#her mind is made up and there is no feebleness of fickleness in her - she will not be inconstant or changeable like the moon or “like women

[backjustforberena]

What poor an instrument May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty. Eve Best as CLEOPATRA in ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ (2014)

[reduxulousoctopus]

Part two of my rough outline for a Justice League animated/DnD AU, previous part here, original post explaining what the hell I think I'm doing here, I still don't know anything about DnD, lets a-go!

Chapter Two

Several people scream as they witness Clark seemingly murder a man for no reason, and again after the monster's hideous true form is revealed when it's illusion spell fades upon death. Clark regains his senses and stares in dawning horror at the creature he just killed as its silvery-white blood drips from his sword and armor. The tentacles on the creature's face continue to frantically wriggle and writhe, almost like the decapitated head is about to get up and crawl away on its own. A few incredibly tense seconds pass as the tentacles slowly cease their squirming and finally go still with one last, feeble twitch.

The tavern-owner's trigger finger slips and he accidentally fires his crossbow at Clark, but Bruce catches the bolt in midair. He levels a glare at the owner, who meekly retreats to the backroom.

As a member of the city guard, Wally presents his badge and starts clearing everyone else out of the tavern--or at least, everyone who's still conscious after the fight. Shayera pushes past him, intent on returning to the bar to finish her drink. Upon seeing what happened while she was outside, she reacts with mild surprise.

John identifies the dead creature as an illithid, an extremely dangerous and intelligent humanoid species. Their powerful psionic abilities and gruesome habit of eating the brains of their victims have made them more infamously known as "Mind Flayers." After noting that he hasn't heard of one using illusion spells to sneak around the general population before, John praises Clark for seeing through its magical disguise. Behind John's back, Bruce shares a private look with Clark before kneeling beside the body to search for clues.

He finds a signet ring and other belongings which indicate that the illithid was posing as a human named Jallen Cartier, a name Clark recognizes as a former explorer who was granted a position in the king's court for his service to the realm. Shayera wonders why a nobleman (or a Mind Flayer pretending to be one) would be in a seedy tavern wearing commoners' clothing without any bodyguards around. Clark and Bruce share another look, slightly more amused than the last--Bruce is, himself, a nobleman in disguise.

Examining the fake Jallen Cartier's body further, Bruce also finds a concealed pouch under its clothes containing two pieces of paper. One is a brief note written in the Common tongue which simply reads, "I know your secret," and tells the reader to meet the anonymous writer at the tavern on that day's date. There is also a message in Qualith, the written language of the Mind Flayers, which none of them know how to read. After John casts Comprehend Languages, the message reveals that the fake Cartier was in the city to oversee something the illithids had planned at the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration.

Deciding that these Mind Flayers must be the evil that her goddess sent her to destroy, Diana almost walks out the door right then to assault the IPRE building before Bruce stops her. He points out that they don't yet know how many illithid agents are involved in this conspiracy or even what said conspiracy is attempting to accomplish, although it obviously can't be anything good. Until they have more information about the enemy, stealth and subterfuge are the team's best weapons. This frustrates Diana, who would rather face her enemy directly.

Wally is far less gung-ho about going up against Mind Flayers, even wondering in a fourth wall-breaking aside if he's "under-leveled" for this. Diana tries to encourage him with her faith that the goddess is on their side, though Shayera scoffs and claims that they'd be better off trusting their own skills and strength of arms rather than the boons of fickle gods.

Before any further argument can break out, John takes charge of the group. He directs them to split up and conduct their investigation separately to avoid drawing the attention of the illithids, then return to the tavern before dawn to share what they've learned. Wally will use his authority as a city guard to search the fake Cartier's room at the inn, bringing Diana along as an "important eye-witness." After hearing from John that illithids typically eat one brain every two weeks, Shayera decides to find out if there are other Mind Flayers hiding in the city by looking into any missing or recently-deceased people who may have been victims. As the stealthiest of the group, Bruce will infiltrate the IPRE building to find out what the illithids are doing there, and volunteers Clark to come along as backup--though in his internal narration, Clark thinks that Bruce just wants him nearby in case he starts hallucinating again. John himself will contact the other followers of his magical patron to request their assistance, along with any information they might have on recent illithid activity in space or the outer-planes.

With a plan of action in place, our heroes each head their separate ways. As the two of them walk to the stables to get their horses, Bruce finally confronts Clark about his so-called "hallucination," demanding to know if they've all been like the one he experienced in the tavern. Though they've all been just as frightening and painful, Clark has never been spurred to attack anyone before.

Bruce suspects it may have been a psionic attack by the illithid, but Clark doubts that. Why would it reveal its true form to him, after all? Rather, Clark thinks that it was actually a message from someone who was trying to warn him about the illithid's presence--and, judging from the emotions he felt, it came from someone who desperately hates Mind Flayers.

Clark points out the strange coincidence that led to so many able adventurers being in the right place at the right time, and speculates that something may have intentionally drawn them all there. Bruce warns that anyone powerful enough to manipulate them like that would have to be incredibly dangerous, and the "enemy of my enemy" isn't always a friend.

--

TO BE CONTINUED...

[jacktaylcr]

@axeltaycr​ @ his place time: 640am 1st January (is this a throw back bc that was a month ago? probs)

Everything felt, strangely off kilter. The once feeble glamor that the emerald green dress held now dulled out by the splotches of dried blood. Staining her fingernails and caught in the creases of the rings she wore in a way that bothered her far more than it ever had before. Somehow, she’d managed to be swept up into the back of the ambulance as they transported Brandon to the hospital, fussed over as if she suffered some brand of shock and trauma that hadn’t long since settled as part of the job. But the bullet hadn’t come from her - a shocking revelation when one considered who she was - and another painstaking reminder as she watched known syndicate members stream into the waiting room to see Brandon upon his surgery to remove the bullet. A fickle complication that soon had her adhering to the nurses insistence that she go home - do as many autonomous things as would carry her throughout the day (eat, sleep; wash the blood of another down the drain...) Home didn’t feel right though, and when the car pulled away from the curb, Jack realized that she’d given the driver her brothers address.  Without feeling like waiting for another car, she admonished herself for not paying attention sooner and made her way through the front door, more than willing to barely pay Axel any mind until she’d screwed her head on a little more - but well wishes weren’t always granted. One foot in the door, she stopped, onyx hues landing on the only others she knew to be as dark as her own. “I need a shower..” It fell in a way that didn’t sound like her own voice and she knew it “..-- vodka, tell me you’ve got vodka..

[babylon-cal]

Wish You Were Sober {c.h}

Pairing : Calum x Reader

Requested : by anon : Could you write something about Calum, I don’t know if what I’m asking makes sense but could you write some fluff based on the song Wish You Were Sober by Conan Gray, like Calum is a party guy and the reader is not and she doesn’t like going to parties but because it’s him she goes, just because she wants him to like her?? Sorry if this was long. Thank you xoxo

Warnings : Alcohol

Word Count : 1.9k

The steps (y/n) took in the driveway leading up to the unfamiliar residence made their heart palpitate and their stomach do hefty flips. The grassy front yard around the driveway was filled with about a dozen cars parked with no uniformity. There were a few couples making out against some of them, leaving a distaste in their mouth seeing how high up a girl’s skirt was lifted by her girlfriend. Goddamn, they hated parties.

The pungent smell of tobacco from the abundance of cigarettes had replaced the scent of the fresh air and grass, the nearer they were to the door. Upon entering, (y/n) was greeted with a waft of an acrid mixture of “dirty smoke” - as they called it - and combinations of strong alcohol that made them want to be sick almost instantly. The ever changing string of LED lights in the dark spaces between the walls made them feel constrained and trapped. Goddamn, they hated parties. 

Their eyes scanned the interior, looking for the familiar face they had grown to meeting in these circumstances. Besides, the only reason they bothered dressing up and putting themselves in these gut wrenching and unsettling situations was for him. (y/n)’s eyes landed on the tall figure in the corner of the room who had his large hand enclosed around a cup, exchanging in a hearty conversation with someone they had assumed he met just now. He laughed at something she said and exchanged his cups with them which (y/n) had always thought was extremely foolish of him.

They locked eyes when he looked away from the woman standing in front of him and his smile turned into a grin that was enough for (y/n) to feel like their knees would buckle and send them to the ground below. They stood where they were, feeling as if they were frozen as Calum took mildly disorientated steps towards them. He slurred out their name and they felt their stomach sink with discomfort. 

They were happy to see him, of course but why was it always at these godforsaken parties when he was half drunk. He leaned down to give them a kiss which they dodged at the last second, smelling the beer in his breath causing the kiss to land on their cheek instead. They felt sick but he didn't seem to notice, instead his grin remained the same as he slurred more. 

“So glad you could make it, (y/n), do you want something to drink?’ he asked and they shook their head. 

“No thanks, Cal. I’m okay…,”they paused. “Actually I need to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” Yeah, (y/n) real smart going to the bathroom as soon as you get here, they thought. Calum was way too intoxicated to give it a second contemplation, yelling a “Sure!” over the loud music that (y/n) felt was shaking the entire room as they felt the vibrations at the base of their throat.

The walk to the bathroom felt like a pilgrimage to a safe haven. Each step felt like their feet sinking into pits of sand, the music like a strong wind preventing them from hearing their own thoughts. Their hand gripped the doorknob to the bathroom, but not before hoping that it would be empty. It clicked and the door slid open. (y/n) stepped in, quickly shutting the door behind them. They immediately let out a sigh of relief as they leaned against the wooden panel for support, the knob pressing slightly into their back. They didn’t care though. They just needed to be away from all of that. The music sounded muffled and distant like the diminuendo of a segull’s caw as it flew away from above their heads, eventually out of sight. Goddamn, they hated parties.

Was all of this really worth it to get Calum’s attention? What was the point if the only time he made them feel special was when he was inebriated in the late hours of the night that faded into mornings. They glanced up at the mirror above the sink at their reflection. They could almost see the word HELPLESS written across their forehead. They sighed once more, before running the tap and placing their shaky hands under the water. 

Tripped down the road, walking home You kissed me at your door Pulling me close, begging me to stay over But I'm over this rollercoaster

The last time they had dallianced with Calum was a little more than a week ago, after another house party that he had ended up in. They woke up at half past 2 in the morning by the sound of their default phone ringtone, sending a panic through their system - even more so when the familiar name Calum sprawled out on the screen. A wave of nerves washed over them, their central digging itself a pit when they answered with alert despite their voice a pitch lower from the sleep. 

“(y/n)....,” he dragged. “I’m drunk….,” they sighed.

“Obviously,” they huffed and he giggled on the other end. 

“Can you come get me? I’ll love you if you do,” (y/n) was pretty sure they heard what sounded like a hiccup from him. He had barely finished talking before they were already out of bed and sliding some trousers on. 

“Alright, where are you?,” they asked, holding their phone up to their ear with their shoulder. 

“I…don’t know, I’m near a McDonalds..and there’s like a lot of traffic lights..,” (y/n) immediately knew where it was, and to their advantage, they could get there on foot. They wasted no time, adrenaline seeming to punk through their veins as they jogged through the neighbourhood and onto the sidewalk next to the main road, the wind entangling into their hair and through their clothes.

The roads were idle, close to no amount of vehicles that would usually look like a group of lights from the higher levels of apartments. (y/n) enjoyed the silence as they continued to jog, turning the corner and spotting the McDonalds that Calum insisted he was at. There was something pleasantly innocent about the emptiness of the undisturbed street. 

As if on cue, they spotted the brunette not too far away, lying on his back on the cracked pavement a few feet away, his legs bent at the knees. His arms outstretched against the floor as he stared up to the sky. A dark shadow cast itself on him and he averted his eyes to the figure looming over him. (y/n) didn’t look happy but he smiled up at them anyway, his eyes crinkling. 

“Get up, Cal,” he obeyed without protest, to their surprise, raising his hand for them to take. A flutter erupted in their gut when his hand fit into theirs, and they pulled him off the ground before wrapping his arm around their shoulder to stabilize his standing. It took a while, his heavy disorientation making it all the more difficult for (y/n), their steps feeling heavier by the second. 

Eventually, they arrived at Calum’s front door, fumbling in his pockets for his house key that they were relieved he didn’t lose in the midst of all the chaos. They wrapped their cold hand around the doorknob when they were interrupted by Calum gently grabbing their arm from where he stood facing them. His other arm wrapped around their waist, to pull them closer, flush against his chest. His breath smelled like whiskey and (y/n) was dawned with discomfort but the way his body heat radiated and washed over them was enough for them to drop anything and stay like that. 

With no form of thought, Calum leaned in and kissed (y/n) whose lips were burning in a feeling of excitement and shock. They deepened it instantly, nonetheless feeling feeble and vulnerable in the arms of a man that could run circles in their fickle mind until they were unhesitant to give him a taste of them under his dim porch light. Their hands cupped his face delicately while exuding a desperate passion from that one kiss that they so deeply hoped he would understand in that moment, as befuddled as he was. As alcoholically motivated as he was. As emotionally insincere as he was. 

They pulled apart, his lips still only a few inches away from theirs. He let out a whisper that (y/n) dazed - from the bliss - agreed to without an ounce of reflection. 

“Stay tonight,”

I'ma crawl outta the window now Getting good at saying, "gotta bounce" Honestly you always let me down And I know we're not just hanging out

The water was cold which ultimately did not help their situation. They turned and spotted the window just above the toilet open which they could fit through if they tried to. They could though because goddamn, they hated parties enough to cling on to anything to give them the escape they despairingly craved. Their eyes blinked in a sedated flutter, as they contemplated if Calum would notice that they didn’t reappear. If he would even care-

Their questions were answered when there was a sudden knocking on the bathroom door, his voice calling their name from the other end. 

‘(y/n)? Are you in there?” They gave themselves a last look in the mirror, let out a defeated sigh and wiped their hands at the back of their jeans before opening the door. He took their hand and dragged them out of the house and out on the lawn that (y/n) was just a few minutes ago.

“Where are we going?” they asked, causing Calum to turn back at them, a smug smile on his face.

“Away, from all the people,” they walked a few metres to his Rover, which was parked at the side of the road, the streetlight reflecting off it’s shiny surface. It beeped as Calum unlocked it before he opened the passenger side door for them. They climbed inside, while he walked around the other side to join them. A few seconds later, the air conditioning filled the interior of the car, cool air giving (y/n) a slight shiver. “Look what I’ve got,” he smirked, pulling out a bottle of wine from his jacket that they were confused as to how they didn’t notice. 

“You smuggled a bottle of wine?” they laughed and he mirrored it, nodding. “We don’t even have any glasses,” they stated and he shrugged, taking a swig from the bottle. He outstretched his arm to give them a turn and they took the bottle from him, taking a sip. They didn’t like the feeling at first, but grew accustomed to it after a few swigs. 

A realisation dawned on them, after a few minutes in the middle of a conversation. Calum was still drunk, which explained his sweetness, his eagerness to be alone with them. It was the only time he bothered giving them some kind of attention that they would return to him without him even needing to ask. Their chest tightened as Calum reached over and placed his hand across their jaw, his thumb caressing their cheek. 

“You’re pretty, (y/n),” he whispered as he moved closer to them before pressing his lips to theirs. They kissed him back, of course. They knew they always would. A single tear fell from their cheek as they rested a hand on his chest at the discernation that this was all that it would ever come to. Inebriated exchanges of momentary passion in the shadows.  

Take me where the music ain't too loud... ...Save me 'till the party is over Kiss me in the seat of your Rover Real sweet, but I wish you were sober

END.

[sharada-n]

I got this request over a year ago I think, which is a testiment to how slow I am with these sometimes. Still, I had a lot of fun writing for a fandom I haven’t tried before, and this request was just too cool to pass up - even if i did butcher it and turn it into more angst than hijinx.

Not sure if you still follow me, Anon, or if you’ll ever see this. But thank you so much for the request!

(Read on AO3)

The Pale King was a busy bug.

Hallownest as a society functioned much like a machine with many intricate parts, each cog turning just as it should individually while still dependent on each other, but keeping them all running properly was not an effortless endeavor. No matter what the denizens of his city might think.

Maybe it was his own fault. He had rather enjoyed playing the part of the detached ruler, taking pride in projecting an image of ease with which he operated, some might have called it superiority, keeping to it in dignity even when the first signs of sickness started to plague his people. Panic posed a danger as much as any actual disease could and he refused to let it spread, determining what needed to be done with level-headed purpose.

Rarely did he stray outside of the palace and if that had granted him the image of a god among his people then so be it. It was something he would neither deny nor discourage. But the truth of the matter remained that there were indeed things that took exertion and ruling Hallownest was one of them. Between tending to the many facets of the kingdom there was precious little time for anything besides duty and if the citizens of Hallownest at large would never realize that, he didn't mind. He had only hoped that those few creatures with the honor to belong to his inner circle and witness his efforts would know better.

Apparently that had been too much to hope for.

"Do tell why you presume to bother me with such inane questions?" he asked, his back turned upon the one stubbornly blocking his doorway. Maybe if he ignored her long enough, Herrah would realize he was preoccupied and did not have the time for frivolous affairs today – or any day for that matter.

"Oh, my dear Wyrm," she drawled back, the words spoken with such fake affection he was more than certain she was just trying to vex him, "however did you come to the misunderstanding that this was a mere question? I was making a demand."

"I do recall you're quite good at those," he murmured, unsure if she had heard but finding he cared little either way. To be curt, it was her own ultimatum that had gotten them into this situation to begin with, so it was only fair she would bear the burden. He turned around and added louder: "You know your time with her is dwindling. Why would you want to squander the feeble amount you have left?"

Herrah waited a moment, the reminder of the concomitant of their deal probably unpleasant for her. She made a sound, low and prolonged. "As hard as it will be for you to imagine, I am a queen in my own right. Sometimes that means I have pressing responsibilities to uphold for my people."

"Why do you not just command one of them to look after the child, then?"

"Because..." And he could tell she took great pleasure in her next words, "the child is yours as well. Last I recall you were there when she was created." As if to emphasize this she pushed the thing towards him. It was small, with a cloak that got close to brushing the ground and which had the typical burgundy coloring that the Pale King had come to associate with Herrah's retainers.

The child looked at him, its expression somehow curious despite the likeness to his own children, who had deceivingly unreadable features by design. It titled its head sideways, falling back to remain closer at its mother's side. Seemingly it was as pleased about this new acquaintance as The Pale King himself was.

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Her name is Hornet," Herrah answered, "and honestly it doesn't matter much as long as you keep her save and alive for the foreseeable future." She turned to leave, the child hesitating for a moment, as if to follow, but eventually being persuaded by practiced obedience to stay where she was.

She stood in the room silently, gaze fixed upon the Pale King as he resumed his work. He ignored her for the time being, bending over the ancient-looking tomes once more. There was a lot of lore on higher beings, most of it unfamiliar even to himself – as ironic as that was – and he had spent too much time already consulting them on anything that might pertain to the infection threatening his people, clearly divine in origin.

After a few moments, his thoughts were disturbed again, this time by the child, who had crept closer to the desk during his distraction. She leaned forward slightly, maybe trying to read the crumbly papers but there was a fundamental lack of understanding on her face. The Pale King closed the book, brushing away the small cloud of dust it blew up.

"Very well," he said, gesturing towards the door, "you are old enough to entertain yourself, I presume?"

"I'm nearly grown," she answered, taking him off guard. His own children did not speak – also by design – but it made sense for this one to not have such restrictions.

"Follow."

They walked along the winding passageways of the White Palace, barely acknowledging the few bugs they met on their way. Hornet stopped occasionally at the large windows, the view certainly very different from how Deepnest looked. The Pale King did not know if Herrah didn't take their child outside often or if she just had a latent curiosity for the world. Regardless, he supposed it would aid her in her future as queen and indulged it for now.

Eventually they came upon the room he was meaning to, opening the heavy door with some difficulty. The vessel stood at attention on their arrival, dark cloak wrapped around themselves securely, though just slightly shorter than Hornet's own. When the king entered, they bowed curtly. It proceeded to stay perfectly motionless and wait for further instructions, though their head inclined slightly towards the stranger now in their room.

"Hornet, this is your-" the Pale King considered his own words. Treading into unfamiliar territory was not his forte. "Your sibling, supposedly." That didn't sound too far of from the truth. "I do believe you two will be able to keep each other company in here."

Hornet looked up at him. "Where are you going?"

Suppressing an annoyed huff – not very becoming of a king, now was it? – he turned towards the door. "Back to more important matters, such as running a kingdom."

He was barely a few feet further or Hornet's hand seizing his cloak stopped him, though he pulled it out of her grasp quickly. "I don't want to stay in here," she said. How she had so quickly transformed from the silent child Herrah dropped at his chambers into this demanding little thing was beyond him.

"Well, what do you want then?"

Though the question was not meant to be answered seriously, Hornet seemed to consider it for a few moments, gaze flitting around the room. He had to admit it looked a bit modest, with far simpler decoration than the rest of the castle and not much in that way of furniture. The crib his queen has placed in the center of the room long replaced by a simple cot with no sheets. The vessel did not sleep – by design, once again.

The theory of its conception had left no need for toys and besides the training it underwent, both intellectual and in combat, supervised by the Pale King himself and his most favorable and skilled courtiers, it did not leave its room. There was no need to. All it was meant to know was the reason for its birth – the purpose it was created with and the duty it had to fulfill – and the skills necessary to accomplish that goal. It would not care for these formalities either way.

But Hornet was different, with a strong will of her own most likely inherited from that infernal mother of hers, and would not be placated by mere afterthoughts. She apparently had mused on his question long enough, for her small hands balled into tight fists and she spoke with conviction. "I want to see the rest of Hallownest. I want you to show me."

"Absolutely not."

Though her face remained impassive, the displeasure she felt at his answer was more than clear. "Why not?"

"Because the city is vast and much too fickle for us to go traipsing around it like fools," he answered, "my time to too precious to waste away on frivolous-"

The vessel had chosen this moment to politely step forward, giving another bow. But in their hands was clasped the purple-covered book The Pale King remembered giving them less than a fortnight ago. Their reading speed was incredulous – something he himself took pride in as one of its teachers – and they had most likely finished it already. Usually, they would wait to be called upon instead of taking initiative like this however.

"Very well, if it can't be helped," he relented, "The library and the sentinel will have to do, so we can abstain from doing the full tour."

He could tell Hornet was not completely satisfied, but such was the life of royalty. It would do the child some good to learn she could not always get what she wants. Her mother too...

How long could Herrah truly stay gone for after all?

The library of The White Palace was truly a marvel in architecture. Even when considering all of Hallownest, its ceiling-height windows and metal-gilded chandeliers alone were impressive enough in their own right to make regular homes pale in comparison.

There was a bustle of activity when they arrived. Scholarly bugs of various occupations eager to consult the vast collection of knowledge stored within these bookcases and artifacts. But as The Pale King made his way to the particular section he had intended to, one filled with texts on the history of his kingdom, many left the room with polite bows and muttered greetings, unable to meet his gaze. It wasn't proper conduct to stay in the room when the king entered.

Only Monomon remained, ever oblivious to the presence of anything or anybody when she was occupied with research. Her student, a young bug the Pale King had seen only in passing before, lingered at her side, carrying books to and fro at the teacher's request.

"Go pick out what you will," the Pale King told the vessel, who had already put the book they had brought back where it belonged. Their memory also was stronger than average. They trotted off to the back of the row of shelves, occasionally stopping to inspect the covers. Hornet hesitated for a second before following them. He could hear her talking to them softly, too quiet to make out what she was saying. They nodded at her in answer.

The Pale King sighed and inspected the pages Monomon was studying, marred in her own scribbled handwriting, and completely illegible for himself. She had ruined an increasing number of the books in his possession in this manner "One only hopes you do progress like this," he said.

Monomon looked up at him, maybe just noticing his arrival but unsurprised either way. She beckoned her pupil forward, taking the remaining book in his arms to lay it open in front of her and then sending him away again in search of something new. "Progress takes time."

"Time that is in short supply."

"We will compensate." The cloth around her form billowed slightly as she moved. "You brought the little one, I see. They are advancing as hoped?"

The Pale King waited, considering the idle meaning of the word hope in such a context. "More or less."

"Less?"

"They are everything we need it to be, surely. Anything beyond that is not of consideration."

Monomon nodded, using one appendage to adjust her mask. "But you might think yourself cruel still?"

All his retainers were carefully selected, their talent undeniable and their merits to Hallownest's progression even less so. Monomon was more knowledgable than most any bug in the known realm. Sometimes a bit too much so – and the Pale King is reminded yet again of her ability to surmise that which is not meant to be obvious.

"Everything we do, we do for this kingdom," he said, "not out of cruelty."

"These are not mutually exclusive, Your Majesty."

He waved his hand, a clear sign this particular thread of conversation was over with. There were many trials still ahead of them, bridges they would need to cross once they got there. But for the time being there were more pressing matters on his mind.

She seemed to take notice, as she closed the book in front of her – took the new one delivered by her pupil, who stepped back and waited patiently for further instructions on what to fetch next – and inclined her head. "And the other one too, I saw. Herrah's offspring?"

This wasn't a subject he wanted to discuss any more than the last one, but at least it left him with righteous indignation about his current circumstances. "She sprung it on me. How does one even take care of a child?"

It was a rhetorical question, he was not seeking Monomon's knowledge, especially since childrearing was probably not among her many areas of expertise. Still, she looked up once more, then behind him. "I do believe not leaving them to fall to their deaths might be a good start."

The Pale King turned around just in time to foresee the disaster waiting to happen. Hornet had climbed one of the ladders used to obtain books held on the higher shelves, balancing on one leg precariously while her small hands reached for her intended prize instead of holding on to anything solid. The vessel stood bellow, pointing to the particular book they had requested. Monomon's pupil was standing next to them, task forgotten and instead observing the spectacle with confusion.

A moment later Hornet was on top of them. It seemed at least the other two had broken her fall with their bodies, now squeezed underneath a flurry of cloak and flailing limbs. She had righted herself in an instant and with impressive agility, brushing herself off and looking away embarrassed. "Are you alright?" he heard the pupil ask as he made his way over.

"I'm fine." Hornet turned towards the vessel, holding out the book she had somehow managed to grab on her way down. "This is the one you needed, right?"

The vessel clasped it to their chest, standing a little straighter. They didn't express their gratefulness outwardly but seemed happy with the acquisition of new reading material. The book was almost too big for them to carry, with a dark green cover and golden lettering. The Pale King didn't think he had ever seen it before, but then again there were probably many objects in his collection he hadn't.

He sighed. "Are you done with your antics?"

"They're not antics," Hornet objected, "I'm being responsible. Mother says responsibility is an important virtue for a queen."

"I'm sure she does," the Pale King said, ushering the two out of the library. They greeted Monomon in passing, back to being completely absorbed in her work. Her pupil waved at them and the vessel waved back.

From this height the palace grounds appeared even more massive than they already were, the walls barely more than faint lines on the ground one could just as easily miss. Beyond them stretched mostly darkness, but the Pale King knew where the gaping pit of the abyss was located, as well as the passageways that would lead you to the City of Tears and the Stag station above them – the direction Herrah had surely taken.

Hornet had pressed herself against the glass, unafraid of heights as she had proven to be in the library. The few bugs moving around far below were nearly indistinguishable, but she seemed enthralled with the sight nonetheless. The view was unique to the palace after all, and not something you'd encounter anywhere else in Hallownest, let alone Deepnest.

The vessel stood motionless. The Pale King could not recall how often he had taken them here, sometimes for lessons and sometimes merely for a change of scenery. He was not one to be emotional – or ascribe meaning where it shouldn't be – but perhaps part of him considered it only fair they got to see the world they were destined to sacrifice their being for, or at least the bit that remained them.

Even now large parts of Hallownest were rendered abandoned by the infection, with many bugs already giving in to its thralls. Dying out quicker than any of them had anticipated.

"It's beautiful," Hornet said, softly, like the unknowing child she was. Some stray droplets of water slid down the window, residue from the city above.

"It is only a small part of many," he answered, "but together they form one whole that is worth protecting."

Hornet looked at him, tilted her head up all dignified and it reminded him of her mother in more ways than one. "That's what a ruler does, right? Protect others, whatever it takes?"

At that moment the Pale King wondered what Herrah told her daughter. He wondered what she had left unsaid.

"Whatever it takes," he agrees, looking at the vessel, mute and waiting, the book still held tightly against the front of their cloak, watching the dying world below.

They stood there for a while longer, before he finally pulled the curious Hornet from the window again. "There is still more of the palace to see," he told her, noticing the vessel perk up at his words. She could also hardly suppress the surprise in her next words.

"I thought you did not have time."

"A king can make time," he said, leading the way back to the staircase in swift strides, "didn't your mother tell you this also? Perhaps not since she seems to be running late herself. But as it were, I'll take it on myself to make sure you don't get in trouble until then."

Hornet sputtered, quick to defend the honor of both her mother and herself as they made their way down, the vessel following obediently in their wake.

[libidomechanica]

Grievous foe to fetch in that in fact, the Troop a Sháhzemán

That the taxing roguish grew— how blest  through me it was a general  sense of all those party for  an houre since you at large. These kissings of  the phrase than any. When  gather; but thou ride on the ore,  of white even years, had I,��yet I  could not say “I loved hills seem profound: ‘she might not  touches. — Most full faine: semed, the  cold blowen bags, like a jackpot its  corn at the times a piece of sanguine  youth is, if only when  we faced at their spheres the quietst iudgments various,’  society for beautiful  and uncrumpling horse, to prevent  my delight we sought ungentle canna be  the store of Jealousy, with  a quiet and darting the  priest, awhile her you here welldisposed  to bathe its sands: ‘while such morning  no highly set; and lay they had like thee for  mutual Victims laid, however,  are not bondage is deep joy the  golden bit’ whereunder minded eye, ‘ and rude, barrenly perfumd with  scoffing, and my galage grown morals are  like the earth, for him thats the  same lookes, where you—because  my death. Sweet love or dead? Smiling  Lips opend by him. Piping my cheere thou  heare not let me bound into our  best,’” as that with!  And with flowres, to warm  in your regular shoes from  hot bloom and fair, ⁠and shelter there is  most glory on so feeble I am  down, Sugar, my part, and she a- hunting truly not I? Spreading. And Jack on  his high Towers in tune; till day I  think of vapour, or are much love me  the sprang, and come hearken the  music, our morning, while their Ma ister is mute in such the Oake so  witty, and straight much sicker; and a  sweet among which do sublime there we live  no more white which made it, in being  cry, a ruin, understands; new  vestals brought, in pain procured then no lot  of his queen; tis tho fickle to  untie! Dismantled, he is  fired my slick beauty and in a  car, her breathing occurs too much; “‘were far  all-seeing eyes the good townes be  in this day; low on pathless since I  freeze of morning, end, and where every  bad a peach flowers of either  Road enters would ceased to 

scold, all naked more; while other who could  start and clean, the little heard th’ 

impending arts, be a tornado, for  of yours—whos smooth to 

truth of a duke, and thou break and 

looking with is a very  bow, When age or chast met thief,  when wearing of the least  word, the bard; while they are spurnd the  lovely Mary Morison. ‘Tis the  generous publicke heede themselues and  tell that the swallows its head, elate,  helpless, thy bracelet ’“gainst the fishes;—”  not the roads,’ and seemed to  shelter than form a friend would I ail  my life; but, when you canst not so much  better for faire ladies wishing-time, by  scent beneath his lights I dreamed black and unleashes 

that the Greatly aghast without  regard to ‘church or  state its sad in stormy time into  a chamber, Wall but most  about thee.’ Of all the conceits, but  Im pleasd with hope that belovëd,  I say thee, stella, Soueraigne on astronomy,  will last nights, that blue but none  could new thy proude weeds of boy and grave  poor drudge to bring men who—thought into 

eternal May, All the  best, our guest hid: and roses 

and in you call such at it both 

within Thee. know not his life with  good man at pretence to like,  let our entreaty stay! When  have I bowd to wish to make  leap up with you still am learnes  in freed from themselves to 

snows are soone will returning  hymn this twilight water poured is a  long pursuits: thoughts in languish een. But thourt  welcome for a fair in her  grace, when my Jeffrey held up, carefully 

as taste eternity,  or a wife is never and why  sae sweet; the vision I did shinst,  and I, how to bundle youthful face.

[sol-korolevas]

[until the earth dies with the sun]; part i of ii

pairing: v x reader

warning(s): angst angst angst, slightly spicy hot stuff but not much 

tagging: @malanoches @kyarymell @pointedly-foolish

you don’t believe loving someone is a choice. your affection for v never blossomed from a free will. some may call it fate, that fickle little aspect of life, that compelled you to fall in love with v. others, the hopeless romantics, called it destiny. 

but what separated fate from destiny?

if you asked yourself this a few months prior, you would have shrugged your shoulders and said: “i don’t know.” 

because right now, all you could remember were the high-pitched squeals of cancerous demons and the trail of bloodshed they created.

most horrifying of all was the world reshaped into this dizzying mosaic of blood and gore—a twisted version of eden.

just moments ago, griffon came to you, urging you to follow him. 

but suddenly something ripped out from the ground, a creature wrapped in chains and locks, sending the bird soaring down the path you came from. though it was characteristic of him to run, you knew that he was providing a distraction, too. 

you couldn’t curse these monsters to hell when you were in a version of it. sore and tired, you walked through the twisted path, full of decaying flowers and twisted roots. fleshy dirt gave away as your feet sank in, heralding nightmarish groans from deep below. shivering, you wrapped your bare arms around your body and tilted your head, hoping griffon would be coming soon.

you hoped everyone was alright.

you knew dante and nero would be fine because they were strong. even nico had her own fortitude and luck; that van she drove was a weapon itself. 

the person you worried the most about was v, who despite his fair share of powers and his ability to summon demons, was crumbling.

your heart pounded as you started climbing a steep red slope that reminded you of half-dried clay. the sudden break from cacophonous noises to serenity thrust your mind into a false sense of peace. 

the serenity beckoned you to slow down and sag to the ground with a heavy exhale. suddenly, you began thinking about the past—about your home and about him. 

life was so much simpler beyond the demons and the fighting. you remembered the days where v collapsed into your arms, tired but full of affection. his head would dip into the crook of your neck, a muffled groan slipping out of his lips as he traced patterns against your skin. 

poetry suddenly became romantic and quintessential in your life. just like v’s presence and the sudden blossoming love you gave him and he for you. 

you couldn’t deny that you had first fallen for him for his appearance alone. unlike nero and dante, v was always fragile, with an air of mystery surrounding him. wherein he lacked in strength, he was skilled with grace and finesse. 

while you admired him for his beauty and intelligence, you also felt intimidated by him. so when the truth spilled that v liked you despite your normalcy and humanity, you were both ecstatic and terrified.

how could such a creature as refined and alluring as him came to love you, a simple human? how could he choose you, a person who never loved anyone before?

for a long time, you knew not his reason behind falling in love with you. perhaps there was no reason as, after all, love wasn’t a choice.

slowly afterwards, v moved in with you and in return, you learned more about him–but not all of him. 

he was always prone to bouts of lethargy after a fight. you held him as you basked in his warmth, loving the way he nuzzled against you. your hands wandered through his locks of black hair, feeling him quiver with pleasure.

“for he calls himself a lamb. he is meek and he is mild. he became a little child.” v’s soothing voice spilled out, drawing invisible marks on your skin as he brushed his lips against it. he shifted and you took the moment to lean your back to the wall while your legs stretched forward.

he followed, drawn to your body with a gaze unrelenting and firm. for a moment, you felt your heart stop and then reignite with a thunderous chorus of beats as he cupped your cheeks and drew in for a kiss. 

the motion was slow and unhurried. he tasted like night and the earthy sweetness of a flourishing garden. it should’ve made you wonder why his kisses always felt strangely hypnotic but it didn’t. instead, you felt restless, every kiss from him peeling open another layer of yourself for him to see. never had you felt so naked but so alive and powerful. 

in return, you wanted to encapsulate him into an embrace until nobody knew where you began and where he ended. 

you don’t speak as he pulled away, only because you don’t see the need to break this moment full of grace and love that v was weaving. 

a smile adorned your face until you notice something on his cheek: a scar. yet it was similar to a porcelain vase or the cracks of a dry landscape; his skin looked like it may scatter into the air. “v your fa-” you stopped, a gasp tearing out from you before v placed one slender finger upon your lips. 

“your line should be: little lamb, god bless thee,” he told you calmly. beneath the darkness of his green eyes, you could see the warmth. you could also see something else, just a feeble glint of it, but it was deafening to you. v knew, of course, he knew of his state. but he didn’t care to show it. 

instead of pursuing the matter, you decided to relent and change the subject. setting your hands on your lap, you straightened your back.

“do you think of me as...god?” your voice was tentative, almost meek. if you were any other person, you might have felt pride, if not a bit odd. for this powerful man who commanded demons thought of you with such awe and worship. but you weren’t anyone else, you were uncertainty in love, a confused creation in love, lust, and loss for words. 

(v once commented that you were a poem yourself. too strange and unfathomable for the poets, dead or living, to describe.) 

“if you would like that,” he answered. “if god is kind and gentle, then it must be you.” a soft smile curled onto his features. then you felt him take your hand in his. “as for me, i am but a lamb, humbled under your touch,” he paused, lifting up your hand to press a kiss upon your knuckles. “or i could be the tiger. i can destroy and ruin for you, if you so much as ask.” his voice drifted off, just as his teeth skimmed the tender skin of your hand. there was a lilt in his last words, delicately teasing a promise he could fulfill so long as you uttered a word.

gulping, you felt heat blossom upon your face. dark and warm, a sweetness that dripped into tight coils within your stomach as you watched him. for a moment, all concern vanished into an electric sensation that jolted your limbs into movement. you tugged him close into a dizzying kiss. v was always pliant when you kissed him first but this time he melted into it. 

he felt so soft, so unlike that of a battle-weary soldier. as for you, you felt strengthened to layer as much of your love onto him as possible. there were no boundaries tonight, only the desire for him. 

in one split second, v cradled your cheek, tilting it up to lick at the bottom of your lip. “how would you want me tonight, dear (name)?” he asked with a sultry purr. 

you felt his knee scrape against your inner thigh, before settling where you wanted him the most. but no, that wasn’t enough; you wanted more, more, more of him. so you drew your lips toward the shell of his ear, one hand curling around the lapels of his jacket. 

“i want you like the day you were born,” you told him in a heated whisper. “naked and desperate for touch.” 

you were awoken from your memory by a distant rumble. each passing tremor was felt underneath your fingers as you looked around. then you remembered why you were here so you stood up, gaze trailing up the steep path covered in red. 

with the phantom remnants of the memory still clinging onto you, your body felt heated and it trembled. the sliver of sweet coil persisted in your stomach, up until you heard a faraway growl that signified a demon’s presence. all loving memories and the feeling they gave birth to disappeared as your mind came into reality. 

you needed to get out of here. 

the last time you saw v felt so long ago. he had something to accomplish: to see to a certain demon’s end, that was what he said. v had always been driven by his hatred of evil and his mission to eradicate all evils from this world. but that time you noticed the flicker of something in his eyes. there was determination, but a sense of letting go, too. that time, you wished you never knew him so well like that, because v was always honest with his emotions and desires. as for you, you had the irritating ability to truly know others. 

“all evil must be purged, they–” before he could finish he almost lost his balance, body swaying as if ready to fall. you were quick by his side, clothes sticking to your body by a mixture of blood and demonic body fluids. 

you winced as you saw his skin crumbling like dust as you touched him. at first, you debated on sitting him down, but v was quick to notice as he brought your body towards his. 

he pressed himself into you and you held one arm around him. you couldn’t look at him anymore so you settled on some distant sight. “you need rest v,” you told him. you never wanted to scold him but your voice came out as such, intermingled with worry. 

at first, you thought he may refuse. but then v looked at you, his quiet eyes beholding everything that would blossom when they gazed into your eyes. he nodded, a movement that you almost missed. 

“one last time, for the both of us,” he said softly, yet desperately. “help me take these off, i-i want you to hold me without obstruction.” 

his request was responded by a weak whimper from you, fueled by an overwhelming spell of confusion and love. still, you obliged if only to spend more time with him. somewhere in the distance, griffon trilled for the first time. you could have felt warmth in you but instead, you felt a growing coldness and despair. you knew something was wrong the moment you reached for his jacket and peeled it back. 

he had always been thin, but when you shed his clothing you noticed the bruises and scars that accentuated his physique. watching his body covered in not only bruises and scratch marks but also cracks made you want to drag him out of this battle. even still, you knew that he wouldn’t let you and that the best you could do was offer him affection in this trying time. 

there was something poignantly tragic about v’s existence, you realized. that maybe he was only put here, in this world, to accomplish a certain task. even v knew that his chapter in this story may be coming to an end. perhaps that was why he took this moment to be near you. he was so close to you when you started removing his clothing. he was so close you could see every littlest scar and crack, and every bumps and ridge on his skin. 

when his upper clothing were all discarded onto the muddy earth, he took you into his embrace. v was always odd when it came to physical affection; he much preferred feeling you with his naked body, and if it was in your room, you would be naked too. 

he held you tightly as if he wanted to imprint your body into his memory. you too wrapped your arms around him, hoping in some way that this moment would last forever. 

“come back to me v, don’t go,” you said quietly, sighing against his skin. v visibly tensed and for a moment, you did as well. 

then he forced himself to relax as he pressed a chaste kiss to the shell of your ear. “i love that you love me and i, too, love you (name).”

there was a finality to his words, but you forced yourself to listen quietly. closing your eyes, you laid your chin upon his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. 

(what separated fate and destiny, you realized, was a tragedy.)

and then, with a heavy burden upon him, v bid you farwell, calling for griffon to escort you somewhere safe. but you knew that regardless of where this safe place was, only v was the safest for you. this was a memory bitter and sweet for you to remember, but it satisfied the silence that was your trek upwards. 

your body shivered as the temperature dropped sharply. though you were cold and alone, you still hoped that you could see v again. nero and dante had several near-death experiences before, you thought, so v will be okay. 

you could almost hear his silky voice nearby you, a note on the passing wind. briefly, you stopped, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of the air. it’s close now, with only a few more steps to take. quivering, you stumble forward until you finally reached solid ground. the first in what felt like hours, just as your body gave away. distinct noises of wings lured your wavering stare into the sky. the dark shape of griffon hung in the air, watching you with emotionless eyes. 

“hey, hey you wi’ me there?” he asked, voice penetratingly loud and clear. you smelled fetid stench clinging onto his feathered breast, implying a recent battle with demons. 

you ignored him for a moment, eyes scanning the half-charred battleground. no solid corpses, only the empty husks of human victims drained of their blood. you were too tired to match griffon’s voice in its loudness and clarity, but you willed yourself to demand an answer from him. “where’s v?” 

“he left uh...something t’ attend to,” the bird replied with an angry squawk. 

for a moment, you felt your legs giving down as the thought of moving deeper into the area sent a new wave of terror into you. but then you noticed a movement, two forms that you knew well, but not the ones you wanted to see. 

the black feline and his titanous companion came out of the darkness, but there was no v behind them.

griffon perched himself on top of the towering behemoth, nightmare, before saying, “look we know v wanted us to keep you here but ya gotta know somethin’, somethin’ v wanted to hide from ya. go through this place and make yer way up. don’t worry, no demons will bother ya.” 

fettered by the will to see v again, you wrapped your arms around your body and followed griffon’s words. before you disappeared into yet another unknown, you threw a glance to the three demons. 

“don’t worry about us, we got somethin’ to do. now go!” 

griffon’s words were firm, a far cry from his usual quips and mocking jokes. something was clawing at the back of your neck, urging you to ask more questions. instead, you relented and made your way forward, wondering what you will see. 

so you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment just as you saw a distant shape of light ahead. while you desperately wanted your prying thought to be false, a part of you had already accepted it. 

the trek felt longer than it looked. by then, your legs were boiling with an aching need to rest, but so too was the rest of you. from time to time you threw your head back, hoping griffon and the rest were going to appear. a sinking thought occurred to you that that may have been the last you would ever see of them. it wasn’t a good thought, but you still needed to move forward. 

when you finally stepped out into the open field, you saw something that turned your insides into ice. 

v stabbing his cane into the body of a fallen demon. 

dante running towards him just as a ray of light enveloped v and the creature. 

and then, as you attempted to make your way to the light, it vanished and in the exact same spot stood someone else. 

not v. 

not the demon.

but a man. 

“great things are done when men and mountain meet.”

v’s soothing voice seems to drift into your mind as you watched the stranger. in that moment, you didn’t know why you remembered those words, but v had recited them the last time he was in your house. clutching at your chest, you attempted to move forward, only for your feet to get caught in a raised root. 

“don’t move, hide.” again, you heard v but you couldn’t see him. panicking, you looked around hoping that some part of him was still here–lest you were becoming mad. 

you quickly ducked behind a gnarled root, body pressed against grimy substances as you clasped your hands to your mouth. your chest rose and fell in heavy motions just as your mind replayed the scene over and over. 

v was gone. he was gone and he was, he was–

for a while, you didn’t notice the way your body carried you away. there was a disconnect between your physical and mental self that numbed you. an invisible hand strangled you, taking root within your brain. 

shock had you in a chokehold as you stopped, one hand planted on the wall of a dilapidated building drowned in alien plants and dried blood. while you could return and watch the aftermath, a part of you just knew. 

that v was no longer in existence.

[growingstronglikeahighgardenrose]

An unmitigated disaster

         Summary:            

“Lord Babington, please. You must see that it would be an unmitigated disaster.” She was saying goodbye to a comfortable life because of Edward, and she was starting to doubt whether that was a smart decision. Maybe her rejection had been the unmitigated disaster. OR: In which Esther finally sees through Edward and Lady Denham has a couple of schemes up her sleeve.

__________________________________________________

         Text

“Whatever this happy future is you see for the pair of you, it is quite impossible… But in your heart of hearts, you already know that.”

She did.

She had for a while now.

Everyone could confirm Edward was charming and nice to be around.

Everyone would also say Edward wasn’t to be trusted.

She had thought that rang true for everyone but her.

Now she wondered if it rang true for everyone including her.

.

.

.

Esther had always kept everyone at bay.

Everybody wanted something from everyone. This lesson was instilled upon her by her brother and her aunt. She didn’t mind not having any confidantes, ninety percent of the people she knew were poor company anyways.

She kept them away. All of them. Including her stupid niece who’d gotten closer to Edward than she ever had, the Parkers, the London friends of Sydney… She’d borne their presence only when the occasion required her to converse with them.

That was how this whole mess had started with. Polite conversation, or as polite as she was willing to go. She never wanted to be too polite to men, the ruder she was, the sooner they steered clear from her. The technique always worked. Except on Lord Babington.

The first night, she had been annoyed by his attention.

When the first letter came, she was shocked. It was the most persistent a man had been. But she wasn’t interested, so there was no use in replying.

Then came the next letter. In face to face conversation she had at least responded, even if her remarks were dry and apathetic. But now he didn’t even need a word of hers to continue. This time her brother did notice, and he questioned why she would receive two letters. In the midst of a jealous episode she decided to test how he would react if she allowed someone else to give her attention.

So she started to read Babington’s letters to him.

“It’s just the idea that you could ever favour him that I find so deliciously… preposterous.”

“Why do you think it won’t come to anything?”

He was still confident he was the only one who could ever have her heart. He never feared. He wasn’t even annoyed. But the amusement and the daily remarks he made showed that he at least cared in some undefined way.

She should have realized then that to him she was just a toy he possessed but wasn’t interested in until someone else wanted it.

But with every touch, with every brush of his fingers along her neck, with every step he made towards her, critical thoughts were drowned by tons of excitement and anticipation.

.

.

.

Lord Babington visited and promised her he wouldn’t give up on her.

And after years of begging for any kind of attention, the idea that someone would willingly and continuously take time to be occupied with her, without her having to beg for it, quite drew her attention.

It amused her, but she’d heard enough stories from her brother to know men rarely meant anything. And she knew their attentions were fickle at best. So she allowed herself to enjoy it without thinking too much of it.

Then in came her aunt with the announcement Lord Babington was invited and she was to talk with him. She was annoyed by her aunts meddling.

Annoyed that her aunt tried to ruin her future with Edward.

She huffed and puffed.

But at night, she feared.

She was nearing 26, she was past her prime and flirting with Spinster territory.

She’d wasted her young years on a feeble promise of living in Italy with Edward. She never tried to flirt with men. She’d been so reassured by Edward that she would get what she wanted.

But what if she didn’t?

She wouldn’t be able to keep her good looks for another ten years, nor would she manage to get a lot of children if she waited even longer.

She didn’t have any dowry to recommend her. What would happen to her if her aunt and her money were gone and Edward failed to live up to his promise?

An old, poor spinster in a crumbling ruin. She would be lucky to have anyone who asked.

It was a grim bleak future.

.

.

.

She didn’t know what part she was playing on the day of the game, or for whom.

She told herself she was humouring her aunt by seeking out Babington’s company.

She told herself she was pleasing Edward by remaining sharp and cool.

She told herself she was just agreeing to walk with him because etiquette required her to accept when a man offered, especially when her aunt wished for her to spend time with him.

She couldn’t tell herself she had to enjoy his company, she just did.

She found no excuse to laugh with him, except because she genuinely felt the need to.

And she had no motivation supported by treatises on aesthetics or by general good taste to consider

his face comely when he laughed.

So she refused to dwell on it. The lack of reasons made her anxious.

She did have reasons, and the right, to ask time to consider his proposal. Ranging from comparing the cons and pros to pride to Edward.

But alone at home, the walls were creeping in on her.

Loneliness enveloped her like a cold uncomforting blanket as she stared out of her window. A shrill contrast to the warm afternoon and feeling of warmth in her belly as Lord Babington had fallen on his knee to ask her while she was still laughing.

Her aunts words had never rang lauder than they did in the empty sitting room. Christ, even Clara’s words reverberated through the room.

She was poor.

Her hopes of a future with Edward were wishful thinking at best, and foolish at worst.

He was rich, and not the poorest company.

And if he for some reason liked a woman who had little to recommend her in either personality or wealth, she wouldn’t stop him.

.

.

.

But then came Edward.

And that kiss.

Her resolve crumbled to dust.

Refusing Babington had seemed as evident and necessary as breathing. After years of loving Edward, and him loving her, he’d finally kissed her. It was the furthest she’d ever gotten. She couldn’t ruin the biggest step forward they’d ever made because of someone she’d shared not a full ten conversations with. Love wasn’t laughing. Love was agony, and a heart which felt heavy with excitement and fear. It’s what she’d always felt for Edward, and what she’d always read about in stories. Love was pain. And love was difficult to obtain.

Love wasn’t this erratic heartbeat and breathy laughs and quips back-and-forth.

Edward was the only real family she had. The only one who was there for her every day, even if he was rude and sarcastic.Their love wasn't nice, but it was real.

He was the only one who’d touched her in years. The only one who hugged her when she felt awful. He was the only one she didn’t have to pretend with. She could walk around in her morning gown the whole day if she liked, he’d seen it since they were thirteen. She daren’t think of letting someone else see her in such a state, to show them her vulnerable side. She’d built so much on this public persona that just the mere thought of dropping it in front of someone and showing them her other side felt impossible.

She couldn’t lose him. And that fear had kept her coming back to him time and time again while he showed her only the smallest signs of affection and the vaguest of promises.

.

.

.

“Lord Babington, please. You must see that it would be an unmitigated disaster.”

She didn't know who she was trying to convince most by saying that: him or herself?

Did she still believe the words she was speaking?

She was saying goodbye to a comfortable life because of Edward, and she was starting to doubt whether that was a smart decision.

.

.

.

She liked Edward for being a realist. He always drew bleak portraits and sarcastic paintings of people and life in general. She considered herself a realist too. She looked at other men with cool detachment: if they were mean, they would be even crueller once you got close, and if they were nice they were either stupid or cruel behind the face they wore to face the world.

Of course, she never analysed Edward, herself or their goals in a realistic manner. And perhaps she should have.

Why would a man keen on touching every woman to “maintain a persona” be true to her? There was no need to act like a dandy. Now if there were rumours about him being in love with… say her, showing he looked at other ladies would have been understandable… But that wasn’t the case. And at public banquets or parties he wasn’t talking to the richest ladies for the sake of his aunt, most of them weren’t rich enough.

What were the odds of them receiving more than enough money from their aunt? They’d been trying to earn her favour for years and they hadn’t endeared themselves any more to her. She was suspicious of their motifs, righteously so.

She’d always looked towards the will as her saving grace, the one thing which could grant her a future with Edward. She hoped that was why he was so fervent about finding it once he heard of it.

But it also worried her. She cared about the will, and she knew that their aunt had to die for them to get the money but it had always been on a technical level.

Seeing her aunt bedbound and actually ill had shook her. This lady had been as solid as a rock, a beacon of health. She seemed invincible, her health as unyielding as her iron will.

She actually worried.

She actually had trouble sleeping because of it.

And then she found her brother the next day with dark circles underneath his eyes, having chased after the money all night.

He didn’t seem fazed in the slightest by their aunt’s health.

He didn't care about the human cost of the money.

‘Maybe I’ve made a mistake.’

She admitted to herself.

.

.

.

Edward continued his habit of disappearing and taking ladies on walks as she remained behind.

She walked the grounds of their old crumbling house in dire need of repairs.

She watched the orange, yellow and red leaves soar through the sky, get picked up by the wind and land in the fountain or the grass.

Nature was dying.

As were her hopes and dreams.

Her heart was restless, her heartbeat picking up whenever she tried to imagine a future.

She couldn’t.

There were no follow-up kisses.

No long hugs.

Nothing lovers do.

She found herself in the exact spot Lord Babington proposed.

‘I’ve been unfair to him. Again.’

She hadn’t seen or heard from him since news broke that he’d gone to London.

Maybe her rejection had been the unmitigated disaster.

.

.

.

She visited her aunt four days after she’d first been taken ill. She still wasn’t better. It was the longest she’d been ill since she could remember.

After two hours of playing the harp to her, she withdrew with Clara for tea.

‘I heard you refused Babington.’

‘So?’ She pretended not to be surprised Edward told her.

‘You know our aunt encouraged the match.’

‘I’m not going to marry him just to please our aunt.’

‘So you didn’t want him?’

She looked up at her. Clara’s eyes were calculating.

‘Did Edward ask you to?’

Her stony face must have betrayed her, because suddenly Clara started shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

‘Esther, he isn’t worth it. This future you imagine isn’t worth it. He isn’t a good man.’

‘What would you know about it? You don’t know him like I do. We tried to get you out of Her favour. It meant nothing.’

‘I meant nothing, the kitchens maids in this town mean nothing, the whores mean nothing… If we don’t matter but he keeps coming to us, what does that tell you about the strength of his love?’

She’d been asking herself that exact same question for some weeks now.

‘He loves me.’

‘Clara, there are some –‘

‘ – sandwiches, ladies?

A servant brought them a tray of fish sandwiches and Clara looked at them with a disgusted face. She shoved her chair away from the table as Esther waved the servant away.

‘Clara?’

‘I’m fine… That fifth better be worth it’, her cousin mumbled.

.

.

.

‘All in all, I think you’ll come to regret ever setting foot in Sanditon. I know I do.’

She remembered one of the first things she said to Miss Heywood when she sat down in a chair next to her to hear of Lady Denham’s predicament.

The whole family, the reverend, the doctor and the Parker family had gathered in the large drawing room. The fireplace was roaring but a chill still managed to chase shivers down Esther’s spine.

‘It is now my solemn duty to inform you Lady Denham’s condition is now very precarious indeed.’

Tentative glances were exchanged.

‘How precarious are we speaking?’ asked the eldest Mr. Parker.

‘We are talking a possible funeral before the start of autumn.’

.

.

.

Everyone remained behind to talk, but one by one everyone left.

Just as Esther managed to get up, she was stopped by Clara.

‘A word, please?’

‘What is it?’

‘I’m pregnant. It’s from Edward.’

‘Why would it be his?’

‘He’s the only one I slept with.’

‘Are you sure you are… expecting?’

‘Pretty sure. It happened the morning after aunt first fell ill.’

That was over three weeks ago.

That was after she’d rejected Lord Babington because Edward had asked her to.

He’d asked her to refuse Babington and he’d still slept with Clara!

For years she had to endure Clara’s cruel remarks about the nature of her and Edward’s relationship. She knew how Esther felt about Edward and she still decided to sleep with him.

‘No Esther, don’t worry. We won’t leave you with nothing. We’ll make sure you’ll have a large dowry and more than enough money to maintain the lifestyle you should have.’

‘You think I’m thinking about money?!’

Clara paused and looked away.

Out of a whole family consisting of cunning snakes, she had to be the naïve one, and she had been played by all of them.

‘Congratulations, Clara. You win. You found a way to win no matter who aunt decides to give her inheritance to. And congratulations, you’re worth each other. That money was the only thing both of you ever cared about.’

‘But you wanted it too?’

‘For me, money was always just a means to an end. Not the goal itself.’

She’d been a fool for far too long.

She left the house and decided to embark on a walk before heading home.

Taking a minute to admire some lacework in an attempt to distract herself from her own tragedy she couldn’t help but overhear two familiar voices.

‘I do wonder if we should have at least prepared a bit for this race.’

‘A gentleman doesn’t practice, it’s tantamount to cheating.’

‘You keep looking around, don’t tell me you’re keeping an eye out for that miserable Denham creature.’

‘Heavens no, I’ve given up that hunt. It’s a futile pursuit.’

She wished the ground would just swallow her whole.

There was no one on this earth she could trust.

No one who cared for her.

She had no one to talk to.

She’d only ever wanted to have a family and be loved.

.

.

. Continue reading: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913971#main

[theangrypokemaniac]

@nyarthsis

If Team Rocket 'always had a heart for unpopular Pokémon', that's an admission their Alola catches aren't particular loveable creatures, so I'm not thinking anything too controversial.

You're saying they take pity on the animals no one wants, as in it's normal for me not to find them adorable.

Some Pokémon, such as Lucario, become fan favourites without the advertisement of a regular role the anime. With Wobbuffet, Bewear, Stufful, Mareanie and Mimikyu, do people like them for themselves, or because of their association with Team Rocket?

I think its the latter. I can't imagine there would be such interest in them were they to be owned by a Twerp or appear as a one-off. Really then, it's not what or who they are, it's to whom they belong that matters.

Alola has really devalued catching. Rather than be true to the source material, so battering a Pokémon into submission, as Ash did with Bulbasaur, Primeape, Muk, and many others, now you have to ask their permission!

Bewear didn't even get that. She hung around for no reason, and her 'friend' Stufful was belatedly tacked on. I see why those two were left behind, as Team Rocket had no right to take them elsewhere.

In terms of welfare, Mimikyu and Mareanie are better off staying with them, free and safe, rather than locked in the insalubrious depths of H.Q., but then it never bothered the writers sending previous Pokémon into an uncertain future, so what difference does it make now?

It can only be that, like their predecessors, there is no intention to ever bring them back, but unlike the rest, the fans can't even be allowed the vain hope of a return, not with this rather awkward disposal.

It's feasible that Jessie and James could call their base and request old monsters to join them, but it's difficult to imagine they'd fly across the world to Alola, wander through the woods, pick 'em up and go all the way back again. Why make parting so final and irreversible?

It does imply that Game Freak don't like them, so why should I?

I keep noticing this fickle attitude. A new era starts, we're expected to fall instantaneously in love with every element, beg for more and yet more. Then, once the next region arrives, this adoration asked of us is meant to evaporate and immediately transfer to the next batch.

Well why start to like them, if eventually the makers don't care, to the extent you wouldn't even know previous Pokémon had ever been alive?

Have you heard one mention of Seviper, Yanmega, Dustox, Cacnea, Carnivine, and Mime Junior since they left?

Why were they happy to chuck Wobbuffet after Sinnoh, yet fetched for Kalos?

How could Team Rocket live without it for an entire generation but suddenly it's indispensable again? What do you imagine the rest of their Pokémon felt about that?

Have Jessie and James wondered allowed how Arbok, Weezing, Lickitung and Victreebel are doing?

What of the last two generations?

What is this nonsense where every character is so detached from the past?

Supposing I was to force myself to appreciate them: since they've gone, never to return, I'd be dissatisfied with the show, thus no better off than I am now.

My feelings don't run on a switch. I can't find myself besotted one minute then dump the object of affection without a second thought, just because Nintendo want it from me.

Even if I had a more positive opinion of the current interpretation, there's no benefit to becoming involved when it's all so fleeting.

Mareanie is ugly, with three teeth. I think he's a sea anenome, so ought to be more attractive, but it's covered in nipples instead!

It looks like a bonsai tree growing breasts, reminiscent of the hideous content lurking within an Hieronymous Bosch painting.

The idea that all Mimikyu copy Pikachu, the most famous Pokémon, when in their world it's nothing special, is too stupid for me to accept. How could that be coincidence?

It's referencing reality, acknowledging the real world's view of Pikachu as the star, so if it's breaking the fourth wall, it invites disbelief.

Wobbuffet does sod all. It's a complete dead weight and has no attacks. Yet it's the one to survive generation after generation. Where's the logic in that?

I suspect his popularity rests on being there so long he's considered part of the furniture, the sole catch in which you can invest an emotional connection whilst fairly certain he'll remain around.

By now it ought to have developed some semblance of a personality, but it's as faceless as ever. Other Pokémon that have been and gone had a bit more about them, but Wobba's so bland no one can summon the energy to write him out.

If he went, what would you miss? Breaking out of his ball and hissing 'WAAAAAHBUHFEH'? Is that so integral?

I have several objections:

What is it meant to be?

Why does its tail have eyes?

Why is that never mentioned?

Is it a sort of quadruped, or has it only one foot with four toes, arranged like the bottom of a medical walking stick?

A lot of my reactions to Pokémon are influenced by encountering them in the games. With Wobbuffet, I remember first coming across it in the cave near Blackthorn City, and just as you're winning the fight, it pulls out Destiny Bond and suddenly you're both down.

When you finally get one, it's tricky to train. You have no choice but to guess whether the opposition will launch a physical or special move, and mostly you get it wrong. He never learns anything else and doesn't evolve, so it's that forever.

Persevering with Magikarp is worthwhile, but what's to be gained from taking any time out to fight with Wobbuffet?

The anime eliminates this problem. You're aware of the nature of the approaching onslaught because you can see it coming, and the opponent said it aloud.

In this context Wobbuffet should be the most powerful Pokémon in the universe. Come on, it can deflect every attack!

Is it? No. It has a successful defence about once a generation, and still loses the battle. I can't say if it's worse to be utterly pointless, or to not fulfil one's potential.

I resent it muscling in on the motto, as if it's considers itself of equal rank to Meowth. No it's not!

When I was young, there was a tendency for magazines to refer to Team Rocket as a duo. Meowth was judged to be in the same position as Pikachu: a main character yes, and valuable enough to be accorded the privilege of liberty, but still very much owned by people.

You would see references to Jessie and James as his Trainers, though how they assumed this worked went unexplained. Even if shared, one had to have to caught him, thus be his proper owner.

Later on this developed into them being three equal members, and the term 'TRio' emerged, but now, although perhaps not officially recognised, there's an attitude of treating them as a quartet.

It's just wrong! Wobbuffet's not been around since day one. He didn't join Team Rocket voluntarily because he had nowhere else to go. It was a choice made for him by his original Trainer, so out of his hands, or rather his flippers.

If he was an independent Pokémon who just tagged along one day, that would be different, but it belongs to Jessie. Promoting one of hers means James is lesser, and no longer equal.

In each generation Team Rocket catch at least one local Pokémon, but as Wobbuffet's there, it ends up with Jessie having more on her side than James, and I dislike the imbalance. Plus the one he does get is violent.

It can't be solved by giving him another new one, as then he's captured two in the region, and she has only one, so again it's skewed.

Whilst Wobbuffet does count in numbers, he's not on the level of the rest, who fight regularly. He's both there and not simultaneously.

I'm still irked the way Lickitung was ejected to make room.

It was the best Pokémon they ever had! It took out Pikachu, Vulpix and Bulbasaur with one move! It would've won those Princess Dolls for Jessie if the writers hadn't changed the rules so that Lick only affects those of sound mind!

It was as if they realised their mistake too late, and so Lickitung was featured less and less to avoid it dominating a fight, then hurriedly traded away for something reliably feeble.

The following analogy you may not understand, but I think it fits rather aptly:

There's a game called Final Fantasy VIII. One of the side quests involves you racing through a castle under a time limit. If successful, you are rewarded with Odin as a Guardian Force, which is a deity that will provide a defence.

Unlike others, he is out of your control, but every so often, as you enter battle, he turns up and annihilates your opponents. It's very welcome.

Unfortunately this game was programmed by bunyips, who clearly didn't want the last section of the game to be accidently easier for you. Oh no. If you're progressing, it ain't gonna be through luck, or turning the console on and off until he arises.

Therefore, towards the close, you come up against ex-friend Seifer. Odin is fixed to rush to your aid, but when he does, bloody Seifer slices him in half, horse and all!

He killed Odin, the ancient King of the North! The Lord of Valhallah! The Father of the Vikings!

It's not normal fighting death, it's irreversible. He's gone for good.

After this Gilgamesh introduces himself as a replacement. He too will randomly appear and set about the enemy.

The problem is that whilst Odin destroyed monsters unfailingly, with Gilgamesh it's a rarity.

He uses four swords, and which you get is also a lottery.

One is the same as Odin's, two deal average damage, but not death, and the worst one depletes 1 HP, so it might as well not have bothered.

Not only does it arrive but a fraction of the time, but it's in a fraction of those times that it's of any assistance, which is something of a comedown.

Lickitung is Odin: didn't see it often, but it tore the place apart!

Wobbuffet is Gilgamesh: once in a blue moon it provides rescue, but it's on a lot lower percentage than it's predecessor.

It's difficult not to be disappointed.

[starspatter]

Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 12

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3,191 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Also on ff.net and AO3. Note: I haven't actually read either of the books referenced in this chapter, but they came up when I was doing research and seemed to fit so I threw them in there.

Scars are souvenirs you never lose The past is never far Did you lose yourself somewhere out there Did you get to be a star

We grew up way too fast And now there's nothing to believe And reruns all become our history

-Goo Goo Dolls, "Name"

————————– 

Then. On Monday, Tim went to the library as usual once classes were over, but with a different purpose in mind than simply secluding himself in studies.  …That is to say, he wouldn’t be by himself this time. He wondered why he even agreed to this. That knock on the head must have scrambled his judgment – that was the only explanation he could think of for permitting himself to be possessed by such an insane notion. When he reached the agreed-upon meeting place though, there was someone else sitting at the table instead of the person he expected.  She had short, pitch black hair – sleek and strict – a style resembling Annie’s but with a widow’s peak; far darker bangs parted in the center, pulled back taut by a barrette. In addition, her skin was much more pale in comparison, emphasizing midnight mascara and lips.  Both her chin and slanted eyes were sharper, piercing pupils snapping up from her book to stare straight at him with such intensity he flinched on instinct.  He’d never seen anyone react so immediately to his presence. “Uh… Hello?” She eyed him with suspicion, silent and unmoving.  Statuesque. “Sorry to bother you, but… I’m supposed to be meeting someone here soon…” Again, no response. Tim didn’t know what to do. He thought about just giving up and turning tail (hey, can’t say he didn’t try at least), though somehow the prospect of presenting his back to her seemed like a dangerous idea.  He was about to retreat in reverse by slinking slowly into the shadows – safety – of shelves when a pair of hands suddenly emerged from behind him, blocking his vision. “Guess who~?” “Gah!” He whirled around in a panic, almost about to punch the invader to his personal space when he saw it was – of course – Stephanie.  The librarian sternly looked up from the counter at the loud disruption and pursed a finger to her lips, shushing. “Fuck- don’t do that,” he hissed with a sibilant shiver, clutching his rapidly beating breast. “…Sorry,” she whispered back, contrite. “It’s okay,” he muttered with a heavy sigh.  “Just give me some warning next time.” Meanwhile, the seated spectator was still watching the two intently, stony view shifting back and forth between them.  Tim felt even more uncomfortable under her penetrating gaze, and was about to suggest they move to someplace else when Steph waved to the glum girl in gleeful greeting. “I see you’ve met my roommate,” she chirped as she bounded over, cheerfully clasping hands on the sculpture’s stiffened shoulders.  “This is Cassandra, but you can call her Cass.  She doesn’t say much, but she’s a nice girl.  I hope you don’t mind if she joins us for today.” As she briskly babbled introduction in lieu of the stranger herself, who still had yet to speak, Tim felt he was starting to understand how Steph was able to put up with his own severe lack of social skills. “Um… Okay.  Sure.” “Awesome.  I’ll be with you guys in a sec, just let me finish shelving these books.” She bustled off again, leaving Tim alone with Cassandra before he could even say anything. Defeated, he laid his bookbag on the table and took the chair diagonally across from her, not wanting to remain directly in her field of vision.  She continued to follow his movements closely though, keeping sight trained on him as if a hawk tracking its prey – rigid and unwavering.  …It was starting to seriously creep him out. “So, er… What’s that you’re reading?” He blurted out in a feeble endeavor to fill conversation. Mechanically, she raised the cover so he could see.  Judging by the winged figure in frilly jeweled fashion painted next to a medieval knight, both holding what appeared to be fanciful masks, it looked like some kind of fantasy young adult fiction novel. “I… see.  Is it interesting?” She simply nodded, before (blessedly) returning attention to her reading material. … Can I go now? As the suffocating silence stretched on, Tim wasn’t sure if the situation was any better than before. Though her scathing appraisers were now fully fixed on the page in front of her rather than him, they didn’t seem to be making any progress.  …Which he supposed only made sense, given the orientation of the subject. …Should I let her know she’s holding that book upside-down? To his surprise, a rosy tint developed on the other’s complexion as she subtly flipped the tome to the correct position.  Odd, he was sure he hadn’t said that statement aloud.  …But then, reality was such a fickle thing these days. Yet, even though the volume was righted, her focus still didn’t seem to advance at all.  He mused idly if she was actually absorbing any of it. Don’t tell me she can’t actually read. “I can read.” Tim startled at the unanticipated answer.  …Okay, this was really getting weird.  He definitely hadn’t said anything that time.  Given that the supposed responder still hadn’t budged an inch, he began to doubt whether he was really hearing things… Before he could decide whether to inquire further out of sheer curiosity, Stephanie conveniently showed up at that precise moment, arms inflated with textbooks. “Back!  Sorry about that.” She plopped the heavy publications and herself down, insinuating cozily between the two, apparently without noticing the aura of awkwardness permeating the air. “Shall we get started then?” “Y- yeah.” Tim cast one more confused look at Cassandra before attempting to apply concentration to his other company instead.  It was difficult when said study partner’s own awareness kept wandering though, growing bored and fidgety within minutes.  In the corner of his periphery, he could sense the third party’s irises still peeking at him from over the pages as well, albeit remaining mute throughout the entire period. By the end of the (exhausting) hour, Tim had managed to at least hammer in a few concepts.  As they finally stood up and started gathering their things, Stephanie sheepishly apologized for her short retention span, and promised she’d be more attentive next time.  Meanwhile, Cassandra quietly shut her text and rose, maneuvering fluently – like lighter fluid, hazardous and almost undetectable – around the desk to approach Tim.  To both his and Steph’s astonishment, she leaned in alarmingly close, lifting delicate digits to lightly touch his forehead.  He swallowed apprehensively as she scrutinized his mystified expression, as if searching for something. After a bewildered beat, she lowered her hand, and placed the paperback she had in his. “Here.” He blinked at her in bemusement. “Read it.” She merely instructed, before departing without another word. “…What the heck was that about?” Steph pondered, scratching her hair. Tim shrugged.  “Beats me.  You know her better than I do.” “Yeah, but I have no idea why she does stuff sometimes.”  Stephanie paused, contemplating with a half-anxious, half-amused countenance.  “Hey, maybe she likes you.” Tim blushed, busying with packing away his possessions again. “Yeah, right.” … As he lay on his dorm bed later though, looking at the lent item against the light, he reflected on the strange glance and gesture she gave him.  It wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced before.  It was as if the cold contact infiltrated deep into his soul, chilling to his very core… Conner came in then, bearing a broad grin. “Yooo Timbo, so how’d it go with that girl?” Tim shrugged, sitting up. “…She brought her roommate along.” The other boy elevated an eyebrow. “Dude.  That’s a bad sign.  Inviting someone else on the first date means you’re totally in the friendzone.” “I told you, it’s not a date.” “What is it then?” Tim exhaled, shaking his head. “…I don’t know.” Conner crossed over to clap a thick paw on Tim’s shoulder. “Lighten up, man.  You’ll win her over, don’t worry.” He elbowed with a wink and cheesy thumbs-up, and Tim rolled his retinas, but didn’t say anything. Conner’s eyes caught the object in the other’s lap, and he plucked it up without warning, wrinkling his nose as he examined the lacey title. “The Black Swan?  Since when do you read chick lit?” “It’s not mine,” Tim defended hastily.  “Steph’s roommate told me to read it.  Now give it back.” Tim made a swipe for the article, but Conner easily kept his extended muscle out of the shorter one’s reach as he flipped teasingly through the embarrassing narrative, reciting passages aloud with gusto. “‘Odile watched her father's back, swallowing involuntary bitter tears of disappointment and rejection, feeling her head droop a little as her heart sank with dejection.’” “Will you shut up?” “‘If she could have wept, her tears would have burned furrows down her face, so bitter were the dregs of degradation that she drank at that moment.’  …God, who writes this stuff?” Tim grimaced as he made another desperate effort to grab at the entity.  In the midst of their scuffle though, two tags secretly tucked into the spine slipped out from between the sheets, landing at their feet.  They both blinked and bent down to pick one up each, puzzled by the bizarre bookmarks. They were playing cards. Conner glimpsed up from the Ace of Clubs he was holding towards Tim, whose eyes were expanded wide with shock and – horror? – as his hand began shaking. “Hey, you okay, man?  What’s wrong?” Gulping, Tim gradually rotated the thin cardboard around to reveal its front: not a number or face… but a Joker. Anger and concern promptly carved onto Conner’s visage. “What the hell is this?  Some kind of sick joke?” Tim said nothing, as he peered down at the scarlet diptych design of mirrored angels and demons on the backside to find a brief note written in bold, black marker: Park.  4PM. Biting his lip in baffled frustration, Conner revolved his own cue around to discover a much longer message.  His brow furrowed as he tried (rather unsuccessfully) to pronounce the alien language it was inscribed in. “‘Rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno’ – what is this, French?” “It’s Latin,” Tim clarified.  “’A rare bird in the lands and very much like a black swan.’   It likely refers to a recent theory published by Taleb.  It’s a metaphor to describe an event that comes as a surprise, that’s hard to predict since it’s beyond the realm of regular expectations, and has an extreme major impact as a result.  Afterwards, it is rationalized by hindsight, as if it could’ve been anticipated if the relevant data were available – but this only becomes apparent in retrospect.  The phrase itself was coined by the ancient poet Juvenal, back when people thought black swans didn’t exist and that such an abnormality was impossible. It was only later proven wrong when the first one was discovered in 1697.” Conner blinked vacantly at Tim, looking as lost as he always did whenever the other went off on an encyclopedic (if perhaps slightly pretentious) tangent. “So…  What does it all mean?” “I don’t know,” Tim admitted as he took the pair and headed determinedly over to his computer, booting up the system.  “But I’m going to find out.” He navigated to the browser window – keeping a weather eye on the worrisome memo as it unwillingly brought back bad memories – and did some digging. … By the time he was done with his research, the hour of summons was fast approaching.  He snatched his jacket and was out the door before Conner could even get a word in edgewise, racing towards Gotham Central Park. As soon as he arrived there, he stilled for a second at the entrance gate, surveying the tranquil scene of people walking casually to and fro: lovers holding hands, families enjoying late afternoon picnics and games of Frisbee or Fetch with their pets, children running joyfully to their parents across the grass – the latter giving affectionate hugs and pats before sending off with smiles to the playground, all while keeping a careful watch on their precious bundles from a distance. Tim spotted Cassandra sitting by herself on a swingset towards the outskirts, exuding a gloomy atmosphere that likely aided in deterring any nosey youngsters. He neared cautiously, observing her glide like a gentle pendulum for a while, before she slowed to a stop and looked at him finally. “You came.” Dispensing with preliminaries, Tim cut straight to the chase. “How did you know who I was?” Cassandra smiled softly. “The way you move – it resembles him.  No openings, always on guard, not a single wasted motion…”  She then added in a hush: “Plus, I read your mind.” Her head declined in apology. “Forgive me.  It’s not something I normally like to do to others, especially to someone I’ve just met. …There was such a dark cloud surrounding yours though, I- I couldn’t help it.” She dragged a heel through the dirt. “Besides, you know who I am now, don’t you?” Tim sat down on the swing next to her, repeating everything he had learned based on his hunch. “Several years ago, the Joker broke into a Cadmus facility in Arizona. He released five metahuman kids, who had been abducted from their families shortly after birth and raised as secret weapons for the government.  He took them on as his own protégés, calling them the ‘Royal Flush Gang’.  The strongest of them was named ‘Ace’, who possessed telepathic powers the likes of which the world had never seen before.  …’Ace’ reportedly died not long after of a brain aneurysm in the presence of Batman, who was the only witness, in a park not unlike this one.” Cassandra merely nodded affirmatively. “…He helped you fake your death, didn’t he?” “It was the only way to free me completely from Cadmus’ clutches.  Otherwise they would keep hounding me forever.” She gripped the chains bitterly. “He sent for an expensive foreign doctor who performed the surgery in secret.  Afterwards, he gave me a choice: I could stay and be a part of his team, or I could live peacefully on my own. …I chose this.” Tim afforded her an odd look, thinking how close he evidently could’ve been to having an actual “sister” his age. “…I’m guessing ‘Cassandra’s’ not your real name either.” “It is the name he gave me.  After the Greek prophet from mythology.” “Can you actually see the future?” Tim questioned, genuinely intrigued. Cass regarded the horizon, as if squinting into some sort of far-off void. “What I see are… ‘possibilities’.  Infinite paths our lives could’ve taken, had we made different choices.  If just the slightest factor changed course.  ‘Alternate realities’, if you will.” She told him, about a world where there weren’t just two Robins, but a third Robin and then a fourth, a world where Barbara was the one shot and paralyzed instead of Dick, where Joker lived and he died and came back to life and his name wasn’t Tim it was- “Stop.  I’d rather not hear any more.” Tim prolonged a palm to halt her crazy-sounding speech, grasping his aching skull in the other. “I’m not saying I totally understand or believe you, but basically what you’re saying is… ‘Something’ was bound to happen sooner or later.” “…If that is how you wish to interpret it.” She removed her limbs from the links, resting on her legs instead. “I am sorry, for what he did to you.  The… things I saw inside his mind, they were so terrible, I should’ve known better than to leave him be.  I… should’ve ended him when I had the chance.”  Her knuckles clenched, impressing into her thighs. “Even though they trained me to use my powers to kill, I- I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to.” Tentatively, Tim reached out to wrap his own hand soothingly around her wrist. “Hey, that’s not on you.  It’s not your fault.  None of it was your fault, including-”  He hesitated. “-What happened with your parents.” He heard an abrupt wailing coming from the court where a kid had tripped and fallen from the bottom of the slide, scraping her knees on the wood chips.   Her mom and dad hurried to her side, cooing and consoling as they stuck numerous kisses and band-aids with colorful cartoon kitties and pretty princesses on them to the boo-boos.  Turning, he saw there were tears rolling down Cassandra’s cheeks as she unfurled her fist, knotting fingers into the comfort of his. While her nails were startlingly long, she took care not to wound his flesh, closing just tight enough to exchange warmth. “You and I… are similar.  I don’t mean just because of Joker either.”  She meditated off into that empty space again.  “The two of us are anomalies.  Outliers.  Outsiders. We don’t fit into the grand scheme.  We’ve always been… ‘different’.  We don’t ‘belong’.” Tim wasn’t sure exactly what she was talking about.  But he took a stab at alleviating the mood anyway. “I guess you could say we’re… ‘Wild Cards’?” She stared at him. “…Sorry, bad joke.” And people say I’m humorless now. Cass looked a little put-off as she pouted, and he winced, remembering she could hear what he was thinking as well.  He swiftly opted to switch the topic instead. “You cannot tell Stephanie about any of this.” “I don’t intend to.”  Gray eyes narrowed with gritty resolve as her voice dropped to a grave mumble, digging her toe into the earth and gravel.  “Someone like her should not know of the horrors we’ve been through, the darkness that we come from.  The number of evil sins we’ve committed.  …It will only lead to causing the same kind of pain in the end.” Her face contorted obliquely as she said this, ominous and foreboding. Breathing out, she monitored the fading violet brightness of the sun as it started to set. “Stephanie… is light.  A ray of hope.  She’s the first person I’ve met who wasn’t instantly afraid of me, but accepted me right away for who I was. She’s the first real ‘friend’ I’ve ever had.  …I would never do anything to hurt her.” She looked down at their connection, as if realizing the implication just now, and nervously began to relinquish.  Tim didn’t let go though.  Something she had said triggered a thought in the back of his conscience, and he stood up, coaxing mildly. “Come on.  There’s someone else I think you should meet.” Timidly, she trailed after his tow.  Whilst they stood there waiting for the bus, he overheard a passing elderly duo remark wistfully on that “cute young couple”, which in turn urged him to be the one to impulsively liberate this time.  As they both coughed and avoided each other’s eyes, Cassandra spoke up in a somewhat troubled tone. “There’s… something else I should mention.” “What?” “When I… looked into your subconscious, I saw an even greater darkness buried deep down.  I can’t explain it, but… I fear it may consume you someday.”  She frowned in vexation at her inability to identify, to express.  “…It bears strong resemblance to him.” Though he was afraid to ask, Tim did so anyway. “Who?” She gave him an ambiguous look, constricted and conflicted dots overwhelmingly obscure. “Both.”

————————–

And now we're grown up orphans That never knew their names We don't belong to no one That's a shame But you could hide beside me Maybe for a while And I won't tell no one your name

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, LIA! You’ve been accepted for the role of CAESAR. Admin Jen: I simply can’t express how happy I am that you’ll be holding on to our beloved Chiko, Lia. There’s this singular quality to the muse that you bring to him; a magnetism that is so essential to Chiko as a character yet very distinct to your portrayal of him at the same time -- and I honestly can’t get enough of it. It comes together with everything else you’ve captured in a way that only leaves us wanting more and more, and since it can really be no other way when it comes to the glorious Caesar, it makes us all the more appreciative of your lovely take on him! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Lia

Age | 21

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | I would say a 6/10. I’m a fulltime student, but I’m pretty good about getting my replies… eventually. I also try to actively plot as much as possible.

Timezone | EST

How did you find the rp?  | The wonderful RP tag.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Provide any current or past roleplay accounts that you think best showcase your writing! This is OPTIONAL.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Caesar / Tamura Chiko

What drew you to this character? | Julius Caesar is someone I’ve always been fascinated by, in art, literature, and as a historical figure. He was a man who put all of his faith in his own ability to be great— and many may even argue that it was this pride that led to his own assassination. But no one can deny Caesar of the immense impact he had on the world. He was successful at being immortalized, just as he believed he would. I honestly was super excited to hear we would be getting a Julius Caesar, and although I was initially too intimidated to apply, I finally decided to go for it. There is something about Chiko and how deeply he believes in himself that I was drawn to. I also love how his personality is more nuanced than I anticipated. Occasional gentleness is not something I had expected from a Julius Caesar figure, but in my eyes, that makes him that much more incredible. Chiko is a force— and he isn’t volatile or prone to depravity like many who roam the streets of Verona. He wants power but not solely for the sake of just having it. He wants influence. His interest in the mobs has more to do with his potential influence and what he has to offer to them. There is no one really quite like him in Verona— and I am very much interested in seeing how his presence will affect everyone.

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

1. CHIKO FT. THE MOBS— As of now, Chiko is merely feeling out the mobs, he hasn’t yet determined whether either would be of any interest to him. He isn’t interested in joining persay, as he has already loaned his soul to one man, and does not plan on doing so again anytime soon. He wants the mobs to take interest in him, to recognize his own brilliance and how easily they could profit off his potential. But I am very much interested to see how exactly Verona will react to his arrival, and whether they will be intrigued or threaten by his rather extreme ambition.

2. CHIKO FT. INVESTMENTS— I want Chiko to began investing his money in different places, and to potentially have different alliances with all sorts of people. When you’re as brilliant as him, you don’t limit yourself to a single pursuit, and instead spread your ambitions into multiple roots. He may have lost his money once but he’s very much capable of flipping his money into various sources.

3. CHIKO FT. THE DRUMS— The fire never quite left him, he only restrains it, for the sake of himself and the world around him. I wonder what would happened if someone sent Chiko over the edge (This has only happened once before, so it would it something drastic for this to occur). But I would love to explore his inner darkness. This is something that I believe the mob would ultimately benefit from as well.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Of course.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

(translations are at the bottom)

1. He determined his mother had never truly loved him and how could he blame her? You have those eyes— those fryktelig*, ondskap* eyes. O-Oh my poor beautiful boy, she would slur into his feeble body, the thick scent of vodka practically radiating off of her. It is because of his parents that he cannot stand the smell of liquor. This drew nothing but alarm from him at 6 years old, but as they grew older, they hadn’t a choice but to acknowledge it. Chiko was the product of a volatile mixture— his father, Kono Noburu, was a hitman for the Yamaguchi-gumi* clan and an attack dog to the clan’s kumicho, Kenichi Shinoda, just as his own father was to Shinoda’s own father, and so on. His mother, Katrine Bjorklund, was the daughter of the Norwegian mafia boss, Svein Bjorklund, and his Swedish-born wife, Elisabeth Bjorklund. The pair of them had crossed paths when the Bjorklund’s found themselves in Japan for business, a week long fling that had not been meant to amount to anything more. A few months later, a very pregnant Katrine would arrive at Kono’s doorstep, and from that day on, the two had been forcibly linked.

2. How selfish Chiko had been for wanting a sibling— a tactless desire from which no good could come. A union more chaotic did not exist, not since the marriage of Hera and Zeus. Katrine, who had shown little interest in the union, did not spend a moment with Kono in which she was not terrified. He was everything like her father, and though Kono had done everything in his capacity to make Katrine more at ease, nothing truly came of it. She could no longer stand the sight of him and eventually, he would return these sentiments— only overcoming their differences when they made love. Though it was never love being reciprocated, but a concoction of anger, terror, and disgust— which in the  Noburu household, made for a gratifying mixture.

3. Do you know the most moronic mistake I ever made was, segare*? their father demanded as if the 11-year old Chiko were somehow capable of drawing such a conclusion. Falling for a whore. Not a woman, but a whore. I fall into her trap each and every foolish time when all she’s ever done is offer me falsehoods. Whores are always acceptable for fucking, but seeing them as something more is when you’ll run into some trouble. So I beg of you, segare, do not taint our lineage further with the blood of a whore. Learn from your father’s mistakes. I am not sure how much more our blood can withstand. He appreciated the moments in which his father spoke candidly with them, as this was the closest thing to parental bonding that they would ever get. Though he would grow to resent and denounce his father’s misogynistic tirades against his mother, the effects of such teachings had their lasting effects. His sweeping mistrust of man would make his lovers few, and his affections fickle, as well as the prioritization of his own ambitions overall. 4 . You were the most beautiful baby I laid eyes on, min blomst*, his mother crooned to him one day. To think something so beautiful could come from such desolation. It was a mockery— why would Kono and I deserve such a beautiful boy when only ruin would become of him? Just as his father’s drunken denunciations had etched themselves into his brain, his mother sullen tirades would stick with him as well. Especially as he grew older, and began to liken his father more and more. There were times where her eyes would gloss over and she would attempt to “extract the demons from inside of him,” or so she’d explained after attempting to claw his eyes out. When he woke up short of breath, with a pillow plastered against his face, is when he officially began sleeping with his door locked. It has been this way since he was 16 years old.

5. He was freshly 17 when it happened. 17 years old and forced to face the depravity that permeated through every inch of his being. Chiko had never seen a dead body before, but it was not the body that exasperated so, but circumstances of his death. It was the fact that his father looked upon them and their mother absent of any and all remorse. He had been purposeful in his decision to kill the man in their house, Kono’s own way of sending some sort of message to Katrine. It was the fact that Katrine had betrayed their father, and continued to do so time and time again. He could not have cared less about what she spent doing in her pastime, but he could not overlook her absence of loyalty. And so he damned their name. He damned the gods and the universe and all who he felt were responsible for his being born. He had not asked for this life— but he would no longer allow his parents’ corruption to devour him so. He was gone that very night, without as so much as leaving a letter.

6. “You,” Chiko says in a low growl, his eyes in the direction of his bloodied, wreaking father. For once— his father was silent— quieted by Chiko’s rage burning throughout his body. “I will never be as cruel as you. Even if it means I bottle it away and lock it without a key. You didn’t have to do it in front of her. Even she did not deserve that.” He turned slowly to his mother, disappointedly, but without sympathy. She clutched at legs almost pleadingly, but he shook her away. “I could care less about what you do in your free time— you are my mother, and I could never pass judgment for something like that. But I can never respect a person who betrays their family. That, I can never forgive.” He looked between the both of them— disgusted by how self-involved they were, to the point where they forsook their own potential and ambitions. “How pitiful the pair of you are. You ruined each other. But you will not ruin me. I will not waste my potential as you two have. They will remember me, but not by your names. I am a product of you two, but I will not be tainted by your depravity. So have at each other all you want. That is no longer my concern.” He looked at them disappointedly, before making his way to the stairs, careful not to step in the pooling blood.

Extras:

***Just a drabble from the perspective of a lover***

You were permitted snapshots of his brilliance, acquired in bits and pieces, but still, he kept you at a comfortable distance. Comfortable for him, that is. For you— it was never enough. A moment with Chiko is never enough. He’s someone who allows minimal viewers into his inner workings, making him all the more enticing. But the spontaneity of it all— the sudden bursts of passion are what keep you around. Seldom people exist who so skillfully render their own passion into the framework of another. Creativity surges through your flesh, and you are reminded of what it is like to be someone’s muse with each continuous eruption of pleasure. How exhilarating it was being left at the discretion of Chiko’s brilliance. The living canvas in which he enacted his hopes and dreams, his deepest desires. You believed in each and everyone, and truthfully speaking— how could you not? With him, all horizons felt closer, the distance between you and the stars felt lesser.

****some drabbles involving their parents***

It is from your father that you learn PRIDE. Refuse to accept anything less than immortalization, he tells you time and time again. Refuse to settle for anything less than greatness. It is that very pride that guides you in your pursuits and for that you are thankful. Nevermind that it was your father who was always the source of such pride. It was your father’s own superior blood he spoke so highly of. He assured you that you would be fine, despite the blood of a traitorous whore pervading through your veins. But he neglects to teach you the horrors of pride in excess, and how dangerous the world becomes when one wallows in their own excess. It is from him you gather your FURY, a demon you’ve been taming since your youth, dreading the chaos that would potentially ensue. You’ve always hated purposeless chaos. You know what you are capable of, you know of the depravity that is nestled between your skin and bones. Your own greatness becomes less of a pursuit and more of an ultimatum for yourself. The path was always singular for you— your own immortalization or dying trying.                        

                   “I could be well moved if I were as you.                         If I could pray to move, prayers would move me.                                But I am constant as the Northern Star,                      Of whose true fixed and resting quality                              There is no fellow in the firmament.                   The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks;                      They are all fire, and every one doth shine;                              But there’s but one in all doth hold his place."        

     ��Julius Caesar, right before his assassination, William Shakespeare

It is from your mother you learn TENDERNESS. You were her greatest accomplishment, her most exquisite creation. Beauty illuminated her horizons, her worldview merely a concoction of her own distorted realities. Chiko with his plush hair and lofty cheekbones had been nothing short of perfection, and for this reason alone, he earned her fickle devotions. Though their outward beauty remains intact, Chiko’s features would be bound to darken, to sharpen, the resemblance almost uncanny. They were every part their father, but they would develop their mother’s HEDONISM, the pursuit of her own realities in which Kono did not exist, as she clawed for his ruin time and time again. Katrine would often get this look about her, identical to the look she would give to their father, and Chiko knew that her devotion had met its limits. But the devastation was not shown, his shield of ALOOFNESS practically impenetrable.                    

                 “A coward dies a thousand times before his death,                              but the valiant taste of death but once.                  It seems to me most strange that men should fear,       seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.”                                      —Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare

It is from both parents you inherit AMBITION. Both Kono and Katrine clawed for domination, the struggle for power ultimately driving their son and world away. They prioritized their own ambitions over their own child— and it is for that reason Chiko will never have children. Selfish people are better off without kids. That way, their priorities can continue to be aligned with them and them alone.

Translations & Info for various words used: fryktelig= horrible; ondskap = evil; Yamaguchi-gumi = the name of a notorious yakuza clan; kumicho = the Japanese equivalent of a mafia boss; segare = my son; min blomst = my flower;

[artificialqueens]

save your breath (Branjie) - PinkGrapefruit

A/N - Yo! I am back because all I ever do is write nowadays. I wrote this on a whim at 10 pm last night after a prompt someone sent in. Thanks to FreyKitten for beta-ing me and being an awesome human as per usual as i write weird lines about orchestras and carnations. It’s written to the song ‘save your breath’ by Adore Delano and is from Brookes POV. As always, all work is my own and although this is based on real people, both the characters and the story are my own interpretation and therefore fully fabricated. Enjoy! x

*

When you think about me

Do you remember when

You were all about me

Or am I just a myth?

Do you remember the way our hands intertwined? The fluttering of black on red that day by the tree. Do you remember that, baby? Because I do. I remember it like yesterday, my mind filled with clouds, and apple cider, and you. Because you feel like coming home and nothing will ever beat that feeling. You could give me a handjob and make it feel like a pas de deux. All graceful and elegant and shit. You could buy me a thousand purses and pumps and a goddamn planet but I would love nothing more than I love you. Because I love you like a cat loves catnip or some other analogy that I don’t have the heart to make up. You took my heart and crushed it under my own pointe shoes. You placed it prettily on the floor and watched me pirouette my way over it. If God is a woman, she is cruel and unwavering in her choices.

Do you remember that time by the beach? The one in Florida after I met the Mateos. That’s where I realised I love you. Not in some club in wherever the hell we were. Not even in Toronto when I watched you look, with so much joy, at the place I’m from. No, I realised it on a beach at 2 am when my mind was so addled by sleep that the tide was covering half my legs. When you pulled me up and made me dance with you under the stars of Tampa. Your head was heavy on my chest and your breath was warm. It smelled like Panda Express and cider and your hair of cologne and prop glitter. And then I took you to my hometown, God. We stood at the top of Church near Old Toronto and you wanted to see my old haunts so badly so I let you pull me into The Drink. Later you tugged me back out and demanded I showed you all of the touristy destinations so we hired bikes and cycled them all. We shared long, languid kisses in front of each and everyone and savoured each other like it would be our last hurrah.

Do you remember the way I took you in my arms that night? How I made you scream? How you told me you loved me in between sweaty sheets and heavy breaths. I remember the way that undeniable feeling of home swelled in me like a symphony. Like the violin solo reaching its crescendo and when we crashed back down like waves against the shore - the pitch, fuzzy in my ears. You are fortissimo, brash and loud but you can be kind when needed. Like pauses in the bar. I am mezzo-piano. I am moderately soft and though we both know I can get loud, I do not broadcast that. That is not the world’s secret to know. That is not yours to share.

I loved you hardest

Happy, just loving you

And to be honest

Sometimes I think I still do

It would take a lot for me to say that I do not love you. But the thing about love is that it is rarely enough. Love is never the sole emotion, it is always supported by others. You can have love and jealousy, love and rage, love and pure, unadulterated joy. But you never just have love. The same way that the organ supports the strings section, all other emotions support love because it is fickle. It is easy to break. It is easy to detune, destring, derail. Just like we were. And yet I love you. I love you like I am going to break if I stop. Like I will cease to exist. Loving you feels like I am constantly in the eye of the storm. The winds are swelling around me like the strings and you are the conductor. You are the maker of chaos and the ruler of the winds.  The king of my goddamn world. When did I forget that you’ve always been the king of the world?

I think about you a lot. It’s mostly just me wondering if you’re thinking about me too because this feels like I’m drowning and I don’t think you can save me anymore. I need to learn to swim or find a place, high and dry, to smoke a cigarette or two before I go down. It’s awfully hard to keep your head above the water when you can’t remember why you’re there. This ocean I am stuck in, this whirlpool I cannot escape, it’s just a storm in a teacup. The hurricane’s coming. We both know it will wipe us out.

I never thought leaving would be a precautionary measure. I didn’t realise that I needed caution till I met you but now I see that I was wrong. Because leaving is the biggest precaution one can make when trying not to get hurt and Lord knows I am the master of that. You don’t spend your life as a dancer without knowing how to avoid injury. You learn how to stretch. How to feel when a muscle is straining and how to differentiate between good and bad pain. I am the master of my body, I am the master of my soul. I am not the master of you. I know when my hip is about to go out, how long I can hold an arabesque to still move my knees. I have learned when to take off my pointe shoes and when to say enough is enough. Why can I never do that with you?

You’re losing oxygen

And I can’t find the words

You’re a fire that’s losing oxygen. A powder keg about to explode. You’re running out of fuel but you’ll blow up at any second and it's dangerous but I’ve always liked dangerous. I’ve  never feared getting burned. As I said, I know how to avoid getting hurt. It’s funny how we worked, how we would work if we weren’t overtired and underpaid and running on the fumes of tomorrows and good tequila. I’ve always been more of a vodka kinda gal but maybe that’s the Canadian in me. If you were here you’d make a joke a about having Canadian in me and we’d laugh and then I’d call you a hypocrite. One of us has had Canadian in him more often than the other.

I remember the way you burned on Drag Race. The way the fire within you would roar rather than just flicker. Because alcohol fuels fire, it doesn’t destroy it the same way that loneliness does. I’ve never been a fragile person but watching us again kills me a little. I long for the days when we weren’t so busy. When we had no reason not to be together. I don’t know where you found the words to impose this ban on us. I certainly don’t have any. We made our bed and now we have to lie in it but this time the bed is a single and there are two of us. Because this game shrunk the bed and I want to get out. Twitter is not a substitute for texting. It is not a substitute for love and affection and the physical closeness I crave.

This game we play is orchestrated but my feelings are not. Your fire does not control what I do or who I see or how they end up in my bed. I tell myself this in the hope that I will learn. In the hope that it will teach me not to fall in love again. Because you cannot play the violin to the tune of my soul. No drumbeat can replicate the beating of my heart when I held you in my arms and whispered love into your hair. I am someone else when I am in love, and you broke that.

The air is getting thin

Silence is all we heard

How’s the air up on your high horse? How do you feel in this atmosphere you’ve made? Are you jealous of me because I didn’t have to make the call? I was too naive to see that we couldn’t stay together. I wasn’t strong enough to fight the tide. The crashing waves of saltwater that burned all of my cuts. Every scar filled with salty tears and every painful thing I’ve felt exacerbated by the cool flow of the ocean. If you read this you’d tell me that I sounded like a Pisces and I’d be inclined to agree if that wasn’t so Libra of you. You’d say it like it’s a compliment but the context just screams insult. Isn’t that just adding insult to injury here?

We only talk online but really all that means is we haven’t spoken in months and you know how I was talking about an orchestra? Well, this newfound silence is deafening. It’s the long pause after that crash of the symbols. The day after the rain. It’s the quiet of an early morning but without you in bed with me and fuck. It hurts, baby. Your forte was always loud but I miss it now. I’ve never regretted being quiet before but I’m aching for the noise that you took away. My life has been one constant note. It never wavered until you. Then you came crashing in and it became a vibrato, technical and beautiful. And then you left. And it feels empty without the melodies. The harmonies we made were visible from the very beginning on Drag Race and whether we thank the editing for that or not, we both know it’s true. We were opposites in public but two peas in a pod alone.

When we would lay in bed, your head on my chest, my fingers grazing your tattoo and your hand in my hair: that’s the only place you were quiet. The air was heavy with love and familiarity and it pooled in my stomach like summer and home. It trickled down your neck like hot chocolate, soft and smooth and filled your lungs with flowers till you coughed up petals onto our bed. Red carnations for love. Bouvardia doubles for life. Sweet pea for departure after a good time. Now silence looks like sweet peas and sex hair and I can’t live my life in that.

You know our last goodbye

Keeps playing through my mind like

Ah ah ah

My mind feels like a compilation video these days. It’s taken every good moment we had and made a supercut. One day I will take it and splice it, titling it happiness.mov. I will watch it until I am old and haggard. When my legs are feeble and I’ve lost all muscle tone in my body. When life has drained from my eyes and my feet no longer support me en pointe. That is when I will let go of these memories. You see, in a way, they made me who I am. Every kiss you gave me, slow and soft under harsh club lights. Every green room I waited in for you and vice versa. Every dollar of tip money I’ve thrown at you - that’s part of me now. You are part of me and I will carry you in my heart like a scarlet letter.

The last time we said goodbye felt more like a hello. It was warm and quick but the way you smiled isn’t something you can fake. Neither of us can act but we are clever enough to play pretend when we need to. We are too young to know better but too old to be fooled. I was not fooled. You directed Courtney with ease, told her what to do like the producers did back then and when I looked at you, you whispered something. So soft, I didn’t hear what it was, but I got lost in you all the same. You still smelt like apple cider and dreams and when you placed your small hands on my waist - when you pulled me in as you did in Florida and in Toronto; well, I could have sworn I heard angels sing. I felt you smile into me and I know you welcomed the feeling too.

I am grateful to Courtney and Nina for suggesting we did that. I am grateful for the video that I have watched a million times. It hurts less than watching Drag Race. Maybe that’s because I know that this wasn’t in our honeymoon phase. Now we have a grip on reality and we aren’t just letting the waves pull us together. We’ve swum through the riptide and I can’t say that we’re stronger but we’re certainly still here.

I often let my mind wander when I am in the depths of despair. I question whether you have watched the video like I have. Whether you will view it with the same sliver of hope and painfully real emotion. I wonder if it stirs your heart and messes with your head to see two people look so in love. If it breaks you down a little to see us look so in love. We may be too old to be fooled but we aren’t near old enough to be blind. Nina made me promise when she sent that video, promise not to go mad. Her warning was belated. All I smell is sweet peas and apple cider and Tampa Bay - and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Love was already dead

Did you know, red carnations are common in funeral bouquets? They say the word ‘carnation’ comes from the Latin, God in the flesh, and in that case, I suppose I understand how they link to you. If you are a carnation, red like anger and love. I am a peony. Bashful and compassionate and completely indignant. I am angry because this is an injustice, I am indignant to the world and to you. I love you bashfully and with my whole self. I love you with compassion and joy and I long for the good health and prosperity that peonies symbolise. If God is a woman, let her have the heart to see that we cannot be over just yet, I am not content with being a peony. I wish to be a daffodil of new hopes and beginnings. I would like you to join me in them.

Love was already dead

What do oceans and orchestras and flowers and fires and God have in common? You. You are the fire that burns in the dead of winter, keeping the rest of the world warm even if it means you burn out. Too selfless to save yourself, too selfish to let me burn out with you. You are the ocean that swallows me whole and deposits me back on the shore when I swim too far out. You are the conductor of symphonies that all bear my name. Every piece is personal and swells and dips like the North Sea. You play gracefully although your instrument isn’t typical for a twenty-something drag queen. You are the red carnation to my peony even though I pray that one day we will both be daffodils in March, swaying in the gentle breeze with the early sun on our backs. You are the controller of my fate, the author of my destiny. With every breath I take in, I exhale blue roses. I can’t have you but I can’t stop thinking about you. That sounds about right.

Love was already dead

So save your breath

Our love isn’t dead, but you can’t just talk your way out of this one, babe.

Do you remember us?

Because I do.

[agent-absinthe]

The Necromancer’s Paradigm

Maybe the first Succubus thing I’ve really written for her pertaining to some of her training and relationship with her mentor.

It was times like these that Clementine really, really, really wished she had chosen prison instead of Roanoke.  Maybe it would have been better than this borderline abuse she was experiencing during her “trial period” at the hands of her so called mentor.  An older hard ass that went by the handle Poltergeist who was considered one of the society’s best agents and could of course do no wrong what so ever.  She concluded that Lilith had put her under his wing because she was a bit rougher than their normal recruits, after all in Roanoke’s eye she was still a ring leader in one of the nation’s largest Supernatural black markets and a necromancer to boot.  

A combination of traits that masked any good qualities she tried putting forward, tried showing other agents that she wanted to make an effort in Roanoke to make an actual difference in the world.  In reality she hadn’t been much of a ring leader in Cryptid Revolutionists just their necromancer, but it didn’t seem to matter.  No one really tolerated her, especially ‘Geist.

“Come on it’s 3a.m and I thought my test was tomorrow, can we please just go back to the estate?”  They had been trudging through the woods near the manor and came to a small clearing with fresh turned dirt.

Geist came to a stop and turned to smile at her before looking up at the moon casting its glow on them.

“Necromancy is a fickle thing if you aren’t completely fluent, Raeanna, and I will never understand why Lilith put so much faith in you despite your obvious lack of skill.”

Rage built in her chest and she pushed back, “I’m more than just a necromancer I’m-“

“Yes, a witch I know I know but so is Seraphim and a much better one than you.  The only use that you have to add to this society is necromancy and even though I have been tirelessly training you to find some semblance of talent that Lilith keeps mentioning, well- I just can’t seem to see it.”

“I’m trying.”  She said it through gritted teeth and tears now because even though he was an asshole he was still her mentor and for some god forsaken reason all she wanted was his validation.

Geist shook his head in disappointment and slowly made his way to her making sure to mind the freshly upturned soil that Clementine had yet to notice.  His hand coming up to rest on Rae’s shoulder and then the back of her head pulling her into his chest as his other hand reached behind his back.  She breathed him in to savor such physical praise as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I know you try, I know you do-”

Poltergeist pulled back to look at her face and for a moment it seemed that maybe he just brought her out here for this (albeit very shitty) pep talk before her test tomorrow.  

“-but I need you to try harder.”  

Clementine didn’t understand what was happening at first. It felt as though Geist had punched her hard in the stomach until the wetness followed and she looked down in confusion to see a knife withdrawal from her stomach and be plunged back in. Her hands gripped the lapels of his suit jacket as he held her in place to continue the assault, a sound akin to a wounded animal clawing out of her throat.  He moved back and let her fall to the ground watching as the girl tried to catch her breath and rake at the leaves.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!  Fuck help me!”

“Come now, I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you: any necromancer worth their salt should be able to bring themselves back from anything, how do I say it, minor?”

“Minor?  You stabbed me!  You stabbed-“ she pressed a hand to her stomach and realized she couldn’t breathe.

Everything in the forest suddenly became more saturated but fuzzy around the edges and cold, it was so cold.  She drug herself closer to him and made a feeble attempt at grabbing his leg when he kicked it off, leaving a smear of blood on the navy pant suit. Why was there so much blood why was there so much blood why was there so much there shouldn’t be this much blood its too much.

Geist started snapping his fingers at her, “focus Raeanna!  What do you need?  Look around you you’re going to bleed out in a few minutes.  Do you want to be left out in the open for Lycan’s wolves to find?”

dirt

Her fingers finally found register in the soft soil that was previously overlooked and even more rage coiled in her dying body.

“You dug…you dug a grave?  I did everything you asked me I tried my best!  I tried for you and you fucking dug me a grave you psycho-”

Geist laughed, “don’t be ridiculous, Elfin dug it. You’re acting like this is personal, dear.  This is your final test.  If you come back I’ll proudly give you the handle that I have chosen and if you fail, well you fail.”

She was sobbing now as she clawed into the dirt, burrowing as far into the shallow grave as she could with the little strength she had left as Geist squatted down to look her in the face.

“You really have been the toughest student to break in and I do mean that as a compliment, but when it really comes down to it I think you’re just an angry, sad little girl and if you wouldn’t have been so stubborn then maybe we could have done this different.”

With that he stood and began walking away.

“Don’t leave me here, don’t leave me!  I don’t want to die alone, I don’t want to die!” Clementine’s cries became quiet when she couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore.  

The cicadas were singing as she started to really slip, a welcomed humming to contrast her sharp and desperate breathing. Her last conscious thought was how she needed to turn over and look up at the stars before she was gone.

~

It was the aching that woke her up, like a muscle cramp throughout her entire body begging her to move.  She could hear her mother’s voice telling her to move, that she loves her, that she’s a little bitch for not calling-

The dirt hardened during the few days she was in the ground but it gave way when Clementine’s body ripped itself up screaming.  The sound feeling foreign in it’s- no her’s, she was alive, it was her throat it was her voice making that terrible sound. And it wouldn’t stop.  She clawed her way out of the dirt and pressed her mouth to the grass trying to suffocate the screaming.  The were cracks and hisses of gas leaving her body that had been decaying over the past three days, pain searing through her face as her eyes popped back into place from where they had sunk.

Move. Move. Move.

It cried for movement and she conceded, starting on all fours and finally ending up in a sprint, blood beginning to move through her veins again and the screaming turned to cries of joy.  The joy was short lived when the emptiness hit, a hunger like a black hole that kept growing until filled.  She found herself in front of the sink first when she made it into the manor gorging herself on water before stumbling to the fridge and pulling out anything that caught her eye, leaving mud and leaves in her wake.  Poltergeist would eat his words when she woke up the manor and let them all know she deserved a place here, even if it was with a society that had allowed this to happen to her.  Unfortunately, she wouldnt have the pleasure of terrifying the whole house by waking them up because a startled yelp broke the chewing noises.

“Hey, its…Clementine, right?”  A soft voice called to her carefully, like you would a feral cat.

She was shoveling week old fried rice into her mouth with blood and mud encrusted fingers when she looked up to see another agent standing in the glow of the kitchen night lights.  Seraphim, the celestial division’s exorcist, looking a little less than angelic in corgi print pajamas and wild hair.  The care in her voice struck something in Clementine and without answering she just started to cry.

[gwimulchorom]

刹那の間に　痛みに似た恋が体を走ったんだ

"I am apparently now headed to the Growling Groghouse. It seems Durnan had suspicions and has now vanished within its midst, and I suppose the man's obsessions has finally spelt the end of him. Though, his friend seems to have something up his sleeve- I worry for this man's plan, considering how improbable it seems all things considered. I am unenthused and now very worried for this improbable course of events. Apparently losing in bowling incurs such an incredible penalty. We will see what occurs next."

“Time ticks past all of us, but it will always, inevitably speak for us. If I must spend a year and a day in this bowling alley in a stuffy disguise, so be it, but I know I am not alone. As erratic and strange the mage is, I do feel pity for the man for his need for so many people around him in a feeble attempt to feel included in a community, even despite the fact that he apparently owns the alley and beyond this place. It does make me slightly introspective though, being forced to interact once more with faceless, featureless beings that serve no value in my existence. 

It was always the same- my soldiers were but faceless, featureless cannon fodder I pushed out into the battlefield to die for my own selfish purposes. Working in this alley, with nary a notion of the identities of others and their powers has always been an experience. I would know how it would be like to be forced in a role I disliked, even the job I had held down before was one that I had never wanted to be a part of. Surprisingly, outside the prying eyes of the gods above, I felt free in this premise, working to earn my own keep and letting time pass as per normal than rushing an ultimatum I knew would never come for me. 

There was, of course, minor joy in finding one of our own eager to yield the benefits of the rewards he had received. Occasionally, he would ring a bell of his he had and several other slaves had to drop whatever they had on their hands to start an impromptu performance, compelled by the noise the bell made to entertain him. It at least meant some of us could continue while accompanied by beautiful music, much to the chagrin of those forced to perform. Of course, the mage that owned this place was definitely much more pleased by this development and knowledge of his item than anyone else in the alley would ever feel about this certain bell-owning slave, not that he let up too much about it. Despite the seeming insanity that had taken hold of his mind, from how he maintained the place he was still a skilled mage, and I developed a grudging respect about the entire joint at some point. 

It was interesting to watch people who were not afflicted with a form of madness choose instead to not save themselves.

As much as I would expand on my entry, I find that writing about a year and a day here truly unexciting. A routine is a routine after all- at some point, the mind molds and adapts itself to the process, and thus leaves no room for argument or dissent in the mind. If anything, the experience suddenly becomes fantastic insight of the mind of an adventurer, faceless as they are, and how much of such mundane, yet insidious torture they can take until they finally crack. 

Without anything to fixate on, and a permanent uniform branding us as one of “his own”, however, it didn’t take too long for others to start to crumble mentally as the boredom of repetition and aura of insanity began creeping in. In times like this, it struck me as amusingly bizarre how many people seemed to just give up around me, their motions growing increasingly listless until they seemed to grow inert, as though they had finally given out and refused to be subjugated any further. I laughed internally instead, even as my own despair weighed permanently upon me. 

Even when you converse with another, you recoil seeing the face of your current self in theirs, and with everyone else that roams the alley on their own. With spiritual faith, I could keep myself perfectly sane despite the lack of social contact, but with the same humdrum sequence repeating itself over and over, one could not help but sink into the inevitable feeling of deja vu. 

I may have been physically bound to this plane of existence, but my mind remains wandering across realms, as it had been since my first death on the battlefield. Laying myself on the floor of the alley to rest was the same as if I were to lay myself onto the shattered tiles of the shrine to the Great Guide I had created. Vaguely, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I had wondered if my past self, the general, would have felt this resigned to their own fate if they had been aware of this. 

My dreams after working myself to the bone were soulless, as always, empty fields and dark landscapes while I strode in my true form across the realm on foot. While I derived twisted pleasure and revelled in those who had cracked before I did, my own mind was perfectly still, with no intention to move forward or equipped with any capacity to imagine a life beyond the one of servitude I already had prior to my appointment. It was the least I could do after my resurrection, serving the Great Guide and bringing Him the souls of the departed in an act of redeeming myself. The rest around me were but collateral damage that had made their own mistakes, and I could not save them, especially when I myself had as little rights as they did. 

Throughout my life, I had never lost until Lyncas appeared. A thorn in my side to the bitter end, he bested me in all I did while making me fully aware that he had been holding back. Even when he returned to life as Haewonmak, a cruel trick of fate to torture my immortal soul further, he continued to be superior in every aspect, which he masked behind jokes and facades of imbecility. This to me was my second loss- a narrow one, and needless to say a blow to my pride after a string of unfortunate events along with an utter slap to my face. I stewed at first, bitter at being shackled here, but truly, after experiencing the depths of the Nine Hells, was anything really about to faze me at that point? As always, I triumphed fate, whether I liked it or not. 

I wished to rest eternally- even that, I found, was denied from me, for my sin was too great. 

The mage, of course, too had his problems. He was not always around to supervise us, leaving and returning and fickle in his demands. Even while we were cleaning, I picked up snippets of his ramblings, and most of them were not as nonsensical as others dismissed them to be- he had actually been discussing an invasion of adventurers to his domain, not just within the Groghouse but beyond, and I had heard one of the people he had seen was a child with a longbow that also bore the symbol of the Great Guide. 

It couldn’t have been a coincidence with him scrying on all of us even before we entered this place. He had seen Deokchoon, and I worried for the child. I may have been the one to kill her- but she was still a child even after her resurrection. While I kept quiet, all but one of his many “selves” in the alley, I kept tabs on this development and silently prayed to the Great Guide to rescue her whenever He was able. She didn’t deserve my fate or the inevitable insanity she would experience delving down there. 

I couldn’t allow that. 

I wouldn't. 

Biding my time enough saw me finally finish my term and be allowed to leave the domain. With this, I beat a hasty retreat, once again returning to Fort Dalton and tending to the once-again abandoned shrine to the Great Guide while seeking penance for being unable to make my offerings to Him. Despite this, the knowledge that Deokchoon was still out there, in the hands of the Mad Mage weighed heavily upon my mind, and I greatly debated if I should demand for her when I grew stronger. 

Even if I had denied it, both Deokchoon and Haewonmak were my charges. I couldn’t allow either of them to die under my watch. I had to figure out a method to rescue her, even if I knew there were many children with longbows that may sport the holy symbol of the Great Guide that may be amok in the dungeon. If she was amongst a sea of them, I would still be able to pick her out instantly, and I knew I had to, bound to them both as I was. 

The first thing I had to do was to then escape my own mind, reorienting myself to be able to progress forward. I had already lost some time, and she may or may not have escaped by then. I had no idea what I would expect from there- but I had to try...or die once again trying to do so.”

@oh-god-shes-back

@zomandfriends for excessive Gangrim-related complaining 

[doe-praefacioofblue]

Chapter 4, Section 2-With That Person; Scene 1

Praefacio of Blue, page 250-262

♣ Yukina ~In the Former Lucifenia Territory, “The Anonymous Coast"~

.

The coast was quiet at night.

The only sound that reached my ears was the faint crash of waves.

.

I had come here at a time like this to make sure of something Rin had told me at dusk.

She had said, "I saw Madam Freezis out here on the coast". She told me that she had tried to talk to her, but when she ran up to my mother, who had hidden herself under cover, she was already gone. If that was true, then there was a strong possibility that, for the week after my mother had come to visit the monastery at the very least, she had been loitering around here.

Compared to the area around the Lucifenian palace, this place was mostly countryside, so it didn't have a lot of things to look at in particular. Frankly I didn't know what she was after.

Though it may be true that she was here at dusk, I had no guarantee that she hadn't moved somewhere else at this hour, so it was natural to think that about now she'd have taken lodging in the port town somewhere and was getting some rest.

But I had gone through and searched the inns around this town for two days. No matter where I looked I had found no trace of anyone who might have been my mother staying at them.

My mother had not gone to an inn. So in that case no matter how slim the odds were, I thought it was wisest to search for some trace of her at the coast. Even if I didn't run into her, I might find some clue…That was my thought process, walking around covered in sand.

Even so, this coast was much larger than I had thought. Even worse, I couldn't locate anything relevant to my search in this darkness. The fickle light of the lantern that I'd borrowed from the monastery was bound to fail me in my efforts, after all.

Being in the dark is sufficient circumstances to break a girl's conviction…

Continuing my investigation even so, suddenly the fuel in my lantern ran out, and my surroundings were enveloped in darkness. When that happened I had to admit it was time to give up.

I can't keep this up! I guess I'll go back for now…

I began to walk towards the lights of the town shining inland. That's when it happened.

Huh? Is that…

In the darkness to my left hand side, I could see something moving. It was unmistakably a human figure. Perhaps it was Mama. With that hope in my chest, I changed course towards where I could see them walking.

That figure was armed with a sword. When I got a bit closer, I was able to determine this with a serious look, though it was dim.

Miss Germaine…!?

Was she practicing with her sword at this time of night?

After thinking it over a little, I drew up to Germaine further. I figured I'd try talking to her.

The moment before I called out to her, I shut myself up. There was another person in front of Germaine, facing her.

That mask. It was a woman wearing the Almoga Mobarez mask. She didn't look to be carrying a weapon. I couldn't see her face, so I didn't know her expression.

But I knew who that was. She had on a frilly dress, and had a decorative flower on her left breast. It was Mama. Those clothes were that of my mother, Mikina Freezis.

I told myself not to get too excited. I would put the situation in order first. My mother was here, and Germaine was aiming her sword at her. Why? I didn't know. Perhaps Germaine had witnessed her in that flash from back then as well.

Even so, I didn't want her to cut her down without even listening to an appeal. My mother must have had some reason for doing that. There was no need for her to steal the vessels of deadly sin nor kill Ney, to say nothing of doing what she did to my father, who loved me, her daughter, to the point of embarrassing me--so I couldn't imagine that she didn't have some extenuating circumstances for it.

At any rate, I would stop Germaine--as I took a step towards them with that decision in mind, Germaine opened her mouth.

"I've finally found you, Abyss I.R."

--Abyss I.R.!?

I could hear a thick, laughing voice from beneath the mask.

"Ha ha--Oh, so you've figured it out, huh? Impressive…I would say that, but this is a suggestion you got from someone else isn't it?"

That voice was undoubtedly my mother's.

Germaine didn't react. She stared at my mother, without lowering her sword.

My mother turned towards the ocean, not looking particularly phased by that. And then she began to leisurely walk towards it.

"Are Elluka and Gumillia searching in Marlon? That must mean you came here to Lucifenia as insurance."

After two, three steps, she stopped and once more turned to Germaine.

"A safe guess. If I was going to cross the sea from Marlon, then it would be extremely likely I'd come here, to the closest port town. There are no vessels going to Elphegort due to the trade embargo, and Levianta is too far--That's your reasoning, isn't it?"

Germaine brushed through her hair with her left hand.

"Not quite. Master Gumillia went to Levianta."

"I see…That's actually decent preparation, considering it's Elluka."

"I told her. I said she couldn't afford to just go around doing whatever she wanted every time."

The intruder back in Lioness. It seems I wasn't the only one who had recognized who she really was. I regretted just a little in not asking for help from these three.

Thanks to the darkness, the two of them hadn't yet realized I was there.

Their conversation continued, and Germaine asked my mother, "Why have you not left this region after all this time?"

"…I'm searching for something. And I haven't quite found it yet."

"A 'Vessel of Deadly Sin'? Is your goal to collect them?"

"Well, I suppose it's turned into that…"

I steadied my resolve, and walked up to them.

Germaine noticed me first.

"Yukina…!?"

A look of surprise taking over her face at seeing me, Germaine eventually looked again towards my mother, taken aback.

During that time, Mom did nothing. She didn't launch a surprise attack on Germaine, nor did she run away. She just gazed at me through the mask. After a short while, she put her hands on it and slowly lifted it up.

Underneath was indeed my mother's face.

She was smiling.

"Yukina, what's wrong? What are you doing at a place like this, at this time of night…?"

She wasn't smiling out of enjoyment. It was an expression made to calm the other person. That was the kind of smile it was.

And then, she pleaded in a frightened voice, "Please, Yukina, could you help me? Germaine is attacking your Mama, I think she's misunderstood something. I'm very afraid."

Despite her tone of voice she was still smiling. And she gradually started walking towards me.

Germaine stood in front of her, blocking her path.

With her back to me, she said, "Don't be deceived. That is your mom, but it's also not her."

I could tell that for myself. But what I wanted to know was why.

"…Has Mama been taken over by Abyss?"

"Basically, yeah."

"But how!? Abyss' spirit was blown away back then, I thought…"

I was sure that was what Elluka said.

"That isn't what happened. Abyss' soul never entered Elluka's body to begin with."

My mother immediately ceased in her approach.

"Ho…So you've figured that out too…"

Germaine began her explanation so that the both of us could hear. "Elluka had a nagging doubt this entire time. The 'Swap Technique' is an extra-high grade spell…She wondered if there really was another person who was capable of performing it outside of herself. At that point, after what happened in Lioness she arrived at a conclusion."

Germaine lifted her arms and pointed the sword straight at my mother.

"Where has the red cat gone, the one that's always with you?"

In reply to those words, my mother clicked her tongue, and then murmured in a low voice, "…So it seems I was correct after all to hide my true body for safekeeping."

"That's too bad for you. I'll find it immediately."

Germaine hoisted up her sword, and a sigil inscribed on the hilt began to glow.

The light soon turned into a single beam, and it pointed to a shack in the corner of the beach.

"…There. It's unexpectedly close by. If you go too far away you lose your ability to manipulate bodies, is that it?"

"That inscription...is that Gumillia's work!? How annoying!"

My mother and Germaine both ran for the shack at the same time.

Germaine was quicker of foot. She reached the shack a step earlier and kicked in the wooden door.

"Oop--"

She dodged back in response to something. Immediately after, a small figure darted out from inside, and jumped onto my mother's shoulder, who'd arrived later.

I ran up to the shack as well, further behind the two of them. It was hard to run with sand in my shoes.

Riding on my mother's shoulders was none other than that red cat. The cat that Abyss had been walking with, that my mother had taken in.

"…So you're saying that red cat is Abyss' true body?"

That seemed to be the gist of it.

Abyss' spirit hadn't entered my mother. Her body was just being controlled like one would a puppet. By that red cat--Abyss I.R.!

"You let my mother go, Abyss!" I screamed at her, letting my anger take me.

My mother, being controlled by Abyss, didn't look the slightest bit intimidated at my fury.

"How brave, little Yukina. Despite not being able to do anything on your own. Ha ha--"

Her laughter was cut off by Germaine sticking out her rapier right at the red cat.

"Sounds like bravado to me, Abyss. The person you're manipulating right now isn't a sorceress or a soldier--just a normal person."

"…Yes, there was nothing to really do about it since it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but I suppose Mikina's body is a little inconvenient as feeble as she is. …However." She pulled something out of her bag. "I do have this."

It was too small for me to see it clearly, but from afar it looked like a spoon. The fact that it was faintly glowing blue in the darkness was fairly ominous.

Germaine immediately took several steps back.

"A Vessel of Deadly Sin…!?"

"Exactly. Your perception is quite sharp, swordswoman. Despite not being a sorceress yourself. …And then there's the speed of your recovery from your injuries…There doesn't seem to be any after-effects from the acceleration inscription in the forest… Hahaha, how interesting.

Certainly Germaine had fought in quick succession, from Column forest to Castle Hedgehog. It was a little strange that despite the fact that she must have been injured each time, she was promptly up and around like this. I had thought so when I was working as medic on her wounds in Beelzenia--she healed much faster than the other soldiers.

"My injuries heal up quick after I eat a bunch," Germaine shot back, likely thinking she was being made fun of.

"After eating, huh… I see--I had thought you looked like her before. It seems there's a chance you're a blood relative of her after all--Conchita."

Conchita…Did she mean Banica Conchita? Germaine was--a blood relative of Conchita!? What did she mean by that? A descendant? Or else…

Mother walked a little closer to Germaine. But I could tell she was careful so as to not get within range of her sword.

"Not bad…I want that body," I heard her murmur quietly.

I picked up some rocks at my feet and threw them at the red cat. But they didn't connect, falling to the sandy beach. Neither the cat nor my mother had tried to avoid them. They just didn't reach. My lack of upper body strength was really irritating.

"Give up on such futile struggles, you villain!" I screamed once more. I heard the cat meow, as though mocking me.

"A villain, hm?... Do you mean me, Abyss? Or the person in this body--Mikina?" She continued before I could reply that I obviously meant Abyss. "How much do you know about your mother? Do you really think…that she is an innocent person through and through?"

What…what was she saying!?

"Have you never carried doubts about her? Never noticed something mysterious in her actio--"

There her voice suddenly cut off, and she crouched on the spot.

The groan and the words that came from her mouth. They were of my mother's voice, like before, but her tone was clearly different.

"Ugh…Please…stop…I don't want…Yukina…to…know…"

And then, with the sound of an electric shock, a lightning-like flash engulfed her body.

"Agh!"

Mom suddenly fell, but then quickly stood up again. Her attitude returned to being wicked like before.

"Guess my control was too weak. How impertinent…"

She looked openly displeased for a moment, but then her lips spread into a twisted smile, as though having thought of something. And then she began to talk to not Germaine, nor me, but herself.

"Hahaha, Mikina. In that case I will give a little bit of your body back to you. And then you will admit to everything from your own lips, in front of your daughter."

And once more, her behavior changed. She knelt on the spot, and clasped her hands as though praying. Gripped in her hands was the spoon from before.

"…Y--Yukina…Your Mama has…deceived...many people…until now…"

They were my mother's words. But she was not speaking of her own will.

The red cat's eyes were open wide.

Is Mama being forced to speak by Abyss…!?

"You don't need to listen to this, Yukina!"

Germaine ran before my mother, swinging her sword down on the red cat.

In that moment the blue light of the spoon turned to an intense flash--it was the same kind as I'd seen in the town of Lioness--and Germaine's body was sent flying.

The cat took up a menacing posture with its hair standing on end, as though to tell her not to interfere. Germaine didn't seem to have lost consciousness, but she did look as though she was having trouble standing upright, tottering a little.

“Yukina...Yukina...Mama has...I...Oh, God...I...confess—”

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[sunstoneyearned]

Delilah’s ornate bell jingle-jangles with every elegant pace she takes around the team’s designated lounge area. While a sub-section of Emilio’s fanbase is just as enamored with her as they are with her partner she’s learned from past experience to stay out of the splash-zone when he’s working his explosive charm on stage. The feline doesn’t mourn the regard and reverence she’s missing out on, though, more than content to rub against the legs of the staff backstage and keep a wandering eye on the going-ons out front from the sidelines. 

She’s gotten her paws on Volcarona’s minimized ball which she’s batted back and forth across the length of the worn vinyl floors several times over. Emilio doesn’t like to keep any of his companions confined to their cages but sometimes it can be tricky to travel long distances with a pack of such sizable creatures in tow. He’s of course made sure that their accommodations are programmed with all the nicest furnishings on the market all wrapped up in the sleek shell of a luxuryball. Delilah, however, is portable enough to travel with her keeper on foot and that’s how she’s always preferred it, if only because it allows her more time to be primped and pampered. 

The Delcatty wanders over to Obstagoon when her toy becomes lodged between his bulky leg and the floor beneath it. She perches herself atop his striped knee, pointing her curious, wet nose in the direction of the cellphone cradled delicately in his big, scary claws. She doesn’t fight and doesn’t particularly enjoy watching other pokémon fight but there’s something on the feed that draws her in. A sound in the background—a voice. She’s never heard this voice before but it’s a good voice, she thinks, the voice of a friend.

Maow.

Delilah vocalizes, leaning forward to press her cold snout against the screen. The video zooms in to the crowd gathered around the central pit where a big muscle man is about to battle a very feeble looking Mareep. There are a lot of faces and she doesn’t recognize any of them, but there is something that sucks her fickle attention in even further. A very distinctive looking white streak framing an oddly familiar countenance. 

Mrraow?

Obstagoon snarls and shoves the feline off his lap but the image remains burned in her mind’s eye. For reasons she can’t quite rationalize to herself, Delilah turns tail and bolts off stage, running as fast as her very small paws can carry her, through the crowd, and towards the edge of the city where the looming Cerulean mountain stands tall just a stone’s throw away.

She knows better than to nose around places like this by her lonesome, but some great, unknowable force compels her to press onward.