#i: selfpara.

[lcianhale]

Here's what you missed on Lucian:

A quebra do silêncio dos deuses se provara uma péssima coisa para Lucian. Fazia anos que não saia numa missão oficial e o resultado da primeira missão após o seu retorno foi um tanto... desastrosa. Acabara ferido pelas formigas gigantes enquanto investigava a fenda com Dove e Joseph, encontraram uma segunda fenda e ainda por cima, trombaram com o cão infernal no caminho de volta, fazendo com que Lucian ficasse assistindo enquanto seus companheiros davam conta da criatura. Se não estivesse t��o machucado, acreditava que teriam conseguido derrotar o monstro. Porém, seus colegas de missão deram prioridade a sua segurança, deixando que o cão infernal desaparecesse enquanto o carregavam.

Durante o retorno, o filho de Apolo perdeu a consciência diversas vezes, o veneno das myrmekes correndo por suas veias. Só veio dar sinal de vida no dia seguinte, repousando na maca ao lado de Stevie, de Niké, que também havia sido vítima das formigas. Seus comentários trouxeram um breve sorriso aos lábios de Lucian embora ainda estivesse fazendo careta devido a queimadura de ácido que corroera sua braçadeira.

Os dias se passaram e veio a revelação sobre o desaparecimento de Apolo e as coisas começaram a fazer sentido em sua cabeça. O constante tempo nublado vinha lhe incomodando há algum tempo e finalmente ter alguma resposta sobre o assunto era um alívio. Que é claro estava acompanhado de ressentimento. Se não fosse por Veronica, quem sabe por quanto tempo Quíron e o Sr. D. manteriam a informação em segredo?

Lucian fazia suas as palavras que Yasemin jogou na cara dos dois, eram basicamente os mesmos questionamentos que passavam por sua cabeça. Sentia-se traído pela direção do acampamento. O semideus jamais hesitara em compartilhar suas previsões através de desenhos com eles, e fora ingênuo o suficiente para acreditar que a confiança era uma via de mão dupla. Estava terrivelmente errado. Hale não compartilharia o conteúdo de seus sonhos com eles, não por agora.

Apesar da raiva que sentia da direção do acampamento, Lucian fizera sua parte na tentativa de emboscar o cão infernal. Ainda remoía o fato de que a criatura continuava andando por aí depois de terem topado com ela durante sua missão. Seu instinto era o de lançar flecha atrás de flecha no monstro, uma vingança poética para a criatura responsável pela morte de Aidan.

Seus planos foram por água abaixo quando reparou a reação de seus irmãos mais novos. O desejo de vingança era compartilhado por muitos residentes do chalé sete, o vazio causado pelo luto sendo preenchido por uma sede de violência. Já tinha visto aquele tipo de reação antes. Foi a mesma que tivera diante da Batalha do Labirinto e a morte de Lee. Alguém precisava cuidar dos mais novos. Sabendo exatamente como se sentiam, Lucian se voluntariou para o trabalho.

O clima no acampamento tinha voltado a sua "normalidade anormal", enquanto Lucian passava mais e mais tempo na biblioteca tentando interpretar seus desenhos. E aí veio o anúncio o tal do baile de gala. Tinha que confessar que não estava nem um pouco animado para o evento. A última coisa que queria fazer era participar de uma comemoração romântica. Fazia meses que tinha trocado São Francisco pelo Acampamento Meio-Sangue e quanto mais o tempo passava, mais Lucian se arrependia de não ter contado para seu namorado sobre sua herança divina.

Com a mensagem de Dionísio e sua previsão sobre a Rachel, Hale fez as malas e partiu para Long Island com a desculpa esfarrapada de uma "emergência de família". A ideia de procurar um apartamento com James quando seu contrato de aluguel acabasse indo para o brejo pois cá estava, com o contrato vencido e sem poder entrar em contato com o amado. Lucian não estava nem um pouco interessado em sentir o amor no ar quando nem tinha certeza se ainda estava em um relacionamento.

This is what you missed on Lucian.

[aviel-gillinski]

CRYPTID BITS - EP. 73 - FRESNO NIGHTCRAWLERS

"Goooooood evening, Bitties - it’s one of those nights where I’m deeply contemplative on the nature of many things. I’m sure we all get that way. When you sit alone and it’s raining, and something about the sound is so deeply nostalgic even though you hear it all the time. And then, you somehow get into existential questions about self, about love, about loss. 

And it’ll all stemmed from grabbing some ice for your glass of water or something, right? Because, well, your second cousin used to make jokes about how you only put 2 ice cubes in your drink. Like why only 2? Is that enough to get it cold? And you’d only see that second cousin every summer, because your families would go to that old lodge by the lake. You’d swim all day and then dry out on the rocks, and you’d both go steal a few otter pops from the secret cooler your uncle kept in the garage."

... more of Aviel's podcast under the read more ....

"So you start thinking about that lodge, and your uncle. Passed from pancreatic cancer, years ago. You start wondering if your second cousin’s okay- haven’t heard from her in a long time. She sold the lodge, though, after her father died. And last time you had a call with her, she was complaining about her son wanting an iPhone.

Rain’s still falling. You start thinking about invention. Utilitarian things like spoons and forks. iPhones.

Things that we don’t need but we like. Beanbag chairs. Pringles. 

What else is invention though? Through imagination, we can conduct so many ideas… inventions of the mind, whether they come to fruition or not."

"Is Bigfoot a real, hairy apeman? Or is he the invention of some creatives with too much time on their hands and a gorilla suit? Was Nessie a sea serpent, or dark metal pieces, some concoction to confuse humans for years, and elude them to this day? 

This all stems from my feelings on a truly unique cryptid, and our subject today. The Fresno Nightcrawlers.

Any cryptid enthusiast knows them - the white, ghostly pants. Armless creatures with long legs, walking almost as if they’re on strings. Marionettes to something celestial, perhaps. 

Some say sightings are few… but with multiple angled video recordings to look at, it’s hard to deny there’s something otherworldly at play. But does nostalgia color our views on this being? Let's start with the basics."

"A man named Jose was the first to see them in Fresno California - they were in his front yard, and even more peculiar was that he went to look only because his dog had started barking at something out in the night.

I don’t know about you - but there’s something far scarier about a creature that dogs don’t like. Having a dog on edge? There must’ve been something, or someone, out front of this poor man’s yard. But he caught it on CCTV footage… his brother even reported finding tiny footprints out front. However, even more odd… that CCTV footage was mysteriously deleted. All that remains of the original recording is a video of the security monitor. So we know they have tiny feet, long legs, no arms. We know that some force is at play to delete footage of them. So what are they? Where are they from, what’s their plan?

What’s even more odd… they have been seen recently. The most recent documented sighting is in 2020."

"They’ve been filmed at night in Yosemite- two of them, one large, one small. Walking, slow, across the screen. Now, I have to be honest - the footage of that specific instance? The jury’s still out for me. Dear Bitties, I’m sure you’ve seen it, but they almost look a bit too perfect. Too crisp, comparatively to the background. As if someone had laid it all out. 

I’ve seen the Nightcrawlers likened to those little tissue ghosts people often make as children - something I can say I used to do with my son and daughter on many October evenings. And I can’t help but agree, even to the point where some of the footage can appear slightly… tissue-esque. 

However. Fear not, Bitties. Because In all the footage, they are so incredibly consistent that it’s hard to disagree that something unexplainable is there. 

Many think these are aliens- and with hieroglyphics from Egypt sometimes showing humanoid figures with their arms completely at their sides, paler than the average being they would depict… well, you do the math.

Tell you what, let’s ruminate on it. Time to take a quick brain-break to hear some ads and then we’ll be deep-diving into a nightcrawler’s connection to aliens, ghosts… and maybe even deer? Hm. Makes you think. Now, a word from our sponsors…."

[withoz]

where : carnival of time when : mid-september

There was no denying Dorothy had her insecurities. It was evident from the way she carried herself as if she was trying to blend in with her surroundings, how her eyes would widen in reaction to her own words in fear of saying the wrong thing, or how she would get heavily centered on a simple detail others may not even think twice about. Sometimes it was so exhausting being inside her own head that she just wished she could turn off any further thoughts. But it was different at the circus. The acrobat wasn't really sure when the heaviness of being concerned with how the entire world viewed her began, but she remembered being young inside the large circus tents where that feeling didn't exist. And then she would get to school-age where she would be mocked for being a freak for one reason or another but once she returned back into that space of familiarity, she could breath easily again. It would always be the place in which she felt most comfortable, most at home. It was why she never left, choosing to drop out of high school to travel with who she had decided was her true extended family and leave behind the West Virginia town that provided nothing but pain and torment. She had never left the circus. Even when her decision to move to Anchorage was made, she would find herself gravitating towards the same environment within the carnival that provided that familiar sense of comfort. The circus was what she knew. Acrobatics was what she knew. It may have been the only thing she was truly confident in. Dorothy second guessed almost everything she did. But when she was thirty feet off the ground, there was no time for that. There wasn't a moment to think about how many eyes were on her when a single second or her legs just slightly off angle could affect catching the next bar or falling to the net below. It was freeing to be so focused on something that not even her usual concerns could penetrate that concentration. Except lately it felt like her usual insecurities had been tenfold. And as much as she hated to admit it, Dorothy had even began feeling it in comparison to her siblings. All three of them had so much going for them, and as much as she knew comparison would only ever get her nowhere, it didn't change those awful little thoughts that popped into her head. Everyone had gone off to have their own accomplishments while she stayed behind where they all started, never going beyond that. In the decade that she had been performing, she had only had a few falls in front of audience members, most when she was still newer to the practice and the crowds. The last hadn't been for at least a few years. But it only took getting distracted for a moment, and it only took having one off-putting thought for a distraction. Before the youngest Graves-Seong could even realize what was happening, the bar slipped past her fingertips mid-air, hands unable to get a good grip on it. The feeling of landing on the matts below was so quick it was barely felt, instead the gasps from spectators was what sunk in first. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, not from fear or physical pain, but just from the thought of all the eyes just witnessing her mistake, her failure. A good performer always went on with the show, no matter what happened. Even if she didn't feel like a very good performer at that moment, she still gave as wide of a smile as she good, no matter how shaky it was as her lips wanted to pull in the opposite direction. Spinning on her heel, feet carried her as fast as possible to the curtains that lead backstage, only then the hot tears hitting her cheeks and the sharp pain in her wrist registering. Acrobatics may have been what she was best at, but she didn't feel very good at it in that moment.

[temperednuvi]

title: a mother's melody when: pre-queen mother king where: the broodmother cavern trigger warnings: nothing in particular

It was a beautiful song, one that would beat within your breast for the rest of your life. 

You have no memory of when the call begins, no recollection of when the melody began to creep upon your senses. For all you know, it had always been there, waiting for the right moment to soar in crescendo. For all you know, you were always meant to end here, reaching into the Broodmother’s folds and nudging life beneath your dirtied hands. Perhaps that is what the pattern had tried to tell you, all those years ago as it urged you to leave home behind. Perhaps the world had always known that your fate was to be found on your knees, kneeling before new existences meant to do nothing else but extinguish the light that you were once so desperate to protect.

Once, but no longer. 

Your light was fading, your memories of the past were dwindling.

It seemed like such a long time ago — an eternity collapsed into blurry days, centuries of life erased until all that remained being what laid before you, no self no personhood left before the power of Mother’s will — since you had seen the sun, since the light of the Laurelin had reached you. 

Had it ever reached you? Had its light touched you? Are the blurry memories receding with every moment true or just another pesky daydream meant to distract your duty? 

Who are you?

You are Mother’s daughter, the wiggling’s creature’s sister. 

Were you once more than that? Were you a person? Did you love, did you laugh, did you cry? 

Did you fear?

Was it fear that you felt so keenly in that last clear memory of being presented to Mother? Was it despair settling on your gut and crawling up your throat with vile as you felt yourself slipping away?

Had you been afraid of Mother’s beauty? Of the twisting sickness, and rot, of the flesh and meat, twisting and bulging and surging —

O’ how wrong it had been, how sickening, to see the Blight’s manifestation, even as it’s call crooned softly and warmly to join your sisters in the dark. 

Yes, you had been afraid. 

You had been afraid to forget. 

Had you been?

That —

That doesn’t sound right. Why would you have been afraid? What is there to fear? There is no creature that can touch you now, no being that can stop you from fulfilling your duty. Finally, the dark feels like a welcome and not a sentence. Finally, you are not afraid anymore. 

There is nothing to be afraid of, here in the cold and dark. 

There was only the glory of Mother, and the weight of the horde on your heart. 

There is no need for anything else.

Not anymore. 

                                                                          —

In the night you heard the others sing some Iskaran song you'd heard on the lips of miners, miners who'd spent their days toiling in the dark of a cave. 

You begin humming in concord, the melody a habit ingrained into your body through years of desperation. Music had once brought hope in a hopeless world, light in the darkness, comfort in the cold. 

It no longer does. 

It’s discordant, it goes against Mother’s melody, but you can’t stop humming. You remember, vaguely, not entirely. You remember fear of the dark, you remember a cave.

A cave like this one, that had been your home for an age.

The memory is within your grasp, a puzzling thing that brings no sweet comfort. Confusion is aroused, fear following closely as you begin to panic and know. 

You can’t know. 

Knowing, just as the humming, disrupts Mother’s melody and you don’t want that. Not now that you remember what it means to be afraid, what it means to hate the dark. Mother’s glory is what keeps the claustrophobia at bay, what keeps the nightmares under control. 

You don’t want to let it go. 

Not as long as Mother sings her song. 

But then—

A wolf's bite broke Mother's hold,—

You open your eyes,—

her song lifted,—

you remember,—

and you stood from your place amid her brood. 

Memories crash against each other, an avalanche of roaring fearhopedespairjoyangerfreedom, swelling and swelling until it reaches a crescendo. 

You remember the cave.

You remember the burning manacles, sitting heavy upon your wrist as you raise your arms and bring it down over and over, afraid to stop even as your body screams in agony. You remember watching as the Overseer bears down on a cambion like a vengeful devil dragging a soul down into the depths of the Abyss. You remember the hunger.

O, you remember the hunger. 

You remember almost a decade of pain, of shame and fear, of the legacy that it had left in your body, the marks that you will always bear and the ones that you won’t.

You remember the mines.

You remember so much more than that. 

You—

You remember running through the Feywilds, racing through the woods with Harajatish at your heels, a wild laugh escaping you as you weave through roots and jump to reach branches. You remember hunching over maps with a friend, pointing your next path through Taravell as they shake their head in fondness. You remember the joy in your parents’ face as you show them how you can bloom flowers from seeds. 

—remember—

You remember laughing as Octavia’s mouth dropped in shock as you coaxed the grapevines into bloom, a smirk dancing in your lips as you prove a point. You remember her expression turning sly, and what came after. You remember walking under Ankhuria’s merciless sun, covered in fabrics as the merchant caravan that had found you wandering through the desert had taught you. You remember the kindness of strangers, the comfort of friends. 

—your name. 

Your name is Shenuvun, you are elvhen and you don’t belong to the Broodmother anymore.Midwife no more, you saw now with your own eyes what it would mean to stand in the folds of a broken veil - you reached for the earth and it answered your call.

[theoseong]

The Runaway

Date: November 2017 and July 2021 Location: Rungung and Different City Characters: Theo Seong and Charles Seong (Robin and Ryder Astrea mentioned) Description: Theo leaves Rungung and goes back again. Triggers: death, grief and mentions of starvation.

November 2017 - Theo is 23 years old

Theo’s gaze shifted from the bus ticket in his hand to the packed bags and guitar in his bedroom, leaving his room the barest it’d ever been. It was now or never. His bus for Different City left tomorrow at seven in the morning, and he still hadn’t told his dad he was leaving. It got more and more tempting to just leave without saying goodbye. That way he wouldn’t have to face his dad’s disappointment. 

A bitter part of him thought his dad might deserve that. All his life, it felt like the damn diner meant more to him than Theo did. He never gave a shit what Theo wanted–never even bothered to ask. He just decided he was going to take over for him one day. Maybe, Theo should’ve told his dad the truth from the start, but it felt like his only real option was to just leave, because he was never going to accept the truth. His dad would have to now though, because Theo was going on that bus even if it broke his heart.

Sighing, Theo forced himself to stop stalling and left his bedroom, heading for the kitchen where his dad was sitting at the table, balancing the books. Without a word, he dropped the ticket directly on top of the book. His dad gave Theo a confused look and set down the pen, lifting the ticket to examine it closely. 

“Different City? You didn’t tell me you’re going on a trip…” He said slowly, and Theo could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“It’s not a trip, dad. I’m moving there. I know I should’ve said something earlier, but–”

“Hold on, son. Slow down. You’re moving there? What are you talking about?” His dad asked in rapid succession, pushing himself out of his seat to look at his son directly. He didn’t seem mad yet, just completely lost. Theo couldn’t blame him. He went about this all wrong.

“I’m twenty-three, I have all my certifications, and I have money saved from the diner. I’m leaving,” Theo listed off in a flat tone. For some reason, it felt like if he kept emotions out of this and just sprouted facts it would avoid the inevitable explosion, but he knew that wasn’t true. He could see it brewing in his father as his expression shifted from confused to betrayed.

“Leaving? What about the diner, Theo? I need you around here to help–to take over one day. This isn’t the plan.”

“Your plan, dad. This isn’t your plan,” Theo snapped, immediately losing all his sense of cool. “I hate the diner. The last thing I want is to spend the rest of my life flipping pancakes and mopping syrup off the floor. That’s your dream, not mine.” 

It was probably the worst thing he could ever say to his father, “I hate the diner,” but it was the truth. Theo held so much resentment for so many years that it festered into an ugly, hateful thing. His dad’s pride and joy felt like a prison to him, and he couldn’t stay here anymore or else he’d go crazy. 

Theo’s dad reeled back like he’d been slapped, his eyes narrowing into a glare. His cheeks started to flush red the angrier he became. He and his dad never fought, and he never saw him lose his temper, but he had a feeling that was about to change in a few seconds. 

“This is–this is ridiculous, Theo. You’re not making any sense. You never said any of this before. What’re you going to do in Different City? You barely passed your certifications,” his dad countered, his voice practically raising with every word.

“When was I supposed to tell you, dad? It’s all you fucking talk about! It’s all you care about. This stupid place is your entire life, and you just force it onto me. You didn’t even ask,” Theo yelled, his chest heaving as he got more worked up, “and I want to play music, by the way. You would’ve known that if you actually paid attention to me.” 

“Music!?” His dad shouted before letting out a humorless laugh. It stung more than Theo expected that he acted like the idea was a big joke, and it caused his shoulders to sink, but he refused to back down. He wasn’t giving up. 

“So, let me see if I understand this, Theo. You’re running away from home, abandoning all your responsibilities and your family, to play music? Do you know how many people actually make it as musicians? Do you know how much being a struggling artist pays? On top of rent, food, basic needs. You’ll starve.” 

Theo faltered for a beat, swallowing roughly around the lump forming in his throat. He knew it was a risk, but he spent so much time planning this out, and it was one he was willing to take. He couldn’t just stay here forever, because he was afraid of failing. 

“I won’t,” he shook his head. “I’m good at this. Someone will sign me. And if they don’t–well, I’d rather be a starving artist than a diner owner.” 

Theo’s father never hit him before, but he looked like he might as he took a step forward like he was squaring up to him, and he braced himself for the potential impact, but it never came. Instead, he pointed a finger in his face, his voice dropping low.

“I’ve never been so disappointed in you in my life, Theo.”

Theo knew it was coming. It was why he waited so long to tell him. It didn’t soften the blow though. His dad was the only close family he had left, and Theo just destroyed that. If Theo left, he didn’t think they’d ever come back from it. As selfish as it was, that was a decision he made a long time ago, and he accepted it. 

“Yeah, well,” he began with a feigned nonchalant shrug. “You don’t have to like it, but it’s happening.” 

Falling silent, he reached around his dad and grabbed his ticket from the table and stalked towards his bedroom to grab his stuff. His bus wasn’t until the morning, but there was no way he was staying here tonight. He’d stay at a friend’s house or find a hotel. His dad called after him, but Theo steadily ignored him as he shrugged on his guitar case and picked up his duffle bag. 

Theo had to push past his dad as he left the bedroom, avoiding his gaze as he walked towards the front door. His dad shouted after him the entire time, until he slammed the door shut and muffled the sound. Theo didn’t pause once as he jogged down the steps, afraid if he did he’d turn back and change his mind. 

July 2021 - Theo is 26 years old 

Theo woke up to the sound of one of his four roommates banging around in the kitchen, prompting him to let out a groan and bury his face in his pillow. He was still hungover from the night before after his band celebrated their gig with many, many shots. They probably spent more on drinks than they were actually paid, but that was pretty typical for them. These bars barely paid anything.

Cracking an eye open, Theo reached for his phone and checked the time, grumbling to himself when he saw it was almost two in the afternoon. His stomach rumbled loudly, but he ignored it for now. All he had left in the pantry was a few packs of instant ramen, and he was trying to make it last. He tried to distract himself from the headache and hunger by scrolling idly through social media, stalking a few old friends and exes. His profile was under a fake name, so he could look into people from his past without being discovered. There was a post that was a few days old from Robin and Ryder’s birthday. He let his gaze linger on Robin for a second too long, murmuring “cute” to himself before he moved on. 

Theo paused when he landed on a post from The Sunrise Diner. Most of their posts were just aesthetically pleasing photos of breakfast food to promote the place, but this was a picture of his dad with a lot of text underneath. It took Theo to realize the words at the top said, “In memory of Charles Seong.” 

His entire body went numb suddenly, all the sound from the apartment drowning out to a dull roar. He read the rest of the post without really processing it. His gaze landed on the words “passed away,” “heart attack,” “will be missed.” Theo didn’t know how long he stared at his phone. It felt like time stopped and his body slowly shut down, everything coming to a complete standstill. 

His dad died. His dad died, and Theo just found out through a social media post. His dad died, and Theo just found out through a social media post, because he ran away from home, changed his number, and never spoke to his dad again. One of the last things Theo ever said to him was that he hated the diner and he’d rather be a starving owner than a diner owner. Which was exactly what he was now. 

Theo’s hands began to tremble so violently that his phone fell and landed with a “thud” on his bare chest. He had no idea what to do. He’d been so stupidly stubborn over the years. No matter how much rejection he faced, how little money he had, and how poor his living conditions were, he refused to go home. He refused to prove his dad right. His dad died being disappointed in Theo.

It all felt so fucking stupid now. 

Without fully processing what he was doing, Theo picked his phone back up and checked his bank balance. He only had enough for a one way bus ticket and nothing else. Taking a deep, trembling breath, he opened the transportation website and hastily paid for an overnight bus ride to Rungung.

Whether he was a failure or not, he had no choice but to go back home. There was nothing for him in Different City, and there hadn't been in a long time. No family, nothing that really meant anything--just a band that wouldn't go anywhere and a shitty apartment. He should've done this years ago, but he let his pride get the best of him, and now it was too late.

Theo's dad was gone, and the only thing he had left of him was that damn diner.

[dantekidd]

Swimming in a Clouded Haze | Selfpara

TW: Death, gore Mentions: @greysnkidd @kpmatthewskidd @sawyerxwinston @adeehayag @arabellareyes @zekaiarslan @luciacarrera

Kaia. . . his thoughts coming through despite the heaviness and waves of pain on his head. His child. . . would she ever know who he was? He got so little time with her, and now it would all be done. He wouldn't see her grow, wouldn't see her ride her first bike, go to her first school dance, wouldn't be there ever again. . . he hopes she knows that he loves her unlike anything else. That he would have given anything and everything in life to have seen her born. To have held her against his chest and felt the tight hold of her baby fingers around his.

Arabella. From the first moment he'd seen her Dante knew he wanted no one else but her. Knew he wanted to marry her. Give her everything that she deserved out of life. He'd run home to his mama and talk about her for hours. Like a loved drunk puppy. To this day, he couldn't get her out of his head. Out of his heart. He loves her. It didn't matter all the pain he endured being with her, then watching her with another, his heart knew no bounds. He yearned for her still. Loving her til his last breath.

Greyson. Throughout all of his life he's been there for him. As annoying and loving as Dante always was, Grey never made him feel unwanted or different. He didn't have brother's or sisters', but he's always had Grey and that was enough for him. It was due to him that Dante became more social around people. He had been such a quiet kid for most of his life, and his cousin never let him stay behind. Never let him sulk or bury himself into his music and forget about the rest of the world. There was no way to describe the gratitude and love that he felt for his brother. Because no matter who their parents were, Greyson would always be his brother.

KP. Despite only having met them in his late teens and not entirely liking them at the time, Dante was grateful that he took the time to get to know them. Originally, he didn't want to so that Greyson wouldn't be angry at him. He knew the effect that KP had on Grey, and that alone was enough to make Dante step away. But over the years his relationship with KP grew. He became more comfortable accepting them into his family despite what felt like endless fights between Grey and them.

Sawyer. Another person that despite now being his sibling had always felt like it. There was no way to describe his love for her without sounding like a mad man. Ever since the two were younger he'd watch her go through life and somehow always seemed to tumble. The only thing was that he was always there at the bottom waiting to rise her back up. Ready to wipe away all signs of struggle, and show her that love could and could heal anything. She would forever be a part of him. Her presence engraved into his soul.

Papa. . .

Earlier that night. . .

Dante yelled a goodbye to Arabella on his way out her home. “Don’t forget to lock the door.” He said before closing the door behind him. He had spent a couple of hours over playing with Kaia, reading her a bedtime story before making his exit. Over the past couple weeks, he’s been switching between calling her over the tablet to say goodnight to coming over and reading her a story. He didn’t want to impose too much on Bella’s home, specially when Zekai was more often than not always there. It was uncomfortable to witness, and even more awkward feeling like he had to sneak out just to avoid passing a couple words. It was as he’d said before- he didn’t harbor any ill feelings towards the dude, but also didn’t care to entertain pointless communication either. 

Dante was really kicking himself in the ass now for having opted out of taking his car. The day had been beautiful, so he figured why not just walk on over to Bella’s, but the air had turned a bit chilly since he’s last been outside. Dante hurried down the street trying to measure the fastest way to mama’s. He had avoided having dinner so he could spend a bit longer with his Jellybean, and now he was paying for it. Ugh, he brought his hands down to his stomach as his intestines screamed at him. 

Pulling out his cellphone, Dante sent Lucia a quick text.

D: Been missing you, love. I'm heading to mama's if you want to stop by and have a shake with me.

After the whole situation with Sawyer, Dante had taken a step back from bombarding his friends with too much of him. He understood that he loved a little too much, and that he sometimes failed to see when he needed to step back, so he's been working on that. Giving them the time, and space that he believes they need. It's why he hadn't really been around Sawyer lately, or even Lucia despite how similar the two were emotionally. Instead, he had chosen to spend most of his time between his child, his music, and Adee. Speaking of. . .

D: Can't wait to see you tomorrow. I got a surprise for you.

Over the past few weeks, Dante had been talking to Adee almost religiously. He knew it was selfish to run into something when his heart still needed mending, but she knew about it all. She didn't seem to worry, and didn't even bring it up so it felt good. Almost as if the two just met and were still getting to know one another. It was fun, and exciting something he hasn't really felt in years if he was honest. Yeah he had many of girlfriends, but his mind had never really been in it. This time he planned dates, and brought her flowers, and sent goodnight and good morning texts like some high-schoolers.

They weren't too different, the two of them. Both wore their hearts on their sleeves. He wore his for Bella, whereas Adee seemed to wear it for anyone willing to have it. Not that it was wrong, and he didn't think her less for it, she just seemed to be looking for someone to love her and be accepting of her love in return. . .

What the fuck happened? Dante's head was pounding, his body limp as if he couldn't move from the spot he laid on the ground. Was he being jumped? He tried his best to turn his head, or even lift an arm but there was almost no movement reaction from his body. "Bro, just take the wallet." he wanted to say to them. He could hear their whispers not far as if they were wondering what to do with him. As if someone was trying to figure something out. "Yo!" Dante finally was able to make out but it didn't seem to alert anyone. . . just as quick though he blacked out.

At some point he woke up again, still unable to fully open his eyes or see anything for that matter. Bringing his hand up to his forehead, Dante could feel a liquid on his fingers. But it wasn't raining. Was it? Slowly his breathing became panicked, and he started to feel all the sore-spots throughout his body. Was he cut? He felt pain on his arms, his shoulders, his head, his cheek. Blood trailing down his face almost comically after he began to panic, and he curled into himself. The air was so cold, and his stomach was empty. It was ironic really.

If anybody asked Dante what was the worst day of his life he wouldn't have had to think twice. His mind immediately traveling to that night his parents passed and the two days he laid with them. Their bodies pressed up against the cold ground, and a little boy Dante hanging onto their stiffness to warm them up. I'm so hungry he would say to his deceased mother, but she didn't move. He remembered tugging at them, and pulling only to be met with silence. They never responded. Never talked. . . just laid there. His young mind immediately thinking he had done something wrong, he'd made his bed that first day. He had gotten up, made himself breakfast that consisted of watery oats, and even cleaned up after himself. Not good enough though. He couldn't reach all the spots.

Dante had spent days going through everything that they had. Had spent hours looking, and cleaning, and putting away his toys. He didn't want to be in trouble anymore. "Please mommy, I'm sorry." He would shout at the top of his lungs. He had done so much. He didn't know what else to do. What else to clean. Where to get more food. The fridge was empty now. . . there was nothing for him to eat. He was so hungry. So thirsty. . . All he could do was beg and hold onto them. "I'll be good, I promise" he's say to them over and over again. Taking turns between them, hoping his dad would respond. "Daddy, I'm so sorry." he cried, with no response. "I can take out the trash again." He'd forgotten to once. Too busy playing with his toys. "I'll take it out, and then it won't smell in here anymore." Not truly grasping the stench that circled the air wasn't due to the trash.

He had never wondered how he would die. When, or even where it would take place. Dante didn't really know where he was anymore. He had been walking to mama's at some point, but time was also stretched out in his head. The pain didn't let him put two and two together so who knew how long it's been since he left Bella's home. How long has it been since he sent those text messaged, or if he ever got a reply back. He lost consciousness once more. . . but it didn't last long. He felt his torso jolt up as a sharp pain entered his chest. Pain traveling down his body but he couldn't do anything. Both his body and mind in shock, it was as if he'd detached. He knew what was happening, but he couldn't feel any of it. His eyes opened wide but all he saw were the stars, his breathing becoming lighter and more silent.

Please, mommy. I'll be a good boy.

[chaussard]

Audition Piece || self para

The heavy sigh fell on deaf ears as the Commandant leaned against the bar. His back bearing the weight of everything that was on his mind. It had been months since Aurélie’s death. And while one day passed after the other the French loyalists could not help from analyzing the day from every angle – as if there would have been anything he could have done to undo the devastating loss to the St. Clair organization.

Théo’s callous hands wrapped around the glass of golden liquor bringing it to his lips before downing it. Before him a head was slumped over. A blood stained ragged pulled tightly across the man’s crimson stained lips. A pool of blood formed a puddle on the plastic on the ground. This wasn’t about getting information, this was about taking from them one brick at a time.

Abruptly the glass left his grasp as he sent it soaring across the room with such force that it crashed against the wall. A dry laugh left his lips as the man jolted against the wooden chair.

“Are you joking?” The frenchman asked as he pushed himself off the bar and started towards the chair. His brow furrowed in mock frustration as he forced the man to look up at him.“You’re turning into a sniveling little bitch. Just when I thought we were having a good time.”

Maybe something in him had snapped a bit – losing Aurélie had felt like losing his sister. It was like losing Nicolas all over again. All of this stemmed from one source - The Russians may have taken Aurélie’s life but it was the Rutherfords who had brought them here.

“I’m going to leave you with a little bit of wisdom,” His voice was calm as his eyes narrowed on the man sitting before him. A hand reached into his waistband before taking a step back the barrel of the silencer pressed against the man's head. “It only takes one.”

[emmawrxght]

Tagging: Micah, mentions of Emma and Emory

Location: Aurora, Colorado

Timeframe: Solstice-Early January

Notes: Micah goes home for the holidays following the curse-breaking

It was a sixteen hour flight from Rome to Denver, then just a thirty minute drive to Aurora. Micah slept through most of it, coming down from the bender he’d been on the last few weeks. Showing up on his mother’s doorstep looking like he’d been through the ringer wasn’t a good look, it had been so long, so many years spent away from the place that had chased him and Emma out.

They’d been kids then, but the Starlings had never treated them as such. It wasn’t Micah’s only encounter with the sort of prejudice that came with being a halfblood, but it was the first, and the effect it had on his relationship with Emory - with his home - that made it the worst.

A taxi waited for him outside the airport, one of several in a stream lineup of yellow, white and black, chequered decals that were indicative of a finish line. It was late now, dark, long past sunset. Micah wished he could have savoured his first moonlight but this wasn’t the only one he’d experienced, he’d stolen so many nights from Emma last year that it sullied the experience. Through the cool glass in the backseat of the car Micah didn’t look up at the sky and see a future or new possibilities, it felt like a curtain was coming down. An inkling feeling twisted in his gut and told him the worst was still to come, that in terms of failures Micah had only just gotten started.

Emma hadn’t embraced him, no matter how much he’d tried over the Summer and at the beginning of the Fall, she’d been right, he’d fallen apart once again. Emory couldn’t stand him and neither could she, which was fine, Micah couldn’t stand himself either. Gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes, in sober light it was hard to look at himself, he saw the bits of skin at his neck that he’d picked raw a few nights ago when he was sure there was something crawling around underneath. Days without eating because Micah had forgotten, who needed an appetite when the party never ended?

The home looked familiar and foreign all at once, it was smaller than Micah remembered. He stepped out of the taxi and slung his duffel over his shoulder to look up at the house that carried so many bones.

“Now, at last, I’m free of you.” Emma said, her voice dry and curt as she levelled on him the most hateful stare she could muster, it was worse now, worse than it had been the night of the masquerade. She’d had time to marinate in her rage, and worse, Micah had managed to do even more damage. “Whatever you do, wherever you go, haunt no one but yourself.” Micah had grabbed her arm as she turned away but she’d only smacked it away. “Bastard,” she hissed, “I nursed your pride, I cleaned your messes, and you’ve never let me have anything. At least give me this: let me be rid of you, for good. Forever.”

“This time will be different.” Micah pleaded as Emma stalked off into the dark she’d been left in for too long.

“I don’t care.”

Old bones built with the memories of youth, the steps he climbed onto the porch had been last painted the Summer he turned nine. Micah remembered breaking twigs and shoving them through the planks to the dark depths below, like he and Emory were hiding a secret by chipping away at the fresh coat.

There was a light coming through the door, Micah peered into the glass and saw his mother in the kitchen down the hall, he could hear the soft rock of the 70s playing faintly from his position and he thought of a time when he used to know every word. When he’d dance around the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon and she’d tell him that he was born to catch the light.

He sniffed and pushed open the door, it was a small town and to this day she kept it unlocked.

“‘Mm home.” Micah’s sheepish voice cut through the radio as he looked at the woman who watched him from the kitchen, blue eyes and blonde hair, his own features stared back at him as a plate slipped between her fingers and shattered upon the floor.

He noticed now the lines upon her face, the wear of age and worry that he had no doubt been the cause of. How many nights had she sat up in this very kitchen, waiting for good news that would never come. Micah knew that she and Emma talked often, at least she had that - but him? He was a ghost, he’d buried himself long ago and it looked like she never stopped mourning, never stopped weeping.

“Micah-” she breathed as her arms came around him all at once, he felt tired all of a sudden, like all the energy and tension he’d been holding in his body evaporated all at once.

“I’m home.” He repeated, this time his breath quivered as he spoke and shook the vowels that made up the middle. Micah shuttered against her frame, his face buried in the place where the crook of her neck met her shoulder. He held onto her tighter unaware that he was crying until he felt her hand on his back move in soothing circles.

“It’s okay,” she promised. Even as the ground opened up beneath his feet, even as he felt the weight of the home’s old bones begin to break. “It’s okay,” she repeated.

“I met him,” Micah breathed when he could at last come up for air, his eyes full of water and salt, “the old man-” she looked momentarily perplexed as he smirked at his own stupid moniker for him, “dad.”

In the days that followed Micah got to celebrate Christmas at home for the first time since he’d left, the fear that the Starlings would turn up on their doorstep got smaller with each passing day. Then it was gone completely. He laid in his old bed in the room that had been kept clean but identical to how he’d left it. Micah felt like a spirit visiting a grave as his mind cleared and he heard the impressions of youth that pressed against his thoughts.

He heard Emma’s hopes, her dreams, she left them here. The longer they lingered the louder they got, so when he was brave enough, he headed into town for no reason beyond the chance to walk familiar paths with newfound nostalgia. All those years he’d taken home for granted, in so many ways he still did, he couldn’t come back here, not really, but it felt good to visit. Better than he’d thought. Micah had let himself think that his mom would hold the same rejection as Emma, maybe it was a fool’s errand, but she still managed to see whatever good remained in him.

They sat up late on New Year's Eve and cheered at midnight, popping party crackers that Micah had picked up from the drug store as some of his mom’s friends jumped around the living room with them. He remembered a few, but most were new pieces that the woman had assembled in the absence that her children left behind. They traded stories of their own kids, one in college, one in university, each wanted to know about Rome. Emma’s career, his own, who they were seeing, why his sister had stayed home.

In the silence that followed when Micah didn’t really know what to say, his mother changed the subject.

“What if they never forgive me?” Micah asked as he sat on the porch swing, an interrupted smoke between his fingers that his mother quickly grabbed, to his surprise, she put it to her own lips. “What if they don’t?” She said simply with an exhale, “They might resent you for the rest of your life.” “Hardy har har, you’re not helping.”

She didn’t laugh.

“I’m serious, you could spend the rest of your life alone. You have to be okay with that.” She knocked the ash off into an empty can between them before offering it back to Micah.

“When did you start smoking?”

“I don’t, but your dad always said I look really cool when I smoke,” she said with a short laugh punctuated by a roll of her eyes. A cold beat passed between them as smoke trailed from his fingers to the sky, he felt different now, stronger in a strange way. But was that enough?

“Do you really think I’m going to be alone forever?”

“No,” she said with an ease that made Micah feel as if he could breathe. “Not unless you want to be, and I don’t think you do. Do you?”

“No.”

“Well good, because you can’t stay here.” She said with a sideways glance that met Micah’s blue eyes with her own, she smiled, “You’re cramping my style.”

[ryderastrea]

a dad and son talk

Date: October 26, 2022 Location: Ergo, Twarvu, Kor’Sel’Koo Characters: Ryder and Henry Astrea Description: Henry checks in on Ryder when he notices them looking a little down. Characters Mentioned: Robin and Alisz Astrea, Skylar Clarke-Iz’an, Salem Ilmari, Derros Laernal, (Stella, Laurie, and Blue are implied?) 

Ryder quickly found out how intimidating it was to spend the night on the dance floor when their mother was watching, and they were trying to pretend like they didn’t secretly dream about becoming a dancer. After a glass of wine, crush reveals, awkwardly dancing with their dad, and checking on Robin, they ended up back at their table, picking at their second slice of wedding cake. 

The wedding couldn’t go more perfectly, and they were both relieved and happy for the newly married couple. Ryder hated that they felt drained. Maybe it was the stress of it all or reuniting with their parents–or even just being surrounded by people in love while feeling lonely. Either way, they just needed a minute to themself. 

It was a short-lived minute when Henry took the free seat next to him and gave him a soft smile. “What’re you doing here all by yourself, Ry? You should be celebrating Sky with the others,” He said. 

“I’m eating cake,” Ryder replied as they gestured to their plate before sliding it towards their dad. “Want some?” 

Henry seemed to contemplate it for a moment. “I shouldn’t be eating so much cake in my old age, but if you insist…” He took Ryder’s fork and cut into the half-eaten slice of cake. “So, do you have a secret boyfriend I should know about too? I saw you with Derros earlier.” 

Ryder snorted and rolled their eyes, earning them a feigned offended look.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. It’s an honest question. Robin introduced us to Salem earlier. He’s nice–very polite. He kept calling me “sir,” Henry paused to laugh. “I just wanted to know if I should expect the same from you.” 

Ryder shook their head and sank lower in their seat, looking out to the crowd on the dance floor. “Nope. No secret boyfriend. I’m still as single as I’ve always been,” he muttered. Maybe one day he wouldn’t feel so sad about it, he knew that wanting so much would just make it less likely to happen, but they couldn’t exactly control it. 

Ryder couldn’t see his dad’s face, but he could practically feel the pity radiating from him, which was only solidified when he patted their hair gently. “There’s nothing wrong with being single,” he said eventually. “The right guy will come along.”

Biting their lower lip, they made a non-committal noise in response. Ryder knew their dad was just trying to make them feel better, but they were honestly getting tired of hearing it. You’re young, you’ll find someone someday, you just haven’t met the right person yet, anyone would want you. That was the thing though, no one did, so it just felt like empty promises. Sure, they were young, but they were getting older. Next year, they’d be twenty-five. Most people had several significant others by then, and Ryder still hadn’t had one. They were interrupted from their thoughts when Henry nudged them, forcing them to actually look at him. 

“There you are. You were a million miles away. What’s going on with you, kiddo? You seem really down. You were so quiet on the dance floor earlier,” he said with a worried frown. 

“I’m fine,” Ryder answered immediately with a strained smile. “I’m just tired from the wedding planning. It was hard to put this together in only a month.” 

“I bet. You and your brother did an amazing job. It’s just my job as your dad to worry about you. Are you happy on the ship? I…” Henry faltered like he was trying to decide the right thing to say. Alisz wasn’t there, but she was still in the room, so Ryder wouldn’t be surprised if he still felt the need to be careful. “I know you have Sky and Robin there with you, but I was never sure if the traveling pirate lifestyle was for you.” 

Ryder tried their best not to react, but they visibly swallowed before looking away again. “I like traveling,” they answered vaguely, “ and I like my crew mates. I’m really close with a few of them.” It’s being a medic I don’t like, they added mentally. “Really, dad. I’m fine. You don’t need to worry. Like you said, I have Sky and Bin. I’m really just tired, and my eyes are sore from crying during the ceremony.”

They stood up suddenly, ready to stop this conversation. They looked down at Henry with a forced grin. “Let’s go back to the dance floor. We can try to get mum and Robin to join. I finally taught Robin to do more than a box step.” 

Henry just looked at them for a beat before smiling and nodding before getting to his feet. “Well, that I’ve got to see. Come on.”

[hellersdarcy]

tag dump

[rcdiostcrs]

kill me

[senatushq]

Welcome to Rome!

Ephraim Briggs ( The Enforcer ) played by Shane

[fleursdesoleil]

SELFPARA: dis adieu

Supposedly the going away party is meant for both of them, but it's an easy conclusion that the packed Voodoo on a Friday night is a send-off for Emil more than it is Montgomery. It's nothing he minds, not when he takes a certain pleasure getting to see the man receive some pay-off for weeks and months spent hurt and scared, scarred and hidden away in a glass house. Trying to heal from wounds both external and internal, but there is no sign of either now, little prompting needed to put him back behind the bar just for one last chance to show off.

It has Monty hiding a quiet smile behind his hand, watching the glint of the metal shaker and spinning glasses as he lays out shots for his adoring crowd. But if he often suffers from the ugly sting of jealousy, it's easier to ignore now when there are still glances stolen in his direction, a hidden smirk when they're both aware of the way a glass tilting dangerously off course corrects itself with the smallest nudge of Monty's fingers.

Besides, Isabel is next to him, and if there's a good list of people in Asphodel that he'll miss, she sits at the top of it. Even with promises to visit from both of them, there’s no pretending it isn’t still a separation.

There's a smile on her face as they toss back another shot together, tequila sunrise that goes down bright and warm. But it fades slowly as her gaze shifts behind him, wetting her lips before she reaches out to squeeze his arm. "I'll give you a minute," she says, and when he looks to the man settling next to him he understands why. Because it feels long overdue for Phillip Brody to sit down next to him, to steal a shot from right in front of him before he even meets his gaze.

“So. Rumor is you’re moving,” he says. The shot goes back with a familiar ease, a glassy look in his eyes that promises it’s not the first of the night. He can’t help but wonder how much of it is his fault, a heart he’s sure he’s broken twice. “That’s cool.”

“Yes. Next week.” He spares them both any elaboration, that it’ll likely be a drawn out process, in part because he’s struggling more than he expected to turn everything over into Rebecca’s capable hands.

The glass gets settled carefully upside down on the bar in front of them before the man’s leaning heavily onto the bar stool. “Were you ever gonna tell me?”

Monty feels something unfairly defensive rising in response, one he tries to dull with a shot of his own, empty glasses starting to outweigh the full ones in front of him. It’s more than he usually drinks in public, or Asphodel, and he’s starting to feel it, a shrug and simple honesty leaving his lips. “I didn’t know if you’d care.”

A bitter scoff comes from the man next to him; a flash of hurt contorting his expression, but Monty can’t tell if its real or if he’s just too used to being the cause of it. A familiar guilt settling in his stomach, and he doesn’t need to question what it’s for because Brody is reminding him with the simple question that follows. “Why not?” he presses. “Because we broke up? Because I wasn’t good enough for anything but a booty call?” And he spirals quickly from there, a why? that stretches back over two years and spills from his lips like he’s giving confession; why couldn’t you just tell me the truth, why did you think I wouldn’t understand, why did you break my heart, why did you keep stringing me along, why wasn’t I enough, why him, why not me, why couldn’t you love me?

Monty’s lips part but nothing comes, even liquor not enough to loosen his tongue enough for the truths Brody is asking him for. Because he doesn’t know how to be both honest and kind this time. It’s not you, it’s me is true, but useless, you were an escape is pointlessly vicious, he sees me clearly and I see him just sounds pretentious. There’s no blame he wants to put on the man’s shoulders when it wasn’t his fault Monty gave him so little of himself, no fault he can find in him for believing his lies. Only that he played the same role for Brody he played for so many others; someone steadfast, dependable, even when they were both drunk and high, he was still the solid shoulder to lean on. 

So he says the only thing worth saying. “I’m sorry.” No offer of excuses or elaboration, not until he hears the quiet scoff, Brody’s gaze shifting away, but still wounded when his attention only settles on the Italian farther down the bar. “I was a terrible boyfriend to you.”

The man visibly rolls his eyes, pulling his gaze from Emil to look back at the doctor next to him. “See, that’s what makes it so hard, ‘cause I wish I could just call you an asshole and move on, but... you weren’t, Monty. You really weren’t.” Which seems kinder than he deserves, but it’s a comforting thought, that at least the good outweighed the bad. Before he tilts his head from side to side with a necessary correction. “Not when you were there.”

“Hm. An important qualifier though, isn’t it?”

His deprecating humor earns him a short laugh and another shake of his head. “Sure is, Doctor Monty.” Silence settling briefly between them, even with the clatter of glasses and music and laughter rushing to fill the space. Monty doesn’t know quite what else to fill it with, fingers toying with an empty shotglass before Brody sighs and straightens his spine. “I guess the mature thing is to tell you I’m glad you’re happy and blah blah blah but honestly your boyfriend sucks and it’s your loss that you’re passing on all of this.” His hand gesturing at his frame.

Monty can’t help but laugh, even if he tries to stifle it quickly when he doesn’t want the man to think it’s at his expense. “Maybe we could try and actually be friends this time?”

“Yeah, yeah maybe. Maybe I’ll see you around, Monty.” There’s a certain insincerity to it, and despite the words he thinks this feels like the most definitive goodbye he’s exchanged with anyone so far. And he thinks the gentle pat of his arm and the way the man slips off the stool is the end of it, a bittersweet ache left in his wake, but he pauses before he gets far, turning back with something more fragile written in the lines of his face. “Hey, you don’t call him the thing right? Mon beau?”

“No.” Monty smiles faintly, even if it’s not entirely true, because he’s simply never said it in his ancestors’ language. But he’s told Emil he’s beautiful a thousand other ways, and there are a wealth of other terms he has for him. Caro, cuore mio, beloved, his heart, his vain idiot, the love of his life. But if he gave Brody so little when they were together, he can give him this one small thing, lifting the next shotglass to his lips like a final toast. “He hates French.”

[mirrormirrorhq]

Is that TOM HOLLAND? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually DOUGLAS MUNTZ-FOLKVAR {  cis male, he/him }. He is a 20 year old BORN WEREWOLF. He is a TRAINED HUNTING DOG (formerly) and can easily be found in the LIBRARY and GREENHAVEN. He is known for being SELFISH, POSESSIVE, and JUDGMENTAL but also CURIOUS, NAIVE, and PROTECTIVE. You could probably bribe them with POSITIVE ATTENTION, PRAISE AND AFFECTIONATE TOUCH or piss them off by TALKING BADLY ABOUT HIS HUNTER OR ATHAIR. { zzy, 31, PST, she/her }

bio & about / threads / mirror / aesthetics&isms / selfparas 

❝ better watch your mouth, I might burn you, boy  ❞ Is that ANGELA BASSETT? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually ABERASH DUBHAN { female, she/her }. She is a 1000+ year old ORIGINAL WITCH. She is an BOTANIST and a BLACKSMITH can easily be found at the CONSERVATORY OF FLOWERS. She is known for being STERN, TUNNEL VISIONED and RESOLUTE but also COURAGEOUS, COMPASSIONATE, and STRONG-WILLED. You could probably bribe them with A RARE ARTIFACT, PLANT, OR METAL or piss them off by HARMING THE PLANET. { zzy, 31, PST, she/her } (coming soon) bio / threads / mirror / aesthetics&isms / selfparas 

[baenxietydad]

2006 || The Baes

@justkeepdancing-nemo

tl:dr: Mu-yeol tells Nemo about the reopening of his mother's murder case.

Read the setup selfpara here

MARLIN:

  Soon-ja’s voice echoed in his head long after he’d hung up the call, long after he gave up parsing out the things he was feeling. He was pleasantly surprised he still found himself capable of functioning after being brought back to the subject of So-yeon— guess the therapist and listening-talent both helped after all — and prepared a homemade lavender lemonade for Nemo. He’d texted him saying he wanted to come home and stay the weekend with his Appa, and would be home any minute.  Mu-yeol had almost told him ‘oh, but I’ll be too busy, how about next weekend?’ to process the news longer, but there was the promise he made to Nemo. No more lies; and telling him in a week wasn’t technically a lie, but it was concerning his mother. Nemo deserved to know quickly. 

  The door swung open and Mu-yeol grinned ear to ear at seeing his little — Ah, well, his grown up son. 

  “Nam-min! Come here, Appa needs a big hug, it’s been ages since my only son left for the war.” He put on a dramatic gaze out to no man’s land. 

  NEMO: 

Nemo had started a new routine this term and so far, it was definitely better. Not perfect, probably, but on the road to good. And that routine meant working out every day, working at Ruff to Fluff only twice a week, and every other weekend, he came home to the Hollow where he could let his wings down, eat Appa’s cooking, and flutter around his favourite places in Enchantra. All these things kept his head much more clear, though there was still this nagging anxiety that he wasn’t sure what he was doing and in reality, he was just wasting time until the inevitable. 

  At least he was managing that anxiety well. Stick to the routine. So here he was, sticking to his routine. 

  Nemo snorted at Appa, but the snort at least curled his lip into a smile. With a big roll of his eyes, he fluttered toward him. “Soooooo dramatic,” he said, but hugged Appa anyway. 

  MARLIN:

  Mu-yeol hugged Nemo tight, wriggling him around a bit and pressing a kiss to his forehead before letting him go. He wanted to hug him again, as if a second hug would soften the upcoming conversation, but he knew it would also be a dead giveaway that something was…well, was it wrong, or was it just off? One meant something bad had happened, which he supposed did (eighteen years ago), but the other meant there was simply a shift in his normal.

  “Are you hungry for anything? I could make something. Or just a cup of tea?”

  He didn’t want to stall, but he didn’t want to launch right into it either. Welcome home son, let’s talk about your mother and how she got murdered! Let him settle in first.

NEMO: 

Props to Marlin – Nemo didn’t notice anything was different. Though maybe that was because it had been another long week. Every week in uni felt like a long week, even just taking his two classes. He still had homework, plus he was making sure to go to the gym every single day. He was a little sore, but Nemo was sure it was a good sore, the kind that meant his muscles were improving. 

  So tea actually sounded pretty good. His eyes lit up. “Ohhhh, orange peel tea? With honey?” Nemo said eagerly, a pretty typical kind of tea for this time of year (right before spring).

  MARLIN:

  Mu-yeol got the water going over the fireplace and hovered near it, his wings lifting him a little off the ground. He let the water boil in comfortable silence as Nemo flit up to his bedroom to change clothes and had the tea ready for him when he fluttered back down.

  “How’s school going? Is there anything I can do to help you succeed right now?”

  Right, start with this. Then…then broach the real subject.

  NEMO: 

This was a pretty typical question these days. Appa asked it basically whenever Nemo came home, or when they talked on the phone (which they usually did a few times a week). Nemo understood why Appa had to ask this, though sometimes it just made him feel self-conscious, like there was a mark on himself that he couldn’t erase… just like there was a blemish on his school record that he couldn’t erase.

  But ah well. Nemo knew not to fight it. He had to be like a fish and go with the flow. 

  “It’s going well, Appa, I feel good these days,” Nemo said, which is what he also usually said to this question. It was the truth! Two classes and working less hours at Ruff to Fluff was helping. “Ashlee and I were talking about maybe working on a showcase together again. That’d be fun.” 

  MARLIN:

  “I think you should!” Mu-yeol lit up at the mention of dancing with Ashlee. “You love dancing with her and it would be nice to dance with her again before your dance careers eventually might see you two taking different opportunities in different places.”

  Because he was going to manifest opportunities actually coming his son’s way. Of course they would be fewer and further between than a Mundus or just generally human dancer, but once just a few came he knew his son would earn more. He worked too hard to not get his fair shot. That’s all Mu-yeol wanted for him.

Mu-yeol bit at his lip and sighed as he set the tea down in front of Nemo.

  “Nam-min, 아들 (adeul).” Mu-yeol began. “I…need to talk to you about something. Um, it’s about eomma.”

  NEMO: 

About Eomma?

  For Nemo, this came out of nowhere. He and Appa did talk about Eomma often enough. She was carried into their conversations naturally though, as Appa saw something that reminded him of her or questions popped into Nemo’s brain about this or that. In the past few years, it was no longer as painful for the both of them. Nemo liked that she stayed close, y’know? Like a breeze that always came his way.

  But this was different. This– Nemo knew right away, by the tone of Appa’s voice but also by the lines on his forehead. 

  Nemo had no clue what it could be, but his stomach clenched. 

  “Uh– Eomma? Um, sure. What about Eomma?” Nemo asked as he tucked his palms around his warm mug of tea.

MARLIN:

  There probably was a better way to frame that but pardon him for not having read the guidebook for this conversation. He tapped his fingers against the table and exhaled slowly before going into it. 

  “Um. Soon-ja called me a couple days ago. The South Korean government is reopening a bunch of cold cases involving fairy murders. Palatable fairies anyway, like your eomma.” Mu-yeol explained. “Her case was declared cold pretty quickly at the time, with little effort, but the government has an interest in appearing more friendly toward fairies right now and her case is being investigated by a special task force. I don’t know when I’ll know more information. And it could take months, a year, more than that even. Or it could go cold again. But I thought you should know there’s an effort being made.”

  He stopped at looked at Nemo, waiting for his response. 

NEMO: 

Nemo listened. 

  What else could he do? This whole thing was like nothing he ever heard of before. He didn’t watch much TV, so he didn’t have experience with police dramas or true crime. He had learned a few things in his fellowship this year about magicks and law, but it was precisely that kind of complex, nuanced information, which required so much knowledge of other cases, that had confused and challenged him in class. In a way, Appa’s news felt a little bit like those classes actually – a discussion on an article he was assigned to read, about a case far away, that had nothing to do with him.

  Only this news had everything to do with him. 

  Nemo didn’t know what to feel about it. He clutched at his tea, the orange smell wafting into his nose, and he searched for some kind of word that could explain it. Weird came to mind. This was weird. 

  “Oh,” Nemo said then, feeling stupid– feeling weird. Feeling– nervous? “Um… does that mean… what does that mean? Like, er, for us? Do you have to talk to police again?”  

  MARLIN:

  What did that mean for them. That was a very good question, because he’d like to know too.

  “I’m not sure yet; Soon-ja said she’d tell me if I need to fly to Korea to give a new police statement, but they should have my original one.” Mu-yeol said, tapping his fingers against the table nervously. “And they took DNA samples from under our fingernails so they should have that, too.”

  He clicked his tongue.

  “Of course I’ll go to Korea for the trial if there even gets to be one, keep in mind there’s not even – they don’t have their eyes on anybody yet. But I’d have to testify I’m sure. I’ll let you decide if the time comes whether you want to come with me or not.”

  NEMO: 

Fly to Korea.

  Appa had talked about that in the past, but it was always in a positive context. In a “Oh I can’t wait to show you Korea, Nam-minnie” context. And Nemo had looked forward to it too, hoping that the day would come, that the talk would become action, and that dream reality.  

  This was– different. How would Appa feel, if the first time he returned to Korea was because of the murder of his promised partner? 

  How would Nemo feel?

  His brain was still empty, besides a distant rumbling. It was the same feeling he got when he knew a storm was coming his way. It was tangible in the air, this heavy and thick and dangerous thing. 

  “Oh,” said Nemo to all this, feeling dumb that he couldn’t come up with anything better. “Right um… that… that makes sense.” 

He drank some more of his tea, gulping it down so it scalded his throat. 

  MARLIN:

  He sat there, a numb silence between them as he didn’t have the capacity to feel how awkward it must be at this moment. Mu-yeol’s feet flinched, the nerves in his body finding any way possible to escape.

  As if he read Nam-min’s mind, it occurred to him that his son’s first time in Korea shouldn’t be his mother’s murder trial if he can help it. He probably couldn’t help it. They weren’t rich…but then again, what expenses did they have besides cell phones, tuition, and occasional groceries at Moon Market? It wasn’t as if they paid rent or utilities.

  “Should we…” Mu-yeol began hesitantly. “See if we can afford visiting Daegu this summer? I know my parents want to see you again…and you could meet your younger cousins.”

  I just don’t want home to become painful for you.

  “Maybe Won-shik will loan me some money, eo?”

  NEMO: 

Nemo frowned at once. He knew what Appa was doing, just like how Appa had sensed some of Nemo’s own thoughts. That was the problem with the two of them, wasn’t it? A problem as much as it was also a blessing sometimes. They just knew each other too well. 

  They also shared each other’s issues, like this one–Nemo not wanting to be a burden.

  “I – I mean, no, you don’t have to do that. It’s okay, Appa. Like you said, you’re not really sure how this will turn out right now, right? We just need to…wait a little.” Nemo slumped in his chair. “And see.” 

  MARLIN:

  He nodded and tapped at his own teacup, not entirely convinced he shouldn’t try to make a Korea trip happen before any big movement in So-yeon’s case, but not stupid either. He knew he didn’t have a lot of money, limited in how much he could work outside of the Hollow due to his obligations as a healing talent living in the Hollow.

  The money didn’t bother him constantly, seeing as the communal living of fairies meant that their basic needs were always met and then some, but it bothered him when it came to things like this. Like Nemo’s dance classes, his tuition, and his ability to see Korea. Money was a troublesome, vile thing, and the suffering required to earn it was hardly worth the treats it could buy you.

  He wondered, briefly, how Jun, Eun-jung noona, Ting-Ting,  Hatter, and his Pixies coworkers could live like they did. Having to claw their way into surviving more or less alone, without anything except maybe your immediate family to fall back on? Sounded horrible. As lonely as Mu-yeol felt in the Hollow, as isolating as it was being an objectively ‘weird’ fairy, he felt the warmth and the security of being a part of the Hollow community. It was true he didn’t really have capital ‘F’ Friends in the Hollow. But it was also true that anybody in the Hollow (except his nemesis, Elm Featherdew) would go leaps and bounds out of their way to help him and Nemo. That was just what pixies did.

  He felt, in the midst of longing for home and processing this news about So-yeon’s case, very sad for his human friends.

  “Right,” Mu-yeol conceded. “You have a point, we should wait it out a little. Wouldn’t want to visit and then have to turn around and come right back.”

  Well. He wouldn’t mind it. More time in Korea the better, he missed his home so much it hurt sometimes, despite his complicated relationship to it as a fairy.

  “It’ll work out,” Mu-yeol said, only mostly believing that. “We can talk about something else now, I don’t want your weekend home to be all sad, you just needed to know.”

[dorcasrises]

where; burbank, california with; apollo, mary, & esther selwyn | selfpara

even without the address memorized in her mind, dorcas would have known which house on the street belonged to her father instantly. the exterior boasted the same mid-century modern design that her gran styled the townhouse interior. he had never fit so ill in their world as the woman liked to claim. it looked much the same as his bedroom had been left. stylish, but lacking warmth.

dorcas ground her teeth together until an ache jolted up her jaw. her knuckles where white in the tight grip of her wand. how came war never made her nervous like this? why did killing come naturally, but looking her mother in the face felt like a nightmare? there was a steadied hand on her shoulder. she unlocked the front door with a simple charm and tucked that wand back into her now unnecessary coat. then she pushed the door open.

it was the music that hit her first. a happy melody played poorly on a well-tuned piano. apollo sat behind it plunking out the notes while he watched a younger girl, esther, dance in the middle of the living room floor. mary was sitting in a chair adjacent then with a large book in her lap. she noticed dorcas first. her mouth dropped open to scream. dorcas held up a hand and wordlessly silenced her.

apollo stopped playing. he had been home twice since dorcas was born and knew who she was. she did, afterall, have his eyes. as the recognition dawned there, so too did mary understand. was it fear in her gaze now? what did she think of her hellborn child? she wanted to make a joke. cut through the tension with her usual casual confidence and humor. did I miss curfew? honey, I’m home. boo! anything besides this silent staring.

there was a crucifix and painting of a despondent looking white bearded man hanging just inside the door that stared too. dorcas stepped past both. finally, esther turned to look at her too. the girl had smaller eyes and a rounder nose, but her cheek bones, jawline, and complexion were the exact same. there was no denying she was absolutely beautiful. her hair was dreaded in locks and pulled half up behind her. she was about a foot shorter than dorcas. so to speak on her level, dorcas needed to crouch a bit. “don’t be afraid.”

“or run away.” her eyes, burning, cut to their mother momentarily before a journal and quill appeared in dorcas’s outstretched and open palm. they were wrapped like a christmas gift. “my name is dorcas, and-” it felt cruel to complicate things too much (it was also illegal to reveal magic blatantly), but it felt worse to think that dorcas had left her alone for so long. “-and, uh, I am your guardian angel.“ she finally settled with before handing over the gifts. “so if you ever need anything, big or small or important or silly, write it down in this book. as long as I can, I will try to answer or take care of it. okay?”

there was an unspoken threat in the way her nostril flare that promised she would only return with another if they managed to take it from her, not that they could. even if apollo could finger out a spell to break through the charm, he wasn’t talented enough a wizard. especially not now. “I’m-” she bit her lip. part of her felt like she might faint. there was such an uproar of anger welling inside at it all. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“oh, okay.” the girl said with obvious surprise in her voice that otherwise sounded and soft and fluid as a wave of water. “thank you.” dorcas smiled and winked. esther smiled back. whatever expectations that may have crawled their way into her brain, this really hadn’t been among them. as if there were an uncomplicated understanding between them. “okay.” dorcas repeated and stood up straight to leave. mary tried to stand up and say something again, but it did not cause dorcas to break her stride. it was too late.

originally, dorcas had wanted to come here and curse her. yell at this woman that abandoned her into the care of someone who barely tolerated her. to shout down her father who knew what he’d left her with, but when she arrived, there was no part of her that wanted to interact with them anymore. they had never added anything to her life anyway. what could they want for her now? so dorcas walked back out the door, ready to collapse.