#caesura town | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

infraaa · 2 years

Text

An OC Introduction

Madame Hong

Technological Information

Name ~ Hong Yu

Japanese Signature ~ ホン・ユウ

Chinese Signature ~ 洪宇

Other Names ~ Madame Hong, The Mistress of Red Jade, Miss Yu

~~~~

Biological Information

Age ~ 24

Sex ~ Female

Pronouns ~ She/They, occasionally xe/xem

Orientation ~ Centerosexual, Non-binary

Ethnicity ~ Asian (Chinese Descent)

Birthday ~ 30 November

Star Sign ~ Sagittarius

Height ~ 5’8” - 173 cm.

Weight ~ 132 lbs - 60 kg.

Skin Tone ~ Porcelain with Red Undertones

Blood Type ~ AB-

Eye Color ~ Crimson

Hair Color/Length ~ Mainly white but there’s a red stripe going down the edge of her bang, straight, sits at her rear.

Body Type/Shape ~ Average/Muscular Build, Pear figure

~~~~

Description

Madame Hong, Also known as Hong Yu, is a choreography instructor and a judge at Joy of Youth. Known for her oriental esque dances and her family, being made of aristocrats, she has had her classes at her feet, Ben the townsfolk that live in her town. A cunning mistress, she is smart, agile, and quick on her feet, using her dances to evade enemy attacks. She now teaches in a different world, alongside a certain incubus and someone from her own time. She feels so comfortable at his side, and gets jealous around or hearing about a certain someone.

~~~~

Skill Analytics/Palace Rep

Current Rank - Lower 1 (Noble Consort)

Class - Musician

Quality - Fabled

Skill Chart

[Passive] Thick Clouds

Red Jade conquers musical prowess. The notes that Hong Yu plays on her zither can produce special effects, namely hypnotic ones, whether that be from decreasing enemy defense to hypnotizing enemies into staying still, not moving an inch.

[Active] Elegant Rhythm

The reddened mistress stands on high mountaintops. The musical damage they can inflict can increase with each three rounds, healing her allies in the process, giving some of her heath to someone that desperately needs it.

~~~~

Relationships

Nihimni Caesura - Superior, Love Interest

Nihimni is Hong Yu’s boss. However, she wants to have a closer relationship with him. Every woman does, but she doesn’t care about his looks too much. They love his personality— how it almost mirrors hers. Their minds think alike, they share the same thought process, they are known as the mother and father of the dance troupe. Just something about him makes her heart flutter. She’s jealous of other women when they receive more of his attention. But Nihimni is clueless of her affections, dense minded as always on the matter, he believes that she’s just in the same boat with every other woman that has encountered him.

Li Yue - Coworker, Friend

Li Yue just so happened to be one of Hong Yu’s friends during her time I’m the imperial harem. They get along well, and others used to call them the Fire and Ice couple simply because Hong Yu admired red, whilst Li Yue favored blue. They treat each other similarly to how a mother and a daughter would, or how siblings would. They look to each other for advice and often mimic each other, though usually it’s Li Yue doing a lot of the mimicking.

Mu Lingchen - who is this?

Do we really need to discuss this? Madame Hong hated Emperor Lingchen. She would constantly be aware of the fact that he existed, so what she did in turn was that she would purposefully fail to notice his existence by pretending to not know who he was. She doesn’t like to talk to him or about him. Period.

Song Yu - coworker, Good Friend

The enigmatic Song Yu looks to Hong Yu like an older sibling. Yes, he’s older. But that doesn’t mean he can’t look to her for emotional advising. Sure, she has her reasons as to why they keep him around, clinging to her, but that she has yet to reveal. They work well with each other, and she yearns to see him again. Because she was good friends with his best friend, he took her in like family, same on her end, and they fought Song how to open up, safely and confidently. He favors her for that. Her braveness.

Pan’An - confidante, coworker

Ahh, the other one. Pan’An was like a father to her motherly figure. When she would leave, she would always leave Pan’An in charge. She could trust him with the team, and everyone followed his directive under their thumb. Together, they were a singular unit that could trust and open up to each other. She helped him with his low esteem, and he helped her with advising and confidence in her decisions, despite him being impulsive sometimes. They loved each other like king and would die for each other.

Daji - confidante

*insert this song here.* Daji and Hong Yu, albeit their modesty makes her bump at Daji’s head, are viewed as an interesting pair. They may not agree with everything, but they do trust each other. Daji’s twisted curiosity peaks Hong Yu’s interest, putting her at risk for a dominating error that would make her downfall. However, she can’t really blame Daji. She knows that the other mistress in red is sick in the head, and she lets her get away with the things she does. Yet she feels like she should put an end to her crimes, whether she wants to or not.

Shangxiang - Good Friend

They love to compose together. Surprisingly, the guard with a bow has a thing for poetry. Albeit its novice, her, Hong Yu, and sometimes either Song Yu, Pan’An, or both will gather to compose and recite pieces, and offer advice on how to improve. While living in the harem, Shangxiang would act like a bodyguard, alongside her maids, guarding over her home when she would be away with family on holidays. If Hong Yu could trust Shangxiang with her home, she could trust het with her life if need be.

#infrawrites #infra’s cast #Madame Hong #royal chaos oc #royal chaos #royal chaos Madame Hong #royal chaos mc #mc oc #mc ocs #oc #my oc #oc intro #oc bio #oc biography

15 notes · View notes

harrykilledmoi · 3 years

Text

Silence + Noise | Part One

1985. Manhattan, New York.

Noise, a live fast, die young, wild child living in the Chelsea Hotel, meets Harry, a newly immigrated, struggling, young poet in search of inspiration.

This is a story about life. A life so loud it’s quiet, and so quiet it’s silent. Fast and fleeting. It's about music and poetry and art in the filthy dwellings of its creators in New York City.

Rated: M (for language) Word Count: 5.3K Themes: AU, angst, 80s!Harry, Poetrry, love at first sight??? Pairing: Harry Styles x OFC Warnings: drug use + addiction, smoking

masterlist read on wattpad edits

Harry remembers the exact date and time that he first saw her.

June 30th, 1985.

10:34pm.

Although it could've been 10:36 as he was still unsure if his wristwatch was still running two minutes too slow. He does, however, vividly remember the weather.

The last remnants of spring were being washed away with the droplets that cascaded from the heavens that night. He'd thought he'd been lucky enough to leave the rain behind when he moved to New York, but like his writer's block, it seems the heavy clouds followed him across the pond as well. He was in search of inspiration and his small English county could no longer provide that for him. He'd only been in the city for a week but had still yet to find his footing, his place. It was the very words of Ginsberg that brought him to the seedy, down-at-the-heels boroughs of New York City, that propelled him to get on that plane, that brought him to her. Whatever the poets of Gotham were smoking, he wanted in.

He'd been walking down Canal Street that night, the rain lightly kissing the tops of his cheeks, puddles flooding around the soles of his loafers. Why he'd decided to wear the dark leather footwear on a night like that night was beyond him. It was his first official night out in the city, so it could be said that he subconsciously wanted to look his best. He'd spent his first week in the city holed up in his apartment. A corner walk up in an old hotel that rented rooms by the month.

The Hotel Chelsea.

The heartbeat of the city located in its underbelly.

He knew it from literature, from music, from art. He was told it was where artists are conceived, born, and died in a never ending forest fire of pathos, ethos, and on very rare occasions, logos. Swimming in a pool of their own shit and only their own shit, and then somehow making it glitter like gold. He was told it was where the muses lived. Every single one, from every myth and every legend. He was just waiting to meet his own.

He ducks into a dimly lit concrete stairwell when the rain begins to pick up. Soaking through the unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt he'd been gifted by a friend before leaving home. He stands under the small coverage provided by the building above him. Watching as bright yellow taxi cabs wiz by, distorting the already distorted refraction of soft warm light that spilled from the street lamps above. He watches a couple kiss in the rain before departing and going their separate ways and yet, although he was in the presence of such a magnificent amount of pulchritude, Harry was still unable to string words together into a verse that would do it justice.

A muffled cheer sounds from behind a door he hadn't realized led to anything, catching his attention. He turns, peaking into the frosted glass window located in the center of the old wooden door, leaning so close his nose flattens against it and his breath fogs the glass beyond its frost. He squints, trying to get a peek inside when the door swings open. He steps back swiftly, heart pounding, lungs heaving for air, hand pressed to his chest. The culprit, standing in the doorway eyeing him. Platinum blonde hair is the first thing he sees, then a sharply arched eyebrow over icy blue irises, and a cigarette, pressed between two lips painted in a maraschino cherry hue.

Harry struggles to collects himself when she side steps and gestures for him to enter or leave, either way, the purpose was to get him out of her way. His eyes are still locked on hers, swimming the in whirlpool of her energy, feet about to touch the sandy bottom of the frozen ocean within her eyes.

A snap of her fingers in the space between them pulls him out of his liquid dream like a buoy pulling a drowning boy to safety.

"Move it or lose it, I haven't got all day."

Her voice is unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. Although she looked lithe and delicate, her voice held grit and power. With an edge Harry could only imagine the sharpness of.

He squeezes past her through the door, their chest brushing as he scuttles. He dwindles when he catches a whiff of her. Whiskey and cigarettes and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Vanilla? Sandalwood? Whatever it was, he wanted more of it.

She scoffs as she pushes past him into the evening downpour, forcing him further than he'd planned on going. He turns quickly and watches her ascend the drenched concrete steps as the door closes, her tall, chunky heeled boots slapping against them like duck wings on water.

He stands there, staring through the small rectangular window at her blurred silhouette. It isn't until he's shoved lightly to the side, and then back, further into the bar by people trying to exit, that he realizes just how long he'd been standing there. In the process he loses sight of her.

The door opens again and Harry is pulled further into the small bar by a wayward group of people. He concedes in that moment, walking through the dive on at his own accord. His mind still spinning with a looped triptych of the encounter.

This was a new experience for Harry, the momentary loss of self in a stranger, specifically supernal, a particularly peculiar case of sonder. He'd had the luxury of knowing everyone in his small town and therefore had not been afforded the company of fresh faces and anomalous auras for the majority of his adult years of life. This was a feeling Harry wanted to relish in, to drink and be drunk on and its catalyst had just walked out the door to indulge in her nicotine laced vice, and in all probability, to not to be seen by him again. New York is a big city. All big, blinding lights and an even bigger populace.

That, however, didn't stop him from nursing an inaudible prayer on his lips as he ambles carefully through the bar, hoping, while trying to keep hold of realistic expectations, to catch a glimpse of the fair-haired sparkler one more time before he, himself, burned out.

The room, puzzlingly humid, dimly lit, and thick with people, carried the stench of old beer and rotting wood. A heavy cloud of cigarette smoke floats up from the crowd and threads through the dank wooden beams of the ceiling. The walls, covered in a deep red, are peeling and fading into a grimy brown, reminding Harry of the rust that sat on his neighbour's old chevy back in Cheshire. The floor, beer soaked wood that Harry was sure could give out at any moment if they weren't below street level.

Everyone in the room was gathered around a small stage made of old skids in the middle of the small space. A woman, small in stature with tousled brown hair tucked under a dark gray pageboy cap and black, thick rimmed glasses, stands on the stage in front of a microphone.

Harry heads to what he assumes could only be the bar. As if the rows of liquor bottles located behind a very well groomed young man hadn't been a clear enough indicator. His look, a stark contrast to the dwellers in the bar. A crisp white short sleeve button up, tucked into a pair of sharp black trousers, held in place with a black belt, silver buckle.

"What can I get you?"

Harry looks up at the bartender, then over to the bottles of liquor on the wall. A decent sized plank of driftwood sits snug in the center of the middle row of bottles. 'The Sick Rose' it read in a delicate, hand-painted cursive, the same red that dressed the walls.

He looks back over at the bartender who is watching him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"Whiskey, neat."

The bartender smiles before turning to grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. He grabs a glass from under the bar top and place it in front of Harry before pouring.

Harry watches him intently, taking in every detail. From the way his brows furrow when the liquor splashes up against the side of the cup and onto the bar to the 'nectar of the gods' glisten of the liquid in the glass.

With a tight but genuine smile, the bartender pushes the glass towards him. Harry reaches into his pants and takes out a balled up fiver. He flattens it out on the bar top, a light, embarrassed chuckle leaves his lips before he hands it over, returning the smile with a curt nod.

Feedback bleeds momentarily over the sound of soft conversation drawing Harry's attention. He picks up his drink and turns his attention to the stage.

She's seated on a high stool, the woman on stage, and has a cigarette pressed between her middle and index fingers, the smoke cascading up to join the rest of the crowd's. In her other hand, an old, black and white school jotter with several coloured post-it notes sticking out of every side.

She gets off the stool and steps towards the mic, poised with her book open and resting on her forearm, against her chest. She speaks with candor. Her tone rhythmic, almost musical.

She pauses and the verse rings in Harry's ears. A dull ache pulses through his chest. The tips of his fingers tingle. There's an itch trickling up from under his skin that grows with every word, every pause, every breath.

This is what he'd been looking for. What he had come to New York for. To live and exist as the wordsmiths before him. In a dark dingy basement bar, last legs, glass of whiskey in hand, cigarette smoke clinging to every space. No more thicker than the voltaic energy that has the hair on his arms standing at attention. The baring of souls in stanza, in verse, in caesura, in rhyme. A chorus of pain and lust and life, oh to live a life like this. And now it was his.

He rubs his arm but knows that that isn't what will satiate his craving.

That the only cure lies within the keys of his typewriter and alabaster sheet of 8 ½ by 11.

Harry takes another generous sip of his drink with peeled ears and attentive heart. Hoping that the ability to write something, anything, would strike him like the lightning that had been streaking the sky that night.

He'd almost forgotten about her in the hurricane of poems and poets that swept on and off stage throughout the night. But when he sees her again, hours later, the initial rush of titillation he had felt returns like an unexpected punch to the gut.

He's three glasses of cheap whiskey deep, leaning against the small bar top. The crowd in the bar had gotten boisterous, rowdier, and now instead of poets baring their souls to the patrons, there's a louder than hell band on stage. He's sure they have no idea how to play their instruments but the magnanimity of their outrageous on stage antics made them entertaining enough to watch. The lead singer had broken a bottle over his head and made out with three different women on stage within the span of ten minutes and yet, once Harry had caught sight of the platinum stick of dynamite, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

She's seated in a worn leather booth at the far end of the room. And although there were copious amounts of intoxicated people standing between them, Harry had managed to maintain a clear and direct line of view.

The first thing he noticed was the smug smirk that never seemed to leave her lips. It was as if she was holding onto a secret that no one, not even herself, knew. The second was that she wasn't alone.

Next to her in the booth sat two people, a man, neck full of tattoos and decked out in leather. His dark, shoulder length hair looked as if it hadn't seen a wash in weeks but Harry could admit that the man was quite handsome, in a dangerous, "I'd steal your car" kind of way. The other, a woman, wild curly hair, tucked under a black beret. Her dark skin shown against the dim lighting in the bar and was a stark contrast to the bright red, latex dress she had on. The outfit was soaked in intimidation but the smile she had affixed on her face as she whispered to the object of Harry's full attention, was soft and genuine.

The blonde head of hair whipped around in Harry's direction and their eyes catch each other's.

In a movement too swift for him to register himself, he turns to face the bar, an embarrassing warmth making its way up his neck. He orders another drink even though he already has a full one in his hand. He throws it back, finishing it before the bartender could put the new one in front of him. Harry takes in a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves before turning back to catch one more glimpse of the blonde matchstick before calling it a night, but just like before she'd disappeared. In fact, the only person sitting there was her female friend, the male compatriot had disappeared as well.

Harry can't help but wonder. Had she gone out for a cigarette, or had she decided to take the brooding tattooed man back to hers. Maybe she'll be back. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was still here.

He scans the room before his body propels him forward, a heart over head start of an active search, removing him from the bar and into the crowd on people. Popping up every now and then to see over the sea of heads.

When he finally does spot her again, she and neck tattoos are wedged in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. Their chests pressed together as they speak in hushed, harsh voices.

"Neck Tattoos" holds a small plastic bag above her head, a frown etched deeply in the curve of his brow and the edges of his lips. Harry watches as she attempts to grab the bag back from the man but fails, falling into him, her head turning and immediate locking eyes with Harry's curiously impeding stare. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips pucker. Her gaze is intense, hard but it sends a neon jolt of electricity through Harry's body.

She looks away, pushing herself away from "Neck Tattoos'" chest, as she makes another attempt to grab the baggy from him by propping herself up onto her toes. His large tattooed hand wraps itself around her wrist tightly and her eyebrows furrow in pain as he leans closer to her. Harry's body jerks forward as her eyes drift back over to his. His legs move to carry him closer but halts momentarily to size up the situation.

He'd always been someone who thought about actions and their consequences before making rash decisions. Logical and reliable were words that could be said to be synonymous with Harry Styles.

Heck! The most impulsive thing he'd ever done was what had brought him into this very situation. He didn't think a bar fight would be in the cards for him, ever. But he figures there's a first time for everything.

Harry makes his way over to them as quickly as he can, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the situation all the while trying to figure out how he was going to incapacitate "Neck Tattoos", who looked to be about a whole head taller than him.

The crowd seems to be fighting against him, trying to keep him away but he fights against it anyway. In that moment, Harry likens himself to salmon swimming upstream in the frigid autumn waters. A dangerous journey but to give up would go against their nature. Fight, however, was not in his nature but he thought himself fiercely passionate and empathetic which could be the same, he thinks. Harry finally breaks through the crowd and is within spitting distance of the two just as the snowy haired firecracker winds up and socks "Neck Tattoos" square in the nose.

Harry's eyes widen as "Neck Tattoos" falls, landing at his feet. He stares at the man on the floor before trailing his sights up to the woman who'd mystified him the short time they had been aware of the other's existence.

Her hand whips up and down as if shaking it will rid it of the throbbing that had begun to consume the limb. She bends down over "Neck Tattoos", retrieving the reason for the abruptly violent situation that oddly enough, no one else in the small bar acknowledged. She pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, her smirk returning to its place between her lips.

"Probably should get that checked out John. Broken nose wouldn't do that pretty face any favours."

Her words are firm but underneath it, there was a hint of something that told Harry that she actually was friends with "Neck Tattoos". That she cared about him, although her actions seemed to say otherwise.

She stands, and in the process notices one of her bruised knuckles bleeding. She brings it to her mouth, and it's all Harry can stare at, eyes still as wide as a deer in headlights.

Her icy blue orbs move up from the floor to Harry's face and he melts.

"Thanks for all the help man."

Her blood stained lips spit the sarcastic benediction with the prick of a sharp dagger.

Harry blinks. He opens his mouth and finds it hard to form words with the amount of indescribable feelings rushing through his blood stream, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, and pushes past him, stepping over "Neck Tattoos", to a door adjacent to them. Harry twists his head to follow her, in a daze. It isn't until a loud clang sounds, the door closing, that he snaps out of it.

The spinning in his head comes to a standstill but the bubbling in his veins is far from subsiding.

His body is moving towards the door before his head can even fathom it. The pull is so magnetic. It's as if his soul had left his body and is pulling him along by hand, it's celestial.

He moves quickly, almost a blur, as he jogs out of the bar and into a dark lit alley. The rain had stopped and had left behind tiny reflective orbs of liquid on every surface that sparkled even in the darkness. He spins to his left, then his right in search of a halo of bleached tresses but comes up short.

A weight lands on his chest and trickles down to the pit of his stomach.

Regret, maybe. Nausea, definitely.

Should've said something.

He spins on the heels of his now drenched loafers with the intention of heading back inside to grab one more drink and quell his overstimulated mind and heart. He reaches for the large metal handle, when something catches his eye. A spark, several. Flickering and flashing to an off kilter beat. Small but bright in the darkness of the alley.

He closes his eyes and takes in a breath before letting go of the door handle. He takes a step away from the door, relieving his filled lungs with an aggressive puff. He's already been reckless thus far tonight, what's one more ill informed decision.

He opens his eyes and takes a few cautious steps towards the continuous tiny combustion. Slowly, hands curled in tight fists in case something or someone jumped out at him. In case he met one of those colossal rodents that New York was so famous for.

When he gets closer and his eyes adjust to the low light, he sees her. Leaning up against the grimy, graffiti filled, brick wall of the bar, cigarette between her lips, lighter in her bruised hand, pint glass filled with beer in the other. A brisk breeze flows through the wind tunnel alley way as she struggles with the lighter. A slick curse passes her lips every time the lighter goes out without lighting the cigarette.

Harry walks up to her, still cautious but fists unclenched.

"Need help?"

Harry chokes out the words but it's enough to cause her eyes to flick up, landing on the smile he struggles to keep soft. He doesn't wait for an answer, instead he steps forwards, cupping his hands around the lighter when she tries to flick it again. This time, the cigarette lights and she breathes out an audible sigh that dances around the smoke as it leaves her lips and Harry finally finds his voice.

"Y'alright?"

His eyes trace the lines of her face that are faintly illuminated by the end of her cigarette. Her soft lines a stark contrast to her hard glare. The corner of her lips fixed in a subtle scowl.

"Could be better."

Harry nods. He racks his brain for something to say. Anything to hold her attention for just a little while. Anything to keep this energy, au courant, from fizzling out.

If words came easier to him he wouldn't be in this alley. He'd be back in Holmes Chapel, in his makeshift cave of books and trinkets and old wood. With candles that smelt of Christmas and full body warmth, and his family would be just a quick jaunt away.

"You like poetry?"

Idiot.

He mentally curses his inability to come up with something less benign but stops when she lets out a loud, choking laugh. Her head tossed back in sweet amusement.

"Do I like poetry?"

She forces out through her chuckles.

"Is that a line?"

Her eyebrow peaks as she takes another drag of her cigarette then blows the smoke in Harry's direction. He blinks rapidly, the smoke causing his eyes to gloss over.

"You don't have to try so hard. If you wanted to take me home then all you had to do is ask. You're pretty and honestly I'm not picky."

Harry's eyes widen as he shakes his head, his eyes darting to a piece of soaked garbage on the cement, a candy wrapper.

Never had he met a woman so forward, so unapologetically crass and yet, still so enthralling.

"S'not what I want," he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His front teeth press down so heavily he thinks he might've drawn blood.

"Really?"

She flicks the ash of her cigarette and brings it back up to her lips. A crooked smile cause the smoke to exit her mouth from the side rather than in Harry's face. He nods, it's subtle, but she acknowledges his answer.

"Doesn't seem like it. You've been watching me all night and when people do that it usually means one of two things. One, you want to fuck them or two," she take another drag, "you're a perverted stalker."

Harry's attention snaps back at her.

"M'not a stalker."

She steps closer to him, her body flush with his.

"I believe you," her voice is soft as her hand runs down Harry's shirt collar, fingers hovering just above where his exposed skin starts and not stopping its descent, "and that's sad because I'm sure we would've had a good time. Never done it with one of the Queen's sons before. Guess I won't be crossing that off my bucket list tonight."

She steps away from him and flicks her cigarette. It hits the wall causing the cherry to burst and glowing ash to trickle down like fireworks on the fourth of July. She walks past him towards the door but pauses before opening it. Looking over her shoulder at him, she shakes her head and laughs before disappearing into the building.

Harry stands alone in the alley. His body quivers with shock, with fear, with sheer excitement.

His heart was beating in his ears. His head, a spinny, dizzying top, unrelenting in its momentum.

He attempts to steady his breathing as he leaves the alley, stepping onto the sidewalk. The streets no longer bare as the patrons of bars and clubs alike pour out, where they'd follow the call of the rest of their night. An after party here, a quick, regrettable in the morning fuck there.

Harry bobs and weaves through people, still high off of the sheer aura of the woman. Missing a step and nearly eating shit as he descends down the stairs into Canal Street station.

He dawdles through the station, stopping to take a look at some of the musings of urban philosophers in permanent marker on the walls. Declarations of love and lust, names of places and people, numbers if you're in need of a good time.

"I'm sure we would've had a good time."

He checks his pockets for his wallet or some change when he gets to the pay toll but comes up short. He throws his head back and sends a curse out to the universe.

A chime sounds and Harry double times his pace, looking left and right before hopping over the turnstile. All but flying down the steps, he glides into the train just as the doors begin to close, narrowly missing his torso.

He catches his breath as he looks around the near empty train car for a seat. An elderly woman with a small buggy filled to the brim with groceries offers him a soft smile to which he returns as her makes his way to the far end of the car.

He takes a seat, his back to the window. He clasps his hands together as the train enters the tunnel. His body shakes and rumbles with the movements of the vehicle as a loud, low whistle fills the space around him.

He leans back, resting his head against the glass with eyes closed. Words bloom behind his eyelids like spring flowers but refusing to link together like a daisy chain to create anything worth writing down. His lips part as a heavy sigh floats past them. The train comes to a halt as his eyes open with the door.

His eyes shift to the doors as the elderly woman makes her way slowly off the train.

She passes and when she's clear of his line of view, a glimmer of pale blonde catches his eye.

A few blinks and a double take help clear his vision.

There she is. Sitting at the other end of the train, head bobbing back and forth to the tempo of whatever tune is floating through the headphones that are snug around her ears. A bright red portable cassette player rests on her lap, legs clad in houndstooth.

Although she was quite a distance away from him, he could see her now. Really see her. Her hair glows in the fluorescent subway lights and Harry is like a moth to a flame.

When she stands to get off the train, he does as well. Stepping out of the train a few doors down from her. On the wall, in mosaic tile is the name of the station, his stop. He heads towards the stairs, staggering his pace to stay a few feet behind her.

She walks with purpose, with power. A strut that says stay the fuck out of my way.

When they make all the same turns Harry chalks it up to more than coincidence.

Divine intervention maybe? Not likely.

As they both close in on the hotel, Harry decides that he's going to say something. But when she stops abruptly in her tracks, it throws him for a loop. His legs, not quite registering what was happening, continue to bring him forward and closer to her than he'd planned. She spins around quickly, her eyes landing directly on his as he stops a few steps away from her.

"Are you following me?"

She points a sharply manicured finger at him. Harry steps back, shaking his head. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"M'not. I swear, it's just a-"

"Pervy stalker," a sing-song lilt carries the accusation from her mouth to Harry's ears.

Harry's eyebrows furrow.

"I live here?" It's a question more than a statement. He points to the building.

"You sure? You don't seem so sure."

Harry clears his throat as his hands fall to his sides.

"I do, I live here."

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Where's your key?"

Harry sighs, defeated.

"Was in my wallet, but I lost it."

"Your key?"

"My wallet."

She hums, nodding slowly. Her eyes narrow as she leans forward. She steps back and turns on her heel.

"Sucks."

She approaches the front door of the hotel, putting her key in the lock. She pulls it open with brute force before looking over at Harry, who's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, alone.

"Well are you coming or what?"

He nods quickly as he breaks into a light jog. Slipping past her through the door she'd holding open with her back.

As they begin their ascent up the main square spiral staircase Harry can't help but let his mind wander. Questions bounce around his mind and on to his tongue like a diving board. A deep dive, cannonball wave pool displaces his quietness.

"What's your name?"

It's soft but she hears him.

"Noise."

Her voice echoes off the walls, stinging like a sour note.

"Noise? Your parents couldn't have possibly-"

"They didn't," she cuts him off with an over shoulder smirk so devious Harry could swear for a split second he'd seen the devil himself. Afraid to ask anymore questions he stays quiet.

They reach the 4th floor and she stops, turning around the face him.

"This is me," she points to a bright teal door, the number 412 affixed to the center in bold brass.

Harry nods.

"Where're you headed?" She asks.

"512," his answer is curt as he keeps his eyes on the ground.

"Not sure how you're gonna get in without a key. You might just have to sleep in the hallway until maintenance comes in the next few hours."

Harry groans but nods, wishing her a goodnight, frustrated that he wouldn't he able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

He turns and begins to continue up the stairs.

"Hey 512," Noise calls out. Harry stops mid step and turns around to a mound of black leather being tossed in his direction. He fumbles when it hits his chest but catches it, his wallet.

"Welcome to New York."

Harry watches as she slides through her front door. His eyes narrow but the corner of his mouth lifts as he jogs the rest of the way to his apartment.

22 notes · View notes

stargate-crossing · 7 years

Photo

today i visited @mayor-brianne‘s town caesura ! i love it so much i have no words oml

it all looks so amazing and i love the rain ahhh everything looks so well thought out

the dream address is 5C00-004E-390E please go visit and see everything urself

#acnl #animal crossing #animal crossing new leaf #dream town #acnl dream town #also i looked up the meaning for caesura and its rlly cool oml #caesura #mayor-brianne

706 notes · View notes

sirladysketch · 3 years

Text

Originally Posted by WitchyAngela , even though I am starting a new thread to make it a shorter post that is easier on people’s dashes.

RULES: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

(I am *also* going to break the rules, because I don’t want to bother that many people-- if you wanna do it, go for it!) I was tagged by @twileighplants (thank you! <3). I’m also gonna break this into two parts, active WIPs vs stuff that’s been put aside for now/indefinitely.

Active WIPs:

Let the River In

<Redacted> ch 2

I Was Born For This

Watcher in the Woods

Stuff on hold for now is below the cut because the list is hella long, lol.

Stuff that’s on ice at the moment/indefinitely fridged:

Summertime Sadness Ch 2

Into Something New

Friends in my Heart

Happier

Friends Make Garbage

Gentlemen of Fortune

Ma, The Space Between

Triple Threat

Three Sheets to the Wind

Goof Trope

Better Off Dead

Golden Boy

Caesura

Dreams See Us Through

Puppy Love

The Gingerbread Princess

Spirit Dreams Inside

The Snow Prince

A Bend in the Loop

Failsafe Future

Wo is Me

Xylon

Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked

Courting Chaos

Shallow Sleep

The Oathkeeper’s Legacy

Sound Bytes

Ghost Towns

The Castle of Shadows and Stars

DARKNESS

Don’t Fuck with Puck

Birth in a broom closet

He’s Just Not That Into You Anymore

Shining Knight

Puppetmaster

Plot Bandaid Fixit Fic

Cringe Crossover Fic

#writing stuff #asks #god I have a lot of wips #if only I liked my own writing

2 notes · View notes

starsailorstories · 3 years

Text

P.S. what I didn’t bring up in this post is that the thing of calling everyone senna/senneta was literally started by Cepheid because she was uncomfortable with the potential implications of sia/ela titles and started addressing everyone by family titles the way they’d do on Caesura. At this point it’s A Thing in a lot of radical circles, not just Bell Town. Directly equivalent to the 18th century things of abandoning the you/thou distinction, using ‘citizen’ or ‘comrade’ as a title, etc.

#sweet chariot #worldbuilding #conlangs

7 notes · View notes

celestinecrossing · 7 years

Photo

🌿🌱🌧

#animal crossing new leaf #animal crossing #new leaf #acnl #ac #acnl landscaping #acnl exterior #acnl summer #caesura #mine #pretty happy with how caesura is coming along #I really focused on symmetry in this town #:3

1K notes · View notes

imnotcameraready · 5 years

Text

Caesura (chivalry au)

A/N: you know how people in chivalry keep referring to a public demonstration of sorts? well. :)

this has been sitting half-finished in my files for a while now, and i figured i should finish it. i was just kinda in the mood to kick roman’s ass so i finished it up!

WARNINGS: oh god. Remus Mention, Torture, Public Humiliation, Whipping/Caning, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, self-torture, drug mention, Blood, a lot of blood, Chunks of Flesh, self-deprecation, Graphic Depictions of Wounds, Insults, Delirium, Disassociation, Verbal Abuse, Self-Hatred, Temporary/Pain-induced Memory Loss, Hair Pulling, Choking, heat - Freeform, Burns, Burning, Sun Burns in particular, Passing Out, Swearing/Cursing — golly, that’s a lot! let me know if i’ve forgotten anything!!

Words: 4404

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST <-- I HEAVILY RECOMMEND READING THE REST OF CHIVALRY IS DEAD BEFORE THIS!

enjoy!!! <3 <3 <3 <3

no roman line break because if i look my son in the face as i post this i might cry

The Thief hopped onto the roof, then bent down as he slid down slow against the tiling. He stopped himself at the edge, resting a hand against the building’s spire. He was standing atop the church, the one in the town’s square. Four blocks away from the castle in the innermost walls. This was the closest he’d gotten to the castle so far; until now, he’d been opting to just hide in the tree until this whole tournament of champions passed. But the invitation to witness….

It couldn’t be real.

There was already a gathering in the square. He didn’t know where the Dragon planned to come from, where they had that other Roman — the Damsel, the Damsel in Distress? He couldn’t remember a Damsel but it wasn’t like he’d stayed to hear all their names — nor what the Dragon had in store. It was a vague invitation and he didn’t plan on staying long.

The crowd didn’t have defined faces. Some were very recognizable, though. The Thief could pick Sleep out in the crowd, near the back and leant against a wall, Starbucks in his hand. He’d probably report back to the other Shorts characters. They’d all developed a coallesed group over the years and while they weren’t always friendly to one another, they all understood that they had equal importance in the Imagination. Sleep was the most neutral of them, with a fan following that ensured he’d never die.

The Thief winced. He hoped that Prince Dude was doing alright, hopefully hidden somewhere in the town. He used to flit around the castle, no actual power but a charisma over the unnamed townspeople that ensured he was respected like royalty. It would be a little weird if he ran into Prince Dude out here during this, but like with most things, the Thief would probably just fade back into the shadows and go home. Considering the little time he spent outside either the castle or the tree, it was improbable that he’d ever run into him.

On another rooftop, lower and closer to the town hall, atop the library actually, was the Bard. The Thief had seen him a few times over the past two days, so much so that he might consider him a friend. Gosh, it’d already been two days? He wondered briefly how long it’d been in the real world. Would any of the other Sides notice?

Had it been long enough? Would they ever notice?

Wasn’t like they regarded Roman as more than a pawn for their own gains, despite how Roman loved them. The Thief wouldn’t fault them for that, though. And he’d never told.

He longed for any of them to just….touch him. Not even in any sexual way. He’d been having dreams of how Virgil would lean his head against his shoulder during movie nights, how soft Patton’s hands were when he ran them through Roman’s hair. Even Logan’s firm grip on his wrist as he led him around the Mind Palace, to the library, then to Logan’s room, then to the kitchen, bathroom for first aid, Roman’s room, anywhere.

Now, don’t be getting tender. This was a piss poor time for those idyllic dreams.

The Bard was sitting cross legged on the roof (he wouldn’t be able to escape as fast) and was holding a ukulele in his lap (could it serve as a weapon?) while his mouth was open. He must have been singing a song. There was a blanket or something in his lap, an amorphous black blob. How long did he think they’d be out here for?

Of all the counterparts, the Thief found the Bard most agreeable. His non-hostile characterization made it easier for him to hold conversation, because he didn’t ask too many questions and wouldn’t murder him. Or maybe it was less that he was quiet and more that the Bard just didn’t shut up about himself.

He chuckled.

The black lump moved in the Bard’s lap, and the Thief frowned.

Oh, no, no fucking way. He did not.

The Thief squinted across the square, then clicked his tongue.

Oh, god damn it, he did. The Child was sitting in the Bard’s lap, plucking at random ukulele strings.

He’d brought the Child? They didn’t know what the Dragon was going to do, but it didn’t seem like something that the Child should witness.

Though, the Thief thought while bobbing his head, it was probably safer to keep the Child at his side instead of leaving him at home. Who knows if the guards would break in. He wouldn’t it past the Dragon to send that kind of strike while at an event like this. He wasn’t sure if the Dragon was thoughtful enough to consider that sort of tactic, but, well….

“WHO WANTS TO GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” a shout from below.

The doors to the town hall opened with a bang, and the Bard immediately clamped his hands over the Child’s ears. The Thief rolled his eyes, figuring he’d have to talk about how to be an actually good parent, maybe he could get Dad Guy’s help in that, wait, wasn’t his whole character about how he was kinda an irresponsible parent? Maybe Teacher Dude?

Something was being rolled out of the town hall. A platform, with a peg in the middle and raised on some wheels, was being rolled out.

A stage. This bastard wanted a stage. The Thief hissed, running his hands through his hair and shoving them harshly into a crossed motion on his chest. Hold it together. You had to watch. Bear witness or something like that.

The guards pushing the stage stationed it out in the middle of the crowd, locking its wheels with blocks and surrounding it themselves. Did they think any of them would try and save the poor sap? The Thief knew he wasn’t, and he had a suspicion no one else would, either.

The town hall’s doors opened again, and the Thief craned to see.

Out walked who the Thief can only assume is the Dragon. He didn’t know what he expected, but whatever those expectations were are being vastly overlooked in lieu of the Dragon’s tackiness. I mean, really, a whole cape? It was floor length, billowing after him, and then there were actual literal horns coming from his head? Hang on, he just took a breath — it’s not cold enough for there to be condensation, was that smoke?

The Dragon was really taking this villainy thing to the next level. The Thief’s peasantry clothing beneath his cloak was at least white, if a little grey and dirtier than usual. The Dragon didn’t have a single spot of white on him.

Beside him, being pulled along on chains around his neck and wrists, was the Damsel in Distress. An apt shortening would probably be the Damsel, since the Thief would be damned before he spoke more than two syllables to identify a Side.

A pair of guards followed them out, making that six guards in total around the podium. As they approached, the Dragon shoved the Damsel’s head down and handed his chains off to one of the guards. He motioned toward the post, giving quiet instructions, while the Damsel starred numbly at the crowd.

Maybe he hadn’t known what would be happening. That’s what it seemed like.

The Dragon climbed onto the stage first, then the guards led the Damsel up, tugging him along like a dog on a leash.

“AS SOME OF YOU KNOW!” the Dragon stepped in a circle, around the stage’s perimeter. “THE PRINCE IS DEAD!”

As he spoke, the Damsel stood on the platform, swaying slightly. The Thief watched him, curious of his movements. He was wearing white pants and a black tank top. No shoes, though they’d probably been removed for this performance.

This was probably a performance. Nothing more. Roman wouldn’t intentionally do something this self-torturous, no part of him. The Thief squatted, then rested his head on his knuckle. He couldn’t place where he’d seen this Roman, the Damsel. He wasn’t paying attention during that initial meeting, none of them really were, what with them getting into arguments and threatening to kill each other and what have you. And if the Prince was really….dead. Then it stood to reason that the Dragon would continue killing them off. One by one.

Of course, this was a threat. Who else would be on the Dragon’s hit list?

Instinctively, the Thief’s eyes floated to the Bard and the Child.

Pacifists, he was sure. One was ten years old, and the other, well….

The Child tried to lean out of the Bard’s lap, neck craning to see what was below, and the Bard pulled him closer to his chest. Blocking his view, just as the guards kicked in the Damsel’s knees and grabbed his chains. They threw them around a peg in the post, and the Damsel was knelt on the ground, chest facing outward with his arms just barely held above his head. He didn’t make any move against the bindings, too.

“You shouldn’t have brought him,” the Thief mumbled to himself, unable to stop the judgement from flowing out. Really, though. A whole ass child.

He wasn’t sure what kept the Bard there, either; he knew him to be more of a lover than any sort of fighter, much to the Thief’s chagrin.

On top of that, he wasn’t sure where the other two were. Perhaps the Playwright was watching from a distance. He’d insinuated that he could do that. Where the Artist was, though, he didn’t know. There was no way he wasn’t present, though. How could any of them have turned this opportunity down.

“AND WITH THE PRINCE DEAD,” the Dragon was walking in circles now, slow with his cape trailing after, as though circling his prey, “WE NEED TO THIN OUT THE CROWD. DECIDE WHICH VERSION OF ROMAN IS WORTH KEEPING.”

Murmuring in the crowd. The Thief even saw Sleep shift upright, looking intrigued. They’d all known that the split happened, everyone knew about the two Creativities, but none of them had been around for it. Or, well, none of the ones who were there at the time remembered it. Everyone had undergone changes through creative development, so much so that their memories beyond backstories and plot-relevancy were muddled.

No one knew how Creativity settled unto the Prince and the Duke. The Thief guessed they were about to find out.

The Dragon must have seen everyone’s focus turned to him, because he grinned even wider, barring sharp fangs at the world. His eyes gazed across the crowd in reverence. A real drama queen.

Meanwhile, with one hand, he grabbed the Damsel’s arm and spun him around. He gave a shout, but spun nonetheless, hugging the post. He seemed disoriented, to the Thief. Had he been drugged beforehand?

Had he fought back?

The Thief slid down the building more more, resting his feet against the chimney as he watched. He wasn’t sure what kind of public humiliation the Dragon was going for, but having invited all of the others, he knew it wouldn’t be good. What did ‘Worth Keeping’ mean?

“HOW DOES ONE DECIDE?” the Dragon raised his hand.

There was a black whip glittering in his hand.

The Thief saw the Bard cover the Child’s eyes with one hand, and his mouth with the other. Even the Thief’s mouth hung open slightly.

What he was insinuating was torture.

No part of Roman was that cruel, right?

“YOU KILL IT!”

The Damsel lurched when the whip cracked against his back, but made no sound himself. The whip made a snaping sound, loud like the thunder of last night’s storm.

The Thief didn’t know what the Bard did after that. He assumed they’d stayed, because he assumed that the Bard had just as much morbid curiosity as he did. His eyes were glued to the scene but he didn’t process a single strike after the first. It all merged together into lines of blood, drops of red flicking off of the glittering whip.

The Dragon was laughing.

He heard that. He heard the laughter.

None of the other characters moved, either. Everyone stood, or looked away.

After the first few strikes, the Thief shook his head, trying to physically clear it, and averted his gaze to the crowd. Sleep had disappeared. Some of the less processed characters were still watching, but everyone who had ever interacted with Roman at all seemed to be averting their eyelines.

No one wanted to watch. This was gruesome.

A loud scream rang out, and the Thief’s attention snapped back. The Damsel finally gave in, screaming, crying out in pain as — it wasn’t a whip any longer. No, it was an obsidian cane, glittering and black but sharp as a knife. Had it changed into a cane? When? Could the Dragon do that?

The Dragon paused, stepping forward and yanking the Damsel upright by the hair. Even from this distance, he could see the Damsel trembling like a leaf. Blood was oozing from his back, coating his legs, even his face had spots of it.

He looked like he was saying something. Perhaps the Thief should get closer. If there were words being exchanged, sentiments and the like being discussed, he would want to hear. It might help him get the edge on whatever quagmire the Dragon would create after this….what would he call it? A demonstration of power, maybe? Of prowess? Of Roman’s weakness, most likely.

Jesus, this was already so tiring. The Thief couldn’t wait to go home, back to the tree. Brew some hot chocolate, curl up in his bedroom, amidst all his blankets and pillows and the soft matress. Watch the sun set.

Another shout drew the Thief’s attention once more. The Dragon had the Damsel pressed to the post, holding him up by the neck while his back bled out against the wooden pole. More words were exchanged, and the Thief looked around the rooftops. He could try and sneak into the crowd, but he looked way too identifiably Roman.

Speaking of. He looked up at the other rooftop.

Oh, dear. The Bard was crying. He seemed to have a firm grip on the Child’s head, was pressing him against his own chest in an effort to make sure the Child didn’t look. And it wasn’t like the Child was trying to look, either, as he curled into the Bard’s chest.

The Thief grunted, squatting down. He wanted to get closer. He tied his waistbelt around his cloak, so it wouldn’t flap as much, and shimmied on his feet further out one of the stone gutters. The Dragon was still looking down at the Damsel, talking about something or another.

He didn’t look up or indicate that he saw the Thief hop between one gutter to the next. The Thief grasped onto the roof, sliding himself down by holding onto the metal window bars of the building he was on and landing, as soft as he could, on the balcony below. He climbed off of the confined area and walked out closer to the edge. Then, he broke into a run.

The best seat in the house was, in fact, the town hall. The Thief jumped across the gap between the two buildings, rolling upon landing as—

“I WILL LIGHT YOU ON FIRE, YOU KNIGHT IN FOOLS’ GOLD ARMOR,” the Thief sank into a criss-cross at the roof’s edge as the Dragon shouted threats again at the trembling Damsel.

He didn’t scream when the cane whipped against his back, squelching much more than it snapped. His back was gridded with lines, unidentifiable now because of, you know, the copious amounts of blood that he imagined he was covered in. Was there even a layer of skin to be shearing?

He deserved this. Yes, he did. He was a horrible purveyor of dreams, defender of hopes. Hopes? When was the last time he’d felt those? Was it a year ago? Two?

He couldn’t remember.

His body arched without his command, away from the clip of the cane, but Roman could barely feel it anymore.

He couldn’t feel anything anymore, not really. Not the tips of his fingers, barely the whip against his back. Soon, hopefully soon, he wouldn’t even feel the cold grip of life.

Someone’s hand brushed through his hair, the tips of their fingers grazing incredibly soft against his scalp, and he whined. Please? Please, his body leaned into the touch, tugging at whatever was holding him by the wrist, by the neck, please, he wanted this so badly, he wanted to be held, he WANTED!

“You’re pathetic,” his own voice spat back at him, and a swift kick landed in his stomach.

Roman coughed, or cried out, but whatever sound was there died in his mouth. He curled around the leg, body tugging lamely against the chains. Why was he doing this?

A better question, whispered into his mind, was why hadn’t he done this before? Why was he parading around like he was some king, deserving of praise and reward?

He didn’t deserve it.

“So gullible, so weak,” he was yanked up again by the hair, tugging at his scalp in a semi-comforting way.

He could feel slips of his skin tugging off. They must be curling, like pencil shavings or a banana’s peel, curling down and springing back with every time his adversary pulled him upright.

“I hope you’ll die soon,” he clicked his tongue, disgusted by the sight that Roman had become, “You’re getting blood all over my suit.”

Roman laughed, coughing up blood. It trickled down the side of his mouth, down his jaw. He’d screamed that hard, huh?

The arrogance that he used to be filled with was coating the back of his mind, and he knew he had to snark, return the banter. Was it even banter? It had to be.

His voice was nothing but air, and it hurt. It stung so much to speak.

“It’s a red suit.”

He drew in a breath and whined, closing his eye. It hurt.

He didn’t want it to hurt anymore.

Roman had wanted this earlier, before he knew what it’d feel like, how warm a day it would be. The sun boilt down on him, sizzling his blood into permanent stains across his body, more permanent than anything Imagined should be. But he didn’t want to boil, and he didn’t want it to hurt anymore.

It hurt.

Someone would come. Someone would save him, yes.

But did he deserve that? No, god, no, of course not.

“But it’s not blood red. You’re discoloring it,” the person dropped him again, tossing his head aside and letting it snap against the metal leash, “You’re so stupid. Useless. You can’t even die in a good way.”

Roman didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to die.

He wanted to die, he did, but he didn’t want to hurt.

“V’h,” he choked on his own saliva and tears, whimpering again and hiding his face into the crook of his elbow.

Who would save him?

“No, no,” the person grabbed his neck, lifting him up against the pole and it stung.

His back lurched, twitching violently as the pole itself rubbed against his muscles, exposed from the lack of skin and fat covering them. Roman felt the twitching in his shoulders and hip, a pained wail turning to only a hoarse yell as his vocal chords gave out once more.

“You were saying something,” the person’s breath was hot, too hot, like the sun, scorching him, “Finish your sentences, your Majesty, its rude to not.”

No. No, no, it was foolish of him.

“You want Virgil, don’t you?”

Roman shook his head, hair thick with sweat as it bounced back and forth with him. The display certainly wasn’t convincing, though, even he knew that. He wanted to be comforted. Virgil was always there….always there to protect him, and the others. Of course he wouldn’t be here now. It was foolish to want him.

It was foolish to wish for love from any of them, at any point in time. Love. What a delusory dream.

The person laughed, and slammed his neck against the pole again. It pressed so far, grazing one of his vertebrae.

His voice was echoing around Roman, a chamber of mock pity.

It hurt, but the lashings themselves didn’t hurt. Roman’s entire spine tingled once the pole touched it. This far down, his insides weren’t supposed to see the light of day.

He could barely imagine what it would really feel like, for a person, not just an imagined feeling for an imagined being. He wasn’t real.

The reveal of his entrails was, as everything his useless mind could conjure, dramatic as all get out.

“Do you want Virgil to see this? Imagine what he’d say.”

He’d be so angry.

He wasn’t real. He wasn’t Roman.

“And what about Patton? Can you imagine how much he’d cry.”

The person dropped Roman again, then kicked him in the back.

It burned. Roman felt like he would have a foot-shaped brand, the person’s boot slammed against his back, between his spine and his shoulder blade. It slipped up in the bloody mush of his back like one would slip on mud, difficult to walk in terrain immediately after a downpour of cataclysmic condensation.

His boot was so, so firm against Roman’s back. The heel dug into his flesh very briefly, but it felt as though it would drill a hole through his person. Through his very being.

“Logan wouldn’t care, would he? Would Deceit?” the boot left his back.

Before Roman could recollect himself, though, the cane struck the back of his neck. It didn’t hurt, once again, he barely felt it.

He wasn’t Roman. His mind was murky in the thick blood, boiling.

He could only feel the sun’s heat. He should have designed the Imagination without a sun. Who needed it, anyway? What was it good for?

“Pathetic,” the shadow whispered, then shouted again, “PATHETIC!”

Perhaps it wasn’t the sun. His head was warm, hair warm, ears tingling and burning and so so warm. His back was warm, too, for a similar reason.

Roman didn’t have his eye opened, but he knew he was on fire when he felt it. He trembled, arms jerking to instinctively slap the flames off of his person, but he couldn’t move very far beyond the chains.

Laughing.

Roman deserved this.

“Burn at your pyre, your Majesty,” he spat the words. “That’s all you have left,” the Dragon laughed, a hearty chuckle, and then struck Roman once more.

Then once more.

Then once again.

And again, and again, and again, and Roman could only feel the dripping of his own blood down his back. It pooled around his knees, a thick pool that was going to dye his tanned skin with red spots. Like a strawberry nevus.

Someone told him that name once, it was a type of birthmark. He couldn’t remember who. He could barely remember anything.

Roman was lost in the pain so much as one could be lost in bliss. His body stopped responding to the lashings, no longer curving inward. He wasn’t moving. It was all moving around him.

In fact, it actually was moving. It felt as though the platform were spinning. Up was down, and down was up again, and up down down up and into the darkness. Who knew death would be so welcoming. Like a cloud. Like a soft, comforting….

Roman’s eye rolled back, and he slumped against the bindings, unable to collapse onto the ground. The chains held his defeated body up for the world to see.

The Dragon stood up straighter, then scooted forward. Had he….?

He lifted the Damsel’s face with the cane and examined his expression, so soft and placid in comparison to the drywall paint peeling that his back and arms appeared like.

“Is….WHAT?!” The Dragon roared. How dare he. How DARE he pass out, the pathetic whelp! He had the nerve!

The Dragon wanted to keep going! He was just getting warmed up! This was so much fun, so alluring! He’d never known blood splatters could be so beautiful.

Though, this was their cue to be done. Hopefully the Damsel wouldn’t wake up again, if his theory had been correct. The Dragon looked out at the crowd, curling up the whip in his hand and fastening it to the latch on his belt.

Most of the crowd — the ones with less of a conscious, the ones who were simply faces who’d been committed to memory, hadn’t been given stories yet but nonetheless existed — were still watching. He did love an audience.

Some of the true characters had stayed, but hadn’t fully watched. He could see someone in the back, turned away in a black cloak.

No patches. Not one of them. Though they’d stayed and had the gall to be disguised.

The Dragon didn’t CARE about any of the others, though. He grunted, smoke escaping from his lips as he motioned for the guards stationed around the platform to grab the Damsel. “Our pathetic excuse for a Creativity seems to have drawn his last breath,” he coo’ed, just loud enough for the sound to echo across the Imagination, “I guess this concludes today’s presentation!”

Two of them climbed onto the platform, unhooking the Damsel from the post and throwing him over their shoulder. Chunks of his flesh, or thick globs of blood (really, they were indistinguishable) fell off as he was moved.

Revolting. Hopefully he was dead, so the Dragon could just throw his body into the lake and be done with it. He’d have to have Remus check for a pulse, though. Lord knew Dragon didn’t know how to do that sorta shit.

He scanned the crowd once more. No sign of any other Roman figment. No murmur, even. Everyone just watched in horrified silence.

No matter. The Dragon knew the others had come, they’d seen. That was all that needed to be done. This was just a message, nothing more.

The Damsel was his little test run, his beautifully caged canary, on death row. And hopefully he’d died.

Even unconscious, his lip twitched, into the barest of smiles.

Yes, hopefully he’d died.

#oof im a lil afraid to put this in the tags #roman #roman sanders #fic #my fic #ts roman #sanders sides #thomas sanders #ts fanfic #torture #blood #pain #passing out #i hope that's all that uh #i should tag tag #chivalry au #i deleted all the tags because i had to fix the chivalry tag alsdkhasdlkfj

34 notes · View notes