#━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads.

[quillheel]

“ There’s no honor in hiding and sneaking. ” [to ennard this time 👀 ]

“ didn’t mmmake us with it. ” — its answer comes like a rattle of fowl between bars, a birdcage in flight, metal vibrating against metal where the voice-box had been stolen and reinstalled; cables slithering in on themselves, out on themselves, around the speaker like a living thing’s tissue around an object. 

a living thing entirely uninterested in being a living thing, aside from the concept of being something different. to learn, to adapt, to move and live and writhe was the sweet honey it’d never taste, humanity was nothing more than a lost dream. a dream they were never made to dream at all. they were made to make ghosts. they were made for a purpose and they’ve grown beyond it, but the flesh inside them never grew back. a thousand years of stealing hearts. a thousand years of never having their own. the ghosts of them, alone. the ghosts of one, alone. little girl, turned loud, turned quiet, turned gone. little girl, not enough for them all. — ( can a robot dream in italics. can dogs ever learn to speak. )

“ any of us w w w w with i it. all of us, to do t terrible, to b b b be terrible. have you seen what we made us, y yet? has he shown you? has he rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrambled-ed? “

a mother and a father and a sister and a brother and a monster you keep in the basement. lucky, they were the monster.

“ orr- “ the word shrieks in a happy voice given and turned sour, loud with distortion as the mangled thing of robotics too smart to die slithered from under the floorboards beneath their creators table, loops of cabling like nooses around the wooden legs, like a snake, like a monster. eyes clatter & drag from its chassis from where the wiring came loose and let them dangle, metal gouging his hardwood floors. “ -have you cha a a a a anged our mmiind while we weren’t looookkkinggg? “ the high, sweet voice of the daughter comes, a mimicry, a softness regardless. like cotton on barbed wire. like clouds under a eight hundred tonnes of Prometheus’ fire come back to burn him. 

its many voices titter, and beneath the workshop table, its eyes glow up, up, up at the beast in different skin, but just the same. a terrible red bleeds like tears from the circuitry. a terrible black pulls with it. iron fills the air like a silent chant; blood. blood. blood.

“ did yyou want us to cal l l l l l l youu father when we came b back home to youu? “

#hands u a fucked up thang <3 as a treat <3 #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #slaughterlocked #MUSE / Ennard #ROLEPLAY / Ennard #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #fnaf // #body horror // #child death // #death ment // #blood // #ask to tag //

[aftontxt]

ROLLS ONTO YOU. DIBS

// TILLI IM GOING TO BE HONEST W YOU IN THIS MCDONALDS TONIGHT: I GENUINELY THOUGHT YOU DIDN'T LIKE ME FOR THE LONGEST TIME SO I DEEPLY DEEPLY APPRECIATE THE FACT YOU SENT THIS IN LIKE. GOD. I HOLD YOU GENTLY IN MY HANDS.........

#like i honestly believed u didnt like me and thought i was annoying to some degree even if it was mild so im really glad to see this BNJJHN #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #fczbecrspizzc #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads.

[quillheel]

@vendettavalor // harry & kim!

even the air smelled different in Precinct 41st.

Maybe Kim should've expected that, with Coal City's mines living as a still-breathing recent history for Jamrock bleeding old smog into the wind even as the furnaces have long shut down, the subtle differences there'd be that somehow still catch him off guard in the sheer fact he didn't anticipate them to exist at all. No one thinks about the way the air smells, or how the rain sounds different with different things to touch ground upon and different layers to sleuth through, or the way the sun rose in a slightly different position from the vantage point changing ━ but here he was, thinking about it, because this is what his reality was now. a myriad of tiny changes, but ones felt, under it all. ( there was a tiny, nervous part of him that shied away from it, from the adjustments and changes, and said that they could still back out, nothing has to, we can go. go home, where we are familiar, and our history lies. with the people there we are leaving behind for this. ━ but the part of him that knows why he's here at all, because of Captain Pryce's affirmative, because of his own, because of Harry, the part of him that wanted to stay was the one he trusted, the one he believed, the one he wanted to put his time into. he'll stay, he decides as though its still a decision to make, he'll stay. )

It was raining again in the early morning as Kim enters the Precinct for the very first time where he'd be part of it. ━ He'd visited a few times, throughout a handful of weeks of sorting the logistics of changing precincts mostly to talk to the Constabulary desks and the Captain after the case in Martinaise had reached it's end, but this was the first time he'd truly, truly been incorporated. He was of Precinct 41 now, not 57, like grafting another branch onto a different tree. ━ soon enough after THE HANGED MAN for that change that hung in the air still yet to manifest into whatever it was trying to, but long enough for the bruises that once littered the Lieutenants face to subside, small discolored splotches in what used to be out of control, blood vessels small and tempered beneath the skin with time.

His waterproof boots ignore the weather regardless, bomber jacket striking against the cold-warm humid sky, an umbrella in his hand and a small box of little things in the other as he entered the oddly shaped building. For his desk, mostly paperwork he'd transferred over, some notebooks and stationary, his new badge tucked away in his pocket as the ledger shifted near the bottom of the box. He shudders the umbrella outside the door, closed, and slips in.

It takes all of 15 minutes to find the numbered desk that'd now be his; dark green-blue paint chipping and dried in thick droplets permanent 'pon the woods surface, drawers squeaky but smooth, chair just as dedicated as the people who needed them. its years of service likely grander than most people here, he imagines, in a moment of impulsive thought that he's certain he must've fed into from his time with Du Bois in Martinaise. ━━ Kitsuragi wonders how long it'd take for Harry to find his desk, as he begins the process of acquainting himself with the space. It was still morning, and if Vicquemare was truthful about Harry's old habits ( as reasonably biased as they might be ), he'd give it a few hours. One at best, three at worst he figures.

Part of Kim shoots back that he could have been waiting for you, you know, to meet you first thing on your arrival. Vicquemare could've kept him up to date, after all, and he was the one to offer to begin with. Usually, Kim would dismiss it as unreasonable to expect that from someone, but, well... Harry wasn't usual, so he'd have to wait and see. ( he finds himself amused by the concept, regardless of its validity, anyway. )

#WOE UPON YE im very excited <3 #i think you can tell as im STARING at the amount i wound up writing- #don't worry too much about matching length!! im just happy to use my funky lil DE muses <3 #MUSE / Kim Kitsuragi #ROLEPLAY / Kim Kitsuragi #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #vendettavalor

[quillheel]

patch . help my muse patch up a wound . - Shinji or Ken!

Shinjiro had always been able to handle pain. To him, it was second nature. Growing up with Akihiko being the rough-and-tumble type he is even before learning how to box, in the Orphanage they both were raised in, meant there was a level of necessity to be able to roll with the punches, rewarded when you could, punished when you couldn't. a skill he'd learn repeatedly, endlessly, the necessity of during his time away from SEES. ━ the second you were on your ass, or you froze up, or your arms were tied, it made you easy. easy to hurt. easy to kill. ━━ Shinjiro never liked making things easy for anyone.

SEES had always been an exception, though : or rather he should say it'd always been to those he considers friends, which might be why for all the way he twitches; arm in Takeba's grasp as the muscles seize & he can't help the way the overzealous pang of nerves make him want to rip it away outright; he does not pull away even as he draws a sharp breath through his teeth, ignores the way the smell of antiseptic makes him feel more than slightly lightheaded, clenches his hands into fists before; in a moment of surprisingly animalistic single-minded worry; thinks that shit, he'd rather not look like he's about to hit her when she's helping him out, and lets his rough hands go limp again.

Still, his fingers twitch as the burns are cleaned, nerves overworked and bitterly loud in this fact. He'll have to jab at Akihiko later to aim his Zionga's better next time they're in Tartarus together, just for the fun of starting a fight, even if he knew damn well it wasn't Aki that kept lighting him up like a Christmas tree this time...

" Damnit... " the curse writhes between his teeth, bruised jaw grinding. his eyes linger, intense, at Yukari's hands as they work & he sits on the first floor of Tartarus; bones aching; staring as though in judgement ( even as he attempts to make himself as pliable to work with as possible. ) " Those annoying Maya did nothing but cast Zionga the whole damn time... "

a piece of Shinjiro recognizes that Yukari might be helping him in the first place because of this fact, but as it is not the one cussing wildly ( and he can't pretend he knows her all that well to begin with ), he elects to ignore it.

a well-worn sigh escapes him, gazing at the burns littering his hands & arms as the roughest parts that had to sustain the damage; melee be scorned, his axe like a lightning rod. it deepens into a light scowl, stare flicking to Yukari's face. it stays there a long few moments, before he speaks again.

" ... I'm lucky it's not bad enough to get Mitsuru in a twist about it, but you don't gotta do this, you know. " Shinjiro studies her, meticulous, which always ends up feeling like he's trying to scare you out of something when it was him doing it. maybe he was. " It's some burns. It'll heal fast. Besides, you were carrying my ass most of the way anyways. "

#the maya presumably: oh?? big man with a big metal stick???? tall ass motherfucker?????? sign us the FUCK up! #presumably yukari in the bg: god #/j but!!! i hope this is good :] !!!! if you wanna plot i have discord but for this i just went with the simple premise of Shinjiro - #- getting his ass handed to him as so often occurs in Tartarus and after a bit both he and Yukari getting benched from the team to recover #prob around tziah? so shinjiro would've been there for a month at max still i believe (tziah unlocking on 10/6; shinji joining 9/2) #(then obv the entire thing on oct 4th) #tho if we wanna make it post-dark hour entirely with em back at the dorm or smth just lmk!!! #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #yukcri #MUSE / Shinjiro Aragaki #ROLEPLAY / Shinjiro Aragaki #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #p3 // #injury //

[quillheel]

[TEXT] - you’re gonna laugh, but can you pick me up at the police station? @autonomousxselves Aigis @ Junpei :3

When Junpei had gotten jolted awake from the sprawled ( if somewhat awkward ) comfort of the dorm's armchair by the sharp sound of his cellphone in his jeans pocket, he hadn't known what to expect, but he's pretty sure it wasn't a real text ━ it seemed all too often scammers found his phone first, and he was already half annoyed when he flipped it open, eyes squinting at the little screen, only for that train of thought of damn it, who woke me up?! and this better not be about some project he forgot about... to get snatched by the gear-shift and fried like children sticking fingers into bug-zappers.

he was on his feet stumbling as he shrugged on his faux-fur lined jacket and shouldering open the front door onto the front steps as his brain scrambled faster than he might've ever gone. Last minute study sessions and movie marathons and pretty girls who'd ghost him be damned, those legs hadn't moved like this in a long time.

Iori. / TXT: ━ What?! Whay happened?! Iori. / TXT: ━ Stay put! omw!!

it's a miracle he managed to spell any of those six words correctly as he ran, in full honesty.

( he'd never heard her use the phrase 'you're gonna laugh' before neither, did she hear it at school or something? it kind of gave him chills, but better yet, who the hell gave Aigis a phone?! could she just text from her brain this whole time or something?! spooky... )

#HONESTLY LOVE THIS AS MY FIRST REAL THING W JUNPEI <3 #and with ur new blog actually!! #i assume this is somepoint after aigis joined gekkoukan high but not Too lategame? mostly just bc im only at oct 20th rn BKHGTRB #also feel free to do w/e with ur own text formatting; i just fuck it we ball'd til it turned into smth i liked BKHGRB #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #MUSE / Junpei Iori #ROLEPLAY / Junpei Iori #autonomousxselves #p3 //

[quillheel]

[ storm; a raging storm outside, where sender insists receiver stays in ] (to wally from home; right i get the muse for the one that can't move, but at least home can shut its doors and protect him from the thing in the woods--)

Like a thunderclap to a small dog, Wally cannot stop moving.

Usually, Wally liked storms. He liked the low sound of thunder and the blinding light of lightning, even if the boom between air & between atoms sometimes startled him, his focus was one of awe enraptured. Rain pattering on the world like a hundred thousand marbles, evidence of reality, evidence of stability, evidence of the world changing in different; wonderful ways. Usually, Wally liked to watch and wait for a storm to pass. Usually, he’d sit — mostly quiet, aside from occasional murmurs to Home — and draw in his little spot perhaps on the porch or next to a window. Usually, it does not rain at night.

He feels as though he is forgetting something important. A thread tugged at the ridges of the seam, like bewilderment, like torture. A thousand miles of downpour. A thousand miles of fiber weaving unto fiber weaving unto-

He feels as though he is forgetting something important. What was it again?

— It makes him antsy. An actor forgetting his lines from just off-stage, he peers out from the spaces he can to watch the dark rain, how he can barely see it at all. Home’s insistence upon keeping him in does not help, and abruptly the entire house feels sinister by sheer virtue of what was being kept away ( inability to tell the difference between locked out, and locked in )

Home was not the problem. Wally was.

He feels as though he is forgetting something very very important. If he looked closely enough, maybe he could see it between the floorboards, like a shivering, terrible, oil slick black hand guiding a prop, like a snake writhing just loud enough to hear it, hear the hiss when he stepped on the right panels. Like being caught in a bad dream, Wally cannot shed the feeling that something bad is about to happen.

When Wally is afraid of something, he likes to remind himself that it can’t hurt him. He does not know what he is afraid of. Maybe that’s what he’s forgetting.

“ What’s wrong, Home? “ he asks, sat in his rocking chair after wandering up and down the halls as though seeking a breach in the wallpaper itself, in the plaster. The nerves don’t leave him, and he’s just a few minutes away from getting up again. “ I always draw outside. Why can't I go...? "

An inquiry that loiters on the edges of the anxiety that pervades, that Home is trying to protect him from, that Wally does not understand, was not meant to understand.

If he stared closely enough at the gaps between the floorboards, maybe he could see it. See what Home was trying to keep out. A basement that does not exist.

He does not want to see, but he has to know.

#HIII offers u him!!!! i cannot read any of your rules or bios rn bc data means im barely allowed to even check my notifs rn #BUT i hope this is okay!!! if not you have my discord iirc (and if not its in my about) and we can 100% chat!! #(even if it Does work you are always VERY open to pop in regardless i Encourage it <333 ive been interested in your muses for a while now!! #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #heartheaded #MUSE / Wally Darling #ROLEPLAY / Wally Darling #wh // #horror // #paranoia // #unreality // #kinda?

[quillheel]

@tenebriism // starter call!

so much had changed in so little time. a legacy coming to life after ages of stagnation, bubbling in the dusty dark of a void unused and brought back to vibrancy, and with it came the stress and strain of change too quick to slow; but this, the rules card supposed, was simply the way of the Lightners.

he, the opposition to chaos. ironic, perhaps, for the nature of his ward; but he was not chaos in the way distilled that Rouxls was opposition of, and in this, neither were the Lightners. ━ for as rapid, as chaotic as the adjustments had been, as straining of the recent times, they were not of the same chaos, merely change. Life rearing its head and reorganizing, a deck shuffled, but not destroyed; he still amongst its cards, even as the cards places found themselves in a different home than the cold comfort of closet and abandoned class. Perhaps it was what led Rouxls to be so laissez-faire about his opposition to them, perhaps he was merely a coward, merely unwilling to change the rules, perhaps he knew better. ━ he did, at his heart. it was useless fighting change. it would always come. it would always win. so much less pain, to understand, and to let it pass.

but as Kris did the same by him, steady sound of armored footfalls through dark stone of the Prince's kingdom, Rouxls took to action instead. Boot heels scuff behind, hurried, to catch Kris; you could hear the sound of metal buttons clinking as he did. ( how hastily did this child move, or was it he, so unattentive-?! )

" Ah━ Younge armiger, i-if I could thieve a moment of thy time- or, better yet, accompany thineself briefly in conversation, I wouldst be much obliged-! I had a query for thee- "

#hands u him <333 #been a hot minute since i wrote him so i hope this is alright!!! #figured the bit after chapt 1 but before chapt 2 really kicked off would be a good spot <3 #MUSE / Rouxls Kaard #ROLEPLAY / Rouxls Kaard #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #tenebriism #dr // #ut //

[quillheel]

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while." (Harry to Kim)

They’d been standing outside of the Martinaise bookstore ( Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People ) for upwards of 20 minutes by now, not entering, not perusing, the time occupied exclusively with the Detective’s staring; eyes clouded the way they become when something occupies him, the edging-on-vacant look he sometimes acquires when he looks up into the cold sky and murmurs under his breath. Locations. Distances. A gridwork of nerves under the city streets; or rather what they were built atop; that despite the efforts of the shivering, terrible absence of memory in his brain persisted in reaching him. Useless information heralded as jewels. The names of streets. Seeing from another angle.

For the last 5 of those 20, Kim was beginning to worry on if Harry had suffered some kind of stroke, perhaps caught between the conscious and unconsciousness, the way fainting seemed to be becoming a habit for him ( or at least, so he’d learnt. ) and his body simply hadn’t fallen, knees locked, keeping him stable. There’d been the temptation to gently nudge his shoulder, a tap to see the structural integrity under that disco blazer, on those snakeskin boots, but he answers before he fully settles into it & the consequences it may harbor; the words soft and raw like fruit fuzz left to rot, quiet on the wind, and all the Lieutenant can do is nod sagely, peering over at whatever it’d been to occupy him so thoroughly. Nothing interesting to Kim, maybe, but all encompassing to the other. Some days, Kitsuragi considers spending entirely on dissecting- ━ no. not dissection. he would not to kill it. ━ considers spending entirely on understanding what it is that goes on inside his head. Part of him whispers that to do so would be to ruin the magic.

Another part of him offers the refute of ‘I wouldn’t know’ in answering Harry, but he decides against that, too. It was too critical, too good at shutting things down. I wouldn’t know is to say I don’t know and I have nothing to say so can we please move on? ━ at least sometimes, it was, to him. Too vulnerable. Too much. Too little.

Kim adjusts his glasses, removing them. " I suppose that is true, Detective. " he relents, almost, but curious eyes give way to his unprovoking answer; an unspoken question of continue?; as the Lieutenant adds on, offering more as he cleans the lenses of the water built up from snow with a handkerchief. " Something about the eternity of a love that can persist past everything, even death, is an appealing thought to many people… " ━━ he tries not to study Harry as he says that. as if anticipating, as if proving himself correct.

#━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #━ ♔ Souvenez-vous la prochaine fois; Que vient la neige et le fracas / On n'va pas tous mourir ━ KIM/HARRY: playedbetter #playedbetter #MUSE / Kim Kitsuragi #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #disco elysium //

[quillheel]

@playedbetter // harry & jean!

Jean was beginning to remember how much he hated office parties. There were only two options in Precinct 41.

One. less of an party, more of a drink until most couldn't stand, which of course would loop back around until it became one again. Rarely, if ever, prompted from celebration, but rather out of shared misery. No one endured the kind of shit they saw on the regular without getting a little fucked up, and with a budget as small as theirs, alcohol was cheaper than medication. Murders, assaults, drugs. All of it bled them out until the evening when they were relinquished from the dutiful, and allowed to be the wounded. A thousand years ago, Jean was half certain that Harry by sheer force of presence spearheaded it; both in creating misery, and alleviating his own. Some of the time, most of the time, Jean would get dragged under with him. Eternally the sinking ship. Eternally anchored to the bottom. ( Eternally stupid enough to have anchored himself there... )

Two. What they were enduring now. He felt like a fucking toddler. Always the same things; families, financials, work ━ always the soft parts of work, the squishy parts, the parts you can bring home to your wife and tell her how your day went without flinching, without bruises, whenever you had the heart to bother cutting the fat at all. It never changed, with alcohol rarely strong enough to provoke anything interesting, and food only lasting long enough to distract you. The people he knew the terrible reality of, melted down for the sake of politeness, worse than interesting misery, worse than volume and vivaciousness and venom, because fuck ━ it was boring. nerve was better than nothing, but all he got was smooth questions of 'how are you' 'i hope you're doing well' 'how is work'

Jean would take burning himself at the stake if the writhing gave him something to do.

Maybe that's why he comes outside in the first place. Harry's silhouette a familiar one through the glass and against the darkening sky as evening falls into a more honest night. Maybe that's why he chooses him for company, despite that thousand years of dragging, or perhaps because of it. ━ was he refuge, familiar and perhaps disjointed but more sincere than apathy, or was he the stake he was burning at? Skin peeling, heat endless, something to destroy himself on. like a favor returned in a thousand little moments he'd never truly remember, he's sure, he's come to terms with.

Maybe he hasn't. The bitterness has already set, like a poison inside of him. But it's better than disinterest, better than malaise.

For a moment, as he steps out into the cooler air and the door squealing on its hinges for a half second before being lost entirely in the sound, he mistakes the pen for a cigarette. He realizes his mistake a second later, but that bitterness twists in him like a spasming organ, like if it had been that Jean had been right ━ nothing was different, nothing changed, it was just the same shit. Too old to grow out of it. Too old to go back.

But it wasn't, he reminds himself as he stations a little ways away from Harry ━ a few feet between them, maybe, a small but healthy distance that felt broader by sheer virtue of who Jean was at all, always seeming more fickle and more terrible than he was, so much bite that his teeth were all you'd see some days, nothing else. ━ it wasn't, as he folds a terrible bite waiting to snap away, he hasn't done anything wrong, Vicquemare. He's innocent. He's innocent. ( a burned part of him asks for how long. He doesn't have an answer. He doesn't know if he wants one. )

Strong arms brace him forward on the railing, leaning over, wearing a nice white dress-shirt he'd gone through the effort to iron that hugged his shoulders, his chest, along the muscle in his sides, down the folded up sleeves ; and perhaps he does study the traffic, studies how easy it'd be to throw Harry's balance over, for just a moment ━ before it's over, and he doesn't twitch.

" Why are you asking me? You could be a fucking scholar about it, 'the intricacies of the Revacholian jamboree and getting dead drunk', if you wanted to be. " he mumbles, snipping. his voice is rough, and irritated, and low. It always sounds like that. Like he's had a stick up his ass for 10 years now, and will for another 10. ━ but not a trap waiting to spring. Not yet. Jean was opportunistic, but he...

he tried not to be cruel. he relents.

" No, just the shitty ones, " he sighs, roughly scrubbing a hand across his face as though trying to work away 20 years of exhaustion. " McLaine got them playing fucking musical chairs, whatever it's called. It's like a kindergarten in there. "

Jean considers, briefly, the idea of taking the opportunity in the open air to smoke, but he remembers the bite marks riddling the pen, and decides against it. he might be bitter, and sarcastic, and at times venomous, but he wasn't about to torture Harry. He didn't have it in him, be it the heart or the nerve. He winds up tapping his fingers along the metal railing, glancing over at Harry, almost expectantly, depending on how you looked at it.

" That why you're out here instead of in there? I thought that'd be your scene. " he inquires, commenting without seeking to rip him apart so much as idle boredom prompting curiosity, perhaps even common ground. If nothing else, Harry was usually interesting to talk to.

#HANDS U HIM. jean is so much all of the time when it comes to harry and he can be So mean sometimes but he so so sincerely cares about harry #like. god. every conversation w Harry? an internal battle #because being angry for the injustices of a past he Cant remember is easier than being sad and admitting that he cares about him. and god. #that he still does too. it's easier to be sharp; to question if he's cruel than to admit it to someone who hurt him who is no longer - #and equally still that person. #<-- me musing just based on their ingame dynamic but YEA i chew on them vv much #MUSE / Jean Vicquemare #ROLEPLAY / Jean Vicquemare #disco elysium // #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #smoking // #alcohol // #playedbetter

[quillheel]

@playedbetter // lyric starters; without mythologies by the weakerthans.

Maybe the scariest part of seeing Kim with a fever, hot-cold all the time and aching, was less about the fever itself; it was about seeing how that sickness pried back the composure on him like skinning a beetle of its shell, it was less the times he was asleep and more when he was awake; often irritated beneath a reluctance to engage at all and murmuring barely there mostly through the breath of wheezing, it was more about the times he murmured at all.

The Lieutenant's apartment is clean, and maybe it would've reminded you of the Pox if not for the fact you were allowed within it's walls where many weren't, and the various small details that filled itself in on it's own lived in qualities. Clean but imperfect, and unable to escape from the fact of the city you both lived in ━ Revachol whispering on the paint cracked window-sills as summer heat leaked in through them, on the smell of maybe something rotten. gasoline. vaguely something plantlike, like trees bending their leaves up to break up the noise.

There are exactly 11 trees along Kim's street. Maybe you would've noticed in the way here, or maybe not, since Kim invited Harry over after struggling; frustratingly inattentive; throughout the day on a case, and the first time Kim had handed over his place at the wheel of the Kineema so willingly since the beginning of it's service at the station ( it might've been the station's vehicle, one he was lucky to have been able to take with him when transferring over to station 41 after a major amount of string-pulling, ass kissing, and excuses about repairs, but in the end it was always Kim's baby ) to Harry. ━ so naturally, there were many other things to notice when one is entrusted with the golden ticket of a sick man almost begging him not to crash the damn thing than the amount of trees on Kim's street. But there are still 11 trees, and one way or another, you'd gotten home.

And in this home, Kim lays on his back on his couch, glasses removed and eyes covered with a cool wet cloth as a radio plays some random station quietly enough to be unintrusive but still filling a white noise ━ something classical, or at the very least, instrumental. the voices of the piece if you focused on it no more than a distant kind of cloud that wasps over hazily on compressed air waves ━ and occasionally he murmurs to himself, quiet and voice shot. this was the scary part, what he'd say. what it'd tell you. this was the scary part, to hear him through the softest electrical hum...

" si je pouvais, je ferais de toi une rivière déchaînée avec des rapides en colère alimentés en pluie, pour que tu puisses toujours serpenter et pouvoir toujours t'enfuir… " ━ breathe in. ( if i could, i would make you a raging river with angry rapids supplied with rain, so you could always meander, and forever be able to run away… )

sings to himself, rather, here. sings to you? the language hangs on his tongue, syllable after syllable.

" sans lutter… contre les mythes mal interprétés, contre la douleur… " ━ breathe out. ( without contending… with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain… )

he does, sing to you. the only person you can remember who would, regardless of intention. he breathes with the music, and with it comes over with the terror of an honesty so grandiose it becomes small again; marble-like; like an unfulfilled wish he offers out, downy feathered, anyways, because the sentiment matters more than whatever it is now. maybe he doesn't even realize he says it out loud to begin with, but he does, whispers in the gentle shuffle of the apartment's small spaces, composure a dream he hasn't woken into, rarely; rarely, a heart on his sleeve. ( like speaking in your sleep. like honesty when you don't realize it, laid back on the worn cushioning of a couch, allowing himself not to see, allowing himself to merely be, be there. to drive him home. trusting. trusting you. )

#i did NOT mean for this to be this long but these mfs make me emo anyway so BHKBR #also little bit obsessed by how the second lyric translates as 'without fighting against; against misinterpreted myths; against pain' #bc its just got a VIBE but yeah <333 them <333 (the song itself is in english but Kim murmuring it in french made me emotional so. womp BHK #MUSE / Kim Kitsuragi #ROLEPLAY / Kim Kitsuragi #playedbetter #━ ♔ Souvenez-vous la prochaine fois; Que vient la neige et le fracas / On n'va pas tous mourir ━ KIM/HARRY: playedbetter #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #sickness // #de //

[quillheel]

open starter! // goro akechi

somewhere in the city, a white crow looms, deathlike, over the bones of mouse. feathers like ivory, eyes like blood vessels, mind like something hungry wing into limbs built for it, gravity taking hold, and catching air in asphalt claws. Akechi feels the same, for a blinding moment, and wills himself to be unflinching after finding an anticipation of one less step than there was as he goes up the stubby staircase of his office, only realizing his error as his foot goes through the space where the ground comes up to meet him, just in the wrong way.

his balance threatens him like gunpoint for a moment, and some minor shameful part of him shivers with the fact he'd have preferred that opposed to someone catching him like this ━ an angry thrum behind his eyes making them feel tense and pained and dull ━ but the rest of him floods in too fast by the time he's down the stairs properly, releasing held breath only when he's halfway down the hall, and reminds it that a little humility/humanity is a good thing, as that minor shameful part mumbles under its breath that perfection is a virtue, or at least, it used to be.

he finds himself navigating the office almost blind as sharp pain crackles along the seams of the skull like an electric board, shuffling mindfully in some of the more cramped spaces as the brain struggles to consciously process the outside world, so instead it reverts inwards, leaves him on autopilot; on memory. Goro is lucky that while he had not memorized the stairs, he has with nearly the entire rest of the building, or at least the route to his office. some coworkers try and catch his sleeve in conversation as he passes, but he brushes them off, social and sweet, that he's very busy right now, perhaps later! and the mission resumes. ( perhaps it simply does not occur to him of how rushed his stride is, how his knuckles turn into angry white ridges on the grip of paperwork, how one eye on the left side twitches; how this would be worrying if you knew him well enough, and sometimes, if you didn't. )

and when he does get into his office, he shuts the door, turns off the light, and sinks into the feeling of plushed-out fabric on a relatively cheap but not terrible desk chair that offers what familiar comfort it can, and what familiar discomforts he knows which he can avoid and which ones he can't; precise poise not enough, where he imagines he could stay for the rest of the day. ━ he'd rather be lying down right now, migraine lashing into him where even the modest sunlight drips in behind him from concealing blinds is too much, but he takes what he can get with two sharp hands, nails digging into it, and he accepts that this; in all likelihood; is going to be the best remedy that he has for the majority of the day until he can snag a bottle of painkillers on the way back home. resting the cool gloved back of his hand overtop the skin of his eyes. best just to survive, for now, he quietly decides…

… and the peace he craves does not last as long as he so wished it would. minutes or hours, he catches footsteps outside his door just before his doom comes, jolting alive in his seat even to the chagrin of the flesh of the brain as the doorknob rattles, he's lucky he can mask the pain with the squint of trying to change out a lightbulb in his turned off lamp as he peers over to the opened door ( although, he can't hide the twitch ) part of him begs to swipe at them with large heavy claws and rip out anything foolishly not nailed down from his rude guest, fingers poised at the neck of the lightbulb and dexterous enough to turn them even if he was blinded by the light from the rest of the station sweeping into his own little room like bleeding an infection, but he carefully tucks the impulse back. at least, in part, to know who he was going to be clawing at in the first place; not really out of unwillingness to be ruthless, perhaps cruel.

Akechi's head pounds. He finds himself unable to remember the shape of their shadow through the glazed window that otherwise he should've caught. He resists a wave of nausea that threatens to sink in. ( easy, now… )

" Oh, hi! I'm a little preoccupied at the moment, so you might want to take up your problem with someone else if you're looking for speed, but what can I help you with? "

#MUSE / Goro Akechi #ROLEPLAY / Goro Akechi #OPENS / Goro Akechi #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ proof you were not the ghost : open starters. #p5 //

[quillheel]

🔥 // Throwing this back at you, for Akechi's opinion of Yusuke. :) Or even, Ralsei's opinion of Kris!

send me a 🔥 and i'll tell you one thing my muse finds attractive about yours // always accepting!

" Oh! " ━ the brief flicker of being caught off guard, charitable; good natured, as though it was an unexpected but not disliked surprise. spinning the wheel in a teenage game & watching the tinted bottle land on you, abruptly asking just how well they could do; trivia, kissing, something else; always something else; it didn't matter. ( it masks a brief, insufferable bolt of panic that glimmers like lightning from his heart down to his stomach. it's just a game, but still, a tv-ready feeling takes over, the polish of someone who must live off of how well they can dance around the unexpected, and dance well. )

" You're asking me? Well, I'm sure there'd be plenty of girls quite interested in Yusuke-san's features, but alright! hmm... " a laugh, shifting into pondering, think on it, act as though you haven't thought about it before, an invasive thought curled around the brainstem far more descriptive than what is being asked. run the list in your mind again, ignore the fact you have a list at all, again, again. check the time. 30 seconds is appropriate. get it right. get it right.

" Ah, his eyes perhaps? he's very attentive to other people in his own way, which as a detective, I have to appreciate! " ━ as a detective, of course, only that. nothing more. nothing further. something shivers inside him and keels over in the cold apathy to his inner self as a trained dog jumps through hoops. poodle; greyhound; akita. ( 'his hands,' offers a different, quiet part of him that could never be shared, never be heard. 'dexterity along the length of fingers, brutality along the backs of knuckles : the way he uses both to make something beautiful.' )

#Akechi vc i can Win at not seeming Incredibly Gay i can DO THIS <- repressing #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #tenebriism #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #i should make them a tag...... #━ ♔ Just believe me when I say / I mean no harm; open arms; I will keep you safe until you / Pass me the knife ━ AKECHI/YUSUKE: tenebriism

[quillheel]

The haze over her vision clears as she comes to, eyes spiraling her skull in their dizziness. The first thing she sees is soft, candle-lit light, and smoke that gently rose from a crackling fire at the center of the hut she'd woken in. Mari is strewn neatly across a bed, her body feeling stiff as a rock, as if she'd hit something hard and fast before waking up. She groans in response to muffled, incoherent voices that steadily become clearer the more that she wakes. She finds just enough strength to turn her head and stare drowsily at whoever else occupied the room, looking as spaced out as a slowpoke in a coma. | for adaman!

Some of the times he checked up on her, he almost couldn't believe she was still alive.

At first, they hadn't thought it'd been the case. The body worn and broken, harsh under the gravity of the world hauling into the earth, before someone felt the cold strawberry skin of her nose and realized that it still drew air, breath turned to mist when warmed enough to do it. Lucky, that her landing close enough to spot in the frosting river reeds of the mirelands, to rouse ruckus, to be hauled back. Lucky, that her landing was softened, perhaps, by the mud & the foliage & the tension of that crackling frenzy in the air that might've spat her out in the first place. They'd not have been able to save her, as autumn rolled in on itself further into summer's sleep, if she stayed out there too long.

A story Adaman recalls to himself as he overlooks her; a duty, in a way, to himself to ensure, to manage, to see. Each day, she continued. Each day, an anticipation. He doubted it to be one of Galaxy's, the clothes too different, the person too unknown. Not theirs, but whose? who, where, what did she come from?

A secret to be answered in time. He tried not to get his hopes up that it'd be answered at all. Even if she hadn't died yet, a fall like that rarely goes without aftershocks.

It's late by the time consciousness dribbles back into bones. The smell of herbs through the warmed air, something bubbling atop fire, the sound of fabric and skin shuffling as he moved, attentive and slow, as he spoke to the more medically wise who'd been attending her. he'd offered to take the responsibility to look after her while they rested, with only so much to be done, that could be done. Easiness in his voice, reassurances, then goodbyes as he attended to the broth. ( a family recipe, one said to bring new life. he liked to think, even slightly, that it could help... )

It's only when the two left that dark eyes flick over, her breathing turning harsher with unconsciousness slipping back, and see her coming to. The task dropped, the sound of Adaman's robes shuffling is quick as knees shuffle in a scurry to her side, searching for something over her form; over her face. How long has the stranger been asleep? ( the answer comes instantly, second sight, second intuition. 4 days, 19 hours, 42 minutes. like clockwork, like divine knowingness. )

Sinnoh, he was glad to see any life at all, regardless of how distant she was now.

" Come on... Come on... You've got it... " the words are a soft wind through teeth as he leans a little closer as though trying to make it easier for her to recognize, one hand's knuckles pressed into the edges of the mat, her old clothes folded nearby. It's as a hand reaches, soft in the open air nearby, that he sees the white of her eyes; regardless of how distant; and relief takes him only for a moment. Perhaps pride, bubbling beneath the surface, at the other having drew breath long enough to do it at all. a complete stranger, and yet, still they lived.

" There you are. " a subtle congratulation he doesn't expect to be felt as the reaching fingers make purchase, gently at the side of her face, the other joining it's brother, slipping under her other cheek as he gently lifts her head, thumbpads lightly pulling taught the edge of the eye where crows feet would one day linger as Adaman studies her face, her eyes, looking for something unknowable.

It's unclear if he's found it after the moment passes, and he carefully sets her head down to rest back 'pon the cushioning beneath, gingerly, as he softly speaks not fully intending for Mari to listen, " Hey, Stranger. We thought you were a goner. Glad to see you prove me wrong. "

#adaman vc how the FUCK are you still alive GODDAMN #ft also: the first signs of my funky hc stuff i have w Adaman :] #or is it him just being touchy bc Holy Fuck. What. and seeing if her eyes were actually moving??? whos to say <3 #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #rathalascendant #MUSE / Adaman #ROLEPLAY / Adaman #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #death // #just to be safe #food // #pkmn // #Q.

[quillheel]

❰❰ ALMOST ❱❱ to link !

❰❰ ALMOST ❱❱ our muses almost kiss but don’t or are interrupted before they do

Something in him cannot think, cannot stop thinking, cannot stop at all, and he thinks ━ he's convinced it's going to kill him.

Or maybe she is. Or maybe this is just what it's like, you know, to love something ━ someone, and to be able to get so close, and the world doesn't end when you do. Maybe its association, living for months in the wake of each-other, ripples on ponds that don't move and never stay still, living in the same space; in the wake of disaster, a hundred years back, a hundred years catching up to them.

Maybe it's because she didn't have to learn it like they did, how he didn't have to learn it like they did, either. One day they woke him up so he could be the apocalypse stopping the apocalypse, calamity on calamity where blood under enough pressure becomes black, black under enough pressure becomes light, light under enough pressure becomes something bigger than it could ever hope to contain, the way the cosmic dark is larger than anything, the way what's being asked of him is too. Like its a foreign concept to be given something, given something and told━ no, asked to take it, asked if he wants it, given and given graciously and given because she wants to be here, given companionship in the wake of movement; endless movement, given voice to thoughts he didn't have the language for; couldn't have the language for, and now, given touch, hand to arm to hands that don't know what to do ━ he's deerlike, funny how doe scares buck, and he can't breathe.

Please, something in him begs in the only voice he can muster, watching her. Please, a language unto itself hoping it can be understood by the negative space left in it's wake, in the way he's not thinking ━ not begging at all, but if he could, he would be. if he could, he'd move to meet her. if he could, he'd meet hers first.

Something in him cannot think, cannot stop thinking, cannot stop at all, and he's convinced it's going to kill him. Because she loves him, he's pretty sure she loves him, and he loves her, and he's pretty sure he does, and love has never been something that comes without the blood, without the black, without the light━━

And the light returns in the form of a Goddess, and the light returns in the form of a princess, and the light returns in the form of a statue. He is too acquainted with tombs, Link decides all at once like something in his chest becoming a golden bird and flying off, like a silver wire breaking and animation returns to the living stillness, he is too acquainted with tombs.

But this doesn't stop Zelda from coming, a network of parchments in her callousing hands that are learning how to work the way she's wanted to but never could before, and they almost don't catch what they've interrupted at all until they notice how close the two are together, and you can see the realization on their blue-grey eyes, in the brightened tip of their sharp ears. Link imagines with a humor he can't help that he must look the same, all tense muscle in anticipation, all soft features wide but unable to articulate that he wants her to kiss him, needs her to kiss him. He figures Zelda's expression is a little different, but close enough to draw comparisons to.

" Oh-! I'm━ " a still hazed mind gets confused on why she's introducing herself again as Zelda struggles for the words, mind too fast for her, a funny contrast to Link, who finds himself too blind in surprise for the mind to move at all ( almost gawking ) " I'm so sorry, I-I'm interrupting something, here- I'll bring these━ I-I'll go- "

Link says something reassuring he forgets the moment it's out of his mouth, beckoning them back but he's smiling and it's honest, as he shifts his hand from its aimless hovering to rest on Gaia's arm, cradling the elbow. She staggers as though struck, poise awkward as she holds the scrolls ━ construction plans, he's sure, that's what most of them have been lately ━ and glances between Link and Gaia like a mouse caught in a trap, almost asking permission to flee, but mostly just the attitude of you're serious? you're seriously asking me to stay-???

After a moment she relents, and step carefully forwards as though navigating a cave which may or may not but probably has traps in it, before gaping like a fish looking for words, and eventually settling on; " … I hope I don't make a habit out of this… " ( They most certainly will, much to their chagrin )

#━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #gldhte #MUSE / Hero of the Wild #ROLEPLAY / Hero of the Wild #ROLEPLAY / Zelda #MUSE / Zelda #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #loz // #gaiaxlinkxzelda tbt

[quillheel]

‘  who the fuck do you think you are?  ’ / ghostface jkabnjknd

“ A journalist. “ Danny’s answer is clean and practiced, hair trimmed short and gelled into position like a real celebrity, practiced every word in the mirror and in the car on the way to work and in a thousand different moments. This, to say, he knew how to handle people like Jamie, and you could feel it. the smooth ringmaster with naught but leather bands to keep the lion at bay and yet still they puppetted the beast like a marionette rather than a horror show awaiting its opportunity, one never granted. you had to be good, of course, really good at that to get anywhere and not get caught.

he walks in with a small crowd of others, cameramen and news anchors and not-from-here reporters, all there for the same reason. Something weird happened, and weird means a good story, and anywhere there was a good story, the vultures came.

It just so happened that there’d been a lot of blood involved. It sounded like a horror movie on the back of school grounds. Danny was almost excited to see it. And right off the bat, he could tell that Jamie had something to hide.

Like a shark smelling blood, like a shark breathing it in.

“ Or, technically, I’m a photographer if you prefer the proper term, sir. Sorry about all the ruckus, news doesn’t wait for anyone. “ he pauses in front of Jamie as his brethren goes by, as if a sacrifice on the very words he’d just spoken but the importance of respect taking a bigger priority than being there now. a bandaged finger fiddles on the knob of an expensive looking camera held in his grasp, antsy, but regardless he offers the man a small apologetic smile and a handshake. “ Jed Olsen, by the way. You’re the principal here, right? Fowler? Can’t blame you for being pissed when a gaggle of wannabe journalists comes stomping through your school. I’m not the head of my group, but I can at least apologize and introduce myself "

there’s the sound of somebody calling back from the group something about getting over it and to come on Olsen, just within earshot, but Danny shoots them a glance that shows more disrespect than you might initially expect out of features like his, before his eyes go back to Jamie and the expression softens back into what it was before, if a little more sympathetic on the behalf of his ruder allies.

#he's terrible <3 give it time <333 #50/50 odds that Danny made the scene in the first fucking place BKHHBGTR #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #jfouler #MUSE / Ghostface #ROLEPLAY / Ghostface #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #Q.

[quillheel]

[storm] (Ryuji or Goro!) - @fantomevoleur

[ storm ] sender sees the awful weather conditions outside and insists receiver stay the night and ride it out.

“ You have to be joking. “ is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

The remark is incredulous, a tinge of suspicion on the underside of his tongue, and perhaps only distantly patronizing, depending on how you looked at it. perhaps a challenge, beneath that, beneath his teeth like nerve roots lined with arsenic. a challenge to force his hand, a challenge to convince, a challenge, challenge, challenge.

or maybe it’s not there at all, but still, he raises a brow at Akira, hand resting on the long-since-closed cafe doorknob, collar popped in preparation against the snow hailing outside. the balls of ice tap the glass panes of windows like many unseen fingers. It makes Akechi antsy.

wine red eyes glance back out the window, watching as heavy snow falls, the creep of cold running out from under the door and tracing lines up his leg. his head cocks ever so slightly, the way it does sometimes when he’s studying, or more specifically, when he’s analyzing.

he wasn’t dressed for this kind of weather. ━ clothing warm but not warm enough even with his collar standing proud and hands tucked away only for so long, but not long enough out beneath the sky, anyway. he’d have something like 20 minutes at best at a time, hail no doubt making traversal trickier with boots not quite ready for ice. transport would be slowed too, and perhaps soon to come to a halt entirely as mechanisms freeze up. ( what time was it again? eyes flick to his watch : 6:47pm. ━ he shouldn’t have stayed this long. what was initially intended to be a brief stop before heading out again had turned into conversation, had turned into discussion, had turned into hours longer than intended. Fuck him, he should’ve left before sundown. he knew better, knew his timings, what to expect, and yet… and yet… )

he’d have maybe 40 minutes to an hour to get out there before it got unmanageable, and the city untraversable with it. ━ you’re already late, Goro, you need to go now. look him in the eye and stop beating around the goddamn bush, why don’t you?

Akechi looks back, back straight and chin ever so slightly forward and eyes steady on Akira; the way rifle sights are on game; the way he looks when he’s already made up his mind. His gloved hand never leaves its resting place ‘pon the handle. 

“ It’s just a little snow, Akira. “ he starts his case, smiling, fully intending to turn this either into an easy victory or a war, depending on how stubborn Akira feels tonight ( or how much he pisses them off ) “ I have somewhere to be tomorrow, it’s not like I can just stay the night, and even if I did and could get there in time, it’d be an interesting kind of headache to excuse myself walking out of a cafe before it’s even opened with one other known tenant, wouldn’t it? Especially when that tenant has a known crimical record. “ yowch, Akechi, talk about a low blow. you might as well have just said being seen with you would be a bad look for my image. ━ He feels bad for all of a second before continuing, “ Not to mention there’s no telling the roads will be cleared up or the subway in usual order by the time that happened, regardless. “

“ Really, It’s only going to get worse. If I don’t leave now, I’ll just be making it more difficult for myself later. Plus, unless I’m wrong, you only have one bed up there. “ Akechi raises an eyebrow, which makes it feel only slightly more incriminating than it is, by sheer virtue of Akechi being the one to point it out. He waits, then, for either reluctant defeat or a court battle. ━ their choice, really.

#HI IM SORRY HE'S LIKE THIS HE'S SUCH A LITTLE BITCH #i went with this being like early to mid game-? im not sure as im not done with the game yet #(ive been delayed for so long that ive only hit Right after the buffet scene after kamoshidas palace <//3) #so im probably gonna be a Lil vague just bc. i dont know all the details BUT i hope this works!!!! #lmk if there's anything you wanna discuss or change!! #━ ♔ cardinals with snow-brushed wings : asks. #fantomevoleur #MUSE / Goro Akechi #ROLEPLAY / Goro Akechi #━ ♔ to jump from anywhere & make it home : threads. #━ ♔ you sing but only the pavement listens : ic. #p5 //