#ITS SERVING ITSELF UP ON A SILVER PLATTER

[pangolin-404]

thinking about how buddy is inherently more durable than its crew. they are humans (presumably), soft and killable. but buddy is not its body, but a mask, which is very hard to break. it can get burned, shot, dismembered, poisoned, and blown up six ways from sunday, and its mask will be fine. thinking about how the crew settles into that mindset that buddy is innately more expendable whether they want to or not

it can travel in front. if there is a bracken, it will follow last. it is first to cross the gap to determine if the jump is worth the risk. it loves to do this because it keeps its crew, significantly more vulnerable than itself, safe. it serves as bait for a spider and laughs when it is numbed with venom and collapses, laughs knowing it just had to get the thing to turn around, to leave itself open to be killed by someone else. fifteen teleports it for the seventh time and grows numb to seeing what a thumper does to a body, watching the host stop moving in the ship. it shoves five out of a nutcracker's line of sight and gets shot and still twitches and laughs as it bleeds its energy out, to keep its attention on it rather than anyone else. how readily it will split from the others and serve itself on a silver platter to anything and everything, just to keep them alive.

its crew don't like it, how it has formed some odd complex about it. it never gets downright reckless with itself, because getting a body is a pain kept to a minimum, but that doesn't stop that looming knowledge of how it can be used. a useful ability to have, leaving it and its team assured that there is a fail-safe. that it's okay for someone to lag behind or march into danger, because they can always get it another body. it is the perfect sacrificial lamb.

it gets a little scared when the baboon hawks rip it apart, seeking for things to swallow whole, and wrap their maws around its skull. turretfire or a nutcracker could hit its mask. a pack of dogs fighting over it could (and eventually do) crack its mask. but it does it anyways, no matter how it disturbs itself or its team, because that is the role it has embraced; it is happy to die for them. it can afford to get eaten alive, so why wouldn't it place itself between a dog and its beloved crew? it is simultaneously ready to die and terrified of death

[simplegenius042]

Music Monday

Tagged by @josephseedismyfather

Tagging @socially-awkward-skeleton @shallow-gravy @inafieldofdaisies @strangefable @strafethesesinners @direwombat @derelictheretic @titiagls @wrathfulrook @carlosoliveiraa @adelaidedrubman @thewanderer-000 @henbased @josephslittledeputy @direwombat @g0dspeeed @nightbloodbix @afarcryfrommymain @voidika @ladyoriza @florbelles @vampireninjabunnies-blog @minilev @snake-in-the-garden @softtidesworld @onehornedbeast @cassietrn @chazz-anova @megraen @deputyash @dephellseed @deputy-morgan-malone @skoll-sun-eater @fourlittleseedlings @la-grosse-patate @cloudofbutterflies92 @starsandskies and @i-am-the-balancing-point + anyone else who wants to join in. Here's my taglist.

Three songs for The UnTitledverse, Wings And Horns' original spin off trilogy and Far Cry The Silver Chronicles below the cut.

First is "My Ordinary Life" for the main antagonist of The UnTitledverse, Zachariah the Orchestrator, the "Hand at Fate's Table" and the second-borne Eldritch that is the center point of majority of the multiverse's issues.

"They tell me that I'm special, I smile and shake my head I'll give them stories to tell friends about the things I said They tell me I'm so humble, I say I'm turning red They let me lie to them and don't feel like they've been misled They give so much to me, I'm losing touch get me? Served on a silver platter, ask for second they just let me

They tell me I'm a god, I'm lost in the fascade Six feet off the ground at all times I think I'm feelin' odd No matter what I make, they never see mistakes Makin' so much bread, I don't care that they're just being fake They tell me they're below me, I act like I'm above The people blend together but I would be lost without their love

Can you heal me? Have I gained too much? When you become untouchable you're unable to touch Is there a real me? Pop the champagne It hurts me just to think and I don't do pain."

Silva may not be aware of it, but she actually has a rivalry with the Voice, or at least her supernatural Third Eye does. Abridged explanation of the Third Eye: some mystical entity commonly tied to the human soul but doesn't necessarily need to be to help its user, usually just retains memories and personality to give some back to the renewed soul upon reincarnating so the variants of the person don't become carbon copies, however instances like Silva and Paul who don't have a soul (due to the circumstances of their "births") they instead only build up their own Third Eye to protect themselves, which gives them back their memories, personality and skills into their next lives deep in their subconscious, so while they don't consciously remember most familiar things they instinctively do and gravitate towards that. The Third Eye also has an OP mode and can enhance the user who is aware and works symbiotically with it in ways humans back in the beginning of the multiverse could do. Paul realized this and gave Silva some subtle lessons (never explicitly saying what it was for) so Silva just thought it was meditation to make her more spiritual with her soul or something and doesn't actually realize until much, much later in her life that she's powerful enough to kill a God if she wanted to. There's a lot more for the Third Eye but I'll explain in a more detailed post.

Anyway, the Voice genuinely hates Silva for constantly foiling its plans in some shape or form, especially by the time of Silva's Hope, as the Voice hasn't exactly made itself look capable of governing one corner of the universe to its extremely cruel and unforgiving superior. And since the Voice is very biased and hypocritical on why "a deputy woman trying to live a normal life is more deserving of torment and needless suffering than the the prophet who killed his daughter for it and the other prophet who gaslit, gatekeeped, manipulated, mansplained, manwhored and manslaughtered his way through life", once Silva becomes aware of the Voice, its on sight. Anyway song below:

"Kill me again, again and again But I come back knowing so much more Learning all your tricks I'll make you sick Because the truth is...* I'll make you quit."

"Try to stay [first], [have to] stay first** You're still good-good, admit to this Don't fight anymore, it's such a snore One more step, and I'll make it war."

"And I still love the way I "hurt" you."

"It's determination, whoa-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-yeah Whoa-oh-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-yeah.

I love the way, I love the way I love the way you keep on trying I love the way (I love the way), I love the way (I love the way) I love the way you keep on dying."

(* = Obviously I had to emit Sans name due to that probably not being the Voice's name ** = The Voice is against Silva, and since Frisk is from Undertale, I had to adapt the lyrics here a bit)

A song for the unnamed original trilogy I'm working on, which spins off from the events of Wings And Horns, but focusing on two characters who appeared in it, unnamed but can confirm they're both women, with one being trans. This pair are the first humans to have ever explored the Multiverse, and the trilogy will be following their story in life, navigating the aftermath of the abolishing of the soulmate system, discovering + exploring the Multiverse, and seeking out the Wheel of Reincarnation in the Afterlife, while facing internal and external problems, the most prominent being the Mad Kin of Carnage himself, Discord.

"I'm born to run, down rocky cliffs Give me grace, bury my sins Shattered glass and black holes Can't hold me back from where I need to go

Whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh

Yellow hills and valleys deep I watch them move under my feet Stranger things, have come and gone To see the world and take the throne

Don't hold back Oh, I won't hold back

I'm gonna live my life like I'm gonna die young Like it's never enough, like I'm born to run I'm gonna spend my time like tomorrow won't come Do whatever I want, like I'm born to run

I wanna see Paris (Hey), I wanna see Tokyo I wanna be careless (Hey), even if I break my bones I'm gonna live my life like I'm gonna die young Like it's never enough, like I'm born to run.

A winding road, where strangers meet To feel the love of a warm drink My body moves, it's speaking loud Don't have to say what I'm thinking now

Don't hold back Oh, I won't hold back

I'm gonna live my life like I'm gonna die young Like it's never enough, like I'm born to run I'm gonna spend my time like tomorrow won't come Do whatever I want, like I'm born to run

I wanna see Paris (Hey), I wanna see Tokyo I wanna be careless (Hey), even if I break my bones I'm gonna live my life like I'm gonna die young Like it's never enough, like I'm born to run.

All these things, I've seen and done I live my life like I'm born to run All these things, I've seen and done I live my life like I'm born to run All these things, I've seen and done (I was born, born, born, born, born to run) I live my life like I'm born to run (I was born, born, born, born, born to run)

I'm gonna live my life like I'm gonna die young Like it's never enough, like I'm born to run I'm gonna spend my time like tomorrow won't come Do whatever I want, like I'm born to run

I wanna see Paris (Hey), I wanna see Tokyo I wanna be careless (Hey), even if I break my bones I'm gonna live my life like I'm gonna die young Like it's never enough, like I'm born to run.

Oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh Oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh!"

[toughtink]

this miiiight be premature, but i feel like we are entering a new and worse age for walt disney animation studios, similar to the early 2000s when they began efforts to smother their traditionally animated movies in favor of their new cg movies. that era from 2000-2010 had a few really good movies, including my personal favorite lilo and stitch, but also contained the lows of dinosaur, home on the range, chicken little, and bolt. it was also the time of churning out unnecessary sequels via their television animation studio.

except now the unnecessary sequels are an endless parade of planned remakes, which i guess are making enough money for them to keep doing them?? and the giant corporate overlord disney (not to be confused with the animation studio itself) is letting marketing and execs dictate both what wdas makes as well as pixar’s offerings. that rough patch in the aughts was also reflected in the rest of the industry at the time—everyone was racing to get a handle on how to make new pipelines for cg and the stories told definitely suffered for it. but now, those other studios are turning out new and better and groundbreaking animated films that leave disney in the dust in so many ways.

i guess the question is—will more disney movies underperform like wish? and if so, will that loss be enough for them to trust their artists over those in marketing? or will they continue down the path of profit over everything and decide animation isn’t worth it?

in so many ways, every area of our media landscape feels like it’s cannibalizing itself as companies buy each other up and destroy whole studios, but disney above all has become an ouroboros—constantly feeding off of its past successes, all the while stripping any deeper meaning or resonance from those stories to be left with the husk that is the Marketable Intellectual Property. “here’s Nostalgia for you, served up on a silver (enameled) platter, please don’t try to remember why you actually liked this movie originally, just buy the doll or the tshirt or the theme park ticket with this character’s face slapped on it. it’s all we know how to do now.”

[tenth-of-july]

In betrayals, there is peace.

After three consecutive betrayals from friends who you thought had understood you from the very depths of your whole, and heartbreaks from people who were subtly interconnected with those prior betrayals, you think that peace is long gone from the hauntings of your past. How can you think of peace when all you can hear, see, feel, and dream about are those specific events placed at the tip of your adolescence? I found myself running towards pursuits to fill the time where they could eventually creep up on me. I found a job, joined a community, went back to reading, studied harder, all that effort just for the thoughts to consume me at night when I am most vulnerable and with nothing to think of. 

With the realization that they continue to wrap their arms around me even after my attempts of blocking them out, I stopped running and ended up searching for other people who could fill in the spaces they left with no one to occupy. And you think that this person who makes you laugh, treats you drinks, checks up on you, gives you presents, sings karaoke with you, records an instrumental to one of your favorite songs, makes a list of the things of what to do when you're upset, are these people who can make you whole again. So why was I still left empty handed despite them all?

Those people can say whatever they want to say—however they want to make it sound, but those people I have talked to will never make me forget how "they" would say or sound and that is not as remotely close as to theirs. I am all those people ever want, but "they" were all I ever wanted. I still end up with loose fragments of "them" mainlined in the stems of my brain to perceive those people as a substitute of "them". And I am mad that those people are not a carbon copy, that no one is a decent replacement; mad that there is only "them" that makes me write like this, how I write like it's my type of an enormous intake of dopamine. I say "them" as a bundle of people who have collectively trickled down the veins of my existence. The people of my betrayals. 

With never finding peace comes the intrinsic entwinement with grief, and in the past, I once read a conversation from the internet and it goes as, "How do you process grief?" and the reply was, "By running from it until it finds me in the middle of a sunny street on a beautiful day". The conversation perfectly encapsulates what I feel most of the time. Sometimes I find myself walking down the street on my way to a destination and enjoying my day when I am suddenly reminded of my past with who I used to be with the people who have betrayed me, and I get stuck in an endless loop thinking of what we were, what happened in between, and what we could have been.

Now with finding peace, they say it comes with acceptance and forgiveness. I imagine getting up during a beautiful morning and coming to a realization that what happened happened—that I don't feel anything bad about it anymore, and that I forgive everyone who has ever made me feel less from the trials and tribulations given to me. I imagine that to realize you are at peace with the past, is to receive it in a peaceful position. Peace, presumably, should be received in its own form—peaceful.

But to me, peace did not serve itself in a silver platter. It did not wake me up in a beautiful morning where birds chirped their songs and the noise from outside miraculously formed into melodies. But rather, peace punched me in the gut during Christmas Eve at twelve-thirty, one of the most depressing and frustrating nights I have ever lived to experience, with two separate messages and forty-six characters: "Merry Christmas! Hope you're doing well now!!!" 

It was a message from someone who, in context, was not part of the betrayals, but a part of the heartbreaks. Though, he serves as a main component of what stirred inside me that stitched together both betrayals and heartbreaks when his audacious remains that were left in the bottom layers of my mind has resuscitated itself with those messages. It opened up the type of wound that I have been meticulously tending to, and his words sprinkled salt and poured vinegar all over it.

Other than feeling the burning sensation of this metaphorical wound, I also felt like I got shot, and that bullet perfectly pierced through the layers of my skin right in the heart. A flawless and consummate trigger, forcefully spilling out the carefully hidden and well-kept thoughts that I no longer wanted to confront. Something exploded inside my body and it ripped itself open—an inspiration born from his audacity and my reoccurring hurt. And so I write my frustrations away, the highlight of my piece being my third sentence, "Christ's Mass and the nailing of Jesus was not told for people like you to come back to one's life after four months of desperate prayers to make the sick feeling and churning of my stomach with just the thought of you to go away". It was relieving having the words come out of me, but almost unbelievable that I was able to write something so intricate and beautiful in a sentence—but also so devastating, like a black veil worn by widows in the funerals of their husbands. After finishing my two-paragraphed piece that I like to call a "prose poetry", characterized by its absence of stanzas but bounteous of figurative language, the rest of what's left in my system continued to spill out. It was the continuous flow of my blood, my words, coming out from the hole left by the pistol, free and unforgiving. I write again and again, my thoughts seemingly never ending. I write about him for another four or five times. I write about them as well. Their betrayals, their sins, their virtues, how I used to imagine them, and how they are and will continue to be eternally etched in my marrows. It continued to spiral, my love for writing and the want to contribute to my kind of genre. I write about my love for my sister, my mother, my disgust for certain metaphors, my view and desperation for romance, my loneliness, me.

As I continue writing these complicated pieces of literature dedicated to people who have hurt and loved me in the past, I learned two things: One, I do not need to forgive and forget to find peace. I learned to live with remembering. They are found in the corners of my room where the miscellaneous lie, the sebum of unwashed dishes, the freshly pressed clothes, or the excessive ink on my pen. It may not be as constant anymore, but I allowed it to stay, acknowledging it, but never accepting as I did not deserve any of what was given to me. I can never accept. Two, to succumb to writing literature and showing it to people is my way of finding peace. Writing this is my peace. The relief of putting it into words is like being able to knit tangled yarns in different colors. And people being able to read my pieces and encode them on their own gives me a sense of being partially heard—my pain and bearings seen as a mosaic of some sort. It is a form of art—it is my art. And I wouldn't want it any other way. 

Peace is subjective, and my idea of it is unfortunately not a one-size-fits-all. It can be deemed as misguiding or vindictive, that I cannot let go of the past despite the years that have passed. But to me, soaking in the hurt is my form of healing. I let myself be exposed to the situation over and over until I am eventually unfazed. I write it down no matter the state of my mind or the colors of the clouds, doing nothing but materializing the happenings as letters that form into words, into sentences, and until it ultimately becomes a coherent pattern of my thoughts. So after three consecutive betrayals and heartbreaks from friends and others who you thought had understood you from the very depths of your whole, you think that peace is long gone from the hauntings of your past. It isn't. When peace punched me in the gut that Christmas Eve, there was a pang in my chest and a long to express—I felt alive again. I wanted to write. Peace is where I am and what I am doing right now. It is the flow of my thoughts and the tapping of my fingers. It is the beating of my heart and my ability of feeling. Peace is always with me for as long as I am able to turn everything into words.

[lialox]

Character analysis: Kratos and Lloyd

Why give Lloyd the locket? Why send Kratos to Derris-Kharlan?

At first I thought it was weird that Kratos gives Lloyd his locket in the Kratos-route in game. Like imagine if your dad gave you the baby photos he kept in his wallet? Like wtf would a kid do with that, it’s a dad thing to keep around. That thing would would do more good for Kratos, all alone in Derris Kharlan anyways. His office being plain and having no decorations is canon. He deserves a family picture up there.

But writing and trying to understand what goes on in his head made me get it. Kratos in game has a habit of giving Lloyd literally everything. Spoiled kid. He doesn’t question the “why”, he either shows Lloyd how to get it, or gives it to Lloyd on a silver platter. He’s fuelled by immense guilt and is doing everything to make up for it.

Early on in game Lloyd voices his frustrations to Kratos more than once about not knowing anything about his parents. I think Kratos was trying to give Lloyd a memory of his family, before all the bloodshed and trauma, since Lloyd wanted to remember so badly. Parents was the topic of the day in their Flanoir scene. Their relationship was good enough at that point that Kratos was comfortable enough to allow Lloyd to acknowledge Kratos as family. Lloyd goes easy on him at the fight before Origin, because he understands how much Kratos actually cares when he sees that Kratos kept that locket with him the whole time.

In every other route, Kratos would still be sulking, and give Lloyd everything EXCEPT a memory of them as a family so that Lloyd can move on without his shitty father. Lloyd does not hold back and severely injures him with all of his pent up frustration. I’m a fan of Kratos’ character but I truly believe he is a terrible father during ToS. He’s only doing what he does to make himself feel better, it’s not really about Lloyd, it’s really about his feelings and his guilt. 

Lloyd understands people pretty well. He gets that from Dirk for sure. Maybe Anna.

So while Dirk is right that some part of Lloyd wanted to go with him, there’s an even bigger part that knows Kratos needs to work on himself. “He’s got his own things to do.”

Because if anyone else in his party were to go to a different planet to save a race, he wouldn’t let them go by themselves right? If it was Colette, or anyone else he had a high affection with he would go on that journey together. The entire plot of ToS begins because Lloyd is NOT the type of person to let the people he cares about journey alone to save people.

Does he realize this means he may never see his dad again? Absolutely.

Is there a possibility Kratos was looking for a place to die out in space? Lloyd knows this.

Why does Lloyd still send him off? Lloyd trusts him enough to understand that “there’s no meaning in dying”. Getting sent to Derris Kharlan is literally serving a lifetime sentence in solitary. Kratos needs this for himself, to ease the immense guilt that he has. If it was about Lloyd, he would have stayed and made up for lost time and done everything he can to help him in his goals. He is the only human who knows all the secrets of the world and has the most experience in leadership, diplomacy, and guiding the masses when the planet itself changes. He is the most powerful ally Lloyd will ever have in the regenerated world. The option to let Derris Kharlan complete a 100 year cycle on its own is also there since it’s not like the angels will die, nor would the lifeless beings do anything other than ordered. (What, like they’re going to die of hunger or old age with those Cruxis Crystals?) And he's forgetting that the Desians ALSO need to atone and he can't atone for them. Kratos has the option to just dump everyone there and procrastinate finding a place for the half-elves of Cruxis until the comet completes its orbit and returns to Aselia. 

But he doesn’t stay. Because it’s not about helping Lloyd.

He’s a weak man who pushes everything on his child, including the absolution of 4000 years worth of guilt and disregards how his child feels. He’s so used to lying that he’s disguised his selfishness under “I’m doing this for my son” but it’s not. He loves his kid for sure, but Kratos’ one and only motivation is guilt.

Guilt for failing to take care of Mithos as he promised Martel. Guilt for making a mess of the world. Guilt for killing Anna. Guilt for being Lloyd’s father, because that fact alone almost got him killed several times. 

He tends to make the wrong decisions because his focus isn’t actually on morality or to a certain extent, family. There’s a scene in Tales of Fandom where he tells Mithos he’s ok with Lloyd living out his days as a monster and it doesn’t matter as long as he’s alive so pretty please spare his life. Disgusting. The foundations of his actions are all about how to make himself feel better, and acting on that selfishness often times makes things worse.

TLDR; Kratos sucks. Lloyd understands Kratos better than Kratos does.

[rametarin]

No compromise. No land.

Russia, as a country, as a military, needs to be put through the meat grinder and economically devastated. It needs to tabulate losses to gains at the end of the day and realize that it can't use circumstances of economics, or force, to get its way regardless of the will of the people it tries to impose its will upon. That the rewards will never, EVER be worth the loss for trying to do what it wants. It needs to try and sneak a pound of chicken and burn its nose on the pan.

As a nation, it behaves like a bully. It always has. And while it may not officially be an empire, it has an imperialist mindset. All of Europe must be Russia. All of Asia must be Russia. All of the Middle East and Africa must be Russia. All of the Arctic must be Russia. It will not stop. It will never stop. Far as the Russosupremacists are concerned, you're sitting in their seat, this is their bar, and you should be bounced for being in their way. They may just not be telling you as much yet, because they can't impose it.

Ukraine should not be forced to give up any of its sovereign land for peace, AND THAT INCLUDES CRIMEA and ALL pieces stolen by Russia since 2014, and the international community needs to demand Russia give Ukraine reparations for every person killed by them in these senseless conflicts and attempted thefts. And until Russia complies, these expenses will be taken out first from every bit of commerce that goes into or out of Russia. And massive sanctions and fines for violating this by member nations that violate this.

Moreover, these stipulations should demand not JUST reforms to their monetary institutions and systems, but anti-corruption campaigns and compliance with international regulations on good business. Unless Russia meets these standards, then it should be considered a global belligerent capable of invading any country around it at any time. It has done this to itself and proven it's willing to both be the aggressor as well as then threaten nuclear war for not getting what it wants. No member of the Russian government, nor wealthy upper class, should be considered off limits. Until Russia unfucks and uncorrupts its system to the standards of the EU and UN, it doesn't get to do business outside its border. Holdings out-of-borders by Russian citizens internationally should be seized as reparations. That includes shares in foreign fuel and mineral and mining rights, or drilling rights.

This entire stupid venture deserves the international community locking down Russian missile bases and intercepting them so they CAN'T go off without going off within Russian space. And it serves as a perfect opportunity for the international community to punish Russia economically and financially with access (or lack thereof) to things it needs outside of its own borders.

We have a perfect opportunity here to cleanse Russia of the shit system it has and introduce reforms and changes so that terrible autocratic system has a very very low probability of coming back, and it was given to the world on a silver fucking platter. We'd be fools not to take it.

[serivory]

A Run for One’s Pudding

A Mono and Runaway Kid drabble that was inspired by a random writing prompt (granted, it consisted of two words only). But this was pretty fun to write nonetheless. Helped me develop their dynamic a bit better and put my own depiction of the characters out there. Though, there are few things to note before you start reading so I wouldn’t recommend skipping this part. They’re not referred to as “Mono” or “RK/Seven/etc.” here. Check their names listed below: Mono = Fib Runaway Kid = Feo That is all. NOW you can read. xD

━━ ⋆✵⋆ ━━

Food was never served on a silver platter, especially when you were predestined to become someone’s dinner should you waltz into the wrong room at the wrong time. The gaffers of the ship exercised no restraint in fulfilling their duty through whatever means as either a chef, a janitor, or the Geisha herself. Long story short, food never came by easily. If it did, then pigs may very well start flying.

However…the surplus of sugar and fruit sitting on the table for all to see was an exception.

The urge to purloin the plated delicacy was TEMPTING I tell ya. Fib stared at the banana pudding in all of its glory through the eyeholes of his paper bag, trying to concoct a brilliant plan to grab the glass bowl without anyone noticing. Feo, however, threw caution to the wind and was going in without much of a warning or preamble. The boy blew past Fib, which caught the poor soul off guard and rendered him speechless for a good few seconds. He wasn’t given time to say anything in protest when Feo was already pulling himself up on one of the legs of the chair, shoving his foot in the small divots etched onto the wood (which was proven useful as it facilitated the process in climbing up the chair).

Fib sputtered incoherently in confusion, looking upon the shackled boy in disbelief. Aaaaaahhhhh to heck with it. If Feo was going in without a plan, then Fib may as well do the same. With a sigh, he followed in pursuit, scaling up the chair leg, his eyes trained on the other lad who was taking the lead by a large margin. MAN can he move! Fib could’ve sworn that the shackle bound to Feo’s ankle would’ve served as a hindrance, but.. apparently not.

The paper-bag’ed boy ascended up the ladder-back backrest, pressing the soles of his feet against the splintered wood to launch himself towards the table. For a solid moment, he felt like he was flying, gravity’s efforts in taking a hold of him being all for naught as he soared through the air without a care in the world, paying no mind to the altitudinous distance between him and the floor. He was certain that he would make it to the table, only for the realization that he was about to crash into it at full force dawning on him a moment too late. And crash, he did. He smacked into the edge of the table, the impact knocking the air right out of him.

Ooooooh…that looked like it hurt. Feo grimaced, and a pained expression made itself at home on his face. He made haste towards the bagged boy, offering a hand—that of which Fib gratefully took as he was still reeling from the ever-painful mishap. That was going to hurt tomorrow…

“You okay…?”

“. …Yeah…” The strain in Fib’s voice could’ve told otherwise. He was…just gonna lie down…yeah…wAIT no, he simply couldn’t! They had a heist to pull, and he wasn’t going down with a fight. But gOD that hurt like a bi-

“Okay…you take one side, I take the other.” Feo motioned the other boy over, who was making a speedy recovery (surprisingly enough). With stuttered breaths, Fib crouched down so he could easily slip his hands underneath the bowl, which was a lot heavier than he thought it would be. Thankfully, the burden was shared among both him and Feo, so it wasn’t as overbearing as first expected. But it was heavy nonetheless, and they were very small.

But underestimating these two would be a fatal mistake on anyone’s end. They sure packed a punch coupled by something they’ve never fallen short of… *jazz hands* strategy! Or at least some semblance of one.

“Alright…ready? One…two…one...two…”

With every hushed ‘one’, both Fib and Feo moved the foot closest to the edge in sync. And with every ‘two’, the other foot followed. It was a steady, cadenced process that worked wonders. Before they knew it, they’ve reached the very edge. Now…getting down from the table posed yet another challenge. This pudding better be worth all this effort…or Fib would’ve nigh-broken a few ribs for nothing.

His body felt strained, as did their chances of making a seamless escape with the giant bowl of pudding. And to make matters worse, footsteps were approaching, slow and lugging; surely belonged to the fat simpletons—whose minds dwelled on nothing else aside from their stomach—that often roamed around the ship. Oh no, those fat and ugly guests weren’t scoring this viand of a treat before he and Feo were. After everything they’ve been through, they should at least have THIS. Maybe for once, they could rest easy on a full stomach.

━━ ⋆✵⋆ ━━

They made it…

Not unscathed, as eluding the rapid guests on foot whilst holding a heavy glass bowl proved to be a dilemma in itself. But, they were able to get away with not-so-rotten luck. Fib never pictured their “seamless” escape with a lot of holes and loose threads, but he was satisfied with the outcome nonetheless as he sallied forth with Feo and their score towards an empty room.

Well…I wouldn’t say empty, seeing how the first to greet them were a couple of nomes. Though I wouldn’t say greet either, since they scurried off and dashed for the nearest hiding spot the moment Fib and Feo entered the room. The pair deposited the bowl down onto the floor, Feo kicking a pesky sausage away in the process.

Alas! What Fib thought was a false hope built on paper-thin chances of survival became a reality. They’d gotten away with nabbing a bowl of pudding. While this seemed trivial to any outside observer who knew not of the barbaric circumstances they were born in, it was a feather in the pair’s cap. Not only was this another success under their belt, it proved that they could work well together as a team. Yes, there were flaws in a few of their methods (e.g. Feo running in without a plan), but not everything was bound to go as swimmingly as one would expect. Besides, things turned out, didn’t they?

Feo took a moment to catch his breath, the toll this heist had taken on his body finally hitting him with the force of a bullet train. A small “heeeyyy..!!” caught his attention, his gaze redirecting towards the boy donning a paper bag.

“. .You okay..?” It was obvious that Feo was just as spent as Fib was, but it wouldn’t hurt asking.

Feo nodded—which was more of a tired bob of his head. “Y.. Yeah…I just need to uh.. sit down,” There were no chairs in sight. “Oooor not. I’ll…I’ll lean,” He props his hand up against the wall, which now served as a support beam. However, that did little to stave off the exhaustion in his weary arms and legs and he felt himself slipping with every passing second. “Or just…straight up collapse…” Aaaaaaaand onto the floor he went.

Fib felt bad for laughing, but he was relieved that it didn’t draw any offense from the other boy sprawled on the floor, who too found himself spiraling into a fit of laughter ( albeit, breathy having been worn to a frazzle). The bagged lad strolled on over to Feo’s side, taking a seat on the floor next to him. It was obvious what their next course of action was, but neither had the energy to get up and find a utensil of the sort. Not like they had the time to snag a cutlery or two while dodging guests that rampaged the halls like there was no tomorrow.

Fib casted his unseen gaze down at the other boy, paying heed to every minute detail about him. The way his chest rose and fell with every steady breath, his arms resting on either side of his head, and his long fringe sticking to his forehead with sweat. Fib hesitated for a hot second as he reached a hand towards Feo’s face, combing his fingers through his bangs by means of brushing them back a bit. With every strand of hair cleared away, he could get a good view of the clandestine top half of the boy’s face. Feo’s eyes slid open, like curtains parting to reveal a chartreuse mise-en-scène, embodying an untouched plantation with its thriving, dense growths; undefiled and free from corruption. He’d has never seen Feo’s eyes up close before. He’d gotten a coup d’oeil a few times in the past as they peered up at Fib through the long fringe, quite like a komorebi through a canopy of leaves. But being able to view them without any obscurity left the same, wonderful ache one would attain when gazing upon a sea of stars.

The paper-bag’ed boy hadn’t realized he’d been staring ‘til a good few minutes had passed, which was long enough to be deemed awkward—as attested by the subtle left-to-right shift of Feo’s eyes, like tree branches dithering by the gentle force of a zephyr.

Fib withdrew his hand and turned away, clearing his throat. Feo mused over his reaction, suppressing a small grin threatening to make itself apparent.

As a last-ditch effort in ridding them of the awkward tension permeating the air, Feo propped himself up on his elbows, casting a grateful smile up at the flustered boy. “Hey…thanks for having my back…”

Fib’s head swiveled back around so he was facing him (had he looked a liiiiitle closer, he could see Fib’s eyes widen by a fraction of an inch through the peepholes). “O-Oh.. it’s…nothing.”

“No. It’s not,” The clarity in Feo’s voice shook the other boy to the core. Not in a bad way, of course. Something about his hard-bitten tone of voice shunned every doubt or pretension of dispute, which was always followed by a swell of reassurance. It.. was something he could find comfort in. “Now it’s my turn to ask. Are.. you okay..? You crashed into the table pretty hard back there…” How Feo can shift from earnest to timid in a matter of seconds was beyond Fib, who prodded at his abdomen. It was a bit tender, but it wasn’t horrible.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve been through worse.” While Fib stated that in a manner to assure the boy that he was faring alright, it seemed to have accomplished the exact opposite.

If Feo wasn’t knackered out to the point of exhaustion, he would be pressing on that matter further. He couldn’t bear the thought of his bagged companion wagering his life on the off-chance that he’d flee from the many imminences the world threw his way. And the fact that he’d placed Fib’s life at stake during this “pudding heist” deposited a well of guilt in the hollow of his chest. But yet again, he was far too tired to dwell on it. His body was demanding the sweet release of sleep (no, not death) at this rate.

“If you’re sure..” Feo sat up, his bangs—which was long overdue for a trim—falling over his eyes, much to Fib’s dismay.

“I’m sure..! I’m sure’ing my head off, see?” Fib vigorously nodded his head, the paper bag bobbing at the sudden movement. This earned a soft giggle from the other boy, one reminiscent of tinkling, handheld bells. ‘Twas music to one’s ears, summoning a hint of cheer to a usually cheerless atmosphere. Even the nomes were beginning to ease up, identifying these two as not a foe, but a friend.

And Fib didn’t have to see the other boy’s eyes to picture two, upside-down crescent moons paired with the toothy grin plastered on his face. An imaginative young fellow he was, always trying to fill in the blanks somehow, even with what little he could pick up on through the little eye-hole cutouts of his bag.

It’s safe to say that he discovered the first two wonders of the world that day: Feo’s eyes, and Feo’s voice.

[lesmislettersdaily]

At Bombarda's

Volume 1: Fantine; Book 3: In The Year 1817; Chapter 5: At Bombarda's

The Russian mountains having been exhausted, they began to think about dinner; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bombarda’s public house, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-Élysées by that famous restaurant-keeper, Bombarda, whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near Delorme Alley.

A large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had been obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd); two windows whence they could survey beyond the elms, the quay and the river; a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the panes; two tables; upon one of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets, mingled with the hats of men and women; at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, and bottles; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine; very little order on the table, some disorder beneath it;

“They made beneath the table

A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable,”

says Molière.

This was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o’clock in the morning, had reached at half-past four in the afternoon. The sun was setting; their appetites were satisfied.

The Champs-Élysées, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The horses of Marly, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent body-guards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the Avenue de Neuilly; the white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de la Concorde, which had become the Place Louis XV. once more, was choked with happy promenaders. Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys suspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from button-holes in the year 1817. Here and there choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passers-by, who formed into circles and applauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was destined to strike the Hundred Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain:—

“Rendez-nous notre père de Gand,

Rendez-nous notre père.”

“Give us back our father from Ghent,

Give us back our father.”

Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even decorated with the fleur-de-lys, like the bourgeois, scattered over the large square and the Marigny square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses; others were engaged in drinking; some journeyman printers had on paper caps; their laughter was audible. Everything was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace and profound royalist security; it was the epoch when a special and private report of Chief of Police Anglès to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris, terminated with these lines:—

“Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats. The populace is restless in the provinces; it is not in Paris. These are very pretty men, Sire. It would take all of two of them to make one of your grenadiers. There is nothing to be feared on the part of the populace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable that the stature of this population should have diminished in the last fifty years; and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the Revolution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble.

Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion; that does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreover, the cat so despised by Count Anglès possessed the esteem of the republics of old. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to serve as pendant to the Minerva Aptera of the Piræus, there stood on the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenuous police of the Restoration beheld the populace of Paris in too “rose-colored” a light; it is not so much of “an amiable rabble” as it is thought. The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek: no one sleeps more soundly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy than he, no one can better assume the air of forgetfulness; let him not be trusted nevertheless; he is ready for any sort of cool deed; but when there is glory at the end of it, he is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the 10th of August; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz. He is Napoleon’s stay and Danton’s resource. Is it a question of country, he enlists; is it a question of liberty, he tears up the pavements. Beware! his hair filled with wrath, is epic; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a chlamys. Take care! he will make of the first Rue Grenétat which comes to hand Caudine Forks. When the hour strikes, this man of the faubourgs will grow in stature; this little man will arise, and his gaze will be terrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps. It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the Revolution, mixed with arms, conquers Europe. He sings; it is his delight. Proportion his song to his nature, and you will see! As long as he has for refrain nothing but la Carmagnole, he only overthrows Louis XVI.; make him sing the Marseillaise, and he will free the world.

This note jotted down on the margin of Anglès’ report, we will return to our four couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close.

[garfisded]

There was a king who ruled the land, his majesty was in command. With silver eyes and a scarlet eagle, Showered silver on the people.... The night sweetened by the cold air strikes the bell of the high tower of the castle making a sound eerie as the sculpt on the old silver of the bell. The look out and the bell hand were both up by the loud snaring sound and cursed its existence. The bell was not hollow and the wind had nowhere to go but as it happened almost every other night the wind somehow traveled in and out creating a hissing snare almost quite with its loudness. The whole of the high towers watching post was slippery due to the condensation and as with many cold winter nights the tower was covered with a cloudy mist and the city below was barely visible. The King had ordered a tightening of all security even within inner walls and these were many of the oddball jobs that most had to go through on whims of the king. Though generous he was paranoid like no king before even of tales. The recent dreams of the past were of no concern to most as a humane experience of everyday regret or lost opportunity. The Gods if any for this King had blessed him with reoccurring nightmares of not regrets but of future and the futures past that presented itself as the present. The King had and had been a tyrant for those of the old ways of thinking, a look away from god is a look away from anything humane hence he was naturally dubbed the devil of the castle on a hill of lies foretold by lost prophets of an evil cult, that of science. The king threw money not as once did his ancestors at crowds or the temples. He took the money to the seers of science, for education in its dark arts. The people themselves were not happy, as with most rules. Even with a state of abundance of life and its fruits of pleasure the people were not happy. The sadness of a King not accepting the all true fact of life was all that was troubling for the people. Some spent time in debates with his cults, others spent time theorising and conspiring. Though the King feared more the future and the present he had all but forgotten and forgave the past of his ancestors. He ended his wars, he ended grievances with past families. The Future was of uncertainty but the uncertainty of the futures past i.e. the present was what scared the King. He wished control, he desired conquest but the fates of these decisions led him to often hours of anxiety of the outcome. His only relief and the deciding factor to the answer of these questions was what the seers called the probability of an outcome. He prayed so dearly every time, he stood in front of the black wall and did the prayers of calligraphy of symbols and numbers to their 10th. His passion and devotion unlike any. The world was now engulfed in what some call its final year. The year of the fated destruction of the first and last regime of the first cycle of rebirth. The Gods decided the first to be the purest and the one deciding the fair and unfair, the just and the unjust, the civilized and the uncivilized. The path chosen by one king of the hundreds would befall the final regime and cave it into the hell of the afterlife. For the first time will the dead dance with living on the floor of hell and the caved in earth of the kingdom will serve as the platter for the gods of the beyond The prophecy so true that the Kings before had but shamans as advisors and all was decided by the will of the whims of a mystical magic. One of the occults and made of pure death. The King as of now was well aware and chose the death of his people as a Harbinger of the death of millions by the hands of the  dead. Why he chose what he did was a game of numbers. He prayed and prayed hard and found the answer to the 100th before choosing what he did. Intentions unknown and the rule of the divine chosen as a constant the people followed to demise with little resistance other than the complaints. One would call these people sheeps but the herder was the divine and this the questions raised were just thoughts, fleeting. The randomness of the divine was not the question of the living but the answer of the divine of its own actions. The King on the final day of the reckoning was approached by the leader of the occult and the question asked was direct with no connotations. Why choose to give up the divine while still following his pre-destined path. Does the contradiction not stare him into his face for once can he not look beyond the rebellion of his feeble mind against the very divine he wishes to be fed too. The king spoke in a way that was unlike him, his voice beyond comparison to his own and the tonality of wisdom of a sage, Why must the path one choose the one that has to be followed, is the choice of his own path not the very proof of free will. If the divine chose a path for me, will my deviation from it not just be my proof of free will but if it leads to the path destined it is still my free will of choice that created it. The idea that free will in destiny is impossible is untrue for free will creates Destiny may it be written one way the destiny one has to follow is created once free will is added to the decision. The shaman of the old crumbled under the weight of such an argument and cursed himself for stooping to the level of a king begotten of his own work and duty. The day of reckoning was upon the king himself suited in the greatest armour of the first of his lineage. The studed scarlet in the shape of an eagle at the helm with a sword of silver as beautiful as god himself. The massacre began but the fate was twisted for the one leading the charge against his own was the King mounted on his horse as he charged and the dead danced with the living with swords made of bones of their own comrades. The King had wiped his own kingdom as a feast for the gods to behold. The gods were replaced that day by the king himself for he had chosen his destiny and created himself the lord of it. The king fulfilled a destiny of the gods that was never meant to be, to be the god that never was. He created pain and suffering  of new kinds to instill hos godly power. The first and last regime of the first cycle of rebirth, ended with god being instilled into the second.

[plutoniferous]

Nevermore

Yet again, I found myself buried in the throes of the investigation. Between paper, history and evidence was where I built my fortress. Thousands of notes scrawled in messy cursive bled into the notebooks strewn about me. Discarded pens littered the ground, the ink long since ran out. It wouldn’t be long before I handed them the true killer on a silver platter. Of course, this passion was only a momentary necessity. Only until I had my closure. Only until justice was served.

Besides, it would be all the more strange if I had merely accepted the occurrence.

My hand stilled, fingertips stained black with fresh ink. Somewhere behind me it watched, silent and foreboding. It was a curious being, choosing to conceal itself within my shadow and act in a way that better befitted a human rather than the earthly creature it should be – a rather absurd notion obvious through its understanding of human language and a deep-seeded fear that seemed to encompass it, distinctly different from the blank expressions and emotions of its brethren.

Curiouser, despite feeling its constant presence, I could scarcely hear it. It was almost ghostly. (For that thought I chastised myself, it was nothing more than a raven and if I continued in that direction, one that hadn’t no basis whatsoever, I would turn out like her). Yet, I couldn’t help but notice that today, something about it was different – impatient, almost. It ruffled its feathers and shifted – claws clicking silently on the bookshelf, almost as if it were waiting for something. Odd. I shook my head, trying to free myself from its influence - dislodge it from my mind. The bird held no particular importance to my investigation – and as a bird it never would. As a result, I tried to ignore when with strong strokes of its wings, it took itself across the However, I couldn’t claim to be the most ascetic person. It wouldn’t do to not know of its whereabouts, as irrelevant as it was, so I glanced up from my work, only to find myself staring. Not at the raven, of course, but of the image of Pallas engraved into marble that it had made into a glorified perch. The statue was of intrigue and my oversight of it was concerning, after all she had shown an interest in it.

Dust spewed into the air as my latest read thudded shut, The History of Murder embossed on the cover – now stained a brassy grey from years of neglect. I paid no heed to the rows of books I walked past, I already looked through them all and not one could offer me anything new.

This statue, however, very well might.

I let my fingertips roam over its base, wondering what led to her fascination with it. My recollection of her explanations was vague at best, and I could hardly remember whether this statue was of the original Pallas, or of his usurper Athena.

Or at least I assumed she was his usurper, it’s hard to say with Greek Mythology.

It had been a while since she had been here, so long so that the statue had turned a dull grey from the dust particles that had found their way into every nook and cranny. I lifted my finger off and a streak of the statue’s original stark white was revealed. But that wasn’t all. Drops of brown-red blood stained its purity.

The raven let out a caw, its beak thrown towards the ceiling. The uncharacteristic natural behaviour would’ve startled me if I hadn’t looked up to see its beady eyes piercing through my Taunting me.

What it thought was wrong, and blatantly so. Baring my teeth, I grinned at it. I would show the bird the truth if that’s what it wanted to see.

Coincidentally, I had one final lead that I had yet to follow up on. I offered my wrist to the offending creature and let the door click closed behind me as I left – the stained statue swathed in the fabric of my jacket and tucked under my arm.

~~~

Before long, I found myself hovering outside her back door, the door that I knew she always left open, having lost its key years ago. The frigid weather had turned the handle to ice, burning my hand when I went to turn it. Almost a warning to turn away.

Almost, but I’m no coward - the yellow tape strung over the front fence was no substitute for a lock and neither was an icy doorknob.

The shift in atmosphere was immediately obvious, still and tense – bound to the night of her untimely demise. Whispers of her tales of the mystic and eery still lingered in the air, smoky tendrils hanging in every corner and behind every door – the residue coating every surface.

I grabbed at my throat as I choked on it, the memories leaving a sour taste in the back of my throat that I smiled through. I was so close!

I sat the statue of Pallas down on a nearby table, lining the edges up to match the mark of a previous object’s rest. With the familiar weight of the statue gone, the only reason my feet were still attached to the ground was the raven sitting on my shoulder – its disposition more suitable to a statue than a bird, if I was to be truly honest.

Nevertheless, I doubted it would leave my company of its own volition so I let it stay there. I suppose it didn’t think it was wise to leave me unsupervised.

I floated between rooms, I had the time and I wished to savour this, despite the sour undertones.

Nothing in this place was out of order, which was the most strange part; it was almost as if someone had gone through and cleaned up the coffee mugs I knew should line the windowsills and the stacks of books in any topic imaginable across every surface. But a quick peak into the kitchen cupboards found that all the cups had long since been put away, and the books were stringently placed back into their proper places in the bookshelves in each room.

It was nicer this way, I thought.

The bathroom door was closed, and the door looked somewhat mangled - the only thing in this place that indicated that it was the crime scene it was. Inside, I knew, awaited what I was looking for. The scene inside, would finally tell how her eccentricities lead to her death.

The hinges squeaked, and I peered behind the edge of the door – my fingernails digging into glossy white paint. The bathroom was almost as clean as the rest of the house: beige tiles sparkled where I knew it wasn’t long ago that they must’ve been stained red, the cold flooring sapping out her lifeforce.

The taps of my shoes as I walked in echoed around the cramped space. The mirror that hung next to the entrance glittered in the corner of my vision. The raven let out another caw, and moved backwards, almost trying to burrow itself in my hair.

The officers hadn’t cleaned the mirror, that much was obvious from the layers of dust around the crevices of the frame and what looked like toothpaste specked all over the surface. But while the lack of cleanliness on her part made my head itch, it wasn’t what truly bothered me.

The messy cursive across it did. The words were flaky, having long since lost their colour and dried out. Brown particles littered the sink underneath, another thing that hadn’t been cleaned, or fixed. A large chip had been taken out of the corner, something that could only be accomplished with the use of something heavy and blunt force. Something about standing in this room, the room where she had lost her life while I still stood here alive and free, left a triumphant pride welling in my chest – and memories welling in my head, pulled from the box I’d sealed them in. It couldn’t have been me, could it?

My entire body shook as I gripped onto the sink. The raven cawed: once, twice, three times. I recalled her body hitting the sink: once, twice, three times. Dimly I felt myself sinking to the floor, arms still stretching to hold onto the porcelain. The raven ceased its squawking and perched on the bench between my hands bending down almost horizontally to stare me in the face, cocking its head and staring smugly. Well, this put a hitch in my plans, didn’t it? Especially since it knew. I stared back at the raven, cocking my head to the left in a mirror image of it. The investigation was resolved, all that was left was to ensure no-one else found out.

Agonisingly slow, I let go of the counter and brought myself up to full height. I stroked its feathers, the plumage plush against my callouses. This would be for the best, and it was all too easy. A resounding crack echoed through the room and I cradled it’s limp body in my arms. I couldn’t let anything get in my way, not even myself.

I glanced back up at the writing on the mirror, carefully mouthing each syllable as my resolve hardened. Nevermore.

[pool-core]

Piss pool

[kdyism]

─── NORMALCY ✴ PAIRING. TAEYONG X READER GENRE. ANGST, HANAHAKI!AU WARN. reader have low self-worth, mention of blood.

the normalcy of his love for you feels like an endless pit in your stomach, choking your breath with its weight and if it was any lighter, you think you might never understand the true sense of it.

taeyong was everything you were not, everything you want to be and more and you didn't understand how he decides to stand beside you every day when the door to leave you in always slightly open — the trust you have in your love, no, in his love for you feels bleak and shallow. he couldn't possibly love you to the point of obliteration, he couldn't make you feel sick to the stomach with his care and affection, he couldn't make you tremble in fear and drown in a cold sweat because he loves you.

but he does.

the consistency of his gaze on you, his soft touch reassuring you that your existence beside him is not against the rules can't overwrite the constant feeling of degeneracy that clouds your mind, he was something more than you were, something he shouldn't have even set his eyes on.

but he does.

taeyong makes your heart flutter, his colours blend into your sense making you dizzy and making you feel like you are so much more than you truly are, the slow but sure feeling of utter despair that tugs at your feet when the signs begin showing, your worth crumbling with every finger that removes itself from your body, with every breath that is slightly away from you. the feeling of abandonment but the truth is, he is still here and you are afraid.

of him. of you. of the normalcy of his love for you that you have gotten too comfortable in.

“what makes you so scared?” you could ask.

the chance of him waking up, opening his eyes, coming to his sense and realizing, you aren't everything he thinks you are. inferiority is the killer of your love for him and maybe, just maybe, the normalcy of your hate for him is also the cause of his beautiful face stained in tears and the wretched sound of his heart giving out, the white carnations that represent his emotions for you; you know and you still turn away.

he is in love with another.

the red dahlias are yours, they represent you and for sure, you are the cause of them. the blooming in his chest, engulfing the empty spaces in between his organs and he begs, begs for it to stop because you love him. you love him, don't you?

the river of red that waltzes in the bathtub, his soulless eyes turning to face you as you walk into the room after his sound silences, he doesn't know why he is going through this and you think you know. your love is not what he is after anymore, an unrequited feeling that manifests in his being due to its intensity, how could you not when you were expecting it from a mile away? your arms going around his head, pressing him against the stable beating of your chest, taeyong always calms down to the sound of your life.

flowers have never looked as beautiful as they do, dyed in the colour of his insides, the crimson that warms their cold petals and you stare at them, vehemently and taeyong sobs, shaking in your hold. “you love me, right? why.... why is this happening to me?” he asks every single time.

“i love you. i love you more than anyone in this world, you are my only... love,” you always reply.

if you ask me, i think it's love that's tainted. the cause of his pain, his tears and her fault. it's evil, warped, dishonest and disgusting to hold him in her arms while her chest hurls with the colour of deep red dahlias, betrayal served on a silver platter when all he did was love her with all his heart, clearly and truly.

the normalcy of his love and her hate, the cause of his tears and her fear, a love so pure and love not so pure.

©KDYISM, 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

[dwagom]

all of this in ukraine is happening because all of europe decided to finance itself by becoming a septic tank for everyone's dirty money -- europe, russia, us, china, the gulf states -- you name it, the dirtier the better because the commission on the laundering is proportional to the filth. putin knew from the start that the uk wouldn't dare lift a finger because there's so much dirty money in london that it would be politically suicidal for the tory partocracy/hegemony to sanction russia before it was too late, and now it's politically suicidal to haven't done it at all. the same goes for switzerland, the same goes for every other european state and their centre-right neoliberals who decided to reject caution and instead assume that the "four freedoms" of the EU were enough of a guarantor on their own against war.

the european neoliberals had embraced norman angell's absolutely cretinous idea that tight interdependence through trade would prevent the parties from going to war. turns out that the angellic paradigm in the age of mad money and economic financialisation (a fucking economic crime against humanity at the centre of this madness) was not only exceptionable, but absolutely wrong.

under the pressures of anti-tax neoliberalism, mandatory fiscal sufficits or zero-deficits (constitutionally mandated!!!!! in germany!!!! fucking lunacy!!!! is germany a for-profit government like it's galt's fucking gulch???), and the near-religious twinned projects of austerity and deregulation to prevent corporate profits from inevitably falling, the european centre-right chose to serve europe to putin and every other major malfeasant on a silver platter because the other choice meant the dread of proving their own neoliberal dogma wrong. the european people's party couldn't accept that the paradigm of "peace through trade" without disproving its own raison d'etre, and in the process turned europe into a massive money laundromat and real-estate bubble machine

there is not a soul in the european centre-right who matters and who would hazard do anything more invective than boris johnson did -- flaccidly threaten sanctions that repeatedly fail to materialise no matter how many times the kremlin goes over the fucking line. and they can not materialise because the doctrine of financialisation and low taxes means that all of europe is for sale to whomever has dragged the biggest sack of cash in, because when taxes are low, you only get to skim commissions from huge volumes, and you have to accept foreign dirty money as the fiscal motor of your government.

this form of corruption, that had paralysed developed europe from ever taking any sort of meaningful action, lies at the core of the modus operandi of the european union and the crime against humanity called the neoliberal experiment

putin's invasion is not a "wake-up call", the "wake-up calls" have long ago stopped. europe is simply too corrupt with and too dependent on russian money to take any moves against russia. and the same goes for all the other proferrors of blood-stained stacks of euros. europe chose all of this, it chose to offer economic interdependency to those who were willing to abuse it (nord stream 2 suspended at the "last minute" and still too late!!!) and handle the umbilicum of trade mutualism as a leash

the european people's party and the broader european centre-right had for its own hubris and hegemonic complacency left ukraine in the lurch and now has to deal with the prospect that the emperor vladimir the mad may take a swipe at poland, romania+moldavia, or a baltic state next, maybe even fucking turkey, who the fuck knows, and if that happens, well then, do you think that people like his political confrere viktor orban won't jump at the chance to side with him?

putin's napoleonic war of conquest has been directly enabled by the self-hemorrhaging, self-emaciating, self-disorganising european neoliberal experiment in the dogma of free trade. europe fervidly refused to admit this when it had the choice to kick its bad habits cold turkey at every step of the way to this disaster and then chose not to. these are the wages of cowardice, venality, spinelessness, inadequacy, the desire for cheap fuel, deflation, corporate profits over safety: if nord stream 2 had been axed all the way back in november or december, it would've sent a message to emperor vladimir: "don't fucking try anything, we're ready to take this pain", and ukraine would likely not be under a kremlinite attempt at conquest

[gripefroot]

A Court of Dusk and Shadows ❲27❳

Dymas rose on its first night soon after the sun had fallen, when the sky was still kissed with bruisy purples and pinks and oranges. A single, silver star above the horizon - flickering brightly as it made its arched path, oblivious to the world. 

And beneath it, they were married. 

Colored faelights hung from the branches of the oaks and birch trees that the supper had been set beneath; like stars themselves come to earth beneath the sky that turned dark and speckled after Dymas disappeared beneath the horizon to return the following evening. Elain had wrenched herself away from her new husband - Azriel’s eyes softer that day than she’d ever seen, and unwilling to let her go until she promised she’d only be a moment - to step into Rosehall’s warm kitchen and favor her friends with a narrowed look.

“Come join the party,” she told Nuala and Cerridwen. “We’ll fetch the food ourselves. You are guests as much as anybody.” 

The twins exchanged a look - they had, of course, taken a pause to attend the ceremony itself, overseen by a priestess who hadn’t lingered - and then they shrugged, and stripped off the aprons they wore above their finery. 

Nesta appeared behind Elain, casting her steely gaze over the trays and platters. “Azriel glared at me until I got up to follow you,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“Bring the salads,” Elain said, sweeping ‘round the table to carry a tray of biscuits and crackers and cheese. 

“Elain - ” Cerridwen started, her lovely face twisted as she stared back with one foot out the door. 

“I can carry this,” Elain insisted with a smile. “I promise I won’t spill anything on my dress.”

Indeed, the layers of silk and tulle were too precious to put in real danger - but her footing was sure as she ducked out of the kitchen and across the dewy grass, back to the bright lights and high laughter of their wedding party where she set the tray in the middle of the long table. A few lively shadows snaked beneath the table to flick at her slippers. 

“Enjoy,” she instructed her guests, and then Azriel was there, behind her, his large, warm hand on her waist. 

“You should take your own advice,” he growled in her ear, steering her back to the head of the table where their chairs were set next to each other. “A bride shouldn’t be serving supper.”

“I can do what I want,” Elain nipped back in a breezy voice, but she sat, anyway. And promptly burst into laughter as Cassian twisted in his seat to give an enormous sneeze behind him, sparing the food, though his wings flared out and knocked Rumah in the shoulder. 

“Oh, no!” he said, eyes watering as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “Rue, I’m sorry - ”

Rumah responded by smacking him upside the head - Nesta’s lovely, rare laugh rang louder than anyone’s. 

Salads of fresh greens and vegetables, with nuts and cheese sprinkled liberally on top - cool soups of fruit and cream and fresh vegetables - fresh breads that had been baking during the ceremony - a light wine for the others, though Elain sipped a blackberry cordial Rumah claimed was her speciality...

A nuzzling warm behind her ear made her shiver, and Elain tilted her head slightly as she felt Azriel’s lips against her skin. And then his purr, 

“You planned a very pretty party.” 

“Thank your mother and the twins,” Elain whispered back with a smile. “I scarcely did anything. They wouldn’t let me.” 

Azriel hummed, a brow lifted as he pulled away - though his hand remained on her knee beneath the table. Even through the folds of her dress she could feel his touch, and she gripped his hand, cutting off the rosy light of his Siphon. He smiled back at her, then, all flashing teeth and hidden mischief that brightened his eyes into jewels. 

Her husband. 

“Save it for later,” Cassian shouted down the table. His expression of disgust was clearly for show, because Elain had seen him teary eyed during the ceremony and not, she was certain, because of the flowers. 

Azriel gave his brother a snarl in response to that, and startled everyone by gripping Elain’s chin in his hand and planting a very sudden, but very thorough kiss right on her mouth as the table went silent. She went limp, both unable and unwilling to staunch the onslaught - instead she splayed her palm against his chest and the soft, fine vest he wore - his heart was beating fast, and so was hers…

“Cassian!” was the hiss from Mor, and a clunk sounded - Elain was half-dizzy when Azriel released her with a smug tilt of his lips, and color in his cheeks - Cassian rubbed his forehead with a cringe. Evidently Mor had hurled a fork at his head. 

It was Feyre that gave a delighted, bark of a laugh, her hand over Nyx’s eyes as if to spare her son from such a disgraceful show. Which, of course, led to a great deal of teasing for her - Amren asking snidely if she refused to kiss Rhys around Nyx. Poor Madja - for how well she knew the Inner Circle, some of her serene façade was cracking. 

Azriel’s arm skated around Elain’s shoulder, bringing her into his embrace as he kissed the top of her head with a quiet chuckle, just for her. 

The cake was carried out by Mor and Feyre together; a humble, white-frosted confection decorated with pansies that Elain had picked early that morning and kept in a cup of water in the kitchen until it was time. Bright purple and yellow blooms that bobbed their heads in the glowing faelights as if to accept the delighted praise of all the guests.

Joy swelled in her chest at the sight of her friends and family; their smiles and happiness...and then it was smothered to dust as she watched Feyre feed Nyx tiny bites of cake on her lap. 

She did wish...well, there was no point in wishing. 

“Elain?” 

Azriel’s tender concern drew her attention back to him. But Elain merely patted his hand and said simply, 

“It feels wrong not to have Rhys here, that’s all.”

He dipped his head. In agreement, perhaps - though she’d wager he wouldn’t say so aloud. 

“He’s up in the Illyrian mountains tonight,” Azriel explained in a quiet voice. “So at least he’s...not at home alone.” 

“I suppose that’s something,” Elain said, but a frown tilted her lips downward. 

“Feyre said he’d come around to the idea of us. Eventually.” 

She sighed, and managed a smile for Nuala beside her, accepting a plate with a double serving of cake - for both of them, then. Azriel’s lips were on her head, again, love pressed into her through curls and the pretty pins that held them back. His knuckles brushed against the swell of her stomach before he picked up a fork, wasting no time on ceremony for cake. 

He grinned as he held the bite of cake to her lips, one brow lifted as he waited. Her cheeks turned warm - his smile broadened, and obediently Elain opened her mouth for him to slip the cake into. 

“No fainting from hunger tonight from my bride,” Azriel crooned in a low voice, just for her ears, and the warmth in her face turned hot. 

“Perhaps there will be enough for breakfast, too,” Elain said. The cake in the middle of the table was barely touched - it would take days before it was gone, she estimated. Even Cassian was slowing on his second slice, having eaten a significant portion of the spread himself. 

Good. Good - it filled her soul in ways she could barely express to see those she loved contented by something she’d prepared. Or helped to prepare - it was a way to show her care. She couldn’t defend them with sword or shield, but she could prepare an evening of enjoyment. 

“Yes,” Rumah was saying to Feyre, “I would happily accept that invitation.”

“The townhouse is a lovely place for a holiday,” Feyre said with a smile. “And Nuala or Cerridwen will be there to assist with your needs.” 

“It’s been many years since I visited the Rainbow in Velaris,” Rumah mused. “I should bring some of my dyes to compare. Perhaps I’ll even learn some new techniques.” 

“And it’ll get you out of the house tonight,” Cassian said with a slanted grin, which very nearly earned him another boxing from Azriel’s mother. 

“You don’t need to be out of the house tonight,” Elain interrupted, earning the surprised, sly gazes of her guests. “Rumah - we won’t be forcing you out - ”

“No, child,” Rumah grinned as she waved this away. “You aren’t forcing me. I’d prefer to give you two privacy.”

Elain’s cheeks heated again, not least because of the way Azriel’s rough fingers were tracing slow, tantalizing circles at the base of her neck, skin revealed by the cut of her gown. 

“It’s not like they haven’t consummated things already,” Nesta pointed out, cutting herself another slice of goat’s cheese. 

“Wedding nights are still important,” Feyre insisted - Nyx had fallen asleep in her arms after the cake, one plump hand resting below her neck. “Especially amongst humans. Where we were raised.” 

“That’s true,” Elain said. “I heard many tales of a dressing-down that makes me rather grateful I no longer have to participate in that part of humanity.” 

“Dressing down?” Mor’s nose wrinkled. 

“Sounds horrible,” Amren said with a sneer. 

“I’m intrigued,” Cassian said. 

“Oh, well, I suppose it could be rather archaic,” Elain tried to subdue her own embarrassment. “It’s only that - on a human bride’s wedding night, she is undressed by the female members of her family and prepared by them before she’s taken to the bridal chambers. It can be humiliating, I think - but if she’s nervous I can see it being a comfort, too.” 

“I’m not doing that for you,” Nesta said blandly, and a few tittered laughs broke out. 

“Every culture has its traditions,” Rumah said. “Amongst the Illyrians, a marriage bed is blessed thrice with herbs and incense to bring forth strong children.” 

Elain ran her hand over her belly, savoring the swell of it and smiling to herself. She needed no herbs or incense to know...Azriel hummed next to her, his mouth by her ear. 

“In the Hewn City, consummations can be watched by elders,” Mor remarked in a cool voice, wineglass in hand. “Bride and groom have no choice in that.” 

“I’m absolutely not doing that,” Cassian drawled. “If Az has any questions or troubles, he can find someone else to ask.” 

“Such a selfless suggestion, Cass” Azriel said dryly. “I do recall long ago you coming to me for advice - so you can keep that condescension to yourself.” 

Silence. Then - bursting, bubbling laughter ringing across the fields, until Nyx began to stir and whine. Feyre hushed everyone back to quiet, though Cassian’s face remained red. Elain sipped cool water to wet her throat; the hour was growing late in the silver shine of the moon above, dappling through the trees. Mor had hidden a yawn behind her hand, and that was the cue to end the party. 

Everyone helped to carry dishes and trays inside; Rumah and Cerridwen already undertaking the massive task of washing them as Feyre extinguished lights - Cassian had taken Nyx to a quiter, grassy hilltop and promptly fallen asleep with the boy on his chest. With all the helping hands, it wasn’t more than a half hour before Nuala took Elain’s arm with a smile, and led her upstairs to the bathing room. 

“I - I don’t have anything special to wear for tonight,” Elain whispered as Nuala began to light candles to better see. 

“There was no need,” Nuala said. “Feyre arranged for a set as a gift.” 

The quiet voices downstairs began to fade away as Nuala carefully unbuttoned the length of Elain’s gown, neck to waist. She slid out of the soft skirts, letting the cooler night air kiss her skin as she washed her face, arms, and hands to scrub away the heat of the day. Then her shift pulled over her head, exchanged for a pale, gauzy gown that scarcely reached past her knees. But the fabric was loose over her belly, and for that she was grateful.

Nuala hummed in satisfaction as she plumped Elain’s hair down her back. The pins remained - perhaps to keep it from her face so that Azriel could admire her all the better tonight. Despite everything - despite the copious amounts of lovemaking they’d accomplished in the few months they’d had together - inexplicable nerves roiled in her stomach. Nuala pulled out a small bottle of perfume, but paused, and put it away. 

“He’ll want to smell you tonight,” her friend smiled, wickedness dancing in her dark eyes as she held out a flimsy robe for Elain to slide her arms into. “You and that baby of yours.” 

Nuala briefly touched where the baby grew, murmuring something in a language Elain didn’t know - but it warmed her heart, and she kissed Nuala’s cheek before she disappeared through the wall, presumably to meet up with her twin and depart for Velaris with the others. 

Rosehall was...quiet. 

No voices remained; only the nightsong of crickets could be heard from outside as Elain stepped into the darkened hallway, sucking in a breath as she saw glowing light around the cracked bedroom door. And when she pushed on it, her gaze went right to Azriel, reclined on the bed with his wings draped on either side as he stared at the canopy, hands behind his head. 

Utter relaxation. She supposed that was a good thing, and Elain smiled as she opened the door the rest of the way. 

Immediately he stiffed, eyes honing in on her - and sat forward, bringing his wings in awkwardly as he sat on the edge of the bed, throat bobbing in the luscious candlelight. He’d lit all the candles on the mantle - the room was cozy and warm and bright, and completely perfect. 

“At some point,” her husband said in a rough voice, “I’ll have to start believing that these past months with you haven’t been a dream. That you aren’t a dream.” 

“I’m not,” Elain said, closing the door quietly behind her. “I promise I’m real.” 

His wrists rested on his knees, twisting them so that the palms faced up - an offer. An invitation. She strode across the room, and laced her fingers with his as he smiled up at her, bringing her hands to his mouth for several kisses. The last press of his lips lingered on her ring - the ring that claimed her as his. 

“I meant to ask you earlier,” she said, very nearly shy at the solemnity in his eyes, “whether you chose that vest to show off your muscled arms and lovely tattoos.” 

Azriel lifted his brows, blinking. “Did you really? Or did you overhear Cassian talking about it?”

“I heard Cassian,” Elain admitted.

He chuckled softly. “I don’t suppose Cassian called my tattoos lovely.”

“No, that was me.” 

Humming, he brought her hand to his mouth once more, nuzzling his nose into her palm as she swallowed back a squeak at the simple touch. If she was already burning...what a night it would be. 

“Well,” she breathed out, shaking her hands free so that she could run them over his bare biceps, the hardness of his muscles - they twitched under her touch. “I suppose it was an excellent choice, in any case.” 

“I nearly went to my knees when I saw you before the ceremony,” Azriel whispered. His fingers were brushing at the hem of her nightgown; gentle against her knees. 

“I’m glad you didn’t. Think of the bruises you’d have.” 

He huffed out a laugh, fingers curling around her knees to pull her closer to him - standing between his spread legs, Elain bit her lip as she gazed down at his beautiful face, framed by his dark hair and wings. And his expression...all adoration and soft love as he traced circles on the backs of her thighs. 

“I’ll never understand,” he went on in a hoarse voice. “Any of this. Why you chose me. What I did to deserve you. All of you.” And Azriel slid his hands up to hold the swell of their baby in his hands, leaning forward to rest his forehead against her. As if to express in some way his love to his daughter, too. 

“It’s not about deserving.” Elain ran her fingers through his silken hair. “It’s about love. I love you, and you love me - there’s nothing more to say.” 

He lifted his face with a smile, taking in the sight of her as she smiled back. And then he stood in a single, fluid motion, cupping her face in his hands and tilting it to kiss her deeply, thoroughly, sweetly. 

Elain held back a moan, though her fingers curled around his wrists to keep him there, warm and solid and tall, his wings flaring as if to cradle her, too - then his tongue slipped past her lips to caress hers, stoking the embers that burned in her core. Azriel responded with a groan of his own, pressing all of his body to all of hers. 

It was unhurried, but there was intent in his actions: untying the robe at her waist without pausing their kiss, pushing it over her shoulders with rough fingers until it fell to the ground and leaving her in her nightgown. And then he gripped her by the buttocks, hauling her into the air as she gasped and laughed into his mouth, clinging to him as he carried her to the bed - not to lay her reverently among the cool covers, but to sit her upright on the edge. 

“Before we go on,” Azriel said in a rasp, his eyes raking over her face. “I’m going to pluck every single one of those pins from your hair. Otherwise one of us is going to get hurt.”

Elain laughed again, but turned to allow it. Perhaps this was what Nuala had in mind; every brush of his fingers against her scalp as pin after pin was dropped onto a side table. The weight of her curls began to lessen, and she nearly moaned as he untwisted the careful loops and braids that she’d been decorated with hours earlier. How long it took...she didn’t know, eyes closing to savor the quiet dedication of her husband; his loving care...but soon his fingers were combing through her loose hair, his lips on the back of her neck to ignite her. 

“Any more?” he asked. 

“I can’t feel any,” Elain whispered back. 

“Good.” His fingertips scraped against her scalp, and her head lolled as she moaned to feel so free and unencumbered and loved - 

Azriel scooped her into his arms again, but not to go far - this time he laid her on her back, hovering over her with a smile before leaning over to kiss her throat. Elain hummed, letting her knuckles run over the soft membranes of his wings that he draped on either side of them - like he had the first time they were together; to block out the world, so that she saw nothing but him - 

As if she could, ever again. 

It was with tender reverence that he lifted the hem of her nightgown, settling his shoulders between her thighs with carefully reined hunger in his molted eyes as he gave a flicker of a smile - Elain smiled back, smoothing back his hair, her heart beating fast as she anticipated his intention. How was it that he could set her on fire like this before even touching her? 

His lips twisted into a lopsided smirk, spreading her legs further apart to dip his head between them. 

One touch, and she gave herself up to Azriel completely. Her entire world cascading down to nothing more than the breaths between them, his tongue working her into a frenzy as pleasure skittered through her veins. Mewls came from her mouth without her bidding, but he seemed to enjoy it: he growled right back at her every gasp, her every cry. As if he was as aroused as she was with no more than his mouth on her - 

He coaxed her into one climax, then two. And then Elain fussed, squirming as she mumbled, heat prickling her face - Azriel was grinning as he kissed the inside of her thighs, eyes bright as he gazed up at her. 

“What is it my lady is asking for?” he said in his deep, purring voice. “She’s going to have to use her words.” 

“Come up here,” she managed, clutching at his shoulders - at once he obeyed, crawling over her with his fists planted on either side of her, still smiling. Elain grasped at the buttons at the front of his vest as he lifted a brow, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. 

He’d livened her enough from her limpness that she got to her knees to unbutton his vest from the back, next - sliding it down and off his wings to toss aside as he watched her with such an expression that she could have come again simply from his gaze. 

“Lay back,” Elain told him, and Azriel said nothing, but obeyed. Taking her already-creased spot amongst the covers, letting his wings flare out enough to draw her attention - whether it was on purpose or not, the sight of his mighty, strong wings...not now. Not tonight. Later. 

Short work was made of his trousers, and those she threw aside, too. Aware of his eyes on her every movement as she sat herself on his hips - not to take him inside of her yet, but to feel the hard length of him between her legs as his breath caught, his gaze positively glowing. 

Already soaked from his attentions, Elain slid herself over him, unable to keep from smiling as she saw his arms, his stomach twitch. His head pressed back into the pillow as he watched, scarred fingertips stroking her bent knees.

“Are you going to take off that pretty nightgown?” Azriel asked, his voice low and broken. “Let me admire my bride? And how beautifully she carries my child?” 

“She’s busy,” she said back, savoring the thick feeling of him - she wanted him inside of her, but she wanted to draw it out, too; to tease him and rile him up the way he worked her so well. He grinned, as if sensing her intent - and so he said nothing more, clearly content enough to watch her face. 

“Did you want to finish this way?” Barely-contained arousal flickered in his face; his smile gone. “Because if you don’t stop, I’m going to - ”

Elain halted at once, breathing in ragged breaths - and then Azriel sat forward, snaking one arm behind her to keep her from falling. His mouth an inch from hers, but only for a moment: she held his face in her hands and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him - until she was sure his soul was entering her body to make love to hers. 

With a growl he tugged at the hem of her nightgown, hauling it up and over her head before lowering his head to her throat, suckling and nibbling as her head fell back, needing the worship as much as he needed to give it. She moved her hips, looking for him - and when the tip of him was there, she mounted him in a fluid motion as his fingertips dug into her waist, a strained groan ripped from his chest. 

“Good,” he said roughly. Squeezing her hips, helping her to move on him. “This is what you need?”

“Yes,” Elain whispered, the strain so, so evident in her tone - 

“My wife.” Azriel kissed his way up the side of her throat, to suck on her earlobe briefly before moving onto her jaw. “My wife.”

The claiming sent her leaping for the stars: she was his, and he was hers - with no mating bond their love grew in its place; glowing and surging between them until she was sure it was as tangible as anything. He thrust into her with ragged moans soaking into her skin from his lips, and she dug her fingers into his hair and tugged. 

He came with a cry; her name echoing in his mouth and utterly destroying her. She crashed right after him until she was little more than a limp body of bones. 

Azriel fell back against the bed, holding her against him still. Breathlessly she laughed at the tumble, laughed as he twisted her onto her back to continue kissing down her throat again to find her breasts, fondling them with mouth and hand as she squeezed her thighs together, missing the feeling of him already. 

“Two minutes,” he breathed against her skin. “Two minutes and I’ll take you again.” 

Elain was dizzyingly, shatteringly in love with her adoring, insatiable husband. 

Dawn must have been cresting the horizon when they drifted off at last; tangled in the sheets and with each other. Somehow the position they’d fallen in had involved one of Azriel’s wings between her legs, his hand tangled in her curls. And it must have only been a few moments before Elain woke again, buzzing and humming with something slithering beneath her skin as her heart began to race.

She didn’t move. Deep, panting breaths as she stared at the swaying curtains of the bed - why were they swaying? The window wasn’t open; the drapes were shutting out the first light dawn she could see between the cracks. 

Elain flopped around to face Azriel, his face pressed into a pillow and mouth hanging open as he snored slightly, a lovely purple bruise on his neck that she’d managed to give him earlier. She smiled to herself, touching the mottled skin with her fingertips...and then forced her eyes closed. 

But the energy still roiled in her veins. 

How could she still be aroused after all this? 

No - it wasn’t arousal. Not strictly. It was life and need and power and restlessness - Elain rubbed her face with her hands, smelling of her husband and sex, before she huffed out a breath and slid out from beneath his warm wing to walk quietly to the bathroom. 

Cool water didn’t help. She stared into the mirror, and realized she needed no light in the bathroom to see herself - a subtle sheen of glow lived beneath her skin. Not just her face - she held out her arms, confused - but she shone there, too. It was...soft moonlight, subdued rays of a setting sun twined into a single shade of color she couldn’t name. Elain shivered, crossed her arms as her stomach twisted. 

Food. Food might help - at the very least to calm the nausea that seemed to always be waiting, sulking to flare back into agony. 

It was less than an hour later that Azriel woke, confused to find the other side of the bed empty as he snapped back his wing, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand as he propped himself up on an elbow.

“Elain?” he asked in a croak. 

She turned from where she stood at the window, wearing a shirt of his and nothing else as she stared out at the cracked drapes into the brightening morning. 

“Elain,” Azriel said again. 

She tried to smile. To offer some assurance that all was well, that she wasn’t mildly concerned about whatever was going on inside of her - but his eyes narrowed in on her face, and then travelled down her body. Possessive admiration made him bare his teeth, but it slunk away in favor of concern as he took in the sight of the subtle glow around her that had nothing to do with the sun shining through. 

“Your eyes are...bright,” he said in a cautious, ragged voice, and Elain shivered. 

“I don’t - I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “But - I think I’m beginning to understand. And I need Lucien. At once.” 

[girlactionfigure]

There is a song that I remember from my past life now more than half a century ago (51 years ago) in the USA from 1971. The song in many ways expresses my feelings during this time by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young that was called "Find the Cost of Freedom"

Find the cost of freedom

Buried in the ground

Mother Earth will swallow you

Lay your body down

Find the cost of freedom

Buried in the ground

Mother Earth will swallow you

Lay your body down

Despite its scarce lyrics, “Find the Cost of Freedom” the song was meant to highlight many of the social issues in the USA during the 70s. The song held a powerful message for the youth of America as side B to their protest song “Ohio,” which in itself was inspired by the deaths of the student protestors in the Kent State massacre. 

To me it brought up the memories of the ever so young Americans soldiers who needlessly died in the Vietnam War and were forgotten as ALL American veterans are, even today. 

As an Israeli, as I listen to these words today as they are played in my mind in my PTSD attempt to rest. I find for us a different meaning as was so perfectly expressed in famous poem by Natan Alterman The Silver Platter. 

"A State is not handed to a people on a silver platter"

Chaim Weizmann, first President of Israel

The Earth grows still.

The lurid sky slowly pales 

Over smoking borders.

Heartsick, but still living, a people stand by

To greet the uniqueness

of the miracle.

Readied, they wait beneath the moon,

Wrapped in awesome joy, before the light.

-- Then, soon,

A girl and boy step forward,

And slowly walk before the waiting nation;

In work garb and heavy-shod

They climb

In stillness.

Wearing yet the dress of battle, the grime

Of aching day and fire-filled night

Unwashed, weary unto death, not knowing rest,

But wearing youth like dewdrops in their hair,

-- Silently the two approach

And stand.

Are they of the quick or of the dead?

Through wondering tears, the people stare.

"Who are you, the silent two?"

And they reply: "We are the silver salver

Upon which the Jewish State was served to you."

And speaking, fall in shadow at the nation's feet.

Let the rest in Israel's chronicles be told.

Yakov Marks

[restnowyourhardshipisover]

Golden Goose

DSMP fanfic  Characters: Quackity, Schlatt   Warnings: Gambling, implied/referenced cannibalism   Summary:  The lights and sounds of a casino wrap around Quackity, the inexorable churning of his purgatory a mockery of his legacy. But he’s not alone.  My (very late) entry for  @dreamsclock​‘s wtiys (Congrats on 2.5k!) 

Someone is always winning in the tight winding halls of Quackity’s personalized hell. There’s a constant string of the sounds to emphasize this, the dinging bells of a jackpot at the slots, whoops and hollers of excitement for a big win round the tables, clinking of glasses as bets rolled in. There was always a sound of victory to be heard. The casino keeping its deceitful promise. 

It keeps the mood up, Quackity remembered teaching Slime. If they loose all at once they won’t want to come back. If no one wins they won’t think they have a chance. Of course they have no chance, the house always wins if you play long enough. But dangling that hope close enough to taste and they’ll forget all of that. Keep the cheep booze flowing give no reason to pause no reason to leave. No reason to think about what they’re doing and every reason to think this next roll of the dice could be the one. Not that there’s any chance of leaving in limbo. Not for Quackity nor any of the figments that cloud his hell. 

Wilbur, on the rare occasions he’d discussed it had always talked about his limbo as a lonely empty place. Quackity’s was nothing like that. Stuffed with undefined figures that milled around under the casino’s bright lights. Full to the point of bursting, those featureless bodies jostling against each other, an endless churning crowd. There were more shadows crowded round just the roulette tables in his slice of hell than people in the entire server. Moving from one game to the next. Some lingered at the same slot machine for hours or days eating only what came by. Their true hunger reserved for the cartoon cherries rapidly spinning in front of them. One hand eagerly pawing the lever with clinking chips clenched tightly in the other. 

Of course the crowd could not sustain itself, a casino needed employees to keep the cash slowly draining from its guests. In some cosmic force’s sick idea of a joke, the roles of casino staff were here played by ducks. A whole busy casino staffed by squawking animals. Stood behind the pit there were ducks with cards they should logically be unable to pick up dealt from their pinioned wings. Large serving trays of complimentary drinks balanced on the heads of other ducks.  

Every so often one of the chimes of the slots or joyous roars from a table would be followed by the briefly wealthy winner separating out a large stack of chips from their winnings and buying up one of the ducks; server, bouncer, dealer it hardly mattered that identity would be cut away and replaced with a new role: food.  

Envious eyes turned and patrons crowded to watch the winner of the moment. The purchased duck squawking and flapping was plucked and skinned, cooked into a delicacy and devoured by the ravenous winner. Gnawed until no strands of meat remained uneaten. The bones would be snapped open for the paltry amount of marrow within. All value and pleasure that could be taken from the mangled carcass was discarded on the floor. The bones quickly ground to dust under thousands of feet as the other patrons who had watched this display with envy and hunger eagerly returned to their games. Clamoring to be the next to be lucky enough gain such a prize.  

No matter how much they ate, no matter how much they won the throngs of patrons were hungry. Desperate for a bigger win. A bigger prize, enough wealth to devour some small part of the endless system they were trapped in. Enough wealth to feel the luxury of power.  

Everything is for sale, if you can win enough. 

The biggest prize, at the center of it all was Quackity himself. Elevated on a circular stage detailed as a silver platter at the very center of his limbo he watched it all play out from beneath a glass cloche. A temptation, if you just keep gambling this could be yours. Not a player, not an employee or manager, a prize to be won. Ogled by the mob, on offer for everyone to see. 

Quackity was forced to watch the cycle of gains and losses, a constant stream of pyrrhic victories drumming in his ears. Hoping that one would win enough to end it. Hoping he would never find out. Quackity watched the duck running a craps table, a little golden shell duck be torn apart and flayed alive. Probably never finding out was better. 

The jubilant sounds of a slot machine jackpot rung out with a chiming version of Pigstep and offered him an excuse to tear his eyes away from the charred duck before gnashing teeth tore into a fried leg. 

Something was different about the patron sitting at the winning machine. Far from an indistinct suggestion, this figure was clearly defined, only lightly obscured by haze and flashing lights. He was tall wearing a deep blue suit and with horribly familiar ram horns curling along slicked brown hair. 

It couldn’t be. But it was terrifyingly possible. It made sense. Quackity was dead, He was dead too. Tommy and Wilbur had met during Tommy’s death. The possibility had cold sweat forming on his palms as Quackity froze. Torn between running to the glass closest to Schlatt and shouting, screaming for some recognition or fleeing curling up on the far side and praying this would go away. 

Could he really labor under the delusion that whatever twisted fate had brought Schlatt here would pass if he just ignored it vigorously enough? How long had he been here now? It had proved impossible to keep track with the constant buzz of activity. Months? Could it have possibly been years? The desperation for any form of contact won out. 

Quackity walked on jelly legs the few paces to the edge of the plate, pressing a hand to the glass that caged him. Deep breath, don’t show fear seem in control. Quackity forced himself to remember Schlatt had no power here either. He’d faced Dream, he’d faced Technoblade. He’d made the greatest monsters on the server powerless before him, begging him to stop. Who was Schlatt compared to them? A pathetic washed up drunkard. Quackity was in control. It was fine. There was glass between them. He knocked. 

Schlat looked over and waved, sauntering over “Well if it isn’t the finest ass in my cabinet.” 

“How.. how the fuck are you here?” Quackity couldn’t help but lean forward, laying a hand against the cool glass. 

“Well, see I was at the gym but I was running into a bit of a problem. It’s hard to get a good cardio workout going when you’ve got the essential fucking bits missing, wouldn’t you say?” Schlatt jabbed a finger towards the left side of his chest. “You’ve got something of mine in there, we’re connected.”

“Ugh, Don’t say it like that.” Disgust pinched Quackity’s face. 

“Oh yeah? So how should I fucking say it then? What you want me to be careful of your delicate little feelings?” 

Schlatt’s pressing but Quackity refuses to flinch back. He’s strong, he left behind Las Nevadas, which is thriving. What Schlatt left behind is nothing but a crater and tears. He draws himself up to full height, looking down from the platform to lock his eye against Schlatt’s pair. “You know what. Yeah. You fucking should.” 

Schlatt just laughed back at him. “Oh you think you’re. You really think your fucking important huh? Better than me up there. With your price tag.” Schlatt looked over to something Quackity couldn’t see on the podium. “Well that’s quite a bit. I’m not fucking loaded. Still… I wonder how much I’d have to win off this place to take your heart.” The air jingles as a coin pusher clangs out a jackpot, and they both look over to see a figure gleefully collecting an armful of chips.  

 “You can’t fucking do that. You can’t just fucking come here and…” Quackity cuts off as he recalls the duck from the craps table. What if Schlatt could? Wasn’t that the whole point of this place? Everything for sale?   “Just get the fuck out. Fuck off.” 

“Fine. I was about to fucking cash out anyways, take my winnings before your little fucked up show here takes the chance to bleed me dry. I’ll be back.” 

“No no no. Don’t fucking come back. I definitely don’t want you here.” And Quackity doesn’t, really truely. Interaction with real players isn’t worth that player being Schlatt. 

Schlatt gave a large shrug, shaking his head as he turned to leave. “You’ll get used to it. It’s not as though you have anywhere to go.” 

Quackity screamed and swore banging on the glass as Schlatt disappeared beyond the winding bends at the edge of what he could see. His words drowned out by cheers rang out from the sports arena.