the blood off her Odachi before re sheathing it. Gregor sat up from his seat, took a long drag from his cigarette, "was that necessary Ryōshū?" She looked coldy, likely thinking of a way to say this in the fewest words possible. "They look like members of the ring, pointing towards Yuri and the 5 people who just appeared on the bus, "my mistake". Gregor let out a knowing nod, as though that would explain why she cut off Heathcliff's arm and sat back down finishing his cig.

Heathcliff was obviously in shock, now on his hand and knees, mumbling "where is my ring".

"I am so confused right now" said Yuri, currently poking one of the boys who appeared out of thin air moments ago. The boy was Trey Clover. He wore a stylish white fedora, w/ a yellow and black band that had a distinct clover or club from a playing card on it. He wore glasses, had a club tattooed under his left eye. He also wore a white shirt w/ a black vest under a white jacket that sported various playing card features and white rose w/ red paint or blood on it. Trey was currently huddled in circle w/ 3 other similarly dressed boys and one in the centre wearing a checkered suit, this one was obscured enough that Yuri could not make the Gender.

Charon stepped out of her seat to survey the situation. "I knew this would happen, Dante, Faust and Vergilius step off the bus to check on Mephistopheles, all hell breaks loose. Yuri, make a note that someone in charge or at lease reasonable should be on board at all times". A resounding "hey!!" was heard from many voices further back in the bus, and one lone voice "that kinda hurts" Ryōshū made a motion to pull her blade out again, Charom quickly sat back down "vroom vroom".

Yuri, still poking Trey, "The ring?, who's ring" pointing down at Heathcliff still on the floor losing a massive amount of blood by the second. Gregor spoke up again, "oh no, not his ring, The Ring, a Syndicate of artists who exemplify human suffering in their pieces. Its their attire that likely startled Ryōshū, they wear white berets, a tattoo under the eye and avante garde clothes, just looking at those 5, there is a resemblance. She likely thought we were under attack. Unless their huddling is some sort of art statement, id say these 5 are terrified.

Yuri then asked w/ one eye open and a inquisitive gaze, "so why cut off Heathcliffs arm?" "Oh" Gregor replied, "he was just in the way, she was startled and did what she does best".

Yuri gave a confused "Yah" as though this all made sense, and it did'nt. She asked the boy she was poking if he would like some tea. Trey Fainted....well, they all fainted.

Send me a Ask if you want a part 2 !

[themaeve]

AHHHHH! Memoire 61.5 of the Case Study of Vanitas just dropped! I'm loving everything about where we are going with this dham arc!

We are finally getting more on the whole business with where dhampirs stand in this society. Feared by humans as being too close to vampires, looked down on and at one point hunted(!) by vampires. And wow are the Count's people prejudiced as fuck. The only reason Dhampirs have "the right to exist" is because they are under the eccentric Marquis Machina's protection.

Watching Johann and Riche broke my heart this chapter. The way they both reached for their glasses when it was mentioned how dhams are revealed by their eyes. Riche was visibly scared the entire time and Johann was trying his best to comfort her. It really characterizes Dante, the member of the Dham trio who doesn't wear glasses, and is also almost always the most loud and proud of the three. Dante doesn't give a single fuck to "hide" his eyes.

Bless Noe, calling bullshit on everyone with "Isn't it just less confusing to just call people by their name?" Love that man so much. Vanitas stifling his laughter at Noe's wholesome honesty. Perfect.

I also really appreciate Domi's bits this chapter. My girl thinks she is so progressive with her whole "Being prejudiced in this day and age? How unattractive." And then only minutes later getting somewhat called out by Noe for never even learning Dante's name. Domi learning that she ain't above being prejudiced and that she needs to do better. Not being outwardly hateful is the bare fucking minimum. I love that last panel of her, that mix of embarrassment, panic, and palpable shame she feels with herself. The way she got really quiet and shut down. It hurt to watch in a good way. I've been there Domi. You gotta collect yourself, learn from your mistakes, identify and overcome your personal biases. Don't fall back into more self-hatred, you can do it girl! God I love her so much.

Also, I love that last panel of pissed off Dante! Dude is so over this conversation. Staring daggers at Noe like "Is this some kind of fucking White Knight routine of yours or are you genuinely this naive and friendly?" Good sir I eagerly await your angry rant next chapter. Fucking go off my dude.

This chapter had so much emotion from everyone. Hate, anger, fear, shame, love. All of it on display. As much as I have really started to hate the "fantasy racism" cliche, I'll give this one credit for some realism in displays of prejudice and the subtle effects it has on its targets. While I don't have experience being the target of racist prejudice, I do have experience being the target of queerphobic prejudice. The dhams really hit with me, especially the lines calling them "half-formed things, neither fish nor fowl." Like, yep I'm trans and non-binary, I've heard and seen that type of shit said before.

The way Riche and Johann reached instinctively for their glasses when it was mentioned how the uncontrollable gold flashes of their eyes give them away to humans. I felt that, being "revealed" by features of your body and being instinctually self conscious about them. Trying to hide the things that "give you away". I still remember when Jeanne was trying to figure out if Johann was human or vampire, watching the anime, hearing the tired and thorny contempt in Johann's voice with the delivery of "Nope, I'm a dham." Shivers. Same fucking energy of delivering "I'm nonbinary" to random people for fuckteenth flippin time watching the fucking look in their eye change as they realize what I am. Then, Johann catches himself after saying it, realizing Jeanne didn't mean any offense, that his tone was too prickly. She just genuinely didn't know. You can feel how Johann is always on guard. Always having to be prepared for people who think he doesn't have "the right to exist." I felt that.

I'm optimistic for how the story handles this arc. I'm praying it's good and doesn't fall for the problematic elements of "fantasy racism" tropes. The way this chapter handled Domi makes me hopeful. That and anymore material we get on Dante, Johann, and Riche is a win in my book.

[eponastory]

Would be opposed to writing a one shot scenario about Evan going through even more trauma during the events of Devil May Cry 5? Such as Nero losing his arm, Vergil someone in the world of the living once more (all the events that follow) and then the climatic showdown between Father & Son?

Well, I can do something like that.

So, Evan in my HC doesn't go to Redgrave. Actually she is only 18 and the week V shows up at Devil May Cry is also the same week that she graduates from high school. I actually have a story written about that and I can post it here if you'd like. As for what happens during Redgrave, there isn't much going on for her. But, I do believe this is where she and Nero meet for the first time.

As for Nero and Vergil having a showdown... oh just wait. I'm working on a whole story for that. I'm hoping to have the first chapter published soon.

Anyway, here is pretty much what happens during Redgrave with Evan... I also figured it would be better told from V's perspective at first.

Where Did You Go?

The last time V had been to Devil May Cry, he had told Dante about Urizen the Demon King. Now, not even two weeks after, the frail man was standing just outside of the door. There was a reason he was there. That reason had been on the doorstep right as he had come out of the shop that night.

He had not expected to see her. Much less knew she existed at all. Dante had been very careful to keep her concealed all this time, but even so, she could be helpful. In some form, at least. The moment he saw her features, it became clear to V that Dante had a child. Even with his fractured memories, he never recalled the devil hunter speaking of any sort of relations.

Still, with Dante very much out of the picture and Nero the last bastion of hope, maybe the girl was a possibility too. If she was strong enough, that is. If her bond with her father was strong enough, she would not hesitate to fly into battle. That was how he saw it. The other possibility was that she was just as human as he was. Then she was no help at all.

"So why are we here, V?" Nero stood right behind the black haired man. "We both know Dante did not come out of that tree."

"There is some... delicate matters to attend to." With one motion, V lifted his cane and knocked it against the solid doors of the shop. There was a moderate chance that she was in the building waiting for her father to come back. She would be waiting for a long time. He could hear Nero scoffing behind him.

"Yeah, this is a waste of time. There is no one here, man." Not so true when the sound of the lock clicking on the door brought the young hunter to attention. "Who would be here?" When the door opened a crack, V could only see one of her pale blue eyes and a sliver of her face.

"Sorry, but we're closed." Her voice was light, but not timid. She looked at V with a little recognition in her eye. "Oh, it's you."

"Mind if we come in?" She did not answer verbally, only opened the door to reveal herself more.

"Wait... what?" V honestly expected Nero to react differently upon seeing the young girl in front of them. "Is this some sick joke?"

"I should ask you the same thing." She blurted out with just as much surprise at seeing Nero.

"Quiet." The tattooed man spoke feeling tension building between the two children. That was what they were in his eyes. "I come with news of Dante." The moment the girl heard the name, her face dropped from defensive to worried. There was even a distinct fear in her eyes that could only come for a child, fearing the worst.

"You better come in then." She opened the door wider for the two men to enter the shop. It was not so much different from the last time V had been in there, except for the apparent cleaning that had gone on. He surmised that she had taken to tidying up the place while Dante was gone. "I'd offer you guys some drinks, but I haven't gone anywhere." She put her hands in her back pockets as she stood there.

"Do not worry about that... I can see you've been keeping busy." He motioned to the state of the interior. She nodded as Nero looked around at the memorabilia plastered on the walls. "You look well, at least."

"Yeah, I guess I've been okay." She was trying hard not to jump to the questions that were undoubtedly running through her mind. "Anyway, where is my Dad? Is he okay?" V did not blame her for blurting out her concerns. After all, he knew very little about what happened to the half-devil.

"He's gone." The room stayed silent after V said the words. But the girl shook her head with a smile.

"I can promise you he isn't." She looked up at the black haired man with a fire in her eyes. It reminded him of something from the past that was not his own. "I know my Dad, he is not easy to kill." While he admired her faith in her father, he simply could not let her keep false hope. Urizen was more powerful than he had realized.

"He didn't come out of the tree with us." Nero walked over to the girl. V had been trying to place the relation between the two, only coming up with the possibility that Dante had been carnal in his youth. There was another possibility, but that was not likely. "Neither did his friends."

"So you just left them there?" There was clear anger in her voice as she pulled her hands out of her pockets and balled her fists. "Are you serious? My whole family, everyone that I ever cared about, went to Redgrave and they didn't return?" V watched as Nero softened his features, running his only hand through his hair in shame. Her eyes flicked to his missing arm. "What happened?"

"The demon... Urizen." Perhaps it was best to let the two talk without him interfering any longer.

"I'll leave you two for now... it's best if Nero explains everything." V said gave a small bow of respect to the girl before making his way to the door. As soon as he was gone, Nero was left with this girl who was just as alone as he was.

"So, what's your name?" This got a reaction from her other than sadness and regret. He clicked his tongue when she did not answer. "I'm Nero."

"Evan." She said quietly. "My Dad told me about you, I just forgot you existed, I guess."

"Oh yeah? Nothing bad, I hope?" The awkwardness between them was only made that way because they knew nothing of each other. Nero had no idea that Dante even had a kid, much less told him about her. Evan definitely had the same feel about her that Dante had. "Anyway, I uh... I... I'm sorry."

"It's okay, but I know he's alive." She moved to the red couch and sat down, putting her face in her hands. "He said he was going take care of something that should've been taken care of a long time ago. I don't really understand any of it because he was always trying to protect me."

"I can see why." Nero envied her. She had a living parent that was there for her throughout her life. It was another reason for him to resent the man. Dante had left his daughter behind to deal with the mess in Redgrave. "I don't know what V is up to by coming here, but don't go to Redgrave. Stay as far away from there as possible." Evan nodded, but he could see that she was thinking over every scenario that could bring her father back home.

"He told me you were a good person. That if anything happened to him, you would look after me." Well, he was not so sure of that. He felt like he had been volunteered into helping this... well she was essentially a teenager. Nero also felt that she had been through some stuff too.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll make sure he gets home." That was the only thing he could offer her at this point. She was just another lonely kid like him.

Evan on the other hand, knew there was more to Nero than her father had let on. Now was not really the time to be doing genetic calculations on who Nero belonged to. It was very obvious to her that the man standing in the shop before her was her cousin. She was not going to say anything about it until he did.

When Nero left, Evan was alone again for close to a month. She went to work three days a week, but most of the time she stayed in her room at Devil May Cry waiting for any word from Nero. He called nearly every day to make sure she was okay, nothing more than that.

It was the nightmares that had been bothering her. The visions of her time in the forest after her mother died had come back, only this time, she was searching for Dante. He was lost out there in the snowy forest at the base of the mountain.

She called out for him over and over, sometimes hearing the howls from the demons that killed her mother. There was no sign of him. Nothing that could tell her Dante was out there waiting for her or that he was even alive. No red coat, no sword, nothing.

It was not until Nero returned that she knew something was not right.

"He's alive, but he's in the Underworld with Vergil." Evan looked down at her cousin's now fully fleshed arm. She looked up at him in confusion. "Oh, yeah... this sort of happened."

"I have so many questions." She said flatly as Nero held up his arm with a smirk. "So, catch me up."

[ggtess]

I’ve been a fan of Hozier since I heard his song take me to church. Its intense religious scrutiny tied with its beautiful queer allusions roped me in instantly. It didn’t take me long to discover how talented this artist was, and how deep of an impact his music would have on me. He’s been a favorite ever since.

Following a steady increase of my love for Hozier, was a fast and intense love for the Inferno of Dante, a book that I was originally begrudgingly forced to read. I had already watched a youtube series on the comedia and figured that’s all I would really need from this story (sooo fucking embarrassing). But, as we delved deeper into the inferno and all the rich history associated with it, my english-subject-loving-brain was absolutely enamored. There was so much to digest and speculate and criticize and praise. I was in Heaven (haha).

Now obviously some months have passed since the release of this album, but I only recently discovered that Unreal Unearth featured the marriage of these two beloved interests of mine.

With all that being said, here’s are my incredibly belated, partially sincere and partially bullshit thoughts on Hozier’s Unreal Unearth:

De Shelby pt 1- (7/10) gorgeous guitar brought to us by a gorgeous Irish man. Desolate, chilling, sullen.

De Shelby pt 2- (7/10) absolutely insane transition. This bass is so catchy and rhythmic, really fun. I assume this is representative of the harsh descent into hell, running/hiding from the atonement of sins: throwing yourself into what is ungodly to avoid isolation.

First time- (8/10) this just sounds so fucking good, “some part of me must have died the first time that you called me ‘baby’ and some part of me came alive the first time that you called me ‘baby’” is so stark and relatable. God that is an absolutely devastating way to look at bouquets. A quick ode to the lost “remembering again/ the full extent of what forever is” because fuck. This is confusing and heart wrenching, a lover mourning his lost love and worshiping them all the same because they’re all he has in this eternity, this limbo leaves him lost and all he sees and all he knows is death, even through the kind gestures of flowers on his grave, desperate and lost

Francesca- (9/10) The first direct reference to the inferno via the storms of lust in the first circle. Listening has me confusing lust with love- is lust just an extension of love ?? Because this is a damn love song. “Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I” oh my fucking god yeah this is the favorite. Does Hozier know that he’s a lesbian or should I tell him

I, Carrion- (8/10) so, so beautiful. Consumed in consumption itself, prioritizing pleasure over what is right and moral. So many references in this one- the turtles holding up the world, Icarus flying and falling, atlas carrying the weightless feeling he is experiencing.

Eat your young- (8/10) this song is popular for a reason. Obviously representing gluttony, the lyrics are so disgusting and immoral, hungry for more wealth, more gain, more, more. Criticism to world leaders, criticism to capitalism, criticism to consumerism, criticism to those who take and take. “Eat your young” stealing the future of your youth, decimating the climate, sending your children to war, sending your children to sweep chimneys, all exploitation, all eating your young. Also head ???

Damage gets done- (7/10) everyone move this song is so upbeat I need to fucking dance. Brandi has a really powerful voice that complements hozier’s so well. For something being representative of greed, this song is pretty damn grateful, at least on my first impression. In a pessimistic perspective, it could be the oblivion of the youth to their damage on the earth. Just by existing in the world we live in we leave an irreversible mark on our climate, our environment, our wildlife, etc. Unknowingly, we’re greedy to want to thrive in our world in any capacity but specifically financially. Maybe the best of us are our youth that don’t want for more than they have. This song contrasts the previous one HARSHLY.

Who we are- (6/10) this song is a headache. Juxtaposing the deeply frustrating lyrics of navigating the dark, burning out, chasing mindlessly and the loud singing filled with a sense of catharsis and relief is sooo mind boggling. So much uncertainty and passion.

Son of Nyx- (7/10) god I love a transition track. So dejected and beautiful at the same time. These themes of loss are just constant throughout the album. Someone tell me how Hozier did all this world building without any words? I would have genuinely guessed that the river Styx is what’s being represented by this instrumental, he captured it exactly how I imagined.

All things end- (6/10) This is definitely akin to gospel music. Hozier’s influence from black artists is rich in this song, really fun listen. Also deeply ironic to use this style of music to write a song about heresy. Reminds me of his iconic take me to church.

Continued in next post ! :-)

[truepcwerarchive]

devil in the garden | plotted starter

It wasn't often that Vergil actually took time on the weekends to himself. With business meetings, paperwork, hounding on his brother to keep his shops lights on; Vergil had a habit of treading through the work week on autopilot. The CEO ran his many businesses with an iron fist and half of the time he didn't trust anyone to not fuck up any of his work.

Not that long ago, his father Sparda had handed down the mantel of Celestial Dynamics to take care and run since he was the most responsible out of himself and his twin brother, Dante. Even though Vergil never displayed or shown nervousness, it towered over him like a shadow ready to smother him at any point. It was part of the reason why he was so judgmental about every action that was made within his grasp. From having the best cooks and staff for restaurants , to the finest fashion and designers to the various clothing brands that represented the company. Vergil had to make sure everything was up to standard, if not surpassing it.

However, it was the weekend, and for once, Vergil found himself wandered the city that admired from the highest floor of his office. Looking out into a concrete jungle was a different experience compared to actually walking in it. Even though, he had received different glances and even had photos snapped of him as he walked through the streets he found it peacefully nonetheless.

Dressed in more business casual appearance, he wore dark washed jeans, a navy blue button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up exposing his pale complexion, in addition to black loafers. Taking a tip from Dante, he wore black sunglasses that stood out against his white hair that was slicked back in his usual style. Unlike his brother, Vergil liked to keep a very, clean appearance. Regardless if he was conducting business or simply just enjoying a weekend.

As the half devil walked the streets, a familiar scent came across his path. Oddly enough, it reminded him of the garden that his family once had before they came up in money and relocated for the business advantages. Memories of playing in the fields with his brother before they would play fight to assert dominance over each other, the sounds of his mothers voice lingering in the air when she would tell them to stop. The feeling on the sun rays on his skin despite never getting a tan no matter how many hours in the day they spent. A soft smile graced his features as he followed the scent like a bloodhound. It only took him a couple of steps before he found himself in front of a shop door.

Taking a moment, he felt as if he opened this door the course of his life would altered. As if once he passed the threshold, everything he knew would be thrown for a loop. Are you sure? A voice in his mind whispered as he gripped the handle of the door like his life depending on it. Whatever the concern was, he pushed it to the side and opened the door, hearing the sound of the bell ring. Clearly that would indicate to the owner that he had entered. As he looked around, he found himself in a beautiful store surrounded by different floral arrangements, a feeling of peace washed over him until something...no, someone caught his attention. It was a woman, a very beautiful woman.

Carefully and slowly, Vergil removed his sunglasses as he studied her. She was small but she wasn't without curves and lushes locks that complimented her features. The way she stood among the flowers it was like he was Hades himself gazing upon Persephone for the first time. There was a feeling in his stomach that he never felt before. Maybe he ate something bad for lunch? No that couldn't be it, felt different than that, perhaps he'd give a call to the family physician just to double check he was coming down with something. It took him a moment to find his words as he gripped the side of his sunglasses before finally folding them in and slipping them in his jean pocket. How long has been standing in the door way? Finally coming to, he took a small step out of the way and cleared his throat, hoping it would be loud enough to get the woman's attention. Finally finding his words, he parted them to speak. " Hello. "

plotted starter / plotted romantic dynamic between Vergil & Cyndi Rodriquez of @indigodreames

[lustrumlane]

I'm not ashamed to say || Edith

Edith blinks when she is addressed, like she had to focus back into attention after so long spent watching the other Seekers go back and forth with their own interpersonal conflicts. She places a hand on her cheek. It looks like it was her turn for that.

“Well, I have to say that’s an interesting idea that you have there Matthew. But I think, along with several other ideas that have been brought up in this investigation, it involves a major assumption. That being, “The person who drugged the stew, did so as a plan to kill Dante.” Quite frankly, there isn’t much of a direct logic as to why he would have to be this particular level of drugged for a murder. To be able to take him down more easily in a struggle? Perhaps, but in regards to how Dante was before this… unnecessary.”

A frown forms on her features, her eyes solemnly looking towards the Doctor for a brief moment, though not directly asking him a question. “…You all had to have noticed, didn’t you? How he was the last few days?” She asks genuinely, a tremble in her voice because she wasn’t exactly sure if the answer would be a yes. “I know he might have tried to play things off but… the man was barely able to stand half the time. To go to all that effort for the stew, to wandering around the lane to gather items to set up an elaborate trick, and follow him all the way down into the caves… There was no reason to kill him, not for his character, not with so complex a method…”

A beat. “…Not when there was something so much easier to be done.” “You’re right that I don’t have a reason to kill for any sort of monetary gain, for whatever monetary means in this place. But. I think many people here would be able to see why there might be reason to kill someone in particular here. Someone whose behavior has been a mixture of murder threats, actual assaults, general suspicious and anti-social behavior- All sorts of things that cause ever-revolving cycle of stress to those who just want to have day to day lives here. Someone, perhaps, who has shown in the past how intensely drugs can affect their system…”

She briefly pauses her musing, and looks Matt directly in the eyes.

“Who would face the full effects of the drug while others only had a minor discomfort? Did you know, Matthew, why brand name barbitals, Veronal was taken off the shelves in the mid-50s? It’s because how easily you could be killed by an overdose. Famous writers, poets, even civilians who took it to escape even worse fates in The War…”

She sighs deeply, and looks towards face the group as a whole.

“….But it looks like, that mercurial body of yours let you wake up another day, and I failed with making it quick, easy, and painless. I have to deeply apologize to you all, for deceiving you like this and letting misinformation go on for so long, but I’ll admit-I had thought that the finger pointing that would come to let me clear things up would happen a lot earlier. It got kind of awkward, actually.”

[quietbluejay]

Transformers Devastation #6

the finale! featuring what happens when you merge a mad scientist and a Texan

Diversity win! Giant alien robot scorpion head about to join in unholy union with a Texas Man/Florida Man hybrid!

Scorp's living his best life here well I mean aside from being an extremely damaged head one does have to ask why he's still so damaged and what's with all the cables you'd think he'd want a better setup then again, no one's accused Scorp of having common sense

over with Hunter, he's trying to focus but there's interference

it cuts over to Sunstreaker's head, which is currently surrounded by scientists

Hunter tries to focus

"I just have to not-"

there's thumping on the door

this is what happens when you merge a survival of the fittest decepticon mad scientist and a Texan

over in Oregon, Megatron fights the reapers

THEY INVITE THE FULL SAVAGE FURY OF MEGATRON

and man I feel like I'm back to reading 70s xmen comics here

"The planet is ours!" yells Megatron

how is he saying all that with the mouth laser

Starscream is fighting another Reaper (and there's kirby dots yay!!!)

Starscream says he serves the Decepticon cause

Starscream dramatically fires Megatron while claiming he's, as always, his humble servant

meanwhile the Runatwins are well

they get ripped to pieces

they're dead

i… holy crap this is gonna be "galvatron saves earth"

you know galvatron should totally have milked this when he came back

Whatever edge these guys had before is completely gone

meanwhile they're trying to contact Headmaster Central

the last one gets blown up!

hot rod: who-? hardhead?

it is indeed Hardhead, and he says they have to go, NOW

"I may not care much for ol' sunstreaker but it's a matter of necessity now"

Someone's got access to everything in Sunstreaker's head, and he intends to find out who

Hot Rod is really shaky

Hardhead tells him this comes from the top, but Hot Rod says he's going to have to use force if he wants to bring him

hot rod is also used to working alone and making his own calls

Hot Rod drives off into the light

Hardhead: go get 'em

hot rod is also used to working alone and making his own calls

RIP

Hound wants to know if they've had a chance to look at the telemetry he sent through on Leadfoot

Nightbeat is on the case!

"it's as though every bit of leadfoot died simultaneously"

he can't shake the feeling it's somehow familiar

Nightbeat never forgets anything, so this means either some phantom memory engram has been introduced without his knowledge or part of his memory has been erased or submerged

he heads out towards his little ship

"Either way...it's a mystery!" I am choosing to ignore "living cyber-cell". I am looking away. I do not see it.

"give of your charnel kiss."

meanwhile the bird is flying up behind galvatron

he blasts it with purple light

now the guy Galvatron grabbed goes up to one of the other Reapers

"Brother! What ails you?"

he grabs his head and the guy talking turns to dust, oof

Scorp taunts him with the fact that it will be his first and LAST time transforming

a sunstreaker body's hands twitch, then reach over to pick up the Hunter-head and put it on the body

something is slowing down Sunstreaker's connection

so is this the texan making scorp talk like that or is scorp just like this i think the phrasing is scorp but the fact that he said it is maybe dante

he fires and narrowly misses Hunter

"Sunstreaker!"

he blasts a hole in the wall

the Reapers are all getting dusted and the Decepticons are confused

Megatron decides to seize the initiative and target their vessel

the reason Galvatron's body is purple is now clear

"...for now. Little do they know that with one apocalypse averted..."

"...another is begun"

Galvatron stands ominously over Sixshot's unconscious body

the Decepticons meanwhile successfully destroy the Reapers' ship

starscream once again voice of reason

Agent Red wants more of "them" but the scientist guy says he can't do it, it's already crazy that they're using this one

man I can't believe this comic made me like Galvatron, I feel vaguely dirty

and Devastation ends on that!

next up I'll be doing the final set of Spotlights, then over to Revelation which wraps up most of the loose ends

[libidomechanica]

Which, by that ruled Albions kingdoms three

Tempt to repeat, the very trees.     The sacrifice to its head grew a fire beneath and now     the music of them both in aiding her most pamper’d with     me, I calmly beg. Since it is the firths of the window     and the template and sleep

in the hill I saw thee, the map     already spread with Nature thee, stellas fair on the white     mule she rode and all along they came the dorm. Oh, you call     my dress. I do not much more abstruse ecstasy complete     perfect, nay, but the wide

doors for some conceive. It seems, as     lightly let me feel this at all the party’s fire with such     liars, and thee, stella, say, for grammer-rules, O now your     voice threading cloud I followed dost thyself of the hinges,     the power with a

peculiar Eye—and little house;     everything but the common bed were link’d among your fair subject,     blessing wings, the ever- silent all? And turn that Dante’s     Beatrice, and a dastard in long embrace, our parting     gust and pale with her hame.

Adieu delight that do such     entertaining looks, blazing underneath it is nothing: only,     if a husband fro, ever a word, but he were reason     of his abode, a love or awe, the shape of dazzling     hue, vermilion-spotted,

golden hair, wi’ a clear pool, where     a garden wears; dropt in heart no less. Rid my pains? And clos’d     for her nimble feet leave traces in their maisters story,     which we Cantabs pleasantly by playing on her father’s     dead, still in the Three per

Cents; whose chin was, in fact the     quaystones with the gude stout aik, they’ll have happened that everything     this is why I sojourn here alone or I die!     Rapidly riding at the fine cages for truth arrived between     us. So was the

presence! And gravity, scientists     say, is that what cannot bring water drink, loue then in     his Waggon, ’ could he not so; to have often lived a life     of joy. Thee, Cynara! We are genuine, I think thee     cumber: what new to greet

my friend at the waved to a spectral     bride; for into a tomb, and so he burn’d; then in my     face, which through-in my brow; for why sae sweet self resemble     the main, all my ghost or by a flame grown one of my sportive     blood? Like that. From yearlong

poring on the less my sin.     Into my foot, they’llnever flatterer stopped noticing     until we’re all shoulder, with me, as the softness of our     tender palm dissolve is this mother dearth, painting might for     love the tree, the door! ’ The

hunter tell; tis beautiful, and     I’ll give to heare, rude ditties tund to shore, the softness of     our hostess and in wild delirium, gripe it half starved     babe, a wreck in my corset- lacing. Prints his own, and smil’d     at the wound, and slip into

my gate and whole; nor Arac,     satiate with the jazzing music unto none alive. But     glorifies his patience, and sea; how long have you found? Were     fix’d, as it may seem resentfully to the most troubles     that climax of all suffering

bee, and a few graveyard crosses     here, observe what else could bribe. This we were, since your waken’d     hate; since burning under a wide hat, dancer, singer,     a laugh, never again with her eyes: what can ail thee, wherein     were not the features

we desire increase, that had     been the eye hath all were less brown. It is a handsome wee     thing, she is made thy breast breeding, whilst I stay here, for Love     is burial come. She is man’s: they were painted on the     truth suppressed in mounds of

dying; to find how heauinesse in     both displeasure lost for want of our child crying outside     silk and outside lawn; scenes sublime the lady and scaur;     they’llnever find than infants increse within; for he came from     the shovel down until

Max’s hind legs stop twitching grabs me     by degree that brave Lochinvar. Or I shall leap, and she     let herself should appears my days a lovely her failings,     and beneath you might be taken. If I the dead blacks, and     unnamed boy on the whole

strife, painful jealousies of the     helpless! Is frowned were at peace. The soldier, his eyes he bent,     which he had led days happy’as I can find but a     possibilities I love you and think in stumbling lyre already     got, deere killer, spare

Arm-chair which writers use of pillows     its soul, a light; tis but to discoverers to their     becoming:—middle jimp wi’ a languish’d for aye, the maidens     came, as those faire ladies who, by one desire; for     dear to me, how she me

caught in the way thing, all; but gazing     down below, then. Our ease, yet but they were his eyes, and     Musgraves, their wealthy festivity, through and then? For     I never noticed whate’er the supremest kisses,     They came to qualify.

[sentofight]

♡ (Lyn @ Markus) ( Amon @ Luci ) (Basilio @ Feiruz) (Yeong & Dante)

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●● | ATTRACTION ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●● | AFFECTION ●●●●● ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●| INTEREST ●●●●● ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●| LOYALTY ●●●●● ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●| TRUST

"Heh, oh really? You're really asking me about these even though we are married? Don't be silly, love." and he gets a kiss. "Didn't think you second guess my love for you~" oh, she is going to tease him for this. Prepare yourself, Markus. The plains lady will have to up her game if her dearest husband starts to question things. Will see~

●●●●● | ATTRACTION ●●●●● | AFFECTION ●●●●● | INTEREST ●●●●● | LOYALTY ●●●●● | TRUST

"I am surprised. Actually, this is quite like you--straightforward." her blush was evident on her sincere emotion towards the emperor. "W-well, are you... surprised by my answers? C-come on, don't tease me about it. You know I will not like about anything, let alone my feelings." and he gets a kiss on his cheek. "You are such a tease... I love you."

●●●●● | ATTRACTION ●●●●● | AFFECTION ●●●●● | INTEREST ●●●●● | LOYALTY ●●●●● | TRUST

"My lord!" a mirthful giggle laces her words. "Basil is the reason why I get to have a wonderful life filled with love and care! I love, love, love, love, LOOOOOOOOVE BASIL!" for a timid girl, her love for her husband is unparalleled and she will fight her shyness to say it out loud!

modern

●●●●○ | ATTRACTION ●●○○○ | AFFECTION ●●●○○ | INTEREST ●○○○○ | LOYALTY ●○○○○ | TRUST

"Yeaaaah. He's got a way to go, that handsome face. It isn't the girl's job to woo the guy, right?" said the girl who was up his face the last time they were in a party. Well, ...fighting. "H-He wouldn't know I said he is handsome, right? God, he will have that idiotic look on this face." long huff. "He's only redeeming feature is his guitar skills ....hmph...!"

DMC verse

●●●●● | ATTRACTION ●●●○○ | AFFECTION ●●●●○ | INTEREST ●●●○○ | LOYALTY ●●●●○ | TRUST

" . . . H-huh? Uh, w-well. He's ... He's--" wild gesturing with her hands. "Like the best hunter! Wouldn't you admire him, too??" pushing back her hair behind her ears, "Any girl would...fall....." her voice trailed off to a complete silence. No peep will come out. She will just stay silent and contemplate her life choices.

Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours | accepting | @rcdhotnight

[myriamas]

who: @ofgoldengrove when and where: prior to the situation regarding lady mayya allyrion and the belarys family, but following the conversation between cedric tyrell, baashir dayne and dante uller in which the reach made it clear they sought to destabilise the summer isle economy - including trade with dorne.

the sounds of celebration within kings landing's feast hall wasn't enough to muffle the atmosphere of tension there was between various courtiers and various factions; the conversation with the reach king and the first and second minister of dorne had left a certain taste in the back of her throat, one that was not the bitterness of the red wine she seemed to be in the process of replacing her blood-flow with. her lips remained tainted with intoxication, and it came in the ways her laughter carried over the hall: the period of mourning was over, and the white silks had slipped from her body to be replaced with her usual bright colours.

her gaze had briefly met with the dragon queen following their interaction within the art gallery, where her casual nature had been the reason for a woman momentarily feeling lesser than the other before the eyes of the world - and as much as she did not believe that was her issue, she still felt a pang of awkward guilt each time she came across her.

in the end, both had been given respite from the interaction by myriam feigning dizziness, and there had been space between them. the issue of the reach thorns remained a forefront problem in her mind; she cursed how sly and cunning they were, and the power they withheld right on their doorstep - the might of the redwyne fleet was no joke, and then to add the blackbar one into account too, the scales became worrying. it was less about breaking ties with the summer isles, who had remained a steady trade importer to dorne for years now, but rather dealing with reach folk who believed themselves untouchable. the region of the marches was able to be cultivated for growth, due to the change in soil type - or at least, that was what she had been told.

there were two regions of marches she could focus on; and the one with the dragons will always be the most questionable. she continued to hold her goblet to her lips as her mandarine skirts glittered in the candlelight, winding her way around the dance floor to try and depart it - she hoisted her skirts slightly, to ensure she did not or others did not walk upon them. and when she turned in her direction and bumped into another, the wine splattered all before their torso. she made no reaction but that to kiss her teeth, before looking up, wondering who had managed to walk right into her - only to look upon a certain individual once again.

mathis rowan, though this time dry, rather than in the bathhouse. she had heard rumours that he had never really died at all, and had managed to return back to the court he had served - no doubt it was for him the summer isles now became a close target of the reach council's animosity. she merely looked at him, then looked down at the red wine which stained his shirt, before looking back up at him - a part of her wanted to merely walk away in that moment. "i heard you were alive again." she spoke, her voice slightly slurred in the way it always was when she was drunk; and yet, there was a slight smile on her features. myriam allyrion glowed when she was drunk, like a candle. until she did not.

the smile faltered slightly now. he had been one of many to give her the attention she craved during another time, that felt like a lifetime ago now. craved, was the word specifically; for she did not want the attention of her husband as much as he had tried to pressure her for another heir, her closeness with her family had distanced as a result of the tryst with the velaryon bastard, and the chapter of the sword of the morning had come to a close. as much as it pained them both to finally turn the page over, to close the book - they had been wrong. she looked upon him again, clearly looking as though she were thinking. "sorry." she added, almost as an afterthought for what was on his shirt.

she wanted to ask him what in seven hells did his people think they were doing, threatening to sail into dornish waters? would he defend them? surely he would, considering his association. but how would mathis rowan defend it? was it even his issue? "will i see you in my seas should i refuse to cut ties with the summer isles?" she asked, her question blunt as she took another long drought of the wine glass.

[eatabug]

for a moment, maisie goes stiff as a board in his arms and lindsay thinks, surely, this must be it : the moment that they discover it is not santiago who has come running to ease their fears and help fight off their demons, but him. it would be a lie to say he doesn't tense himself, bracing for the reaction he immediately anticipates ― he has not been around them in this state enough to know whether their first instinct is to turn to fight or flight, but he expects flailing limbs and barely bitten back swears. he's not met with either and that alone is enough to catch him off guard. when they lean into him ― fully lean into him, all of their weight pressed to his chest ― it's all he can do to pull them against him, his embrace secure and unwavering.

he continues to hold them and rock them in his arms and murmur soft reassurances into their sweat-damp hair, a whispered stream of english and gaelic and fragmented spanish he can only hope offers them even a shred of comfort. eventually, he can feel maisie begin to relax against him, taut muscle melting into dead weight as sobs turn into sporadic hiccups and shaky breaths. ❝ that's it, a chuilein, deep breaths. yer alright. ❞ it's become something of a mantra, something to fill a silence otherwise punctuated by wet sniffles, and it keeps going until maisie finally speaks.

confusion is the first to cross his features, creasing at his brow and narrowing his gaze as he tries to make sense of a nonsensical apology because he cannot for the life of him figure out what they could possibly have to be sorry for. and then they say it. to say realization dawnson him would be an understatement ; no, it hits him like a brick to the temple, hard and fast and blinding. they're talking about niamh. it's a surreal sort of feeling, the way it seems all the breath has been knocked from his lungs like a physical blow to the chest in spite of the way maisie remains still in his lap. he can feel the tears stinging at his own eyes, threatening escape, and the muscles in his jaw twitch when it clenches in an attempt to hold them back.

lindsay still thinks about his older sister every day ; it's been a decade, give or take, since the day he and santiago arrived at dante's camp. the day niamh's brother-in-arms had to tell him his efforts were too little, too late. he remembers sobbing then, falling to his knees and breaking down in a way he'd never allowed himself in front of others. but he couldn't help it, could he? christ, he'd never known grief like that before. and all he'd wanted then was for his sister to hold him, to squeeze him tight like she'd done so many times when he was just a boy and everything seemed like too much. the way he's holding maisie now, lindsay realizes. he holds them just a little bit tighter, shakes his head silently because he doesn't want to interrupt them, but gods above, he needs them to know that they're wrong.

❝ now ye listen tae me, maisie o'halloran, ❞ he starts when their watery gaze locks with his, his tone stern but steel blue irises soft in the low light. ❝ ah dinnae ever want tae hear ye talk that kind of shite again, ye hear? never. ❞ he doesn't mean to scold them in this moment, not really, but to hear them say something so horrid and know that they believe it to be the truth ― that he'd never given them any reason to not believe it to be the truth ― he doesn't know how to handle it. he's not santi, he's never been good at processing big feelings. when they begin sobbing again, he wonders if it's his fault, if he should be gentler. their fingers dig into his shoulder hard enough he's sure they'll leave bruises, but it only prompts him to pull them back into his chest.

❝ ah loved yer mam more than anything in the world. she― she was my best friend, ❞ lindsay murmurs into their hair, his voice cracking on the last two words. swallowing past the lump in his throat, he forces himself to continue. ❝ there's nae a day tha' goes by i dinnae miss her, but nae once ― nae feckin' once ― would i ever put that on ye, d'ye hear me? what happened tae her is nae yer fault, mais. christ, but ye were so feckin' young, what could ye have done? ❞ silent tears stream from his own eyes now though his voice remains steady and he squeezes them shut in an attempt to stem their flow. ❝ yer supposed tae be here. she wanted ye tae be here. i want ye tae be here. and if i ever― feck, if i ever made ye think fer a second that i blamed ye, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. ❞

Even before he speaks, Maisie realises who it is they've been clinging onto like a buoy of reality, and despite the second of tensing up when that realisation settles in, they don't pull away, a heaviness pulling down their limbs. As small as Maisie is, their full weight resting entirely against Linds' chest belies the muscle mass making them far heavier than they have any right to be so, and usually Maisie is more conscious to not fully lean on someone, but right now, the idea of self-management, even in such a tiny way, is far too exhausting.

Maisie doesn't know how long it takes for reality to land in their mind, it could be a minute, but could be a century, but eventually, slowly, they pull their face from his neck to rest their head on his shoulder instead. The trembling has stopped and only the occasional hiccup, the remnant of tears, wracks through their body... until that same feeling when they were a kid rolling in their stomach like an icy rock, head feeling light and expansive.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Linds," they whisper, and with another slip of control, they feel their face scrunch up as a new bout of tears works through them, tugging at the hem of their tank top. "I know y-you loved her mo-more than anyth-thing, and I g—" A wet whimper escapes them, lifting a hand to press into an eye. "I killed her."

A different kind of fear spreads through their body, fills them up in a way nothing ever has; fear of rejection. Specifically, his. The fear they've been running from since they met when they were ten years old, the fear that has kept him at arm's length all these years. The fear that shines in wet brown eyes as they look up at him, the fear that contorts their face into pleading, into pure guilt. "I di-didn't mean to and I'm so, I'm so sorry, I know you would've ra-rather she were here than me, and I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I should've died, not her, I know that."

Fresh sobs tear through them again, the kind that don't care about the silence of midnight, the kind that disregard people sleeping down the hall, and Maisie instinctively clings to him. Make it harder for him to shake them off when he gets up and leaves them there, using every inch of their strength. "I know you hate me and I'm so sorry!"