#they would have made it a bit more theatrical like an exaggerated lie to fit her character but no she seems very serious and distanced

[cuntyfieddemon]

I wanna know so bad with who agatha crossed the road the first timeeee and whooo was the witch that survived at the end!!! was it rio??? im not ready to say it was her for sure bc she asked a few questions that made me think she never crossed it... and also i feel like they would have alluded to it while talking together... so who could it have been? i rly want it to be rio but i just dont know!!!

[drowningbydegrees]

Witcher Masterpost

You can find my AO3 here if that’s your thing, but here are links to all my Witcher creations.

Fic - One Shots

MUSIC PROMPT LIST FICS Prompt List

A Love Like This | G | 1,009 Words | No Warnings Apply Jaskier does nothing quietly. He is bright colors and endless conversation. He is music and theatrics. He unapologetically takes up space, bold and loud and impossible to ignore. Jaskier does nothing quietly.

Except for this.

Written for the Music Prompt 4. Dolce AO3 | Tumblr

Nothing But the Background Noise | T | 3,385 Words | No Warnings Apply Geralt has always been at home with silence. It’s a quality that lends itself well to the life of a witcher, this ability to find peace instead of loneliness in the quiet of his own company. But they spend that night in their room’s single bed and Geralt lies awake wondering when the warm press of Jaskier’s face tucked against his neck became such a welcome thing, when his fingers tangling in the bard’s hair got to be so instinctive. When did Jaskier’s get to be so wrapped up in his life as to leave Geralt dreading the absence?

In which Geralt realizes that sometimes you don't discover how much of a fixture something is in your life until you're forced to contemplate not having it.

Written for the Music Prompt 8. Incidental Music AO3 | Tumblr 

Call Me a Casualty | T | 1,670 Words | No Warnings Apply He has a plan.

Okay, admittedly calling it a plan is somewhat of an exaggeration. What Geralt has is an overwhelming sense of grief that floods the empty spaces left behind as his temper ebbs, and the horrifying realization that while it all hurts, it’s Jaskier’s departure that leaves his heart aching. What he has is an urgent need to set things right, and only a nebulous idea of how to do so. For starters though, he needs to catch up to Jaskier. That’s a straightforward task to set his mind to, and Geralt assumes he’ll figure out the rest on the road.Written for the Music Prompt 16. Mosso  AO3 | Tumblr

This Too Is Ours | E | 1,919 Words | No Warnings Apply

They fit like they were made for basking, tangled up with each other in the comfort of a warm bed while the snow falls outside He could go back to sleep, Jaskier thinks. It’s winter. He might be teaching, but it’s still a break of sorts. If he can’t sleep in now, then when can he?

Idly, he drags his palm down Geralt’s flank. There’s comfort in the familiar topography of the witcher’s body, and isn’t that a heady thought? Geralt is - has allowed himself to be - familiar territory. It seems a silly thing to be so giddy over, but Jaskier smiles as he nuzzles against the nape of Geralt’s neck.

AO3 | Tumblr

OTHER ONE SHOTS

Something To Hold Onto | T | 11,146 Words | No Warnings Apply

“Is it some kind of prank, do you think?” Jaskier asks, squinting at the noticeboard.

It’s littered with contracts, each more peculiar than the last. Missing people, haunted houses, someone convinced his sister is possessed because she’s acting strangely. The last is vague, giving no indication of what “strangely” even means. It would be weird for a sizable city like Novigrad, but it’s completely nonsensical in a village as small as Hillcrest, which is barely large enough to support an inn. The notices are all quite new, so normally Geralt would be tempted to write it off as someone being a menace. But the writing is different, the paper is different, all of it is different enough that it’s probably not one person.

As it turns out, there is no prank, leaving Geralt to try to fix things before whatever is wrong with Hillcrest consumes them all.

AO3 | Tumblr

We Break Like Waves | T | 3,469 Words | No Warnings Apply

For three days, they are happy. It matters less that Geralt struggles to put to words what Jaskier means to him when it’s all right there, neatly conveyed in the simple band wrapped around the bard’s finger. Jaskier holds his hand out to admire it for what must be the hundredth time, smiling as the candlelight catches facets of the solitary ruby set in gold.

What begins as a long overdue honeymoon ends, as things so often do in Geralt's life, in disaster.

AO3 | Tumblr

Noonwraiths and Other Woodland Forest Creatures | T | 3,716 Words | No Warnings Apply

Jaskier is used to his favorite customer, who is possibly some sort of cryptid, showing up at odd hours. What he's not used to is said customer showing up injured.

A modern AU featuring 24 hour diner server Jaskier and Geralt who is... still a witcher.

AO3 | Tumblr

If You Say It Again | T | 4,243 Words | No Warnings Apply

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird. 

AO3 | Tumblr

Left All the Lights Burning (But Nobody's Home) | M | 3,739 Words | No Warnings Apply Geralt is quiet, but he’s always quiet, so that really doesn’t mean much. When he can’t hear the witcher, Jaskier squints at the dark room, wishing his friend didn’t absolutely insist on wearing black all the time. “I don’t suppose you can do that magicky thing you do and break us out of here?”

No answer comes.

Written for Whumptober prompt 26. concussion AO3 | Tumblr

For the Space of a Heartbeat | T | 2,021 Words | No Warnings Apply As it turns out, falling into bed with your very best friend who you are privately very much in love with isn't nearly so nerve wracking as waking up with them the morning after. AO3 | Tumblr

Rosetta Stone | G | 1,408 Words | No Warnings Apply It’s not a seduction that the bard settles on, at least not in any traditional sense. There’s no lack of attraction (really, Jaskier is continuously baffled by how anyone could look at Geralt and not want him), but it’s background noise. He thinks of this more like finagling the two of them into some sort of harmony.

In which Jaskier realizes that while his affection for Geralt is almost certainly returned, they say it in entirely different ways, and takes it upon himself to translate.

AO3 | Tumblr

Untitled | G | 517 Words | No Warnings Apply Reply to the prompt:  What about when Geralt first realizes he's in love with Jaskier? Tumblr

Something is Bound to Give | T | 2,754 Words | No Warnings Apply For the space of a single breath Geralt concedes. He almost melts into Jaskier’s painstakingly careful touch, the soothing way the bard invites him to take refuge in someone else for a little while, but then Geralt’s mind catches up with the rest of him.  AO3 

Where You and I Collide | T | 1,388 Words | No Warnings Apply The words don’t pass his lips. At first Jaskier thinks this is too new, too fragile a thing that’s come into being between them. Then, he fears that perhaps they don’t mean the same thing by any of this, that perhaps he’s offered up his heart to someone who has no use for it. Based on a prompt asking for something about Jaskier and Geralt struggling with feelings. AO3 | Tumblr

Fill in the Blanks | G | 1,438 Words | No Warnings Apply “I want nothing.”

The thing is, it’s not a lie. Not really. It’s just that it’s an incomplete sentence.. AO3  | Tumblr

I’ll Wish Upon Embers | E | 9,128 Words | No Warnings Apply

“But allow me to raise this one point for your consideration.” There it is, accompanied by Jaskier’s expression scrunching in a way that Geralt is exasperated to realize he finds rather endearing. “Have you ever tried?” --- Geralt lets Jaskier talk him into sticking around for a village's midsummer festival. He assumes they're staying for Jaskier's benefit, but somewhere between the flower crowns and the bonfire, Geralt realizes it was a gift meant for him all along.

AO3 | Tumblr

Fic - Multi-part

Though I Try Not To | E | 16,120 Words | No Warnings Apply “You didn’t come back,” Geralt murmurs as if that somehow covers everything.

AO3

Even in the Dark I Know You | M | 8,196 Words | No Warnings Apply The thing is, he’s seen Geralt in a bad way. Even the witcher can’t always avoid injury in his line of work, and so Jaskier has plenty of practice patching him up. But this is new, and it makes something awful and anxious twist in Jaskier’s stomach.

A contract goes wrong leaving Geralt captive and stripped of most of his senses by the time Jaskier gets to him. Part one is based on the Geralt Whump Week day four prompt of betrayal and part two is based on the day five prompt of loneliness

AO3 | Tumblr 1 | 2 | 3

Even if it Hurts (Even if it Makes Me Bleed) | E | 25,074 Words | No Warnings Apply

Is that a pickup line? Maybe. It’s the worst one Geralt has ever heard in his very long life, but that isn’t the problem. The problem races, red hot down the length of his forearm, pooling uncomfortably around his soulmark. The scrawled out writing on the underside of his wrist had told Geralt the first thing his soulmate was going to say to him as soon as he could read. Silly as it had sounded, it’s even more ridiculous out loud.

To say Geralt is not a fan of destiny is a monumental understatement. Given the fact that the soul mark scrawled out on his wrist is the worst pickup line he's ever heard, he doesn't anticipate his soulmate being any more welcome than anything else that life has saddled him with. But the longer he spends with Jaskier, the harder his soulmate is to resist, and somewhere along the way Geralt knows he'll have to reckon with whether his feelings are manufactured by kismet or truly his own.

AO3 | Tumblr

Once Written in the Stars | E | 15,512 Words (WIP) | No Warnings Apply When Geralt accidentally trespasses on a fae forest, only the unexpected kindness of one of the forest's inhabitants saves him. Unfortunately, it also leaves him saddled with a travel companion who has never really met a human, let alone thought about how to play at being one. It goes about as well as you'd think. AO3 | Tumblr 1 | 2 | 3

Art Stuff

Geraskier Gif Set Set to Stray Italian Greyhound by Vienna Teng 

Geraskier Image Set  Set to Civil War by @sincerelyjoanna-blog-blog

Geraskier Watercolor Edit  

[obliviouskind]

Solstice

---

---

Off the beaten path upon Unova’s mainland, nestled within the forests on a privately owned property of which carried a name he now shared; Cyrus sat within an uncomfortable, yet comfortable, plastic chair. Lush green grass spread beneath his feet, unkempt where it seemingly was most needed not to be so – while beneath him, burrowed and cramped, his hound found refuge from the relentless summer’s heat… As well as the hands of curious, snobbish children – of which there were an abundance running about. Upon their knees sat bruises and stains, while within their light locks fashioned into pigtails and braids, flowers of different colors were woven together by that of iron wire and leaves.

His own head sat bare of any such decorations, though not from the lack of offers. The wife of his current seat mate, Eamon Nechayev, had been one out of many whom had brought more than their fair share of floral crowns. --Eamon was a man who married into the family, rather than having entered it by blood; and he took his wife’s last name in a manner that Cyrus himself, admittedly, saw as rather unbecoming. Just as Cyrus, however, his eyes were light in color. Gray boarding on blue, with a frame of charcoal of which matched the little hair he still carried upon his head.

”Have you taught that dog to behave around the children yet, Damian?”

… The partaking of nationwide holidays – or simple, personal celebrations such as birthdays, had been a phenomenon that Cyrus never truly had gotten to enjoy as a young boy. For the Akagi had been a family of simplicity and accomplishments, rather than that of mindless pleasures and joys. What should be celebrated were feats and triumphs – not divine fertility and other such ‘useless’ fallacies. That was, at least, the explanation his father had given to him when he had mustered up the courage to actually ask.

But, the Nechayev’s?

Though most of the family laid outside of Sinnoh’s vast boarders these days, the clan seemingly never lost contact with their roots. Thus; Midsummer was celebrated.

Every. Single. Year.

He and Nikita (his cousin in papers alone, as well as the designated ‘babysitter’ of himself for these past three years) had taken the earliest ship offered back towards Unova’s mainland for the sake of meeting with the aunt of Nikita’s own father – Alexandra Nechayev. Together, they had traversed the country roads within her modest car, and for over an hour in its short trunk, his hound had nestled in as best as he could’ve managed given the circumstances. --By all means, it wasn’t necessarily the longest of treks… But it was one everyone had to make. And once they arrived, Houndoom had made quick work of stretching his legs before activity was certain to be thoroughly limited.

(Mindlessly, his hands settled within the dog’s short fur between his knees.)

“Damian?”

His eyes cast towards the vast yard, of rolling hills merging into that of forgotten, disheveled fields – and the sea of towheaded family members unsurprisingly spread as far as the eye could see. In the wake of dinner not yet having been served (though dishes slowly but surely traveled out of the small farmhouse by that of feminine hands), many children had taken it upon themselves to play tag or fly kites; far too close to the telephone lines for comfort, but with seemingly little care for the harm that so easily could befall them with but one small mishap.

Closer to where he himself sat, the quiet chatter of women easily were overshadowed by the boisterous laughter of their hefty husbands, and inside himself he quickly realized that within his mindless actions; he was looking for something.

Or, rather, for someone.

Cynthia, it seemed, had yet to arrive at the scene of their family gathering; and he supposed it perhaps wasn’t so strange. If she had just arrived within the region, or had come at an earlier date; he didn’t know, nor did he particularly care to properly figure out.

But what it nonetheless meant was that her trek to the family farm would be one of considerably greater distance. --Childish it was of him, perhaps, but the longer until she showed; the better. For one thing was certain about that woman.

Once she found him in this sea of blondes… She would not let him go.

Something that did find him, however, were the narrowed gaze of Eamon.

“Damian, I said-“

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus interrupted – something clicking within his mind. Though lost in dreams, he had caught the voice of the other man. ‘Have you taught that dog to behave around the children yet, Damian?’ “I’m thinking, is all… He always does behave, but he is not a dog to play with. The children shouldn’t approach him as though he’s a young Lillipup.”

Eamon scoffed and leant his full weight back within his chair, which lacked guests beneath it. Behind him, however, stood a young girl clad in a checkerboard patterned summer dress. The only daughter of that particular branch of the family tree.

“I will take that as a no, then.”

Cyrus cast a glance towards the girl, one that was apologetic. “Precisely so.”

The disappointment upon her features was theatrically exaggerated – with her cheeks puffed up and her shoulders and back hunched; she quietly walked away from the scene in short, drawn out steps. The hurt, however, seemed to roll off her back as soon as the invite for play came in the form of her brothers – then, all seemed to be right in the world again.

He smoothed his hand over short, black fur one last time.

“Y’know,” Eamon broke the silence. Within his hand sat a bottle of beer, and Cyrus had to wonder if it was the first or second of the day that still sat fairly young. “You always look deeply unhappy being here. Like you would rather sit at home during a fun celebration like this. Are you that terrified of us?”

“No such thing,” Cyrus admitted; and it was not a lie in most regards. As far as holidays went, midsummer was one of the easier to manage. No duty for gift giving, no stress. Just food and music that, at times, fell within his tastes. It was innocent enough and, admittedly, pleasant to get to experience once more. --What he did mind, however, was the new coming sound of an approaching vehicle. Whatever else he may have had to say got lost within his throat, just as out of view to where the dirt road snaked out onto the landscapes, barely hidden behind that of forests shrubbery and old cobble walls, the clear arrival of the one and only late guest came rumbling through.

Taking care not to hurt his hound, Cyrus pushed his chair back (meeting resistance from where its feet had sunk into the grass below) and slowly rose. With a wave of his hand towards his company, he bid his momentary farewell – all the while Eamon let out a hearty, full laugh that rumbled within his very gut.

“Ah, so that’s what scares you, then.”

---

As Cyrus ascended the modest hill towards the summer farms main building, he thought to himself that he and Eamon perhaps weren’t so different. However unbecoming he had thought the man’s obedience towards his wife’s family name to have been – to say that he couldn’t understand it, would been a bit of a lie. For, sometimes, the choice simply isn’t yours to make… --He had, after all, taken Cynthia’s name himself.

(Not in marriage, no, yet still as she always had said that he would…)

Forgoing stepping out of his shoes – a forced habit since the day that he landed in Unova – and ducking past curtains that carried Venipede holes, the chattering of the women whom tirelessly worked on the deserts that would be shared that evening slowly quieted.

Until one brave soul spoke up.

“Oh, Damian, just in time. Would you mind giving us a hand…?”

---

Midsummer was a holiday as exciting, as it was draining. But it was also one that served to be very, very distracting. --Not to him, oh no. But for their newly arrived guest. Cynthia was not only the darling to the people of an entire region – a monarch beloved by all. No, she also, within her own family, stood above the rest as someone divine. Someone to strive towards, someone to aspire to become.

Someone whose attention and aid you wished for at every waking hour of the day.

This served Cyrus quite well – as his escape into the farm house had come to an end much quicker than he would’ve ever liked for it to. The women of the family, one of which had a newly born darling by the name of Jamie sat in a sling upon her breast, had been much preferred company compared to that of the rest of the gathering. Though no less towheaded and plain, the air had laid different.

Tender, yet diligent. And with an extra set of hands, the making of the deserts had gone by that much quicker.

This had meant, however, that dinner could start but a tad bit earlier than previously expected. Quickly the sea of Nechayev’s filtered into the many tables set up upon the estates grounds – families, trying their hardest to figure out how to best fit themselves into groups of husbands and wives, children and cousins and everything in-between.

And to his delight, his hound had served as a wonderful buffer in securing his previous seat… off-center to the crowd.

(Away from the ends of which had been reserved to Cynthia and her immediate family; very much a deliberate choice.)

Eamon welcomed him back by that of a groan in his throat and a wave of his hand, and Cyrus favored the latter in return. Houndoom was quick to change position from underneath his seat, to behind it, as to not be a bother to the rest of the guests (and to avoid a kick to the face, should the gentleman before his owner decide to have a few too many drinks before six) and with that, Cyrus settled down.

“No more hiding?” Eamon teased, and down the length of the table Cyrus caught the gaze their newly arrived guest.

She smiled.

He looked away.

---

If Midsummer was a holiday for the children, then Christmas was one for adults.

As the sun lulled its way to its bed upon the tree crowns, the vast fields of the Nechayev property no longer littered with that of children and teens. The younger laid worn out and asleep either within their sober mothers laps; or sat propped before a movie within the farmhouse until they inevitably would succumb to the same exact fate. While the teens, he noted, mostly took to playing adults – or found activities inside to partake in and enjoy. Be it to prank call friends and play cards, or sit around upon the rocks beside the recently renovated outhouse. It didn’t seem to really matter as long as they could manage to get a cider or two from their intoxicated fathers to share.

If he strained his ears and listened, he could recognize a few tunes being played at the foot of the hill – that of old folk songs as well as new, and many of which spoke of alcohol and obscurities better left untold.

All done in a language he hadn’t favored for three odd years now. --Or, was it perhaps closing in on four…?

In his hand sat nothing but a plastic cup of water; and Cyrus came to wonder if that was exactly why his own family never truly had fancied themselves the celebration of this particular holiday. Noboru rarely had drank, as far as he could remember, and the moments that he had; it most often had been in the company of business officials and clients. Never did he take a beer with dinner, nor a shot of liquor in the evenings to aid his aged self settle.

(His mother, he knew, drank – but she certainly had thought herself to have been rather unassuming about it.)

Another reason, he supposed – as he whirled the tender cup between his fingers – was for the fact that their family had been but a small one. Maternal grandparents, he knew that he had though never had he gotten to properly know them. His paternal grandmother was but a distant memory of early childhood, while his paternal grandfather was a ghost hidden within picture books and quarrels.

A big family was required for an event to feel both special… as well as needed – and without them, there simply had been little point to even bother.

“There you are… If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you had been trying to avoid me, Damian.”

Past his shoulder, he caught sight of her – clad in a gown far too extravagant (revealing) for the evening at hand. In one hand, gathered and wrinkled, she held the length of her dress while within the other; a glass overfilled with velvet red wine. Her slender, feminine hand eventually came to settle against his shoulder – a weight that was hauntingly familiar – and he wasn’t surprised (nor pleased) when it traveled up upon the nape of his neck so that it could cradle the back of his skull.

His brow’s subtly dipped, but she caught it nonetheless. A chuckle mingling alongside her words. “Did I sour your mood that badly, dear?”

Nonchalantly his arms folded across his chest and a shrug followed shortly thereafter. That her hand upon him, in turn, fell, was an outcome that he couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased with. “Tired, more so than anything else. These events aren’t exactly my forte… but you knew that already.”

“Oh, I certainly do.” Theatrically, one slender fingers settled upon her painted lips and her auburn eyes gazed towards the lightly specked sky. “You were most unhappy when I dragged you out to Solaceon Town to spend the holidays with just little ol’ me.”

Her lips smiled against the brim of her ambrosia. “I remember having had a lot of fun with you, though.”

---

Though she had been but a foreigner in her youth to the region she eventually would come to claim as her own, Cynthia – since the day that they met – seemingly fit in with the population more so than he himself ever had. Her first months upon Sinnoh’s land, she had cried false tears and begged for him to come with her to the celebration up north; for, in her own words, she would ‘die’ if he left her all to herself come summertime. And though he now could understand that those had been shallow, meaningless words of which she would continue to spew until their eventual parting – back then, he had felt it cruel to not do as she wished out of fear that she indeed would decide to disappear from the world.

Foolish, perhaps, for she was the sort of girl whom would rather break down others than see her own self earn a single scar. --But, he hadn’t known that back then.

What he also hadn’t known, was that though Cynthia enjoyed the holiday for what it was; what she most had liked about it, was the opportunity it gave for her to play her own little made up games.

Games with rules that he never got to learn, but was expected to follow nonetheless.

Instead of having her dearest dance with her like all the others, linked together by hands around the pole as accordions and pianos blared the tunes to follow – she had wanted for him to do nothing but hold her from behind so that he may sway them back and forth. Her hands, trapping his just below her bust…

All so that she could guide them wherever she pleased when eyes inevitably came to stray their way...

---

(He had felt sick at the thought.)

---

She had always carried herself with something akin to faux grace, even as but a teenage girl. And gracefully, this evening, was exactly how Cynthia sunk to a squat beside his standing self. That the heels that she wore sunk into the lawn below, to the point where he imagined she would struggle to tug them out, was a guess that he felt confident enough to quietly make – and as she adjusted the fall of her dress (an act that left little to the imagination, where it dipped and fell to simply show more of the creamy flesh of her breasts) and dangled the glass by its lip between her parted thighs; a longing, dreamy sigh left her lips.

“What I would give, just to go back to that for an hour or two…”

Cynthia had, indeed, taken to the holiday much easier than he himself ever had.

But only because she had made it her own.

---

She had much rather played the game of adults behind that propped up stage at the event, crouched upon her knees between his parted, shaking thighs. His heart had hammered within his chest from the fear of being caught doing something so foul.

And with her lips stained with his boyish seed, as though a mockery of a young girls lip-gloss, she had praised him for being such a naughty church boy… --To change who he was, and remind him of the fact, had perhaps been the true name of her game.

---

“You know, I did so much for you back then,” came her quiet, soft admission, and Cyrus felt bile rise into the back of his throat. For she spoke as though every word was gospel – the good and honest truth. “Had it not been for me, you still would’ve been that lonesome choir boy whom never could say a word for his own personal sake…”

When he spoke, his voice was stern. Interruptive. “This dance of formalities is unnecessary, Cynthia…”

Laughter bubbled within her throat, as she brought her glass to have another taste of red.

“Simply talking is considered ‘formalities’ to you?”

“You have something to tell me, I can tell that you do.” Almost as an afterthought, after a beat of his own heart – he added: “… What is it that you want?”

Her mindless giggles, then, abruptly stopped. What mannerisms she had displayed to her family that evening evaporated out of her fingertips like smoke; and what was left, was a woman much more familiar to his eyes. --One less fake, less plastic… A Cynthia who finally decided to play as her honest self.  

A smacking of her lips introduced her coming words.

“Oh, Cyrus…” The admittance of his past identity stirred him enough to glance down at her. Eyes framed by white – narrowed. “Why is it only me that you’re this way with? That you won’t talk to.”

For once, he felt he had no words. Perhaps because to admit to her the reason why felt wrong. --Felt dreadful, felt pathetic… childish.

(He loathed the way she made his chest constrict.)

“Is it because you don’t know what you should be saying to me?” Came her probing suggestion.

She never had wished to hear his thoughts regardless of which words he chose.

“Is it because you worry you will say something that you will come to… regret?”

Every moment with her had been filled with nothing but.

“… Is it, perhaps, because I’m not… her?”

The world, it seemed, fell quiet.

A deafening silence.

‘Her’, in truth, could be none other than she… Yet, still, anyone else. His hands wrung at his sides, his blunt nails finding their way to dig into the bed of his palms. If he once had considered himself masterful in disguising but a simple dip of his brow, then now – his eyes would be but windows for the lambent of emotions that flickered within his soul. Before a comment (a guess, an accusation) of his own could be made, however, Cynthia supplied him with his answer.

“You never had been this hesitant when you talked to that girl… When you told her all those lies and tried to get her on your side.”

His breath got lost in his throat as she turned, as she twisted her body so that she may stare up at him with those familiar, sultry eyes.

He felt a knot form within his stomach.

(A fox’s grin danced upon her lips.)

“Quite disgusting of you to have played with a little girl like that, don’t you think?”

When her hands, smaller than his, brushed their knuckles over the leg of his pants – up to his thigh, where they came to rest, sprawled and wide; Cyrus stood static and immobile, as though he was carved out of marble rather than flesh. And as she gently laid the glass of wine down onto the lawn, unconcerned of the blood red spillage upon it – raised onto the toes of her heels – and gripped at the buckle of his belt; Cyrus wondered if he still was that boy all those years back, who couldn’t for the life of him say no to a little bit of human contact…

“Didn’t you know that you could’ve played with me instead? I have never been anything short of willing…”

(What a repulsive, vile comparison she makes… As though his actions with her ever had been shrouded in perversion.)

What this knot that he felt was, was not one born out of lust; out of desire. No. For as he gazed down upon Cynthia – older than she once had been, filled out in all the ways that would set her outside the desired norm for a woman of Unova, yet no less the girl she once had been; when he looked down upon her now, he saw nothing but a woman with death painted lips.

A child’s blood, of whom she had once declared heroine.

His earthy, cold hands fell on top her feminine ones, and removed them from his person in one swift motion. The fact that she didn’t provide much resistance was perhaps a show enough of exactly how uncertain she truly had felt in her own chosen actions (fearing he would do something such as this, perhaps… A glimpse past the façade of unrivaled confidence and poise).

Had she been as she displayed herself to the world – unshakable, assertive and proud – then her hands most certainly would’ve fallen onto much more inappropriate places.

Places of which her eyes flickered to for but a split second, then traveled up to meet his very own; and if there ever had been a moment where one could say that the dearest champion looked like a child caught red-handed – then now certainly was the time.

“You were the one who played games with her, Cynthia.” His hands tightened where they held hers and a display of discomfort spread onto her features. “It was you who told her stories of heroism and it was you who promised that the world would be hers should she just give up her life in return. What I did was nothing but an attempt to get her away from the ledge that came to claim that same life and you-“

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Came her hitched, shrill query. As though there was humor to the topic at hand – as though her death had been anything but tragic and immoral.

Cyrus choked on his words, his tongue thick within his mouth as though it was made out of cotton. His hands around her wrists were impossibly cold and, as he glanced down upon them; he found they carried a subtle, yet defined, shake.

(Calm yourself, Cyrus… Stay. Calm.)

Low within his throat, as his shaky hold shifted to grasp around her forearms, he aided in pulling her back onto her feet. “Don’t make a fool of yourself before your family like this. Stand.”

She easily did as was asked of her, allowing herself to be pulled up like a daughter lifted by her father; and though he attempted to push her away from his person so that she would stand on her own – she had different ideas. Slender, pale arms snaked their way over and around his broad shoulders. Her fingers, dancing at the nape of his neck where a patch of snow white spread. And as her chest pressed against his own, as her pelvis fell in tune with his; a repetition of her words whispered against his ear in a tone that almost bordered on that of… concern.

“Cyrus… Didn’t anyone tell you about her? That she came back?”

No.

No one had told him.  

---

They had found themselves huddled against the backside of the family home – overlooking rocks, a dried up creek and an abundance of ferns of which surely were littered with bugs and other such small critters. His right shoulder laid to rest against the worn wood paneling while her back did the exact same thing. Hunched, her arms folded beneath her chest and with her head titled away from his person. --Like this, she felt so much smaller compared to him… So much like they once had been.

What space they had earned, however, left little room for patience. His heart felt as though it was leaping directly within his throat; and he may as well have lost his words by the way he fumbled to find them.

In the end, he simply hissed them.

“… Why haven’t I heard about this until just now?”

She behaved as though she was but fifteen once more. Mousy, slouched and pouting with the entirety of her bottom lip. “You’re acting as though I deliberately kept it from you.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

He spat at her claim. “Do forgive me for not believing you, Cynthia. You haven’t exactly proven to be the most forthcoming when it comes to information of the past-”

A single painted finger bravely jabbed at his chest. “… Even if I had, it shouldn’t matter. You’re a criminal, Cyrus. A convicted felon that I saved from a life in prison and you should be fucking grateful that I’m even letting you know about that stupid girl-“

At midsummer’s eve, she had wanted nothing but for his hands to be upon her. She had wanted nothing but to feel the weight of them upon her flesh. But as Cyrus twisted where he stood, as he set his weight onto the palms of his hands just above her own two bare shoulders – as he trapped her between himself and the aged old wood of the Nechayev farm – she ended up wishing that she could be anywhere but. --Wishing that she wouldn’t be the target of his dismay, because she had never wanted for anything other than for the two of them to be good.

(Was that not why she had done what she had? Out of a twisted, self-fulfilling desire to claim him as her own once more?)

What accusation he had carried in his tone dilapidated into that of pure and honest anger. The corners of his lips, tightly drawn into a scowl while the bridge of his beaked nose brushed against her own – and he barked at her; scolded her.

“How dare you call the child you killed with your negligent promises stupid?”

Her own ire met his. “I told you already, she’s not dead.”

And so, silence fell. Save for the echo of crickets to be lost by morning light – save for the giggles of youth that spoke of crushes and first loves near the nest of human waste. --Save for the beating of their hearts, the mingling of their breaths.

And he, this time, was the one to break through the void.

“… Why now?” There was something raw to his throat. His words. A man like him – someone such as he shouldn’t speak as though he hurt. And, yet, he did. “Why tell me this now, am I no longer the despicable villain in the eyes of the world? Why?”

(He had thought he killed her twice over, for all these years.)

There was something unknown in his eyes.

Glassy.

Cynthia’s hand, for the first time that evening, hesitated. Paused to hover awkwardly at the curvature of his left shoulder. When he gave no inclination that he would retreat, shake her off or grow angry with her for touching him; she did exactly that.

His weight shifted to fall onto the length of his forearms.

“There’s… someone searching for her. And I thought, perhaps, that it had to do with you.” The confession was but a whispered breath – as though she knew, in her heart, that it was a claim without rhyme or reason. “I… realize now how stupid it sounds but I...”

If he felt he could’ve, then he would’ve laughed right at her. “You thought I would risk my parole to search for a dead girl?”

Luckily, Cynthia decided that she would do it for him. A hollow, soft sound; but a laugh nonetheless. And, perhaps, the most honest laugh that she ever had given him. “It wouldn’t have been your first otherworldly search…”

… He supposed that that would be a rightful claim to make.

She always had known, despite perhaps acting as though she hadn’t, that he had planned his actions since the tender age of seventeen. Perhaps not in full, perhaps not as defined and straight forward – but Cynthia had known. --When laid to share his boy room bed, with their fingers intertwined beneath the covers and beyond; he had told her that there were things in this world that he absolutely loathed. (She, in typical fashion, had wondered if she was a part of that ‘thing’ – to which an answer had not been given.) That there were people who deserved to live better than they did, yet could not; that there were people who did not deserve what they had, for they had done nothing in their lives but cause anguish to those around them.

He had told her that he wished to change the world from what it was, into something better.

And she had told him, between a tender touch of her palm to his cheek and a kiss placed upon his lips, that he was sick for having such thoughts in his mind. That to chase a dream such as that was to set oneself beyond reality; into insanity.

She had told him that he was insane.

And that she loved him for that fact. Because those not right, can be changed – and he was her own personal project.

And, perhaps he had been.

But if he had been insane, then she was equally so. To use a child in steed of your own prowess could not, or perhaps should not, be regarded as anything but exactly that. Insanity.

A disregard for human life for your own personal gain.

Even now, Cynthia saw what she did as but a minor slipup rather than the disgrace it had been. All proven by the fact that she still, even after so long, had the stomach to label the young girl as ‘stupid’.

(He wondered if she even could hear herself, the way that she spoke – or if she was willfully blind to her own personal faults.)

Strength returned to his limbs one by one. From resting all of his weight upon his own two forearms (his brow, almost flush against her own), to standing upright once more. And where his steps led him, was away from her. --Towards a creek that once had been.

He supposed that she had reason to worry of his involvement.

After all… There had been a promise made.

His hands fell to sit comfortably at the small of his back. His fingers, interlocked and settled - despite it all, he hadn’t changed all that much in these past three years.

(… Had she?)

Eventually, the one last lingering question bubbled to the frontlines. The end of the topic, the end of the conversation; all so that they could move on from whatever plane of existence they had come to find themselves upon.

“… Would I ever have known?”

Her voice was distant. Far. She hadn’t moved from where she rested against the chipped farmhouse exterior – nor had he expected that she would. She never had liked confrontations – at least not with him.

“… Known what?”

“If there hadn’t been someone seeking her out, if there hadn’t been a cause for concern in regards to my compliance of the rules… Would you ever have told me?” An hour of sunlight was, perhaps, what was left of the evening. In the creek before him, the singing of crickets already fell in tune. A familiar sound in all the wrong ways, of Kriketot’s and Kricketune’s lulling their young to sleep.

His hands wrung.

“… Would you ever have told me that she lived?”

Her answer was one that he hadn’t wished to hear, but had known to be the only real answer that she could give. --Because she always, always, had liked to keep him in the dark. Always had liked to lie, persuade and do whatever it would take to cause him the most harm.

So why would this have been any different?

“… No, I wouldn’t have.”

She would always be the same.

“I’m sorry, Cyrus.”

‘You’re not.’

---

The Nechayev was a family of great proportions, and its people held an even greater appetite for declared beverages of sin. During events such as Midsummer, it was typically accepted that every single member (save for, perhaps, the elderly – of which all had left hours prior) were to stay the night at whichever location the celebrations had been decided to take place upon that year.

(Last year, it had been set at a manor off the coast of Nimbasa City – and Cyrus distinctly remember having had to share a bed with an overtly drunk Nikita, where they had slept head-to-toe. --A memory that was, by all accounts, unpleasant…)

The farm was petite and quaint – and with barely half stuffed within its thin walls; they already pushed its tender limits. Therefore, some lucky few were left to either pitch tents of their own, or to sleep within the cars of which had brought them all there in the very first place.

This was the fate that himself and his ‘cousin’ had been afforded this time around – as it was for most of the men of the family.

The gentle rumbling of a car was a sensation that, as a young boy, always had been able to tire his restless self into deep and somber sleep. An oddity, though it may have been, for it had taken him until the age of five until he had able to properly fall sleep anywhere but against the swell of his mother’s breast.

Cars, however, had seemingly been a substitute of which had been equal in its soothing capabilities.

… So why was it, then, that he simply could not fall asleep?

For the first time in a long time, Cyrus felt… Restless. Despite the bright summer night, all that his eyes could truly see were the fuzzy, gray interior of their carpool vehicle while against his back – he felt the seats coarse fabric gnaw at his pinstripe shirt. To his left, curled up and slumbering like a young infant upon the reclined driver’s seat; Nikita laid – his knees, high against his chest while in the confined space, his bare feet bent awkwardly against the car’s side door. His mouth hung agape, displaying to the world teeth that were artificially whitened and pearly, yet still with the distinct speckles of unmined coal littered about in the back-most rows. --If he lulled his head back, then Cyrus could see that he wasn’t the only one awake, either.

Houndoom’s ruby gaze shone like headlights from their sockets, there in the trunk of their car.

… A thought came to him, then, that a mare may as well have been sat upon his chest – given the way he so relentlessly seemed to be fighting away any ounce of sleep that came his way. As though afraid that, should it claim him – then the vexing creature would crush the bones of which kept his heart caged. Just so that she may suffocate him, cause him concern; and give him exactly what it was that he deserved.

Perhaps it was simply that his mind was distorted by the memories of her – and nothing more.

They say guilt is a rope that wears thin, and his, it seemed, was at the point of breaking.

---

He had first met her at the brink of the winter, a few days past her twelfth birthday, at the lake embedded within the forests of which almost swallowed her small home town whole. To her eyes – and surely, to the boy whom had been at her side – he would’ve appeared as someone ominous. Someone untouchable, towering… Cold.

Yet he could remember how she eventually had come to reach for his hand to hold upon their very next meeting.

As though he was someone dear, and not a stranger.

(Perhaps he never had been as frightening as he had thought himself to have be.)  

---

Cyrus sat up, and for the first time realized that though the sun had long since been replaced by the moon; the heat of summer still lingered. His wear felt clammy and warm, his hands equally so – and it was with sweat upon his palms that he reached for the window lever to roll it all the way down.

It took him three deep breaths to realize that somewhere far within himself, his heart was beating painfully hard. One, for his worn hands to palm at the collar of his shirt and, in turn, break the button of which pinned it closed over his throat.

Breathing, then, felt but a little bit easier.

Over his shoulder, he heard the shuffling of weight and by a glance towards the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the hound standing as tall as he could within the meager, confined space. With grace unbefitting his stature; Houndoom traversed over and onto the backseats to plant himself firmly upon them.

His muzzle felt wet and cold as it pressed against the shell of his ear, despite the wildfire of which festered within the dogs barrel chest.

“… Are you being disobedient, Sir?” He softly asked, a brow jutted and raised in mock question. His head turned and his nose came to settle against the dog’s short, dark coat while quietly to himself, Cyrus could admit that the sensation was somewhat ticklish.

Houndoom huffed.

---

He once had told her that if someone ever asked her if she was afraid – and her answer were to be a clear ringing yes – that she should tell them exactly that. Admit that she was terrified, that she was afraid… And that she hoped that things would just turn out okay. --This had been advice, however, of which he never ended up allowing for her to properly put to use. For though he never had thought himself to have been a man capable of causing such harm and she, most likely, had thought so as well; in the end, it was he whom had put her into fatal dangers way.

They had faced off like the caricatures that they were in Veilstone – the Hero against the Villain, and his true colors had come through. The ugly, frightened part of himself who had seen the possibility of his work being torn from his hands by that of a young little girl.

Had she been able to ask him the question back then – “Are you afraid, Cyrus?” – then his true and honest answer, as one by one she brought down the creatures he himself had never trained, as she beat his work (his dreams) beneath the earths rotten soil; Cyrus would’ve told her that yes.

He was afraid.

Terrified.

And that he had hoped that things would turn out okay.

She never had asked him that question (and why, truly, would she have?)… Just as much as he never asked her what she had felt, when he had sent the agape jaws of his hound at her to tear out the insides of her thin, tender throat.

He had not asked her, then, if she had feared him.

If she had feared for her life.

---

He gazed into the darkness beneath half-mast lids.

“… You would’ve done it, wouldn’t you Houndoom?” His words felt quiet and foreign, and as he turned in his seat to sink low within it; his arms crossed, and his feet settled upon the glove compartment box. If he was accusatory, then he cared not – he knew deep down that had he not been the one to have given him the command, then the hound would’ve stayed seated at his feet all those years back.

Still, he felt he simply had to ask: “You would’ve killed her, that girl. Without a second thought.”

As though there ever would be an answer to be found.

---

(She would’ve told him that she had been afraid. Terrified. And that she had felt as though things wouldn’t have turned out okay.)

---

Houndoom’s head was heavy against his shoulder, but no words left him. No matter how much Cyrus may have wished for him to have explain away his own personal faults. --What a stupid desire to have.

Out past the windshield, just above the line of which designated a cracked within the glass from where a pebbled had been carelessly tossed, the serene landscape rolled into misty, cold hills. The suns tangerine glow would not arrive for another hour still, perhaps two, and in a world within himself, Cyrus recalled that she – Hikari – once had said that she enjoyed the taste that the mist oftentimes brought forth. It had been a display of which had put forth just how childish she still had been back then, despite having fallen into her earliest teenage years.

She had wandered across logs and into shallow pools of water with her arms held out as wings at her sides, and she had asked him if he could hold her hand to make sure that she would not fall.

Her tongue, half stuck out past glossy, stained lips.

Quietly, with but his hound as witness; Cyrus laughed. A laugh of which brought a shake to his shoulders and rattled the lungs hidden within his breast. A laugh of which was dry, just as well as wet – a laugh at the notion that the girl he had thought he killed was alive somewhere there in the world, and he hadn’t known. --Hadn’t been allowed to know…

His eyes trailed from the outside world, to where his sock-clad feet were set. The compartment box of which housed anything but gloves, but rather knickknacks and stuffed out fags of which Alexandra shamefully hid from the world.

There were many things of which Cyrus no longer was allowed to do. Many things of which he no longer was allowed to partake in, nor indulge within. As far as punishments went, he knew that he had gotten away with matters that were – in truth – unforgivable.

He had stolen and harvested recourses that had not been for his taking. He had destroyed an eco-system for his own personal gains.

He had attempted to rid the world of its life, with the miniscule and uncertain possibility of being able to rebuild it once more.  

He unraveled where he sat, and fingered at the clasp of which kept the treasures of the glovebox from his sight.

… Did he believe in it, still? That he would’ve been God in place of Him. Did he believe, still, that he did it out of love – rather than a sense of vengeance and hate?

He had once told her that to lie was the foulest of sins that someone could commit – and liars, no matter what, could not and should not be trusted. Yet, he supposed; he had lied to her still. --Had expressed that he never, ever, would be able to hurt her. That she could trust him, unlike Cynthia, on this path that she had found herself upon.

He had lied and told her that he was going to create a better world, when he had had no knowledge of if such a thing was even possible.

With a click, the drawer fell open and alongside it came droves of paper and pens, burned out cigarettes and empty gum containers. All of which gathered at his feet, within his lap or wherever else there was room to fill. Rather than clean after himself, however, Cyrus rummaged. Sought a pen whose nub was not broken and gone; sought a piece of paper of which wasn’t already scribbled upon and destroyed.

Houndoom whined behind him, while Nikita quietly snored.

There were many things of which Cyrus no longer was allowed to do. Many things of which he no longer was allowed to partake in, nor indulge within.

There were many rules of which he had been asked to follow, and in turn he would be granted his greatest wish. --He would be able to go back home.

---

Seated almost hip to hip on a hill stained by painter’s hands, she had once asked him;

“Do you think I will grow to be just as big as you?”

And he had pondered for a moment, eyes of which almost were a mimicry of her own dancing over the height of her childish cheeks and bug-like gaze. She truly had been nothing but a child, way back then. “You can grow in many different ways, Hikari. I am simply… tall.”

Such answers never were satisfactory to children, although she had seemed to muse over it all for a moment in time. Her lips, gnawed at by her teeth while her fingers had played with her off-white scarf.

(He had wondered when it was last that she gave it a good wash.)

---

What he sought, he eventually found; and wasn’t that just typical of Cyrus Akagi? Without taking care of the mess of which he had made, he slammed the compartment box close in one swift motion. One that rattled the inhabitants of the vehicle, yet did not awake those who slept. (And thank the Gods for that…)

With pen and paper in hand, Cyrus stared blankly at the sheet of white. Like freshly laid snow within summer time, far up north where the sun no longer settled and the tips of the trees were left bare. --His throat felt thick. Dry.

He hadn’t felt this way since he was but a child.

… Indeed, there were many rules of which Cyrus had been asked to follow in return for his greatest desire. To not seek out the faith of which had fostered his entire being from the day that he turned three – to the people of which he called mother and father.

Cyrus had been asked to never, ever, seek to contact anyone from his past until his Time. Was. Up.

---

“… But, do you think?”

Cyrus hadn’t lied to her. Had spoken nothing but the truth, with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the strings his cheeks.

“… No, I don’t think you will.”

---

And yet, as he braced the led tip of his pencil against the pale, unmarred paper; the thought of consequences evaporated out of his fingertips like water off a ducks back.

And so, he begun to write:

‘How tall are you now, Hikari? ...’

[miracle-in-the-eye-of-the-storm]

Sorry I’m Not Perfect, part II ― Trixx’s Grief

eyy part two! i’m gonna go back and tag the first bit i did as “Sorry I’m Not Perfect AU”, which is what i’m calling this thing. when i’ve gotten all of the chapters/parts up on tumblr, i’m gonna move it to AO3 as well, so look out for that!

Trixx has always loved its kits, even when it wasn’t the one to personally choose them. What could it not love about them? Fiercely protective, resourceful, clever, curious, and sneaky when they needed to be. True, they may not be as powerful as Tikki and Plagg’s children, but they’re still Trixx’s, and for that it will always love them dearly ― even when it has to leave them.    It had thought that Alya would be one of the better ones, with time. Right now, she is too loud, too brash, too prone to charging in when she should have been watching from the shadows and waiting for the perfect moment to bring in her illusions. But that would be fixed, if she could be trained properly as its next Wielder. So when Tikki tells it in their dreams that Alya has failed as a hero in her civilian life, Trixx grieves her as if she had lost her life, not her friendship with the kwami. And then it decides to test her one more time, Tikki giving it her blessing.     Trixx has never understood how the Guardian Fu’s tests for Plagg and Tikki’s kits worked; what would he have done if they weren’t there? What if someone else had helped him? Would he have given them to that someone else? What if he actually had been hurt, more seriously than he had let on? It made no sense to Trixx. Ladybug choosing Alya made more sense to it, because she knew Alya, and she trusted her. Alya was curious, and bright, and mischievous. Trixx loved her almost right away. But to hear that she had set aside her natural curiosity in favor of the newest shiny thing, that was ― that hurt. All the kwami in and outside of the Miracle Box had felt Tikki’s fury last night; their eldest did not change to her Spirit form often. Wayzz, who had spoken with Tikki, had told them all what had happened with Fu.     Personally, Trixx doesn’t particularly care about the old man. He’s just a human who made a mistake, and was so ashamed to admit to it that he ran away. He took care of their Miracle Box, yes, but that was it; he’s made no effort to try and bring back the Order, or to train others to take up his duty when he can’t any longer. Trixx said nothing against him because Wayzz loved him, but there was no love lost between the man and the kwami.     Trixx imagines that Wayzz must be feeling as betrayed as it does, right now. He and Fu had become very close over the years, so to realize that Fu would rather prioritize the feelings of the one at fault over the one being hurt must have come as a horrible shock.     It shakes itself; it is going to see Alya. It is going to look and listen with its own eyes and ears, to make sure that she isn’t beyond hope. She goes to the same school as Ladybug and Chat Noir; it can see how she treats them outside of the mask, too. It doesn’t have very high hopes, considering what Tikki told everyone, but still ― still. It loved her ― loves her. It doesn’t want her to be this . . . child that Tikki has described her as. It wants to believe better of her. It wants to have faith in her.     “Alya,” it says by her window.     Alya, who’s sitting at her desk and appears to be editing a video, startles and looks up. She lights up when she sees Trixx, and bounds over. “Trixx!” She squeals and cups her hands around the kwami, hugging it. “I haven’t seen you in ages, I missed you so much! Wait.” She pulls away, frowning in concern. “There isn’t an Akuma attack, is there? I can’t imagine why else you’d be here . . .”    “No, no Akuma,” Trixx assures her. “I am here of my own volition, kit. There are certain circumstances that allow kwami to be separated from their Miraculous for a while, and this is one of them.”     Alya raises an eyebrow, but accepts this. “It’s not a bad circumstance, is it?” When Trixx shakes it head, she squeals again and whirls around. “Oh, this is great! We can catch up on how we’ve been, we can talk about Ladybug, we can ― ooh! Do you have nails? We can probably still do a makeover party even if you don’t, but―”    “Alya,” Trixx interrupts, exasperated. “It is after midnight, and tomorrow is Monday. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”     Alya slumps. “Yeah, but I still gotta get this video up and finish the last bits of my homework.”     “So do that,” Trixx tells her, settling down on her bed and resting it tail around itself comfortably. “There will be time to catch up later, when you don’t have other commitments.” The girl groans, theatrical and dramatic, but grins at Trixx and agrees to finish her work and go to sleep. When the light is off, and they’ve told each other good night, Trixx curls up on her pillow and hopes for the best.     The next morning, Trixx hides in Alya’s bag while she walks to school and grimaces at the cramped feeling. At some point, Alya meets up with another girl ― someone decidedly not Ladybug, though Trixx isn’t sure who else she is. Whoever she may be, though, Trixx knows it doesn’t like her. She feels too sly, too sharp, too wrong. Trixx has a sinking feeling that this is the Lila girl who pushed Alya away from her path.     Trixx’s suspicions are confirmed when except for classes and going to the bathroom, Lila doesn’t leave Alya’s side. In the middle of lunch, Trixx sneaks away to meet with Tikki.     “I don’t remember it hurting this much,” Trixx confesses to its elder. Tikki nods solemnly, holding its pas in hers. “It’s always horrible when our kits stray away from us, but . . .”     “It feels worse every time,” Tikki finishes. “I know. And I’m sorry that yours left so early, Trixx.”     Trixx sighs. “Thank you, Tikki. I’m going to talk to her after school, today. If she doesn’t realize she’s done anything wrong, then . . .” Trixx shakes its head. It blinks, and says “I’m sorry, Tikki, I have to go ― Alya’s finishing lunch.”     “Goodbye,” Tikki calls softly as Trixx flies off.     It phases back into Alya’s bag just before she opens it up to check for the kwami. Trixx smiles at her reassuringly, and she grins back. Trixx’s smile hurts. “Alya,” Trixx says, after watching her hum and tweak an interview with Lila for two hours. The girl doesn’t answer, absorbed as she is in her work. Trixx sighs. “Alya,” it says again, louder.     Alya’s head jerks up, and she looks around at it. “Hmm? What’s up?”     Trixx studies her. Her face is open, smiling and joyful; there’s no hint of any guilt that she tossed aside her best friend at the drop of a hat, no sign that she thinks something is wrong here, nothing to say that she feels bad for believing Lila over Marinette. Alya ― its dear, lovely, reckless kit. “What do you think of Lila?” It says eventually, instead of asking her how could you like it so desperately wants to do.    Alya immediately lights up, and Trixx closes its eyes in resignation. “Lila? Oh, she’s awesome! Did you know she saved Jagged Stone’s cat from being run over by a plane? She got tinnitus from that, but Jagged was so grateful that he wrote a whole song dedicated to her, so I think it was worth it. Plus, she knows Prince Ali from the kingdom of Achu, too! She spent a while with him working on ways to help stop pollution in the world. She’s given me a lot of interviews ― did you know she’s Ladybug’s best friend? They started hanging out after Ladybug saved her from an Akuma that turned everyone around her into chickens. Like, animal chickens, not ‘ooh, what a chicken’ chickens. Lila said she even knows her secret identity! Apparently it’s because Lila and Ladybug are descended from heroes, so they’ve known each other since they were little kids. Lila isn’t a superhero anymore because Ladybug was so worried about her safety. And―”     “Alya,” Trixx says, floored, “Alya, stop.”     Alya draws up short and blinks at it. It stares at her, feeling nauseated. “Trixx?” She asks uncertainly, coming closer. “What’s wrong?”     “You,” Trixx says helplessly. “You’re what’s wrong, Alya, can’t you see that? You don’t even realize how ― how ― how horrid that Lila girl is, you’re so blinded by her tall tales! Ladybug’s best friend? Descended from heroes? Alya, you of all people should know that isn’t how this works. If she were Ladybug’s best friend, she should know better than to say that to all of Paris, including Papillon ― all that does is paint a target onto her back. And if she knew Ladybug under the mask? That’s even worse, Alya, that would mean she’s betrayed Ladybug’s trust ― you know that girl’s secret identity is important to her, you know it is! Why would she let someone tell everyone from here to the moon that they know her personally? Alya, please, think; Lila can’t be telling the truth. You contradicted your own story just now! They met when Ladybug saved her from an Akuma and have been friends since, but they’ve known each other all their lives? That just doesn’t fit, Alya, and you know it doesn’t. More than that ― you know that Ladybug gets her power from her Miraculous, not her bloodline. Lila wouldn’t be able to be a superhero because she has no Miraculous.” Trixx floats up to Alya’s eye level, giving her a pleading look. “Please, think about it.”    Alya stares at it for a while. At the beginning of Trixx’s rant, she had taken a step back, her eyes wide. Now, her lip is a thin line, her arms are crossed over her chest, and her eyebrows are drawn together. Trixx sags; clearly, Alya isn’t backing down from her position on Lila. “You don’t know Lila like I do,” Alya says, proving Trixx right. It had so dearly wished this was one of the times it’s proven wrong. “She’s an amazing girl, and I know ― I know she wouldn’t lie to me about all that stuff. Sure, maybe she’s . . . exaggerated some of the details, but I’ve done that plenty of times! Plenty of kids in my class have done amazing things! Rose, Juleka, and Ivan are in a band, and they’re already selling copies of their debut song. Marinette’s won a whole bunch of competitions, and she was in Clara Nightingale’s dance video. Adrien’s a model. Why wouldn’t I believe Lila?”    Trixx gives her a tired look. “Let me ask you this,” it says instead of answering. “Why would you believe Lila?”    Alya blinks, startled. “Excuse me?”    “Why would you believe Lila?” Trixx repeats. “What about her has convinced you that she’s trustworthy? Some interviews to raise hits on your blog? Promises she has yet to fulfill? Why, Alya, have you given this girl your loyalty when all she has given you is a ball of yarn?”     “She’s my friend!” Alya snaps.     “Marinette is your friend, too,” Trixx counters. “And if I remember right, Marinette doesn’t believe Lila.”     Alya rolls her eyes. “That’s because Marinette’s jealous of her. If she could just―”     “Jealous?” Trixx interrupts. “Jealous? Of what? You said yourself, Marinette is hardly unaccomplished. What on earth would Marinette be jealous of?”     “Uh, Adrien?” Alya asks with a raised eyebrow. “Duh. The girl’s had a crush on him for almost as long as she’s known him, and Lila’s been pretty close to him recently. With how jealous Marinette’s gotten of other girls, of course she’s touchy about Lila sitting next to him in class.” Then Alya pauses and squints at Trixx. “Hang on, why are you so hung up about Marinette? It’s not like she’s all that important or anything. Sure, it’d be great if she and Lila could get along, but she made it pretty clear that’s not gonna happen.” Alya rolls her eyes again. “Going so far as to accuse Lila of stealing from her? That’s a new low.”     Trixx feels something in its chest go very cold. It steps forward, shifting into its Spirit form as easily as breathing. Alya’s eyes go wide and she stumbles backwards. Wisps of smoke and mist fill the room, gently waving in the shape of fox tails behind and around Trixx. “Alya Cesaire,” Trixx says, cold and low and echoing even in the cluttered space. “I revoke you.”    Alya gasps and clutches at her chest where the Fox Miraculous would rest if she were wearing it. “What―?” She starts, tearing up.    “You have lost your curiosity,” Trixx tells her. She looks up at it through her tears. It’s towering over her now, has to bend over so its head doesn’t hit the ceiling. “You have lost your loyalty. You have lost your joy in real companionship, and for that I revoke you. Alya Cesaire.” It kneels, letting its own tears drip down its snout, caressing her cheeks. “I loved you,” it whispers. “I loved you so much, Alya Cesaire, but I can’t love you anymore. You can’t love me anymore, either, and for that I am so sorry.”     “I don’t understand,” Alya croaks. “If I could just ― just give me a second chance―”     “This was your second chance, kit!” Trixx cries, its tears blinding it for a moment. “This was your second chance, and you wasted it.” It strokes her cheek, wiping away a tear track and shifting the way her glasses sit on her nose. “I’m so sorry, kit, but you’ve made your choice. You have to live with it, now.”     It draws away, shifting back to its Doll form, and leaves her sobbing on the floor. It watches from the window, hidden, as her mother knocks, then comes in when Alya doesn’t answer, then exclaims and rushes to hug her daughter. Alya leans into her mother, her cries clear even through the glass.

[marril96]

Acting for Dummies 101

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: In order to help Sam and Dean with a case, you and Rowena go undercover as a troubled couple.

A/N: Inspired by the bickering scene in 14x14.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

It had been Jack's idea.

Something was killing couples. There had been three incidents so far, all bodies found with their heart neatly carved out and sigils etched into their foreheads and wrists. All signs pointed to a witch, but the suspect pool was long; this small town had a surprising number of suspicious people hanging around, and it was difficult to pinpoint either of them as the offender.

Thankfully, Sam had managed to find a link between the victims. As it turned out, all the couples had had issues, and all had visited the same therapist. Dr. Miranda Jackson had a clean record, not even a parking ticket; out of all people on the suspect list, she seemed least likely to be the culprit. Even still, the coincidence was too glaring to ignore. She was more than worth looking into.

Dean suggested going undercover and Jack had helpfully volunteered you and Rowena. He was so enamored by her performance last time, when she and Sam had portrayed a bickering couple worried about their puppy, that he wanted to see it again. And besides, the two of you were already a couple. You were basically perfect for the role.

So here you were, slumped in a chair you wished was more comfortable, with Rowena right next to you, preparing your imaginary lines. You barely resisted the urge to bite your nails; you dug them into your jean-clad thighs, raked them over the soft denim, curled your fingers in tune with your throbbing nerves. You could do this, you told yourself. It was just a little bit of lying. Nothing you hadn't done before.

All you had to do was fake being in a troubled relationship, look out for any traces of magic lingering in the air, be prepared to fight if the good doctor did turn out to be the murderer, and not get caught.

No pressure at all!

Doctor Jackson observed you, gifted you with a smile, friendly, non-threatening, when your nervous eyes locked with hers for a brief moment. You lowered your gaze right away, suddenly finding the floor — strangely clean and shiny for one in a therapist's office — very interesting. She shifted her eyes to Rowena, earning a smile that was so sugary sweet it induced diabetes.

"So," Dr. Jackson said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the small room, "Why don't you tell me a bit about your troubles? I assume there's a reason you made an urgent appointment."

Her voice was soft and sweet, tone professional yet kind. The kind that made you want to tell her your deepest, darkest secrets, that made you trust her within the first five minutes of knowing her.

"Och, there is!" Rowena said dramatically.

She was a horrible liar, and an even worse actress. You didn't know what it was Jack saw that made him think her performance was, in any way, shape, or form, good. She was an extremely gifted and powerful witch. However, lying, and all related activities, was one of her weakest points.

You loved the woman to death, but not even love was that blind.

"We're having so many problems!"

We'll have problems if your shitty acting gets us caught, you thought.

"Could you elaborate?" Dr. Jackson asked.

"She spends an awful lot," Rowena said. "I work so hard for us, and she throws it all away on nonsense!"

"You're so full of shit!" you said.

On your way to Dr. Jackson's office she, when you asked her what to do, told you to let it come naturally, to just relax and go with the flow. You might as well give it a try.

Pointing a finger at Rowena, you turned to the doctor. "She gambles! That's where her" — you formed quotes with your fingers — "'hard-earned money' comes from! And she's not even good at gambling! She cheats all the time!"

Rowena gasped. "I never!"

"You admitted it to me two months ago!" you argued.

Her eyes widened with feigned shock. She took a deep breath and turned to Dr. Jackson. "I may have cheated once or twice" — you scoffed at that, earning you a glare — "but it's only because she spends so much! I did it for us!"

You snorted, and she shot you another glare.

Dr. Jackson adjusted her glasses, taking the madness in. She seemed to be buying it. "So you're in financial trouble?"

"Yes," Rowena said.

"And you're frustrated because Y/N keeps spending the little money you have?"

"Yes."

"I can see how that would put a strain on a relationship. Finances are a common problem amongst couples — especially married ones. You two are married, correct?"

"As of two years ago," Rowena said happily, flashing a ruby ring she'd bought with your fake credit card a week ago. Dr. Jackson smiled at the gesture.

"She made me take her last name," you mumbled.

"I didn't make you," Rowena defended. "I simply suggested you take mine because it suited you so well."

"You said mine was ugly and that you wouldn't be caught dead having it as your last name!" you snapped.

"Well, it was!" she exclaimed. "MacLeod certainly has a finer ring to it than—"

"Okay," Dr. Jackson interrupted, hands up in a placating manner. "Clearly finances aren't the only issue here. Why don't—"

You cut in. "She spends more than me! Okay, I go on a binge from time to time, but she does it constantly. She can't leave the house without going to one of her ridiculously expensive boutiques. A year ago we had to buy a closet — a closet! — just for her shoes. And it's already full!"

"I will not apologize for wanting to look nice for you!" Rowena said indignantly.

In reality, you loved her shopping habits. She may have spent a lot and bought clothes she would only wear once or twice, but it was something she loved, something she truly enjoyed. As much as you preferred to sit at home to roaming the mall, you happily accompanied her. Her face always lit up with joy as she observed the dresses and blouses, as she looked them over, felt the fine fabrics underneath her fingertips. Every item she tried on she made a point to pose in for you. Part of it was her ego; the woman drank compliments like water, needed them to live, thrived on them. But she also did it for you. She wanted you to see how each item fitted her, how the fabrics hugged her body. Wanted you to want to take it off of her.

Rowena MacLeod was nothing if not a tease.

"Are you sure it's for me?" you said.

She narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know damn well!" you snapped. "She cheated on me!"

Rowena exhaled loudly. "It was one time!" she admitted, raising a forefinger in emphasis. The corners of her lips turned downwards in exaggerated sadness. "She said she's forgiven me, but every time we argue she brings it up."

You ignored her. "She brought him to our house, to our bed!"

She shot you a glare that must have killed before. "Maybe if you did more than just lie there like a heavily sedated walrus while I did all the work I wouldn't have felt the need to seek someone else's company!"

Stifling an incoming surge of laughter, you clasped a hand over your heart dramatically. Her theatrics were rubbing off on you. "Sure, it's my fault. Everything's always my fault. Queen Rowena is always right."

"Well, I am," she said matter-of-factly.

You sighed, rubbing your temples frustratedly. "See what I have to deal with every day?" Before Dr. Jackson could respond, you said, "And it's not just that she's stubborn. She's difficult to live with. She complains about everything. Everything! Nothing's ever good enough for Miss perfect!"

"Forgive me for having standards!" Rowena said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It's called being a snob!" you retorted. Your eyes shifted to the doctor. "One time at a restaurant she complained to the waiter about rain hitting the roof."

"It was annoyingly loud and I have sensitive ears!"

"It was weather! What the hell was he supposed to do, will it to stop? Do a rain banishing dance?"

Her response was a heavy roll of eyes, her trademark.

"She makes these ridiculous complaints at home, too!" you continued. Mimicking her accent, you said, "'My soup is too hot, my tea is cold, you left a speck of dust in the corner, there's creases on my blouse, iron it again…' Can't satisfy her!"

"If you did your job right, I wouldn't complain."

You were outraged. "My job? Honey, if you wanted a housewife, you married the wrong woman!"

Rowena turned to the doctor, eyes pleading, begging for her to side with her. "All I ask is appreciation for my hard work."

"You're a gambler!" you pointed out.

She grit her teeth. "At least I have a job!"

"I had a job, too," you said. The lies fell easily from your lips. Rowena was right; it came naturally. All you had to do was give in to it. "You made me quit, remember?" You locked eyes with Dr. Jackson. "She was jealous of my boss."

"The man was staring at your arse all the bloody time. Who knows what he would've done?"

"Keep telling yourself that."

"I try to look out for her and this is how she repays me," Rowena told the doctor.

"Poor Rowena, always the victim."

She ignored the remark. "She's the jealous one in our relationship."

"Am not," you said childishly.

"Are, too," Rowena retorted. "She scowls at every man who talks to me. One time she even growled. Like a rabid dog." She made a disgusted, outraged face. "Whenever I leave the house, she insists of accompanying me."

"That may have to do with your cheating," you pointed out.

She spread her arms wide, sighed heavily. "There she goes again! She will never let me live it down."

"Would you let me live down cheating on you?"

"I would if you were genuinely repentant. Like me."

You swallowed back a rush of laughter threatening to tear free. Rowena had held grudges for centuries. There were still a few she'd held over a minor disagreement with a small coven of witches a hundred years ago. If any cheating was to happen from your side, she would make note of it, sear it into her brain, and let anger consume her whole one day at a time. If hurt didn't get to her first.

Not that you would be any different. You could forgive a lot of things, but cheating wasn't one of them. Thankfully, Rowena was as faithful as she was a wonderful, attentive lover. She was known to tease and flirt, but she would never cross the line. She loved you, respected you, cherished you too much for that.

"Repentant?" You snorted. "You never even said sorry. In fact, I've never heard you say sorry in my life."

It was a thing of the past — she'd gradually learned to own up to her mistakes and express regret in words as well as actions — but it made for a great addition to your little play.

Rowena, ever the theater actress, agreed. "I said I regretted it."

"You didn't say sorry," you pointed out.

"It's the same thing."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is." She pouted, and it took all your self-control to refrain from melting at the sheer cuteness of it. "You just want to humiliate me."

Instead, you let out another snort. "Basic human decency is not humiliation, but sure. Whatever you say."

"Now you're just being condescending!" she accused.

"I wouldn't have to be if you apologized like a normal person!" you shot back.

"Okay!" Dr. Jackson exclaimed, cutting you both off. She took a deep breath. Exhaled. Inhaled again. Rinse and repeat. Her face was the picture of tiredness, thick, dark circles framing her eyes, skin pale and washed out. It was as if the last forty minutes had added ten years to her age.

If you had to listen to two women bickering like children for a living, you would have aged prematurely, too.

"There's obviously a lot going on here," the doctor said. An understatement.

"A lot," Rowena agreed.

"Yup," you said with a nod.

"You two want to work it out, right? That's why you're here?"

"Aye," Rowena said. She reached for your hand and squeezed it. "Despite everything, I love my wee lamb very much."

You blushed at the nickname. Usually, it was you who called her ridiculous names. Payback. "She really does," you said, the first truth you'd spoken here. "I love her, too. She's my baby girl."

You brought your linked hands to your mouth and kissed her knuckles.

Dr. Jackson flashed you a bright smile. "That's excellent to hear!" she said, and she meant it. She genuinely wished you best. "Time's run out for today. How about we set an appointment for…" She checked her schedule book. "Friday, two o'clock?"

"Sounds marvelous!" Rowena beamed.

"Yeah," you agreed.

"It's a deal, then," the doctor said happily. She stood up. You and Rowena followed suit.

"Thank you so much, Doctor," Rowena said exaggeratedly, shaking the woman's hand with both of hers. "You are going to save our marriage!"

"It's what I do," Dr. Jackson said, giving a humble nod. "I have a good feeling about you two."

She had no idea. Your relationship was far from the fiction you'd sold her. Happy. Wholesome. Healthy. Perhaps a tad codependent, but no relationship was perfect. Arguments were rare, but when they happened, they lasted a few hours tops, and were always resolved with a good makeout session or a tumble between the sheets.

You had your annoyingly overprotective moments, just as Rowena had her difficult, drama-queen ones, but they were nothing the two of you couldn't deal with.

"Thank you," you said.

You and the doctor shook hands and, with a quick exchange of goodbye pleasantries, you were out on the streets. You took in a deep breath of fresh air, tense muscles relaxing, pressure subsiding. A tinge of pride bloomed up in your chest.

"We did it!" you said, smiling from ear to ear.

Rowena flashed a smile of her own. "We did! You were marvelous, dear!" She tilted her chin up, proud, smug. "Not as marvelous as me, of course, but close enough."

You slapped her arm playfully. Your little egoist.

She yelped dramatically, lower lip popping out in a pout. You pressed a swift kiss to it, unable to resist the adorableness. Rowena grinned.

"I didn't sense anything from her," you said.

"Me, neither," she said. "She's not our villain."

You sighed. "This was a waste of time."

"Don't be like that!" Rowena chastised. "It was fun."

"If you say so." A playful smile curled at the corners of your mouth. You hated to admit it, but she was right. It was fun. Pointless, but still entertaining. "We should call the others, let them know about the doctor."

She nodded. "Fancy a lunch? I saw a cosy wee restaurant down the street."

"Sure." Your stomach grumbled in agreement. You rubbed it, cheeks burning hot, embarrassed.

Rowena chuckled. "I suppose we'd better hurry! Come, dear. Let's get that belly full!"

She reclaimed her hold on your hand and lead the way. You followed after her like a faithful puppy, mouth watering at thoughts of warm meals and sweet, delicious desserts. You'd worked hard earlier; you'd earned a treat, or several.

The case could wait half an hour.

Your belly could not.

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @dropsofpetrichor @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @1-800ahs @darkhumorsblog @wayward-kaia @angel7376 @rowenaisfabulous @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @sunseteer5

[chesskilled]

MOBILE USERS have my apologies for the length -- though rest assured this will be under a cut due to the following: DISCUSSION ABOUT MAJOR NDRV.3 EVENTS IN CHAPTER ONE --- INCLUDING DISCUSSION OF THE VICTIM, TRIAL, MURDERER, AND EXECUTION. Other chapters and parts of Ouma’s character are also heavily mentioned. I wanted to shed light on what I presume to be Ouma’s thoughts on the matter, as well as Ouma’s foreshadowing leading up to the closing portion of the chapter. And boy, is there a lot. I’ll be using SCREENSHOTS of TheLifeliketextube’s playthrough of this chapter with hajimikim.o’s translation. Thank you for understanding !! Anyway,

After the events of Chapter 1 and the Prologue combined, Ouma’s character almost seems set in stone. To many in game and out of it, he’s set this ‘role’ for himself. A child seeking entertainment only for himself, a bit of a jerk, noisy, a trickster, a liar. It’s very easy to discredit most of what he says, and just as easy to assume that all he says are lies as well. After all, it’s practically his catchphrase-- “ 嘘 だ よ” ( usoda yo / that’s a lie! ) So when it comes to the killing game itself, it’s equally as safe to assume that his reactions are lies as well. He’s a liar, after all.

Later events prove this to be false, but what I want to look at first is the difference in REACTIONS Ouma has throughout the murder/trial/execution. He doesn’t get a lot of spotlight, but he gets enough for the differences to be easy to spot if one looks for them. A notable part of what we see is this ‘act’ ( a mask ) he puts on, portraying himself as the ‘child’ they expect him to be--one who almost seems sadistic in nature, enjoying witnessing the negative reactions he gets in return for his behavior--and with this act, his reactions are...well, pretty fitting. For the most part that is.

For one example, Iruma’s rebuttal after he accused her of killing Amami. She insults him in return ( “a compulsive shota liar!” ) and he responds just as you’d expect someone of his ‘type’ to do. He’s loud, his tears are messy, and he’s just downright annoying.

...and just as soon as he starts crying, he’s over it. He’s already gotten the reaction he wanted, so there’s no need to play the ‘part’ anymore. Such a switch is so casual, but the reactions we see are so different from one another. Now, comparing it to a later portion of this trial: AFTER AKAMATSU’S EXECUTION.

Here, we see a completely different side of Ouma’s character. He actually seems angry at the situation ( and he is, as we find out later in the game. In fact, later in the game he uses these same sprites when he expresses his feelings about the killing game and the situation they’re in. So it’s enough to infer that when he speaks with these sprites in this sort of context, he’s being genuine. )

...and still, he lies. There’s something suspicious though, in regard to how quickly he switched here in comparison to the others. Given this is after Kaede’s death, and previous interactions with him, his hesitation with Saihara just feels...off. Sure, he switches just as quickly as when he was crying crocodile tears, but it’s in this same scene you notice the tension in his voice, in comparison to something akin to a child. He’s angry, and rightfully so, even if he did know the truth of the matter much earlier than everyone else did. His tears here are less theatrical, but for more evidence that can hint towards the fact he WASN’T lying, let’s look at how he sent Kaede off.

He’s serious. One thing that’s particularly noticeable with Ouma’s character is that he likes things to be “interesting”, or at the very least--not boring. In his FTEs with Saihara, specifically, he often notes in a fond manner how interesting Saihara is, and how ‘surprising’ some of his responses are, if you choose to be bolder. It breaks the mold of what he expected Saihara to be like, and this...does sort of fall into how he thought of Kaede.

She broke the ‘mold’, the ‘role’ that she was given -- as the protagonist, she was hopeful, yet she fell into despair, falling into Monokuma’s trap and acting accordingly. This was INTERESTING, and while he likely wasn’t happy with the choice she made, it was different from what was expected of her, it wasn’t boring, and helped ‘make’ her an ‘interesting person’. 

The highest compliment he’s able to give is calling someone interesting, so for Kaede to get such a high compliment in a short expanse of time, well...it isn’t something to be taken lightly.

Too, it’s a matter of the tone of his voice. When he says this specific line, there’s no trace of mockery. He isn’t teasing, he isn’t joking around--rather, it’s...flatter, more monotonous than the rest of his voiced lines. There’s no exaggeration for any syllable, rather, he’s speaking directly to Kaede -- while I can’t speak with certainty that he knew that it might not leave as much as an impact as it was intended, it’s enough to infer with his character that this was a genuine send off for her.

MOVING ON... Ouma has a tendency to foreshadow future events in-game. That, and he always seems to showcase that he knows more than he lets on, only to brush things off as a joke afterward so people wouldn’t take him quite as seriously. While I won’t show every example--there’s far too many for that--some of the more prominent examples of this are in his FTEs with Kaede, and in Kaede’s respective trial.

In Kaede’s first free time event with Ouma, he exploits her trusting nature, and shows the player how easily she falls for certain ‘tricks’ depending on what emotion he displays alongside the words he speaks. In this free time event, Ouma claims that they met before the killing game semester, displaying desperation and ‘genuine’ upset that she’s ‘forgotten about him’. While it’s obvious this is a lie, he manages to convince her into believing him--having Kaede eventually ask about the circumstances they met under before; doubtful, but believing in his lie. His story goes on for an extensive amount of time, to ultimately be revealed as a lie to Kaede and proving that he was leading her along as long as he could manage--and I’m almost convinced he would’ve done so longer if he was able.  After she gets upset about being lied to, one of the first thing he says is:

In a singular free time event, he reveals what ultimately is her fatal flaw. Her willingness to trust others, no matter the circumstances -- even if she has doubts, she still chooses to trust in other people, including those who might as well be strangers. The fact she chooses to believe and lead more with ‘emotion’, with ‘hope’. This ultimately leads to her downfall later in the chapter, whenever she makes up her mind to ‘kill Amami’ for the sake of her classmates, she trusted in them not to kill anyone, and they trusted her to do the same -- the likelihood of her committing murder was so low, but when pushed to the very limit she was led by her emotions to commit the crime. ( In the same situation, she used her friends’ trust against them. Without the motives in place, she likely would have admitted to the murder much earlier -- especially if Amami had been the Mastermind after all. )

Notice, she doesn’t deny the fact he calls her an ‘easy mark’, nor does she deny his claims she’s ‘soft-hearted’ or ‘naive.’ They’re truths, and said for a good reason. He wanted her to realize it. He wanted her to be AWARE of her flaws so they didn’t strike her down in the game, have she not take the steps to improve or change her way of thinking. I’ll get back to how he referred back to this in the aftermath of the trial in a moment, but there’s also another major point in that Ouma knew from the beginning what the end result would be -- or at the very least, he had a good idea.

In the trial, while he continues to play up an antagonistic role, often times he forces others to look at a certain viewpoint that everyone might be overlooking -- be it from ignorance or just trying to turn a blind eye to the obvious -- he always tries to get the others to think. Shinguuji even comments on this at one point, after Ouma tosses out a theory into the room, forcing everyone to discuss the possibility so they can either disprove or approve it. Shinguuji even admits that he was one of many led around by it, showing how convincing Ouma can be.

A throwback to an earlier free time event, even without that scene -- Kaede’s lack of denial when Ouma reveals the ‘cruel truth’  is something that can’t go unnoticed. This scene is already after the vote, just mere moments before Kaede is sentenced to death, but even then she’s forced to view the truth of the matter -- the truth that no matter how good her intentions might have been, she inevitably did just what Monokuma ( and the Mastermind she wanted to hunt down to begin with ) wanted her to do. Ouma revealing the ‘truths’ of the game and its motives ( including scenes later on in the game, where he expresses disappointment in how the others just seem to go along without thinking about their situation, or ones where he calls out Monokuma for lying to them about certain aspects of the game ) is a very common theme. For a liar, he speaks a lot of truth, which...actually fits surprisingly well with the overall theme. ( Even his outfit reflects it--black/white, truth and lie, even if his own way of thinking is inherently grey. )

I was going to discuss Ouma + White Lies in this but asdfghj that’ll be for another meta. Anyway, hopefully all of this makes sense and it didn’t just sound like a lot of babbling with no purpose --- I just wanted to shed some more light on Ouma as a character. \(･∀･；)

[relieity]

CHAPTER 1 META/ANALYSIS

MOBILE USERS have my apologies for the length – though rest assured this WILL be under a cut due to the following:DISCUSSION ABOUT MAJOR NDRV.3 EVENTS IN CHAPTER ONE — INCLUDING DISCUSSION OF THE VICTIM, TRIAL, MURDERER, AND EXECUTION. OTHER CHAPTERS AND PARTS OF OUMA’S CHARACTER ARE ALSO HEAVILY MENTIONED. I wanted to shed light on what i presume to be Ouma’s thoughts on the matter, as well as OUMA’S FORESHADOWING leading up to the closing portion of the chapter. And boy, is there a lot. I’ll be using SCREENSHOTS of THELIFELIKETEXTUBE’S PLAYTHROUGH of this chapter with HAJIMIKIM.O’S TRANSLATION. Thank you for understanding !! Anyway,

After the events of Chapter 1 and the Prologue combined, Ouma’s character almost seems set in stone. To many in game and out of it, he’s set this ‘role’ for himself. A child seeking entertainment only for himself, a bit of a jerk, noisy, a trickster, a liar. It’s very easy to discredit most of what he says, and just as easy to assume that all he says are lies as well. After all, it’s practically his catchphrase– “ 嘘 だ よ” ( usoda yo / that’s a lie! ) So when it comes to the killing game itself, it’s equally as safe to assume that his reactions are lies as well. He’s a liar, after all.

Later events prove this to be false, but what I want to look at FIRST is the difference in REACTIONS Ouma has throughout the murder/trial/execution. He doesn’t get a lot of spotlight, but he gets enough for the differences to be easy to spot if one looks for them. A notable part of what we see is this ‘act’ ( a mask ) he puts on, portraying himself as the ‘child’ they expect him to be–one who almost seems sadistic in nature, enjoying witnessing the negative reactions he gets in return for his behavior–and with this act, his reactions are…well, pretty fitting. For the most partthat is.

For one example, Iruma’s rebuttal after he accused her of killing Amami. She insults him in return ( “a compulsive shota liar!” ) and he responds just as you’d expect someone of his ‘type’ to do. He’s loud, his tears are messy, and he’s just downright ANNOYING.

…and just as soon as he starts crying, he’s over it. He’s already gotten the reaction he wanted, so there’s no need to play the ‘part’ anymore. Such a switch is so casual, but the reactions we see are so different from one another. Now, comparing it to a later portion of this trial: after akamatsu’s execution.

Here, we see a completely different side of Ouma’s character. He actually seems ANGRY at the situation ( and he is, as we find out later in the game. In fact, later in the game he uses these same sprites when he expresses his feelings about the killing game and the situation they’re in. So it’s enough to infer that when he speaks with these sprites in this sort of context, he’s being GENUINE. )

…and still, he lies. There’s something suspicious though, in regard to how quickly he switched here in comparison to the others. Given this is after Kaede’s death, and previous interactions with him, his hesitation with Saihara just feels…off. Sure, he switches just as quickly as when he was crying crocodile tears, but it’s in this same scene you notice thetension in his voice, in comparison to something akin to a child. He’s angry, and rightfully so, even if he did know the truth of the matter much earlier than everyone else did. His tears here are less theatrical, but for more evidence that can hint towards the fact he WASN’T lying, let’s look at how he sent Kaede off.

He’s SERIOUS. One thing that’s particularly noticeable with Ouma’s character is that he likes things to be “interesting”, or at the very least–NOT BORING. In his FTEs with Saihara, specifically, he often notes in a fond manner how interesting Saihara is, and how ‘surprising’ some of his responses are, if you choose to be bolder. It breaks the mold of what he expected Saihara to be like, and this…does sort of fall into how he thought of Kaede.

She broke the ‘mold’, the ‘role’ that she was given – as the PROTAGONIST, she was hopeful, yet she fell into despair, falling into Monokuma’s trap and acting accordingly. This was INTERESTING, and while he likely wasn’t happy with the choice she made, it was different from what was expected of her, it wasn’t boring, and helped ‘make’ her an ‘interesting person’.

The highest compliment he’s able to give is calling someone interesting, so for Kaede to get such a high compliment in a short expanse of time, well…it isn’t something to be taken lightly.

Too, it’s a matter of the tone of his voice. When he says this specific line, there’s NO TRACE of mockery. He isn’t teasing, he isn’t joking around–rather, it’s…flatter, more MONOTONOUS than the rest of his voiced lines. There’s no exaggeration for any syllable, rather, he’s speaking directly to Kaede – while I can’t speak with certainty that he knew that it might not leave as much as an impact as it was intended, it’s enough to infer with his character that this was a genuine send off for her.

MOVING ON… Ouma has a tendency to FORESHADOW future events in-game. That, and he always seems to showcase that he knows more than he lets on, only to brush things off as a joke afterward so people wouldn’t take him quite as seriously. While I won’t show every example–there’s far too many for that–some of the more prominent examples of this are in his FTES WITH KAEDE, AND IN KAEDE’S RESPECTIVE TRIAL.

In Kaede’s first free time event with Ouma, he exploits her trusting nature, and shows the player how easily she falls for certain ‘tricks’ depending on what emotion he displays alongside the words he speaks. In this free time event, Ouma claims that they met before the killing game semester, displaying desperation and ‘genuine’ upset that she’s ‘FORGOTTEN ABOUT HIM’. While it’s obvious this is a lie, he manages to convince her into believing him–having Kaede eventually ask about the circumstances they met under before; doubtful, but believing in his lie. His story goes on for an extensive amount of time, to ultimately be revealed as a lie to Kaede and proving that he was leading her along as long as he could manage–and I’m almost CONVINCED he would’ve done so longer if he was able.  After she gets upset about being lied to, one of the first thing he says is:

In a singular free time event, he reveals what ultimately is her FATAL FLAW. Her willingness to trust others, no matter the circumstances – even if she has doubts, she still chooses to trust in other people, including those who might as well be STRANGERS. The fact she chooses to believe and lead more with ‘emotion’, with ‘hope’. This ultimately leads to her downfall later in the chapter, whenever she makes up her mind to ‘kill Amami’ for the sake of her classmates, she trusted in them not to kill anyone, and they trusted her to do the same – the likelihood of her committing murder was so low, but when pushed to the very limit she was led by her EMOTIONS to commit the crime. ( In the same situation, she used her friends’ trust against them. Without the motives in place, she likely would have admitted to the murder much earlier – especially if Amami had been the Mastermind after all. )

Notice, she doesn’t DENY the fact he calls her an ‘easy mark’, nor does she deny his claims she’s ‘soft-hearted’ or ‘naive.’ They’re truths, and said for a good reason. He wanted her to realize it. He wanted her to be AWARE of her flaws so they didn’t strike her down in the game, have she not take the steps to improve or change her way of thinking. I’ll get back to how he referred back to this in the aftermath of the trial in a moment, but there’s also another major point in that Ouma KNEW FROM THE BEGINNING WHAT THE END RESULT WOULD BE – or at the very least, HE HAD A GOOD IDEA.

In the trial, while he continues to play up an antagonistic role, often times he FORCES others to look at a certain viewpoint that everyone might be overlooking – be it from ignorance or just trying to turn a blind eye to the obvious – he always tries to get the others to THINK. Shinguuji even comments on this at one point, after Ouma tosses out a theory into the room, forcing everyone to discuss the possibility so they can either disprove or approve it. Shinguuji even admits that he was one of many led around by it, showing how convincing Ouma can be.

A throwback to an earlier free time event, even without that scene – Kaede’s lack of denial when Ouma reveals the ‘cruel truth’  is something that CAN’T go unnoticed. This scene is already after the vote, just mere moments before Kaede is sentenced to death, but even then she’s forced to view the TRUTH of the matter – the truth that no matter how good her intentions might have been, she inevitably did just what Monokuma ( and the Mastermind she wanted to hunt down to begin with ) wanted her to do. Ouma revealing the ‘TRUTHS’ of the game and its motives ( including scenes later on in the game, where he expresses disappointment in how the others just seem to go along without thinking about their situation, or ones where he calls out Monokuma for LYING to them about certain aspects of the game ) is a very common theme. For a liar, he speaks a lot of truth, which…actually fits SURPRISINGLY WELL with the overall theme. ( Even his outfit reflects it–black/white, truth and lie, even if his own way of thinking is inherently grey. )

I was going to discuss Ouma + White Lies in this but asdfghj that’ll be for another meta. Anyway, hopefully all of this makes sense and it didn’t just sound like a lot of babbling with no purpose — I just wanted to shed some more light on Ouma as a character. \(･∀･；)