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songofthesibyl · 15 days

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The Lark Ascending

A Tamlin POV set during the time in his youth when he was friends with Rhysand.

Like a kite Cut from the string, Lightly the soul of my youth Has taken flight

—Ishikawa Takuboku

“About time,” Rhys said, tapping his foot.

Tamlin smiled, setting down his pack. “Were you waiting with bated breath?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “You know how difficult it is for me to get away.”

“Yes. I do.” It was difficult for him to get away, too. He hadn’t expected anything beyond the first meeting—a meeting out of pity, no doubt. Rhys had admitted as much. But in that charming way of his that made it seem like a compliment. And yet when they had a chance to see each other again. And again. For months, now. It still didn’t feel real.

He realized he had never really had a friend before.

“So you really make a big thing of Nynsar?” Rhys asked.

“Not as much as with Calan Mai. But it is the arrival of spring. Whether delayed or not.”

“The spreading of seeds, and all that.” Rhys sat down against a pine tree.

“Something like that.” He joined him on the grass nearby, the corners of his mouth starting to lift in anticipation.

“Not that you haven’t been doing plenty of that lately.”

There it was. He turned away, chuckling, a slight heat to his face. When he turned back, Rhys was gazing on him idly.

“It’s so easy to make you blush. Strange considering how much time you’ve spent in the pleasure houses lately.”

Tamlin adjusted his position on the grass.

Rhys laughed. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m certainly not.”

“I’m not sure you know what shame is.”

“No. Perhaps not. But I’m serious. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed. It’s all natural.”

“It’s certainly helped me in the poetry contests.” He cringed—he had said too much.

Rhys sat up straight. “What?”

“It’s—never mind.”

But Rhys leaned forward, that mischievous, almost predatory look of delight on his face. “Poetry contests? Since when do you have time for poetry contests?”

“In between fiddle concerts.”

Rhys tipped back his head, laughing, then looked on him, a spark in his eyes. “No, really. What contests?”

“At the camps. Sometimes at night, we—“

“Jerk each other off? Yeah, everyone knows about that.”

He gave him a look.

“Im sorry,” he said, stifling laughter. “Go ahead.”

“Sometimes we do—get bored. So we write…limericks. The worst, and dirtiest one wins.”

Rhys searched his eyes. “And you actually participate in this?”

“And win. Thanks in part to my education in the pleasure houses.”

He crossed his arms. “And what do you get when you win?”

Tamlin shrugged. “Bragging rights.” He added before Rhys could step in, “Not a handjob.”

Rhys bit his lip before responding. “You’re learning. But just bragging rights?”

“It’s just a silly game.” That he took incredibly seriously.

“You like poetry, then? Along with music?” He began to rifle through his own pack.

“I…dabble.”

Rhys smiled at his choice of words, but kept his eyes on whatever was in his pack.

“My mother is the real poet. She writes verses…for songs. On her harp. Sometimes I accompany her on the fiddle.”

Rhys finally looked up at him, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t sing, do you?”

“As far as you’re concerned, no. What are you doing in there?”

Rhys seemed almost hesitant. Shy, for a moment. But reached in, and took out a parcel wrapped in the brocades of the Night Court. Dark purple and black with designs in gold and silver of moons, stars, and comets. He held it for a moment before handing it over. All playfulness was gone. He was in one of his rare moments of naked sincerity.

Tamlin took it, examining the fabric. “Beautiful.” As was everything associated with the Night Court. He felt such peace just looking at it. As if he were gazing into the starlight pool.

“Open it.”

He lifted his brows, but didn’t question him. Instead unwrapping the cloth. Inside was a bandolier with a set of the Illyrian fighting knives Rhys had been training him with.

“Rhys, what—“

“So you can practice on your own. Unless you plan on defeating your enemies with bad poetry.”

He laughed slightly, but his smile faded, and he looked into Rhys’ star-flecked eyes.

“Rhys…I can’t accept this.”

He looked away demurely. “Consider it a late Solstice present.”

“But I have nothing for you.”

The playfulness returned to his face. “How about one of your poems?”

He chuckled. “For this? It’s hardly a fair trade.”

“Like I said. It’s a gift. But if you want to give me something in return…”

Tamlin smiled, carefully setting the knives and cloth down, and went into his own pack, grabbing a pencil and paper.

“You’re going to write it right now?”

“I told you, I’m…well versed in limericks by now.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “I weep for the future of your Court.”

“You and me both.”

Rhys stared at him as he wrote, and crossed out, and wrote again, smiling.

“What?”

“You’re already so different from the person I met at Solstice. And thank the Cauldron for it.”

He looked up at him with a wry smile. “I thought you told me to accept myself as I am?”

“When did I say that? But see, that’s already different. You wouldn’t have said that to me before. Too busy stammering.”

He said nothing, but continued writing.

“…But I’m glad I could help dislodge the stick up your ass every Spring Court citizen gets issued at birth. Part of the way anyway.”

He grinned. “Stop, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Exactly how long do these contests last?”

“Not that long.” He tore a scrap of the paper, and handed it to him. “Here. I don’t know that it’s my best, but—“

Rhys grinned, and began reading.

“There once was a male born of the Night. Who made all the females squeal with fright. But rumors of his size That would put out their eyes Were nothing compared to the male’s bite.”

His smile deepened, and he lifted his eyes to him. “This is rather complimentary.”

“It’s a gift. And I did say they were just rumors.”

“I would say substantiated, if you’ve been talking to all those females you’ve visited.” He held out his hand, beckoning. “Give me the pencil.”

Tamlin looked at him incredulously. “What, you can’t handle not being the best at something?”

“I couldn’t tell you, I’ve never had that experience before. Again, just ask the females.”

He rolled his eyes, and handed him the pencil, crossing his arms and arching his brow. Rhys had a wicked smile, quietly laughing to himself as he composed. Tamlin was silent and patient, curious to see this side of him. That he would feel competitive with him, of all people. It did not take much time for him to put down his pencil, though, and hand the paper over.

Tamlin lifted his brows again in surprise and curiosity, and read it out loud, immediately beginning to stifle laughter.

“There once was a male from the Spring Court Who thought loose ladies weren’t his sort But whose member sprung out At each female about Until Spring had come in every port.”

He burst out laughing. “Rhys, I didn’t know you were such a poet.”

“One of my many gifts. So have I won this round?”

Tamlin smiled at him. “Beginner’s luck.”

Rhys lay back against the tree trunk again with his arms crossed behind his head, smug and satisfied. “Think of another one over Nynsar. And don’t hold back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. What will you do over Nynsar?”

Rhys looked at him briefly, a thoughtful, almost tender look. Then closed his eyes. “The Night Court has its own ways to observe the coming of spring.”

Tamlin laughed again, and Rhys opened his eyes, sitting upright with a start. “I swear, I didn’t mean that one.”

They both dissolved into giggles, collapsing onto the earth until it subsided. Then remaining there, lying in silence. Tamlin breathed in the earth, closing his eyes, listening to the swaying of the grass in the wind. No training, or life lessons, today. They simply lay there, enjoying each other’s company, without masks or obligations. No observing and being observed. Nothing at all but themselves. He had never felt so at ease with someone before. Even the land—wild, and rough, the hilly terrain dotted with pine, juniper, and seas of purple heather. It fit his proportions better, he settled more easily into its grooves. The tidy, small nature of the Spring Court—meadows and blossoms and manicured gardens—was stifling compared to this.

Maybe not the gardens, though. Not hers.

He turned over, looking at Rhys, who was lying on his back, basking in the sun.

“I’d like to see, though,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “how you celebrate the…equinox. Starfall, right?”

Rhys remained on his back, saying nothing, and Tamlin wondered if he was asleep. But then Rhys turned towards him, opening his eyes, and propping his head on his arm. He had that same distant, dreamy look in his eyes from earlier.

“I’d like that too. Some day.”

A shadow passed over them. Tamlin sighed. “Your friends don’t like me.”

“They’re my family. And they don’t know you as anything other than the heir to an enemy Court. They’re just being protective.”

“Yeah. I guess I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Rhys stared at him. “Yes, you do.”

He wanted to say something, but Rhys turned again, looking up at the big sky overhead.

“Don’t worry, the holiday will be over soon enough. You’ll be back to writing doggerel in no time.”

“One can hope.”

Rhys chuckled. “Well, I suppose we should get going.” He sat up.

Tamlin reluctantly did the same, eyeing his pack. “Rhys, really…I don’t know how to thank you for—“

“There’s no need. Write me more poetry, if you like. Maybe an ode.”

Tamlin smiled, and they stood up.

“And…probably don’t show those to the High Lord.”

“No.”

“Ok, enjoy the holiday.”

“You too.”

Rhys waited for him in his reluctance to go. But he would have to winnow first. He could not be found in the Night Court alone. Rhys gave him a sympathetic smile, and he pictured it as he was pulled hundreds of miles back to his own Court. There was a melancholy feeling that passed over him briefly, and a heaviness—but it was shorter, and lighter, with every visit. The manor was no longer his home. He never intended it to be again. Heir or not. It would never happen. He would determine his own future. And so he stepped lightly over the meadows and glens. The earth didn’t hold him so strongly. Soon, he felt, he would not step on the ground at all.

A plant cut from its roots. A fluff of dandelion floating in the air. The lark ascending.

He held his pack close to him as he approached the manor.

“Young lord,” the sentry at the door said, “Welcome home. Happy Nynsar.”

“Thank you, same to you.” He tried not to make the reason for his next question obvious. But it probably was. “Are my father and brothers home?”

“…No, my lord. But your mother is in.”

He couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. He couldn’t have received better news upon his arrival.

“Thank you.” He nearly skipped as he made his way through the halls, finding out from the servants his mother was in the library. It would have been his first guess, though. He wondered briefly where his father and brothers were.

Probably out hunting babies who couldn’t pay the Tithe.

He stood in the doorway of the library, staring at her. She had her back to him, sitting at one of the tables. Writing. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, studded with wildflowers. A barrette of purple hyacinths pulled some of it back, and she wore a white gown with embroidered ivy trailing throughout. He felt tears come to his eyes, looking at her. He didn’t know why.

But of course, he did.

“Mother.”

She rose from her seat, turning towards him with bright green eyes. “Tamlin!”

And nearly ran to him. He dropped his pack carefully on the floor, and embraced her, holding her close and exchanging kisses on each cheek.

She pulled back, holding onto his arms, and looking him up and down. “Look at you!” She squeezed his arms. “Your muscles get bigger every time I see you. And you’ve got some color on your face.” She smiled. “You look good.”

“And you look beautiful,” he replied.

She shrugged, still smiling. “For Nynsar.”

She preferred it to Calan Mai. He did too. He didn’t like how she was then. How his father was with her.

“What were you writing?”

“Oh, just some poetry.”

He couldn’t help but smile, stifling a laugh.

“What? Is there something funny about that?”

“No, mother,” he said. “You know I love your poetry. It’s just I was writing some poetry too earlier.”

“For the holiday?”

He ruffled his hair. “Uh, sort of.”

“What, what is it? Can I see?”

“Uh, no…I don’t think you want to read it.”

“Why not, I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“It’s…” He felt his face get hot. “They’re limericks. And not any good.”

She crossed her arms, giving him an amused smile. “Oh, really?”

“Mom…”

“Come,” she laughed, taking his arm. “Sit with me.” She led him to a couch, sitting beside him.

“They…they won’t be back for awhile?”

Her smile faded somewhat. “No. Not until tonight. They’re out hunting.”

He turned aside, smirking, then turned back.

His mother stared at him.

“What?”

“You really do look good, Tam. Happy.”

“I…don’t mind the camps.”

“I—I’m glad.” She looked down for a moment.

“I miss you, though.”

She looked up again, a sweet smile on her face. “Oh, I miss you too. But I—is that all there is?”

“What do you mean?”

“These past few months…you’ve seemed…different. Almost…giddy. Are you sure it’s just the camps?”

He smiled. Ever observant. He could have brushed off her intuition. But he wanted to tell someone. He wanted to tell her. He once thought she’d be the only friend he’d ever have.

“It’s…”

She brushed his hair from his face. “What? What is it?”

“You know…” He looked towards the closed door.

“We’re alone,” she said.

He turned back to her. Still speaking in a lower voice. “Rhys—Rhysand. The heir to the Night Court.”

Her smile was gone. “I know of him.”

“He’s…he reached out to me. On the Winter Solstice.”

She sat back. “Reached out.”

“He’s been helping me train. Illyrian techniques. His mother’s people.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know how they belittle him for it. His father’s mate…how they look down on him for it. Simply for being born.”

She gave him a look of understanding. “Yes. I know.”

“I know how it sounds. What you’ll say. What anyone would…it’s not a trick. I thought it was, too. It took time for me to trust him. It was the same for him. But we do…trust each other. I just came from there.”

“His Court? Tamlin…”

“It’s alright. His family knows.”

“They—they do.”

“Well, some of them.”

“How long have they…”

The whole time, he thought. But didn’t say, pressing his lips together instead.

“And you felt…you couldn’t tell me…”

“It’s not you…” He looked at her drawn expression, missing the brightness, and the smile. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she breathed in, shaking her head. “I understand. I’m glad you’ve found someone to talk to. He’s a true friend?”

He smiled tentatively, getting up and bringing his pack over to her, then sitting back down and taking the parcel out, and handing it to her.

“He gave me this today. Open it.”

She glanced at him briefly as he handed it to her. She held it for a moment then unwrapped it, silently, looking at the bandolier with a somewhat sorrowful expression. His heart dropped.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, the sadness seeping into her voice.

“But…”

“I just worry for you. It’s what a mother does.”

“We’ve been careful. He doesn’t have an agenda, mother, I swear—“

“No, honey, I believe you. It’s not that.”

“And I’ll keep them hidden. I’m…used to hiding things from them.”

“Yes, I know. It’s not that…” She handed him the parcel and stood up, walking to the table she’d been working at, picking up a piece of paper, and sitting back down at his side. “It still needs some work.”

He put the parcel on the floor and took the paper from her, reading the poem on it silently.

“I see him, soft and sweetness of lilac Of the tender shoots that yellow and green Of the willow’s sway and of calling back Her song and his song of the world unseen. The markers that run deep, the songs unheard A plucking of taut strings by the reeds The blossoms sway at his every word He already has everything he needs. The rains of Spring can run cold, arresting life The violence of its winds and of its whims But the softness that yields outlasts the knife That soon breaks as it’s thrusted through limbs. The rose that blooms red does not by the thorn But to seek the bee for which it is born.”

He looked up at her, and she turned away shyly.

“Like I said, it needs work.”

“No,” he said, embracing her. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re sweet,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“I…” He looked over at the knives on the top of his pack. The brocade spread out underneath, a blanket of stars. “All sons have to learn how to fight.”

She smiled sadly, and caressed his cheek with her hand. “You’re not all sons. You’re my son.”

He only smiled at her. “Anyway—you know they wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t agree to go there. If they thought I’d actually have ambitions to become High Lord.”

“But you already have the markers. Why wouldn’t you become High Lord one day?”

“Because…” They were both silent. If he became High Lord, her mate would be dead. If he never intended to become one—

“I don’t want you throwing your life away at those camps. You’re meant for so much more than that.”

“Being High Lord?”

“No. I don’t mean that.”

They sat in silence again.

“Here,” He suddenly thought, taking out his pencil and paper from his pack. “I’ll write you a poem. A limerick. Not—“ He clarified. “Not the ones I was writing earlier.”

She laughed softly.

For a moment, looking at her, he thought of the one he had come up with long before, reciting it in his mind.

There once was a mother whose silence Betrayed a mate who was filled with great violence Though her kindness was strength The pain broke her at length And led to a life of compliance.

No. She didn’t deserve that. Instead, he quickly wrote something down, and handed it to her.

“As the Spring fields are planted with seed And the blossoms unfurl with great speed A son carries with him Thoughts of love that won’t dim Of the mother whom he’ll always need.”

“It’s nothing, but—“

Her lower lip trembled, and she kissed his forehead. “My sweet boy.”

“I’m still here, mom,” he said as she parted from him. “I’m still me. Maybe more than…I’ve felt in a long while. You know I can’t just stay here and play music, and write poetry.”

“I know,” she breathed.

“But with Rhys…he’s shown me…he displayed it before I was even born. That you can use your strength to help others. That you can protect them. I…wish things had been different. That another life were possible. But this…I feel like…there’s another world opening up to me. That one day…even the life I have now is…a stepping stone to something better. For you, too.”

“For me?”

“You should come with me, mother. His Court…what I’ve seen of it…it’s beautiful. I’m sure you’d love it there.”

“Tamlin…I could never. I have my duties here…”

“You had as much choice being Lady of Spring as I had being heir. You were meant for more too.”

She looked at him, eyes shining. “Perhaps. One day.”

“He talked of seeing Starfall. Next year, maybe.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it’s beautiful. But…” She took his hands in hers. “Whatever happens. If he has done this for you. Made you feel like yourself again. I am happy for you. But…using your strength to help others…you didn’t need him to figure that out. That’s always who you’ve been. I’ve never been worried you’d lose sight of that.”

That he’d turn out like his father and brothers, she meant.

“And it is worth it. Being Lady of Spring. If it means I get to be your mother.”

He looked down, a pang in his heart. “Mom…”

She lifted his chin with her hand to look him in the eyes. “Well. We have a little while until they get back. We’ve written poetry. Will you play music with me?”

“I’d love to.”

“Good.” She let go, and he wrapped the knives in the brocade and put them back in his pack, carrying it to his room, and getting out his fiddle from its hiding spot, joining his mother who already had her harp out. He saw anew, though she smiled, the great sadness, and loneliness in her. There was no one she could be herself with. Feel safe with. Who would take care of her when he was away. A gnawing guilt ate at him, and a worry that lingered as they began to play. Their secret song.

But the longer they played, his worries began to subside, as they always did. His heart lifted as she sang. And he thought to himself, that she would be lifted with him. Her steps lighter and lighter, as his. She would sever her roots, as he was. That bound them to this place. That hid her light. When he left this place for good, she would leave with him.

They would escape.

@tamlinweek 2024 Day 2: Poet/Warrior

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

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chaoticgeminate · 2 years

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Meeting Thalon

Part of the Iridescence Fictional Universe Part of the Chasing Shadows Universe

Pairing: Vivienne Surana x Thalon Beitel Rating: Explicit Warnings: Mentions of forced bestiality, SA, rape Word Count: 2.1K Notes: This is more of a side story featuring one of the OCs from the 'verse created by the lovely @ezrasbirdie! Iridescence is a universe, after all, so it isn't JUST the main couples I plan to write for. Thalon Beitel is a male OC with a Pedro Pascal face claim only, think Ezra era but without the blond patch!

The night sky was dark with no sign of the moon or her light, the night that the three members of the Coven with dark magic natures were at their strongest and most likely training together, but Vivienne found herself away from Se’Kvia tonight. There was a restlessness in her this moonless evening, brought on by what was both a great honor and a nerve-wracking pressure, but she had never been one to shy away when things were hard.

For the past several days the Wanderer’s constellation on the back of her left shoulder had been hot to the touch and uncomfortable, she’d avoided telling the others since she hadn’t wanted them to worry that she was getting ill or that something was wrong, but after too long of discomfort she’d finally relented and asked Raven to inspect the marking in the chance that it was infected.

The pain and heat were a message, from the Wanderer directly, and Raven had turned to Daphne and Kassidy to translate it as the Priestess and High Priestess respectively of their shared celestial guide.

You have a choice to ascend to the role of a Priestess, Vivi, and if you accept this responsibility then you are to travel to Silverglenn with Lym and follow the Wanderer’s trail. You’ll meet the person that The Wanderer has chosen as your protector when you are performing rituals or ceremonies.

Vivienne knew that it wasn’t a requirement to fall in love with, or marry, her chosen guardian; Kassidy had married Allison because they’d already been lovers when The Wanderer had chosen her for his first Priestess in Yeonnran, while Daphne only ever called on Boba Fett if she had to. But there was a part of her that felt like maybe this had been part of why dating always felt stale, like there was something -someone- out there that was better for her.

It was a lot to think about.

Lym was bouncing along the path beside her, his small form only standing out in the darkness because of the strings of silver chains with sapphires and blue opal gems dangling from them that were glowing faintly with power, and Vivienne stopped when she felt the surge of magic that called out to her not too far down the path she was walking. Waiting for her at the end of the path, where they would stand under the eye of her celestial guide and she would accept or deny her role as a Priestess.

Stepping out of the wood into the open clearing her eyes landed on the man kneeling at the small stone and crystal altar in the center opposite of her, his hands resting on his knees and his head bowed. He was large, even kneeling she could tell he was taller and broad at the shoulders, but what truly captured her attention were the ink-black lines that covered most of his arms in a complicated array of arcane runes.

Vivienne slid gently to her knees across from the Sidhe, mirroring his position as Lym’s small form began spreading silver flakes and salt in a protective circle around them. Once the circle was closed she finally allowed her aura to bleed out, brushing and meeting that of her protector, and the touch of their magic created a delicate little sound that only they could hear. Like a song, two parts in perfect harmony, and Vivienne raised her hands to rest them on the altar with her palms down.

The shiver that slid down her back as a pair of larger, warmer, hands settled on top of her own was involuntary.

“Fearless Wanderer, I, Vivienne Surana se’Gwyndolin, have walked your path to this sacred ground at your behest; I answer your Call and present my humble offering at this, your last place on Solvora, in the form of my prayer and acceptance to become one of your Chosen Priestesses that my magic may offer you strength as you wander the stars.” Vivienne’s voice was steady and as her magic swelled that of her protector did too, keeping the harmony of their silent song as easily as he breathed. The smallest glow started at the center of each crystal, expanding out into an array of pale and colorless lights, and the markings carved into the stone began to fill with a mix of dark and light blue power.

“Fearless Wanderer, I, Thalon Beitel ne’Leobwin, have walked your path to this sacred ground at your behest; I answer your Call and present my humble offering at this, your last place on Solvora, in the form of my prayer and acceptance of protecting your chosen Priestess from this day until her last day that her magic may offer you strength as you wander the stars.” As he spoke Vivienne felt a conflicting set of emotions, the first being disbelief that he was her chosen protector out of all the possibilities and the second being the relief that came with the fiery sensation in her mark finally fading.

As the altar began to glow she felt The Wanderer’s power flow into her and mix with her aura, making her suck in a harsh breath as her personal power began to multiply, but Lym’s small form was glowing too as he worked to re-attune himself to her power so that she was no longer feeling like her skin was too small. As the light faded, as her power began to recenter, Vivienne finally looked up to see Thalon watching her before his lips curled into a smile that she could only describe as sly.

“This is quite the honor, Vivienne Surana se’Gwyndolin, the last time I saw you was the Yule feast with the Witch Princess Nylia Stardancer se’Hailwic. I was unfortunate to miss the opportunity to make your acquaintance properly that night.” The fact that he remembered her made Vivienne feel a mix of surprise and suspicion.

“I do believe the honor is mine, King Thalon Beitel ne’Leobwin of the Unseelie Court, it is an even higher honor that you remember me.” He offered a smile of sharp white teeth, though not as sharp as those of a were-kin or vampire the man’s bite still promised some pain, and Vivienne accepted his offered hand as he rose to his feet. He hadn’t really changed at all since that evening nearly three decades ago, his brown hair was short enough that it was only just starting to curl and his beard was still kept neat with the bare patch on either side visible, but Vivienne was caught by surprise that he wasn’t masking himself behind glamour tonight.

All of the runes and inked arrays down his arms were usually kept firmly out of sight just like the black lines that trailed along the edge of his bottom eyelid and down either side of his aquiline nose, the tail of the marks in the middle swooping down into a curl on his cheek, and his lion’s tail swayed behind him long enough to brush the grass beneath their feet. Thalon Beitel had been born just after the Sundering when the world was still trying to piece itself back together, when the portals had become locked doors and creatures of all kinds were trapped wherever they happened to be, the son of an imprisoned victim and a King wanted dead by the King’s wife.

“You are one of the few to call it an honor to meet me, Vivienne.” Everyone knew his story since the Courts had made his past a public affair when he sought the throne, when he emerged from hiding as an adult and challenged his own Father and the Queen for the Unseelie throne and won. Vivienne respected the hell out of him for it, honestly, it was a reminder that you could never assume a fight won or lost before it happened.

“You aren’t at fault for the things your ancestors chose to do, Thalon, all you can do is your very best to not become them. Besides, unlike most of the Lords of Sidhe Courts the obvious holes in the story imply that your grandmother didn’t actually choose to have a Sphinx -or any other bestial fey- as a bedfellow. The late Queen wouldn’t have executed your grandfather if it were true that your grandmother chose to commit adultery with everything the rumors mentioned.” The man before her was pure-blooded Sidhe except for his mother’s bloodline, tainted with the Sphinx heritage, but Vivienne wasn’t in a place to judge being partial blood herself.

His stare was intense for a long moment before Thalon finally looked away, there was something in the way his jaw tightened that made her wonder what he was thinking. But the tension faded as quick as it came and instead of continuing the line of conversation Thalon reached into his pocket, his bare chest mostly hairless except for the trail of dark hair starting just below his navel and Vivienne admired him quite shamelessly, the small mirror he handed her was just large enough to fit in her hand.

“So you can contact me if you need me, Vivienne, for anything. I’m your protector and I take that responsibility seriously, in or out of a ritual or ceremony I will be at your side if you call.” Vivienne paused in sliding the mirror into her pocket, looking up at him, and Thalon boldly reached out to cup her cheek. His hands were so large and she could feel the faintest texture difference on his palm and fingertips, like a cat’s paw pad, but a thought blew through her like a hurricane.

It was a perfect opportunity if she played this right.

“Thank you, Thalon, and in return if you need me then please call for me. I may not have much sway in the Unseelie Court or the Consortium but I am se’Gwyndolin and that alone tends to make people scared.” His expression was unreadable but he nodded, releasing her face, and Vivienne captured his hand in hers; forcing him to meet her eyes once more and hoping her look was as sincere as it needed to be.

“I mean it, Thalon. As long as I am not defying The Wanderer or against my Coven then I am on your side.” His dark brown eyes danced with gold before he leaned down so his lips were close to hers as if he were daring her to close the distance.

“I believe you, but I also know you have a motive Vivienne, I’m a Sphinx and I’m gifted with Sight. But feel free to do whatever it is you plan to in order to convince me, only a fool would turn down anyone like you.” Vivienne slotted her lips to his with a soft sigh and Thalon’s arms banded around her immediately, one sliding up to cup the back of her neck as the other rested politely on her lower back but pulling her up and against his body. It stole the breath from her lungs as he devoured her, plundering her mouth and making her whole body ignite with victory.

When he finally released her Thalon was flushed and his pupils were wide with desire as his tongue chased the taste of her from his lips, and Vivienne knew she looked just as debauched despite the kiss simply being a kiss.

“Don’t worry, Thalon, my motive is beneficial for both of us. I promise you that.” His eyes danced before the man reached out to play with the crescent charm on her necklace and finally he grinned, knowing and devious.

“If you want the open Throne in the Unseelie Court, Vivienne, I hope you’re ready to convince me that you deserve it. I am not one of those who marry solely for power, little Priestess, so you need to be prepared to fall in love with me too sweetheart.” He kissed her, chastely this time, before turning to walk away down the path with a jaunty tune being whistled into the night sky.

Lym looked at her and Vivienne felt her cheeks warm, the little Jackalope simply shook his head and hopped over to her side.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Vivi.” Before she could even attempt to reply her phone started to go off, a message from Daphne about going over incantations and ritual ingredients she’d need to have on her as a Priestess, and Vivienne responded with an affirmative to meet up the next morning before looking down at Lym.

“Trust me Lym, becoming his Queen is the best thing for both of us, and I’ll make him see that.” Vivienne traced her thumb across her lower lip and smiled at the wetness he’d left on her skin, it wasn’t like he was unattractive and she’d heard rumors about his prowess as a lover, all she had to do was convince him that she was a better Queen than anyone else chasing that throne and she knew she was more than capable.

As the Unseelie Queen she could protect the Coven from the Consortium simply by being a member, which meant her sisters would be safe, and if it meant seducing Thalon then she was more than confident in her ability to do so.

All Fics Taglist: @hardc0rehaylz @wordsnwhiskey @pagannightwitch @radiowallet @musings-of-a-rose

Coven Taglist: @iamskyereads @ezrasbirdie @lowlights @javierpinme @starlightmornings @leslie-lyman @daddydindjarin @rook-on-bough

#chaoticwrites #iridescence fictional universe #chasing shadows #f!oc x m!oc

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erazonpo3 · 3 years

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(This is a written collaboration between myself and Hemlock/pathygen in the ‘Cassandra’s Tangled Adventure’ AU verse, featuring our characters Alphecca and Violante. This was just a fun little back-and-forth with our two villains set in the period in which Violante has possession of Alphecca’s phylactery.

The formatting is based on our replies, it was really fun to get to write together and watch Violante flex on Alphecca. I’d recommend reading it on my blog’s desktop page for the formatting)

The Eagle and The Mole

Ever since her rebirth in flame and ash, Alphecca hasn’t known the icy grip of cold; yet Countess Violante’s chateau inspires it in her bones. It’s a monument of stone, glass, and drapery, and at this time of night the torchlight in the hallways are extinguished; malingerers are unwelcome. Even the ever-present ache in her chest takes its leave here, something she would have been thankful for if it weren’t Violante’s doing. Her soul burned like a dying star, but since her phylactery fell into Violante’s hands all she has known is its absence— numb apathy— the closest thing she knows to cold.

She’s sure to school her features before entering Violante’s parlour, smoothing out the notch between her eyebrows and the curl of her lips that may as well have been sculpted into her flesh these days. Trinket shrieks at her as she walks past, aggrieved that her delicious bones are today wrapped in the illusion of skin and, on top of that, a stupid uniform. It’s stiff and it pinches in ways she can’t feel but is nonetheless frustrated by, and whenever she catches her reflection in the silverware she can’t help but grimace at the militant emblems and pageantry she advertises. All that’s missing from her marionette costume is the strings.

The Countess is waiting for her as expected, perched perfectly poised on the gaudy piece of furniture she likes to pretend is a throne. She resists the urge to sneer at the pretentious display, if only because Violante would find it so amusing.

“I’m back,” she announces flatly, absently picking at the cuff of her jacket.

“Yes, I noticed.” Violante replies, crystal and calm as a winter morning.

The countess has a quill pinched between her fingers; sharp motions carry the crimson plume across the page laid out in front of her, scratching. The chamber swallows sound and bounces it back. Dim moonlight ekes through tall, arched windows of blue stained glass, and casts a watery pattern against the polished floor.

Violante does not look up at the dead woman.

A minute and a half passes before she finally caps the tiny, neat scrawl on the parchment with a looping signature, rolls it into a neat cylinder, and sets it aside. The feathered end of the quill finds its way between her lips, ponderously. She tilts her head up and her smile is delicate. There’s something of a spider in it.

“That certainly took you long enough. One little village could hardly have been all the effort.” The Countess of Solanales stands with a fluid motion, and folds her arms loosely across her chest. A cigarette smolders in it’s holder on the edge of the desk, filling the room with an oily, herbal smell. She inspects Alpchecca like one might a mannequin stuck in a display, lips pursed.

“Well, at least you kept everything in order this time. See? You can look nice. I knew the collar would be a nice touch. The color accents your eyes, now that you have them in.”

Trinket croaks from her perch. The monochrome vulture returns to preening, bored now that the arguably edible bits of the lich aren’t on display. Violante leans back against the edge of her gilded seat. “So how did it go? Did you make any friends?”

This time Alphecca doesn’t withhold the grimace that curls back her lip to expose a yellowed canine. She’s aware of the way the moonlight makes her pale skin seem especially waxy and sallow, which typically serves to unnerve humans- all save the Countess. Violante’s eyes glitter like a cut diamond as she appraises her, and Alphecca forces her gaze away in a show of deliberate disregard. She stares through the blue washed windowpane to speak to the waxing moon, but keeps an eye on Violante’s figure in her periphery.

“I was just being thorough, I’m sure you can appreciate that. No stone left unturned, no building left standing, everything razed just right, just for you,” she says, flashing Violante a quick, sardonic smirk before returning her gaze to the window. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of a problem marching your people down there and claiming a new pile of dirt, or whatever it is you do with the ashes. There’s nothing left.”

The moon’s bright glow begins to burn a spot into her vision, but facing the window makes it easier for her to keep her face blank. Her excursion today would be considered a success by Violante’s standards, but she had been sure to cause enough of a racket as she tore through the streets that most villagers had ample time to flee before she tore into the place. If they couldn’t escape even after all the time she gave them, well, Cassandra can’t say she didn’t try.

Under the scrutiny she can’t help but scratch at the briarthorn collar, and she chances another glance back at Violante.

“Thoughtful. I can’t say I have much use for more dirt than I already seem to own, but,” Violante gestures and Trinket stretches her neck. The vulture flaps off the stand and onto the desk with a crooked hop, and remains still while the countess fastens the scroll to her leg. “I’m sure whoever is left will be happy to accept all the aid Solanales is willing to provide, in the wake of their unfortunate devastation.”

Eyes glittering, she crooks a gloved finger under the large bird’s beak and hums. “The world is lousy with monsters, after all.”

And in the end, it was only a barrier town. But every little bit counts, every scrap of seizure. Scraps still. But these were things that couldn’t be rushed. Or shouldn’t have been, if she had been able to stick to her original schedule. Plans were important, but the ability to adapt to a situation was worth even more. Put attention in the right places, stress on the right joints, poison in the right tea.

Or get creative, and toss a skeleton into a henhouse. Ho hum.

“Go on.” Violante says to the bird. Trinket makes a clicking noise low in her throat, and takes off without a backwards glance at Alphecca, winging towards some high and hidden exit. Violante watches her go in silence. She doesn’t expect it will take long for a response, in some capacity, but she doesn’t really plan to wait for one either. Aldara is out in the field somewhere, hopefully stalking her other quarry, but there’s a decent chance both situations will muddle together eventually.

“Now, what to do with you?” Violante turns back to face the dead woman, who looks hilariously unsure. It’s already late, and she needs to keep some space between the raids, as she creeps them closer to the borders of the Iron Kingdom.

Alphecca scowls at the vulture’s retreating form, however glad she’d normally be to see it leave. With Trinket gone, only the two of them remain. It didn’t exactly make for a good buffer, yet in the leering bird’s absence the room tightens with intimacy. Violante and intimacy are her two least favourite things, and combined they manifest as the bane of her existence. The only thing that can make it worse is Violante’s voyeuristic shadow who is thankfully out on her master’s orders tonight, likely committing her own fill of atrocities.

The Countess’ icy veneer betrays nothing of her intentions. In a game where information is everything, Alphecca knows she’s at a woeful disadvantage. If she tries fishing, Violante will know what she’s doing the minute she speaks, no matter how vague or disinterested she comes across— but she might be indulged. It begs the question of whether it’s better to stumble around blindly or sniff out a trail she can’t trust. Either way, she needs to say something- the longer she concedes to silence, the further the scales tip in Violante’s favour.

“How about giving these old bones a rest? You’ll find a siesta does wonderful things for the constitution,” she quips. “I’m assuming you don’t want to cause too much of a stir, anyhow,” she adds, unable to deny the temptation of the gamble. Now she forces herself to keep her eyes trained on the Countess, and settles into a smirk.

“You’re dead, you don’t have a constitution,” Violante drawls.

She glances away towards the window, the picture of disinterest, thinking. Ghostly evening light blankets the room, and flows over the silent collection of statues and armor bordering the walls, the curtained archways. Rooting out the location of the lich’s phylactery had been more of an effort of time and money than anything else. She had a number of contacts stretched over the continent, from tomb takers to Morcant to disgruntled former servants who had once swept the halls of the Spire. The crumbling little ruin of a shrine had seemed like a forgotten afterthought, nestled on the edge of an icy valley north of Ingvarr. The pendant had been wrapped in hay and rue. The plain little goat skull carved into the stone that boxed it had worn smooth with time. It was imagery that had become much more frequent among the information she lately received. So many old stories seemed to be pulling themselves up out of the grave these days. Even keeping the new ones in the ground was proving to be a challenge.

No one died like they used to. The lich had certainly been involved in that most recent of frustrations.

Although, maybe, her decision to poison Cassandra had been a little hasty. She had maybe been a little angry. A little perturbed. Corpses and memories were generally less useful than breathing attendants, even if they were less trouble. People were so stubborn. Still, even there the lich might prove..useful. If that was the way things shook out in the end.

“Besides, we both know rest isn’t really in your cards.” The countess says, stepping down away from the desk, towards Alphecca. Reaching up, she adjusts the collar the lich keeps fiddling with, smooths down the epaulettes on her shoulders. The illusion of flesh truly was impressive. Almost as much as the facade of confidence. “You know, I once heard that a long life eventually deprives you of optimism. They also say that time heals all wounds. People never seem to be able to make up their minds about just how sad they think they’re supposed to be.”

Alphecca wraps her grimace up into a wry grin, though the fury in her eyes burns a palpable heat in the gelid room. Violante ignores said look as she smooths out the creases in her uniform, abusing all sentiment of personal space. The woman isn’t physically intimidating in the slightest; even wearing stilettos Alphecca has to look down her nose at her. But the proximity is unnerving. If her physical body is merely an extension of her soul, then Violante owns both, and she isn’t shy about making it known— so Alphecca does her best to ignore it, training her eyes on the wall in front of her instead of the head of perfectly coiffed curls only a breath away and the nails that cross her clavicle to smooth over her shoulders.

“In my experience, more time is just an avenue for more procrastination,” she admits. It’s the truth, or at least it’s her truth, and there’s no harm in admitting it- the information has no value to Violante. If the Countess got her claws on immortality, the last thing anyone should be concerned with is if she were happy or sad.

“People also say that destroying people’s lives and livelihoods won’t make you happy, but we both know that’s not true,” she adds. She hasn’t actually heard anyone say that, but it’s one of those unspoken things- and it’s wrong. Schadenfreude and victory are one hell of a cocktail.

“A common adage, is that?” Violante hums, stepping back. “Stagnation is hideous. And regret is a waste of energy. If you’ve really wasted all this time waiting for a death that’s never going to come, then it’s fortunate I came along to make better use of your… afterlife.” She tilts her head. “Especially considering that I found you rooting around in a cave, talking to bones. I can’t imagine skeletons make for very good conversation.”

For once, Alphecca isn’t bothered by the barb. She wastes her time however she pleases, spending her years harassing new villages until she gets bored and moves on, or searching for new fossils to reanimate, playing in the dirt. She knows she’s a disappointment but that’s how she’s come to like it— fuelled by the spite of those more ambitious than her who have to watch her gnaw on the unending life they can’t have. That is, until Violante took it from her.

With more distance between them now, Alphecca releases a breath; it’s unnecessary, but calming all the same.

“They make better company than your pets, at least,” she says. They don’t talk back, for one thing, but she’ll keep that part to herself. All the bones she finds have very interesting stories to tell, but unfortunately Violante’s dreadful companions only find them useful for teething.

“Tsk. Oh, kettle.” Violante says, sotto voce. She has very little interest in making any argument about the quality of company Aldara or anyone else brings to her circle. She doesn’t keep them around for their people skills. Mostly. The countess reaches out to tap the bottom of her jaw. “You’re so uncertain for a corpse. You chatter so much for a tool. But if that’s the way you feel…” A thoughtful pause, wintry silence. Violante steps past her, the dark pool of her gown trailing on the floor. “Come.”

“What, you’re not a fan of our stimulating discussions?” Alphecca jeers, cocking her head. Blunt as they are, words are the last weapons she has in this fight, but she turns to follow her nonetheless. She kicks her feet up off the ground to hang a foot in the air to let the click of Violante’s heels echo down the hollow hallways alone, creeping behind her like a spectre.

She’s hesitates, trailing behind at a healthy distance, but she can’t deny her curiosity is piqued.

“I think your talents lie elsewhere.” Violante answers without turning around, wry. The castle is large and cold and strikingly empty of people. There are servants, courtiers, of course, but this late at night the work has gone to ground. Most of them, having been around this long, have learned to work out of sight, or in silence. Violante lifts a low burning candelabra from a table in the tapestried hall, wax dripping into the filagree crevices that tomorrow will be picked clean again before she wakes. The halls stretch on, half covered portraits lining the walls, tall arched windows that continue to leak in cool evening light. Violante takes them down, towards the ground floor, and eventually comes to rest in front of a heavy, ornate door set back far from the main vestibule.

“Wait here.” she commands, and without stopping, the countess takes off down another hall and vanishes around the corner. She returns about ten minutes later, unchanged and smiling. In her hand is a small pouch, dangling with a loop of cord that she drapes around her neck. She nods at the door. “Shall we?”

Alphecca lingers back as she follows Violante through the chateau. She’s no stranger to silence, and she can even appreciate the servants’ scarce presence; humans can be such annoying creatures. However, there’s a hostility that comes with the quiet— an unspoken threat that has butlers and maids scurrying away like rats in the corner of her eye, only daring to move when the Countess strides past.

She halts when instructed, taking the time to inspect the portraits of Violante’s ancestors while she waits. The dim light is no obstacle as she takes in the details, sneering at the pompous Lords and Ladies that line the walls. The different fashion styles over the centuries blend together in her mind, but she recognises the distinct ruffles that predate the Shampanier Era crossing over to the more modern style of headdress, evolving across the row of portraits. They have matching brutal, patrician features and cold eyes, and their arrogance is palpable even through the oils. She wonders if Violante sees them as an inspiration or an embarrassment.

Alphecca drops to her feet when Violante arrives, eyeing the new fashion accessory.

“Ladies first,” she gestures in a parody of an usher, trying to avoid the sense of dread that accompanies the sight of the heavy wooden door.

“True.” Violante says agreeably, placing her gloved hand on the door. In the other she still clutches the flickering candelabra, and the light plays shadows against its surface. The front of it is carved with vines and flowers, mountains and snowflakes. It opens with a heavy grinding sound when she tries the handles, with some effort. Cobwebs stick and pull between the gap, and Violante sneers a little at the dust that collects on her fingertips. A staircase leads down into darkness. It reeks of earth, dry and undisturbed.

Violante’s face remains impassive as she starts down the steps, the click of her heels ringing against the stone. The walls are featureless rock, and roots start to press through the gaps the farther down they travel. Eventually the stairs level out onto a narrow, dark, landing. Violante moves with a caution in the dark that relaxes when she finds the torches set into thick pillars that frame the entrance, and she lights them with the candle flame. Orange light fills the cavern.

“Homey, I imagine.” she says. “But still better than what you were used to.”

It is a tomb, of course. More a mausoleum, seemingly built into the naturally limestone cavern underneath the castle. The roof of the crypt rises up high above the chamber, arched ribs and all angles like the inside of a cathedral. Violante doesn’t pause in her intrusion, gliding down the center aisle with a curious fervor, idly stroking the covered parcel around her neck. She finally stops as they near the back of the chamber, in front of a stone dais that elevates two, long, solid coffins. Side by side, in their lofty place of honor. Violante sets the candles down. She looks back at the lich.

She says, “You’re going to wake them up.”

Violante isn’t wrong to assume that the cavernous underbelly of the castle is more comforting to Alphecca than the bleak architecture and furnishing upstairs, but it’s still far from homely. The crypt is stale and azoic, lacking the warm smell of rot and soil that accompanies her usual hovels. Nonetheless she does feel more at ease here, and it takes the tension out of her shoulders.

“Is this mum and dad? I didn’t really take you for the mournful orphan type,” Alphecca says, her smirk eking into her voice. She approaches the left coffin and slides a hand over the lacquered wood, which is stained with black and ornately carved. The golden filigree is finely engraved and the craftsmanship of the coffin itself is masterful. A thrill runs through her bones; as disinterested as she is in the coffin’s inhabitants, she’s eager to see what bijous and tchotchkes she’ll find inside.

It takes her mind off of Violante’s request. Resurrecting one body, one soul, takes more effort than she is usually willing to expend. Two isn’t out of the question, but it’s going to take time. There are shortcuts she could take-

No. She’ll take all the time she needs.

“I can do it for you, but it’s not going to be quick or easy. I’m assuming you want more than just a couple of braindead puppets, after all,” Alphecca states, glancing carefully at Violante.

Violante watches the dead mingle, the old and the ancient. There’s a stone bench opposite the dais, maybe long ago a place meant for prayer or meeting. The back of it curves up into a chiseled swan’s head, with the beak broken off. She sits, and crosses her legs, eyes lidded, observing Alphecca as she circles the caskets. The lich’s interest is evident, undisguised. She’s being so nice.

“Mmm.” she confirms, very calm. “Lady Fiore and Count Viator. I poisoned them when I was seventeen.”

She draws a finger across the jagged beak of the swan and rubs the grit between her thumb and forefinger. The black fabric of her gloves are already powdered with dust. Idly, she pinches one finger and slips it the long glove off, stretching her hand in the cool, dry air of the crypt. The tips of her fingers are stained purplish-black, even deep under her nails.

“They need to be able to speak, and answer questions truthfully. I’m not especially worried about mobility, but memory is important.” She tilts her head, dark eyes focused on the bone witch. “How long? Describe the process for me.”

Alphecca’s lips twist as Violante confesses to her parents’ murder, but continues to investigate the coffins.

“Well, the process involves bartering with Death, binding the soul to an anchor and then binding said anchor to your will- it’s something that can take months, depending on how long it takes to get the reagents, and that’s just for one soul. Doubling up will save time, but even you don’t have infinite resources,” she explains.

Without asking Alphecca lifts the nearest coffin lid, and lets out an involuntary whoop at the burst of pungent aroma. There’s not much left of the carcass itself, despite what she’s sure was a vigorous embalming. Corpses are meant to return to the earth, and the ones buried above ground have a messier time of trying to find it. Lady Fiore’s robes are completely soiled with corpse juice, but she’s surrounded by a few glinting baubles that could still be disinfected- although she’s sure Violante won’t let her play with them.

“A fresh corpse is always easier to work with, but it’s just as well you kept the remains at all- souls will anchor to their own bodies with less of a fuss,” she says, disregarding all the loopholes that come to mind. With a snap of her fingers Fiore’s bones glow a pale blue, battling the orange torchlight for a moment before it subsides. It’s a basic preservation spell that she uses on all her creatures to protect their bones from the elements, which she hopes Violante will take as a sign of her veracity.

“You’ll find my resources will more than suffice.” Violanate says. “Considering the state of your previous arrangement, and what you’re used to.” Scrounging around in the shadows and the muck couldn’t have been all that profitable for the lich. Procuring things, especially things of an elusive nature, is not usually a problem for her.

The stench that emanates from her mother’s coffin is certainly vile enough. Violante’s nose wrinkles, and she nearly rolls her eyes at the bone witch’s obvious enthusiasm for it. For a moment she has to tilt her head to the side, and she brings the pouch around her neck closer to her face. There’s baby’s breath and rosemary inside: a good dampener, or so she’s been told. The Countess is not unfamiliar with corpses, but they’re usually less decayed, and less in her face. She could have used a stronger perfume.

“Useful little spell.” She says, turning back to face the dais.

And then, “..bartering with death.” Violante drawls, stretching the words out slowly. That has her curiosity piqued. Something about it, a string to tug. “Like it’s a person.”

Alphecca hums absently, neither in agreement or disagreement.

“I suppose we’ll see,” she says. She swipes a thumb over Lady Fiore’s cheekbone, imagining how the muscle would have wrapped across it and how the skin might have sat on top. Her sharp jawline mirrors Violante’s, and she’s willing to bet they shared the same nose. She was no doubt a very attractive woman in her prime, and Alphecca finds herself almost frustrated that she’ll be deliberately prolonging the reconstruction process.

She crosses over to the coffin on the left but her fingers tapdance across the lid, and her head perks up at the mention of Death.

“Well, yeah- okay, she’s not really a person, but she’s the shepherd between this realm and the realm where lost souls are... supposed to go, and you’re not going to get a soul back from the realm of the dead without her noticing,” she explains, smiling at the memory of the spectre. Absently she traces shapes in the dust of the coffin lid as she continues.

“It’s far simpler to make a trade with her than to try and steal one, but that’s still easier said than done.”

Having to watch the lich inspect and handle her parents' remains doesn’t seem to phase the Countess very much. Legs crossed, she sits back on the mourning bench, and rests her chin on the back of her fingers.

“‘She’. You make a trade with death.” Violante repeats, not a question. “What could..death-the-entity possibly want in exchange for a soul?”

There’s a visible sneer on her face at the word soul. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in spectres or spirits: she’s essentially speaking to one, even if it’s trapped in a bone. The concept of anything trying to tell her what to do, even after death, dissatisfies. Even at a young age, playing with her first herbs and poisons and staining her skin, Violante knew that she wasn’t going to go until she was good and ready.

She can guess what the lich might think of her. The many things, every terrible notion. Most she’s probably right about. But Violante has no interest in living forever. Cavorting around for centuries as a moldering corpse isn’t an appealing notion, and it obviously hasn’t done the witch any favours. No. She is going to build something great. Something right, something hers.

In the end, if it is really worthy, it will outlast her.

And if it’s not...well.

Violante hums, “Longing for death is a bit of a cliche, even for you.”

“Depends,” Alphecca shrugs. “Sometimes she asks for help wrangling the ghosts that refuse to let go, or she has a specific soul in mind, or sometimes she just wants a favour to keep in her pocket. There’s always some kind of catch though, because she’s hardly going to ask for something she can get herself.”

Even if she weren’t already planning on delaying the process, she anticipates bargaining for two souls will be the most difficult part. Bartering with Death isn’t exactly something she makes a habit of; she can count on one hand the amount of times she’s made the deal, and every time had brought its own headache. Just the memory of it is enough to make her head hurt, so she turns her attention back to Violante.

“Yeah, well. Even you’d be begging her to come take you after long enough. You and I both know Death can be a mercy,” she says with a smirk, and cracks open dear father’s casket.

Help, promises, wayward souls. “That’s a lot out of death’s reach.” More than one would think, for such a definite force. Violante listens to the dead woman without looking up, thinking, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the velvet pouch dangling from her neck. There is another wave of foul scent, all earth and rot. The sound of heavy stone dragging on stone. Her father had been a count of some notable prowess. He had been good at getting people to listen, and always spoke with confidence. Curt at times, but he shared a warmth with her mother that would have seemed anathema to the traditional Solanales chill, to anyone outside of their family. They were a private people. Violante had loved her parents. She had loved them even when she was putting them in the ground.

“Who said anything about mercy?” The countess murmurs, tilting her head, a silver-dark curl of hair sliding over one side of her face. Wintry, she says, “How long is this going to take you? Approximately, for one body?”

Alphecca rakes a finger down Count Viator’s sternum, making a mental note of his measurements. She’s sure there’s a portrait somewhere in the castle she can look to as a reference for their bodies, which are clearly tall but perhaps wider than their frames let on. Violante’s voice echoes in the cavernous room, yet the words themselves float around in the air. There’s a few trinkets scattered in the coffin, rings and jewels and heirlooms; they’re gaudy and expensive, but far from valuable to the dead. The sudden change in the intonation of Violante’s voice catches her attention, and she only catches the tail end of her question.

“Hm? Oh- well, for one? It’d normally take around a month or so to source all the reagents- meat, ivory, rare herbs and spices and whathaveyou- then somewhere between one to two weeks to build the body itself. After that it really depends on what I need to do to recover the soul,” Alphecca explains, finally dragging her eyes away from the remains.

“And of course, I wouldn’t want to rush perfection.”

“How thoughtful,” Violante drawls. “But they don’t need to be perfect, just functional. Enough to answer what I want to ask of them. You fare well enough without lungs. Or gray matter.” The countess tilts her head again. “They’re going right back in the ground after I’m finished with them.”

Pushing away from the bench, Violante stands with fluid, gossamer grace. Holding one arm loosely tucked around her waist, she climbs the steps and despite the reek, peers slowly into each of the caskets, expression unreadable. Swipes one stained fingers against the dust collected on the stone lip, rubbing.

Almost conversationally, she looks back and says, “Tell me what you need, and you’ll have it within a week. If not sooner. We have the merits of civilization here.” With a surprising amount of ease, Violante leans back against her mother’s grave and lifts herself into a sitting position on the skewed cover, ankles crossed. She smiles, her mouth a sharp, dark slash. “Three weeks, I think, is more than enough time for you to finish the work.”

Very slowly, she lifts the velvet pouch and threads it open. The amulet is heavy, and Violante curls it’s chain delicately around her fingers, thumb hooked under one of the horns. Scarlet light suffuses her from below.

Coy, Violante hums, “If you put your mind to it.”

Alphecca scowls at Count Viator, cursing him for ever procreating.

“If you want a botched job, then fine,” she sneers, bristling at the intrusion on her oasis. The presence of the phylactery is like a sneeze sitting at the back of her nose, painless and yet impossible to ignore. However, the Countess has extended her a favour in the same token, providing her the irritation necessary to redirect her attention elsewhere.

“The souls of the dead don’t tend to like being torn from their peace and shoved back inside their corpses, and the further the vessel is from their actual flesh and blood, the harder it is to attach them. And if a soul doesn’t attach properly, then you’re going to have a very uncooperative, likely half-braindead, pale imitation of your dearly departed loved one. So it’s your call,” Alphecca explains, drumming her fingers on the coffin lid.

It’s a gambit for more time, but the phenomenon of corrupted souls isn’t unheard of. And it’s not exactly something she’s keen on dealing with.

And then there was silence. It was followed by the shrill whistle of a lofty wind, swiftly swallowed by the cavern, sucked down. Above, a jagged crack in the apex of the cave opened up to mountain air and evening sky. Snow-melt had formed thin icicles which dripped with languid precision onto the old stone. There were some places within the cavern where if you listened close enough you could hear the sounds of running water; more runoff that was kept flowing by the warm channels that ran all underneath Solanales. The recessed thermal rivers: mineral rich, were responsible for the health and diversity of the medicinal herbs the county was able to cultivate. Her father had shown her maps, long ago.

Violante regards the lich cooly. The sneer; the constant flow of excuses, the obstinance. There is a moment before she speaks, where the slick consideration in her dark eyes slides towards bored. Just as quickly, the flat stare is replaced with a knifelike flash of malice, penetrative and acute—then a return to hawkish study.

“You’re right,” The countess says smoothly, examining the blemished fingers of her free hand, “it is my call.” She tilts her head, and wrly continues, “..and if I cared about what they liked, I wouldn’t have killed them in the first place.”

The glow from the amulet gives her skin a rosy tincture it doesn’t usually possess. Violante places her empty hand back on the coffin lid behind her, relaxing back into a lounge.

“Alphecca…” her voice is deadly soft. She rarely uses the corpse’s name. She’s never seen much point. The countess peers down at the phylactery, slim fingers curled under the horns and through the chains.

“You know, this really was remarkably easy to find. Time; a few simple exchanges of gold, a barter with a like-minded contact—who will no doubt realise, eventually, the true cost of that information, and likewise, the great loss she would accrue attempting to take it back.”

Calm, easy, her posture is that of a woman relaxing in a parlor; not an arm's reach away from her mother’s seeping skeleton. Violante runs her thumb up the side of the crystal. It’s warm, with a steady, pulse-like thrum.

“That is a part of what it means to have dominion—to have dominance. Laying the foundation. Control over people and their emotions, so that they don’t go spinning them out into actions they haven’t thought over properly. Something always there, in the back of their minds.”

With a sly smile, Violante tilts the amulet. “Like this.” Her fingers tighten, squeeze around the pulse.

“Come here.” she commands.

The Countess’ silence brings the familiar weight of dread, the coils of her contemplation winding and tensing before their inevitable release. The use of her name, soft as it is, is like the snap of a twig; the arrow is coming next, but she has nowhere to run. When Violante speaks, her words are dripping with nightshade, and Alphecca pays less attention to the words as she does those eyes and the way they peel back the illusion of her flesh. How long ago was it that Zhan Tiri had stood in her place, holding the phylactery that they’d created together, swinging it before her like an aberrant hypnotist? The image lingers in her mind, branded into her being, and it burns again now. Violante holds her ransom with equal avarice and even more capriciousness.

She doesn’t fight the command.

One foot drags after the other, pulling her away from Viator’s putrid remains towards his fetid offspring. The ends of her hair dance in the waves of heat that surge from her body, casting her pallid skin in the same glow mirrored in her bottled soul, and her sclera seeps with augural ink. She looks down her nose at the Countess, but stays mute; her glare speaks for itself.

“Oh, that face again,” Violante smiles slyly as the lich draws near. “You looked at me like that the last time you tried to get me to break this. For all that trite dribble about souls, they pack rather nicely into tight spots, hm?” She lifts the phylactery and lets it dangle from her fingers again. The carved crystal twists, shedding ruby light.

Tilting her head, the countess adds, “..though honestly the sheep-theme is a little provincial for my taste.”

From her perch on the coffin lid, she and the lich are almost at eye level. Idly, she taps the curled horns of the amulet against her lips, and takes a moment to inspect the flickering hair, warmed by the unnatural heat in the cold center of the crypt. She’s seen the witch dressed in bone before, skeletal, human then very much not. She hasn’t yet been able to divine whether the flesh is an illusion, or a simulacrum.

“...you know, it’s almost funny,” she says after another moment, musing. Gently, Violante reaches up to take Alphecca’s chin between her fingers, feeling for bone or for the presence of a seam. Without much force, she tilts her face left, then right. “The creature that made you this way got to die before you, didn’t it? Whether it wanted to or not. And even though it’s gone, you’re still here. That’s an impressive act of malice I’m not even sure I could aspire to.”

She brushes a strand of winding hair behind the dead woman’s ear, the fingers of her other hand wrapped around the amulet. They rest there, lingering.

“Mercy,” she hums, “Death. Do you really think that force regards you as anything more than a vague afterthought? Do you know why?”

Close, her eyes are dark and flat. When she smirks, her lips part, and there’s something of a serpent in it. The fingers set behind the corpse's ear hook suddenly, sharply. “It’s because you’re a commodity.” Softly, “A body. It was a waste having you be as you were before: running loose, childish and deranged. Whatever worth you had was decided on ages ago by something greater, and then discarded in one instant, only to be defined again, now, by me. That’s the only thing that matters here.”

Drawing her hand back, Violante twines another piece of fiery hair around her stained, lacy fingers. The amulet beats a rhythm against her palm. “Like that little village you destroyed. Garbage, right? But now, it’ll be built up again into something useful—desirable. Not only as a consequence of my birthright, but because I have the power to make that happen, and the will to speak through it. Because that’s the zeal the world recognizes. In the end, it doesn’t matter who you are or who you’re trying to be. Whether you’re a shambling monster… or a wayward sword, I’ll use the power I have; my proof of conquest, to assert my will—” a rough tug on the strand of hair, closer “—and change the meaning of value.”

Silence, and the drip of distant water. Violante lets the strand slide free from her hair, and inspects her hand with distant disinterest.

“Three weeks,” she says cooly. The phylactery thrums in her grip. “Don’t ever try to argue with me again.”

Alphecca’s phantom heart thumps in her hollow chest. Words intended to cut to the quick come close to their mark, but nothing Violante says can slice deeper than the futility of her situation. She can’t remember needing to gasp for air like this, not for a long time. And yet for all her vast networks of contacts and flies on the walls, Violante doesn’t know everything. She clutches that thought like a final matchstick in the dark, for all its limited warmth. The Countess doesn’t know Death; not like she does. And she’ll get those souls that she wants, and she’ll do her finest job— but Violante’s not the only one that has strings worth pulling.

For as tainted as Violante’s hands are, they’re still warm. Blood pulses right to the tips of her fingers and beats against her false skin, and she feels its absence when her hand draws away. Alphecca responds with a cock of the head, and a sneer.

“I’d better get going, then.”

#cta au #alphecca #violante #my art #my writing #and also hemlock's but that's just my fic tag

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defenderrosetyler · 3 years

Text

Chapter One

A/N: No real triggers this time!! WC: 1.9k Chapter 1:

“So every person in this book is a fairy tale character?” Emma Swan says to her ten-year-old son.

The boy had introduced himself as Henry, had brought his mother to Storybrooke. Of course, Emma had given Henry up for adoption when she gave birth to him. But to have her son seek her out made Emma uncomfortable. He had come to her claiming to be the savior of the storybook world. Henry spun a tale about a curse and how all of the characters of the Enchanted Forest were stuck in a town called Storybrooke, Maine.

Henry had with him a brown leather storybook that was thick but didn’t appear to be heavy. Henry seemed to carry around with no problem. One thing Emma found off when they arrived into town was the clock tower. As she observed it, she couldn’t help take note of how it never seemed to move. She led Henry back to his mother’s house. Henry’s adoptive mother, Regina Mills, was the mayor of the town. Henry claimed she was the Evil Queen from the story Snow White. Emma found this silly. Then again, Emma wasn’t one for fairytales anyway. Fairytales are for kids.

Inside Granny’s Diner, Sam Winchester sat inside waiting for his brother Dean. Granny’s was usually closed at night since Granny went to work at her bed and breakfast in the mornings, but Ruby was always there at night to serve the night owls who couldn’t sleep.

Ruby wasn’t the only one working the night shift. She worked with Y/N Y/L/N. Hardly anyone saw Y/N working in the morning. This usually led to rumors that Y/N was hiding something. The story was Y/N stayed locked in Rowena’s shop.

Rowena MacLeod was a private woman. However, she was a businesswoman, a loan shark, if you will. Rowena was very good at getting what she wanted through these tactics. She would let her client borrow money with the promise of paying it back fairly and on time. However, many clients don’t read the fine print in her contract. Resulting in them having to pay double or triple what they borrowed. Rowena had helped Sam and Dean’s parents with a large sum of money to keep their business, Winchester Mechanics, afloat. Leaving their two sons, Sam and Dean, to foot the bill. Dean paid her as much as he could, but with not many people coming or going from Storybrooke, business was slow.

This left Sam to find a way to help Dean find a way to help pay Rowena back too. But he wasn’t having great success either. Sam had started working in Mr. Gold’s Pawn shop until he found himself interested in Law. Under Mr. Gold’s tutelage, Sam had become well versed in the laws created by the town council. This led him to also find work in the Sheriff's office as a prosecutor. Often being a rival for his own boss at the Pawn Shop. It only made Mr. Gold admire Sam more.

“Ruby, can you please help them?” Y/N begged, trying to hold back an eye-roll at the two men that walked in together, sitting across from one another. Having a conversation amongst themselves and trying to not get in an argument, again, over the amount of money they owed to Rowena. Their next payment was due within the week, and they didn’t have the funds.

“Sorry, Duckling, it's your turn. I helped them the other day.” She says, giving her a sentimental look.

Ruby had been watching Y/N and Sam’s exchanges cringing internally whenever they walked in the door, knowing Y/N would try and pass her along to either herself or Granny. Ruby heard rumors about why Y/N and Sam had disagreements, but their arguments were getting harsher with each passing day.

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes, grabbing her order pad, heading over to greet Sam and Dean.

“Evening, Y/N,” Dean says pleasantly.

Sam muttered under his breath a greeting, and it sounded like he muttered a nickname only her friends gave her, earning a glare from Y/N in Sam’s direction.

“What is it now, brains?” Y/N says. “Too buried in your debt to Rowena to speak louder and call me a name in front of my face?”

Dean sighed. Here they go again. “Just our usual if you would please,” he says, trying to cut the tension between the two.

Y/N nods glaring at Sam before she heads back to the kitchen.

“You didn’t need to butt in like that,” Sam scoffed. “I had it completely under control.”

“Oh sure, that’s why you and Y/N seem to fight or have some sort of disagreement every time we come in here?” Dean huffed, “Who knows whatever the hell happens when you bump into her while she’s alone at Rowena’s,” Dean sassed, “Oh wait, you’re too busy working at Gold’s shop, fighting for a chance to work a case in his place, or at the jail with Graham,” the elder brother snapped calmly.

“Says the man who works in a shop with no cars to work on,” Sam snapped back, “How’s Amaya? Did you ever fulfill your promise to help her out?

“You keep that bitch out of this,” Dean growled. “I’ll figure something out. For now, I’m gonna see if I can get a second job somewhere.”

“What do you mean? What other job could you get here? Think Granny can hire you as a short-order cook? At least she gets business!”

“It’s something to get the debt paid back to Rowena, Sam,” Dean muttered as Y/N brought out their meals. Both were polite, and their bickering died down, and they went back to talking about their days. As uneventful as they were, they had a lot to talk about.

Y/N sighed as she went back behind the counter, “Ruby, I’m gonna head to bed. Dawn wake-up call comes early.” She says with an eye roll.

“Goodnight, Duckling,” Ruby says, smiling kindly to her, “I’ll clean up.”

===========

Enchanted Forest

“Dean, is target practice really necessary?” Sam says, looking at him. “I need to be looking for Odette, not shooting powdered arrows over at the servants’ asses.”

“And what are you gonna do when you can’t hit your mark?” Dean questioned, “What of Odette needs saving from some Ogres, and you miss?”

“Is that before or after the fact that you're catching fireflies at all hours of the night?” Sam asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Are they for you or to feed the frog that follows you around and hides on your dresser?” he snaps, glaring at the older brother.

“I do not go out at night to catch fireflies for Amaya,” Dean scoffs, “besides, she goes out and catches her own meals.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam grabbed his red powdered covered arrows, game face on. Assuming the probability that Dean would let him win, again. Sam took an arrow from his quiver, sliding it into place. Pulling back the string once he nocked it, aiming it at his first mark, the butler, Crowley. Whom the brothers affectionately dressed up as a brown moose. The arrow left the nocking point, hitting its destined target in the center of his rounded ass.

“Hey!” Crowley muttered, rolling his eyes. He brushed off the powder as he glared at both of the brothers.

Dean was finding this amusing. The exercise was primarily for Sam. Why couldn’t he have fun too?

Just as Dean was about to take his shot, Castiel, the head advisor to his father, walked out onto the grounds. He intended to stop the game before it fully began. “Your Highness?”

Startled by the sudden interruption, Dean whipped around, the arrow released from where it was nocked, hitting Castiel square into his chest. Before he could even react, a second followed by a third engulfed Cas in a powder of blue.

“If you children are quite finished,” he huffed, dusting the powder off himself, “my liege, you have a visitor. Something about a poisonous toad needing collecting?”

Dean fired one more arrow before stalking towards Castiel, “it better not be a waste of my time. My brother and I are training.”

“Training for a lost cause if you ask me, Sir,” Crowley says, observing the body language of his employer. “For all, we know the Princess is dead as well, just like her father. God rest his soul.” He adds, making the sign of the cross.

Sam’s head turned quickly at the Butler’s words echoed in his ear. Eyes flashed in anger, rushing over towards the pair. “Take it back! You don’t get to talk about Odette like that!”

“Forgive me, Samuel. However, I truly believe this to be a fool's errand,” Crowley says, standing closer to the trio gathered in the middle of the courtyard.

“I will find her, Crowley,” the younger prince declared, “I have to find her.”

Shaking his head, Dean followed Castiel inside to handle the visitor.

Needing an actual outlet for his anger, Sam walked with a fast pace over to the stables. The staff tended to the horses, but Sam usually liked taking care of his mare. It gave him a sense of responsibility.

Sam’s mare, Onyx, was a beautiful black Friesian. Her height was just above 18 hands, given his six foot four stature, she was just as tall as he was. Sam was okay with that though. Grabbing a body brush, Sam slowly brushed out her black coat. It had become dirty from the loose dirt flying around.

Meanwhile, as the sun set on the edge of the trees in the forest, a beautiful white swan flew across the canopy. Odette had grown accustomed to the dawn and the dusk. Knowing she had to be on the lake’s surface as the moon touched it before she would become a woman again.

As per her usual routine, Odette flew over Winchester Castle. Wondering if Sam would be looking for her. Who was she kidding? Sam only wanted to marry her for her beauty. Prince Samuel Winchester didn’t care about her.

Dusk approached, the swan moving to make her graceful descent down into the crystal colored water. “Was wondering if you were gonna be on time tonight dearie.” Rowena says, hands placed on her hips. Odette gave Rowena as much of a glare as a swan possibly could. The princess was always on time and never late. The other party that was never late was Rowena’s incompetant son Crowley.

“Evening Mother, Odette,” he greets, giving his mother a nod of acknowledgement. Crowley’s appearances had begun to be a routine over the past week. Rowena’s son came every evening, giving Rowena the opportunity to ask her the same proposition in order to remove the curse. Marrying her son.

Much to the annoyance of Rowena, Odette answered her the same as she had every single time she’d asked. One single word was her reply, but not the one the sorceress was looking for.

“No.”

“Oh for the love of Dagda” She scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward. Eyes focused back on the maiden that stood before her. Hair glowing in the shimmering moonlight. “Need I remind you, I placed this curse on you, and I can just as easily reverse it. All you need to do, is agree to marry my dear Fergus. Once you're wed, I can give you all the riches a Princess could ask for.”

“Far better than the Winchester’s that's for sure.” Crowley adds as a comment.

“I’d rather be a swan over marrying your childish, pathetic son.” Odette snapped.

“That can be arranged.” Rowena snapped, allowing the princess to mull over her choices.

#APAHS #a prince and his swan #sam x reader #OUAT crossover #ouat fic #crowley #rowena macleod

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ms-rampage · 3 years

Text

Eden’s Gate: The Mother Chapter 13 - Are There God? It’s Me A Winchester

Warnings: Witchcraft?? Some Angst

Word count: 1.9k

Where it all began.

Summary: Mandy and Dawana cast the spell to shield her from Chuck and work against the Project to take them down.

Guest OCs: Dawn Floyd (FC: Anna Diop), Camille Floyd (FC: Tati Gabrielle)

Guest Characters: Raphael [Supernatural; female vessel]

Note: Sorry for the delay on the chapters, I'm working on other writing projects and dealing with work and class.

_______

“I wish to know about your past” Joseph tells Mandy, standing in the middle of his church. Cupping her cheeks, looking down at her.

She takes a deep breath, looking up at him. “I-I’ve. I’ve killed people” she starts off, trying to keep herself from crying. “I’ve killed people. Innocent people. I wish to forget about it. Forget about it all, like it never happened”.

He runs one of his hands through her hair, showing her comfort. While his other hand cups her cheek.

“I’ve done bad things to people, I lost my girls because of it” she mutters, looking away from him. She’s not even acting anymore, this shit is all fucking legit, she’s hurting her own feelings just by telling him all of this.

Reliving the painful memories she had to go through. Whether it was from 13 years ago, 20 years ago, or 7 and a half months ago, she’s feeling and hearing everything single word, and it still hurts her. No matter how strong she tries to be.

Knowing she has to wait all of this out until the New Moon. She must be patient. Remembering that Raphael left something for her under her pillow, she goes to the room, her and Joseph share, and checks underneath her pillow.

She finds her deceased husband’s journal. She smiles at it, unwraps the string that keeps it closed and opens it. Reading through it, Joel’s handwriting was always easy to read, it was neat, clean and he also had a very steady hand. Other than the monsters he hunted, he wrote about his life.

His kids Paige and Katella, Mandy, his younger brother Brent, his childhood and upbringing. Trying to hold back her tears, a part of her wishes she could have her husband back. She knows he watches over her, and their daughters.

1 month later.

The New Moon is here, only 12 hours to go until 3 am. With the help of Dawana and her 14 year old daughter Camille. Mandy has everything for the spell.

She had to keep a low profile from the Voodoo Priestess until the New Moon. Giving her instructions on where to meet her and the correct time to, and angle of the moon. That sort of stuff.

The spell must be done as it should be, no screws up, can’t waste any time with this spell. Every second counts. They have their location ready, and all the supplies they need.

Standing next to Joseph for his Sunday sermon, the church filled with his loyal followers. His Children, what he calls them.

Listening to every word he says, thinking about the utter betrayal she is about to bring to the Project. Turning her back on them, stabbing them in back.

Helping out the Resistance and the Whitetail Militia.

With only 10 hours left, she keeps her low profile by being with Joseph for the rest of the day.

Raphael appeared to her a few times that day to check up on her. Knowing that he’s risking a lot for his human, and a chance that’ll be cast out of Heaven for his disloyalty. Withdrawn from his wings and grace. Being deprived of his angelic powers, and living as a human on Earth.

Being on the same boat as his older brother Lucifer.

“You know I’m taking a huge unforgivable risk for you” he tells Mandy. Standing next to her while Joseph does his sermon in the filled church with his brothers and sister behind him.

“I know” she responds to him in her mind. Looking over at the 3rd Archangel for a split second before turning back to The Father.

“There’s a risk of me being cast out of Heaven for this disloyalty” he tells her, “God is too busy creating multiple universes and worlds to see this betrayal you, Dawana and myself are planning”.

She knows all the risks, all God has to do is check on her situation, and see what she’s plotting. Then the next thing she knows there’s a huge mushroom cloud in the sky, and bombs are going off. Killing and wiping out all life on Earth.

“I know, but a part of me feels like we’ll pull this off” she tells him in her mind, “We’ll get away with this, so called heist”.

He looks at her with slight fear in his eyes, Archangels are Heaven’s most powerful weapon, they’re loyal soldiers to God. They’re his eldest children. Slightly more powerful than the average Angels, like Castiel, Balthazar, Samandriel, Anael and Gadreel.

Raphael was always the introverted one of the Archangels, he kept to himself. He did his duties as one of Chuck’s strongest and powerful warriors. He always tried to be one of the loyal ones, like his older brother Michael. He wanted to be on his Father’s good side, the one thing he feared and that includes all Angels. Arch nor not, the one thing they all feared was being cast out of Heaven. Losing their wings and their grace.

Leaving Heaven for a short time, like visiting Earth, and leaving Heaven completely are two different things.

Within milliseconds he could go from being Heaven’s most powerful weapon to being an average weak human. Just by taking away his powers and wings.

*****

After Joseph’s sermon, him and Mandy have a private conversation away from the others.

“Amanda, I wish to speak with you privately” he tells her. She nods her head, and they go to their shared home.

Inside the kitchen, he tells her about The Voice, in which she knows that it's Chuck talking to him.

“The Voice, God, he’s telling me about the New World. How everything will be. How you and I will be. He told me that the world is on the brink. That the world is on fire. Something is coming. I can feel it, you can feel it, can’t you?”.

She nods, “Yes, I feel it. I feel the overwhelming tension it brings. Almost like an explosion of hot, burning air. That is toxic, but will make the world clean and free of sin”.

He nods his head, agreeing with every word she says, “That is how it ends, with time, we will march to the Gates of Eden to our New World. The world God created for us”.

Seeing how convinced and determined he is about the New World. Seeing how Chuck has convinced him about the Collapse. The End. The Reckoning.

Telling him to save as many souls as he can for the Collapse, building bunkers to keep his people safe from the cleansing explosions. Being a modern day Noah, or Hell if you want to hear something that is older than Noah and the Ark.

The Epic of Gilgamesh in Mesopotamian mythology, and history. Which is also 800-2,000 years older than the story of Noah and the Ark, where the story is basically the exact same thing, just different time periods, while one is based on facts with evidence, and the other is a fictional story from a book of stories.

*****

With only 5 in half hours until 3am. Mandy gets another visit from Raphael in her home with Joseph.

“Less than 6 hours Mandeline” he reminds her. She sighs, “I know. I’m just waiting it out”.

“You know where to go?” he asks. She nods, “Yes, I know where to go. The land that is in the southern part of the Henbane River. It’s isolated from everything”.

“Prosperity” he tells her, “It’s quiet and no one ever goes there”.

She nods, “Does Dawana know where it is?”.

“Yes, she knows where to go” he tells her, “She knows what time to get there. Just before the New Moon passes”.

Mandy waits it out until 3am. It’s gonna be a long wait, most of the Cult, including Joseph didn’t sleep that night, he was busy working and writing sermons in the church.

At around 1am, she told Joseph she was gonna go to sleep. An hour and 30 minutes later, Raphael visits her again. Teleporting the both of them to the south end part of the Henbane River.

Prosperity, a ghost town that was abandoned by its owner so that he could take over his dead rival’s town Falls End in Holland Valley all out of spite.

20 minutes until 3am, Dawana arrives with her daughter Camille who is a Voodoo Priestess in training.

“We still have time to set up” Dawana tells Mandy, “This is my daughter Camille”.

Mandy smiles at her, she’s probably the same age as her eldest daughter Paige.

They set up their altar, making a circle of candles and lighting all of them.

“Okay so we all take each other's hands and we say the verse together, in sync or else the spell won’t work” Dawana informs Mandy and her daughter.

They all join hands, and wait for the New Moon to appear. Raphael stands away from them, watching them from 10 feet away. Hoping this will turn out the way Mandy said it would. As soon as the New Moon appears, as a white ring like shape in the sky, they all, at the same time, cite the verse in Enochian. Looking up at the New Moon.

“Uranun Caripe Baglen Olgemeganza de-Noan Chiis Gosaa Zamicmage Oleol Ag-Sapah arphe, Oresa ethamz taa”.

The wind starts to pick up, the candles stay in tack, not blowing out or in the direction of the wind. Still looking up at the moon.

“Tabegisoroch, Zodinu, Ar zurah paremu. Zodimibe papnorge maninua zonac. Dodsih hoxmarch trian amonons pare Das Niis kures”.

They finished the ritual, the night standing in complete silence for a brief moment. Standing inside the circle of candles, they ring of the New Moon shining down on them, making a perfect circle of moon light around their circle of lit candles.

“Is that it?” Mandy whispers, breaking the silence. Right after she asks that, a loud rumble is heard off in the distance, sounding like thunder, or the Horn of Gabriel. A lightning strike lights up the sky for a brief moment.

“It worked” Camille whispers. Out of seemingly nowhere, a strong wind flies by, blowing out all the candles, leaving them in complete darkness.

“Raphael did it work?” Mandy asks the Archangel.

“Yes, you are invisible to God now” he replies, answering her question.

He takes her back to Joseph's compound, before anyone could notice she was gone.

Before he leaves, he tells her, “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you from Heaven. Now that you’re invisible from God, you can work against the Project. Also Chuck won’t be able to see you. He’ll see another you”.

She nods, “Yeah I believe you told me that already. He’ll see me doing my duties as The Mother”.

The silence between the two, the sound of peggies talking outside on the compound property.

“Get some rest, and do your bidding against the Project” he tells her, “I’ll check back on you within the next couple of days”.

The sound of his wings fluttering, making a small breeze within the house, and he disappears. Leaving Mandy in the small kitchen of her home.

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biggergiants-a · 3 years

Text

NEW OC’s

Main verse: BNHA

Side-verse: Kitsune lore based for more regular/modern settings

Tsukito:

Played between 16/25

night/moon fox

when using his abilities, his eyes will glow a blue tint, just as well as his tails

fox-fire ability shares the same color

looks bored 24/7 (it’s a skill developed over the years)

if you get him to show actual emotions you’re either doing something right or you’ve pissed him off and that’s never a good thing

short fuse; gets pissed off very easily especially if someone messes with his sister

can be won over with milk bread. he really loves the stuff. just give him some and he’ll instantly calm down

i’m not here to make friends meme except he’s touch starved and afraid of creating bonds because he doesn’t know if he’ll end up having to disappear if someone comes looking for him and his sister

speaks fluent sarcasm

is the guy stopping random fights at school because what’s the point oh my god

Ability/Quirk: (applicable in BNHA verse but also basic Kitsune lore applied to most verses)

Dream manipulation: create, shape, enter and manipulate the dreams of oneself and others, including modifying, suppressing, fabricating, influencing, manifesting, sensing, and observing dreams as well as nightmares, daydreams, etc., possibly including past ones. can produce and modify dreams, bestow nightmares or lucid dreaming, entrap people in REM, and promote spiritual/emotional healing within dreams.

Himari:

Played between 16/25

day/sun fox

using her abilities makes her eyes turn a red/orange light, same with her tails and her fox-fire ability

can’t help but want to befriend everyone - she misses her friends back home and wants to make more even though she knows there’s a chance her and her brother might need to run away at some point

extremely friendly and always smiling (even when she’s upset)

while her brother completely shut down after their parents died, she’s verbally expressed her desire to hunt down those that killed them

looks like a sweetheart - is a sweetheart but also incredibly flirty

isn’t a big horror fan - will cower in fear, if she doesn’t just straight up leave

will literally purr if you play with her hair and/or her fox ears

Ability/Quirk: (applicable in BNHA verse but also basic Kitsune lore applied to most verses)

Health manipulation: manipulate health and the healing process, speeding any or all aspects of healing to the point of regenerating, or slowing and blocking healing even if the victim possesses healing abilities. can sense the health of anyone and the causes of wounds, diseases or injuries, the health history and possibly even genetic weaknesses and predispositions. also capable of reopening old wounds and re-inflict old illnesses and conditions, or even inflict completely new ones

Both siblings share:

Fox Fire: a concentrated energy attack

Physical traits:

Permanent: Fox ears and tails (small and like the ones in actual foxes)

When using abilities: Fox ears remain but the tails multiply (nine tails), emitting a bright light in the users element (night - blue/white tint; day - yellow/orange tint); the eyes also change color to match their elements as well.

Base story for BNHA:

One of the strongest families to have a fox type quirk, their parents were murdered in what was assumed to be a robbery gone wrong; in reality there was a hit ordered by one of the rivals families that wanted the title they had. Neither of the twins were home at the time of the crime, however, and they survived. An aunt on their mother’s side that didn’t share the family’s last name due to being ostracized for her life choices took them in as her own, and instead of going by Fujimori as their parents, they go by their mothers maiden name Morimoto in an attempt to hide from whoever is trying to hunt them down.

Base story for lore in other verses:

Both siblings belonged to an important Kitsune family, which in itself is a rarity and each were promised to be married off since a very young age to families that had been in feud with theirs as a form of uniting them. As they grew older, however, both siblings agreed that, even though they wanted to help their family, they weren’t willing to give up on the idea of marrying for love, and since their parents understood their feelings, they agreed to call off the arranged marriages. This didn’t go well with the other families, who seemingly only wanted the title that would’ve been brought over with this arrangement and the power associated with it, so they had the family killed - they wouldn’t get anything but they’d get revenge for stringing them along for so long in exchange for peace. Their parents predicted something like this might happen, so they helped their children escape before the hit happened, telling them to head west, where a distant relative would be awaiting them. After much discussion and refusal to obey, both of them agreed, hoping that it wouldn’t be the last time they saw their parents. It would be, however, as they both got killed trying to defend their home. Their distant relative (an aunt on their mother’s side that didn’t share the family’s last name due to being ostracized for her life choices) took them in as her own, and instead of going by Fujimori as their parents, they go by their mothers maiden name Morimoto. Using their rarely applied ability to hide their peculiar physical traits such as their ears and tail, the siblings attempt to live normal lives while hiding from whoever might still be looking for them. Hiding their true forms, however, can be extremely tiring if done for long periods of time since it requires a lot of focus on that task in particular. When more distracted and/or relaxed, their true forms will be revealed. This also happens when they’re sleeping.

#I'VE SPENT DAYS WRITING THESE NEW KIDDOS UP #I'M V PROUD OF THEM #and now I REST

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fmdtaeyong · 3 years

Text

— (he loved you).

date: early 2021. word count: 1,387 words, without lyrics. summary: after months of struggling to write music after finishing lovesick, ash finds inspiration where he doesn’t mean to — the very place he’d left behind. notes: writing verification.

he sits at the island in his kitchen, the light of his phone screen the only thing illuminating the darkness around him as he uses it to provide enough light to watch his own fingers slide across the fretboard of his guitar. the moon hangs somewhere overhead beyond his windows, past the lonely lights of seoul at night.

a guitar riff is playing in his mind and he toys with it, the same three chords over and over in different ways until he likes the way they sound. there’s no words to it, but he hums a soft melody that changes each time he loops back around, his ear refusing to commit to any one series of notes right away.

there’s nothing much on his mind these days. work is scarce, and when he’s done, he comes home, pumps out melodies and chords and then abandons them to be found years later when he feels something other than emptiness when he tries to think of what he wants to say.

lyrics have never eluded him the way they do lately. for as long as he can remember, there have been strings of words in his mind, piecing themselves together like a puzzle he didn’t know his own mind had crafted a mold of. they’ve come to him even when he has no use for them, but now, he’s lucky if he finishes a verse with more than a basic melodic direction to it.

some artists, kurt cobain occurs to ash immediately, had been proud advocates for melodies over lyrics. it’s something that ash had found curious for more than a decade of his life, but as of late, he’s been thinking cobain might have had a point. where words fail, melodies speak. when the mind is too exhausted or distracted to string together phrases, it can still run on autopilot, placing notes one after the other. a song without lyrics is still music. there’s another name entirely for lyrics without a melody: poetry, and ash has never considered himself a poet. he couldn’t proudly hold that flame if he wanted to.

he hums along a bare bones melody on meaningless syllables, trying to navigate a course over the chords he’s toying with with the aimless pattern of his fingers from one spot to another. instead of love ballad or glittery and coy pop tune, the melody rings more with the high-tension attempted detachment of emotion of rock. it’d sound good with some drums and electric guitar, he notes mentally, but it’s nothing solid enough to take him from his seat into the safety of his studio. it’s not like anything will come of it anyway. a half-baked melody isn’t exactly a home run for a hit song, even if it feels like it in comparison to the shit luck he’s been having scrounging up that much to show for himself.

the melody in progress stagnates before long, as they all have been lately, and he grows frustrated with his own creative block.

frustration leads to distraction and distraction leads to the aura of his phone’s screen illuminating the dim kitchen.

he rarely finds himself on the naver front page in the late hours of the night, but how he’d even ended up there is the last thing on his mind when he sees her face, unprepared to be confronted with his memories of her without warning.

it’s a picture of her at some award show that must have happened since he’d last seen her, hair chopped short at her shoulder and that cherry red smile on her lips that could bring the strongest to their knees if she was the type to use her powers for evil. his stomach twists at the mere sight of her, nothing new for him, but for the first time it’s more pained than lovestruck.

nam yeseo cast in hollywood film, expresses excitement about moving to u.s.

he stares at the headline through the darkness, shock coming with a delayed onset. he has to be dreaming. only his mind could play such a cruel trick on him.

he hasn’t read a word of the article yet, but his mind brings screeching forth the memory of that night he’d brought up visiting the u.s. together. it’s not for me, she’d said.

so what had changed?

more likely, nothing had changed at all, and it’d all been some polite rejection of the deeper parts of him. it’d been a hypothetical, purely hazy daydreaming in the aftermath of intimacy, but had it been her drawing the line before he’d cut an unfixable crack through the ground between them himself? should he have known then?

he can’t help it, and without thought, his fingers type out her name in the search bar, like naver will be able to give him the answer to his questions.

nam yeseo to work in u.s. under name julia nam

the universe is cruel with its pranks.

he has no ownership over her name. he knows that. it’s her identity, not his, but for all the years he’d known her, ‘julia’ had never been anything more than the once-used english name he teased her with in the private walls of their homes. when she’d confided in him about her parents pressuring her to settle down and marry because she was past thirty now and to them that meant it was time to abandon her silly acting dreams, he’d whispered in a voice that was only half-pained with memories of their own that the julia kim would never let anyone steer her off-course with humor in his voice that only existed for the two of them, ignoring the knife blade in his stomach at the reminder of what could have been. when he’d spent the night at her place for the first time, the letter left on the pillow when he’d had to sneak out early to get to a schedule had been inked with the inside joke of her english name she only told him after his playful prying.

it’s always felt something like kinship, ‘julia’ being some distant, separate entity the way ‘taeyong’ is for ash in a sense that had haunted his thoughts as a little too dark to compare on entirely equal footing.

now, without him by her side when the lights go down, she’s stepping into the spotlight as julia, ash is floundering more than ever trying to swim in the sea taeyong has shipwrecked him in.

he’s happy for her. he is. hopefully she’s getting that role she always wanted of someone more of a woman than a want.

but the ache that comes from knowing he won’t ever be able to congratulate her sits deeper inside of him. heavier.

nam yeseo in the search bar becomes yeseo in his contacts and the screen seems brighter than ever.

i heard you’re leaving town.

no. there’s no way she’s looking him up. he has no right to admit to looking her up. what does he expect? he can’t change her mind. he wouldn’t want to.

he deletes it.

it might not matter now

he clears the message box again before he can even finish the thought.

his grip on his phone strengthens just enough for the edge to dig into his palm and sober him with the pain. the next moment, his phone goes sliding down to the edge of the kitchen island, saved from falling off by little more than chance.

there’s so much he’d say to her if he could, but they’re worlds apart now.

it’s the middle of the night and he’s on his own. the realization knocks the breath out of him and numbness thaws away for something more raw. he’s not sure he wants to be spending his night with her, not when that would mean confronting his own demons that had gotten them here, but being alone isn’t much easier a task.

by force, ash is reminded why he writes.

not because it’s his job or because of the expectation he will.

he writes when reality strips him of the opportunity to say what he wants to.

stripped raw in the kitchen of his apartment, without anyone to call for the first time in years, he writes to run from his own hollowness.

he runs, like he had from her last fall, from one shoddily constructed safety net to another, and repeats the words that have become inked on his tongue from their permanent residency there the past few months.

i'm doing fine, i swear it's not a lie

#famedverification #* | solos.#* | character development.

0 notes

yafaemi · 3 years

Text

Layers to a Lady

one: outside layer

[Name:] Amandine du Aubrieault.

[Hair Style & Style:] Gray-black, with darker streaks. And no, my hair is not dyed. My hair has not always been mid-shoulder length, as well. It was incredibly long when I was a child. Mostly by my mother’s preference.

[Eye Color:] Violet. Though, I’ve been told my eyes can be mistaken as black in dark enough lighting. I personally doubt it, yet I don’t see any reason to confirm it for myself.

[Height:] Rather average for an Elezen, I believe. Perhaps an ilm or two difference?

[Style:] Fancy, I suppose. I’ve never considered what I call my style. It’s rather hard to mistake that I lean towards the finer things in life, regardless. Or magely? I’ve heard a friend of mine use that term to describe it. (Though that... isn’t a word. Not that she cared. Believe me, I told her such. On multiple occasions.)

[Best Physical Feature:] Hmm... I’ve always been fond of my eyes. At the risk of sounding vain, they’re a wonderful color.

two: inner layer

[Fears:] Being left without control over my life. I value my autonomy far more than I do any laws, though I have a rather funny way of showing it. My greatest fear in this world would be to wake up one day, and realize that all it was all an illusion.

[Guilty Pleasure:] ...This information is staying here, yes? I’d rather not have... any unexpected second parties finding this. The first I thought of was cheesy theatre performances. Whether cheesy for the lack of quality, or just the nature of the show itself, there’s something delightful about it.

[Biggest Pet Peeve:] Those who willfully cling to their ignorance. In my mind, there is no individual weaker than that. Walk with your eyes open, lest they are forced open by another, crueler hand.

[Ambition for the Future:] Long term, or short-term? One is far more personal than the other-- not that I’ll be specifying which is which. Decide between the two if you’d like. For the long-term, I simply intend to live as I’d like, and become a far more skilled mage. For the short-term-- which... really, considering the circumstances, is not half as short as the word suggests... I plan to avenge the death of a friend.

three: thoughts

[First Thought When Waking Up:] The first things I usually ask when I’m awake enough to think coherently is what time it is, or if Oliver is awake first. Usually, if he is, then I can expect there to be hot chocolate in the kitchen. He makes enough of it in the mornings to supply one mug to each soul in Ishgard.

[What You Think About the Most:] Hm. I’m not quite sure, frankly. Though, I suppose it would likely be my friends, whatever book I happen to be reading at the time, or musing about Ishgard’s progress and where it will go in the future.

[What You Think About Before Bed:] Whatever I was doing before going to bed. More often than not, it’s the events of an evening stroll through Ishgard, prior conversations in the day, whatever I happened to be reading, or-- if it was my turn to put wood into the fireplace for the night-- whether or not I actually remembered to do it.

[Your Best Quality Is:] My inquisitiveness. I enjoy exploring ideas, and learning about them. If there is more to learn about something, then I will be there to discover it.

four: what’s better

[Single or Group Dates?] Quite frankly, I hardly have any interest in romance. Yet, if I were to go on a date, I would be more intent on learning about my partner than spending time with friends. Which... really, is a long way of saying single.

[To be Loved or to be Respected?] In a twist that I find rather interesting, I would say loved. Had you asked me some few moons ago, my answer more than likely would have been different. My friends are a terrible influence in the best way possible.

[Beauty or Brains?] Brains. They will get your farther than looks. At least in my experience. I did not become a skillful mage because of my enchanting physique, I’ll have you know.

[Cats or Dogs?] Cats. Dogs are undoubtedly adorable, yet I hardly have the energy it would take to care for one.

four: do you...

[Lie?] I doubt there’s a soul in the world who hasn’t lied before. Who knows, I may very well be lying about every single one of these responses. (I’m not, rest assured.)

[Believe in Yourself?] Why would I not? While there have been times that I was uncertain of my skills, I’ve always believed myself more than capable of going onwards with whatever is in my way.

[Believe in Love?] Of course I do. There is evidence of it everywhere, after all, when you know where to look. So an old friend would like to say, at least. Though I hope you don’t just mean romantic love. To think only of romantic love when someone says ‘love’ is narrow-minded, at the best of times.

[Want Someone?] Not particularly. I’m quite happy being single, as of now. Who knows. It may change, though I highly doubt that for now. My friends are more than enough.

six: have you ever...

[Been on Stage?] Hm. That depends what you count as a stage? I have, technically, done performances before. On a makeshift stage, at least. I would prefer this stay here, as well. As a child, my mother was quite insistent that I choose some manner of instrument to learn. I decided to tell her that I was interested in learning to sing. My own little way of rebellion, that... didn’t quite go as I had planned. Thus began my rather short-lived career, singing Halonic verses by my family’s requests.

[Done Drugs?] No, and I have no intention of doing so. My mother would rise from her grave the very second she even heard me consider it. Of that I have no doubts.

[Changed Yourself to Fit In Somewhere?] Not particularly. Perhaps as a child, once or twice, in an attempt to fit in with the other children. Yet in my adult years, I can’t think of a time I’ve done so.

seven: favorite

[Favorite Color:] I have a small handful of favorites, though the one I most often think of first is purple. It’s also the color I seem to wear the most often, as well.

[Favorite Food:] This may be a rather strange choice-- yet one I’ve always been fond of is quiche. My mother used to make quite a lot of it. It’s more of out of nostalgia than any real fondness, really.

[Favorite Game:] I’ve never been much for games, in recent years. I usually prefer reading to pass my time. Though, watching Aurora grow increasingly more bewildered as Oliver beat her at Triple Triad without a single clue as to what he was doing was the most invested I’ve ever been into any game since childhood. So, I suppose if I were to list a favorite, it would be that string of games, that night.

eight: age

[When Your Next Birthday Will Be:] Well, seeing as though it’s my nameday today, I suspect it will be in exactly a year from today.

[How Old Will You Be?] I will be turning 26. Halone, that feels strange to say.

[Age You Lost Your Virginity:] I will make a note not to tell you when it does happen.

[Does Age Matter?] That, frankly, depends. You wouldn’t put a child on the battlefield. ...Hopefully. In a situation such as that, I should certainly hope age matters.

nine: in a partner

[Best Personality:] Someone who is not afraid of what may lie beyond the horizon, who refuses to shy away from what they find. In whatever sense that may be. It’s an invaluable trait to have, I think. Other than that, I’m not entirely sure what to add. I’ve not put half as much thought into ‘my type’ as others might.

[Best Eye Color:] Whatever color my partner’s eyes are. I would think that those are the eyes I would find the most enchanting.

[Best Hair Color:] Generally the same as the prior answer.

[Best Thing to do With a Partner:] Long, peaceful strolls in the evening, talking about whatever comes to mind. I find such times the best while getting to know each other. Though that may depend on if your partner is the type of person to enjoy them.

ten: finish the sentence

[I Love...] My friends. As infuriating as they can be at times, I would not give them up for the world. They have changed my life for the better.

[I Feel...] Quite relaxed, as of now. It’s been a lovely day thus far.

[I Hide...] A good many things. My secrets are called that for a reason, after all. I am not wont to reveal them without good reason.

[I Miss...] A departed friend. There have been recent developments that I think she would have been ecstatic to witness for herself, yet the chance was taken from her.

[I Wish...] Well, I suppose it would be far too simple to say I wish said friend would return. So... hmm. To end on a humorous note, I wish Oliver would stop attempting to burn down our house whenever he cooks something. I am literally capable of producing fire with magic, and somehow he manages to set fire to whatever it is he makes without the use of it. I have to physically restrain myself from asking him to teach me the secrets of his pyromancy, at times. (I doubt he would tell me, regardless. If nothing else, I would just get a pout in response.)

tagged by: @eligos-venator (thank you by the way :O)

tagging: @nekun-uul and whoever would like to join! :D

#| a path in falling snow ; a prelude in violet #tagged #a way to introduce mand into the main blog! woo :D #plus since today is her birthday i thought it'd be fun to actually do this for her #(it took me a lot of time to get this done today but i DID IT and im very proud)

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abbacchiosbelt · 4 years

Text

Mobile-Friendly OC Masterpost

Apparently the carrd has been acting up, so here’s a post of my original characters! They can also be found here! ♥

Haru Yamada

Height: 5’8 (177 cm) Pronouns: They/Them

Appearance: Shoulder-blade length black hair that’s prone to frizz. Androgynous. Deep brown eyes. Lithe, but not very fit. Very pale. Age: 27 Birthday: December 5th – Sagittarius Sexuality: Pansexual Personality: While they appear easy-going, Haru is a very observant person and is prone to pick up details others might miss. The info they gain usually isn’t used against others… They just like to know things. A bit irritable after being forced to drop out of grad school due to finances and take over the family coffee shop, “A Coffee or Two.” Haru yearns for knowledge and feels trapped. Haru is very good at regulating their emotions and because of that, they can easily manipulate others. However, they vastly prefer the ‘kill 'em with kindness’ method. They’re very loyal to their friends but prefer to keep their 'circle’ small. A service switch - willing to do whatever it takes to please their partner, though they do get a kick out of teasing. Has a secret 'free use’ kink and wants their partners to use them whenever and however they want.

BNHA-Verse Extra Quirk: Rapid Heating Quirk Info: Haru has never been much of a fighter, but their quirk is perfect for the business they run. Haru can rapidly heat up their hands without fear of injury, which helps them to brew coffee and tea as well as ensure things are the perfect temperature. They can get a rough read on temperature just by touching something.

Miho Nakajima

Height: 5’9 (180 cm) Pronouns: She/Her Appearance: Long and thick ash blonde hair that’s usually tied back into a bun. Has two fluffy white ears and a fluffy tail. Sharp canines and sharp nails. Piercing red, feline-like eyes that are usually lined with dark makeup. Thick and strong with a lot of leg muscle. Like a real cat, she has a cute pooch on her stomach that acts as her ‘primordial pouch.’ Tans easily. Age: 25 Birthday: March 8th – Pisces Sexuality: Lesbian Personality: Rather optimistic, but prone to making impulse decisions born from high emotions. She wants to help everyone around her. As a child, she faced bullying for her quirk and Miho can sometimes be quick to take the defensive on comments about it, even if they are innocuous. Prone to being overprotective of those around her, but will back off if someone is uncomfortable. She had a string of relationships that ended due to circumstances out of her hands, so she’s reluctant to commit again. Switch leaning top, but is willing to bottom for people she trusts. A pillow princess at heart, but occasionally she gets pent up and will give her partner such a good time they won’t even know what happened. Rope bunny.

BNHA Verse Extra

Quirk: Cat Quirk Info: Much like Tsuyu’s frog quirk, Miho has all the abilities that a cat would have: fast reflexes, sharp claws, heightened sense of smell and hearing, flexibility… You name it, there’s a chance that Miho’s quirk is able to do it. Unlike cats, she does not have any whiskers. (Though she wishes she did!) She’s incredibly agile and plans to become a teacher once she’s finished with grad school. Her hope is to teach at UA.

Danny (Daniel) Glass

Height: 5’5 (165 cm) Pronouns: He/Him Appearance: Striking violet eyes that are always underlined by dark circles from lack of sleep. Black hair (naturally brown) that’s shaved into an undercut on the right side. Intricate floral tattoo on his neck. Russet skin. Short and fairly strong. Age: 30 Birthday: February 10th – Aquarius Sexuality: Bisexual Personality: Danny comes off as stoic but is a rather emotional guy when you get to know him. He cherishes close friendships and doesn’t make time for acquaintances. He can be lax with his studies, but he’s intelligent. He marches to the beat of his own drum and doesn’t really care what other people think about him, though he often still finds himself seeking approval by dressing fashionably. He’s been trying to kick smoking for a year with no success. Currently in Grad School for Architecture and Design, but is constantly questions academia despite enjoying his studies. Has never really been one for long-term relationships because he’s so unwilling to open up, but he wouldn’t reject one outright. Confident, just very quiet. Was in an open adoption as a child and is close with his parents and bio parents. He’s very proud of his heritage as a Native American, his bio parents hailing from the Kiowa tribe. A sub, almost always. He likes to be told what to do and how to do it - prefers rewards over punishments. Not interested in dominating his partners in any way. Prefers soft and romantic sex. Really into JOI, but from lovers only - the videos do nothing for him.

Alexandre Valentin

Height: 6’3” (193 cm) Pronouns: He/Him Appearance: Long and pale blonde hair, wavy. Deep blue eyes. Lanky with a lot of upper-strength and muscle. (He’s pretty twink-y, though.) Pale skin. Age: 29 Birthday: September 4th — Virgo Sexuality: Demi, Bisexual Personality: A quiet and reserved man. Alexandre prefers to spend time alone and read. He works at a library but does under the table work for extra cash when he feels like buying something nice. Alexandre is extremely morally grey, and has a lot of connections because of it. Flirty when he feels like it, but tends to keep to himself unless someone really interests him. When he does get interested, he falls fast and hard. He’s fairly low-maintenance and doesn’t do well around those who need a lot of attention. A bratty sub and a cruel dom - not picky about which role he takes, though Alexandre prefers lazy morning sex with no real 'roles’ over anything else. Consensual somnophilia kink.

BNHA Verse Extra Specialty: ??? (Vigilante) (Underground) Hero Name: Bataille Quirk: Blade Limbs Quirk Info: Alexandre can turn his arms into sharp blades that function just as a sword would. They’re quite heavy, so they require an immense amount of stamina to use. He doesn’t care for hero society and prefers to work in the shadows.

Sanguine

Height: 5’4 (152 cm) Appearance: Shoulder-length, curly bubblegum pink hair. Violet eyes. Fat with wide hips and a large bust. (Picrews are not an indication of her body size.) Age: 28 Pronouns: She/Her Birthday: June 6th — Gemini Sexuality: Pan Personality: She loves anything cute and tries to reflect it in her style. She’s a hopeless flirt and romantic, but will respect boundaries if told the back off. Constantly harboring new crushes. She’s almost always tired and can be seen nursing and iced coffee if she’s not napping. She works well in teams and prefers it to solo work. She really loves animals and is a vegan — won’t hesitate to kill anyone who harms an animal in front of her. Her morals are a mystery to those around her, but she knows she’s not exactly a great person when it comes to how she manipulates the people around her. She’s aggressively nosy and likes to know everything she can about her friends and lovers. She has a way of getting people to spill their hearts out to her, only to turn back and use the info on them when she needs something. Somehow, she still has a lot of friends. Very intense in relationships. A true switch. If she’s in charge, she’s a cruel mistress who likes humiliating her partners. Sanguine has no mercy for those who dare to let her dom. A power bottom, for sure. Cream pie kink.

BNHA Verse Extra Name - ??? – Refuses to reveal her real name and goes by Sanguine, her villain name.

Specialty: Assassinations Quirk: Blood Manipulation Quirk info: Sanguine spent lots of time training her quirk to be used as a weapon. Her quirk is strongest during the full moon and is generally more effective at night. She can control the blood flow of others, essentially rendering them to puppets. During full moons, she can cut off their airway. Her quirk is best used against one person. She has anemia, though if the condition is related to her quirk is unknown. She’s best used for missions that need a quick and quiet takeout, as she gets tired easily. Because of this, she prefers to take weapons (knives, guns) with her for backup.

Ann-Marie Bell

Height: 6'1 (186 cm) Appearance: Tall with an athletic body. Rich, dark brown skin with cool undertones. Wears her hair natural - her hair texture is 4A. She has a nose piercing on the right side of her nose. Age: 155 (Appears to be in her early 30s.) Birthday: April 11th — Aries Pronouns: She/Her, They/Them Sexuality: Bisexual Personality: Very optimistic and easy-going. Despite being a Vampire that is over 100 years old, she still holds onto a zest for life. Ann-Marie is very interested in how people work and what makes people tick. She is fast to form friendships and has a knack for making people feel comfortable, even if they feel a strange aura in her presence. She has only change a few other people in her time as a Vampire - she’s never found anyone willing to stick around with her for that long. Unfortunately, she’s paranoid about her secret getting out, so anyone who knows and doesn’t plan on sticking around is taken care of. (With mercy, but still…) Despite her… interesting method of ending relationships, Ann-Marie doesn’t kill the people she feeds from. A sadistic top, through and through. Can and will use her strap to put her lovers in their place.

Elestren

Height: 5'6 (167 cm) Appearance: Average height. Fairly built and stocky. Natural blonde but dyes his hair lavender. (Very meticulous about his appearance.) No piercings or tattoos. Freckly shoulders and legs. Age: 31

Pronouns: He/Him Birthday — January 25th (Aquarius) Sexuality: Pansexual Personality: An evil pseudo-himbo, if you will. Elestren acts very air headed and kind as a front, using his good looks to make the act seem charming. Underneath the surface, Elestren is an extreme manipulator and has always used his looks to get whatever he wanted in life - he doesn’t care how his actions impact the people around him as long as his goals are achieved. Works in the business field but has no real love for it except for the money he makes. Elestren is an extrovert and cycles through groups of friends almost monthly. He doesn’t often find someone he finds worthy of his friendship, and doesn’t care enough to hold the things people tell him in confidence against them. It’s one of the few positives of him - he’ll never tell your secrets because he doesn’t find them interesting enough to talk about. Elestren is, however, a hopeless 'romantic’ when it comes to his darling. His dedication is troubling and he is likely to be manipulative, reverent, and obsessive. He doesn’t let his darlings go easily and will do anything to keep them on his side. A switch that prefers to top. Surprisingly, enjoys being on the receiving end of degradation and humiliation, but doesn’t get to experience it unless he’s with a long-term darling.

#personal #OCs #original characters #they're always available for requests!#feel free to draw 'em if you want as well

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convallarya · 3 years

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CLOSED thread with @pcstilnt VERSE devil in disguise

The night had befallen when her footsteps landed upon a familiar pavement, a path traced by BEAUTEOUS flowers nurtured by the love that, she too, longed for every second of her existence. It wrapped the day in its dark blanket, filling the inky night sky with its specks of crystalline light ㅡ dulcet-smelling rain washed the spellbinding area, freckles of stars jazzing around the satellite of light, wishing to be its partner whilst knowing they would never have such a chance. A smudgy illumination of a lamppost guided her towards the back of the dormant household, each step becoming a heavyweight against the web of her ribcage ㅡ she could not recall the number of days she had been absent and INQUIETUDE was hence the primal source of her hesitance. Looking back, it was a seemingly impossible task to visit her when she had been incarcerated in her business, inundated in deals that did not terminate with the best outcome; the machine wrapped around her ribcage was, however, still aching ( whether engulfed in remorse or for other reasons, was unclear to her ).

Her footsteps were light against the wooden floor, a hellish task for the woman who was as BRUTE as the ire of a storm; she managed to slither into the room without alarming sighs, having in her hand a single roseate Zinnia ( it was, after all, a flower that would abide the rage of time like no other ). Standing there, WAITING ( like always ), was the grace of the divine, the shiniest heavenly figure, the immensity of a mystical ocean ㅡ for a moment, she was lost in her elegance, lost in the porcelain complexion radiant with the strings of light cast by the moon, lost in the gaze that would devour her body, her soul and her heart... And if she had more to give and to be devoured, she would have given to her without a second thought. ❝ Hey... Sorry for being so late... Again. ❞ Eudora. OH, Eudora.

#「 → verse 3 — devil in disguise 」#「 → verse 3 — para 」#「 → verse 3 — pcstilnt (4) 」#「 → queue 」#pcstilnt #「 → verse 3 — starter 」#:'3

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with-a-song-of-pure-romance · 4 years

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She Had The World Analysis

Warnings: Ryden (Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie), Keltie Colleen, cheating, themes of a toxic relationship

Summary:

She Had the World is a melancholy song about Ryan not being in love with Keltie, even if he tries or pretends to be

Ryan possibly changes perspectives in the chorus to Keltie, although he could still be writing from his own perspective. I discuss both possibilities in this analysis

However, Ryan definitely does change perspectives in verse 2 to the person he is cheating with, who I believe is Brendon.

Overall, She Had the World is a sad but brilliant song, even if my analysis’ relation the real world is completely incorrect.

She Had the World is one of my favourite songs on Pretty. Odd.. It is a poetic yet melancholy and wistful tune which is simply beautiful, but it was never performed on stage. However, if one looks at the lyrics and connects it to Ryan’s personal life, then one can definitely see why. Hence, here is an analysis of She Had the World, our favourite anti-love song.

Firstly, a little disclaimer before I begin. I do not “own” or know Ryan Ross, Keltie Knight and/or Brendon Urie. I do not know them personally, nor have I even had a simple chat with them or even just hugged them and got their autograph. I am a fan writing for other fans, I do not ever mean to be disrespectful. I am aware that I am talking about real people and their actual lives but I would like to remind the reader that there is a high chance that none of this is true. I don’t know half the story. Also, I would also like to say that I am indeed a shipper of Ryden, and by that I mean that I believe that there was a relationship between them from 2005-2009. With Brendon married and with them not interacting, it is pretty safe to say that Ryden is no longer real and I do believe that anyone who asks them about it to their faces is simply just sick. However, this analysis will contain hints of Ryden. With that in mind, let this begin.

There are two stories which could be told here. The first, and the more popular, possible theory, is that this song is primarily from Ryan’s point of view until after the first bridge, shifting again to Brendon’s view and then to Ryan’s view again when the bridge comes. However, the second possible theory is that it is Ryan’s point of view until the bridge, which is Keltie’s view, and then goes to Brendon’s view and then to Keltie’s view again when the bridge comes. I will be exploring both possible theories in this analysis, and you can choose to believe and follow however you would like.

The song opens with the iconic “she held the world upon a string but she didn’t ever hold me”. This is stating that she had "the world" but she didn’t have Ryan. Pretty simple. Keltie was a dancer at the Rockettes at the time, a highly popular dance troupe that often had booked-out seats. She may have encapsulated the world, the audience, but she did not have Ryan.

The song continues, and further proves to emphasise this point, with the cocky “spun the stars on her fingernails but it never made her happy ‘cause she couldn’t ever have me”. On Ryan’s part, this line is a little conceited. This is implying that no matter what Keltie did she was not happy since she did not have Ryan. Basically Lying is the Most Fun vibes here - Ryan believing that he was the only thing making her happy. Of course, these lines are probably a simplification of the truth, so Ryan might have not believed that, but basically that vibe.

Again, Ryan continues to state the same things, saying “she said she won the world at a carnival but she couldn’t ever win me ‘cause she couldn’t ever catch me”. Here he states that she “won” popularity while performing at the Rockettes, as well as love from the press from dating a member and main lyricist from Panic! At the Disco, but yet she did not manage to actually win Ryan and make him love her. Essentially, the same message from literally all the previous lines. This line also interesting uses “catch me” as a metaphor for all the fish in the sea which is often a common expression for the amount of people you can date. The following lines can imply several things. "I, I know why - because when I look in her eyes, I just see the sky. When I look in her eyes, I just see the sky” has seen several different interpretations from different theorists, but here’s my takes on the matter. "Just seeing the sky” can possibly imply that Ryan is lost in his daydreams and he is constantly daydreaming and drifting off when spending time with Keltie. It could also imply that Keltie is lost in the daydream that Ryan loves her. The third theory for what this could mean is a bit of a stretch, but this line could be relevant to the sun/moon therapy. Bringing Ryden into this, Ryan cannot “see" Keltie because he is so in love with Brendon, the sun (which is in the sky), and he can only think about him even when spending time alone with Keltie. Nevertheless, whatever you choose to believe basically states the same thing - that Ryan really does not love Keltie.

And now for some of my favourite few lines of song of all time.

As I have addressed, I have two theories for how this can be interpreted. One is that this is simply Ryan writing from Ryan’s view. Simple and what most people believe. The other theory I have is that this is Ryan writing from Keltie’s view. The following will be analysing both of these theories and frankly, I do not care enough to strongly believe in one of them. I am simply stating my possible explanations for these lines and you can choose to agree or disagree.

We can see an immediate change in mood with "I don’t love you, I’m just passing the time”, the narrator directly speaking to the listener and expressing their thoughts. If you believe this is from Ryan’s view, this is stating exactly what he has been stating for the past few lines - that he does not truly love Keltie and he is merely passing the time. This can mean three things. One, he wants someone to love and maybe superficially, someone to have sex with, but does not care about Keltie herself. Two, this could mean that he is bored and just wants to do something, and quite literally does Keltie. Three, the Ryden explanation, is that he is simply passing the time with her till he spends time with Brendon who he truly loves. However, if you believe that this is from Keltie’s point of view (or Ryan writing from Keltie’s point of view), this is a response to the previous verses with Keltie is trying to bite back at Ryan’s confessions that he does not love her. She is stating that she, also, does not love Ryan, and that she is simply passing the time. Keltie got with Ryan after a breakup, and possibly still loved her previous lover, so she is just passing the time - Ryan is acting as a filler before she gets back with him. She could also possibly be passing the time between her time on the Rockettes, which I mentioned before.

The narrator, whoever it is, goes on, and says that “you could love me if I knew how to lie”. From Ryan’s view, like it blatantly suggests, it is saying that Keltie could love Ryan if he could pretend. This, interestingly enough, implies that Keltie also does not love him, which Ryan appears to be aware of. This could be saying that he doesn’t care enough to pretend that he loves her, or that he is bad at lying and cannot do it, which he implies when stating “I knew how”. From Keltie’s view, she is defending herself as to why Ryan does not love her, saying that she does not care enough to actually pretend or, like I stated above, that she is bad at lying and cannot do it. Remember that this is Ryan writing from Keltie’s perspective (if he is writing from her perspective), so he is perhaps taking a jab at her saying that she is bad at lying and he can tell that she is. Both imply that Ryan has some self-awareness that his girlfriend does not love him which he can tell from her bad lying.

And now for my favourite line of all time - “but who could love me? I am out of mind”. From Ryan’s view, he is stating that he is out of his mind and no one could ever love him. He is making a self deprecating comment like one does and again, implying that Keltie does not actually love him. From Keltie’s view, or as it is important to remember, Ryan writing from Keltie’s view, is that this is Ryan subtly insulting Keltie, saying that no one will ever love her as she is out of her mind. No deep explanation, just Ryan being mean to Keltie if it is written from her perspective.

The non-lover laments on, saying that they are “throwing a line out to sea to see if I can catch a dream”. This is the return of the fish analogy as referenced before with “catch me”. If you believe that this is Ryan writing from his own view, he is possibly talking about his cheating here, whether you believe it is just the waitress or the waitress and Brendon if you do ship Ryden. He is saying that he is going around and trying to find people that can love him and that he can love back. He is trying to find a “dream”, his soulmate and his ideal partner. However, if you believe that this is Ryan writing from Keltie’s view, I believe it is more likely to mean that her love for Ryan is her throwing a line out to sea to see if he can love her. This could possibly imply for Ryan as well, but he seems to not even care to see if Keltie is a “dream” so I find it unlikely and I think the explanations are both fit.

And we find a change of perspective as it returns to the previous tune before the bridge. It opens with “the sun was always in her eyes; she didn’t even see me”. Now, before I begin the actual analysis, let me provide an explanation which states how I believe this applies to Brendon. Now, I am a Ryden shipper, so if you don’t ship it you don’t have to listen to me, but you can read on if you want. Whether you think that the previous lines was all Ryan or Ryan then Keltie, this is definitely another perspective - without argument. This is not the girl in the relationship who Ryan does not love, nor can it be the guy itself as this mysterious new narrator references both. However, this is clearly not just some onlooker. No, this has to be the person Ryan is cheating on.

Reportedly, he has only cheated on her with a waitress. However, this could simply not be her. This line states that the sun (who is a person) is ALWAYS in her eyes, meaning that she sees this person very often. But who could it be? Who else is known as the sun who Keltie always sees - oh wait, Brendon. Yas, this is yet another sun/moon reference. These two lines following after each other is very much stating that the “me” is the sun. Additionally, the use of “even” is basically a confirmation that the sun is a person. If the literal sun was in her eyes and she just didn’t see them, that would simply be because "the sun was in her eyes and she didn’t see me". But the “even” is like a “Come on, I am right here and you didn’t even see me”. He was always there, around Ryan and very close to Ryan, yet Keltie did not even see him as a threat. Or rather, Ryan believes that Keltie does not see Brendon as a threat due to how she acts - they could be less subtle then they believe they are.

The “mysterious” narrator, or Brendon, continues, saying "that girl had so much love - she’d want to kiss you all the time. Yeah, she’d want to kiss you all the time.”. This serves as a confirmation that this is another person, not the girl or the boy in this toxic relationship where no one loves each other, as this references both Ryan and Keltie as separate people. Brendon’s point of view, which may have been expressed by Brendon or may be Ryan writing from Brendon’s perspective and is comforting himself, is that yeah, he agrees that this girl loves him (despite what the bridge implies) and that she wants to kiss him all the time. Stating it twice may also imply some kind of annoyance with that fact. Repeating from before, Brendon (or whoever you may think it is) says “she said she won the world at a carnival”, but then the lyrics change, saying that “but I’m sure I didn’t ruin her - just made her more interesting”. This is the person who Ryan is cheating with assuring themself that they didn’t ruin her love just made it, you know, more interesting. Or rather than talking about Keltie herself, this could be addressing the relationship as a “her” and saying that it didn’t ruin the relationship, just made it more interesting. Since it is noted as Ryan writing this, not Ryan and Brendon co-writing this, this could also just be Ryan writing from Brendon’s POV and assuring himself he didn’t mess anything up. They reassure themselves again saying “sure I didn’t ruin her - just made her more interesting”. Now, this narrator, or Brendon, repeats the same lines from before - "I, I know why - because when I look in her eyes, I just see the sky. When I look in her eyes, I just see the sky” which is basically an agreement with Ryan. Either Brendon is in a daydream, or she is in a daydream, or he cannot stop thinking of Ryan. Like I said for this analysis before, you can choose one of them and it will tell you the same thing - that this person agrees with Ryan and that Ryan honestly does not love her.

The bridge repeats again, but I have already done analysis on that (apologies for the rambling), but either than that, that is basically She Had the World. Funny how Ryan called it lighthearted in the track-by-track review, but after looking at it carefully we can see that it is anything but lighthearted, containing themes of a toxic relationship which was actually occurring during the writing of this song. They never did perform this, and perhaps this was the reason - singing every night about a girlfriend you still have who you do not love is quite a personal thing and something I would not opt for.

I find it important to state again, like I did at the beginning of this, that this is just a theory about a relationship now long-lost and gone. There is a high chance that absolutely none of this is true - I am not Ryan Ross, and I most definitely did not write She Had the World. I was never in a relationship with Keltie Knight, and I am merely a fan looking at these lyrics. If you (Ryan, Keltie, Brendon) are reading my rambling for some reason and you find it invasive and disrespectful, please DM me or something and I will take it down without hesitation. I write this as respectfully as I can, remembering that I am just an onlooker who honestly has no idea about other people’s lives, especially the lives of people I will never meet.

Anyway, thank you for reading my analysis of She Had the World, and please like and reblog to share! Much love <3

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lo-55 · 3 years

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Revel Ch. 6

Factitious First Impressions

Tori was as good as her word. That night, when they went for bed, she drew the curtains and he snuffed the lights, leaving the pair of them in pitch and utter darkness. Tori climbed into her part of the bed and Katakuri his. There was space enough for another full grown man in the bed between them, and though she would have welcomed some contact Tori was smart enough to know that Katakuri, in his shyness, might panic.

So she kept her hands to herself and when the morning came she rose without him. She dressed herself in a simple lace robe over her long nightdress and left the room. No one would expect her to be in finery for breakfast.

She shut the door quietly, leaving Katakuri sleeping in their shared room, and made her way down the long hallway. The ancient floor was worn soft and cold under her thin slippers, and sunlight streamed in from skylights above her head. She walked into the Silver Hall with a halo of light floating across her sea-dark hair.

The Silver room was home to three long tables equipped with benches. One was for the staff, who had already had their breakfast, another for the soldier girls, who would eat later, and the third was reserved for the nobility.

For Tori and the other rich, high ranking women she had grown up with.

She was one of the last to arrive. She took her seat amongst the others, already chattering. It was all idle, easy gossip, nothing that would make its way into court or true intrigues. This was a place for eating, not a place for doing business.

Tori piled her plate with fruits, took a bowl for yogurt and a pair of hard boiled eggs. Most of the others were eating pastries. Someone handed her a cappuccino.

Tori joined the idle chatter. She alone did not stop when the door opened once more and Brulee walked in, sticking out like a sore thumb. Her clothes were plain, her face was scarred and her hair was a mess. Tori adored her.

“Everyone,” she spoke, “ I would like to introduce my sister-by-law, the Lady Charlotte Brulee.”

Brulee’s smile was somehow both awkward and unnerving. She took an empty seat, and started piling her plate without saying much to anyone.

“If that’s a Lady, I’m a cat,” Seline muttered, loud enough to be heard by everyone from Selbo to Tori herself. Brulee’s shoulders lifted and drew together and her smile spread wider and tensed. Tori stood up abruptly. She walked around the table, grabbing a bowl and a pitcher of milk. A strange anger possessed her, pushing her forwards.

She brought it over to set it in front of Seline, pushing her plate away.

“You,” she said as she poured milk into the bowl, “Are Seline Butelli. Your father is a duke, and you are not even a duchess, when you marry your brother with inherit and you will hope for the best . I , am Victoria di Imperia, crown princess and your future queen. And if I say that my friend is a lady well .”

She set the pitcher aside and nudged the bowl of milk towards a stunned Seline, “You had best start lapping kitty .”

Dead silence descended upon the women in the room. Tori had never been so aggressive, so uncivilized.

Yet now she stood, throwing her rank around in defense of a stranger who even Tori barely knew. But she would not tolerate it. She would not.

Satisfied with the mortified and red face Seline, and knowing that some form of retribution would come her way, Tori returned to her seat and continued on like nothing had happened to begin with.

Tori sucked in her stomach while Madelle laced up the back of her dress, pulling it taught. It pushed her tits up and gave her the illusion of not having organs. On top of the underdress and its laces draped a long length of blue as dark as magpie wings across her, falling straight down to the floor. On top of that she dropped a shorter length of imperial purple that fell only to Tori’s upper thighs. The edges were carefully embroidered in patterns, inlaid with fine, miniscule diamonds that shone when she moved like stars in the sky. It clasped at her shoulders with silver fibula adorned with a diamond skull. Rather grim, but befitting her new status.

“Beautiful, as always,” Madelle told her. She pulled her hair and piled it in tight ringlets atop Tori’s head before binding it with a thick ribbon encrusted with constellations.

“Of course,” Tori said absently, looking at herself in the mirror. She was a vision. She was beautiful and beloved by her people. It felt false. More so now than it had in a long, long time.

Tori slipped on her soft silk slippers. The sun was burning in the west, dipping towards the cradle of the sea.

Her mother lullaby came back to her again. She had learned it first in the Green Tongue, the one spoken in the forests.

Roll forth Ocean mother

Carry you children far

Shine bright moon hung o’er

Watch over their tepid flight

Bring with you, Great mother

The silver crashing mist

Protect your sons and daughters

Great Oars push to safety

The tide shall guard the night

Lift high sea walls honor

Shine under sunstones bright

Stand tall, brother-sister

Guard each truth and steel

Cradle those, earth protector,

Crowned in stone from their ordeal

Senten them moon sister

The sorrow of the earth

Tori hummed softly. She knew there were more verses, but Dolce had never shared the full song with her. She told her that the sorrow of the earth was too sad for a child, but when she grew up she would sing it to her.

She never got the chance.

After Gemma was born, Dolce got sick. A post partum depression, she stopped sleeping, didn’t eat as much as she used to, and she was left open to infection.

It had been common, in the first days of Imperia as its own nation, shortly after the Novara civil war eight hundred years ago. A disease that swept through the vulnerable, cultivated by dying on the battlefield it was given free reign, passed through blood and sweat and tears. Or perhaps the air, no one had known and still no one did. It killed within twenty four hours.

The dark spots appeared, and the children were taken away. Dolce was quanteened, and she died. Followed by five servants, all four her handmaidens, and three doctors that tried to help her. They were blessed than the disease had stopped there, and hadn’t destroyed the entire city. Blessed, people said, but Tori and Lucien had lost their mother and Gemma had never even gotten to see her.

Now, Tori was a grown woman, married already, and Dolce would never see it. Would never know the woman that she had grown to be. Beautiful, and the daughter-by-law of an empress. One day, as the eldest child, she would be queen.

Dolce would not see that either.

Lapa finished with her hair, spreading a silver net encrusted in diamonds across it while Varinia lay her lips on. At last, she was ready.

Tori turned to the door.

“Let’s get this party started,” she joked lightly. Madelle, dressed in fine sapphire, skirts, nodded her assent swiftly. Lapa and Varinia took their places beside her. Aelia and Daria were hidden in the walls, in identical dresses to switch places with her if need be.

The gaggle of girls walked out of the room and into the hall. Katakuri had been shooed away some time ago, to dress himself properly. If he showed up in anything other than leather, Tori would be privately amazed.

They turned down the hallway and descended the stairs, meeting up with Brulee as they reached the bottom. She was flanked by the rest of Tori’s handmaidens, who had dressed her up in fine a lavender gown the color of her hair that draped across her long body well, bordered in pale blue. They had painted her lips and sculpted her face, tamed her hair and braided it into a crown adorned with blue roses.

Tori offered Brulee, who was closer to her size but still taller by a good head, her arm. Brulee took it, looking at her with a new light and together the pair walked into the atrium. Long vines dripped down from the ceiling, covered in wisteria, bougainvillea, and honeysuckle. The impluvium was filled with false lilies that held candles in the center and glowed faintly as they floated.

Tori took Brulee to the edge of the water and sat with her while her handmaidens scattered. they had their own duties to attend to.

Tori could see her sister, dressed in her uniform, standing off near the door with her captains. Her brother was talking to a judge near the spread table of fruits, cheeses, and wine. Nothing that Tori couldn't eat, but with Katakuri expected to be in attendance she couldn't either way.

Unfortunate, but she’d eaten before hand. Tori was no fool.

She chatted idly with Brulee until the attention in the room moved to the staircase once more. She turned with the rest of the room to find Katakuri standing at the top. He was wearing an actual shirt that fit him well, dark and bordered in red to match his scarf. His pants were still leather and his boots were spiked, but he was missing the knee pads.

Tori stood and glided towards the stairs. A silence fell across the room, or perhaps she simply wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were on her, and for the first time in a long time she felt a longing pressing against her ribs.

For someone so large he walked with a shocking amount of grace. He descended the marble staircase and when Tori offered him her hand he took it in his. A smile pulled at her lips, threatening the false one layered over top with silver glitter.

Katakuri kept his eyes on her and she her eyes on him as she guided him to his sister. He sat, crossing his legs, and Tori stood at his side, tucking her arm in his.

The band started playing soft strings, a low hum that build beneath her bones. Tori let herself stand close to Katakuri, for once taller than him, but true to her word, she didn’t try to sneak a peek. His arm was strong and warm beneath her hand and she felt that heat in her ribs once more.

While they sat, she talked, pointing out courtesans, officials, and visitors scattered around the room.

“That one,” she said, gesturing to a man in the corner that dressed in what appeared to be plain street clothes, no more than a tunic and leggings “is Orso Orseolo. He is a long trusted friend of my brother, sister and I but he won’t take any lands we offer and so he’s not a real nobleman at all. He says titles give him hives,” she smiled like she was sharing a conspiracy, “because he’s not got a title or lands but still has our backing and speaks with our voice, the rest of the court is terrified of him.”

She moved on. “The woman in the green dress is Arcielda Severan. She has quite the scandal about her divorcing Pietro, the one with the red boots and the frown lines. Still, she’s a good person, reliable and loyal to a fault. Once stabbed Chealsea Pruili with a fork and proposed Oblivion for her and hers when she tried to imply that disfigured babies shouldn’t be kept. Chealsea is the one in the brown gown with the bear bracelet.“

“How do you keep track of all of these people?” Brulee asked her, peering up at Tori with her same eerie smile.

Tori shrugged. “It’s not very hard. I just do.”

She was surprised when Katakuri’s low voice reached her.

“You said that flowers mean things. Do those?” he looked towards the flowers that dripped down the walls in long lines of white, purple, and pink. Tori felt her heart lighten at the interest Katakuri paid, and perhaps a bit at the attention in general.

“Bougainvillea, the pink ones, are for ‘peace and free trade’. We have ambassadors from the other Novara islands here. The Honeysuckle is for affection, fraternal and devoted. Wisteria, the purple, is for love, sensuality, support, sensitivity, bliss and tenderness. They’re for us.”

She felt his pulse under her fingers. Felt his shoulders draw together.

She drew a slow circle across a silver scar that crossed his arm, soothing.

“What’s oblivion?” Brulee asked next. Tori’s eyes darted again to Arcielda, speaking quietly to Alton Izard.

“Oblivion is the greatest disgrace for an Imperian,” she told them quietly. “It’s to have your entire existence erased. From the hearts of men and the Hall of Records. Your name will never be spoken again and you will be lost to the sands of time. Made into nothing and no body.”

Tori’s voice grew soft as silk and quiet as the grave. She was well aware of the attention that the two foreigners were paying her, rapt in her words.

Arcielda broke away from Alton and came over to them as the music picked up. She took Brulee’s hand and tugged her to her feet, sweeping her away to dance. Tori was left with Katakuri, who didn’t seem the type to waltz.

Brûlée was about as graceful as a colt, new and ungainly on its long, long legs. Bit Arcielda didn’t seem to mind. Her son wasn’t present, still just a child, and in any case he hated crowds.

Without really thinking about it Tori traced the strong lines of Katakuri’s arm. She kept talking him, telling him about the people around them. Where they came from. The positions they held. Their influence. Their temperments, histories, old grudges and new ones.

“Some of them are like me,” she told him. “Charlotte Victoria di Imperia. The ‘di’ is just a place holder. It means ‘of’. If they have that in their name, they are as old as the island. If their family name is all their claim, they’re newer blood. There aren’t many ‘di’s left to us. It’s been too long. Mostly, it’s my family.”

His voice was low and deep beside her when he spoke.

“Your family is very small.”

Tori smiled. Small, showing now teeth. A grin was threatening a rude. “Yours is very large. And new, isn’t it?”

“Mama is the first,” he confirmed, but Tori already knew that. She hummed softly, her voice a quiet melody. The band picked a quicker tune and she watched Arcielda lead Brulee through a clumsy spin across the floor. Arcielda was a sweet woman, and a complete lesbian.

“And you are the second. Third?”

“Second son, third child.”

“That must be a lot of presure,” Tori mused. Katakuri shot her a look.

“You’re a princess .”

Tori smiled again, almost wide enough to split her false lips. “But I don’t have to work for that. My whole life has been presented on a silver plate. I don’t need to choose anything to get my future.”

Katakuri’s head tilted ever so slightly. Once more Tori found she couldn’t read the look in his eyes. She wanted, suddenly, impulsively, to steal him away. Drag him out into the gardens and sit him in the grass and unravel his scarf so she could see .

But Tori was more well behaved than that. She let herself lean against his shoulder instead. Arcielda dipped Brulee low, until her hair almost touched the floor before pulling her back to her feet. Katakuri never looked away from them.

“You’re very protective of her,” Tori commented idly. He stiffened minutely under her fingers. Tori repressed a wince of guilt. That was right. Brulee’s scar.

“She’s my sister,” he said simply. Tori didn’t respond. Her own relationship with Gemma was much less… good. Gemma was a fighter, a general, hungry for power and stubborn. She was vicious and able. Tori was none of those things. She wanted no power, she fought for nothing. She was no vicious, so long as she could help it. She had been an honors student, she had competed in S.T.E.M., she had won academic decathlons almost single handed.

She wanted none of those victories again. She had no ambition. She coudln’t. Ambitious people drew too much attention, had too many expectations placed upon her and here-

No one expected her to be anything but pretty here.

“She told me what you did this morning.”

Tori looked at him, brows pinching minutely. She’d almost forgotten what she’d done. “Oh. Seline? She’s never been a kind person…”

“You didn’t have to stick up for her,” Katakuri said. There was a note of suspicion in his voice that pained Tori.

“You forget,” she said quietly. “She is my sister now too.”

She patted his arm and released him, the magic broken, to go find Orso. Her friend caught her hand when she appeared at his side and kissed each cheek. Familiar, kind, with a hint of concern in his soft brown eyes. He talked to her about nothing. Court gossips, hail storms, his sister. The pair of them walked to find others that Tori had grown up with, just as painted and false as she was.

There were three genuine people in the room. She was not one of them.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #katakuri #charlotte Katakuri #katakuri x oc #oc #victoria di Imperia

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zwei-the-penguin-with-a-pen · 4 years

Text

‘Honeybee’

A quick Valentine’s Day fic from your friendly neighborhood Penguin, Zwei!

Fandom: RWBY

One-Shot Fluff

Words: 2115 ish

Ships: Bumbleby with a side of White Rose

Insert Song: ‘Honeybee’ by Steam Powered Giraffe. Listen to it, it jams!

Synopsis: Blake sings Yang a song during a lazy-ish day at the dorm. Bees with suffering Weiss. A hit of White Rose at the end. Was feeling mushy since it’s Heart-Shaped Candy Day. Enjoy?

Blake lay in her bottom bunk, strumming her acoustic guitar with a jazzy rhythm. She plucked and popped the strings in time, the metal vibrating against the wood and projecting the sultry sounds of her mellifluous chords. Her gold eyes gleamed like the beams of a sunset. She swayed to her rhythm, her black hair bouncing as it waved in time. Yang could hardly take her eyes away from the hairpin curve of Blake's grin. She found herself moving to Blake's tunes, her golden mane waving here and there. Yang could see her girlfriend's lips curve further upward at that, almost into a satisfied smirk. "You like my jams, Goldie?" Yang gasped, blushing bright red at Blake's question.

Ah, Blake had the power to turn Yang's face into a tomato. She was pretty good at it, although she didn't have to try. Blake gazed into Yang's eyes, the soft purple irises like lavender flowers. Once she was no longer a tomato, Yang picked her head up and grinned her confident smile back at Blake. The sight of Yang's shimmering teeth and her jawline's sharp curve caused Blake's eyes to turn to stars. She even forgot the chord she was supposed to play next. She cursed under her breath.

"GAY!" Weiss shouted playfully from her desk, where she'd been completing assignment after miserable assignment for hours now. If her hair had not already been whiter than snow, the stress of these classes would have turned it that way. It was almost like every professor at Beacon thought that their class was the only one their students were studying.

It didn't help that Ruby distracted her all the time. The rosy little redhead didn't do it intentionally; she was just too cute for her own good... or Weiss's, for that matter. What with her eyes that shone like precious metal, her perpetually smiling face perfectly framed by her bob of red-tipped brown hair, and her muscles. Good gods, Ruby's arms were shredded. Lugging around a 40 some odd pound gardening tool was no easy task, Weiss figured. Her legs were toned and muscular from ceaseless running, too.

"You would know, wouldn't you, Princess?" Blake nicked. Weiss rolled her icy blues at the remark, continuing her mountain of homework. Blake strummed a new tune, her jangly chords dancing through the room at her command. Yang stood up and danced along, making Blake's face a tomato but failing to break her concentration. Blake's changed tunes abruptly, moving into a softer piece. Yang found it hard to dance to this pattern so she took a seat on the bed next to Blake. The way Blake's fingers moved across the neck of her guitar hypnotized Yang. She almost didn't realize Blake asked her a question.

"So, you want to hear a new jam I'm working on?" Blake had asked. Yang blushed lightly as she came to and nodded.

"I'm always down to hear you, Blakey! What have you got for me?" Yang queried, her lilac eyes shining at the idea. Blake gave a half-smirk as she picked out a few notes and strummed a new beat.

"Well... there's this girl, right?"

"Yeah?" Yang played along. She could hear Weiss making exaggerated gagging noises from her desk, but she paid the Princess no mind. Her Black Cat was talking, and Blake's was the only voice the Golden Dragon cared to hear.

"We've been going kind of steady, and I'm really into her. I think she likes me almost as much, but I know I like her more." Blake's pupils seemed to widen as she looked at Yang again. Yang could get lost in the sunset of Blake's golden eyes. She blushed when one of Blake's cat ears wiggled and twitched.

"Could you two get any gayer?" Weiss casually asked, continuing to throw shade at the two Bees. The couple paid her no attention. Shade was Weiss's second language after all, so everyone in her vicinity hardly noticed it anymore.

"Ooh, did you write a song for your pretty lady friend, Kitty Cat?" Yang asked excitedly. She could feel the stars in her eyes already. Blake smirked her catty smirk again, driving Yang positively bonkers.

"I certainly did. Tell me if you think she'll enjoy it, please?" Blake replied, strumming all the while. She found the beat again once she stopped talking and began her song.

You didn't have to look my way

Your eyes still haunt me to this day

But you did, yes you did

You didn't have to say my name

Ignite my circuits, start a flame

But you DI-I-I-ID

Oh, Turpentine, erase me whole,

Because I don't want to live my life alone.

Well, I was waiting for you all my life

Oh, Why?

Set me free, my Honey-BEE-EE-EE-EE-EE!

Honey BEE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE!

Blake usually didn't look around the room while she was singing or playing the guitar, but this song was just chords so it was simple enough that she had the chance. Yang's eyes were slowly turning into hearts at the lyrics. Blake also swore she saw Weiss lightly bouncing along to her new song. If the resident Snow White enjoyed it, then the song was good. She figured she could sing one more verse and chorus, then.

You didn't have to smile at me

Your grin's the sweetest that I've ever seen

But you did, yes you did

You didn't have to offer your hand

Because since I've kissed it I am at your command

But you DI-I-I-ID

Oh, Turpentine, erase me whole

Because I don't want to live my life alone

Well, I was waiting for you all my life!

Oh, Why?

Set me free, me Honey-BEE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE

Honey-BEE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE

Blake's strumming came to a sudden stop. With her snarkiest grin, she told Yang, "That's all you get for free, Honeybee!" The hearts in Yang's eyes were all the proof Blake needed that her song was perfect.

"Oh, there's more?" Yang pleaded, putting on her best pout for good measure.

"I think I have a bridge that could work with the song... but again, I'll have to charge you to hear that."

"Name your price, my love!" Yang commanded, her voice booming through the dorm room.

"Twenty thousand Lien!" Blake joked. Weiss's face hit the table at that.

"Geez, do you think I'm made of money, Kitty Cat?" Yang replied with more pouting.

"I accept butt rubs, too. You have to match my price, though. One rub equals one Lien. That's my last offer, Honeybee!" Blake replied with a chortle. Yang laughed under her breath but attempted to maintain the conversational shenanigans if only to annoy Weiss Cream. The Princess muttered something about their exchange being 'the gayest thing she had ever heard with her own ears' but neither Blake nor Yang paid that any mind.

"As much as I love rubbing your behind, I think twenty thousand rubs might be a bit excessive..."

"If you use both hands, that would make it only ten thousand." Blake giggled at her girlfriend.

"You drive a hard bargain, Miss Belladonna! I believe I shall accept your terms!" Yang finally replied. She snuggled up close to Blake and ran her hands down Blake's back, resting each one upon one side of Blake's rear end.

"Oh, yeah, there are rules here. Butt only, nowhere lower. At least, not while we still have company..." Blake added. She was certain Weiss would get lost if they kept this up. That way they could be alone together.

"Aww, but what about your thighs? They're so soft! I'm sure Weiss Cream would get jealous, though."

"Oh, thank Gods! Ruby just messaged me! She's done with her extracurriculars, so we're supposed to hang out! I guess that means I'll be going!" Weiss spoke up, standing up from her seat at the desk and grabbing her jacket.

"See? Now she can go touch Ruby's soft thighs so she won't be jealous!" Blake joked as Weiss pulled her jacket over her arms and zipped it halfway up.

"Soft? Lies! Ruby's thighs are rock solid, just like the rest of her body!" Weiss jabbed. Her icy blue eyes widened when she realized what she had just said and to whom she had said it.

"How do you know what my sister's thighs feel like, Weiss Cream?" Yang asked in a fakely interrogating fashion. When she looked to Weiss for an answer, Weiss was no longer there. A dashed white line roughly in the shape of Weiss was all that remained. It blinked three times before disappearing entirely. "Aaaand she's gone!"

"You know those two do stuff, right? They might not do it all, but they definitely mess around a bit," Blake told Yang. She felt a rough squeeze at her left buttock. "OH BABY!" She joked. Yang leaned her head into the nape of Blake's neck and laughed. "Good Gods, don't do that!"

"You're so playful, Kitty Cat!" Yang retorted, lightly nibbling on Blake's shoulder blade and sliding one hand down one of Blake's squishy thighs. "But yes, I know they play around, and I'm good with it. Ruby really likes Weiss, and Weiss really likes her. I trust her to respect Ruby's boundaries, and I'll break her kneecaps if she doesn't. She and I have had this talk already."

"Well, that's good to know." Blake grinned as she strummed some new chords. Yang recognized this tune as a poppy rendition of 'Fly Me To The Moon'.

"Do I seriously have to rub your ass ten thousand times to hear the rest of that song?"

"Absolutely!" Blake smirked, winking one of her golden eyes at Yang. "I'll give you something good afterward, Honeybee!"

"Well, it was a breathtaking song already, Kitty Cat. I can't wait to hear the rest of it." Yang kissed Blake's neck some more, making Blake insane with desire. "I love you!" Yang spoke into Blake's neck.

"I love you too, Honeybee." Blake smiled softly, strumming away as her girlfriend's hands explored her behind.

\/\/\/\/\/

"I swear to the Gods, Ruby, you messaged me at the perfect time!" Weiss bragged to her girlfriend. The little red slayer grinned at the remark as she took a lick from her ice cream cone.

"They must have really been gaying the dorm up, huh?" Ruby replied with a chuckle, earning a laugh from Weiss. Ruby gazed into Weiss's icy blues for a long moment, as it was like staring up at the endless blue sky on a summer day. The curve of Weiss's grin when she laughed sent Ruby on a journey of noticing details about her beautiful girlfriend. There was an eyelash on her cheek, but Ruby was too distracted to say anything.

Weiss's flowing white hair moved in time with her words, waving and bouncing like falling snow in the wind. This led Ruby to Weiss's shoulders, the slim shoulders that had once carried the weight of the world. Her eyes then landed on her chest and midriff. For such a slim girl, Weiss was well put together. The slightest semblance of muscles poked out from her tight arms and washboard abdomen. Ruby loved planting kisses all over those itty bitty abs.

"Remnant to Ruby? Are you still with us?" Weiss asked, snapping Ruby back to reality.

"Sorry, Snowdrop. I was looking at your abs again..." Ruby confessed, her face turning bright red.

"Aww, look at my sweet little tomato..." Weiss teased lightly, making Ruby blush even redder. She was almost the shade she was named for at this point. Ruby's silver eyes glimmered like a piece of precious metal. Weiss caught herself looking down at Ruby's neck, her eyes traveling ever lower to see the red slayer's curves and muscles. Ruby's arms were relentlessly jacked, and her abs just wouldn't quit. She hadn't been completely honest with Yang, though; Ruby's thighs were just soft enough for Weiss to enjoy. "I just got distracted by your muscles, too..." Weiss confessed. It was her turn to become a tomato face now.

"Ha, I've still got it!" Ruby bragged. Weiss scoffed at the remark.

"We've been dating for maybe two months, Flower Pot. You haven't had the time to lose 'it' yet!" The two of them shared a laugh as they finished their ice cream. They stood up, bumping into one another by mistake. They both blushed ten shades of red at that.

"I love you, Snowdrop..." Ruby told her softly, her heart melting at the words like it always did.

"I love you, too, Gemstone..." Weiss replied. Their lips came together in a soft peck, and the two of them held hands as they left the ice cream parlor and began their walk back to the school.

\/\/\/\/\/

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snowdropheart · 4 years

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Hello please tell me all of your thoughts on punisher!!!! I love it. So much. I think saviour complex might be my favourite song but i refuse to pick just one i love them all so much.

Hello, Anon!! I cannot express just how happy this ask has made me; prepare for a long answer lol (And I, too, can’t pick a favourite song; though if pressed, I might have to say Graceland Too).

I haven’t had the chance to fully absorb all of the lyrics yet, so I might be missing some things, but here is a list of all my thoughts so far:

- I love how interconnected the album as a whole is. Like, on Stranger in the Alps, it feels more like a collection of songs, but this album has more thematic consistency. I really, really, love the dead bird that shows up in Moon Song and I Know the End--it’s things like that that tie it all together, which I love. And while I don’t know much about producing and mixing tracks, I can tell that it’s been so carefully done--every song is an individual but they match, if that makes sense. Which is also due to Phoebe’s vocals, which are so, so beautiful and haunting (especially on Chinese Satellite--oh my god the way she sings “But that’s impossible” makes my chest tight). Though I do wish she would belt more on her studio recordings (like how live versions of Motion Sickness are always better than the studio version bc she belts the end imo)

- The lyricism is phenomenal. And like, Phoebe Bridgers has already been writing amazing lyrics (“I buried a hatchet / it’s coming up lavender”; “And I have this dream where I’m screaming underwater / while my friends are all waving from the shore / and I don’t need you to tell me what that means / I don’t believe in that stuff anymore”) But oh my god the imagery on Punisher is so vivid. I love the second verse of Chinese Satellite (”You were screaming at the Evangelicals / They were screaming right back from what I remember / ... / But you know I’d stand on the corner / embarrassed with a picket sign / if it meant I would see you when I die”). The way she says things without saying them, but also while being so blunt is masterful. I love the way she describes growing up on Garden Song (”I don’t know how, but I’m taller / it must be something in the water / ... / The doctor put her hands over my liver / She told me my resentment’s getting smaller”). I think, listening to Punisher, I get the sense that Phoebe doesn’t care if what she’s singing about is only understandable to her, which is what makes it so specific yet universal.

- Also, the lyrics feel more urgent on Punisher than they do on Stranger in the Alps. Stranger in the Alps is more of a slow examination of melancholic emotions, whereas Punisher is all of that sadness mixed with the looming terrifying end-of-the-world climate we’re living in. If that makes sense. How can I talk about the lyrics without mentioning I Know the End. Like. That. Fucking. Song. The way she brings back aliens from Chinese Satellite and flips it! The way it slowly builds then comes crashing back down! The entire last verse is some of the best songwriting I’ve seen from her, to be honest. I love how she just starts listing the thing’s she’s passing on the road (”A slaughterhouse, and outlet mall / slow machines, fear of God”) and I love how it all comes off very menacing, but with the distinct nostalgia that comes with a place that you grew up in. That juxtaposition of “A haunted house with a picket fence” is incredible, and the double-meaning of “ghost my friends” is so good. And then, when everyone sings “the end is here” together . . . it’s. so. fucking. good. I love intensely emotional songs like this, and the build of I Know the End is one of the best, I think.

- I think the use of more instrumentation completely suits the album--the way everything builds on Chinese Satellite, the way Kyoto bops despite being so desperately lost, the metal ending of I Know The End, the strings on Saviour Complex and Graceland Too (And that boygenuis reunion!!) It gives all the songs so much emotional weight, which compliments the lyrics. But it is all still so subtle, and expertly executed, that it doesn’t feel like a neck-wrenching departure from Stranger in the Alps. It’s such a different album, but it also feels like a natural progression, if that makes sense. (As a sidenote--I love how various images come back again and again across all her albums, like living by the hospital on Halloween and Souvenir, talking about her ex playing the drums on ICU and Scott Street, the various recurring imagery of spaceships on Chinese Satellite, I Know the End, and Me & My Dog, and so on)

- I think Punisher also doubles-down on Phoebe’s determination to not be seen as one thing. Yes, it’s an overwhelmingly sad album, but there are so many little bits of humour there that make it feel all the more real. (She does this on Stranger in the Alps, too, I’m just commenting on how I like that she’s still doing it on Punisher, even with the intensity of it). I love the opening of I Know The End-- “Somewhere in Germany, but I can’t place it / Man, I hate this part of Texas”; I love the pun title of ICU; I love the way she laments jogging on Chinese satellite; I love that the opening instrumental track (which is gorgeous by the way) is inexplicably called DVD Menu. Not to mention that the music videos are (as always) a wonderful mixture of serious and silly, and that Phoebe’s ~look~ for Punisher is a baggy skeleton onesie. I just love it all so much.

Anyway, to sum up my thoughts on Punisher: I love it. I genuinely love every song, I love the emotion of it--it’s so palpable and painful and desperate, but also well-thought-out. She’s not rambling aimlessly about depression, she’s carefully crafting songs to explore it, and she is an expert at creating those emotions both sonically and lyrically. It’s a bop, it’s a cry, it’s a dance, it’s a think. It’s lying in bed wondering who I am and where to go, and then getting up and going somewhere. It’s trying and failing and falling in a love that is marked by pain and self-hatred, but also the small pleasures of day-to-day. It’s unmistakably a Phoebe Bridgers album and I will be listening to it all summer and for the rest of my life.

#phoebe bridgers #punisher #these thoughts are a ramble and tumblr won't let me use a read more i'm so sorry #but yeah anyway i have a lot to say it's such a great album #thank you for asking me!!#i love to talk about my favourite music

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kazeself · 4 years

Text

#FOLKLORE BRILLIANT LYRICS

so sorry but i am literally a reinvigorated taylor swift stan b/c folklore has been everything i’ve wanted for years so y’all are gonna have to deal with my shit. here’s a collection of some of my absolute favorite lyric segments from each song. i just need everyone to know that the 1, the teenage love triangle, my tears ricochet, exile, and this is me trying slay me so hard. mad woman is a close contender. i am deeply, personally invested in the 1 and the love triangle though...and it’s only a coincidence that betty and my ex’s name are interchangeable syllable wise.

the 1

“i’m doing good i’m on some new shit, been saying yes instead of no.”

“you know the greatest films of all time were never made.”

“and if my wishes came true it would’ve been you. in my defense i have none for never leaving well enough alone. but it would’ve been fun if you would’ve been the 1.”

“we never painted by the numbers baby, but we were making it count. you know the greatest loves of all time are over now.”

“i, i, i persist and resist the temptation to ask you if one thing had been different would everything be different today?”

“it would’ve been sweet if it could’ve been me.”

cardigan (teenage love triangle #1, betty)

“when you are young they assume you know nothing.”

“sequin smile, black lipstick, sensual politics.”

just the whole fucking chorus and all variations there of throughout the song.

“and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone’s bed you put me on and said i was your favorite.”

“a friend to all is a friend to none. chase two girls, lose the one.”

“you drew stars around my scars, but now i’m bleeding.”

“i knew you tried to change the ending, peter losing wendy.” (this was BRILLIANT)

“i knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs.”

the last great american dynasty

“who knows if she never showed up what could’ve been. there goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen. she had a marvelous time ruining everything.”

“flew in all the Bitch Pack friends from the city.”

“holiday house sat quietly on that beach. free of women with madness, their men and bad habits, and then it was bought by me.” (queen of meta commentary)

“who knows if i never showed up what could’ve been...I HAD A MARVELOUS TIME RUINING EVERYTHING!!!!!!!!”

exile (ft. Bon Iver)

“i think i’ve seen this film before, and i didn’t like the ending.”

“you’re not my homeland anymore, so what am i defending?”

“second, third, and hundredth chances.”

“there’s no amount of crying i can do for you.”

“you didn’t even hear me out (you didn’t even hear me out.) you never gave a warning sign (i gave so many signs) all this time. i never learned to read your mind (never learned how to read my mind). i couldn’t turn things around (you turned things around). cause you never gave a warning sign (i gave so many signs, so many signs, so many signs, you didn’t even see the signs.)”

my tears ricochet

“if i’m on fire you’ll be made of ashes, too.”

“cause i loved you, i swear i loved you, even till my dying day.”

“if i’m dead to you why are you at the wake, cursing my name, wishing i stayed, look at how my tears ricochet.”

“you had to kill me but it killed you just the same.”

mirrorball

“you’ll find me on my tallest tip toes.” (so fricken adorable)

seven

“please picture me in the trees i hit my peak at seven feet in the swing over the creek.”

“cross your heart, won’t tell no other. and though i can’t recall your face i still got love for you.”

“i’ll love you to the moon and to saturn.”

“and just like a folk song our love will be passed on.”

august (teenage love triangle #2, inez)

“but i can see us lost in memory, august slipped away into a moment of time. cuz it was never mine. and i can see us twisted in bedsheets, august slipped away like a bottle of wine, cuz you were never mine.”

“you weren’t mine to lose.”

“but do you remember? do you remember when i pulled up and said ‘get in the car?’”

“back when i was living for the hope of it all.”

this is me trying

“they told me all my cages were mental, so i got wasted like all my potential.” (slay me six ways to sunday, queen)

“i was so ahead of the curve the curve became a sphere.”

“i just wanted you to know this is me trying...AT LEAST I’M TRYING.”

illicit affairs

“leave the perfume on the shelf that you picked out just for him so you leave no trace behind, like you don’t even exist.”

“a drug that only worked the first few hundred times.”

“don’t call me ‘kid’ don’t call me ‘baby’ look at this godforsaken mess that you made me.”

“you showed me colors you know i can’t see with anyone else.”

“you taught me a secret language that i can’t speak with anyone else. and you know damn well for you i would ruin myself a million little times.”

invisible string

“and isn’t it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?”

“time, mystical time, cutting me open then healing me fine.”

“cold was the steel of my axe to grind for the boys who broke my heart...now i send their babies presents.”

“hell was the journey but it brought me heaven.”

mad woman

“does she smile or does she mouth “fuck you forever?”” (first f bomb of her catalog and it STILL gibs shivers)

“no one likes a mad woman, you made her like that.”

“and women like hunting witches, too. doing your dirtiest work for you.”

“it’s obvious that wanting me dead really brought you two together.”

“the master of spin has a couple side flings, good wives always know.”

epiphany

“keep your helmet, keep your life son. just a flesh wound, here’s your rifle.”

“crawling up the beaches now, ‘sir i think he’s bleeding out,’ and some things you just can’t speak about.”

“with you i serve with you I fall down, down.”

“only twenty minutes to sleep but you dream of some epiphany. just one single glimpse of relief to make some sense of what you’ve seen.”

betty (teenage love triangle #3, james)

“you heard the rumors from inez, you can’t believe a word she says most times but this time it was true. and the worst thing that i ever did was what i did to you.”

“but if i showed up at your party would you have me, would you want me, would you tell me to go fuck myself or lead me to the garden”

just the whole last verse and lead into the bridge talking about how james ended up doing the fling with inez.

“the only thing i wanna do is make it up to you [...] yeah i showed up at your party will you have me, will you love me, will you kiss me on the porch i front of all your stupid friends?”

“i’m only seventeen, i don’t know anything, but i know i miss you.”

“standing in your CARDIGAN. kissin’ in my car again, stopped at a STREETLIGHT. you know i miss you.”

peace

“a coming-of-age has come and gone.”

“all these people think love’s a show, but i would die for you in secret.”

“would it be enough if i could never give you peace?”

“i talk shit with my friends, it's like I'm wasting your honor and you know that I'd swing with you for the fences.”

“give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other.”

“i’d give you my sunshine, give you my best. but the rain is always gonna come if you’re standin’ with me.”

hoax

“stood on the cliffside screaming ‘give me a reason.’ your faithless love is the only hoax i believe in. don’t want no other shade of blue but you. no other sadness in the world would do.”

“you knew the hero died so what’s the movie for?”

“you knew it still hurts underneath my scars from when they pulled me apart.”

“my broken drum, you have beaten my heart.”

the lakes (physical bonus track)

WHO KNOWS BITCH I HAVEN’T GOTTEN THE CD DELIVERED YET IT SAYS 2-3 WEEKS!!!!

#folklore #taylor swift

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