#drabble tag tba.

[movedto-lichthey]

YOU REMEMBER THE TIME YOUR HEART GOT SHATTERED BY YOUR FIRST REAL LOVE.

it started as all things did, a feeling.

you were just nineteen, naïve in the ways of love. major warning signs had shown but the red flags were pulled down by your trust in your girlfriend.

but when her phone kept repetitively dinging while she was in the shower of your shared apartment, you really couldn't help yourself. it was just to silent the notifications, really. the pit of in your stomach sunk and started to rot in your insides when the text showed on screen.

ㅤGod, I bet you look so hot right now. ㅤCome over. I'll do that thing you like.

bile made its way into your throat as the water stopped in the bathroom. not too long, your girlfriend swung open the door and her face instantly flashed with dread. you looked a mess. makeup hadn't smeared quite yet but streaks had forms on your cheeks from the consistent streams.

❛ what did i do wrong? ❜ it was so difficult to keep your voice steady. it had to have been you, right? there was no other reason for her to do this. what happened? what did you do? you scanned through your memories — no. no! it wasn't! you gave her everything!

❛ fuck! ❜ the outburst had your girlfriend jumping as she reached out to you. ❛ i really thought you loved me. ❜

everything came crashing down as you talked with your, now ex, girlfriend. she was a terrible partner, but she owed you an explanation. it had started as a one off with a guy, but it spiraled out of control. both of you were thrill chasers. she just babbled in the kind that would hurt other people.

there were three people in total that she was seeing, not including you.

and that was the end of what you had thought was your happily ever after.

[inkantation-arch]

girl power station.

the crack, crack, crack of crates, chipped away by sanitized ink, is her first warning that she’s absolutely screwed.  then, hissing, whirring — stingray?  really?  wasn’t - no, no, she reminds herself,  that was her last attempt.  that roller was still up!  shit.  shit!  what was she supposed to do?  the red glow of the timer, projected across the screen sky, felt less like encouragement, and more like distraction.  three seconds. 

eight felt like, this time, she’d done a good job.  being defensive hadn’t worked for her;  she tried using a splat charger, fucking hated that try.  no, best to curl into her combat comfort zone: dualies, which felt like they may as well be hers, at this point.  perfectly placed splat bombs made the opening thirty seconds a breeze; first, the octo shot, then, the slosher and blaster, jumping in to the same point;  she played aggressive and mean, relying on her armor and speed.  then... then north west and north east, and she faltered first there. 

north-west slowed her down - each attempt to flank seemed to be met with perfect response, like this.... octozon zombie has figured her out. 

( rarely, the sanitized octolings showed.... an ability to learn, to adapt to tactics, which, really, really made all of this so much worse.  when they acted like, for lack of a better term, poor ai, often forgetting where she was, it was easier.  not only, of course, because it meant she needn’t change her approach to these tests, but it made it easier to forget, to pretend that the face in front of her was not once a living, breathing person, made un-breathing by what, fucking hand sanitizer? )

so, by the time north-east was handled, a sure duel...  then came another round, and immediately, the sound of bombs, so many bombs.  shit, her entire west front was destroyed, wasn’t it?  eight kept the pressure up - small words of encouragement rang in her ears, but she barely paid attention to them.  at least they kept her from crying. 

still, she handled the waves of elites, and the seconds ticked down — slosher, check; octo-shot, shot down; blaster, done; the second octo-shot, not even a thought.  she headed north, the only thought being that the orb couldn’t take another onslaught of bombs.  dualie, dealt with.  

on her way west, she mindlessly grabbed a can - it would do her some good, right?  she tried to remember all the ones she’d used; it was literally right in front of her, but all she could think about was getting this over with.  so, on the west side of the stage, we catch up in time - sting ray, seemingly, the end of this run, on her last attempt.

well, shit.

eight ran hard; well, swam hard.  across the stage in half a second, or so it felt, and four hits to get this octopus out of her hair.  she glances up, two seconds.  has... has she done it?  there’s no one left, right?  

( their arrivals were staggered.  starting north, then heading out, and then in, and then out again. north, north again, north west, north east; north east, north west; west, north, east; after that... north east, then... then she went north, then...  shit.  thirty seconds ago, north west.  they must have been hiding, learning. )

stinging rain hits her cheek - the sanitized opponent is rushing forward, launching her shield at the orb.  it was so close, so close to dead, and eight couldn’t stand the thought of losing again.  so, she flings herself, towards the center.  what else is there left, but to throw all she’s got into healing the target, as the milliseconds slip by, slower than every second she’s ever seen.  one second. 

it’s almost startlingly quiet, as she runs past the acid rain, digging into her skin; the brella approaches slowly - confident.  eight dives through the enemy ink, and jumps, up, over the orb.  well, now or never. half a second. 

ready!!

eight splashes down, and the few remaining crates protecting the orb shatter - she hears ink make contact, but not enough to win.  hitting the ground in a giant circle of ink sounded great, but then, she’s dizzy, the velocity catching up to her.  eight sees the sanitized octoling charge, finally, and she takes a deep breath - well, it was time to lose, once more.  she shuts her eyes, waiting for the damage that never comes.

test passed. 

wait, test passed? 

eight opens her eyes.  the end of the brella is centimeters from her face.  “applicant ten thousand and eight, please vacate the test area.”  a speaker calls.  eight stares, directly at the face in front of her.  the glasses have slid off her face - she looks emptily, beyond eight, behind her.  just... absolutely nothing, the black sclera reflecting the red lettering; 00:00 looking back at her. 

who were you, she wants to ask.  her face means nothing to eight, really - likely, she’s older than eight, and thus, likely not someone she studied with.  certainly not a part of the theta group...  who are you, she stops herself from asking.  the sanitized octolings don’t speak back, she tried that. 

“applicant ten thousand and eight, you have ten seconds to vacate the test area.”  the harsh, clanging voice rings out.  damn that telephone, she hopes it chokes on its wires.

[eleventhregen]

He’s been here for a month. A whole month, already. For someone who lives in time, the whole month went by in the blink of an eye. A whole month that he’s been MIA, so to speak. Disappearing off the face of the earth. The Ponds must be worried SICK. He’s worried for them, really. Not so much for himself. He’s the bloody Doctor, after all. A time-travelling alien. The Ponds are only human.

They certainly aren’t as knowledgeable about flying the TARDIS, that’s for sure. If only he could beam himself back, even if just for a moment, and tell the Ponds that he’s okay. He’s alive and well, doing alright. Well, as alright as one could be in this circumstance, he supposes. Being held in a city that’s decidedly not on Earth. It would be so much easier if both Amelia Pond and Rory-Williams Pond were here too. But, of course, he cannot trust himself to tempt Providence. It always goes badly for him. He doesn’t want his companions to be involved in... WHATEVER THIS is.

So instead, he breathes out. Breathes in. Repetition. 

Everything’s gonna be fine.

[silksworn]

❛ show me how much you missed me. ❜

❛ —— ☾ ₊ ⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 / @fatewoven

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓 is fetching against Enver's dark skin. Cold steel warms itself upon his breastbone, moved only by the gentle rise and fall of breath. An idle threat with no real intent, not yet. The dead do not speak to her the way that he does, do not worship her with palm and flesh and fervor. Their cold veins no longer remember how to properly bleed. Only a quick flick of the wrist to artery and he would spill out for her a font of red as vibrant as a bouquet of spider-lilies and poppies. You have missed me too, for you have brought me flowers, she would say.

Enver makes a show of ignoring the weapon, though he cannot hide flittering pulse in his neck. Moth-wing heart, animal dread. She wants to sup of his fear like sweet-wine.

Ah, but she rushes ahead of herself. That would only spoil the meal.

Her lover's saturnine face is upturned towards her. Candlelight paints Enver's features in broad strokes. She is left with the impression of his leer, the high cheekbone and the architecture of a nose broken more than once. His deep-set eyes are lined with sleepless nights and smeared kohl, both hungry and arresting. He is some crepuscular creature that has crept into her bed, a version of himself that belongs solely to the few stolen hours they find for one another.

Only here does he kneel for her. She still tastes the power of his willingness all the same. His attention is almost as satisfactory as physical touch would be.

"You presume much," she breathes, face kept as placid as she can make it. "Who says that I have not had my share of pleasures in your absence?" Yet she cannot contain the undercurrent of longing, voice little more than a suggestion of speech. The insides of Iraestra's thighs are wet with her desire for him, telltale tremble as she spreads her knees further to show him the lilac bloom of her cunt. Her hand works practiced, languid circle over her sex. She dips two fingers inside of herself just to hear the slick, filthy sound of it. The loudest noise in the room is her fluting breaths.

A crude mockery of how she takes herself, Iraestra exerts enough pressure so that the blade may open delicate skin. Blood wells quickly to the cut, a small river of pain traveling the broad muscle of chest. She gasps at the sight as if she had been the one pierced, body tightening around the trivial intrusion of her slender digits. It is not enough. She would have him bleeding and on top of her.

"Come to me," demand or plea, she does not know any longer. She does not care. "Let us see who missed the other more."

[livesforgttn]

BLACK HERON.

❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : CRACK. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : study. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : aes. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : dash com. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : answered. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : drabble. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : headcanon. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : saved. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : main verse. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : black heron : verse tba.

[disturbnot]

afternoon friends. i think i'm nearly ready to get back to normal here. i hope you've all been doing well this past week! ❤️ irregularly scheduled ash nonsense will resume after this commercial break —

[widowshill]

um idk this is just like a little. what if vic was there in 1969 and she'd been to london with roger and we weren't worried about the cult stuff yet. and such things.

Roger Collins twirled the stem of the lily between long, soft fingers, admiring the way the winter light gleamed almost white and pure as snow on the open petals. It seemed a shame to cut such a lovely thing away from life, to put it away in the elegant curves of its coffin for a few brief days of beauty before its sudden, untimely decay. But what days of beauty! He lifted the bloom to his face to take in the scent — so like the untouched sweetness of early spring and yet, unmistakably, the funeral bier. One corner of his mouth pulled into a smile, and he reached down to slip the flower among the rest of them in the vase.

“Roger?”

He flinched, and the lily slipped from his hand to lie lonely on the workbench. Roger cast an almost guilty glance over his shoulder. His constant shadow in chartreuse — the all-knowing jacquarded Hera.

“Liz! I didn’t hear you come in.” 

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. Her brother was rarely to be found out in the greenhouse — not even when she had specifically asked him there for his help. And here he was now, the very image of his son caught in some place he should not be, shears tucked behind his back for good measure, as though she would not notice the damning angle of his elbow.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, just filling a vase … I am permitted to do that, aren’t I?” 

“I wish you’d have asked me first.” 

Her eye landed next on the arrangement, relieved, at least, he hadn’t taken anything too prized, or that would not regrow. Only a few Madonnas. But whatever for? 

“Roger, I just put fresh flowers in your room this morning.” 

“I know that."

“Where did that vase come from? It’s not one of ours.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Liz, Carolyn picked it up for me at the antique shop. I suppose I must approve every new possession of mine with you.” 

The eldest Collins would never argue that her brother didn’t have impeccable taste when it came to the arts. It was beautiful –– pristine sky blue Wedgwood, no doubt an authentic Georgian piece, arrayed with some classical scene in polished white. Not something she’d have expected him to like, but then he’d surprised her before. Elizabeth's posture loosened, just slightly, her eye fixed on that vase. She'd have liked to relish his sudden interest in the plants. She would have, ordinarily. But those shears had yet to reappear from behind his back.

His sister raised her brows at him. She might as well have been saying: stay out of my room.

“If you want more flowers made up you need only ask me.”

He managed not to roll his eyes at her final disapproving glance, wondering for half a moment if she’d take the flowers from him — as she would have as a child if she’d found him stealing a toy. But she didn’t, she only reached for a half-full cup of coffee she’d evidently forgotten here that morning, and went back out into the snow, as composed as if nothing whatsoever had happened, as if ice itself had no capacity to disturb the steady heeled gait of the mistress of the house. Of course it had none: the very grounds themselves worshipped her.

Roger leaned against the bench as soon as she was out of view of the big glass panes, flooded with relief as he cradled the vase, errant stem tucked at last into safekeeping. One good thing had come out of his niece working at that infernal shop, anyway. Phillip Todd had gone all the way to Boston for it when his little niece had mentioned her uncle's interest in jasperware.

He ran a thumb over raised porcelain, and smiled. The Winged Victoria.

"Vicki Winters, what on earth has gotten into you?"

The little governess blinked at her with wide, innocent eyes that could have shirked all accusation from almost anyone else.

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't heard a word I've said for the last fifteen minutes. You're miles away."

Victoria smiled, sheepishly, and laid aside the pair of cufflinks she'd been fiddling with (to the great dismay of the counterwoman, who felt her commission draining like water through her fingers).

"No, I haven't, Carolyn, I'm sorry. You'll have to tell me again."

Her apologies did not satisfy her –– not that she'd guessed they would –– and within a moment the tempest of golden hair was at her side, fully of sound and fury at the greatest possible sin against the maiden Stoddard: inattention.

"I think you're going to tell me something. You weren't thinking of those for yourself. Who are you buying for?"

"No one. I was just admiring them."

"Uh huh." Attempts to give her interrogator the slip into the women's jewelry section proved fruitless. She'd hoped, however faintly, she'd be dazzled by some locket and forget about Miss Winters' minor infraction for a while, but no such luck. Carolyn seemed to sense the tactic, and stepped in her path before she could retreat even further to cosmetics. "Now you're a liar and a poor listener. I'm keeping score, Vicki."

"Your mother doesn't pay me that much. even if I wanted them, I could never – "

"I knew it." Smug pleasure replaced the sting of abandonment, and she grinned, convinced now that she was right. "Tell me who they're for and I'll get them for you."

"That's bribery, Carolyn Stoddard. I'm keeping score, too."

"So what if it is? Mother owes you a million dollars at least for putting up with David all this time, it'll make a small dent in our debt to you. Go on, tell me."

Miss Winters only shook her head. Her captor, resumed now in her pout, let her escape her glass-framed cage and trailed after her as she headed to the assured safety of the checkout counter.

"I'm buying the shirts she sent me to pick up for David, and that's all. That'll have to satisfy you."

"Vicki, if there is someone –"

"Carolyn."

"If there is then I'd be happy for you. I know how hard it's been after everything's that happened with you and ... well, I think it's wonderful you're thinking about it again. That's all."

Victoria was silent. She hadn't said the name, but it was there in the air anyways, in her knuckles –– tense as they withdrew her purse and the envelope within, bare now of the wedding band that had left a white mark of summer-long widowhood. A reminder burned into the skin. Carolyn softened.

"Whoever he is, he's a lucky guy."

Miss Winters turned to look at her, over the bulk of the new-wrapped box in her arms, and for only a moment it seemed as though she might say something ––  but she chewed at the inside of her cheek, and thought better of it.

"You'll be the first to know if there's something to tell, alright?"

"I'll hold you to that, Miss Winters."

"I know you will."

"It's good to see you feeling so much better, David." Victoria placed a fond kiss to the top of his head, which one might say he endured rather than enjoyed, but nonetheless he no longer squirmed away. Recent months had made the both of them far too aware just how precious annoying governess kisses were in the world. "How do you like the watercolors?"

"I like 'em okay. Still getting the hang of it, I guess."

David's version of "getting the hang of it" never ceased to surprise her. He'd had the box of corner store paints for two weeks, and he was already a portraitist fit to rival Charles Delaware Tate (at least, in her professional opinion). Her student had a fine, if exploratory, way of capturing the the gleam of satin and the white powdering of lace and the soft curve of a nose that ... oh. Her brows lifted, just faintly.

"Is that me?"

"Yes. I saw it in my crystal ball."

"I didn't know you still played with that."

"It's not a toy. I looked in it."

"Alright, you looked in it." She smiled down at him, immensely grateful he couldn't hear her heart beating in her ears. He hadn't seen her in her finery on her last wedding day (either of them), though she supposed his aunt must have told him she'd worn Naomi's veil. He could have found it, playing dress up in old storage rooms, or in a portrait somewhere, any place. Not so unusual. "Did your crystal ball show you the groom, too?"

"No, just you."

"Well, it's a beautiful likeness. I might want to keep it when you're finished."

He hesitated, and frowned down at the picture before laying aside his brush in a muddied water cup.

"Are you getting married again soon, Miss Winters?"

"If I am, no one's told me about it."

"Well, the crystal ball never lies. You know that."

"I know."

He was silent for another moment, then: "Do you want to get married again?"

"Sure, sometime. But I don't know that I can anytime soon. We haven't got your geometry up where I want it just yet."

David only grinned in answer, and picked up his brush again –– focused intently now not on the face of his subject, but on some mystery deep within flawless crystal. Vicki could see nothing there, of course, she'd never been able to since Burke first gave it to him. But he'd evidently found something he'd forgotten, because he was quickly back to work adding a long strand of pearls around her neck, as clear and as detailed as if he could see them right before his face. She didn't have anything like that. She felt dizzy.

"There, now it's finished. You can have it."

"Thank you, David." She studied the necklace. It was old, very old, she was sure of that. Maybe she'd ask Mrs. Stoddard about it. "Wait –– you should sign it, all artists sign their portraits."

"Oh! You're right."

Once he'd scrawled his name, he blew on the wet corner to dry it : David, sans Collins, she noticed with a smile. Not a family that liked lending their name to the men of Bohemia. She ruffled his hair and took the finished portrait in hand.

"Who knows, in a hundred years someone might pay thousands of dollars for this picture. An authentic David Collins."

"Maybe."

Victoria made to leave the room, but took one look behind her as he was packing up the newspapers littered across his desk, shaking his ever-longer hair back into place.

"David? If your crystal ball says who I'm going to marry, you'll tell me, won't you?"

"Sure."

“Carolyn! I thought you came home hours ago, with Vicki.”

“I did. I snuck out again, you don’t think she saw me, do you?”

"Well, no, but –"

"Good." Roger's niece collapsed next to him on the sofa, close enough that he could still make out a few stubborn snowflakes in her hair. There must have been another bout of flurries after the sun went down, he hadn't noticed. "I want you to tell me what you think of these."

From fine white crocodile leather, she withdrew a small jewelry box, containing an intricate pair of cufflinks on its green velvet bed: silver, each adorned with a single pearl. Expensive, undoubtedly.

"They're very charming, kitten. Who are they for?"

"Well that's just it, I don't know."

"Oh?" He handed them back with a smile, quizzical but by now quite used to the heiress' little intrigues.

"Vicki was looking at them earlier."

"Vicki?" The smile dropped from his face as rapidly as it appeared. Thankfully, the young Miss Stoddard was much too engrossed in her own plot to notice.

"Yes. She had to have someone in mind, didn't she? I mean, she wouldn't have been admiring them on her own, would she?"

"No, I shouldn't think so.” Not unless their governess had taken a new interest in men’s jewelry he’d never known her to possess. “Admiring them, you said? Miss Winters can hardly afford something like this on her salary."

"That was her objection, too. I told her I'd buy them for her if she told me who it was."

That earned her a laugh. "Well, I hope you learned that trick from your mother and not from me."

"She said no, anyways. You know how Vicki is."

Yes, he knew. Honorable to a fault, their Miss Winters, never more so than when it came to her latest pup trailing after her. He pulled at his lower lip idly, thinking about the drape of porcelain chiton under his fingertip, the damning yellow pollen that had crept like a lipstick stain onto his shirt cuff. Roger rose from his place, and filled his half-empty glass to the brim.

Carolyn noticed that, if nothing else. But she was persistent. "Anyway, I thought I'd surprise her with them, and she'd be grateful enough to let it slip. Or at least you and I can keep our eyes peeled for any men about town with a new pair of cuff links."

"An impeccable plan. You have my full collaboration, if need be."

He downed the brandy in a swallow. His niece waited patiently, almost expectantly, at his elbow.

"Uncle Roger, it doesn't bother you that Vicki might be seeing someone, does it?"

"It certainly does. Her last romantic fiasco was hard enough on all of us, especially David. I should hate to think of him being put through that again." He filled the glass a second time, then turned to face her, his free hand resting on his hip. "You know, I'm not sure I quite trust her judgment in her choice of young men, and her secrecy does nothing to endear this one to me."

Carolyn toyed with the velvet lining of the box. Her delightful mystery she'd happened upon was quickly losing its charm. He was right, she guessed, it affected all of them –– and no one more than David –– where and when their governess placed her romantic attentions. But still ...

"You want her to be happy, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, don't be horrible to her."

"Now, kitten, does that sound like me?"

"Miss Winters, are you awake?"

"Roger! Come in." The little governess brightened despite the blizzard at her window, a vision of springtime in yellow chiffon as she rose from her desk to meet him, note still in hand that she'd plucked from the bouquet. "Roger, I never got the chance to thank you for the flowers, and the vase, they’re beautiful, it was so thoughtful of you to — ”

“You’re welcome, Miss Winters.” He did not return the smile, and hers gradually fell from her face. He could have sworn that the room itself got darker, as though she’d pulled the curtains.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Wrong? No, I suppose not.”

“I don’t understand.”

In answer, he pulled a small jewelry box from the pocket of his smoking jacket, held tidily between thumb and forefinger. She didn't need to see it opened to know precisely what was inside.

"Carolyn!" Victoria grabbed for it, but Roger held it not quite teasingly out of reach.

"Yes, my dear niece told me all about your little excursion this afternoon."

"I'm sure she knows all about it."

"Oh, don't blame Carolyn." He paced towards her ––  slow, methodical, but his strides were lengthy, his legs rather longer than hers. "She meant nothing by it but curiosity, she asked my help identifying your young man."

"My young man?" Victoria smothered a smirk, but the corners of her mouth twitched relentlessly ––  Roger did not find it quite so amusing.

"I think you owe me an apology, Miss Winters."

"I don't see that I do."

"You don't –– !" he scowled. "What a stupid gift for this suitor of yours, it would have cost you six months' wages at least – "

The back of her thighs hit the desk. She looked up at him, startled, but he shirked her gaze, landing instead at the contents of her desktop. Some picture of David's she'd left laying out. Oh. It was her. Looking almost just as she had on her wedding day, her face framed by Parisian lace, so radiant and ––  his face drained of its color. "It seems you have something else to explain."

"David painted that this afternoon, he's been playing with the crystal ball again."

He lifted up the portrait by the corner, as if to touch it would singe him. "My son painted this? So you'll involve even David in your little schemes."

"I already told you, he saw that in his crystal ball."

"Victoria Winters, really, you surprise me."

"I wanted to keep it because I thought it was a good likeness."

"It's a wonderful likeness. Remarkable. You look just like you did when ..." his throat tightened. "If you're already thinking of marrying whoever it is, then you certainly owe me the decency of telling me. You've let me make a fool out of myself."

"I'm not thinking of marrying anyone."

"But this ––!"

"You haven't asked me!"

He went silent, lips parted as he searched her eyes –– grey like sharpened steel, now, fraught with impatience. She was so lovely, even when she was angry with him, perhaps especially then. " ... what ?"

"Well, you haven't. So I don't see how I can be planning to get married to anyone."

"Vicki." A small, cautiously hopeful smile warmed his face.

"But now I don't know that I'd want to even if you did, if you're going to accuse me of infidelity every time I browse the men's department."

"The cuff links were for...?"

"Roger Collins, I wanted to buy those for you."

"You did?"

"Yes, and now Carolyn's ruined the surprise on top of everything else."

"Then you mean, there's no –– "

"No, there's no young man."

He was pleased enough not to resent her little barb in the least, and laid aside David's artwork to take the real thing into his arms instead. The drape of her nightgown was dreamlike in his fingers, clinging to skin soft as porcelain.

"Forty-four's not too old, is it?"

She only sighed. "What am I going to get you? Secrets don't last a day in this house."

Roger chuckled at that. "Not usually." He kissed her cheek, her neck –– there, beneath her ear, where he could feel her pulse jump. Alive, always so alive in this house of ghosts, their governess. Warm as if he stood before the hearth, as though she were the greenhouse sun, or brandy in the throat. "You liked the vase?"

"I did." She relaxed, at last, in his attention. "I remembered. Nike."

"Victoria." He held her chin, and studied her. "the goddess Victoria..."

He wished they were hundreds of miles from here, arm in arm in the Duveen Gallery again, far from ghosts, from the Todd's, from Elizabeth, from Jeremiah and Isaac and Theodore. Bathed instead in the beauty of millennia-old marble. He leaned to kiss her, but in the very moment before it could connect, a boy's voice, frantic with excitement, echoed outside the door.

"Miss Winters! Miss Winters, it told me!"

Roger winced, but did not withdraw. Perhaps he'd go away. Perhaps he didn't know she was in here. Perhaps –– then the door banged open.

"The crystal ball said it's my father." David stopped in his tracks, his little jaw dropped and eyes wide –– knowing perfectly well he'd stumbled on something he wasn't meant to see. But the shock did not last long. He smirked, and darted just as quickly from the room as he'd entered it. "Aunt Elizabeth!"

That moved him from his spot. "David Collins!"

[sunsage]

>>

Despite what people say, he rarely charges into things without a plan. The complexity and effectiveness of these plans tends to vary, sure, but that's not the point.

The point is, he knows what he's doing.

Hovering on his cloud slightly above his house, Wukong checks the list again. Umber is probably the best place to start, since it's closest. From there, he can travel to Mistwood and back to Sky-Strewn, and from there it should be a straight shot to the Gulf. Easy.

Well, no, pretty hard actually. But not impossible. Not if he's careful. And very, very lucky.

Swiping his golden eyes over the desert, he tries to find something that looks even a little like the cactus pear he's supposed to find (a few times his eyes drift to Sun's house, unbidden, but he looks away). There's... a lot of cacti out there and with Gold Vision he can't even be sure which ones are red. His leg throbs as the stone slowly climbs higher. It still doesn't hurt, but he can feel it now and that's almost worse.

No time to wait around.

Picking what appears to be the best match, Wukong spins the cloud in a wide circle. And another one, and another, faster and faster and faster until the cloud suddenly zips in the direction of Umber. It dissipates into nothing the moment they hit the border of Sky-Strewn, but the built-up momentum is enough to launch Wukong himself way past it, to the desert below. Even with his limited flight capabilities, the landing ends up being more than a little clumsy, with him plowing through several dunes at an impressive speed before he finally stops. But he's here, and that's what matters.

"Not the most graceful idea, but it worked." Shaking the sand off of himself to the best of his ability (he'll have to take a bath after this. probably more than one), Wukong looks around. He overshot a little, but he can still see where he needs to go from here. Like he said: easy.

Yeah, right. Sure, the heat of the desert doesn't bother him all that much even if he is covered head to toe, but as it turns out walking through the sand with both of your legs turning to stone is more than a little uncomfortable.

(It is both of his legs now. He can feel the foot go numb as it solidifies and tries very hard to not stress out about it).

It takes a good hour for him to get to the small patch of cacti. The fruits are red (as far as he can tell) and match the description (he thinks) so he plucks a few and stuffs them in his pockets, ignoring the way they prickle his hands. One down, two to go. If he can keep up the pace, he should be done with this challenge in no time.

(As long as he doesn't think about the fact that this was probably the easiest part and he still has to leave the desert and search for two more ingredients while he slowly loses control of his body-)

Sun Wukong is very good at compartmentalizing. Right now, thinking too far ahead is not going to do him any good, so he doesn't. Instead he chooses to focus on getting out of the desert. All that matters right now is that he knows which direction he needs to go. One step at a time.

He can do this, because he has to.

Using up all his flight for the day on the first leg of his challenge seems ill-advised, so instead Wukong takes advantage of his speed and small bursts of flight to leap across the sand towards the entrance canyon he can see in the distance. That is what dooms him in the end, when he lands heavily on a rippled patch of sand and it gives under his feet, and starts to sink. With the feeling gone in both feet it takes him a moment too long to notice and by then it's too late. The sand shifts and drags him in all the way to his knees, only seeming to get stronger, pull him in deeper when he tries to struggle. It presses against him firmly until he can't move at all, the heavy weight constricting him from all sides until he's completely submerged.

Before he can do anything, even cry for help, the sand pulls him in. Silently, it shifts in the spot where he just was before settling once again.

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

I. Hate. You.

I hate you so fucking much. I hate you with every fiber of my being. I hate the air you breathe. I hate your confidence. I hate your charisma. I hate that people like you because of what you actually are. I hate that you're the kind of person I would have tried to do parkour to impress when I was ten. I hate that you believe that the world could be a better place. I hate that you don't respect me. I hate the idea of you forgetting me. I hate that I already went down this path. I hate that there's no going back. I hate every moment my hands aren't wrapped around your neck. I hate that I know you're better than me. I hate that I'm not you.

...I hate that you're gone. I hate whatever took you from me. I hate seeing you in countless other faces who I know aren't yours. I hate that I never got to finish things.

I hate that I miss you.

[corvidmagicae]

　 ��� “... What?”

It's a very simple response, one heard by the witch many a time before. Any other mage who knew her reputation may have been cowed by her annoyed glower, those sharp red eyes glowing beneath the brim of her hat... but those who had actually gotten to know her would recognize the subdued disbelief and confusion in her expression was vastly dwarfing any irritation.

The suited human shoving a manilla folder in Bridgette's face? She fell into the later category. If anything, the woman - affectionately self-nicknamed 'Gadget' (since she refused to even remotely share any other name) - would just give a snicker at the elder's expression, rolling her eyes.

　 　 “C'mon, Biddie. You're old, but i know you're not deaf. Some of the younger fanged folk haven't gotten the memo yet that we're 'off the menu.'”

And immediately held her hand up to interrupt Bridgette's attempt to shoot a quip back at the wording choice.

　 　 “Yeah yeah, i know vampires aren't your forte. That isn't why the old ladies are putting this on your radar. THIS is.” The youngster opened the folder, slipping a couple of photographs out - the first a message scrawled at the scene of the crime, mentioning a particular newcomer to the local gangs.... and the second? A candid image of a familiar blonde. And Bridgette bit back a snarl, one of her fangs showing.

　 　 “The kid's alive - someone outside our group got to her first, obviously. Hopefully they know what they're doing to mitigate vampire bites. Something something, gotta wait out the poison, yeah? Keep them alive long enough? You'd know that sort of thing better than me. The problem is the group in question, and what happened to the biter. The dude's uh... he's not presentable. Not gunna show those images. But a little bit of clairvoyance got us a look at who decided to do some vigilante justice."

Gadget nudges the photo of the blonde towards Bri.

　 　 “So... yeah. That one's yours, isn't she?”

　 　 “She's not mine-”

　 　 “Yeah yeah, fae bullshit. But the point is, she's involved. And the old girls upstairs don't really don't care whatever rivalry you two have going on.... but they've decided that she's your responsibility. For uh... obvious reasons. If it were just her, it wouldn't be a problem, but this Vulcan thing has them rattled. Just... keep an eye on her maybe? Or give her a history lesson, or something. I dunno. You're the most contact she's had with the rest of SIBYL, so if anyone's going to get a better read of her and what she's trying to do, or better yet maybe get her to be less public, it's you.”

Oh, now Gadget's actually taking a moment to breath. Not before smacking the shorter witch on the forehead with the folder, unspoken yet light reprimanding, before dropping the folder in Bridgette's hands, but she's ceased talking none-the-less.

Not that Bridgette's taking the chance to talk. No, she's just running a palm along her face in an exasperated motion, pinching the bridge of her nose while she takes a moment to process what she's been told.

　 　 “Oh, goddammit Krupp. The hell have you done?”

[ruinakete]

♡ ・ ORIGINS ━━━ prologue of chapter one, LTTWM, dedicated to zephia & eremiya

teaser,

"step out of my confessional." the abrupt command arched her brow, becoming the catalyst of whatever strange glee tugged the ends of her lips upward; lolling her head in a curious tilt. mage dragon dared to lean forward, her face closer to the thin separation between sinners. "your confessional?" came zephia's low voice, prodding at the invisible gates caging away the bishop's heart. "what of seiros? is this not h━━━" immediately, the noise of wood splintering, ruthlessly cracked beneath a force, cut her off. silence filled the booth until the drawl of the bishop's bitterness festered. "... i refuse to entertain your taunts. you will not make a mockery of my faith." a pause followed━━━her breath ragged and strained. "step out or i will have you escorted myself." dangerous, sure, but the fire of another would not burn a dragon. "hm, how unfortunate. do you not have the patience for my confession, sister eremiya?"

RECAP. none are applicable. this is the first chapter.

DISCLAIMERS. content warnings are as follows, for the discussions, mentions, or implications of religious commentary and trauma; child death, abuse, and torture; unhealthy maladaptive behaviors; light gore; narcissism; pregnancy and childbirth; canon-typical violence; abuse of hierarchy / political power; and mass murder.

final words from the mun. just a quick reminder to all that any of the content warnings in the disclaimer are liable to change until the 23rd, when the drabble is posted. likewise, all chapter prologues will be posted on the 20th, now, instead of the 18th. the word count of the chapter, as well as links to all previous and consecutive chapters, will be added to the posted drabble before the readmore.

[fiixer]

It's truly amazing how quickly a safe-house can become anything but.  To one like himself, that looming threat was anything but new, when a single word to the wrong person could place a target over any point on a map and lead to a breach.  What had changed was the invaders and the danger they carried.  Once upon a time, the biggest concern was other humans.  Dangerous animals, the lot of them.  Now it seemed that, despite all that had changed, that part remained the same.  What was left of people were deadly, when even their mere presence could potentially mean death in the worst possible way.  Once the barrier of any chose safe-house was breached, one may fight the assailants to their end, and yet still remained the worry of what else came with them; would the virus that made them pass on further?  How far would it spread between those inside?  Even after the immediate danger had passed, there was no clearing, no end, no moment to catch breath in the aftermath.  That part was different.  

That part, he was still getting used to, or so would be the claim meant to explain a lapse in guard; for failing to throw a second lock, and shove a makeshift barricade over to further block the door prior to stepping out the balcony for what remnants of fresh air remained in city limits, masked by the lingering smell of infection and rot, gifting himself that moment of calm before it was off to work once again.  Five minutes - it could not have been more, and the moment of peace shattered to the tune of splintering wood and the deafening crack of a door giving way, followed so closely by the triumphant wail of a voice once considered human.  Some would argue it still was.  He, on the other hand, has evidence to the contrary, when returning inside for naught but a minute caught the attention of two "people" whose short-term goal apparently included mauling his face.  Regardless, he'd made it down four flights of stairs and out the building's entrance before more could show up, so one might take a guess how close the pair came to said goal.

When Jordi guns someone down, they stay down.

Two more bodies added to the unending list he'd stepped over in his lifetime, though these two fell without their names in mind.  That helps.  Removing something human as a name only makes pulling the trigger ten times easier.  That is not to say there is any hesitation on his part, regardless of who or what stands on the business end of his .45.  In the way is in the way, and some folks still had a job to do.  Oh, and isn't that a wonderful feeling, knowing one is still needed when everything else goes to shit.  People - normal humans, he understands as much as one can, and as long as there are two still living, one of them will eventually want the other dead.  And, sooner or later, both of them will need something.  In either scenario, that's where he steps in.

It's where he should be stepping now, were it not for delays.  Preparing for a simple retrieval and delivery of basic necessities should not have taken long, but what can he do?  The two earlier were a surprise, and now here he stands, hovering over the battered, bleeding body of a third; a third who clearly drew the short stick when it came to infection.  Marred skin on his face, multiple…were they eyes?  They sure as hell looked like eyes, but that couldn't be, right?  Right, they had to be pustules of pus and sick forming in a rather unfortunate area:  all over the infected man's face.  That he now lay in a bloody heap surely counts as the most merciful point of his existence, so it qualifies as the Good Deed for the day.

Another adversary down - with a line of bullet holes to show for the trouble - it was time to leave before more came searching for the source of the noise.  A gunshot rarely goes unnoticed, and now it's capable of attracting a swarm, thus he spares only a moment to reload; stepping over a spreading puddle of gore with sights set on the alley's mouth, leading to the main road out of this particular area of the city.  On supply runs, the next neighborhood over had a tendency to yield better results, and he was running low on a few things as well, so for the sake of himself and the promised paycheck, it's in his better interests to make the trek.  The sooner he moved, the better, as now there was even more distance to cover once he got the job done, as his prior hideout had been breached and ruined, thus it was on to the next, and he'd prefer to be there and locked away well before dark -

Barely out of his exit's reach, he comes to pause.  In this part of the city, the days were often quieter, more serene, easier to pick out wandering infected or even passing survivors by the sounds that echoed around them, so when a sharp crack  vibrates the air around him, he stops in his tracks, breath caught in his throat; waiting, listening.  Another crackle drawn out and laced with a sickening, wet noise distinct of flesh moving, tearing, stretching, like ripping raw meat off a bone.  After a moment, with it comes a howl of agony that has Jordi whipping around to face it, arm outstretched with his gun at the ready, finger on the trigger to drop whatever sons of bitches happened across his little party; to stop their little feast on fresh corpse laying about.  

The problem was, the sound wasn't from a new mob.  Oh, no, it came from one; one who sports bleeding holes in its chest, knee and arms, and lacked a lower jaw, where a few bullets destroyed the hinge entirely and left it hanging.  One who now stood as steady as a sapling in a windstorm, its wounds sprouting solid tendrils of squirming flesh.  On its arm, an arm too long for the body from which it hangs, was a sharp point, a spike formed from whatever wicked mutation brought a dead man to his feet again.  More snaked between tattered clothing, flailed about in warning, and suddenly those eyes - and eyes they were, all seven of them - fixated on Jordi once again.

When Jordi guns someone down, they stay down.

At least, until they don't.

[gazelessmenagerie]

-sighs in defeat.-

[livesforgttn]

KNUCKLES

❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : CRACK. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : study. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : aes. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : dash com. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : answered. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : drabble. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : headcanon. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : saved. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : main verse. ❛ 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗘 : knuckles : verse tba.

[trehontin]

' That is--- what even is that? '

' Is it dangerous? '

' It-- doesn't - really seem like it? '

─────

It was a surprise, amongst everything that had been left behind in this grandeur of a now empty empire that had grown over months, years, decades, nearly centuries worth, countless structures stretching themselves far and wide. The sheer immensity of this whole creation, worth shattering the mind unable to fathom that it had been conceived and devised, planned and ultimately created by minds of so very few. But even with all that aside, even with permitting oneself to get lost in all those possibilities not expected, even less predicted, there were those around and struck with heavy emotional tremor, that could never, and should have never, had the means and opportunities to get to know all that he had hidden away. 

And what a serene, hauntingly disturbing masterpiece this all was. 

There were those few choice souls that survived their Creator's preparations for war and unleashed madness for blind opportunism in destroying all in his wake that would lead him not to his desired goal. Those very special someones had been left alone and to rest, to scamper and hide for the time being, as breaking open this marble fortress, find entry and pathways alike, was the 'intruders' mission for hours and hours that had just passed. And many, so many more that would still come. 

Easy it was at first. A maze made by a mad King, following corridors over and over as if he had desired to lead any 'guest' of his endlessly spinning magnum opus through the same halls, having them feel like walls close in around them, and the heavier the suffocating delirium of this unexpected pull, the swifter and quieter those rats could be disposed of. Like a mouse in a labyrinth, followed by a cat, a prey and a predator, chasing each other around in infinite circles till bringing up their mutual ruin. So it had felt, till throne-room had been discovered, with the marble throne so high above and out of everybody's reach, for the Maker of this rotten Kingdom to look down upon his servants: to judge, to be admired - all those emotions drowned out towards simple desires. 

There were not only a few squad members whose glassy eyes and faraway gazes had shimmering notions hidden in the depths of lidded want. To either see him stand above amongst the heavens or even, even just, if powers would lead and harbour, mayhap they could have stood there as well---?

─────

' Hey! What are you doing there?! Back to work! '

' Stop staring up at this thing! '

─────

Stops and stops. As if broken apart by those who had garnered their strength again inside this cacophony of sounds and smells and palpable emotions running rampant at that moment those that had lingered in something similar to awe-struck god-given reverence where the God itself was jailed, should not ever be in their reach anymore if not for those that deemed it necessary [ or possible? ] for him to walk amongst those that are mortal again. 

What a deliberate, mind-numbing thought process. And it was that very one, that one could cling to in winding their weary forms, broken in body, broken in mind, through this sheer unending craft appearing like an immaculate white sea. If one were to truly think about it, one could suppose that this whole picture of sharpness and grace intermingled with this or that odd little phantom of a peculiar little display [ was it made by him? was it made for them? ] of masonry would be nought else but fitting for a man that had planned and pursued something as ludicrously lavish in all its broken brilliance as this whole Kingdom being a base to his desires of the end of the world. 

Or so--- it seemed?

" What--- " 

Soft and light just as much as her voice would barely break through the ongoing chatter about a room they had yet only discovered barely half a bell ago, and what a stark contrast of colours and vibrant feelings had it not been? From the very place they stood in, could see the radiance of a multitude of facetted greens illuminating the otherwise rather dark angle of Sousuke Aizen's private quarters. It is just what had been found out maybe an hour ago, when capturing one of those discardable little beings still rummaging through carved architecture and the murmured words of fear and terror had attempted to explain where their former Lord had hidden all of his sacred privacy with enough of a promise to behold to let the jittering and trembling mass flee again. 

Whatever the Hollows would do in these hours and days, the Shinigami, for now at the very least, would not care about it even for a single heartbeat. So thus? To watch lower officers of one of the Squads having set to clean out this place of tormented, fractured entities, stagger back and away from the sheer intensity of a brilliant glow, to put distance between what they could not understand - could never even imagine to grasp - and the output of pure and radiant power that suddenly [ or so it at least seemed? ] had unfurled itself to search and search while formerly it had been so dormant --- " What is happening? " She had not been alone in her pursuit of a truth that the man that had been part of her carefully crafted world had all hidden away from her so meticulously and cruelly, but even though it was not the case---

---she suddenly felt like the only person in this whole world who could even begin to understand. 

" Sasameki---? " With how faraway her husband's voice just sounded. With how she had wound herself through the onlookers, those that are damned in their attempt to stop her, to make her shy away from the sheer outbursts of pure unadulterated rage, settling into the beauty of this whole creation. How could any of this be? How was any of this real? It was undeniable! - the little gift bestowed to him she had been so sure, so certain that he might have had it destroyed over the years in the past that he was gone - because! Sasameki had searched for it in his quarters, nothing to be found, not even a trace - and yet here? 

Here of all places, this shimmering ocean of lush green and vibrant hues of lighter leafy overgrows, the darker shades of verdant, making the room even bigger than it probably already had been. It was all Sousuke's powers to behold. All these depths and riches created by small little pieces of reiatsu in blinding perception, near hot to a seeking touch, while the sheer simplicity of his reishi, on the other hand, was cooling and light, similar to something that conjures the picture and light whispers of a rainstorm's worth. How can this all just be? This sheer magnitude of this sweet creation, but had he not mentioned it before? When all but drawing back over memories and how mind-numbing was not the wish to recall his words how he had spoken them to her? 

 " I will probably see if I can nourish it myself, that would be interesting, no? " 

It broke in that moment with a single tear trailing along fair cheek. What had she answered? What had she found as a reply to his mild jest in their gentle back and forth that was so filled with admiration and adoration for each other that knew no bounds? What had she said? " Dear, please--- " A call that does not reach her, when the call she wanted to hear so much more than anything else was from his voice. Was any explanation he had refused to give her, that child she once knew, grown into a man, a monster of such grotesque proportions, larger than life and even if he had offered solace and aid by a margin only, he was too far gone. Too far beyond. 

Silence in a world that was screaming with sounds. 

Tenderness in a presence that latched to burn her whole. 

Yet it did not. When she had dropped to her knees in front of this forest. This Macrocosmos nurtured out of a single instance, a single little mushroom given to him as a gift, as a treasure perceived for the worth it had. And he had kept it. Raised it. Brought it to new heights even Sasameki might not have reached, if not for his hand to guide her anew. And guide he did, was it not true?

Because in these moments? These very short seconds that boiled down to nothing but her and his secret left behind, the way these little roots would stretch for her hand so kindly, so carefully extended towards life and vigour itself. She could hear those exclamations, for her to be cautious and alert, his powers left behind and stretched beyond the etchings of the stone, like a fine spidery web, would lash out and push back any not allowed, not desired to behold a part of his crafted soul. No, but for her [ and had Shunsui not hushed them down to nought with a mere wave of his hand? ], they were reaching. 

Climbing. Trying to gather at a place to know they have been accepted. For her, all that power, shining oh-so-bright, muted in its subtle calm, like a velvety softness of gentle touch --- it broke just the moment she realised that. That there was something. Something that is so truly known to her. Something only she was able to perceive. Something only she had ever had the pleasure, the chance, to truly recognise. What a mind-breaking thing he had left her behind---

---this Cosmos that had grown and would sing. That velvet she felt, was just like his voice - far too kind.  || @jinjahime | @bornhollow ♡

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

The United FConfederation does not recognize the existence of any legal entities known as "King Scourge," "King Scourge Anarkos I," "House Anarkos," "Queen Fiona," 'The Kingdom of Moebius," "King Sonic," or "The King, Baby." No currency allegedly issued by any of these entities is recognized as legal tender. No claims made in court on the basis of the decree of a "world sovereign" of Moebius will be recognized as valid.

Jules Maurice Hedgehog II is recognized as the de facto head of state of the Kingdom of Acorn pending the organization of special elections by the international community. He does not have any legal authority in any polity of the United FConfederation or any other Moebian government besides the Kingdom of Acorn in a temporary custodial capacity.

[Internal Note: Stick to the name changes. Tower says don't rock the boat.]