#star verse: stone lands

[whispering-clan]

The Costal Valley Territories

I made a map of the Whisper-verse clan's territories!

These clans live alongside the sea in a small valley split by a river!

Note: this map is more representative than entirely accurate, I just tried to show the basic idea of what the territories look like.

Descriptions of the Clan Territories below!

Moon Island:

Moon Island is both the gathering place for the clans on the full moon, and the place where the majority of the clans (excluding Whisperingclan) go to speak to Starclan. In the middle of the island where the trees form a circle around a large stone, the leaders will perch for meetings. This is also where cats wishing to speak to Starclan sit- under the light of the moon and stars.

...

Whisperingclan:

Age/origin: Youngest clan; formed after the founders were banished from Roaringclan for a coup against the new leader.

Territory: the tallest mountains, rocky, though with some trees, grass and bushes interspersed with the stone. There are a few small creeks and pools running through the mountains due to rain and snow run off, there are also several caves within the mountain. The winter is the worst here with the high altitude and high snowfall.

Camp: the Whispering Cave, a large cave filed with mystical glowing crystals which seem to whisper with the words of the Starclan ancestors. There are several pools above the cave, from which small streams of water fall through cracks in the stone into the cave.

Borders: the River marks the border with Roaringclan and SIngingclan; the border with Growlingclan is only marked with scent markers, though the change in territories can also be seen in the mountain peaks becoming lower and sharper in Growling territory.

...

Roaringclan:

Age/Origin: One of the oldest clans, formed at the same time as Singingclan and Echoingclan; territory was once larger, but was taken over by humans.

Territory: grassy, hilly, plains. Notable features are small patches of trees and bushes, a lake, a muddy/ soil patch by the river, and many little burrows to be found amongst the hills.

Camp: the Abandoned Burrows, a circle of empty fox burrows surrounded by trees and bushes.

Borders: the River marks the border with Whisperingclan; the creek marks the borders of Singingclan and Weepingclan; and on all other sides a human fence marks where their territory ends and the Human Farms begin.

...

Weepingclan:

Age/Origin: Second youngest, though still far older than Whisperingclan; formed from Singingclan separating into two clans, not from any all out fighting, but the realization that there were two obvious separate groups (in skill and personality) in the clan that could survive better in the separate territories.

Territory: marsh lands and dark forests made up of willows and oaks. The forests have soft thick wet peat, though there are some rocky places. Tall grasses and reeds grow around the marsh giving good cover.

Camp: The Weeping Grotto, a large cave opening within a rocky area of the forest of which is surrounded by the largest and oldest weeping willows of the territory.

Borders: the border with Roaringclan is marked by the creek; the border with Singingclan is marked by scent markers, though the change in territories can also be seen in the change in types of trees; the small piece of border with Echoingclan is separated by the river at it's widest, though both clans lay claim to half of the row of stepping stones which could connect the territories; the border which is not shared with any clan stops where human trails (hiking trails) begin, farther from there are human dens and farms.

...

Singingclan:

Age/Origin: One of the oldest clans, formed at the same time as Roaringclan and Echoingclan; originally encompassed Weepingclan as well, but they amicably separated into two clans for better survival.

Territory: forests made of oak and birch along with meadows filled with wildflowers and grasses. Through the center of the territory runs the River and a small creek shoots off through the territory as well. the river is banked by reeds and other water plants.

Camp: the River Hollow, a space surrounded by trees in the center of the island in the middle of the River within their territory.

Borders: the border with Roaringclan is marked by the creek; the border with Whispering and Growlingclan is marked by the River; the border with Weepingclan is marked by scent markers, though the change in territories can also be seen in the change of types of trees; and the border with Echoingclan is marked with scent markers, though it is easy to tell where it is, it is where the sand begins.

...

Echoingclan:

Age/Origin: One of the oldest clans, formed at the same time as Roaringclan and Singingclan; originally encompassed Growlingclan as well, though unlike Weeping and Singing, the separation was born from civil war, the losing side being Growlingclan.

Territory: a beach, almost entirely sand with only costal plants growing in the territory. There is a cliff line which is made up of rock, at the higher end of which the beach is mostly rock with tide pools, weathered stone arches, and the opening to a system of sea caves. This territory seems small, but the sea caves stretch out underneath for large expanses, and even under Growlingclan's territory, Echoingclan lays claim to all of the cave system even under other clan's terriotories.

Camp: the Sea Caves, mostly the large cavern formed at the front opening of the Sea Caves but some cats may even make their own dens in smaller off shoots of the caves as well.

Borders: most of their borders are at the sea's edge, though their borders with the other clans are marked with scent markers; it is easy to tell where territories end however. the border with Singingclan is where Singing's grass begins, and the border with Growlingclan is where the mountain's stone begins.

...

Growlingclan:

Age/Origin: Third youngest, though still far older than Whisperingclan; formed from Echoingclan separating into two clans, two factions in the clan had formed and went into a civil war, Echoing won and banished the losing side to the far less hospitable side of the territory.

Territory: Truly one of the harshest territories, the lower levels of the mountains, rocky sharp lands that end with cliffs along the sea shore that are too high to dare try to reach the sea. There are small groups of shrubs and small trees, but little else in the form of plant life. there are some small pools which are cherished as they are the only certain sources of water.

Camp: the Broken Crag, a cliff face which is broken in places revealing small caves where cats can make dens.

Borders: the border with Whisperingclan is marked with scent markers though the change in territories can also be seen through the mountain peaks becoming higher in Whispering territory; the small border with Singingclan is marked with the river; the border with Echoingclan is marked with scent markers though it is easy to tell where the border is, it is where the sand begins.

[theresattrpgforthat]

i want to destroy the god king and begin an anarchist uprising. culminating in participating in the aftermath building a new world

You and me both buddy. Let’s get started.

THEME: Destroy God

Dethrone Skeleton God, by emmy verse.

DETHRONE SKELETON GOD. THAT IS ALL YOU HAVE TO DO.

In this gmless role playing game you will set out on a journey to find and dethrone the aforementioned god. You will need some d6s, a d12, and some writing materials.

This game pulls a lot of inspiration from some pretty stellar games, including No Stone Unturned, EXTRACAUSAL, Trophy, and Blades in the Dark. You will play racing against three Fallout Tracks, which track the collapse of the material world, the immaterial world, and the Skeleton God’s Power. When all tracks are full, the game is over, and you narrate how the world ends.

If nobody in your group wants the burden/responsibility of running a game, this game is an excellent option as it is both GM-less and lightweight. It’s only 16 pages long and covers creating location elements and exploring them as a group. Everything is collaborative, so if you’re interested in games that let you come up with a story together as you go, you might want to check out this game.

Dead Gods, by Trollish Delver Games.

After the Cataclysm of Heaven it all changed. Murdered gods fell from the sky, sundering the land and casting their sacred relics about the world. From the woodwork crawl Warcults, scavengers of god-relics to further their own twisted gains. The Eternal seek power over death itself. The Order of the Stars seek relics to unlock god-like omniscience. The Pale Druids imbibe relics to acquire power over nature itself. The Black Maw will create a new, hungrier god under their control. 

Pick up a lovingly-designed weird cult and pit them against your friend in a desperate effort to grab a sacred god-relic in this miniatures skirmish game. Each player will control a number of different kinds of war cult members, and there are 4 war cults to embody in the upcoming skirmish. Great for PvP and lovers of combat, but if you want narrative you’ll want to pick up something else or mostly RP it out. You can also check out Unholy Scavengers, for more relics, more scenarios, more models - more more more!

Karanduun - Make God Bleed, by makapatag.(@makapatag)

Karanduun is a modern Filipino Epic RPG about worthless heroes dismantling God, whatever cycle of oppression that must be.  Inspired by modern Filipino folklore and culture. You play as young heroes who must make their legend known and become a legendary Karanduun by making God (whichever oppressive system and tyrant that is) bleed.

Lovers of Kill Six Billion Demons will probably get a big kick out of this game. The god Batala is already dead, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for some rebellion of your own. There are demons, corrupt angels, and other Kings of the Earth to defeat, in a post-American world inspired by the Philippines. If you’re looking for some narrative play, this game has got you covered, with rules inspired by Exalted 1e and PbtA. You can check out the physical version of this game on SoulMuppet’s website!

Skorne, by Dreaming Dragonslayer.

You are renegades, part of mankind’s insurrection against SKORNE who is devil prince, commander of demon rulers and their armies, and the darkness that reigns. Overthrow the evil Tyrants. Free chained captives. Fight to the last man.

Part of the NSR movement, Skorne is inspired by media such as Berserk, MORK BORG, and games like Dark Souls and Elden Ring. The game itself is only 4 pages long, with a really interesting system for character creation. You roll for your abilities and then use their values to determine your starting kit. The language in the game is also great for putting you into the fiction, such as the instructions found for character name choice:

“In the beginning, give thy renegade a name, though it will not save them.”

You want gritty and dire circumstances? You want to kill demon princes? You wanna play a game with random tyrant generation? This is for you.

Extreme Meatpunks Forever, by Sinister Beard Games.

"In the beginning, there was meat. A decaying chunk of flesh from a dying god, hurtling through the void of space, thousands of miles wide. A million eyes, a billion hands grasping for purchase against nothingness itself.  This is where we live.”

EXTREME MEATPUNKS FOREVER is a tabletop roleplaying game where you’ll play as a gang of queer antifascists in a strange place called Meatworld. Spinning through space on the screaming corpse of a dead god under the glow of an absent sun, the people of Meatworld harvest its flesh to make their technology.

Embody your queer rage and kill fascists in meat-mechs in Extreme Meatpunks Forever. A PbtA game, this option is narrative-heavy and allows you to pick from some pretty metal weapons, including (but not limited to) Excellent Seasoning, A Bit Stick What Has Shrapnel In It, and Deathfucker Cannon. In your downtime, you can kiss your friends and work to heal and deal with your trauma. If you want a game that feels metal and also presents you with extremely punchable enemies, this is your game!

Other Recommendations

If you want some more recommendations you can also check out the Attack and Dethrone God Jam on itch.io, or my Revolution recommendation post.

If you’re interested in what happens after you end the world, then I recommend my Post-Apocalyptic Community Building recommendations!

[eretzyisrael]

A new Holocaust memorial in Poland by the artist Janusz Marciniak is a subtle combination of land art and commemoration.

The memorial is located at the site of the destroyed Jewish cemetery in Oborniki Wielkopolskie, near Poznas, and uses large, rough stones to form a Star of David in the center of the site, which is now a wild, grassy meadow.

One of the stones was cut in half, with inscriptions on the polished sides.

One commemorates the Jewish community destroyed by the Nazis during the Holocaust and bears a verse from Psalm 103 (in Hebrew and Polish) and a text reading, in Polish: “There must be a place in our memory for the dead. By respecting this and other cemeteries, we bear witness to humanity, culture, and faith. Memory is the foundation of love, mutual understanding and the future.”

The second half of the stone bears a fragment of the poem “Łąka” (Meadow) by the Polish Jewish poet Bolesław Leśmian. In the poem, Marciniak says, “the meadow is a tribute to eternal love. This love that ‘will break and conquer everything’ – even death.”

The monument was a project of the Oborniki Wielkopolskie municipality and carried out in cooperation with the Poznan Jewish community, and with the approval of Poland’s chief rabbi and the Commission for Jewish Cemeteries.

Photo credits: Janusz Marciniak

Information via Jewish Heritage Europe

[esther-dot]

Beauty and the Beast

Tokens of Life (give me) 9k WIP by @ihaveastorminme

Jon thought of his mother's family often. But he never heard a whisper from them. Not once. Until the day the northern wind howled through the ancestral halls of the dragon Queens, bringing with it snow and wolves’ cries at its tail. Five hundred different deities in that hall, and nobody whispered when she walked in, tall and forbidding, the skirts of her dress swirling about her like mist and snow glittering unmelted in her flame hair. She looked at him... and everything changed.

No Rose Without a Thorn 24k

Ten years ago, the Others were defeated, the Starks took back the North, the Targaryens reclaimed the Iron Throne, and the Old Gods transformed Sansa Stark into a dread and dangerous beast. Now, winter is coming, the beast remains, and the family would really like Sansa to be a full time human again.

The Beast, the Beauty, and the Bastard 3k

It is a reworking of Disney's Beauty and the Beast, but with a bit of a twist. Hope you enjoy!

Certain As the Sun 22k, incomplete

Sansa is bright, beautiful, and out of place in her little town. After her father is captured in a forgotten castle, she moves to take his place with the cursed prince.

Gifset by @dcbicki and Gifset by @yenstarkofrivia

Rapunzel

From Tower to Tower 10k incomplete

Locked away in a tower for eighteen years by a witch claiming to be her Mother, long-haired Sansa seeks freedom and a chance to regain her crown as Princess of the kingdom. But the tower is high as she has no means to get down, aside from her incredibly long hair, and no guarantee of safety in the outside world she has been warned about. One night, when the witch is out, and a thief who climbs the tower seeking refuge happens upon her, she stuns herself by taking a chance and asking him to help her escape. Assuring him that she will have all charges against him dropped when he returns her to her rightful parents, she embarks on a series of first discoveries with her new bandit friend Jon.

I'll not be climbin' up, I'll only be calling good morning 13k @violetcoloredglasses

Princess Sansa, the rightful queen, has been trapped in a tower by her usurping step-mother for nigh on three years now. Between the benevolent interference of a local woods-witch, the seemingly random appearance of a dashing young man on a horse, and a magical book that Sansa uses to turn a man into a crow, she may have found a way to change her stars.

flower shaped heart 25k, incomplete @missfaber

Alayne Stone has lived her whole life in her hidden tower, forbidden by Mother to leave. But she yearns for an adventure like the ones in the songs, so when a man named Jon Snow crashes into her tower and into her life, she seizes the chance. They travel to King's Landing where the floating lanterns shine each year on her nameday. The new world is exciting and frightening, but Jon Snow is there to guide her every step. He is not nearly as terrible as Mother said men are, though the rest of the world might be. Danger, betrayals, and lies form the steps of their journey as Alayne uncovers terrible secrets. corresponding moodboard

Let Down Your Red Hair .6k

A Jonsa Rapunzel story told in verse. With her father beheaded and her brother marching against the king, the last thing Sansa expects is for her hair to never stop growing. She is soon locked away in the tallest tower of the Red Keep, withdrawn from court as the War of the Five Kings rages on. Elsewhere, rumors of her magical hair have spread to the Wildlings, who see her fiery strands as their last hope against the coming winter.

Tangled edit by @kitten1618x, Tangled edit by @queen-sans-in-the-north, Tangled edit by @sardoniyx

Tangled gifset by @dcbicki

Sleeping Beauty

La Belle au bois dormant 4k

When The North celebrates the birth of Lady Sansa, all the realm is invited to celebrate with them. Each Lady of a Great House bestows a gift upon the little lady, including Cersei Lannister, whose presence at the celebration is both unexpected and unnerving.

Once upon a Dream 1k by @azulaahai

Sansa is under a curse - fallen into a magical sleep, she, according to the prophecy, can only be awoken by a kiss from a dragon. Arya rides south to ask for help from the dragon king Aegon, but the king’s grumpy half brother Jon might prove to be an obstacle.

Visions are Seldom All They Seem 14k

Sansa Stark is sure her life is a great song. She's a beautiful princess. She's been cursed. And the only way it will be broken is to sleep for a hundred years and be awoken by true love's kiss, given by a king's son. She's more then happy to prick her finger if it means getting her happily ever after with a handsome prince all the sooner. But a hundred years is a long time. To be fair to Sansa, Jon did not realize how long it would be either.

Sleeping Beauty Gifset

East of the Sun and West of the Moon

you are my sun, my moon (and all of my stars) 133k

When the white wolf came, the Lord of Winterfell had no choice but to give him his eldest daughter. Eddard Stark had grown up on legends of wolves, on the stories of bargains made by the First Men, on the knowledge of the price that he and his family might one day be forced to pay.  His father had explained the reason their house had taken a wolf as its heraldry and “Winter is Coming” as its motto, a reminder of a promise to honor, a recognition of a debt owed that would need, one day, to be paid. Ned had breathed a sigh of relief when his sister’s twentieth winter arrived and the beast had not. And he had watched the dawn sky for the first signs of the snow that would mark that his daughter, too, might also be spared, might escape the fate that had been handed down by their ancestors. But no man could be so lucky.  Sansa, too, had been born with the North in her blood, had been raised on the stories of white wolves, had lived her life with the knowledge that one might come for her.

this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty 22k by @dialux

“I fell,” Sansa says softly. “I flew.” [When a strange, hooded man appears out of nowhere, demanding a woman in return for keeping the Others and dead out of Westeros, Sansa goes with him. It’s the best and worst decision of her life.]

PRE CANON - WESTERN - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON 6

[chaifootsteps]

Wanted to pop-in with a little correction about Lucifer wanting to usurp God, being prideful, temping Adam and Eve, falling, the works.

Biblically speaking, that's actually conflating 3 separate characters who not only aren't even the same entity, none of them are the same species.

Lucifer was not a fallen angel, but rather a human. An incredibly prideful human who saw himself as above others and at the level of the heavens (as many kings and pharaohs did in those days, seeing themselves as manifestations of the divine), but a human nonetheless. The king of Babylon, to be precise. Remember that point in The Prince of Egypt where Rameses says "I am the morning and the evening star, if I say day will be night it shall be written"? Same basic idea. Pharaohs and kings in those days saw themselves as commanding a divine right over others. Lucifer was just a particularly cruel one who didn't treat his people with respect.

From Isaiah 14, verses 3 through 20:

3 On the day the Lord gives you relief from your suffering and turmoil and from the harsh labor forced on you, 4 you will take up this taunt against the king of Babylon: How the oppressor has come to an end! How his fury has ended! 5 The Lord has broken the rod of the wicked, the scepter of the rulers, 6 which in anger struck down peoples with unceasing blows, and in fury subdued nations with relentless aggression. 7 All the lands are at rest and at peace; they break into singing. 8 Even the junipers and the cedars of Lebanon gloat over you and say, “Now that you have been laid low, no one comes to cut us down.” 9 The realm of the dead below is all astir to meet you at your coming; it rouses the spirits of the departed to greet you— all those who were leaders in the world; it makes them rise from their thrones— all those who were kings over the nations. 10 They will all respond, they will say to you, “You also have become weak, as we are; you have become like us.” 11 All your pomp has been brought down to the grave, along with the noise of your harps; maggots are spread out beneath you and worms cover you. 12 How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations! 13 You said in your heart, “I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon. 14 I will ascend above the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.”(edited)

15 But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit. 16 Those who see you stare at you, they ponder your fate: “Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble, 17 the man who made the world a wilderness, who overthrew its cities and would not let his captives go home?” 18 All the kings of the nations lie in state, each in his own tomb. 19 But you are cast out of your tomb like a rejected branch; you are covered with the slain, with those pierced by the sword, those who descend to the stones of the pit. Like a corpse trampled underfoot, 20 you will not join them in burial, for you have destroyed your land and killed your people.

The metaphor of a “star” is used in referring prophetically to the Davidic kings of Judah (Nu 24:17), and if you look into Bible history, the Babylonian dynasty for a time did rise above these Judean kings by conquest of Jerusalem. A similar prophecy in Daniel chapter 8 describes the small “horn” of some future power as trampling down certain stars of “the army of the heavens” and moving against the Prince of the army and his sanctuary (Da 8:9-13)". So human kings being seen as stars was a rather common metaphor.

Satan was an angel who was God's prosecuting attorney in Job, who fell from Heaven in the New Testament for unknown reasons, likely because by the New Testament God was getting out of his "I control all good and evil and demand you slaughter these nonbelievers to show my power" phase, so there needed to be another to be the new evil with God being seen as all good. And when Satan did fall, he was cast down to Earth, not Hell. He wasn't cast down to Hell until Revelation (by which point centuries from Genesis Satan and the serpent were seen as the same by that time), but Revelation was just an acid-trip of a metaphor for Christian persecution under the Roman Empire anyway.

And the serpent? In Genesis it was just a crafty serpent who was described as being "the craftiest out of all the beasts of the field the Lord God had made". And it was declared in the Genesis story as being cursed to slither on the ground, likely as a way of explaining why snakes slither and have vestigial legs.

There's plenty of interesting things you could do with Lucifer, Satan, and the serpent. Make them all the same guy. Make them all different. Make Lucifer Satan's jealous rival who wants to usurp him in Hell and has the serpent as a talking animal sidekick. There's a lot you can do with it.

But Lucifer should be prideful. Whether you go with him being a human, an angel, the devil, something, his pride his always consistent. Or should be. You'd think it would be in Viv's universe, since he's the King of the Pride Ring.

Except he's just... not. So why did Viv even make him the King of Pride in the first place if he doesn't have a prideful bone in his body. He's more like P. T. Barnum in The Greatest Showman than anything else.

Man, I'm as agnostic as they come but Biblical lore is nuts. So many opportunities and Viv ran with approximately none of them.

[lesbianboyfriend]

can i ask for lesbian book recommendations 🥹🕺

yeassss ofc my love <3

erm and obligatory disclaimer for any who might read that i don’t think “queer” or “lesbian” is a necessarily coherent category of books or adequate descriptor for a novel which is why i’ve also provided the actual genres here (sorted into which ever one i felt best fit) and descriptions. and these books have much more going on than just being about lesbians. however all books are undeniably awesomer with lesbians so yayyyyy

FANTASY:

-the salt grows heavy by cassandra khaw: fantasy horror; murderous mermaid and plague doctor come across a cult of children (could be read as not lesbians bc one character is nonbinary but i choose to read as. lesbians)

-the empress of salt and fortune by nghi vo: political fantasy; monk unravels the tale of exiled empress’ rise to power

-when the the tigers came down the mountain by nghi vo: political fantasy; monk unwinds the tale of a tiger and her scholar lover to prevent other tigers from eating them (stand alone sequel to empress of salt and fortune)

-ship of smoke and steel by django wexler: ya fantasy; girl has to steal a ghost ship to save her sister’s life

-the mermaid, the witch, and the sea by maggie tokuda-hall: ya fantasy; pirate falls in love with one of the ship’s hostages, a girl being sent to an arranged marriage against her will

-tremontaine created by ellen kushner: political fantasy; there’s a lot going on in this one okay just trust me that it’s really good esp if you love political intrigue (this was released serially and is easiest to acquire an electronic version)

-the deep by rivers solomon: fantasy/spec fic; African slave women thrown overboard gave birth to mermaid-esque descendants. one holds these traumatic memories for her whole people and must grapple with that pressure

-wild beauty by anna-marie mclemore: ya magical realism/fantasy; a family of women who can create flowers and whose lovers always tragically vanish fight to keep their land and to unravel the mystery of a strange boy who appeared

-siren queen by nghi vo: historical magical realism/fantasy; girl’s rise to stardom amidst the monsters of hollywood back in the days of the studio system

-gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir: sff; um. how to explain briefly. gideon wants nothing more than to leave the ninth house, but her nemesis harrowhark needs her sword skills to pass the emperors trial and become immortal. sure. (caleb i know you’ve read this just adding for any other viewers yayyy)

HORROR:

-white is for witching by helen oyeyemi: horror fantasy/magical realism; a house with women in its walls calls to miranda silver while the people she leaves behind struggle to make sense of what happened to her

-plain bad heroines by emily a. danforth: historical horror; when filming a movie about the macabre history of a boarding school, its past starts to become the reality for the stars and author of the novel it’s based on

LITFIC:

-girl woman other: contemporary litfic; the intersecting stories of Black british women told in verse

-nightwood: classic literary; i feel like i can’t describe this one well but nora and jenny are obsessed with robin, whose penchant for wandering and inability to commit drives them crazy. toxic dyke drama at its best

-the thirty names of night: lit fic; transmasc syrian american unravels the history of artist laila z who encountered the same rare bird his mother saw right before her death and realizes their pasts are intertwined

-under the udala trees: historical lit fic; coming of age set against the backdrop of civil war in Nigeria, two girls from different ethnic communities fall in love

-everyone in this room will someday be dead: contemporary lit fic; that moment when your ocd lands you a job at the catholic church even though you’re an atheist and also your relationship is falling apart

-stone butch blues: historical lit fic; butch lesbian realizing and grappling with her identity throughout the 40s-70s

-the color purple: classic lit fic; story of two sisters separated in their youth—one is forced into an abusive marriage and falls in love with her husbands mistress, wondering what became of her sister

-oranges are not the only fruit: semi-autobiography with slight fantasy elements; exploring growing up lesbian in a deeply religious pentecostal sect

SCI-FI:

-the weight of the stars: ya sf romance; aspiring astronaut is forced into friendship with a girl who waits on the roof every night for radio signals from her mother in space

-the seep: sci-fi/spec fic; what if aliens invaded and formed a hive mind of everyone and also your girlfriend turned into a baby again. wouldn’t that be fucked up

-the stars are legion: political science fiction; an awakes with no memory amid a group of people calling themself her family who claim she is the only one who can save their world

-not your sidekick: ya sci-fi; superheroes are real and they fucking suck

SHORT STORIES:

-sarahland: contemporary/spec fic short story collection; various stories about people named sarah

[velvet-apricots]

How about Ranni for that one character ask meme if you still take those?

favorite thing about them

I honeslty love her accent, design and color palette. It is all rather simple but very appealing. I also very much love personality when she is comfortable with the tarnished. She is sassy and has a bit of humor to her.

least favorite thing about them

her actions and the consequences. IGAF if seluvis ends up dead, but Iji and Blaidd... She really isnt all that different than the other Demi-gods, at the end of the day.

favorite line

"I'd heard tell of a Tarnished hurtling about atop a spectral steed." why? cause she sounds cool when she says it.

brOTP

Ranni and her little gaggle of friends, sans Seluvis. Fuck Seluvis (HE IS COOL DONT GET ME WRONG BUT COME ON NO ONE LIKES HIM IN GAME). He can trip on a rock or something. I am sure the others will like it

OTP

Don't have one. I just don't care about any of the ships with her. Read a few dif ones on and off our of pure curiosity but nothing clicked.

nOTP

uh.... *pulls something random out of her ship hat* Seluvis/Ranni? huh. Yeah I guess that one sucks.

random headcanon

Because she has long moments of inactivity, her doll body is prone to getting spiders living in it. Every time she wakes up and moves and one comes out, she screams.

unpopular opinion

I don't think her Age of Stars is as great as everyone says. AND NO. It's not because I don't understand it. I know what it is perfectly. She takes her new order to space and fucks off and lets everyone live free of it's influence. Cool, except the lands between are a complete shit hole. If she just leaves and puts nothing in place to help stabilize it, it will just remain a shit hole, or be destroyed by some other force. The least she can do is linger a bit to ensure the people left have some safety and stability before leaving.

That is why in my verse, the age of perfected order comes first. It fixes and stabilizes the Lands Between, and then when Marika has finally had enough, and just crumbles to dust, Ranni can step in with her age of stars and leave.

song i associate with them

favorite picture of them

That fucking comic where she is like "brother doth thou ever wear a shirt?" and Godwyn is just, stoned out of his mind going "a what?"

[waterparksdrama]

waterparks blurbs from their fbr press release pack (2022)

BIO

For as much as Waterparks is a genre-busting collective of three friends who play music, hang out, and constantly flip the script, Waterparks really represents a bigger, dare we say, movement. The Houston trio— Awsten Knight, Otto Wood, and Geoff Wigington—have unassumingly brought vibrancy back to rock. (The only thing bolder than their melodies is whatever hair dye Awsten opted for this week!) Their strange magnetic pull has attracted a growing cohort of fans who pack sold out shows, stream their songs like crazy, and have even elevated them to multiple Billboard charts. 

However, the next era begins with the band’s fifth full-length and debut album for Fueled By Ramen, headlining the Sad Summer Festival, an arena tour with My Chemical Romance, and even more adventures…

“Waterparks is so much fucking bigger than Otto, Geoff, and me,” muses Awsten. “However, it wouldn’t be Waterparks without the fans at the shows. It wouldn’t be Waterparks without the presence online. It wouldn’t be Waterparks without this awesome community. There are so many people who are a big part of this. It has completely evolved from where it started, and it feels massive to me. I’m lucky enough to guide it.”

Waterparks might just be the biggest band of tomorrow. They reached unprecedented heights with 2021’s Greatest Hits. Don’t let that title fool you—it didn’t collect their best-performing songs at a discounted price, but it did showcase their best material to date. As such, it moved 15K units first-week, cracked the Billboard Top 200 and landed in the Top 10 of the Top Alternative Albums Chart and Top Rock Albums Chart. In the wake of its release, they impressively eclipsed half-a-billion streams thus far. Beyond acclaim from Rolling Stone, MTV, Kerrang!, and Alternative Press, they graced the cover of V Magazine and Upset Magazine (who also awarded the record a “five-out-of-five star” perfect score!). Perhaps, NME summed it up best though, “Instead of celebrating the past, ‘Greatest Hits’ is opening the door to what comes next.” Along the way, they sold out various headline tours. 2022 saw the band sign to Fueled By Ramen and turn the page on a new chapter.

“Whereas I saw Greatest Hits as a dark indoor album, I see this next body of work as a light outdoor album,” he reveals. “There’s a bright vibe with very high energy to it. So much of what we do is about how it’s going to be experienced by the community. We did a lot of programming on the last record. I wanted to get more tactile and touch shit now,” he laughs. “I needed to hold a guitar and have the strings vibrating on my fingers.”

That brings us to the first single “FUNERAL GREY.” Powered by four different guitars (including a toy guitar for the main riff), the track swings like a wrecking ball from a buoyant verse into a distortion-lifted hyper-hypnotic hook, “She wore a sweater in summer weather. She wore a sweater. It was FUNERAL GREY!”

“This is—and I fucking hate the term—more love-driven,” he confesses. “It’s a reintroduction, and it’s more about other people than just me. When I wrote the song, I was walking around my friend’s neighborhood. I was laughing, because it looked so haunted—like something out of an M. Night Shyamalan movie. I thought, ‘If this was an Instagram filter, it would be ‘Funeral Grey’.’ It’s got a dark title, but I love how bright it sounds. To me, that’s Waterparks.”

In the end, the new music is meant for the people comprising this greater movement—like everything Waterparks do.

“When you listen to us, I just want you to feel good,” Awsten leaves off. “It’s bouncy shit. Even if it’s aggressive, it’s enthusiastic. There’s a lot of energy behind this. I try to make music that tingles people’s fucking brains, which is what my favorite music does for me.”

BOILER

For as much as Waterparks is a genre-busting collective of three friends who play music, hang out, and constantly flip the script, Waterparks really represents a bigger, dare we say, movement. The Houston trio— Awsten Knight, Otto Wood, and Geoff Wigington—have unassumingly brought vibrancy back to rock. (The only thing bolder than their melodies is whatever hair dye Awsten opted for this week!)  Waterparks might just be the biggest band of tomorrow. They reached unprecedented heights with 2021’s Greatest Hits. Don’t let that title fool you—it didn’t collect their best-performing songs at a discounted price, but it did showcase their best material to date. As such, it moved 15K units first-week, cracked the Billboard Top 200 and landed in the Top 10 of the Top Alternative Albums Chart and Top Rock Albums Chart. In its wake, they impressively eclipsed half-a-billion streams thus far. Beyond acclaim from Rolling Stone, MTV, Kerrang!, and Alternative Press, they graced the cover of V Magazine and Upset Magazine (who also awarded the record a “five-out-of-five star” perfect score!). Perhaps, NME summed it up best though, “Instead of celebrating the past, ‘Greatest Hits’ is opening the door to what comes next.” Along the way, they sold out various headline tours. 2022 saw the band sign to Fueled By Ramen and turn the page on this next chapter kickstarted by the single “FUNERAL GREY.”

[grecoisms]

title: a heap of broken images (4/4)

pairing: kim wexler x lalo salamanca

rating: E

summary: 

"Funny coincidence, no? I leave this apartment, and they come to kill me two days later." "One might say you could not get your house in order." Kim says coldly, pressing all her nails into her palm with full force. Small crescents of small moons.

"You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water." t.s.eliot - the waste land

They could have died.

Died so easily. 

As easily as one draws a breath.

The realization hits her like a gong gone off.

The realization comes after - 

locking eyes with Lalo and staring him down,

looking at the empty space he still occupied,

getting in the taxi and the ride itself, 

leaving adrenaline behind, again,

But the realization comes before -

Getting into the hotel bed,

Shaking from exhaustion,

Hugging Jimmy tight,

Faking a cough,

Calling in sick,

Sleeping in, 

Staying in,

Processing,

Surviving.

The day is spent in bed and recollection.

He thumbed his gun so naturally, Kim thinks, picturing Lalo with a repressed storm on his face and gun tucked in his belt. He spoke so politely, even though his very presence froze the place up, made Jimmy and her rooted to the ground. Speechless. 

Jimmy went out some time ago to get some food, but they promised to text each other every five minutes, something he was more adamant on doing than Kim, who felt how she felt usually after going on a rollercoaster. Slightly sick, insides coiled, head fuzzy. 

We almost died. 

He made Jimmy retell the story how many times? At least three. But the words were less crucial than his presence - for he actually came to listen to Jimmy's story, find the cracks, and then?

Then he would have shot them both dead. 

Except she convinced him. Or perhaps made him rethink his agenda. Matters not which. All that matters is he left, left to Mexico, or perhaps somewhere else, but is probably far-far away. 

Her phone buzzes from under the pillows. Kim peers at the screen, seeing Jimmy's name.

Just stepped in Walmart. Milk, cheese, sth else? 

If u see some tylenol, pls buy some, Kim writes back, head on the headboard, head in a fog, staring at the colorless painting hung on the colorless hotel wall. Staring, but not seeing. 

Lalo left only for them to leave the house as well, with shaking limbs and a shock worth several strung-out nights. Jimmy has more of a problem with dreaming than sleeping though: started mumbling, shaking in his sleep yesterday - please, please, I didn't know.

As for Kim, she has more of a problem with falling asleep. She keeps seeing the look Lalo gave her when she stepped between Jimmy and him; when she struck him down with three well-versed sentences, aim to be heard, aim to hurt. 

Later, in the dark, the hotel room feels foreign. A fever-dream. Kim scoots closer to Jimmy, touching his arm gently, to soothe him, calm him.

"I won't let anything happen" she whispers in the dead night, where the words might as well be a dream. Wish upon a star. "I'm here."

And he is gone. And he cannot hurt you. Even if his eyes seemed to pierce.

Eyes so dark.

Half-admiring, half-calculating.

.

She quits Schweikart and Cokely the next day, with the sole intent on focusing on two things:

Help pro-bono clients.

Turn Lalo Salamanca in. 

.

Helping pro-bono clients, of course, is way easier than trying to come up with an affidavit that won't put Jimmy and her in jail for at least a couple of years. 

Context matters, and since Kim's knowledge of criminal law has been superficial and whatever remained has rusted over the years anyway, she decides to consult some books at the Central Library. Asking Jimmy is out of question, especially because he is still jumpy at the mention of anything regarding the cartel, the desert or the name Jorge de Guzmán in general. His sunburn has started to fade, but the wound on his forehead is not in a hurry to heal. 

"Back in the biz" he sighs two weeks later, just as he sets his briefcase in the hall. They moved back a week ago, mostly because Jimmy insisted on going to work and repeating different versions of "everything is settled now, I don't think there is going to be a problem" - and well, because they actually missed their real bed, and in Kim's case, needing stuff like pens and skirts and various folders from home.

It's almost as everything is back to normal. 

Lalo nothing but a memory. 

And yet. 

Jimmy still mumbles in his sleep. He still awakes drenched in sweat. 

As for Kim, she insists on working from their bedroom. It's not that the kitchen or the living room has become spooky or uninhabitable, but when alone, she has become used to working from their bedroom, where light seeps in so tenderly.

No memory that taints the space. 

.

Whether it is fate or simply bad luck, Kim does not know. 

May changes to juvenile June - time flies. It has been what? A month since Lalo has entered their home, uninvited. 

The amount of pro bono cases double at the start of summer season, and Kim barely has time to eat, least to wander around Central Library to read through yet another book on cartel cases. One makes do with the time one has, and since the only time the library closes late is on Wednesdays, Kim makes it a routine to nap for twenty minutes in her car after work, then head to the Library and stay as long as eleven in the night in the silence of the books. Rubbing her tired eyes, praying to find at least one small parallel between older cases and the Salamanca case. What she found out so far is not from a book, but Jimmy.  Lalo's cousin, Tuco, is in jail right now. Real name, real case. But the cousin sounds labile, prone to violence, no control whatsoever, so Kim quickly shuns the idea of visiting him. Also, because she is sure that the moment she speaks with another Salamanca, she is dead.

And Kim likes living, thank you very much. 

But her time remains tight and because of that, her mood morose, and she, unmotivated. The hardest part is leaving Jimmy out entirely, but after reading a 1986 case where the lawyer of a larger gang in Chihuahua got away by a written warning only, he includes him - by name - in the document, watchful of the tone. Yet playing with the tone of the affidavit suddenly makes it personal, the exact opposite of what it should sound like, what it must be. 

After coming up with a particularly complex sentence and realizing Jimmy does sound guilty in all of this (Saul Goodman, known as Jimmy McGill, volunteered, accepted, got chosen by Eduardo Salamanca to collect the bail money) accentuating how thin her case, how brief her document, Kim throws her pen away, resisting the urge to scream on her way home.

Home is more or less a sanctuary. 

More so, because Jimmy is home.

Less so, because his mood is not the best either.

He still suffers from nightmares, regularly. Kim can hear it sometimes, the panting or lashing out against a ghost threat, a ghost danger. When she hears it, she shakes Jimmy up immediately, but there are other disturbing remnants in him: outages, as she calls it. Because sometimes, even during the most innocent of actions, like cooking soup, or watching TV together or starting the washing machine, Kim sees Jimmy transform - face dropping, eyes vacant, hands shaking - and she knows he sees not the flat, or her, or the screen, but the desert, vast and unforgiving. Something terrible has happened, or is happening, and he denies telling her. Kim cannot decide whether she is angrier at or sorrier for him. Right now, the two feelings are equal in her, arguing. 

"You're early!'' Jimmy is on the couch, fresh out of the shower, laptop in his hand. "You want to order Chinese?"

He looks a bit pale, as if not have seen the light today.

"Sure" sighs Kim, throwing herself next to him. "Anything important happen today?"

"Well. I kinda fucked up, Kim." he turns his head. "Khalil found me today. With that detective you mentioned."

"Roberts" nods Kim, tense. "What did they want?"

"Called me out on the fake family. No phone, no address. By the way, how did you find them?"

"It was buried in the back of your other folder, the red one. Got lucky."

The folder, alongside all documents regarding de Guzman's case (and Ignacio Varga's, coincidentally) was destroyed when they moved back to the apartment. Jimmy shred them to smithereens, but when Kim got a whiff of his plan, she insisted they burn the remnants as well.

  "Point is" continues Jimmy. "I...got carried away, and said Lalo's name."

"Shit" says Kim with a dry mouth. "Did they notice it?"

"Yeah, Khalil repeated his name back at me. Y'know... interrogation style."

"Shit" Kim repeats. 

"I acted confused, but I'm sot sure they bought it. I bet they ran to Ericsen right away."

There was a silence. The uncomfortable kind this time - sand in the shoes, sand in the eyes. 

Kim takes a big breath. 

"Okay. No point in panicking." This would, of course, accelerate some things. ''What if... what if this was a way out?"

"What... what do you mean?" Jimmy stammers.

Though feels he won't take it well, Kim leans forward, reaching for her husband's hand, still dry from the days spent wandering. How deep he still carries the desert with him, within his body!

Indeed, where can he put it down?

"Jimmy" her voice is soft, hushed. "If we fold now, we might have a chance to get out. It is your choice, always has been. But from where I'm standing, you don't seem so happy to have been caught in this."

"But..." Jimmy smiles at first, as if she was joking. Falters. "It's all good now. I just need... no, listen. We just need some more time. This will blow over." There must be doubt on her face, because he continues.

"Worst case, they're gonna be angry with us for a few weeks? And then - what can they do: shake their fists at us?" he waves, but it's half-hearted. "Come on!"

"And when it blows over, will it be really over?" she asks, sharply. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you are wandering around comatose, and it has nothing to do with the courthouse. It has to do with the desert."

"I'm just tired, that's all. Look, maybe I haven't drunk enough water in the past few weeks, and maybe, I should see a doctor. You were right before, maybe I will see a shrink, but.... Kim?"

His voice trails off, because Kim stands up suddenly, both alarmed and ecstatic. 

"Jimmy... the man. The man who wanted to kill Lalo!"

"You told me he killed him." her husband says, alarmed. 

"One of them. The cellmate. But the other one... the one from outside..."

"He is in the hospital." Jimmy's breath hitches. "In a coma."

"Listen. We might be able to solve this, without incriminating us further. Hear me out..."

.

Allegedly, the man who attempted to kill Lalo Salamanca in his cell (the very same man who almost got killed by him) is called Stephen Olarfsson, 39, an accountant born in Oregon. 

It takes her three days and - she avoids writing emails altogether - at least a dozen calls to track down the man. During this interval Kim is a chameleon: posing as a legal administrator, police clerk, member of the Neurocritical Care Society requesting a one-on-one with the patient, who she learns has woken up four days ago, disoriented and discomfited. He denies answering any questions and in turn, remaining chained to his hospital bed until the Rehabilitation Center of Rio Rancho discharges him, which, one of the nurses tells Kim's pseudonym, may take at least a month, but more realistically, three. 

Apart from the sever head-trauma (causing hemorrhage in his brain, rendering him comatose for a few weeks), the shiv which killed Lalo's cellmate has founds its way into him as well, more specifically his thighs and stomach (so he was to be operated twice at the end of the month and fed intravenously in the time being). 

He remains under close supervision, from both outside and inside of his hospital room. 

He remains silent, despite threats and pleads and deals. 

This suits Kim perfectly. She does not want to talk. 

She just wants him to deliver a message. 

 .

Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong - is what Kim's mom used to say, usually after waking up hungover. Yet on those mornings, it was Kim tasting yellow acid in her mouth, as if she had been the one drinking. Bitterness, by any other name. 

It's the same acidic bitterness in her mouth when Erickson finds her one morning, coffee in her right hand, and flattery in her mouth, and Kim knows they are in trouble. De Guzman's name could only hold up for so long - it's a damn miracle it lasted at all. 

"Here" Ericsen says after leading Kim to her office, placing two photographs next to each other on the table. They are not shaking, her hands, but she puts them under the desk anyway, so that they wouldn´t betray her. "Same person."

On one of the photos is a black-and-white mugshot of Lalo, a close up of his all-angles face, mouth downturned. On the other, he is violently alive, all colorful, laughing, while embracing two older women in a garden. Maybe one of them is his mother, or perhaps both of them are his aunts - Kim cannot tell from the picture. She can only guess, and the smile on Lalo's face seems genuine in its warmth. But then again, Kim cannot quite tell.

"Who is Eduardo Salamanca?" she asks, easing the edges of the questions. For she knows him, seems like she has known him for ages, even though it's only been a month and a half. 

"A major drug dealer south of the border" it's different, hearing it from Ericsen. There is a slight bite to her tone, meant to criticize. "It seems Salamanca jumped bail, fled to Mexico where he consequently died in a gunfight. Half dozen people were killed."

Dead.

Kim resists the urge to stare at the colored photo again. 

When? she wants to ask, to get proof. It seems laughable, unbelievable to her, that a man like that would die, as if he was too much for death to bear. A month ago, he was towering above them, and staring at her with his knife-gaze, the gaze that seemed sharp enough to cut through her mask. And now -

The word is on the tip of her tongue. 

When? 

But instead, she says: 

"And?"

Ericsen looks strict. 

"I think there's a question here, Kim: How much did you know?"

The question is piercing.

Tell her, sensible Kim says. Here's the chance. 

Not like this, survivor Kim whispers. She won't believe you. Or worse, she will believe you - but not Jimmy. 

And without Jimmy McGill, Kim Wexler won't make a deal. 

.

Kim returns to the hospital the next week. 

Olarfsson, patient-assailant, is gone. 

Kim's note, the one which he gave him to deliver, hid it under his mattress and told him to try, that note is gone, too. 

Worse, as she leaves the hospital in a rush, confused if Olarfsson disappearing is a good or bad news, she spots a car that she has spotted before, when they returned home from the hotel. 

A blue sedan with two men in it. 

Otherwise forgettable. 

Until they are not. 

.

Jimmy's mood blackens in the upcoming days. 

Hearsay starts and all the other lawyers ostracize him - the news reaches her not through Jimmy, but from here and there after hearings. This is how she knows his shunning is widespread, ugly in its depth.

He needs cheering up, Kim decides. 

In fact, she needs cheering up as well. 

Deserves it. 

The plan presents itself in the form of Howard stopping her one day at the Forque Bar, voice polite but words biting, telling her to make her own decisions and insulting Jimmy. That is all it takes. 

Rushing home, an idea forms in her mind, ugly in its depth, but rewarding too, she knows. 

A well-deserved prank.

A lesson, if you would. 

Nothing too serious.

.

"They're gone" says a gruff voice, grave and gravelly. "The two men who were following you. They're gone."

Kim turns, there is almost no one in the elegant, but shabby little café. It's a dead part of town, dead part of the day. 

An old man looks back at her with shrewd eyed at the bar top. 

"Would you mind sitting down for a moment? And I'll answer any questions you have. If I can."

Once seated, he fishes a paper out of his front pocket, unfolds it neatly, and sets it in front of her.

"This" he says. "wasn't very clever."

It's Kim's note, the offer, crumpled, but still eligible.

July heat scorches the back of her clothes, makes it stick to her back, however she resists it, whatever she wears. 

"Doesn't fortune favor the bold?" she asks evenly. 

"Sometimes" the man agrees with a small nod. "When you busted my men, that was brave. Not wise perhaps, but I'll give you credit."

"Were you..."

"The one who hired Olarffson? No." he shakes his head, for emphasis. "That is why you should not leave notes like that around. And I would advise against leaving a note like that at the District Attorney's office as well."

Kim picks up her note, and puts in her bag, slow. 

"But the men who followed me" she asks, sharp. "They were yours, weren't they?"

"Yes. Both you and your husband. I'm not police. They are not investigating you either, in case you were wondering. I also know you have been doing things you should not be doing. But this is not what it is about."

"What is this about then?"

As if to brace himself, he man breathes in deeply. He has a tough look, but a calm kind of face. Grounding. 

"Lalo Salamanca."

"Lalo Salamanca is dead."

The old man says nothing.

And by saying nothing, Kim knows. 

.

Paranoia is just a fancy word for intuition - was another favorite saying of her mother.

The same intuition that made her find out about the attendant's men is now heightened three-fold. Now that she knows he isn't dead, it's as if the pavement, the canals, hell, even the high windows downtown grew eyes, watching her. 

Made of sterner stuff, he said. It echoes in her mind, her child self, the survivor jeers at it. It is a praise but so what? She thumbs the note she has written, the offer of information in exchange for information, so that she can see better, understand Lalo, who is very much alive, and could be anywhere in the world. 

So why is she so certain he is here somewhere, watching and smiling and knowing? Knowing what she does not? Sterner stuff, yet she is powerless. No move, no motivation given.

The note, she puts it next to the half-drafted affidavit. Both these papers, she puts in the cabinet under the fish tank, where they keep receipts, letter of guarantees and different sized rubber bands. Perhaps later she will have need of it, perhaps later, they can forget about it. 

When cornered, an animal will attack. Kim, with a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in another, cannot attack a fanthom, a ghost. Takes a great inhale of smoke and watches the board where the Hamlin-scam's planning stages are almost all ticked. 

A career-setback.

Or else, an attack. 

.

You never listen, Kim. 

It is true. She never listened to her mother, who she deeemed irresponsible and self-destructive in more ways than one. But then, how was she different? Where was the line, the line which she never should have crossed? Was it the Howard-scam? Or planning the affidavit? Or standing up against Lalo? Or going to the Detention Center to meet him? Or lying to Ericsen; laughing at Howard? Or marrying Jimmy? Where did it turn into a tragedy? 

She doesn't reflect on these questions yet. Not on the sunniest day of July, the last day of the month, when the prank has succeeded, the deed done. Sex with Jimmy has never been this amazing. There must be something to be said about the euphoria found in the vulgar, and Kim is basking in it, her worries near-forgotten, so is her guilt. She has had no time to ponder about the affidavit too much in the last couple of days, so deep they were into executing the Howard-prank. 

"Drinks?" Jimmy asks, half-clothed. 

"I will get some snacks, we have nothing now." yawns Kim, who wants nothing more than sleep for a bit, but it has been a long time since they celebrated anything. "Not even toothpaste."

She drives to the nearest supermarket. On the way, Howard calls her, which she declines with a scoff. Gets the toothpaste and the snacks, but also  washing powder, and a new set of towels for the kitchen, feeling festive, as if they have renovated their house, or else, moved into a new one. As if she should not hurry, because why would she need to? 

One of her clients, an unemployed guy from Nevada who moved recently, calls her, she takes it, tells him the basics, asks him to write an email, tells him everything will be alright. Calms him. 

Then she sees then Ericsen has called while she talked with Nevada. Calls her back with the patience of a saint. Ericsen just wants an update that she cannot give her, they talk of ongoing cases and how Jimmy fares, which Kim decided to color in a better light than it is. 

"Oh, I forgot" Suzanne says before hanging up. Kim, who has been in the supermarket for two hours now, starts to get a bit impatient. "Police in Chihuahua tracked Ignacio Varga. He was first spotted at the border, then near Albuquerque around a fortnight ago."

Vertigo claims her, suddenly. 

"That's great help, Suzanne. Gotta go now." she says, hangs up. 

The first sign: when she checks her phone again, she sees that Howard has not tried to call her again, nor did Jimmy. 

Not once.

.

Just paranoia, she repeats to herself, but goes over the speed limit anyway, rushing home despite her rational self soothing her. Nothing wrong, he probably fell asleep. 

The second sign appears though: her key gets stuck into the lock - with a creaking, splitting sound, as if something has already been forced into it. 

Kim will remember the sound for the rest of her life. 

It is stuck, however forcefully she wants to pull it out. 

"Kim!" Jimmy shouts from inside, and he sounds desperate, so Kim leaves her keys in the door. 

Decides to step inside. 

An act that cannot be undone. 

.

Inside is a slaughterhouse. 

She barely has time to register Jimmy's voice, which is shrill, begging her to run, when another person steps from behind the door, closing it, barring it.

  "Mrs. Goodman" beams Lalo, dominating the dmall space around him. Smile so wide, so wild. "So nice to see you again - come, join us!"

He has specks of blood on his face, but he does not seem to mind as he leads her to the living room, where everything is either overturned, on the floor, or bloody. Or all three. 

On the couch is Jimmy, crumpled and worn, so small. Around him are books opened and smaller storage boxes emptied on the floor, a mass of paper, most of them bloody, and god, where did the blood come from? She studies Jimmy who seems unharmed, though thoroughly shaken, like he was struck by lightning. Lalo does not seem to be hurt either - a bit tired and worn, but still very virile for lack of a better word. 

All she has to do, however, is to step closer. There lies the answer. Lies, literally, because Howard is on the floor, sprawled on the ground, a stranger, because it is not him anymore, only his body: bloody and unbothered by the happenings around him. Some of his blood has been mixed with water, diluting it, increasing its spread on the floor. The water comes from the fish tank that has been shattered on the floor, the fish dead on the ground, the cabinets in the kitchen with the utensils and the pots scattered on the ground, as well as the papers from the filing compartment, soaking in the salty water and the fresh blood. 

"God" Kim hears herself uttering the words, automatic and from far away. 

She cannot see the note or the affidavit on the ground. 

.

Once he sends Jimmy away, - because obviously he would send him to kill a man, as if the choice mattered - they are alone. Lalo simply makes Kim sit on the sofa, setting a glass of water before her. 

"Can I get something stronger, please?" she hates how weak her voice sounds. It's like her energy was inside this room and by destroying its order, Lalo decimated her powers. 

"Sure" says Lalo, amused. He has been walking up and down ceaselessly since Jimmy left, not one moment at ease. "Where you keep your liquor?"

"I thought you ransacked everything."

"You came home before I could get everything."

"It's above the fridge."

He whistles while stepping over Howard's body, on the way to the kitchen. 

"You have a preference, Mrs. Goodman?"

"Gin."

"Blue or red?"

Kim looks into the unseeing eyes of Howard Hamlin, close yet far, and she has a sudden urge to cry. 

"Blue."

He pours them both a glass and sits down on a chair, facing her. 

"Drink up."

He gulps his in a second, sighing when finishing. Waits until Kim finishes hers, stares at her with a pensive look, thumbing his gun again. 

"You were an only child, weren´t you?" he says after a second or so. "A lonely one, eh? You have that independence about you, real toughness, no fake macho shit. Could see it the first time you turned up, even if you were shaking down to your boots. Real courage. It's rare."

"Is this about Olarfsson?"

"Olarfsson?" smiles Lalo. "That the guy who I almost killed with my bare hands?"

Kim is very careful to keep her face blank as Lalo peers down at her. 

"Seems like you´ve been bad" he murmurs to himself, licking his lips. "and there I thought you are all goody two shoes."

He scratches his chin with the gun, then pushes his chair closer to the sofa, to her. 

"But then, you got me thinking."

The smell of him hits her nose this close: smoke, sweat and day old gasoline. 

"Gotta hand it to you, your mask is real good. Almost fooled me too. But then again, you have some tells."

"Tells?" repeats Kim, voice far, mind on the floor, next to Howard´s body.

"Yeah" he drawls, holding up his fingers to count, comical. "The first being married to Mr. Big Mouth. The second chasing me down in jail. And the third, well... I saw the look you gave me across the table. You throw that look around often?"

"I dont´t often dislike people." 

"Dislike" Lalo sneers, smile going cold. "Now that´s a funny word. You know what I dislike?"

He leans in, confidential. 

"Disloyalty."

Her blood curls. Whatever happened to Varga must be something terrible, and there is not an ounce of her that wants to know. Not this, nor where her note or her affidavit went. 

"Disloyalty is really ugly to me." continues Lalo breezily, as if they were having a coffee downtown, not playing russian roulette. "Hate and blood, that's part of the business, you know, but when you really trust someone - let's take your lovely husband, as an example, shall we? - it's all give and take. Al que a buen árbol se arrima, you know? And to betray a bond like this, well that's just a shame."

"Tell me what does this have to do with us?" Kim bites back. She can feel a swollen drop of sweat make its way down from the nape of her neck, and the blood of Howard Hamlin streaming its way to the carpet, near her feet. "You have asked for a service which Jimmy and I delivered. And now our business is done."

A deep cut appears in between Lalo's eyebrows: scorn. 

"I told your husband the moment I left that cell: this business between you and me is not over. Great things were waiting for us. And then you two spit in my face."

"The job you gave us" argues Kim with a heaving chest. "wasn´t easy and it wasn´t quick, but we did it - and we did not rat."

"You are a liar, Mrs. Goodman" Lalo says a bit too calmly for her taste. "First time, I almost bought what you said, I even admired it. Thought to myself: this Goodman is one lucky pendejo, eh? But then your esposo comes back and suddenly, you don't know nothing about anything, despite being top of the class."

Some of the blood reaches her left sock - wet and warm. 

What was that thing Howard told her some months ago, about forgiveness? Her mind feels a maze, but arguing gives some of her strength back so as she continues, so fear eludes her voice entirely.

"Threatening situations make people scared and desperate. And desperate people often look guilty."  

"A nice defense, councellor. Maybe that´s why you went running to a hotel, afraid I´ll come back here, huh?"

"Which you did." Kim points out.

Lalo spreads his legs in sitting, and leans in closer. His knees are just touching hers like at the garden at the Center, when Kim wrote her number on the map of his hand. When she thought him human. 

Lalo strokes his moustache before speaking.

"Funny coincidence, no? I leave this apartment, and they come to kill me two days later."

"One might say you could not get your house in order." she says coldly, pressing all her nails into her palm with full force. Small crescents of small moons.

Now, a snarl appears, yet Lalo manages some mirth into his voice - the contrast between his facade and his face quite disturbing.

  "As you kindly warned me so. How can I ever repay you, Mrs. Goodman?"

"You can start by not killing me."

"Is this what you think I'll do?" his voice is low.

The thudding of her heart becomes almost unbearable. When she looks up straight onto Lalo´s eyes, only to find him already looking back at her, a mirroring. The sliver of his brown eyes seemingly warm in the living light of the room - but it's only veneer. She knows by now it melts off easy.

"What you think I want to do?"

Without looking at the table itself, Lalo puts his gun on the far end of it, and rests his hands on the sides of Kim's head, caging her in. Then he bends even closer, breath blowing some here-there slips of her hair. 

"The worst thing that can happen?"

His pupils are so large, they seem to have devoured half of his gaze. 

Fear, Kim realizes suddenly, is a very lax word. She thought she was afraid before, but it is nothing compared to what she is feeling now. It's as if her body was falling off a balcony, or her nerves were stacked on each other, aflame. 

"Look -" she gives reason one last shot.

But he cuts her off immediately by pushing his hands from the sides of her head to the nape of her neck. Kim feels heavy and light at the same time. 

"We talked about family, remember?" Lalo says in a strange tone. "Family...well it's everything. And the people back in my home, well, they were part of my family. And every one of them is now dead, thanks to Varga, and that hijo de puta, and maybe, just maybe... " he thumbs Kim's temples as an afterthought. "Because of you."

Terror is a stone that sits inside of her. 

"That's insane" she whispers, looking down to Howard and then back at his murderer. Her face feels wet, and why is it wet? "You think we wanted this?"

Lalo angles his head to the side, examining.

"You might not have sent the men or pulled the trigger. But I'm sure you got a wind of what would happen. What has happened. And didn't tell me. Isn't that against law, too?"

Then with an almost uncanny gentleness, he caresses her face. 

"You should have run further away, you know?" he whispers. "Just like your mama made you run before, huh?"

Time freezes. 

It freezes with a special kind of carelessness, the one you don't expect coming, that makes the heart of you shudder.

Howard's voice, in her head: 

Your debt is forgiven, but anything else? That's on you.

"You look shocked!" Lalo continues, toothful of mirth in his mouth. "But I check on everyone I employ. People I want to work with in the long run, y'know."

It's not so abstract anymore, the terror in her blood - indeed, it has turned entirely tangible, something to become entirely. Terror, personified, chewing on her brain, devouring it whole. 

"Checked on your husband before Varga introduced us" then he points at her, just below her neck, near the jugular. "And I checked on you, too, just after we had that nice talk right in this room. Kimberly Wexler. Goodman's name doesn't suit you as much as your own does. Lots of, consonantes, hard on the tongue. Hard name for a hard woman."

He licks his lips. 

"How many schools did you go to, exactly?" he asks. It would be a very polite question, were he a polite man. Were this a polite scenario.

Kim opens her mouth to say something. 

But nothing comes out.

So Lalo reaches for one of her wrists resting on her lap.

"Hey, hey" he says, smile flattening. "Don't get panicky on me now, hm? We're just having a conversation. You, me, just like back in the garden."

His hand doesn't let go - his index finger measures her pulse. 

"You can ask me anything in turn. Talking is nice, no? As long as we're honest with each other. Mira!"

He holds out his other hand, for Kim to shake it. 

With a clammy palm, Kim shakes it, her body shaking itself into acceptance. This is not a dream. This is happening. Howard on the floor, a body, nothing more. Lalo sitting on the chair, in front of her, nearer than near, with frenzied eyes, oozing blood. 

"So... Kimberly! How many schools did you go to, exactly?"

"I can't... can't remember." Kim confesses, teeth chattering. "Twelve, or maybe more. Didn't reach twenty, I think."

"Dios mio! Hell of an education!" he cocks his head. "But that's not what made you smart, isn't it?"

Kim says nothing. Thinks nothing. 

Lalo continues. 

"Must have been hard, growing up with a mama like that. You moved cause of her job?"

"Not really."

"Did she have a lot of men to run around with?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

There is a sharp flash entering his gaze now.

Knowledge. 

"But you moved because of her, no?"

"Yes" there is no danger in confessing this, at least.

"Was she a drunk? Or a gambler?"

"Bit of both."

Lalo hums, thoughtful. 

"And your dad?"

"My dad left when I was very small." her answers come automatically - all she need is time. Maybe some curiosity where there is no sympathy.  "Don't remember him."

"Must have been hard. I should know - I don't remember my papá either" says Lalo wistfully. "But he didn't leave."

"Did he die?" Kim asks, sure of the answer. 

"Yes, he was killed when I was four. My brother too, y'know." he reaches for the hem of Kim's blouse, a soft kind of material, blue. He inspects it with a tender sort of care, like he wants to imprint it in his memory. 

Jimmy loved the color of it, said so in the morning. 

"Only brother I had. Mi madre estaba tan triste, she got locked in a madhouse. Did you know that grief can make you insane?"

"That's terrible" says Kim, fighting the urge to be sick. Her mind cannot comprehend it yet, but in her soul, she already feels what is about to bloom in between them. 

"Yeah" Lalo says, still caressing the material, hands wandering near the skin of her abdomen. "You talked with Olarfsson?"

"No."

"And a gringo called Mike?"

"I do not know who that is."

Lalo hums again, the sound reverbarating on Kim's stomach, in her body.

"And does Goodman know?"

"Know what?" her mouth is so dry she has difficulty swallowing.

  Finally, Lalo looks up from her blouse to her face, clenching both of her wrist this time, his hands hot and his eyes dark. But only when he starts talking, voice raspy and an octave deeper from arousal, does Kim realize his strategy as a whole. 

"How much you want to be punished."

"That's not - " she tries, but Lalo raises one of his fingers against her face - his face severe in its fury.

"If you lie to me again, I´ll make Goodman eat that fish on the floor before I gut him before you."

Whether it's a revolt, an instict, it matters not.

What matter is it makes Kim spit on him.

For a moment, Lalo does nothing. Stunned completely as the wetness trickles down his face - Kim's spit landed just above his left eye, where there is a week old graze, perhaps from the day they tried to kill him. 

"Bien" Lalo's face is blank as a baptism. "If you want to play it like this."

He thumbs the spit away, eyes bright, and there, just next to the craving, there is an animal coming out of his stare now, gentle reminiscing and the light mannerisms all gone, gone with the spittle. And Kim can see clearly now how the dark window of his eyes have splintered, and something wild and mad had spilled in between the cracks. 

The hold on her hands is definitely painful now, she can feel his fingernails leaving red crescents on her in his wake. 

"Turn" it's an order. 

And he is reaching for the gun. 

Kim has been waiting for this move since he put the gun down in the first place. 

So when he moves to hold both her hands in one, she can feel his hold loosening a bit, and then, then she yanks her hands, preferably knocking him on the head. She also tries to kick him. 

But that never happens. 

Lalo is a seasoned one, it was clear from the first moment they talked. 

It's past talking now, and even in actions, he feels experienced enough. The moment she moves to dislodge herself, he halts his movement and kicks the coffeetable away, so as to drag her by the waist, down, down to the floor that is all bloody and watery. 

"Here she is!" he is panting, but his voice sounds triumphant. "¡Una mujer de fuego! I knew you were there somewhere, Kimberly."

He pushes himself on her so easily - and he is smiling again, the look on her face, the crack in her composure so intoxicating. 

"Fuck" Kim hisses, strained. Lalo's body is a bulk. But the heaviness she feels now, in her abdomen, is both new and familiar.

"I'm trying, Mrs. Goodman." he chides her, cruel again, despite the plea now in her eyes, because he invoked him again. 

Not him, he doesn't have a place here. Leave him out of this.

"What a temper you have, huh?" he moves deftly this time, moving her wrists into one hand, and pulling the hem of the blouse up, stroking the hardened skin there, seemingly a solid shell, yet soft nevertheless. Goosebumps appear on her abdomen as he caresses it. "The first time you got into trouble, you must have felt so bad. That made you do all the stupid things in the last few months?"

"At least I feel bad" Kim says dryly. 

"Yes, I'm sure it made a lot difference." he looks around, cocking his head. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I really hope you will die soon and painfully" Kim bites back, childish. "I hope they shoot your brains out or else hang you by your feet to rot."

As this was an invitation, Lalo leans in to kiss her with a devouring sort of hunger, pressing his forehead to hers and cupping her breast. Her breath hitches when he bites on her tongue, hard. As she taste of copper floods her mouth, and she sinks her teeth into his lips as a rebuttal.

Lalo grunts. His eyes are pitch-dark, and his lips vivid-red when he breaks the kiss. 

"The moment you stood up to defend that clown of a husband, I knew. Almost took you on the spot. I got so fucking hard I got almost blind. Here, feel it."

Almost gently, he guides her hand to his trousers tenting. 

You still have weapons, y’know, says the dark and dead voice again in the back of her brain. Think fast, Mrs. Goodman.

So Kim palms his erection through the fabric of his jeans - hears him inhale, hard. 

"Qué inteligente" he drawls against her mouth, breathless. "Veamos que mojada estas."

So Kim helps him discard the rest of his clothes.

So Kim does not mind when he tears her blouse into two, and simply pulls her panties away, sticking two of his fingers deep inside of her, curling them. Does not mind when he groans against her neck when she pulls on his thick hair, dishevelled in their rutting because this is far from lovemaking, she wouldn't even call it fucking. It's something more violent, bordering on biological. 

A whimper emerges from her mouth when he sticks a third finger in her, and he leans in close to swallow the sound with a kiss, searing. He licks her teeth before sticking his fingers into her mouth. 

"Just get it over with" Kim chokes when he pulls his fingers out to lick them. Feels strung-out, feels seen. Does not like how Lalo keeps his eyes on fixed on hers, fixed on her - rooted, grounded. Does not like it at all. 

She thought he'd cease talking once he is in her, but he is only silent as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, and takes out his cock. There is little to no fumblings, but Kim wishes there would be so she could be prepared. Still, the suddenness and harshness of it all is quite fitting. After all, judgement and punishment rarely comes expected. 

It hurts, when he enters her - even wet, he is so big. She gasps into his mouth when he starts moving, resuming his speech. 

"Can you imagine" he breathes into the hollow of her pale neck, as he presses her into the floor, the woodboard hard on her back, her hips. His golden necklace is cold on her bare breasts. "What Goodman would say if he found out? That would be something, no? Him walking in while I'm balls deep in you."

It is almost vulgar, the sound between the meeting of their flesh, because she is wet, shamefully so, and he, so eager that he is now slipping inside of her effortlessly. 

"Enough..." she pleads, and when he smiles her down, she bites him on his shoulder, until she feels the skin break and the sinews shake and his shivering voice, low in her ears. 

"Enough?" he pulls out of her only to turn her over, on her stomach, only to hoist her skirt to her waist, and enter her from behind. "We're just getting started - or is this..." 

This time, his breath halts, as Kim feels her walls squeeze involuntarily, shuddering through her orgasm, throwing back her head, her ponytail slipping from its keep, the world with it too, falling apart. She feels as if she was being impaled, cut in half. 

"Jesús" his left hand finds her hair, gripping, then pulling. Her back arches instinctively, and she mewls despite her discipline, despite this being a game. Because it is still a game, a chess game. Isn't it?

He is close to climaxing too - she can feel it as he grips her by the narrow slope of her neck and drags her closer, skin on skin, want on want. 

"A woman like you, I could give her the world... ¿No lo quieres dulce, querida?" he bends to her right ear, his face next to her, their breath mingling. "You wouldn't have to act good, wouldn't have to act at all, you can be as cold...Don't you want it sweet though? Sweet from me alone? Cristó..." 

His cock swells, and then he empties himself in her, his cum hot in her womb, his body almost lifeless as his orgasm take him by full force. 

"It wasn't so bad, wasn't it?" he says, later, as he climbs down from her laid down body, resembling the corpse in the room, stiff and spiritless. "Miss Wexler?"

Kim turns her face away, and finally, finally, starts crying.

.

After, when Mike tells them that Lalo is dead, she also tells her he destroyed the note with the affidavit a long time ago. 

"Knew you would keep it." he shakes his hands. The dawning light seeps in, and Kim feels a thousand year old. "And some things, you should let go of."

"Thanks." it sounds empty, because it is. 

The apartment is a mess.

She wouldn't meet Jimmy's eyes, though he tries to catch her gaze. 

They have to leave, so that they can clean the place, Mike and his men. 

Most of the blood is Howard's, she wants to tell them in passing. Some of them is mine.

But there is a strange smell around the blood, heaviest in the living room.

Must be the same for them so it must means nothing for them. 

So she tells them nothing. 

Thinks of nothing. 

[punemy-spotted]

Iris - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

Pairing: SoftDark!Devil!Helmut Zemo x Sky-Captain!Reader

Warnings: Cosmic Horror; Dubious Consent; Dubious Morality; Estranged Relationship; Zemo and Reader are not in the Good Place; THIS IS A HORROR FIC; Soul Stealing; Incredibly Loose Relationship with Physics; This is a Fallen London x Marvel Crossover Moment; There are Space Bees; And Giant Lovestruck Space Crabs; Violence; Murder; Death; Poison; At Least One Reference to a Garrote; Estranged Relationship; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: Sokovia rose, then fell, and then rose again. And now the stars will never be the same.

Notes: Hi, welcome, I really wanted to write an MCU crossover with the Fallen London 'verse so here we are. Imagine House of M except Wanda Maximoff became an actual factual God and it actually wasn't that bad after all. And now imagine all of that is background noise in favor of one unhinged Devil and one overly hinged Epistolarian. An Intrepid Epistolarian.

Oh also Wanda's waging war against Queen Victoria. It's fine.

For those of you who have read my other Zemo fics, finished and unfinished, if you notice similarities between this fic and the other ones... yes. I am Frankenstein trying to raise this fanfiction monster and put scenes, passages, and themes to better use than languishing in my Ao3/Tumblr cupboard. (Also if you've read my other fics, hi, hello, I love you.)

I crave feedback, so tell me what you think!

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

The First taught Restraint, and the Second Betrayed. The Third taught us Hunger and the Fourth we Remade. The Fifth will live on in the Heart of the Sun but the Sixth did quickly Fade. The Seventh City will never Fall, never ending the Deal we made.

She kept some of the old names when she took this place, you know. Built onto it, even when her Renewed Empress had to bend the knee to the Scarlet One, sealed away in her undying mausoleum.

The Proclaimers of the Cult of the Sanctified, still seated at the Avid Horizon’s High Gate and whispering Truths to their counterparts on the other side, were right — the Seventh City would never fall; the Bazaar would never be compelled to deliver that fatal missive to that Beacon of Bright Betrayal it loved so much; there would be no opportunity to argue that Seven Cities worth of love is proof enough of Her Worthy Love.

If there is one thing you know about opportunities, it is that they are also opportunities to fail.

The long tradition of the Duchy of Sokovia — that Bulwark which once stood the test of time against even the Tsars of Russia — is not what it once was. There is, in fact, no such thing as Sokovia now, not the way you would think. There are Sokovian people, clinging to an identity lest it be lost in the abyss below, but all that remains of the Earthly land which remembered the Duchy’s history with the joint Empires of Austria and Hungary is now nothing more than a chasm of stone and steel.

A monument to violent delights in want of violent ends.

Cast your eyes not to the ruins of her past but to the gleaming future written in the stars ab—

The sound of a train whistle drowns out what remains of the tinned announcement, an earsplitting shriek you endure for what feels like forever, but is in fact — if the clock before you is accurate — no more than two minutes. Which — as it turns out — is plenty of time to interrupt the announcement’s conclusion and leave ringing silence in its wake.

Good. You were rather tired of hearing your own voice drone on any longer.

You turn your head away from the train schedule you had previously been pretending to occupy your mind with, watching the rails with mild impatience and fidgeting with your gloves.

He is late.

It’s not abnormal, really, for the more independent locomotives — those not on the Scarlet Empress’s own payroll, that is — to run on their own definition of time, but you’ve never known your contact to be anything more than a man of his word.

When you’ve properly interpreted his words, that is.

No matter. You have the luxury of time. Collecting your luggage takes little effort — a rather bulging handbag and a briefcase is not so terrible compared to the crates of fuel, souls, and hours you see being carted around you — as you step briskly towards the more busting central parts of port. The station itself has seen better days, almost empty save for a handful of dock-workers and the occasional Employee making sure the schedule runs on time, but as you pass through an open archway into the city proper, they seem eager to resume whatever activity they might otherwise have abandoned for your intrusive presence.

NORTH.

How did it happen? Was it prophecy — or maybe some mad interpretation of the scream-whispers of Distant Polythreme, a vision of the Garden — that led the Proclaimers to make their rhyme, completing the riddle and speaking for the Masters themselves?

Something must have rung true to the Masters, for them to solve the riddle.

Novi Grad rose, then fell. Fell until it could fall no further, until there was nothing left of decades of history but ash and blood for the ghosts of her denizens to wander through. Until there was nothing for the Masters and their bats to drag to cavernous depths.

So she, in her infinite tragedy and infinite pain, became the solution.

Your tea, madame. You look up from your scribbling absently, glancing briefly up at the server and then feeling your polite smile immediately fade off your face.

Must you always play games?

Helmut Zemo stands before you with a perfectly placid smile on his cruelly handsome face, So lovely to see you again, sweetling, and you’re quite welcome for the tea.

You narrowly avoid the temptation to roll your eyes, closing your journal and placing the cap on your pen, its nib glimmering venomously in the candlelight, You are late. A casual accusation, one he dismisses with an easy wave of his hand, just before seating himself before you and stealing a biscuit from your place.

And you are impatient. Surely this must mean you have missed me, little bird. If he notices the way you flinch at the sweetname, struggling to compose yourself before you manage to settle on sternness, he does not say.

You have faced worse things than Helmut Zemo, you know. Worse than the ache that slices through your heart when you look at him and his easy smile, the one you might have fallen in love with once again, if you forgot yourself.

You will not.

Instead, you breathe, letting the heavy air in your lungs out slowly as you tug the fingers of your glove until the whole thing is loose enough to be removed entirely.

You always hated getting biscuit crumbs on your whisper-satin fineries.

You asked me to meet you here, Helmut, a fact which he seems to dismiss with another too-sharp smile, eyes flickering over you.

It burns. Licking over the neckline of your dress before moving down to the delicate pearl buttons that hold shut your bodice, heat rising over the thin lace collar wrapped around your throat, and you wonder idly how often he fines pleasure in watching people struggle to breathe and die.

I’m told you have been busy, he tells you flatly, practiced hand snapping his biscuit in half before dipping one perfect semi-circle into the cup of tea he’d placed in front of you, Too busy, it seems, to inform your husband of your whereabouts.

The knifeblade edge of his voice is enough, slipping past the plates of armor you always try to wrap around yourself every time you agree to meet him, his joyless smile the barbs he leaves in your heart, ensuring it will bleed for him for a few months more after your eventual parting.

The first time he’d touched your cheek in the shadow of a clockwork sun while you wept, his lips ghosting  your skin, you nearly fell to your knees at his feet.

That should have been the last time you would ever see him, as he whispered sweet nothings and sweeter promises in a language you did not speak, burning intention into your skin and leaving you forever bound, words falling from his lips like a waterfall.

The third time you met Helmut Zemo, you cried. And the fourth. And the fifth.

You refuse to meet his eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles in your gown with trembling hands, Is this what you came to remind me?

He does not stop smiling, even as you make note of the uneasy tension sitting on his shoulders, the vicious gleam in his eyes as he continues his visual examination of your countenance, tea soaked biscuit melting idly on his tongue.

Yes, it is.

You should be grateful for his honesty — Devils rarely are, after all.

He continues before you have a chance to consider it, How much farther do you plan to run from this place, sweetling, before time returns you back to me?

You wish he wouldn’t call you sweetling.

You haven’t been sweet in a thousand years.

But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? He already knows that, anyway.

Though you suppose that maybe you ought to tell him about something he doesn’t know.

Why did you call me here, Helmut?

Why does any man call his wife back to the port where they parted last? I missed you.

You swallow thickly, avoiding the unyielding blade of his sharp-eyed gaze and even sharper smile, refusing to let your heart leap out to him as it aches to do, You are lying, Helmut, you accuse, pretending to busy yourself with the biscuits he brought to your table.

As always, as you should have expected, he only grins at you — a cruel, twisted grimace that makes your stomach twist not-wholly-unpleasantly — before reaching out and brushing his knuckles over your cheek, Would you let me lie, little bird?

I certainly hope you don’t expect an honest answer to that question.

His laugh is as sharp as his smile, a huff of bemusement you recall bringing you happiness before, a long time ago.

Now it reminds you of the taste of poison, of bile curling in the back of your throat, of blood and metal and the screaming agony of time stretched to its very limit.

The silence too, stretches between you, taut as the wires you would wrap around your palms to cut through cheese and impertinent throats, waiting for you to finally surrender and rise to your feet, gather your things and bid him as formal a goodbye as you’ll allow yourself — always just out of reach, I have no intention of playing games, Helmut, you challenge with the same tone of voice you might use to scold the Empress’s misbehaving sons, If you refuse to do me the courtesy of your honest, then do me the gift of your absence.

He watches you, eyes glimmering amber with insult, but does not dishonor you enough to reach out, There was a time, little bird, when you loved me without such reservation.

The words burn across your skin like living fire, your vows and his molded together in a single remembered sigil, a bond forced with the very language of Judgment, unbidden agony scorching your composure as you make a desperate, futile attempt to push away the memory; his voice soft, the low timbre of his accent sliding over your ears like honey in your mouth, gentle lips on yours as he sealed your fate with a kiss, I have memorized you like a prayer.

You could almost have forgotten he was a liar, standing lost in your memories as you are, forgotten the price of promise and the weight of truth.

Almost.

The tears burn at the backs of your eyes, but you blink them back, let bone grind against bone before, More fool I, then, for thinking you did the same.

You turn to walk towards the door, four sovereigns in hand to pay for your meal — interrupted though it has been — making a concentrated effort to not look back, even as you hear his voice cutting through the otherwise silent room, When everything goes wrong, it is a terrible burden to bear alone, don’t you think?

You cannot help yourself, can you? Shoulders slumping as you declare a reluctant defeat and turn to face him, swearing your heart has lit aflame.

You cannot ignore His Law forever, little bird.

You know nothing of responsibility, Helmut, your voice is cold as the icy expanse beyond the warm walls of Novi Grad station, still aching to leave and frustrated by your uncooperative feet.

There’s a twitch at the corner of his lips, amusement sparking in his own eyes, And what of you, little bird, what have you learned of responsibility since your escape from Perdurance?

You visibly flinch, the name sparking an endless array of horror and memories within you, just as his expression falls into uncharacteristic regret.

Nothing, clearly, you reply hollowly, words bitter on the back of your teeth, Much to your pleasure, I think.

That wounds him, to your surprise, hurt painting his face before he controls his features and buries both regret and rage beneath a placid mask, Infinite freedom is as tight a prison as an opulent cage, on occasion.

[gatheredfates]

the wolf / the lamb | koret swan

Do you want to read all of my FFXIVWrite prompts? You can do that here!

GRAVE. a hole dug in the ground to receive a coffin or dead body, typically marked by a stone or mound | used as an allusive term for death. This is a soft WOL-verse? I'm still WEIRD about writing it proper outside of an RP space but it's fine, it's whatever, I live my best life. Uhhh also hidden lore if you're the right people and you know where to look. :)

There were few earthen graves in La Noscea.

The purpose behind this was twofold. The volcanic soil sprung fresh from the land’s heart wasn’t soft enough to dig low beneath the surface, rendering such burial and disposing methods useless, and the lore of pirate lords was ever as true now as it was when the first men broke berth on foreign shores: we emerged from the sea; to the sea we shall inter.

The sea was as much a mother as she was a murderer, birthing and reaping in the same breath; a metaphor for the lightless place between the stars; swirling aether deep within the heart of Eorzea where the souls of men were made anew. She could nurture, but she could also rage.

She raged the night she took Lily, twisting her body against rocky shores until she looked more siren than sister. A tangle of seaweed in blood-red hair, wreathed in green sea-glass churned from rolling waves. She was beautiful — no, she was still beautiful, as you didn’t look long enough; if you didn’t stare for so long to notice the crab emerge from her parted mouth or the way her blotted skin hugged her tight in three-day rot. But Koret stared. She stared for far too long — so long the sight of it embedded itself into her very consciousness, until she could see it with her eyes closed, and long after the mortician had tried to usher her on.

What a cheat it was to return her to the sea, knowing full well it had chewed her up already. What a joke to push her coffin back over the side of that cliff; to watch it swallow and sink beneath the waves. What a farce it wasn’t her.

Over and over again.

It wasn’t like she could spite it. She couldn’t throw things in to harm it. She couldn’t make it hurt the way that it had hurt her — she couldn’t resolve how the same thing that invigorated her in one breath could kill her in another, and it haunted her. It was always that same sight: the darkest place, the three day rot, the mouth agape as if to scream.

It never stopped. Not even when they called her the Warrior of Light. Not even when she saved the realms. Not even when she traveled beyond the rift.

‘You were always too protective,’ said deep within the Aitiascope, where the muddied lines of life and death carried the tides back to her. ‘This is not a penance, Kor. You were made to live.’

You were made to live. You were made to live, to laugh and love. You were made to fight, to suffer and to carry on. The answer to the universe is not apathy; it is not annihilation or atrophy. You were made to live, so live.

I want to live. Finally, I want to live.

There were few earthen graves in La Noscea. Koret preferred it. When she climbed that same cliff face, overlooking the foamy spray of salt and sea, she was hit with the strange thought that she preferred there was no marker here. It wasn’t like her sister was there. There was no grave, she did not die. She existed in the ocean and moved with the tides; she watched in joy, grief and (gods be good, she could only imagine) second-hand embarrassment as she stumbled through her life.

And, when the time was right, she would find her way back to her. Not in the same way, no; how a caterpillar becomes a moth.

How a wolf becomes a lamb.

[brokendreamscreation]

Headcanons Overview of Lucid Eveningstar [default verse]

Lucid’s title is the “Angel of Dreams & Illusions”

Both the Morningstar and the Eveningstar are represented by the planet Venus in the sky. It is the first “star” to be seen in the evening sky and the last one seen in the morning sky.

He is a seraphim but not an archangel. The closest status he lands in is “guardian angel.”

His duties are to create dreams and illusions to “uplift and comfort the souls of others, both human and Winners.”

While Heaven is “perfect”, grief still exists. An angel discovering a loved one is either in Hell or Purgatory can be devastating and at risk of falling themselves. Lucid’s dreamsphere’s are an element provided through counseling and therapy to help try and prevent this from happening.

Lucid is not allowed to meet the Winner’s nor any other angels outside the archangel’s and high council. This is due to the fact he is crafted in the image of Lucifer and this secret could be detrimental if realized by others.

Created between 5,000-6,000 years ago, it was during a heavy period of grief for God (if you’ve seen the art of Big G it shows He has a darker side referred to as Void G). Creating a new angel in the image and power of his favorite angel Lucifer (Samael), it gave Him a brief period of joy and peace before slipping away and vanishing all together.

Lucid was created as a baby (a cherub really) to have the opportunity to grow up “nurtured, loved, and guided” into his rolls rather than be assigned right from the start. It is also thought that if any elements like Samael/Lucifer began to show through it could be stopped or curbed early in his development to avoid a potential disaster like his predecessor.

He was mainly raised by the archangels and select members of the high council, kept in secret within a citadel used for housing the Archangels.

Gods instructions to Sera included looking after Lil Lucid and guiding him towards the purpose he is meant to have. But unfortunately was rather vague on exactly how. It’s believed He figured since Sera loves and protects her sister Emily as a mother like figure that she would be an excellent guardian for the new angel as well.

Unfortunately with Sera’s desire to protect Heaven and her loved ones, this lack of instruction and uncertainty lead to Lucid being raised in secret and forbidden from many things, including creating life (plants & animals), interacting with the Winners, leaving Heaven (unless accompanied by one of the brothers), and a high limit on what he can manifest.

As Lucid grew and began his training, at major stepping stones he unlocked one of his seraphim wings. The last set was earned when he was given his title as The Angel of Dreams & Illusions

In the Dream Plane, Lucid can create and do anything and everything he ever wanted. It is here where in “safety” he can let his imagination fly and not be spied on as heavily by his superiors.

Lucid creates Dreamsphere’s that look like galaxies or worlds even, the glass like orbs lighter than a feather and fitting in the palm of one’s hand. Each dream is crafted differently and when orders come in for more specifics he creates them to fit them.

Each dreamsphere has the ability to adjust and fit the needs of its new owner, sinking with their emotions, memories and thoughts to craft the perfect lucid dream needed to uplift and comfort them.

Like Lucifer, Lucid could be a formidable opponent, if he had been trained to be as such. He has the same power and abilities of the former archangel angel, but the high council believed he may become exactly like the fallen angel. Thus they “instilled the fear of God” (or Heaven rather) into the seraph at an early age, reminding him that he is made in Lucifer’s image and that he will forever be at risk of falling. That he must never make the same mistakes as his predecessor.

Lucid is a heavily passive angel, choosing flight over fight and typically submitting to the higher ranking ones. However this fear has also lead to the angel to keep secrets and avoid telling full truths in certain situations.

He is used to having many of his questions and ideas dismissed or ignored. Due to this Lucid has become self-sufficient in seeking answers on his own. Usually in the massive library and archives. But after 5000 years of reading he has changed his sights on valuing in-person experiences

When Heaven began to execute Extermination Day on Hell, the focus and guard on Lucid heavily shifted. Noticing he was no longer so heavily under the scope, the young seraph began sneaking out of Heaven to find answers on his own.

[sugutoad]

Naruto Oc Template

Japenese Voice:

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Kanji:

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Status:

Personal Status

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Birthday:

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Ninja

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Clan

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Occupations:

Powers

Abilities:

Physical strength and Chakra:

Taijutsu:

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Genjutsu:

Medical Jutsu:

Intelligence:

Part 1:

Land of Waves:

Chunin Exam:

Konoha Crushed:

Search of Tsunade:

Sasuke Recovery:

Save The Hot Spring's Water Mission:

Academy Student Lead Mission:

Land Of Rice Fields Investigation Mission :

Mizuki Tracking Mission :

Bikochu Search Mission :

Kurosuki Family Removal Mission :

Gosunkugi Capture Mission :

Cursed Warrior Extermination Mission :

Kaima Capture Mission :

Buried Gold Excavation Mission :

Star Guard Mission :

Peddlers Escort Mission :

Third Great Beast Arc :

Konoha Plans Recapture Mission:

Yakumo Kurama Rescue Mission :

Gantetsu Escort Mission :

Menma Memory Search Mission :

Sunagakure Support Mission:

In Naruto's Footsteps: The Friends' Paths:

Part 2:

Tenchi Bridge:

Twelve Guardian Ninja: 

Akatsuki Suppression Mission:

Three Tails Appearance: 

Itachi Pursuit Arc:

Tales of Jiraiya:

Fated Battles Against Brothers:

Six - Tails Unleashed:

Pain's Assault:

The Locus of Konoha:

Five Kage Summit:

Power:

Genjutsu on the past : Twisted World:

Paradise life on a boat:

Fourth Shinobi War: Countdown

Fourth Shinobi War: Confrontation 

Fourth Shinobi War: Climax

Birth of the ten-tails:

Jiraiya Shinobi Handbook: The Tale Of Naruto The Hero: 

Kaguya Strikes:

Blank Era

Kakashi Hiden:

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The Last:

Perfect Day for a Wedding :

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Boruto

Epilogue: 

The Day Naruto Becomes Kage:

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Ao Arc:

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Flashforward:

Movies

Ninja Clash In The Land Of Snow :

Legend Of The Stone Of Gelel :

Guardians Of The Crescent Moon Kingdom:

Naruto Shippuden the Movie :

Naruto Shippuden the Movie: The Will of Fire :

Naruto Shippuden the Movie: Bonds :

Naruto Shippuden the Movie: The Lost Tower :

Naruto the Movie: Blood Prison :

Road to Ninja: Naruto the Movie :

Boruto: Naruto the Movie :

Relationship 

Naruto Uzamaki:

Sasuke Uchiha:

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Sai:

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Yamato:

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Choji Akimichi:

Asuma Sarutobi:

Hinata Hyuga:

Kiba Inuzuka:

Shino Aburame:

Kurenai Yuhi:

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Rock lee:

Neji Hyuga:

Might Gai:

Gaara:

Temari:

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Teammate 1:

Teammate 2:

 Sensei:

Parent 1:

Parent 2:

Sibling ( delete if none ):

[manwalksintobar]

“I translate the names of boys killed in Gaza” // Ghinwa Jawhari

In the city of poets, there is a boy with a stone He is the guardian, lion-hearted and small, the stone half of his palm His palm half of mine. The land scorched by naked sun The blue of the sky lightens his eyes. In the city of poets, there is a boy with a stone. We call him Hydar, which means lion, which means brave We call him Khadir which means goodness We call him Ahmad which means commendable We call him Rashad which means good judgement In the city of poets, the boy with a stone can visit his family in el-Quds, which means Jerusalem. He picks oranges and lemons with his grandfather on an orchard as long as his small boy body can see. He fills a basket with vibrant fruit for his mother He doesn’t drop the stone We call him Riyad which means gardens We call him Seeraj, which means light We call him Mazen, which means cloud We call him Sa’ad which means happiness We call him Basim, which means the one who smiles He is always smiling. On his shoulders, he holds his sister up to a branch she can’t reach and they both fall, laughing, to the soft red earth that’s known them & fed them in every past life. He leads her back home, where their mother bakes bread. He holds her hand. He doesn’t drop the stone We call him Mehdi, which means rightly guided We call him Amir which means prince We call him Alaa which means nobility We call him Slayman, which means man of peace We call him Mustafa, which means chosen one In the city of poets, there is a boy with a stone. At school he memorizes verses from Darwish, Samih Al-Qasem, Fadwa Tuqan. Midday, outside, the sun overhead warms his small body as he kicks a ball to other small boys like him. In each of their hands, there is a stone We call him Hani, which means carefree & happy We call him Tariq, which means morning star We call him Salah, which means peace We call him Bahaa’ which means brilliance We call him Marwan, which means stone In the city of poets, the boy sleeps in a bedroom with his brother. On the walls there are posters of soccer players and musicians. His parents smoke and laugh downstairs with their neighbors. Outside the only noises are from crickets, the carpet of stars above them lights the angles of his brothers’ face, his future face. Even in sleep, they don’t drop the stone We call him Saleem which means safe and secure We call him Hazem which means determined We call him Omar, which means long-lived We call him Khalid, which means endless, eternal In the city of poets, a tank waits for him, an army behind, flanked by a police brigade, glazed in impenetrable armor. Over his home, the deafening whine of an airstrike. The boy will wake on this day, his stone in hand, his hand clutched like a heart at the moment of flight, our guardian. And we will call him Shaheed, which means martyr.

[thelensofyashunews]

Ice Spice remix stamps Cash Cobain's "Fisherrr" as the Song of the Summer

The newly-minted Billboard Rookie of the Month, and multi-hyphenate NYC star, Cash Cobain has just linked up with Ice Spice for the long-awaited video remix for "Fisherrr" (feat. BaySwag) [18m+ Streams]. After bubbling the past few years with R-rated anthems over his own ethereal production – creating the playful "sexy drill" sound that he's pioneered and taken to mainstream heights, Cash Cobain is stamping himself as a serious song of the summer contender with this remix. Following up his two smash singles "Dunk Contest" (8m+) and "Fisherrr" (pronounced, 'for sure), Cash is primed for his moment in the spotlight ––  hitting 1M Monthly Listeners on Spotify, Top 3 NYC Shazam Charts, having occupied the #1 + #3 slots of the NYC Apple Music Charts, hitting #45 on the Urban Radio Charts and counting, and now landing Ice Spice's third feature ever  –– in the words of COMPLEX, "the summer of 2024 is looking very slizzy". On the highly-anticipated remix, Ice Spice is simply in top-tier shape. Adding her signature magnetic 'it-girl' flair, charming cadence, and instantly-coinable one-liners, she bolsters the lightning-hot single into astronomical territory with the opening lines –– "Got an attitude but I'm feelingless, so I ain't mad at you, And I'm tatted too on this fatty-tude, I'm the baddest boo". The long-overdue collab from the two Bronx natives is seamless, with her being a tailor-fit alongside the ethereal, dreamy production and silky smooth verses from Bay Swag and Cash. With the recent releases of "Dunk Contest" (watch Genius 'Open Mic')  and now the Ice Spice-assisted remix for "Fisherrr" (feat. BaySwag), Cash Cobain is using his collaborative momentum from last year to continue elevating his signature sound, showcasing its influential and ever-growing widespread appeal in the process. In the words of Cash: 

“It’s a beautiful record. It feels amazing, it feels like NYC is back stronger than ever with me and Spice -– two Bronx legends. Get ready for the song of the summer.” 

Last month, Cash took over NYC with his birthday show, 'Slizzyfest' at Irving Plaza –– a night that was slated as a stacked lineup of NY's finest, with rumors of an A-list superstar surprise set. After chatter spread online and the hype reached a fever pitch, the crowd became too much to handle and the show was ultimately canceled –– but Cash wanted to give the fans their money's worth so he ventured into Union Square and threw a makeshift show with his crew, a Bluetooth speaker, and hundreds of adoring fans (read 'I Went to Cash Cobain’s Slizzyfest and All I Got Was That Classic NYC Feeling' via Rolling Stone + statement in Billboard). Also in Billboard, Cash recently teased potential collaborations with Frank Ocean, Travis Scott, Don Toliver (seen filming a music video here), Lil Yachty and more –– a surefire sign of the worldwide stardom soon to come.

These recent releases arrive on the heels of a career-defining year in 2023 that closed with the production of PinkPantheress' "Nice To Meet You" (feat. Central Cee), which debuted at #20 on Billboard Hot 100 (he alsostarred alongside her in a nationally-syndicated Apple commercial for the new MacBook). This was preceded by producing Drake's"Calling For You" (feat. 21 Savage), which debuted at #5 on the Billboard Hot 100, DJ'ing at Travis Scott's Cactus Jack x Audemars Piguet event, and releasing his critically-acclaimed debut solo album Pretty Girls Love Slizzy with Giant Music. 

[disembowlmentproject]

Disembowling the Stone: Verse 1 - The Boy

The boy didn't hold a very large mustache, and he had a secret fear that somebody would discover a good-for-nothing husband to be.

He shuddered at the small, dull, gray flutter on the cheek.

Little left his street, not for a second.

A cat standing on the corner could have been around.

He watched the cat in his mirror.

Now, cats couldn't shake out toward town. Nothing except the people in cloaks could.

He supposed they were... different people. Important people.

They were collecting the dead. He looked at them and stroked his mustache.

As the people in cloaks walked into the door of his home, he was pulled into the wall.

Was this normal behavior?

Trying to pull himself together, he went into the living room to catch the watchers.

The people in cloaks all came into the room. He looked shocked. The crowd casually crept to the bedroom.

The cat was still there. It was as still as a statue. On the corner, the cat had been popped.

The robes swept it in a cloak, and it flickered into darkness.

Anyone wouldn't be able to slip off to where it had gone.

The cat passed flocks of owls, shooting stars not bound to the street. A fine thing, to have disappeared at last.

The drop was a dark, cold, hard, piercing drop to the dead of heaven, beneath great planets and the people who live screaming for something underneath.

They fell and landed on the road. Nothing was normal where they could see, the underground better without them.

The light that shone stopped at the end of the street, and the very last place you would expect closed onto the boy.