#airy watches the gilded age

[airandangels]

this lady's maid is throwing herself at Mr Russell quite flagrantly

he seems to adore his social-climbing wife so much, she looks a fool

[danascullysjournal]

If You Will Let Me

X-Files Post-Milagro fanfic

TW: horror, demonic activity, demonic possession, near death experience, mild blood

Chapter 15: Martyr

File Artifact: the old farmhouse.

____________________

Mulder had known this darkness since his sister disappeared, in the way a patient knows a disease.

He had seen it in his periphery, on sleepless nights with sweat dampened sheets, looming in the shadows of his wounded memories. Insatiable. Relentless, but never fully visible… an elusive, malignant force. Certainly nothing he could control.

But how he had fought.

And recently, he really thought he had been winning.

Over the past year- even the past week- his hope had grown. The shadows had receded. He had finally, blissfully discovered how much he meant to Scully. He had held her… comforted her… kissed her.

There had been tangible hope for a future.

But the darkness found him. Again.

You are not enough. The voices lilted in his brain, louder, falling over themselves in a mocking, twisted, tuneless round as they traversed his neural networks and rooted deep into the panicked flesh of his amygdala. Not enough… never enough. Their relentless, dripping ridicule wrapped round and round his mind as the ghostly black tendrils slithered round his body, pulling him down. Burying him under masses of leaden smoke.

He saw nothing, anymore. The rods and cones of his eyes had been rendered impotent, his visual receptors overrun by an emptiness stitched tightly through each neuron by the fingers of darkness. But he felt not-Samantha watching, with her white eyes burning and small chin held high, gloating over her catch. Heard her laugh, airy, but somehow sinister… almost her. But not quite.

He wondered, as he sank into an icy, painful oblivion, if his real sister blamed him. If she hated him as much as this facsimile.

And as the darkness engulfed him, mind and body, he began to let go. Of Scully. Of Samantha. Of the prospects of a future with and for someone besides himself. He was so cold. It crystalized across his skin, slowing the life inside his veins, pressing itself into his pores and digging through. Running his nerves like currents, beginning to feed.

The bitter, icy sadness permeated him. But if Scully could escape, he bartered, he would take his place with the countless others collected in this hell scape.

A soul for a soul.

It was the only gift he could give to her, now. His breath faltered, his pulse slowed, and he hoped. For her sake alone.

____________________

Mulder’s body lay across the threshold of the broken door, motionless.

The sunlight glowed golden around him, outlining him in gilding, a martyr of illuminated scripts from ages past.

Scully wanted to run to him.

And she wanted to crumble. To hide her face from what she feared most, and sink into oblivion. For all she knew, this was another lie… or worse. That possibility, she could not consider. She tried not to recount the bodies of coded patients and autopsied victims, summoned up from her locked subconscious by the apparition of Philip Padgett. They had all lain eerily still. Just like this.

He can’t be dead. He can’t.

The last shreds of hope she possessed pulled her forward. Though the summer heat was pressing in from the gaping door, she felt the temperature dropping at her back. They didn’t have much time.

“Mulder?”

No response.

The last two steps were leaden, and her brow knotted tight as she took him in. His forehead was pricked by dozens of miniature scrapes, open and oozing crimson. The cartilage of his ear, torn and mangled, was matched by the deep, dirt-crusted gash in his palm. In the radiant summer sunlight he seemed perfect, and broken, an almost-saint with half of the stigmata vouching for his worth. His eyes were closed. His chest, agonizingly still.

“Oh, Mulder, no.”

Before she fully registered what her body was doing, she was kneeling over him, frantically feeling his cold neck for a pulse with her own bloodied fingers. Tracing between slack neck tendons, locating proof of life in his veins.

It was faint. But it was there.

“Mulder?” Her hands traveled from his jugular to his sternum, resting there. Willing his chest to rise. Nothing. Scully felt her own throat constricting, tight from tears threatening to surface.

“Mulder, we have to go.” Her trembling hands went back to his neck, ready to position him for breaths. She couldn’t give up on him. She wouldn’t. “You have to breathe. Please?”

As if in response, she felt his lungs expand. He drew in a shallow, shaking gasp of air, and began to cough weakly.

“Oh, thank God. Keep breathing… I know you can.” She propped herself up on one hand, using the other to wipe the blood from his forehead.

Mulder drew in more air, and shuddered.

The ambient air was cold, Scully realized. Clouds of black began to fill the entryway, all too familiar to her now, darkening the doorway that had been brilliant with summer sun minutes before. Murmurs, soft and dreamlike in a thousand voices and tongues, began calling to her. Hungry. Hunting. They were here for her… countless numbers of them. Her breath caught in her throat.

“S… Scully.” Mulder forced her name out in a strained whisper. “Scully. Run.”

“N-no, Mulder. I'm staying right here. With y-.”

“Scully.” His head turned slowly toward her. His eyelids cracked open, slightly. Showing an opalescent glow within.

“Mulder…?”

“I can see… Every possible… death for you.” He forced in another shallow breath, fighting the demons inside. “And you… need to run.” His fingers raised up to her clavicle blindly, searching. To the long, bloody slice that traced beneath. “I asked… just me. Not you… But I can’t… stop them.”

His fingertips slowly trailed fresh red from her incision down her pale skin, and his brow furrowed with sadness.

“Scully… I’m sorry… Go.” He splayed his fingers across her chest, pressing against her weakly in a vain attempt to push her away. Though his white, unseeing eyes pierced through her, his face was twisted in pain. Heartbreak.

She shook her head.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to... A legion, Scully… Too many.”

“I won’t.” Tears cut paths down her stained cheeks. She cupped his chin in her bloody hands, voice quivering. “You said I wasn’t a victim, Mulder, and I won’t be. You can’t be one, either.”

His eyes closed, but he pulled in another labored breath. Fighting.

“Mulder. Stay with me.” She could barely make out his face, outlined in deep gray against the stark, black forms that were enveloping them both. A sob broke over her lips. “Please keep fighting. Keep breathing. We’re gonna get out. You and me.”

Another breath.

Scully strained to move him, pulling his chilled body up to her own, ignoring the burning of the autopsy wound soiled by his dust-caked face and hair. Frantically, her eyes searched the darkness, desperately seeking an escape. She clutched him to her chest as the charcoal columns drew ever closer, white eyes fixed on her.

Whispering.

Chanting.

Constricting.

Claiming.

She could see nothing, except their countless eyes boring into her soul. Felt nothing, except the tendrils grasping her arms and body, and the chill radiating from Mulder, across her fingertips, through her hands.

“We told you. He is ours.” Through the murky smoke, Scully could make out the shell of the man she wished to never see again.

Her glare met his. Unwavering.

“You don’t get to keep him.” Her words were tempered. Her jaw clenched. “I don’t care what you are. You can’t have him.” She cradled Mulder’s face to her body, protectively.

Padgett’s ghostly white visage peered through the columns of loosely gathered, ephemeral beings, edging itself closer. It twisted, masking itself with a pathetic attempt at kindness that was a hungry, haunted grin. Nothing more.

“You can stay. With him.” The smile was forced. Empty. “We know that’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

“This is not what I want.”

Padgett’s charade of sympathy was shattered by his laugh, a sound that bellowed out from his shifting body as it was echoed by the shrouded forms surrounding them. The face of the dead man dissolved into the darkness, leaving behind the white beaded eyes inches from her own.

And she felt pinpricks of energy, like ice on her skin as they began to enter her. The tendrils around them cinched tighter. She wanted desperately to fight, but… she could feel them crawling up through her neural network. Reaching into her. Taking control.

Mulder’s breathing faltered beneath her numbing fingers, and Scully felt her stomach drop.

“Mulder- don’t go. Just… keep breathing.” There is no point in breathing now. Scully choked on the words inside her mind. What was she becoming?

They had to leave, her rational remnants knew. But the pulsing, raging shadows burrowed into them both. She felt desperately alone, clinging to Mulder like her eight year old self to a rag doll, while the demons began to feed, siphoning themselves in, or herself out. She couldn’t tell anymore.

What would they be? Just a part of this mass of souls?

“I don’t know how, Mulder.” Her whisper was stained with regret. “God, I…”

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It was the rushing of demons through her cerebrum, the pulsing of blood in her ears. It was the flood of hopelessness and acceptance.

And her eyes began to close.

____________________

“You’re tougher stuff than that, Starbuck.”

Scully felt herself pulled backward, jarred in her own skin. The voice was muted by the rushing of the black clouds, the jeering and insatiable growling of the demons, and the confusion of her own half consciousness. But it was there.

“Dad?”

Impossible.

He had been gone for years. But that voice. There was no mistaking her father’s deep, reassuring voice. So strong. Controlled. Safe. She shifted her cold body, forcing her clouding eyes to open, straining to locate the source.

“Fight it.”

“I don’t… know how.” It was a whisper, a sob. A plea for help from the last shreds of herself.

There is no fighting it. Stay. The demonic voices whispered within her, a hissing sound that was hopeless and strangely comforting, all at once. After all, she could rest here.

“Dana, don’t listen to them. You’re a fighter.”

She had been a fighter. It felt like a lifetime ago.

A sudden lurch against her chilled, bare chest pulled pieces of herself back, momentarily. Mulder. Her hands were numb, but the vibration of his ragged body against her was violent, sending tremors through her weary muscle and bone.

Convulsions?

Her medical mind fought the battle that the rest of her rational self was losing. Mulder was dying. Now. She was his only chance. Their only chance.

“Mulder.” His name was a murmur across her lips. She fumbled with his head dumbly, unable to work with no feeling in her limbs. “We have… to go… get up.”

Through the shadows, she saw his lips part. His head lolled to the side.

Her stomach dropped.

“Dad…” Scully didn’t know if she had really heard him. The rushing whispers in her mind told her no, and she should lie down and give up. But… “Dad, I’m… scared… he’s dying… we’re… dying…” The last word tumbled off her tongue, heavy with the sentencing it carried.

“It isn’t time for you to die, Starbuck.”

The spirits began to hiss and growl at this interruption, this benevolent visitor that would dare disturb their feeding. Mulder’s body stirred, drawing in a shallow gasp of air.

It isn’t time. She could feel the demons around them, in them, enraged at the thought of losing the souls they had worked to collect. And, she thought dully, how could they survive when they were surrounded by death?

“Dana, fight. Battles have been won by outnumbered men.”

Shrieking, the demons pressed in further, in earnest. There was rage building up inside of her… and she knew it wasn’t her own.

She pulled in another choked breath, and let Mulder down to the floor gently as she could with her awkward hands, cold and clumsy.

If they were to escape… she would have to move him.

Scully worked desperately to find pieces of herself through the angry din that permeated her. She had fought. But this house, these beings… It was not rational, not logical. She had no power over something so ethereal, so beyond her understanding. But she didn’t have to understand. She just had to act.

Against their chilled skin, the black forms screamed, rising to the frantic screeching she had felt before. Their dark tempest pummeled her, and inside… she felt herself flayed. Pulled apart, as if one piece of her soul wanted to escape, while the other… the other fought to stay. She smelled the desperation of the monsters enveloping them.

It mirrored her own.

“God, please…” It was all she could manage.

It was all she needed.

The door.

She couldn’t see it, but it had to be there.

With a determined growl, she threw her shoulder onto Mulder’s side, and his body moved. His eyes flew open, glaring at her.

White. Feral.

But she could hear him breathing, shallow. Ragged. But still breathing. It wasn’t too late.

“Mulder… keep fighting.” Another shoulder on his side. Another inch moved. “Let’s go… you… and me.”

The demons screamed and clawed around them, a cacophony of rage and hunger… but weaker, somehow. The whispers inside her had waned.

“Mulder.” She pushed hard against his side. There was dull pain in her shoulder, and a welcome tingle in her fingers. “Fight it. C’mon.”

Another breath, stronger.

His frame rolled, and she found herself fumbling in the darkness.

“Mulder?”

Fingers grasped at her arm, blindly. They traveled down her forearm, to her hand.

They grasped weakly.

“Scully.”

Her heart swelled, and she breathed her relief.

The chaos around them roared, eliminating all other sounds. But nothing else needed to be said. Arm over tingling arm, they dragged their exhausted, ravaged bodies to the threshold. Pressing through clawing masses of smoke, they pulled each other forward.

Their hands broke through to the glistening sunlight.

Together. Alive.

____________________

Thank you for reading! Tagging @today-in-fic

[incorrectunrulyprincesses]

Underland’s Unruly Princesses: Boarding School Dropouts (chapter 3)

“Princess Emberess will be sleeping in the redhead room. It’s the first door in there.” said Madame Graciella. “Your luggage has been brought any moment.” She opened the door to reveal a grey room with six twin beds with gilded wood headboards, and grey bedding, and a wooden chest at the foot of each bed. The windows were boarded shut with nails and there a gilded grandfather clock stood in the corner. There were four other girls sitting on beds.

The girl sitting on the bed closest to the door was a tiny little thing who couldn’t be more than four. She had a twelve inch fishtail braid in a fiery red hue, though slightly less vivid than Ember’s own. Her left eye was blue, and her right eye was green. She had a dusting of freckles across her nose, and wore a rosy pink velvet dress trimmed with flowers and bows with a silver pendant with a teardrop shaped rose quartz, and a large pink bow in her hair, tying off her braid.

On the second bed was a tall and willowy girl of eleven with a rather vacant expression caribbean blue eyes and short ginger hair that grazed her shoulders, clad in an orange taffeta gown with a silk honeysuckle pinned to her bodice, citrine stud earrings, and a black headband.

Next to her was a tall, thin, brittle looking girl of ten with eyes so brown they were nearly black and coppery curls piled elaborately atop her head. She wore a cyan silk gown with delicate sea green embroidery, a pearl choker with a jade cameo, and two peacock feathers in her hair.

Beside her was a kind looking girl who looked to be about ten with periwinkle eyes and hair in loose ringlets the color of new bronze flowing down her back. She wore a turquoise satin gown with intricate gold damask embroidery and hot pink tulle trim and cuffs and hot pink gems adorning it, a necklace with a gold braided chain and teardrop shaped gems, and a sea green ribbon woven into a waterfall braid among her wavy hair.

The final girl in the bed next to Ember’s was a short, chubby girl of ten with ocean blue eyes, and frizzy hair somewhere between strawberry blonde and auburn worn half up, half down. She wore an airy butter yellow silk a-line gown with blush, peach, and tangerine daisies embroidered on it, a magenta belt, a three-strand necklace of pink diamonds on a silver chain and a white daisy pinned in her hair.

“Ladies, I’ve brought a new friend for you. Meet Princess Emberess of Crims. Your highness, may I present your new roommates Lady Marie-Christine D’Aubigne of Voyagea, Lady Portia of Snudworth, Lady Suzette Atkinson of Ruby, Lady Kathleen Carter of Crimson, and Lady Francesca Lambert of Scarlet. Report to the dining room for lunch and your manners lesson with Mistress Emanuelle in ten minutes. Your highness, I must go to escort your sister to the blonde room, two doors down.” announced Madame Graciella, escorting Rosalind out by one arm.

“But madame, my mother told me I was to stay with my sister! I promised our mother to look out for her!” Ember protested, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her. She’s only two doors down.” Madame Graciella reassured. “Ladies, why don’t you get better acquainted with the princess, while you get ready?” Madame Graciella was much nicer than her sister, but she was incredibly intimidated by her.

“Are you really the princess?” asked little Marie-Christine, an awestruck look in her eyes.

“I am. My friends call me Ember, at least they would if they had any friends.” Ember smiled. This little girl reminded her of Ros.

“I’m Marie-Christine, but you can call me Chrissie.” said Marie-Christine.

“How old are you?” asked Ember.

“I’m four. I’m the youngest in the school by seven minutes. My twin sister Marie-Anne is in the blonde room with your sister. This is our first year. But our older sisters Marie-Louise and Marie-Therese are in the brunette room between us.

“If your sister’s in the blonde room, she’d better watch her back.” Suzette Atkinson piped up.

“You might be princesses, but the real queen around here is Cressida Cowper, and she’s there too. She eats new girls for lunch.”

“Cressida is my best friend.” Portia Keen mused in a deadpan voice, her nose to the sky. “You’re all just jealous of her beauty and brains!”

“Cressida and Portia share a brain. That and they’re both from Snud, and knew each other before coming here.” Suzette spat.

“Sukey, I’m sure Ember’s sister can handle herself.” rationalized Kathleen Carter. “I mean Cressida’s awful, but the other girls are all really cool.” she held her hand out for Ember to shake. “I’m Kitty. Your sister will be okay, Cressida’s horrid, but the other girls are all nice. Besides, Chrissie isn’t the only one with a sister there. My sister Lacey will be there too, and she’ll look out for your sister. How old is your sister?”

“She’s seven. Our mother just stopped breastfeeding her.” Ember accepted Kitty’s hand.

“Why would she do it herself? That’s what we have wetnurses for!” asked a bewildered Portia.

“Shut up, Portia.” snapped Sukey, glowering at the ditzy girl. “But seriously, your mother stopped at seven?”

”Mum’s always cosseted Ros up like a baby. We’ve had a pretty isolated upbringing with no friends our age. Mum always said we were lucky to have each other. My sister’s an incredibly vulnerable person. She’s never left the castle grounds until two days ago when we left for school. She cried herself to sleep at the inn, and I had to calm her down because her father’s a deadbeat who’s ignored her her whole life, but Mum’s utterly enamored with him.”

“That’s rotten.” Francesca Lambert narrowed her eyes.

“So you have no friends your own age?” Asked Kitty.

“Unfortunately not. Nobody at court but my mother has children.”

“Our parents may not live at court, but some of us are in your mother’s house of progress. My older brother Stefan is the knave’s squire. Harriet Lennox from the Brunette room, her father is Count Marcus of Odyssey, your mother’s master of coin. There’s three other girls in the brunette room who are high up in your mother’s queensguard. Chrissie’s father Baron Leonard of Voyagea is her master of spies. Some of us are in your aunt’s court or house of progress as well.”

“Cressida’s grandfather is Queen Mirana’s master of justice.” Portia chimed in. “Her father’s lord commander of her queensguard. My brothers are in her queensguard too. My mother and Queen Mirana are close, personal friends.”

“Stop calling my aunt ‘Queen Mirana!’” Snapped Ember. “She hasn’t been queen for nine years. As far as I’m concerned, the only queen I recognize is my mother!”

“Portia didn’t mean any harm.” Kitty said, stepping between the two girls. “She just parrots what her mother, Cressida’s mother and Cressida say.”

“That’s because Portia has a single digit IQ. She needs Cressida to do all the thinking for her.” Sukey snarked. Francesca giggled at Sukey’s blunt remark.

“That’s right! Wait, what were we talking about?” Portia inquired.

“We ought to go down for lunch with the others. Maybe you can snag a seat next to your sister.” Francesca suggested helpfully.

“And maybe you won’t hog all the rolls this time, Fanny. They’ll go right to your hips.” Portia jeered.

“Shut up Portia!” Fanny, Kitty, and Sukey shouted in unison. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad here after all. Most of the girls seemed really nice, with the exception of Portia, but she obviously wasn’t smart enough to do any real harm. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how her baby sister was faring in the blonde room.

[shame-cubed]

the fantassy au pile

I started this forever ago but haven’t made any progress in a long time. I’m trying to focus on Invitations, so, I’m projectile vomiting all my other ideas up here in an attempt to get them out of my head. I don’t know if it’s working. 

---

It's blacker than midnight in the thickness of forests, and comfortably silent, like footsteps on moss—until it's not.

"Once upon a time," Speaks a warbling voice, airy but grizzled with age, it boldly echoes from a loft unseen; then halts abruptly. 

"Oh, you know how it goes... Let's just cut to chase, now, shall we? I’m not getting any younger." The words seem to ring, punctuated with a croaking laugh that fades with the dark, all but banished by the flick of a switch just as invisible. 

Beaming spotlights glare from above and behind, settling upon weighty velvet curtains charmingly spring-like in colour. A cascading pair of blossoming pink and eggshell blue, upheld by tassels that shine, so similar, to the sparks of dust floating within the bright tracks dutifully illuminating those deep-seated wrinkles of fabric. They part like the seas of another tired tale, then ascend in a deliberately slow, undulating wave. This scalloping formation led by embroidered edges of taught, silver ropes; rises in a swell to unveil a stunning diorama of marbled brick, embellished with a labyrinth of vines, adorning a castle far too colossal to be merely a prop.

The mirage-like structure wavers and gleams, its pearly stonework reflecting the lights at a blinding intensity. Catching its sheen, the drifting filaments glitter akin to a powder snow; multiply, accumulate, and replace the fleeing shadows with a blizzard that stings the eyes. An avalanche of white soon packs every corner, amounting in heaps so infinitely immense and so overwhelmingly bleached, that it hurts. 

---

“Get back here yah dirty lil’ miscreant!” An ireful yell bellows overhead, followed by the hurried thudding of mud-caked boots barely held together by faded strips of leather. Their unkempt owner dips beneath the cloth-draped counter of a flimsy marketplace stall, slides along the dusty cobblestones, rolls into a crawl, then breaks into a long-legged sprint as he shoves through the clamorous mob of meandering bourgeois claiming their daily bread. 

“Someone stop that wretched lad!! The gangly imp! That swindling bastard!!” The fiery roar of expletives launched by his pursuer is gradually extinguished by the sheer distance between them. Keeping his pace as he rounds a corner, the boy glances over his shoulder for signs of the shopkeep, then, like whiplash, instantly jerks forward when his body makes sudden impact with a smaller one that he failed to notice ahead. Both parties fly backwards and hit the ground flat on their asses.

This obstacle of a girl, about his age, pushes her thick hair out of her eyes; a coal-black cut of jagged bangs, half-parted to the side, half-pinned back. Icy blue irises thin beneath their lids, not unlike the slight pout of her lips, revealing no emotion other than mild irritation. 

“Watch where yer goin.” Her voice is monotonous, flat as her expression, and rough with a linguistic bite he'd never heard before. Adorned with ink-dyed leathers and angular iconography only recognizable from a tapestry he once saw—evidently, she wasn't of local blood. 

He narrows his eyes back at her, frowns, but says nothing; choosing instead to break the stare-down by searching for the loot he'd dropped in their collision. Someone could still be after him, so he hasn't the time to waste on petty interactions with outsiders. The girl rights herself and peers into her pockets, then joins him in scanning the ground, appearing to have lost something of her own, too. 

A small satchel of coin lies near, and as he picks it up, he palms the weight to be sure none of the meager sum within has left its confines. He stashes it back into his fraying trousers, clambering to his knees as he plucks two bruised apples from the cobblestone that were to be his lunch and dinner. His grimace deepens, as his prime acquisition eludes his vision.

“Ah, there ya are, Morpeko.” 

Wary, the disheveled thief turns his head at the sound of an unfamiliar name spoken by this unfamiliar girl, and his violet eyes blow wide at the sight of a tri-coloured mouse clinging to the pilfered pastry he’d been searching for. 

"This fancy goodie yers?" She says with a hint of disbelief, gingerly lifting both the snack and its vermin passenger from the ground.

“It is, now get your disgusting rat away from my breakfast.”

---

One after the other, the group of squires pass row upon row of marble pillars as they follow Oleana into their King’s immense throne room. 

Bronze statues of elephants tower from each corner, splendidly engraved in a paisley motif, each gripping a gilded rose at the tip of their raised trunks. The metal behemoths point towards a convex roof, its dome intricately painted with the climax of an age-old fairy tale. Swirls of vibrant colour span the ceiling—red and blue brushstrokes establish the fluttering forms of twin princes in flamboyant outfits, sinking their swords deep into the hide of a dual-winged dragon. The villainous creature dwarfs the heroes in comparison; swathed in scales of white-gold, its prismatic eyes set with sizable gemstones that flicker in the candlelight, seeming to scrutinize the soon-to-be knights as they gather below.

---

His head hits stone as her full weight slams into him, eyes screwed shut in a pained wince. Slotted between his gorget and his chin, the cold metal of her blade grazes his throat with every shaky gasp and tentative swallow. She’s so close. There’s nothing between them but shells of armour; pulses racing beneath plates pressed together. Heaving against each other, breath short from their battle, he can feel her warmth bleeding into him. 

Held tight against the wall, steel kissing his neck; Bede decides he’s perfectly fine with dying if it’s by her hand. He resolves to gaze into her eyes like it’s his last chance, his best attempt at a smoldering stare—like in the novels he’s read—completely thrown out the window when her leg wedges itself between his thighs.

Gloria still manages to crack a grin at him despite the situation. ”Giving yourself up to me so easily, now?” Her smile is confident, or it was until a blush takes over her face, seeming to only realize the sort of words she’s speaking several moments after they’ve left her lips. It’s almost charming. 

“Just kill me, already.” Bede groans. Why did she have to resort to psychological torture? Was it not enough to defeat him? He’s pinned in place by her sword, subject to her whim... There's not much he can muster other than to let his eyes wander. He notes the sheen of sweat on her skin and knows quite factually that he isn’t in any better condition.

“You know I don’t want to do that.”

---

it ain’t much but it’s honest werk... maybe one of these days i’ll get my shit together aaaaa

[darkmindsotome]

Risque Rouge pt2

Tagging: @umbralaperture​ @otome-smut-queen @silver-fox-of-azuchi @tsundere-mitsuhide @jennacat84

General warnings for the whole fic: Angst, some fluff, Mental health issues, emotional things, trauma, blood, death and possible triggers. Please read responsibly. 

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Chapter 2

They had travelled to the far end of the building through what felt like a rat’s nest of debris and stopped in an area where the air felt cleaner than in the rest of this backstage world. A thick curtain stood in their path and the owner called out cheerily to its apparent occupant.

A reply came sounding hesitant but he could feel that same tugging sensation he had experienced seeing her on stage. It was something that spoke in a beguiling voice to him beckoning him to come closer. It was like a whisper in the darkness, promise in the moonlight. A forgotten spell still casting its magic. She was certainly a talented force, whether she was aware of it or not.

Receiving permission, the owner pulled the curtain and a weighty jingle came from it. It was commonplace for curtains in large houses to have weights sewn into them to keep them from moving. There were several in his mansion alone. He had even heard tales of people hiding coins in them protecting fortunes from thieves and treasure hunters. That seemed unlikely to be the case here and he suspected that it was more likely the weights here were little more than old loose bolts.

Ducking slightly to enter the space he was greeted by the pleasant surprise of it being a light and airy place. Delicate laces and brightly patterned fabrics softened the edges of the harsh reality that this space had been built from the discarded fragments of the building. There was no dark coloured furniture here and if there was it had been draped with light coloured fabrics.

The vanity table looked to be a rococo design but it had clearly seen much better days. Some of the scrollwork to the mirror had been broken and there was repair work done in an amateurish style to reattach a leg to the base. Any gilding has long since worn away either with cleaning or simple age.

What struck him the most was the sense that this room could be very bright in daylight. Not only were there a set of three sash windows to one wall but there was also a large skylight. There were several gas and oil lamps dotted around the space in order to replace the absent daylight, reflecting shards of colour around the room through the cut-glass decorations near them. It was truly a space full of charm and he could sense the care placed in its design for the girl it was gifted too.

Comte looked to the man standing beside him seeing the truth to his words when he said he felt like the girl’s guardian in a sense. This would be a perfect fairytale ivory tower, if only it were not built out of precariously balanced junk.

“I brought a visitor Evie. This fine gentleman here would like to sponsor you.” The owner walked over to a green velvet chaise as he spoke.

“Sponsor?” Dressed in nothing more than a robe the one they call a Nightingale tilted her head in response to the word. Her deep green eyes that resembled his drink from earlier looked in his direction full of the innocence of youth. She genuinely did seem to be a very rare flower to be growing in such a location.

“That is right. I have come here several times and each time I have had the pleasure of seeing you perform. I should like to offer you my sponsorship.” Comte gave a bow with a smile.

“Pardon Monsieur but what would that entail exactly? I cannot imagine you would have been guided here so willingly if you had dubious intent.” She spoke with curiosity but also a healthy level of suspicion which made him feel happier in a way. For all her apparent youthful naivety it seemed she had keen intuition.

“That would be correct. You are a very smart girl and you have a very capable guard. I assure you I have no desire other than to see you settled comfortably in a lifestyle of your choosing and would like to support you in your endeavours so as to ease whatever burdens you might have.” Something in his words seemed to give the girl cause to falter. He had been sure she had every intention to refuse him politely up to this point, be it from pride or for some other reason, but now he was not as sure.

“Uncle, could you leave us for a moment?” She turned to the owner who looked as if he had just been doused in ice water.

“Evie, I really don’t think that would be appropriate.” Even as he spoke, he shook his head and looked with pleading eyes at the young woman.

“You brought the gentleman here If it bothers you so much then please stay close to the door. I will call you if need be.” Her firm words were matched with a flash of light in her eyes. The green became even more faceted as if unseen light had become refracted and caused them to hold a stronger power than before.

Le Comte said nothing and remained in silent observation. The feeling he had earlier that was little more than a whisper of a possibility was starting to become a clear certainty as he watched the young woman. She had a power to charm and disarm that was telling. He had met several performers that really were exceptional but this was different.

“When did you grow up this much?” The owner slumped his shoulders in resignation apparently powerless against the request.

“In the moments you weren’t looking. Trust me please.” Evie patted the owner’s hand that had been resting on the high side of the chaise and gave a sweet smile. Sighing he patted her hand with his free one before walking back to exit the room, pausing briefly to make sure his point was made in the process.

“Monsieur. I trust you are an honourable individual but should any harm come to this child I shall be sure to seek recompense from you, even if I must cleaver flesh from bone to do so.”

If it had been possible to slam a door that was nothing but a curtain Le Comte was positive that man would have achieved it. He knew what it was like wishing to protect something you felt responsible for. It was a constant walk on a knives edge between rage and resistance. You wanted to give as much space as you could to let the people you care for be free to do as desired but you also hated it. You found yourself almost preferring the idea of protecting them so much that you would even fight the sun itself for daring to touch them.

“I am sorry about him. He means well even if he can be slightly overbearing at times.” Evie spoke drawing his attention away from the curtain and back to her. Her pose didn’t seem to falter and she seemed to be completely out of place, more suited to a country estate than here.

“Not at all I can only imagine how hard guardianship of such a talented and beautiful young lady could be. I could hardly hold a grudge towards the man when I am not completely certain I would not go as far as him myself to protect what I cherish.” Le Comte quickly dismissed the concerns and was happy enough to hear the shuffling of the man waiting outside move a little further away from the door.

“Fine words Sir. You really are a member of the Aristo in Paris.” Evie nodded her bright smile warming him as she rose and recovered a chair from under a pile of books and linen. “Please I cannot offer more than a seat but I would be happy to have you take it.”

“Merci.”

 ---

 Le Comte visited several more times and had become something of a familiar face as he moved through the backstage passages to see his little investment. He found himself looking forward to what was rapidly becoming a something of a favourite habit of his. Wandering in the night was so much nicer when you had a destination, not to mention, a charming companion to talk to at the end of it.

It was on this particular visit however that he had been met with a problem. Performers all seemed to be in a heightened sense of emotion and the air was heavy. Small groups were huddled together their whispers catching his attention as them mentions the little princess and something about a doctor. The closer he got to the girl’s room the worse the feeling became and he felt a knot in his stomach as his gut instinctively told him something was wrong.

He was about to announce himself when the curtain opened in a flourish and someone from the other side barrelled into his chest.

“Out of the damn way! Can’t you see we’re in a hurry ‘ere?” The smell of pomade filled le Comte’s senses before he could register the flustered mess that was the owner. The shorter man had taken on a flush of colour that had turned him into a ripe strawberry. His shirt sleeves were rolled up high and the cloth that was usually around his neck was missing. His dark beady eyes looked up to see who had blocked his path and he took on the appearance of a rat-faced with a cat as he backed away to a more suitable distance. “AH! Monsieur I—sorry but now might not be the best time for a visit.”

“What has happened?” Comte enquired somehow managing to hide a little of his growing concern.

“Oh! Nothing unusual Sir she has merely taken one of her “turns”. Charlotte! Char— Oh where is that girl? CHARLOTTE!” The Owner cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed through the hall. A small woman similar in build to Evie appeared looking a little sullen at the way she had been summoned.

“I’m here! No need to shout so you could raise the dearly departed in Père Lachaise.” Her voice sounded coarse and there was a smell of stale tobacco as she drew nearer. She gave a brief glance towards Le Comte before looking at the man who had summoned her.

“You shall have to go on tonight and see if you can get the kitchen to send up some clear soup. Oh, never mind I’ll go myself. You just go get ready.” The agitated man issued orders and as if double guessing himself changed them just as quickly.

Comte knew enough to see that whatever was happening whilst apparently common still had shaken the man to his core. What did he mean by one of her turns? He had not noticed that the young lady had been ill before on any of his visits. Had he missed something? That instinctual premonition he felt on his arrival only grew as he watched the interaction in front of him.

“Got it.” The one called Charlotte gave a concerned look towards Evie’s room before scurrying off. It was an expression that had mirrored everyone that he had passed on his journey here. It was also the last straw that seemed to break his patience.

“What happened to the Princess?” Le Comte’s voice was more forceful now trying to gain control over the frazzled nerves and scattered mind of the other man. It was effective and it seemed the owner had managed to locate some control and plastered on a rather fake smile.

“No need to worry Sir the doctor is with her and she shall be herself again in no time. A little exhaustion and a touch of a malady de femme.” The owner’s insincere smile and sing-song tone was one that was designed to lie as much to himself as the person they were addressing. There was no denying that it was a performance worthy of any stage but it was not one that Le Comte had a mind to praise.

Comte brushed past the owner and entered the room ignoring the protests. A man sat on the edge of a bed holding the hand of his patient. At the sound of more interruptions, he glanced up and reluctantly let go of the girl’s hand. Comte watched as the dainty hand of the girl was placed reverently on her duvet, attempting not to read too much into the apparent fondness that boarder on unprofessional. The man didn’t attempt to greet Le Comte and continued to make a few notes on some paper after checking his watch once more.

“Are you the doctor?” Comte asked as politely as he could but after seeing the man move to close his travelling medical case decided to change his question to one a little less inane. “How is she?”

“Stable for now if more than a little tired. I have given her some more of her medicine and she has settled.” The doctor snapped the clips on his bag shut and gave a questioning look towards Le Comte. “Who might you be Sir?”

“I am her sponsor.”

“Sponsor? I see…” For the briefest of moments, it looked as if there was an incensed look that marred the doctor’s otherwise gentle appearance. In the blink of an eye, it had gone and his eyes reverted to a comforting warm brown colour. “Well, there is little more that I can do tonight I have other patients to tend too. Be sure to call me if anything further happens.” He picked up his bag putting his jacket over his arm and made sure to give his patient a soft reassuring smile before leaving. As if suddenly remembering something he spun on his heel revealing once more a less than friendly appearance towards Le Comte. “Oh and Monsieur sponsor? Do take care and not exhaust le petite femme.”

Comte remained where he was wondering exactly how many times, he might see someone acting that way towards him for his philanthropic pursuits. He knew he couldn’t deny that all his endeavours came off the back of his own selfish desires but a small part of him hoped to avoid such hatred when at the root of all he did was an effort to provide comfort in a world lacking in so much of it.

“I think he may have the wrong idea.” Her voice came out faint and haggard pulling him back from his thoughts. She was laying in her bed slightly propped up on a mountain of pillows at her head but otherwise looking just as white as frail as a piece of delicate frosted glass.

“How are you?” Comte drew closer taking his cue as to how far he would be permitted from the female herself. Even though his actions were out of genuine concern for the young woman it was still ungentlemanly to barge into a lady’s private room.

“I’m fine. I’m used to it although I cannot deny that it frustrates me beyond measure. I feel so useless when I am like this.” She averted her eyes so they looked out through the window. The sky had long since turned from the warming shades of sunset and there was something in that look of melancholia that reminded him of himself.

He had made the offer to dozens of people before, calling it a taste of eternity. A poetic turn of phrase for the reality of what it was. Accepting a life where you watch those you care for grow old and leave you. The loneliness of eternal night where the only constant was the moon and even then, that cruel Goddess herself vanished marking time by her absence. His invitations were not much more than selfish offerings to fill that void for a little longer. A choice made by a lonely creature wanting more than a few moments and a chance to feel a little comfort in the long night.

It was true they had at the very least been given a choice. Scared of death and what lay beyond. The idea of unfinished dreams clouding their final judgement and urging their choice. But what of the creatures that had no choice? The ones born differently and forever cursed from birth?

Drawn to that look of unfathomable sadness he moved closer to take her hand and perch on the edge of her bed barely putting enough weight on her bedding to move the sheets. He tenderly stroked his hand on her head, his fingers combing the raven coloured locks slowly as he held her hand in his.

“Don’t make such a face ma petite fleur. You are not alone.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were hooded with sleep. With her smile returning to her Evie closed her eyes the warmth of the kind gentleman’s hand in hers guiding her to slumber as his fingers brushed her hair pacifying her fears and worries.

As the Princess slept, he continued to fawn over her until he was certain she was completely dead to the world. His hands left her and instantly lamented their loss as he tried to convince himself it was time to leave. He dimmed the lamp on her dresser and noticed the draw half-open. Rows of glass vials sealed with corks and black wax filled it. Curiosity got the better of him and he removed one holding it high to check its contents.

“Well now… that is curious. Where ever did you get such medicine?” Le Comte glanced back at the bed and slipped the object into his jacket pocket. “Pardon but I have need of answers and hope this could assist me in finding them. Bonne Nuit, ma chèrie.”

Slipping out of the room he moved quickly to make his way into the city. He had a mind as to where to start his enquiries and seriously hoped he would be proved wrong.

--- 

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with BERNADETTE “BUNNY” DU PONT, who is TWENTY-ONE years old. She is often called BIANCA by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

She wants the world on a silver platter, wants it wrapped around her finger like the prettiest of diamond rings. She was raised to believe she’ll have it, too, a little pearl of a girl who could play her parents’ HEARTSTRINGS like a harp but never quite learned the meaning of the word no. Born to a successful banker and his beautiful wife, she was everything her parents wanted her to be and more: apple-sweet like her mother, intelligent like her father, and pretty, above all else. She was perfect in their eyes, a darling doll of a daughter they could pose and dress to their liking, and they doted on her relentlessly. Bastian and Eleanor Du Pont CULTIVATED in their daughter a taste for the finer things in life, a hunger for delectable desserts and dreamy dresses that would one day prove ravenous. They planted within her the seeds of luxurious ambition in the hopes that their beautiful little flower might bloom, and bloom she did. Bernadette Du Pont, who came to be called Bunny for the bumbling way in which she pronounced her own name, grew to possess a wild sort of elegance, a BRAZEN sort of poise that best befits spoiled brats. She was Verona’s SWEETHEART—soft, gentle, all sugar-spun locks and eyes a brilliant shade of greed, and she would bring her family a gilded sort of glory for it.

Where her sister was sensible, responsible, slated to one day take over the family company and carry on the Du Pont legacy like any good daughter should, Bunny seemed to have been born for the sole purpose of being ADORED, and no one had ever done it quite so well. She collected hearts like trinkets, put them on a shelf for all the world to see—look, but don’t touch, for of the many skills she’d been dutifully instructed in (French, ballet, art, all things a cultured lady ought to know), she’d never been taught how to SHARE, and like most children given the choice, she didn’t care to learn. It’s often been said that men cower before that which they call beautiful, and the same could be said for her, so afraid were they to let such a pretty little thing go without. She perfected the art of getting what she wanted, of honeyed persuasion and batted lashes, a talent that served her well in nearly all of her endeavors—both work and play. Little Bunny Du Pont graduated at the top of her secondary school class with the help of a soft-spoken boy too INTELLIGENT to know any better, but—which was more—she did so draped in chiffon and pearls, the taste of strawberries and cream and self-satisfaction on her pink lips.

But the ruin of sweetness is rot, and her dazzling smile hid sharp teeth, as beautiful things tend to do. She’d been taught all her life that appearances were paramount and to be perfect was to be loved, and somewhere between layers of SILK and hours of etiquette lessons, the Du Pont darling learned how to deceive. Deception had always been so easy for her, making farces and forgeries that no one would think to bat an eye at. She started small, little replicas here and there, before delving into the wonders and intricacies of such a career calling – which only served to make her that much adored and valued within the ranks of the rotten underworld. Her parents knew not, though, for she was still their little angel, the CROWN jewel that would one day grace the arm of a man from a family every bit as powerful as hers, but her halo was that of rehearsed innocence, of the elegance that comes with keeping one’s own secrets and the thrill of allowing them to see the light. Kissing is only fun when it’s tongue in cheek, after all, and aren’t all vices the same? She indulged in them all—courted her peers and her father’s colleagues by day and each of the seven deadly sins by night—and her doting parents were none the wiser, blinded as they were by her airy laugh and coy smile. She was their muse, their golden child, but even gold can tarnish, and saccharine girls can turn SOUR. Thus, tempted by greed and the rush that came with doing what she knew she shouldn’t, she easily fell into step with the mob her father served and never looked back. 

A war is no place for girls like her, precious princesses raised on silver spoons, but there’s a WICKEDNESS about her, a sort of hunger that no amount of sweet things could satisfy, and while it won’t make her bulletproof, it’s made her bold. She wants adoration, her name whispered in hushed tones, and little by little—laugh by laugh and trick by trick—she’ll get it. She wants the world even if the blood feud in Verona splits into two, and she’ll have that, too, for the outcome of the war is of little consequence to a child who’s only ever known loyalty to HERSELF. Imagine then, her righteous anger and bitterness when a little whelp of a Montague snatched such tantamount adoration within her mob away with nothing more than an outstretched hand. She had done nothing, had turned away with a sneer, a little glimmer of rot within her gleaming for a few shining seconds – but that is not what the rest of the world saw, no. They saw a little Capulet girl being aided by a little Montague boy. The world had granted her so much and razed it in a matter of seconds. Little do the gods of Verona know that they will meet their ruin at her hands, for she is hungering for retribution. People scoff at entitled children—roll their eyes at the hellish tantrums they throw, but they often forget the ease with which they get the object of their heart’s desire. Hail your kings, but watch the brats CONQUER.

KATARINA DU PONT: Sister. The Du Pont girls have been known since infancy for their looks—ivory skin, golden locks, eyes like sparkling emeralds. It’s been said that their father’s wealth and their mother’s blood flows through their veins, a combination as enticing as it is deadly, but Bunny knows the truth—that Katarina’s eyes are green not from prosperity, but fromenvy—and she revels in it. She’s stolen any and all attention afforded to her older sister since the day she was born, and few things bring her more pleasure than the knowledge that she is—and probably always will be—the favorite daughter, a notion she’s loath to let Katarina forget. Bunny mocks the older girl for her rigidity, and Kat ridicules her for her immaturity, but Bunny has played her part exceptionally well; no one would ever believe the woman who cried bitch.    

CYRUS SLOANE: Intrigue. He’s the spitting image of the type of boy her father wouldn’t approve of, shunned by his family but arrogant enough to remain in their midst, and she likes him all the more for it. His attention is hard to come by and harder to keep, and she likes that, too—let it be known that she rarely turns down the occasional worthwhile challenge. She’s found she rather enjoys his company, and she seeks him out whenever she’s in the mood to cause a bit of trouble—often. It’s not often she finds someone who can keep up with her mischief and match her taunts with some of their own, after all. They’re a match made in hell, a cast-out boy-king determined to reclaim his throne and a spoiled princess who knows only how to take, and peace should rue the day they laid eyes on each other—if it doesn’t already. The West might have survived Bonnie and Clyde, but Verona won’t survive them.

JULIANA CAPULET & MAEVE PETRE: Faux friends. “You are the company you keep.” Such was her father’s reasoning for nudging his youngest into a friendship with his colleagues’ daughters, a contract not nearly as eternal as marriage but equally as binding. It was only fitting that the children of three of the most powerful men on the east side of the Castelvecchio should be inseparable, and for the first decades of their lives, they were. Tea parties, braids fastened with little pink ribbons, frosting-filled sleepovers—they had it all, the triumvirate of daddy’s little princesses, but as they’ve aged, Bunnyfound the two girls leave a taste in her mouth that’s far too sweet, even for her. Between Maeve’s goodness and the way the Capulets seem to dote on Juliana for no reason other than her last name, she can hardly stand to be around them for a few hours, but luckily, a few hours are all that’s really required of her to maintain her pristine image. Who said nice girls couldn’t have fun?

BORIS KOVROV: Disturber. Bunny has carefully cultivated the lessons she has learned from watching people. She has learned – through quite meticulous means – how to make her position in the mob all the more advantageous. However, the one man who has managed to keep his true desires well hidden is Boris – who she has seen time and time again. Yet, she has never gotten any closer to hearing the whispers that turn about in his head. He is as guarde as the pearly gates of heaven, letting few enter and none leave. But Lucifer made it through, and so shall she. For a man who holds all the secrets is dangerous indeed, but the man who gives none away? Well, he might be something to fear greater than the judgement of the Lord himself.

Bernadette is portrayed by ELLE FANNING and was written by BREE. She is currently TAKEN by DAPHNE.

[personaehq]

INCOMING MESSAGE …

FULL NAME: shiwoo “maverick” moon ALIAS: mav DATE OF BIRTH: 2114/07/24 ALIGNMENT: neutral OCCUPATION: ceo of ishikawa telecommunications AFFILIATION: n/a ACCOMMODATION: a residential floor on ishikawa hq FACECLAIM: byun baekhyun

ACCESSING: BACKGROUND …

Second born son doesn’t quite have that ring to it. Afterthought, spare, lagniappe– how can Maverick compare to his brother, the eldest spoiled and fattened by the prime cut of their parents attention? ‘Luck of the draw.’ His brother was dealt the winning hand simply by being born first.

But Maverick is practical. Inevitability is bullshit, and fate is malleable under enough pressure from money, connections, and a knife to the throat of a man’s reputation.

YOUTH +

Maverick was nurtured in a gilded cage. As a boy his leash hardly extended past the four walls of his home, a pale, little ghost pattering between the white walls, dress shoes on the cool marble flooring. After all– conventional schools (no matter how prestigious) would never suit the son of a Moon. “They’re dirty,” his mother complained. “You don’t know what those other boys bring in. You’ll get sick.” His father’s concerns were less tangible. He wanted to spoon feed his sons his own ideals, keep them from the radical ideas of the masses. Equalitywas an ugly word.

And Maverick was a pretty little boy (he took after his mother). Well-behaved and willing to please. He sat with his spine straight while his tutors filtered through his home, buttoned up in neatly ironed, white uniforms, black shoes. But it wasn’t all work, no play. Several times a week he was allowed to interact with other boys his age, handpicked by his mother from their same social class. Maverick was boisterous and bossy. A little bit of a bully, as his playmates ducked their heads and allowed him to lead (lambs thrown to a lions whims). Unlike his brother, Maverick was pushed to dabble in the arts– singing lessons, painting classes, the violin. During his parents parties his mother would demand he sing for the guests, his light and airy tenor receiving praise, applause, attention that would be diverted as soon as his brother was paraded out to the crowd.

Maverick was a novelty. A party trick. The opening act before the main show, and even as a boy the love he had for his brother was tainted by envy, hIs affection for his parents polluted by resentment.

The only pure, unwavering and undiluted love he held was for an object that had no choice but to adore him, to put him first.

On his ninth birthday Maverick received a gift from his parents. A DHC android, custom ordered and beautiful, created to love and nurture and raise him. The android was a catalyst his parents didn’t expect. The DHC cracked the walls of an otherwise jaded and cynical boy. Maverick softened under that gentle, doting affection, and when he misbehaved his parent’s learned that he was easily tamed by abruptly tearing the android away from him. The separation led to quick correction of his behavior. The android was Maverick’s very own whipping boy, and it wasn’t that he was trained to be docile. Maverick just learned to hide his flaws. It improved his capability for bullshit– manipulating staff, his family, his brother whenever the opportunity presented itself. The android taught Maverick love (synthetic but pure), but it also trained Maverick in the necessity of vicious and selfish ruthlessness in order to keep what mattered to him the most.

ADULTHOOD +

His parents allowed him to earn a college education abroad. He traveled to Cambrige for Business Law while his brother remained trapped in their gilded cage in Japan, wings clipped and always within reach of their parents. It was one of the few perks he was allowed as the spare, and he thrived away from his parents overbearing shadow. His android, now outdated and a hybrid of cobbled together old and new tech, was ever present at his side. Maverick drank heavily and parted the legs of both men and women. He pursed his lips and blew smoke rings of nicotine and cannabis out the window of his flat. And it was a testament to his innate cleverness that even while glutted full of everything life away from his family had to offer– Maverick graduated with honors. But he wasn’t ready to go home with a bachelors. He stayed for his masters, one more year of freedom. Now his brother was the one who envied, forced to watch Maverick shine in their parent’s regard.

When Maverick returned home– a well-educated lawyer with established international connections– his brother worried. Good, he should, because while Maverick played at tame, his brother’s concern wasn’t misplaced. Time away in a foreign country and among peers that jostled for his time and attention had fed Mavericks ego and inflated his self-worth. His brother with his late nights of liquor and warm bodies had his diploma practically bought, while Maverick earned his own. And, ah– he couldn’t resist. Maverick fed his brother’s paranoia by building connections with the children from other companies. Always with honeyed words, generous with money and promises (‘i’ll see if i can make it happen’). He and his brother began to fight in private– vicious, often turning physical. One evening his brother brutally beat down his android, nearly destroying it, and that was the turning point of Maverick’s ambition. Instead of being hindered by love, it was finally fueled by enough simmering hate to take what he wanted.

Maverick machinated his brother’s downfall. It started with hallucinogen drugs planted in his brother’s food while in a popular restaurant, leading to a public breakdown caught on camera (too many witnesses to smother the story). They took his brother to the closest hospital and Maverick was prepared– several of the staff already paid off to manipulate the medical records to correspond with a mental break.

The crown toppled off his brother’s head. It looked better on him anyway.

PRESENT+  

After two years of spearheading Ishikawa Telecomm, Maverick has grown comfortable. The whispers of media manipulation don’t bother him. It’s business, baby–and information is a formidable weapon that Maverick is willing to sell to the highest bidder. Fuhen Beauty and Yoriyoi Kenko Pharmaceuticals are his closest business partners, though he’s not above playing nice with government officials so long as they’re willing to pay forward with some favors.

Maverick is ambivalent to the plight of androids (only emotionally attached to a particular one). For Maverick– an android’s worth is measured in revenue. He’ll look after the well-being of KAIROS and MANIA, but he holds no real sentimentality towards the masses of other androids.

Ultimately– Maverick will cater to the narrative of the side he feels will benefit him the most. May the highest bidder win.

ACCESSING: PERSONALITY …

POSITIVE TRAITS: glamorous, charismatic, ingenious NEGATIVE TRAITS: cutthroat, scheming, detached

He has this knack for demanding and holding attention in a crowd– powerful voice, brilliant smile, quick to laugh and an effervescent personality that’s easy to swallow. He’s deft at carefully handling controversial topics when cornered, but he’d much rather talk business, or perhaps talk about you, darling. He makes his targets feel important. He validates them with an almost intense focus that makes them feel like they’re the most important people in the room, and there’s no place he’d rather be but here, with them, and it’s miserable to be parted. He’s known to be more doting and generous with gifts than he is with physical affection. He notoriously shies from touch– to the extent of wearing gloves in public when forced to interact with the lower classes.

That is the Maverick in public and parties. The Maverick in the boardroom is another creature entirely.

Morality is never invited to the same table as profits. If Ishikawa Telecomm pushes a narrative that feeds sympathy for a side? They paid more than the competition. Money talks, and perhaps to most this makes him immoral. The word Maverick prefers to sell is ‘practical.’ It shines better in the light.

While Maverick plays up the role of perfect bachelor out of an innate need to be desired, wanted, needed– Maverick dislikes being touched unless it’s on his own terms. He only tolerates physical intimacy from select friends and close family.

He pays good money to maintain his visage of superiority– tailored suits, styled hair, perfectly catered words. It’s solely in private, in the company of his android that Maverick’s walls ease down. Humans are terribly unpredictable after all, and Maverick is well-aware even family can’t be trusted. Unwavering love and loyalty, however synthetic and programmed, has been the only reliable thing Maverick’s had since he first eased the android from the wrapping and ribbon wrapped around it’s neck.

... END OF MESSAGE.

[imspardagus]

A pub the way they ought to be

Leonard Cohen once sang “A scheme is not a vision”. Sadly, we have lots of schemers these days trying to sell their nasty little schemes as visions, don’t we, Nigel? Don’t we, Jacob? Don’t we Boris? So it is good to be able to celebrate a true vision. One that made the grade and brought happiness to a lot of people.

It was twenty years ago, not today but this year, that Bev and Mary opened the Old Cross Tavern in St Andrews Street, Hertford. The place had been an antique shop and, fittingly, Bev and Mary’s vision was to create a pub “the way they used to be”.

What they actually created was a pub the way they ought to be: a place of community, where people come to drink and stay to chat, a space where you can always find a welcome and a smile of acceptance, a sanctuary.

I’m in danger of eulogy here, but the thing is it is all true.

A lot of it is down to simplicity. The beauty of the Old Cross can to an extent be summed up by what it doesn’t have.

No juke box.

No fruit machines.

No Sky TV.

No MTV.

In fact, no TV.

No brazenly gilded and painfully bright beer taps offering fake lager so awful that it has to be sold, and drunk, ice cold.

No “Happy Hour” with its purpose of getting you to neck far more of the product than sober reflection would dictate.

So what does it have? Well, on a utilitarian level, a light, airy room with two booths, some tables, benches and stools, floor space to stand in and two fireplaces for the winter, a bar housing 8 handpumps, a chilled cupboard full of bottled beers, wines and soft drinks, a shelf of spirits (and pink elephants, but let’s not dwell on the pink elephants), a display case full of pork pies and scotch eggs, a jar of pickled eggs and a stacker full of bar snacks. And out the back, toilets and a covered courtyard.

On a service level it has one, sometimes two,  people serving behind the bar.

It sounds easy, doesn’t it? Simple. But, as any acrobat, any concert pianist, any artist will tell you, simplicity takes a lot of skill. That seemingly effortless backflip that makes your heart stop, that almost childlike tune that catches your throat, that apparently crudely daubed vase of bright yellow sunflowers that draws you in and fills your nostrils with the unmistakable scent of a hot, dusty southern summer you have never known, each one belies hours of careful practice and solid artistry to make it just so.

To run a pub as sublimely good as the Old Cross takes commitment, constant effort and a lot of heart. And if you can’t see that, it is because they’re good at it. Really good.

Let’s start with the beer. A workaday product, beer, you might be tempted to think. A humble thing, the staple of the masses across the centuries. Just a pint of flavoured, slightly alcoholic water to quench the thirst. But British beer is a living product and an unforgiving one. Every step of the way to making it has to be taken with careful precision. And then it must be kept in the right conditions. And then, when it is ready to be drunk, it must be served well.

This last part is where so many publicans fall down. Pipes not cleaned and flushed through, beer engines not maintained, clumsy drawing on the handpump, the misuse of “sparklers” to impose a creamy head on a beer brewed not to have one, all of this will taint and corrupt the beer and spoil your experience.

Back in the 1970s, when, sick of the industrialised, insipid, gassed-up awfulness that the biggest brewers had foisted on the public in search of ever easier and greater profit, a handful of enthusiasts, including the great Roger Protz, founded the Campaign for Real Ale and started the revolution that has led to this indisputably Golden Age of Beer that we are now experiencing, some pubs were quick to jump on the bandwagon. I recall one, the Sun, in Lambs Conduit Street. It seemed, as you entered it, like you had been transported to heaven. Twelve handpumps greeted you at the bar each bearing the name of a different brewery, a different ale, often a name that you had only heard of in legend. And as a pint was dispensed you would start salivating at the prospect of what was to come. But even before you could get the glass to your lips, the cidery stench of a beer that was off assailed your nostrils and the first sip, coarse and acidic, shrivelled your tongue and bit your throat. They had no idea how to keep and serve the stuff. It was like opening a Christmas present as a child, hoping for a toy car or a new doll to love, and finding a box of grey woollen socks.

The Old Cross Tavern has a passion for good beer, so much so that in all the years I have been going there I have never had a bad pint. That is, of course, as it should be but it is still a remarkable achievement. And why that is so is down to the people who work there.

Mary is a good picker of beer but she is also a fine picker of people. The people who work at the Old Cross, young and not so young, women and men, regular or occasional, all have a commitment to what they are serving. Mary takes them on and trains and nurtures them until they know the condition and quality of each beer, how to set it up and how to serve it well. When you enter the pub and approach the bar they don’t see another mug punter, they see you and they are looking forward to providing you with the pleasure of a drink you will enjoy. And they are confident that they can do it.

But that is just the start of the experience. Because they treat you as a human. They remind you that you are human. It is all done quietly with just the gentle dash of warmth and everyday kindness. And before long you start to remember that you are human too. You came in here in the hope of escape from the callous indifference of the rest of your life and here it is, being offered to you with a welcoming smile.

You can enter as a stranger but you won’t stay one for long. I have known pubs where, as you open the door, a silence falls and the walk to the bar is like a walk to the gallows, hostile eyes watching you and judging you. Yes, we tend to look up when you enter the Old Cross, but only to see if you are someone we know, and, if you are not, you will still as like as not receive a smile and a nod of welcome. The Old Cross has at its centre the beating heart of human warmth and it spreads throughout the place to touch us all if we will only allow it.

You don’t need to be gregarious, though. You can sit and read a book, read your paper, work your phone, if that is what you need. No-one will think the worse of you. You can read the Guardian or attempt the crossword. Many do. That is how it was for me when I first started going there, because I was excruciatingly shy and felt sure I didn’t belong. Gradually, I relaxed and opened up. And they were there waiting to embrace me. But there are still times when I need to be on my own and that is almost instinctively respected.

All around, there are conversations to be had. Real conversations, the way they used to be. But that’s something else it doesn’t have. Aggression. People who don’t know it – and to be fair even some who do – think of the Old Cross as an old men’s pub. We sometimes refer to it jokingly as the Old Geezers and, yes, the average age of the top table is on the high side. You might expect it to come fully charged with the stench of testosterone and the obstinate resentment of young people and of anything or anyone “not like us”. But the only raised voices you will ever hear are of occasional raucous laughter as a group of men and women celebrate the end of another gruelling week.

We have our discussions but they are governed by mutual respect. There are probably as many “remainers” as “brexiters”, as many “Corbynites” as “Tories” but here, like the many beautiful dogs who bring their owners to the place, we keep the peace.

And women know they are safe here, too, as they should be able to: that bad behaviour by men will not be tolerated. And so we all benefit from that extra dimension that the company of women bestows on the otherwise sad banality of a man’s world.

Bev said to me on Sunday that the Old Cross is the way it is because of its customers. I replied that its customers are the way they are because of the way it is. Here, just off the centre of a small town 20 miles north of London, twenty years ago, a virtuous circle was born and is thriving. This truly is a pub the way they ought to be.

Here’s to the next 20 years.

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 15 - Rifts

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1190

Summary: Post-apologetic fallout from the ill-fated trip to Amarillo as the team prepares to open the rift to apocalypse world. Next chapter is from Castiel’s POV of the aftermath.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

You stare at the ceiling, focus fixed on a speck of dust engaged in a wildly agitated dance upon the verge of the air conditioning vent spewing frigid air. An unruly wisp of hair taps the skin of your forehead in the blast. You swipe at the tendril with unfeeling nubs of fingers, not bothering to stick them back beneath the blanket.

Numb.

That’s the proper word to describe the state of your senses – your base experience of living, no, subsisting – since returning from Amarillo.

With every day, missed touch, minute, evaded look, blink, heartbeat, moment since, the coldness descends ever deeper to freeze the fluttering fringes of your heart; the coldest fount of all being the apparent indifference of an angel who once cared. Seemed to care.

A lifetime ago, a matter of weeks stretching into an age, you knew without doubt from direct experience angels didn’t care – couldn’t care – about humans. Angels existed for cruelty, wrathful beings created to annihilate and not nurture emotion. Then you woke up to a second chance and a second Cas.

Number.

If the bunker’s confines loomed bleak in the landscape of your perception before, during all those convalescent weeks tormented by paralytic headaches in the sunlight impenetrable fortress protecting you as a caged guest of honor, hollow halls echoing your endless pacing footsteps and the comings and goings of two brothers and an angel determined to save their family from entrapment in an alternate universe and humanity as a whole from an impending archangel invasion, the same thick concrete walls offer very little functional shielding from within against the fallout frustration of that trust betrayed angel whose gentle blue gaze once held a solace of warmth for you in the ruins of your mind but now sheens icy and avoids your searching one – searching the cold light with fading hope for signs of thaw, for a kindled fire of forgiveness to comfort the chill sinking into your bones, for shelter from the solitude shrouding your soul and a reprieve from the separateness, the deep disconnect from anything and anyone, you feel in this place.

Pink blossoms, picket fences, angels, apologies. Lashes shutting to stem a rise of tears, your thoughts wend back along the cold drafts to the night of your return.

To say Dean was miffed when you revealed your complacence in the grand witch-instigated homecoming detour of Amarillo – presenting your sullen figure with unfeigned gloom, round shouldered, dewy eyes swollen, remorseful in mumbling contrition, to the nonplussed yet nonetheless grin-gilded hunter swigging a victory beer in the kitchen –  nonplussed, that is, by your and the angel’s early arrival back when he’d clearly intimated you and Cas should spend a few days getting to know each other in uninterrupted non-Winchester adjacent carnal glory – would be an understatement.

Cas tarried – brooding with his hands hidden in his pockets to mask the involuntary shaking in denying their wanting to reach for you to soothe the effects of his callousness – beyond the threshold stairs to observe his friend’s reaction and garnered no sense of satisfaction whatsoever from the scene. Rather, he experienced a sharp stab and pang of self-loathing in his own heart for forcing you to declare culpability for the fiasco rather than stand by your side to defend you from the consequences of Dean’s often stormy ire and bear the burden himself; if he weren’t so enamored of you, so distracted, so careful not to cause you more distress by picking through your thoughts and emotions, he might have seen this coming, or at least sensed it.

Cas told you it had to be this way; he said nothing else in the rain-pelted 8-hour journey back to the bunker, and if this is what he wanted, you were damn well going to give it to him after breeching his trust, if only in hopes of recovering it. So, lips trembling, tears streaming reddened cheeks, you never once looked to Cas or prayed to him; although, knowing he was right there watching, every cell of your body screamed for him to swoop in and save you.

By the time you began to pour out a post-confession apology in affront to Dean’s furious discourse concerning the stakes you selfishly ignored in your pursuit of a home that wasn’t your home because– “You forget you don’t belong here, sweetheart? You put our one shot at grabbing Gabriel in jeopardy, and for what? For nothing. Whatever family you have, they’re over there!” –the angel had skulked away down the hall shadowed by a cloud of guilt believing he’d irrevocably destroyed whatever foundations of affection existed between you and he.

The failure – his failure of you, not some overtly cruel alternate version’s failure – came to him as no surprise; accepting self-defeat in sullen silence, he acquiesced then to a path of avoiding any unnecessary interaction with you to minimize further damage as you’d suffered too much pain already from the likes of angels carrying the moniker of Castiel.

Sam, typical of his empathetic nature, slipped a long arm snug around your shoulders and stepped in to the rescuing role of knot-browed reason wielder to subdue Dean’s blow up; after all, they found Gabriel, no one was mortally injured, why not have another beer because– “Lay off! Dude, look at her, she obviously already feels bad enough. Yeah, maybe it was a mistake, but it’s understandable.” Understandable because of everything you lost. Because given the circumstances any one of them would have succumbed to the same temptation. Because family always comes first.

The tense draw of your mouth relaxed at Sam’s verbal vindication of your actions and Dean’s reluctant beer-glugged nod of consensus. Weight lifted, straightening spine stiffening to bolster your slouched frame, the doorway gaped back empty of angels when your eyes sought out Cas to share the relief. Sam squeezed you tighter then, murmured something vaguely supportive that failed to register in your shock over the angel’s absence. None of the warmth of his embrace penetrated the first prickles of numbness flowing over your flesh.

Numbest.

“Y/N?” Sam pushes open the bedroom door.

You remain rigid, staring upward.

“We’re, uh” –moving into the room, fingers staying at the door knob, he regards the motionless mass of you laid out on the comforter with a crinkle of concern vexing his forehead, but there’s no time for luxuries of concern– “Gabe’s grace has regenerated enough to try to open the rift. Rowena’s set up in the library. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Breaking off your attention from the fleck of dust, you loll your head to the side to look at him. “Cas, too?” your voice quietly cracks.

Sam bobs in affirmation. A taut frown seizes his lips. “He still not talking?”

The tear sliding down your cheek to stain the pillowcase is enough answer.

“Give him some time.” Sam’s gaze drops to the floor. He realizes it’s ridiculous reassurance given the crappy timing. “We’ll be back in 24 hours, okay?”

“Okay,” you answer. You can tell by the airy inflection of his tone he’s not entirely confident they will be. Neither are you. You know where they’re going.

Next: Ch. 16 - Speak of the Devil

[ktrsvo]

an eon for a dream

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170343

summary:

Without another word, the god of summer drifts off, a vision in colour. Even his dream is lovely, a picture of pastels and a crown of sun-shards. Then the scene shifts, and now someone's there, too: a boy all in black, eyes woodland dark, hair an ebony-green shade. He sits beneath a moon, mouth curled in a grin, the heavens winking at his shoulders.

Izuku holds the dream close to his sternum, enchanted.

He meets a god with eyes like a winter storm, and it’s all too easy to fall.

i. aphelion

It's mostly colourless, the realm of dreams. A land of cloud, starlight, wishes, and nightmares, drenched in everlasting night. The beginning of all things, the separation between life and darkness. Beyond the boundary, the solar realm thrives, ever-changing and dynamic, dawn to dusk, summer to winter, spring to fall. Peace to war, then back again.

Dust, rust, and stardust—that's how this world began, a god's wish brought to life, red underneath it all; the earth was hewn from a need of stability, a fear of oblivion. A god's creation is never perfect, it seems, naturally predisposed to chaos and war. Occasionally the earth will run with rivers of crimson, the handiwork of men, born from a desire to rule, to conquer. The ultimate ode to a god's favour.

Izuku very rarely crosses the boundary, but he knows enough—dreams and nightmares, they come to him all the time. What goes on in the land beyond, it's a latticework of tension and intrigue. Here, no such conflicts exist. Night reigns supreme, the thing all mortals fear yet it is the first thing they see in slumber and death.

No, that is exactly why, Izuku thinks dryly as he watches the Sea of Nightmares roil.

 The boundary is mostly stagnant, but sometimes a disturbance will come along that's great enough to disrupt it.

"A great war will come soon," Toshinori reports to him on the day of the winter solstice, light flakes of snow falling from the Sky of Dreams. "There is strife among the courts on who will rule the solar realm. The Mother has abdicated, and already the gods are fighting for the throne. If the situation does not change, the mortals will be dealt a devastating blow."

A fractal of ice lands on Izuku's palm, its facets boasting spiderweb-intricate cracks. "A tempest," he corrects, watching the ice mist into light in his hold—blue, bright. "A tempest will come; the deities, especially those of summer and autumn, will fight tooth-and-nail for the prize."

Toshinori's gaunt features grow dim. He is a nomad of night, well-acquainted with the other realms. A friend, an advisor of sorts, a companion at times. Night's realm has very few denizens; it's too much of a vast, desolate place. "This is not a matter to take lightly," he warns. "An era of madness will descend upon us all again. And you—" a rumble of thunder interrupts him.

"What of me?" Izuku turns towards the Sea of Nightmares, the movement idle, languorous. "It is the same every year, decade, or century."

Toshinori shakes his head. "You are missing the point," he says. "Do try to understand."

Around them the snow falls in a deluge, a blizzard in development. "It is not me you have to worry about."

"My boy, is the weight on your shoulders not heavy enough? This has gone on for far too long." Pleading, sorrowful.

"It is not all bad sometimes. Look." Izuku cups his palms. A star falls from the sky, a dream of tranquility in neverending war, lovely, serene. Rippling fields, corn-yellow stalks bending in a breeze, jugs of nectar and honey, the colours faded soft throughout.

"You will still bear the brunt of what's to come," Toshinori argues.

"The burden has always been mine to carry and mine alone." The dream creases, ripping, unearthing the rot festering in its recesses. A thing drained bloodless by fear. Here, no crimson rivers run, just miles upon miles of ash-grey snow. "Duty is everything, is it not?" Izuku's mouth twists. "This realm has been my domain long enough. I have collected far too many nightmares that the burden almost weighs nothing now."

"Almost," Toshinori echoes.                                                                    

Izuku's fists close. Unclench. The dream-turned-nightmare eddies away.

 The world is beautiful today, the skies a light grey, dreams ripe for the picking, the Sea only lightly frothing. It hasn't been this idle for an age, and Izuku will savour every moment of it. Perhaps the summer realm is responsible for this shift; the scale is tipping towards its favour, it seems.

The cloud beneath him glides gently above the waters. Izuku reclines on it, one hand tucked beneath his head, the other spinning stars, the loveliest dreams of the day. The most colourful sights his domain has to offer, besides glimpses of the solar realm. From here, they're mostly obscured by mist, pearl-white and thick.

On rare occasions he'll see fields of green, maybe a kingdom or two, perhaps even a god's court, but it's all clouded up right now. Pity; he had hoped for a sight of the nymph gardens, one of Toshinori's favourite places.

A sigh. Izuku's eyes flutter shut. Just for once, he thinks absently.

Then, a disturbance: ripples shudder through the Sea. The cloud bucks with the impact. Izuku cracks an eye open, annoyed. A figure emerges from the mist, the air around them bright, leaving colour in their wake. Izuku tilts his head, eyebrows raised, curious.

A boy with hair the colour of both flame and snow stares back at him.

The stars halt their rotation, streaking away in a trail of sparks.

"Hello," Izuku greets, raising a hand in greeting.

The boy's eyes narrow. His gaze, it's like a winter storm—glacial, imperious. "Who are you?" Even his voice can freeze a desert.

"I could say the same thing about you," Izuku drawls, offering a grin.

The cloud banks into the shore. The boy takes a step backward, his ivory cloak billowing behind him. Over his heart a beveled insignia rests, the sides gilded. It displays a sun, several rays jutting from the centre, each ray ending with one of the solar realm's courts' marks. A candidate, then.

The boy shifts. "I—" he breaks off abruptly. "Just—never mind." Weary, dull. He cranes his neck, scowl replaced by pensiveness. "This is the boundary," he murmurs, voice tinged with disbelief. "I never thought I would actually find it."

"How did you find it, if I may ask?" Very few gods dare venture into this territory. Although the realm of dreams had once been a no-man's-land, it was the closest to night, which most gods feared—still fear. A claim had had to be made for order's sake.

"I wandered around in search of something. I can't really remember ..." The boy sways, expression going vacant. He shakes his head. "No, I needed to see the night realm for myself. Not many gods can claim to have gone here."

"Why the curiosity, though?" Izuku sits up, legs dangling off the cloud.

"Night is powerful, unconquerable. The gods and songs of old speak of the realm in fearful tongues. Its king rules over the vastest lands, lands unfathomable to most, lands that surround the solar realm. He maintains equilibrium, vanquishing the sun day by day." A fevered, exhausted pitch. "I have heard many tales, but, this, I did not quite expect."

"You came at a good time." Indeed he did; all is calm here, clear, grey. "Send summer my regards."

"I am summer," the boy says, the air around him stirring. "It runs in my veins, strong and true. The earth has smiled upon my court, and therefore I have to pay my dues." His form tilts again. Izuku's fingers twitch. A puffy cloud catches his fall.

"Rest," Izuku says. "It does your realm no good if you've no strength, and a leader must always be ready."

"I can't rest," the boy snaps, but already he's sinking into the cloud. "My father, he will be displeased with my indolence. I can't ... I must not—"

"Forget your troubles for a moment and sleep," Izuku insists softly.

Without another word, the god of summer drifts off, a vision in colour. Even his dream is lovely, a picture of pastels and a crown of sun-shards. Then the scene shifts, and now someone's there, too, a boy all in black, eyes woodland dark, hair an ebony-green shade. He sits beneath a moon, mouth curled in a grin, the heavens winking at his shoulders.

Izuku holds the dream close to his sternum, enchanted.

 ii. eclipse

"Someone visited," Izuku says tells Toshinori, cradling the dream in his hands.

"Strange." Toshinori frowns thoughtfully. The realm, after all, was not meant to be simply found. "What were they doing?"

"It was an informal meeting, cordial on all counts." A comet rips through the sky, a burst of white. "The god of summer wished to see the night realm."

A blink. "You mean the ruler's son?" Toshinori strokes his chin. "That boy is favoured to preside over the solar realm; his power is great enough, though he still has much to learn, much like someone I'm very familiar with."

Izuku shoots him a dry smile.

"Does he know?" Toshinori watches the comet extinguish into streaks of light.

"No." Not yet.

 The god of summer returns on a calm night, figure lissome, blazing golden in the dark. His tread is sinuous, airy, a sylph's step, but also swift, precise, and carefully calibrated. War is inscribed along his every movement, the set of his jaw, the sharpness of his glare, the lift of his shoulders. A warrior through and through, born and bred from blood.

It's a captivating sight.

"You look better," Izuku says, stepping away from the shoreline.

"I suppose you could say that." The god shrugs. Turns his head around. "The boundary looks different. Dark."

"Like it has always been." The calm, however, is unusual. "What brings you back?"

The god shifts. "I had .... a peaceful time here," he says in a measured tone. "It was a lull in a storm."

"So you came all the way to thank me? I'm flattered."

The god's eyes snap towards him. "Hardly," he says, but there's no bite to his words. "Surely you know why: I seek an audience with the king of night. A brazen request, I'm aware, but as a future ruler taking initiative is imperative."

Izuku clicks his tongue. "Future ruler? How assuming."

"It is not assuming when you know it to be true." A hint of irritation. "My role was decided from the day of my conception. The solar realm will fall under my reign, mark my words." If Izuku is not mistaken, there's an almost sour note hidden in his words.

Izuku slips his hands into his pockets, holding the god's piercing stare. "What if the king does not wish to meet you? What if he has no interest in making your acquaintance?"

"He must, if an alliance is to be had. If not, well, it's not the worst-case scenario—"

"Which is?"

The god sends him a withering look that Izuku returns with an idle grin. "So he doesn't deign to see me? I know a dismissal when I see one."

"Clearly you have not seen enough, because he has yet to express an opinion on the matter."

"An agreement is what I require, not a sentiment."

"Which you will have in due time."

The god huffs. "Are you always this irksome?"

"Only when it comes to you." Izuku's grin widens, luminous.

Anger—ruby red—stains the god's cheeks. "Another time, then." He spins around, sparks trailing at his heels.

Before the god disappears out of sight, Izuku calls out, "Will you at least tell me your name before you go?"

The god pauses. Looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing silver and blue. "An answer for an answer, which you have not delivered."

"The king will grace you with his presence upon your next arrival," Izuku promises. "I swear it upon my court."

The god of summer breaks off eye contact. There's a moment of silence, and then he says, "It's Shouto." His name lingers in the air long after he leaves.

The Sky of Dreams glows brighter.

 Izuku's throne, a cold, ethereal thing made of moon-shards and starlight, rests on a mountain overlooking the earth, the onyx sky fading to indigo at the boundary, transitioning into full colour beyond—the view both panoptic and opaque. Seeing all yet nothing at the same time. Enough to get by, at least.

Izuku rests his chin on a palm, his other arm draped over the armrest. He raises his gaze skywards, towards the crescent moons atop the pillars surrounding his throne. One for each realm. The nightmares, they've started to stir—vicious, heavy, red. Exhausting, worst of all.

"Are you expecting someone, my king?" a wind spirit asks, kneeling before him.

"A soon-to-be-ruler," Izuku confirms, crossing his legs. "Have you seen anyone of that sort make an appearance?"

"The summer god is here. Shall I send him in?"

"Please do." The spirit rises. Izuku's fingers tap against his throne, once, twice, thrice.

"So you were the king all this time." A blaze of fire and ice. The wind spirit scuttles away. Shouto storms towards the throne, eyes irate, bright. "I don't appreciate being played for a fool."

"That's much too harsh a term," Izuku says smoothly. "My apologies for the confusion you must've experienced. A bad move on my part and for that I take full responsibility."

"You—you're making light of the situation again."

"A necessary evil, I'm afraid; it's been awfully boring these past few seasons."

"When I become king, I will not tolerate such mistreatment. You may rule the greatest realm, but I will have the solar courts at my disposal. There, a matter not to be laughed at."

"Oh? Is that a threat?" Izuku stands. Slips his hands into his pockets.

"A warning, more like."

The marble clacks under Izuku's steady tread, stars issuing from his step. The stars weave into his cape, a ripple of gossamer, diaphanous, light. On his head a constellation sits—a jagged crown, all sharp valleys and crests, each star connected by a web of glasslike threads.

Fitting for a king of the most powerful realm.

"Well, I'm sorry. Truly I am." Izuku inclines his head.

"Say I came with the might of the courts. Conquered your realm and took your throne for myself. Will you be sorry, then?"

"You wouldn't."

"What if I did?" A challenge.

"The loss will be felt deeply, that I cannot deny. But ..." Izuku shrugs. "Take it, then. It will be yours, all of it: my crown, the Sky, the Sea, and the darkness."

Surprise is stamped across Shouto's face. He flinches sharply, whirling around.

"If that is what you wish, so be it," Izuku continues, every step taking him closer to the summer god. "I will not retaliate. Now, you have no obstructions. My domain is yours to seize. An easy victory; you have nothing to lose but all to gain." Izuku halts. Brings up his lips to the summer god's ear. "Shall I bend the knee right here and now?"

Shouto freezes, fists clenched at his sides. The silence that follows is long and agonizing. Then: "It is not so much a victory as it is theft. Honour does not exist without sacrifice." Weary, hollow.

Izuku's mouth curves.

"I have to go." Shouto makes a move for the exit, all traces of anger gone. He spares a single glance at Izuku, and it's a curious look, soft at the edges, a little mysterious.

It's absolutely disarming.                                                        

 "Have you come to conquer me after all?" Bubbles drift lazily around Izuku's fingers, courtesy of Toshinori's visit to the siren kingdom. "Now would be a good time; I cannot be bothered to get up."

"No," Shouto murmurs, crouching down on the shoreline. "I've come without any ill intentions, believe it or not." He regards Izuku with raised eyebrows. "For a being of your position, you seem to be at leisure all the time."

"I assure you that it isn't the case. It's just that my responsibilities are not for public consumption." Izuku props himself up on an elbow. "So you're back. It seems that our dispute wasn't sufficient enough to keep you away."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Not at all." Izuku flicks a hand. A flurry of stars swirl around Shouto. "Starlight looks good on you. Brings out the colours of your hair."

"I appreciate the flattery," he says flatly, lowering his gaze.

"Oh, but I do mean it." Izuku grins sweetly. Shouto scowls, blushing sunset-pink. "Tell me, is there a real reason you're here? Surely there are far more interesting distractions in your realm."

"Not particularly." The bubbles drift to join the stars, opalescent in the light. Shouto absently pokes one. "I wanted to get away from it all. My father, my court, everything. The other gods grow more restless by the day, and—it's all just madness. My reserves of diplomacy are running in short supply." His next sentence is uttered so softly that Izuku almost misses it: "Plus, I could not stay away."

Izuku's cheeks heat up. The Sky of Dreams twinkles knowingly. Warm—Izuku is warm all over in the way his realm can never be. "Let me show you something for your troubles," he says, summoning a star.

Shouto watches, transfixed. The star unfolds.

"A dream, one of my favourite ones. How I yearn for a land I have never been to." A lullaby, tinkling, effervescent, fills the air. Vibrant bowers, sleepy hollows, glistening caverns, lush dells.

Izuku glides towards Shouto. Transfers the dream into his hand.

Eyes wide, Shouto murmurs, "It is beautiful."

"It is," Izuku hums.

 A flower—a single rose—is tucked between Shouto's fingers, the petals deep red and moon-bright. Out of place in a world of black and grey.

"A gift," Shouto says. "For the dream you shared with me."

Flowers do not bloom in the night realm; the barren grounds ensure that little to no life exists here. Izuku accepts, hesitant.

"It will not die," Shouto assures. "I made sure of it."

Izuku holds the flower to his nose. Inhales. It's sweeter than any song he's tasted.

"Thank you," Izuku whispers.

For the first time ever, Shouto smiles at him, and it's enchanting.

Captivating.

Disarming.

Even when the smile fades into a look of hesitation.

 The war Toshinori mentioned has come at long last. The Sea churns with screams and dirges, spitting them out raw and guttural. In the years to come, the soil beyond the boundary will grow gravid with corpse and gore. Many stars have reached their last exhale, the Sky rife with hisses of gas.

As the Sky dims with loss, the Sea turns frothing, a graveyard of dreams.

Longer nights and shorter days, a tragedy many fear. It has become all too easy to swallow the sun, and dimly Izuku wonders what the summer god's smile would transform into if he plunged the world in eternal night. Conquered day.

(A calamity, possibly).

 An elixir of something silvery bubbles in Toshinori's hand. "You are too tired, my boy," he says, worried, holding the goblet to Izuku's lips. "Why must you take it on alone?"

The liquid is honey-sweet on his tongue, acrid in his stomach. "Heavy lies the crown," is the eternal answer.

Toshinori sighs.

 "I realize that I still do not know your name."

"Have this dance with me and I'll tell you."

A pause. Shouto considers Izuku's hand. "Must we really?" he says, cheeks pink, eyebrows raised.

Star-bright eyes twinkle. "That decision is yours to make."

Shouto's palm slips into his own, golden against moon-pale. His expression is vacant and, somehow, a little lost. The two of them sway gently in the blue moonlight, Shouto's gaze suddenly appraising.

"You stare at me like you're sizing up a formidable foe. Do I intimidate you that much?" Izuku's tone is light and casual.

Instead of retorting, Shouto asks, "Why is the boundary under your domain?"

Izuku shrugs. "It's a responsibility that can't afford to fall into the wrong hands. The consequences would be disastrous."

"It's true, then, all the tales of your power?"

Izuku breaks away from their dance. Looks up at the inky darkness. "It's Izuku, by the way," he says, evasive.

 The violence continues, untameable.

The moon god stands in the midst of a storm, the world a dark crimson. The creatures sprout army by army, each a harrowing pastiche of skeleton, flesh gone sour, and other broken things. A sweep of an arm, and they rear back, jaws snapping at his heels, mutinous.

The summer god watches, expression carefully blank.

"Are you scared?" the moon god asks.

"No." An honest answer.

"Maybe you should be."

The summer god does not blink.

 A circlet sears Shouto's brow, its apex bearing a miniature sun.

Izuku bows at the waist, arm sweeping in a grand arc. "Congratulations," he offers with a smile.

"It was only a matter of time." Shouto's mismatched eyes bore into him, something soft and shy flickering in their depths.

Izuku blinks, breath catching a little in his throat.

"The coronation will take place soon." His gaze continues to linger on Izuku's face, and suddenly the hall does not feel nearly as cold anymore, a pleasant burn kindling beneath his skin.

"And?" Izuku finds himself drifting closer, closer, closer.

"What?" Shouto's face starts to burn as well.

The realization hits him with the force of a meteor shower. Oh, Izuku thinks, dazed. Shouto must've sensed it, too, because his expression turns closed-off and mildly confused.

Izuku halts.

 "Duty is everything. I cannot afford distractions," Shouto murmurs.

The words dredge up a dim echo in the hollows of memory. Hadn't Izuku said the same thing once? Although Shouto's talking about something else, Izuku can't help but feel he's addressing a certain issue.

"Indeed," Izuku hums emptily.

 Soon enough it dawns on Shouto, and the confrontation is less than pretty.

"I think we should stop," he whispers, torn. "We have to stop meeting like this."

Izuku swallows. "Why?" comes out, even if he already knows the answer.

Silence stretches out between them. It shouldn't hurt this much.

"I will be the ruler of the solar realm, of Day. That much is clear." Shouto runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We aren't meant to be this way. We just aren't. What would—what would my court say, what would my father do, it's—"

Izuku reaches out for him. Shouto flinches away, eyes hardening into chips of ice. That glacial, warrior's mask slips over his features. "Don't," he says coldly. "We were never supposed to grow this close. I wasn't supposed to feel the way I do. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"But it did," Izuku says quietly.

"It was a mistake." Shouto shakes his head, clenching his jaw. "We can't do this."

Izuku stares, cold all over.

Shouto's next words are a sword to the gut. "I can't love you. And this ends now." There's remorse in his tone, but it isn't evident by the way he leaves without so much as a backward glance.

Still Izuku waits, and waits, and waits.

 The circlet has turned into a crown of sun-shards, each point representing each of the solar realm's court. The summer god no longer but the sovereign of day, blindingly bright.

They meet under an eclipse before several faceless courts and hushed voices. This one time where the boundary has lifted, two realms blurring into one.

"Day." The moon god tilts his head.

The sun god wavers. "Night," he acknowledges stiffly.

The smile Night sends Day is sad.

 They meet once more before the end of a millennia, a wide, wide rift between them.

"Shouto," Izuku calls out.

Faraway, distant, Shouto does not respond. Does not even look back.

 The war reaches a long-awaited end, dispersing in hope and unity.

"There, the troubles are over," Izuku says, the boat beneath them rocking gently.

Toshinori purses his lips. "Not all of them."

Silence.

"You're lonely."

The sails overhead flap sharply."I have you."

"It is not the same, and we both know it."

Izuku looks away.

 A year passes. Izuku sends a dream.

Ten. Northern lights.

A hundred. A galaxy.

A thousand. He stops.

 iii. perihelion

The sun god's gift remains dewdrop fresh—lovely, red, alive. Izuku twirls the stem. Watches the petals dance.

"Perhaps you were right," he says to it.

The waves stop lapping against the hull, like they're holding in a breath. Toshinori steers the vessel uneasily. "Will you ever let it go?"

The petals are a silky kiss against his fingers. "Should I?" One hand dangles the flower over the bow, the boat listing to port.

The Sea yawns, eager. "It is not for me to decide."

Izuku shuts his eyes, resting an arm over his forehead. "One day," he murmurs, pressing the rose to his heart instead. For now, he tells himself, as the thorns dig into his skin.

 Soon enough a petal falls from the rose, crumbling at his feet. Using the remains, Izuku fashions a falling star, wispy, lonely. He sends it at what would be dusk in the solar realm, before he trades the sun for the moon. A parting gift.

Pathetic. Izuku sighs, tired.

 The boundary is the most beautiful it's ever been: a dark blue evening. Izuku stands, gazing at the rose in his hand.

It is time, he thinks, heart numb.

One petal falls, then, two, four, stardust at his feet.

Izuku stares. What was left of the petals scatters. Done—it is done. Izuku feels drained and hollow inside. Then, he catches movement in the corner of his eye: a single rose petal.

It refuses to die, even in his hold.

Izuku's gaze snaps skywards. The world is lightening, indigo fading to grey. The petal sears his skin as his eyes widen, a sharp gasp hitching in his throat. After all this time—

Why?

A pair of footsteps, light and airy, sound from behind.

Why now? His nails dig in sharp enough to draw out blood.

"Don't," a voice pleads, hoarse, broken.                                

A new rose blooms—red, alive—in Izuku's hand.

"I'm sorry for what I did."

A chin rests on his shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist.

"I didn't—I didn't mean what I said."

The moon and sun cannot coexist, a natural law. The boundary ensures the separation of the two entities. One realm is cold, colourless, unlovely, the other bright, vibrant, beautiful. They're opposites, the moon and the sun god, two spheres not meant to overlap.

"What I feel for you, I was wrong to dismiss it."

This is all wrong.

"Please allow me to give you this."

An arc of colours bleeds into the Sky—there's yellow, red, blue, and everything in between. The clarity is crisp, unmistakeably genuine. Izuku freezes, breathing harshly. He breaks free from the embrace, fists clenched at his sides.

"You," he whispers, rounding onto Shouto. "Why?"

The sun god takes a step forward, face tired but lovely—unbearably so. "You have sent me much over the years," he says breathlessly, voice ragged. "All of them beautiful things, the dreams especially. I was frustrated and too ashamed to respond. For a time I thought that it was never meant to be, that what I had done was for our best interests; we are both of two realms that have been kept separate since time immemorial. I was told to stay away from you."

The ground beneath Izuku tilts, unsteady.

"Night is to be feared, challenged, and threatened, my father always said. A figure of malice and wrath. His words were poison, and I foolishly allowed them to interfere with my reasoning. He always said I was born for the crown, and therefore bound to its duties." Shouto's palms reach up to cup Izuku's cheeks. "I can see where I went wrong, and for that I am sorry. You are more than I deserve, nothing like what they rumour about in hushed tones, and that comet that you sent—" A crack snags at his words.

"It made me realize exactly what I had lost." Shouto pauses, eyes brimming with remorse. "You, Izuku. You." The words twist a knife in his heart.

"This isn't ... I did not expect ... I was—I was about to give up on you," Izuku says harshly, something wet trailing down his face. "Shouto, what are you saying?"

"I've loved you for a thousand years, and have never, ever stopped. I know that I am in no position to ask this of you, but ..." Shouto leans in, brushing the tears from his face. "Don't. Please. Don't."

The Sky bears down on them, stars wavering. Shouto's touch burns against his skin. Heart heavy, Izuku can hardly move or say anything. "The colours," Izuku breathes, lightheaded. "How?"

"You've held the weight of the boundary alone for far too long. Now, it doesn't belong entirely to you anymore. Half of your burden is mine to carry, and I will not let you take it back." His thumb caresses his jaw. "The beauty of my realm is here to stay. But if you no longer wish to see me, you need only say the word."

Izuku's eyes widen as he takes in the eclipse that has replaced the moon. "It is not easy, this duty," Izuku murmurs, pale.

"It does not matter."

"You won't—you won't regret it?"

Their foreheads touch. "Never," Shouto says with conviction.

The ground rights itself. The rose in Izuku's hand blooms. He draws away, lifts the flower to the eclipse. The petals unfurl, deep scarlet against lavender.

"Will you still have me?" Shouto asks softly.

The rose disintegrates into light in Izuku's clasp. The newly formed star winks at him. "A dream," Izuku says. "My new favourite one." He meets Shouto's eyes. Lifts a starlight-dusted palm to his cheek. Smiles. "I am yours and you are mine."

The smile that Shouto gives him return is achingly lovely—lovelier than any of the dreams Izuku has in his possession. He presses a kiss to Izuku's knuckles. "You are beautiful," he says, cheeks sunrise red as he bridges the gap between their lips, the kiss sweeter than honey and hotter than flame.

The warmth that fills Izuku, head-to-toe, is unmistakeably love.

 The boundary has fallen under the night and the solar realm's rule, shining with a muted sort of brilliance. All around fields of flowers stretch towards the horizon, stalks fluttering and bending, dreams bobbing up and down like fireflies.

"My king," Izuku says, fiddling with the crown at Shouto's head. At the tip of it rests a lone crescent, cradling a sun.

Shouto catches his hand and interlaces their fingers together, amused.

"Will you ever tire of eons of this dalliance?" Izuku jests, resting his head on Shouto's shoulder.

"What we have is not a fleeting affair but the kind that is immortalized in song and poem, the kind that mortals envy, the kind that they can only hope to dream of. It is forever, if only you will have me for that long."

Their hands untangle. Izuku brushes a hand over his cheek. "Surely you have not forgotten my response."

"It seems that I am in need of a reminder." The throne beneath them shifts as Shouto rolls over to hover above Izuku, the eclipse resting at his shoulder.

Izuku reaches up to adjust the crown atop Shouto's head, sun-bright against the dim twilight. "Do you really?" he murmurs, grinning slyly.

Shouto's eyes, they're limpid, bottomless pools darkening over with fire. "Indulge me," he rasps, hands sleepwalking down.

A sharp intake of breath. "My, my, how improper. Where are your manners?"

"Stop tormenting me."

"Only if you say please."

Shouto's mouth descends to his collarbone. "Please," he murmurs against his skin, full of want.

Laughter slips past Izuku's lips. Shouto lifts his head. Fire—Izuku is burning with fire. "It would be better to show you," Izuku says, closing the gap between them. Shouto eagerly deepens the kiss.

Izuku pulls away for a moment, flushed, remembering something. "Don't we have two realms to run, my king?" he breathes.

"That can wait," Shouto says, gaze heavy-lidded. "We have forever after all." His face grows closer, closer, closer. "I have something to show you."

Their lips reconnect, and here, under Shouto's touch, energy thrums, lightning red and alive—and this something becomes a thousand colours bleeding into a single burst of ecstasy that leaves him weightless and exhilarated, summer-warm and golden.

 A sunburst gleams at the peak of Izuku's crown, framed by three stars. No longer does he have to maintain the balance of the world alone.

"Finally," Toshinori says, eyes glimmering with softness.

"I suppose it was time," Izuku agrees, cradling Shouto's rose against his heart.

The Sea of Nightmares remains quiet for a very long time after that.

[archivesdiveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with BERNADETTE “BUNNY” DU PONT, who is NINETEEN years old. She is often called BIANCA by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER.

She wants the world on a silver platter, wants it wrapped around her finger like the prettiest of diamond rings. She was raised to believe she’ll have it, too, a little pearl of a girl who could play her parents’ heart strings like a harp but never quite learned the meaning of the word no. Born to a successful banker and his beautiful wife, she was everything her parents wanted her to be and more: apple-sweet like her mother, intelligent like her father, and pretty, above all else. She was perfect in their eyes, a darling doll of a daughter they could pose and dress to their liking, and they doted on her relentlessly. Bastian and Eleanor Du Pont cultivated in their daughter a taste for the finer things in life, a hunger for delectable desserts and dreamy dresses that would one day prove ravenous. They planted within her the seeds of luxurious ambition in the hopes that their beautiful little flower might bloom, and bloom she did. Bernadette Du Pont, who came to be called Bunny for the bumbling way in which she pronounced her own name, grew to possess a wild sort of elegance, a brazen sort of poise that best befits spoiled brats. She was Verona’s sweetheart—soft, gentle, all sugar-spun locks and eyes a brilliant shade of greed, and she would bring her family a gilded sort of glory for it.

Where her sister was sensible, responsible, slated to one day take over the family company and carry on the Du Pont legacy like any good daughter should, Bunny seemed to have been born for the sole purpose of being adored, and no one had ever done it quite so well. She collected hearts like trinkets, put them on a shelf for all the world to see—look, but don’t touch, for of the many skills she’d been dutifully instructed in (French, ballet, playing the piano, all things a cultured lady ought to know), she’d never been taught how to share, and like most children given the choice, she didn’t care to learn. It’s often been said that men cower before that which they call beautiful, and the same could be said for her, so afraid were they to let such a pretty little thing go without. She perfected the art of getting what she wanted, of honeyed persuasion and batted lashes, a talent that served her well in nearly all of her endeavors—both work and play. Little Bunny Du Pont graduated at the top of her secondary school class with the help of a soft-spoken boy too intelligent to know any better, but—which was more—she did so draped in chiffon and pearls, the taste of strawberries and cream and self-satisfaction on her pink lips.

But the ruin of sweetness is rot, and her dazzling smile hid sharp teeth, as beautiful things tend to do. She’d been taught all her life that appearances were paramount and to be perfect was to be loved, and somewhere between layers of silk and hours of etiquette lessons, the Du Pont darling learned how to deceive. She was still their little angel, the crown jewel that would one day grace the arm of a man from a family every bit as powerful as hers, but her halo was that of rehearsed innocence, of the elegance that comes with keeping one’s own secrets and the thrill of allowing them to see the light. Kissing is only fun when it’s tongue in cheek, after all, and aren’t all vices the same? She indulged in them all—courted her peers and her father’s colleagues by day and each of the seven deadly sins by night—and her doting parents were none the wiser, blinded as they were by her airy laugh and coy smile. She was their muse, their golden child, but even gold can tarnish, and saccharine girls can turn sour. Thus, tempted by greed and the rush that came with doing what she knew she shouldn’t, she easily fell into step with the mob her father served and never looked back.

A war is no place for girls like her, precious princesses raised on silver spoons, but there’s a wickedness about her, a sort of hunger that no amount of sweet things could satisfy, and while it won’t make her bulletproof, it’s made her bold. She wants adoration, her name whispered in hushed tones, and little by little—laugh by laugh and trick by trick—she’ll get it. She wants the world even if the blood feud in Verona splits into two, and she’ll have that, too, for the outcome of the war is of little consequence to a child who’s only ever known loyalty to herself. People scoff at entitled children—roll their eyes at the hellish tantrums they throw, but they often forget the ease with which they get the object of their heart’s desire. Hail your kings, but watch the brats conquer.

Katarina Du Pont: Sister. The Du Pont girls have been known since infancy for their looks—ivory skin, golden locks, eyes like sparkling emeralds. It’s been said that their father’s wealth and their mother’s blood flows through their veins, a combination as enticing as it is deadly, but Bunny knows the truth—that Katarina’s eyes are green not from prosperity, but from envy—and revels in it. She’s stolen any and all attention afforded to her older sister since the day she was born, and few things bring her more pleasure than the knowledge that she is—and probably always will be—the favorite daughter, a notion she’s loath to let Katarina forget. Bunny mocks the older girl for her rigidity, and Kat ridicules her for her immaturity, but Bunny has played her part exceptionally well; no one would ever believe the woman who cried bitch.     

Cyrus Sloane: Partner in crime. He’s the spitting image of the type of boy her father wouldn’t approve of, shunned by his family but arrogant enough to remain in their midst, and she likes him all the more for it. His attention is hard to come by and harder to keep, and she likes that, too—let it be known that Bunny Du Pont rarely turns down the occasional worthwhile challenge. She’s found she rather enjoys his company, and she seeks him out whenever she’s in the mood to cause a bit of trouble—often. It’s not often she finds someone who can keep up with her mischief and match her taunts with some of their own, after all. They’re a match made in hell, a cast-out boy-king determined to reclaim his throne and a spoiled princess who knows only how to take, and peace should rue the day they laid eyes on each other—if it doesn’t already. The West might have survived Bonnie and Clyde, but Verona won’t survive them.

Juliana Capulet & Maeve Petre: Faux friends. “You are the company you keep.” Such was her father’s reasoning for nudging his youngest into a friendship with his colleagues’ daughters, a contract not nearly as eternal as marriage but equally as binding. It was only fitting that the children of three of the most powerful men on the east side of the Castelvecchio should be inseparable, and for the first decades of their lives, they were. Tea parties, braids fastened with little pink ribbons, frosting-filled sleepovers—they had it all, the triumvirate of daddy’s little princesses, but as they’ve aged, Bunny’s found the two girls leave a taste in her mouth that’s far too sweet, even for her. Between Maeve’s goodness and the way the Capulets seem to dote on Juliana for no reason other than her last name, she can hardly stand to be around them for a few hours, but luckily, a few hours are all that’s really required of her to maintain her pristine image. Who said nice girls couldn’t have fun?

Bunny is portrayed by ELLE FANNING. She is currently OPEN FOR AUDITIONS.

[livmoose]

Locksley Hall

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.— In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn'd—her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs— All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes— Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong"; Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more! O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy?—having known me—to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand— Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! Well—'t is well that I should bluster!—Hadst thou less unworthy proved— Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? I remember one that perish'd; sweetly did she speak and move; Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No—she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. "They were dangerous guides the feelings—she herself was not exempt— Truly, she herself had suffer'd"—Perish in thy self-contempt! Overlive it—lower yet—be happy! wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men: Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain— Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine— Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd,— I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit—there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree— Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books— Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage—what to me were sun or clime? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time— I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day; Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.