#carmine the bloodshed

[lady-of-the-spirit]

consider: Accidental Antichrist AU it’s the first school field trip and they got roped into chaperoning like 20 rowdy 7 year olds

“Can you come?” Adam asked, his eyes big and pleading as he looked up at his four guardians over the top of the letter he was holding up for them to look at.

The letter in question being a polite request for parents to come and chaperone Adam’s class’s field trip. On the surface it was perfectly normal, but Famine could read between the lines and see that it was a very firm reminder that all parents and guardians were all but required to chaperone at least one field trip.

“Where’s the trip to?” Pollution took the letter and scanned it.

“The petting zoo!” Adam said excitedly. “And you all love animals, even Uncle Gwyn even though he can’t come! It’ll be fun!”

For a moment all of them wondered if they should tell Adam the reason they all loved animals was because of the diseases born from livestock (Pestilence), the bloodshed of the animal kingdom (War), and the damage to the ecosystem caused by certain animal farming practices (Pollution). Famine didn’t like animals. Death loved animals in the same way they loved all living things - while they had a fondness for a select few, the rest were viewed neutrally and with Death knowing full well all of them would come to their kingdom someday.

In the end none of them said a word but agreed it would be one of those things to bring up later. They couldn’t have the antichrist being too fond of living things, after all.

“I can do it,” Pollution said. Already they could picture the chaos wreaked on the small zoo, each child coming back covered in muck at the end of the day, a few wrappers casually falling from their pockets across the whole zoo.

“Yay!” Adam darted forward and threw his arms around his guardian’s legs. “Thank you, Chalky!”

Pollution smiled and ran their fingers through Adam’s hair, tussling it and getting only a little bit of grease in it.

NOT ALONE, Death said immediately. I WILL ALSO COME.

Adam’s eyes practically sparkled. “Really?” Azrael almost never came to school events - they always scared everyone. Adam didn’t get it. What was so creepy about a black robe and booming voice?

I THINK A PETTING ZOO WOULD BE DELIGHTFUL, Death said. WILL THERE BE GOATS?

“I think so!”

WONDERFUL.

War and Famine exchanged looks. No way they could let those two go off on and interact with the public on their own. Individually they were fine, but together their unsettling energies were too much to be brushed off.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Famine said. War nodded in agreement.

Adam stuck his lower lip out.

“But you love animals,” Adam said. “Uncle Gwyn said so. And you never come on field trips.”

“People don’t like us coming on field trips,” War said. “Remember that time last year, when I went with all you first-graders to go ice-skating?” The kids had had a great time, but all of the other chaperones and the teachers had broken into a brawl on the ice not unlike one from a hockey match, and in the aftermath, once everyone had been pulled apart and the blood mopped up from the ice and all teeth were collected, everyone agreed that somehow, Carmine Zuigiber was to blame for everything. The only reason she had not been permanently banned from chaperoning future trips was because of her and Famine’s power within the PTA.

“But that wasn’t your fault!” Adam protested. “They never proved anything, that’s what’s important, you told me that! And Mark’s mom only had an eyepatch for a week!”

Adam’s lower lip stuck out further and his eyes somehow got bigger.

War held out for ten whole seconds. “Alright, kiddo, I’ll come.”

Adam brightened almost immediately. He turned to Famine. Famine who, with not only his kid looking at him so hopefully but his three siblings all staring at him expectantly, had no hope of holding his own against them.

He hated animals and zoos were disgusting, but...

“What day is it? I’ll clear my schedule.”

Adam cheered and almost barrelled Famine over with an attack-hug to his legs. Famine anticipated the attack and dropped to his knees to catch Adam in his own hug. He squeezed the little boy tight, even tighter when Adam pressed a big "thank you" kiss to Famine’s cheek.

“It’s two weeks from Friday,” Adam said, sounding like he was reciting his teacher’s instructions. “You all have to sign the sheet Mrs. Smith handed out and I have to bring it back to her tomorrow. Then she’ll email you all the instructions. And you have to read them so no one gets hurt and if someone gets hurt you know what to do. And-!”

WE CAN HANDLE IT, Death interrupted gently. WE WILL ALL SIGN THE FORM NOW AND YOU CAN GO PUT IT IN YOUR BACKPACK SO YOU WON’T FORGET.

One by one they all signed the form - Pollution even made an effort to not break the pen and leak ink all over the page, but they still signed last and the ink still dripped more than it should have. Adam ran upstairs to stow it in his backpack, as instructed.

“What the fuck did we just sign up for?” War muttered.

“A day of wrangling a bunch of other rowdy seven-year-olds,” Famine said. “So an average day, but times that by about twenty, in a setting ripe for disaster.”

“We can’t just leave the other kids alone?” Pollution clarified.

“If any of them get hurt on our watch it’ll be a fucking nightmare,” War said, rolling her eyes. “We’d probably end up sued. And Adam will be upset. So no, we can’t.”

WE WILL MAKE EVERY EFFORT TO KEEP THE CHILDREN ALIVE AND WELL, Death said. Everyone knew it was less a statement and more of a demand. AND WE WILL NOT DESTROY THE ZOO, EITHER.

“I can’t make any of the animal’s milk dry up or the chicken eggs go bad?”

NO, RAVEN, YOU CAN’T. NO ONE MAY EXERT THEIR INFLUENCE ON ANYONE OR ANYTHING BEYOND WHAT INFLUENCE YOU NATURALLY HAVE. NO ONE USES THEIR POWERS.

"Fine,” Pollution said. “Killjoy.”

“And it’s not even the type of zoo where you pick an animal and then get to kill it,” War said, somewhat scornfully. “And they say they’re giving their kids an education.”

.

Four chaperones turned out to be all the class needed for the trip. Which meant that the horsepeople were the only chaperones for the whole trip, not including the teacher. Mrs. Smith was not happy about that, and it was abundantly clear from the way she thanked them for joining her and her class with a "joke” that they would be off the hook for the rest of the year.

“You did start a brawl last year,” Pollution said to War, who was expressing her rage with a pearly white smile as the teacher walked away.

“They never proved that was my fault.”

BEST BEHAVIOUR.

As they loaded all the kids onto the bus, Adam came over and slipped his hand into Famine’s. “Raven’s gonna sit with me,” he said. “Me and the Them agreed.”

Pollution and War made wounded noises while Famine shot them a smug look.

“Raven’s sitting with me, and Brian’s gonna sit with Chalky. Carm and Azzy are supposed to sit at the back, and Pepper and Wensleydale will sit across from them. Adam Y. will sit in front of you with Sarah M.”

“You don’t want to all sit together?” Pollution frowned.

“If we don’t sit together the teacher will put us all in the same group,” Adam said matter-of-factly. The class was going to be split into five groups, one for each chaperone and Mrs. Smith, and if the Them weren’t put together it would be miserable for all five of them. If they were put together it would be chaos. 

“Very clever, buddy.” War tweaked Adam’s nose. Adam squeaked and clapped his free hand to his nose. “You trick that bi-” Death’s aura got a little more ominous. “Bird,” she finished. “I said bird. You all heard me.”

NO SWEARING ON THIS TRIP.

“I didn’t say anything! Did I say anything?”

Famine ignored the conversation just behind him as Adam dragged him onto the bus.

.

The horsepeople all viewed the petting zoo with grim faces - except for Death, who of course showed no expression. Even if they could, it was hidden in the shadows of the hoodie they had put on for the outing in an attempt to look “normal.” Despite the fact that their hood was drawn around their face the same as their usual robe, hiding their face in unnatural pitch black shadows.

It worked, only in two ways - one, that Death’s powers pushed for everyone to forget what they looked like when they turned away from Death, and two, that Adam’s assumption that this was completely normal made everyone think it was normal.

They had also donned a long black skirt for the occasion, to hide the skeletal form beneath, and a pair of soft black gloves to hide their bony fingers and to give the children something soft if they should need a hand to hold. It was, as Pollution would say, “A look.”

The Them were, in fact, put in the same group. Whether that was to avoid the crisis that would occur if the friends were split up or part of Adam’s antichrist powers influencing reality, none of his guardians could tell. The Them all seemed to think their sneaky plan had worked, though.

Every adult was given a group. Death was put in charge of the Them, which the others all thought they were too smug about.

The owner of the farm greeted them with a bright smile and introduced himself as “Mr. Harkin.”

“Are you all ready to see some animals?” He asked the group in a cheery voice clearly cultivated over years of working with little kids.

“YEAH!” came the resounding cheer.

“Alright! We have quite a few stations set up with all the different animals, so the animals don’t get overwhelmed by all of you at once.” He started explaining how each group would take a certain amount of time with each station, then they would break for lunch, then end the day with a “recess” at the little park also located on the zoo’s land.

It was sickeningly cute - “trying too hard and made specially for kids” kind of cute - and Pollution already wanted to gag a little bit.

They heard the unmistakable sound of a wrapper crinkling and glanced down to see that a crisps packet had fallen from their pocket, despite being empty twenty seconds earlier. They smiled and looked back up.

A small hand tugged on their own. They looked down again and found a little girl - name tag reading ELIZABETH in teacher-perfect sharpie - holding the crisps packet in the hand not holding Pollution’s.

“You can’t litter,” Elizabeth said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s bad for the earth.”

“She’s right,” a boy next to her said in a hushed voice so he wouldn’t get in trouble for talking. His name tag said HENRY. “And you’ll get in trouble.”

Pollution stared for a moment. Seven years ago they probably would have given an oily smile showing too many teeth and dropped more wrappers to the ground and said something about them being trouble.

Now, though, they only sighed, took the wrapper back and stuffed it into their pocket. “Thanks, kids.”

This was going to be a long day.

.

REMEMBER, Death told the Them, GENTLE PETS.

“We know, Az!” Five voices chorused, as they approached the rabbit pens.

Within minutes, each child either had a rabbit on their lap and was gently petting it, or was carefully feeding a rabbit a carrot stick while the rabbit remained in the pen. Wensleydale and Adam Y. both were feeding the rabbits, while the other three children were all enjoying having a rabbit on their lap.

"Brian, you're getting yours dirty!" Adam said, pointing at his friend. Brian was indeed getting his rabbit dirty - his dirty hands had turned the rabbit's white coat brown with dust.

Brian's eyes widened and his lip wobbled dangerously.

HE'S AN ANIMAL, Death said. They too sat cross legged with the children, keeping an eye on the other two at the same time. HE DOESN'T CARE ABOUT A LITTLE BIT OF DIRT.

Brian smiled with relief, upset immediately forgotten. "That's good! I've heard of some animals that die when they get dirty."

"I've never heard of an animal like that," Pepper said. "Where did you hear about it?"

"The telly."

"I bet they were lying."

"Az would know," Adam Y. said.

"You’re right. Az, is there an animal like that in the world?" Wensleydale asked.

NOT THAT I KNOW OF. BUT IF YOU HAVE A PET YOU HAVE TO MAKE SURE THEY LIVE IN A CLEAN SPACE, OR THEY WILL GET SICK AND DIE. It couldn't hurt to warn them of the responsibility of pet ownership. The hellhound that would come for Adam would be invulnerable to harm, but pets could be acquired before then by any of them.

"But these are fine, right?" Adam Y. asked.

YES, THESE ARE FINE. GENTLE PETS, ADAM.

Adam nodded and focused on keeping his pets gentle. His tongue poked out of his mouth as he concentrated. It was heartmeltingly cute, and Death would have smiled if they could.

"Az," Pepper said, "my bunny seems tired. Is she okay?"

Death leaned over to get a better look. Without looking, though, they knew what the problem was. The bunny was old. It was nearing its time. Death winced. Its time would come within the next hour - the bunny, named Nettles, would go to sleep during the time it took for the students to switch groups and wouldn’t wake up.

They had told the others not to use their powers... but Death dreaded to think of what would happen when the other children came in to look at the bunnies. Or how Adam and the Them would react to the news.

Besides, a quick glance into all of time and space told Death that nothing would be harmed if Nettles passed away after the field trip was over.

SHE’S FINE, they said, patting Nettles on the head. Her nose twitched and she blinked at the group around her, as though just waking up from a nap.

.

War somehow had been given the rowdiest kids. The ones that the teachers always had to separate from their friends and sit with the quiet kids in the hope they’d be a good influence. The ones that had to be dragged back to class after recess. The ones that drew on their desks and arms and all over their homework.

In any other situation she would have loved it. However, since they were supposed to be on their “best behaviour”, she was forcing herself to push down any enjoyment and be the “responsible one”. If she didn’t, it might end up ruining the trip for Adam and she could not have that.

Which mean that instead of provoking or even cheering them on, she had to break up a fight between two seven-year-olds three different times before they made it to their second exhibit.

This was, unfortunately, the burden of parenting.

“Okay,” she said through clenched teeth, holding the two boys by the back of their shirts, “enough of that. You’re going to scare the goats away.”

Brandon scowled and Jason pouted.

“Yeah!” snapped Anne, the kid in the group who apparently had taken one look at War and decided she was the coolest person ever. “You’ll scare ‘em to death!”

“Yeah,” War said. “To death. Goats can get really scared really easily and sometimes they can die from it.”

Brandon and Jason looked horrified. 

“You boys don’t want to kill any goats, do you?”

“No!” Both of them shouted at once.

“Then no more fighting!”

“Okay!” Both boys held each other’s hands, apparently deciding on a truce. Hopefully they’d forget whatever issue they’d been having before they moved on to the next exhibit. War didn’t think she could use that excuse on any of the other animals. Maybe the rabbits.

“Good job, Anne,” War said. Anne beamed.

The kids were all given carrot sticks to feed to the goats. As soon as they smelled food, the whole herd were crowding the fence, sticking their heads over or against the wire to try and get as much food as they could. War watched with only mildly begrudging amusement as the kids who had just been driving her crazy started squealing and cooing with delight over all the goats.

“Miss Carmine!” Sara J. yelled. “Feed them with us!” She stuck out one of her carrot sticks.

War took the offered stick and joined the kids by the fence. Almost immediately, the goats that were closest to her started vying for her attention, nipping and biting at each other to force them out of the way, bleating furiously at each other. War made sure the kids weren’t watching - she had to be a good influence for the time being - and then started playing a little game with the goats, holding her carrot stick just out of reach and waving it around, showing it off to all the different goats, making it look like she’d give it to one of them, then to a different one, then to another one, and so on. The goats bleated and shrieked at each other and at her as she teased them and she grinned as they started biting each other more often.

“They like you,” Daniel said, oblivious to the tension between the animals. “Look, they all want your attention!”

“Of course they do,” War said with a slightly too sharp smile. The kid didn’t notice. “Are you gonna feed ‘em?”

Daniel nodded. “I’m gonna feed the baby.” He turned to the tiny baby goat that was sticking its head through the fence at the very bottom, smaller than all the others and able to fit. He held out his carrot stick towards the baby, and it reached out to take it, when all of a sudden a larger adult goat reached down, knocking the baby out of the way and snatching up the offered carrot. Daniel gave a startled cry, and that was when Anne, a look of righteous fury on her face, jumped forward and slammed her tiny fist into the goat’s chin, giving it a perfect uppercut.

War gave a very loud laugh. Then she remembered what her job was and she slapped her hand over her mouth.

The kids were all staring at her. 

“I mean- don’t punch the goats!”

.

“Be careful,” Mr. Harkin said as he passed Famine the little brown bag of duck feed. “Those ducks can swarm you pretty fast. Give the kids small amounts so they don’t get overwhelmed.”

“Of course,” Famine said, already dreading it. “Come on, kids. Let’s go see the ducks.”

The kids were all delighted by the duck pond, and even Famine had to admit it was kind of nice. It wasn’t a very big pond, but it was big enough. There was a little island in the middle with a little roost for ducks to sleep, and the edge of the water was lined with a path of rocks and stones of different colours.

“No one get in the water,” Famine reminded the kids. “And be careful, we don’t want anyone slipping.”

“Okay, Mr. Sable!” five voices chorused at him. Famine wondered if his siblings had gotten kids as well behaved as these ones. 

“Look!” Emily pointed, not towards the pond but across the small field they had walked across to get to the pond. “The ducks are coming!”

She was right - there was a flock of ducks waddling across the grass to reach them. It was a mass of brown feathers, with a handful of green heads sticking out, heading right towards them with single-minded focus.

Famine pulled out the bag and slowly - making sure not to touch the feed himself, not knowing what it would do if he did - poured a little handful into the palms of each kid. “Be careful when you feed them. But don’t get scared if they get too close. They’re just hungry.”

He wished the feed was bread crumbs with no nutritional value to the ducks instead of actual healthy food for them, but alas.

The kids spread out a little bit, standing further apart so the ducks didn’t crowd all of them. Famine stayed where he was and watched them. The ducks spread out as well, going to whichever kid was closest to them and eagerly snatching up the feed as the kids sprinkled it onto the ground or tossed it across the yard. David seemed to enjoy that the most, throwing it at the ducks rather than feeding them directly.

Famine privately hoped his influence would keep the ducks hungry long after they had left. Then just a minute later, he regretted thinking it, because the ducks started coming towards him.

“We’re out of food,” Jessica said.

“They’re still hungry!” cried Emma - not Emily, but apparently they were best friends and everyone got them confused anyway. “Give us more food!”

“Please,” Famine said on instinct.

“Please!”

“Alright, let me just,” Famine took a step, then had to put his foot back down when that spot was swarmed with ducks. He looked around for an empty spot but there was none - every space around him was just ducks.

“They keep coming to you,” Thomas said helpfully.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Famine said, trying to take a step back, then forward, and ended up not moving at all. He shuffled to the side and the ducks moved, but not enough for him to move.

“They know you have the food!” Emily shouted. “Quick, do something!”

“They’re gonna eat you!”

“Calm down,” Famine said, but this started off a cacophony of children’s voices shrieking about him being eaten by the ducks in varying degrees of panic. G-o-d if Heaven or Hell could see him now-

“Go get help!” David yelled, looking near hysterics. Jessica and Emma both started moving before Famine quickly assured them they did not need to do that, even as the ducks, quacks getting louder and louder, started trying to reach up and grab the feed bag from his hand, flapping their wings with irritation when he held it to his chest and out of their reach. He flapped his hand at the ducks, but they just flapped their wings and quacked at him, so that accomplished nothing.

Finally, in a move so quick he barely realized it was happening until it was over, one duck took flight, jumping straight up and snatching the very bottom of the brown bag. It ripped the bag right open and feed spilled out of the bag and all across the ground. The kids gasped and Famine cursed, almost tripping backwards out of surprise at the duck’s actions, but now the ducks were all sated as they attacked the ground around his feet, swarming him again as they fought to be fed.

Finally, Famine managed to step over the horde and get himself free. By then, the kids had forgotten their terror and were all laughing.

Well, as long as they were having a good time.

“What did that word you said mean? Fuck?”

Shit.

.

Pollution felt such a kinship with the pigs. The rest of the animals were filthy but the pigs were something else. They didn’t even have to influence the environment, the environment was already disgusting. It was wonderful. And the kids agreed.

It was literally taking everything in them to not just jump in the mud puddle and disappear into it forever and focus on what they were supposed to be doing.

“Don’t pull their tails,” they said to Jeffrey.

“Yeah, don’t pull their tails!” Elizabeth said, glaring at the boy who was now petting his piglet, properly chastised.

“And don’t kiss your pig on the mouth!” Pollution pointed at Antoine. Antoine frowned but lowered his piglet and kissed it on the forehead instead, which Pollution supposed was good enough. Good thing Pestilence wasn’t here.

“Um, Chalky?” Henry asked hesitantly. “The pig took my sock.”

Pollution turned around and yep - the little boy was standing with one bare foot in the mud, his tiny shoe in one hand, and a little piglet was all the way across the pen with a bright red sock in its mouth.

“Why did you take your sock off?”

“Because it was all scrunched up in my shoe and I took my shoe off to fix it but the pig-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get it back,” Pollution sighed, standing up. They stepped into the muddy pen and walked over to the pig, who took one look at the agent of chaos coming its way and decided to take some inspiration from them by sprinting away.

“Get back here!” Without thinking, Pollution took off after it. The kids cheered them on, clapping enthusiastically as Pollution chased the rambunctious little bastard through the mud. Luckily this was not the first time Pollution had chased something - or someone - through mud, so they weren’t worried about slipping or falling.

Until the pig turned around and charged them and startled Pollution so badly that they slipped and fell flat on their back into the mud.

And oh, it was so wonderful.

“Chalky!”

“Are you okay?”

“Did you get my sock?”

“Someone get help!”

“I’m fine!” Pollution raised their hand and waved at the kids, not getting up. “I’m just enjoying the mud, I’m fine!”

It was glorious. The sticky wet feeling of the mud seeping into their clothes, soaking their hair, dirtying their hands and everything it touched. Pollution wondered when they had last soaked in a mud puddle. Maybe a month ago. They needed to do it more often.

“What did they say?”

“They’re enjoying the mud.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Can we come and join?”

“No! We can’t do that, we’re not allowed! Right, Chalky?”

Pollution thought about Elizabeth’s question. Then they felt something snuggling up under their arms. They looked down and saw two different pigs snuffling at them. One of them had Henry’s sock. Pollution tugged the sock from its mouth and held it up triumphantly. “Got your sock, Henry!”

“Can I come and get it?”

“But we’re not allowed.”

“You’re allowed!” Pollution said. More pigs had come to sniff at them and had started laying down next to them, lazing in the sun. “All of you come and join me.”

They heard the kids squelching their way over. Henry took his sock back. “Thank you Chalky.”

“No problem.” Pollution thought for a moment. “You kids can just hang out with the pigs here while I lay here, right?”

“Sure!”

“Can we dump mud on you?”

“Absolutely.”

.

HOW DID IT GO? Death asked the other chaperones as they got together for lunch time. The kids were all sitting in a circle and talking about the day so far. The adults sat together and watched them while eating their own lunches.

Or, at least, Mrs. Smith and Mr. Harkin sat together and the horsepeople sat together, separately.

"I had a good time,” Pollution said.

YOU AND YOUR KIDS ARE COVERED IN MUD, CHALKY. The disapproval was clear.

“Hey, I’m covered in mud, the kids just got a little muddy! This is a success story!”

“Mrs. Smith doesn’t look happy,” Famine said with a look at the teacher, who was glaring at them.

“If she doesn’t want the kids getting dirty, then maybe don’t bring them to a fucking farm!”

I SAID NO SWEARING ON THIS TRIP.

“Yeah, Chalky, language,” Famine said.

“And I’m sure you all had successful time too,” Pollution said with a glare. “I saw you giving your kids money earlier, Raven.”

“You’re such a snitch!”

“What did you do?” War asked with a grin.

Famine glared, but Death was staring at him. “I may have said a word - under duress - that was not appropriate for seven-year-olds, and the money might have been a bribe to get them to forget it ever happened. Or at least not tell their parents who taught it to them.”

RAVEN!

“It was an accident! I was startled!”

“For shame, Raven,” Pollution said with a shake of their head.

“You’re the one who got your kids crawling through the mud.”

“Teaching kids swears and bribing them is worse than getting them a little dirty,” War said, her grin widening. “Nice going.”

“And how did your kids do, Carmine?” Famine said with a glare.

“They were perfect. On an unrelated note, Anne might have a future in boxing ahead of her, and I’m also going to need to borrow some cash from you.”

“Bribery again!” Pollution pointed an accusing finger. “What did you do?”

“It was the kid, not me! I just laughed at what she did! And now I need the kids to forget I laughed before they grow up thinking punching animals is funny!”

THEY PUNCHED AN ANIMAL?!

“Anne was defending her friend and one of the baby animals! It was deserved. But also they can’t grow up thinking punching animals is funny even though in the moment it totally was.”

“What about you, Az?” Pollution looked over to Death, who was on the verge of a lecture that needed to be avoided. “How were Adam and the kids?”

THEY WERE JUST FINE AND NOTHING HAPPENED.

The three of them stared at Death.

“What did you do?” War asked suspiciously.

I KEPT A BUNNY ALIVE TO AVOID UPSETTING THE CHILDREN.

“You used your powers!”

“We agreed we wouldn’t!”

THE BUNNY WAS GOING TO DIE. IT WOULD HAVE RUINED THE WHOLE DAY. IT WAS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM WHAT THE THREE OF YOU WERE DOING, Death stated firmly, unashamed.

“Because we didn’t violate the one rule we made for ourselves?”

“For shame, Azrael,” Famine said, shaking his head. “For shame.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Yeah, Az.”

I SAID BEST BEHAVIOUR AND YOU ALL FAILED. I AT LEAST HAD A PURPOSE FOR WHAT I WAS DOING.

“Oh, here we go again - ‘I’m the oldest, I never make mistakes, I always have a purpose, blah blah blah’,” War mocked. “Just admit we all fucked up today.”

I WILL NOT.

“Then no bullying us for our fuck ups.”

STOP SWEARING. RAVEN’S MISTAKE WAS BAD ENOUGH.

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“Mrs. Smith is coming over,” Pollution said.

Mrs. Smith was coming over. And she told them on no uncertain terms that they would not be allowed to chaperone any field trips for the rest of the year. Possibly ever.

But at the end of the day, Adam came home happy and unaware of the chaos they had sewn, and that was what mattered.

[mooningotham]

i also find very interesting all the history behind Sal Maroni and Carmine Falcone, and all the bloodshed between the families.

and of course the most interesting thing, Penguin's involvement with both sides

[ayamturd]

red│awesamdude

summary: y/n only wants to fight for peace and looses themself in the process. sam finally brings them a moment of clarity, but at what cost?

warnings: angst, blood/death, eggpire(?)

pairing: in-game awesamdude

a/n: my free-writing default is always angst pls send requests and help lol

wc: (0.8k) - m.list

“Don’t do this, y/n.”

Sword raised, Sam struggled to carry its weight. His hair was matted to his forehead, blood and sweat staining his usual green locks while he clutched his aching side, hands coated in dark red. Standing before him was y/n, their stance, unlike his, steady and calm despite the chaos that engulfed them entirely, fire burning the night sky as the smell of smoldering vines penetrated the space. It was a pungent odor; like burnt flesh underlined with the putrid, acrid taste of rotten egg, the air was heavy and clouded the landscape in a vermilion hue.

Y/n held no emotions on their face. With eyes glazed burgundy, corrupted in carmine veins, they looked like a ghost of their past self, someone once bright and optimistic taken advantage of to further malicious intent. Below them laid Tommy, the young boy unconscious and defenseless to the axe aimed above him. 

“I’m not doing anything, Sam. I’m only following the path that’s been made for peace.”  Y/n’s words angered Sam, and he stepped forward. “This isn’t a path, its bloodshed! Your endgame will only cause suffering! This isn’t you, Y/n. Drop the axe, come back to me.” Hand extended forward, Sam shifted to lower his weapon. There was a still beat of silence until he moved his hand closer, pleading with desperation, “please, I know you’re still in there.”

Y/n stared at the gesture, and with their feet firmly planted, they glanced back up to him: a sign of refusal to surrender. “You’re wrong. You act like I’ve turned into something unrecognizable, but really, I’ve changed for the better. Can’t you see? If you joined us, we could be in a world with no war, no conflicts together. The egg—”

“The egg is using you!” Sam yanked off his signature mask, expression livid and emotional. “You’re nothing but a pawn, a soldier to manipulate until their dying breath! Y/n,” Sam tried to come closer but y/n stopped him, lifting the blade towards him instead. He spoke softly, “Y/n. Stop this before it’s too late, before you can’t undo the damage it will cause.”

For a brief moment, Sam could have sworn y/n looked hesitant with eyes casting downward in thought, but his hope was shattered as y/n spoke lowly, “What we destroy, we will rebuild. We will rise from the dust and the Eggpire will guarantee all those safe passage into a new era. A new era,” they paused, glowering up at Sam in a final declaration, “without Tommyinnit.”

“No!” Before anyone could process it, Sam lunged at y/n as they raised to strike the killing blow. 

He stared in horror as his sword stabbed through their chest, their armor cracked and doing little to prevent the fatal wound. “I— no, no I didn’t mean t—” His words were sporadic as his panic began to set in. Y/n dropped their weapon in shock, eyes wide and tears settling in as the pain and realization took its toll. 

In cruel fate of the situation, Sam finally saw them become themself again. The tint in their eyes faded yet the blood-red vines remained; a reminder of an innocent soul corrupted in vain. Y/n’s knees gave out and they collapsed into Sam’s arms. He let out stuttered breaths and lowered his head into their shoulder, crying, as he slowly pulled out his blade. Sam gripped them tightly, moving to set them down, eyes clenched closed. 

Distant yelling and the crackling fires were drowned out by the quiet, erratic pleas of a broken man holding his dying love. A shaking hand met his hair, and he rose his head to meet the sight of them, their lips tainted in a mahogany shade.

“I’m so sorry, love.”

Sam could barely speak as he shook his head violently, refusing to fault them in their final moments together while avoiding their gaze. However, Y/n hoarsely shushed his faint croaks, bringing their hand from his hair to his cheek to brush the tears away with their thumb. Blood was smeared on his skin from the small strokes, their fingers coated in the thick garnet yet he couldn’t bring himself to care or notice.

“I’m so sorry this is how you’ll remember me.” Y/n’s eyes began to droop, death luring them closer into an enteral sleep. Sam felt their hold grow weak and clasped their wrist before their hand could fall, leaning into their palm and giving a small kiss to the skin. 

Opening his eyes, he saw Y/n’s closed and observed their chest faintly rise, their heartbeat slowing significantly. He interlocked their hands and moved to rest their foreheads together one last time. 

“I only see you for who you are. You’ll always be my y/n.”

Their breathing stopped, and he let out a crimson scream for all to hear.

[cowlgbt]

@fategrabbed​​ from here. 

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈   𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴   𝙰   𝙻𝙾𝚃   𝙸𝙽   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙾𝙽:      they’re   both   in   shades   of   bloodshed,   carmine   slinking   the   brim   of   her   cape   just   like   it   splashes   dark   the   bullet   of   his   mask.      he   has   a   gun      ;      hers   tucks   into   her   holster.      she,   too,   likes   to   pair   a   scything   smirk   with   her   cowl   from   time   to   time.      

“      bet   he   loves   it   when   you   call   him   b.      ”            kate   doesn’t   need   to   try   her   hand   at   redeeming   the   robins   that   batman   could   call   rogue      ;      she   has   a   sister   of   her   own   on   the   run,   tipped   into   rabbit   hole      &      𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙳.      in   a   way,   she   gets   his   sharp-toothed   grinning   as   much   as   she   understands   the   dry   vermouth   of   a   wit   that   he   flings   out   in   every   direction   like   the   contradiction   of   carefully   aimed   shotgun   splatter.      she’s   still   tending   that   unweeded   garden   of   the   flagrant   urge   to   find   her   own   way,      to   drag   her   way   out   of   the   mire   of   fitting   herself   into   a   soldier’s   uniform   to   fend   for   herself      &      serve.         “         anyone   tell   you   that   you’ve   got   a   yen   for   gallows   humor,   hood?      ”   

they’re   jawing   in   the   ink   black   like   it’s   nothing   more   than   a   social   call,   but   kate   has   the   infrared   shielding   tipped   down   in   crimson   spyglass   over   her   eyes.      scoring   the   horizon   trawls   up   a   series   of   blurry-bright   spots   looming   closer.      her   gaze   narrows.         

“      𝙱𝙰𝚃𝙼𝙰𝙽   𝚁𝚄𝙻𝙴𝚂   𝙸𝙽   𝙴𝙵𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃.      ”      the   long   curve   of   her   spine   unfurls   until   it’s   straight      &      stalwart.      she’s   a   symbol,   too,   wind   slapping   the   beating   curtain   of   her   cape,   the   spines   of   her   mask   contrasting   hard   against   the   loose   pool   of   sallow   street   lamps      &      starlight.         “         -----         let’s   see   if   you’re   as   quick   with   your   fists   as   you   are   with   the   standup.      ”   

[ecrivant]

execrated | levi ackerman

(levi ackerman x reader)

he was no more than an object of execration in the aftermath of you; 

the one in which levi immerses himself in nocturnal bloodshed to rid himself of you.

c.w. – graphic depictions of violence

word count: 2.5k

In the sink, saliva, sanguine-tinged, a grisly spatter on blanched porcelain.  Pain burgeoned from visage’s center as he—with hands shaking and stained red with blood native and foreign—tried to curtail the gore which madly gushed forth, like crimson water from dam awash, made that way through rain-soaked massacre.  Body before suffused with adrenaline now felt the seeping agony of ruptured dermis and fragmented bone.  The hung mirror before him, begrimed and fragmentary and missing shards from its bottom right, held in it his own demented likeness, from nose down drenched in blood-red coagulate and looking savage as if born into barbarism.  This redness pooled in his palms, leaked between fingers.  He leaned forward so his head hovered over sink’s bowl and spat up more carmine sputum and removed his hands from his face and with one gripped the bowl and with the other turned the faucet handle and left blood there.  The water, weak and cold.  He let the liquid run over his hands and watched it coalesce with what was there and trickle down the drain in pinkish amalgam.  In the washroom, a pervasive and ferric scent.  There were no paper towels, so he impotently stood over the sink with head ducked and perhaps misguidedly let the blood pour from him.  Feeling dizzy from blood loss and strong liquor and impacted temples.  He winced and contorted his expression, but it only bore another bloom of pain.  

In memory he sat on bathtub’s edge and watched you floss and listened to the brush of your shirt sleeves and your open-mouthed breathing and the plucking of floss against teeth.  Seeing your face only in reflection as your back was to him.  You finished and threw away the thread—pedal wastebasket’s lid slamming against tile wall before shutting again—and asked in a tone of joking condescension when he had last flossed.  He replied that he could not remember.  

And after he flossed to placate you, he leaned forward—with your body flush to and embracing his—and spat and saw blood in the sink.

He was reminded of you in the strangest of times.

He had migrated from the taprooms downtown that had come to know him as belligerent to the bars of back alleyways and lowdown localities where the population was less made of people and more of nocturnal wraiths of ire who, having long since ceded their humanity, now only knew a lust for blood.  These vestiges of personhood fought ferociously and with the desperation of a man who in balled fists held his own life, though they hardly cared if they lived or died, for life means nothing to those who have already forsaken it.  

—

The bleeding slowed as if his body grew tired of the exertion.  He reflexively wiped at tender features with the back of his hand and felt more pain.  Slinking out of a back entrance unnoticed, unsure of whether he killed a man that night.  He stumbled off a concrete step into a torrent and had to brace himself on the wall opposite. The nocturne’s deluge—backstreet, flooded.  He shielded his eyes from an invisible sun and regarded the pitch swathed in a pall of rain.  The rainfall on metal and concrete and the detritus of litter and broken glass unseen created the rhythm to which he blindly walked forward, faltering every other step. Senses overwhelmed, as he did not hear the beat and splash of lumbering footfalls behind him and barely registered the bottle smashed against his head until he was face-down in wastewater and then spitting up fluid from nose and lung as he was lifted by the hair and thrown against the wall.  

The rain and the night so thick he could not see his attacker’s face, only the glint of a knife in streetlamp’s diffused illumination.  Vaulting sideways he felt the tip of this shining blade swipe his stomach.  He ducked to avoid a swung fist and on hands and knees blindly searched for some defense in the remnants of piled scrap which had not yet been swept away by the rushing current.  Unfathomable pain erupting in the side of his head as the kick of a steel-toed boot connected with his temple.  He laid prostrate and dazed and heard only the deafening surge of blood in his ears and the rhythmic pulsation of his struck skull, and as he kicked weakly and at nothing, he felt the hulking presence of his anonymous assailant above him and found he could do nothing except wonder whether this insensate being would choose to with that knife gorge his eyes or shred his chest or both.  By inborn instinct, he rolled clumsily to avoid coming under blade, swiping the man’s legs as he did.  The man fell, and with him the sound of bone cracked on concrete cut through the roaring downpour.  Levi found the knife dropped and gripped it and sliced the man’s hamstring behind his knee and at once cut up the back of his thigh and plunged the blade into it. The eldritch bellow of a beast now enervated—the man grabbed at Levi’s legs, but he simply sidestepped and avoided those desperate and grasping limbs.  

Levi tasted blood and spit and said, “Pick fights you can win,” before backing away from the man and exiting the alleyway.  

—

In his wake a bloody trail as he labored up the staircase of his building, heavy and slow and uneven steps echoing against concrete and cinderblock.  During this ascent, he passed a flaccid and crumpled human form splayed, drunk or sleeping or dead.  He did not stop but in passing softly kicked the body with his good leg, and upon its immediate stirring he continued.  

He pulled his shirt over his head in front of his bathroom mirror and could feel the evening’s history in every muscle.  His body, battered and contused, and flesh already discolored blue and yellow and inky black; hair matted by rain and gore and falling before visage’s distended and ashen features.  His chest was sliced cleanly between pectorals—the mark from that infernal blade—with the layers of skin peeling open like a lipless mouth, inside raw and resembling offal.  The grisly lesion coughed and sputtered and spat up blood, and he cried out as he balled up his sodden shirt and used it as a compress, and for a moment his vision reeled. He staggered through his apartment—past the things you had left behind and he could not throw away—and located the means to suture his wound, leaving bloodied handprints behind.  He screamed as he poured the alcohol over his chest.  His hands shook as he pierced flesh with threaded needle, darkness creeping into his periphery.  Upon cutting the final stitch he promptly collapsed to the floor.

—

In a restless sleep he dreamt of the creation of your body by divinity’s hand, of the holy sculptor who limned the corporeal form which housed your eternal soul.  At times, those divine hands were his own.  

—

With each drop of blood shed he purged himself of you, and he would continue until all his blood drained or from him you were exorcised entirely.    

—

He awoke to his body adhered to the floor in a pool of bloodied coagulate.  At first unable to move and then taking several minutes to find within him strength to roll to the side and sit up.  He thought for a moment of the job he had long abandoned, of friends who had likely forgotten him, and could not remember his last non-violent encounter nor the last time words spoken were anything but vitriolic remarks between hurled fists—he was no more than an object of execration in the aftermath of you.

—

With enough liquor—as if the spirits themselves some heady and greening elixir—previous nights were forgotten.  Bibulous and newly invigorated, he prowled the darkened streets, hands pocketed, lusting for the bloodshed he had come to desire in the way he for you once ached.  The pavement underfoot slick with mud and effluent like some backcountry swampland through which he waded and searched for violence to placate his id.  The night was clear and cloudless but smelled of sewerage and remnants of rainfall, and the stars hung suspended in the firmament’s pitch continuum, supplementing the moon’s light now absent per a new moon.  Distantly, a bell tower rung three.  

He continued on and watched as the street seemed to come undone—road dead-ending with unfinished pavement, fiercely jagged and potholed and undulating as if there to witness the very shifting of the earth many times over.  The roadway’s ceasing was before a collapsing chain-link fence, disfigured and clipped here and there, which separated the road from a lot piled with soil and scrap material.  Remnants of some edifice planned but long forgotten.  With a running start he jumped and climbed and vaulted himself over the fence with ease, the mesh bending and creaking beneath his weight and clattering after with the tremors of his movement.  

The site was one of earthen topography with eminent dirt mounds textured by way of erosion and manmade footmarks, the land entirely devoid of verdure and instead landscaped with metal scrap and waste discarded.  Shrubbery of twisted wire and cairns of glass from bottles shattered.  He walked through vales between mountainous dirt outcroppings and could not see but for that dim, supernal illumination.  Hearing breathing and a rustling near him, he turned around and looked and squinted in that pervasive darkness to make out any movement but could do nothing as the ragged beast who produced the sound descended onto him from above with such speed and force as to bring him to the ground and crumple his neck and knock the wind out of him.  He gasped for breath as this hellish face pocked and scarred and seemingly without body levitated above him, eyes wild and themselves luminescent, aglow with a crazed fervor unseen in beings diurnal.  How much longer, he wondered, until his eyes would resemble the ones now before him?

“Y’re gonna fuckin’ die here, boy.”

Spoken not as a threat but a gleesome proclamation.  He felt against his throat the massive blade of a Bowie knife, no doubt used to skin beings living and dead.  Between inhalations he kneed at the air, and his thrust connected with the man’s back, and it was enough to knock the man off balance and cause him to lose his footing in the slick mud underfoot—a falter which Levi exploits, throwing this monstrous aggressor from him.  Now free of that savage embrace, he erected himself—looking like some devil from the bogged and muddy earth both born and emerging—and crouched with arms bent for combat.  Relishing in his opposite’s struggle to regain footing.  Levi could see the man had lost his knife in the fall and smiled. The sounds of squelching and boot-sucking muck and slurred curses were all to be heard.  He dashed at the man and in one movement dropped him with a kick to the jaw, and the man landed face-first and unmoving in the mire and seemed to sink.  He kicked him again in the ribs and felt them give.

He thought of you and was suddenly suffused with rage and raised his leg to boot the man again but was surprised and let out a strangled yell when the man with uncanny swiftness raised up and caught Levi’s leg in an iron vise and with his other hand drove a broken bottle which he gripped by the neck into that leg he held steadfast.  Levi felt an unknowable pain erupt in his calf, and his vision crossed and blurred, and though through haziness, he saw the man’s face—features vague and inhuman beneath a swathe of sludge, save for the feral eyes, now looking even more savage and like those of a fiend from hell, and a bleached smile which shone in the dark—and Levi, with this infernal vision incised in mind’s eye, fell to the ground.  The man crawled backwards and looked on as if an artist admiring his magnum opus.  The bottle had not broken off in Levi’s leg and instead protruded like some glass tor, and from this wound spewed gore which turned earth red.

He was in and out of consciousness and felt the man approaching but awoke to car’s rumble and was numb.

Climbing stairs with weight supported.

Sprawled on cold tile. Blinded by overhead light.  Anonymous hands around his leg, their tender touch. He felt these hands caress his face as a massive umbra occluded the glaring light above.  Eyes adjusting.  He saw you.

He awoke to a softness beneath him.  In your shared bed, head against your chest.  He was swaddled in your warm embrace, luxuriating in the feeling of you wrapped around him. You whispered and murmured incoherent nothings but in them he felt your adoration, reassurance, love, unadulterated.

And in some way, he knew he had already died or was a least on death’s brink.  For he would never know the pleasure of you unless he was.  And with this thought your image dissolved away, and he was again mired in an earthen mess with leg enfeebled and that beastly man atop him.  His good limbs pinned to the ground and form incapacitated.  Adrenaline and cortisol and all other chemicals in his hormonal amalgam coalesced in his bloodstream, and he found the strength to once again push the man off him, though he could not yet stand.  And against his better judgment, he tore the bottle from his leg and plunged it instead into the man’s neck, the blood of one against jagged glass exchanged for another’s.  Though still laced with that otherworldly mania, he saw in the man’s eyes fear, and then in those eyes he saw nothing at all.  And then the man was dead.  

He had not cried since the day you left, but he now found himself wiping at tears which were mostly mud. He dragged himself away from the man as to not touch the soiled blood which from carotid erupted and hyperventilated as he did.  

He wished you would rescue him as he had imagined.  

But instead he dragged himself through mire and finally came upon that chain-link fence which acted as entrance to the hell from which he came, and even through his abject pain he felt his violent id satiated.  He found a rusted and discarded pole and in one hand held it and with the other grabbed the fence and struggled to pull himself to his feet but did.  

He would not make it far from the fence, only having crossed the threshold of where the road which once seemed to unwind reconstructed itself, before he collapsed in carnage’s aftermath from exhaustion and indiscriminate blood loss, and again, dumbly, perhaps on death’s precipice, only thought of you.  Your unwavering presence outliving him.

—

hi there again!  thank you so much for reading!!  i’m sorry this piece took so long, school is starting, and i’m adjusting to actually using my brain again.  will try my best to keep a consistent posting schedule + i SWEAR i will get to writing the numerous requests in my inbox.  much love xoxo <3

masterlist

taglist: @flam3bird​, @sakusas-whore

[dreamsmp-au-ideas]

Fire Emblem AU

Dream’s route is called Fern Lake, so let’s talk about it

You only get in this route when you side with Dream against DreamXd after Dream reveals himself as The Green Demon

Resulting in The Green Gators and who Eve else you recruited running from the monastery to a fort to prepare for battle

Dream is insistent on keeping his friends around specifically so that they can keep him in check. So he form The Green Gators Batallion, one of the most elite armies in The SMP

Dream keeps his attachments so that he doesn’t lose himself

Cue battle at The Monastery. Karl falls off cliff and gets in a coma for five years

Cue post timeskip stuff!

Pretty much everyone in The Blue Anteaters has a high chance of dying

Wilbur and Tommy definitely die

Their first objective is to eliminate The Badlands and then go after L’Manberg and The Church

Because L’Manberg and The Church have been working together

So first they go through L’Manberg’s army at The Prime Wall, being led by Ant

You can kill Ant here if you need to

SMP conquers Prime Wall and moves on to the capital of The Badlands, Pandora an extremely well defended city

Listen the Wiki says Pandora’s Vault is in The Badlands and I am not letting that name go to waste

Sam is here and if you recruited him pre timeskip he can join your side here. If he isn’t recruited you can’t bring him to your side

He can still die though

Skeppy and Bad are definitely here and Skeppy is one of those enemies who you don’t want to kill

But he’s pretty hard to avoid, so he’s one of those units you have to actively avoid not killing

Bad has a sad quote if Skeppy dies that will make you feel bad

Either way you win and get to choose if you with kill or spare Bad

With Bad asking Dream to spare his kingdom any more bloodshed and that he’s already arranged for The Badlands to work with SMP

Canonically you spare him and he has to go to Errata

After that’s done they go back to The Monastery to regroup

Leaving out the chapter where The Monastery is attacked because I don’t have anyone to fill in for Seteth and Flayn and the main purpose of the fight is to take care of them

In order to get to L’Manberg’s capital they first have to go through The White City

This is where Blue Anteater casualties start coming in

Any of The Blue Anteaters besides Wilbur and Tommy could be recruited so keep that in mind

Should also start sending in recurieted Blue Anteaters for that special dialogue

Eret and Jack are leading the armies here if you didn’t recureit them and you have to kill them

So Green Gators Battalion takes The White City and heads to the capital of L’Manberg, Party Island

Called an “Island” because it’s surround by water

I’m trying to make these names work bear with me

There are very few place on The SMP wiki that don’t sound ridiculous

Before that can happen Wilbur and DreamXd make a plan

Wilbur’s forces will intercept Dream’s forces at The Field of Fame

Wilbur agrees that he won’t kill Karl because DreamXd wants to do it

And Wilbur really want to kill Dream

So The Battle of Fame begins

Wilbur and Tommy definitely die in this battle, no way around it

Tubbo has absolutely dreaded this. Clingy Duo angst ahoy!

Whichever unit kills Tommy Wilbur immediately goes after them

Same if Wilbur is killed first for Tommy

The others are horrified when they fight demonic beasts on the battlefield and realize that Wilbur’s forces have turned themselves into these things

And especially horrified when Tommy is defeated and he transforms himself into a beast right in front of them using a crest stone

Tubbo begs Karl to put down Tommy because dying would be better than being stuck like that

Ultimately it would most likely end with Tommy being killd first

And then Wilbur being killed by Dream in a cutscene

Where Wilbur is cursing Dream and Dream is legitimately regretful about having to kill him

Because he knows that Wilbur could’ve been an honorable ruler but their ideals just didn’t line up

This results in DreamXd, now is his Twitch form, retreating to Party Island

So SMP army makes a mad dash towards Party Island for the final fight

Twitch has basically completely snapped by this point, completely obsessed with having his revenge on Karl

Resulting in Twitch taking his dragon form and setting fire to Party Island

With Niki and Fundy both there as commanders who don’t care what happens anymore

They just want The SMP to stop taking everything they care about and they don’t care what they have to do to make them stop

So final battle is in the fire of Party Island and taking down the dragon Twitch

And Dream proving that the world doesn’t need to depend on gods anymore

Basically the route is very anti-hero esque

With the most potential bloodshed

It’s also shorter because The SMP had already pushed the rest of Carmine into a stalemate

In the other route Karl helps the underdog nations rise up and win the war

However here Karl just makes The SMP even stronger in order to decimate everyone

The Eggpire is kinda talked about as a thing they’ll take care of after the war

The Blue Anteaters who are recurieted stick together because they understand the pain of their nation falling apart

Dream is focused on getting it done as fast as possible because he is very aware that he doesn’t have a lot of time left

Everyone knows about Dream’s two crest situation by know

So yeah very morally ambiguous route

But it’s fun for people who like The Green Gators or playing the other side of most fire emblem games. That is to say The Empire who starts a war

OH man. This route is anti-hero esque and has a lot of angst behind it. Oh man this hurts. This hurts a lot and man, this sucks. It makes sense with the goal but man, there is so much bloodshed here. God.

[gregnas-the-grouch]

The Clans

“What’s the deal with all these clans anyway?,” Yemir grunted. Staring at Baozhai with wide eyes as all her talking had admittedly caught the Gallade’s attention for once. “All this talk about war and bloodshed got me curious. Ye said the other clans were violent? I’m guessing they put up a pretty good fight if even someone like you said that. Who were they?” Yemir’s eyes locked with Baozhai as the ghost had a slight smirk creep upon her face. “Ah, I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised you’ve taken a keen interest in them. You do have the warrior’s spirit within you, after all,” Baozhai chuckled. Which only confused Yemir. The Gallade normally associated her interactions with Baozhai as unpleasant, insulting or outright terrifying. Yet the ghost actually complimented the brute openly for once.

After a few moments, Baozhai’s demeanor returned to normal, her amber eyes staring at the ground ahead of her. “There are quite a few clans in Sheidal. Eleven, if I am to recall correctly. I’m simply lump them into three categories for a better understanding of their relationship with me. We have Kin, Neutral and Aggressive.” Baozhai stated simply, that last word certainly caught Yemir’s attention. Practically smiling at the thought of punching these people.

“Kin are clans related to me, be it directly or through a long line of distant heritage. Naturally, you are familiar with the clan I rule over, the Sand Reaver Clan. However, there are two others that we have some relationship with. North, far in the snow capped peaks of Shatter Mountain lay the Frost Hammer Clan. A clan whom I suspect to have a conduct to fighting more aligned with your views than my own. Finally, in the jungles to the south, we have the Iron Thorn Clan. They are shrewd and known for being unwelcoming, even by my people’s standards. However, given their choice of home, I suppose I cannot blame them.”

“Neutral, as the name suggests, are clans that have their own agendas. Holding neither good or ill will towards mine or the kindred clans. I suppose I should start with the Plain Strider Clan. They’re south of the area my clan rule over, but serve as the northern border of Carmine Chaparral, the jungle I was talking about beforehand. Probably the most friendly towards the Iron Thorn and Sand Reaver Clan. To the northeast, just teasing the southern border of the Bone Trench is the Stone Cutter Clan. The most business oriented. At least they’re professionals… as far as that goes in Sheidal. And finally, the Marsh Singer Clan. Who protect the landbound pass between Shatter Mountain and the Bone Trench.” Baozhai mentioned that last part with a hint of hesitation, her eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, yeah, those are fine and dandy, but what about the aggressive ones? I’ve been itching fer a good fight,” Yemir grunted with a toothy smile on her face. Baozhai simply shook her head in annoyance. “Eager as ever, are we? I suppose I can’t blame you. They are worthy foes. I suppose I should start with the simplest, the Flesh Ripper Clan. They share the deserts with us, but I put that loosely since we have a penchant for slaughtering each other on sight. However, I wouldn't consider them as cruel as the Bone Grinder Clan. They reside in the Bone Trench themselves. Then we have the Bleeding Willow Clan. Forever locked in a conflict with the Iron Thorn Clan and not without good reason. Then we have the Wailing Ice Clan to the north. As I understand it, this clan and my kin, the Frost hammer Clan, do not get along well. There is one last Clan… But to even call them a Clan might be pushing it.” Baozhai’s demeanor had become considerably more serious than before. Her eyes narrowed as she dug into her armor. Yemir’s ears perked up, taking note of Baozhai’s unease. “Why’s that? They bad news or something?,” Yemir grunted, getting a bit closer to the Cofagrigus as Baozhai’s brows raised a bit. 

“Bad news? That would be putting it lightly. They are the Ethereal Clan. A name my people gave to them… They are the enemy to all life on Sheidal. Harsh as it may be.”

[ao3feed-bakusquad]

Shakespeare Made All of His Young Lovers Die

shakespeare made all of his young lovers die by dumjynki

Eijirou thinks he might be gaping, but, honestly, he's not even ashamed. He's never seen eyes like these before — they're so violent, such a bright, bloody carmine, emotive and powerful and practically shrieking with aggressiveness fit for a battlefield.

God, what Eijirou wouldn't give to be a part of their bloodshed.

“Whatever,” the boy snarls, mask twitching with the movement of his mouth. He gathers up his bags, scooping them to sling onto his shoulder, and begins to storm off.

“Don't I get a name at least?” the redhead calls.

“Fuck off,” is the snapped reply, and he's thrown a middle finger without even a glance backwards.

Kirishima thinks he might already be in love with the chaos.

Or; In which Eijirou Kirishima has lived in his tiny oceanside village for too long to appreciate its dullness, and Katsuki Bakugou arrives like a fucking storm.

Words: 3257, Chapters: 1/24, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Kirishima Eijirou, Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou's Family, Bakusquad - Character, Dekusquad - Character

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sero Hanta/Todoroki Shouto, Jirou Kyouka/Kaminari Denki

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Quirks, Alternate Universe - College/University, Slow Burn, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, past BakuDeku, dont be surprised when that crops up bc i warned yall, Feels, Small Towns, basically a bunch of vibes i love strung into a fic, also a lot of jane eyre and wuthering heights quotes, i use them as chapter titles, im not sorry, Oh also, Minor Character Death, Aha, Artist Bakugou Katsuki, Running Away

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29376318

[caizen]

red | kuroo t.

prompt: memories

masterlist | wc: 378

trigger warning/s: mention of blood

---

if it had been spring, the plants shinsuke grew would already be filled with morning dew. but today was the same as yesterday and the days before that, and so will the next few weeks, you were going to wake up to scarlet, amber, and golden leaves.

by the time you open your eyes, the once cream colored walls were now shaded carmine, as well as every other thing in the room, living or not.

its beautiful, you think. despite the color being associated with war and bloodshed most of the time, at this moment, it felt like the peace after the war instead.

while you stare into the space thoughtlessly, adoring the way how each object in the room was painted different shades of red, the body beside you shuffles and repostions himself. you figure he was already awake, as the mumbling and snores of his came to a halt, which allowed the rustling of leaves hitting the window, the clock ticking and your slow and steady breaths fill the air.

he once again moves around, body facing towards you this time. you only stare at each other, eyes were enough to understand what each of you'd wanted to say to each other.

"adorable," his eyes speak, referring to the rose in your cheeks, the stars in your eyes in the morning, the loving gaze you give him.

it takes you a kiss on the hand and a light blow on your face to wake up fully and get rid of the drowsiness, and it takes you a light squeeze of your hand and a bit more of watching him to realize that he's looking at you the same way he did in high school, only that you now knew what it meant.

it takes a single thought about high school and the red of everything in him to rake in the memories of the childhood you've spent with him, losing him then and meeting again in adolescence, this time, not letting go to grow together into adulthood. now.

early mornings and late nights meant being extremely vulnerable, releasing out all the pent up emotions. so you cry, and he understands without words.

but instead of clear water, its tinted the same as the leaves it reflected.

[stabtrick]

@aimtrick​          :          ❛  this  isn`t  love,  this  is  a  bloodbath .  ❜

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴    𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴    𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴    𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙴𝚂     never  should  have  happened,  but  did.     in  this  realm  the  tragedy  is,  what  dies  inside  of  them,  while  they  lives,  bled  shade  of  broken  dreams  and  broken  minds,  no  longer  a  color.          ❛          do  you  know,  what  love  is     ?           ❜          𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂     the  tragedy  is,  what  comes  in  sudden  and  even  comes  unwanted,  what  will  shadow  you  forever.     hence  the  question  strikes  him  in  equal  sudden  and  his  own  words  are  forgotten  as,  if  they  had  never  been  stuck  in  trickster`s  head  for  a  long  moment.     sometimes  his  smile  portends  the  tragedy,  deceptively  harmless.          ❛          love  can`t  be  tamed.          ❜

𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴    𝙼𝙰𝚈    𝙱𝙴    𝚃𝙷𝙴    𝚆𝙰𝚈    𝚃𝙾    𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳    𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙲𝙴     and  he  bridges  it  as,  if  kennedy`s  every  word,  movement,  and  deed,  did  not  even  matter  in  something  of  no  way  out.     in  every  line  of  own  thoughts  the  golden  gaze  sweeps  over  him,  while  smirk  brightens  up  the  bloodshed  face,  even  more  vivid  in  its  spark,  than  in  the  most  steadfast  gaze.          ❛          𝑎𝑛𝑑     can`t  be  timed.     and  all  decisions  you  made  yourself  leads  you  into  the  future     . . .          ❜          𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙽     in  a  brazen  act  recalls  the  difficulties  of  hope,  implies  the  truth.     obvious,  and  still  so  unbearable.          ❛          or,  oblivion.     when  you  forget  yourself  too  much.          ❜

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴    𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴    𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴    𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙴𝚂     ended  in  bloodbath,  ended  with  tears  and  curses  to  make  these  last  moments  soaked  with  rage  and  fear,  so  he  himself  can  enjoy  that  harmony  of  the  chaos  emerging  from  their  lips.     and  speaking  of  breaking  down  those  barriers,  that  should  not  be  broken,  ji  woon  disturbs  the  short  distance  separating  them,  extends  his  hands  with  the  strongest  reach,  the  strongest  need,  grips  cheeks  to  keep  him  from  leaving.     bloodstained  lips  contrast  to  the  pale  facade,  lean  fingers  color  its  parts  with  a  carmine  painting,  traces  of  conflict,  cutting  edge  of  his  mind.          ❛          don`t  you  see     ?     your  heart  has  already  chosen  your  path.     it  has  to  be  lived,  no  matter,  which  way  it  takes  you.     you`ve  been  through     𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑒     things,   no     ?     it`s  not  bad.          ❜

𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚃    𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂    𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼    𝙻𝙾𝚆    𝙲𝙷𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴     on  his  part.     with  thumb  pressed  against  his  lip,  he  gives  him  a  smile  so  hated,  like  other  of  his  deeds,  that  can  not  be  compared  to  this  gesture.     he  is  still  here  and  still  near  him,  allows  to  violate  the  zone,  to  dominate  him,     𝑡𝑜    𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠    𝘩𝑖𝑚.          ❛          why  should  it  be  bad     ?          ❜          𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽    𝚈𝙾𝚄    𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿    𝙵𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶     and  you  still  continue  to  give,  what  you  never  wanted.     this  tragedy  is  one  of  many  stories,  written  by  both  willing  and  reluctant  hands,  where  love  and  death  together  make  history.          ❛          . . .     i`ll  ask  again.     do  you  know,  what  love  is     ?          ❜

[waiting-among-the-stars]

Among the Stars, Chapter One - Part Three

When words found them again, it was Honey who made a move first. He stood, and cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention to him, and somehow even just that was enough to calm a few nerves, and for Indie, so was Shade’s hand falling heavy on his shoulder, before the larger man took to quietly braid Indie’s hair for him, knowing it would bother him otherwise. Honey was a blessing sometimes, a calm and gentle optimism in the face of fear and danger, and Indie couldn’t say where he’d be without Shade.

“Alright, alright. I get that we’re all scared, but we knew from the start that we’d have some of them on board.” Honey reminded them. “This is just confirming what we already knew. No one is dead yet, so let’s take that as a good sign, and keep moving forward. Rusty’s done this three times before too, so I’m sure this meeting of his is just to lay out a plan of action so we can all make it through alive.”

“Honey-boy’s right.” Buck now stood up from his seat, walking past to clap a solid hand on Honey’s shoulder, giving him a soft shake of encouragement. “We start gettin’ all bogged down about our worries, then we’re gettin’ nothin’ done. And that’s what those monsters want. We get scared, we stop doin’ our jobs right, and we become just easy pickings for them.”

“Hey! I’m nobody’s free lunch meat!” Silver was on the table now, fist hitting against his palm, his feet kicking against plates and silverware. “Rose, I know you think we can reason with them, and I want to agree. I want to see the good side of all this and hope maybe they’re not unable to negotiate, but I refuse to be eaten, or whatever it is they do.” Shade’s grip tightened on Indie’s shoulder, either from nerves or otherwise, and the shorter man moved closer.

“Shade?”

“Hm?”

“Will we be okay..?” Both hands were on his shoulders now, his grip heavy and firm. It was an almost solemn weight, holding Indie close before Shade spoke again.

“If everything goes right..”

“Don’t worry, Indie.” Rose gave his hand a brief squeeze to reassure him, running her thumb gently along the back of it. “Nothing’s going to hurt you. You’ve got Shade to keep you safe, and the rest of us too. We’ve got you.” It was a reassuring sentiment, that was for sure, but River sighed, shaking her head a moment.

“I can’t shake the nerves so easily.”

“Me neither!” Skylar’s voice shook, try as he might to steady himself.

“Sky, you’re always freaked by something.”

“I can’t help it! I keep hearing all sorts of sounds when we sleep! Scratching in the walls, and.. And these big thumping noises.. It’s freaky, okay?!” Indie had quietly finished eating now, and stood from his seat to put his dish in the bin so Honey could- He stumbled, his leg caught against something, and even with the quick sounds of several crewmates scrambling out of their seats to catch him, he hit the floor hard. The dish shattered against metal, and Indie suddenly tasted blood. His own lip, torn in his fall, either by his tooth or by the broken plate.. A fast, but heavy ‘thmp-tap, thmp-tap’, and he was lifted off the floor, strong arms holding him ever so gently.. And ever so close…

“Hey.. Easy there, Indie.” Honey urged him softy, a hand briefly running along Indie’s long braid. “You didn’t have to get up, I would’ve come by to get your plate.”

“But I- ...I don’t like being treated like I’m helpless.. I’m not-”

“We know you’re not helpless, Indie. You’ve got some of the best reflexes I’ve ever seen. But.. everyone slips up sometimes, and.. We just like to help.”

“Yeah.. that’s something, though..” Indie didn’t have to see him, to hear the frown in Silver’s voice, or the suspicion. “Whose bright idea was it to send the blind man on what’s probably going to be a death mission?”

“Wait. What are you saying, Sil?”

“Just.. Captain’s survived three of these missions.. Right?” There was a heaviness in his tone, and he dropped his voice lower, in case of any unwanted eavesdroppers. “He says, those things just.. left him alone, right? They let him live? Killed everyone else, but let him live.”

“Hm.. I’d reckon you’re onto something there.” Buck leaned back in his seat a bit, and Indie could smell the burning smoke of a cigarette as the man lit one, taking a drag before he spoke again. “From all the reports before, none ever survived if the imposters weren’t weeded out quick. So how’d our Russell Carmine survive three rounds with ‘em?”

“Unless the real Russell Carmine is dead, and our Captain’s a fake.”

“Silver, come on. You can’t be so sure about that.”

“Can’t I? Captain’s the one who approves all incoming crew last I checked, and what’s an easier target for an imposter… than a blind crewmate?”

“You mean.. he approved of Indie’s transfer.. so there’d be an easy meal on board for imposters?” Skylar’s voice shook worse now, and Indie could feel all eyes on him. Honey’s hold on him tightened just a bit, protectively so, and he even found himself pushing himself closer against the yellow-clad crewmate for safety.

“Not just an easy meal for imposters.. but for our Captain to have easy pickings when he’s looking for a late night snack. He’s playing us for fools, and as soon as our backs are turned? We’ll find nothing left of Indie, except his suit.. hanging out of a vent near the cockpit, in blood-soaked shreds...”

“Now, hold on a minute.” Honey gave Indie a gentle pat on his back, still hugging him close to guard him. “What if you’re wrong? Say the Captain’s not an imposter, what then? We vote to launch Rusty, and then we’ve got no captain, and we’re sitting ducks. So-” He paused a moment, before again he gently ran a hand over Indie’s hair. Rose had come close now too, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“You’re scaring Indie.. He’s shaking..” She shook her head, frowning. “Silver, I thought you were on my side? You said it too, just last week.. The imposters could be reasoned with, we should try talking to them instead of just killing them without thinking.. They’re.. They’re doing this for a reason, and I want to find out what it is.”

“That’s a fair point. I used to help my granddad sometimes.. you know, with the animals on his farm.” Forest acknowledged. “And he always told me, ‘if you get kicked by a mule, don’t start blaming the beast, and look at your own choices instead. No animal will hurt you without a good reason.’”

“I getcha, Forest, but I ain’t caught a reason yet for these things to be toyin’ with us all and jerkin’ us ‘round like they do.” Buck sighed, pulling his hat lower over his brow as he leaned back in his seat, the metal whining a bit under the larger man’s movements. “They’re playin’ us like a weasel in a foxhole, makin’ us anxious for no real use ‘cept just that. To make us jumpy. No reason to drag it this long if they mean to kill us, an’ hell, I still ain’t caught a reason they’d be doin’ that either, ‘cept that it’s just all them playin’ a cheatin’ game with no other purpose behind it. They’re just playin’, worse’n a cat with a mouse it doesn’t intend on eatin’.” It was silent for another moment or two, before now River spoke again.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough.” She stood from her seat, and it wasn’t long before her hand was on Indie’s arm as well, giving him a reassuring pat. “I’m just as freaked as the rest of you, but if we carry on like this, we’re only going to make rushed decisions at the meeting, and what if Silver’s wrong? Then we’ll have launched the only guy who knows anything about dealing with the imposters, out there to his death. Now I need a hot shower before the big decisions get made, but I suggest that none of us decide anything stupid, alright?” And then she was gone, the door sliding closed behind her.

“She’s right.” Honey sighed, finally letting up from his hold on Indie. “We should all probably take a bit to relax before the meeting, and we’ve all got our tasks to do, so let’s just focus on that for now, yeah?” A collective murmuring of agreement, and slowly they all departed for their respective rooms, or to work on their assigned tasks.

---- Time :: 12:49:24.57, approx. 10 min. until meeting ----

Things were quiet when he was by himself, and there wasn’t really anything wrong with that. Except for the fact that when Indie was alone, he always started thinking too much on things he probably shouldn’t. Especially.. The incident that had left him blind in the first place. It played over in his head like a blood-soaked horror film he couldn’t turn off, and it was on loop. An endless, torturous loop he couldn’t escape. He remembered, he remembered all of it, and it would never leave him.

It had been a simple day, following his sister as she left to explore the woods, her insistence that he should just go home, his own arguments that it wasn’t fair if she didn’t take him along, and then- It all went wrong in a flash! Screams, howls, men with guns, more screams! Over and over again! Flashing teeth, the sounds of gunshots, more screaming! He could hear it all still so clearly, could remember all those scenes of death and bloodshed! Men shouting, more gunshots, blood everywhere, no knowing whose it was, no knowing who was alive! Everything flashing, whizzing past, it was all a blur! His sister was gone, her blood staining his hands, more screams, more shouting, more-

“Indie?” The hand on his shoulder startled him, and he stumbled back, tripping over loose cords, and- he hit the floor hard, his head slamming against the wall on his way down, but he almost didn’t care. He was caught too far in a panic, his breathing coming in short gasps, dulled eyes searching for nothing and everything all at once. Uneven footsteps, quick movements, and before he knew it, he was suddenly wrapped firmly in an embrace. His first instinct was to panic more, to thrash and struggle, but.. for reasons even he didn’t know, he did none of those things.

The arms around him were strong, holding him ever so close, so protectively, but.. not so tight he couldn’t leave if he wanted to. He was cradled in the lap of whoever it was holding him, and.. that wasn’t exactly a difficult feat, considering he was the smallest of all of them, but.. it was comforting. It felt safe, being held like this. So, it could only be Shade who held him now. His protector, his safety net, his comfort, but..

“Easy now, Indie..” Honey’s voice was soft in his ear, soothing as the cook gently rocked him just a little. “It’s okay.. I didn’t mean to scare you.. It’s okay.. I’ve got you.. I’ve got you, buddy.. The meeting can wait a minute more.. Shh.. You’re okay..”

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[firewoodfigs]

hug me ‘til you drug me, honey, love me 

(for @royaiweek day 1 - letters & day 2 - little pistol. thank u mods!! 💕)

read on ao3 

Summary: They don’t, can’t remember each other - not when they’ve been stripped of their identities and labelled with letters and numbers, before being slotted deftly into an inescapable hierarchy and social destiny. The only brief memory they have of each other lies within a letter inscribed onto her back.

Rating: M, for Machiavellian bastards!! 

a/n: (i) inspired by many pieces of art - Huxley’s Brave New World (some of the italicised lines, as well as the title, are taken from his book), Wilfred Owen’s Anthem for Doomed Youth, snippets from Mother Mother’s Little Pistol, as well as soterianyx’s analysis of Riza’s tattoo and my friend’s explanation that fire on sand brings glass (hello friend thanks for teaching me physics!!).  (ii) please note the rating - it’s rated for graphic depictions of violence and war, and the context of this piece is based on an autocratic dystopia. (iii) count the alphabets if you’re confused by who’s who xD  (iv) i wanted to experiment with a different writing style - it’s meant to sound more detached etc (quite out of my comfort zone tbh haha because i'm typically a sap) to bring across the ruthlessness of everything that’s going on here. feedback is greatly appreciated!

~x~

Memory. Identity. Emotions.

The Amestrian military has no need for silly things like these. Sentimentalities are but frivolities in a war zone. The military needs people who can kill without batting an eyelid - cavalier about murder, like the Autocrat’s rapier. Soldiers who will mindlessly obey orders; subjugate themselves to the will of the State without resistance.

The individual is not its own being. It is a part of the State.

Bearing this axiom in mind, A-18/13 dutifully accepts his fate as a State Alchemist. He snaps on his ignition gloves, staring blankly at the red sigil - a lost, distant memory, perhaps? Regardless, he does not probe, does not flinch as the heat engulfs his hands and reminds him of a bittersweet embrace that he’s never tasted.

After all, the perfect soldier wastes no time on ruminations like these.

A-18/13 is armed for battle and ready to abide by the State’s decree. What might have once been remorseful reluctance and moral scruples are now replaced by an undying loyalty, an unwavering fealty to the State.

The white coat shrouds him like a cloud, but there’s an inexplicable coldness to it. It’s odd. He’s supposed to be the Flame Alchemist, but using his powers for simple comforts like warmth instead of killing feels rather inane. And so he refrains from doing so.

Instead, he stands ruler-straight with the rest of the State Alchemists, ignoring the subtle hunger and discomfiture bubbling in his throat.  

“For the greater good,” the soldiers chant, mouths moving like parrots. “For the greater good of the State.”

On the other side of the room, E-18/8 likewise accepts her orders. She’s young - hardly an adult by legal standards - fresh out of the academy, but it’s of little import to the State. All that matters is her talent in handling a gun, a rifle; her readiness to be shipped out to the desert. Notwithstanding her relatively petite stature, there’s a stubborn strength in her shoulders that beguiles her age and inexperience in war.

“Stay in the shadows, fire at any threat,” is the command given to her. “Sacrifice yourself for those who are above you.”

At their behest, she salutes before stepping forward to accept her instrument of death. The rifle feels cool against her palm, but she doesn’t flinch. What might have once been a burning desire to protect someone has been quashed and replaced with hands that are cold as ice. Indifferent to bloodshed.

“For the greater good,” the soldiers recite again. “For the greater good of the State.”

Their hollow voices reverberate across the room like the sounds of a lonely, dispassionate choir.

“Silence, silence.” Chanting dies off into light, regular breathing. The air is sibilant with the categorical imperative as they await further orders.

The Autocrat begins his descent down the stairs, into the basement shrouded by a thickening, eerie atmosphere of gray. He enters into the room: regal, powerful and of stalwart built.

The ultimate Alpha.

Everyone bows deferentially. “Fuhrer King Bradley,” his puppets’ voices resonate in perfect harmony across the room.

He looks upon them from the platform on which he stands with an unreadable expression. Then, with a deceptively pleasant smile, he asks, “You know what Ishvala is, I suppose?”

A rhetorical question. The soldiers chime in with the answer he anticipates, without any need for prompting. “A dead religion,” they reply, in perfect harmony.

Deadened, darkened eyes turn to look at him.

“Wonderful. Such excellent soldiers you all are. Well, remember this now, even if you forget everything else.” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s disgustingly delightful as his lips curl upward, undertones of menace lingering within. The Autocrat draws his sword out. The tip of his blade meets the ground, and he rests his palms on the hilt as he barks out his next command. “All orders are to be obeyed immediately, for the greater good of the State.”  

“For the greater good of the State,” his lackeys reply, an incantation thoroughly internalised by now.

He smiles once more, before letting his gaze linger for a little while longer on A-18/13 and E-18/8. The two soldiers who, reportedly, were the most difficult amongst the lot to deal with during the extraction process.

Amelos potamos, it was called - a process by which soldiers were medically induced into a coma before utilising alchemy to tap into their subconscious, to extract and seal their memories away.

The goal was for them to wake up without any recollection of who they were, save for their fighting capabilities, as the gold-toothed doctor so kindly explained to the Autocrat. Emotional capabilities eroded so that troublesome fetters like - god forbid, feelings! - could get out of the picture. Consciences atrophied, minds brainwashed. All obstacles to the full realisation of their indestructible power in the war erased.

Reduced to subconsciousness, amelos potamos had been a surprisingly easy process to perform on most soldiers. For the general majority there was no struggle against the process, and they awoke into nothingness: nothing but shells of their former selves. For some, their minds had repelled against the procedure initially, as if desperately grappling on to fragments of their former selves, but eventually they’d succumbed as well.

A-18/13 and E-18/8 had, however, proved to be most cumbersome with their startling mental resistance. Even in their subconscious their minds had clawed frantically at the memories they shared with each other, stubbornly refusing to let go of the basis behind their shared bond. The doctors struggled to find a way around this, and even when they arrived at a solution it was a long, painstaking process to go through the elaborate removal of their memories, piece by piece - for there were so many - and -

-- and destroy every single trace.

And finally, at the end of it, they recalled nothing, felt nothing as they arose from their comatose states to a chilly hospital room. To a perfect world, without hindrances to ruthlessness. The perfect soldiers were engineered thus.

What man has engineered, nature is powerless to put asunder.

The Autocrat smiles beatifically at last, eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. He inspects the soldiers once more with all the coldness of someone debating a pawn’s move on a chessboard.  “It’s time.”

At his beckon, they march out into battle like an army of marionettes.

~x~

Out in the battlefield, the Amestrian soldiers are like industrialised man-machines, way ahead of their time. An inward dehumanisation, an outward mechanisation. The Alchemists, in particular, possess a power so lethal that they could wipe out an entire army of men with the slightest snap of their fingers, the briefest clap of hands.

This they do unflinchingly, without hesitation.

True to the gold-toothed doctor’s predictions, there were no obstructions to the realisation of their full potential. Gone were nuisances like compunction, pity - foreign concepts that didn’t belong in the desert. The soldiers simply stare at their corpses laid out before them with glazed eyes, before continuing to traverse the desert like the very harbingers of doom themselves.

Death and destruction follow them, wherever they go. There is no remorse to be felt amidst the rifles’ rapid rattles; no guilt or sympathy that halts their movements.

Neither does fear plague the brave, heartless soldiers - not even when the soldiers are held at gunpoint or witness an explosive being thrown their way. Epsilons like E-18/8 protected those who were ahead of them in the hierarchy, and were willing to kill, murder; sacrifice their bodies without a second thought.

When A-18/13 was almost stabbed from the back, for example, E-18/8 had fired a shot straight to the culprit’s head that instantaneously killed him without batting even so much as an eyelash.

Her victim’s blood spills in the distance. A bright splash of scarlet, like carmine roses growing on a decrepit wasteland. He falls lifeless to the ground.

She doesn’t recoil in the slightest: her eyes are as lifeless as the cadaver’s.

For the greater good of the State, they cantillate in their heads. An anthem for doomed youths who are slotted into an inescapable social destiny.

A-18/13 notices the sniper hiding in the comforting darkness of a bell tower from the corner of his eye, and makes a mental note to thank the stranger as she begins walking towards their base camp for their lunch break. They stand six feet apart, glassy-eyed amidst desultory conversations.

He approaches her slowly when their eyes meet. There’s an uncomfortable feeling stirring in his gut - have we met before? But he’s quick to quash it, as if stepping on a bothersome insect. “Thank you for earlier,” he says.

“Not at all. It is my duty, sir,” she responds tonelessly, before taking a seat opposite A-18/13 and B-13/8. They sip coffee and eat ration bars in a wordless, somewhat peaceful quietude despite the chaos around them.

The coffee tastes like dirt, and the ration bar reminds them of cardboard.

They eat anyway, without complaint.

Incidentally, A-19/10/11 happens to overhear their interactions. He turns around to face them. “Cadets like her deserve no thanks when they are simply doing their jobs,” he sneers. It's doltish, he thinks, to thank someone for something they're ordered to do.

E-18/8 makes no protests or objections despite the condescension in his statement. In a world without trivialities like memories or identities or emotions, the hierarchy’s austerity elicits no complaints.

Suddenly, a bell goes off. Duty calls. It signals the end of their lunch break, and they're quick to finish the last of their measly meals before standing once more for battle.

E-18/8 slings her rifles and prepares to leave. Her back reminds A-18/13 of the tall, white columns of an estate that occasionally appeared in his dreams.

A ponderous lump begins to form in his throat, but before he can ponder further the bell chimes again. Around him, soldiers recite the dreadful axiom once more.  

War wages on. The Flame Alchemist rises, and the sigil on his leathery glove begins to glow a lethal claret.  

A snap. Bodies burnt beyond recognition. Another snap. Curses and vows of vengeance eventually subsiding to muted prayers.

It’s a mortifying sight to take in: the entire place reeks more of death than sand.

The desert wind carries the howls of pain, the screams for mercy and the broken pleas for salvation from a god who doesn’t seem to hear the dying voices of its people. Please, stop - what did we ever do wrong? Don’t take my lover’s life, take mine instead -

(I pray that you’ll always be that way… May you shine like fire before men; kindness and mercy your strongest traits.  And most of all, I pray that our love for each other will always -)  

A-18/13 simply regards all of this with a vacant, uncaring look. He’s quick to snap once more, incinerating mortals into ash - from dust we were made, and back to that we shall return - as if they were but matchsticks waiting to be lit up.

Unfettered by scruples, carefully curated gardens and entire landscapes are eventually swallowed by a lake of fire and brimstone. Roses are set on fire, and there’s a pistol party going on somewhere behind him.

A cacophony of bullets, a symphony of death.  

(Be thou for the people. You’re… you’re the most honorable of all my apprentices, and you deserve to have it. If you just ask my daughter, tell her you’ll use it for the right reasons… she will give you the key to the secrets of flame alchemy.)

(Can I… can I trust you with my back, Roy? You’re a good man, and I’d like to put my faith in that dream of yours.)

His expression remains unfazed.

~x~

Amelos potamos, despite its promises of creating the perfect soldiers, did not grant its victims immunity from physical sensations.

Pain. It's a complex feeling (feelings? god forbid something like that exists!) - equal parts physical and mental. It's as much biological as it is psychological.

E-18/8 bites her lips to stop herself from screaming in pain when the explosion burns her instead of A-18/13. Jumping in front of him to defend his body was an intuitive reaction, one that doesn't even require any contemplation.

(I would do anything to protect you, Riza. Even if that means sacrificing myself.)

(As would I, Roy. A life without you is not one worth living.)  

Surely, it must have been the call of duty that compelled her to act that way. The words of A-19/10/11 echo in her mind, and she decides that she doesn’t deserve any thanks or show of concern for merely complying with orders. She’s prepared to walk - no, crawl - back to the weather-beaten tent despite the agony that sears through her, but -

-- for the first time since the war, the Flame Alchemist’s expression cracks ever so slightly.

He crosses the distance between them in two long strides and ushers her towards the tent, allowing her to lean on him for support. E-18/8 staggers from the pain, but holds in her scream nonetheless. A subtle hint of worry starts to sneak into his frown.

A-18/13 pushes aside the flap and quickly shuts it for privacy, before setting her down slowly on the bedrolls and deftly removing what was left of her uniform jacket and undershirt so that he could tend to her wounds.

The lacerations that she’s sustained look awful. It’s the worst on her shoulders, angry blisters mottling her smooth skin. His eyes move lower down her back - the injuries there don’t look as bad, and for the most part the ink there remains.

The scene feels strangely familiar, like he’s done this before.

He pours out the antiseptic and dabs gently at the gaping wounds. She winces, but before she can yelp she contains it with another hard bite down her lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

E-18/8 thinks it’s strange. There’s nothing to apologise for. In the first place, it’s an oddity why someone higher in the hierarchy like him is even helping her dress her wounds. But she supposed it made sense - she couldn’t reach those wounds herself, after all, and it was best to repair his subordinates quickly so that she could resume her duties as his human shield.

“Not at all, sir,” she manages to exhale through the pain. Bandages are rolled around the injured area on her shoulders fastidiously. He moves on to the wounds on her back.

It is only then that he takes a closer examination at the tattoo, and to his surprise he realises it’s an alchemical array - an array that’s strikingly similar to the one on his gloves.

The epiphany hits him then, like a blaring truck. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the back of the nameless, faceless girl that appears in his dream.

He wonders why he dreams of someone he supposedly doesn’t know.

“Sir?” she asks, snapping him out of his reverie. His mending has come to a pause. E-18/8 wishes he would hurry up so that they could return to their duties. The perfect soldiers, after all, wasted no time on silly musings or dilly-dallyings.

“Ah, sorry,” he apologises again. A frown makes its presence known on her ashen countenance, but she swallows the pain as the dry air kisses her blisters along with the - dare she say, irritation?

“We should hurry up,” she whispers softly through gritted teeth, masking her - well, she didn’t know if it was irritation causing her teeth to grind against each other.

“Right,” he replies. He makes quick work of patching up the last of her wounds, before continuing to trace the tattoo in a dazed trance. There’s a tender sort of carefulness to his movements as he caresses the planes of her back. It elicits a shudder from the blonde, and she pins the blame on the desert wind that blows in fiercely through the little gaps pockmarking the flimsy tent.

His fingers continue their methodical dance down the grooves of her spine. E-18/8 shudders again, but the winds have stopped.

The Flame Alchemist gently thumbs the words that lay below the intricate array. Poems alluding to love and apology and light; frivolities that are unequivocally frowned upon by the State.

(Through fire, we gain knowledge and truth - the same way fire brings clarity to sand in the form of glass.)

(Well, that’s very... poetic, Roy.)

Further down, there’s an inscription that stands out in a gentle blue cursive - like the waters of an ocean, or a clear, azure sky he doesn’t quite remember seeing since time immemorial. The only images they saw in the desert were rivers of blood that drowned land and sky in crimson, the colour of the sigil on his glove and the words above.

This particular inscription, though, is different. Aside from the disparity in colour, it speaks not of holy flames or physics or thermodynamics. Instead, it’s a letter, seemingly addressed to someone. It’s intriguing and frightening all the same, because it whispers taboos and a dangerous secret that he can’t quite wrap his finger around.

Nevertheless, he runs a finger across the alphabets spelling out a… a name.

A name.

His face pales, like the posthumous whiteness of marble - does this blaspheme against the State? - but ignoring the warning bells his fingers continue their descent.

It’s not just a name, but two. Two names, framing an inscription of identity. Emotion. Memory.

My dear Riza, dearest Riza Hawkeye,

You will always be your own person, And I will always love you for that.

Lest we forget, Roy Mustang

“Ri...za,” he calls apprehensively. The foreign taste lingering on his tongue makes him feel like he’d just eaten the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.  “Riza,” he tries again, “Hawkeye.”

“Who is that, sir?”

Riza Hawkeye.

The image of a young girl in a sundress flashes before him. His mind reels like a film-roll as memories flash past, sepia tones of nostalgia colouring them. It’s vague, but he’s starting to see the barely discernible outlines of a girl who looks like a younger version of the injured sniper before him.

The nameless, faceless girl that haunted him in his dreams…

Was it - was it her?

“It’s… I think it’s you.” he says, a desperate plea for them to remember, remember - lest we forget -

“That’s impossible, sir. I go by E-18/8,” she answers, but there’s a nervousness that creeps around her placid tone as she remembers the occasional dreamful slumber.

The picture of a younger her with a nameless, faceless raven-haired man, summertime and sunlight kissing their skin as they sat together on the front porch, feet dangling and fingers intertwining. The dream would always end, without fail, whenever he began to whisper their names to the wind.

But once, just once… she’d seen him mouth a “ri” before the dream came to an abrupt end.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s you,” he says, with more urgency to his voice this time. A desperate plea for them to remember, remember - lest we forget - “There’s another name here - Roy Mustang. Does that sound familiar to you?”

(... Hello, Mister Mustang.)

(Please don’t call me that, Riza. Just call me Roy - I won’t bite, I promise.)

“... Vaguely, sir.”

(Alright… sir.)

(That’s even worse! I’m not some… some old-fashioned lord. I just want to be your friend -)

(... Friend?)

As if possessed by some kind of uncontrollable automatism, they begin to cry. A teardrop falls on an open wound on the small of her back, and she jerks upright.

“Sorry,” comes his third apology.

Acting purely on instinct now, he wraps his arms loosely around her from behind, trying to navigate through the storm brewing in his mind. He finally has a taste of the embrace he’s subconsciously been yearning for. It’s bittersweet and agonising all at once. Desire burns, and he finds himself longing for more.  

She makes no move to escape his hold. Instead, she rests her palms on his scorched skin, feeling the calluses with a rough, padded thumb. It’s warm underneath her. He lives up to his moniker, she thinks, as heat begins to surge through her body.

Hug me till you drug me, honey; kiss me till I’m in a coma…

An almost carnal desire spills from his heart, running to his lips. He presses his lips on the back of her neck to soothe it. She shudders again, and this time she knows - it’s not because of the wind, but him.

“What… what were we, Riza? What are we now?”

“I don’t know, Roy,” she cries out softly, as she turns to return his gesture of affection.

For the briefest of moments, their lips meet. Flames unfurl beneath them, and suddenly the only war, the only tussle is not the one awaiting them outside, but within them - their souls and memories desperately trying to reconnect with their bodies -

(I pray that our love for each other will always remain. I pray, Father, that you forgive us for our sins, past and future, and that the scarlet thread that runs between us will be one of love, not murder -)

The bell rings, again. Any memories that they might have recollected of each other immediately recede like a spectre.

For the greater good of the State.

They break apart from each other in stunned silence. E-18/8 is the first to stand, thanking him for tending to her wounds. “I am alright now, sir. We should get going.”

(Isn’t it interesting, Riza? Fire on sand brings glass. Here, let me show you - )

(Yes, Roy. I’m well aware. You’ve made that clear with your incessant rambling.)

Their consciences remain unclear as they step back out into the arid, sandy wasteland.

[vinatintasupernovita]

Hello, sorry that I’ve sent so many of these! But I had an idea. What if the reader tries to teach war about a weapon and how to use it, without knowing who/what she is. And war goes along with it before eventually just showing off and correcting the reader on their teaching.

You don’t gotta apologize, these are actually a whole lot of fun and it’s helping pass the time!

“Carmine, c’mere!” You call from the other room.

You and your girlfriend Carmine Zuigiber, better known by her colleagues and not by you as War, had been having a movie night- Legally Blonde, her choice- when your Amazon package had been delivered. To which you quickly paused the movie and ran to the door because you had been waiting for this package for what felt like forever but what really was about two business days.

You ordered a throwing dagger, about 9 inches long and very fancy, as it was even engraved. You had taken a couple knife throwing classes a few summers back and thought to yourself ‘screw it’ before ordering a new knife. It was very pretty, and you were more than excited to show off your skills.

Now, your girlfriend was also very good with weaponry. She was War afterall. Not that you knew that, of course. You had been together a little under a year, and War wasn’t one to rush such a big reveal as “I’m actually an ancient being of chaos and bloodshed created for the sole purpose of one day helping bring about the end times”. To you, she was just Carmine, spunky reporter for a world-renown news organization. And as far as you knew, she had never touched a knife like this in her life.

“Ohh, it’s pretty.” She said as she walked over. “Wanna test it out?”

“What, in the apartment?” You asked.

“Eh, knives are just big darts.” She said as she scoped out the room. “You still have that old gym mat you don’t use, right? With the sun on it? It’ll make a good target.”

“I totally use it.” You protested as she gave you a look. A “don’t lie to me, I know the truth” kinda look. You huffed. “..Yes I still have it.”

“Go get it and i’ll clear some space for you.” War said as you set down the dagger and went to your junk room.

When you emerged about 5 minutes later, covered in a thin layer of dust and carrying a bulky, unused gym mat, you were slightly surprised how quick War was at cleaning. Little miracles never really hurt, did they?

“Ok set it up right here-“ War helped you move the now-opened mat up against the wall and secure it. “That should keep the wall from getting fucked up.”

“Thanks hon.” You said as you got your dagger back and looked at it. “Step back, this is super dangerous.”

“I’m steppin.” War chuckled a bit as she moved back and watched you throw the knife. It landed in the mat, snuggly placed near the outer edges of the sun. “Nice aim.”

“Oh that’s so much fun!” You said gleefully as you went and pulled it free.

“Mind if I have a go at it?” War asked as you came back over.

“Yeah, of course. Want me to show you?” You handed her the knife.

“Sure babe.” She said. Really, she knew more about weaponry than you ever would, especially things like blades. Knife throwing was a piece of cake, but she wanted to humor you.

War lined up with the mat and you took her dominant arm in your hands, motioning it to throw.

“You gotta keep your balance and throw like you’d throw a baseball.” You said as you demonstrated for her, incorrectly might I add. “And don’t second guess. When you throw it, just let it fully go.”

“Ok, I got you.” War said as she looked at the smiling sun mat and intended to hit it right in the middle of it’s cartoon sunglasses. She arched her arm back behind her head before releasing forward, sending the blade flying. It hit right on the mark, but only because she actually knew what she was doing. Whoever had taught you clearly needed their license revoked, because they weren’t teaching proper technique.

“Woah! Bullseye!” You cheered. “Carm, that was great!”

“It’s nothin.”

“Nothing?” You repeat. “Carmine you hit it on your first try! I couldn’t even do that after three lessons.”

“Wonder if it’s just beginners luck?” War said, knowing for a fact it wasn’t. She got the knife back from its spot and tossed it in the air with a spin, catching the handle. The sight of which made your heart skip a beat. “Let’s see..”

She threw it again, it hitting another bullseye. And again, and again, and again! At this point she was just showing off. Which, she was fine with. You clearly were enjoying the show.

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” You asked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, you could say I have.” She said. “Want me to teach you a trick to always hit it in the center?”

“Show me.” She placed the dagger in your hand and lead it back as you did for her.

“Imagine the target as head of your worst enemy.” She said. “Take all the pent up anger towards them. And hit it.” For War, that could’ve been a number of people. A lot of Romans had gotten on her nerves back in the day.

You took a deep breath and tried as she instructed.

Bam! Right on target.

“See? I knew you could do it.” War chuckled as you looked so excited, kissing your forehead.

“Thanks, Carm.” You said, looking at her with a glitter in your eye.

Later on, when you finally learn the truth, that day’s events will play back in your head, and a lot of things will make a lot more sense.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, LISSA! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Minnie: Our Bellamy has come home at last, and I am so excited to welcome you as well, Lissa! Your application was, in a word, gorgeous. I could viscerally feel Bellamy’s heartache and his struggles with every line, and you mapped out a beautiful peacemaker who has yet to find peace within himself. While I read and reread your prose several times, it was your passion for Bellamy that really made this an easy decision. The level of thoughtfulness and care, Lissa, was next level, truly. It became very clear to us how deeply you loved Bellamy, and I’m so excited to see Bellamy blossom on our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

ALIAS:

Lissa.

AGE:

21.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS:

She/her.

ACTIVITY LEVEL:

My time is limited because of university and my part-time internship. However, I’d say I’m able to pop up twice/thrice a week, more or less!

TIMEZONE:

GMT -3.

HOW DID YOU FIND THE RP?

I found this RP some time ago, so I can’t say for sure. Probably through the tags, though!

OTHER RP ACCOUNTS:

https://dantesinfcrno.tumblr.com/.

IN CHARACTER .

CHARACTER:

Benvolio as Bellamy Santo Domingo.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

“ WAR-BEGOTTEN. ” ╱  “ HIS KICKING A MEANS OF DEFENSE FROM CRUELTY. ”

NATURE VERSUS NURTURE, an undying question with no solutions, a concept with a spectrum that falters and crumbles in the hands of Bellamy: a boy, born amidst carnage, picking flowers in haunted fields and gifting beauty upon the world like a stolen flame only pertinent to deities. He wears no crown of laurels upon waves of untamed hair, but every spring spats thorns before his feet. Bellamy cradles them, plunges them against his veins, his chest, his neck, puncturing his flesh with words whispered by fated winds. Kindness is dangerous as a sharp blade, if wielded with enough precision. He refuses, time and time again, this visceral call from the woods, from the ivory castles that know of corpses and festering. He refuses, vices and sins unbecoming of him –– but they are already there, lurking in the shadows since air reached his lungs for the first time. Bellamy pretends not to see it, but those who stare deep into his eyes can recognize the Stygian darkness that swims underneath honeyed warmth. A flame is still scorching, no matter how domesticated.

IN AN INTERLUDE, he swears there will never be carmine stains in his fingers. He lays awake at night, however –– the blood his heart pumps might as well not be his own; might have been harvested off the bodies buried beneath Verona’s sacrilegious grounds. Bellamy wonders, a heavy conscience his first determining trait, if he is not punishment from the heavens to the Santo Domingo lineage, if he is not a life sentence determined by God to appease the remnant lambs saved from slaughter. As he moves through the Montagues, through his own people, Bellamy looks in a mirror, and sees nothing. He has always been a ghost, meant to carry what no one desires to hold close.

BELLAMY IS NOT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE of the likes of his father: he is a morgue, eerie place of eternal unrest. Battlecries do not linger in his tongue as prayers do; his knuckles suffer a lesser offense than his guts once a punch is thrown. Violence is a betrayal to the murdered saints that crawl through his spine, and once again–– Bellamy refuses to bow before his birthright. In a world of dog eats dog, he opts to remain alive until his last breath is stolen from his lungs, his canines and claws kept safely hidden underneath trained porcelain touch. To be made out of steel, and not crush all tender things that take root in his soul –– is it foolish, or is it admirable? The looks of pity are the only answer he has ever gotten.

“ POETIC AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOUL OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS. ”  ╱  “ CURSED WITH GENTLENESS. ”

KINDNESS & WEAKNESS, he learns, are not the same. Mercy is a weapon like any other, and Bellamy learns how to use it. They do not see it ; and dismissal becomes a habit for this ruinous shrine Bellamy dares call his body. He supposes, amidst war, it’s a privilege to have surprise by one’s side: no one expects the quietest of children to strike with such ravenous fury, hellfire blazing against raw flesh. Bellamy doesn’t speak of grief, of this century-old wound that has found a nest inside of his lungs, of this monstrous butterfly learning how to morph itself into anger.

I YEARN FOR PEACE. I yield. I must provide diplomacy for a world eager to end in flames. He repeats such verses as if they’re the poetry he is so fond of –– because the truth is, gentle elegance is a decision he has taken much before he could stand on his own legs. He is an absurdity, an oxymoron, an anomaly. Is that such a terrible thing to be? Is he in the wrong, to still mourn over those who wished to see him dead? He prays, quietly into the dead of night. He prays, and the world listens, but only for a moment. This is all the hope he has, and is it not an exit wound worse than any other? Relentless wishing upon a star, begging for a deity to descend from paradise and provide salvation–– in the end of this path, Bellamy forces himself to become Pariah & Messiah (if not him, who else would find reason amongst blasphemous madness? who else would shamefully bow their head before the cross, and beg for their sins to be forgiven?).

THE CURSE THEY SPEAK OF IS A BLESSING IN DISGUISE, for Montagues & Capulets alike are far too consumed by the fiery flames of murderous passion to understand the gravity of each battle they initiate. Bellamy has run out of ways to explain the weight of the blood that paints cobbled streets red ; decides to act as a fortress for his people (this entire city, plagued by a tale of two selfish families). PEACEMAKER, they say, as if it’s an insult –– as if his loyalty doesn’t lie deeper than any other soldier’s ; as if he has not sworn down his life for the chance Verona might see the sun rise in shades of joyous amber ; as if he hasn’t halted his existence to serve & protect.

BELLAMY DOES NOT offer words enlaced with poison to those who subdue him –– his throat aches with screams locked in for too long, but he dares not speak unless he delivers alluring arguments that might lead all out of danger. This is what he has never chosen for himself, and yet–– he bears it. For his father, for his brothers, for Roman and Marcelo, for the warriors that spit on the paths he follows with religious diligence, for the mothers in this nightmarish town that provides no comfort to their sons but death.

THE MIND HE HAS CULTIVATED, albeit mocked by many, is a powerful companion to the tender heart he has crafted with mangled hands. Innocence is vulgar in a world like this –– but Bellamy’s good will is not one borne out of naiveté. This is what both armies do not understand: Bellamy is not moved by his kindness, nor is he propelled by volatile emotions –– what blooms underneath the tender facade is a deliberate choice he will take, time and time again, funded on principles that have raised Athens from the ground up. This is what he will not abdicate. This is what no one sees, for he is more ghost than man, more mind than matter: amidst wicked and tempestuous men, Bellamy raises himself above raging waves, an unmovable marble tower.

HE, OF COURSE, STILL PICKS UP A DAGGER  ╱  a gun, infiltrating loveless troops in order to conquer peace. There is no other way, he has realized. Perhaps crumbling is necessary for rebirth ; perhaps some sins can only be washed out with blood. As Francis Butler once said, “the nation that will insist on drawing a broad line of demarcation between the fighting man and the thinking man is liable to find its fighting done by fools and its thinking done by cowards,” so Bellamy goes to the front lines ; not with the blind desire to create chaos  ╱  but to make change. If the weight of the pen is not enough, he will find a way to be heard.

“ SINS OF OMISSION. ”  ╱  “ PUT OUT THE FIRES. ”  ╱

“ SELF-LOATHING. ”

BELLAMY DOES NOT REST, his mind unable to encounter a moment of quiet. When will this end? He could only ever sleep once he turned his back to Verona, bloodshed no longer marring his door –– but still, he woke up in a cold sweat at least once a week, and it felt like betrayal, deep down in his bones. ATLAS could never hide his true nature, for the Earth would still weigh heavily down his shoulders. He wasn’t missed, of course, too much of an oddity, with idealist visions that somehow disturbed the choleric landscape they lived in. And yet, as he traveled around the globe, as he became renowned for his grasp of law & justice, insatisfaction was in the back of his mind. What if–– they died? What if–– Marcelo disappeared one night? What if–– Roman could not handle life on his own? What if––. No amount of change was capable of drowning this out, when the city that has birthed him was still ablaze. You have become selfish. He would stare at open windows, and the desire to book a flight would bellow inside of his every vein. Embrace your fate, for cowardice is unbecoming of a Santo Domingo.

BITTER ONCE HE LEAVES, bitter once he returns. Is there anything he could do, to prevent this miserable tale of a prodigal child coming back to a nest they’d long forsaken? No matter how many books he has memorized, there are no words that can explain this feeling –– no one can comprehend him, for his scars are invisible to most. He stands, tall and proud, but darkness comes for him, and he howls to the moon, for it is the only being who understands his pain. You, too, fester in ruby shades against your will. You, too, become eclipsed by a purpose much larger you could ever hope to be. You, too, are still following the footsteps of the sun. Bellamy can no longer abstain from this war, so he wears adamantine armour (a brilliant mind, a beautiful smile, poignant words). Some days, it’s easier to pretend he is no longer holy. Some days, he drowns the taste of copper from his tongue with wine. Some days, he cries –– for those he killed ; for his own spirit, mutilated. Most days, he becomes a sacred image made out of steel: I am no angel, but I can try, I must try.

“ BELLAMY MAY BE BORN INTO WAR, MAY HAVE BEEN BRED INTO IT, BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN HE WILL HAVE TO SUBMIT TO IT — NO, HE WILL FIGHT. ”

( ADDENDUM . )   In the novel, Benvolio is a static character, lacking much depth beyond his diplomatic role, as he is often the only voice of reason amidst a vicious crowd led by a herd mentality. I aim to translate his wish for peace as his primary motivation, but root it deeper –– the system in which Bellamy was raised in should have, in theory, destroyed all tenderness his nature would have provided him with. So where does it come from? How has he protected this piece of himself, even when surrounded by death? Bellamy is a strong character –– not only because of his physique, but because his mind is a fortress. I believe his philosophical spirit has always pushed Bellamy to see life beyond the walls of his own home. I believe the love he felt specifically for Roman and Marcelo urged him to value humanity much more than any other soldier of his kind. His gentleness has always been a choice: not always a conscious one, but a choice nonetheless. But no one has only one principle to follow, and morality is a grey and temptatious thing. Bellamy might not be easily led to a fight, but he has always been a protector –– his self-loathing and the ingrained idea that his life is worth less combine to form this selfless persona, sometimes to the point of toxicity, to the detriment of his own being, willing to do it all for whomever is in need.

What is most intriguing to me, concerning Bellamy, is that he is a paradox in more ways than one, which creates a multitude of paths he could take. He strives for peace, but is still fighting a war. In his core, he believes this conflict is useless and only acts as a catalyst for more pain, but since he desires to protect his loved ones (which includes the mob he was raised in, his family and friends, but might as well include a stranger in trouble) ��& honor his name, he came back to Verona as soon as he was summoned. He has been altruistic for so long it has worn him out, and now selfishness claws at his bones (he has left once, and perhaps he still thinks too often about doing so again –– Bellamy dreams of forgetting this city, wakes up and tries to repent for wishing to find an identity that goes beyond his occupation inside the Montague ranks). The kindness he chooses to exude is in high contrast to the anger that boils on his blood like a second skin –– he is tired of this game, he is exhausted of worrying and burying everyone that has once made him smile (and what does it take, for a guardian angel to turn his back on his people? What does it take, for a god to abandon his creations to bloodshed, and finally allow forgetfulness to consume his brain? I feel like Bellamy is constantly on the edge of an abyss, staring into the void, the point of no return daring him to step further). It almost feels like his body and his mind are disjointed, and his own wishes have been suppressed in order for him to fill in the shoes his family needs him to.

I don’t think Bellamy is moved by passion and intense emotions, even though his biggest motivators are linked to the people he cares about –– in fact, he cares so much about them, that he has always been willing to die by the sword if it meant his father and mother would be safe, if it meant Roman and Marcelo could enjoy a longer and happier life. He is not a cowardly man, never had the chance to be, even when the world became his home –– I envision that Bellamy has seen and lived many tragedies, probably had his hands on a few of them. It will weigh down on his back, on his shoulders. This type of character will always carry an omen on their bodies, no matter how hard they try to wash it out. I think this is a cycle that shackles Bellamy down and he still isn’t sure if he can break free from it (or even if he wants to do so, for being selfish has brought him unbearable guilt during his travels  &  Bellamy can’t forgive himself for straying away from the path delineated for him since birth): he was raised to be lethal, and he remains in this dark setting where flowers can not bloom, trying to force the petals to come out anyway, trying to grasp the sun and gift it to Verona, and the inevitable failing of this turns him disgusted by his own reflection, desperate to prove himself and justify his existence by doing his duty for the name Montague.

WHAT IS A FUTURE PLOT IDEA YOU HAVE IN MIND FOR THE CHARACTER?

GODHOOD. Verona is a city of sinners, and Bellamy’s hands are not devoid of their own –– however, in them, there is a gentleness carved out not from the absence of violence, but despite it ; a temple raised in the name of Agape, as Bellamy becomes a god, ready to purge & forgive, to kiss the feet of those who have walked upon a dirtied path & purify them. Odin Bello is not the first to use the Santo Domingo’s ears as a confessionary, and he certainly won’t be the last –– there is something in his eyes that prompts people to open up ; to make offerings and sacrifices in exchange of honeyed prayers, for it’s the holiest thing Verona has to offer (a boy still, whose halo is faded  ╱  whose body’s a litany of mysteries and nocturnal waves). This is the closest to peace they can get, half-angel at their doorstep, wings bled dry, gunpowder on his hands –– it is sublime as it is terrifying, and some can not bear it (Rafaella, for one, seems to be terrorized by his very image, insistent on driving him away as he pleads for her to see the light: where in God’s name is the child I’ve met, don’t you wish to forge a kinder ending to us all?). In his search for peace, Bellamy has long forgotten his own humanity –– he’s always had to bury it in order to fulfill his role as a son, as a warrior, as a scholar, as a peacemaker (there is no space for him to simply be, and he often wanders around Verona, searching for an exit  ╱  the world has not given him an answer, neither has the mob). What is he, but a weapon? What is he, but a forsaken deity? Bellamy has crossed oceans and continents, and still–– he isn’t seen. Is there one to embrace him fully, vices & virtues, blood moon & sunshine? Is there a way for Santo Domingo to dissolve himself of his own existence, but without guilt? The thoughts often haunt him –– but alas, he has to rise in the morning, for his own life is not the heaviest weight he has to carry.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Unlike the two other plots I will lay out in the next sections, this one is directed inwards. Bellamy, in my perception, has always seen himself in relation to others –– how he can help, what can he do for them, how his existence can be a tool for others to improve their own lives. He has always filled in a role: his motivations are genuine, but how does one push forward, when dedicating all of their energies to everyone but themselves? I think Bellamy had his time away from home  &  from the traditional boxes he had to fit himself into, but still–– it was marred by so much guilt and the constant stress of receiving dire news, because Bellamy had always been aware Verona would not change its ways, especially not with him gone. So many of his frustrations are still boiling underneath his skin –– he is out of place, he hasn’t found himself, he doesn’t feel like he can fully pursue his dreams &  wants because it would mean letting someone else down. He is still the soldier that put all of his desires on hold in the name of honouring his ancestors, and while he takes pride on this, on his family–– it is oh, so unfulfilling, to aim for peace and come back to war, to raise your voice and not be heard.

I’m very invested in my character’s psyches, and I fully believe every character has many layers that deserve to be explored with utmost dedication –– no one is merely one thing, and it would be quite sad to portray any fictional being as such. I want to explore Bellamy’s vision of the family he so loves, and for which he has given up so much for, how adoration balances itself out with the bitterness he tries to drown so desperately, how he dedicates himself to his job  &  position even though he feels disgusted by posing as a bodyguard, when the loyalty of those he protects is bought with money and not with the respect he preaches all living creatures should be deserving of. I want to see beyond his quest for peace –– will he ever let his guard down? Will there ever be someone he trusts, beyond the feud that extends over Verona? Will Bellamy find understanding, someone he can speak to, someone that crawls underneath his skin and finds he is so much more than a peacekeeper? Most importantly, will Bellamy discover himself? Will he find his strength to power through this reality he never wished to come back to? Where will he find it? How will it transform him? Is love capable of holding him up, moving him forward? Will the hunger for more break his heart, will the ugliness of bloodshed turn him sour at last?

BROTHERS IN ARMS. Bellamy is a man of the past –– his core survives on sweet memories of a flourishing spring that will never come back. Laughter, juvenile & booming, was something he could only share with Roman and Marcelo, the two friends he feels actually belong to him, with him. Bellamy has never dared to utter his adoration aloud to either of them, has never admitted he’d rather die than see them perish. The love he has given them was perhaps lukewarm, when compared to these two feisty demons with hellfire for hearts: Bellamy’s affection was a tender kiss to the temples, soft massages to erase their aches, a moment of quiet as he wiped the sweat from their foreheads. He never promised to remain by their side, but in his chest–– he knows his place is right beside them, perhaps below them, but still close. And Bellamy has thrown that to the wind once he up and left, consumed with a selfish desire to live as a person, and not a warrior born out of a patronym. He loves them, will always love them most of all –– but maybe that is not enough. Maybe there is an abyss in between them, an ocean separating their souls. Lucky for them, Bellamy is willing to cross it with undeterred determination –– anything to safely tuck them away inside his rib cage ; his drive to protect grows stronger when near them (is there anything he wouldn’t do for these remembrances of boyhood? He is scared of discovering there isn’t, so he blinds himself once Marcelo comes by, once Roman’s cologne reaches his nose). The tally of his sins would grow & grow, and the only ones that would make such fate bearable would be his brothers.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Bellamy’s friendship with Roman and Marcelo is one of the things I’m extra eager to explore! First and foremost, because I am sure, beyond Bellamy’s immediate family, these two are his most important people  &  there is very little he wouldn’t do for them. And, boy, would I like to discover what the limits of this friendship are! Is there a line Bellamy, the loyal Patroclus to these two Achilles, would not cross, even when concerning the people closest to his heart? Would he ever forsake them in the name of his morals? Alternatively, what absurdities would he commit on their names? What lengths would he cover, to see both of them living a long and happy life?

In the book, Benvolio is in a lower position than Mercutio and Romeo –– which is mirrored here, so it opens up a myriad of possibilities. Italian mafias are known for a strict code of conduct  &  sense of hierarchy, and they also work as famiglias, obviously. So I picture that, although they were raised together, there was always a thin line separating them: Bellamy always considered himself less than Roman and Marcelo, and was satisfied to occupy this lower rank  & serve them in any way he could. It interests me in the sense that, even though they’re his closest friends &  probably the few people that have always accepted him (because this is another one of his struggles –– both his “softer” personality and his gender identity are probably strange concepts to his traditional family in the same manner, and acceptance is not something Bellamy has ever had plentiful of), I still think Bellamy tries and holds himself back with them –– there are parts of him that are occulted, and purposefully so, from the ones he loves most. So I’m thinking, once he left, it was probably a huge shock for Roman and Marcelo –– no one saw it coming. Of course Bellamy did his best to remain in contact, but still, dissidence is dissidence. So how do they receive him back? Have Roman and Marcelo ever actually seen Bellamy with the same eyes he sees himself with? How much of an abyss has originated in between them, after these four years of distance?

BLOODHOUND. Loyalty and obedience, when combined, are quite a dangerous threat to one’s honesty and commitment to good deeds, especially when an involvement with the mob is concerned. His continuous absence has not gone unnoticed –– and many have frowned upon his return. Bellamy, a soldier? he has heard them laugh. Bellamy, a fighter? he has felt their scorn from the weight of the stares that follow him as he steps into a room. It brings him sick nostalgia ; one that leaves his stomach turned upside down. The children that used to sneer at him for taking care of stray dogs & cats are now his companions in this senseless war (and yet they all seem too eager to see Bellamy fail –– they doubt him, untrust creating a wall between them. More than isolating, it’s demeaning to a man who is willing to give out his life to honor his father’s  ╱  a man who has slashed all of his hopes & dreams to fulfill a path that does not belong to him). The bellicose bickering within the ranks, however, does not disturb him –– Benvolio does not get the credit he is deserving of, for hiding so well underneath porcelain features. These soldiers have nothing on the silent storm that builds inside of Benvolio –– his heritage has always been written out in shallow graves, tainted by fate ; by the numerous gods of Death. Now, he is forced to reach for it, to hold it (it scorches his fingers, it gifts him endless agony, but he lets it have its rightful place next to his beating heart). How far into umbriferous rivers can he sink?  ╱  What is the limit of this painful allegiance to his own name? Bellamy does not sleep, for all his nights are wasted away in wondering –– what will I become? And that is perhaps the only murder he is not ready to commit.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Concerning this point, I’d like to explore a few paths. Firstly, how was Bellamy received back by the Montagues? He was never a figure on the receiving end of much respect, since his quest for peace turned him into a black sheep of sorts, but surely leaving amidst a war was not an act appreciated by many. Are there suspicions of him? Is he a victim of something similar to military abuse from his peers? Trust was certainly lost, and Bellamy is willing to take the steps to conquer it back –– not for himself, but in the name of his poor father, who deserves as much. The point is, how far is he willing to go for this acceptance? Better yet, in order to show the loyalty that he has always cherished for his parents &  for the Montagues, is Bellamy willing to go against his principles? Of course, he is wearing their armour while vouching for peace, but this is not a plan that can be considered definitive.

He is merely a soldier, but would he go against the hierarchy he was raised to respect, if he felt the orders given were unjust? Spoiler alert: I think he certainly would, which would only make the trust he is desperate to regain even more of a distant perspective. I think Bellamy would struggle to try to maintain the scales even, to find a balance between obedience and his principles –– but that won’t work forever, and, at some point, he will have to decide what reigns (and that is one more inner turmoil for him to face). This is something that will always be at the core of his development, in my opinion, and it can fluctuate.

For example, Bellamy is a scholar. I see him as the observing type, listening before he speaks. He tries to understand people to the best of his ability. So, of course, he will interact with Capulets and, instead of seeing them as the enemy, he will more likely take a humanist approach. These are individuals, with their own families  &  struggles, not beasts to be slaughtered –– this is where Odin Bello comes in, for I think he’ll be a very important piece for Bellamy’s development in this sense, because the Santo Domingo willfully trusts people, no matter their background (everyone should have a second chance, should they not?). He is not ignorant or unaware of how this can end, but he is certainly a character with the most disposition to understand someone coming from a different place than he is.

If the time comes where he has to end one of them (and I’d like him to –– whether because it’s a request from Roman or Marcelo themselves, or a decision Bellamy comes to in order to defend them, because his protective nature is not just for show, and it definitely has darker roots), it would be a large blow to his constitution as a person. I don’t think Bellamy would ever forgive himself, and guilt would consume him –– it’s a great source to explore the underlying shadows he has, his self-hatred, and where would those things lead him (would he leave? Would he consider himself, at one point, far too gone &  take a leap into war? Would he take his own life? Would he ever betray the Montagues to save another?).

I think this is intriguing as well, because Bellamy’s motivations are directed outwardly –– to achieve peace for the city, to save his loved ones from pain, so on and so forth. So his relationships to others will be determinants to the paths he’d take –– because it’s an instinct of his, to think of others before himself. But, then again, can he be convinced to embrace his selfishness? Can he turn his back to them all, if enough buttons are pushed? Everyone has a breaking point, and Bellamy seems to outright neglect his needs and limitations in order to step in for others –– which means a breakdown is in order, but also that it will take plenty of build-up!

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WITH KILLING OFF YOUR CHARACTER?

Yes, for sure, if it serves a purpose!

IN DEPTH .

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW:

› WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE IN VERONA? ‹

CARAMEL-HUED IRISES meet the ethereal roof of the Cathedral of Verona –– it used to be his favorite place, even when the Capulets reigned over it, for it raised Bellamy closer to a God he could hear  ╱  could understand better than he could a war that tinged his family with nonsensical losses and burials, hollowed out spaces carved on their roots as the sunset started resembling more a battleground than a kingdom of beauty. Bellamy recalls the singing that used to echo inside luxurious walls, filling his heart with choirs of warm voices (the boy swore he could feel an angel’s grasp touching his hands, inviting him to reach higher  ╱  he never did, terrified of the consequences of holiness, but perhaps he was gifted with a martyr’s heart, and was that not much heavier?). Now, however, the Montague mark has erased memories of saints & softness alike –– there is always a dulled tud to be heard ; a silent ache overflowing from his bones. Bellamy taps his pen against the question he posed against himself: it was a heavy blow too soon since his return, but the Santo Domingo only knows kindness to wounds that do not belong to him. There is a heavy sigh as mulls over his options –– even his home is a lie, one that bears a dismantled innocence he’d rather avoid. In the corner of his notebook, Bellamy writes down, cursive letters delineated with delicacy: “ the library. ” It is no different than the church, for the countless shelves boast about the Montague heritage –– in Verona, there is nowhere to turn, for every piece of the city tells a story not in ink, but with blood (he tries to tell himself he does not hate this, that a part of him does not fester once he walks outside, breathes in the air soaked with death). When Bellamy sinks into immeasurable knowledge, however, it’s easier to forget the reality that awaits him outside the Montague’s fortress –– even as a man, as a soldier, Bellamy lingers in empty rooms, a stack of books by his side as the hours come and go (he does not distract himself with the noises outside, with the possibilities with sharp claws, as poets and philosophers and theorists feed him sublime words). What else could he ask for, but this make-shift serenity?

› WHAT DOES YOUR TYPICAL DAY LOOK LIKE? ‹

IT IS PATHETIC OF HIM, to gather the unstopping questions he received upon his return & write them down to pin answers proper enough (underneath his skin, however, the truth lurks as a viper: you can only spit out honesty to yourself, face half-eclipsed, in secret  ╱  no one desires to hear you once the pleasant river that flows down your tongue stanches ; once the corpses start floating up from the depths of your soul to the shore of your lips, disfigured & dismembered, like the crude words you never let out). His handwriting seems to stare into his soul, calloused fingers trembling as his mind splits –– the facade, his candor, the middle-ground that is as unsatisfying as what Bellamy has to offer. He is twenty-four, a degree in law under his belt with a specialization on international relations –– but he is a bodyguard  ╱  a soldier (it all depends on who asks) ; and his most prized possession is no longer his mind, but the strength of his brawl. Bellamy finds it strange, even, that they trust his hands to protect –– most days are accompanied by the weighty stare of his peers, as if he is not a pacifist but instead a grenade. It is almost demeaning, for a man of the law to stand by people, but only for a price (as if any life can be monetized ; as if that is not a sin by itself). His mere stance inside the Montague ranks make him a corrupted figure, unclean –– it’s worth it, he mumbles under his breath, it’s what I was made for (his heart seems to rebel with the strength of a caged bird as he steps further into this organization).

His days are spent idly, almost –– his fists are always clenched ; bile is always clinging to his throat, acidic & nauseating. There is no beauty to uncover in Verona, no enthralling tales waiting to be discovered. –––– I spend all of my days trying to be heard, even though I am well aware soldiers are not supposed to have mouths. –––– he whispers to himself, a tender smile forming on his lips (it’s an instinct, more than a reflection of joy). One day, perhaps, his fight will be worth it –– at least, that’s what he tells himself, in order to have half an hour of rest every dawn.

› WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR BIGGEST MISTAKE THUS FAR? ‹

IT’S A QUESTION THAT HAUNTS HIM SINCE CHILDHOOD, for Bellamy often wonders what he could’ve done differently –– is there any choice he could’ve taken, that would spare him of these results? No matter the frequency with which he falls into these pits, the conclusion he comes to tends to be the same: fate would have been kinder only if he had been born under a different name, far away from the plagued streets of Italy –– but since he is a Santo Domingo, the list of his mistakes extends itself much further than the date of his genesis, going back to the first man to shed their skin in the honour of a Montague and not their own. Bellamy’s nails dig through the palms of his hands –– it throbs, but it’s the subdued ache that he is used to welcoming with open arms (he does not pity himself, for his low worth is a fact ingrained on the insides of his thighs and his teeth). –––– What mistake have I not made? –––– he wonders aloud, and his voice echoes and shatters inside this chamber of forgiveness (but even God has abandoned him, no glories to be bestowed upon Bellamy’s solitary altar). His eyes are closed once he starts scribbling, uninterrupted consciousness as he lists his regrets: tearing apart my mother’s womb ; surviving the trials humanity forced upon a frail child’s body ; laughing when I shouldn’t have ; refusing to smile when I should’ve ; abandoning the city that gifted me all I have ; returning to the place that crushed my hopes ; being too tender  ╱  being too harsh ; simply being –– not a fleshed warrior, not a kinder deity (just Bellamy, a fine friend, and nothing more).

› WHAT HAS BEEN THE MOST DIFFICULT TASK ASKED OF YOU? ‹

TO STOP VALUING LIFE, is what he writes down, without much thought. As a combatant, one must first learn how to fall (how to perish) before picking up a sword or lifting their fists. As a protector, Bellamy grew up listening that his life was no more than a shield to his king –– and perhaps, he never truly learned how to give this up, this desire to become more than these red threads of fate ordered him to be (more than carnage, this was his reason for leaving, was it not? To find the parts of Bellamy Santo Domingo that extended beyond mob ranks & fancy nomenclatures for murderers). His dilemma was a sword with multiple edges, and it ended nested inside his chest, puncturing his heart –– no one seemed to mean a thing for the war that raged on, no matter how beloved ; entire families could be wiped clean and left without a proper ending ; kind strangers could become his next target (and, oh, perhaps the smile Bellamy had given them was more ominous than an act of docility ; perhaps he has more claws and canines than he wants to admit).

› WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE WAR BETWEEN THE CAPULETS AND THE MONTAGUES? ‹

I WANT IT TO END, and the words are furious, burning against paper –– his pulse seems to strike with force against his jugular (Bellamy feels every beat, and in his mind, there’s always the awareness it might be his last). –––– It has gone for far too long, it is not worth it –– it has never been. –––– he is a preacher to no one but himself in this moment, solitude providing him an outlet for the emotions he so adores to bottle up, muttering under his breath as the light inside his eyes flickers (it can’t go out, but God –– how to keep a candle ablaze when the winds blow harsher with each new day? How to maintain the warmth inside his muscles when winter consumes him whole? How, how, how?). Bellamy pushes against the current, but his legs are paralysed and frozen  ╱  phantom limbs, as he tries not to succumb to the ghostly nature that has followed his every step. Bellamy writes, and writes, and writes –– he has also ran away, he has also tried to become someone else. But now, he is determined to fight –– he isn’t sure of the how or when, but the gun already weighs in the palm of his hand. Time is ticking ; eyes bore into his back. I WANT IT TO END, AND I WILL END IT (and, oh, Lord, what is the cost of this one more choice?).

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE:

EXTRAS:

Pinterest board.

[thelonlybritishwriter]

I’m going to start to put of the writing that I have done for my course up here. Hope you like it, any constructive feedback is always welcome. 

Zac Bates, private inspector, watched as people walked past the root of the city’s infection. To them it was a simple basement. Just some stairs and a door. How could it be so villainous. He smoked his cigarette thinking about all the foul deeds that have originated from that single establishment.

Zac pulled out his camera and snapped a few pictures of a figure. Long coat, collar pulled up hiding the face. Fedora perched upon the head hiding the hair. Tall and built like an ape. Even when trying to blend in James ‘Knuckles’ Knapp was still a charcutier of a charcutier. It is said that he always kills with his fists but seeing the photos that’s hard to believe. That is until you see him in real life. His presence always comes before great bloodshed.

The sea of the innocent parted to let the ape past. He made his way through the crowd and descended into the speakeasy. The frame of the ape slinked through the entry way to the nest of snakes beyond.

Extinguishing his Cigarette. Zac sighed. Opened the door. He could feel his heart beat desperately trying to fight its was out of his rib cage like a cornered animal. His diaphragm bouncing like a gymnast. Every fibre of his body was telling him to turn around.

His foot took the first step down. His mind became a mist. Thoughts jumped for attention. None helpful. None harkened. He reached the door. Knocked. The sound seemed distant and cacophonous. Echoing in Zac’s mind like he was knocking on the door to Satan himself.

A thin rectangle slides open and a pair of grey eyes peered through it. They eyed Zac up and down. the eyes disappeared and a shout called out

“Boss, Zac Bates is here. Want me to let him in?”

No reply was heard but the door opened and he stepped through the door way. Glanced at the hunched, decrepit man. Thin grey hair stuck to his scalp. A grey apron hung around his neck and was probably once white. A white shirt with a black bow tie around the neck.

A thin layer of smoke hugged the ceiling. The room was dark with a couple of lights over each table. Spotlighting each one among the darkness. Against one wall a bar with stools along them. Through an archway more tables spotlighted. A couple of them were occupied but not many. Zac had eyes for only one. The one with the towering figure of ‘Knuckles’ standing before it. Fedora pressed to the chest. No coat. Black waist coat. Red tie. Golden pocket watch. Black hair cut short.  

As Zac walked around to the table, he felt more eyes on him than were in the bar. ‘Knuckles’ nodded and went to the bar. Grabbed a stool and hunched over the bar. A chair was pulled up to the table where the older men were playing poker. Some in waist coats, some in suits. Others just in shirts. Some had thick cigars held firmly in their mouths. Most had tumblers of golden-brown liquid held in their hands. As Zac sat down. Carmine Mucucci looked up from the cards in his hand. Looked into the soul of Zac. Carmine Spoke with such a refined menace that it made his stomach clench.

“So Mr. Bates, what do we owe this late-night visit from one of the most notorious private investigators in the city”

The investigator could only find himself able to say two words.

“A case.”

The roar of laughter echoed around the room. Pressing down upon the singular man.

“You crack me up!” The laughter died as quickly as it had been birthed. “Which case?”

The menace was now replaced by malice. Like a blood in snow. The lump in Zac’s throat grew. His eyes narrowed. Looking Carmine Mucucci in the eye. There was no lying to the monolith of raw power before him.

Again, he could only find himself speaking as few words as possible. Like a child caught in a lie.

“The disappearance of Frank. E. Walsh”

The eyes of the demon before him narrowed.  He placed down his cards. Leant back in his chair. Taking a puff of his cigarette. The moment seemed the drag on for an eternity.

Falcone spoke without a hint of regret.

“Uccidilo.”

 Bang!

The Gunshot rang out. Throughout the bar people turned to see Zac Bates topple from the chair.

[verumking]

moonstonetm asked:  ‘  i deserve to hurt.  i deserve to bleed.  ’ verum rex verse ?? that punishment thing we talked about maybe ?? 👀

⚔️ *:･ﾟ✧┆growling suggestion sentence starters. ❪ no longer accepting. ❫

       An act of CRUCIFIXION. Wrists shackled. Chains taut. Arms spread tragically like a PAIR OF WINGS: mocking the BIRD OF PREY, and her inability to ESCAPE her glass cage. ICHOR poured viscous from WOUNDS AGAPE, scorch brands latticed over ARMS and ANKLES. Within this lucid chamber, crimson TARNISHED stark white floors, and REELED out screams from the souls within its INCARCERATION.

       His knight was NO STRANGER to bloodshed, given her SWORN DUTY to protect the VERUM REX from violent adversity. But for such BLOODSHED to manifest upon her OWN BODY, willingly... Monarchial palm slammed hard against FIBREGLASS, heterochromatic hues a helpless witness to Cassandra’s SUFFERING.  

       ❛  This was never your fault.  ❜  Yozora insisted SHARPLY, azure iris saturated with a VOLATILE CRIMSON: instability blooming from pupil to sclera. Borne teeth GLINTED beneath laboratory spotlights, chromatic glare SNAPPING from his forbidden lover... to the GIGAS CORP SQUADRON charging through the doors.

       THERE HE IS-- A soldier’s battle cry was slashed SHORT, occluded by a firm GAGGING NOISE: throat locked beneath a SKELETAL VICEGRIP. Yozora rammed the IRON-CLAD SKULL into the wall behind HIM, a clean twist severing WINDPIPE from their now motionless corpse. Carmine optics SMOULDERED amid the shadows of the LABORATORY, cybernetic beast unearthed from his ordinarily stoic demeanour.

       The PATRIARCH cared little for the CONSEQUENCES, or his knight’s opinion of his BRUTALITY, as he cleaved soldier after soldier. Blood ERUPTED beneath fragmented armour, SHATTERED by fists and feet. MURDEROUS, upon the monsters that enslaved them.

                                                                 Cassandra... I will save you.

❪ @moonstonetm​ ❫