#wick matchstick

[cuppykin]

Wick my sweet boy! I keep updating your references without expanding upon your lore, time to bring you and your friends back

[fanaticsnail]

Chapter 3

Masterlist here, Moodboard here

Sapsorrow Masterlist

Word Count: 8,054

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope. Slow-slow-slow burn. Series Inspiration link: The Storyteller Episode 8

Song Suggestions: The Green Light - Je Suis Parte

(Image Source: Here)

Your sleep that night was restless; your body awakening much before the first dawn of sunlight cracked through the dark of the night to awaken the many unique birds within the lands of Kuraigana. Their voices were yet to cry out and alert the castle and surrounding keep of the morn, yet you continue to lay sleepless amongst your plush bedsheets.

Huffing out a breath of frustration, you shook your head and rose from your reclined position against your pillows and thrust the duvet from your body. One foot falling over the mattress first, followed by the other, you slid your feet into your sleep shoes tucked beneath your large bed and hoisted yourself to your feet. Reaching over to your armchair, your fingers found your lengthy silk negligée and wrapped it around your body and tied it firmly around your front. The lengthy pale sleeves draped around your wrists, you found your hairbrush and began angrily detangling your sleep-deprived hair from their matts.

Why did he look at you like that? Why was he so intimately holding you? Why did your breath hitch as your eyes met? His eyes, the amber hue bearing such intensity and longing- was that what it was? Surely you were mistaken. Those were the thoughts keeping you from a blissful slumber, clawing like a beast at the walls of their cage, the thoughts rendered you paralyzed and incapable of rest.

You angrily thrust your hairbrush down within your firm grip, a loud clack of the metal base echoing against your vanity benchtop. You clenched your eyes firmly shut, pursing your lips and biting back a frustrated scream.

It had been years since any action was outside the realms of your control, this one being the first to draw a physical outburst to occur since you were a teenager. You sucked in a deep breath while closing your eyes, rotating your neck to rid it of its sleep-deprived, rigor-mortis akin stiffness. Reopening your eyes, your pupils narrowed in as you focussed on your puffed eye-bags below your irises.

“You came here to do a job. You are a governess,” you reassured yourself, affirming yourself sternly in the mirror, “You are strong. You are safe. It is just a job.” Your looped affirmations continued as you attempted to repress memories from arising, but to no avail. You knit your brows together, shaking your head to rid the memories from coming to light before your eyes before the sun was yet to create the dawn. 

“You are in control here,” you again spoke aloud, rising from your seated position against your vanity. You claimed a small unlit lantern hanging limply from the door, unhooking it from the wall and drawing out a small box of matches to ignite the flame atop the wick. Shaking the flame away from the matchstick, you discarded the small piece of twig into the basket below your desk and fled from the room causing you sleeplessness. 

The halls became ignited by the small flame in your lantern, illuminating the portraiture littering the gloomy halls. Several generations of the lord you unwittingly bound yourself to with the Sapsorrow ring lay staring vacantly at you as your slippers peppered the ground with your featherfall footsteps. 

You were unsure as to where your feet were carrying you until you found yourself amongst the large wooden shelves in the large library. Each book was meticulously cataloged and alphabetised, the colors on the leatherbound spines ranging from the deepest of emeralds to dark magenta with golden twine. As each of the spines of the books drew you in by their pigments and binds, your left hand unconsciously flew to the shelves and danced among the pages. Tracing upon the many spines as you wandered aimlessly amongst the shelves, your fingers met with a vacant space in the nook; your fingertips falling through the space housing a book that no longer resides within its crease. 

Looking at the space for any semblance of literature navigation, you noticed you were in the section marked “S”, somewhere tucked between knowledge of Sangiovese vines and winemaking, and Sailing the uncharted waters of the grand line. 

“Sapsorrow,” you spoke aloud in a small whisper, gasping as your fingers collected the moved dust, “that was what he said,” you pressed your sleep-deprived memory for a semblance of thought: “Ten rings of the Sapsorrow queen, all riddled with charm, none can break from its challenger’s gleam, or cause the commissioner harm.”

“What does that mean?” you gasped once more, drawing up your fingertips to look at the dust collected, rolling the powder and webs within your hand, “there’s ten of them. What is a Sapsorrow? Ten of them?” you looked down onto the moss-coloured stone sitting innocently atop its golden circlet of destiny, “Like ten fingers?” 

Turning again to the bookshelf and looking at the vacant space against the shelves, you huffed out another breath of exasperation and grumbled; “It would have been useful to have a book on the matter. Perhaps that is what my betrothed-,” you rolled your eyes at the taste of the title over your palate, "-is doing with the book. If there even is one.”

You growled beneath your breath, another attempt at ridding yourself of the memories of the night prior. It was dancing behind your closed eyes slower than it occurred in reality. Each small brush of his fingertips over your body as he took your measurements, the small rasp in his voice as he spoke to you, his humility in joining his forehead against your own, and the way he held you against himself. You were going mad, reading into something that was truly not there. 

Shaking your head and breathing in deeply, you attempted to calm yourself down and reached for the nearest book at the end of the row. Your brows furrowed as you looked at the title, a small curious smile prickling at the corners of your cheeks. 

“Waltzing: A Pirate’s Guide to Entangling with the Upper Classes,” you spoke, your eyes lightening as your smile deepened. You examined the books cover for any other information, finding no further explanation, “there’s no author? Curiouser and curiouser.” 

You took the book to the corner of the room, sitting atop a plush crimson armchair and placing your lantern on the side table to illuminate the corner of the room. You huddled against the suede arm of the chair, bringing the pages closer to the light as you turned the first chapter: “Swords and Steps.” Your face became more bright as diagrams of pirate gentleman holding his sword upright and extended, followed by the placement of an ornately dressed woman spinning within his arms; the imagery of the evening’s prior events falling away from you the further you dove into the pages. 

The lantern’s wick began to flicker, the candle warning you it was in its final moments as the hours in the library began to fall away from you. You were barely aware of the dawn beginning to filter through the curtains, the first light a warm pink dusting the marble floor with its presence. The only sense able to bring you from your hypnosis within the pages was the scent of the extinguished wick as the stale smoke danced over the benchtop. 

Shaking your head, you attempted to again return to the present as you closed the pages of the book together and rose to your feet; hastily sauntering over to the aisles to return it to its rightful position within the shelves. You didn’t even know where to begin navigating the halls, unsure how you managed to draw yourself from your wing into the library to begin with. The patter of your heart began thumping heavily against your ribcage, anxiety raising at the thought of being caught within your bed clothes by a member of staff, or worse: Zoro and Perona. 

As the light of the sun began awakening the walls you wandered earlier, a strange mud-covered silhouette of a person holding a bouquet of flowers at eye level remained in the sunlight cascading over the front marble steps. They were picking at the thorns, clipping the stems and arranging the florals and vines in a fashionable style with pliers and ribbons of twine wrapping around the amassment of petals. 

The figure almost didn’t look human; bipedal humanoid, surely, but not human. The amount of dirt, muck, fur and feathers eclipsing their body under their cluster made them look beastly. You heard a deep rumbly hum, the creature before you appearing to be singing softly to themselves a tune you could not recognise. This was the only clue that allowed you to presume their gender, the smoothness of their deep voice almost serenading you with its comfort. Rolling slightly on your heels to rid yourself of your nerves, you cautiously approached the figure while holding your arms laced over your chest to shield his view from your sleep-clothes. 

“Excuse me, sir?” you called to them, their body’s stiffening in response and raising the flowers up further to cover their face, “No need for alarm, I am the Governess here.” He seemed to remain statuesque, rigid in his stance and not making a sound. You grew more curious, stepping forward again to get a better look at the arrangement, noticing it was similar to the ones placed atop your table and decorating your room. 

“I know who you are, my lady,” he spoke slowly. His cadence seemed familiar to you, albeit his face was hidden, “You should not be up at this hour. Is there something troubling you?” You were taken aback by his direct approach, but it was a welcome surprise. 

“I was unable to sleep, sir. My thoughts are my own, although I have been having trouble ruling over them of late,” you replied honestly. He nodded behind the flowers, your eyes trailing over him and studying his attire. He was clad in hessian pants, his boots trekking mud into the cobblestone galley. His torso was clad in a pale linen with mud, sticks and leaves masking the pigment of his skin from your eyes with how heavily caked he was beneath the thick sludge. 

“If I may be so bold as to ask for your help,” you asked him, stepping further into his proximity. The scent falling off him in waves was the earthiness of the mud mixed with the petals clutched over his face. As you drew in closer, you noticed he was wearing a broad straw hat, his face shielded by the wide brim, while his nose and lips were covered by a piece of woven cloth. He held his sight fixed to his hands, electing not to make eye contact with you. 

“You may ask anything of me, my lady,” he responded, his eyes remaining holding to the floor beneath him. You allowed a soft smile to rise against your lips, a small sigh electing to release itself from your chest at his candor. 

“I am unaware of my surroundings. I have been here a fortnight now, this being the first night I have opted to explore the grounds rather than remaining sleepless in my bedchambers,” you confessed to him, nodding as you spoke, “I have no idea where my wing is from here, and I assume you are a member of staff here.”

“I am something of the like, my lady,” he admitted to you, nodding while actively listening to your words as they fled from your lips, “I admit I was on my way to your chambers presently.” Your eyes widened, looking at the bouquet clutched firmly within his hands then back to his face.

“So, I’ve finally caught the culprit,” you laughed at him, “just as you have caught me in naught but my nightdress. Those are meant for me, are they not?” His rigidity did not halt, nor the tingle in his fingertips dancing amongst the vines. 

“You’re the one who brings the ever changing arrangements to my bedchambers, am I correct in my assumption?” you asked him while fixing your gaze on the white puffs of roses clutched within his muddy fingertips. 

“That you are, my lady,” he again admitted, bowing in a low stoop as a performer would to receive their applause. You smiled warmly, reaching for his forearm and lacing your right arm within his. 

“Chaperone me,sir. Please lead me to return to my wing,” you asked him with a small laugh, uncaring for the dirt falling from his sleeve onto your own. 

“I will make a mess of the halls, my lady. I should not be above the cellars while dressed like this,” he spoke in a warning tone, “I don’t enjoy cleaning up the boot prints I trek in at this hour.”

“Tush,” you dismissed his warning, tugging at his forearm, “I cannot wait for you to strip yourself of your tarnished clothes, bathe and escort me to my wing. I am in my nightdress, sir,” His eyes widened at your comment, his eyes almost holding a honey color displayed from its angle to you. 

“I would not desire tarnishing your own clothes with my mess, my lady,” he sighed as you both witnessed some mud falling from his shirt onto your sheer chemise. You smiled at his halt while bringing your other hand to fall atop his dirt-caked forearm. “Please, sir. I cannot have the lord of the house seeing me like this. Nor our shared wards.”

“Is not the lord of your house your betrothed?” he asked you, his brows furrowing as he spoke his warning.

“That he is, sir,” you nodded your confirmation while laughing once more, “all the more reason for the both of us to scurry on to my wing so we can both be rid of this predicament.” He hummed in response, shaking his head slightly with a small chuckle. You sighed in relief as he began to shepherd you towards your room, your body physically relaxing aside his as he guided you through the halls. You made idle conversation, the morning rising alongside the chirps of local birds warning you the day has been broken and to be thrust into your day. 

“How long have you been working the land here in Kuraigana? Your arrangements speak wonders to your skill, sir,” you praised him, watching as his smile began to upturn in the creases of his eyes. His nose and lips remained hidden beneath a woven cloth, his eyes being the only human part you could gauge the emotions of.

“I have been working with agriculture since I first laid eyes on the keep. There’s something about the soil here that is particularly riveting. The grapes thrive here,” he expressed with such unbridled passion, you could feel his joy at working the soil of the gloomy land, “they grow large, their skin dense and firm. Perfect for a variety of vines and vintages.”

“A viticulturist also? My, you have an array of talents. What do you grow here?” you ushered him to continue expressing his passion, your interest in the land growing by the interaction with the creature guiding you to your wing.

“I do enjoy watching the vines grow, yes. I also have had a hand in crafting the varieties into wine,” he admitted, nodding beneath his wide, straw hat. 

“A wild ferment, perhaps? A malolactic for chardonnay and sangiovese?” you asked him, prodding him and probing with your pointed questions. He chuckled at your comments, shaking his head at your comments.

“You are well versed in the art of conversation, my lady,” he commented accusingly, with a small whisper of humor beneath his words, “you need not humor me with your polite words.”

“Sir,” you furrowed your brows at the creature, halting your steps, “if I was not interested in your craft, I would not be asking so many questions,” your confession rendered him almost speechless. You chuckled at his surprise, once again allowing your feet to fall in pace towards your chambers.

“To further spur how truly interested I am in what you have to say, I would simply hum and nod to showcase my active listening while not asking questions,” you continued, your warm smile continuing to power your words, “my favorite phrase to use in that particular situation is: ‘that certainly sounds interesting’.”

He chuckled at your comment as he continued leading you to your chambers, the door within your sight as he unlaced his arm from within yours and opened your front door for you.

“A gentleman amongst the staff of Kuraigana?” you praised him with your words, prompting him to hand his head with a small huffed chuckle at your words. 

“I aim to be, my lady,” he uttered, walking within your bedchambers and beginning to remove the prior arrangement of flowers atop your desk and replace it with another arrangement. Unbothered by his presence in your chamber, you began tending to yourself by finding an appropriate uniform for the day and hooking it over your changing screen beside your bed. You continued to hear his footfalls against the room adjacent to yours, yourself feeling secure behind the screen enough to begin changing into your uniform to begin your day.

You threw off your chamise, followed by your night dress, slippers and socks before weaving yourself into your chosen attire for the day. A simple long dress, practical in nature with a cinched waist and a modest neckline: exactly how a governess should be seen by members of the household staff, not scantily clad in your bed attire. 

“I am heading out, my lady,” the strange chaperone informed you, prompting you to hasten your pace of lacing your boots. 

“Wait, sir. Allow me to thank you for escorting me back to my wing,” you called to him, hastily making your way towards the table setting in front of you. The flowers were breathtaking, this one filled with difficult to collect flowers with sweet scents and crystal-like dew drops. You carefully selected one from the bunch, a simple bushel of baby’s breath clutched between your fingertips as you carefully pried it from its place amongst the bouquet. 

“This one is for you, sir. Thank you for aiding me in my time of need,” you presented the small bushel of flowers to him; his muddy hand coming out to collect it within his discolored fingertips. 

“Thank you for your kindness, my lady,” he nodded in a small bow, your fingers brushing together slightly at his withdrawal. 

“What may I call you, sir? Surely you have a name, and I would like to know I have a friend here in Kuraigana while I work,” you asked him, your trail of intellect deducing the flurry of thoughts, “or would you prefer to be known simply as ‘Farm-hand’?” 

“Farm-hand,” he repeated back to you, his voice almost laughing, “Farm-hand is fine to me, my lady.”

“If you are to go by this name, please bestow one of a similar likeness to me, Farm-Hand,” you laughed at his candor, as you reached for the metal hairbrush you were using earlier and began hastily smoothing over your tangled locks.

“If I am to be Farm-Hand,” he thought hard, a small hum exiting from his chest, “you ought to be ‘Lost-Lady’. Considering it is too much of a mouthful to address you as ‘woman clad in naught but her nightdress’.”

You laughed again at his comment, before guiding his muddied form outside of your bedchambers. 

“Until tomorrow's flowers, Farm-Hand,” you stooped in your low courtesy and offered him your left hand. He accepted it, bringing down his forehead to brush against the back of your hand atop your knuckles.

“Until the morrow, Lost-Lady,” he raised his forehead from his bowed position and watched as you turned back into your chambers to continue readying yourself for the day, the door shutting with a small click behind you. 

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Mihawk was frozen, his dirtied hands rolling over the small white flowers within his fingertips. He hooked his hand against his mask, drawing back the material to taste the air once more without the filter of material or mud. His beard was no longer scratching behind the mask, the flavor of the air feeling all the more sweet. As he twirled the flowers within his fingers, he sighed at the innocent object dancing in his hand. 

His left hand shook, feeling the warm tingles of the memories of your flesh joining briefly with his as he clutched yours within his fingers. The ghost of radiant heat against his forehead remained alongside the memory of such a warmth you presented to him, a presumed low-ranking member of his staff. 

He looked down at his attire, the mud covering his body causing him to physically hiss out a verbal reprimand at himself.

“So stupid to lose footing beneath the vines,” he chastised his appearance, “especially to collect the insignificant little baby’s breath-.” His words halted as he drew up the pale flowers you had gifted him in return once more, a soft smile rising to his lips. 

“What have I ever done in this life to deserve such sweetness?” he whispered to himself, a sighed laugh falling from his lips as he shook his head. 

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Sitting with the young pink haired debutante in the courtyard, you noticed her eyes were glazed; her far off expression alerting you to her being not overly present for this afternoon’s private lesson. 

“Perona, dear?” you called to her, placing your cup back on the saucer. She hummed in response, slowly blinking her eyes but remaining away with the ghosts that haunt her. You sighed deeply, rising to your feet and moving behind your chair. You slowly wedged the chair beneath the circular dining table and walked over to crouch in front of her. 

“Perona,” you softly spoke, reaching to claim her hands laced within her lap beneath your palm. She squeaked, looking down into your eyes and uttered a hasty, “yes, my lady?” 

“There you are, you’re back,” you smiled at her, prompting a blush to rise and litter her pale cheeks with its hue. You smoothed your thumb over her knuckles to reassure her she wasn’t keeping you waiting. 

“I’m sorry my lady, they-,” she began, rapidly blinking as she attempted to articulate her thoughts to place them within the air verbally, “-they have been saying some unusual things to me. It’s been a bit tricky to ignore them.” You quirked your head to the side, not completely processing what she was admitting to you. 

“Oh?” You prodded her, rising to your feet and tugging lightly on her hand to usher her to her feet, “and what do they have to say today? Only good things, I hope.” Her teeth drew outwards in a straight line, cringing out a small apprehensive wince of a smile. 

“Not exactly,” she admitted while rising to her feet in front of you. Her smile only drew more apprehension from you, curiosity now being eclipsed by concern at her words. You nodded to her to continue relaying her thoughts to you, her nodding while adding; “they say he’s found a way. Something about the moon being first, I think. Help? He’s getting help- no-... asking for help? They’re not making much sense.”

You knit your brows further in the center of your forehead, her words not drawing any conclusion to your already troubled mind from sleeplessness earlier. 

“A beast? No... A Crocodile has the moon?” she nodded with her eyes shut tightly, focusing on the voices as they presented themselves to her. She continued shaking her head, the many voices falling over her mind and corrupting her thoughts with their nonsensical visions. 

“Perona,” you called to her, her aura beginning to turn a different hue to indicate her beginning to be overwhelmed by other worldly voices. You took both of her hands in yours and gave them a firm squeeze, “Perona, sweetheart.” She opened her eyes, glossy and a different hue than her usual vibrancy.

“The moon,” she uttered, “the moon has commenced.”

“Perona!” your voice held an elevated firmness to your tone, immediately snapping her from her daze and coming back to the world she views as reality. 

“I’m sorry, Governess,” she uttered quickly, bowing her head to you and beginning to tremble a little, “they’ve just been enthusiastic lately. They are very interested in that.” She nodded to your left hand, your ring shining its smoked, green gemstone within the sunlight. 

“They say,” she teeters off her voice, shaking her head as the voices begin to eclipse her form and shroud her mind with their nonsensical visions. She allowed herself to snap out of it, taken aback by their final informational relay, “there’s a party? Oh! And there’s a dress for you.”

The blood in your face physically leapt from your head and paled. He’d done it. He’d made the first dress, the doom of your wedding day approaching with more haste than you would have desired. You were to be a bride, donned in dresses of the finest make and forced down the aisle with the knife of destiny thrust against your back to usher you onwards-.

“-Not one of those, my lady,” Perona broke you from your thoughts, her eyes wide and serious as they met with your widened gaze. She gently squeezed your hands within her own, reassuring you with her kind expression, “they say the party is to announce your engagement, and Mihawk has had a dress made especially for you to wear to it.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, the color once again returning to your cheeks. Perona giggled at your apprehension, lacing her arms within your own and beginning to draw you closer to the sage-colored hedge-ends to look over the impressive grounds of Kuraigana. 

“You want to go and see it? They say he has it ready for you, if you like,” she shrugged, her enthusiasm sparking at the corners of her cheeks as she physically began to shake with anticipation. You allowed a softness to fall over your body, your young debutante beginning to break down your walls and squeeze herself into the realms of personal friendship. 

“I think I will wait until he sends for me,” you smiled at her, “for now, we need to continue with your lessons.”

“Why, my lady?” she whined, a small semblance of childish anger falling from her pouted lips, “I don’t want a husband, I don’t want to be a lady.”

“Do you desire to wear beautiful gowns, dance with handsome men and woo them with your radiant beauty?” you sighed, your eyes rolling with a soft smirk arising against your lips. She immediately snapped out of her childish tantrum.

“Yes, my lady,” she softly spoke while nodding, her pink-hair bouncing with the gentle bob of her head. 

“Then lessons in being a lady are to continue until I’m satisfied you are able to showcase my reputation alongside your own,” you chastised her with your smirk rising into a pleasant smile. 

“Yes, my lady,” Perona sighed, beginning to lead you throughout the beautifully maintained hedge-ends. The map of the maze lay unpolished, dust and dirt falling over the sign and making the object unable to be read.

“I shall talk to the Farm-Hand about that tomorrow,” you spoke under your breath. Perona looked to the side, conversing with an astral projection beside her, “We have a farm-hand? I thought that was-... oh…”

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“WHAAAAAAAA-?” the den-den-mushi split the lord of Kuraigana’s eardrum with the verbal cry form the other end of the transmission. 

“Silence your incessant screaming, Clown,” Mihawk growled into the receiver. 

“You called Me, Hawk-Eyes,” the voice called on the other end, Mihawk’s migraine beginning to worsen its throb against his temples. He should never have done this, requested aid like this. From them. 

“That I did, Clown,” he admitted in a defeated sigh, bringing his index and middle fingers up to rotate around his temple. 

“Stop calling me ‘Clown’. I have a name,” the voice spat back at the gloomy warlord as he sat neatly dressed against his desk, “and if you’re calling in a favor, I require to have my full title spoken to me.” Mihawk sighed again, his defeated eyes closing as his humility began to overcome his body. 

“Captain Buggy D Clown,” Mihawk uttered darkly into the microphone at the end of the den-den-mushi, “I need you to make something for me. I know you can do it, I’ve seen something similar at your big-top. It needs to be starlight. A gown for a bride as radiant as the stars that litter the night sky. A dress so spectacularly clustered with diamonds of glittery stars, people would be amazed that something so beautiful could be found within the realms of mortality.”

A brief pause occurred, static from the other end of the receiver before the clown once again spoke up.

“Mihawk, baby,” the voice taunted him, “you had me at ‘I need you’.”

At that, the other end of the receiver clicked to indicate the end of the conversation, the clown striking a bargain with the darkened lord of Kuraigana, who’s very core was wrecked with absolute hopelessness. 

“Two calls down,” he sighed, rotating his neck to rid it of the tension arising within it, “the drunken red-head is next.”

Lord Dracule Mihawk understood this undertaking was seemingly impossible, the three gowns he was to present to his governess- …no, his betrothed, was no easy feat. He did not initially intend on asking for aid, but his resources and contacts were depleted with such haste, there was no way he would be able to commence such an undertaking on his own. 

The Crocodile managed to sense there was a difference in his usually stoic and disinterested demeanor, which prompted Mihawk to relay his troubles onto the larger gentleman. A cigar clenched within his pearled teeth, his eyes held amusement rather than their usual boredom at Mihawk’s predicament. 

“I have some material you may enjoy, former warlord,” he spoke with such confidence, his eyes almost twinkling with delight at the notion he had something to hold over the golden-eyed swordsman, “a shipment delivered balls of silk and satins to my keep. Pale as the coldest chill of the first drops of winter,” his taunts continued as he blew a puff of cigar smoke into Mihawk’s face, “it almost looked as radiant as the moon.”

“Almost,” Mihawk spat, his eyes narrowed and anger growing more tangible, “almost will not do. It needs to be exact, precise, executed to the highest quality for my bride-.”

“-Your Bride? Mihawk,” Sir Crocodile’s sinister grin split his reptilian face upwards, “You never took me as the type to marry. Concubines? Of course. They have their uses. But Bride?” He removed his cigar from his teeth and pressed the butt-end with his thumb into the ashtray, “A Bride to the lord of Kuraigana. She must be some woman.”

“Indeed, that she is,” he admitted, his anger only remaining within its elevation at the taunts from the larger man. Sir Crocodile hummed, stooping lower to Mihawk’s stature, and smiled further upwards to crinkle his cheeks.

“I will have it made for you, Hawk-Eyes,” he hissed into his face, his shadow from his larger stature doing nothing to intimidate the confident swordsman, “and I expect a favor in return for it. Send her measurements to me, and I will have a hundred hands stitching it for you.”

“Mihawk, you gloomy old prick, that you? What are you calling me for at this hour?” the lazy voice of the overly confident red-headed captain asked at the other end of the receiver. Mihawk sighed, his anxiety at requesting the final object from his oldest rival getting the better of him the longer he remained in silence. 

“Mihawk, if you don’t speak soon, I’m going to hang up the call and go back to my drinking-” Shank’s voice was halted by Mihawk uttering a single word.

“Lingerie.” Silence. Naught a word was spoken for several seconds; the anxiety elevating higher in Mihawk’s chest the longer the silence remained stagnant. An uproar of laughter was thrust into the receiver, several members of the red-hair pirates thrusting their jovial laughter into the air at a single word. As the laughter stifled back, Shanks spoke up once more.

“Lingerie, Mihawk? You want some lingerie? Is it for you, or is it for you?” the red-head captain jested, taunting the dark-haired warlord with his words. Mihawk shook his head, notably too far deep now to pull away from his request now. 

“Red-Haired Shanks,” Mihawk began, the verbal shushing from the redhead on the other end to hush his crew to silence as he heard the request of the former warlord. 

“Yes, old Hawkie? Go on, relay your request for intimate items onto me. See what I can do with your raunchy thoughts, you sick bastard-.” Shanks’ words were halted as he heard the tone of voice depicted by the usually stoic gentleman.

“Sapsorrow, Shanks,” Mihawk gasped in desperation. The audible sound of the thud of footsteps and the voices of the crew fell away from the speaker, indicating the redhead was actively moving away from the campground.

“You still have that thing? Mihawk, you should’ve cast the cursed thing into the seas. Mine was at least swallowed by the sea-beast while I protected the boy,” Shanks hushed an elevated whisper into the receiver. 

“I know,” Mihawk uttered, his brows knitting further into his face as he cursed himself of such stupidity. After another moment of silence, Shanks spoke again.

“And your betrothed requested Lingerie to be a condition of her intention to wed. My, Hawk-Eyes, you’ve at least got a good one,” he chuckled into the receiver, “go on, lay it on me. What conditions needs to be met with this one?”

“Gold,” Mihawk confessed into the mouthpiece of the receiver, “Gold as heated and radiant as the sun, beams of dawn and cracks of dusk. Admittedly, I am unsure where to begin with this request.” More silence followed on the other end of the receiver, Mihawk feeling the anxiety once again claw at his throat with anticipation.

“Do you have her-... I’m assuming it’s a her, yes?” Shanks asked, his voice giddy and boyish; elevated with a twinkle of mischief and excitement.

“Yes,” Mihawk hummed his gruff confession into the receiver.

“Hah!” Shanks laughed triumphantly, “Wonderful. Do you have her measurements?” Mihawk relayed his governess’ measurements to the one-armed Captain, hearing the thump of sandals footsteps falling against the sandy shores of Shank’s island’s shores, crunching beneath his heels.

“Beckmann,” Shanks called his voice away from the receiver, “Beckmann, you’re not going to believe this-... Mihawk, give me a moment, would you? Beckmann!” Mihawk’s expression was not amused, his eyes narrowing beneath his lengthy dark eyelashes. 

“Beckmann, bring me my anvil, pliers and soldering pick! All the gold we’ve got on us and then some-... Mihawk,” Shanks laughed into the receiver, his voice brimming with absolute glee, “Oh, Mihawk. You’ve made my day.”

“I’m glad one of us is getting a semblance of joy from this request,” Mihawk sarcastically spat into the receiver.

“Oh, lighten up. You’ll be getting some joy out of this once I’m done with it, Hawkie,” Shanks laughed again into the mouthpiece, several clangs and elevated voices being spoken into the mouthpiece.

“All the gold on us, Captain? That seems a bit rich comin’ from him. Isn’t he a lord or somethin’?” Beckmann’s raspy voice held a distant quietness away from the mouthpiece. 

“Yeah, but I’m gonna make something out of it, Becks. Lingerie for the sword-wielding lord’s future misses. Gotta get out the good stuff for this one-... Hawk-Eyes, are you still there?” Shanks called back into the receiver, Mihawk feeling his anxiety beginning to calm at the notion that Shanks was willing to participate in the task. 

“I’m here, one-arm,” Mihawk lazily drawled into the microphone, exasperation relayed on every syllable. Shanks chuckled at his title, disregarding it with glee. 

“I’m gonna make your future misses something you will both never forget,” He laughed into the transponder, his boyish charm prompting the swordsman to almost crack a small and apprehensive smile.

As the call of the den-den-mushi went quiet, Mihawk sighed and lulled his head back on his arched backrest. He felt relieved to have the weight of his predicament shared with his allies, but also apprehensive at the requests they would omit from him in return. And the teasing. He loathed being on the receiving end of taunts and jabs from the three of them, particularly the idiot clown.

He propped his neck back upright and glanced his amber eyes over to the desktop, honing in on the small bushel of baby’s breath you had offered him earlier. He reached his fingertips forward, his index finger and thumb grasping the twig holding the cluster of white flowers.

“Lost-Lady,” he smiled at the innocent balls of petals clinging against the sprigs. He chuckled at your earlier interaction, how open you were with him about your feelings of late. He was already thinking of another arrangement to create to decorate your halls with his flowers and vines: sweet jasmine, honeysuckle, bluebells and daisies were amongst his choices for your following tabletop. Much less of a risk of becoming covered head to toe in mud again.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“M’Lady, Hawk’s lookin’ for ya,” Zoro huffed a small grunt, extending his left forearm to you as you and Perona entered the galley. You shook your head at Zoro, your eyes glaring at him to wordlessly reprimand his pronunciation of your title. He furrowed his brows at first, before his eyes widened in clarity as it dawned on him. He shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes within his skull and bowing sloppily and lowly to you.

“Forgive me, my lady,” His voice, absolutely dripping with the sticky molasses of sarcasm, “I extend my most sincere apologies, my lady. Would my lady prefer me to kneel on the ground to receive a verbal reprimand, or dost my lady prefer me bent over her lap? Perhaps at such an insult to my lady, I should be drawn and quartered. A cat and nine tails whipping their iron slashes into my chest for insulting you in such a way, my lady-.” 

“-That’s quite enough, Zoro,” you reprimanded him, unlacing your hand from within Perona’s arched elbow. Your brow descended into the middle of your face, your chin extended into the air as you circled him, “and here I thought you were making waves as a gentleman, but you are remaining evermore a petulant brat.”

“I aim to please, my lady,” the corner of his lip curled upwards into a small smirk. Perona refused to react to the situation for fear attention from her governess would be drawn to her rather than the display offered by Zoro. 

“You are doing a poor job it today, Trainee,” you snarled at him, causing his smirk to widen as his eyes narrowed at your challenge. 

“Bein’ a gentleman?” Zoro scoffed at you, his lip darting out to dampen his bottom lip as he tested you further.

“Pleasing me,” you quipped back, your challenging eyes and candor immediately bringing a warm blush up the swordsman’s neck and teasing the lobes of his ears. He remained speechless, Perona allowing a silent giggle to threaten to pour over her lips. As the silence began to build with tense air, you clicked your neck and approached the young swordsman.You were now within a foot of the tall gentleman in training, continuing to warn him with your expression.

The three of you were so caught up in this moment of challenge, you remained blissfully ignorant yet again to the silent approach of the lord of the house watching from the shadows. He was on the edge of his hypothetical seat as he witnessed Zoro challenge you, but now watching on with amusement at how you were effortlessly managing him. 

“Try again,” you ordered him. There was not a sound that dared break your challenge of the green-haired swordsman within the galley. He sighed deeply, bowing his head formally to you and closing his eyes. 

“My lady,” he uttered slowly and cautiously, “the lord of Kuraigana has requested your presence in the parlor. Perona and I are to escort you to meet with the formal dressmakers for a fitting.” He almost made it through the sentence before allowing his distaste for the whole situation known. 

“We’re all to have a fitting?” Perona squeaked in joy, “We all get a pretty outfit for it?”

“Yeah,” Zoro huffed, his brows falling against the arch of his nose to indicate his displeasure, “we’re all meant to get one.for it. He’s invited everyone already. They’ll be here by the weekend.” You allowed a shocked breath to escape your chest, not understanding such haste in such a ceremony. 

You inhaled deeply through your nose, closing your eyes in deep thought before speaking again. 

“Zoro,” you began, calming your body and attempting to regain control of your uncontrollable circumstances, “escort Perona to the parlor for her fitting. I will be going to my chambers for a small moment,” you cringed a small smile, attempting to stifle the anxiety by gritting through the pain, “unless the lord of the house is here to escort me himself, I will need a moment or two to myself-.”

At that small apprehension, Mihawk made his entrance to where the three of you had met within the galley. Perona withheld her small smile behind her palms, her upturned eyes doing nothing to satisfy her amusement and joy at the swordsman approaching them. Zoro followed Perona’s eyes to lord Mihawk, which in turn alerted you to his presence approaching behind you. You felt the waves of his confident aura falling from him before you turned to meet his gaze. He cleared his throat briefly, honing his gaze on the green-haired swordsman and addressing him.

“You heard your Governess,” he commanded him, turning to Perona and nodding to her, “Off you go to the parlor. Ensure the spatchcock is properly feathered, Perona.”

“Yes, my lord,” she chuckled, taking Zoro’s arm and immediately springing in her steps towards the parlor without a word from Zoro regarding his new bird-related nickname. You remained stationary and rigid in the galley, your chin extended outwards and tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth. Eyes narrowed, you felt him circle your body like a hawk looking over their next catch. 

“I have come to inform you,” he began, remaining behind your back and away from your sight, “I have announced our intentions to wed. There is to be a ball this weekend, held here at the keep,” he paused his words, the tap of his feet indicating his approach in front of you. You closed your eyes, feeling waves of anxiety again rising over your body and filling your head with the thoughts that swirled well into the night. You remained with your eyes tightly closed, clenching your jaw behind your closed lips.

“Betrothed?” He addressed you, halting his prowling in front of you. He extended his hands above your own, hovering over where you had them hanging together in front of you but refusing to bring them down to touch yours. You opened your eyes, your brows furrowing as you looked down at his hand slowly descending and hovering above your own before snapping your gaze back against his amber-colored eyes. 

“Yes, Betrothed?” You asked him, eyes dancing between his irises and searching within them for an indication as to how he was feeling. He sighed, finally bringing his hands down to collect yours and smooth his thumbs over your knuckles softly. You were again taken aback by his softness, unsure as to which place this was coming from. 

“Is there someone I could invite for you to make this transition easier for you?” he whispered in a low rumbly tone, “it is quite the conundrum: coming here to complete a job, only to find yourself bound to your employer in matrimony. What can I do? You may ask anything of me, my lady-... Betrothed.”

Your heart began to race your mind with how frantic and sudden this expression of care for you had been brought on. You took your time to study his face, looking from his brows to his cheekbones, bearded jaw down to his smooth lips beneath his manicured mustache. You drew your gaze back up to his amber-hued orbs and danced your gaze between them.

“I have no one, Betrothed,” you admitted with a small nod, placing one of your palms atop his hand, “you knew this of me from back when I first tutored that arrogant blond boy in shells-town with his iron-jawed father. We discussed this at the gala.” Mihawk arched his brow upwards, deep in thought. 

“Remind me, Betrothed, the mention has fled from me presently,” he asked, bringing his other hand to rest atop the one you just placed atop his. You inhaled deeply, exhaling out your tension at the memory.

“No father, no mother,” you smiled at him, “no sisters, nor brothers. Although, you may be interested in my dowry,” scoffing at the comment, Mihawk rolled his eyes and nodded his chin for you to continue on. “My mother died birthing me, my father died of illness on the road as he ventured over the estate.”

“No friends, nor extended relations?” He inquired, drawing up your hand to lace within his elbow, leading you on towards the parlor at a leisurely pace. 

“None that are alive, nor that you would not already know, I’m sure,” you commented with a polite nod, “you did attend many of the functions I presented my students at.” He hummed in response to your comment, continuing to fall in step with you through the hallways onwards. 

“No former lover to come knocking on my door, betrothed?” Mihawk’s curiosity pulled at the corner of his lip with his brow arched upwards. You halted your step with him, pulling him to a halt and shooting him a warning look. As his eyes met with yours, he understood the tangible emotion clawing at your chest.

“If you are asking what I think you are asking, sir,” you snarled at him, your lip curling upwards at his question, “I am a lady.” His eyes widened at your comment, searching your face for any further emotion to depict your unspoken confession.

“I did not mean to pry into your personal-,” he was halted by your words as you spoke over him, your eyes softening and a small smile rising to your lips at his attempt to flee from an uncomfortable situation he created for himself.

“This title we have been using to address each other,” you commented, again keeping in step with the tall swordsman at your side, “I am no longer comfortable with our mutual use of the phrase. Shall we dream up something else more appropriate together?” 

Mihawk’s breath caught in his throat, hoping you did not catch such a quiver of anticipation falling from him. Why did you have such a hold over him? Why was the way you were speaking to him affecting him like this? Your voice, that sweetness you held in your cadence. It was intoxicating.

“I am sure we will think of something,” he held tight his jaw and remained outwardly stoic. Internally; he was delighting in your willingness to allow him to think of you. You gently squeezed his forearm in support, walking in comfortable silence towards the parlor together. 

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Zoro’s arms were horizontally outstretched, perpendicular to the floor as the tailors began to pin and prod the material he was trying on. Perona beamed at her reflection, her eyes reflecting her joy at the trim and frill of her fine gown. Zoro smirked, closing his eyes and addressing his peer. 

“Mihawk’s infatuation is starting to spill out, isn’t it. He’s not even hiding it anymore,” He chuckled, Perona immediately laughing at the comment before retorting her own comments on the matter.

“Speak for yourself, Moss,” Perona continued to giggle, “your little crush isn’t as hidden as you think it is, either.”

Tag List: @sordidmusings@writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @little-bunnybabe @sukilovesyou @buggyenjoyer @thesailus @under-kitty @acehyacinth @andriannag @one17 @canthebest1 @khaleesihavilliard @quirkyrascal @hungrhay @sentieence @lebanese-afg-ya @captaincupio @szired

[glitt3r-litt3r]

So. Not to be crazy but here's a blurb of something I'm working on.

they're cowboys. it's the 90s. flashback to the 80's when steve stayed on the munsons land for a summer. it's BigSad. but also they're cowboysssss

1996 

Eddie is staring at Steve for the first time since the summer of 1985. Steve’s in jeans with a light blue button down, buttons all done like he’s waiting for a job interview. For a moment, Eddie thinks he’s hallucinating. Steve looks like a dream. Like he’s had dreams of this exact moment, running over to his boy to be met with a gorgeous smile smelling of honeysuckle and something expensive. Woken up out of breath, like he was running to catch something and always fell just a moment too short. He’s far off, maybe 60 feet and the sun is bright at sunset today. Tipping his hat down to get a better look he sees a tan hand rise to a wave. Golden hair, square jaw, broader now than he’d ever seen but it’s him. Steve, on his land again. This time, he’s not some punk kid and it’s not Wayne’s ranch anymore it’s Eddies.  

Eddie clicks his tongue once and takes off on Blue toward the yellow of the sunset by the house. The closer it gets the harder he fights the smile, by the time he reaches the gates he laughing in galloping whoops. Steve’s here in jeans and a shirt, that same smile he had at 17 looking all sure and somehow broken at the same time.  

Eddie stops Blue a couple feet away. It’s silly but something nags at the back of his mind that if he get’s too close he’ll spook Steve. Closer he’s even more handsome. Grown into himself, sure about the way he stands.  

“You lost or something?” Eddie says.  

Something unlocks in Steve's nervous belly. He knows what to say, what role to play. This is what he remembers so clearly over all these years. Eddie always made it easy to play along. That’s the exact thing 16-year-old Eddie said, on that same horse Blue, wearing that same hat, his momma’s. It’s Eddie, older and a daydream on that horse with those boots. Steve reminds himself he’s no longer 17 and that he can look wherever he wants. It doesn’t cross his mind that Eddie might even be taken. He had thought about that on the way over but it left as soon as he’d seen the silhouette of the rancher on his horse. Everything melted away in the late evening sun.  

“I'm lookin' for a cowboy. Don’t happen to know any do ya?” He drops his duffle as Eddie dismounts Blue holding her reins gently between his hand. 

“What’s this cowboy look like? Maybe I seen him around?” Eddie takes a couple steps forward. Not close enough to touch yet. Steve’s wondering if Eddie’s gotten taller somehow or maybe just bigger. His boots crunch on the ground confidently and his back has a straightness that Steve wants to follow down to his backside.  

“About six-foot-one, dark curly hair, wicked smile, something a little crazy behind his eyes,” They’ve gone off script now, its like playing with matches. Two boys in the dark of night lighting up matchsticks holding them until their fingers get burned just to see the other smile. 

“Crazy huh?” Eddie scratches his chin like he’s thinking. Steve notices the slight stubble. “Since you mention it there was one out there earlier, but he’s gone home now.”  

The word home catches in Steves head, like sifting through feelings. Home. 

Steve flings himself into Eddie before he can think it through. If he had thought it through, he’d maybe stop himself, run away, pretend he never showed up here. Eddie smells like leather, like open fields, wind caught in his hair and neck. Steve smells like sweet cologne. 

They stand there, swaying gently like the tall grass by the fence. Wayne watches from the porch, wondering why Steve ever left.  

[ladykailitha]

My goodness, I am on the angst train lately with Steddie, Jesus Christ.

Reading “The Sun and the Star” by Rick Riordan like you do and I’m reminded of Frank Zhang (not that he’s in it or at least not that I’ve seen I’m not that far in) and his stick of life.

And it got me thinking of Steve. The protector. And how he made a deal with something. Something stronger than him. A god, a demon, whatever, Steve isn’t interested in the details. He just wants a way to protect the people he loves. So this being grants it to him. On one condition. That every time he steps in front of the people he loves to protect them, a bit of his life will burn up. Shortening his life.

Steve agrees. What his life to theirs?

Wicked this being is though and ties his life force to the nail bat. He burned up so much throwing himself in front of the Russians for Robin. It’s now nearly the size of a Coke bottle.

Standing in front of Vecna between the evil and his home town, Steve was sure that was it. That it would finally end his life. But it wasn’t quite.

There is still a bit left. A chewed up pencil’s worth of wood. It’s not much.

Eddie survives. The town survives. Everyone survives. But changing hearts is hard and people still blame Eddie even though he was proven innocent.

A group of teens corner Eddie and start threatening him. Steve gets between them and talks them down. Gets them to back off. Then he turns to Eddie, face ashen and says, “I’m glad that worked, otherwise I don’t think I would have been able to fight them off...” and faints.

Eddie runs to his side, confused and upset. He screams for help and Robin comes running. She explains the curse, frantically searching for the stick.

Next to his heart is a piece of blackened wood the size of matchstick and she lets out a wail. It burns in her hands as she picks it up. Steve is dying.

Eddie wraps his hands around hers. “He can’t go,” he cries. “I love him.”

Just then Dustin and the other kids show up on their bikes and rush to Steve’s side.

“Is it--?” Dustin asks, not sure he get the words out. But Robin knows and she nods.

Dustin and the others each place a hand over Eddie’s, each muttering their goodbyes and telling Steve how much they love him.

Not every who loves Steve is there. But enough.

Steve lets out his last breath and it glows gold. Warm and caring just like the boy it left behind. The breath clings to their combined hands.

Eddie gasps when he sees it and forces their hands to Steve’s chest. That’s where it belongs. Not with them, with Steve. The true heart of the party.

The being watches from a distance, smug and satisfied as Steve comes gasping and coughing to life.

[blessed-by-umbral]

Fatalem iter

Fatality / Journey- Day 3.

@daily-writing-challenge

---

Two Years Ago

The moon ascended gracefully in the night sky, casting its luminous beams upon the gentle flow of the fountain at the heart of Cress Estate, resembling polished silver in its brilliance. The evening air was imbued with a serene stillness, punctuated only by the subtle sounds of nocturnal creatures that inhabited the towering trees scattered throughout the estate's expansive grounds.

Within the tallest bell tower, a foreboding and muted light flickered behind the stone-arched windows, creating an unsettling contrast to the otherwise peaceful ambiance of the estate. This eerie illumination hinted at secrets hidden within the ancient walls, drawing the eye and stirring the imagination as the night deepened around the tranquil setting.

Inside the expansive, dome-shaped chamber, a multitude of flickering candles radiated warmth, casting a soft glow against the stone walls that were richly decorated with intricate tapestries depicting the storied lineage of House Cress.

The imposing iron bell, which typically occupied a central position within the chamber, had been carefully unfastened and moved aside to create a sacred area for a life-affirming ritual. At the heart of the room lay the meticulously prepared and groomed body of Argost Cress, surrounded by personal artifacts that spoke to his identity. His favored weapons, the armor he once wore, and an assortment of bourbons he relished were thoughtfully arranged along the base of a stone slab, which was intricately engraved with ancient runes.

Among those gathered were his bereaved spouse, Elisia, who wore a black veil that gracefully draped over her face, and beside her stood Argrin, her eldest son, clad in traditional mourning attire. Onora found herself positioned closely next to her brother, her arm comfortably wrapped around his. The color of her clothing leaned more towards grey than black, as it was contrary to her usual practice to don garments that were entirely embellished in black. Ondrea, resembling her mother in both appearance and attire, also wore a dark covering that shrouded her face in a concealing veil. She stood before her father's lifeless form, holding a lit matchstick poised above the wick of a candle, ready to ignite the flame that would symbolize the light of his memory and yet all that impeded her thoughts were his final words.

“Your presence within this family is akin to a blemish that tarnishes its integrity. It is a mark that penetrates deeply, much like ink that seeps through the fibers of parchment, leaving an indelible impression that cannot be easily erased. This stain not only affects the surface but also alters the very essence of what it means to belong to this lineage, casting a shadow over the shared history and values that bind us together.”

A subtle smile began to emerge at the edges of her concealed lips as the anticipated flame finally made contact with the wick of the candle. In an instant, the fire surged forth, causing the candle's flame to flicker uncertainly for a brief moment before it steadied itself, rising tall and unwavering.

Ondrea's voice emerged from the heart of the room, gentle as a spring zephyr, yet imbued with an executioners last rites.

Ó coinneal sruthán geal (Oh candle burn bright)

Ó coinneal sruthán le cuspóir (Oh candle burn with purpose)

Ó coinnea treoir a thabhairt do na mairbh (Oh candle guide the dead)

Ó coinnea coinnigh do lasair ar lasadh (Oh candle keep your flame lit)

Ó iarrthóir na fírinne (Oh seeker of truth)

Las do choinnle (Light your candles)

A profound quietness pervaded the bell tower, with the only interruption being the sporadic, gentle pops of the candles as they burned.

As she turned with deliberate slowness, Ondrea's skirts swept against the hard surface beneath her feet, the fabric whispering against the stone as she drew nearer to her brother and mother.

Argrin's voice cut through the stillness  “This fatality is a dark mark on our history. His fatality will linger in our hearts for years to come.”

“Indeed, this situation presents a significant loss, and the path that lies before us is extensive, fraught with challenges and difficulties. Yet this is a journey we all must take.” Onora articulated her thoughts, gently withdrawing her grip from Argrin's arm to extend her hand towards Ondrea. The moment their hands made contact, a powerful surge reverberated through Ondrea’s senses, filling her ears with a tumultuous sound until her sister's voice emerged distinctly amidst the chaos.

"Patricide, sister?"

Ondrea removed the obstructive veil from her face, allowing her striking gold-green eyes to lock onto those of her twin. The moment was charged with an intensity that seemed to suspend time, as if the world around them had faded into the background, leaving only the connection between the pair.

The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken understanding, on that cultivated a silence that enveloped them. In that stillness, the bond they shared became almost tangible.

A silent acceptance.

--

Mentions: @onora-cress

[botanikos]

That dirty little imp traumatized you? Oh poor Stolas! It was said in court, so it must be true!

While the former prince lacks any real power and likely appears the furthest thing from threatening, every fiber of his being is suddenly ignited with newfound energy. Fury courses through the owl, hands clenching into fists at his sides, beak grinding with the words. They rang out in such glee, heavy with mockery! They know he is powerless. And they must know the SLANDER they now spew. How could they not?

Feathers ruffle as Stolas fixes his slumped form, mustering temporary haughty mannerisms and snaps back at them.

❝ — You are a wicked, imbecilic, and uninformed individual, or else you just do not care, continuing the spread of such disparaging remarks! You must have zero class; congratulations. . . And the imp has a name. A name practically all of Hell knows now! Not that you deserve to speak it. The narrative painted in that courtroom was a fucking travesty, conjured as a weak and deplorable means to whatever endgame is being plotted. Do not speak to me of trauma — do not pretend to think anything he has done holds a matchstick to the nightmares I have endured!

Insult me, insert me into your ludicrous fantasies and jokes! Make me the laughing-stock. But don't you EVER insinuate Blitz has ❞ and the owl raises both hands, making ferocious air quotes whilst sneering, ❝ ' traumatized me '

HE SET ME FREE. ❞

[twothpaste]

fick chunk about fuel's not-so-secret project at the new pork ruins, which somehow doubles as a whole-ass character study. (featuring bronson, nana, claus, lucas, and abelle my oc abelle.)

Speakin' of daylight: the noontime shine renders fire far less fearsome.

It flickers from the wick of a tiny index finger. Scarlet diamonds, scarcely greater than a candle's glimmer. How it kisses the ocean. That white-blue horizon line. There's a quaint horror, at the heart of the matter. Knowing even embers like these would - given the chance - reduce houses to ashes. And a quainter comfort, still. Knowing she'd never dare let 'em.

If you ask him 'bout phobias, Fuel ain't got none. Try talkin' to him 'bout "Pee-Tee-Ess-Dee," and he'll kindly decline, arms crossed. "Nah. Nope. N' hell naw, while I'm at it. But thank ya very much, Lucas." That kinda talk's for the twins. N' their forefathers. N' former Pigmasks, maybe some of 'em. His matchstick jitters're just a reflex. His muscles pulled stiff, at the scent of somethin' burning - well, that's 'cause it's a heck of a stinkin' smell. When he wakes up coughing, choking, on smoke that ain't there, it's that sleep apnea shit he's got. Nana diagnosed it. Y'can call her a madwoman, n' he does too, when he's joshin' around. But don't get it backwards. She knows what she's talkin' about.

Likewise, Abelle doesn't mention what's irking her. That she'd definitely be able to muster more than a goshdarn candle. Maybe an antique gas stove. Or a fireplace lighter. If only she'd gotten more than three hours of sleep. It casts a vague orange, ruffling up against the work station's tarped shade. Miscellaneous metal parts reflect only the teeniest glimmers. A wrench here. A dubious hunk of titanium there.

"So. Y'light it with yer mind? Just like that, huh…?" Even after all this time, truth be told, Fuel can still scarcely wrap his head around it.

"Sure do!" Abelle chimes. Before dousing her pride, so as not to be impolite. As the flame wavers, her brow furrows. "It doesn't exactly come natural, though. Gotta focus real hard on it. Helps to think of somethin' warm. I'm thinkin' of s'mores, right now."

"S'mores, huh? Makes sense, I guess. Y'ain't scared of it, or nothin'?"

"Me? Hehe! Naw, I'm never scared!"

"Well, shit! Beg yer pardon!" Fuel leans back, hands raised, donning an amused grin. Has a bite of his peanut butter sandwich, while he's at it. N' mutters the rest with a fist coverin' his mouthful. "I'm only askin' 'cause, ah.. Lucas used to say this psychic stuff was an awful sorta scary. Back when he first started doin' it, I mean."

"Oh, he's told me so, too. It's kinda funny, ain't it? Everyone always says he used to be so skittish. I can't hardly picture it." Abelle's got strawberry jam on hers. N' banana slices, too. She snuffs out the flare, just long enough for a meager nibble.

"Heh. That's fair. Sometimes I can't, neither." Beyond the makeshift awning, out there in the blue, silhouettes mill about the boats. Settin' up chemical filtering equipment, they'd said? Somethin' or other. If he squints, Fuel reckons he can make out Lucas' red-n'-yella plaid. Leading the pack, no doubt. "What if it goes outta control? If the fire gets bigger than y'bargained for, or whatever? That, uh… That ever happen?"

"Mm-mm," Abelle answers. Shakin' her head. "Not really. Not with PK Fire. Sometimes my Shields're too big, if y'can believe it. N' sometimes I start hearin' what other folks're thinkin', n' it's like..? Like I can't turn it off. But, if I'm bein' honest…" Her gaze dips downward, back into the shadows. Scrutinizes the pitiful candle wick, held low in her lap. "M'no good at Psycho-Kinesis. Offensive PSI, Kumatora calls it. The stuff y'can fight with."

"That ain't so bad, is it? Not much to fight about, these days."

"That's what Kumatora n' Lucas're always sayin'. But gosh, have ya seen them spar? They're incredible! N' Claus, too! PK Love, n' Ground, n' Starstorm… It's amazin'. The stuff they can do."

The way the kid's eyes brim with starshine, Fuel can totally imagine her watchin' the Cerulean Beach lightshow. Cheerin' from the sidelines, as Claus and Kumatora hurl fireballs at each other. Makin' the whole goddamn planet Earth shake, like it ain't done since armageddon. Or when Lucas' gaze takes on that otherworldly glow N' shit starts floatin' all around him. Like the very laws of nature were made to be broken, far as he's concerned. Somethin' so gentle n' mild - transfigured into somethin' downright cataclysmic.

Yeah, Fuel's seen 'em spar, alright. It scares the piss outta him.

"But me? I've got none o' that. Too weak for it, I guess." Abelle pinches her fingers together, quashing the flame like a bug. Takes a deep breath. Exhales it all, in one quick burst. "Shoot. Sorry. Didn't mean to go off on a tirade. I prob'ly sound real ungrateful. N' envious, besides."

"Naw, I, ah… I reckon I get where yer comin' from." Fuel shifts his weight, atop the supply crate he's sittin' on. Nurses a half-flat can of Sierra Mist. To clear his throat of that smoggy, cloggy sensation. "Y'just wanna be capable. Protect the folks y'care about. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Be a part of somethin' bigger."

"Yeah…"

"Nothin' wrong with wantin' that." Aluminum crinkles, frail, in his sturdy grasp. "Nothin' wrong at all."

His sandwich disappears down his gullet, during the brief quiet that ensues. Hers remains a work-in-progress. Restless, at seventeen and three months, even lunch breaks are a kind of labor. She shuffles her boots over strewn wires.

"Thank ya, Fuel," Abelle tells him. N' he perks up, and shrugs. Like he's surprised to hear it.

"Me? Naw, thank you. 'Preciate ya showin' me Pee-Kay Fire, at least. Made me feel a little braver. Fer what it's worth."

"Hehe. Aw, jeez. You're welcome, then."

It ain't pyrophobia. She'll take his word for it. But even little miss sunshine can tell there's somethin' he's tryin' to overcome. No matter how quickly he changes lanes.

"Say, y'don't got Thunder? By any chance?"

"Nope. Only Fire. Why?"

"Aw, no reason. Jus' curious."

"Well. I've got a curious question, too, if y'don't mind it. What's all this you're workin' on, in here?"

"Mm?" Fuel's gaze jolts to meet hers, if only for a split second. Dirty fingernails sift along the crate's lid. One foot kicks a heavy-duty screwdriver away, into the lamp-cast shadows. His teeth form a simper. "'Fraid that's a bit of a secret, lil' miss."

The kid's tired eyes turn suddenly sharp. Glancin' past him, at a dimly-lit swath of buttons and dials. Then directly at him. Snagged in a potent stare. Fuel hesitates before speakin' up. Still wearing that dumb grin on his face.

"Wait. Hah. Y'ain't tryin' to read my mind, are ya?"

Abelle stares harder. Takes a deep breath, leaning ever so slightly towards him. Then closes her eyes. As if embroiled in a deep, scrying focus. A chuckle cracks its way through Fuel's constitution. He shakes his head. Clambers to his feet.

"Okay, alright. I'll show ya. But, ah…" One index finger rises, as he drops to a near-whisper. "You'll keep it on the down-low, won'tcha?"

Abelle peeks one eye open. And smiles like a Keebler elf.

"Cross my heart, hope to die!"

-

Yellow paint peels to reveal steel plating. Which, in turn, gives way to scarlet rust. Layin' there in a dilapidated heap, rot notwithstanding, the central console alone prob'ly weighs as much as Abelle herself. Its glass cranium's a lost cause. Shattered n' displaced ages ago. Stiff rods stickin' out the circular chasm up top. Fuel managed to scavenge one lower left limb, mostly intact, from its would-be resting place. The others are a work-in-progress. They litter the workshop, alongside other unfinished Frankensteins. Pull on a pair of inch-thick gloves. A heavy helmet, with a darkened slit for a view. Smothered an apron, like a weighted blanket. She'd tell him he looks silly, if she didn't know better. Absolute spaceman.

He can't tame a bonfire. He can tame a welder. Got a safety checklist in his head. A spark-proof suit of armor. And a forge built of impenetrable battlements.

When Porky took Fuel, he had him puttin' in child labor hours at the goddamn bakery. Workin' dough for desperate dough. Burnin' bread like nobody's business. Absolute wonder he didn't get f-f-f-fired! As merciful a manager as Sweet Caroline was, the role suited her like a square peg to a round hole. N' Fuel, likewise, was a sorry excuse for a baker. Kneading putty, coughin' up flour and oven smog, apron tied too twisty-tight 'round his tree-trunk waist. Like his father before him, the young craftsman's calloused hands have always preferred sturdier fare. If y'ask Fuel, the hop-skip-n'-a-jump from lumber to iron ain't so much of a leap, after all.

Mecha Lions n' Boa Transistors are his bread n' butter out here. Should a stray Rhinocerocket come barrelling through the walkway, on account of a busted fin, Fuel's your guy. He'll whip up a replacement in no time flat. N' never mind the occasional dent that may mar his best bud's steely shins. Chimera repairs're a noble duty, far as he's concerned. One he's proud to uphold.

Robots, though? Most folks hardly consider 'em casualties. If they consider 'em at all.

An uncommon sight - most have long since ceased functioning. Uttered their last garbled beeps, and melded into the wreckage upon which they stand. A slim handful were reprogrammed n' repurposed, back during the first salvage missions. The rest were left to their tombs. Haunted the Harbor for about a decade, crawlin' around the place in various states of zombified dysfunction. You can picture a teenaged Fuel's cringing horror, as a shambling Octobot claimed his leg in a tendril's grasp. Yanked him straight down with a vengeance nastier than any sinkhole. Claus came to his rescue, this time. Made quick work of it. Crowbar's clash. Psionic flash. An ugly scowl marks the spot in his memory.

Y'can picture, too, how that same teenaged Fuel looked down upon the un-creature. One half titanium, one half bronze, sundered roughly down the middle. Circuit-tronics n' whatsits, blasted every which way. Not-brains spilling from its not-head. Its veneer, crisply obliterated, looked not unlike a welding mask. Come to think of it.

Each had a directive, once upon a time. Monitor the perimeter. Exterminate intruders. Serve King Burgers. Whatever. None have the chops for any task, anymore. Too feeble, ineffectual, expendable. Too little, too late. Wrong place n' time. To say robots "want" for anything would be a stretch. But the premise of "purpose" gets Fuel a wee bit misty-eyed.

Sure, it's a silly sentiment. He knows it. "Laugh it up, if ya like," he says. Becomes apparent to Abelle, real quick, that it ain't an illicit sorta secret, but a self-conscious one. Some folks have a righteous penchant for amends. He's got a feckless tendency toward unsung causes.

"Naw, I think it's mighty kind of ya," she replies. Naturally. Abelle's the girl who calls old cars "she," n' pats her PC's tower when it ain't loadin', n' prescribes human feelings to vintage stereos. That said, she'd be lyin' if she claimed her intrigue isn't primarily techno-historical. Eyein' the robot with an eagerness to match his mercy. "What about the wiring? N' the hardware repairs? I know just a lil' bit, myself. Might could help ya fix the processin' unit, if it's still got one."

"That so, Barbie? I'll take ya up on it, if y'mean it. Got Sheep helpin' me with some o' the electronics. Was thinkin' of askin' Claus, but they.. ah…"

They were there, last week, when Fuel pried the leg from the bog. Their spine's no good for heaving, these days. Helped him pull it loose, nevertheless. A mere index finger beckoned a telekinetic tug. N' they'd been all laughs, n' Lifeup, n' pats on the back, after Kerosene was sent tumblin' backwards. The foundry's mechanical menagerie had them whistlin' a different tune, though. Quiet steps, Lucas-esque. Deer in a taxidermy shop. Low glower, set upon Fuel's Lego brick pity projects.

"I don't see what's gotcha so touchy, all of a sudden. Ain't that different from Mecha Lions n' Boa Transistors, is it?"

Claus didn't answer him with the same old scowl. Not quite. Fury is a mask they outgrew ages ago.

Nana told him not to sweat it, over dinner. "Environment's got a profound effect on an animal's nerves. His words, not mine. He won't say so, but I think the Harbor has him a bit on edge. I wouldn't take it personally, if I were you."

"Me? Take shit personally? Hahah. I would never! Jeez, Nana, it's like ya don't even know me."

Fuel's the only one who can get her to roll her eyes with a smile. He loves it when she does that.

… Anyways.

He tells Abelle she ought not mention it to Claus. No sooner than she nods her noggin, Bronson barges in. Here to check up on his apprentice's handiwork, apparently. A wayward elbow knocks that can of Sierra Mist from its cabinet-top perch. "Oh, shoot. I didn't…" The master smith gawks down at his blunder. Only to find the can halfway crushed. And thankfully empty. Not a drop of spillage. He hunches over - pop in his knees - and picks it up. There's a remarkable grace to his hammy fingers. And a klutziness to his cough. ".. Ehm. Sorry." Fuel chuckles. No harm, no foul.

"Gosh, how many folks're in on this, anyways?" Abelle inquires. "Doesn't seem like much of a secret to me."

"The hell do ya mean? It's jus' Bronson, n' Sheep, n' Claus," muffles Fuel, through his helmet. "N' Nana, o' course. N' you. Now. I guess. So, uh. Practically nobody."

The robot's shiny new right leg is immaculate, by the way. Accordin' to Bronson's utmost scrutiny. A nigh mirror image of its leftward double. "I'm tellin' ya, Barlmoro, you've got this down to a science! Dunno what the heck y'need me for, anymore. I'll give ya a hand with the installation, though. Only since ya asked real nice."

"Why thank ya, boss," says Fuel. Who didn't ask at all.

But disaster strikes the master, when he hunkers on down. A sharp pain in his lumbar is swift to knock him right outta commission. Abelle ends up nursin' his woes with Lifeup, while Bronson nurses a root beer. She lends Fuel her lackluster telekinesis, in his stead. An invisible force - only a little shaky - helps him attach both legs, safe and secure, to the central console.

"… This look even to you, boss?" Fuel tosses back. Like a consolation.

Bronson holds up a measuring level, from his seat on the sidelines. Closes one eye. Squints. N' forces a wincing grin.

"Right on, kid."

Couple mornings later, Lucas swings by, in that awfully quiet way he's wont to. Nearly spooks Fuel right outta his skin, when he gets a knock on the wooden entryway frame. He tosses a frantic tarp over the automaton's arms. Raises his soda can, to meet Lucas' coffee jar.

"Ain'tcha doin' chimera transit today? Whatcha need little ol' me for?"

"We're gettin' started now. Thought I'd drop by, while uh. While most folks're preoccupied."

Lucas can't read minds. Besides Claus', at least. Kumatora's, maybe a little. But no one else. He's assured Fuel of it, 'bout ten or eleven times. Still, he finds his stomach sinkin' a little. The way his childhood pal looks right through him.

"Claus mentioned y'were repairin' robots. Told me not to tell anybody. Then, ah… Then Abelle said so, too. Ain't sure if it's still s'posed to be a secret or not."

Right. Of course.

"Heh, well, shit! Y'got me! I know, I know, y'don't gotta tell me, it's real stupid. They ain't livin' things. Don't even got feelin's, n' here I am feelin' sorry for 'em. We oughtta be usin' their parts for scrap, n' chimera repairs, n.. n' if ya need me to, Lucas, I'll stop n' do that instead, honest to god. Didn't mean to be all sketchy about it, I jus'..? Mm?"

Ain't like Lucas to interrupt. He raises his hand, instead. With a real pitiful blast of his overcast sky eyes.

"Err. Sorry. Go ahead," says Fuel.

"Don't worry 'bout it. S'alright. I just wanted to offer, um.. I mean. I can't work metal, or electronics, or do none o' that programmin' stuff. But. If y'ever need a jolt? Y'know, like, to jump-start somethin'?"

Lucas flashes him a thumbs-up. A teeny spark of PK Thunder dances from his fingertip.

"Lemme know. Anytime."

He watches, over a meek sip of coffee. While Fuel's pensive panic melts away like marshmallow goop.

"Ha.. haha! Phew, fuck, man! Thank ya, Lucas!! I mean it. Thank ya...!"

[thagyann]

IN YOU IS       —-      smoke and fog ,  tiled floors touched  and made to remember.  hallow grounds and  divine instruments. a sleeping thing waiting for its rise ,  a fall of  youth ,   empire edges chewed  and  test - tube  holdings of  fate  always on the  change.   there is daffodil fields  and applauding currents.   there are labs and  needles ,   mother’s whispering hands and father’s ink.   a wicked sea and a moment too soon. a distance too far told of on a tree house made out of matchstick blues. .   there are gods  and  older girls .   sweet voices and age appropriate  boys.   credit

[sirnef]

One day someone will find the matchstick See the tinder and light the wick That life is just one swipe away For chaos to take us all for prey One day these embers will fizzle and spark And our claws no longer scavenge in dark Until the the wall that sets our worlds apart Becomes the ash in your beating heart Every centerpiece living to die Every memory a sunset sky Every second was money lost Every cent weighed in karma's cost One day the soot will settle in The consequence of each dodged sin As the fire licks at each cold dead part Weighing in your alien heart One day the ash that will line this foul earth Will stand with the next human's greed's full worth Each charred piece is a moral not learned So I'll stand back and watch it burn

[yanderes-of-inkwell]

Kiss, Marry, Kill for my most hated bosses. I love the characters, despise fighting them.

Grim Matchstick, Chef Saltbaker, Hilda Berg.

I had a meltdown fighting Grim, took 3 days to beat Hilda, and Saltbaker took me so long to beat. Like 2 months. I'm not good at cuphead.

It's okay, Anon! It took me 2-3 months just to beat Dr. Kahl, so you're not alone. Cuphead is a really hard game, so don't beat yourself up over it. As for your ask-

If they're yanderes: Marry Hilda, kiss Grim, kill Saltbaker.

Probably the easiest KMK I've had to answer yet because honestly, I could completely change everyone's placement and still be fine with it.

Hilda and Grim, at least as yanderes, are fairly similar: possessive, needy, don't want their darling to go out, have varying degrees of abandonment issues and respond to it with anxiety, and are easily flustered. I actually swapped their places multiple times while writing out this answer because I'd be alright with marrying/kissing either.

Now, Saltbaker on the other hand... is tricky. I've talked about it on the blog before, but how he acts towards his darling (and as a partner in general) depends entirely on whether or not he's been redeemed.

Pre-redemption? Definitely kill. Post-redemption? I can swap him with either Hilda or Grim and still be satisfied with my answer. Again, easiest KMK for a reason.

If they're not yanderes: Marry Saltbaker, kiss Grim, kill Hilda.

Once again, we run into the 'Has he been redeemed?' dilemma with good ol' Saltbaker. If yes, marry. If not, kill.

Saltbaker (post-redemption) would make a lovely husband, and while I personally would not be interested in him prior to that... I know a lot of people love to see a silly, jovial man who can bake secretly be evil and wicked and give a lot of yandere energy, so that's why I always include both versions.

As for Hilda, I hate having to pick 'Kill' for her because she's so lovely, but Grim is so silly and playful that I can't not kiss him. He's literally a sentient puppy in a giant, green dragon's body.

[cuppykin]

I like drawing this goober

[itsuvi]

Narrative ideas - UNTITLED

CONCEPT 1.

the first concept will be a Sri Lankan based story. Since the competition is for Sinhalese. Going with a Sri Lankan story will impact more and relate with our audience. There will be no Sinhala dialogues though. Themes displayed : melancholy, Tragedy.

synopsis of story: tragic life of a homeless women.

inspired by: idk bro i see alotta beggars everywhere. Also to experiment with visual story telling in 2D cus yes.

What i wanna convey in the film: flex my abilities, To give a understanding of the bad ending that can happen to a beggar who is not successful.

-------------------------------------------------------------

World setting:

The story takes place in present time Sri Lanka.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Character setting:

Main character: A old homeless women.

Side characters: MC's mother. (faceless)

Background characters: -Teenagers (students and casuals) -Adults (with jobs and casual ones) -Doctors and nurses

----------------------------------------------------------------

Unofficial Narrative idea:

part 1:

The story hits off by showing a normal sunny day around 11am in Sri Lanka and then directed at a group of teenagers having fun (background characters) walking towards a supermarket. Match cut of drowning water. From there the MC is introduced idle, sitting under a tree taking cover from the sun in the car park next to the pavement and selling items (matchsticks, Incense, small items used in Buddhist preaching). Also seen scratching her feet while looking at the ground to show boredom match cut with water drowning again to emphasize her drowning metaphorically.

cuts to her eyes that look very tired and lifeless and then dry lips moving. She stares at the teenagers and then at a car that is reversing to park in the parking zone.

The MC blinks and then changes to her perspective from her eye's perspective. Mc's hands are seen scratching lightly revealing a very malnutrition and thin physique. Her hands are also sort of shivers. She then starts fidgeting with her fingers. (to emphasize on the dry skin.) While still in her perspective, With the slow take a surprise element happens. A hand with a bill of 20rs appears in front of her, The mc takes the bill and reaches out to get a pack of wicks however as soon as she looks at the stranger, He is walking away. In gratitude the women prays while holding the bill (still in her perspective).

cuts to wide shot of this scene.

She goes back to sitting idly. Match cut with a cycle of the same wide shot in different timelines. 1st cut she is seen selling items day time 2nd cut she is seen feeding a stray cat. day time with questionable weather 4th final cut is a day time but with heavy rain. She is seen taking cover under a roof in the car park.

part 1 ends and part 2 starts here ----------------------------------

part 2:

while taking cover in the rain. the wide shot camera is interrupted by person's silhouette walking outside of the supermarket. The camera transitions from the wide shot to a close up of the MC. the women is seen shivering. Her eyes start wavering and she feels dizzy and falls down. black screen. Close shot of her opening her eyes. MC is is confused and shocked, looks around a bit and finds herself surrounded in a neutral white empty space. The camera as she looks around changes to her eye''s perspective. As it goes around a white figure appears who looks like her mother. In immediate surprise the mc runs towards the mother. In the process she slowly gets younger. once close enough the mc hugs the mother in her now child form. close shot on the face of the mc's lips saying something and smiling. With this melancholy scene at its highest , match cut to a close shot of the present old mc's lips which looks dead. The mc is dead laying on a bed in a general public hospital.

da end :D

Number of scenes: 3 Assumed duration: may exceed 55 seconds.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

[poopyloopy14]

To my little Angel

The thing is with my cat she was so much like an Angel she was so beautiful but very fragile she was very tiny and I spent my whole life being so gentle with her and her body and bones just for them all to be broken when she died because I wasn’t there and life isn’t as gentle with her as I was, and it’ll continue to be that way. I was out late and I wasn’t home keeping her little body safe, life distracted me then swept her away behind my back.

I have never felt as loved as I did by her, so loved, by neither human nor animal. I love you lily, we spoke to each other though we logically understood not a word . My muscles ache, they no longer need to work to contract at your call . Though you always returned the favour when my voice would ring for you, and it wasn’t with the loyalty of a dog but with the trust between two creatures, big and small. I am so grateful she trusted me so; to take care of her and to hold her and to make sure I always held a small space, just for her. I would have done it until the ground had to suck me down .

I always was like a cat, I like confined small spaces to cocoon myself within to make me feel safe. How amazing to be able to share this bubble of safety with another, with a body so different and unusual to yours . But with a soul so similar, I still keep enough space between my arms when I sleep, and I make sure my blanket isn’t wrapped around me too tight. Just incase that in the night she wants to slip in with me, to lay out her longest kitty sleep. Maybe she does while I dream, her white fur always cut through the darkness like the moon. Though I miss the joy of waking to her cradled in my arms, swaddled and she placed herself there . I didn’t place her there, she chose to be my baby. And I didn’t move an inch . And life rocks you violently, roughly like you’re at sea .

Lily I wish I could stroke you still, in the way in which your fur points . I knew your frame so well, if only I had gotten there before death to stroke you, he was too rough and careless. He didn’t know your mass, your delicacy, your entirety like I do. I loved you with the entirety of my complex, conscious, confusing human mind and I believed you loved me too, in the maximum of your own animal mind. That’s what counts.

Here is a little thing I wrote about how I dealt with the pain of my ‘kitten's’ passing. I built a ferris wheel out of fabric glue and wooden lollipop sticks. Dedicated to my kitten !!

Contractions

I pieced together matchsticks and lollipop sticks

Into anything it will transform

Trying, needing, to replicate the delicacy of her form

Silently I searched

For a way to articulate this timber skeleton

Into a sailboat, a ferris wheel, a tiny house even

But the glue gauged

And my pudgy human hands

Suddenly snapped and stripped its spine

Yet I still stick fragile chips towards a mechanism

I hope will come alive in the wind

And life rears his head of careless mind

Toppling the bones out of all the lambs with light limbs

Tumbling my wooden frames out of their body

As he did her .

My body dehydrates

The well of wicked tears, well within itself

Cries come gouging out my mouth, sure there’ll be more

When a decade of tender love

Seeps onto the concrete floor

Her body hardens

The road absorbs

[vintersang]

"No one thinks you're strange!"

wicked sentence starters / accepting / @esmerclda

Everything has gone so terribly wrong.

The news of her sister, her little sister, freezing to death because of her second attack on the frozen fjord still rang in her head. It was as loud as the massive Notre-Dame Cathedral's grand bells, but sinister and endless. She has lost sleep long before she fled far, far from the scene of her crime. She had been charged with treason by Prince Hans, no doubt now the King of Arendelle since Arendelle seemingly had no heir from the royal bloodline now that Anna is dead and gone. In a strange moment of disbelief, Anna did appear to stop the prince's blade from slaying the monster in this story. Both Hans and Elsa were shocked, but Elsa assumed Anna managed to fight through her death with every ounce of her fighting spirit.

Unaware of the lies of Hans, the grief-stricken queen watched in shock and horror as her weak-looking sister sacrificed herself to save her from certain death. The spread of her curse, the icy strike to Anna's very heart, had finally spread to the rest of Anna. Snow suspended in the air as grief overtook Elsa, swallowing her up until there is nothing left in her. For a second time now, she had to feel the crash of being told about her sister's demise. The worst part is how she watched it happen right before her very eyes. With nothing to live for, Elsa fled for yet another time.

She has never been charged with treason, but the fear convinced her to run as far as possible. The people already know the truth, so Prince Hans would no doubt be the best ruler to take over since the people loved him as much as they loved her sister. Her parents were gone, so there is no one else from her family to pick up the mess she has caused. Elsa's fear and quick reflexes made her miss the miraculous event of her frozen sister beginning to unthaw. She longed to throw her arms over her sister, embrace her one last time, but Elsa needs to run. She desperately has to get far away before she begins a body count in her reign of danger and fear and endless winter.

With her flee from Arendelle, her winter spreads. Unaware of her sister being alive, Elsa does anything to get away from as much people as possible. She disguises herself, abandoning her dress made of ice for rags. She doesn't care about the very poor quality of her clothes because she had no fear of freezing to death, so she might look very sickly and without a single coin to call hers. She arrives in France, weary and too lost in her thoughts to admire any beautiful sights. She cannot think of anything but the events in Arendelle, replaying every single mistake she committed in the back of her head.

Arendelle and anywhere she goes will be hit with her unpredictable winter, no matter how much she pleads to any god that will listen to her.

What has she done?

This is all her fault—

Paris is already being engulfed in her winter, rudely interrupting the summer weather. It happens overnight, perhaps faster than that, shocking everyone but her. People around her are already whispering and sobbing for the guidance of someone named Claude Frollo to help them in this difficult time. Witchcraft has taken hold of Paris, threatening to snuff them all out. Elsa grips a half-empty matchstick box in both of her hands in a deadly tight grip, using them as a substitution for her dear gloves. A thick layer of frost covers the box, but she still holds onto it as devoutly as a rosary.

It helps her replace her teal gloves, yes. Selfishly, she uses the winter weather she caused in order to sell matchsticks for as cheap as possible. She would try to sell the whole box at a moment's notice, but she doesn't have multiple matchstick boxes to at her disposal. She uses any coin she gets to feed herself scraps, quickly adjusting to these meals. The only advantage of her winter is that sleeping outside allows her more room to use her limited money on food and water. She ran out of her last coin two days ago, so she turns to the majestic cathedral.

Elsa drops to her knees, still holding the box of matches close to her aching heart. Prayer has always been something she struggled with, even though her family had their own royal chapel within the castle grounds. She did believe in a higher power, but prayer never worked. She witnesses how others were able to pray with ease, feeling some form of connection to whoever they choose to worship. She tries so desperately to believe, hope for some kind of divine guidance, but she only feels like she is talking to herself in her head. No divine intervention or angels or anyone at all were able to save her parents from that storm at sea.

No one saved Anna, not when she needed saving the most.

No one will save her— Why would they want to save a monster? She should be slayed like the monster she was, not saved—

Until a green-eyed beauty appeared, candlelight framing behind her curvy figure.

She isn't holding a dagger nor a sword, only armed with words. Elsa slowly realized the stranger is speaking to her, not anyone else in this semi-crowded cathedral. It takes her a minute to register that she was muttering apologies for being strange, for allowing the curse of hers to corrupt everything she loves until it dies. She rises to her feet hastily, already wanting to get away from the alluring stranger and her honey-sweet words for both of their sake. In her haste, fatigue causes her to weakly sway onto the wall. Her feet are so sore after traveling so much for who knows how long, so she still struggles to keep on moving.

"What... What do you want?" Elsa's demand is weak, most likely not very audible, but her body language is cold as ice. A glare is upon her face in seconds, easily formed by her growing wariness. Notably, her snow-covered body upon her pallor skin is not showing an ounce of trembling. More and more people flock to the massive heart of Paris, seeking sanctuary and guidance. More voices join them, easily drowning out her soft-spoken voice.

"Leave me alone, please...please..." Elsa's icy composure does not show signs of easing up, but she has the instilled manners of her etiquette lessons. "I don't know who you are, but I am not interested in speaking to anyone. Will you please go away?" Elsa's lessons in French come in handy, though now she wished she pretended to not know an ounce of French. No matter how beautiful or kind this woman looked, Elsa did not appreciate being spied on by someone. Whether this woman was as popular as this important-sounding Claude Frollo did not matter to her, not when she is trying to avoid her past. She knows she is only causing more troubles the more she runs, but running away from her problems is all she knows how to do.

[pivotalmoments0]

How to Use Candle Matches Safely and Effectively?

Lighting candles can create a relaxing and warm atmosphere, whether for a cozy evening at home or adding ambiance to a celebration. Using candle matches is one of the simplest and most effective methods for lighting candles. This guide will cover the essentials of handling and using candle matches safely and effectively. We will dive into best practices, safety tips, and techniques that will make the process simple and enjoyable.

Why Choose Candle Matches?

Candle matches are uniquely suited for lighting candles due to their convenience, ease of use, and affordability. Matches come in various lengths, making it easier to light candles safely without burning your fingers. They also have a classic appeal and, unlike lighters, do not require refilling or recharging.

Preparing to Use Candle Matches

To use candle matches safely, it’s essential to prepare the space around your candle and matches. Follow these steps to ensure a smooth and safe experience:

Choose a Safe Lighting Location: Select a flat, stable surface to place your candle. Ensure that the surrounding area is free of flammable objects, like curtains or paper.

Trim the Wick: A shorter wick helps maintain a steady, controlled flame. Use scissors to trim the candle wick to about ¼ inch to avoid a large flame.

Ventilation Matters: If you're lighting several candles, ensure the room is well-ventilated to avoid inhaling excessive smoke.

Gather Necessary Tools: Besides matches, have a candle snuffer or something to extinguish the flame easily at hand.

How to Strike Candle Matches Safely

Using matches requires care and attention, especially when striking them. Here’s the best way to strike a match to avoid accidents:

Grip the Match Properly: Hold the match near the base, away from the striking end. This helps you maintain control and reduces the chance of snapping the matchstick.

Angle and Strike Firmly: Strike the match at an angle against the striking surface to create enough friction to ignite it. Firmly press the match against the rough area and draw it across with a steady hand.

Allow the Flame to Stabilize: After striking, give the match a moment for the flame to stabilize before bringing it to the candle wick. This also prevents accidental snuffing out by moving too quickly.

Lighting Different Types of Candles with Matches

Lighting candles can be challenging depending on the type and size of the candle. Here’s a guide for lighting different types of candles:

1. Tea Light Candles

Tea light candles are small, self-contained candles in a metal or plastic cup. Since they have short wicks, it’s easy to light them with standard-length matches.

Safety Tip: Hold the match at a slight angle to keep the flame away from your fingers and to make contact with the wick effectively.

2. Votive Candles

Votive candles are generally larger than tea lights and require a little more attention due to their height. Long matches are recommended to avoid reaching into the candle holder.

Safety Tip: Use a longer matchstick to ensure your fingers are at a safe distance from the flame and wax.

3. Pillar Candles

Pillar candles are thick, cylindrical candles that can burn for extended periods. Their larger size can make lighting the wick difficult if it’s recessed within melted wax.

Technique: For deep-wick pillar candles, tilt the candle slightly to angle the wick for easier lighting.

Safety Tip: Use extra-long matches or taper matches specifically designed for pillar candles to avoid any risk of burns.

4. Jar Candles

Jar candles, popular for home fragrances, can be challenging to light when they burn down near the bottom. Here, longer matches are ideal for reaching the wick without risk.

Technique: Hold the match near the flame to give you better control and avoid knocking the match against the jar’s edges.

Safety Tip: To avoid glass overheating, extinguish the candle after a few hours and allow it to cool before relighting.

5. Taper Candles

Taper candles are tall and thin, often used for special occasions or formal settings. Lighting them can be tricky if they are in holders, so longer matches are advised.

Technique: Light the match and bring it to the tip of the taper candle’s wick, holding it slightly to one side until the wax catches fire.

Safety Tip: Always check that taper candles are firmly secured in their holders to prevent them from tipping over.

Extinguishing the Candle Safely

When you’re ready to put out your candle, avoid blowing it out, as this can cause wax splatter and smoke. Here are a few safe ways to extinguish your candle:

Use a Candle Snuffer: This is the safest method. Lower the bell-shaped snuffer over the flame, depriving it of oxygen until it goes out.

Dip the Wick: Use a metal tool to dip the wick into the melted wax, then straighten it back up. This minimizes smoke and prepares the wick for the next use.

Place a Lid on Jar Candles: For jar candles, placing the lid back on will extinguish the flame without releasing smoke into the room.

Candle Match Safety Tips

Using matches safely around candles involves awareness and some key precautions:

Keep Matches Dry: Moisture can ruin matches and make them difficult to light. Store them in a dry place.

Store Matches Out of Reach: Keep matches out of reach of children and pets to prevent accidental fires.

Dispose of Matches Properly: Always ensure a used match is completely extinguished before discarding it. Dispose of it in a non-flammable container.

Handling Candle Matches Responsibly

Practicing responsible match use can prevent accidents and ensure a pleasant experience every time. Here’s how to handle candle matches responsibly:

Do Not Drop a Lit Match: Never drop a lit match into the candle jar or surrounding area. Hold it until it fully burns out or extinguish it yourself.

Avoid Relighting a Match That Was Blown Out: Relighting a recently extinguished match can cause the flame to flicker or spark. Always use a new match instead.

Keep a Fire Extinguisher Nearby: For safety, have a fire extinguisher or a bowl of water nearby, especially if you’re lighting multiple candles at once.

Caring for Matches and Candles

Proper care for your matches and candles enhances their lifespan and ensures safer use.

Avoid Direct Sunlight for Matches: Excessive heat and sunlight can weaken the matchstick and affect its ignitability.

Store Candles in a Cool Place: High temperatures can soften candles, affecting the wick and shape.

Clean the Candle Wick: Regularly clean and trim the candle wick for a steady, consistent flame and to prevent smoking.

Final Thoughts on Using Candle Matches Safely

Using candle matches effectively is about being prepared and cautious. By understanding different candle types and following proper match-striking techniques, you can create a safe, enjoyable environment illuminated by beautiful candlelight.

[kitelined]

as promised i am here to provide OC questions owo

1, 10, 18, for any OC of your choice!!

Oh boy!! Thank you so much for the questions :D

1: How did you choose their name?

...... honestly I do not remember. Jonah Remiel Corbyn is just named that because they're names I liked while I was poking around for what to call my vampire OC.

10: Which of your OCs would be most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse? Which would die immediately?

Now there's a question... Uriel would ordinarily be able to fend for herself fine, and she's a good shot, but she's not very fit, and she has the physical constitution of a very long matchstick.

Jonah, assuming he's not exempt due to being undead already, might do relatively well for himself physically, but emotionally he would not handle it well at all if he were ever unable to save someone he cares about. Also, he takes too many risks, so then it's kind of a roll of the dice whether he makes it or not.

Ruarc would do just fine. He is naturally a planner who is eternally trying to account for everything that could possibly go wrong, and he's deeply community oriented, so like, not only will he live, he will probably be establishing a settlement somewhere. Probably without cannibalism.

18: If your character were trapped on a deserted island, what three things would they want to have with them? Which person would they absolutely hate to be trapped there with? Which person would they enjoy being trapped there with?

Jonah would like to have a knife, some flint, and some rope. Also if he's got to be stuck out there he would like his younger sister Grace to be there with him, because she's wicked clever and could probably figure something out. And if, with their powers combined, they can't figure anything out after all, then at least they'll still get along. Who would he most hate to be stuck with... basically any of the very old scheming vampires he's come to know and loathe? It's hard to say which specific one would be the worst.