#v. mainverse

[revengesworn]

Mikey is tired.

Tired of running, tired of hurting. Tired of keeping everything buried inside so deep that it feels like he's drowning. But Kazutora's words... they resonate so strongly that Mikey suddenly feels like maybe they really are the same. Is that even possible? That there's someone who experiences the same thing... and he hadn't realized it for so long?

( 'It feels a little better when you aren't on your own.' ) ...How stupid he's been. How stupid, and selfish, to hope.

"How do you resist it?" Mikey asks, and without even realizing it, he's finally lowered the gun. But that won't take away Kazutora's wound, or stop the blood that's still pooling on the floor. "I know... that you killed my brother. And Baji. But you haven't killed anyone else since, right? You're living a normal life, now."

Maybe he's wrong in that assumption. Certainly, Kazutora's life seems to be anything but normal, if he's come here after Mikey to begin with, and based on what he's said today. But at the very least, he isn't the leader of Tokyo's biggest crime syndicate, for god's sake. And... when Mikey speaks again, his whole body is statue-still. There's no trace of movement in him, or any emotion in his eyes, save for the slight trembling of his right hand.

"...You know Sanzu, Kazutora? I was the one who gave him those scars. He did nothing to deserve it. I just wanted to hurt him. We were kids, but... I ripped his mouth apart - even when he screamed and cried and begged me to stop. He could've died." At this point, he doesn't know if his words will scare Kazutora away. But the point he wants to make is...

"Nothing happened to make me like this. It's not grief or trauma that changed me. I've just... been twisted from the very start."

It's strange to be on the opposite side of that look. Because Kazutora understands what is happening, he's felt that onset of when everything seems so far away, when you're no longer in control of your body but a mere spectator to the actions that are carried out.

" That's where you're WRONG Mikey. " Kazutora says softly - not in a way to downplay or simplify the situation or offer false comfort, but soft in a rueful, experienced way as he wipes the sweat from his forehead and ignored the painful throb from the gunshot wound. " I do get it. You feel helpless, right? It takes over, your body just moves on your own and before you know it...you've done something you can't take back. " He knows that too well, just like he knows each of his demons in his head to have torn his life apart. " And no one else understands. How could they? If anything, it will just scare them away so you try to hide it so they never see it, so they never know. " He knew, he'd known that all his life.

The injured tiger listens intently to Mikey all the same, even as he feels the familiar hands of his own demons sinking their claws in his head. Mikey is physically strong - but he supposes they're both broken when it comes to their mentality. And you can't save someone else when you're drowning too. In the end, you both end up drowning.

" I don't know if I can, if I'm honest. I'm not that different. " Kazutora admits, his gaze falling for a moment. He's no hero. He's always the one clawing desperately for someone to save him. " I'm not very good at saving people...my claws always end up hurting those I don't want to. " He whispers, voice wavering before he clears his throat. " You might kill me. I might hurt you. But at least...at least neither of us would be alone. It feels a little better when you aren't on your own. " He offers a thin smile, exhausted but genuine in its rueful nature. " I'll take that risk. I don't have much going for me anyways. " Not anymore, not for many years.

[southrnweed]

cont. x / @idolatriia

He doesn't necessarily regret the words once they leave his lips, not the content itself at least. He regrets that he'd said that shit at all, that it'd gone from a nice little inside thought to being verbally vomited out; this was why he didn't drink-—his filter was shoddy as it was. Toss in some booze or weed or sometimes too much fucking caffeine and he would just ramble and ramble and say whatever thoughts zapped into his busy little brain.

Thistle hated beer, he'd looked for the brown bottles with an impressive amount of disdain. The only reason he'd partaken at all was because of the damned party he'd found himself in the midst of. He'd never been one for crowds to begin with, less so now without Jesse. He always felt like they were swallowing him up whole at worst, at best he walked away from them feeling drained and exhausted. Existing was exhausting and the thought he was going to have to keep existing was exhausting.

Billy was a force of nature and maybe that was why this whole joke of a situation had stretched on until it was more complicated than it'd meant to ever become. Thistle was so stuck in that sticky haze of grief and disassociation that it took a person like that to be seen through it all.

So many replies tangle in his head that he doesn't manage to get a reply out, just nods weakly at the offer for a location change-—at least the basement would be quieter.

He couldn't even say the fucker was wrong. Billy was a mistake. Everything was a mistake right now. Nothing Thistle had done since that fucking February morning had been intentional, had been thought out. Ghostly. He felt like a goddamn ghost with things just happening around him, to him. Like he was there and watching it all from a spectator's view. Out of body in the worst of ways; he felt crazy.

Maybe that was another reason he ended up at Hargrove's heels. It was something to latch onto, something besides that vacuous pit of static and nothingness that he sank into when he was by himself. Jesus, what a sad fucker.

His brows knit with concentration as he follows down the stairs, hand skimming the wall for some semblance of balance. He really was just a bit tipsy but add in everything else and he felt disorientated.

❝-—It's not you...❞ Calhoun, don't you dare say what you were about to say. Do not hit him with the 'It's not you, it's me' line. He closes his mouth, purses his lips. ❝ I mean, you're not a mistake. Not like...y'know. How y'probably think, I guess. I just don't really know what I'm doin' is all. I'm just sayin' shit. ❞ he trails off, shifts uncomfortably.

❝ I was a mistake. Like a mistake kid. Accident. Mom called me a whiskey baby a few times. She was weird like that. Said they wanted kids a few times but then she'd say shit like that. She did that a lot, actually. Said one thing, then said the complete opposite. The fuck are you 'sposed to go with, right? Weird. ❞ he offers up a slight smile, performative a best, and then ducks his head.

❝ Sorry. See? Just say shit. Y'can tell me to zip it, I get it a lot. ❞ he barely takes a breath, looks around the basement. ❝ So, we gon' make out or...? ❞

[aletheialed]

The Chief Prosecutor from overseas, Miles Edgeworth... at first, Rayfa had come here to see him for a completely different reason to the one that's taking up all of her attention now.

Honestly, she doesn't remember the man particularly well. It's no surprise - she was in such an awful state during the time that she'd spent with him that she barely gave him a second thought with everything that had been on her mind. But he'd been kind to her - she remembers that, and she'd wanted to thank him for it. There may have been other reasons for her seeking him out, too, but right now... Rayfa has forgotten about all of them for one very specific reason: the mystery that she's determined to solve.

That is to say - the question of whatever it is she's been experiencing whenever Miles Edgeworth is nearby.

If you were to put her on the spot, she'd say it feels like spiritual power. But that makes no sense. For one thing, Rayfa has never heard of a man having spiritual power! ...Though until recently, she hadn't thought that anyone from outside of Khura'in could channel spirits... and so much of what she'd believed about the spiritual world had been wrong that it would hardly surprise her to learn if she was mistaken about more. Still - it's strange enough to have made her second guess herself. Then, there's her next source of doubt - the fact that Rayfa can't even channel spirits yet herself yet. So can she really trust herself to accurately discern what she's feeling to begin with...?

To be honest, she hates it - being so unsure of herself. It brings up bad memories in her... uncomfortable feelings that she'd hoped she had finally got rid of. But that's exactly why she's so determined to figure this mystery out right now - so much so that it takes her three times until she realized her name has been called by the man she's been staring at for the past half a minute.

"Oh! Ummm...." Suddenly, Rayfa feels awfully embarrassed. Not that she has anything to be embarrassed by, of course! Her curiosity is completely reasonable, and as the future Queen of Khura'in, she is obviously one hundred percent justified of wanting to get to the bottom of this matter!

"Mr. Chief Prosecutor! Did you- say something to me just now?"

@demon-prosecuted ( starter for edgeworth! )

[sorrowveined]

"There's no need for you to remember."

On Arikado's lips, the words he speaks taste like ash. He couldn't say why, exactly, they feel so hollow - after all, he doesn't want Soma to remember, and he really does believe that that's what's for the best. Not just for the world, but for Soma himself, too...

After all, if Soma starts remembering the past, no-one can say what will happen or who he might become. But more so than that, Arikado doesn't wish for Soma to bear that burden. The rage and grief felt by his father, so strong that they drove him to madness and devoured the man Arikado used to know, leaving nothing left... he has no doubt that Soma deserves better than to experience them again. ...Soma is different to Dracula - so it's only natural that Arikado would come to care for him, isn't it? After watching over him for such a long time... that's all it is. He's sure of it. So...

"You should just live your own life, Soma." Arikado insists, as he always has done, in response to Soma's latest question. It's not the first time they've had this conversation.

"Aren't you satisfied with what you have now?"

@reincarnight ( starter! )

[shadowgamed]

"Ishizu."

For a moment, another name had been on the tip of his tongue. He can't quite place it, but regardless, that ridiculous sensation causes Seto's mood to sour even further than it already has - and the scowl on his face darkens with a look that to most would be intimidating.

Somehow, he doubts it is to her. And that thought irritates him enough to speak first.

"I was hoping you'd had enough of those nonsense tales of yours." There's no greeting, no further acknowledgement he gives her - instead, Seto speaks as rudely as ever, insulting Ishizu without a care in the world for how she might react. This is familiar territory to him - the struggle for power is a game he's played all his life, and he knows that it's always best to make the first move. But if she's waiting for him to slip up and show weakness... she's going to find herself sorely disappointed.

"Do you actually need something from me, or are you just trying to waste my time? For both our sakes, I'd rather we make it quick."

@universestreasures ( starter for ishizu! )

[strnza]

ELIZA  KARDEL’S  ARREST  RECORD:

Age  17:  minor  in  possession  of  an  alcoholic  beverage  /  underage  drinking.  FINED,  no  jail  time  served.

Age  21:  public  intoxication.  FINED  &  community  service  time  logged.

Age  22:  public  intoxication.  FINED  and  90  days  served.

Age  23:  assault  /  battery.  Later  OVERTURNED  in  court  and  classified  /  clarified  as  self-defense.

[cantuscorvi]

BODY MEME: List 5 random/unique things about your muses body. tagged by: @nezumivc103221

Despite his overly polished appearance, there are things one simply can't change. Raum has facial wrinkles and fine lines. He has faint dark circles under his eyes. He still looks like a busy man of his age, that gets too little sleep and drinks too much caffeine, even if he keeps himself well groomed.

Raum is not an overly muscled man. He doesn't work out enough to have that kind of rock-solid definition, and he doesn't desire that kind of look either. Instead, there are areas both soft and hard on his body.

He is cross-dominant. Meaning he is not entirely left or right handed. He favours one hand for some tasks and one for others, with a bit of bias towards choosing his left. He can write well with both hands, however. He has a curious scar pattern on the inside of his right hand.

Raum has some stretch marks. They are the old and white kind, residual from his growth spurt as a teen. They're present at the front of his shoulders and the outsides of his thighs.

He has a large tattoo across the back of both his shoulders. It's a pair of wings in all black. The tattoo is surprisingly stark on his skin. It seems uncharacteristic. He had it done in his younger years to cover up some bratva-related tattoos he was forced to undergo by his uncle. Back then, it was a little act of rebellion and self-claim on his part. (image below cut)

[strayslost]

In another life, perhaps Ryunosuke would've looked at Kyusaku and seen someone who could understand. After all... if anyone should know the sting of Dazai's rejection, it would be them. As far as Ryunosuke knows, Kyusaku's fate of being shut away from the world and imprisoned was all thanks to Dazai - and even putting Dazai aside... he's sure that, just like Ryunosuke, their life has been full of pain from the very start.

As it is, though, right now - Ryunosuke feels very little. Perhaps it's a sign of his selfishness, his true nature as a heartless beast unable to feel a thing for someone else. All he wants has always been the same thing - to find a reason to live - and Kyusaku can't provide him that. In fact, sometimes seeing them stings, when he thinks of how they've been rejected even in spite of the power they hold... if they don't stand a chance of gaining Dazai's respect, what chance does Ryunosuke stand, as weak as he is now? What awaits him at the end of the road he's dedicated his life to following?

Thoughts like that aren't ones he wants to face, so he pushes them away. But something is strange about his feelings today. Because while that blank, apathetic smog of nothingness he feels should have him turning away and leaving, there's something that stops him... driving him to speak to Kyusaku for reasons even he doesn't understand.

"And?" he responds to the child's question with an almost-empty gaze, something unidentifiable smoldering underneath. "Tell me... why would you come to me of all people for a reason like that?"

@theircurse ( starter for yumeno! )

[shadowedresolve]

God, Toshiro can't remember the last time he hasn't felt exhausted.

It makes sense. The pressure of the elections, the evidence he stole, the fear of discovery and the guilt of not having the strength to take action... it's all been weighing down on him so much that sometimes he feels like he's drowning. And to make matters worse, the stress has developed into giving him physical symptoms, too - headaches that sometimes border on migraines, physical exhaustion with no obvious cause... he's been sleeping like a rock at night, but that doesn't seem to help at all.

But it's strange. He spent so long unable to gather up the courage needed to expose his father. Despite knowing it was the right thing, he was scared - not just of what it would mean for him, but for everyone else, too - or maybe that was just an excuse. ...No, it was obviously an excuse. But when he'd seen the Phantom Thieves show their final calling card to the world... he thought he'd finally found the strength to do what he needed to do.

...And then that strength had been sucked out of him like it was never there at all. It's difficult to explain, and it's no excuse, but it was like his fear itself was rebelling against him, trying to stop him acting out. Sometimes, he's close to confessing everything, but he feels like he can't take that final step, all his worries rushing to the forefront at once. Other times- and more and more often, now - he's struck with a strange apathy, like he doesn't care about anything at all. What's the point? It's not like it'll make any difference, and it'll only get people hurt, so... maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe nothing does.

That's what scares him the most. He really must be losing his mind - or else he's just the world's most pathetic man out there. ...Self-deprecating thoughts won't help him, but it's far too easy to indulge... at least he has this place. Leblanc isn't somewhere he can go nearly as often as he likes, but it's nice to be able to relax and - well, to not think for a while.

...And then, all of a sudden, Toshiro's yelping out in pain as he feels a scorching heat out of nowhere, causing him to almost fall off his chair. What on earth was that? But when he looks down, seeing the coffee now splattered all over his suit, he realizes what must've happened.

"Arrrrgh.... and here I thought my day couldn't get any worse..."

@silver-strings-of-fate ( starter for ren! )

[revengesworn]

Mikey's eyes narrow, and while he doesn't flinch, it's a near thing. Liar. She calls him out so easily, like it's as plain as the blue of the sky, and isn't that scary? Or... maybe it just feels unfair. If it's so obvious to her, a complete stranger, then-

Why did they never notice?

He has to bury those traitorous thoughts away. He's the one who betrayed them, not the other way around... they did nothing wrong by abandoning him, because that's what he wanted them to do - even if it hurts. Even if it kills him. He has no right to be angry, he knows that!

...He knows his thoughts aren't showing on his face, but somehow, it feels like Sekhmet knows exactly what he's thinking. When she forms the figures of sand, slowly crushing them one by one... Mikey's heart beats faster, and only for an instant, he almost takes a step back - but somehow, deep down, it feels like he already knew she was telling the truth about. A goddess...

"Even if that was true, what of it?" Mikey asks, still staring at her with a sharp gaze that brims with repressed emotion. How dare she talk like that? What right does she have? He knows he shouldn't admit that she's right, but it feels pointless to try and lie to her.

"I'm the one who left them. That was my choice, you know." Don't take that away from me, he thinks - and what a strange thought.

"Don't I deserve to be alone? Why should they care about someone who's so willing to hurt them?"

" That's right, cub. From a land far way, of sand and blazing suns. "

She watches him the same way a sunbathing cat might watch a mouse ; not quite predatory but not dismissive either. Humans could be such fun creatures when it came to their reactions, full of endless conflict and swells of emotion.

" Liar. " Sekhmet laughs, straightening as she observes him for a moment. Well, he was still extremely young. They always were more prone to extremes, their claws and ambitions not yet dulled by life experiences.

The warehouse they'd been lurking in was cool, but the moment she snaps her fingers, a gust of scorching hot wind slams the warehouse door open and invades the space. Sand sweeps in, carried by the wind, and swirls around the goddess until it forms a small pile beside her. She lifts a hand and the sand forms a mirror image of mikey, and then the rest of the main members of Toman.

" You're lying to yourself ~ I told you. I know emotions like these better than anyone. " They were the seeds of chaos, naturally she would know them. " You try to lie to yourself so you might actually believe yourself. After all, you keep losing them. " Sekhmet remarks, her hand crushes the sand figure of Takemichi.

" So you say you don't need them. " After each sentence, she slowly starts crushing the sand figures. " That you're not lonely, even though it's devouring you inside, and the darkness creeps closer and closer every day. Telling yourself you're protecting them rather than being left behind, all while you drown in silence. " She stops when only the lone figure of Mikey is left standing. It hardens into firm sand, strong enough to hold it without worry, though easily crushable by one's hand. Sekhmet plucks it from the air, tossing it towards him.

" It's obvious. You're like a beacon even in this city where thousands are in misery. "

[moonrecalled]

Ryoji doesn't know what's wrong with him.

Being here with Makoto makes him happy. Living makes him happy. He's moved to a new school and had the chance to meet all kinds of new people, to be a part of their lives; to learn about the world he knew so little about until now.

So why does he feel like he's about to cry? It's getting harder to breathe. There's a feeling he's been trying to suppress that's threatening to overwhelm him now - the sense that something's horribly wrong, like time is running out and there's something missing that he needs to know - but he doesn't want to know it. Is it his fault? He doesn't know why that question comes to mind, but somehow he's sure that it is.

His fault. Something bad is coming. ...It's not like he doesn't know it's irrational - when he looked up his feelings online, trying to make sense of them, he read all about anxiety and how it can strike people without reason at the worst of times - and how just because his feelings are screaming at him, that doesn't mean those feelings are right. It should be a comfort to know that, so why...? Why does it still hurt so much to see the things that should make him happy?

"Makoto...?" Ryoji manages to stammer out Makoto's name as he notices that he's no longer alone. When did that happen? ...This won't do - he doesn't want to worry anyone, least of all Makoto, but he feels like he's about to start shaking...

"Ah... I'm sorry. You caught me at a bad time. I promise I'm fine!"

@ochazos ( starter for makoto! )

[aletheialed]

Right now, wine glass in hand and staring vacantly into the dark corners of the room in which he dwells - Barok can't help but think about his brother. To think about Klint during hard times, the man who he's always admired so much, has always come naturally to him - but it can't bring him any comfort now.

The truth is, Barok doesn't know what he should feel more betrayed about. The fact that the brother he'd wanted to emulate all his life was nothing but a killer, who's actions resulted in the ending and ruining of so many lives, including Barok's own? Or... is it that, until the very end, Klint was too afraid to share that horrible truth with him, even when that fear allowed him to be controlled into committing the most heinous acts imaginable?

It makes him want to laugh with a bitterness he hasn't felt in years. It makes him feel ill; desperate and angry and like a fraying rope about to snap. Perhaps it's sinful, and a sign of Barok's own weak character, that Klint's lack of trust in him might be what hurts the most. Had he thought Barok would break under the weight of the truth, and sought to protect him from that fate? What's worse is that Barok doesn't know how he would've reacted deep down. What's the scarier thought - that Barok would've turned away in despair and been unable to carry on just as his brother feared, or that he would stand with Klint, perhaps even turning a blind eye to his crimes...?

...There's no point in thinking about it now. But if he doesn't think about Klint, then there's no shortage of other things to take his place at the forefront of his mind. Such as the true identity of the Reaper, and how Barok had been complicit in his crimes for the longest time - allowing himself to be used and manipulated like a puppet on a string, even when he didn't see the full extent of it all.

His whole life, these past ten years in which he thought he'd endured so much, all for the sake of the people of London... what were they all for?

When he hears the knock on the door, it's tempting to ignore it entirely - he barely has the energy to stand, anyway. He doesn't know who it could possibly be, considering everything, but... in the end, he rises like a man possessed, and finds himself walking to open the door as if in a trance. What he sees when the door opens is the last thing he expects.

"Mr... Naruhodo...? You... pray tell, what are you doing here at this hour?"

@tenacquity ( starter! )

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[guardiandamned]

If the past Ryouga could see himself today, he would've laughed out loud in disbelief - or maybe he'd have been furious. Even now he finds it hard to believe what he's doing- seeking out the person he called his enemy for so long, who he hated to the rotten depths of his heart... and for what? A heart-to-heart?

It's not like he was prepared for it at all - not with the way he is now, uncertain and wavering, raw and desperate for a way out in a way he's never experienced before. But right now, Ryouga is even more thrown than he expected. Because the person standing before Ryouga isn't IV... but III.

Ryouga has never known what to make of him. He'd always been so focused on his older brother that III himself had escaped his attention. He gives off the kind of aura of a harmless kid, easy to dismiss out of hand, and yet... that's nothing more than a carefully crafted deception. Or maybe it's not crafted at all? The idea that his gentle demeanor really is genuine, but that it doesn't make him any less dangerous... it's quite the scary thought, really.

How would III react if he found out what Ryouga really is? It's been a mere day or so since Ryouga found out himself, even if he'd been suspecting it for longer than that. But the Barians, after all, are the enemy of III's family, the one's who'd used them and caused him so much pain - a pain that Ryouga is bitterly familiar with in a way that now feels all too horribly ironic. He doesn't know what to do. What is he supposed to say? Why is Ryouga- no, Nasch, leader and Emperor of the Barians, frozen in place here like nothing more than a child?

"...I wasn't expecting you here." He recovers quickly, his usual scowl settling over his features once again - but on the inside, he feels sick. "I guess IV's hiding away, then? ...What a coward, as always."

@tophatz ( starter for iii! )

[strnza]

she's  perpetually  tired  -  overstimulated,  willfully  ignorant  of  that  very  fact.  it's  too  loud  in  the  chosen  vicinity;  though,  the  brown  noise  of  the  patrons,  the  jukebox,  the  bartenders,  the  unspoken  reluctance  and  equal  (frightening)  clarity  between  herself  and  raven  plays  an  intentional,  dull  roar  over  the  reverberation  in  eliza's  mind.  doubt,  fear,  trauma  and  anguish  -  she  just�� wants  it  all  to  stop.  drinking,  mingling,  fighting  and  loving  will  numb  the  senses,  at  least.  the  presence  of  her  dearest  friend  keeps  her  on  better  behavior  than  usual.

eliza  shakes  her  head  in  negative  reply  to  raven's  first  question  (‘tired  already?’)  -  admonishing  the  idea  that  she  knows  better  than  to  lie  to  her  companion.  she  never  drops  raven's  hand,  palm  against  palm  as  her  thumb  caresses  the  back  of  the  other  woman's  digits.  eliza  is  lost  in  her  eyes,  unblinking  and  unwavering  as  she  smiles  softly;  'incandescent',  she  says.  the  definition  evades  eliza,  but  the  inclination  is  blatantly  kind.  color  rises  in  her  cheeks  and  she  soon  turns  bashful,  as  she  often  does  in  the  presence  of  her  external  conscience.

"i  don't  need  any  new  friends."  the  spoken  offering  is  so  simple  -  so  plain,  so  honest.  eliza's  head  lolls  to  the  side  as  she  shrugs  and  stares  at  raven,  so  simply  enamored  -  like  loving  her  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  (to  eliza,  it  is.)  "i  came  here  t'be  with  you."

CONT.    /    @ofsoul    🤍

[shadowgamed]

"Mokuba..."

How is Seto supposed to begin this conversation? This is his little brother. Speaking to him should be easier than anything else in the world - and yet Seto can feel his throat closing even as he tries to open his mouth to speak.

Maybe it's because of everything that's happened during Battle City... But it isn't until Mokuba's outburst at the end of that tournament that Seto truly realized everything his brother had been holding inside. Begging him to forget about his grudge... making him promise to go back to his old self, before they met the man who would ruin their lives... thinking about it fills Seto with an ugly emotion, one he doesn't want to face.

Is he angry? Or is it guilt that's weighing on him so deeply? How long had Mokuba been holding in those feelings? He had cried as he shouted, and the pain he felt was obvious, so much so that it had been like a slap to the face. ...And in spite of everything, in spite of who he's been up until today... Seto can't let Mokuba suffer like that any more.

It's not just a sense of duty as his older brother. Things like duty mean nothing to him. It's because Mokuba is Mokuba - that's all.

When he eventually speaks, it's bluntly, and without any hint as to the conflict he's feeling inside.

"...I think we should talk."

@universestreasures ( starter for mokuba! )