#drabble tbt.

[feliscus]

　/ * WHERE THE HEARTH IS ,

“All you need to be deserving of the throne is conviction, and the necessary strength to act on it.” “…Protecting my family at all costs— that’s my conviction.”

　　　* ignis purgatorius chapter spoilers.

Morning dawns.

Lynette and Freminet slumber, snug on either side of him, but sleep eluded the magician like some grand magic trick, slipping from his grasp every time it seemed to be almost within reach. He’d neither twisted nor turned for fear of waking them, laid flat on his back staring up at the ceiling as the memory of red seared itself behind his eyelids.

In the end, Lyney had not slept at all, arms numb from where they’d stayed curled around his siblings throughout the night.

Gently, not wishing to rouse them, he tugs himself free, slips from beneath the covers to pad silently across hardwood floors. There are bandages set atop a drawer, some food and some salves. But it is upon the triplet bottled flames sitting there that his attention catches, gleaming their molten temptation.

Does Father know how he hums and haws over it now, fingers curling around the vial’s neck? Does she expect this flicker of doubt in her heir, this moment of hesitation, of weakness? Had this, too, been foreplanned by her?

Lyney knows he will never burn as brilliantly as Father. He is not strong enough, not smart enough to be named her heir. If he had been, Clervie would have been gone long before it ever had to come to this. If he had been, Lynette and Freminet would have never been hurt.

No illusion he conjures will ever fool her all-seeing gaze. No spell he casts over an audience will ever capture her attention. His steps do not fit into the path she wishes for him, too, to tread as she once had.

Because to be her successor, to become king… One day…

It would be so easy to let the flames swallow up his memories— and everything that made up ‘Lyney’ alongside it. Flush away the past that ever nips at his heels, the title of the Fatui, the burden of the heir and all its troubles.

But there is nowhere he and Lynette have gone that they have not gone together. He will not ask his sister to follow him to death too or ask Freminet to watch his siblings turn into a husks of themselves that cannot even recall his name. They both wish to stay, and Lyney will not cloud their judgement on the matter with his own doubts.

He pockets the vial and goes noiselessly from the room.

“Um… Lyney?”

A half-step from the door, he halts, twisting to meet Heloir’s gaze with a smile. Lips part to respond as he swallows around the lump in his throat, and only then, as it drags and burns all the way down, does he realize how dry his throat is. “Good morning, Heloir.”

“Oh.” He hears it, the realization in her voice that he is still himself, but she says nothing else, just continues to eye him warily. If she notices the rasp to his voice, there is no other response than to weigh the two potion vials in her hand, then hand him the one filled with clear liquid. A pause. “It’s water.”

Lyney exhales. “…Thank you. Did you need something?”

She shrinks, her voice alongside it. Normally so loud and proud, it’s strange to see her so small. “The bottled flames…did you need help administering them? I—I’m sure I have some medicine or potion to make it hurt less, but—”

But who’s going to watch over them if he leaves? Who will rock the younger kids to sleep or make sure Heloir doesn’t try any of her potions or teach Freminet to improve his sleight of hand? Or put on small magic shows by the hearth, with every trick practiced to perfection and even the ones less so able to call forth their smiles and laughter?

“Lyney? Should I go get something for you?”

Well…someone else will be able to do it. Father can find another heir.

But the yes sticks to the tip of his tongue as he reaches for the vial in his pocket. Because there will likely be a dozen other children like him— as smart, as ambitious, as clever— that Father can pick from, but Lyney will never find another home like this.

For a long time, the only home he had known was Lynette. But the House of the Hearth is his home now too. He doesn’t know much about how a family should really work or what a home should look like, and the thought of leading them is terrifying. Yet the thought of leaving them is infinitely more so.

If Lyney was predisposed to easy solutions, he’d have died long ago.

Anger makes you impulsive. Sorrow causes you to waver. But Lyney was forged by neither, and the flames caught in the orb of his Vision had not been born from rage. His ambition is as it has always been: he will protect his family, no matter what.

Even from Father. Even if it means death.

He clears his throat, producing the vial with a snap of his fingers. “Actually, I was hoping that you would keep this for me. After all, Father entrusted them to you for safekeeping.”

And there is the sparkle in her eyes. The smile. The vial is snatched— too eagerly, perhaps— from his hand. “Oh! Yes, sure!”

Lyney has no desire to be king. He has no ambition for strength other than for the ability it gives him to protect those dear to him. And, most times, he doesn’t know what home or family should mean.

But he never could have left. He wonders if Father had known that from the start. Wonders if this is the answer she had been looking for, if he will ever be able to tell her what family means to him.

Regardless, Lyney will know what she thinks of it soon enough.

Night falls.

As he always has, Lyney opens the door to Hotel Bouffes d’ete at the end of a long day and calls out, “I’m home!”

And the chorus of voices that calls back, “Welcome back!” is the beginning of his answer.

#hi dash youre never going to guess whose muse woke the fuck up after doing arle's story quest #he also decided to come home three times in the span of 80 pulls so i am now a c3 lyney haver ig LMFAO #it sure was A Day i can tell you that much #i might write an actual meta on his thoughts on becoming king of the house but for now #woe! drabble upon ye #drabble tbt. #addendum to say spoilers very nebulously it does not really touch on many specifics LOL

[loyaltymoved]

This isn’t his body anymore… at least it doesn’t feel like it at the moment. For years he’d had this fullness, this light within him. A fire hotter than the sun, a warmth entangled in the depths of his soul.

He felt so cold.

His death hadn’t been permanent… He’d been ‘restored’ by the new god. Humanity was back, the world was as it was. But Adam… no, he wasn’t how he was. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be with Michael.

So where the hell was he?

He can’t even begin to count the number of times he’s prayed. The different iterations of prayers, the nights spent awake, looking at the stars and hoping that maybe he’s just a little too far away.

He doesn’t want to think about it-

So here he is, on the floor of his bedroom, in his tiny little apartment, after getting off work at his silly little job… and all he feels is sadness. Emptiness.

“Michael…” His voice is hardly even a whisper, a tear threatening to spill from baby blue hues as he takes a shaky breath. “Please… I don’t know if you can hear me.. but.. come back… I…”

Words get caught in his throat, a pang in his chest as he tries to find the strength to continue. Who is he kidding- he hasn’t come… why would this change anything?

“I need you. I miss you… without you I’m… I’m empty.. I’m cold, Michael… I… I don’t know who I am without you. You’re a part of me.” His words waver ever so slightly as he swallows thickly, his fists balled up at his sides. “I love you… and I’ll do anything to get you to come back to me..”

“I’d rather spend eternity in the cage with you than spend another second on earth without you… I hate it.. I hate this feeling. I hate this empty feeling, this void where your grace is supposed to be.. where you’re supposed to be.. We made a promise…”

So where are you?

#Drabble tbt. #v. post series || you made it through your darkest day

[areadri]

       HE FELT IT--- he felt everything; the warmth of blood splashing his face, the phantom pain of a thousand blades piercing his flesh, and many more to join them. every inch of him bleeds, weeping in rivulets from the gashes torn through his armour, screaming for a reprieve that was not his to give. he treads a road paved in red, littered with shards of wood like the leaves in fall, corpses sprawled across the trodden grass and bathed in his shadow. a lonely beast, he battles against the tide, storming through the throng of soldiers attempting desperately to hold him back. amids his rage, without falter even as another spear is plunged into his back, the tempest king bellows a single name---

               ❝  EDELGARD...!  ❞

       his fury reaches across the battlefield, far above the din of clashing steel and carnage. it hangs in the air, unanswered, for whom it is intended retreats without looking back. no--- he cannot fall here, not until he has rent her head from her shoulders.

                                           not until he has avenged all who suffered in her name.

       a spear flies into his shoulder, forcing him down to a knee this time. with a grunt, he rips it free, spraying blood into the dirt, hurling it aside in frustration more than anything else. clenching his teeth, he rises, to spite every wound wracking his broken silhouette, and presses forward once more. his mouth opens, poised to shout her name lest she forget his presence--- but he can only roar. a bestial, bloodthirsty roar.

       for only a brief moment, the resolve bolstering the imperial soldiers wanes; it is fleeting, like the flicker of a lit candle braving the slightest shift in the air. there is fear in their eyes, fear of this monstrous thing unleashed into the fray, fear for what it might do to them should they get too close. it takes a few steps more, staggering, blood upon its lips and dribbling down its chin. despite the waver in its advance, its grasp remains firm as iron on its lance. it resumes its bloodied procession towards the troops gathering in their leader’s stead.

                   cut them down, its gaze seethes, cut them all down.

       his pace begins to slow, and the weight of his weapon becomes too much. it slips from his fingers, falling into the grass, where it lays forgotten as he continues towards the enemy. 

       one step... his bones creak. two steps... a haze descends upon his vision. three steps... the pain finally catches up with him.

                                                       and another--- he stops.

       falling to his knees, his body sways. a final ragged breath whispers from his parted lips... before he crumples to the ground, where he lays, silent--- unmoving. that peace never came, and the tempest king dies alone, and in agony until his very last moment.

       dimitri presides over his own grave in silence, the ghost bearing his face now merely a heap at his feet--- before the memory fades, and he is left standing in the mist alone. except... it is not his memory. he is... still alive, is he not? a trembling hand finds its way to his shoulder, where only minutes ago, a spear had torn through him. he felt it; every blade that wounded him, every bite of imperial steel wearing him down. he can’t hear anything anymore, not even the cries of the dead pierce through the shrill cacophony screaming in his head as he holds it.

         is this not what i deserve?                                     i failed.

                           i did not bring them the peace they deserved. 

                                                EDELGARD.

               where are my soldiers?                        where is the professor?

                            is this... truly what becomes of me...?

#drabble tbt. #██♚. ᶦʳ ᵉᵛᵉⁿᵗ. MISTIFIED. #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: death #( hey fellas you ever just get front-row seats to your own death in an alternate reality )

[dendrothecary]

THE   pharmacy is dark tonight, doors locked and window blinds drawn. Glass litters the floor, shattered light fixtures with their wires bared from above in sparking tendrils. Among them stands the doctor, motionless and mad under the enduring minute hand of the wall clock. Tick…                 Tock… Tick…                 Tock… He breathes in time with it, ragged and labored, though the effort feels wrong. He is lucky to be alive. Yet he is plagued by the lack of finality to this visit, left only to dwell on the promise that there would be another once the blossoms had retreated, where they would no longer be bound by their honesty. The sense of the unknown crushes him, paralyzing him beneath its insurmountable weight. Breathing is all he's capable of, for every breath should have been his last. And so the pharmacy would close, and remain closed for an indefinite amount of time while its owner ran his mind in circles, consumed whole by his own fear.

#drabble? #thing?? #it's. an epilogue to the most recent thread. :'^) #drabble tbt.

[sensoryled]

destiny and regice

his return home had been marked by a long and arduous conversation with his parents -- one which had been overdue for months. the initial joy they had had at seeing him had been punctured when he revealed his purpose for coming. it had been a long talk, wherein he had tried to impress upon them their faults as parents -- had tried to pry an apology from them, even -- but it is not so easy to change the minds of people set in their ways. he had given them his phone number at the end of their conversation, but had warned them -- only call him if and when they are ready to apologize and make amends. they had tried to stop him leaving, of course, but with gardevior by his side, they had never had a chance. he had left easily.

now he sits on the beach, staring out upon the open ocean, its rolling blue waves . . . the occasional wingull would fly overhead, a swimmer would occasionally appear out in the surf . . . but aside from all that, it is mostly peaceful. he cannot hear the chatter of the occasional beachgoer, cannot hear the cries of the birds in the sky, cannot hear the crash of the waves . . . it is silent. it is calm. his eyes fall closed, and he starts to dream.

he dreams that he is on that same beach, but that pull . . . that pull with which he is all too familiar . . . it tugs at him again. like a vision, a flash appears in his mind, the image of that cave, being tossed about by the waves and the door -- open. that’s weird, he thinks to himself. it’s never been open before. idly, he takes gardevior by the hand ( or what counts for a hand for her ) and manipulates her energy in a way he never has before. the world twists around them, spits them out on the sand of the beach, the cave before them. there is an eerie energy about it, ominous, like an ancient warning not to be disturbed . . . but that matters nothing to him.

he enters the cave as though in a trance. he does not feel connected to his legs which carry him forward, seemingly of their own volition. when he reaches the innermost part of the cave, he runs his hand over the braille. he has never been fluent in it, but he knows the words somehow -- STOP AND WAIT. WAIT FOR TIME TO PASS TWICE. he keeps his hand pressed against the cool rock, frozen in place, until the wall in front of him collapses into passage. nonplussed by this development, he steps over the rubble and through, into an inner chamber.

in the center of this chamber resides a figure he has only seen in dreams, a pokemon that he had never imagined could possibly be real. his person approaches it easily, step after step, but not by his own intention. he can feel one hand reach up to touch the being -- it is cold, but he does not withdraw his hand. his other hand reaches into his bag and withdraws a pokeball. one step back, and then he tosses it gently, but with confidence. it opens with a flash of light, and envelops the ancient being. it closes, falls to the ground, then shakes thrice. a green ring around the release button indicates a successful catch, but immediately after he picks up the ball, he releases the being, whose name he knows by heart, somehow. 

❝ regice, ❞ he murmurs. ❝ be free of this place. ❞

with a start, he seems to wake up, in a manner of speaking. what he witnesses is not the beach where he had dozed off -- no, he awakes in the place where his dream left off. he blinks a few times, as though trying to reconcile the discrepancy, and then gazes up at the pokemon he has . . . apparently . . . just caught . . . he should be afraid. he knows he should. he doesn’t know how he got there, how he caught the being before him. but he’s not afraid. no, in his chest there is a feeling of warmth . . . of destiny. like this moment was always coming.

❝ i can’t believe you’re real. ❞

#abuse mention // #<- not really but it's alluded to #drabble tbt. #v ; flare. #++ archived. ++

[hopeled]

in the mourning--     

warning: fgo 6.5:traum spoilers mentioned no i’m not okay thanks for asking 

                   there’s someone you can’t trust on that ship.

 she hadn’t wanted to listen to such a warning. how could there be someone who would betray them? after all they went through together, how could a single one of them be working with the enemy? it wasn’t an impossible thing, but a possibility that Ritsuka refused to entertain. no matter how foolish it might have been.....she trusted her team. she trusted those within Chaldea and always would. no warning could ever stop that. 

        and then the truth came out. it was nothing she could have ever anticipated nor prepared for. because Goetia had been right but he had also been wrong. 

                   it is because we, Chaldea, will triumph. 

   “...you were wrong. “

   Sherlock believed in them. he genuinely and truly believed in them to win, to come out the victor in the end. he wasn’t trying to play them. he hadn’t lied to them. he hadn’t been fooling them from the start. she had never been wrong in trusting him, no matter what anyone said or thought. her belief never faltered. how could it? he was their friend, their ally. and, just like everyone that came before him, he did what he had to in order to give Chaldea the chance they needed to win. a victory he had full faith in them achieving, for how else could he have smiled so easily in those last few moments? he defied his Master. at the most important moment, he defied his purpose.

                                  Farewell to all my dear and wonderful friends.

     the breath she releases is a shaky one, rushed by her lungs crying out for air. her vision is blurred, nothing in sight except hazy shapes and bursts of greens & browns blending together. these are tears. they rise and slip over the curve of her cheeks without restraint and without thought, dripping of their own will. like every fresh loss, her heart bleeds anew. sacrifice was necessary and inevitable with their mission, but it made none of it easier. and it was different-- this wasn’t just someone met inside a Singularity or Lostbelt. Sherlock...he had been with them since the conclusion of the Grand Order. he had been there through each Lostbelt, willingly putting himself in danger numerous times. he was a friend and losing a friend is never easy. it will never be easy for her.

                     it will never be something she could ever get used to. 

      a sharp intake of breath follows, the only sound that is covered by the rustling of leeves in the summer wind. shaky hands rise to her face, as if to stifle the noise but that is not the intention. here, nobody could hear her. more tears flow, unrelenting and unashamed as the hot liquid trickles down her hands. messed bangs stick to her cheeks from the wetness, but she can’t bring herself to care to wipe them away.

           it hurts. like with Romani, da Vinci and Musashi-- it’s the exact same kind of pain that winds around her heart without mercy. even if he came back, it would do nothing to ease it. it would not change what had happened. and it would not be the same Holmes. knees are pulled tight against her chest, one arm curling around them as the mage lets her weight be supported by the harsh bark of the tree. she’s tired. she’s tired of losing people. she’s tired about much, but right now, it is this that brings forth the weariness. she carries the memory of so much loss with her and though Ritsuka knows she should put it down-- how can she? she cannot tarnish their memory like this. she cannot let them fade and be forgotten. but she is so damn tired because of it, angry that it keeps happening like this. angry that she’s kept in the dark until the last moment. but what can she direct that anger to? what can she use it for? here-- nothing. she has no choice but to hold onto it. there is nowhere to set it down, and so, it stays. (like a creature of the shadows, it sits and waits and grows.)

  she’ll be fine later. she knows she will be. it is how it always goes: she mourns, she grieves, in her way. she lets the feelings wash over when she is alone, letting them toss her about like a rickety boat on the ocean. she lets the pain and anger and grief flow as they are intended to (always felt so intensely, so vividly) and then, she’ll get up. she’ll continue on as always. she’ll go back to her life with a heart that’s a little more weary, a little more torn, but still beating. 

                 and she’ll survive. 

   but, for now...for now she is neither the Master of Chaldea nor the one who stands against gods. she is not Fujimaru Ritsuka, one of humanity’s last. no, she is just a regular human being, a woman with no titles and responsibilities, handling another loss the only way she knows how.

          she stays. in the woods of Cotes, as the sun sets beneath the horizon, she stays. the dying light of ambers and golds trek across her person, leaving shadows in its wake as the evening gives way into the night and the only thing she can feel is the bark against her back and the earth beneath her hands.

#drabble tbt. #FGO SPOILERS #i'm so fine right now #i'm so fucking normal #i am on my damn hinges i PROMISE #anyways i updated my canon point and will make a post but i drop this first

[animasend]

   she’s been so tired lately that, if not for the mostly logical reasons, it’d be concerning. 

  the month has taken so much out of her. the time spent helping Saber would wear on just about anybody, the incident in Yesteryear in that other city only adding to the steadily growing exhaustion. and then that beach bash. as entertaining as it had been, perhaps it was foolish to throw herself at it in such a state. the activities from sunrise to sunset had wore on her. so much so that Olga decided to ultimately excuse herself, retiring far earlier than normal. she had already felt the migraine coming and it would have been unfair to the others to subject them to that particularly nasty side her. so home early she went on her own while the others were far too busy to notice her slipping away. by the time she reached her door, her head was pounding without mercy, every sound and light only adding to the assault. 

      ( the pain was just something she had to deal with. an unpleasant side-effect to her Crest. maybe she shouldn’t have gone so hard against Rin. ) 

     the mage cannot even make it to her room. her steps sounded too loud, her limbs felt too heavy and she can’t even be bothered to change. no, the second that guest bedroom door was in sight, she wasted no time in letting her body flop against the bed inside, face pressed into the pillow and one arm hanging off the side. she’s tired. she’s so tired. Olga doesn’t think she’s ever felt this level of exhuastion before but it’s impossible to think or do anything more than letting her eyes close. just a few hours, she mutters to herself. just a few and then i’ll go back. it’s only seconds later that she falls asleep but her dreams are anything but peaceful.

   ( she never has ordinary dreams. they’re always of something pertaining to her. her father. Chaldea. the past. nothing like the ridiculous and welcomed dreams of others. she wishes they were. )

                         it’s nearly 3 am when she finally jolts awake.

      there is no choked or startled gasp, no flinging of herself out of bed in a frantic bid to get away. Olga lays there. still, silent, bleary eyes adjusting to the dark expanse of the room. and for awhile, she remains like that. the migraine has long since left, but there’s now an icy fear running through her veins and she cannot figure out why but it has her temporarily paralyzed. one blink. two. three. eventually, she lifts her head from the pillow. eventually, her fingers unfurl from the clawed fist against the blanket and eventually, she can feel her limbs again. it’s agonizingly slow how cautious her movements are, as if her own body didn’t trust her instincts enough to move just yet.

     Olga cannot remember the dream in its entirety. it is in bits and pieces, an incoherent mess but there is a reason she feels so.....afraid. there was darkness. she was alone but she wasn’t. no faces but limbs, strange limbs. she couldn’t move. hands, so many bright white hands holding her down, causing her pain. but why? why? she hadn’t done anything wrong, she didn’t do anything to deserve it so...why? it was just a dream but the pain felt so real. her hand presses flat against her abdomen, against the scar, and it feels burning hot. it hurts. but that is not....that’s from the reopening of it. that’s all. that’s all it is. 

     wherever that place is, she is not there. she is home. she’s fine. it was just a dream. 

      it’s nothing, she tells herself. it’s just stress. i’m just worrying too much. that’s all. reasurrances repeated over and over to herself, eyes closing for the briefest of moments. it was just a dream. nothing more.

    ( but she can still feel those hands and can still feel that pain and she doesn’t want to go back to sleep. but the most concerning thing of all is the unsettling fact that this is the second time this month she’s had that dream but for now, Olga says nothing of it. thinks nothing of it. it’ll be fine. she’ll be fine.)

#'jiwoo what is this' don't worry about it #drabble tbt. #i just have feelings it's fine

[sommiar]

        for all that she knew, it could have been more than a week. she had no way of telling what was transpiring above, apart from the sounds that could still be heard, but it was nearly impossible to know how many were perishing and how many were still giving their all. she had attempted to reach others but any messages from her phone said error. the situation was still dire, perhaps more than when she had arrived, as she still had no other choice but push the enemies with her staff and launch them away with a swipe from her sword. she had come prepared, and it was barely enough to continue her way to the lower levels.

when the commotion begins, she runs without thought. she does not hesitate, knowing far more than anyone: the ooze is dangerous. she does not have to come in contact with it to understand, she feels it in her Spirit Core, she sees it advance and her hands turn pale from gripping tightly her staff. she had run until her legs were screaming from the sheer pain, still pushing through as every part of her screamed. fighting without any chance to breathe had taken its toll and she was feeling the effects all across her body. but she ran until she had become numb to the pain.

the higher ground brings her a momentary peace, knees falling for a few seconds before her bloodied hands pushed her trembling legs up. even if she wanted to allow herself to rest, she had to find shelter. anywhere would be better than being so close to danger, anywhere— her mind goes blank.

it is a secret no one else will understand: how Arturia could have never hated the girl that came before her, how she had trembled in fear but still respected the tyrant that came after, how she had extinguished what was left of herself to recognize her efforts – from one sister to another, accepting the failures and burdens that Morgan pushed unto her, and vanishing into what would become starlight. she had never found the language to put into words how she keeps the fallen close to her heart.

                                                       she never will.

Arturia has never showed her tears when there was company present, she had let them see her cynicism; only after she had accepted that they would see beyond the Child of Prophecy and let her mourn and grieve without forcing her into the role she had been born into. but the tears had become a privilege, unable to wipe off the mud from her eyes and only deepening her heartache. but there had been an exception to the rule she could never forget—

Knocknarea lying in her arms, her smile saying things she did not want to hear.

if she looked hard enough, she could still see the traces of blood in her gloves, pushing her further into what she would become. her hands had never felt so wrong until then, they had never felt right anymore.

Morgan had been the one to teach her half-baked intentions would get her nowhere, that the power she wielded meant nothing if she put her guard down, that the love she held for the land would never be reciprocated; Britain had resented them, but Britain was not the world, and the red skies were only possible into the picture book – even after the author had died, it had continued to live, and she had to put it down. ruthlessly, forcing what she understood what had been right from the start. but the ruthlessness had disappeared when she had come face to face with the same person that had brought it all together. Britain never loved them, but she had loved the one that embodied its contradiction.

perhaps Morgan was right. she could have never been the same as her, the goals that drove her were different from her predecessor. running away, claiming that it was not her fault, hating every single person for pushing their hopes and dreams unto her. never anyone telling her it was fine if she wanted to stop. she had never understood why Morgan went so far for a world that refused them. but she understood that what was already dead had spun lies, many of them, and still brought warmth to a lonely little girl.

and much like him, she sees it all happen in mere seconds. she sees it with eyes that are wide with horror.

a muted sound escapes through her pressed lips, muffled from the need to scream. her footsteps click harshly against the floor. her hand stretches in desperation, the same desperation that Morgan once brought her, now all pushed to stop what she knew was inevitable. as soon as Excalibur lights up, it is too late. it is too late for anything but the raw scream that tears her throat apart.

                                                          ‘ Tonelico—!! ’

the silence is all that greets her under red skies.

#drabble tbt. #EVENT : SUBSISTENCE. PART II #long post / #word count: 830 #me: writing #playlist: puts the lb6 ost #me: oh no

[whirling-fangs]

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar

As long as humankind could remember, the wild lands of Japan had always been inhabited with Yōkai. Some large, some small, some dangerous, some inoffensive. Some evil, some benevolent.

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar cared little for such labels. They could not remember how long they had known each other. Their differences only cemented their bond, one's qualities complimenting the others' flaws. They were a team.

They were a family.

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar roamed the lands together. They were all the ruler of their own domain, and they would sometimes part to attend personal matters – but at the end of each quest, they would always meet up for a celebratory banquet.

Together, they were unbeatable. There was no enemy fearsome enough, no army large enough to take them down when they combined their strength.

Their downfall could only come from inside.

The humans and the yōkai were always bound by a precarious balance, begging to be shattered. It only took one spark, one death too many, to light the fire.

The Dog believed that humans were fundamentally good, and worth protecting against those that evil had irremediably tainted. The Cat believed that humans were the root of all problems, and that a peaceful coexistence was nothing but a pipe dream.

The Boar could not pick a side. He watched helplessly as his comrades grew further and further from each other, too set in their own ideals to see what they were losing.

Decades worth of memories. Of shared meals, shared laughter, shared smiles. Three similar trinkets, carved out of their own fangs. How odd for the Cat to be the most sentimental of them all – the Dog and the Boar had laughed, as they happily donned their friend's gift.

The Boar fled the bloodshed. He refused to let his memories be tainted by what had become of his comrades. He departed to the lands he had long left behind, to the mountain that had been the command center of his turf.

He was never to part from it again.

The years passed. Leaves grew anew on the trees, only to turn yellow, orange, red, lying a thick carpet across the lower slopes. Snow covered the mountains and melted away, turning lazy brooks into mighty rivers. The Boar listened to the wind, to the distant news its howls carried all the way to his mountain.

When he learnt of his old friends' untimely demise, he was not surprised. A single tear rolled down his cheek, before he brought his axe down the large log at his feet. Timber for the winter to come.

A simple life. Away from the rest of the world, away from the wars, the famines, the plagues. The Boar stopped listening to the wind's cries.

Until the old world came crashing into his old cabin, in the shape of a disheveled woman.

She was but skin and bones. Her face deformed from being bashed in, clothes torn over her bruised body. Tears had frozen over her mangled visage, her feet and hands turned blue from hypothermia.

The Boar ought to have chased her off. Had she not felt the demonic aura that surrounded his mountain, warding off any creature that bore even the slightest hint of ill intent?

The barrier only let the animals through. Only their hearts were pure enough to cross the sheer manifestation of the Boar's will.

As the Boar opened the door, and the woman collapsed into his arms, he was struck with a realization. This one's heart was not tainted. He had never seen such a pristine soul, gleaming with such force despite the abuse she must have endured.

The swelling of her face subdued with intense care. Her traits angelic, one eye gone blind from the repeated hits. Eyes that shared the same vibrant green as the young leaves of early spring.

The Boar's favorite color.

The weeks turned into months. The months turned into years. The woman's pursuers never came looking for her. The Boar's heart opened again, day after day, letting the radiance of the woman's soul seep into his old wounds. Cure aches that had festered for decades on end.

The Boar thought he couldn't be happier.

He was soon proven wrong.

The little one had his mother's eyes, and his father's ears. Every time he laid eyes upon that small form, allowed those minuscule fingers to wrap around his thumb, the Boar could feel his heart grow another size.

What a fleeting, fragile little life that was. There was nothing he wouldn't give in order to protect it from harm.

Dark clouds gathered above the mountain. They announced a storm unlike any other, one mighty enough to rip the trees apart and turn the rivers into devastating streams. The Boar led his family away from the cabin, into the deeper, higher caves, where they would be safe from the landslides and the floods.

Lightning parted the skies. The Boar felt the barrier, or rather, what remained of it, shatter all around him. For every wound that healed inside his heart, the barrier had grown weaker.

The Spider had not missed that chance. He knew all about the Boar, about his former comrades, about the past that the Boar had for so long tried to run away from. Like an old nightmare resurfacing, fate had caught up with him.

How ironic, for the Boar to finally take a side. A spit in the face of his dead comrades, was it not?

Rage festered inside the Boar's chest. The Spider needed nothing more to seep inside his soul, and seize a heart that had lost all its defenses.

When the Boar opened his eyes again, the scent of blood mixed with petrichor assaulted his senses. A terrible chill ran across his spine, from the warmth that coated his fingers to the rain that soaked his clothes. As his eyes fell to the ground, he felt the remnants of his soul shatter to pieces.

The woman lay sprawled across the ground, her arms outstretched towards the cliff upon which they stood. There was no light surrounding her. No pure glow, not even the smallest spark.

Her soul was gone.

The Boar collapsed to his knees. He brought her body to rest on its back, hands crossed above her chest. A final kiss placed on her forehead.

Before the Boar plunged his own claws into his chest.

The Spider would return to reap the rewards of his plot. As low as the mighty Boar might have fallen, the body of a Daiyōkai was always worth devouring.

The little one was washed away by the streams, until his wails caught the attention of a sorrowful boar mother. The sow brought the child over to her burrow, and nursed him to good health.

The Hanyō never worried about the past, neither did he think about the future. He survived day after day, discovering his own strength as he fought off the many demons that crawled over the mountain, looking for a master that had long departed these lands. The Hanyō's existence in itself was nothing but a rumor for the humans to fear.

Perhaps, someday, he would depart on a quest. Perhaps he would seek more power, better status, and a way to show the world just how strong he really was.

And perhaps, someday, he would figure out the meaning behind the odd little trinket that never left his wrist.

#drabble #[[BEHOLD..... another long ass drabble as a verse introduction :) #i'm done making descriptive blurbs they always turn out dull #but this? emotional ride guaranteed. have fun #i spent 2 hours on it ;w; #and soon i'll start following inuyasha verse blogs hehehehehe]] #mentions #arrachnes #passing the torch / Inuyasha AU

[paramnesias]

DARK WAVES RECEDE IN COUNTERCURRENT TOWARD A MAW STARVED BY NEAR - BIBLICAL FAMINE,   SWILLING AN ANTHROPOID DREG THAT JUST CAN’T ACCEPT THE FACT THAT HE’S BEING SWALLOWED─

a torn page,    crumpled to   𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓.    𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖚𝖙.    ﹝ 𝙆𝙀𝙀𝙋 𝙄𝙏 𝙎𝙄𝙈𝙋𝙇𝙀. ﹞    reset the ribbon,   𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖱𝖳 𝖠𝖦𝖠𝖨𝖭.    ﹝ 𝘐 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘚𝘌𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘎𝘌.    𝘐 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘔𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘐𝘛 𝘙𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛. ﹞

THE SUNRISE CASTS UPON VACANT SHORES, LEAVING SILENCE TO SUBMERGE A CALDERA GRAVE.   THERE IS CAUSE FOR CELEBRATION.   THE SIXTY - EIGHTH ANNUAL DEERFEST,   A STAPLE OF BRIGHT FALLS’ OLD AMERICANA.   ITS FLOATS TAKE TO HARBOR STREET DESPITE TRAGEDY, HEARTENING REMEMBRANCE.   HOPE, AT FIRST LIGHT, IGNITES AT THE EDGE OF TOWN. LOCAL AND NEIGHBORING POLICE   SPIRAL SEARCH   QUADRANT OFF CAULDRON LAKE AND ITS SURROUNDING FOREST,   WHILE TOWNSFOLK HOLD VIGIL.   AMONGST THE DEAD AND THE MISSING,   ALAN WAKE—

the keys nearly 𝚓𝚊𝚖.    prose stutter - stopped like a   lump   in the throat big enough to choke.    [ 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 / 𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴. ]    alan’s fingers hover.    the tremor,    one he’d knock back with   𝖲𝖮𝖬𝖤𝖳𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖨𝖭 𝖠 𝖫𝖮𝖶𝖡𝖠𝖫𝖫 𝖦𝖫𝖠𝖲𝖲.    a   𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒍   caught in the high beams’ refraction off his wedding band.    deeper than marrow,    there is the   𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗢𝗠 𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗩𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗩𝗨𝗟𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡.

—A LOVING HUSBAND AND A GOOD FRIEND. WAKE’S WIFE, ALICE, AND BEST FRIEND, BARRY, STAND APART THE CROWD WITH UNSPOKEN HORROR.     ᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟ    HE MAY NEVER COME HOME.

#drabble to get the Words flowing again #DNR. #TBT. #was gonna add grain to the gif but tumblr said: outta here with that #if you ever see me edit the formatting here no you didn't #i gotta post it rn no matter what because i GOTTA move onto somethin else... brain go brr

[loyaltymoved]

adam's death, round 2

It’s beautiful outside. The sun is shining, and the cafe is full of life. He’s happy. For the first time in a long time. He feels free. They can be free. They’ve done their part… they helped. Now it’s their turn to live. There’s a pizza sitting on the table, a smile tugging upwards at his lips.

Everything is perfect.

He glances over to Michael, that smile still on his face. A dumb little grin to the visage of the archangel that only he can see. He doesn’t care if he looks crazy, talking to himself. He knows what it might look like from the outside. Let them talk, let them judge him. He knows the truth.

He’s about to speak when a deafening silence surrounds them. One moment they were surrounded by voices, the clink of cutlery on plates. And then there was nothing. Everyone was gone, and it was just them.

He casts a glance around, his heart racing in their chest as his eyes finally come to focus on Michael. He can feel the burn of grace holding tightly to his soul… there’s a flicker of concern across previously bright features. Something’s wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Michael-” He feels a tug at his soul, and panic creeps in. Another harsh tug, separating him from the controls of his body. “Mi-“

“No-!” Is the last thing he hears, feeling the grace of his lover ripped away from him. There’s a cry of pain from the vessel, different from any sound a human had made before. This wasn’t physical pain- no… this was much, much deeper. He can feel as his soul is ripped, his desperation to stay causing it to be all the more painful.

He’s dead… again…

#😭 #anon tbt. #well FUCK #drabble tbt.

[tangledfate]

@defiedfate asked: [ hickey ] a kiss that's supposed to leave a mark on the partner's skin --alastor to lucifer

Sharp teeth sink into pale flesh, drawing blood for the demon to taste as Lucifer pants beneath him. Cheeks flushed, he clings to the other, feeling dizzy and lightheaded already–far too soon for blood loss to kick in. Was this the Radio Demon’s idea of a kiss? Truthfully, he wasn’t really surprised, but it’s getting hard to think.

Always a power struggle between them, even in this, he’s not quite sure if he should mention that drinking too much might be a bad idea. Normal angel blood was bad enough but that of a seraphim? Even a fallen one could be…

He has to stop him. Convince him to pace himself.

“Fuck– Al–” But as soon as his half-focused plea is out of his mouth, a thigh presses firmly between his legs, crucifying the words in his throat.

“Alastor.” Comes the staticky correction, low toned and threatening with a faint tune of jazz playing in the background–his own ever present serenade.

“Do get it right.” He wants to ask after the consequences but the demon returns to the thrum of his pulse and it’s all he can do to sag against his would-be partner.

Maybe it would be better to let him take too much. To let him overload his circuits and learn the hard way that as much as he abuses having the upper hand, it is because Lucifer lets him have it in the first place. 

But as tempting as that option is to his pleasure fogged brain, he’s still pushing the demon back. Hands curled into a crimson jacket over a pinstriped suit, shoving him back with intent. And when Alastor pulls back–taking the order that Lucifer can’t seem to articulate–the trickle of gold dribbling from his lips has electricity skittering down the devil’s spine.

“That’s enough, Alastor…” Words coming out between panting breaths, Ruby eyes slip closed briefly as the blonde tips his head back against the wall. Tie undone, shirt and vest pulled open, and a golden smeared bite mark left as a throbbing souvenir that he can't say he regrets.

#{ answer } #defiedfate #{ encounters ;; lucifer } #I am sorry if this is ooc for either of them #tbt radioapple #{ drabble }

[dendrothecary]

THERE’S   just one small stop left to make for the evening. With a visit to Kratos and Martel’s cottage at its end, as well as some odds and ins brought in tow, Baizhu isn’t in any rush to leave just yet. Knelt before a certain memorial stone, careful hands place down a bouquet of wildflowers and a ceramic tea cup against the grass, only to have them thoughtfully retreat back into his lap. Smiling, he pauses to the chirp of summertime crickets, as dusk hangs over the horizon.         ❝ You know, ❞   he starts softly, no different than he would hold conversation with any other.   ❝ When I saw these growing in the Mistwood, I thought I should bring them. He’s told me before, how you loved flowers. ❞ A breeze sweeps lazily through the grass, wisping stray locks of hair into idle flight.         ❝ He speaks of you all the time. In no time at all, it feels as though I’ve gotten to know you—of what a wonderful woman you were, despite us having never met. ❞ Fingertips adjust one of the blossoms poking out from the rest, the touch kept gentle and light.         ❝ ... ❞

        ❝ ... I hope you can entrust some of his care to me. He’s a gentle and thoughtful man, one who always puts others first. Though if I’m being honest, he often forgets to look after himself. Hah... But I’m sure you know that well. ❞ The golds of his eyes hold only fondness in recounting this. After a moment, he warmly sighs...         ❝ Perhaps it is foolish of me to be so endeared by that. ❞ Gradually, Baizhu gets to his feet once all is to his liking. Beside the trinkets and flowers already laid out for her, the offerings he brought fit right in.         ❝ So before I leave for the evening, these are for you. I spent some time mulling them over, probably more than I have any other gift; hopefully, they’ll be to your liking... ❞ ...         ❝ ... Take care, Anna. ❞

#drabble tbt. #closed. #this has been sitting in my brain for a while and i just. needed to put it into a short snippet like this..

[othunderous]

rubble shifts as thor digs and pushes his way out of its trappings.  dust and dirt cover him, clinging to his hair and cape, when he at last emerges from the destruction.  blood trails from his forehead to his cheek, the corner of his mouth to his chin, with few cuts along his arms and jaw.  they bring no pain — even if they did, his injuries aren’t a priority.  finding rey is.  it is hardly subtle, pushing great chunks of stone and feeling the shake of their weight meeting the ground, but there isn’t anyone around to hear it.  no one will be alerted to his arrival, no one will be coming to attack.  he sees neither ren nor palpatine in the open space around him.  thor can only assume his suspicions are correct; while he had been busy fighting the knights of ren, she had been busy bringing to an end this war, and the sith, once and for all.  pride would swell in his chest, a smile stretching ear to ear, if not for the lack of her presence.

“rey?”

calling out receives no response, his voice echoing in his ears.  he tries again, louder, only to be met with the same silence.  all is so quiet and still. . .  has she left?  does she follow the fleet in their victorious abandon?  it wouldn’t be an unreasonable conclusion.  she has no idea he is here, that he was coming at all.  none had answered his transmissions.  they wouldn’t think to wait.  but he must be certain before he takes his own leave.

still surveying the ruined citadel around him, thor walks, turning his back to the open space.  there are so many destroyed columns, statues.  rows upon rows of seating for spectators.  it must have held thousands.  tearing it all down must have been no small feat.  just how far did she push herself to achieve it?  she must be exhausted.  drained.  he knows her power and all she is capable of, but this— he’s never seen such a display from her.  it is only natural that he worries.  it etches onto his face, alongside confusion.  

there are no stragglers.  there are no bodies.  hardly any evidence that anyone had been here at all.

thor carries himself along, boots scuffing along cracked and dirtied ground.  a fallen column to his back obscures the stretch of empty flooring.  through a squint he eyes his surroundings.  stormbreaker swings lazily once at his side as he sighs, turns— at last spots another person.  the column ends; nothing is between him and them.  just as dirty and bloody as he is, collapsed. . .  familiar.  lovingly familiar.  painfully.  then agonizingly.

what he sees makes no sense.  despite the fact that his thoughts stall, his brain struggling to process what he sees, his heart races.  the tightness in his chest takes his breath away.  a freeze he’s never felt runs through his veins.  stormbreaker slips from his grasp and thuds loudly against the ground; he doesn’t even feel the loosening of his fingers.  though his breaths falter, their pace is quick.  time around him distorts— it feels as though he stands there for an eternity, trying to understand the sight before him.  mere seconds pass before he finds that he is moving again, pulled toward her.  though the last thing he wants is confirmation in this moment.  closing in, there is no mistaking what he knows he sees; rey, as beautiful as ever but so still, so pale— so lifeless— that it churns his stomach.

shouldn’t he be screaming?  thor remembers his mother, loki, heimdall.  all his grief and rage and agony had torn their way from his throat without him willing it to.  nothing comes out now.  only his breaths, stuttering, catching in his chest as he drops to his knees beside her.  he sees himself scooping her up into his arms.  another lurch hits the pit of his stomach; she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t react at all.  she is cold to the touch and limp.  only then does he notice how his vision blurs, how his chin and lips wobble threateningly.  there is no fighting the tears as they fall.  they only worsen as he turns her in his arms to face him, looking down at her. . .  the shaking breath that leaves him is so loud it nearly startles him.

thought returns to him beyond blind sensation, and in the next instant, his voice.  it squeezes around the knot in his throat.  “rey,” he manages— barely.  it shakes so heavily, his voice— pinches and shrinks, he hardly sounds like himself.  “rey, look at me.  you— you need to look at me.  you did it.  you won.  you’ve—“  a droplet falls to her face.  when he shifts to cradle her cheek, wiping it away, it streaks through the dirt.  still no reaction.  “at last, it’s over.  this. . .  this is our chance at peace, our chance to be happy, so you can’t—“  

the body— rey is hugged closer to him, and he feels the easily recognizable crawl in his chest.  it claws at him.  the sobs, the screams that he’d expected to pour from him moments ago begin to build.  thor holds them off as best he can. . .  but still, the cries break free.  his face crumbles beneath the weight of his grief.  why?  why is he here again?  after all he has lost she was meant to be the one thing he was allowed to keep.  he was meant to watch her grow older.  he’d envisioned it, yearned for it, allowed himself to be hopeful that he would get to watch it all unfold.  he’d seen them fighting side by side, starting a family, joining as one with the promise of forever.  all for nought.  all to end up back here.  he will always end up back here.  you are a destroyer, odinson.  all that which he touches will be ripped away from him.  how terribly unfair.  what has he done to deserve this?

has he not lost enough?

“please,” he whispers, leaning to press his lips to her temple.  idly, his fingers stroke through her hair, his opposite hand urging her closer.  each passing second is worse than the last.  to know she won’t return his embrace. . .  any physical pain, however tremendous, would be more easily endured.  he would prefer it.  “please, come back to me.  i don’t. . .  what do i do without you?  how must i— when i’ve not had the chance to make it right?  you can’t.  you can’t.  don’t do this to me.  this is not how your story was meant to end.”  he was supposed to be here to protect her, to ensure she would discover what life can be away from the fight.  he failed.  he always fails.  what kind of god is he?

“i love you,” leaves him in a cry.  “i love you so much.  i have always loved you.  i should have told you.  so many times, i should have told you.  i am so sorry— for allowing my cowardice to best me.  if you. . .  if you just come back to me, i will never make that mistake again.  i promise you.”  

of course he knows.  part of him is all too aware that his wishes won’t come true.  how could they possibly?  again and again he has had to endure this.  people don’t come back.  death is eternal— trickster magic aside, and even that must eventually end.  sitting amongst the ruin, stroking her hair and face, weeping, he knows that if he accepts this— that the love of his life, the other half of his very soul is gone— there will be nothing.  no joy, not a moment of peace from his torment, nothing to inspire him to push forward.  each day, for thousands of years to come, will be seeped in misery once again.  that is, if he can find the will to leave this damned planet, and he doesn’t think he wants to.  if rey is dead, why should he do anything but sit here, holding her, until any of the many burning & collapsing ships crush them?  through a shaking sob, ducking his head to press to her chest, he thinks he will do just that.  hold her and mourn and wait.

confessions of love and apologies for his shortcomings pass his lips again and again.  it is almost rhythmic, how he gently rocks her, whispers in her ear knowing she can’t hear him.  he doesn’t know how long he sits there, holding her, before he finally stills, before the cries stop.  when the tears stop flowing and he quiets, there is only the sound of his breathing and surrounding explosions— the falling ships outside.  each blow is muffled.  were they not, he may not have caught it. . .  a very faint, slow beat, a gentle thrum beneath the surface of her skin.  thor’s head lifts, and he stares down at her.  neither disbelief nor confusion cross his expression; he doesn’t dare to let himself hope.  probably, he is hearing what he wants to hear.  loss after loss has begun to weigh him down. . .  perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that his mind threatens to slip.

could he merely be imagining the, however slight, gradual return of color to her pallor?  could he be imagining what appears to be a slow rise and fall in her chest?  it stalls, she ceases again. . .  but after a few torturous moments of nothing, it comes again.  thor’s eyes widen, and pushing through the shock, the hand on her cheek travels down.  fear increases tenfold, but he has to know— gently, his fingers press to her throat, and his own breathing finds pause.  hope creeps up on him regardless of his attempt to keep it at bay, and for once. . .  he doesn’t regret it.  just beneath the pads of his fingers, a pulse.  weak, but there nonetheless.  

she’s not dead.  rey is not dead.  not yet.  relief doesn't wash over him.  if that is to remain true, if she is to survive, he must move.  thor has only a handful of seconds to shed his willingness to stay just where he is, to let go of his desire to succumb to his pain.  when he seems to return to himself, he glances around the citadel in a daze as if searching for an answer.  amongst the rubble and the still breaking foundation of the citadel, he sees it.  stormbreaker.  his gaze returns to her once more, and as gently as he can so as not to jostle her, thor shifts, lifting her fully into his arms and rising to his feet.

“you’re alright, i'm here, i've got you,” he says hurriedly, his voice finally even.  supporting her weight in one arm, his free hand opens, calls the axe.  in just a second he feels the swift arrival of the handle, closes his fingers around it.  he doesn’t look away from her face.  “you’re going to be alright.”  echoing through the vast emptiness is the slam of the axe in the ground; in the next second, they are engulfed in the light of the bifrost.

#drabble tbt #𝙜𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧. turning page #death tw #this is Long enjoy

[animasend]

✨ !!! dealer's choice >:3

send me a ✨ and i’ll shuffle my playlist, then write a drabble based on the song that comes up 

                                            KING / F+TM

       ever since she first saw the Alien God, Olga has always wondered: why the crown?

        she never had any aspirations to rule. to be something of a king or a queen. that seemed like far too much pressure. there was no place for royalty in society, no need for there to be one to rule them all. this is what she always thought whenever she remembered that crown sitting atop her own head. it seemed so out of place, so unfitting for her body. Olga as not fit for a crown and she certainly didn't consider the Alien God deserving of one either. yet, in the quiet solitude of her home, at a time where it held nothing but her presence, her eyes find the half-ajar door of her closet. they scan the opening slowly until they rest upon a box with something shiny and sharp peeking out from it and in this instance, a strange curiosity overcomes her.

      she had forgotten about it for the longest time. it had been a random choosing. just pick something, the Rider had said and she did. steps are slow as she draws open the door, fingers careful as they plucked the crown from its resting spot, making her way back to the standing mirror tucked near the window, staring in silence at her own reflection, her movements showing no hesitance as she places the crown atop her head.

     some say that she is not the Alien God. some believe that it is her. but it is only her who can be the judge on that.

           physically, they are the same. it is her body, and she knows it well. it is the same feline-like orange eyes that stare back at her in mocking arrogance. it is the same fair skin that rests exposed, holding not a single flaw. it is the same head of curls as white as snow, falling well past her hips and it is that same braid worn ever so neatly on the side, like a chain to the past. her head tilts to the side in thoughtless observation as a hand raises, fingertips slowly dragging down her cheek, past slightly parted lips, pausing at her chin before trailing down her neck to come to a final stop just above her chest. now, Olga has never been vain about her appearance, never gave it any more thought than to appear presentable. but it is impossible for her not to take note of it here, the quiet curiosity growing in volume with each passing second.

       ( kings were to be someone worth building an empire for. worth felling an empire for. worth sacrificing everything for. in the same vein, being a king meant doing what no other will, no matter the cost or how hated they become. all for their goal. all for their conquest. all for their rule. )

     fingertips hook around the tie keeping her braid kept up, letting it drop to the floor before they return to card through it, eyes unblinking as it comes undone. then, she does it up once more, but different. here, she takes with it the longest strands of curls that mingle with the rest of her hair. it takes a moment before it is almost complete. it is missing something. eyes fall to the table within reach. there sat a blue ribbon, the underside decorated in golden diamonds.that should do. it takes but a moment for her to tie it into one neat bow where the braid starts. then, and only then, does she let it fall against her skin. huh. the only difference now....was the eyes. but even then...there had been something she recognized in those eyes, so familiar to her.

     Olga had never been as good as she thought she was, but it was easy to pretend. to dress it all up in something deemed to be pretty and acceptable, to hide the doubts and self-hate. it was effortless to convince everyone that she was so full of herself, so arrogant and it was like taking candy from a baby in how quickly they bought it. never as good and never satisfied, but still, she never let that act go. the most damning of all was she never regretted it. never felt an ounce of remorse for being so cruel, so callous and uncaring. 

                 in some ways, it had been oddly satisfying. she’s felt that again since coming here.

    even if it was just another of the Stars' ploys, she hadn't felt as horrible as she thought upon killing Lev. no, she found some satisfaction in it. it was not catharsis.  if she had to give it a name...perhaps joy stemmed from an unconcious want of revenge. that guilt she had felt dried as fast as water in the hot sun, leaving what remained to fill its space. even now, as she idly recalls those dying screams, she is the picture of tranquility. an errant strand twirling lazily around her finger and there is no surprise as she watches her reflection smirk in tandem with it. she is not startled by this. it does not concern nor worry her, much to her own surprise.

  maybe it was having someone at her mercy, helpless and unable to do a damn thing to stop her. maybe it was that muted delight at never granting that mercy. or maybe it was just the fact that she got to kill that fool, to do something she wanted without regret or hesitation, no matter how cruel it was. regardless of the reasoning....she has found an understanding. or maybe it’s a realization about why the Alien God had that crown: there is something to be had about having control. about being the one at the root of it all. 

                                       about being the king. 

   and if the Alien God truly was her....then there will be no surprises to be had in the future. so, even as she watches herself in the mirror, gaze flitting down to her hand, that worry she held is gone. for a brief moment, it doesn’t exist and all she can see in that mirror is another side of herself looking back.

#i. don't want to talk about it #don't look at me #don't talk to me #drabble tbt. #word count: 1029 #I DONT WANNA TALK ABOUT IT #death mention/ #under read more for length don't lOOK AT ME #fellstcr #▍✶ MEMES

[dalishborne]

“  i don’t wanna get up.  ” (Doesn't have to apply to the meme <3)

Morning After Starters (Selectively Accepting!)

Revenelan chuckled softly as her fingers gently threaded through Vasco’s hair, cradling him against her chest beneath his bed sheets. His bed, always his bed; though her clan had caught wind of the burgeoning connection between her and the sea-captain, she wasn’t ready for the torrent of questions and curiosities that would follow the revelation of their bond. Revenelan and Vasco could only steal fleeting moments together, their responsibilities pulling them in opposite directions for weeks. She wished to stretch these stolen seconds, uninterrupted and devoted solely to him.

They lingered in this embrace, a tangled web of limbs, silently basking in each other’s warmth, slipping in and out of sleep to the comforting thrum of their beating hearts. Revenelan looked down with a tender gaze, her lips curling into a content smile. From her view, all she could see of Vasco was the top of his head against her, his cheek pressed to her blackened chest. The covers were snug under his strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment. Yet, Revenelan had no intention of leaving; she wished instead to meld into his very being, to be closer to Vasco than the depths of his own soul.

But how foolish to entertain such a love, destined to end. Revenelan stilled, her face falling. That venomous voice had returned, breathing life into the murky doubts that tainted the edges of her bliss. He is of the sea, and I am of the land. When all is said and done, would it be right to anchor him from the waters he calls home? Would he even wish to remain? Revenelan knew she was bound to the life she was born into, the role she was destined for. She could never leave her clan for such selfish desires; and Vasco...

Revenelan swallowed thickly, her head tilting to observe her lover's face, grateful that he had chosen to rest his eyes, shielding him from her doubt. She studied him—the chiseled edge of his strong jaw, the soft curve of his lips adorned by the unique vallaslin of his sea-faring tribe. She traced the straight bridge of his nose to his low brow, gingerly following the blueish tattoos that adorned his face. The reality of her dark thoughts settled in, that her time with Vasco would likely, inevitably end all too soon.

She tightened her arms around Vasco, burying her nose in the crown of his dark hair, inhaling his familiar scent of sea salt and earth.

“Let’s not, then,” Revenelan murmured into his hair, planting a kiss before she continued. “Let us stay here, close our eyes, and pretend that time has stopped around us. Just a little longer.”

#seeasunset:vasco #seeasunset #ic. #ask. #MEEP #it got angsty aslfghsaf #also i didnt realize this was a starter meme alkjskhgh it turned out more drabble-y #my bad #verse tbt #au tbt