#the suicide of persephone

[duskianfae]

N o r a

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Amy Pond canon-compliant character study (I will rip your heart out just like I did mine)

You are Amy Pond and your best friend is a man who tumbled into your life when you were a child and turned you into the town’s Cassandra, doomed to never be believed, doomed to believe without salvation, and yet your faith in has never wavered, because what would you be without him? You don't remember existing in a world without your god.

You are Amy Pond and you are kind and you have faith until that faith is forcefully broken to save your life. You become Lucy Pevensie, cast out of your kingdom by the only god you have ever believed in, so you choose to build your own kingdom, to make a life out of the wreckage that he left behind.

But that is not enough. It will never be enough. You are not allowed to leave this story. You are not allowed to grow up in a way that matters, because every time you try to choose, every time that you try to build a life of your own, you are dragged back into this story.

You are Amy Pond and this is a horror story, a tragedy, because you were never allowed to make a choice unless that choice is to die. You are not allowed to choose unless it is to kill yourself. You die on Appalappachia. You die in Manhattan. Any time you get to make a decision, death is there, hand outstretched, ready to walk you off the stage.

You are Amy Pond and you are a ghost haunting other people's stories.

You are Amy Pond and you died before you were born.

You are Amy Pond and you are kind even though the world was never kind to you and maybe, just maybe, this would have been a kinder story if you hadn't believed. If you hadn't held faith. If you had let the memory of your imaginary friend slide away.

The world might have ended earlier. The universe might have been worse off. But would you have? Would you have been happier?

The answer doesn't matter in the end. It never did.

Because there's nothing you can do. No other way this story ends.

You are Amy Pond and you do not get to leave. You do not get to change your story. 

You are Amy Pond and you are Amelia Williams and you are Amelia Pond and your story ends as it began: with a girl sitting in a garden, waiting for a man to pick you up and take you to your death.

(Amy Pond and being trapped within the narrative: aka, the question of narrative framing and the consequences of faith.)

Full version of the poem(? Character study?) here:

@twelvesbian @tenmartha @variousqueerthings @spoofymcgee

(Tagging people whose analysises inspired this)

[hycinthrt]

some hadestown au doodles, i might develop some of these into full drawings at some point

maybe, you never know these days

and orpheus is 100% singing a real song, its called laurita garza and it is about a school teacher who finds out her boyfriend is going to leave her to marry another girl so she shoots him. thats the kind of stuff i grew up listening

[sprucedarkstache]

Here’s something to ruin your night, Hadestown fans. You know how in the end Persephone says “raise a glass to Orpheus wherever he may be”? Well, she’s certainly able to find him again, because in the original Orpheus/Eurydice myth, after Eurydice dies, Orpheus goes home and kills himself so he can be with her again.

I just

Thought you guys should know that.

It’s a sad song, it’s a sad tale, it’s a tragedy.

[decepti-geek]

'The story of Persephone is inherently about a mother losing her daughter'

Sometimes, daughters want to be lost. Sometimes, they want to die. Sometimes they both wish to be dead and are terrified by the idea that something could kill them. Sometimes, the idea that they want to die is huge and horrifying in and of itself - and it is theirs.

Sometimes, they might only wish to die in a way they have control over. Sometimes, they are terrified when they face death in a way that is not of their choosing. Sometimes, the line between the two is blurred and scary in itself.

Sometimes, their mothers really do love them, and do not seek to harm them, and still make their daughters' desire for death all about themselves. About how the pain their daughter is experiencing hurts them, and how their daughters' desire to die causes them grief, and about how these feelings are Bigger and more Important than their ultimate source. And they end up harming their daughters anyway, as a result. With their very real, genuine love.

Why is the line pushed so much atm, that Persephone entering the underworld has to be primarily about Demeter, that all other focus is wrong? (The has to being the key thing here, as one interpretation it's great, but to insist upon it as the only valuable interpretation...?)

To me, that's like... there is so much real-world precedent, where people who live in a way that is close to death, being ill physically or mentally, are dehumanised and glossed over in favour of the pain experienced by the people who love them. Closeness to death is scary, but so much of the standard western societal approach is geared around recoiling from anything to do with it, and that includes recoiling from engaging with the people who have the most to do with it. It's easier to deal with it using a degree of removal, but some people legitimately do not have a choice about that.

In my mind, Persephone is one of those people. Within the story, she has no degree of removal from the idea of death. She's already in the underworld. Demeter is removed. She never enters the underworld, she sends others down there to interpret Persephone's experience for her. Why is it only Correct to focus on Demeter, as the grieving parent? Why can't we focus on Persephone, as the dying daughter? Even as the daughter who is unambiguously drawn towards death? Even through a romanticised lens? Even, maybe, without fully realising that that's what we're doing, but still feeling out the idea?

I've been that daughter, in all senses of it. I'm still here, I'm not dead, but I've brushed close to it. I didn't stop existing as a whole entire person, just because I went close to death and came back. I didn't become A Daughter, an abstract concept, a possession, something subsumed by a louder voice of pain, just because it was too painful to contemplate that I was hurting too. I sure as fuck don't think my mum's side of the story is the only side worth telling. I sure as fuck don't regard myself as a side character in my mum's confrontation with grief, as parsed through me like some kind of vessel.

[hellenic-fire]

Do any other hellenic polytheists have any advice with dealing with death irt our beliefs? My old boss has passed from suicide and Im not sure how to deal with it. Is there a God I can commune with to help with the grieving process?

[koseigu]

following them goes beyond having a death wish.

from the very first moment they met, shoko was struck by how unsettling persephone was. the kind of eldritch horror that exists only in stories, the most disquieting aura of cursed energy she's ever felt.

their conversations were brief, if they happened at all. then they came into the clinic, healing hands soothed broken skin. ...it was all downhill from there, really.

after that it was being late to class because they got distracted on their smoke break, stolen kisses up against the wall or on the floor in the training room, a warm tongue and wandering hands on a twin bed. at one point she thinks she's absolutely in love with them and vows at that moment to keep it to herself. seph, like everyone else, is needed outside of tengen's barrier.

shoko has to stay. she will always have to stay. viscera must needs cleaning up.

it's not hard to find them after an outburst like this. she should have known to follow the trail of bodies.

yaga says he can't hold others back for long, tells shoko to get out of here and not as doctor ieiri.

so here she is, suicide bomb with a bloody hand around her throat.

do it. do it now.

the back of her head is bleeding—she can feel the warmth of it on her scalp and it makes her dizzy with elation, desire. "gojo's out of the country, got some business he needs to take care of in africa." just me i'm afraid. "you used to choke me harder than this, seph. don't tell me you've gotten soft."

poking the bear covered in gore feels like the right choice at the moment.

"...he'll be here soon, i'm sure. i guess i'm offering you an escape route."

@huntershowl, continued from here

[decepti-geek]

I’ve read East of the Sun. I loved it.

I still want Persephone for all of those things - specifically for the way her story connects to death.

Like yes, sure, Psyche’s story involves death and the underworld, but only as a smaller part of her larger story, and it’s more of a redemption/ascension through death narrative, and honestly is one of the parts in the story where Psyche exercises the least agency. Persephone’s story entirely hinges around death/the underworld, and that’s a lens through which I’m much more interested in exploring any/all of these concepts, because of both literally the ways in which I’ve seen suicideality tie into some of them, which happens to be a thing that interests me right now, and also because of how being heavily ‘othered’ by society can be explored as a metaphorical death - again, a subject I’m currently interested in. These reasons are why I, personally, am more drawn to depictions of Persephone than Psyche. Other people will have others.

Some people DO want Persephone, specifically, for extremely valid reasons (which can be valid reasons even just because they’ve consciously thought about it and decided they do want to look at the Persephone story, not even because their particular reasons have particular merit), and those reasons are also why they want to shift/reimagine the story. I get it if people are frustrated that their fave isn’t getting attention or whatever, but I don’t think it’s the best approach to assume that people only like the thing you don’t like, because they don’t know any better, or else how to like the Correct thing? Like, what kind of prescriptivist, patronising bullshit is that?

"I want a Persephone story that focuses on Persephone's agency as a young woman" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone story about a bad/abusive mom and toxic mother/child relationship" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone that saves herself" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone story where she falls in love with the monster" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone story where she rescues her lover" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone story where the monster/villain falls in love with her" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone story where she's a strong, independent heroine" you want Psyche

"I want a Persephone story where she isn't kidnapped and held against her will but instead goes and sacrifices herself willingly/chooses to stay with her lover" YOU WANT PSYCHE

[meteor752]

Epic the musical side story where Hades and Persephone get really invested in the story during The underworld saga, sorta small talk about the strange man for the next couple of years, and then freak the fuck out in the audience during god games when they find out not only is the guy still alive, he’s managed to piss off like half the pantheon

Just

“Hey babe?”

“Yeah Perse?”

“There’s like, a bunch of mortals here”

“Mortals? What, how?”

“Idk, they’re like, on some ship”

“Huh. Should I call Thanatos, have him take care of it, or should we just wait it out”

“Call Thanatos, best to rid the garden of any pests before they manage to kill your flowers”

“Pfft, alright. I’ll be right back”

“Okay- wait. A bunch of the dead are singing to him”

“What?”

“Yeah like a bunch. Who are they?”

“Uhh, most of them drowned, a few killed by a cyclops. One broke his neck?”

“They’re singing about a cyclops, about how he let one live or something”

“Probably one of Poseidons. Should I still call Thanatos?”

“No wait, I wanna see where this goes.”

“Alright.”

“An infant, what infant?”

“Maybe the cyclops?”

“OH NEW GUY! He seems important!”

“Also a cyclops victim. They seem close, what do you think friend or lover?”

“They’re Greek, it’s probably both”

“I don’t know how he managed it, but this guy brought down like, the entire vibe of the entire underworld. That shouldn’t be possible”

“Yeah. Oh who’s this lady now?”

“Suicide by drowning. Not sure. Maybe a relative”

“Yeah may-THATS HIS MOM”

“OH MY GODS. OH HE DIDNT KNOW OH LORD”

“Hooooooly fuck, what a way to find out”

““Here in the underworld the past is always close behind”. Think we should make that a slogan?”

“Then we’d have to credit him and stuff tho”

“Yeahhhh. Well, seems like this guy is sticking around for a few hours. Should I grab some popcorn?”

“Yeah I’ll grab the fainting couches”

~~~

“Okay what’s happening now?”

“He just stated speaking to Tiresias”

“Tiresias? He went all the way to the underworld to speak with a prophet?”

“Well he is quite good”

“Wait did Tiresias just reject him?”

“I think so? Oh wait predictions”

“Past romance, sacrifice, betrayal, and some final battle? Who the fuck is this guy?”

“Dunno, but he’s not going home that’s for sure”

“Palace? He must be a king of some kind then”

“Do we know the names of any mortal kings”

“Nope, so that didn’t help at-wait his wife is doing what”

“Ohhh, that must be rough, hearing it from a prophet”

“Okay this chanting is getting intense. I think I heard the word Scylla”

“I heard lightning bolt”

“That doesn’t bode well”

~~~

“He’s just, sitting there”

“Is he done? Should we-oh. No okay new song, let’s see what’s going on”

“Man this guy has it rough. Should we like, do something?”

“I mean, I’m not really the “bless the mortals” type of god. I mean I let a guy borrow my helm once, and I haven’t seen it since. I should probably check up on that actually”

“Yeahhh. They killed a friend of the cyclops?”

“That explains all the cyclops victims”

““Witch turn men to pigs”, you think that’s Circe?”

“Sounds like he-WHAT WAS THAT THIRD ONE”

“You don’t think-?”

““God comes down and makes a fleet drown”, I am most definitely sure!”

“Damn. Wait wooden horse? Oh, I know who this guy is!”

“Really?”

“Yeah he’s one of Athenas warriors! Ody something. Odyssen? Odyssa? Whatever, I remember the horse thing was a big deal when it happened, Ares was pissed, Hermes spread the word to all of mount Olympus”

“One of Athenas eh? Interesting. Oh yeah, the god was definitely Poseidon”

“How are you sure?”

“That line he just sung, “Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves”, Posy is always fucking saying that crap”

“500 men? Damn”

“Penelope, presumably the wife. Don’t know about the other guy tho”

“Either a son, brother, or lover. Or maybe just a friend I dunno”

“Another infant? What the fuck is wrong with this guy, pulling a fucking Hera”

“Gotta appreciate the determination of him”

“Yeah, but I think we’ll see him here again soon. If he’s pissed of Poseidon, and soon to be Zeus if Tiresias is to be believed, I don’t think he’ll get much further when he gets out of here”

“So we are letting him go”

“Yeah. Partly because I want to see what happens next. When he gets here we’ll ask him to tell the full story, from beginning to end”

“Alrighty then”

~~~

“I swear if I get dragged out of the underworld for one of Zeus’ little games one more time this year I might actually start a war”

“Mum keeps staring at me…fuck she’s probably gonna try and talk after this, fuck meeeeee”

“We can escape in the middle of it, no one will know”

“Oh she’ll know. Do you know what this is about like, at all?”

“No, but I think Hermes might launch into the fourth dimension if he keeps vibrating like that in his seat”

“Yeesh”

“Hmm, odd. I don’t see Posy anywhere”

“Maybe he’s competing?”

“Nah, he always declines when Zeus asks, he hates it”

“Why were you not invited?”

“Dunno, probably has nothing to do with me”

“Oh it’s starting, it’s starting”

“Athena’s challenging eh? Interesting”

“Would love to know what any of this is about”

“Mortal lover? Demi-god child? Those are the usual subject”

“Yeah but that’s not Athenas thing. Probably something to do with one of her “warriors” or whatever”

“Apollo, of course. Always has to be apart of these things”

“The drama queen”

“Truly”

“Hephasteus and Aphrodite? That’s a little awkward”

“Weird lineup so far- fucking Ares? Yeah shes not winning this one, sibling spite is stronger than any argument she can give”

“Why would all three of them be included. I can feel the tension from here. I’m uncomfortable”

“And Hera? Yeah no she’s loosing for sure, Hera like not care less about any mortal, unless they’ve offended her”

“She might be convinced, just to spite Zeus?”

“That just sounds unhealthy on so many levels”

“Alright let’s see what this is about”

“Hold up, Ody?”

“Oh my gods. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Well he was one of her warriors. Was he not?”

“I can’t believe he’s still trying to get home. It’s been like ten years, how the fuck”

“Well, if he pissed off Poseidon then he probably has something to do with it, the pissy bastard”

“Killed sirens. Why would you do that, so unnecessary”

“Sacrifice??? What the fuck is this man up to????”

“Didn’t we have a few Scylla sacrifices a few years back. Think that was him?”

“Holy shit we did. Yeah, Posy stays away from Scylla to the best of his ability, travelling in her domain to avoid him is not a bad idea”

“‘Phro is mad that his mum died? Girl you are grasping at straws, even more than the previous two”

“Hold up, why the fuck was I not invited?! He traveled through my domain, disturbed my souls, he even woke up Cerberus with his monster wailing, I should be apart of this!”

“I mean it’s a bit weak”

“I have more grounds to be down there than fucking Apollo. Like sirens? Come on man”

“Oh ‘Phro refused huh? Only got two, that’s kinda weak coming from Athena, she usually gets at least four”

“Is that cheating? Her quick thought thing. That cheating?”

“Are there any actual rules?”

“Just, try to win, I guess”

“Oh Ares turn. Wait she lost Aphrodite, this should be over”

“I think this is more of a personal thing. Like I said, sibling spite”

“Oh yeah, Scylla! Fuck this guy is getting around”

“Oh damn, that pissed her off”

“Guessing that the guy other that Penelope, Telemewhatever was his child then”

“Oh wait they yielded?? Huh, never thought that would happen”

“And, Heras turn”

“Yeah like I said she does not give a fuck. But it was a good run”

“Yeah, keeping her four out of five streak”

“Wait what the fuck was that”

“She- she actually yielded?”

“And for not cheating! Man I love this guy, I can’t wait for him to die”

“Only you babe. Wait holy fuck she won?”

“Oh Zeus won’t like- oh, just like I said. He’s pissed”

“Is he gonna kill her?”

“If he does I’ll just resurrect her probably. She deserves a better end, even if she is annoying”

“Well, should we go then?”

“Yeah I have some paperwork to- do I hear boss music?”

“OH SHES STILL ALIVE!!”

“She took a lightning bolt to the face and lived, holy fuck. Gotta respect it”

“I think, she’s actually convincing him? Never thought I’d see the day”

“Well, she’s his favourite child. I think if Ares tried something similar he’d just get struck by another lightning bolt”

“Well, that was fun. When I come back up for spring I’ll have to check with Hermes more about the details of what’s live, actually going on with this Ody dude”

“Yeah. Wanna stop for applebees before we head on down?”

“Yeah, but let’s go now cause mum is heading like right for me and I don’t wanna deal with that until another few months”

This was dumb lol

[tewwor-moving]

Okay? The bridge of his nose crinkles in shock and denial. What part of that was okay? What part of him was okay? Jie’s unable to respond while the self hatred piles in his mouth. He’s never had to explain it before — to any extent. Not even Ricochet knows this in verbatim. It’s all gleaned from trial and error, context spelled out in blood and electric frenzy. The urge to erase this side of himself wants to swallow him whole. God knows he’s tried before. Only stopped trying when brand new lungs took in air again weeks after.

A hand runs over his hair. Settles on the back of his neck as he tips the chin down. Just a moment spared to try and keep emotions in control. They’re trying to help. They did help — he has to remember that. The sigh that leaks out of him sounds.. spent. And he is after being reformed, only to brawl with the most physically stubborn person known to mankind seconds later. The same one that looks three ticks away from passing out in that chair.

“Thanks.” Jie’s still not looking at them yet. Doesn’t try to until he feels his nose get tweaked. Then comes the immediate scowl and glare aimed directly at Persephone. “Don’t wanna.” Just like a snotty child, he is, but there lacks the energy to do much of anything at the moment.

“You’ll have to unless you want some assistance,” Ricochet points out, all calm-like but with an underlying warning.

IT'S ALWAYS DIFFICULT TO BE IN A ROOM WITH RICOCHET without looking at him directly. in the corner of her eye, he looks like the hallucinations that make her claw at her throat and gasp in the night. he can't help it; he doesn't know. and he never will, if everything goes to plan.

but persephone feels her best after recovering from a rage — the endorphins from exertion and the satisfaction of tearing flesh echo for hours once the shakes die down and she gets some liquid in her. so today, they loop a mechanical finger around an escaped section of inky hair and tug gently on it to keep themself grounded, and with a deep breath, she turns her attention fully on jie.

it's not as hard as she worried it would be. mostly, that's because jie has an air about him that she has never seen before. it's — unusual for jie to exhibit shame. he is arrogant. infuriating. short-tempered. loyal. she didn't think he was capable of shame.

but the way he curls in on himself as he speaks... they recognize it all too well. after he finishes, she turns the information over in her head, weighing it against what she already knew. it slots in perfectly — the long disappearances, the reckless violence. ricochet's role in his life.

❝ ... okay. ❞ their voice is matter-of-fact, lacking hostility or judgement. ❝ yeah, the feds suck. employer deals with them a lot, so we have to rub shoulders. doesn't surprise me that they'd target someone who can come back from the dead. my money's on some sort of astronomical tech predicting where you land, but it could be weird magic shit too, i guess. ❞

pushing off the wall, seph steps toward jie where he sits on the floor. she drops to a crouch in front of him. ❝ you should've told me earlier, but whatever. good to know now. i killed all those guys, by the way. you're welcome, and i accept your apology for the chewing-out i'm gonna get from the boss about it. ❞ it could be a trick of the light, but the faint flicker of a smile ghosts across seph's lips as she reaches out — and flicks him on the nose. ❝ put a fucking shirt on. this isn't an old spice commercial. ❞

[yallemagne]

I'm watching people trauma bond with Calypso from EPIC in real-time. Y'all. A character can be a woman and be a rapist at the same time. And her being a woman doesn't mean that ACTUALLY there's some trauma in her past that justifies her imprisoning men on her island and taking them to bed against their will, it means that she's a rapist that just happens to also be a woman.

I love how Calypso is depicted in EPIC, she's just dripping with a nastiness that is only matched by Penelope's entitled suitors. She's sugary sweet at the outset, but when Odysseus rather violently rejects her, she laughs at his rejection, saying he's adorable when he's angry and that he doesn't have any choice but to submit to her will as a god. And then she goes right back to the sweet lover in paradise ruse!!! It's sickening! She denies his autonomy because it gets in the way of the fantasy romance that she's forcing upon him.

So, I'm frustrated with people trying to paint it as though she's the victim in the situation, that what she's doing is somehow okay because she's a pretty woman and they feel bad for her. That's so patronizing.

I've seen people justify her behaviour by saying she's lonely. Tough shit get a hobby. Being starved for affection has never justified being an abuser.

I've seen people insist she truly cares about Odysseus because she tries to talk him down from suicide... but an abuser talking you down from taking drastic measures to escape their abuse isn't them showing genuine care, it's them not wanting the game to end, it's them exerting control over your very life. If anything, it's more disturbing because she is the one who drove him to be suicidal. So she's playing this game where she drives him to the precipice and then tries to lure him back down with "reminders" of "their love", those reminders actually being of the words of his dead loved ones that she's pilfered and warped as though they were her own.

The most ridiculous argument I've seen in defending Calypso's behaviour is saying that we can't use terms like "rapist" for her because "it was a different time" so "it's not certain whether or not what she did would be considered non-consensual for the time"... Like must I even point out that... that sleeping with someone against their will has always been and will always be rape? Anyway, her actions fit the ancient definition of rape to a t anyhow, so it's weird to try and weaponize "cultural differences" for the sake of having plausible deniability in Calypso's favour. Rape is also used to mean kidnapping, which is why we have pieces titled the Rape of Ganymede, the Rape of Persephone, etc..

Even if Jorge were to come out and say that, somehow, nothing sexual took place on Calypso's island in seven years, that despite her explicitly telling Odysseus that his "no" means nothing to her as a goddess she somehow never went so far as to sexually assault him... it doesn't make her abuse any less bad that she spared him that one trauma! Like holy shit dude.

Imagine if there was an adaptation that featured Zeus' rape of Io, and the audience responded to every literally dehumanizing action Zeus took against Io by saying "ooohh but he's lonely. i feel bad for him the most he's just a widdle lonely baby man. his wife is so meaaan."

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | ii.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The clock catches your eye the second your ethics class ends. You pick up your things and make your way to the exit. It’s lunch time. You can’t erase the conversation you had with Coriolanus from your mind. His eyes, his smile, his smell, his voice…everything about him makes your head a little cloudy. Boys have never been your concern before, especially because of Mother. It’s not that she ever forbade you to date, experiment. It was more of a silent understanding, a quiet agreement. There are more important things than boys in this world. Like science, or rebuilding the world after the war. Mother herself has only one love. Her research. So you always supposed it is your duty to aim to be the same way. Therefore, while everyone around you talked about crushes and first kisses and…other things since middle school, you’ve kept your head in your books.

It’s not like you never noticed how pretty some of the boys at the Academy were. Boys like…Coriolanus Snow. It just always felt forbidden. As Volumnia Gaul’s daughter, you had to be above it all.

Hence your predicament. What does someone like Coriolanus Snow want from you?

The question keeps swirling inside your head as you approach the cafeteria. His attention never swayed in your direction before. Towards girls like Persephone, Clemensia or Livia, perhaps. But you? The very idea is ludicrous.

You make a stop near the lunch room’s door. It’s already brimming with students. Animated chatter fills the cafeteria and you dourly note the groups that have formed. Even Lysistrata, the infamous loner, has found her tribe with the likes of Io Jasper, Persephone Price and some red-haired boy you don’t know. A few months have already passed. You should have found a crowd by now, a group of like-minded people that’d tolerate your presence. But every time you approach someone, you get tongue-tied and your mind blanks. How does one even strike up a conversation out of the blue? It still stuns you that Coriolanus spoke to you with such ease. Though you surmise the Snow heir is comfortable with people in a way you’ll never be.

Your gaze travels to his table. Coriolanus and his friends. They seem absorbed by an intense conversation, Festus waving his arms while Clemensia shakes her head in apparent disbelief. 

You shift the books between your arms. Feet rooted to the floor, you struggle to move. You watch the exchange, pondering how to weave your way through the cafeteria without drawing too much attention to yourself. 

As you contemplate your next move, blue eyes find yours across the cafeteria. Coriolanus’ lips curve upwards. Your pulse soars. The rest of the table seems to note your presence. Clemensia places a hand in front of her mouth and laughs. Then the rest of them, bar Coriolanus, begin to laugh as well. 

Your chest clutches, fire creeping inside your cheeks. They must be laughing at you. Of course. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. This was a stupid idea. Stepping back, you dash through the hallways. The library will be a more appropriate spot for your lunch break, as it often is. Quieter. Less crowded. Safe and familiar. The wooden rows brimming with books are your shield against the noise and chaos of the world outside.

It’s where you belong anyway. Besides, you still have your notes of the morning to peruse and memorize. You can’t afford to fall behind.

The rest of the week transforms you into a nervous wreck. After you fail to show up for lunch, Coriolanus’ unnerving cobalt stare appears to follow you everywhere. Whether it’s in the lecture hall, the hallways or even the library, your safe haven, the Snow heir’s presence always lingers near. Still, you try to resume your usual routine, both at the Capitol University and the Citadel.

Tasks are never amiss in Mother’s lab. Between the mutts to feed, filing the archives and cleaning the subjects’ glass cases, something always requires your attention anyway. All the important jobs aren’t yours to have. Just menial tasks. It’s all Mother said you can manage anyways. Back when you were little, your mother paid sporadic attention to you. She’d spend time with you, show you the specimens, talk about her work. However she quickly lost interest in you once she realized your lack of ambition, intellect and inclination for casual cruelty. For a fleeting stretch of time, you know your mother harbored hope that you could succeed her, continue her research, complete her breakthroughs. Those hopes are now forever buried, along with any sliver of expectation Mother had for your future.

You couldn’t stomach the thought of her experimenting on live creatures and kept asking if they were in pain, or if they missed their family, if once she was done, she would send them back home. Mother grew annoyed by it. To this day, you feel she still holds that against you.

Once your work for the evening is done, you take a rare break in one of the empty offices. While you’re aware it’d be best to go over your flash cards for the upcoming exams, the motivation to do it isn’t with you today. The entire week all you’ve done is study, burning the midnight oil at both the University library and home. A break would be welcome. You’re craving it in fact.

So instead of your study books, you collect a novel from your leather satchel. Heart fluttering in anticipation, your fingers sweep over the cover. This one details the forbidden tryst between a prince and a castle maid. Your cheeks warm as you land on the scene you didn’t get to finish last time. 

As you sink into the story, oblivious to the world around you, you don’t hear the soft steps circling closer to you. 

Warm air fans over your shoulder as a deep voice erupts from behind you.

“I didn’t realize smutty romance novels were on the curriculum.”

Astonishment plucks a gasp from you. The swivel chair spins as you bolt to your feet, the book in your hands dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. Your eyes widen as Coriolanus’ towering frame invades your line of sight.

He slowly crouches to pick up your novel. As he gives it a quick once over, flipping through the yellowed pages, a smile blooms on his lips. 

“These are smuggled from the Districts, aren’t they?” he inquires, a hint of disdain coating his utterance of the word ‘district’. Embarrassment flushes through you as Coriolanus’ gaze roams across the pages. “Interesting choice.” His eyes rise to meet yours. Your heart misses a beat. “Does Dr. Gaul approve?”

“N-Not really,” you confess with a small voice, fiddling with the cuff of your lab coat. 

His smirk broadens at that.

The blond causes you to leap back as he snaps your book shut. 

“I was expecting you at lunch the other day,” he says, edging closer to you. 

Your mouth dries. “I was busy.”

Coriolanus’ brow quirks.

“Too busy for lunch with me?”

“It wasn’t just you.”

He pauses, searching your face. His silent scrutiny makes your nerves thrum. You freeze in your spot, hands squeezing the edge of the desk behind you. 

After an eternity goes by, he states gently, “We weren’t laughing at you.”

Your jaw hangs slack. You feel self-conscious as his keen blue eyes hold yours, peeling the layers of you. 

He heaves out a long sigh. 

“Festus just said something stupid and Clemmie happened to look in your direction. I’m sorry you thought that.”

“I didn’t think anything,” you mumble, shrugging.

His face pinches ever-so-slightly.

“Yes.” He gets even closer, chest almost brushing yours. Your stomach tightens. “Yes, you did,” he articulates. “So I’m making sure you know. No one was laughing at you that day. And Clemmie wouldn't do that. She’s the nicest girl I know.”

You study Coriolanus, struck by the sincerity laced in his tone. You aren’t used to anyone considering your feelings. Besides, you don’t find it in you to argue, remembering Clemensia’s kindness on multiple occasions at the Academy. She is also one of the few wealthy students who never picked on the departed Sejanus Plinth for his roots in District Two, even defending him from Arachne’s cruelty on one occasion. Relief flows inside your chest. So you weren’t the reason behind their laughter that day. It feels strangely good, knowing that, especially coming from Coriolanus himself. 

He cocks his head and scoffs, “We aren’t at the Academy anymore. Why would we do something this childish? That’s silly.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a little silly,” you mechanically reply, something about his definitive tone making you feel dumb for even letting your mind wander there. You give a shaky nod. “Thank you.”

He hums as if he were lost in thought. His fingers then slide below your chin, startling you.

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know?”

Confusion has you blinking rapidly.

“I’m sorry?” 

His digits latch around your jaw, his features disturbingly still.

“Just then, you lied,” he notes. “About it not bothering you. You don’t need to do that with me.” He pauses, tracing the curve of your bottom lip. “Besides, between you and I, you’re very bad at it.”

An anxious chuckle peals from your lips.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, curiosity evident on his features. 

A hollow smile tugs your lips.

“It’s just that Mother says the same thing, that I’m a horrible liar.” It’s just one of the myriad of things you’ve always failed at. Fooling others and pretending. 

Wars are won with heads, not hearts.

Coriolanus places his hand besides you on the desk, looming over you in a way that has your pulse quicken. You grow dizzy as his scent coats the air.

“You know…Clemmie and the girls were looking forward to meeting you,” he intones. 

Disbelief fills you. “T-They were?”

“You’ve been so discreet during our Academy days. Everyone was just curious, that's all.” His feathery lashes sag, caressing his cheekbones. “About what you were like.”

“Oh.”

“Well, you’re a bit of an enigma, angel. The daughter of the Head Gamemaker who never talks to anyone. That makes people wonder.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

Coriolanus takes a long minute to drink you in. Your skin tingles with his intense focus. Somehow in the dim light of the office, his blue eyes seem to come alight with a strange glint.

“I disagree,” he slowly states. “I think you’re very interesting.”

You lick your lips. “I’m really not.”

Your only answer is that cryptic smile he likes to wear. 

“So…you still owe me lunch.” He slants his head. “We can go together if you like.”

“Together?”

“Yes. You don’t have to feel scared if I’m with you.”

When you bow your head, hesitation lingering within you, he tilts your chin up. 

“No one would dare make fun of you if I’m around. Trust me, angel.”

There’s an unfaltering certainty cinching his tone, as if repercussions were sure to befall whoever questions him.

Your forehead creases. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“What?” he asks, his dark brows knitting.

“All of…that.” You turn away from him, reflexively gripping your forearm. “I-I’m fine on my own. Always have been.”

Surprise floods your insides when no snappy reply pours from his lips. Instead of answering, the blond leans away from you and releases your chin. He observes you as you remain still. You can’t help trying to figure out what thoughts bounce through his head. He must think you’re an idiot, isolating yourself like that, missing out on everything the world has to offer. If only he knew. There is no space for you in the world. Nowhere for you to fit.  As Coriolanus heads for the door, the tension in your body melts a bit.

“I’ll see you in class,” he announces after several harrowing minutes of silence. 

As he makes to leave, you’re hit with the realization that he still has your book in his hand. 

“Coriolanus?” you call. He stops in his tracks, head pivoting towards you. “My book…”

This draws a subtle smile from him. Coriolanus makes no move to return your novel, turning his back to you as if you hadn’t called him out. 

Mouth agape, you watch him take his leave without another word.

The next day, you think yourself free of Coriolanus Snow’s peculiar scrutiny. Right after the morning classes end, you head to the library. You are determined to enjoy a peaceful lunch break, have a few unenthusiastic bites of the stale sandwich you packed this morning and maybe get a head start on your molecular cell biology courses. Another topic that has you drowning in class, that you’ll need twice as much work to pass.

Naturally, however, the blond has other plans.

He shows up again while you’re sitting at the bottom of a shelf so high it nearly touches the vaulted ceiling of the library. You find him staring at you from the corner of your eye.

Your heart bounces inside your chest as your gaze crosses his.

He plops down next to you on the floor.

“Coriolanus,” you chide hotly, your voice just above a whisper. “You have to stop doing that.”

A lopsided smile decorates his handsome features.

“I like how flustered you get. It’s cute,” he replies, mirth dripping from his soft timbre. There isn’t an ounce of guilt in his words, as if the mere fact that your reaction entertains him is justification enough. 

A frown mars your brow as your focus shifts back to your Biology book.

“Shouldn't you be having lunch with your friends?”

“Hm…someone’s missing at my table.”

Your nails sink into your palm, your frown deepening. 

“You’re persistent.”

His raspy chuckle ripples through your skin.

“I prefer determined, angel,” he mutters, much closer than you’d like. “What are we reading today?”

“N-Nothing. Just going through my notes.”

“You don’t have to study all the time, you know.”

“No, I do.”

He hums his disapproval.

“You don’t.”

“I’m not like you, Coriolanus. I’m…” Your voice trails off. Your mind whirls as your spirits plummet. Mediocre? Dumb? Average? You couldn’t conjure the exact word, as each encapsulates a little bit of what you are. An anomaly amidst the best and the brightest in the Capitol. Regardless of your shortcomings, you want to prove Mother wrong. Besides, you’d feel so proud of yourself if you could stand on that stage one day and collect your diploma with honors. You bite your lips closed. “Nevermind.”

“You put a lot of pressure on yourself, angel.”

“Well, I don’t have a choice.” You try to ignore him. However it’s all for naught, the words blurring on the page as all sense and logic in the text is siphoned by Coriolanus’ unsettling blue stare. Your teeth clench as you sigh. “Are you just going to watch me…the entire time?”

“Maybe.” He pauses, licking his lips. “Or we could go to the cafeteria like I said.”

You gasp when he slams the book in your lap shut. 

“I already told you-”

“You can’t hide away forever, angel,” he interrupts.

Ignoring your protests, Coriolanus grabs your hand and pulls you to your feet.

“Come,” he urges, already dragging you through the library. 

“Wait, Coriolanus…” You almost topple over your own feet as you’re forced to keep up with his long-legged steps.

“I’m making a different choice for you, angel,” he chimes. He tosses you a teasing glance above his shoulder. “It’s okay, we don’t bite…Most of the time.”

Apprehension tangles your insides as you and Coriolanus approach the cafeteria. Coriolanus doesn’t hesitate as he crosses the threshold with your hand in his. All eyes rest on you and the Snow heir, some of the chatter dwindling while whispers fill the room. Heat creeps inside your face. Coriolanus ‘ friends too admire the strange spectacle, a mix of shock and interest mingling on their faces.

Once you reach his table, he pulls a chair out for you. You take a tremulous seat, trying your best not to cower beneath the curious eyes cast your way. Coriolanus sits next to you, his fingers clutching yours in encouragement beneath the table before he lets go of your hand.

Briefly lifting your eyes, you give a bashful wave.

“H-Hi,” you say. 

Livia Cardew doesn’t say anything, her narrowed eyes drifting between you and Coriolanus like she’s desperately trying to solve a riddle that won’t yield its meaning. Ivy Briarose is too focused on her nails to pay attention to you. 

Clemensia’s much perkier. She offers you her hand to shake. You take it.

“Nice to meet you, I’m-”

“I know who you are,” you reply. Your eyes widen as you note how strange a thing it is to utter to somebody you’ve never spoken to. But she takes it in stride, flashing you a sunny grin.

As you and the brunette shake hands, the sleeve of her dark blouse slides up her forearm, exposing a hint of the skin of her wrist. Your mouth drops in shock. The small patch of flesh is covered in scales, mottled in faint neon colors. This looks eerily familiar and your gaze lingers longer than it should. 

Clemensia rushes to cover her scarred wrist.

“Sorry,” you sputter, your embarrassment reaching its crest. It was rude to stare. You should have caught yourself. 

But the brunette brushes it off with a nonchalant huff.

“Oh, that? Looks familiar?” Clemensia bends to whisper in your ear, “Little gift from your mother.” Your blood turns to ice. She flashes her pearly smile, tossing her glossy black strands over her shoulder. “It’s alright though. Most of them have faded.” She unleashes a wry laugh. “It was much worse before…during the Games.”

You open your mouth, your brain scrambling for something to say…Anything. Mother hurt Clemensia, to prove a point probably, knowing her. You should say something, offer comfort, an apology perhaps. But your mind turns up blank. You shift awkwardly in your seat.

The panicked flurry of your thoughts is halted when Clemensia abruptly seizes your hands, squeezing them between hers.

She beams at you.

“You know what? I get the feeling that you and I are gonna be great friends.”

[tylermileslockett]

Hekate is known as a protector of entryways, borders, and crossroads. She is also a Cthonic (underworld) goddess who exists on the peripheries of the pantheon, and teaches witches like Circe and Medea their magical crafts. Therefore, she has darker associations with death, the underworld, the moon, magic spells, and spirits.

In Hesiod’s Theogany, Hecate is the daughter of Titans Perses and Asteria. For defeating the giant Pergamon in the Gigantomauchy (epic battle between Olympians and Giants), Hekate is the only Titan to retain her powers under the rule of Zeus, who gives Hecate a share of earth, heaven and sea.

One of the most famous myths involving Hecate is Hades’ abduction of Demeter’s daughter, Persephone. Hekate assists Demeter in the underworld by leading the way with torchlight, and later becomes an attendant to Persephone. Hecate’s sacred animal ally is a black dog, said to be Hecuba, Queen of Troy, who was reincarnated by Hekate after suicide. Another sacred animal servant is the Polecat (weasel), who was the handmaiden Galinthias punished for a deception involving the birth of Hercules.

  Around the 5th century B.C.E. we see the first sculptural totem figures portraying Hekate in the triple body form surrounding a central column. These votive statues for the protection of travelers would be placed at crossroads with each figure facing a different path.

Hekate is associated with a variety of frightening Daimones (minor divinities or spirits which could be good or evil.) the Empusae was a shapeshifting specter with the body of a woman, and one leg of brass and the other of a donkey, with hopes of devouring a traveler. The Lamia was originally a vengeful Libyan serpentine woman who devoured children, but later was seen to take the form of attractive, voluptuous woman who would seduce a traveler and feast on their fresh blood. The Mormo was another phantom bogeyman said to be sent out by Hekate to nibble on misbehaving children. 

Thanks again for everyone's suggestions. Hope you like the final painting! Please share it if possible. Xoxo

[aliciavance4228]

The Odyssey: Funny Moments

Most of you liked my "The Iliad: Funny Moments" post, so I decided to make this one as well.

1. When Telemachus asks Odysseus what kind of help they have for taking down the suitors, Odysseus basically says, "We've got Zeus and Athena on our side. Are you sure that'll be enough?"

2. "Brother, who blinded you?" "Nobody! Nobody did!" "...Then we're going to go back to sleep."

Taken to the logical extreme in a comic book adaptation where Odysseus and his men gave him fake names:

"Brother, who blinded you?"

"Nobody! Idontknow! Idontcare! Or maybe... Idontremember!"

"So that's why they called him Polyfool."

3. After his crew opened the bag of winds thinking it had treasure and caused a huge storm, Odysseus briefly considers suicide as valid as an option to preserving through hardship.

4. The sheer, mind-boggling, testicle-shriveling amount of crap that Odysseus and his crew get put through when trying to get back to Ithaca can be viewed as hilarious in a cringe comedy kind of way. By the time Odysseus gets home and realizes that his wife has been badgered and harangued by suitors for a decade one could be forgiven for thinking that his wanton slaughter of them all was less about their violation of guest rights and more just blowing off some steam on a morally unambiguous target.

5. When briefly visiting the Underworld, Persephone allows Odysseus to talk with his mother and other dead people. Odysseus is absolutely terrified of her and dreads staying too long and incurring her wrath, running back to his ship fearful that she'll sic Medusa's head on him.

6. One of Odysseus's crew randomly dies by falling off a roof after a night of heavy drinking. Everyone else gets to be killed by horrible monsters and the wrath of the gods, but he instead gets to be a posthumous reminder about the dangers of alcoholism. Even better, after his death he berates Odysseus for not burying him properly when our hero goes to Hades!

7. On the way back to Ithaca, Telemachus asks a favor of Nestor's son Pisistratus, and proceeds to invoke two generations of friendship to get some help dodging Nestor's aggressive hospitality.

8. Penelope asks a disguised Odysseus to interpret a dream she had. It turns out that during the dream, one of its characters explicitly explained what it all represented, and Odysseus just repeats it back to her.

9. While disguised as a human, Athena goes to the trouble of giving a plausible explanation for her departure... then promptly blows her cover by turning into a bird and flying away in front of a boggling Nestor and Telemachus.

10. Penelope's tricks against the suitors, of which the two best known are:

At one point, she told the suitors she'd choose her next husband after she'd finish weaving a burial shroud for Odysseus's father Laërtes... And every night, she'd undo her work. She strung them along for three years and would have continued had an unfaithful maid not exposed her.

On page we see her daring them to replicate one of Odysseus's feats: she put twelve axes on the ground so that the rings in the handle would align and gave them Odysseus' unstrung bow and arrows, and told them that whoever could use that bow toshoot an arrow through all the rings would be her next husband.She also forgot to tell them it was a recurve bow that the suitors wouldn't even recognize when at rest, let alone string.

A lesser-known ploy is when she calls out the suitors for freeloading off her husband's estate instead of courting her with lavish gifts. They rush to present her with gifts, while the disguised Odysseus watches with delight.

11. Athena's response when Odysseus fails to recognize her in disguise and tells her a backstory he came up with on the spot is essentially "That's my liar! There he is!"

Credits: TV Tropes

[duskianfae]

i guess that anger really suits you. isn't that sad?

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ UNCHAINED MELODY, PART THREE !

summary :: surviving raccoon city together, you catch the affections of leon kennedy, ada wong, jill valentine, and carlos oliveira. six years later, you reunite with them and realize their obsession with you has increased tenfold.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 6.4k

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!leon, yandere!ada, yandere!jill, yandere!carlos, suicidal themes, grief/death, weapons, violence, blood, maladaptive daydreaming, implied masturbation, drugging, kidnapping, unhealthy & unrealistic religious themes.

carlos oliveira's yandere traits are . . .

worshiper, delusional, & nurturing

──── Carlos Oliveira hates the scent of ink. Yet still, his hands are covered in the excess of the relentless use of such.

It stains everything. His ragged clothes, his fingers, the top secret documents he couldn't be bothered to care after. Despite his loathing of the material, it somehow seems to follow him with every step he walks. It doesn't take away the sheer relief he feels when he uses the same ink to jot down everything in his journal. While Carlos is far from home and occupied with his position as a Corporal, he fills pages upon pages of entries assigned to you. From how he swore he heard your laughter at lunch that day to obsessive hours spent writing your name over and over again, he finds it soothing, in an odd sense. Everything the ink touches revolves around you in some shape or form.

Y/N L/N. The name he will never forget.

Carlos remembers your aromatic sweat, your intoxicating breath, your perfumed skin; he will never forget how you ended his life in Raccoon City. It was persephonic, the last day of his life. Through the maze of chaos and gore, he found you, his little taste of heaven before he would face his demise. However, he is still shamefully alive. And selfishly, Carlos wishes that he had died that night. He should be grateful, as insinuated by the thousands of innocent lives lost and his family thanking the universe for sparing their boy. But, he just isn't. He can't, as much as he tries.

Even though his heart still beats, something within him has been dead for these past five years. He tries to heal his soul which decomposes with every day that goes by, but his efforts are brought to no avail. As much as he attempts to write out the fairytale he desperately wishes would materialize into reality, the truth sits and rots beneath a canopy of pretty lies.

You are dead and there is nothing he can do about it.

If Carlos thinks too much about it, he'll be brought to tears. And he can't afford another days-long meltdown filled with unruly sobbing and staggering guilt. He just can't. Instead, he defiles his brain with dreams of you that he deludes himself into believing are real. Writing his sweet spouse letters while he is away from home, buying you trinkets and clothes from foreign places, and leaving behind warm plates of food for you to enjoy. The truth of your well-being dances in the back of his head like a ghost in an attic. However, fully acknowledging you are gone would just about kill him. Carlos will prolong it as long as it can, no matter how fast the inevitable truth gains on him.

"My honey, My sweet, My lover. I will be home soon. Please wait for me, my bumblebee." Ink stains Carlos' fingers as he jots down yet another letter to you. He wonders if you also hate the way ink stains your fingers when you finally write back to him. His heart swells when he imagines you receiving his letter all safe and cozy in the home you share together. One day, he'll receive a letter back from you. The ghost of the truth lurks in the mind, but he turns his back to it. One day, he'll receive a letter back from you.

Five years without you and all that sunshine and wit he used to possess has depleted. Now, it's impossible to know when the ticking time bomb that is Carlos Oliveira may explode.

Unbeknownst to his peers, every emotion expressed is a manifestation of you, whether good or bad. After working the day away, Carlos becomes agitated after such treacherous hours without being able to bathe his mind in the light of you. The anger suffocates whatever room he walks into, causing the people within to recoil from the energy alone. No one has forgotten the time when a few colleagues had poked the bear after a single day Carlos spent unable to return to the thought of you. This inevitably caused an hour-long outburst of broken bones, furniture thrown about, and an eruption of unconsolable tears and horrifying threats. The memory still sends goosebumps across the skin of witnesses and no one has dared to cross the man ever since.

All Carlos needs is to venture back to the lustrous haven within his head. Just you and him, together in extraterrestrial bliss. It's all he needs, please let him have it.

All he needs is indulge in the heavenly sights of you at this moment. Instead of the blood-stained reality that is his life, let him spend his days out in the wild with you. Breezy Summer days where the sun beats down and soaks you in its golden, empyrean hues. Carlos sits with his back against the trunk of a willow tree and you lay on a blanket with your head resting in his lap. The enchanting, peaceful state he has found himself in is almost enough to lull him into a slumber. But, how could he dare shut his eyes when the astonishing sight of you sits right before him? Carlos traces his fingers among the tracings of sunlight that peek through the branches and rest upon your face. Beautiful. How irrevocably, indubitably, catastrophically beautiful you are.

A picnic out in an empty field where the day would be spent letting the world fall away as he looks down on the love of his life. Your lips, ever-so appetizing, are dusted with sugar from the numerous treats Carlos made for this exact date. His hand cups your cheek and he caresses your cheekbone with his thumb, your smile growing in response. And the way it tugs on his heartstrings is almost as if your mere happiness was playing him like a string instrument. He gazes at you with so much wonder, it's practically baffling how in love a man could be. You offer him a bite of the pastry in your hand, but he declines. The heat of the season's temperatures and the burning love within Carlos is more than enough to keep him satiated.

Safe, content, and alive with love. There couldn't be a more perfect way to describe this precious moment with you. Safe, content, and alive with love.

A hand waving in his face brings him back to his unforgiving reality. No more sunshine, no more birdsong, no more you. The dread that permeates his entire being could rival the pain of being stabbed in the heart. Carlos jumps in surprise and casts his eyes upward to find Tyrell, whose worried eyes peer at him through the glasses perched on his nose. His body is tense, terrified of treading over a boundary and causing another outburst. Only this time, he fears the several guards with syringes that were able to make him comply before would fail this time. And Tyrell wouldn't be able to escape Carlos' wrath with his life.

However, in the head of Carlos, he can't fathom why his colleague was suddenly so afraid of him. Maybe it was the way his expression was entirely unconscious. Maybe it was the way his eyes were wide and distant, in a completely different world. Maybe it was the way his lips would twitch into a smile that would be deemed creepy or maybe it was how he whispered unintelligible sentences under his breath. All of this remains unknown to Carlos, as he was far too busy in la-la-land to pay attention to his surroundings. Tyrell then motions to the ground, where Carlos finds how his pen had managed to roll across the floor and how his journal was now sitting face-down against the concrete. When did he drop those?

"Are you okay, man?" The question echoes as if he was standing miles away from him. Is he? Is he ok? These days, it never really feels like it. Only when he can escape to his paradise does he truly feel okay.

"You kept saying something. Over and over again." Carlos can barely render the words spoken by his friend.

"Y/N. Who is that-?"

Something snaps within Carlos. The fireworks you have ignited inside him have been snuffed out like a cigarette; the skipping of his heart trips over itself like a child sprinting down a jagged sidewalk. Your name alone sitting on someone else's tongue is more than enough to send him spiraling into an envious frenzy. You've never even met this poor man, but Carlos' brain infests his thoughts with visions of you and Tyrell together. This parasite paints images of you in the same field, in each other's arms, hopelessly devoted to one another. Happy with one another. And the stifling jealousy practically makes Carlos maniacal. It should be him, it should be him. He doesn't deserve it, but it should be him with you. Not Tyrell, never him, please not him please choose me please just choose me I will do anything baby please-

Carlos doesn't even think before he's swinging his right arm back and surging it forward to Tyrell's face. He can't win, he can't win, he can't. Permeating pain flashes like a flickering light and it courses through his entire arm. This sudden flare of weakness grants Tyrell the opportunity to block the attack before it lands. He now just stares at his friend in complete horror. Carlos falls to the floor of the infirmary and inspects the source of pain, finding that his right bicep has been covered in thick gauze. What was once white and clean is now tattered with blood-red stains. The memories hit him like a train. How could he have forgotten? Was he so caught up in his fantasies that he failed to recall what happened mere hours ago?

One of the most prominent and more so realistic fantasies (in his opinion) Carlos has is of you in heaven, watching over him like his own personal guardian angel. To finally accept your death would shatter him entirely, but to think of how your soul has lived on and is now living in promised eternal bliss calms his stuttering heart. His relentless acknowledgment of this fantasy has caused disastrous side effects, however. Behind the scenes, he has caught himself on many occasions contemplating death. To indulge in his demise and to see you on the other side, Carlos knows it shouldn't make him this exhilarated. Still, he continues to wallow in the celestial phenomenon of joining you in the clouds.

He refuses to fulfill these suicidal tendencies for the sole reason of how you'd perceive him afterward. You had ever so bravely lost your life to the wreckage of Raccoon City; you died a fucking warrior. Whom would Carlos be if he simply ended the torment by slitting his wrists? The echo of your voice barking of how much of a coward he'd be for killing himself over such dramatic, puny reasons makes Carlos recoil in shame. This obsession of his has accelerated to a degree where he'll purposely slack off during missions, hoping that he'll be fatally caught in the crossfire. A bullet through the brain and he'd wake up beside you, where you'll praise him for his bravery and how he died a hero.

To reunite with you — that is the only thing Carlos could ever want.

Today was no different. Yet, while his comrades shout for him to take cover and question why he is being such an idiot, it finally happened. Barrelling through the air is a bullet, which buries itself into the flesh of his right arm. The force sends Carlos to the ground. When others try to take hold of him and drag him to safety, he swats them off like they're nothing but pesky mosquitoes on a humid July afternoon. And he laughs so loudly and so manically, it could almost convince the enemy that the Corporal is secretly the Joker.

It all makes sense now. You had broken your right arm five years ago and now, Carlos has been shot in the exact same arm. This must be you! This must be your way of lending your hand through the sky, guiding him to join you in heaven! You are here with him and Carlos can't restrict the genuine smile and streaming tears from forming on his face. Now, however, the wounds your tender heart left have now been cared for. These doctors have defiled your mark on him; they have sullied the gift you have so kindly given him. And the fury that bubbles inside of Carlos in response is nothing short of harrowing.

Through the heaving breaths of the man he once considered to be his friend, Tyrell finally speaks up with a waver in his voice. "You-You need help, Carlos. I don't know who Y/N is, but-"

"YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!" Carlos' outburst explodes and the ringing of it settles like a blast wave. It bounces off the walls and reverberates through the ears of both men.

The anger is practically palpable. What Tyrell failed to notice through that rageful veneer was the pieces of Carlos' broken heart that lies beneath. With every passing second, this phantom within him reminds him of the state of your well-being. You're dead, you're gone, I won't see you ever again. With naivety Carlos excuses as the truth, he continues to ignore this voice. He has been stuck in a five-year-long chase with his logic and will continue running for five more if he needs to. And slowly but surely, this endless race is tearing him apart.

Tyrell leaves without so much as another breath. One question stays heavy on his mind, though. Whoever you are, Y/N, what the fuck have you done to him?

The patient must be given PTO to avoid another breakdown that could potentially accelerate into lethal violence — that was the "excuse" the doctors gave to the Sergeant regarding Carlos' wellbeing. This leaves him here. Alone and driving back to his estate. Meanwhile, his brain is blooming with iridescent fantasies he claims to be memories. Driving home to you after a long day of work and bringing you all the money and love you could ever ask for. He wonders, would you wait for him to come home? Would he find you asleep on the sofa, succumbing to your drowsiness before he'd be able to open the door? Or would you be in the bedroom? The soft glow of the lamp light framing your face as you peel back the covers, welcoming him into your idyllic embrace?

The tires of his car begin to skid off the road. Carlos is brought out of his imagination, where he then jerks the vehicle back into its proper position in the lane. You may just be the death of him, he muses. And when he finally arrives home, he tries to ignore the love letters he sent to you piling in the mailbox, the trinkets and clothes he bought you collecting dust, and the dinner he left for you that is now putrid and overwhelmed with mold. He tries to avoid how much it actually kills him. But still, this aching sense of dread rots in the pit of his stomach. It isn't until he glances at the calendar pinned on the wall does the devastation finally settle like fresh snow.

The date today was September 28th, 2004.

Six years.

It's been six years since he survived Raccoon City; it's been six years since he met you and lost you on the same night. This isn't the first revelation that comes to mind, though. Instead, he feels absolutely mortified by his own negligence. It's your sixth-year anniversary, how could he have forgotten? What kind of person, boyfriend, husband is he to forget this day? He should have brought home chocolate, flowers, shit, maybe even taken you on a month-long vacation to a resort across the world. God, how could he be so fucking stupid? You two could have been at each other's side during the most important day of the year (besides your birthday, of course). But no, he just had to get so caught up in his head that he forgot the anniversary of the day that made him the man he is today.

Another epiphany, one of the much more luminescent standards, hits Carlos once again. This must be why you had never written back to him. You aren't dead, you're simply upset with him! All the letters, all the gifts, all the plates of food, everything you have neglected — it was just your way of expressing your anger. Ha, take that, brain! And despite the circumstances, Carlos imagines the scowl on your face and is absolutely giddy from the vision alone. You're upset with him, yes, but you're alive. His sweet lover is here with a beating heart and an angry head. And God, does it make Carlos practically shiver with glee.

He then storms through his house, looking into every nook and cranny in search of you. "Y/N? Honey? Honey, it's me! Look, I know you're upset, but I promise I will do everything I can to make it up to you!"

"Where would you like to go? Hawaii? Paris? Shit, Italy? Wherever you'd like, Y/N!" With each room left devoid of you, that wrenching misery returns piece by piece and yanks on what is left of his heart. His voice begins to crack as he continues to shout for you. "Y/N, please! Please come out, honey! I'll do anything, Y/N... Please..."

Carlos then collapses to the hardwood floor, his body crushed with the sobs now protruding from his chest. Tears pour down his cheeks with uncontrollable force before landing on the ground beneath. And he cries so violently that he fears his ribcage may shatter from the force of it alone. He can't accept it, he can't, he can't, he can't. Even if this is what the rest of his life looks like, just veiling the truth with delusional fantasies, Carlos will never face the honest conclusion. He just can't.

"Please, bumblebee... I need you..." It's a final, desperate prayer. For your presence or for mercy, Carlos isn't exactly sure which.

He then digs beneath the collar of his shirt and fishes out the necklace he has worn for six years now. Swung upon a rusted chain is the charm of a bumblebee, the yellow and black shades now decayed with age. Carlos (as forgetful as he now realized he is today) will never forget when he first received the necklace. It was right before you had boarded the subway train that would eventually lead to your departure from life. How you enveloped him in your sugar-sweet hug and the way your natural musk sat on your skin still drives him nuts after all these years. The memory brings him great comfort on restless nights spent tossing and turning in bed.

At that moment, however, he never realized how constricting his hold was on you until he hears something snap. Opening his eyes and awakening from the stupor of his cartoon-esque infatuation, he finds how he had underestimated his strength and crushed the clasp of your necklace. The state of your beloved jewelry piece is left oblivious to you. Carlos wasn't given a second to process what had happened before you're peeling your arms off of him and boarding the train. In his hands are the remnants of the necklace you left behind.

The insect symbolizes perseverance, which he finds is a perfect way to describe his life today. Persevering through every day until he can finally let his body rest six feet under; persevering through every day until he can join his honey, his bumblebee through the gates of heaven. Carlos presses another kiss of millions to the pendant as he sits in his lonely house, pretending it is your skin beneath his lips instead of the rusted metal. His heart is shattered, his body is weak, and his brain is infested with every kind of mayhem he has ever known, but he will push through it. He will push through any and all kind of chaos knowing you are at the end of the finish line. Waiting for him.

The quick tune of an email alert brings Carlos out of his lovesick, grief-burdened daze. Suddenly being torn away from the thought of you makes rage flood through his veins. He stomps over to shut his computer off, maybe even throw the monitor against the wall in the process. When he catches a glimpse of what is on his computer, he hesitates. A loud gasp then escapes from him.

On his computer is an email from an old friend.

Carlos is able to fly into the country in less than twenty-four hours. He has to take several deep breaths in order to eradicate the black dots dancing in his vision as he races to Jill's apartment. Seeing her face and the present relief in her expression, the all-too-overwhelming revelation settles. Carlos is surprised he hadn't blacked out right there on her doorstep in response. It's time to finally get you back.

And just like Jill and Carlos had orchestrated after two weeks of planning how they'd release you from Umbrella's clutches, one sip of the cup of tea in your hands and you were out like a light. Your collapse was harsh, evident in the loud thud that permeated when you landed. Fortunately, you had your blanket-cape there to cushion your fall. It doesn't stop the two from bursting the bathroom door open and rushing to your aid, however.

Without your knowledge, Jill and Carlos then proceed to take you far, far away from the place you had once called home.

"What the fuck?"

Despite knowing you were sleeping soundly just several rooms over, your sudden presence still manages to have their breath locked in their throat. The way you look at one another contradicts each other in such discrete ways, it's almost comical. You're hyperventilating, staring at the scene in front of you with eyes blown in crazed shock. Six years of grieving through the most traumatic night of your life, why is it now you find out they have been alive this whole time? These two, however, stare into your soul with so much wonder, you're almost convinced they thought they were looking at some sort of mythological creature. It's almost as if they're hypnotized. No movement, no response — just pure amazement at the sight of you alive and looking at them with eyes full of life.

It isn't until you take a cautious step back does it trigger them to escape their state of captivation. You venturing further away from them, even just a pace — they can't let it happen. Never again. While Jill resorts to calmly approaching you as if you were a stray cat, Carlos makes an abrupt dash for you. You take several more steps backward before the man you presumed to be dead became inescapable. With another onslaught of tears brimming in his eyes and a whimper fleeing from his throat, Carlos practically tackles you into a tenacious embrace.

The hold he has on you is ridden with disbelief and desperation. He's shaking against your body like an Autumn leaf drifting through the wind. Burying his nose further into your neck, he inhales the musk that sits on your skin as if he had been trapped underwater and you were a pocket of air. God, Carlos wasn't even able to look at you for more than one second before he started blubbering like a baby. The man is so absorbed in the moment of finally reuniting with you, he almost misses it when Jill smacks him on his arm and growls through clenched teeth for him to "get his fucking shit together." But, Carlos refuses to budge. He is ready to beg Jill to let him stay here, to please let him revel in the fact that this isn't another fantasy someone will wake him out of.

He somehow nestles his face further into the crook of your neck and brings your body closer to his, almost as if he was trying to mold you together as one. And at this moment, Carlos has yet another revelation. Years upon years of imagining what heaven looks like, he was entirely incorrect. There are no clouds, no birdsong, no vibrant gardens. This. Right here in this moment, this is what heaven is. To have you, the partner of his dreams, so close to him is nothing short of heavenly. For six years, he has dreamed of this moment. And if he were to die at this moment, Carlos would be elated to know he died the happiest he has ever been in his whole life.

Meanwhile, you're thrashing in the tight hold of his constricted strength. It's almost hard for you to breathe with how hard he’s squeezing you. The woman you see over his shoulder is collected, but only a fool would miss the way her shoulders tense and nostrils flare with rage (and a sliver of possessiveness, too). She receives your silent plea and grabs a fistful of his mop-head of hair, using all the might in her arm to pull him away from his own bear hug. Carlos reluctantly loosens his grasp on your form. However, he then resorts to checking you for any and all signs of life.

The past six years have been spent dodging the logical answer to your disappearance. Now, however, the sight of you alive is just too good to be true. He begins thoroughly checking your body for a pulse, listening intently to any irregularities in your heartbeat. Anything to assure him you are actually alive and breathing. When every sign and question points to 'yes' over if you are here, Carlos can hardly contain it. Finally seeing you walking, looking, talking, alive — it's like the crescendo of a beautiful song.

Jill, as collected as she is, does not differ from Carlos' state of emotion very much. She has thought of this moment at least a million times, rehearsing every syllable and breath to make the moment all the more perfect. Now, however, every perceivable thought in her head was robbed the second you entered the room. How desperately she wishes to reassure your safety, inform you of the lies you were told, and vow to never let another soul lay a single hand on you ever again. But, with her racing heart and this grizzly bear of a man latched to you like a leech, her idea of the perfect reunion has been spoiled. Still, for six years she has longed for this. Whether it's a steamy kiss beneath the moonlight or caught in Carlos' mess of tears, she couldn't be more elated to finally have you again.

Much to your dismay, your empty stomach then grumbles its frustrations into the silent air. In response, your face grows warm in embarrassment. You had been so occupied with the current events and battling your shock, the dinner you had missed out on the night before had gone overlooked. The two, however, react much differently to your perceptible hunger than you. Without a mere second to waste, they're fawning over you as if you were some powerful deity and they were your humble, loyal servants. Their infantilizing treatment of you makes your skin burn with even more heaps of humiliation.

"Oh? Are you hungry? I've almost finished breakfast!" Carlos breaks physical contact to return to the stove and you have to restrain yourself from expressing your perceptible relief.

"I... I didn't have dinner last night." With an exhale of dry laughter, your attempt to lighten the mood only does the opposite. How could they have let you go hungry? They brought you here to care for you the way they deserve and they have already failed!

A gentle hand on your lower back causes you to jump in startlement. You find Jill beside you, who helps guide your trembling legs to the kitchen table. Though, it doesn't take a genius to notice the way her hand lingers. Finally free of any unsolicited touch, you sit down at the end of the table. The only way you can bring yourself to any state of ease is to ignore the relentless cooing of the woman beside you and the furious scraping of a spatula against a pan. Almost as if Carlos was speeding through the process of cooking in order to get back to you sooner. Jill then sits beside you, taking your hands into hers. Being free of physical contact was good while it lasted, you joke to yourself.

"You're real... You're real, my butterfly, you're real." Jill indulges in the reality of your genuine touch, before shaking her head as if to wobble her rationality back in place.

A plate is soon served before you. And it is easily the most delectable dish you had ever seen; it looked like something straight out of a magazine, despite the frivolous efforts made by the chef. A gourmet omelet sits in front of you, steam pervading the air in invading your nostrils with its mouth-watering aroma. Adorned with spinach, tomato, and feta cheese, you could have easily downed the delicious serving in one gulp. Nausea swaying in your stomach like a boat on sea prevents you from doing such. You thank Carlos through stuttering breaths and almost miss the way his body softens from receiving your gratitude.

Always so possessive, Jill reverts your attention back to her. "There is so much you are unaware of, Y/N. But, we're here to help. You don't have to be afraid a second longer." Her reassurance does little to calm your nerves. "Right, Carlos?" He only nods weakly, completely dazed as he stares at you in adoration. Had he even heard what she said?

"We will not let anything happen to you." The gravity of her statement practically touches your bones with its weight. It scares you, the severity of the declaration.

Terrified of angering them (even though there is not a single thing you could do that would ever irritate them), you grasp the fork laid out for you on the pristine table. Your efforts are halted by Carlos, who sits down beside you, opposite of Jill. To satiate his gnawing need for you to be close, he pushes his chair to touch yours until you are both shoulder-to-shoulder. After all, you must be so terrified upon being kidnapped by such an evil corporation. It is his touch and comfort you need to lull you back into a place of tranquility, he's sure of it.

Carlos then takes the fork from your hands, nearly passing out when your thumb grazes his hand. To your horror, he plucks some food onto the utensil and holds it up to your lips, ushering you to let him feed you. Almost as if this was some romantic anniversary or something. Reluctantly, you open your mouth and let him place the bite of food on your tongue. And you would be a liar if you said this wasn't the most delicious meal you have ever eaten. Your tastebuds adorned in succulent food and flavorful seasoning, you joke that this dish is compensation for all the turmoil this morning has brought.

Slowly, as Carlos was painfully milking the moment for as long as he could, your hunger is satiated. The joy he garners from merely feeding you radiates off of him like a campfire against the dark night brume. Once the plate is wiped clean of even the smallest crumb (despite your assurances to him that you were full), Jill then wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb. Your holy attention is reverted back to Carlos when he pokes your lips with a straw, once again, ushering you to let him nourish your stomach. "To wash it down" he excuses, with far too much exhilaration hanging heavy in his tone.

Indulging in the cold, fresh water as it cascades down your throat, you miss how Jill brings her thumb, now adorned with bits of food and your saliva, into her mouth. And she just relishes in the absolute taste of you. Her vision goes hazy and her eyelids droop from the ecstasy. She would have let herself completely fall into the arms of enrapturing oblivion if it weren't for the fact you were right beside her. Carlos takes notice, however, and a sneer forms on his lips as he looks at her in disgust. Jill bites her tongue, holding herself back from pointing out how he is no different. So easily, she could inform you of how after your intimate bath together, she found him inhaling your sweater with his eyes rolled back into his skull and his hand stuffed into his pants. If she were to voice this, however, the man would easily throw himself over the table and attack her like a feral animal. She can handle him, but you don't need even more stress.

Upon being thrust into the middle of this mess, the only thing you can do is watch as the obsession of Jill and Carlos play out before your very eyes. And the physical manifestation of your return has caused disastrous consequences. Six years and you're ashamed to say you have forgotten what their facial features looked like. The memory remains as a blurred, distorted mess of blood and grime. An expression of all the trauma you all have endured. Now, however, you'd be damned if those were two expressions you could ever forget.

Carlos and his dark goo-goo eyes, adorned in overwhelming heaps of drowning devotion that could swallow you whole with one glance. They're affixed with teardrops, adding onto everything cherubic, holy about the way he looks at you. Despite the sheer display of sadness leaking from his eyes, his lips exhibit the biggest, most genuine smile you have ever seen in your life. The way he looks at you, it's almost as if God himself had descended from the heavens and graced Carlos with his presence. All from just the mere act of feeding you. It was deranged, you thought to yourself.

His smile vanishes, eyebrows raising as something seems to click in his head. He then takes your right arm gingerly into his grasp, fingers treading amongst the field of goosebumps blossoming on your skin. "Your arm, you poor thing... Are you okay, honey?" The worry in his voice makes you shiver with convulsion. It takes you several seconds to compute that he was referring to the injury you endured six whole years ago.

Jill and her cheeks that are blazon in hues reminiscent of two ripe cherries, appending a sort of childish innocence to her always-stoic expression. The way her eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed displayed a sense of fury — presumably toward the man clinging onto you like a lifeline. When she looks at you, however, her features perceptibly soften as if beams of sunlight had enveloped her after years of being in the depths of Winter. It was deranged, you thought to yourself.

"You... You kidnapped me..." Even through all the violence and torment these two have endured, nothing had cut deep than those three words. The waver in your voice, the emotions brimming in your eyes, the trembling frown plastered on your lips. God, it killed them right then and there.

They begin to ramble and deny your accusation. All as if it wasn't a lie coming out of their mouths. And in their heads, it was anything but a lie. They truly believed that they saved you as if it was a genuine fact. Somehow, they manage to inch closer to you. The empty air around you becomes suffused with their waving hands and panicked explanations. All to convince you that they would never hurt you. Never.

"You're upset, Y/N, we understand. But you have to know that this was for your own good!" Jill remains the voice of reason, if that's what you would name it. Meanwhile, Carlos throws shambles of assurances such as, "It's not true!" and "I need you!" your way, hoping that something, anything will mend your fears.

And poor you. So confused, so terrified, so bewildered. All you could want at this moment is to go back twelve hours ago. To leave with your friend the second they entered the room, to scrutinize what in your home had caused you to black out, to burst down the front door and beg the the surrounding security guards to save you. Even though the truth of your “home” simmers just beneath the surface, itching to claw its way out, you still find yourself aching to go back to the way things were. Even if it is all just a fat lie. Anything is better than this.

Miles upon miles away, the three of you are completely unaware of the fourth presence treading closer to their secret. Suspicions high, Tyrell can't help but use some of his free time to venture into why Jill and Carlos had suddenly vanished. For the umpteenth time, he looks through more footage from the security system Jill was so insistent on receiving. And what he finds is horrifying. The two people he had once considered his friends were seen climbing through a window, to where they escape moments later with an unconscious body.

A flare of guilt spreads through him. Unwillingly, he had actively played a part in this. Whoever you were, he felt inclined to take full responsibility for helping these two take this innocent life away. To be kidnapped, murdered, he doesn't know. What Tyrell does know, however, is that he feels to be partially blamed for this. When he does further research, his heart sinks even deeper into the pit of his stomach. Reports of a missing patient were sent around the establishment. Y/N L/N, a potential runaway was actually the body nestled tight in Carlos' arms. He remembers how he had spoken that name and the reaction it garnered from Carlos; he remembers seeing the name on the door of the room Jill relentlessly paid him to receive footage of.

With that, Tyrell reports the incident. An investigation commences and two major clues are found. A shattered mug that had been filled with sedation-induced tea and specks of blood on the bathroom floor that have been tested positive for matching one of the assailants. Now, a manhunt is in play for Jill Valentine and Carlos Oliveira.

At his desk that was overwhelmed with littering documents, Tyrell eavesdrops on a conversation between his two colleagues.

"You won't believe who they've gotten to take over Carlos' spot for this mission!"

"Who?"

"Leon Kennedy."

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 ۫ you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ WE WERE WILD AND FLUORESCENT

COME HOME TO MY HEART . . . ❞

this is what i imagined the necklace carlos stole borrowed from you to look like. however, you can imagine it as whatever you'd like!