#no she'd take it out on the Despairs as *they* were the perpetrators

[ninjagirlstar5]

Star, stop changing Tamami's design challenge (impossible).

No, for real, I think this is the fifth redesign I've done of her character. I don't know why but the past designs I've made for her just weren't satisfying to me for some reason. Some of the designs I decided were just bad or didn't suit her while the others were similar but I just didn't like how it looked (tank top, large sweater, scarf, the rainbow bracelet and a long skirt). But I...think I've finally landed on a design that I liked the most out of all the ones I've made so far. (Please let it be the last. Please, my brain and heart. I would like to settle on a design and move on!)

ANYWAYS, I used Teruya's DRA sprite as a base for Tamami since, well, she is his mom and she's about as short as DRA!Teruya (or maybe shorter, I don't know, the wiki gave me two heights for his DRA self. I decided she's about 4'8'' to 5''). So it made sense to use this sprite for her, even when I made slight adjustments to her eyes and nose by making the eyes a little wider and bigger and the nose a bit more pronounced as DRA!Teruya's nose is very small. Out of three of the five designs I've made, I kept this short hairstyle of hers with a large ahoge as I loved this style the most and didn't want to change it. I based her bangs off of SDRA2!Teruya's length and style and the back of her hair like DRA!Teruya's, but I changed the way the strands looked so that it'd look more like her own hairstyle but you can still see the resemblance between the two of them. The ahoge, though, is very much real, unlike Kojiro's and Teruya's (they canonically style their hair like that on purpose), and she cannot fix it no matter how hard she tries. So she just gave up and let it be. Tamami got stuck with the protagonist trait, even though she died before the events of Danganronpa, lol. I've never been a fan of fictional kids looking like carbon copies of their parents. Like, you have the meta-power to design these kids anyway you like and you just make them look exactly like one of their parents? Unless their look-alike appearance is plot relevant, it's just weird for them to look so much like one parent that they can easily be mistaken as siblings and has zero resemblance to the other. And that's saying a lot coming from me who looks a lot more like my Irish dad from skin tone alone, but even then people can tell that I'm at least Asian because of my facial structure and even asked as such, tying my appearance to my Filipino mom. I don't know, I just like seeing a mix of traits for the kids to have inherited from their parents, you know? So, since Kojiro already has a design with green hair and green eyes, I decided to have Tamami have a different hair color, gray and green, but she also has green eyes, just a different shade. Teruya inherited his mother's eyes while getting his father's hair. Since I headcanon Teruya to have freckles, Tamami has freckles as well and as I mentioned before in this post, I adjusted her skin tone to be more obviously tanned instead of dusty from my older drawings of her. And then there's the outfit, which is a dark gray tank top, a long denim(?) skirt, dark reddish-brown boots, a blue handkerchief scarf to match with Kojiro, and a big fluffy yellow sweater with a checkerboard pattern that is tucked into her skirt, and long puffy sleeves that hangs off of her shoulders. The rainbow stripes on her skirt and the rainbow bracelet ties her design to Teruya's as he wears a rainbow as well, and I thought it'd be a neat idea for them to have a similar love for rainbows even though they've never met (cause she died via childbirth). The thought of Teruya still inheriting some of his mom's mannerisms and traits even though they never officially met scratches my brain in a good, angsty way. I wonder what Kojiro thinks whenever he recognizes parts of Tamami in Teruya...And that's it for Tamami's design! Hopefully it'll stay this way.

Tiny characters that can beat the shit out of an enemy that's much taller than them will always be peak character design, you can't change my mind on that.

[flowerandblood]

Sweet kiss, sweet blood (6)

[ dark vampire! • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: sexual tension, profanation, fluff ]

[description: A centuries-old vampire lives in Victorian England, bored and discouraged. His old friend sends him a letter, inviting him to his new country house. Aemond arrives there to rest. Next to the property, there is a small chapel, visited by the faithful. It turns out that at night, a young lady prays in it. Slow burn, sexual tension, profanation, murder, blood drinking.]

I owe the idea for this wonderful series to: @qyburnsghost

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

Miss Whaterfield awoke in the morning with a severe migraine. For some reason her head was spinning, the world around her seemed strangely blurry. She pushed herself up on her hands to sit up, looking around her bed and felt an unpleasant, burning sensation on her neck.

She touched it with her hand and hissed, feeling two small wounds. Only when she looked down did she see that her nightgown was stained with blood, scenes from the night in the chapel flashed before her eyes like a haze.

His cold lips on hers, hot with desire and lust, his hand caressing her there, shamelessly slid between her thighs, giving her a pleasure that she had never known before in her life. His fangs in her neck, sucking her blood with a muffled, desperate gulp.

She thought that he was not sent to her by God, but by the devil himself.

She stood up quickly, walking over to her vanity mirror to see what she looked like. It was a truly brutal sight, as if someone had cut her throat.

She didn't remember getting home. She quickly took off her nightgown, throwing it into one of the lockers somewhere at the back. She figured she'd have to get rid of it somehow. She put on a second nightgown, clean one. She looked at her sheets which were also dirty. She thought hard about what to do, how to lie so that it wouldn't be known.

She thought hard about telling her parents the truth. There were marks on her neck, there was blood - she didn't inflict such wounds on herself. But how could she explain, what she was doing with him in the chapel in the middle of the night? And what would they do with him if they found out? She thought he hadn't killed her, though he could have. A million thoughts raced through her head. She wanted to put her fist in her mouth and scream in despair.

She was completely torn apart inside. When he kissed her, when his lips caressed her mouth so wonderfully, when his fingers massaged her womanhood, giving her pleasure, she wanted to get down on her knees before him and beg him to take her as his wife.

But then, when she felt his fangs in her neck, everything in her froze. She felt a terror she had never known in her life. She thought that was how prey felt when a predator sank its teeth into her and suffocated her before he began to devour her.

She thought with regret and irony that he hadn't killed her because he and his friend would have been potential perpetrators and both would have had to flee.

He had thought it all through.

He didn't want to marry her at all, he wanted to draw her back to the chapel to be alone with him. And he succeeded. She naively opened her heart to him, not knowing that he was telling her what she wanted to hear. He was using her. She thought she got what she deserved.

She washed her neck and arms from the blood with the water she had in the pitcher. After a while, only two small dots were visible on her neck. She covered them lightly with the powder that her mother had given her once and found that, fortunately, they were virtually invisible.

She took a letter opener and cut her hand lightly with it. She told Mathylda, who came to see her in the morning, that she had cut herself on it and soiled the sheets. The girl, a bit surprised, did not ask any questions.

Miss Whaterfield came down to breakfast white as a sheet. She walked into the dining room, sitting down in her chair without saying a word. She was greeted by her father's happy smile.

"What is this face, my child? Rejoice, men are fighting for you!" He said, buttering a piece of his bread, reaching for the jam.

She swallowed hard, looking at the food around her. She felt like she couldn't swallow anything. She could still feel his finger deep inside her, his fangs digging into her neck. She shuddered at the thought. Her mother looked at her, worried as usual.

"You're terribly pale. At least eat scrambled eggs." She said pleadingly, looking at her empty plate.

Her daughter pursed her lips and helped herself to some of the food, hoping to gain some peace. Her parents watched her closely, but she ate in complete silence. Her father swallowed loudly a bite of his sandwich.

"Have you considered Ser Aemond's proposal?" He asked suddenly, his mustache twitching in excitement as he said the words. She froze abruptly, setting her fork aside with a soft clatter.

"I will not marry him." She spoke dryly and to the point. Her father shifted in his chair impatiently, casting a nervous glance at her mother who only lowered her gaze meekly.

“So I understand you chose Pastor Smith?” He asked, his fingers restlessly loosening and tightening on the table in front of him. His daughter wasn't looking at him but at her plate.

"I will not marry either of them." She said coldly. Her father slammed his fist on the table so hard that she and her mother jumped in horror. He stood up suddenly, walking quickly over to her and leaning over her.

"Pick one, or I'll pick one for you. You're an adult now, you're going to get married and have children. Unfortunately, God has not given me an heir and all my property will be inherited by my brother, but I have resigned myself to the fact that this is my fate. It's time for you to make peace with yours." He hissed, trembling with rage. His daughter didn't even spare him a glance.

“I am sorry that I am not your desired son. I know I let you down the day I was born." She said calmly as she stood up, heading towards her room.

Her father didn't talk to her again, but she didn't care anymore. The wounds on her neck had healed and there was no trace of them. She spent the nights in her bedroom. She thought she'd just forget about it all.

Every morning she tried to pretend it never happened. That she didn't touch herself at all at night, slipping her hand between her thighs as he did, imitating his movements. That she wasn't starting to moan softly like when his hand touched her. That she didn't come hard, imagining that his fingers were caressing her.

She felt rejected by God and the whole world. As if she had always been doomed to exile and loneliness. She thought maybe this was her path. Once, at breakfast, which the three of them were eating in silence, she spoke suddenly.

“I want to go to a nunnery.” She said softly. Her father and mother looked at her surprised.

"What?" Her father asked, frowning.

"I want to go to a nunnery, father. Marriage is not for me. I want to dedicate my life to God." She said calmly, bowing her head humbly. Her father rolled over in surprise. He stroked his chin, looking at her intently.

"Well… I'll think about it." He just said, as he took a sip of tea from his cup.

From then on, her father started talking to her again. The life of a nun was something he was still able to comprehend with his mind. It would also be a good explanation for breaking off the engagement to Pastor Smith and rejecting, albeit painfully, Ser Aemond's proposal.

When Sunday came, as usual, the whole family accompanied by her elder sister and her husband set off in a carriage to the church in festive clothes. Miss Whaterfield was terrified.

She prayed that she would not meet this man from the hellish pit who had completely clouded her mind and heart. She hoped he got what he wanted and left.

They arrived at the church a few minutes before mass began, everyone was already inside. They entered the church through the main door, and her eyes darted quickly to the first pews. She swallowed hard and felt her heart stop at the sight of him, sitting cross-legged, his top hat lying next to him on the pew. He looked at her over his shoulder, his lips pursed.

She looked away, distraught. For some reason she wanted to cry, her heart was pounding like crazy. She sat down quickly in her seat, her hands clasping her prayer book. She felt him looking at her, she felt his breath on her neck. A strong shudder went through her, as she remembered the feeling of his fangs digging into her flesh.

She couldn't concentrate the whole time, her hands were shaking. She shuddered at the thought that he hadn't left. She wondered what else could he want?

Maybe he wanted to kill her?

She wondered, horrified, if Ser Criston was like him. She froze at the thought, swallowing hard. She thought there were a lot of people around her unaware of the danger they could warn. She decided that now, without evidence, they would think she was crazy.

When it was time to receive Holy Communion, her family stood up, but she was still sitting in the pew. Her father looked at her surprised, but she shook her head.

"I haven't been to confession." She said softly. Her father pursed his lips in displeasure, and moved with his family toward the line of worshipers.

She couldn't after what she'd done with him and what she'd done every night go to the sacrament with a pure heart. She looked down at her fingers, exhaling softly, his intense gaze at the back of her neck burned her, but she didn't turn to him once.

When the mass ended she was the first to get up, leaving the church quickly, wanting to be the first to get into their carriage and wait for the rest of the family there. She was startled when she heard quick footsteps behind her.

When she turned around, his pale face was in front of her. He stared at her with a mixture of anger, longing, coldness and desire that made her heart clench. She wanted to turn around and keep walking, but she heard his voice behind her.

"Marry me."

She stopped, her heart beating wildly. She felt a throbbing between her thighs at his words. Her body betrayed her, it was not worthy of any trust. She pursed her lips at his words, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"I'm going to join a nunnery." She said coldly.

An awkward silence fell between them. He stared at her, anger burning in his eye, his chest heaving uneasily. His jaw and hands clenched so tightly she thought his bones would break. People started coming out around them, her family saw them from a distance, standing in the road. He smiled suddenly, monstrously and ironically.

"Are you going to become a saint?" He asked teasingly, his gaze so intense she felt goosebumps on the back of her neck. Her lower lip trembled.

"You are insolent." She said softly, shaking her head in disbelief.

Even though she was afraid of him, she decided she wouldn't let him push her around. She had nothing left to lose. He pursed his lips tightly at her response. She could see that he was slowly losing his temper.

"Don't do this." He finally said, his voice strangely weak, hesitant, quiet.

She looked at him in surprise, her eyebrows furrowed in pain. As he stood before her, she thought she forgot for a moment what he had done to her. That inside this handsome man was a beast that wanted to devour her.

"Farewell." She said softly, as she turned away from him and she opened the door to her carriage.

She heard him turn tense, furious, mounting his horse and galloping off, leaving behind a light dust that hung like mist on the road. She felt tears fall down her cheeks and decided she was a stupid, foolish girl to cry for her tormentor.

When she got home, she lay down on the bed, unable to get up. Her sister and mother tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't speak to them. She didn't have the strength for it. She's already made her decision.

In the evening, while she was reading a book, she heard a knock on her door. She sighed softly.

"Come in." She said calmly, and after a moment Mathylda was standing in front of her, extending her hand to her.

"Letter for you, miss." She said softly, as she set the envelope on the table and left, closing the door behind her.

She stared at the letter, feeling cold sweat on her crotch. She knew it was a letter from him. She knew that he would try to wash her eyes again, manipulate her into doing what he wanted. She considered throwing it into the flames. She swallowed hard dropping her eyes.

Her hand reached tentatively for the envelope, her fingers trembling as she tore open the seal. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, filled with small, beautiful, masculine handwriting. She unfolded it and began to read, feeling her heart leap into her throat.

Dear Miss Whaterfield,

I owe you an apology. The damage I have caused you is beyond repair. I have nothing to justify. We both know that I was guided by my private motives and desires, which I deeply hoped that at least partly you shared. You have aroused my ardent, hot feeling, that burns my heart and prevents me from thinking clearly.

I want you to know that I wasn't born like this. I think it would also be important to make it clear that I am not hurting people. In your case too, although you had a right to take it otherwise, I had no intention of doing you any harm. I know what it looked like, and I know how terrified you must have been. I regret that I could not be with you to calm you down and explain everything.

I'm begging you, don't make any hasty decisions. Life is too short to lock up in a place like this. Thanks to you I felt life in my body. I realized that even though I had walked this world for a long time, I had been dead until you had revived me.

I'm not trying to persuade you to change your mind, because I know I'll never regain your trust. I just want to express, once again, the words of the most sincere regret and shame that overwhelms me and repeat the request that you do not close yourself in the cold, monastery walls. I pray every day for you in the chapel.

Yours faithfully Ser Aemond

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9

Others: @talesofoldandnew @toodlesxcuddles @padfooteyes @iloveallmyboys

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 8)

previous // next // story index

__________

Beth-Anne is furious.

She tries never to lose her temper with her students, but she’s as fallible as everyone else. As hard as she’s worked on her patience and self-control over the years, she still has a breaking point, and sometimes the kids will push her beyond it.

Today, the perpetrator is Brett.

He’s not a bad kid. None of her students are. Sure, they have their share of personal drama, and the teenagers in particular can be mercurial. They know how to press all her metaphorical buttons, not to mention each other's, but for the most part they support one another even if they aren't all best friends all the time. She's rarely known any of them to be blatantly disrespectful to her or to each other.

But, of course, there are always exceptions.

In hindsight, maybe she shouldn't have been surprised when she'd returned to the practice rink to discover a clearly upset Nikolai escaping into the corridor and a smug-looking Brett leaning against the boards with one toe pick stuck casually into the ice, but she was. She was so startled, in fact, that she utterly failed to react for a second or two.

Nikolai had already gone past her before she remembered her voice and asked him what was wrong. He replied, though she couldn't be certain what he said. She thought it sounded like "I'm going home."

For a moment, she was torn between heading for the ice or catching up with Nikolai. It was fairly obvious something had transpired between him and Brett, and she wanted to make sure he was okay, but she also had a job to do that she'd already neglected far longer than she should have.

Brett can wait a few more minutes, she decided.

She set her skate bag on the floor and then hurried down the corridor after Nikolai. With the advantage of two healthy legs, it was easy enough for her to get ahead of him. She halted in front of him so that he was compelled to stop as well.

"I thought I asked you to tell me if you wanted to go home," she said.

"I just did."

"Right. I suppose it won't do any good to ask you what happened."

Nikolai looked up at her, and the only way she could describe the expression on his face was despair. His voice trembled. "This was a mistake. I don't belong here."

She can acknowledge now, she didn't know what to do. She wanted to comfort him, to pull him into an embrace and tell him that wasn't true and that he most certainly does belong here, but she sensed he wouldn't like her touching him just then and he probably wouldn't have believed any reassurances she might've given anyway. Feeling helpless, all she could think to say was, "How are you planning to get home? I can't take you right now."

"Bus, I guess," he said.

"No," she said. "It's too cold and icy for you to try to walk all the way to the bus stop. Do you think you can drive?"

His tone was bemused. "Anya probably has the car, so..."

"If you can manage driving, you can take my truck," she told him.

After a brief pause, he said, "Okay."

She jogged back to where she'd left her bag and dug the keys out of one of its small outer pockets. Returning to Nikolai and placing the keychain in his hand, she said firmly, "The house key is on there too. You text me when you get home, okay? As soon as you get there. Understand?"

"I will."

"We'll talk when I get home."

"Okay."

She had no idea if they'd actually discuss anything once they were both at home again or not, but she told herself this wasn't the time to dwell on it. She watched Nikolai until he disappeared around the corner.

Now, she's standing outside the entrance to the practice rink, skate bag in hand, doing her best to compose herself and to not jump to any unfounded conclusions. Although she can probably guess with some accuracy what took place before she arrived, she has to remind herself that she has almost no facts.

Steadying herself with a deep breath and a long, slow exhale, she pulls open the door and steps through it. Brett is precisely where she'd last seen him, and he's still wearing the same shit-eating grin.

One look at that arrogant little smirk and all her effort to stay calm flies out the proverbial window.

Fuck it. I'm going to find out exactly what went down, and then this kid is getting a piece of my mind.

She doesn't waste time pausing at the benches to put her skates on. She marches confidently across the slick surface of the ice until she's face-to-face with her teenage student. Skipping over the usual greetings and pleasantries, she goes straight to, "Tell me what just happened. The truth, Brett. I don't want any of your usual bullshit, got it?"

The corner of his mouth twists like he's trying not to laugh at some joke only he knows. "What do you think happened?"

"I'm not in the guessing business," she says.

"It was nothing," says Brett. "All I did was tell the truth. I guess some people are too sensitive to handle that."

She doesn't miss the emphasis he puts on 'sensitive'. He says it like it's bad. She bites back the urge to tell him he could do with a little sensitivity. He could learn a thing or two from someone like Nikolai.

Brett's condescending attitude infuriates her, and she wonders if he's aware of what he's provoking. Anger is her demon, and she has to fight like hell to keep it in check. It terrifies her, but at the same time a small part of her relishes how powerful it makes her feel. She is in charge of this situation, not him. There's a hierarchy here, and she's the person at the top of it.

She takes another stride forward until she's close enough for the toe of her right boot to touch the toe pick of Brett's left skate. He's a handful of centimetres taller than her and she has to tilt her chin a little to meet his eyes, but that doesn't deter her.

She stares into his face, and in a voice that sounds way more quiet and calm than she feels, she says, "What happened? Tell me. Now."

Brett stares back at her. She can feel her pulse in her throat.

Four or five more heartbeats tick by, and then Brett lowers his gaze. He stammers, "Can you... can you, uh... take a step back? Please?"

She complies with the request, but she doesn't take her eyes off him. "Tell me what happened."

It's evident to her that he doesn't want to confess his role, but he probably feels like he hasn't got a choice at this point. He opens his mouth to speak, and his voice cracks on the first syllable. That's as far as he gets. His eyes go wide, and he swallows so hard that she's able to see a slight ripple of the skin at his throat.

He's scared, she realizes.

Her first reaction is, Good. He should be scared.

As soon as the thought forms, she immediately regrets it. Her goal hadn't been to frighten him, only to find out what had caused Nikolai to flee from the place in such a state of distress. It'd bothered her way more than she's willing to admit, seeing Nikolai crying like that, and a genius intellect wasn't required to figure out that Brett was at least partially responsible for it, but scaring the teenager wouldn't fix it. The only thing she's accomplished is to stick herself with the problem of two upset skaters instead of one.

Well done, Beth-Anne. Way to fuck shit up more than it already was.

"I'm sorry," Brett murmurs.

Beth-Anne's anger dissipates as quickly as it'd flared up, and just as quickly, shame and guilt rush in to fill the space it had occupied. She suddenly feels weak, and she becomes alarmingly aware that she's shaking.

"No, I'm sorry," she says.

"Am I in trouble?"

"No." She holds out her hand to him. "You're not in trouble, but we do need to talk. Can we do that?"

He doesn't take her hand, but she didn't really expect him to. However, he does follow her off the ice and then sits meekly beside her on a bench. "I'm really sorry," he says again. "I was in a bad mood, and seeing him here just made me mad, and... I don't know. I'm nervous about Junior Worlds and flying and... Everything this week just feels like, so unfair."

"This week's been pretty unfair to everybody," she says. "You, Mariah and little Eden. All the group class students."

"And Nikolai?"

"Him too. And me."

"I said some mean stuff to him."

"I assumed as much.”

"He cried," Brett says. "I didn't know he was gonna cry. It made me uncomfortable, but like... it also felt kinda good? Not good, but like I was in control of a situation for a change and I didn't want to stop myself once I got going, even though I knew I should. Does that even make any sense?"

The muscles of Beth-Anne's mouth twitch in an involuntary and probably very crooked smile. "Would it shock you if I said it makes perfect sense to me?"

"It does?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Are you gonna make me apologize?" he asks.

"No, I'm not," she tells him.

This time when he makes eye contact with her, she observes incredulity rather than fear. "But... you were literally terrifying a minute ago. I've never seen anybody get that mad, like ever. I figured you were going to yell at me and tell me I had to say sorry and… basically make me feel like shit about myself.”

“Have I ever yelled at you?” she asks.

“No, but I’ve never seen you that angry before either.”

“I shouldn’t have let myself get that angry," she says. "I was reacting instead of responding, and that wasn’t right. I'm supposed to be setting an example for you, but I guess I wasn't doing my job very well, was I?"

"You were," Brett says, and the words come out so softly that she's barely able to hear them. When she glances at him again, she sees tears tracing long, wet lines down his cheeks. He scrubs fiercely at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffles and continues, "My mom... She gets mad and throws things. Not at me, but I still don't like it. And my dad sometimes gets in my face and yells, but... but he doesn't stop even when he knows I'm scared." He lifts his gaze to meet hers and whispers. "You stopped."

Beth-Anne doesn't know Brett's parents very well, but from all the times she's interacted with them, she has the impression Brett isn't particularly high on their list of priorities. If she were to guess, she would've said they hardly bother with him at all, much less take enough notice to get angry and scream at him. It's Brett's live-in tutor, Jordan — Jordy, as Brett affectionately calls him — whom Beth-Anne most often deals with, and it seems to her that Jordy parents him more than his parents do.

Christ, what a mess. What an absolute fucking train wreck this day is turning out to be.

Sadly, she knows a thing or two about being yelled at by an angry parent, and about being terrified of them. She understands how a kid will latch onto any adult that helps them feel safe. She'd done that with her skating coach when she was a kid, and with her older brother Jason. They did all they could, and she credits Jason for saving her in the end, but not before far too much damage had been done.

Without warning, her brain throws a vivid replay in front of her mind's eye; Claudia shrieking, blind drunk, and charging at eleven year old Beth-Anne and her little sister with the neck of a broken bottle clutched in her white-knuckled hand.

"Abby, run!" Beth-Anne had screamed so hard that it'd felt like something was ripping inside her throat, but little Abby was paralyzed with terror and didn't obey the command.

In this moment, Beth-Anne can’t remember what she or Abby had done to make Claudia so enraged. She only remembers grabbing her five year old sister, practically flinging her into the corner, and then shielding her as best as she was able to do with her own scrawny body.

Until that day, she hadn't had the slightest clue how much a human face could bleed. She also hadn’t grasped her full capacity for fear until then, and she genuinely believed her own wildly beating heart and oxygen-desperate lungs would kill her before her injuries did.

She's pulled out of the traumatic scene in her mind by the light touch of Brett’s fingertips on her knee. She blinks and nearly gasps. Brett is still crying, and now he looks as close to panic as Beth-Anne feels. She becomes conscious of hot tears on her own face.

"Are you okay?" Brett inquires.

She gulps air and somehow gets out, "I'm sorry. Yeah, I'm all right. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I... I guess so."

"Do you want to talk about it? Your parents, I mean."

He shakes his head. "No," he says, and then, "Why did you stop?"

He doesn't elaborate, but she knows what he's asking her.

Because I'm not my mother, she wants to tell him. Because even though you're not mine, I love you as if you are, and I never want to hurt you. But her eventual answer is, "Because anger doesn't solve anything. All it would've done would be to hurt you and make you not want to trust me any more."

He appears to consider that.

"Sometimes," he says at length, "I think you're one of the only people I can trust. You and Jordy. And like, I'm grateful, but sometimes it's still really hard 'cause I know my life isn't like other people's. LIke Mariah and Eden and Nikolai... they have normal families with normal parents. They go to regular school and do normal stuff with their families. Well... not Nikolai I guess. He doesn't live with his parents or go to school, but you know what I mean."

"I know," Beth-Anne says.

"And like, I kinda want Nikolai's life, or Mariah's. Not exactly their life, but something like it. You know?"

"I know," she says again. When she reaches out her hand this time, he takes it, and she squeezes his fingers gently. "When you're struggling, it's easy to wish you had a different life, but you know something? It's not always going to be the way it is now. You'll grow up and you'll learn a lot of things, and people will come into your life who'll change it for the better if you let them. And you can change your own life, too. You're the only one who can live it, and you're in charge of shaping it however you want."

"It doesn't feel like I'm in charge of anything."

"Sometimes it doesn't," she concedes. "It feels like that for adults sometimes too, like everything's gone to shit and there's nothing you can do about it, and sometimes there really is nothing you can do except hang on until it gets better. In times like that, the most important thing is how you respond."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's no use to blame people for things that no one has any control over, or to act like everyone's against you, or to be too proud to ask for help when you need it. Stuff like that. People will remember you for how you behave when circumstances are at their worst."

"So... you're saying Nikolai is going to remember that I was mean to him?"

"That wasn't the point I was trying to make," she says. "But, yeah. I think he'll remember, but I'm equally sure that if you ask him to forgive you, he will. Then he'll also remember that."

"You said you weren't going to make me apologize," Brett says.

"I'm not. I think you should apologize, but you're old enough not to need me or any other adult to make that choice for you. You should do it if you think it's the right thing to do, not because I think it is."

"Okay," he says. "Should I do it today?"

"Maybe give yourself some time to think about it," she suggests. "And give Nikolai a chance to settle down a little, too. He's going through a lot right now."

"Because of his leg?"

"Yes, but it's more than that. In a way, he's grieving because he's lost one of the most important things in his life. And I won't lie to you, watching him go through it is fucking tearing my heart out, so you can imagine how much worse it feels for him."

Brett pulls his lower lip between his teeth. "Yeah. But... you're helping him, right? Taking care of him?"

"That's my job," she says. "He's my friend."

"Am I your friend too?" he asks hesitantly, and he momentarily reminds her of a small child rather than a fourteen year old. It reinforces just how vulnerable he is, and how much he needs her protection and support.

Her heart aches with regret for her earlier actions. She wishes there was a way to erase that awful slip, but then she recollects the advice she'd just given him. People remember how you behave when circumstances are at their worst. Had she acquitted herself? Had she regained control before she'd caused him any harm? She assures herself that she did, because she thinks she likely wouldn't be sitting here and talking to him candidly like this if she hadn't.

"I like to think you and I are friends," she says.

"But Nikolai is your favourite."

"Maybe, but Nikolai is an adult, and we've known each other for a really long time. My friendship with him is different than my friendship with you," she says. "Anyway, it's okay to have favourites. That's just human nature. But, even if Nikolai is my favourite, that doesn't mean I wouldn't go to the ends of the Earth for you."

"You... would?"

"We've already been all over the world together, haven't we?"

This draws a tiny smile from him. "I like travelling with you. Flying isn't so bad when you and Jordy are there."

"I'm glad we make it a little easier for you."

"Yeah, but I still wish teleportation was a thing."

Despite herself, Beth-Anne laughs, and with her laughter some of the tension in her body falls away. "That would make it more convenient, wouldn't it? When you and Nikolai are back on speaking terms, you should ask him about flying. I'll bet he wishes teleportation was a thing, too."

"He doesn't like flying either?"

"Not unless he's flying through four rotations," she says.

"Me too. Some day soon, I'm going to do all the same quad jumps he can do."

"Someday you will," she agrees. "Not today, though."

"Are we still going to skate?"

"That's up to you," she says. "We will if you're up to it. If not, I can call Jordy to come pick you up."

"No," Brett says. "He needs his daily break from me. Plus, we've already lost enough time. Nobody wins gold medals by sitting on their ass, right?"

Beth-Anne grins. "Why does that sound exactly like something I'd say?"

"Probably 'cause it is."

"Cheeky little shit," she says, and is gratified when he tries unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh with his hand. "Give me a couple minutes to put my skates on. Then we'll warm up, and then I want to see whether you've been working or slacking while I've been away."

He pokes out his tongue at her. "Working. What else would you expect? Why would I be slacking off when there's a world championship gold medal in South Korea just waiting for me to earn it?"

"Let's not get overconfident," she warns.

"I want you and Jordy to be proud of me," he says. “Maybe my parents would even be proud of me if I won a world championship gold medal."

She has her doubts about that, but it's an illusion she doesn't want to shatter for him. She says, "I can't speak for your parents or Jordy, but I'm already proud of you. You don't need a gold medal to make me proud."

"Even if I'm a pain in the ass and you lose it with me sometimes?"

"Yeah," she says. "Even so. You're not the first massive pain in my ass to also make me proud, you know. But, I've learned something in my life, and it's that if you actually take the time to listen to a troublemaker and really get to know him, he usually ends up being well worth the trouble."

[umbralsound-xiv]

Eir 💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

Central Shroud, 10, Seventh Astral Era

'And... Please, tell her thank you. I despair to think what would have happened to my daughter should she have been found even a bell later...'

Delivering messages was no different for Eir. He'd done it before, in service to Garlemald, and surely it would not be even half as perilous for him to do so again, off and away from the battlefield. He'd found his duties working for Mist to be strangely comfortable, not that he'd have admitted it outright.

Some beckoning familiarity saw him able to adapt to a somewhat normal life with a greater ease, between dancing and all the comforts of his room and everything in it. His friends, too. Sayuri...

This message, however; delivered from one of Mist's many people she'd helped, seemed to sit that much more bitterly in his thoughts.

He knew what would have happened. He'd seen the girl; pale and wide eyed as tears streamed down her cheeks, bruises at her forearms as she made barely a sound.

Eir continues his busy footfalls along the beaten path. Each footstep drove into the dirt harder than the last, kicking the ground as much as running atop it. But it did nothing to dispel the tension that had worked it's way into his frame, setting his jaw into clenched teeth as his thoughts plagued him with words Sayuri herself had spoken to him.

...To think someone would hurt her in such a way.

--To think someone would hurt her at all was enough to set his usually dormant anger aflame, but something about the circumstances set an unruly knot in his stomach.

He could do nothing.

His pace picks up as he races along the treeline, the wind against his face stinging his cheeks. The perpetrator was dead, long dead by her own hand; but even if he was alive, what could he do, then? The damage was done.

Another scar to join the others, numerous though they were. But this one was much less visible. This ran in her mind, taking kinder things and twisting them into cruelty. Even long healed and softened by warmer things, it lingered still.

Thinking about it didn’t help him any. If anything, it made it worse. If his pace could have picked up any faster, it did, and reflexively his hands move to his chakrams, ever present at his hips. Even without the expectation of combat, there was some... Comfort, to their presence, there.

The handle is worn in his grasp; little divets in the woodwork where his fingertips grasped. He’d half expected the wood to splinter with the ferocity he’d squeezed them with; stifled anger bottled up and simmering with no place to go.

His posture is suddenly more at home on a battlefield; rigid and wound with unspent violence. Home was close, but he could not return. Not like this, not with these thoughts in his mind. A diversion is taken, into the thick of the woods, where an unsuspecting tree becomes the target of his aggression; a branch cleaved from where it had grown; he could do little else with his weapons. A sharp kick to the bark so forceful it splintered the edge of it... And a punch to follow that barely left a mark as the wave of emotion settled into something more managable.

Head hung, Eir gives a long sigh through his nose, billowing the locks of loose hair that curled around his cheek.

He could change nothing. Nothing of the circumstances or the happening. He could not undo her pain, and yet...

Another long, deep breath, blown out with a quiet huff. Anger wouldn’t serve him here, on these rare moments it bubbled up. He couldn’t change what had happened, no.

...But he could offer her comfort, when she needed it.

He takes off as quickly as he had arrived, and makes a beeline for the house.

[more-than-a-princess]

Closed starter for @crystalmarred!

She'd been warned of two things upon disembarking from the boat sailing half a mile from Venice: to keep her boots and gloves on at all times due to the dilapidated nature of Poveglia, and that her generous financial contribution had allowed the discreet touring agency to buy out every other tour in the vicinity planning to send groups of tourists to the island that day. Already it was a struggle to get to Poveglia from nearby Venice: Italy discouraged both tourists and locals from stepping foot on the abandoned place, leaving only the most exclusive of tours permitted (or rather, paying off those in charge).

Sonia hadn't minded: she liked it that way, she needed it to be that way. The touring agency was made for people like her: a vast amount of resources, a requirement of discretion, and an interest in venturing off the beaten path. And as a full-time working royal, she found herself under more scrutiny than she'd ever been as a student. Middle school, high school, university...they'd all afforded some degree of protection for her. That the press possessed some amount of a conscience not to bother the future Queen of Novoselic as she studied to become a ruler worthy of the title.

But now that was no longer the case, and when Princess Sonia of Novoselic required a respite from her day-to-day life, she disappeared the best way she was able to: with a minimal security team, in normal clothes, into a world of ghosts and demons, serial killers and the supernatural. In this case though, it was mostly ghosts: of the infected, of the insane. Her security had been kind enough to wait closer to the docks as their Princess, dressed in military-grade combat boots, trousers, and a fitted longsleeve t-shirt carefully wandered through the overgrown grounds and the dusty, crumbling hallways. To her credit, Sonia had stayed away from the passages and staircases the Italian guides insisted were too eroded to safely pass through, but that didn't stop her from brushing dried leaves and twigs off a stone bench and take her seat upon it. A backpack at her feet, her long blonde ponytail hung over one shoulder as she took photos and videos to capture the moment, and simply sit where it felt no life had existed for decades. Not since the elderly home had been shut down in the 1970s, and the mental institution before that. She glanced at the bell tower nearby: she had yet to climb that, but had wanted to see where the doctor, having gone mad himself after participating in illegal research on his patients, had thrown himself to his death in the 1930s. His spirit, like so many others succumbed to plague or insanity, apparently resided on Poveglia. And Sonia, in a decided un-royal move, was determined to witness evidence of them. Even just an unexplained occurrence. Like an unfamiliar footstep, or a scratching sound, or the wailing despair of a ghost-

CRACK!

In an instant, Sonia was on her feet. The cracked twig or branch had been enough to pull her out of her pleasant thoughts. It was precisely the island's morbid history that helped her relax, in contrast to the more pleasant tourist town close by. It never occurred to her to be afraid of ghosts, or even trespassers on her private outing: excitement and adrenaline were the only things that coursed through her veins as she smiled eagerly, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Hello?" She called out. "Antonio? Lorenzo? Is that you?" The two security guards in charge during her holiday, she suspected they had far more fun listening to the boat captain's onboard radio for the latest football scores rather than intrude on her day. Which meant that the sound was a ghost, it had to be.

Her hands, pressed together in anticipation, fell to her sides when the perpetrator of the noise revealed himself. Not a ghost but a man: dark-skinned and dark-haired, though Sonia was unsure as to if he was a local or a tourist such as herself. With a small sigh and a smile, she might as well put her negotiation skills to use, even on a holiday. "Mi scusi," She began in Italian, just as she'd called out for her guards before. "I am sorry to tell you, but Poveglia is reserved for a private party for the duration of the day. There should be no other boats arriving here today." She both wondered how he'd gotten there and prayed he did not recognize her: Italy did neighbor Novoselic after all, and her mother's family hailed from a Novosonian city from the southern part of the country, where Italian language and culture was often mixed with Novosonian due to their shared border. There was a chance that this man would, to her dismay, recognize her for exactly what she was: a princess attempting to leave her duties behind, even if temporarily, to mingle with spirits.