#but seriously youve outdone yourself

[kazucee]

THE ENDING MADE MY HEART DROP?? KOUE? ARE YOU OK? IM AT THE EDGE OF MY DAMN BED AND YOU DROP THIS CLIFFHANGER???? Anyway besides that ending (internally I'm cursing at you but also kissing your feet because this was absolutely magnificent !)

your writting gets better every time I read one of your works. going piece by piece of my favourite bits (though lets be honest, every part is so well written I could write a whole book report on it despite it being the prologue and first chapter)

'It's like a piece of candy given to a wailing child, if all is devoured and nothing is on their palm, they would whine once more. Greed birthing upon greed like one hurricane of a sinful cycle. For a war cannot be ceased. No matter how much a pacifist begged and prayed and groveled till their knees bled beneath the stones.'

this part??????? hello? koue and political themes is something I didn't think I needed (but now I'm invested and I demand more) gosh this blurb got me by the throat, like my lungs stopped working type. political themes slap so hard when done properly and madam served so hard with this! 'knees bled beneath the stones?' felt. me begging koue to release any of their writing frfr.

'Tenderly, the boy brushes your feathers with his knuckles, inspecting closely. From the audience's seats, he didn't notice a single thing wrong about you, but up close, your colored plumages feel stiff and rough beneath his skin, untended and oily and not preened properly—the aspect of a halovian's wings are their basis of pride, divine innocence and most of all, freedom. It's their most cherished possession, ridding one of its feathers means cutting their life to the ground, to be helpless, to die flightless.'

THIS ONE MADE MY EYES GLASSY IF I'M BEING HONEST. had to stop, chat koue, reread it, and inhale. reread, inhale, wipe eyes, repeat. It sent me through a rollercoaster, and I got whiplash. READER MY BELOVED CHILD, SHE IS JUST A BABY. WHEN I FIND THE PEOPLE WHO DARE HURT HER. But koue? The emotion in this scene is so well delivered (articulated, presented, THE WORDS? THEEEE WORDSSSS) and I like how you included how sacred halovian wings are to them (yes. YES.) 'to be helpless, to die flightless.' my heart pinched, legit ached, did I mention how well written this part is? don't underestimate koue and their angst capabilities or you'll get shot.

"My dream will involve everyone. It will be a paradise where the weak will be protected and one day, when we are older, if you wish for a stage to perform I'll build you one, something more grander than Velvet house, where everyone will love you and your voice. Pain and harassment will not be a factor."

dare i say the best dialogue to ever dialogue. LIKE YES SIR GET YOUR DREAM ! I LOVED THIS PART. idk it shows how determined this young man is to give the people a better life (YES KOUE. YES. HIS CHARACTER IS JUST CHEFS KISS. guys its THE Sunday writer ever) i want nothing but to hug Sunday, you made him all rough edges and callouses at the ripe age of 15 (i hate that he's pushed to study so hard already, seething actually) yet despite his upbringing he still finds a way to be a gentle soul (and a total loser but we love him for it) 'if you wish for a stage to perform I'll build you one' OK? SIR? its giving 'if i cant run to you ill walk and if i cant walk ill crawl'

'It only took a day or two to realize how similar you two were; she dreamt about being a star one day, you responded kindly to the same notion, your child-like dreams of performance still small and conserved, passion growing like a flavorful fresh fruit.'

reader being best friends with Robin is everything to me ! i love them, two twin stars taking the world by storm >:.DD AND SUNDAY BEING HAPPY ABOUT IT? BUT ALSO NOT BEING ABLE TO JOIN THEM BECAUSE OF HIS STUDIES? IM SOBBING. GOPHER WHEN I CATCH YOUR ASS. but sunday being soft towards the two special ladies in his life??>>>>> SOBBING.

“Don’t leave yet, you don’t have to if you don’t want to—” You were quick to say, noticing the complicated expression caking his golden eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just been two weeks and I…I have been looking for a reason to approach you, this was the only thing I could come up with.”

IF THIS DIDNT MAKE YOU SOB. there's smth so innocent and pure about their relationship (living for it, I truly am holy shhhhhhh) and I AM LOVING THE PACING (CALLING IT, FRIENDS TO LOVERS, MAYBE ENEMIES ALONG THE WAY) but like their conversations >>> koue can really dialogue like no other. it's so in character? it's so animated and it really brings the entire story to life? i can't compliment you more my darling well done indeed.

'And as for Sunday, the young scholar boy continues to fall into the currents of your mannerisms, your bold trajectory, your hauntingly drawn smile, deeper than anyone can sink themselves into.'

gosh i honestly wish i could quote the entire book because !!! but. anyways. I'm in love with reader? like robin is, the children too and the sisters and sunday? LIKE COUNT ME IN BECAUSE READER IS SUCH A LOVELY DARLING GIRL I LUV EM SO MUCH. PROPS TO YOU FOR MAKING SUCH AN EASY TO LOVE CHARACTER.

end notes: yes i could rant about this till the next day, yes I'm serious about the book report part, yes idc if it is tldr because I needed to express my love for this series. i remember koue mentioning that they're afraid of posting because it was too long? but honestly the wc doesn't even matter to me especially if it is well written and paced nicely ! it's like I'm transported into the world and I get lost in it, to my beloved spouse, your writing is great, if you still doubt yourself then this entire ass reblog was for naught >:O. ALSO, I am doing this of my free will because I want to, not because I'm compelled to, I see a well-written story, I compliment the crap out of it, and that's it, nothing to it. KOUE DARLING, ONCE AGAIN, STANDING OVATION FOR YOU (PLS DROP THE NEXT CHAPTER SOON BEFORE I START CHEWING ON THE BARS)

CHAPTER ONE. HIS BECKONING SALVATION.

SERIES SYNOPSIS, “For his tongue reckon with the beggary and treachery of her.” The narrative of the sun-burnt boy towards the moon-bruised girl, wherein Aeons dare play them both like a sedative, bore them starved for a disastrous relationship.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Sunday x fem!halovian reader. mentions of physical abuse and mutilation, religious metaphors, world-building for Penacony, not canon-compliant to hsr lore. historical + semi-steampunk au! [8.1k wc]

𐔌౨ৎ 、 MASTERLIST ノ NEXT CHAPTER

“Hounds, seize the man in the red tailcoat. The girl is a victim." His young raspy tone coils around the audience like a snake, the pin drop silence, then the haunting allure of your voice comes to a decrepit halt.

Sunday tastes the chaos first before understanding what had happened, what he had just done.

The Hounds were on the move due to his command, undressing clear aggression towards the people in charge of tonight's show. The audience had jumped up from their seats, scattering and fleeing when they recognized the Bloodhound seals on their vest and the muted colors of their uniforms. Gopher Wood doesn't spare another second once his feet touch the stage, his long coat swishing through the cold air.

"In the name of Penacony's esteemed law, I hereby arrest the suspected perpetrators involved in Velvet House's illicit activities of child trafficking."

"Mister Chamberlain, sir!" The man in the red tailcoat stresses out, cries, struggles out of the grasps of a Hound tying him down like a shackle.

"Please have mercy! I was wrong, I was—"

"Your words have no power here." Gopher's tone is ice cold, his crow wings rustling sharply. "Save your pliant cries before the Judges, and pray that your punishment will be in your favor."

"No, please I cannot afford this! Please let me explain myself!"

"Take him away."

Gopher waves a hand at the Hounds, they simply nod their heads, dragging the hysterical man off the stage. Sunday is reluctant as he steps beside the Minister, fingertips trembling from anxious thrill.

"...What will become of him?" He asks.

"The man had committed a heavy crime in the Ménage, if all votes are in favor of punishment then he as well as the folks involved will be sentenced to death—each will take a silver cup of poison wine." Gopher doesn't dare sugarcoat his words, pin needles of guilt pricks at the flesh of Sunday's benign heart.

"And, if the votes go for the latter option?"

Gopher takes a glance at him. "The latter option is seeking atonement for their sins. If the President orders it, they will be exiled to the borders of the Reef where they will spend their remaining days begging for absolution, forced to train as soldiers, they will die valiantly trying to protect our Nation from the remaining Legion."

So death, still.

The guilt within the boy grows thick, enough for bitterness to settle heavy on his tongue. These men will be dead because of his command.

"That's horrible."

"Sunday, I'll speak candidly with you." The young boy is surprised when Gopher drops to a knee in front of him.

"You've done well speaking up." Gopher says. "Cease such sensitivity of yours. Sometimes, there will be a price for freedom. And to fight for goodness, there will be moral conflicts that will be sent to you as a challenge. To protect the weak, we could trample over those who take advantage of the downtrodden ones. It is difficult but it is still our duty, Sunday."

Protect the weak.

The man straightens, then once Sunday's name leaves his lips one last time, without awaiting the response of the young boy he saunters off to deal with the aftermath of the subjugated traffickers, telling Sunday to take a rest if he feels overwhelmed with the situation. What he had said was the truth, after all.

Sunday is not God, he cannot appease everyone, and not everyone will see his beliefs to be absolute, that's why law enforces such as the Hounds still exist even after the civil war—or any war even before that, even when the bold words of Independence happen to be pasted in every billboard and graffitied walls around the Capital—

It was simply just another appeasement.

Another reassurance for the public.

It's like a piece of candy given to a wailing child, if all is devoured and nothing is on their palm, they would whine once more. Greed birthing upon greed like one hurricane of a sinful cycle.

For a war cannot be ceased. No matter how much a pacifist begged and prayed and groveled till their knees bled beneath the stones.

Gopher Wood told him so during one of his studies, don't waste your time clinging to hope that can kill you, even with your selective ignorance on the matter the results will not change.

Even when he had uttered the command to send traffickers to death's door, it was supposed to be an accomplishment.

But Sunday's too bitter and guilt-ridden to feel a huff of pride from his achievement.

An hour has passed then, still, Sunday muddled on his transgression. Thirty minutes later, he pins his back straight; the theatre now is empty of audience, under the jurisdiction of the Bloodhounds, from the report given to them, there are roughly twenty-one children found in the backstage of the building, some former orphans from the war, others trafficked to be laboured as rising singers for on stage performances.

His leg couldn't stop bouncing. Restless, he's so restless all of a sudden. Sunday cannot help but let his thoughts wander to you, the young Halovian on the center stage that had such a grenadine syrup singing voice. He hasn't seen you since your call for help and his command to arrest. Did something happen?

"Would you like a drink, young lord?" A younger Hound had approached, a glass of water in hand.

Sunday takes it silently. "Where will the children go after this?"

"Well, it depends. First, we need to verify their identities before they are taken here. After that, they will be taken to the Great hall where parents with missing kids will come to pick up their kins."

"And, if the children have no parents nor identities?"

The dark cobalts of the Hound's eyes flicker briefly to him. "Then, the Governors will assign them a residence, they will be raised in comfort then trained to be military civil servants."

The young boy couldn't stop himself from feeling so utterly restless, he stood up. "May I ask where they are now?"

There was a brief hesitancy with the young Hound. "I believe they are still backstage, going through individual inspection."

Sunday thanks him and saunters off towards the direction pointed.

Once he opens the heavy flaps of red theatre curtains, he cuts through the small crowd, side-stepping with ease. Big, amber eyes fly quickly—he's trying to find you, a girl with wings and a ringed halo like scattered stars, wearing attire as bare white as sunlight, white ribbons that drag across the stage floor. He remembers your cocktail hat that rests like a crown above your head, the white veil that hides the elusiveness of your eyes, the curve of your lips as you smile. It's daunting to him, he doesn't know you and yet he still seeks you out.

Where could you have gone?

Eight minutes have passed, his footfalls take him to every nook and cranny of the Velvet House until he is certain he has reap the entire place. When the time bleeds five more minutes, his steps turn mild and he's heaving tired breaths, hand pressed against the wall supporting his weight.

For a split moment, he wondered if you ever existed at all—it's like you had vanished like a wisp of dainty smoke when your performance was interrupted prematurely. Sunday dabs his forehead with the edge of his sleeve,

Then, he hears a foreign noise.

It almost sounded like a chair creaking under heavy weight.

When the boy glances up, there's a sliver of moonlight spilling in from one of the open doors on the corridor he was on. Without thinking and with nowhere else to go, he approaches slowly, carefully, the door croaking loud when he pushes it open.

Under the dimly lit room he is greeted with the sight of a girl, standing on her tippy-toes up on a rickety chair, reaching for something that's clearly out of her reach at the top shelf of a bookcase. His sudden presence clearly alerts her and she spins, almost stumbling from her perfect stance—Sunday's eyes fly open and his heart stutters as she starts to lose her balance.

"Hey! Be careful—!"

The chair topples and a heavy thud resounds around the room, along with a few books that fell from its place in the case.

Sunday's chest and entire back blooms with a sudden rush of pain, his face crumpling on a wince.

"Oww..."

His amber eyes peered down and his eyes lock with you as he had you in his embrace to crush the fall of your impact.

The boy diverts his eyes, then looks back at you, clearly at the loss with what to do.

"Uhm." His hands come up to softly hold your shoulders. "Are you okay?"

A second of silence.

"I think so.."

With two of his hands on your own, he helps you up slowly. Then he leans down to brush the dust from your dress.

"Sorry." Sunday goes for an apology. "I didn't mean to startle you, I—"

"Wait a second."

He looks up at your cushiony voice, your eyes seem to hover on the shape of his halo under the candlelight.

Sunday could've sworn he saw wonderment within your eyes.

"You're that halovian boy with the large halo." You say, your enthused tone resting upon his ears and it seemed as if the world had stilled.

Sunday sees the expression on your face and finally he takes every inch of you. Gone was your stylish hat, what remains is a silky dress that seems to ebb and flow around your limbs and legs. Your eyes encased his in orphic merriment.

"Yes, hi." He almost scowls at himself, he hates how that sounded between his teeth. "You're...the one that performed today, your voice is very beautiful."

Your chuckle is feathery and tasted like sweet fruit. You turn away from him to pick up a notebook that fell on the floor, brushing your fingers against its leather cover.

"So why are you in this part of the building, lost?"

"Of that nature, yes."

He doesn't say that he's been looking for you, specifically. He doesn't even know why he felt that way. At the corner of his membrane, he vaguely wanted to ask if you were okay—or inquire why you had asked for his assistance, he wouldn't have made a move if you hadn't done that.

To the boy's misfortune, you see through his white lie.

"You know, if you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds earlier, I would have assumed you were really lost." You tell him with a hardened look. "You're not even supposed to be here in this room."

If you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds.

"So you knew I wasn't just some audience member from the start." He asks you, non-accusatory.

"It doesn't take a genius to see you are different from the rest." You start. "You were in one of the high balconies—only those in high positions are allowed to enter there."

Sunday doesn't know whether you said it as an insult or a compliment. He clears his throat, "Then I wanted to ask you something, why did you ask me to help you?"

Sunday remembers his own humming halo, before hearing your voice in his head. He wonders why you had chosen to converse with him of all people in the audience, you could've called for the Minister instead, but you chose him specifically.

"I just knew you would help." Your gentle smile doesn't leave too much for him to wonder. "I saw it in your eyes."

It takes a long time for you to answer, his amber eyes don't leave you as you brush past him, footsteps thudding softly against wooden planks to stare out the window that acts like a halo around your figure—like performance lights.

Skepticism is sewn between his brows. Everything is quiet now, Sunday doesn't know what to say or do but watch you. The room is too dark to completely see anything but for a split second when the curtains raise to invite street lamps to pour in the room—he notices something.

His heart stutters, then he closes the distance between the two of you. One hand weighs heavy on your shoulder, the other rips the curtains wide so the light has no choice but to cascade in.

Sunday's shock at the sight.

There are deep scars, clumsy and messy, almost like wine blemishes greeting him between the peaks of stylish fabric. Amber eyes then trace along the wounds, it stops closely at the deep scratches where your wings were, like someone had dug red in the root of it.

"What happened to your..."

Your smile is bitter but you dare not answer him. Despite being young and powerless, Sunday's not a fool. He instantly places two together.

The reason for your cry for help, the trafficked children, your injuries...

"You're not from Penacony, are you?" He touches your wrist, pulling you close then closer, breathing almost a whisper in case anyone else was listening.

"You're from New Ebondium."

Sunday's eyes are wide open now, grim and stiff with the revelation—a polar opposite from yours that remains passive, too calm for his liking.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

You chuckle then, it seems like the situation hasn't weighed down on you. Even if it did, you don't seem too concerned with it. "You're smart. I am a foreigner, I was trafficked from New Ebondium. It's easy to exploit a land that was defeated, no?"

Your eyes trail to the window, massaging a tentative finger to your wounded ear wings.

"They tried to cut it off with a pair of rusty old scissors a few days ago." You start, "to them, they didn't care what I am—I'm nothing but a scum from New Ebondium—they said. They also wondered if halovian wings would fetch a high price in the market. That's why I asked for help from you, I thought you'd do something about those bastards and you did."

Sunday's shock turns to fury.

"Blasphemous."

White hot anger rises from his throat and deeper within his veins, a surge of protectiveness. It didn't matter if war ceased three years ago. Whatever the outcome, the victors would always be aligned with honor, breeding pride and prejudice, a slow cycle for the absolute victors and punishment-bearers.

This was not the dream of victory Sunday honors.

Tenderly, the boy brushes your feathers with his knuckles, inspecting closely. From the audience's seats, he didn't notice a single thing wrong about you, but up close, your colored plumages feel stiff and rough beneath his skin, untended and oily and not preened properly—the aspect of a halovian's wings are their basis of pride, divine innocence and most of all, freedom. It's their most cherished possession, ridding one of its feathers means cutting their life to the ground, to be helpless, to die flightless.

It's the fact that your birth-given wings beneath your ears have already been threatened to be chopped off, you haven't even fully grown out your secondary wings yet...

Sunday pulls himself out of his own thoughts when he feels palms lifting his cheeks up.

His eyes lock with yours and for a moment the two of you stay like that, watching the other's folded expression closely.

"You're sad." You concluded after your inspection. "Why are you sad?"

Why were you asking this question?

"You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?"

"No one has." You answer him. "Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you."

Someone like me, you say. Sunday should feel insulted from such distinctions. But at the back of his head, he knows you're right.

He lets out a shaky exhale.

It's weird. The feeling tickling in his chest is different, there's a tentative pull that he feels towards you but he cannot quite understand why. Aside from Robin no one else had expressed trust in him, a trust that didn't have any basis or solid ground. You had trusted him the moment your eyes met from across the stage, trusted him of your origin and your wounds from harassment that mar the canvas of your body.

You trusted him despite not knowing him.

Sunday doesn't understand.

By the time the inspection was finished, Sunday had to leave the room and you were called back with the other kids. The night was dead and the rain had stopped pouring, mechanical carriages awaited outside as Bloodhounds ushered the children within.

"Where have you run off to?"

Sunday looks up at Gopher, the night rests peacefully upon his face, his arms crossed softly over his chest. The young boy avoids eye contact first, then looks back at his deep eyes, "I just wanted to take a look around the area."

"Hm." Gopher hums. "Next time, take someone from the Bloodhounds with you. You could've run into trouble."

Run into trouble. The man's deep voice invokes doubt, enough to pierce and stumble Sunday's self-morale.

He bites his tongue.

"Of course."

The young boy focuses on the line of children in front of them, he's reminded of you. Sunday knew that if these kids will grow up, they will be like lambs to a slaughter. To be entangled in a more governed and high atrocity the closer they get to the Capital.

And then there's you, a girl from the enemy land, the girl who loves to perform—born to be one. One mishap from you and your life would tumble down like a weed in a garden.

'Oh, aren't you that halovian boy with the large halo?' 'My instincts told me to trust you.' 'Why are you sad?'

Your voice is in Sunday's head, your tone absent of any sort of expectations or contempt.

It felt like petals falling, your voice that is.

Sunday wants to hear it again—he cares.

He felt like he had the responsibility to look after you now after that statement of yours, after relishing briefly in your company, the young boy cannot help but crave for more, like a moth to a flame.

So when you appear from the door, following the line to the carriage—he steps out from his place beside the Minister, he cannot help but reach out and circle your wrist, the line that flowed like a stream suddenly meeting its disturbance, the boy could feel many eyes on him, burning his skin. It almost makes him flush red with embarrassment, but your eyes appear gentle like he'd remember a few moments ago beneath that moonlight, encouraging, so he stills his determination.

"Son?" Gopher questions.

But Sunday's eyes are on you.

You're sad. Why are you sad?

You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?

No one has. Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you.

"You're wrong because I care." He tells you, he feels the warmth of your wrist, the pulse on his fingertip, pouring at a similar rhythm of his own heartbeat. "Pain is still pain. It does not discriminate, not with rugs or with riches."

From there on, he has made his final decision and turns to his guardian.

"Mr. Gopher Wood." Says Sunday, a tinge of weakness in his tone, he takes another breath, fists clenched.

"I want her." He says. "As a companion for Robin and I."

"Sunday." Gopher's eyes narrow. "If you demand something, speak with a voice of confidence, only then will I listen to you."

Sunday's eyes widened, this was the first time the Minister had given him a chance to explain himself. He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his palm.

He looks at you gingerly. "Will you come with me?"

You seem also shocked by his actions, but you're quick to recover. "Only if you allow it."

"Then, she'll be coming back with me to the Church, Mr. Gopher Wood."

There was a splotch of silence, then a small exhale from the tall man. "Alright then. If you wish for a friend, who am I to refuse my son's request?" Sunday's surprise of Gopher Wood's pliancy on the matter. Sunday beckons you to stand with him and watch as the last remaining kids enter the carriage. The Minister had his final say with some of the Bloodhound officers and Sunday diverted his attention, ready to take you to their carriage.

He stops when he notices you staring up at the Velvet House once more, you squeezed Sunday's hand. "You told me pain is still pain despite rugs or riches."

"Yes, I did."

"Then, do you truly understand my pain?"

Sunday notices the melancholy framing your irises and the lilt of your tone, he tilts his head and says your name for the first time that night. That garners your attention and you look back at him,

He releases your hand only to reach out and hold both your ear wings upon his cupped palms. He feels the feathers once again and remembers its touch of roughness—he hasn't told you this, but there was a time where both he and Robin had smoke rubble and tangy blood caking their feathers. It was such a long time ago, but Sunday would dare not forget his mother's caresses and final words.

He holds your face softly, "My dream will involve everyone. It will be a paradise where the weak will be protected and one day, when we are older, if you wish for a stage to perform I'll build you one, something more grander than Velvet house, where everyone will love you and your voice. Pain and harassment will not be a factor."

You stare dumbfounded at his bold statement, Sunday sees your eyes turn starry-eyed.

"You promise?" You asked him, hopeful.

The boy is still young, doe-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, skin still dewy from any tribulations, with the first touch of the sun on the tip of his tongue when he says,

"I promise you."

“Another dead Halovian, sir.” There is a strain in the officer's tone, the body before them covered with a plain sheet, concealing the corpse.

"She was a widowed baron's wife." Gopher Wood's brows knotted, conflicted. The night lamp from afar provides ample light, glittering the chain hanging from his glasses.

"Are there any leads?"

"The local detectives are on their way here. But it will take about a day or two to gather any concrete evidence."

"What a waste of precious time." the man chastises. "By the time the detectives finish their work, the perpetrator would have escaped the city."

"My apologies, Chamberlain. However with the issues of Lady Constance's funeral preparations, the missing merchants and the suspicious activities of New Ebondium our resources are running incredibly thin."

Gopher Wood cannot help but pinch the bridge of his nose, rarely does he show any pint of irritation but the ongoing problem has been thinning his patience. "I had told those ignoramus Family heads to handle this affair weeks ago. Time and time again they have proven to be incompet—"

He catches himself before insults can spill any further. The atmosphere hushes into silence, merely the humming of lamplight and the distance roars of mechanical gears fill the cracked air.

Gopher barely turns his head, fixing his gloves. "Sunday."

"Yes, Minister?"

"This situation shall be kept hidden from the public and there's nothing more for you to learn today, you may head back to the Church."

The boy tilts his head. "Then, I’ll take my leave."

The night is achingly cold, even with him bundled up in a woolen scarf. His chauffeur guides him back to the awaiting carriage at the end of the alleyway, the young boy gets in and they are set off. When Sunday leans his elbow by the window sill, the radio starts to sputter:

"Convicted suspects of the horrible discovery in the downtown sector of the Velvet House have already been sentenced to their execution a few system hours ago. Their punishment to drink a half-pint of foxglove from a silver goblet, they have been—"

Sunday closes his eyes.

"Coach."

"Yes, young lord?"

"Please turn the radio off."

"Right away, young lord." His eyes remain vacant on the moving road, his fingers thrumming on his lap. Aside from the silence from the lessening radio, he could hear the distant roars of mechanical wirings and cogs from the Industrial Capital, the clips of horses' hooves as his carriage continued to roll by the granite road.

And just like that, after two weeks of hearing about the trials, the judgment, following the Minister around, the people involved with the trafficking had met their tragic end.

Penacony's news and radios had been sputtering about the incident, coupling it with the gasps from passersby and locals of all the sectors that bore witness to such atrocities. Two weeks of nonstop rumors and gossip about the tainted downtowns of deepened black market connections running haywire, and how they had gone radio silent after the crimes had surfaced to the Capital and the Bloodhounds.

In a couple of weeks people will move on from the topic, and days will continue to ebb and flow like clockwork.

That also means it has been exactly two weeks since you came to the Church.

Two weeks since Sunday last spoke to you.

Your schedule doesn't seem to find a crossroad. On the night of your arrival to the Church, the Minister had pulled Sunday aside,

"You've matured, Sunday." Gopher Wood had a different expression on his face. "I will tell the Academy to change your general studies to something more befitting. It's about time you start learning how to be a leader of this Nation."

Sunday should've been more aware of this outcome. The price of the Minister's lack of scolding on the matter concerning you—was Sunday's obedience and devotion to his growing responsibility. And thus, more weight was added on his shoulders.

With more duties on his plate comes the sacrifice of spending less time with his sister or having leisure time for himself.

The carriage stops. "We have arrived, please watch your step when you exit, master."

Sunday straightens, picking up his textbooks and exiting the carriage, what greets him at the entrance of the Church was one of the sisters that raised him, her smile kind, "Welcome back, Sunday. You've done well today, allow me to take your textbooks to your room."

"Thank you but there's no need, Sister Ruth." Sunday hesitates. "Is Robin home already?"

"Yes, she finished her recitals earlier and is now singing for tonight's sermon—ah." Ruth's eyes brighten. "That young girl volunteered to sing tonight as well, both have such lovely voices. Miss Robin and her seem to be enjoying each other's company."

A small smile graces Sunday's lips. "I see."

During the short time busying himself with the Minister's demands, he has found how you and Robin had grown closer to one another each passing day.

It was an instant click of friendship, Robin warmed up to you first after hearing of your circumstances (of course, Sunday hid the fact that you were New Ebondium-borne).

It only took a day or two to realize how similar you two were; she dreamt about being a star one day, you responded kindly to the same notion, your child-like dreams of performance still small and conserved, passion growing like a flavorful fresh fruit. The other day, Sunday saw how Robin had enthusiastically pulled you to join her in her recitals and practices, sometimes during the lukewarm afternoon light, he would hear you both giggling over in Robin's room or he would see you two care for the other children, tidying up the dinette table together, talking and grinning, the kids offering you a wreath to crown your head, the sisters patting your head or cheek affectionately.

It always brings a smile to Sunday's face to see you getting along so well with the others, a little relieved that Robin has another companion of her age whenever the boy is too busy. But at the same time, Sunday cannot help but feel a bit left out, a type of bittersweetness on the duvet of his expression whenever he sees you and the others, a gaping ache of loneliness in his chest that continues to grow a ravine, but he swallows down his own emotions.

"Would you like to join them?" Ruth asks. "I can go ahead and—"

"No, it's alright. I…" Sunday hesitates a second too late. "The Academy is expecting me to do well for the next exams, I have to study. Please send my greetings to those two."

Ruth's smile is softer now, sad. "Okay. Be sure to take breaks in the middle, young lord." The boy feels a warm hand caressing his cheek, almost achingly akin to a mother's touch of concern. "You're still fifteen, you shouldn't be worked up over things like these so early."

"I know." Sunday sends her a kind smile, pivoting in his heel after bidding her a curt farewell.

But he can't help but worry about his future responsibilities as the future successor, too busy worrying to join you and Robin so leisurely,

And his loneliness is quickly filled with matters of the Ménage.

The night is growing colder by the minute and Sunday finds himself leafing through the pages of one of his books—he cannot find it in him to sleep with ease, deprived and muddled with so many troubles. The Academy has high hopes for him to rank one and sooner or later depending on how he performs, he will be introduced as the Chamberlain's successor at the next banquet in the heart of the Ménage.

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, a headache rampant. It's too much.

He sighs heavily, leaning his head against his arm. A knock on the door pulls him from his own thoughts, he flinches at the unexpected disturbance.

"Who's there?" He calls out softly, his eyes wander to the clock, 2:34am. It's so late for someone to come over. Silence answers him at first, however Sunday could hear the heartbeat of the person on the opposite side of the door, a mellow whisper and a dainty shuffle of feet beneath the wood.

"Sunday?" His breath hitches at your soft voice. "May I come in?"

The chair is dragged back as he stands. When he reaches the door he cannot help but fleet his gaze to the mirror in the corner, he squints beneath the dim light, pressing his shirt flat from creases, making sure his cowlicks are tamed down and presentable; he fusses over his appearance for a while before he cracks the door open.

His eyes sought yours and just like that, his lethargy lessens. You greet him on the other hand, your familiar smile decorating your lips, head tilted to the side.

"Hi."

"Hey." Sunday pauses, eyes looking you up and down, a frown on his lips. "The night is getting chillier, why are you only wearing cotton?"

He reaches out, albeit reluctantly for your hand to tug you in—only to jolt from how icy your fingers feel.

He sighs then. “Take care of yourself.”

His kiss-warmth hands are firm over your own, the boy pulls out a wool blanket from his wardrobe, wrapping it generously around your shoulders. He closes the door to his room and asks you to follow him to the lounge where a fireplace rests. You both sit in front of the hearth as Sunday clumsily cracks fire embers on the wood, it took a minute or two before red crumbs grew bright, licking up charred wood and humming through the empty air.

"Thank you." You let out a puff of breath, inching your cold fingers near the fire, then you turn to him. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you, I just couldn't sleep."

"No, no—" He's quick to clear his throat. "It's alright, really. I couldn't sleep either." His golden eyes drop to the heavy book being cradled to your chest.

"Looks like the two of us have things on our minds."

When Sunday looks back at you, your eyes are tipped upward in a smile.

He looks away immediately.

He hasn't mentioned it but it still feels a little odd to see you walking around the Church like that; hair untied, dressed in a simple cotton fabric—maybe he was used to seeing you in that silk-priced performance dress back at Velvet House but as you walk around, there's something else that seem to change about you.

There's still an air of untouched sophistication about you, your steps feather-like and quiet, sometimes he feels like if there is any form of danger right around the corner you won't hesitate to up and vanish like a smoke. But now, there's grounded reassurance—with the light of the fire, your wings appear preened and fluffier than usual, like it's been taken care more, it susurrates as you flap it. You settle comfortably on the floor beside him, nose buried into the blanket around your shoulder, and Sunday thinks that you look domestic, more like a child now than before.

You open your eyes. "Robin mentioned how much of a scholar you are."

He chuckles. "I'm just alright."

"Really?" You tilt your head. "You seem to like spending more time with books and scriptures than wanting to spend time with us."

Sunday's lips curve into a thin smile, he jots down about your unexpected boldness in his head then he quietly takes the empty space beside you, the floor creaking under his light weight. His wings flap once, twice. peeved and troubled. "I don’t particularly like scriptures as much as you thought." He turns his attention to the book you have. "What do you have there?"

He sees you look at him, down at the book, then up again.

"Oh." Your fingers are tentative over the letters inked onto the book. "This is just a book from the library I found. I was wondering if you knew of this." A pause. "I just didn't know how to approach you."

Sunday shakes his head, then leans in. "What is it? I can teach you if you want."

The boy wasn't expecting you to inch closer to his face, he refrains his wings from expressing his fluster and surprise, tucking it beneath his ears daintily when he sees you cup a palm around your mouth, your voice becoming whispery and hushed on his ear.

"It's about the Reef."

"The Reef,” He echoes. “The one that borders Penacony and separates the land from New Ebondium?" Sunday swallows his bash and answers you in a scholarly tone.

You nod your head. "Yes."

"Why are you curious about it?"

"The folks from the Velvet House mentioned it a couple of times back then." There's a look of adamancy in your expression, something that stirs Sunday. "They mentioned how difficult it is to go through the Reef and cross the border, why is that?"

The young boy thinks about it for a moment, during his travels he finds himself picking up certain information not privy to the public ears—on one of his journey towards the Serenity District, the closest location to the Reef itself—he has heard of Bloodhound officers talking about a creature spotted in that zone, not exactly the Legion but something more sinister.

Sunday spares you a look, his amber eyes glowing beneath the late hour. He leans forward, enough that his lips are brushing the feathers of your wings.

"There's a mimema in there."

"What's a mimema?"

"A meme." He simply says. "A creature as big as the most priced stallions in the high districts, said to have multiple eyes, golden claws and a weird...inky proportion."

He can feel your long silence. Then you ask, "Like a monster almost?"

"Yeah, almost. People have been said to have disappeared whilst crossing the Reef, mostly verified merchants trading to and fro." Sunday pauses. "That's just a myth though."

"I see." Your fingertip runs across the page, tracing the lines of a map on the book. "Then, can you teach me more about Penacony? I barely know anything about it aside from the Velvet House."

Sunday blinks his amber eyes down at you, the fire continues to crackle and burn. "Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"I'm," he looks away, insecurity is quick to well up inside of him as he remembers Mister Gopher Wood’s critique. You still have a lot to learn, son. He told him one time, and the young boy is quick to believe it.

"I'm not that good yet.” He tells you, and a pang coils through the air at the sound of rejection, he readies himself to stand and return to his room. “Forgive me but it’s best if you ask Robin or the Sisters…”

“Sunday, wait.” You catch the palm of his hand in yours, stopping his pace completely.

“Don’t leave yet, you don’t have to if you don’t want to—” You were quick to say, noticing the complicated expression caking his golden eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just been two weeks and I…I have been looking for a reason to approach you, this was the only thing I could come up with.”

Then and there, young Sunday realizes the issue. He starts to piece together your unexpected visit, your sudden interest about Penacony and your request for him to teach you.

Two weeks, he has busied himself with other matters that he hasn’t spoken to you in that long. He thought Robin’s company was enough to satiate you, or the presence of the Sisters and the other children that you don’t need him.

He thought you didn't need him, but here you were, reaching out to him first when he should’ve kept his promise to you the moment he intertwined his hands with yours and offered you to come live with him.

“I just want to spend more time with you.” He finally sees the look of loneliness in your eyes, your hand squeezes his own, a lingering yearning in your own eyes. “You were the one that helped me and took me away from that hell. I just want us to be friends at the very least.”

Sunday cannot help but stare at you simply. There's valiance pooling in your eyes, a shine that dares to overflow it makes his breath hitch. The young boy clears his throat, he turns away—the apple of his cheeks burning and not because of the hearth's warmth—he traces his steps back and occupies the space beside you once again, the action makes your shoulders slump in relief.

His amber eyes are akin to the fire in front of both of you, “You don’t need to say all of that, I already see you as a friend.”

Your eyes seem to sparkle at his reply, your hands are still latched, and the boy is hyper aware of the feel of your cool fingers and the mild calluses written on your palm. He reaches out to brush some rebellious strands from your face, “I should be the one to say sorry, I was the one who brought you here and I never gave you reassurance.”

You shake your head. “I knew there were other things that worried you. I saw it in your eyes when you were talking with that Minister,”

So, even you noticed that.

You continued, “Robin has told me a lot about you.” Sunday cannot help but feel bashful at your confession. “She’s worried about you too, you know. She wants you to lean on her when you feel overwhelmed.”

Sunday’s smiles thin and he replies to your statement, a light-hearted chuckle leaving his lips. The night continues to prolong and ink through the minutes, however the two of you find yourself staying in each other’s company in the lounge. You were an easy person to be around, you were willing to listen as conversation quickly fills the background. Your chatting ranged from random spurts of topics you wish to tell the other—talking about your days in the Church, what you liked and disliked—to in-depth talks about philosophies from Sunday, even if there was a lack of heartfelt conversations tonight, it didn’t matter. The boy had yearned to interact with you since he saw you in Velvet House, being able to chat with ease about anything and everything was all that he needed.

That night, Sunday learned more about you as you did with him. You didn’t realize how long you both lingered and talked that the fire had reached its lifetime, and the dregs of sleep had pulled you both under, conquering your consciousness. The enthusiastic chattering quickly shifts into silence and you both fall asleep on the lounge floor, huddled together with the blanket Sunday had lent you.

By the next morning, the young boy awakens with Robin poking his cheek. His drowsy amber eyes fall to his sister’s sly expression and only then did he realize how he had fallen asleep whilst chatting with you throughout the night, and how he had you close to him, an arm beneath your head to act like a cushion at the absence of a pillow and his other arm draped over the blanket like he’s shielding you from the cold.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Robin coos teasingly. “Seems like the two of you had fun without me last night.”

“It’s not like that.” Robin could only laugh sweetly which made Sunday’s ears brush red yet again. It seems as if his soft skin had melange with rud these days. The boy sits up, cradling your head as you continue to slumber and he looks down at you softly.

Robin sees this and gets up from her crouched position, her dress fluttering “Her room is just across from mine.” She tells him. “I’ll help make breakfast. Take care of her, brother. She’s been through a lot.”

With one last smile in his direction, Robin exits the lounge leaving Sunday to ponder. Take care of her, brother, the sentence resonates through him. Without sparing another second, Sunday winds a hand around your shoulder and the other under your knees to lift you up into his embrace. You seem to unconsciously drift closer to him, your cheek and tucked wing making home on the crook of his neck as Sunday takes you to your own room.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach it, struggling a little with you in his arms and juggling the doorknob open. Sunday hasn’t been inside your own space before, but as soon as he steps inside the boy cannot help but realize how much the room is akin to its owner—he was reminded of the room he found you in at the Velvet House. The honey gold spilling through the thin curtains and melting down the floor looked like performance lights. Your bed is a fluffy nest, with layers of caked beddings and duvets, he spots a vanity, a wardrobe, a desk with a singular notebook tucked by the corner. He diverts his attention and waddles his way to your mattress and slowly sinks you on its comfortable sheets.

He cannot help the smile from invading his lips when you let out a breathy sigh of comfort. His hand inches to brush your hair again but his fingertips stop just as it graces your forehead, “It should be me, thanking you.” He mutters out softly.

“If it weren’t for you…”

Sunday pauses briefly, amber eyes observing your peaceful expression. He ruminates upon his thoughts as the morning continues to float around the room in gentle waves.

Sunday had kept his promise to you. After the whole ordeal with you visiting him and asking him to teach you more about Penacony—he approached you the next few days and was more than willing to give you a few pointers of what he was taught by his tutors and the Academy. Ruth specifically was elated at how you two are getting along now. More importantly, looking at the gentle look Sister Ruth gave Sunday, the boy knew why she was relieved.

Ever since taking private lessons to be the head of the Church at thirteen, Sunday stopped acting like a child and had been making surface-level relationships. Aside from the people within the Church, Robin and Mister Gopher Wood—he never let anyone genuinely in.

You were the first in a long while that Sunday was letting into his life.

Of course, neither Sunday nor Sister Ruth mentioned that fact as he guides you to his room, books already stacked and ready at his desk for topic reviews.

Time passes in a blink of an eye.

After a few slices of moments together, Sunday came to a quick realization that you don't seem to hold a heavy amount of worry about the future like he does, and even if you did, it didn't seem to affect your person.

Bright, glittering, crystalline water—that's what he describes you as. With your grinning eyes, curves of your lips and alluring tone—it's easy for anyone to fall into your own little puddle, you seem to have a talent with that. By the next month since you've arrived in the Church, you have become the sweetheart of many. It's well known how much Robin had considered you her dear friend, or how the younger kids had called you their pretty older sister, or how the Sisters of the Church had called you their darling girl.

And as for Sunday, the young scholar boy continues to fall into the currents of your mannerisms, your bold trajectory, your hauntingly drawn smile, deeper than anyone can sink themselves into.

All those routine nights studying alone through wordy scriptures and heavy proverbs was simply replaced by your presence and the crackle of fire. That one late night visiting Sunday turned to two, then four—to the point the boy doesn’t question when he hears his door open and close because he knows it’s just you, another new book in your arms and questions ready to slip between your tongue.

You were easily Sunday's best student, you were quick to understand certain verses, can make analysis and theories on certain economic and political decisions of the Ménage, get into deep discussions with him in terms of Penaconian history and learn its linguistics. It had quickly become a study session for the two of you—one of the last things on his routine which Sunday favored the most. It was the only time you two got to spend time together since his mornings and afternoons were preoccupied by private tutoring.

"You learned the Penaconian language faster than I expected." Sunday's impressed at your written notes, they are all correct and easy to understand. Then he starts cleaning up the mess of cards and parchments from his room floor. The boy was too busy to notice your long stare. When he gathers up the last remaining notes, he barely sees you reach out your hand until he feels the touch of fingertips grazing the feathers of his wings, touching a nerve.

Sunday jolts back in surprise, curling his wings protectively beneath his gray hair. "...What is it?"

"Oh sorry. It’s nothing, I just..." You seem to be daydreaming, stagnant and saddened all of a sudden. "To Halovians, wings are their lifeline. Scriptures and textbooks have mentioned the divinity and the meaning of wings to Halovians so I still cannot understand why there will be people out there that desire to cut off our wings."

Sunday is quiet for a moment, he cannot help but sigh heavily. "Did you eavesdrop on the passing guards outside of our Church?"

Your silence is almost deafening. "What do you mean?"

"Did you hear about the recent serial murders of Halovians?" He asks. Your expression shifts: shocked, caught, then melancholic.

You nod slowly and the boy's shoulders droop.

A month has passed already, and that meant three more dead Halovians found in ditches and alleyways with no clue of the murderer behind it. The only alarming difference from the first found body—was that the recently murdered Halovians had ripped off wings and missing halos. Maybe the black market networks are finally making a bold move after the execution of their own? Sunday hasn't heard anything from Minister Gopher Wood in awhile since the first case.

The very thought of those mutilated Halovians twists ichor and sickness within Sunday.

Then for a moment, everything seems to stop.

The two of you hear clattering, then the door creaks open, Ruth emerges with a lantern in hand, her expression creased with panic and worry. Something felt wrong.

“What the matter?” Sunday is up on his feet, his pulse is racing.

Ruth is reluctant for a second, then she says. “It’s the young miss.” She says. “We can’t find her anywhere.”

Robin. Sunday felt like his whole world crashed for a momentary second.

𐔌౨ৎ 、 MASTERLIST ノ NEXT CHAPTER

taglist — @kazucee @3lectraheart @cakechase @swivi @justcallmemidnight

[kamiversee]

quite seriously dying at pt3

you are a genius.

THE KISSING. THE TEASING. THE FLIRTING. JUST BOTH OF THEM TOGETHER IN GENERAL IS SOOOO 🤭🤭🤭😫😫😫

the lack of gojo and choso threesome content (chojo x reader - affectionately) is devastating to me now that i am obsessed with it. i am feral for these men.

POOKIE YOUVE OUTDONE YOURSELF. SHAKESPEARE COULDNTT HAVE EVEN THOUGHT OF THIS

ps i totally read this while waiting at the dmv

loving you as always 🫶🫶🫶

- 🪐

Thank you darling <33

I’m happy to hear you enjoyed it sm!! Choso & Gojo is a bit of a rare combo so I’m not sure how often one will find it out there 😅

Even so, happy to have written this for ya <3

[pomodoriyum]

watchign ep 9.

-

mr goodsir is now mr meansir (cruel bedside manner <3)

billy like half chewing with his mouth cause hes thirsty and the words are hard to get out

also billy looks like skellington. woof

this was such a well done scene holy shit. angst <3

OH MY GOD. HES DONE IT AGAIN. THE HAND OVER BILLYS HEART (AND THEIR RING) THIS ACTOR IS SOOOOO FUCKING GOOD.

no for real i think hickey comforting billy right before he murders him is the closest thing we get to pillow talk so far. holy

—

little ans dundy make thwir move..

you know this scene kinda reminds me of the francis nd franklin one at the beginning of the series. its def interestinf to think on.

—

silna!!

—

bye fitzjames !!!

his throat spasms…lovely. <:3

awwww bridgens <3

crozier and fitzjames may as well have been fucking on that cot and it would have been less sensual than that assisted suicide holy cow. very nice

—

BLANKY MAD LAD !

nah seriously he and francis’s friendship is so fucking cute

also francis’s ‘jesus christ’ was so well delivered!

—

peglar bridgens real REAL ouuugh

—

goodsir VIOLENCE upon hickey

hicky, desperately: im NOT owned!!! im NOT owned!!!!!

aww the ring…..

—

blanky cool as usual

soemthinf somwthinf the arctic only allows you throufh when you stop fighting it somwthinf somethinf

—

every1 looking SO dejected in mutiny camp

hickey fucking caressing billys meat oh my god

was that a single raindrop falling from the sky?

des voeux munching that down #hungry

HODGSON FAMOUS CHINA PLATW MOMENT….they are all dissociating so hard.

—

the bg noises of the othwr guys sleeping / coughing etc when hodgepodge goes to goodsir…they are not alone.

hodge that was SUCH a good little monologue great job. also your coping mechanisms are. bad. also i 100% understand: some things. the profound things. frequently only happen once. repetition makes them banal.

—

au where hickey is a yoga instructor

—

tozer !!!!

—

oh my god, the tattoo matching the book. is that peglars diary? or bridgens?

ohhhh its peglars. his love through a poem. bridgens just left to die of a broken heart, huh? woof

—

jopson crozier tender loving care…. role reversal. :) yay

—

oh that is a cruel little trap, hickey. youve outdone yourself

des voeux hair trigger terror moments !!! hes SO fucking paranoid mamma mia

bye hartnell that was very super touching. love how francis is a mother to jopson and like. a dad to hartnell here. he HAS the range

best thinf about this episode is how much everyone is miserable and crying. so much crying its great

face you make when you are super happy about having shot someone

EDWARD LITTLE … i dont envy you.

NICE. great episode. might be my favorite !

[rosemaryreality]

Yuuji be like:

恵 ; "blessing"

12/22: consider this piece my love letter to a character who has become so near and dear to me and who has inspired so much of my artistic growth this past year <3 happy birthday megumi, your name becomes you ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[icypantherwrites]

HOLY CRAP ICY YOUVE OUTDONE YOURSELF!! I just reread some of your revisions and holy crap they were incredible! Tbh I didnt know if Color could get any better but you proved me very very wrong. The fact that Lance is speaking spanish throughout the fic made me so fucking happy! All the changes made the experience so much more immersive. I cant wait to see all the changes!!

Aww, well thank you love ♥ I’m glad you’re enjoying the revisions :) (If you get a moment and want to leave a comment with a particular favorite here or on the fic that would make my day!)

Lance did actually speak the same amount of Spanish in both the original and the re-write ;p But I think it’s been better spaced this time around (spacing is seriously my best friend right now; adds that oomph element to a scene) but yes, I love that too. I’m still sad I don’t see more fics of him speaking Spanish because if even I, who headcanon he moved to America when he was a kid (and I think may be canon now what with season seven events) and have him still speaking it, everyone who believes Lance and fam still live in Cuba definitely should be using it xD But part of it is  what an author is comfortable writing too and it’d be like asking me to have Shiro speak Japanese; I know some basics from my insane amount of anime viewing, but I would not feel comfortable actually writing a character like that in this sort of setting; I’m fine with including the “arigato” and suffix endings and basic phrases and whatnot in an anime fanfic because that is what those characters actually speak in canon. Anyways, that got off tangent, lo siento.

There’s not really going to be a “marker” for what chapters have had heavy editing and what have had minor and others that have had none, but through twenty-seven were very heavy re-writes so those will be the biggest changes to easily note :)

[transformationstuck]

Two can 8e as 8ad as one

Aranea threw her hands up in the air, absolutely livid. Meenah had really done it this time.

“I cannot 8elieve you! I had set everything up in my hive to cele8r8 the two sweep anniversary of our entrance into this wretched game, just to cheer every8ody up, and you had to go and ruin everything with a tantrum! What do you have to say for yourself?!?”

Meenah rolled her eyes, clearly still agitated. Her fork was still embedded in a nearby table which had held whatever stupid refreshments Aranea had prepared.

“cause your party makin sucks serks

seriously what kind of a fuckin setup was that

disgustin shit

shouldve just TOLD me bout this shit so i couldve catered for ya

in what glubbin world would you not even do that coddamn”

Aranea practically boiled over at Meenah’s flippant attitude, blushing blue at the princess’s total lack of care for anything. Something you have to be done.

She pointed an angry finger at Meenah. “If you don’t apologize to me and start cleaning up right now, I swear I’ll M8KE you shape up for good!”

Meenah snorted, before pulling out her 2x3dent from the table and twirling it with a flourish. She seemed to have no interest in doing anything else.

“holy mackrel windfang

are you threatenin me

shit mightve come along ok with you after all

but heres some helpful advice gillfrond

dont make threats ya cant back up”

“Oh, I can 8ack it just fine, alright. I gave you your chance, now you’re going to get an intimate understanding of how my way works!”

With that, Aranea drew upon all of her inner reserves, blood crackling with the energy she knew she’d need, then reached out with her mind to ensnare Meenah’s, pushing her will into the fuchsia-blood’s head, hoping to overwhelm her completely and force her to stand at attention.

The unfamiliar sensation of her mind being inflitrated overwhelemed Meenah. With a scream, she reeled back and clutched her head, trying to fight against the invading force.

“aranea

what the FUCK

how are you glubbing doin this

knock it OFF”

Aranea took a step forward, her teeth gleaming with a wicked grin. She pressed her fingers to her forehead to focus and apply more mental pressure to the reeling Meenah.

“Don’t worry a8out it, dearie. You’ll understand soon enough. Now stay STILL.”

“i

said

STOP”

She let out a frustrated, agonizing scream, before she finally began to succumb, as if the final push had worn her out. Soon enough, she grew still, her struggling coming to a rest, as her mind still attempted to break free and resist, to no avail.

Aranea breathed out a sigh of relief, although she made sure to maintain her control. That was a little tougher than she’d thought it would be, but hey, can’t argue with results.

She walked up to Meenah, who was standing at the ready, waiting for a command. Aranea giggled as she grabbed one of Meenah’s horns, and forced her head to bob up and down.

“Look at you! Never thought you’d 8e so quiet! Although I’m sure if I could hear whatever you’re thinking in there, it would 8e a different story. 8ut that will change soon enough.”

Indeed, if she could she’d likely hear Meenah’s irritation, anger, and even a twinge of fear. But for now, completely under Aranea’s control, she simply stared blankly out into space, doing nothing to resist Aranea’s motions. Her mind was completely Aranea’s to manipul8.

“Well, no time like the present to get to work, I suppose. Let’s start with something simple, shall we?”

Aranea took Meenah’s arms, the lanky, bony things they were, and held them out. Meenah, of course, did nothing to resist. Aranea’s hands glowed with an ethereal energy as they washed over Meenah’s arms, stroking them and pulling them, seemingly shaping them into different forms. Gradually, Meenah’s arms began to plump out, expanding suddenly in Aranea’s hands.

Unable to move, Meenah could only really watch as Aranea did… well, whatever it was she was doing to do. A wave of panic and renewed struggling accompanied the sudden shaping of her arms. She tried to pull away, to no real avail. A few grunts managed to escape her mouth as she attempted to protest. Her body, however, remained still, and like clay in Aranea’s hands.

Aranea bent down, rubbing her hands along Meenah’s legs, performing the same motions as she had on her arms. Just as before, Meenah’s skinny calves and thighs thickened outwards as Aranea caressed them, as well as lowering Meenah’s height ever so slightly. Aranea shook her head at the sound of the grunts.

“You must really want to tell me something! Well, if you insist, I suppose I can let you speak.”

Aranea wiggled her fingers, and her mental control over Meenah ebbed, but only slightly.

Indeed, once the mental control had let up, Meenah took full opportunity to speak.

“fuck you serket

what the glub are you even doing

HOW are you even doing it

whatebber this is knock it the fuck off”

Aranea clicked her tongue and shook a disapproving finger.

“Goodness, what a mouth you’ve got. You can say good8ye to that kind of language once I’m done with you.”

Taking the opportunity for a little fun, Aranea moved to cup Meenah’s tiny tits in her hands, groping them and squeezing them, with Meenah helpless before her.

“oh dont be so high an mighty

aint like youd never swear

stupid smug self-gratifyin- ugh”

She tried to shake her head, to no avail. The impulse to swear had been strangely suppressed. As if it weren’t refined. Beneath her. Not a way she had ever felt before, especially not when angry. But then, she found her anger ebbing ever so slightly, as well. Very odd.

“and stop groppin me”

“Yes, I pro8a8ly should. Work 8efore pleasure, as they say.”

With one final squeeze, Meenah’s boobs expanded as well, pushing tightly against her t-shirt, which wasn’t used to the stress. Aranea moved onto Meenah’s stomach, probing, pinching and pressing until it expanded outwards a bit, not entirely dissimilar to Aranea’s own.

“Tell me, Meenah. How does this all feel? I’ve never had a chance to ask someone as it happened.”

The significance of these changes and who they matched up to wasn’t entirely lost on Meenah. She sneered.

“oh my god dont tell me youve done this before. was it always into different spins on you or is your ego just joyridin today?”

She couldn’t help but feel something was off about her. Her mind, her tone, it didn’t feel like her. Yet it also felt… Strangely right.

Aranea giggled again as she walked around the still motionless Meenah, and placed both hands on her firm butt.

“You might 8e surprised how effective you can make the world work when you have people you know you can rely on. And who can I rely on most 8ut me?”

With a squeeze and a thorough rubdown, Meenah’s rear inflated outward as well. Aranea admired the view before giving what was effectively her own ass a slap.

“i mean, i GU——ESS. not like you’re not still insane though. not like this whole T)(ING isn’t still insane. not to mention you’re ruining my figure. liked it just the way it was.”

With a few grumbles, she subsequently fell silent. Well, at least she wasn’t too unattractive now, she thought. She had never noticed it before, but Aranea wasn’t half bad looking. Not that she’d admit it right now. And not that she’d admit that she took the tiniest hint of satisfaction from that ass slap. No sir.

Aranea gathered Meenah’s braids and pushed them into her pixie cut, and with another glow, merged them into a style exactly like her own.

All that remained was Meenah’s face. And her horns as well, but Aranea decided she’d keep those as they were, as a momento.

Cupping Meenah’s cheeks with her hands, Aranea gave her a wry smile.

“Does ‘Meenah’ have any last words before she 8egins her new life?”

Up her hair went into Aranea’s typical haircut. And well, Meenah found herself caring less and less. Even the terror she felt at that realization was lessening. Part of her was even eager to see this to completion.

“Oh, you know, something something huge jerk. I honestly can’t be bothered to get into a tizzy anymore.”

She blinked, a bit shocked at her own cadence.

“Uh, I mean… Oh, screw it. You know what I mean.”

Aranea chuckled. “Oh, I know what you mean only too well.”

With that, she kissed Meenah on the lips, infusing the last bit of change necessary to finish the transformation. By the time she drew away from the kiss, she saw her own face looking back at her.

Taking a step back, she admired her work. But for the horns and the clothes, Aranea was practically looking into a mirror. With a snap of her fingers, she promptly released her hold on the person in front of her.

Being released, 'Meenah’ stumbled about, getting used to movement again. She put a hand to her face and stroked it, getting a feel for the change in structure. Despite herself, however, she just… Couldn’t feel upset about it, really. If anything, it only seemed natural. Good, even. A small smile came to her new lips.

“There we are then. I suppose that’s Meenah taken care of. You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Aranea. As much as I took um8rage to this 8efore, this really is an improvement, I must say. And the retention of her horns? Very nice touch. Now perhaps I ought to look into a new wardro8e. Meenah’s ill-fitting gar8 won’t do at all.”

Aranea clasped her hands together with excitement.

“Oh, I knew you’d think it was a good idea eventually. And don’t fret over the clothes, I’ve got plenty more refined outfits for you to wear from now on. For now, though, we’d 8est clean up the horri8le mess that Meenah made. I’m sure 8etween the two of us we can get things 8ack in order in no time at all.”

“Oh, most certainly! I should apologize on her 8ehalf, though I suppose I’m not truly her anymore, am I? Speaking of which, we really DO need to figure out how to distinguish 8etween one another. Or perhaps not? We are two of a kind, after all.”

With a chuckle, they both began to work on cleaning things up. For the two Araneas, the future seemed to be bright.

————————————————————————

This was an RP between me and @certifiedfloweyapologist that i cleaned up a bit. not teo much tf into other people

[entergamingxp]

The Last of Us Part II Story Trailer Remade Using Lego Is the Content You’ve Been Looking For

June 9, 2020 2:36 PM EST

You will probably never look at The Last of Us Part 2 trailer the same way after watching this.

As we all know by now, Naughty Dog has made their biggest game to date and now that we are aware that the gameplay will come in at around 25-30 hours long, you can be sure we’re in for one hell of a ride this around. To build the hype up for The Last of Us Part 2‘s release next week on June 19, we also can dive into some podcast content that will give a deeper look into what has made the series so memorable and affecting over the next two months. If you thought for one second that that’s all you have to look forward to until you get your grubby mitts on the game, then you have another thing coming as now we have The Last of Us Part 2 Lego story trailer and it’s everything you could possibly want and more.

Pavesome Films on YouTube which is run by Pavel Prokhorov, recreates popular movie scenes, trailers, or other videos in Lego stop-motion animation. Some of their other adventures include Django Unchained, Kill Bill, Captain America, Pirates of the Caribbean, and many more hilariously well done animations. This time, however, Pavel has outdone themselves by recreating one of the earlier trailers to The Last of Us Part 2. As we have seen, the trailers to The Last of Us Part 2 are incredibly bleak and usually quite violent, not normally something you find yourself laughing along to unless you’re a psychopath. But in Pavel’s remake, you can’t help but find yourself giggling at some of the scenes nor take them as seriously as you have done in the original trailers.

Straight off the bat, I found myself busting out laughing at Dina’s huge joint that she hands over to Ellie. I mean, look at the size of that thing! The way the lego’s move is also pretty funny especially so while on horses, it’s the fact that it’s so wrong that makes it so right. The most perfect scene is when lego Ellie encounters a hot dog shambler and also the part where Ellie’s hand is shaking but now it’s a little lego hand instead. It’s so hard to take what was originally intended to be a very dramatic and intense scene seriously and I love it! Pavel has done an amazing job here at not only lining the vocals up with the characters and the action sequences but also their use of ultra smooth animation and fantastic lighting.

If you have always wondered how game designers crafted levels in their games, check out level designer Peter Field’s video where he went into great detail on how he made the bus depot level in The Last of Us. If a little bit of video analysis is your thing, you can check out ‘The Last of Us Part 2: The 3 Most Important New Details From the Story Trailer’ article where I shone some light onto some new and important features we may not have seen before in other trailers.

The Last of Us Part II is set to release next week on June 19, exclusively on PS4 and if you’re looking for a super cool new PS4 Pro, Sony recently announced a new special edition PS4 Pro which is set to launch alongside The Last of Us Part II.

      June 9, 2020 2:36 PM EST

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/06/the-last-of-us-part-ii-story-trailer-remade-using-lego-is-the-content-youve-been-looking-for/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=the-last-of-us-part-ii-story-trailer-remade-using-lego-is-the-content-youve-been-looking-for

[k9punkout]

close enough, drop the tpw animated show

had to jump on the trend

[everybodyshusband]

words cannot describe how much i fucking ADORE this fic !!!!!!! thank you thank you thank you thank you <3333333333333333

unholy eyes.

Ghost (Band) | Rain Ghoul + Dewdrop Ghoul | 13.1K Words | spoiledleaff on AO3

Explicit | NB4T | They/Them AMAB Rain Ghoul | He/Him FTM Dewdrop Ghoul | (Forced?) Feminization | Teasing | Oral Sex (Cunnilingus) | Temperature Play | Frottage | Mirror Sex | Dom/Sub Dynamics | Top Soft Dom Rain | Bottom Sub Dewdrop | Good Girl Dewdrop | a gift for the lovely @everybodyshusband ♡

“I’m perfectly capable of changing in my own goddamn room.” Dewdrop visibly bristles, his fangs bared and his eyes narrow. But the snarky façade of intimidation was lost what with how he was visibly hiding behind the cerulean mass of pretty fabric and dubious intentions.

And Rain? Well, the water ghoul had the audacity to scoff at him, those knowing teal eyes rolling hard at Dewdrop’s incessant need to not go down without a goddamn fight. Even their long, curved tail flicked in clear amusement behind him.

“No you’re not.” Rain borderline laughed. “We both know that if I let you run back to your little corner of the world with your little tail tucked between your legs. You’re going to lock yourself in your bathroom, try on my gift — while still wearing your stupid skin-tight jeans, you menace — inevitably get all hot and bothered before jacking off with that skirt clenched tight between your fangs. You’re going to cum all over your bathroom floor, let some stupid and unnecessary guilt wash over you like a goddamn catholic, before having the nerve to waltz out, not even look me dead in the eye, and vaguely thank me for the kind gift. Oh! And then, you’re going to ‘oh, so subtly’ avoid me for the next two and a half weeks, or at least until I fuck the truth out of you, and then you’re going to stare longingly at this gift — which you would probably shove into some forgotten corner of your dresser, next to the stockings Sunny gave you last year and the sundress Mountain gave the year before that — and proceed to never wear the very thing I so desperately want to see you wearing and looking so pretty in.”

Oh. Okay. That was needlessly fucking savage, and concerningly accurate.

you can read the rest of this self-indulgent spice over on AO3!

( this work is unbeta’d. any and all mistakes are my own, and i hope that they didn’t take away from your reading experience. i really tried reading this one over as i went, but those typos always get the best of my somehow, haha! regardless, thank you so very much in reading ♡ )

[leafdarling]

OH M HFICK

I spent 4 hours on this but I have not been able to stop thinking about false prince au by @lunarcrown !!!

[thestarfilledsea]

I AM NEVER GOING TO SHUT UP ABOUT THIS. E V E R .

Working on a comic of @thestarfilledsea of their fic smoke and flame

It's very ruff and not finished.