#vex picks up a pen

[muscari-melpomene]

Want, and Need

Chapter 3 of Counterbalance!

"It's supposed to be his job," said Anti sharply, and Dark sighed like he was trying to keep his temper, shutting his eyes for a moment. Anti was standing firmly in front of him, arms crossed, and no way in hell was he about to back down. "You said it was Wil's job to take them."

"It's not good for him to be there so often."

"He loves it there."

"That's why it isn't good for him."

"And it's good for you?"

"Anti," said Dark, opening his eyes to glare, "this-"

"If you tell me the fucking manor sucking your soul out isn't my concern, I will start screaming."

"I was going to say 'not up for discussion', actually."

"You fucker-"

"Anti."

"Don't," Anti nearly snarled, a glitch tearing down his back and fizzling out his words, "don't you dare use that bullshit on me, Dark. Why the fuck have you been feeding the manor, and why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell you for exactly this reason!" Dark threw his hands up and turned away, starting for the stairs. "I didn't tell you because you're only going to do this, and there's no point telling you anything else about it because you won't fucking listen."

Anti glitched out and appeared in front of Dark, shoving him back into the living room.

"Do not walk away from me-"

"What else am I meant to do," Dark gritted out, catching Anti's arm and pushing him away before Anti could shove at him again. "You're acting like a child."

"I'm the child? Wil's the one who hangs on your every fucking word, who can't understand that not everything's a part of his stupid little game-"

"-And the longer he's at the manor, the worse his delusions get-"

"William," said Anti slowly, "is not. Coming. Back. He's gone. Wilford isn't going to snap out of being Wilford, that's all there is left of him."

Dark was silent, watching Anti with cold, hard eyes. Anti stared back.

"And even if he did come back," he continued, ignoring the high-pitched ringing slowly building in the corners of the room, "he wouldn't know you. He wouldn't want you. He wants Damien and Celine. He doesn't want Dark. He never has."

"...And you do?" said Dark, all cold calmness now. "You want the shells of them, crumbled and mixed into a new mortar and plastered over the cracks of a broken body?"

"I want-"

"And what do you want with that body, Anti? Do you want it to abandon the power that sustains it, to lie helpless on the floor for you?"

Anti shook his head sharply, pushing away the image. "That's not-"

"Do you want it isolated like one of your victims?" Dark demanded, moving closer, "no ties, no escape? A doll to keep to yourself? Or perhaps you want this forever, fights every night because I dare to have a priority that isn't you and you need the struggle, the suffering, the pain my divided attention costs me- am I nothing but misery for you to have your fill of? When do your teeth sink in to my neck, then, when do I wake up to my last morning with you to see you grinning and sated?"

"Stop," said Anti, voice ragged as he grabbed at Dark's shirt, "Stop, stop it. Please stop it."

"Why should I?" said Dark, head held high. He didn't push Anti away.

Anti tipped forward, letting his head fall against Dark's shoulder.

"...Every time you feed the manor," Anti mumbled, "you get further away from me. It might as well be you getting tossed in that fucking basement. I hate it. I hate it, it's hurting you. You're tired when you come back, you're... less of you. More of it. It's gutting you to make more room for itself, because who you are isn't what it wants you to be, you don't want to be like it, I know you don't."

"How would you know that?" asked Dark. His voice was still cold, still impatient, but it was... softening. Just a little. Anti took a deep breath.

"I know you have nightmares."

Dark stiffened a little, and Anti kept talking.

"You're good at hiding it. Really good. But you can't pretend when you're asleep. I see your face move, I feel you get tense, like you want to run... and when you wake up, you look like you just got back from giving it a fresh body. It wants all of you, and you're afraid. And I don't want your fear."

"Why not?"

"I need you."

"You need to-"

"I need more than feeding," said Anti tiredly, shutting his eyes. "I need you. You next to me. Your arms. Your voice. Your terrible fucking interior design choices-"

Dark huffed like he was trying not to laugh, and Anti stored it away to feel smug about later.

"-your rants about the dumbass dog next door and the lemon window upstairs, your pretentious, stupid filing systems, you, Dark, I need you. I want you. And the manor wants to take you away from me, and I'm not going to fucking let it."

A long, quiet moment passed. Dark's hand pressed into the small of Anti's back, and Anti did not cry as Dark finally curled into him, holding him carefully.

"I need you, too," he murmured, setting his chin on Anti's head and stroking his hand up and down Anti's back. "I want you, too. And I... I don't want it. But it will kill me if I don't let it in."

"It'll still kill you if you do," said Anti miserably, and Dark sighed.

"...Maybe. Maybe it will. But there's time to figure that out, alright? I'm not dying right now, am I? I'm right here. With you."

Anti finally unclenched his hands from Dark's shirt, only to wrap his arms around his boyfriend's neck, pressing closer against him.

"...You're here," he agreed. Dark nodded.

"I'm not leaving you. I don't want to leave you."

"Promise," Anti demanded.

"I promise," said Dark, without hesitation.

...

Chase kept his eyes shut, and hated every second of it. But this was- this was important. This was important, and if Henrik tried anything Marvin was right there to set him on fire. Marvin was good at fire.

Chase tried to focus on that, on the memory of Marvin getting startled by his own damn cat and setting the ceiling fan on fire that one time. It was better than focusing on Henrik muttering to himself as he took notes on Chase's last answer.

"...Alright," said Henrik finally, and the frenzied sound of scribbling stopped, "there is... no evidence that the connection has changed. Decreased paranoia does not indicate it has weakened, it is simply the natural progression of increased security in the absence of an attack. All that remains is to-"

"Do we really have to do this part?" Said Marvin, and Higgins yowled. Henrik sighed, agitated.

"Yes, we do. It's the most important part of this check-in, you are well aware of that."

"Then- then couldn't I do it? This once?"

Chase frowned. Marvin sounded more worried than usual.

I should tease him about that later.

"Were you possessed by the anomaly?" Henrik snapped, "Chase has the strongest connection to it, he is our best avenue of insight. Don't let your emotions cloud your judgement, Chase will be fine."

Chase tried very hard not to think about the word 'possessed'.

"You don't know that," Marvin muttered angrily. Henrik sighed again, more pointedly this time. Chase was pretty sure Marvin would throw hands with Henrik if he wasn't so scrawny. Henrik wasn't much to look at either, but he definitely had the height advantage. Marvin did have magic, though, and an unmatched level of pure, unadulterated spite, and honestly Chase would pay to watch him kick the shit out of-

"Chase, I said focus," said Henrik.

"Always ruining my fun," Chase muttered. Marvin snorted, and Chase could feel Henrik holding back one last sigh.

"Reach out to him," Henrik commanded. This was the part Chase hated. He'd had his eyes closed through the whole questioning process to help disengage from his body, because if he was too present, too connected with what was happening around him, he wouldn't be able to...

...to feel Anti. And the others needed him to, needed any information on Anti they could possibly get. They needed him to do this, and it was all he could actually do for them, and damned if he was going to keep all of them trapped because it scared him. Damned if he was.

Chase took a deep breath, and reached out.

"Chase," said Marvin, half-frantic from where he knelt in front of Chase, "Look at me- can you hear me? Chase, can you hear me?"

"Why'm I on the floor?" Chase mumbled thickly, frowning stupidly at Marvin. Marvin was on the floor with him, holding him by the shoulders, looking ready to pass out with relief.

"Because you fell," he said, voice sharp with what sounded like anger but going by his expression was worry. "You went still, you started crying, and you fell-"

Marvin turned to glare up at Henrik, eyes glowing faintly green.

"You said he'd be fine."

"He doesn't look hurt," Henrik shrugged. "Chase, would you mind getting up?"

"Fuck off, Henrik-"

"He's miserable," said Chase slowly. Marvin looked back at him, frowning. Henrik tilted his head. Neither of them spoke. Chase swallowed. "Anti," he clarified pointlessly, "he's... he's miserable. Feels helpless. Angry, but not in a 'killing people' way. He's usually happy when he kills people, actually-"

"Chase," said Marvin, squeezing his shoulder, "we should get you to bed."

Henrik paused in his frantic note-taking to glare at Marvin.

"...Yeah, actually," said Chase after a moment, "that'd be... yeah. Sorry, Hen, I'll- I can write it all up for you later."

Henrik pressed his lips together, clearly frustrated, but nodded.

"...Alright. I had better pack up, then."

Marvin helped Chase off the floor, and Chase tried to shake off the last of the suffocating, cloying, helpless anguish that had rushed in on him from all sides. Higgins brushed against his ankle as Marvin guided him down the hallway and into the office he'd usurped and turned into- well, it wasn't really a makeshift bedroom anymore. It had been over a year. He was probably officially Marvin's roommate now.

"You're hovering," he told Marvin as the other herded him to the bed. The mattress felt softer than it had been that morning.

"You gave us a fright," said Marvin. Chase grinned up at him, and Marvin folded his arms.

"What."

"Knew you cared," Chase teased. Marvin went pink. Gods, he was so fucking easy.

Higgins jumped up onto the bedspread and curled up at Chase's feet purring loudly, and after a moment Marvin relented and sat on the edge of the bed.

"...are you alright?" he asked softly, and something flipped over behind Chase's ribs.

Not the time, Brody, really, definitely not the time.

"I'm fine," said Chase, only lying a little bit. "It's... they're not really my emotions, and I only feel him in- in my head for a moment, so... I'm fine."

"You were crying."

"Can't prove it."

"Chase."

"Marv," he said, taking Marvin's hand and doing his level best not to think about it, "I'm fine. I'll be fine. You should go make sure Henrik's not doing any bullshit out there, okay? I'll be fine."

Marvin hesitated just long enough for Higgins to meow impatiently.

"Fine," he said, dropping Chase's hand to stand up, "alright, I probably should see him out... I'll bring you some tea, alright?"

"Thanks," Chase hummed, giving him a smile. Marvin nodded sharply, and left. As soon as the door shut behind him, Higgins climbed up to settle on Chase's chest, purring loudly and nuzzling his head into Chase's shirt.

"Good kitty," said Chase, voice cracking halfway through. He took a deep, shaking breath, burying a hand in the cat's fur. "Good kitty. Thank you."

[parsimonius]

sigh. I wrote more Polin. Obsessed with Colin and Pen…

It’s a problem really. Here’s a snippet from my favorite letter from this fic;

“

Dear Pain in the Ass,

If I was not enjoying my time with Kate on my honeymoon, just believe that I would have tracked you down myself, you idiotic buffoon.

I am unsure why you are running away with your tail between your legs, but leaving without informing me or your younger siblings was quite rude and inconsiderate. The only reason I am not ignoring you so that you can wallow in your self pity is because Kate stands behind me. She believes you a fool, but a good natured one. Her words—not mine. I believe that you are playing a far too dangerous game. I am unsure what your plans are when returning, but best be prepared. Mama is not too pleased you have run off again.

If you wish to play around in Greece or Italy, or wherever you think will accept you, it is fine by me. Just be aware that you will be back in time for Francesca’s debut or I shall drag you by your wick myself.

Our family is doing quite well. I hope you are as well. You know I only wish the best for you, even if you are quite vexing. I hope your travels will give you the peace of mind you are searching for. When you return, I hope you can finally find a nice woman to settle down with. Do you have any in mind? I can get some interviews set up with Mother, if you wish for her to pick your girl instead.

It is quite hard to think of anyone beside your side but Miss Penelope Featherington. Perhaps it is because all my memories of you have been at her side. I’m warning you in advance—that can not continue. I know you mean well Brother, but Miss Featherington needs to find a wealthy and happy man. Your friendship puts her off the market. Unless you intend to marry her, I suggest you tone down your familiarity with her, so that other men do not get jealous.

I hope you take my advice to heart. I do not wish to see you suffer for the same mistakes that had almost befallen me.

Sincerely,

Anthony

“

[twodogs-twocats]

You're Not Real, You're Just a Ghost (Sleep Token's Vessel x fem pov) 18+, NSFW

A little odd but needed to get written. This has some layers but you don't need to read into it if you don't want to.

Warnings: SMUT - 18+, Minors DNI.

You pick up the pen, set it to paper. Words pent up, nuanced emotions that have few outlets other than this one, scrawled to be read only by those with similar fantasies.

The weather is warm, the sun just set, and your curtains flutter in the breeze coming through the open window. You begin to write, painting a picture you have been slowly losing yourself to for some time.

Hairs on your neck suddenly raise, and you shiver. Perhaps a night chill has set in, so you make your way to close the window when a phantom touch caresses your wrist. You turn with a start only to find yourself quite alone in your bedroom. Feeling a bit vexed, you make your way back to your desk, and after a moment become absorbed once again by your cogitations.

The writing feels easy, driven by nothing but insatiable lust. It is an ancient art, really, to write about beauty and love and passion, and as the words pour out, you are nothing but one artist inspired by another. This goes on for some time, until you feel an ivory touch down the side of your neck.

Instead of reacting with fear, this time you sigh with pleasure. You know this touch. You summoned him here with nothing but the power of your mind.

You allow Vessel to brush his long fingers down your neck, open palms traveling to the front of your chest. His lips follow his fingers, soft kisses along your neck and collarbone making your bare toes curl against the wood floor. You close your eyes and release yourself to sensation.

Vessel kneads your breasts now, massaging them over your lacy white pajama top. He plucks your nipples under the fabric and you hiss through your teeth. His presence behind you is both ethereal and dominating, and when he speaks, it is like his voice is emanating from the very matter of your mind.

It has been so long since I’ve seen you.

You chuckle. “Oh Vessel, you are always here with me. You burn in my heart and my mind and in my very fingertips.”

He hums, slipping the straps of your top down your shoulders as he trails kisses across your skin. Your shirt pools at your waist, leaving you exposed to him and his touch glides down your arm to capture your hand. He brings your fingers to his lips, kissing them one by one. 

I dream of these delicate fingers, he says. I yearn for their touch.

You turn now to face him, shifting yourself in your chair, and you are greeted by an apparition. He is Vessel - the mask, his black robe, the bare planes of his torso – so familiar that you can conjure his image at any moment. Yet he is shrouded. The details of him refuse to solidify as your mind struggles to grasp his form. He takes up every bare inch of space, both physical and cognitive, and still it is almost like he is not even there at all.

As your fingers come to the skin beneath the edges of his mask, you feel the prickle of stubble, the warmth of his body, and you also feel nothing. It is this very duality that makes Vessel so irresistible. He is both known and unknown to you.

Your touch his lips, his neck, his chest, and with each stroke, his face hovers closer to yours until finally he kisses you. You part your lips and his eager tongue slides into your mouth.

The kiss continues in the same way one would describe feasting, relentlessly and without restraint. With each brush of his lips, your thoughts rush to catch up with what’s next, what’s next, what’s next. 

Then you find yourself on your bed, legs spread wide and the brush of a breeze causing your nipples to pucker.

Show me what you like, he says with his mind-speak. Show me how to touch you.

“Vessel, you know what I like.” He did, probably better than anyone else ever could.

But Vessel’s story needed to unfold, so you slide your pants down your hips and bring your fingers to your center. Your fingers part and swirl and move in and out just the way you like. You are uncertain when your fingers are replaced by his, so perfectly does he replicate your motions. Embers kindle to flames. Moans escape your lips, growing in pitch and intensity with each curl of his long fingers inside you, in and up. His other hand comes to gently circle your neck. He knows you like this, so he does not need to ask.

His lips resume their exploration, starting at the top of your sternum and navigating down your body until they join his hand, his spit mingling with your wetness. It is pure ecstasy, and still you want more.

Vessel senses this. Of course he does – your minds are connected, your spirits intertwined – and in this moment, the entirety of his existence is for nothing more than your pleasure. He begins to disrobe, and you would mourn the sudden chill on your core as his fingers and mouth depart, if you did not know that something even better was in store.

When his cock springs out, your mouth salivates. This part of him too is an enigma, and although you can grasp his hardness in your hand, although you know it is perfect just like every other inch of him, the only realness of it you can truly comprehend is the depth of your desire to feel it inside of you.

He enters you painfully slowly, inch by precious inch, stretching you physically just as he stretches your known bounds of pleasure. Your eyes roll upwards, your spine arches away from the bed. This feeling is like nothing you could ever imagine, but yet it is also exactly like you imagined. Vessel. Vessel. Vessel. Fucking you gently. 

The curve of his hips hits you at exactly the right angles. His moans vibrate into your mind and in this moment you could almost cry. He is you and you are him and this is like the best of dreams, beautiful and sensual and yet just past the realm of reality.

His pace quickens and you find yourself entranced by the glisten of sweat on his chest. Each thrust burns brighter and brighter, your orgasm building with his. Fuck, he curses, final words spilled into you as you come together. You are left breathless.

He is perfection incarnate, the whole experience so utterly satiating except also never enough. He is so unclear it hurts, a low ache not quite severe enough to feel like a broken heart, but you are also pleased and so is he, joined by something too much like worship to really be called love.

What are you writing about? he asks as he holds you. It’s only a matter of moments until he disappears into the ether. You answer honestly, if only to keep him close a little longer. “I’m writing about you.”

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

my favorite art piece

pairing: knight!steve harrington x fem!princess reader

wc: 777

warnings: none. tis' a clean story.

summary: knight and princess talk about the visiting duke over oil painting.

A/N: another story to my knight!steve series. alone together is the first one but you could read either one standalone.

masterlist

“was hoping i’d find you here. was beginning to worry you climbed the palace walls again and i’d have my head chopped off.” a male voice entered your quiet art room.

barely a glance over your shoulder you knew who was stepping behind you. the gentle clang of his armor and weapon reverberated off the high ceilings.

“i’d never let them do such a thing. can’t waste a pretty face away.” the smirk evident in your words.

the footsteps and clanking stopped just over your right shoulder, “they don’t write sonnets about this face for nothing, princess.”

an unprincessly snort left your nose, “oh do they? you must recite some to me one day. would adore to hear.”

steven hummed, “what is your focus on today, princess? you mostly paint when stressed.”

focused brush strokes paused, ignoring the way your heart beat just a bit faster that he knew something so small about your ticks. “not always. it’s just when… inspiration hits me. and perhaps it may be when i can’t control something.” resuming practiced strokes, a band of fury hidden beneath a poised grip.

“might i inquire what has you… vexed?” steven took two steps over, now in your peripheral.

shades of periwinkle and indigo mixed, “if you must. but mind your words.” speaking slowly, fully concentrating on your work.

“would this have anything to do with a certain duke? one who happens to be visiting for the week?” you ignored the gentle venom of the word duke.

“lord hargrove’s arrival has been known for many days. though his intentions of travel have not been stated until the day of his arrival.” seeing shades of red while adding spots of white.

“i’m guessing-“ “marriage! lord hargrove is here for my hand in marriage. in request of my father and his, for the good of our kingdoms.” stains of paint dripped down the canvas in tears.

“marriage,” steven repeated, you could imagine the slight snare on his face at the word.

“yes, marriage,” a deep sigh from overuse of the word, “to a man i don’t know and is expected to wed in the spring. no choice in the matter.” rinsing your brush in the murky paint water, tapping it against the lip before pressing it onto a cloth.

“not quite fair to expect that of you.” steven grabbed a stool close by to be placed beside you. he was now sitting shoulder to bicep.

you couldn’t help your scuff, “i’m but a woman. they only tolerate us cause we can be sold like sheep and breed like a calf. a single syllable from our lips can bring us death. seen not heard.” your once melancholy painting transforming into a brutal storm, one that brings sailors to the ocean floors.

dropping your brush beside your easil, you finally turn to sir steven. his back straight with knees bent at the perfect angle, a slight spread to the long limbs. forearms resting on thighs while mindlessly tugging at his fingers, head dipped with untamed strands of hair flinging about.

you spoke before you could stop, “let me paint you.” speaking quietly not wanting to disrupt the peace.

steven’s head picked up and met your wondering eyes, “pardon?” a pinch to his brows.

you cocked your head, “let me paint you. would cheer me up.” standing to your feet in search of a spare canvas.

“princess-“ “please? i wish to paint the face people pen poems and sonnets about.” trying to feed his ego.

you heard the deep sigh but saw the little smile before he could wipe it away, “your wish is my command, princess.” starting to move before you rushed over and rested a palm on his shoulder, “stay. the lighting is perfect.”

he peered up, long lashes framing normal brown eyes that held something special. his patches of silver armor cool under your warm palm. “just sit like before, but keep your head up.”

“am i getting a portrait done by the lovely princess y/n l/n? i must be the luckiest man alive.” his sword clicked off the wooden stool leg.

you started collecting more oil colors, “i would say so. and i would also say i’m the luckiest princess alive since i’ll get to stare at you while detailing my work to perfection.” 

satisfied with your supplies and making sure they stay put, you begin your simple outline in black chalk. the simple task is a distraction from your loose words and hummingbird heart.“quiet flattered, princess.” princess said in a low tone that forced you to suppress a shiver. “only the best for my favorite knight.” saying the words only to yourself.

[tixdixl]

Happy Birthday, Ren! - TWST Ficlet

Word Count: 2,718

Characters: Wei Renqiao ( @cyanide-latte 's OC), Oisín Anbás, Riddle Rosehearts, Ortho Shroud, Vex Alabaster, Idia Shroud (mentioned), Lilia Vanrouge (mentioned)

CWs: None

A/N: I had some life stuff happen, so unfortunately I'm a few days late. But I really enjoyed writing this and sharing a more tricksy side to my dullahan in this. Hope you all enjoy it!

~~~

The Ignihyde dorm remained quiet, its sleepy lull stable in the early hours of the morning. Despite its vacantness, the brilliant lights of the Ignihyde tech kept the hallways bright as the dullahan slipped down them. Gentle metallic tapping followed their footsteps as they headed toward the main lounge space. As they reached the lounge and the kitchen, the dullahan immediately b-lined for the fridge. The infamous fridge. They pulled open the handle, digging something out of their pocket as they carefully placed it inside. A puff of whisping white smoke danced in delight above their collar, pleased with themself as they nearly completed their preparations.

Without wasting time, they slunk down the halls once again. This time, they stopped in front of one of the dorm room doors. They gently pulled out an envelope from their pocket and placed it carefully on the welcome mat. The name “Wei Renqiao” penned onto the envelope glimmered in the ambient light. And with another proud cloud of smoke wafting from their collar, they disappeared into the dead of the morning.

✨️✨️✨️

After preparing himself for the day, Wei Renqiao followed his standard routine, opting to head to the kitchen to grab something to eat and brew some tea. But when the door opened, the crinkle of paper immediately caught his attention. Confused, he reached down and picked up the envelope. His eyes scanned over the calligraphy, immediately recognizing the author. A slight smile rose to his lips. And as he opened the envelope, he handled the paper gingerly to prevent ripping any part of it.

Out from the envelope fell a folded piece of parchment and a singular skeleton key. This immediately brought him pause. He didn’t recognize the key, not in the slightest. Most of the doors in Ignihyde didn’t use keys, but rather a scanner or a key card. It also didn’t look like it belonged to any blast cycle. Not that Ren would have minded, he had been around his cousin and their partner enough to recognise it as anything but.

Regardless of his confusion, he figured the paper likely would have some semblance of an answer. At the very least, a clue.

“Deartháirín,

Happiest of birthdays, my friend! I hope that your day greets you with joy, rest, and memorable moments. I’m going to be busy with Idia and Ortho setting up the lounge for your party, so I apologize for having to deliver this to you impersonally.

Or at least… I would apologize, if not for the fact that it’s a part of your present. UwU

I’m sure by now the gears are already turning. You want to know what the key is for, don’t you?

The short answer: it’s the key to opening your present.

The long answer: the key is your clue to finding your present.

I’ve hidden it somewhere for you to find. Given how much you love a good puzzle and a problem to solve, well… OwO I believe in you.

~ Oisín”

Ren had expected something sappy or flowery, given their tendency of using writing as a means to express themself and their affections. Yet, the note depicted the more tricksy side of the dullahan. And frankly, as far as the sophomore was concerned? He enjoyed this quite a bit more.

His already pleasant smile turned sly. The corners of his mouth tugged even farther. A puzzle? A problem to solve? And a ticking clock? Truly, they were speaking his language. And as he slipped the letter and the key into his blazer pocket, he cracked his knuckles and popped his neck.

Starting in the kitchen, Ren searched the cupboards. He looked through the tea boxes and bags of loose leaf. The thought occurred to him mid-search to hit two birds with one stone, and reached for a bag of his favorite loose leaf tea. But when he opened the bag, a slip of paper with a [OwO] scratched into it stared up at him. He blinked, having to stifle a snort as he realized he’d been caught. He pulled the slip of paper out of the bag and flicked on the electric kettle.

While he waited for the water to boil, Ren moved to the next place he could possibly think to check. He slid down the hall, careful not to lose his balance or collide with anyone in his path. And as he approached the door to the lab, the sophomore deliberately kept his head on a swivel, scanning for any signs of a trail or signs of an intentionally, poorly hidden package. But he met the locked door and saw no trace of the dullahan’s presence.

He unlocked the workshop door. At a glance, the room seemed unchanged from last time he left it. The device he’d been tinkering with, labelled and meticulously organized, laid on his designated work bench. The table itself bore no signs of change, as far as he could see. His tool box sat locked and untampered next to his bag of screws.

Gingerly, he shifted his tool box, trying to give himself a better view of the space behind his tools and his personal project. But as his eyes landed on the back wall, he was greeted with a bright pink sticky note, one with a very playful [ \(○v○)/ ] drawn in sharpie.

Another snort. This time with an eye roll.

So he acknowledged then that the package wouldn’t be found here. Not in the cupboard. Not in the workshop. Maybe… oh, he needed to double check one more place in the kitchen before he dismissed the kitchen.

He returned to the kitchen, having almost forgotten the boiling water, now whistling in alarm. The sophomore poured himself a mug, putting the loose leaf diffuser inside. He set a timer for 3 minutes and slid over to the refrigerator.

Ren didn’t put it past Oisín to jokingly remind him of the fridge incident as a birthday prank. Yet, something also told him that that was too easy.

As he pulled open the door, the fridge sounded off with its little jingle. The many bottles of beverages and tupperware full of questionable foods lined the shelves. He shuffled around the various containers. Pulling some out and putting them back in, he made it a point to make sure that everyone’s containers returned to their original spots. Until finally his eyes landed on a singular sugar cookie with an [^_^] iced on the top of it.

Well… at least they were changing it up. Clearly the sugar cookie was his to claim, and claim it, he did. And at the VERY least, he could tell instantly that Lilia had no part in baking it. Thank Seven.

But before he could collect his thoughts entirely, the timer went off.

He slinked back over to the kettle and removed the diffuser from the mug. As he sipped from the mug and chewed on the cookie, he pondered where exactly he needed to check next. Oisín wasn’t the type of fae to be invasive, so he could easily deduce that they hadn’t hidden the package in a private space. So no bedrooms. No washrooms. Maybe… club rooms?

Ren recognized that the board game club had a specific storage area where they kept the games safe. And any of the students had the ability to ask for access at any time. Perhaps, Oisín had hidden the present in the storage.

Taking the mug with him, he headed out of the mirror. The halls felt almost as vacant as the Ignihyde dorm. The morning had settled with that same lull, that drowsiness that came from the early sunrise, and as a result, few students lined the halls. Though Ren assumed it wouldn’t be long before traffic would pick up. He descended down the halls and toward the storage closet, sipping his tea as he went. But as he approached the closet, he noticed a lanky figure, hunched over and seemingly digging in the closet. Ashy hair draped over the Heartslabyul uniform in such a way that it served as an instant identifier.

Ren cleared his throat, “Good morning, Mx. Alabaster.”

A small squeak of surprise erupted from the closet. They withdrew from the closet, hands empty. As their heterochromatic eyes met his, her features softened.

“Quite the morning it is, Mr. Wei. And I certainly hope the morning has been treating you well- oh! And the happiest of birthdays should be wished to you, before I forget.”

Despite the speed of their voice, their syllables retained a crispness that made their verbiage easier to follow.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you simply moseying about, looking for a game to take back and share during your birthday? I’m sure no one will mind if you do. Everyone with a sense of decency from the Board Game Club is planning on stopping by the party later, if they aren’t already setting it up- Idia.”

That… certainly was a question. And frankly, if Vex weren’t a fae themself, he would have been inclined not to explain himself and leave it to silence. Yet… because of their fairy nature, he hoped they would understand.

“One of my dormmates, Oisín, has sent me on a scavenger hunt to find my birthday present,” he explained.

“Oh! And you thought that the present might be here? Certainly! Please- let me get out of your way.”

The draconic fae side stepped out of the way, giving him full access to the closet space. He searched immediately for the box of his favorite game. Box after box, case after case, he pulled out the games and shuffled them around. Once again, attempting to move things around with care, he sifted through until he found exactly what he was looking for. But as he lifted the lid, a single playing card, clearly ill befitting of the game, fluttered to the floor.

Feeling the curious gaze of the fae looming behind him, Ren bent over and plucked the card off the floor. The printed card resembled a card from the Arcana: the Cultivation deck. But… on the front, the picture was replaced with a computer monitor. The title read [UwU], and it required two blue resource cards to play it. The description read:

“On your opponent’s turn, you may use this card to misdirect 1 enemy attack damage of equal or lesser value.”

At this point, Ren couldn’t help but laugh.

“Um- I’m so sorry, but you have me absolutely brimming with curiosity,” the dragon piped up, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

He shook his head, his laughter naturally dying but leaving a soft smile on his face.

“No, but I have a feeling I know where to go next.”

“Oh! Well, good luck then! I hope you find what your friend set out for you! And I hope no one else has claimed it.”

With a silent nod of acknowledgement, Ren took off, leaving the fae behind him. And on he went. Off towards the stables, where he wondered if he'd find Riddle. If Oisín had phoned a friend, chances were that they’d reached out to Riddle in an attempt to learn more about his daily habits and interests.

As he crossed the fields, his eyes caught sight of a head of scarlet. The shorter student stood next to a gorgeous mare, brush in his hand. Despite his lack of stealth, the red queen failed to notice his approach. A rather calm, almost tranquil expression painted his face like a painted rose. His eyes glittered, almost like the red queen had some sort of tune or day dream in his head. And his quiet words of encouragement left his mouth, Ren acknowledged that his friend had been spending quality time with his steed. He knew he’d need to be brief.

“Good morning, Riddle,” Ren announced his presence, practically startling the other sophomore.

“Good morning, Renqiao, and Happy Birthday,” the barely collected greeting reciprocated, “I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you out here this morning. Did you need me for something?”

With a swift nod, he answered, “Oisín has me on a bit of a scavenger’s hunt for my present this morning.”

Riddle’s expression immediately flattened into unamusement.

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head once again.

With a small sigh, the red queen placed his hands firmly on his own hips.

“Well, that explains what that was about,” Riddle muttered, before then stating, “I saw them this morning, but I shooed them away from the stables. Whatever it was going on in their head, I didn’t like the emote their monitor was displaying this morning. Clearly, it had to do with this.”

The queen paused, placing a hand to his chin.

“I certainly haven’t seen any sign of them since, so my guess is they went off somewhere else,” he deduced, “Have you tried your club storage?”

A silent nod led to a slightly dissatisfied pout from the queen.

“Well, that certainly doesn’t help…” he glanced back up at the much larger student, “I’m sorry, Ren. I can’t say I know where they went.”

“Not to worry,” Ren waved him off, “If anything, this saves me a lot of work… Sorry to disrupt you this morning.”

“No, not at all. I hope you find what you are looking for.”

✨️✨️✨️

After scouring every place he could think of, Ren returned to the Ignihyde dorm. Decorations only half lined the room. A petite robot could be seen hovering off the floor and draping streamers along the towering skeletal statues. And as his presence his Ortho’s radar - or so he assumed - the little robot glanced down at him from above.

“Hi Ren-dídí!”

Ah yes, the endearingly incorrect nickname. At least some things were still normal today.

He offered Ortho a wave as he moved further into the space.

“Happy birthday, friend!” Ortho called out before his expression warped into one of pensiveness, “...I’m detecting minor signs of frustration. Is everything okay?”

Instead of answering Ortho’s question, an idea hit him like a ton of bricks. He reached back into his pocket and pulled out the skeleton key.

“Ortho, would you happen to know what this key belongs to?”

As he held it out to Ortho, he watched the humanoid’s eyes flash golden, as if he himself were scanning the key.

“SCANNING DATABASES FOR POSSIBLE LOCK ON CAMPUS OF NIGHT RAVEN COLLEGE…

46%...

72%...

98%...

DATA NOT FOUND.”

He couldn’t help but frown at that. Truthfully, he had begun to wonder if the dullahan had out puzzled him for once. But then, just as he had begun to consider his options, the robot spoke up once more:

“Where did you find it?”

Ren didn’t answer verbally. Instead, he pulled out the note and handed it to the humanoid. He watched as those golden eyes scanned once more. And once he’d finished, a sly little smirk formed behind that humanoid’s mask.

“...I thought I saw Oisín entering the party area with a uniquely shaped box. Perhaps, that might have something to do with it?”

…oh, but of course. Of course, they would hide it in plain sight. In the most obvious place possible, just to stump him.

He offered the humanoid a nod and a small gesture of gratitude before he headed toward the main table, of which treats and sweets would overwhelm and overrun shortly. But instead of sweets, a wooden chest, engraved with falcons along its sides, rested pristinely, as if waiting- taunting him even. Placed in plain sight. And sure enough, the chest had a small padlock, holding the lid closed.

When he inserted the key, the padlock flew open like a springtrap. He slid the bars out from the chest, and tucked both the lock and its key into his pocket. Gingerly, he lifted the lid. Much to his surprise, the chest contained a single thing: a worker’s magnifying glass set and its accompanying stand.

[For your work station,] came a familiar text to speech voice, [so you don’t strain your eyes in the late night hours. You do a lot of intricate and detailed work. No sense on limiting yourself by damaging your eyes.]

He spun around. His eyes met with a retro TV monitor with a [^^] plastered in bold on its screen.

[Happy birthday, Deartháirín.]

~~~

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @the-trinket-witch @elenauaurs @winterweary @rainesol

@cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind @boopshoops @theleechyskrunkly @thehollowwriter

@lumdays @twstinginthewind @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @starry-night-rose @chillygourami

Lmk if you want added/removed

[unicyclehippo]

top 5 moments of your fave character from each cr campaign

oh u DO think my memory is better than it is but i will give it a go

1. c1 - everything vex has ever done. when vex rises up out of the ocean on her wedding day, furious, & summons a bow made of light & pike gives her a golden arrow to shoot sylas……h-hot. woman hot. delilah WAS a bitch. i am a twin myself & that whole deal was..a lot for me. do not go far from me. there’s a kind of loneliness that only twins get to feel & vex&vax nailed that.

2. c2 - beau with her shitty strength steps back into the room w the laughing hand & hauls her BROTHR her CAPTAIN her FRIEND onto her shoulders & gets him out of there she goes BACK for him she has no MAGIC she LOVES him she risks everything to get her hands on him & pull him away she risks an awful death she would die for any of them she means it she proves it she loves so hard her hands are in fists all the time she can’t let people see what she wants she can’t let people see that she wants she takes her bloodied hands& picks up her FRIEND & gets him OUT she LOVES him.

3. also c2 jester cupcake moment. i think it’s the only moment in cr where everything just….clicked. to me, that’s THE jester moment. everything stripped away. that’s CHARACTER baby that’s the good shit.

4. c3 laudna in the tree matt giving up his seat for her to speak to imogen for the most brutal like. ten seconds ever. laudna hunger of the shadow the first time. Marisha does this thing where she like. visibly dissociates for like. i don’t rmbr. i want to say fully forty minutes but that might just be me having felt it so powerfully. ten minutes ? the way she diminishes her presence, hides at the table, sits SO perfectly still. my heart aches.

5. exu calamity laerryn BLIGHT. who has done more in the history of exandria? who has changed the world more than her? NO ONE. NO. ONE. who had the power the skill the vision the LOVE to do what she did, to see avalir move not only over the face of the world but between every world? That ALONE would put her into top tier. & then yeah ok with a single spell she broke the pen that wrote the runes of protection across the world & shattered the ancient tree but who hasn’t wanted to kill a tree that was killing their friends? everyone would do that. it hurt her friend it hurt her husband (ex) it KEPT her BEST FRIEND in its BRANCHES who she has tried EVERYTHING to save. so yeah FUCK that tree! & then when everything went to shit she SAVED the world. she SAVED THE WORLD. laerryn literally has done the most anyone has ever done. & in some ways she did succeed in making it so that people could travel between realms im just saying she very much did succeed at that even if there were a few consequences

[thedeafprophet]

🤝 for josie on a bad pain day?

🤝 - Some help performing a basic task

That Which Pains You

Loathing as she was to its prescence, it was an unwanted fact that The Percipient Scientist dealt with frequent boughts of pain and aches, that of which could often interefer with her tasks and frustrated her to no end. That doesn't mean she has to deal with it alone.

Word count: 950

Rating: Teen

Tags: Chronic pain, comfort

Relationship: September of the Calendar Council/Original Fallen London Character

Also on ao3

Even the quick movement of Josephine's wrist as she moved to pick up the pen was a sore reminder of her physical limitations that vexed her so. Pain and stiffness radiated up her hand, like a pulse of electricity surging through an unwanted conduit.  Even as she tried to open and close her fingers to relieve the pressure, she could almost feel the grating sensation of the tendon as she moved.

She'd done all she could to wade off the flare up - she'd practised stretches, equipped her braces, took frequent breaks - but it seemed even she couldn't wade off the aches and pains forever. It was coming close to the end of term, countless papers and tests to mark, all needing to be returned in a timely manner, all alongside her other work...well, it was no wonder she'd over extended herself.

Josephine sighed, weary and exhausted.

It wasn't the pain that got to her on its own, even though it was an ever present reminder of the lingering weakness she didn’t even know the origin of. No, it was the complete and utter frustration at being unable to perform something she did almost every day. The rest of her body thrummed in painful agreement her traitorous hand, and Josephine half regretted getting out of bed this morning, even if she knew it would have driven her mad to stay. She'd tried to work at the desk for ages, but eventually ended up propping herself up in bed to try and wade off the exhaustion.

Her struggle, it seemed, did not go unnoticed.

"Are ye doin’ alright there love?"

September had looked up from his own writing, the two of them in their usual cohabitance of working near one another in peaceful silence, simply enjoying one another's presence. September’s brow was furrowed in that way it got whenever he was concerned, and the fondness Josephine felt at his expressiveness was almost enough to wade off the building frustration.

"It's fine it's just-" she reaches her other hand up under the bridge of her glasses to squeeze at the bridge of her nose. Josephine's struggle with pain was no secret to September, even if it had taken time for Josephine to speak with him on the subject.  "I have come to yet another impasse with my physical limitations, and I have come no closer to understanding why, and I need to get this work done less I fall behind, and I can’t even pick up the pen properly, and I don't-"

She takes a deep, centred breath. She would not cry over something so benign, so common, so frequent. She wouldn't.

In the midst of her beginning ramble, September had put his work down, moving to cross the room and settle down beside her. He reached his hand out and gently took her hand in his, as Josephine worked to keep her breathing level. She didn’t know why she felt so overwhelmed so quickly, like the mere acknowledgement of her suffering was enough to shatter the dam that kept the flood at bay.

September's thumb rubbed soothingly into the pad of her hand, helping ease the tension, before lifting her hand to place a gentle kiss along the knuckles. He offered an arm out for her to move closer to him, a solid weight against her.  It didn't make the pain go away, but somehow, the support made it seem more distant, as if a glass had been placed between. 

A few moments passed in peaceful silence, before September gently moved and turned to look at Josephines work.

"Aye, how bout' this love, ye tell me what you need written n’ marked, and I c’n be yer hands for ye til’ it's done."

Josephine blinked at him, processing the suggestion. It was a solution, sure, but-

"But don't you have your own work to complete? It would hardly be fair for you to fall behind because of me." Something in her bristled, at having to accept help, of having to rely on anyone, even if the idea of not having support also hurt. 

"Ah well, ah ne'er particularly get anythin’ done in time anyway, and yer time limits are always more pressin, aint’ they?" He smiles at her. "Ah dinnae mind, really. N’ it'll give me even more time tae spend wi’ ye."

That was.... touching. Appreciated. Josephine almost felt like crying again for altogether a different reason.

"That would be... amenable. I think, given the circumstances I am working in." She reaches to read through the previous exam page she had been struggling with. "I don't expect you to be well versed in the topic, but I do hope you'll be able to follow along with my direction."

It's not a quick process, by any means, not as it would have been for Josephine on a good day of her own accord. But it was process nonetheless, as September filled out the pages to her directions to a key (with an added commentary here or there). As time passed, Josephine's trepidation at having to let someone else do the work for her, September never once passing commentary on the subject, only ever being fully supportive. 

She did trust him, afterall. She could trust him with this. 

By the end, Josephine was able to finish this set of paper with September's help, and he helped gather the papers for her in a neat organised pile, even if Josephine did have to remind him of which coloured folder they went into. A nice bath and a peaceful evening were next on the agenda, if Septembers’ hopeful gaze and offers to help were anything to go by. 

Well, she could be amenable to that too. If it was offered, anyways. 

[dreamersbcll]

“60/40”

i want a hundred of your time. you’re mine.

—————————————————————————-

Art was subjective.

Through any flick of the brush or stroke of paint, anything could be created. Anything could be interpreted. Perspective. It was all about perspective.

Tara had it. She knew how to draw on the inside and the outside. It was easy for her to decide what lines to remove and which to cross. It was quite simple when she had a straightforward rule.

Nobody touches Sam.

Bathed in neglect and sin, Tara was a rabid dog. She bit down, held on, and refused to give in. Too many times had she been the dog with a bird at the door of someone who didn’t want anything to do with her— especially with Sam. But that didn’t matter now. She was reunited with her big sister. And she wasn’t going to let go.

She couldn’t help that her hackles rose each time she saw Sam interact with someone that wasn’t her. She frothed at mouth each time she watched her big sister touch someone that wasn’t her, and she could feel her teeth sharpen each time Sam uttered I love you to anyone but Tara.

Tara knew how to create art. She was good with a pen and pencil. She excelled at oils and pastels. But the most underrated tool was what she could do with a knife.

It wasn't easy following in her big sister’s footsteps. Sam had a knack for violence and a lust to create. Some saw it as destruction, ripping people apart until nothing was left. But Tara knew better. Her sister was an artist, her canvas the bodies of the vexed and deplorable.

She wanted to be her big sister so bad. All she ever wanted was for people to look at her and say— Tara is just like Sam.

The planning took a long time. She was an architect, a creator, and a designer focused on concocting her own piece of art. She observed Sam noticed how the vein in her jaw jumped when she clenched it or how she dug her fingernails into her palms when angered. She learned how to subdue a body properly and carve it out from the inside out.

Once she felt prepared, all she needed was a victim. Someone to take a clean apart, turn it inside out, and make it new again.

So it really was a no-brainer on who to pick once Rebecca wandered into Sam’s life. For Sam, it was an immediate friendship. But for Tara, it was immediate aversion.

In all fairness, Tara tried. She did give it a chance. The girl was just too… boisterous. Too loud, always taking up all the oxygen in the room, leaving Tara uncomfortably breathless. Rebecca took everything- Sam’s time, energy, and power; and left Tara an exhausted and quiet big sister. When Tara wanted more love or attention, Sam couldn’t give it, as she was exhausted from giving her all to her fruitless friendship.

And Tara couldn’t allow that to happen anymore. She wouldn’t allow any more days of little conversations, nights staying up waiting for a too-drunk big sister to come home. Rebecca didn’t love or appreciate Sam’s creativity and heart as Tara did.

Rebecca would never see it coming, what Tara would do next. That was how the world worked—you had to leave before you got left or caught.

So when the girl wakes up in an abandoned warehouse, her wrists bound and her mouth gagged, she doesn’t understand. Typical. The arsonist never realized that they left a trail of gasoline for anyone to ignite.

——

Tara chuckles, watching the girl writhe under her restraints. She did such a good job making sure that the knots wouldn’t shift like Sam taught her. God, Sam was going to be so proud of her budding little artist.

Eventually, Rebecca spots Tara standing in the shadows, her dark eyes shining with lust. The girl flips her body around desperately, foolishly believing that Tara is actually here to save her. The absolute gall this woman had.

Padding out of the darkness, Tara stops before her little hostage, tilting her head. She couldn’t help the grin that grew across her face, a real Cheshire cat grin. Everything in her felt red-hot and alive, and it took more restraint than she would care to admit not to carve up her canvas now. She instead bent down and ripped the gag out.

Flopping like a caught fish, Rebecca gasps for air, her face crimson. She looks up at Tara with wide eyes, tears bubbling over and down her cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Why, Tara?”

Tara cocks her head, circling her prey, enjoying the chase. “You know what you did,” she hummed.

The woman shakes her head robotically, almost comically. She pulls against her restraints, Tara’s grin only getting more significant as she struggles. Finally, she stops pulling, tears pooling onto the cold concrete below her. “No, I don’t! What did I do? Why are you hurting me?” she wails.

Shrugging, Tara looks at her nails, bored. She forgot how much she hated monologuing. But she supposed she owed the girl an answer. “I’m not hurting you. I’m showing you what happens when you take what is mine.”

“What did I take? I didn’t take anything!” Rebecca shouts, pulling at her wrists again.

“Sixty-forty,” Tara whispers, her voice cold and sharp.

Rebecca stopped struggling and cocks her head in confusion. Tara could practically taste the blood on her tongue, her mouth salivating in anticipation of the kill.

“What? What does that mean?” Rebecca whispers, her eyes wide.

Tara bends down, roughly grasping the woman’s chin. She forces Rebecca to look her in the eye, as this was her artwork, and she was the artist. She was the mastermind. Everything would happen the way she wanted it to. “Look at me. It’s the time- look at me. There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Clearing her throat, now with the attention of her hostage on her, she continued. “Like I was saying, that’s the time you took from me. You took sixty percent of the time I should have with Sam and left me forty. I’m not too fond of that. No, it should be ninety-five, five. Or better yet, one hundred to nil. Do you understand?”

“You’re hurting me because I hung out with your sister?” Rebecca cries, her tears leaking onto Tara’s hand.

Pulling her hand back in disgust, Tara wipes her fingers onto her jeans. “Hey. No, no. I’m making art. I’m creating—Sam’s mine. I’m showing her that I'm capable of creating gifts to win her back. You’re just collateral, I suppose,” she muses, shrugging.

“Please let me go.”

And that’s what she heard it. That voice. The voice that soothed every fear and fed every need. The voice that spoke reason, and gave honesty. The one thing Tara could always fall into, and follow home.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t let her go Tara. Show me. Show me your love. Give me your heart,” Sam purred, circling the two. Tara looked up at her sister, grinning maniacally, her eyes dark.

For Tara, she knew she was safe. For Rebecca, she thought she was saved.

Looking up at Sam, Rebecca smiled, her face softening in relief. “Sam! You gotta help me. Please, please let me go. Tell your psycho bitch sister to let me go!”

However, those were the wrong choice of words. If the woman was even the slightest bit smart or had a shred of intelligence, she would’ve realized her mistake. She doused herself in blood and threw herself into the lion’s den.

Soft and calculated, Sam speaks. “What did you call her?”

Tara shivers at her big sister’s voice, sweat trickling down her back. It was the same tone that she heard in New York before the knife was plunged through Detective Bailey’s eye. The detached cruelty that Sam could slip on and off so quickly, forgoing her humanity.

She wants to master that skill one day.

As if sensing the reality of her situation, Rebecca sobs, snot running down her face. “Sam, please,” she softly begs, hiccuping.

Her big sister tilts her head, shaking it slowly. Tara could feel her heart bursting at the seams, her love for Sam overflowing. Sam tutted softly and, instead, kicked the girl swiftly in the ribs. Swallowing hard, Tara’s heart thumped, her hands twitching, waiting for a command.

As Rebecca moaned in pain, Sam turned back to her sister, her pupils dilated. “Tara, continue. Show me your love,” Sam orders, stepping back, allowing her sister room to work.

Tara grinned, looking down at Rebecca. She took her switchblade out, unsheathing the blade. “You heard her. It’s time to continue now,” she purred, her eyes glazed in passion.

All that could be heard was hollow screaming echoing off of an empty warehouse and the clattering of knives onto the cold pavement. Soon, the screaming stopped, and Tara stepped back, admiring her work.

Sam wrapped her arms around Tara’s shoulders, pulling her in and holding her down. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re such a good artist,”

Tara hummed. “I’ve had lots of practice,”

Her big sister’s eyes lit up in wonder. “Show me,” she softly growled, commanding Tara to her will.

And Tara obeyed. They were finally together. She wasn’t selfish. She just wasn’t sharing.

Sam was hers. Tara was Sam’s. That was it.

[merryfortune]

Thrown Over the Horizon

Written for Femslash February 2025

Day 2. Horizon

Series: Glitter Puffs

Title: Thrown Over the Horizon

Ship: Laura/Minori

Fandom: Tropical Rouge Pretty Cure 

Word Count: 2,060

Rating: T

Warning: None

Tags: Angst, Open/Ambiguous Ending, Amnesia, Crushes, Referenced Bullying

   Mermaids aren’t real and Minori was a fool for ever thinking otherwise, especially at her big age.

   She was fourteen after all, going on fifteen next year but where had the past twelve months gone, on that note? Minori felt vexed and defeated as she stared at the horizon and allowed the sunset to burn into her retinas. The irritation in her eyes was nothing compared to how she felt inside.

   Her shoulders slumped, her hands balled into fists that sent tremors up her arms. She was beside herself with rage: all of it aimed at herself. 

   She had been laughed at today. Merciless mocked, looked down upon. That’s what she got for piping up, for trying to stand on equal footing to her more sociable peers. She should stick to being the nerdy wallflower in the corner. Her head was too up in the clouds for her classmates down on Earth.

   Or, more accurately, too down in the depths of the ocean with the flotsam. 

   The incident had occurred during the last period of the day, during a free study as their regular literature teacher had been feeling unwell. So, the students were entrusted with doing their own reading and note making. Easy enough. Especially when they were studying Hans Christen Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, of all things.

   An eclectic choice as part of a greater unit on fairy tales, folk tales, and mythology. Last week they had been reading Momotaro, after all. Minori, however, much preferred The Little Mermaid. It made her heart soar - and her mouth run.

   Somehow the topic came up: do you believe in mermaids?

   The class had grown unsettled. Chatter had broken out over the sound of pages turning in books or pen against paper. People grouped together, sat on desks and started to goof off. Minori did her best to ignore such immaturity but school was almost over, her ears pricked up.

   She had opinions.

   Opinions she had to voice as her blood began to inexplicably boil as she heard some of her classmates’ baseless speculation on mermaids. 

   So, she spoke up. It wasn’t a fight that she was picking but it was certainly one she was anyway. She couldn’t help herself. The way she spoke, her sneering demeanour. For too long, Minori had been a soured nerd even now as she had only the best intentions.

   She corrected people, replaced them with her own information - equally as baseless. Minori didn’t even know where some of this was coming from. She was an obsessive for mermaids, their mythology and lore, but some of the things coming out of her mouth as she found her courage to share her passion with her classmates… She didn’t remember which books or websites they had come from a source.

   Instead of web links and page numbers, there was a blurry silhouette on her mind. Of a girl. With a fish’s tail instead of legs. A face she couldn’t place and feelings that burgeoned ever so peculiar. Her heart began to race.

   Minori couldn’t explain it. The unwavering faith and belief in magic that had suddenly welled up inside of her. It turned to a liquid courage and so, she ran her mouth. She spoke with all the confidence of a scientist, telling her peers exactly what she knew about mermaids - and her certainty in their existence.

   It was the first snicker that hurt her the most.

   The noise was stifled and pricked on Minori’s ears. She had to glance through the classroom to confirm it had occurred at all, unable to put a face to the noise. Her movements only caused ripples. As soon as her head was turned, more snickering. Soon, all out laughter, and teasing questions that pierced her heart as she was made to feel small for her outburst.

   As she should. Believing in mermaids was something she should have grown out of when she was as young as eight. Honestly, Minori thought she had and yet. Her own words, spoken with a full chest of belief, now disintegrated. Turned to dust.

   Turned to pen ink.

   Humiliated by this incident, Minori turned to the only one who would listen to her and listen to her vent without judgement: her journal. 

   Minori had nowhere to be after school. Tropical Club? What’s that. She belonged to the losers walking home alone club and was a seething member of it. Especially this afternoon as she marched off in any direction but her route home. She wanted to be gone, to get away, somewhere she could curl and up die with her journal in her lap.

   For some reason, she ended up on the beach.

   Dear diary, her teenage angst bullshit was about to have a body count if she wasn’t careful and it was going to be hers, too, by the way. Minori couldn’t stand it. Was it the hormones? Why was it the hormones? Something was making her feel so intense and it wasn’t just the fact she had just committed social suicide. 

   Minori tucked herself away on a sandy ledge. She hid her eyes under her fluffy bangs, to reduce the glare of the sun as it slowly set over the horizon. There was a salty breeze but its tang had nothing on her frustration. She hunched down over her journal and began to write. Her latest entry, the emotions that she felt. Tears streamed down from underneath her thick, circular glasses and smudged freshly written words. They just flowed out of her from a deep well of repression and humiliation. 

   Once Minori started, she couldn’t stop.

   She just had so much to say. An entire year’s worth of words that she couldn’t explain. At some point, it stopped being a journal entry to her and it started to become a conversation, a letter to someone incredibly specific. She could think of all their traits.

   The self-absorption and the self sacrifice. Her confidence left little to be desired as it turned into the determination that she needed to make her dreams come true. Her strange, fantastical dreams. And the curiosity towards life itself, life outside of her norm… 

   Her abandonment of Minori.

   The complete redaction of her name, face, and memory associated with her.

   Minori couldn’t think of a single person in her life who was missing - nor someone who would even fit the gap if they were. She was just so, so angry at this person, this girl, who had abandoned her and left her wanting more.

   More of what?

   Minori wasn’t sure. Her hand ached pretty bad but her heart ached worse. At least she felt better, kind of? At the very least, she had emptied all of her thoughts, her feelings, onto these pages but as she read them back, straining her eyes in the lowlight, Minori realised something.

   None of this shit made any fucking sense.

   Her irritation wound right back up. She could feel it in the molecules of her sweat, the way her hairs rose on the back of her neck. She clicked her tongue. Trash, rubbish, garbage. It was all for naught and as it was all for naught, she didn’t want this in her journal.

   These soppy pages upon pages of teenage angst. Her rage and lust towards this missing person: the one who had convinced her that mermaids were real. As if.

   Minori tore the pages out. It was tough, she had to tug at them hard, to rip the paper but it was worth it in the end. She balled them up and tried to throw them away. It was like she was holding a baseball as a pitcher, her arm lurched forward without thinking but she stopped herself before the release. Her fingers slotted in between the crumpled folds, getting paper cuts. 

   If she threw away her feelings now, they would end up in the sand. How useless. But there was something she remembered now, through the taste of the salt she had shed in her tears: the taste of papaya juice out of a glass bottle. A glass bottle she had enjoyed over lunch and kept, inexplicably, in her bag.

   Minori found it in her middle school randoseru and admired the glass momentarily. Traces of juice still lurked at the bottom, that was why she kept it, she finished it before she had a chance to wash it out before she tossed it in the recycling. The base of the bottle was thick and reflected the twilight beautifully. Minori swallowed and briefly, she tasted those sweet fruit juices from earlier and it brought her comfort.

   Confirming in her mind, this coincidence had been on purpose on the grander scale. So, she stuffed her papers into the bottle. She unfurled them and folded them so they would fit through the nozzle and pass by the lip. She screwed the cap on tight and removed the orange branding around the midsection of the bottle so only her torn out pages could be seen.

   Her heart pounded in her chest.

   She stood up. Stiff, awkward, and determined. She kicked off her loafers and shimmied out of her socks. Minori scrunched her toes through the hot hands and took a breath. She was ready to fully purge herself of her foolishness now and so, she walked, confident, towards the shoreline.

   Minori stared out over the horizon and drank in the scenery of the water. The way it turned wine dark with the encroaching night and yet, scorchingly bright with the blazing sunset. She watched the water, how the waves collected themselves and crashed in entropy. The foam ebbed and flowed and sometimes, the water would reach her.

   It felt cold on her ankles but she liked it. A devilish tickle that reminded her: people drowned here, everyday. The ocean was a grave for many, many things: people and animals, wrecked ships and sunken treasures. Now, it would become the final resting place for her snivelling past self, so stupid to think mermaids were real and somewhere in these beguiling fathoms.

   Minori focused her eyes. She finished watching the enchanting rhythm of the ocean and turned inward. She wasn’t the sporty type and it would be embarrassing to have to repeat herself until she did it right, so Minori resolved to do it right and thus, only once. She wound herself up and got lost in how limber she became as she loosened up.

   Once ready, Minori counted herself down, “A-one, and a-two, and.. Three!”

   Then, she lobbed that bottle as far as she could. 

   Minori surprised herself with her strength as she threw it as hard as she could. She watched it fly to the air, somersaulting. She held her breath as it soared. It glinted against the mix of inky darkness and intense vermillion of the sunset and then.

   Plonk.

   It hit the waves at their furthest point on the immediate shores. She could hardly see it as it landed bottom first, its neck akin to a flagpole as the water accepted it as one of her own.

   Such an impressive throw took a lot out of Minori as she huffed and puffed. She to squint just to watch the bottle sink into the water. It disappeared  quickly beneath crashing waves that foamed and frothed. She had put all her heart and effort into that lob and got it a fair way out over the immediate shore where she stood. The water lapped at her ankles, tugged on her dress, and there was now no more proof of Minori’s foolishness.

   Of her feelings.

   That felt good. To be rid of them, let the mermaids find it.

   Yet little did she know… exactly that would happen.

   The bottle continued to sink and sink. Its spiral sent bubbles in its graceful wake and a mermaid with eyes of the clearest blue and fingernails painted an immaculate, opalescent pink would find it. She shouldn’t have ventured out but as soon as she had, she was rewarded with Minori’s bounty.

  With just a touch, an admiration of the smooth glass, that mermaid would be reminded of a certain human girl who wore coke bottle spectacles - and why her own belief in the goodness in humans was true. 

   But until then…

   Minori would stand on the beach and stand her ground in turn. She was a fool for believing in mermaids. 

[elwenyere]

My Father’s “Norton Introduction to Literature,” Third Edition (1981) 

Certain words give him trouble: cannibals, puzzles, sob, bosom, martyr, deteriorate, shake, astonishes, vexed, ode    ...     These he looks up and studiously annotates in Vietnamese. Ravish means cướp đoạt; shits is like when you have to đi ỉa; mourners are those whom we say are full of buồn rầu. For “even the like precurse of feared events” think báo trước.

Its thin translucent pages are webbed with his marginalia, graphite ghosts of a living hand, and the notes often sound just like him: “All depend on how look at thing,” he pencils after “I first surmised the Horses’ Heads / Were toward Eternity —” His slanted handwriting is generally small, but firm and clear. His pencil is a No. 2, his preferred Hi-Liter, arctic blue.

I can see my father trying out the tools of literary analysis. He identifies the “turning point” of “The Short and Happy Life of Francis Macomber”; underlines the simile in “Both the old man and the child stared ahead as if they were awaiting an apparition.” My father, as he reads, continues to notice relevant passages and to register significant reactions, but increasingly sorts out

his ideas in English, shaking off those Vietnamese glosses. 1981 was the same year we vượt biển and came to America, where my father took Intro Lit (“for fun”), Comp Sci (“for job”). “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” he murmurs something about the “dark side of life how awful it can be” as I begin to track silence and signal to a cold source.

Reading Ransom’s “Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter,” a poem about a “young girl’s death,” as my father notes, how could he not have been “vexed at her brown study /  Lying so primly propped,” since he never properly observed (I realize this just now) his own daughter’s wake. Lấy làm ngạc nhiên về is what it means to be astonished.

Her name was Đông Xưa, Ancient Winter, but at home she’s Bebe. “There was such speed in her little body, / And such lightness in her footfall, / It is no wonder her brown study / Astonishes us all.” In the photo of her that hangs in my parents’ house she is always fourteen months old and staring into the future. In “reeducation camp” he had to believe she was alive

because my mother on visits “took arms against her shadow.” Did the memory of those days sweep over him like a leaf storm from the pages of a forgotten autumn? Lost in the margins, I’m reading the way I discourage my students from reading. But this is “how we deal with death,” his black pen replies. Assume there is a reason for everything, instructs a green asterisk.

Then between pp. 896-97, opened to Stevens’ “Sunday Morning,” I pick out a newspaper clipping, small as a stamp, an old listing from the 404-Employment Opps State of Minnesota, and read: For current job opportunities dial (612) 297-3180. Answered 24 hrs. When I dial, the automated female voice on the other end tells me I have reached a non-working number.

-- Hai-Dang Phan

[frozenjokes]

To Keep // 5

Prev/Next - Ao3 Link

After three days of prep, Cub decided to wait four more just to make sure he’d be home when Cleo returned the next week. A simple plan, intuitive really; keep Cleo under the impression nothing abnormal was happening here, and she wouldn’t rat him out. Hopefully. He really didn’t think they would, not if they believed Cub was staying smart and safe. They didn’t even want Scar dead by the looks of it. All great news! With the extra time, Cub could also return to his neglected starter base among a bunch of other half-finished projects. There were so many chores that had built up in his extended absence as well, stuff Cub had simply forgotten in his one track mission. Lots to do, lots to do.

Lots to do.

Lots..

Cub found himself staring at the list he had made for himself.

Get up. Get up.

Go on.

Cub did not get up. His normal, usually reliable source of motivation seemed to have run dry, replaced only with a hard ache. He opened his mouth. He closed it. The length of the list wasn’t the problem; usually for him, a lack of things to do was far more stressful. A long list had a certain security to it. It had goals, it had things to look forward to, and between the lines held surprises and welcome interruptions by the other ghosts. But when Cub looked at his list, he found he didn’t care. Projects that, a month ago, had his mind buzzing, felt static now, his prior excitement replaced so entirely with a sick disinterest. Maybe if he bugged another ghost, he’d find some inspiration? Cub willed himself to his feet.

He did not move.

He didn’t care about them, either. The apathy fell so heavy, it almost frightened him, almost, but he didn’t quite have the sense to be afraid. He cared- well, he cared enough to think of Cleo, but only how she might hinder him. How she might stop him. What would he do if she tried? If she told the others? He didn’t like his first impulses; biting, tearing, ripping- Cub set down his pen, pinching the bridge of his nose instead. When had this gotten so bad? How had he not noticed? Had he really not paused his pursuit of Scar until now? And all because he was concerned about being found out. Cub rested his head on the desk where he sat with a soft thump.

This was different from his other fixations. This felt different. He’d been angry before, yes, if his friends forced him to take a step back. To take a break. To breathe. He’d been upset to be stopped, even in his most self destructive fixations. But he’d never been violent, and if the thought ever arose, he’d never acted.

But this wasn’t..this didn’t feel like..

Cub closed his eyes, searching for a phantom presence he hadn’t noticed before. For a voice at the back of his mind- voices maybe; not all of his parts came from the same vex. But there was nothing. No separate being, no out of place thoughts or malicious attitudes; just him. It was all just him. He didn’t feel possessed. How would he know? Did it even matter?

Something deep inside him wanted whatever was inside Scar, and it was not going to be stopped. Cub was not going to be stopped. He wanted Scar.

He should really write this down. Leave it somewhere, for someone to find.

Cub did not pick up his pen.

///

“Hey, Cub, do you have a minute? I had a question about a redstone project, a few, actually, and I was wondering if you could take a look?” Impulse opened the door to Cub’s starter base, considerate, considering it still didn’t have a completed roof. Given a sky opening, most ghosts just flew right in. Last time Impulse had stopped by, Cub had told him there was no need to use the door, but apparently old habits died hard. Cub looked up from his desk across the front room, his notes still open under his hands, mostly unwritten in. Impulse looked nervous, not unusual for a new ghost, but he hadn’t looked so uncomfortable last time he came. Last time. That was recently, wasn’t it? Ah, maybe Impulse felt awkward because Cub hadn’t said anything. It took him a moment to muster up the motivation to speak.

“Sure, did you have a time in mind?” Cub noted the sluggish way his head and shoulders turned. He should really write that down. He glanced at the pen, resting untouched for days on his desk. Impulse stood stiffly in the doorway, still looking unnerved. Cub wondered absently, why. He didn’t remember doing anything particularly unusual. It was Impulse’s turn to be silent for a long pause, which under normal circumstances, Cub wouldn’t have minded, but he needed to get back to his notes.

“I did. Last evening, actually, is what I was thinking,” Impulse maintained a lightness in his tone, but it was clearly forced. Even still, there was no hostility there, no, just something else Cub couldn’t quite place. Cub blinked slowly, glancing to the hole in his roof. The sun was up; it was probably around midday. Ah.

“I forgot,” he said simply, turning away. In all honesty, he was completely uninterested; in redstone, in leaving, in Impulse and the way he might be feeling… He should write this down. Cub frowned, looking back at his notes. Scar’s journal still sat open on his desk, and he realized with a jolt that Impulse might recognize it. He moved quickly- but not too quickly- to close it, and put it away in one of the desk’s drawers. He made a movement to pick up his pen, but stopped short, instead turning back to face Impulse. He was staring. Had Cub forgotten to speak?

“I forgot,” he repeated, hoping Impulse would be satisfied enough with the answer and leave him be.

“You’ve been sitting there for a while, Cub. Are you okay?” Impulse’s expression was unreadable, but if Cub had to guess, there was probably some amount of concern there. Wouldn’t be the first time a ghost had felt that way. Won’t be the last.

“I’m fine. Just busy with work.”

“You haven’t been working.”

Cub stared. Impulse stared back. Well.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say. Respectfully, it’s not any of your business what I do with my time. You don’t know me, Impulse, so excuse me for being blunt, but I don’t like to be confronted about my work, regardless of what I’m doing. I’m sorry I forgot to meet you, but I’m not interested in interventions.”

Impulse took a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture, “I’m sorry, Cub. I didn’t mean- that was stupid. I’m sorry. I, uh.. I think I’ve just had this on my mind for so long I just lost track of myself. I should have approached this differently.”

“It hasn’t even been a day, Impulse.”

“Well, about that.. It’s been more than that, actually. Two days- two and a half, I guess. I came to see you the other day when you didn’t show up, and I noticed you hadn’t moved. I mean, you weren’t moving. You were so still, and I just started watching- well, there’s no good sounding way to say this, I watched you for a long time. Hours, actually. You did not move. You didn’t even read your notes or pick up your pen.”

“What of it?”

“Cub.”

“I’m serious. Why does it matter? I lost track of time. I’ve had a lot on my mind. What’s the problem? I don’t care that you’ve been watching me, or that you’re concerned, or anything. I don’t care, Impulse.” Hurt flashed across Impulse’s face, then a deeper anger, neither of which evoked any reaction from Cub. Hm. He should really write that down. Still, he did not move, but to his light annoyance neither did Impulse. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

“Fine. Fine. I know this is about Scar.” Cub froze, but did not speak, so Impulse continued, seething, “I came down here yesterday, and I was going to speak with you, but you didn’t notice me from the ceiling, so I saw your notes. His journal. Real subtle putting it away, like I wouldn’t notice,” Impulse spat, “So, are you going to tell me again it’s none of my business? I gave you the benefit of the doubt, y’know. I thought maybe something happened, I don’t know, you were acting so off, but maybe this is just the way you are. What do I know?” Cub was silent for a long while, letting each word sink in. Some old, instinctive terror lit a fire in his lungs, but he forced himself to stay still, to think.

“Have you told anyone?” he heard himself whisper, cringing inwardly at the fear that slipped through. Impulse recoiled in disgust, and Cub did not blame him.

“No. So this is a secret then? No one knows?” Impulse sounded so deeply relieved, Cub thought he’d forgotten his anger, but when Impulse opened his eyes, they were still blazing.

“No one knows,” Cub spoke carefully, tiptoeing. He felt his claws itch. His teeth ache. His wings twitch. He did not move. He couldn’t ruin this. “Are you going to expose me?”

Impulse narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t. Not if it would risk the crew finding out. They can’t know about this . If- if you-“

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to tell them. I don’t want anyone to know, least of all you four,” Cub felt his body, almost tensed against his will, relax. This was fine. This was going to be fine. Apathy blanketed back over his mind, thick and all encompassing. Cub wanted to be afraid. He should be afraid. He should write this down. He closed his eyes. He’d feel better after the weekend was over, and Cleo was gone, and he could pursue his research at zero risk. Well, little risk with Impulse, but he looked so genuinely disgusted with the entire situation, Cub felt confident enough he’d stay quiet. After all, ghosts talked, and they didn’t always pay attention to who was around. It made sense Impulse didn’t want to say a word. While Cub certainly wished he hadn’t found out , out of all the ghosts on this island..

“Does Cleo know? That journal.. I don’t see how you would have gotten it otherwise.”

The question caught Cub off guard, but it really shouldn’t have. Cleo was close with the Boatem crew. It was one thing to be betrayed by a half-stranger, but another entirely for her. Cub frowned. If he didn’t tell the truth, Impulse might ask Cleo out of a lack of trust, and regardless of what Impulse wanted, Cub would be in hot water. But if Impulse knew, would he confront her anyway?

“Cleo knows as much as you do. Which is to say, that I’m looking. I was trapped somewhere, and needed their assistance to escape. The journal was an attempt to placate me. To satisfy me enough to keep me from returning.”

“You said you’d stop? And you haven’t?” Impulse challenged. Well, that wasn’t what Cub had said, but perhaps it was better that was what Impulse believed. He wanted to believe it, the desperate look on his face made that fact clear.

“Yes.”

“So you lied.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you two were friends. What’s your problem? Why are you doing this? Can you not just kill him? I have to assume he’s still alive.”

“I don’t care, Impulse. I don’t care anymore.” Cub turned away, a note of finality in his words. Impulse still didn’t move.

“Anymore?” Impulse hissed, accentuating Cub’s irritation.

“I have work to do. Get out,” he huffed, not bothering to see Impulse’s reaction. This conversation was over. Cub felt Impulse’s anger on his back, but did not move, and eventually he heard Impulse’s footsteps leaving before the door slammed shut behind him.

Good.

///

The weekend was tense.

Cub hadn’t even realized Cleo had arrived until she checked in, at which point he was so full of unspent energy at the idea that tomorrow, tomorrow, he could finally pursue Scar without concern, it wasn’t difficult to feign productivity. Given the Impulse incident, he suddenly found the motivation to fix up his roof anyway, and Cleo seemed pleased to see him acting as he normally would, which is to say, often cryptic and a little odd, but fairly motivated. He pushed down a surge of bitterness that Cleo likely wouldn’t have thought anything of it to see him sitting doing nothing, even over the course of a couple days.

Perfectly normal Cub behavior, Impulse, nothing to look into.

Cub was so angry, even when he had no right to be. He knew he had no right to be. Maybe that’s what made the anger so distressing. It was so constant, so overbearing, so unlike him. And he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, and he wasn’t going to tell anyone either.

But that was okay, because tomorrow he would find Scar. Cub would find him, and take everything he wanted.

[cosmicrescendo]

ride kamens is the kind of thing i feel like i'll have to check out #eventually as a rider fan (who doesn't play mobages but will thumb through their stories) and a person who's going to steamroll takahashi yuya with a road roller every time he picks up a pen to get him to stop one day but unfortunately it suffers a very vexing problem (too tokusatsu to be pitied by Big JSMK, too joseimuke for the 7 tokusatsu translators that exist when they're not suffering from the annual gridset + their own bizarrely specific niches of content)

[notmuchtoconceal]

Canto XXIV

CIRCLE EIGHT: BOLGIA SEVEN

The Thieves

In the turning season of the youthful year, when the sun is warming his rays beneath Aquarius and the days and nights already begin to near

their perfect balance; the hoar-frost copies then the image of his white sister on the ground, but the first sun wipes away the work of his pen.

The peasants who lack doffer then arise and look about and see the fields all white, and hear their lambs bleat; then they smite their thighs,

go back into the house, walk here and there, pacing, fretting, wondering what to do, then come out doors again, and there, despair

falls from them when they see how the earth's face has changed in so little time, and they take their staffs and drive their lambs to feed--so in that place

when I saw my Guide and Master's eyebrows lower, my spirits fell and I was sorely vexed; and as quickly came the plaster to the sore:

for when he had reached the ruined bridge, he stood and turned on me that sweet and open look with which he had greeted me in the dark wood.

When he had paused and studied carefully the heap of stones, he seemed to reach some plan, for he turned and opened his arms and lifted me.

Like one who works and calculates ahead, and is always ready for what happens next-- so, raising me above that dismal bed

to the top of one great slab of the fallen slate, he chose another saying: "Climb here, but first test it to see if it will hold your weight."

It was no climb for a lead-hung hypocrite: for scarcely we--he light and I assisted-- could crawl handhold by the handhold from the pit;

and were it not that the bank along this side was lower than the one down which we had slid, I at least--I will not speak for my Guide--

would have turned back. But as all of the vast rim of Malebolge leans toward the lowest well, so each succeeding valley and each brim

is lower than the last. We climbed the face and arrived by great exertion to that point where the last rock had fallen from its place.

My lungs were pumping as if they could not stop; I thought I could not go on, and I sat exhausted the instant I had clambered to the top.

"Up on your feet! This is no time to tire!" my Master cried. "The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire

and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory face from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.

Now, therefore, rise. Control your breath, and call upon the strength of soul that wins all battles unless it sink in the gross body's fall

There is a longer ladder yet to climb: this much is not enough. If you understand me, show that you mean to profit from your time."

I rose and made my breath appear more steady than it really was, and I replied: "Lead on As it pleases you to go: I am strong and ready."

We picked our way up the cliff, a painful climb, for it was narrower, steeper, and more jagged than any we had crossed up to that time.

I moved along, talking to hide my faintness, when a voice that seemed unable to form words rose from the depths of the next chasm's darkness.

I do not know what it said, thought by then the Sage had led me to the top of the next arch; but the speaker seemed in a tremendous rage.

I was bending over the brim, but living eyes could not plumb to the bottom of that dark; therefore I said, "Master, let me advise

that we cross over and climb down the wall: for just as I hear the voice without understanding, so I look down and make out nothing at all."

"I make no other answer than the act," the Master said: "the only fit reply to a fit request is silence and the fact."

So we moved down the bridge to the stone pier that shores the end of the arch on the eighth bank, and there I saw the chasm's depths made clear;

and there great coils of serpents met my sight, so hideous a mass that even now the memory makes my blood run cold with fright.

Let Libya boast no longer, for thought its sands breed chelidrids, jaculi, and phareans, cenchriads, and two-headed amphisbands,

it never bred such a variety of vipers, no, not with all Ethiopia and all the lands that lie by the Red Sea.

Amid that swarm, naked and without hope, people ran terrified, not even dreaming of a hole to hide in, or of heliotrope

Their hands were bound behind by coils of serpents which thrust their heads and tails between the loins and bunched in front, a mass of knotted torments.

One of the damned came racing round a boulder, and as he passed us, a great snake shot up and bit him where the neck joins with the shoulder.

No mortal pen--however fast it flash over the page--could write o or i as quickly as he flamed and fell in ash;

and when he was dissolved into a heap upon the ground, the dust rose of itself and immediately resumed its former shape.

Precisely so, philosophers declare, the Phoenix dies and then is born again when it approaches its five hundredth year.

It lives on tears of balsam and of incense; in all its life it eats no herb or grain, and nard and precious myrrh sweeten its cerements.

And as a person fallen in a fit, possessed by a Demon or some other seizure that fetters him without his knowing it,

struggles up to his feet and blinks his eyes (still stupefied by the great agony he has just passed), and, looking round him, sighs--

such was the sinner when at last he rose. O Power of God! How dreadful is Thy will which in its vengeance rains such fearful blows.

Then my Guide asked him who he was. And he answered reluctantly: "Not long ago I rained into this gullet from Tuscany.

I am Vanni Fucci, the beast. A mule among men, I chose the bestial life above the human. Savage Pistoia was my fitting den."

And I to my Guide: "Detain him a bit longer and ask what crime it was that sent him here; I knew him as a man of blood and anger."

The sinner hearing me, seemed discomforted, but he turned and fixed his eyes upon my face with a look of dismal shame; at length he said:

"That you have found me out among the strife and misery of this place, grieves my heart more than did the day that cut me from my life.

But I am forced to answer truthfully: I am put down so low because it was I who stole the treasure from the Sacristy,

for which others once were blamed. But you may find less to gloat about if you escape here, prick up your ears and listen to what I say:

First Pistoia is emptied of the Black, then Florence changes her party and her laws. From Valdimagra the God of War brings back

a fiery vapor wrapped in turbid air: then in a storm of battle at Piceno the vapor breaks apart the mist, and there

every White shall feel his wounds anew. And I have told you this that it may grieve you."

Translated by John Ciardi

[muse-soup]

Releases 5 chickens labeled 1,2,3,5,and 7 into the castle.

The aide's quiet afternoon was interrupted by a sound at once familiar and entirely out of place.

"BA-GOK!"

Was that... a chicken?

Starchbottom shook his head and went back to his work. There was probably just a window open somewhere; why would there ever be--

"BOK BOK BOK!"

There it was again. Hastily setting his quill in its stand, he turned in his chair and scanned the room. By all appearances, he was alone.

"...Hello?" he called hesitantly. There was no reply.

Feeling uneasy now, he turned back around and picked up his quill again. His hand paused midair, hovering over the inkwell, and his eyes darted back and forth as he listened.

"BOK!"

"Aha!" he cried, throwing the quill down on his desk and standing in a swirl of green fabric. Still, there was nothing there.

He didn't buy it. Setting his jaw in a firm expression, Starchy made a slow circle of the room, carefully peering behind curtains and under furniture.

"Where are you?" he grumbled, opening the lid of a nearby ottoman. Suddenly, there was a sharp tug on his cape.

"Ack--!" he spluttered, swatting blindly and snatching the garment away as he spun back around. At long last, he was face to face with his adversary: a chicken, labeled--

"Three!?" he whined. "What do you mean, 'three'!? There's more of you!?"

Chicken Number 3 looked at him blankly.

"BOK!" came a cry from outside the door.

Thoroughly vexed, Starchy tucked Number 3 under his arm in practiced fashion and went to answer the door with a long, drawn out sigh.

"BOK BOK!" clucked the chicken at the door, labeled...

"Seven. Of course there's seven. I'd be completely stupid to guess otherwise," the poor fellow deadpanned. He scooped up this bird as well, and with a chicken under each arm, he went in search of a place he could safely pen them up while he searched for the others.

Little did he know, he was going to be searching for quite a while for two "missing" chickens. So it was that he would find himself behind on an afternoon's worth of paperwork.

[pareeksarveshkr]

Thoughts, Words and what ?

I pick up the pen mostly in grief, a little less in joy, and a lot more time in sorrow, so that all this could be washed away, could have never put the things in words as the tongue just knows where it should take a little extra fold and not allow the words to come up on the mouth. The whole tussle inside the brain just wants to stay there sometimes and never come out. The paper might burn to ashes, the acid in the words may be so strong that it may just kill a whole joyed human.

Yes there may be some people in the world who can just churn you up, extracting all the poisons of words to come up, to the point making you ooze nectar, but amongst all this the debris lying around may just try to creep in, and affect the process, but given that the churner is strong it just tries to prove the best and might succeed sometimes and maybe always determination is high enough.

A little does the sea know what’s the next thing getting up ahead, as the vexing just continues, the churner gets affect a bit but a lot depends on the marine to save it or not, to engulf it the whole or leave a room for letting the events happen further.

Words, I always thought were useful and useless at the same time, they can make stuff and break it, can increase the gap and may even bridge it back, but does it really happen that way, I still wonder, worder how? without words or what, in nothingness and if in nothingness, something is wondered, it it truly wondering or just a distant gaze at the infinite, not trying to find if there happens to be a horizon in real or not, horizon, but that again is just a word, isn’t it ?