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sakkiichi · 8 months

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AUGUST.

Glimpses of the departed month go by as you reminisce by the sea.

ft. Kaedehara Kazuha x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, romance.

I honestly don’t know how to feel about this piece… definitely not my best work, but I wrote it, so I’m posting it. I hope someone still likes it.

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

Blue.

Said alone, the word might have had a tendency for melancholy, cold, turbulence.

However, if anyone were to ask you right now, you’d deny every negative connotation the color might have ever been related to.

Because to you, blue was dusks by the sea; moments right after the last coppery rays had hidden behind the expanse of an ocean you could only wish to unveil all secrets of.

And perhaps, you liked this moment of day because the infinity of blue before you mirrored the feelings in your heart at ease.

Feelings of unbridled affection, boundless love.

For him.

Fair hair falls over his shoulders, like silk weaved out of stars, its tips illusory rose with the fading daylight. His eyes are closed against the marine breeze, flecks of moondust clinging to his lids, casting enchanting shadows over his cheeks. His shirt has been discarded, droplets sliding down his bare torso, as if he had bathed in a pool of starlight. A black leather cord rests against his tempting collarbones, a vibrant scarlet maple leaf charm dangling tantalizingly over his chest.

A dreamy sigh escapes your lips, mingling with the sounds of foamy waves lapping at the white sand.

Kazuha.

He was always nothing short of ethereal, but something about him in the dimming light of a late summer’s nightfall, felt inherently magical.

“I’m going to miss this, Kazuha.” You finally say, resting your chin on your boyfriend’s shoulder.

He gently leaves a kiss to your forehead, his hand finding yours over the towel you’re sitting on. Scars jut like jagged rocks against which waves break, in the same way lightning snuffed out a life dear to him all that time ago.

And yet, the smile on his lips is almost palpable when he says:

“We’ll be able to come back, my dove.” His thumb runs soothing circles over the back of your hand. “Before we realize, summer will greet us again.”

You chuckle. Kazuha had such a poetic way of approaching things; even when the sun went pitch black, he would forever remain a beacon of hope to you.

“I know, I know…” You clarify. “It’s just… I wish I had more free time to spend with you like this during the year…”

As much as autumn brought found memories and your beloved’s birthday, September always had a tendency to leave you yearning for the long days of summer.

Echoes of August replayed behind your eyelids every time you closed them, reminiscent of stolen instances held in the brief minutes in which the sky was dyed in shades of neither day or night.

Those eyes that held the suns of a million dawns focus on you. Starlight from constellations that will sleep soon seem to frame them, those long lashes fluttering in tune with your heart.

“I know, my angel…” Your lover utters, as he delicately tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d like to stay with you like this, for all eternity…” His stare of gentle embers takes you in.

His muse, his perfect love, his forever.

The samurai’s free hand reaches to cup your cheek, his touch, a dove’s first flight in its tenderness.

Beneath the darkening skies, you were the brightest star. Every lash, every pore and freckle, the everglow that fueled his verses.

“But we’ll always have the weekends,” He reassures, those fingers that penned the most romantic eulogies tracing your jawline, the column of your neck, your exposed collarbones.

Dilated pupils stare at his lips, images of kisses coated in ice cream and cocktails flashing through your dazed mind.

“And every summer after that.” The poet adds, noses mere millimeters away now, separated only by salt air and dying sunlight’s rust.

“Every summer.” You repeat.

Then, the magnetic force of both your desire-ridden lips reigns over, his kiss, an intoxicating collision.

Your hands lock behind Kazuha’s neck, pulling him closer. The droplets of sea water on him feel cool, flecks of stardust tattooing your skin in every place your bodies touch.

The wandering samurai’s lips are an expanding sunrise, and you, the tsunami that desperately reaches for his light-tinted heavens.

One of his hands sets on the soft sand, keeping him upright, while his scarred one tenderly cups your cheek. Your lean against him is soothing, healing, clear August skies, birdsong written in between retreating clouds.

Behind the undulating horizon, gold dyes silver.

Constellations begin to waltz far above, the lovers by the sea, their directing lyrics.

It’s a symphony about a season that will never die, its score inscribed in indelible blue ink in the heat of yours and Kazuha’s fervent kisses.

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tobiasdrake · 8 months

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All in all, DR2's first case blows DR1's out of the water.

DR1's first case already had a lot going for it, and DR2 manages to go even farther. It's eerie, obtuse, and complicated without holding your hand and spelling out certain key details (like the infamous 11037).

1-1 had some clever twists and turns but it also got to feeling at multiple points like an Ace Attorney tutorial; The cases where they literally show you who the killer is in the first five seconds of the case just to make it easy for you.

And while Sayaka was a clever subversion of expectations created by games like Ace Attorney, the startling reveal of Nagito "Inverse Makoto" Komaeda hits a lot harder. Meanwhile, I've already talked about the way Imposter Byakuya was a massive gut-punch of a victim.

Then there's Teruteru and Leon. Leon is probably the most "just some guy" of any Danganronpa character. He's an Ultimate that doesn't really care for his own Talent and is just coasting on his skills. His only real interest is music hitting on women, but he's not a creep about it or anything. So he's maybe a bit shallow. But he's good at his thing that he doesn't care about and it plays into his case so it's not nothing.

Teruteru is a presence. Often a toxic one. His main interest is hitting on women and he is a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y a creep about it. Sexual harassment occasionally delving into straight-up attempted sexual assault, thwarted only by the presence of other characters nearby. So it's honestly a relief when he's gone.

But with Teruteru go his incredible cooking skills. Teruteru's food had seemed like it would be one of the few lights in the darkness of the Jabberwock Killing Game, only to be snuffed out almost immediately after the game begins.

Teruteru is a gross little shit with some elements of pathos introduced just before his death and some genuine utility that it's a shame to lose. The impression he leaves behind is complicated, and overall more negative than positive.

Whereas Leon, outside the novelty of being the first Execution in the franchise, fails to leave much impression at all.

What 1-1 has going for it is that its simplicity makes it easier to follow. 2-1 hasn't gone all the way into the realm of over-complex magical mystery bullshit, but it's certainly dipped its toe.

1-1 feels like something that could actually happen to someone, while the precise yet ambiguous timing of 2-1 feels contrived. Much of the case hinges on how long it would take the characters to get into position, which we see happen in Visual Novel real-time which makes it hard to tell how fast or slow anything was actually occurring.

1 - Imposter pulling out the night vision goggles and then crossing the room to confront Nagito. 2 - Teruteru pulling out a cook light and a skewer and crossing half of the building and then re-crossing half of the building underground in the dark to get into position. 3 - Nagito crawling under a nearby table. These are all suggested to be things that take the exact same length of time to occur. And we can't really know for sure because the amount of time passing between text boxes is impossible to estimate, but it doesn't sound right.

But it's also not so unbelievable that it distracts from the story at hand, like some future cases in the series will become.

#danganronpa #danganronpa 2 goodbye despair #teruteru hanamura #hanamura teruteru #leon kuwata #kuwata leon #revisiting dr2

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nancycattermole · 5 months

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BASICS

name : nancy melinda cattermole nickname/s: nance age: 19 birth date: january 21st, 1959 zodiac: aquarius sexuality: heterosexual birthplace: cornwall, england affiliation: neutral height: 5'5

FAMILY

parents: david cattermole , abigail cattermole (nee abbott) siblings: reginald cattermole (older brother) children: nigel bagman (fathered by ludo bagman)

PERSONALITY

positive traits: caring, creative, optimistic, perceptive. negative traits: indecisive, ignorant, too trusting, sensitive. aesthetic: a cold ocean on a warm day, stargazing, the smell of fresh linen, a knitted cardigan, never taking life too seriously.

MAGIC

blood status: halfblood wand: 9" Springy Hawthorne with Dragon core. boggart: nigel hurt/deceased. patronus: sparrow house + year: ninth year ravenclaw. specialization: astronomy extra curricular: tba

BIOGRAPHY

David and Abigail Cattermole truly believed that the world became a brighter place when Nancy was born. Their eldest son, Reginald was their pride and joy, but Nancy? Nancy was their light. David and Abigail were older parents and having spent many years hoping for children, now that they were blessed with two, the Cattermole family was complete.

Reginald was a quiet boy, finding it a lot harder to come out of his shell in comparison with his younger sister, Nancy. Despite the two year age difference, as they grew older, Nancy found a way to push Reginald out of his comfort zone. She reassured him by taking his hand at a family function, or inviting him to play with their cousins. Nancy never struggled with socialising, finding immense comfort in the company of other people. A fond lover of storybooks, Nancy found herself looking at conversations like stories, each moment adding to the progression of the next chapter. Every new person as a new character.

While other parents may have snuffed out this spark, Nancy's parents elevated it. Supporting Nancy's creativity throughout her childhood. Academically, Nancy didn't hold much promise, but her curiosity was endless. Her love for novels, art, and music progressed over the years. Nancy found herself constantly seeking more, more depth, more meaning. More understanding of the world at her fingertips. It was this curiosity that saw her get sorted into Ravenclaw upon her arrival at Hogwarts.

Nancy fell into Hogwarts life easily, coasting through in her classes with average scores. But in Astronomy? Nancy's desperation to learn more about the world benefitted her, and her passion for Astrology was uncovered. The rest of the time? Hogwarts was a hoot. Parties, friends, and music. As the years progressed, Nancy found her heart in the people that she met at Hogwarts. Maybe too much heart, as in her seventh year, Nancy fell pregnant after a one night stand with Ludo Bagman.

Nancy liked Ludo, but they were nowhere near responsible enough to have a baby. They weren't even dating. So far, Nancy had lived only for herself, for what she enjoyed and what benefitted her. Her head was in the clouds, and with the positive result. She got pulled straight back down into reality. How was she supposed to tell her parents? Reginald? How was she supposed to raise a baby?

Her parents were disappointed, but eventually supportive. Reginald was angry, mainly with Ludo, but eventually upon Nigel's birth, he had came around. Nancy was filled with nerves and uncertainty for the duration of the pregnancy, mixed with the pressure of keeping up with school. All of that seemed to fade away when Nigel was born. The world seemed to have changed, and suddenly Nancy understood her parent's anecdotes of the world getting a little bit brighter when she was born. Nigel did that for Nancy.

Nancy was besotted with her son, and for the months following his birth, Nigel was her moon, sun, and stars. The pain of leaving him upon her return to Hogwarts was almost unbearable. Nancy felt numb for the first couple of weeks of being back at the castle, her only crutch the letters from Ludo and photographs. Nancy, while loving her son, felt a slight loss of identity, unable to establish between being Nigel's mother - and Nancy, the fun loving young woman. By the time Christmas rolled around, and Nancy reunited with Nigel for his first holiday season. Nancy felt that the balance between being a young mother and a young woman had been restored, the two identities didn't need to be separate, they could coincide in harmony.

Entering into her ninth year with Ludo also returning to Hogwarts. Nancy can't help but fret about Nigel. While she has full trust in both sets of grandparents, Nancy feels a sense of resentment about missing so many moments. Especially as the political climate becomes more treacherous, Nancy feels she can no longer live in her ignorance that everything is rosy.

#nox;intro #nancy cattermole - intro

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carelesscreativity · 3 years

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Eclipsetale SunMoon (Dreammare) Escape for SarahAfterDark: Commission for Ko-Fi

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(SFW, Angst, Stockholm Syndrome)

He was waiting. Moon stared ahead blankly. He was warm, but his body ached. His head had sunken into the soft pillow and his hands weakly clung to the edge of the bed. He was waiting for Sun to shift. His wing was currently curled over Moon, keeping him trapped. Sun’s wings were sensitive and he would wake up the instant Moon touched it. So Moon was waiting. He’d been awake for six hours, forty-eight minutes and thirty-three seconds. He was still counting.

He inhaled shakily as he felt the bed shift. Sun��s wing had lifted slightly. There was JUST enough room. Moon’s soul pounded and he began to shift as well. His bare, bony legs poked out from under the sheets first, feet tracing down the side of the bed to settle on the carpeted floor. He slipped off and stood up, turning to look back at Sun. The other remained asleep.

This was his chance. He could get out. He could go back to Zero and Syntax and everyone else! Moon already felt tears welling in his eyes, but he quickly chose to ignore it for now. He had been stripped down when he was captured, left in nothing but a sort of sheer poncho. It was humiliating for him. Sun would parade him around the castle like that. It had been months since his capture and he painfully wondered how everyone was doing. If they were okay.

He managed to deliver some letters, managing to convince Linum to send and receive them by allowing the witch doctor to perform experiments on him. No matter what Linum did to him, it was more than worth it to hear from his group. Moon was momentarily distracted by moonlight creeping across the floor from one of the windows. He tore his gaze away and moved over to the door. He was able to walk without a sound.

He reached out and weakly tugged the door. It quietly clicked and slid open across the floor towards him. Moon glanced back at Sun once more before slipping through the opening. He shut it behind him. He was in the hallway now, it being dark and dimly lit. That was perfect. Darkness was his element. He quickly moved forward, shaking. He was cold. He hated being cold.

When Sun had him, he always made sure Moon was warm. It pained the guardian to know that his brother had practically trained him to crave his touch. His warmth. More tears sprung to his eyes and he quickly located the stairs, moving down. Even now, as he was running away, all he could picture was Sun’s look when he would wake up and see that Moon wasn’t there. Before, he was convinced the reaction would’ve been outrage, but now, he figured Sun would be disappointed and dismayed.

He genuinely seemed to think he was doing the right thing by keeping Moon with him. The thought made Moon’s soul twist a little. He paused halfway down the stairs, shivering. He was SO COLD. He hugged himself. Sure, the lack of clothing wasn’t helping, but he had always lived in coldness before. Why couldn’t he stand it now?? What had Sun DONE to him?? He was frustrated now.

He finally got down the stairs and inhaled shakily. He could see the doors. The large double doors to freedom were RIGHT there. There were guards, but Moon knew he could take them. He pressed himself behind a corner, mentally psyching himself up. This was IT. He hugged himself, realizing his bones were slightly rattling and he forced himself to stop. Fuck, if he was this cold already, how would he feel when he got outside??

He closed his eyes and that proved to be a mistake as his mind immediately drifted back to Sun’s warm wings wrapping around him and his hands ghosting over Moon’s bare body. They were always so warm and comforting and Moon hated it. He hated how he missed the other’s touch already. He pressed a shaking hand against his chest. Sun would always touch him right there.

He’d place his blackened hand against Moon’s sternum and send warm pulses that would fill his entire body and wrap his soul in heat. It would never hurt. It struck Moon as he was shivering in his corner that Sun had never once made any move to hurt him. Sure, he jostled him around and practically manhandled him into cuddling, but his grip had never been threatening. Moon came back to reality.

His face was hot and he leaned back against the wall. How could he miss him like that?? He didn’t want to. As much as he craved Sun’s touch and warmth, he forced himself to think about something else. How his friends would feel seeing him again. Even as the guardian of negativity, Moon had always had a positive effect on them. A genuine one that Sun would never achieve.

Moon gulped. He wanted them to see him. To be happy that he was back and that he was okay. He wanted that more than anything. Even... He curled his hands into fists against the stone wall. Even more than Sun’s warmth. For a moment, he became angry with himself. Why was this even a debate?! He wanted to leave!! He wanted to get out of here, but at the same time, his body was freezing up and refusing to move.

Sun would be devastated if he left. Moon was hopelessly torn and he didn’t understand why. He shouldn’t have cared this much. He’d been kidnapped and humiliated. His brother was long past saving, so why was there this small hope that Moon could still bring him back?? He screwed his eyes shut again and those blackened hands of his brother were felt ghosting over his bones once more as he trembled.

Could he really abandon him a second time? He loved him. It struck Moon that, even after everything, even after Sun would pin him down and take him every night, Moon still loved him. He still loved him as his brother... and maybe even as something more. It pained him to even think about it. Moon could feel tears welling in his eyes again and he knew he couldn’t stay for much longer. Not if he didn’t want to be caught.

If he was caught now, who knows the next time he would have an opportunity like this?? He had to let go. He had to get out. He inhaled shakily once again. Why did it hurt so much?? He raised his hand back to his chest, slipping it under the sheer fabric to rest directly on his sternum. He sent soothing pulses through himself. It wasn’t the same as Sun, but it was enough to calm him down. He hated that Sun had done this to him.

The others would be outside. He remembered their letters. One of his group would always stake out the castle at night and wait for him. He just had to get to them. He didn’t know who was out there, but he would be relieved to see anyone at this point. He wanted his family. He wanted to see them so much more than he wanted Sun.

That thought alone was enough to make the decision for him. He inhaled shakily, the candles in the hallway all going out at once. He wanted out. He turned the corner, slipping into the shadows with ease as the guards stood tense. He wasn’t going to let a chance pass him by. Not when freedom was RIGHT there. He appeared in front of the guards, shadowy tendrils extended from his back.

He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Sun had always kept his powers suppressed and Moon had almost forgotten how he could bend the darkness to his advantage. The guards didn’t even have time to scream before Moon had knocked them out, consuming them in nothingness and tossing them aside. He was there. He reached out and pushed open the doors enough for him to get out.

His soul was POUNDING and he stumbled. A shockwave of cold had hit him as his bare feet slipped onto gravel. He held himself tightly, any power he had being snuffed immediately. He was momentarily horrified by how powerful the effect was. Just how used his body and magic was to the warmth. Tears welled in his eyes as he broke from the path, immediately stumbling into the soft, cold grass and towards the tree line. Was someone there?!

He could barely see through his desperation and he shook, just hoping for someone to meet him. What if the letters had been lying?? What if they hadn’t been from his team at all and Linum had been playing him?! He couldn’t help the whimper that pulled from his throat. He looked back at the castle. The bedroom light was on. The light was on and that meant Sun was up. A panic like Moon had never felt gripped his body and he collapsed to the ground.

He could hear footsteps. Someone was running towards him from behind. He screwed his eyes shut. He was so cold. His legs weren’t functioning. He was going to be caught. He was going to be caught and brought back to Sun. He didn’t know what would happen, but at least he would be warm. He cried shakily as teal tears ran down his face. Something warm enveloped him and he jolted in shock. It didn’t feel like Sun’s wings and it was followed immediately by a hug.

He looked over and stared shakily through his tears to meet Zero’s eyes. The soldier was shaking. He was saying something, but Moon could barely understand him. He scooped Moon up, having wrapped the smaller in his coat. He took off towards the woods and Moon managed to look back up at the bedroom once more. He could see him.

He could see Sun staring down at him, golden wings spread and his open eye glowing brightly. It sent a tremor down Moon’s body and he curled up once more, burying himself against Zero, who was running as fast as he could. Moon glanced up and the castle was disappearing into the distance. Moon should’ve felt happy. He should’ve been overjoyed. He was finally out of that terrible place, but he couldn’t feel anything at all.

All he knew, was that he was still cold.

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yan-twst · 4 years

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hey there! i love your work! can i request the dorm leaders + their darling dying? particularly if it was due to an accident, the dorm leader’s own actions/punishments, or even (if you’re comfortable writing about the topic) by their own hand? thank you! 💞 i hope you’re doing well ~

warnings: this is just dark like very dark and messed up! mentions of death, violence, abuse, blood, self harm- like, everything like that is here. on top of that general yandere warnings. this one is heavy on violence and abuse so please be careful when reading if this could affect you! (-｡-;) also lots of mentions of stuff that could be potentially triggering to people with eating disorders!

riddle rosehearts

he didn't mean to. that's all he can think of as he watches his darling lay on the floor of his room, blood slowly pooling under them. he's shaking and hyperventilating- no he didn't mean to he didn't mean to hedidn'tmeantohedidn'tmeanto-

he feels like throwing up as he backs away. it was over so quickly- he just didn't mean to get so angry, but he did, and all it took was one swing of his staff against his darling's head and a sickening crack and now they're- they're-

he forces himself to search for a pulse, but his hands are shaking too hard. his darling can't die, this can't be real; he wouldn't ever hurt them badly...! but their body is slowly growing cold under his hands, and he's feeling sicker and sicker by the second

he wishes he could just die in their place- what did he do? when trey finds him sobbing over his darling's body, the third year assumes that riddle's darling collapsed and hit their head; riddle is too shaken to deny this. everyone in heartslabyul believed that his relationship was perfect, nobody would suspect he'd been the one to deliver the final blow: and it makes him sick

he stops eating, stops attending classes, and lets himself slowly waste away in his bed. it's bad enough that crowley considers sending him home, but trey quickly objects: the last thing riddle needs is his mother's treatment... everyone tries to help him cope, help him move on, but he just doesn't get better. he doesn't want to get better, not when the guilt is eating him alive.

he feels like his darling is watching him, even after their death. it's like a punch in the gut, thinking of all he did: he was a kidnapper and a manipulator and an abuser and he killed them, he killed his lover who he kept by his side by force- the thoughts make him even sicker. he's slowly wasting away, refusing food and water...

the only way to save him at this point would be a spell to make him forget his darling ever existed... and his friends are so desperate to at least save him- thinking that he's just a mourning lover who lost his beloved too quickly- that it's not too unreasonable to expect them to do so.

leona kingscholar

those close to him knew he didn't mind getting a bit... rough, with his beloved. whether it was the servants back at home, or ruggie who didn't want to get on leona's bad side, nobody interfered: after all, they always claimed they were fine and happy with leona! ... though most of the times leona was keeping a tight grip on theis shoulder as they spoke those words

it's nobody's shock when a mysterious deep scratch becomes seriously infected on them. both leona and his darling deny that he was the one who caused it- but... well, it's clear to those who knew of how violent leona could be when unhappy with his darling that he was the only possible culprit.

the fact leona has terrified his darling into complete submission and obedience now shows its deadly side, as it turns out they'd been hiding the highly infected scratch from him in fear of repercussions, and when medics have a look at it, his darling is at death's door. he barely has time to process what's happening, before his feverish darling just... passes away in their sleep, with no chance to even call a magic healer who could have helped

nobody has seek leona in worse shape before. he doesn't even attend the funeral, and he doesn't let anyone (not even ruggie) get near him- he appears like a feral beast, destroying anyone and anything that crosses his path. his mourning is destructive, and it doesn't take long for him to be called back home before he turns the whole savanaclaw dorm to sand

he's inconsolable, and he doesn't let anyone near. he knew very well that what he was doing to his darling- keeping them under his control by taking advantage of their fear, forcing them to play the part of the "happy lover" despite them being terrified of him- was wrong, but in the end, he loved them more than anything.

and in their own way, he knew they loved him: even when they had the chance, they never begged his brother or crowley for help... almost as if they believed he could change for the better. but he didn't, he essentially killed them.

he'll just isolate himself. go somewhere far away where he can misserably live the rest of his days alone. all he does is sleep and mourn, hunting to feel relief from his pain in the form of violence- but even then... he's just never coming back from this

azul ashengrotto

he just wanted to teach them a lesson. once again his darling had tried to escape him, to escape his love, even though they'd sworn to stay with him- even though they'd signed a contract promising to stay- so he'd punished them accordingly. after a painful, near-drowning dip in the freezing cold ocean, he'd just left them in the bathroom to cry and beg for mercy... but when he came back less than a day later, they were just... dead on the ground

hypothermia. his darling's blue fingers, their huddled up form as they tried to preserve heat in their last moments: he feels himself grow lightheaded and tears blur his vision as he picks up their cold, lifeless corpse. how...? it's too late when he notices the place where he left them: there's no towels, no hot water, and the temperature is cold. the fact his darling was just violently dragged around the freezing cold waters before- the fact they were already weak from being kept in captivity...

the twins arrive immediately when they hear azul's screams and wails coming from the bath. there's not even a chance to ask what happened: he's crying, sobbing as he apologises to his darling's cold, damp corpse. the eels quickly realize what's happening- and though upset, jade immediately volunteers to hide the corpse. they have to, or else they're all in serious trouble. floyd has to pretty much tear the corpse out of azul's grip.

azul feels like shit, he wishes he'd died in their place- but he doesn't want to be imprisoned. he didn't mean to- how could he ever want the person most important for him to die?! the general student body interprets his mourning and guilt as the reaction to his darling "mysteriously going mising"- each time someone tells him they hope that his beloved is found soon, he wishes he could just die on the spot

he doesn't have a will to take care of himself or the lounge anymore- all his duties fall onto Jade. watch what he eats? who cares- not him. he swings from eating whatever he wants to try and fill the void in his heart to going days on end without even leaving his bed- it's unhealthy and it's worrying, but... what can he do? he killed his darling, left them to die alone- he deserves nothing.

kalim al-asim

it's everything he feared, happening at once. just one time- one time- he takes his darling out to eat because they've been behaving so well and it's their anniversary- and they look so happy to be out of their chains and out of their room! and then- and then they take a bite of their food and it's nearly inmediate, they collapse and cough, and then it's over.

he should've known better. he HAD to know better. hadn't he been telling his darling the reason why they had to stay locked inside was for their safety? hadn't he promised he wouldn't allow them to be harmed? this- this had happened before with jamil, but jamil had lived. his darling died.

his guilt and pain are immeasurable. he cries during the funeral, loud enough that even his own family feels like they can't approach him. even jamil can't help but feel bad- even knowing all what kalim did to his darling. it's like the spark inside of him was extinguished, all his joy snuffed out

he commissions paintings and works of art of his late darling to an almost terrifying degree. he needs to keep them around, to keep something that makes him feel like they aren't gone, but everytime he gazes at the expensive oil paintings of his darling, he's crushed by pain and becomes as inconsolable as the day they died

there's no more parties. how could he possibly throw a party- no, how could he possibly dare search for happiness knowing what happened? he feels like he doesn't deserve comfort or joy. he turns down all of his friends and family's attempts to help. he feels like hurting and being misserable is the only way to make it up to his darling, even in death

he'll pretend to move on, for everyone's sake- it's painfully obvious he's faking his happiness, but... nobody knows what to do to help, so they just accept his poor acting. nobody brings up how he sleeps cuddled with golden chains (that only jamil knows were the ones used to keep his darling in their room), or how he keeps all his darling's belongings untouched like if they could return any day- in the same way nobody, not even jamil, acts like they notice the scars that appear on his skin, which was once unmarked.

vil schoenheit

he knew that using so much love potion had to have... some negative side effect. however, he saw it as a necessary side effect; his darling was just lost and needed a bit of help to love him! besides, he himself brewed the potion with the highest quality ingredients, and sure it was worrying that his darling was becoming resistant and needed larger and larger doses each time, but he never expected them to just... drop dead when he gave them their morning's dose of potion.

love potion overdose- now that was a way to die that didn't appear in any textbook. vil wouldn't be able to process the events: his darling just fainted, right? how silly! he'll just- he'll just tuck them into bed, they need beauty sleep, and he'll... and then he'll...

when he finally feels his darling's cold body, with no heartbeat as he places a hand on their chest, it feels like the world is falling around him. how was he supposed to know this could happen?! he tries as many healing and health potions as he can, but... in the end, he specializes in poisons, and his darling is already dead. it's merely a fool's errand

he cries. he crie and cries- how dare his darling die?! how dare they abandon him?! he wails until his eyes are red and puffy, until his makeup is ruined. he doesn't know what to do; he doesn't want anyone to see his darling like this. soon enough death will take its toll on their beauty- the thought makes him feel even worse.

just like how the dwarves in the ancient legend preserved the princes's body in a clear casket to admire her beauty even after death, vil will do exactly that. finding a spell to preserve his darling's body is exhausting, and he risks his own skin by losing sleep and stressing over it (he's running against the clock and he knows it. he has to hurry, before his darling's beauty fades), but he's successful

he keeps his darling- a corpse that won't decompose, their body cold but skin as soft as when they lived- in a glass casket in his room. everyday, he carefully does their makeup and dresses them up, still making them go through his skincare routine even after death. in all honesty, the routine is what manages to keep him from losing his mind; he doesn't see how misserable he is, desperately taking care of a corpse.

he has to work harder on his makeup now. no matter how much he tries, he can barely sleep: he tries so hard to push back the thoughts that plague his mind (the thoughts that tell him if he'd been a better lover his darling would be alive, that if he'd been better his darling would have loved him without the need of a potion, that he was the one harming them from the very start whenever he knowingly destroyed their self esteem so he could manipulate them with more ease)- everyone bites back comments in fear of invoking his anger, but... it's visible, how much he's suffering.

idia shroud

is this the gods' punnishment for his actions? does he just deserve nothing in life? he holds his darling's lifeless corpse in his hands and wails. he doesn't even know how they died- was it just too much? the isolation, the stress... he thought he was doing a good job at caring for them, but clearly he wasn't, was he?

he'll rebuild them- he'll bring them back. he doesn't care how unethical it is- he has to get his darling back. what were all his efforts up until now for? stalking, kidnapping his darling; was he truly about to throw away all that work? he wasn't- not at all

he tries his best to keep ortho in the darl about the truth. no, no- his darling is just... taking a nap. yes, a special nap, suspended in a mysterious blue fluid in a large tube in idia's room- just... a nap... of course the younger shroud doesn't believe this, but even the child can see the pain in idia's eyes and doesn't question further

it's because of ortho's concerns that idia doesn't spiral into absolute missery: otherwise, he doesn't even know if he'd have the will to keep living without his darling. the younger one cheers him on, telling him that he'll absolutely succeed! ... even if idia has low hopes on actually managing to artificially revive his darling, his brother's words keep him going

he takes to talking to his darling's corpse, suspended and preserved in the tube. he'll save them soon. he'll make it so they can walk around his room again- he even promises to let them go out if he just manages to finish the work- he just has to work harder. he needs to work more.

he has no clue how long it'll take him, or if he'll even succeed. but he has to keep going. there's only two things keeping him alive- ortho, and the need to hold his darling again. he needs them. he has to get them back.

malleus draconia

there's always a level of risk when applying a sleeping curse, of course. he knows this very well, but he trusts his magic. he knows he's good at what he does; so why has his darling's heart stopped beating...?

he'd grown so used to simply casting the spell when he went to class and undoing it when he returned, he almost missed the change and left for class. but he did notice- when he cast the spell, instead of falling into a peaceful sleep... his darling seemeed to jerk awake for a second, then close their eyes: and after that, he couldn't see the rise and fall of their chest. a nervous hand pressed against their chest, and found no heartbeat

he's lost and scared. suddenly, he doesn't feel like Malleus Draconia, ruler of the dark fae- suddenly he feels like he's a little baby again, crying because he's scared of thunder. all he can do is fall back in shock and call for lilia- please. please come help him. he made a mistake.

lilia can comprehend very well what happened. the sleeping spell failed- perhaps malleus' darling was too frail, their constitution worsened by the constant sleep and captivity. there's nothing the ancient fae can do: once death has taken a human, they're gone. all he can do is hug malleus, to try and comfort him like he used to when the dark fae was a child.

malleus knew that humans had short lifespans. lilia had warned him about this, about the pain human lovers would bring; that was one of the reasons why he'd brought his darling to his dorm and forbidden them from leaving, so he could do the most with the time they had. and yet- even for a human, this was too soon. far too soon. how could life be so cruel? how could he lose the one person who understood him and loved him? perhaps everyone was right to steer away from him. perhaps he did just bring misfortune wherever he went

lilia, silver, and sebek can only watch as malleus becomes lonelier than ever. the dark fae has rarely mourned before- and even though lilia is trying his best to guide the young lord through the process of grieving, malleus is just not taking it well at all. he killed his beloved- as much as his dormmates try to convince him it was a freak accident, that he had no hand in it, he knows better. perhaps what hurts him the most is his darling's peaceful face after they passed- they never held such an expression around him, not since he took them captive... were they so happy to have escaped him, even if it meant death?

#twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia

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many-gay-magpies · 4 years

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{The Red Wall}

---

In my house, there is a red wall.

It was there when we moved in— a stark contrast against all the other walls in the house, all monochrome shades of beiges, taupes, and greys, achingly plain compared to the blood red wall separating the kitchen and dining room.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with plain— plain was good, my mother said. Like a blank canvas. Nothing much clashed with beige. There was quite a lot, however, that could clash with red.

My mother always talked about painting over the wall; Making it something teal or blue-ish and all the surrounding walls a warmer shade of beige. She talked about it often, every night after work, but she never did.

One day, one of my mother's friends came over, one who worked in magic; The kind of magic that still exists in the smallest ways yet no one believes that it does, too stuck on it being fantasy. He came to visit; Said there was some negative energy in the house— something leftover, like the remnants of something which didn't cause harm any longer. And as he spoke, I couldn't help but glance at the red wall.

There was something jarring about it. It felt like more than just it's blood red-ness stark against the muted greige of the room, more than just the way my mother would always highlight it, when talking about what in the house she would paint, when she wasn't so tired from work anymore.

Sometimes my parents would go on errands, and I would be alone in the house— I was old enough, they trust me and I trust myself. If it's in the mornings (or any time when I'm hungry, really), I'll heat up something from the fridge or freezer, leftovers or one of those bland meals the school gives us which I shower too much in salt or pepper.

One of those nights, when I was alone, I found myself stopping beside the wall, looking up at it silently for a few minutes. Something slightly enthralling about it.

"Hello," I said to the wall; Then felt incredibly stupid about it right after and longed to bash my head into it out of shame.

It's okay, I rationalized with myself— No one is home. No one saw you say 'hello' to a completely inanimate wall. Just pretend you were joking around and you'll be fine.

That night, I dreamt of a voice, whispering a 'hello' into my ears as sweet as honey.

The wall began to grow on my mother after a time. Me, too; My father, who was colorblind and not too focussed on such things as wall color anyway, never gave it much thought. My mother and I agreed that the deep bloody burgundy was a sort of nice color, and it went well with all the various ornaments we had stacked against it, the golden-stained buffet and the bronze-edged mirror and the little teal candle holder made of abalone.

Although any time I mentioned liking the wall, becoming accustomed to it, she would simply say, "No, I do want to paint it, soon. We should paint it, soon." But there was less force in her voice each time.

Another time I looked at the wall and said 'hi', quietly, in my mind— No one could hear me, then. Just myself; And even then I could play it off as another one of those stray, silly little thoughts I liked having.

That night I slept better than I had the whole month. Perhaps red walls like to be talked to.

On another one of those alone nights, I was sitting at the dining room table, eating, when I noticed a change in the wall. It was smooth— smooth all over. It shined, not like paint, not like it had, because dry paint wasn't supposed to shine, to shimmer like that.

The wall was rippling; Like a sideways lake someone had dipped a finger in, like a sheer veil over a bride's face, like deep red silk in the wind. And then just as it had resembles water, out from the water came a hand, then a face and then long, silky red hair the same as the color of the wall and then a whole person after that.

I wasn't as surprised as I probably should have been, by the woman of blood and porcelain and ebony black eyes that had just emerged from the red wall.

"Hello," I said, again, and she smiled; a melancholic sort of thing, on lips more rosy pink than bloody red. There were little red teardrops beneath her eyes; Like teardrops painted onto a clown's face with face paint.

"Hello." Honey-sweet, like in my dream.

"Why are you here?"

"To protect," she said simply.

"What from?"

She shook her head. "In time," She said. So I nodded. In time. It made sense.

I said nothing more and neither did she. She stayed, leaning out of the wall, for a while, before slipping away; The red slowly turning from a rippling mirror texture back into solid paint, back into nothing much surprising or unordinary, aside from the starkness of blood-coloring against boring beige.

Curiosity of the red woman plagued me for more than a week, so one night in the middle of the night I crept downstairs in my pajamas, pulled up one of the dining chairs to the red wall and sat in it with my knees up to my chest. I drew little things into the dark red paint, little hearts and swirls and doodles of eyes I could see with nothing but my fingertips.

Again the wall changed from paint to ripples, and again she came from it, pushing through the red like silk curtains.

It was hard to see her, in the dark— I hadn't turned on any lights. But still her skin illuminated under the palest bit of moonlight coming in from the outside window.

"What do you protect from?" I asked, leaning the side of my head against the wall.

"Nothing," she said quietly. "Nothing, now."

I nodded; Understanding in some way I wasn't entirely sure of, but didn't protest.

"Is whatever it was you protected from... gone?"

I thought I saw her nod in the dark. I may have. Nonetheless she spoke no more. I wondered if she had a limit, on what words she could speak per night; Or if she simply got tired after saying a few.

I didn't mind the silence that followed, though. Words could be tiring.

The woman came down to sit atop the gold-stained buffet. Her knees were pressed to her chest, like mine, her arms wrapped around them. I thought she looked smaller, in the dark. Less powerful, more childlike.

That in itself felt like a powerful thing.

"Goodbye," I found myself whispering, when she slipped back beneath her watery curtains again. Then I went up and slipped drowsily between my own.

"My mom is going to paint this wall," I said to her, the next time I saw her.

The woman rested dangling above the doorway between the kitchen and dining room that night— sitting atop the doorframe as if it, in it's white-painted glory, didn't have the same rippling effects as the blood red wall she had emerged from. It probably didn't; acting more like a chair of sorts, from which her porcelain legs swung to and fro beneath her, little drips of red falling from her dress and disappearing the second they hit the floor.

"Oh," she said, and I thought she looked sort of sad.

"Will you go away, when she does?" I asked her.

A nod. I found myself a bit sad about it too, somehow; about this being who was looking more and more like a young girl and yes like a woman as the nights passed by, or perhaps that was just my changing perception of her.

"Oh," I answered, quiet, because I still wasn't entirely sure what to say to a girl that had come out of a wall. "Well," I was again sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with my knees to my chest, but still at the table, this time, and facing the white doorway she dangled from. "She probably won't do it for a while. She's tired. From work. So, you'll... stay here a little longer."

A soft smile came to her rosy lips, "That's good."

I learned more things, in time. I learned that the people who owned the house before us had been trying to protect themselves from something, and created her for the purpose; I learned that when they moved, they had just left her there, like a family leaving a puppy behind in an alleyway when they no longer wanted to care for it.

Of course, I knew things were much more complicated than that. A red-clothed protector spirit was quite a bit different from an abandoned puppy. Sometimes, though— sometimes I looked into her eyes and I wasn't as convinced.

The next week, she told me she didn't want to leave.

I tried to think of ways to get my mother not to paint over the red wall, or ways to delay it, at least; although her work exhaustion did that pretty well on it's own. But when it came down to it, the wall would be painted, one way or another, and I, a person vastly avoidant of any form of confrontation, had no way of stopping it.

"It's okay," she said in a whisper one night, like all the others, us both sitting in the dining room together, me in my pajamas and her sitting on the doorframe in her red gown. "It's okay, I can go. I'm not needed here anymore." I'm useless.

Some days, when I had presentations for class, or when would lay awake at night, anxiety pulsing in my veins about every possible situation, I would be overcome with this feeling of warmth; of red.

Weeks passed. The red wall became a staple of comfort, like a deep burgundy blanket draping over me and snuffing out all the little candleflames of doubt, not really a medication for the anxiety but something that made the weight a little lighter, the thoughts a little more bearable when they would get so bad I couldn't breath. I would sit, and I would talk, with this protector in the wall who didn't have a name, who was like a lost puppy, a newborn child thrust into the world for a purpose that was so quickly pulled out from under her.

She started appearing less; not coming out of the wall to sit with me as much as she had, although sometimes I still saw a ripple, a faint sheen that was more than paint. I would still sit and talk, be it aloud or in my head, to the red wall; maybe hoping for something to respond again.

I began to wonder if I was a little crazy. Maybe I had imagined it all. Maybe I only dreamt the softer voice that told me 'thank you' and 'goodnight' after I closed my eyes. Maybe I was, indeed, mad.

Although I began to think that maybe that was her exact motivation, when summer came and my mother painted over the red with pastel-y teal and I wasn't as sad about it as I could have been.

---

In my room, there is a red wall.

It was painted a month ago— covering the wall behind the head of my bed, a stark contrast against the creamy beige surrounding although it is nice, somehow, too. It feels like a blanket; snuffing out the light from the windows in front of and behind me when it gets to bright, holding me in warmth when the winter gets frigid and we don't bother to direct the heater up onto my floor of the house because I've always preferred to sleep in the cold.

My mother was curious, at first, about my request to paint a wall red, as red had never been one of my favorite colors, but she didn't protest— and so now, in my room, there is a red wall.

#magpie writes #so i accidentally deleted this but here u go lmao #creative writing

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hdawg1995 · 3 years

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i just wrote a bunch of lore to explain a homebrew mechanic for a dnd campaign i'll never run, enjoy.

Mana Burn: the mage's desperate attempt at survival turned deadly.

Most mages know what mana burn is; its when you try to use a powerful spell without the proper training and the magic used to power it comes from your soul rather than the natural magic around you, blessed unto you, from the tomes of knowledge you’ve studied, or from the natural reserves of magic you have. It's painful, it causes physical damage that takes years to repair let alone reverse, and it makes using magic dangerous. It's why you don’t see first time casters slinging fire balls or casting lighting as soon as they pick up a book or realize they have magic in their blood. Yes, there have been times where, with a powerful focus or through the help of an elder, that younger mages have used these powerful spells. Mana burn doesn’t accrue in these instances because the magic is drawn from the focus or the elder.

When mana burn becomes severe- when it consumes the soul a significant amount- this is called Soul Burn. It happens more often than you think but not as often as you expect. Mana burn, in most cases, causes severe damage and can be healed- Soul Burn can not be healed. Not in the same way, anyhow. You see, the science behind Mana Burn is that you no longer have mana sufficient enough to cast the spell, so it is being drawn from another source that is just as powerful. Over time mana is restored to the body, focus, environment, allowing the damage to the soul to be healed. The science behind Soul Burn is that you have no mana to use and the spell was being drawn from your soul, and then you kept casting spells. Eventually, there won’t be a soul left. In most cases, however, there is just enough soul left but the natural magic of the individual starts eating away at it. The body has realized there are other sources of magic within itself and, ironically, in an attempt to heal itself from the mana burn, it is using the soul.

Signs of Soul Burn include being able to cast spells without mana, numbness in one of the eight Mana Pools of the body, feeling overheated or warm, a loss of wit or mind, extreme bouts of confusion, and pain when coming into contact with healing magic. It is that last part that makes surviving Soul Burn difficult. The signs of Soul Burn only begin to be seen shortly after Mana Burn symptoms and often around the halfway point for the patient’s constitution score.

Now, let's be honest here: you are never going to encounter Soul Burn in the wild. It is theorized that dragons die of Soul Burn when they near old age, and most magical creatures do not get too powerful for their kind as a natural defense against Soul Burn. you WILL encounter Soul Burn on the battlefield if there are any magic users. You WILL encounter Soul Burn in adventures. You WILL encounter Soul Burn in magic academies. On the battlefield mages giving it their all can result in Mana Burn- casting a desperate spell to wipe out an army, trying in vain to revive a fallen comrade- so Soul Burn is very easy to slip into. Adventures trying to show off or just trying to survive slip into mana burn sometimes. Most are responsible with their spells but desperate times call for desperate measures. Soul Burn in adventures is the easiest to spot as there will be at least two other people to monitor the subject’s condition. The magic academies are stressful. I can’t tell you the amount of times emergency services were called in when a student has gone though late stage Soul Burn in an attempt to pass a final. Its heart breaking, since the academies often have an attitude of “life happens”, and your friend pushing themselves to exhaustion just to get a good grade is no different from your friend pulling an all nighter and going through mana burn. This is a good time to explain Late Stage Soul Burn.

Firstly, it is not pretty. The magic user is all but gone mentally; typically they are dazed and latch onto a phrase that has been in their mind for various reasons, only responding to stimuli with the phrase. Their eyes glow as if they are casting a spell and that glow starts to be seen in their veins through their skin. At this point there is very little hope for the caster; their soul is all but burnt out, their constitution in the negatives. Eventually the individual will start to burn from the inside out. This is both literal and spiritually. The soul has been burnt away leaving smoldering bits of spirit that are now burning the body. Their eyes are embers as light escapes from their nostrils, mouth, ears, and any wounds or other openings in the body. The skin darkens like charcoal and flakes away to reveal more light. Hair and clothing is burnt away as a flame eats away the charcoal of their body leaving a vague shape of fire. There have been exactly three cases of an individual surviving late stage soul burn at this point. The first that many, such as yourself, are told about is the sorcerer who was held tightly by his companion. The typical explanation that is given is the companion was asked to hold the sorcerer (the phrase his mind had latched onto was conveniently “hold me tight and watch me”) and he refused to let him go. The man was supposedly burned very badly but it is theorized he had compressed the flame the sorcerer had turned into, like pressure onto coal creating diamonds. What was left was a living, breathing human sorcerer who’s soul had begun to heal naturally.

The second account was the sorcerer who was smothered by her companions. The typical explanation was when she had entered the flame stage her friend had grabbed a blanket to try and suppress the flames. The result was several burnt blankets and a small explosion as her fire ate away at the ground she had been kneeling on. Eventually a still breathing and living elf sorcerer whose soul had begun to heal naturally. With these two stories alone it would be natural to assume the cure for late stage soul burn is to suppress the flames. However, there are many documentaries that show this could also result in the flames being choked out and the individual dying anyway- rather than slowly burning out, they are snuffed out quickly.

The third telling is that of a cleric who was placed in a tiny hut spell and sung to by a bard throughout the entire experience. The typical explanation is the bard kept the smoke and embers the cleric was turning into within a secure magical dome- the magic did not touch the individual but was able to keep them within. It is theorized this process caused the soul to remain in a small space and the bard’s music was a focus for the individual to be drawn to. The result was a living breathing human cleric. There are a few sections of medical study that believe the reasons these individuals survived was due to the preparation involved (which is explained in the full stories) and the bond between the individuals in the stories. After meeting with two of the survivors (the elf had sadly passed away due to mummy rot) it is clear to me (in both my honest opinion and that of a researcher) I can confirm the bonds have some effect on the soul and it’s capacity to survive soul burn.

To put Mana Burn and Soul Burn into perspective for the non casters, Mana Burn is calculated as the level of the spell you want to cast + the spell slot you intend to use. The total is taken out of the caster’s constitution score. So trying to cast a level 1 spell with a level 1 spell slot while out of mana would do 2 damage to the caster’s constitution. It doesn’t seem like much until you realize most casters tend to have very low health and losing even that much constitution can be dangerous. Soul Burn is calculated as the caster’s level + the spell they wish to cast. The total is then subtracted from their constitution. Remember- Soul Burn happens after Mana Burn. So, how do you figure out when your mage buddy is going though Mana Burn (and you should stop them immediately) or though Soul Burn (and it's too late)? When your caster buddy’s Constitution score is Con x 0.3 - Con (round up. The number will be calculated as negative but that's fine, ignore that). At that point if they cast a spell again, they will start to suffer soul burn. So if your buddy’s constitution is 14, once it drops the 10 they should not continue to cast spells. If their constitution drops to 7 they are in the Soul Burn zone and should be taken to emergency services or secluded away from magic. Watch them carefully at this point- if they don’t seem to get better within the hour (deities forbid they get worse) your best bet is to attempt a restoration spell. It WILL hurt them and they MIGHT pass out. If they do pass out, stop the healing immediately. Your caster buddy could out will the healing and stay conscious, so if they do check them for feeling warm, rather or not they can count how many fingers you have, and if you can get more than a sentence out of them. Once they are back in the Mana Burn zone you can let them rest and heal naturally with rest.

#dungeons and dragons 3.5 #dnd #dungeons and dragons

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flightfoot · 4 years

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We’re The Same Ch. 1

AO3/FFN

So I’ve been a fan of Damian for a long time, since way before ML came out. He’s my favorite Robin actually. I was excited to see him used in tons of ML fics... and then discovered he was out of character in most of them. And used for bashing and salt mostly. And paired with Marinette for some reason.

The bashing REALLY annoys me, especially in regards to Adrien bashing. He and Adrien have gone through some similar abuse at the hands of one of their parents, though Damian’s was WAY worse. Honestly? The two of them would relate and probably become friends.

I wanted to see what would happen if I dropped a CANON-COMPLIANT Damian Wayne into Miraculous Ladybug; this was the result.

Disclaimer: This is a Lovesquare fic, with Identity Reveal, Hawkmoth Reveal, and Hawkmoth Defeat. It is NOT a salt fic.

This is set between seasons 2 and 3 of Miraculous Ladybug, and during the “Year of Blood” arc in Robin: Son of Batman (2015). Adrien and Marinette are 14, Damian’s 12, and I’m not certain how old Maya is, but not much older than Damian.

Thanks to @mini-minou for betaing!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Maybe we should take a break.”

Damian sighed. “Tt. You can leave at any time you know.”

Maya Ducard glared at him. “I’m not leaving! But we’ve been flying around constantly for the past week, returning things you took, trying to make amends for what you did during the Year of Blood. I want you to try to make amends, to repair some of the damage you did – heck, that’s why I’m here! – but I need a break, you need a break, and most of all, Goliath needs a break. He’s strong and has a lot of endurance, but even HE has limits Damian!”

The giant red bat-dragon gave a low grunt in agreement.

“See? Goliath agrees with me!”

Damian frowned. “A year, Ducard. A new horrible task every day to ‘prove’ myself to my mother and grandfather. There’s still almost a hundred tasks left to try and undo – or at least to try to fix or make up for as best I can. We don’t have time to waste.”

Ducard gritted her teeth. “If we collapse – ANY of us – it will take a lot longer. We need to be at the top of our game. And just submerging yourself in this redemption quest without any sort of break IS taking a toll, even if you won’t admit it. Mentally, if not physically.”

“I’m FINE-”

Goliath bellowed as some sort of cable wrapped around him. Instantly Ducard and Damian stopped fighting, jumping to high alert.

A girl in a skintight polka-dotted suit and a catboy in a similar skintight black suit swung onto Goliath, using their forward momentum to swing them both on top.

The catboy – wait, is that tail a BELT, how is it moving like that? – grinned, then did a double-take, blinking. “Wait, are you-”

Ducard charged forwards before he could finish, the catboy blocking her blows with his staff. “Who are you? More assassins?”

Catboy looked shocked. “No! Wait, MORE assassins?”

The spotted girl looked around carefully, taking in Damian’s and Ducard’s expressions and body language. Damian held himself at the ready. It looked like maybe this was a misunderstanding, but better to be ready than allow himself to be caught off guard. This could still be a trick of some kind.

“…You’re not an akuma, are you?” the girl asked.

Damian frowned. “What’s an akuma?”

The girl groaned. “Not again. Chat, I think we might have jumped the gun a bit.”

Ducard backed off, still holding herself at the ready but no longer attacking. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

The spotted girl sighed and plopped down on Goliath’s back, the catboy joining her a moment later. One of his cat ears flopped slightly, increasing his resemblance to an oversized kitten. “I’m Ladybug, and the boy beside me is Chat Noir. We’re the local superheroes in Paris. A villain named Hawkmoth is threatening Paris, sending out these tainted butterflies that infect anyone who’s feeling a strong negative emotion. It gives that person superpowers, but also corrupts them, twisting them into an evil version of themselves and putting them under Hawkmoth’s control.”

“A few minutes ago reports started pouring in about some giant beast flying above Paris. Naturally everyone assumed it was an akuma, so we came to defeat it. Looks like we were mistaken though.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “No kidding. Now get off.”

Ladybug crossed her arms. “You don’t need to be so rude about it.”

Ducard took one look at Damian’s expression and decided to cut in. “Damian’s just like this. Don’t mind him.”

Damian looked at her sullenly. “No one asked YOU, Ducard.”

Chat tilted his head to the side. “Hey, I was wondering – are you Robin? I thought you died, but recently I’ve seen news reports that you were spotted around Gotham City again. But then there’s been that whole Robin movement in Gotham lately with a ton of kids and teenagers putting on the uniform, so I wasn’t sure.”

Ladybug blinked. “Wait, but- I thought Robin was older than that! I thought he was like, sixteen at least?” The spotted girl peered at Damian, narrowing her eyes as she stared at his face. “You’ve got to be a LOT younger than that.”

Who does this girl think she is? “And if I said I was sixteen and that you’re just a horrible judge of ages?”

Ladybug rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t believe you, since I can SEE that your upper right canine’s growing in. Generally speaking, sixteen-year-olds don’t have baby teeth.”

Dammit!

Ducard snickered. “She’s got you there.”

“This is YOUR fault, Ducard,” he muttered.

“If I recall correctly, you said that it had been loose for a while by the time I knocked it out.”

He looked away, silently fuming.

Chat coughed, obviously hiding a grin behind his hand. “So back to the topic at hand – ARE you Robin? What are you doing here?”

“Of course I’m Robin! And what I’m doing here is none of your business!”

“Well we ARE the protectors of Paris. If there’s any trouble Bugaboo and I should know about it.”

Ladybug rolled her eyes at him. “Quit calling me Bugaboo!”

Damian wanted to groan. Great, more flirting. He’d seen it between Father and Selina Kyle often enough, he didn’t need to see MORE of it. Was it something about cat suits? Was that it?

Ladybug turned back to Damian, addressing him. “Chat IS right though. If there’s any trouble heading to Paris, we need to know.”

He glared at her. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Ducard sighed and cut in. “We’re just passing through. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Ladybug gave a curt nod. “That would be goo-“

She didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Namely because a giant spoon had whacked her off of Goliath.

“MILADY!” Chat yelled, his face twisting in panic. He dove off Goliath after her.

“GOLIATH, CATCH HER!” Damian didn’t know whether they’d make it in time, but he HAD to try. The whole point of this trip was to undo damage, put some GOOD back into the world, maybe even earn redemption and forgiveness. He wasn’t going to let her die. He’d taken enough lives by his own hand. He didn’t want to see another one snuffed out.

Goliath dove towards Chat and Ladybug… but it turned out to be unneeded.

Damian blinked, then stared. Ladybug’s yoyo was wrapped around Chat, keeping her from falling to the ground. Chat, meanwhile, was twirling his staff so fast that it apparently acted like a helicopter blade, allowing him and Ladybug to slowly descend to the ground.

So these two were obviously magic. Great. Just great. He could feel a headache coming on. Well, it seemed like he’d just have to wing it and figure out the limits of their abilities as they fought. Not what he preferred, but he’d made do with less intel before.

And then one of the silliest-looking supervillains Damian had ever seen flew towards the two superheroes.

He had two sets of “wings” – if they could really be called that. The upper pair was made of two giant spoons, while the lower pair were two forks. A pair of knives were strapped to his back.

“People kept saying that the placement of silverware doesn’t matter. That it didn’t matter whether the spoon goes on the right or left of the fork, and even that the type of fork or spoon didn’t matter! Well, joke’s on them! I, Table Angel, will put everyone in their proper places AS SOON AS YOU GIVE ME YOUR MIRACULOUS!”

So this was probably an akuma. Apparently akumas were really stupid. Seriously, this guy was more of an imbecile than Condiment King, and he didn’t even know that was POSSIBLE.

Akumas were also unobservant. You’d think that he’d notice a giant red bat-dragon descending from above and barreling towards him, even with his back to them, but nope.

He noticed eventually. When Goliath rammed him into the ground.

Goliath descended to the ground, Ladybug and Chat Noir landing a moment later.

There was no rush. The akuma (Damian REFUSED to call him something as stupid as “Table Angel”) wasn’t going anywhere. Currently he was groaning in a giant crater.

Chat smirked. “Well that’s one way to take down an akuma.”

He strolled over to the semi-conscious supervillain. “What do you think, Milady? The knife, fork, or spoon?”

Ladybug shrugged. “Try the knives first. He hadn’t used them yet, maybe there was a reason.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. CATACLYSM!”

The knives crumbled into black powder, a purple and black butterfly fluttering out of the remains.

“No more evil-doing for you, little akuma,” Ladybug called out, spinning her yo-yo. “Time to de-evilize!” She caught the butterfly in her yo-yo, then opened it and set it free, now a pure white. “Bye-bye little butterfly!”

As it flew away, a purple liquid mass passed over the akuma, stripping away his supervillain appearance and leaving behind an ordinary man.

The man blinked, looking around wildly. “What happened? Where am I? Wait… Ladybug? Chat Noir? Oh no. I was akumatized, wasn’t I?”

“Yes-“ Ladybug began telling the man soothingly.

“SENTIMONSTER!” the man yelled, scrambling to his feet as he stared at something behind Ladybug.

“Sentimonster?” She turned around. And came face-to-face with Goliath.

“Oh. Right.” She called after the man, “Don’t worry! He’s not a sentimonster, he’s just-“ but by that point he was out of sight.

She sighed. “Well, there he goes.” She turned to Goliath and smiled. “Thanks for your help. Sorry about that whole being-mistaken-for-a-sentimonster-and-an-akuma thing.”

Goliath smiled, sweeping Ladybug and Chat Noir both into a hug.

Ladybug laughed as best she could, with the way she was squished against Goliath. “I love you too.”

Chat was ecstatic, his eyes sparkling as he seemed to melt into Goliath’s soft fur. A low rumble sounded from his throat.

Damian blinked. Chat could actually purr? Exactly how much of a cat WAS he? His eyes were catlike, his cat ears and tail swiveled and moved like a cat’s, even though they were CLEARLY fake… did he just like, have the magic essence of a cat or something?

Come to think of it, he didn’t actually know HOW Ladybug and Chat Noir got their powers. He didn’t even know whether they were human or not.

Hm. This was worth investigating.

After a few more moments of hugging, Goliath let Ladybug and Chat Noir down.

Chat dropped to all fours, still leaning into Goliath and purring, eyes half-lidded in contentment.

The “magic essence of a cat” theory was seeming more likely by the minute.

After several more moments, a beeping noise sounded from Chat’s ring. He blinked. Looked at it. Then abruptly jumped up, face turning as scarlet as Ladybug’s suit as he chuckled. “Uh, heh heh heh, I’ll just be going now, nice meeting you guys!”

“Chat!” Ladybug called out, holding out her fist. Chat smiled, raising his fist to meet hers.

“Pound it!” they chorused.

“Just one more thing I need to do,” Ladybug said. “Lucky Charm!”

A statue of a small red-and-black spotted bird fell into her hand. She blinked, glancing over at Damian. She studied him closely.

“WHAT?” he asked her irritably. “What was that all about? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I don’t think you should leave just yet,” she told him. “My Lucky Charm produces an item that I can use to succeed; sometimes by giving me the tool I need to beat an opponent, and sometimes by giving me a hint about what to do next. This bird looks like a Robin, so I think you’re supposed to stick around.”

Damian frowned. He hadn’t been planning on it before, but... he didn’t fully know what was going on here. And as both Batman’s partner and the former prince of the League of Shadows, he knew how valuable a bit of intel could be.

“Fine,” he stated abruptly. “But I’m not going to stick around for long.”

Ladybug looked slightly annoyed, then sighed. “That’s all I ask for.”

She threw the bird into the air. “Miraculous Ladybug!”

Swarms of ladybugs erupted through the air, whirling around the city. One swirled around the crater that Table Angel (with some unsolicited help from Goliath) had made. When the ladybugs left, the crater was gone.

Damian stared. So THIS was the ‘Miraculous Cure’ she’d been talking about. This… this could be HUGE. Collateral damage was a major problem in superhero fights, if this could reset that…

No way was he going to leave now. He wasn’t sure whether this power could only repair damage related to akumas or sentimonsters, as she said, or whether there was a more general principle, but he had to know more. At the very least who Ladybug and Chat Noir were so he could find them if he needed them.

A beep sounded from Chat’s ring again, a beep from Ladybug’s earrings sounding in tandem with it.

“And now I REALLY should be going,” Chat called.

As Chat ran past Damian brushed against him, lightly placing a device on his belt.

“I’ve got to leave as well, I don’t have much time left.” Ladybug hesitated. “You might need to hide Goliath somewhere; he’s obviously a huge softie, but Parisians might panic.”

Damian scoffed. “I’m not an imbecile, girl. And neither is Goliath. He knows how to hide.”

She shot him another irritated look, but apparently decided that it wasn’t worth responding to the slight insult.

Instead; “Look, I’ve got to go too. I’ll try to figure out what the Lucky Charm was hinting at and contact you later.”

As she threw out her yo-yo, hooking it onto the nearest building, Damian swiftly placed an item on one of her spots. A moment later she was out of sight.

Damian smirked.

Ducard glanced over at him suspiciously. “What are you so happy about?”

Damian took a device from his toolbelt and flipped it open.

Two dots blinked back, both moving rapidly.

Ducard stated flatly, “You put trackers on them, didn’t you.”

Damian’s smirk widened. “Always get to know who your allies are.”

Ducard let out an exasperated sigh. “How do the Batfamily have so many friends again?”

He chose not to dignify that with a response, looking back at the screen instead. “Now we just-“

The dots disappeared.

Damian blinked.

Ducard stifled a giggle.

“Did they discover my trackers? They didn’t seem like the most observant lot.”

“Guess you’re not as sneaky as you think you are,” Ducard teased.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “We’re getting to the bottom of this. I’ll go to the dot on the left, you take the dot on the right. We’ll look for clues about what happened.”

Now it was Ducard’s turn to smirk. “I’m guessing the fact that the left dot is the catboy is totally irrelevant?”

He looked away.

Ducard burst out laughing.

“I don’t get what’s so funny,” Damian muttered.

Ducard wiped the tears from her eyes. “Damian, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at him. Looks like someone has a crush~”

He shot her an irritated look. “That’s not it.”

“Really? Because it looks like it to me.”

He shook his head. “Tt. I have no romantic inclinations towards him or anyone else.”

“Then what was up with the look on your face when you looked at him? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

He stared in the direction that Chat Noir had gone and swallowed. “It’s just… he reminds me of some of the stray animals I’ve rescued.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a moment, then looked back down at the tracker, squinting at it. “Ok, I think I know where to go. I’ll head for where Ladybug’s tracker disappeared.”

Damian gave her a curt nod, then ran away. He had a catboy to find.

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #Damian wayne #marinette dupain cheng #Adrien agreste #Maya ducard #We're the same

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romanroths · 4 years

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howdy. my name is mar, i’m 23, i’m out here in est, i go by she/her. this is my emo fuck, roman rothschild as titus. i don’t have a connections page set up yet so fjslkfj. just like this badboi and i’ll come hit you up. so mf excited to be here! feel free to add me on discord @ nyc's salad rat#9307

the basics.

skeleton: titus name: roman alexander rothschild age: 22 faceclaim: nick robinson gender: cismale pronouns: he/him degree: chemistry

the start.

his mother and father were only seventeen when roman was born, freshly out of high school. it would be a lie to dub the pregnancy as anything other than a massive accident, born out of the incessant desire to be known and seen by someone else at that age, right down to your core. what better way to do that then to let them in fully, spreading yourself open so wide that maybe someone might like even the ugly bits of you? maybe they loved each other, but maybe they didn’t. roman never did quite figure it out. they must have at least liked one another to some extent to stick it out, to produce two more lives after him. augustus and lucretia. they weren’t many things but they were consistent.

new money. how very fitzgerald for a boy from england. how very ironic it is with a name like rothschild. roman’s mother had always claimed they came from royalty, that their blood was tinged with blue. that always seemed like bullshit as far as roman himself was concerned. just because things sounded important did not always mean that they were. but then, one day they were important. fortune has a funny way of finding the most entitled. childhood was almost painfully boring. no traumatic stories or wondrous tales. he was born in bath, and was raised in a flat that was under furnished and a bit small, but cozy nonetheless. he loved it there, and even after moving into their cavernous home in london when the money trickled in, felt more at home in bath amongst the olden architecture. the city was ancient, just like his soul. most of his youth was spent under the sky, devouring books by natural light, a quiet and calm boy who hardly ever even scraped a knee. his mother had resigned herself to looking after roman once he was born, dashing her dreams of being a grand actress for wiping the spit off of roman’s chin. maybe that’s why she harbored a hair of resentment for him. his father went forth to achieve his mba, specializing in computer sciences. he’d later go on to invent some very important, very complicated anti-virus system that ensured the protection of your pc. it was bought and then patented by apple on roman’s eleventh birthday. money was no longer an object.

graduating to a higher social bracket proved to be more difficult than roman had anticipated. his mother had no issue in the matter, almost immediately swapping her dulled coats and modest silver for furs and diamonds. his father seemed relieved somehow, even if he spent even more time away than before. (though, it was later revealed that this was no longer due to work but due to the twenty-five year old secretary that seduced him. the family functions on a very, don’t ask, don’t tell basis. they all still pretend they don’t know.) even his siblings seemed more taken with their situation, getting lost in harrod’s with his mother, fetching treats they never used to be able to afford and filling their rooms with fun and frill. only roman was miserable. he longed for home. the nosiness of their street caused him to spend the night gaping at his ceiling, tears brimming his eyes. no matter how badly he willed it, he could no longer remember what the air in bath smelled of. he could no longer make out what the local bakery’s hot cross buns tasted like. all the money in the world could not cure his seemingly terminal case of homesickness.

the preparatory school he attended was a buffet of different flavors of the rich and very posh. some who were even actually were related to the crown, and not in the naive sort of way his mother had claimed. most of them seemed to speak a language of their own, already so determined of their futures. future parliament members just like their parents, or perhaps diplomats. there were even a few children of celebrities, who roman discovered either had a thirst for the crafts of their parents or absolutely abhorred it. there was no middle ground with the children conceived by artists.

during this period of solitude, roman as we know today was formed. once a sweet and relatively shy boy, he became a scribble of snark, sarcasm, and wit. it was not meant in malice, like many of his classmates and peers thought, but simply his sense of humor, outlook, and demeanor. anyone who was willing enough to befriend him, found him to be composed surprisingly of boyish grins and mischief. he was not the block of ice people made him out to be. all one had to do was offer him the warmth of their trust for him to melt.

the skill that permitted him into imperium happened somewhat accidentally. worried that their eldest son was falling into a depression, his parents had him seated with a psychologist at fifteen. unbeknownst to him, his mother had stolen the journal he faithfully confided in and presented it to the spidery woman responsible for unspooling the tangle of roman’s thoughts. while she did find some of the contents troubling, most of all she was impressed with the nature in which the boy wrote. a penchant for words, able to bewitch the page and to turn it into the picture perfect image of whatever he envisioned in his brain. poetic and dark, like a brewing storm. she encouraged him to follow this talent, to untether it from his moments of melancholy and allow it to speak for stories. which is what he did. by seventeen he had published two books of poetry, and was working on a murder mystery story, involving two reunited lovers piecing together the murder of a recently deceased childhood friend. despite the fact that the works that he had published were done so anonymously, ashcroft was able to uncover the truth. and so as he entered university, he was accepted with much prestige into imperium. the one and only place that roman felt as though he might belong. that he might actually be happy.

until octavia’s death, of course.

roman had loved tragedies until he had become one. that all he was now, tragedy with a heartbeat. was it better to love and have it taken from you? or was it better to have not loved at all? all he knows is that he was certain his heart had endured enough when she’d left the first time, he did not know what egregious sin he’d committed to lose her the second time. there was no peace for him anymore. nothing could quell the rainstorm in his soul. not even the things that used to work. laying out in the library with leather books in hand, walking around campus with the rest of the club and laughter in their voice, coffees with too much sugar, the first snowfall. all of it, devoid of anything but misery. ache. death. the only cure would have come in the form of her, octavia’s nimble fingers in his hair. missing her was so jarring, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he too would join her.

as naive as it was, roman felt grateful for the ghostly visits. first he’d chalked it up to insanity. what else could it be? at least now he could see her, he could hear her, beyond the times when he pulled up videos of her on his phone while the sounds and sights of her were snuffed out by the sounds of his own wailing. he’d rather a shadow of her presence than nothing at all.

rage came next. he wanted it to be lysander. needed it to be. lysander was responsible for all dissolution of his happiness. it was lysander who had seduced away the one person he’d ever loved. clearly it had to be lysander who had selfishly expelled her from the world too. it felt easier to condense his hatred to one person… roman wasn’t sure if there was enough space left in him to hate anyone else. but to learn this was wrong? roman had no idea what to make of it. it caused him to wet his sheets each night with sweat, to carve bloody moon imprints onto his palms. he felt ravenous for revenge.

the brain.

[ based off loosely off of: camille preaker, theodore laurie, ponyboy curtis, & draco malfoy ]

+ romantic: it’s no secret that ro is a massive romantic. anyone who saw him interact with octavia could see it clear as day. he genuinely enjoyed the little things in a relationship many thought organically lessened with the hands of time. however, he continued to be spontaneous, attentive, and sweet. he continued with love notes, and presenting flowers whenever he could. even in the way he looked at his love seemed to be veiled in something ancient, something innate like he’d always known her in all of his lives. roman’s romanticism did not stop at tiv, though. it leaked into his poetry, as intense wafts of emotions always seem to steal our words. but there is even a romantic manner in which he treats his friends. he’s a little bit of your boyfriend when you’re close enough friends, to be perfectly honest. the boy has a earnest love for making those he cares for feel looked after. not all loves are amorous in nature, but that does not mean they are not to be cultivated with the same dedication to magic as the one he shared with his beloved.

+ empathetic: sometimes a negative, mostly a positive roman has the unbearable burden of a heart too large for his mind. he sees whispers of goodness in every person (save for fucking lysander) even if he does not want to. if someone is under duress, or is wallowing in some sort of pain, roman’s instinct is to alleviate their plight. sometimes it comes begrudgingly, as though someone is holding a gun to his temple to execute such a task. not even a hint of a smile dressing his face, but he does it nonetheless, knowing he may be robbed of his sleep if not. but for his friends, he’d gladly die doing right by their hearts.

+ noble: perhaps roman is of aristocratic blood after all, because roman is the most noble of them all. he’s not quite sure when the moral compass forged itself into his soul, and when it began to guide nearly all of his actions, but one day he woke up and was highly aware of the importance of sticking to one’s words. once he adopts something as the decent thing to do, he has a hard time shaking it. it shackles him. it ensnares him to do the right thing each time. for this reason, he’s been in trouble a few times for sticking his nose where it doesn’t necessarily belong, getting into tiffs with moronic bullies who pick on others or sleazy men with wandering hands. sometimes he wishes he could just mind his own fucking business. it certainly may have prevented him a black eye or two.

- cynical: you could almost say that from the moment that roman kissed octavia, he could taste the doom on her lips. he certainly did not anticipate her grim ending, but he always knew she was too good for him. too beautiful, too happy, too perfect. just as her fickle gaze wanders, so shall she. but, this frame of mind was not unique to just this singular circumstance, it was roman’s entire mantra. all good in life would be expunged from him eventually. one must always anticipate the worst, and be pleasantly surprised when things pan out. for example, he’s a writer and yet he studies chemistry. why? because he’s afraid that his writing isn’t as good as he believes and will need a fall back. as of now, his fallback is pharmaceutical school. he finds happy endings in movies to be unbelievable. how is it realistic that everyone ends up happier than ever? bullshit. no fucking way.

- self-destructive: (tw: drug/alcohol mention) he drenches himself in gasoline with the cynicism, but he lights the match by participating in self-destructive behavior. drinking and drugs become a regular part of ro’s life when he’s lounging in a pool of his own pain. he finds it best to numb it, to muffle the screams of doubt in his head with sharp shops of bourbon and snowy lines of cocaine. besides, he always tells himself it may make him a more interesting writer. what’s life without a little scandal, anyway?

- aloof: despite having a pure heart, roman has a difficult time expressing himself. with page and pen, he manages to do so, but in person? to unlatch your cage of ribs and let someone inside? to watch the softness in your eyes when you admit a secret, or a snippet of deep affection? his shrink had chalked it up to the fact his parents never told him that they loved him. awkward kisses on the head on birthdays and maybe a stiff hug or two in between, but roman himself has always had a painfully hard time coming across as soft as he truly was, no matter how hard he tries.

the quirks.

has a tattoo of joan of arc on the left side of his ribcage. that sounds poetic but he also has a tattoo of the lochness monster with sunglasses on that he got while drunk in mexico one summer break.

presses flowers. usually he presses them to make bookmarks. leaves his favorite ones in his favorite books at the library for people to enjoy. if you ask him directly if he’s behind this random kindness though, he’ll tell you to fuck off.

has a pet goldfish that he’s successfully kept alive for six whole fucking years. her name is peaches. i think he’d fully lose it if peaches kicks it sometime soon too.

incredibly gifted when it comes to billiards. is known to drive further out of town to new bars to hustle people for money.

very much a “here’s my other headphone, let’s stare out the window together depressively” when on buses and train with his friends.

if you listen really hard in the library at like 8 pm, you will find him softly cry into the last book octavia checked out. come say hi, pals!

has very conflicting senses of style. likes clean lines and pristinely clean shirts and slacks which he then pairs with his most worn out chucks, and most lived in sweaters. if his shoes are clean and tidy then he has to be in a leather blazer. has this man ever brushed his hair in his life? absolutely not, but literally nothing he owns will ever appear wrinkled.

only has one pin on his leather messenger bag: “eat the rich” it says, as if he and literally most of his friends don’t consist of “the rich.”

his favorite book is love in a time of cholera

is a bit sentimental. he’s the type to keep movie tickets and receipts from good days he’s had with friends. he has them all in a big box, and when things are too heavy to bear he likes to sift through it all and remember all the pieces in time where things didn’t feel so ghastly.

carries around a disposable camera. roman’s too lazy to get into actual film, but he likes the concept of physical photos, so he’ll usually have his wallet, keys, a book, and the shitty camera stuffed into his coat at all times. please note that his keys have an obnoxious amount of keychains for a man of his age. his favorite one is a koala whose eyes pop out when you squeeze it, gifted to him by his little sister. keeps a photo of his sister, octavia, and his best friend in his wallet, always.

he still hasn’t finished his book. needless to say, his publisher is really fucking pissed. every time someone brings it up, he says, “it’s almost done.” it’s not. not even close.

always always always makes wishes in fountains. keeps coins on him just for that purpose. and no, he never does reveal what he actually wishes for.

the letter.

tivi,

the other day i read somewhere that drowning is relatively quick. between the midst of the panic and terror, the average person only has between thirty to sixty seconds before they involuntarily suck in a mouthful of water. the pain of this process is supposed to be so severe, that you pass out. but just before you do, the lack of oxygen sends you into a state of euphoria. you feel nothing but the swath of water’s gentle embrace. it blankets your thoughts, and the water’s clasp around you is meant to bring you comfort, the same way babies like pools. it feels maternal, safe. i used to think love was like that. both terror and elation ribboned and sandwiched down into a single person. it was morbid, to compare death and love, i know that now. but perhaps my self conscious was always preparing me for this. the death of you. the death of my heart. the death of all things colored and pure in this life, all of which is to be buried with you and our child. do you think our baby would have liked pools?

the pain is visceral. i can feel it, heavy and harsh in my lungs. in the crevices of my bones. in my arms, where the warmth of you lacks. i can even fucking taste it, even the bitter burn of scotch turning to ash in my mouth. no one knows how to approach this, or what to say to me. i keep receiving tight-lipped looks of people awash with pity and sympathy. you always hated when i cried. i did that a lot, didn’t i? a stupid fucking commercial about a father taking his daughter to ballet class and suddenly i’ve got my fists balled up hot and tight, and my eyes are at the ceiling trying to evaporate the ocean in my face. you were the only one i felt safe enough to be a complete an utter wreck in front of. but don’t worry, your headstone will get regular updates of my too loud, too long series of sobs. i’ll be forever faithful.

i found ten synonyms in the thesaurus for “miss.” pine for, long to see, ache for, feel the loss of, regret the absence of, yearn for, feel nostalgic for, long for, need. none of them seem to fit this all consuming rot that you left behind in my heart. nonetheless, each of these substitute meanings live inside me. when i walk, i can feel them all shifting around, clashing around my insides, against one another, like bits of a snow-globe. except none of this feels glittery. i know it sounds childish, but before the day begins, and just as the misery begins to sink in, my first instinct is always to reach for my phone and call you to tell you about it. there was always honey to be found in your words. god, i fucking miss you.

i have much to thank you for. it’d be naive to believe i could shrink all of it down into a single page, but i’ll try my best to do you justice. thank you for your patience, that of a saint at times. thank you for allowing me the great honor of your affection. thank you for every shard of laughter you extended to me. thank you for never calling me out on being a fucking awful dancer when i most certainly was. thank you for being the shepherd to my darkest secrets. [ REDACTED SECRET, BAYBEEEE ] thank you for existing in my life, and washing my world with worth. i wish i could forget it now, but i’m afraid i’ll be chasing this, you, for the rest of forever. at least i have something to chase, i guess. thank you, thank you, thank you.

tiv, wherever you are… please know that i love you and have loved you from the very moment we met. i would have died for you, but i don’t know if i can live like this for you. i feel carved out, hollow. you took with you every glimmer of light i had left. it’s too dark now… and enough of the prose for a second, i keep crying so god damn much i can barely see. like literally, i think fucking going blind too now. great. guess it really is dark now, huh baby? you would have hated this joke.

come back. even just for a little while. i love you. i love you, i love you. should have said it more.

i love you.

forever yours,

the extras.

pinterest board

spotify playlist

thank you for reading all of this if you did lol.

#spectreintro

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thescreamsleuths · 4 years

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Sleuthing the Sleuths: Vanishing Act

Check out our brief chat below as we unpack the thoughts and feelings in our last session, Vanishing Act! Please note, since Baelsar has exited the game, a new character has joined...

Always-be-Theivin’: Two things (one thing to share, one question) before I sleep and forget them:

1) Scrapped backup character idea (was designed purely to antagonize Brinne): a Fighter with the Gunslinger archetype originally from Samar. Was going to be a defector who specialized in long-range combat and tried to hide his gun from the party for as long as possible, and

2) When talking to Baelsar, Brinne said something like, "you die your final death when nobody remembers who you were." This is an interesting concept about life and figurative immortality that Brinne has never really mentioned before, as far as I can remember. Was this a value that was taught to Brinne as she grew up, was it something that developed in her mind as she lived through a war, or something else entirely?

Raging and Confused: Brinne is sad that Baelsar felt like he had to leave. She trusted him to take care of everyone’s emotional well-being and see what needed to be fixed before it became a problem... she’s in super protective mode now as well and paranoid about losing more people... like I said before we finished the session, Brinne was preparing herself for Kathra being the last one alive to tell Baelsar what happened to them... we’re going to fight a war and Brinne know’s people don’t always survive that. As for your other backup character, omg, you monster! I would have enjoyed that, not gonna lie... as for the concept of dying the final death, I’ve been thinking about that in association with Brinne for a long time... I feel like she feels she has to carry on the burden of memory, of knowing she survived... it’s part of the reason I even said anything when we ran in to Vanity and why I finally revealed backstory elements when I did. Brinne’s family and her town were people devoted to a god of war, so they have fighting in their blood... I just thought it would make sense to have memory associated with all of that since honor and combat are so important... if no one remembers your deeds and actions in life, what did it even mean?

Carp A DM: That is incredibly wise of Brinne. With her training for action her whole life only to be defeated in the battles she’d trained so much for... it makes sense for her to be very aware of her own mortality and knowledgeable of the legacy one could create with their deeds on and off the battlefield. It’s just a matter of putting faith in the right person or people to give your memory justice. It’s a heavy weight to bear, but I think it’s one any of the Scream Sleuths (current or past) would do for one another. From Faylen’s “I loved you” to Kathra’s “you’re my hero”, there were a lot of really powerful things said during Baelsar’s last farewell. What stuck with you as a player and a character the most? Was there anything you regret saying or wished you had said?

Dog Mom: As a player I wanted to give Baelsar a heartfelt goodbye, but I knew through Faylen it needed to be more of a short farewell focused more on closure between the two characters after everything that’s happened between them. I’m happy with how it went down in that regard.

Hi, it’s Kathra: Reaction thoughts- Both Kathy and I were really thrown by Baelsar’s exit. Kathy is no longer feeling optimistic to start lol. That’s definitely gone. She’s really upset right now, she’s kinda just emotionally overwhelmed. Even though Baelsar wasn’t big on sharing his feelings. She’s disappointed with herself that she didn’t see this coming and therefore couldn’t prevent it. She’s also more convinced than ever to find everything on her list. If she can learn how to prolong life /cheat death, maybe she can convince Baelsar that she can protect him and he can come back. She’s also a little worried about Fay. What’s to stop her from staying in Di’Sow once we “stop” the war? In terms of our goodbyes, Kathy echoed Fay’s sentiment to Baelsar that he is so much more than what he thinks of himself. She wished she could’ve convinced him to stay but she really just wants him to be happy. I also wish she could’ve conveyed to him that she didn’t blame him for leaving.

Carp A DM: I think Kathra gave the sense that she didn’t blame him for leaving, especially since she had told him that all she wants is for him to be happy. She would support him in whatever he needed to do to ensure that happiness takes form. Hearing everyone’s goodbyes, was there a time when Baelsar thought he was making the wrong choice?

Always-be-Thievin’: Yeah, actually. Partway through talking to Kathra, he started reconsidering. But he actually had a brief thought back to Maqa and how the party turned back on their decision and he ended up regretting that, so, much as it hurt, he wanted to follow this new decision through

Raging and Confused: You know, that makes me respect the decision even more... I’m not going to lie, I’m going to miss Baelsar a lot, but this insight is going to help bridge that gap

Always-be-Thievin’: I'mma miss my big red naïve goofball, too, but I think he needs some time, and I think I need some time from him, too. Weirdly enough, I think Baeslar was a reflection of a part of me that I didn't know I didn't like

Hi, it’s Kathra: Oh My Goodness!! No!! I love him and I hope that the space you give Baelsar helps you to learn to love those parts of you!!!

Carp A DM: I’ve always thought that when creating a character, no matter what personality you choose or background you design, there’s always a piece of you that goes into the character. You get amplified through your character’s actions and words. It’s interesting to see what comes out in the end, but the realization doesn’t have to be negative. I agree with Hi, it’s Kathra, hopefully the space will be enough for both Always-be-Thievin’ and Baelsar. And speaking of realizations, Faylen was the first to find Baelsar’s belongings and letter while Brinne and Kathra were learning some interesting information about past adventurers. For Faylen: Do you think being the first to read Baelsar’s letter alone fed into her reaction? What was she thinking while reading it through the first time? For Brinne: Having the outlook on immortality through legacy that Brinne has, how was it for her to learn about an adventurer from approximately 1k years ago who’s actions were being preserved in memory and mediums? For Kathra: Kathra has had her ups and downs with meeting and trusting historians throughout the campaign, has speaking with Lady Evangelina Barmitelli bolstered or deflated her opinion of these scholars? Was there anything Kathra is itching to ask her?

Always-be-Thievin’: Yes Kathra should be itching to ask her out on a date!!

Dog Mom: Reading it was emotional. While she and Baelsar hadn’t been on the best terms lately she was always holding out hope that he would realize she was asking him in her own passive aggressive way. The letter felt like the thing snuffing our that hope. I think that’s the reason she wanted to find him. She did love Baelsar. She was forced to confront him about it. I think being able to process that alone helped facilitate her getting there and also have a moment of weakness not in front of her party.

Hi, it’s Kathra: I liked Lady Evangelina. Though at the time, they just seemed like stories. Kathy liked hearing about her passion for history but didn’t really think that the scream sleuths would be interesting in researching an old adventuring party. She figured if the found anything then she’d pass it along and that would be the end of her commitment. but now that Baelsar has left, she is more interested in helping her. She doesn’t want anyone to be forgotten. And she will be more actively looking for clues from the old adventuring party.

Always-be-Thievin’: Oh, thinking towards the future for the Sleuths: what is their next step? Their next goal as a group? Are they decided on this war in Di'Sow?

Hi, it’s Kathra: Kathy still is

Dog Mom: Faylen still stands where she did before. She doesn’t feel fully ready to go home but will for the purposes of checking on her family who she is very concerned about. She is wondering if what is happening in Relltic is a more immediate threat, however.

Carp A DM: Yeah, that’s a good point. What will the Scream Sleuths do now? And what are their first impressions of this mysterious and magical new friend/foe?

Filia-Well what do we have here: Magical? Who said anything about magical? She's just a really quick stonemason

Dog Mom: Faylen is skeptical (and her insight check enhanced that) but Faylen is also a softy so I think if cards are played right she’ll come around.

#dungeon master #dnd dice #homebrew #critical role #dnd homebrew #dnd character #dnd5e #new character #who dis #dungeons and dragons #dungeons and dragons campaign #dungeon crawling #dnd 5e campaign #dnd 5e rp #dnd 5e homebrew

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lizardkingeliot · 5 years

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ppsstttt please don't hold back your salt I love your salt for I am salty too

lmao okay this is going under a cut for extreme negativity and salt wrt this

I just hate that pre-finale this would have been the very best thing and now my first thought when reading this is... the fringe canon of their website does a better job at representation than the actual show itself. Because all things considered, I don’t know that the showrunners really consider Quentin to be queer even if that goes against how he is portrayed on screen and certainly how Jason has always played him???

Like in hindsight they swept the events of 3x05 under the rug and only used 4x05 as a means to give Eliot a moment of growth for himself and didn’t consider the larger implications of like... Quentin confessing his love for his male best friend in canon. And then obsessing over saving said friend for an entire season after this fact was revealed. Mike Moore (who wrote both 3x05 and 4x05) himself even said that for him the moment was about snuffing out an opportunity for true happiness and at the time that didn’t bother me but as with most things this is so much worse post-finale.

And like... Quentin is clearly bisexual. He is portrayed that way on screen and Jason has not minced words about the fact that he always played Quentin as queer. I just can’t trust that the showrunners ever really gave it that much thought at this point??? Because they clearly do not think things through long-term and couldn’t even truly conceive of how emotionally impactful having two people spend fifty years together in an alternate time branch and then allowing them to remember that life would be. That should have been the most profound experience imaginable and should have changed them both forever and I hate that... most of the change we saw from them was just Jason and Hale being very very good at their jobs and making character choices where they could to portray the bond between them.

Anyway I wish I could enjoy Quentin being horny for Bowie and i mean I do enjoy it and it makes so much sense for his character, it’s just also... hard to not think about the larger implications of the show wanting those rep points so badly while only putting in so much work with the actual canon of the show. I mean Q can kiss a dude and even fuck a dude but it’s always with enough plausible deniability that maybe he’s just ~fluid enough to like sex with men when he’s out of his mind on emotion magic or drunk or when there are no better options and he’s frustrated after a year away from home and--

ANYWAY. Yeah. If you need me I’ll just be over here screaming in my mountain of salt until the end of time.

#Anonymous #seriously don't click if you don't want all of the salt lmao #also not putting this in the tag so i'm just gonna #add a few more #andddddddd #i think we're good #the magicians #the magicians negativity

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thekingmickey · 4 years

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I read most your blog and I’m VERY confused. About the timeline of this rp. So please help me understand. 1 how did Mickey become mickeynort? (Did I spell that right?) 2 how did he go back to normal? 3 will you continue the mickeynort reports? You only made 1. 4 what’s this about Mickey escaping the realm but at the same time not?

Okidoki so when my blog began, it was between KH1 and COM where Mickey was trapped in the Realm I’d Darkness and there was a time difference between the realm and the real world (I did it before Aqua’s deal). Every RP I did revolved around Mickey finding a way to escape, but ending up in a different world and the realm dragging him back in the end. This is how he met folks from other universes (like Detective Conan or Doctor Who characters). Or he would be exploring the Realm of Darkness in general and find others trapped there. This kept the status quo of my blog’s theme but as you can imagine, it got repetitive after a while... Not to mention really depressing! Oddly enough, I never did an RP where Mickey and Aqua were both trapped for ten years... hmmm... now there’s something to consider...

Anyway, so Mickinort (very close spelling btw ^^) happened because I had a week long magic anon requesting me to nort him and also in a pm send norting magic anons to all of my followers. We’re you around for the norting tumblr RP apocalypse that affected a lot of blogs? That was me! XD In universe, Mickey got norted either because the strain of being in the darkness too long snuffed out his light or it was the grief of his failure to save his friends... admittedly I haven’t norted Mickey in years so the details of that aspect is hazy.

The Mickinort reports was originally part of that week long MA and it stopped once the week was over. In universe, they most likely got lost in the realm after Mickey came back to himself and to this day he has no memory of the incident. If I recall correctly, it was the memories of his friends that brought him back or the opportunity to leave the realm forever that cast Xehanort out of his mind. I don’t know if I’ll bring them back, but I did enjoy playing as Xehanort with Mickey’s memories!

I originally created Mickinort because I noticed that darkness in the series was always seen as anger or hate, but never sadness or depression... and after everything that has happened in Mickey’s life, he was the master at hiding negative emotions and pretending to have everything under control. It’s only after the events of recoded where he sees data Sora accept his regrets that Mickey learns to do the same and start taking an active role in finding his missing friends. The Mickinort idea was a what if senario if the mouse never learned to accept nagative emotions (aka his own darkness) and always forced himself to deny the truth about the tragedies his friends suffered through. He doesn’t want it to happen again because it was too painful, but he doesn’t want to admit it happened either because that would force Mickey to face his fears and failures.

Mickey eventually escaped because he was able to explore so many worlds and got a broader prospective of his purpose. He was in limbo because he wanted to avoid the hardships of being a keyblade master and subconsciously didn’t think himself worthy of living in the realm of light (which got emphasized when Aqua’s deal went down). But it was through the people he met while world hopping through the realm that he was able to take the first steps in overcoming his fear of his own failures and was able to step into the light to start that journey. This is why he stuck to Riku so much. Not only to help the boy, but to prove himself that he could make his time back in the light mean something.

I’m really surprised you went and found those old blogs Nonny! I’ve had this thing for over 7 years and those posts were the foundation of this tumblr blog! I never changed blogs or deleted them so I’m really impressed that you found those old posts! My blog currently doesn’t really reflect the AU it originally embodied, but I still reference those old events from time to time. Perhaps I should make an official timeline in the future.

Either way, I hope that answers your questions Nonny! Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to know! ^^

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hopefromadoomedtimeline · 5 years

Text

While Gero’s going to take me a bit to get up and going (unsurprisingly) I did manage to come up with some backstory for the old man, since I doubt we’re going to get anything on him for a while.

Alright so essentially I was thinking that Gero’s reason for hating Goku so intensely is ultimately petty, it’d be a bit more interesting if he had another reason that would motivate him to keep that grudge beyond the fact he ran out of money because that clearly didn’t hinder him to the point he couldn’t make various androids and machines.

So the thought was as to how Gero came into the Red Ribbon Army and his motivation as to doing so.

Back when the good doctor wasn’t making ridiculously strong and powerful creations and had a shred of decency, he had a family. Gero was never one who held a high opinion of the human race, deeming them to be fools, idiots and beyond irritating to deal with, but against the odds, he found himself two of the only people on the planet his cold heart would be soft for. A wife and son.

Unfortunately, it was not meant to last, she was suddenly killed due to a hit and run by a drunk driver, effectively causing Gero’s contempt to change into legitimate anger and served to further isolate himself from the scientific community he had been apart of. Their son was only ten.

In the upcoming years, Gero’s relationship with his son would falter, ultimately becoming distant as he grew more and more bitter as time went on. He would have continued to stew in a pool of his own negative emotions until he was approached by a certain leader of a certain army.

Commander Red had approached Gero after hearing about his mechanical skills, and offered a large sum of money for him to provide the Army with machines that served as muscle to go along with his growing army of human soldiers.

At first, he would turn the offer down, having no motivation to help someone he deemed pathetic with any short sighted goal he had in mind. It was only upon hearing what they wished to obtain that caused him to reconsider: The Dragon Balls. Magical wish granting orbs that could fulfill your desires. Seeing this as an opportunity to bring back what he lost, he agreed and would soon be recognized as one of the founding members.

Gero had soon formulated his own plan, but before he could begin to enact it, he would reach out to his estranged son. He would explain the plan to manipulate Red while working behind the scenes, and how he needed someone he could rely on in the field to ensure that they would have their hands on the orbs and have their wish granted. His son was against the idea, having both a distaste for the violent approach the Red Ribbon Army was taking and for the damage they caused. But the possibility to have his mother back after she was unfairly robbed from the world was too much for him to turn down.

Ultimately, he agreed under the condition Flappe join as well, the other scientist had been a frequent scientific college to Gero, having interacted with the man multiple times before his mother’s death and believed the other man’s influence would have a potentially positive effect. Unfortunately, no such thing would come close to happening, their relationship only fracturing on a professional and personal level as a result.

With Gero’s influence, his son was quickly driven up through the ranks and given his own platoon of soldiers to command. Among the ranks, it was noteworthy that this particular deployment took a much less violent path, using strategies and tactics to take their enemy by surprise and convince them to surrender, having significantly less causality rates than the rest of the army.

Things would begin to spiral out of control once Goku and co. came into the picture, effectively halting the Army’s plans time after time, causing much frustration on Gero’s end. Things only got worse once Red’s own ridiculously mundane wish was revealed to Staff Officer Black, who killed the former and took a much more direct approach to managing his newly acquired army, restricting the scientist’s hold on what actions were taken.

Ultimately, Goku would take down a majority of the Army, ridding much of the world of its influence for years to come. As the army began to crumble, Gero would learn that his son had been felled by an enemy bullet during an attempt to find the Dragon Balls soon after they had been used, figuring it was best to collect them ahead of time instead of waiting for a year. To top it off, the doctor would soon learn that the dragon balls could only revive someone within a year of their death.

He never learned who fired the bullet, but he had a person to aim his grief and anger toward. The person who had robbed him of his job, the chance to revive his wife, and his son.

As he retreated to one of his labs, he would only have one name in mind, one person he would dedicate years of his life towards in order to destroy him for what he had done.

The person he deemed responsible for all his hardships, the one he dreamed of having the life snuffed out of. The one who would die by the hands of one of his own creations.

Son Goku.

Gero was certain the rest of humanity would follow soon after.

#Out of Time (OOC)#admittedly this is something i brainstormed with bioxdroid a while ago but since i plan on making a gero blog #i decided i might as well share a bit of some thoughts #i also wrote this at 4 am so if you're seeing this there's a high chance i queued it instead of drafting it and didn't stop it in time #i'm sure there's some flaws here or there #but oh well i guess #cw: death #cw: parent death

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courteternal-rp · 4 years

Photo

→ general details

name ; draco forester

age ; appears 35 || actually 150

gender & sexuality ; cismale, heterosexual

race ; high fae

do they hold a position or title? ; Lord of the Night Court, the Defender of Velaris

loyalty ; the night court

face claim ; joel kinnaman

→ in depth

→ aesthetics

the solitude of the ocean, dissatisfaction in your life, the keen senses of a hunter, piercing eyes, moonlight peeking through the shadows, protecting their kin, not being much of a people person, weapons and armor resting against the bark of a tree while you swim, hands covered in stardust, values simplicity, cursing under your breath, soul binding bargains

→ headcanons

one. draco has made a point to return to the village he grew up every couple of months ( and if he is unable to, he sends someone he trusts in his stead ). he’ll spend about a week there - sleeping in his old room while he stays with his parents. he’ll help them out around the house, and ensure the village has remained safe in his absence before returning to his duties in Velaris or elsewhere within the Night Court. He’s made it quite well known that anyone from his old life is more then welcome to come directly to him with any issues.

two. draco has made several binding deals throughout his existence - each marked upon his body like a black inked tattoo. the first was to his younger sister - it spreads over his fingers and up his right forearm. the second was with his elder brother - it wraps around his bicep and up over his right shoulder. the two are clearly separated - to denote the slight difference in wording, and with whom the bargain was made, but there are tendrils that almost seem to move, making the deals appear to be intertwining. both have to do with the protection of their court.

three. regardless of where he is, draco almost always has two or three weapons strapped to him (though not always visible). it’s a habit he has yet to shake - but after spending nearly three quarters of a century seemingly powerless, he refuses to go anywhere unarmed. he’s incredibly meticulous about them too - unless there is any major defect, he maintains their care. each cleaning and sharpening are done by his own hand with a stone gifted to him by the man who raised him.

→ powers

Powers. Darkness. Winnowing. Misting (when overly emotional).

Explanation. Draco was raised among lesser fae, and for most of his youth believed himself to be powerless. It was the threat to his small village by a High Fae that caused him to explode in darkness - and that seemed to be enough to break the dam on his powers entirely.

In all likelihood, Draco would have been a threat to himself and others had he not accompanied the Former High Lord (his biological father) and learned control.

Draco has mostly reached his full potential when it comes to magical ability. Because he is the son of a High Lord, he had a bit more potential to grow when it came to his powers, but he trained quite extensively - first with his father, and then both of his siblings, meaning he’s just about reached his peak.

The man is quite skilled when it comes to the use of his abilities and obtained a large range (likely due to his relation to the former High Lord). While he can winnow several people and make a handful of jumps before it begins to take a toll, it isn’t a strong suit, nor is it something he utilizes outside of his siblings, the people who raised him, or the Night Courts inner circle.

His strong suits come with the manipulation of darkness that seems to bleed from the High Lord of Night’s bloodline, and within his ability to mist. Bending the darkness to his will, Draco has gained the ability to become the thing that goes bump in the night. Wielding the ability to remove sight from his opponent, he often utilizes it the way the Summer Court fae might water. Though not a physical presence, he’s learned to shape it into arrow heads or small birds that might attack from the heavens, a sword that never breaks, or a shield.

While capable of misting, it typically is a feat that takes a fair amount of concentration - considerably using his power source (depending on size and number of items/people he is misting). It proves far easier when there is strong emotion involved.

→ personality

positives. observant, protective, efficient, intelligent

negatives. troubled, cruel, fearless, stubborn

explanation. draco knew from a young age that he wasn’t truly related to his parents, but he likes to believe most of his personality comes from the people who raised him, and not the man who would later appear in his life when his abilities first manifested.

in his youth, he was raised by a pair of lesser fae. though he considered them strong in matters of the heart, neither held the capability of truly protecting themselves - leaving the role for him to easily slip into. it was a position that carried over to the rest of his village, and while several would offer open commentary, many only turned to him when it came to dire matters. draco is naturally quiet and observant - and only when he believes his opinion needs to be heard does he dare speak.

after being taken under the wing of his birth father and training his powers, his exterior hardened. it became evident there would be no familial love between the pair, so he turned himself into the perfect soldier and son - if only to make their time together lessen. he became a fearless warrior who didn’t recognize when to say no. it’s a face he continues to put on when it comes to his time in the Hewn City, the protection of Velaris and the Night Court’s people.

→ biography

As a monumental storm rocked the Night Court, a woman brought her babe into the world - alone and surrounded by nothing but thick woods. Cradled against his mother's breast, the child was wrapped in a cloak as dark as the night sky, and with tear stained eyes, the faceless woman left the crying babe on the steps of strangers. Tied about his wrist was a small piece of paper declaring his name as Draco.

Found hours later, he was brought into the home and cared for by a couple of lesser fae who had for years failed to conceive a child of their own. In their eyes, he was a blessing from the Gods - a gift which they refused to turn away. Raised as their own, Draco grew up content and asking for little. Assisting on their small farm and making daily trips into the village, he became ingrained into the life his parents had set up for him. But as he grew and the physical differences between he and his parents became all the more apparent, there was no denying that they held no blood relation.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, it was those differences that pushed him into action. While his parents and others within their village were content with allowing themselves to bow to those deemed better then them, Draco refused. On several occasions when High Fae passed through, he was laid out flat on his ass for defying them - the threat always looming that next time they might not be so forgiving - but his bravery earned him the reputation as the defender of their small village.

Every three weeks, the small village would host a market - each farmer and craftsmen gathering their items together in stalls to exchange in trade. Half way from the house, Draco had turned back to snag the coin purse they had forgotten, knowing full well they still owed several individuals from the previous event. Having sent both parents ahead, he arrived at the small marketplace to find several High Fae had arrived in his absence. Their leader was looming over his father - who was sporting a nasty bruise and split lip. Coins forgotten, Draco saw red.

It came unpredictably. A once seemingly ordinary man threatening to split the world in two with darkness. The ground shook as the sky bleed with the black of night ; there and gone in a flash. Many shielded their eyes from the sudden blinding sun, but it was the quiet whimpering that caused the bristling excitement to morph into silence. Having crossed the small village center, Draco Forester stood before a now cowering High Fae, darkness coiling around him like a second skin. Muttered words were exchanged before the High Fae and his entourage scurried away - whimpering apologies and swearing to never harm anyone beneath the High Lord’s families protection again.

Though Draco brushed aside the comment regarding his lineage, it seemed many in the village did not. Looks that had once held familiarity were now laced with praise or idolization. He was toward his breaking point and readying to confront his parents about his true parentage when the High Lord of Night appeared at their front door. With a strikingly similar resemblance to a man he’d never met, Draco had quietly stepped aside as his parents ushered their High Lord inside. Being dutiful hosts, the couple graciously doted on the man up until the moment he revealed why he was there. Amethyst eyes had turned on him and declared Draco a bastard - his bastard.

As it had weeks previously, darkness exploded into the world - snuffing out the fire lit in the hearth and causing a surprised shriek to emit from his mother. A rumbled laugh had filled the room and after a moment, the darkness subsided - though the rage that had bubbled beneath his skin was now apparent. Gritting his teeth, Draco had demanded the man leave - claiming no shared blood between them.

Despite the fact that the High Lord was visibly irritated at the demand to leave, he did just that - with the promise to return the following morning for an answer on whether or not he would willingly go with him. Disappearing in a twirl of darkness, Draco was left in silence with his parents, knowing full well he had no true say in the decision. The evening was spent arguing, but when the first light of dawn touched the village and the High Lord returned, Draco went with him willingly. Barely allowed the time to bid his parents goodbye, the world around him vanished into darkness and he was deposited into a new world.

Unknowing of how to connect to the man who had not known of his existence (nor did he seem to care about anything that might be personally troubling him), Draco fell to the conclusion that the sooner he learned to appease his so called father, the sooner he could get away from him. But despite his best efforts to ignore the mans toxic personality, the explosiveness that seemed to trigger the darkness pouring from his skin was undeniably a trait gained from his father. They were family - whether or not he liked it.

Spending the next several years training, Draco had not been capable of returning home until Vesper had his third and final child - this time a little girl. With the eyes of his biological father elsewhere, he slipped away in the dead of night to visit his parents. Though a short trip, it seemed to lift some of the weight from his shoulders, and the anger he’d once felt for them eased. Returning to the palace above the Hewn City with a clear head and lighter heart, Draco fell into the role of older brother.

Though not entirely aware of the arguments that transpired behind closed doors, he wasn’t ignorant. Spoken to in the early hours one morning, Draco swore to keep the location of his sister and her mother Ciel a secret when they fled to the mountains. While he would have liked to offer a consistent presence within his younger siblings life, his duties were quickly shifted elsewhere. Training’s once again began - though this time longer and more brutal (as if his father wished to truly punish someone for his lack of control in the situation).

There came a day when he bested his father in physical combat - and it was only the increased ability of a High Lord that seemed to force Draco to the ground, unable to get up once more. It was then he was officially called son ( not bastard ), and it was then he entered into his first binding bargain. Sworn to secrecy, he was introduced to Velaris.

Years later, when his biological father lay on his deathbed, he apologized for their years apart, and later for his inability to spend the time to grow close to his son. But the regret seemed to deepen as he declared Draco the official Defender of Velaris and asked that he continue his duties despite the fact that he might feel drawn to protect his siblings. History would repeat itself, he claimed, and war would eventually befall them once more.

Though each of the siblings parted to continue their duties in different sections of the Night Court, Draco made it a point to continue to check in with both of his siblings (partially in defiance to his fathers request and partially for his own sanity). It wasn’t until Hybern’s General appeared on the shores of Prythian and began attempting to romance the courts that he began to seriously think upon what his father had said upon his deathbed. Quick to caution his elder half brother against the woman ( and refusing anyone from Hybern knowledge nor entry into his city ), he made a point to be around when she visited (not wanting to draw a lick of attention to his absence and the hidden city).

When the Wall fell, Velaris was thrown into lockdown. Darkness had rippled across his skin and torn through the city. Those he’d taken in as friends were set loose to prowl the streets and protect the city at all costs. Even when it became evident that Hybern had retreated, it took him nearly a week to winnow to the side of his siblings. With his elder brothers powers bound and his Court undoubtedly vulnerable, Draco is out for blood and willing to do anything to ensure his family and Court are safe.

#amanda.#draco.#taken.#male.#taken male.#fae.#night.#joel kinnaman fc

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magicbyhalves · 5 years

Text

The Ammo Baron had been hard at work on the latest iteration of the Anti-Magic Tank when the alarms started blaring. All of the army’s scheduled drills had ended hours ago, and his soldiers knew better than to trip the alarms for no reason, so he knew something had to be wrong.

He wasn’t prepared for just how wrong.

He opened the hangar door to the sight of several soldiers sprawled on the ground, guns melted and inexplicably derived of their hats. The corridor’s walls were lined with large, melty gashes, and before he had time to properly take it all in, the culprit slammed him in the chest, sending him reeling back toward the tank.

“H̷e̸y,͡ ho҉g-m̨an.”

Oh, no.

“S̢o,̴ Amm̴o͜-̶t̴eur, ̀o̴ne ͜o̶f yoùr ̕t̷hin̷gs͏ ̨is ̕las̛er͏s̛,̛ ͘r̷ight̀?̵” Nega-Shantae asked, casually snuffing the fireball burning in her hand. Somehow, the stack of Ammonian hats on her head did nothing to make her look any less terrifying.

He couldn’t think straight. “H-how did you get in here?!” he stammered out.

“M̀y̨ quest͟ion̛ ͞f͢ir͞s̶t.” She shot him a maniac grin, one that left no doubt in his mind what she’d do if he didn’t comply.

The Baron took a nervous gulp, trying to collect himself. “Yeah, I’ve used lasers from time t’ time. What’s it to ya?”

“Y̸ou got̀ som̷e̷thi͏n͠g cal̕l̸e͏d a҉ ͜l̕a̷s̵er ̢poi̸nt̸e̢r? ̷It̨'s̷ ver͢y ̨impo͘rtaņt.”

“... Wait, you’re tellin’ me you came and screwed up my latest base for... somethin’ as little as that?”

“W̸h҉a͏t ̀can̵ I ҉s̸a͜y?́ I ̷c̕an't̷ h̛e̶lp͡ bu̸t p̶ųt͜ a̴ wr͡e͞n͡c̸h̴ ̸i͞n y̴ǫur ͡o͏per̸a҉t̴i̢ons ͞w̷hen̷ ̀I f͜i͢nd 'ém̕ - th͝e̸re'҉s͘ ón̶ly ̢one͝ per̸son ̵I hat̸ȩ ̶m͡ǫrę ͢tha͏n you in͟ th͟i͝s̸ be͝a͏u͏t̶iful̢ ̧kin͞g҉d̨om ̡o̧f ̀o͏ur͘s͝.” The half-genie stepped closer, the look on her face unchanging. “An̕ywa̸y̧,̷ i҉f͜ ̶yo͡u̶ ̸hand ̵ov̨eŕ th͜e ̶po̡i̕nte͜r͜,̸ ̨I'̢l҉l ma̡ke ͢l̵e̡s͡s of̶ ̴mess o͘n̷ ̧th͟e ̸w̕ay̨ ͘o̷ut ͠th̢a̕n ͠I̷ ̸d̡i͢d ̵on t̶hę ̛w̢a̸ỳ i̵n~.”

The Baron fumbled, then slowly drew a small, metal tube from one of his back pockets and held it out. Nega snatched it eagerly, her clawed nails scratching his hand up as she did so.

“T̸h̵an͜ks f͞or͝ t҉hat.̢ ͏Sęe ya ͞n̡e̡x̛t th̀r͢as̸h͏i̸n̴g~҉!”

The room’s shadows converged on the half-genie, pooling and rising around her. Her eyes gleamed wickedly in the sudden darkness, and then she was swallowed by it. It was almost like she hadn’t been there at all.

The Ammo Baron was left alone, wondering what had just happened.

Rotty was combing through the wagon, searching for any sign of Shantae. It had made a strange rattling noise a while ago, which had prompted her to stop it in order to investigate - and her girlfriend was nowhere to be found.

She figured that a transformation spell had gone wrong, and while that kind of magic didn’t normally make so much noise, it was all she had to go on.

“Hey, uh, if you’re hiding, you can at least tell me what’s wrong...? C’mon, firecracker...”

The room suddenly went dark. Rotty looked up, and was greeted with a swirling pool of shadows on the ceiling. It grew slowly, seeping into cracks in the wood, threatening to engulf the wagon’s entire contents...

And then Nega-Shantae dropped out of it, landing with a cheerful bounce on the couch. The darkness above pulled itself closed and vanished as Ammonian Army hats rained down after her.

“Áh,̡ m̴an͝, ҉thát was̢ g̸r̕eat͝.͡” Nega sat up, looking pleased with herself. It took her a bit to notice Rotty’s stunned expression, but simply waved. ”H́e̸y͘, ̴sw͟e͢et̴hea̶r͟t~!”

“Negs...?”

“U̶h.̵.. yo̢u͏ okay?̴ ̧Y͞o̴u̷ ̶lo͝o̸k lik̷é ̧y͢o͘u̧'v͜è ̴se̷e҉n a g̨hos̶t̨.” Nega casually tossed one of the hats her way, landing it perfectly on her head.

“What the hell was that?!”

#drabble #Ammo Baron #inadequate vessel #Rotty #(enjoy this goofy thing i wrote! (inspired by some spontaneous silliness on a friend's Discord server))

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