#admin romeo x human romeo

[sillysnaildraws]

How did this soggy Brit pull all these people??

Reference under the cut!

[wedix]

SELFCEST MUHAHAHAHHA

[whataboutsimple]

The Isa x Xara and Gabriel x Fred gave me the idea that these two couples knew each other before everything went down with Romeo. Isa and Gabriel consider each other good sparring partners and it might be where Ivor heard about other worlds and what not. Isa can be considered Xara’s Pioneer while Gabriel is Fred’s Warrior. Romeo probably got sick and tired of third wheeling and feeling like his friends are moving on without him.

As a bonus hc: Originally there was nothing underneath the sky world but Xara made it for Isa. She got locked away by Romeo before she could show it.

There are paintings of the two sword fighters that Fred and Xara made for their lovers. They are still in Fred’s shack, untouched until Jesse and Petra eventually found them in a little room.

Romeo.

When I'll find you, Romeo

He didn't just kill his friend, he also left two good humans without a lovers and a whole nation without a chance for good life.

And like that Jesse didn't just deafeted Romeo, he also fixed things a bit. At least Xara can get back to Isa, but Gabriel.. well. He was never meant to be happy anyway:)

Bonus points if Romeo was the one, who pushed Ivor to making WitherStorm. Now it looks like he just has personal beef with Gabriel somewhy.

OH!

What if Romeo was in love with Fred, but Fred choos Gabriel?

What if the only reason Romeo didn't finish Xara off is because he is not as mad with her, as he is with Fred.

Maybe killing Fred wasn't enough for him, he wanted to make the one who took Blue Admin away from him suffer.

You took someone who's dear to me? Cool, now I'm taking your friends apart, one of them will created a monster that will try, I hope successfully, kill you AND will kill one of your friends in the process, while the other will run away. Oh, also, the whole world now will hate you for the lies, good luck surviving that!

He wasn't so interested in making Isa suffering. Well, maybe a bit. That's why he pushed Aiden to creating chaos in Sky City.

And only if Jesse saved him.. he is forced to apologize. To Isa, to Xara, to.. Gabriel.

He was expecting them to be man and he'll, Xara was mad. She almost finished him off on the place. Isa refused to even look at him.

But when he came to the Warrior, words were stuck in his throat. Gabriel didn't look mad. He wasn't even angry. He looked.. strangely calm. Almost deadly calm.

As Romeo managed to spit out weak apologies, he only nodded, saying he accepts it. Feeling Romeo's confusion, Gabriel's said, that Fred believed in him till the very end. So now, when Romeo finally has a chance to redeem himself, Gabriel will believe in him as well.

Bonus points for Binta's and Gabriel's meeting, where they speak their feelings up, patting Waffles. Fred was for Binta like a father figure, so now Gabriel will take her under his wings, helping with Fred's people.

Maybe they will built a small village not so far from BeaconTown and rule it together. For Fred's memory.

[dingdawny]

OUGHHHH YES YES YES I ADORE THE WAY YOUR BRAIN WORKS!! Humans before admins ABSOLUTELY!!! None of them ever should have had that power and none of them know what on EARTH to do with it

Xara and Romeo's relationship in general is so interesting to me like oughhhh they are the below x the above, the moon x the sun, the control x the chaos, the redstone engineer x the building visionary, and they are so interested in each other and so willing to learn from the other. They understand each other like no one could ever understand them and I hope they both EXPLODE

I didn't know that you were a xaromeo fan

always. and forever. they are my most treasured ship. i like xarfredmeo too but post-season 2 xaromeo means the world to me. the long process of Getting Better. god i hope they kiss. are they lovers? worse.

[spicymishtii]

HE(ART) • Victuuri

Prelude

Victor Nikivorov x Katsuki Yuuri

Parallel universe AU

Belief.

Ignorance is a bliss and a bitch, a generally popular universal truth, but hey, if that bitch has aided you to slap a quarter of your life with a big bold try me placard by your inner self-uplifter and has made you immune to this oh-so-evil humankind, you would believe the power of ignorance is not just a bliss but a fucking blessing. Unfortunately which, it seems only a chosen few possess.

Hence by laws of the hypothetically giving-a-fuck universe, Katsuki Yuuri just so happens to be one of the few elites. Though his ability is not that of intentional ignorance but plain old oblivion.

At the most recent occasion—that is right now—his ignorance can also be replaced with the fact that he’s running so he doesn’t really have much fuck to give to peers turning around from all directions to look at him.

And while that on a calmer day might reassure his questionable fashion choices, today he knows, he knows he smells dangerous enough to cause an epidemic merely by existing.

 You see it was not his fault that his naïve (motherfucking) juniors tried moving an entire rack of chemicals that had just so happened to consist of all variants of Thioacetone.

Of course, the idea couldn't be any worse and by the end of screams, flailings, glass breakings, and trickling of the solutions to any and every corner of the room the lab had come to smell like diarrhea at a super level. He hates college.

After picking his nails while half-heartedly listening to the threats and scolding the ultimate seniors (those crazy Einstein-haired Ph.D. ones) had given to those juniors (who resembled a group of terrified hamsters by then), he reckoned it okay for him to slip out quietly.

He’s sneaky, sue him.

 Cue his professor’s email.

 He has special ding-ring-ring! notification in his baby to clearly inform him of the demise he acquires from his soul-suckers every now and then. Not that he doesn’t like his professors (he loves and respects them thank you very much), it’s just he’s so tired. Almost fourth year into college and he has given up on his personal and social life.

He has even forgotten the last time he masturbated. Rimming his textbooks (plus internet), mating his chemicals and blowing his assignments are on the verge of making him question his sexuality. But then he remembers, how he has always known what he was signing up for all those years back.

 And if he wants to reach the finale, he gotta ace this final. And if he wants to ace the final, submitting his paper on Organic synthesis via Enolates before midnight is a nice starting point.

So he continues to torture his suppressed Usain Bolt gene while eloquently cursing his very respectable prof to be traditional as fuck and not utilize the normal idea of e-mailing.

For the total amount of time and energy his legs have flown him by, he thinks he deserves to be all the way across Iceland, instead, he makes peace with reality whilst reaching the dorms. He’s humble, you’re welcome.

One day, one day, he’s going to go on strike and petition to the admins for a goddamn lift. He has no care about learning to be punctual or money which he knows they won’t have any problem with; he and he’s sure every single living creature in college needs one elevator in their dorms just as badly as Romeo might have all those years back.

But he'll think about it later when his whole third year is not on the line. He needs to get to the most crucial year and graduate the fuck out of this hellhole.

 The stairs squeezed out whatever hope was left within his knees until he’s left banging on the door akin to a lunatic with both of his hands. It’s a bad day—the chronicle since this sunny morning is proof enough—so he wasn’t surprised when halfway through his journey he had realized his dorm keys have been forgotten in his lab coat. Why he had even bothered to flick it out of his bag he doesn’t know but life is all about learning through mistakes so.

He can hear the shrill tone of his platonic soulmate/roommate shouting Who the fuck is this?! from inside but he’s too breathless to answer. The door snaps open only seconds later revealing a fuming owner of three hamsters that are perched on different heights of his body.

The person’s expression morphs into that of confusion then concern then suspicion then understanding and lastly deadpan. Yuuri flings his body on the said hamster-father who accepts him with a squeak and almost imbalance.

Subsequently closing the door and carrying the skeleton, Phichit Chulanot has once again proved himself to be The Best Friend™, something he’s going to rub on Yuuri’s face later.

 As soon as Phichit sits both of them down on their excuse of a couch, Yuuri shoots up hitting Phichit’s jaw in the process.

“You—,”

“Later Chu!” he cuts the upcoming verbal splash fast and sprints inside his room, snatches the file and he’s out the door screaming bye. He loves Phichit for not barbequing him or offering him up to an asylum and staying by his side loyally.

He has been honestly touched since the time Phichit got so used to unearthly smells on his body that he doesn’t even ask or get mildly uncomfortable now, and readily accepts hugs and cuddles from the human equivalent of a drain. He could never thank the universe enough.

He could faintly hear his platonic soulmate’s voice above his head so he looks up while continuing to dash down the stairs and finds Phichit leaning dangerously down the railing of their floor and shouting something he can’t really make sense of.

 “What?!” shouts Yuuri, faltering a little in his pace.

“I said come back home at human hours we gotta be somewhere tonight!” yells back Phichit.

Not again.

“Ugh I’ll try!” he huffs out, almost slipping on the latest step.

“Bitch I’m going to murder you if you don’t get your nasty ass inside before nine it’s important!” screeches Phichit.

“I’ll hecking try I promise!”

“Yuuri it’s really important I have people you need to meet!”

“And I have a year I need to pass I’ll try my absolute best Chi, have faith!” yells back Yuuri and jumps over the last three steps hurrying out the building screaming outta ma way! to everyone around.

 Then, he runs.

 Their campus is a beautiful place with all the ponds and cherry blossoms that bloom at this point of the year. There are a few benches scattered around along with some intricately designed bushes and trees beaming at him from wherever eyes could reach.

Though the inside of their college buildings are technologically advanced, the outer environment gives off an early Japanese town vibe. He isn’t shy to admit his practice of favoritism regarding one particular pond and cherry blossom tree on his way to the library (where his professor probably is doing his own research).

His lungs are quite significantly burning from whatever the fuck adrenaline did to his conscience but he is one obdurate masochist so his voluntary muscles abide by his brain. His throat is all dried up and his breath keeps getting caught, he doesn’t understand why he is torturing himself this way but then a voice in his head answers he doesn’t have enough money to repeat a year so.

At one point his vision blurs but he supposes it’s because of his lack of sleep. Well, he is pretty exhausted.

Nearing the pleasant scenery, naturally, he glances towards his favorite chilling spot but what he sees effectively makes him stop.

 The cherry blossoms, which were supposed to be all fresh and full and thick and brimming with life… is barren. Not a single petal could be seen even beneath the tree, only the desolate brown of winding branches doing little to nothing in shading the newly painted bench underneath it.

It’s detached, the way the bare tree and the empty bench overlook the clear water of the small pond in front; it’s so cold, so lonely, it has never been lonely around it.

A breeze blows by, weakly stroking the skin of his neck and fingers that are exposed. He shivers; it's cold.

It’s spring. He wonders if temperatures can drop so much in the afternoon because he definitely remembers the morning to be all warm and sunny and most importantly, he remembers seeing the tree, the full-thick-jovial tree only yesterday on his way to class.

He, on every molecular level, doesn’t know how what he is seeing right now is even possible. Surely he shouldn’t be the only one right?

His eyes rake over the students running or just walking by around him but none of them look mildly uncomfortable with this situation. He wonders if there has been an experiment or an artificial situation that caused his pretty little blossoms to leave without a farewell.

He wouldn't be surprised if it is so, after all, what he learns on a daily basis about the expertise of this century, he’s sure if there’s something other than criticism that doesn’t faze him anymore, it’s human intelligence. His only discomfort is how and why he hasn’t heard about it of all people.

  There is a buzz on his upper thigh through the thin fabric of his ash-colored pajamas. He slips out his phone and stares at the notification of a text from his classmate informing him of his presence being required asap in the library.

Yuuri mutters a shit and pockets the phone, breathing in to keep the formation of lactic acid at a bare minimum for the rest of his way. He peeks back one last time at his beloved, ready to depart, but once again what he sees effectively freezes him.

 Because they’re full. The fucking cherry blossoms are full.

Yuuri opens and closes his mouth like a fish in the middle of the street to try and explain whatever happened just now to himself.

He fails.

He’s about to start pointing accusingly at the tree to every passerby and shout in their face if they too saw what he did but surprisingly stops himself before making another rash decision in his life.

He keeps standing quietly before he decides that yes he needs to go sleep before he goes mad for real and maybe get his eyesight checked as well.

He turns around, shakes his head to pull himself out from whatever trance he is in and notes to allow himself to rest. As he has only this assignment to submit, he doesn't think anything can stop him from going dead this weekend, so he pushes himself one last time and promises himself a while of tranquility later.

 But this time, he jogs.

 Jogs are quite neat, rhythmic and luckily good for health—he will say if you ask him. Considering the number of times he has jogged to reach his lecture halls or played around with Phichit, he can probably say it’s what that has kept him from wilting away like the autumn leaves after inhaling those oil and grease that comes with the college life.  

If we ignore the biologically healthy benefits of the kind, he appreciates jogs much more because of his bestie, as all things considered, these are the only moments when they both could goof and run around like they're meant to do without having the weight of both their majors hovering over them like a depressing gray cloud. Phichit misses him, he knows. But Yuuri will go down arguing he misses him more and he rarely lies.

  Yuuri stares at the ceiling mutely, a pencil flicking in his hand every now and then.

Phichit glances at him just as quietly while continuing his essay on medieval era music from where he’s sprawled on Yuuri’s bed.

He takes a quick peek at the ceiling then at Yuuri then at the ceiling and then Yuuri. He sums up nothing.

“What are you thinking about? Don’t you have a test tomorrow?”

Yuuri’s gaze doesn’t waver. The pencil between his fingers stops spinning.

“Us.”

 Phichit snorts. “You fell in love with me?”

“No, I have standards,” Yuuri replies seriously (“Hey—”) “I just—don’t you sometimes think we were meant to meet, meant to be best friends—be together till now and years to come—and even if we weren’t, we were meant to die together as complete strangers—if that would’ve gone off—as an apology or like, a tribute from the universe for the friendship that we have today that wouldn’t have existed then.

Like there’s this fate, which decides everything for everyone and time which, like you are to me, is the same to fate and both map and plan out everything for everyone from their beginning till end and all the coincidences in between. People say all those quotes about how we write our own fate but in reality, we don’t write shit.

Time makes us do what we do and fate then gives us whatever our actions have earned—good or bad. We both earned to meet each other—time pushed us to the right point and fate just did its magic in return.

They always leave a door open for what-ifs to be guesstimated; they give us doors to go through—most of the time they pull through whichever door we eventually stand across and sometimes they push ’cause they need to. We were pushed Phichit—we were pushed in that lake together to drown—we were pushed to be saved and then, we were pulled to be friends, slowly, at our own pace.

But what if we would have drowned? What if you wouldn’t have jumped in naively to save me when you didn’t know a cent about swimming? What if it had gotten too late? What if the ambulance had got caught up? What if the doctors failed to push out the water from our lungs? What if we had died, together?

They tend to leave these what-ifs a lot so we reflect. We reflect and either we grow better or worse, unlike itself.  The universe is so stable, isn't it? With all the dark matter and the little white ones in it—quite like human personality yet it’s us who keep changing; we’re irregular, varying.

Besides that, I wonder if any more pushes are left, any more pushes to land me somewhere crucial yet, because at this point I think I’ve utilized all my pulls. Don’t you, Chi? Don’t you think about the universe?”

 Yuuri stares back at Phichit who has gone silent.

Yuuri raises a brow; Phichit closes his mouth.

 “Exactly what’s going on in that head of yours? Yuuri are you… are you okay? Why are you talking like this? Just half an hour ago we were having a debate on Teletubbies—you—what, why?” Phichit asks in disbelief.

 Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“Just because.”

 Phichit looks like he is about to go big bro mode and ask whatever the hell he meant just now but he cannot find a head or tail of how to begin so he shuts up and heaves a breath aggressively.

 “We must, shouldn’t we? we’re not even at quarter to our lives. There must still be something, something big, something extravagant—something that push worthy. They should’ve planned it by now. Fate must be waiting; time is slow. Will you be ready for another ‘Kimi no Na wa’-level change in your life?” Yuuri wiggles his eyebrows.

Phichit sighs and decides to go along even though he’s still one hundred percent blank.

“I’ll learn if not,”

 "Hmm… we always do I guess.”

   Yuuri pushes the door slowly that opens with a haunted creak, the sound pretty much deafening in what it seems a deserted library if not for the clear clicks of keyboard keys from somewhere deep inside. He closes the door as silently as he can with the inevitable old wood creaks.

His slippers tap loudly on the polished marble of fused colors whilst he tries to follow the echo of keys. The library feels odd, this being the first time for him witnessing it so solitary, bleak. He wonders if the students are hidden in corners for their own space. His eyes scan through the shelves to search for anyone, or preferably his teacher. He passes by an aisle quickly noticing motion from his peripheral vision before he backtracks.

There sits his teacher, typing away on his laptop with as much concentration as he narrates his golden days during a substitute class. The volume and number of books sprawled across the table is no joke. Yuuri knows he doesn't want Ph.D. and definitely not Research but the scenes of pure mental torture still cultivates a shudder within him.

 He clears his throat. He is ignored.

He sighs and makes way to his teacher’s chair.

“Sir?” he knocks on the table. His professor flinches hard at the interruption.

“Oh… oh you. Don’t scare an old man that way, you imbecile,” he huffs.

Yuuri ignores the comment (he’s used to it) and retrieves the file from his bag.

“Here, sir. By the way, did you ask for me?” he places the file beside a book lying open.

“Oh yes, yes. I need your help young man. I hope it’s not a bother,” he gives Yuuri a quick look and goes back to typing.

“Sure, no problem,” there goes my tranquility, “What for, if I may ask?”

“Thank you very much Yuuri, it’s really appreciated. You just have to type the rest of this document from this paper I have already written and save it. You can leave after that, just shoot me a quick text,”

“Are you leaving Professor Cialdini?”

"Oh yes. I have a meeting with the other professors in the Science department that I couldn't miss for my life. It’s about you lot after all,” the professor teases, “And I need to get this shithead done and published before I die. I refuse to leave earth without doing it so I’ll be very thankful if you just type out the last page. You’re the most reliable regarding this affair, although a little inelegant but it’s just typing and I couldn’t choose anyone else.”

 Was that a compliment or insult?

“So I’ll be leaving the rest to you,” his professor pats his shoulder to which he offers his trademark smile and nods.

Professor Cialdini takes his file and disappears around the shelf, the echo of his boots fading. Yuuri heaves a long, long sigh and hopes the writing on this one page is at least eligible. He shrugs off his bag and pushes the chair back to sit down following the faint sound of the door closing.

He checks the page closely from where he’s been told to copy and cracks his knuckles. His professor’s handwriting is shit as expected. Floating his fingers above the keys, his elbow knocks out the spectacles case his professor must have forgotten about. He presses his lips in judgment.

  He bends down, folding his body, to retrieve the case and lean back up after getting a hold. Except in the process, his head hits brutally at the table’s edge and he groans, immediately messaging the throbbing area. He tries opening his eyes but everything surprisingly goes into a blur for such a simple hit, it’s as if the blur from a while ago has increased tenfold.

His head hurts not only from the impact but the sides and all over, his head pounds. He senses a feeling similar to being clogged by water. He feels as if he is drowning all over again the way he had those years ago. He can’t speak and his throat indulges to emit only whimpers which are way too cryptic and way too hushed.

He is practically thrashing around in his seat causing the chair to go off-balance several times yet his legs can't find any stored glucose to provide for the use of them.

 There’s a shrill sharp beak of sound in his ears which is raucous and increases the hurting of his skull intensively. He wants to shout but he can’t. He bangs his head down on the keyboard, holding it and tugging his hair roughly. He feels so, so exhausted. Grey dots in a vast plain of blackness keep appearing without fail and it is probably what he sees, feels before his body gives up in place of his fortitude.

End prelude.

[anorderanditsstone]

A Tale Has Begun (Rules)

No character limit- Go wild.

Reader character gender- The reader character gender will always be ambiguous/gender neutral. Reader character will use they/them.

Spoilers- This game has been out for ages but fair warning just in case. I don't tag spoilers either.

The Admins- You may request scenarios with Xara as an admin (pre game basically). I'll also do human Fred as a small AU where he lives but was stripped. "The Admin" and Romeo will be separate.

I WON'T do- Pregnancy, r*pe, p*dophila, yandere and anything in those categories.

NSFW- I don't do NSFW stuff.

No "Canon x Canon"- This is a reader insert blog.

Jesse- I will write for Jesse though I will not specify their gender for now.

Ask Box- I'll close the ask box if I need to catch up... Which may take a while so be patient please.

(If I think of anything I’ll edit this. Have fun!)

[writersshippingcorner]

Jyth - Mourning

[Word Count: 1,957 Pairing: Jesse x Myth (romantic) Warnings: Some angst and comfort.]

Waves lapped at the shore. Fish burbled and swam along the river’s bank, drifting from one side to the other in peace. Tree leaves swayed ever-so-gently, offering a natural symphony to the gentle bubble of the river. Myth was staring at her phone, eyes glued to the last photo she had ever taken with her family. It had been so many months... At least they were smiling.- Her brother had finally gotten his server up and running, her sister was actually advancing in her photography degree, her father hadn’t been sick in ages, and her mother was without stress.

They had all been there to laugh with her outside the house, having each been drenched. Plastic littered the pavement to their home in spots, surrounded by a blast of water from the contents they had held. Everyone was in their swimsuits... Everyone was smiling... Even her.

And then this had all happened. She knew that, as any sane adult, she had to go out on her own at some point- but like this?... She could still hear the words of the Admin- Fred-, echoing inside her mind. She couldn’t blame God, couldn’t blame Romeo, couldn’t blame anyone but herself.

That fact alone had her slumping down to her knees. The image of her smiling family was nearly a poison, slowly wearing away at her sanity as the seconds ticked by.

“...once you do this, you will be the Codebase, and going back to whatever world Xara took you from....” A block formed in her throat- thankfully not a literal one. It was more like when one swallows a big chunk of something, and it begins to block off their airpipe. Myth choked for a moment, feeling a silver tear fall from her face. She didn’t want to become an adult so fast- to become what she knew everyone in her old world became eventually.

The sun was nearly mocking with its quiet heat, helping to keep her from freezing over. It was near-madness, this place.- But there were a few redeeming qualities... She reached out, letting her fingertips brush the top of the river’s surface. The ripple effect was minute, fading ever-so-quickly from knowledge within the current when her hand was pulled back. The phone was pulled closer to her.

Myth moved it to the YouTube app, grateful that she still (somehow) had WiFi in this strange world of blocks and humans.... She hit a song in her recent history, skipping by the ad and letting the tune wash over the whispering world. Myth rested, eyes drifting along the flowing water current. Everything seemed to fall away in that moment, leaving her with... A strange peace.

It wasn’t the kind of ‘happy peace’, but it wasn’t necessarily a sad peace either... It was just... Peace. For a time, she just... Sat there... Long after the song had faded out, just letting the world’s own music drift over her. She was here. There was no going back..

“Myth?- It’s gonna be dark soon, what’re you doin’ out here?” That voice was familiar- a very, very familiar one. It was a hint scratchy, but filled with a boyish need for adventure that she had grown to adore over the past several months. Myth breathed out slowly, reaching one hand over to grab her phone. Indeed, her shadow had elongated, going over the stream and eradicating her reflection.

“.... I was lost in thought. Sorry, Jesse.” Myth pocketed her phone, standing up to turn and face the other. Jesse was a decent tan-peach, where Myth was more a pale tone. His glimmering emerald eyes looked into her own hazel gaze, trying to find the deeper meaning. His mouth was pressed into a faint frown, before he nodded. He took a step closer, the scent of the mines echoing off his white button-up shirt and red straps. In the shadows, his golden buttons nearly seemed like dull coins. Sunlight reflected off the top of his head, causing an almost-brown halo of a lens-flare. This world certainly had its strange occurrences, Myth gave it that.

He was a bit filthy, with dirt stretching up and down his clothing and skin. The male- much like most in this world- was decently athletic, thankfully not to the horrific point of ‘heroes’ in her old world. It was more... Real, somehow.- That nearly made her giggle, but the will to smile just... Wasn’t there. A particular smudge of coal rested just above one of his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. Myth stepped closer.

“What is it?- Did I forget to do the top button again?” Myth shook her head. She slowly moved a hand forth and up- Jesse was a solid foot or so taller than her- and wiped at the smudge. Some of it came away, but a bit of it smeared. She smiled, but... It nearly felt hollow. Not quite real. It was a lie, and that thought alone had her dropping it milliseconds after it was raised.

“... I wanted to get some of the dirt off.” Her words were but a mutter. She had no right to speak as she did, she knew that- but the energy to be more positive just wasn’t there. Jesse’s hand reached out, resting on her shoulder while a small grin appeared on his face. Myth wanted to call it adorable or cute, but she didn’t desire causing Jesse embarrassment... Not at the moment, at least.

“Thanks, Mythie.” Jesse’s hand slid down her arm, pausing when it was resting in her hand. “... Wanna walk back to Beacontown with me?” The two were still looking at each other. That accursed grin... Myth knew that if she looked too long, her face would heat up. She inhaled slowly.

“.... Sure.” Jesse’s grin widened a little bit. “... That grin is gonna be the death of me, block-boy...” Myth shook her head while Jesse moved to begin the walk back to Beacontown. Their shoes quickly landed on a crunchy path, moving sharp rocks the size of pinpricks underneath them. They weren’t too terribly deep in the woods, but it was in a thick section, with oak and birch trees stretching up around them, save for one path that they could follow out- shrouded now in shadow.

“I would hope not.” Jesse did not look back, but she could nearly hear the mirth in his voice, bubbling up from within like a smile she couldn’t see. A thought crossed Myth’s mind.

“... Do you mind if I put on some music?...”

“Of course not.” Myth used her free hand to reach into her pocket. She pulled up YouTube, hitting the first song playlist that came up. The song echoed through the woods, faint but kind. The two walked in silence through the shadows, every now and again illuminated by the sun as it punctured through the leaf cover.

It was funny how the world’s physics were all at once Minecraft and not.- Sunlight could go through leaves and reflect off things, the ‘Minecraftians’ looked like humans... And yet, everything else was blocky (save their tools, thank heavens). They all had ‘inventories’, which had been... The stranger part of Myth’s first adventure in the world.

She had to be honest to Jesse about what she was doing.- The idea hit her smack between the eyes, barely giving her a second of thought to process. Of course, she wanted to tell him- but how was she supposed to tell him that she was mourning her family? She had picked this world, this life- of course, at the time, it had been heat-of-the-moment, but... Sometimes...

“.... I was thinking about my family.” There was a beat of silence. “.... I just... Miss them, sometimes...- I know, I picked to stay here, to help- but....” Myth paused. She’d already said too much. Jesse’s hand slipped from her’s. She slowed to a stop. Her hands retracted back to herself. Jesse stopped an extra step or so ahead. “.... I mean, I know, if I didn’t- but my parents... My siblings- everything I was ever-... Ever working toward...” Myth lowered her sight to the ground. “... I gave it all up.... I gave it all up, and sometimes... I just... Can’t be happy.- Because I just get so sad- so scared and alone and afraid- and I think ‘what if I shouldn’t be here’, ‘what if I made the wrong choice’, ‘would everyone hate me if they knew’...”

She sniffed. Great. Sniffling. That object was back in her throat, now daring to choke her words before she could finish. Myth ran a hand under her nose.

“... I don’t want to mourn for them in public... Because I think everyone would just get mad..- And while I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I went home, I know I wouldn’t’ve, but- I just- it’s- compli-cated...!” Myth closed her eyes. Salty liquid dripped down. She could nearly imagine it hitting the gravel path beneath her shoes. There was someone walking.- A crunch of the ground. She knew it was getting closer- even with her slowly-failing hearing, she could tell.

Myth was expecting a quiet ‘no’, or maybe just silence before the other turned and walked away. Her head was ducked, the admission she’d just offered feeling like a thousand pounds in her heart. Jesse probably hated her now, didn’t he?- They were supposed to be Minecraftia’s heroes, and here she was, mourning a decision made to save them all.

Arms wrapped around her- gentle and slow. She hiccuped.

“.... It’s alright to mourn, Myth...” Jesse’s voice was soft. The music was still going on around them, filtering into the air. “... It wasn’t an easy choice to make...” A head rested on her own, nestling itself into her hair. She could feel warm breath, and a chest pressed against her. A heartbeat... Slow, soft. “... It’s alright to be sad...”

“.... Y-you... Don-n’t ha-te....?” Myth hated that her voice warbled so. It was a sign of weakness in her mind, a toxic representation of a softer side she didn’t let the world see. Jesse kissed the top of her head.

“.... I could never, Myth...” She raised her head, opening her eyes. Her eyesight was blurry, hindered by her own sorrow. Not that it would do her much good, staring into the white of Jesse’s shirt. “... We’ve been through the Nether and beyond, together..” His arms began to unwrap, the gentle heartbeat she’d been hearing fading away as Jesse let her go. “.... Mourning is a part of life... Everyone’s so grateful for the sacrifice you made... I’m sure they would understand.”

Myth nodded her head faintly. The tears were tracking down her face, and she sniffled yet again. Heaven, she probably looked like an awful mess.

“.... Th-han-nks, Jes-se...” Ah, still stuttering. She pulled in a half-breath, even that fractured by the emotion that was pulling her in two. “... S-sorr-ry, I- prob-bably look t-terrib-ble right now...” Jesse chuckled.

“No, you look gorgeous.” His hand was back in her own. “... Let’s get back to Beacontown... And then we can both clean up.... Deal?” Myth, for the first time in probably a few hours, found a small, genuine smile crossing her face. She wiped at her tears with her arm, before offering a breathy, hesitant laugh.

“.... Y-yeah.” They began walking once more, but this time... Just a hint closer than before.

She knew she would never reset her choice, even if it meant her world was essentially dead to her... But it was nice... To know she had a shoulder to cry on, when it got hard to think about.

“.... Cookies for dinner?”

“...... Y-you kn-now me too well-l...”

[ask-svt-hearteu]

Not a ask for svt. But you admins look sweet and nice af. I just wanted to know what other groups you stan and who you bias. Just because XD. Have a good day

Admin Seri: ackkk you have an amazing day too!! I’m doing this off the top of my head so i’ll probably miss a ton

Seventeen ` Soonyoung (OBVIOUSLY LOL)

Got7 ` Bambam (i think? they all come for me)

Day6 ` Dowoon (dowoon. in. chokers.) 

AKMU ` Lee Suhyun & Chanhyuk (if you haven’t listened to them whatareyoudoing)

Monsta X ` IM

BigBang ` Daesung (he GETS me)

Winner ` Mino

Shinee ` Onew (but Jonghyun’s getting me lately)

VIXX ` Ken (but Leo’s so close)

NCT ` Haechan

EXO ` Chanyeol (i dont even know) 

Admin Jess: my heart TT tysm lovely

Seventeen- Joshua (TBH IF EVERYONE DOESN’T KNOW I’M A SHUA STAN BY NOW… LOL, I’ll never swerve but Jun gives me heart attacks daily too)

Bts- Min Yoongi (idk with bts at this point bc then there’s Jin and jimin not letting me live and stuff

Got7- Choi Youngjae

KNK- Seungjun (heejun is my everything too tho)

UP10TION- wooseok is my bias but if you asked me to pick from the latest comeback only it’d be wei

Astro- MJ (the cutie and his high notes I die)

Vixx- N

Day6- Jae and wonpil (I can’t decide help)

Romeo- Kangmin

Wanna one- Daehwi (even though I’m a year older than him IM CONFLICTED?!?!?)

Exo- Yixing (tho if I had to pick from ot8 it’d be Baekhyun and Minseok

KARD- Somin

Admin Sophia: Hope youre having a good day too~ And yes, we are very nice human beings. Btw, I only stan a few groups at the moment. Cause Im not really good at memorizing names and I havent really made an effort of finding other groups. Oh and Im still trying to fix my bias list so..here is the list of the groups I stan and bias.

Seventeen: Wen Junhui~

BTS: Min Yoongi~

GOT7: Choi Youngjae~

Twice: Idk. Sana, Daehyun, Jihyo or Momo

Blackpink: Rośe and Jennie

EXO: Kim Minseok~

ASTRO: idek man. Sometimes its MJ, sometimes its Moonbin

Monsta X: Minhyuk~

Vixx: Ken~

Gfriend: Umji~

Red Velvet: Irene~Thats all. Lol.

Admin Meagan: Aweee! Thank you ☺️ and yes the admins are all sweet and nice! But can be savage at times lmaoo. Have a good day too! Take care and stay safe

Seventeen: Hoshi, every since I got into them I’ve been loyal to my hamster boy. But Joshua likes to come into the picture a lot lol

Bts: Yoongi!!

Got7: Jaebum

Wanna One: Daniel ever since produce 101 I literally watched that religiously

Day 6: Sometimes it’s Jae or Brian or Wonpil lmao

Big Bang: I love them all

Nu'est: Baekho or JR

Exo: Kai or Minseok

Blackpink: Jennie

Winner: Mino or Seunghoon

[archivesdiveronarpg]

Congratulations, LESLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of CLAUDIUS. Admin Bree: Put simply, this application was everything I’ve been looking for in a Clark app and more. You nailed him from start to finish, from your analysis to your interview (his cigarette, his nagging conscience) to the faintly nostalgic para sample (the violin, in particular). You brought him to life in all of his terrible, tragic glory, and I can’t thank you enough for applying. I can’t wait to see what you do with him on the dash! Welcome to DiVerona! Your request to change his faceclaim to Richard Armitage has also been accepted. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours. 

                                                                              WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Leslie

Age | 17

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I’m attending summer school by June and school starts in July, which means I’ll inevitably come across busy weekdays and weekends. However, my activity is mostly still dictated by how much muse I have for my character. Writing is never an issue for me so long as my muse hasn’t been milked dry that day.

Timezone | GMT +8

Current/Past RP Accounts | My accounts can be found here (x), here (x) and here (x). Most of my experience, as you may as well realize, are from only city RPs so I’ll be deviating from my comfort zone here, should I get accepted!  

In Character

Character | Claudius (Clark Godrej). While I love Cillian Murphy, could you possibly see Richard Armitage in his stead? This is only a secondary concern, though!  

What drew you to this character? | Is it considered a crime if you, at age seventeen, have not read any Shakespeare play? Of course I’ve seen adaptations of Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and Much Ado About Nothing, but other than that my knowledge on Shakespeare is nada. The initial knowledge I have of Claudius comes from Cliffsnotes (I especially like the part where the writer calls him ‘morally deficient’ and how he sacrifices humanity and humanness to acquire his goals), but reading his biography just made him more interesting for me.

It’s easy to conclude from first glance that Claudius is some sort of psychopath, but I believe that he is far more than that. C (I hope you don’t mind if I use this in future reference to him) has the makings of a Byronic character: plots spread across his life nothing short of tragedies, with misery and scorn imbued in his heart although still capable of love. More than that, however, I see him as possessing an inferiority complex stemming mainly from being constantly behind his older brother, whose shadow still rightfully looms his very movements to this day. Fusing Byronic characteristics with inferiority and you have yourself a deeply flawed character. As a writer, I aim to make my characters written in such a way that they aren’t just an overplayed trope.

Additionally, while he’s an emissary of the Montagues, his true loyalty lies within himself and himself alone—doing everything with his interests in mind, his mob allegiance only taking second place to his selfishness. Though what is important here is why he has become so selfish in the first place—and the answer lies with his older brother yet again. He’s neither owned nor valued in his life, and the barest semblance of anything that could become his he takes so with passion. This has especially struck me personally, considering that I’m a little bit of a greedy prick in real life (what can you do? Haha) but I do so with a justification it’s just me “taking back what I’ve lost”. And that’s primarily what C has become. So much has been taken from him that when the opportunity presents itself to “steal” something which is his brother’s own, he does so with a smile on his face, because he thinks—he knows—this is what he deserves. Him loving his brother’s wife and him killing his brother, however, are other stories entirely.

Despite all my ramblings, I don’t think I’ve definitively answered why I damn well love C so much already. He’s suffered most his life and from that he becomes a truly grey character for whom it is difficult to sympathize with, and with good reason. He’s malicious, selfish, and bitter; on the other hand, he’s driven, loyal to a fault, and extremely calculating in his methods. Without a doubt, C is human and everything that entails – a product of life’s calamities and fleeting radiance.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

Giya | Similarly to the third-season villain in The Legend of Korra (I can’t help but make a reference!), the one thing that tethers the villain to the ‘earthly realm’ is that of his one true love. I imagine that C will approach her death with the same approach as he did his brother’s own. He’ll be throwing himself to his work in an effort to erase all memory of her, but this fails with even the barest mention of her name. It will be an interesting and admittedly difficult challenge to paint him as anything but irredeemable after that point, because what else is there for him to live for in this goddamn world? The thought process would be unreal. In his mind, he’s killed for nothing. Now both his brother’s and Giya’s deaths lull in his conscience. Nightmares come more than ever before, as if compensating for their scarcity back then. Her death has unlocked in him a weakness that he so wishes to eradicate. Ultimately, though, I just want to see how he can grow from all this. He truly doesn’t have anything holding him back now, which leads to him becoming more reckless than ever.

Gallows (TW: suicide ideation) | Whether he be huddling in stacks under stacks of books or requesting that he take on other responsibilities aside from his job’s conventions, C is unwittingly distancing himself from others. He’s a tightly wound up storm and within good reason—in his perspective the universe throws tragedy to him constantly. So tightly wound is he that when he’s approached with the subtlest impression of compassion the storm comes resurging. Because, in the deepest trenches of his organ writhing underneath his ribcage, there remains still sentiment that motivates him to live. But he is so good at hiding his emotions, so good that I fear the inevitable numbness will push him further and further the edge. That being said, I desire for him to have even one friend to whom he can open up. It’s scary and characteristically unnatural for him to do so, but without a support system, I have an inkling that he’ll believe death is the only escape to the horrors he’s lived.

Gone Wrong | The brazen hiss of a car tire as it glosses over a roughly cemented road. Bones and synapses and organs smashed as his air bag failed to protect him from the damage. Lungs filled with inhaled carbon monoxide. Eyes dimmed, with only blinding white light in his line of sight. A fire developing from the car engine. Himself, unable to escape. C is a perfectionist above all. And while he’s internally already broken, I’d like to explore how physical incapability and how the loss of work – the only thing that keeps him going now – influences his actions. Always one to stubbornly brush off help, there’s no telling how he’ll fare on his own. In his perspective, such an accident is his past’s way of coming back to haunt him.

In Depth

The following THREE questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would were you playing the character.

TW: suicide ideation

The pair opposite each other on a shadowy nook in the comfort of his home. Separating them is an old mahogany coffee table smattered with scratches and even a bite mark, stemming from a former dog of whom he’s now disposed. A glass ashtray, whose surface has turned the color of tar, sits on the middle. Two glasses of water—the lone thing which Clark has prepared for them both, actual sustenance be damned—is placed strategically on its sides, as if guarding the ashtray’s secrets. Crossing his legs and drumming his fingers endlessly on the arm rail, he waits impatiently for the other’s question, having no desire except to continue his day per usual.

“What is your favorite place in Verona?” The interviewer asks, expression of pure civility.

A shake of his head, fingers flicking his cancer stick before it finds its way between his lips once more. A click of a lighter is heard as he alights his cigarette and begins to induce poison in and out his lungs.

Momentary silence is observed before his chapped lips part to repeat the other’s words. “My favorite place in Verona…” He muses, crossing his arms over his chest which serves as another means of defense. He decides not to give an honest answer, and having easily mastered the art of deceit he’s certain that the other will believe him regardless of his utterance.

“…is the capital library.” Then again, his response carries an undercurrent of truth. He neither wholly desires the fragrance of old books wafting through shelves that shadow the most miniscule of moves nor the hushed atmospheres upon which even a mellow laugh of a child is contorted into something ominous. He craves, in their stead, the peril lurking above the bookshelves and away from an entire city’s line of sight. It is among one of his safe spaces, a place where he can tread with peers of similar ideologies, those who have learned to accept him despite the rage bubbling underneath his system.

But you’re still lying. A conscience, faded but still ingrained into the back of his mind, tells him. He daren’t admit it to anyone, but the bridge dividing both parties is where his heart lies. The Castelvecchio stands unwitting of its role in the raging civil war, and he’s loath to think how much tragedy it has seen. And oh how he desires to trace both the footsteps of Capulets and Montagues and to discern how many of them have taken their last steps here—

—and how sometimes, when his heart is heavy and his shoulders become too heavy laden, when all efforts of alleviating the pain becomes all for naught, he imagines how it feels like to jump from one of its stones and into the raging river underneath.

But that is a story for a later day. Now, all that concerns him are finishing his cigarette. And this ruddy interview.

The other man taps his feet ceaselessly on the mahogany floor, eager to write his words yet again. But Clark is not one to satisfy another. In fact, he relishes in taking away their pleasure. Let him experience a twinge of suffering, a lone crevice of his mind says, let him.

A gleam in his eyes is evident yet again as he throws the stick somewhere, making neither moves to throw it properly nor extinguishing its tip. Let it burn. His conscience says treacherously.

He sees the impatient expression plastered on the other’s face, and a faint gale of laughter escapes past his lips. “Oh, do you want me to continue?” He utters, raising a single brow. “You’re not going to get an answer more than that.”

“What does your typical day look like?” The man almost stammers now, but ever so quick on his feet, disguises the gaffe with a small cough.

His head tilts, ever so slightly, at the candid inquiry. A perfectly-sculpted mask shatters only in the rarest of occasions and today is no exception. His face is still, devoid of emotion, with only those who have been trained in the art of distinguishing the cartography of Clark’s face having the knowledge of where to look. The faint curl of his lips is suggestive of sinisterism rather than of genuine amusement, cerulean blue irises glimmering with that of the sweet smell of danger.

“Shall I bore you with the details?” Clark leans back on his chair, folding his hands on his lap as he does so. His eyelids flutter shut as he inhales the remnants of nicotine looming in the air, a fleeting repose to boredom.  

“That’s why I’ve been brought here.” The interviewer does not even attempt to conceal his slight annoyance.

Let him wait. His conscience, or at least whatever is left of it, speaks. These days the small voice in the back of his head only serves to vex him all the more. Sometimes it speaks well, but far more frequently it does its stark opposite. The latter now speaks to him, in a cold, calculating way that almost mirrors his own speech.

A shallow laugh bubbles and escapes from his system before he can stop it. “Don’t tell me you’re actually interested in the makings of an emissary. Wouldn’t you rather learn about the boss, who sits atop his throne? Or their second-in-command, whose deeds are so dark they can bring the diablo on his knees? Or the advisers, whose words occasionally serve much better than the soldiers’ actions?”

There is no response on his opposite’s part. He continues.

“Or wouldn’t you rather learn about the unspeakable?” Clark leans forward, looking side by side as if to keep a secret from an invisible audience. “Wouldn’t you rather learn of a thief in the night, strutting across the room as their eyes fixate on another silhouette? Wouldn’t you rather learn of a man with quiet, calculated steps, stifling his would-be victim’s mouth with a handkerchief and plunging a knife into their back? Wouldn’t you rather learn of a man whose arm contains now a trail of crimson as he remorselessly leaves his victim, who has lips growing purple with each passing second and their skin flaking at the slightest touch?”

He sees him now, swallowing in fear as Clark utters his sentences.

Fear is what he does best, he thinks.

“…that beats talking about mundane business trips, no?”

The interviewer conceals none of his fright, almost instinctively taking the glass of water and, putting his lips onto its brim, drank its contents until it is half-empty.

“Erm… I suppose we should skip to the last question,” the interviewer speaks, “what are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

“You want the truth?” Clark replies, almost gnashing his teeth.

The interviewer nods, gaze fixated at him, as if daring him to finally venture onto the realm of honesty.

“Who was it that said, ‘All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal?’ Sun Tzu, or John Steinbeck?”

“I believe it was Steinbeck.”

“And it was Einstein, was it not, who said that ‘killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder’?”

Another nod of the interviewer’s head.

“I believe in neither,” Clark speaks, voice carrying an undercurrent of exhaustion. His next words are a product of his mind’s quiet, feeble surrender, letting his walls down ever so slightly. There is no doubt on the authenticity of his words. “War is humanity’s greatest achievement. We have grown past the point of conventions and conformity to the extent we wage battles in an effort to fight for our ideologies. In war, we see the best and the worst of mankind. Innocents cry for help and the braves deliver. In war, there comes innovation and breakthroughs, inventions that wouldn’t have otherwise been made if we remained not in distress.  War makes heroes and victims of us all. War is not a dishonor to civilization but rather its saving grace.

“That being said, who am I to judge as to whose faction is in the right? One man’s enemy is another man’s freedom fighter, and the Capulets and the Montagues understand this. In both points of view, there is no senseless brutality but justified hatred. And while I belong to the latter faction, if I had been born on the other side of the tracks, I most likely would’ve followed suit on the other team.”

Moments of defenselessness aren’t especially sought after by him, but Karma’s ugly cousin Fate ought to have thought otherwise following this encounter’s inevitability. Even while he is having the conversation his candor stings, like a snake’s venomous bite, as if the serpent seething in his system desires nothing more than to sear its scales permanently onto pale flesh. To bring back the mask he’s slowly uncovered.

Heedless of mind’s qualm, he continues, “I’m a selfish man. I do things primarily for my own gain. I’ve forgotten how it’s like to care for another. Being an emissary is just a job. I don’t expect, nor anyone should expect, that I be a hero.”

Gradually pushing himself out of his chair, Clark begins to take out another cigarette stick from his breast pocket. I’ve said too much. He muses internally as he lights the cigarette and brings it between his lips, unable to resist nicotine’s sensual destruction. Walking over to where the interviewer sat, Clark brings his free hand on their shoulder, he utters:

“Enough is enough.”

In-Character Para Sample: We do require one in-character para sample. Again, write as much or as little as you need to get your interpretation across.

01.  

In his hand, he holds a picture frame of himself and his music teacher. It’s dingy and dusty from decades of wear and tear, its outlines faded as if adding a natural vignette. It has been long, too long, since he’s last held his much-loved string instrument. It is rare, almost nonexistent, that his work be entailed with bouts of rhythmic resonance.

From happier times, it’s captioned.

“Clark Godrej,” his teacher once said, “you are a promising violinist.”

He remembers those days where sonorous notes weaved by his fingers fill the room as effortlessly as a summer breeze. He remembers the violin’s warm vibrato that dispels the sorrow surround him. He remembers the magnified, thunderous applause befitting for an artist of his talent. As a child four feet ten tall, he is the smallest of performers, pale and porcelain skin serving only as another reminder of his fragility.

But the string instrument is far from the only thing which he manipulates. He has trained the line of his lips to contort into a smile; eventually it becomes a part of him. A smile, seamlessly orchestrated, with no single note amiss, and with every chord struck with the neatest precision. It is a trick he uses as a means to hide the darkness coursing through thin veins. He performs this smile every time he takes a bow on the stage, with his parents and brother distinctively absent.

Even as a child, Clark’s memory has never been quite fickle. But at some points there is a failure of clarity, a glitch in the well-oiled machinations that is his consciousness.

He remembers small things.

He remembers the young Clark as he leaves the recital is a torrential downpour of rain. The pitter-patter of his ruined leather Oxfords as he makes the way back to the Godrej home. Even then it seems to him like Fate’s bitter laughter, taunting and flagrant in its repose.

He remembers himself staggering through the family’s doorsteps like an animal venturing into a new cage. The case enclosing his violin is wet all over, having used it to safeguard his own body.

He remembers a silhouette carefully approaching him. “You’re late.” His father speaks first, lips curled into a grim line.

He remembers himself mussing up his hair, droplets of rainwater stuck to his raven locks dampening his fingers. “It was raining.” He chimes in gently. “Did I miss dinner?”

He remembers the tension looming between the pair like thick musk, carrying an undercurrent of disapproval. “You did.” The words roll out of bared teeth. Like a statue his body hardens, swallowing in fear as he sees his father’s tightly-wound features. “Did you do this on purpose again?”

He remembers himself not listening.  “Of course not. What’s for me to gain?” His remark is uttered as a faint mumble, as if his speech is still uncertain to tread another lie. He remembers not wanting to be there, not at all, not in a family dinner where his brother was celebrated and himself all but ignored. “I’d rather rest, if that’s alright by you.” The sigh he releases from his system is heavy and resolute.

He remembers his father not wishing to rescind, instead pushing on his inquiry. “Do you think this is some sort of game, Clark?” His father doesn’t wish to rescind, instead pushing on his inquiry.

It is at this point that his mind fails him, drawing a blank where there should’ve been a memory.

But he does remember this:

He remembers a resounding, echoing slap.

He remembers a hand-shaped bruise on the side of his cheek as he looks at himself in the mirror the next day. It stings at the slightest touch.

He remembers a quiet breakfast.

He remembers darkness.

And he remembers a violin, split in two.

(The next two are just drabbles for a graphic for his relationships with Haresh and Giya that I gave up doing because I have 0 Photoshop skills whatsoever haha)

02.

His grief, like many things about him, is tightly concealed. No one will know about his running as soon as the wake came to a close, his legs failing him, and him sinking to his knees as soon as he opens his front door. No one will know how he takes one look at his bare flat and realizing how bereft he truly is of company and friends and anything akin to love. No one will know how he untangles his tie and wishes that he can also untangle himself from his mask of feigned indifference, worn so constantly that it’s already been seared permanently into his flesh. No one will know how he prays that night, prays with only God as his witness, asking for a mantra of reconciliation even though he knows his deed is unforgivable.  

No one can know.

He is Cain, and he will carry his sin to the grave.

And when Death does come to find him, as it shall inevitably, whether today or tomorrow or the next, Clark will point his gaze right back. His eyes will brim with tears, unshed and unspoken, for it is only in his last moment that he can expunge his prolonged sorrow.

03.

Long has he past brave illusions for a happier and more radiant tale, plots coated with no small amount of deluged tragedies and stuck in a ceaseless discourse with Fate, ever so realistic in its manifestation. Hope for his tale’s possible saccharine resolution bid its farewell so long ago leaving him with only bare remnants of opportunities for felicity, but when the shadows grew too long and the days felt too short, he tenaciously and persistently hanged onto these loose ends.

But as Giya’s thread, too, is cut loose, he finds himself holding onto nothing.

And what else is there to live for?

Extras:

Pinterest (x) Inspo tag (x)  There isn’t a lot round here, but hopefully it works. X Playlist (x) Element: Fire MBTI: ENTJ “The Commander” Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Primary Vice: Pride Primary Virtue: Prudence

Headcanons:

GIYA. The way I see it, Clark first sees Giya as his brother’s property. So when their mutual attraction is made known, Clark is obviously ecstatic, for he’s acquiring something that was rightfully his brother’s own. Somewhere along the road, however, he does fall in love with her to a fault, enough for murder to come into play. That said, Giya is the only person Clark has ever opened up to, and that list includes his parents and his brother. There’s no one on Earth he would kill – or die – for. It is because of this reason that her death affects him more than his brother’s own. Love is something he’s gone through decades by without, and with her absence comes him growing more and more detached from reality.

MENTAL ILLNESS. I wrote Clark with the idea that he is suffering from psychotic depression. Having been diagnosed with a mood disorder with psychotic features myself, I believe I am able to do this interpretation justice. I’ve already made evident some of his symptoms in the interview and para samples, including irritability, difficulty concentrating, talks or threads of suicide, isolation, and psychotic features such as hearing things that aren’t present. Still, this remains undiagnosed, considering he’ll probably go set something on fire before he goes to a therapy session.

FAMILY. While he had a relatively good upbringing, one incident comes to mind (as is evident in the para sample) that serves as his breaking point. By no means was his father abusive, but the ordeal turned into a heated debate that led to a physical squabble which has permanently blacked out from his system. It further sets up his animosity towards his family and his envy towards his dear, darling brother.  

MUSIC. Classical music is his go-to genre, while his violin is his favored string instrument. He owns a Merano 4/4 purple violin.

APARTMENT. His apartment is quaint and comes equipped with a small living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom on the upper floor which is a converted loft. Despite this he keeps it meticulous, save for a few cigarette butts here and there.

SEXUALITY. Clark is demiromantic, but experiences sexual attraction to both men and women. That being said, he doesn’t exactly search for sexual conquests. He lets it develop naturally, and if the chemistry is there, he pushes forward.  

He smokes way too much.

I wrote Clark with the idea that he carries himself with a malicious streak, eager to make others fear him, lest they actually see through his mask and attempt entrance.

[sillysnaildraws]

Rabbit Hole Admin Romeo x Mesmerizer Soggy Romeo anyone?

[sillysnaildraws]

FIRE!!

��🔥🔥

SELFCEST MUHAHAHAHHA

[sillysnaildraws]

Ear noms ear nom ear noms ear noms ear noms...

Feat @fourthactdrawsstuff!

[whataboutsimple]

Apologies for being annoying but your idea for villain Fred is giving me ideas in the context of Oceanlove and Violetcrystals

We first have Gabriel and Fred being a cute couple and whatnot but Gabriel starts to pick up that things aren’t right and tries to get to the bottom of it but the admin’s been super secretive about it, referring to it as a surprise.

When him and Fred reunite, Fred was so happy to see him again but was saddened to hear what happened to Gabriel and his friends which only affirmed his beliefs. He showed what he was working on and his plans to make a better happy land. Gabriel is rightfully horrified with all this and tries to convince Fred to stop but Fred doesn’t listen, thinking that Gabriel just needs help to be ‘fixed’ and teleports him to the plains, though a more comfortable part of it that he set up for themselves.

Gabriel while Fred’s out, finds the others and helps them break out but chooses to stay behind so as to distract Fred and pretend that he’s been brainwashed while the rest try and get help. Romeo meanwhile after being found learns about Gabriel staying behind and since he knew Gabriel, he knows it’s only a matter of time until Fred gets to him. After the events of everything, Romeo sticks with Gabriel to help him heal from Fred, the two bonding with each other in the process and healing from the trauma.

Then we have the opposite spectrum where Romeo and Gabriel were in a relationship. As Fred started to become more controlling, Romeo gets worried and sent Gabriel a warning, his final message; ‘Gabriel. Fred’s become too dangerous, I’m gonna try and stop him but I don’t know when I’ll be back. Whatever you do, PLEASE AVOID FRED. Don’t even look for me. Don’t try to find me. If Fred comes after you, run. I’m sorry. I love you. Yours, Romeo.’

Gabriel is of course worried but he did as he’s told, he knows Romeo well enough to tell that he was desperate and as much as he hates to do it, he doesn’t look for his lover. It crushed him and he even dreads thinking that he’s dead and mourned.

But then, as he was travelling, Fred found him. Gabriel tried to run but Fred captured him easily, telling him that Romeo would be so happy to see him and could improve once the warrior’s there. While Gabriel’s relieved that Romeo is alive, he’s slightly angry with Fred for imprisoning his lover and tries fighting back but of course, it’s useless. Fred decided that Gabriel needs some ‘correcting’ before he sees Romeo and takes him to the plains, but this time he’s supervising his correction. Gabriel’s Romeo’s lover after all, he needs to be happy and well for when he reunited with Romeo and Fred won’t accept anything less than perfection. Romeo later gets wind of this and is absolutely infuriated, so much so that he didn’t hesitate to help Jesse and the others take down Fred. It’s a race against time for Romeo as he and everyone else try to reach Fred before he brainwashed Gabriel and everyone else.

Bonus for Ivor getting caught up in all this and being absolutely worried for Gabriel, secretly helping him keep his sanity in both cases.

Don't worry for being annoying even for you second, cause you're NOT, dear Anon!

This is what we love to see: drama, angst and broken heart.

We can also imagine more soft way, where Gabriel's successed at trying to convince Fred he's doing wrong.

We can also make it worse by doing Fred X Gabriel X Romeo, where Gabriel's actually stuck between two crazy men.. maybe they can't decided on which way to rule the world, but they can definitely decided on the fact that Gabriel deserves better than whatever Old Order gave him.

So, like, Gabriel becomes Romeo's champion and Fred's perfection. On one side he is an unstoppable fighter, dealing with every Romeo's challenge. On the other he is a purest soul, an example of how "good human" should behave.

So both Fred and Romeo uses the same tactic of manipulation on Gabriel to keep him near both of them.

"You don't want to upset your lovers, right?"

"I-i'm not, I just don't think we should-"

"We absolutely should, honey. Look at them all. Their behavior is unacceptable. They should be more like you."

But as soon as Gabriel does what they want him to do, they praise him so much it's almost too much.

"Dear, that was excellent! You've done such a great job, I can't believe it!"

"It was just a few zombies-"

"Don't put yourself so low, honey. They are still monster and you dealt with this incredibly good."

And constantly remind him that no one else was so good with him.

"Last time I checked this 'Ivor' friend of yours tried to kill you with WitherStorm."

"That wasn't his intention-"

"You're too kind for your own good, honey. He's not a friend of yours. But don't worry, you don't need him or anyone else, you have us. It's enough, right?"

He would go through so much trauma and brainwashing with two of them. And while Xara was around, she saw that shit and somehow tried to keep him sane by teleporting him back to the surface from time to time or just talk, so he won't feel so alone even though he's never alone.

But as soon as they put Xara to Moonlight Plains (she needs to be fixed and become their friend again), he feels alone yet again.

He's alone, what can he do? Maybe accepting their love fully is the only option now..