#can now only incite fear or unease

[dandylions101]

Sometimes I wonder if people flinched when they heard Maglor’s voice again in Valinor? It’s still as strong (maybe stronger), as beautiful (but not the same kind of beauty anymore), and dangerous (that one was new). Did they view his voice as the weapon it became? What does Maglor think of this? Does it hurt knowing no performance of his would ever be enjoyed again, at least for a long time? Now even his Feanorian followers don’t stare with awe. Even their eyes are filled with wariness of this master returned from all hope. They don’t even stare at Maedhros like that. Maglor’s seen them stare at his brother like that before though-

[nalyniavadelletargaryen]

{ TWIN FLAME - Aegon Targaryen + Rhaegar Targaryen }

{ SUMMARY/PREVIEW CHAPTER }: Twins carry a shared soul, a force that only exists between them. One may pull, and the other may push, but by fate's hand, they’ve been conjoined by a shared will for power. The elder strays from the path of morality while the younger strides upon it with just as much pride. Both men share a desire: an attraction to what they are forbidden to have.

{ WARNINGS }: MDNI + SMUT + ANGST + TARGCEST + AGE GAP + BLOOD + LANGUAGE + VIOLENCE + NIECE/FEM READER + MATURE THEMES

{ PRESS ▶️}:

"To war then!"

Aegon's voice rang loud and clear through the council room, setting unease on those who sat on either side of him, but one man remained unmoved by his heady announcement.

Rhaegar smirked, a broad amusement in his expression, "Good..."

The two men share a fulfilled grin; the elder is pleased to see his dark-haired half so encouraged by his decision.

They'd never agree on most things, but inciting rightful violence to achieve personal satisfaction was a common interest.

However, you were another exception to their differing worldviews.

Aegon slid down into his chair, glancing away from his second younger brother to eye the men and his mother, who sat in tense silence. "You are all dismissed..." he left no room for debate on the command. Alicent swallowed hard, holding back the words of wisdom she knew neither man would listen to, and with a slow exhale, her anger dwindled to plain discouragement.

Rhaegar did not shrink under her turning gaze. Unmoved by her silent plea for help, he was firmly comfortable in his seat as she and the rest of his brother's councils rose from their seats.

"Arrogance.." she mumbled bitterly, walking past him with a swiftness he and Aegon had learned to overlook.

"They refuse to act and fear a war that's already started," Rhaegar spoke freely when the last council member had stepped out, the doors to the room slammed shut by the king guard on watch, and a moment of shared silence short-lived between them. Aegon scoffed loudly, a smirk plastered on his face, "That's quite obvious, brother. Our mother intends to be timid about bloodshed. It's quite pathetic." He tossed his hands up in apparent disbelief, shaking his head at the thought of the woman who'd so proudly pushed him to be sovereign now seeking a quick end to a great conflict, and Rhaegar shared his disdain for the anomaly that was their mother.

"She'd sooner trust the gods with our fate than be reasonable. I don't see why you keep her at this table.."

Aegon eyed his twin, his face dropping to a callous frown. "As relieving as it would be to put her aside, you know well how our mother would never cease prying into our dealings with or without permission."

A more accurate statement had never left his elder brother's lips, and Rhaegar was impressed by him for a solemn second.

"Hm. It's surprising to hear you, of all people, see my side of reason." He chuckles, taking a brave gulp from his wine chalice. "Need better spirits at a time like this," the brunette bit out, tongue-numbing from the dull sting of alcohol in the wine, and his observation drew an offended reaction from Aegon

"It's the best drink to my taste." His amusement faded quickly on the premise of his preferences being questioned. "Do you take issue with me-"

Rhaegar laughed, a hearty sound that eliminated anything his twin was apt to spit out, "Oh, don't you dare twist my words, brother!" He set his cup down with a firm shake, grinning wide as Aegon glared at him directly.

"You speak too freely, Rhaegar.."

His laughter halted, grin falling to a closed smile as he relaxed into his chair at the end of the unoccupied table, "I speak what I think, Aeg. Which is much more than you can offer..."

The silence returned, filled with mounting animosity between a brother of pride and another of worthy praise.

A king and a warlord.

A rake and a hidden saint.

Made of one blood but with many contrasts in life.

Silence and lingering hate connected them.

Aegon poised to further it with a heady retort, greedy for triumph in a conflict many knew to be brotherly rivalry, but a solid rap of knocking on the closed council doors stopped him.

Rhaegar raised a brow at the sound, intrigued rather than annoyed as his brother seemed to be.

"They've come back for another debate so soon?" He chides out loud, unbothered by Aegon's grimace.

"Bothersome imbeciles..."

The knocking came again, quicker and louder. Each tap was executed with an exciting pace, different from the slow, solid thumps of a man readied to spill his thoughts on warfare.

Aegon hesitated to allow the visitor entry, glancing at his brother, who already had his eyes on him.

"They seem eager.." he mumbles, finishing his wine without care for his brother's exasperated sigh.

"Enter..!" Aegon announced, taking a gulp of his drink and sucking his teeth at the bitter taste.

The king's guards swung the doors open, nodding their heads to the culprit of the sudden interruption. "Thank you, Ser Lanis and Ser Daleon." Your gentle voice cut through the air in a familiar cadence, alerting the two men of your presence before you came into their direct view.

Both knights showed you a grateful smile, quick to shut the doors again as you paced up the steps leading to the nearly empty table. Rhaegar greeted you first, smiling as he reached a hand for your own. You gave him the courtesy, slipping a hand into his open one, returning his smile as he placed a chaste kiss on the back.

"Niece..." he muttered against your skin, his voice tender and hardened eyes softening completely as you swipe your fingers along his jawline affectionately. "Uncle," you greet him back, chest tightening with pure delight when he chuckles upon hearing it. However, your shared moment abruptly ended as Aegon called you.

"You'd leave your King unnoticed, sweet girl?"

He did not attempt to mask his jealousy, and you yelled at it with practiced grace. "No, my King. You'll always have my attention." You show him a smile, not afraid to roll your eyes at him as you step away from Rhaegar and stride towards him.

Aegon is far less cordial when greeting you, standing from his seat to look down as you bow to him. You are respectful in your initial approach and stand up straight when he rests a hand under your chin. "I'll hold you to that, princess," he lowered his voice as if to tell you a secret, and you merely hum sweetly in response, accepting the lingering kiss he placed on your cheek. Unlike his brother, Rhaegar could hold his tongue to some restraint, seeing you receive affection from his counterpart.

However, it did not last long as Aegon stepped closer to you, clearly set on keeping your attention on him and him alone.

"Why have you come here?.." Rhaegar poised the question in earnest curiosity, satisfied to see it gain your focus and ruin his brother's apparent intentions. You shifted away from your eldest uncle, looking between him and his nearly identical half before divulging why you'd found your way into the council room.

You never seemed to stay away from either of them long enough, with little motivation not to when your mother had urged you to do so longer than you could recall. By consequence, you'd been left in their care at the turn of your grandfather's death, present at his side the night before he took his last breath in hopes of keeping him company since your mother could not manage it. Still, with little warning, you'd found yourself in opposition with your closest kin by association.

You found your position to be a cursed blessing. I'm glad to be within reach of the men you cared about most besides your older brothers; you were highly aware of the danger the nearing conflict of birthright claims would surely bring.

You tried hard not to reminisce about the war's aftermath, keeping yourself observant yet pliable in the grip of the Green faction.

Even as you stood in the presence of the men you'd grown to trust despite all outside protests, their very existence reminded you of fate's tricky hand.

"I've come for your help." You tread carefully with words, pacing them to carry on your voice softly, knowing well what a simple change of tone could do to either man. Rhaegar sat up straighter, eyes never leaving you as he inquired for a better understanding of your intended words.

"Our aid for what, ..?" You paused, hearing the doting nickname he'd chosen to call you since your first encounter, resolve to melt a little as he followed it with a reassuring smile.

Feeling Aegon resting a hand on your lower back did not keep your heart racing slower, his firming touch stealing your train of thought for a split second, but one glimpse at the head seat he'd been sitting in only a moment ago brought your sense back to you.

They had been your weakness for far too long, filling a craving for experience and attention you couldn't satisfy in your mother's household, but now the time for a stronger mindset was needed.

Your mother deserved the seat Aegon so proudly claimed now; no matter your love for him and Rhaegar, you intended to see her in it, and with a steadying inhale, you continued with your mission to do so.

"I've been...having some trouble finding peace as of late. Especially at night, the masters can't find a remedy for my issue.."

Sleep. You hadn't been able to rest since the coronation, and it was no help that both men had made it a point to create boundaries with you that hadn't existed before. You'd grown accustomed to seeking one or both out for a good night of sleep, never having to exchange any flesh for the security they provided, but not above laying your head on their pillow to dream of it.

Aegon smiled at you, his hand on your back sliding in a small circle as if to ease your strife as minimal as it seemed to him, and you flashed him a grateful upturn of your lips in return.

"I...I had hoped that either of you would give me peace of mind. I'm aware of many things but still am left in the dark in the light of the most important knowledge."

Your heart sank as the faces of your brothers, mother, and father crept past the forefront of your mind. Every single one of them dawned an expression of distant concern, so clearly betrayed. Imagine their reaction to the news of your lingering presence with the side of the family who had no right to the throne, which made your stomach twist with knots.

You wanted to get back to them, to be beneficial even if they'd never considered acknowledging you as applicable. Yet, as you implemented a plan to find your way back to them, you couldn't feel entirely confident in their presumable welcome when you did return.

Jace might be the only one who'd be genuinely happy to see you again and not hold a dormant grudge towards you for staying at the late King's side and inevitably supplanting yourself as a hostage for the Greens.

Rhaegar studied you, sensitive to the minor details of your request, discerning every word you spoke on instinct to hang onto each one.

"You wish to know of your place in..." he waved a hand, motioning to the air of war that loomed closer and closer with each passing day, and you nodded tentatively at his gesture. "Yes...or at least if I'm to be used as leverage..."

Your blunt reply cuts through both of them differently. Aegon glares, momentary anger consuming him as he inches closer to you, head lowering so that his voice reaches your ear directly. "You are safe with me. Here in my..." he hesitated, meeting Rhaegar's observatory gaze before finishing his quiet declaration, "...in our protection. That I can swear to you with certainty ."

His noticeable overconfidence peaked through his tone, and your anxiety was anything but calmed by his promise. Your chest lightened from relief, knowing he still harbored adamant devotion to your well-being rather than wishing to use it as an advantage over your mother.

Rhaegar held a similar attachment to you, expressing it with less egoism than Aegon did through an even response. "Our opinion of you has not changed. You shall be kept here in fair respect."

He stood from his chair, leaving his chalice with it as he came to stand on your unattended side.

Your gaze automatically shifted to him, struggling to stay there as Aegon's burned into you with unabashed envy. "You have the King's word and mine," he passed a thumb over your cheek, speaking directly to you as if his brother did not exist inches from you just as he did. Your breath caught in your throat, heat rising to your face and spreading to your lower belly as he took his time gauging your reaction.

"Let that be the answer to your questions. War plans are nothing for a young girl like yourself to be concerned with, understood?"

Rhaegar pressed you into submission with a tailored ease, pairing the underlying demand with a lazy smile that never failed to make your head spin. You bit back your own, nails digging into the draped sleeves of your dress as you clasped your hands behind you.

Of course, he'd seen right through you, cut off your prying for knowledge like any intuitive man of his nature would, and you desperately wanted to push past the restrictions he intended to set up. Still, the possibility of appearing too apt for valuable information made you hold your tongue.

You swallowed the pride, bubbling up to spill from your lips, pressing them into a small smile as you nodded in agreement. "I understand, uncle."

Rhaegar hummed in satisfaction, not bothered by his brother's palpable disdain. "She knows better than to ask us for such details, brother. You needn't mold her to be compliant." Aegon tugged you closer to him, hugging your side and making no move to let go.

You went still in his embrace, familiar with it, but not all pleased with how he spoke of your intentions or concerns.

Stupidity and obliviousness were never your strong suits, and having been pushed to the side and ignored by so many throughout your life made it easy for you to play on those faults better than most.

Rhaegar had grown wiser to your act sooner than Aegon, mentioning nothing of your love for secrets and manipulation to anyone in the simple efforts to bring you to heel at the direst times.

This was the perfect opportunity, and if his all-powerful brother could realize your intentions too, he could have the chance to relish in the delight Rhaegar did seeing your innocent facade falter. Aegon remained unwise to it, resting his chin on your shoulder after placing a ginger kiss on the exposed skin as a wordless apology for his younger's implication.

"No soul in this castle is out to get my throne, Rhaegar. Not my darling girl, anyway..." You shuddered against him as he kissed behind your ear, feeling the smile on his lips as he hugged you tighter. A blush painted your cheeks as his hands kneaded your waist through the fabric of your dress. This openly lustful action brought butterflies to your stomach and agitated Rhaegar to the point of impulsivity.

"Pawing at your niece is unbecoming of you, brother..." he made no effort to mince his words, mirroring Aegon's glare as you lowered your head in slight embarrassment. "She has yet to tell me to stop. It seems to bother you more than it does her..." Aegon chuckled at his blatant mocking, nipping at your ear to earn a soft whine and solidly his claim.

Rhaegar held his stare, failing to withhold an equally rousing laugh before lowering his head to meet yours. He found your eyes with his own as he spoke to you softly.

"Come to me.."

He says it only once, and you react with little thought, longing to feel him like Aegon held you. Your body shifted toward him, one step eliminating the space he'd maintained, and your lips found him with little hesitation or shame. Aegon grunted a scathing curse as you reached for his dark-haired twin, leaning back into him as the younger wrapped a hand around your throat, deepening the kiss with the slip of his tongue into your mouth. Rhaegar peered at his brother as you moaned against his lips, a smirk tugging at him the entire time.

"Bastard..." Aegon grumbled, refusing to show the shreds of amusement he felt seeing you crumble at the simplest pleasures, drooling trickling down your chin, and your weight pressing against him as the emanates of sense left you. It came as no surprise to Rhaegar when the older raised a hand to tangle in your hair, pulling on it so you had no choice but to break away from the heated kiss and his low whine of pain.

You let out shallow breaths, afraid to look into either of their eyes as you tried to compose yourself and ignore the needy warmth culminating in your belly. Aegon turned your head to him with subtle force, taking in the dazed expression on your face, the gradual swell of your plush lips, and the gloss of combined spit that lingered on them.

"Open." He commands in one breath, smiling when you do just as he asks and part your lips for him. He steals a glance at Rhaegar, smug as ever, and spits into your mouth with natural ease, turning his gaze back to you as it slides down your throat with a quiet whimper of his name. His lips come to meet your then, slow and harsh. A complete contrast to his brother's swift and sweet approach. He bites at your bottom lip, drowning in the muffled groan you give at the blooming pain he inflicts, returning it with a timid nip on his.

Your lungs burn for a breath. Aegon won't let you catch, so you peek at Rhaegar for help. You are torn between gratitude and confusion as he tightens his grip on your throat before using it to pull your lips away from his brothers and back to his.

He lets you go when your eyes water with tears, allowing Aegon to turn you around in his arms and hug you close. "It's been some time since we shared you, little one..."

It's a statement. It is a clear fact that you have no will to deny. Too lost in your head to respond appropriately or notice Rhaegar sitting in the nearest council chair. He lounges in it leisurely, head resting on one hand as he watches Aegon's hands begin unlacing your dress strings with unconscious finesse. You find your bearings then, feeling increasingly vulnerable as the eldest of them unties your bodice and steps forward until you have no choice but to be within his twin's reach.

"You've been so faithful and well-behaved for us, too. We'd hate to see you left unrewarded for that. Wouldn't we, brother?" Aegon eyed the brunette over your shoulder; a bittersweet smirk reflected as he nodded in agreement. "Wouldn't be very fair to her at all..." he speaks lowly compared to his brother's boastful tone, deeply embedded in his desires at the sight of your bare skin being exposed to him as your bodice slips to the stone floor.

You shiver as the air douses your skin, breasts pressed to Aegon's clothed chest, and the warmth he emits prompts them to be sensitive and pertinent. His hands find your sides again, steadying you in his hold while Rhaegar rips the fabric of your skirts. He does the same to your small clothes, letting them fall atop the torn clothing. "Wouldn't be very fair to us either."

A/N: A cliffhanger on a smut?... yeah, I know. I'm sorry, but I must lead you guys on before giving you the complete filth of it all...

{ BONUS CONTENT + }

Credits to creator and I literally watch this edit on repeat …it’s so fucking good ;) 🖤

[welcome-to-dragonshead]

L'appel du vide

characters: Alexei Molyboha & X-13/[redacted] (both my ocs)

cw for manipulation and implied past trauma and abuse.

I have been told many things about this…”specimen” I’m visiting, if they so call it. I recall the memory of me asking the higher-ups about it, and receiving their case study and being told the words “do not heed to its will, do not show sympathy or empathy, for it feeds on it and will use you as a toy.”

Even after reading it and hearing what they said, it is hard for me to believe there's any possibility of me following those instructions. Thanks to “it”, I got out of the worst situation of my life. Thanks to “it”, I am able to live (semi) safely (within the limits of my profession), and show myself to a world that I had deemed as hopeless so long ago. I can only feel grateful for a creature deemed this vile, so unbothered and distant from humanity.

Those are the thoughts that run through my mind as I walk through the sterile hallways of the M.O.R.G.U.E anomaly containment facility until I reach the interrogation room. I greeted the guards with a subtle wave; I showed them my clearance card, and I was allowed in.

The creature, specimen X-13, was sitting, with handcuffed gloved hands, on one of the chairs opposite to me, its impossibly dark eyes piercing through me, smirking lightly, as if it was all part of its plan. Its fox ears twitched slightly at the sound of my entrance. It presented as a tall young man with lengthy, straight white hair and tanned skin with two cross-shaped scars beneath its left eye, fueling my curiosity about it even further. Despite them, it was beautiful, but in a distinctly inhuman manner that incited a subtle sense of unease whenever you laid eyes upon it. It smiled and asked, tilting its head:

“You must be Agent Molyboha, right? You wanted an interview with me.”

I turned on my recorder. If anything went askew, as it often did in these interviews, at least I could have proof of whatever happened.

“Yes, it's me,” I answered, fiddling with my tie. Its energy was uncomfortable, unsettling, and I felt like it was ready to lunge at me and cut me open like a wild animal. I didn't like this one bit, yet, I was absorbed by its presence, somehow.

“Come on, don't be so uptight, get comfortable. I don't bite,” its voice was low, seductive, hypnotizing; and he flashed me a grin with razor-sharp teeth, and my anxiety worsened. Now it really looked like some sort of predator out to kill me. I obeyed it sheepishly, only uttering a small “sure.”

“I wanted to know you better,” I retorted, a bit defensively. I attempted to avoid eye contact, but the specimen's eyes followed mine with keen interest.

“Really? That's surprising. You have a whole document detailing everything you may want to know about me,” it quipped sarcastically, voice hushed and squinting like it was confessing a secret.

“I also wanted to thank you.” My response caused the initial disinterest of the specimen to disappear, surprise overtaking its features. I didn't feel as anxious as it let his guard down, but it regained his composure soon after, and the wicked energy in the room regained its strength again.

“I was just doing my job, there's no need to thank me.” X-13’s mask of indifference slipped as I sensed its pride in its task. Just doing my job, my ass. I bet it was stoked when it was able to leave containment for a few days.

“No, I did. My case…it was easy to solve and considering your fame as an honorary agent to get involved in such things, I thought I wanted to thank you for your kindness. You helped me, and so many others stuck in that sect.”

A beat went by.

And another.

I feared that stroking its ego didn't work as well as I hoped.

The specimen laughed, a cruel, fox-like sound that only a creature such as itself can make. I felt a pang of shame as I couldn't help but wonder what was so odd that I did to provoke such a reaction.

“What's so funny?” I ask, embarrassment washing over me. The creature finally stopped laughing as it stared right at me again, with that annoying Cheshire-cat-like smile that had been plastered on its face for so long.

“I didn't think you'd have it in you to think I could be so selfless. I could give less of a crap about your dad, the cult he led or the people in it, Molyboha.” It inched closer to me, his grin growing as it continued, “Do you really know what I want, doll face?” Its voice lowered again, sending a shiver down my spine. Oh, how I hated being there.

“What do you want?” The feeling that it was going to eat me raw came back, hitting me like a truck. I trembled slightly under the specimen's gaze, the anxiety again clawing back at me and screaming to run towards the door and leave this unfinished. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

“Just so you know, I don't have any reasons to lie to you, Alexei.” Our faces were inches apart, and this melodramatic bastard was already dragging the surprise factor too much.

“It's me, isn't it?” I answered my own question, looking at the specimen with contempt.

“It's good to see you came to that conclusion too,” it chuckled, slowly backing away. “When I saw your profile, it was like love at first sight, really.”

I felt my face go a little red at the implication. I remembered their words; “it will use you as a toy”, and a pit of guilt formed in my stomach because I completely ignored their warning. Like an idiot that is absolutely going to get mauled at the moment. I regained my strength and continued the conversation.

“I'm assuming you want me to work for you?”

“Yes, exactly,” it beamed.

“Is that even allowed?”

It doubted for a moment and brought its hand to his forehead.

“Yeah, it's allowed. I'm exceptional, of course— and I need someone as exceptional as you to keep me in check. Look.” It gestured at me to help take off the gloves, and let me take in the uncomfortable sight of its palms. Two burn marks decorated its hands, and an archaic symbol seemed, but were not, recently burnt into its skin— yet, when I touched them, X-13 felt no pain.

“I don't let others see this, consider yourself lucky,” it joked, a bit embarrassed. “Do you understand now?”

“You're…an Emanator?” I let go of its hands, shaken up by the strange intimacy of it.

“Seems like you know what you're talking about,” it mocked, raising its chin.

“My father was one of you,” I realized as I felt my stomach churn at the memory of him.

“No shit, Sherlock. I was there. What he used to keep his followers docile was you— that's what I'm getting at.”

Silence followed after. What the fuck was that thing talking about?, I thought. I stared at the fluorescent lights above me, but their brightness immediately hurt my eyes and I sat up straight.

“So, what, you want me to follow you around and hope your supervisors are so terrified of you to let you do whatever you want?” I scoffed.

“Exactly. But not the last part. Do you know what a Dissipator is?”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

I did not want to talk about this at all.

“I think you got something wrong,” I blurted out. “I am not special in any manner, I'm just working here.” I tried to get up from my chair.

“Cut the bullshit,” it scolded sternly, its hypnotizing gaze forcing me to sit back down. “You're literally a reality bender, Alexei. You lived with that son of a bitch for nineteen years and the mana balance of the area was still stable. When you came here,” it paused, getting hold of a small, rectangular device similar to a geiger counter, “The energy of the room was at 20 counts,” it motioned at the third lowest setting on the object. “Before that, it was barely reaching 60 counts, even with the mana anchors. Your presence is able to reduce the presence of my mana by 33.3%. That's unheard of, so stop trying to get out of this one so easily,” it let go of the counter, pleased as it watched me sit back down obediently.

“Shouldn't you want me to make you more powerful? That makes no sense.” I asked, attempting to keep my cool, but it felt like it could hear the ominous thudding of my heart.

“Quite the opposite, actually. Us working together gives me a higher chance of doing as a wish— I would be less threatening to them. Plus, it keeps the nasty little voice in my head telling me to rip your heads off under control.” I grimaced at the mental image. What power could this creature have?, I pondered. Clearly a lot, since it was in containment and just being around it was terrifying.

“And what do I get out of it?” I said, as I inched closer to it, curiously.

“You help me! Isn't that why you joined? To help people?” it sneered at me, like it had done all this interview.

“That's not going to be enough.”

“Well, aside from seeing my pretty face daily, you'd become a division leader. A nice upgrade from your info-gathering with the Rats, right? And the pay gets better.”

It sounded too good to be true. Since I joined, becoming a field agent had been what I always wanted to do. And now, it was going to give me what I wanted. Like it always did. I'd just have to pay the small price of becoming its plaything to get it. For its good, for others’ good, to save people, and to be able to live with myself for once.

I didn't want to hate myself for what happened there anymore.

Being able to pay rent also sounded nice, for a change.

Ignoring their warnings was wrong, this was a dangerous being. But it had always been benevolent to me. If it was always going to be like this, I didn't mind becoming its toy as long as it treated me with kindness again.

The rest of the conversation went by idly, and the longer I was there, I was surprised to find myself progressively growing used to X-13’s intimidating aura. It was very knowledgeable on a wide range of topics; specifically on anatomy, chemistry and medicine, and its excitement was noticeable whenever they were mentioned, prompting a lengthy, uninterruptible rant about the subject at hand. Despite this flaw, it was an expert conversationalist and jumped between different topics at ease; it was surprisingly, one of the first few people I met since i left that place that was able to keep me thoroughly engaged when talking to them.

And then, our time was up.

“I'll think about your proposal, X-13,” I muttered, as I rose from my seat. “Your offer is so good it sounds like a trick.”

It frowned, scrunching its nose. “I don't joke about these things, doll face. Just give me the ounce of freedom I ask of you and I'll treat you like a king. I promise.”

“Promises can be broken,” I replied, a smirk on my face for the first time in our exchange.

“You're an idiot,” it shot back.

“I sure am. I'll be going now, goodbye.” I took the recorder and stopped the tape. If I actually started working around this thing (Gods forbid), keeping it in arm’s reach was going to be a smart move.

I looked back at the room, the creature waving goodbye to me as the guards took it back to its containment chamber.

“I hope I can see you again soon, Agent,” it purred flirtatiously as the guards forced it out of the room.

I didn't think I'd ever be insane enough to actually work with this bastard. I was wrong.

Relieved, I made my way back to Human Resources, praying to whatever is up there that they weren't useless enough to pair me up with this demon or whatever it was.

Author's notes:

this may give you a bit of whiplash considering the relationship x-13 (also known as "[redacted]") and alexei exhibit in this compared to what I normally post about them. x-13's manipulative behavior is intentional, and so is alexei being absolutely terrified of him at first; this is one of their first proper meetings, and their relationship will become healthier and more honest as time goes on. just a lil heads up!

There's also some lore things I should explain. The magic system in this world is governed by several higher powers encarnating fear. Negative emotions feed them and create mana energy that magic users allowed to draw from to perform their techniques. Sometimes they can draw that power from themselves if they have enough emotion pent up in them.

Emanators are beings chosen by these powers to do their bidding. They are able to manipulate mana energy by inciting fear into the people in the area. They are also given powers and abilities the entity's values and have distinctive markings on their skin.

Dissipators are lesser known (and not as frequent, either) but their presence is capable of removing mana energy. They have markings shaped in a four-pointed star. Their origin is found in mana-heavy and environments where many repressed emotions may come up; they exist to balance things out.

Avatars (who don't pop up here but may in other writings) are beings or objects synthesized to worship or incarnate an entity's power or values. If their creation is unsuccessful, these objects may gain sentience or some other anomalous properties.

MORGUE (Magical Object Research Gathering Unions for Enforcement) is the organization dedicated to capturing and researching emanators and avatars and creating and enforcing universal law. They exist world-wide and are divided in smaller units or unions for maximum efficiency when capturing an anomalous object. Sometimes they allow usage or participation of anomalous beings and objects in cases if needed.

[intotherumiverse]

Chapter 1

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: I’m here again because this project is my child. I’ve added a lot and learned even more and I’m glad y’all are here to watch me develop On to the diggers <3 ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: blood, violence, pov changes  ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ: @katsumiiii and @lilsparkyswife ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.9k 

The day I was first killed was tedious.  

When you’re raised in the Summer Court, certain traditions are found there. When you are five you receive your first dagger. I almost hit my lessons teacher in the eye with that little stunt I pulled. When you are 10 they start with basic strength, endurance, and speed training. I beat up Katsuki Bakugou for making fun of me that year. When you’re really curious, they take you up for assassination training. I was a prodigy at it…

I got so good in fact that I climbed the ranks at the young tender age of 18. Summer Court likes tradition, yes, but I was something unprecedented, unorthodox. Something bigger.

Working for the Summer Court had its perks, yes. This was one of them. As I walked among the snakes of the Autumn Court, I felt a curl of unease flow through me. Yvonne, the one who usually handles our information, said that our biggest client’s rival was supposed to be at the ball. As if that makes my life any easier. Everyone wanted someone from the Autumn Court dead. But no one wanted to be seen doing it. Looking at the throng of people, laughing and talking amongst themselves, I smirk slightly.

‘Autumn Court sure has a lot of balls.’ I thought to myself snidely. ‘ I wonder what they could be celebrating this time’ Before I had time to dwell on the thought any longer, the familiar voice of one of my good friends (not to mention on my team) Amira trickles through.

“Why does everyone in this Autumn Court look bummy?” The rude question isn’t uncommon for Amira, though I wish she chose her moments.

“You’re not supposed to say shit like that out loud!”Mina, another teammate (and good friend) jokes.

Stifling up a laugh, and not wanting to attract attention, I whisper back “If both of you don’t shut the fuck up...”

“This is why I don’t work with them” Yvonne sighs into the mic. She was the best informant Summer Court has ever had, and I was always grateful she was on my team. “They never take shit seriously.”

“Neither do you, Von, shut up!”

“Swear to Nyx if y’all don’t shut up, we can leave right now.”

“Fine…” they all chorus in my ear and I hear silence for the first time.

My eyes scan the crowd of people carefully, assessing each one before seeing my target. But before I could move into place, a flash of green appeared at the corner of my eye.

“Oh fuck no…”

I hated many things. The horrid smell of rotting flesh, bugs, failing my parents. But above all else, I hated a specific person. And if he’s here tonight…

Well, it would make my life harder.

Sighing softly, I weave slowly through the crowd, not letting the clammy bodies touch me. Eventually, I make my way down to the main floor. Making sure that my ears were covered, I attempted to get closer to the target, feeling for the poison that was in the many pockets of the dress.

I feel someone touch my shoulder lightly and it takes everything in me to not grab the person’s arm and twist it. Instead, I turn around slowly, facing to meet lavender eyes.

Fuck. Hitoshi Shinsou, Autumn Court’s Master Interrogator. If he was here, then…

“A dance m’lady?” He doesn’t seem to recognize me as he stoops into a low bow, eyes scanning my face

“Oh, he's kinda cute!” Mira whispers into the com.

“I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new?” His voice breaks through the mumble of the communicator.

“Well, I’m certainly not old.” That incites a chuckle from him.

“A lady with secrets, my favorite kind.” I scan the floor seeing the target get farther and farther away. I needed to get out of this situation and out of here.

“The dance?” I quirk my lips up into a smile.

And with that, we dance. He wasn’t a terrible dancer, spinning me ‘round the floor with a grace that only the Upper Ranks could achieve. I let myself get caught up in the dance, losing myself in the flow of the music.

“(Y/n). The mission” Yvonne’s voice echoes in my ear as I’m snapped back to reality. Right, the mission.

I suddenly pretended Shinsou stepped on my foot. Bending over in faux agony and forcing tears to come to my eyes, Shinsou fumbles at my pain. I feel a small pang of guilt, looking at his distressed face.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He leads me over to a small sitting area, not a far distance from my target. Watching Shinsou get lost in the crowd I make my move.

I walked over, inching closer and closer to my target. There was a glass of ale his hand was resting on, delicate fingers winding around the glass. Pulling a small pill from one of the many pockets of my dress, I place it carefully into the glass. Making my way back across the room, I watch as my target drinks the ale ‘till it’s empty to my original position.

‘Spring Court has its uses’, I thought smiling to myself.

“All right, This is an Upper-Rank Investigation!”

Oh, come the fuck on.  And right when I was leaving too.

A male voice rings out in the middle of the confused court members. I recognized that voice…

“(Y/n), get out of there!” Mina says into the communicator.   “Working on it.” Shit. Why were Upper-Rank boot lickers here? Shit, this was bad, I needed to get out of there.

I back away from the door slowly, trying not to bring attention to myself. A  hand came out and gripped the back of my arm.

“Where do you think you’re going, Summer Court scum” the hot and familiar voice of Shinsou rings in my ear. I grit my teeth, fearing to say anything due to their power.

He rips the comm from my ear, and upon hearing the cries from my friends, crushes it

“We have suspicion to believe that a Summer Court Assassin is here. Nobody moves, this will take a couple of minutes.”

And then I see him. The bane of my existence, everything in me sings in disgust and anger, as I try not to lunge at him. Izuku Midoriya. The heir to the Autumn throne. And my worst nightmare.

“No need,” Shinsou calls out, a smirk gracing his features. “I got ‘er right here”

His cold green eyes bore into me as he smiles. “There she is! My favorite assassin (Y/n)! It’s good to see you again honey.” His voice was like syrup, undoubtedly sticky and sweet. The heady sound of hypnosis.

“Seize her guards! We finally got the infamous (Y/n), top assassin of the Summer court.”  The guards move hesitantly like they were afraid. I hope so because they should be. Then everything happens all I once. I pull myself out of Shinsou’s grip, running towards the exit, which happens to be, in front of me.

“Lucky me,” I smile unsheathing the concealed daggers slipping them into my hands “Looks like the Prince brought me toys to play with.”

Oh, how I missed fighting. The rush of dodging and weaving never knowing if my next move is going to be my last. The feel of the blades in my hands as I cut down opponents, watching their terrified faces fall to the ground one by one. It fills me with so much strength knowing that I’m so much better than them.

And then my leg got nicked. The sharp sting of pain de-railing my train of thought.

“Fuck,” I yelled out loud as more soldiers descended upon me. They threw my daggers away from me first, restraining my wrists and upper arm for no movements. They forced me to my knees, and I look around at the now-empty ballroom. The heavy smell of iron and salt dancing in the air as the blood of the fallen soldiers surround me. I wasn't squeamish, but I didn't really want to ruin my dress.

Footsteps echo towards me, the clanking of boots reverbing in my head. A gloved hand grips my chin, forcing me to look up. Green eyes bore into mines. “Hi love,” Izuku smiles at my grimace at the nickname. “Quite a mess you’ve made of my soldiers. Now, look at the extra work you’ve given me. They were good people. Honest. And now-”

“None of us are honest,” I spit the words at him “You know that better than me.”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Now here’s the deal, pet. I will have to take you in now. You have made quite a name for yourself and have to turn you in. Nothing personal”

“With you? Everything’s personal.”

Letting go of my chin, Izuku stands once more.

“You might be right (Y/n). You’ll have a lot of time to reflect in your jail cell. Now sleep.” That was the last thing I heard before my eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep.

Mira’s Pov

I rip the communicator from my ear in anger, slamming the tiny black device onto the table.

“Taking your anger out on our stuff isn’t going to make (Y/n) come back.”

I look over to the blank face of Von, rolling my eyes. (Y/n) got caught and by our intel (and the fact the Hitoshi Shinsou was there) were knew that the Autumn Court had taken her. And now the issue was how we were going to get her back.

“I mean,” Mina’s voice pops up, the small twinge of hope laced throughout her words. “Why can’t we just go in and take her back?”

“Because Summer isn’t really on good terms with Autumn”

“Are we really on good terms with anyone?” Summer Court’s standing had always been rocky with the others. We were always called the lowest, doing everyone’s dirty job, but in fact, we knew more about the other Courts than everyone else. People fear what they don’t understand and hate what they fear.

But these last few years, Autumn’s seemed to have a personal grudge with us. No one knew the exact details but it was something involving (Y/n) and the prince of Autumn.

“They’d kill us on the spot if they knew who we were” Von’s voice cuts in through my thoughts.

“But don’t they realize they kidnapped the princess? This is asking for war!” Mina was right. If (Y/n) got hurt it wouldn’t just be her parents that got mad.

“Who’s going to tell Bakugou?” I ask softly. The van is quiet as we all debated internally.

“Well, I’m not doing it. I actually like living and being here. You can fight it over if you two have a death wish.”

I shake my head at Von, signaling that I won’t do it either. Bakugou’s temper was infamous and when it comes to people he loves, there was no telling what he would do.

“Fuck y’all. Now I have to go deal with the dumbass wrecking ball. If I get hurt, y’all gonna pay Spring Court to heal me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you dodge fast enough, or you’ll actually get hurt.” Mina gives me a small smile in sympathy.

Sighing I head to the front of the car. We had to make it back before Autumn found us too. I’d never hear the end of it from the king if we also got caught.

And with that, we drive off, chaos awaiting us in the Summer Court.

onto the next chapter?

Taglist: @xetou @kunikida-kun @asaincy @ryuvanaka @katsumiiii @lilsparkyswife @katsumox @silkylious @inkwicke @myhoodacademia @mypimpademia @readergurl20 @angiebug101  @artof-apollo@namjoonswifeyy @moonlit-xio​

Crossed out means I couldn’t tag you ; Send an ask to be added >:D

[mysteira6]

FukaFlower - Visiting You

Summary:

Requested by Lil-flowie (on Wattpad).

Casting aside his fear to visit her… was a lot harder than he thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Prompt: “Flower gets hurt and is in the hospital. Fukase is worried for her.”

Hey there! It’s been a while. I still heckin love these two so don’t think that I’m gonna stop making these for a LONG time~ :3

Special one-shot this time because this was a request from my book on Wattpad! Hope you enjoy. ^^

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“She’s in room 17,”

He quickly nodded once in thanks. “Thanks,” He replied gratefully before turning away from the receptionist and looking back at the hallway. White-clad nurses typing away on wheelie monitors littered the hallway, along with the occasional visitor walking back and forth between visiting their loved ones and chatting with other doctors. The sterile scent in the room conjured images of medicine and machinery in his mind, almost coercing him to shrink into the size of a ball, curled up and shivering on the floor.

Fukase hated hospitals. He didn’t want to have a reason to visit such a place that reminded him too much of what he had been through. By instinct, his left hand swiftly raised to touch his face, his bandaged fingers swiping against the grooves along his cheeks.

Come on, Fukase. Stop thinking about that. You’re here to visit the one you love, not to mull over your… stuff.

After giving himself a solid nod of confidence, the red-haired boy began to make his way down the hall, his crimson eyes looking out for the double-digit label that indicated which room his partner was staying at. It wasn’t too long before he found it, standing before the door as if waiting to be let in.

He held tightly to the bag in his right hand, the antiseptic scent still annoying him. Here goes nothing.

A turn of the doorknob later and the boy walked into a small room with walls of beige, satin blue furniture consisting of a sofa and visitor chairs aligned neatly against each wall while a longer bed sat in the middle of it all. Laying on said bed and tucked behind pearl-coloured sheets was a petite figure with gorgeous violet eyes, her smooth curls of white moving along with a strand of black hair as she turned towards her visitor. It wasn’t long before a small smile adorned her face, and Fukase found it very difficult to turn away from her upon seeing her beautiful smile.

“Fukase!” She murmured gleefully, and though she tried to step out of bed to greet him properly, the girl was reminded of her slight impairment when she felt a sharp twinge from her right arm, the thick plaster cast wrapped around her forearm reminding her not to move too much to agitate her wound. With a heavy sigh to herself, she eventually shifted back to her original position, only watching as the redheaded boy quickly trotted to her side, dragging a visitor’s chair with him as he placed his paper bag on the bedside table.

“Hey Flo,” He started, heart still fluttering at the sight of his partner’s pure expression. “How are you?” He was internally praying that the unease in his head had not leaked out into the tone of his voice.

“Alright, I guess,” The patient in question replied, motioning to her cast. “I just don’t know why my manager made me stay in the hospital for a hairline fracture on my arm. I’m pretty sure Xin Hua and you can take care of me fine,”

Fukase felt his cheeks heat up at the comment. He did like taking care of her when she was sick, after all. “I’m sure they just don’t want their ‘superstar’ singer to get hurt a second time. Besides, they did mention that your treatment would be covered by them,”

“But the food here is so plain,” She protested, a pout forming on her lips. “I’d rather just make my own food at home, even if I’m gonna feel pain throughout the whole thing-”

“Now that’s when I gotta stop ya, Petals,” The redhead’s tone deepened as he continued. “You know what your doctor would say; don’t move that cast around too much or it’s gonna stay there forever,”

She huffed impatiently. “Okay, I guess you got a point, but it’s still pretty boring around here-”

She was cut off by a jovial laugh coming from the boy now sitting next to her, accompanied by the sight of a familiar marshmallow coloured doll popping out of his paper bag, soon stumbling out of the bag and hopping onto her bed, taking a seat next to her lying figure as Fukase’s laugh slowly died out. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” He asked cheerfully with a smirk on his face.

The girl’s cheeks turned satin pink. What was she thinking? Here, she was being visited by her loving and kind boyfriend and all she was doing was complaining to him. Some partner she was.

Hoping to ameliorate the situation, she smiled warmly at him. “Thanks for visiting,” She softly spoke, giving another smile to the little doll by her left hand, who had been patiently waiting for her to acknowledge its presence. “I know you’re pretty busy and all,”

Fukase let out a small chuckle. “Hah. If by ‘busy’, you mean that I have to handle being teased all day by the Kagamine twins about ‘my girl’ being in the hospital, then yeah, I guess I have been a little busy,”

Flower narrowed her eyes, speechless. Ever since she started dating Fukase, it seemed that those 14-year-olds’ attacks on them would never stop, not even when they were not seen together in public. Sometimes, the snow-haired teen wondered if they liked it when her defensive boyfriend would come running after those gremlins after they let out a few teasing words to them.

In reality, as his girlfriend chuckled to herself (he assumed that she was chuckling about his comment about the Kagamine twins), Fukase could slowly feel a lump slowly forming in his throat. It was this room, he realised; this room was far too familiar to him. The pale walls closing in on his figure, that damn sterile scent of surgical masks and IV drips wafting through his nose, the chilly air that blew by from the vent on the floor, sweeping across his skin and forming trails of goosebumps all over him-

It was probably a miracle that he hadn’t completely succumbed to his memories, that he hadn’t shriveled into the size of a ball while sitting on the hospital chair, that he had not started shaking while reaching out to hold Flower’s left hand that wasn’t wrapped in a cast-

Left hand.

It was… her left hand.

Left hand…

Left hand.

Left hand. Left hand. Left. Left. Left. Left. Left left left left-

“Fukase?”

Her distinctive, powerful voice sent him straight back to reality, his eyes blinking once, twice, before looking over to the person who had called his name. In his mindscape, those words kept repeating themselves, the noises of his past ringing in his ears despite the fact that she pierced through it all with her own voice. Only when he noticed the expression in her violet-hued irises did he realise why she called him.

She had noticed him. Noticed him experiencing a flashback. The redhead felt ashamed.

“You know, I’d ask if you’re okay,” She said sombrely, breaking the momentary silence between the both of them. “But knowing you, I kinda have an idea of how you’d respond. And if I’m right, it’s not really a good thing…” She added, drooping her head a little.

“Flo, I-”

“I know. You don’t like hospitals, right?” The moment she said that was when the boy on the chair finally gave in to the fear creeping on his back, his arms wrapping themselves around his chest as if shielding himself from an attacking foe. Though he kept his gaze on her, Flower knew that he wasn’t really ‘okay’ with this.

“I figured as much,” She sighed softly, hoping that he wouldn’t hear her. “I’m really sorry that I had to burden you to visit me while I’m here, Fukase,”

“You don’t have to apologise, Flower,” He hastily replied, though the slight falsetto in his voice spoke volumes of what was going through his head. “I mean, it’s not like you made the accident happen,”

“Yeah, but still,” Seeing her lover look at her with fearful eyes so different from his usual gaze made Flower curse at her predicament; all she wanted to do was to step out of bed and hold the boy in her embrace. Just like last time.

Instead, she only muttered. “If I had been more careful…”

“ … Even if you had, there’s no telling what else could have happened,”

Flower didn’t respond to that, only looking down at her arm wrapped in white, silently cursing at it until she heard the sound of a chair shifting closer to her bed. A quick turn presented her with the sight of the scarred-face boy having his face petted by the living doll from before, its chubby hands threading through the plastic barrier of the hospital bed and patting the human boy’s cheeks as if to make a funny face out of it.

Had Flower not known that this little doll, Point, was sort of a parental figure to her boyfriend, she would have been merely amused at this silly sight.

But since Flower did know about Point, she also could tell that Fukase was really trying to get over his trauma just to make her smile. It was a common trait between the two of them; whenever Fukase had the urge to make anyone happy, he’d usually perform humorous antics with that little white doll. Likewise, in the moments when he was the most vulnerable emotionally, Point would be there to remind Fukase that he was not alone in the world anymore. That he now had someone else to talk to when his mind was a mess.

After their mini-episode of making funny faces in front of her (and inciting a little giggle from her), the red-haired boy sported a small smile, the fear from earlier mostly dissipated from his eyes.

“Flower…” He started, leaning his head against the fencing by the hospital bed, the light from the windows reflecting off of his scarlet eyes. “You know you’re really important to me, right?”

“Y-yeah?”

“So… Don’t worry about me being afraid of… this place…” He slowly declared, his voice building up confidence as he went on. “I know I tend to be dramatic about it, but I promise you; I’ll be okay,”

“Are you sure?” The hesitation in her tone convinced Fukase to up his determination in his reply. “Yeah. I’m not trying to trick you this time; I’ll be fine,”

“Besides, seeing you and having you next to me…” As much as he tried to hide it, the red on his cheeks was obvious. “It helps me deal with the memory, so… don’t be too worried about me, alright?”

‘Seeing you and having you next to me’

They were such simple words and yet… Those alone were enough to wash all of the white-haired girl worries away.

“Oh! That reminds me,” The young boy stood up suddenly, turning to the paper bag he brought with him and pulling out a petite white box with a handle by the top. “Here, I got you something. And don’t worry, I asked Xin Hua about what you couldn’t eat, and this doesn’t qualify as any of your prohibited foods,”

As Fukase placed the box in front of her, he steadily undid the box’s paper lock, revealing a single triangular slice of vanilla cake, its three layers stuck together by white icing filled with red slices of fruit while the top layer was completely covered with another layer of white and three white rosettes. The singular conical red item placed on the top of the cake was the last thing Flower needed to identify what kind of treat her boyfriend had bought for her.

 “A strawberry cake,” She noted without any traces of astonishment in her voice. “Why am I not surprised?” Though she was shaking her head, there was a pensive smile inscribed on her lips.

“Oh, well if you don’t want it, more for me-”

“What, no! Of course I want it!”

“Oh, really?” A mischievous grin found its way to the cheeky redhead’s lips as he spoke. “Judging by the look on your face, I was starting to think that you didn’t like it. Or am I wrong?”

His girlfriend was about to facepalm herself with her right hand until she felt a tinge of pain that signalled her to use her left one instead. “You’re ridiculous. You wouldn’t buy that for me and bring it here if you thought that I wouldn’t want it, would you?”

“So you’re saying that I’m a good boyfriend?”

The girl paused, though it didn’t take too much pondering before she arrived at a conclusion. Between him mustering his guts to visit a hospital, the hotspot of his trauma, and pushing aside that trauma to admit how much she meant to him, Flower was convinced that this time, Fukase’s passing joke was true.

Knowing that, she heaved a relaxed sigh, reaching out to touch his bandaged hand briefly. The sudden contact cued him to glance at her, taking in the bright smile that adorned her face. “Yeah,” Flower murmured sweetly. “I think you are. A good boyfriend, I mean,”

Her cheeks turned satin pink as she added the last part of her sentence, an unusually bashful smile slowly creeping up her lips. The redhead could only look on at her, frozen and unmoving, only taking in how adorable she looked under the rays of sunlight seeping through the windows of the ward.

There was no way to stop Fukase from chuckling light-heartedly. “Wow,” He muttered, breathless. “I… didn’t think you’d actually say something so sappy,”

The girl shrugged. “Maybe it’s my meds?” She sheepishly teased. “I guess I’m just feeling a little… affectionate today,”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Fukase teased back with a smirk. “Seeing you trying to flirt is cute too,” Flower didn’t have any time to respond to that before Fukase turned his whole body to the patient lying on the bed, a white plate containing the vanilla-coloured slice of spongy cake in one hand while his other gripped tightly onto a small fork. “Seriously though, you want this cake?”

She beamed at the prospect of eating something sweet. “Of course,”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For the rest of the afternoon, the two teens stayed in that hospital room, sharing bites of a dessert that they both loved. Still, the sweetness from the delicious cake was nothing compared to their relationship.

A gentle, tender bond that was supported by their endless love and support for each other.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They... They be cute... QwQ

[vaguely-gestures-to-the-void]

Hindsight: My thoughts on Loki (2021)

Welcome back folks. Read the innocence dying inside me as I accept that this show eats my expectations for lunch and leaves me like it's going to buy milk.

As a side note from what I said in my first review, here’s an interesting article. Apparently I was clowning because the Gobi desert scene was filmed (probably? idk) with the tech from the Mandalorian. I think the studios were the same. Oh well. https://www.atlasofwonders.com/2021/06/loki-filming-locations.html

Episode 4: THE NEXUS EVENT

Pre-title scene

The new perspective of Asgard is incredible.

Oh baby Sylvie, what did they do to you. Also, RAVONNA??

The TVA through a child’s eyes is heartbreaking. The mixed use of shots that were familiar (the feet walking into the TVA) and new (the TVA logo on the floor) convey how though routine, this is an alien experience for Sylvie.

She too wants to help the man being dragged in. Maybe Sylvie was a better person than Loki, the TVA taking her away was what changed it.

We don’t see Casey, but iIt’s the same ‘sign here’ guy. The changing perspective and music really alters the mood created, contrasting the whimsical procedure we followed in episode one.

She hadn’t even said much in her life. They knew how to influence the audience’s emotions, that's for sure. Props to the actress, I felt genuine concern for her before I remembered that she’s acting.

TVA

Ravonna probably underestimated Sylvie as a Loki, a mistake that cost her greatly.

The golden doors.

Ravonna looks tense and a bit fearful.

Scattered throughout the episode are eyes watching. George Orwell’s 1984, anyone?

Big Brother is watching.

Mobius! He’s a good friend to Ravonna, but there’s a power imbalance.

Ravonna is shaken. Her past failure is haunting her.

Someone edit the “What? How?” into “Wow.” It’ll be a service.

Lamentis - 1

Loki’s apology and Sylvie reflecting on her childhood are the conclusion to the previous episode. Faced with death, Loki realises that her goals were hindered by his actions. His apology is the first time he acknowledges he had something to do with it. Sylvie’s offering her emotional vulnerability in the form of memories. Her mind and experiences are her most prized possession because they’re all she has of the person who she was as Loki, her childhood and what she was supposed to be. Her glorious purpose, what really makes a Loki a ‘Loki’ was her life.

THEY TRUST EACH OTHER. THIS WAS WHAT CAUSED THE NEXUS EVENT.

C H A R A C T E R D E V E L O P M E N T.

Ravonna pointed out that Loki will always be a “lying scourge” but they went against this. In any timeline, this could cause a nexus event. They found a middle ground.

“That should be setting off alarms if someone steps on the wrong leaf.” I had a whole idea about entropy and the timeline being an isolated system but I struggled to define an isolated system, and thus I couldn’t use the whole irreversible process causing entropy to grow causing a br- if you have a clue of what I’m going on about, or want to know more, I’ll explain my thoughts. I can understand why this isn’t scientifically accurate and I’m no physicist.

The unbranched timeline means all the things that were speculated - Wanda’s kids, what happened on Saakar, all of it - is gone.

“Any news on C - 20?”I called it! B-15 is having doubts! Her subtle unease building up throughout the ep is perfect!

Most settlements have a street design that can be from space. Sharru doesn’t.

“No. We may lose... ...you’re amazing!” Damn it literally took the end of a world for Loki to change as a person.

“Their smiles. If that isn’t people accepting their deaths I don’t know what is. Man, I just want both of them to be happy.

Please don’t let that be the love theme, it’s so pretty.

The music fading into the TVA theme as they get separated is so sad.

Time Theater 25

Back to square one in terms of trust with these two, but now they have history and hurt feelings too!

Oh Mobius.

Cycles are a part of who Loki is within Norse mythology (from what I know, correct me if I’m wrong). This scene is conflict.

Loki needs both Mobius and Sylvie to incite change. One can empathise whilst the other believes in him.

Mobius believes in Loki like no one else in the TVA. He treats him like an individual, they developed a bond in episode 2, so his disappointment and anger were genuine. This is reflected in their dialogue.

Even when Loki was going through all the Feels in ep 1, he didn’t shout at Mobius. It makes it more heartbreaking when Mobius laughs and dismisses him after the “TVA is lying to you” thing. His laugh was so bitter, it’s like his belief that Loki would be the variant to prove that variants were individuals had been shattered. What Mobius doesn’t realise is that Loki was genuinely trying to warn him. The trust between them was fragile but Mobius needed to come to his own conclusions before he could see that Loki had broken out of the mold the Time Keepers set for him.

“Just kind of an asshole and a bad friend.” Y’all, Mobius doesn’t rise to Loki’s baits. He’s so hurt.

I can’t be the only one that thought Loki was going to be brainwashed when they saw the red door. Turns out it’s just a time cell.

I love Mobius but he makes me feel so conflicted. Oh shit, he’s my problematic fave.

Watching Loki get his ass handed to him by Lady Sif shouldn’t be this funny.

This particular memory reflects what Mobius will talk about later, Loki being abandon by the people around him.

Putting Loki through a memory that was physically and emotionally painful was nasty. If you hear something horrible, over and over especially from a friend it would take a toll on your self-perception. Mobius was hurt by Loki leaving him, he’s getting revenge whilst doing his job and getting into Loki’s head.

Ravonna’s office

Ravonna has hang ups from failing with Sylvie. Who she is and what she knows is going to be interesting.

Heck I just realised are Mobius’ lapels not real? They look fake.

I wonder whether the “mastermind” thing was foreshadowing the next ep.

Am I the only one who thinks this isn’t the first Loki Mobius has dealt with? Could that mean there’s a reunion next ep?!

“Variant pet.” There’s a culture of dehumanising variants within the TVA.

The cuts showing both B-15 and Mobius’ faces reminds me of ep 1, but now there’s a new angle to things. B-15 certainly sees things differently.

Time Theatre 25

Lady Sif would kill with short hair. Or long hair. It’s Lady Sif, she’s a badass.

Loki’s exhale reminds me of how he tenses before a fight.

Notable things about this scene:

Heavy use of metaphors to trade jabs.

The lights are shifting in a consistent pattern, scanning the room almost.

Shots are constantly moving and cutting.

Loki’s speech pattern changes when he’s lying. Nice touch there.

When they start arguing in earnest, the shots are close ups of their faces, not circling around each other.

Loki was at first willing to talk to Mobius if he was treated with respect, the way they engaged in episode 2. He also wants to trust that Mobius won’t kill him. Mobius dismisses him (rightly so, his trust is gone) and Loki’s pride about ‘not working for anyone’ gets in the way rather than listening to each other. Loki’s behaviour is cyclic and his lying about Sylvie affirms Mobius’s understanding that Loki won’t (or maybe can’t) change. I wouldn’t be too surprised if Mobius is a Loki, the man’s uncannily good at reading him. He deduces that Loki and Sylvie have a bond and unsettles Loki to get answers out of him, because he knows that’s the only way he can force Loki to reveal his cards. He definitely wasn’t expecting Loki’s earlier admission to be the truth. What Mobius did was not right, but it sure was effective.

“No. Not partners.” I believe this. They had an understanding, but their goals differ. Maybe just give Sylvie her own show.

“Guess you don’t do partners.” MOBIUS WHY ARE YOU SO BUTT-HURT? Probably to make Loki feel bad ik, but it’s still funny to think Lightning McQueen is salty.

That memory really hurt Loki. He stuttered.

Loki fixates on Sylvie rather than his own freedom. This was the cue to Mobius to start interrogating.

Bruh, the feeling they were experiencing better be friendship.

This made me uncomfortable because I was so sure we weren’t gonna get a romantic subplot that I related the characters to my actual family relationships. Marvel. Why?

The music combined with Mobius’ subtle shift in demeanor from irritated to mockery was very unsettling to me. I never realised how good an actor Owen Wilson was.

“Our interests are aligned.” Once Mobius tells him the truth, Loki does the same. I really hope this is the extent of their relationship. Just let them recognise one another as equals. Please Marvel.

Mobius’ hands twitching, the slight swallow. Yeesh, he certainly doesn’t think Loki’s lying, but he’s not about to accept it.

Loki’s head shake is sad. He knows he can’t convince Mobius.

“That I can respect. I mean the lies you tell yourself.” This was the best writing imo. Loki doesn’t make any final attempts to connive his way out of the situation because telling the truth to someone he’d trusted had failed. He willingly walks into the Time Cell.

Time Theater 47

B-15 being unable to support herself, having to rely on the structures around her to stay upright. This woman deserves so much y’all.

WE NEED HER NAME MARVEL.

You better appreciate her beyond shipping her with Sylvie or istg.

The music is so mournful. It just emphasises how much everything changing is going to hurt not only the main characters. Lives change because of the TVA and the events of this episode, it’s not overlooked by the writing or music.

The poster and the 1984 parallels. Exquisite!

Sylvie not sitting straight made me snort.

Ravonna Renslayer’s office

More Theremin music! This time I’m pretty sure it’s Carnival of the Animals, XIII. Le Cygne (the Swan) : Le carnaval des animaux: No. 12, Le cygne (arr. For theremin and piano) by Clara Rockmore.

Fun fact! Clara Rockmore influenced theremin music and the instrument and was a virtuoso of the instrument. Give her a google, it’s worth it. Also look up Leon Theremin, he was (among other things) a Soviet spy. There’s a great Wiki spiral for anyone there.

Mobius was probably being lined up for a high position in the TVA. Damn.

TemPads are personal, or have different levels of clearance.

Mobius didn’t stop interrogating Ravonna throughout that scene. He knew that she wasn’t telling him the whole truth.

Sleight of hand wasn’t shown how Loki and Sylvie do it, they didn’t use misdirection.

Ravonna knows something is up with Mobius. Maybe he hasn’t been around for long if this is his ‘career case’.

The pacing becomes really fast like in the end of episode 2 as conflicts get resolved. Buckle up comrades.

2050 Roxxcart Disaster

I don’t have much to add, it’s a powerful scene.

They use close ups whenever a truth bombshell is dropped.

The music varies considerably between these scenes, each one has a different tone.

“We’re the same.” With what she knows of B-15, Sylvie knew not to be smug when delivering the news about B-15’s life.

B-15 crying in the rain hurts.

“I looked happy.”

TVA archives, Time Cell, Time Theater 25

The floor opposite Mobius is FE3, above it is 3FG.

Oh Mobius.

C-20 deserved better, I'd love to see her later in the series.

The music goes from mournful to harsh and we’re left in silence when it cuts to the Time Cell.

“You told me to shut up.” Loki can be salty sometimes.

“Do you really think you deserve to be alone?” Mobius is rattled, he wants to unsettle Loki.

The music starts to build somewhere between “...your connection... “ and Loki saying “‘WE?’”

The faint tinkling reminds me of the Avatar (blue people) score.

“How about the word of a friend?” This is Loki’s olive branch. When he admits Loki was right, their trust is tentatively reinstated.

The music is finally back to that chaotic theme we know. I think it’s the TVA’s theme.

“You can be whoever, whatever you wanna be, even someone good. I mean just in case anyone ever told you different.” Mobius corrects what he says in the first ep.

They are friends y’all I’m so sad.

Mobius can lie through his teeth like it’s nobody’s business.

Pruning hurts, Mobius’ face is in agony.

Loki’s tears. GIVE THEM ALL JETSKIS.

Ravonna takes a moment to compose herself.

Time Keepers (the final smackdown)

Why are the last 10 minutes always so insane?

Loki’s eyes only show hurt. I’ll leave.

Ravonna’s so sharp, she instantly catches Sylvie’s wet hair.

All of our expectations from the trailers always get yeeted out of a window because the scenes are never really what we think they are. I get that that should be expected but it’s refreshing that the writing is never what we think it is.

Did anyone else notice the egg timer/infinity sign murals on one of the hallways to the left of Sylvie?

Ravonna is so cold (and yet I’d simp for her).

The M.C. Escher staircases I see you set designers/CGI folks.

B-15 just gets knocked out. They better not kill her for no reason or I riot.

I’m pretty sure that Sylvie ripped off one of Ravonna’s TVA badges (or buttons) when she fought her.

Sylvie’s the better fighter, she’s had to use it more often though.

The elevator doors stay open.

It would be so funny if we get an elevator scene where Sylvie is just dragging Ravonna somewhere.

They really led us on with the Time Keepers, particularly the middle one. I was somewhat convinced there’d be something more to it. I’m interested to see where it goes.

Ep 4 review

I really don’t have much to add with these last two episodes. I’ve definitely come to appreciate that no matter whether you liked the writing of the show or not, it’s never what you expect. Is that a good thing? I guess that that remains to be seen. Nonetheless, I appreciate how much effort went into this series. It’s been a fun romp, I’ll be back with my reviews of the final episodes. I’ll also stop posting Loki content to my blog because the Gods know that my followers don’t read this lol.

I’m just going to survive until the season is over and then hopefully keep my sanity together until the next Marvel content or at least Dr. Strange.

Here's the link to my episode 3 review.

Thank you all for being here, you're wonderful my loves.

[terrorhqs]

                                             𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄; 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

you find yourself wandering to the clairvoyant’s tent as the night winds down. the seer is cloaked by darkness, by shadow, and they do little to beckon you forth as you sit. distantly, you hear the raucous laughter as a sovereign of fools is crowned in the theatre. brittle whispers from the clairvoyant before you steal your attention, and you turn your gaze forward to fix on the tarot cards laid out, onto the slender fingers splayed on top.

“how’s this all work then?” you start, chuckling nervously. “shall i pick one?” you’ve never had a tarot reading before. at home, you were fraught with nerves, fearful of what you may find in a dark parlor holding hands with tittering strangers. this feels different, somehow, as if anything that can be gleaned can be chalked up to a drunken dream - a mirage in the north.

you start to reach - a raspy voice stops you. it’s the clairvoyant’s voice, yes, but something is... strange. a tinny, echoing quality, lilting, as if his voice is experimenting with itself. 

“what are you? by god, mercy,” he rasps. 

“what?”

“men! help! agathe!” wailing and rasping. “it is swift!”

you stumble back, chair falling, just as darkness descends upon the entire carnivale. in an instant, a gust of infernal wind blows all the blazing torches out. there is but black and the light of the moon - and even this is meager guidance, half-hidden by pale, mordant clouds, veiled in a fog’s film.

when you look back, the figure is gone. the clairvoyant enters not a half-moment later, frantic to gather his paraphernalia and move on, ignoring your dazed befuddlement.

sailors are notorious for their superstitions, but the wardroom officers are quick to try and quell the hushed murmuring. what kind of northern wind kills the light of dozens of torches blazing unbidden all night? 

“it is only the weather, sailors.” booms the captain from the theatre stage, naught but a silhouette, the cadence of his voice unhurried as it carries through the city of tents. “allow your eyes to adjust to the dark, follow the light of the moon out, calmly, and get to the ship. nothing to fear but the bottle-ache come morn. those able to escort the guests ought to.”

the orders are clear, and everyone shifts to begin shuffling out - until a cry rings out. one of the ship’s caulkers points to the caribou head mounted upon the wall, a prize from an earlier hunt. “i saw it blink! the head! i swear it!”

“do you dare incite hysteria? get ahold of yourself.” the captain calls, the promise of repercussion coloring his voice. 

behind him, past the canvas, a shadow lurks in the moonlight. the silhouette is that of a man, perhaps a member of the crew listening in, still and silent and largely unacknowledged. then, it shifts. it morphs, growing in size, growing into something not human nor animal, its maw dwarfing the makeshift theatre. those facing the officers erupt into gasps and panicked yelling - to grab the guns, to get back onto the ship, towards shelter. but even those willing to face the beast, those who run out and round the tent to confront it - all they are met with is the chill, and footprints where it once stood.

elsewhere, there is chaos.

THE MARKED, lingering in the theatre when pandemonium strikes, spots what appears to be an apparition manifesting on stage in wisps and blurs. they cannot comprehend where its limbs begin and where the shadows end: it seems to melt inside them. it points, mouthing silently. THE HARUSPEX finds them in a state of terror, transfixed - looks towards the stage, and sees nothing. it is time to leave.

THE LOVER searches for her partner in the chaos, but runs into THE IDOL, who is struck by shock for reasons unknown and refuses to move even as they are pushed by the crowd. They keep whispering a name, like a prayer or mantra, one THE LOVER would have remembered in normal circumstances as being akin to the DEVOTED’s surname. THE LOVER is left little choice but to attempt to rouse them from their stupor.

THE INTREPID is among the first to guide the crew back to the ship, but in the disarray, is accidentally jostled as they near the docks, loses their balance, and falls into the shallow water that has grown colder in the night. THE SOCIALITE, mercifully, is nearby and notices, and is quick to pull them out and usher them to the warmth of the ship. each moment is critical.

THE ENIGMA, never without their arms, glimpses an amorphous shadow grow longer, taller, from inside the Hall of Games. Without wasting a crucial delay, an expert dancer on the floor between life and death, they take aim and fire through the canvas - only to receive a very human yell in response. on the other side of the tent, THE DEVOTED has only just been grazed by the bullet - but the wound, while shallow, flows.

The CAPTAIN has led the band of running people over onto the beach, only to find a stray outline dotting the shore - THE SCION. They have known each other well enough, but this is the first time they meet without the gild of their family status or an admiralty gala. It takes a moment to start speaking - but as they do, they notice something eerie. The sea, which had been a steady droning throughout their nights and days, falls quiet. From the water, a guttural, animal voice begins to shout.

Among all the supply crates unloaded off the ship, there is also THE PURSER’S ledger that found its way among the paraphernalia. They left in search of it shortly after the crowning of the topsy-turvy sovereign, and are in no small measure taken aback to see THE EMPRESARIO labouring over it in the dying lights. The candle in their hand barely illuminates their face. But when THE PURSER starts shouting for an explanation, the candle garners a life of its own - it flares in a white blaze before consuming itself in a fire, scalding flesh and paper alike.

THE GODKILLER, having accumulated their trove of stolen trinkets and treasures throughout the evening, stands apart from the crowd to assess their prizes - only to find they’ve gone missing. Did someone steal them back? Does someone know what they’ve done? THE DOE-HEARTED, calling for their uncle, runs into THE GODKILLER sifting through the dirt and rocks - only to see the massive shadow from earlier pass through the tents. 

THE COMMANDER was still hacking away at the dregs of his dinner, sitting opposite from THE SHADOW. When the pandemonium begins, both heads turn with precision - only to see that their hands are coated in something treacle-red. Like molasses, it covers the plate and mess-table, stretching over and under their nails. Instead of sea-biscuits, the plates now hold raw, pink flesh. The SHADOW stares unblinking - his eyes seem to say: Do you see it too? The COMMANDER has no answer; they no longer know what’s there and what isn’t.

THE VETERAN is quick to prepare the ship, though some unease nags her, begging for attention. The realization brings a sharp sickness to stomachs - the ocean is silent. The waves below them still moves, but no sound can be heard, the stillness jarring. When she turns to THE NOBLE to confirm the silence, the girl is found glassy-eyed staring into the open sea through the won telescope, shaking. Any attempt at reaching THE NOBLE through her stupor is unsuccessful. When the girl finally returns in spirit, she cannot recall how or when she returned to the ship. The ocean is roaring. 

THE CHRONICLER and THE CLAIRVOYANT are stumbling as they return to the ship, clinging fingers suddenly wrenched apart following a sharp yelp. Among them, a sizzling sound beings to pick up, then whimpering. They watch as angry burns swirl into runes pressed onto the seer’s skin, unseen fires melting wide paths from the boy before stopping right before the girl’s skirts, now-thawed ice leaving the water pooling THE CHRONICLER red-tinted and too viscous. 

THE CHAPLAIN had accompanied THE WILDCARD in the maze of wonders shortly before everything precipitated. As they’re sat there mulling over Shakespeare’s dreams and nightmares, a very real terror materializes - with a smell of sulfur and a sputtering of electricity, the projector goes out. The band snaps clean in two. It should be over, but for several seconds, the images continue to move on the paper-wall, shapes deformed and liminal. Both priest and soldier can only gape as they struggle to make sense of it.

THE DOCTOR and THE ROMANTIC, in the meantime, have ventured to climb one of the tamer bergs. Atop, they can marvel at the vast expanse of the bay and the sea beyond - perhaps they can even glimpse their trajectory ahead. But further ahead, they see something - a ship parallel of the Promethean, from their perch, they can make out its name: Agathe. They see no lights onboard, hear no distant yelling - no signs of life. They refuse to blink, watching the ship disappear into encroaching fog. 

The SONGBIRD has stumbled upon THE STOWAWAY, miles away from the rest of the revelry folk. when the murmur begins - at first they think it is the gravel shifting under a man’s boot. but then sounds begin to form: Hjælp os. Vis dit ansigt. Spoken over and over again. THE SONGBIRD, rendered desperate and death-white, begs the translator to explain what it means. No answer comes. The murmur doesn’t stop. 

after a long and harrowing night, morning comes as if nothing was ever amiss. carnivale is as the crew left it the evening before - without its grotesque aberrations. the caribou head remains still, the projector has stopped, no shadows lurk in the canvas - only tents to be broken down and debris cleaned up remain. with little evidence of whatever machinations were at play the evening before, save for whispers and memory, there is still a voyage ahead. there are preparations to be done. there are new terrors to face.

therein lies our first plot drop, players! you’ll notice we have paired prompts, and we can’t WAIT to see how these play out on the dash! keep in mind that you are, of course, welcome to write interactions not outlined by the plot drop.

the timeline spans from midnight of the night of the carnivale to the end of the week, just before they set sail for the passage. you may write out events of the evening, where everything has boiled unto a point of chaos, or the morning after, or any of the days still left in their layover on land. in this time, the people of the Promethean may hunt for fresh meat and fish, attempt to accompany the icemasters in climbing the surrounding icebergs, explore the little town of godhvn, or study the natural flora and fauna.

[newstfionline]

Tuesday, February 2, 2021

Difficult Times for Flight Attendants (NYT) One flight attendant needed medical attention for a crippling migraine brought on by confronting a passenger who refused to wear a mask. Aviation safety officials have received dozens of confidential complaints in the past year from attendants trying to enforce mask safety rules. The reports, filed in the Aviation Safety Reporting System database, at times describe a chaotic, unhinged workplace where passengers regularly abuse airline employees. The coronavirus pandemic and political divisions of the past year have caused fear, economic pain, and social and family rifts around the country, but for airline workers, and flight attendants in particular, the unease and tension have often converged in a tiny cabin space. The tension is at a level flight attendants have not seen before, said Paul Hartshorn Jr., a veteran attendant and a spokesman for the Association of Professional Flight Attendants union. “I think we’re pretty well trained on how to handle a disruptive passenger,” said Mr. Hartshorn, 46. “What we’re not trained to do and what we shouldn’t be dealing with is large groups of passengers inciting a riot with another group of passengers [over political differences].” “It’s insane,” he added.

Fight The Man: What GameStop’s surge says about online mobs (AP) It’s a fable for our times: Small-time investors band together to take down greedy Wall Street hedge funds using the stock of a troubled video-game store. But the revolt of online stock-traders suggests much more. The internet is shifting society’s balance of power in unanticipated ways. In the world of pseudonymous internet message boards, pranks-gone-wild and logic turned upside down amid a global pandemic, revolts come in all shapes, sizes and aims. Last week they gave us the Great GameStop Stock Uprising. Who knows what this week will bring. “The internet can democratize access, upsetting power dynamics between the people and traditional institutions,” tweeted Tiffany C. Li, a law professor and tech attorney focusing on privacy and technology platform governance. With GameStop, she added in an interview Friday, the goal was to upset the interests of a few large hedge funds. “But in other places the goal can be more nefarious. Online spaces are being used to radicalize people toward extremism, to plan hate crimes and attacks,” she said. “The internet isn’t really the villain or the hero.”

Pandemic Pushes More Parents to Go All-In for Home Schooling (WSJ) As parents grow increasingly frustrated with remote learning during the pandemic, some are deciding to pull their children out of school and try teaching on their own. In North Carolina, the state’s home-school monitoring website crashed on the first day of enrollment, and more than 18,800 families filed to operate a home-school from July 1 to Jan. 22—more than double the school-year before, according to the state Division of Non-Public Education. In Connecticut, the number of students who left public schools to be home-schooled jumped fivefold this school year, to 3,500. In Nebraska, the number of home-schooled students jumped 56%, to 13,426, according to state education officials. “The vast majority [of parents] are saying, ‘We’ve been really trying to do what the schools are asking us to do, but we just can’t do this anymore,’ “ said J. Allen Weston, executive director of the National Home School Association, which has been fielding inquiries on the topic. Vanderbilt University’s Joseph Murphy, who studies home schooling, said “We are in a major shift from how we thought about teaching children and running schools for 100 years. Parents have shifted to the place where they feel they need more direct involvement and greater responsibility for what happens with their children.”

Vaccine skepticism lurks in town famous for syphilis study (AP) Lucenia Dunn spent the early days of the coronavirus pandemic encouraging people to wear masks and keep a safe distance from each other in Tuskegee, a mostly Black city where the government once used unsuspecting African American men as guinea pigs in a study of a sexually transmitted disease. Now, the onetime mayor of the town immortalized as the home of the infamous “Tuskegee syphilis study” is wary of getting inoculated against COVID-19. Among other things, she’s suspicious of the government promoting a vaccine that was developed in record time when it can’t seem to conduct adequate virus testing or consistently provide quality rural health care. “I’m not doing this vaccine right now. That doesn’t mean I’m never going to do it. But I know enough to withhold getting it until we see all that is involved,” said Dunn, who is Black. The coronavirus immunization campaign is off to a shaky start in Tuskegee and other parts of Macon County. Area leaders point to a resistance among residents spurred by a distrust of government promises and decades of failed health programs. Tuskegee is not a complete outlier. A recent survey conducted by the communications firm Edelman revealed that as of November, only 59% of people in the U.S. were willing to get vaccinated within a year with just 33% happy to do so as soon as possible. Health experts have stressed both the vaccines’ safety and efficacy.

As Biden prays for healing, Catholics clash over president’s faith (GMA) On his quest to heal a divided America, Joe Biden may first have to confront bitter division over his presidency from within his own church. Since his inauguration two weeks ago as the nation’s second Catholic president, Biden’s devout Christian faith has become a new flashpoint within the church. While millions of Catholics have celebrated the ascension of one of their own to the White House, some have been publicly questioning whether Biden should be considered a model of their faith. Many Catholic clergy and faithful are passionately fixated on Biden’s support for abortion rights, which the church staunchly opposes and considers an issue of “preeminent” importance. Biden opposes abortion as a personal matter, but wrote in his 2007 memoir that he doesn’t “have a right to impose my view on the rest of society.” One in five Americans identifies as Roman Catholic, the largest Christian denomination in the U.S., according to Pew Research Center. While the faithful have long been divided in matters of theology and politics, Catholic values aren’t exclusively red or blue.

Russia Protesters Defy Vast Police Operation as Signs of Kremlin Anxiety Mount (NYT) The Kremlin mounted Russia’s most fearsome nationwide police operation in recent memory on Sunday, seeking to overwhelm a protest movement backing the jailed opposition leader Aleksei A. Navalny that swept across the country for a second weekend in a row. But the show of force—including closed subway stations, thousands of arrests and often brutal tactics—failed to smother the unrest. By late Sunday evening in Moscow, more than 5,000 people had been detained in at least 85 cities across Russia, an activist group reported, though many were later released. Previously unseen numbers of riot police officers in black helmets, camouflage and body armor essentially locked down the center of the metropolis of 13 million people, stopping passers-by miles from the protest to check their documents and ask what they were doing outside. “I don’t understand what they’re afraid of,” a protester named Anastasia Kuzmina, a 25-year-old account manager at an advertising agency, said of the police. Referring to the peak year of Stalin’s mass repression, she added, “It’s like we’re slipping into 1937.” The large-scale police response signaled anxiety in the Kremlin over Mr. Navalny’s ability to unite Russia’s disparate critics of President Vladimir V. Putin, from nationalists to liberals to many with no particular ideology at all.

In Myanmar coup, Suu Kyi’s ouster heralds return to military rule (Washington Post) Aung San Suu Kyi defended Myanmar’s generals against genocide charges at The Hague. She praised soldiers as they unleashed artillery against ethnic minority settlements. She took only modest steps toward democratic changes that would chip away at the army’s political power. It wasn’t enough. On Monday, Myanmar’s military seized power in a coup, detaining Suu Kyi, elected ministers from her National League for Democracy (NLD) party and others in a predawn raid. Though condemned internationally for defending the military and its campaign against the Rohingya minority, the Nobel Peace Prize laureate who spent 15 years under house arrest until 2010 now finds herself again at the generals’ mercy. The coup underscored the fragility of Myanmar’s decade-old, quasi-democratic transition that many assumed, despite imperfections, would continue with Suu Kyi as head of the civilian government and still-entrenched powers for the military, led by Min Aung Hlaing. But the military was never comfortable with its enduring unpopularity and Suu Kyi’s godlike status among ordinary Burmese, analysts said, despite its role in engineering the country’s opening after half a century of isolationist rule.

Survivors of Beirut’s explosion endure psychological scars (AP) Joana Dagher lay unconscious and hemorrhaging under a pile of rubble in her apartment after the massive Beirut port blast in August, on the brink of death. She survived because of the courage of her husband who got her out, the kindness of a stranger who transported her in his damaged car and the help of her sisters during the chaos at the overwhelmed hospital. But Dagher doesn’t remember any of that: The 33-year-old mother of two lost her memory for two full months from the trauma she suffered in the explosion, including a cerebral contusion and brain lesions. “I lost my life on August 4,” Dagher said. “I lost my house, I lost my memory, I lost two friends,” she added, referring to neighbors killed in the explosion. “I lost my mental health, and so I lost everything.”       The Beirut explosion, which killed more than 200 people and injured more than 6,000, caused wounds on an even wider scale on the mental health of those who lived through it. Even in a country that has seen many wars and bombings, never had so many people—tens of thousands—directly experienced the same traumatizing event at the same time. It came on top of the stress that Lebanese were already feeling from multiple crises, including an unprecedented economic meltdown, the coronavirus pandemic and a feeling of helplessness after nationwide protests against corruption that failed to achieve their goals. “There are very high levels of anxiety and worry across the population,” said Mia Atwi, psychologist and president of Embrace, an organization working on mental health awareness and support. “There is a low mood bordering on clinical depression for the majority of the population.”

[silvokrent]

The Almighty Maker Him Ordain

Tyrian’s salvation came, not in the form of repentance, but of a woman garbed in black and heralded by monsters.

After three days, the restraints were starting to chafe.

Tyrian gave the bindings on his arm another experimental tug. Although he’d long since given up on the possibility of loosening them, it did little to dissuade him from testing for structural weakness. A pull here. A tweak there. His captors had been nothing if not thorough in securing him within the confines of his cell, to an almost paranoid degree, really.

The stasis-cuffs and shackles for his tail, certainly, he could understand those. The muzzle was a bit much.

There was a sharp sting in Tyrian’s shoulder where the leather strap dug into a half-healed wound. He let out a hiss through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut as he paused to revel in the pain. He welcomed the sensation, the way it lit up his nerves and made them sing. It was a shallow substitute for the exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of blood slick beneath his fingertips, the intoxication of the screams. Little more than a distraction, to be sure, but a very badly needed one. Time in the intervals between guard rotations left him desperately in need of an outlet. Like an addict in the vise of withdrawal, the manic energy surged beneath his skin, on the verge of overflowing without the necessary stimulation to siphon it.

It didn’t help that the sentries had quickly been conditioned by his attempts to cajole them into running into his room. There were only so many times Tyrian could claim his stitches had come undone, or that he needed to use the bathroom, before the response became Pavlovian and they wised up.

His treatment was simply appalling. After all the effort put into capturing him, one would think they’d at least pay him more attention. He was a Very Important Prisoner, and he’d be damned if he didn’t remind them of it.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten about me?” Tyrian glanced at the camera suspended in the corner of his cell. “Or are you still busy cleaning up that little mess we made?” His fit of laughter ended in an abrupt cough. There was an unmistakable coppery tang across his tongue. “I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun. I hope Atlas wasn’t too upset about those Paladins. Though really, they have no right to be. If they were smart, they would have budgeted for collateral damage.”

If they were smart, they would have stuck a knife between his ribs by now.

“Ske sha skele,” he said. “Don’t you think this is getting ridiculous?” He let out a dramatic huff. “I’ve received better customer service in Vacuose brothels. All those soldiers in uniform, and you can’t spare one to—”

The electronic lock on the containment cell door pinged, before it slid open along its track. The first newcomer was a stranger to him, another hackneyed guard whose only distinguishing feature was the way his arms shook as he stepped into his room. His second visitor, however—

Tyrian grinned, wide and bright and vicious. Even with the mask concealing part of his face, the expression reached his eyes. It was enough to make the guard falter in his step.

Oh, yes. His prayers had indeed been answered.

“Room service!” Tyrian exclaimed. Locks of matted hair cascaded down the side of his face as he lifted his head. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d come. It’s quite rude to leave a guest unattended for so long.”

Pickerel folded his arms over his chest. “I thought you would’ve had the meal schedule memorized by now.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” he asked. “Predictability makes everything so dull. Routine is more of a prison than any dungeon you could throw me in. The monotony of repetition, the relentless march of time, shackling yourself to an existence sterilized of any meaning.” Tyrian let out a long, shuddering breath. “There are ways to kill a person without knives and daggers.”

“And you’d know a thing or two about that, I’m sure,” the guard said. Pickerel’s attention briefly flitted to his companion, before he redirected it back to Tyrian. The heavy weight of his stare made him positively itch.

“I’m glad to see you’re putting all this time to good use.” The Huntsman’s voice was dry as Dust.

Tyrian inclined his head. “And what else would I be doing?”

“Feeling remorse for the dozens of lives you’ve taken?”

The guard jumped at the sudden, vibrant cackle that was amplified by the acoustics of the room. It took Tyrian a moment to compose himself. “Ask a fire not to burn you, or a storm to soak you to the bone.” He sneered. “See how far you get.”

“Is that what you are?” Pickerel asked. “A force of nature that indiscriminately kills whatever crosses your path?”

“What I am right now is starving,” Tyrian said. The guard made the effort to not flinch as he pointedly glanced his way. “As scintillating as this conversation is, we’re stalling. Come now, no need to be shy. I don’t bite.”

“I should remind you—” Pickerel’s voice sharpened. For all he should have been listening to his captor, Tyrian found himself drinking in the unease he incited in the approaching guard. Hands reached for his face, skating across his cheeks and working at the fastenings on the mask. “—that this is a privilege, not a right, that can be revoked at any time if you choose to act out or refuse to cooperate. We’re obligated to keep you fed. The manner in which we do so, however, is at our discretion.”

Tyrian jerked back his head in a startled laugh, pulling his face out of reach. The guard scowled. “Now that you mention it, I’ve never had a feeding tube before.”

“First time for everything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” With the final strap unbuckled, the mask slid from his face. It didn’t matter that the air was stagnant, that perspiration had begun to bead above his lips. A sigh eased its way from him as Tyrian rolled the muscles in his neck, and basked in the cool impression upon his skin. “Much better.”

The guard didn’t recoil, but it was a near thing as Tyrian leaned into his space. The chains anchoring his limbs to the wall rattled with the strain. “I believe you have something for me?” he asked. An undercurrent of menace laced his voice.

Whatever the guard wanted to say he bit back, with a delightful look on his face that wavered somewhere between dislike and revulsion. Instead, he dug through the contents of the bandolier pouch slung across his chest, and removed a nondescript plastic bottle.

Tyrian frowned. “I do hope they took my nut allergy and lactose intolerance into account.” The fretting was ruined somewhat by the giggle he failed to stifle.

The guard scoffed. “I’m sure they did. Head back, asshole.”

It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever had (carrion scraped off of tarmac still held that dubious honor) though the chalky texture and diluted taste left a lot to be desired. Still, presentation mattered, and Tyrian had an audience he didn’t intend to disappoint. He made a show of tipping back his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank. Each exaggerated swallow was visibly savored. For a moment he let his features soften, his eyes close, a noise of contentment forming at the back of his throat.

“—okay, it’s empty, you can stop.”

And just like that, the bottle was yanked from his mouth.

The pair watched with varying degrees of disgust as Tyrian slowly licked his lips. “Wasn’t that refreshing?” he crooned.

The guard muttered something under his breath as he hastily reattached the mask, all while Pickerel watched. In the tense silence Tyrian found his thoughts gravitating toward his adversary. The Huntsman was a statue, his bearings carved from finely-tuned instincts and discipline rather than the traditional medium of stone or clay. It had occurred to Tyrian—in the liminal space his mind occupied, where isolation had blurred any conception of time—there was a reason why Pickerel had been contracted to assist in his capture. Over a decade of snuffing out lives, ensorcelled by the embers as he watched their fires fade. All of it, at last, come to an end.

How it gnawed at his thoughts.

“All right.” The guard stepped back. “We’re done here. C’mon.”

Pickerel moved to follow.

“Leaving so soon?” Tyrian called after them. “Stay a while, Pickerel. Let’s have a little chat.”

The guard froze. Nervously, he glanced at his escort.

Pickerel hesitated for all of a second. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Not needing to be told twice, the guard fled from the room without so much as a goodbye.

Pickerel waited until the door lock clicked into place. The Huntsman took up position by the wall across from him, making himself comfortable as he leaned against its surface. “What do you want?”

“The hospitality here is amazing. Really,” Tyrian chided, “I had hoped we could have a civil conversation. After all, this might be our last chance to do so.”

“You’re a prisoner. You’re hardly in a position to be making demands.”

“But I’m not making demands.” Tyrian leered. “I’m asking nicely.”

“Nicely.” Pickerel said the word nicely the same way he might have said mandatory employee seminar.

It was refreshing to be regarded with something other than fear or hate, even if that something was incredulity. The other man didn’t easily submit, unlike the revolving door of guards that had been paraded in and out of his cell the last few days.

Good.

Tyrian shook his head, in a futile attempt to dislodge a strand of hair in front of his eyes. Those were starting to get irksome. “Well, yes,” he answered, rather conversationally. “And I had thought you might humor me.”

If Pickerel arched his brow any higher it would be in danger of permanently disappearing into his hairline. “And why,” he asked, “would I do that?”

The muzzle obscured his grin, though Tyrian doubted the gesture was lost on his companion, by the way he shifted his weight between his legs. “Curiosity,” he breathed. “Before Mistral saw fit to ask for your help, I was little more than a ghost, creating more ghosts wherever I went. How many months did you waste chasing dead ends and following rumors before the combined might of two kingdoms finally brought me to heel?” His lip curled. “The ghost has been made corporeal, though for how long, I can’t say. Tell me, Huntsman—when do you think you’ll get this chance again?”

Already, Tyrian could see the impact his little speech had on Pickerel. He’d taken the bait, long before he’d made up his mind. His jaws parted, once, twice, before he crossed his arms and kicked his heel into the wall. “All right.” Guarded, but not hostile. “Ask your question.”

“Thank you. I do so appreciate the company." Tyrian let the words hang in the air between them, condensed like poisonous fog. “Any idea when they’ll be moving me?”

There was a beat of silence as Pickerel regarded him through half-narrowed eyes, clearly debating how confidential the intel was, and what the consequences of sharing it would be. “Two days, give or take,” he admitted. “We’re waiting for a reply from the admiral at Fort Nubuck, confirming that they sent the additional troops and supplies we asked for.”

Tyrian blinked slowly, head tipped off to the side. “Nubuck. Nubuck. Where have I heard that name before?” The chains softly clinked in time with the tap of his foot. “Ah, yes. Argus. Charming little port city up north. I hear their seafood is to die for.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s odd that Mistral would ask an Atlas military base for more resources if their intention was to simply relocate me somewhere local,” Tyrian continued. “Which means that they’re not. Remind me again, where exactly am I being transported?”

Predictably, Pickerel said nothing.

“Atlas never does things in half-measures, so I can’t imagine they’d be content with merely locking me in a dingy cell and throwing away the key. No, no. It would be an insult to both of us if they did.” A thoughtful quiet descended upon them. Eventually, he let out a knowing, self-deprecating chuckle. “Íssvangar. Good choice.”

“The most well-funded maximum-security prison on Remnant.” It was subtle. Had Tyrian been a lesser creature, he might have missed the way Pickerel straightened to better stare down his prisoner. “Equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry and over a hundred guards, each handpicked from Atlas’ military, all with unlocked Semblances. The ADX security hardware includes infrared and pneumatographic cameras, motion detectors, and reinforced blast-resistant doors capable of withstanding 4.1 gigajoules from a Dust explosion.”

“Someone did their homework,” Tyrian remarked. “Was that rehearsed, by any chance?”

Pickerel ignored him. “Even if someone hypothetically made it past all of that, it’s in the middle of an icefield, miles away from any settlement. You’d succumb to hypothermia before you reached civilization.”

“All of that just for me? I’m flattered,” he purred. “I always did enjoy a challenge.”

The Huntsman’s eyes turned flinty under the fluorescent light. “You’re not escaping, so don’t get any ideas. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t matter”—he scratched at the stubble on his chin—“seeing as your stay there might be brief. There’s talk of whether or not you’re worth the resources to keep permanently housed there. Once the Mistrali and Atlesian courts convene and finalize your conviction, well, all those felonies make a person wonder if the punishment fits the crime. Incarceration might be too light a sentence, if you ask me.” Pickerel shrugged. “I think capital punishment might’ve come up.”

Of all the reactions Pickerel might have expected, and, if Tyrian was being honest, was probably trying to provoke from him, convulsive laughter wasn’t one of them. Contrite platitudes, pleas for mercy, maybe even some manner of bargaining in exchange for his life—any of those would have fit the script. Those were perfectly reasonable reactions from any sane person.

Tyrian stopped being sane long ago.

Tears of mirth gathered in the corner of his eyes as his laughter subsided. “Oh, I wonder what it’ll be.” He giggled. “Hanging? Perhaps not, takes too long. Electrocution? Hm. Too draconian, though I wouldn’t put it past Atlas to still condone it. Lethal injection?” His speech slowed, becoming darker. “Now there’s something that would let them pass judgment without offending their morality. And I’m sure someone out there would appreciate the irony. After all, I’d know a thing or two about lethal injections.”

His tail curled against the shackles.

Shock slowly reshaped itself into an emotion resembling subdued hate. Like the silhouette of a thing viewed through frosted glass, more impression than reality. “You know.” Pickerel’s hands flexed. “I often wonder how people like you sleep at night.”

“On my left side, actually,” Tyrian said. “It makes it harder for someone to reach the heart.”

“Can’t stab what you don’t have.”

“Such hostility!” Tyrian leaned into his binds, an unseen grin spreading across his face. “And here I thought we were finally getting to know each other.”

Oh, he was good, he was very good. It didn’t cease to entertain Tyrian, watching the ebb and flow of his emotions, the onset of one obliterating the last, all while Pickerel struggled to keep his composure. How long would that last? What could he do to break it?

With agonizing slowness, the tension bled from Pickerel’s body in a long, silent exhale. “You’re delusional,” he said.

“Madness and genius often go hand-in-hand, befitting an artist such as myself. Tell me, as someone who’s been following my work, how have you enjoyed it?”

“I wonder if they’ll let Atlas’ scientists dissect your brain, if they do decide to execute you.”

“Like a bug pinned to a board?” His tail flexed.

The last of Pickerel’s indulgence was evidently spent. The Huntsman snorted as he pushed off the wall. “I have reports to finish. If you actually need something, yell for security. You’re good at that.” With that said and done, he headed for the exit.

“Will you be coming with me to Atlas?” Tyrian inquired. “After all these months dancing around each other, it would be a shame if we were to part ways now and not see this through to the end.”

He paused on the threshold. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re from Anima, are you not? You have a Mistrali accent.” Tyrian studied him. He could feel the delirious climb, the anticipation, coiling at the base of his spine. He could taste the copper again. “Have any family here? Friends?”

Pickerel glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s going to be an awfully long trip.” Malice dripped from his words. “Make sure you say something meaningful before you leave.”

What little color Pickerel had drained from his face. In the heartbeat Tyrian had to memorize his expression, the other man’s pupils dilated in undisguised fear. With considerably more haste than before, he keyed open the door to his cell.

Tyrian’s laughter echoed in the room, long after Pickerel left.

His day got off to a flying start when a squad of soldiers barged into his room.

Sleeping vertically was already hard enough without the additional racket. Blearily, Tyrian cracked open an eye at the armed assembly in front of him, trying (and failing) to suppress a yawn. “I don’t remember asking for a wake-up call.”

One of the soldiers, whose uniform sported a decal pinned above the breast pocket, addressed the group: “Prep him for transport.”

“I don’t suppose we could postpone?” The muscles in his neck protested as he lifted his head, and attempted to shake the curtain of unkept hair out of his face. “I had a rather long night planning my escape. I don’t think rescheduling would be too much to ask for.”

Either they’d been briefed on what to expect, or his reputation preceded him. Disappointingly, none of the soldiers reacted. As two of them stepped forward and began to undo the locks anchoring his chains to the wall, a third wheeled a padded hand truck forward.

“Watch the tail.” The soldier who’d spoken earlier consulted her scroll. “The medical team still hasn’t manufactured an antidote. Last thing I want is for someone to get poisoned.”

“Honestly, would it kill a person to learn the right terminology?” Tyrian affected a scandalized little noise. “Poison enters the body through touch, ingestion, or inhalation. Venom is directly injected into the bloodstream.”

It ached where the metal dug into his skin as the soldiers pulled the chains taut. A hand wrapped around the base of the telson, securing it firmly in their grasp. The unfamiliar touch upon his exoskeleton set the nerves alight.

“Won’t matter what ya call it if we decide to cut it off, half-breed,” one of the guards muttered.

“Ooh, half-breed. Like I haven’t heard that one before. If you’re going to be prejudiced, at least try to be creative.” A palm on the center of his back firmly pushed him toward the transport. He stepped back onto the platform, unresisting as the soldiers secured his restraints to the hand truck. “Let’s see, what are some of the ones I’ve heard? There’s vermin, mongrel, collier—”

“That’s enough.”

“So what does that make all of you? The animal-catchers?” Tyrian erupted into a peal of laughter that caused one of his entourage to draw back a fraction. The soldier who had made the original comment averted his gaze as Tyrian leered at him. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Scorpion got your tongue?”

The squad lapsed into an uneasy silence. It wasn’t quite the full-blown panic Tyrian had been aiming for, but it was an improvement, if nothing else. He could live with that.

“Let’s move.” At her command the soldiers flanked him, with the exception of the unlucky bastard tasked with wheeling him from behind. There was little in the way of fanfare as they traveled through empty corridors and halls, every rounded corner met with the same drab color palette and conspicuous lack of personnel. Tyrian didn’t spare much thought for his surroundings until they passed through a pair of imposing, heavily-fortified doors, and he found himself outside.

The moon glowed coldly overhead, casting a silvery sheen across the rooftop and nearby Mistrali airship. Tyrian shivered beneath its light.

“Might I ask what time it is?” There was a slight pop along the vertebra as Tyrian stretched as far as the restraints would allow.

The squad leader slanted him a look out of her periphery. “Zero three hundred hours.”

Well, that put things in an unhelpful context.

“While there’s nothing quite like a moonlit stroll,” Tyrian said, “it’s strange to be doing this so early. Or late. Depends on how you look at it. It’s all semantics, really, though I’m sure someone must appreciate the distinction.”

She said nothing.

“Oh, do I get to guess?” The hand truck rocked slightly as Tyrian gave a little bounce—well, more like an aborted hop, at any rate. It wasn’t like he had a wide range of motion to work with. “Most of the population’s asleep right now. Less people awake, less of a chance someone’ll see me, minimal risk of mass hysteria. Of course,” he mused, “the cover of darkness provides quite a few tactical advantages. Though who the advantage is meant for in this case is a bit hard to tell. I see in the dark, after all.”

He tilted his head, just enough to let the overhead glow bathe his face. He could picture the light catching on his eyes and creating the distinctive eyeshine. It was convenient for the aforementioned night vision, and for the added bonus of unnerving the racially small-minded. (It didn’t escape his notice, the scornful squint one of the soldiers directed at him.)

His lip curled beneath the mask.

“Cornetto!” She strode toward the gangway that had been erected alongside the airship. At the sound of his name, a man poked his head out of the starboard hatch. “How long until departure?”

The pilot tucked his helmet under his arm. “We’re ready to go whenever you are, ma’am.”

“Good,” she said. “I want this over and done with. You heard him, gentlemen. Get Callows onboard.”

“Wait!”

The small procession halted and turned to look at him.

Tyrian made a show of scanning the vicinity. “We can’t leave yet. We’re missing someone.” He leveled a knowing look at the woman ahead of him, all innocence and concern. “Where’s Pickerel?”

“None of your business.”

He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “That is a shame,” he sighed. And then, very softly, he giggled. “Was it something I said?”

She narrowed her eyes. With a sharp hand gesture, she signaled for her subordinates to wheel him onboard. Over the roar of the airship’s engine, Tyrian’s voice carried, in a dissonantly amicable tone: “Do you think I’ll get a window seat?”

Tyrian did not, in fact, get a window seat.

He didn’t even get a seat.

In the end, his handlers had deemed it “a waste of time” to undo his individual manacles and assorted restraints, only to then have to reconnect those directly to the hull of the ship. And so, they’d opted for the much simpler solution of leaving him on the hand truck, and attaching that to the hull instead. Cutting out a few steps, as it were. The unconcerned attitude, coupled with the surprisingly small five-person squad overseeing his transport, left Tyrian a bit insulted, frankly. It gave him the troubling impression they either overestimated their own capabilities, or underestimated his.

He preferred to think it was the former.

It could hardly be called an improvement over his previous accommodations. At least the company was a nice change, even if their only contribution to the conversation was stony silence, with the occasional for gods’ sake, shut up thrown in for good measure.

He’d worked with worse.

“It’s all in the wrist,” Tyrian was saying. He did his best to pantomime the movement around the stasis cuffs. “Once the old cuticle is ready a crack starts to form in the shell. By then it begins to dry out and expand, so it gets easier to wedge a knife underneath. The new cuticle’s particularly sensitive—learned that the hard way when I nicked myself trying to prise it off. But if you can get the blade in at just the right angle, it’s like peeling an orange. And while it helps to speed up the actual moulting process, I’m afraid I haven’t found a handy home remedy for the itching as it starts to—”

“Can’t we just push him off the ship, and say he died in a prison riot?” The soldier shot his CO a hopeful look. “It’s not like anyone’s going to care.”

“No.” She paused mid-type, and glanced up from her scroll. “Just ignore him.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me all these brave, strong soldiers are squeamish.” Tyrian laughed. “If you can’t handle a little anatomy lesson, perhaps you’re in the wrong field. Besides,” he said. “Nothing wrong with swapping beauty tips to pass the time.”

The soldier reclining against a stack of crates snorted. “Do we look like bugs to you?”

“I’ll have you know I’m an arachnid,” he retorted, in mock affront. The chains securing his tail rattled faintly. “You ought to pay attention.” His words held all the subtlety of a fireworks display, audibly aching with the desire to watch something bleed. “The difference might get you killed one day.”

There was a brief silence.

“You know”—the soldier taking a whetstone to their axe spoke up—“I think he has a point. We should put it to a vote. All in favor of executing the prisoner now, say ‘aye.’”

“For the last time,” she groused, “we are not executing him. We have orders to transport Callows and that’s it. If you wanted to kill something, you should have asked to be deployed on the assignment to hunt Grimm—”

The lights flickered as the airship shook. The squad scrambled to their feet.

“Cornetto!” She hurried toward the cockpit. “Did we hit turbulence?”

“Negative, ma’am.” He sounded bewildered. “My instruments aren’t picking up any changes in air pressure. It’s weird, though. The ship’s decelerating, almost like she’s flying into a Dust vortex.”

“Can you do something about it?”

“I can adjust our course and see if that fixes anything, but truth be told, I’m not keen on flying with unknowns. If the problem persists we might have to land and inspect for—”

A second tremor sent the ship lurching sideways. This time, it was accompanied by a roar.

“Grimm!” She unsheathed the scimitar at her waist. “Brace yourselves for a fight if they penetrate the hull. Cornetto, get the ship’s weapon systems online and—”

“What weapon systems?” Tyrian could hear the slap of a hand frantically moving across the command console. “This ship is rigged for fast transport with no heavy armaments. It doesn’t even have shielding!”

The soldier with the axe staggered into the wall beside him, knocked off balance by the ship’s epileptic tremors. “Why the hell not?” they shouted.

“Mistral Command said Grimm activity in this sector was minimal. The Atlas base denied the request for firepower because they thought we wouldn’t need it!”

A black, serrated beak punctured the ceiling.

“Does that look minimal to you?” one of the soldiers yelled.

The Nevermore withdrew its head before her scimitar could connect. “Then use evasive maneuvers,” she spat. “We need to dislodge them before they get into—”

Whatever she’d been about to say was drowned out by the sickening screech of tearing metal. They had all of a second’s warning before a large sheet was torn clean from the hull.

In hindsight, Tyrian would marvel over the serendipity of the hand truck being anchored to the wall, the only thing that stopped him from being sucked out of the aircraft cabin as it decompressed. He narrowed his eyes against the sting of debris and torrents of air rushing past him, only just able to catch sight of two soldiers plummeting into the atmosphere. The remaining three had narrowly avoided the same fate, by virtue of grabbing onto pipes winding through the wall, and in the case of one, embedding their axe into the hull.

A Griffon lofted onto the platform created by the rift.

To his surprise, the creature didn’t move to strike. Coal-red eyes swept over the group as it studied them one by one. There was an alien intelligence in the recesses of its skeletal face, unsettling in its familiarity. Even as his heart beat against his ribcage, the adrenaline raced through his veins, Tyrian felt no fear.

Perhaps it was a suicidal thought to harbor, but he felt an unrequited kinship with the Grimm. What it must feel like, to be compelled by some primordial instinct to kill. Was it the same for them? The hedonistic rush that accompanied each life he took? The hunger no bloodshed could ever sate, that he never wanted to be sated?

When people called him a monster, it was in recognition of what he did. When Grimm were called monsters, it was in recognition of what they were.

The Griffon’s four eyes lit upon him. For a moment it merely stared, its jet-black feathers ruffled by the wind.

Then it lunged.

With their axe anchoring them to the wall, the soldier didn’t have the ability to react as the Griffon bore down on them. The space inside the ruptured cabin was filled by a whirlwind of black, white, and red as more Grimm pushed their way inside. Any view Tyrian might’ve had was obstructed by the thrash of limbs. It did nothing to deafen him to the discordant song of the Grimm and their victims, whose screams had shifted from terror to pain.

So transfixed was Tyrian by the chaos, he nearly didn’t notice the Nevermore approach.

It crawled toward him on clawed wingtips and came to a standstill less than a meter away. With no Aura to protect him, no ability to move, Tyrian was defenseless. He bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, daring it to attack.

The great beast reared back and unfurled wings that bristled with serrated feathers. With a spectral cry, it flung them.

The restraints on his limbs, tail, and face, and the stasis-cuffs on his wrists, shattered.

Renewed energy surged through him. Tyrian held up a hand to inspect the abraded skin on his wrists, watching as a purple sheen rippled over the appendage and spread across his body.

His Aura had returned.

He was free.

At some point the screaming had stopped.

Tyrian turned his attention back to the Nevermore. It had yet to move away, or make an attempt to injure him. Wariness faded to confusion as he regarded the creature. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, fingertips hovering over the wicked beak.

He was close enough to touch.

That was when a sound like magnified thunder rippled through the fuselage, and the airship split in two.

The air left Tyrian’s lungs as an explosion punched him through the hull. The impact sent him spiraling away from the wreckage that had joined him in freefall. Unbidden, his eyes mapped the trajectory of his descent, seeing without comprehending as the earth grew ever closer. There was a distorted beauty to the world around him, great plumes of smoke trailing behind the debris as it fell with all the power of a meteor strike. If he hadn’t been suffocating, the sight would have left him breathless.

A shadow passed above him.

It was all the warning Tyrian had before a pair of talons wrapped around his biceps. Animal instincts screamed predator and escape and fight. His tail coiled behind him, bracing in anticipation for attack. He looked up at the Nevermore, his thoughts already pushing a thousand strategies to the forefront of his mind, looking for weaknesses to exploit, advantages to leverage.

And then he saw her.

Tyrian would never forget the way she moved, silhouetted against the shattered moon while Grimm encircled her. She lifted a hand, and the flock twisted through the sky like starlings. They were poetry in motion, like black ribbons come to life, weaving around the woman as she slowly descended toward the ground.

There was a burning sensation in the corner of his eyes that caused them to blur. Tyrian blinked, and his vision cleared.

The wind caressed his face as the Nevermore banked, its wingbeats slowing as it sailed downward. Toward her, he realized. His chest seized.

With a surprising amount of gentleness, the Nevermore lowered Tyrian to his knees and retracted its claws. It let out a soft, melancholy warble before rising back into the air.

Very slowly, Tyrian lifted his head. He wasn’t quick enough to compose himself, and failed to choke back a sob as he beheld her.

Long, black robes fluttered behind her in the grass. It created a mesmerizing contrast against the pallor of her skin, like freshly-fallen snow, untrodden and untainted by the decay of time. The woman studied him with eyes not unlike those of the Grimm, embers stoked with power that transcended those of the fell beasts gathered around them. A Griffon crept next to her, and she rested a palm atop its face, her gaze never once straying from his. Had he not already been on his knees, Tyrian would have fallen.

“What are you?”

The rasping voice pulled Tyrian from his trance.

Cornetto had survived the crash. The pilot managed to drag himself by the arms, out from underneath a section of the ship. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and when he tried to crawl forward, let out a moan. It only took a moment to see why—a bone had torn through the back of his leg.

Even as he hemorrhaged, even as his strength failed him, the pilot continued to speak, each word teetering on the cusp of incoherence, dragged from his throat like shards of glass: “What are you?”

The woman inclined her head. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The first words Tyrian heard her speak were in a language he didn’t recognize. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t comprehend them; they chimed like portentous bells, a death knell he would have understood in any tongue.

Tyrian didn’t get the chance to act on the impulse before one of the Grimm intervened. A Beowolf padded toward the broken pilot. He watched, enthralled, as the Beowolf lowered its muzzle and extended its jaws around his head. A mangled noise escaped him.

“What are you—?”

There was a sickening crunch. Tyrian didn’t look away.

It took him a moment to feel the hot streaks trailing down his cheeks. His tail kinked behind him as he gazed upon his savior, drank in her triumphant expression with a thirst he’d never known. Tears flowed freely across his skin.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

For the curiously-inclined, I thought I’d elaborate on some of my RWBY headcanons and worldbuilding.

Stasis-cuffs – Also known as pneumatostatic cuffs, or Aura-breakers. A feat of Atlesian engineering, these devices artificially inhibit a captive’s Aura, sapping them of combat strength and their ability to self-heal or use their Semblance (if unlocked). The handcuffs siphon energy from the captive, using the very thing they suppress to power their circuitry. These handcuffs aren’t made available to the public, with usage restricted to Atlesian law enforcement, military personnel, and Class-B Huntsmen.

Ske sha skele – An idiom used by speakers of Xeric Arcadian. Literally, it translates to “a cloud brings a storm.” Figuratively, it means “don’t ignore the small things before they become big things that catch you unaware.” In Vacuo, a single cloud, if not carefully monitored, can quickly become the precursor for torrential rainfall and flashfloods that are highly dangerous. Skele, originally a derivation of the plural for “clouds,” is a relexicalized word with the acquired meaning “storm” (as in, a storm is made of a bunch of clouds). Tyrian is using the idiom to taunt his captors; “You should pay attention to me, before I give you something to really worry about.”

Íssvangar – A maximum-security prison located in the desolate, frozen wastes of Solitas. Its name translates to “fields of ice” in Old Norse. Its name is a play on words that alludes to both Isengard, the fortress in The Lord of the Rings where Gandalf was held captive; and Bolvangar, the facility from His Dark Materials where children were detained and experimented on.

“Collier” as an insult – IRL a collier is a coal miner. In RWBY, a Dust miner would be the equivalent occupation. Because Dust-mining is an underregulated industry with high fatality rates, the work is often outsourced to Faunus. Over time, collier and Faunus became synonymous. When you call a Faunus a collier, you’re basically reducing their existence to a job that’s cheap, dangerous, and exploitable. You’re saying that they’re expendable and fit only to provide the resources other people benefit from. It’s the implication that a Faunus is meant to go about unseen, toiling away in Dust mines, and when those mines collapse, die in anonymity.

Dust vortex – A term that describes areas with large concentrations of naturally-occurring Dust veins, that interfere with natural phenomena. Depending on the type, the effects of these vortices vary. Gravity and Wind Dust, for example, can create localized high- and low-pressure fields that generate turbulence and storm cells. Other types, like Fire and Ice Dust, can cause disparities between the vortical and ambient temperatures that result in volatile microclimates. Examples of Dust vortices include the floating islands above Lake Matsu.

[aughraseye]

Tavronica 💞

Thanks anon! You know what I’m about! Hope that this is worth the time it took to get this posted.

It also looks like @heartxofxthra answered this meme for them so definitely check it out as well!

who gets overwhelmed by small acts of kindness?

Onica is more overwhelmed by small acts of kindness. She is used to being the more openly affectionate and demonstrative partner - at least once their relationship is firmly established. So, small acts of kindness, little gestures of love, momentary signs that Tavra was thinking about her are like weights in time anchoring her to the surety of their love. She spends so much time thinking about Tavra that these little pieces of evidence that Tavra thinks about her too make her heart swell.

Tavra is also profoundly moved by Onica’s acts of kindness but she doesn’t get struck speechless or overly sappy which does happen to Onica on occasion.

who flinches at sudden movements?

Neither often flinch at sudden movements. They both have a calm and unflappable demeanor, and it’s hard to get either of them to react. However, when Tavra is tired or particularly stressed she’s more likely to flinch or jerk at sudden movement and sounds. It’s a combination of her battle hardened instincts, a general wariness, and the exhaustion preventing her from mediating her reactions.  


who is most confused as to why their S.O. is still with them?

Both. Although their relationship is very strong and they are deeply dedicated to each other, they both realize that it is not easy, and likely will never be.

Onica is always at least a little aware that her first time ‘meeting’ Tavra was due to a premonition that she would belong to someone else. Though Tavra has only ever shown interest in Onica since meeting her, she is also a princess and has at times put her position above their relationship. While Onica understands this, a deep seated anxiety remains that one day the strain from their disparate roles and lifestyles might tear them apart. After all, while Onica is an elder and well respected in her own clan, she is still far below Tavra’s station.

For her part Tavra worries that she cannot offer Onica what she deserves. Tavra is the middle daughter, a princess yes, but that role offers no power with all the same restrictions and burdens as the heir to the All Maudra. So even though Onica is the one sailing off with the seasons, it is Tavra’s position that keeps her tethered to the shore - keeps them from fulfilling the promises made in the glowing light of the seafarer’s lantern.

And the strain of long unum apart does little to ease these anxieties. But when they do reunite the love is so present and palpable that the worries they had apart vanish once they are together. 

who has to constantly check their S.O. still loves them?

Neither and both. For the most part Tavra and Onica are both very secure in the their relationship. Yet, they are simultaneously aware of the challenges in it and often seek confirmation that things between them remain strong despite those challenges. However, instead of seeking validation from the other they both try to offer it - each going out of their way to offer unspoken reassurance that the love is as strong and steadfast as ever. Onica does this with gentle touches and quiet but clear physical affection, and Tavra does it with actions and deeds she hopes convey her devotion as well as a kiss or loving word.

who says the other/s would be better off with someone else?

Both sometimes think it but Onica is the only one who’s ever said it aloud. She worries about the danger Tavra’s is putting herself in by continuing to sneak off so they can be together. Onica would much rather know that Tavra was safe, even if it meant they couldn’t be together, even if it meant that Tavra was with someone else. When she’d said this at first Tavra had been slightly angry, but that soon faded and gave into a huff and reassuring smile as she pulled Onica close and told her that if she thought Tavra could be happy with anyone else she was crazy.

Tavra thinks this when she worries that she’s being unfair to Onica by continuing her duties as princess and paladin. She silently wonders if Onica would be happier with someone who could sail away with her when the summer comes. She never says it though, because she knows that Onica does love her and saying it would only hurt her.

who gets surprised when they are given gifts?

Both, because they don’t often exchange gifts. Tavra would have no safe and secret place to keep the things Onica might want to give her, and Tavra is terrible at picking out gifts so she just tends not to. When one of them does give the other something then it is a surprise. Usually it’s something small that can be kept on their person or something they can use together/share.

The gifts Tavra and Onica have given each other are some of their most treasured belongings, and help remind them of the love they share even when they cannot be together.

who is most likely to break down on the other and how does their S.O. attempt to calm them down?

Both. Neither of them feel safer than when they are together. In the comfort of their moments alone they can be fully themselves - open, unabashed, and vulnerable. Sometimes this means trusting that they can break down and not be judged for it.

Tavra often breaks down about her frustration with her position, her family stresses, and her pain at not being able to be with Onica as fully as she’d like. Her strong emotions come out tense and angry, often tinged with broken crying and red eyes. When this happens Onica just listens. Tavra isn’t usually the type who wants advice when upset, and needs to calm down before being able to listen to reason. So Onica lets her go on until either sadness of exhaustion do away with the anger, then she’ll hold Tavra close, squeezing her as tightly as she can, while whispering words of love and reassurance.

When Onica breaks down it doesn’t look like breaking down at first. She tends to shut down and shut Tavra out. Like Tavra she often feels alone in her problems, which include dealing with Cadia, the stress of her clan’s expectations for her and her gift, and the ongoing frustration both of them share about having to carry on in secret and often apart. While it took time for Tavra to recognize the meaning in Onica’s stiff shoulders, tight lips, and curt words, she does notice it now. Often she has to try and incite Onica to anger or provoke her in some other way. Because once the flood gates are open Onica falls into Tavra’s arms in a sloppy crying mess and they can start to make things better together.

who is most self conscious in public?

This depends where they are. Because they can’t openly spend time together in Ha’rar they both feel self conscious when in public. As a result, they generally try to avoid it and the whispers that it might cause. However, in Cera’Na they do get the luxury of Tavra being a relative stranger. This means they can be in public together, at least in small doses. Tavra is usually more self conscious here because Sifa culture is so different from what she is accustomed to. However, she can also be a little reckless when among people who can’t match her name or face to her status, so that tends to balance out.

More generally, they both have an air of self-assuredness but Tavra is more likely to show signs of discomfort or unease in new or unfamiliar settings.

who is more likely to apologize a million time for a tiny mistake?

Neither. They don’t like to spend time on needless apologies. Being apart for such long periods means they always want to make the most of the time they do have. So, wasting that time apologizing for small things doesn’t make much sense, especially when a look of gesture can convey their remorse even better.

When one of them does feel they need to offer a verbal apology it’s usually just said once, succinctly and sincerely.

who admits they’re scared only when they think their S.O. is asleep and how does the other react?

Onica. Though Tavra is not usually known for openly showing her emotions, particularly her fears or worries, Onica is a safe space for her. When they are together she feels comfortable unloading her concerns and sharing her anxieties. And broadly speaking Onica feels that she can share her thoughts and feelings with Tavra as well. Open communication is one of the things that keeps their relationship strong across long stretches of time and even longer distances.

However, Onica’s gift sometimes bestows her with cryptic visions - like omens of bad things to come. She doesn’t like to share these, and the worries they cause, until she can understand them a little better. But sometimes at night when she’s overwhelmed she’ll speak her fears aloud. Tavra, who is a light sleeper anyway, will wake and sit up. While she doesn’t fully understand soothsaying, she does her best to act as a sounding board while Onica talks through her visions and what they might mean.

And though Onica repeatedly tells Tavra she should just go back to sleep, just having her listen and offer input is a great comfort.

who never thinks they’re good enough for the other?

Neither. There are already so many things working against them that each tries not to let their own insecurities add to that. And truth be told they make each other better, stronger, braver, and brighter Both recognize that although their positions and responsibilities can strain things between them, they are more themselves when with together - Tavra’s easy confidence and Onica’s gentle self-assuredness blooming in the presence of the other.

who takes a bullet for the other

Tavra. 100% Tavra. She is the more reckless partner, the one more used to putting themselves in harms way, and the more protective one. Though Onica wouldn’t hesitate to risk her own safety on Tavra’s behalf, Tavra would never let her.

[erratiomerula]

@ncxilia said; tell us more about saleos being a demon and an absolute queen thank

unprompted || always accepting!

            Oh BOY does this give me great joy to see in my inbox. To quickly get it out of the way for those that might not know, I do have her default verse in a separate bio HERE.

            But listen. Saleos is intimidating as all hell— I'll get that out of the way now. She's a 5'9" drop dead gorgeous woman who knows she's hot and will use it to her advantage at any given chance. She's a DEMON who gets her kicks by parading around as a human, occasionally making contracts, and ( very rarely ) actually getting romantically involved with humans. She's DANGEROUS and anyone that has familiarity with that or has, for example, almost been killed, can pick up on that vibe. ( Like Lei. ) She has the capability to be extremely violent, and can literally take on hundreds of people and still come out more or less, completely unscathed. She has literally started plagues before, several times. She has eaten human flesh and has ingested human blood— toss her in a fire and her skin will melt and regenerate in cycles until the flames are gone or she exits them. She has killed CHILDREN and was far from a saint when she herself was human— may none forget that she is a M O N S T E R despite her godlike appearance, and she KNOWS it. Bullets and knives, by the way, will do very little to her in the long run. You’d have to empty an entire machine gun mag to give yourself even a few minutes, in which you’d best be using it to RUN.

            She's no mind reader, but she's been around a LONG time. She knows what fuels most people and has interacted with enough of humanity to generally be able to predict their actions or words. She knows the shady type best of all, of course. There's been countless men offering to buy her a drink only to spike it with a variety of drugs, which by the way, are as effective on her system as WATER. Saleos is the type to drain it in one go despite KNOWING it's spiked, looking the dude dead in the eye and enjoying the confusion and panic often displayed when she doesn't go down as expected. She will let someone kidnap her and strip her of her clothes just so she can see their expression when she plunges her very hand into their chest. She is SADISTIC at times, MANIPULATIVE at others, but she does have some redeeming features if you’re one of few able to actually earn a spot in her heart. She can be protective ( possessive with some ), lovable, humorous, and surprisingly reliable.

            Approaching her is actually very easy if you’ve the courage to do it in the first place —  approaching her first already garners her interest and makes her far more likely to listen to what you have to say. She’s lived for MILLENNIA and is well versed and skilled in most everything. Saleos is practically a walking history book and guide book for just about anything one could think of. Ask or say anything to her and she’s likely to have a response immediately ready. An opening line with anything NOT pertaining to her appearance is a plus for a genuine interaction, at least upon first encounters. She’s honestly very far from picky in this regard.

            A little more into the trivia section and just a FEW of the things she’s capable of;

           She marks those of interest and those close to her with her scent— something humans cannot smell, but it’s a blaring warning beacon for other demons and supernatural creatures. If able to get a true whiff of someone’s natural scent, she can also use that to track them for a day or two if needed. She can speak directly to and hear the thoughts/words of someone she is contracted with if it is permitted, and she is also capable of prodding at their memories and fears— especially with exceptionally weak willed contractors.

            Her body can consume energy from another being, similar to a SUCCUBUS ( though she is NOT one ), instead of food— she also does not REQUIRE sleep, but often indulges in it anyway. She prefers a mix of salty and sweet, as well as spicy when it comes to food. LIQUORS are generally her preferred drink, but their effects are always dulled. ( She’d literally probably half to drink half of a small liquor store to get inebriated at any real level. )

            If it was desired, she could very well pass for a MEDICAL PRACTITIONER, though this has never been something of her interest. She knows the human form in and out, literally, and is extremely knowledgeable with ( and largely immune to ) poisons.

             As I mentioned recently, she DOES have a semi-large set of black feathered wings despite being a demon— she was an ANGEL before anything else. Only in emergencies will this appear or that she use them, because they cause her INTENSE pain to do so. It is not rare for a dull ache and burning itch to crawl just under the skin of her shoulders where they sprout. In some cases, this pain is enough to practically immobilize her.

            Memories of her ‘past lives’ surface in her memory from time to time, but she does not fully remember the times before becoming a demon. Memories of those time are like foggy fragments, occasionally clearing and causing sharp pain to her head— which usually only happens when she stumbles upon something to invoke the memories to surface.

            Saleos is physically strong enough to punch her fist through a stocky, muscle bound human male. Completely, if she’s actually trying. She’s also able to use any magic except holy, aka light or white magic. Similarly, a feeling of unease settles when a person of severe faith has their attention on her. She can still enter churches and things such as crucifixes do extremely little, but having a person of such intense faith gazing at her often incites a feeling of strong rage that she can’t quite explain.

            Personal space is a term that might as well not exist to her. She’s very handsy and touchy, and has no qualms about doing embarrassing things in public. Another reason she is often mistaken for a succubus is her intense tie to the sin of LUST. God save your soul if you become her lover, particularly as a HUMAN, because she will very rarely NOT want sex. That is not to say she wants to fuck 24/7, but a serious partner is someone who has a tendency to bring out her lust even more as she combats her usual habit of sleeping with multiple people whenever the fancy hits her. She will easily become POSSESSIVE of her lover and will do her best to keep the dangerous of being her lover to a minimum. ( This mainly means keeping other demons at bay that might target her lover for simply being a potential weakness of hers. )

            Continuing from above, she is a frequent GIFTER, particularly if her partner is of the POORER variety. While she hardly ever cooks for herself, she will also cook meals and snacks she’s learned to be their favorites. Saleos is also practically INFERTILE and unable to have children unless other means, be it MAGIC or something similar, are involved. This has never been a concern of hers.

            FAVORED animals of hers are crows/ravens, wolves, BLACK cats, snakes, and owls.

            She is not an easy person to shop for when it comes to GIFTS. She can obtain anything she truly wants with her own hands, but always appreciates the gesture alone. If asked what she wants, she’ll often respond with, “Your time.” or something similar. She does, however, like jewelry— particularly black gold and uncommon gemstones.

[deathfrisbeeinthetardis]

I walk through the valley of the shadow of death

Summary

When Detective Shane Madej got the briefing, his blood ran cold. He needed to tell Goldsworth, he owed the man that much.

Notes:

So the original idea came from me wanting to read/write angry Shane because of the 'Goddamn it' he says in the Pennhurst Asylum Post mortem at 11:08, but with more you know, genuine anger. Then the whole situation came to me after reading Waiting for the Sunlight by @ebonybow (which is amazing btw, if you read my stuff you've got to check out theirs, it's about a million times better)

This fic is absolutely self-indulgence so that I don't have to write another chapter for, um, other stories that I have started, soooo, I hope ya'll like this!

Read below or find it on Ao3!

The tall man was let into Ricky's office half a minute after he approached the basement hatch concealing the entrance to Goldsworth's empire. His composure was veiled for those outside the door, but his shoulders were so stiff from the tension that he almost shook with it. Pushing back his rain-soaked hood, he scanned the simply furnished room to find the boss lounging in the armchair, a book in his hands and dressed in black as per usual.

           'Mr. Goldsworth," he said. It never hurt to start formal, they always manage to work back to their own peculiar brand of familiarity with a bit of time.

           "Detective Madej, a bit on edge, are we?" The smaller man gives him a sly smile that wasn't entirely devoid of warmth, eyes flicking up from the heavy tome to look him over. It had been a while since they last spoke face to face, out of the necessity of course. There have been… complications.

           "They know," Shane said tightly and feels a sort of grim satisfaction as Goldsworth sits up in the armchair, eyes widening slightly at the news. It was why he had rushed from the office as soon as he could sneak out of the meeting without drawing attention. If the situation wasn't dealt with, the consequences could doom them all.

           "How much do they think they have?" He sounded so damn calm.

           "They have your name, your real name, Goldsworth." Shane bit out, "You're a smart man, you know where they will go looking next."

           Goldsworth scoffed, standing in a fluid motion to walk over to the plain wooden desk, laying a hand on a faint raised line on the surface. To an outside eye, it would be just a casual stance, but Shane knew of the thin sharp dagger concealed in the unassuming wood, Goldsworth could have the blade at Shane's throat in a second, but the taller man didn't back down, gaze fixed on the downturned face of the boss.

           "And where, might I ask, did they find out that piece of information? Not many know it." Goldsworth was looking at him now, eyes sharp and piercing. Shane only met his stare with one equal in intensity.

           "It's not important. We--" he cut himself off when Goldworth's eyes glinted dangerously. Now isn't the time to argue about what they had between them, the safety of Goldsworth's people took priority. "You need to take measures to protect them, get them out of town, hell, out of the country even, with how much of the force is being put to track them down."

           "Who leads the mission."

           'I can't tell you that." Shane swallowed, determined not to look at Goldsworth's hand on the desk. He needed the man to listen to him and exhibiting fear or anxiety is not what the situation needs.

           "It's Ilnyckyj isn't it?" Shane's face must have shown enough to confirm his guess, as much as he tried to maintain his mask, and Goldsworth laughed dryly, eyes sharp under the dim light of the room, "Of course it is, only using the best to hunt the worst eh?"

           "Don't." Shane's voice was low, a little more control slipping away and a little desperation sneaking in as he walked the two strides it took to stand opposite Goldsworth at the desk. "Andrew is a good man, he's only following orders. He doesn't deserve that."

           "And my family does? You know full well what measures they take to hunt down people like me, you've led them." There was venom in every word, raining down onto Shane's battered conscience like knives. How much of what he has done in the name of the King can he really brush off with the excuse of just following orders? He didn't know anymore.

           Shane pressed his hands on the desk with as much force as he dared, not for what Ryan might do, but for fear that the walls may be listening. "God damn it, Ryan." He hissed, dropping the name down to a whisper, and Goldsworth flinched as if Shane had struck him. "This goes beyond you and me, it's not a game anymore between you and the crown. They will do anything to find you."

           "And are you going to help them?" Goldsworth's voice was steady, but there was unease in his eyes. It had taken a chance encounter, half a dozen clashes and months and months before he had dared to risk trusting a man in the crown's employ, and Shane knew the danger the situation put both of them in, knew it in the twisting knife in his heart where Sara had been.

           "I would never--how could you think that?" Disbelief coated his words, but was he really surprised? Like the man said moments ago, there were only that many people who had been given the privilege of knowing who the infamous Ricky Goldsworth really was, each tested and challenged to hell and back before they earned the boss’s trust. It was easier to suspect him than to think that any of them would betray him, Shane was right here.

But the hurt lingered just the same.

"I know how to hold my tongue too, Goldsworth." He had had to learn how.

           The hand Goldsworth had on the desk was showing white on the scarred knuckles where he had drawn out the slim blade, and fuck it, this was the last time they would likely see each other ever again, so Shane reached out and grasped Goldsworth's hand with his own. He felt the tendons jump beneath his fingers as if the man had almost flinched but contained himself at the last second.

           This sort of contact was new, sure they have done a good deal more, but that had been through the touch of fists and blades against the vulnerable parts of the body, never comforting, never casual. But the man didn't pull away, just looking down at where their hands rested on top of the desk, the tip of the blade tucked to the bare inside of Shane's wrist.

           "You need to get out too, Ryan. Please." His eyes grew damp, and it had nothing to do with the blooming pain where the sharp steel had cut into his skin. All the panic and fear after he heard his captain speak at the briefing condensing to hit him all at once, taking away his breath, and his voice shook with the effort it took to remain presentable, barely over a whisper.

           "I can't lose you too."

           There was silence, such horrible heavy silence in the room as Shane waited for a reaction, words, an explosion, a knife in his throat, anything. But the man opposite him just stood frozen in place, staring at the growing puddle of blood on the dark surface of the desk. Uncertainty was showing through on his face for the first time in the years they had known each other, worked together, saved each other's asses more than a few times. The reveal of just that bit of humanity incited a pointless hope and in Shane's heart, but he wasn't the one that mattered here.

           He would have gotten down on his knees to beg then, to beg that Ryan leave his honorable struggle, take his family and get the hell away from the poisonous reign of the king. The man had enough support and power to form his own damn kingdom. It wouldn't have been difficult, since Shane didn't have much pride left to lose, and if it meant Ryan would survive, he would gladly suffer the necessary blows to his fucking dignity.

           "Okay." The quiet word shocked Shane from his thoughts, and it took a moment before his mind registered what the man had just said, and his shock must have shown on his face, too fierce of an emotion to hide beneath the mask he wore every single second he was on duty for the king.

           "Okay," Ryan said again, finally raising his eyes to look at the taller man. His grip loosened on the knife and he twisted his hand until strong calloused fingers gripped Shane's wrist, putting pressure over the bleeding wound. "I'll go, but come with me. You can get out too."

           Now it was Shane's turn to still, the ever-present ache in his chest sharpening in a split second, the wound that never closed. "I-I can't." Tears spilled down his face to mix with the rain that had not yet dried, his words barely getting past the tightness in his throat. "Sara-"

           "Madej." Goldsworth cut him off, fingers digging into his wrist and sending a jolt of pain up Shane's arm, bringing him back to the here and now with the command in his voice. The man's eyes softened as he looked at Shane, and the taller man felt dread take hold in his mind before the man spoke.

“My men found the ashes two days ago, the seer says it's her.” A pause, “She’s gone, Shane.”

           Shane reeled, floundered, tears running dry. Sara was gone. The woman he had planned to spend his life with, then taken away by guards, the knowledge of her life within the capitol a constant harrowing on his soul. Was death really that bad, compared to being held as the counterweight for his obedience? Shane should be happy that she finally didn’t need to suffer because of him. He had done enough damage to this world.

           Distantly, he felt Goldsworth’s hand on the back of his neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads touched gently, the touch all there was to tether him to reality, he could feel the man’s breath on his face when he spoke.

           “She would have wanted you to get out. You’re a good man, you don’t deserve this.” The words shot through the grief clouding Shane’s brain, and he managed to focus on Goldsworth’s mouth, reading the words as they were uttered.

           “I’m going to need you to be brave,” Ryan said, giving Shane’s neck a light squeeze until the taller man was nodding slightly, though how much of that was a conscious decision than tremors he did not know. He tried to speak, and it took a few attempts for the broken syllables to spill out.

           “Okay.”

[knightsdeath]

[ rest ] THE INJURED SHOULDER??? HELLO???

rain falls in heavy sheets and thunder rumbles the very foundations of the building as lightning cracks against the sky / and shoots within his shoulder / and it’s less of a scream and far more of a whimper. he finds himself on edge with it, frustrated with it, infuriated by it, short-tempered as his fingers curl and uncurl : again and again ( he can move his arm he can move his fingers he can hold onto the hilt of a sword HE CAN STILL FIGHT ———— ) / a compulsion.

the training room is empty but for him / and sylvain / and the vast majority of the others avoid his frigid winds that are only amplified by the burn in his shoulder and the slight numbness in his fingers / but there’s sylvain. and for all that his temper is short and for all that he teeters on the fine edge of a knife and for all that his arm THROBS in time with the beating of his heart / he doesn’t turn him away. nor shirk his company.

repeated attempts at self-isolation have proven the charade useless.

and there are few who know him so well. in some ways he supposes that sylvain is well accustomed to the shifts in his mood and the carefully balanced avalanche within and how he / finds himself half fearful and half enraged with the very fragility of the human condition and the recollection of that day. that day. that day.

( it had happened quickly ———— a crushing blow and the swing of his blade and the fall and / sylvain finding him and his mere touch inciting all but a scream / and the loss of consciousness : being lifted into his arms. the aftermath wasn’t quite so kind / but rather tortuous. )

he swings his arm in a wide arc to release the tension in his shoulder and makes a face, turned away from sylvain’s watchful gaze, as the movement burns and his muscles spasm as if his body is trying to beg him to stop / but he can’t stop / he can’t / he can’t / but he must, at times. he must, eventually. one day. some day, lest he meet his end on the battlefield and isn’t that how he’s meant to die? isn’t it? isn’t it?

there is the awareness of his body and its limits and there is the awareness of sylvain and the weight of his gaze that settles over his shoulders. not crushing / but draping heavy over him / like a thick fur to ward off the cold. a disgustingly saccharine thought ———— as if the cold doesn’t dwell wholly and solely within the too full cavity of his chest. but : sylvain is watching him as he moves, intent on regaining his strength and then some in his left shoulder for all that it protests the movement / as if he’s slamming it against a wall again and again and ———— again.

his movements stop. he breathes, jaw setting / and sylvain moves behind him. purposefully noisy / a warning of his approach / he knows him so fucking well / and then his presence by his side. that familiarity. the person whose comfort he had craved so desperately as a child / the person who he had coveted, childish and wanting and stubborn and clinging. clinging. clinging.

( a man gazes at a child and ———— understands. in turns. )

an arm settles over his shoulders and a palm curves itself achingly gentle around the most fragile point of him / holding him / holding his heart and its throbbing pulse in his hand / thumb rubbing and it could be an ABSENT MOVEMENT but for that he knows it isn’t. but for that he knows it cannot be, not with him, not with sylvain ; and he thinks, abruptly and briefly and unwantingly, of the scores of women who he had held so close / so similarly / and felix almost wants to pull away.

he doesn’t, for all that he tenses / and sylvain senses it, looking at him sidelong and SO STUPIDLY SOFT / his eyes warm and the slope of his brows unlines and the swell of his mouth relaxed ———— looking at him hurts. of course it does. of course it does.

❝ come on, felix, ❞ cajoling as a smile appears on his face and it’s a FALSITY inasmuch as it isn’t and lightning cracks once more, casting a white light over them as sylvain massages his shoulder carefully. so carefully. ❝ it’s lunch time and i’m starving. let’s get some food. ❞

in some ways ———— to be understood so fully and unerringly is alarming / to be so seen / to be so treated, like something almost precious, in the hands of this man who has held so many hearts and discarded them in time / but this knowing is something that is a two way street. this worry and this concern and this wholehearted wish to see him well and this thing called LOVE is something that he acknowledges with only he vague notion of unease / in the face of their lives and in the face of them. there had been that stretch of time when that give and take had been lost / and he had tried to run and run and run and / run ———— but there’s something tender in its place now. tender / and agonizing.

❝ fine, ❞ clipped and half-mauled but he says it nonetheless and means it / within the rumbling walls of this training room and within the innermost self that seethes with bitterness and within the warmth of this man / this man / this man.

this man : who smiles so widely and so genuinely and felix gazes at him for a moment / before leaning into his warmth / his tireless and boundless and impossible care.

@gautres // NONSEXUAL ACTS OF DOMINANCE.

[thedefinitionofbts]

Spring: Castle above the Clouds

Part of “Tell me of an Eternity” { Autumn | Winter | Spring | Summer }

Pairings: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: Angst, Slight Fluff, Fantasy Au

Words: 5K

Description: Somewhere hidden in the sadness that blooms from cosmos flowers there is a castle built atop fluffy clouds.

Contrary to popular belief, there are actually many perks that come with memory loss, impairment, or malformation. Not the type that you develop with age, coming in the form of diseases like Alzheimer’s and dementia, but the kind that you are inexplicably born with, an innate characteristic of your mind that does not allow you to remember things past single days at a time. The instant your head hits the surface of that fluffy pillow and your eyes cast you off into the endless depths of dreamland, your memory is wiped clean, granting you freedom from the never ending sorrow of life and this complicated world, a euphoric detachment akin to ignorant bliss.

But it seems like it was just yesterday, and perhaps it actually was, that you begin to take notice of an unprecedented change in your normally empty thoughts. The blank slate that you came to know all too well is shifting in its stubbornly stagnant ways, and it does so along with the appearance of a boy who makes you begin to question the superficially simplistic realm you saw before your eyes each day. Sowing the seeds of growing knowledge in the core of your mind, ones that germinate into a place that was built in lieu of your lost memories.

Park Jimin, as he asked to be called, was a young boy who looked to be about your age if not younger. He comes to visit you each day like there was nothing else in this perplexingly complex world he’d rather do, wearing a mysteriously bright smile as he spends long afternoons telling you about a story that takes place within a castle in the sky that he describes in vividly descriptive details.

…

  “Hello, how are you doing today Miss Y/L/N?”

Standing on the cobble stone path in the progressively blossoming garden on a unnaturally warm spring day, your head whips around at the sound of your own name coming from a stranger, yet his voice surprisingly does not come off alarming to you in the least.

“H-hi, I’m fine. Thank you, and you are?” You look at him questioningly, observing the tranquility of his smooth skin, pale and translucent, and his fluffy hair, moderately tousling in the zephyr.  

His eyes curve into crescent moons as he takes a seat on the moss-covered bench in front of you. “Jimin. Park Jimin.” The name that escapes his full lips is, unusually poise, precise, and almost practiced in a way that tells you this is not the first time he’s answered such a question. His gentle features incite a tug in your chest; a fluttering of your heart that you can neither pinpoint the source of nor the cause of.

“J-Jimin?” You mouth the syllables almost inaudibly, wondering why this feeling of familiarity felt so paradoxically foreign.

“I see you like gardens.” He comments, smile not fading in the least as he looks around at the pots of various flowers and ivy covered fences. The thick shrubbery is green and messy, tangled intricately amongst the flourishing vegetation and artificial decorations.

“I do?” The phrase comes out in a question as your eyes continue to stare at him. You didn’t know if you did, you had just walked outside because the weather looked nice, and the house was getting to be a bit too stuffy.

He giggles. “Well, you can’t not like them since you’re here right?”

“I guess not…” You trail off, turning your attention back to the pail of water you were using to shower the plants.

“You know what this garden reminds me of?”

You turn to him with a slight frown on your face, wondering why he was being so talkative when all you wanted to do was finish watering the plants, but you are in no way annoyed at him, just frustrated for some unknown reason. It was like something was missing but you didn’t know what or where to find it.

“It reminds me of the garden back home.”

“Home?”

“Somewhere up there.” He points towards the sky, and your gaze travels to the vast expanse his finger was aimed at. A nimbus cloud sails across the cerulean expanse, tall and three dimensional, so large that it almost looks as if it wouldn’t fit on the flat canvas that is the sky.

“There are gardens up there?” You question, raising an eyebrow and batting your lashes in doubt.

He nods, flashing you another mysterious smile.

   “Good afternoon Princess Y/N!”

The shouting of a voice outside startles you, it wasn’t every day that you received visitors, in fact such a rare occurrence has never happened before.

A prisoner of the palace. That’s what they called you, and that’s what you were known as to all those residing below. A princess who is forced to remain in perpetual loneliness up on the highest mountain in the land, cursed to remain there for the rest of her life.

You hop up from your rundown mattress, back leaving the squeaky oak head panel of your bed, and rush to the closed window with a feeling of unease churning in the pit of your stomach. The grounds below the quarantined castle were forbidden, and this was the first time anyone had dared to venture this far. You wonder why and what they wanted from you.

Pulling the curtains open, you are initially met with diaphanous sheets of gold, raining down from the atmosphere above, the veil of misty clouds twisting and coiling around the mountain range below. A beautiful sight that you seldom had the desire to gaze at because it would too often incite a strange feeling of yearning that you would rather try and avoid.

Squinting your eyes you can see the figure of a young boy waving at you from the bottom. Dressed in plain clothing, with no possessions attached to his body. Who could it be? And why was he here?    

The questions continue to twirl in the front of your mind as you run across the corridor, speed of your steps hindered by nothing but the tulle of your pale pink dress. You hop down the steps and reach the foot of the front door in a matter of seconds. Hesitating one final time before pushing them open, you’re hit with the fear that it was a mistake to let this stranger- who was clearly unaware of the misfortune he would soon be the central cause of- into the castle.  

Pulling the door open a tiny crack, you are met with a dazzlingly smile and a pair of crescent shaped eyes to match. Your mouth hangs for an infinitesimal second, soaking in the feeling of meeting another person for the very first time in your life, and not just anyone, but someone who seemed so authentically happy to see you.  

“Hello. And who, may I ask, are you?” You manage to inquire, balling your hand in nervous fists.

“I’m Jimin. Park Jimin.” He grins, as if just by knowing his name you would know the reason he came up to a place no one dared to tread. “I’ve come from the village below.” He explains in a cheerful manner, smile stretching wider than you thought was possible.

After the doubtful look continues to remain steady on your confused face, he speaks again. “I-I was wondering if you…um… wanted to come down and play.” His offer sounded ridiculous, and you begin to wonder if this is some trap set up by the villagers who knew your loneliness in exchange for their own prosperity was an agreement that had been settled upon your birth when your ruling family was dethroned. Had they changed their mind and decided to just hang you instead?

“Play?” You raise an eyebrow before scoffing. “I do not wish to ever go down there and mingle with those peasants who despise me so much.”

His smile falters momentarily, but the sparkle in his eyes remains strong. “Then can I come in?”

Your mouth drops in disbelief, stunned by his forwardness and oblivious nature. Was he unaware of what those kind of actions would entail? You mull over his bold suggestion, wondering how a mere boy could have the audacity to not only come up the steep mountain but also ask to step foot into forbidden territory-to risk everything this unforgiving society was built on.

“You?”

He nods.

“Fine” You reply, finally swinging the door open, causing a long drawn out creak to echo through the chamber. It honestly didn’t matter to you, if anything it’s the fault of the villagers for allowing this kid to run up here at will.  

Jimin steps in, eyes wide as they soaked in the dark and empty room. “This isn’t all that scary.” He murmurs as he walks through the entrance cautiously. “It’s nothing like the way they describe it.” He exclaims in the most awestruck manner as he continues to walk around, examining the ancient furniture from the old palace your family had resided in before your father’s army lost the decisive war that had started before your birth.

“Obviously.” You roll your eyes. “No one else has been here. How would they know?”

Jimin turns to you. “It must be lonely though.” He murmurs, causing you to swallow your pre planned response and do nothing but stare at him, words never quite making it out of your throat.     

“But now you have me.” He grins before walking to explore more of the castle.  

“I never agreed to that!” You shoot back quickly, heartbeat gaining speed as you chase after him. Does he really not know how dangerous this is?

He stops in his tracks, causing your body to almost collide with his.

“Would you rather me leave and never come back?” He questions blatantly, turning to face you once again.

You swallow, feeling the unsettling thought of being left alone for another eternity creep up your spine. “N-no” You stammer nervously.

“No as in, you want me to leave or no as in you don’t?”

You open and close your mouth, stumbling over the words threatening to escape your lips. “I-I don’t want you to leave” You stutter, averting your eyes so he can’t see how embarrassed you were to admit the fact you were reluctant to state explicitly, but the heated blush tattooed on your cheeks makes him laugh.  

    You wake up to the rain pounding on your window, water droplets sliding down the glassy panes in trails of mismatched stripes. Remaining tucked in the safety of your bed; you don’t feel like getting up, at least not today.

“May I go inside?” You hear a hushed voice murmur across the door of your bedroom.

“Miss Y/L/N might still be sleeping, but you can check if she’s awake.” You hear another older lady reply to the first question, before the sound of footsteps growing more distant tells you she has probably walked off.

A few seconds later the door creaks open, and you stare at the person entering, his light hair bouncing against his forehead as he makes his way to the side of your bed.

“Ms. Y/L/N” He greets with smiling eyes.

“H-hi?” You voice, uncertain of how to react to the stranger placing himself so close to you.

“It’s me, Ji-” He begins to say, before you cut him off.

“Wait, I think I know” You interrupt him before he is able to answer. A shivering pulse crawls down your back, spreading to the tips of your limbs and leaving a lingering feeling of excitement coating your lips. “You’re Jimin. Park Jimin.” You voice, confidently for seemingly the first time in your life.

It’s fascinating, the range of emotions interlaced in his eyes at the sign of you recognizing his face, and he smiles with a grin that stretches from ear to ear moments later, delightfully nodding in confirmation.

“Are you here to tell me more about the Princess and her new friend?” You query, somehow recalling an unfinished story that had persisted from your dream or somewhere you didn’t know. The question had just slipped out, naturally, like you had no control over it and you ponder if this Jimin guy was going to think it sounded as nonsensical as it did to you.

But he flashes you a knowing smile instead, nodding in response. “Yes, I’m here to continue the story.”

    Waking up to the presence of someone else is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before in your solitary life. The room that was once empty feels like it is now filled to the brim, even though there’s only been the addition of one extra person. It’s like being gifted both the sun and the moon when you were only expecting darkness.

Park Jimin. Your lips mouth the words that do not need to be said out loud for the most alleviating of smiles to spread across your cheeks.

The converging of your foggy mind shifts your attention to the figure curled up next to you. You roll over to your side, gazing at how peaceful he looks when he’s still fast asleep, messy bangs lazily covering his tender forehead. It’s more than enough for your senses to handle as the sudden sensation of your heart feeling like it’s about to burst comes just as frighteningly foreign as it is warmly comforting.

You hear him letting out a long exhale as he slowly stretches his arms, eyes fluttering open halfway, looking around the room in a daze before landing on you.

A smile creeps onto his lips. “Morning” He murmurs, low and huskily, a sound that rings like music to your ears. You allow your pupils to trace the details of his appearance, the gentle batter of his eye lashes, the smooth curvature of his nose, his succulent pink lips, down the tender slope of his neck and to the calm rise and fall of his chest. His presence is as familiar as it is foreign; comparable to a strange yet satisfying sensation of filling something that was once void, but it is also something that does not come without the regret of loss-the sting of something left incomplete.  

If Park Jimin has a home down in the village, he must be choosing not to go back because he’s already stayed for several consecutive nights without even bringing up the notion that he had another life to tend to and people who would worry about where he had gone. And although you’d be lying if you said you never thought it was unnervingly bizarre, you don’t question it because you wanted nothing but for him to stay.

For the most part, he never leaves your side other than when he occasionally goes to gather food from the surrounding forest atop the mountain.

“I don’t eat food from outside the garden” You state, looking at the basket of berries Jimin had just brought back from the forest.

“You will from now on” He replies with a buoyant smile. You flash him another hesitant look, eyes darting from the vibrant berries and back to his beaming face.

Trying new things. That’s what Jimin seemed to call everything that you told him you either didn’t do, hadn’t done before, or weren’t sure if you wanted to do it. He was never pushy about making you do anything and would always patiently wait for you to get over your initial hesitation on your own will. You assume he was just an extremely considerate person, but you have a hard time ignoring the mysterious twinkle in his eyes that seemed to hint he knew something you didn’t. There was always a look on his face that he knew you would say yes, that he knew what answer you would give before you actually gave it. And although you don’t find it alarming, you almost suspect he has the ability to read minds or something because it was too peculiar, like he had already lived the same exact day or convinced you to do it before. ��

“Where are we going?” You ask as you trail behind Jimin, the two of you were descending from the mountain together for the first time, and although you were not allowed to leave the castle, Jimin convinces you to ignore the rules bestowed upon you because he was there to protect you, and that is all that mattered.  

“I know you’re not allowed to go down there, but no one will ever have to find out and we could bring some souvenirs to decorate the castle.” He suggests.

“Souvenirs. From down there?” You flash him a skeptical look, one that is laced with a note of disgust.

“Trust me, ok?”

You glance at him dubiously once more, the look you always gave him when he suggests anything that has you stepping out of your comfort zone. But the way his pupils convey the clearest of certainties, the purest of promises, makes you give in to his hopeful plead.

Jimin takes you down to the countryside; to gather what he calls “seeds”, and not it’s not a code name for something weird or perverted. They are actually seeds, seeds of cosmos flowers specifically.

“Flowers?” You look at the tiny grains of the pebble-like particles cupped in his petite hands, skeptical of the beauty Jimin claims will burst from them once they are brought back to the castle.

“They’re going to be really pretty” He singsongs merrily, tucking the seedlings into the crevice of his pocket.

“But what’s the point?” You query, hoping your question doesn’t offend him or make it seem like you weren’t appreciating his effort.

“You’ll see” He winks.

Planting the seeds is a more arduous process that you had expected. You had mistakenly thought that throwing them on the ground was all that was needed, but Jimin shows you it’s not that simple. He digs a small hole for each seed in the loose soil, gently placing it into the concavity, and fills it back up with the nutrients it needs to grow.

“And you have to gather water from the lake at the base of the mountain each day because they’ll get thirsty.”

“Flowers will get thirsty?”

He nods. “Just like you” He jokes playfully, causing your bottom lip to protrude in protest.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this garden together. And you’ll see that it was all worth it in the end.” He reassures.

And surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, he’s right because after an entire spring of hiking up and down the mountain to fetch water, the sprouts of small green stems poke their way through the dark soil, seeing the ethereal light of the sun for the first time in their fleeting lives. And when leaves on the trees up in the mountains turn green and dense, and the flora begins to fill the barren lands, the flowers you had planted with Jimin finally bloom in bursts of pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, and the purest forms of white.

“Wow” Your eyes widen at the garden behind the castle.

It was like seeing a world that used to drown in pouring rain and swirling snow come to life. That which had been held captive in the storm’s relentless path, lost in dimensions of isolation, is now blossoming with cosmos flowers scattered throughout every inch of the boundless field that was once empty.

“The blooming of one’s deepest feelings of love, whispering meanings like walk with me hand in hand and never let go.” Jimin whispers, eyes still fixated on your overjoyed reaction to the fruit of your own labor and the message he had wanted to convey to you for a long time coming.  

    “They’re falling in love,” You gasp in excitement.

“Yup” Jimin confirms. “How can they not when all they have is each other?”

“Well, love doesn’t just blossom between any two people” You defend. “It’s rare, even if they are the last people on earth.”

“True” Jimin returns in agreement, knowing that fate is as hard to decide as it is to change, in other words, impossible. “But once you fall, there’s no turning back.”

You smile at the thought, wondering if the princess and her friend will have a happy ending.

    “It’s a telescope,” Jimin explains. “We use it for stargazing.”

“Looking at stars?” You inquire, examining the oddly shaped contraption.

“You live at the highest point on this planet and you’ve never gone out to view the stars at night?” His lips are still parted at your revelation. “Well you’re in for a treat tonight.”

He tucks a strand of your hair back into the hood of the dilapidated brown robe you were clade in before flashing you another one of his crescent framed smiles. Although no one in the village was supposed to know what you looked like, Jimin thought it was better to be safe than sorry, so he suggested you lay low and what better way to do that than dress you up like an old lady with a walking stick?

“Wait here” He says, before walking over to bargain with the shopkeeper and although he’s unsuccessful with getting a better deal, Jimin purchases it anyways. 

“So we can’t see stars without this?” You question, still eyeing the old tube-like object with rusty gears and curved glass platelets.

“No, you can.” Jimin replies nonchalantly. “It’s just makes them easier to see.”

Perched on the flat roof of the tallest tower of the castle, you inch yourself closer to the boy. Head tilt towards the vastness of the obscure expanse, memorized by the tiny diamonds that were scattered in disordered patterns. The endless nature of a sight so daunting would almost be frightening had Jimin not been sitting next to you. The occasional stir of his body and songs of his voice soothes the rapid beating of your heart.

“It makes me feel so lost.” You whisper, hugging yourself as the chilly air slipped beneath your hair, sending shivers down your neck.

“Me too” He responds, releasing a long exhale.

“But you know everything. You’d never get lost.” You blurt out, before realizing that he probably just said that for the purpose of comforting you. He doesn’t actually feel lost; he was always the one guiding you so how could he? He was Park Jimin after all.

Jimin chuckles, taking off his jacket to place over your exposed shoulders. The heat from his body that still lingered in the article of clothing is transferred directly onto you, making you feel so, so warm. And it smelled just like him, just like home.

“I don’t know everything.” He sighs, head still tilted up as his eye being twinkling again under the starlight. “But luckily there are some things I’m certain of.”

“Like what?”

“Like the stars”

You pause for a moment, taking in the sparkling light that is being emitted from the energy of gaseous reactions billions of miles away. They seem so small from the reference point you are situated at, but without them the nocturnal scenery would truly lose its only source of comfort.

“Thank goodness there are stars” You exclaim, thinking of how much scarier the night would be if the sky were perpetually pitch black, void of all brightness and energy.

 “They’ll never change.” Jimin murmurs into the crevice of your ear, intertwining his fingers with your own. “Their light is eternal.”

 …

 “What do stars look like from the sky?”

 “They shine even brighter above the clouds.”

 …

 You’ve come to think of it as something that makes knowing if what you’re seeing is a dream or reality insignificant, unimportant in the greater picture of things because as long as he was with you, nothing else mattered.

Your days with Jimin begin to feel like they are all blurring together, losing track of a time was never something that crossed your mind as concerning. Time wasn’t important because you had nowhere to go, no schedule to follow, and no deadlines to meet.

On some days you have trouble recalling how long he’s actually been with you. Was he always here? Or did he arrive yesterday? Where is he now? Did he leave already?

“Jimin! Jimin!” You wake up one night twisting under your covers, shaking frantically in your bed as you open your eyes only to be met with a darkness that is eerily quiet, chillingly empty. “Jimin, where are you?” You shout, trembling as the panic of realization ensues.

The person next to you stirs. “Y/N?” He murmurs. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, Jimin” You exhale in relief as you feel his movement ripple along the mattress. “I thought you left.” You voice hollowly, blinking a couple of times to allow your vision to adjust to the darkness.

“You must’ve had a bad dream.” He rubs your shaking arms. “I’m not going anywhere.” The moonlight filtering through the blinds is just bright enough to allow you to see a faint smile form on his face, the way his soft lips curve upward as he scoots closer to you.

“B-but, w-what if I can’t find you?” You whisper unsteadily. The surging heat of tears was building up behind your eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one of the things you don’t think has happened before, a pain in your chest that feels stuffy and inconsolable.  

“I’m here. I always will be.” He pulls you in tighter, as if he was attempting to squeeze out the stubborn pain in your chest, the aching throb you wished would go away.

What was it? Why won’t it go away?

You squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face into Jimin’s sturdy chest, wanting nothing more than to just stay there until the world was drowned out completely, until there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, lulling you in serene waves of ocean tides.

“I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of being alone.” The tears are streaming down from your eyes as you grip helplessly onto the male lying next to you, his arms securing you in his steadfast hold. They were words that you only ever said to yourself, thousands of times but never had the courage to voice to someone else.

“It’s ok, I’ll never leave you. I promise.” Jimin murmurs again, reassuring you with the rhythm of his gentle voice. He shifts to cup your tear-streaked face with his soft hands, kissing your forehead with his tender, plump lips.

His eyes are fixated on yours like the way sunflowers will always turn towards the sun, like the moon will always orbit around the earth, and the way the spring will always come no matter how harsh or long the seemingly endless winter is.

 “I’ll never let go of us.”

    “That’s it?” You blink your eyes in utter confusion. “That’s the end of the story?”

You were sitting back in the garden; the flowers displayed in full bloom as the spring rains have brought out the life in them.

Jimin chuckles, reaching over and cupping your hands in between his, his touch although placid speaks volumes of emotions you cannot pinpoint, an endless series of stories that are tucked beneath his bottomless gaze.

“I think you already know what happens in the actual ending.”

You shake your head, wondering why he thinks you would remember the ending of a story you’ve never even heard. It felt ridiculous, and you think he’s being unreasonable for leaving you hanging like this for no apparent reason.

“I’m only ending it here because this is the last time I’ll be able to tell you of an eternity, and I believe you can remember it from here.”

And that’s when it hits you, like a downpour of cool liquid as you stand beneath a raging waterfall, like the violent crashing of ocean waves against rocky shores. It’s that moment of crystal clear consciousness, the unhindered perception of reality that your brain has veiled under the guise of memory loss. It’s the second your distorted view of the world dissipates, fading in fuzzy specks of contrasting light.

“I’ve been telling you stories for many years now. I would continue. Oh, how I wish I could, but the doctors say my days are limited.”

And that’s when you see Jimin’s true appearance, the slow warping of his youthful face into the aged man that he now was, his gray hair soft and fluffy like that of the clouds in his story, skin wrinkled at the edges and cheeks freckle scattered. It was like putting on a pair of newly prescribed glasses and seeing the world as it actually was, breathtakingly beautiful and reassuringly real, albeit subject to the ruthless flow of time.

Still his heart has never changed.

It has always been connected to yours.   

 …

 “Jimin, please don’t leave me.”

 “Don’t worry, I’ll always be by your side.”

...

  A castle in the sky is said to be one of the loneliest places to exist, an isolated structure that is breathtakingly ethereal yet with an ominously solitary aura that hangs in midair, warning those around to steer clear of its forbidden walls. Only viewing the world high above the fluffy clouds it sits atop of, the castle is just like the you who had no memories and were lost and alone in the inescapable void. But somehow you are able to retain recollections of a little boy who came to fill that void, a boy called Park Jimin who gifted you stories to fill that empty castle, decorating it up until you are old and gazing at the endless landscape with nostalgically painted impressions of things that once were.

Because of him you actually have a life to look back on, even when he’s a part of it no longer.

He built you a world that only existed in your mind, and perhaps that is precisely what memories are anyways.

...

[sgreffenius]

There's one thing I've learned in my years here. Once you change the rules and surrender the Senate's institutional power, you never get it back.

Senator Joe Biden in 2005, arguing on the Senate floor against doing away with the filibuster.

The same general argument applies when you surrender any longstanding protection, or right, or power. You never get it back. It goes for every limitation on government power stated in the Bill of Rights. Every explicit constraint on governmental authority translates directly into a guarantee of freedom for citizens, and what is freedom if not power to do something?

Yet we submit to limitations or qualifications of these rights for the sake of safety. For example, you cannot strap on your Glock and take it down to your local supermarket for your Saturday shopping trip, because that makes people nervous. People remember what happened to Gabrielle Giffords in Tuscon ten years ago. Local authorities in Arizona, and many other states do not permit you to carry a handgun wherever you might want to take one.

To date, we have not qualified the right of free speech for the sake of safety, except to say you cannot threaten a person with violence. You cannot challenge someone to a duel, for example, as the threat of violence in that challenge is clear.

For a number of reasons - we need not summarize them now - the requirements of safety have expanded during the twenty-first century. That means the kinds of statements deemed to be threats have expanded as well. That’s not quite correct, actually. We have worried about lies, fighting words, incitement, aggression, destructive rumors and the like for a long time. Yet we deal with these worries differently now.

New is our readiness to turn to government authority to prohibit these types of speech. Or our readiness to have non-government censors control what people can say. We have even seemed to accept online mobs as agents of constraint. When you declare someone who engages in a certain type of speech an enemy, limits on what you can do to that person fall away. You can ride that person out of town on a rail.

Mobs used to do all kinds of terrible things to people. Now you can join a mob and know one knows it, unless you take a selfie on the Capitol grounds, to show you and your buddies waving an American flag. With perceived dangers everywhere, we inflict a terrible sense of unease on ourselves. We need not accept anxiety and fear as our default states of mind. The world is dangerous only insofar as you believe it is so.

Specific situations might be dangerous, but the world in general is not. If you convince yourself you are in danger, you begin to act in ways that increase your own vulnerability. Once I kicked a can of gasoline because I feared it would cause a large conflagration, and nearly caused a large conflagration. Providence saved me from my fear and foolishness. I felt lucky at the time.

You can say the same for our political rights. We may be ready to turn them over to others out of fear that if we do not, we will become victims. As fears multiply, so do measures we take to remedy them, even if these measures are irreversible. Not so long ago, we had this tremendous freedom to travel, unimpeded. Not so long ago, we could express ourselves without fear of retaliation. Fears lead us to forsake these freedoms. Once relinquished, no one cares to give them back.

[terrorhqs]

                                                      ON THIN ICE.

We come to you with a new round of CHOOSE YOUR ADVENTURE !! Things are coming to a head onboard the Promethean, and a decision must be reached. As always, you are welcome to set threads during this setting, as well as plot off-dash with the other members what might have happened. These tasks are optional, though highly encouraged, and responses can be as short as you want. Feel free to illustrate the choice your character makes via a self-para, new connection, graphic, or anything that fits your muse! Once again we would like to emphasize that choices in these particular batches will have a direct impact on both your character's individual development and, in some cases, the progression of the plot overall.

BATCH 004: THE CRUX.

THE LOVER

You are alone in the cabin you share with the Commander, the same night the Boatswain’s corpse is carried aboard. You are playing with a compass, absent minded enough, when suddenly you sense a shift in the atmosphere. No, you see it: the darkness warps, and your shadow doubles, grows distorted. In your hand, the compass’ axis does an 180 turn south, then it begins to move back and forth incessantly. Do you turn around and see what caused this trick of the light, or do you run outside, above deck, and cause a commotion? 

THE CHRONICLER 

You have taken to spending early mornings on the deck, alone save for the sailors changing watch duty. On the morning after the Boatswain is brought back, you notice a change - but not in the guards. It’s in the sea below your feet. You hear it thrum in your ribcage, angry and dark, as if it was awakened by the patrol’s intrusion. Its insistence to remain. Do you bother explaining this to anyone else aboard, and risk having to justify your impression? Or do you wait until you have further grounds to claim this place wants you gone?

THE NOBLE

After the boatswain’s corpse is hoisted up, the men retreat with it swiftly. They place it in the engine room, awaiting the Captain’s inspection. The area is way below the furthest point you’ve ever ventured on the ship. However, that’s nothing to the gnawing curiosity that pulls at you: how someone looks in death. Do you sneak below, trying to catch a glimpse of this unspoken horror? Or do you try to bribe someone into telling you the most gruesome, choice details?

THE SONGBIRD

THE LOVER has been requesting your company more, especially in light of the sudden cloud of fear that has shrouded the Promethean - this does not go unnoticed by the crew, hawk eyes watching as the two of you share your quiet nights. One member confronts you one day, demanding to know what secrets she must have divulged to you in your private moments. Do you tell him she is merely seeking your company to keep the loneliness at bay or do you make up some frivolous excuse of the two of you only discussing some London trend?  

THE STOWAWAY

The runes on the Clairvoyant’s arms can no longer be concealed. Soon, people flock to you to ask for your expertise. As fate would have it, the word is one of the few you bothered to learn - in case you would ever stand accused of it. Liar, over and over again on the pale skin, fraud. Do you tell the truth, and incite to even more fear? Or do you claim it’s unclear, and lose even the little standing you have as a translator? 

THE THESPIAN

There is no ambiguity on your position - you do not think the voyage should continue when a threat lurks out in the white, growing hungrier with each day. You’ve heard word that The Commander has advised The Captain to continue on with the expedition, and there are those onboard who agree that the trip should not cow to tales of ghosts. You cannot change your story, but you can sully the Commander’s credibility, conjuring rumors and falsities out of thin air. Do you dare?

THE SOCIALITE

While on a harmless trip to the Sick Bay, you notice the Agathe thespian slumped on a bed, bottle in hand. You’ve seen enough of the opaque liquid to know what it signals: laudanum. What’s more, you know the Intrepid, and several other guests of your caliber, were already questioning the viability of the rescue’s testimony. Do you tell someone what you saw, and undermine the survivor’s whole account? Or do you keep silent, in hopes of extracting a favor from them?

THE SCARLET

You see the Volcanic bent over something that suspiciously resembles a gun. While your group of survivors was not explicitly told not to carry weapons, the Captain was very clear when he asked you to turn in your rifles, hunting knives, and even petticoat daggers the moment you climbed aboard. Such a discovery could jeopardize even the flimsy trust the Prometheans have. However, you’re not sure the gun is even his. Do you communicate your fears to the Volcanic and risk their ire, or do you tell the Cassandra instead?

THE MARAUDER 

Two days after the boatswain’s body is brought back, the spirits reach a boiling point. You’re in the kitchen, working together with the Amulet, when someone starts pointing fingers, spewing nonsense, calling others to join. The tell-tale signs of a riot. They’ll be the death of us, these foreigners, they shout over the clamour. Do you take quick action and lock up the first troublemaker, thus risking the Captain’s attention? Or do you pour them more ale and try to reason with them?

THE RAVEN

It is curved, serrated on one side like a knife - the tooth is the length of a finger and red-stained, almost black in the dim light of the corner of the ship that you found it in. You can only imagine what a full mouth of it would look like, and you know it would no longer be an animal - but a monster instead. You remember Jonathan’s undetermined autopsy of the boatswain, and you wonder if this is a puzzle piece to the poor man’s end. Do you share your thoughts and findings with THE DOCTOR or do you throw the tooth overboard? 

THE CAPTAIN

The unease is almost palpable now, settling on your skin and keeping you from sleeping. Thoughts turn into glances into whispers and you know what comes next - there are even a bold few who do not bother to hold their silence when speaking against the survivors, when speaking about you. The cold only makes those onboard more bitter, and the mounting tensions can only last so long before something irreparable breaks before you. You have the choice: turn the ship back or continue pushing through?