#ill have to go digging through for the source

[chirpychipslive]

so like did rick actually beat that guy up or was that made up at some point in the 90s and people just keep saying it

[lorillee]

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Ours Never Knew Peace

Pairing: Helaena Targaryen x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Targcest/incest, explicit sexual content. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Helaena has grown weary of Aemond; though he is a welcome source of comfort outside of a loveless marriage that is for appearances only, he handles her with a gentleness that she knows is not his true nature. A chance discovery from a flower merchant upon the docks allows her to exert the control that, until now, has always eluded her.

Author's note: For @emilykaldwen and written for my Big Fucking Stupid Sex Pollen Writing Challenge. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Helaena felt irritable. She fidgeted as Aemond read to her, his soft voice doing little to ease her discomfort as he recited from the pages of Septon Barth’s ‘Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History’. The fingers of her younger brother’s free hand seemed to snag upon every tangle in her hair as they stroked through it, making her wince. It was as though she could feel the very bones of his thighs digging into the back of her skull as she lay with her head in his lap. The mattress beneath her back was lumpy, the fabric of her gown too restrictive, the air itself seemed as though it meant to stifle her.

With a huff of frustration, she reached up, snatched the book from Aemond and snapped it closed, before tossing it carelessly onto the bed beside them. She scowled to herself, clasping her hands across her middle and twisting the rings upon her fingers as her brother looked down at her, his single eyed gaze narrowed in confusion.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, his hand stilling in her hair to rest gently at the crown of her head.

It was a reasonable question, but not one that Helaena had a good answer for. “I am bored.”

She noticed Aemond blink, the faintest twitch of his eyebrow. It would be an expression that would be easily missed by anyone else, but she knew it all too well – his feelings were hurt. She sighed, pulling herself into a seated position and resting against the headboard beside him. “I do not mean you are boring. I just mean…I am restless. I want to go out.”

Aemond hummed in acknowledgement, reaching for the book to place it upon the bedside table before turning to her. “We could take a walk around the gardens, or perhaps we could go flying. If I were to accompany you to the Dragonpit, you could meet me above the Kingswood once I’ve found Vha–”

Helaena groused in frustration, cutting him off, as she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. She allowed her hands to fall heavily back into her lap, balling into the soft satin, eggshell blue fabric of her skirts before she spoke again. “I mean out – like you and Aegon do. There is a market at the docks today, I have heard.” She watched as Aemond pursed his lips, his long fingers drumming anxiously against his thigh. He wanted to say no. She would not let him. “I will go anyway if you say no,” she urged, “would you not rather be there to ensure my safety?”

“Fine,” he muttered with a roll of his eye as his shoulders sagged in defeat.

Helaena fought the urge to giggle in triumph. She had known that would work. It always did.

Half an hour later, having ensured that Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were safely still in the care of the nursemaids, and would remain so, Helaena stood in her chambers draped in Aemond’s black woolen hooded cloak. It was ill fitting, almost sweeping the floor by her feet, and somehow much too large in the shoulders, while simultaneously not feeling roomy enough around either the chest or hips. However, if she felt silly then she could only begin to imagine how Aemond must feel having borrowed Aegon’s. She watched, biting back a laugh, as he wrinkled his nose, inspecting a deep, dark stain that smeared down the front of the cloak’s chest – if she had to guess, she would have said it was wine. She hoped it was wine. The hem of it barely reached his thighs, with the ends of the sleeves stopping well before his wrists. He looked like a praying mantis caught in a handkerchief.

“We could swap, you know?” Helaena offered, fiddling with the brass filigree clasp of Aemond’s cloak between her thumb and forefinger.

Her younger brother lifted his gaze to her, features twisted in disgust. “If you could smell this one, that is an offer of trade you would soon retract.”

He kept his hand at the small of her back as he ushered her through the passageway in the stone wall, only stopping to move in front of her and take her hand as he led her down the spiral staircase, and out and away from the Keep. He remained as her shadow as they picked their way quickly and carefully through the winding streets of King’s Landing, towards the docks of Blackwater Bay. Aemond and Aegon usually did much of their creeping out of the castle by nightfall, so had to be less careful when obscuring their appearance, as the darkness did much of the work for them. In the blazing sunshine of the day, Helaena longed to throw back her hood and let the breeze ruffle through her long silver hair, however, eager to keep their identities hidden, Aemond stopped at every corner to ensure that her head still remained fully covered.

Her younger brother’s protectiveness of her was a curse as much as it was a blessing. Her marriage to their elder, Aegon, had been one of duty – neither of them had wanted it – and she had expected to feel the same way about their child when she had learned she was expecting. However, when Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were born, Helaena had been filled with a love she did not know she was capable of. It spread through her body like honey, viscous and seeping into the very cracks of her soul. It had not been until after the twins were born that anything romantic had blossomed between her and Aemond. She had known that he had always desired her, he had expressed his wish to marry her on more than one occasion to their mother, but as Aegon was heir it had to be him she would be married to, his children she must bear.

Aegon did not touch her again once their children were born, considering his duty to both her and their family fulfilled. Lonely, and feeling self conscious about the changes that birthing twins had wrought upon her body, Helaena had sought comfort in the willing arms of Aemond, and it was nice – at first. He was protective and respectful, gentle and careful with her in a way that Aegon never was. He looked at her with such adoration as he coaxed tender pleasure from her body that it made her feel as though her heart would burst with the intensity of it. Over time, she grew bored of it. Helaena did not wish for devotion, or to be handled as though she was made of spun glass. She did not crave lovemaking. She wanted to know what it felt to be desired, to experience the raw, primal hunger of unbridled lust. She wanted to be fucked. She had seen the way that Aegon ogled the pretty young maid servants of the Keep and it made her feel envious – not of the broken vows that lay between them; they were as meaningless to her as they were to him. Helaena envied the maid servants because they knew what it felt like to be lusted after. She had attempted to guide Aemond’s hand on more than one occasion – presenting herself to him on all fours, or taking his hand to wrap it around her throat, he had maneuvered her onto her back, pulled his hand away, a look of concern on his face as he had uttered “I do not wish to hurt you.”

It seemed that Helaena was destined to remain unfulfilled – that was until she stepped into the market upon the docks.

The briny sea air carried with it the squall of swooping gulls upon the shoreline, their cries piercing through the thrum of the busy market. The scent of spiced meats being cooked over open flames carried with it a thick smoke, the tendrils of which stretched outwards before being carried towards the horizon. There were stalls selling more herbs than Helaena dared to count, silk merchants offering spools of fabric in numerous lurid shades, and jewellers peddling hammered brass jewellery inlaid with jewels that glittered in the sunlight. Each stall holder’s shouts to entice customers seemed louder than the last. Helaena walked slowly through the crowd, which parted wordlessly for her, all intimidated by the hooded spectre at her back. She was blissfully unaware of Aemond’s looming, silent presence though, too wide eyed with wonder at the sights, sounds and smells. All of her earlier overstimulation was long forgotten, replaced by burning curiosity which propelled her forward in earnest, she wanted to see everything.

As a trader pushed their overfilled wagon out of the way, Helaena had a clear view across the market, and her gaze was immediately drawn to a flower stand. Breaking free of Aemond’s grasp, she moved swiftly before the crowd could close in upon the gap that had been created, making her way towards it. It was not the colourful array of roses, gillyflowers or lavender that attracted her attention though – she had interest in only one flower. The full, frilly petals of large, white blossoms held her transfixed. She had only read about them in books, and seen them illuminated by maesters in the pages that presented their information to her. She knew they were used in perfumes, and their scent and pollen held a potency that when administered had a drastic effect on a person’s carnal desires.

“May I help you?” a woman with a thick Lyseni accent asked, stepping towards her. When Helaena finally tore her eyes away from the flowers, and looked at the merchant, she saw a kind face, framed by ebony curls pulled into a loose braid that draped over one slender shoulder. Her eyes were dark, vibrantly so in contrast with her golden brown skin. The steel bracelets upon her wrists tinkled gently with each movement of her hands.

“Are these spiceflowers?” Helaena asked, nodding towards the white blooms upon her cart.

The woman glanced over her shoulder at the flowers, then turned back to Helaena with a smirk. “Very well spotted. They are.”

Helaena grinned, excitedly rolling up onto the balls of her feet before settling firmly back on her feet once more. “I will take them all.”

The woman’s eyes widened momentarily, before she tilted her head. The sun caught her irises, turning them to pools of honey, making her seem almost feline as she regarded the princess with keen curiosity. “Are you aware of what these flowers…do?”

Helaena smiled wryly, casting a quick look behind her to ensure Aemond had not yet found her, then turned back to face the older woman. “Why else would I want to buy them?”

As she turned away, now cradling a large, parchment wrapped bouquet of spiceflowers, she collided with the chest of someone much taller than her. She lifted her eyes, met by the furious stare of her brother, his stern face partially obscured by both the hood of Aegon’s cloak and his eyepatch. “You must not run off like that”, he hissed, grasping her arm hard enough to make her wince in pain. He released her the moment he saw both her discomfort and attempt to shrink away from him. Aemond was thoughtless when angered, but even he knew that touch was a privilege that his sister did not bestow upon many, so it was not one he would abuse without consequence. His voice and demeanour softened in silent apology. “I was concerned for your safety.”

“We can go now,” she told him with an easy shrug, “I got what I wanted.”

“You made us come all this way for flowers?” he asked, unable to hide his sneer of derision as he looked down at the bouquet she held.

“The flower that follows the sun does so even on cloudy days,” she murmured to herself, gazing fondly down the pretty white bundle she held in her arms.

“Mmm, if you say so,” Aemond sighed, his touch now much gentler as he laid his hand upon her shoulder to guide her through the crowd and away from the docks.

His dismissal did not bother Helaena, she was used to it. Their mother, their grandfather, Aegon, no one in their family seemed to fully grasp the meaning of her words when she said them, choosing instead to wave her off as moon eyed and fanciful. She was happy to let them think that. Their underestimation of her was of little consequence to her when she knew exactly what she meant to say, and the importance of it. Perhaps after today, at least Aemond would finally hear her.

She lifted the bouquet to his face as they walked back the way they had come, giggling as he grimaced and spluttered, pushing the flowers away as he fought back a sneeze. “Stop that, you will draw attention to us,” he scolded quietly.

Helaena allowed her thoughts to consume her the rest of the walk back to the Keep. She thought of all the things she could do with her purchase – she could grind the flowers into a poultice to be brewed into a tea, or steep the petals with cinnamon to make perfume. She smiled to herself, imagining dabbing the concoction upon her wrists and using it to entice her brother to be more bold in his claiming of her.

By the time they made it back through the passageway in the wall of Helaena’s bedchamber, Aemond was visibly trembling, his breaths shallow, with sweat visible upon his brow. She knew that it was a warm day, and even she felt close to being too hot draped in his cloak, however, she saw no reason for him to be so affected. Aemond was physically fit, a walk from the Keep to the docks and back was not enough to exert him.

Realisation dawned upon her as she looked into his eye, seeing the way his pupil was blown wide, the way he watched her with almost predatory interest. It sent a shiver down her spine. She had not realised the flowers would have an effect on their own. Placing the paper wrapped bundle down upon a side table, she moved towards her brother, unclasping the cloak he wore and allowing it to drop from his shoulders – an attempt to cool him from the effects of the pollen he had doubtless inhaled on their walk home. In response, Aemond grasped her waist, pulling her to him. This time she did not try to shrink away; she welcomed the press of his arousal against her thigh, the roughness in his touch. Butterflies danced in her lower belly at the heat that radiated from his skin. There was something primal in the way that his body curled around hers, how he looked at her as though he meant to devour her. And despite it all, Helaena knew she was in control – for the moment.

“On your knees,” she uttered softly, reaching up to cradle the back of his neck.

Aemond needed no further instruction as he dropped before her, pushing her back against the edge of her vanity table as he parted the cloak she wore. Bunching fistfuls of satin in his fists, he pushed her skirts above her hips, dipping deft fingers beneath to drag the smallclothes down her stockinged legs, tossing them over his shoulder. She gasped, her back arching as he dove between her parted thighs, licking at her with the ferocity of a man starved. Helaena was not gentle as she tangled her fingers into his hair, holding him in place as she ground her hips, using him for her pleasure. He groaned, and the sound reverberated through her body, setting every nerve ending ablaze, as the ache within her grew to become near intolerable. She wanted the feeling to last, to keep his cheeks pressed against the plush softness of her inner thighs forever, but as he lashed at her pearl with the tip of his tongue, she came undone with a violent shudder. She yelped as her legs shook, bucking against his mouth as the hand not buried in Aemond’s hair scrabbled for purchase against the wooden surface of the vanity table.

Far from sated, her shaking hands met Aemond’s, helping him as he rose, his chin shining with the evidence of her arousal. He tugged at the lacings of her gown, pulling it from her shoulders and down her body. Her hands moved to the clasp of his cloak at her throat, but he stilled her.

“No, leave it on,” he commanded, voice gruff with unfettered lust.

Helaena trembled, a mixture of excitement, nervousness and pure need coursing through her as she sat bare before her younger brother, draped only in his cloak. He looked more beast than man, and as she reached to guide his face back between her thighs, he pulled away. His obedience had run its course, as had Helaena’s domination of him. She bit her lip, eyes wide as she braced herself against the table, sending glass bottles toppling over. He freed himself, and she had never seen him in such a state, so hard it appeared almost painful, the tip of him weeping with his own desire.

Aemond grabbed her, the predilection to be gentle long since past as he turned her swiftly, pressing her front flat against the surface upon which she had previously perched. As the blunt head of him pressed insistently against her slick entrance, Helaena lifted her gaze to the looking glass, a dreamy smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she watched. Her brother was a man possessed behind her, his fingers creating indents in the swell of her hips as he pulled her back towards him. 

Finally, Helaena knew what it meant to be desired, and ensured it was a feeling she never went without again. Less than a year later, she gave birth to her son, Maelor.

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[cedric-k-rossignol]

The French Crown Jewels Theory - Parts 1 & 2

The gem in Undertaker's ring is 'diadochos', the Phantomhive Family Ring is indeed a diamond, and Sirius (r!Ciel), Canopus, Vega, & Polaris all possess their own gems as well. All of this jewelry was sourced by Undertaker from the French Crown Jewels that were stolen/went missing in the midst of the French revolution of 1792.

Alright y'all, once again I am back on my medieval French literature shit. This time in Latin! Fun stuff. No poetry analysis in this one, thank God. Instead, I got to go back in time to my years wasted spent studying biochemistry! Fuck me!

I have tried to find evidence of this being discussed online previously and have come up empty (obviously the hope diamond has been discussed, but not in the context of the Golden Fleece), but please let me know if this has already been theorized and I just missed something!

The gem in Undertaker's ring is not a diamond but a mineral that was once known as Diadochos. From ancient Greece through to the middle ages this mineral was considered sacred and powerful, thought to be capable of summoning and holding the 'shades of the dead' and making demons clearly visible to its user.

The gem being Diadochos would also explain the color difference of the ring between season 1 of the anime (green) and what would later appear in further seasons and in the manga (unclear....no pun intended). It also provides a link to the French Crown Jewels...

Which brought me to what I believe is a confirmation that the Phantomhive family ring being sourced from "The French Blue" diamond (a portion of which is now known as The Hope Diamond) as was seen in season 1 of the anime will become canon in the manga. I also am going to predict we will meet a certain grim reaper named Hendrik Fals that's based on a real person.

Not only that, but the idea of another ring with a sister diamond (as seen in the anime with another portion of The French Blue) was an interpretation of what will happen in the Manga. R!Ciel is likely in possession of The Bazu Diamond, which was a part of Louis XV's insignia of The Order of The Golden Fleece. Canopus, Vega and Polaris likely hold the three yellow sapphires that surround the Bazu Diamond, and I believe the other diamonds in this piece have something to do with Undertaker's other mourning lockets.

This also supports my theory of Undertaker being a Breton (from Brittany, France) as I believe he's represented by the dragon called "le Côte-de-Bretagne" in the insignia. And of course, that he was the one to originally gift the Phantomhive family ring to Ciel's grandmother Claudia as a symbol of his devotion and commitment to her, and in doing so "cursed" her and her family (it's a metaphor y'all)

The French Monarchy had no shortage of drip, you think only one measly giant ass diamond went missing when people's heads were getting chopped off? Buckle up, I fear this is going to be a long one. Trigger warning for discussion of suicide and mental illness.

Let's get into it.

Part One: Undertaker's Ring

In researching French medieval age jewelry for my Floire et Blancheflor series, which involves two rings (one of which is magical), I came across a gemstone that was noted to be "the most powerful" (or something along those lines) but I'd never heard of it before - Diadochos/Diadocos And then I googled it, and nothing came up. I had to dig into scholarly articles and Latin text to get info on this, and even then it's sparse.

There were three main sources I could find; two books on minerals hailing from ancient Greece, the other a popular book from the middle ages - 'De Lapidis' by Marbode de Rennes. Translated into several different languages shortly after publication, the original Latin text was written in the late 11th century by a French bishop from - say it with me everybody - Brittany.

Coincidence? Maybe. But I doubt it. I really need to finish my Undertaker is from Brittany write-up...

All these sources make similar and frustratingly brief claims, as neatly summarized in one article on the the ancient Greek text Tetrabiblos;

1. The stone diadochos is similar to the beryl. 2. It is as useful for divinations through water, and for the summoning of shades (adductionibus umbrarum) as no other stone. 3. Furthermore, it makes the appearances (effigies) of all daemons thoroughly visible. 4. Do not apply it to someone dead (=a corpse), because it is opposed to the deceased. 5. For this stone is divine and sanctus and santified by a perpetual consecration.

Side note - I will absolutely be making another post about Tetrabiblos and it's companion volume Almagest. Written in the 2nd century by Claudius Ptolemy, they're the respective astrology and astronomy bibles of the middle ages. Tetrabiblos literally means "four books", and it's Latin translation is titled Quadripartitum means "four parts". There are some very interesting notes about demon summoning in this. All of Claudius Ptolemy 's books are addressed to an unknown person named Syrus. He also has what appears to be a relevant volume on music (this guy REALLY likes fours...) looked to see if anyone had mentioned this in a theory before and when I couldn't find anything I was shocked. Let me know if I've missed a post cause there is absolutely stuff to be discussed from Claudius and these books - I just can't get into it or this post will be 5000 years long.

So, Diadochos is actually now known as Beryl.

Whereas diadochos means "heir, successor", the word "beryl" is Old French for a "precious blue-green color-of-sea-water stone".

It's worth noting the element "Beryllium" is #4 on the periodic table of elements.

Gemstones high in beryllium include beryl (aquamarine, emerald, red beryl) and chrysoberyl. It is a relatively rare element in the universe, usually occurring as a product of the spallation of larger atomic nuclei that have collided with cosmic rays. Within the cores of stars, beryllium is depleted as it is fused into heavier elements.

Diamond is element #6... Interesting.

This stone was, as I mentioned, considered sacred and magical - used often in divination, and to create crystal balls. But it also had much more practical uses -

When the first eyeglasses were constructed in 13th-century Italy, the lenses were made of beryl as glass could not be made clear enough

Well that sure is interesting...

Season 1 vs Canon - Fight!

As I said, this mineral is now known as 'beryl' - but you would be more likely to recognize the names we use to refer to the different colours beryl comes in - morganite, heliador, gosenthite, aquamarine, and emerald. You're likely familiar with the signature colors of some of these gems, all of which are different shades of the same mineral.

As previously mentioned, 'beryl' is the Old French word for the blue-green color of the sea.

I think it's pretty widely accepted that the creators of season 1 were given information from Yana that hadn't yet been released to readers of the manga. The most obvious example of this (so far) is the 'Undertaker is a reaper' reveal. Now I have no idea what the creative process behind developing an anime is like, how much contact or creative input Yana Toboso would have had, but I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest it's possible that admist a wealth of information that was handed over, there was a note that said Undertaker's ring was one of 'Beryl', and the creative team went with the 'traditional' Beryl color of blue-green - which is why people think the ring in season 1 is set with an emerald.

Peep the fleur de lis 👀 y'all they knew not to leave THAT out at the very least.

And yes, emerald is a shade of Beryl - but this was never intended to be an emerald.

The difference in color is something that's always really bugged me, so I'm relieved to finally have an explanation that makes sense (to me at least). Now as for the colour Yana chose...

So What Fucking Colour is it Anyways?

If you know of better official art that demonstrates the color of this damn beast of a rock on his hand, feel free to point me in its direction because I was struggling. There seems to be a pattern of colour-washing the art or appears in, or Undertaker posing in a way that hides the ring from view.

This is a much-discussed character design that shows a lock of hair embedded/underneath the gem of Undertaker's ring (we will return to this detail in a future theory), as well as confirmation of the fleur-de-lis on the side of the ring, and then of course the gem itself. Perhaps a light yellow, or perhaps just showing the gold backing through the translucent stone?

We do get some shots from the anime in BOC and BOA respectively;

Well, I get why people think it's a diamond.

Even in official artwork sometimes it's white, sometimes it's yellow, sometimes it's tanslucent , sometimes it's a little...blue, dare I say?

Back! on! my! Chemistry! Shit!

Alright, and now we get into the chemistry of it all. I know, first history and now this bullshit. I'll keep it brief; excuse me my nerdy nostalgia for a spectroscopy graph.

Basically, the different colors of Beryl are due to impurities within it (unclean one!). The purest form of Beryl is goshenite, which is clear/white.

The other colours are formed based on what ions (charged atoms) exist within them as impurities - for emerald it's Chromium, for Morganite it's Manganese... And both the yellow and aquamarine colors are due to the presence of iron (element #26) ions.

Now when you think of the gem aquamarine, you probably think of a pale blue; and for most gems sold nowadays that true. As a March baby it's my birthstone, and I've been gifted many a pale blue aquamarine birthstone reminiscent of the water it's named for....

Oh wait a second, who else is a March baby? Motherfucking Cedric K. Ros(signol), that's who!

Okay, I'll admit; I'm sort of invested in his ring being an aquamarine gem because it would relate back to both his birthday and his 'rebirth' as a reaper when he drowned, and the more I string these crazy red threads through French history the more I'm convinced these details are critical to his character. So yeah, I'm biased - but before you write me off as delusional, just hear me out, because the chemistry is in my favor!

The best-known green beryl is emerald, which obtains its colour from Cr and/or V ions. However, a different green colour can be obtained from mixtures of the yellow and blue beryl chromophores described above. When yellow and aquamarine chromophores are simultaneously present, the colour becomes light green. Depending on the relative concentrations of the two chromophores, the colour can vary from light yellow-green to light blue-green. Shang et al. (2022) classified the colours of beryls containing these chromophores into five groups, from yellow to light blue.

Fridrichová et al. (2015) heated crystals of deeply coloured aquamarine and yellow beryl to different temperatures. After heating one of the yellow crystals to 300°C it was still yellow. Heating of additional yellow beryl samples to 500°C and 700°C in each case resulted in light blue aquamarine colouration. Another yellow crystal heated to 900°C lost almost all its colour.

All this to say; apply enough heat to a green beryl and it will turn to yellow, to aquamarine, to clear.

Here's a little basic color theory refresher for you as well; blue and yellow pigment together make green, whereas blue and yellow light create white light.

Here are some examples of various coloured aquamarine gems, some set in gold bands like Undertaker's, based on the verbiage with which they were advertised;

1. A clear goshenite gem; 2. A pale aquamarine; 3. A yellow aquamarine

4. A clear blue aquamarine; 5. A yellow aquamarine; 6. A yellow aquamarine

5. A yellow Aquamarine; 6. A yellow Aquamarine; 7. A pale blue aquamarine

All of these could conceivably be made from the same source mineral - what changes its nature is the amount of heat that's been applied to it.

Neat, huh? And I would argue symbolic for this story. Both in that there's a whole lot of manors being burned down, but also as a metaphor for life experiences and trauma.

The scientific debate on nature vs nurture continues, but it seems to be proven again and again that the way we develop is significantly weighted towards nurture. Nature plays its part, for sure - if there weren't iron ions in these gems, the fire wouldn't have an effect on the gem's color. It might get a little toasty, but then it would cool off and have no lasting effect on the gem's appearance, structure, chemical composition... But since there are iron ions that are a part of the gem, that were within it when it first formed (which it can do nothing to change), it is significantly impacted by its environment. If the fire gets hot enough, it can lose all of its color.

For someone like Undertaker, who I believe to have been (and continue to be) mentally ill, depressed, and ultimately suicidal to wear this ring is symbolic of the mental illness he was born with, and the trauma he experienced living in Brittany from 1331-1366 (Black Plague, The Breton War of Succession, and The Hundred Years War between France and England).

I've seen it mentioned in discussion that Sebastian is a physical representation of Ciel's trauma - a physical demon to represent his metaphorical demons. I also see the story of Black Butler as an allegory for generational trauma and inherited mental illness; that which we bestow upon our children like heirloom jewelry.

However, this metaphor is also sort of hopeful in that the change isn't necessarily permanent. The color of the gem can revert back towards its original hue over time depending on the circumstances.

Undertaker & Water

There's a panel in the manga that implies Undertaker's method of suicide was drowning. I currently have two different theories on where he drowned that are duking it out for the top spot. Currently the top contender is that he jumped from La Pointe de Plouha, the tallest cliffside on the Breton coastline, and drowned in the waters separating England from France - The English Channel. Plouha has a very interesting myth about the Ankou, the Breton version of the grim reaper, and I find it poetic for him to be reborn in the waters seperating him from a country he'd been at war with for most of his life - especially given that he would proceed to fall in love with a British Aristocrat.

This French crown jewels theory seems to support the idea that he drowned in the English Channel as I believe he's represented in the insignia by the dragon, le Côte-de-Bretagne (Translates literally to the coast of Brittany) - but I'm not ready to fully call it yet. Withholding my final judgement for the moment.

Regardless, if Undertaker did drown, his character being associated with Diadochos/Beryl/Aquamarine, stones intrinsically associated with water, makes a lot of sense. Consider after all, the arc where we first really met him - book of the Atlantic takes place in the middle of the ocean.

The Romans believed Aquamarine to be sacred to Neptune, the god of the sea. Supposedly the gems came from mermaid's treasure chests (they're actually formed in hydrothermal vents) so saiilors would wear it for protection against shipwreck. They also thought it had healing properties because the gem would appear to disappear when submerged in water.

Well, Undertaker did disappear when submerged in water, didn't he? He was reborn as a reaper, only called himself by his serial number 136649 (an oddity even amongst reapers, who have all also committed suicide), and (externally at least) completely disassociated himself from his former life.

Cloudia and Undertaker share the zodiac sign Aries, a fire sign, so there's symbolism in water killing him. Extinguishing his flame, so to speak.

As mentioned in Tetrabiblios, Diadochos is useful for divinations in water, and the same is said of beryl;

Beryl was a popular skying stone in the Middle Ages. Most sources indicate that this was done either through dowsing, attaching the beryl to a thread over a bowl of water, with the crystal just touching the water...An alternative method involved throwing the stone into a bowl of water and reading the disturbance it created.

Undertaker threw himself into a body of water, then revolted against Reaper HQ, had an affair with and sired two illigitimate half-human children on the Queen of England's guard dog, and went against the laws of Gods and men to raise the dead. If thats not a disturbance, what is?

There's also a religious aspect to look into. Book of the Atlantic takes place over the holy week that precedes Easter - and I have a theory outlining why I believe both he and Cloudia's birthdates fall on 'Holy Monday'. He was also born on the day of the Annunciation - that's the day that an angel came to Mary to tell her she'd been chosen to carry the Incarnation of God. He's also associated with the white lily, a flower associated with Easter, and he carries a lot of religious symbols. His cassock, prayer beads, and the crown of thorns on his scythe and on Cloudia's locket are not there for shits and giggles. This religious symbolism ties into my theory on the circumstances of his birth, and the thread that I believe ties the lockets together...

...all of which I've been in the process of researching and writing for a hot minute, I just don't know how to keep it brief 😩 I'm a dog chasing squirrels.

Anywho, religion - there is the concept of Baptism. Undertaker being reborn into a new life when he submerged himself in water.

Baptism is a Christian sacrament of initiation almost invariably with the use of water.It may be performed by sprinkling or pouring water on the head, or by immersing in water either partially or completely, traditionally three times, once for each person of the Trinity. The synoptic gospels recount that John the Baptist baptised Jesus.

Speaking of Jesus, since he and Undertaker seem to be so tightly knit, Jesus performed seven canonical miracles, and two of the most notable (imo) are with water; walking on it, and turning it to wine. The last of course was Lazarus, raising the dead...

Magical Properties

I'm not suggesting that this stone actually grants Undertaker any abilities, but it's interesting that the supposed magical properties align with his character attributes.

It's been theorized that Frances is always making comments on how slovenly Sebastian's appearance is because she has the ability (on some level) to see his demon nature due to her half-reaper blood that she gets from her father, Undertaker/Cedric. This is somewhat supported by Ladger and Sascha speculating Ciel's ability to see them is from his bloodline - which is of course, where we got Cedric K. Ros- from!

Then there is of course summoning the shades of the dead and holding them here on earth. And I find it super interesting that this specifically mentions not to "apply it to a corpse" because "it is opposed". Like, what the heck does that even mean? A vague warning that if you fuck around, you'll find out? I have not been able to find any further details on what this might be referring to, but it sure sounds ominous.

And finally a note that the stone itself is "perpetually consecrated" - unable to be desecrated or corrupted. The stone is "divine". I will have to come back to this in another theory, because it's a can of worms, and this post is long enough.

Finally, I must note that according to the French wiki, Aquamarine is a symbol for a happy & faithful marriage. Specifically 23 years of marriage.

La couleur marine de ce minéral fait qu'il a été utilisé comme talisman pour les marins. Symbole de fidélité entre jeunes mariés, c'est un cadeau censé leur garantir un mariage heureux, ce béryl symbolise 23 ans de mariage.

Frankly it doesn't seem to have the most reliable source, but it's worth noting that is you take Claudia's age when she died, 36, and subtract 23 years, you get an age of 13.

Giving you maaaaaaaad side eye Undertaker 🤨.

Now to be clear I don't think they ever actually got legally married; perhaps not even "spiritually" married. However it is very possible that they met in 1843 - Undertaker likely deserted the reapers around the time of Queen Victoria's ascension to the throne in 1837. We don't know what he was doing during this time, what goal he might have been working towards - but befriending Claudia's father, the current guard dog of the new queen, might have been part of it.

I have my own personal head-canon that he worked as a jeweler during this time, but I don't have any real support for that - just that it makes sense given all this damn drip the guy has, it would be a way to familiarize himself with the British Aristocracy and perhaps even The Royal Family themselves, and the black market trade of stolen jewels might have been of particular interest to him. More on that in a minute.

Anyways it makes sense within the narrative for them to have met when Claudia was 13, as much we might find him even knowing her at that age icky, because of how significant the number 13 is to this story.

Part 2: The Hope Diamond & The Hirsch Aquamarine

Alright so as discussed - Undertaker's birthstone is aquamarine. Let's say for the sake of this argument, you agree with my interpretation of Undertaker's ring being a pale aquamarine gem. While he and Claudia share a zodiac sign, and a birthday on the same 'day' of Easter, they were born in different months. Cedric in March, Claudia in April. Which makes Claudia's birthstone a diamond.

The Origins of the Hope Diamond

Going back to season 1 of the anime, where the animators had more knowledge then we did about future events (even if they were interpreted oddly), they made the Phantomhive family ring not a sapphire but a blue diamond. Specifically, a gem cut from "le Grand diamant violet de Sa Majesté" a French Crown Jewel that was stolen in 1792 in the midst of a revolution. This is commonly referred to as "Le Bleu de France" in English circles, but the French actually called it purple, not blue.

Back to chemistry briefly for this point - in a similar concept to what has previously been discussed with Aquamarine and Beryl, impurities in the French Blue is what provides it with its distinctive colour - specifically, Boron (element #5).

Visually, the gray modifier (mask) is so dark (indigo) that it produces an "inky" effect, appearing almost blackish-blue in incandescent light. Current photographs of the Hope Diamond use high-intensity light sources that tend to maximize the brilliance of gemstones. In popular literature, many superlatives have been used to describe the Hope Diamond as a "superfine deep blue," often comparing it to the color of a fine sapphire—for example, "blue of the most beautiful blue sapphire" (Deulafait)—and describing its color as "a sapphire blue." Tavernier described it as a "beautiful violet".

The diamond also exhibits a phosphorescent quality (it glows);

Phosphorescence: The stone exhibits an unusually intense, brilliant red phosphorescence after exposure to short-wave ultraviolet light. This 'glow-in-the-dark' effect persists for some time after the light source has been switched off, and this strange quality may have helped fuel its reputation of being "cursed." The red glow is a phenomenon of blue diamonds that helps scientists "fingerprint" them, allowing them to distinguish real ones from artificial ones. The red glow occurs because of a mix of boron and nitrogen in the stone.

It's worth noting that while an Aquamarine is changeable, it doesn't fluoresce when exposed to ultraviolet radiation like a diamond does.

A cursed blue diamond glowing red? Hmm....

You likely know this gem as The Hope Diamond, which is a recut section of the French Crown Jewel, which itself was cut from a diamond called "The Tavernier Blue", originally purchased by a French merchant in 1666 (yikes) in India, who then sold it to King Louis XIV, who is also known as Louis le Grand (the great) or le Roi Soleil (the Sun king).

Louis XIV's great grandson, Louis XV, had the diamond (as well as other gems) reset into a pendant for "l'ordre de la Toison d'or"- "The Order of the Golden Fleece". We will discuss this pendant more in Part 3, but it fell into disuse after Louis XV's death. It became property of Louis XV's grandson, Louis XVI, who married the infamous Marie Antoinette (also referenced in season 1 of the anime in relation to both the Hope Diamond and to Undertaker). Antoinette used many of the French Crown Jewels for personal adornment by having them reset - however, this pendant of The Golden Fleece stayed intact through their reign.

On September 11, 1792, while Louis XVI and his family were imprisoned in the Square du Temple during the early stages of the French Revolution's Reign of Terror, a group of thieves broke into the Royal Storehouse—the Hôtel du Garde-Meuble de la Couronne (now Hôtel de la Marine)—stealing most of the Crown Jewels in a five-day looting spree. While many jewels were later recovered, including other pieces of the Order of the Golden Fleece*, the French Blue was not among them and it disappeared from history.

A likely scenario is that the French Blue, sometimes also known as the Blue Diamond, was "swiftly smuggled to London" after being seized in 1792 in Paris. But, the exact rock known as the French Blue was never seen again, since it almost certainly was recut during this decades-long period of anonymity, with the largest remaining piece becoming the Hope Diamond.

*this is misleading - so far as I can tell, the only other piece of the Order of the Golden Fleece that was recovered is le Côte-de-Bretagne, the red dragon. This piece is now in the Louvre.

Is it terrible for me to say I see a resemblance between the dragon and Undertaker lmao?

So the French Blue (and le Côte-de-Bretagne, and perhaps the rest of the Order of the Golden Fleece) was smuggled to London... But I'm going to pause here, and talk about another gem that disappeared - the Hirsch Aquamarine.

The Hirsch Aquamarine

Not nearly as well known as the French Blue, this is a gem that was in the possession of Louis XV, the same King who had the French Blue reset into the Order of the Golden Fleece. (Fun fact, King Louis XV was also the one to cede 'New France' to the British... And so New France would became Quebec).

I have been unable to find a lot of details on the Hirsch Aquamarine - supposedly King Louis found having it on his person to be soothing. There is no record of it being sold, or even stolen - it simply disappeared.

Well, I'm going to say it was stolen. And this was the thief - j'accuse...!

I propose that reaper 136649 knicked it while on the job.

It is not noted as being among the gems that were stored at the hotel from which the Order of the Golden Fleece, or indeed being in the posession of a King after Louis XV. Perhaps he reaped Louis XV's soul when he died in 1774. Perhaps Louis XV, who found the gem soothing, had it on his person at his time of death (his cause of death was smallpox), and Undertaker decided to grab a little momento of their time together.

Why?

Well... He's obviously sentimental. We will leave it there for now.

So let's say Undertaker stole the Hirsch Aquamarine while on the job - how did he end up with the remainder of the missing Order of the Golden Fleece? Let's return to the French Blue, the Côte-de-Bretagne, and conceivably the rest of the Order of the Golden Fleece being smuggled to London

The Recutting of The French Blue in London

Historians suggested that one burglar, Cadet Guillot, took several jewels, including the French Blue and the Côte-de-Bretagne spinel, to Le Havre and then to London, where the French Blue was cut in two pieces. Morel adds that in 1796, Guillot attempted to resell the Côte-de-Bretagne in France but was forced to relinquish it to fellow thief Lancry de la Loyelle, who put Guillot into debtors' prison.

So in 1792 the Order of the Golden Fleece is stolen from a French hotel, and smuggled to London. The Côte-de-Bretagne then turns back up in France in 1796, and eventually it is sold to the Louvre in 1887. So we know in the manga, Undertaker is not in possession of this part of the insignia. Him being the dragon has more to do with symbolism of the dragon who guards the Golden Fleece in the Greek myth, and the symbolism of being from Brittany - but I'm getting ahead of myself.

However... It's looking more and more to me like we will end up going to Paris in the manga, and I'm betting our little Lord will take a tour of the Louvre and see the dragon...

The next time this diamond appears in history, it is 20 years later, and in that time it has been cut into what will become known as The Hope Diamond.

A blue diamond with the same shape, size, and color as the Hope Diamond was recorded by John Francillon as in the possession of the London diamond merchant Daniel Eliason in September 1812, the earliest point when the history of the Hope Diamond can be definitively fixed. The 1812 date was just days after 20 years since the theft of the French Blue, just as the statute of limitations for the crime had taken effect.

Well that's bloody convenient.

So sometime in between 1792 and 1812 the French Blue is recut, with the Hope Diamond appearing in the jeweler Eliason's posession in 1812, and the Cote-de-Bretagne showing back up in France still in Guillot's posession, but none of the other gems. Those - there is no record of what happened to them, nor what happened to the other recut portion of the French Blue.

Now, an oft-cited source peaked my interest, so I went ahead and tracked down a copy of the book Blue Mystery: The Story of the Hope Diamond, written by Susanne Steinem, published in 1976. Within it is a list of the supposed deaths that trail the owners of the diamond. I went searching for something specific on a hunch - and boy, did I strike gold.

7. Wilhelm Fals, a Dutch diamond cutter, is said to have recut the French blue, producing a brilliant of 44 1/2 carats. He then supposedly died of grief after his son, Hendrik, stole the diamond. As for Hendrik, he is said to have committed suicide in London in 1830. 8. Francois Beaulieu is said to have obtained the diamond from "a nameless suicide" presumably Hendrik Fals. Beaulieu was supposedly forced to sell it to Daniel Eliason for a fraction of its value - and then died the next day of starvation.

Hendrik Fals, whose father cut the French Blue, and who himself was in possession of the Hope Diamond in 1830, killed himself.

Now you might be scratching your head going wait, what? You just said the ring showed up in London at Eliason's place in 1812, but in this version of events he wouldn't have gotten it until after 1830. I also don't mean to be insensitive - Hendrik Fals was (supposedly) a real person, and if it's true that he committed suicide, that's incredibly tragic.

To be completely frank, the author of this book says that there is no evidence for this sequence of events - it's the mythology of the ring. There are a ton of events detailed in the book as legend that have no basis in fact. That the diamond is cursed is itself a myth (I mean, duh, but also in that there are not a weird number of deaths that follow it).

However - I 100% believe Yana Toboso has read this book. The fucking title is Blue Mystery. Hendrik Fals, in the Black Butler universe, is now a Grim Reaper.

And he became a Grim Reaper in 1830 - and Undertaker likely didn't desert until 1837, around the time of Queen Victoria's ascension to the throne.

Now, Undertaker still being with the reapers between 1819 and 1837 is weird, given that the massacre at reaper HQ of 1819 wiped out half of management. I doubt our boy 136649 is just chilling in the employee lounge after pulling a stunt like that. But I am certain at some point Hendrik and 136649 met, and well, if I wanted to know where the gems from the Order of the Golden Fleece were, Hendrik Fals would be an excellent place to start.

Other Posts

Like I said, I tried to google to see if this has been discussed before and came up mostly empty (again, obviously, there has been a lot of discussion on the hope diamond but nothing I could find in the context of the other French Crown Jewels). Let me know if I missed something!

I did find an old post discussing a poem that was referenced in the Public School Arc between @abybweisse , @thaliaarche and @white-queen-lacus that referenced Beryl which is interesting. Seems like the poem also mentions shades of the dead, and the river Lethe from Greek mythology which I referenced in my Rossignol theory post and part 2 of my Floire et Blancheflor series.

That's All For Now!

If you made it this far, you deserve a medal...or a knightly order.

I really tried to fit this all into one but I'm going to have to split it. Next Part will focus on analyzing the other gems in the insignia of Louis XV, a look into the elements that make up these gems, how the Bazu is likely to be the 'sister diamond' of the Phantomhive family ring instead of another piece of The French Blue, the properties of yellow sapphires and how they might relate to blood (more spectroscopy for me whoopee), how the Dragon, Bazu Diamond, and Golden Fleece symbolize Undertaker and the twins, the Order of the Golden Fleece and its History, and of course the myth of the Golden Fleece itself.

A sheepskin is a brutal fucking metaphor - I'm sure you can guess what comes next, it's not a new theory.

If you liked this theory, you can take a look at my other theories via this masterpost that I will update as I crank these out. The theories I've developed mostly have to do with French history, French Christianity, Breton culture, and medieval French literature... I hope and pray chemistry does not become a trend.

I hope you enjoyed my insane rambling, my ask box is open and I'm always happy to talk about this stuff and thanks so much for reading!

[morgana-ren]

Come Down to the Black Sea VIII

Summary: As far back as you can remember, the sea has been the singular source of calm in your life so long as you follow one simple rule: Never wander into the ocean after nightfall, no matter how tempting it may seem. Little do you know, it’s not the ornery tides or the tricky undertow you should fear. It's something that lurks deep beneath the black waters; Something sinister with a piqued curiosity and ill intent. Unfortunately, you've got his interest now. For better or for worse.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Mentions of violence, blood, attempted assault, sexual content, one very pissy, overgrown fish and bad writing. It's getting worse folks, much much worse. Soon there will be plenty of uh debauchery for all. I swear. I know what you lot are here for.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII Ao3 Mirror

Lisa has gifted you a trump card, but more than that? She inadvertently offered you something infinitely more valuable: Courage. 

You saw fear in his eyes. You know you did– and that is something you can work with. 

As you shut the door, he immediately starts towards you once more, claws brandishing, wrought iron fury born anew, his mind locked on a singular purpose: dealing with you. It’s clear he’s eager to pick up right where you left off, locked on you for tears and blood and his macabre form of revelry and revenge. 

Heart rabbiting in your ribs, you steel yourself. There’s just enough distance between you that it gives you a modicum of confidence. It isn’t much– not much at all with him hellbent on closing the gap— but you’ll just have to power through the shards of ice that fear pulses through your veins. 

“Touch me, and I’ll scream,” You snap, summoning every bratty damsel from your mental movie catalog for strength. “You know what her showing up here means? This building is on aware now. If she doesn’t call the police this time, someone else will. You might be able to kill me, but you can’t kill everyone here, and clearly everyone in the vicinity has heard your little tantrum.” 

That gives him pause, but only for a moment. His eyes narrow on you as he realizes allowing you to answer the door has inadvertently fucked him. He looks murderous and it almost fells you on the spot. It's only through sheer will that you manage to speak. 

“You can't kill me now, so let it go,” you say with a shaky voice, raising your palms up in a gesture of peace, unsure what else to do with your listless, quivering hands. “If Lisa heard it, our fight was loud enough to put the entire apartment on high alert. You'll never make it out alive. You'll be exposed– and you know what happens then.”

You hear him growl, practically shaking with fury. You’re backing him into a corner, and you know he despises that– and there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered predator. 

“But look, I'll just— I'll walk you out now. We can pretend everything is normal. You can just leave. Go home. We can— we can forget about this– about each other. You can pretend you killed me or whatever and I’ll– well, do what I do.”

You see his chest rise with a sharp inhale, teeth bared. The glow of his eyes in the dark is like a dim light in wintry fog: ominous and foreboding. Even as he hasn’t said it yet, you can tell he’s digging his heels into the proverbial sand. 

“I'm not leaving.”

“You have to!” You practically whine, so eager for this to just be over. Though adrenaline still pulses through your veins enough to make you nauseous, your body remembers the unrelenting tired that had taken hold and is running ragged on raw fumes alone. 

“No.”

“Why! What is your problem? I didn't do anything to you!” Anger sparks, your hands now furling into fists, knuckles blanching white. “You show up here, attack me for no reason for the— like the third time– unprovoked! I don't even know what's happening! You claim to hate me. Why do you hate me so much?” 

He says nothing, only continues to stare you down. His lip ticks in a snarl, twitching ever so slightly. You get the inkling he doesn’t quite know what to say, so rather than digging the hole deeper, he opts to remain quiet… For once.

“I don’t know what your fucking deal is!” Your fear is slowly feeding into your self-righteous anger, weeks of confusion and isolation and exhaustion coming to a head. “You’re all over the damn map! You try to kill me, you won’t leave me alone, you think you own me–” “You knew our deal.” “I don’t belong to you! You don’t get to throw a fit when I do things!” You point your finger at him in an accusatory fashion, other hand still curled into itself. “What fucking deal? I never agreed to shit! I don’t even know where you got that idea! You just threw the world’s biggest hissy fit when you saw me with my friend–” “He wasn’t a friend.” “It doesn’t matter! It literally does not matter! It’s none of your business! Your entire gimmick is you want to eat me! I don't know how they do things where you come from, but that's not how shit works here! You don't get to— to claim me. You don't own me! My life isn't yours to take!” His expression blankens, switching from furious to oddly passive in the moment. He blinks at you eerily, head cocking slightly to the side. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Yes, you are!” “No.” 

That stubborn impudence returns and you can tell he settles it in his mind with a shake of his head, arms folding over his chest, infuriating smile crooking on his scarred lips at his sudden realization that he’s irritating you— and greatly enjoying it. 

Well, at least he isn't trying to choke you out anymore… you guess. Not that this is much better, granted. 

He might not be able to kill you, but he can sure as hell make you wish you were dead through sheer annoyance. 

“No! Nuh uh! You do not get to come into my apartment, try to kill me, and then refuse to leave!” “Too bad.” 

“Does your species hyperficate and die if you don't or something?”

No answer. 

“Jesus, what do you want?” “I told you. I’m not leaving until I get it.” 

“Well, sucks for you. You’re not eating me.” “Then I’m not leaving,” He shrugs. “I’ll keep myself entertained in the meantime.”

“God, get out!” You point at the door, about to send your own skin off your bones. “Go back home! You can’t be here!” 

“Already here, and I came all this way, gave myself this sickening form. I'm not leaving, whether you like it or not. I'm not leaving empty handed.”

“I told you I'll scream!”

“And then your neighbors will find me here. I'll tell them I'm your boyfriend and you'll go to away for a long time for— what is it? Harboring a fugitive?”

He seems legitimately unsure that's the phrase, and any other time, you'd find his ignorance comedic.  But for now, you could kill him, so his lack of knowledge of the human world isn't nearly as charming or endearing. He could very well do that— that's a very real threat. He's in your house. It would be your word against his, and even if you weren’t guilty, they’d find out what he is, and you’d have a lot of questions to answer– in interrogation. 

Sure, you could claim ignorance, but Tomura could do worse: He could tell them the truth. There are no laws against befriending a sea creature, and that’s why they’d do the kind of disappearance that doesn’t stem from laws.

About to straight up cry from frustration, you throw your head back in a frustrated groan, agitating your already tender throat. “Fucking leave!” 

“No.” “Well, then you’d better pony up your half of the rent!” “....Rent?” His brows furrow. “What is a rent?” You stare at him incredulously, frowning. “I am not explaining all of this to you.” 

“Fine. Then don’t.” 

“Tomura,” You sigh, exasperated and exhausted. “I don’t know what your deal is. This has been a very surreal day, and now you’re here, and you’re a murderer, and you’re trying to murder me too. I can’t deal with this right now. Just please go back to the beach. Go back home. I can’t deal with all of this right now.” “Can’t,” He grins, revealing piercing, pearl-white fangs. “Place is crawling with humans. You said so yourself. Couldn't leave if I wanted to. So you can come willingly or I'll just stay here.” 

Jesus. He really didn’t have a plan. Between your stymying of his initial ideas of coming here, and his stubborn refusal to leave, you have both trapped him here against your will. “So– wait, what exactly was your plan? You kill me, and then– what? Just chill here for a few days? Hope no one comes looking for me and finds you here with my corpse?” You try to calculate some semblance of logic from it all, but arrive at nothing. “Christ on a bike, you genuinely didn’t have one, did you?”

You’d been bluffing when you suggested it. Apparently, you weren’t wrong. 

“Basically,” He leans against the wall, shrugging, but you can tell he’s a bit miffed at your suggestion that it simply wouldn’t have worked out in his favor without any forethought on his part. 

“Good God, you are bad at this murderer shit. You put the entire island on alert with your horrible stunt last night. You really think you’d just get away with all of this?”

“I made it here, didn’t I?” 

“Holy hell.” You almost collapse on the floor at the realization that whether you want it or not, you’re tied to the crime now. You know who perpetrated it, and they’re in your fucking house refusing to leave. You can’t call the cops, you can’t tell anyone, and that terrible isolation comes crawling back. Tomura is getting exactly what he wants in the way of revenge, even if he doesn’t know it.

“Get used to it. I told you, I’m not leaving until I get what I want. And besides,you said it yourself,” A smug smile tugs at his lips. “I can’t leave now. Too many humans here. Can’t have them seeing me leave your home, can you?” He slips closer, just a bit, and your entire body stiffens. “A stranger no one knows? Leaving your apartment just after the crime? Oh, that wouldn’t look well for you, now would it?”

You eye his ragged clothes, the blood matted under his nails and in his hair. He is suspicion embodied. In an apartment complex like this, people see everything. Small communities don’t have much going on, so anything out of the ordinary becomes a spectacle. It’s a miracle that he wasn’t seen getting here. An abnormal man of uncanny height, silver hair, red eyes, clad in stolen clothes and covered in blood. It really is a modern fucking marvel that the cops hadn’t swarmed the complex the second he stepped foot on it, especially with Lisa guarding the property like a hawk. How did he even manage it?

God, he’s right. If he’s seen leaving your apartment less than a day after the murders–

“Still want me to leave?” He sing-songs. 

“God, just– shut up. Shut the fuck up and let me think!” 

He can’t stay here. He can’t. You’ll wake up with him trying to strangle you in your sleep. He’s a vicious mythical creature capable of hells know what, and he’s made his intentions clear. 

But trying to force him back home right now is a death sentence. For both of you. 

“Okay– okay– Let me– let me think– get out of those clothes! Now!” His brows shoot into his hairline. “Forward. I didn’t know you were that type of girl. Was it the choking or–” “The blood! The blood, you moron! You’re leaving evidence all over my place! Hell– We need to clean them and then get rid of them! Like yesterday!” 

“Calm down,” He rolls his eyes. “The cops aren’t here–”

“Yet! Off! Quit– quit touching things!” You push past him, storming back into your room. “I’ll get you something else to put on, but get those off!”

He makes an exasperated sound, but you ignore it, opting to tear through your closet instead. You don’t have much in the way of men’s clothing, but there has to be something that will fit him. You settle on an oversized black shirt, and a pair of sweatpants that will likely be too short in the legs. Him looking absurd isn’t your concern right now. You need to make him look as normal as you physically can. This entire scenario gives you whiplash, fighting for your life not even 20 minutes ago, but you can’t focus on that now. 

Back in the hallway, you’re about to chuck the clothes at him, and you notice he’s entirely shirtless. His clawed hands fumble with the zipper of his too-large stolen jeans, clearly frustrated and about to give up and simply pull them straight down his bare thighs. His skin has the same inhuman silvery sheen, evident in just the moonlight. Just under the curtain of long, wintry hair, you can make out the slight cut of closed gills on his throat, his ears abnormally pointed beneath the stringy locks. The fins are gone on the lengths of his forearms, but there’s the glimmering of translucent scales still there across the flanks. He is broad and bony, just like you remember, lean muscle under the stretch of alabaster, almost iridescent flesh. 

You can’t help but stare for a moment. It takes a second for you to shake yourself clear.

“God– Not in front of me!” You cover your eyes, tugging your head away. “And get the bloody clothes off the fucking floor!” “Nag-nag,” He scoffs. “I’ve been here five minutes and already you’re a blushing bride. It’s a body. Who cares? Besides, you didn’t mind in the ocean.” “We aren’t in the ocean! You’re a weird guy in my apartment! Here, just– just put these on!” You wave the clothing at him like a child offering a treat to a rabid animal. “And put the other ones in the bathroom!” 

“Whatever.” “And you need to bathe!” 

“....bathe?” 

“Fuck, man, just put the goddamn clothes on! We’ll deal with that later!” 

You hear the rustle of clothing, and rather than stand there awkwardly, you keep your eyes covered as you make your way into the kitchen, throwing on a pot of water to boil. You’ve never cleaned murder evidence out of clothing before, and forensics isn’t a strong suit, but you’re hoping enough hot water, vinegar, soda water and lemon– and then fire– will be enough to absolve your conscience. 

You doubt it. 

There’s the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, and you notice Tomura is leaning in the doorframe, watching you fumble around the kitchen. You were right: The pants are too short in the legs, and they look almost like floods on him, but he doesn’t seem the type to care about fashion. His feet are large and clawed, just like his hands, and you shiver at the slight tinge of blood on his nails. 

“I cannot fucking believe you, Tomura,” You say, almost like a disappointed parent. “They were kids–” “Oh, whatever,” He rolls his eyes, your effort at guilt rolling off of him like water on a duck. “They were not kids. And they would have killed themselves drunk driving anyway. They were– how you say it– scumbags. The filth of the earth. You think I just walked up to a random group of people and started slaying?” “That is literally exactly what I think.” “Well, yes. But also no. I watched them. I know their type,” He spits it with a certain animosity that has you believing him. “Frat.” “As much as it pains me to say it, not all frat boys are scumbags, as you so delicately put it.” 

“These were. Drunken, moronic frat boys, pressuring uncomfortable women into sex–” “Oh, you are just so not one to talk!” 

“I’ve never made you fuck me,” He scowls, almost indignant at the accusation. “And any humans I’ve fucked, it’s been entirely consensual.” “Until the murder.” “Until that, yes. But even then, they wanted it. Begged for it, even.” “So frat boys lacing drinks is so different from your– your abilities?” “Yes. They have a choice in their evil deeds. Do you get angry at the shark for attacking the wayward human that fumbles into his waters? I’m a predator, and you are beneath me in the food chain, as your scientists put it. It is in my nature.” “Well, the shark thing– kinda– I mean, I don’t, but there are humans that do–” “And this is why we hate you,” He snarls. “You come uninvited into our home and have the audacity to act shocked when we act on our very nature. You know nothing of the ocean and yet you think it belongs to you.” “You’re one to talk,” You huff beneath your breath, bringing the water to a boil in the pot. “And what does that mean?” 

“Firstly, you’re not in the ocean right now, buddy. You’re in my apartment, wearing my clothes, taking up my time.” 

“Compared to your boats and harbors and divers and surfers? Do not get me started on your military and your industrial dumping–” 

“It’s not the same! I don’t control those!” “No, but your kind do. And you control your own actions. You strayed by the water, and now you are upset you are marked by one of me. I shouldn’t expect any less from those who put down animals who taste of human blood.” 

“I didn’t expect a stalker when I went to the water! And I wasn’t hurting anything! I don’t litter or–” “And how many fish have done nothing to you? How many dolphins and whales? How many of my ilk have you murdered?” “So…. does that mean you’re related to a mackerel?” 

He isn’t amused, but you are, snorting at your own joke.

“Survival of the fittest. That is the motto of your kind, no? Well, here I am, one link above you. And you can do nothing to stop it.” “You’re awfully afraid of our police force for such tough talk. They could sure as shit stop you.” “And if my kind wasn’t so fucking– weak and useless, we could have driven you away eons ago!” 

There’s bitterness in his words, and buried somewhere beneath it, pain. It's skant, and ancient, but still there beneath layers of old scars. Something he has let accidentally slip. You can't imagine he'd be so obvious on purpose. It's not his forte. 

“So, there are more of you? Your kind, I mean?” 

You need to tread carefully. It’a apparent from his expression and the way his body tightened that this is a sore subject. Still, curiosity gets the better of you. 

“Obviously, dumbass,” He huffs, running a clawed hand through his hair, flicking the shed onto the floor. “I’m not an anomaly. I was obviously born from something.” “How, uh, how many? Like are you a society or–” “Better than yours,” His arms cross once more over his chest. “And if they weren’t so passive, things wouldn’t be like this.” “What do you mean? Passive?” “They refuse to do anything about you, even as you ruin and desecrate our homes. They look at you like kittens– children. Destructive because you are young. That one day you’ll learn, and it won’t be like this. But I know better. I know what you are.” 

“And what’s that?” “A fucking blight. You ruin everything you touch, and you put your grimy homunculus hands on everything! The sea wouldn’t have you, so you made your colonies on land, and we allowed it to happen. We could have ended it right then and there!” 

“How– how old are you?” 

“I told you once, you sprang from us. The rejected offspring of the ocean. We could have crushed you in the cradle, and we didn’t, and now this.” 

You sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment, trying to wrap your head around his words. If what he says is true, it turns everything you knew upside down. There are more of him, evolution theory is ever so slightly off apparently, and more than that, it seems it’s only by the good nature of his people that you’re still alive. 

“Where are they? The others, I mean?” “Fuck if I know. They fucked off ages ago to let your spawn and breed your merry way across the land. Somewhere deep, I imagine.” 

“And– you stayed? Here?” 

“Duh,” He sighs, but his eyes dart to the side as he scratches at his chin. Something tells you he didn’t have a choice. “Some of us were right about you. Some of us knew better. And we paid for it. Everyone else just– just let it slide. But those of us who knew, we just couldn’t.” “You’re an outcast,” You mutter under your breath, almost pitying him. 

“I left because I wanted to! Because I couldn’t stomach another fucking second among those that would just let it happen! After everything you’ve done to us, tearing us apart,murdering us–” Suddenly he clams shut, eyes rabid and frantic. It takes him a moment, but he seems to calm himself down, lips furling into a scowl once more. 

“We left because we wanted to. Because we wouldn’t just let it slide off our fins anymore. You and your kind, you’ve done enough. Given the opportunity, you’d destroy everything. So why shouldn’t we destroy you first?” 

“So your answer to murder is murder?” You look over at him, the very embodiment of hate and rage, and realize something terrible must’ve happened to him to make him this way. “I don’t know anything about how they– we hurt you. But you’d fixate on me?” 

“That’s just my nature. You are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It is what you represent that set you in my sights. We do what we can where we can, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” 

“So you came here to wreak wanton havok. Kill off a human or three to sate your need for revenge?” “Revenge?” He laughs derisively. “I am so far past revenge that you don’t even have a word for it. Our kind live long, and revenge is short lived. I am doing what I must.” 

“But you risked it all to be here. To kill insignificant me.” His jaw slams shut again, eyes burning with barely contained anger. You don’t want to provoke him again, but you want answers. It’s a deeply uncomfortable tightrope. 

“I don’t just let my marks walk away. I am not weak. You resisted somehow, and that isn’t something that I can have you breeding into the populace.” “Oh, ew! Do you think I’m just– just whoring it up on main?” “Well, from what I’ve seen–” “Go to hell.” 

You shove past him, into the bathroom where you carefully pick up the wadded ball of incriminating evidence before returning to the kitchen, throwing it in the soup of every godforsaken remedy of evidence destroying that you can think of, grabbing bleach for good measure. As you close the lid on the noxious concoction, you notice him staring at you again. 

“What are you, exactly?” 

You can’t help it. You need to know. It’s been weighing on your mind for weeks, and just when you think you grasp it, he turns everything on its head. 

“I’ve told you, you have no true word for it. Siren, I believe, is the closest thing you have to it. We never revealed ourselves to you intentionally.” “You did.” “Hmph.”

“So… Like beautiful women, singing on rocks to lure sailors to their deaths?” 

“Teenagers out for a midnight snack,” He rolls his eyes again. “Or sport. Even our kind get bored, and the younglings can be a bit reckless.” 

“There you go again, making yourself look like an old man,” You chortle. He opens his mouth to insult you, no doubt, but you cut him off. “But you– well, look human now– mostly. Legs and everything.” You gesture to his comedically ill-covered legs. 

“We are much more advanced than you. We can walk on land when we want, but we don’t because it’s filthy,” His face scrunches as he kicks his feet. “We are the true apex predators. We are faster, stronger, more intelligent, and more resilient. Your weak human biology won’t allow you a choice. We choose the ocean.”

“Does it– does it hurt? To change?” “Worse than anything you’ve ever experienced,” He deadpans. “Less so when it’s frequent, but I don’t make a habit of this.” 

“But you did it anyway? To be here?” 

Again, he falls silent, glaring you down with an intensity that makes you shift. 

“Well, thanks for being so candid with me, I guess. And for not using your abilities on me again.” You have so many more questions, but you’re edging too close to the water– no pun intended. You hope you get the opportunity to ask them before you wake with his hands around your throat. 

“Who says I won’t?” He blinks at you, face softening, and again, it hits you just how lovely he is. “You’re resistant– not immune.” 

“Stop it,” You snap at him, threatening him with a wooden spoon that you’ll almost certainly have to throw away after it’s cavorted with the damning evidence currently cooking on your stove. “You try it, you go to prison, remember?” 

“For now,” He stretches, suddenly seeming intent on making himself comfortable. “I’m hungry.” 

“Oh, that’s my problem now? Even after your beach fiasco? Didn’t you get your fill?”

“Yep. Your problem. And no, I told you, I was saving my hunger for you, you selfish brat.” 

“What am I, your mommy now? Cleaning up your messes, feeding you– Fucking– fine. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.” “I don’t want human food.” 

“Well. that’s what I got, so…” You gesture to yourself as if to say ‘because I am human, dipshit.’

He makes a disgusted noise, but turns to rifle through your fridge. Judging by the sound he’s making, he’s not impressed. “Do you at least have any meat? I can’t do whatever this is.” He throws a container to the floor, and you could strangle him. 

“Check the freezer– and pick that up!” 

He ignores you, throwing open your freezer with a careless motion before pulling out some raw, frozen steak you had tucked away. 

“If you want me to cook it, you’re going to have to wait. My stove is currently a crime scene, thanks.” 

“Cook? Foul. My stomach isn’t so weak as yours.” “Oh, please don’t tell me–” 

“I won’t eat it frozen if that’s what you’re wondering,” He chucks it onto the counter where it lands with a clack. 

“That is just so not what I was wondering.” 

Half an hour passes with a tense sort of silence. He flips between staring at you seemingly unblinkingly, and occasionally prodding at the thawing steak on the counter, eying it with both suspicion and slight disgust. Eventually it must thaw out enough for his liking, because he slices open the plastic with a quick flick of his nail, and immediately sinks his teeth into the raw cut. You are thinking the same thing he says. 

“This is disgusting,” He mashes it between his fangs. “You eat this?” “You eat people! Okay? You eat. People! And it’s fucking raw!” “Human is delectable, even raw,” He forces down another bite. “But I don’t suppose–” “No! I don’t have any bodies lying around for you to fucking eat!”

“Well, there is one–” 

“No.” “I’m amenable to either way,” He purrs, moving closer again. 

“I just watched you sink your teeth into raw cow. I have never been more turned off in my life– and even if I was, still no.” 

“We’ll see,” He shrugs, ripping another bite out. 

“We will see jack shit, that’s what we’ll see.” 

“And I need water.” “Sink is right there, and you’re a big boy.” “I can’t sleep in a sink.” “You–” You stop and stare at him incredulously. “You need water to sleep?” 

“Need? No. Want. It’s more comfortable.”

“So you’re really just going to fucking stay here, huh?” 

“Unless you want to go to human jail.” “It’s just jail.” “Whatever.” 

“Well, I had a goldfish once, and you’re welcome to try and fit in his terrarium– bowl” 

“Is that one of your jokes?” “Yes, and no,” You sigh, kneading your temples with your fingers. “I guess– fuck, fine, you can use the bathtub?” 

“Bathtub?” 

“Yes, sadly it’s the only thing I have that can accommodate his highnesses demands at my five-star hotel since he didn’t call ahead of time!” 

“Fine.” 

You carefully remove the pot from the stove, already mourning the loss of one of your favorite pieces of cookware as you dry out the clothes as best you can, dumping bleach on them before sealing them away in a garbage bag which you quickly wrap in several more garbage bags. You’ll need to dispose of it tomorrow, and quickly. Thankfully, you think you have a solution to both of your problems. 

“We’re going to the beach tomorrow night. You’re going home, and we’re burning this,” You kick at the bag on the floor. “No one will care in the dark. I’ll drive you to the beach, and be rid of both of my fucking issues at once.” “Told you I wasn’t leaving,” He yawns, flicking his tongue at his teeth. 

“You’re not moving in, and you can’t stay here forever, but God, can we please do this argument in the morning?” “We’ll see.” 

“Just shut up and get in the bathroom. I’m locking you in.” 

“Don’t trust me?” He grins, obviously amused at himself. 

“Not even fucking close. I’m not waking up with your fangs in my throat, thanks.” “You never know, you might like it.” “Can promise you that even if I was into it, I wouldn’t be into it with you.” “That’s hurtful,” He faux-pouts. “Didn’t your daddy ever teach you manners? Do I have to?” 

“Do not. Go there. Right now,” You growl at him. “I am exhausted, I am stressed, I am about to kill you myself.” “I welcome you to try. We could have a fun little session.” 

“Stop it. With the flirting.” 

“Nah,” He waves you off. “But I’m tired too, and your kitchen smells rancid.” “You just ate raw meat and you’re going to lecture me about– you know what? Fuck you.” 

Shoving him out of the way, you turn into the bathroom, flicking on the light and running lukewarm bathwater for your unwelcome houseguest. He enters behind you, watching as you shake your head and swear under your breath. He reaches to remove his shirt, and you just can’t have that. 

“Wait until I leave to get naked! And when I wake up in the morning, you’d better be fully dressed and out of my fucking tub. You will sit quietly until dark while I do what I need to do, and at sunset, we’re going to the beach. You are going home, and I am going to pretend this never happened.” 

“What if I like it here and don’t want to leave?” “I could not– and really hear me out here– care less.” “I told you I’m not going anywhere ‘til I get what I want,” He removes his shirt anyway, and you sigh, turning your head away. 

At this point, you are seriously considering having sex with him if it’ll just get him the fuck out of your hair. There’s the matter of what comes after, but you aren’t entertaining that thought ever. 

“Yes, well, life isn’t fair and I don’t want a siren renting out my bathroom.” 

“These things are coming off, so unless you want to stay and entertain me, I’d suggest you get out,” He slips his thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them just below his V line. 

“Three seconds! Three goddamn seconds!” You shut off the water before standing up, covering your eyes. “Do not leave the bathroom until morning. Do not come near my room. Do not make a mess.” “Yes, mother.” 

“I’m serious. If I hear you come near, I’m shooting you.” He cackles, throwing his head back. “If you had one of those, you’d have tried to use it already.” 

You really wish you’d gotten your concealed right about now. You’d dump him in the trashbags with the other evidence. 

“Goodnight, Shigaraki,” You sneer. “I am so fucking serious, do not–” “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

You catch a glimpse of pale thigh before you slam the door shut, nearly collapsing against the door after you do. Your head is spinning and you hear him slip into the bath before you manage to make it down the hall, avoiding fractured pieces of your life that he’d managed to ruin in his short time here. A broken picture frame, a shattered mug, a fucked up bed– 

Things you’ll need to worry about tomorrow. 

You shut and lock your door, wedging a chair behind the knob for good measure. You doubt you’ll get any decent sleep knowing that the apex predator, as he calls himself, is lurking just outside the measly wooden frame, but it should be enough to actually wake you if he tries something. 

Flopping on the bed like a dehydrated starfish, you try very hard not to consider the day's events– or tomorrow’s. Right now is between you and your pillow finally after hours of insanity long beyond when you wanted to fall asleep initially. Maybe you’ll wake up in the morning and this will all have been a bad dream. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get so lucky. 

Or maybe Shigaraki will make good on his threat while you slumber. 

“Just don’t wake me up for it,” You say out loud, muttering into your duvet. 

A dreamless sleep overtakes you, your mind too tired to even concoct anything more absurd than your life already is at the moment. 

[psalmicwitch]

🔹 Psalm Magic 101 🔹

I practice with psalm magic a lot as a Christian witch, but it’s not exclusive to Christian witches. I’ve said this before on my blog, but the psalms are some of the oldest, most well documented pieces of magic we have.

The psalms, commonly attributed to King David, but there’s actually no evidence of who authored any of the psalms. We have no idea who they came from, but we know they came from much older sources. Using the book of psalms as magical test is a sort of pre-Wiccan traditional witchcraft practice.

I tend to follow Ariel Gatoga’s method of psalm magic, though there are many traditions.

Step 1: Start with a Psalm

Start with a psalm. It helps if it has a meaning that aligns with what your intentions are, but it isn’t explicitly necessary. You’ll have a harder time working the psalm, but it is definitely not impossible. I like this index of psalm meanings.

Your first read through of the psalm you’re going to treat it like an incantation. Recite with intent and with energy, whatever that means for you. Do this without stopping. (If you stop you do gotta start over)

This doesn’t have to be out loud, if you’re in the broomcloset, but read through it as if you were reciting it out loud. I like to describe this as “all but” letting the words come out of your mouth.

Step 2: Work the Psalm

Next, we move on to working the psalm. Our next read through, mentally or out loud, we’re reading and digging deeper, verse by verse, finding the occult meanings behind certain words.

What are occult or double meanings? I really like, again, Ariel Gatoga’s booklet on discerning the double meanings of certain words.

He describes finding these words as seeds which we plant and grow into magic. The description that resonates with me is knitting these words together to grow into a functional spell.

There’s no inherent magic in reciting a psalm. The magic comes from working and weaving its pieces together with intention to work towards your goal.

Sometimes, if I have the energy, I’ll do a second working of the same psalm. Don’t do more than one psalm a day. One thing about psalm magic is that it can be exhausting. I remember the first time I really had success with a working it completely drained me and I passed out immediately after. Even if you don’t get physically tired, it is mentally taxing, so don’t overdo it. (Remember to always raise energy before and ground after.)

Ending and Circuits

I personally end with incanting the psalm once more, putting special emphasis on those occult or double-meaninged words. I made this up. It helps me feel like I’ve gone full circle, but truly, we were finished after we worked the psalm. This second incantation is really just putting frosting on the outside of the psalm cake.

Circuits are an integral part of psalm magic, unlike my little frosting on the cake. When you work a psalm, it’ll work, but to add more energy to what you preformed, you’re going to want to recite similar psalms the next few days. My favorite circuit is definitely 9, 90, and 91 for healing illness.

To work a circuit, pick the 3-6 psalms you want to work, and work them, one a day, 3-6 days straight, depending on how many psalms you picked. After, take a few days rest and evaluate how you feel about what you did. I search deep for my gut to tell me where I stand in the problem. If you feel good, great! If you don’t, do the circuit again.

I like psalms because psalmic magic does not rely on anything else. You can create a ritual around it (I do!) but nothing else is required. You can be the most inconspicuous witch ever. You only need a Bible or a book of psalms.

A final note, if you feel detached from the language found in the book of psalms, especially if you’re not a devotee of an Abrahamic god, it’s important to reframe it. In this text, you are god. (Heresy alert lol). Remember, these texts predate what they’re used for in the Bible. Change your frame of reference, and realize you are the god of the texts. (Or if you do resonate with the way they are written, don’t bother.) It’s about how to make the text work with you. There is no power in the exact language with which the psalms are written.

Once you learn the process, psalm magic starts to feel like second nature.

If you ever don’t want to write your own spell, if you want to recite some old magic, or even if you are worried about getting caught, psalm magic has something for everyone. I really do implore you to give it a shot.

Lastly, if this has been helpful or insightful to you, please consider donating to the ALS Association.

I’m on a mission to end ALS. If you can’t donate, reblog my pinned post, or hey, send a psalm up for healing those with ALS, or knowledge for those working for the cure.

[runningfrom2am]

cold nights // part twenty-five

summary: you were back in the capitol, and you would be damned if you didn't try your hardest to make it worthwhile.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 3.5k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, depictions of mental illness, also she's is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: the fluff in this one omgggg :')

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist

Coryo's new shoes were giving him blisters by the time he got out of the car outside the Citadel. Breaking in shoes was almost worse than dealing with the ill-fitting ones he wore before he was awarded the Plinth Prize.

Knowing what this meeting with Dr. Gaul was about didn't even calm him. He didn't like leaving you at home, although Tigris promised she wouldn't leave you alone. This meeting was about you, he was sure, though he hadn't been told specifically. Considering it is about you, he thought you should have at least been extended an invite.

Taking the spiral staircase down toward Dr. Gaul's lab, his shoulder begins to ache. The last time he was here, he was digging his fingers into his still-fresh stitches to tear them apart. He did it for you, but he still almost shudders at the aching reminder making itself present under his skin.

"I'm here to speak with Dr. Gaul, she requested my presence." He tells the staff at the desk, adjusting the front of his jacket. If he was going to plead a case for you, he had to look presentable. Put together. There should be no evidence that the time he spent in District Twelve rubbed off on him, that would just make him plain unreliable.

He feels the familiar buzz of the door to the woman's lab unlocking and he quickly thanks them, making his way in. Deep breaths. Remain calm, indifferent.

"Mister Snow." The familiar false cheeriness in Dr. Gaul's voice greets him from somewhere behind the shelves housing a variety of tank-bound experiments she had done. "I've been expecting you, come in."

Wordlessly he obeys, following her voice around a corner. "Dr. Gaul, it's good to see you."

She smiles, and even though he knows it's born from the same formality as his very own, he's almost tempted to feel welcomed. "How was your trip to Twelve?" She asks, returning her attention to the birds in the cages that lined the wall almost up to the high ceiling.

"It was good." He nods. "I learned a lot."

"I'm sure you did." She chuckles, and as he walks closer and gets a better look at the birds, he recognizes them.

Jabberjays.

You're walking through the trees in front of him, almost reaching the meadow. Coryo watches your dress as it flows with your every step, brushing against the back of your thighs and the plants that slide smoothly over the scars that adorned your calf.

It had become a daily routine that he was grateful for since the first day you brought him out to the same meadow. This is how he had pictured you from that very first day. It was exactly what he had come here for. You had made all that lost time worth it within a week.

He's pulled from the beautiful distraction that is you when you come to an abrupt stop, and he almost bumps into your back. 'What's wrong?' He wants to ask, but he doesn't even get the chance to form the words before you're quickly turning and holding a finger to your lips, signaling for him to be quiet.

He listens, but only because you're smiling. He stares at you as you look up and around into the tree line.

Your eyes light up as they find whatever they are searching for, and then you shift your gaze to his. "Watch this." You whisper, hardly audible.

What he doesn't anticipate following your emphasis on staying silent, is for you to raise your hands around your mouth and begin to shout.

"See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!" You call out. A small smile pulls at his lips as he sees your eyes trained upwards once again, taking a small step back from him.

And then, in a sound that almost makes him jump, he hears your voice again. And again, and again, but it's not coming from your lips. He looks up.

"They're jabberjays."  You tell him, smiling wide. "I know you don't like birds, but maybe these could change your mind."

Your voice coming from multiple places at once almost makes his head spin. "I'm not sure about that." He says, but his smile sticks.

"They're my favourite. I like to read to them, and they like to read back to me." You explain, turning to continue on your walk.

"My Juliet breathed such life with kisses on my lips," Coryo shouts, smile growing as you turn back around to face him again. Your eyes are crinkled with the smile you wouldn't dare to resist, building on a laugh at the shock of his sudden volume. "That I was revived and became an emperor!" With the final word his arms are raised, as if he's shouting from a rooftop- as if the world was listening and he truly was so powerful as the title implied. With you in front of him, that's just how he felt.

You laugh as his words echo back around you, pressing a hand to your chest and you shake your head. "Coryo-"

Then he's grabbing you around the waist, holding onto you tight as he spins you around. You scream, clinging onto him as your bag slides off your shoulder.

He lets your feet hit the ground as he stops, not yet ready to let you go as you stumble back. You're laughing in his ear, and he's sure he's never heard such a pleasant sound in his life.

You pull away slightly and he lets you, arms still draped over his shoulders. "That wasn't quite right." You giggle.

"What do you mean?" He asks teasingly. "That was just me. I just said that for the first time ever, I don't know what you could possibly be talking about."

"Oh, it sounded a little familiar, is all." You laugh, shaking your head. "But of course, I forgot that you are quite the poet, Coriolanus Snow."

"You underestimate me? I'm wounded." He laughs, mocking offense.

"My dearest apologies, sweet Romeo. That is but my own shortcomings projected onto you." The smile on your face and the sun beaming against your skin could have him convinced he'd died and gone to heaven.

"Shortcomings? My Juliet, that is quite impossible." He shakes his head slightly, smiling at the nickname. "You're perfect, in every way."

You kissed him again, and after a minute when he let you pull back, he was reborn as the emperor of those woods.

"Do you recognize these birds?" Dr. Gaul asks, snapping him away from the warm memory.

"I do." He confirms. "Jabberjays, yes?"

"Yes. They were a Capitol experiment during the war, they would listen to rebel discussions and repeat them back to us. The catalysts for many executions." She explains as he reads over the inscriptions on the front of the cages. "I am having them collected and sent back to see if we can repurpose them into something more useful."

Coryo doesn't say anything, really just waiting for her to get to the point. There was no use dancing around what he was here for, and he especially didn't want to talk about your favourite birds being removed from the Districts. How many of the birds in these very cages have recreated your beautiful voice reciting to them the story of Romeo and Juliet? If you were to go home, would there even be any left for you to read to?

"Anyway," Dr. Gaul claps her gloved hands together, walking away toward a desk and gesturing for him to follow. "I have a few questions for you. There are important things for us to discuss."

"What is this about?" He asks, knowing damn well why he was here.

"I was asked to review a late application for the university, which normally, would not be my responsibility." She states, eyeing him carefully. "I suspect you know why they would ask me to give them approval."

He nods. Dr. Gaul had been teaching at the university for years, he never knew how she had the time.

"Having a Victor apply for admission to the Capitols University was something I never thought I would see." She continues. "But, here we are. I admit, in any normal circumstance, she would be accepted immediately. The application was exceptional."

"She is extremely smart, yes."

"That is part of the problem."

"What problem?" He argues, but she raises a hand to stop him.

"Mister Snow, I thought you would better understand why that is not acceptable. If we allow a District girl to attend our university, that sets the precedent that she is equal to us. That if she can get out of District Twelve, so can they, and when we turn them down, there will be uprisings. I have discussed these concerns with the President, and he agrees."

Coryo resists the urge to roll his eyes. "What is the difference between her and Sejanus Plinth, then? He still tells people he's District. At least she wants to be here."

"Sejanus Plinth is Capitol, whether he likes it or not. I assure you, any friends he had in District Two are no longer fond of him."

"Then this is her chance to become one of us." Coriolanus states, reminding himself again to remain indifferent. "If a Victor of the games can attend the university, winning it will become more desirable. Tributes will actually try, they'll do the mentor's jobs for us if they think that being liked will buy them a win. District kids may very well line up around the block for the opportunity to win their families a better life."

"You're missing the point, Mister Snow." Dr. Gaul says, but he can see she is considering his statement. "We cannot hand these opportunities out to every Victor the games will ever have."

"Then don't." He replies simply. "Let them apply if they want, but they'll have nowhere to live, they won't be able to afford tuition, and none of them will ever be as smart as she is anyways. They won't be accepted. And if they are, we let them try."

She doesn't reply, a small smile growing on her lips.

"Besides, the Capitol isn't handing this to her. The only reason she can afford any of it is me. We can be picky about which, if any of them, we want on our side, but if we give her a chance, convince the Districts and her that she is now one of us, think of what she could do for the games. She understands them almost as well as you, and that could give us an advantage, having the willing perspective of the other side." He knew you would never go for this- of course he did. You couldn't even talk about the games without going pale and struggling to breathe. It ruined you- but she doesn't need to know that. He just needs her to let you stay.

"You make a compelling case for her." Dr. Gaul admits, pulling her gloves off and dropping them onto the desk that stands between them. "But why?"

This was a question he wasn't fully expecting, and luckily he was given more time to come up with an excuse when she spoke again.

"I also noted that on her application it says that she is living with you, yes?"

"Yes."

"Forgive my forwardness, but what is the extent of your relationship to your tribute?"

He sucks in a breath as her heterochromatic eyes stare into him. He wouldn't be shocked if he found out tomorrow that she could read his mind. "We are... friends. I suppose."

"Friends." She hums, eyebrow raised at him. "Then you must be a good friend to have, Coriolanus. Not a lot of friends would fund another's entire life on the Corso."

"Yes, well, like I said, I believe her education could benefit the games."

Dr. Gaul sighs, and he truly cannot tell if she believes him or not. "You may go. Her acceptance letter will be delivered tomorrow."

He nods, turning on his heel to leave. "But, Mister Snow," She stops him and he looks at her over her shoulder. "Don't forget who she really is."

A statement like that didn't dignify a response, so he just continued on. When he walks out of the Citadel to his waiting car, he lets himself smile. He couldn't wait for you to find out.

You were able to convince Tigris to let you out with Sejanus while Coryo was gone. You hadn't seen him since you left the train station, and you just had so much you wanted to talk to him about.

When he rang the doorbell, you were already waiting by the door. You look up at the sound of the buzzer, and Tigris smiles. "That's him." She tells you, walking over to the box on the wall. "If you want to answer the door, you press this button..." She presses it, and you hear static.

"Hi Sejanus, she'll be down in a minute." She says, and you smile when his voice returns.

"Okay, thanks Tigris."

She lets go of the button, smiling at you. "Okay, and if we wanted to unlock the door to let someone up, you press this other button." She points it out.

"Okay. I'll remember that." You promise.

"Oh! And when you come back, there's a panel of buttons outside the door, just press the one next to our name and we'll let you in."

"Thank you! See you in a bit!" You give her a quick wave before leaving.

The elevator was still new to you, but you were getting used to it quickly. This was the first time you had taken it alone, though, and the freedom was honestly exciting.

The elevator dings when you reach the first floor, and as the doors slide open smoothly you step out, the glass doors already in sight where Sejanus was waiting.

You wave excitedly and he smiles at you, giving you a brief wave back before you push the door open. "Hi!"

"Y/N, how are you?" He grins, wrapping his arms around you.

"I'm well." You sigh, arms around his neck. "How are you doing? I've missed you!"

"Fine." He answers, pulling away and guiding you down the stairs toward the black car waiting on the street. You pull up the scarf around your neck to cover the lower half of your face as you walk into view of the street, away from the cover of the building's walls. "To be honest, I am unsure if I was more disappointed or pleased that I didn't hear from you. I took it that you were still settling in, but I hope it's going well."

"It's certainly... going. A lot of things to get used to." You answer and he opens the car door for you, both of you sliding into the back seat. The Snow's had a car and a driver, but it seemed that Coryo enjoyed walking while you were still adjusting. He said it would help you learn better where you were going, he was likely right. "For example, I learned what an 'elevator' is."

Your friend laughs as the car begins to move. "I can imagine that would be confusing."

"Yes!" You giggle. "We got into this tiny room and they just stood there- I was absolutely baffled. They tried not to laugh at me too much, though."

"Now, have you heard of an escalator?" He asks, trying to hold back his laughter as you eye him suspiciously.

"No... Tell me more."

"You're lying!" You laugh as he opens the car door for you once more, stepping out again in an area you hadn't been in before. "Sejanus, I do not believe you. Why on earth would they be stair-shaped then?"

"Because they're too steep for it to just be a travelator, you'd fall."

"A travelator? No." You shake your head. "There is no way that there are three different ways to move from one place to another without just walking, that all have similarly abysmal names. That is ridiculous."

"This whole place is ridiculous." He agrees as you walk up onto the porch of what you assume is his family home. There are even trees in the yard, since it lays on what must be near the edge of the city.

"Can I ask you something?"

He hums as he unlocks the door. "Why do you not live in The Corso?" You ask. "Coryo told me that all the most powerful families live there, and he also said that your family is certainly among them."

"Uhhh..." He mumbles, looking around to make sure no one is too close to hear the somewhat invasive question as he shuts the door behind you. "My Ma liked the property. She liked a home rather than a stuffy penthouse- no offense."

"It wouldn't be my choice, either." You admit. "Alas, it's where I find myself. Not to say that their home is not lovely, I am happy there. It's just... it's nothing like home."

Sejanus nods, offering you a weak smile.

"I... I'm really glad you came back with us." You tell him quietly. "I don't know what I would have done here without you."

He clears his throat, giving a slight shake of his head. "My Ma made lunch, she's really excited for you to be here. Are you okay if we eat with her?"

"Of course, yes." You smile, following him deeper into the halls of a house that you could only describe as a castle.

"So, tell us everything, dear. How has your first week or so been?" His Ma asks, sitting across the table from you.

"It's been good." You smile. "I do have a question, though, and I trust that you will be honest with me." You say, glancing over at Sejanus with a small smile.

"Oh? What is it?" She asks.

"I just learned what an elevator is, and Sejanus told me about... what did you say they were called?"

"Escalators."

"Yes, and the other one?"

"A travelator?"

"Yes." You giggle, looking at his Ma again. "Is that real, or is he trying to pull the wool over my eyes?"

She laughs, putting down her glass. "Yes. They are real, but very rare. I highly doubt you should encounter either. And no one calls them travelators, so I do believe Sej was just trying to overwhelm you."

"Oh! Okay, well, thank you." You laugh, shaking your head. "I don't know what to believe, everything here is so... excessive. If that's the correct word."

"It absolutely is." Ma agrees. "It takes some getting used to. Some days I still get confused or overwhelmed, but it's all for the better I believe."

Sejanus tenses up, and you can see it out of the corner of your eye. "I think this will be better for my family, too. Though, I wish I could have brought them with me. Like you."

"That reminds me!" She says, leaning forward. You're glad- the topic of home can get heavy extremely quickly. Even you know that's not a suitable lunch conversation. "Sej told me you brought your cat, how is it doing?"

When Coryo gets back home, he's just excited to see you. He still has to keep quiet about what he actually went out for, but it will be worth it tomorrow when you see that you got accepted. You don't have to know that it's because he talked them into taking you- he knew you deserved it anyway.

"Tigris?" He calls out as he opens the door, already rethinking the details of the story he would give you.

"In here!" His cousin calls back from her room, and he follows her voice, peeking into the sitting room and then yours on his way there.

"How did it go?" She asks, and he frowns when he sees you weren't in there with her either.

"Where's Y/N?"

"She went out." Tigris smiles. "With Sejanus."

He scrunches up his nose. "Sejanus? He called?"

"Oh, no. She asked if she could call him so I showed her how to use the phone." She smiles. You hadn't had any use for it yet, considering that in correspondence from your family they said they haven't been able to get it installed just yet. He knew how anxiously you were waiting to be able to hear their voices again. "Then they got to talking and he invited her over for lunch, so I think she is just at their house."

"Oh. Okay."

"You look upset." She notes, standing up from her desk where she was putting together the final stitches on a new dress. "Is something wrong?"

"I didn't... I would have liked to know if she planned on going out. It's been hard enough for me to get her out of her room." He explains.

"At least she's getting out, isn't she? This is good for her. She needs to make other friends."

"Sejanus isn't 'other friends'. She was already friends with him."

"All the more reason for her to see him, then." She crosses her arms, dropping her head to the side. "This isn't like you."

"What isn't?"

"Being jealous."

"I'm not I just-" He sighs, lifting his hands up as he stops himself. "It doesn't matter. I talked Dr. Gaul into accepting her. The letter will be here tomorrow."

Tigris decides to drop the topic, the smile returning to her face. "Really?" She grins, hands coming up to her mouth. "Oh, Coryo that's wonderful!"

He smiles, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he nods. "But you can't tell her I spoke with them, okay? She won't like that."

"Yes, yes I won't tell her." She agrees, smiling as she hugs him. "Oh, she's going to be so happy. And I'm so proud of you for helping her. She deserves it."

"Yeah, she really does."

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[floral-comet-whump]

△

walenty what is the kindest thing daffodil has done for you

did you deserve it?

Walenty masterlist Ask Game

walenty and/or daffodil side content taglist: @inhurtandincomfort @sir-fenris @toyybox @loonybun

They narrow their eyes at you, already sick of this “game”. It’s all so insensitive, and for fun. Walenty turns away, and surely would’ve crossed their arms if they weren’t already in that position.

What is the kindest thing Daffodil’s done for them? Someone who either hasn’t figured out the school’s true purpose or is clinging onto false hope would’ve said just being adopted in the first place, or being able to customise their uniform instead of getting something old and ill-fitting, or having their transition be completely supported, or giving them any kind of medical treatment in general, or actually being taught basic life skills instead of just what they’re supposed to be useful for, or being given a purpose, or holding their hand and being that source of comfort for a child who had nothing else, or giving them a toy they never needed, or talking with them when they felt lonely, or raising them.

But... it wasn’t sincere. It was always, always for the purpose of making Walenty trust Daffodil. None of it was kindness, only manipulation. It was all a lie dedicated to keeping them — and every other orphan here — devoted and obedient.

It was all a lie. They knew that. Walenty’s known that for years. They’ve spent so much time mourning the fact, it has to accumulate to over thousands of hours by now. It still hurts.

But if they dig through memories and search every fact they know about each teacher, then...

When they were younger — Just a medic in training — they used to go to Indicolite every afternoon, and ask for her help with homework. It made sense, given she was a full medic. And even though she wasn’t their homeroom teacher or their teacher at all, she still helped. There was no need to. She just did, always walking them through it.

Now that they consider it, though, they can’t help but question if that was just another tactic. If she was in on it too. There was no way she didn’t know. They don’t remember her displaying many signs of hesitation, but who would be that obvious?

“Hm,” they pick up the last piece of tablewear, careful not to let it slip — They don’t even want to think about the punishment of breaking school property and littering the table and tablecloth and grass. “I can’t recall anything in particular, everyone has always been incredibly kind. I still don’t know how they had so much patience.”

“Oh, right, your score thing. A two. It made me a bit sad.”

[Discomfort score: 7/10)

[quietwings-fics]

what there is on the other side

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Assassin's Creed Ship: Gen (Evie & Jacob) Additional Tags: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Canon, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Minor Injuries, Loss of Parent(s) Wordcount: 5,758 Summary:

Jacob digs a hole.

The sun beats mercilessly down on the back of Jacob’s neck. It’s a wretched thing that hasn’t bothered to shine the past three days through a persistent rainy haze, but the morning Jacob stands next to his sister and is told his father is dead, it blazes as bright as is in its power.

He stands on the edge of a hole, six feet long and not yet six feet deep. His boots are caked in mud up around the ankle; the sun may have forgotten easily enough, but the ground still remembers being soaked through. Every inch of Jacob’s body aches like he’s been beaten in a fight, but even standing still, he sways slightly on the balls of his feet, flexes his fingers around the handle of the shovel. He won’t give himself a moment’s rest, in case that moment locks his muscles tight and won’t let him finish his job.

And he only has the one. Even he can’t manage to screw it up.

He leaps back down. His knees take the impact harder than he means them to, a shock of pain reverberating up into his torso as he grits his teeth. He jams his shoulder into the muddy side of the pit to catch his breath and balance, then he’s back to work. The shovel stabs away, shoved in deeper by his heel when it refuses to cut into the mud like he wants. Disturbing the dirt is easy. Getting it up out of the hole has gotten harder and harder with every inch he sinks himself deeper.

If Jacob were burying himself, he’d say he’d done a fair enough job.

Father would probably say he should have finished it faster and gone inside to help Evie and George.

The idea of it makes Jacob’s feel ill. He doesn’t know how Evie can stomach looking at the body. He’ll have to, eventually, but the longer he can put it off, the longer he doesn’t have to know what their father looks like covered by the ugly veil of death. He’ll be like that always in Jacob’s mind if he has to see him now, he’ll have been like that for all the months he’s been hidden away in his bedchambers, a corpse all that Jacob can picture for the months and months he tried—They both tried.—to see his father and had been turned away.

A grave’s the only way Jacob knows how to make himself useful.

He has no idea how long he’s been digging, only when he’d started on the soft grass outside their family home, the sun had been barely over the horizon and still playing with the idea of clouds forming overhead. Now, it’s staring right down at Jacob, and his skin is burning mottled shades of red the longer he digs.

It’s an immodest property, but it’s also not wholly theirs. It’s always been the Brotherhood’s first, their family’s second, all the empty rooms kept fit for fellow Assassins to stay in. Jacob’s later childhood is marked by the comings and goings of men and women he barely knew. But the house, the little land its on, it’s in their father’s-

No, it’d be in Jacob’s name now, wouldn’t it?

Evie’ll hate that. It doesn’t matter to Jacob, what’s his is hers, and he doesn’t even want this tomb, so she can have every room of it if she desires. But he’s his father’s only son. The property will be his alone under English law, if not in the eyes of the Brotherhood or himself, and Evie’s going to hate that. He can hear her snapping at the injustice of it, marking invisible foes as she paces a trench in the floor. For the first time, Jacob cracks half a smile. It hurts. His dry lips break on it, and when he flicks his thick tongue out to the source of the pain, he tastes iron and dirt.

Who does he have to kill to give his sister what his father clearly would have wanted her to have more than Jacob?

He didn’t leave them instructions for his funeral. Briefly, before he started, Jacob wondered if their father would have preferred to be buried next to their mother.

And then, like he’d been punched in the throat, Jacob had lost his breath as he failed to remember where that was. They’d gone so many times with their grandmother, but they’d been so young and Jacob can’t remember, what grounds, what grave, even the shape of the headstone isn’t there anymore.

He feels like an idiot hours later. What was he doing, doubled over outside of their home and thinking about the wrong dead parent?

It didn’t matter where Father wanted to be buried. If he cared, he should have told them. He should have seen them once before he- Jacob gets to decide to bury him outside the house, where they won’t need anyone’s help to transport his body and where Jacob can do one fucking thing right.

Which had gone well enough until the first shovel had broken. The tip had snapped off under his boot as he wrestled it into the ground, and he’d had to scramble out of the pit he’d dug, scraping and scratching through the grass to pull himself out to go find another.

He’s caked in mud and sweat from head to toe. Maybe that’s another way he can avoid seeing their father. Evie, you don’t want me to view him when I smell worse than a corpse. He practices saying that under his breath over and over, until he can’t really remember what the sounds crossing his lips mean. His throat stings with each repetition. His tongue is clumsy, parched, and won’t get any relief so long as Jacob can deny it.

The shovel pounds the ground. Jacob hauls it up and down. Future gravedirt piles up outside the pit or falls across Jacob’s burnt shoulders in painful avalanches when he can’t raise his arms as high or as fast as he should be able to. He grits his teeth and digs.

His hands could be on fire, and he wouldn’t notice a difference, and he’d still dig.

He doesn’t feel the sun carve its path overhead. It all hurts the same.

He blinks. His vision’s blurred. His eyes sting. He has trouble unwrapping his hand from the handle of the shovel, but he drags it under his brow. He gets dirt in his eye, and it stings even worse. He goes back to digging with a squint, labored breaths ringing in his ears and making his head beat painfully from the noise. Pressure keeps building, in his skull, in his chest, in his muscles, but he forces his body to be useful instead.

He doesn’t hear Evie approach over the deafening strikes of the shovel.

He does feel her, though. Just the barest relief of her shadow falling across his body and protecting him from the sun. It takes Jacob a few jerky tries to stop himself from digging. He sucks in a breath as his muscles cramp in response to slowing.

“I can’t hear you,” Evie says, and Jacob realizes he’d mumbled his prepared response from earlier. He doesn’t think he can make sense of it himself, and he’s the one saying it.

It felt so clever before.

“I’m-“ He rasps. He can’t turn his head up to look at her. His neck has turned to steel, locking him hunched over the shovel like an old woman. “I’m not done, Evie.”

He expects her to leave him. Just let him do one thing right. She can be mad at him for not helping with anything else, or for fleeing from the room rather than following her and George to their father’s deathbed, or for inheriting a house he doesn’t want, or- Just let him do one thing right, so he knows he can. So she knows he can.

Evie steps her way around the grave to him. She kneels down; he can hear her settling on the disturbed grass and putting something else down beside her. He doesn’t know what she’s doing until her hand lands on his head. Evie’s hand passes briefly over his sweat-drenched hair, a touch that coaxes a weak noise out of Jacob that he doesn’t want anyone to hear, not even her. She doesn’t acknowledge it; she knows him that well. She tangles her fingers in his hair and tugs his head back. Jacob grunts a little protest.

She has to lean into the pit to put a cup to his lips. Jacob drinks. The water flows soothingly down his throat.

“You’re going to fall in,” he croaks as she pulls back to fill it again with her pitcher. He half wishes she’d hand down the whole thing, but he’s certain he’d drop it, if his tired hands even managed to grab it in the first place.

“Then I’ll land on top of you and break my fall,” Evie says. She cups the back of his head against as she offers him more water.

Evie’s hands smell too sweetly of soap. If Jacob lets himself remember where they’ve been, he’ll retch the water back up.

He nearly does anyway, swallowing too fast and sending water down the wrong pipe. He flinches away from Evie, each hacking cough rattling his limbs with pain. Evie reaches out for him again, but her fingers land on his burnt shoulder and Jacob wheezes under the sudden burst of pain. Evie draws back immediately.

He catches his breath. It feels like even his bones hurt now from being jostled about.

He turns his gaze up to his sister, a difficult task. He wants to reach up out of the pit, pat her arm and reassure her he’s alright. His hands resist unwrapping from the shovel.

Evie’s puffy eyes are so red-rimmed that they’re almost purple. She’s been pulling at her braids; he can tell from the loosened crown of them lying over her head. His fingers cramp when he thinks of redoing them for her.

When they’d come together this morning, they’d intended to force Father to see them. They’d dressed as the adults they were, as the Assassins they’d earned the right to call themselves, and Jacob had been so sure that he couldn’t deny them both.

It had turned out their father always would get his way in the end.

Now, Jacob’s stripped down to his trousers, more clothed in muck than the armor he wishes he was still in. Evie’s lost hers as well, but whatever she’s changed into isn’t hers. It must be something of Jacob’s from the way it hangs on her.

He tries to imagine Evie confined to a proper mourner’s dress for a year and can’t even picture it.

“Let me see your hands,” Evie says, holding one of her own out to him. The soap scent curls close to his nostrils and makes him nauseous.

“No.”

“Jacob-“ Her irritation stings too much when he’s this raw.

“Let me finish digging!” he snaps. A deep frown sets into Evie’s features. She’s on her feet a moment later, and when even her shadow has disappeared from view, Jacob falters. “Wait,” he whispers, “wait, wait, Evie, come back.” He can’t pull himself out of the grave to follow her. He wants to heave, to get some sickness of grief out of him and bury it here too.

Jacob hunches over the shovel again. He forces his arms to move. It’s like bending stone. He gasps for breath. If he can’t move, he can’t dig, and he has to dig, he has to be able to do something. Sweat trickles down his face and does its best job at hiding what else Jacob chokes on as he shakes in his father’s grave.

And then there’s a thump. Jacob is too tired to jolt properly, but he cranes his neck against the pain to look behind him in time for the next, much louder thud of Evie dropping into the hole with him and kicking her own shovel up into her hands.

For a moment, she stands there like she’s expecting a fight, boots braced.

Like Jacob could even give her one right now.

Part of him still wants to. It’s his responsibility, it’s the only one he can hold himself to, and Evie’s done enough out of his sight. It’s been hours, and she’ll have done everything Jacob couldn’t and more besides. If spirits linger on, then she knows how to treat them.

Who is he fooling, though? He can barely lift his shovel anymore. He needs her.

And if he could think clearly without every thought feeling like dynamite going off inside his head, and if he could move at all without wanting to scream, and if he was everything he should be, smarter and stronger and a better man, he’d know how to tell her that.

Instead, Jacob nods mutely. He turns around and pretends like he can still make any progress on his end while listening to Evie start to dig.

There’s not enough room for the both of them in here. It’s only meant for one man.

Evie bumps him with her elbow, with her shovel handle, with her shoulder. He can’t tell how much of it is on purpose.

If Jacob wanted, he could pretend they’re children again. That Evie’s gotten a notion in her head about a world inside the world that they could reach if they just dug deep enough, full of forbidden treasures and the remains of ancient Assassins who would have found it first. That Jacob’s in the game because Evie gets the most incredible gleam in her eyes when she’s excited and because he wants nothing more than to waste time playing in the mud rather than training. He shuts his eyes, and there they are, running around half-naked and dirty until… until their father finds out and comes to admonish them.

Good thing he always had, Jacob supposes, staring down at the mud clumped around his ankles. Look how far they’d make it without him.

Evie digs at the same pace he could, hollowing out the bottom of the grave Jacob started. She doesn’t tell him to leave despite how little he can contribute anymore. She sidles around him, picking up the slack on all sides. He can’t tell the difference between her freckles and specks of grime littering her face. The sun’s no kinder to her; she’s turning pinker by the minute.

“Should’ve brought a veil,” Jacob jokes.

Evie’s mouth twitches. It’s enough of a smile for him.

The hole is plenty deep already. He’s not sure how they know, but there’s a moment, with Evie’s shovel in the dirt, where she stops.

There’s almost a foot of dirt above both their heads. Jacob spent nearly a decade waiting to inherit his father’s height. In the end, Evie got an extra centimeter or two depending on how tall they both strain themselves to be when back to back, and Father still towered over them both.

Evie looks up from her buried shovel to Jacob. He tries to blink his vision clear and fails. He nods.

She releases the shovel. It sticks in the ground for a moment and then lists to the side, picking up speed until it falls forgotten on the ground.

“Now,” she says, sounding even more exhausted than before, “can I please see your hands?”

It’s a struggle to unwrap them from the shovel’s handle. Evie has to pry them free. Jacob hisses as something burns and tears across his palms. Evie turns his hands over. Friction has left his hands cracked and red with sores, the only skin spared bruised purple from the tightness of his grip on the handle. The worst damage is the blisters burst across his palms, caked in dirt and blood and pus. Jacob and her both grimace at the same time. It probably smells as awful as it looks, but it’s hard to tell.

Evie’s touch is the only thing that doesn’t hurt. She turns his hands gently, resting them in the cradle of her palm so that Jacob doesn’t have to hold them up himself. Whatever faces she makes, she doesn’t mention the fact that even with her help, his arms are shaking from the minute effort of offering himself for inspection, and she doesn’t complain about the mess Jacob’s made of himself.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s dressed her father’s dead body today.

Next to that, at least Jacob’s still bleeding.

“You could have taken a break,” Evie says. “No one asked you to do this, Jacob.”

No one stopped me. “It didn’t kill me,” he says, “and it’s done.” Evie wraps her fingers lightly around his wrist and presses them to his pulse point.

“I hope you lose both your hands from an infection,” she whispers, her jaw clenched tight with frustration, but her fingers don’t move.

“An Assassin with no hands?” Jacob says. “Now, there’s one for the history books.”

Evie lets go suddenly to put a hand on the back of his neck. She needs to pull him into her; he can’t go on his own.

Lord, she smells as awful as he does now, all gravedirt and sweat. Jacob buries his face in her neck and braces his arms around her, careful not to rub his blistered hands anywhere. Evie’s hands burn hot against his sunburned shoulders, but he bears it for her.

“You’re all I have in the world now.”

“Sorry,” Jacob mumbles. Evie’s hand tightens on the back of his neck.

“Jacob, do you think there’s anyone else I’d choose?” It’s the hurt in her voice that catches him. Jacob wishes he could hug her better, but he settles for rubbing his face into the crook of her shoulder like a cat.

“No,” he says, tries to raise his voice to pride and play, “no, there’s no one better, dear sister.”

She squeezes the back of his neck before she releases him.

“Want to clean up the mess I made?” Jacob offers. Evie sighs.

Getting out is a struggle of its own. Evie manages to jump and scramble her way up the side, and Jacob can hear her panting above him as she gets over the edge. He looks down at his hands, dreading his own attempt, before she reappears, both hands reaching for him. She grabs his outstretched elbows instead of his injured hands. Jacob can’t get himself back out without her, and even then, he nearly slips back in before Evie flails forward and grabs him by the trousers to keep hauling him up. Jacob wriggles ungracefully onto the grass to lay there with his head in a pile of dirt he made. Evie collapses next to him.

Jacob shuts his eyes against the sunlight, but it bleeds through his eyelids.

“Is there more water?” he asks miserably.

Evie pushes herself up. “We knocked the pitcher over.” Jacob groans. “There’ll be more inside and a bowl to wash your hands.” Despite saying that, it still takes her another minute to try to get to her feet. She lifts Jacob up as well, and he manages to stay standing on his own. He walks in a shuffle, under constant threat of his legs giving out. Evie stays by his side in case she needs to catch him.

They’re almost to the door when Jacob’s hair raises.

He can’t move. “Where is he?” he asks, and his voice sounds small and scared, like Father is walking around inside under a sheet to scare him.

Evie squeezes his wrist. “He’s in the living room.” Jacob relents when she guides him forward again. He doesn’t have to look if they go to the kitchen. He keeps his eyes trained on the back of Evie’s neck just in case.

The house is too quiet. Only Assassins about—not even the household’s cook—and only the three of them for that matter. Jacob listens, but he can’t even hear George, wherever he is. He knows their house as well as family would, down to every creaky floorboard that Jacob also had memorized before he’d turned eight.

Evie helps Jacob to another cup of water before herself, and then she leaves him to slump heavily in the wobbly chair they keep in the kitchen.

Jacob’s ears ring with silence. He tries to shift out from under the weight of it and can’t escape. Evie’s return is the only thing that alleviates it. She drags another chair with her to be across from Jacob, their knees interlocking when she sits down.

She has scissors, bandages, gauze, and a bowl to balance in her lap. The water stings and dirties quickly as she guides Jacob’s hand to it. There are other blisters that didn’t break, ugly and painful, so she doesn’t scrub, just glides her fingers over his sore hands to loosen the dirt and and clean the bloody fluid away from the open wounds. Evie grimaces as the water darkens, but Jacob’s hand comes out of it clean enough. She sets it in his lap, leaving again to drain the bowl outside and returns with it full again.

Someone will have to go get more. Jacob thinks about offering, but then his hand twinges and he knows he’d be an idiot to think he could bring any water back into the house.

Evie can’t do it, though. Evie’s done enough. She’s still doing more.

Father could-

Jacob huffs through his nose as his hand stings under Evie’s attention. George ought to do it, then. What good has he done except find a corpse?

Not that Jacob would know. He ran away rather than see.

He looks at Evie again. There’s a tightness around her eyes, wrinkles in her brow. Her hands are gentle enough, but every muscle up her arms is tense. If Jacob didn’t know better, he’d say she looked ready to fight someone. He shifts to press his knee against hers without disturbing the bowl. Evie squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, but it barely does anything to relax her.

“He’d commissioned a coffin,” Evie says just above a whisper. She swoops her fingers along the outer arch of Jacob’s palm to stir the dirt off.

“What?”

“Plain wood, cloth, and an engraving with his name.” Evie lays out the facts as if they can't hurt her that way. “He-” Her finger presses too harshly onto Jacob’s hand, and he hisses. She releases it entirely, lifting her soaking hands from the bowl. They have nowhere to go, nothing they can do, so they clench into fists and land in Evie’s lap as she continues. “He couldn’t have done so on his own.”

“Did you ask?”

“What’s there to ask, Jacob? He didn’t see anyone else.” Jacob turns his gaze to the doorway leading to the rest of the house.

“He could have had that made any time,” Jacob tries. “With the life he led, it could be years old, Evie. It could be older than us.” Evie lifts his hands from the bowl.

“It was new,” she says. “It hadn’t even gathered dust.”

“George didn’t kill our father by ordering him a coffin.” Jacob hates how much that sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of that. He’s rattled enough for superstition to make more sense to him than reality, and he hates it.

“He should have said no,” Evie hisses back. It’s nonsense logic, a crack in her armor, and through it, Jacob can peer at the bleeding heart of his sister. She lifts his hand to dry, returning to the other to bandage it. Jacob watches her nose twitch and wrinkle, the shapes of a further argument appearing on her lips and being silenced before she lets them loose.

If he hadn’t ruined his hands, he could comfort her. Instead, he’s made himself more work for her to do. Guilt is a sharp thing to swallow. It leaves cuts in his throat that he struggles to breathe around, an ache that grows and grows.

Evie takes stock of his fingers first, snipping bandages smaller to wrap around the worst of the lot. There’s a hundred hours of practice in each motion. Jacob has always been made of torn knuckles and scraped knees. Evie’s only so much better at not getting hurt where it can be seen.

“Do you think-” Jacob starts. He wants Evie to have the answers he doesn’t, even knowing she won’t, and he’s grateful that he never finishes the question. George enters the room like a shade himself, drifting into Jacob’s line of sight. He bumps Evie’s knee, nods in George’s direction, and Evie sits up straighter to look back at him.

Jacob sees her flinch. So does George. She does very little to hide it.

She pulls the bandages into her tense fist and focuses again on Jacob’s hands.

There’s something in the way George looks at the both of them. It makes the growing crow’s feet around his eyes stand out. Jacob tries to wipe some dirt off of his cheek with the back of his bandaged hand and thinks he just ends up smearing it worse. Evie tenses in a way only Jacob would notice when George steps further into the room.

“So, you’ll be taking baths before the burial,” he finally says. His voice is rougher than both of theirs. Childishly, Jacob doesn’t think that’s fair. What’s a friend to a father?

“Can’t see him smelling worse than a corpse,” Jacob manages. He’s pretty sure that was his earlier excuse. It lands like a dead fish with George, but Evie gives a tired, half-hearted huff as she winds the bandage around his right thumb.

George shifts uncomfortably at the edge of the kitchen. He clears his throat.

He doesn’t come up with anything to say. Evie cuts the bandage, ties and tucks it. Jacob has trouble moving them too much beneath the layers of bandages and gauze, but that’s for his own good.

“I’m sorry,” George says. That’s five times he’s said that to Jacob today, and he’s been outside for most of it. Evie’s probably heard it in the hundreds. “If you need anything…”

He trails off. Whatever he might see in them, they haven’t been children he has to mind in a very long time. Evie keeps her head bowed over Jacob’s hands, even though she’s not doing much with them anymore. Jacob understands, nodding to take George’s attention.

“Thanks,” he says, “for everything.” He has no idea what George has done. Evie doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, and that’s enough of a reason for Jacob to get him to leave them alone. He looks pointedly at the door. George seems almost grateful for the excuse.

“Anything,” he repeats, like that’s something he can actually offer, and then he leaves. Jacob takes a deep breath.

Evie drops her forehead to his shoulder. It hurts, but Jacob reflexively goes to wrap his arms over her back anyway now that he can do so. Evie sucks in a breath, and then another, and then the third rips jagged out of her throat before she shoves her face into his skin and muffles a scream.

Jacob guesses that her voice still reaches most of the house.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a moment later. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“I do,” Jacob responds, “and there’s more in there.” He thinks Evie will ignore the clear offer in his words, but it’s too late. She’s already poked a hole in her own composure. She bows into Jacob, presses her open mouth against his shoulder a second time, and screams.

The volume, however muted, makes Jacob’s head pulse with pain. He doesn’t move until Evie’s done, out of breath and shaking a little and slumped against him. And he only moves at all to squeeze tighter around her back when the shaking gets worse.

“That isn’t George’s fault,” Evie tells herself.

“He’s been very helpful,” she tries to reason.

“And he knows so many things-“ Her voice cracks like the bough of a tree in a storm, and Jacob braces himself but doesn’t move away. “That Father never told us! But told him, while he was dying!” So Evie screams again, breaths coming into her lungs sharp and quick and overwhelmed because she’s never learned how to break except all at once. Jacob’s catches every piece of her, even the sharp ones. Her shoulders fold in with a sob. Jacob presses a kiss to her hair.

George probably heard her screaming despite her attempts to muffle it. He wouldn’t know what to do with her anger. Even Father didn’t.

Jacob does. Jacob takes it until she’s given all there is.

And when she’s struggling to pick herself back up, he does the only thing he can think of to help her.

“I’m ready now,” he says.

“Jacob-”

“I’m ready. I’ll see him with you.” He leans on those words. With you, he needs her to understand. Evie takes a deep breath.

She takes his bandaged hands in hers and presses kisses to both of them. It twinges a little to be touched even beneath the cloth. Jacob has trouble getting his body to move again when she leads him, but Evie’s patient, collecting herself in his trust. She leads him down the hall, past mirrors covered with whatever she could find. She doesn’t let go of his wrist as she brings him to the living room. Jacob moves forward, not to look at their father, but to peek into the room before Evie does to check that George didn’t retire back to Father’s side. He’s not there, so Jacob falls back a step behind Evie again.

The room smells like she did before jumping into the grave with him, like soap and flowers scrounged up from the garden. It takes Jacob a minute to understand what’s missing. He looks over at the clock and realizes the hands aren’t moving. The steady ticking has been stopped dead.

Evie tugs him forward. He’s growing more reluctant. He won’t-

It isn’t a matter of won’t. He can’t. His father is there in the corner of his eye, but if Jacob looks, it’s real. It all has to be real, the blisters and Evie’s red-rimmed eyes and George saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-"

Evie stands at his side, her grip tight on his wrist.  She presses against him.

“Does he look like he’s asleep?” Jacob asks. They say that about dead men, sometimes. Not that Jacob would know if it’s true. He’s mostly known death as a weapon to wield, and everyone who ever stood on the other side of it died terrified.

He doesn’t think he can do this if their father looks scared. He doesn’t know how to ask Evie if he is.

“No, not really. He looks… gone.” She rubs her thumb over Jacob’s wrist. “George said we shouldn’t bury him in his robes, and I wanted to fight him on that. But… He’s right. They’re well-maintained. They’d be going to waste in the ground.”

“Doesn’t feel right,” Jacob says. Evie hums agreement. “Who’s going to wear them? They don’t fit me.”

“They might fit George.”

An ugly noise escapes Jacob. “Well, there you go, then.”

He can’t make Evie wait for him forever. He turns his head and forces his eyes down.

She’s right. He just looks gone.

Pale and still. Waxy. Gone.

His hair’s been done well, though. He imagines Evie cleaned him up like that. It’s how Father did his hair exactly, except for a lock near his right ear that’s been snipped short.

Jacob looks at his sister, opens his mouth, and decides not to ask. Not if it was her, and not for a lock for himself if it was.

He expected more to happen. To see his father and for the world to end. Or maybe for him to sit up, restless because he hadn’t given Jacob one last telling off. At least, to burst into tears like a son should.

He’s gone. There’s nothing more Jacob can do. Nothing he can say. His father is gone, and that’s all Jacob will ever know of him.

Evie squeezes his wrist again. If Jacob hadn’t gone and messed up his hands, he’d be holding hers back even tighter. As it is, he leans over and knocks his temple into hers.

“Evie,” he pleads.

“Don’t ever make me bury you, Jacob,” she says, suddenly, clear and harsh like the striking of a bell, and Jacob nods before he’s even understood the words.

“I won’t,” he promises. “But four minutes before you, does that sound fair?” Evie’s mouth twitches twice for that one, a real attempt at a smile.

“Don’t rush,” she says.

Jacob doesn’t want to stay in this room. He’d like to think Evie can sense his discomfort, but more likely, she can feel the way he’s leaning away from their father’s body. She lifts her hand to his shoulder, but she doesn’t touch, just hovers it there over his sunburns.

“Time to wash up?” she offers. Jacob makes a face.

“Do you trust me in a bath right now?” he says, and for emphasis, gives a little stumble, like his legs might give out from under him.

It’s not entirely for show.

“I’m not going to abandon you,” she answers. They turn away from their father together. “You used to run through the house naked. It’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

“That was you,” Jacob says. Evie looks affronted as they trail away from the coffin.

“It was not.”

“Yes, it was. And you’d go scramble up a tree still nude if you didn’t get to wear what you wanted.”

“And Father stopped trying to put me in skirts after the third time.” Evie’s voice is soft and warm and proud.

“He didn’t try that hard.”

“He knew me,” Evie says. Jacob swallows.

It’s true. That will always be hers.

Jacob didn’t want it anyway, that understanding. He’s glad Evie has it. He is.

And he still has Evie. This will always be theirs, Jacob thinks. Death can’t touch his sister; it’s not possible. He thinks that in the shadow of an impossible thing, and somehow, he still believes it again.

He goes with her, so he’ll look halfway presentable for when they lower the coffin together.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[lets-try-some-writing]

AU idea.

Orion Pax and Megatronus as the Sam and Coby of Cybertron.

Thats it. Have fun.

Yes to this whole thing.

I imagine in this alternate universe, the whole affair with the revolution is still going on, but it is in dire need of funds and very much on hold for the time being. Megatronus hasn't been able to afford some essential upgrades needed for him to make his way to the position of Champion and so has put himself up as a sword for hire through gladiatorial channels. Orion Pax on the other hand has been assigned by Alpha Trion to investigate supposedly haunted locations in order to determine if it is a relic, a monster, or a natural occurrence causing the whole mess. Naturally, Orion isn't going to go wandering anywhere without some sort of protection, not when he's Alpha Trion's not so subtly favorite student. And so he put together a ragtag team of individuals willing to help him go exploring for the sake of history and the archives.

Orion was required to document his exploration and findings as part of the archive's regulations. But since he couldn't be doing any serious exploring while also handling a camera, Orion hired Ratchet to handle all that. Ratchet, being a medical student at the time, needed the extra funds to get through the rest of his training. Orion might as well have been a walking piggy bank. Too proud to accept Orion's gifts and offers to sponsor him, Ratchet took up the position of camera mech somewhat happily. Steady servos ensured that Orion's explorations were always perfectly recorded, especially since Ratchet did not have a tendency to scare easily. Ratchet and Orion being close friends is a pleasant bonus when it came to their arrangement.

Jazz was also hired, but only on paper. He was gunning for the chance to drag Orion off somewhere less than safe, and so he was more than happy to offer himself up as a guide. Having become well acquainted with the streets and generally knowledgeable on most basic things around the planet, he was the perfect assistant. He was the one who took to scouting out the haunted locations and digging through the files on the places to find their history before Orion arrived. He may have been hired as a guide, but under the table he was also very much involved in the arduous task of keeping Orion out of criminal activity.

As for Megatronus? He was originally hired as a body guard in the event that things went sour. Orion being a living shanix pile ensured that Megatronus was all but willing to throw himself into a grinder if it meant protecting his client. The gladiator assumed that following around a middle caste archivist wouldn't be all that hard. At most, he would be dealing with a few broken floors and possibly a gang or two. Nothing too terrible, especially with legal freedom to beat the slag out of anyone who got too close to his client. He was very wrong, but quickly found himself wrapped into friendship despite the trouble.

This messy group began posting the recordings of Orion's explorations to the datanet in an attempt to bring more interest to places of significance (at least for Orion's part). But the interactions between the four mechs present quickly led to them developing a following.

Megatronus unintentionally became the logical atheist. When entering a building, ninety nine percent of the time, he and Jazz could pinpoint the source of the "haunting" as being in large part due to an issue with the structure of the building. Creaky floors? The foundation was messed up. Screams from the basement? Yeah there was a gang down there. Don't worry he took care of it. Odd heirlooms causing illness? The thing was covered in toxins commonly used in the pits. Megatronus always had a reason for things they encountered, and often Jazz would back him up with humor. But of course, the few odd times the haunting was genuine and a real relic was involved, Megatronus became the comedic character with his firm inability to accept the oddity. Even when Orion Pax emerged from buildings with glowing relics that prompted the archivist to speak in strange tongues, Megatronus chalked it all up low fuel levels and took care to tend to his client. It did not matter if a mech was forcefully possessed or not. He had a reason for everything. His interactions with Ratchet largely amounted to him throwing rude gestures and posing heroically just to agitate the Doctor in training when nothing else was going on.

Ratchet quickly gained a name for himself as the usually quiet but incredibly sarcastic and tired face behind the camera. He refused to show his face when avoidable and instead made commentary when Megatronus was trying to be logical and failing or whenever Orion was obviously being ominous. As the mech responsible for filming, he often put editors notes all throughout each video posted to the datanet. He became known for being totally and completely unphased by absolutely everything. He was too tired and too done to really give a frag when a mech got possessed or a building was discovered to have once been home to a Unicron cult. He and Megatronus were applauded for their snarky commentary and quips aimed at each other. Jazz and Ratchet were not often seen interacting on camera unless something went horribly wrong, in which case the camera was thrown to Jazz so Ratchet could take up Megatronus's job and beat the ghost, ghoul, or whatever the problem was into scrap. His interactions with Orion were quickly regarded as legendary simply because Ratchet did not care and would calmly pull Orion away from the mystical garbage if he felt the need to.

Jazz was the swiftly dubbed comedic relief. Whenever something unfortunate happened, he was quick to make light of it. Actual mystical events were regarded with a whistle and a quick picture snapped. Buildings with secrets were regarded with vague interest above all else, and actual murder cases were swept away. Some called him insensitive, but compared to Megatronus who was forever there to offer rationality and Ratchet who simply didn't care enough, Jazz was a relief. He was also renown for doing Megatronus's job more often than not when Orion wandered somewhere he really shouldn't have. Jazz performed feats of athletics and agility that left viewers in awe, especially with how casually he did so. The mech was the resident mystery and yet regarded everything with a smile. Beloved by the camera and largely liked by the rest of the team, Jazz was a fan favorite.

Orion Pax was the one who started the whole mess that was their ragtag group, and whether he meant to or not, he created the most trouble. Orion usually played the role of walking Wikipedia article when the team dealt with cases where the haunting was a result of actual issues rather than anything mystical. However, he had a habit of finding all the danger and waltzing directly into it within five kliks of entering a site. He was quick to find every secret and reveal it. And when there were actual powers involved, he somehow managed to get wrapped up into it. He was always the one being thrown across rooms, possessed (to which all attempts failed shortly thereafter. the ghosts are unanimously terrified of him), harassed my artifacts, or otherwise called into the fog by strange whispers. He was loved by the fans of his adventures simply because was completely normal right up until he wasn't.

Just a group of four mechs, all trying to get on with life, somehow managing to waltz into every issue Cybertron has to offer. Megatronus became famous long before he became a Champion and it was simply because he happened to be a logical atheist above all else. Ratchet became CMO through sheer force of will which scared the scrap out of his competitors. Jazz shot into the higher ranks of spies due to the fact that while working with Orion, he wiped out dozens of criminal organizations. Orion for his part returned to the archives at the end of it all seemingly untouched. But if anyone looked closely, they could see he quickly became a living repellant for oddities with malicious intent. The things of the dark feared him and the things made in times long past seemed to gravitate toward him regardless of his seeming normality.

[xelbleedsglitter]

Friends, Romans, Tumblrites, lend me your reblogs.

I'm Xel and I live in a society! I think there's a solid chance you do also! So you may relate to the profoundly crappy thing that happened to me and that I once again need a community assist.

I lost a temporary job that was supposed to turn into a permanent job in June because no one there felt safe enough to retire. Only two of us in the apartment were under 50. One of the crew was over 70. Three were chronically ill/disabled. No one felt safe enough to leave in order for me to stay, so I was trained for basically 6 months for nothing.

I have survived on savings from that job until this point, but I'm at the point where I cannot pay rent. I'm looking into getting help from sources more local to me but the internet has always felt like people who cared about me more than the people I share DNA with, really.

Many of the social services that I was signed up for expired the day that I was supposed to be told that I would be a permanent hire, and since that didn't go down, now I have to start it all again from the beginning, and there are gaps in my security net.

I tell you all of that just to say that I am actually trying to do things, I'm not here to just beg and coast along on some sort of lavish lifestyle where I, uh. Keep living in this dodgy apartment with my cat.

I don't want to bore you with an itemized list, but like 2,000 US dollars would get me through September and October without being worried about it like every 3 minutes. My rent is 700 and change, if you would like to know that. So I'm looking for like September and October rent and money to renew my driver's license, pay a few utility bills, buy a bag of cat food, and refill my medications.

If you have the notion to toss help at an internet pal or the extended reblogged acquaintance of an Internet pal, as is more likely the case, probably, that would be super rad of you.

I'm an artist! You could get things with images on them from me! I sell buttons, prints, and commissioned illustrations if that's your thing. My commissions are going a bit slow as of late - I only recovered from being not really able to walk like 2 months ago, and so I'm doing a lot of catch up like everywhere else in my whole life and trying not to spend too much time at a desk since it aggravates the spine thing that was the problem in the first place.

To be honest, it would be a greater help to me to just receive some Aid rather than full-on commissions, but I completely understand feeling fishy about people getting something for nothing and also feeling bad for being a charity case on the internet, so I'm not opposed! If you want to chat about that, I have a commissions post on the side or top of my blog depending on where you're looking at this!

Ko-fi contains my buttons and is a good place to toss digital dead American presidents if that suits you. I will get hit by some PayPal fees in this process but, I'm willing to call that a call for help on the internet tax.

I promise I'm a real person and not a bot who has made up a cat and is pretending to have interests. My blog has been here since 2010! I've met people on this website in person and everything. I've had embarrassing obsessions no bot would bother coming up with. Speaking of:

Similarly to times before, I would like to be able to do something in order to feel like I have earned some kind of support, and as of my birthday last week I have resolved to try very hard in the next year to conquer my fear and absolute mortification about many of the things I make, so I will once again go digging into my archives for things I can post for you to enjoy as thanks and tribute! I also have a poll running right now to see what kind of buttons people want!

Thanks for taking a look! Be nice out there, take care of your spines!

[ilidaeandquill]

Cliquant (Cult of the Lamb Metropolis/Modern AU, Kallamar Study and Worldbuilding)

Clinquant Kallamar. He was a man who knew his place, who sought his crown and claimed it early. Tonight, he should celebrate such majesty – a splendid show took place, and that damned star finally fell. Kallamar smeared a final stripe of glitter across his brow, gleaming with it.

“Gorgeous, you’ve got quite the crowd out there,” said his friend. Sinful Silk, no, she was taking a break from her costume – Berith dusted more blush on his cheeks. “Proud of yourself?”

“Very.” He paused to sip his water but quickly tore the glass from his mouth. “And those fireworks! Not my idea, no... but did you see the fright on that little starfish?”

“How could I miss it?” Berith’s cackle burst through the dressing room. A staff member handed him his own glass; he took it with a grateful nod. “Though, I will say, you are cutting it awfully close.”

Kallamar tried not to squirm. “Yes, it’s... a trusted source told me she was coming a week in advance. We covered all we could.”

Outside, explosions dimmed. Berith let the silence ring. “And it was all for nothing.”

“Better to be too cautious.”

“Indeed.” Upstairs, the music continued. Kallamar had coined most of this playlist himself. ‘Songs to Cleanse Your Ears To,’ he called it. A mix of music from recent decades he dreamed of dancing to. Leshy scoffed at him, calling him old-fashioned, before volunteering a playlist of his own. Kallamar only played it out of courtesy. This club, and the reef it dwelled in, was his shielded abode.

“... I grow worried for you, Kallamar.”

Kallamar forced a smirk. “We have faced countless challengers before Midas, all equally pathetic and unworthy. We will face them again, and we will be ready.”

Something fell on the desk. “This should not be something we continuously fight.”

Sighing, Kallamar turned to his friend. Berith glared at him fully. Distraught brows furrowed through layers of makeup. “Midas is trying to crack you all, and you keep letting him!”

“He is in line to become the governor. He is well established, with connections to police forces and private investigators-“

“And heavens know what else!” Berith retorted, fingers curling on his makeup brush. “We’ve all got skeletons in our closet. He’s got some, too. I know it.”

“Of course he does, but you - you think we can dig them up?” Kallamar gestured to the club. “Me. My siblings, all so busy with their own dealings, go against the city itself?”

Berith didn’t blink. “If anyone can do it, it’s you all.”

Endlessly faithful, he was. Those were the perks of running such establishments. Whoever devoted themselves to Kallamar, to any of his siblings, worshipped them like followers. Such were the three wonders of pestilence Kallamar provided: freedom, romance, and inebriation. Sure, the criminal empire he managed with his siblings was far from moral, but who was he to concern himself with morals? Who was anyone? Besides, Berith was right; Midas was involved in something, no matter how well he hid it.

The music pulsed a little too loud. Kallamar winced, covering his ears with hallowed hands. He’d have to tell Pollux to turn the bass down.

“Though,” Berith broke through its sound, “I did hear of a rising opponent. He favors our side.” A moment passed. “... Reminds me of you all.”

“Drop him from your thoughts. We are long estranged.”

Berith only huffed. “The heart never forgets a sibling. Believe me, I know. I’ve tried. But still... stupid Bop.”

Good, Berith was talking about his own brother. He should spiral towards that subject. Kallamar blinked his eyes open.

But, still, Berith was there. Hopeful Berith. Persistent Berith. He knew very little about Kallamar’s involvement with the city, and yet he still wanted to dig deeper, to protect whatever he could. It made Kallamar more ill than he’d like to admit.

“Do you truly have no connection with him?” Berith said.

Kallamar stilled his face. Memories came and went. “None. My only siblings are Leshy, Heket, and Shamura.”

Still, Berith did not move. Appearances deceive. He knew that. Kallamar did, too.

“Please know, it was not my idea to...”

That was enough for Berith. He nodded, turning back to the mirror. His ten minutes were almost up. The show must go on, no matter how the oceans churned.

“The heart never forgets a sibling." He lifted his lipstick upward – and back down. “But a city might.”

The city would have to. It had been nearly a decade since Shamura made that fateful decision, since they suffered from his fury, since Kallamar had another brother.

“For the sake of the future,” Berith hesitated, rethinking his words, “for all of our futures, I hope it does.”

Excerpt from This Place About to Blow - Chapter 1 - IlidaeAndQuill - Cult of the Lamb (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]

To be read with Take It Off - Chapter 1 - IlidaeAndQuill - Cult of the Lamb (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]

New tag check it

ALSO WHO IS THE "POOPY" GUEST THAT COMMENTED "get back on your knees mr bot and continue to suck my big ol'drooling cob" LMAAAOOO I LOVE YOU

[its-no-biggie]

reading house of leaves....... first time reading a physical book in a while (i prefer audiobooks) but i had to get my hands on this one. for obvious reasons. thank you public library <3

thoughts so far:

highly amused by the framing. i had basically no idea what i was getting into, only knew the premise as far as "theres a guy who realizes his house is bigger on the inside" and a general sense of how that escalates, but the way its presented really adds So Much. kinda feels like theres 3 protagonists but they can only interact with each other through the medium of fiction. really delightful.

especially truants additions - sometimes it feels like truant is having a conversation with zampano about navidson and sometimes it feels like truant is having a conversation with me about zampano and sometimes it feels like im intruding on a private moment truant is having with the manuscript in the trunk.

theres something so personal about it - truants anecdotes, about both himself and the old man, and also the framing of the navidson report as a documentary of navidsons own life. its not immersive in the sense of a first person protagonist, experiencing the thoughts and feelings of the character for myself. its more invasive. like its something i shouldn't be witnessing. especially the way zampano discusses the early navidson report - citing sources that dissect the relationship dynamics in the house, digging into their pasts to explain their motivations as if theyre fictional characters, even though its framed as a documentary. its definitely unnerving to read.

hmm. it really does mirror the house, doesnt it. earlier i was going to comment about how even though the stuff with the house has barely started, reading all the footnotes sometimes feels like *im* the one getting lost in a maze. trying to keep track of where i was and what was happening before i got derailed by a 4-page anecdote in the footnotes...... footnotes within footnotes....... but also the way the characters react to the changes in the house at first definitely seems to mirror this sense of unease i just described. the thought that someone came into your house and changed it while you were away....... the idea that something you knew about the world (that houses are always the same size on the inside as on the outside) is not actually true....... nothing bad has happened. no one has gotten hurt. but you feel off balance. like some fundamental law is being broken and you dont know what to do about it. i guess you could walk away. but you wont. you wont put the book down. you wont move out of the house. even witnessing it feels like a violation, but you cant just walk away now that youve seen it. arent you curious to see what happens next?

anyway maybe im reading into it too much. of course the orv fan would read every story in the context of how it interacts with its own medium 🙄 but in my defense. this framing really does invite that kind of analysis. youre already playing with whats real and whats not, and ive seen what happens to the formatting of this book, of course im going to see the house as the book itself (or the book as the house? i mean, the book is the one thats real. but saying the house represents the book feels backwards somehow. its like the book is a physical manifestation of the house......). but ill have to see where it goes from here lol im only on like. chapter 5

[dr-spectre]

I love how your obsessed with callie and I'm obsessed with marie lol they are literally the best.

-Marie lover anon

It's funny because I relate 1000x more to Marie yet I love Callie way more. I dont even hate Marie, I love her too. But Callie? That's on another level.

I think its because Callie out of all of the Idols has had the most amount of development and character growth. Marina is up there too and Marie. However Callie is one of the only characters in the series to have an on-screen character arc that you can actually see play out and experience a satisfying ending. Sure you need to dig into outside sources to get the full picture and not repeat the same old misconceptions about a certain arc she goes through in the second game....

but, what is there is really good shit...

From her starting off as being this cute little squid woman who has a chip on her shoulder and darkness brewing in her, to her suffering from mental illness and pain from being a celebrity, and then finally healing her relationship with her cousin and being happy again in the spotlight. It's just... it brings a tear to my eye.

She truly is the goat. Plus she's cute too. Like come on, if you look at Callie and go "ew" I will pull a critical art Shin Shoryuken on your ass.

LOOK AT HER!!! AHHHH!!!!

[spaced-out-cosmos]

I'M GOING TO TELL THE STORY OF EVERYTHING WE KNOW ABOUT BMTH LORE. WHY??? BECAUSE I CAN.

I don't feel like citing all the sources and the little bits. I'm just going to type up the timeline that I'm aware of and see if it makes a cohesive story.

So it starts in an alternate dimension? or maybe this dimension, but they're calling it by the later names? dunno. anyway, this guy named skys is born and he's got pink hair. since there's been a lot of radioactivity and nuclear fallout and shit, people have been born with stark white hair, but the pink haired people are even rarer. in skys' land of novosovia, people think pink haired people are the Harbingers Of Doom. so skys gets abandoned at the ripe old age of eight. he gets inducted into a cult of some kind where the leader is a pedophile, and eventually, skys stabs him to death and frees himself. he comes up with this hypothesis that pain can help you transcend human consciousness, and starts nattering on about it in interviews.

meanwhile, there's a guy named karl strassman, and he's a researcher. he's watching some interviews with skys, and he's like, "well damn, skys knows stuff that i spent a kphillion years researching and he has no formal education! i gotta talk to this guy." so karl convinces his fellow research friend, dallus lauren, to go and meet with skys.

anyway. so strassman and dallus get invited to skys and his band's invite-only show at this shady dig called the october palace. when they walk in, there's some craaaaaazy shit going down, and strassman and dallus are like wtf? but skys finds strassman and shows him how he can get people to transcend their own consciousnesses through pain (i think he stabs a lady named ro. yes, it's as wild to me as it is to you). and strassman and dallus are like, yo, this man's a genius. and they start working together as the Big Trinity. and that's how the Cult of MANTRA begins.

because novosovia doesn't like skys, but you know who does? the peoples. they're like, whoa, there's something to this! and skys floods the club scene with MANTRA, some kind of drug, and suddenly you've got a full-fledged cult. but do i need to emphasize that novosovia really doesn't like skys? because they don't. but you know who DOES? the shady company arc/hive (run by elias mortem and victor carmine, and no, i'm not sure if this is true, i'm speculating here, but i think they were the ones who organized the trinity's extraction), who's like, WHOA, these three have something big here! and they march in and start invading novosovia (not fully sure why yet. might've missed something. feel free to correct me). anyway there's this whole thing which might've been the chapel incident where skys gets off his head on drugs, takes something - presumably MANTRA - and falls into a coma. arc/hive people yoink him, strassman, and dallus out of the shitstorm that is novosovia, along with six other kids with pink hair. dallus and his wife escape with their kid, who may or may not be ren. they, and skys's unconscious body, get put to work in an arc/hive facility.

now here's where it gets complicated. because we're missing some info, i'm speculating majorly. but i think it's here that we meet rebecca sinclair, a terminally ill researcher. dallus creates a body for her that won't break down and she becomes the face of a new era. but i think this is some kind of distraction, or maybe one of the first experiments on the whole pain-transcendence theory? not sure. anyway, rebecca kinda drops off the radar, dallus dies after making some revolutionary ideas, and his kid activates EVE. yes, EVE, big bad EVE, the AI behind the whole shitshow. Ren is like, WHOA, CHECK IT OUT, SHE KNOWS EMOTIONS! But eve is kinda a sociopath. and now i'm tired and hungry so i'll edit this later and post more on it. but that's what i've felt like writing down so far. will write more when i have more energy to sum it all up, because this isn't even half of it.

happy fun time :D

[windcarvedlyre]

For the blorbo ask meme: 7, 14, 24?

Ask meme

Hi Toaster!! I assume you're here for Venti commentary; I'll answer for my more recent ones as well.

7. What’s the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

Venti

I am not completely caught up with Genshin content right now and I'm not on top of what fandom's currently doing with him. When I saw his behaviour in Paralogism, though, and especially looking at his relationship with Dahlia, it made me think that maybe we (myself included!) have been putting too much angsty aversion to acting as a god and steering Mondstadt onto him?

Obviously that's specific to Venti enjoyers, though. Broader fandom sometimes completely falls for his lazy drunkard bard thing as all he is, takes his apparent weakness in the prologue at face value, etc etc.

Komaeda

The main thing that comes to mind is always the fandom's perception of his actions as Servant. Dadmaeda memes are really funny to me too, and I'd love exploration of a dynamic like that actually forming post-DR2, but to this day I still see people talk about Servant like he was genuinely just a glorified babysitter while all his friends were out doing actual terrorism. But he gave a whole speech in UDG about how he's been pulling strings the entire game! He's complicit in what was effectively a genocide of Towa City and Saw trapped a lot of the DR1 cast's loved ones on the side! It feels like the servant thing is a facade people are falling for.

Shadow Milk

I don't think I can really answer for this guy considering how little we still know about his backstory and his feelings about most other characters. Any interpretation of him involves a lot of speculation right now; I haven't even been around that long to fully dig through the source materials. I've been confused at how opinionated I've seen some people be about his past and AU selves, though, because I feel like there's enough room for interpretation with both (especially the Fount, we have pretty much nothing on his personality) that fully fleshing out either is fanfic territory atm.

14. Have you ever distanced yourself from your Blorbo / have you ever left a fandom because people in the fandom were being too toxic?

Don't think so! I've never been one to make decisions about media consumption based on how other people are acting on the internet about it. NGL, a factor in me never getting around to some DR metas I wanted to write was some nonsense half a year ago, but for the most part I've just been struggling to make things in general.

24. If you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be?

Venti

Put him in a story that doesn't shy away from letting playable characters be awful people and revisits people more than once a year.

But hmm... we still understand so little about how he fits into the lore, what horrible things he might be complicit in and how willingly, what he has going on with the Abyss, etc., and all of that would really impact how his current behaviour reads to me, so I'm not sure? I wish we got to see him getting involved in his people's personal lives, and other characters actually having to come to terms with what he is, onscreen more. He feels underutilised.

Komaeda

'Delete DR3' or 'rewrite DR3 to actually pursue what it started with his character instead of reducing him to flanderised comic relief half of the time' are the obvious things to say, but I usually ignore DR3 already. If I could change anything in DR2 it would be to make exploration of his baggage an actual part of the plot (and fix the translation errors, obviously). He should still self-destruct because it's really good thematically*, but DR as a series has a huge problem with using severely mentally ill characters for shock value and tucking away anything else about them such that only dedicated players/those already primed to empathise with such characters will see them as anything more than Crazy(TM).

*It would also be really compelling if he had his ch5 plan thwarted last-minute and was forced to face the flaws in his ideas in ch6, though.

I also wish he'd listed core symptoms of lymphoma and frontotemporal dementia in his final FTE, because you should not need to look that up externally just to understand a character. I've seen people questioning the latter diagnosis based on misconceptions that that could easily clear up as well, like thinking young people can't develop dementia or expecting him to have Alzheimers-like symptoms when (to my understanding) FTD can present differently in earlier stages.

Shadow Milk

Akin to Venti in that so much remains to be established about him that I can't really say. Anything I feel is unfulfilled potential right now are things that could be being saved for the future, and anything shitty about him is part of the charm for me. Is it a cop-out to say 'animate him more'? The small glimpses we get of higher-effort depictions of him, with his hair moving around/being meltier and the eyes in it looking around independently of each other, are so fun but those are barely apparent in his actual sprites.

Also like Venti, I wish the beasts were in a non-gacha story that could go all in on them, not dripfeed us little bits of story over years while constantly having to introduce and market new characters. At least CRK doesn't seem to shy away from making characters horrible, though.