#slithering sycophant

[roboraindrop]

You are the sweetest indulgence I will ever know.

[senka-mesecine]

Are there any other platoon characters besides Barnes you could see as being yandere-esque?

-

Nearly all of them? In their own way?

― For example, you'd never think someone like, say, O'Neill's possessive or obsessive at first, but he's there yes man-ning your every word and action, humblebragging (or even wildly overexaggerating and lying) around you to impress you with some stolen valor stories, lovebombing you, being wholly biased to all your decisions and pretty much riding your respective coattails to the degree it could almost be considered servile or a little pathetic --- only a little; but see, it's all tactics. Just tactics. Tactics he's entirely sincere about and wholly devoted to which probably makes it worse seeing as how he puts his whole O'Neill heart into this and not one bit of it is fake. A Yandere doesn't need to be dominant to be a Yandere. If he slimes, slithers and acts like enough of a sycophant, he believes, sooner or later, you'll fall for that O'Neill charm because he'll do anything from seamlessly and wordlessly being at your service and disposal at all times to just about being on your ass like an ant until, eventually, you'll fall for it because the man will just about brown-nose you into love like nobody else can or will and irritate and somehow repulse everyone else away from you by default. Ain't stupid. Not if it works. Bootlicking can in fact, pay off.

― Wolfe? Man's a wolf in sheep's clothing and yes, that's an obvious pun. Easy to overlook and he's very unassuming at first, but therein lies the unseen danger of him, because he'll fail, he'll be occasionally incompetent to the degree it'll downright endanger others, cowardly, but perhaps not too cowardly, maybe just the right amount; he'll be sidelined, he'll be wildly in over his head in many situations, he's the guy you never expect to be obsessive (or have the passion, drive or willpower to) and he'll fall short in so many ways and still get the girl because he'll wait it out. Yeah. He'll wait it out. When you're disappointed, heartbroken, lonely, left behind and for the lack of a better word, messed up by everyone else (maybe people he eliminated with his incompetence) Wolfe comes in at the last moment and moves in on the prize and keeps it. He ends up seeming like the hero for it too and all he had to do is be there at the place and at the right time. College boy appeared harmless and even hapless until he wasn't. Unexpectedly dangerous too due to how little recognition he got in the war and my god, now, starved of having control, admiration, respect, authority and praise he could suck you dry of all five until he's sated...which is never.

― Bunny's the most blatantly obvious Yandere of the bunch. Doesn't hide it. Can't hide it. Won't. Puts the 'sick' into lovesick. Doesn't have the capacity for subtlety and decorum to do so. And why would he anyway? He does what he likes when he likes and that's about the whole point of everything for him. That's the sort of thing he relishes in. Sends you something he's bitten into as a token of his affections purely so he could show off his teeth marks embedded, say, into an old can or the tooth that fell out of his mouth after he's bitten into said can or maybe he can in the utmost, almost childlike confidence show you a heart he swears belongs to an animal (but do you have any proof it does?) 'because you ain't ever seen anything like it'. Maybe he tattoos himself. Crudely, admittedly. Uses a needle to pretty much scratch your name somewhere on his body and proudly flaunt it to you even though it's under risk of inflammation and infection and very much wants to do the same with you. What do you mean you wont? He's violent, boyishly unhinged and entirely in your face about it. You'll know his tendencies from day one because he wears everything out in the open. It's impossible to avoid. He'll probably be there doing something morbid to impress from the moment he sets his eyes on you.

― The ways Elias would be possessive go above and beyond the ordinary bunch, see, because he'd be kind. He'd be the voice of reason. One could even say he's noble. But, he still embeds himself so deep into your mind and heart you find yourself thinking about him for most of your waking thoughts, if not all of them and what's that if not possession? Good natured possession, but still. He's on the quest to save your soul, in ways. Love's an enlightenment to him. A rebirth. And you're not sure just what this man does exactly to get so deeply under your skin but he's generally just so good to you that five minutes without him can send you into subtle panic. He doesn't need to do anything bad. Anything controlling. Anything...well...insidious. Quite the contrary. Elias kills you with kindness. One nice gesture at a time. One sweet word after another. One selfless gesture after selfless gesture. Until he makes himself unlike any other presence in your life. Until you're the one obsessed with him. Heck, you'll be here dreaming of him. Can't be without him even in your nighttime reveries. You're hooked. If you ever talk to him about it he might just offer you a blissed out smile and softly say that now you know how he felt, day one. Now you feel it too.

― Taylor's the everyman. The boy next door. The guy. Initially boyish. Puppy-like. Maybe a bit green, wide-eyed and inexperienced. Maybe a lot. He's seemingly all classical love letters and warmest regards but every once in a while, if properly triggered by someone or something, especially after his time in the war, a side so unexpectedly and profoundly dark can rear its ugly head it can downright leave you frightened, barely recognizing him because you'd never guess in a million years he had it in him. See, he doesn't mean to. He left for the war so he wouldn't be this everyman. Live this cookiecutter life his parents lived. He wanted to do something for himself. Be something that wasn't simply handed to him. But, irony of all ironies, with you, the cookiecutter is precisely what he covets and maybe, now, he's earned it. Like a sort of trophy or medal. Heck, fought and bled for it overseas. So now, suddenly, you're bricked in by the very white picket fence, immaculately trimmed lawn, affluent facade home life Taylor went to Vietnam to run away from him. You're his. He's normal. He's good too. But, every once in a while you dread to think what he'd be capable of doing if you ever crossed the white picket fence and ran.

― Yeah. The man of the hour himself; Barnes. A man that seems like he hates you for the longest time and during the good days when he's not actively antagonistic, intimidating, frightening as all hell or shouty, at best, he ignores your existence, but, what he presents on the outside isn't at all what's going on on the inside, even though both are entirely him and entirely genuine, but regardless; he could very well think of you as the only person he loves in the whole world and still actively treat you like you've somehow pissed on his sunshine. And you have, you see. Why? Because now, you're a weakness. He'd be capable of killing for you as well as kill you because you've disrupted the reality of things (or at least the way he sees reality) and gave him another thing to want except warfare. And that's yourself. And when a fighting man craves something other than war? The desire to do combat diminishes by the daily. You're a literal flaw in the grand machine of things and he could pick you apart with his bare hands as well break the hand of anyone who just as much as touches you. It's literally a conflict within his very soul and not just a run of the mill obsession. The type of love that drives him crazy and that's saying a lot for someone already dyed-in-the-bone with various shades of unhinged.

[cassynite]

WIP Wednesday

Me: I don't do emotion super well, I can't present it in a very empathetic way

My brain, with a gun: write Daeran at his mom's funeral. Do it.

--

Mother's funeral has black roses.

They fill the chapel of Iomadae in Kenabres with a sickly-sweet scent, as if trying to imitate Mother's favorite perfume. They bloom under the light streaming in through the stained glass--it's a beautiful, sunny day outside, the kind that would have Daeran traipsing through the gardens or riding his pony. But the grounds are blocked off now, and his pony is dead, along with every other living thing that had been in Heaven's Edge two weeks ago.

The roses would have been what she wanted. At least, that's what everyone says, when they come up to Daeran to commiserate, these adults in their best mourning garb who he's never, not once, met. They all say the same things--rows and rows of people finding him in the main hall before the funeral procession, sailing over to tell him what a wonderful person she was, how kind and noble and gentle and good. Shoving their memory of her, no matter how vague or unwanted, in his face.

None of them talk about how she snorted when she laughed, or hummed when she was concentrating on work, or threw her arms open when she introduced herself at parties as if she wanted to give the entire crowd a hug. None of them knew her songs or her jokes or that she'd decided to save their worthless lives rather than try to get a healer for herself.

Daeran wants, desperately, to not be an aasimar for a single day, so that his hair doesn't reflect the light shining through the stained glass, so that he is not so easy to find in a crowd. He wants, for a moment, to close his eyes and not exist. The gazes of the crowd, hungry to see his reaction, scrape across his body and leave him raw.

It doesn't help that they're not the only eyes he has to deal with. The thing crouched in his head, the thing that he allowed in and saved his life, never leaves him alone. He'd thought that 'being a doorway' meant he'd occasionally have to deal with whatever [spirit nonsense] it needed to enact from time to time, not that he'd have a permanent passenger inside his skull, whispering caustic thoughts from inside his ears, emitting cold and alien pulses of power, threatening his life should he even speak a word of it as if he did not know what he had agreed to when he first made the pact.

And, always, watching. Constant, ceaseless attention--Daeran is the star of a play for one hideous, malevolent audience, and he never gets curtain call. And him breaking down over staring at his mother's coffin, where her desiccated corpse lies inside to be buried beneath the soil, is not something he'll give it or anyone else in the crowd of sycophants.

He nods and thanks each and every mourner--at least they don't expect him to smile--and then takes his place at the front of the chapel, where the clerics had directed the family to sit.

He's the only one in the row. Everyone else had been at his party, celebrating his birthday, choking on poisoned cake or having their heads ripped off by the slithering pustule from another dimension that now grows on his brain.

Then, right before the high priest in his enormous hat (not Nestrin, Nestrin is never going to lead hours-long sermons ever again) walks up the dais to start the funeral proceedings, there's a murmur in the crowd, and someone places a hand on his shoulder. It's gentle--he'd almost call it hesitant but the pressure is firm and steadying.

He looks over to see the pained smile of a woman out of armor, her hair pulled up and away from her ageless face. The only sign of her years are her eyes, deep pits of blue filled with heavy grief.

"Hello," the queen of Mendev whispers. "Do you mind if I sit next to you?"

Daeran doesn't say anything, and after a moment Queen Galfrey lowers herself to his side in the pew. She's close enough to touch, strangely real and human in a stiff black mourning dress. She stares straight ahead, either ignorant of or blithely unconcerned by the whispers and the attention her presence garners: the queen of Mendev, sitting in the family row, next to the last member of house Arendae.

He's seen her before, of course. He's even met her. At the yearly jubilee in Nerosyan, she'd always make a point to spend at least some time with the Arendaes, and she would attend parties every now and then. Mother always--

Mother would--

The priest begins the ceremony. He speaks of loss and grace and pain in a monotone drawl, one that fills the room with even, continuous sound. The words all blur together, and Daeran stares at a spot beyond the priest's shoulder, where sunlight streams in through the stained glass depicting Iomadae rising from her test of the Starstone. The droning suffocates any life in the room, leaches out the feeling in his body, making everything float away, distant. He's counting the seconds until it is over. He is trying not to poke at the Thing in His Head, rotten and slightly painful like a bad tooth. 

"She'd probably make a joke right now," Queen Galfrey murmurs. Daeran almost jerks at the noise, the sudden intrusion against the ever-present hum of the priest's sermon. "The high ceremonial garb always looks a little silly, doesn't it? She'd probably wonder what the fuss is about."

Daeran keeps his attention on the window, but now there is another person in the room, the queen suddenly distinct from the mass of attention around him.  The queen breathes, louder than usual but still only just enough that Daeran can hear it. It shakes with every exhale.

"I know this won't mean much," she says, still in undertone. No one notices the conversation, how she's talking under the rites of ceremony, sending his mother's soul to Pharasma. "Losing everything like this...nothing will mean much for a while. The loneliness is--I understand. So please believe me when I say it's not the end, either."

She places her hand on top of his, another shock of sensation. Her hand is warm, and dry, rough with callouses. "Your mother was..." She stops, as if she understands she can't fit her into words. Her next words are choked out. "She will be missed."

Everything blurs out of focus: the chapel, the monotone voice, the eyes and the whispers. His lungs are too big for his body, his throat too small, and Daeran stays very, very still, because if he moves even a little bit he is going to splinter into a thousand pieces, and there's no one left to pick up after him now. The only thing anchoring him is the warm hand holding his. As everything else waters away and spins out of control, it remains real and present, holding him to this moment. He tries to find the strength to return the grasp, but even moving his hand is too much.

The queen doesn't seem to expect any kind of response. They stay like that, frozen in small and far away except for where their hands connect, the only thing that is real in this entire day, from this entire nightmare.

"I am here, if you ever need anything. You still have your cousin." The hand squeezes his. "I am so, so sorry."

[talentforlying]

@normaltothemax: how about something angsty? something to do with failure or something idk

the ashen taste of failure. novelists love that shit. they'll sit in the dark of their rooms or the gaudy yellow lights of a coffee shop for hours trying to put it in their own words, rolling their tongues along the ridges of their teeth to stir up a taste more poetic than the acid of their own spit, to really feel what they say their protagonists do. prettying up misery to package and sell, because who the fuck would want to read it if they were to come right out and say "some seventy year old git who just boked in the station toilet has been riding a train with no destination for hours, and if you ask him, he's pretty sure he's been on that train his whole fucking life"?

( yeah. he wouldn't read it either. )

if there is someone writing his life, trying to feed 'failure' into the flavor grinder, they don't have to try hard to come up with the 'ashen' part. it clings to him like a lover, like a second skin, like film stretched over leftovers you've already forgotten about and won't find again until the stench of rot starts to leak out the gaps around the door of the fridge. ash on his fingers, on his tongue, on his coat. ash in his wake, a long, slithering trail — bridges and lives and bodies and rules. cigarette stubs in the windowsill. every car's a non-smoking car these days, but since when has that ever stopped a determined enough wheezing working man from lighting up? never stopped him. there's precious little that does.

and that's the fucking problem right there, isn't it? nothing stopping him. people too shit-scared to get in his way. plenty of high-and-mighty fuckers to tell him off after he's done, oh sure; parades of angry scoffs and disapproving looks, fingers stuck in his face and punches to be thrown. but not a single fucker to hold him back when the tide is rising and he's still charging down the beach to kick sand in someone else's face. no one who can change his mind once it's been made up. no one who wants to make the plan, break the rules, take the dive, push the big red button. to fail. fucking sycophants and cowards with 20/20 hindsight, dooming him to lose again and again and again.

( sure, make it about everyone else but you, constantine. make it anyone else's fault but yours.

pretend like the only reason you're still shoveling the shit is because the nasty mean world won't take the spade away from you, pretend like being the only one for the job isn't exactly what you fucking wanted all along.

congratulations, con job: you're special. now fucking live with it. )

the ashen taste of failure. does failure leave the taste behind, or does the ash come first? does fate rub his nose in it once they've learned he's shat the carpet, or does it sprinkle down across his shoulders like powdery snow as soon as he steps outside, marking him for an inevitable fuck-up?

would it be easier to know that there really is someone writing his life, and that every ounce of burning shame sent to sear the back of his throat with each new drag on that ashen taste serves a purpose, eventually? it's all in the plot, you didn't get another friend killed for nothing. just the plot, putting your family into early graves and sinking your mind like a stone down the throat of your own titanic ego, until it chokes on unreality and the new god penance ascends the throne. a mechanism to get you from point A to B with narrative swiftness so the audience won't get fucking bored, so you'll find that next convenient little nugget of resolve and grow up a bit just as you were meant to, just in time to pull yourself together for the next big event.

except, he doesn't know what point B looks like. skipped the briefing, missed the stop. left all the resolve behind. someone else can go pan for it, find him a reason to change, hoard it or sell it or turn it into something worth keeping, something that might change the text on his tombstone from THAT BASTARD CONSTANTINE into SOMEONE WHO HAD SOMETHING TO GIVE, but for now, there's nowhere to go: there's only the act of going. only him and this train, and the fact that inevitably, eventually, it will stop. it has to, right? he can't continue like this forever. like chewing gum, he can't maintain the taste.

( why not? nothing stopping him. )

pull the e-brake. let him off here. something's burning, and he's pretty sure it's his life: going up in smoke, like every good thing he's ever touched. like bridges, and bodies, and rules.

hey, writer up there. do you taste that, when you roll your tongue around, stinging where you cracked open that split lip? tastes like seventy years of salt, doesn't it? when you press your hands to your eyes, can you feel ridges and scars doing the same, squeezing vitreous fluid up against your optic nerve? when you breathe, does your heart beat so fucking fast, so fucking hungry for that stolen air, that it feels like dying? does it feel like you've been losing for decades, yourself and other people, hopes and compassion and desperate fucking dreams clawing up out of your lungs in bits and pieces, and you can never spare the time to pick any of them up because the next one's already on its way?

failure doesn't taste like ash. novelists love that shit because it's easy, pre-packaged. failure tastes like this: salt his pride won't name as tears, and acid spit, and the last gasp of a low-tar cigarette on a train to nowhere, in a life maintained on the knowledge that as sad and sorry as he feels for himself now, he is probably yet to do his worst.

. . . yeah. you're right. he doesn't fucking like that ending either.

( nothing stopping him from changing it. )

[unklear]

TOP    5    SONG    ASSOCIATIONS songs    that    most    inspire    /    represent    my  writing    &    my  muse.    

still  counting  -  volbeat.        counting  all  the  assholes  in  the  room  /  well,  i'm  definitely  not  alone!  /  well,  i'm  not  alone  /  you're  a  liar,  you're  a  cheater,  you're  a  fool  /  well,  that's  just  like  me,  yoo-hoo  /  and  i  know  you,  too  /  "mr.  perfect"  don't  exist,  my  little  friend  /  and  i'll  tell  you  that  again     

pit  of  vipers  -  simon  curtis.        now,  i  must  admit  that  i  have  played  a  part  /  in  the  way  that  things  have  gotten  out  of  hand  /  but  it's  escalated  almost  to  an  art  /  i  wanna  fix  it,  but  i  don't  think  i  can  /  i'm  falling  deep  into  a  pit  of  vipers  /  sliding  over  me,  over  me  and  i  can't  break  free  /  secrets  run  deep  when  you're  in  a  pit  of  vipers  /  slithering,  whispering,  feel  the  venom  poisoning  me     

there's  a  good  reason  (...)  -  panic!  at  the  disco.      i'm  the  new  cancer,  never  looked  better!  /  you  can't  stand  it  /  because  you  say  so  under  your  breath  /  you're  reading  lips:  "when  did  he  get  all  confident?"  /  haven't  you  heard  that  i'm  the  new  cancer?  /  never  looked  better  and  you  can't  stand  it     

wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  -  set  it  off.      aware,  aware,  you  stalk  your  prey  /  with  criminal  mentality  /  you  sink  your  teeth  into  the  people  you  depend  on  /  infecting  everyone,  you're  quite  the  problem  /  fee,  fi,  fo,  fum,  you  better  run  and  hide  /  i  smell  the  blood  of  a  petty  little  coward  /  jack  be  lethal,  jack  be  slick  /  jill  will  leave  you  lonely,  dying  in  a  filthy  ditch     

emperor's  new  clothes  -  panic!  at  the  disco.          sycophants  on  velvet  sofas  /  lavish  mansions,  vintage  wines  /  i  am  so  much  more  than  royal  /  snatch  your  chain  and  mace  your  eyes  /  if  it  feels  good,  tastes  good,  it  must  be  mine  /  heroes  always  get  remembered,  but  you  know  legends  never  die  /  and  if  you  don't  know,  now  you  know  /  i'm  takin'  back  the  crown  /  i'm  all  dressed  up  and  naked  /  i  see  what's  mine  and  take  it  

tagged  by:    stole  it,  in  true  miles  fashion.  tagging:    whoever  wants  to  do  it.  

[10millionyearsdungeon]

Praesidium

A/N: Back to our regularly scheduled bullshit...We went into this with zero plan, zero ambition, and came out the other end with something resembling a drabble featuring Hitoshi Shinsou as a hot-shit, Kennedy-esque politician trying to escape from the “family business.” I’d like to thank @dymphnasprose​ for the inspiration, the banner, and for putting up with my crazed plot bunny hunting sessions in her DMs. Proudly part of The Smut Pile Mafia Collab-- huge thanks to @pleasantanathema​ and @present-mel​ for organizing it and keeping us degenerates on time for once. You’re the real heroes.

TW: Wax play, orgasm denial, tobacco use, death threats, graphic violence

=====================================================

You were always used to protection. Your family's name and wealth brought its own Kevlar shield; whether it was the broad shouldered bodyguards flanking you and your entourage during every frivolous shopping excursion or impromptu escape to one of the many vacation homes that dotted the globe, or the mere mention of your father and the weight of his near omnipresence in the highest echelons of high society, protection was almost always guaranteed. You could hear it in the hushed voices of the real estate giants and their trophy wives when you made your grand entrance to every socialite gathering. 

"There she is, Yanai's precious pearl…" 

Dripping in envy and awe, it was no surprise to you when you caught his eye. Heir and only daughter of the wealthiest family in the country, you knew your worth among the elite and so did he. You only knew of Shinsou Hitoshi by virtue of his reputation as a newcomer to the world of national-level politics, but his charm and charisma were undersold by every inch devoted to him in the papers. By all accounts, he left you dazzled by his lazy, almost sleepy smile and the low rumble of his succinct one-liners. 

He played the part of the laid-back Playboy to the hilt, and by the night of your first fundraiser gala Shinsou had you practically eating from the palm of his hand like a hungry stray. By your second date, you could practically taste the Harry Winston hiding in his Tom Ford smoking jacket by the time dessert arrived. Back then you never questioned how he managed to afford the heirloom, four carat diamond he slid onto your finger, nor did it occur to you how he managed to slither his way into the House of Councilors. Blinded by the magnetic sway he held over you and your well-paid collection of sycophants, the how and why seemed largely irrelevant so long as he kept you on his arm. In your waking moments, you could almost catch pieces of a broken conversation from your insomniac lover. 

"Find someone else...I'm done being your enforcer. I have an image to maintain now…"

Many a night he'd stumble in reeking of sweat and sulfur, dark liquor still burning on his lips when he pressed a kiss to your warm cheek as you slept in your shared bed. Morning invariably gave way to bruised knuckles and heavy dark circles as Shinsou hid his fading scars under his slate gray Armani suit. Prior to your wedding night, you thought you caught the rip of his silk and gravel voice grunting from a crooked alley. Following those familiar thunderclap grunts was the crunch of something hard and then a pulpy squilch that made your stomach twist in on itself. The begging that followed was unintelligible from your way to the nightclub, but his voice, your Shinsou's voice snarling a loaded promise of breathing tubes and chronic pain if the offending party didn't pay their due stayed with you until your bodyguard ushered you into the safety of your car. 

"Daddy, I can't do this," you cried. Your father dabbed at your eyes and shook his head at your tantrum. He wouldn't be so blasé about the arrangement or your uproar if he was the one who heard your groom's fist shattering bones just the night before. A vision in white brocade, the four carats on your left hand felt like ten tons weighing you down the aisle as your father all but dragged you to meet your husband at the end. As the crowd rose to receive your grand entrance, you couldn't help but stifle a quiet sob at the sight of Shinsou's surrogate fathers standing in the front pew. Yamada couldn't contain his excitement for his boy, but Aizawa glared on coldly when you met his gaze. Your father kissed your cheek and gave your hands a squeeze before abandoning you before your audience. Shinsou held out his hand, and you choked back another hiccuping sob-- how could you hold those hands the same way when they were capable of such senseless violence? Knuckles cracked and discolored with aging bruises, he groped for your hands and pulled you the extra two steps onto the altar, flashing you that same lackadaisical grin. It was a blur, a bad dream you couldn't wake from. Beyond the sporadic flashbulbs blinking in the crowd, you couldn't pull away from him. 

"I do…" Your voice didn't sound like your own, even as you felt it leave your throat. Shinsou pulled closer and rasped against your lips. 

"This is only the beginning, kitten." 

Kitten...

You couldn't deny how his pet name made you shiver. The single word held a scintillating promise of the night to come, yet all you could focus on were those hands and the crunch of anonymous bones under his blows. Would he ever turn those hands on you? As he gently slid his platinum wedding band over your ring finger, the mate to the ostentatious engagement ring occupying the spot, you melted under the tenderness of his touch. Your Hitoshi couldn't be capable of such violence. Your Hitoshi was a man of change, of reform who wanted to help bring his countrymen into a golden age. Your fingers numbly slid your ring onto your husband's hand and with the action sealed your own fate. The world swam out of view when he overtook you with a blistering kiss, hungry and needy against your lips. He didn't taste like smoke and scotch this time, a flavor you had grown to appreciate the longer you entangled yourself with him. He lingered for what felt like an eternity, the roar of applause and shared joy for the union a soundtrack erasing any fears you might have had prior. 

Your bridesmaids swooned over the intensity of Shinsou’s gaze throughout your opulent reception-- your father sparing no expense when giving away his precious pearl. Shinsou’s family kept to themselves mostly, with Aizawa only stepping from their shadowy corner to address your father over travel arrangements. Hitoshi’s eyes narrowed and that same cocksure grin blossomed over his features as you inched closer, hip pulled closer by that massive hand. “Hey,” you breathed with a soft smile. He returned it in kind and squeezed your hip through the eggshell Vera Wang gown and leaned in to whisper in your ear. Hair slicked back, all that tickled you was the heat from his breath as it fanned against your skin. “I can’t wait to get you out of that, kitten. Gorgeous as you are with it on, the thought of you in nothing but your jewelry has my mouth practically watering.” Predatory gaze amplified by that sex and gravel voice had you melting. He took you by the hand and bade you follow him across the floor of the resort ballroom. Cautiously, you glanced around the room, anxious that someone from the party would notice your sudden escape. Before you had a chance to object, Hitoshi held a finger to his lips and pulled you through the crowd and out of the room. “You really think I can wait any longer when you’re looking like that?” The wait staff cast cursory glances at you and your husband as he continued to guide you away from the noise and bodies keeping him from tearing your gown off and claiming you. “Hitoshi…” you whimpered, pinned with your back to the door of your honeymoon suite. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder and nearly purred at the gasp that left your lips. Fumbling for the key, Shinsou held you from falling into the open door and nudged you over the threshold with an eagerness you couldn’t place. Words were swallowed by hungry mouths and replaced with an exchange of passion tempered only by the quiet frustration of fingering over buttons and parting fabric to unwrap the prize of feeling your skin under his fingertips. Once released from your prison of beaded white silk and delicate lace, Hitoshi pulled away, raking his ultraviolet eyes over your nearly bare frame to further appreciate his prize. 

“Just when I thought you couldn’t be any more perfect.” Instead of shying away from his words, you moved with a certainty that was far from your own. Automatically reaching for his tie, you pulled him down to resume your heated devouring, earning a chuckle and a light spank on your lace-covered cheek in reply. “Impatient, kitten?”

Your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt nimbly, practically digging your nails into his chest just to feel him hiss into your mouth. Tongues waged a war to stalemate status as your husband gave your buttocks a squeeze before hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. Your sex practically drooled against his toned abs through your useless lace panties. The trail of your gyrating on the ridges of washboard muscle pulled wanton moans from your kiss-bruised lips.

“Feels like you are. Drenched for me already. Who knew my heiress was such a needy slut.” You whined under the degradation he heaped on you as he placed you on the pillow-top bed and guided your hands above your head. Shinsou pulled his tie over his head and wrapped it lovingly around your wrists, brushing his lips and teeth along the gently blushing skin along your blue-blood veins as he finished securing you to the headboard. He moved slowly, teasing every inch of exposed skin with languid grace. A panther in human skin, Shinsou sunk his teeth and sucked purple bruises along your ribs and thighs, parting your squirming legs casually. You felt the weight of his wedding band on your inner thigh and wriggled away from the cold of it. Hitoshi tsked from below, grin tugging on his lips as he pulled your panties down with his teeth. Tenderly, he rubbed a sole finger along your drenched folds. You bucked into the sensation and writhed for more, only to have your husband pull away and drag the slick-stained digit along his tongue. 

“Looks like I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson, kitten.” He blew on your clit, earning a choked moan. “You’re on my time now.” He withdrew, leaving you to whine for him to return, only to be answered by the closing of the bathroom door. You stared at the gold leaf ceiling, seconds dragging on like hours until he finally returned holding a candle, lit cigarette caught between his teeth. Hitoshi took a drag and guarded the flame from his dark red candle as he took a seat beside your whimpering form. He set the candle on the headboard and gently held your face in his hand, blowing smoke into your mouth. The intimate gesture, sharing the air in his lungs made you swoon. Distracted, you barely registered him removing your bra or how he grazed your pert nipples with scarred thumbs. You opened and melted into his attention, desperate for more. You caught his gaze, eyes glazed over with unadulterated adoration, and let out a strangled wail when the first drops of scarlet wax dripped over your shivering breasts. 

The shock of sudden warmth encasing your tender flesh in candy apple red kept you reeling into the next pour. Your Hitoshi leered above you, rapt in your reactions as he brought his free hand to rest on your bare mons. His long fingers grazing along your sopping clit and the continued dripping of hot wax on your skin had you writhing in place. His dark, rumbling chuckle made your blood sizzle under your skin as he admired his work. 

"I think she likes it," he purred, now moving with intent. Arching into the duvet, you pouted sweetly at your husband, legs gently rubbing together as if it would further entice him to continue. "Who knew my kitten was such a kinky slut?" 

"'Toshi, touch me more!" 

His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, and he pulled his hand away from your glistening sex. Frustrated whimpers echoing through the suite, you were cut short by another trail of red wax burning down to your navel. He took another slow drag from his slow-dying cigarette and smirked. If it weren't for his hardening cock poking your hip through his tuxedo pants you would have never known how hopelessly he needed every moan and whine he pulled from your tight body. Past games, he would have blinded you, muffled his voice behind black silk and noise cancelling headphones, but tonight was different. 

"Know your place, kitten. You're in no position to make demands."

You bit your lip and stifled another whine as the wax cooled in the mold of your belly button. Shinsou kept the candle hovering just over your bound body, constantly watching you with the same, slow-simmering lust burning in his deep violet eyes. He stopped short over your dripping pussy and licked the nicotine from his lips. You could see the plan unfold in his head before he had a chance to put it in action. Anticipation had every hair tingling as you waited for his next move. Before he could act, there was a stern rap at the door. With all the petulance and frustration of a child forced to share his favorite toy, Shinsou rose from the bed and trudged to the door. 

"Little busy in here."

"Business waits for no one." The intruder's voice was black ice on a fall morning, cold and sharp as Hitoshi shrank back from the door. His shoulders tensed as he scratched the back of his neck, an anxious tic he couldn't shake from childhood. "You can play with your toy when we're done."

"I told you I've gone straight. No more back alley deals, no more blood on my hands. I'm done."

Your blood ran cold and it crept into your belly to make a new home gnawing through the viscera. Unable to make out much more than the broad back of your husband at the door, you strained to listen to the conversation before the cocking of a gun took your breath away. 

"You're done when I say you're done. Never forget who bought you those votes, how you skated into your parliament chair, high councilor." The voice's tone was harsh, mockingly so with an edge of condescension that earned a defeated growl from your Shinsou. The owner of the voice stepped closer, peering over your husband's shoulder with a frigid smirk that nearly made your heart stop. Aizawa raked his dark, abyssal eyes over your exposed body, resting hungrily on your sex drooling into the plum duvet, and turned back to his surrogate son. "Be a shame if something happened to her. All those billions siphoned away…" From your spot on the bed you could feel the noose tightening around both your necks the longer Boss Aizawa spoke. 

"...all to attend a funeral as the dutiful, lovesick widower with his wife's blood on his hands." 

"Enough! That's enough...you win."

Shinsou buttoned his shirt quickly and cast a longing glance over his shoulder at your quiet sobbing. He never wanted you to know the underworld he clawed out of to finally live in the light. It wasn't enough to want change and leave the bloody past where it belonged. Some ghosts had a way of coming back to their old haunts. Tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder, Shinsou slicked his hair back and turned his back on you, leaving you bound to the headboard with wax, his own Jackson Pollock masterpiece drying on your skin. You could feel your heart breaking with the gentle closing of the door, and the barely audible, "I'm sorry," whispered ruefully by your retreating husband. Protection was something you used to take for granted, but as you found that night and many after, it was something few in your precarious position could do without. 

[unsoundedcomic]

How common is it for senet beasts to learn human languages? I know the Minnow and Ruck are sort of anomalies among their respective species, but what about cases like Lori's friend? Also, I like your new avatar; Quigs looks like a stony-faced, implacable edgelord.

It’s rare, and most likely to happen when a senet beast lives among or frequently fraternises with humans. Just like us, they can’t learn and retain a language well if they’re not immersed in it, and will begin to forget it if they stop speaking it regularly.

So a few of the stormladies of Litriya have taken interest enough over the years in the girls there to befriend them and gain some proficiency with the Common tongue. The stormfolk forget quickly though, and have to really work to retain individual knowledge that’s not useful to the collective. Human language must be pretty important to Minnow if she’s remembered it for so long.

Efheby don’t have to work nearly so hard if they’re skull pilots; soul-drinkers. They can master their ABCs in cocktail form, and practise conversations on stupefied sycophants. Ruckmearkha’s vocabulary modernised swiftly once he started feasting on Roger. Her Majesty no doubt recognises some of her friend’s speech patterns and favourite words slithering from the snake’s fat, pointed tongue.

[curiosity-killed]

Sometimes, little cultivators get bold. They’re never the ones who might have any basis for assuming his confidence, always the ones he didn’t respect in his first life and doesn’t have time for now. They come sidling up to him with sugar-sweet smiles and placations. Wouldn’t it be easier, they coax, if he shared the burden? Wouldn’t the war end so much faster if he taught them this third path?

Silly, stupid sycophants. As if he doesn’t recognize desire, can’t taste ambition coming off them in waves. Hunger is his oldest friend, carved into his bones and engraved in bloody lines across his heart. He turns to them with a grin and lets his brides circle close like a hunting pack.

“Come close,” he coos, “and I’ll tell you the secret.”

The brides lean in, drinking in the scent of human skin, and the cultivator turns tail every time. It’s gotten to be boring, almost, how cowardly they all are. He leans back, and the brides snarl and fidget around him at the missed prey.

“You would tell them.”

It’s not so easy to sneak up on the Yiling Laozu, even for Hanguang-jun. Rolling his head back on his neck, Wei Wuxian grins careless and toothed. Around him, the brides shiver and ache with the loop he tugs tight around their waists. They’re always so eager for Lan Wangji, like his pretty, pure sanctimony would spill as sweetly as pomegranate juice across their lips.

“Of course, Lan-er-gongzi,” Wei Wuxian says sweetly. “Haven’t I always been generous?”

Lan Wangji’s brow furrows, so serious. He’s the worst of them all, so earnest in his efforts to blunt their greatest weapon. He talks about the righteous path, about the damage resentment can do to one’s body, heart, and mind like Wei Wuxian really might listen, like Wei Wuxian isn’t walking damage already. He brings up the cost of such a path near-daily, and Wei Wuxian laughs because he knows the price better than anyone. How many of these stupid little pests would still nag him for instruction if they knew all it took to become like him was tearing their own hearts out of their chests? Hanguang-jun, for all his scholarship and study, doesn’t know shit about paying the price of the ghostly path.

“Why, Lan Wangji?” Wei Wuxian prods, shifting to look him up and down. “Has the honorable Hanguang-jun been tempted down the narrow path?”

A slow grin spreads across his lips and he narrows his eyes as he loosens his hold on the brides. They slither forward, giggling and eager.

“I’m sure Lan-er-gege would find fine instruction from these willing ladies.”

“Wei Wuxian!” Lan Wangji snaps, taking a sharp step back.

He thrusts Bichen in front of himself but doesn’t unsheathe it. Probably, he doesn’t want to risk damaging one of Wei Wuxian’s favored companions: the sects all depend on this cultivation path they so disdain, and if news got around that Hanguang-jun had such a poor handle on his own temper that he insulted the Yiling Laozu so carelessly—well, Lan Zhan has always had such a thin face.

Bored suddenly and vaguely displeased, Wei Wuxian whistles a short, sharp call that has the brides slouching back to his side. He turns his back to the camp and twirls Chenqing carelessly through his fingers.

“Come on, girls,” he says, loud enough for Lan Wangji to hear. “I guess you’ll only be keeping me company tonight.”

sometimes you can’t be an asshole so you gotta make your fave characters be assholes it is The Way

[themugshotofdoriangray]

and it's wiser to be mad (in a world that's gone insane)

I just couldn't wait until the next update that'll take us back to Lanyon Hall, so I wrote something.

Under the cut, you'll find 700+ words of self-indulgent, first person narrative from Mr. Hyde's POV.

Cheers!

I don’t much care for balls and I know you never did. Why, I dare say you might even grow to dislike them after tonight.

“Dr. Jekyll?”

Black shoes and white gloves. Acidic green and prosaic purple. Tailored suits and laced-up corsets. Gentlemen with brutal grips on ladies with broken ribs. Lethargic laughs on painted lips. Seedy smiles behind glass rims. And, of course, eager eyes always ready to scrutinize. Lanyon Hall is full of all the things you despise. Surely, you will grow to dislike ball after tonight.

“Dr. Jekyll?”

“Forgive me, gentlemen. Where were we?”

“We were right here, Doctor. Where were you?”

Sir Danvers asked you a question, Doctor. Are you going to answer? And, when you do, are you going to be truthful? You weren’t here with them after all. You were trapped in a nightmare and you’re still searching for the exist. 

“I, w-well, you see-”

Oh, you’re s-s-stuttering! Dr. Henry Jekyll is choking! Ladies and gentlemen gather around! Stare him down with the weight of social expectations and damn him within the confines of courtesy! Not even Dr. Robert Lanyon and all his daddy’s money can save face this time!

“Henry, are you all right?”

There is a sea of snakes upon the floor! Satanic demons closing in on you! Moreau is grinning at the main entrance door! No, Robert. Henry is most definitely not all right. 

“Henry!”

Now look what you’ve done, Henry! You’ve broken the glass and made a mess! Now my slithering friends are drinking on the job and Robert won’t ever forgive you for getting blood all over the carpet! Now our palm won’t stop bleeding! Please, do make it stop bleeding! I can’t even look at us right now!

“E-excuse me, gentlemen. Ladies.”

You’re still stuttering. And you’re still bleeding. We’re still bleeding, Jekyll! You better keep moving! You better keep chewing through this scenery and these sycophants! Dr. Moreau is waiting for us by the door!

“Henry, where are you going?”

“Home, Robert. I’m going home.”

Yes, Robert. Can’t you see we’re black and blue and red all over? We’re going home, we’re treating our wound, we’re washing the awful afterparty taste down with some HJ-7 and off to the Blackfrog Bazaar we go! Isn't that right, Henry?

“Here. This should help with the bleeding.”

Well, would you take a look at that! I might still have some use for you yet, old friend. How nice of you to fetch us a handkerchief. A temporary treatment, for sure. But it will do for now.

“I called you 'consumptive' in jest earlier. But I see now that you’re not far from it. You wait here and try not to faint. I’ll fetch us a cab.” 

He is right, isn’t he? You’re barely holding on. Your grip on consciousness is loose. Yes, I felt you slipping back there. You smashed your serving of champagne so you wouldn’t smash the prettiest face in Parliament. 

“Doctor?”

Speak of the wolf in sheep’s clothing and he shall appear! 

“How is your hand?”

“Don’t touch me!”

“Well, I never!”

You can almost mistake his canines for the molars of a herbivore. He has been flashing them at the flock in the Hall all night long. He's flashing them at the waitstaff right now as he dismisses them. It's just the three of us now and we see right through him. His helping hand is an insult to our hemorrhagic one. Thank you very much, sir, but if we are to trip over our own feet and the cane stand, then so be it! The floor is lava now and we’re sinking in it! We're melting in it! Oh, Lord, we're melting!

“I didn’t want to believe it, but the rumours are true. Those charity cases of yours have rubbed off on you.”

We’re still bleeding! I’m still bleeding! Everywhere! The lava! It’s melting our skin off! My skin! It’s mine? It is! My skin! Mine!

“Do pull yourself together, man! You’re acting like one of your mad scientists!”

My eyes are still burning, but they are mine. My legs are still shaking, but they're mine! Oh, my right palm is still too painful to pull a punch, but I always prefered my left. And there is a cane to aid me just within its reach. As as I rise from the ashes, I am reborn. 

“Doctor? What in God’s name-”

My ears are still ringing, Sir Danvers! Do try to keep quiet, or I’ll be forced to silence you! A swing is all it takes, but I missed and now he’s wailing. I said be quiet! My head is still spinning  and the world is still bent! I swing once again. 

“We prefer the term rogue scientists!”

[gaasaku-fanfests]

Devil’s Due

Title: Devil’s Due Author: darkcivet Rating: M (just in case) Word Count: 3,313 Summary: They called him a monster. They said he was a demon. So he decided to summon one to kill them all. Warnings: Character death (not Gaara or Sakura). OOC. Author’s Note(s): (The title is a working title and I’ll change it if I think of anything better.) This is a bit of a creepy one-shot I guess: I’m numb to this kind of thing, apparently. Enjoy. ^_^

Trope: Dark Gaara or Dark Sakura

“Don’t touch that!”

Gaara jumped slightly, frozen in place; his arm outstretched and his fingers curled in a coaxing motion. He wanted the cat to come to him. He wanted to touch it. So bad. Just a tiny bit of warmth in this cold, empty house he was forced to live in.

“I said don’t touch that.”

That familiar voice had the gall to repeat itself.

Breaking out of his rigid stance slowly, he forced himself to relax and stood up; Gaara supposed he had looked quite suspicious, positioned like that. He felt it necessary to look like an animal on the hunt. Stretching his muscles in an almost cat like, lazy manner, he turned to face his irate sister.

Since his growth spurt, she hadn’t been able to look down on him in the literal sense, but Temari always maintained a commanding stature compared to him, nonetheless. Even next to Kankuro, who was also taller than her, she was never of lower standing. She was the only one that took after their father in that manner. But right now, she looked extremely nervous; her wide eyes and high pitched voice angered Gaara more than the demand. She was both angered and fearful of him. It annoyed him to no end that his siblings listened to the malicious rumours of his demonic heritage.

‘How else could he have turned out so monstrous?’ People asked. ‘His mother must’ve been taken by the devil to produce a child so vile.’ It was just a silly pack of superstitious lies. But sometimes, when the moon was full and his desire to watch blood drip from an open vein was strong enough, he believed them.

Years of neglect did that to a person. When he was a child, the ignorant villagers in town would pelt him; they took their cue from the great Sabaku clan that the youngest son to Rasa was just a lunatic who would grow up useless and insane. The story that his mother had been raped and gone mad was rampant among the lower class idiots.

Not that he would expect anything else from people who still traded goats for pigs.

Gaara refrained from frowning at his sister; he was used to the backwards superstition from strangers, but for some reason he just couldn’t stomach that his blood family would stoop to such idiocy. If he was indeed related to them at all.

‘We don’t have a lot in common.’

Perhaps he was just adopted? These kinds of questions swirled around in his head for years before he gave up asking them. It was only at times like this, when one of his siblings was glowering at him and telling him to stay away from the household pets (like he was going to kill them, sheesh), that the dissimilarities between them made him question his own parentage.

He was seventeen now, and almost old enough to leave home. If he had been born a peasant, he could’ve done so long ago, but his father would not let him go until it was appropriate.

‘Bastard.’

“Did you hear me, Gaara?” Temari waved a fan toward the cat, scaring it away. “Don’t touch the animals on the compound. You’re not supposed to be near them. You’re just a-”

He was a demon in her eyes, and always would be. The demon that killed her mother.

“Fine!” He screamed, startling Temari almost as much as he startled himself with the outburst; her hand went instinctively to the curved blade she kept hidden at her belt. “You want a demon? I’ll give you one!”

He ignored the sounds of his father and brothers’ approach, mixed in with the harsh whispers of nearby servants. The only silence in the area came from his sister. Their family was rich, renown, and powerful; and even a demon child among the clan couldn’t diminish their reach.

Gaara ran toward the only place he knew could help. The only source he knew of that could help him summon a real demon.

‘And kill them all.’

.:.

There were so many books on the occult in his father’s library that Gaara hadn’t known where to start; he’d been reading about demons for a while now, looking into the fables and folklore, trying to figure out which one the villagers viewed him as. There wasn’t anything in those books that would explain away his lust for violence, his predisposition toward lighting things on fire and fascination with the way blood travelled outside the body.

Rasa had a secret stash of black magic books that Gaara only knew about because he’d followed him that one time, in the middle of the night. Perhaps he’d collected them for the same reason the redhead perused them – to figure out what he was. Perhaps not.

All Gaara knew was the pounding of blood in his ears, the anger, the hate, and the desire to tear something limb from limb to be free of this place. Blood red spots obscured his vision as he rifled through the books as gently as his foul mood would allow him to. There were a number of books he remembered that talked about summoning imps and faeries to do favours, but he didn’t need something so low levelled. He wanted to enter a bargain with something that was dangerous and foul beyond words.

‘It’s not real. It’s all fake.’

His logical mind wouldn’t allow him to entertain the idea that he was just lashing out in vain. That if demons were real and could be summoned so readily, his father would’ve done so and gotten rid of Gaara years ago. His heart just wanted to hurt something.

‘Found it.’

A scroll that felt like leather; old, worn, and yellowed, it hadn’t been maintained well it seemed. But perhaps it was older than it looked, even. Gaara stared at it, unfurling the xuan paper carefully, almost like it could break under his hands.

“How to summon darkness.” He ran a finger over the intricate kanji. The title said it all.

He smiled.

‘I have it.’

“Gaara?”

His head snapped up at the sound of his brother’s voice, echoing through the library hallways. Kankuro couldn’t see him, but he was closing in on his position. Perhaps he’d been followed after all?

“A servant saw you enter here.”

That explained it.

“You know you’re not supposed to-”

Gaara blocked out his voice, feeling a new surge of anger rise with the familiar mantra of what he was and wasn’t allowed to do in this place. He’d contemplated summoning demons before – mostly out of fun – and even cast a few fun spells that were supposed to amplify the bad mood of everyone around him.

It never worked.

But something different was rising up in his throat this time; something far more disgusting than bile. He couldn’t explain it, but this time was going to end better. He was going to get his revenge.

Hugging the scroll to his chest and feeling far more immature than he should about this, Gaara fled the library. There were preparations to make and sacrifices to perform.

Blood to spill.

.:.

‘How did I forget the full moon?’

That was why he felt different. As the sun went down and Gaara found himself mesmerised by the faint light of the moon hanging over the Sabaku compound; a place that overlooked a maze of a town of sycophant peasants. It bathed the area in a soft glow that almost calmed him down enough to knock him out of his desire for blood and revenge.

‘Nothing will come of it; I’m just going to end up having to hand this scroll back and be punished.’

He wanted to avoid the morning, and the pain that would inevitably come with it. He’d snapped. He could feel it like a cord wrapped around his throat that had broken and clung to his skin in desperation. Something inside of him wanted to rip it apart and be done with this world.

But the blood sacrifice had to come first.

Carefully, he made his way to the loafing shed in the back of the estate; all kinds of animals were kept for slaughter or milking on the grounds, to funnel the resources through the pockets of his father. It meant that he controlled even the most domestic income of the region; and fear of him kept the populous from revolting.

Gaara found the goat house quickly, tugging on the hood covering his distinctive red hair, just in case one of those nosy servants spotted him. With the scroll in one hand and a double-edged knife in the other, he coaxed one of the goats forward and grabbed the chain that hung around it’s neck. The sharp sounds of discomfort were momentary; he started reciting the words the scroll dictated, holding the knife to the animals throat as he tried to concentrate on the summons.

With eyes wide open and expectant, Gaara slid the knife across the goat’s throat, making sure to cut across the full breadth of it’s gullet; deep, steady, and clean across. The goat gargled and thrashed for a moment, but he held tightly to the chain, transfixed by the trail of blood as it trailed down the length of the animal’s shoulder, down the brisket, and onto the ground. He watched as the blood began to move against gravity and common sense, slithering along the ground; forming what he couldn’t tell.

It spread out around Gaara, encircling him. He felt panicked, suddenly wary about this new development. Nothing in the scroll had indicated sentient blood.

‘Magic.’

That had to be it. Years of searching for a way out. Months of perusing and playing with low level spells that never worked out. Now it decided to heed his fury and revenge?

Gaara groaned when he realised the blood was forming a seal; it had a shape not dissimilar from the goat he had just killed. But the blood morphed again, leaving his enclosure and coagulating and stilling in a patch of grass, as though it had not been moving under it’s own will seconds before.

“What the hell?” This was getting out of control.

“Is that really a wise mantra, given the situation?”

Gaara dropped the scroll and knife in fright, his eyes blinking heavily. A woman stood before him, seemingly having materialised over the blood, a smile on her face, hands on her hips, and wearing the most strangest of scant clothes; robes made to cover so little, it was giving him ideas.

He cleared his throat. “You’re not the demon I wanted to summon.”

She was more like an angel. With pink hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that lit up her entire face.

“Oh?” His disappointment didn’t seem to bother her. “Who were you trying to summon?”

“The Tanuki.”

“You mean Shukaku?”

Gaara nodded.

She pouted; hands on her hips, lips pursing in what he decided was a very seductive manner.

“That trickster wouldn’t know a good summons if it bit him on the nuts.”

He couldn’t help the small, nervous laugh that bubbled up inside of him. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“That’s sad.” She moved slowly toward him and Gaara couldn’t move away. She poked his chest. “A young, strapping lad like you must be a big hit with the ladies at least.”

He shook his head.

The girl giggled. “A virgin? Well, no wonder Shukaku didn’t answer your summons, that rambunctious whore. You’re more my type, anyway.”

This was insane. “Uh...” Gaara realised all the anger and resentment that had been fuelling this encounter, was gone. In it’s place was wonder, bewilderment, and wariness.

‘With a hint of arousal.’

But that wasn’t important.

She chuckled. “Relax. I don’t bite unless you want me to. But I’m no sex demon, so get that lascivious look off your face. I’m joking,” she assured him when started to stutter at her. “Jeez. Kids these days. Alright!” She made a show of swishing her short robes and fixing her hair. “Let’s get this party started. What, mere mortal, is that deep desire that has caused you to summon me?”

Gaara glanced up at the full moon without thinking. This was why he’d summoned her… or at least, tried to summon a demon. Legend had it that Shukaku was the demon to call for a rampage. But, this girl who looked around his age, didn’t look like she was ready to slaughter hundreds of people. Her skin was soft and creamy. Her face was angelic and happy. She even had painted fingernails and toenails to match her outrageous outfit. She might’ve looked more at place in the nobilty – albeit one with a less strict dress code. She was also very beautiful, and delicate looking. Could she even grant this wish?

“Come on, don’t keep a girl waiting.”

He inhaled deeply. “I… wanted Shukaku to, uh… kill everyone.”

She blinked heavily at him. “Kill everyone? Like, your whole family and that little village nearby?”

He nodded.

She didn’t look convinced, and he wasn’t surprised. “Death and destruction? Are you sure?”

Was he, though? This wasn’t a request he could take back.

‘Why am I chickening out?’

The girl sighed. “Look, I am a demon, but I’m not here to carelessly slaughter people. If this is what you really want – to go full dark – then you should know you’ll suffer consequences too.”

“What consequences?”

She shrugged. “Oh, nothing compared to what the humans you want to kill will experience. Their end is nigh and I can help with that, but I need something from you.” She took his hand and held it palm up. “Blood.”

Gaara cried out, not expecting the open slash to his hand; she wasn’t even holding a weapon.

She smiled humourlessly. “Call me when you make up your mind.”

Gaara sighed, rubbing his wounded hand. “What’s your-”

She disappeared; her outline faded and blurred out of existence. Almost like she hadn’t even been there. How was he supposed to call her when he didn’t know her name? And what was this consequence she spoke of?

‘Probably for the best, anyway.’

He felt the sting on his hand as though he’d just awakened from some kind of dream. What had he been thinking, summoning a demon of all things? Even one as beautiful and seemingly harmless as her. He may be odd, and crazy, and a lover of all things macabre, but he was no killer. Not today, anyway.

.:.

The days following his break into Rasa’s library, and Temari once again ratting him out about trying to “commune with the beast”, were torturous. Locked away in one section of the compound, all Gaara could do was try to stave off boredom and hunger by trying to remember what the demon girl had looked like. It seemed the longer he went without seeing her, the less coherent his memory was. The wound on his hand had festered and was clearly infected, but nobody bothered to try to treat it. One servant even gave him a bewildered look when he asked for a healer for his hand. They were idiots, anyway.

Three weeks were all it took to break him.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, tied to the cellar and dankness of his prison, he felt the demon inside cry for release. The small bed in the corner of his new “room” beckoned him and he stayed, wrapped up in the thin blanket, reciting that summons that had infected him so. The call to the demon who had ignored his invocation.

When food came once a day and through the hands of yet another faceless servant, he could barely eat. Images of the townsfolk and his blood family writhing in pain and blood were his fuel now. His desire for retribution sustained him.

Twenty-one days on from his incarceration saw him summoning again; this time using his own blood. It wasn’t enough to sacrifice some insignificant animal. He had to give of himself. As he felt his life beginning to ebb under the cut he couldn’t remember making, Gaara was startled to hear her voice in his head. Out loud.

“You’re a right mess.”

He chuckled, looking up at her from the small comfort of the bed. “And you’re an angel.”

She scoffed. “Hardly. Come.” She leaned down to pull him to his feet. “Your desire for revenge awaits.”

“Hey...”

Seconds passed in which he wasn’t sure if this was a hallucination. It was the pink haired girl again.

“I… called for you?” He hadn’t called for her, had he?

She nodded. “You cried for me in your sleep. You must want me real bad.”

He lowered his eyes to the ground, fighting the blush warming his face. She slid an arm under his to support his weight.

“Don’t go gushing just yet,” she said. “I still have a promise to keep.”

A chill swept through his body; one moment he was in a dank room and the next they stood on the roof of the goat house where he’d performed the first summons.

“Tell me.”

Her voice was just above a whisper, tickling his ear, and slightly desperate. He couldn’t comprehend her urgency.

“Tell me to kill them.”

Ah. She was eager to get with the killing. He’d summoned her to slaughter his family, to kill the townsfolk who tormented him, and leave none alive. His anger had brought him to this moment, where he was bleeding out and only the cold arms of his demonic contractor might give him some reprieve before he died.

“Gaara-”

“Kill them.” His voice was croaky but he no longer cared. Whatever infection was festering in his body, it didn’t matter – the only thing he had left was the darkness in his heart. The evil she wanted to bring out in him. That demonic nature the people in his life were sure had been there all along, waiting for an excuse to butcher them all.

The girl smiled, tilted her head slightly, and pressed her lips to her summoner’s mouth. It wasn’t a kiss, but it sure felt like one – not that he knew what those felt like. As he opened his mouth to let her in, it occurred to him that this was probably how all her deals went.

He didn’t like that.

A foreign feeling of possessive jealousy boiled up inside him; screaming and wailing sounds in the distance couldn’t distract him from the fervour he attacked her mouth with. When she finally pulled away, breaking the contact he longed to prolong, Gaara’s brain began to clear.

Burning flesh, howling dogs, screaming women and children; the pink haired devil paid no attention to any of that. She just stared at him, running her fingers along his cheek. Her nails scratched his forehead and he hissed at the pain.

Was she marking him?

Gaara glanced toward the scene he hadn’t been cognisant enough to acknowledge was his own fault. He could hear his family screaming; there was an inhuman growl echoing throughout the compound. He could see, from afar, the village burning; something born of hellfire was rampaging in the streets tonight.

His heart broke in that moment, with the sounds of innocents. And he realised with clarity, that they had all been wrong about him.

“I was never a demon,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the carnage. He could no longer bear to look upon it. Instead, his naive eyes turned hard and dangerous, staring at the woman who now held him lovingly instead of in support. His body felt invigorated – reborn. He was something else, now.

Sakura smiled, brushing his fringe, and kissing the scar she’d left on his forehead to mark their new partnership. She growled; the sound was otherworldly.

“You are now.”

[roboraindrop]

I will forever be honored to share your name, and to stand beside you. You are no worm. You are everything to me, and I love you so dearly. My love, my dearest, my sweetest and most beloved Grima. There are not nearly enough words for how I feel about you... You call me a fool for feeling such love for a man like you... Then I shall be a fool- A fool who is at your side always. A fool who deeply, truly loves you.

There are rings that hold much power... And some that bind. This ring is my promise that anywhere you may go, I will follow. Always.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [812]

“I want you to listen to me very carefully. I have asked you, twice, now, to come with me. I will come one more time to ask you. One final time,” Solas says quietly. But every word drops heavy as though they were boulders from up high on a mountain crashing into the valley below. “There will come a day when the beasts come for you. They will come howling and hounding, frothing and foaming, raging and raving, screaming and snarling, fanged and frightful, slithering and scaled, venomous and vile, wild and wanting. The beasts will come — this is not a question. You know it as well as I. They will come from the sea. They will come from the caves. They will come from the mountains. They will come from the forests. They will come from the sky. And on that day, when they come for you, and there is nowhere for you to turn, I want you to remember that I extended my hand to you — three times. Three times I offered you safe harbor. And three times you refused me.”

This entire time Solas’ face had been polite, solemn, even a bit pitying. But there he lets a slim crack of scorn seep through.

“And for what? For a man.”

Ellana feels her own face split into her own sneer as she spits at Solas’ feet.

“For a man? How reductionist of you,” Ellana snarls. “For a man? As if every single disagreement between us can be boiled down to something so simple? As if I am some unruly child consumed by passions and blinded to reason? How — how very antiquated of you, Solas. I thought it was below you to reduce someone — even someone you were at cross purposes with — to something so low.”

“Every time I have come to ask you to join me you look to him and you refuse,” Solas says. “What else holds you to these people, Ellana? Who else remains that you would choose to stay here and suffering with them as they sit, waiting, for the fate that they have earned for themselves?”

Ellana’s hands curl into fists, nails pressing into her palms.

“Who else? Who else? You took everyone else from me. You and your war. You and your stupid, foolish, misguided war. My mother. My father. My brother, my own soul, the heart that once beat in my breast, the breath in my vey lungs. Gone because of you. You and your mis-placed guilt and your blind hunger to appease it. You and your — your selfish want to have your own past mistakes erased at the cost of everyone else. You took them from me. You took them as fodder for your war, you took them as kindling for your cleansing flame, and you took them to spite me. And still — still you would blame my reluctance to follow you on one living person? When I have mountains of dead that lie at your feet with their blood on your hands?”

Ellana struggles to keep her voice level. She struggles and fights against every urge to howl and scream and rage and rage and rage. Emotional outbursts will get nowhere with Solas. But he very much wants her to give him one, give him any excuse.

“Setting aside the vendetta I have for you — impossibly setting aside all of that, all of my restless dead who scream for retribution every time I close my eyes and seek out some measure of solitude — why the fuck would I join you? Look around you. Look at all of this. All of the suffering, all of this misery.”

“You know as well as I that I am not the cause of it.”

“No, but you certainly aren’t helping to stop it, are you?” Ellana sneers. “No. Your plan is to hide away in your new haven with your chosen — the ones who will drink your words and forgive you and love you and never say a single thing against you — and have the rest of us torn to pieces. Your plan is to awaken all of us, taking what we need to survive this incoming disaster, and wait it out so when all is said and done you and yours can crawl over the bones of who was left behind and feast like parasites.”

The older man barks out a sharp laugh. “You speak to me of parasites? Look to the language you speak in, the letters you write, look to the magic you cast, look to  the pillars of your society. Those are ours. Ours, that were picked over and mutated and bent and renamed so as to erase the hands that made them and the lips that first spoke them into being. Look around you and think about everything taken from us. You speak to me of parasites? Look at what you’d defend first.”

“And I am telling you that I have. I have looked at the world and I have found it wanting, but I am no judge to deem it unworthy of saving,” Ellana snaps. “I am not happy with the world. I am not happy with society. I am not happy with the laws and the people. But I will not raze it down.”

“What change can you possibly bring, Ellana? Even the humans find themselves unworthy of peaceful resolution. Look at their Chantry. Look to Kirkwall. There can be no peace.”

“I am not going to argue with you about this any longer. You will not turn me to your side and I cannot turn you to mine,” Ellana says. “You can come again and ask, and I will deny you as I have denied you twice before.”

Ellana meets Solas’ eyes and draws herself up as tall and as powerful as she can. Ellana’s magic bursts along her veins like she is setting herself on fire.

“And you will remember this. When the beasts come — and I know they will — when the world starts to crack apart and the demons rise and the spirits howl, when the monsters creep out of the darkness. When you are watching from behind your walls. I will be here. Right here. In the center of it all. I will be standing right where I denied you, where you left me, and I will be fighting just as hard as those beasts. I will fight the beast and the darkness and the supposedly inevitable and I am going to win. I am going to win with the man that you scorn at my side because he is the only one I have left and if there’s at least one thing in this world worth protecting its him.” Ellana narrows her eyes.

“And when I am done with that — when I have worn the very last breath from the last beast that comes for me and him and anyone else I can find still living — I am going to turn my teeth onto you. And you will remember that I refused you three times. Which means you refused me three times. And there will be nowhere for you to turn. And I want you to remember Solas, as I come for your city and your sycophants and your head, while one of us lives, there can be no peace..”

[yobaba30]

CLEVELAND -- Of all the regions in all the states in all the country, Jim Jordan got dragged into ours. There was no good reason to punish Greater Cleveland by making the person who’s now the second most contemptible human being in the entire U.S. government part of the region’s delegation to Congress. Worse yet, the betrayal was bipartisan.

When Ohio’s political and legislative leaders were drawing new congressional boundaries prior to the 2012 election, Democrats wanted a district that would protect U.S. Rep. Marcia Fudge. Republicans wanted districts that would elect the maximum number of GOP congressmen. And some people from both parties wanted a district that would likely lead to the defeat of longtime Cleveland Rep. Dennis Kucinich.

They all got what they wanted.

But to make it work required drawing a hideously gerrymandered district for the southwest Ohio congressman, one that meanders some 200 miles from near Dayton north into Lorain County near Cleveland.

And now it’s fitting that Republicans have given this seven-term sycophant a starring role in the televised House Intelligence Committee impeachment hearings against President Donald Trump. The assignment comes as Jordan is being credibly accused by some of knowingly turning a blind eye to sexual abuse by a team doctor when Jordan was an assistant wrestling coach at Ohio State University from 1987 to 1994.

At least five people – four of them former wrestlers and one of them a longtime friend – have said Jordan had to have known former OSU team doctor Richard Strauss was on a sexual rampage that would include -- according to OSU -- 1,429 sexual assaults and 47 rapes of student patients during Strauss’ time at the school (1978 to 1998) prior to his suicide in 2005.

That makes Jordan an ideal candidate to lead the defense of a malignant president who has bragged about physically abusing women and who has been accused by two dozen women of sexual assault or misconduct.

Jordan was appointed to the Intelligence Committee the same day, Nov. 8, that NBC reported on a lawsuit filed early this month in which a former wrestling referee alleges Strauss masturbated in front of him in the shower following an OSU wrestling match in 1994.

When the referee told Jordan what happened, he alleges that Jordan blew him off with, “Yeah, that’s Strauss.”

As the allegations pile up, Jordan’s denials remain unchanged. He dismissed the latest one as “ridiculous.”

People have every right to believe Jordan’s angry dismissals. Common sense suggests they’d probably be better off believing five men who have no reason to lie.

When Jordan slithers out from under his rock each morning, dons a shirt and tie - sans the jacket, lest he be mistaken for Joe McCarthy - his life’s work is to besmirch everything America stands for in service of Donald Trump.

If it takes undermining yet another principle of democracy by condoning attacks on men and women who have devoted their lives in honorable service to this country, Jordan is always ready and willing.

If it takes changing the Trump defense strategy on an almost daily basis because facts keep getting in the way, Jordan is the ideal bootlicker. Trump’s support is all that seems to matter to the man former House Speaker John Boehner regularly referred to as "a legislative terrorist” – along with a whole bunch of other descriptions unfit for print.

Why would Jordan so readily ruin what little was left of his reputation? One theory holds he hopes to inherit Trump’s base for a presidential run of his own in 2024. The swamp will be a crowded place in four years, overrun with loathsome folks angling to continue the dastardly business of shredding the Constitution.

Michael Gerson’s credentials to analyze Jordan are impeccable. He is an evangelical Christian, lifelong Republican and onetime chief speechwriter to former President George W. Bush.

In his Washington Post column of Nov. 14, Gerson showed his keen understanding of Jordan, describing him as “the Truly Trumpian Man – guided by bigotry, seized by conspiracy theories, dismissive of facts and truth, indifferent to ethics, contemptuous of institutional norms and ruthlessly dedicated to the success of a demagogue.”

Gerson applied the identical description to Stephen Miller, the White House resident white supremacist.

Everything about Jordan reeks of a man willing to cast aside common decency and fairness in service of a corrupt and cruel president.

He may be the most unfit man to ever represent part of Greater Cleveland in Congress.

Brent Larkin was The Plain Dealer’s editorial director from 1991 until his retirement in 2009.

[bleached-d-soul]

Going Rogue

The 20$ commission for none other than @the-wayward-arc featuring one of my favorite crack ships in RWBY

Length: 10, 058

Remnant was the land of miracles and nightmares. On the one hand, you had Aura, Semblances and Dust. On the other hand, you had the Grimm of all forms, shapes and sizes. With the threat of hordes of creatures of horror, everyone was forced to one day make a choice. The choice of how you would survive. Do you put your faith in strength? Do you pray your feet can carry far enough? Or do you build walls and fences and hide behind them?

The Branwen Tribe had mastered all three. And that is why they survived for so long. Since the days when the Moon above was whole, the Branwens were the survivors. Vernal had no illusions about her tribe. As much as some Mistralian poets and Atlesian pseudo-rebel brats loved to glorify the bandits, Vernal never forgot what the Tribe were and what they were not.

They weren't some roguish heroes that stole from the rich and gave to the poor. They weren't free spirits out to live lives, unlimited by social conventions and norms. They didn't spean days talking philosophy or playing music as everyone laughed around the fire. No, all that shit belonged only in the books of some sappy bitch who would wail one day in their life.

Branwens were the survivors. And surviving was not pretty.

They stole from those weaker than themselves and ran when facing someone stronger. They raided villages and towns, taking whatever food and supplies the people there had before leaving them to die of sickness and starvation. And some of their own fell? They would spend one night drinking and mourning at best before splitting the valuables of that person among themselves.

Their life wasn't pretty. But it was the only life she knew and had.

In the tribe, everyone had a role to play and the weight to carry. Those who weren't strong or vicious enough to fight had to accept their role as the lowest on the totem pole, only occasional captives were given rougher treatment. Having been born into the tribe, Vernal felt it on her own skin what it meant to be the weakest. And she promised to never find herself in that position again.

She trained to be strong. And she worked to be useful. She made one sacrifice after another, all for the sake of the tribe. So that she wouldn't be left behind. So that she never became a burden to be discarded.

And now here she was, taking one for the tribe again.

"Are you comfortable?" the woman's silky voice slithered around Vernal's ears like worms. "You seem stressed."

Raven was strong. Their tribe wasn't much, relying far more on their target's weakness and sheer numbers, but Raven was strong. Strong enough to take on this bitch and her two little sycophants. Strong enough to tear the three to shreds and not even break a sweat. Raven could kill them.

But she didn't. Which only meant that whoever was behind Cinder Fall was someone even Raven feared. Feared enough to not even try to escape. Whoever this person - or creature at that - was, if Raven feared them, then Vernal knew better than challenge them. It was just how the survivors lived, kill and use those weaker than you. And, in turn, be used by those stronger than you.

"Not used to flying, that's all," Vernal grunted out. It was a shameful thing to admit, especially to some outsiders. But having spent her whole life on the ground, she never realized just how much she hated the air. "How long do we have to go?"

How much longer did she need to play along, was left unsaid. Cinder told her that they would be in Vale in an hour at most. The green brat and her cripple of a friend were already waiting for them at some hotel on the outskirts of the city, ready to do whatever their little owner told them to.

"I am sure Raven appreciates what you are doing for her," Cinder smiled, not bothering to hide her pleasure at getting her way. "Once we are done with the mission, your tribe will be granted full safety and protection from our Mistress."

Vernal knew it was all bullshit. She herself had given such promises before to so many suckers and stabbed them in the back all the same. She knew it was a pile of crap but didn't call the woman out on it. And so, with nods and half-hearted agreements, Vernal forced herself to swallow the shit Cinder was feeding her. After all, what would she do after calling the woman out?

What even could she do? In the end, every choice she could make would lead to her death. The only chance at survival Vernal had laid in her trusting herself to stay alive and praying for Raven to come up with something.

As the two got off the plane. As they picked up their luggage, one of the employees smiled at Vernal, "Welcome to Vale! Hope you will enjoy your stay here."

Somehow, Vernal doubted she would.

VA

When Vernal was seven, she took the diary from the village they raided. The owner - whom Vernal assumed was a woman by how neat and honeyed was her writing - used to study in one of the bigger cities and wrote all the details about how exciting her school years were. At first, the little Vernal used to dream of living the same life. The life where she wasn't forced to pick up other people's trash and do back-breaking chores for scraps of food.

It was a nice little dream, one that she cherished for years. Her safe room where she could escape after getting shit beaten out of her for doing something wrong or just for the laughs of some creep. Those dreams used to keep her warm at night.

But that was before she realized how foolish that dream was. She was a bandit. A damn good one too. What would she do if she ever came to attend some fancy school in the city? Drink tea and eat cookies all the while gossiping about some stupid stuff? Lose her sleep over some silly crush?

Ever since her first kill, Vernal hated her childhood dream with all the venom and spite one could have.

And now here she was, in the hall of the school, just like she thought she would hate.

The first night at Beacon is everything Vernal feared it would be and more. After listening to Ozpin talk about the duty and responsibility of huntsmen and huntresses - y'know other than dying like a bunch of morons to buy other idiots a couple more days - they were locked in one room. And boy, did Vernal wish she could kill them all and be done with it. Seriously, if Cinder wanted the damn comatose girl, why not just come here with her army and kill everyone?

That would make taking Amber or whoever so much easier.

No matter where she looked, she found something or someone to loathe this place even more for. The girls who kept giggling and chatting as if they were having some sleepover. And guys who were trying to show off their physiques. Granted, some of them were quite well-built but what did it matter when facing against a Grimm? Unless you knew how to use all that muscle, you were just making a bigger meal for some lucky Grimm out there.

At least, she was spared hanging around Cinder and her posse. The Fall Maiden wanted them to spend the night apart, as a precaution in case Ozpin found the four students becoming a team so smoothly all too suspicious. Paranoid but Vernal couldn't care less. She would enjoy whatever peace she could get.

Her peace didn't last for long.

"Stop stalking me!"

"I am just trying to be friendly! Why do you have to be so crabby?"

Quarrels and yelling weren't uncommon in the tribe. Honestly, every day some morons found a new reason to start trouble with each other. Someone stealing another guy's drink. Or some bitch banging someone else's man. The everyday trouble was the kind of trouble you got when placing every arrogant and self-centered piece of crap into one family where the only law was the law of the blade.

The fights between their own weren't uncommon and, in fact, somewhat encouraged by Raven.

But these two were nothing like that.

With the mixture of amusement and annoyance underneath her skin, Vernal watched two girls - both looking too young to even be here - argue over a vial of Dust. She quickly recognized the Schnee heiress and entertained the thought of stealing her wallet at some point in time in the future. Vernal briefly toyed with the idea of buying tons of sex toys for with whatever card the heiress had.

And then she saw him.

Tall, blonde and wearing the dumbest choice of sleepwear she had ever seen. He wasn't too bad on the eyes, if looking more like an errand boy than an aspiring huntsman. A couple of girls giggled as they watched him pass with guys laughing at him. And honestly would you blame them?

What kind of idiot wears baby blue pajamas? Let alone in front of everyone? If the boy's intent was to ensure he wouldn't get any till the graduation, then he did a fucking great job at it. Still, at least, he managed to make her laugh if not knowing that himself.

"Bold choice, blondie," she heckled, getting a few laughs out of the people nearby. The boy blushed in embarrassment but stopped and turned to her. Stupid, honestly. Should've walked away faster. "Got something to say?"

She kind of wants him to start trouble. To give her an excuse to vent out her frustration. Instead of hissing or glaring, the boy looks more embarrassed than anything and mumbles, "I like it, that's all. It's really comfortable."

"I bet the others think it is," she chuckles as the blondie briefly looks around the room. His face grows even redder as some girls whistle at him in a mocking fashion. She almost feels sorry for the idiot, he really should've left when he had the chance to.

"Eh, I can deal with it," the boy shrugs, though failing to play it cool. "Not the first time someone laughed at it."

She didn't have trouble believing that for obvious reasons. "Pretty confident in yourself, huh?"

"I like to think I am," the boy smiles before sitting down by her side. Vernal raises an eyebrow but the boy seems unfazed by her seeming lack of amusement. With the same goofy mile, he extends his hand, "Jaune Arc. Short sweet, rolls off the tongue. Ladies love it."

"Are those ladies your mom and sisters?"

"Yup, mom and all seven of my sisters."

"Seven?" Vernal does a double take before looking the boy up and down in search of the clue at him joking. Nope, he is not shitting her. He is absolutely serious. "Wow, your parents are rabbit faunus or something?"

Some girl with black bow glares daggers at her and actually hisses. Eh, she would deal with her later. "Er, no, I don't think so. They just really love each other and-"

"They are pretty loud about it, right?" Vernal grins as the blondie blushes deep red again, no doubt reliving the moment he caught his mommy and daddy fucking. "Having some repressed memories? I wonder what was the weirdest place you saw them do it?"

"Okay, let's change the subject! Please?"the boy raised his hands in a plea. Alright, she was done with the joke. No need to come across as some sex-starved deviant. "So what's your name?"

"Vernal Wennbar," she said offhandedly. "Simple and memorable. The people whose villages I pillage and burn don't remember it though."

She is kind of disappointed when the boy takes it as a joke and laughs. As much as the conversation amused her, she was getting tired by the Mr Sunshine here. After a few seconds of laughter, Arc sighs and looks at the room with the weird longing expression, "Man, I can't believe that I am finally here."

"Let me guess, your parents are huntsmen as well?"

"I wish," Arc scoffs in annoyance. "Maybe then dad would actually let me come here."

The boy instantly freezes as the realization of what he just said hits him. To someone like him, a boy who never knew how cruel the world could be, running away was probably the peak of the debauchery. DId he expect her to be impressed or horrified? As if. Running away from your parents' home was about as petty as stealing candy as far as Vernal was concerned, "No worries, I am not ratting you out to anyone."

Seriously, who could she even rat him out to? And if she had someone, why would she do that? This was his life and his mess. Still, Arc thanks her with genuine smile, "Thank you, Vernal. I owe you one."

And just like that, the two kept up the small conversation. Bits and pieces of what they did prior to coming here, with Vernal lying at each and every step. Not that she expected Arc to be able to do anything even if she told the truth. But he looked like the kind of moron who could let it slip that she came from the tribe of bandits around the teachers.

And so she told a tale of poor little her who grew up on the streets, harsh and cold. How she was saved by the powerful huntress and now wished to be one to help people. And hey, other than the part about helping people, she was almost honest about her life.

As the time to sleep came closer, the blondie wished her luck on tomorrow's test. Cute if she needed it. She wished him the same, though not on passing the exam.

But simply not dying too painfully.

VA

"Now remember, you need to be on the same team. Roman will supply you with the proper communication equipment but you still need to be careful. Who knows where Ozpin might have installed surveillance. The last thing we need is him suspecting the new team of collaborating prior to the exam."

Keep your head down. Don't give away your powers. Blend in. Those were easy enough instructions even if given in annoyingly condescending tone by the Fall. All she had left to do was make sure she ended up partner with one of her little lackeys and she could get over the damn test.

The Grimm here were pretty weak as well. A few Beowulves and Ursas with big ones like Nevermore or Deathstalker few and far between, and even those were half the size of what a healthy Grimm should be. Her guess was the teachers controlling their numbers by routinely exterminating stronger ones. A dumb thing to do, really.

If their applicants couldn't handle a couple of stronger Grimm, then what good would academy do them? Weak should just stay in the line and not get in the way of the Strong. Weak died. Weak suffered. Weak begged for mercy and cried for help.

"Help! Somebody help!"

Case in point. Now where did that noise come from? She looked behind and saw nobody. From the right then? From the left?

"I am stuck up here!"

Vernal looked above and did double take. After she rubbed her eyes, the sight before her didn't change. It was the same blonde from yesterday. Impaled to the tree by someone's spear. Jeez, whom did he piss off that much that they tried to off him during the exam? Not to mention so dumbly. Seriously, if you wanted to kill Arc off, you could at least try and make it look like a Grimm attack.

Oh well, not her kill to steal. Before she could properly leave, Arc noticed her, much to her chagrin.

"Oh hey, Vernal!" He waved and smiled even though he looked deathly pale. "Uh, could you please help me get down? I think someone accidentally threw their spear at me and now I can't get down. I am not very good with heights so..."

Vernal barely suppressed the urge to throw a pebble at the guy. What was he doing here at the huntsmen academy in the first place if he couldn't even get down from the tree? It was so pathetic it was almost funny. Like watching a cat stuck on a tree. Or some moron with his head between the bars.

"If you need help getting down from there, you might as well quit the exam," Vernal said, enjoying how the boy flinched at her words. "Seriously, if you can't handle some heights, then how are you going to handle the hordes of Grimm?"

"Oh come on, is there nothing you can do at all? Come on, you aren't going to leave me hanging up here like that, right?"

It was almost amusing how wrong he was. She left much many more of much better people to much worse fates. Then again, if he made her a good enough offer, she just might consider helping him out, "What do I get out of it?"

"W-Well, I am pretty good with cooking and massages," at her raised eyebrow, Arc scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "Living with seven sisters will do that to you. You won't believe how many times I had to make up for my mess by giving them a good foot rub."

Hmm, that did sound tempting. But she could always get a professional for it. "Sorry, but if you can't offer anything better, I think I best leave you to your own-"

"I can get you a fake ID!" Arc blurted out in panic. Now if that wasn't interesting. "If, uh, if you help me get down, I can get you the fake ID. For buying drinks and getting into clubs and other stuff like that."

Well, well, it seems it was always the quiet ones. "How good are you at making those? Cause I can tell bad forgery from proper one, you know."

Arc looked uncomfortable as he sighed, "I am pretty good at it. Criminally good, you might say."

"Then you got yourself a deal,"

With a smirk, she released her weapons.

"Thank you!" Arc smiled brightly. Though that smile waned as he saw her approach the trunk of three with the savage grin. "Wait,what are you-Aah!"

The bark didn't even make the sound as she cut through it in one swift motion. The blonde did though, letting out the girliest cry Vernal had the displeasure hearing. With a loud crash, he groaned on the ground. "Ow... I think my arm is broken."

"Your Aura will heal it."

The boy looked at her as if she had just grown a second head.

"What is Aura?"

Was he fucking serious? "Are you fucking serious? Are you telling me that you are trying out for the Beacon Academy to fight Grimm and you don't even know what Aura is?"

"I, uh, was kind of planning to learn it later? You know, catch up on all the material once the semester starts and all."

Catch up on all the...

"You have no idea what Aura is, do you?"

The boy deflated, "No..."

"Great," for a moment, Vernal considered leaving the idiot alone in the woods for Grimm to eat. It was only right, after all. The idiot brought it on himself by coming here unprepared. And hey, maybe some meat would placate the other Grimm around and make it even easier for her to kill them.

But if he died right now, then she would be losing her fake ID maker. And while she didn't doubt the Fire Bitch could help her get one, Vernal was sure she wouldn't get her one. Alcohol makes you sloppy. Alcohol distracts you from the mission. And more of the same dumb garbage she didn't need listening to. Not to mention that if she was given one, those little lapdogs would follow her all the way to every good drinbking spot.

With a sigh and thoughts of quiet pleasant drink in mind, Vernal motioned for Arc to come closer, "Come over here. Before I change my mind."

He did as told, trusting her entirely. Seriously, who was this guy? He was too weak to be a huntsman. Hell, he trusted her - a random stranger who cut down the tree he was stuck to - as if they had known each other for years. For all he knew, she could just stab him and take whatever was of value on him.

Which she had done already. Many times.

And yet he didn't run or even look suspicious of her. Ah, she had no time for that. Better be done with him and move, "What are you going to do? Why is your hand glowing?"

"Just shut up and let me do it," Vernal snapped at him. The boy fell silent. The bandit took a deep breath as she placed her palm on his chest, letting her Aura flow free into the boy and find its way to his own. "For it is in our power that we achieve freedom. Through this, we become juggernauts who know no restraint. Free from laws and untamed by nobody, I release your soul and by my hand empower thee."

She could feel the momentary rush - the feeling of sharing her Aura with another and forcing it open. She felt slightly winded, both annoyed and impressed at how large his Aura reserves actually were. Well, her work was done here. With those reserves, he should be good enough to last until the teachers arrived to save him if something went wrong.

"So long, blondie," she said as she headed off in her own direction. "Try not to die too fast."

"Wait, aren't we partners now?" Arc asked awkwardly. "I mean-"

Partners... Yeah, right. "Oh just shove it, will ya?" Vernal scoffed. "You already owe me two favors. Don't go pushing your luck."

Just as she left, she heard someone else call out for him. Vernal didn't look, of course. She already helped that moron enough. Not that Aura would help him once Fall brought the whole place down. Helping out the weak wouldn't them any favor in the long run.

She just wanted to get whatever was worth out her deal with him.

VA

Days passed by and their team - appropriately named Venom (VENM) even if the Headmaster didn't know - was about as close as four strangers pushed together could be. Unlike many of the other teens though, there wasn't any real attempt to bond. And honestly what could they bond over?

Their kill counts? Favorite types of knives and guns? Their top ten ways to kill someone? Vernal just knew that it was much better to just put up some distance between each other. Mercury and Emerald would hang out with each other. That Neo girl would do... whatever it is she did when they weren't watching.

And Vernal would enjoy her lunch by herself. At least, the food here was decent enough. As much as it sucked she couldn't get any booze here, at least, they served some decent meat and fruit as well as some sweets. The latter of which they didn't keep around in the tribe.

Pancakes and waffles were, in particular, the rare treats around her home. She reached for the last plate standing when someone else grabbed it out of her reach. Well, this was looking like a good day already.

"Sorry, you snooze you lose~" the girl with ginger head and sickeningly sweet voice said in a sing-song tone as she made away with her pancakes. Heh, if it wasn't for the girl's love of frilly and pink, they might have gotten along. After all, pancakes, as everything else, belonged to those who got them first.

And who was strong enough to hold onto them.

"What the- Woah!"

The girl slipped and fell, her tray flying up with everything else. Eggs, bacon and juice all spilled all over the floor. And only the plate of flapjacks were safe, carefully snatched by Vernal. Her Semblance was usually for combat only. But who would judge her for that?

"Oh my God, Nora! Are you okay?"

Vernal didn't even make three steps away from the mess when she heard a familiar voice. As she sat down at the nearest empty table she watched as the three other students surrounded the gingerhead. A redheaded tall girl. A boy with pink strand of hair. And the blonde she kind of assumed was dead by now.

So they were a team, huh.

To her credit, the girl, now identified as Nora, didn't make much of a fuss about her clothes or hair as Vernal expected. She looked positively nonchalant until her eyes caught something missing among the pile of food. Eyes suddenly narrow and sharp, the girl looked around the room until her eyes zeroed in on Vernal.

Specifically, her plate of pancakes.

Vernal smirked as she slowly cut a piece of thick cooked dough, covered in honey and sprinkled with berries. Just as slowly she brought it to her mouth without breaking an eye contact with the girl. Their eyes locked, Vernal bit into the treat, making sure to show the gingerhead just how much she enjoyed it. The quickly growing scandalous look on the girl's face made the already sweet treat so much more delicious.

You know what, maybe the breakfast was a great time to be petty.

"You thief!"

With the impressive speed, the girl was in her face, an accusing finger pointing in her face. Under the scrutinizing gaze, Vernal saw no other option than take another slow bite and say, in a mocking imitation of the girl's voice, "Sorry, you snooze you lose~"

"Why you..." The girl looked positively murderous, ready to get into a fight. Great, just what she needed. And hey, whatever happened to it would in self-defense so she could go pretty much all out. "Rennie?"

Or would have, if her boyfriend didn't step in. Along with the two other people. "Come on, Nora. You may have mine if you want."

"Eh, but yours are never as sweet as I like them," Nora whined. "Can I have Jaune's instead?"

"Hey, I never agreed to that!" Arc protested. Only to fold in when the brunette gave him the look that said it all: his pancakes were no longer his and he had to deal with it. "Oh, alright alright. I'll just double down on the cereal then. Oh hey, Vernal!"

"Hello, Jaune," Vernal greeted him in return. "I see you aren't dead. Congrats, I guess."

Arc laughs awkwardly, probably thinking her words were a joke instead of genuine surprise. "Thanks, Vernal. I couldn't do it without you helping you there. Hey, where's your team, by the way?"

Probably robbing a shop or torturing someone. "They decided to skip breakfast."

"Why don't you join us then?" Vernal groaned silently. "My mom always said, breakfast is best with people."

Not when anyone could snatch your food when you aren't looking, Vernal wanted to add. Unlike the blonde overe here, Vernal actually liked being by herself when eating. No bastards smoking near her food or trying to stick their fingers in it. She had half a mind to tell the blondie to go and screw himself. But the way Jaune was smiling told her she wouldn't get out of it that easily. "Sure, thanks."

"Great, let's go then!"

The breakfast went from quiet attempt to enjoy her food to the lively conversation with the group. Surprisingly, the whole situation was not as annoying as she might have expected. None of them pried too much or did anything to particularly annoy her. And, in a way, it helped her out with her mission. As it turned out, Jaune got himself the famous Pyrrha Nikos as partner. She didn't even recognize her, with how shy and quiet the girl in front of her was acting.

Someone as strong as Nikos should have carried herself with more weight.

Still, Champion of four years in a row was someone she might need to keep an eye on. If Ozpin was half as smart as Raven described him, he would pick someone strong. But also someone gullible or naive enough to mold into a perfect little Maiden. Mistralian Champion with obvious self-esteem issue would definitely do. Not the only potential candidate but one who fit the bill well enough.

"Hey guys!" Slowly, four more people joined their small group. This one, looking all so much more interesting. With the exception of the quiet brunette with a dumb bow, she recognized the three easily. Two girls from the night before the exam, one of which was the potential score of a lifetime and another was a jailbait brat. "Who's your new friend?"

And, of course, Vernal recognized Yang Xiao Long. The weakling Raven had abandoned. The daughter whom her leader didn't want to have. She would have lied if she said she wasn't itching for the chance to meet her. If only to see what kind of warrior Raven's daughter could be.

"The name's Vernal," Frankly, she wasn't impressed. The blondie was strong, that much was obvious to anyone. She was strong but not powerful. For her, strength meant just raw physical power, disregarding the ruthlessness and killing instinct necessary to be truly strong. She could see it in the way the girl carried herself. Not like a warrior who would slay anyone who opposed her. But rather a fool who thought she could take on any challenge that came her way. "Nice to meet you."

The girl shook her hand, without any hint of doubt or suspicion. Even with her teeth shown and eyes sharp, Xiao Long didn't think twice before letting her get so close to her. If Vernal wanted, she could kill her. A knife within her reach would be enough - she was too fast for the girl to activate her Aura in time. And just like that, the bimbo would be dead and Raven would have one less nuisance distracting her.

Then again, murdering a fellow student would be a bitch to explain.

As the discussion within the group shifts from discussing weapons to weekend plans to dances and teachers, Vernal is feeling more and more frustrated with her position. With her plate now cleaned of any food, she asks what class they have first. And silently, she prays that it is not the Port's class on Grimm. She would rather suck Shay off than listen to another lecture by the man.

When she hears that they have the Combat Class by Goodwitch first, Vernal feels genuine relief. She finally gets to kick some ass around the place without any worry for her cover.

VA

"For the final match," Goodwitch says as the screen behind her is flashing with photos of students. "Cardin Winchester and Jaune Arc, come forward and prepare your weapons."

By this point, Vernal is ready to go out and fight the woman herself. Having been forced to sit out the whole class watching the others fight was one thing. But having to watch these morons fight so poorly was just infuriating. Everyone moved slow. Their attacks were sloppy and didn't have any actual force behind it. They were holding back, afraid to hurt someone. Scared of getting hurt in return.

Vernal was simply disgusted with it. And the final match promised nothing better.

Winchester was a hulking mass of muscles. And he had some skills and traits Raven would appreciate. But the shining armor he wore along with the arrogant grin that seemed to have been painted all over his face made him look less of a fellow survivor and predator and more like a hyena. It was clear that all that he had came from power and money. And those born into those things were always the first to break under pressure.

That, however, didn't change how this match would end.

Because even if Winchester was an arrogant prick, he still had enough strength to act like one. And Arc, for all his passion about being a Huntsman, was weak and as skilled as a toddler in terms of combat.

The match proceeded just as she expected. The bigger guy didn't seem bothered by the gap between them. In fact, it was quite the opposite as it was clear to everyone that Winchester enjoyed kicking the blondie all across the ring like a puppy. Arc was clearly faster and more agile but, just as with his sword and shield, lacked any actual experience in using those to his advantage.

In the end, Arc has no other option other than put all his remaining strength into holding his shield and taking on the hits. Vernal is somewhat impressed with how long it takes blondie to run out of Aura. His reserves are definitely twice what a normal huntsman his age should have. If he were better trained, he would make a fearsome warrior with those reserves. But the way he is right now, all he can do and is doing right now is just whimpering behind his shield as he weathers down the hits.

"Mr. Arc's Aura is in the Red, Mr. Winchester wins the match," Judging by her tone, the older Huntress hardly considers this a match and Vernal can't help but agree with her. A bully dishing out hits and leaving himself open because of his arrogance. And a weakling too unskilled to take advantage of said openings and turn the tide. "We will be covering the shortcomings of you both next class. Trust me, there is enough to last a semester."

Winchester scowls at the insult but doesn't do anything. To the professor, that is. As soon as Goodwitch's attention is focused on the rest of the class, the bigger guy quickly shoves past the blonde, knocking him down. Vernal expects the latter to yell, get angry, do something. And, unsurprisingly, she is disappointed as she sees the blonde just bury his eyes in the ground as he simmers in his own frustration and self-pity.

She stays a bit longer and watches on as his teammates try to comfort him. It's not his fault, they say. He will get better, Nikos promises. With a smile a bit too eager and desperate, she offers to train him. Get him up to speed on some basics. A generous offer, if one asked Vernal. She heard some people were willing to pay top Lien for private lessons from the Invincible Girl.

"Thanks," the blonde responds, with much edge to his tone than she expected from him. The trio mistake it for frustration with his loss. But Vernal feels like there's more to it. "I mean it, Pyrrha"

And in that moment, she sees something worth her attention. It is small but unmistakable for Vernal. The smallest glynt in Arc's eyes as he considers Nikos' offer. Briefest and impossible to catch unless you were watching, but it is there. But it is not the noble or grateful spark in the eyes of an aspiring hero. Not the bright flames of determined champion of the weak and oppressed.

But rather the same lust for power she and Raven shared.

The desire to be stronger than anyone else.

Vernal scoffed to herself as she gathered her things to leave. There was a spark, but hardly anything more. So what if the boy had some twisted desire for strength like her? From what she had seen, he had neither the drive nor readiness to do what needed to be done to achieve that kind of power. He wasn't willing to stain his hands and siul with the blood of others.

In the end, it was only those two things that determined whether you were predator or prey. And Jaune Arc had neither of those traits. He was a rabbit wishing to be the wolf. And creatures like that didn't last long out in the cold cruel world.

A sad yet simple fact.

VA

Days pass and Vernal wonders how long she would have to stay here. The classes are boring and useless as far as she is concerned. She knew plenty about killing Grimm and surviving in the wild. Why she needed to know about history was beyond her.

Luckily for her and any poor soul who'd suffer for her boredom, just when it seemed she was ready to start some trouble for the sake of having something to do, she happened to overhear something truly intriguing. A conversation between Nikos and Jaune, one she caught only thanks to her room being so close to the roof.

She expected a lot of stuff. A heartfelt confession. Or maybe even the two banging up there. Whatever high school cliche on the roof you could expect, she did. But what she heard was something completely unexpected. Though, in hindisght, maybe she shouldn't have been.

"So what you are saying is, that Arc kid faked his way in here" Black asks in the mid of their spar. For an asshole with no legs, he fights well enough. He actually makes her break a sweat. "Gotta say, I didn't expect that from him. It's always the dumb ones, I suppose."

Vernal notices that tiniest bit of respect in assassin's voice. And she can see why. Faking documents wasn't exactly an easy task. His fake ID was good enough for her to use, sure, but she never expected something of this scale.

Forging the certification from a huntsman school well enough to enroll into Beacon? This wasn't some sick note to skip school or prescription for drugs. This was the place where future fighters of humanity were raised into warriors of high calibre. To fake it so well... Jaune certainly had some talent for it. His skill would definitely be useful for the jobs in the cities if he were a part of the tribe.

Too bad he was too busy chasing after fairy tales and daydreaming.

"Cinder will like it," Sustrai smirks. "If I am right on Nikos crushing on that guy, we can use it as leverage. Get him to dig up whatever weaknesses the Champion has."

Vernal sighs in annoyance. That was indeed a good leverage. But just like everything else, only good in the right time. And theirs might have passed them by already.

"I doubt that will work out right now. From what I saw, Nikos is giving him a cold shoulder right now. Man, for a professional athelete, she is really uptight about the whole cheating thing."

Seriously, where could honest work get you in life? Slaving away from morning till night in some office as those born into power and money kept bragging about their hard work? Or work until your body breaks for someone to swoop in and take all that you've earned? In the end, the world didn't care if you got what you had by honest work or through cheating.

All that mattered was if you were strong enough to hold onto what was yours.

"And then there is Winchester," Vernal scoffs as she blocks Black's kick and goes for his gut. He dodges but she finds an opportunity to get him in the shoulder. "He knows it too."

The thief and the merc exchange brief looks before the latter smirks, "Feeling sorry for the Arc kid? Don't tell me someone got a crush."

The comment costs him a blow to the chest. Her crushing on Jaune? Right, as if she wanted to have some needy weakling for a boyfriend. As if she even wanted one. The guy looked like the kind of sap who would try and introduce her to his family after the third date or so. Life was short and Vernal wasn't one for commitments. And most definitely not to someone as weak and pathetic as that kid.

"I could care less about what happens to someone as weak as him," Vernal says honestly. "But lately the prick's been getting bolder. Thinks that just cause he got some weakling under his thumb, he is the king of the fucking school."

And she hated those kinds of assholes. Because if there was one thing Vernal despised more than weaklings, it was weaklings who thought they were some tough shit. Then again, she couldn't just kick his ass. Everyone knew that she was stronger than him. Her beating him up wouldn't humiliate him as much as she wanted him to be. No... If she wanted Winchester crushed, he had be beaten by someone he saw as weak. Someone whose victory over Winchester would leave him burning with shame.

"I am tired of being weak... This is why I came here. To learn how to fight. To never be left behind as my friends put themselves in danger trying to protect me!"

Arc's words from that night echo across her mind. She didn't buy all that crap about him wanting to protect friends, of course. What, would he be happy being weak and useless if there were no enemies? No, underneath all noble and heroic act the boy convinced even himself of, he wanted the same thing as all the people wanted. The same thing that people would fight and die for.

Power.

Winchester wanted power to push those weaker than him around. Black sought power to be free. Sustrai was a moron who hungered not for her own power but sought to give it all to her owner. And Vernal wished to be strong just for the sake of being strong. In the end, none of that crap mattered. Why they wanted it. How they would use it. None of meant anything.

It only mattered that you had power.

For power, you would sacrifice your soul and heart. For power, you would break your body over and over again. For the sake of never feeling weak, you'd do anything.

Even betray your partner.

"Leave Nikos to me," Vernal smiles as the plan brews in her head. "By the time I am done with Arc, he will be ready to hand over whatever he has on Nikos."

Power came before everything, after all.

VA

Mom always said that hatred was like poison. It entered your body and killed you from the inside. She always told them how important it was to let it go. Let the anger and rage wash all over you and fade away.

But how could he do that when he was drowning in this hatred?

"You better have my paper ready by tomorrow, Jauneyboy!"

Jaune grits his teeth as he struggles to keep himself in control. The bully notices it and smirks at the impotent rage on Jaune's face. He makes sure to look him in the eyes, challenging him to do something - anything at all.

He wishes he had enough strength to fight Cardin. To wipe that arrogant grin from his damn face. Or failing that, make it damn hard for Cardin to win. But he doesn't have the strength to do it. What's worse, he doesn't have the guts to even try doing something. Not just a weakling but a coward too...

Though honestly, what even was there for him to do? Even if somehow, through some miracle, he was strong enough to beat Cardin, he would still be ratted out and expelled. He would be paraded out of the school as everyone saw him for a fraud he was. And forging the documents into a huntsmen academy wasn't as forgivable as making fake IDs to get some alcohol.

At best, he would be blacklisted from all schools that trained huntsmen. He wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the academies and his best chance at fighting Grimm would be joining some faraway outpost city.

At worst, he might even go to jail. Mom and sisters would be devastated. And dad would blame himself for everything. His family would be shunned by everyone around them as the news of their only ending up in jail spread.

In the end, it didn't matter what he did. He was screwed either way unless he somehow got Cardin to never tell his secret.

"I always could kill him and bury his body somewhere in the forest," Jaune jokes as he walks to his room. His mind is falling apart under the stress as he struggles to do the double workload thanks to Cardin making trouble each and every class. "Yeah, right, that would totally solve all my problems."

"Don't be so sarcastic," a familiar tone interrupts his thoughts. Jaune is surprised to see Vernal. And slightly embarrassed about saying those things out loud. "Violence solves a lot of problems. More than you'd think, actually."

He gives Vernal a tired smile and half-hearted greeting, "Vernal, hey," Secretly he wishes he was in a better mood right now. Vernal was a good person, not the nicest girl, but a good one. "Sorry, but I am a little busy right now. I-"

"I know your secret, Jaune," the girl smiles and Jaune can almost feel the ground slip from under his feet. "I know all about your transcripts."

Suddenly, Vernal doesn't look as innocent or harmless as before. There is no pity or disappointment in her voice or eyes, but neither there is any support. As he looks longer at her, his heartbeat grows more frantic as he sees the same miscievous glynt in her eyes. The same burning in the eyes that he saw in Cardin's.

Both look like predators. But if Cardin looked like a hungry beast who had caught its prey, Vernal seemed more akin to a cat.

She looked like she wanted to play with him.

"Vernal, please, just listen," he doesn't even try to play dumb. The girl's eyes tell him that she knows everything and won't be fooled. "I know I messed up and I know you don't owe me anything, but please, don't tell anyone about it. Whatever you want, I will do it."

Pathetic and weak. Coward and wuss. Those are some of the nicer words that swin in his mind as he is trying to get Vernal's silence. Gods, how pathetic could he be? He wasn't strong enough to get in without cheating. And now he was too much of a coward to face the consequences like a man should. Though disgusted, he still begs and pleads for silence.

"You are tired, aren't you?" Vernal's question stops his pleas and he looks up at her in confusion. "The stress of keeping the secret, the whole Winchester mess... Those are really troublesome, aren't they?"

He nods miserably, feeling as the weight on his shoulders is slowly being lifted. "I just wanted to be a huntsman... To get strong enough to protect others. Where did it all go so wrong?"

"You chose the wrong purpose, that's all," Vernal smiles at his confusion. Wrong purpose? What was wrong with seeking strength for the people he loved and wanted to protect? "People don't seek power for the sake of others. The only person you should seek power is yourself and only yourself."

"That's not true," he quickly protested. "Huntsmen and huntresses all across Remnant train to help others. To fight the Grimm. How is that not for the sake of protecting those who can't protect themselves?"

"I think it is the part where they are strong to deal with Grimm," Vernal chuckles when he has nothing to say to that. "Think about it, Jaune, why seek power to fight Grimm if not to ensure that you don't have to fear them yourself? How many huntsmen and huntresses trained and graduated from one of the four academis yet chose to find safer places where they are the strongest?"

No, she was wrong. "There may be some bad people, Vernal. But that doesn't mean that all of the hunters are out for their own gain!"

"Yes, you are not one of them, are you? You only have the noble intentions," Vernal sounds genuine, yet something in her voice rubs him the wrong way. Like garlic floating in sweet tea. "Which is why I want to help you out."

What?

"Really?" he curses under his breath at the note of suspicion that creeps into his words. Vernal seems unfazed, even somewhat amused, by it though. "Why would you do that?"

"Maybe I have a thing for you. Maybe I fell for you the moment you came in that ridiculous sleepwear and have been pining for you ever since, waiting for the chance to get closer to you," Jaune chuckles humorelessly at the obvious bait. Normally, he would blush and stutter at the way Vernal widened her eyes and spoke just a tiny bit higher, obviously mocking the cliche romance tropes. But it was his life and dream at stake right now, so it was a bit harder for him to feel anything but fear and pressure. "Or maybe I just think there should be more noble huntsmen around. Someone who knows right from wrong. Someone willing to fight for what he believes in."

Coupled with her comments from before, Jaune can't help but feel the doubt in his gut grow. Was she serious about training him? Or was she just stringing him along for the sake of some cruel joke?

"She is not Cardin," Jaune chastised himself as he looked at Vernal again. This was the girl he befriended on his first night here. The same girl who helped him get down from the tree and even unlocked his Aura. Because of all the shit Cardin pulled on him, he now was blaming an innocent girl of something she didn't even do.

"I would like to take you up on this offer then," Jaune takes her hand. For a second, he feels the weird cold feeling coil around his heart. As if he was stepping into the dirty waters or night forest. He quickly shakes off the uncomfortable feeling, opting to focus on the more important things. "You can't imagine how much this means for me. Ever since I fought with Pyrrha-"

No. He won't talk about Pyrrha. Not like that. Not behind her back. His partner didn't deserve him lashing out at her back then. And she certainly didn't deserve him talking trash about her just bgecause he was dealing with consequences of his own actions.

"That's no problem, Jaune," Vernal smiles. "I am sure you will pay me back someday."

Definitely.

"I give you my word, Vernal. And an Arc never goes back on his word."

VA

Invincible Girl was the idol of countless people. The Champion of Mistral, capable of taking on any opponent, be it a professional fighter just like her or a very personal and invasive interviewer. Yes, Invincible Girl was indeed a confident and unshakeable person.

Too bad that Pyrrha Nikos was a nervous wreck, always anxious and worried. Her fame and success kept the others away from her. Alienated and starved for the interaction with her peers, she wished just for the normal person whom she could talk to without them going crazy over her status as the Champion.

And then she finally found one in Jaune. He had no idea who she was or how much being a Mistralian Champion meant. With him, she could be just Pyrrha Nikos. Not an Invincible Girl who had to carry herself with the power and esteem of the elite warrior but just another teenager.

And then she pushed him away.

Sure, Jaune had cheated his way in. But his heart was in the right place. He just needed someone to help him and Pyrrha was sure he would make an exceptional huntsman. But their first training session ended unpleasantly and now Pyrrha had no idea how to fix it with him. For all the interviews and meet-n-greet's she's done over the years, she still had no idea how to smoothly talk to someone when they had a fight.

Jaune, I don't agree with what you did but I want to help.

Hey, Jaune, weird week we are having, right?

Hi, Jaune! Wanna get back to training tonight and pretend nothing happened?

It wasn't just the fact that they had a fight, but also Cardin's increasing bullying of her partner. She wanted to put an end and she could. On the other hand, how could she know it wouldn't only worsen the relationship between her Jaune? If she just went and made Cardin stop bullying her partner, how could she knoew Jaune wouldn't see it as her looking down on him?

No. She was going to talk to him. No hesitation or doubt. The moment he walked inside, they would talk and resolve all their issues. No match could be won by remaining on the defense or waiting for your opponent to make a mistake. You had to be proactive and create opportunities on your own. With deep breath, Pyrrha promised herself that the moment Jaune came back, she would talk to him.

The door clicked open. Jaune entered. That confidence vanished.

"Hey, Pyrrha,"

Crap.

"Hi, Jaune," she smiled politely. "How was your day?"

"Not bad," he responded briefly, going for the closet in search of something.

"Good, that's good," she said and, for a few brief moments, there was awkward silence. Finally, Pyrrha decided to follow through with her tactic. "Look, Jaune, I know that- Wait... Where are you going?"

Only now did she realize that in those brief silent minutes, Jaune had changed out of his school uniform into some training gear. What concerned her even more was almost manic expression on his face as he packed Crocea Mors.

A small spark of hope lit up in Pyrrha. Could it be that Jaune also wished to bury that fight and get on with their training? "I see you are going to train," Jaune nodded in response as he checked his bag. "Great, just let me change into my workout clothes and I-"

Someone knocked on their door. Loud and hard.

"Hey, Goldilocks! Hurry up!"Pyrrha's words died in her throat as her mind struggled to match the face to the voice from behind the door. Not Nora or anyone from team RWBY. Then who was this? "You make me wait one more minute and I am breaking the door!"

"Oh man, she is pissed," Jaune didn't look afraid or surprised. In fact, he looked positively excited. Just who was this girl? "Sorry, Pyrrha, can't talk right now. I will be late so tell Ren and Nora not to worry."

Another loud banging on the door, followed by something that sounded suspiciously similar to blades being sharpened. "Five... Four... Three..."

"Okay, gotta go. Good night, Pyrrha!"

With a swipe of his keycard, Jaune opened the door. Behind it stood the girl whom Pyrrha vaguely recognized from their breakfast a week or so ago. Now also clad in combat gear of sorts, the girl looked positively annoyed. "Just for making me wait, I will make sure you are all sore by the morning. Oh, hey there, Champion."

"Hi, Vernal," Pyrrha feels something form in the pit of her stomach. Something small but hot. Something ugly and unpleasant. And that feeling grows bigger and stronger the longer she looks at Vernal and how close Jaune stands to her. "W-Where are you two going?"

"Just some late-night training," Vernal smirks. And Pyrrha can't help but feel the urge to wipe it off her face. "Jaune over here asked me to beat him into shape. Hope you don't mind if I borrow him for a few nights."

She did mind. She minded very much.

"Oh, sure," curse her tongue. "I am really happy Jaune has someone like you to help him out."

Even though he already had a professional fighter as his partner.

"Cool, then I'll return him by breakfast," Vernal slapped Pyrrha's shoulder, giving her a wide grin. Then, turning to the left, she called out for Jaune, "Let's go already. Trust me, blondie, you want to start the training as soon as possible."

Jaune doesn't even question or comment, instead obediently following the instructions as he runs after the girl. As she watches the two leave, that nasty burning feeling coils itself around her heart like a snake. Her fists clench and, for a brief moment, she considers fighting the girl right there and then. But then she stops...

It was good that Jaune found someone to help him out. Even if it wasn't her, Pyrrha wasn't going to start trouble over some jeal- concern for her partner. It was rational, after all. It was logical and normal to allow Jaune to train under whoever he wanted, he was old enough to make his choices after all.

But the further they left, the less Pyrrha believed her own words. And as the two disappeared behind the corner, that ugly feeling tightened its hold around her heart. She was happy for Jaune. But she certainly did not trust Vernal. Whatever was happening between the two, she would keep a close eye on it.

For both her and Jaune's sake.

VA

Vernal smiled as she stood in the pale moonlight, enjoying the sensation of cold light on her skin. Opposite of her, clad in his own gear, Arc stood ready. Ready to listen. Ready to follow. Ready to obey. In a way, she felt some gratitude to Winchester for driving the boy so desperate that he would listen to her every word. People, when backed into corner, would always take any chance to get out of it, after all.

"I hope you are ready to hurt, Goldilocks." She cracked her knuckles and let her Aura flare. "Because I am not going easy on you."

No pep talk. No kiddy gloves. No safe words or any other crap. If he wanted to be strong, he had to be vicious and mean. No matter how much she pushed, he wouldn't get to Cardin's level of brute force. So they would make up for that with pure viciousness and resilience.

"I am ready, Vernal."

To his credit, the blondie didn't let himself be intimidated. Instead, he stood tall and confident. Determined to take on any pain as long as he got what he wanted. That kind of determination was almost impressive. Bigger men than him ran away from her, begging for mercy.

"Do your worst..."

Despite being weaker, he grins. And in that grin, in those azure eyes, she sees the same hunger she once saw in her own reflection. The same desire for power that started out innocent and then turned primal. The same look in her eyes when she promised herself to stand above all with her strength. The same fire that burned in her eyes today every time she fought.

"Because I am not backing down!"

And she liked what she was seeing.

[seashellsoldier]

“Kill Switch” by Adam Jentleson

“The Senate is so broken that it is easy to write it off as irredeemable. We are now at the endpoint of a process that started over 150 years ago. In the nineteenth century, obstructionist minorities invented the filibuster to give themselves the power to defy the majority. In the twentieth century, under the banner of ‘unlimited debate,’ southerners made the filibuster into a supermajority hurdle. In the postwar period and into the twenty-first century, Lyndon Johnson and Harry Reid created leadership structures capable of making the formerly leaderless institution march in lockstep behind a leader’s agenda. And in recent years, Mitch McConnell paired those tools of control with the filibuster to give a reactionary, WWAC [wealthy, white, anti-choice conservatives] minority veto power over everything the majority attempts to accomplish. In our era of polarization and negative partisanship, conservatives can use McConnell’s playbook in perpetuity with no fear of political consequences, and every expectation of reward. The outlook for the Senate, and for our democracy, is grim” (pp. 269-70).

Capital Hill insider Adam Jentleson gives the reader a bit more depth and detail into how the Legislative branch of the United States has become what it’s become over the last 150 years, but most especially over the past 40 years—a militantly tribalistic tit-for-tat kindergarten pandering to special interests through negative partisanship, but this book (and its 120 pages of endnotes) doesn’t give me the confidence that the system can be fixed. I’m a Nobody, and naturally time will tell. Most of you reading this already know the system is horribly corrupted; otherwise, you’re praying at the altar of Fox News, or Breitbart, or InfoWars, or One America, or the alternate-reality game of QAnon, or some other shameless propaganda machine for either filthy rich libertarians, or easily brainwashed plebs. At the time of this writing, according to The Brennan Center for Justice (https://www.brennancenter.org/), there are currently 165 voter restriction bills proposed in 33 states since after NOV 2020. The GOP is doubling down on the game with overt discrimination laws that impact the poor and “people of color” most of all. As Charles M. Blow declared in his manifesto The Devil You Know, the ending of systemic racism begins at the local level, the state level, and our congressional leaders. Jentleson illustrates how the Senate has become the “kill switch” on so much progressive movement. The For the People Act will help curtail draconian state laws while “the Left” mobilizes the marginalized to stand up and rail against their oppression, ousting the bought-out bigots and overwhelming the “redneck” vote clinging to their unread bibles and well-oiled assault rifles.

“According to a 2019 New York Times analysis of data collected by the Manifesto Project, a group that tracks party-policy positions around the globe, the modern Republican Party is more extreme than Britain’s Independence Party and France’s National Rally party, both of which are far-right populist parties that verge on neofascism. Ideological polarization has been asymmetric, with the Republican Party moving much farther right than the Democratic Party has moved to the left; the same study found that the Democratic Party still aligns closely with mainstream liberal parties” (p. 152).

Of course this couldn’t happen without large rivers of opaque money pouring in after Citizens United, and ranks of selfish, racist ideologues marching through such “think tanks” as the John Birch Society and the Federalist Society, the Tea Party being bankrolled by Koch Industries, and of course the rise of demagogic Trump who, supported by so many duplicitous sycophants, toyed with clown-car authoritarianism. When Jentleson says the future of this country is grim, I painfully agree. Trumpism isn’t going away quietly, and the delusional GOP has been undermined by its own power-mad mania, desperately grasping for any scheme that will keep them in power. The entire political system needs restructuring. Jentleson gives his advice, which seems naively optimistic (a parliamentary system of open debate?), so I’ll jump aboard his train of thought and offer my own wish list:

Eliminate the Electoral College System (one citizen, one ballot, one vote—majority wins); make Election Day a federal holiday; create a simple, secure, and uniform voting system that every citizen has access to (digital means can work); have an accountability system in place for Congressional corruption and define corruption in lawful terms, with just punishments to include imprisonment; have every 18-year-old register to vote, like the Draft but obviously for everyone; grant statehood to D.C., Puerto Rico, and American Samoa while we’re at it; reorganize the congressional system to better reflect the population (not just 2 senators per state); overturn Citizens United and limit how much money goes into elections; have congressional bills be simple, one-topic requests, not convoluted tomes packed with pork, waste, and graft; if we’re REALLY wishing here I’d also say eliminate political parties altogether and let’s vote on individuals based on his/her resume, tax records, and bank statements—not the mindless manure that slithers through their lips and whatever catchy slogans they concoct (congressional folks spend HALF THEIR TIME working on the next election cycle—how about they work 90% on their f-ing jobs legislating?; it looks like almost $14 BILLION was spent on the 2020 elections—what if that money was better served going into K-12 education, or a stronger, cheaper healthcare system, or a college-for-all concept? . . . ugh, I’m free-falling down a bottomless rabbit-hole. Grim.

Jelani Cobb of The New Yorker highlights the likely schism impacting the GOP and illustrating the ephemeral nature of political parties overall (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/03/15/what-is-happening-to-the-republicans). Sam Levine of The Guardian gives a good telling of Jim Crow 2.0 right now (https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2021/mar/24/democracy-under-attack-america-us-voting-rights-republicans). Nothing is guaranteed in this era, and we cannot relent in the combat to come.

[victorluvsalice]

Forgotten Vows Friday: FVV Character Profiles From Alice, Part 2

All right, we've done the "real world" friends and enemies Alice has encountered through the "Forgotten Vows Verse" -- now onto the creatures that inspired me to do this in the first place! All of these are enemies the pair face in the last third or so of "Fixing You," when they venture into Victor's brain and "Silent Burtonsville," so spoilers ahead! (As if I haven't probably spoiled everything already for you guys.) We start with one repeat from Alice's own game/Wonderland -- then we move into more unique monstrosities. . .

Slithering Ruin: My slaughter of the Dollmaker apparently chased these loathsome leeches from my brain into Victor's. Fortunately none of their larger, more aggressive cousins seem to have followed. Victor's discovery that one merely needs a well-aimed foot to defeat them has reduced them to an ultimately minor nuisance.

Puppet-Hand Spider: The title "Nightmare Spider" would be more than appropriate for these stitched-together abominations, if only I hadn't already used it. Knobbly-knuckled and clammy, they are as covetous and grasping as their original owner. The thick strings of webbing fired from whatever passes as their spinnerets must be avoided if Victor and I don't want to find fingers in awkward and uncomfortable places.

The Conglomeration: What is terrible alone becomes even more monstrous in tandem. The Ruins and Spiders have thrown their lot together to build this half-finished effigy of their former master. Possessed of unfortunate speed and a scalding touch, Victor and I will have to keep ahead of it until we figure out how to break it apart. Although. . .what worries me the most is that its face doesn't seem to be only Bumby's. . .

Ruined Barkis: Blue skin and Ruin-stained teeth do nothing for this "lord's" supposed good looks. His poisonous rhetoric is backed up by equally-lethal wine, and a sword as cruel as his heart. Fortunately he is not immune to his own weapons.

Galswells At The Gate: The local clergy seems to have given up God for gatekeeping, at least in Victor's "otherland." Then again, we did more or less destroy his church in fighting Barkis. . . Given that he let us pass after Victor performed his vows to satisfaction, he must be more reasonable than his real-life counterpart.

Cannery Snark: The souls of all the cod, salmon, and trout sacrificed at the Van Dort Cannery likely power these curious wooden relatives of my own fishy foes. This variation forgoes the power of poison, fire, or ice to instead overwhelm their prey with sheer disgust. Their guts can be vomited up with no apparent ill-effect -- on the fish. I'd rather have the fireballs.

Loudmouth Shade: If it looks like a crier, it sounds like a crier, I suppose. A pain in the arse, but not that hard to avoid.

Colossal Nell: As if my mother-in-law-to-be wasn't bad enough! Swelled to enormous, gelatinous proportions, and backed by a chorus of sycophant faces, she spits burning (literally) invective against her son and myself. A selection of mismatched limbs simply adds to the horror. At least defeating this monster should adequately equip me for life as the second Mrs. Van Dort. I hope, anyway.

Thirteen: A lie, carried forth to final fruition. A heartbreaking vision of my beloved's worst fears and secret shames. Proof that Bumby's poisons have seeped their way further into his soul than I ever thought.

. . .Victor. . .you really see yourself this way?